The cutter who is afraid of Monday is as miserable as his
deadliest enemy could wish. Saturday the coats which he has
seen tried on were all more or less faulty. One was too large,
another too small; one kicked at the waist, another was too
large at blade; one creased through the shoulder, another fell
away from the neck; one sawed the ears and another would not
cover the collar button of the shirt. He goes to bed Saturday
wondering if the boss has made up his mind to give him Hail
Columbia or the grand bounce. He awakes Sunday, nervous and
fidgety, and feels that he would like to have some one die
suddenly and leave him a fortune so that he could run away
and hide his misery. At noon he thinks he may, after all,
come out all right. At night he wonders how many suits will
come back on the morrow, and when he sleeps he dreams of
processions of angry men walking over him with misfit garments,
and a disgusted employer trying to persuade him that he is
a complicated idiot. Monday morning he goes to the shop
reluctantly, smiles with a sickly assumption of confidence,
shakes and trembles as he says “Good morning,” and wants to
perform the knot hole act as the first bundle of clothing is
returned. It is all right to
“Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,”
but when it comes to downright agony, we are of the opinion
that the cutter who is afraid of Monday can discount the “poor
old man” and is entitled to unlimited commiseration. He is
miserable beyond imagination, crushed, chronically, into mental
jelly, and rendered abject and ridiculous by the haunting fear
of returning bundles.
The awful terrors of each Monday’s morn,
Make the poor cutter wish he were not born.
Nov. 26th, 1891, 4 p. m.
This is Thanksgiving day and I am glad _I can say_: This work has been
finished to-day, except corrections which must yet be made. This means
that I have spent most of this legal holiday by working on the manuscript
of this book, and I hope that some of my fellow workmen will be benefited
by it.
But I cannot let this opportunity pass without publicly acknowledging the
guiding hand of an Allwise Providence, which has been visible to me in
the past and in whose power I trust. I know of no better way to express
my feelings at the present hour than to repeat the first and last verses
of that beautiful German hymn which was sung in church this morning:
1. Lobe der Herren o meine Seele!
Ich will ihn loben bis zum Tod;
Weil ich noch Stunden auf Erden zähle,
Will ich lobsingen meinen Gott.
Der Leib und Seele gegeben hat,
Werde geprießen früh und spät.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
8. Rühmet ihr Menschen den hohen Namen
Deß, der so große Dinge thut!
Alles was Obem hat ruse Amen!
Und bringe Lob mit frohem Muth.
Ihr Kinder Gottes, lobt und preis’t
Vater und Sohn und heil’gen Geist.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Aug. 15th, 1892.