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 A POEM 
 
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How A Lady. 
 
 HAVING LOST A SUFFICIENT INCOME 
 
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 BY MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 I\EDUCED TO A LITTLE HOMESTEAD WHOSE EHTIRE INCOME IS BUT 
 
 $40.00 PEt\ ANNUM. 
 
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 AM> I.IVK WITHIN IT. HOW SHB: HAS LlVF.D FOR ThRKK 
 
 YKARS. and S'JTI.L I.IVES ON HALF A HIMK A DAY. 
 
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 PREFATORY. 
 
 Triis TALK is a fkithftil narrative of facts by a woman 
 educated, reared in abundance, and left with a competence, 
 which she used freely for benevolent purposes, but whose 
 l^roperty was i-uthlessly destroyed, and she left sick, crippled, 
 with impending blindness, and no friends to look to tor 
 support. It was ])repared for a lecture, but illness rendered 
 its delivery impo8sil)le. It is printed at the su-i>estion of 
 friends. 
 
FA DIM 
 
 i 
 
 DAY. 
 
 You will liardly dissent if I say it wimld be easier to tell 
 liow to die on five cents a day than how to live on that 
 sum ; perhaps 1 should say exist, rather than live. It is keep- 
 ing soul and bodv together on a small annuity, and I mav 
 say in the outset that to live on half a dime a day will prove 
 an infallible "anti-fat" remedy. All the patent bottles ad- 
 vertised to prevent obesity will have to point heads down, 
 and beat a retreat to '' Coventry " before this bill of fare. 
 
 But I must admit that five cents, as a rule, only buys the 
 food of a day, and other things than victuals are needed to 
 enable a person to support life. There must be a place to 
 live in, certainly ; there must be clothing, and fire in cold 
 weather. 
 
 T had an old house and some land. I <iOt twenty dollars 
 for grass, twelve for pasturing ; in good years, three for 
 apples. There was no work 1 could do owing to a crippled 
 arm and blinded eye, save knitting and making mock flowers. 
 The utmostf I could ever earn in a year was fifteen dollars. 
 Here, then, was exactly fifty dollars, from which ten must 
 l)e deducted for taxes. With the remainiui^ forty I was not 
 only to make " hotl* ends meet," Init all ends meet, and 
 twist into a neatly knotted skein, as my frugal gift to each 
 succeeding New Year. Three years my "offering'' has 
 been made. T have " ijot round " on the forty dollars. It 
 has been accomplished through contrivance, self-denial, and 
 arithmetic. 
 
 Von have heard of the man who " awoke one morning 
 and found himself famous.'' I awoke one morning and 
 
4 HALF A DJME A DAY. 
 
 found myself poor— so sudden as that! or, I don't know as 
 I can say I awoke— I was like one in a dazed dream for 
 months, an awful dream, in which a frightful incubus 
 stretched itself across my gasping life, and paralyzed me 
 with cold, clammy terror. I was as one stunned, and knew 
 not what to do. There was the old roof above me, dearer 
 than life. To sell or mortgage it seemed like disgracing 
 myself in the eyes of the world and dishonoring my an- 
 cestors. But I had not a dollar of money left, and I had 
 no health. Thus there was no work to which I could turn 
 to earn a living. You have heard of people '' living by 
 their wits." 1 was at my wit's end how to live. Why 
 didn't I let my place on shares? I was too wise, thank 
 you ; I had tried that twice too many times in former years. 
 For the same reason I did not take a familv into the house. 
 In that country place I could not have got rent enough to 
 pay for damages done the buildings, nor could I have borne 
 the unavoidable noise and annoyance of a family in my ill 
 health and nervous debility. So there were forty dolhirs per 
 annum I could reasonably count on. At the prospect my 
 stomach began to fall into a collapsed state, *' Twenty of 
 this forty I must spend for food," 1 thought. But the pur- 
 pose was hardly fledged before war to the teeth was de- 
 clared. 
 
 " It shall never be," said the mind ; " I care nothing about 
 your old body ; it must go to dust soon, any way. You 
 must understand I sha'n't starve, and I sha'n't eat trash, 
 either. I have always had the best, and the best 1 must 
 have still. Understand, once for all, that I rule, and make 
 your plans accordingly." 
 
 Thus mind stepped to the front with a bold standard dis- 
 played, and it was for me to quietly recognize its position. 
 I would live on seventeen dollars, and save three to con- 
 tinue my first-class weekly (C. TL), with its unrivalled edito- 
 rials and Christian instruction. There was still the other 
 half of the forty dollars unappropriated. I sorely wanted 
 to take enough from it to supply me with two of the best 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. 5 
 
 iiiHirazines. 1 however ventured on but one, thinking there 
 would be two or three books in course of tlie year 1 should 
 feel as if I must have. 
 
 " Wliat expensive tastes !" one and another will exclaim. 
 Ah, people differ in their ideas as to what is and what is not 
 expensive. To pamper the body and famish the mind I 
 should deem the most ruinous and wicked extravagance ; and 
 a so-called cheap newspaper, which deals in the *' abomina- 
 tions of society, and dumps the tilth of the world " at your 
 door every week, would have been a far too expensive in- 
 vestment for me. I could afford no such luxury. Seven- 
 teen dollars of my forty I assigned to supply food, ten for 
 reading, leaving thirteen for fuel. I fortunately had enough 
 wood on hand when the great loss befell to last two-thirds 
 through a winter. The next one I got through with one 
 cord, and sawed it myself, which saved a dollar and a half. 
 I could only, with my disabled arm, worry off a few sticks 
 for my tire each day. In very cold spells I took a warm 
 freestone and crawled into bed. I was too ill to work, and 
 thus to do saved tirewood. 1 would put mittens on my 
 hands and read a while, and when the room became too cold 
 for this, cover all up and think over what 1 had read. This 
 saved me in a degree from enervating myself further by 
 fruitless poring over poverty and privations. 
 
 I had enough bed-clothes for comfort, but my own ward- 
 robe, with the exception of one black suit, was pretty low 
 when the loss came. I never bought a dress or pair of shoes 
 for moie than three years ; it was entirely beyond my means 
 to buy any article of clothing. So I had to tax both inge- 
 nuity and industry to get together garments enough tor 
 comfort and decency. 
 
 I had a palm-tigured dressing-gown, lined with purplish 
 tiannel; the outside of this was all in tatters, while the 
 lining was good. I ripped it in pieces, washed and pressed 
 the flannel, got out enough of the palm-tigures to make three 
 bands around the skirt and sleeves. These helped to hide 
 holes and faded spots in the flannel : then I ravelled an old 
 
6 HALF A DIME A DAY. 
 
 scarlet, worsted under-sleeve, and trimmed each band with 
 a narrow, fluted edge. So I had a quite dressy dressing- 
 o-own — clean, whole — almost tasteful, and I took genuine 
 comfort planning, piecing it out, day after day, with -half 
 mittens on my cold hands, sitting close to a cold Are. I was 
 more than a week about it, for owing to shortness of lire- 
 wood my days were very short, and my lame hand was very 
 decrepid and painful. I recollected that when I had made 
 this wrapper out of an abundance of nice, new materials, I 
 had been quite impatient at having to sew on it for two 
 days, and called in help to finish it otf. People who saw it 
 after it was remodelled, said it was handsomer than when it 
 was new, and it is certain I thought a good deal more of it. 
 
 I said then, and have had occasion to say many times 
 since, I was glad 1 bought good materials when 1 had the 
 means, for they could be worked over a second, even a third 
 time, to much better prolit and advantage. 
 
 I made a whole common suit out of an old straw-bed - 
 tick, and out of the fragments of a pair of blue drilling 
 overalls some former workman had left on the premises cut 
 narrow strips and stitched on the skirts for trimmings. Well, 
 1 suppose I was proud, and determined to have some 
 "style'' about my garments. At a little distance my suit 
 appeared like a neat, striped print, or more like a substan- 
 tial gingham, and it had the wear of half-a-dozen calicoes 
 in it. Indeed, it comes out like a new one every season, 
 and bids fair to outlast the owner, and descend to pos- 
 terity as an invention — may I not say, and escape the charge 
 of vanity ( — of both genius and necessity. My bed-tick 
 gown! Will not some poet step forth and give it immor- 
 tality? 
 
 Shoes and stockings were a problem for a long time 
 Shoes I had to learn to do without for the most part. One 
 decent j^air 1 trould keep, but these could not be indulged 
 in every day ; such extravagance was not to be thought of, 
 T took the soles of worn-out rubbers, lined them with flan- 
 nel, and laced them on my feet as sandals. 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. 
 
 At length I found a knitted shawl that had been in wear, 
 I suppose, a quarter of a century, and quite a number of 
 under-garments, which had been knit by hand out of home- 
 spun yarn in the old days when my father's flocks had 
 whitened the hills, so barren and bush-grown around me 
 now. Then it had been the custom to have much cloth 
 woven, and much yarn spun on the buzzing old spinning- 
 wheel, for the family use. All chcse garments had been long 
 thrown by, faded, defaced, and past wear. They were a 
 mass of ends and no ends. After thoroughly washing them, 
 I tried the strength of the yarn, and found it unrotted and 
 not much moth-eaten. I had possessed myself of quite a 
 prize. But it was the work of weeks to ravel, tie up, wind 
 into skeins, color, rinse, and rewind into balls for knitting. 
 I found some redwood and copperas, so I had several shades 
 of color. Then I proceeded to knit five or six pairs of 
 socks, and had balls of yarn left to '' foot down " for years ! 
 I quite revelled in an abundance of materral, and said exult- 
 ingly, " There is one thing 1 shall not lack again very soon, 
 perhaps never,'' and for a long time, the last thing before 
 retiring at night, I would go to the little drawer, pull it 
 open, and take out my socks, pair after pair, and survey 
 them with a fulness of satisfaction I had never in better 
 days experienced over the nicest of boughten worsteds, or 
 even silk. These were trophies of toil and contrivance; 
 they had cost me not a little planning and labor, and I re- 
 garded them as my own successful achievements under difH- 
 culties. Therefore they had value and favor in my eyes. 
 
