Chapter XII (2)

To this the man consented, and Hiram Mayberry went with him according to agreement. A few weeks passed, and the lad, liking both the business and his employer, his mother felt exceedingly anxious for him to remain. But she sadly feared that this could not be. Her little store was just about exhausted, and the most she had yet been able to earn by working for the shops, was a dollar and a half a week. This was not more than sufficient to buy the plainest food for her little flock. It would not pay rent, nor get clothing. To meet the former, recourse was had to the sale of her husband's small, select library. Careful mending kept the younger children tolerably decent, and by altering for him the clothes left by his father, she was able to keep Hiram in a suitable condition, to appear at the store of his employer.

Thus matters went on for several months. Mrs. Mayberry, working late and early. The natural result was, a gradual failure of strength. In the morning, when she awoke, she would feel so languid and heavy, that to rise required a strong effort, and even after she was up, and attempted to resume her labors, her trembling frame almost refused to obey the dictates of her will. At length, nature gave way. One morning she was so sick that she could not rise. Her head throbbed with a dizzy, blinding pain--her whole body ached, and her skin burned with fever. Hiram got something for the children to eat, and then taking the youngest, a little girl about two years old, into the house of a neighbor, who had showed them some good-will, asked her if she would take care of his sister until he returned home at dinner time. This the neighbor readily consented to do--promising, also, to call in frequently and see his mother.

At dinner-time, Hiram found his mother quite ill. She was no better at night. For three days the fever raged violently. Then, under the careful treatment of their old family physician, it was subdued. After that she gradually recovered, but very slowly. The physician said she must not attempt again to work as she had done. This injunction was scarcely necessary. She had not the strength to do so.

"I don't see what you will do, Mrs. Mayberry," a neighbor who had often aided her by kind advice, said, in reply to the widow's statement of her unhappy condition. "You cannot maintain these children, certainly. And I don't see how, in your present feeble state, you are going to maintain yourself. There is but one thing that I can advise, and that advice I give with reluctance. It is to endeavor to get two of your children into some orphan asylum. The youngest you may be able to keep with you. The oldest can support himself at something or other."

The pale cheek of Mrs. Mayberry grew paler at this proposition. She half-sobbed, caught her breath, and looked her adviser with a strange bewildered stare in the face.

"Oh, no! I cannot do that! I cannot be separated from my dear little children. Who will care for them like a mother?"

"It is hard, I know, Mrs. Mayberry. But necessity is a stern ruler. You cannot keep them with you--that is certain. You have not the strength to provide them with even the coarsest food. In an asylum, with a kind matron, they will be better off than under any other circumstances."

But Mrs. Mayberry shook her head.

"No--no--no," she replied--"I cannot think of such a thing. I cannot be separated from them. I shall soon be able to work again--better able than before."

The neighbor who felt deeply for her, did not urge the matter. When Hiram returned at dinner-time, his face had in it a more animated expression than usual.

"Mother," he said, as soon as he came in, "I heard to-day that a boy was wanted at the Gazette office, who could write a good hand. The wages are to be four dollars a week."

"You did!" Mrs. Mayberry said, quickly, her weak frame trembling, although she struggled hard to be composed.

"Yes. And Mr. Easy is well acquainted with the publisher, and could get me the place, I am sure."

"Then go and see him at once, Hiram. If you can secure it, all will be well; if not, your little brothers and sisters will have to be separated, perhaps sent into an orphan asylum."

Mrs. Mayberry covered her face with her hands, and sobbed bitterly for some moments.

Hiram eat his frugal meal quickly, and returned to the store, where he had to remain until his employer went home and dined. On his return, he asked liberty to be absent for half an hour, which was granted. He then went direct to the counting-house of Mr. Easy, and disturbed him, as has been seen. Approaching with a timid step, and a flushed brow, he said in a confused and hurried manner--

"Mr. Easy, there is a lad wanted at the Gazette Office."

"Well?" returned Mr. Easy, in no very cordial tone.

"Mother thought you would be kind enough to speak to Mr. G--for me."

"Haven't you a place in a store?"

"Yes, sir. But I don't get any wages. And at the Gazette office they will pay four dollars a week."

"But the knowledge of business to be gained where you are, will be worth a great deal more than four dollars a week."

"I know that, sir. But mother is not able to board and clothe me. I must earn something."

"Oh, aye, that's it. Very well, I'll see about it for you."

"When shall I call, sir?" asked Hiram.

"When? Oh, almost any time. Say to-morrow or next day."

The lad departed, and Mr. Easy's head fell back upon the chair, the impression which had been made upon his mind passing away almost as quickly as writing upon water.

With anxious trembling hearts, did Mrs. Mayberry and her son wait for the afternoon of the succeeding day. On the success of Mr. Easy's application rested all their hopes. Neither she nor Hiram eat over a few mouthfuls at dinner-time. The latter hurried away, and returned to the store, there to wait with trembling eagerness, until his employer should return from dinner, and he again be free to go and see Mr. Easy.

