Our Girls Part 8

You find that the mother herself needs a new dress that she may attend ma.s.s, and you make a note of it. The little girl needs a dress, and a pair of shoes. The next morning you carry a bundle with your own hands, and leave it with the promise that you will come again in a few days.

Put together all the soft, polite things that your fashionable friends have ever said of you, and as the zephyr to the tornado, so would they all be compared to the grat.i.tude, the admiration, the "G.o.d bless her," the "dear swate angel," the very worship which that household would pour out upon you during the few days before the next visit; and when you do go again, the shanty has been thoroughly cleaned and white-washed, the children's feet have been soaked and scrubbed, so that the actual skin has been brought into view; and everything has become wonderfully smart. Tell them of the heart pleasure which all this change gives you, and then speak warmly of the great advantage of such cleanliness, of ventilation, and of such other matters as you see they are ignorant of.

And now you mustn't blame them for casting surrept.i.tious glances at your covered basket; they can't help it, poor things. They try not to look that way, but their imaginations are very busy with the contents of that basket. At length you open it, and taking out a bowl, you say:--

"Mrs. O'Flaherty, I am really troubled about Katie's being so thin.

Here is some Scotch oat-meal, and if you will try her with some oat- meal porridge, I am sure it will do her good. If you think, after a little, that it's doing her good, I will bring you more of it.

But oh, how the youngsters long to see what else there is in that basket. After a moment, you put your hand in, and begin to take out things.

"Now, Mrs. O'Flaherty, you won't blame me, will you? I just brought down a few little things; they are of no great value, but I thought you might as well use them, as to have them lie idle. Here are a few pairs of woolen stockings which I have mended all nicely for you.

And here is a lot of collars and handkerchiefs which, perhaps, you may make some use of; if so, I am sure you are welcome to them."

"And now, Katie, I have brought a picture for you. I saw it in a shop window yesterday, and thought you might like it. There, do you know what that is?"

"Why, yes mum; that's a picture of the Blessed Virgin! Be's you a Catholic, mum?"

"No, Katie, I am not a Catholic; but I can't see any harm in a picture of the dear Mother of Christ."

"Oh, I thank you mum, I thank you with all my heart."

"And now, Katie, can't you get a frame for this?"

"Oh yes, mum, I can get a frame; I will get a frame in some way."

When you go again, a week later, what a flutter in the neighborhood!

Eyes, eyes everywhere. All the neighboring shanties are alive to see that "blessed, swate angel."

As you approach the O'Flaherty's, they are all out, looking wondrously smart, and the old man, for the first time, is without his pipe. Your remark about tobacco seems to be working. Katie is the first to reach you, and she holds up in her hands the picture, in a nice little gilt frame.

But how can I describe your reception? Talk of Jenny Lind at Castle Garden,--that was a fashionable splurge. Talk of the reception of a returning congressman,--that gives the Mayor and Aldermen a chance to ride in barouches, make speeches, and dine at the expense of the corporation. Your reception in Michael O'Flaherty's yard is more hearty, grateful and earnest, than any of the fashionable welcomes.

It comes from their very hearts, and would be just as warm if they knew you had come to bid them a final farewell.

Suppose some rich old curmudgeon had given them a few dollars, with which they had purchased the things you have given them. Would they rush out to welcome him? would they clean up the cabin? would the children's eyes sparkle with grat.i.tude and love? No, oh no! It is not the mended stockings, the bowl of oat-meal, or the picture which has so touched them, but it is the gentle, loving spirit in which you have visited them. The poor and lowly are strangely and wonderfully susceptible to such treatment.

A bright woman, residing in a small city in the state of New York, who was a true follower of Christ, for, like him, she went about doing good, happened to go into an Irish neighborhood where the measles were raging, during October. She showed herself an angel of mercy, though her health was so delicate that she could do nothing more than to ride over in her carriage, and distribute gruel, soup, and good counsel.

After the election in November, it came to be known that about fifteen Irish voters, from the neighborhood where Mrs. M---- had acted the good Samaritan, had put in Republican votes, whereat the Democratic managers of the ward were exceeding wroth. The delinquents were visited and labored with.

"What made you go and vote for that--n.i.g.g.e.r candidate?"

At first they refused to divulge. But, at length, it came out that the candidate's wife, Mrs. M--, had helped their families through the measles. And although their Mrs. M----- was not, in fact, the wife of the candidate, was not even acquainted with him, it was enough for those grateful Irishmen that the name was the same.

A TRUE LOVE STORY.

For years I have advised idle young ladies, who were longing for something to do, to look up poor, unhappy families, and minister to their hungry bodies and hungry hearts. I could give you a great many interesting cases, but one is such a pleasant little love story, I must tell it to you. With the exception of the names, the story is a true one.

Twenty years ago I was practising my profession in a western city.

Among my patients was a Miss Dinsmore, a lady of nearly thirty years. Her case was what she called the dumps. I thought it indigestion and general debility. After two weeks, she began to ride out again, and seemed to be doing well enough, when one day she astonished me by exclaiming, "Oh! I wish I was dead!" After some hesitation, she told me that she was perfectly disgusted with life, etc., etc.