 1 had fifteen mottoes in the house made on white muslin 
 and cotton flannel. I soaked, washed, and boiled them 
 clean, and supplied my drawer of linens. 
 
 I had no outside garment to wear abroad save a very old. 
 defaced water-proof cloak. It looked like poverty person- 
 ified ; it was ragged, threadbnre, the sleeves quite gone, of 
 a most faded and weather-beaten appearance. There had 
 been hanging in an outer room, I presume for fifteen years, 
 a rusty, fulled cloth overcoat of my father's. I don't know 
 
8 HALF A DIMK A DA^?, 
 
 wiiv I had not ojiveii it away long before, but suppose I 
 rather liked to see it liang there ; it had a sort of look as if 
 he were somewhere around yet. I had be.n charged witli 
 keeping that and a great pair of boots to frighten tramps 
 in case they attempted any neighborliness. A sight of such 
 largeness in apparel might lead them to apprehend there 
 was a large man not far oif whose acquaintance it would 
 not be iudicious in them to cultivate. But I don't think J 
 ever attached any protective power to these articles. I 
 would sometimes get into them myself, when I had to go 
 out in a pouring rain to adjust the cistern for catching 
 water, or dig a snow-path to the highway in winter. 
 
 l5ut now that my wits were on the alert for means to 
 ])iece out my wardrobe, 1 passed by nothing, and left no 
 article unscanned that could afford the least chance of aid. 
 So I ])ut my hand on the great overcoat, and lifted it oft' the 
 wooden peg. How heavy it was, and how rusty with age ! 
 It was lined throughout with line black lasting, .wadded and 
 quilted in diamonds. My eyes gleamed as they lighted on 
 this! I dragged the old coat oft' to my room in triumph; 
 there I gloated and exulted over my prey, as I whetted a 
 knife and went at it. I had no mercy, but just ripped, and 
 ripped, and ripped, till the floor was strewn with ])art8 of 
 the parted garment. The other side of the thick cloth was 
 a line dark gray, just as bright as new. It was home-made 
 cloth, and had the stock and value in it. I thought so much 
 now of having things warm, sucli as would keep the cold 
 out. and thus help save fuel. Next I took my old water- 
 proof cloak, washed and pressed it smooth, and cut away 
 the worn, threadbare portions, to replace with strips of the 
 dark gray fulled cloth of the overcoat. I so managed that 
 the cloak should look as if it had been purposely trimmed 
 with another shade of material, and got a respectable gar- 
 ment that would do good service through a number of cold 
 winters. 
 
 The cape of this cloak had n pretty lining of broad- 
 plaided black-and-white flannel. This 1 removed and re- 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. 9 
 
 placed with some breadths of old alpaca, which answered 
 very well, and of the plaid iiannel I fashioned an article of 
 apparel suitable to wear abroad in spring and summer 
 weather. To make it a better size, I pieced and stitched 
 black gros-grain ribbon round the edge, ravelled a pair of 
 under-sized worsted hose to knit a fluting, and flnished this 
 with a ball fringe ; and it was, indeed, as pretty a cape as 
 most anybody had ! 1 expect, yes, I know, I was proud of 
 it, for I would try it on at home before the glass sometimes, 
 a thing I had never done with the best silk dress my palm- 
 iest prosperity had ever gave me. 
 
 My old cloak, renovated and remodelled by aid of the 
 fulled cloth overcoat, was better than new to me ; it was 
 surprising what satisfaction I ggt out of my hard-contrived 
 garments! Then there was the shiny, quilted lasting 
 lining; it was as to shape almost exactl}^ in the style of the 
 reigning cloaks of the period, and the quilting was quite 
 stylish, too. I had some cashmere to line and trim it, and 
 my cloak was a "lit;'' it was "in fashion;" it was satin, 
 if you did not get too near, so black and glossy was the last- 
 ing. If I had only been a rich woman still, everj^body 
 would have been exclaiming at my extravagance in buying 
 a quilted satin cloak ! Lest even now some person should 
 not see straig^ht, I have never dared wear mv cloak abroad 
 much. I luxuriate in it at home on cold days, it keeps out 
 so much cold, wadded throughout, and is as good as an oven 
 on my back. I put it on Thanksgiving days to give thanks 
 in, 
 
 I was in a state of high exultation after such a series of 
 successes with the old overcoat ; it seemed now so plain why 
 I had kept it so many years. I fancied my father, mother, 
 long in heaven, saw my poor, lame fingers and purblind eye, 
 at work, ekeing, mending, and repairing my scant, worn 
 garments, so intently and industriously for days and days, 
 occupied and etigrossed with the labor almost to oblivion of 
 the hard fate, the wanton wrong, that had reduced me to 
 tliis extremity. 
 
lO HALF A DIME A DAY. 
 
 But what pleased me most of all, I think, were the shoes I 
 got out of the old overcoat. The cloth was so thick and 
 iirm it would outwear a common pair of slippers. I ripped 
 up an old shoe to have a good pattern, and got quite a neat 
 fit. 1 haven't had to go without shoes since. My German 
 slippers are said to be prettier than those ordinarily found 
 at stores. They were warm, comfortable, and not unsightly. 
 Thev satisfied me. More than that, the mind failed not to 
 celebrate with the deep, strong joy which unwonted effort 
 and endeavor imparted, every victory gained over the su- 
 premacy of bodily wants. It rejoiced exceedingly over 
 every obstacle surmounted which hindered or disputed its 
 own supreme sway. The home-made shoes shut off the 
 shoe-bill at the store, and gave me Harper's magazine, with 
 pages more irradiated through the economy and contrivance 
 by which I had possessed myself of them, than by the 
 learning and genius of tiie writers, I might almost say. At 
 least the having worked through difficulties to obtain the 
 magazine imparted the keenest zest and enjoymeut to the 
 reading. I had fought with poverty for a prize, beat down 
 the grim monster, and come off victorious, and as 1 turned 
 the freighted, sparkling pages, my heart sang a song of 
 triumph. I would pull on my half-mittens, w^rap my double, 
 gray blanket all around me, put a freestone to my feet, and 
 my back to the stove with its very small fire, and go to my 
 reading, wondering and doubting if in any sumptuous 
 parlor of wealth and magnificence a lady in diamonds and 
 velvets sat down to her new magazine with the zest and 
 pleasure that I did. Of course not; every day brought new 
 books and periodicals to her hand, to be skimmed over and 
 lightly tossed aside. My one or two were read and reread 
 and thought upon, and the current number was not passe 
 when its successor came. 
 
 Thus mind fought the battle with despondency, in which 
 injustice, wrong, and misfortune threatened to engulf it. 
 There were enough to prescribe society, the diverting of 
 attention by outside objects. But society, such as lay around 
 
HALE A DIME A DAY. I I 
 
 me, did not present anythini]^ worthy or engaging. To one 
 who had once and again proved its holUjwness and faJse ap- 
 pearances, its insincere professions of kindness and good 
 faith, it was sickening and revolting. I shrank from it as 
 a " burnt child dreads the lire/' It seemed unfeeling and 
 cruel to urge one in my circumstances to go into society. 
 There my mendicancy would be thrust upon my conscious- 
 ness in strongest shades of contrast with former ease of con- 
 dition. Under my own roof I was not humiliated beyond 
 endurance ; I kept my self-respect there ; but if I attempt- 
 ed any moving about in former circles, the comparison of 
 present with past condition forced itself on me with such 
 startling vividness that I was overwhelmed, and felt as if 
 going distracted. Everybody was trying, consciously or 
 unconsciously, to adapt themselves to my new situation, and 
 whether it was by an increased carefulness to show atten- 
 tion, or a haughty distance of manner, or a condescending 
 patronage, the one was about as killing as the other to 
 encounter ; and further, my dress was not equal to the de- 
 mands of society. Had I seen lit to forego my reading and 
 devote my utmost dime to it, I must still have been a shabby 
 appendage at a parlor party. If I could have had access to 
 a company of benevolent woikers, persons w^ho had a really 
 noble and useful purpose i'or which they lived and labored, 
 it would have been as power and inspiration to one in my 
 depression and pain. With all of life wrenched away at 
 once, as it were ; its long-accustomed ways and habits forced 
 into violent and sudden change; means gone; health gone; 
 the friends that had been around me in the arduous work of 
 a term of years gone ; a ruin in the midst of ruin, as I seemed 
 to myself — if I could have entered in among earnest work- 
 ers, and added a mite for the aid or relief of other sufferers, 
 it would have been as the jo}^ of salvation to me; for in my 
 own casting down it seemed as if the woes of all humanity 
 "through my heart made a thoroughfare." I was afraid 
 to read of the fearful sufferings of the famine-stricken in 
 India. All their million pangs seemed gnawing at my 
 
12 HALF A DIME A DAV. 
 
 vitals, yet such recitals had a terrible fascination. I would 
 return again and again to the reading of them. I could 
 picture their pangs, desperation, and despair, down, down, 
 till starvation had finished its grim and horrible work.. And 
 I would long to feed them all, for I was full of pity for 
 their lower wants. But at length I would come back to the 
 thought, God seeth and takeih cognizance of all these things, 
 and to " him with whom a thousand years are as a day," 
 what an insignificant speck and atom must this earthly life 
 appear! And yet because it is so fleeting and small, the more 
 would one like to be doing the little they can for the benefit 
 of their fellow-beings, tlie more they would long for some 
 outreaching beyond self. And so because I had nothing, 
 more than ever I wished to help all who were in the same 
 condition. I always held in reserve a dollar or two for any 
 special call of charity, and a pittance for the Bible and Mis- 
 sion cause. I could hardly have consented to breathe with- 
 out a single cent to bestow in benevolence. A person who 
 would be willing to be an unmitigated mendicant would 
 not be a person. 
 
