LIFE-PICTURE

New Zealand Tablet, 29 July 1915, Page 7

LIFE-PICTURE

- It was late [in March. Slush was under foot; the air was damp with a,,chilling'fog and one could scarcely see twenty feet ahead. ;,/ ;■;: . ; .:-v / /■;>" -But. in spite of all discomforts the poor must go to work.- ; Through fog and slush, pas£- newsboys, a thin, struggling line of workers wended its way to the street car. .Down in the morning, back at night, day after day, for weeks, for months, for years. 'lf they fell sick there were others to take their places.. They were cast aside as broken parts of the great human machine. Other workers stepped in, the broken parts were forgotten, .and the human grind goes on and one with never-ending clocklike regularity. . At a house in East street dwelt one of these poor working people. The building was a narrow, threestorey wooden house of dull red color. On the ground floor was a grocery store, on the second lived the proprietor of this store and on the third a working girl and her widowed mother. lii one of the small, dingy rooms on the third floor sat a pale, emaciated girl of nineteen eating her breakfast. A cup of tea, a crust of bread, and a bit of dry cheese composed her meagre meal. Her mother bustled about the room, preparing a lunch for her daughter. She was as thin as the child, but more wiry and with all her hurried work she never ceased to look at the sickly girl and to urge her to eat her breakfast. ' Don't hurry so. You've lots of time. Won't you have some more tea? No-?' _" Her mother looked at her anxiouslv ' and sorrowfully. ,-. 'I must get something for that cold,' she said, " I must do it to-day. I'll get ,' she stopped abruptly and her eyes became moist, for she recollected that she had only eighty-seven cents in the house and the girl would need ten cents for carfare. 'Oh, never mind, 1 it will soon be warm weather and then the cough will leave and I'll be better.' .... Taking her lunch she went down the creaking stairs into the cold, foggy air to take her place again as one of the wheels in the great grinding machine. At the factory door she entered —one of 320 —and was registered by the recorder in the hall. At 7.30 work began and continued without cessation till'noon; then time was given for dinner: after this work was resumed till 5.30. Her ' particular work was cutting in the men's clothing department. The damp weather of March had brought on her coughing spells, and -to the annoyance caused by the dampness was added that occasioned by the fine,- penetrating dust that is often present in a large- factory. The overseer had inhumanly reprimanded her for delaying those around her. This day she was coughing almost constantly. - :; 'Miss Margrave,' said the overseer to her, 'if you don't work as you should I'll discharge you. I'll not stand it any longer. Remember.' The girl almost sobbed aloud, but exerting herself with a heroic effort, she managed to brace up sufficiently to avoid being discharged. Coming home one evening she met Father at the big church at Southport and Lincoln avenues. He was speaking to some workmen. 'She had seen the priest occasionally, as she had to pass the parish- house and church on her way to work, and he always had a kind word for her. She looked up to him as she passed, and the priest, turning from the men, greeted her with a friendly Good evening' that went straight to <\ the poor girl's heart. L." :;: .--.:■• - - ■■;.' . »-u ; fg It was the first word of true "friendship she had heard since leaving home that .morning. It 'greatly gladdened her poor soul and made her feel that, after all, life could have some soothing balm in it if people would only be kind. 1 She answered 'Good evening,' and walked on with a lighter step. .'" i;; ~..x . f- tt gvvj .

