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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"Perhaps you could borrow what you need, George, for a few days."

"I suppose I could; but see the inconvenience and trouble it puts me
to. I was so certain of getting Hillman's money to meet these two
notes, that I failed to make any other provision."

"That would not have been enough of itself."

"No, but I have a hundred on hand; the two together would have paid
them, and left enough for my workmen too."

As early as practicable the next morning Mr. Allison started forth
to raise the amount necessary to carry him safely through the week.
He thought it better to try to collect some of the amounts owing to
him than to borrow. He first called on a wealthy merchant, whose
annual income was something near five thousand.

"Good morning, Mr. Allison," said he, as that individual entered his
counting-room. "I suppose you want some money."

"I should like a little, Mr. Chapin, if you please."

"Well, I intended coming down to see you, but I have been so busy
that I have not been able. That carriage of mine which you did up a
few weeks ago does not suit me altogether."

"What is the matter with it?"

"I don't like the style of trimming, for one thing; it has a common
look to me."

"It is precisely what Mrs. Chapin ordered. You told me to suit her."

"Yes, but did she not tell you to trim it like General Spangler's?"

"I am very much mistaken, Mr. Chapin, if it is not precisely like
his."

"Oh! no; his has a much richer look than mine."

"The style of trimming is just the same, Mr. Chapin; but you
certainly did not suppose that a carriage trimmed with worsted lace,
would look as well as one trimmed with silk lace?"

"No, of course not; but there are some other little things about it
that don't suit me. I will send my man down with it to-day, and he
will show you what they are. I would like to have it to-morrow
afternoon, to take my family out in. Call up on Monday, and we will
have a settlement."

Mr. Allison next called at the office of a young lawyer, who had
lately come into possession of an estate valued at one hundred
thousand dollars. Mr. Allison's bill was three hundred dollars,
which his young friend assured him he would settle immediately, only
that there was a slight error in the way it was made out, and not
having the bill with him, he could not now correct it.

He would call on Mr. Allison with it, sometime during the next week,
and settle it.

A Custom-House gentleman was next sought, but his time had been so
much taken up with his official duties, that he had not yet been
able to examine the bill. He had no doubt but it was all correct;
still, as he was not accustomed to doing business in a loose way, he
must claim Mr. Allison's indulgence a few days longer.

Almost disheartened, Mr. Allison entered the store of the last
individual who was indebted to him for any considerable amount, not
daring to hope that he would be any more successful with him than
with the others he had called on. But he was successful; the bill,
which amounted to near one hundred and fifty dollars, was promptly
paid, Mr. Allison's pocket, in consequence, that much heavier, and
his heart that much lighter. Fifty dollars was yet lacking of the
sum requisite for that day. After calling on two or three
individuals, this amount was obtained, with the promise of being
returned by the middle of the next week.

"I shall have hard work to get through to-day, I know," said he to
himself, as he sat at his desk on the following morning.

"Two hundred and fifty dollars to be raised by borrowing. I don't
know where I can get it."

To many this would be a small sum, but Mr. Allison was peculiarly
situated. He was an honest, upright mechanic, but he was poor. It
was with difficulty he had raised the fifty dollars on the day
previous. Although he had never once failed in returning money at
the time promised, still, for some reason or other, everybody
appeared unwilling to lend him. It was nearly two O'clock and he was
still a hundred dollars short.

"Well," said he to himself, "I have done all I could, and if Hall
won't renew the note for the balance, it will have to be protested.
I'll go and ask him, though I have not much hope that he will do
it."

As he was about leaving his shop for that purpose, a gentleman
entered who wished to buy a second-hand carriage. Mr. Allison had
but one, and that almost new, for which he asked a hundred and forty
dollars.

"It is higher than I wished to go," remarked the gentleman. "I ought
to get a new one for that price."

"So you can, but not like this. I can sell you a new one for a
hundred and twenty-five dollars. But what did you expect to pay for
one?"

"I was offered one at Holton's for seventy-five; but I did not like
it. I will give you a hundred for yours."

"It is too little, indeed, sir: that carriage cost three hundred
dollars when it was new. It was in use a very short time. I allowed
a hundred and forty dollars for it myself."

"Well, sir, I would not wish you to sell at a disadvantage, but if
you like to, accept of my offer I'll take it. I'm prepared to pay
the cash down."

Mr. Allison did not reply for some minutes. He was undecided as to
what was best.

