University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
A PEEP INTO THE RICH POOR MAN'S HOUSE.

Seven years had not passed over without those
precious accumulations to Aikin that constitute the
poor man's wealth; for, save a conscience void of
offence, there is no treasure comparable to healthy,
bright, well-trained children. Our friend Harry
and his wife had kept the even tenour of their way
—no uncommon event had happened to them; but,
as the river of life glides through a varied country,
the aspect of their's now varied from what it was
when we last saw them.

The floor of the room was partly covered with a
carpet, and the part visible as clean as hands
could make it. It was summer, and the blinds
were closed, admitting only light enough to enable
the persons within to carry on their occupations.
Uncle Phil is sitting by the half-opened window,
with a year-old baby on his lap, telling over on its
toes that charming lyric, “this pig went to market,
and that pig stayed at home”—Aunt Lottie was
preparing a pot of wholesome soup, which, like a
judicious housewife, having boiled the day before,
she was freeing from every particle of fat—a little
girl, six years old, was tacking worsted binding together
for Venitian blinds, whereby she got from
a manufacturer (working only at odd intervals)

half a dollar per week; and at the same time
teaching a sister, something more than two years
younger, the multiplication-table—Susan Aikin sat
by, her vigilant eye seeing every thing, and her
kind voice interposing, as often as the wants or
claims of the children rendered her interference
necessary. Her most difficult duty seemed to be
to keep in due order a restless, noisy little fellow,
William, the twin brother of her eldest girl, whom
she was teaching to write, while at the same time
she was tailoring and instructing in her art a young
girl, who had just set the last stitch in a vest of the
most costly material, and was holding it up for inspection;
a slight anxiety, till she heard the approving
word, tempering her conscious success.
Susan scrutinized every part of it, every seam, button-hole,
and button; and then said—

“There's not a fault in it—I could not do one
better myself, Agnes.”

Agnes burst into tears; Anne looked up from
her work inquiringly; little Mary exclaimed,
“Such a big girl cry!” Willie said, “She is not
really crying;” and the baby stretched out its
neck, and put up its lips to offer a kiss of consolation,
which Agnes took, smiling through her tears,
and saying, “Oh, I'm only crying because your
mother has been so good to me!”

“Well,” shouted Willie, “that's a funny thing
to cry for!”

“That was not all, Willie,” said his mother;
“Agnes cries because she has been good herself.”

“That's funnier yet; we never cry only when
we are naughty.”

Mrs. Aikin solved the riddle, and so will we,

Agnes was the eldest child of a worthy and very
poor neighbour of Mrs. Aikin. Her father had
been disabled for some months, by falling from a
building, and had recently died; her mother had
lost her health from over-exertion. Agnes had an
idiot sister, and two brothers too young to render
the family any assistance. Mrs. Aikin, foreseeing
the distress of the family after they should have
exhausted the father's earnings, and knowing that
Agnes was a diligent and good girl, and had been
well taught plain sewing in a public school, offered
to instruct her in making vests, a very profitable
business to those who are skilled in it, and can
command work from the first merchant tailors.
There were some obstacles in the way: Agnes
could only be spared from home at odd intervals,
and often only at times very inconvenient to Susan
Aikin; but who, as Susan said, would ever do any
good in this world if they made mountains of molehills?
Those who saw her multiplied cares, her
bee-like industry, would rather have said she
made molehills of mountains. She always received
Agnes with a smile, always found a quiet
corner for her, and made leisure to attend to her.
Agnes, seeing the efforts and sacrifices her kind
friend made for her, set the right value upon the
good she was obtaining, and performed her part
with fidelity.

Many complaints are made of the low rates of
women's wages—some just, no doubt; but, for the
most part, they are paid according to their capacity.
A well-qualified seamstress, tailoress, or milliner,
can, except in very rare cases, obtain certain
employment and good pay: a half-taught and

careless worker must take her chance for slopwork,
at low wages. Susan Aikin could at all
times command work from the most respectable
houses, was sure of the highest wages, and incidental
favours that she knew how to turn to account.
“Now, Agnes, my child,” she had said on
the day previous to this on which we have introduced
her young friend, “here is a trial vest for
you; I have got leave from my employers to put
it into your hands; you must set every stitch in
it; and, if it is done to their satisfaction, you are to
have as much of their best work as you can do,
which is as good as a promise of six dollars a
week to you—a sure support for your poor mother,
and helpless sister, and little brothers. Better, my
child, to trust to diligent, skilful hands, than to
widows' societies, and assistance societies, and so
on; leave those for such as can get nothing better,
while we use the means of independence that
Providence has given us.”

“But if I should fail, Mrs. Aikin?”

“Why, then there is one comfort left, we can
try again; but you will not fail.”