 But to return to my struggle with and against material 
 wants. With the aid of my father's old overcoat I subdued 
 a good many of them for the time being, as has been 
 already related. The succession of the seasons demanded 
 changes in my wardrobe ; a flannel gown was not suited to 
 July and August, nor could I be wearing out in warm 
 weather what I should so need in cold. I thou^jht about 
 cutting up an old Allendale bed-spread to make me a very 
 grand white wrapper, but this I rejected as a temptation to 
 reckless extravagance. How should I ever possess myself 
 of another counterpane ? and this one would answer a num- 
 ber of years with care and darning. Then I unfolded and 
 scanned two red-and-white tablecloths in small checker- 
 work. I should never spread tables again for visitors ; these 
 cloths were not of much use ; they had served some years, 
 and had holes and stains. They would make me a cool and 
 serviceable wrapper— not becoming, and odd— but then few 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. I3 
 
 would see nie wear it, and poverty must not expect to con- 
 sult taste with freedom. But then to wear a tablecloth for 
 a dress ! to take that on which food had been spread out for 
 the support of the body, and make of it a covering and pro- 
 tection for the person ! Would tlie tablecloth be elevated 
 or lowered by such appropriation 'i It would be a divorce- 
 ment from its natural uses. I refrained my scissors for a 
 time; though I might never want a tablecloth again, 1 
 would wait and plan awhile befoi-e making the red-checkered 
 ones into a summer wrap. To buy a few yards of cambric 
 or tjalico was out of the question ; there was a fear of not 
 bringing the year around by the most rigid economy. 
 
 One day, behind the door of a dark closet, in an old room 
 where a widow's goods were stored, of which I made no use 
 and entered but occasionally, I put my hand on a cotton 
 garment, and rather wondering it should be there, took it 
 to the light to see what it might be. It was a chocolate-and- 
 white print-dress that had been my mother's. 1 recollected 
 of having given it to the girl who helped me through her 
 last illness, directly after her death and burial. The girl 
 had at that time occupied this old chamber ; it appeared she 
 had not taken the dress away with her, and year after year 
 had passed by with it hanging in solitary disuse behind the 
 dark closet-door. It was almost as if my mother herself 
 had come back to me, it brought such a vision of her as she 
 was in her last days, her little bowed, tremblino: figure clad 
 in the small-Hgured calico wrapper my own nimble young 
 fingers had made. It certainly seemed as if in this hour of 
 need her arm reached from die unseen to offer aid — to offer 
 what had been her own, and, mother-like, to offer her all. 
 
 " Take it and wear it ; it has stayed for a time like this," 
 the mother-voice seemed to say. So I brought it forth, 
 touching it with a half reverent awe It was not long enough 
 for me, but it had been made before the era of gores ; thei'e 
 were five wide breadths in the skirt ; so I could remove a 
 whole one, divide it in three parts, and full the remaining 
 ones on to it; and whenever I caught a reflection of myself 
 
14 HALF A DIME A DAY*. 
 
 ill a mirror moving about, it Reemed as if it was my mother 
 come back to me ; as if in my loneliness, loss, and pain, she 
 had come and clothed me with herself ! So the dress sup- 
 plied far more than my bodily needs ; it was company 
 and comfort to my mind as well, and if tears rolled down 
 and wet it sometimes, as the sight of it recalled but too 
 vividly the blessed years when sympathy, protection, and 
 love were my abundant possessions, they were soothing, 
 relieving tears, for I said, "Mother still is somewhere; the 
 going years are bearing me toward her ; I shall hear her 
 voice and have her love again." 
 
 In life's supreme moments, when stern realities press 
 close and hedge us in on every side, how does the mere 
 superficial fall to naught ! How trivial and below respect 
 appear the occupations and pursuits of worldlings ! Truly. 
 " What shadows they are, and what shadows they pursue !" 
 I saw people arrayed in finery, and marvelled that I could 
 ever have done the like. I pitied the short-sighted, low- 
 minded creatures, and felt ashamed for them — absorbed in 
 triiies — as if their clothes were their all ! 
 
 " Everybody is as God made him, and oftentimes a good 
 deal worse," says Cervantes. Very true ; there is a better 
 side to every nature, which if cultivated, may bring forth 
 passably good fruit, but it is too often left in neglect to be 
 overgrown with rank and noisome weeds. It requires 
 thoughtfulness, effort, self-denial, to nurse it into growth, 
 and most people dislike such labor as this. It is easier and 
 pleasanter to go with the crowd, and be one with them ; live 
 for the present moment, in the gratification of the senses, 
 not the least ashamed to admit — say it even self-approving- 
 ly, "It is my aim to take the first care of myself, and live 
 just as long as I can." This is on a level with, " Eat as much 
 as you can, it is all you are sure of !" Some are sure of con- 
 siderable, even if this is all. The kingdom of heaven can 
 never come till everybody says, and acts up to that saying, 
 "It is my chief aim to help others, nor do I wish to live 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. 1 5 
 
 loiu^er than I can be useful in the world." '' He liveth Ions: 
 who liveth well.'- 
 
 Often I saw people rolling past in easy carriages, but the 
 slight awoke neither envy nor longing in my heart. I was 
 rather glad to be rid of it all. I had always preferred a walk 
 to a ride, and style, circumstances, had placed riding beyond 
 my power. Pain and apprehension of accident, having the 
 sore, crippled arm, made riding something to dread and 
 avoid as much as possible. I was distressed if asked to 
 ride, and had to refuse. 
 
 I suppose some lady is wondering by this time what I did 
 for a bonnet, and it is an easy task to give information on 
 this point. I simply went without one. Hat or bonnet 1 
 had not for four years. As I make this assertion I have a 
 misgiving that it will not be credited. I feel that it is an 
 unparalleled one in the annals of modern life and custom, 
 yet I could lay my hand on the Book and solemnly assert 
 its truth. 
 
 A woman four years without a bonnet I in this enlight- 
 ened land, in the. latter part of the nineteenth century — 
 not a particularly old or sick woman either, and one who 
 read Mrs. Browning, the best mairazines, and all the leaduig 
 divines of the age, at home I Was she demented ? It is 
 perhaps not for me to say. 1 can only admit, that if 1 went 
 abroad 1 wore a romance on juy head instead of a bonnet 
 (not " The Blithdale "), a false appearance, a deceitful show, 
 wrapped about in a screening veil — some shape of a hat 
 destitute of trimmings, its barrenness concealed in friendly 
 folds of barege. It was my one deception in dress, and I 
 deemed it a pardonable, yea, a commendable one, under the 
 circumstances. I would rather wear a romance than a mort- 
 gage. 
 
 I knit some winter gloves of ravelled black worsted, and 
 for the rest, one pair of Lisle thread went through four sea- 
 sons ; they were washed from slate color to dirty-white, and 
 dyed in tea several times. I always felt my poorest when I 
 wore them, and sat shaniefaced and silent, as if struck 
 
l6 HALF A DIME A DAY. 
 
 (himb at sight of my own abjectness. The careful darns 
 betrayed a watchful anxiety ever on tlie stretch ; a cease- 
 less, laborious endeavor to be decent, and were as So many 
 not-to-be-mistaken proofs of poverty — unwilling, extorted 
 confessions of want. 
 
 However hard it may be to do without the comfort, 
 abundance, or elegance, which may once have been our own, 
 it is doubtless not a poor and useless lesson to learn how 
 much we can do without, and yet suffer no essential loss of 
 what is noblest and best. To fall, or to rise, from the ad- 
 ventitious to the real, is in truth not a misfortune. For 
 such as live in a vain show, when the power to make a show 
 is gone, all is ^one. But if life has deeper springs, then it 
 can survive a drought, and make for itself some greenness 
 and fragrance in a bare desert of poverty and pain. All 
 that is adventitious — all that is human may fall away from 
 us — what are our resources then ? have we any ? The trial 
 will prove us, test our strength, and show of what mettle 
 we are made. A novice can manage a sailboat on a smooth 
 sea under a smiline: skv, when it does not need any mana- 
 ging ; but let the winds roar and the breakers come, and the 
 boat will go to the bottom, unless there is a skilled, cour- 
 ageous hand at the post of duty. So any poor, weak, life- 
 voyager can manage a calm ; it is the managing of the crisis 
 that is the test. 
 
 But as to the half dime a day : that is, the providing of 
 food for that sum. It did not take that every day, by any 
 means. I saved enough from this allotment to supply divers 
 little necessary articles— a bunch of matches, spool ot thread, 
 paper of needles — even a gallon of oil now and then. 
 Almost the year round I used a lamp-stove for cooking 
 purposes ; it was cheaper than fuel, and more convenient. 
 Kerosene in summer could be bought very low, and then I 
 would get enough to last through cool weather. 
 
 Sometimes I would go through a whole week on two 
 baker's loaves — sixteen cents; a tablespoonful of ginger, 
 and gill of molasses — not more than twenty-three cents, thus 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. 1 7 
 
 saving twelve out of the thirty-five aHotted for the week's 
 expenses. But tliis was wlien my health was feeble, and I 
 confined to couch almost altogether. I was in this state 
 more than a year. I made large use of cornmeal, of course 
 it being cheap and nutritious. One-fourth pound of meal, 
 one cent; one-fourth pound of dried beans, one and a half 
 cents; two cents' worth of salt pork ; four and a half cents 
 in all, would support me a day and a half very well. This 
 was my usual fare three days out of seven. Three cents' 
 worth of barley boiled with two cents' worth of butcher's 
 trimtnings, and three cents' worth of potatoes, would make 
 wholesome, nourishing food for two days, and go a long way 
 towards supporting existence. 
 
 I have heard it said a German can live on what a Yankee 
 would throw away, and a Jew could live on what a German 
 would throw awaj', and a Chinaman could live on what a 
 Jew would throw away. 1 almost thought I could bear off 
 the palm from the whole of them, and live on what a China- 
 man would throw away — if he was a clean one. 
 
 1 made a considerable use of rice and salted iish. In cool 
 weather, a ))ound of oatmeal cooked on Monday would serve 
 for a dessert through the week. Sometimes i had a ^ift of 
 milk, and then I feasted like an epicure. I usually allotted 
 a small cup of molasses as sauce and relish to a pound of 
 oatmeal. Now and then I had some kind of a ve^retable, as 
 a beet, or a turnip, and from time to time bought a few 
 cents' worth of butcher's scraps, moi"e to season food than to 
 be food. When eggs were cheap, I made use of them. I 
 did not buy when they were more than ten cents a dozen. 
 I never could make these go as far as I had heard of one 
 housewife doing, who would cook one for a family of five, 
 and after all had eaten freely, there would still be some left ! 
 Perhaps this lady bought her ovas of an ostrich or a moa 
 bird ; mine were only barn-door biddies' eggs, and I was 
 apt to want two tor breakfast. 
 
