144 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
MARCH i 
Client nj. 
A POOR STICK. 
BY H. WINSLOW. 
T HIS was what his friends and neigh¬ 
bors called him. Very likely their 
estimate was a true one—we shall see 
about that later. After all, who is to judge 
of the quality of such timber ? 
The first time I saw him was during a 
canvassing trip. I was trying to sell “ Gen¬ 
eral Grant’s Trip Around the World.” It 
was a wet, muddy, disagreeable season. 
Farmers were discouraged ; crops had been 
bad and prices low. I was wet, tired and 
desperate as I tramped along a heavy road 
towards a dismal-looking farm house. I 
had just come from a determined effort to 
convince an old lady that General Grant 
had rather more than the usual allowance 
of trials. 
“ Ef Gineral Grant didn’t hev no trials, 
’twon’t do me no good to read about him. 
I’ve got trials, I hev. Here I be, poor an’ 
sick an’ neglected. Ain’t nobody runnin’ 
after me, like they be after them rich folks 
down ter Blissfield. ’Tain’t right! ’Tain’t 
right I Other folks hez everything, whilst 
I h’ain’t got nothin’. Nothin to see, nothin’ 
ter know. After all I’ve done fer other 
folks, toiled an’ slaved an’ done fer ’em, 
an’ now they up an’ clear out an’ don’t 
leave me nothin’. ’Tain’t right! ’Tain’t 
right! Nothin’ain’t right. No books fer 
me but them that tells about trials, an’ the 
harder the trials is, the better I like ’em, be¬ 
cause I can match ’em all.” 
I did not sell my book there, and as I 
stumped on through the mud, I racked my 
brain for some circumstance in the record 
of Grant’s trip that might be considered a 
“trial.” I meant to make the most of it 
at the next house. 
As I turned in at the gate I noticed a little, 
old man feebly chopping wood at the back 
of the house. He stopped work to greet 
me as I came up. It was a brave, good 
face, pinched and wrinkled, but true, brave 
and hopeful. I forget just how our conver¬ 
sation began. Naturally I took for my 
theme the wrongs of farmers, the curse of 
“monopolies,” the fearful weather, the 
general hopelessness of the outlook. These 
were the topics that seemed to please the 
people; it was my business to please them. 
To my surprise, this meek little man, in all 
his surroundings a perfect embodiment of 
the unsuccessful farmer, looked at me in 
mild reproof. 
“ I don’t know,” he said, as he scratched 
his thin beard with his black-patched mit¬ 
ten ; “ I ain’t lost hope yit. ’Peara ter me 
it ain’t all dark ahead. Don’t ye know 
what the pome says ? 
• Patience an’ toll Is the mead o’ ter day, 
Toll without no recompense, patience In vain. 
Darkness an’ terror lies dark on the way, 
Our footsteps'keeps time ter the music o’ pain 
Wind o’ the winter night—far Into the sky, 
Watch for the day-star o' sweet by an’ by 
When hope’s agonter spring agin’ 
When joy’s a gonter sing agin’, 
Truth’s a gonter be verified by an’ by.’ ” 
As he recited this remarkable bit of 
poetry, the old man dropped his ax and 
waved his hand in front of him, while a 
look of perfect happiness and trust lighted 
up his face. Before he could continue, 
there came a sharp rapping on the kitchen 
window, and a shrill voice interrupted : 
“ Well, I don’t care nothin’ about no veri¬ 
fication o’ truth, I want that wood an’ ef 
you ain’t got nothin’ better ter do than 
stan’ there an’ talk ter lazy book peddlers, 
I can give ye a job.” 
The old man stopped his poetry, and 
picked up an armful of wood. 
“ Come in an’ set awhile,” he said. 
I hesitated, though I needed a rest. 
“ Yes, come in, come in, I ain’t gonter 
eat ye,” piped up the shrill voice again. 
“I’m jest a tryin’ fer ter put some life in¬ 
ter him—that’s all.” 
Thus encouraged, I picked up an armful 
of wood, and followed the old gentleman 
into the kitchen. The owner of the voice 
sat in a chair by the window. She did not 
rise to greet me—she could not. She had 
not walked a step for years. The lower 
part of her body was paralyzed. Her fingers 
worked unceasingly at her knitting-needles, 
while her keen eyes and razor-like tongue 
flashed and cut out an accompaniment. 
