Charles Edward Stowe - "The Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe"

J.G. Austin - "Outpost"

J.M. Barrie - "The Little Minister"

Mary E. Wilkins - "The Heart's Highway"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

T >> T.S. Arthur >> The Lights and Shadows of Real Life




That evening there was to be at this house a large party. Extra
servants had been employed that day, and all was bustle and
preparation.

"Sarah," called the lady, a few minutes after, to her
housekeeper--"Sarah, Dr. H--was here just now, and said that the
poor woman who lives next door is sick and out of fuel. Tell John to
take her in an armful of wood, and do you just step in and see what
more she is in want of."

"Yes, ma'am," responds Sarah, and muttering to herself some
dissatisfaction at the order, descends to the kitchen, and addresses
a sable man-servant, and kind of doer-of-all-work-in-general, in
doors and out,

"John, Mrs.--says you must take an armful of wood in to Mrs.
Warrington; I believe that is the woman's name who lives next door."

"Who? de woman whose husband in de (sic) Penetentiary?"

"Yes, that's the one, John."

"Don't love to meddle wid dem guess sort of folks, Miss Sarah.
'Druder not be gwine in dere," responds the black, with a broad grin
at his own humour.

"Well, I don't care whether you do or not," responds Sarah, and
glides swiftly away, satisfied to do one part of her order and
forget the other, which related to her going in to see the poor
woman herself. Mrs.--shifted off the duty on her housekeeper, and
she contented herself by forgetting it.

Little William, who was present with his mother when the doctor
called, was, like all children, a true republican, and had often
played with the child of the sick woman. He had seen his little
playmate but a few times since the cold weather set in; but had all
his sympathies aroused, at the doctor's recital. Being rather more
suspicious of the housekeeper than his mother, and no doubt for good
reasons best known to himself, he followed on to the kitchen, and
was an ear-witness to what passed between John and the sub-mistress
of the mansion.

"Come, John, now that's a good fellow," said he to the negro, after
the housekeeper had retired, "take in some wood to poor Mrs.
Warburton."

"'Fraid, Massa Billy, 'deed. 'Fraid of (sic) penetentiary--ha! ha!!
ha!!!"

"She can't help that, though, John. So come along, and take the wood
in."

"'Fraid, i'deed, Massa Billy."

"Well, if you don't, I'll take it in myself, and dirty all my
clothes, and then somebody will find it out, without my turning
tell-tale."

John grinned a broad smile, and forthwith, finding himself
outwitted, carried in the wood, and left it in the middle of the
floor, without saying a word.

Towards evening, just before the company assembled, little William,
not at all disposed to forget, as every one else had done, the poor
sufferers next door, went to the housekeeper's room, where she was
busy as a bee with preparations for the party, and stationed himself
in the door, accosted her with--

"Miss Sarah, have you been in to see Mrs. Warburton, as ma told you,
to-day?"

"That's no concern of yours, Mr. Inquisitive."

"But I'd just like to know, Miss Sarah; 'cause I'm going in myself,
if you hav'nt been."

"Do you suppose that I have not paid attention to what your ma said?
I know my own business, without instruction from you."

"Well, I don't believe you've been in, so I don't, that's all; and
if you don't say yes or no at once, why, you see, I'll go right in
myself."

"Well (coaxingly) never mind, Billy, I haint been in, I've been so
busy; but just wait a little bit, and I'll go There's no use of your
going; you can't do nothing."

"I know that, Miss Sarah, and that's why I want you to go in. But if
you don't go in, I will, so there, now!"

"Well, just wait a little bit, and I'll go."

The child, but half satisfied, slowly went away, but lingered about
the passages to watch the housekeeper. Night, however, came on, and
he had not seen her going. All were now busy lighting up, and making
the more immediate and active preparations for the reception of
company, when he met her in the hall, and to his, "Look here, I say,
Miss Sarah," she hurried past him unheeding.

The company at last assembled, and the hours had passed away until
it was nine o'clock. Without, all was cold, bleak, and cheerless.
Within, there was the perfection of comfort.