To Mrs. Mayberry, the afternoon passed slowly.

She had forgotten to tell her son to return home immediately, if the application should be successful. He did not come back, and she had, consequently to remain in a state of anxious suspense, until dark. He came in at the usual hour. His dejected countenance told of disappointment.

"Did you see Mr. Easy?" Mrs. Mayberry asked, in a low, troubled voice.

"Yes. But he hadn't been to the Gazette office. He said he had been very busy. But that he would _see about it_ soon."

Nothing more was said. The mother and son, after sitting silent and pensive during the evening, retired early to bed. On the next day, urged on by his anxious desire to get the situation of which he had heard, Hiram again called at the counting-room of Mr. Easy, his heart trembling with hope and fear. There were two or three men present. Mr. Easy cast upon him rather an impatient look as he entered. His appearance had evidently annoyed the merchant. Had he consulted his feelings, he would have retired at once. But there was too much at stake. Gliding to a corner of the room, he stood, with his hat in his hand, and a look of anxiety upon his face, until Mr. Easy was disengaged. At length, the gentleman with whom he was occupied, went away, and Mr. Easy turned toward the boy. Hiram looked up earnestly in his face.

"I have really been so much occupied, my lad," the merchant said, in a kind of apologetic tone, "as to have entirely forgotten my promise to you. But I _will_ see about it. Come in again, to-morrow."

Hiram made no answer, but turned with a sigh toward the door. The keen disappointment expressed in the boy's, face, and the touching quietness of his manner, reached the feelings of Mr. Easy. He was not a hard-hearted man, but selfishly indifferent to others. He could feel deeply enough if he would permit himself to do so. But of this latter feeling he was not often guilty.

"Stop a minute," he said. And then stood in a musing attitude for a moment or two. "As you seem so anxious about this matter," he added "if will wait here a little while, I will step down to see Mr. G--at once."

The boy's face brightened instantly. Mr. Easy saw the effect of what he said, and it made the task he was about entering upon reluctantly, an easy one. The boy waited for nearly a quarter of an hour, so eager to know the result, that he could not compose himself to sit down. The sound of Mr. Easy's step at the door, at length made his heart bound. The merchant entered. Hiram looked into his face. One glance was sufficient to dash every dearly-cherished hope to the ground.

"I am sorry," Mr. Easy said, "but the place was filled this morning. I was a little too late."

The boy was unable to control his feelings. The disappointment was too great. Tears gushed from his eyes, as he turned away, and left the counting-room without speaking.

"I'm afraid I've done wrong," said Mr. Easy to himself, as he stood, in a musing attitude, by his desk, about five minutes after Hiram had left. "If I had seen about the situation when he first called upon me, I might have secured it for him. But it's too late now."

After saying this, the merchant placed his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and commenced walking the floor of his counting-room backward and forward. He could not get out of his mind, the image of the boy as he turned from him in tears, nor drive away thoughts of the friend's widow, whom he had neglected. This state of mind continued all the afternoon. Its natural effect was to cause him to cast about in his mind for some way of getting employment for Hiram, that would yield immediate returns. But nothing presented itself.

"I wonder if I couldn't make room for him here?" he at length said--"He looks like a bright boy. I know Mr.--is highly pleased with him. He spoke of getting four dollars a week. That's a good deal to give to a mere lad. But I suppose I might make him worth that to me. And now I begin to think seriously about the matter, I believe I cannot keep a clear conscience, and any longer remain indifferent to the welfare of my old friend's widow and children. I must look after them a little more closely than I have heretofore done."

This resolution reliever the mind of Mr. Easy a good deal.

When Hiram left the counting-room of the merchant, his spirits were crushed to the very earth. He found his way back, how he hardly knew, to his place of business, and mechanically performed the tasks allotted to him, until evening. Then he returned home, reluctant to meet his mother, and yet anxious to relieve her state of suspense, even if in doing so, he should dash a last hope from her heart. When he came in, Mrs. Mayberry lifted her eyes to his, inquiringly; but dropped them instantly--she needed no words to tell her that he had suffered a bitter disappointment.

"You did not get the place?" she at length said, with forced composure.

"No--it was taken this morning. Mr. Easy promised to see about it. But he didn't do so. When he went this afternoon, it was too late."

Hiram said this with a trembling voice, and lips that quivered.

"Thy will be done!" murmured the widow, lifting her eyes upward. "If these tender ones are to be taken from their mother's fold, oh, do thou temper for them the piercing blast, and be their shelter amid the raging tempests."

A tap at the door brought back the thoughts of Mrs. Mayberry. A brief struggle with her feelings, enabled her to overcome them in time to receive a visitor with composure. It was the merchant.

"Mr. Easy!" she said, in surprise.