 Once a month I indulged in a baking of gingerbread, or got 
 a pound of lard and fried an eating of doughnuts, about six. 
 
I 8 HALF A DIME A DAY.. 
 
 one at a time, in a tin cup over my oil-stove. I always en- 
 joyed the trying of the doughnnts, and looked forward 
 to it with a zest of anticipation ; they generally came up 
 plump and round, and quite filled the little cup of boiling 
 lard. I picked them out with a fork, and invariably ate the 
 iirst one while the second was cooking. After that 1 let 
 them congregate on a plate, and watched their numbers in- 
 crease to iive, six, seven — never more than that. These and 
 the gingerbread were usually mixed with water, and no 
 shortening, but if eaten warm, or pretty soon after the cook- 
 ing, very good, as I considered. They were my occasional 
 luxuries. I would think, as I tended my lonely doughnut 
 in the small cup of fat, of the great panfulls of brown beau- 
 ties I had cooked in former years, and thought very lightly 
 of them; not ungrateful, but regarding a full supply of all 
 good things for the stomach as a matter of course, never 
 dreaming a time would come when I must choose between 
 lower and higher food, a table spread for the body, or a table 
 spread for the mind, or of lessening the supplies of one for 
 the sake of furnishing out the other. Once, perhaps, I 
 should not have done thus. Not a few times have I been 
 told by those who deemed themselves much wiser than I 
 that I was starving myself; that it was wicked not to take 
 care of one's body ; nobody could live without good food. 
 But my food toas good, or I was greatly mistaken, for I ate 
 it — devoured it, I might say, with the eager relish of a grow- 
 ing child. It lacked in variety, perhaps ; it was not rich ; it 
 was fairly cooked and regularly taken, and of a kind to bring 
 the best returns in health and strength. 
 
 Of course I had times of longing for " the flesh-pots of 
 ^&JP^-" ^^^ Saturdays I would think of the great bakings 
 going on in the houses around me, and see in fancy the array 
 of fresh bread-loaves, pies, and sweet cakes, on the pantry 
 shelves, almost seem to inhale the odors of good cooking, 
 and contrast this spectacle with my empty old cupboard : 
 empty now and evermore, or with just a pint-pot of oatmeal 
 in a corner, and very likely my mouth would water till 1 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. I9 
 
 buried myself in some book which exalted the value of the 
 soul, and made contemptible the course of such as live 
 supremely for the gratilieations of the present life. Persons 
 of this stamp would assert, directly or indirectly, the supe- 
 riority of their method of living, and declare it the most 
 Quixotic, foolish, wicked thing, to stint one's self in food 
 and clothes. "Folks must live." Why must they live?' 
 What must thev live for? To eat and wear clothes? Allow 
 me to say in all candor and reverence, I should rather die 
 than thus exist. Of course a person cannot live without 
 food and raiment, but that these should be the chief concern, 
 the object and end of existence, as it were, is pitiful and 
 humiliating among a people who have enjoyed the benefits 
 of civilization, and have some degree of education and in- 
 telligence. A sudden and complete change of circumstances 
 compelled me to choose w^iich I would serve, and which 
 should serve me — mind or matter. I don't know as I hes- 
 itated at all ; certain things I knew I must have, certain 
 others it would be possible to do without. 1 declared for 
 mind. I felt like one cut loose from time clinging to eternity. 
 This life, this perishable body, must soon go ; the little I 
 could still manage to do must be for the immortal part. 
 There was a certain tyranny of opinion to endure, afflictive 
 enough, and on which I grew thinner than on dried beans 
 and oatmeal ; the best I could do was to hold myself aloof 
 from it. Less than ever now could I allow others to lay 
 down the law for me to follow ; stern necessity was com- 
 peting to a more decided and pronounced individuality than 
 ever before. 
 
 I make a brief digression to say I have been waiting a 
 life time to canonize any who would afford me opportunity, 
 but the lirst name is yet to be enrolled in my calendar of 
 saints. It is amazing. I don't remember that I ever took 
 the liberty to call any person to acc(5unt as to their particu- 
 lar style and method of living ; but no one enters my doors 
 without taking me to task, more or less sharply, often fling- 
 ing stern reproach and condemnation on my unsocial, un- 
 
20 HALF A DIME A DAY. • 
 
 natural, morbid, monstrous way of life. Do not be too 
 much alarmed ; I am not quite an ogress or a tigress. I 
 simply live by myself. As if no one ever lived thus before ! 
 Why, I know a dozen people who live thus, and are .not 
 scoffed at and condemned to death for it as I am. As if I 
 was to blame for being alone ! Was it not hard enough to 
 lose all near friends when comparatively young, and be left 
 thus, without being reproached for the aloneness, as it were ? 
 The iirst person who doesn't take exception, arraign, or de- 
 nounce me, on account of my quiet way of life, I wait to 
 canonize. If I were to devour myself with envy of those 
 happily-constituted people who, when near ties are broken, 
 can readily form new ones, it would not help me to have a 
 nature like theirs, and so it could not help my condition, 
 but would rather render it more grievous. There is no 
 loneliness like the loneliness of feelings unreplied to ; and 
 there is this one comfort for odd people, that no creature 
 God has made can seem odd or strange in his sight ; he 
 comprehends the full character, and at last the lonesome 
 spirit may un burthen itself to him, with no fear of being 
 misapprehended or misunderstood. 
 
 And yet if there might be a somebody who would think 
 enough of earth and earthly things to treat them nicely, and 
 yet not be engrossed in them and enslaved by them, to the 
 utter neglect and forgetfnlness of higher and better things, 
 such a choice sort of somebody it might be safe, pleasant, 
 and helpful to have near. But so many live rudely and 
 grossly, and care for no better way, do not believe there is 
 any better way, and mock at refinement and insult good 
 taste and order. 
 
 Thus there has always been a tendency to criticism in my 
 case, and when reverses came people were freer than ever to 
 express views, offer advice, and point out the proper course 
 of action, • 
 
 " Let your place, or sell it, and buy a snug cottage ;" or 
 ''hire your board, and have things nice and comfortable as 
 long as you live,'' said one ; and another : 
 
HALE A DIME A DAY. 21 
 
 " I wish I was as sure of being comfortably provided for 
 in old age as you are." 
 
 Such persons were either ignorant of circumstances, or 
 lacked good sense, or were thoughtless and unfeeling. To 
 let my place, experience told me would be fraught with loss 
 and annoyances my present state of health could not endure. 
 As to selliniT it, I loved it better than life, and never under- 
 stood I could get more than six hundred dollars for it; but 
 if I could have got twice that sum, and essayed to buy an- 
 other, little would have been left for my support. My table 
 would not have been much better supplied than at present, 
 and life would not have been life away from the old home. 
 If I had hired my board, the money would have slipped 
 from me almost before I was aware, probably, and left me 
 on public charity. My house might have held a few board- 
 ers, if I could have superintended them, but my crippled 
 arm, poor health, and nervous depression, would not admit 
 of this. 1 should have to see it go into dilapidation and 
 decay, if life was much prolonged. The roofs leaked now, 
 the windows were rickety, the chimney discharged a mourn- 
 ful brickbat in every driving storm. Out of the wreck of all, 
 if I could garner enough to subsist, save a few dollars for 
 good books, and a few more to help any worse oft* than my- 
 self, and add a mite to benevolent causes, it was all I hoped 
 or expected. Thus far I have done this. I have lived and 
 thrived in a small way on half a dime a day, or rather, on 
 forty dollars a year, all things included. For clothing there 
 has been no outlay of money. Contrivance and a crippled 
 hand has supplied all my garments. As to fuel, 1 am not 
 accustomed to provide more than three cords a year, nine 
 dollars usually, and manage to saw most of it as I want to 
 use it ; save in winter, I pick up the wood I burn — dead 
 tree-limbs, pine-cones, and moss for kindlings. For almost 
 all cooking, as I have said, I use an oil-stove. On this I 
 often heat a freestone, and wrap myself up, so as not to 
 require a lire in my air-tight stove till pretty cool weather. 
 The cold snaps in winter are so paralyzing to the partially 
 
22 HALF A DIME A DAY. 
 
 perished arm, I can do no kind of work ; so then when I can 
 earn nothing, I can at least save wood by covering up in bed. 
 I do not exactly, like the mole and dormouse, burrow for the 
 winter. In mild spells I thaw out, and do my best to bring 
 up things that have fallen into arrears during the cold term. 
 I search the drawers and closets in the old house to see if I 
 may not come upon some material out of which to fashion 
 some small holiday gifts for children and friends who bring 
 me baskets of benefaction at times through the year. I 
 ought to have made mention of these before. 
 
 It has been my experience in falling into adverse fortune 
 to receive most aid and kindness from sources I should not 
 have expected to receive from : from persons comparatively 
 strangers till the adversity befell, that I had done no favors 
 and had no claims on ; while others I thought would increase 
 their friendliness and oiFerings have withdrawn and made 
 themselves strangers; I know not, nor ever shall know the 
 reason why. But I must not speak of this; it was a greater 
 agony than the loss of money. 
 
 The only sympathy deserving the name has come from 
 those who have been themselves sufferers ; many have 
 mocked me with their pity because they did not know my 
 pain ; others have ignored the great trouble and loss, and 
 carried themselves as if it were but a morbid imagination, 
 thus adding insult to indifference. Under most of the prof- 
 fered advice or consolation I have needed to pray every 
 moment, " Forgive them, they know not what they do," for 
 it all was but afflicting the afflicted. 
 
