MRS. HART’S ECONOMY.

“I WANT to show you some undergarments I’ve been having made lately,” said Mrs. Hart to her friend Mrs. Secor. “Such exquisite sewing, and all hand work, too, and I get them done for next to nothing. Did you ever see anything finer than this ruffling and tucking?”

The ladies were sitting in Mrs. Hart’s sunny front chamber. It was in perfect order, and everything about it indicated the union of good taste with the possession of money.

The furniture was costly, the carpet and rugs were rich, and the fluted pillow-shams on the elegant bed, of the finest linen, edged with lace. As Mrs. Hart opened a drawer and took from it the newly-made clothing of which she had spoken, she went on to say,— “If your wardrobe needs replenishing, Jenny, now is your time. The woman who did these for me is desperately poor, and will be thankful to work at your own price. She offered to make these for twenty cents apiece.

I would never have thought of naming less than fifty to her myself, and I have paid eighty cents and a dollar to Miss Gilmore, for work less nicely done. But when she offered, I concluded she knew her own business best, and I jumped at the chance, I can tell you.”

Mrs. Secor looked at the elegant dressing-sacques and other articles of clothing which her friend was proudly displaying. They were faultlessly done. But she uttered not a word for some moments, and the deepening flush on her cheeks and the light in her brown eyes told very plainly what she thought of her friend’s economy. Mrs. Hart, however, suspected nothing, and went on chatting fluently.

“Have you bought your new fall hat yet, Jenny?” “No! Then you must see mine. I found it at Hillyer’s yesterday. Of course I had to pay an immense price, for Madame charges extra for her style; but that made no difference. I tell Lewis, when he finds fault, that if I spend in one way, I save in another, and he knows I never exceed the amount we have thought it right to limit ourselves to. This bonnet, now, cost twenty

dollars; but there isn’t a prettier one in our church, nor will there be this season.”

“Twenty dollars for a piece of French felt, a little velvet, a feather, and a cluster of autumn leaves! six would amply cover the actual cost of everything, Matilda, and you have willingly given the other fourteen—for what?”

“Why, for the composition, the artistic combination, the effect. A woman’s bonnet is the most important part of her dress; it is the head-piece, and it must be handsome. I like elegant things anyway;” and the lady surveyed her dainty self in the mirror, and glanced complacently around her well-appointed room.

“Twenty dollars for the hat, and twenty cents for all the stitches that have gone into this elaborate sacque, tired stitches, too, I’m afraid, Matilda. How very, very hard the poor fingers had to toil for that twenty cents. It don’t look like much, does it?” As she spoke she took two silver dimes from her little steel purse, and held them thoughtfully in her hand.

“It was all the woman asked, dear,” said Mrs. Hart positively. “If she had wanted

more, would she not have said so? Surely she knew what she could afford to work for; I, on my part, employed her really out of charity. I had no need of more things at present, and I let her do them only because the terms were so reasonable. She is a good sewer, and if I had been selfish, I would have kept her all to myself. Now if you go and offer her more than she demands, Jenny Secor, you will do an unfriendly thing, and hurt her prospects, too, for I intend at once to send her Eddie’s new shirt-waists to make, and when spring comes she shall have all of Adela’s aprons and skirts, if she continues to please me.”

“Where does she live?” asked Mrs. Secor.

“At No. 12, Harvard Street. It’s a dangerous part of the city. Lewis never likes me to venture into those tenement regions alone. But she’ll be here to-night, and I’ll send her in to see you. I have no doubt she can embroider, and Cornelia might let her help on her trousseau. I am glad I told you about her.”

“What did you say her name was?” said Mrs. Secor.

“I did not say it at all, but it is Ella MacBride.

She has a little sister in the Home, and that’s where I met her. Being a manager, I see a good many poor people on Board days.”

“Matilda, I am going to visit Ella MacBride, and find out for myself what sort of a home she lives in, and what sort of food she can buy at the price you tell me satisfies her. Will you accompany me? You are known as a benevolent woman, and you ought to make visits among the poor.”

“I must beg to be excused, Mrs. Secor,” said Mrs. Hart with decision. “I consented to give my name and influence to the Home, as my pastor asked me to do so; but I never intended to venture into places which are unfit for ladies, nor to engage in any quixotic schemes. My duties lie mainly at home, to my husband and children. If I please them and make them happy, my conscience is satisfied.”

