Sarah A. Myers - Watch Work Wait

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[Illustration: WILLIAM AT HIS MOTHER'S GRAVE.

Taking a piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket, he
drew a sketch of the little square where his loved ones
slept.]

WATCH-WORK-WAIT;

or,

THE ORPHAN'S VICTORY.

by SARAH A. MYERS.

"Blessed is the man that trusteth in Him.... They that seek
the Lord shall not want any good thing."--PSALM xxxiv.

London:

T. Nelson and Sons, Paternoster Row; Edinburgh; and New
York.

MDCCCLXII.

This little volume contains a simple record of the trials and
temptations which a poor orphan boy passed through a few years since.
It teaches that best of lessons,--the need of Divine help in the
battle of life. It shows that a child may attain a beautiful character
amid great trials and great evils.

The author assures us that the incidents in this delightful story are
real occurrences. Some of them are "stranger than fiction;" yet they
are not fancies, but facts.

CHAPTER I.

WILLIAM'S FIRST GRIEF.

In one of the many beautiful spots which the traveller sees in making
a voyage up the Hudson, stands the village of M----. It attracts the
notice of all tourists, for it seems to occupy the very place in which
a painter or a lover of the picturesque would have chosen to place it.
Its inhabitants love to boast of its antiquity, for it was founded by
the original Dutch settlers, and its present settlers are mostly their
descendants.

At the time of which we write, no city fashions had found their way to
that remote spot. Its inhabitants were simple-hearted, pious, and
contented to live as their forefathers had done; and the place seemed
like a quiet little world within itself. None of the gross vices
always to be found in large communities were practised there. On the
Sabbath-day, when its only bell sent its voice distinctly over the
valley, the humble dwellers met in the single church, not only bound
together by the tie of human brotherhood, but by the sweeter ties of
Christian charity, to hear the word of God and perform the work of
prayer and praise.

Just at the end of the long street in this quiet village stood a
cottage, which, although very rudely built, attracted the attention of
the passers-by from the extreme neatness and order, those sure
attendants of the pious poor, which reigned around it. In winter it
looked snug beneath its coating of snow; in summer very beautiful,
glistening, as it then did, in all its fragrant adornment of
jessamine, honeysuckle, and sweet-brier.

But if its exterior was attractive, the family life within was much
more so. True piety and grace were found beneath that modest roof,
most truly illustrating the truth, that the high and lofty One that
inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy, who dwelleth in the high and
holy place, dwelleth with _him also_ that is of a contrite and humble
spirit.

For many years this cottage had been occupied by a watchmaker, a
German, who left his own country in early manhood, and came to the
United States to find the wealth which foreigners used to believe
could be gained here at once. This he never acquired, but he found
something better; for although in an out-of-the-way place he could not
expect to grow rich by his trade, he found a great treasure in his
pious wife, and enjoyed more of pure and real happiness than often
falls to the lot of man. His mind was originally one of strength, and
he had turned his meditations and prayers heavenward, and the promised
peace was vouchsafed.

He did not love his trade as well as he might have done; for having a
very remarkable talent for painting and sketching, which the beautiful
surroundings were well calculated to foster, he often found his
business of watchmaking irksome. Although frugal, industrious, and
possessing much skill as a seal engraver, in which art he received
employment from New York, he never was able to lay up anything,
although he could and did provide comfortably for his household.

His neighbours entertained for him a deep respect. He was of an
independent spirit, somewhat taciturn; and, from his retiring,
contemplative spirit, by some was considered stern. But his life was
so entirely blameless, regulated as it was by the purifying and
elevating influence of Christianity, that many reverenced him as an
"Israelite indeed, in whom was no guile."

