Chapter II: Preface (2)

Discouraged at his repeated failures, the king turned away from the crowded city and went into the country. There, as he walked along a quiet road by himself, he came to a little cottage with a bench beside the door. In front of it was a flower-bed filled with pinks and lady-slippers; in the rear, a small plot of ground that appeared to have been just digged. A shovel and a hoe were lying there, evidently left only for the dinner-hour. The door of the cottage was open, and a laboring-man well on in years was seen within at his noonday meal.

The king, in the guise of a wayfarer, stopped before the gate, and was at once asked to enter and be seated at the table. Accepting the invitation, he sat down and partook of the humble repast. As soon as it was finished the two betook themselves to the bench beside the door. Said the king:

“You have a hard time, I fear, my friend. This is but a little plot from which to get your living.”

“But you’ve no idea,” replied the man, “how much this ground yields. It is planted in potatoes, and a finer crop you never saw. I’m just digging them, and shall have enough to last me on till spring, with some to sell—yes, and a few to give a poor neighbor, beside.”

“But is that all you have to depend upon?” asked the king.

“Oh no,” replied the man; “I go out to day’s work on the farms around, and, beside being able to pay for some new clothes, I’ve put by a barrel of flour for the winter; it stands over in that far corner. And you see my woodpile stretching along the fence yonder. I’ve had to work hard for these things, but they are all that I need, and I am content.”

“‘Content’!” cried the king, as though he could not believe his own ears. “But have you no other wants beside these?”

“I might have,” said the man. “There are plenty that offer me their company, but I refuse to entertain them.”

“Are you, then, quite satisfied?”

“Not with myself, but I am with my lot.”

At this the king was silent, for he saw that his companion was speaking the truth, though he could not comprehend it.

“But understand me,” continued the man. “It is not because I have no trials to bear that I am content, for I have my share of them. Here is the rheumatism in this arm, which often will not let me sleep, and sometimes keeps me from work for days together. And then, what is harder still, my landlord is not always kind, or even just.”

“Why, is not this cottage your own?” said the king.

“Oh no,” replied the man; “I’m not so rich as that. And yet, as I was going to say, taking it all in all, I have in my lot a bigger proportion of good than most people, and a better chance to be what I ought to be. And to this end I can see how even my trials are a help.”

The king, rising from the table, bade his humble friend adieu and went his way, but pursued his search no farther.

“I have found content in another,” he said, “and learned, too, how to get it for myself. It is to accept not only my good things, but also my evil things, as a precious part of my portion. I will go back to my throne esteeming even it in this light, and so, instead of trying to cast them off, shall be happier in bearing the burdens which it lays upon me.”

* * * * *

Were we able to look into the secret thoughts of those whom we envy, we should often find that what we covet in their lot, is borne by them as a trial and a cross.

THE LEARNED OWL.

AN owl that had long separated himself from his companions that he might devote his nights to study and become learned, employed himself afterward in trying to impart his learning to the other owls. Having called them together, he discoursed about different animals and reptiles and fishes which they had never heard of before; but he found that, while a few seemed anxious for instruction and listened patiently, the most of his hearers made some excuse for flying away while he was still talking, so that by the end of his discourse scarcely a half dozen of them remained.

As he was ambitious to be considered an interesting as well as instructive speaker, he was greatly discouraged at this result, and at once retired to the woods, into a thick clump of hemlocks whose dark shadows never admitted a ray of the sun, and there, all alone, he thought over the matter, trying to decide what was best to be done.

He remained for several days thus engaged, when suddenly, as if the whole difficulty were solved, he gave a cheerful hoot, and flying forth, summoned all the owls to a meeting in the apple-orchard near by at twelve o’clock the following night. When the time arrived, but a small audience appeared in the trees immediately around him, though many were on those farther off—as we might say, on the back seats—from which, in case they grew weary, they could retire unseen.

“I’ve come this time,” he began, “not to talk about animals or reptiles or fishes, but about owls.”

At once he could see an awakening of interest in the birds that were near him. Then he went on to tell all he knew about owls—their ancestors who had lived long ago, the different kinds that are living now, the big owls and the little owls, their habits, their dispositions, their pleasures, and their pains, not, of course, omitting courtship and marriage. Very soon he saw the birds that had lodged on the distant trees flying nearer, and as he went on they came one by one into the very tree where he stood, until all the owls that lived in the neighboring woods were gathered close around him; nor were they willing to leave while he continued his discourse. And after that, all he had to do was to vary somewhat his treatment of the same theme to secure a punctual and full attendance.

* * * * *

This fable proves that owls, like men, prefer to hear about things in which they feel the interest of kindred. The speaker or the book that can awaken our human sympathies is the one, as we know, that commands the largest audience and the closest attention.

THE HORSE AND THE GRASSHOPPERS.

