THE DON’T WORRY CLUB.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1717, 25 January 1905, Page 14

THE DON’T WORRY CLUB.

(By T. W. King.) “The vast majority of men are good at heart-/ 1 I insisted to a cynical friend one night, for he- was maintaining the contrary. „ , . “Then why do so many fail to make good in their daily lives?” he inquired. “It, is usually a case of misdirected energy,” I insisted. “Take an active business man who is a model husband and father, for example; let him be laid up at home with a sprained ankle for a month or two and he will torment his family to death. Many a man, apparently thoroughly selfish, may become a real philanthrophist/ 1 and then I told them the story of Perrin. Perrin was reasonably well-to-do; but for years bis principal occupation had been to . “worry.” He had some domestic difficulty—long since happily ended —that so preyed upon his mind that he could think of nothing else. Indeed, so accustomed had I become to associate him with trouble and agitation that I utterly failed to know him one afternoon in the spring of 1896 when he suddenly entered my office* — plump, well-dressed, exuding good humour. I still doubted if it could be Perrin. “What on earth has come over you ? I finally gasped. “Oh, I’m all right; I have been this way for a month or two 1 . I belong to the* Don’t Worry Club.” I smiled at the conceit ; but he hastened to add: “I am in earnest. I joined the club. It cost me a trifle; but I think it was a good investment.” “What do* you mean?” “Just this, Mr King—there is no secret about it. You know how I used to be almost crazy —worried myself all night and my friends all day. Well, a neighbour said to me about three months ago*: ‘Why don’t you quit worrying?’ “ ‘I wish I could/ I told him. “ ‘Will you join the Don’t Worry Club?’ says he. “ T will if you say so.’ “Next day ho brought the secretary, and they persuaded me to join the chib.” ‘Where do they meet?” I asked. “I don’t know. All I received was a telephone number to call up the secretary when I was worried. It didn’t seem a great deal for the money, but

my neighbour said: Tf you are not satisfied at the end of a month, I shall give you the money back/ "Bo I gave my name to the secretary, and he gave me his telephone number—is isn't in the directory. “What then ?" I demanded.

"That night my dog was missing. It worried me a good deal; and at last I called up the secretary. “ ‘You will find that dog on Hickory alley, right back of the penitentiary," said he. ‘Go from house to house till you find him. "It was a bitter, cold night; but I wanted the dog. The first house that I entered gave me a dreadful turn. In a dirty room, without a fire, lay a woman drunk, and a little girl about four years old, half-starved and nearly frozen, beside her. I gathered up the child and went to the nearest house. Here I found a man and his wife and five children. They were huddling around a stove, but the fire was flickering out, and they hadn’t a pound of coal. I went to the nearest saloon and brought them back a pail of hot soup and a bucket of coal. Then I went down the street and bought a loaf of bread and a hunk of bologna sausage, and then 1 borrowed another scuttle of coal. Between us, we got the drunken woman into the warm house, and I saw that the little girl was tucked away for the night. It was two o’clock when I reached home; but I tell you I slept like a top.

"I went hack to these houses as soon as I could the next morning. It was a hard winter; the men were out of work, tiie women had ceased to care, and as usual the children suffered most. I bought these people food and fuel, and then I found that the whole square was in distress. Well, I appointed myself a beggar for these poor people. I fairly held up' all my friends an.d relatives for provisions, fuel and clothing, and sometimes for money. “A,t times I was a little discouraged. Many of the men and some of the wo>men that I tried to help were a little too fond of their beer; but on the whole they did their part., and within three months that square was a different place. And do you know what helped those people most to brace up and become respectable ? Wall-paper! When their rooms looked clean and bright, they began to look clean and bright themselves. I put on the wall-paper in the evenings; and the next, day the women would scrub their floors and woodwork like good fellows." “But," I interrupted), "did you find the dog P" “The dog? Oh, I forgot all about it." "But your troubles ?"

“I haven’t time to think about them. What are my troubles compared to those of the poor, people all around us?” "But the club—the Don’t Worry Club, you call it?” “I think they stole the dog; but it’s • all right." "Ancl you don’t worry ?'* “Well, there’s a little boy on my square—he’s a cripple, you know, and he is very intelligent—l am worried about him. Will you give him a place in ycur office? He’s learning stenography." “Yes, I’ll jnnke a place for him."

"All right. I was worrying about him ; but that’s off my mind l . That is what I came to see you about. Goodby." And with a hearty grasp of the hand and a smiling face Perrin withdrew, only to reappear in an hour with the crippled boy to whom I had promised a situation.

“Why don’t you join tho club?” he asked me at parting. “There is no such club,” I responded. ‘Ton are palming off an allegory.” “You’ll find out,” he said. “I shall give your name* to the* secretary.” “No, don’t do that. I shall send for you when I have the blues.” “And I’ll find somebody for you to help,” he retorted. BCis sympathy with the poor at times ran away with his judgment. One day he sent me a big,coarse, corpulent fellow who had lost his legs in a railroad accident—stealing coal at the time, I think. He was collecting money—so he said at l eas t—to* purchase artificial limbs, and he brought with him a glowing recommendation from Perrin.

My friend Manus and I at the* time were preparing to go to the ball game; and we each of us gave him a dollar. As we neared the grounds I remarked to Manus that he could “stand treat” that day—heretofore each of us had strenuously insisted upon doing the honours. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed, “didn’t you bring any money ? I gave my last dollar to the man with the crutches.”

Well, between us, wo were so unprovided—for each of us had relied on the other- —that we determined perforce to view the game from the ‘ hleacheis. It was a ’broiling hot day in July, and I gazed with nervous eyes at the cool, shady stand beside us. “Don’t worry,” said Manus. “Think of that poor fellow with his legs cut off. What do you suppose lie’s doing now ?” , , . , , As he spoke, I glanced again toward the grand stand, and quickly drew his attention. There, seated upon a cushion that he had lented for the occasion sat our legless friend, a score-card upon his knee, a palm-leaf fan in one hand, a

glass of lemonade in the other, and a big cigar in his mouth —he was settling himself to enjoy the afternoon. "Well," I gasped, “that fellow must be an active member of the Don’t Worry Club." "Humph !’’ said Manus, “what are we?’ VI guess we’re contributing members.”