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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES

 
 y 
 
 ^
 
 A BOOK 
 
 > FOR 
 
 THE HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 Home Happiness. 
 
 Twenty-third Thotisand. 
 
 LONDON: JAEEOLD AND SONS, 
 
 12, PATEENOSTER KOW.
 
 ■XyMtt!"f,"-" 
 
 'Tl* 
 
 
 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 NEVER DESPAIR ! 
 
 HOUSEHOLD TROUBLES, AND HOW TO 
 MEET THEM. 
 
 622S04
 
 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 a 
 
 ARY, give that man a penny !" said 
 John Smith to his wife, as an Italian 
 organ-grinder came before the window, 
 phiying the sad, sweet air, "Home! 
 sweet home !" 
 
 "Would you believe it," continued John, as 
 his wife came in again, " I like that tune better 
 than the grandest one that can be played? It 
 makes me think gladly of our own happy fire- 
 side — our own dear little home. Not a penny 
 will I give to beggars, but I do like to spare one 
 sometimes for a tune." 
 
 " Well, and I'm sure," said Mary, " I got a 
 shilling's worth of pleasure in giving that man the 
 penny. He could not speak a word of English ; 
 but he looked so pleased, it did one good to do 
 him a kindness. That, now, I do call real and 
 hard, to wander about, a stranger in a strange 
 land, playing ' Home ! sweet home !' " 
 
 "Ah!" replied John, " haven't we got reason 
 to be thankful for our better lot? Get your 
 sewing, and sit down, Mary; I want you to help 
 me to think. Whilst the organ-man is tiring his 
 arm over his homely tune, let us try to think over 
 our many home blessings." 
 
 Quiet little Mrs. Smith sat down, and began 
 darning away at a stocking — not, however, at 
 her usual nimble rate, for, as her grave subdued
 
 4 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 look told, lier mind was full of the tlionght John 
 had called up. A sweet picture it was — that good 
 little woman, in the neat pleasant room, with 
 everything around, from puss lazily stretched on 
 the rug to the baby asleep in the cradle, seem- 
 ing suggestive of peace and kindliness, and 
 comfort — while the evening sun-beams came 
 lovingly in to give a gilt frame to the whole. 
 I am not sure whether many grand gentlemen 
 who paint pictures would have cared for such a 
 scene. Indeed, I am almost afraid they would 
 have turned quite contemptuously away, saying, 
 Mary Smith was no beauty, and that the room 
 was only a common front kitchen. I only know, 
 Mary had the loving thoughtful look which tells 
 of the beauty of holiness ; I only know, that the 
 neatness and order of the room told of orderly 
 inmates and a peaceful home life; and I must 
 still say, it Tvas a sweet picture. At any rate, 
 all seemed to the perfect satisfaction of John 
 Smith, as he sat looking at that quiet downcast 
 face. 
 
 " Mary," he said, at length, " do you know 
 what Thursday week is ? Seven years ago come 
 Thursday week we were married. It's of seven 
 years ago I'm thinking — of the old garret in 
 Iloundsditch — the few things wc had there — the 
 low waires— and tliat hard winter. "When 1 think 
 of tliem times, and that home, and tlien of this, 
 1 do feel thankful." And John glanced round 
 the neat snug room, and leaned back in his cliair 
 with a feeling of honest pride and satisfaction, 
 Hucli as can only l)e felt by a working-man who 
 lias got a comfortable home and iifty pounds in 
 the bank by the sweat of his brow, as he had.
 
 ASKING FOR AD\7CE. 5 
 
 TliG quiet was interrupted by a knock at the 
 door, and the entrance of Eben Williams, one 
 of John's fellow- workmen, who, with his wife and 
 two children, lodged in the upper part of the 
 house. 
 
 " Evening-, mate," said Williams ; " may I 
 come in a bit ? I want a word with you — I think 
 you can tell me a thing or two. I want your 
 advice, that's a fact." He paused awkwardly, 
 and a crimson flush passed over his face to the 
 very roots of his hair as he went on. " Fact is, 
 I'm real and miserable. The missus and I don't 
 hit it; somehows or other, ever since we was 
 spliced, things get worse and worse; what's a 
 man to do? Instead of getting richer, we get 
 poorer ; instead of getting happier, we get more 
 miserable. I don't know who's to blame ; but it 
 makes me right down savage often — just now, 
 when that fellow set up a-playing ' Home, sweet 
 home,' I felt ready to fling the bellows at his 
 head." 
 
 " No, no ; gently," said John. " Bat what 
 can we do for you ? I'm sure we'll do anything 
 we can — eh, Mary?" 
 
 " That I'm sure we will." 
 
 " Well, mate, what we want, is your advice. 
 My wife, just before I come down here, says to 
 me, says she, '■ How is it that the Smiths get on 
 so well? He only earns the same as you, and 
 yet see their place — it's better furnished, his 
 children's always better dressed, and all of them 
 seems richer by half than us.' 'Well, bothered 
 if I know, says I. If I don't go down and ask 
 Smith how he manages.' So, here I am; and 
 perhaps while we has a chat, the missus '11 go up
 
 D SOaiETHING HOMELY. 
 
 a bit and tell my wife how to turn a four-penny 
 piece into a sixpence." 
 
 "WeU," said Mary, "I don't know that I'm so 
 good a housekeeper as to set up teaching other 
 folks; but it's true, I'm older than your wife, 
 neighbour, and I had a mother as was one in a 
 thousand to teach me ; so may-be I can tell Jane 
 a thing or two." And after a look at the baby, 
 and a strict charge to John to call her down if it 
 woke, she went upstairs. 
 
 " Now, mate," said Williams, when the two 
 men were alone, " teU me how it is you get on 
 so much better than us — what's your secret? " 
 
 John looked grave, and was silent a minute. 
 "Williams," he said at length, "you know I'm 
 a man of few words, and I'm no preacher ; but 
 if you ask me, I must say the truth, and that is, 
 I know of no reason of the difference between us 
 but one. You remember when we were boys 
 together in Brook Lane Sunday School — your 
 life chances seemed as good as mine then — you 
 remember the things the teacher, him with the 
 pale face, used to tell us. Well, I've never for- 
 gotten them, and sure enough I've found them 
 all true. Whatever of good or of li.ippiness I 
 have, comes of God's blessing on my poor 
 strivings to know and serve Ilini. * Seek first 
 the kingdom of God and His rigliteousness, and 
 all things shall be added unto you.' I can't say 
 all I would, but do tliink of this." 
 
 "Wrll, well," said Williiuns, "I knew you 
 would tell me this; I don't mind a bit of a ser- 
 mon, neither, from you. 1 know you means it 
 kind. But sonieliows this don't seem to tho 
 point. I can't see that any (quantity of psalm-
 
 ADVICE GIVEN. 
 
 singing and prayer-meetings, and sucli like, can 
 make a man's wages go further, or his home 
 more comfortable." 
 
 " Now, Williams, you are only parrotting 
 the infidel sayings you have picked up at the 
 workshop, and you don't believe them all the 
 while. You know as well as I do that religion is 
 not mere ' psalm-singing,' as you lightly call 
 it. You know it's honest manly obedience to 
 God's laws ; and doesn't He teach us to be kind, 
 and thrifty, and industrious? And doesn't all 
 that go to make a man's , home comfortable ? 
 Because we are taught to pray for daily bread, 
 you know it doesn't mean that the bread's going 
 to be rained down from the skies upon us, with- 
 out our ever working a stroke." 
 
 " Well, no — no, not exactly that," said 
 Williams, feeling half-ashamed of his own former 
 speech. 
 
 "Not exactly that! No; nor nothing like 
 that. God helps those who help themselves. 
 We are to work as though we did all, and trust 
 in Him as though He did all. He has given us 
 heads and hands, and expects us to use them. 
 But I need not go on at you about industry ; I'm 
 sure you are as regular at work as I am, or any- 
 body. You take every chance to earn an honest 
 penny ; it's seldom you lose a quarter, anybody 
 knows. But keeping to work is not all, though 
 that's a great thing. There are some folks who 
 are always work, work, working, from morning 
 to night, from week's end to week's end, and like 
 a mill-horse, never get any farther." 
 
 " Well, how do you account for it ? " said 
 Williams.
 
 8 SOiTETHrNG HOMELY. 
 
 " Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face ; 
 such folks don't know how to take care of their 
 earnings, or to spend them wisely. They are the 
 sort the prophet tells of — they earn wages ' to 
 put them into a bag with holes.' " 
 
 "Ah!" interrupted Williams, bringing his 
 clenched fist heavily on the table, " them words 
 fits me. Why, mate, you might as well try to 
 keep water in a sieve as money in my pocket" ! 
 
 " Well," said John, " you want a lesson in 
 savi7ig. Take this short one: — Two-pence a day 
 saved is £3 a year ; every pot of beer costs two- 
 jience. Many's the man without a penny or a 
 home, who might have had a house of his own 
 and money in the bank, but for too much beer." 
 
 Williams was one of the so-called "good 
 fellows," to whom no amount of beer or public- 
 house company comes amiss ; and he felt John's 
 words keenly — more keenly tlian he chose to 
 show. He merely laughed a forced laugh, and 
 said, 
 
 "Mate, you would make a capital teetotal 
 lecturer." 
 
 John knew he had hit home ; and lie knew 
 Williams' peppery temper too well to hit twice 
 on a tender ])lace. 
 
 " Well, Williams," he continued, leaving beer 
 alone, there's hundreds of other little daily ex- 
 penses as might be saved — little things as make 
 money dribble away, nobody knows how. Tako 
 my advice, and look out for these; set your wife 
 an cxam})le of carefulness. If a man does not 
 help his wife in her struggles to save, he deserves 
 to have an empty pocket."
 
 GOING ON " TICK." 9 
 
 "Ah," said Williams, "little things does run 
 np, 'specially when one goes on tick, and remem- 
 Ler all that is owing." 
 
 "Tick!" exclaimed John, "well, I can only 
 eay, them as go on tick deserve just what they 
 get— always to feel the misery of debt, and to be 
 cheated into the bargain. Trust my Mary for 
 going pottering to the chandler's shop every time 
 she wants a pinch of tea or a scrape of butter ! 
 Not she; she does all her marketing Saturday 
 morning, and goes to that great grocer's shop in 
 Holborn, where she buys a decent quantity at a 
 time, pays ready money, and so gets things 
 cheaper and better. As for debt, thank Grod, we 
 don't know what it means : ' Owe no man any- 
 thing ; ' that's what our Book says." 
 
 Williams sighed. 
 
 "Then," continued John, "there's a deal be- 
 side paying ready money for everything. One 
 must learn to spend wisely." 
 
 "Well," interrupted Williams, "I never 
 thought as it wanted much nouse to spend money. 
 It may take a man to earn ; but sm-ely any fool 
 can spend." 
 
 "Just so," said John, drily; "perhaps that 
 gave rise to the proverb, ' Fools and their money 
 are soon parted!' I know men who seem, as 
 the children say, to be afraid their money will 
 burn a hole in their pocket. No sooner have 
 they got it than they go standing treat, and 
 scattering it about like the lord mayor. They 
 go buying things they don't want, just because 
 they are 'bargains,' as they say. The end of 
 these famous bargains is the pawn shop, where
 
 10 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 tliey go, most likely, to buy the man a dinner 
 before a month's end. 
 
 "Well, then, talking of taking care of money, 
 let me tell you, I've found if a man means to get 
 on, he must learn to take care of another thing 
 quite as much. I should like to say one word to 
 you about that." 
 
 " Go a-head, pray." 
 
 " Well, it's health I mean. Ever since I 
 joined the evening classes I have been waked up 
 more to learning things from books. M)'' brains 
 are none of the best ; but still, I have picked up 
 more than one good notion through these classes. 
 About hcaltli, now — two winters ago, one of the 
 great doctors from the West-end gave us six 
 lectures about fresh air, food, and drink, washing, 
 and such-like. He talked real good stuff, such 
 as all of us understood — none of your crack-jaw. 
 See that square of zinc with tiny holes in that 
 window ? W^ell, I put that up next day I heard 
 the first lecture. That lets the fresh air in, lad, 
 witliout draught enough to hurt a fly ; that's for 
 ventilation. Tlicn, too, I bought half a butter 
 firkin for a bath, and now I always have a good 
 wash down every morning from top to toe, that 
 takes off all the perspiration wliich chokes up the 
 skin : notliing so good for the preservation of 
 healtli." 
 
 Whereupon, liaving safely delivered himself of 
 all these long words ending in \itum, John leaned 
 back in liis cliair, put liis thuinl)s in his waist- 
 coat, and looked — must we write it? — a little 
 conceited. Alas ! that to no true tale-writer is it 
 given to slcetch jierfect ])eople I As the stern 
 true sun, which photographs wrinkles and scars,
 
 FEESH AIK AND CLEAN SKIN. 11 
 
 SO must our pen be ; we must confess that our 
 friend John's newly- gained knowledge had made 
 him just a little conceited. Poor man ! he had 
 worked hard for it in weariness and painfulness : 
 we must forgive him. People are like that when 
 tliey know a little, but get humble as they know 
 more. 
 
 "Why, you will wash all the goodness out of 
 you," said Williams, laughing. 
 
 "Ah, nay; there's little to wash. But, with- 
 out laughing, Williams, I do believe some things 
 I heard at them lectures have done a deal to keep 
 me olf the sick list. I never knew till then the 
 harm it does a man to breathe hot, dirty air, or 
 to go about day by day with his skin choked 
 with dirt. Nothing, I do believe, so bad for 
 health, as dirty air, and dirty clothes and skin, 
 except it is" — and John paused thoughtfully — 
 " dirt at one's heart." 
 
 " Well, " said Williams, " I must say as you 
 talks like a book ; but it aint no ways clear to 
 me but what there's a deal of gammon in this 
 fuss about air, and washing, and such-like, as we 
 hears so much on now-a-days. Anyways, you 
 look well enough, though." 
 
 Ti'uly, John did "look well." Just as that 
 man looks to whom has been given the inward 
 purity and peace which lead to all outward order 
 and cleanliness, and comfort; just as he looks 
 who earns his bread honestly, and eats it in tem- 
 perance and thankfulness ; just as he looks who 
 sleeps the sleep of God's beloved — whose pillow 
 is a good conscience, whose curtains are angels' 
 wings. Just as such a one looks — and no other. 
 
 "Thank God, I am well," John replied; and
 
 12 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 SO far from the things as are said about health 
 being gammon, I believe they are some of the 
 truest things going. Why, ask my Mary, she 
 will tell you ; our second — our little Benny — him 
 as lays under the daisies at Highgate" — the 
 strong voice faltered and the big chest heaved — 
 " well, he might have been here to-day, if she 
 had known then what she knows now about 
 health. Mary's a good scholar — her head's worth 
 two of mine, any day — and she takes on to these 
 notions about health wonderfully. The lady, at 
 her mothers' meeting, has given her some little 
 books about them ; and so we have learnt many 
 a good thing." 
 
 "Ah, Smith, guess your wife is tlie secret 
 of half of your gettings on," said Williams. 
 
 So profoundly was John convinced of that 
 fact, that he hardly knew how to talk about it, 
 so, after the manner of men tlms impressed, he 
 rarely spoke of it at all. Instead of saying soft, 
 pretty things, he got up on cold mornings, and 
 did them, in the way he went ou to explain to 
 "Williams. 
 
 " Well," he said, " I aint the man to be 
 ashamed of owning how much I owe to my wife ; 
 everybody knows she's a woman of a thousand. 
 Then, of course, I try to help her a bit to kcei) 
 things so straight and coniiortable. She would 
 work to skin and bone, she would, if 1 would let 
 her. But, you see, I get up of mornings and 
 help her a bit — light the fire, and do a turn or 
 two about the house." 
 
 "Nonsense, man, r/(jyou?" said Williams. 
 
 "I should think 1 do, and ou(]ht. Why, there's 
 G deal we like done to the children before they
 
 A WELL-SPENT WEEK. 13 
 
 go to school, and then that youngster," pointing 
 to the sleeping baby, " he knows how to give 
 trouble. The children are all too young to do 
 for themselves,. and my giving a little help to 
 Mary in the morning is no great plague, while 
 it forwards her a deal, and adds no end to our 
 comfort." 
 
 "Whatever time do you turn out, then?" 
 asked Williams. 
 
 " Six, this time of year. We always get 
 up early, else all gets wrong of a morning : get 
 up early, and there's time for everything. While 
 Mary gets breakfast, I trim myself a bit, and we 
 all sit down comfortably together. Our fare's 
 plain enough — you know what my wages are — 
 yet, I dare say few men get more comfort. Mary 
 knows how to make a little go a great way, she 
 does. When I go home at night, I always know 
 there will be a nice bit of fire and supper ready 
 for me, and the little ones all eager for the first 
 kiss. You should see them flattening their noses 
 against the window, looking out for me, and 
 cutting about when I come in, one setting my 
 chair, one bringing my dry shoes. Then we have 
 a bit of supper, and wlien the children are put to 
 bed, there's a spare hour or so. This I j^ass 
 different ways. Mondays and Tuesdays, generally 
 at home, reading, and talking to my wife, as you 
 found us to-night. Wednesdays, we both go 
 to the week-evening service. Thursdays and 
 Fridays, I go to the classes or lectures at the 
 AVorking Man's Association, in Essex Street. 
 Saturdays, I find plenty to do getting ready for 
 Sunday. That's how my evenings go." 
 
 "Well, and see' how this evening's goneP^
 
 14 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 said WillicOins, " I must he moving. My head's 
 pretty nigh full of what you have been saying, 
 and I do believe tliere's a great deal in it all. 
 Leastways, I will think it over, and see if I can't 
 square my life a little, and get a little comfort." 
 
 " Do, but remember what I said, ' Seek Jit^st^ — 
 you know, good night." 
 
 And Williams went up-stairs to his own room, 
 and John turned to look at his sleeping child. 
 He stood looking at the sweet little face for some 
 minutes, and then knelt quietly by the cradle. 
 Happy was he, finding in his own fatherly love 
 so sweet a pledge and symbol of the love of his 
 Father, that he sank unconsciously to his knees 
 in prayerful thankfulness. " Our Father." — 
 Two children — which was happier, or more at 
 rest? 
 
 "We will follow Mary Smith up-stairs to Mrs. 
 Williams' room. It is not often Maiy's shadow 
 darkens that door, near as it is to her own. Like 
 some other whimsical i)eople we have known, she 
 has a strange fancy for fresh, jiure air. Mary 
 is not strong, and she feels faint and queer 
 when she gets into a room like this, where the 
 window is never opened, where the air is hot and 
 close — a sort of essence of dirt, tobacco, red 
 herring, and washing-day — where everything is 
 mess and muddle and confusion. She is a 
 clean body, and to breatlie dirty air, out of other 
 ])cople's lungs, is to her mind about the most 
 disgusting thing she can think of; depend 
 upon it, she never does it from choic(\ but now 
 duty calls her. Perhaps if Mrs. Williams had 
 been told that I\Iary or anybody else considered 
 her or her rooms untidy, she would not have
 
 A THPJFTLESS MOTHER. 15 
 
 replied very amiably. " Sure, now, and how 
 could anybody be always in ai)ple-pie order, with 
 only two rooms ? Sure, now, was not she always 
 on the run from morning- to night — was not she 
 always slave, slave, slave, worry, worry, worry ? 
 Sure, now, did'nt she always have a regular 
 cleaning up every week, as well as anybody?" 
 so she would have replied. So far true ; but, 
 poor soul, she little knew or thought that half 
 her work went for nothing, through want of order 
 and method and forethought: she little knew 
 how much her head might liave saved her heels. 
 She little knew that the boasted weekly "cleaning 
 up," was really but a weekly stew and mess, and 
 turning house-out-of-windows, which only made 
 " confusion worse confounded." Yet, judge her 
 not hastily ; how could she know better ? How 
 could she, the daughter of a careless, slovenly 
 mother, who died while her children were young 
 — she who had married at seventeen, in the 
 giddiness of youth — know better? Another 
 thing, too, I knew of poor Jane Williams — spite 
 of all that was wrong and thriftless and disorderly 
 in her, there was much that was noble and 
 beautiful. Under that soiled untidy dress, lay a 
 true woman's heart, full of love and tenderness ; 
 under that tawdry flaunting cap, throbbed a brain 
 ever busy with confused thoughts and hopes for 
 the good of others. No mother loved her children 
 more — seldom as she washed their faces ; no wife 
 loved her husband better — sadly though she neg- 
 lected his buttons and dinners. More, she was 
 frank, humble, and confiding. We always liked 
 her, and felt sure that whenever she obeyed the 
 voice of the Great Spirit of Wisdom and Order,
 
 16 S03IETHING HOIMELY. 
 
 she would make a very noble and loveable woman. 
 Judge her not hastily. 
 
 Let us look at her now. She hears Mary 
 Smith's footstep on the staii'S, and begins trying 
 to put the room to rights. See, she snatches np 
 a dirty comb from the table, and pops it under 
 her chair-cushion. She takes a heap of children's 
 clothes, dirty and clean, and shoves them into 
 the cui)board, to the butter and sugar. " Get 
 up," she says to Johnny — little Johnny, so quiet 
 in the corner. Was ever a little man of two 
 years so silent, unless in mischief? No, surely. 
 Johnny arises, frightful to behold; grim with 
 tlie coal dust with which he has been adorning 
 himself these ten minutes — legs, hands, face, all 
 in a state of chimney-sweep. If a child gets 
 into mischief through the mother's carelessness, 
 who shall be punished, she or the child? The 
 child, Mrs. Williams thinks ; and Johnny is 
 slapped accordingly, and sets uji an exceeding 
 great " boo-hoo." 
 
 " Come in, Mrs. Smith," she said, as Mary's 
 gentle rap was heard amidst the storm. " Now, 
 was ever a woman so tried? These children 
 worries the flesh olf one's bones ! See this boy, 
 what he's been and done ! Clean frock this 
 morning — clean socks an hour ago — now look at 
 him ! But pray sit down." 
 
 " Yes," saici IMary very quietly ; " children 
 will get at the coals. I always keep mine out of 
 the way." 
 
 "Oh," replied Mrs. Williams, "keep one 
 thing out of his way, he gets in mischief with 
 another; never was such children as minel I'm 
 8UI0 1 don't know how you manage yours; sui'o
 
 MANAGING. 17 
 
 we hardly hears a sound of a child in the 
 house." 
 
 " Well," said Mary, they're out pretty much, 
 but they are as good as most. Johnny, he's 
 a bit of a Turk ; but my husband helps to keep 
 him under." 
 
 "Ah, now, that's the way," replied Mrs. 
 Williams ; " why, there's Eben, I'm sure he does 
 nothing but spoil, pet, and coddle the children 
 one minute, and swear at them the next; then 
 he goes on at me because they are unruly. 
 Men's so unreasonable. Ever since we have 
 been here, he's always nagging about you and 
 Smith. He says Smith's wages are no more nor 
 his, and yet you manages twenty times as well. 
 And, dear me, I begins to see as there's more in 
 managing than I ever thought! Why, poor 
 mother, she worked at a factory, week's end to 
 week's end, and how could she teach us anything 
 like managing? It's only a wonder as I have 
 rubbed on as I have. And Eben says to me, 
 says he, " Now, why don't you try to neighbour 
 more with Mary Smith? Try and see how she 
 manages, and take a leaf out of her book;' and 
 so he asked you up to-night." 
 
 " Well, Jane," said Mary, " it's little cause I 
 have to talk of my managing, or to think much 
 of myself for it." 
 
 "No, you are no ways stuck up, I always says; 
 and that's why I never minds asking you things, 
 as I do some folks. Now, tell me anything as it 
 strikes you I might do to better things, and to 
 get these rooms a little comfortable." 
 
 " A\^ell, if you ask me, I will tell you one 
 thing as seems to me to stand much in the way
 
 18 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 of your comfort, that is, want of what poor dear 
 mother used to call method. ' Polly,' she would 
 say to me, often and often, ' never set about 
 your work in a helter-skelter, hurry-scurry Avay ; 
 method lightens labour;' and sure enough, I 
 have found it true. The Bible says, ' Do all 
 things decently and in order;' and I know 
 there's nothing like it." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Williams, "I know I 
 always works as well as ever I can. I always 
 puts my heart into what I do, and I'm sure I am 
 alwavs at it." 
 
 " That I'm sure of," replied Mary; " but still, 
 to get through work anything like, wants one's 
 head as well as heart. Seems to me you are 
 always doing, but seldom thinking ; seems to me 
 you don't plan, and forecast, and arrange work 
 enough ; and I know without tliat one's always 
 in a mess — always doing, and never done." 
 
 " Well, may be ; I never thought much of 
 that; yet I don't see clear how to do better. 
 How should one plan things ? " 
 
 " Poor dear mother used to say — just as if I 
 hear her now — 'Polly,' she used to say, 'plan 
 your work as the parson divides his sermon. 
 Think, in the first place — What is the work to 
 BE DONE? Second — How TO DO it? Third — 
 Where are the things to do it with? And 
 that's how I plan my work up to this very day." 
 
 '■'■ Dear me I " said Mrs. Williams, " I have got 
 but a poor head-piece; I could not think any 
 plan out." 
 
 "Oh, that you could," replied IMary, chceril}'. 
 "Just let us try now togolher to think out your 
 work — to think out the cleaning of those rooms
 
 CLEANING UP. 19 
 
 that way. First — What is to be done ? Well, 
 I should think the ceiling wants whitewashing, 
 the walls of tlie bed-room want fresh colouring, 
 and the wall paper here wants a rubbing." 
 
 " Oh, botlier all that; let the landlord do it!" 
 said Mrs. Williams. 
 
 " But you know he will not do it again yet for 
 a very long time. It's two years since he did 
 our place; and when we asked him to do it 
 again last spring, he would not. We must 
 either leave the place, bear with the dirty walls 
 and ceilings, or clean them ourselves. Of the 
 three evils, we chose the least — did the job 
 ourselves ; and it's well worth the trouble. Then, 
 I should think the doors, window-frames, and 
 wi'iinscots want washing, the grates blacking, 
 floors scouring, windows cleaning, furniture rub- 
 bing, brass, tin, and iron-ware brightening." 
 
