HELP US TO HELP EACH OTHER
Now simply because we
select this grand old line from the hymn book is no evidence that a sermon is
to follow; but there is nothing like having a text to start with, even if it is
in writing the reports of a police court. First, lay your foundation and then
tell your story. Well, here goes. Some years ago, there came to Hamilton, a
young Englishman and his wife and two children. He had received a liberal
education, the intention of his parents being to fit him for the life of a
missionary. In his English home, he fell in love with an intellectual young,
and she fell in love with him, and that put an end to all ideas he had about
converting the heathen; the result was a happy marriage, and in due course of
time, bright little babies came to bless the home. Let us call him Bob, for it
is more convenient to have a name for your hero than to wander through your
story without one, even though it is fictitious. Bob had studied the Pitman
system of shorthand, was an accomplished scholar, and had a position as a clerk
in a large commercial house, but as London was full of that class of men, glad
to get a job at any salary, Bob’s pay check was hardly equal o the expenses
incidental to a young family, especially as himself and his dear wife were
brought up in homes of refinement and plenty. Prospects of future preferment
and more salary did not seem to loom up, even in the distance; in fact, the
chances were looking toward a reduction in the clerical force in the house in
which he was employed, and as he was low down on the list, naturally the older
clerks would have the preference. His dream of missionary life had long since
faded away in the bright sunshine of the realities of life, and he had no desire
to enter the ministry and trust to luck and the liberality of the average
church officials for the support of his family, unless he could get inside of
the ring that handed out the paying charges.
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The time came when Bob had to come to
some decision as to his future, as he was too proud to call upon his father for
help, especially as he had disappointed the fond hopes of his parents in taking
a wife instead of devoting his life to the singing of “From Greenland’s icy
mountains and India’s coral strands,” and other soulful missionary hymns. Bob
was human, and the love of a dear girl appealed stronger to his heart than did
the spiritual condition of the heathen in foreign lands. He had saved a little
money out of his meager salary, and as Canada held out the beckoning hand o9f
promise, he bade farewell to his native home and set sail for the ambitious
city, where electricity was doing all the hard work and all the laborer had to
do was draw a fat pay check at the end of the week and live in the lap of
luxury. Poor Bob found out in time that this roseate dream was not all
sunshine, for girls were doing the stenography and bookkeeping and experts only
were needed in the factories and workshops. There was no place open for
educated missionaries in this busy part of the world. He walked the streets day
after day looking for employment, but not being an expert in any line that was
open, he returned to his home in the evening footsore and weary and very much
discouraged. Had his parents sent him to a technical school in his boyhood days
instead of a college, Bob would have become an expert in the mechanical arts,
for he was a young fellow who could have applied himself to industrial
pursuits.
The little money he had brought with
him from the old land melted like the snow, and soon poor Bob and his wife and
children were on the verge of being down and out. One rainy Saturday night,
when everything looked dark and gloomy in Bob’s humble home, some good angel
prompted a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance union to call on the
family, she having heard of their condition.
What was the use of the visitor unless she was prepared to render ‘first
aid’ ? So she prepared a basket of food and started on her rainy journey? The
visitor had met Bob’s wife before, so no formality of introduction was
necessary. To shorten the story, the basket was looked upon as manna from
heaven, to which a two dollar bill was added. On Monday morning, through the
personal acquaintance of the lady’s husband with kind-hearted Tom Towers, who
was then a street foreman, a promise of work for Bob was secured, and that
afternoon he was added to the street gang. It was work that he was unaccustomed
to, and by night was sore in back and with blistered hands after his first half
day as a member of the shovel brigade. Tom Towers made his task as light as
possible, while at the same time he felt it to be his duty to look after the
interests of the city.
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Bob worked with the shovel brigade
till such time as more congenial employment was offered to him. The sun of
prosperity made life brighter for himself and family, and in time his new
employers found that he was too valuable to be employed in the humble capacity
of a laborer; he was advanced to a better job with quite an addition to his
paycheck. He bought a home for his family and provided it with many of the
comforts he and his wife were accustomed to in the English home they had left a
few years before. The company for which he was working gave him another boost
on the ladder, and called him from the town in which they had first appointed
him and brought him back to Hamilton at a salary of over $100 a month. Bob
bought a home in Hamilton and is now the owner of two comfortable houses, on
which there is not a dollar of indebtedness. It is not likely that he will
forget the days of adversity when he first came to Hamilton, nor the kind
friends who came to his relief. Especially will he remember kind-hearted Tom
Towers, who helped him to his first job. Bob’s wife has never forgotten the
friends who helped them, for she told the story to a lady member of the
W.C.T.U. , to whom the readers of these musings are indebted for a recital of
it. The man that is not too proud to work at anything that offers will come out
ahead in the end. There is always room higher up as you climb the ladder.
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HE WORKED IN THE STREETS _ NOW HE IS
THE MANAGER OF A LARGE BUSINESS
The bit of history that we have
written about Bob has its counterpart in the history of another Hamiltonian,
who was down and out a few years ago in Hamilton; not that it was his fault
that he was out of work but the reader can remember when work was scarce and
two men were on the waiting lists for every job. And here is where Tom Towers
came in as the good angel to help another, a brother man in distress. Towers
was a street foreman, and a right good one he was , for he not only knew how to
get the best out of his men, but also how to plan his work in the best
interests of the city. One day Tom was approached by a young fellow whom he had
known for years as a Hamilton boy; in fact, the young fellow was a native of
this old town. We will have to give him a name to designate him while we are
telling his story – Bill Sandstrip, for if there is a spot on this broad earth
that Bill loved, it was the old beach, where he shot ducks and fished in the
happy days of boyhood. Bill had no trade, having spent the first years of life
in acquiring an education in view of studying for a profession. The education
was all right, but the profession never materialized on account of
circumstances, and Bill had to turn his hand at whatever he could find to do.
