worked hard making swinging baskets and nut-shell boats for the fair. And
as the poor mother was fairly broken down, and could not go to the city,
they had not to pick berries, but could spend all their time making their
little articles. They even made little faces out of the nut shells. At
last came the day of the fair; and, alas! the poor mother was still sick,
while the father was not able to move out of his chair for rheumatism.
This was a sad disappointment, but Rudolph had often been to the city
with his mother, and he resolved to take Theresa and go himself. As the
food was out, the parents could not refuse, and the two children climbed
up on the donkey and set out. It was a wearisome and anxious day to the
parents. At last, when evening came, there came no returning children.
But an hour after dark the donkey stopped before the door, and Rudolph
and his sister came joyfully in to tell the day's adventures. Very happy
were the parents to learn of their complete success. And now the children
went regularly to the weekly markets or fairs, and had a stall of their
own. Their constant whittling made them more and more skilful, and their
trinkets were soon much sought after. They were able to buy a little gold
and silver, and soon learned to inlay their nut-shell snuff-boxes and
wooden jewel-cases, so as to make them very beautiful. And as the
wood-chopper grew better he was able to do the rougher work of preparing
the wood for them. And the money they realized was more than the
wood-chopper was ever able to make in his best days. After a while some
wood-carver's tools helped Rudolph to do still more curious work. And he
now has a shop in town. Theresa prepares his drawings and patterns for
him, and does the staining and moss-work, and the firm is always known as
The Wood-Chopper's Children. If anybody wants a moral to the story they
can furnish it themselves.
"I suppose the moral is, that EVERYBODY CAN DO SOMETHING IF HE TRIES,"
said Miller.
"I s-s-suppose it's b-b-bed-time," said the chairman, and the boys
adjourned.
THE BOUND BOY.
On the third Friday evening the boys came together in some uncertainty in
regard to who was to be the story-teller. But Will Sampson, the
stammering president of the club, had taken care to notify John Harlan,
the widow's son, that he was to tell the story. If there was any general
favorite it was John; for while his poverty excited the sympathy of all,
his manliness and generousness of heart made everybody his friend, and
so, when Sampson got the boys quiet, he announced: "G-g-gentlemen of the
order of the c-c-cellar-door, the story-teller for th-the evening is our
friend Harlan. P-p-please c-come forward to the t-top, Mr. Harlan."
"I say, Hurrah for Harlan!" said Harry Wilson, and the boys gave a cheer.
"Give us a good one, John," said mischievous Jimmy Jackson.
"Order!" said the chairman. "Mr. Harlan has the fl-floor,--the
c-c-cellar-door, I mean. Be q-quiet, J-J-Jackson, or I'll reprimand you
severely."
"I'm perfectly quiet," said Jackson. "Haven't spoken a word for an hour."
_JOHN HARLAN'S STORY._
Well, boys, I don't know that I can do better than tell you the story of
one of my mother's old school-mates. His name was Samuel Tomkins----
"Couldn't you give your hero a prettier name?" said Jackson; but the
president said "order," and the story went on.
He lived in one of the counties bordering on the Ohio River. It was a
rough log cabin in which his early life was passed. He learned to walk on
an uneven puncheon floor; the walls were "chinked" with buckeye sticks,
and the cracks daubed with clay, and a barrel, with both ends knocked
out, finished off the chimney. His father had emigrated from
Pennsylvania, and was what they call in that country a "poor manager." He
never got on well, but eked out a living by doing day's works, and
hunting and fishing. But Samuel's mother was a woman of education, and
had just given him a good start, when she died. He was then but eight
years of age. A few months later his father died of a congestive chill,
and little Sammy was thrown on the world. He was indentured to old Squire
Higgins. The Squire was a hard master; and in those days a bound boy was
not much better off than a slave, any how. Up early in the morning "doing
chores," running all day, and bringing the cows from the pasture in the
evening, he was kept always busy. The terms of his indenture obligated
the Squire to send him to school three months in the winter; and it was a
delightful time to him when he took his seat on the backless benches of
the old log school-house, with its one window, and that a long, low one,
and its wide old fireplace. He learned to "read, write, and cypher" very
fast. And in the summer time, when he was employed in throwing clods off
the corn after the plough, he had only to go once across the field while
the plough went twice. By hurrying, he could get considerable time to
wait at each alternate row. This time he spent in studying. He hid away
his book in the fence-corner, and by concealing himself a few minutes in
the weeds while he waited for the plough, he could manage to learn
something in a day.
