A PROFITABLE INVESTMENT

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1514, 7 March 1901, Page 22

A PROFITABLE INVESTMENT

You have seen suck men as Farmer -Smith, working early and late, first to pay off the mortgage on the farm, afterwards to buy the meadowland adjoining his ; each. acquisition or farm ’meadowland being only a fresh morsel to feed his appetite for property.

It matters little to him that this one -appetite was fed only to starve those for church and society. He never went to church or made visits, never read books or went to concerts. Such things cost money, and according to lus idea of profit and loss, did not pay.

Mrs Smith? Yes, oh, yes, he had a wife. .Who else would work so many hours a. day for so little pay as a wife? With this iact in view, Mr Smith in his younger days had hastened to take unto himself the stoutest and spryest girl in the country, and he would telL you very emphatically that marriage was not a failure.

Mrs Smith, following her ideas of wifely duty, had smothered whatever of motherly and womanly instinct she may have had, and followed faithfully in her husband’s lead, making his dearest wish hers.

Possibly Mrs Smith, too, may be no stranger to you. They had come to middle life now without children, and, as might be expected, no very near friends. As he sat waiting for the calves' mxlk to be skimmed, his sharp face, in its frame of grizzly hair and beard, relaxed into an expression of shrewd satisfaction, and as he rubbed his thorny hands togetkerj he proceeded to give his wife what he supposed to be a bit of information.

“I saw Widow Brooks to-day, an’ I told her I should have to foreclose, and I wanted her to fiuct another place before spring. That piece of meadow at the back of her house cuts a fine crop of hay, and I’ll need it by another winter.”

Instead of the look of sympathy, the wife’s face only took on a worried expression, and the lank figure in the faded calico seemed to have a more discouraged droop than before, as she said :

“Oh, dear! Why couldn’t you let her bo in peaco ? What’ll become of her and lame Jimmy, now? 5 ' “Go to the Poorhou.se, likely,” said Mr Smith, who did not exactly relish this style of sympathy. “Anyhow. I can't aft or d to let it run another year, and lose all that fine crop of hay.”

But the clouded face only took on a deeper shade, and the yellow cream was thrown into the earthern jar with unnecesary energy, as she replied “Goodness knows! we’ve got land enough to* keep you an’ me and all our stock as long as we live, an' it seems to me ’twould he a- good plan to invest in a few friends in our old age. I think it would be kind ,of pleasant to have someone feeling friendly and grateful to us for a change.”

“Why, ’Lizabeth, what’s com© over you?” ejaculated her astonished husband. , nothin*; only I hadn t h&<i muon to do this afternoon, an’ Tv© been thinkin’, and haven’t found any very comfortin’ thoughts. Here you and I be growin’ older every day of our lives. Ho you know that, Timothy Smith ?_ In her excitement Mrs Smith straightened herself up and was pointing her remarks with flourishes of the skimmer. “Yes, I did. Knowed it ever since I was born.” . The creamy interrogation point was brought a little higher, and the wife went on—

“And did you never stop to think how many ,of our five hundred acres ’twill take to cover us when we get so wrinkled up and dried up that we can’t live any longer ? -an’ do you know of anybody on the face of the earth who would feel one bit sad or shed one tear to see us buried to-morrow ? I don’t, an’ I m .sick of livin’ so, that’s all.” Just then, any warning, the outside door opened, and a little girl walked in. Closing the door behind her, she went up to Mrs Smith, and, holding up a battered tin cup, said in &n eager tone — “Oh, ma’am, will you please to give me a little of that milk?” “And: who might you be?” asked Mrs Smith, rather startled at this sudden opportunity for putting in practice her new doctrine.

“Oh, I’m Doxy Walters, and I have the cunningest uttle baby brother that ever was, an’ I’m afraid he’ll go back to Heaven if he can’t have any milk to drink. Won’t you please fill this cup r It’s so little.” , Mrs Smith laid the skimmer down, this you’ve been telling me? JSfow, don’t tell me any wrong stories. What about the baby?’ “Oh, well, he’s my toother, and he came lafit night down there to the old barn by the brook, where mother and I are staying.” , “Look here, girl, what are you and your mother doing in that old bam? It was Mr Smith who spoke now. The barn in question belonged to him, and lie proposed to have no sojourners of this kill'd in it.