 " Well, yes," said Mrs. Williams, turning red 
 in the face, and looking at her feet, " I can't 
 say but just now the things aint quite nice. 
 You see, Johnny, he's had the hooping-cough, 
 and I have lost my rest; and I have been 
 oblifred — " 
 
 " Oh," said Mary, kindly, " you know I am 
 not finding fault; we were only going through 
 our plan. Well, second — How is the work to 
 BE DONE? According to the text, we must do it 
 'decently, and in order.' I should say, take 
 care that every place is not in confusion at the 
 same time. Clean one room at once, so tliat 
 the other may be dry and nice for the children 
 to be in. Do the bed-room first, so that the floor 
 may have time to get quite dry before night-falh 
 Damp floors are very dangerous, especially in
 
 20 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 bed-rooms : my sister, Martlm, was down with 
 rheumatics last year, through no other thing. 
 Above everything, pray don't have a mess when 
 Eben comes home. It's shameful how some 
 women drive their husbands to the public house, 
 as one may say, by having the place all dirt and 
 litter and confusion, when a man comes home, 
 dead beat and tired, of an evening, wanting a 
 little comfort. Such women have small right to 
 complain of drunken husbands, seems to me. 
 Then, before the ceilings are whitewashed and 
 bed-room walls coloured, the furniture of one 
 room must be put into the other, or covered with 
 old newspapers. That done, W\q, dirty whitewash 
 should be thorouglily washed from the ceilings, 
 and the dirty colouring from the walls. When 
 the ceiling and walls are dried, the Avhitewash 
 and colouring should be laid on with a clean 
 whitewash brush. To do them well, two coats 
 of the whitewash and colouring would bo wanted ; 
 but the lirst ought to get quite dry before the 
 second is put on. There's nothing like often 
 white-washing and colouring ceilings and walls, 
 to keep awny the bugs, and other veiinin." 
 
 '' Then, 1 am sure," said ]\Irs. Williams, "our 
 rooms ought to be done, for them creatures teases 
 us above a little: I suppose they can't bo helped 
 in London." 
 
 " Oh, but they can, though I" replied Mary. 
 "When we first took the rooms down-stairs, we 
 found these horrid things in the walls; but now 
 there is not so miicli as one. I was always on 
 the look-out for Ihem, night and day. 1 cMUght 
 and killed all I saw, and llicn 1 rubbed chloride 
 of lime, mixed with water to the thickness of
 
 MORE CLEANINa. 
 
 21 
 
 cream, info every crack and cranny in the walls 
 and boards. Then John exchanged our old wooden 
 bedsteads for iron ones ; iron's so much colder and 
 harder than wood, that vermin is not nearly so 
 likely to harbour in it. I took away all the 
 bed-curtains and valances, too ; they only harbour 
 dust, and keep the bedding from getting fresliened 
 by the air. Then, of course, for a while, I kept 
 every place extra clean, and in about five weeks 
 we had no more trouble. It's dirt that breeds 
 these horrid creatures, and if one's place is not 
 clean and sweet, none of the poisons that are 
 sold can keep it free." 
 
 "Well, I will try your plan," replied Mrs. 
 Williams. 
 
 " To clean the papering on these walls," 
 continued Mary, " I should first brush them 
 down with a clean broom, and wipe them gently 
 with a clean dry cloth, to get off the loose dirt, 
 and then rub them with the crumb of a stale 
 half-quartern loaf cut in halves. This will get 
 off a very great deal of the dh-t." 
 
 " Then for the paint, how do you clean that ?" 
 asked Mrs. Williams. 
 
 " With warm water and soap and flannel." 
 
 " Do you use any soda?" 
 
 *' Sometimes, if the water's hard, but it is not 
 well to put much, or it eats off the paint." 
 
 " These floors will give you a good deal of 
 trouble. That great patch of grease there must 
 have fuller's earth put on it over-night. The 
 rest of the floor I sliould scour with warm water, 
 soap, and a little sharp sand. The windows want 
 a good clean with whiting; and the furniture 
 wants washing with lukewarm water, a little
 
 22 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 soap, and a soft cloth. Then, wlien it's dry, I 
 should rub it with a little boiled linseed oil, on a 
 bit of flannel, and polish with a dry cloth, and 
 plenty of Avhat dear mother used to call ' essence 
 of elbows.' " 
 
 " Ah, well," said Mrs. Williams, baring one 
 of her large arms, " I can give plenty of that, 
 at any rate." 
 
 " Now," continued Mary, " according to dear 
 mother's plan, we come to ask, third, — Where 
 
 ARE THE THINGS TO DO THE "WORK ?" 
 
 "Ah, where are they indeed?" replied Mrs. 
 Williams. " I shall have to borrow most of 
 them." 
 
 " Oh no !" said Mary cheerily, " we shall not 
 want so much as you expect ; and it's a waste 
 of time, and a bad plan every way, to run about 
 borrowing little things that are often wanted, or 
 that spoil much in using. I think you might 
 ask the landlord, though, to lend you a wlntewash 
 brush ; sure he will do that, though lie would not 
 send us a man to whitewasli when we wanted." • 
 
 " I dare say Eben will try to do it," replied 
 Mrs. Williams. • 
 
 "Oh, yes! only tell liim to stroke the brusli 
 always in one direction, and to lay the colouring 
 on even." 
 
 "What sluill I do for a ste])-laddcr?" 
 
 " AW'll, that's a thing we manage Avithovt : 
 Joliu ])uls a box on the table, and stands on it. 
 We sliall liave to buy lime and sharp sand ; they 
 can be got at the buihk-r's yard round ihe corner. 
 Then the c»)i)i)eras, wliiting, bhick lead, linseed 
 oil, and soda, I generally get at the druggist's. 
 TJiat's all wo shall want to buy ; so that will not
 
 A HINT ON LATE SHOPPING. 23 
 
 be ruination. Let's see, lime Id., sharp sand 
 ■|d., copperas -^d., whiting 2d., Llack lead Id., 
 linseed oil Id., and soda -^d. 
 
 "Why, then, sixpence will buy all!" said 
 Mrs. Williams, half surprised to find that the 
 materials for a thoroug-li cleaning could be got 
 so cheaply. " Well, now, to-morrow the child- 
 ren's going to see their grandmother. I've a 
 good mind to begin a bit of a clearing-up then, 
 and I would finish on Friday." 
 
 " Pray don't spoil a good mind then," replied 
 Mary, smiling. " I would let Jane run out for 
 the lime and other things, ready to begin early 
 in the morning, if I were you, and may-be, I 
 will run up and help a bit. Perhaps, let her go 
 at once; going late to shop is so cruel to the 
 shopmen; I try never to do it." 
 
 Jane was then sent ofi", and Mary continued 
 the chat. 
 
 "As we are together so quiet to-night, I 
 should like to say one or two more things," said 
 she, "especially this — if you clean the bed-room 
 to-morrow, and this room, Friday, and get all 
 once nice and straight, you had better try to get 
 into a regular plan of work — Have a pkoper 
 
 TIME FOR EVERYTHING, AND DO EVERYTHING AT ITS 
 
 PROPER TIME, that's my rule." 
 
 "Well, now," replied Mrs. Williams, " Pm 
 beat ! There's so many little things to be done 
 in a house where there's young children, I can't 
 see how anybody can fix a time for everything." 
 
 " It's true," replietl Mary, " every fid-fad can't 
 have a time fixed for it ; but if you think a little 
 about it, you will find most things can. Olil 
 and it saves a world of worry."
 
 2.4 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 "Well, please tell us how 5^011 plans your work, 
 and I will try if I can't take a leaf out of your 
 "book. I have often wondered how you gets 
 through things so easy." 
 
 " 1 will. Just consider, now, that every week- 
 day, in a general way, we get up at six, have 
 breakfast at eight, dinner at one, tea at six, and 
 go to bed at ten. All this causes certain work 
 that should be done every day, and other work 
 that should be done once a week." 
 
 " Will you tell me, then, about the every-day 
 work?" 
 
 " Well, the iirst thing I do in the morning is 
 to get 7;?3('s^//" thoroughly ready for the day's work. 
 I alwavs 2:et a "cood wash from head to foot first 
 thing. Our doctor told me to do it when I was 
 60 poorly three summers ago, and I find it such 
 a comfort, I have never given it up. If I came 
 down as some women do, all unwaslied, heavy 
 and sleepy, I could not half do my duty : it's 
 like a workman beginning work with a blunt 
 tool. When 1 am dressed, I open our bed-room 
 window wide, strip tlie bcd-clotlics all off our 
 bed, spread them over two chairs, and leave them 
 for the fresh morning air to blow on tliem awhile. 
 I then go down and get the fire alight, and the 
 kitchen swept up. Then, I go and get the two 
 cliildren up and ready for school — baby generally 
 sleeps till after breakfiist — they too have a good 
 wash all over. I'hen we get breakfast by eight." 
 
 "liut goodness, Mrs. Smith," interrui)ted Mrs. 
 Williams, "however can you find time for all 
 that sl()i)])ing and messing before eight o'clock!" 
 
 Mary smded. "It's a great mistake," she 
 said, " to think washing children all over, means
 
 SETTING THE DINNER T.VBLE. 25 
 
 keeping them standing about ever so long, till 
 they are cold and blue and shivering ; tliat does 
 harm. But if a cliild's sponged every day, and 
 has a thorough wash in warm water on Saturday, 
 so that it does not ever get very dirty, it can be 
 washed in a very few minutes, and the quicker 
 it's done the better. 
 
 " After breakfast is over and the things washed 
 up, I dress baby, and then go up-stairs to make 
 the beds and put the bed-rooms straight. The 
 beds and bedding have got well aired and sweet- 
 ened by this time, and I am very careful to turn 
 everything, mattresses and all, every day, to keep 
 all nice and sweet. Through that, as I told you, 
 we are now quite clear of all those horrid little 
 visitors. 
 
 " Then, if I have any little marketing to do, I 
 do it, and give baby a breath of out-door air 
 same time. I next see about dinner. However 
 little we may have, I always make it a rule to 
 set the dinner table as neatly as I can, on a clean 
 cloth, just as if I expected company. Sure, have 
 I not got company that I care a deal for? I 
 should not like the two children to get into 
 piggish, untidy ways at meals ; sure I should 
 not like to get into them myself. 
 
 " Dinner over, I busy myself washing up 
 dishes, saucepans, and things. I am very care- 
 ful not to pour any bits of cabbage and such 
 like, down the sink, else there is great danger of 
 stopping up the trap, and getting all sorts of 
 horrid smells from the drain." 
 
 Mrs. WilHams started. It just occurred to 
 her that a "horrid smell" in her own kitchen, 
 which she had attributed to a " dead rat," might
 
 26 SOlTETniXG HOMELY. 
 
 perliaps "be blamed to certain live rats witli two 
 legs. 
 
 '' ^Yell," continued Maiy, after cleaning up 
 my kitchen, I go up and tidy myself; and then 
 I'm free for needlework, or any extra weekly 
 ■work, till tea-time ; and when tea is over, and 
 the children put to bed, I'm free again till bed- 
 time. In this way I generally get about an hour 
 and a half in the morning, three hours in the 
 afternoon, and two hours in the evening, for 
 extra weekly work." 
 
 " Well," exclaimed Mrs. Williams, earnestly, 
 " I do declare it does anybody good to hear you 
 talk ; you seems to arrange everything beautiful, 
 like clock-work ! Pray tell me now about this 
 ' extra weekly work,' as you call it." 
 
 " To begin, then," replied Mary, " with Sun- 
 daj' — there's a deal I should like to say about 
 that, which I can't now; however, Ave do very 
 little work then, just enough for decency and 
 order, that's all. 
 
 " On Monday I look up the dirty clothes, put 
 them in soak ready for washing the next day, 
 and lay the co])per hre, and see that I have soap, 
 soda, blue, and all ready. I never leave clothes 
 more than a week ; if they ai-e left longer, the 
 dirt's harder to come out ; and besides, they get 
 Buch a Jieap, they stand no chance of getting 
 well done. 
 
 " Tuesdays are my washing daA's. I light the 
 co])]U'r fire before bniakiast, but I don't begin 
 washing till after my husband and the children 
 are gone. John takes his dinner to Ihe work- 
 8ho2>, so I SCO no more of him till tea-time,
 
 WASHING AND MENDING. 27 
 
 when all's c^one, and so he's never vexed with 
 the steam and smell of suds." 
 
 " How is it you gets through so soon ?" asked 
 Mrs. Williams ; "do you use any of them washing 
 powders ?" 
 
 " No, never. They only rot the clothes, and 
 as to washing things without rubbing, it's non- 
 sense — they can't be sweet and wholesome ditched 
 up that way. No ; there's no way yet — whatever 
 there may be one day — like plenty of soap and 
 rubbing, and a good lot of water: and if one 
 begins washing in good time, and works with 
 a will, there's no need for any of your slovenly 
 make-shiftly powders. 
 
 " On Wednesdays, I iron and air the clothes, 
 and do all I can in the way of mending, especially 
 little places, and putting on strings and buttons. 
 All I have not time to mend then, I put into a 
 basket,* to do in evenings or odd times. I always 
 try hard to mend all up by the week's end, or I 
 should never manage at all. A rag-bag, for 
 holding bits of calico, cloth, and such like, is 
 very tidy, and comes in useful on mending-day. 
 Holes in stockings I never mend." 
 
 Mrs. Williams opened her eyes in wonder. 
 
 "No," said Mary, smiling, "never, because I 
 never let them get into holes. I always darn all 
 the thin places. It is a good plan to run the 
 heels of new stockings, and to fell a bit of tape 
 flat on the seam of the heels. 
 
 " On Thursdays, I give an extra cleaning to 
 tlie bed-rooms. I always take care to move and 
 sweep behind boxes and everything in the rooms. 
 I try now never to put any boxes or lumber under 
 the beds. K one makes a sort of lumber cup-
 
 28 SOITETHING HOilELY. 
 
 board there, as some do, the fresh air can't blow 
 freely to sweeten the imder-side of the mattresses ; 
 and one's very likely to leave that part of the 
 room iinswept, till it's a regular dust-hole. 
 Besides, to keep a parcel of old shoes, dii-ty 
 clothes, and such like there, taints the air of the 
 room." 
 
 *' But," said Mrs. Williams, " our room's so 
 small and lumbered up, I'm obliged to put things 
 under the bed." 
 
 " Well," said Mary, " at any rate keep no 
 more than can be helped there, and only such as 
 can be easily moved, so as not to interfere with 
 sweeping. I generally scour the bed-rooms well 
 every Tliursday ; but as damp floors are so dan- 
 gerous, if it's a very wet, muggy day, when they 
 don't dry well, I only wipe them lightly over 
 with a clean cloth, just wetted in cold water, 
 to sweeten them a bit. On Thursday, too, I 
 clean the windows, and make a stock of brown 
 bread enough for the week. 
 
 " On Friday^ I clean the kitchen and passage. 
 
 " On Saturday, I scour the shelves and floor of 
 tlie wash-liouse, and give an extra rub to tho 
 tins, candlesticks, and such like. Then I always 
 give the children an extra good wash, in warm 
 water, and clean their liair, for the every-day 
 wash in cold water is not quite enough — children 
 in Li»ndon get such grubs. In the evening, I 
 do all I can to save work on Sunday — clean shoes, 
 lay out clean clothes, and so on. You know now 
 my jilan of work, but it is not so easy to explain 
 all the comfort it gives — how nmch worry it 
 saves." 
 
 At this moment, Mrs. Williams' attention was
 
 A PLACE FOR EVERYTHING. 29 
 
 diverted to Jolinny, who, witli an earnestness 
 which made him extend his little tongue far out 
 of his moutli, was, in imagination, sawing off 
 the cliair-back, with the comb he had pulled from 
 its hiding-place under the chair cushion. " See, 
 now," she exclaimed, snatching the comb from 
 his hand, " what that child's been and done I 
 Six teeth broke out ! — naughty boy !" 
 
 '• It is vexing," said Mary ; " but, do you 
 know, it just gives me a text to finish up my 
 sermon on order. A comb's to do hair, and not 
 for a child to play with ; and one great rule for 
 order is, have a certain use for every thing, 
 AND KEEP EVERY THING TO ITS USE. If every- 
 body acted on that, there would be a great deal 
 of mischief and breakage saved. If Ann Webb 
 had used her kettle only to boil water in, and 
 not for her children to drink from, her Bobby 
 would not have got so dreadfully scalded; so 
 with Johnny and the comb, and a hundred other 
 things." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Williams, "that's true 
 enough ; and that just reminds me if I had kept 
 this fork to its right use, I should not have broke 
 it this morning, getting out a cork. But chil- 
 dren's always getting hold of what they have no 
 business to ; that comb, now, I did not give him, 
 he furriged it out his-self." 
 
 " Perhaps," rejoined Mary, " it was not in its 
 proper place, though ; and that brings me to 
 another rule — Have a place for every thing, 
 
 AND keep every THING IN ITS PLACE. NoW yOU 
 
 are going to make a clearance, try to find a 
 suitable place for every piece of furniture and 
 everything about you. Try to carry out tliLs
 
 80 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 rule even in tlie smallest matters. Sort out and 
 arrange all the things in every box and drawer, 
 so that you may always know where to lay your 
 band on what you want. This saves no end of 
 time, trouble, and vexation. I have known 
 many a man get put out because his wife could 
 not find a bit of string, or paper, or a button, 
 when wanted." 
 
 " Yes, that's true," said Mrs. Williams ; 
 " there was Eben only yesterday vowed he 
 would go to work without his dinner, because I 
 could not find clean paper to wrap it in. I keeps 
 a little cloth on purpose fur him, but I could not 
 find it till he had gone off swearing. Men's 
 such fidgits." 
 
 " "Well, yes," replied Mary ; " but really there 
 is, in a small way, few things so teazing as to 
 have to hunt up and down for things wanted in a 
 hurry. In this, as in many other things, home 
 peace and comfort depend very much on trifles. 
 There are many more little matters I should like 
 to say a word or two about, but we will talk 
 them over another time. Whenever I can be of 
 use to you, do step down-stairs to me : living in 
 the same house, we ought surely to try to help 
 one another." 
 
 "Thank you kindly; I'm sure you can help 
 me a deal. It seems to cheer me even to know 
 I have got such a friend in the house." 
 
 " Ah !" said Mary, gravely, " talking of a 
 friend brings me ahuost to wliat I have been 
 jiaviiig the way for, and trying to say, the whole 
 evening; but it's never easy for me to say all I 
 feel altout that. I mean tliat ttiis talk of cleaning 
 and clearing up will be (j[uitc vain, after all,
 
 CONCLUSION. 31 
 
 without something higher and better. One can't 
 be really orderly and clean and comfortable in 
 outside things, till one gets purity and peace and 
 comfort within, in one's heart and mind. You 
 want a better Friend than me, Jane, to help 
 you ;" and Mary's eyes filled with tears, as she 
 thought of Him, the Loving One, who had 
 watched over that heart through all its life-long 
 wanderings. " But we can't talk more to-night, 
 its striking nine. Come in, Jane, and have a 
 cup of tea on Sunday. 1 can't go out in the 
 evening because of baby, and so we can have a 
 long chat." 
 
 "Thank you, kindly; I will" So, with a 
 cordial "good-night," they parted. 
 
 Our "homely" sketch draws to an end: wc 
 have but little space, and, alas ! little power to 
 tell the rest. We cannot well explain all that 
 passed after tea that Sunday. When Mary, in 
 her own sweet simple way, told Jane of the 
 Heavenly Father, who in loving severity had 
 made her life of disobedience a disordered and 
 suffering one, that she might learn obedience 
 through the things she suft'ered — when she told 
 of the Saviour Friend Jane needed — when she 
 told of the in-dwelling Spirit of purity and love, 
 from whom all outward purity and order come — 
 how Jane listened and wept and believed it all, 
 as she never had before — how she felt that Father 
 to be a Father indeed — how that Friend was very 
 nigh — how that Blessed Spirit overshadowed all, 
 and comforted and refreshed the inmates of that 
 homely little room. Nay, none could tell, for
 
 32 SOMETHING HOMELY. 
 
 none could hear all that passed that night — save 
 One who hears and ans^Ye^s prayer, though it 
 goes forth but in sobs and groauiugs that cannot 
 be uttered. 
 
 Our dull gross mind can better understand 
 what came of that evening's talk. Plainly from 
 that time forward Jane "Williams gradually found 
 power to bring order and peace and comfort 
 within, into her own heart and mind, and without, 
 into the daily work and daily trials of her home. 
 Then, after long months of anxious waiting, she 
 had the joy of seeing her husband too turn to the 
 same path of peace, and the same loving Saviour. 
 
 Slowly, but surely, the good seed sown in the 
 two minds sprang up and grew ; and from the 
 leaves came blossoms, and from the blossoms 
 came sweet fruits — love, joy, peace, order, and 
 all the pleasant things which flourish in that 
 garden of the Lord — a Christian Home. 
 
 
 %^: 
 
 r
 
 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 OR, 
 
 HOW TO MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 
 
 HE kitclien clock was striking six as 
 Susan Young opened the shutters one 
 summer morning-, threw up the window, 
 and leaned out to enjoy the scent of the flowers. 
 The 5^ard was not much larger than the kitchen, 
 but the children worked and played in it, and 
 made it cheerful — " Bless their little hearts !" as 
 Susan said to herself. 
 
 She turned to begin her work by lighting the 
 fire. The sun shone in, and the bright tins 
 caught the light. The kitchen was all in order ; 
 and as soon as the sticks began crackling, aftd 
 the kettle was put on, and the place dusted, she 
 was ready to go to the parlour. 
 
 Susan was servant to Mr. Wilson, a clerk in 
 one of the factories of the busy, smoky city of 
 Manchester. But the house was airy, though it 
 was in Manchester, because Mr. Wilson's maxim 
 was " Health is wealth j" so he chose to live
 
 4 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 an airy part of the town, though he paid higher 
 rent than if he had lived in a worse situation, 
 and had to walk a long way to and from his work 
 besides. " What then !" said he, " if I am tired 
 at night I sleej) the sounder ; and I see my wife 
 and children come to breakfast with healthy 
 faces. As to the rent, we will save in other 
 things. If we were to spend sixpence a day on 
 beer, that would be more than nine pounds a 
 year. We will do without. This pleasant little 
 home, and a thankful heart to the Giver 
 of every blessing, is worth all the beer twice 
 over. We have good water here ; tea is getting 
 cheaper, and my wife makes capital coflee. 
 What more do we want?" 
 
 He kept his resolution ; and as he was blessed 
 with a good wife, he had a healthy, happy home. 
 It was small and frugal, for his salary was but 
 small, but it was not the less happy for that. 
 Susan had lived in this family for live years. 
 
 '' There's missis gone in to the children," 
 til inks she to herself, as she goes to the parlor 
 diior. " Half-past six by that." And as she 
 opens tlie window and sweeps and dusts the 
 neat little room, merry voices are heard above; 
 sphish goes one child after another into the cold 
 water, and little feet arc running over the 
 floors. I'hen they come trooping down with 
 fihining morning faces and clean ])inaforos, 
 Willie and Johnny, and Lucy, the eldest, who
 
 OR HOW TO MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 5 
 
 leads down little Emmy. Emmy is Susan's 
 favourite, because she has a sister Emma whom 
 she loves dearly. They must all have a kiss 
 from Susie, and then they bustle out to their 
 garden. Their father has been up and busy over 
 his books since six; he enjoys his evenings 
 with his family, but he is always early at work. 
 The parlour is fresh and bright with wide open 
 window, and breakfast laid when he comes down 
 at half-past seven, and the whole family collects 
 to morning prayers. They are seated to break- 
 fast at eight ; the children with their bread and 
 milk, their father and mother with their coffee, 
 and Susan with hers in her nice kitchen. 
 
 Mr. Wilson is off to the factory directly, and 
 the mother and children go out soon, for she has 
 to market this morning. Then Susan clears 
 up breakfast and goes to the bed-rooms. They 
 look rather empty and they are very cheaply 
 furnished, but everything is so clean, it is a 
 pleasure to look at them. The walls are painted 
 cream color; the ceilings are spotless whitewash; 
 the floors as spotless as the ceilings. The bed- 
 steads are of iron and without curtains or vallances ; 
 and the nice clean bedding is thrown open to 
 catch the air from the wide open windows. Tlio 
 wash-stands, chairs and chests of drawers are all 
 painted white ; the crockery is white. This had 
 all cost very little, but it was all that was wanted, 
 and there was not a speck of dust to be seen,
 
 6 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 nor was anything left standing that ought to be 
 carried down, nor any pitcher left unfilled with 
 fresh water, when Susan left the rooms after 
 making the beds, and went down to her kitchen 
 ready to take the orders for dinner. 
 
 This was the regular way in which the work 
 went on, and Susan had time for needlework in 
 the afternoon; but to-day the regular way was 
 going to be disturbed, as you shall hear. 
 
 About twelve, when the children were at 
 lessons with their mother, she sent Susan out on 
 a message. It should not have taken above a 
 quarter of an hour, but one o'clock came, and it 
 grew near two, and still she had not returned. 
 Such a thing had never happened before. Mrs. 
 Wilson liad to cook and lay the cloth, and was 
 anxious besides, lest Susan should have met with 
 some accident ; but when Mr. Wilson came home 
 at two, she was behind him. Her eyes looked 
 red and she seemed flurried ; but slio only said, 
 " I am very sorry, ma'am, to liave been so long," 
 and made liaste to tlie kitclien. She Avas not like 
 herself at dinner, and an hour afterwards when 
 Mrs. "Wilson went to the kitchen, she was sitting 
 at the table with her face hid in her liands. 
 
 "Susan, what is tlic matter?" asked her 
 mistress; "You deserve that I sliould trust you, 
 and I believe that you can explain the reason of 
 all this; but you ought also to trust me. Who 
 waa that young man that my husband saw
 
 OR HOW TO MAKE A HAPPY HOJIE. 7 
 
 walking with you, and why do you seem so 
 unhappy? I woukl ghadly help you if I could." 
 
 '' Oh, you are very kind, ma'am," said Susan, 
 starting up ; I never thought to see that young 
 man again, and the sight of him brought back 
 so many thoughts of my own home, long ago." 
 
 " Is he a relation then?" 
 
 " No, ma'am ; no. But he was a neighbour's 
 son, and we are of the same age, and we went 
 to school together, and told all our troubles to one 
 another ; and when he was 'prenticed to a saddler 
 in our village, it was just the same. Not a day 
 but we saw each other, and my little pet, my 
 sister Emma, was his pet too. She was six 
 years younger than me, and everybody said she 
 was the beauty of the village, and so she grew 
 up. Well, ma'am, when she was eighteen, and 
 he was in good work, she came home from a long 
 visit to grandfather. Every evening John Turner 
 came to see me then. We were to be married in 
 a month." 
 
