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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_Home_--yes, it was home; for they had much to redeem the miseries
of want within those bare cabin walls, for gentle hearts and kindly
smiles were there. There

"The mother sang at the twilight fall,
To the babe half slumbering on her knee."

There his brother and sisters played; there his associations, his
hopes, his wishes, were all centered. When he arrived at farmer
Watkins's, and was sent into the large carpeted kitchen, everything
was so unlike this home, that his fortitude almost gave way, and it
was as much as he could do, as he told his mother afterwards, "to
keep from bursting right out." Mrs. Watkins looked very cross, nor
did she notice him, except to order him to stand out of the way of
the red-armed girl who was preparing supper and placing it on a
table in the ample apartment. Johnny looked with amazement at the
great dishes of meat, and plates of hot biscuit, but the odour of
the steaming coffee, and the heat, were almost too much for him, as
he had eaten nothing since morning, for he was too sorry to leave
home to care about dinner. The girl, noticing that his pale face
grew paler, laughingly drew her mistress's attention to "master's
new boy."

"Go out and bring in some wood for the stove," said Mrs. Watkins,
sharply; "the air will do you good."

Johnny went out, and, in a few minutes, felt revived. Looking about,
he soon found the wood-shed; there was plenty of wood, but none cut
of a suitable length; it was all in cord sticks. Taking an axe, he
chopped an armful, and on taking it into the house, found the
family, had finished their suppers; the biscuits and meat were all
eaten.

"Come on here to your supper," said the maid-servant, angrily. "What
have you been doing?" and, without waiting for an answer, she filled
a tin basin with mush and skimmed milk, and set it before him. The
little boy did not attempt to speak, but sat down and ate what was
given him. Immediately after, he was sent into a loft to bed, where
he cried himself to sleep. Ah! when we count the thousand pulsations
that yield pain or pleasure to the human mind, what a power to do
good or evil is possessed by every one; and how often would a kind
word, or one sympathizing glance, gladden the hearts of those thus
prematurely forced upon the anxieties of the world! But how few
there are who care to bestow them! The next morning, long before
dawn, the farmer's family, with the exception of the younger
children were astir. The cattle were to be fed and attended to, the
horses harnessed, the oxen yoked, and great was the bustle until all
hands were fairly at work. As for Johnny, he was taken into the
field to assist in husking corn. The wind was keen, and the stalks,
from recent rain, were wet, and filled with ice. His scanty clothing
scarcely afforded any protection from the cold, and his hands soon
became so numb that he could scarcely use them; but, if he stopped
one moment to rap them, or breathe upon them, in the hope of
imparting some warmth, the farmer who was close at hand, in warm
woollen clothes and thick husking gloves, would call out,

"Hurry up, hurry up, my boy! no idle bread must be eaten here!"

And bravely did Johnny struggle not to mind the cold and pain, but
it would not do; he began to cry, when the master, who never thought
of exercising anything but severity towards those who laboured for
him, told him sternly that if he did not stop his bawling in a
moment, he would send him home. This was enough for Johnny; anything
was better than to go back and be a burden on his mother; he worked
to the best of his ability until noon. At noon, he managed to get
thoroughly warm, behind the stove, while eating his dinner. Still,
the sufferings of the child, with his insufficient clothing, were
very great; but nobody seemed to think of the _hired boy_ being an
object of sympathy, and thus it continued. The rule seemed to be to
get all that was possible out of him, and his little frame was so
weary at night, that he had hardly time to feel rested, until called
with the dawn to renew his labour. A monthly Sunday however, was the
golden period looked forward to in his day-dreams, for it had been
stipulated by his parent, that on Saturday evening every four weeks,
he was to come home, and stay all the next day. And when the time
arrived, how nimbly did he get over the ground that stretched
between him and the goal of his wishes! How much he had to tell! But
as soon as he began to complain, his mother would say cheerfully,
although her heart bled for the hardships of her child,

"Never mind, you will get used to work, and after awhile, when you
grow up, you can rent a farm, and take me to keep house for you."

