You understand all this, and you want to work; but the difficulty is
to find something to do. Housekeeping, with its thousand and one
duties, offers a useful and pleasant field; but I will suppose that
you have already been too much in the house, and greatly need to go
out into the air and sunshine.
Now, dear girls, let me suggest something for you, something you
will like, and in which you will be, after a little, very happy. Go
to bed to-night early, say at half-past eight o'clock, and rise to-
morrow morning at six o'clock. I will suppose that you reside in a
large town, or a city. Go at once to the suburbs, and you will find
the abodes of poverty. March boldly up to one of them, and say:---
"Good morning; how de do, folkses? Thought I'd just come out and see
how the the morning air tasted!"
If you are in right down earnest, it won't take you five minutes to
establish yourself in the confidence of Bridget O'Flaherty. And if
your voice and manner are of just the right sort, there will follow
such a wondrous disclosure of family secrets! You will be told all
about Michael's stone-bruise, and Patrick's sore toe; probably the
boys will be hauled out of bed to show you. But I must leave the
secrets to your imagination, or, what is better, to an actual trial.
You find that the mother herself needs a new dress that she may
attend mass, and you make a note of it. The little girl needs a
dress, and a pair of shoes. The next morning you carry a bundle with
your own hands, and leave it with the promise that you will come
again in a few days.
Put together all the soft, polite things that your fashionable
friends have ever said of you, and as the zephyr to the tornado, so
would they all be compared to the gratitude, the admiration, the
"God bless her," the "dear swate angel," the very worship which that
household would pour out upon you during the few days before the
next visit; and when you do go again, the shanty has been thoroughly
cleaned and white-washed, the children's feet have been soaked and
scrubbed, so that the actual skin has been brought into view; and
everything has become wonderfully smart. Tell them of the heart
pleasure which all this change gives you, and then speak warmly of
the great advantage of such cleanliness, of ventilation, and of such
other matters as you see they are ignorant of.
And now you mustn't blame them for casting surreptitious glances at
your covered basket; they can't help it, poor things. They try not
to look that way, but their imaginations are very busy with the
contents of that basket. At length you open it, and taking out a
bowl, you say:--
"Mrs. O'Flaherty, I am really troubled about Katie's being so thin.
Here is some Scotch oat-meal, and if you will try her with some oat-
meal porridge, I am sure it will do her good. If you think, after a
little, that it's doing her good, I will bring you more of it.
But oh, how the youngsters long to see what else there is in that
basket. After a moment, you put your hand in, and begin to take out
things.
"Now, Mrs. O'Flaherty, you won't blame me, will you? I just brought
down a few little things; they are of no great value, but I thought
you might as well use them, as to have them lie idle. Here are a few
pairs of woolen stockings which I have mended all nicely for you.
And here is a lot of collars and handkerchiefs which, perhaps, you
may make some use of; if so, I am sure you are welcome to them."
"And now, Katie, I have brought a picture for you. I saw it in a
shop window yesterday, and thought you might like it. There, do you
know what that is?"
"Why, yes mum; that's a picture of the Blessed Virgin! Be's you a
Catholic, mum?"
"No, Katie, I am not a Catholic; but I can't see any harm in a
picture of the dear Mother of Christ."
"Oh, I thank you mum, I thank you with all my heart."
"And now, Katie, can't you get a frame for this?"
"Oh yes, mum, I can get a frame; I will get a frame in some way."
When you go again, a week later, what a flutter in the neighborhood!
Eyes, eyes everywhere. All the neighboring shanties are alive to see
that "blessed, swate angel."
As you approach the O'Flaherty's, they are all out, looking
wondrously smart, and the old man, for the first time, is without
his pipe. Your remark about tobacco seems to be working. Katie is
the first to reach you, and she holds up in her hands the picture,
in a nice little gilt frame.
But how can I describe your reception? Talk of Jenny Lind at Castle
Garden,--that was a fashionable splurge. Talk of the reception of a
returning congressman,--that gives the Mayor and Aldermen a chance
to ride in barouches, make speeches, and dine at the expense of the
corporation. Your reception in Michael O'Flaherty's yard is more
hearty, grateful and earnest, than any of the fashionable welcomes.
It comes from their very hearts, and would be just as warm if they
knew you had come to bid them a final farewell.
Suppose some rich old curmudgeon had given them a few dollars, with
which they had purchased the things you have given them. Would they
rush out to welcome him? would they clean up the cabin? would the
children's eyes sparkle with gratitude and love? No, oh no! It is
not the mended stockings, the bowl of oat-meal, or the picture which
has so touched them, but it is the gentle, loving spirit in which
you have visited them. The poor and lowly are strangely and
wonderfully susceptible to such treatment.
A bright woman, residing in a small city in the state of New York,
who was a true follower of Christ, for, like him, she went about
doing good, happened to go into an Irish neighborhood where the
measles were raging, during October. She showed herself an angel of
mercy, though her health was so delicate that she could do nothing
more than to ride over in her carriage, and distribute gruel, soup,
and good counsel.
After the election in November, it came to be known that about
fifteen Irish voters, from the neighborhood where Mrs. M---- had acted
the good Samaritan, had put in Republican votes, whereat the
Democratic managers of the ward were exceeding wroth. The
delinquents were visited and labored with.
"What made you go and vote for that--nigger candidate?"
At first they refused to divulge. But, at length, it came out that
the candidate's wife, Mrs. M--, had helped their families through
the measles. And although their Mrs. M----- was not, in fact, the wife
of the candidate, was not even acquainted with him, it was enough
for those grateful Irishmen that the name was the same.