A HORSE, while feeding in a meadow, frightened the grasshoppers at his feet, so that they flew up thickly on every side. Some chickens, discovering this, gathered around and accompanied him, eagerly devouring the insects. The horse did not notice them for a time and continued to move slowly along, thus providing them with an abundant supply. But, at length spying them at their repast, he suddenly raised his head, saying:

“How are you going to pay me back for all this trouble I am taking for you?”

At which one of the chickens replied:

“You don’t eat grasshoppers yourself, neither are you going out of your way to stir them up for us. Why, then, should we pay you at all?”

The horse, not able to answer this question, began sullenly to feed again, when the chicken continued:

“If you had done us this favor willingly and kindly, we would have eaten the grasshoppers and returned you our thanks; but, as you do it against your will, we will eat them just the same, and return you nothing.”

* * * * *

In serving our own interests we sometimes, without intending it, serve the interest of others. It is better to do this graciously and make them our friends than to do it grudgingly and make them our enemies.

THE BARK AND THE LIGHTSHIP.

A BARK on her outward voyage passed the lightship moored on a shoal that lay in the track of vessels near the coast. Said the bark as she sailed by:

“Here you are still, held fast by your chain, for ever tossing and uncomfortable, but making no headway, or profits, either.”

“True,” replied the lightship. “Yet this is my appointed work. I am no idler.”

Long months rolled around; the bark had crossed the ocean, and was on her homeward voyage. She neared the land in stormy weather. Night came on, and the lead, though it was kept going, failed to show just where she was drifting. Then anxious fears arose, and were growing each moment more intense, when suddenly a bright flash gleamed through the darkness. It was the lightship, giving warning of the shoal and pointing out the deeper channel.

Once more the vessels lay side by side.

“You have saved me,” cried the bark, “and the rich cargo that I carry. Now I understand why you seek not selfish profits, and most gladly, out of gratitude, will I share mine with you.”

“Oh no,” replied the lightship; “you have sailed over perilous seas to gain them, and they justly belong to you. That is your calling; and the greater your gains, the better am I pleased. But my calling is to lie here and do what good I can. For this I receive wages sufficient for my need, and with them I am content.”

* * * * *

While some men devote their lives to business and accumulate fortunes—properly and honestly, it may be—others devote theirs to the good of their fellow-men, knowing they will receive in return a bare living, and nothing more.

THE UNHONORED SERVANT.

A CERTAIN king was accustomed from time to time to appoint the members of his household, some of them to be rulers over provinces, some over cities, and some to fill private positions of honor and profit. It was considered not only a reward of obedience, but a special mark of his confidence and approval, to receive such appointment.

After many had been thus promoted, one remained in the palace who seemed to be overlooked and neglected. It was evident that this was not from any fault of his own, or from any want of regard on the part of the king, for all could see that he was loyal and upright and enjoyed the king’s favor; yet others who had come later into the palace were chosen before him.

At length one of the king’s counsellors ventured to ask him the reason of this, saying:

“This man for many years has obeyed you with all faithfulness and devotion, yet others are sent forth to fill stations of honor, while he remains here in his place as a servant. Why is this?”

The king answered:

“I keep him thus, not as a mark of my displeasure or of his want of desert, but because he is the one whom I cannot part with, even to bestow honors and riches upon him, but must have ever near me. Neither will he be a loser by it in the end.”

* * * * *

A place in the heart is better than a gift from the hand, and he whom the King will reward may well wait patiently.

WINGS.

ONCE a caterpillar, as it fed on a tree, was given the power of speech. It said:

“What wonderful eyes I have! I can see the whole of this leaf at one time—not only the part I am feeding on, but its whole length and breadth.”

“Let me tell you,” replied the tree, “there are eyes that can see not only one leaf, but all the leaves on a tree—yes, and on a whole woods—at a glance.”

“It may be so,” said the caterpillar, “and then it is only doing what I do, though on a larger scale.—And what wonderful feet I have!” continued the caterpillar. “I can creep from the ground up to your topmost bough, between the rising and the setting of the sun.”

“And I can tell you,” replied the tree, “there are feet that can pass over a space equal to that in a moment, and in one short hour can go farther than you in all the days of your life.”

“It may be so,” said the caterpillar, “and then it is only doing what I do, though on a larger scale.”

“But this is not all I have to tell you,” continued the tree. “There are beings that can dart from the ground up to my highest branch without so much as touching me with their feet, and that can pass swiftly from tree to tree, borne through the air on wings.”

“That is impossible,” said the caterpillar. “There may be stronger eyes that can see farther even than mine, and quicker feet that can travel faster; but, as for wings to fly through the air with, that cannot be. You are talking of things you know nothing about, or else are only trying to deceive me. After such an absurd statement, I will not listen to you any more, or believe anything you say.”