"Mrs. Mayberry, how do you do?" There was some restraint and embarrassment in his manner. He was conscious of having neglected the widow of his friend, before he came. The humble condition in which he found her, quickened that consciousness into a sting.

"I am sorry, madam," he said, after he had become seated, and made a few inquiries, "that I did not get the place for your son. In fact, I am to blame in the matter. But I have been thinking since, that he would suit me exactly, and if you have no objections, I will take him, and pay him a salary of two hundred dollars for the first year."

Mrs. Mayberry tried to reply, but her feelings were too much excited by this sudden and unlooked-for proposal, to allow her to speak for some moments. Even then, her assent was made with tears glistening on her cheeks.

Arrangements were quickly made for the transfer of Hiram from the store where he had been engaged, to the counting-room of Mr. Easy. The salary he received was just enough to enable Mrs. Mayberry, with what she herself earned, to keep her little ones together, until Hiram, who proved a valuable assistant in Mr. Easy's business, could command a larger salary, and render her more important aid.

HUMAN LIFE.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

BENJAMIN PARKER was not as thrifty as some of his neighbors. He could not "get along in the world."

"Few men are more industrious than I am," he would sometimes say to his wife. "I am always attending to business, late and early, rain or shine. But it's no use, I can't get along, and am afraid I never shall. Nothing turns out well."

Mrs. Parker was a meek, patient-minded woman; and she had married Benjamin because she loved him above all the young men who sought her hand, some of whom had fairer prospects in the world than he had; and she continued to love him and confided in him, notwithstanding many reverses and privations had attended their union.

"You do the best you can," she would reply to her husband when he thus complained, "and that is as much as can be expected of any one. You can only plant and sow, the Lord must send the rain and the sunshine."

The usually pensive face of Mrs. Parker would lighten up, as she spoke words of comfort and encouragement like these. But she never ventured upon any serious advice as to the management of her husband's affairs, although there were times when she could not help thinking that if he would do a little differently it might be better. To his fortunes she had united her own, and she was ready to bear with him their lot in life. If he proposed any thing, she generally acquiesced in it, even if it cost her much self-sacrifice; and when, as it often happened, all did not turn out as well as had been expected, she never said--"I looked for this," or "I never approved of it," or, "If I had been allowed to advise you, it never would have been done." No, nothing like this ever passed the lips of Mrs. Parker. But rather words of sympathy and encouragement, and a reference of all to the wise but inscrutable dispensations of Providence. It might have been better for them if Mrs. Parker had possessed a stronger will and had manifested more decided traits of character; or it might not. The pro or con of this we will not pretend to decide. As a general thing it is no doubt true that qualities of mind in married partners have a just relation the one to the other, and act and react in a manner best suited for the correction of the peculiar evils of each and the elevation of both into the highest moral state to which they can be raised. At first glance this may strike the mind as not true as a general rule. But a little reflection will cause it to appear more obvious. If an all-wise Providence governs in the affairs of men, it is but reasonable to suppose that, in the most important act of a man's life, this Providence will be most conspicuous. Marriage is this most important act, and without doubt it is so arranged that those are brought together between whom action and reaction of intellectual and moral qualities will be just in the degree best calculated to secure their own and their children's highest good.

We are not so sure, therefore, that it would have been any better for Mr. and Mrs. Parker had the latter been less passive, and less willing to believe that her husband was fully capable of deciding as to what was best to be done in all things relating to those pursuits in life by which this world's goods are obtained. She was passive, and therefore we will believe that it was right for her to be so.

Mrs. Parker, though thus passive in all matters where she felt that her husband was capable of deciding and where he ought to decide, was not without activity and force of character. But all was directed by a gentle and loving spirit, and in subservience to a profound conviction that every occurrence in life was under the direction or permission of God. No matter what she was called upon to suffer, either of bodily or mental pain, she never murmured, but lifted her heart upward with pious submission and felt, if she did not speak the sentiment--"Thy will be done."

Mrs. Parker was one of three sisters, between whom existed the tenderest affection. Their mother had died while they were young, and love for each other had been strengthened and purified in mutual love and care for their father. They had never been separated, from childhood. The very thought of separation was always attended with pain. If in the marriage of Rachel with Benjamin Parker any thing crossed the mind of the loving and happy girl to cast over it a shade, it was the thought of being separated from her sisters. Not a distant separation, for Benjamin was keeping a store in the village, and there was every prospect therefore of their remaining there, permanently, but a removal from the daily presence of and household intercourse with those, to love whom had been a part of her nature.

In the deeper, tenderer, more absorbing love with which Rachel loved her husband, she found a compensation for what she lost in being separated from her sisters and father. She was happy--but happy with a subdued and thankful spirit.

Not more than a year elapsed after their marriage before Parker began to complain of the badness of the times, and to sit thoughtful and sometimes gloomy during the evenings he spent at home. This grieved Rachel very much, and caused her to exercise the greatest possible prudence and economy in order that the household expenses might be as little burdensome as possible to her husband. But all would not do.

