A study in life tints

Front matter

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Preface

I N presenting this book to the public, the author does so through a strong conviction that life should be painted in its reality, and that the time is ripe for literature of the day to deal with facts more and fancy less. That did we expect life to be a mixture of disappointments and joys, we would be less liable to sink under the weight of the sudden blighting of our fairest dreams, and would take it as we find it, with a more philosophical view, greater faith that all is a part of life’s discipline, with sure hope that sorrow will pass away, and with greater fortitude to endure; “for the darkest night is hedged about with daybreak roses.” Thus Browning’s courageous view point might be attained, for while facing life’s stern realities he expressed himself in the following: “While I see day succeed the deepest night, how can I speak but as I know? My speech shall be throughout the darkness ; it will end , the light that did burn, will burn ” It is not a fine spun theory to say that life is a grand oratorio. We all play some part whether cognizant of it or not.

Shall it be a discordant one and mar the music of the whole?

This, the question that each human soul must determine.

In the portrayal of some dark picture the author trusts the reader will never lose consciousness that 5

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the undertone is one of hope, which shines through the whole scheme of human life, of faith in the Infinite Lover, who is ready to illuminate the darkness of all who are receptive, and of firm belief that this Power Divine will bring ultimate victory out of life’s strange lessons if we but yield to its guidance.

But to those who have not caught the inner message, or are bowed under injustice and sorrow, it must seem a mockery to speak of life as a symphony, for at times to us all the strains unfold in sad perplexed minors, and we murmur : ‘Where is any certain time or measured music in such notes as these? But angels leaning from their golden seat are not so minded, their fine ear hath caught the issue of completed cadences — and smiling down the stars they whisper — Sweet.’

But from our limited view point, life is often a troublesome mystery that we cannot solve, and it is difficult to discover any poetry, much less hear the song. Nerves have been stretched in tightest tension and our heart strings played upon by rude hands. Thus in the whirl and worry of life we seem rendered incapable of hearing anything but jar and discord. We cannot measure the weary lines and are too dull to catch the rhythm; but it is there, for God writes the words, and He is harmony.

In moments of despair the cloud of witnesses, including earth’s grandest characters down all the ages, come to us with the assurance that in spite of the sin, want, and suffering, life is worth the living ; and to the soul who struggles to overcome — at last

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the poem that was being written out all along the years of our earth pilgrimage is set to music and belongs to the grand chant of the universe.

Perhaps ’tis only a low note, a humble part some of us fill, but shall that be wanting when the Master Musician listens to the rendition of the completed chorus ?

We may also consider Life as a beautiful picture, of which some one gives us the exquisite thought : “A picture is a poem without words.”

Every lovely scene is full of lights and shadows, the shadows being most essential in bringing out the beauty of the whole.

Thus we may come at length to the realization that the shadows which have touched us as we climb some rugged steep, the rocks that barred our way, the thorns that tore us as we passed, seen by light of closing day, form a picture at the last !

But neither song, poetry, nor picture, can we discover when caught in some hurricane of life.

. Our craft is so frail, the waves as they mount heavenward will surely overwhelm us, and our hearts faint as we catch the roar of the breakers ! Onward we are driven ! Downward it seems. Would to God it were onward and upward !

We become breathless as the spray kisses our cheek. How can such a fragile bark ride these billows, outride the storm?

Courage my soul ! Hearest thou that Voice of power, yet thrilling sweetness? “Peace, peace, be still !” and the turbulance of wind and wave is hushed.

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Tis thus the storms and passions of life are stilled and we are brought into our desired haven, not beyond the sunset, but here and now into the port where with clarified vision we can see the rainbow.

For Love has shone upon our teardrops and transformed them into wondrous tints that glorify our sky.

Alas ! that we have lived so oft “in the middle of our aches,” as to miss many of these bows of promise.

It is said of the rainbow, “It is like the calm wing of Deity unfurled, it bends from the cloud and encircles the world.”

Thus it bends over each lonely life with its message of hope, and the story of the rainbow is God’s beautiful pledge written upon earth’s night, “to tell the tired world that rainbows shall not die.”

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Chapter I

Somber skies, colorless save for an occasional hint of dark blue, the atmosphere chill and damp, a day that made would-be pedestrians postpone their goings forth, if possible, a dark day in the city, when people plodded onward with deeper care lines engraved on faces that showed little of light and still less of hope, faces that attracted a humanity student, because of the stories so plainly traceable therein.

On this dull gray day, the slow rain was coming’ down with its monotonous drip, drip, as if it had forgotten the merry dash and sparkle of its power, and was silently shedding tears over the tragedy called Life.

