Gold-dust for the beautifying of lives and homes

Front matter

jsPVsi.-

^\, -oyji

■in ^t

Chapter I. What An Artist Does

PAINTER outlines a picture. Ho prepares his canvas, then little by little develops the life he is calling into existence. Here a touch — bold, heavy, earnest ; there, a delicate tracing so fine and perfect one would hardly know his pencil or brush had ever touched the canvas. And so, little by little, day after day, he studies, watching the effects of his labor, ever striving to reach into the ideal, which is the struggle of the soul after

the perfection sometime to be its own. See with what care, what pains, what delicacy of touch he lifts his dream to life. If it be a form, he makes the drapery, the face, the features, the very look — the thought — till at last his work is finished.

Then see how he cares for it, preserving it ever. He gives it light or shade — he gives it a frame and a place in his studio, where its beauties are ever before him, to please, to happify, to suggest, to build him up in the glorious existence which is his.

A bold, dashing lover wooes and wins. He talks, looks, acts love. He is at work on the heart of a woman — dearest of all pictures ! He touches and colors by kind words — by smiles, by little attentions — by those little heaven-born endeavors which make woman to worship man, and man worthy the adoration of the pure, trusting, beautiful, loving, and virtuous. He wins by his boldness — his delicacy — his power to create new sympathies.

The painter finishes his picture. He throws it by in disdain. It does not please him. He tosses it into a rubbish-room. Dirt and dust settle upon his work — it becomes torn, scratched, abused, till it is no longer a picture, but a daub worth less than the canvas on which it was painted. The creator becomes the destroyer, and a part of his own life is lost !

The man who wooes and wins, is satisfied. He has won. The wife he sought is his. No more delicate touches — no more soul-warmed smiles — nO more of that life-giving, protecting, heart-sustaining eloquence of living, which so beautifies the picture. He is now an owner — has a right to do as he pleases. He puts his picture, his wife, into a cold, unfurnished home — he tosses the rubbish of innumerable flirtations and adventures over her — he pours the slops of dissipation and debauchery over the work he created — the heart he warmed into life, and slowly destroys by neglect, cruelty, and iinlsindness, the love he called forth, and then blames the innocent picture for not retaining its beauty, and its ability to win smiles and words of approval.

As the skill of a painter gives life to his work, so does kindness and careful love give Heaven to united hearts. As each touch of the brush calls forth some new beauty, some new expression, some charming result; so does honest, noble, sober, manly love and devoted honesty of heart and person beautify and spiritualize united lives till there is before us a picture so good, so soul-resting, so complete in its God-given sweetness that by this effort to devotionalize our lives we rise above clouds, storms, and temptations, and are given power such as angels enjoy.

Thus are we inspired, ennobled, strengthened, and glorified in our natures by that Great

Power of Love Eternal, which rewards exactly in proportion to our allegiance, and made so strong for the good, that we live for centuries while the work we have planned is being done.

To preserve this picture the painter need not live in a palace — no more need the earnest man who would build himself into the beautiful Eternal by this simple caring for himself and his own. The frame need not be better than the picture — the home need not be more an object of thought than the loved one in your keeping. We may dwell in a hovel — may reside in a mansion ; we only truly live in the heart.

If we surround ourselves with the good, the pure, the loving, the virtuous, the refined, the truly suggestive of the beautiful, we drink in of our surroundings and become day by day better and more deserving. Others cannot make us good, but they can help, and they will if we but show that we are deserving.

But if we do not try to improve and show ourselves worthy the good opinion of real friends, how can we expect them to take an interest in us. Those who sow little or much care not to scatter by the wayside or on hills of flint where the seed will die and bring no return.

Workingman — friend — brother. All the day you have toiled in a shop, fashioning metal or wood to certain designs. Or you have, with aching back, fitted shoes to feet of horses, that they might help man support his loved ones. Or you have with rambling thoughts followed the plow or swung the scythe till it seemed as if the shade of yonder tree, the draught from the spring ; the drink from the kettle, pail, or jug hidden imder an armful of new mown hay, were enough to tempt you to abandon labor. Or you have all day in the hot sun, with the perspiration streaming from every pore, handled the ripe grain till the

W7iat an Artist Does. 19

beards on heads of wheat and barley have pricked you deep and sore.

