Near my home lived a poor, hard-working, but improvident man. He had a
wife and seven children. The oldest was thirteen, and the baby but ten
months old. They were poor. The husband and father was working only half
time. There is a cause for the dull times, but the man did not know what
it was. Those who do know are afraid to tell, for fear it may injure
their business. “Great is Diana!”
One month ago the wife and mother was taken suddenly ill, and died in
less than twenty-four hours. Everybody was shocked. It seemed so cruel
and hard of Providence to remove that poor woman at a time when she was
needed most. Many would have blamed Providence of cruelty, but they are
afraid to do so.
No one knew the reason why this death was ordered. Some thought it was
even a sin to make a study of the case, “lest they offend Providence.”
I was made to feel very sad when I heard of the sudden bereavement.
Little eyes of helpless children looked out of the night shadows and
made my sleep a nightmare. I looked down a long dark vista leading out
into future years, and I saw barefooted and ragged children plodding
hopelessly along, bearing burdens that should be carried by full grown
men and women. I saw cruel winter lurking only a few weeks off,
generating chill blasts of wind to pinch little brown legs and chapped
hands, and I wondered what the people would do about it.
While I was wondering what was to be done, my wife and her near neighbor
were already solving the problem. Old chests and boxes were ransacked for
cast-off clothing—for clothes the children had outgrown, but which were
almost as good as new. Neighbors were set to work ransacking chests and
boxes and bureau drawers, and many little dresses and pantaloons that
brought back tender memories were dug up and cast into the common fund of
collected goods.
To this collection was added a few dollars’ worth of new goods, and
thread, and the work of reconstruction began. The work was done in my
home, while I worked in an adjoining room, and I never heard a more
cheerful and happy set of women. Their hearts, their charity, their
mother love were all in the work, and these are the tender forces that
give inspiration to men and women who believe in the religion of humanity.
In my mind’s eye I could see those orphan children feasting their eyes
on the warm flannel petticoats, the bright gingham dresses, the soft
underwear and little aprons. I felt that it was good to be near this
working gang in the great cause of living humanity, and I seemed to share
the inspiration that gave such happiness to the ladies.
The minister’s wife came out and joined the workers, but suggested
that they open each sewing session with prayer; to which a majority
objected, saying they only had limited time to spare, and they believed
the children would be clothed much sooner if the sewing continued
uninterrupted.
These good women worked all day cheerfully, and reconstructed a big pile
of children’s clothes, and when the meeting was about to break up the
minister’s wife suggested that they kneel and return thanks.
“God will accept my weariness of body and contentment of soul,” replied
the busiest woman in the bunch. “Prayer is a private business between
two—between God and the worshipper; and between these two there are no
secrets,” she continued. “Public prayer is the work we do in public,
and for the people—for God’s creatures. We have been praying, tenderly
and seriously all afternoon, while many who could have joined us in the
good work, but refused, will be offering up worded prayers tonight and
thanking their God—for what? for escaping real work? for the squandering
of a few hours that might have been spent with religious profit in this
work of charity? So long as I believe in the religion of humanity, just
so long will I believe that a work for the bettering of humanity goes
ahead of worded prayer.”
“You may be right, Mary,” replied the minister’s wife. “If all women
prayed as cheerfully and willingly with their hands, as you have done
this afternoon, humanity would be the better for it. Perhaps, after all,
the uplifting of the human race is the greatest work we can perform.
Perhaps the bringing of joy and happiness to hearts that have been filled
with hopelessness and gloom, is the dearest work we can do for God. I am
not a bigot, Mary; only I believe in both work and prayer.”
For a long time after the women left I sat and pondered. The little
hungry eyes of the shivering orphans looked out of the gloaming, and
I knew what their decision would be. Their hearts would go out to the
workers. When the warm skirts and petticoats and little trousers shut out
the winter’s blast, the work of the workers would be appreciated.