THE STORY OF A WEDGE.
BY REV. C. H. MEAD.
For more than a hundred miles, I had traveled, having the entire seat to myself.
Aside from the selfishness of the average traveler, who, while unwilling to pay for more sitting, is more than willing to monopolize the whole seat, I was glad of plenty of elbow room to enable me to answer some pressing letters.
But as the car began to fill up, I knew the bag at my side must soon give way to another kind of neighbor, and presently down the aisle he came. From a perpendicular standpoint he was small, but horizontally, he was immense, and I viewed his approach with some alarm.
There was a merry twinkle in his eye, and his face beamed with good nature as he said, "Ah, I see you have room for a wedge at your side; allow me to put it in place." With considerable effort and a good deal of tight squeezing, he at last settled down in the seat, remarking, with a merry laugh, "Here I am at last;" and there I was too, and there I was likely to remain, if that wedge did not fly out, or the side of the car give way.
"Have you room enough?" I slyly inquired.
"Plenty of room, thank you," he replied; "I trust you are nice and snug."
"Never more snug in my life."
"That's right; the loose way in which most people travel is a continual menace to life and limb. I believe in keeping things snug, spiritually, physically, socially, financially and politically snug. And if things are spiritually snug, all the others must be so, as a matter of course. I learned that fact years ago in England."
"Are you an Englishman," I inquired.
"No, sir; I'm a Presbyterian" he laughingly replied; "my father was born in England, my mother was born in Ohio, and I was born the first time in New Jersey. Then on a visit to England I was 'born again.' My father was a Methodist; my mother was a Quaker, so of course I had to be a Presbyterian."
His unctuous laughter made the seat tremble. "Not a blue one, mind you. Blue? Not a bit of it. Why, bless you, when I became a Christian, all the blue went out of my heart and went into my sky.
"My father was physically large—I take after him. My mother—" he stopped abruptly and lifted his hat reverently; the tears filled his eyes and coursed down his cheeks, and presently, with choking voice he continued:
"My mother, God bless her memory, was the best woman and the grandest
Christian I ever knew. She lives in heaven, and she lives in my heart.
I would that I were as much like mother spiritually as I resemble father
physically."
The tender pathos of his voice, as he said this, made me feel that his sainted mother, were she present, would have no reason to feel ashamed of her son.
As he was about to replace his hat on his head, I noticed in large letters pasted on the lining, these words, "Hinder nobody—help everybody."
"Excuse me, sir;" I said, as I pointed to the words, "what is the meaning of that?"
Quickly the tears on his cheeks, were illuminated by a smile as he said—"That's my watchword; I carry it in my hat, have it hung up on my wall at home, and since I went into my present business, I've tried to make it the daily practice of my life."
"May I inquire what your business is?"
"Certainly, sir, my business is serving the Lord, and there is no business like it in the universe. It pays good dividends, brings me no worry, insures me a good standing in the best society; feeds me on the fat of the land, fills my heart with peace and makes me an heir to a kingdom, a robe and a crown. Bankruptcy and bad debts never stare me in the face, and every draft I draw is honored at the bank. Thus, I 'hinder nobody,' and am able to 'help every body.'"
"Where do you reside?" I asked.
"On Pisgah's top"—and his face fairly shone as he repeated it—"on Pisgah's top. At first I lived down in the valley among Ezekiel's dry bones, and used to help the multitudes sing—
"'Could we but climb where Moses stood,
And view the landscape o'er:
Not Jordan's stream nor death's cold flood,
Should fright us from the shore.'
"But I moved on and up to my present residence, and now I sing—
"'From Pisgah's top, the promised land,
I now exult to see:
My hope is full, oh, glorious hope,
Of immortality.'
"But I beg your pardon, sir; am I crowding you?"
"Crowding me? not a bit of it. I trust I shall always have room for company like you."
"Thank you, sir, thank you. I'm only a wedge"—with a merry laugh—"but I try to fill every opening the Lord shows me. Excuse me but how far are you going?"
"I get off at Albany," I replied. He looked at me as if taking my measure, and, after a moment he said:
"I hope you are not a member of the legislature."
"No, sir," I said, "I'm a Methodist."
"Give me your hand. I am so glad to know you are going in the opposite direction. A man may go to heaven by way of the legislature, but I would as soon think of going where I could get cholera in order to secure good health, as expect to serve God by becoming a member of the legislature. Ah, here is Albany! Good day, sir; don't forget the wedge. And if you will, I wish you would remember the watchword—'Hinder nobody—Help everybody.'"