Work: A Story of Experience | Page 3

smile. "Yes, I'll try my experiment; then I'll get rich;
found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be a Mrs. Fry, a
Florence Nightingale, or"--
"How are you on't for stockin's, dear?"
Christie's castles in the air vanished at the prosaic question; but, after a
blank look, she answered pleasantly:
"Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when I was soaring
away too far and too fast. I'm poorly off, ma'am; but if you are knitting
these for me, I shall certainly start on a firm foundation." And, leaning
on Aunt Betsey's knee, she patiently discussed the wardrobe question
from hose to head-gear.
"Don't you think you could be contented any way, Christie, ef I make
the work lighter, and leave you more time for your books and things?"
asked the old lady, loth to lose the one youthful element in her quiet
life.
"No, ma'am, for I can't find what I want here," was the decided answer.
"What do you want, child?"
"Look in the fire, and I'll try to show you."
The old lady obediently turned her spectacles that way; and Christie
said in a tone half serious, half playful:
"Do you see those two logs? Well that one smouldering dismally away
in the corner is what my life is now; the other blazing and singing is
what I want my life to be."
"Bless me, what an idee! They are both a-burnin' where they are put,
and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference doos it make?"
Christie smiled at the literal old lady; but, following the fancy that
pleased her, she added earnestly:
"I know the end is the same; but it does make a difference how they

turn to ashes, and how I spend my life. That log, with its one dull spot
of fire, gives neither light nor warmth, but lies sizzling despondently
among the cinders. But the other glows from end to end with cheerful
little flames that go singing up the chimney with a pleasant sound. Its
light fills the room and shines out into the dark; its warmth draws us
nearer, making the hearth the cosiest place in the house, and we shall
all miss the friendly blaze when it dies. Yes," she added, as if to herself,
"I hope my life may be like that, so that, whether it be long or short, it
will be useful and cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when it ends,
and leave something behind besides ashes."
Though she only half understood them, the girl's words touched the
kind old lady, and made her look anxiously at the eager young face
gazing so wistfully into the fire.
"A good smart blowin' up with the belluses would make the green stick
burn most as well as the dry one after a spell. I guess contentedness is
the best bellus for young folks, ef they would only think so."
"I dare say you are right, Aunty; but I want to try for myself; and if I
fail, I'll come back and follow your advice. Young folks always have
discontented fits, you know. Didn't you when you were a girl?"
"Shouldn't wonder ef I did; but Enos came along, and I forgot 'em."
"My Enos has not come along yet, and never may; so I'm not going to
sit and wait for any man to give me independence, if I can earn it for
myself." And a quick glance at the gruff, gray old man in the corner
plainly betrayed that, in Christie's opinion, Aunt Betsey made a bad
bargain when she exchanged her girlish aspirations for a man whose
soul was in his pocket.
"Jest like her mother, full of hifalutin notions, discontented, and sot in
her own idees. Poor capital to start a fortin' on."
Christie's eye met that of her uncle peering over the top of his paper
with an expression that always tried her patience. Now it was like a
dash of cold water on her enthusiasm, and her face fell as she asked
quickly:
"How do you mean, sir?"
"I mean that you are startin' all wrong; your redic'lus notions about
independence and self-cultur won't come to nothin' in the long run, and
you'll make as bad a failure of your life as your mother did of her'n."
"Please, don't say that to me; I can't bear it, for I shall never think her

life a failure, because she tried to help herself, and married a good man
in spite of poverty, when she loved him! You call that folly; but I'll do
the same if I can; and I'd rather have what my father and mother left me,
than all the money you are piling up, just for the pleasure of being
richer than your