After he grew larger the Squire failed to send him to school. When asked
about it, he said, "Wal, I 'low he knows a good deal more'n I do now, an'
'taint no sort o' use to learn so much. Spiles a boy to fill him chock
full." But Sammy was bent on learning, any how; and in the long winter
mornings, before day, he used to study hard at such books as he could
get.
"I never seed sich a chap," old Mrs. Higgins would say. "He got a invite
to a party last week, and my old man tole him as how he mout go; but,
d'ye b'lieve it? he jist sot right down thar, in that air chimney-corner,
and didn't do nothin' but steddy an' steddy all the whole blessed time,
while all the other youngsters wuz a frolickin'. It beats me all holler."
But the next winter poor Sam had a hard time of it. The new
school-master, who was hired because he was cheap, knew very little; and
when Sam got into trouble with his "sums," and asked the school-master
about them, he answered, "Wal, now, Sam, I hain't cyphered no furder'n
'reduction,' and I can't tell you. But they's a preacher over in
Johnsonville a-preachin' and a-teachin' school. He is a reg'lar college
feller, and I reckon he knows single and double rule of three, and all
the rest."
Sam coaxed the Squire to let him have old "Blaze-face," the blind mare,
to ride to Johnsonville, three miles off, the next morning, if he would
promise to be back "on time to begin shuckin' corn bright and airly." And
before six o'clock he hitched old Blaze in front of "Preacher Brown's"
door. When he knocked, Mr. Brown was making a fire in the stove, and he
was not a little surprised to see a boy by the door in patched blue-jeans
pantaloons that were too short, and a well-worn "round-about" that was
too tight. He looked at the boy's old arithmetic and slate in surprise.
"If you please, sir," said Sam, "I'm Squire Higgins' bound boy. I want to
learn somethin', but I can't go to school; and if I could, 'twouldn't
amount to much, because the master don't know as much as I do, even. I
got stalled on a sum in cube root, an' I come down here to get you to
help me out, for I'm bound to know how to do everything there is in the
old book; and I've got to be back to begin work in an hour."
The minister shook him by the hand, and sat down cheerfully, and soon put
daylight through the "sum." Then Sam got up, and feeling down in the
bottom of his pocket, he took out a quarter of a dollar. "Would that pay
you, sir? It's all I've got, and all I will get in a year, I guess. I
hope it's enough."
"Keep it! keep it!" said Mr. Brown, brushing away the tears; "God bless
you, my boy, we don't charge for such work as that. I'd like to lend you
this History of England to read. And come over any evening, and I'll help
you, my brave fellow."
One evening in every week the bound boy rode old Blaze over to the
minister's house, and rode back after eleven o'clock, for he and the
parson came to be great friends. The next year Mr. Brown threatened the
old Squire with the law for his violation of his part of the terms of the
indenture, and forced him to release Sam, who was eighteen now, from any
further service. He dug his way through college, and is now Professor of
Mathematics in ---- University. The old Squire, when he hears of
Professor Tomkins' success, always chuckles, and says, "You don't say,
now! Wal, he used to feed my hogs."
"We'll adj-j-journ with three cheers for Harlan," said Sampson. And they
gave them.
"Oh, don't go yet," said Tom Miller; and so another half-hour was passed
in general talk.
THE PROFLIGATE PRINCE.
Friday evening next after the one on which John Harlan told his story, it
rained; so the club did not meet. But they came together on the following
Friday evening, and it was decided that Hans Schlegel should tell the
story.
"Come, Schlegel," said Harlan, "you must know a good many, for you are
always studying big German books. Tell us one of the stories that those
old German fellows, with jaw-breaking names, have to tell."
"Yes," said Jackson, "tell us about Herr Johannes Wilhelm Frederich Von
Schmitzswartsschriekelversamanarbeitfrelinghuysen!"
Jimmy's good-natured raillery raised a hearty giggle, and Hans joined in
it with great gusto.
"I think," said Harry Wilson, "Schlegel can make a better story than any
of those old fellows, whose names take away your breath when you
pronounce them. Tell us one of your own, Hans."
"D-d-d-do just as you p-p-please, Sch-sch--" but the stammering chairman
fairly broke down in trying to pronounce the name, and the boys all had
another laugh.
"Really, gentlemen," said Schlegel, "I should be delighted to please you,
but as you have asked me to tell you a story that I've read in German,
and to tell you one of my own make, and to do just as I please, I fear I
shall be like the man who tried first to ride, and then to carry his
donkey to please the crowd. But, I think I can fulfil all three requests.
