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Out of Work.
An English Workingman's Story
Were you ever out of work? No?
Then you’re lucky ; for I don’t care
what your trade is, you’ll find this—
that whether from accident, neglect
or foolishness, you get out of harness,
it is a horribly hard job t"get in again,
for the simple reason that for every
job that wants doing, there are two
fallows ready to do it.
I had a long spell of 1 afing—I called
it loafing booauso I couldn’t, get a job
—but at last I was in full swing at
some very good works, and after hav
ing my hands quite soft, and mv face
alean, I was regularly delighted to be
knockiug the iron about once more,
tiling an i turning, getting oily, and
then nit only having a good appetite,
but something to put in your mouth
io quiet it.
One day, when I was precious busy,
a man who had lately lieen taken on
at our shop, but whose lathe had
been more often idle than going, came
up to me witn a green baize bag in his
hand.
“Want to buy a fiddle, mate?" he
says.
“Bah! Wh.it should I do with a
fiddle?’’ I says.
“Play it and enjoy it,” be says, “it’s
a good one and will keep you home o’
nights when you might go out and
spend your money.”
“Then you keep it and enjoy It, Abe
Brown,” i says, “and spend more o’
your nights at home, and your lathe
won’t be so often stauding still.”
He looked at me rather curiously
and slowly pushed the fiddle back
Into its green bag, went to his lathe,
hung up the fiddle on a nail and began
Working, and I thought no more of
him till I’d had my wash for ditAier
and turned to my j ocket pocket to see
what was there.
Nice piece of salt pork an I a two*
*nny crusty, rolled up in a clean
c4h along with an old smelling hot-
6 of mustard and a pill tx * of salt.
As I tell you, I d had rather a long
spell of work; now I was in full
wing and felt ravenous. I'd just
in my dinner in the shop—all the
other men had, I thought, gone-
hen I looked up, and there was
town, sitting with his elbows on his
nees and his chin in his hands.
“HelloI not going to dinner?” I
ed. “Anything the matter ?”
ee,” he said angrily. “How’s a
to go to dinner without a penny
is pocket?”
“Didn’t I tell you that I had no
oney?”
“Not you.”
“Didn’t I tell yon to buy that fid
dle?”
'How was I
Here oome on.
to know?” I said.
Have a cut along
ith me. Hflp yourself, old man ;
there’s plenty.”
And after some hesitation, he cut
himself a morsel of pork and about a
'darter of the bread, and then ate a
t, but laid it all down.
"Can’t eat,” be says, in a dull, heavy
ay. “Must get some money and go
ok. Bhe’s very bad.”
“Who’s very bad ? I says, with my
mouth full.
“The missus,” he says, laying his
head againtt the wall. “I was out of
werk sir months, and it did for us
both, mate. Couldn’t get a j >b, and
when at last I got on hei$, it was too
late like, and the money seemed no
good. I’ve sat up with her every
night for a week, and I am about beat
kii.”
\“Wby didn’t you say so afore,” I
growled. “I thought you’d been on the
dnuk.”
“Drinkl” he oried. “No; but I ve
felt ready to fly to it, only I wouldn’t
for her sake. Hhe’s been bad now for
tlx months, and the few things I got
together have all gone again. I’d
some eut to try to raise a little on the
fiddle, for I’d kept it to the last.”
“Look here!” I oried. “What do
you mean by coming and spoiling
low’s dinner like this?”
I said It banterlngly, so as to hide
feeling a bit q leer, for I couldn’t
elp thinking of my own bad times
ut he turned his eyes upon me with
oh ft dreary, wistful look that
outed oat:
"Here, let’s look at tbs fiddle.”
He fetched It from win re it hung,
it out, drew the bow across the
gs, and it was wonderiul what a
ett, sad tone It had.
