a man at whose nod he must come and go. He may have money in a savings
bank honestly managed; but if a spell of sickness prostrates him, how
much of his hard-earned savings will be left when he rises from his sick
bed? And suppose he feels that he has his death sickness, can you, by
going into sorrow's counting-house, attempt to estimate the agony of the
poor Catholic parent when he thinks of the fate which may await his
children, left fatherless in a sinful city?
There are other pictures of a poor man's city life, which we care not to
draw. But we will take this prosperous workingman, with a good boss,
from the city, and place him in his first rude house on his own land. He
misses many things, many comforts. He misses the society of friends who
used to come round from time to time--the milkman's bell, the butcher's
cart: everything was so handy in the city.
He is lonely: a feeling of desolation comes over him as he stands at the
door of his new home, and looks around at the unimproved land. The land
is rich and good, and the scene is fair to look at; but the reality is
so different from the mental picture he made before setting out for the
West, that he feels sad and disappointed. Then as he looks around him
_at his own_,