“ It makes me ser mad I cud jest walk,” 
she snapped, “ fer ter see that feller stan’ 
there an’ reel off that pome, whilst the 
stock is sufferin’ fer feed; they ain’t no 
wood, an’ everything lays into rack and 
ruin. He don’t do nothin’, he don’t say 
nothin’, he don’t work nothin’, but that 
air pome. What do the neighbors say to 
ye fer lettin’ things run so ?” 
The old gentleman rubbed his beard, and 
gave a little cough, as he answered:— 
• Cruel an’ cold Is the jedgment o’ man, 
Cruel ez winter an’ cold ez the snow. 
But, by an' by, will the deed an’ the plan 
Be jedged by the motive that lieth below.” 
“ Oh, shut up! Don’t ye say no more. I 
can’t stan’ no more of it!” The lady 
looked about her for some missile to throw 
at the elocutionist. 
When I went away, the old fellow fol¬ 
lowed me to the gate. Rubbing his beard 
with the same old gesture, he said, as he 
put his hand gently on my arm:— 
“Peddlin’ books ain’t no fun, 1 guess. I 
wist I cud buy one so’s’t ter help ye along. 
Sorter discouragin’ business I guess ; but 
ye don’t wanter give it up: don’t ye know 
what the pome sez ? 
1 Dreary an’ dark is the midnight o’war, 
Distant an’ dreamy the triumph o’riglit. 
Homes that Is desolate, hearts that is sore, 
Soon shall the mornin’ star gladden our sight. 
Wall o’the winter night, jest like a sigh, 
Herald the dawn o’thc sweet by an’ by. 
Freedom’s a gonter reign agin’, 
Peace is a gonter banish pain agin’. 
Right is gonter be glorilled by an’ by ’ ’ 
II. 
Two years later I taught school in that 
district. During the second week of the 
term, we were told that “ Slack Old Morse’ ’ 
was dead. On my way home from school, 
I stopped in to see if “ there was anything I 
could do.” It was the same place—slack, 
broken-down, ill-kept; the picture of shift¬ 
lessness and lack of enterprise. The sharp- 
tongued cripple still sat by the window, 
dashing her needles together with savage 
energy. Two solemn-looking farmers, with 
cold, hard faces, sat by the stove, while in 
the corner was seated the old lady who 
found the history of various trials so inter¬ 
esting. 
“ ’Pears ter me,” said one of the hard- 
faced farmers, after a period of silence, 
“ that this here death is a terrible good ex¬ 
ample fer the young men of this deestrict 
ter foller. Joab, yunder—the remains— 
didn’t amount ter nothin’. Best ye can 
say of him he was a poor stick. Didn’t 
have no faculty fer savin’, alius in debt, 
alius behind, no life, no ambition, no 
nothin’, no good. Now me an’ Abram 
here, we done somethin’. When we gut 
holt on a dollar we saved it. Warn’t no 
foolin’ ’bout us. We branched out an’ 
looked arter bizness. Now here we be fore¬ 
handed, whilst Joab, here, the remains, 
didn’t leave enough fer ter pay fer his 
coffin. A terrible good example, ’pears ter 
me, fer the young folks o’ this deestrict ter 
foller.” 
The other farmer nodded solemnly to in¬ 
dicate his approval of these sentiments. 
Then the lady in the corner seemed to 
realize that she had the floor. 
“An’ he didn’t have no trials nuther. 
Never had no idee uv the terrible serious 
side o’life. Alius smilin’ an’ talkin’ non¬ 
sense when he’d orter ben thinkin’ how on- 
sartin life is.” 
They all looked at the cripple as though 
they expected her to support these state¬ 
ments. For a moment she worked her 
needles in silence. Then, looking squarely 
at the farmer who had acted as spokesman, 
she began in her most rasping tone : 
“I’ve cal’ated fer ter tell you folks 
somethin’ fer a good while. You think 
you’re the salt of the earth, whilst Joab, 
yunder, warn’t nothin’ but a fool. Mebby 
yer right. You folks done well—that is, 
you think so—you ain’t gut an idee what 
God thinks about it. You wuz free to go 
out an’ work an’ think without no drag 
onto ye. Joab warn’t. He see how I wuz. 
I wam't nothin’ but his sister. I didn’t 
hev no special claim onto him. Nobody 
else couldn’t git along o’ me. Joab done it. 
He hed his gal picked out fer ter git 
married. She didn’t like me, so Joab, he 
give her up. Sorter lost his ambition then. 
