1901 
Abitnelech Higgins’s Way. 
The Peace-on-earth-good-wlll-to-man 
Society of Peachem wavS holding Its regu¬ 
lar weekly session, and every woman 
there was busy patching old garments 
and cutting out and sewing up new ones, 
or was otherwise industriously engaged 
in one branch of that charity which we 
have Scriptural authority for believing 
is greater than faith and hope. 
“These pantaloons,” remarked the 
wife of the postmaster, bringing a pair 
of emaciated trousers from a basket and 
holding them up for the inspection of 
the society, “is a perfect shame. ’Tisn’t 
that I object to that kind of charity, or 
any kind for that matter, but I do hate 
to see a woman let her husband wear 
clothes till they ain’t fit for a self-re- 
speoting scarecrow to appear in public 
in.” 
“Even a cupful of cold water in char¬ 
ity, Sister Carroll,” ventured the wife 
of the tailor, a gentle little woman who 
never harbored an unkind thought 
against a living creature. 
“Of all women, you ought to be the 
last to advocate men’s wearing their 
clothes too long,” tartly responded Mrs. 
Carroll. 
“Sh—sh,” came from the wife of the 
druggist, who held up a reproving fin¬ 
ger. “Charity begins at home, and we 
shouldn’t quarrel among ourselves.” 
“Faith, hope, charity, these three; 
but the greatest of these is charity,” 
said the wife of the pastor. 
Mrs. Carroll smiled, letting the smile 
include the wife of the tailor. 
“Whose pantaloons was these?” in¬ 
quired Mrs. Sneckles, the wife of the 
grocer, reaching for the garments, quite 
regardless of the ethics and relevance 
of Mrs. Carroll’s story. 
“Mrs. Higgins sent them in,” ex¬ 
plained the secretary of the society. 
“Oh,” smileu Mrs. Sneckles, giving the 
trousers a vicious jerk, “they’re Abime- 
lech Higgins’ old pants, air they? Well, 
I’ll bet a cooky if Marthy Higgins got 
them out of the house without a fuss 
it was when Abimelech was unconscious 
or away from home. He’s closer than 
the skin on the back of your hand, and 
I don’t believe he’d give up a single 
stitch of his old rags for an angel to 
wear, saying an angel would wear such.” 
“Charity, charity!” chorused a num¬ 
ber of the ladies. 
“Charity be flusticated,” replied Mrs. 
Sneckles, recklessly. “Charity may be 
greater than faith and hope, but justice 
is greater than the three of them, and 
I’m going to speak my mind about Abi¬ 
melech Higgins though the whole firma¬ 
ment of the heavens caves in. He’s got 
more money than any two people in the 
community has got and does less good 
with it than all the rest of us put to¬ 
gether.” A statement somewhat vague, 
but Mrs. Sneckles was careless of the 
quality of her ammunition so long as 
she succeeded in bringing down her 
game. “And he’s getting worse every 
day of his life,” she went on. “I’ve 
knowed him ever since he wasn’t more 
than knee-high to a hop-toad, and he 
didn't use to be a bit like he is now. I 
mind mighty well when he married 
Marthy Biggs, one of the sweetest girls 
that ever lived, he give her a set of ear¬ 
rings and breastpin that cost ?15, whole¬ 
sale, and for a long time he treated her 
as if she was a real human being. He 
used to have a way of keeping her in 
pocket money by letting her have the 
extry dollars he would git selling any¬ 
thing. For instance, if somebody of¬ 
fered him $30 for a cow, Abimelech 
would dicked and dicker—he was the 
everlastin’est dickerer, anyway—till 
mebbe he would squeeze out $31 or 
$31.50 or mebbe $32, and when he come 
home he would put the 30 away and give 
Marthy the balance, ’jest to make it 
even,’ as he always said. Of course 
Marthy never got more than $4 and 90 
odd cents, according to what Abimelech 
got, but she got it a good many times 
in the course of a year and so made out 
riTK RURAI. NEW-YORKER. 