"I am afraid I shall never get ahead here in the world," Parker at length said outright, thereby giving his wife the first suspicion of what was in his mind--a wish to try his fortune in some other place.

The truth was, Parker was making a living and a little over, but he was not satisfied with this, and had moreover a natural love of change. An acquaintance had talked to him a good deal about the success of a young friend who had commenced in a town some fifty miles away, a business precisely like the one in which he was engaged. According to the account given, on half the capital which Parker possessed, this person was selling double the quantity of goods and making better profits.

A long time did not pass before Parker, after a bitter complaint in regard to his business, said:

"I don't know what is to be done unless we go to Fairview. We could do a great deal better there."

"Do you think so?" asked Rachel, in a calm voice, although her heart sank within her at the thought of being separated from those she so tenderly loved.

"I know it," was the answer. "Fairview is a thriving town, while this place is going behindhand as fast as possible. I shall never get along if I remain here, that is certain."

Rachel made no reply, but the hand that held the needle with which she was sewing moved at a quicker rate.

"Are you willing to go there?" the husband asked, with some hesitation of manner.

"If you think it best to go I am willing, of course," Rachel said, meekly.

Parker looked into the face of his wife, as it bent lower over the work she held in her hand, and tried to understand as well as read its expression. But he could not exactly make it out. Nor did the tone of voice in which she so promptly expressed her willingness to remove, if he thought it best, entirely satisfy his mind. Her assent, however, had been obtained, and this being the thing he most desired, he was not long in forgetting the manner in which that assent was given. Of the cloud that fell upon her heart--of the sadness that oppressed--of the foreshadowing loneliness of spirit that came over her, he knew nothing.

A removal once determined upon, it was soon made. A large portion of the goods in Mr. Parker's store was sold at a rather heavy sacrifice and converted into cash. What remained of his stock was packed up and sent to Fairview, whither with his wife and child he quickly followed. While he looked hopefully ahead, the tearful eyes of Rachel were turned back upon the loved and loving friends that were left behind. But she did not murmur, or make any open manifestation of the grief she felt. She believed it to be her duty to go with her husband, and her duty, if she could not go cheerfully, at least to conceal from others the pain she suffered.

For a time, things looked very bright in Fairview to the eyes of Mr. Parker. He sold more goods and at better prices than at the old place; but he had to credit more. The result of his first year's business was quite encouraging. There was, however, a slight drawback; very much more than his profits were outstanding. But he doubted not that all would come in.

As for Mrs. Parker the year had not gone by without leaving some marks of its passage upon her heart. Some are purified by much suffering who, to common observation, seem purer far than hundreds around them whose days glide pleasantly on and whose skies are rarely overcast, and then only by a swiftly-passing summer cloud. Rachel Parker was one of these. During the first year of her absence from those who were loved next to her husband and child, her father died. And what rendered the affliction doubly severe, was the fact, that it occurred while she herself was so ill that she could not be moved without endangering her life. He died and she could not be with him in the last sad hours of his earthly existence! He died and was buried, and she was not there to look for the last time upon his beloved face--to follow him to his quiet resting-place--to weep over his grave! She suffered--but to no mortal eye were apparent the adequate signs of that suffering. Even her husband was misled by the calm surface of her feelings into the belief that there was no wild turbulence beneath. He did not see the tears that wet the pillow upon which she slept. He did not know how many hours she lay sleepless in the silent midnight watches. Daily all her duties were performed with unvarying assiduity; and when he spoke to her she answered with her usual gentle smile. That it faded more quickly than was its wont, Benjamin Parker did not notice, nor did he remark upon the fact that she rarely introduced any subject of conversation. Indeed, so entirely was his mind engrossed by business, that it was impossible for him to have any realizing sense of the true state of his wife's feelings.

Four years were past at Fairview, during which time Parker barely managed to get sufficient out of his store to live upon; the greater portion of his profits being represented by the figures on the debtor side of his ledger. Many of these accounts were good, though slow in being realized; but many more were hopelessly bad. He was very far from being satisfied with the result. He lived, it is true, and by carefully attending to his business could continue to live, and it might be lay up a little; but this did not satisfy Benjamin Parker. He wanted to be getting ahead in the world.

"Why don't you go to the West?" said an acquaintance, to whom he was one day making complaint of his slow progress. "That is the country where enterprise meets a just reward. If I were as young a man as you are, you wouldn't catch me long in these parts. I would sell out and buy five or six hundred acres of government land and settle down as a farmer. In a few years you'd see me with property on my hands worth looking at."