 " My poor Susan !" said Mrs. Wilson. 
 
 " I saw how it was to be the very first evening. 
 John had no eyes nor ears for any but her. I 
 told him soon that I would not hold him to his 
 promise to me. Better lose all when the heart 
 is gone !" 
 
 " But could Emma love him after this ?" 
 
 " She was young and thoughtless ; but it was 
 worst of an to me that she made light of it, and
 
 8 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 besides I never could see that she cared for him. 
 She liked to walk with him and laugh with him, 
 but if he tried to say anything serious to her 
 she would turn it oif ; and it was soon over, for 
 a few weeks afterwards a young London workman 
 came down and fell in love with her and she with 
 him. He was handsome and pleasant, but I 
 could but; wonder she should like him better than 
 John Turner. Now came out John's passion. 
 He accused the other of robbing him of the girl 
 he loved and that loved him, for so he believed 
 she did, and ' I hold you answerable to me that 
 would have cherished her as long as I lived, for 
 her happiness,' he said. His lips trembled and 
 his face was pale as he spoke the words, and he 
 went out without bidding any of us good-bye. 
 He left his trade and his country and sailed for 
 Australia, and I have never heard tidings of him 
 since, till this very dny." 
 
 ''No wonder you forgot everything but this I 
 How did he fare in Australia?" 
 
 " He is well off, and had plenty there ; but he 
 took a longing to come home, so he came. He 
 wanted me to give liim Emma's direction, but I 
 refused at first, and then it came out afterwards. 
 He declared tl)at he does not care for lier now, 
 but he wanted to see her once more. He has 
 never married another, he said." 
 
 " Is Emma ha])py in her marriage ?" 
 
 " I hope she is, ma'am, and believe it too,
 
 OR HOW TO MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 9 
 
 but I have not seen her for six years. The last 
 time was on her wedding-day. I can see her 
 now in her light gown, looking a real beauty, so 
 every one said. It was a merry day, but I could 
 not help thinking of him who was alone on the 
 seas. They went to London, and Joseph Spear- 
 man, that's her husband's name, has always been 
 in work, and they took nice lodgings, so I heard 
 from her. But troubles came upon me fast after 
 the wedding. Father and mother died both 
 within the year. When I was left alone, I made 
 up my mind to go to service, and came to you, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " But you will see John Turner again?" 
 " If you please, ma'am, he will call next week. 
 I think I will write to Emma. I remember her 
 last letter to me was written seven months ago, 
 after her baby was born. He was her fourth 
 child. I thought she seemed low-like, and I 
 would like to hear of her again." 
 
 Three or four days after this, Susan got a letter 
 in answer to the one she had written, not from 
 Emma herself, but from a neighbour, saying, 
 that Mrs. Spearman was very ill, no one thought 
 she would live, and they did say her husband 
 ill-used her. He had got into bad ways and 
 drank, and they had moved into one room in a 
 court in Clerkenwcll. Tlie baby was dead, and 
 all the children sickly. Mrs. Spearman did not 
 want her sister to know, but it was right she
 
 10 ■WHOSE FAtTLT IS IT ? 
 
 shonlcl, and so the direction of her room in 
 Clerkenwell was sent. 
 
 " I must g'o to her !" was the cry of Susan's 
 heart. " ]\ry poor, pretty little sister! Her 
 husband ill-uses her ! Would he dare to lay a 
 hand on her? I cannot rest till I see her !" 
 
 Mrs. Wilson thought that it was indeed Susan's 
 duty to go to her poor sister; but she hoped 
 things were not so very bad, and that she should 
 soon get her good servant back again. The next 
 morning, it was a Saturday, Susan was ready to 
 set out for London. Her master paid her wages 
 up to the day, and she had money in the Savings' 
 Bank, if slie wanted more. The children cried, 
 and begged her to come back as soon as she had 
 made her sister and the poor little girls and boy 
 well, and her tears blinded her eyes as she turned 
 from the door. 
 
 It was afternoon wlicn slic got to London, and 
 walked away from the Euston Station towards 
 Clerkenwell, carrying lier little bundle. She had 
 to ask her way several times, but at last got to 
 the street out of Avhich the court turned, and 
 tlien a woman in a coal and potatoc shed shewed 
 her the court. 
 
 Her clean cotton gown and new straw bonnet 
 don't look mucli tit for that place ! thought the 
 woman to licrsclf. 
 
 TIic court was narrow, and liad a nasty gutter 
 down the niiihllc of it; the air was close and
 
 OR now TO MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 11 
 
 bad ; numbers of ragged cliildren were playing 
 about the doors. Susan asked for No. 10, and a 
 boy pointed to it. She went in, and mounted 
 the dirty, crealdng stairs. Three-pair front was 
 Emma's room. 
 
 Susan stood outside the door, and felt afraid to 
 open it. What should she see when she did? 
 What could she expect in such a place as 
 this? 
 
 As she stood, she heard a child begin to cry 
 within, and then a harsh grating sound of a 
 woman's voice called out, "Hold your tongue, 
 or I'll give you the stick !" 
 
 That was not Emma's voice. Her voice was 
 sweet and bell-like. She must have come to the 
 wrons: door, and must knock and ask. She 
 knocked, and the same harsh voice said, " Who's 
 there? Come, in if you want to come !" 
 
 She opened the door. A sickening smell and 
 the darkness of the room confused her at first. 
 Then she saw a little boy seated crying on a 
 floor, black with coal dust and dirt; a girl 
 younger than he standing by him ; and very little 
 else in the room besides a small bed against the 
 wall, on which lay a woman, with a little child 
 in her arms. 
 
 A woman! with hollow cheeks and large 
 s^-artled eyes, and a tattered black cap hardly 
 blacker than the blanket that covered her. A 
 woman! Susan stood by the door, and as she
 
 12 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 stood, began to tremble from head to foot, and 
 bad not strength to move. But the woman 
 dropped her child on the bed, opened wide her 
 arms, and gave a faint shriek, and tlie next 
 instant they were clasjjed in a long, long 
 embrace. 
 
 " Susan ! my own sister Susan !" 
 
 " Emma ! my darling ! my pretty, dear sister ! 
 why did you let it come to this ? Why did you 
 not send for me ?" 
 
 They might ask questions, but neither could 
 answer. Nothing came but tears and sobs. 
 Susan roused up lirst. She must not give way. 
 She must try to lielp. She called the frightened 
 children to her, and they soon came and clung 
 to her when they had looked in her kind face. 
 Then she took the wailing little one in her arms 
 and soon quieted it. " Poor little Polly," sho 
 said, "you do look ill! and this is Susie by me 
 liere, and this is Tommy. What were you crying 
 for. Tommy? I know your name, you see." 
 
 " I want my tea," sobbed Tommy. 
 
 " Tlien you can't have it yet," said his mother. 
 " I liavc no strength to get it. You must wait 
 till I\lrs. Larkins comes. Slie's a kind neighbour, 
 Susan, tliat comes in to help me when slic comes 
 liomc IVom work. I don't know wliat 1 should 
 have done without lier." 
 
 " 1 will get tea," said Susan ; *' I brought you
 
 OR now TO MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 13 
 
 some nice tea and sugar from Mrs. Wilson. 
 Where's the wood to light a bit of fire ?" 
 
 Susan had tucked up her gown, and was down 
 on her knees clearing the grate in a minute. 
 She found some sticks and matches. There was 
 a mountain of cinders under the grate, and some 
 coals were flung down in a corner of the room. 
 The fire was soon alight. She shovelled up the 
 ashes, and put them in the box where the coals 
 should have been, but she looked round in vain 
 for a brush. Then she took up the kettle to fill 
 it, but there was no clean water in the room, and 
 pitcher, basin, pan, everything was full of dirty 
 water. 
 
 Emma lay with her eyes shut, and tears slowly 
 tricklinsr down her cheeks. She could not bear 
 Susan to see her misery. It seemed worse than 
 suffering alone. Susan would not trouble her 
 with questions ; so believing she should find 
 water in the yard, she ran down with the kettle 
 and the brimming pitcher, and soon returned 
 with both full of clean water. The kettle was 
 soon on the fire ; then she looked round for the 
 tea-things. Tommy had sense to see what she 
 wanted, and shewed her a little cupboard by the 
 fire, where she found some cups, mugs, and other 
 articles, but everything was dirty. 
 
 She did not stop to think, but catching up the 
 brown pan, carried it down to empty and cleanse 
 it, and then used it to wash up all she wanted ;
 
 14 "^VHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 drying tlie things vritb a clean towel from her 
 bundle, and talking all the while cheerfully to 
 Tommy and Susie, who tried to help by holding 
 thin2:s for her or setting things down. She had 
 dusted the table, and now set the tea-things on it 
 and made the tea ; then she put on her bonnet 
 to go out, at which both the children began to cry. 
 
 " I am coming back, dears," she said; " don't 
 cry, aunt Susan is only going for the milk and 
 bread and butter." 
 
 Emma opened her eyes and looked wistfully 
 after her; and a smile really did light up her 
 pale face when, m a short while, Susan came 
 back with all she went for. She put the things 
 down and went to the bed to take the thin hand 
 that was held to her ; and " Let me wash your 
 dear face with some of this cool water," she said. 
 " There I it refreshes you. Now the hands. 
 Now I have brushed your hair a bit, and you 
 must put on a clean cap ; I have one to spare. 
 Oh, you look ever so much better." 
 
 But Susan could say no more ; a choking came 
 in her throat, for now tlie face looked like the 
 Emma of long ago, only shrunk and faded. She 
 liurried to the table; the two children were 
 already seated on one chair, looking at the loaf. 
 She supplied each with a good slice of bread and 
 butter, and gave them a mug of sweet weak tea 
 between them ; then took a cup of tea and slice 
 of toast to their poor mother, feeding the little 
 sickly Tolly hcrscll", meauw^iile, with a spoon.
 
 OR HOW TO MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 15 
 
 " How nice it is !" said Emma, " I have not 
 liked anything- so much for many a day. You 
 have made it all look so comfortable ! " 
 
 Comfortable ! Susan looked round the wretched 
 room, and thought poor Emma must indeed be 
 used to misery if she could think there was 
 comfort here. She was herself suffering so much 
 from the close air that she could not taste the 
 food, though Emma pressed her. She had tried 
 to open the window from the top, but could not ; 
 and when she put it up from the bottom it fell 
 again, for the pulley was broken ; but not before 
 she had found out that things had been thrown 
 from the room on to the ledge of the roof, that 
 made it worse to open the window than leave it 
 shut, for such a bad smell came in. 
 
 The children grew sleepy after tea, and Susan 
 helped them to creep in at the bottom of the 
 bed. This was their place. They lay between 
 the dirty blankets, for there were no sheets ; and 
 all she had to do for them was to take off their 
 rao-o;ed frocks. She thought of her Manchester 
 children, and how they were washed all over with 
 soap and water every night before their clean 
 little nightgowns were put on. 
 
 " Poor little souls ! " she said to herself. 
 " Poor little neglected things ! No wonder their 
 skins are full of sores, and their limbs so thin. 
 God help me to do something for them ; and He 
 is sending sweet sleep down upon them now."
 
 16 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 She sat down by Emma, and they remained 
 silent for some time, with their hands chisped 
 together. Snsan spoke first. 
 
 "What complaint have you, Emma? Have 
 you any doctor ? " 
 
 "Not now I haven't; I had Dr. Cockle, that 
 has the large doctor's shop near. He said I had 
 a decline. But his physic was so dear, and I 
 don't think it did me good." 
 
 " Do you always keep your bed? " 
 
 " Oh no, I keep about. I had but just laid 
 down when you came. My back ached so." 
 
 " Why don't you go to a dispensary? " 
 
 "Jo would not let me. He would have me 
 have a paid doctor." 
 
 "Where is Jo?" 
 
 " At work. He'll be home by and bye.'* 
 
 " Then he is in work I Wliat wages has he? " 
 
 " From twenty to twenty-four shillings a 
 week." 
 
 ''Ah, then it was true that I heard. You 
 ought to be kept in comfort and plenty with suck 
 wages ; and he ill-treats you too 1 " 
 
 " Him ! who told you lies like that? " 
 
 Susan hid her face. A black bruise on her 
 sister's arm had tliat very moment struck her 
 eyes. 
 
 "You can't deceive me, Emma. Oli, to think 
 how we were brought uji, and Ihc comfort in our 
 little cottage, and five of us all with schooling,
 
 OB HOW TO MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 17 
 
 and never wanting for decent clothes and food, 
 and father with but his twelve or fifteen shillings 
 a week ! " 
 
 "Oh my home, my dear home! Mother I 
 father !" cried Emma, bursting into tears. " It's 
 the drink that's been our ruin. It's at the public 
 house all the money goes. To pay the half-crown 
 for this room something has to go every week. 
 The bed must go next ; and then when all's gone 
 we must go down to the kitchen. They tell me 
 the woman's dying that's there now. It's damp, 
 and has a horrid smell, and a grating over the 
 window, for it's underground. Please God to 
 take me before I have to go down there ! " 
 
 " He's a villain that has brought you to this." 
 
 " No, no ! he's good when he's not in drink ; 
 and he's a good workman — none better. But the 
 workshop's close and hot, and he wants comfort 
 when he comes away, and there's none here for 
 him." 
 
 Susan's conscience smote her. It was not the 
 way to help Emma, to make her hate her hus- 
 band. It was a blessing she could love him 
 still. 
 
 " There is no comfort here, Emma," she said, 
 *'let me help you to make it better. Let us try 
 to make your husband like his home." 
 
 Emma fell back on her pillow. " It's no use 
 to strive," she said. " What can I do? dragging 
 up all the water and carrying all down. It's no
 
 18 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 use. I'm too ill. I've no heart since I lost ray 
 poor baby, and the children are alwajs dragging 
 at me, and Tommy's always fretting." 
 
 " No wonder in such a place. They are all ill. 
 I will make it quite another thing." 
 
 " I have been thinking for you where you can 
 sleep," said Emma, who did not like to hear 
 8usan seem to say she had not done her best. 
 " There's only one bed here ; and then, you must 
 not lose your place for me." 
 
 Susan said she should not lose it by staying a 
 little while, and she knew she must liud a 
 lodging. 
 
 " Now you had best go down to the two-pair 
 back," said Emma, "and ask Mrs. Larkins to 
 let you half her bed. You will like her room. 
 Only say I sent you." 
 
 Susan went, not expecting to like it very much, 
 and was never more surprised than when Mrs. 
 Larkins opened her door; for it was a little 
 palace of comfort, and she and Mrs. Larkins 
 made friends in a minute. Tbe room was very 
 small, but the window was bright and wide open, 
 and a canary was singing in his cage, hung 
 airainst the shutter. There was a bed, with 
 checked curtains and a patchwork (piilt ; a table, 
 and some good chairs against the wall; briglit 
 tins and ])late3 on the mantel-piece and on 
 shelves ; also a ])ictare of tlie Princess lloyal, 
 another of ll.M.S. ''Thunderer," also a black
 
 OR HOW TO MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 19 
 
 likeness of a young man. Before the fireplace 
 was a square of carpet, and on it a little round 
 table, where Mrs. Larkins was having her tea. 
 All was as clean as it could be, and its mistress 
 as tidy as a woman can be after a hard day's 
 work. 
 
 " Sit ye down," said she, after the bargain for 
 a week's lodging had been made. " You say the 
 poor soul upstau's wants nothing more, and 
 you're tired to death ; and she put a dust more 
 tea into her brown teapot, blew up the hot 
 cinders, made the kettle boil, brought out some 
 fresh water-cresses, and prepared to give Susan 
 her tea; and indeed Susan was very tired, and 
 enjoyed it much. They talked a great deal about 
 Emma. 
 
 " She will never be better as long as they have 
 but one room for them all, and it so close," said 
 Susan. " If she kept it like yours it would be 
 different ; but with his wages she ought to have 
 better lodgings." 
 
 " Let me tell you, my dear," said Mrs. Larkins, 
 " that wages is of no account if a man goes to 
 the public house ; and that unless a woman finds 
 a husband as don't, and that's not one in twenty, 
 she's better without him. Now I make, may-be, 
 five shillings a week, more or less." 
 
 " Five shillings ! and they have twenty-four !" 
 
 " That's it. What I make, I make ; and what 
 I spend, I spend on what I want. I should like
 
 20 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 more, it may be, at a time, but I do pretty well. 
 My old man — that's his j)icture you see there — 
 was sober enough, as times went ; he seldom drank 
 at all, so he left all these things and more behind 
 him ; some I gave to my son, and some I sold. 
 We had six children, and 1 lost him, poor fellow, 
 at thirty-five." 
 
 " You were happy with him then?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I got a fright once or twice that he 
 was going to take to the public-house, but I 
 'ticed him off it. I kept my place as tidy and 
 cheerful as ever I could always. Then I would 
 say to liim, " John," says I, " don't you think 
 if we could save a bit o' money, to buy some 
 more plates to fill the shelf," says I, " or a looking- 
 glass for you to shave by. Then the best of all 
 was a fellow-workman persuaded him to go to a 
 place of worship on a Sunday ; it was a nice 
 pleasant walk there, and tlie cliildren went to 
 Sunday school ; and they got that bible there on 
 tlie shelf, ly paying every week wliat we could 
 spare ; and he liked us all to look neat and tidy 
 on Sunday, so he never wanted to spend his 
 money away after that. His own liome was 
 I)leasanter than (he gin-sliop, I took care o' tliat." 
 
 " Ah, yes !" said Susan, " that's the way if 
 only Emma could do it. ]5ut she's so ill !" 
 
 "She's not so bad, if it wasn't for fretting, 
 and if she wonhl go to the dispensary, tliey'd do 
 lier good. That's Spearman's folly about a paid
 
 OR HOW ro MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 21 
 
 doctor. There's the best of doctors and medicines 
 for nothing at the dispensary ; and as to pay, 
 they don't make us pay ; but I go to work some- 
 times at one of the doctor's houses, and cook told 
 me he gets a golden sovereign and a shilling 
 from rich people." 
 
 " I will try and persuade her," said Susan, 
 rising to go back to Emma. " But it's not the 
 doctor she wants, Mrs. Larkins ; it's fresh air, 
 and wholesome food, and a happy heart." Mrs. 
 Larkins sighed and shook her head, as if to say 
 she thought it a hopeless case, and Susan went 
 sadly up-stairs. She found Emma sitting at the 
 table, wearily leaning her head on her hand. 
 She was listening for her husband ; he had 
 promised to come early, she said, because she 
 was so poorly, but Saturday was always the worst 
 night with him. 
 
 Eight o'clock came, then nine, and Emma 
 began to cry and moan and complain of Jo, and 
 at last said she was so ill, that she must have 
 some drops from the doctor's. Would Susan 
 light the candle first, not to leave her in tho 
 dark, and go for the drops ? 
 
 Susan went, and as she turned out of the 
 court, almost ran against a man who was reeling 
 into it. There was not light enough to see his 
 face, but a dread came over her that it was 
 Joseph Spearman. She was kept waiting so long 
 in the shop, that twenty minutes had passed
 
 22 "WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 before sl^e got back. As she ran up to the door, 
 she heard a scream, then loud voices of men and 
 a heavy fall. She burst in. Emma was clinging 
 to a chair. Two men were stvu2:2:lino^ on the 
 floor. The undermost was Jo, the other had his 
 clenclied fist ready to strike a hea\'y blow. Susan 
 clung to the uplifted arm with all her strength, 
 and held it back. The man turned round, and 
 their faces met. It was John Turner ! 
 
 " Spare him ! don't harm him !" shrieked 
 Emma. " He's good to me, when he's not in 
 drink. Look at me, Jo ! Are you hurt ?" 
 
 John rose, but dragged the otlier up with him, 
 and held him fast by the collar. The wretched 
 man was sobered by the shock, and stared in 
 horror at the two strangers. He remembered their 
 faces. They seemed to him like two ministers 
 of wrath come to punish him. John shook him 
 in his rage, and said dreadful words to him that 
 cannot be written, and then called him a coward 
 that would strike a woman. 
 
 Jo lield out his trembling liands towards his 
 wife, and she seized them, kissed them, and tried 
 to comfort him. He was slmddering from liead 
 to foot John released him, and he staggered 
 against tlie wall. 
 
 Susan touched Jolin's arm. " Best leave them 
 alone," she said, "she will do him more good 
 than we can." 
 
 John followed her out, Ijut stopped again
 
 OK now TO MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 23 
 
 outside the door. " He was to be answerable to 
 me," he said, " and see what he has brought her 
 to. She is living in a pig-stye, and he must beat 
 her besides. I heard her cry as I got to this 
 door, and rushed in upon him." 
 
 " Remember, he was not himself; he was 
 drunk." 
 
 "Where's the excuse of that? It makes a man 
 mad to think how the working men of England 
 make sots of themselves, and keep themselves 
 down by drink to be the poor slaves they are." 
 
 " Don't slander your brothers. They are not 
 all like him." 
 
 Susan turned to leave him as she spoke, but 
 he begged her to let him call on her again, to 
 which she agreed before they parted; and she 
 went down, tliankful to lay her head on the 
 pillow by the kind old Mrs. Larkins. 
 
 Never had she passed such a wretched Sunday 
 as she awoke to next morning. Jo lay fevered 
 and bruised in body and soul, with racking pain 
 in his head and shame in his heart. Emma 
 nursed him, but was herself half dead. Susan 
 took care of the children, and waited on them 
 all. She borrowed a little food of kind Mrs. 
 Larkins, for she could not bear to break the 
 Sabbath, as her poor sister had got the habit of 
 doing by going to market on Sunday morning, 
 and neither Jo nor Emma were in a state to enjoy 
 a Sunday dinner. Then she tried to teach the
 
 24 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 poor children a little hymn and told them tlie 
 story of Joseph, but they were strange words to 
 the poor neglected little things, who did not 
 know what a " happy Sunday " was. 
 
 Susan went to bed weary and hopeless, but 
 when she went up to Emma in the morning, she 
 was surprised to find that Jo was gone to work, 
 and Emma in better spirits, because he had 
 promised faithfully to come straight home. 
 
 "We must do our parts, then," said Susan." 
 
 "Why, what can we do?" said Emma. " Pie 
 says he'll come home, and if he don't, we can do 
 nothiug to bring him. Hold your tongue. Tommy I 
 What did you wake up for? There will be no 
 peace now, for he'll fret for an hour, and I want 
 to go to sleep again." 
 
 " When children fret, it's because they are in 
 Bome pain or misery, poor little souls !" answered 
 Susan. " They have merry little hearts, and 
 would be laughing and shouting and running 
 about at play all day, if they were but easy and 
 let alone. Get up and come to aunty. Tommy I 
 Oh, Emma! if you could but see my Manchester 
 children ! We don't hear a cry sometimes from 
 morning to night." 
 
 " Ah 1 it's well for them with all their comforts. 
 Stop cr}'ing. Tommy, or I'll give you the stick I" 
 
 Tommy clambered out of tiic wretched hole ho 
 was in, and came crying to Susan. She took 
 him on her la]), and asked him if it would not
 
 OR HOW TO MAKE A HAPPY HOME. 25 
 
 be a pity to wake up little sick Polly, and keep 
 poor mother awake too. And he began to wipe 
 his eyes with his sleeve, and try to sob more 
 softly. Susan felt that he was burning hot, and 
 saw that he was in a fever with the bites of 
 vermin. Coaxing and playing with hira all the 
 time, she managed to get off his rags, and to 
 wash him all over with soap and water. It was 
 sad to see in what a state his skin was, and she 
 could scarcely bear to put on his dirty clothes 
 again ; but he had no others, though " he shall 
 have," thought Susan to herself, "please God to 
 spare me, before many mornings are past." 
 
 He was, however, very much refreshed, and a 
 bit of bread that had been left last night, and an 
 apple and a ball, given to Susan for him by 
 Willie, when she was coming away the day 
 before, made him so happy, that he sat down in 
 a corner, and began to talk to himself, and sing 
 in a low tone, now and then, as he played with 
 the ball, and took a bite by turns. Emma had 
 been asleep, but she looked out at him in 
 wonder. 
 
 " Well, you have a way with children, Susan," 
 she said ; " but you always had. I'm sure I 
 can't manage them, and I don't like to beat 
 til em, but sometimes I am forced." 
 
 " Beating does no good," said Susan. " It 
 only gives them another pain to fret about, poor 
 souls, and they've enough without."
 
 26 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 ^'Take some, mammy !" cried Tommy, nmning 
 to his mother, and holding his apple to her 
 mouth, 
 
 Emma bm'st out crying. " He's a good little 
 fellow, Susan," she said. "They are all good 
 cliildren, but what's to become of them? They 
 must go to the work-house when I'm dead, for 
 I've no hope of Jo. Oh, my poor children ! 
 I wish w^e were all dead, and laid in our 
 graves." 
 
 " It's no use to say things like that," said 
 Susan ; " and if you go on so, you need not have 
 any hope for Jo. Look what a place you're in. 
 He'll never stop in it. I don't know who would 
 that could keep out of it. I'm going to clean 
 it up, that's what I'm going to do ;" and without 
 waiting for objections, she set to work so hard 
 that Emma could not be idle. Mrs. Larkins 
 lent pail, scrubbing brush and broom. Susan 
 bouglit soap and the other things. The window was 
 soon bright, tlirown wide open, for tlie horrid dirt 
 on the ledge had beca sent running down the 
 spout by a mop and many a pail of soai)y water, 
 and the window had been forced down from the 
 top a bit, and Emma promised to keep it so day 
 and night as ]\Irs. AVilson did. The grate was 
 ch'ared ; (hist, cobwebs, and dirt swept oil" ceiling, 
 walls, and floor ; bedstead, floor, table, and chairs, 
 scrubbed ; the sheets taken out of pawn with some 
 of poor Susan's money; the bed made, and Emma
 
 OB HOW TO MAKE A HAPPY HOJIS. 27 
 
 dressed in Susan's clean gown before six o'clock. 
 Then they put supper ready on the table near the 
 window; bread and cheese and radishes, a pint of 
 beer and Jo's pipe. Susan sighed as she put 
 the beer down, for she would fain have spent the 
 money on wholesome bread for the cliildren, 
 but she must not expect too much of Jo all at 
 once. They were all ready for father now. 
 
 And father came as he had promised, and was 
 so surprised when he opened the door that it 
 took his breath away. "When he could speak, 
 he held out his hand to Susan, and said, " Sister- 
 in-law, God bless you !" He could say no more, 
 but there were many thoughts in his mind as he 
 sat smoking his pipe. 
 
