Friends and Neighbors, or Two Ways of Living in the World

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Friends and Neighbors, or Two Ways of Living in the World

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"But, aunt, you will laugh at me, I know, yet I do really fear that
Kate will feel this arrangement as a disappointment."

"Suppose I send her a note, stating that you have given me some
encouragement of assuming this important duty, but that you could
not think of deciding without showing a grateful deference to her
wishes?"

"That will be just the thing. We shall get a reply to-morrow." With
to-morrow came the following note:--

"_My Dear Aunt Frances_:--Your favour of yesterday took us a little
by surprise, I must own I had promised myself a great deal of
pleasure in the society of our Mary; but since she is inclined (and
I think it is very noble in her) to foster with the dew of her youth
the graceful but fallen stem that lent beauty to us all, I cannot
say a word to prevent it. Indeed, it has occurred to me, since the
receipt of your note, that we shall need the room we had reserved
for Mary, to accommodate little Willie, Mr. Howard's pet nephew, who
has the misfortune to be lame. His physicians insist upon country
air, and a room upon the first floor. So tell Mary I love her a
thousand times better for her self-sacrifice, and will try to
imitate it by doing all in my power for the poor little invalid that
is coming.

"With the kindest regards, I remain "Your affectionate niece,

"KATE HOWARD."

"Are you now decided, Mary?" asked Aunt Frances, after their joint
perusal of the letter.

"Not only decided, but grateful. I have lost my fortune, it is true;
but while youth and health remain, I shall hardly feel tempted to
taste the luxuries of dependence."

TWO RIDES WITH THE DOCTOR.

JUMP in, if you would ride with the doctor. You have no time to
lose, for the patient horse, thankful for the unusual blessing which
he has enjoyed in obtaining a good night's rest, stands early at the
door this rainy morning, and the worthy doctor himself is already in
his seat, and is hastily gathering up the reins, for there have been
no less than six rings at his bell within as many minutes, and
immediate attendance is requested in several different places.

It is not exactly the day one might select for a ride, for the storm
is a regular north-easter, and your hands and feet are benumbed with
the piercing cold wind, while you are drenched with the driving
rain.

But the doctor is used to all this, and, unmindful of wind and rain,
he urges his faithful horse to his utmost speed, eager to reach the
spot where the most pressing duty calls. He has at least the
satisfaction of being welcome. Anxious eyes are watching for his
well-known vehicle from the window; the door is opened ere he puts
his hand upon the lock, and the heartfelt exclamation,

"Oh, doctor, I am so thankful you have come!" greets him as he
enters.

Hastily the anxious father leads the way to the room where his
half-distracted wife is bending in agony over their first-born, a
lovely infant of some ten months, who is now in strong convulsions.
The mother clasps her hands, and raises her eyes in gratitude to
heaven, as the doctor enters,-he is her only earthly hope. Prompt
and efficient remedies are resorted to, and in an hour the restored
little one is sleeping tranquilly in his mother's arms.

The doctor departs amid a shower of blessings, and again urging his
horse to speed, reaches his second place of destination. It is a
stately mansion. A spruce waiter hastens to answer his ring, but the
lady herself meets him as he enters the hall.

"We have been expecting you anxiously, doctor. Mr. Palmer is quite
ill, this morning. Walk up, if you please."

The doctor obeys, and is eagerly welcomed by his patient.

"Do exert your utmost skill to save me from a fever, doctor. The
symptoms are much the same which I experienced last year, previous
to that long siege with the typhoid. It distracts me to think of it.
At this particular juncture I should lose thousands by absence from
my business."

The doctor's feelings are enlisted,--his feelings of humanity and
his feelings of self-interest, for doctors must live as well as
other people; and the thought of the round sum which would find its
way to his own purse, if he could but succeed in preventing the loss
of thousands to his patient, was by no means unpleasing.

The most careful examination of the symptoms is made, and
well-chosen prescriptions given. He is requested to call as often as
possible through the day, which he readily promises to do, although
press of business and a pouring rain render it somewhat difficult.

The result, however, will be favourable to his wishes. His second
and third call give him great encouragement, and on the second day
after the attack, the merchant returns to his counting-room exulting
in the skill of his physician.

But we must resume our ride. On, on goes the doctor; rain pouring,
wind blowing, mud splashing. Ever and anon he checks his horse's
speed, at his various posts of duty. High and low, rich and poor
anxiously await his coming. He may not shrink from the ghastly
spectacle of human suffering and death. Humanity, in its most
loathsome forms, is presented to him.