“It’s a good one,” he said, smiling
•i It as if he loved it. “I think it’s
Italian, bat they only offered me five
shillings on It at the shop.”
muoh did you want?”
said, “but if you would let me have
o>i« for It I should—T should ”
He ohoked like »nd turned away,
and I started after him, thinking be
was playacting to humbug me ; but it
seemed all real enough,and sotnehowe
from a sort of fellowfeeling for a chap
in despair, like I might be myself, if
I’d had five pounds he might have
borrowed it all.
As It was, I pulled out my old leath
er parse, whers I’d got a sovereign, a
half and eleven shillings in silver.
80 I put back one of the shil
lings, and clapped him oa the shoul
der.
“Here you are, Brown,” I says,
making believe to be laughing like.
“I don’t want, no fiddles, but there’s
a couple of pounds hard earnings from
one who knows what It is to be out of
work. Catch hold, and I phall keep
the fiddle till times are better.”
He turned upon me quite fiercely,
clutohed at the money and made for
the door, but the next moment be was
bas k again to get hold of my hand.
“God bless you, mate!” he said, and
he gave ma such a look with those
wild eyes of his as made me shiver.
“Poor old chap,” I says, beginning
to whistle as I put the fiddle in the
bap, and then, trying to forget all
ahont it. I went on with mv dinner.
The first mouthful or two wouldu’t
go down,but the third would, and feel
ing a bit Light-hearted at having done
a feilow a good turn, I finished that
cold pofk and bread to the last bit,and
shook the crumbs out of the window
to the sparrows that were waiting.
I began to wonder what my wife
would say, for I d promised to go with
her the next day to buy a bit of drug
get for our floor, for she said that now
work seemed to be regular we might
treat ourselves to a bit of carpet for
our feet.
"Strikes me I’ve put my foot in it,”
I says to myself, and (hen I began to
wonder what she’d say.
When it was knocking off time I
tucked the green baize bag under my
arm and walked OS’ home as defiant us
o< uid be, and stamped in Id the room
where the missus was outting bread
aud butter, just like a man who would
not be sat down on by his wife; but I
began to feel awkward directly.
“Why, for goodness, gracious, Bill,”
she cried, “what have you got there?”
“Where?” I says.
. “Why, there—under your arm.”
‘ Oh !” I said “that fiddle.”
“That what?”
“That ft idle.”
“Aud what are you going to do with
a fiddle?”
“Learn to play it,” I said, as I hung
it up on a nail in the wail.
“Why, you rnuBt be mad, Bill/’
says she, “You’ve no more ear for mu
sic than an old cow. Did you buy it?”
"Well, not exactly,” I said, “be
cause he may hrmg the money back
“Haw much did you give for It?”
“Two pounds.”
“Two wnat.”
“Pouods, my lass, pounds.”
Tea was ready, and »s neat and nice
everything was as could bo, though
there was do drugget on the fl tor; and
then, as she poured out for me, I told
her all about it.
"Aud if you’ve been such a precious
baby as to be taken in by the first piti
ful tale that you hear, I’ll never for
give you,” Bhe said.
But suppose bis tale was all true,
Patty ?”
“Why, th#h, Bill,” she says, very
slowly, “all I have to say Is, that if
eytr you are as hard pushed, I hope
you may meet with as good a friend.”
It was about a month later that
went home, and I says :
“It’s all true enough, Patty.”
“What’s all true, Bill ?” she says,
for we had never mentioned the fiddle
since that night.
“ About the fiddle,” I says. “ The
hard times when we were out of work
were too much for poor Abel Brown’s
wile. She’s dead.”
“ Dead I” she said, softly, aud I saw
the tears oome lulo her bright gray
eyes.
A ter a time I used to get in the
habit of taking that fiddle down and
making noise with it, and often and
often, as I’ve soraped away, making
the most horrid noises, Patty would
sit theie stitching away, and quite
satisfied; for as Abel Brown said, It
used to keep me at home.
I never got to be a good player, but
at last I could scrape out any popular
tune from the notes, and many’s the
pleasant evening I’ve had, playing
polkas and waltzes and quadrilles,
and ail the new songs; but, somehow,
I never hung that old fiddle up on Its
1 without seeing Abel Brown’s sad
again, and our shop was closed, and
pound by pound ail our savings went,,-
try how I would to get work else
where, that fiddle was about the only
consolation I had.