Passing along the crowded thoroughfare, was a person who seemed ordinary enough in dress and general appearance. Nothing striking about the figure, if you do not catch a glimpse of the keen blue eyes, a plain face, with lines of care, although the step is springing, and you discover that not over thirty-five years have burdened him with their weight. Why, in a crowded street, should one be so strangely impressed with that face out of many more handsome?

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By the law of intuition, of instantaneous flashing of the truth, you know that man not only has a history, but is making history. In other words, is living a life of real force and use in the world.

Some strength has come from that momentary passing, and your inspiration is a true one, as you murmur : “One of earth’s uncrowned heroes.”

Why that feeling? Whence that revelation?

May one safely follow their impressions?

If of a highly imaginative temperament, it may be illusion, but a sane well-balanced mind often receives as plants do the moisture, the true impressions, which Emerson terms the emphasis of the soul which is always right.

That great souls often recognize each other instantly, has long been an established axiom.

Non-receptive minds seldom experience mental telepathy and spirit recognition.

But amid the hurrying crowd on this dull November day, above the confused street cries, and ceaseless rumble of traffic, suddenly from an entrance float out sweet voices, hymning strains whose tones soothe the unquiet of the heart and brighten the eye with a gleam of cheer.

It is the same mysterious spell that footsore disheartened soldiers upon the battlefield experienced, when the band began to play, how the weary steps quickened.

Now, through the half-opened doorway came the refrain: “He will keep me till the river rolls its waters at my feet.” The door closed, but in the minds of several lingered the words with a

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charm like a breath from the wooded hills of home.

Down the street to his office passed a well-dressed business man, arriving there many claims pressed upon him, but ever above them sang an angel voice : “He will keep me till the river rolls its waters at my feet.” An unwonted moisture came in his eyes, what did it mean, this incessant refrain? Softly it sang — slowly dying- away, then coming nearer as if bent upon claiming full attention, receding only to come again with more insistent force.

“This is tiresome ! I cannot focus my mind upon anything for that confounded song!” He lit a cigar and sought solace in its fascinations, but over and above him, round about, pervading the very atmosphere, sang now a multitude and then a single voice, childlike in its trust and sweetness.

Angered at last by the apparent hopelessness of escape, he hastily donned overcoat and hat and passed to the busy street below. “A brisk walk will cure me of any morbid fancies,” he mentally asserted.

But the same spirit of fascination drew him to the spot where the song had first caused an arrest of thought. All was silent, but a bulletin announced that a convention of unusual interest was in progress. Yielding to a strange impulse to enter, he found a seat near the door, intending to slip back to his office after a brief investigation. But a finely rendered violin solo held him, which was followed by the appearance on the platform of an intelligent looking young woman. Not maidenly beauty, for life had held too stern lessons for her to retain the

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girlish freshness, but a charm that far exceeded youthful roundness was evinced in every movement.

“’Twas a glimpse into that soft second summer of womanhood more ripe than the first, when the bud to the blossom has burst, in despite of the stormiest April.”

Not a feature possibly that -artist would choose as a model, but a face strong and so expressive that every glance, made one feel ‘she has lived deeply, suffered alone, and speaks from the deep fountain of her heart. A world of pain has been hers, but she now stands forth its conqueror/

This was the personality that gave added weight to her words.

“Why are we here? Because we believe we are right, and that conviction gives us courage to face the world. Because everywhere over this land women’s voices are pleading for better protection for the home.

“Think ! Is it any wonder that the true mother heart entreats you to use the utmost powers of your manhood to change conditions?”

“Do we stand here to pose before the world as • reformers ? Do we expose pur womanhood to slight ?”

“No! We come here to beseech of you in God’s name to make it easier for coming generations to do right.”

“Do you proclaim us as unwomanly in this?”

“I marvel much if this view obtains when you consider those blighted buds of womanhood who

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are doomed by society to remain forever upon its outskirts, and under the hopeless shadow that only the death angel can give release to. Again I say, is it not time for pure womanhood to plead with you for better safeguards for the nestlings of the home ?”

“Do you still ask why we are here ?”

“Because we are tired of waiting.”

“When womanhood is called by you to go down into the valley of the shadow and ‘help God find a life,’ that your name may be perpetuated. When you allow conditions to be such that our babies are stolen from our arms, when our fairest girls go into the world and are sent back to us outcasts, do you not think it time to appeal to the best in manhood ?”

“You reply: ‘Take care of the girls.’ But we stand here to say ive refuse to bear the responsibility alone!”