This set Parker to thinking and inquiring about the West. The idea of becoming a substantial farmer, with broad acres covered with grain and fields alive with stock, soon became predominant in his mind, and he talked of little else at home or abroad. His wife said nothing, but she thought almost as much on the subject as did her husband. At length Benjamin Parker determined that he would remove to Northern Indiana, more than a thousand miles away, upon a farm of five hundred acres, that was offered to him at two dollars and a half an acre. It was government land that had been taken up a year or two before, and slightly improved by the erection of a log hut and the clearing of a few acres, and now sold at one hundred per cent. advance. Instead of first visiting the West and seeing the location of the land that was offered to him, Parker was willing to believe all that was said of its excellence and admirable location, and weak enough to invest in it more than half of all he was worth.

The store at Fairview was sold out, and Mrs. Parker permitted to spend a week with her sisters before parting with them, perhaps, forever. When the final moment of separation came it seemed to her like a death-parting. The eyes of Rachel lingered upon each loved countenance, as if for the last time, and when these passed from before her bodily visions, love kept them as distinct as ever, but distinct in their tearful sadness.

If the wishes and feelings of Rachel Parker had been consulted--if she had been at all considered and her true feelings and character justly appreciated--a removal to the West would never have been determined upon. But her husband's mind was all absorbed in ideas of worldly things. Not possessing the habits and qualities of mind that ensure success in any calling, he was always oppressed with the consciousness that he was either standing still, or going behind-hand. Instead of seeking to better his condition by greater activity, energy, and concentration of thought upon his business, he was ever looking to something beyond it, and to change of place and pursuit as the means of improving his fortunes. This at last, as has been seen, led him off to the West in the ardent hope of becoming in time a wealthy farmer. In an inverse ratio to the hopeful elevation of spirits with which Parker set out upon his journey was the sorrowful depression experienced by his wife. But Rachel kept meekly and patiently her feelings to herself. It was her duty, she felt, to go with her husband. She had united her fortunes with his, and without murmuring or complaining, she was ready to go with him through the world and to stand bravely up by his side in any and all circumstances.

After a journey of five weeks, Benjamin Parker and his wife, with their family of three children, arrived at their new home in the West. It was early in the spring. The main body of the farm, which was densely wooded, lay upon the eastern bank of a small, sluggish river, with broad, marshy bottom-lands. The cabin, which had been put up the year before on a small clearing, stood on an eminence just above this river, and was five miles away from any other human habitation. It consisted of two rooms and a small loft above. One of these rooms had only a ground floor. The windows were not glazed. The last thirty miles of the journey to this wild region had been performed in a wagon, which contained their furniture and a small supply of provisions.

The first night spent in this lonely, cheerless place was one that brought no very pleasant reflections to either Parker or his wife. He was disappointed in his expectations, and she felt as if a heavy hand were pressing upon her bosom.

But there they were, and the only thing for them to do was to make the best of what was in their hands. Parker obtained an assistant and went to work to prepare the cleared ground for spring crops, and his wife, with a babe at her breast and no help, assumed all the duties pertaining to her family. In cooking, washing, milking, sewing, etc., she found enough to occupy all her time late and early. It was a rare thing for her to lay her head upon her pillow without extreme weariness and even exhaustion.

Time went on, and they began to reap the first fruits of their industry. The wilderness and solitary place blossomed. The little clearing widened gradually its circle, and many little comforts, at first wanting, were obtained. Still they suffered many privations and Mrs. Parker far more than her husband imagined.

The first summer, hot and sultry, drew near to its close. Thus far they had been blessed with health. But now slight headache, nausea, and a general feeling of debility were experienced by all. The first to show symptoms of serious illness was the oldest child. She was nearly five years of age, her name was Rachel, and she was aptly named, for she was the image of her mother. The bright eyes, sweet, loving face, and happy voice of little Rachel, that was heard all day long, lightened the mother's toil, refreshed her spirits, and often made her forget the loneliness and seclusion in which they lived. She was like a cool spring in the desert, a bright flower in a barren waste, a ray of sunshine from a wintry sky.

Little Rachel was the first to droop. Saturday was always the busiest day of the week; it was the day of preparation for the Sabbath; for even separate and lonely as they were, this family sacredly regarded the Sabbath as a day of rest from worldly care and labor. It was Saturday, and Mrs. Parker, in the more earnest attention which she gave to her household duties, did not notice that the child was more quiet than usual; nor did the fact of finding her fast asleep on the floor when dinner was ready, cause any thing further than a thought that she had tired herself out with play. At night she refused her supper, and then it was observed for the first time that her eyes were heavy, her hands hot, and that she was affected with a general languor. Her mother undressed her and put her to bed, and the child sank off immediately into a heavy sleep. For some time Mrs. Parker stood bending over her with a feeling of unusual tenderness for the child. She also felt concern, but not arising from any definite cause. The fear of extreme sickness and impending death she had not yet known. That was one of the lessons she had still to learn.