The nearest and dearest may turn away in grief and horror, but the
doctor blenches not.

Again we are digressing. The doctor's well-known tap is heard at the
door of a sick-room, where for many days he has been in constant
attendance. Noiselessly he is admitted. The young husband kneels at
the side of the bed where lies his dearest earthly treasure. The
calm but deeply-afflicted mother advances to the doctor, and
whispers fearfully low,

"There is a change. She sleeps. Is it--oh! can it be the sleep of
death?"

Quickly the physician is at the bedside, and anxiously bending over
his patient.

Another moment and he grasps the husband's hand, while the glad
words "She will live," burst from his lips.

We may not picture forth their joy. On, on, we are riding with the
doctor. Once more we are at his own door. Hastily he enters, and
takes up the slate containing the list of calls during his absence.
At half a dozen places his presence is requested without delay.

A quick step is heard on the stairs, and his gentle wife hastens to
welcome him.

"I am so glad you have come; how wet you must be!"

The parlour door is thrown open. What a cheerful fire, and how
inviting look the dressing-gown and the nicely warmed slippers!

"Take off your wet clothes, dear; dinner will soon be ready," urges
the wife.

"It is impossible, Mary. There are several places to visit yet. Nay,
never look so sad. Have not six years taught you what a doctor's
wife must expect?"

"I shall never feel easy when you are working so hard, Henry; but
surely you will take a cup of hot coffee; I have it all ready. It
will delay you but a moment."

The doctor consents; and while the coffee is preparing, childish
voices are heard, and little feet come quickly through the hall.

"Papa has come home!" shouts a manly little fellow of four years, as
he almost drags his younger sister to the spot where he has heard
his father's voice.

The father's heart is gladdened by their innocent joy, as they cling
around him; but there is no time for delay. A kiss to each, one good
jump for the baby, the cup of coffee is hastily swallowed, the wife
receives her embrace with tearful eyes, and as the doctor springs
quickly into his chaise, and wheels around the corner, she sighs
deeply as she looks at the dressing-gown and slippers, and thinks of
the favourite dish which she had prepared for dinner; and now it may
be night before he comes again. But she becomes more cheerful as she
remembers that a less busy season will come, and then they will
enjoy the recompense of this hard labour.

The day wears away, and at length comes the happy hour when gown and
slippers may be brought into requisition. The storm still rages
without, but there is quiet happiness within. The babies are
sleeping, and father and mother are in that snug little parlour,
with its bright light and cheerful fire. The husband is not too
weary to read aloud, and the wife listens, while her hands are
busied with woman's never-ending work.

But their happiness is of short duration. A loud ring at the bell.

"Patient in the office, sir," announces the attendant.

The doctor utters a half-impatient exclamation; but the wife
expresses only thankfulness that it is an office patient.

"Fine night for a sick person to come out!" muttered the doctor, as
he unwillingly lays down his book, and rises from the comfortable
lounge.

But he is himself again by the time his hand is on the door of the
office, and it is with real interest that he greets his patient.

"Tooth to be extracted? Sit down, sir. Here, Biddy, bring water and
a brighter lamp. Have courage, sir; one moment will end it."

The hall door closes on the relieved sufferer, and the doctor throws
himself again on the lounge, and smilingly puts the bright half
dollar in his pocket.

"That was not so bad, after all, Mary. I like to make fifty cents in
that way."

"Cruel creature! Do not mention it."

"Cruel! The poor man blessed me in his heart. Did I not relieve him
from the most intense suffering?"

"Well, never mind. I hope there will be no more calls to-night."

"So do I. Where is the book? I will read again." No more
interruptions. Another hour, and all, are sleeping quietly.

Midnight has passed, when the sound of the bell falls on the
doctor's wakeful ear. As quickly as possible he answers it in
person, but another peal is heard ere he reaches the door.

A gentleman to whose family he has frequently been called, appears.

"Oh! doctor, lose not a moment; my little Willie is dying with the
croup!"

There is no resisting this appeal. The still wet overcoat and boots
are drawn on; medicine case hastily seized, and the doctor rushes
forth again into the storm.

Pity for his faithful horse induces him to traverse the distance on
foot, and a rapid walk of half a mile brings him to the house.