This was the impulse that prompted to action. No one can be utterly
miserable who has a hope, even a remote one, of bettering his
condition; and with a motive such as this to cheer him, Johnny
persevered; young as he was, he understood the necessity. But how
often, during the four weary weeks that succeeded, did the memory of
the Saturday night he had spent at home come up before his mental
vision! The fresh loaf of rye bread, baked in honour of his arrival,
and eaten for supper, with maple molasses--the very molasses he had
helped to boil on shares with Farmer Thrifty's boys in the spring.
What a feast they had! Then the long evening afterwards, when the
blaze of the hickory fires righted up the timbers of the old cabin
with a mellow glow, and mother looked so cheerful and smiled so
kindly as she sat spinning in its warmth and light. And how even
father had helped to pop corn in the iron pot.

Ah! that was a time long to be remembered; and he had ample
opportunity to draw comparisons, for he often thought his master
cared more for his cattle than he did for him, and it is quite
probable he did; for while they were warmly housed he was needlessly
exposed, and his comfort utterly disregarded. If there was brush to
cut, or fence to make, or any out-door labour to perform, a wet,
cold, or windy day was sure to be selected, while in _fine weather_
the wood was required to be chopped, and, generally speaking, all
the work that could be done under shelter. Yet we dare say Farmer
Watkins never thought of the inhumanity of this, or the advantage he
would himself derive by arranging it otherwise.

John Cole had been living out perhaps a year. He had not grown much
in this period; his frame had always been slight, and his sunken
cheeks and wasted limbs spoke of the hard usage and suffering of his
present situation. The family had many delicacies for themselves,
but the _work boy_ they knew never was used to such things, and they
were indifferent, as to what his fare chanced to be. He generally
managed to satisfy the cravings of hunger on the coarse food given
him, but that was all. About this time it happened that the farmer
was digging a ditch, and as he was afraid winter would set in before
it was completed, Johnny and himself were at work upon it early and
late, notwithstanding the wind whistled, and it was so cold they
could hardly handle the tools. While thus employed, it chanced that
they got wet to the skin with a drizzling rain, and on returning to
the house the farmer changed his clothes, drank some hot mulled
cider, and spent the remainder of the evening in his high-backed
chair before a comfortable fire; while the boy was sent to grease a
wagon in an open shed, and at night crept to his straw pallet,
shaking as though in an ague fit. The next morning he was in a high
fever, and with many a "wonder of what had got into him," but
without one word of sympathy, or any other manifestation of
good-will, he was sent home to his mother. Late in the evening of
the same day a compassionate physician was surprised to see a woman
enter his office; her garments wet and travel-stained, and, with
streaming eyes, she besought him to come and see her son.

"My Johnny, my Johnny, sir!" she cried, "he has been raving wild all
day, and we are afraid he will die."

Mistaking the cause of the good man's hesitation, she added, with a
fresh burst of grief, "Oh! I will work my fingers to the bone to pay
you, sir, if you will only come. We live in the Gap."

A few inquiries were all that was necessary to learn the state of
the case. The benevolent doctor took the woman in his vehicle, and
proceeded, over a mountainous road of six miles, to see his patient.
But vain was the help of man! Johnny continued delirious; it was
work, work, always at work; and pitiful was it to hear his
complaints of being cold and tired, while his heart-broken parent
hung over him, and denied herself the necessaries of life to
minister to his wants. After being ill about a fortnight, he awoke
one evening apparently free from fever. His expression was natural,
but he seemed so weak he could not speak. His mother, with a heart
overflowing with joy at the change she imagined favourable, bent
over him. With a great effort he placed his arms about her neck; she
kissed his pale lips; a smile of strange meaning passed over his
face, and ere she could unwind that loving clasp her little Johnny
was no more. He had gone where the wicked cease from troubling, and
the weary are at rest; but her hopes were blasted; her house was
left unto her desolate; and as she watched, through the long hours
of night, beside the dead body, it was to our Father who art in
Heaven her anguished heart poured itself out in prayer. Think of
this, ye rich! who morning and evening breathe the same petition by
your own hearthstones. Think of it, ye who have authority to
oppress! Do not deprive the poor man or woman of the "ewe lamb" that
is their sole possession; and remember that He whose ear is ever
open to the cry of the distressed, has power to avenge their cause.

THE THIEF AND HIS BENEFACTOR.

"CIRCUMSTANCES made me what I am," said a condemned criminal to a
benevolent man who visited him in prison. "I was driven by necessity
to steal."