 My most efficient aid has never come from the rich ; they 
 have made some casual proffer, and soon forgot it, leaving 
 me more distressed than before it was made. From the 
 but moderately well off, from the widow in straitened cir- 
 cumstances, the best help has come. They have been more 
 ready to divide their little, than the rich to give out of such 
 an abundance that they would never feel or miss the charity 
 bestowed, if that be a charity which costs neither sacrifice 
 nor self-denial. 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. 2^ 
 
 The friends of life's darker dav8 will never he forijotten : 
 they enahle one to think hetter of human nature ; tliat there 
 are a few here and there who are drawn rather than repelled 
 by adversity ; who show a practical belief in the Bible, 
 which says, '' Remember the poor,'' rather than in the Ko- 
 ran, which says, " Deal with the fortunate." 
 
 But it may be said in this style of living there was no 
 provision for incidental expenses or contingencies, and no 
 one can live long without encountering these. Very true ; 
 when my gate-fastenings were stolen (or when they evapo- 
 rated, or the wind blew them away), I tied it together with 
 strings ; when the shed rained down too hard in one spot, I 
 moved the wood-pile to another (fortunately it never took 
 more than live minutes) ; when thirty shot-holes were put 
 throui^h a front window bv some wanton hand, I closed the 
 blinds and lee it go ; when the plastei'ing dropped down in 
 the rooms, I pasted patches of cloth over the bare brown 
 lathes. No money now for repairs. Such jobs must lay 
 over till " my ship came in.'' 
 
 I was often told in these years that I must not look on the 
 dark side, but pray and trust, and all would be well. \ 
 noticed the persons who were so ready with this advice were 
 such as had ample means to meet all their necessary expen- 
 ses and provide for contingencies. With well-tilled stomachs, 
 well-stored pantries, well-roofed dwellings, they came where 
 all these things were wanting, and complacently, reproving- 
 ly, bade poverty and pain " Look on the bright side, be re- 
 signed, trust and pray." I recoiled from them with inex- 
 pressible horror. I was as one stricken dumb. I don't 
 know as any prayer passed my lips for months, beyond aii 
 agonized groan, and I did not know what trust and resigna- 
 tion meant. 1 did not think about these things. Life was 
 paralyzed. There were many who w^ould say, " If you want 
 anything, let us know." It is needless to say I never wanted 
 anything on that invitation. Thus they would compel me 
 to; the asking of perpetual doles. There was acute suffer- 
 ino- in the most sensitive faculties, and for honorable rea- 
 
I 
 
 24 HALF A DIME A DAY. 
 
 sons. One who has no pride or ambition, no proper con- 
 sideration for his standing in society, and would as soon 
 hang lielpless on the hands of others as strive for his own 
 support, would not be W(>rthy the name of man. There 
 had been such a wrench and revoUuiou in affairs that all my 
 life-long habits and ways were changed, and I didn't know 
 myself, or the world I was in. I even apprehended that 
 real estate might become unreal beneath my feet ; if the 
 walls of my house had shattered down into a pile of jack- 
 straws, 1 don't know as I should have been surprised, so 
 overwhelming on me was the uncertainty, the evanescent 
 nature of all sublunaiy things. One and another prayed for 
 my fortune to come back. I should just as soon have 
 thoui^ht of praying for my mother to come back. They 
 said I must ask God to take my pain away. I don't think 
 I ever did ; though I had no formula of words, the burden 
 of my spirit was, " Make me like to thee, O Saviour." 1 
 was to pray for daily bread, and I had it ; but the loaf did 
 not drop down from the sky, and as I opened the window 
 come in and take its seat on the table before me. No 
 miraculous manna was mine. God did not feed me by 
 direct miracle. None the less did he teed me, however, be- 
 cause he did it through the action of powers and faculties 
 implanted in my nature. Continuance, perseverence he 
 stirred up to put forth utmost endeavor. Through self-de- 
 nial and arithmetic I got my daily food. I believe in a 
 special divine Providence, but that it works within the 
 sphere oi natural and social laws, and emph)ys them. 
 
 " But you could make no provision for sickness on forty 
 dollars a year," says one. That is true, but people who live 
 with such severe simplicity will not be as liable to acute dis- 
 orders as those who are more self-indulgent. Fevers, pneu- 
 monias, summer complaints, I felt no apprehension of, and 
 thev did not visit me. I had nervous debility, heart diffi- 
 
 a/ 
 
 culty, and the crippled arm. This arm would have felt more 
 comfortable if 1 could have had spirits to bathe it in, but 
 this 1 could not afford. Had any severe illness befallen, I 
 
HALF A DIMK A DAY. 
 
 25 
 
 must liHve inurtgaged the house to pay bills. But mine 
 were old chronic diseases that doctors or medicines could 
 not much beneiit, nor was I useful enough to iustity much 
 outlay. 
 
 Thus I got along, with no end of blame, criticism, and 
 misrepresentation. What person ever has capacity to com- 
 prehend another? or will make any candid endeavor to 
 realize another's situation, and intelligently see and admit 
 what they can and what they cannot do as they are placed 'I 
 People are absorbed in their own affairs, and their judg- 
 ments of others are very superficial, very unjust often, 
 based on no correct understanding of the circumstances 
 which environ the life of the individual they arraign and 
 condemn, perhaps. They take full cognizance of whatever 
 comes within the sphere of their own interests and desires, 
 but other people, with far different views and aspirations, 
 they do not comprehend. They are strange, there is some- 
 thing wrong about them. 
 
 " Where might be your home, Mr. V' asked a back-country 
 woman of a traveller who called at her door. 
 
 " Boston, madam," was the polite response. 
 
 '• Dear, dear, what makes you live so yar off?" was the 
 pitying rejoinder. 
 
 So people that differ widely from our ideas and pursuits 
 we regard as '' far off'," and are inclined to look on with a 
 sort of condescending pity, though theirs should be the 
 privileged city, while ours is but the rude or barren wilder- 
 ness. 
 
 " Take every one's advice, and then do as you please," 
 says somebody. I had to do so. Everybody advised me to 
 eat my house. How was it possible to accept such advice ( 
 I was not a rat or squirrel, and had not the requisite mas- 
 ticating apparatus. I used to wish I could eat the barn 
 sometimes ; if it had been built of bread instead of boards, 
 a considerable portion of it would be wanting now, I doubt 
 not, for there were some long, dreadful months of which I 
 speak not at all. But to sell my buildings in order that 1 
 
26 HALF A DIME A DAY. 
 
 might eat pound-cake, when I could peacefully inhabit them 
 with my pot of oatmeal, what a shameful, inglorious thing 
 to do ! How should I ever be able to look my parents in 
 the face hereafter? The old house was all there was left; 
 a shelter, a hiding-place, for I was as some hunted creature 
 driven to bay. If I could bear to live, how could I bear to 
 die elsewhere 'i 1 had great love of locality, and my ad- 
 hesiveness was as hoops of steel. With the forces of my 
 nature at their best, I doubt if I could have summoned up 
 resolution to dissever myself from the old place. Now I 
 did not entertain such a thouirht. 
 
 There was a pathetic tale in one of my papers, at this 
 time, of two sisters who had lived past middle age in a cer- 
 tain room of the house in which they were born. They 
 kept every article of furniture standing just where it had 
 stood when they were little children growing up with their 
 mother. They supported themselves by hand-sewing ; at 
 length machines came and cut them off; they could get no 
 work. One of them fell ill, the other got worn out taking 
 care of her, and the wolf was upon them. The overseer of 
 the poor went and said it was no use trying to keep along 
 any further ; they must sell off what they had, and go to the 
 almshouse to be supported. The sister who told the pitiful 
 tale said she guessed the man didn't mean to be unkind, 
 but he spoke in a hard way ; she supposed he couldn't know 
 what their feelings were ; and after he was gone, the younger 
 sister, who had been nursing the invalid one, went wild, walk- 
 ed round and round the room, touching each precious article 
 of furniture, whispering: to herself and wringing her hands. 
 The sick one cried herself to sleep, and when she awoke her 
 faithful nurse was gone. After three days she was found 
 afar off among some desolate hills, but reason had left her. 
 She just moaned, ^' Don't let them take away my mother's 
 little table ; don't let them break us up and send us to the 
 poorhouse." 
 
 Some ^humane people were at length moved to save the 
 few articles of furniture, and make a provision by which the 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. 27 
 
 pair could have a hmnble room to themselves, with the 
 things they prized so much around them. But the help 
 came too late to one of tiie poor sisters; seasonably given, 
 it might have saved her from breaking dc>wn. She was 
 never herself again, but lived years in a harmless insanity, 
 and the elder one, who took patient care of her, said, '* 1 
 suppose it is too bad in me, but sometimes I can but think 
 how different it all miiiht have been if onlv some one had 
 found out our need and helped a little before poor Harriet 
 broke down." 
 
 Ah, yes; if people would not let their good deeds lag, 
 and give the little lift, the small help, at the right moment, 
 which means so much before and so little after the Harriets 
 of the world break down, how large an amount of suffering 
 might be spared. 
 
 This pathetic tale made a deep impression on my mind in 
 my present circumstances. Were I reduced to the condition 
 of this hapless Harriet, I should have no sister to take care 
 of me. I believe from sheer inability to act I remained 
 quiescent at this time, and my ears were pained by reproaches 
 uttered and reproaches implied. T^o one looked beyond my 
 physical well being, and this had quite dropped out of sight 
 with me. It depressed and distressed me to hear it named.' 
 I was dragged down and set to complaining by people's 
 words. When left to myself I maintained for the most part 
 a much better frame of mind. There were moments when 
 1 sunk utterly down, and cried, " Oh, but to see for an hour 
 the world wear its wonted look ; to have the burden lifted ; 
 t<) have wiped out the memory of cruel wrong ; to feel I've 
 enough for all my own wants and to help others ; that there 
 need be no more struggle or anxiety; and then to die be- 
 fore the dread reality is rolled back on me." 
 