But Christians are by no means exempt from trials; indeed, the
children of God are called to pass through the sorest ordeals, and the
Raymonds had experienced many strokes of the chastening rod. When
their children were taken one after another, until only the last born
remained, they bowed submissively to this adverse visitation; and
although for a little while stunned in spirit, as was natural, they
murmured not, but were soon able to say with resignation, "The Lord
gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
But turning toward the one left, it may easily be supposed that for
him they entertained a most anxious love. Nevertheless, no undue
indulgences were granted because he was the only one and the last.
They knew their duty as Christian parents too well for that, and
spared no pains, both by precept and example, to instruct him in the
lore that putteth to shame all worldly wisdom, and which only could
fit him for the trials of earth or the joys of heaven. Well was it for
the poor child that he had been thus taught, for the time was at hand
when he would require all the Christian's armour to fit him for the
great battle in which every one that lives is called to contend. To
some the strife is more severe than to others; but to all, if they
would win the goal successfully, a better strength than their own is
necessary, and to teach their child to rely upon the all-sustaining
arm, was the constant endeavour of these faithful parents.

A few years passed by, and their earthly comforts were not diminished;
they still occupied the cottage their own hands had beautified, and
having won the affectionate esteem of their landlord, a good old
baker, he assured them that he would never raise their rent or suffer
them to leave it. Their son William had reached his eighth year, and
was what might be called a good boy; for, having no bad example, and
being naturally of a docile disposition, and for the most part
obedient and gentle, there was little occasion for fault-finding. To
the anxious father the thought had often occurred, "What is to be his
future lot--in what line of business is he to be brought up?" and he
mostly concluded he could never bear a separation from this boy, who
was as the very apple of his eye; he would teach him his own trade,
which, although by no means a profitable, was at least a respectable
one, and would furnish a livelihood. There were times when, looking
into the intelligent blue eyes that would be lifted up so lovingly to
meet his gaze, he would wish that he might be able to educate his boy;
but almost at once he would conquer the longing, and say to himself:
"It is God who appoints to every man his station, and I must not
murmur because my child's lot is destined to be a lowly one. There is
danger in high places, and I ought rather to rejoice that our poverty
removes him far from the temptation he would meet with in a more
exalted station."

One evening, it was a dull and cloudy one near the close of December,
George Raymond came home seeming more than ordinarily cheerful,
greatly to the delight of his good Margaret, who did not like to see
him too thoughtful. "Times seem to grow better, wife," he said, after
he finished his supper; "I have had plenty of work at seal engraving
this last fortnight; it seems my work has been approved in the city."

"We have always had enough for the supply of our daily wants,"
answered Margaret; "and we are told not to be too anxious about the
goods of this world."

"I am not very anxious," said Raymond; "at least not on my own
account; but sometimes I think if I should be called away, what would
become of you, Gretta, and little Will?"

"The Lord would provide for us, George, as he has ever done," was the
wife's reply; "he is ever faithful to his promise, and he has declared
that those who wait on him shall not want for any good thing."

"That is very true, Margaret; but we must use lawful means to provide
bread for our families," said Raymond; "but where is Will? I have not
seen him since I came in; neither did he come to meet me as usual."

"I am here, father," said a sweet childish voice; and creeping from a
dark corner between the cupboard and the wall, a little boy came forth
and stood at his father's knee, and, without speaking, looked up into
his face with an expression of more than ordinary meaning. Slight and
delicately made, he was easily raised to his usual seat on his
father's knee, when, kissing him affectionately, he inquired, "What
have you been doing all day, Will? I believe you have had no school."

"Wait, father, and I will show you," replied the boy, as he slid down
from his father's knee; and running to the corner from whence he had
come at Raymond's call, he returned almost immediately with two or
three half-sheets of paper in his hand. "I have been drawing," said
the little boy, as his father took the sketches and examined them with
a grave look. "Please do not be angry, for I did not take your
pencils."

"And how did you draw without pencils?" asked his father. "Let me see
what you have here;--a table, a chair, ah yes, and a house with trees!
Very good, William; but I would rather you did not draw any more."

The boy would have asked why, but taught that the parental wish was to
be regarded as a law, he tried to conquer the emotion which would
arise in spite of all efforts to restrain it. It seemed hard to be so
disappointed: he expected praise, and now, if he had not received
censure, certainly not the slightest approval was accorded.
Accustomed, however, not to question, but submit, the little fellow
threw his arms embracingly round his father's neck and bade him good
night, and having done the same with his mother, retired to bed rather
to shed his tears unseen than to sleep.

