almost a year. I should judge from the remarks of our friend Mr. Peg
when he was beginning upon us, that he was very unaccustomed to the
trade of shoe-_making_—shoe-mending was what he had before lived by;
or, perhaps, I should rather say, tried to live by; I am afraid it was
hard work; and I suppose Mr. Peg acted upon the excellent saying, which
is also a motto in our family, that ‘It is good to have two strings
to one’s bow.’ It was in a little light front room, looking upon the
street, which was Mr. Peg’s parlour, and shop, and workroom, that
he cut out the leather and prepared the soles for this his first
manufacture. I think he hadn’t stuff enough but for one pair, for I
heard him sigh once or twice as he was fidgeting with his pattern over
my brother’s upper leather, till it was made out. Mr. Peg was a little
oldish man, with a crown of grey hairs all round the back part of his
head; and he sat to work in his shirt sleeves, and with a thick, short
leather apron before him. There was a little fire-place in the room,
with sometimes fire in it, and sometimes not; and the only furniture
was Mr. Peg’s little bit of a counter, the low rush-bottomed chair in
which he sat to work, and a better one for a customer; his tools, and
his chips—by which I mean the scraps of leather which he scattered
about.
“Hardly had Mr. Peg got the soles and the upper leathers and the vamps
to his mind, and sat down on his chair to begin work, when a little
girl came in. She came from a door that opened upon a staircase leading
to the upper room, and walked up to the cobbler. It was a little
brown-haired girl, about nine or ten years old, in an old calico frock
and pantalettes; she was not becomingly dressed, and she did not look
very well.
[Illustration: “Hardly had Mr. Peg got the soles and the upper leathers
and the vamps to his mind, and sat down on his chair to begin work,
when a little girl came in.”—P. 115.]
“‘Father,’ she said,—‘mother’s head aches again.’
“The cobbler paused in his work, and looked up at her.
“‘And she wants you to come up and rub it—she says I can’t do it hard
enough.’
“Rather slowly Mr. Peg laid his upper leather and tools down.
“‘Will you close this shoe for me, Sue, while I am gone?’
“He spoke half pleasantly, and half, to judge by his tone and manner,
with some sorrowful meaning. So the little girl took it, for she
answered a little sadly,—
“‘I wish I could, father.’
“‘I’m glad you can’t, dear.’
“He laid his work down, and mounted the stairs. She went to the window,
and stood with her elbows leaning on the sill, looking into the street.
“It is only a small town, that Beachhead; but still, being a sea-coast
town, there is a good deal of stir about it. The fishermen from the one
side, and the farmers from the other, with their various merchandise;
the busy boys, and odd forms of women for ever bustling up and down,
make it quite a lively place. There is always a good deal to see in the
street. Yet the little girl stood very still and quiet by the window;
her head did not turn this way and that; she stood like a stupid
person, who did not know what was going on. A woman passing up the
street stopped a moment at the window.
“‘How’s your mother to-day, Sue?’
“‘She’s getting along slowly, Mrs. Binch.’
“‘Does the doctor say she is dangerous any?’
“‘The doctor don’t come any more.’
“‘Has he giv’ her up?’
“‘Yes; he says there is nothing to do but to let her get well.’
“‘O!—she’s so smart, is she?’
“‘No, ma’am,—she’s not smart at all: he says——’
“But Mrs. Binch had passed on, and was out of hearing; and the little
brown head stood still at the window again, leaning now on one hand. It
was a smooth-brushed, round little head, seen against the open window.
By and by another stopped, a lady this time; a lady dressed in black,
with a grave, sweet, delicate face.
“‘How’s your mother, Sue?’
“‘She’s just the same way, Mrs. Lucy.’
“‘No better?’
“‘Not much, ma’am. It’ll take a long time, the doctor says.’
“‘And are you, poor little tot, all alone in the house to do
everything?’
“‘No, ma’am;—there’s father.’
“The sweet face gave her a sort of long, wistful look, and passed on.
