A LIFE LESSON.

ALBERT MOORE, at the age of twenty-five, took Alice Warren for his wife. He had been in the army—had gone in at the age of twenty—fought through from Bull’s Bluff to Richmond—had come out with a captain’s commission. He had come from the army with but little money; but he had a good trade, a stout pair of hands, and had borrowed no trouble for the future. Alice had saved up a few hundred dollars from her wages as a teacher, and when the twain had become husband and wife they found, upon a careful inventory, that they had enough to furnish a small house comfortably. Albert proposed that they should hire a tenement in the city; but Alice thought they had better secure a pretty cottage in the suburbs—a cottage which they might, perhaps, in time, make their own.

Albert had no disposition to argue the question, so the cottage was found and secured.

It was a pleasant, rural location, and so connected with the city by rail, that Albert found no difficulty in going to and from his work-shop.

During her five years’ experience in school-teaching Alice had learned many things, and having been an orphan from an early age, she had made the problems of real life one of her chief studies; and what she had learned in this latter department served her well in her new station. After marriage she found Albert to be just the man she had known him to be in other years. He was kind to a fault; free-hearted and generous; ready always to answer the call of friendship; and prone to pluck the flowers that bloom to-day, regardless of what might be nurtured to bloom to-morrow.

They had been married but a few months when Alice found he was cutting his garments according to his daily supply of cloth. Not a shred was he likely to save up from the cuttings of an extra garment for a rainy day to come.

“Albert,” she said to him one evening, “do you know we ought to be laying up a little something?”

Albert looked up from his paper and waited for his wife to elucidate.

“I think I heard you tell Mr. Greenough that you had no money—that you had paid out your last dollar this very afternoon?”

“Exactly, my dear; but you know to-morrow is pay-day.”

“And you have spent your last month’s earnings?”

“Yes.”

A brief silence ensued, which Albert broke.

“Come, Alice, you’ve got something on your mind. Out with it—I’ll listen.”

And then Alice, in a smiling, pleasant way, went on to tell her husband that they ought to be laying up something.

Albert smiled in turn, and asked how such a thing could be done when it cost all he earned to live.

“You earn three dollars and a half a day,” said Alice.

“Yes.”

“George Summers only earns three dollars a day.”

“You are right.”

“And yet he lives, and does not run in debt.”

“But he is forced to deny himself many little comforts which we enjoy.”

“And the one great comfort which we might enjoy we are throwing away.”

“How is that, Alice?”

“The comfort of a little sum in the bank, which we would see growing toward the answering of future wants.”

Albert could not see how it was to be done; and Alice feared that a lesson of empty words might be wasted. She knew that his ambition needed a substantial prop. Never, of his own accord, would he commence to save by littles. He did not estimate money in that way. Had some kind fairy dropped into his hand a five-twenty bond for five hundred dollars, he would have put it away gladly; and with such a nest egg in the start, he might have sought to add to the store. But he could see no hope in a dollar bill, and much less could he discover the nucleus of a grand saving in a fifty-cent script.

With Alice it was different. From her meager earnings as school teacher she had in less than five years, saved up three hundred dollars; and the first saving she had put by

was a silver dime. She knew what little by little could do, and she was determined to show it to her husband. She must be patient and persevering, and these qualities she possessed in an eminent degree. It was to be the grand undertaking of the first years of her married life, and to do it she would bend every available energy. She planned that if possible she would get hold of that fifty cents every day; or, if she could not do that, she would do the best she could.

Generous, frank, loyal, and loving, Albert was an easy prey to the wiles of a wife loyal and loving as himself. He gave her money when she asked for it; and she asked for it when she thought he had any to give.

And here let me say that Alice knew her husband would not run in debt. That was an evil they both arrayed themselves against in the outset. When Albert’s purse was empty he bought nothing; but when it was full he was apt to buy more than he needed. Alice knew all this and governed herself accordingly.

“I think,” said Alice, one evening, “that I must fix over my old brown cashmere for winter, I should like a new one but I don’t suppose you can afford it.”

Albert looked grieved. The idea that he could not afford his wife a new dress!

But for such a one as she wanted it would cost twenty-five or thirty dollars.

“If you want it, get it,” said Albert emphatically. “I will let you have twenty dollars from this month’s pay, and the balance you shall have next month.”

Alice got the thirty dollars, but she did not get the new dress. By the outlay of five dollars for new trimmings she contrived to fix over the brown cashmere so that it looked every bit as good as new.