Little William had been absent for some time, but no one missed him.
Just as a large company were engaged in the various ways of passing
time, dancing, chatting, and partaking of refreshments, the room
door opened, and in came Master Billy, dragging in by the hand, a
little barefoot fellow about his own age, with nothing on but a
clean, well-patched shirt, and a pair of linen trowsers. Without
heeding the company, he pulled him up to the glowing grate, and in
the fulness of his young benevolent heart, cried out,

"Here's fire, Charley! Warm yourself, old fellow! Hurrah! I guess
I've fixed Miss Sarah now." And the little fellow clapped his hands
as innocently and as gracefully, as if there had been no one in the
room but himself and Charley.

All was agreeable and curious confusion in a few minutes, and scores
crowded around the poor child with a lively interest, who, an hour
before would have passed him in the street unnoticed.

"Why, Willy! what does all this mean?" exclaimed the father, after
something like order had been restored.

"Why, pa, you see, this is Charley Warburton," began the little
fellow, holding the astonished Charley by the hand, and presenting
him quite ceremoniously to his father. "Doctor H--came here
to-day, and told ma that his mother was sick next door, and that
they had no wood. So ma tells Sarah to send John in with some wood,
and to go in herself and see if they wanted anything. So Sarah goes
and tells John to go and take some wood in. But John he wa'nt going
to go, till I told him that if he didn't go I would, and if I went
to carrying in wood, I'd dirty all my clothes, and then somebody
would want to know the reason. So John he carried in some wood. Then
I watched Sarah, but she didn't go in. So I told her about it. And
then she promised, but didn't go. I told her again, and she
promised, but didn't go. I waited and waited until night, and still
Sarah didn't go in. Then you see, awhile ago I slipped out the front
door, and tried to go in to Mrs. Warburton's. But it was all so dark
there, that I couldn't see anybody; and when I called 'Charley,'
here, his mother said, softly, 'who's there,' and I said 'it's only
little Willy. Ma wants to know if you don't want nothing.' 'Oh, it's
little Willy--it's little Willy!' says Charley, and he jumps on the
floor, and then we both came in here. O! it's so dark and cold in
there--do pa go in, and make John build them a fire."

During the child's innocent but feeling recital, more than one eye
filled with tears. Mrs.--hung down her head for a moment, in
silent upbraidings of heart, for having consigned a work of charity
to neglectful and unfeeling servants. Then taking her child in her
arms, she hugged him to her bosom, and said,

"Bless you, bless you, my boy! That innocent heart has taught your
mother a lesson she will not soon forget." The father felt prouder
of his son than he had ever felt, and there were few present who did
not almost wish him their own. Little Charley was asked by Mr.--if
he was hungry, on observing him wistfully eyeing a piece of cake.

"We haint had nothin' to eat all day, sir, none of us."

"And why not, my little man?" asked Mr.--in a voice of assumed
calmness.

"'Cause, sir, we haint got nothin' to eat in the house. Mother
always had good things for us till she got sick, and now we are all
hungry, and haint got nothin' to eat."

"Here, Sarah, (to the housekeeper, who came in at the moment)--no,
not you, either--do you, Emma, (to his wife,) give this hungry child
some nourishing food with your own hands. He has a claim on you, for
the sake of our little Willy."

Mrs.--was not slow in relieving Charley's wants and then, after
excusing herself to the company, she visited, with John and Sarah,
the humble, uncomplaining child of humanity, who had been suffering,
so painfully, in the next house to her comfortable dwelling.

The light carried by John revealed, in the middle of the floor, the
armful of wood, in large logs, almost impossible to kindle, which
the servant had thrown down there without a word, or an offer to
make a fire. Mrs.--'s heart smote her when she saw this evidence
of her neglect of true charity. Enveloped in the bed-clothes, she
found Mrs. Warburton and her little child, the former suffering from
pain and fever, and the latter asleep, with tears glistening on her
eyelashes. The room was so cold that it sent chills all over her, as
she had come in without throwing a shawl around her shoulders.

"I am sorry to find you so sick, and everything around you so cold
and comfortless," she said, addressing Mrs. Warburton.

"I don't feel so very sick, ma'am, only when I try to sit up, I grow
so faint, and have to lie down again. If my little things had
anything to eat, I wouldn't mind it much."

Just then, aroused by the voice of her mother, the little girl
awoke, and began moaning and crying. She could not speak plain, and
her "bed and mik, mamma"--"O, mamma, bed and mik," thrilled every
heart-string of Mrs.--, who had never before in her life witnessed
the keen distress of a mother while her child asked in vain for
bread. She drew the child out of bed, and kissing it, handed it to
Sarah, whose feelings were also touched, and told her to take the
little thing into her house, and give it to the nurse, with
directions to feed it, and then come back.