"Forty dollars," said he to himself, "is a pretty heavy discount. I
am almost tempted to refuse his offer and trust to Hall's renewing
the note. But suppose he won't--then I'm done for. I think, upon the
whole, I had better accept it. I'll put it at one hundred and
twenty-five, my good friend," said he, addressing the customer.

"No, sir; one hundred is all I shall give."

"Well, I suppose you must have it, then; but indeed you have got a
bargain."

"It is too bad," muttered Allison to himself, as he left the bank
after having paid his note. "There is just forty dollars thrown
away. And why? Simply because those who are blessed with the means
of discharging their debts promptly, neglect to do so."

"How did you make out to-day, George?" asked his wife, as they sat
at the tea-table that same evening.

"I met my note, and that was all."

"Did you give your men anything?"

"Not a cent. I had but one dollar left after paying that. I was
sorry for them, but I could not help them. I am afraid Robinson's
family will suffer, for there has been sickness in his house almost
constantly for the last twelvemonth. His wife, he told me the other
day, had not been out; of her bed for six weeks. Poor fellow! He
looked quite dejected when I told him I had nothing for him."

At this moment; the door-bell rang and a minute or two afterwards, a
young girl entered the room in which Mr. and Mrs. Allison were
sitting. Before introducing her to our readers, we will conduct them
to the interior of an obscure dwelling, situated near the outskirts
of the city. The room is small, and scantily furnished, and answers
at once for parlour, dining-room, and kitchen. Its occupants, Mrs.
Perry and her daughter, have been, since the earliest dawn of day,
intently occupied with their needles, barely allowing themselves
time to partake of their frugal meal.

"Half-past three o'clock!" ejaculated the daughter, her eyes
glancing, as she spoke, at the clock on the mantelpiece. "I am
afraid we shall not get this work done in time for me to take it
home before dark, mother."

"We must try hard, Laura, for you know we have not a cent in the
house, and I told Mrs. Carr to come over to-night, and I would pay
her what I owe her for washing. Poor thing! I would not like to
disappoint her, for I know she needs it."

Nothing more was said for near twenty minutes, when Laura again
broke the silence.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "what a pain I have in my side!" And for
a moment she rested from her work, and straightened herself in her
chair, to afford a slight relief from the uneasiness she
experienced. "I wonder, mother, if I shall always be obliged to sit
so steady?"

"I hope not, my child; but bad as our situation is, there are
hundreds worse off than we. Take Annie Carr, for instance--how would
you like to exchange places with her?"

"Poor Annie! I was thinking of her awhile go, mother. How hard it
must be for one so young to be so afflicted as she is!"

"And yet, Laura, she never complains; although for five years she
has never left her bed, and has often suffered, I know, for want of
proper nourishment."

"I don't think she will suffer much longer, mother. I stopped in to
see her the other day, and I was astonished at the change which had
taken place in a short time. Her conversation, too, seems so
heavenly, her faith in the Lord so strong, that I could not avoid
coming to the conclusion that a few days more, at the most, would
terminate her wearisome life."

"It will be a happy release for her, indeed, my daughter. Still, it
will be a sore trial for her mother."

It was near six when Mrs. Perry and her daughter finished the work
upon which they were engaged.

"Now Laura, dear," said the mother, "get back as soon as you can,
for I don't like you to be out after night, and more than that, if
Mrs. Carr comes, she won't want to wait."

About twenty minutes after the young girl had gone, Mrs. Carr
called. "Pray, be seated, my dear friend," said Mrs. Perry, "my
daughter has just gone to Mrs. Allison's with some work, and as soon
as she returns I can pay you."

"I think I had better call over again, Mrs. Perry," answered the
poor woman; "Mary begged me not to stay long."

"Is Annie any worse, then?"

"Oh, yes, a great deal; the doctor thinks she will hardly last till
morning."

"Well, Mrs. Carr, death can be only gain to her."

"Very true; still, the idea of losing her seems dreadful to me."

"How does Mary get on at Mrs. Owring's?"

"Not very well; she has been at work for her just one month to-day;
and although she gave her to understand that her wages would be at
least a dollar and a quarter a week, yet to-night, when she settled
with her, she wouldn't give her but three dollars, and at the same
time told her that if she didn't choose to work for that she could
go."

"What do you suppose was the reason for her acting so?"