I read a story in Krummacher some time ago, and I have partly forgotten
it. Now, if I tell you this story, partly translating from the German as
I remember it, and partly filling up the story myself, I shall do just as
I please, and gratify you all."
"Good," said Jackson; "takes Schlegel to make a nice distinction. Go on
with the story."
_THE STORY._
Hazael was the name of the son of an oriental prince. He was carefully
educated by command of his father, and grew up in the valley of the wise
men. What that is, I cannot tell you, for Herr Krummacher did not deign
to tell me. At last, when he came to be a young man, his father thought
best to have him travel, that he might know something of other people
besides his own. For people who stay at home always are apt to think
everything strange that differs from what they have been accustomed to.
Thus it is that English-speaking people, where knowledge is limited,
think that German names are uncouth, when it is only the narrowness of
their own culture that makes them seem so.
Now, in the country in which Hazael lived, they didn't send young men to
Europe, as we do, to complete their education by travelling at lightning
speed over two or three countries, and then coming back to talk of their
travels. But in that country, they sent them to Persia to live awhile,
that they might study the manners and customs of the people. So Hazael
came into Persia. He was allowed every liberty, but his old tutor,
Serujah, followed him without his knowledge, and watched his course.
When Hazael reached the great city, he was dazzled with its splendors.
The signs of wealth, the excitements of pleasure, and the influence of
companions were too much for him. He saw the crowds of pleasure-seekers,
he was intoxicated with music, he was charmed with the beauty and
conversation of giddy women. He forgot all the lessons of Serujah. He
forgot all his noble resolutions. Days and nights were spent in pleasure
and dissipation. In vain Serujah looked for any signs of amendment. He
was a "fast" young man, _fast_ because he was going down hill.
One day, as he wandered in the pleasure gardens of Ispahan with his
dissolute companions, he beheld his old master, Serujah, dressed as a
pilgrim, with staff in hand, hurrying past him.
"Whence come you, and whither do you journey?" cried out the young prince
to Serujah.
"I do not know where I am going," answered Serujah.
"What!" said Hazael, in astonishment, "have you left home and gone on a
pilgrimage, and yet do not know where you are going?"
"Oh, yes," said Serujah, "I just go here and there, taking the road that
seems to be the pleasantest, or that suits my fancy."
"But where will you come to at this rate? Where will such travelling lead
you?" asked Hazael.
"I do not know. That matters not to me," said the wise man.
Then Hazael turned to his companion and said, "See! this man was once
full of wisdom. He was the guide of my youth. But his reason has
departed, and now, poor lunatic, he is wandering over the earth not
knowing where he is going. How has the wise man become a fool!"
Serujah came up to the young prince, and taking his knapsack from his
back, threw it upon the ground.
"You have spoken rightly," he said. "Hazael, I once led you, and you
followed me. Now, I follow where you lead. I have lost my road, and
forgotten where I am going. So have you. You set me the example. You are
wandering round without purpose. Which is the greater fool, you or I? I
have forgotten my destination. You have forgotten your high duties as a
prince, and your manhood."
Thus spoke the wise man, and Hazael saw his folly.
"That story is solemn enough for Sunday-school," said Jimmy Jackson. "But
it isn't bad. Sharp old fellow that Jerushy or Serujy, or whatever his
name was. But I don't believe it's true. When a fellow gets a-going to
the bad you can't turn him around so easy as that."
THE YOUNG SOAP-BOILER.
It was a mild evening in the early fall, when the boys got together for
the next story, which of course fell to the lot of Tom Miller, the
minister's son, whom the boys familiarly called "The Dominie." No boy in
the cellar-door club was more obliging to his friends, more forgiving to
those who injured him, than "The Dominie," and none was more generally
loved. But Tom had some strong opinions of his own. He was a believer in
"the dignity of work," and when he wanted a little spending money, would
take a saw and cut wood on the sidewalk, without any regard to some of
the fellows, who called him wood-sawyer. He was given to helping his
mother, and did not mind having the boys catch him in the kitchen when
his mother was without "help." If anybody laughed at him he only replied,
"There is nothing I am more proud of than that I am not afraid to be
useful." This independence, this utter contempt for the sneers of others
when he was right, made the boys look for something a little peculiar
when Tom should come to his story.