651 
to git along without having to ask him 
for money, which no woman that has 
any respect for herself likes to do, and 
no man with any respect for her ought 
to let her do. As he got older he be¬ 
gan to git closer and meaner with 
Marthy, though he called it ‘necessary 
economy,’ and the extrys come along so 
few and far between that Marthy began 
to look shabby, and bimeby stopped 
coming to the meetings of this society, 
as you all know, and I’m telling you 
now what the reason was, if you hadn’t 
guessed it before.” 
The members of the society, by this 
time, had quit sewing to listen to the 
narrative of Mrs. Sneckles, and though 
she paused at this point no one ven¬ 
tured to say “Charity” to her—^;he 
watchword of the society, and the warn¬ 
ing cry to the thoughtless of speech. 
“But the meanest thing he ever done,” 
resumed Mrs. Sneckles, “was when he 
sold that farm down on Sand Creek. You 
know it was a fine farm and he got 
$10,000 for it, with some extry for a 
passel of odds and ends he insisted on 
having pay for, so’s all that was coming 
to him, with the two cents for the stamp 
on the check that the man who drawed 
it didn’t have at the time and Abime¬ 
lech let him have, was $10,24a.98. He 
told Marthy what he got for it—his tell¬ 
ing her most everything is his only re¬ 
deemin’ trait—and being that she need¬ 
ed a new dress and other clothes and 
shoes and stockings and a bonnet, and 
the children all needed clothes, and she 
hadn’t had any extry money for she 
didn’t know when, she thought Abime¬ 
lech would let her have something out 
of it, jest to make it even, if for no 
other reason. Ten thousand uollars was 
enough for him, anyway, for there was 
a whole lot in morgidges besides, and so 
Marthy dreamed of the new things she 
was going to get till her cheeks acchuly 
began to redden and her eyes to shine 
like they used to. She was hoping she 
would git the whole $249.98, out if she 
didn’t she knew of so many nice little 
things she needed that she could get for 
the $49.98; but if she didn’t get that she 
could get the children something for 
the $9.98, and even if she didn’ t get that 
98 cents would buy enough calico to 
make the two little girls new dresses to 
wear to school. I really don’t know 
what some women is made of. I know I 
ain’t made of it, for before I’d ’a’ done 
like Marthy Higgins I’d chased Abime¬ 
lech off the place with a broomstick. 
“Well, Abimelech come home that day 
at noon with the money to let Marthy 
see it before he put it in the oank, and 
she was looking mighty cheerful, and 
had a nice dinner for him that she raised 
in her own garden and cookeu herself, 
for he couldn’t afford to have a hired 
girl, so he said. He come back in the 
dinin’-room where she was and spread 
it all on the table before her, and count¬ 
ed it out in five hundred-dollar bills, and 
hundreds and fifties, and tens and fives, 
and twos and ones, and on down to the 
nickels and coppers till the very last 
cent was m the pile 
“ ‘There’s $10,249.98, Marthy,’ he says, 
drawing out the figures between his 
teeth like he was eating molasses candy. 
“ ‘Oh, Bim,’ says Marthy—^she always 
called him Bim—‘ain't it perfectly love¬ 
ly?’ And she reached out for it as if 
she wanted to hug it to her bosom, but 
Abimelech, he put his hand out and 
stopped her. 
“ ‘There’s only one thing lackin’,’ says 
he, looking at her like a sheep-killin’ 
dog. 
“What’s that, Bim?’ she asked, kind 
of trembly, because she was afraid he 
was worrying about what he was going 
to give her. 
“ ‘Two cents, jest to make it even, 
Marthy,’ he said. ‘Ain’t you got that 
much somewheres around that you can 
give me?”—W. J. Lampton, in Saturday 
Evening Post. 
MOTHERS.—Be sure to UBe"MrB.WlnB- 
l«W’s Soothing Syrup” for your children 
while Teething. It Is the Beet. — A49. 
Apple Butter. 
“The madame’! wants a recipe for apple 
butter. Can you supply one? N. a. v. 
New .Ter.sey. 
This should be made with new cider, 
fresh from the press, and not fermented. 