 All the week they worked hard. They washed 
 all the clothes and the blankets, and Susan made 
 little nightgowns and mended and made other 
 clothes for the children, and made then* poor 
 little skins thoroughly clean in hot soap and 
 water. Their heads cost most trouble, full as 
 they were of vermin ; but she used sulphur 
 ointment to them, and taught Emma to make a 
 wash of strong vinegar, called pyroligneous acid, 
 which she got cheap at the chemist's, mixed 
 with water,* and to rub it into the skin under 
 the hair to keep it safe; and she bought little 
 
 * A wash made of a teaspoonful of pyroligneous acid in a toacupful 
 of water will keep the skin of the head free from scurf. The acid 
 should be bought of the ordinary strength.
 
 28 WHOSE FAITLT IS IT ? 
 
 brushes for them, and made Emma promise to 
 rinse them out in soda and water often, and in 
 plain water afterwards, that they might always be 
 clean. It costs some trouble to do all this, but 
 not so much as hearing poor children crying and 
 fretting all day. 
 
 They were ready for Jo in wonderful order 
 when Saturday evening came, and well did he 
 reward them. He came straight home and laid 
 his whole week's money before Emma, only short 
 by his daily dinner. She sobbed in her joy, and 
 placed tlie children in his arms and told them to 
 thank father for her. Susan stood by with 
 glistening eyes, and they overflowed when Emma 
 threw her arms round her, and said, " It's all 
 your doing, my sister." 
 
 " She shall tell us how to lay out the money," 
 said Jo. " There's the rent, and food, and we're 
 beliind at the grocer's and baker's I know; but 
 if there's some to spare" — 
 
 " Trust tliat tlierc will," said Susan, "and get 
 your Sunday coat out of pawn this very night." 
 He did so, and then took his children, in whom he 
 could now take pleasure, a walk towards the country. 
 
 The Sunday morning was a dilTorent one to 
 the last. Susan took out lier liible, and laid 
 a number of "The British Workman" upon 
 the table, which drew Jo's attention. Then 
 they got into talk, and at last Jo said he had 
 made up his mind to give up beer altogether.
 
 OR now TO MAICE A HAPPY HOME. 29 
 
 Susan and Emma were so filled with joy to hear 
 this, that they could hardly speak. Then he 
 talked of the Sunday school he went to when he 
 was a boy, and thoughts of his soul and another 
 world came to his mind. " Well," said Emma, 
 '' I hope we shall go to heaven when we die; we 
 must do the best we can." " There is one way, 
 then, for us all," said Susan, " through Jesus 
 Christ; if we feel that we are sinners, and can do 
 nothing to save ourselves, but ask for His mercy 
 and an interest in His death. He will not refuse 
 any of us, for He came to seek and to save them 
 that are lost." That Sunday evening Jo went 
 with Susan to a place of worship, and the hymns 
 and prayers there offered, went to his heart. 
 
 Susan spent the greater part of several days 
 trying to find two nice rooms; but everywhere she 
 was disappointed. Either there was close air, or 
 bad water, or a smell of drains, or no conveniences 
 for getting rid of dust and slops. She saw in her 
 search sad scenes of sorrow and sickness, and 
 others of patient industry that did the best that 
 could be done. Dirt and drunkenness always 
 went together. There might be a clean hard- 
 working woman that could not keep her husband 
 , from gin, but never did she find a slattern who 
 could. 
 
 At last when she was almost in despair, John 
 Turner took her to one of those large blocks of 
 building, called Model Lodging Houses, where
 
 30 WHOSE FAULT IS IT ? 
 
 there happened to be a set of two rooms to let 
 Here she found all she wanted, and took them at 
 once. There was a private door, a little lobby or 
 passage, a scullery with sinks and water laid on, 
 a kitchen, and the range with boiler and oven, 
 a bed-room and every convenience ; and the 
 windows looked over a large graveljed square, 
 where numbers of children were at play. True, 
 the rooms cost four and sixpence a week, and 
 were rather far off for Jo ; but he had said he 
 woukl stand this. More than a hundred families 
 lived in this building, all equally well provided 
 with comforts. 
 
 It had come to the last week of Susan's visit 
 She had promised Mrs. Wilson to go back to her 
 place by the night train on Saturday, so she 
 should see Emma in her new home before she 
 left her ; for the old room was to be given up on 
 Saturdnv. • She brouirht about a meetiuo: between 
 John Turner and her brother-in-law, and saw 
 them reconciled. It seemed to her, when she 
 saw them shake hands cordially, that her work 
 was nearly done, and she might go back happily; 
 but yet she felt sad as she thought of it 
 
 She often wondered, too, what John's parting 
 words meant, for he had said, " Spearman, I will 
 not hear of paying back, till a whole year has 
 I)assed." This was explained, however, while 
 she was scrubbing and iJuli.shing up the new
 
 on now TO make a happy home. 31 
 
 rooms on Saturday morning, when some nice 
 new things arrived to furnish them. John had 
 lent Spearman the money, and she was not afraid 
 of the payment. Ho would do it easily if he kept 
 bis resolution. 
 
 How Susan rejoiced over the new bedstead and 
 mattress, and the little bed for the children. 
 That was the best of all! How proudly she 
 placed the table in the middle of the kitchen, and 
 set the chairs round the wall, and filled the 
 shelves with plates, cups and saucers, and jugs, 
 and put the kettle and saucepan, the frying-pan 
 and gridiron, in their places. 
 
 " They may sell off all their old things, and 
 only bring in the blankets and sheets and their 
 clothes. Emma has got them all clean and tidy, 
 poor girl, now," thought she. " Where shall 
 we put them ?" As the thought rose, in came a 
 man with a pretty chest of drawers and looking- 
 glass. Now it was complete. 
 
 She got supper ready, and then waited im- 
 patiently for them. They came at last. Emma, 
 with her pale face, carrying her sick child, 
 Tommy holding by her gown, and Jo, with Susie 
 on one arm, and a bundle on the other. Emma 
 could not believe it was true. This beautiful 
 place could not be her home. She sank trembling 
 into a chair. Susan had her arms around her to 
 welcome her, and bid her good-bye, for her time 
 was come.
 
 82 WHOSE FATTLT IS IT ? 
 
 " She shall have her beautiful colour back by 
 this time next year," said Jo, as he shook 
 Susan's hand warmly, and took an aflfectionate 
 leave of her, " and the children shall be healthy 
 and happy. Only come back to see us, and God 
 bless you and reward you !" 
 
 Emma had some parting words to say too. 
 They were, " His home shall be kept as mother 
 kept ours. Come again and see it." 
 
 Susan was kissing the children one after 
 another, and could not stop her tears ; and as she 
 shut the door, and ran down stairs, she heard 
 Tommy's voice crying to her to come back. At 
 the outer door of the building, she found John 
 Turner waiting to see her to the train. They 
 walked on in silence for some time, till Susan 
 said, — " I thank you heartily, John, for what 
 you have done." 
 
 " A man that has been such a fool in life as I 
 have," he replied, after a silence of some minutes, 
 "lias little right to hope; but perhaps some 
 day, Susan" — 
 
 But Susan had turned away, and he had not 
 courage to say more. Still, she did not forbid 
 him to go down to Manchester to sec her again ; 
 so, as he said, " Perhaps some day" — . Let the 
 scGlcncc be finished as each reader thinks best.
 
 now TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 OGER MIDDLETON was the son of poor 
 country people, who could not afford to 
 send him to school after he was old enough 
 to work on the farm on which his father 
 had been a labourer for the greater part of his life. 
 But his mother was a good scholar, and to her 
 chiefly was Roger indebted for what education he 
 possessed. He could read with tolerable ease, and 
 he could write a little, but the rough work of a 
 farm rather spoils a man's hands for writing ; and 
 besides, he had not practice enough to make it 
 come easy to him. Roger's parents were an honest, 
 hard-working couple ; they taught their children 
 to fear God rather than man ; and explained to 
 them, that whoever told lies did not fear God, 
 for that " lying lips are an abomination to the 
 Lord ;" ancl then the mother would take down 
 her Bible, and open it at the Book of Proverbs, 
 and show this to her children, and make them 
 repeat it till they could say it by heart. And 
 another time, perhaps, just as they were going to 
 bed, she would teach them auother short lesson 
 from the same holy book.
 
 4 MOW TO lilAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 So Roger grew up a steady, trusty fellow, and 
 in due time became carter on the same farm on 
 which his father still worked. Roger had put a 
 few shillings into the Savings' Bank when he 
 was a big boy; and since he had become a man, 
 he had, from time to time, added a little out of 
 his wages, which during the tliree years he 
 had been a carter, varied from eleven to twelve 
 shillings a week. " I've got over ten pounds 
 in the bank," said Roger Middleton to himself, 
 one evening, as he was going home to his 
 father's cottage, " and I've regular wages and 
 good health, thank God for it; and I'm turned 
 live and twenty, so I don't see why I should not 
 marry and have a home of my own before next 
 Christmas." 
 
 This is what Roger said to himself, but what 
 do you think it was that put such strange 
 thoughts into his mind? It was Susan Green, 
 the clean-looking, modest girl, who had been 
 cook and dairy-maid for the last two years at 
 the Squire's house. Roger had not seen much 
 of this girl, for she did not 2)ut herself in the 
 way of the men about the farm. The last cook 
 did; she too was very pretty, and dressed very 
 smart on Sundays ; and if slie liad occasion to 
 go into the yard where any of the fami-raen 
 were at work, she was sure to draw their attention 
 by singing pretty loud, or by pretending to laugh 
 licartily at something; or if that wouKl not do, 
 she wouUl pick up a bit of stick and throw at 
 some of them, in hopes that they wouhl run 
 after her. ]>nt all these silly tricks (Hd not 
 catch the good-loukiug steady carter, fur '' Surely
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THEN^GS. 5 
 
 in vain the net is spread in the sight of any 
 bird." So Lucy, the pretty, smart, but impu- 
 dent-looking girl, went to try the same tricks in 
 some other place, and Susan was now cook in 
 her stead. 
 
 Susan had been used to hard work ever since 
 she could remember; she was the eldest of a 
 large family, and when she was not more than 
 six years old, she had to nurse the baby, sweep 
 the kitchen,' wash the plates, take her father's 
 dinner into the field at hay-time and harvest- 
 time, and go on all manner of errands for 
 her mother. When she was older she stood 
 at the wash-tub, hung out the linen to dry, 
 ii'oned it and mended it, as her mother taught 
 her, patched her father's coat and trowsers, 
 and her mother's gowns, or darned the stockings 
 till there was hardly a bit of anything but 
 darns to be seen. 
 
 One evening after Susan had been hard at 
 work making bread for the week, and baking 
 it; cleaning the floors, scrubbing the tables, 
 and washing the windows ; she sat down to sew 
 with her mother, who had just finished making 
 a shirt for her husband. " Susan," said her 
 mother, "your father and I have been talking 
 of your going to service ; for, as he says, it is 
 not fair to keep you at home working for us all 
 your days." " But mother," said Susan, " I'm 
 quite content to be at home; and yet I have 
 som.etimes thought if I got a good place I might 
 learn a good deal, and save a little out of my 
 wages, perhaps — but do you think you can spare 
 me?" "I shall miss you at first, Susan," said
 
 6 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 her mother ; " but when you are gone, Rhoda will 
 do more than she does now ; for she is a good girl, 
 though we blame her so often for liking play 
 better than work. When I asked her why she did 
 not wash the door-steps on Saturday evening, she 
 told me that you would not think it was properly 
 done if you did'nt do it yourself; so perhaps it 
 is that that makes her more idle than she ought 
 to be." Susan laughed, and said Rhoda could 
 scrub as well as any girl; adding, "But you 
 know, mother, I've always been used to do the 
 cleaning, so somehow, I don't like to give it up." 
 A few days after this conversation, Mrs. 
 Green heard that Lucy was going to leave the 
 squire's kitchen ; and as Mrs. Cooper, the rector's 
 wife had often told her she would help any 
 of her girls to a place, she went to speak to 
 that lady. The rector's wife and the squire's 
 wife were intimate friends, and it was soon 
 settled that Susan should go at Michaelmas, and 
 be under the old housekeeper, who would help 
 her and teach her to cook. The squire's name 
 was Wayland, and Mrs. Wayland was very glad 
 to have a servant out of so res])cctable a fjmnly 
 as the Green's. Well then, at the time when 
 it came into Roger's liead that he miulit as well 
 nuirry and have a home of his own, Susan w\a8 
 three and twenty, good-looking cnougli to please 
 any man who tliinks a kind and sensible coun- 
 tenance, a brisk, active manner, and a clean, 
 homely dress, more attractive than cheaj) iinery. 
 1 don't know how it hai>pencd, but somcliow, 
 from the time lie liad made up his mijid that lie 
 should like to have a wife, and that Susan Green
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 7 
 
 was the best looking girl for a workman's wife 
 that he had ever seen, Roger always happened 
 to come out of church just as Susan did, and, 
 somehow, they always had a little friendly chat 
 with one another as they walked homewards. 
 And one Sunday when Roger had been so silent 
 that it made Susan feel quite uncomfortable, for 
 she thought she really must have offended Roger — 
 and just as they came to the stile where they 
 usually parted, he to go across the fields to his 
 father's cottage, and she to go home to the 
 squire's — just there, Roger took courage, and 
 when Susan said " Good bye," and was going ; 
 he, instead of saying " Good bye," said, " Stop 
 a minute, Susan; I've something to say to 
 you." Whether it was that Susan at that 
 moment, had some notion of what he was 
 going to say, or whether she still was under 
 any apprehension that she had given him offence, 
 I cannot say ; but whatever her thoughts were, 
 she certainly did not seem quite so collected as 
 usual; for the color came into her face, as she 
 stood leaning against the stile, and she could 
 only say, "Well! what is it?" "Susan! you 
 and I walk home from church together every 
 
 Sunday, but that is'nt all I want I want 
 
 you to say that you'll walk with me to churchy 
 on a week-day, and be my wife." " Dear me, 
 Roger! how you talk. You don't really mean 
 that!" said Susan, who did not exactly know 
 either what she said, or what she meant. " Yes, 
 I do mean it, Susan ; and if you don't dislike 
 me" — " Oh no, Roger" — " Then perhaps you'll 
 mention what I say to your father and mother,
 
 8 HOW TO ]\L\KE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 and if they don't object, you'll promise to marry 
 me." "I did not say tliat^ Roger; but I'll 
 think about it. Good bye." 
 
 In the evening- Susan went to her father's 
 cottage, and soon told her parents what Roger 
 Middleton had said to her. " I thmk he's an 
 honest, good lad," said her father, " and he'll 
 make you a good husband, and I'm sure you'll 
 make him a good wife ; so you've my consent." 
 "And mine, too," said her mother; "for I 
 don't believe there's a steadier young man in the 
 parish." 
 
 All this took place about IMichaelmas time, 
 and Roger had set his heart on being married 
 before Christmas. A cottage was soon found 
 suitable for the young couple ; and the day fixed 
 for the wedding was the last day in October, 
 which fell on a Saturday. " Susan," said Roger, 
 " as he walked home with her from church as 
 usual on the Sunday afternoon. " I'm going to 
 speak to the clerk about publishing our bnnns : 
 'tis only three weeks, you know, before we're to 
 be married." And the clerk was spoken to, and 
 the banns were to be published the next Sunday. 
 
 It was Tuesday morning. Susan was busy 
 cleaning the churn, for she had just made butter 
 and cleared away the dairy things, when one of 
 the farm boys came running into the back 
 kitchen, lotiking very much frightened. " "What's 
 the matter, Rilly?" asked Susan. "Middleton 
 has broke liis leg; he was climbing over tlio 
 fence by tlie cow-yard, and somehow slip])cd 
 and fell on the ])avemont ; and he says liis \<>}'^ 
 is broke." I'oor Susan 1 "Who is with Roger?"
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 9 
 
 she asked. " Not Roger ! 'tis the old man that's 
 hurt," answered Billy. " I'll go and see if I 
 can't help him," said Susan, as her color came 
 back a little into her pale face, and off she went 
 to see what was the matter. The poor man had 
 indeed broken his leg, and his son and some 
 of the other men were carrying him as carefully 
 as they could to his own cottage. Susan went 
 back and told her mistress what had happened, 
 and in a few hours the poor man was lying in 
 a clean bed, in the County Hospital. 
 
 In the evening, Hoger came to tell Susan that 
 he had left his father in the hospital — that he 
 had seen the doctor, who told him it was not a 
 bad case ; that his father would not be able to 
 work again for several weeks ; but that he would 
 get perfectly well in time. This was a great 
 comfort to his wife, and to all his family, who 
 fancied the poor man would be lame for the rest 
 of his life. " But Roger," said Susan, looking 
 very grave, " how is your poor mother to get. 
 along while your father is in the hospital ? You 
 won't let her go to the parish, to be sure !" 
 *' My mother go to the parish ! I think my 
 mother would rather starve than do such a thing. 
 No ; I have not forgot the command, ' Honour 
 
 thy father and thy mother,' " said Roger 
 
 " But you recollect, Susan," and there he stopped. 
 '^ I know what you mean, only you don't like to 
 say it — we must put off our marriage for a little 
 while, and we must help your poor mother." 
 ''/will help my mother, Susan; but you must 
 not, till you ai-e my wife." 
 
 In a few weeks, old Middleton, as he was
 
 10 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 called, though he was not yet fifty, came home 
 from the hospital ; but it was ten weeks from tlje 
 time of his accident before he could go to work 
 again ; and, during all that time, his good son 
 Roger allowed his mother five shillings a week 
 out of his savings. 
 
 On New Year's Day, Roger and Susan were 
 married, and went home to a snug little cottage 
 of only two rooms, and a small sort of back 
 kitchen, in which was an oven. They began life, 
 knowing they must make the most of things^ if 
 they would keep above poverty, which looking 
 up to God for a blessing on their daily work, 
 they had a fair prospect of being able to do. 
 They both wished that the new home they were 
 forming should be one in which God was loved 
 and honoured, and intended no day should pass 
 without prayer and reading together a few verses 
 of God's word, that they might take it "as a 
 lamp to their feet, and a ligiit to their path." 
 
 Here we will leave them for a while, and 
 relate some of Lucy's adventures after she 
 left Mrs. Wayland's service. Lucy, as we have 
 already heard, was very pretty and smart-looking, 
 and by no moans backward ; so she used to 
 boast that she always had u sweetheart, wherever 
 she went. She did not consider whether they 
 were such as were worth having ; she was not 
 thoughtful enough for that. First, a bricklayer's 
 a})pr(jntice was her sweetheart, but they (]uarrelled 
 about some trifle, and to spite him, Lucy im- 
 mediately set up a llirtation, as she called it, 
 with an idle young man who had no regular 
 employment, but who was often engaged with a
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 1 1 
 
 set of poachers that frequented the neighbour- 
 hood. He was a swaggering young fellow, fond 
 of company and of drinking and smoking, but 
 by no means fond of work; and this was the 
 man Lucy was proud of having for a Sunday 
 beau ! Poor silly girl, she had not him long ; 
 for, happily for her, he was taken up one night 
 with some of his worthless companions for 
 stealing fowls, and marched off to the county 
 gaol. Lucy did not trouble herself much about 
 the matter. There could 1 e no respect on either 
 side, and without respect, affection does not last 
 long. A young shoemaker who used to make 
 shoes for the servants, when Lucy was cook at 
 the squire's, was the next acquaintance. He 
 was industrious and steady, but rather a weak 
 young man. Lucy courted him, and flattered 
 him, and laughed at his stupid jokes, till his 
 head was turned, and he thought her the nicest 
 girl he ever saw, and so he told her, and she 
 pretended to be equally fond of him ; and the 
 end of all this folly was, that he asked her to 
 marry him, and she consented, not because she 
 really cared for him, but because she thought 
 that when she was married she could go where 
 she liked, and stay out as late as she pleased in 
 the evening without any mistress interfering 
 with her pleasure. So Lucy was married to 
 James Elliot the shoemaker, full two years 
 before Roger married Susan. 
 
 Lucy of course had not saved a penny — worse 
 than that, she owed Maria, the housemaid, seven 
 shillings. Lucy had a fashionable bonnet, a 
 gawdy shawl, two muslin di'esses, a veil and a
 
 12 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 parasol, besides several other useless things, but 
 she was very barely provided with shoes and 
 stockings; and, as to a good flannel petticoat, 
 and tidy underclothes, she had not five shillings' 
 worth in the world. At the end of each quaiter 
 when she took her wages, ofi" she went to the shop 
 and spent almost all she had in ribbons, lace, 
 flowers, and tawdry ornaments ; this was a poor 
 stock for a working-man's wife to begin with, 
 and they soon looked very badly. However, as 
 she knew that James had plenty of work, she 
 thought he must have plenty of money too; 
 so she told him she must have a print dress, 
 and she must have an umbrella. She felt 
 rather asliamed of her parasol; and as to her 
 veil and her bead bracelets, she soon put them 
 out of sight. 
 
 " I've a good deal of binding that must be 
 done this week, Lucy; can't you do some?" 
 asked James, one morning, a short time after 
 they were married, "Kot to-day; 'tis Hilton 
 Fair, you know, and Jane Eichards and 1 
 are going. You'll go too, won't you?" "I 
 can't spare time — I'm all bcliind now ; we were 
 out so nuicli last week — I think, Lucy, you 
 might as avcU stay at home. Aint you going to 
 make bread? We've luid none but baker's loaves 
 ever since we married, and I don't like that at 
 all." " Nonsense, you are alwnys l)otliering 
 about the l)road. Besides, if wc go to the lair, 
 we slian't Avant any bread in the house," said 
 Lucy, laughing ; " so, come along ; the shoes will 
 keep till to-morrow." Poor James stood shilly- 
 bhaliy. He knew he ought to stay at home, and
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 13 
 
 do tlic work he had promised to finish ; but Lucy 
 pulled him by his curly hair, and told him that 
 he looked so handsome that she should be quite 
 proud of going' to Hilton fair with liim ; and just 
 then Jane Eichards, with her smart beau came 
 up ; and he was afraid of being laughed at, and 
 called a grubbing cobbler (his wife called him so 
 once, when he hesitated about going to a tea- 
 party at the public-house); so he put away his 
 tools, and dressed himself in his Sunday clothes, 
 to go to the fair. 
 
 They fell in with several parties, all going 
 in the same direction. Hilton was a small 
 town, six miles off. By the time they got 
 there the two young women were rather tired; 
 and Lucy began joking her husband about 
 the gentlemen treating the ladies. So, to a public- 
 house they all went, and ordered beer, and cakes, 
 such as were made at Hilton. After resting 
 themselves for about an hour they went into 
 the fair, paid to see a giant and a dwarf, then 
 music attracted them to a dancing-booth, " en- 
 trance, only two-pence each." Here they danced, 
 and after a little while refreshments were 
 handed round, and the gentlemen again treated 
 the ladies. Poor James did not feel very com- 
 fortable. He knew he could not afford to spend 
 his money and his time in this manner, but he 
 was afraid of being laughed at, and of being 
 called mean ; so he put a good face on t]ie 
 matter, and danced and sung with the rest. 
 
 "Dear me! I could not have thought it was 
 so late," exclaimed Jane Richards, as the town 
 clock slowly struck six. " We'd best be walking
 
 14 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THIXGS. 
 
 home, I think,"' said James. 'Tis a longish way, 
 and we shall not go back quite so fast as we 
 came. Come, Lucy !" " Lor, James ! what a 
 fidget you are ; the best of the fair is'nt come 
 yet — is it, Jane?" "Oh lawk, no," replied the 
 bold-faced Jane ; I like the evening best, a deal — 
 lots of fun then." And just as she uttered this 
 speech, the loud drums and trumpets on the 
 outside of a horse-rider's circus made them 
 start. " Come along, Jim ; we must see the 
 horse-riders ; they are now going to begin," said 
 Lucy. In vain James begged her in a low 
 voice, to come home ; in vain he whispered that 
 he had spent too much already. Lucy had had 
 a glass of spirits and water in the dancing-booth, 
 and she felt very merry — '■'•very happy,'"' she 
 called it then. Alas 1 such is the happiness of 
 the ungodly. 
 
 "Ue shall be very late home, Lucy," said 
 James ; "do pray come now. We can leave Tom 
 and Jane, if tliey choose to stay ; do come." " Go 
 by yourself, like a little mean-spirited cobbler as 
 you are," said Lucy. But she did not say this 
 aloud ; it was only for poor Jim's cars. " Hush I 
 Husli ! Lucy ; don't talk in that way. I'll go, if 
 you wisli it so mucli." So in they all went to the 
 horse-riders. " Oidy Gd. eacli," in great red 
 letters on the hand-bill. " Where are wo to 
 sit?" asked Lucy and Jane; not seeing any scats 
 provided. "A shilling each for the sittings, 
 and threepence returned in li(]Uor," replied tiie 
 showman. " Let's go over to t'other side, Tom ; 
 we girls can't stand in the dirty sawdust for an 
 hour." " Six2)euce more, each, if you please,
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 15 
 
 ladies and gentlemen." said the showman ; and 
 tlie money was paid by James and Tom ; and 
 the party went over to that part of the circus 
 where seats were provided, and gin and water 
 into the bargain. The horse-riding did not begin 
 till past seven o'clock, and it was nine when they 
 came out of the booth, hot, tired, and covered 
 with the dust which the horses kicked up. " I 
 wish we were home," said Lucy ; " it's beginning 
 to rain ; my bonnet will be quite spoiled ;" and 
 Lucy looked very cross. " I say, Tom ; you aint 
 going to drag along six miles in the rain, and 
 before we've had a bit of supper, are ye?" said 
 Jane, in a loud, lialf-angry voice. " No, not L 
 Let's go to the ' Three Jolly Ploughmen ;' they 
 draw first-rate beer there ; and I vote for staying 
 all night. What do you say, Jim ?" Jim looked 
 at Lucy, for he was afraid to speak out like a 
 man, and say, " My wife must come home with 
 me, rain or not." Lucy had sense enough to 
 know that she ought not to stay out all night ; 
 but she felt very tired, and so she did what she 
 generally did — she made excuses to herself for 
 doing wrong. She muttered about the rain, and 
 the dark, and said her clothes would be spoiled, 
 and that it would cost less to sleep at the public- 
 house than to pay for a new shawl and bonnet. 
 So James consented — "We'll go home early 
 to-morrow morning," whispered he to his wife, 
 as they entered the large room of the Inn. " I 
 promised to send Mr. Cooper's shoes home last 
 week, and yesterday, when he passed our door 
 he said, if I did not think it worth while to make 
 for him, he could eet them at Ililton." Here
 
 1 G HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 a fitldle was heard ; and Lucy, wlio did not care 
 to bear what Mr. Cooper said, made no answer ; 
 but, tired as she was, started up to dance. 
 Dancing, diinhing, singing, and smoking, went 
 on till a very late hour. One party after another 
 dropped in from the fair, till the rooms were 
 very hot ; at length, Avitli an aching bead, Lucy 
 went to bed. She left Tom quite drunk in the 
 kitchen; and Jane in a not much better state. 
 Of these young people we say no more at present, 
 but continue to narrate how James and Lucy 
 conducted themselves, and what were the con- 
 sequences. 
 
