On give not up to sorrow, And never know despair Let Hope light up the morrow, With all its holy cheer, Why should we mar the moments By cruel, dark forebodings, Though dark misfortunes meet us, To tell the sadden'd tale Let's view it as our share of toil, Oh give not up to sorrow, The storm of life will rage to-day; THE VOYAGE OF A DREAM. SWEEP downwards, streams of air! And thou, my cloudy chariot, drop thy shade To roll like dust, behind thy silent wheels, And draw round earth the triumph of our march! See where, from zone to zone the shadow moves A spot upon the desert's golden glare A deeper blue upon the far-stretching plains FIRST EFFORT TO HELP THE FAMILY. BY SELDOM. FORTUNE had changed, and with it the once happy condition of our once happy family. Almost the first recollections of my childhood are The farm, the mill, associated with the bitter loss of our family estate. the beautiful home on the banks of the lovely stream, the early play All was grounds-all crumbled into ruin by injudicious endorsements. swept away, and with a father gone, the family began to be in want, while sad experience wrought its changes. Right well do I remember the first time money seemed to me to have value. For singing Jackson songs my uncles had often given me pocketsfull of small change, and when they wanted it again would tell me that it was not Jackson money, and immediately it was rolling on the floor or flying in scattered pieces through the yard. But now money seemed scarcely ever in my pockets, either to keep or throw away. In some way the distress of the family made itself felt by us all. One day our mother told us that she had "but half a dollar in the world," and knew not when, or where, or how to get more to meet our wants. Expenditures were not small, for besides herself six hearty, hungry mouths must be supplied with food. We lived not in the country then, but had removed to an expensive town, since grown to the rank of a city. In such a place everything costs money, and is no place for the poor. The most rigid economy was introduced in all departments of the family, and to be sure we felt it now, though its necessity had been known before. The family must be reduced, its circle broken, and accordingly one sister and a brother were sent to live at grandfather's. With cheerful resignation we agreed to eat bread made of a kind of coarse meal called "middlings," which could be bought at half the price of common flour. Some articles of furniture were disposed of at a sacrifice, which at least supplied present necessities. One of our two cows was sold. With a heavy heart I helped to drive her from the yard. Not that I knew so much how to value a cow in a poor family, but from sheer fondness for her as a pet. We still had old "Spot" left yet, and What luscious God knows she served us well in many a trying time. milk and butter! oh, it was good just to look at it and how we relished our milk and bread, or better still, our milk and mush! Something more must be done. What it should be, was the question with us all. No demand was then, as is now, along the railroads at the But some how I thought the good stations for fruits and refreshments. early apples in our lot ought to bring money. My plan was adopted. Though other people had fruit, ours was very fine, and we kept the nicest to sell. I was the oldest boy at home, having just past my sixth birth day, and having taken many preparatory lessons from my mother and sisters, I was sent out at last to sell the apples. It was all a venture, as there was no certainty that apples would sell there for money. Provided with a small basketfull on my arm, I started out one day in painful anxiety as to the result of my first direct effort to help the family. There was a responsibility resting on me that made my boyish shoulders bend, and childish features settle down with care-worn lines. How often have I seen such since! God pity the poor! Oh, if the thoughtless sons and daughters of wealth and affluence knew the greatest joy, there would be less suffering! "Will you please buy some apples," I at last said to a woman in a house I was passing, after having gone down street a good way, and met many persons whom I had not the courage to ask. "Yes, my little son-they are proper fine ones too. How much do you ask for them?" said she, taking hold of the basket, which I now found getting heavy on my arm. "How do you sell them?" "Oh, I don't know-any way you like, ma'am," I stammered out. "You do not seem to understand much about the business yet." Then looking me in the face she inquired, "How old are you?” "Six, in August," and I began to feel like moving away. She saw my embarrassment, took the apples, paid me fifteen cents, and with a glad heart I hastened home. "There!" shouted I, as the money was thrown into my mother's lap, where my head has often nestled. It was all I could say, and my heart would not keep still. It was the first violent fit of palpitation in my experience; and its throbbing pulsations of triumphant joy are not yet forgotten. Years have passed by since, bringing in their course vicissitudes of trials and success, but none are half so fresh as these. What would have been the pleasure of eating the fruit ourselves in comparison with the satisfaction now experienced in being able in this small way to assist the family! Again and again, with a lighter heart was my basket filled by cheerful hands, while I was required to rest between the trips down street. How eagerly my feet pattered home, while the cash was tighly grasped in my hand sunk deep in my pocket. Yes, I had a pocket made for the occasion. That itself was then some reward to a boy of six. A tin box was our bank. There was soon money enough in it to jingle. And it was part of the evening's recreation to feel how heavy it was to shake it till it rattled, and count it as it increased from day to day. Sometimes the apples were dull sale. At