And so Alice worked. Sometimes she asked her husband for ten cents, sometimes for fifty cents, sometimes for a dollar, and sometimes for more, and at the end of a year, upon careful reckoning up, she found that she had managed to get hold of rather more than fifty cents a day; but she had done it by denying herself of many things, some of which seemed really needful.

The result of the first year’s effort inspired Alice with new life and vigor. She had saved up one hundred and fifty dollars, and had invested it in government funds. Through the influence of a dear friend who

was in a banking establishment, and to whom she had confided her secret, she was enabled to get the bonds at their face value.

It was only a little at a time—sometimes a very little—but even a penny dropped into the strong box was so much gained. Only a little—but those littles multiplied by other littles, grew amazingly. The husbandman who would sit himself down by a hill of corn, and wait to see the tender blades put forth, would be disheartened; but he knows if he plants the tiny seed, and cultivates it as he ought, that the harvest of golden grain will come at length.

Albert and Alice were married in the spring of 1865. It was on an evening of August, 1870, that Albert came home. He had been notified that he must leave the cottage. They must give up the pleasant home, and lose the little garden they had cultivated with so much fondness and care.

“The owner wishes to sell,” he exclaimed; “and he has an offer. He asks two thousand dollars, and must have five hundred down.”

Alice’s eyes gleamed with radiant delight.

She had been thinking for some time that

she must let her husband into her secret. It had begun to wear upon her. And now the time had come as though by providential interposition.

She got up and went away to her cabinet, and when she came back she brought a little book in her hand.

“Albert!” said she, “lets you and I buy the cottage.”

Albert looked at her in amazement; and directly it flashed upon him that there was too much solemnity in her look and tone for badinage. Something that he had noticed during the past months came back to him, and he trembled with the weight of suspense that fell upon him.

Alice then showed her book—that she had more than eight hundred dollars in the bank. The ice was broken—she told her story in glowing words. She told how she had saved up little by little, and how she had at length found herself able to purchase a fifty dollar bond. And then she told how her uncle in the banking house had taken charge of her investment; and how, under his management, the interest had accrued in amazing volume.

But the grand result was not the chief thing. The chief thing was the beginning—was the very little which had been religiously saved until the second little could be added to it.

And now, as a result of his wife’s careful and tireless working, Albert, found something upon which his ambition could take a fair start. He never could himself, from so small a commencement, have reared the pile; but with the structure started, and its proportions all blocked out, he could help on the work. He could see how it was done—and not only that, but the demonstration was before him that the thing could be done.

One year has elapsed since Albert Moore received the lesson from his wife, and joining hands with her, and bending his energies in the same direction, he has accomplished during the twelve months what would have seemed to him a marvel in the earlier time. He has laid by more than fifty cents a day; and the cigars, and the beer, and the other condiments of life which he has surrendered to the work, are not missed—rather, he holds they are so many enemies conquered. And Albert can improve his home with cheerful

heart, and he can set out new trees and vines in his garden with bright promises, because he sees, day by day, the pretty cottage growing more and more his own. The end approaches a little at a time—little by little it approaches, but surely, nevertheless; and there is a great and satisfying joy even in the labor and in the anticipation.

STAND LIKE THE ANVIL.

“STAND like the anvil,” when the stroke Of stalwart men falls fierce and fast, Storms but more deeply root the oak, Whose brawny arms embrace the blast.

“Stand like the anvil,” when the sparks Fly far and wide a fiery shower, Virtue and truth must still be marks Where malice proves its want of power.

“Stand like the anvil,” when the bar Lies red and glowing on its breast; Duty shall be life’s leading star, And conscious innocence its rest.

HASTY WORDS.

MOTHER, please look here and see my pretty block-house. When I’m a man we’ll have one just like it.”

I glanced at four year old Harry, who had constructed a most wonderful edifice in the middle of my sitting room.

“I am afraid it would not keep out much of the snow,” said I.

“But it would be so nice in summer,” said Harry, laughing merrily, and springing to my side, he threw his little arms around my neck, saying, “Oh, mamma! I love you so!”

“Harry,” said I, kissing him, “will you run and tell Bridget to have warm biscuit for tea?” He started quickly, and as he started his foot caught in a light stand upon which I had placed a rare Parisian vase, with a rose bud just unfolding its crimson petals in it. The stand fell over, and the vase (a gift from my dead mother) was shattered.