 They did not rise early next day. They did 
 not get home till past noon. The young man 
 who worked for James told him that Mr. Cooper 
 had called, and that when he heard that both he 
 and his wife were at ITilton fair, and that they 
 bad staid out all night, and that his shoes Avcro 
 " not yet quite finished^'* he had said, " Tell Elliot 
 not to trouble himself about the shoes. I shall 
 get a pair to-day at Hilton." James was mucii 
 vexed, lie knew he liad lost one of his best 
 customers — one who always jiaid immediately, 
 for the shoes he took for himself and for a large 
 fiimily of children. Lucy was very cross ; said it 
 was not her lault ; called Mr. Cooper by several 
 abusive names and ended by quarrelling with 
 her husband. This was a bad beginning for the 
 new-married couj^le. Listead of being a help- 
 mate to James, Lucy, in twelve miuiths' time, 
 had brought him into great dilliculties. Some 
 of his best customers he had eTitir(?ly lost. Ho 
 was iu debt for leather to carry on his trade
 
 HOW" TO MiiKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 17 
 
 Vv'itli, and tlie tanner was not willing to trust 
 liim much more. His wife had got into debt 
 at the village baker's, and she had a still heavier 
 debt at a draper's in Hilton. Her muslin 
 dresses were worn out, and they were too thin 
 to cut up into baby-frocks which she now wanted 
 for her little girl. She had never earned a penny 
 since she married. She was too fond of what 
 she called pleasure, to think of taking in a little 
 sewing, or even working for her husband, as she 
 might have done. She was too lazy to go out 
 to wash, or to clean at any of the gentlemen's 
 houses in the village, as she often might have 
 done when she was tirst manied. Now she could 
 not, and she grumbled about the trouble the ]30or 
 baby gave her. The house was dirty ; Lucy Was 
 cross and untidy ; and poor James was unhappy. 
 He was not an idle man, nor a man to spend his 
 money at public-houses. Many a man has been 
 driven to do so by the discomfort of his home ; 
 but weak as James was, he did not fall into this 
 fatal habit. He looked more and more shabby . 
 every year. He lost his good looks ; and his 
 health, which was never very robust, now quite 
 failed. At the end of six years, no one could 
 have believed that the squalid, ragged-looking 
 Mrs. Elliot, with her fom' du'ty little children, 
 was the smart pretty Lucy who boasted of her 
 many sweethearts. 
 
 In the meanwhile Roger Middlcton and his 
 wife had had their trials and difficulties, lioger 
 still worked in the same place, and Susan was 
 a good wife to him. She had now three little 
 ones ; and the eldest, a boy, had twice been
 
 18 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THEs^GS. 
 
 dangerously ill. This was a great fatigue . to 
 poor Susan, who had a young hahy to attend at 
 the same time; and, whether to rich or poor, 
 illness always brings expense with it. 
 
 However, Susan's maxim was to do the best she 
 could, and leave the result to God. This made 
 her cheerful when some would have grumbled 
 at having their nights' rest brohen time after 
 time. Susan had been well brought up, and had 
 always been taught by her mother that work is 
 a blessing, and not a curse — that one has not 
 time to be miserable when one is fully employed, 
 and that it is impossible for people who spend 
 their days in idleness to be happy. And Susan 
 really loved work. Nobody ever saw her husband 
 with a ragged jacket, or shirt — Nobody over saw 
 her with her gown frayed out all round the skirt. 
 '^ Lon^ trains ar'nt tit for my work," she used 
 to say ; and though Lucy used to laugh at her, 
 and tell her that she looked like an old-fashioned 
 body, she went on just the same, witli her com- 
 mon lilac prints and lier blue check apron on 
 week-days ; and a lighter lilac and a white apron 
 for Sundays. But she did look so neat at all 
 times, that the rector's wife used to tell her that 
 she thought she was the best dressed woman in 
 the parish — "because," she added, "your dress 
 is suitable to what you liave to do." 
 
 Kiigcr joined a liencfit Chd) of which Mr. 
 Wayhind was treasurer; and a great advantage he 
 found it ; for, one winter he was at home twelve 
 weeks, lame from the kick of a horse; during 
 which time he had 8s. a week i'nm\ his club. 
 Uiice a year this club had a tea-party in the
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 19 
 
 school-room, to wliich the wives and children 
 over ten years old were invited. This annual 
 feast was held soon after Roger's recovery; and 
 after listening to some sensillo speeches and 
 cheerful singing, he found confidence to speak 
 of the blessing the club had been to him and to re- 
 commend it to others, and to give some cheerful, 
 sound advice, from what he called his happy 
 experience of married life. He also found it in 
 his heart to say a word of the goodness of his 
 Father in heaven, who had preserved his life, 
 and given him so many blessings. 
 
 The first year after they were married Susan 
 earned a good many shillings ; and as they could 
 live on her husband's wages, Roger told her 
 that she might put all that she earned in the 
 k^avings' Bank. She knew by experience what 
 a good thing it was sometimes not to have a 
 shilling in one's pocket, when some temptation 
 to buy was very strong ; and what a good thing 
 it was to have a little store in the Bank, in 
 case of a " rainy day." So Susan, who though 
 never bold, was not foolishly shamefaced, turned 
 it over in her mind how she could best earn a 
 little money, and she soon resolved to go and 
 ask her old mistress if she could give her any 
 sewing. ]\lrs. Wayland gave her shirts to make, 
 and many articles of dress ; some of her own, 
 and some of her children's ; and, as Susan sewed 
 quickly as well as neatly, she eai'ned a good deal 
 of money in this way. " How yon do work, 
 Susan, like a slave ; and I'm sure you need not, 
 ior you are much better off than I am," said Lucy 
 one day, as she stepped in to try to gossip.
 
 20 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THmGS. 
 
 " Sit down, Lucy ; but you won't mind my going 
 on with my work, for I promised to send these 
 pinafores home to-morrow." And Susan went 
 on sewing as fast as she coukl. " Well; I would 
 not work in that way if I was as well off as you 
 are," said Lucy again, in an envious manner. 
 " Dear me, what a lot of books you have got 
 too ! and you've got a new table, I see, since you 
 moved into this house ! I can't think how you 
 find money for such things.'* And she paused, 
 hoping that Susan would tell her where the 
 money ^^^ found. " Some of tlie books are ours, 
 but most of them belong to the club that Mr. 
 Cooper established three or four years back. 
 Roger and I don't mind a few pence for them." 
 "Well, but a few pence would not buy that 
 table, nor yet those drawers. You are a deal 
 more lucky than we are. James has been very 
 unlucky, this last year." " I'm sorry for that. 
 How was it ?" " Oh ! he has lost the custom of 
 all the servants at the rectory, now. When we 
 married, he made for the rector, and the children, 
 and all the servants ; and there's a great many, 
 you know. First, Mr. Cooper took away liis 
 custom only because poor Jim went to Hilton 
 fair" (Susan knew this was untrue) ; " and six 
 montlis ago the servants took oll'encc, and said 
 they would have no more to say to him. And 
 then there's tlic Waylands, we've lost them too ; 
 and througli no fault of Jim's, but only because 
 they've lakcii such a iiiiicy to that stuck-up chap 
 with the tine green board over liis door — John 
 North. I wisli he'd staid at Hilton; I'm sm-e 
 he was not wanted here."
 
 now TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS, 21 
 
 Lucy stopped ; but Susan did not answer. She 
 had heard that a steady and jiunctual shoemaker 
 was wanted in the village. She had heard that 
 James's business was almost all gone, because he 
 had no longer the appearance of a resj)ectable 
 young man. Dirty, and even ragged, the servants 
 at the rectory and at the squire's would not employ 
 him. On a Sunday morning he had nothing 
 decent to go to church in, so he staid at home 
 and smoked, or lay in bed till noon. Susan 
 went on sewing. " You must earn a rare lot of 
 money, Susan, with your scraj)ing ways," said 
 Lucy, in a spiteful manner. " Could you lend 
 James five shillings, only till next Monday; he 
 wants it so very much?" "I am sorry to dis- 
 oblige you, Lucy; but indeed we are not rich 
 enough to lend money." "Oh, nonsense! I 
 know you have money in the Bank. Jim saw 
 you go in there the last time he was at Hilton, 
 and I suppose you did not go to take money out, 
 did you?" "Well, Lucy, to tell the truth, I 
 don't think I am obliged to answer that question. 
 1 ('o.i't wish to be uncivil; but 'tis our concern, 
 and nobody's else, what little money we have, 
 so long as we got it by our own work." 
 "Oh, certainly! certainly!" replied Lucy, in the 
 mildest manner she could; but she was very 
 angry. Just then little Ned, Susan's eldest boy, 
 came in. " Dear me, Susan, how your children 
 are dressed ; a new frock one week, and a new 
 cap another, you must have a great many gifts." 
 "Yes, indeed, you are right there. I have a 
 great many." "Ah! I always said so to Jim, 
 when he was going on so about your house being
 
 22 HOW TO IIAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 SO neat, and your cliildren so well dressed. 'We 
 have no sucli gifts ; so 'tis no wonder we are so 
 poor. But Susan, who is it that gives you 
 such a quantity of good things?" "He who 
 gives good gifts to all; He has given us health 
 and strength to work for one another, and for 
 our children, and it's our duty to make the most 
 of what He gives us." Lucy felt this as a re- 
 proach to herself; and, as she knew by Susan's 
 firm, decided manner, that there was no chance 
 of her getting any money from her, she soon 
 left her. 
 
 But how was it that little Ned was so well 
 dressed compared to James's children? Susan 
 did not spend more money on her children's dress 
 than her neighbours did on theii's ; but she had 
 the knack of turning every scrap to some account. 
 When her husband's oldest coat was so thoroughly 
 worn out that it could be mended no longer, slic 
 took it to pieces, cleaned it, and rolled it up 
 carefully, as " the pieces nonld do to mend with,'''' 
 she said. When little Ned wanted a cap, she 
 made him a very nice one out of the best part of 
 the old worn-out coat. Even Roger couhl not 
 help wondering how she contrived to make a 
 little pair of ti'owsers for the boy, out of a pair 
 of his, which he said, were only fit to dress a 
 scare-crow for the clierry-trcc with. " Susan, I 
 never saw nnybody like you for mak'nig the most 
 0/ thi/n/s,''^ ho often said to her; and Susan felt 
 quite repaid for all her trouble, when he praised 
 Jier in(hi.stry. 
 
 ^\'e will now pass over a few more years„ 
 Susan haa six children, and the eldest, Neil,
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 23 
 
 works aib Mr. Wayland's. The eldest girl is able 
 to help her mother, and the four younger ones 
 still go to school for a few hours every day. 
 Their cottage always looks clean, the garden is 
 the pattern of neatness. Some pretty flowers 
 there are in it, and Susan would like to have 
 room for more, but she says she must have a 
 good bed of onions, and a little parsley, for with 
 them she Can make the most of the little meat 
 they can afford to buy. And how did Susan 
 make the most of a little piece of meat ? This 
 was her plan : — Only one pound of beef, or mut- 
 ton ; "it is not much for so many ! no ; so we 
 cannot afford to cook it in a wasteful manner." 
 So Susan cut it into a few slices, and laid it 
 into the saucepan ; and cut two or three onions, 
 and a good bunch of parsley, and put them in 
 also ; then she cut up a carrot or two, if she had 
 them ; and, lastly, covered the meat with water, 
 but only covered it; then added a little pej^per 
 and salt. She then set it on the hob, so that 
 slowly the mass began to boil ; and so she let it 
 boil very gently all the morning; or, at least 
 for three or four hours. And half an hour before 
 her husband came in to dinner, she took a hand- 
 ful of flour, and mixed it smooth with a little 
 water in a basin ; and then stirred it with a spoon 
 into the stew, so tliat it made a nice thick gravy. 
 And this is a good way of making the most of a 
 HUlc meat. Susan took great pains to teach her 
 girls something of cooking ; not, of covirse, how 
 to make expensive dishes, but she wished they 
 should learn how to make such food as they 
 could aiiord to buy as pleasant and wholesome
 
 24 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THLN-QS. 
 
 as possible. She tlioiiglit it a pity to see some 
 laboming men sit down to bread and butter, with 
 a cup of poor tea, for dinner, because their wives 
 were either too idle, or too ignorant to prepare 
 them a meal that would be more nourisliing and 
 as cheap. So when Roger Middleton came in 
 to dinner, there was often waiting for him a nice 
 fruit dumpling, or potatoe pie ; or soup on a cold 
 day, the very smell of which was warm and com- 
 fortable. 
 
 At Christmas-time both Mr. Cooper and Mr. 
 Wayland frequently gave away either meat, or 
 coals, or flannel and calico, to the jjoor families 
 of the parish. This year, Mrs. Cooper gave each 
 working-man on her list, a piece of calico 
 sufficient for a shirt, and a pair of worstead 
 stockings. A few years back, James Elliot would 
 have been ashamed to ap})ly for such a gift; 
 but now that he had hardly a shirt to wear, nor 
 a pair of stockings that liad more than half a 
 foot to them, he was glad enough when Mrs. 
 Cooper called, and told liini to come to the rectory 
 the day after Christmas-day. " I am sorry to 
 see you look so unwell, Elliot," said Mrs. Cooper, 
 kindly. ".Where is your wife? and where arc 
 all the children?" James colored, and looked 
 confused. " That's our eldest boy, ma'am ; ho 
 works for me now ;" and he iiointed to a 
 dirty-looking boy, who was blacking a pair of 
 newly-finished shoes. " Come and s])cak to the 
 lady, Jerry." "Well, Jerry; I am glad you can 
 liclp your fnlher. Can you keej) his accounts 
 for him? I sup]»ose not, though ; but you must 
 learn. Are you fond of reading? We have somo
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 25 
 
 nice Looks at tlie rectory on purjjose to lend out ; 
 and you sliall have one if you will come for it 
 in the evening-." " Can't read," said Jerry, in a 
 slow, stupid manner. "Not read! Why, James, 
 you don't mean to say that your hoy has not 
 been taught to read !" " Really, ma'am, we could 
 not afford to send the boy to school, and I had 
 not time to teach him myself." "And your 
 wife, could not she spare a little time, neither ? 
 Can none of your children read ?" " No, ma'am ; 
 to tell you the truth, none of them have been 
 taught, I'm very sorry for it, for I know the 
 boys, at least, cannot get on much without a little 
 education." 
 
 Mrs. Cooper looked round the room. The 
 furniture was scanty and dirty. The windows 
 were broken and stuffed with rags. The stove 
 and hearth looked as if they had not been 
 cleaned for twelve months. "Jerry," said Mrs. 
 Cooper, " tell me where your mother and the 
 children are ;" for she fancied that James might 
 not like to tell her the truth. " Mother and the 
 children are gone to Hilton to see the Christmas 
 shows," replied Jerry. "And why did not you 
 go too, Jerry?" "Father wanted me to work 
 for him." " That's a good boy, Jerry. Elliot, 
 will you spare Jerry to come to the rectory, every 
 evening at seven o'clock, to learn to read and 
 wi'ite? Mr. Cooper has a class for gro-wm-up 
 pupils, and your boy is so big, that I think he 
 will be more comfortable to learn with the youns: 
 men, than he would with the children at school." 
 " Thank you, ma'am, very much," said James ; 
 " I did think of sending Jerry to the childi-cu's
 
 26 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 evening school, this winter; but he said they'd 
 laugh at him." " Well, James, he won't be 
 laughed at if he comes to learn with the men ; but 
 mind, he must come regularly and punctually." 
 After a little pause, Mrs. Cooper told Jerry 
 to go into the workshop ; and, as soon as 
 he was gone, she addressed Elliot. " I am sorry 
 at what I see, James, and I am sorry at what 
 I have just heard. It is a pit}'- you should sufler 
 your wife to lose her time at fairs and sliows, and 
 to take her childi'en to such places. Jerry seems 
 a well-disposed boy though he has been sadly 
 neglected, but I will try and help him." " I 
 don't wish to speak against my Avife, ma'am, but 
 she's a poor partner for a working-man. Ma'imi, 
 I never have been to a fair, nor a show, since that 
 day when we went with Jane Richards and Tom. 
 I only wish my wife had not!" " I have always 
 heard, James, that you are a steady, industrious 
 man; but who would think it, that saw your 
 house in this state ; or who saw your children all 
 rags and dh-t? Your eldest girl is now old 
 enougli to go to service ; but wlio would take her 
 from such a house as this is? Poor cliihl ; it is 
 very cruel to bring her up in such a manner. 
 Instead of making lier useful at home, slie is 
 running wikl with all the most idle boys and 
 girls of the village. How can she turn out well?" 
 " I know it all — I know it all, ma'am," said the 
 poor shoemaker, in great distress ; " but I don't 
 know how to help it, rwtv. ]\Iy wife is such — 
 su(;h a — tenijier, ma'am ;" and the words bolted 
 out, as if he had kept them back as long as ho 
 could. " {She masters me (piite. I'd do anything
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 27 
 
 fur peace and quiet." " You will not get peace 
 nor quiet either, hy doing Avi^ong. James, think 
 of what misery Jane liichards has brought on 
 herself; and think what misery — what disgrace 
 your girl may come to, if you do not act like a 
 father to her. Our Heavenly Father, you know, 
 James, will call us to give account of the way in 
 which we train up each child He has given to our 
 care ; and we can't be living so as to please Him, 
 while we pay no regard to the duties He has 
 given us. A cliild brought up in idleness and 
 pleasure-seeking, is far more likely to come to 
 poverty, than one who is taught to be industrious, 
 and to mahe the most of tilings. I know you love 
 your children, James ; and would wish them to 
 grow up respectably in the world." "Aye! that 
 I do, ma'am ; but I sometimes fear we are not 
 going the way for it," said James, sighing. 
 " Well, James ; it is not too late to mend. We 
 must try to bring Lucy round, to take pleasure 
 in tlie care of her house and children. You see, 
 she was not well brought uj) when a cliild ; but 
 we will try to make the best of it. I trust you 
 will soon have a happier home." 
 
 "Well, I am sm-e I thank you, ma'am, for 
 your kindness ; it has often seemed hard things 
 should not go as well with mo in the Avorld, as 
 with some of my neighbom's. My life does not 
 seem a very bright one." 
 
 " I hope it may brighten, James. I think you 
 may do much to brighten it yourself; but I hope 
 vou will not forfret that other world where all is 
 bright — where there is no sin or sorrow; and
 
 28 now TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 tliat to it there is only one way. Jesus Clirist 
 says, ' I am the way !' " 
 
 Mrs. Cooper left him, and poor James thoug;ht 
 much of what she had said. When his wife came 
 home, he told her, in a kind way, what had 
 happened; and asked her if she did not think 
 they mio-lit get on a great deal better if they 
 tried. He told her he would do his best, to be 
 a good husband and father ; and did not wish to 
 vex her ; but he could not let the childi-en go on 
 as they had done, for it was the way to ruin. 
 
 James had long thought with great sorrow of 
 the bad way in which his children were brought 
 up ; but, as he said he did not know how to 
 help it. Mrs. Cooper had stepped ia exactly at 
 the right time. With her good advice aud kind 
 manner, she had made a lasting impression on 
 his mind; and he fully determined to exert 
 himself to bring his family into a better state. 
 
 And what had become of Lucy's old companion 
 Jane ? It is a sad tale, but not a very uncommon 
 one. Jane and Tom "kept company," as they 
 called it, for sometime; sometimes quarrelling, 
 sometimes joining tlie brawls at the Game-Cock 
 public-house. A recruiting-party had been for 
 some (lays at Hilton ; and there was a ball one 
 niii-lit at the "Tiikke Jolly Ploughmen." Tom 
 went, and Jane with him. The recruiting-serjeant 
 was very civil to Toin, and treated him repeat- 
 edly; l)ut said nodiing about enlisting. Ho 
 laughed and talked with Jane too, and asked 
 her which she would rather marry, a captain, or a 
 clod-hopper? and Jane thought he was a very
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 29 
 
 particularly pleasant gcntleinaii; and the end of 
 all this was, that next morning, when Tom was 
 neither di-unk nor sober, he enlisted for a soldier, 
 and had a shilling given him to drink the queen's 
 health, and a great bunch of many-coloured ribbons 
 stuck upon his hat. A short time after this, 
 away Tom went, but not without promising Jane 
 that he should come back very soon, and marry 
 her; and the very pleasant serjeant told her to 
 be easy, for he would see that Tom kept his 
 word ; and silly Jane believed him. But instead 
 of coming back, Tom sailed with bis regiment 
 for the East Indies, and Jane never heard more 
 of him. The poor wi-etched girl was soon obliged 
 to go into Hilton Union, where she staid fom* or 
 five months, and then came out with a baby in 
 her arms. Lost to all sense of shame, she was 
 now more bold than ever. She frequented fairs, 
 and gained a miserable livelihood by selling 
 cakes and ginger beer at the diiferent shows and 
 dancing-booths. At length, illness and death 
 overtook her ; she was carried oif in the midst of 
 her sinful life, by fever; and she left her poor 
 child as a legacy to the Union-house in which 
 it was born. 
 
 James and his wife had lived very unhappily 
 together almost ever since they were married. 
 He had always given up to her, for the sake of 
 peace, as he said. Now he was more firm ; and, 
 though at the expense of much discomfort from 
 Lucy's bad temper and abusive tongue, he did, 
 in a great measure, succeed in bringing his home 
 to a better state. At the end of a year things 
 went better with him. The house was cleaner,
 
 30 HOW TO 5IAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 the children -went to scliool, and looked less like 
 lieathcns. The good housekeej^er at the squire's, 
 had taken the eldest girl, to see what she could 
 make of her; and the girl had greatly improved 
 since she Avas under her guidance. Poor James 
 did not look so broken down and care-worn ; and 
 even Lucy felt the comfort of a quiet evening at 
 home. We liave reason to lioj^e that his family, 
 on the whole, turned out well, which they would 
 not have done had not James roused himself 
 before it was too late, to prevent the evil conse- 
 quences of his wife's disorderly habits. 
 
 Let us now return to Roger Middleton and 
 liis excellent i)artner. His chihlren liad regularly 
 attended the Sunday-school. The eldest son and 
 daughter had become teachers. Their good home 
 bringing-up, and the teacliing they had from 
 friends, in the Sabbath-scliool, liad received the 
 blessing of God. Tliey both loved their Saviour, 
 and tried to show their love, in their cheerful, 
 diligent, daily life; and, when Sunday came 
 round, tlicy took a real pleasure in trying to 
 teach the children of their neighbours, from the 
 Holy liiblc they themselves loved. They had 
 long since gained their own livelihood. Fivo 
 others still lived with their ])arents ; each earning 
 something, or doing something useful. The girls 
 had all been taught useful sewing; and could cut 
 out a shirt, or even a ])air of trowsers. All the 
 odds and ends of clotli, or ])rint, or calico, were 
 carefully saved till they could be converted into 
 fioniething useful. "The worst of the old cloth 
 will makf> a mo])," said Susan, ''if it will do for 
 nothing else." I'atchwork was always at Iiand^ for
 
 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 31 
 
 any of the younger girls to take up when nothing 
 else wanted to be made, or mended. Hags were 
 kept in a large bag, to bo taken from time to 
 time, to the village shop, and there exchanged for 
 sewing-cotton, pins, and needles ; and thus, and in 
 a hundred other ways, were ISusan's children early 
 taught " how to make tlie r/iost of thmgs.'''' 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Middleton, how did you ever find 
 time to make that curious patchwork counterpane, 
 with your large family to attend to ?" asked Mrs. 
 Cooper one day, when she came to pay Susan 
 a short visit. " It must have taken you hours 
 and hours !" "I dare say it did take a good 
 many hours, altogether, ma'am ; but it was only 
 done by way of usmg up the odds and ends of 
 time along with the bits of print." " Mrs. 
 Middleton," said the rector's wife, "I do not 
 wonder, when I see you with so many comforts 
 about you; for you are not only industrious 
 yourself", but you have taught all your children 
 to be so. You have taught them to 7nake the 
 most of things; and if we all did that, there 
 would be a vast deal less misery in the world." 
 " People must make the most of things ma'am, 
 if they woidd make ends meet," said Susan. 
 " And it is not only those who are in your station 
 of life, I assure you, Mrs. Middleton, who need 
 to learn how to make the most of things, and the 
 best of things, too ; there's many a one who has 
 what you would call a large income, or even great 
 riches, brought down to poverty, just because 
 they did not make the most of things. And there's 
 many a one, in all stations of life, needlessly 
 worried by the cares of life, because they don't
 
 32 HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF THINGS. 
 
 cheerfully make the best of things." " I dare say 
 you often find little things go wrong in your 
 well-managed house, Mrs. Middleton." "Wliy, 
 yes, ma'am, that I do ; but, as you say, we must 
 make the best of things, and I have many bless- 
 ings to be thankful for, though I have had my 
 troubles." "And who has not, Mrs. Middleton? 
 no Christian, certainly. We read of those ' who 
 have passed through great tribulation;' and of 
 God i^roving His people, and trying them. I 
 dare say the poor often think it is they who have 
 all the troubles, and that people who live in 
 large houses can have but few; but I think if 
 they could see into the hearts of those tliey 
 sometimes envy, they would find that our 
 Heavenly Father has been more equal in His gifts 
 than they imagine. We have to give account 
 of every talent entrusted to us ; and it is not 
 always that those who have riches use them so 
 as to bring happiness ; and you know, the Scrip- 
 tures say, ' Riches make to themselves win^-s, 
 and fly away.' " " Yes, ma'am," said Mrs. ]\l'id- 
 dleton ; " and deatli can enter a palace as well as 
 a cottage. Yes, I believe, ma'am, lioncst working- 
 people, witli the fear of God before tlieir eyes, 
 arc often better olf than some of those above 
 them in the world." "I think so, too, Mrs. 
 Middleton ; and we know wlio it is that will lend 
 an ear to all our troubk'S, if we tell Him of them; 
 and cither remove them, or give us grace to bear 
 them, as He knows is best for us."
 