And he did weep! Poor little fellow, his grief was very great; and
although our readers may smile because he regarded the matter in such
a serious light, they must remember that this was almost, if not
altogether, his first sorrow; and we are far from believing the sorrow
of a child the trivial thing it is generally considered, and perhaps
but the beginning of other and severer trials.

But if the sorrow of childhood is severe, what a blessing it is that
its violence is soon over! anger seldom rests in the heart of a good
child, and as soon as the tears are dried, all is bright as before.
William's tears were very bitter, but accustomed always to ask the
divine blessing before retiring, he knelt down beside his little bed,
and prayed that if he had done wrong in drawing without asking his
father's leave, he might be forgiven. His childish petition, uttered
in the full confidence that it would be heard, brought comfort, as the
act of sincere prayer always does, and once more soothed and happy, in
a few minutes the child sunk into so deep a slumber, that he was
altogether unconscious of his mother's kiss, and the audibly uttered
blessing invoked upon him by his pious father.

There were two other hearts as sorrowful as his own, although tears
did not attest the depth of their emotion. Margaret was distressed in
her child's distress, and could not understand why her husband did not
praise what she considered the very creditable effort of her boy; but
she was too judicious to utter a word in his presence, much as she
sympathized with William. Raymond, however, was the most distressed of
all, and that, too, because he felt that a father's pride must be
sacrificed at the shrine of what he regarded as a father's duty; and
he experienced a severe pang, as, on surveying the child's sketches,
he dared not say one word in praise of them, although his very heart
bounded, lover of the fine arts as he was, at the promise of superior
talent they exhibited. After William had left the room he sat leaning
his head on his hand, quite unrepentant, however, for his seeming
harshness, but at the same time troubled that his views of duty made
it imperative for him to appear so. Margaret was the first to break
silence.

"George," said she, "why did you hurt poor William by not praising his
drawings? the child was so sure you would be delighted; and although
he knew where your pencils are kept, he never once asked for them, but
took the charcoal from the hearth. I cannot understand why you did
so."

"My dear Margaret," he replied, "I am far more grieved to be obliged
to look frowningly on that which, in other than our present
circumstances, would have given to me greater delight than to you or
my good child himself. William's sketches, rude as they are, evince
very extraordinary talent, but I should sin were I to encourage him to
pursue such a work. I know too well how absorbing it is; how hard it
is, when one's mind is filled with pictures of the grand and
beautiful, to work at a trade one does not like. The boy, most likely,
has genius; but even so, how is that genius to be fostered? I know,
too, how toilsome and difficult is the early path toward the art, and
how few, comparatively, ever gain distinction and reward."

"That is true," said Margaret; "I now understand and see that you are
right."

"Yes, Margaret," washer husband's reply, "I think I am right; remember
that it is the Unerring who has allotted our condition, and I have no
higher ambition than to see my only child grow up an honest man,
diligent in his calling, whatever it may be. My first wish is, that my
boy may be a Christian: it will never trouble me that he must work
hard and be obscure; for if he is pious, honest, and happy in his own
mind, he will be a greater man than those who fill high stations
without the qualifications I have named."

"He is such a good child," said Margaret, "I cannot bear to give him
unnecessary pain."

"The proper discipline does no harm," said Raymond; "and the Scripture
tells us that 'no chastening for the present is joyous, but grievous,
but afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruits of righteousness to
them that are exercised thereby;' and as we are in the same place
commanded to 'make straight paths for our feet,' so in this instance I
have preferred giving my child present pain in order that he may
escape future and greater trials. Ah! Margaret, he may think I am
harsh in this case, as he cannot fathom my motive; and how often do we
judge hardly of the dealings of our kind heavenly Father when he
thwarts us in some favourite wish, or smiles not on our undertaking.
Be assured that only those who commit their way unto the Lord are
safe; and as I bear my boy daily upon my heart to the throne of grace,
and offer up the prayer of faith in the name of Him who hath promised
to hear, so truly am I assured that all that befalls us will be right,
and that although I may be removed from the earthly guardianship of my
darling child, I know that he will never want for any good thing.
Wife, we must teach him that his lot is to be a lowly one; but we must
also teach him that any station can be ennobled by the upright and
conscientious discharge of the duties belonging to it. But now, let us
have our usual worship, and then we will look in on William, and see
if his trouble is not all forgotten in sleep."

