to resist temptation. It is easy to say that all men and women can
find places if they try long enough. At the same time, there is a
responsibility resting upon the employer of labor when of necessity a
man loses his position. To be our brother’s keeper is a vital point in
a Christian community.
STRUCK IT RICH.
“IT’S NO USE, Martha,” said Asa Scranton to his wife, as he came in
from the street, tired and discouraged. “I’ve tried day after day for
a job, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you and the children are
better off without me than with me.”
“Oh, no, Asa!” responded the pale, thin woman, who was cooking dinner
for some workingmen who boarded with her. “We shall see better days.”
But her words only were hopeful; the voice showed the weariness of one
who was almost tired of the daily struggle.
“I don’t know how it is. I’ve worked hard from a boy. The grocery
business didn’t pay, though I never left the store till the last man
had gone home. Then the builder I worked for failed, and I lost several
months’ wages. I guess I’m unlucky. We had quite a bit of money when
we married, didn’t we, Martha? And I never supposed you would come to
such hard work as this. My debts have hung like a millstone about my
neck. They all say: ‘Asa Scranton, you’re a good fellow. You’ll pay
principal and interest,’ and never think that a wife and children have
need for food and clothing. Sometimes I’ve a mind to run away, and I
would if I didn’t hate a coward. I can’t stand seeing you so pale and
hopeless-like. I’d like to try the mines—maybe I’d strike it rich.”
“Oh, Asa, don’t think of such a thing! Only the few make any money in
mines, and most are poor to the end of their days. Keep up courage. The
children are getting larger, and better days are coming.”
“That’s the old story, Martha. Things are not very even in this world,
but I don’t complain. If I had work I wouldn’t care how rich other
folks are. But just think, Martha! If I strike a mine, as some people
have, how good it would seem for you to have a silk dress, and Alice a
hat with a feather, like the little girl on the hill. I always wanted
John to go to college, seeing that his father couldn’t go. He maybe
would be more lucky than I have been.”
While Martha Scranton mended by the open fireplace that evening, Asa
sat still and thought—dreamed dreams, half wildly perhaps, of better
days to come. They would never come in his present poverty. He would
make one last venture. His family could live without him, for his wife
for some time had earned all the money which they used.
He was not an indolent man, not a man who lacked ability, but, like
thousands of others, he seemed to be in the current of failure, and
was drifting down the stream to despair. He dreamed about the mines
of Colorado that night as he slept, and during the many waking hours
planned how he could reach the favored land. He could sell his silver
watch, and pawn his overcoat, even if the coming winter pinched him
with cold.
By morning he had decided. He ate breakfast quietly; patted little John
upon the head, with a look of unusual pathos in his blue eyes; told
Martha that he was going out to look for work; obtained what little
money he could; hurried down the street to the station, wiping, with
the back of his hand, the tears from his cheeks as he looked only once
toward his home; and took the train for the mines.
For days he ate little, hoarding every cent to keep him from starvation
till he should find work. At Granite Camp, on the side of the mountain,
all was bustle and confusion. The varied machinery, the eager miners,
the enthusiasm, the warm-hearted familiarity,—all excited Asa. He was
ready for any kind of work, and soon found it. Mining was hard,—no
work is easy,—but he would earn and save, and later prospect for
himself, get hold of claims, and “strike it rich.”
Weeks and months passed. No letter came from Martha, for she did not
know where Asa had gone. She wept when she found that she was left
alone—wept with that half-deadened sense of loss which persons feel
who have had the cheer of life taken out of them by the blows of
circumstance.
Asa had been kind to her and the children, but in these days she had
little time to think of love or loss, for work was never-ending, and
rent and fuel were certainties. So she toiled on, and guessed that he
had gone to seek his fortune in the mines, and clothed the children as
well as she could, and sewed and washed and prayed and waited.
Years came and went. Asa Scranton in the mines and Martha Scranton at
home were growing older. The miners liked Asa, though he joined little
in their merry-making, and got the name of being miserly. They could
not know that he was saving his money to make Martha rich. Sometimes,
when he had earned money enough to work a claim, and had gotten other
parties interested, he dug for treasure, but always failed. Then the
hole was left in the mountain, and Asa went back to his daily digging
in the mines.
