ree 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
11 
another tree of the same kind, planted 
a few years later by Dr. Priest. 
Both of these trees were nurtured 
and cared for by the doctor as a child. 
* * * * 
I heard a rather amusing incident 
about the tree near the police station. 
It seems Dr. Priest hired somebody 
to water the tree every day. All went 
well for a few weeks, when it was 
noticed the leaves began to wilt and 
the youthful twigs began to bend. 
The doctor became worried, and upon 
investigation he found his trusted 
caretaker had gone to the town wharf 
each day and fetched a bucket of salt 
water to nourish the tree. After 
much careful nourishing and change 
of diet, the tree was brought back to 
its former life, and it now stands as 
robust and healthy as its mate near 
the church. 
What noble monuments to that 
grand, good soul! 
Marks of the Harness. 
Written for the BREEZE. 
The Deacon drove up in his rickety chaise, 
With his old gray mare that had known 
better days, 
Her breast was calloused, and her back was 
sore, 
As he stopped to chat at my stable door. 
That’s a hard looking nag for you to drive, 
And she’s not a day if not twenty-five ; 
Why not swap her off and get a good horse, 
You surely won’t land with a steed that is 
worse. 
The Deacon glared a full moment at me, 
Then crossed his gaunt leg over his knee ; 
“ Young man,” said he in stentorian tone, 
“ They are marks of labor, she was never a 
drone. 
“ The mare looks bad I’ll have to allow, 
But that calloused breast came from drawing 
the plow, 
And that sore back is a saddle gall, 
They are marks of the harness, young man, 
that’s all. 
“ When you are nearing the boundaries of 
life, 
After earth’s toil, its discord and strife, 
Unless you are marked with a harness gall, 
' Like the singing cricket, you’ll surely fall.” 
The old Deacon paused and stroked his thin 
chin, 
And I felt his burning words soak in, 
And I thought of the lazy life I led 
While others worked hard for their daily 
bread. 
And I made this resolve right there and 
m then 
That I'd find my place with toiling men, 
That I might find, when my course was run, 
The toiler’s reward, “ Well done, ee done.” 
—G. E.W. 
High Class Printing 
W. L. MALOON & CO. 
5 Washington Street, Beverly 
DISCONTENT. 
BY KATE RESTIEAUX. 
Some one has said that this may 
well be called an age of discontent, 
that the general feeling of unrest is 
widespread and of daily, hourly growth. 
The same writer, in a truly optimistic 
spirit, goes on to say that this uneasi- 
ness may be accepted as a symptom 
of mental growth and enlargement. 
It is stated that an unprecedented 
enlightenment of all classes and sexes 
has so broadened the general outlook 
that people realize their privations, 
and consequently discern such _priv- 
ileges as are not already theirs, so 
that it is no longer possible to deceive 
them. 
This explanation has a_ plausible 
sound, and may in part be true. A 
condition of general satisfaction may 
predict a sluggishness of soul that 
augurs ill for any struggle that the 
person may be called upon to make. 
Yet, it seems to me that a fairly happy 
state is the one best calculated to 
promote real prosperity among any 
people. There is a grand oid sonnet 
of Wordsworth’s to Milton, where he 
appeals to the English nation in.these 
lines : 
“Altar, sword and pen, 
Fireside; the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness.” 
The whole vivid statement bears 
directly on this question of discontent. 
Have the American people by some 
means forfeited their dower of inward 
happiness? Is this a reason for the 
great prevalence of divorce and the 
contemporary evils of our time? It 
often seems to me as if people were 
simply running mad over travel, 
changeand outward show of all kinds; 
even the best of us are caught in the 
maelstrom and borne we know not 
whither. 
It were an idle task, I know, to 
resist a powerful trend of the times, 
and it is wise, as a rule, to make the 
best of what cannot be helped. For 
instance, if people will move about 
from house to house and from city to 
city, preferring anything to the good 
old English, and, erstwhile, American 
plan of having homes of their own, 
why then clearly the thing to do is to 
see that houses are built with ranges 
and other coveniences made into 
them. Possibly a van or wagon of 
some kind may be devised, in which 
the happy Arabs can be stowed away 
with children and household goods, 
and take their meals comfortably en 
transit. This, surely, is one way. 
But, on the other hand, may not a 
better and more contented feeling be 
instilled into the hearts of the rising 
generation regarding some things. 
One may well argue, looking from the 
provider’s point of view, that our peo” 
ple were never better. off than now, 
yet servants are difficult to procure, 
mothers are unwilling to rear their 
families, and the bulk of society seems 
absorbed in a mad rush to be some- 
body and be seen somewhere. Above 
all, people talk of aspiration, growth 
and spiritual advancement, and the 
talking is about all they accomplish. 
There seems to be a general notion 
that these things are to be overtaken 
in some hall of entertainment, on an 
ocean steamer or public thoroughfare, 
and we hardly pause to realize that 
the Christian religion, which is assur- 
edly our national profession, teaches, 
first of all, that “the Kingdom of 
Heaven is within you.’’ The truth is 
that we do not believe this; we are 
not practical Christians, only profess- 
ing ones. 
That ‘dower of inward happiness ”’ 
of which the poet speaks has escaped 
us in some way; and let me say, just 
here, that we can look to no oneas to 
the poets for the light we need today. 
From the poets and prophets of 
ancient days, down to the childlike 
immortality of Wordsworth and thence 
to Mrs. Browning and our own dear 
Lucy Larcom, we get the same un- 
failing appeal for simplicity, purity 
and contentment. They beg that we 
approach nearer to nature’s ways and 
do not insist on so much of change 
and strife, by means of which great 
syndicates, trusts and all manner of 
tyrants are brought into being. 
I, for one, care more for the fact 
that one poor Boer mother lost her 
life in defence ot home and children 
than if the whole British-African pos- 
sessions were destroyed in a night. 
Why? Because in God’s justice and 
man’s eternal hope, it is the triumph 
of principle that must prevail, and the 
successful carrying through of a strug- 
gle that does not make for the purifi- 
cation of either oppressor or oppressed 
must be recorded on the Eternal cal- 
endar as a great retrograde movement 
of humanity. Of course these move- 
ments will come ; they have their pur- 
pose, no doubt, but we do well to 
recognize and deplore them. 
England and America are not far 
apart in their Christian or moral 
progress, and much the same prob- 
lems confront both the English speak- 
ing nations. It was the poet Tenny- 
son who said, “And Britain’s God no 
longer shall be the millionaire.” That 
was half a century; what would he 
say now, andin America? ‘The trend 
of the times,” weanswer. ‘All these 
things must be worked out by the 
great process so generally recognized 
and named as ‘ evolution.” It may 
“be so, but I would make, as a tiny 
ripple in the oceanic current of prog- 