“Nothing, only we had to sleep there last night, because the train went off

and left us, and we didn’t have any other place to sleep. You see, it's this way. Fanner died last' autumn, and mother has cried nearly all the time since. We use to live in Walton, but mother didn’t have any more money, and &o she had to sell our chairs and tables and things, and take the money to buy tickets* to go away off ever so far to live with Uncle Jacob. Do you know him ?” “No. But how did you get into my barn?' 5 “Why, that’s easy enough. 'When we got to this town the ticket man said the train would stop for ten minutes, so mother and I got off to walk a little, ’cause I was tired sitting still. We walked down the road a little way, till we came to- the barn, and just then mother turned round, and the train was just going off. And my little kittie was there in the basket, and our trunk, and mother’s little bag with the money and tickets, and everything, was all on the train going to Uncle Jacob's as fast as they could, and mother and I was out there in the road. Mother was quite done up, and we opened the door and went into the barn and sat down on a box and just cried as bard as ever we could. I stopped first, because I saw a little mouse run across the floor, and I wanted; to. catch it, but I couldn’t. Mother said we would have to sleep there, because she hadn’t any money. It was nearly dark then, and we couldn’t see anything in the barn but the box and a little hay. Mother put some hay in the box, and I got in and huddled down and plftyed I was a* little mouse in a nest. Mother lay down on one floor, and I could hear her cry until I went to sleep. “This morning when X woke up and crawled out of the box tnere was that nice little baby, all done up in "mother’s shawl. Mother hasn't woke up yet. But I had better go back now, for if she should wake up she might want me.” The energy with which Mrs Smith turned to her husband showed that her mind at least held no- doubt as to her future course of action. "Timothy, you know it would be downright murder for u& to let these poor creatures stav in that barn all mgnt. It isn’t a great way, apd I think we can get them home with us ail right, if you will yoke Bobbin to the dogcart. I shouldn't wonder ir this was a good chance for an investment.” As Mr Smith took the lantern ana went out to get the horse and cart, his action showed a very unsettled state of mind. He was thinking, and very .serious; thoughts they were, too.

Altogether, he felt very much put out with the world, and, as he helped his wife to arrange a comfortable ued in the bottom of trie cart, her interest and sympathy for the sufferers only macie his 'dissatisfaction deeper.

Soon all things were in readiness, and, leaving Doxy in the comfortable kitchen to await their return, they drove down to the old barn, iney found, a-s_Boxy had said 1 ., the mother was asleep, but it was the sleep from winch she never would waken to know more of pain ana sorrow. The tiny babe, however, gave abundant evidence of life by wailing lustily.

Mrs Smith took him to her arms and heart at the same time, and from that moment she felt lie was hers.

Mr Smith was still thinking deeply 7 as they drove homeward with their sad burden. Two children to feed and ciothe seemed! no pleasant prospect; and yet from the way his wife held that baby to her bosom, he knew that this was her determination.

Hater on in the night, as he sat watching her coddling the little morsel on her knee, he ventured To say : “I think I bad better take the children over to the constable in the morning, hadn’t I . He received ail astonished look as* she replied : •I don’t really see what Sergeant Bates has got to do with our children. I think we can provide for them a spell longer. Aren’t you glad this little youngster is a boy, for now you can have a son to help you to carry on your farm r s '

This also rather staggered Mr Smith. The idea of this morsel of humanity, which he could easily have put into ins pocket, helping him to carry on hh farm was more than he comd comprehend. Still it was rather an attractive picture. He might live to grow up, and what a comfort it would be in his old age to t'c able to say :

"Timothv,” of course his son would be named Timothy, “you had better look after the men this afternoon, and I'll rest here in the* shade.”

A son would take so much more interest in things than hired men do, and they could plan together how things should be done. It wouldn’t cost so much, after all- There were so many things .on a farm that a hoy could do, that it would pay his way all along, and then the comfort of having a son all his own. There was the little girl, a sensible little thing, and no* doubt she could help ’Lisbeth a great deal.

lie was still thinking, but the wife who had lived with him so many years knew by his face that he looked with more favour ofif her plan, and she decided on a bold move. Getting quickly up, and before he had time to object, she laid the baby in his arms, saying—- “ There, hold him a minute, for I must go and see if the little girl is sleeping all right.” Then she went off, and the rough old farmer was left sitting with the tiny bundle in his arms. Somehow the little thing lying there in its helplessness went straight to his heart, and lifting the little puckered up face to his, Farmer Smith stopped thinking. 'Lisbeth coming back, was met by the anxious inquiry.

“Think little Timothy will live, don't ye?”

She was too wise to make any comments except to answer his question. “Live, I should say so! You just wait and see if I don’t pull him through.” And so, with the adoption of tins little stranger into his heart and home, seemed to come some of the spirit of the other little taue who came to earth so long ago. At breakfast time Mr Smith had a bit of news for his wife.

“Tell you what it is, ’Lisbeth,” said he then, “I haven’t felt so good inside of me, never. I learned a verse when I was a little boy. I can’t just get the words, but it was' something like this : ‘He that gives his money t«o poor folks gives it to God Almighty/ and I shouldn’t wonder if it was so. It came to me early this morning how I wanted to do something handsome for a startoff for our lit As timothy, so I just took myself over to w ictow Brookses, and gave her that old mortgage, and told her to burn it and keep her home. My little investment to put along side *f yours, and I feel as though I was getting mighty rich. How's tne little hoy tm-s morning ? “He’s sleeping as pretty as a picture. I wish she could see him and know how her children would be provided for, poor thing. 5 '

This last was spoken with tearful eyes and a nod of the head towards the best room, where lay a shrouded form waiting to be taken to its last resting place among strangers.

Ten years nave passed since . that stormy night, and Boxy and Timothy, a wise little maiden and sturdy boy now, are making the farmhouse bright with their young life. Mr Smith has said many times to his wife, “I tell you what, ’Lisbeth, that investment of ours has paid. It is making me more of a human being every day.” “Sheffield Telegraph.” :