"G-g-gentlemen! this c-c-cellar-door society will come to order. Tom
Miller, the dominie----"
"The wood-sawyer?" said Jackson, good-naturedly.
"Y-yes, the w-wood-sawyer, the f-fearless reformer, the b-b-believer in
hard work, the bravest member of the c-cellar-door cl-club, has the
slanting floor, the cellar-door itself, and I hope he will st-st-stand by
his colors, and give us a story that has the meanest kind of work in it,
made honorable by d-d-dig-dignity of character." I think Sampson
stammered a little on "dig-dig" just for the fun. But the boys all agreed
to his request and so they heard
_TOM MILLER'S STORY._
My story, boys, shall be what you ask. I shall call it "The Young
Soap-Boiler," for I suppose you'll admit that boiling soap is about as
unpleasant work as there is.
"Touched bottom that time," interposed Harry Wilson.
Well, the boy that I'm going to tell about was Dudley Crawford. With a
cheery eye and voice, a quick eye, a quicker hand and a fleet foot, he
was a great favorite on the play-ground. If there was a weak boy, whom
the others imposed upon, Dudley was always his fast friend, and the mean
fellows who make up for their cowardice toward boys of their size by
"picking" at little fellows or green boys, had always a wholesome fear of
Dudley, though I do not think he ever struck one of them. But his
fearless, honest eye cowed them, and I am sure he would have struck hard
if it had been necessary to protect the poor little fellows who kept
under his wing. The boys called them "Dud's chickens."
There was one boy in the school, Walter Whittaker, who had a special
desire to be on good terms with Dudley. Walter's father had gotten rich
during the war, and Walter had a special fondness for being genteel. He
wore gloves, and kept his boots brighter than there was any occasion for.
He was not much of a scholar, though older than Dudley. But he was fond
of calling young Crawford his friend, because Dudley's father was a rich
and talented lawyer.
At last, there came a financial crash that sent all of Mr. Crawford's
half-million of dollars to the winds. He was in feeble health when it
came, and the loss of his property hastened his death. The very same
"panic" left Whittaker poor also. But the two boys took it very
differently. Whittaker looked as crestfallen as if he had committed a
crime. Dudley mourned the loss of his father, but held up his head
bravely under the sudden poverty. Whittaker looked around for a
"situation." But the times were hard, and situations were not to be had.
Every clerk that could be dispensed with was sent away, and besides,
merchants do not like to employ a fellow who wears gloves and looks
afraid of soiling his hands. Dudley had his mother to support, and looked
about bravely for work. But no work was to be had. He tried everything,
as it seemed, until at last he asked stern old Mr. Bluff, who owned half
a dozen factories of different kinds.
"You want work, do you, young man? I s'pose you want to keep books or
suthin' o' that sort. I never saw such a lot o' fellers askin' for work
and afraid to dirty their fingers."
"I'll do any honest work by which I can earn my bread, without being
dependent on friends."
"Any honest work, will you? I'll make you back out of that air. I'll bet
you won't begin where I did."
"Try me, sir, and see."
"Well, then, I'll give you good wages to go into my soap factory next
Monday morning. Ha! ha! that's honest work; but fellers of your cloth
don't do that sort of honest work."
"_I_ will, sir."
Mr. Bluff was utterly surprised, but he gave Dudley the situation, saying
that he reckoned the smell of soap-grease would send him out.
Dudley hardly knew what to make of his own boldness. But he only told his
mother that he had a situation with Mr. Bluff, and that he did not know
the precise nature of his duties. He was not ashamed of his work, but
afraid of giving her pain.
Monday morning he went early to the soap factory, stopping at the
tailor's on the way, and getting a pair of blue overalls that he had
ordered. It must be confessed that the smell of the factory disgusted him
at first, but he soon became interested. He saw that brains were used in
soap-making. He became more and more interested as he saw how accurate
some of the chemical processes were. He soon learned to cut the great
blocks of hard soap with wires; he watched with eager interest the use of
coloring matters in making the mottled soaps, and he soon became so
skilful that surly Mr. Bluff promoted him to some of the less unpleasant
parts of the work.
But there was much talk about it at first. Some of the young ladies who
had been useless all their lives, and who had come to think that
uselessness was necessary to respectability, were "surprised that Dudley
Crawford should follow so low a trade." But those very people never once
thought it disgraceful in Walter Whittaker to be a genteel loafer, living
off his father's hard-earned salary, and pretending that he was looking
for a situation. And I will not be too hard on Whittaker. I think if he
could have had a situation in which he could do nothing, and be paid well
for it, he would have been delighted. But he shunned Dudley. Partly
because he was afraid of compromising his own respectability, and partly
because he had sense enough to see that Dudley's honest eyes looked
through him, and saw what a humbug he was.