In the morning little Rachel awoke with a severe chill, accompanied by vomiting. A raging fever succeeded to this. The parents became alarmed, and Mr. Parker started off on horseback, for a physician, distant about seven miles. It was noon when the doctor arrived. He did not say much in answer to the anxious questions of the mother, but administered some medicine and promised to call on the next day. At his second visit he found nothing favorable in the symptoms of his little patient. Her fever was higher than on the day before. There had been a short intermission after midnight, which lasted until morning, when it had returned again greatly exacerbated.

Nine days did the fever last without the abatement of a single symptom, but rather a steady increase of all. The little sufferer had not only the violence of a dangerous disease to bear, but there was added to this a system of medical treatment that of itself, where no disease existed, would have made the child extremely ill. In the first place large doses of mercury were given, followed by other nauseous and poisonous drugs; then copious bleeding was resorted to; and then the entire breast of the child was covered with a blister that was kept on until the whole surface of the skin was ready to peel off. Afterward the head was shaved and blistered. During all this time, medicines that the poor sufferer's stomach refused to take were forced down her throat, almost hourly! If there had been any hope of escape from the fever, this treatment would have made death certain.

At the close of the ninth day the physician informed the parents that he could do no more for their child. When Mrs. Parker received this intelligence, there was little change in her external appearance, except that her pale, anxious face grew slightly paler. She tried to say in her heart, as she endeavored to lift her spirit upward--"Thy will be done." But she failed in the pious effort. It was too much to take from her this darling child; this companion of her loneliness; this blossom so gently unfolding and loading the desert air with soul-refreshing sweetness. It was too much--she bowed her spirit in meek endurance, but she could not say--"Thy will be done."

Little Rachel died. The father dug her grave near by their humble dwelling; he made the rough coffin in which they enclosed her; and then bore out the body and laid it in the ground, while the weeping mother stood by his side. Sole mourners were they at these sad funereal rites. No holy words from the book of consolation were read, no solemn hymn was sung--all was silence, heart-oppressing silence.

On the succeeding day Parker had to go for the physician again. His next child was taken sick. His wife was far from being well, and he felt strangely. After the doctor had prescribed for the family, and was about leaving, he took Mr. Parker to an eminence overlooking the river that bounded his farm on the western side, and spoke to him thus:

"My friend, do you see that river, with more than half of its muddy bed exposed to the hot sun? Your farm lies upon its eastern side, and the poisonous miasma that arises from its surface and banks is steadily blown upon you by the south-westerly and westerly winds of summer. Is it any wonder that your family have become sick? I wouldn't live here if you would give me fifty farms like this! Already a whole family have died on this spot, and your's will be the next if you do not leave immediately. You have lost one child; let that suffice. Flee from this place as hurriedly as Lot fled from Sodom. Medical aid I solemnly believe to be useless while you remain here. The village of A-- is healthy. Remove your wife and children there immediately. Do not wait for a single day. It is the only hope for their lives."

A warning like this was not a thing to be let go by unheeded. Parker promptly announced to his wife what the doctor had communicated, and ended by saying--

"We must go at once."

"And leave Rachel?" she returned, sadly.

"Our staying here cannot do her any good," replied the husband, in a choking voice.

"I know--I know," quickly answered the mother. "I am weak and foolish. Yes--yes--we had better go."

A few hours sufficed for all needful preparations, and then, with his wife and children in his wagon, Parker mounted one of the horses and drove off for the village of A--, distant a little over ten miles. As they moved away the mother's eyes were turned back upon the little mound of earth beneath which slept the body of her precious child, and remained fixed upon that one spot until by intervening trees all was hidden from her sight. Then her eyes closed, and she leaned her head down against the side of the wagon, while her arm tightened its hold of the babe that was sleeping on her bosom. For a long time she remained lost to all that was around her. Years afterward she said to a friend that the severest trial of her whole life was in leaving her child alone in that wild, desolate place. It seemed as if the little one must feel the desertion.

At the town of A-- Parker and his family obtained accommodations in a poor tavern, where they remained for six weeks, during which time every one suffered more or less severely from fevers, contracted in the poisoned atmosphere in which they had been residing. During the time that Parker remained at A-- he obtained more information in regard to Western life, and the prospects of a man like himself getting ahead, as a farmer on wild lands than he had ever before had. He learned, too, some particulars about his own farm, of which he was before ignorant. All along the river upon which it was situated, the fall sickness swept off every new-comer, and was in very many instances fatal to the oldest residents. He was assured that if he went back there to live before frost set in, it would be almost certain death.

The loss of his oldest and best-beloved child; the bad location of his farm; and the new and more correct views he had received on the subject of Western life, completely opened the eyes of Parker to the folly he had committed.

"If I could make any thing like a fair sale of my farm, I think I would let it go, and return to the East," he said to his wife, after they had all recovered from the worst effect of the fevers from which they had been suffering.

"If you could do as well at the East, Benjamin, I think we would all be happier there," Rachel replied, in her usual quiet way. Her husband did not notice that the tears sprang instantly to her eyes, nor did he know with what a quick throb her heart answered to his words.

