|MRS. BETH was drinking coffee from a tin kettle, as Gill drove up to
a side door in the market. She sat in her stall with her bonnet on her
head, and her spectacles upon her nose, and her fat face as gleeful and
jolly as one need wish to see. It was a pleasure to look at the woman;
she put every body in a good humor by her own cheerfulness.
The stall was in the middle of the market-place, and was about twelve
feet square,--perhaps not quite so large. There was a sort of table or
platform, covered with crisp, yellow-green lettuce, and cresses, and
spinach, and young beets with the tops for greens; and below this
platform, running around on the outside of the stall excepting at the
entrance or gateway, was a bench with baskets of vegetables; beans,
peas, summer squashes, etc., etc. Up above were bars with hooks, and
suspended from the hooks were red peppers, and garlic, and herbs, (or
“medicine” as Mrs. Beth called it). At the gateway was a post with a
broken lantern on the top. All around were other stalls with produce,
and their salesmen or saleswomen, but nowhere was there a neater place,
or a more attractive face, than by the old broken lamp that served as
a beacon. Many a time it had lured Gill in the dimness of some cloudy
morning; and yet he thought there was little need to light the lantern,
so long as the beaming face of the woman was there. He wondered how
it was that such multitudes of people hide their sunlight which is
radiantly beautiful when it shines clearly through honest and earnest
eyes.
[Illustration: 0052]
He and Mrs. Beth were such fast friends! She watched for the head with
the yellow hair, which the Reed children thought a halo; and she felt
better all day after it had appeared to her; for Gill always left some
Word of blessing that she could think of, and so break the weariness of
sitting there hour after hour. She scarcely waited for him to jump from
his cart, before she was at the door to lend a hand to the baskets.
“It is all bespoken, every thing that you bring,” she said to the
Scotchman. “I could sell bushels on bushels more, if you had the
produce. You see it makes all the difference in the world when the
vegetables are picked fresh in the morning. They’re worth almost double
then.”
“And I’m worth almost double for getting up to pick them,” said Gill.
“When I lie in bed longer than I ought, I feel wilted, as the vegetables
look when they’ve been long pulled. I remember when I was a little
fellow, and my father used to take me out of bed, and set me upon my
feet by the window, to hear the June birds sing; and, pretty soon, my
eyes would fly open of themselves before sunrise, and I would tumble
out of my nest, and run to listen to the early concert. It all comes
back to me now, as I stand among the vines--the old home by the river,
and the woodbine climbing up to my chamber, and the sweet sounds coming
in, and my father and my mother talking to each other as they were
dressing. I wouldn’t lose my morning hour for any thing.”
“Isn’t it queer to think of ourselves as little children?” said the old
woman. “I often see a little girl, with a yellow frock and a blue apron
on, and a great black cat in her arms, as she plays among the hay in the
barn. You wouldn’t believe that this old gray Eliza Beth is she; but so
it is, and there’s the black cat’s granddaughter at your feet.”
Mrs. Beth had spread a piece of carpet for her pet to lie upon. “I feel
a great tenderness for that creature,” she said. “My old Black was such
a playmate! she used to let me dress her up in my little baby sister’s
clothes, and rock her to sleep in the cradle and she would walk upon
her hind legs, as I held her fore paw, and played go to school. There’s
something of the same spirit in this grand-kitten. She lets me do
whatever I please with her.”
“Well, ‘tis good to be young, and ‘tis good to be old,” said Gill. “I
don’t care to go back to the early days, except in thought and memory.
If we are doing our duty, we are every day nearing the better life; and
if we reach that, we shall not look behind us very often, I think.”
There was not much time to talk, for the market was getting full of
people, and Mrs. Beth had all that she could do to supply the demands
of her customers. She sold every thing at a fair price. There was no
higgling to get more than the produce was worth. “An honest profit
is what will bring peace,” said she, “‘the peace that passeth all
understanding.’ I’d rather have less money, and more of that quietness
of conscience, which is a blessing greater than gold.”
The old market woman had the true philosophy; or, rather, the precious
gospel principle that keeps this world from being a vale of misery.
Her honest, upright soul dwelt amid beauty. Even there in the busy
market-place, where most people could see only the perishable’ things of
earth, this woman’s spirit beheld the light that comes down from above,
and visions of good angels who love to minister to us here below, and,
though dimly, the Face that shall be revealed to us by and by in all its
wondrous majesty and brightness. Whatever Mrs. Beth did was done in view
of this glory that was invisible to others; this cloud of witnesses who
note the actions of men, and carry the record of a good deed up to the
angels in heaven, where there is great joy over it. I wish we could all
be ever conscious of these spectators, and of the interest that they
feel in our progress toward God. I am sure it would do much to encourage
and help us, when we have not such sympathy as we desire among our
fellows, and when we stretch out heart and hand for some answering love
and aid. And, more especially, if we see the Divine Face bending down
toward us, there will be little need of earthly glory, or of earthly
help. In the light of God’s countenance we must be strong, and happy,
and satisfied.
However closely Mrs. Beth kept to her stall, Tib felt at liberty to take
a wide range. When her nap was over, she shook her glossy black dress,
and went lightly about the market in her white satin slippers. It was a
marvel to her mistress how she could keep her dainty shoes so pure from
soil; but there are those who walk amid the city’s mire and dirt, and
yet are free from spot or stain. They need only to wash their feet, and
are clean every whit. It is blessed to be of that number; to go with
white garments down into the very pollution, and to come out of it
undefiled, and to feel that it was because of the robe of Christ’s
righteousness upon us, that gives virtue by its contact with the sinner,
and never takes soil.
[Illustration: 0052]
“You’re a beautiful creature, Tib,” said Eliza Beth. “You hunt out and
pursue mischief, and put an end to it. I can tell by your contented purr
that there is one thief less in the market since you have been away from
me. Only keep on ferreting out evil, and destroying it, and you’ll be a
blessing to your day and generation.”
Tib stretched her delicate limbs and sprang up into her mistress’ lap,
and composed herself for the rest that was well earned. Now and then she
licked the hand that lay near her, and it was a pleasant caress to the
widowed and childless woman.
“I have but you in the world, Tib,” said Mrs. Beth. “We’ll stand by each
other to the end, will we not?”
The cat blinked at her with its yellow eyes, as if to say, “There’s
never a doubt of that,” and then fell asleep to dream of the two little
mice over in Susan Mack’s stall; the two little mice that escaped an
hour ago through a hole in the floor, and would come out at night to
nibble at the crumbs of cheese that were scattered here and there.
People smiled to see the good-natured market-woman, with the sleeping
cat upon her lap.
“That’s a soul to be trusted,” said a gentleman, as he passed the stall.
“Any body who is tender to an animal, must have a good heart toward all
mankind, it seems to me.”