It was no needless alarm. The attack was a severe one, and all his
skill was required to save the life of the little one. It was
daylight ere he could leave him with safety. Then, as he was about
departing for his own home, an express messenger arrived to entreat
him to go immediately to another place nearly a mile in an opposite
direction.

Breakfast was over ere he reached his own house. His thoughtful wife
suggested a nap; but a glance at the already well-filled slate
showed this to be out of the question. A hasty toilet, and still
hastier breakfast, and the doctor is again seated in his chaise,
going on his accustomed rounds; but we will not now accompany him.

Let us pass over two or three months, and invite ourselves to
another ride. One pleasant morning, when less pressed with business,
he walks leisurely from the house to the chaise, and gathering up
the reins with a remarkably thoughtful air, rides slowly down the
street.

But few patients are on his list, and these are first attended to.

The doctor then pauses for consideration. He has set apart this day
for _collecting_. Past experience has taught him that the task is by
no means an agreeable one. It is necessary, however--absolutely
so--for, as we have said before, doctors must live as well as other
people; their house-rent must be paid, food and clothing must be
supplied.

A moment only pauses the doctor, and then we are again moving
onward. A short ride brings us to the door of a pleasantly-situated
house. We remember it well. It is where the little one lay in fits
when we last rode out with the doctor. We recall the scene: the
convulsed countenance of the child; the despair of the parents, and
the happiness which succeeded when their beloved one was restored to
them.

Surely they will now welcome the doctor. Thankfully will they pay
the paltry sum he claims as a recompense for his services. We are
more confident than the doctor. Experience is a sure teacher. The
door does not now fly open at his approach. He gives his name to the
girl who answers the bell, and in due time the lady of the house
appears.

"Ah! doctor, how do you do? You are quite a stranger! Delightful
weather," &c.

The doctor replies politely, and inquires if her husband is in.

"Yes, he is in; but I regret to say he is exceedingly engaged this
morning. His business is frequently of a nature which cannot suffer
interruption. He would have been pleased to have seen you."

The doctor's pocket-book is produced, and the neatly drawn bill is
presented.

"If convenient to Mr. Lawton, the amount would be acceptable."

"I will hand it to him when he is at leisure. He will attend to it,
no doubt."

The doctor sighs involuntarily as he recalls similar indefinite
promises; but it is impossible to insist upon interrupting important
business. He ventures another remark, implying that prompt payment
would oblige him; bows, and retires.

On, on goes the faithful horse. Where is to be our next
stopping-place? At the wealthy merchant's, who owed so much to the
doctor's skill some two months since. Even the doctor feels
confidence here. Thousands saved by the prevention of that fever.
Thirty dollars is not to be thought of in comparison.

All is favourable. Mr. Palmer is at home, and receives his visiter
in a cordial manner. Compliments are passed. Now for the bill.

"Our little account, Mr. Palmer."

"Ah! I recollect; I am a trifle in your debt. Let us see: thirty
dollars! So much? I had forgotten that we had needed medical advice,
excepting in my slight indisposition a few weeks since."

Slight indisposition! What a memory some people are blessed with!

The doctor smothers his rising indignation.

"Eight visits, Mr. Palmer, and at such a distance. You will find the
charge a moderate one."

"Oh! very well; I dare say it is all right. I am sorry I have not
the money for you to-day, doctor. Very tight just at present; you
know how it is with men of business."

"It would be a great accommodation if I could have it at once."

"Impossible, doctor! I wish I could oblige you. In a week, or
fortnight, at the farthest, I will call at your office."

A week or fortnight! The disappointed doctor once more seats himself
in his chaise, and urges his horse to speed. He is growing desperate
now, and is eager to reach his next place of destination. Suddenly
he checks the horse. A gentleman is passing whom he recognises as
the young husband whose idolized wife has so lately been snatched
from the borders of the grave.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Wilton; I was about calling at your house."

"Pray, do so, doctor; Mrs. Wilton will be pleased to see you."

"Thank you; but my call was on business, to-day. I believe I must
trouble you with my bill for attendance during your wife's illness."

"Ah! yes; I recollect. Have you it with you? Fifty dollars!
Impossible! Why, she was not ill above three weeks."

"Very true; but think of the urgency of the case. Three or four
calls during twenty-four hours were necessary, and two whole nights
I passed at her bedside."

"And yet the charge appears to me enormous. Call it forty, and I
will hand you the amount at once."