A short time after this, Parker was fortunate enough to meet with a purchaser for his land, who was willing to take it with all its improvements at government price. With seven hundred dollars, the remnant of his property, after an absence of eight months, Parker returned to the East a wiser man, and his wife a more thoughtful, pensive, absent-minded woman. The loss of little Rachel was a sad thing for her. She could not get over it. It would have been some comfort to her if they could have brought back the child's remains, and buried them where her mother had slept for years, and where the body of her father had been so recently laid; but to leave her alone in the wild region where they had buried her, was something of which she could not think without a pang.

On the small sum of money which he had brought back from his western adventure, Parker recommenced his old business in the very town where he lived, and in the store that he occupied at the time of his marriage. As his means were more contracted, he could not do as good a business as the one he had been so foolish as to give up several years before, and he soon fell into his old habit of complaining and perhaps now with more cause. To such complaints his meek-tempered wife would reply in some words of encouragement and comfort, as--

"You do the best you can, and that is as much as can be expected of any one. You plant and sow--the Lord must send the rain and the sunshine."

Back in the old place and among her loving sisters, the heart of Mrs. Parker felt once more the warm sunshine upon it--the gentle dews and the refreshing rain. But a year or two only elapsed before her husband determined to seek some better fortune in another place. Without a complaining word his wife went with him, but her cheek grew paler and thinner afterward, her step slower and her voice even to the ear of her husband sadder. But he was too much absorbed in his efforts to get along in the world to be able to see clearly the true condition of his wife, or, if he at all understood it, to be aware of the cause.

Their new location proved to be an unhealthy one, and the loss of another child drove them away, after a residence of a year. Mrs. Parker suffered here severely from intermittent fever. She was just able to go about when her husband declared his intention to leave the place on account of its being sickly.

"Where do you think of going?" she asked, raising to his her large pensive eyes.

"I have hardly made up my mind yet," he replied. "But I was thinking of R--."

Rachel's eyes fell to the floor, and a gentle sigh escaped from her bosom. This was noticed by her husband.

"Have you any objection to R--?" he asked.

"Why not go back to the old place?" Rachel ventured to say, while her eyes were again fixed upon him, but now earnestly and tearfully.

"Would you rather live there?" he asked, with more than usual tenderness in his voice.

"I have never been happy since we left there," the poor wife replied, sinking forward and biding her tearful face on his breast.

Parker was confounded. He had never dreamed of this. Rachel had always so patiently acquiesced in all that he had proposed to do, that he had imagined her as willing to remove from one place to another as he had been. But now a new truth flashed upon his mind--"Never been happy since we left there?"

"We will go back, Rachel," he said, with some emotion. "If I had only known this!"

And they went back. But somehow or other Rachel Parker did not recover the healthy tone of body or mind that she had lost. By strict attention to business and continuing at it for some years in one place, her husband got along well enough, though he did not get rich. As for Rachel, she gradually declined and three years after her return was laid at rest.

THE SUM OF TRIFLES:

OR, "A PENNY SAVED IS A PENNY GAINED."

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

"SAVING? Don't talk to me about saving!" said one journeyman mechanic to another. "What can a man with a wife and three children save out of eight dollars a week?"

"Not much, certainly," was replied. "But still, if he is careful, he may save a little."

"Precious little!" briefly returned the other, with something like contempt in his tone.

"Even a little is worth saving," was answered to this. "You know the old proverb, 'Many littles make a mickle.' Fifty cents laid by every week will amount to twenty-six dollars in a year."

"Of course, that's clear enough. And a dollar saved every week will give the handsome sum of fifty-two dollars a year. Bat how is the half-dollar or the dollar to be saved, I should like to know? I can't do it, I am sure."

"I can, then, and my family is just as large as yours, and my wages no higher."

"If you say so, I am bound to believe you, but I must own myself unable to see how you do it. Pray, how much do you save?"

"I have saved about seventy-five dollars a year for the last two years."

"You have!" in surprise.

"Yes, and I have it all snugly in the Savings' Bank."

"Bless me! How have you possibly managed to do this? For my part, it is as much as I can do to keep out of debt. My wife is as hard-working, saving a woman as is to be found anywhere. But all won't do. I expect my nose will be at the grindstone all my life."

"How much does your tobacco cost you, Johnson?" asked his companion.

"Nothing, to speak of. A mere trifle," replied the man named Johnson.

"A shilling a week?"

"About that."

"And you take something to drink, now and then?"

"Nothing but a little beer. I never use any thing stronger."

"I suppose you never take, on an average, more than a glass a day?"

"No, nor that."

"But you occasionally ask a friend to take a glass with you?"

"Of course, that is a thing we all must do, sometimes--"

"Which will make the cost to you about equal to a glass a day?"

"I suppose it will; but that's nothing."