“You naughty boy,” I cried angrily, “you

deserve to be whipped. Pick up those pieces instantly, and put them in the coal-hod.” He stooped, carefully picked up the fragments, cutting his little fingers as he did so against the sharp edges. He carried them away and was gone some time. When he returned it was with something clasped tightly in his hand.

Coming to me he placed a five cent piece in my lap, saying timidly, “Will that buy you a new vase, mamma?”

What evil demon possessed me to take the coin, his sacredly cherished treasure, (a kind neighbor had given him for some little office) and throw it from me, I know not.

Harry picked it up with tears running down his face, and sat down upon his stool with his hands folded so meekly. Presently he said: “May I go and play with Eddie Potter?”

“I don’t care where you go,” said I, crossly, “so you keep out of my sight.”

Harry went to the closet where his coat and hat hung, put them on, and came and stood by my side.

“Mamma, will you please forgive me? I’m so sorry;” and he put his lips up for a

kiss. I pushed the little fellow away. He stood by the door a moment, looking pitifully at me; it is twenty-five years ago to-day since he stood there, but I can see him with his blue coat and red and gray worsted skating cap, and the little red mittens, as if it were but yesterday. But I looked coldly at him, the door opened and shut, the little feet went slowly down the stairs. I heard him go out; unfasten the gate. Looking out of the window, I saw the little fellow lift his face with a smile as he saw me, which gave place to a pitiful quiver of the lips as he saw I took no notice of him. I watched the darling down the street with a strange undefined feeling, till the little coat and red mittens were no longer visible. Twice a sudden impulse moved me to call him back, but I crushed it down. Oh, would to God I had! Well, I sewed all through the afternoon. At four o’clock I put away my work, and sat by the window. Conscience began to reproach me for my conduct. “I don’t care,” said I, “my beautiful vase is a ruin.” “What is the value of all the vases in the world compared with your child? Have you not spoken crossly to that dear little

Harry, who is always so cheerful and obedient? And this is not the first time either, and you calling yourself a Christian mother, too? Suppose Harry should be taken suddenly from you. Would n’t your cruel words haunt you forever?”

I could bear this no longer. I rose, and picked up the stray litter about the room to give it a more tidy appearance.

Then I went to the window, peering anxiously through the gloom, but seeing nothing of my boy. My heart became terribly heavy; this suspense was unbearable. Hastily throwing a shawl over my head, I ran into Mrs. Potters’. “Have you seen Eddie?” was the question before I entered the room. “Have you seen Harry?” “He was over here at half past two; he and Eddie went over to Josie Gray’s. I think—”

What she thought I never knew, for at that moment Eddie rushed in breathless, screaming, “Mother, Mother! Harry Loring is drowned! We were sliding on the mill-pond and there was a hole in the ice with snow on it, and Harry didn’t see it, and—”

“Hush, Eddie!” said his mother, looking at me fearfully. “Here is Mrs. Loring.”

There was a great silence in the room, broken only by the blithe, sweet voice of a canary, and the purr of a Maltese cat. Presently Mrs. Potter came toward me, and placed her hand softly upon my shoulder saying, “Ella, my poor child!”

I never moved, but sat with wide open eyes upon an awful picture. A cold, gray afternoon, a pond, little boys playing upon it, one little figure well known to me, suddenly disappearing through the treacherous ice, down, down, the little hands grasping at cruel weeds, the sweet mouth full of water. And those wicked, sinful words ringing through my ears, “I don’t care where you go, so long as you keep out of my sight.” There was a mist before my eyes, a ringing in my ears, I remember leaving the house with a blind feeling of going where my Harry was. Then came a horrible sense of the earth giving way under my feet, and I knew no more.

A pleasant feeling of warmth, a languid sense pervading my system. I opened my eyes and glanced around the room. A strange woman by the fire; at the foot of the bed, my husband with his hand over his eyes.

I tried to think where I was, and what had happened, but in vain. Then my attention was arrested by a little figure in a red flannel night dress, cuddled up in a big chair—my Harry! Then it all flashed across my mind. I sat up straight in bed with a faint “Why!”

“What is it?” said I, feebly.

“You must not talk; lie down. Oh, darling, darling?” and the strong man wept like a child. And the little figure came and jumped on my bed, and putting his arms around my neck, cried, too. And I, puzzled to know what it all meant, cried also. The strange figure came forward and took Harry away, saying, “Be careful, Mr. Loring, everything now depends upon quiet.”