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Well, to get on with the story, and
not tire the reader with too much detail, bill got in touch with his old friend
Tom Towers, and asked him if there was an opening in his gang for a Weary
Willie who had worn his legs down almost to the first joint in search of work,
and could only get promises of the first vacancy that might arise, which was
not very cheering to say the least. Tom looked Bill up one side and down the
other, and with that good-natured smile on his face that never comes off, he
told Bill that he could not offer him anything that would be desirable. Tom
fancied the well-dressed Bill with a spade in his hands digging in the streets
of his home town , where he had lived a life of ease and comfort, not knowing a
want that could not be gratified. Fancy him in a pair of coarse boots where he
was wont to be seen in the finest calfskin; a pair of trousers that the poorest
man would turn up his nose at if some good Samaritan were to offer them to
cover his naked limbs; with a shirt and felt hat to match. Tom Towers could not
realize his old friend in such garb. Bill had counted the cost to his dignity,
and all he wanted just then was a job that would pay him twenty-five cents an
hour till such time as something better turned up. Well, he was on the city
payroll the next morning, and Foreman Towers had no more faithful man in his
gang. Bill stuck to the shovel brigade for a few weeks and then an unexpected
offer was made to him by a man who admired his independence in working as a day
laborer rather than be a loafer on his friends. Bill Sandstrip was a young man of
good habits who never visited a saloon nor spent time and money as a would-be
sport. Today he is the business manager of one f the large firms in Hamilton,
and it is only a question of time when he will be on top of the ladder. He does
not forget his old friend, Tom Towers, nor does he forget that in his days of
adversity a way was opened to tide over the hard times. Providence helps those
who help themselves.
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WHAT ABOUT TOM TOWERS ?
Tom is a Hamilton boy from the ground
up. When a youth he learned the carpenter’s trade, and developed into a
competent workman. From the time that he had arrived at man’s estate, Tom took
an interest in ward two’s politics, and he was somewhat of a hustler on
election days. It was all fun for him, and he had no idea of ever getting into
the game beyond helping a friend who might be a candidate. A. D. Stewart took
quite a fancy to Tom, and when he was elected mayor of the city, he offered to
give him a hand to the “pork barrel.” Tom had no ambition for a city job, in
fact he preferred shoving a jack plane and being independent. Hard times struck
Hamilton pretty hard in those days, and Tom, like hundreds of carpenters and
other mechanics, was out of a job. Mayor Stewart got busy and found there was
an opening in the office of foreman of streets and he offered it to Tom. The
temptation was too great for Tom to resist, although he was somewhat doubtful
of his abilities to fill the office, but he concluded to give it a trial. And
Tom Towers got on the city payroll, and he has been there ever since. No change
in the city’s administration has affected Tom’s standing, for he has been
promoted from one department to another, wherever his experience better fitted
him, till now he holds the responsible place of superintendent of the
waterworks. Tom is no shirker, no matter what hour of the day or night duty
calls him, and the official head of his department has confidence in his
ability.
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THE OLD-TIME METHODIST CONFERENCE
The old-time Methodist preachers were
wags in their way, and when they met at the annual conferences they generally
had a jolly time. It was the old story, when the cat’s away the mice can play,
and these good brethren, being out of sight of the saints to whom they
dispensed the gospel when at the home church, gave vent to their humorous
natures. Brethren who had probably not met since they parted in the college
campus on commencement day, greeted each other in loving embrace, and talked
over the happy days of college life. For this hour they forgot that they were
staid Methodist preachers, but they were boys again, recounting the pranks they
used to play on the professors, and how one class was always on the lookout to
catch the other fellows at a disadvantage. The story was told of two athletes,
sworn friends, who attended Albert college at Belleville, that they never met
that they did not grab each other and wrestle for mastery. They were splendid
specimens of vigorous young manhood in
their days of college pranks.
It was during a session of conference
that the Rev. W. J. Hunter, who was pastor of one of the congregations in Hamilton,
raised a laugh at the expense of a clerical brother who was known as a regular
tightwad. When the conference plate was passed around among the preachers for
some special object, this brother was always careful to feel down deep into his
trousers and fish out the smallest coin. At a table around which was gathered a
number of the brethren discussing fried chicken and other delicacies that the
good sister who entertained them knew that Methodist preachers loved so well,
it was proposed that after the bounteous meal, each one should tell a story to
pass away the hour. When it came to Brother Hunter’s turn, he related an
imaginary dream that he had a few night’s before. In his dream he went to
heaven, and his picture of the golden streets, the rivers of shining water, the
seraphic choir and so forth were described as only that delightful raconteur
could paint it. When he concluded, Brother Tightwad, who was pastor of a church
in Chatham, asked him in a tone of coarse jocularity:
“Well, Brother Hunter, did you see any
of us in your spiritual dream?”
“Yes, Brother Tightwad, I saw you.”
“Ah! and what was I doing?”
“You were on your knees.”
“Of course, praying.”
“No brother, I must tell the truth.
You were trying to dig up the golden streets of the New Jerusalem.”
Ah ! that was long ago, and but few
are left to tell the story of the ministerial match down at the Grand Trunk
depot, or whether Brother Tightwad’s pocketbook shook out more generously when
the conference collections were being taken up.
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