CHAPTER II.

TOILS AND TRIALS.

When William arose the next morning, he met his parents with as
smiling a face as if his father had presented him with a case of
pencils, instead of discouraging his attempts at drawing. Nothing was
said on the subject, and the weeks rolled on quietly and peacefully as
before, until William passed his ninth birthday, and the
Christmas-time drew near. This is a festive time with most; and it
seems right that it should be so, for can man ever be sufficiently
thankful for the great gift of a Saviour, whose birth was heralded by
the songs of angels on that day? All nations observe their peculiar
ceremonies, but perhaps none are more faithfully observant of them
than the Germans in the little community of M----, most of whose
inhabitants at the time of which we write were descendants of the
original Dutch settlers. Many ceremonies and customs, relics of a
ruder age, and now nearly forgotten, were still practised. The
Raymonds, although pious, and more intelligent than most of their
neighbours, kept up many of the usages of Fatherland on the Christmas
occasion, perhaps more as wafting them back in remembrance of early
enjoyment in the home circle, than from any present love of the
festivity common at this period.

The joyful season drew nigh merrily, and in the watchmaker's family,
as in all others--for the very poorest look forward hopingly to
it--there was nothing but bright anticipations, which were for the
present realized. The Christmas cake was prepared in the most approved
old fashion; the dark-hued pine was duly ornamented, and occupied a
conspicuous place in the family room, and little William was made most
happy in the receipt of many gifts, although toy paints and pencils
were not among the number.

But what says the Scripture? "Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou
knowest not what a day may bring forth;" and the holy man who
admonishes to "rejoice with trembling," well knew the slender
foundation on which all earthly bliss is based.

The day broke bright and cheerful; the morning prayers, never
forgotten in this truly Christian household, were over, and the gifts
and greetings exchanged; the village bell rang out clear on the frosty
air, and sounded rejoicingly as it called the humble community to give
thanks in the little old-fashioned church, as the custom was on
Christmas-day. In the Raymond cottage the good dinner was eaten, and
when the sun had gone down behind the mountains, the Christmas-tree
was once more lighted up; and although not quite as well laden or as
brilliant as on the evening before, it nevertheless illumined the
cottage, and continued very attractive. It had been a happy day, and
as they sat beside their evening fire, thinking over the many
enjoyments and blessings that had marked its course, New Year's-day
was the next point of expectation, and many were the pleasures to be
enjoyed on that day, as well as many new prospects planned to be
executed within the year. Ah! they saw not how the dark wing of the
angel of Death was sweeping over them, nor could they forebode that
from this night their path was to be a stern and rugged one.

In the evening of the day after Christmas, when Raymond returned from
his work, he complained of feeling unwell, and his sickness increasing
hourly, his earthly course was terminated in a few days; and instead
of the promised pleasure on New Year's-day, his corpse occupied the
lowly room. It was a mournful New Year's-day in the home of the widow
and the fatherless. Margaret, passive in her affliction, for she was
stunned by its suddenness, sat gazing with tearless eyes upon the
corner where the dim outline of a human form was seen under its white
covering; and little William, turning his eyes alternately from his
pale mother to the corpse of his father, was too much awe-stricken by
the presence of the dread destroyer to utter a word.

It was not until after the remains of poor Raymond had been laid in
the grave, and the widow had returned to her desolate cottage, that
she experienced the full weight of her heavy burden. Even when death
comes slowly, when sickness, pain, and long suspense have made the
issue certain, it is hard for the bereaved to realize the dread event;
but when the scythe of the destroyer has passed so quickly over, when
the home is made so speedily desolate, and the place vacant, is it
wonderful that to the stricken mourner all seems dark, discerning no
light behind the overshadowing cloud? But none, dear reader, are
afflicted more than they can bear; the words of worldly wisdom would
fall upon the ear unheard, but the sacred balm poured out upon the
bruised heart by the sanctifying influence of the Holy Spirit, the
Comforter promised by our Saviour, soothes the soul into submission,
and whispers, "Be still, and know that I am God; I will not forsake
the widow, nor shall the orphan be forgotten."