Month after month went by, and
my hands were growing as white and
soft as poor Patty's face ; but she never
complained, only spent her time
working with her needle, and trying
to persuade me tint she had no appe
tite, or that she had something while I
was out, so as to save a few pence.
One day, feeling half mad, and
ready to do anything, after hanging
about the shut-up gates of our work
shop, and v idling I could have turned
my hand to some o’her trade, I went
back home rtoly to tell Putty that we
had better emigrate.
There was Patty at her needle, in
our room, trying hard to keep our
bodies and souls together with shop-
work, and there hung the old fiddle
in its happy green bag from the pic
ture nail, but there was no picture
there— now that, and all our best
things, had gone loDg enough before.
1 took the old fid le down, as my
habit was, tightening the bow ha r,
and was beginning to play some very
old a r, “ Grammaohree,” I think h
was, when it seemed to strike me that
ths fiddle hud brought wh»t was like
ourse to my little home, and that I
was to suff r as Abel Brown had suf
fered before, aud that I should see my
poor weary-faced wife die belcro my
eyes.
Then I felt a kind of reproach that
I could be so unmanly as to have kept
that instrument which might have
been sold and saved poor Patty’s
weary fingers from eome of her toil.
I thought about it all that night and
the next morning I took the fiddle
down, tuned it and ran the bow ove/
the strings and shivered, for ttu
sounds catne and diet! away as I had
heard them oome and die away when
Abel Brown had touched the instru
ment at our workshop.
Feeling half savaga I thrust it back
into the bag and strode out of the
house, not even turning my head
when Patty called aft« r me to know
where l was going, f< r she would have
stopped me from selling it, I know.
“Ho said it was a good one and
wortn the money,” I muttered. “I
must have my two pounds back
now.”
I hardly know how it was. I suppose
my legs t>ok me naturally toward our
works, as if I was to find the friend
there—when I could hardly believe my
eyes, for there were about a dozen of
our b flows—haggard, gaunt-looking
chaps—talking excitedly as they went
in, fpr the gates were open, and as I
half staggered up I saw the two gov.
i ruors were theie too.
"Ah, Johnson,” said one of them—
“glad to see you, my man. We’ve got
a large contract and you may begin
work to-morrow morning,”
The gates seemed to swim, and all
was blank, and when I came to I was
in the counting room and some one
was holding a gia«s of water to my
lips.
“Indeed, my lad,” said one of my
employers, kindly, when he had
questioned me a bit. “I’m sorry it
has been so bad as that. But oome,
the trouble’s over now, and perhaj^
you would like a sovereigu on ac
count.”
I went back home like a man in a
dream, walked straight to the nail and
hung the old fiddle up in its place
before going to Patty’s side and put
ting the sovereign in her hand, Bay
ing, aB I did so, the governor’s words,
"The trouble’s over now.”
Anecdote of Webster.
An incident in the eerly life of the
great Daniel Webster will better Ulus
trate one *f those r ire, but well-defin
ed characters to which is here refer
red. Webster’s father was a farmer,
and he wanted Daniel to beoome a
farmer too. But Daniel did not take
to the idea very kindly. One day the
old gentleman took Daniel with birn
to the hay field and gave him a scythe,
and he says, “Daniel. 1 am going to
start off here, and I want you to start
right along behind me aud mow.”
Daniel said nothing, bnt teok the
scythe, for he always fried to mind
his father. The old gent went along
right ahead, never looking back, hut
Dan took one or two ntiokes and stop
ped. He looked at his soythe and be
gan tinkering it. Meanwhile the old
gent went right through with his
swarth, and when he got to the end of
the field he turned around, and lot
there wa^ D.iu away in the other part
of the field. He shouldered his scythe
and marched back to where Daniel
was, and says he : “Daniel, what is
the matter with you ?” “Well,”
Dan says, “this scythe don’t hang to
suit me.” The old man took the
soythe and hung It as Dan directed.