After a year Dudley's father's estate was settled, and owing to an
unexpected rise in some of the property, it was found that the debts
would all be paid, and a small balance be left for the family. It was but
a small amount, but it enabled Dudley to lay aside his blue overalls, and
return to the old school again. Dr. Parmlee, the principal, was delighted
to have such a good pupil back again. Whittaker came back about the same
time, and the very first day he whispered to some of the boys that Dudley
smelled of soap-grease. The boys laughed thoughtlessly, as boys are apt
to do, and passed the poor joke round. Dudley maintained the respect of
the school in general, but there was a small clique, who never knew their
lessons, but who prided themselves on being genteel dunces. These folks
used to talk about the soap-grease, even in Dr. Parmlee's presence; but
the Doctor quietly retorted that if Crawford's hands smelled of
soap-grease, that was better than to have soap-grease inside his head and
pomatum on the outside. They were a little more modest after this, but
they could not forbear allusions that kept Dudley under fire. His mother,
who was very proud of her son's independence, could not but feel sorry
that he was subject to such persecutions. "Ah, mother," he would say,
"the thing that I am proudest of in my life is, that I spent a year in
Bluff's soap factory. Don't think that I am annoyed at the barkings of
lap-dogs."
At last came the day of graduation. Dudley led the class. There was a
great crowd of fine people. The last speech of all on the programme was
"Honest Work Honorable--Dudley Crawford." With a characteristic manliness
he stood up bravely for work. So fine were his arguments, so undaunted
his bearing, that the audience were carried away. Dr. Parmlee took off
his spectacles to wipe his eyes. Dudley's mother could not conceal her
pleasure. "Franklin's hands had printers' ink on them," he said, "but
they were shaken by princes and savans--the lightning did not despise
them. Garibaldi's fingers were soiled with candle-grease, but they have
moulded a free nation. Stephenson's fingers were black with coal, and
soiled with machine oil of a fireman's work, but they pointed out
highways to commerce and revolutionized civilization. There are those"
(Whittaker and his set looked crestfallen here) "who will gladly take the
hand of worthless loafers, or of genteel villains" (here certain ladies
looked down), "but who would not have dared shake hands with Franklin,
the printer, with Garibaldi, the tallow-chandler, with Stephenson, the
stoker. But before God and right-thinking men there are no soiled hands
but guilty hands or idle ones."
When he sat down, others beside his mother shed tears, and good Dr.
Parmlee shook his pupil's hand in sight of the audience, but the applause
was so great that nobody could hear what he said. And the next day a note
came from the chief editor of a leading paper, saying that one who
believed enough in labor to carry out his principles in his life, would
make an earnest advocate of them. He therefore tendered Mr. Crawford a
place on the editorial staff of his paper.
"P-pretty well done, Dominie," stammered Will Sampson.
THE SHOEMAKER'S SECRET.
All things have an end. Among other things that had an end was the fine
summer weather. Many other things came to an end with it. Grass, flowers,
and leaves came to an end. Chirping of katydids came to an end, and
chattering of swallows and songs of robins. And with the summer ended the
Cellar-door Club, like all other out-door things that could not stand the
frost. The boys understood that their last meeting had come. But Will
Sampson, the stammering chairman, was to tell his story, and though the
cold evening made them button up their coats, they determined to have one
more good time together. And so with many a merry joke they took their
places for what Jimmy Jackson called the "inclined plane of social
enjoyment." Tom Miller got up under the window and called the meeting to
order, announcing that Mr. Sampson would tell the story for the evening.
"I d-don't know about th-that," said Will. "You s-s-see, b-boys, if I
tell it I shall have to d-do it b-by fits and starts. If you w-want a
s-story told straight ahead, g-g-get somebody whose tongue w-will w-wag
when they want it to. If you want a y-yarn j-j-jerked out, I am your
man."
"We will take it jerked or any other way you choose, Will," said Miller.
I want to say just here that patience and self-control would have cured
Sampson of his stammerings. There is no excuse for anybody going through
the world with such a defect, when there are so many instances of the
victory of a strong and patient resolution over it. I shall give the
story here as if he had spoken it smoothly.
_WILL SAMPSON'S STORY._