By this time, John, rather more active than usual, had kindled a
fire, the genial warmth of which began already to soften the keen
air of the room. Some warm drinks were prepared for Mrs. Warburton;
and Mrs.--had the satisfaction to see her, in the course of half
an hour, sink away into a sweet and refreshing slumber. On glancing
around the room, she was gratified, and somewhat surprised, to see
everything, though plain and scanty, exhibiting the utmost order and
cleanliness. The uncarpeted floor was spotless, and the single pine
table as white as hands could make it. "How much am I to blame," was
her inward thought, "for having so neglected this poor woman in her
distress and in her poverty!"

On returning to her company, and giving a history of the scene she
had just witnessed, the general feeling of sympathy prompted
immediate measures for relief, and a very handsome sum was placed in
the hands of Mrs.--, by the gentlemen and ladies present, for the
use of Mrs. Warburton. Rarely does a social company retire with each
individual of it so satisfied in heart as did the company assembled
at Mrs.--'s, on that evening. Truly could they say, "It is more
blessed to give than to receive."

The incident just related, possessing a kind of romantic interest,
soon became noised about from family to family, and for awhile it
was fashionable to minister to the wants of Mrs. Warburton--whose
health continued very delicate--and to her young family. But a few
months passed away, and then one after another ceased to remember or
care for her. Even Mrs.--, the mother of little Billy, began to
grow weary of charity long continued, and to feel that it was a
burdensome task to be every day or two obliged to call in or inquire
after the poor invalid. Finally, she dismissed the subject from her
mind, and left Mrs. Warburton to the tender mercies of Sarah, the
housekeeper.

From a state of deep despondence to one of hope, had Mrs. Warburton
been raised, by the timely aid afforded through the persevering
interference of the little playmate of her son. But she soon began
to perceive, after a time, that the charity was only spasmodic, and
entered into without a real consideration of her peculiar case. The
money given her was the best assistance that could have been
rendered, for with this she obtained a supply of wood, flour, meal,
potatoes, and some warm clothing for her little ones. But this would
not last always, and the multitude of little nice things sent from
this one and that, were of but little service.

The month of March, so trying to a weak and shattered constitution,
found her just well enough to venture out to seek for employment at
her old business of cigar-making. She readily obtained work, and
again sat down to earn for herself and children, the bread that
should nourish them. But she was soon made to feel keenly that her
health was not as it had been. A severe pain in the side was her
daily companion, and she had to toil on, often sick and faint, from
daylight until long after others had sought the grateful repose of
their pillows. Painfully alive to a sense of dependence, she was
ready at any time to work beyond her strength rather than to eat the
bread of charity. This kept her steadily bending over her work until
nature again became exhausted, and she was forced, from direct
debility, to suspend her labours for at least the half of every day.
As April came in, with an occasional warm day, her appetite
gradually left her, and she began to experience a loathing of food.
Weakness, headaches, and other painful warnings of nature, were the
consequences. Her earnings were now so small, that she with
difficulty procured enough of food for her children. She knew that
if she would let Mrs.--know her pressing destitution, food and
other necessaries would be supplied; but she shrank from telling her
wants. Finding, however, that her strength continued to fail, until
she was unable to sit up but for a few hours at a time, and that, in
consequence of her extreme weakness, the nausea produced by the
tobacco was so great, as to render it almost impossible for her to
work in it, she made up her mind to let her boy go in to Mrs.--,
with a request to send her some little thing that she could eat, in
hopes that something from her table might provoke an appetite.

Mrs.--was sitting at her dinner-table, which was covered with the
luxuries of the season, when little Charley came into the room and
handed in his poor mother's request.

"Please, ma'am, mother says will you be so good as to send her some
little thing that she could eat. She has no appetite, and not eatin'
makes her so weak."

"Here's some pie, Charley," struck in little Billy. "It's good, I
tell you! Eat it now; and ma, do send in Charley's mother a piece,
too: I know she'll like it."

But Billy and his mother did not agree in this. The latter thought a
little sago would be much better. So she gave Charley a paper in
which were a few spoonfuls of sago.

"Here is some sago, mother," said Charley, on his return,
"Mrs.--says it will do you good."

