men, broken down in
the prime of life. Their limbs were shrunken and drawn. They had been
digging in the earth, and working on high buildings, and confined in
dingy basements, and had done all kinds of hard labor for other men.
They had given their lives and strength for others, and this was the end
of it--to die poor and forsaken. I looked at them, and they reminded me
of the martyrs of old. Ground down, living from hand to mouth, separated
from their families in many cases--they had had a bitter lot. They had
never had a chance to get away from their fate, and had to work till
they dropped. I tell you there is something wrong. We don't do enough
for the people that slave and toil for us. We should take better care of
them, we should not herd them together like cattle, and when we get
rich, we should carry them along with us, and give them a part of our
gains, for without them we would be as poor as they are."

"Good, Harry--I'm with you there," said a voice behind him, and looking
around, we saw Mr. Wood standing in the doorway, gazing down proudly at
his step-son.

Mr. Harry smiled, and getting up, said, "Won't you have my chair, sir?"

"No, thank you; your mother wishes us to come to tea. There are muffins,
and you know they won't improve with keeping."

They all went to the dining-room, and I followed them. On the way, Mr.
Wood said, "Right on top of that talk of yours, Harry, I've got to tell
you of another person who is going to Boston to live."

"Who is it?" said Mr. Harry.

"Lazy Dan Wilson. I've been to see him this afternoon. You know his wife
is sick, and they're half starved. He says he is going to the city, for
he hates to chop wood and work, and he thinks maybe he'll get some light
job there."

Mr. Harry looked grave, and Mr. Maxwell said, "He will starve, that's
what he will do."

"Precisely," said Mr. Wood, spreading out his hard, brown hands, as he
sat down at the table. "I don't know why it is, but the present
generation has a marvelous way of skimming around any kind of work with
their hands, They'll work their brains till they haven't got any more
backbone than a caterpillar, but as for manual labor, it's old-timey and
out of fashion. I wonder how these farms would ever have been carved out
of the backwoods, if the old Puritans had sat down on the rocks with
their noses in a lot of books, and tried to figure out just how little
work they could do, and yet exist."

"Now, father," said Mrs.