"Not so," replied the keeper, who was standing by. "Rather say, that
your own character made the circumstances by which you were
surrounded. God never places upon any creature the necessity of
breaking his commandments. You stole, because, in heart, you were a
thief."

The benevolent man reproved the keeper for what he called harsh
words. He believed that, alone, by the force of external
circumstances, men were made criminals. That, if society were
differently arranged, there would be little or no crime in the
world. And so he made interest for the criminal, and, in the end,
secured his release from prison. Nor did his benevolence stop here.
He took the man into his service, and intrusted to him his money and
his goods.

"I will remove from him all temptation to steal," said he, "by a
liberal supply of his wants."

"Have you a wife?" he asked of the man, when he took him from
prison.

"No," was replied.

"Nor any one but yourself to support?"

"I am alone in the world."

"You have received a good education; and can serve me as a clerk. I
therefore take you into my employment, at a fair salary. Will five
hundred dollars be enough?"

"It will be an abundance," said the man, with evident surprise at an
offer so unexpectedly liberal.

"Very well. That will place you above temptation."

"And I will be innocent and happy. You are my benefactor. You have
saved me."

"I believe it," said the man of benevolence.

And so he intrusted his goods and his money to the man he had
reformed by placing him in different circumstances.

But it is in the heart of man that evil lies; and from the heart's
impulses spring all our actions. That must cease to be a bitter
fountain before it can send forth sweet water. The thief was a thief
still. Not a month elapsed ere he was devising the means to enable
him to get from his kind, but mistaken friend, more than the liberal
sum for which he had agreed to serve him. He coveted his neighbour's
goods whenever his eyes fell upon them; and restlessly sought to
acquire their possession. In order to make more sure the attainment
of his ends, he affected sentiments of morality, and even went so
far as to cover his purposes by a show of religion. And thus he was
able to deceive and rob his kind friend.

Time went on; and the thief, apparently reformed by a change of
relation to society, continued in his post of responsibility. How it
was, the benefactor could not make out; but his affairs gradually
became less prosperous. He made investigations into his business,
but was unable to find anything wrong.

"Are you aware that your clerk is a purchaser of property to a
considerable extent?" said a mercantile friend to him one day.

"My clerk! It cannot be. His income is only five hundred dollars a
year."

"He bought a piece of property for five thousand last week."

"Impossible!"

"I know it to be true. Are you aware that he was once a convict in
the State's Prison?"

"Oh yes. I took him from prison myself, and gave him a chance for
his life. I do not believe in hunting men down for a single crime,
the result of circumstances rather than a bad heart."

"A truly honest man, let me tell you," replied the merchant, "will
be honest in any and all circumstances. And a rogue will be a rogue,
place him where you will. The evil is radical, and must be cured
radically. Your reformed thief has robbed you, without doubt."

"I have reason to fear that he has been most ungrateful," replied
the kind-hearted man, who, with the harmlessness of the dove, did
not unite the wisdom of the serpent.

And so it proved. His clerk had robbed him of over twenty thousand
dollars in less than five years, and so sapped the foundations of
his prosperity, that he recovered with great difficulty.

"You told me, when in prison," said the wronged merchant to his
clerk, "that circumstances made you what you were. This you cannot
say now."

"I can," was the reply. "Circumstances made me poor, and I desired
to be rich. The means of attaining wealth were placed in my hands,
and I used them. Is it strange that I should have done so? It is
this social inequality that makes crime. Your own doctrine, and I
subscribe to it fully."

"Ungrateful wretch!" said the merchant, indignantly, "it is the evil
of your own heart that prompts to crime. You would be a thief and a
robber if you possessed millions."

And he again handed him over to the law, and let the prison walls
protect society from his depredations.

No, it is not true that in external circumstances lie the origins of
evil. God tempts no man by these. In the very extremes of poverty we
see examples of honesty; and among the wealthiest, find those who
covet their neighbour's goods, and gain dishonest possession
thereof. Reformers must seek to elevate the personal character, if
they would regenerate society. To accomplish the desired good by a
different external arrangement, is hopeless; for in the heart of man
lies the evil,--there is the fountain from which flow forth the
bitter and blighting waters of crime.

JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.

"AND you will really send Reuben to cut down that clump of pines?"