Now it so happened that, from a child, she had never liked sago.
There was something in it so insipid to her, that she had never felt
an inclination to more than taste it. Particularly now did her
stomach loathe it. But, even if she had felt an inclination to taste
the sago, she had not, at the time, any way to prepare it so as to
make it palatable. She did not, however, at the time, send for
anything else. She still had some flour and potatoes, and a little
change to buy milk, and on these her children fared very well.
Healthy food does not cost a great deal in this country, and Mrs.
Warburton had long before learned to husband well her resources.

On the next morning she tried to get up, but fainted away on the
floor. Her children were still asleep, and were not even awakened by
her fall. It was some time before she recovered sufficiently to
crawl upon the bed; and there she lay; almost incapable of thought
or motion, for hours. As feeble nature reacted again, and she was
able to think over her situation, she made up her mind to send in
her little boy again to Mrs.--, with an apology for not using the
sago, and request her to give her some little thing from her
table--anything at all that would be likely, as she said, "to put a
taste in her mouth," and induce an appetite for food. The child
delivered the message in the best way he knew how, but some how or
other it offended the ear of Mrs.--, who had begun to be tired of
what she was pleased to call the importunities of Mrs. Warburton;
though, in fact, she had never before even hinted that she was in
want of anything. The truth was, Sarah, the housekeeper, had heard
something from somebody, about Mrs. Warburton, and had been relating
the puerile scandal to Mrs.--, who, instead of opposing the
tattling propensity in her servant, encouraged it, by lending to her
silly stories an attentive ear. But the story was false, from
beginning to end, as are nearly all the idle rumours which are
constantly circulating from one family to another, through the
medium of servants.

"How did she do," she had just been saying to Sarah, "before I
befriended her? It is a downright imposition upon my good-nature,
and I have no notion of encouraging idleness."

"The fact is, ma'am," chimed in the maid, "these here poor people,
when you once help 'em, think you must be a'ways at it; they find it
so much easier to beg than work."

Just at this stage of conversation, the child timidly preferred the
humble and moderate request of his sick mother; a request that
should have thrilled the heart of any one possessing a single human
sympathy. But it came at the wrong moment. The evil of self-love was
active in the heart of Mrs.--, and all love of the neighbour was
for the time extinguished. She cast upon the child a look so
forbidding that the little fellow turned involuntarily to go.

"Here, Sarah," said she, in a half-angry tone, "send Mrs. Warburton
a dried herring. Perhaps that will 'put a taste in her mouth.'"

And a herring was sent!

"It's a pretty pass, indeed," said Miss Sarah, as the child closed
the door, "when beggars become choosers!"

Only half satisfied with herself, Mrs.--turned away and made no
reply. How differently did she feel on the night, when, with her own
hands, she ministered to the wants of this same suffering child of
humanity! Then her heart, though melted even to tears, felt a
bounding gladness, from the consciousness of having relieved the
suffering. Now it was heavy and sad in her bosom, and she could not
hush the whispers of an accusing conscience.

Little Charley carried home the herring, and laid it on the bed
before his sick mother. His own little heart was full, for he could
not mistake the manner of Mrs.--for kindness. Mrs. Warburton
looked at the uninviting food, and turned her head away. After
awhile, it did seem to her as if the fish would taste good to her,
and she raised herself up with an effort, and breaking off a small
piece, put it languidly to her lips. The morsel thrilled upon the
nerve of taste, and she ate the greater part of it with a relish she
had not known for many weeks.

In the mean time the heart of Mrs.--smote her so severely, when
all at once she remembered having lost her appetite after a spell of
sickness, and the difficulty with which she regained it;--how during
the day, nothing could tempt her to eat, while all night long she
would dream of rich banquets, of which she eagerly desired to
partake, but which changed to tasteless morsels, when she lifted the
inviting food to her lips. For a time she strove against her
feelings, but at last gave up, and ringing for the cook, directed
her to broil a couple of thin slices of ham very nicely, make a good
cup of tea, and a slice or two of toast. When this was ready, it was
sent in to Mrs. Warburton. It came just in time, and met the excited
appetite of the faint-hearted invalid. It was like manna in the
wilderness, and revived and refreshed her drooping frame.

From this time she gradually regained her appetite and strength; and
had the gratification of being able to earn with her own hands
enough for the support of her children.