It was not long until the pious Margaret recognised the hand by which
she had been smitten; and the first stunning effect of her grief being
past, with the same patient, humble, and calm spirit that had always
characterized her in her prosperous days, she prepared to make
arrangements for a more frugal course of life than that they had
hitherto maintained, although the housekeeping had always been of the
most simple order. She could not afford to keep the cottage in which
they had lived so happily; the vines her husband's hand had trained,
the flowers she had planted, the little garden which they both had
delighted to keep in order, must pass into the hands of strangers; and
the thought of leaving a place so dear by association gave an
additional pang to the grief already so great. She looked upon her
child, her last, her only treasure, and blessing God that this comfort
was still spared, she resolved to exert every energy in the endeavour
to bring him up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. Great was
her adversity, but He who watches over the sparrow and feeds the raven
had raised up friends for her time of need.

The cottage in the suburbs was speedily let to another tenant; but
their landlord, Nicholas Herman, the baker, found a room, an attic
indeed, but comfortable, in a house adjoining his own; and from the
time in which she took possession both himself and his good wife
showed her every kindness within their power. But still she found
herself very poor; for after her husband's affairs were settled, and
the rent and funeral expenses paid, there was nothing left, and she
had to use such industry as she was able to pursue to maintain her
little household. Very simple indeed was their manner of living now;
but she knew no want, for having gained the respect and confidence of
the community in her prosperous days, she was supplied with work
almost constantly.

The winter was long and severe, and dark and dreary were many of its
hours to the widow. As the season advanced toward the spring, her
heart was illuminated by occasional gleams of light sent forth, not
only by hope's smiling in the distance, but from the sustaining
influence lent her by the hopeful spirit, ready obedience, and
untiring industry of her boy.

It is astonishing what a sudden change such a blow of misfortune often
produces in a child. We know not the mysterious workings of a child's
mind, or by what process such a rapid change is accomplished; but we
know from experience that the journey of a very few years in the path
of life can make even the very young sensible that this world is not
one of unmixed happiness, and that there is often but a step from
careless childhood to a painful maturity,--painful because unnatural.

Such was the case with poor Will Raymond; and new comfort dawned on
the widow's heart as she remarked his untiring efforts, not only to
cheer her, but to aid, by such labour as he was able to perform, in
their mutual maintenance. With a maturity of judgment hardly to be
expected in one of his age, he entered not only into all her plans,
but, during the spring and summer succeeding his father's death, went
regularly to some kind of work, by which he gained wages, small
indeed, but which, added to the general stock, would help to provide
against the severities of the coming winter. There are always some
kind hearts to be found in every community, who are willing to comfort
the feeble-minded, support the weak, and encourage all virtuous
effort, although the service rendered be but trifling. A kind-hearted
farmer, hearing of the little boy's exertions to aid his mother,
employed him to wait on his reapers during harvest; and as the time of
fruit-gathering and hop-picking in the autumn furnished plenty of such
work as he was able to do, all his time was, as one might say, filled
up. And when he brought home the hard-earned money, the fruit of his
toils, and marked the lighting of his mother's eye as he poured his
little treasures into her lap, child as he was, he felt there was a
sweetness in the gains of labour which no gifts can bestow; and
William and his mother were not the only ones to remark that bread
earned by honest toil is sweeter than any other.

There was another, besides the farmer, whose heart turned warmly
toward the fatherless boy. Old Nicholas Herman, the baker, was too
truly benevolent to forget his late tenant, and although not a rich
man, he had often something to send to the widow. He had learned the
beautiful precept: "Give bread to the hungry, and from the needy turn
not away;" and was a true believer in Him who said, "Inasmuch as ye do
it unto the least of these, ye do it unto me."

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