“Rise in the strength of your manhood and help us.”*

The cultured business man on the rear seat had listened spellbound. The muscles of his face moved visibly. At times one might almost have asserted that a painful struggle was ensuing.

A hasty glance at his watch brought him to the realization of time and place. He had neglected business for nearly an hour. And for what? ‘A foolish whim !’ he thought.

“When I catch myself displaying such a fool s

*Note— Several thoughts are quoted in this address because of their helpfulness.

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part as this again it will be when my name ceases to be Alexander.”

He walked hurriedly down the street as if to quell any rising emotions and plunged into the vortex of business with feverish eagerness.

Chapter II. “Not one of them falleth without our Father's knowledge.”

“Do you believe that, Trueman?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then how can this terrible waste of life go on, and on, apparently without His care?”

“Ah ! I see you insert the word apparently. That is well. Can we poor finite beings fathom the Infinite One and say He does not know or care? His word says so, and upon that we must plant our feet.”

“True, true !” returned his friend, “but I confess, when I daily hear the wrong side of life, it does seem at times as if the cry and moan that constantly ariseth from innocent victims is unheeded.”

Trueman drew himself up to his full height. Strong conviction shone in his face and added weight to his words, as he said in a firm tone, yet reverently, “I believe God that it shall be even as was told me from the Lord.” There’s my creed, my declaration of hope for the world summed up in that. I stand upon it. There is no other place for my faith to rest upon. God will eventually right these wrongs. He must as truly as He is God.”

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“Amen !” responded his listener. “But it seems a weary wait. Go with me to the place I have just left and see if your faith in the final outcome of things is not transformed into a burning cry for the coming of the kingdom now!”

“Agreed !”

After several changes of cars the gentlemen arrived at a place which had once been the abode of wealth and culture. Remains of former grandeur greeted the eye, and it almost seemed that ghosts of the dead past peeped out from behind the faded hangings, beseeching the visitors to rescue the once loved home from the den of wickedness into which it had degenerated.

Were family ties, pure and holy, once known within its walls?

Did childhood in all its crystal purity ever play upon that grand staircase?

Was that retreat between the window once the favorite haunt of happy lovers?

To the pure minded men who now breathed its atmosphere, this seemed incredible, yet such was the case. Rollicking, happy children had romped, in those once beautiful rooms. A sweet faced, motherly woman had presided over the house. A sturdy, true man had been its head. From its sacred precincts the little white caskets had been carried.

In the spacious parlors had gathered many a happy party of the highest type of manhood and womanhood.

Yonder under the great chandelier had hung a

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wedding bell that pealed forth silver chimes as the life march of the fair daughter of the home began.

Is it possible this ill-ventilated place, reeking with filth, is the same?

O, sweet shades of the past! Return not to witness the demolition of your earthly paradise, unless in so doing your presence cleanse the atmosphere and act as guardian angels to the poor little ones whom destiny leaves here.

In one corner, around the once magnificent fireplace, a group of men were seated, smoking pipes and emptying bottles.

No need to scan their faces. A glance was sufficient to bring a shudder to any clean-minded person.

The next room bore marks of a late repast, and about the remains were hovering wan-eyed children with that terrible old look so appalling in those of tender years. A look of cunning was plainly visible on many of the little faces. Babies toddled about in innocence, it is true, but with neglect so plainly stamped upon them it seemed it would move the very fiend himself to have mercy upon their helplessness.

A dark-eyed girl lounged in one corner, a detective story in hand.

A glance showed a pale face but a terrible pair a flashing black eyes.

As the visitors advanced they were met by one of those fierce looks from which they could but recoil, but as she recognized a friend in one of

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them, the glance softened to a look of interest, while her face expressed melancholy in the extreme, as if gladness and youthful buoyancy were forever fled.

“Hattie, this is my friend, Mr. Trueman.”

The girl gave an indifferent nod toward the stranger and then turned her keen eyes upon her friend, as she said in a plaintive voice : “Mr. Kingsley, are you going to do anything for Marion? Don’t bother about me. It’s too late to do anything for me ; but you can save Marion. Then why,” rising to her feet .and the fierce look again darkening her face, “ Why don’t you do it?”

“There! Be still, Hattie, and listen to what I say. We are doing all that we can for little Marion, and we will not give you up, either. But these things are slow. Ever since I heard your life story I have been bending every energy toward bettering your condition.”

“Talk not of me! I tell you it is too late. I am sixteen years old to-day. Would you think it?”

Mr. Trueman had watched the girl with feelings of interest and sympathy.

She seemed hardly more than a child, yet in her intensity of feeling and the fierce look that played over her face so frequently, she appeared far in the twenties.