The summer passed, and autumn came with its cloudy days and chilly nights. The leaves of the tree shrivelled up and dropped to the ground, and one frosty morning the caterpillar was found suspended from a naked twig by a thread of its own spinning, shut up in its cocoon. And there it slept, unconscious from day to day, and month to month, through the long winter. The fierce storm could not weaken its hold, or shake it loose, as it hung secure, tossed to and fro by the blast.

But at length spring approached. The buds began to swell and the young leaves to appear. The blossoms on the fruit trees opened, and the birds sang among them. And one morning the imprisoned caterpillar revived in its narrow cell, and, rending its walls asunder, came forth and basked in the sunshine. But what are these at its side gently expanding and unfolding? It spreads them forth, and, loosening its hold upon the twig, floats away on the breeze. It mounts up, it flies, it lodges on a lofty bough, and flies from one to another again and again.

“Was it I,” it says, astonished, “that declared there were no beings with wings, and that to pass from place to place through the air was impossible? Now am I made to see that it was not the tree, but myself, who spoke about things I knew nothing of; now am I made to feel the denseness of my own ignorance. If this, which is so unlooked for and so far beyond the reach of my understanding, has been done to me, I will wait and see what yet remains to be done, nor ever again limit the power that created me at first, and still goes on perfecting its own work.”

* * * * *

He who can speak most wisely within the circuit of his knowledge if he venture beyond it utters foolishness.

STANDPOINTS.

A POOR man who supported his family by daily labor used to deal with the two storekeepers of his native village. Of one he bought flour and meat; of the other, materials for his own and his children’s clothing. Being a good workman and honest as well as industrious, he was accustomed to settle his accounts at both stores every Saturday night.

All went on well and to the satisfaction of both buyer and seller as long as health lasted. But at length sickness came, and Saturday brought the laborer no wages. Still, he hoped for the return of strength by another week, and then to be at work again. But strength did not return. Week after week passed, and it seemed farther away than ever. The storekeepers’ accounts remained unsettled. The matter was becoming a serious one for them. What should they do?

At this point one of them opened his ledger, went over every item set down there, and, after footing up the total amount, calculated the interest on it to the last cent. Then he sat thinking about what he could do with the money if he only had it in hand; and this was the standpoint from which _he_ looked at the debt.

The other storekeeper also went over his ledger and footed up the amount. But after doing so he shut the book up again, and, putting on his hat, went to see the man who owed him the money. Entering his humble cottage, he sat down at his bedside and looked into his honest, suffering face, and on his wife and children in poverty around him; and here was the standpoint from which _this_ storekeeper looked at the debt.

The sick man died, and his family was left penniless. The storekeeper who had visited him, still looking at the debt, as it were, from the lowly bedside, thought it was right to cross it off his books and forgive it altogether. The other storekeeper, viewing it from his counting-room only, thought it right to get the money if he could. Had he not furnished all the articles that were charged for? Had not the man’s family taken them and used them? The money was his, and he meant to have it. So he held the dead man’s wife and children responsible, and, though they had a hard time to earn their daily bread, he made it harder by demanding something each month till the last cent was paid.

Time rolled on, and the years that gather, an ever-increasing load, upon poor and rich alike, began to bow the forms of the two storekeepers. Old age overtook them, and finally the hour when each in turn must leave store and ledger to know them no more. Then it was found that he who had remitted the poor man’s debt had left to his family a moderate competency, with a good many accounts in his ledger balanced by the one word written over against them, “FORGIVEN.”

The other storekeeper had left his family rich, with scarcely an account that had ever been due him unpaid, and the few that were, remained so only because neither force nor persuasion could bring the money. But in the village where they had lived and died it was noticed, long after both storekeepers and their ways of doing business were forgotten, that the smaller inheritance increased in the hands of those who received it, while the larger one, in the hands receiving it, seemed mysteriously to melt away.

* * * * *

According to the standpoint from which we look at a thing will be our views of right and wrong respecting it; but we are accountable for the choice of that standpoint.

THE MAN WITH A MENAGERIE.

A MAN who kept a menagerie had trouble with several of the wild beasts, which, although they were confined in strong cages, sometimes became excited and made violent efforts to escape. There was one in particular—a tiger—that caused him special concern. By continued watchfulness and careful treatment, however, the animal was at length brought into a quiet and submissive state, seeming to be asleep most of the time. Nevertheless, knowing his savage nature, his owner was diligent in examining the different parts of his cage—the iron bars in front, and the bolts in the rear—every day.

But, after doing this for many weeks without a recurrence of any cause for alarm, the man dismissed his fears and began to forget there had ever been any cause for them. Then, insensibly to himself, he relaxed his vigilance, until the matter passed out of his mind and he thought no more about the tiger than he did about the antelope, the deer, or any other harmless specimens in his collection.