His hair grew grayer and his form bent. He would write Martha and Alice
and John when he had made his fortune, but not now. He lived alone in
his little shanty, often weary, always lonely, “forever unlucky,” as he
said, but still hoping that better days would come. Every spare moment
he searched the mountains, till it was common talk that Asa Scranton
knew every vein of silver and lead in the surrounding country. He would
make one last effort. He had been to one spot stealthily, from time to
time, where, from the surface ore, he felt sure of success.
But how could he interest capital? He had failed in other projects, and
the world did not believe in him. In vain he besought men to join him.
He hoarded his money, grew thin from lack of food, dressed in ragged
clothes, and still dreamed of future success.
Finally a little money was put into the venture, but no veins worth
working were found. Asa was sure they would win if they probed further
into the mountain. He labored with men in and out of camp to put in
more money. The miners said he was crazy. He certainly was cold and
hungry, and well nigh frenzied.
At last he found a German, Hans Bochert, who, like himself, had
struggled for years, had lost and won,—with many losings to one
winning,—but who, out of pity for the old miner, gave nearly his last
dollar to push on the work.
Asa seemed in a half delirium. He would not leave the place day or
night. Cold or rain did not deter him, though he seemed ill and broken.
Finally the good news came that a big body of ore was struck. Asa
Scranton’s face gleamed as though the full sunlight poured upon it.
“I’m going to my shanty to write to Martha,” he said, and hurried away.
He did not come back in the morning, and Hans Bochert and the other men
hastened over to know the reason.
Asa sat in his chair with the same halo about his face—dead from an
excess of joy. On a paper, on the little table, was the letter he had
begun to write to Martha Scranton at Fairport: “_Darling Wife_: I have
struck it rich, and you and the children”—
The pen had fallen from his hand.
FOOD AT THE DOOR.
“DON’T FEED him, because others will be sure to come.”
The speaker was a handsome woman who sat at dinner with her husband
in one of the beautiful homes of C. She was dressed in a rich garnet
satin, with a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums at her throat, which
accorded with the dark garnet leather of the carved furniture.
All had gone well with Mrs. Heatherstone. Her husband, with hair
prematurely gray from his hard financial struggles, had become rich,
and his wife and only son were spending the money in fine clothes and
stylish equipages.
A servant had just come in to say that an old man was at the door who
had had nothing to eat all day, and to ask if she should give him a
supper.
Mrs. Heatherstone reiterated her old rule, not to feed anybody at the
door, lest other poor people be told of it, and the family be annoyed
with tramps. “We never give anything at the door,” she was wont to
say, and so in process of time poor people generally passed by the
Heatherstone mansion, and she was glad of it.
The poor old man of to-night caught a glimpse of the well-filled table
as he passed the window, and he felt hurt and bitter at fate. He was
not a drinking man, but he had lost his property by reverses, his wife
and children were dead, he was unable to do hard labor, and he could
rarely find work that was light or heavy. There was not work enough for
all, and the young and vigorous obtained what there was.
The old man slept in a shed that night, and dreamed of the elegant home
and the handsome lady in the garnet dress.
“I think you might have given him a supper,” said Mark Heatherstone, a
boy of sixteen, with a kind heart, but lacking a strong will, and who
had already caused his parents some solicitude.
“When once you begin, there is no end of it,” said the mother. “Let him
go to the Associated Charities or to some soup-house.”
“But he will have a heavy heart to-night, besides being hungry,” said
the youth.
“I can’t take care of all the suffering in the world, so I shut my eyes
to it. We must enjoy ourselves, and leave some money for you also.”
“I don’t mind much about that,” said the boy, who knew nothing of the
hardships of life, “but I’d do a little good as I went along.”
Mother and son did not think alike about many things, and after a time
the lad left his home and disappeared from the town.
His parents were of course distressed beyond measure. They searched
and searched in vain. Mrs. Heatherstone, with all her selfishness and
lack of wisdom in rearing her son, was exceedingly fond of him. His
absence aged her, and when after some years he did not return, the fine
house and elegant clothes lost their attraction. The habit of giving,
however, is usually a growth from early life, and closed hands do not
unclose easily as we grow older.