 But these were moods, the fluctuations of feeling not at 
 my control while the mind staggered under a succession of 
 severe shocks.. There would be the ebb and flow of courage 
 and resolution. My constructive faculty was a help and 
 comfort ; it kept me occupied planning and devising ways 
 
2S HALF A DIME A DAY. 
 
 and means of getting along. Then I would read something 
 that tended to moral growth and improvement of character, 
 and ponder and meditate upon it. It seemed to me as if I 
 was managing with my mind as a mother will sometimes 
 manage with a child that inclines to an object hurtful and 
 dangerous, by coaxing off its attention in other directions, 
 and fixing it on objects it may safely enjoy. I had also a 
 certain power of concentration which I had held in much 
 disesteem heretofore ; it often made me ap))ear abstracted 
 and moody. But now it was one of my best friends, as 1 
 could, after a brief conflict, become absorbed in the occupa- 
 tion of the hour, and be intently knitting my sale-socks, 
 counting up the proceeds, and thinking what I would buy 
 with the money. I did a dozen pairs in a month by great 
 industry, and got two dollars. This 1 could not do all the 
 time, owing to my painful, crippled arm. The work was 
 furnished me by a Shaker society. These " peculiar people'' 
 were very kind to me in many generous and thoughtful 
 ways. There was a sweet *' Sister Mary," a poetess, skilled 
 to make graceful and excellent gifts. She furnished me 
 with all the tea 1 had for years. 1 am not an habitual in- 
 dulger in the herb ; coffee I do not use ; chocolate but occa- 
 sionally. Luckil}^ I was brought up on cold water, which 
 is my favorite and accustomed beverage still. These Sliaker 
 Sisters of Charity carried me through one dark, dreadful 
 time of sickness, destitution, and neglect. I shall ever 
 remember them with emotions of gratitude and respect. 
 Dr. Warner has sharply arraigned the sect. Their way of 
 life seems harmless, if eccentric. Of their doctrines I can- 
 not say more than this : " The tree is known by its fruits/" 
 They are a people of eminent cleanliness, industry, kind- 
 ness, virtue, and good deeds, and this is no contemptible 
 record, nor one that any person need blush for. Their man- 
 ners and customs may invite some harmless criticism, but to 
 enjoy their hospitality, and then make their peculiarities the 
 target for public satire and ridicule, seems ungenerous and 
 iingentlemanly. 
 
 I 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. 29 
 
 But to resume my narrative : in my humiliation and low- 
 estate I would have hailed with joy, as I have said before, 
 any benevolent work, had there been an opening for one so 
 poor and reduced as myself. I languished most of all be- 
 cause I could do nothino^ to help an^^body ; the cruelest 
 thing in the loss of property was that 1 had nothing more 
 to give, no means to aid others. I was not renowned for 
 prudential morality ; folks would tell nie I must be more 
 sellish — was it not awful ? Surely it was. T hope I never 
 heeded them, but doubtless I did. 
 
 So at length the summing up of the whole story is, I have 
 got along on forty dollars per annum for a number of years, 
 and sustained sufficient vitality for a recluse, inactive life; 
 a crippled invalid could not well lead any other. I have a 
 few household articles held in reserve against emergencies : 
 the best things, however, were parted with in my darkest 
 time. As to clothing, I hardly need more than two wrap- 
 pers in a year, and may reasonably hope to retain the red- 
 checkered tablecloths to fall back upon in case of necessity. 
 Of them 1 can fashion a warm-weather gown that will last 
 and outlast a good many seasons, and for a winter garment 
 a widow has promised to sell me for a trifle a large coverlet 
 with some mouse-holes knawed in it. It is of coarse cotton, 
 with overshot bars of woolen, such as were woven by our 
 grandmothers. It is not indigo-blue-and-white, as were 
 many coverlets of this period, but chocolate-and-white, of 
 medium sized plaids. This I purpose to d3'e of a dark color, 
 and convert into a cold-weather dress, if need be. I was 
 always taught to have some foresight for the future. As to 
 shoes, I've still enough of the fulled cloth of the old over- 
 coat of my father's to supply me a lifetime. Bonnets don't 
 signify, as I have. practically demonstrated by successfully 
 repudiating them for the space of four years. So I am 
 provided with clothing for an indefinite period to come. 1 
 do not see as I need to spend fifty cents in five, perhaps in 
 ten years, should I live so long, to help procure any neces- 
 sary article of dress. So I may lay by enough to patch the 
 
3© HALF A DIME A DAY. 
 
 leaky roof and putty the most clattering glass into the most 
 clatteiing windows. I ought to be able to hold my own on 
 reading, and have an extra dollar or two for charity. 
 
 1 do not say my tastes and aspirations are gratified in this • 
 stern, severe life. No, they are all, or nearly all, sacriiiced. 
 My eye hungers : if by chance I get a glimpse of some rare 
 picture, or other " thing of beauty," a great pan^j convulses 
 me ; for the world of art is and must be an unknown world 
 to me. Only the few familiar views in nature round my 
 low valley home may my eyes behold ; the changing sea- 
 sons make the sole variety. My ear hungers for all sweet 
 sounds. I hear but nature's music — the birds in summer, 
 the roaring winds in winter. I read of other lands than 
 ours : from the printed page alone must I draw my knowl- 
 edge of them. I shall never see grand old England, beau- 
 tiful France, wild Switzerland, classic Greece, sacred Pales- 
 tine. It had been the dearest hope of my life to some time 
 know them by the seeing of the eye ; the tears come, the 
 heart aches, as it cries, " What loss, what loss." I was the 
 most enthusiastic traveller ; my delight mounted into 
 ecstasy. I was unconscious of fatigue and above annoyance. 
 Art and beauty were as thrones whereon I walked in supreme 
 exaltation. But these were lost delights; the hand I had 
 deemed so trusty was scattering my few^ thousands when I 
 knew it not, and all had been gone beyond retrieval years 
 before it was suffered to come to my knowledge. 
 
 But my wants grow fewer and simpler as to the body ; 
 the mind is just as clamorous as ever ; it is the humored 
 child that has got the upper hand. I keep the magazines, 
 and get now' and then a new book. All my reading is 
 valuable, and will thus bear going over again and again. My 
 relish is keen and vigorous. I have reason to thank God 
 every day that he gave me a taste for reading, as this one 
 taste J am able to gratify in a measure. Sometimes I think 
 it has been my salvation from total wreck and imbecility of 
 mind ; it was my one solace and relief in darkest times, 
 and the love and gratitude I bear those authors whose words 
 
HALF A DIME A DAY. 3J 
 
 gave me sustaining support, and inspired to hope and en- 
 deavor, are the deepest and most cherished feeh'ngs of my 
 heart. Pre-eminent among them are Mr. Beecher, Phillips 
 Brooks, Whittier, and Dr. Holland. I pometimes dream 1 
 see and converse with them so pleasantly ; these dream-land 
 interviews are more heartening than those with real flesh 
 and blood often, for the vail seems to be done away in them. 
 There is perfect clearness and comprehension. But let me 
 not incur the charge of mysticism, foi- I am in truth the 
 most real and practical creature, only given to moods now 
 and then. Who is not? 
 
 My fortune has not returned ; my loss has not been made 
 up to me in any worldly sense ; I have not escaped poverty ; 
 I have only disarmed it, in a measure, and that by letting go 
 of lower things and reaching up to higher. 1 never loved 
 shams, or was good at feigning what I did not feel. Gen- 
 teel worldlings complained of my bluntness. It is not pos-. 
 sible for me to make an appearance in society, but if I thus 
 lose much, I feel I also escape nmch; there are many evil 
 things in society. Mine is a sincere and real life, sitting 
 loose to time, and looking serenely towards eternity. Dark 
 things, mysterious things, as touching the conduct of others 
 towards me in days of sorest need and trouble, have per- 
 plexed and pained my mind — have been beyond the bitter- 
 ness of death to my soul. When the secrets of all hearts 
 are revealed these things shall be made plain. 
 
 Wealth brings great responsibilities; I do not suppose I 
 should have known how to administer it wisely and well. 
 But mine was only a competence, and the chief comfort of 
 my life was gone when 1 no longer had it to deal out from as 
 I could in benevolent ways. T only wish I had given more 
 while 1 could. 
 
 But words like these are idle. What is gone cannot be 
 retrieved. I have tried and succeeded in maintaining a 
 tolerable independence on forty dollars for a term of years, 
 and am encouraged to hope I may be able thus to do to the 
 end. 
 
32 
 
 HALF A DIME A PAY. 
 
 If tliis recital is deetned indelicate, I am most imliai)py it 
 I leave the impression that I obtrude on the public a tale of 
 loss and need after the fashion of a beggar. This is not a 
 polite or an impolite solicitation of alms. It is a declara- 
 tion ot independence rather— I don't know but a proud 
 one. I dare not say it is not egotism, but it is the egotism 
 of humble things— even of oatmeal and home-made woolen 
 Bhoee, ^' ^* • 
 
KJ 
 
 NDANT 
 
 -I 
 
 I 
 
PREFAI^OTll 
 
 r 
 
 Thi8 Pokm was used acceptabh' as a Lecture, till loss «)f health 
 prevented the author from going abroad with it, and is published by 
 request of friends who wished to retain it in more permanent form. 
 
 L. H M 
 
•- • -• 
 
 •• For so an entranci* shall l>e ministered unto you abundantly into the evcrUu^tinjj 
 kint;dom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ." 2 Peter 1:11. 
 
 There rose a stately mansion on a fashionable street. 
 
 In all the proud regalia of wealth it stood complete ; 
 
 The bigli brick walls looked as if they might any shock endure. 
 
 Against all common menace there life would be secure. 
 
 'Twi.xt bronzed lions on the porch the owner went and came, 
 A man of wealth, position, influence, by common fame : 
 From small beginnings he had won his way to this renown, 
 AVhate'er 'tis worth, that he was "one of the heaviest men in town." 
 
 In two ways heavy : as to purse and person, short and stout. 
 Priding himself that he had quite an aristocratic gout, 
 Wiiich made it prudent he a plethoric supper should forego. 
 Which he did, saying piously, "Self denial's good for the flesh, you 
 know." 
 
 This man sat over the register in his parlor grand and fair, 
 
 With a purse-proud, consequential, no-trouble-can-catch-me air ; 
 
 'Gainst wreck and ruin, disaster, misfortune, woe. I'm proof, 
 
 Such ugly shapes, such untoward things, "come not beneath my roof." 
 