This state of things had lasted without any mishap for a long time, when one day, while passing through his menagerie, as he came in front of the tiger’s cage he made a misstep; his foot slipped, and he fell. Like a flash—as soon as he saw him fall—the tiger sprang to his feet and dashed with savage fury against the bars in front of him, which, not being properly secured, parted and allowed him to pass between them.

As he lighted on the ground all the weak and defenceless animals around him were panic-stricken, uttering cries of terror. And truly it looked for the moment as though he might slay both them and their fallen master unrestrained. To make it worse, his keeper, who alone had any control over him, was absent, but fortunately not beyond the sound of the tumult. This man hastened to the rescue, and by skill in soothing as well as courage in quelling succeeded after a time in getting the brute back to his den.

Then was the owner glad, breathing freely once more. Yet for hours afterward his face remained pale and his hand trembled.

“I am thankful,” he said, “for this great deliverance. Never shall I forget it, nor lessen my watchfulness over this furious beast’s cage; for no matter how silent it seems, or how little danger appears to be within, I know only too well that the tiger is there still.”

* * * * *

Our evil passions may lie dormant until we almost think they have ceased to exist, and yet, if not sleeplessly guarded, may rise up and gain the mastery over us at any time.

TWO OUTLOOKS.

TWO persons live in the same house, which has both a front and a back view. The front view is over a quiet lake, with green fields and mountains beyond—beautiful always, in summer, in autumn, in winter. The back view is hemmed in by old broken-down walls, ruinous outbuildings and a pigsty.

One of the inmates of the house takes her work and sits habitually by the front window. Her face is bright and beaming, and the neighbors often hear her sing.

The other inmate sits constantly looking out of the back window. The gloomy prospect depresses and sours her; and when she does open her lips, it is generally to complain. Yet neither of these persons is forced to gaze thus on the prospect which so affects her. Each sits by the window she has chosen for herself.

Now, we all live in houses with front windows and back windows. At which of them do we choose, for the most of our time, to sit?

JOB NICKEL.

A MAN by the name of Job Nickel, who was about emigrating to a new home, bought a stout horse and strong wagon—the best his means would afford—and, packing his family into it, with such household goods as could be carried beside, started on his journey. He had not gone far when he was overtaken by another family travelling in the same direction, but driving a pair of fine horses to a handsome carriage. The difference in outfit, however, did not prevent the occupants of the carriage from making acquaintance with the family in the wagon. They first looked at them smilingly, then nodded, and presently got into conversation.

As their destination was the same and it was pleasanter to travel in company than alone, Job gave his horse a sharp cut, to keep up with his new friends; and the travellers kept together until night, when, coming to a green spot with a spring of pure water upon it, they encamped there, as is the custom with emigrants on the road.

The next morning, before harnessing up, the occupants of the carriage begged Job to let his eldest daughter—a bright little girl of twelve—ride with them. The child’s mother and Job himself were pleased at this attention, and after fishing out her best dress from the bottom of a chest, and hastily putting it on, the invitation was accepted. But when they started for the day, the pair travelled so much faster than the one horse that the carriage soon left the wagon behind; sometimes it was visible a good way ahead, and sometimes was quite out of sight. Yet, as his little girl was in it, Job felt bound to keep as near it as he could, though this required, especially in going-up hill, the constant urging of his horse and not unfrequent use of the whip.

While hurrying along the road in this way Job came up with a neighbor who, like himself, drove only one horse. But so anxious was Job to get on that he passed his old friend without speaking. It must be admitted, too, that Job felt with his new acquaintance, if he could only keep up with them, he was travelling in more distinguished company. Thus the second day passed, and the travellers again encamped together, Job, after taking the harness off his own horse, helping to unharness the pair.

The next morning his friends consented to let the little girl return to her parents in the wagon provided her brother be allowed to take her place. So the girl went back, very much dissatisfied, and the boy succeeded her. And thus the two vehicles continued in company day after day. Sometimes the boy was in the carriage, and sometimes the girl; and once one of the children from the carriage came and rode in the wagon. Meanwhile, the intimacy between the families constantly increased, no account being taken of their differing circumstances. While these things were going on, both Job and his wife could not help secretly thinking that, as their children happened to be of like ages, this intimacy might some day become closer still; yet neither one (as they felt in their hearts ashamed of it) mentioned this thought to the other.

But all this time, notwithstanding his apparent friendship, the owner of the carriage never once slackened his pace to accommodate Job. As a consequence, the work of keeping up with him became harder than ever. Job had now to lash his horse at almost every step, by doing which he was just able to follow close at the tail of the carriage. But in dry weather he was always in a cloud of dust, and in wet weather was being splashed with the mud thrown up by the wheels in front of him; so that, wet or dry, he was equally miserable.