Perhaps you have been at work in the woods, beating the march of civilization on the lofty pines and hard beeches, oak, and maples — with gleaming axes to the annoying tenor of stinging gnats and buzzing flies — working to build you a home and earn its adornment. Or you may have been all the day working in a mine — or sitting in your shop — or working at the case of types — or laboring anywhere by the day. No matter. You are our Brother. We are all workers together. We are all creators — each doing our best. You may pray on your feet, on your knees, or not at all, for this is your aflair, not ours. But we are brothers, and we are, before God, your friend.

Come to our room and sit with us a few moments. Stay — 'we will come to yours ; this is better. Never mind the chair — we will sit here on this stool — this bench — this nail-keg upturned — this rustic seat, or on that log. It is late. In a few moments this week will have dropped into the silent well of time, never to be raised for our inspection till it comes with our record for His inspection. Soon you must sleep. Perhaps jou are sleejDiug now. Then we will sit on the edge of your bed, no matter if it be but a blanket on the ground or the floor.

This is your home. It is so much better than many have, we do not wonder you love it. The little one or ones sleeping just there are yours. In God's name, brother workiugmeu, do not throw these beautiful pictures you can so well finish, or certainly spoil, into the rubbish-room of neglect. That woman so tired, weary, overworked, and underloved is your wife — your darling. All the day long, and far into the night, has she toiled to help you. She is weary. We know it by her

^V]lat an Artist Does. 21

attitude in sleep — by the way her head is thrown back — by her heavy breathing, for thus do rest the weary and the overworked.

Look at the picture before you sleep. Do you wish her to love you better ? Do you wish the little ones to be nearer and more loving ? Do you wish your home to be more beautiful ? Then listen, not to us, but to our good angel who to-night so smiles on us, and wishes us to talk to you for her. Fill your home with evidences of your loving care, and it will return to you an hundred-fold of happiness.

There is a place for a mat, or little piece of carpet. And there is just the place for a few shelves — a few books. And over there is a nice place for a little flower-pot. And there you can hang a bird-cage, or your little ones can train a vine.

You have no money? O, yes. There is money in your muscle ! There is money in your brain. There is honor in your heart.

22 W7iat an Artist Does.

Work. Do not squander in dissipation. Do not throw your daily earnings from you to beautify the homes of others. You can do a little to-day — a little to-morrow — a little continually. And see how these littles will accumulate ! Little acts of love — little words of kindness— little struggles to master yourself — little articles bought from small earnings saved will soon give you a more beautiful home — more happiness, more heart-rest, more strength, more honest pride, more manhood, more influence, more confidence in yourself, and more and more to you the deep, trusting, confiding love of your home opes.

Bear with others. Perhaps none of us are quite perfect. It may be that the ones we would find fault with, though not quite perfection, though fery fiir therefrom, are as good as ourselves, and on the whole better than some others. It may be you are a painter. Then you try often, touching and retouching before the work is perfect. Perhaps you care a grocer, weighing out tea. Do you always throw iuto the scale the exact amount each time? You may be a tailor, or a dress-maker. Do you always give a perfect fit without the necessity of thinking and altering a little here and there? And if we cannot finish a picture at one stroke — strike the exact amount for a certain weight, or fit a garment the first attempt, how much less can we mold the inner life or outer life of a person to ours, at once, unless the Divine Builder has given us His aid ?

Lead us not into temptation — but deliver us from evil. We are all tempted even as Christ was. We are at best but children who stumble, for ours is a rough road — but we can help others, who stumble, with us, to their feet, and not drag them down. Then we will all be better, and our lives will be to such purpose that our memories will not be tossed into the rubbish-room of forgetful uess, but will, reflecting our lives, lead others to the beauties of the Eternal Home beyond the threshold of our final Saturday Night.

Chapter II. Wanted To Go Back To God

JO-NIGHT, when we passed out from our private office to call upon a lady friend, a pale-faced little girl at the foot of the street steps held before us a thin wooden board full of holes, nearly all of which held bouquets.

"Please, sir, buy a bouquet for your button-hole."

We looked at the tempting tea roses resting each on a leaf of geranium so sweetly — then at the poverty-stricken child before us, and wanted a bouquet at once.

" How much for this one, little kitten ? "

" Ten cents, sir."

" Here is the money, and I hope you will sell all the rest before I return."

