It will surprise many persons of the present day to be told that the “backlog” of which we read so much in old-time stories was a large stone, a porous stone being preferred if possible. This stone was buried in the ashes, and on top was placed the “back stick.” The back stone in those primitive times played a very important part in the economy of early housekeeping. Matches were not then invented. Flint, steel and tow were the only means of lighting a fire or a lamp. Imagine for a moment the Bridget of to-day thus engaged, with the thermometer ten degrees below zero in the kitchen. The stone, together with the ashes with which it was covered, served to retain fire and heat through the night, and all that was necessary in the morning was a little kindling and gentle use of the indispensable bellows, and a fire was as readily made as at the present day.
MAMIE’S LETTER TO HEAVEN.
BY J. W. WATSON, AUTHOR OF
“BEAUTIFUL SNOW.”
| An humble room in a tenement house, Four stories above the street, Where a scanty fire, a scanty light, And a scanty larder meet; A woman sits at her daily toil, Plying the needle and thread; Her face is pallid with want and care, And her hand as heavy as lead. There she sits with her weary thought, While the tears drop full and fast; There she sits and stitches away, With her memory in the past; Beside her, perched on her little stool, Sits Mamie, a six-year-old, Who says she is never hungry at all, And never admits she is cold. There she sits and chatters away, Not seeing her mother’s tears; “Mamma, ’tis a month since winter came, And I think to me it appears That the Lord will never find us out, If He’s anything to give, Unless we can, some way, let Him know The street and the number we live. “You see, mamma, last winter He passed, While papa was sick in bed; He doesn’t know we are here, mamma, And He doesn’t know papa is dead; And so it happened all winter long We didn’t have anything nice, And so I think it would only be fair If He came this winter twice. “Do you ’member, mamma, that little, old man Who gave me the bright, new cent? Well, it wouldn’t buy much to eat, mamma, And it would not pay for the rent; So I bought a sheet of paper, mamma, And I’ve written a letter in print— It’s written to heaven direct, mamma, And I’ve given Him just a hint. “Shall I read it aloud to you, mamma? Yes! Well, this is what I have said: ‘Dear Lord, my name is Mamie St. Clair, And dear, darling papa is dead; I live forty-four in the street they call Fourth, And the cold of the winter is here; My mamma is poor, and I go to school, And I hope you will send this year. “’I hope you will send mamma a new dress Of something that’s warm and nice, A paper of flour, some loaves of bread, And a couple of pounds of rice; And dear, loving Lord, do, if you feel rich, You could send her some shoes to wear, And two or three pounds of beef for soup, Or anything else you can spare. “’I’ve heard my dear mamma say many a time That a chicken would do her much good, And so, dear Lord, if chickens is cheap, A chicken also, if you could; With three pails of coal, if it isn’t too much, And some stuff for mamma’s lame knee, And oh, my dear Lord, pray don’t think me mean, But a dear little dolly for me.’ “That’s all, my dear mamma, and now let me run And send it to heaven at once, For if He don’t get it by Christmas time, He surely will think me a dunce.” The letter was posted, the letter was scanned, With numberless grins by the men Whose duty it was to assort all the waifs That came from the wonderful pen. “Now where’s the dear Lord?” said one of these men; “That’s me,” said another, quite grave. “Here’s a letter, then!”—tossing the missive to him, “And a twopenny stamp you will save.” The letter was opened, the letter was read, There were very few tearless eyes; The reader looked round on the silent group, And then, with a nod, he cries: “Now, boys, there is something in this that I like— It’s nature right straight up to win, And we’ve all of us got to be lords right here— So here is my dot to begin.” The dollars flew down on the table like snow, They came from the crowd’s great heart, A letter was written by proxy and signed, The proposer to play the part. And so it came off upon one winter night That there happened this strange affair; A tapping came soft at Mamie’s door, And a very old man stood there; He was clad from his head to his feet so warm, And his beard it was long and white. “Good-even!” he said, as he pushed in a box Then vanished quite out of their sight. They were speechless, and only could stare at the box Directed to Mamie St. Clair, From “The Lord in Heaven.” What did it all mean? And a letter beside was there— A letter from heaven read: “Be a good girl, And never do anything ill; Love mamma as well as you do to-day.” And a fifty-dollar bill. If I wrote from now till the crack of doom, I could tell no more than this. It was all packed down in that wonderful box, And the dolly—oh, gracious! what bliss! And in time that letter to heaven direct Sent many and many a friend, And perhaps a new papa—who knows?—may be sent By heaven itself, in the end. |