The doctor hesitates. "I cannot afford to lose ten dollars, which is
justly my due, Mr. Wilton."

"Suit yourself, doctor. Take forty, and receipt the bill, or stick
to your first charge, and wait till I am ready to pay it. Fifty
dollars is no trifle, I can tell you."

And this is the man whose life might have been a blank but for the
doctor's skill!

Again we are travelling onward. The unpaid bill is left in Mr.
Wilton's hand, and yet the doctor half regrets that he had not
submitted to the imposition. Money is greatly needed just now, and
there seems little prospect of getting any.

Again and again the horse is stopped at some well-known post. A poor
welcome has the doctor to-day. Some bills are collected, but their
amount is discouragingly small. Everybody appears to feel
astonishingly healthy, and have almost forgotten that they ever had
occasion for a physician. There is one consolation, however:
sickness will come again, and then, perhaps, the unpaid bill may be
recollected. Homeward goes the doctor. He is naturally of a cheerful
disposition; but now he is seriously threatened with a fit of the
blues. A list of calls upon his slate has little effect to raise his
spirits. "All work and no pay," he mutters to himself, as he puts on
his dressing-gown and slippers; and, throwing himself upon the
lounge, turns a deaf ear to the little ones, while he indulges in a
revery as to the best mode of paying the doctor.

KEEP IN STEP.

Those who would walk together must keep in step.

--OLD PROVERB.

AY, the world keeps moving forward,
Like an army marching by;
Hear you not its heavy footfall,
That resoundeth to the sky?
Some bold spirits bear the banner--
Souls of sweetness chant the song,--
Lips of energy and fervour
Make the timid-hearted strong!
Like brave soldiers we march forward;
If you linger or turn back,
You must look to get a jostling
While you stand upon our track.
Keep in step.

My good neighbour, Master Standstill,
Gazes on it as it goes;
Not quite sure but he is dreaming,
In his afternoon's repose!
"Nothing good," he says, "can issue
From this endless moving on;
Ancient laws and institutions
Are decaying, or are gone.
We are rushing on to ruin,
With our mad, new-fangled ways."
While he speaks a thousand voices,
As the heart of one man, says--
"Keep in step!"

Gentle neighbour, will you join us,
Or return to "_good old ways?_"
Take again the fig-leaf apron
Of Old Adam's ancient days;--
Or become a hardy Briton--
Beard the lion in his lair,
And lie down in dainty slumber
Wrapped in skins of shaggy bear,--
Rear the hut amid the forest,
Skim the wave in light canoe?
Ah, I see! you do not like it.
Then if these "old ways" won't do,
Keep in step.

Be assured, good Master Standstill,
All-wise Providence designed
Aspiration and progression
For the yearning human mind.
Generations left their blessings,
In the relies of their skill,
Generations yet are longing
For a greater glory still;
And the shades of our forefathers
Are not jealous of our deed--
We but follow where they beckon,
We but go where they do lead!
Keep in step.

One detachment of our army
May encamp upon the hill,
While another in the valley
May enjoy its own sweet will;
This, may answer to one watchword,
That, may echo to another;
But in unity and concord,
They discern that each is brother!
Breast to breast they're marching onward,
In a good now peaceful way;
You'll be jostled if you hinder,
So don't offer let or stay--
Keep in step.

JOHNNY COLE.

"I GUESS we will have to put out our Johnny," said Mrs. Cole, with a
sigh, as she drew closer to the fire, one cold day in autumn. This
remark was addressed to her husband, a sleepy, lazy-looking man, who
was stretched on a bench, with his eyes half closed. The wife, with
two little girls of eight and ten, were knitting as fast as their
fingers could fly; the baby was sound asleep in the cradle; while
Johnny, a boy of thirteen, and a brother of four, were seated on the
wide hearth making a snare for rabbits. The room they occupied was
cold and cheerless; the warmth of the scanty fire being scarcely
felt; yet the floor, and every article of furniture, mean as they
were, were scrupulously neat and clean.

The appearance of this family indicated that they were very poor.
They were all thin and pale, really for want of proper food, and
their clothes had been patched until it was difficult to decide what
the original fabric had been; yet this very circumstance spoke
volume in favour of the mother. She was, a woman of great energy of
character, unfortunately united to a man whose habits were such,
that, for the greater part of the time, he was a dead weight upon
her hands; although not habitually intemperate, he was indolent and
good-for-nothing to a degree, lying in the sun half his time, when
the weather was warm, and never doing a stroke of work until driven
to it by the pangs of hunger.