Then, with the little favor in a button-hole, we walked up town, passed the great hotels, through Madison square and on to our destination. Then we called on a Masonic brother in another part of the city — then to see a widow lady who had a sick child in hospital — then to a political club meeting, and when we had returned to the office to finish our week's work, it was past ten o'clock, and as the drowsy, old-time watchmen used to say — " All's well."

" Hello, little one ! You here still ? "

"Yes, sir, please."

" And not sold all your bouquets ? "

"No, sir, but I've tried to ever so hard."

" How many did you have ? "

" Fifty, sir."

" How many have you left now ? "

"Thirteen, sir."

"And it is past ten o'clock."

"Please, sir, I know itj but I have sold all I could."

" Why did you wait here ? "

"To see you, sir."

" How did you know I would come back here?"

" I know you rooms here, sir — I've seen you come in very often."

" Which are my rooms ? "

"Up there, sir, where the awnings are over the windoAvs."

" What did you want to see me for ? "

"Please, sir, I didn't know but you would want another bouquet ; and I wanted to talk with you, sir."

" Talk with me ! What about ; and how did you know I would stop to talk ? "

" Oh, sir, I knew you would. Sometimes my teacher, or the Superintendent, reads your

Saturday Night chapters in the Suuclay-school, and we all knoAv you there. And I knew you would, when you called me little kitten when you came out ! "

" Well, little puss, come up-stairs. It is late, but you need not stay long."

Then we took out the great night-key to the heavy front-door, opened and entered. Then up the broad, solid stairway to our private rooms. In a moment the gas was lit, and the room was bright as day, and soon we sat in an easy chair by the desk, while the little bouquet seller sat on a little ottoman by our feet.

" Well, little kitten, what is your name ? "

"MargyRadcliffc, sir." '

"Plow old are you, Margy?"

"Nine years old, sir."

"Where do you live?"

"On Sixth avenue, near Twenty-first street, sir."

" Is your father alive ? "

"Yes, sir."

« Wheat does he do ? "

"Nothing, sir."

" Is your mother alive ? "

"Yes, sir."

•;What does she do ? "

"Nothing, sir, only sometimes she makes blue shirts for Mr. Waterman, who keeps a clothing store."

" Have you any brothers or sisters ? "

" One little sister, six years old, sir."

" Where is she ? "

"Selling flowers, too."

" Where do you get them to sell ? "

" Of Mr. Klein."

" How much do they cost, each bouquet ? "

"Six cents apiece, sir."

" Do you sell fifty each night ? "

"Not alwaj^s, but I try to. If I don't, father whips me."

" What for — what does he whip you for ? "

30 Wanted to Go Bach to God.

" Because I don't sell them all ! "

"Does he whip your sister, too?"

" Yes, sir, he whips us both ! "

"Not very hard, I reckon?"

"Please, sir, look and see."

And we looked on the back and shoulders of the little one to see the blue marks where ugly blows had been by the dozen bestowed on the little girl who sat there in tears while her flowers were on the sofa beside us.

"If you do not sell all these to-night, will your father whip you ? "

"Yes, sir."

" What time must you be home ? "

'* Any time before morning ! "

" Does your father drink ? "

" Yes, sir, every day I "

" Does your mother drink ? "

"Yes, sir!"

" They do not both get drunk, do they?"

" Yes, sir ; 'most every day."

" Is that the best dress you have ? "

" Yes, sir, and the only one."

"How came you to go to Sunday-school?"

" A good woman , with a sweet face bought a bouquet of me last spring, and came to see me ; and mother said I might go to Sunday-school."

"And you go every Sunday? "

"Yes, sir."

"That is right; I wish all the little children in the land could go. Why do you go?"

" To learn. And my teacher is so kind to me."

"Do 3^ou love her better than your father or mother ? "

"Please, sir, I don't want to tell! But I don't love her better than Lotta, my little sister ! "

And the tears ran down her face as she leaned forward and rested her head in our hand while we stroked the dust-filled hair which hung, but half combed, over her neck. Then she went to the wash-basin and gave her face a good bathmg, wet her hah", and brushed it. Then we put some cologne on it, and she looked so unlike the tired little Margy who had been talking to us, that when she looked in the mirror she almost laughed.

Then she took a glass of ice-water and an aj)ple from the fruit basket, and another one for her sister, and sat again on the ottoman to tiell us what she wanted to when she waited for us.