"Yes, Margaret. Well, now, it is necessary, for more reasons
than"----

"Don't tell me so, John," impetuously interrupted Margaret
Greylston. "I am sure there is no necessity in the case, and I am
sorry to the very heart that you have no more feeling than to order
_those_ trees to be cut down."

"Feeling! well, maybe I have more than you think; yet I don't choose
to let it make a fool of me, for all that. But I wish you would say
no more about those trees, Margaret; they really must come down; I
have reasoned with you on this matter till I am sick of it."

Miss Greylston got up from her chair, and walked out on the shaded
porch; then she turned and called her brother.

"Will you come here, John?"

"And what have you to say?"

"Nothing, just now; I only want you to stand here and look at the
old pines."

And so John Greylston did; and he saw the distant woods grave and
fading beneath the autumn wind--while the old pines upreared their
stately heads against the blue sky, unchanged in beauty, fresh and
green as ever.

"You see those trees, John, and so do I; and standing here, with
them full in view, let me plead for them; they are very old, those
pines, older than either of us; we played beneath them when we were
children; but there is still a stronger tie: our mother loved
them--our dear, sainted mother. Thirty years it has been since she
died, but I can never forget or cease to love anything she loved.
Oh! John, you remember just as well as I do, how often she would sit
beneath those trees and read or talk sweetly to us; and of the dear
band who gathered there with her, only we are left, and the old
pines. Let them stand, John; time enough to cut them down when I
have gone to sit with those dear ones beneath the trees of heaven;"
and somewhat breathless from long talking, Miss Margaret paused.

John Greylston was really touched, and he laid his hand kindly on
his sister's shoulder.

"Come, come, Madge, don't talk so sadly. I remember and love those
things as well as you do, but then you see I cannot afford to
neglect my interests for weak sentiment. Now the road must be made,
and that clump of trees stand directly in its course, and they must
come down, or the road will have to take a curve nearly half a mile
round, striking into one of my best meadows, and a good deal more
expense this will be, too. No, no," he continued, eagerly, "I can't
oblige you in this thing. This place is mine, and I will improve it
as I please. I have kept back from making many a change for your
sake, but just here I am determined to go on." And all this was said
with a raised voice and a flushed face.

"You never spoke so harshly to me in your life before, John, and,
after all, what have I done? Call my feelings on this matter weak
sentiment, if you choose, but it is hard to hear such words from
your lips;" and, with a reproachful sigh, Miss Margaret walked into
the house.

They had been a large family, those Greylstons, in their day, but
now all were gone; all but John and Margaret, the two eldest--the
twin brother and sister. They lived alone in their beautiful country
home; neither had ever been married. John had once loved a fair
young creature, with eyes like heaven's stars, and rose-tinged
cheeks and lips, but she fell asleep just one month before her
wedding-day, and John Greylston was left to mourn over her early
grave, and his shivered happiness. Dearly Margaret loved her twin
brother, and tenderly she nursed him through the long and fearful
illness which came upon him after Ellen Day's death. Margaret
Greylston was radiant in the bloom of young womanhood when this
great grief first smote her brother, but from that very hour she put
away from her the gayeties of life, and sat down by his side, to be
to him a sweet, unselfish controller for evermore, and no lover
could ever tempt her from her post.

"John Greylston will soon get over his sorrow; in a year or two
Ellen will be forgotten for a new face."

So said the world; Margaret knew better. Her brother's heart lay
before her like an open book, and she saw indelible lines of grief
and anguish there. The old homestead, with its wide lands, belonged
to John Greylston. He had bought it years before from the other
heirs; and Margaret, the only remaining one, possessed neither claim
nor right in it. She had a handsome annuity, however, and nearly all
the rich plate and linen with which the house was stocked, together
with some valuable pieces of furniture, belonged to her. And John
and Margaret Greylston lived on in their quiet and beautiful home,
in peace and happiness; their solitude being but now and then
invaded by a flock of nieces and nephews, from the neighbouring
city--their only and well-beloved relatives.

It was long after sunset. For two full hours the moon and stars had
watched John Greylston, sitting so moodily alone upon the porch. Now
he got up from his chair, and tossing his cigar away in the long
grass, walked slowly into the house. Miss Margaret did not raise her
head; her eyes, as well as her fingers, seemed intent upon the
knitting she held. So her brother, after a hurried "Good-night,"
took a candle and went up to his own room, never speaking one gentle
word; for he said to himself, "I am not going to worry and coax with
Margaret any longer about the old pines. She is really troublesome
with her sentimental notions." Yet, after all, John Greylston's
heart reproached him, and he felt restless and ill at ease.

