necessary for all to unite and work together; each one must not leave
it for his neighbour, thinking that one more or less can make no
difference. To shew, however, what might be accomplished by a thorough
unity in this matter, let us say that there are at least some ten
millions of smokers in Germany; or to be very much within the mark,
we will take only five million smokers who will give themselves the
trouble, if such it is, of saving up their cigar-ends; and assuming
that the cigar-ends of each person during one week are worth only a
quarter _Pfennig_ (ten Pfennig = one penny English), we have a total
revenue for the year of six hundred and fifty thousand marks, or
thirty-two thousand five hundred pounds. Now, these thirty-two thousand
five hundred pounds, which, as a rule, are thrown away and wasted,
can be used to provide a Home for at least thirteen thousand poor
orphan children. Further, if the five million smokers would contribute
but once a year the value only of a single cigar, say in Germany one
penny, this would make an additional five hundred thousand marks, or
twenty-five thousand pounds, which would clothe another ten thousand
children.
Now we ask, is it not worth while to be careful in small things, and
to save up these usually wasted cigar-ends, when we see what great
things might result? We can only conclude by wishing success to
this remarkable institution, which has taken for its motto the most
appropriate words, ‘Viele Wenig machen ein Viel;’ or in the words of
the old Scottish proverb, ‘Many a little makes a mickle.’
LONG AGO.
He gave me his promise of changeless truth,
(Down in the wood where the ivy clings);
And the air breathed rapture, and love, and youth,
(And yon tree was in bud where the throstle sings).
He said he was going across the sea,
(Far from the wood where the ivy clings),
And would bring back riches and jewels for me;
(But brown leaves shake where the throstle sings).
Hope made Life like a summer morn;
(Sweet was the wood where the ivy clings);
Now my heart is cold, and withered, and worn,
(And the bough is bare where the throstle sings).
Days are dreary, and life is long;
(Yet down in the wood the ivy clings),
And the winds they moan a desolate song,
(And there’s snow on the bough where no throstle sings).
Spring will come with its buds and leaves
(Back to the wood where the ivy clings);
But ’tis winter cold for the heart that grieves,
(And I hear not the song that the throstle sings).
J. C. H.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._