As for the wife, by taking in sewing, knitting, and spinning for the
farmers' families in the neighbourhood, she managed to pay a rent of
twenty dollars for the cabin in which they lived; while she and
Johnny, with what assistance they could occasionally get from Jerry,
her husband, tilled the half acre of ground attached; and the
vegetables thus obtained, were their main dependance during the long
winter just at hand. Having thus introduced the Coles to our reader,
we will continue the conversation.

"I guess we will have to put out Johnny, and you will try and help
us a little more, Jerry, dear."

"Why, what's got into the woman now?" muttered Jerry, stretching his
arms, and yawning to the utmost capacity of his mouth. The children
laughed at their father's uncouth gestures, and even Mrs. Cole's
serious face relaxed into a smile, as she answered,

"Don't swallow us all, and I will tell you. The winter is beginning
early, and promises to be cold. Our potatoes didn't turn out as well
as I expected, and the truth is, we cannot get along so. We won't
have victuals to last us half the time; and, manage as I will, I
can't much more than pay the rent, I get so little for the kind of
work I do. Now, if Johnny gets a place, it will make one less to
provide for; and he will be learning to do something for himself."

"Yes, but mother," said the boy, moving close to her side, and
laying his head on her knee, "yes, but who'll help you when I am
gone? Who'll dig the lot, and hoe, and cut the wood, and carry the
water? You can't go away down to the spring in the deep snow. And
who'll make the fire in the cold mornings?"

The mother looked sorry enough, as her darling boy--for he was the
object around which the fondest affections of her heart had entwined
themselves--she looked sorry enough, as he enumerated the turns he
was in the habit of doing for her; but, woman-like, she could suffer
and be still; so she answered cheerfully,

"May be father will, dear; and when you grow bigger, and learn how
to do everything, you'll be such a help to us all."

"Don't depend on me," said Jerry, now arousing himself and
sauntering to the fire; "I hardly ever feel well,"--complaining was
Jerry's especial forte, an excuse for all his laziness; yet his
appetite never failed; and when, as was sometimes the case, one of
the neighbours sent a small piece of meat, or any little article of
food to his wife, under the plea of ill health he managed to
appropriate nearly the whole of it. He was selfishness embodied, and
a serious injury to his family, as few cared to keep him up in his
laziness.

One evening, a few days later, Mrs. Cole, who had been absent
several hours, came in looking very tired, and after laying aside
her old bonnet and shawl, informed them that she had obtained a
place for Johnny. It was four miles distant, and the farmer's man
would stop for him on his way from town, the next afternoon. What a
beautiful object was farmer Watkins's homestead, lying as it did on
the sunny slope of a hill; its gray stone walls, peeping out from
between the giant trees that overshadowed it, while everything
around and about gave evidence of abundance and comfort. The thrifty
orchard; the huge barn with its overflowing granaries; the sleek,
well-fed cattle; even the low-roofed spring-house, with its
superabundance of shining pails and pans, formed an item which could
hardly be dispensed with, in the _tout ensemble_ of this pleasant
home.

Farmer Watkins was an honest, hard-working man, somewhat past middle
age, with a heart not naturally devoid of kindness, but, where his
hirelings were concerned, so strongly encrusted with a layer of
habits, that they acted as an effectual check upon his better
feelings. His family consisted of a wife, said to be a notable
manager, and five or six children, the eldest, a son, at college. In
this household, work, work, was the order of the day; the farmer
himself, with his great brown fists, set the example, and the
others, willing or unwilling, were obliged to follow his lead. He
had agreed to take John Cole, as he said, more to get rid of his
mother's importunities, than for any benefit he expected to derive
from him; and when remonstrated with by his wife for his folly in
giving her the trouble of another brat, he answered shortly: "Never
fear, I'll get the worth of his victuals and clothes out of him."
Johnny was to have his boarding, clothes, and a dollar a month, for
two years. This dollar a month was the great item in Mrs. Cole's
calculations; twelve dollars a year, she argued, would almost pay
her rent, and when the tears stood in Johnny's great brown eyes (for
he was a pretty, gentle-hearted boy), as he was bidding them all
good-bye, and kissing the baby over and over again, she told him
about the money he would earn, and nerved his little heart with her
glowing representations, until he was able to choke back the tears,
and leave home almost cheerfully.

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