“Tell me now,” said I. “I must know! I had such a horrible feeling. Oh, Harold; I dreamed that Harry was drowned!”

His face grew white. “He was near death; George Gray got him out of the pond; Gray sent down to the office for me; I went after Dr. Hooper, and came right up. There was but a spark of life left, but we succeeded at last.”

“How many days ago was it, Harold?” I said.

“Seven weeks ago yesterday,” said he smiling.

“Seven weeks!” said I. “Impossible!”

“You have been very sick with brain fever, Ella. You were very near death; for days we despaired of ever seeing you conscious again. You would say, ‘Harry is drowned; and I made him drown himself.’ Last night Dr. Hooper said the crisis was at hand; if you lived through the night you would get well. Oh, Ella! I am so thankful you are spared to me!”

“I have been so weak and sinful, Harold,’ said I, and then told him all, not keeping back anything.

He heard me through, stroking my hair in a gentle fashion. When I finished he said:—

“It has taught you a lesson, Ella dear.” And that was all.

I soon recovered. For a long time I could not bear Harry out of my sight. It seemed as if I could not do enough to atone for my wicked conduct. The thought makes me shudder now—if it had been that Harry had not come back to me, and that the last words he heard from his mother’s lips were so unkind. I have had three children since

then, and not one of them has heard a cross or hasty word from me. Oftentimes my patience is sorely tried, but one thought of that horrible death to which Harry came so near, drives the demon away.

Mothers, bear patiently with these innocent little ones. Are there not many whose eyes resting on this simple story fill with bitter tears at the recollection of the unkind words, and even blows, to little children laid away forever, who would give all their worldly possessions, yes, years of their lives, to recall those hasty words that made their child’s lips quiver pitifully and the clear eyes dim with tears? Ah! you cannot have them back even for a moment to kiss the sweet, red lips. They are gone, and your sin remains.

MY GOOD OLD-FASHIONED MOTHER.

THE most perfect home I ever saw, was a small house into the sweet incense of whose fires went no costly things; a thousand dollars served for a year’s living of father, mother, and four children. But the mother was the creator of a home; her relations with her children were the most beautiful I have ever seen; and even the dull commonplace man was lifted up and enabled to do good work by the atmosphere which this woman created. Every inmate of her house involuntarily looked into her face for the key note of the day; and it always rang clear. Each day’s duties were performed by ready and willing hands. Not only were the little ones reared to habits of industry, but instructed to sacredly regard the truth, to respect the feelings of others, and scrupulously abstain from all acts of imprudence which would involve in distress.

From the rose bud or clover leaf, which,

notwithstanding all her hard house-work, she found time to put by our plates at breakfast, down to the story she had on hand to be read in the evening, there was no intermission of her influence. She has always been, and always will be, my ideal of a mother, wife, home-maker. If to her quick brain, loving heart, and exquisite face had been added the appliances of wealth and the enlargement of wider culture, hers would have been absolutely the ideal home. As it was, it was the best I have ever seen. And sacredly is cherished the memory of my good, old-fashioned mother.

They brought home the portrait last night to me; On the parlor walls it is hung. I gave to the artist a picture small, Which was taken when she was young. It’s true to life—and there’s a look in the eyes I never saw in another, And the same sweet smile that she always wore— ’Tis my good, old-fashioned mother.

The hair in the picture is wavy and dark, ’Twas taken before she was gray, And the same short curls, at the side, hang down, For she always wore it that way. Her hand on the Bible easily rests, As when, with sisters and brother, I knelt at her knee, reciting my verse, To my good, old-fashioned mother.

Her dress it is plain and quite out of style, Not a puff or ruffle is there; And no jewels or gold glitter and shine— She never had any to wear. Ambition for wealth or love of display, We could not even discover, For poor in spirit and humble in heart. Was my good, old-fashioned mother.

Her life was crowded with work and with care— How did she accomplish it all! I do not remember she ever complained, And yet she was slender and small. Motives of life that were selfish or wrong, With Christian grace did she smother, And lived for her God and the loved ones at home— My true, good, old-fashioned mother.

The years of her life were only threescore, When the messenger whispered, low, “The Master has come, and calleth for thee,” She answered, “I’m ready to go.” I gaze alone on her portrait to-night, And more than ever I love her, And I thank the Lord that he gave to me Such a good, old-fashioned mother.