His former castle-building, however, served to enliven the way with merriment, as foot and eye travelled into the future, and setting the past down as so much paid for experience, he consoled himself with the thought of his youth and health, snapped his fingers at care, and held himself in an easy state of mind to receive whatever fate might send him. At the close of the second day of his journey he halted on the edge of a prairie at a small log house. A tidy woman was bustling about in the interior, and two children, whose little faces were yellow as saffron, sat listlessly upon the door sill, playing with bits of broken delf. Their narrow habitation presented little of comfort to cheer the inmates or welcome the traveller. He inquired if he could lodge there, and the woman answered that such as she had to offer, he was welcome to, but being a lonely widow, and far from where any thing comfortable could be obtained, she had but poor accommodations to offer. Our hero was easily pleased, and so signified to her. Depositing his bundle within, he took the axe from her hands, with which she was about to chop some wood, and throwing off his coat, he prepared the fuel to cook their evening repast, then seating himself upon a hickory bottomed chair, he took the widow's sickly little daughter upon his knee, and coaxed a smile into her wan countenance. The mother watched the gambols of her child with the merry stranger, and a tear of pleasure sparkled in her eye, while the feeling sent a pleasing expression over her sad countenance; she spoke to him, too, in a tone of kindness different from her first words, because there was something friendly about his manner, and his lighthearted gayety was cheering to her sorrow.
When the table was spread, the corn cakes and pork placed upon it, with some milk, John seated himself with the children beside him, and attended to their little wants, with such kindness of manner, that ere the meal had ended, the little family began to imbibe something of their guest's gay spirit. As they gathered around the fire that evening, the widow ventured to inquire where her visiter was from, and when he informed her he was a Philadelphian, her eyes filled with tears,—that, too, was her birthplace. Looking upon the stranger, now, as a brother whom she had encountered in the wilderness, she poured into his ear her sad story. Her husband and herself, both young, had started some years previous from Philadelphia, for the west—his object being to secure a home of his own, and liking the spot W'here their cabin stood, they squatted, all went cheerfully for a time, but sickness soon came, and the prevailing fever of the country had swept him away from her side, leaving her far from the home of her childhood, with two children, friendless and alone. Sad days had passed since then, and hope was almost dead within her. Beneath a small hillock, surrounded with a little paling of pointed sticks, drove into the ground by her own hands, reposed the remains of her husband, and there lay buried all her hopes for the future. John spoke cheeringly to her, and to divert her thoughts from present sorrow, talked of their far-off home. The widow's little girl nestled in his lap, her little hands clasped around one of his, her head reclining upon his breast, while on a stool at the mother's side sat her little boy, and thus and there the wandering printer called up a panorama of their birthplace. Old Christ Church bells sounded in their ears again a Christmas' peal—together they wandered by the Schuylkill side; or, climbing. Fair Mount hill, looked out upon the wide-spread city; or, trod again its streets teeming with a gay and busy populace—each well-known antique habitation or hall, remembered by both, was spoken of with affection, as a memento of happy days—the wide and dreary prairie, over which the autumn wind was sighing cold and sadly, was forgotten now—scenes far away rose like shadows around the inhabitants of the log mansion, and the hum of the old city drowned the voice of the west wind, as it moaned around their dwelling. There wras the place, and those the circumstances, in which home wore its most heavenly hue. The lone widow that night thanked Heaven in her prayers, that one had been directed across her pathway to cheer her heart with sweet remembrances; and in her dreams, as she wandered again among the scenes of childhood, the faces she met all bore resemblance to the stranger—their tones of welcome sounded like his, and a smile, sweet as ever, rested upon a virtuous mother's lip; she slumbered through the live long night in happiness. The good angel, who registers kindness of mortal to mortal, surely marked here a credit in favor of the typo.
When the morning sun cast his golden sheen over the rich carpet of the prairie, John prepared to depart, and shaking the widow by the hand, he assured her that she should see home again, for he would search out her friends and have her sent for. As he stepped off from the house, the little girl run after him for a farewell kiss, and taking out of his pocket the remainder of his little wealth, seventeen dollars in all, he reserved one dollar for his travelling expenses, and placing his purse, with the remaining sixteen dollars, in the belt of the child, sent her back to her mother, and with the step of an emperor strode on his way. At the brow of a rising slope, in view of the cabin, he turned back to look, and saw the widow and her little ones watching his receding footsteps—raising his hat and kissing his hand he turned down the slope and was soon hidden from their sight. Improvident John, to thus give all thy store, except a trifle, to the widow and the orphan. Ah, ye cold and sordid ones of earth, a single thrill such as played about his heart then, was worth a mountain of your money bags. Contrasting his situation with the poor widow whom he had just departed from, he felt rich as Croesus—the craft of his hand, his robust youth, and a single dollar were odds in his favor against the worst circumstances.
[Original]
Two days more had passed when weary and foot-sore he approached a small village, and accosting an inhabitant leaning over a fence, he inquired if there was any chance of employment in the neighborhood.
“Well, I'm of the opinion, stranger,” said the sucker, “that your chance here, is pretty much as to what you can do—ef you'r anythin' of a brick maker, Old Jo Simms wants a man at his yard, down thar at the branch; but you don't look amazin' like a mud moulder, hoss!”
“I'm not much for looks,” said John, “but I'm creation at shaping things, and as for bricks, I'm a whole load of them—'front stretchers,' at that—made of choice clay—Father Adam's patent—so just point the way to Jo Simms, and some day come over and see a specimen of my brick.”
Receiving the proper direction, down he went to the brick-maker's dwelling, where, on entering, he encountered old Mrs. Jo Simms, and a look at her good humored countenance satisfied him, that an instalment on his new situation, in the shape of a supper and bed, was not only possible, but very probable. After making known his business, the old lady surveyed his person, and remarked—“Well, the old man did talk of hirin' some help, 'cause thar's a lot of brick orders on hand, and I suppose you mought do—you look dreadful draggled though, and tired as a prairie team, arter a hard day's ploughin'.”