Sue stood there yet at the window, with her head leaning on her hand;
and whatever was the reason, so dull of hearing that her father had
come down, seated himself in his work-chair, and taken up his shoe,
several minutes before she found it out. Then she left the window and
came to him.
“‘What shall I do, father?’
“‘She’ll want you directly,’ said the cobbler. ‘She’s asleep now.’
“Sue stood still.
“‘Don’t you want some dinner, Sue?’
“She hesitated a little, and then said ‘yes.’
“‘Well, see, dear, and make some more of that porridge. Can you?’
“‘Yes, father; there’s some meal yet. And there’s some bread, too.’
“‘You may have that,’ said the cobbler. ‘And I’ll go out by and by, and
see if I can get a little money. Mr. Shipham had a pair of boots new
soled a month ago; and Mr. Binch owes me for some jobs—if I ever could
get hold of them.’
“And the cobbler sighed.
“‘If people only knew, they would pay you, father, wouldn’t they?’
“‘There is one that knows,’ said the cobbler. ‘And why they don’t pay
me he knows. Maybe it’s to teach you and me, Sue, that man does not
live by bread alone.’
“‘But by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God doth man
live,’ his little daughter went on softly, as if she were filling up
the words for her own satisfaction. ‘But didn’t we know that before,
father?’
“‘Maybe we didn’t know it enough,’ said the cobbler. ‘I’m afraid I
don’t now.’
“And as her back was turned, he hastily brought his hand to his eyes.
“‘But father, can one help feeling a little bad when—when things are so
now?’
“‘‘A little bad’—perhaps one might feel ‘_a little bad_,’’ said the
cobbler; ‘but if I believed all that I know, I don’t see how I could
feel _very_ bad. I don’t see how I could; and I oughtn’t to.’
“His little daughter had been raking the fire together, and setting on
the coals a little iron skillet of water. She turned and looked at him
when he said this, as if she had not known before that he did feel
‘very bad.’ He did not see the look, which was a startled and sorrowful
one; he was bending over his shoe-leather. She left the room then and
went after the meal, which she brought in a yellow earthen dish, and
began silently to mix for the porridge.
“‘The Bible says, father——’ she began, stirring away.
“‘Yes, dear,—what does it say?’ said Mr. Peg.
“‘It says, ‘_Trust in the Lord and do good; so shall thou dwell in the
land, and verily_——’’
“Susan’s voice broke. She stirred her porridge vehemently, and turned
her back to her father.
“‘‘_Verily thou shalt be fed_,’’ said the cobbler. ‘Yes—I know it. The
thing is, to believe it.’
“‘You do believe it, father,’ Susan said, softly.
“‘Ay, but I haven’t trusted the Lord, nor done good, any to speak of.
It’ll stand good for you, daughter, if it doesn’t for me.’
“She had stirred her meal into the skillet; and now, setting down her
dish, she came to his side, and putting her two arms round his neck,
she kissed him all over his face. The cobbler let fall leather and
ends, and hugged her up to his breast.
“‘That’s done me more good than dinner now,’ said he, when he had,
albeit tearfully, given her two or three sound kisses by way of
finishing. ‘You may have all the porridge, Susie.’
“‘There’s enough, father; and there’s some bread, too.’
“‘Eat it all up,’ said the cobbler, turning to his work again, maybe
to hide his eyes. She stood leaning on his shoulder, just so as not to
hinder the play of his arm.
“‘Shall I keep the bread for supper, father?’
“‘No, dear; maybe I’ll get some money before supper.’
“‘Whose shoes are those, father?’
“‘They aren’t anybody’s yet.’
“‘Whose are they going to be?’
“‘I don’t know.—The first pair of feet that come along that will fit
’em. If I sell these I’ll get some leather and make more.’
“‘Is that the last of your leather, father?’
“‘Ay—the last big enough; the rest is all pieces.’