Miss Margaret sat very quietly by the low table, knitting steadily
on, but she was not thinking of her work, neither did she delight in
the beauty of that still autumn evening; the tears came into her
eyes, but she hastily brushed them away; just as though she feared
John might unawares come back and find her crying.

Ah! these _way-side_ thorns are little, but sometimes they pierce as
sharply as the gleaming sword.

"Good-morning, John!"

At the sound of that voice, Mr. Greylston turned suddenly from the
book-case, and his sister was standing near him, her face lit up
with a sweet, yet somewhat anxious smile. He threw down in a hurry
the papers he had been tying together, and the bit of red tape, and
holding out his hand, said fervently,

"I was very harsh last night. I am really sorry for it; will you not
forgive me, Margaret?"

"To be sure I will; for indeed, John, I was quite as much to blame
as you."

"No, Madge, you were not," he quickly answered; "but let it pass,
now. We will think and say no more about it;" and, as though he were
perfectly satisfied, and really wished the matter dropped, John
Greylston turned to his papers again.

So Miss Margaret was silent. She was delighted to have peace again,
even though she felt anxious about the pines, and when her brother
took his seat at the breakfast table, looking and speaking so
kindly, she felt comforted to think the cloud had passed away; and
John Greylston himself was very glad. So the two went on eating
their breakfast quite happily. But alas! the storm is not always
over when the sky grows light. Reuben crossed the lawn, followed by
the gardener, and Miss Margaret's quick eye caught the gleaming of
the axes swung over their shoulders. She hurriedly set down the
coffee-pot.

"Where are those men going? Reuben and Tom I mean."

"Only to the woods," was the careless answer.

"But what woods, John? Oh! I can tell by your face; you are
determined to have the pines cut down."

"I am." And John Greylston folded his arms, and looked fixedly at
his sister, but she did not heed him. She talked on eagerly--

"I love the old trees; I will do anything to save them. John, you
spoke last night of additional expense, should the road take that
curve. I will make it up to you; I can afford to do this very well.
Now listen to reason, and let the trees stand."

"Listen to reason, yourself," he answered more gently. "I will not
take a cent from you. Margaret, you are a perfect enthusiast about
some things. Now, I love my parents and old times, I am sure, as
well as you do, and that love is not one bit the colder, because I
do not let it stand in the way of interest. Don't say anything more.
My mind is made up in this matter. The place is mine, and I cannot
see that you have any right to interfere in the improvements I
choose to make on it."

A deep flush stole over Miss Greylston's face.

"I have indeed no legal right to counsel or plead with you about
these things," she answered sadly, "but I have a sister's right,
that of affection--you cannot deny this, John. Once again, I beg of
you to let the old pines alone."

"And once again, I tell you I will do as I please in this matter,"
and this was said sharply and decidedly.

Margaret Greylston said not another word, but pushing back her
chair, she arose from the breakfast-table and went quickly from the
room, even before her brother could call to her. Reuben and his
companion had just got in the last meadow when Miss Greylston
overtook them.

"You, will let the pines alone to-day," she calmly said, "go to any
other work you choose, but remember those trees are not to be
touched."

"Very well, Miss Margaret," and Reuben touched his hat respectfully,

"Mr. John is very changeable in his notions," burst in Tom; "not an
hour ago he was in such a hurry to get us at the pine."

"Never mind," authoritatively said Miss Greylston; "do just as you
are bid, without any remarks;" and she turned away, and went down
the meadow path, even as she came, within quick step, without a
bonnet, shading her eyes from the morning sun with her handkerchief.

John Greylston still sat at the breakfast-table, half dreamily
balancing the spoon across the saucer's edge. When his sister came
in again, he raised his head, and mutely-inquiringly looked at her,
and she spoke,--

"I left this room just to go after Reuben and Tom; I overtook them
before they had crossed the last meadow, and I told them not to
touch the pine trees, but to go, instead, to any other work they
choose. I am sure you will be angry with me for all this; but, John,
I cannot help it if you are."

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