such times the task seemed heavier. At retail and wholesale, for eating, for pies and for sauce we sold them. A regular trade was established, my customers looked for me regularly, and the apple-boy as regularly came. One of my best customers was a widow lady who made her living by sewing. She always bought some, if it was only one cent's worth. But at the private residence of the Mayor I was always sure to sell. His two daughters would call me "a dear little fellow," and treat me so kindly that I feel now like writing them a letter of acknowledgments, if I knew how or where to address them. They will doubtless have their reward. My basketfull generally sold for ten, or twelve, or fifteen cents. The fruit, however, could not last forever. The last trip was made, and when the money was counted the proceeds were four dollars and sixtyseven cents. Money sometimes is worth more than its par value-at least our little treasury seemed to be worth much more to the family then than the same sum multiplied is now. I have earned larger amounts since, that have not afforded me as much satisfaction. Removed far from those scenes we have been called to struggle and strive in other ways, and yet success has Providence vouchsafed to us. Honest, faithful effort meets with its reward. Though distance and years have intervened, on revisiting those scenes of my early struggles with adverse fortune, I recognized the streets, the houses-but the faces, I these were gone-perhaps to eternity. Looking at my own checkered pathway, the hand of the Lord is plainly seen, turning me now to the right hand and then to the left. Truly, "He hath brought me by a way that I knew not." Our whole family have reason to bless Him for the adversity that has probably been the chief means of bringing us all into His fold. He alone does all things well. A SAD SCENE IN THE CONESTOGA. BY THE EDITOR. "Woodlands around me roar- SATURDAY evening! What a peculiarly interesting time is Saturday evening. Still more especially peculiar is Saturday evening in summer. How sweet to see the wave of business and care retire; and await the spirit of Sabbatic peace as it comes silently on, and broods like a joyful earnest over every limb of the body, and every faculty of the soul. How silently the shadows lengthen over the fields-how calmly the sun sinks in the west-how softly the night steals on, while the hopeful farewell light yet lingers upon the red evening sky. Then we think of absent friends with a kind of solemn cheerfulness, and send up to God a silent prayer that we, with all life's wayfarers, whom we love, may safely find the way through the wilderness and the night, into the land of eternal morning. It was such a Saturday evening in and around Franklin and Marshall College, of which we speak. The studies of the week were over. There was no sound of recitative voices in the halls, nor did any echo of footsteps roll through the corridors. The students were gone-some sitting with book in hand, or in silent meditation, at the windows of their study rooms; some cheerful in social circles, some strolling, two by two, in the rural walk, far in the fields and woods. One group was winding its way to the banks of the calm Conestoga. In this company was one more buoyant than the rest, stronger than the rest, with apparent promise of longer life than the rest. On still they go, cheerfully and joyously. The bank is reached-clothes are thrown aside-preparation is made to plunge into the cool waters-and the youth of whom we speak is ready sooner than the rest. 66 Gazing the inverted landscape, half afraid Then plunges headlong down the circling flood. Instant emerge; and through the obedient wave, It is young WOMMER,* the buoyant, healthy sophomore. See how he lays his strong arms upon the yielding wave, and moves in triumph upon the dark depths! His companions fear and warn. But his young heart is courageous, even as his arm is strong. Now he passes into the deepest part of the stream. See, he sinks-disappears-hush! it is only a playful dive. He appears again, with a shriek for help! He sinks again he appears again, throwing his hands violently over the water, his face disfigured with an indescribable look of anguish and horror. His fellow students in consternation run to and fro, and look unutterable things at one another. He is gone again!-he appears again. One student is near enough to reach him a pole-he takes it, but his grasp is too feeble to hold it fast. He lets it go, and sinks again! Rails are cast in towards the place. A bold swimmer, from another part of the stream, hurries towards the spot; "But all was still-the wave was rough no more, Behold it was all over! Life's solemn experiment was at an end; and young Wommer, the strong, buoyant, hopeful sophomore, has no more any portion forever in all that is done under the sun! In a little while, all that remains of Wommer is laid a lifeless corpse upon the shore, where but a few minutes ago he had stood in the full strength and hope of life. Again in a little while a small wagon moves toward town, on which lies the cold body of the student-on, over the same ground which but an hour before he had measured with firm and manly step. And now-see!-they carry him in at the door of his boarding house, amid the shrieks of the family and neighbors, and the silent tears of the stricken company who went with him so happily, and have now returned with him so sadly. The subdued whisper goes from lip to lip, from house to house, from street to street, from student to student, from professor to professor, "A student has been drowned!— they have carried young Wommer dead to his boarding place!" His fellow students think of him as they saw him in the class, as they met him in the social circle; and many through town remember the healthy, *This young man, a student in Franklin and Marshall College, was drowned in the Conestoga on Saturday evening, June 28, 1856. |