“She stood a little while longer, laying her head on his shoulder; then
came a knocking up stairs, and she ran away. The cobbler wrought at his
shoe for a space, when turning his head, he dropped everything to go
and see after the porridge; and he squatted over the fire, stirring
it, till such time as he thought it was done, and he drew back the
skillet. He went to the foot of the stairs, and looked up and listened
for a minute, and then left it and came back without calling anybody.
It was plain he must eat his dinner alone.
“His dinner was nothing but porridge and salt, eaten with what would
have been a good appetite if it had had good thoughts to back it. And
the cobbler did not seem uncheerful; only once or twice he stopped and
looked a good while with a grave face into the fire or on the hearth.
But a porridge dinner after all could not last long. Mr. Peg set away
his plate and spoon, placed the skillet carefully in the corner of
the fire-place, took off his leather apron, and put on his coat; and,
taking his hat from the counter, he went out.
“There were no more stitches set in the shoe that afternoon, for Mr.
Peg did not get home till dark. The first thing that happened after
he went away, a gust of wind blew round the house and came down the
chimney, bringing with it a shower of soot, which must have sprinkled
pretty thick upon the open skillet. Then the wind seemed to go up
chimney again, and could be heard whistling off among the neighbouring
housetops. A while after, little Susie came down, and made for her
skillet. She pulled it out, and fetched her plate and spoon, and began
to skim out the soot. But I suppose she found it pretty bad, or else
that it would lose her a good deal of the porridge; for one time she
set her plate and spoon down on the hearth beside her, and laid her
face in her apron. She soon took it up again; but she didn’t make a
large meal of the porridge.
“She went up-stairs then immediately, and when she came down the second
time it was near evening. She stood and looked about to see that her
father was not come in; then she built up the fire, and when it was
burning stood and looked into it, just in the same way that she had
stood and looked out of the window. Suddenly she wheeled about, and
coming behind the counter took her father’s Bible from a heap of bits
of leather where it lay, and went and sat down on the hearth with it;
and as long as there was light to see, she was bending over it. Then,
when the light faded, she clasped her hands upon the shut Bible, and
leaning back against the jamb fell fast asleep in an instant, with her
head against the stone.
“There she was when her father came home. Her feet were stretched out
upon the hearth, and he stumbled over them. That waked her. By the
glimmering light of the embers something could be seen hanging from Mr.
Peg’s hand.
“‘Have you got home, father?—I believe I got asleep waiting for you.
What have you got in your hand?—Fish!—Oh, father!—’
“You should have heard the change of little Sue’s voice when she
spoke that. Generally her way of speaking was low and gentle like the
twilight, but those two words were like a burst of sunshine.
“‘Yes, dear—Blow up the fire, so you can see them—I’ve been to Mrs.
Binch’s—I’ve been all over town, a’most—and Mrs. Binch’s boy had just
come in with some, and she gave me a fine string of ’em—nice blue
fish—there.’
“Susan had made a light blaze, and then she and the cobbler admired and
turned and almost smelt of the fish, for joy.
“‘And shall we have one for supper, father?’
“‘Yes dear—You have some coals and I’ll get the fish ready right off.
Has mother had all she wanted to-day?’
“‘Yes, father—Mrs. Lucy sent her some soup, and she had plenty. And I
saved the bread from dinner, father, isn’t it good; and there’s more
porridge too.’
“What a bed of coals Sue had made, by the time her father came back
with the fish, nicely cleaned and washed. She put it down, and then the
two sat over it in the firelight and watched it broil. It was done as
nicely as a fish could be done; and Susan fetched the plates, and the
salt, and the bread; and then the cobbler gave thanks to God for their
supper. And then the two made such a meal! there wasn’t a bone of that
fish but was clean picked, nor a grain of salt but what did duty on a
sweet morsel. There was not a scrap of bread left from that supper;
and I was as glad as anything of my tough nature can be, to know that
there were several more fish beside the one eaten. Sue cleared away the
things when they had done, ran up to see if her mother was comfortable,
and soon ran down again. Her step had changed too.
“‘Now darling,’ said her father, ‘come and let us have our talk by this
good firelight.’