"I don't know, indeed, unless it is because she does not get there
quite as early as the rest of her hands; for you see I am obliged to
keep her a little while in the morning to help me to move Annie
while I make her bed. Even that little sum, small it was, would have
been some help to us, but it had all to go for rent. My landlord
would take no denial. But I must go; you think I can depend on
receiving your money to-night?"

"I do. Mrs. Allison is always prompt in paying for her work as soon
as it is done. I will not trouble you to come again for it, Mrs.
Carr. Laura shall bring it over to you."

Let us now turn to the young girl we left at Mr. Allison's, whom our
readers, no doubt, recognise as Laura Perry.

"Good evening, Laura," said Mrs. Allison, as she entered the room;
"not brought my work home already! I did not look for it till next
week. You and your mother, I am afraid, confine yourselves too
closely to your needles for your own good. But you have not had your
tea? sit up, and take some."

"No, thank you, Mrs. Allison; mother will be uneasy if I stay long."

"Well, Laura, I am sorry, but I cannot settle with you to-night.
Tell your mother Mr. Allison was disappointed in collecting
to-day, or she certainly should have had it. Did she say how much it
was?"

"Two dollars, ma'am."

"Very well: I will try and let her have it next week."

The expression of Laura's countenance told too plainly the
disappointment she felt. "I am afraid Mrs. Perry is in want of that
money," remarked the husband after she had gone.

"Not the least doubt of it," replied his wife. "She would not have
sent home work at this hour if she had not been. Poor things! who
can tell the amount of suffering and wretchedness that is caused by
the rich neglecting to pay promptly."

"You come without money, Laura," said her mother, as she entered the
house.

"How do you know that, mother?" she replied, forcing a smile.

"I read it in your countenance. Is it not so?"

"It is: Mr. Allison was disappointed in collecting--what will we do,
mother?"

"The best we can, my child. We will have to do without our beef for
dinner to-morrow; but then we have plenty of bread; so we shall not
starve."

"And I shall have to do without my new shoes. My old ones are too
shabby to go to church in; so I shall have to stay at home."

"I am sorry for your disappointment, my child, but I care more for
Mrs. Carr than I do for ourselves. She has been here, and is in a
great deal of trouble. The doctor don't think Annie will live till
morning, and Mrs. Owrings hag refused to give Mary more than three
dollars for her month's work, every cent of which old Grimes took
for rent. I told her she might depend on getting what I owed her,
and that I would send you over with it when you returned. You had
better go at once and tell her, Laura; perhaps she may be able to
get some elsewhere."

"How much is it, mother?"

"Half a dollar."

"It seems hard that she can't get that small sum."

With a heavy heart Laura entered Mrs. Carr's humble abode.

"Oh how glad I am that you have come, my dear!" exclaimed the poor
woman. "Annie has been craving some ice cream all day; it's the only
thing she seems to fancy. I told her she should have it as soon as
you came."

Mrs. Carr's eyes filled with tears as Laura told of her ill success.
"I care not for myself," she said "but for that poor suffering
child."

"Never mind me, mother," replied Annie. "It was selfish in me to
want it, when I know how hard you and Mary are obliged to work for
every cent you get. But I feel that I shall not bother you much
longer; I have a strange feeling here now." And she placed her hand
upon her left side.

"Stop!" cried Laura; "I'll try and get some ice cream for you
Annie." And off she ran to her mother's dwelling. "Mother," said
she, as she entered the house, "do you recollect that half dollar
father gave me the last time he went to sea?"

"Yes, dear."

"Well, I think I had better take it and pay Mrs. Carr. Annie is very
bad, and her mother says she has been wanting some ice cream all
day."

"It is yours, Laura, do as you like about it."

"It goes hard with me to part with it, mother, for I had determined
to keep it in remembrance of my father. It is just twelve years
to-day since he went away. But poor Annie--yes, mother, I will take
it."