But the worst was yet to come. After Job had been thus laboriously working his way for about half the distance he was to travel, one morning, on going out early to feed his horse, the animal was found still lying down; and when Job tried to rouse him, he refused to get up—alas! with good reason: he could not. And within an hour the poor overworked beast was dead.

By this time the sun had risen, and the carriage was all ready to start; but before doing so the family that travelled in it came over to where Job stood, showing great pity for him. They were loud in their expressions of sorrow, but the father said, as he had promised to be at a point beyond by a certain hour, he would have to go on. Just then another carriage, containing some of his acquaintance, came along, and he cracked his whip and was soon out of sight. As he drove off Job saw for the first time the man’s name—S. Silver. It was printed upon the end of a trunk which they had taken from the inside and put on the top of the carriage.

“Ah!” exclaimed Job, “now I know who he is. His first name is Sterling. He had a bank in the county-town next to ours, and a sad fool has poor Job Nickel been in trying all this while to keep up with Sterling Silver! I deserve all I have got.—Well, wife,” he continued, “here we are with our horse dead, our grand acquaintances gone, and plenty of time to reflect on our folly.”

As he spoke his old friend with the one horse, whom Job had passed on the road without noticing, came trudging comfortably by. Job turned toward him ready to speak, but the man did not notice him. As he disappeared Job looked around at his wife, and, seeing her wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, he said:

“Happily, my dear, we’ve got a small sum left in the bottom of the chest, with which we’ll try to buy another horse—the best we can get for it. But after this we’ll go along at our own gait, no matter who goes before or follows after us.”

* * * * *

He who is dissatisfied and unthankful in his own proper sphere, by trying to climb higher sinks lower than ever before.

THE UNUSED LOOM.

A MAN who had inherited a plain but comfortable house with a lot of ground around it went there to live. He found, on looking through the house, that, beside the furniture it contained suitable to his daily wants, there was in one of the upper rooms a curiously-made loom. It was a complicated machine, and he could see at a glance a valuable one; but he could see also that it would require his best skill as well as a good deal of hard work to keep it in motion. Not caring to put these forth just then, instead of attempting to run it, he let it stand.

As he had to earn his living, however, and was not, in truth, a lazy man, he employed himself in other ways, tilling his ground and, when he had that in perfect order for the time being, hiring himself out to do farm-work for his neighbors. But he was, at best, a poor hand at this sort of work, an ordinary day-laborer easily outstripping him; so that, although he managed to live, by the end of the year, if he was not actually behindhand, he was sure to have nothing over.

But while he worked in the soil he never forgot his loom. And sometimes when the work was harder and money scarcer than usual he would go up to the room where it was stored, and open the door and stand looking at it. Yet as soon as he realized afresh the labor both of mind and body required to run it, he shut to the door again and went back to day’s work with his pick and shovel.

But at length his pressing needs and a deepening conviction that he could better his condition induced him to undertake what he had shrunk from so long; he began clearing away from his loom the dust and dirt that had accumulated about it, determined to persevere until he had put it in perfect running order. And, having once begun the work, he found at each step of its progress that his interest increased, and that the strength and skill required were forthcoming as occasion demanded.

Finally, every part being ready, he put in the warp and the shuttle, and set it in motion. Then he himself was surprised at the result. The fabric it wove was both serviceable and beautiful, and there was at once a demand for all he could make. The people of the village where he lived, and of the neighborhood for miles around, flocked to his house to secure it; and he felt for the first time, though after many precious years had been wasted, that he was engaged in the work he was best qualified for. And while serving others he was also benefiting himself; for, instead of making but a bare living, as before, he was able now to lay up a considerable sum from his earnings every year.

* * * * *

We may possess valuable talents without profiting by them. Talent furnishes the machinery; application, the power to drive it. It is only by putting the two together that we shall secure the prize within our reach.

CROWING.

EARLY one morning, while the fowls were waiting around the kitchen door for their breakfast, a spring chicken attempted to crow, but succeeded only in uttering a feeble squawk.

A young cock, hearing this, stood up and crowed loud and clear, saying to the other:

“You’d better be still till you can crow like that.”

To which a guinea-hen that was restlessly flitting about replied with a shrill, high voice:

“It was only the spring before last when you did no better yourself!”

“Impossible!” said the cock. “It must be some other chicken you are thinking of.”

“Not so,” replied the guinea. “I remember you ever since you were hatched—while you were a little chick sleeping under your mother’s wing, when you grew bigger and first flew up to the roost, and how like this spring chicken’s your crowing was then, only with this difference: you were so conceited that the whole barnyard was laughing at you. All this is forgotten now, luckily for you. But take my advice: be tender of the failings of others, lest your own be recalled and displayed in full light.”