Harvard Street was fully a mile from the avenue on which the Harts and the Secors resided. Mrs. Secor was familiar with it, for her feet were accustomed to seeking the poor and sick in their homes. On leaving her friend she stopped a car which was going

to the river, near which the thronged homes of Harvard Street were to be found. Homes! The name seems sadly misapplied to houses in which hundreds of human beings are crowded closer than cattle, in which there is no privacy, no opportunity for the cultivation of delicacy, no room for thrift or good house-keeping to display itself. Once used as the residences of respectable merchants, the houses which Mrs. Secor came to had fallen from their high estate. Years and years ago the former owners had moved up-town, the wave of fashion sending them far from a locality which had once been choice and aristocratic. By degrees they had sunken from the abodes of respectable mechanics and keepers of small shops, to the dwellings of the lowest laboring class, whose precarious living is from hand to mouth. They had one advantage over the modern tenement-house, and only one. That consisted in their solidity. The halls were wide, the stairs were strong, and on smooth pine floor and ornate ceiling there was still the old stamp of gentility and thoroughness.

The door of No. 12 was open. A dejected looking man with a pipe in his mouth sat

on the steps. A frowzy woman, her dress torn and a crying babe in her arms, was standing behind him, apparently scolding. She ceased speaking as the pleasant-faced lady approached and inquired if the Mac-Brides lived there.

“Top floor, back room,” was the brief reply.

Mrs. Secor picked her steps carefully through the hall and up the dirty stairs. Knocking at the specified door, a tremulous voice bade her enter. Close to the small window sat a delicate-looking young woman, sewing with nervous haste. She scarcely glanced from her work, but left the task of entertaining to her mother, who was bending over the small stove as if to coax all the warmth she could from its feeble fire. The room was very clean, and the dress of both mother and daughter, though thin and old, was extremely neat. One evidence of refinement struck the quick eye of the visitor. A pot of mignonette in bloom stood on a shelf where the light could fall upon it, and its sweetness was lavished as generously in that poor abode as it could have been in the most palatial mansion.

“Miss MacBride,” said Mrs. Secor, “you will excuse my intrusion when I tell you that I have come on a matter of business. I have seen the work you are doing for my friend Mrs. Hart, and I wish to engage you to sew for me. Can you work on a machine?”

“I can,” replied the girl, “but I have none of my own. I have never been able to get one.”

“I should prefer your coming to my house. I will give you one dollar and a half per day, and for the present I shall need you four days every week. I think I may say that I will have work to employ you steadily for the next six weeks; for my niece is to be married, and there is a great deal of sewing to be done for her, and I have family work besides.”

Such a gleam of joy as lighted up the pale face and flashed into the weary eyes! Such an immense thankfulness as for a moment altered its whole expression! Then she let her work fall on her lap and burst into tears.

The mother spoke,—

“Indeed, madam, you don’t know how we need money. My little boy has a place in a store. He gets enough to pay the rent. Ella

has walked the streets till her feet were blistered in her worn-out shoes looking for work, and nobody would give her any till your friend agreed to try her, and the price was so small that it has nearly killed her to work at it. But it was better far than the shops would give. Think of a dozen ladies’ wrappers at twelve cents apiece, and shirts at five cents each.”

“The fine work she has been putting on those garments at twenty cents, amounted to more labor than that, Mrs. MacBride. It is not wise to make one’s skill too cheap; for if you have real skill and merit, you are certain after awhile to get properly remunerated. Mrs. Hart would have given more, if your daughter had asked it.”

“No ma’am,” emphatically said the daughter. “She took me only because I promised to make the things for so low a price. I had been to forty houses before I found any one who would hire me. When am I to begin with you?”

“To-morrow morning,” answered Mrs. Secor, laying her card on the table. “Be at my house at eight, and you can take breakfast before you begin. I will give you breakfast

fast and dinner, and you can come home to supper with your mother.”

Neither meat, flour, sugar, nor milk had been possible to the MacBrides in some time. Potatoes, meal, and molasses had formed their diet. A few days of good food and steady work in Mrs. Secor’s sunny, airy house, wrought a great change in the looks of the seamstress, and ere long she was able to remove to better apartments. Mrs. Secor interested herself to obtain employment for her from other friends. As the winter deepened, and the poor suffered more bitterly, she multiplied her errands of charity, and tried harder than ever to find ways and means of helping those who were in distress. She did not buy so many new dresses, nor wear so rich a bonnet as Mrs. Hart; but when her head pressed the pillow at night, her sleep was sweet, for often there came to her the blessedness of His tender voice who said, “Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it unto me.”