So saying, Laura went to unlock the box which contained her
treasure, but unfortunately her key was not where she had supposed
it was. After a half hour's search she succeeded in finding it.
Tears coursed down her cheeks like rain as she removed from the
corner of the little box, where it had lain for so many years, this
precious relic of a dear father, who in all probability, was buried
beneath the ocean. Dashing them hastily away, she started again for
Mrs. Carr's. The ice cream was procured on the way, and, just as the
clock struck eight, she arrived at the door. One hour has elapsed
since she left. But why does she linger on the threshold? Why but
because the sounds of weeping and mourning have reached her ears,
and she fears that all is over with her poor friend, Her fears are
indeed true, for the pure spirit of the young sufferer has taken its
flight to that blest land where hunger and thirst are known no more.
Poor Annie! thy last earthly wish, a simple glass of ice-cream, was
denied thee--and why? We need not pause to answer: ye who have an
abundance of this world's goods, think, when ye are about to turn
from your doors the poor seamstress or washerwoman, or even those
less destitute than they, without a just recompense for their
labour, whether the sufferings and privations of some poor creatures
will not be increased thereby.

RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL.

OBADIAH LAWSON and Watt Dood were neighbours; that is, they lived
within a half mile of each other, and no person lived between their
respective farms, which would have joined, had not a little strip of
prairie land extended itself sufficiently to keep them separated.
Dood was the oldest settler, and from his youth up had entertained a
singular hatred against Quakers; therefore, when he was informed
that Lawson, a regular disciple of that class of people had
purchased the next farm to his, he declared he would make him glad
to move away again. Accordingly, a system of petty annoyances was
commenced by him, and every time one of Lawson's hogs chanced to
stray upon Dood's place, he was beset by men and dogs, and most
savagely abused. Things progressed thus for nearly a year, and the
Quaker, a man of decidedly peace principles, appeared in no way to
resent the injuries received at the hands of his spiteful neighbour.
But matters were drawing to a crisis; for Dood, more enraged than
ever at the quiet of Obadiah, made oath that he would do something
before long to wake up the spunk of Lawson. Chance favoured his
design. The Quaker had a high-blooded filly, which he had been very
careful in raising, and which was just four years old. Lawson took
great pride in this animal, and had refused a large sum of money for
her.

One evening, a little after sunset, as Watt Dood was passing around
his cornfield, he discovered the filly feeding in the little strip
of prairie land that separated the two farms, and he conceived the
hellish design of throwing off two or three rails of his fence, that
the horse might get into his corn during the night. He did so, and
the next morning, bright and early, he shouldered his rifle and left
the house. Not long after his absence, a hired man, whom he had
recently employed, heard the echo of his gun, and in a few minutes
Dood, considerably excited and out of breath, came hurrying to the
house, where he stated that he had shot at and wounded a buck; that
the deer attacked him, and he hardly escaped with his life.

This story was credited by all but the newly employed hand, who had
taken a dislike to Watt, and, from his manner, suspected that
something was wrong. He therefore slipped quietly away from the
house, and going through the field in the direction of the shot, he
suddenly came upon Lawson's filly, stretched upon the earth, with a
bullet hole through the head, from which the warm blood was still
oozing.

The animal was warm, and could not have been killed an hour. He
hastened back to the dwelling of Dood, who met him in the yard, and
demanded, somewhat roughly, where he had been.

"I've been to see if your bullet made sure work of Mr. Lawson's
filly," was the instant retort.

Watt paled for a moment, but collecting himself, he fiercely
shouted,

"Do you dare to say I killed her?"

"How do you know she is dead?" replied the man.

Dood bit his lip, hesitated a moment, and then turning, walked into
the house.

A couple of days passed by, and the morning of the third one had
broken, as the hired man met friend Lawson, riding in search of his
filly.

A few words of explanation ensued, when, with a heavy heart, the
Quaker turned his horse and rode home, where he informed the people
of the fate of his filly. No threat of recrimination escaped him; he
did not even go to law to recover damages; but calmly awaited his
plan and hour of revenge. It came at last.

Watt Dood had a Durham heifer, for which he had paid a heavy price,
and upon which he counted to make great gains.

One morning, just as Obadiah was sitting down, his eldest son came
in with the information that neighbour Dood's heifer had broken down
the fence, entered the yard, and after eating most of the cabbages,
had trampled the well-made beds and the vegetables they contained,
out of all shape--a mischief impossible to repair.

"And what did thee do with her, Jacob?" quietly asked Obadiah.

"I put her in the farm-yard."

"Did thee beat her?"

"I never struck her a blow."

"Right, Jacob, right; sit down to thy breakfast, and when done
eating I will attend to the heifer."

Shortly after he had finished his repast, Lawson mounted a horse,
and rode over to Dood's, who was sitting under the porch in front of
his house, and who, as he beheld the Quaker dismount, supposed he
was coming to demand pay for his filly, and secretly swore he would
have to law for it if he did.