I advised her to go out a mile on Marble Street and look up a poor widow woman, a patient of mine, and see if she could not do something to make her comfortable. She couldn't think of it; she had troubles enough of her own; but, after a little urging, she consented to ride that way in the morning, and see if she could do anything. Before the next noon she was at my office with a most pitiful story about "that poor sufferer." I rode out with her at once, and found that Mrs. Ramsey needed some beef-soup and some flannels. Miss Dinsmore volunteered to bring them within an hour. My poor Mrs. Ramsey had pretty good times after that.

I soon had about ten poor patients in Miss Dinsmore's hands. Her sympathy and devotion were often more curative than my doctor- stuffs. At length, she gave me carte blanche to send any poor, sick ones, who needed help; and, from having been a slave to a round of fashionable dissipations, she soon became the most devoted friend of the sick and suffering. To those who have studied the causes of bad health among the devotees of fashion, I need not say that Miss Dinsmore soon became healthy and very happy.

Charles Finlay, a young man of twenty-five years, came to our city, from Philadelphia, to establish a large manufacturing business. He was immediately successful, and quickly won his way to the confidence of our business men. Possessed of n.o.ble person, fine culture, and singularly sweet manners, he was soon regarded as the greatest "catch" in town, and innumerable caps were accordingly set for him.

While trying an agricultural machine, one of his hands was seriously hurt, and he sent for me. It was my first personal acquaintance with him, though I had long known him by reputation. After amputating one finger, I contrived to save the residue of his hand. Our daily intercourse continued for several weeks, and we became very good friends. Among other subjects, we discussed matrimony.

I said, one evening, "Finlay, why don't you get a wife?"

"Well, my friend," said he, "that's a long story. I will tell you all about that, sometime."

At my next visit he said:--

"Doctor, speaking of matrimony, did you know that I had purchased the Temple estate on Bernard Street?"

"No; and then you have concluded to establish a home of your own.

And who is the happy woman? for most sincerely I do regard her as happy in such an union."

"Ah, my friend, you are getting on too fast. I have no definite purpose in regard to matrimony. Mrs. Oliver, on hearing that I had purchased a house, sought me out directly, and exclaimed, 'Now you have a cage, of course you must have a bird to put into it.' I wonder if she thinks me silly enough to marry one of her daughters?

Why, I should infinitely prefer one of those show-figures in the shop windows. They look full as well, have about as much heart, and then they won't get sick. I don't want a bird for my cage. That's just what fashionable wives are,--pretty birds, kept in beautiful cages. I don't want, and I won't have anything of the kind. What I want is a true wife, a real, substantial woman, a companion, an adviser, a friend, one whose voice is not a mere echo of mine, but who has a distinct individuality, with judgment, opinions and will of her own. Of course I know that most fashionable ladies are better than they seem, that this contemptible disguise which they wear,-- this falsehood which they repeat in the hair, the skin, the shape and form of each and every part of the body, is not deliberate falsehood, but the result of a thoughtless compliance with fashion; but it is very difficult for me to separate the woman from the lie.

And then their voices! how utterly affected! no matter what the natural voice may be, every one learns exactly the same ridiculous intonation."

Here I interrupted him with:--

"Hold on, my friend, hold on! I really can't stand this any longer.

You greatly underrate fashionable ladies. They seem to you silly, false and unworthy; but many of them are not a hundredth part as false and silly as their dress and conversation. Many of these ladies who now seem so preposterous and absurd, will, when married, and fairly settled down, cast off this burlesque, and become sober, solid women."

"But, as they all dress and talk exactly alike, how am I to tell which is which and who is who?"

"Well, well, I must leave you; I have an engagement."

On my rounds I kept thinking what a perfect couple Miss Dinsmore and Mr. Finlay would make! I determined, without saying a word to either, to give them an opportunity to see each other. Fortunately for my plan, Miss Dinsmore had just begun to make her rounds early in the morning, and on foot. I advised Mr. Finlay to take an early ride, and that he might have company, I invited him to go with me in my early morning round. I took him through Miss Dinsmore's parish, and, as I had calculated, we met her with a basket on her arm. I drew up to make some inquiries about several poor and sick ones, for whom we were both interested. Just before we started on, I said, "Mr. Finlay, this is my friend, Miss Dinsmore." Five mornings in succession we rode in the same direction, and every morning but one we met Miss Dinsmore. I was pleased to notice that, as we approached one particular neighborhood, my friend became a little wandering in his conversation, and used his eyes with a marked earnestness.

It struck me as very curious that, although Finlay protracted the conversation more and more each morning on meeting Miss Dinsmore, making many inquiries about her proteges, and showing a singular interest in her work, he did not allude to her during the subsequent part of the ride, nor at any other time.

After a week or so, he said, when I called for him, that he was getting so well, he thought it his duty to attend to business. The very next day, when calling upon the poor widow, to whom I had first sent Miss Dinsmore, she asked, as I was about to leave,--

"Doctor, who was that gentleman that came here with Miss Swan yesterday? He seemed a very nice man." (I will here state that, to save the feelings of her fashionable friends, Miss Dinsmore introduced herself as Miss Swan to all her beneficiaries.)

"What kind of a looking man was he?" I asked.

"A large, tall man, with a black beard, and he carried his right hand in a sling. He carried Miss Swan's basket in his other hand."

"Well," I said, "I suppose it's some friend of hers."

"Oh!" exclaimed the poor widow, "I trembled for fear that it might be some one who was going to marry her, and take her away from me.