“No; don't come here to try to reform me. I tell you it is everlastingly too late. I’m a doomed creature; but save my little sister. She is good. Keep her so !”

The girl dropped down on a chair dejectedly.

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Trueman touched his friend’s arm. “Take me out of this. I can bear no more.”

When revived by the pure air of God’s out of doors, Trueman could hardly speak rapidly enough to give vent to his feelings. “For heaven’s sake, Kingsley, tell me the story of that poor child. I feel as if her eyes will haunt me to my dying day. Can we not take her out of that place ? What about her little sister? O God!” he exclaimed, with all reverence,, “how can these things be?”

Leaving Mr. Kingsley to impart the story of this wounded bird, we drop into a neat but unpretending building. Everything of the plainest kind in furniture and decorations. Still you are struck with the general atmosphere of refinement and wholesomeness. A large room with swings and various kinds of apparatus informs you of a gymnasium. You ascend the narrow stairway and find pleasant, sunny rooms and a group of girls busily engaged in sewing.

Two young women of culture, and with strong character revealed in their faces, are imparting instruction to little girls with tangled hair, hair that would be beautiful under the deft touch of a loving mother. But alas ! whose little heads had never known such gentleness, much less their hearts the warmth of mother love.

A study of these faces as they circle about their teachers is well worth our time ; but we pause only with one. A mat of dark locks that would curl and twist into the most charming ringlets, as if defying its environment to despoil its beauty.

Pushing back the wayward curls, a very good forehead is revealed, and you look into a pair of gray eyes that are honest and appealing, if not beautiful. Something strange — intensity it may be — burns in the eyes as they are again bent upon their work.

So attracted are you to this child, you hardly notice when the work is folded away and the little circle are singing, until you catch a sudden brightening of the hitherto cloudy face before you. The hopelessness and 'don’t care’ look have vanished. The child is transformed. She is singing with all her might. Her soul is in her face and she stands forth for the moment, the being God meant her to be, earnestness and strength lighting up every feature.

After the song the children reluctantly departed, most of them lingering to follow their teachers to the car. Little Marion was the last to go, clinging to the kind hand that held hers after the car was in motion.

“I wish I could always live with her!” exclaimed the small lady, drawing the ragged looking cloak about her to hide the still more forlorn looking dress beneath.

“I could be as good as she is if I had a chance.” But as she drew near the place called home — “I hate to live here. I’ve always hated it. I wasn’t bigger than Tommy when I tried to run away. There’s the youngsters screaming. I wonder who’s killed now ! Poor toddlers ! I love them, and Hattie, too, when her eyes are not wild and scare me. But

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Miss Homesworth is an angel and God must love her a sight more than He does the rest of us, ’cause her pa never swore at hen I don’t believe she ever heard a bad word all her days. Still, pa’s, a angel himself alongside of ma.”

She concluded the last sentence with a grin hideous to behold, so utterly was it lacking in respect for the one called mother.

As she disappeared within the foul place, her face lost all trace of the exalted look of a few moments previous. It was replaced by one of open defiance and dogged looking stubbornness.

One of many a hungry crowd who get a glimpse of something higher, and then by force of circumstances stronger than they are skilled to meet, are thrust back into the teeming whirlpool of evil.

Chapter III

A sweet-faced child at the window, wonderingly watching the raindrops; inside the cheery room two other children playing.

A sudden pause in the hilarity. “Vera Trueman, you needn’t ’spect God to answer your prayers ever !”

The culprit thus addressed looked up with anything but terror in her merry face.

“I guess God likes me ’bout as much as He does you, and what about your praying?”

Truly how like the criticism of some children of larger growth.

“Well, I saw God emptying all the water buckets and tubs He had, just now.”

Vera, deeply interested. “Did you? Why didn’t you tell me in time to see?”

“ ’Cause I am ‘Mrs. Be done by as you did,’ and you never told me when you went out to sail your paper boats in the mud puddles.”

“Well, if you didn’t stick so tight to your ‘Water Babies,’ or some other old book, I’d ’vited you.”

“To do to others as I would that they should 22

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do to me will make me always kind and good as children ought to be,” warbled a sweet voice, as a bright looking young woman came into the room and was immediately surrounded by the three small people and quite overpowered by the numerous arms and as many small limbs that scrambled and clung, while a rain of kisses threatened to eclipse the outdoor patter.

“O mama ! God is so busy spilling water all over the earth I don’t believe He will notice a bit if I don’t get my Sunday school lesson. I do want to finish ‘Water Babies.’ I hate to study my Sunday school lesson anyway !”

“Mamma, God will answer my prayers soon as He will Gladys’, won’t He? She said He wouldn’t.”