"Good morning, neighbour Dood; how is thy family?" exclaimed
Obadiah, as he mounted the steps and seated himself in a chair.

"All well, I believe," was the crusty reply.

"I have a small affair to settle with you this morning, and I came
rather early."

"So I suppose," growled Watt.

"This morning, my son found thy Durham heifer in my garden, where
she has destroyed a good deal."

"And what did he do with her?" demanded Dood, his brow darkening.

"What would thee have done with her, had she been my heifer in thy
garden?" asked Obadiah.

"I'd a shot her!" retorted Watt, madly, "as I suppose you have done;
but we are only even now. Heifer for filly is only 'tit for tat.'"

"Neighbour Dood, thou knowest me not, if thou thinkest I would harm
a hair of thy heifer's back. She is in my farm-yard, and not even a
blow has been struck her, where thee can get her at any time. I know
thee shot my filly; but the evil one prompted thee to do it, and I
lay no evil in my heart against my neighbours. I came to tell thee
where thy heifer is, and now I'll go home."

Obadiah rose from his chair, and was about to descend the steps,
when he was stopped by Watt, who hastily asked,

"What was your filly worth?"

"A hundred dollars is what I asked for her," replied Obediah.

"Wait a moment!" and Dood rushed into the house, from whence he soon
returned, holding some gold in his hand. "Here's the price of your
filly; and hereafter let there be a pleasantness between us."

"Willingly, heartily," answered Lawson, grasping the proffered hand
of the other; "let there be peace between us."

Obadiah mounted his horse, and rode home with a lighter heart, and
from that day to this Dood has been as good a neighbour as one could
wish to have; being completely reformed by the RETURNING GOOD FOR
EVIL.

PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR'S POCKET.

"DO you recollect Thomas, who lived with us as waiter about two
years ago, Mary?" asked Mr. Clarke, as he seated himself in his
comfortable arm-chair, and slipped his feet into the nicely-warmed,
embroidered slippers, which stood ready for his use.

"Certainly," was the reply of Mrs. Clarke. "He was a bright, active
fellow, but rather insolent."

"He has proved to be a regular pickpocket," continued her husband,
"and is now on his way to Blackwell's Island."

"A very suitable place for him. I hope he will be benefited by a few
months' residence there," returned the lady.

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Joshua Clarke, an uncle of the young
couple, who was quietly reading a newspaper in another part of the
room. "There are many of high standing in the world, who deserve to
go to Blackwell's Island quite as much as he does."

"You are always making such queer speeches, Uncle Joshua," said his
niece. "I suppose you do not mean that there are pickpockets among
respectable people?"

"Indeed, there are, my dear niece. Your knowledge of the world must
be very limited, if you are not aware of this. Putting your hand in
your neighbour's pocket, is one of the most fashionable
accomplishments of the day."

Mrs. Clarke was too well acquainted with her uncle's peculiarities
to think of arguing with him. She therefore merely smiled, and said
to her husband:--

"Well, Henry, I am glad that neither you nor myself are acquainted
with this fashionable accomplishment."

"Not acquainted with it!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "I thought
you knew yourselves better. Why, you and Henry are both regular
pickpockets!"

"I wonder that you demean yourself by associating with us!" was the
playful reply.

"Oh, you are no worse than the rest of the world; and, besides, I
hope to do you some good, when you grow older and wiser. At present,
Henry's whole soul is absorbed in the desire to obtain wealth."

"In a fair and honourable way, uncle," interrupted Mr. Clarke, "and
for honourable purposes."

"Certainly," replied Uncle Joshua, "in the common acceptation of the
words _fair_ and _honourable_. But, do you never, in your mercantile
speculations, endeavour to convey erroneous impressions to the minds
of those with whom you are dealing? Do you not sometimes suppress
information which would prevent your obtaining a good bargain? Do
you never allow your customers to purchase goods under false ideas
of their value and demand in the market? If you saw a man, less
skilled in business than yourself, about to take a step injurious to
him, but advantageous to you, would you warn him of his danger--thus
obeying the command to love your neighbour as yourself?"

"Why, uncle, these questions are absurd. Of course, when engaged in
business, I endeavour to do what is for my own advantage--leaving
others to look out for themselves."

"Exactly so. You are perfectly willing to put your hand in your
neighbour's pocket and take all you can get, provided he is not wise
enough to know that your hand is there."

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