Once away from his home, Mark Heatherstone was too proud to go back,
if indeed he ever wished to do so. He soon spent what money he had
brought away with him, and then learned the hard lessons of poverty. He
looked for work, occasionally found some, but oftener was penniless,
and, like the old man who had besought alms at his father’s house,
slept in sheds or in barns. The increasing habit of drink fastened upon
him, and exposure undermined his health.
Early a broken-down man, he determined to go back to his native town,
and perhaps seek again the home he had abandoned. He stole a ride on a
freight train and reached the city just as the evening lamps were being
lighted. A cold sleet was falling.
He was faint from lack of food, and excited with the thought of the old
times of boyhood and a possible glad reception at his home. He found
the house, passed it, and saw his father and mother at supper. He went
up the street and then returned, going to the back door and asking for
food.
“We never give anything at the door,” said the well-instructed servant,
and shut it in his face. He walked away. The impulse was strong to go
back and say that the long-lost son had returned. He hesitated, turned
his face back towards home, walked up the familiar pathway to the front
door, raised his hand to ring the bell, became dizzy, and fell heavily
on the porch.
Mr. and Mrs. Heatherstone were startled at the sound. “What has
happened, husband?” she said, and both hastened to the door. “Oh,
Mark, Mark!” exclaimed the mother, as she gazed upon the face of her
apparently dead son. He was carried into the best apartment and a
physician summoned.
“It is a heart attack and he will rally,” said the doctor, “but his
living is only a question of time.”
When Mark was partially restored to his former self he told of the
struggles he had been through, of some kindness and much indifference
and hardness, even being turned away in the rain from his mother’s door
because he asked for food. “That nearly broke my heart, mother,” he
said. “Don’t let man or dog or cat go away from your door hungry. Who
knows but they will die upon somebody’s doorstep?”
Mrs. Heatherstone grew tenderer with the coming months, and when Mark
passed away she was a changed woman. She had been made unselfish
through a great sorrow.
HOW THE DOG TAX WAS PAID.
TWO LITTLE children, Annie and James, were picking up stray pieces of
coal near the railroad, to carry to a very poor home. Suddenly they
espied a black lump that looked like coal, only it moved. With childish
curiosity they crept towards it and found a thin, frightened, hungry
dog that had been crippled and beaten by boys.
“Do you dare touch her?” said the girl of nine years. “She might bite.”
“Oh, yes,” said Jimmie, a rugged and alert little fellow of seven.
“See, she wags her short tail, and I guess she wants to go home with
us.”
“But mother couldn’t take care of her, we’re so poor, and baby Ned and
Willie have to eat and have clothes.”
“Oh, I’ll give her some of my bread and milk every night, and Mrs.
Martin next door will give her bones, I guess. She hasn’t any boy and
she is good to me.”
The girl put her fingers carefully along the black dog’s forehead, and
the animal pushed her cold nose against the child’s hand and licked it.
She was not used to kind voices, and a girl’s fingers upon her head
gave her courage. She half rose to her feet, looked from one to the
other and seemed to say, “I will go with you if you will only take me.”
“I wouldn’t pick her up, Jimmie; she’ll follow us.”
“She can’t walk much,” said the boy, “but I’ll help her over the bad
places if you’ll carry the basket of coal.”
The dog seemed to realize the conversation, for when the coal was ready
to be moved, she was also ready, and hobbled on after the children.
“You must be tired, poor thing!” said Jimmie, taking her up as they
crossed a muddy street, and thereby getting his torn jacket stained
from her hurt back and bleeding foot.
The dog nestled up to him and seemed happy. When they reached home
Jimmie ran ahead, showing his poor bruised friend to his mother.
“Why, Jimmie, what can you do with a dog?”
“Keep her to play with, and to guard the house when you are away
washing.”
“I don’t know how we’ll feed her,” said Mrs. Conlon, who looked about
as poor as the dog, “but we’ll try. We can keep her warm anyway if
you’ll pick up enough coal.”
“We shall love her so,” said the boy, “and the baby will play with
her when she gets well. Let’s call her ‘Pet,’ because we never have
anything to play with.”
The dog crawled behind the stove and closed her eyes, as though
thankful for a place to rest, where at least boys would not throw
stones, and men would not kick her with their rough boots.
