Part 39 (2/2)
And in his eagerness, with a strength born of death, the old man half arose upon his elbow and laid a trembling hand upon the head of each of the awe-struck children.
”G.o.d bless yer, chillun, one an' all. I lubs my own little picaninnies, but I lubs old marster's just as well. I doan' want none o' yer to forgit how Uncle Jake has trotted yer on his knee an' toted yer on his back an' keep'
a watchful eye on yer, les' yet git into mischief by yer pranks. Promise me, chillun, dat you'll nebber forgit dese ting. It pleases Uncle Jake to think yer'll 'member him arter he's gone from yer sight for ebber.”
As well as they were able for their tears, the little ones gave the required promise, and greatly pleased, the old man sank back exhausted upon his pillow.
After lying a few minutes with closed eyes, as if in sleep, he suddenly whispered:
”Dinah, whar is you? I wants yer to c.u.m closer ter me, honey, an' put yer arms around my neck an' lay yer cheek ter mine like yer used ter do when we was courtin' down in de huckleberry patch. I wants ter die in yer arms, ole wife. Yer is black, an' de white folks mought not be able ter see any booty in yer, but Jake knows what a true an' lovin' wife you'se bin ter him, an'
he can see de booty dat's hidden out o' sight. I'se gwine ter cross ober der great wide ribber dey call Death, into a kentry whar' dere'll nebber be any mo' black skins--whar' I'll wear de white robe and de golden crown, an'
I'se got ter wait fur yer dere. Dinah, my lub! my lub! Hark, honey! doan'
yer hear de bells ob heaven a-ringing? An' doan' yer see de pearly gates a-openin' to let ole black Jake go frew? I'se a comin', holy angels--I'se a comin', blessed Lawd! Glory hallelewger! Ole Jake's mos' got ober de ribber. His feet is touchin' de water--but it's gettin' so cold, Dinah, honey--I can't feel de clasp of yer arms any mo'. I'se--”
And with a last, long, fluttering sigh, as knightly and true a soul as ever dwelt in human breast took its light to a realm where there is indeed neither black nor white, nor bond nor free, but all are like unto the angels.
THE HOT AXLE.
BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.
The express train was flying from Cork to Queenstown; it was going like sixty--that is, about sixty miles an hour. No sight of Irish village to arrest our speed, no sign of a breakdown; and yet the train halted. We looked out of a window; saw a brakeman and a crowd of pa.s.sengers gathering around the locomotive, and a dense smoke arising. What was the matter? _A hot axle!_
I thought then, as I think now, that is what is the matter with people everywhere. In this swift, ”express” American life, we go too fast for our endurance. We think ourselves getting on splendidly, when, in the midst of our success, we come to a dead halt. What is the matter? The nerves or muscles or our brain give out; we make too many revolutions in an hour. _A hot axle!_
Men make the mistake of working according to their opportunities, and not according to their capacity of endurance. Can I be a merchant, and president of a bank, and a director in a life insurance company, and a school commission, and help edit a paper, and supervise the politics of our ward, and run for Congress? ”I can!” the man says to himself. The store drives him; the bank drives him; the school drives him; politics drive him.
He takes all the scoldings and frets and exasperations of each position.
Some day, at the height of the business season, he does not come to the store. From the most important meeting of the bank directors he is absent.
In the excitement of the most important political canva.s.s he fails to be at the place appointed. What is the matter? His health has broken down; the train halts long before it gets to the station. _A hot axle!_
Literary men have great opportunities opening in this day. If they take all that open, they are dead men, or worse--_living_ men that ought to be dead.
The pen runs so easy when you have good ink and smooth paper, and an easy desk to write on, and the consciousness of an audience of one, two, or three hundred thousand readers. So great is the invitation to literary work, that the professional men of the day are overdone. They sit, faint and f.a.gged out, on the verge of newspapers and books; each one does the work of three. And these men sit up late nights and choke down chunks of meat without mastication, and scold their wives through irritability, and maul innocent authors, and run the physical machinery with a liver miserably given out. The driving shaft has gone fifty times a second. They stop at no station. The steam-chest is hot and swollen. The brain and digestion begins to smoke. Stop, ye flying quills! ”Down brakes!” _A hot axle!_
Some of our young people have read--till they are crazed--of learned blacksmiths who at the forge conquered thirty languages; and shoemakers who, pounding sole-leather, got to be philosophers; and of milliners who, while their customers were at the gla.s.s trying on their spring hats, wrote a volume of first-rate poems. The fact is, no blacksmith ought to be troubled with more than five languages; and, instead of shoemakers becoming philosophers, we would like to turn our surplus supply of philosophers into shoemakers; and the supply of poetry is so much greater than the demand, that we wish milliners would stick to their business. Extraordinary examples of work and endurance may do us much good. Because Napoleon slept only four hours a night, hundreds of students have tried the experiment; but, instead of Austerlitz and Saragossa, there came of it only a sick headache and a botch of a recitation.
Let us not go beyond our endurance, cutting short our days and making a wreck of our life work, but labor earnestly, zealously, intelligently for success; and in the twilight of old age peace and happiness will be ours--not the shattered and praised remains of a career disastrously checked.
THE CHILDREN.[2]
BY CHARLES d.i.c.kENS.
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