Thus stimulated and encouraged, Agnes set to
work, and, as has been seen, accomplished her task,
and no wonder that she shed tears of joy when it
was done. Which, we would ask, was happiest—
which richest; he who paid fifteen dollars for the
vest, or she who earned the dollar by making it,
and thereby cheered the hearts of the desolate, and
brought comfort and light to a dreary home? or,
which is happiest—richest; she who is lapped in
luxury, and is every day seeking some new and
expensive pleasure, or those who, like our friend

Mrs. Aikin, in some obscure place, are using their
faculties and seizing their opportunities of doing
good, never to be known and praised by the world,
but certainly recorded in the book of life?

While the vest was passing round to be examined
and praised by Aunt Lottie, Uncle Phil, and
all, for their joys were in common in this little
family, Aikin entered, and had his share in the
general pleasure; but his brow soon clouded.
Children are quick readers of faces they love.

“What is the matter, father?” asked Willie;
“is that ugly pain in your breast come again?”

“No, something worse, Willie; a pain in my
heart.”

“What is the matter?” asked Susan, anxiously.
Every eye now turned to Aikin.

“It's poor M'Elory's troubles again. He called
me in as I was passing. There lay his wife on
the floor, dead drunk. Returning from the grocer's,
she slipped down the cellar stairs, and is so black
and bruised, her head so swollen, you would not
know her. The children were crying, and he
wringing his hands and saying, `I can bear it no
longer.' He, every week of his life, earns more
than I do, and this bad woman wastes it. This
comes of marrying a poor, ignorant, ill-brought-up
girl, who had nothing but a pretty face to recommend
her. M'Elory says his children are going
to destruction. She makes them play truant, sends
them out begging, puts lies into their mouths,
and, last and worse than all, gives them rum to
drink.”

“Dear me! dear me!” exclaimed Susan, “what
can be done for them?”

“He says but one thing—he must turn her
adrift; he has forgiven and forgiven till he is tired
of it.”

“Ah, there is but one Being that is never tired
of forgiving!”

“The poor fellow has been very patient, though
but he says, for his children's sake, he must break
up; they are going to ruin. He has engaged
places for them all but little Sam; no one is willing
to take him for the price M'Elroy can pay.”

“Not willing to take Sam, father!” interrupted
Mary; “I should think they would be willingest
of all to take Sam.”

“Why, Mary?”

“Because he wants taking care of most.”

“Ah, Mary, that's a rule few go by. It's no
joke,” continued Aikin to his wife, “for the poor
fellow to board out himself and four children, for
there's not one of them yet old enough to earn his
own living.”

“Sam's a bright boy,” said Uncle Phil.

“And a poor, sickly little fellow, that's been cruelly
neglected,” said Aunt Lottie.

“It would be a comfort to see if care and management
would not cure him,” said Susan Aikin.

“M'Elroy can pay half a dollar a week, which
I think will pay for all the poor little fellow can
consume in his present state,” said Aikin.

“It is an opportunity,” said Susan, seeming to
think aloud.

“What did you say, Susan?” asked her husband.

“Nothing; I was only thinking it was an opportunity.”
Her husband smiled. “Well,” she

added, “I am superstitious about that: the opportunities
are given, and it is our business to improve
them, and it always makes me feel bad when I
have let one slip by: the same never offers twice.”

“Speak out plain, wife: what do you mean?”

It was now Susan's turn to smile. “You know
what I mean, Harry. It would not be right for us
to run into any expense for a neighbour's child,
but care and kindness we can give—they cost us
nothing. Lottie is the best of doctors, and I think,
among us, we could cure up little Sam; and that
would be a comfort.”

“But,” asked her husband, “are you not afraid
to bring a child that has been in the hands of that
bad woman among our children?”

“No, our children all pull one way; and if they
see any thing wrong we shall know, for they are
true and open as the day. Poor little Sam has not
been sent into the streets like the other children;
and, if he has caught some of their bad habits,
surely they may be cured in one so young. We
have no money to give away, husband; but of such
as we have we can give, and hope for the Lord's
blessing upon the gift.”

The whole family, old and young, were of
Susan's mind. The little boy was brought into the
shelter of their fold; and soon, under the kind and
judicious management of Lottie and Susan, his
unstrung, weak, dropsical figure, was braced to
health and activity; his eye brightened, and his
sallow cheek changed to the natural hue of childhood.
Good principles and good habits were implanted,
and good feeling cherished; and he who
must have perished in a miserable childhood, or

have dragged on a mischievous, or, at best, a worthless
existence, held up his head in after life among
his fellows, a prosperous, useful, and respected
citizen.

Truly did Susan Aikin say, “God gives the
opportunity;” and well did she improve it!