FROM PRINCIPLE.

“You have left Clark & Upham, Henry, after all the pains your father took to get you the situation?”

“Yes, mother, I obeyed father during my minority. I am twenty-one now, and it is right that I should act for myself.”

“Why do you object to retaining your present position, my son? Mr. Clark told your father only yesterday that he was thinking of making you confidential clerk, in place of Grant, who has left on account of ill-health. That implies an increase of salary, of course.”

“The subject was broached to me last night, mother, but I refused the situation. I don’t wish to make any outside talk about it, but I leave Clark & Upham from principle. They are, I am sorry to say, neither Christian men nor temperance men. In the elegant little apartment, half office, half reception-room, off the great salesroom, where they entertain their country customers, there is kept a variety of nice fruits and liquors. Many an unwary, but well-meaning young

merchant has lost his self-control there, and gone out to be dragged into the yawning pitfalls of this great city, because he had not the moral courage to refuse the hospitalities of the prosperous merchants with whom he had been dealing.

“If I accept the position of confidential clerk, I shall be obliged to entertain the customers in that way, and sometimes to take them out to see the city sights, which, with some people, means all that is fast and ‘loud’ and bad. I have occasionally been required to take Grant’s place when he has had one of his ‘bad spells,’ so I know all about it. Poor Grant’s ‘bad spells,’ by the way, are caused by too much wine, instead of ‘heart disease.’ He was a church-member and a temperance man when he became an employee of the house ten years ago. He took the situation of confidential clerk, when it was offered to him, under a conscientious self-protest, because he felt that he had grown up with the business, understood it perfectly, and had earned the right to the increased salary.

“I also began at the foot of the ladder, so I have the same grounds for feeling that I

have earned the situation, and the same scruples about accepting it. He was socially inclined, and after a while came to breaking over the barrier so hard to define, and taking a glass or two too much. Having his sad downfall as an example, I have made up my mind that I will black boots or clean sidewalks, if necessary, but I will never use my influence toward leading a brother man to destruction.

“Father will be greatly disappointed, of course, but when he understands the situation he may feel differently.”

“Who am I that I dare to pray daily, ‘Lead us not into temptation,’ and then go into that room and handle those dainty crystal wine-cups and those exquisite, cut-glass decanters?”

Mrs. Benedict said no more upon the subject. She had been very proud of her son’s situation in one of the largest wholesale houses in the city, and had thought it all over, how she would say when he was inquired for, “Henry is Clark & Upham’s confidential clerk.” But she felt that her child was right, and she knew in her heart that

she had now more cause for pride in him than she had ever had before.

Henry was not out of a situation for a single day. Soon after giving his required “notice,” he found a place as subordinate clerk in a great shipping warehouse at wages barely sufficient to pay his board. He took the situation with the understanding that he was to leave on a week’s notice whenever he could obtain a better position. One cold winter morning he was much surprised at being sent for to come to the private office of the senior member of the firm. This gentleman was so seldom at the warehouse that Henry was by no means the only clerk who did not even know him by sight.

Going forward, and being announced by one of the junior partners, the young man was surprised to see, sitting in an arm-chair behind the mahogany desk, an old gentleman in a rough-cloth morning-coat, whom he had seen frequently at prayer and temperance meetings, not taking part in the exercises, but sitting quietly, watching the proceedings from under his shaggy eyebrows. On the opposite side of the glowing grate sat Mr. Clark, his former employer.

“Good morning, Benedict, good morning,” said the old gentleman, rubbing his hands in a satisfied way, “I had known you for some time before you were employed here. Perhaps you may remember having seen me?”

“Your face is quite familiar. I have so often seen you at our church,” replied Henry, truthfully, “but I never thought to ask your name.”

“Ha, ha,” laughed the old man, “of course you didn’t think such an old fogy as I am was of much consequence, but you seated me in a warm, cozy place near the register one cold night, I remember. I have always been a little particular about the clerks I take into my warehouse, and I never hire a man until I know where he spends his evenings. I have had an eye on you for some time. I engaged you quick enough when the opportunity offered, and I don’t intend to let you go unless you disappoint me in some way. Now, my young friend, how would you like, in conjunction with your present duties, to attend my private bar,—where I treat my customers, I mean? Your salary would be doubled, of course.”