* * * * *

Let us not refuse to pardon in others what we, through others’ kindness, have been pardoned for ourselves.

PETER CRISP’S SPECTACLES.

PETER CRISP had something the matter with his eyes; he needed spectacles to help him see. But this was no uncommon misfortune: hundreds of people who do ten good hours’ work every day, use spectacles, and cannot get along without them. No; the trouble in Peter’s case was not in having to wear spectacles, but in the particular kind of spectacles that he wore. They seemed to have the strange quality of undergoing a change of color at certain times; so that everything seen through them underwent a corresponding change.

At one time they took on a dark color—almost black. And, as this made everything look dark and gloomy, he was made to feel accordingly.

“I could iron these collars better myself,” he exclaimed one morning as he was dressing, after putting on these glasses. And a few moments later: “Not a single pin in this cushion, as usual!” And presently again: “Who _has_ taken away my comb and brush?” though both of these useful articles were lying within his reach, and just where he himself had left them.

Had any of the children chanced to come into the room about that time, it would have been an unlucky visit for them.

When he sat down to breakfast, it was with a frown upon his brow, and a deep wrinkle between his eyes, caused, apparently, by the weight of the spectacles.

“Bridget never did make a good cup of coffee in her life,” he remarked.—“My dear,” he continued, turning to his wife, “I do wish you would take the trouble to go down once—_only_ once—and show her how.”

Mrs. Crisp ventured to answer in a meek voice that she went down every morning. Peter had no reply—especially no thanks—to offer for this; but he took another sip, puckered up his lips as though he had swallowed a dose of medicine, and pushed the cup away from him.

After this cheerful breakfast he put on his hat to go to the store (for Peter was a business-man); but when he had gone as far as the front door, he came back with a quick step to the foot of the stairs, and there stood calling out in a loud voice that he really felt ashamed at the condition of the steps and the sidewalk. No others in the neighborhood, he declared, looked so shabby.

In the street a few minutes afterward he was joined by a fellow business man, and as they walked down town together Peter was as gay and lively as any one could have wished him to be. The two talked with each other about the fine weather and their prosperous trade, and even touched on their happy families. And when they spied a bachelor-friend in the distance, Peter grew merry at his expense, and expressed pity for him as a poor fellow who had no home!

But when, a little later, he entered his counting-room alone, it was plain he had the dark glasses on still. Not a man about the establishment worked as he should do, he said. It used to be different when he was a boy. Then he turned and went out of the house with a look of disgust.

As soon as he was gone the bookkeeper scolded the clerk, the clerk scolded the boy, and the boy went out to the front door and abused the porter. And after that, throughout the day, everything seemed to go wrong with Peter himself and all who were about him; yet surely the fault was his own.

A few mornings after this it seemed as though Peter’s glasses had undergone another change. They appeared now to be of a blue color. He was in a milder frame, but low in spirits. He was sorry to see the nursery carpet wearing out, for he did not know where another would come from. At breakfast he watched the children taking butter, and took hardly any himself. He begged Mrs. Crisp to put less sugar in his coffee. The frown was gone from his brow but a most dejected look had taken its place. Spying a hole in the toe of his boy’s shoe, he drew a long breath; and, hearing that the dressmaker was engaged to come the next week for his daughters, he sighed aloud. On his way down town, walking alone (for he avoided company), he looked as if he had lost a near relation, and at the store all day seemed to feel like a man who was just on the eve of failing in business, though there was, in truth, no danger of his doing any such thing.

There was one more change that Peter’s glasses used to undergo. The color which they then assumed could never be exactly made out, but it seemed to be more of a smoky hue than anything else. This did not come upon them so often as either of the others, but when it did it had a very singular effect. The glasses then seemed to befog Peter rather than help him see. For after putting them on when he got up of a morning, he would dress without speaking a word. At breakfast he would say nothing, and make it plain that he did not want anybody else to. Consequently, the whole family, little and big, would sit and munch their food in silence. Then he would rise up from the table and walk out of the house as if he were dumb. And although it was a relief when he had gone, and made matters something better, a chilling influence remained behind him the whole day.

Peter had been wearing these glasses a good many years, when, as he was meditating alone one evening, he thought to himself that things never looked very cheerful in his eyes and he was never very happy, and it occurred to him that perhaps his spectacles had something to do with it. Then he remembered that a neighbor of his, one Samuel Seabright, who also wore glasses and often used to complain of them, now seemed to have gotten over his trouble and always to have a pleasant face on. Meeting Samuel the next morning, he said:

“Neighbor, if it is not making too free, may I ask what was the matter with your spectacles when I used to hear you find fault with them so often?”

“Certainly you may,” replied Samuel, “for I have not the least objection to tell you. They used to get strange shades and colors over them; so that nothing looked natural or as it ought to look, and of course this affected my spirits.”