 HOUSEHOLD VEESES. 
 
 NEVER DESPAIR! 
 
 HEN times are bard and money scarce, 
 And 5'ou are full of care, 
 There's one thing you must never do, 
 You never must despair. 
 
 Despair has never done one good 
 
 Or noble thing on earth ; 
 It is no fitting guest to be 
 
 Companion of your bearth. 
 
 It makes the spirit faint and fail, 
 
 It wears the health away, 
 It takes all vigour from the heart. 
 
 And wastes life day by day. 
 
 It only dwells with those, wbo sit 
 And fold their bands in sorrow, 
 
 Without a prayer or thought of God, 
 To trust Bim for the morrow. 
 
 It only dwells with those wbo fret, 
 
 Unmindful of the care 
 Of Him who rules the universe, 
 
 And feeds the birds of air. 
 
 Trust God, and take no anxious thought 
 " What shall we eat or drink, 
 
 Or wherewithal shall we be cloth'd?" 
 Have hope and humbly think.
 
 HOUSEHOLD VEUSES. 
 
 If I serve God in word and deed 
 
 And look to Him in trust, 
 He will not leave me nor forsake, 
 
 For God is true and just. 
 
 And there's a text in His own word 
 That this great comfort brings — 
 " Your heavenly Father kuowetli you 
 Have need of all these things : 
 
 " But rather seek His kingdom first, 
 And seek His righteousness, 
 And He will add these otlier things — " 
 Trust God, and trouble less. 
 
 JUDG^IENT. 
 
 Men give their judgment on our deeds in words ; 
 
 God in events. 13y sin and by neglect 
 We break the laws of nature, and then conies 
 
 The judgment we have reason to expect. 
 
 As 'drunkenness brings on disorder'd health. 
 The nervous tremor, and the shaking hand, 
 
 So surely fever, pestilence, will conio 
 
 Tn ill draiu'd cities and in undrairt'd land. 
 
 God does not merely punish. He corrais, 
 
 He gives His judgment, shews us by His laws 
 
 Wliat follows on ui)on neglect and sin, 
 
 And makes the sudering answer to tho cause. 
 
 CLEARING OUT. 
 If you crowd up in close-shut rooms, 
 
 Willi uiiclcjin sink and cliokM-up drnln, 
 Tainting the food you eat, the airyou lireallie, 
 
 How can you wonder fever comes again?
 
 THE PAINTER. 
 
 If things get worse and worse within, 
 And lieaps of filtli and rubbish lie 
 
 Fermenting, steaming at your very doors. 
 How can you wonder that your children die? 
 
 No doubt, the fault's not all your own ; 
 
 But strong good-will and earnest heart 
 Will conquer greater ills than these ; 
 
 Work, to the utmost do your part. 
 
 Work, till you've clear'd within, without, 
 And done your duty, done your best, 
 
 Then may you claim it as a right 
 Your landlord, he must do the rest. 
 
 THE PAINTER 
 
 *' How is it, my good friend. 
 In this unwholesome trade 
 You look so unlike all the rest? 
 I think you must be made 
 
 " Of other flesh and blood. 
 
 Of something much more tough, 
 I've often wonder'd how it is ; 
 This paint is poisonous stuff, 
 
 "And almost all the men 
 In some way die or fail. 
 While you from year to year go on, 
 And look quite fresh and hale ! " 
 
 " Well, Sir, to tell the truth, 
 Perhaps I owe my life 
 To marrying, when I was young, 
 A little tender wife. 
 
 5
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 " She droop'd, grew sick, and weak, 
 And often used to faint ; 
 She had no a])petite to eat — 
 'Twas all the smell of paint. 
 
 " And no thought ever came 
 Into my stupid head 
 Of what a little care might do, 
 Oh no — I only said 
 
 " This little wife of mine 
 Is everything to me, 
 I must give up my trade for her, 
 Tho' bad work it will he. 
 
 " Then anxious thoughts would rise 
 Of poverty and care, 
 She seem'd too young and delicate 
 A troubled lot to bear. 
 
 " I call'd the doctor in 
 
 As he pass'd by one day, 
 And opcn'd all my benrt to him, 
 While on the bed she lay. 
 
 " He said, ' Don't leave your trade, 
 But try this sinii»le plan, 
 And work it out quite thoroughly 
 For her sake— like a man : 
 
 " ' Always, however tired, 
 
 When you get liome each day. 
 Just tnke'oirall your working clothes, 
 And put them right away; 
 
 "<Thon wasli liands, neck, and face, 
 And do not stint the soap, 
 The water liot as you can bear, 
 And keep up heart and hope- 
 G
 
 THE PAINTER. 
 
 " And then he lauf^hing, said, 
 ' Perhaps 'twill save your life, 
 The having married this young thinf, 
 This little dainty wife.' ° 
 
 " And so, from that day forth, 
 
 Tho' years and years have sped, 
 And comrade after comrade fails, 
 And many a one is dead ; 
 
 " I live on well and strong, 
 
 And there's my wife as gay, 
 Tho' not so dainty or so young, 
 As on her wedding day. 
 
 " She never fail'd her part, 
 
 'Twas done with right good will; 
 Hot water, soap, and all were set, 
 And so it goes on still. 
 
 " She said it made no work. 
 The kettle 7}ii(st be boil'd; 
 And while I clean'd myself to eat, 
 She toasted and she broil'd. 
 
 " I laugh'd at first a bit. 
 And did it all for her. 
 But habit's everything, you know ; 
 Would you believe it, Sir, 
 
 " Before the year was out 
 Tho' tired I'd often feel, 
 I never, without wash and change. 
 Could seem to like my meal I 
 
 " I've often told the men. 
 
 But mij words they won't mind ; 
 
 Perhaps if ^ou talk'd to them. Sir, 
 
 Some sense in yours they'd find.
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 '* Tliey get in lazy ways, 
 
 The smell is so depressing ; 
 And put off till the Sunday comes, 
 This thorough wash and dressing. 
 
 " And then the whole week through, 
 It's working in their pores, 
 And they are breathing all night long 
 The sickly smell in-doors. 
 
 " Their wives must share it too, 
 And tho' they may not fliil 
 As mine did, Sir, they often droop, 
 And know not why they ail. 
 
 " It now seems strange to me 
 As year by year goes by. 
 How painters, from sheer indolence 
 Lose health, and droop, and die. 
 
 THE TAILOR 
 
 A POOR young tailor, who had lost 
 
 His leg by accident, 
 Thought now, because he could not sit 
 
 Like other tailors, bent, 
 
 Cross-legg'd u])on a wooden board, 
 
 That he was ruiuM (]uite: 
 How could he ever do his work, 
 
 And press and smooth it right. 
 
 He fretted and he fum'd awliilo. 
 And almost wish'd he'd died; 
 
 Starvalion sharpcn'd up his wits — 
 He mu6t work, so he tried : — 
 
 8
 
 THE TAILOR. 
 
 He got a high deal table made, 
 
 At very small expense ; 
 The other tailors laagh'd at him; 
 
 But he had sound good sense, 
 
 And persever'd right earnestly, 
 His hand he did not stay, 
 
 And sat at his high table there, 
 And work'd on day by day ; 
 
 And in a week, to his suri3rise, 
 He found his work advance 
 
 As well as it had done before 
 He met with his mischance. 
 
 And when the other men complain'd 
 Of pains and cramps at night. 
 
 He then began to think, perhaps 
 'Twas best to sit upright. 
 
 His work was done as well as theirs ; 
 
 And not one man in ten. 
 At two years' end, was hale as he ! 
 
 And so it struck him then 
 
 That sitting upright did not throw 
 The blood upon his brain ; 
 
 For he had lost the pressure there. 
 The restless nervous pain : 
 
 Tliat sitting upright gave his lungs 
 
 Their fall and ready play. 
 He had no wearing weary pain 
 
 Upon his chest all day. 
 
 His indigestion was all gone. 
 He did not crave for drink, 
 
 For he ate well and heartily ; 
 So he began to think
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 'Twas not so bad a day for him 
 
 When his poor leg was lost, 
 Which used to get so cramp'd and tir'd 
 
 From being always cross'd. 
 
 Now, don't you think you could persuade 
 Your cross-lcgg'd friends to try 
 
 And sit as you do, like a man, 
 And tell them how and why ! 
 
 Tell them men's forms should he upright, 
 That God has made them so ; 
 
 They're never meant to be cramp'd down 
 And curv'd into a bow. 
 
 The body is a live machine 
 Of wond'rous power and skill ; 
 
 But it wants ease and space to do 
 The work it must fulfil. 
 
 And if the lungs are squeez'd too close, 
 
 The breathing is distress'd ; 
 And if the bond is bent too low. 
 
 The brain will be oppress'd. 
 
 And if the body's doubled up, 
 
 Digestion can't go right ; 
 And many otlier maladies 
 
 Could doctors bring to light : 
 
 But this is quite enough to know — 
 Tiie mainspring must liave j)lay. 
 
 The whole machinery must work 
 In its own natural way, 
 
 Or else it gets dcrang'd and spoilt, 
 
 Goes too quick or too slow: 
 And any moment it may stop 
 
 For want of room to go. 
 10
 
 THE TAILOR. 
 
 All working-people now complain 
 
 Of their unhealthy trade, 
 Heads, eyes, throats, chests, are suffering — 
 
 Too true, I am afraid : 
 
 Too true, and very v^ry sad ; 
 
 But while they thus complain, 
 Do they do all they can to put 
 
 Their work in better train ? 
 
 Do they let in fresh air and light 
 
 To their close crowded rooms, 
 And free their heads, eyes, throats, and chests 
 
 From bad smells, hurtful fumes ? 
 
 Do they sit easily at work 
 
 In a free natural way ? 
 I fear not, and the lungs can't find 
 
 The proper space to play. 
 
 All this is bad ; but if they shut 
 Their rooms from outward air. 
 
 There's double mischief that they get, 
 While they are working there. 
 
 The atmosjihere the poor lungs breathe, 
 
 Is so impure and close. 
 They're taking in, just drop by drop, 
 
 Slow poison as a dose. 
 
 Young work-women should sit at ease. 
 And have their arms quite free ; 
 
 No pressure round the waist and chest, 
 JNo strain upon the knee. 
 
 With fresh air, easy clothes, and seats 
 
 Made low enough for rest. 
 They'd be more healthy, look less pale, 
 
 And feel much less oppress'd. 
 
 11
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 And slioemakers and tailors too, 
 
 In these inventive days 
 Mig-lit find some better mode to sit 
 
 Than those old-fashion'd ways. 
 
 In this great nineteenth century 
 It seems a barbarous tliin"-, 
 
 For fine strong men to sit bow'd down 
 In needless suffering, 
 
 That brings on indigestion, pains, 
 
 Sensations of distress. 
 Sore miseries, temptations too, 
 
 To sin of drunkenness. 
 
 WARM CLOTHING. 
 
 In the pleasant summer-time, 
 
 Let us lay a little by; 
 We shall want warm clotliing soon, 
 
 For the summer months will lly. 
 
 Winter comes, and comes apace, 
 With its stinging pinching frost; 
 
 Then we feel that llannel things 
 Would be cheap at any cost. 
 
 Flannel things arc very dear 
 
 AVhen they're l)()ught in winter weather; 
 Money, too, must go for coal. 
 
 And we can't buy both together. 
 
 Let US ])ut into the club — 
 
 If a clothing club there be, 
 And, if not, a savings' bank ; 
 
 Money's safer there, you see. 
 12
 
 WARM CLOTHING. 
 
 It is quite impossible 
 
 Otherwise to lay it by ; 
 From the drawer or money-box, 
 
 Somehow it is sure to fly. 
 
 But in bank or clothing club, 
 There it's safe for winter use ; 
 
 For we cannot get it out 
 By a false or vain excuse. 
 
 Let us try in summer-time 
 Not to spend in showy dress ; 
 
 If we're only neat and clean, 
 It will cost a great deal less. 
 
 There'll be money for the club, 
 Money for the savings' bank ; 
 
 Better, too, our dress will look. 
 Suited to our place and rank. 
 
 Pennies put in week by week 
 
 Make a pretty little sum ; 
 Often too, as we have found. 
 
 Unexpected help will come. 
 
 Many times I've noted this, 
 
 'lis a blessing that is sent; 
 An encouragement to those 
 
 Who have tried and not mis-spent. 
 
 No one has too much to spend. 
 For the rich have many ways 
 
 That the poor know nothing of 
 In these grand improving days : 
 
 And they'd rather give their help 
 To the thoughtful of expense. 
 
 Than the thriftless, who don't use 
 Common care and common sense. 
 
 13
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 We ourselves sliould do the same : 
 
 Yes, I'm very sm-e 'tis so; 
 Unawares tho' it may be, 
 
 More respect for sucli we shew. 
 
 Don't we love the busy bee, 
 Making- store in summer hours, 
 
 Better than the wasp, wlio feeds 
 Idly on the fruits and flowers? 
 
 When we look around the world, 
 Can't we see, and feel, and know, 
 
 If there were no thought or plan, 
 Seasons would not come and go ? 
 
 Let us learn from great and small, 
 
 In the ways of providence, 
 Forethought and economy ; 
 
 How to use our common sense. 
 
 Week by week a little care, 
 Day by day a little thought. 
 
 And before tiie winter comes, 
 
 Clothes to keep out cold are bought. 
 
 Worsted stockings, flannel coats. 
 Blankets for the frosty uiglit, 
 
 Help to keep us strong and hale, 
 Tho' the keen east wind may bite. 
 
 Worsted stockings, flannel coats, 
 Hound the body seflinir close. 
 
 Keep (»11 siekness, cough and cold, 
 Keep ofl" many a pill and dose. 
 
 Every inch of flannel then 
 
 Is a little inch of gain ; 
 TtluMmiafism is ke]>t out, 
 
 A\'itli its weary wearing pain. 
 14
 
 THE NEEDLEWOJIAN. 
 
 Get the flannels soon enongh, 
 
 Cut tlicm lai-ge— tlicy shrink, you know ; 
 Mothers, sisters, daughters, work, 
 
 Winter's coming with its snow. 
 
 Keep the little children warm 
 
 Round the stomach and the chest ; 
 
 Do the very best you can, 
 
 None do ill who do their best: 
 
 And a blessing's sure to come, 
 
 Tho' we may not see it now ; 
 Careful ways and careful work, 
 
 Keep the care from off the brow. 
 
 THE NEEDLEWOMAN. 
 
 A NEEDLEWOMAN, Esther Blake, 
 Sat stitch, stitch, stitch, for ever; 
 
 She had her daily bread to earn. 
 And she was quick and clever. 
 
 But she got out of health, and dull, 
 
 And fidgetty and weary, 
 Pains in her back, and head, and side, 
 
 And life seem'd very dreary. 
 
 She found she could not cure herself. 
 
 And so she went to speak 
 To a good doctor Avho liv'd near : 
 
 He saw her pale and weak, 
 
 Nervous and trembling, out of health- 
 He made her sit and rest. 
 
 And then he told her why she felt 
 So ill and so oppress'd. 
 
 15
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 She must have exercise for health, 
 And she must breathe y)Wi air. 
 
 She said it was impossible, 
 The time she could not spare. 
 
 He told her then to wash with soap, 
 
 And to well rub her skin, 
 And take a little mornino- walk, 
 
 And so each day begin : 
 
 That it would circulate her blood, 
 And make her pores more free, 
 
 And take oif all the wearing pains 
 That press'd so heavily. 
 
 She ask'd if ph3'^sic would not do 
 Instead of all that trouble — 
 
 He'd give no physic, take no fee : 
 She'd rather have paid double. 
 
 How could she ever manage this ? 
 
 She felt she had no power, 
 'Twould only make her twice as tir'd, 
 
 And take her full an hour. 
 
 Poor Esther Blake ! poor Esther Blake I 
 The tears would scarce keej) in : — 
 
 The doctor said with quiet smile, 
 " To-morrow you'll begin. 
 
 " Fresh water, yellow soap, and air, 
 * Tis but a small expense ; 
 Remember now, you persevere, 
 And come hero throe months hence." 
 
 She'd rather fake some doctor's stuff 
 
 And go on her own way, 
 However cheerless she might feel 
 
 And weary tlu'o' the day. 
 10
 
 THE NEEDLEWOMAN. 
 
 To get up, wasli, and rub, and walk, 
 Before the work began ; 
 
 It seem'd to her a furiuy cure- 
 But she must try the plan. 
 
 'Twas hard to get up earlier 
 When she woke weak and weary ; 
 
 Poor Esther ! yes, 'twas very hard, 
 And life was very dreary. 
 
 But resolution gain'd the day, 
 
 The water was refreshing ; 
 She went out, and the morning air 
 
 Came to her like a blessing. 
 
 Day after day she persever'd, 
 
 And got a little stronger; 
 Her washing too was quicker done, 
 
 Her walks were faster, longer. 
 
 She lik'd to feel the fresh, free air, 
 
 And see the glittering dew ; 
 All Nature's sights and sounds to her 
 
 Were wonderful and new : 
 
 Tlie birds that twitter'd in the trees. 
 
 And iiuttcr'd in the air. 
 The bees that buzz'd among the flowers 
 
 That blossom'd every where. 
 
 And she began to love the flowers ; 
 
 Their freshness and their bloom 
 Would brighten up and ornament 
 
 Her quiet little room. 
 
 And often as she stitch'd and stitch'd, 
 Those fragrant hedgerow flowers 
 
 Seem'd whispering pleasant things to her, 
 To wile away the hours. 
 
 17
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 And many, many thoughts of God 
 
 They gave her thro' the day, 
 She often lifted up her heart 
 
 To praise Him and to pray. 
 
 And when at three months' end, she went 
 As the good doctor told her ; 
 
 Her cheeks were blooming as a rose, 
 'Twas pleasant to behold her. 
 
 SMOKING. 
 
 Jim. " Come in, Tom, do sit down, 
 I'm weary of my life ; 
 I can't cat, sleep, or do my work — 
 Hand down the pipe, good wife. 
 
 " I know no other way 
 
 But smoking off these worries ; 
 My nerves are in a wretched state. 
 The least thing plagues and flurries. 
 
 "And then I'm worse at night, 
 All over aclies and i)ains, 
 And queer sensations come and go, 
 Bewildering my brains. 
 
 * Tlianks, wife, the good old pipe 
 A\'ill settle it awliile, 
 And give me lii'e to talk a bit: — 
 Well, Tom, and why that smile?" 
 
 Tom. " 'Twas just a ])assing thought, 
 A duuht it .she dues right; 
 That pipe she's always handing down 
 At morning, noon, and night. 
 18
 
 SMOKING. 
 
 " I mix with other men 
 
 A good deal in my trade, 
 And I make use of all my wits, 
 (Not worth much, I'm afraid); 
 
 " But I've observed this, Jim, 
 
 That men who smoke like you. 
 After a time lose health and strength, 
 And half their senses too. 
 
 " It's not so bad as drams. 
 And yet 'tis near of kin ; 
 Though smokers are more harmless folks 
 Than those who take to gin. 
 
 " Now mind me, I don't say 
 
 Don't smoke, Jim, but smoke less; 
 A good thing turns to hurt and harm, 
 When taken to excess. 
 
 " I take a pipe myself 
 
 Just in a moderate way, 
 It rests a man, and cheers him up 
 When he's worUd hard all day. 
 
 " But what you want is change, 
 A chat in the fresh air, 
 Ten minutes' walk to stretch your legs. 
 Instead of smoking there. 
 
 " I know men get depress'd. 
 
 Who work at home this way, 
 From want of air and exercise. 
 And sameness day by day. 
 
 " And then we've all the knack 
 Of making bad things worse, 
 And turning evil, we might mend, 
 Into a downright curse. 
 
 19
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 " Yes, Jim, I'd "best speak ont, 
 You know I mean it kind, 
 You're not one-half the man you were 
 In body or in mind. 
 
 " And I can't shut my eyes ; 
 I see you wan and weak, 
 Lazy and listless, and depress'd, 
 No heart to eat or speak. 
 
 " And thoughts of other days 
 Come Lack, as if in sight, 
 When we two, Jim, were just a pair 
 In size, as well as height. 
 
 " And you, the stronger one. 
 More than a match for me ; 
 But tables now are turn'd, old friend, 
 These things ought not to be. 
 
 " There's a *grand letter put 
 Into ' The Times ^^ I hear. 
 Which tells Hie misery and harm 
 Hard smokers have to fear. 
 
 "And all those pains of yours, 
 And feelings of distress. 
 Are signs, they say, to warn a man 
 From smoking to excess. 
 
 " Worse comes, if they persist 
 
 AVlien bronglit to that low state; 
 Do make an ellbrt, Jim, at once, 
 Before it's all too late 1 
 
 " Don't loolc so down — you'll mend — 
 We've both a deal to do. 
 To get uj) to the j):itt('rn mark, 
 'Jhnt's set for me and you. 
 
 • Letter by Sir B. 0. Brodic, dated August 27lh, 1860. 
 20
 
 SMOKma. 
 
 " I'm not a preacher, Jim ; 
 
 But when we're cast so low, 
 We want a hand to help us up, 
 And there is One, you know. 
 
 " Think what the Lord once did, 
 For us poor sinners here ! 
 No matter what their wants might be, 
 He gave them words of cheer. 
 
 " They only had to ask 
 For body or for soul ; 
 He sometimes tried their faith awhile, 
 But bless'd them — made them whole. 
 
 " ' Come unto me,' He said, 
 ' Ye weary and oppress'd' — 
 That's what you are, Jim ; turn to Him, 
 And He ' will give you rest.' 
 
 " He'll raise you up again, 
 
 He'll help you, day by day, 
 To do your duty — give you strength 
 To put that pipe away. 
 
 *' Cheer up ! and set to work, 
 And clear this smoky room ; 
 And by and bye you'll find the world 
 Is not so full of gloom. 
 
 " It's work-time, I must go." 
 Jim. " Ah, Tom ! dear Tom ! old friend ! 
 
 They're blessed words, those words you've 
 'Tis not too late to mend. [said — 
 
 " I've heard such words before ; 
 But, somehow, Tom, from you. 
 With those eyes looking into mine. 
 They go rig'ht through and through." 
 
 21
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 What makes the strong man weak? 
 
 What gives the staggering pace, 
 Tlie shaking hand, the trembling lip, 
 
 Tlie bloated vacant face ? 
 
 What brings the feebleness 
 
 Of body and of mind, 
 Wears down the life, and leaves no track 
 
 But misery behind ? 
 
 It is intemperance, 
 
 It is the tierce desire 
 That craves and thirsts and burns within, 
 
 Consuming as a fire. 
 
 A man from over-toil 
 
 May die, spend strength and health ; 
 But there's an object full in view. 
 
 Fame, usefulness, or wealth. 
 
 Not so the drunkard's course, 
 His health and strength are lost , 
 
 ■He has no object and no aim. 
 He counts no gain or cost 
 
 He grasps at fancied joys, 
 They turn to })ains and woes ; 
 
 There is no misery so drear 
 As that the drunkard knows. 
 
 He cannot bear his life. 
 
 He trembles and reviles, 
 He drinks nioie deep <he maddening cup. 
 
 And in his nuulncss smiles. 
 2)i
 
 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 There is no sight so sad 
 
 As death that comes through sin — 
 Oh ! ye strong men of life and limb, 
 
 Let not the tempter in I 
 
 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 A MAN for his health's sake 
 Abstains from too much drink, 
 
 Or for his work's sake keeps his mind 
 Quiet and calm to think. 
 
 Or he abstains because 
 
 He will not run in debt, 
 And can't afford to have the drink 
 
 He otherwise would get. 
 
 Or he abstains perhaps 
 
 Through love of child and wife, 
 To keep them from distress and shame 
 
 And poverty through life. 
 
 These reasons all are good. 
 
 And keep a man from ill ; 
 But there's a reason worthier, 
 
 A better motive still. 
 
 He may love temperance : 
 
 He may abstain because 
 He has a life-long work to do 
 
 Obedient to God's laws, 
 
 To keep his body down. 
 
 Its appetites restrain; 
 By spirit to subdue the flesh, 
 
 And mastery 'm.uuLuin. 
 
 23
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 He may hate drunkenness, 
 
 Because it is the root 
 Of all uncleanness, and transforms 
 
 The man into the brute, 
 
 Leaves him as if bereft 
 
 Of reason and of soul, 
 Dead to all manliness of heart, 
 
 Self-help, and self-control. 
 
 Lost to the life divine. 
 The high and noble birth, 
 
 God in creation gave to man 
 To rule upon the earth. 
 
 HEALTH AND HOLINESS. 
 
 In God's old covenant we ever find 
 
 Type of tlie new ; 
 The blessings there a meaning have for us, 
 
 A lesson too. 
 
 Tliere was the promise of long life and health, 
 
 Plenty and peace, 
 If men obey'd God's laws ; but if they sinn'd, 
 
 Blessing would cease. 
 
 Tho' the new covenant in depth and height 
 
 Exceeds in grace, 
 And readies out beyond; yet more or less 
 
 We still may trace 
 
 That those, as 'twas of old, who turn from God, 
 
 And break His laws, 
 Lose hc.'illli and life; and the same root of ill 
 
 Is still tiie caudo. 
 
 24
 
 HEALTH AND HOLINESS. 
 
 If in ungodly deeds and selfish will 
 
 We seek our joys, 
 Sins of the body are the body's death — 
 
 All sin destroys. 
 
 It must be so — no holiness, no health, 
 
 Body and soul — 
 Christ always meant both by those blessed words, 
 
 " Thou art made whole." 
 
 Remember this, and ever bear in mind 
 
 That godliness 
 Is profitable now^ has promise here 
 
 To save and bless : 
 
 And that ungodliness goes on its way 
 
 Destroying still, 
 Working its own dark doom of death and hell, 
 
 To curse and kill. 
 
 GOD'S TEMPLE. 
 
 We read that God made man 
 
 Holy and blest. 
 In His own likeness, — of His woiks 
 
 The noblest, best. 
 
 But by his sin man fell, 
 
 Lost his high place ; 
 And then by Christ he was restor'd 
 
 Through boundless grace. 
 