Fill a porcelain-lined kettle with cider, 
and boil until reduced one-half. Con¬ 
tinue this until you have enough for 
quantity of apples, boiling the cider the 
day before making the apple butter. To 
every four gallons of boiled cider, allow 
a half-bushel of nice juicy apples, pared, 
cored and quartered. Fill a large kettle 
with the boiled cider, add as many 
apples as can be kept moist, and cook, 
stirring frequently. When the apples 
are soft, beat with a wooden stick until 
they are reduced to pulp. Continue to 
cook, stirring continuously, until the 
consistency of soft marmalade, and dark 
brown in color. If it becomes too thick, 
add more boiled cider; if too thin, put 
in more apples. Add ground cinnamon 
and nutmeg to taste, 20 minutes before 
taking from the fire; no sugar is used. 
Put into stone jars, and when cold cover 
closely, and store away like any other 
preserve. 
Comments on “A BusyLiife.” 
Reading in your issue of August 24 
about one woman’s “Busy Life” has 
made some of us farmers’ wives, who 
thought we worked hard, feel that we 
are like the lilies of the field, which toil 
not, neither do they spin. It really takes 
away one’s breath to read of the hun¬ 
dreds of bushels of corn she husked, the 
hundreds of cords of wood she piled up, 
of her spinning and weaving, table linen, 
carpets, “men’s wear” and women’s 
dresses, sheets, etc. She tells of getting 
up at four or half past, Summer and 
Winter, building her own fires, milking 
from four to eight cows, making garden, 
pulling flax, digging potatoes and cut- 
WrapixT, .5300 Infiint s Sjxc(iuo, 
One Si/c. 
ting corn. Where in the meantime was 
the man she married? We are sadly 
wondering if she was not too efficient, 
and if in addition to her own wearing 
duties as wife and mother she did not 
invade the man’s realm and shoulder 
most of his responsibilities. Is hers an 
example you would have us all follow? 
We believe it is right for wives to do 
their share in bearing burdens, but do 
not see the necessity for their having a 
monopoly in that line. 
I once knew a clergyman and his wife 
who taught me a lesson. Like the 
Martha, whose letter was quoted, this 
wife was up early, would attend to all 
fires, shovel the walks in Winter and 
usually have her washing done before 
her husband would rise, at half past 
eight perhaps, and eat the good break¬ 
fast always ready for him. Then he 
would take a long brisk walk for his 
exercise, after which he would seat him¬ 
self in his study to read or write at his 
leisure. He was a good man, and might 
have been a good husband if she had 
not spoiled him by waiting on him as if 
he had been a lord, and she simply a 
servant to drudge for him. She was a 
“Hannah Jane,” and “rubbed herself 
quite out.” Did he appreciate her sacri¬ 
fice and honor her for it? Nay, nay; he 
was so used to it that he took it as a 
matter of course. When he went into 
cultured society he never thought of her 
going with him. To tell the truth, he 
would have been ashamed of her if she 
had, for sue had grown careless of her 
personal appearance, was angular, ill- 
dressed and homely. Though good as 
gold at heart, she was destitute of the 
outward charm of gracious womanhood 
which clings about the loved and hon¬ 
ored wife. Is it not a sad truth that it is 
not those who do the most for one who 
are best loved, but those for whom one 
does the most? This woman who writes 
so—dare I say boastingly?—of the work 
she has done in her 58 years, says work 
does not kill, but she also says that three 
of her eight children died when “small.” 
Can she be sure that work did not kill 
them? When we read her account of 
her life we can only wonder that any of 
them lived. The strongest machine 
made of iron is limited in its power. We 
had thought the delicate machinery of 
the human body was much more so, but 
it would seem there was no limit to 
work in the strenuous life of the woman 
who says to her weaker sisters that 
work does not kill. Well, perhaps it 
does not, but are we wrong in thinking 
that a wife and mother, bearing and 
rearing children, must be exceptionally 
strong to do her whole duty by them, 
and at the same time do so much of the 
hard, rough work that by right belongs 
to the stronger partner? 
A farmer’s wife. 
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