Days and weeks went by. The black dog, though not having a great supply
of food, was living like a prince compared with the starvation of
the street. Her bruises healed, her coat became blacker and her eyes
brighter. She was indeed the baby’s pet, and the idol of the other
children. She went with Annie and Jimmie as they gathered coal. She
slept on the floor beside their humble bed at night, and guarded the
household when the mother was absent. She shared their food, and would
have returned their kindness with her life if need be. The whole family
were happier and kinder since she came into it, as is always the case
when a pet animal is in the home.
Though poverty was a constant guest at the Conlon abode, with its bare
floors, poor clothes, and common fare, yet they were not unhappy.
The mother worked too hard to philosophize much about circumstances,
and the children were too young to realize what was before them of
struggle. A cloud was coming, and a man’s hand brought it. It was the
arrival of the tax-gatherer.
A high official in the State found that the treasury was low, and
decided that money must be raised in some way. Of course it was
generally conceded that the liquor traffic caused so much of the
poverty, crime, and sorrow that it would be wise to make it pay for
some of its evil results. This was a difficult matter, however, as
saloon keepers and their customers had votes. Corporations could be
taxed more heavily, but corporations sometimes paid money to help
carry elections.
There was at least one class that had no votes, and consequently little
influence. Dogs could therefore be taxed. The rich could easily pay the
tax, and if the poor could not, their dogs could be killed. Who stopped
to think whether money raised through the sorrow of the poor, or the
death of helpless animals, might prove a bane rather than a blessing?
Who asked whether a dog did not love life as well as his master, and
whether, for his devotion and courage and guarding of homes, he was not
entitled to the consideration of the city and the State, rather than to
be killed because his owner could not or did not pay a tax or a license
fee? The dog had done no wrong, and though somebody loved him, as he
could not earn the fee himself he must needs be destroyed.
The tax-gatherer, endowed with power by the officials, came to the
Conlon home. There was little that could be taken from so poor a place,
thought the collector, until he espied the black dog beside the baby’s
cradle. “Your dog, madam, must be paid for. The fee is five dollars.”
“I haven’t the money,” said the woman. “Why, I couldn’t raise so much!
I can hardly fill these four mouths with food.”
“Well, madam, then you shouldn’t keep a dog.”
“But she guards the children while I work, and she is such a comfort to
them!”
“The law doesn’t take sentiment into the account. If you were a man I
should arrest you, and shoot the dog. As it is, I will only shoot the
dog. Bring the animal out and I will call that policeman over.”
“You wouldn’t shoot her before these crying children?”—for three of
them had begun to cry, and were clasping the dog to their hearts, while
the baby looked scared, and pressed his lips together, as though he
realized that something was wrong.
“As I said before, madam, the law has no regard for sentiment. The
State must have money.”
“I wish they would tax the saloons. If my husband hadn’t lost his money
in them before he died we should have the money now to pay the tax
for our dog. Could you wait a little for the money? I can give you a
dollar, and perhaps I can borrow another, but I can’t possibly raise
five dollars. Can you come to-morrow?”
“Yes, I’ll give you a trial, but it’s a long walk here. I’m afraid
you’ll turn the dog on the street and then say you haven’t any.”
“Oh, no, sir, we are not as mean as that, even if we are poor! Pet
would suffer and perhaps starve, and we all love her too much for that.”
After the man was gone Mrs. Conlon put on her faded shawl and bonnet
and went to her neighbors, as poor as herself. One loaned her a
quarter, another a half, till the whole dollar was secured.
When the assessor came on the following day, being somewhat impressed
by the devotion of both family and dog, he took the two dollars and
promised to wait a reasonable time for the remaining three.
Various plans were talked over in the Conlon home for the raising of
the extra money. There was comparatively little work to be obtained,
rent must be met or they would be turned upon the street, and there
were five mouths to feed besides that of Pet.
Jimmie declared that a letter to the Governor of the State ought to do
good, and Annie should write it. Accordingly a sheet of paper and an
envelope were procured that very afternoon, and a letter was penned to
that official. It read as follows:
“DEAR MR. GOVERNOR:
“We have a beautiful [this was a stretch of the imagination] black dog
that we found sick and hurt, and we love her dearly, but can’t pay the
tax of five dollars. Mother works, and I take care of the children,
but I can’t earn any money for poor dear Pet. The police have killed
lots of dogs on our street. One belonged to Mamie Fisher, my best
friend, and we went together and found him in a pile of dogs, all
dead. Mamie took him up in her arms and cried dreadfully. I helped her
carry him, and we dug a grave in their little yard and buried him, and
we took five cents that a lady gave me and bought two roses and laid
on his grave. He was a big yellow puppy, and was so kind.