“She came to his arms and kissed him; and his arms were wrapped round
her, and she sat on his knee.
“‘It’s one good thing, you haven’t lights to work, so we can talk,’
said Sue, stroking his face. ‘If you had, we couldn’t.’
“‘Maybe we would,’ said the cobbler. ‘Let us talk to-night of the
things we have to be thankful for.’
“‘There’s a great many of them, father,’ said Sue, with her twilight
voice.
“‘The first thing is, that we know we have a Friend in heaven; and that
we do love and trust him.’
“‘O father!’ said Sue,—‘if you begin with that, all the other things
will not seem anything at all.’
“‘That’s true,’ said Mr. Peg. ‘Well, Sue, let’s have ’em all. You
begin.’
“‘I don’t know what to begin with,’ said Sue, looking into the fire.
“‘I have you,’ said her father, softly kissing her.
“‘O father!—and I have you;—but now you are taking the next best
things.’
“‘I shouldn’t care for all the rest without this one,’ said the
cobbler;—‘nor I shouldn’t mind anything but for this,’ he added, in a
somewhat changed tone.
“‘But father, you mustn’t talk of that to-night;—we are only going to
talk of the things we have to be thankful for.’
“‘Well, we’ll take the others to-morrow night, maybe, and see what
we can make of them. Go on, Susie,’ said the cobbler, putting his
head down to her cheek,—‘I have my dear little child, and she has her
father. That’s something to thank God and to be glad for,—every day.’
“‘So I do, every day, father,’ said Susan very softly.
“‘And so do I,’ said the cobbler; ‘and while I can take care of thee,
my dearest, I will take trouble for nothing else.’
“‘Now you are getting upon the other things, father,’ said Sue.
‘Father, it is something to be thankful for that we can have such a
nice fire every night,—and every day, if we want it.’
“‘You don’t know what a blessing ’tis, Sue,’ said her father. ‘If we
lived where we couldn’t get drift-wood,—if we lived as some of the poor
people do in the great cities, without anything but a few handfuls
of stuff to burn in the hardest weather, and that wretched stuff for
making a fire,—I am glad you don’t know how good it is, Sue!’ said he,
hugging his arms round her. ‘There isn’t a morning of my life but I
thank God for giving us wood, when I go about kindling it.’
“‘How do they do in those places, without wood?’ said Sue, sticking out
her feet towards the warm, ruddy blaze.
“‘He who knows all only knows,’ said the cobbler, gravely. ‘They do
without! It seems to me I would rather go without eating, and have a
fire.’
“‘I don’t know,’ said Sue thoughtfully, ‘which I would rather. But
those poor people haven’t either, have they?’
“‘Not enough,’ said the cobbler. ‘They manage to pick up enough to keep
them alive somehow.’—And he sighed, for the subject came near home.
“‘Father,’ said Sue, ‘I don’t believe God will let us starve.’
“‘I do not think he will, my dear,’ said the cobbler.
“‘Then why do you sigh?’
“‘Because I deserve that he should, I believe,’ said the cobbler,
hanging his head. ‘I deserve it, for not trusting him better. ‘_Casting
all your care upon him, for he careth for you._’ Ah, my dear, we can’t
get along without running to our upper storehouse pretty often.’
“‘Father, I guess God don’t mean we should.’
“‘That’s just it!’ said the cobbler. ‘That is just, no doubt, what he
means. Well dear, let’s learn the lesson he sets us.’
“‘Then, father,’ said Sue, ‘don’t you think we have a good little
house? It’s large enough, and it’s warm.’
“‘Yes dear,’ said the cobbler; ‘some of those poor people we were
talking about would think themselves as well off as kings if they had
such a house to live in as this.’
“‘And it is in a pleasant place, father, where there are a great many
kind people.’
“‘I hope there are,’ said the cobbler, who was thinking at the moment
how Mr. Shipham had put him off, and Mr. Dill had dodged him, and Mr.