Beveral throughs were made In oacces-
slon, and each lime tin old man tam
ed round at theend he would discover
Dauiel in the same position at the
other end fixing his scythe. Finally
the old man, after trying in vain lor ao
many times to hang it to suit Dan’s
notion came back, and in an angry
tone, said: "Daniel, you are lazy.
You will never make a farmtr. Now,
take that scythe and just hang it to
suit yourself.” Dad took up the scythe
aud marched quietly by the fence and
hung it up in a sapling. He looked
up in the tree and said: “Well, old
fellow, now you hang to suit me.”
There are many Websters In the land
who could never make successful
farmers. Bnt fur every Webster whom
we find at the plow we might discover
asaoreof natural-born farmers who
are trying to praetloe law or medicine
or teach sohool.
Arabi Pacha’s Home Lif.e
The Fast Judge and the Slow
Juror.
, M
When I was a young man I spent
several years in the South, residing
for awhile at Port Gibson, on the Mis- I
sisslppi river. A great deal of litiga
tion was going on there about that
time, and it was not always an easy
matter to obtain a Jury. One day, I
was summoned to aot in that capacity
and repaired to Cour. to get excused.
On my name being oalled I informed
his Honor the Judge that I was not a
freeholder, and therefore not qualified
to serve. “ I am stopping for the
time being at this place.” “ You
board at the hotel, I presume?’’ "I
take my meals there, but have rooms
in aimher part of the town, where I
lodgeft’ " So you keep bachelor’s
• Yes, sir.” “H >w long have
ed in that manner?” " About
nths.” " I think you are qual-
gravely remarked t;he Judge,
I have never known a man to
I had airea 1y senn and spoken with
Arahi, writes Lady Gregory, but it
was not until the end of February that
I went, with Lady Anne Blnnt, to see
hiB wife. They bad moved some little
time before to a new house, large and
dilapidated-looking, and which Arab!
was represented as having fitted up in
a luxurious style ; in fact, at that time
the crime mo.-t frequently alleged
against him was that he had bought
oar pets to the amount of £120 pounds.
There were some pieces of new and not
beautiful European carpets in the
ohief reoms, but if Arab! paid £120 for
them he made a very bad bargain. I
have benri very lately from one who
has taken the trouble to investigate
the truth rf the Btories of his avarioe*,
that he has the same small amount of
money to his credit now that he had
before he was either Pacha or Minis
ter, and that the foundation of the
story of his having become a large
landed proprietor is his having become
trustee for the old Id of an old friend
who had been kind to him.
The sole furniture of the reception
room of Arabi’s wife consisted of small
hard divans, covered with brown
linen, and a tiny table, with a crochet
antimacassar thrown over it. On the
whitewashed walls the only orna
meats were photographs of him in
black wooden frames and one larger
photograph of the Saored Stone at
Meooa. In the room where Arabi
himself sat and received were a Bind
lar hard divan, two or three chairs, a
table%ud an Inkstand oovered with
stains.
| His wife was ready to reoeive us
having heard an hour or two earlier
of oar intended visit. She greeted us
warmly, speaking in Arabic, which
Lady Anne interpreted to me. She has
a pleasau ^intelligent ex pres ion ; but
having five children living out of four
teen that have been born to her, look
ed ratht r overoome w.tU the cares of
maternity, her beauty dimmed since
the time when the tail, grave soldle
Bhe had seen passing under her vjQ
dow every day looked up at last, aud
saw and loved her. She wore a long
dress of green Bilk. “My husband
hates this loDg train,”she told us
afterward; "he would like to take
knife and out it off, but I must havea
fashionable dress to wear when I visit
the Khedive’s wife and other ladies,
k there kf^^Snglish h
again to sea hh wi'e. 8u
a little sad ler, a little rn ir^
than when I had !a r <t seen iv
was on hospitable cure* Intent,
soon went out of itoe room t>
the prepara'Ion of dinner, r iii
Italian lady with me ai ii >r >; jtsr,
who spoke French ail A m, >L; nr/
well. They had exoeoted *ue bills
time, And made mire prepirj,,l>u;
and when the mial waa rnlv ail [
saw dish after dish oimlnj in, I vr «
in despair until I fund tut wi >f
the children, my little h -i chb-cyat
friend H«ssan, wnq iite ready to oik
by me and be fa 1 fro n u y p s, j, 111
so I disposed of my share to hi ut
satisfaction. “I lik« thD b itto • m
having to wait, down til
dinner is over,” he said; * then t'uy
forget me, and eat up all the *»>l
things.”