“Now, Mr. Governor, would you be willing to lend us three dollars till
we can earn it, and pay you back? She has two dollars already. We
wish there wasn’t any tax on dogs, for they make us poor children so
happy. Perhaps you can stop the law.
“Yours most respectful,
“ANNIE CONLON.”
All pronounced this a proper letter, and Jimmie dropped it into the
mail-box. All the family waited prayerfully for the answer.
The Governor was touched as he read this letter from a child. “I will
give her the three dollars,” he said to his wife. “I didn’t suppose the
enforcement of a dog tax would bring so much sorrow to little hearts
and large ones too. I really wish there were no tax on dogs, for they
are helpless creatures and most faithful friends to man. But the State
needs money.”
“Try to get the tax law repealed,” said the wife. “There are plenty
of ways to raise money to pay the expenses of a great State without
killing dogs. The tax law is directly responsible for thousands of dogs
being turned upon the street to starve: they become ill from hunger
and thirst, are supposed to be mad, and then suffer untold misery and
even death from thoughtless and excited crowds. I would have no part in
enforcing such a law, and would help to wipe it from the statute books.”
“But some of the farmers have their sheep killed by dogs, and they must
have their losses made up to them,” said the Governor.
“Let the town pay for the sheep which are killed, and not cause the
death of thousands of innocent dogs because a few have done wrong,”
replied the wife.
The money was sent to Annie Conlon, and there was thanksgiving in the
plain home. Pet wagged her short tail, and looked up into Annie’s eyes,
as though she understood that her life had been spared by those three
dollars.
THE STORY OF DOUGLAS.
DOUGLAS was a shaggy black puppy, one of a family of eleven, all of
them yellow and white but himself. His fur, when you pushed it apart,
showed its yellow color near the skin, revealing what he really was,—a
St. Bernard.
He was the most gentle of all the puppies, and would not fight his
way at the dish when the others clamored for their bread and milk,
but stood apart and looked up to his mistress with a beseeching and
sometimes aggrieved air. From the first he seemed to hunger for human
affection, and would cry to be held in one’s lap, or follow one about
the house or the grounds like a petted kitten.
When quarrels took place between some members of the large family
Douglas never joined, but hastened to tell it by his bark, that the
disturbance might be quelled. When finally the puppies went to various
homes Douglas became the property of a lady who, not having children,
loved him almost as a child.
He followed her up and down stairs and lay at her feet if she read.
The house was well furnished, but not too good to be used and enjoyed.
Douglas was not put out of doors at night to whine in the rain or
sleet, or even into a barn, and wisely, for he saved the house once
from very unwelcome intruders.
He gambolled beside his mistress if she walked in the woods, and when
she was ill he was constantly at her bedside, refusing to eat, and
seeming to suffer in her suffering. When she was unavoidably absent
Douglas cried and walked the floor, and if allowed to go out of doors
howled and waited on the hillside for her return.
Once when at the seashore he followed her without her knowledge,
and plunged into the bay after her steamer. He swam till well-nigh
exhausted, his agonized owner fearing every minute that he would sink,
while she besought the men to stop the boat. Finally he was rescued,
and though he could scarcely move the glad look in his eyes and the wag
of his tail told as plainly as words the joy of the reunion.
No amount of money could buy the companionable creature. He never
wearied one by talk; he never showed anger, perhaps because no one
spoke angrily to him. Some persons like to show authority, even over a
dog, and talk loud and harsh, but Douglas’s owner was too wise and too
good for this. Kindness begot kindness, and the puppy who longed for
love appreciated it none the less when he was grown, and could protect
the woman who loved him.
One autumn day, just before leaving her country home for the city, Miss
Benson was obliged to return to town for a half day. “Good-by, dear
Douglas,” she said in her usual way. “I shall come home soon,” and the
unwilling creature followed her with his brown eyes, and whined that he
could not go also. Later in the afternoon he was let out of doors, and
soon disappeared.