Binch had fought every one of his moderate charges.
“‘Why, father!’ said Sue, ‘there’s Mrs. Lucy every day sends things to
mother; and Mrs. Binch gave you the fish; and Mrs. Jackson came and
washed ever so many times; and—and Mrs. Gelatin sent the pudding and
other things for mother, you know.’
“‘Well, dear,’ said the cobbler,—‘yes,—it seems that woman-kind is more
plenty here, at any rate, than man-kind.’
“‘Why, father?’ said Sue.
“‘I hope you’ll never know, dear,’ he answered. ‘It was a foolish
speech of mine.’
“‘And I’m sure it’s a blessing, father, that we have so many things
sent us for mother,—she has almost as much as she wants, and things we
couldn’t get. Now, Mrs. Lucy’s soup,—you don’t know how nice it was. I
tasted just the least drop in the spoon; and mother had enough of it
for to-day and to-morrow. And then the doctor says she’ll get well by
and by; and that will be a blessing.’
“It was a blessing so far off, that both the cobbler and his little
daughter looked grave as they thought about it.
“‘And I’m well, father, and you’re well,’ said Sue, pleasantly.
“‘Thank God!’ said the cobbler.
“‘And father, don’t you think it’s a little blessing to live near the
sea? and to have the beautiful beach to walk upon, and see the waves
come tumbling in, and smell the fresh wind? We used to go so often,
and maybe by and by we shall again. Don’t you think it is a great deal
pleasanter than it would be if Beachhead was away off in the country,
out of sight of the water?’
“‘Ah, Sue,’ said her father,—‘I don’t know;—I’ve lived a good piece
of my life in one of those in-shore places, and I didn’t want to hear
the sea roar then-a-days, and I could get along without the smell of
salt water. No,—you don’t know what you are talking about exactly;
every sort of place that the Lord has made has its own prettiness and
pleasantness; and so the sea has; but I love the green pasture-fields
as well as I do the green field of water, to this day.’
“‘But one might be in a place where there wasn’t the sea nor the
pasture-fields either, father.’
“‘So one might,’ said the cobbler. ‘Yes, there are plenty such places.
The sea _is_ a blessing. I was thinking of my old home in Connecticut;
but the world isn’t all green hills and sea-shore,—there’s something
else in it—something else. Yes, dear, I love those big waves, too.’
“‘And then, father,’ said Sue, laying her hand on his breast, ‘we come
back to the best things,—that you were beginning with.’
“‘Ay,’ said the cobbler, clasping his arm round her; and for a little
space they sat silent and looked into the fire,—and then he went on.
“‘Poor as we sit here, and weak and dying as we know we are, we know
that we have a tabernacle on high,—a house not made with hands, eternal
in the heavens. It won’t matter much, Sue, when we get there—’
“_What_ would not matter the cobbler did not say; there was something
came in his throat that stopped him.
“‘It won’t matter, father,’ said Sue, softly.
“They sat still a good little while; the flame of the bits of brands in
the chimney leaped up and down, burned strong and then fell outright;
and the red coals glowed and glimmered in the place of it, but with
less and less power.
“‘Now, Sue, let’s read,’ said the cobbler on a sudden.
“She got up, and he put on the coals two or three pieces of light
stuff, which soon blazed up. While he was doing this, Sue brought the
Bible. Then she took her former place in her father’s arms; and he
opened the book and read by the firelight, pausing at almost every
sentence,—
“‘‘_Praise ye the Lord_’—We will do that, Sue,’ said the cobbler,—‘for
ever.’
“‘‘_Blessed is the man that feareth the Lord that delighteth greatly in
his commandments._’’
“‘You do that, father,’ said Sue, softly.
“‘I do fear him; I do delight in his commandments,’ said the poor
cobbler. ‘I might a great deal more. But see how it goes on.’
“‘‘_His seed shall be mighty upon earth; the generation of the upright
shall be blessed._’ No doubt of it: only let us see that we are
upright, my child.’