 His body made God's temple, 
 
 Form'd to be 
 Upon a new foundation rear'd 
 
 In sanctity. 
 
 85
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 Thus sav'd, redeem'd, renew'd, 
 
 Again within 
 This temple God's good Spuit dwells, 
 
 To conquer sin. 
 
 But we must use the light 
 That's given, with care, 
 
 To see that nothing that's unclean 
 Is harbour'd there. 
 
 All that is base and bad 
 
 Defilement brings. 
 Quenches the Spirit, and pollutes 
 
 Our holy things. 
 
 " Him that defileth, him 
 
 Will God destroy"— 
 Oh I let us bear at heart these words 
 
 Through all employ, 
 
 At work, abroad, at home, 
 
 Lest the pure liglit 
 Grow dim, or quench'd again by sin 
 
 Leave us in night — 
 
 Night, darker tlian the dark 
 
 In times of old, 
 Because our light is ^^ Light of Light, ^^ 
 
 And shines two-fold. 
 
 bahents and children. 
 
 Parents, your sins, neglects. 
 
 And ignorances too, 
 Fiill on your children here, and not alouo 
 
 Are visited on you. 
 
 26
 
 PARENTS AND CHILDREN. 
 
 What caus'd the lingering death 
 
 Of that poor child, who lay 
 Each night in the damp corner by the door? 
 
 Sure I need scarcely say. 
 
 It was your own neglect, 
 
 That foul heap left outside 
 To rot and steam— he breath'd the poison in, 
 
 And so the poor child died. 
 
 And sadder still than this, 
 
 Your living children learn 
 Wliat by example you are teaching them, 
 
 To practise in their turn; 
 
 Lesson of carelessness, 
 
 Disorder, waste, and dirt, 
 And ignorance, that takes no heed or shame 
 
 Of all this harm and hurt. 
 
 And these poor little ones, 
 
 Unwash'd, unkept, untaught. 
 Live on their dull unprofitable life 
 
 Without one godly thought. 
 
 Can the foul smells they smell, 
 
 Can the foul sights they see. 
 Raise in their minds one even passing thought 
 
 Of inward purity ? 
 
 They know no self-respect, 
 
 No discipline, control ; 
 . In laziness and dirt they spend their days. 
 The soil is on their soul. 
 
 And when from childliood's waste 
 Youth's uncheck'd passions rise. 
 
 What is there then but drunkenness and vice 
 That in their pathway lies? 
 
 27
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 Yes, from your own neglect 
 
 Is trac'd your children's woe ; 
 Disease and vice soon follow on the track 
 
 Where careless footsteps go. 
 
 You must live decently 
 
 To keep your children pure 
 In soul or body — and for every ill 
 
 There is reform or cure. 
 
 God has made laws for men — 
 
 And if we break these laws, 
 We may not question at the consequence, 
 
 We must remove the cause. 
 
 We all feel some things wrong, 
 And know some things are right; 
 
 Then let us manfully just set to work, 
 According to our light. 
 
 Help comes to earnest liearts ; 
 
 If we but work and pray, 
 God sends a blossiug, help is near at hand, 
 
 Light breaks upon our way. 
 
 FLOWERS IN THE SICK ROOM. 
 Bring to the sick man flowers, 
 
 'J 
 
 Flowers that are fresh and gay. 
 And set them down where the light shines in, 
 To look glad in the sunny ray. 
 
 Briglit-colour'd varied forms, 
 Tliere let them glance and glow ; 
 
 Tlie weary eyes will oft unclose. 
 And the smile will come and go. 
 2«
 
 FATHERS AND BOYS. 
 
 They bring back scenes gone by, 
 
 Youth and its hopeful spring ; 
 They tell of loving-kindnesses 
 
 To the sick man suffering : 
 
 They bring him thoughts of God, 
 Thoughts of His love and grace, 
 
 That come like gifts of light and flowers, 
 To a fallen and sinful race. 
 
 In quiet on his bed 
 
 Their presence pure and calm 
 Is felt, inhal'd by heart and breath 
 
 As a blessing and a balm. 
 
 Bring to the sick man flowers. 
 Flowers that are sweet and fair. 
 
 With fragrance light as the summer breeze, 
 And fresh as the morning air. 
 
 FATHERS AND BOYS. 
 
 Fathers ! don't strike your boys, 
 Not with such brutal force I 
 
 Don't speak in rough and angry tone, 
 With words profane and coarse. 
 
 The blow or curse may leave 
 
 An unseen rankling ill. 
 And soul and body may be harm'd 
 
 Without your wish and will. 
 
 How, if you cannot rule 
 Your temper in their sight. 
 
 Can you expect to rule their minds, 
 And keep their conduct right ? 
 
 29
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 'Tis not the hasty word, 
 
 'Tis not the mere brute power 
 
 Of your strong passion or strong arm 
 Kestrains them — they may cower 
 
 Beneath the threatening blow, 
 
 In terror and dismay ; 
 And yet in sullen wilfulness 
 
 Go harden' d on their way, — 
 
 No penitence at heart, 
 
 No sorrow for their sin ; 
 Your wrath may only stir the depths 
 
 Of what is bad within. 
 
 'Tis easier, we know, 
 
 To flog them in a rage, 
 Rather than by a stedfast rule 
 
 To guide their thoughtless age. 
 
 And easier^we know, 
 
 To treat all faults the same ; 
 But then your boys feel thaCs uvjust- 
 
 ■There is not equal blame : 
 
 The f^iults of thoughtlessness, 
 Though vexing at tlie time, 
 
 Should not be puiiisli'd or condemn'd 
 As wilfulness or crime. 
 
 Injustice never does 
 
 The work of rigliteousncss, 
 
 And brings more trouble in the end, 
 Though now it costs you less. 
 
 God says, — "Train up your child 
 The way tliat he sliouhl go ;" 
 
 First do a fatlier's part by him, 
 And love and kiuducsa show. 
 
 30
 
 THE LIVING SACRIFICE. 
 
 It is a cruel wrong, 
 
 A wrong you can't repair, 
 To harden your own children's hearts, 
 
 And quench affection there. 
 
 "What can they think of God, 
 When they are told, that He 
 
 Is as a Father — if your rule 
 Be harsh severity ? 
 
 Where is the loving trust? 
 
 Where is the honour due. 
 The honour that is God's— and yours, 
 
 If you are just and true? 
 
 Do you believe that He 
 
 Who said, " Spare not the rod," 
 Spoke thus to sanction cruel wrath ? 
 
 What mean those words of God ? 
 
 That when the gentler means, 
 
 Precept, example, fail, 
 Then may a righteous chastisement 
 
 From father's hand prevail. 
 
 But guard your temper still, 
 That there be no mistake ; 
 
 And let them see and understand, 
 You do it for their sake. 
 
 THE LIVING SACEIFICE. 
 
 What shall we offer God ? — 
 
 Of Him is life and health. 
 All that we have of blessing here. 
 
 Of talent or of wealth. 
 
 31
 
 HOUSEHOLD VERSES. 
 
 So say tlie true of heart, 
 
 And give Him of their best ; 
 They glorify their God on earth, 
 
 And enter into rest. 
 
 Friends, would you give to God 
 Your best, your choicest wealth ? 
 
 Give Him yom- heart while you are younc. 
 Give Him yom- strength and health. 
 
 Wait not till you have spent 
 
 The vigour of your day 
 In the world's service, and found out 
 
 It has no trust or stay 
 
 When age is creeping on, 
 
 In life's grey twilight hours. 
 And all you feci is weariness, 
 
 And failing of yom- powers. 
 
 We read that when men took 
 The blind, the sick, the lame. 
 
 To offer God in sacrifice, 
 
 They honour'd not His name. 
 
 The Bible tells us so : 
 
 Tlien let tlic Christian do. 
 In spirit and in trut/i, as much 
 
 As did of old the Jew. 
 
 Bring living sacrifice: 
 
 Your bodies nam ])rescnt : — 
 Wait not till youth has pass'd away, 
 
 And manhood been mis-spent ; 
 
 Conic, in ynur hoallli and strength 
 And ufi'cr all your best, 
 " Your reasonable service" give; 
 
 3U 
 
 Such ollcring will bo blest.
 
 HOUSEHOLD TEOUBLES & TEIALS : 
 
 now TO MEET THEM. 
 
 H ! mother dear," cried Ellen Ware, 
 
 " How close it is, and hot ! 
 I'm always feeling such a wish 
 For things we haven't got, 
 
 " There's nothing in this dismal yard, 
 That we can feel or see, 
 To mind us of the summer-time ; 
 No pretty flower or tree : 
 
 " Only the weary weary heat — 
 It makes me sick and sad 
 To think wc must live as we do, 
 Where every thing's so bad. 
 
 " Oh ! if we could hut get away 
 Out of this crowded place, 
 And feel that we could breathe fresh air, 
 And have a little space. 
 
 " And then at night-time — worse than all, 
 So crowded on the floor. 
 And not a window to unclose — 
 Only the open door, 
 
 "No shelter when we're getting up 
 To wash and say our prayers ; 
 Big boys and girls, and all of us, 
 In that one room up -stairs. 
 
 " Oh ! mother dear, don't think I'm gro\vn 
 Too over-nice and proud, 
 It isn't only for the heat. 
 
 And for the noise and crowd ;
 
 4 TROUBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 " But since I've been so long away 
 With aunt and uncle Wright, 
 It seems to me quite dreadful now, 
 To be like this at night." 
 
 " Poor Ellen," the kind mother said, 
 " I've thought upon it too — 
 It's bad for all, but now I see. 
 It's worst, my child, for you. 
 
 " We've tried to get a larger house, 
 For with a weaver's pay 
 We could afford it ; but there's none — 
 They're going to build, they say. 
 
 HOW TO " Meanwhile we'll set our wits to work, 
 DIVIDE A Do something if we can, 
 BOOM. p^j yp j^ curtain, I'm quite sure 
 We might contrive a plan ; 
 
 " And then you'll have a sheltered place, 
 Where you may wash away, 
 And do what you've been used to do 
 At uncle's every day. 
 
 " Get out the stores your aunt has sent. 
 There may be something there, 
 If not, we'll buy, 'tis not a case 
 In which to stint or spare. 
 
 " We'll part the room ofT^curtain'd, so. 
 It shouldn't go too high. 
 To keep the air off from tlio door, 
 Which gives the chief supply. 
 
 " A good firm string nail'd right across. 
 With rings to draw along ; — 
 Fallicr will do it cleverly, 
 And lix it tight and strong. 
 
 " I've thought of this since you return'd. 
 But hadn't heart to speak. 
 For Kiiic(! the weather set in hot, 
 I've felt 60 faint and weak;
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 
 
 " It may be from the crowded room " — 
 " I'm sure 'tis," Ellen said, 
 
 " For now I'm come back home again. 
 I wake with aching head. 
 
 " And uncle he would tell you too, 
 There is another thing 
 That aches, and pains, and sicknesses, 
 And miseries will bring — 
 
 " The drain— axid there's the gutter now 
 Chok'd up I see with dirt ; 
 He says, besides the nastiness, 
 It does all kinds of hurt. 
 
 " He reads, and works out what he reads, 
 In such a clever way; 
 Both he and aunt, you never saw 
 Such busy folks as they. 
 
 " They've done a deal of good amongst 
 Their village neighbours there ; 
 For uncle with his pleasant ways, 
 Is welcome everywhere. 
 
 " And what the gentry could not make 
 The labourers understand, 
 He goes and works at, proves to them. 
 With his strong helping hand. 
 
 " I daresay 'tis because they live 
 So free in the fresh air. 
 That aunt and uncle seem so well. 
 And have no weight of care. 
 
 " Oh ! mother, mother, how I long 
 For those sweet morning hours. 
 To go with cousin Margaret 
 And tend upon the flowers. 
 
 " I dream it over in the night, 
 I'm with the (lowers again, 
 And wake up — oh so different! 
 They're all so far off then."
 
 TROUBLES AXD TRIALS : 
 
 " Well, Elleu, it's no use to fret, 
 Aud ■n'ant to change our lot ; 
 Let's set to work and make the best 
 Of blessings that we've got. 
 
 " We'll plan the curtain out at once, 
 For then 'twill half be done ; 
 And Katey, when she comes from school, 
 Will work away like fun. 
 
 " Then I can clear the gutter out — 
 It's quite true what you said — 
 We'll try to do a good day's work 
 Before we go to bed." 
 
 The gutter clear'd, the curtain made, 
 
 Put up before the night — 
 And down the weary heads are laid, 
 
 To rest till morning light. 
 
 With morning light the mother's heai-t 
 Was streugthen'd in its will, 
 
 A gleam of hope was springing up 
 To face and conquer ill. 
 
 'Twas not the ill of poverty — 
 (When in full work and pay. 
 
 Father and boys earned quite enough 
 To put some store away). 
 
 The daily trial was the house, 
 Drain'd badly, close and small. 
 
 As she told Ellen, they'd no choice, 
 'Twas this or none at all. 
 
 And yet she felt with nil her love, 
 Witli all her liouseliold care, 
 
 That many tilings were left undone 
 That nii'']it hv alter'd tliere. 
 
 O 
 
 But now the motlK^'s heart was stirr'd 
 
 By Ellen's wistful face, 
 Shr- rose up with an earnest will, 
 
 And a strong prayer for grace.
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 
 
 She felt she needed help in all 
 
 She set her hand to do, 
 For want of energy was her 
 
 Besetting sin, she knew*. 
 
 She'd often striv'n, she'd conquer now; 
 
 When all was put to rights. 
 She'd set her wits to w^ork to make 
 
 The chamber cool at nights. 
 
 There was no chimney in the room 
 
 To let in air that way. 
 And not a window would unclose 
 
 To freshen it by day. 
 
 " Oh ! Ellen," suddenly she cried, 
 " There is a little book 
 The lady left the other day, 
 Just get it, and we'll look. 
 
 " I'm sure it told some easy way, 
 I didn't read it through, 
 AIR A Yes, here, they call it ventilate, 
 BOOM. It tells us what to do. 
 
 " To let good air keep coming in, 
 And bad air going out ; 
 See, child, they say 'tis poison else. 
 And it's all true, no doubt. 
 
 " And that explains why we wake up 
 So weary and so weak, 
 And haven't heart at breakfast time 
 Hardly to eat or speak. 
 
 " We'll try to do what's written here, 
 But I'm not sure we can ; 
 If not, I know when father comes 
 He'll carry out the plan." 
 
 " Large gimlet " — yes, we've got one here ; 
 
 That's right ; and now, let's see — 
 " U2')on the upper ivitidow frame," 
 
 They say the holes should be 
 
 now TO
 
 TROITBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 " The holes bored from the inner side. 
 To slant just doicmcards," so, 
 
 " Not up to let the rain run in." 
 That's clever ! yes, I know. 
 
 It is not hard to understand ; 
 Read on ; what's next to do ? 
 "Never quite shut the chamber door, 
 And other holes bore through 
 
 " The other window-frames downstairs. 
 To act as channels there, 
 For letting in fresh ivind to rise. 
 And drive out the had air. 
 
 "And lest the wind should blow too strong, 
 A few rough pegs of wood 
 Should be prepared, to stop some holes 
 At pleasure." — Yes, that's good; 
 
 "A round hole, half an inch across. 
 Or rather more, for one ! " 
 We're seven — so for all of us, 
 'Tis seven must be done. 
 
 This gimlet won't make half-inch holes 1 
 
 'Tis difficult, you see ; 
 But father, he must reckon up 
 
 How many holes 'twill be. 
 
 And father understood it well, 
 And did it all quite right ; 
 
 He made the holes the proper size, 
 And linislicd it that night. 
 
 So, by degrees, within, without. 
 Things got in bettor train ; 
 
 Father and boys help'd after work 
 To clear tho chuk'd-up drain. 
 
 And now the mother docs her best, 
 Whatever neighbours say. 
 
 To keep all wliolesonie as she can. 
 And decent, day by day.
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 9 
 
 And here and there another tries, 
 
 And helps to clean the yard, 
 While many lazily decide 
 
 It really is too hard. 
 
 ELLEN'S TEMPTATION. 
 
 One day, when Ellen was sent out 
 
 Some garden stuff to buy, 
 Had paid her pence for greens and herbs, 
 
 Well pleased with her supply ; 
 
 She turned a corner quickly round, 
 
 And saw a flower in pot ; 
 Oh ! how she longed to take it up ! 
 
 She never has forgot. 
 
 It was a little tender plant. 
 
 And there it drooping lay. 
 Neglected in the heat and dust, 
 
 That busy market day. 
 
 ft 
 
 It was the one she lov'd the best 
 
 Of cousin Margaret's flowers ; 
 It 'minded her of happy days. 
 
 And pleasant morning hours. 
 
 " They do not care for it," she said, 
 " And yet the very sight 
 Is joy to me ; if 't was but mine, 
 I should be happy quite ! " 
 
 A thought came like a whispered word, 
 
 " Take it — they will not see." 
 She paused : again the tempting thought : 
 
 No, it must never be. 
 
 And Ellen turned in frightened haste — 
 
 It is not for the flower 
 She's grieving, as she hurries on ; 
 
 She'd felt temptation's power. 
 
 She was amazed and terrified, 
 
 Tho' she'd resisted sin ; 
 She'd learnt its danger from without. 
 
 Its danger from within.
 
 10 TROUBLES AND TRIALS t 
 
 'Tis night — the others are in bed, 
 
 She calls her mother near, 
 She tells her of the thought she'd had. 
 
 With many a falling tear. 
 
 " Oh ! mother, now I understand 
 What hungry children feel ; 
 How they are tried, and so much more, 
 When starving for a meal. 
 
 " How they resist temptation's power, 
 As, lingering they stand, 
 Looking and longing, eager-eyed, 
 Yet never lift a hand." 
 
 " Yes, Ellen, 'tis a thought for us, 
 We know not — cannot know. 
 The strength, forbearance, honesty. 
 Those hungry children show." 
 
 And, surely, we may feel that God 
 Will give them by and bye, 
 
 Ten, thirty, and a hundred-fold, 
 And all their wants supply. 
 
 He sees the nobleness of heart 
 
 In a j)Oor honest child, 
 Tho' on that tempted little one 
 
 No passer-by has smiled. 
 
 MRS. GRAY'S VISIT. 
 
 " How Katey's little fingers work ! 
 And what is she about 
 Witli all tliose bits of tumbled rag? 
 I'm sure I can't make out ! " 
 
 " Come in to-morrow and you'll see," 
 
 Said merry little Kate. 
 " Yes, come and have a cup of tea," 
 
 Said mother — " don't be late." 
 
 At tea time in came Mrs. Gray — 
 " Well, here I am — let's sec — 
 
 Wliat, Katcy, all that large bright square 
 Of patch-work ! dearce me !
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 11 
 
 " Who'd ever think such little hands 
 So cleverly could sew ! 
 You've been tvell taught and cared to learn, 
 Or 't wouldn't be, you know. 
 
 '* Oh ! Katey, what a wife you'll make, 
 Some ten years hence, perhaps ! 
 You'll mend so neatly, none will see 
 . • The signs of holes and gaps. 
 
 " You'll not be like the Catherine, 
 Who's married Charley Blake ; 
 And a kind creature, too, she is, 
 And a good wife would make ; 
 
 "' But she can't work— he's never got 
 A tidy shirt — poor soul ! 
 She tries to mend, but all rips out, 
 Or tears a larger hole. 
 
 " She's not a notion how to use 
 Her needle ; you should see 
 The stockings, how she sews them up ; 
 For one hole she makes three. 
 
 " And cutting out a shift or shirt 
 She's no thought what to do ! 
 So, much too quick the money goes. 
 She's always buying new. 
 
 " What 't uill be, I don't dare to thhik— . 
 Her baby-clothes all bought ! 
 It can't go on at this rate long. 
 Girls should be better taught, 
 
 " Not only how to hem and sew. 
 To gather, stitch, and fell. 
 But how to mend, and how to make, 
 And how to cut out weU, 
 
 " And how to darn the stockings too, 
 To make them last the longer. 
 The stitch in time that saves the 7iine, 
 And makes the thin place strongt;r ;
 
 12 TROTTBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 " And how to put shirt buttons on, 
 Well fasten'd with good cotton, 
 And see they fit the button-holes; 
 This should not be forgotten, 
 
 " More trouble between man and wife 
 Such failures often bring, 
 Than real affliction, heavy loss. 
 Or keenest suffering. 
 
 •' Great trials men will bravely bear, 
 But small ones fret and teaze, 
 And ready thought, and ready hand, 
 Will ward them off with ease. 
 
 " All working-men want working wives. 
 And children, working mothers. 
 It isn't fair to girls themselves, 
 It isn't fair to others, 
 
 " To leave them in such ignorance ; 
 Full twice as much in clothes 
 They spend, and 7ni(st spend — and they lose 
 The pleasure Katey knows." 
 
 " Yes," thoughtfully, the mother said, 
 " Work is a woman's pleasure ; 
 In many an anxious weary hour 
 My needle's been a treasure. 
 
 " And Katey 's got such dapper hands. 
 And what is better still, 
 An active mind, a loving heart, 
 And a quick ready will. 
 
 " You should have seen how hard she work'd 
 Three months, pcrliaps ago, 
 To set to-riglits the winter tilings; 
 For laying by, you know." 
 
 " Oh ! that's why all your cloaks and gowns 
 Come out and look like new. 
 IIow do you maiinge, Mrs. Ware? 
 What is it that you do?"
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 13 
 
 *' Unrip the gathers, mend, shake, brush, 
 Fold, press them smooth and neat, 
 Then wrap, and sew them closely up 
 In a clean half-worn sheet ; 
 
 " That keeps them safest from the moth. 
 How well I mind that spring. 
 Five years ago, when they began 
 The District Visiting ; 
 
 " The lady who came here was kind, 
 And she was clever too, 
 And took delight in helping us. 
 And teaching all she knew. 
 
 -"o 
 
 " It was not only tracts and clubs, 
 And gathering the pence ; 
 She taught us in our daily life 
 To use our common sense ; 
 
 " To meet our trials with a trust 
 Of guidance from above, 
 And, from the Bibles that we bought, 
 To learn our Father's love. 
 
 " Since I'm grown weak, 'tis harder now 
 To bear things as I ought. 
 But I've kept up the useful things 
 In household ways she taught. 
 
 " We've saved by management in dress. 
 From following her rule ; 
 She taught me such contrivances 
 As girls can't learn at school ; 
 
 " And show'd me things in cookery 
 I never knew before, 
 In having comfortable meals, 
 And yet not spending more." 
 
 " But don't you really spend much more," 
 
 Said little Mrs. Gray, 
 " In living, as I know you do, 
 
 With hot meals every day ? "
 
 14 TROUBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 " Oh no ! it does not cost us more, 
 But it is much more trouble ; 
 And that's the stumbhng-block with me, 
 The work is almost double. 
 
 " It isn't dearer — hungry boys 
 Must have enough to eat. 
 Or else they overgrow their strength ; 
 They want a little meat. 
 
 " A good warm dinner between work, 
 Is nourishing and nice ; 
 Meat stew'd with vegetables, herbs. 
 Or tbicken'd well with rice. 
 
 " They eat more when 'tis hard dry food. 
 And then they havo their beer; 
 But they don't want it when they get 
 Good comfortable cheer. 
 
 " And father does enjoy to sit 
 And see his children's faces 
 All round the table, cosily, 
 At meal-time in their places." 
 
 " But vegetables are so dear, 
 And meat's expensive too. 
 Oh ! dearee me," cried ]\Irs. Gray, 
 " I'm sure 'twould never do. 
 
 " I'll bo a good wife where I can. 
 In washing, making, mending. 
 In keeping a nice tidy house, 
 And never over-spending. 
 
 " I buy meat once a week, no more, 
 And then we go without; 
 A shoulder, sometimes nock, or loin, 
 'Tis 80 I change about." 
 
 " Ah ! joints are dear," said Mrs. Ware, 
 " Meat is expensive ; so 
 I buy a breast, or bits of neck, 
 i<'or them the price is low.
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 15 
 
 " I always take care that it's good, 
 As well as fresh and sweet, 
 It's worse than bad economy 
 To buy unwholesome meat. 
 
 " Atid odds and ends of beef are sold 
 Which make a famous stew, 
 The bones, and bits of fat, come in 
 For soup and puddings too ; 
 
 " And vegetables are not dear. 
 If you know when to buy ; 
 Go late to market, and you'll get 
 A cheap and good supply. 
 
 " New bread I set my face against, 
 'Tis bad in every way. 
 Unwholesome and extravagant" — 
 " Oh dear ! " cried Mrs. Gray, 
 
 " Why that's the thing I always get, 
 And eat it nice and hot ; 
 Perhaps it is extravagant, 
 I know we eat a lot." 
 
 While chatting on in friendly way, 
 
 A knock came at the door, 
 And such a parcel ! boots and shoes, 
 
 A dozen pair or more. 
 
 " These great thick boots for summer-time I" 
 
 Said little Mrs. Gray. 
 " Oh ! no, they're not for summer-time, 
 
 They'll aU be put away ; 
 
 " That closet has a row of pegs 
 To hang them up inside, 
 They wear much longer, keep out wet. 
 When season'd and well dried. 
 
 " We've done it for the last few years, 
 And bills are easier paid 
 In summer time, and then they hang 
 For winter ready made.
 
 16 TROUBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 " Do try the plan, you'll be surpris'd 
 To find how long they last ; 
 You see the children's are made large 
 Because they grow so fast. 
 
 " 'Twas uncle Harry taught us this, 
 He's such a famous man ; 
 He's always learning something new, 
 And works out what he can. 
 
 " He's clever and industrious, 
 Has been so all through life ; 
 They say he's got a pattern home, 
 And got a pattern wife : 
 
 " And such a family they have 
 Of rosy girls and boys. 
 With merry voices ringing out. 
 And making such a noise. 
 
 " It wouldn't do in this close yard, 
 Or this small house all day ; 
 But then they're in the open fields 
 At work time or at play." 
 
 " Oh yes, it's all so different there," 
 
 Said Ellen, with a sigh ; 
 " If they were forc'd to live down here, 
 
 I really think they'd die. 
 
 " I wisli poor brothers had a chance 
 Of such nice games of play ; 
 But, Ellen, we are happy here, 
 The' in a different way," 
 
 Cried Katoy, with a merry laugh, 
 " I'm sure we've lots of fun ; 
 
 And Ned and Jack arc cleverer 
 For all the work they've done. 
 