 When he heard the name of a friend that embarked with him in the 
 
 world's hot strife, 
 He would ask, as he blandly stroked his beard. " Has he had success in 
 
 life ^" 
 And if it was answered back, " Success ! He's as rich as a silver 
 
 mine !" 
 Our rich man would smile his sweetest, and say, " I shall ask him home 
 
 to dine. 
 
4 ABUNDANT ENTRANCK. 
 
 '' I remember how as a little chap he'd have the best end in a trade. 
 He could always hold his own, and knew, as a boy, how money was 
 
 made ; 
 I'm not surprised to know as a man he's made in the world his mark. 
 And has his live-storied mansion in midst of a splendid park. 
 
 "But his morals are none of the best, 'tis said ; his charities seldom 
 
 used — 
 "Ah, gossip and scandal— the rich are always criticised and abused 
 B}^ the envious poor, the spiritless ones, who haven't the pluck or grit 
 To build their own fortunes, and snarl at all who have the skill and 
 
 wit." 
 
 On the rich man's walls hung gems of art from over oceans wide ; 
 There rose the fair white castles of the Adriatic's bride, 
 There glowed the warmth and brightness of fair Italian skies. 
 There marbles, vases, and antiques, held captive cultured eyes. 
 
 Rare books in costly bindings in lengthened rows appear, 
 The quiet scholar might delight to pass a lifetime here ; 
 But the lord of this domain, so rich, extensive, and complete. 
 Read but the news and business items in the daily sheet. 
 
 Through gold-bowed spectacles he read of financial failures broad, 
 
 In self-secure serenity of another stupendous fraud ! 
 
 For his own unharmed prosperity he gave a sigh of relief, 
 
 " But folks that leave things at loose ends deserve to come to grief." 
 
 •'He was always cautious, prudent — well, pretty far-sighted, too — 
 Always watched men with sharpness — served^ his own interests true; 
 No visions or schemes or lottery risks e're worried him as he slept ; 
 He got his gains in honest ways, and what he got he kept." 
 
 Thus he became a lord of wealth, the way was simple and plain, 
 If he had his life to live over he could do the same thing again ; 
 So there the rich man stroked his beard in his gorgeous, gilded bovver. 
 Saying, "See how money brings ease and safety, independence and 
 power !" 
 
 With all his wealth he had a greed and craving after more ; 
 
 When a relative lost the money she for age had laid in store, 
 
 He said, "If she'd give him the farm she had left, he'd see her safely 
 
 through. 
 She should have a chamber furnished in oak, looking out on the avenue.'' 
 
 This man held rent-rolls, mortgages, bank stock and bonds in piles. 
 Masses of people fawned on him with sycophantic smiles ; 
 He owned a pew in a splendid church, with cushions in velvet case. 
 And thither he walked in broadcloth with a sanctimonious face. 
 
ABUNDANT ENTRANCK. 5 
 
 And the parsou understood his part and gracefully wory the curb. 
 Xo vociferous tones his wealthy patron's decorous nap to disturb ! 
 No animadverting on sin and self, but a mild, engaging look — 
 He never read of Dives and Lazarus from the Holy Book ! 
 
 And as the rich man and liis wife walked home in silken sheen, 
 He spoke of " the minister's eloquence and gracefulness of mien ; 
 His learning vast, his doctrine sound beyond all preachers in town. 
 And to secure him he had paid an extra thousand down !" 
 
 " Nothing to boast of ; 'twas his way always to buy the best ; 
 To help build up the church he paused not to be urged or prest ; " 
 But the odor of the rich man's sanctity was not too fine. 
 Nor unto books or knowledge or grace did he incline. 
 
 Nay, he murdered the king's English in his eftbrts to converse ; 
 
 If he tried to be agreeable, his luck was even worse ! 
 
 His pleasantries degenerated into something low, 
 
 To call to modesty's white cheek the red blood's crimson glow. 
 
 Had this man to whom dollars gave dignity been numbered among thr 
 
 poor, 
 He would have been reckoned by one and all a vulgar, ill-mannered 
 
 boor ; 
 But now he was just " eccentric, a trifle quaint and queer ; 
 He'd a right to be on an income of fifty thousand a year !" 
 
 Down back of the splendid avenue was the poorest kind of a cot, 
 
 In the window a flowering jasmine in a bit of broken pot ; 
 
 Here lived a widow and mother on wiiat her hands could glean, 
 
 By going to the house of the rich man on Mondays to wash and clean. 
 
 Sometimes as .she brushed the specks of dust from the parlor's frescoed 
 
 wall. 
 Her sunken eye in a passing gaze on the works of art would fall, 
 A sudden light would a moment flash, and a tear unbidden roll, 
 As a tremor of the compressed lip spoke the hunger of the soul. 
 
 But the rich man never thought of her in her humbleness and need, 
 
 Save as a luckless, spiritless one, not smart enough to succeed ; 
 
 He threw her her dole when the work was done, and so this was never 
 
 missed, 
 He thought no more of the poor creature than if she did not e.xist. 
 
 Why should he think of one like her ? "All people have their place. 
 Some hold their own and march ahead, while others lag in the race ; 
 Some are maudlin in capacity, some lazy, and idle, and shirk, 
 But the man who builds a fortune deserves to enjoy his work." 
 
6 ABUNDANT ENTRANCE. 
 
 Thus pondered and spake the rich man, unruffled by harrowing fears, 
 [n the amplitude of affluence and his well-kept sixty years, 
 As 'twixt the bronzed lions at eve he stood and the scene surveyed. 
 And said in the pride of life, " No blight on this home shall be laid !" 
 
 " Some men are rash and careless, all disaster they invite, 
 
 Hut there's no trouble in keeping things straight if one but manages 
 
 right ; 
 My wealth shall never be swallowed up in the gulf of bankruptc}-^ 
 And death— I'm hale and hearty — that's a long way off from me !" 
 
 So saying, he closed the great hall door that opened towards the street. 
 The gas burned clear, the plushy carpets hushed the tread of his feet ; 
 Enclosed with his own magnificence in those stately walls of brick, 
 A sudden pang seized on his heart, he fell down deathly sick. 
 
 The lights went out. the floor grew cold and hard beneath his frame, 
 He vainly strove to utter one familiar household name, 
 And only the poor washing-woman, 'kerchief on her head. 
 And brush in hand to dust the hall, there found him lying dead! 
 
 Then soon the sudden, solemn news swept all the city o'er. 
 And the funereal crape was knotted on to many a door. 
 While the body lay in state beneath the richest of velvet palls, 
 And Italy and the Adriatic wore sable upon the walls. 
 
 I»y pall-bearers in deepest black the casket then was lain 
 
 Within the flower-en wreathed hearse, while long and sumptuous train 
 
 Of carriages, with coal-black steeds, bore the procession slow, 
 
 To lay the bodv in that cool bed all flesh at last shall know. 
 
 And as the funeral cortege was passing beyond view, 
 
 Large groups of men and women flocked along the avenue. 
 
 To gaze with solemn admiration on the grand display. 
 
 And say, '"Tis the grandest funeral we've seen for many a day ! 
 
 " Ah, sudden was the summons to deliver up his breath, 
 But how the rich and great of earth are honored in their death !" 
 One said his "home here was so fair it could hardlj' be outshone 
 By all the light and brilliaticy of heaven's great white thnme." 
 
 Xow I sat by an upper window as the train went by, 
 While all its pomp and sumptuousness passed slow before the eye. 
 And said, "Sure an 'abundant' exit from this life is this ! 
 Mow will it be about the 'entrance* to the bowers of bliss ? 
 
ABUNDANT ENTRANCE. 
 
 " When the broad and pearly portal on its golden hinges opes. 
 Will the choiring bands of 'seraphs fly adown the verdant slopes. 
 With songs and peans of welcome ringing sweetly far and clear. 
 To usher in the man who, dying, had such honors here ?" 
 
 And when the casket carefully was lowered to its place, 
 And the procession turned away with sadness in its face. 
 Some new power lent to sight gave me to see the man that was gone 
 Take up the still march from the grave in silence and alone. 
 
 At first he had the lordly tread, the consequential air. 
 That in the circles where he moved on earth he used to wear ; 
 The rich man still, engirt with power, prestige, and splendor great. 
 And confident of grand reception at the upper gate. 
 
 But as he trod the narrow path clear outlined to my view, 
 I could not long conceal the fact that he small and smaller grew; 
 And lost, moreover, the serene, assured, expectant air, 
 Seemed rather loath to reach the gate, than longing to be there. 
 
 When he at length the portal gained, it stood there closed and grim, 
 Oped not with smiles, as doors on earth ere opened unto him ; 
 A shadow of himself was left, which worked its slow way in. 
 But no singing or outshining did this meagre "entrance" win. 
 
 And then through mournful days in the great sumptuous mansion, 
 
 whence 
 The owner was so sudden called by a strange providence, 
 Were heard the voices of the rich who came to sympathize. 
 And say the " dear deceased had g(me to God in Paradise." 
 
 The relatives, from places far, a sad and lingering throng. 
 Proud of their claim, if slender, to such aflHuence to belong, 
 Bore down with heavier burdens, till strength at last o'ertried. 
 The poor widow, the faithful servant, sank 'neath them and died. 
 
 Then consternation seized the mistress, thus again to be crossed ; 
 And lose the trusty servant just when she was needed most ; 
 But the orphaned boy— on the plain coffin sat the jasmine-pot — 
 Followed his mother ou foot alone to the poor people's lot. 
 
 Gazing from out my window I beheld this poor boy go. 
 Weeping along the lileak, bare street, his shoes out at the toe, 
 While careless persons passing saw the scant and meagre train, 
 And said, " Some heir of poverty has got through with the pain."' 
 
8 ABUNDANT ENTRANCE. 
 
 But memory hurried me away to a long-gone-by time, 
 
 When this woman, going to lier grave, stood bright in life's glad prime, 
 
 With friends and hopes and prospects as fair as any spread 
 
 Round the inmates of that mansion where late she dropped down dead. 
 