A look of blank surprise overspread Henry’s honest face.

Were the two men making sport of him? But he quietly replied, “I thought you were a temperance man, sir. I understood that there was no such objectionable apartment in your establishment.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the old man again. “You were informed rightly, my boy. My son-in-law, Clark, here—perhaps you didn’t know Clark was my son-in-law?”

“No, sir,” admitted Henry, more and more surprised.

“Well, Clark & Upham have failed, just as I supposed they would if I gave them time enough, when I set them up twelve years ago. Now, I am going to take the business off their hands if I can find some one who understands all the ins and outs of the trade, to manage it for me. Clark spoke of you. What do you think about it?”

The young man looked very grave for a few moments, then he said, honestly,— “I think, sir, with the present corps of clerks, and with the wine-closet and its contents removed from the private office, that George Grant and I could carry on the business of the firm successfully.”

“Would you dare trust George Grant?” asked the old gentleman in surprise.

“Yes, sir. He has signed the pledge, and he will endeavor to keep out of temptation. He is older than I, has rare business capacity, and has been longer in the business than I have. The best way to set him upon his feet again is to show that you have confidence in him.”

The transfer was made immediately, with as little stir as possible. That was some time ago. Henry Benedict and George Grant are partners now. The business has prospered without the wine, but there is always good cheer in the little room where a great many heavy bargains are closed weekly.

There is always conspicuously posted in the counting-room a list of religious services, temperance meetings, lectures, and all the moral entertainments in the city, and there is always some gentlemanly young fellow among the clerks, detailed to keep the stranger company if he desires, and show him the good side of city life. This has been the established custom for years, and there is not to be found a firm where a better feeling exists between merchant and customer than that of Grant & Benedict.

A COURTEOUS MOTHER.

During the whole of one of last summer’s hottest days, I had the good fortune to be seated in a railway car, near a mother and four children, whose relations with one another were so beautiful that the pleasure of watching them was quite enough to make one forget the discomforts of the journey. It was plain that they were poor; their clothes were coarse and old, and had been made by inexperienced hands. The mother’s bonnet alone would have been enough to condemn the whole party on any of the world’s thoroughfares. I remembered afterward, with shame, that I myself had smiled at its antiquated appearance; but her face was one which gave you a sense of rest to look upon—it was so earnest, tender, true, and strong. It had little comeliness of shape or color; it was thin and pale; she was not young; she had worked hard; evidently she had been much ill; but I have seen few faces which give me such pleasure.

The children,—two boys and two girls,—(115)

were all under the age of twelve, and the youngest could not speak plainly. They had had a rare treat; they had been visiting the mountains, and they were talking over all the wonders they had seen, with a glow of enthusiastic delight which was to be envied. Only a word-for-word record would do justice to their conversation; no description could give any idea of it, so free, so pleasant, and genial, and the mother’s part borne all the while with such equal interest and eagerness that no one not seeing her face would dream that she was any other than an elder sister.

In the course of the day, there were many occasions when it was necessary for her to deny requests and to ask services, especially from the eldest boy; but no young girl, anxious to please a lover, could have done either with a more tender courtesy. She had her reward; for no lover could have been more tender and manly than was this boy of twelve. Their lunch was simple and scanty; but it had the grace of a royal banquet. At the last, the mother produced, with much glee, three apples and an orange, of which the children had not known. All eyes fastened

upon the orange. It was evidently a great rarity. I watched to see if this test would bring out selfishness. There was a little silence; just the shade of a cloud. The mother said, “How shall I divide this? There is one for each of you; and I shall be best off of all, for I expect a share from each.”

“Oh! give Annie the orange. Annie likes oranges,” spoke out the eldest boy, with the air of a conqueror, and at the same time taking the smallest and poorest apple himself.

“Oh! yes; let Annie have the orange,” echoed the second boy, nine years old.

“Yes, Annie may have the orange, because that is nicer than the apples, and she is a lady, and her brothers are gentlemen,” said the mother quietly. Then there was a merry contest as to who should feed the mother with largest and most frequent mouthfuls; and so the feast went on. Then Annie pretended to want apple, and exchanged thin, golden strips of orange for bites out of the cheeks of Baldwins; and, as I sat watching her intently, she suddenly fancied she saw longing in my face, and sprang over to me, holding out a quarter of her orange, and saying, “Don’t you want a taste too?” The

mother smiled understandingly when I said, “No, I thank you, my dear, generous little girl. I don’t care about oranges.”