“Is it possible?” said Peter. “And have they got perfectly clear and transparent now?”

“Clear as crystal; so that everything looks just right, and they give me no trouble at all.”

“And would you mind telling me how you got them so?”

“I went to the doctor’s, and did exactly as he directed.”

“And can you tell me where that doctor lives?”

“Of course I can. You remember that large stone building with a beautiful stained-glass window at one end of it, and a high tower on top, with a chime of bells in the tower?”

“Oh yes; I pass it every day.”

“Well, the doctor lives next door to that.”

That very day Peter stopped at the doctor’s house and rang the bell, and was shown into his office. The doctor himself was there, and after looking into Peter’s eyes began to ask him questions.

“Do you walk much in the open air?” said he.

“Yes, every day,” replied Peter, “but it is mostly in going down to my store and back again. Though sometimes of an afternoon my wife and I stroll out together.”

“What streets do you generally walk in?”

“Only the best-kept and most respectable streets.”

“Are you in the habit of visiting much?”

“A good deal.”

“I suppose, then, you are kept up late at night sometimes?”

“I can’t help it. You see, my relations, almost all of them—I may say all that I keep up any acquaintance with—are rich people. Now, last night I was at my uncle’s house. He had just finished papering his parlor with the most beautiful paper I ever saw. Then he had newly covered his furniture with satin damask, and bought carpets and curtains to match, and he kept me looking at these things ever so long.”

“Are you often kept up in this way?”

“Yes, quite often. The night before that I went to my cousin’s. He gave a very handsome dinner. There were fifteen courses set on the table. I am sure his dinner cost enough to feed a plain family of moderate size, for half a year. But nobody was there except the most select and fashionable people. To tell you the truth, doctor, these are pretty much the only kind of people I visit. They live in fine houses, with large rooms that are well ventilated and well lighted, and I don’t see how my eyes, or my spectacles, either, can get any harm while I am there. Indeed, I am longing all the time for the day when I can live in such a house myself, instead of the little pinched-up dwelling I have to stay in now.”

“Well, I have formed my opinion about your case,” said the doctor, “and am ready to say what you should do. But I must tell you beforehand that it will be different from what you expect, and probably from what you would choose.”

“Oh, as for that,” replied Peter, “I am not at all particular; you will find me willing to do whatever you say.”

“The first thing I want is that you should stop walking in those broad, sunny, handsome streets, and walk through the narrower and poorer streets, where there is not such a glare of light.”

“I wouldn’t like to walk in them, for I don’t care to be seen in any but the most respectable streets.”

“Well, then there is no use of my prescribing for you any further.”

“Oh, if it comes to that, I’ll do it; for I want to get my eyes well more than anything else.”

“The next thing is that you should stop occasionally and rest while you are walking there, and call at some of the houses in those streets.”

“Why, doctor, I can’t see how that could possibly do me any good. As I have told you already, the houses where I visit are among the finest in town, well ventilated and heated, and some of them are just getting in the new electric—”

“Very well,” interrupted the doctor; “it is for you to say whether you will do as I prescribe or not.”

“I suppose I will have to do it, then, though I have never visited such places in all my life.”

“Stop here to-morrow afternoon, after business-hours,” continued the doctor, “and, as you are not used to such calls, I will go with you to make a beginning.”

The next day Peter’s glasses gave him more trouble than usual, and he was at the doctor’s office punctually by the time appointed. The doctor did not keep him waiting, but put on his hat and led him a considerable distance, to quite another part of the town from that in which he was in the habit of walking. It had once been a fashionable part, but was deserted long ago by the richer class, and was now tenanted by only the poorest people. The houses had a decayed, tumble-down look; the front doors (once so jealously guarded) were standing wide open, the halls scarred and bare-looking, every room being occupied by an entire family.

Going into one of these houses, the doctor led Peter up to the third story. There he knocked at a door.

“Come in,” said a faint voice.

Entering, they saw a poor woman sitting in an armchair. She was moving her head from side to side in the effort to get her breath. A bottle of medicine stood on a rickety table near by. The bedstead at her side, covered over with a counterpane, was evidently without a mattress, or anything else save the canvas sacking, to lie on. Two little girls, pale and scantily clad, shrank back to a corner as the visitors entered.

The doctor sat down beside the poor sufferer, and after inquiring about her sickness led her on gently to tell something of her past history—how in her youth, in her father’s house, she had every want supplied; how she had married with bright prospects, and for a time been happy, until her husband, fallen through drink from one depth of poverty to another, had at last left her and her little ones to starve, except for the kindness of those who took pity on them.

“Yet God has taken care of me,” she said, “in all my troubles, and I know he will keep on doing so. Yesterday I awoke in the morning and sat up on the edge of my bed, and cried, for I did not know where a mouthful of food was to come from for me and my children. But before night I had plenty.”