 " A country life's all very well, 
 And nuiy be pleasantest, 
 But futlier often says, you know, 
 A weavor'b trado ia bcbt.
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 
 
 " I don't think cousins have sucli books, 
 Or such a school as ours ; 
 Tho' they may have good games of play, 
 And loads of pretty flowers." 
 
 The mother laugh'd, and Mrs. Gray 
 Cried, "Well done, Kate, that's right; 
 
 We town-folk have our pleasures too, 
 And I'm contented quite. 
 
 " And after all its mostly mind 
 And temper that's to blame ; 
 When people will be discontent, 
 Home's pretty much the same." 
 
 17 
 
 «^^^M^«M^I^I^«MA/«' 
 
 WINTER-TIME. 
 
 The summer pass'd— but summer-time 
 
 In city yard is not 
 Like summer-time on village green ; 
 
 The air gets close and hot. 
 
 There had been fever near at hand ; 
 
 And with a vigorous arm, 
 Father and mother cleared and clean'd 
 
 To ward off hurt and harm ; 
 
 And pray'd a blessing might be sent 
 Upon each strong endeavour ; 
 
 Striving their duty well to do, 
 And striving, hoping ever. 
 
 They followed out the rules they learnt 
 
 Of currents of fresh air, 
 And kept their children wash'd and clean, 
 
 And gave them wholesome fare. 
 
 The fever did not touch their house j 
 
 But Ellen seemed to ail, 
 Tho' nothing of disease was found 
 
 To make her droop and fail ;
 
 18 TROUBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 And so they settled she should try 
 
 To get a country place, 
 That fresh pure autumn winds might blow 
 
 A bloom into her face. 
 
 Her aunt and uncle look'd about, 
 
 And very soon they heard 
 The doctor's wife would want a girl, 
 
 And by a timely word 
 
 They readily the place secur'd ; 
 
 And, tho' the tears were starting, 
 A pleasant prospect smil'd beyond. 
 
 To cheer her at the parting. 
 
 How Ellen prosper'd where she went, 
 And how she work'd her way 
 
 In her new life and country home. 
 We'll tell another day. 
 
 November fogs are setting in, 
 The days are chill and drear, 
 
 But one house in our city yard 
 
 Looks bright with home-like cheer. 
 
 Around the fire they cluster now, 
 And Kate and mother sew ; 
 
 Upon the hob a kettle sings, 
 A saucepan simmers slow. 
 
 The father, listening to their chat. 
 
 Rests in his elbow cbair, 
 Till presently the paper comes. 
 
 Which he and neighbours share. 
 
 And all are cheerful : mother finds 
 
 I'^mployment for the boys, 
 Sometimes in mencling furniture, 
 
 Sometimes in making toys 
 
 For little sister — there she sits 
 
 Down at her fatbcr's feet. 
 And watches tbem contentedly, 
 
 With eyes scrono and sweet
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 
 
 She's pet and darling of the house; 
 Not five years old till spring ; 
 
 And a spoilt child, perhaps you think- 
 But it is no such thing ; 
 
 For she's so loving while she's lov'd, 
 It makes her good and true, 
 
 And keeps her from all selfishness ; 
 And she's obedient too. 
 
 So little Emmy is not spoilt, 
 Though petted and caress'd ; 
 
 And then she is the little one, 
 The one that rules the rest. 
 
 With her sweet face and smiling eyes, 
 
 Her voice of silver tone, 
 She sits upon her little stool, 
 
 As queen upon her throne. 
 
 All hang upon her baby will, 
 
 She holds a loving sway, 
 And brothers are her willing slaves 
 
 In helping at her play. 
 
 They tell her when a woman grown. 
 They'll weave her such a gown, 
 
 She'll be the wondei- of the world, 
 The beauty of the town ! 
 
 And little Emmy laughs aloud. 
 And climbs her father's knee. 
 
 And rests her head upon his breast 
 Smiling and lovingly. 
 
 And by and bye the little hymn,. 
 
 The prayer, the good-night spoken 
 In childhood's peacefulness and trust; 
 
 She sleeps the sleep unbroken. 
 
 19 
 
 After the pleasant supper tea, 
 " The British Workmo.n " read ; 
 
 Or pretty school book for a change, 
 Before they go to bed.
 
 20 TROUBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 Then father takes the Bible down, 
 
 With quiet reverent look, 
 And reads a chapter to them all 
 . Out of the Holy Book ; 
 
 And quietly they all attend. 
 And then they kneel in prayer ; 
 
 They think of Ellen as they kneel, 
 And Ellen's heart is there. 
 
 So evenings, happy evenings pass — 
 For, though it may be hard, 
 
 Yet happy, kindly. Christian folk. 
 May Live in city yard. 
 
 Time passes on, and Christmas comes, 
 With joyfulness and mirth. 
 
 When music, feasting, merriment 
 Are sounding thro' the earth ; 
 
 And when a higher happiness, 
 
 A holier joy is found 
 Within the thankful Christian heart, 
 
 Thau the gay mirthful sound. 
 
 But Christmas passes — new year comes. 
 
 And with it tidings sad ; 
 The weavers suffer specially, 
 
 Trade fails, and times are bad. 
 
 And Richard Ware and his good wife 
 
 Are stricken to the heart; 
 In poverty and anxious care 
 
 They see their child de])art ; 
 
 Their little one, their lovely one, 
 Their child of four years old. 
 
 Who on their hearts a clinging clasp 
 Of tenderness had hold. 
 
 She pined and sickened, and Bho died, 
 
 And ]?]llcn camo to seo 
 The sweet fair face, so beautiful 
 
 In death's tranquillity.
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 21 
 
 Oh what a pang ! so soon, so soon. 
 
 To lay the dear one low ; 
 To-morrow — not to-morrow — ^yes. 
 
 Yes, here it must be so. 
 
 In the close yard, the crowded room. 
 
 Feelings must be repress'd ; 
 The loving spirit has gone forth. 
 
 The grave now claims the rest. 
 
 Two days ago, the mother's arms 
 
 Were circling fondly round, 
 And " Hold me closer, mammy dear," 
 
 Was the soft murmur'd sound. 
 
 Two days ago, the little hymn 
 
 Was whisper'd, and the prayer ; 
 Then looking in her mother's eyes, 
 
 She saw the tear-drops there. 
 
 ** Not cry, for Emmy's going to sleep," 
 
 The sweet lips faintly said ; 
 " Pain all gone now, and, mammy, say " — ■ 
 
 (Then heavy droop'd the head) — 
 
 *'Say that...i}\e pretty verse again 
 About the little child 
 That Jesus took.. .up. ..in his arms" — 
 And tremblingly she smiled. 
 
 Then closed the eyes, the voice was hush'd. 
 
 But a soft quivering light 
 Play'd sweetly on the parted lips, 
 
 And then it faded quite. 
 
 The sleep, the peaceful sleep was come — 
 
 Safe on the sheltering breast 
 Of Him, who gathers children there, 
 
 Was found the perfect rest. 
 
 Now Richard Ware has drawn the last 
 
 Of all his little store ; 
 The doctor and the funeral paid, 
 
 He found he had no more.
 
 22 TROUBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 So, with an honest manly grace. 
 He sought for parish aid ; 
 
 'T was not from any fault of his 
 That this demand was made : 
 
 Except, that in his early days. 
 From want of prudent thought, 
 
 He had not join'd in any club. 
 As now he felt he ought. 
 
 For when he tried in later years, 
 They could not take him in, 
 
 For he was past the proper age 
 That's fix'd on to begin. 
 
 'Twas bad for all — but worst for boys, 
 No work, and little food ; 
 
 They wander'd out with idle lads, 
 And learnt ways rough and rude. 
 
 No little sister on the hearth. 
 No cheerful fire and chat, 
 
 One glimmering candle for them all, 
 And Katey close to that. 
 
 Her nimble fingers faster work, 
 She has no time to spare. 
 
 And even this makes brothers cross 
 While they sit moping there. 
 
 How well those winter clothes came in 
 That had been stor'd away ; 
 
 The boots, too, that in summer-time 
 So puzzled Mrs. Gray. 
 
 For all the money now must go 
 
 To keep up fin; and food; 
 Yet cold and hunger still creep in, 
 
 And anxious thoughts intrude. 
 
 Poor father tries, and Irios in vain, 
 Witii palicut trusting lieart, 
 
 In any wny, by lioncst means, 
 To work uud bear his part.
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 23 
 
 But Katey, she can still go on, 
 She's darnin,cf, patching, mending ; 
 
 Her small hands smarting with the cold, 
 Her hard work never ending. 
 
 P'or now she's earning all she can, 
 
 And wishing it were more, 
 As pence drop in, in scanty pay. 
 
 To help the weekly store. 
 
 And mother, with her heart's sore grief, 
 
 Is striving day by day 
 To make the meagre fare hold out. 
 
 In many a skilful way. 
 
 The cheapest, meanest, coarsest food. 
 
 She serves up neat and nice ; 
 'Tis wonderful how much she does 
 
 With peas, and bones, and rice. 
 
 The porridge breakfasts warm'd them well, 
 
 The kettle broth at night, 
 And still the grace, devoutly said. 
 
 Told that the heart was right. 
 
 Through all, they kept God's holy day. 
 
 And, clean and neatly dress'd, 
 They sought His house, and heard His word, 
 
 And found His promis'd rest. 
 
 KATEY'S HOPES. 
 
 One evening—" Yes," cries little Kate, 
 •' Yes, Jack, ' the good time 's coming ; ' 
 
 Perhaps you didn't think 'twas that, 
 The tune that you were humming. 
 
 " The good time's coming — it must be, 
 The world's redeem 'd, you know ; 
 I can't tell any more than that. 
 It does seem coming slow; 
 
 " But the Lord Jesus came down here, 
 And with His blood redeem 'd. 
 Bought back, the poor lost sinful worid, 
 All worthless as it seem'd.
 
 24 TROUBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 " He look'd upon its misery, 
 Its wretcliedness, its strife, 
 And thought 'twas good enough to save. 
 And sav'd it with His life. 
 
 " And so it's His— that's why I know 
 The good time's coming, Jack ; 
 He'd never give it up again, 
 Now He has hought it hack." 
 
 So little Katey reason'd on, 
 And hrother Jack, he heard. 
 
 With wonder at her sparkling eye. 
 And at her earnest word. 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said, " I have a hope. 
 And it's lil<e light within, 
 That by and bye we shall be free 
 Of misery and sin. 
 
 "If 'twas not so, I shouldn't have 
 The heart to work so hard, 
 And feel so happy as I do — 
 Yes — now, in this dull yard. 
 
 " The promises I've learnt at school 
 Come back into my mind ; 
 And when tlie good time comes, dear Jack, 
 What matter what's behind ? 
 
 " Cheer up, come sit down close by me, 
 And share my light and work ; 
 I don't see, while l'n\ fagging here, 
 Why you should mope and shirk. 
 
 " Wliy don't you cut out boats' and toys, 
 Come, JaoU, and earn a penny? 
 The children like them — they would sell, 
 And you could make so many. 
 
 ••You'd think of little sister too; 
 I'm sun; tliat tbouglit must be 
 A thought, .Iiu;k, fit to do you good; 
 I know it's good for me.
 
 HOW TO MEET THEM. 25 
 
 " Her good time's come — it isn't that 
 The good time tliat I mean, 
 She's gone to heaven, she didn't want 
 A good time here between. 
 
 "It mayn't come here in time for us— 
 Don't wish to have her back — 
 Perhaps it's all my, fancy too. 
 About this good time, Jack. 
 
 "I wish 'twas come for father's sake ; 
 See how he's sleeping there ; 
 He's out of trouble for a time, 
 But he's worn down with care. 
 
 " Perhaps our talk's been mixing in 
 With dreams ; he's smiling, look; 
 I'm sure his face of patient trust 
 Should teach us like a book. 
 
 " Where's Ned gone ? oh ! I'm so afraid 
 He's getting in bad ways ; 
 There's such a ' don't care ' in his look, 
 I've seen it many days." 
 
 " Oh, Kitty ! nothing 'scapes your eyes: 
 There's not much harm in Ned ; 
 He can't bear dulness — that's the thing, 
 This dreary time till bed. 
 
 "And 'tis hard, I can tell you, too, 
 For us great louting boys ; 
 'Twas different with Emmy here. 
 And carving little toys. 
 
 " And Ned's so fond of work like that ; 
 If he had some to do, 
 I'll answer for it he'd stay in, 
 And be contented too. 
 
 " But wouldn't mother grieve and fret, 
 And think we didn't care. 
 If we sat carving just the same 
 In our old places there ?
 
 26 TROTTBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 " 'T would 'mind her so of Emily. 
 But if you'll put that straight, 
 We'll set to work, I promise you ; 
 I'll look him up — 'tis late." 
 
 When the two boys come in, they saw 
 W^ood, knives, and candles ready, 
 
 And Katey, with a pleasant smile, 
 Said, " All right, brother Neddy." 
 
 And boats and funny toys were made, 
 And bought, for Katey sold them, 
 
 And many a one for love of her, 
 But that she never told them. 
 
 And soon they got up quite a trade ; 
 
 But what sold best of any 
 Were pegs and plugs that brewers use. 
 
 And hundreds tliey sold — many. 
 
 The hard times pass'd — the weavers' hands 
 
 Again found full employ ; 
 The parents smil'd in tbankfulness, 
 
 To see their children's joy. 
 
 Tliey struggled on, were free of debt; 
 
 They'd trusted God thro' all; 
 And those who rcaUjf trust Him, find 
 
 He answers to tlieir call. 
 
 Willi spring-time, when the loaves and flowers 
 
 IMade earth look fair and guy. 
 The heavy hand was lifted up. 
 
 The tear was wiped away. 
 
 The thouglit of their sweet little one 
 
 Was trcasm'd in llicir breast; 
 Her life's short trial crown'd with joy, 
 
 In love's eternal rest. 
 
 Willi spring-time, too, when days were long, 
 
 And wlicn the sun was bright, 
 'I'licre came (jnite unexpectedly 
 
 A VI ry cheering sight :
 
 now TO MEET TIIEM. 27 
 
 For, smiling at the open door, 
 
 When mother rais'd her eyes, 
 Was Ellen, and a cry of joy ' 
 
 Told Katie's glad surprise. 
 
 The same, yet changed — more womanly, 
 
 With bloom upon her cheek ; 
 The mother's kiss told happiness — 
 
 She had not words to speak. 
 
 Neat, trim, and tidy, there she stoud, 
 
 No finery of dress. 
 But simple, modest, servant-like. 
 
 And pretty, not the less. 
 
 No hoop to swing and knock about; 
 
 The firm and well-starch'd skirt, 
 Set well, and just was short enough 
 
 To clear the dust and dirt. 
 
 And round her pleasant cheerful face. 
 
 No artificials shone ; 
 The neat white frill, the well-brush'd hair, 
 
 Had beauty of its own. 
 
 A pleasant sight to anyone 
 
 Was Ellen, standing there, 
 And soon she's seated full in talk, 
 
 Beside her mother's chair. 
 
 She had a good account to give 
 
 Of her new home and life, 
 No miserable foolish tales 
 
 Of meannesses or strife. 
 
 No talk of what a life she led, 
 
 How she was put about, 
 And how her mistress was so hard, 
 
 And never let her out. 
 
 She'd been obedient, tried to please, 
 
 And do her duty well ; 
 Slie'd many a pleasant memory, 
 
 And i^laerful hope to tell.
 
 28 TROUBLES AND TRIALS : 
 
 Her master's kindness to the sick. 
 
 Her mistress's good care, 
 And all the clever, useful things 
 
 She'd learut by being there, 
 
 " And you are better, dear, and strong," 
 The anxious mother said, 
 And you don't have that faintiness. 
 Or bad pain in your head ? " 
 
 "No, mother, I am quite well now; 
 The change of food at first 
 Just made me feel a little ill. 
 But I was kindly nurs'd. 
 
 " We never liv'd so poor as some, 
 Dear mother, thanks to you ; 
 But yet, 'twas very difTerent there. 
 More different than 1 knew. 
 
 " Those daily joints of butcher's meat ; 
 And that good-natur'd cook, 
 Who thought the more she made me eat. 
 The better I should look. 
 
 * ' But master — (mother, you should know, 
 
 He's the best doctor round) — 
 Talk'd to me, and cxplain'd it all, 
 And said 'twas often found 
 
 "The change to dilTcrcnt air would give 
 More appetite to cat; 
 And girls at homo have not been us'd 
 To 80 much solid meat. 
 
 " I ate less meat and soon got well ; 
 But I've been very siul 
 About you since, and long'd to lu'lp 
 When times became so bad." 
 
 llcr mother told her not to grieve. 
 The trying time was past : 
 "And thiM-c's a jirospcct of a houso 
 i'or Ub to get, ut lust.
 
 now TO MEET TUEM. 29 
 
 " But now it hardly seems worth while, 
 
 Dear Emmy gone, and you : " — 
 "Don't say so, mother, 'twould be wrong 
 
 To go on as you do, 
 
 " Now that they're growing up so fast, 
 And all in work again ; 
 And I've brought something that will help, 
 My wages — two pound ten ! 
 
 " I've had the gift of many things, 
 And I can quite spare this. 
 To start you for a month or two — 
 Just give me one dear kiss." 
 
 KATE. 
 
 'Twas settled to her great delight, 
 
 Before she went away, 
 She'd come with uncle for a treat. 
 
 Only to spend the day. 
 
 But there had been a promise made 
 To spend a whole week soon ; 
 
 Her mistress told her it should be 
 About the first of June. 
 
 UNCLE When uncle came, the rest were out, 
 HARRY And, laying down his hat, 
 
 AND^ « -jj^e ^QYj thing I wanted, child. 
 Now, Katey, for a chat." 
 
 And then he told how much they wish'd, 
 That he should take her back ; 
 
 They thought her place could be supplied 
 By handy brother Jack. 
 
 T' would do him good to be of use, 
 And do her good to go ; 
 "And I'm quite sure," he smiling said, 
 " That mother won't say, no. 
 
 " See how you like a country life, 
 And who knows by and bye. 
 But we may get a place for you 
 Like EUcu's, if we try ? "
 
 30 TEOUBLES AXD TRIALS : 
 
 " Oh no, indeed, I can't go back, 
 
 Don't speak about it yet ; 
 Just now it's such a busy time, 
 And, uncle, you forget, 
 
 " It is not boys can do the work, 
 
 'Tis girk who help their mothers ; 
 And only think how dull 'twould be 
 Without me, here, for brothers. 
 
 " And as to going to a place — 
 "lis /who make and mend. 
 And earn some money by my work, 
 And save much more than spend. 
 
 " I turn all kinds of things to use ; 
 Look here ! these ends of thread, 
 Instead of littering on the floor. 
 They're kept, and every shred 
 
 " Of odds and ends I ravel out — 
 The bag is nearly full ; 
 'T will make a pillow by and bye. 
 And be as soft as wool." 
 
 Now uncle laugh 'd out merrily ; 
 
 " Why sure the girl's a witch ! 
 Oh no, I see you can't be spar'd ; 
 
 It must be stitch, stitch, stitch. 
 
 " But don't be sitting still all day 
 To save your ends of threads ; 
 Just stir about and scrub the floors, 
 And well shake up the beds. 
 
 " You mustn't let those ready hands, 
 And those bright httlc eyes. 
 Wear nut the body's liealtli and strength 
 For want of exercise. 
 
 "And got a walk, too, when you can, 
 Hut mind yo, little Kate, 
 W;ilk steady, and go stntight along, 
 And don't bu out too lute.
 
 now TO MEET THEM. 31 
 
 " I notic'd near the new house, Kate, 
 There's a nice fountain set, 
 So water will be plentii'ul, 
 And close at hand to get. 
 
 " Have a good wash, child, getting up, 
 To make you fresh and strong, 
 And that will be another help 
 'Gainst sitting still too long. 
 
 " And how about the learning, Kate ? 
 Not much of that, I fear ; 
 All needlework, no time for books, 
 From what I see and hear." 
 
 " Oh yes, there's time for learning too, 
 I learn my lessons still ; 
 Go once a-day to week-day school. 
 Now mother is not ill. 
 
 " I never miss'd the Sunday school — 
 And oh ! the teaching there 
 Was help and comfort through our time 
 Of sorrow and of care. 
 
 " How kind, how good poor mother was. 
 In all her grief and woe ! 
 I'll never leave her — two are gone, 
 And I ought not to go." 
 
 " And did I laugh at little Kate, 
 For all her ends of thread. 
 And stitch, stitch, stitch— God bless thee, child, 
 Then uncle Harry said. 
 
 " And so He will ; the dutiful. 
 The loving-hearted child 
 Is always bless'd, and thou wilt be ; " 
 And tenderly he smil'd. 
 
 Mother and Ellen soon came back, 
 
 They'd been to Mrs. Gray ; 
 Their pleasant words and cheerful looks 
 
 Told of a happy day.
 
 32 TROUBLES AND TBIALS : HOW TO MEET THEM. 
 
 And then the boys came running in. 
 
 And father followed fast ; 
 The hearty meal, the merry talk, 
 
 And parting came at last. 
 
 While Ellen has a few more woi'ds 
 With mother and with Kate, 
 
 The others, standing at the door, 
 Are chatting as they wait. 
 
 The new house is discuss'd again, 
 Uncle approves it quite ; 
 " Well drain'd," said he, " the water good, 
 And on a healthy site. 
 
 " The bed-room windows open well — 
 (You see I've look'd it through) ; 
 In one room there's a fire-place — 
 A great advantage too. 
 
 " In sickness or in health 'tis good — 
 I've heard the doctors say. 
 In towns, the purest air you got. 
 Is what comes down that way ; 
 
 "It's from a higher atmosphere, 
 Above the steaming drains, 
 And all the heavy heated fumes, 
 A close-cramm'd town contains. 
 
 " Well, Eichard, joy and health to you ! 
 I think you'll ])rnsper tlicre, 
 Because, througli all the trying time, 
 You trusted in God's care. 
 
 "And then, whatever comes, must bring 
 A blessing from above : 
 lltiMR'niber, boys, and follow on 
 In the eamo trust and love." 
 
 JinaOI.U AND BONB, rUIMKIU), LONDON BTllEKT, NOnWICO.
 
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 Edition, Revised and Enlarged, 8vo, cloth, bevelled boards, 
 
 T/te best tlwttghts of the best minds — ancient and modern. 
 "It is 110 hyperbole to say that such a production has never before been 
 given to the public as the unaided effort of a single brain. It is the 
 very hand-book for clergymen, editors, tutors, academicians, atid private 
 students." — Church Standard. 
 
 A CHOICE PACKET OF TWELVE GIFT BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. 
 
 In handsome covers, 3^'. the pkt.j or, separately, -^d. each. 
 
 ADMIRABLE FOR SCHOOL REWARDS. 
 
 CONTENTS : 
 
 The Dangerous Way 
 
 Straightforwardness 
 A Tale of a Dark Alley 
 Village Children at Home 
 Village Children at School 
 The Happy Schoolfellows 
 
 Mother's Last Words 
 Our Father's Care 
 The Starting in Life 
 The Happy Life 
 My First Place 
 Daughters from Home. 
 
 London : Jarrold £s^ Sons, 1 2, Paternoster Row.
 
 Reading to make Happy Homes. 
 THE HOUSEHOLD TRACTS FOR THE PEOPLE 
 
 Supply information on Health, Home Happiness, Training of Children, and 
 Social Morals, in the most interesting and attractive style of narrative and 
 illustration. 
 
 THREE MILLIONS already in circtaation. 
 
 TWOPENCE EACH. 
 
 FOR PARENTS. 
 How do You Manage the Young Ones? 
 How to Make the Slost of Things 
 Peace in the Household 
 HousdRold- Management 
 Whose Fault is it? 
 Never Despair ! Household Verses 
 Something Homely (Sanitary/ 
 Household Troubles; How to Meet 
 
 Them 
 The Lost Child. By Mrs. Sewell. 
 
 FOR MOTHERS. 
 Cottage Homes 
 
 The Mother's Trials and Triumphs 
 Sick Child's Cry ; Household Verses 
 The Good Mother 
 Two Ways of Going to Market 
 
 FOR AVORKING MEN. 
 \Mien to Say "No!" 
 Working Men's Hindrances 
 The Day of Rest 
 
 . FOR YOUNG MEN. 
 Sons from Home 
 
 How to Take Care of Number One 
 How to Rise in the World 
 Life's Battles 
 Men who have Fallen 
 Company 
 
 FOR YOUNG MEN S: WOMEN. 
 
 Are You Thinking (jf Getting Married? 
 Going a-Counlng, S« cclheartmg, 
 
 Love, and Such Like. 
 Marriage Bells 
 
 FOR SERVANTS. 
 My First Place 
 Kind Words; or, Pleasing One's Self 
 
 FOR GIRLS. 
 The Happy Life 
 J).iui:litcrs from Home 
 The Dangerous W.iy 
 
 FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 Mother's Last Words 
 
 Household Rhymes 
 
 Work and Play ; Household Verses 
 
 Children at Home 
 
 Children at School 
 
 The Happy Schoolfellows 
 
 Dear Children 
 
 FOR BOYS. 
 The Starting in Lile 
 How to "Get On" in Life 
 A Mother's Legacy 
 Beware ! or. The EfTects of Gambling 
 
 FOR SAILORS. 
 A Short Yarn 
 
 FOR EVERYBODY. 
 
 Our Father's Care 
 Straightforwardness: the Road to 
 
 Honour 
 Scandal, Gossip, Tittle-Tatlle, &c. 
 Temptation 
 
 The Gain of a Well-Trained Mind 
 Kind Turns 
 
 The World at the Birth of Christ 
 Perils in the Mine 
 A Tale of a Dark Alley 
 Sunday Excursions 
 What shall I do with my Money? 
 M.-u-gcr>', the Martyr 
 Home ! Sweet Home ! 
 Lost Days 
 
 Household Happiness 
 What Can be Done with Ten Shillings 
 
 ON HEALTH. 
 
 The Wortli of Fresh Air 
 
 The Use of Pure Water 
 
 'I'hc ValuP of CJood Food 
 
 'J'lic Inllucncc of Wholesome Drink 
 
 'i'hc Advantage of Warm Clulhiiig 
 
 How People Hasten Dc.ith 
 
 .•Secret of :> Healthy Home 
 
 How to Nurse the Sick 
 
 The Black Ditch 
 
 London : Jarrold &* Sons, 1 2, J'aianoster Ko'w.
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
 IDni-ll, '50(2555)470
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 427 349 6