“Me too love mamma, Dod and everybody !” piped a shrill little voice, as the baby finally succeeded in establishing herself in the post of honor, on mamma’s lap.

“Oh, you little blessings !” laughed mamma, as she smoothed her hair and replaced some fallingpins. “I think you are the sweetest trio on earth !” She gave the baby a hug* and kissed the cheek of the two children who clung* about her neck.

“Come on, mamma, please, and let me read you ‘Water Babies’,” begged the book worm of the family.

“No! We are going to play Queen Mamma and that we are all royal princesses,” asserted Vera, whose ceaseless activity sometimes drove her mother nearly frantic.

“I’se doin’ to be your ’tween, Ve, and mamma

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our ’ittle dirl,” chirped the ever responsive baby, who was peacemaker in all family jars.

But with tact worthy of a diplomat, the mother conciliated her rebellious subjects, uniting all in a common cause by the suggestion, “Suppose we make some candy for papa?”

Down stairs they rushed, even Gladys forgetting her beloved book in the desire to surprise papa.

Many consider such things too much trouble, but this young matron felt that the cultivation of thoughtfulness for others was well worth the hour’s time.

“But the sticky fingers and clothes!” exclaimed Mrs. Nicety to Mrs. Trueman one day, when she

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chanced to call and was invited into the scene of juvenile activities. “How do you stand it, Mrs. Trueman? I never could!” And she smoothed down the curls of a beautiful looking child at her side, who was dressed like a fairy, but whose lovely eyes had a wistful look as she gazed longingly at the dancing tots before her, who, reveling in long sleeved aprons, were stirring maple sugar into a creamy foam.

Gladys and Vera had become quite adepts, and delighted the little visitor by pouring the sugar into heart-shaped tins and presenting them to her.

“Here’s our hearts, O take and keep them !” sang Vera, as she danced up to her little caller.

“Vera!” said mamma, reprovingly.

“Well, they sang that at church, so it’s a good song,” responded the daring little mischief, whose quick wit and ofttimes shocking remarks were alike the consternation and amusement of the family.

Baby Eleanor, the picture of infantile bliss, had a tendency to cleave very closely to anything she came in contact with, which caused Mrs. Nicety to withdraw as soon as possible, mentally remarking that while Mrs. Trueman was certainly a charming woman, she had strange notions.

On this rainy day, however, they were secure from intruders and the spirit of pure glee reigned supreme. It was difficult to tell whether mother or children enjoyed the frolic most, but certainly when papa returned, thoroughly drenched, he

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found not only a tempting dish of sweets prepared by loving hands, but four very happy roguish looking people.

“I never was so thankful in all my life for this home,” half sighed the head of the house, as Gladys brought his slippers, while Vera and baby danced about like two small sprites.

“What is the undertone? You seem half sad to-night, Noble?”

“Wait till I tell you where I have been to-day with Kingsley, and you will not Wonder at the sigh. We are blest above measure, my love.” The light deepened in his eyes as he smiled affectionately at the group.

“Papa is our king, mamma our queen, and we are all royal princesses,” said Vera.

“Yes, this is a royal family, Vera, and we are going to make this home a beacon light in a dark world.”

His wife divined something unusual troubled him tonight.

“There's nothing upon earth half so holy as the love of a child,” said Noble, as he gazed down into the deep azure of baby’s eyes and stroked Vera’s flying curls. “Gladys, papa brought you a new book.”

“Oh, papa!” Another pair of soft arms embraced him with ardency enough to captivate a much harder heart than his.

Heaven smiles upon scenes like this. How sadly

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many homes clustered near contrasted. Mrs. Nicety’s, with her lonely little flower growing up companionless, with half her childhood joys missed, and the different phases of her nature undeveloped. Oh, the pity of it.

Lo ! I have given thee

To understand my presence and to feel

My fulness. I have filled thy lips with power;

I have raised thee nigher to the sphere of heaven, Man’s first, last home ; and thou with ravished senses

Listenest the lordly music flowing from The illimitable years.

— Tennyson.

Chapter IV. “If any man open the door, I will come in.”

Mr. Alexander was not an attendant at church. He paid for a pew in one of the most fashionable temples of worship and upon rare occasions accompanied his family.

A strictly honest, and in every sense a moral man, he had hitherto been content to square his life by the rule of highest integrity.

In passing homeward one evening he was struck by the words at the beginning of this chapter.

So deeply did they impress him that he turned back and by some strange influence, before he was really aware, his feet were turning into the beautifully lighted building, and still ere he had fully determined to do so, was led by the usher to a seat in excellent view of the speaker.