"Six glasses a week at sixpence each, will make just the sum of three shillings, which added to the cost of tobacco, will make fifty cents a week for beer and tobacco, or what would amount to a hundred dollars and over in four years."

"Dear knows, a poor mechanic has few enough comforts without depriving himself of trifles like these," said Johnson.

"By giving up such trifles as these, for trifles they really are, permanent and substantial comforts may be gained. But, besides chewing tobacco and drinking beer, you indulge yourself in a plate of oysters, now and then, do you not?"

"Certainly I do. A hard-working man ought to be allowed to enjoy himself a little sometimes."

"And this costs you two shillings weekly?" said the persevering friend.

"At least that," was replied.

"How often do you take a holiday to yourself?"

"Not often. I do it very rarely."

"Not oftener than once a month?"

"No."

"As often?"

"Yes, I suppose I take a day for recreation about once in a month, and that is little enough, dear knows."

"You spend a trifle at such times, of course?"

"Never more than half a dollar. I always limit myself to that, for I cannot forget that I am a poor journeyman mechanic."

"Does your wife take a holiday, too?" asked the friend, with something significant in his look and tone.

"No," was replied. "I often try to persuade her to do so; but she never thinks she can spare time. She has all the work to do, and three children to see after; and one of them, you know, is a baby."

"Do you know that this day's holiday once a month, costs you exactly twenty-two dollars a year?"

"No, certainly not, for it costs no such thing."

"Well, let us see. Your wages per day come to one dollar thirty-three cents and one-third. This sum multiplied by twelve, the number of days lost in the year, gives sixteen dollars. Half a dollar spent a day for twelve days makes six dollars, and six dollars added to sixteen amount to twenty-two. Now, have I not calculated it fairly?"

"I believe you have," replied Johnson, in an altered tone. "But I never could have believed it."

"Add to this, thirteen dollars a year that you pay for oysters, and you have--"

"Not so fast, if you please. I spend no such sum as you name, in oysters."

"Let us try our multiplication again," coolly remarked the friend. "Twenty-five cents a week multiplied into fifty-two weeks, gives exactly thirteen dollars. Isn't it so?"

"Humph! I believe you are right. But I never would have thought of it."

"Add this thirteen dollars to the twenty-two it costs you for twelve holidays in the year, and this again to the price of your beer and tobacco, and you will have just sixty-one dollars a year that might be saved. A little more careful examination into your expenses, would, no doubt, detect the sum of fourteen dollars that might be as well saved as not, which added to the sixty-one dollars, will make seventy-five dollars a year uselessly spent, the exact sum I am able to put into the Savings' Bank."

Johnson was both surprised and mortified, at being thus convinced of actually spending nearly one-fifth of his entire earnings in self-gratification of one kind or another. He promised both himself and his friend, that he would at once reform matters, and try to get a little a-head, as he had a growing family that would soon be much more expensive than it was at present.

Some months afterward, the friend who had spoken so freely to Johnson, met him coming out of a tavern, and in the act of putting tobacco in his mouth. The latter looked a little confused, but said with as much indifference as he could assume:

"You see I am at my old tricks again?"

"Yes, and I am truly sorry for it. I was in hopes you were going to practice a thorough system of economy, in order to get beforehand."

"I did try, but it's no use. As to giving up tobacco, that is out of the question. I can't do it. Nor could you, if you had ever formed the bad habit of chewing or smoking."

"We can do almost any thing, if we try hard enough, Johnson. We fail, because we give up trying. My tobacco and cigars used to cost me just twice what yours cost you, and yet I made a resolution to abandon the use of the vile weed altogether, and what is better, have kept my resolution. So, you see, the thing can be done. All that is wanted, is sufficient firmness and perseverance. I used to like a glass of ale, too, and a plate of oysters, but I saw that the expense was rather a serious matter, and that the indulgence did not do me a particle of good. So I gave them up, also; and if you try hard enough, you can do it, too."

"I don't know--perhaps I might; but somehow or other, it strikes me that seventy or eighty dollars a year, laid by in the Savings' Bank, is rather a dear saving, if made at the expense of every comfort a poor man has. What good is the money going to do?"

"A strange question, that, to ask, Johnson. I will tell you what good it is going to do me. I intend saving every cent I can possibly lay by, until I get five hundred dollars; and then I mean to set up my trade for myself, and become a master-workman. After that, I hope to get along a little faster, and be able to send my children, who will be pretty well advanced by the time, to better schools. I shall also be able, I hope, to get help for my wife, who will need assistance in the house."

"All very well to talk about, but not so easily done," replied Johnson.

"I don't know. For every effect there is an adequate cause. The cause of all this will be the saving of seventy-five dollars a year. This I have been doing for three years, and I hope to be able to do it for three or four years longer. Then the desired effect, in a capital of five hundred dollars, upon which to commence business, will be produced. Is it not so?"