And it was a queer wish. She wanted us to adopt her, or to find her a home somewhere, in some other city, where her father would not find her, and whip her so, and where her mother would not whip her every day. She told the story of her sad young life. Often had she been whipped, and sometimes brutally. She swejot street-crossings in muddy weather, and sold bouquets, and. picked rags, and so kept

Wanted to Go Bach to God. 33

her parents alive and in drink. They lived in one little room 'way up-stairs, and never had butter on their bread.

Once her father was a merchant. Then he became a politician. Then he became a drunkard, and lost all his friends. And his wife took to drink, and so they drove their little ones to the street. God pity them — and all little children who have such parents.

She told us that life had no sunshine for her. No matter how well she did, cross words and blows were all the reward she had, till now, if we could not find her a home, she wanted to be sick and die, and go home to God, who, she said, she knew would not be so unkind to her ! And the tears kept coming as she talked to us.

It was after eleven o'clock when . she left, with all her bouquets sold. "We went with her to the door, and let her out upon the street, when we saw her scamper away, glad to know that another night could she sleep on the floor without a whipping.

We were glad to make her happy, and are glad to know that so many children, who will read this, or whose father or mother will read it to them, have not such cruel, drunken parents.

In the great city are thousands of poor children who do not have even such homes as many poor children in the country have, and who would be very happy if they had nice beds and good food, and loving parents to care for them. We ask our little friends in the country to think of little Margy Kadcliffe and her poor life, of her drunken parents and hard lot, and to see if they are not happy children, after all. They should be haj)py when their parents love them and care for themj as those who are good at heart always care for, or try to care for, their little ones and loved ones, as He who is our loving Father will care for us all, if we strive to be good, to be honest, true to ourselves and to do right.

And we who are older than children can think of her bitter young life already so sickening to her soul, that she longs to die and go back to God. And all of us who have little ones can resolve, that never will we thus forget our manhood, and be unworthy that beautiful rest with the loved ones in the Land of the Leal, when the week of life has gone, and we can, like the little waif whose story we have told as she told it to us, go to our rest with our work all done and no punishment to follow the blessed Saturday Night.

Chapter III. Only Thinking

E came to me in love — every word, every act, every move was to please. He spoke to me so kindly. He kissed me so tenderly. He brought me presents. He was always neat, clean, sweet, and cheerful. He seemed to live for none other than me. He wanted none other to speak to me — wanted me to speak to none other except with that cold formality which he taught me was queenly.

Loved him? I could not help it. Never had I seen a man so kind. He was unlike all others. When I rested my head against his breast, he was so careful where his hand wau-

Only Thinhing. 37

dered — so gently would he bend to kiss my brow — so smooth and gentle felt his hand to my fiice — so expressive was the pressure of his hand as palm rested in palm — so Avildly thrilling were those long, earnest, dreamy kisses upon my lips like music of distant silver bells or whispering murmur of low-singing ripples ; or like flutteriugs of beautiful coquetting birds in the air, that I sank to sweeter dreams in his embrace than ever before came to me in hours of rest.

And, O ! what castles in the air my fancy built! He promised so much. His lips, his eyes, his words, his touch, his look, his low tones, his searching thoughts, his loving embrace, promised all in all to me. I asked for no proof. Innocent, loving, earnest, believing — thinking him the same, I said yes to his earnest wooing.

. . . It seems like a dream !

A horrid, ghastly dream. We were mar-

38 Only Thinhing.

ried. And how proud I was. In all the world no man like my adored. I would have followed him to death — to hell, because I was only happy where he was. There were but two worlds to me. One was the heart-warmed spot where he was. A bright, golden atmosphere of love. A flower-filled garden, around which people might stand or walk — I cared not which. The other world was outside of this — all around it — where he was not. I lived within the golden-aired, loved-charmed circle. And I cared not who lived outside, so they did not break in to trample the flowers under my beautiful tree. I wanted not to go beyond to disturb those outside who might or might not have little bowers and gardens of their own.

. . . I was very happy. Others looked in upon our circle and envied us. . . One day tears came to my eyes. Perhaps I was foolish. I put my hand upon my heart and

Only ThinJcing. 39

crowded it to silence, and looked about my beautiful garden. I had been mistaken. It was a garden after all. A bright, beautiful one. I would be happy. I was happy, . . He did not mean it. He came in from the world, and was cold. I would warm him to love — I did. He smiled as of yore. He kissed me as ever. I wept, and loved him the more. I was so proud that I had power over him and could warm his heart and kindle the fire in his eye.