This she continued to do until the expiration of the solitary
confinement term of her husband. How wearily passed the long, long
days and nights, as the time approached for her again to look upon
the face that had been hid from her sight for three sorrowful years!
The long absence had only excited her affection for him. Not as the
dead had she thought of him, but as of the living, and of the
suffering. Her own deep poverty, sickness, and anxious concern for
her children she counted as nothing to his lonely endurance of life.

Some weeks before the expiration of the first term of imprisonment,
she gathered together all her little store, and having sold many
heavy articles, packed the rest, and had them started for Columbus,
the capital of the state. She then took a deck-passage for herself
and children in a steamboat for Portsmouth, from which place she
determined to walk, carrying her youngest child, a little girl of
nearly three years, in her arms. I will not linger with her, nor
trace her toilsome and lonely journey through strange places,
continued without a day's intermission, until she at last came in
sight of the long-looked-for place. After the time-worn state-house,
the next building that met her eye, was the old, dark-looking
prison, in which was confined her husband. How gladly did her eyes
greet its sombre walls! It was the dwelling-place of one, for whom,
in all his wanderings, her heart retained its warm emotions of love.
Suddenly, like a parching wind of the desert, came upon her the
thought that he might be dead. For three long years she had not been
permitted to receive tidings from him, and who could tell, if in
that time, the wing of death had not o'ershadowed him? Trembling,
weary, and sick at heart, she made her way first to the prison-gate,
and there, to her unspeakable joy, she learned that he still lived.

For many nights previous to the day on which permission would be
granted her to see him, sleep had parted from her eyelids; and when
the time did come, she was in a high state of mental excitement.
Morning slowly dawned upon her anxious eyes, but seemed as if it
would never give place to the broad daylight. At last the sun came
slowly up from his bright chambers in the east. It was the day on
which she should again see her husband; the long-looked-for, the
long-hoped-for. Tremblingly she stole out, ere the day was an hour
old, and ran, not walked, to the gloomy dwelling-place of her
husband.

For several days previous she had not been able to keep away from
the prison, and the keeper, who knew her errand, had become much
interested in her case. He received her kindly, and made instant
preparation for the desired interview.

For three years Warburton had not heard the music of a human voice.
Far away from the sight or sound of his fellow-prisoners, he had
dwelt alone, visited only by the mute keeper who had brought his
daily food, or otherwise ministered to his wants. To his earnest and
oft-repeated inquiries if nothing was known of his wife and
children, for whose welfare a yearning anxiety had sprung up in his
breast, he was answered only by a gloomy silence. He did not know,
even on the morning of his release from solitary confinement, that
the all-enduring companion of his better days had come to cheer his
anxious eyes with her presence. Soon after daylight of this morning
the door of his cell turned heavily on its hinges, and he was
brought out among his fellows, and heard again the sweetest music
that had ever fallen upon his ear, the music of the human voice. A
stronger thrill of pleasure had never passed through his frame. He
felt as though he could remain thus shut out from the rest of the
world for ever, so that he could see and talk with his fellow-men.
He did not then think of the keen delight that awaited him, for in
the first impulse of selfish gratification he had forgotten the
being who loved him better than life.

An hour had not passed when he was again called for. The door of a
private apartment in the keeper's house was thrown open, and he
entered alone. There was but one being present: a pale, haggard
woman, poorly clad, who tottered towards him with extended arms. At
that moment both hearts were too full, and their lips were sealed in
silence. But oh! how eagerly did each bind the other in a long, long
embrace! It seemed as if their arms would never be unlocked. For one
hour were they left, thus alone. But how were years crowded into
that hour; years of endurance--terrible endurance!

It seemed scarcely one-tenth of that short time, when Mrs. Warburton
was summoned away, but with the kind permission to visit her husband
at the same hour every day. Slowly she passed beneath the ponderous
gate, and still more slowly moved away, thinking how long it would
be before another day had passed, bringing another blessed
interview.

The case of Warburton and his faithful wife soon came to the ears of
the governor, and he having expressed considerable sympathy for
them, the fact was soon made known to Mrs. Warburton, who was
recommended to petition him in person for a remission of the
sentence. The hint was no sooner given than acted upon, and after a
delay of several months of hope and fear, to the joy of her heart,
she found her husband at liberty.