By the time dessert arrive 1 he said
he liked me bat hated oilier ladies,
and would like to come and see me In
England, hut did not ku vw how he
oould manage it, as bis papa wanted
the carriage every day. I advised
him to learn Euglisb, and his mother
said she would like to send him to oa©
the Christian sohools in Cairo,
Bat how can I send him where he
would hear his father epokeu 111 of?**
Bhe seemed troubled, poor woman, be
cause the Khedive’s wife, who used to
be good and kind to her, now says:
H ow can we be friends w nen your
husband is such a bad man ?”
The old mother sat in t’ie ooraer
attending to the ohildren and count
ing over her beads. I said : “ Ar; yon
not pioud now your son is a Paohaf"
No,” she said; “we were happier
in the old days when we had him
with us always and feared nothing.
Now he gets up at daybreak, and ha*
only time to say his prayers before
there are people waiting for him with,
petitions, and he has to attend to them
and then go t > his business, and often
he is not back here anti! after mid
night, and until he comes I cannot
sleep, I cannot rest, i can do nothing
but pray for him all the time* There
are many who wish him evil, and
they will (ry to destroy him. A few
days ago he came home suffering great
pain, and I was sure he had beea poi
soned ; but I got him a hot bath and
remedies aud he grew better, and th
keep even the water that he drin‘
looked up. But, say all loan, I o
not frighten him or make him take
care of himself. Ha always aayat
“ God will preserve me.”
Provisioning a Steamboat*
Three thousand five hundred poun
of butter, 8000 hams, 16)0 pounds
cult—not those supplied to the or
1080 pounds of "dessert stoies,”
catels, almonds, figs, etc., exclmlv
fresh fruits, which are taken i
every port; 1600 poun 1s of jams
lellies, 6000 pounds of tiuued meats,
1000 pounds of dried beans, 83Mi
pouuds of rioe, 6900 pounds of onions,
40 tons of potatoes, 60,000 pounds of
flour, and 20,000 eggs. Fresh vegeta
bles, dead meat, and live bullocks,
sheep, pigs, geeee, turkeys, guinea
birds, ducks, fowls, fish, and oasual
game, are generally supplied at ea
port of call, or replenished at the f
ther end of the journey, so that it is
difficult to obtain complete estimates
of them. Perhaps two dozen bullocks
and 60 sheep would be a fair average
for the whole voyage, and the rest may
be inferred in proportion. The
writer has known 25 fowls sacrificed
in a siugle day to makeohicken broth.
Four thousand sheets, 2,000 blankets,
8000 towels, 2000 pounds of various
soaps, 2000 pounds of oandles—exoept
in those vessels which are fitted with
the electric light; 1000 knives, 2300
plates, 800 cups and sauoers, 8008
glasses—fanoy what a handsome In
come the amount represented by an
nual loss from breakage would be I
—800 table-cloths, 2000 glass-olotbs
—all these are figures exhibited by the
proveditorof one ship alone. Think
what they would amount to when
multiplied by the number of ships In
each company’s fleet, and then try
realize the fact that this departme
constitutes only one, and by no me
the greatest of their incidental
peases.
D© Not Wear*Dycd Stock!
Dyed stookings are danger >u-»
oles to wear. At an inquest liel
London, by Sir John Humphrey,
epeoting the death of a child of eighty)
It wagfhown that some time ago.
youngster had taken tha skin o
eel through
ov<*