 The only child of tender i)arents, reared with culturing care, 
 Gifted with powers beyond her sex, of taste and beauty rare ; 
 Her young hand skilled to use the pencil in the work of art, 
 Dowered as few are ever dowered with gifts of mind and heart. 
 
 And when the doting parents descended to the grave, 
 They left their child a competence of all that heart could crave ; 
 While she, with tiue beneficence, became a friend in need 
 To all that she could succor and relieve by generous deed. 
 
 Some years she thus dispensed her charities with modest grace. 
 In many a heart won for herself an enviable place, 
 Till crafty ones laid hands upon her lovely cottage home. 
 And cast her forth in penury through a cold world to roam. 
 
 Hut one true heart acknowledged her its choicest and its best, 
 And they twain by close industry builded a little nest ; 
 Vines clambered o'er the porch, and pictures on the low walls hung. 
 O'er the cradle the young mother-bird her sweetest carols sung. 
 
 One day the clarion call of war rang through the loyal land, 
 And the hus])aud buckled on his sword to join the patriot baud ; 
 The wife choked down the rising sob, and tried hard not to mourn, 
 Though feeling in her heart of hearts her lord would ne'er return. 
 
 Nor did he ; and she never knew on what dread field he fell, 
 Or if his bones found sepulchre no one returned to tell ; 
 But from the fearful stroke she rallied, thinking of her boy. 
 Her every power and energy for his sake to employ. 
 
 For a few years she fought the battle with a spirit brave, 
 Hoping her little dovecote from the sw'oop of want to save. 
 And then her strength forsook her, and in despairing mood 
 She sold the pictures from her walls to buy her daily food. 
 
 When all was gone, the neighbors bore her on a tattered bed 
 To the poor hut, scarce better than a rickety woodshed : 
 Of friends and home, with all its needed comforts so bereft. 
 Her little boy and the flowering jasmine, all that she had left. 
 
 And then to name the woes that came would drive a kind heart wild ; 
 She would have ended her own life if it had not been for the child ; 
 To feed and clothe her baby boy she worked when like to sink. 
 For him love hardness, insolence, on which slic dared not think. 
 
ABUNDANT ENTRANCE. ^ 
 
 Ofttimes the little one was tucked snug in the tattered bed, 
 While she went forth in the night time, storms beating on her head. 
 To watch beside some invalid less needing such close care, 
 Than the frail, tottering form that kept the midnight vigil there. 
 
 At last she found the rich man's house upon the avenue. 
 
 And the mistress said, " So nice a girl for work she never knew ; 
 
 So quiet, unobtrusive, refined in all her ways, 
 
 So much like a person who had once known better days." 
 
 And when the patient servant went home from toil at nicht 
 She carried in her saddened eye a faint gleam of delight. 
 As she told to her little boy of paintings rich and rare, 
 And other gems of art that decked the rich man's parlors fair. 
 
 And bow her poor heart hungered for all that she had not, 
 While tears fell from the weary eyes into the jasmine-pot ; 
 Things beautiful were unto her as life and health and power. 
 But her home was in a hovel, with but one pale jasmine-flower. 
 
 The very fineness of the gifts with which she was endowed 
 Unfitted her for contact with the rude and jostling crowd ; 
 Her rare, rich tastes went famishing through days of want so long. 
 With every hour embittered by a crushing sense of wrong. 
 
 In all the say and busy world she did no station fill. 
 
 Yet to the pure and beautiful her soul was all a thrill ; 
 
 Why she should be denied the things she would so highly prize. 
 
 Was mystery inscrutable to her weak, earth-bound eyes. 
 
 "What have I done V" tllus this poor creature would sometimes ask, 
 
 'tis true, 
 "That I can't have, like the millionaire, a house on the avenue. 
 All filled with works of genius, the richest spoils of art. 
 To charm the eye of culture, hold spell-bound mind and heart ?" 
 
 She bore along the waste of years such ruthless memories 
 As robbed the few hours snatched from toil of restfulness and ease : 
 The falsity, the slights, the woes want brings in endless train. 
 Known but to those who have themselves endured the cruel pain. 
 
 Her heart, refined and .sensitive, and timid as the roe. 
 Shrank, wounded, from coarse contact with the vulgar and the low ; 
 Her ear, that all sweet harmonies to rapture might have stirred. 
 Smarted beneath the scorching touch of ribald jest and word. 
 
lO ABUNDANT ENTRANCE. 
 
 (Jft when she saw her little one in freaks of childish joy, 
 She'd thank the heavenly Father her darling was a boy ; 
 For thus his lot might be less hard, but better that he die 
 Than live to cause the widow and the fatherless to sigh. 
 
 Had this poor child of want been told that in the mansions fair 
 A radiant crown awaited her which she ere long sliould wear, 
 She would have said with listless look, "I care not for a crown," 
 And she'd have bartered it, if she could, for bread and a decent gown ! 
 
 Had the rich been told this child of want would wear a diadem 
 
 In splendor far outshining earth's brightest gold and gem, 
 
 They would have said, '* 'Twill ill become and set with most ill grace 
 
 Above that haggard, hollow, much-marred, and careworn face." 
 
 They could not know how one soft wave from the sea of heavenly rest 
 Might lave the lines of care away so deeply there impressed, 
 And leave the poor, jiiuched face more fair, more lovely and serene, 
 Than all of fairest loveliness this earth hath ever seen. 
 
 All life was pain and woe to her, her food but scant and coarse. 
 Against her sore besetments she beat with tailing force, 
 .\nd when one extra burden was added to the rest, 
 The fluttering breath departed from her worn and weary breast. 
 
 And as I saw the rude wagon jaunt towards the churchyard gate, 
 I said, "In this sad world of ours mysterious is fate ; 
 But yesterday the rich man's obsequies, in pomp and pride, 
 And now the rough pine coffin hastes its poverty to hide." 
 
 But while I gazed again, that power was given to my eyes 
 By which they looked along the pathway leading to the skies ; 
 The}^ saw a shape as of a thin-clad woman rise to view, 
 And wearily commence the march up towards the ether blue. 
 
 So wearily, so shrinkingly, she started on her way, 
 I looked to see her sink to earth in languor and dismay ; 
 But still she tottered on and on, until at length I saw 
 Her line of march a better grace and more precision draw. 
 
 When she set out the way was rough, the sky heavy and dark, 
 But the path grew smoother, and I heard the song of a skylark 
 Singing afar aloft, as 'twere from out a love-lit home ; 
 Then turning towards the woman, a change o'er her had come. 
 
ABUNDANT ENTRANCE. I I 
 
 A gracefulness wUs on the garb where poverty had been, 
 A freer movement of the frame, a livelier look and mien ; 
 A kindling light within the eye, on lip a dawning smile, 
 Sky growing ever brighter, lark singing sweeter the while. 
 
 Until at length far upward a city I descried, 
 
 Oh, fairer than fair Venice, the Adriatic's bride ; 
 
 The splendor of the vision made me withdraw my gaze. 
 
 And I said, "This shrinking woman will falter with amaze !" 
 
 Then all the air grew vocal with songs too sweet to tell. 
 And when my eyes again upon the poor lone traveller fell, 
 What wondrous transformation was wrought in one short hour. 
 Wherein both soul and body burst into glorious flower. 
 
 Then I saw shining seraphs fly o'er a crystal gate, 
 With glad impatience on their brows, as if they ill could wait 
 The arrival of the traveller for whom their fair hands hold 
 The palm of victory, the harp, the crown of shining gold. 
 
 Once more I glanced towards the voyager, saying, "Surely now 
 There'll be some look of vague alarm upon that shrinking brow ; 
 On earth she was so poor and crushed ;" but I heard a glad, free tone 
 Sing, "Oh, the bliss of finding — I'm coming to my own ! 
 
 "They know me, and I know them ; farewell to earth and woe, 
 Here's purity and beauty, the things I loved below ; 
 The poverty was accident, all that is left behind. 
 Forgotten now for ever in the bliss of immortal mind. 
 
 " Oh, joy ! my tireless footsteps shall scale the heavenly mount, 
 My soul shall drink in knowledge at the unfailing fount ! 
 My eyes feast on such glories as earth has never known. 
 Oh, the bliss of finding— I'm coming to my own ! 
 
 " The songs that long lay buried deep down in my heart's deep well, 
 And which there ne'er was given me the power on earth to tell. 
 The lips that bore repression and the seal of silence long, 
 Glad utterance is coming ; oh ! they're bursting into song !" 
 
 Wide swung the pearly portals to the throngs of seraphs fair. 
 Waving their soft white shapely hands in the sweet perfumed air ; 
 From o'er the crystal battlements glad strams of music rung. 
 As if all heaven's inhabitants in one glad chorus sung ! 
 
12 
 
 AF'.UNDANT EN' 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 014 180 269 V 
 
 Again I saw my traveller, but she faltered not a pace, 
 Her whole form shone at every moment with new added grace ; 
 She took the palm of victory, the harp, with outstretched hand. 
 And wore her crown as queenly as an> seraph of the band. 
 
 Then all the angel groups fell backward in a circling ring, 
 And bade the new comer "Go forward, hasten to the King ; 
 lie waiteth to receive you before the great white throne. 
 As one by poverty and woe stamped as his very own." 
 
 ** But wont she fear the inner glories of this heavenly place ?" 
 
 I ([uestioned ; but a softer lustre now bedewed her face, 
 
 As straight her footsteps passed the portal to the shout, "All hail !" 
 
 A\ud, " Welcome home, my daughter, you're safe within the vail." 
 
 Then I thought how grand the exit on the rich man's funeral day, 
 And how he less and lesser grew upon the shining wa,y ; 
 And of the shrinking woman in her coffin of pine wood, 
 Who now a crowned seraph before her Saviour stood. 
 
 Then knew 1 wliat "abundant entrance" into heaven meant. 
 And felt I cared not how obscure my days on earth were spent ; 
 How bare of costly equipage I was borne to the tomb. 
 So I gained •* abundant entrance" to the bowers of endless bloom, 
 
 L. H. M. 
 
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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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