I knowed it, but there warn’t nothin’ ter 
do. There warn’t no home for Joab, no 
ambition, no help, nothin’ ter spur him up. 
He done mor’n his duty, never shirked it a 
mite, didn’t never flinch when you folks, 
an’ me, too, rubbed the salt into his sores. 
I called him slack an’ foolish ’bout work, he 
couldn’t keep no means, but he never done 
nobody no ill turn, an’ he alius went out 
uv his way fer ter help folks. ’Pears ter 
me, ef I cud hev my choice, I’d ruther be 
in his place now than yourn. I’ll bet ye 
that pome’ll come closter true fer him then 
it ever will be fer you.” 
She doubtless said more. This was all I 
heard. 1 went in to look at “theremaius.” 
- There was the same gentle, tender face. It 
seemed as if I could hear him again, as he 
stood at the gate, trying to encourage me. 
itml 1 lante 
” Right is gonter he glorified, by and by.” 
Well, what about it? You may take 
your own meaning, your own moral. 
Could you have seen those two sets of laces 
—the cold, hard faces of the successful 
brothers, and the sweet, tender face of the 
“poor stick,” you would understand what 
this little record means to me. One passed 
through bitter trials and disappointments 
with a tender, happy, generous spirit. The 
other grew sour and malignant as life be¬ 
gan to turn. The little poem became a part 
of the old man’s life. Like a happy, bless¬ 
ed inspiration it taught him to look con¬ 
stantly upward, to seek for something bet¬ 
ter, to look ahead for lighter and happier 
days. Who will say the poem was not 
realized for him? 
The fact is, we make ourselves sweet or 
bitter, gentle or cynical, happy or unhappy 
by our own thoughts. It is what we think, 
what we brood over, that makes the cur¬ 
rent of our lives. This old man had the 
poem ever in his mind. It brought him 
happiness, comfort, courage. His sister 
thought only of her trials, as a conse¬ 
quence, they were magnified a thousand¬ 
fold. 
We make ourselves by our thoughts. 
Now is the time to be happy. Now is the 
time to think bright, happy thoughts, to 
keep in mind cheerful things, to refuse to 
brood over the things that trouble us; to 
do our full duty and then be happy over 
the thought that we have done so. 
A few years ago I came across the little 
poem that was such a favorite with “ Old 
Slack Morse.” Here it is: 
by-and-by. 
Under the snow are the roses of June, 
Cold lu our bosoms the hopes of our youth; 
Gone are the wild .birds that warbled In tune, 
Mute are the lips that have pledged us their truth. 
Wind of the winter night, lonely as I, 
Walt we the dawn of the bright by-and-by. 
Roses shall bloom again, 
Sweet love will come again; 
It will be summer time, by-and-by. 
Patience and toll are the meed of to-day— 
Toil without recompense, patience lu vain; 
Darkness and terror lie thick on our way. 
Our footsteps keep time with the apgel of pain. 
Wind of the winter night, far In the sky, 
Watch for the day-star of dear by-and-by. 
Parched lips shall quaff again, 
Sad souls shall laugh again: 
Earth will De happier, by-and-by. 
Cruel and cold Is the judgment of man, 
Cruel as winter, and cold us the snow: 
But by-and-by will the deed and the plan 
Be judged by the motive that lieth below. 
Wail of the winter wind echo our cry,; 
Pray for the dawn of the sweet by and-by. 
When hope shall spring again ; 
When joy shall sing again; 
Truth will be verified, by-and by. 
Weary and heartsick we totter along, 
Feeble the back, though the burden is large; 
Broken the purpose, and hushed is tho song: 
Why should we Unger on life’s little marge? 
Wind of the winter night, hush! anl reply: 
Is there, oh Is there a glad by and-by ? 
Will dark grow bright again, 
Burdens grow light again, 
And faith be justified, by and-by 
Dreary and dark Is the midnight of war, 
Distant and dreamy the triumph of right; 
Homes that are desolate, hearts that are sore. 
Soon shall the morning star gladden our sight. 
Wall of the winter wind, so like a sigh, 
Herald the dawn of the blest by-and-by 
Freedom shall reign again, 
Peace banish pain again; 
Right will be glorified, by and-by. 
ptewnattfouj)! gUmtissittfl. 
S £TH af\no ld - s 
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(uRt s (oua^o( qio^- 
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THE 
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TIMES. 
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RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
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