. I rested in his arms. There was my place. I slept upon his bosom. I wakened in the night and felt for him — over there. I nestled to his heart. He turned away. Only sleeping nervousness. I kept still and listened to his breathing, and with careful hand lifted the coverlet to his throat that he might be warm. . . He wakened. He spake not as once. Then I blamed the world for dealing harshly with him — my loved. . . He turned from me and slept. His hand was not

40 Only Thinhing.

so gentle as once. His words were not so lowtoned. His kiss lost its electrical velvet. He was heavy and thoughtless. But he was mine, and I was content.

. There came tears to my eyes. They came from my heart. Had I been dreaming? No, I wept, and I slept. I went down with memory into the vapory amethyst of the past, and visited with my love. I felt again his kiss — his touch — his presence. I lived again in the gentleness of his heart-lifting words. I wakened to think of him. Perhaps I was expecting too much !

But he had promised even more !

And there came a mist — a faint, dim, shadowy mist before my eyes. It rested over my little garden. It reached from edge to edge. Faint, shadowy, almost transparent. Others did not see it. . . It grew. There arose from it a form. I stooped and looked under it. There was my lover — sitting as of yore. My hand resting on his bosom. I was conlent. . . I chicled myself for weeping, and rested with him. . . I looked again. The mist grew thicker. From where my lover slept there arose a form. A man. Slowly he came up. It was him I loved — yet it was not. I saw the change before the world did. I stepped into the mist. I clung to the changing form. I forgot all save life and my little garden. Still the mist thickened. The form grew; Colder, more stately. The dress was not that of my love. The hand was not his ! The kiss was not his, but hurried, careless, unsatisfactory. His eye had lost its love-luster. It was simply the eye of a man. . . He spake and I listened. He commanded and I obeyed ! He desired and I submitted ! He feasted and I waited attendance in sickness or health. He walked to the wall and looked over into the world — I gazed at him.

The mist grew thicker. It hid my lover from me. It became like a pavement, and under it ^ were my pretty flowers crushed with my air-castles. ... I felt a horror within me. I will not tell you what or how. I cannot. The ashes of unsympathetic desire poison deep and lasting. . . . The horror became an agony. The bosom I once rested so sweetly on, lost its warmth. ... I looked about my garden one day to find its mossy banks turned to stone. I was a prisoner ! But not a murmuring one. Still I was sad. I tried to be gay. He came in from the world. Hither and yon. He came with the flavor of other lips upon his lips. He came with an appetite gratified.

. The bouquet I had gathered for him and culled the thorns therefrom, became a mat at his door-step. Our garden was his at last.

. My heart grew sad and sore. The walls to our garden grew higher. He stepped upon my prostrate body, and then leaped the walls to gardens beyond. He was my husband.

Only Tliiiiking. 43

I was his wife. I saw changes and knew dreads the world did not see or know, or it had pitied me ! . . The walls grew higher. The mist grew colder. The one who arose therefrom spoke to me — turned his heavy eyes upon me — I was dutiful / . . I was too proud to cry aloud. I had seen, and known, and felt what others might have, or might not have felt. I live to my duty. I dug under the frozen mist, buried there all my olden dreams and memories. Others came and looked from the outside of my prison walls to the within. They saw something of the change, but could not see way down to where my young life was buried. I asked for pity. . . They told me martyrs wore crowns. . . I asked for sympathy. They said I had a protector. . .1 asked for kind words. . . They said I would find them in my marriage certificate, which showed that I was a legal wife. . . . They came to the fence — to the wall and looked over. They tossed me a volume of public opinion — a prayer-book — a sermon — a congratulation that I was a prisoner ! He came and he went. He commanded and I obeyed. He went and stayed long. He came with hot breath, unsteady step, coarse words, and brutal jests. His dress was not that of the one I loved. He had no kind words as then. . . . The flower was fair, but the fruit ! . . . Merciful God ! . . . Is this the dessert to the feast of early love ?

Yes ! . . . I have ! . . . And why not? He broke his promises. He lived not for me — he loved me not. He lied to me when he won me, or he has so changed since that even the world — his friends would not know him. Our voyage was not to bring me to a prison 1 I could have gone there alone ! . . . I have wept — and prayed — and waited — and hoped . — and forgiven — and watched — and striven — and petted — and caressed — and trusted —