Peter looked from her face to the doctor’s while she was speaking. He knew that the doctor was familiar with such scenes, yet he saw him put his finger up to his eye and draw it across the lids to prevent a tear from falling.

Coming out of this house and walking a little way, the doctor turned into a narrow alley that led back from the main street. Here he entered a house that was shut in from the air and the light by high walls on every side. In a lower room of this house was a man, tall and of large frame, once evidently very strong, but now pale and weak, looking as if he were hardly able to stand. Five young children, in various degrees of raggedness, and the man’s wife were with him.

Peter looked around the room. The walls had been so often covered with whitewash that it stood out in layers and ridges upon them, except in some spots where the plaster had fallen off, leaving the lath bare underneath. Peter could not help thinking of the beautiful paper in his rich uncle’s house.

The doctor asked how they had got along since he last saw them. It was but poorly, they said. The father had been able to work only a few days—two or three in a week—and the mother had to make up for the rest. Beside doing the work at home, she went out washing and scrubbing almost every day.

“But it is hard on us,” she said; “he needs good food, and we can’t get it. I do all I can, but it’s not a great deal, for it pulls me down so. I feel tired all the time—when I go to bed at night, and when I get up in the morning.”

As she spoke Peter thought that her thin, worn face told her story even more pitifully than her words did.

It was quite late when they got through this visit, but the doctor walked with Peter all the way to his home, talking with him about his own ailment and telling him what he ought to do. “For,” he said, “the trouble with your eyes is a serious one which comes from something worse than poor spectacles, and is often more deeply seated even than the eye itself.”

As they parted he said:

“I want you to be at my office again at the same hour to-morrow afternoon.”

Peter was there at the time named, and the doctor took him in still another direction, to a street near the water. Here, entering a narrow but very high house, the doctor led him up a dark winding stair. It was so dark that Peter had to grope his way, for he could not see a step before him. They came at last to the garret, which the doctor entered without knocking. The windows of this room opened toward the river, and the masts of ships were visible rising above the roofs of the houses that stood between. A seaman’s chest, a chair and a broken, propped-up bedstead were all the furniture the room contained.

On the bed lay an old white-haired man. He had been a sailor, and his seamed and rugged face still told of his hard life upon the deck, and on the mast, amid wind and storm.

“What is the matter with him?” asked Peter, in a low voice.

“Nothing but old age,” replied the doctor.

“And what has he to live upon?” continued Peter.

“Only the wages of his weak and sickly boy,” said the doctor, “who leaves him in the morning to go to his work, and returns at night when his day’s work is done. The long hours between he spends here alone.”

The old man put his hand upon his breast, saying that he felt pain and a smothering feeling there.

“And what do you do, my old friend,” asked Peter, “while you are lying here all by yourself, if you want anything? Suppose you want a drink?”

“I do without it,” replied the old man.

The doctor leaned over the bed and talked kindly to him, comforting him, and then placed a piece of money in his trembling hand.

As he and Peter came down the winding stair together the doctor said in a low voice, “It is not likely he will suffer long.”

When they regained the street, the doctor told Peter there was yet another visit they could pay that same afternoon if they quickened their steps; and he led the way to a neighborhood not far off, where some great cotton-mills stood. Here, in a small house, and living in one little room, were two old women who were sisters. A tiny stove stood in the room with about a double handful of coal burning in it. A bucket partly filled with coal (which they bought by the bucket only) stood beside it. A single strip of rag carpet lay along the middle of the well-scrubbed floor.

In a tin cup over the fire a small quantity of meal was boiling, and in a bowl on the table was a little milk. A few pieces of bread were lying near it. (His cousin’s elegant dinner here recurred to Peter’s mind.)

One of the old women was bedridden, but was now sitting up in her bed; and both were at work unwinding great skeins of yarn, parting the different colors and winding these up again into separate balls. This was for one of the mills in the neighborhood. Both of the old bodies were cheerful, and showed great pleasure when the doctor came in. The well one bustled about and set out a chair for him, and another for Peter. The doctor sat down and talked with them, and listened to all they had to say.

“Sister has been a good deal better for the past week,” said the well one, “and the mills are busy, and we have plenty of work.”

“But your rent?” asked the doctor. “It comes due soon, doesn’t it?”

“We have it all made up,” said the old woman, triumphantly. “It is in yonder bureau-drawer, ready now. God has been very good to us. We don’t want any help this time.”

It was nearly dark when the doctor and Peter came out of the little house. As they were about to part, the doctor said:

“To-morrow I will take you to another quarter and introduce you to some of my friends there.”

“I believe, my kind friend,” replied Peter, in a subdued voice, “that this will be needless. Your wise treatment has reached the seat of the disease. I feel my sight growing clearer every hour.”