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Not my Daughter...

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Big, Rich and a Strong Pillar

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WHAT IS HAPPINESS?

I stopped in a little town in Eastern Carolina once and there was a travelling wagon in a vacant lot, next to the Hotel. The landlady expressed a wish that I could know its occupants, as they were so nice, she said. I did see them and from them I learned a lesson that has done me good. There were only two--man and wife--and for ten years they had worked together. The man gave Stereoptican Exhibitions. They were only wayside musicians, singing, performing tricks, working together always, but--they were the happiest people I have ever met. Their little wagon was their Kingdom. They had no other home, but that was enough they said, as long as they were spared each other.

I asked them if such a life was not terrible in cold weather. "Terrible? Why in cold weather we have our happiest time. Our little

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stove is the best I ever saw, our little room the cosiest; we have it all to ourselves, and we enjoy it, don't we Jack? We are both well, and we make money enough to get along on and be comfortable. Come over, and let me show you our little home.”

I did go--into their home on wheels--and went into one of the daintiest, most homelike and inviting nests I have ever seen, and she was as proud as a Queen of her palace.

I could but sigh as I left.

After all, it is not one's surroundings that bring happiness, but something else. Let those wiser than I say what.

I have often thought of my little wagon acquaintance, for every one who saw her looked upon her as a Sunbeam, and wished there were more like her.

I have been in the home of the rich, where there was everything to make life bright and beautiful, but there was one thing lacking: the Sunbeam. The mistress of it all was a walking monument to Discontent. With no Power behind, forcing her out of herself, she had no thought except for self. Her aches, her pains! Her head, her back, her knees, they were always "aching". She was always "tired". When she got up, she was "tired". When she lay down, she was "tired". She had more "trouble" than anyone else ever had, and yet she had none, save that she loved self too well, and "ached" too badly to know it. She looked so well and ate so heartily that when she burdened the air with her complaints, I chafed under the infliction, but it did me good.

I firmly resolved that never, so long as I lived, would I ever plead guilty to a headache, or a back ache, or ever say I was "tired".

Wherein lay the difference between the two homes?

In one there was a Sunbeam. In the other, a Shadow.

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There are things too manifold to mention that we never think of in the light of appreciation, but enjoy them as a matter of course. Our beaten biscuit, our delicious steak, our broiled chicken, our country hams, our homemade sausage, our buckwheat cakes, our hot waffles, our good butter, our unskimmed milk, our fragrant coffee, with sugar and cream, because we have never entered homes where such a bill of fare is an unknown quantity.

There are scores, in our own State, who never know what it is to partake of a meal properly cooked, and I do believe that one-half

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of all the physical and mental ailments which distress mankind come from the lack of nutritious food, properly prepared.

Starting the day with a good substantial breakfast starts the man a better man and when I see one now irritable and cross, I jump right straight to the conclusion "poor fellow", he couldn't have had a good dinner. Traced back that would be found to be the source of a large proportion of the discontent, the nervousness, the unreasonableness of man and womankind.

What man can sit down to a good dinner and not feel his heart swell with charity for his fellow man?

And then we do not appreciate the luxury of a good bed, when so many never know what it is to go to bed between two sheets, and a great many crawl in on one--and that a colored one!

And then we do not half appreciate our bowl and pitcher as we should. I stopped at a house not long ago, and the next morning (a cold December morning it was, too) I called for a bowl of water. They "lowed" I'd have to go out into the yard to the bench. I opened the door and viewed the prospect. The "old man" went to the bench and washed in the tin basin. (As the "old 'oman" was getting breakfast, I hoped she had done the same.) Then "the boys", and it was my turn next, and right manfully did I march to the rack.

I poured some water into the pan to rinse it out, but they cautioned me not to waste the water, as it was "low", so with closed eyes and clinched lips, I performed my morning ablutions. A11 the family wiped on a towel that had hung there Heaven only knows how long, but I had to draw the line there, and went to my grip and availed myself of the provision made against emergencies. I had to "bunk" that night in the room with "the gals" but was fortunate enough to secure a bed to myself. A girl of about fourteen looked on in wonder and amazement as I disrobed, but when I took off my braid, made of my own hair, it was too much for her and she called out, "Oh Ma, come here, the lady's taking off her hair--come quick!"

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Traveling in one of the lower counties of the State, it was a source of wonder to me how the working people obtained water to drink. I went miles and miles, consumed by thirst. Plenty of wells did we pass, but not a bucket or any available way to get at the water.

At last we came to an old farm house where we saw a darkie standing by the well. I asked him to be kind enough to hand me a

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drink of water, as I was very thirsty. "There's plenty o'water here”, he said, “but we all drink out o'the bucket. There's nothin' to hand any in."

An old man came out (the owner of the place) and after exchanging the customary greetings, I asked him if I could not get a drink of water, as I was so thirsty. He said, "Lor' bless your soul honey, there's plenty of water here, but nothing to hand it in, but I've got plenty of good grape juice, and you'll find that monstrous good to lay thirst when you can't get water". He went and brought the grape juice and I found it as he said, "monstrous good", brought in a gourd, colored with the accumulated juice of many seasons.

And yet this old man had planted out grapevines, on either side of the road, for a distance of about three hundred yards, and kept them in good condition, well arbored and trained. I expressed my surprise and he said, "I planted them vines with my own hands. When the grapes are ripe, I sit here in my porch and enjoy seeing travelers feast themselves. They are my pets, and have given refreshment to thousands. I've done that much good in my life. When the season lasts nearly all who pass stop and eat grapes, and there's always enough for all, as long as they last."

I reverently shook the old man's hand when I left. A man, so full of love for his fellow man, that he gladly worked to give them pleasure, and yet so regardless of self.

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