“‘‘_Wealth and riches shall be in his house._’ So they are, Sue; aren’t
we rich?’
“‘Yes father. But don’t you think that means the other kind of riches,
too?’
“‘I don’t know,’ said the cobbler; ‘if it does, we shall have them. But
I don’t know, daughter; see,—
“‘‘_Wealth and riches shall be in his house; and his righteousness
endureth for ever._’ It seems as if that riches had to do with that
righteousness. You know what Jesus says,—‘_I counsel thee to buy of me
gold tried in the fire, that thou mayest be rich._’ I guess it is the
kind of riches of that man who is described ‘as having nothing, and yet
possessing all things.’’
“‘Well, so we do, father: don’t we?’
“‘Let us praise him,’ said the cobbler.
“‘_Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness._’ What a
promise!’
“‘Unto the _upright_, again,’ said Sue.
“‘Mind it, dear Sue,’ said her father; ‘for we may see darker times
than we have seen yet.’
“Sue looked up at him gravely, but did not speak.
“‘‘_Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness: he is
gracious, and full of compassion, and righteous._’’
“‘That is, the upright man,’ said Sue.
“‘‘_A good man showeth favour and lendeth: he will guide his affairs
with discretion. Surely he shall not be moved for ever: the righteous
shall be in everlasting remembrance._’ You remember who says, ‘_I have
graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually
before me._’’
“‘That is Zion, father, isn’t it?’ said Sue.
“‘And just before that,—‘_Can a woman forget her sucking child, that
she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea, they may
forget, yet will I not forget thee._’’
“‘We oughtn’t to be afraid, father,’ said Sue, softly.
“‘I am not afraid,’ said the cobbler.
“‘‘_The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance. He shall
not be afraid of evil tidings; his heart is fixed, trusting in the
Lord._’—There it is, Sue.’
“‘‘_His heart is established; he shall not be afraid, until he see his
desire upon his enemies. He hath dispersed, he hath given to the poor;
his righteousness endureth for ever; his horn shall be exalted with
honour. The wicked shall see it, and be grieved; he shall gnash with
his teeth and melt away; the desire of the wicked shall perish._’’
“The cobbler closed the book; and he and his little daughter knelt
down, and he prayed for a few minutes; then they covered up the fire,
and they went away up-stairs together. And the night was as quiet in
that house as in any house in the land.
“The next morning the cobbler and his daughter broiled another fish;
but the breakfast was a shorter and less talkative affair than the
supper had been. After breakfast the cobbler sat down to his work; but
before the shoe was half an hour nearer to being done, Sue appeared at
the bottom of the stairs with,—
“‘Father, mother says she wants a piece of one of those fish.’
“The cobbler’s needle stood still.
“‘I don’t believe it is good for her,’ said he.
“‘She says she wants it.’
“‘Well, can’t you put it down, my daughter?’
“‘Yes, father; but she says she wants me to put her room up, and she’s
in a great hurry for the fish.’
“Mr. Peg slowly laid his work down. Sue ran up-stairs again, and the
cobbler spent another half-hour over the coals and a quarter of a blue
fish. Sue came for it, and the cobbler returned to his work again.
“It was a pretty cold day; the wind whistled about and brought the cold
in; and every now and then Sue came down and stood at the fire a minute
to warm herself. Every time the cobbler stayed his hand and looked up,
and looked wistfully at her.
“‘Never mind, father,’ said Sue. ‘It’s only that I am a little cold.’
“‘You’re blue,’ said he.
“And at last Mr. Peg couldn’t stand it. Down went the leather one side
of him, and the tools the other; and he went and lugged an armful or
two of sticks up-stairs, and built a fire there, in spite of Sue’s
begging him to keep on with his work and not mind her.
“‘But we sha’n’t have wood enough, father,’ she said at last gently.
“‘I’ll go o’nights to the beach, and fetch a double quantity,’ said the
cobbler;—‘till your mother is able to come down-stairs. _That_ I can
do. I can’t bear the other thing, if you can.’