At noon we had a tedious interval of waiting at a dreary station. We sat for two hours on a narrow platform, which the sun had scorched till it smelled of heat. The eldest boy held the baby, and talked to her, while the tired mother closed her eyes and rested. The two other children were toiling up and down the banks of the railroad track, picking ox-eyed daisies, buttercups and sorrel.

They worked like beavers, and soon the bunches were almost too large for their little hands. Then they came running to give them to their mother. “Oh dear,” thought I, “how that poor, tired woman will dread to open her eyes; and she can never take those great bunches of common, faded flowers, in addition to all her bundles and bags.” I was mistaken. “Oh, thank you, my darlings! How kind you were! Poor, hot, tired little flowers, how thirsty they look! If they will only try to keep alive till we get home, we will make them very happy in some water, won’t we? And you shall put one bunch by papa’s plate, and one by mine.”

Sweet and happy, the weary and flushed little children stood looking up in her face while she talked, her heart thrilling with compassion for the drooping flowers and with delight in the giving of their gift. Then she took great trouble to get a string and tie up the flowers, and then the train came and we were whirling along again. Soon it grew dark, and little Annie’s head nodded. Then I heard the mother say to the eldest boy, “Dear, are you too tired to let Annie put her head on your shoulder and take a nap? We shall get her home in much better case to see papa if we can manage to give her a little sleep.” How many boys of twelve years hear such words as these from tired, overburdened mothers?

Soon came the city, the final station, with its bustle and noise. I lingered to watch my happy family, hoping to see the father. “Why, papa isn’t here!” exclaimed one disappointed little voice after another.

“Never mind,” said the mother, with a still deeper disappointment in her own tone; “perhaps he had to go to see some poor body who is sick.” In the hurry of picking up all the parcels and the sleepy babies, the poor

daisies and the buttercups were left forgotten in a corner of the rack. I wondered if the mother had not intended this. May I be forgiven for the injustice! A few minutes after, I passed the little group, standing just outside the station, and heard the mother say, “Oh! my darlings, I have forgotten your bouquets. I am so sorry! I wonder if I could find them if I went back? Will you all stand still and not stir from this spot if I do?”

“O mamma, don’t go, don’t go! We will get you some more. Don’t go!” cried all the children.

“Here are your flowers, madam,” said I. “I saw that you had forgotten them, and I took them as mementos of you and your sweet children.” She blushed and looked disconcerted. She was evidently unused to strangers, and shy with all but her children. However, she thanked me very sweetly, and said,—

“I was very sorry about them. The children took such trouble to get them; and I think they will revive in water. They cannot be quite dead.”

“They will never die!” said I with an

emphasis which went from my heart to hers. Then all her shyness fled, and we shook hands and smiled into each other’s eyes with the smile of kindred as we parted.

As I followed on, I heard the two children who were walking behind, say to each other, “Wouldn’t that have been too bad? Mamma liked them so much, and we never could have got so many all at once again.”

“Yes, we could next summer,” said the boy sturdily.

They are sure of their “next summer,” I think, all six of those souls,—children, and mother and father. They may never again gather so many ox-eyed daisies and buttercups “all at once.” Perhaps some of the little hands have already picked their last flowers. Nevertheless, their summers are certain. To such souls it is but little change from the summers here, whose suns burn and make weary, to the summers above, on which “the Lamb is the light.”

GROWING UP.

THE children are growing up—ere long You’ll miss the notes of their merry song, As they cluster in glee about you; Ah, never from them unheeding turn, For the saddest lesson young hearts can learn Is that of living without you. The children are growing up!

The children are growing up—then see That the morning hours all sunshiny be, While the dew still freshens the blossom; Else the day will come when the years have flown, You’ll long for the little ones, once your own, To press to your lonely bosom. The children are growing up!

The children are growing up—oh, now You may bind them with silken cords, I trow, Neither time nor distance can sever; Then the men and women who go and come Across the threshold of childhood’s home, Will be “mother’s children” forever. The children are growing up!

Continue reading: THE LOAD OF WOOD.