grace these words were destined to become. But as with him,, so with us, the little things we think not of are often the means employed by tUe Almighty to spread abroad the light of faith and to lead wandering souls back to Him. As she opened the door of the house, her mother took a bottle from the shelf above the stove. J ' There's the medicine,' she said joyfully. ' I told you I'd get it to-day. You must take some right away, and then you'll soon be better.' Looking around the room anxiously, the,girl's quick glance soon told her that there were only three chairs in the room now, where this morning there had been five. She said nothing, but she felt her heart sink as she realised how poor they were fast becoming. Silently she took the medicine her mother held out to her, thanked her sweetly, and then, recollecting the ' good evening ' of the priest, she said : 'Oh, mother, I saw Father —— this evening* and he spoke to me. He is the only person besides you who ever speaks kindly to me. I don't see how his religion can be bad and wicked as we are told. Anyhow, I know that it hasn't made him bad yet.' ' No telling what it may do, my child,' said her mother. •' Those Catholics aren't to be trusted. I've heard awful stories about priests that don't say anything good about them.' ' But, mother, do you think all these stories are true? You know people tell lies sometimes. They've told frightful ones even about us, and surely we don't harm any one.' ' No, no, my child, God know's we haven't. But these Catholics ' Here she shrugged her shoulders and was silent. ' I don't think we really ought to believe what people say of Catholics. I know some Catholic girls who work in the factory with me, and they're just as good as the other girls. Annie Hanin, a Catholic girl, gave me half of her lunch the other day when I forgot mine. They don't hate us; they can't. I don't believe it, and when I get a chance I'm going to ask Father about his religion. I'm sure we can believe him.' Summer came and went; autumn succeeded, with its falling leaves and chilling fogs. She had been feeling quite well during the summer months, but when the damp weather returned the cough came with it. Finally she had to give up her work. The world was fast gliding from her. She was. obliged to remain in bed. Her weekly wages ceased. Death from starvation and from cold stared her in the face. She dreaded death; she knew not what it meant. She had never been taught to look beyond this life, to live for something higher and nobler. She had heard several ministers preach, but they had given forth no definite, tangible belief in life beyond the grave. One morning she called her mother and said : ' I would like to see Father -. Please go and ask him to come and see me. I'm suro he will if you only ask him.' Mrs. Margrave demurred at first, saying that no good could ever come of it, but seeing the earnestness of her daughter, and hoping to please her, she asked the grocer downstairs to go for the priest. The priest came an hour later. 'Good evening, madam; you sent for me?' 'Yea, sir.' 'What can Ido for you? Do you go to St. Alphonsuri' Church?' 'No, sir; but my daughter, who is sick, wanted to see you. She knows you,' and the woman led the priest into tho sick-room. He at once recognised in the sick ijirl the one who used to pass his place so regularly in the summer He recollected that he had not seen her lately. ' So, my child, it is you,' he said, holding out his hand to her. ' You look very sick. I know your face, but what is your name?' ' Stella Margrave, Father,' answered the girl, already feeling better at the kind manner of the priest.

'lt is so kind of you to come and see, me. I was almost afraid to send for you.' ' . £T I Afraid Why are you afraid of me?' ';" 'Oh, no, Father; I didn't mean that. I meant that I didn't like to ask you to come to see me.', ' Well, poor girl, what can I do for you ? Are vou a Catholic?' ' • ■ ; J % No, Father mother and I don't belong to any Church, but I feel I would like to become a Catholic before I die.' .'-■.; ' Very well, but what put such a thing into your head?' ' Oh, Father, you've been so kind to me that I thought if your religion made you so it must be good.' ' In what way have I been kind; I can't remember having done anything for you?' ' Indeed you have— don't you remember how I used to pass the church every evening and how you used to say " Good evening" to me each time? Well, that was the one kind word that a stranger spoke to me the livelong day, and when I didn't see you I came home with a heavy heart and could not feel happy.' ' I am glad I caused you some little happiness, though it was very little, indeed. But are you sincere in your desire to become a Catholic on this frail reason ' Yes, Father, I feel that I could be happier if I were a Catholic like you, and I wish you to "tell me about your religion. I've heard some things about Catholics, but I don't see how they can be true. Can I ever become one ' You can. Were you ever baptised ' No, Father.' ~ \ ' Do you know anything about the Catholic religion V ' I have heard some things about it. Won't you have time to teach me all,' asked the girl, looking wistfully at him, for she began to think it would be impossible for him to waste so much time on her. ' Oh, yes, I'm only too glad to do so. I'll come every day to teach you.' ' Oh, thank you, Father,' said the poor girl, now in tears. ' I'm sorry to give you so much trouble.' The priest began to speak of the religion she so longed to know and to make her own. The moth* 1 " with pinched and hunger-worn face remained, and both mother and daughter were attentive listeners to the explanation. They were the poorest of the poor: no fire in the stove, a broken cup with water to moisten those parched lips, a low truckle bed on which lay the helpless sufferer, two rush-bottom chairs, an unpainted washstand, a narrow strip of bedside carpet, a table, and in, one corner a straw mattress — the mother's bed that was all the furniture. The clerk downstairs was instructed to keep them supplied with groceries and fuel. The doctor was sent for. It was too late. He gave no hope of recovery. The young girl rallied, however, under the influence of the food and warmth, and was able to listen while the truths of faith were unfolded to her mind. As the cold weather came she grew worse, and it was soon evident that she roulrl last but a few days. Accordingly, she was baptised and received her first and last Communion. ' I feel so happy, Father: how sweet you made death for me,' she said. Then suddenly her eyes opened wide c ind a, beautiful smile passed over her face. It faded into marble white. The priest read the solemn prayers of the ritual, so majestic and consoling. As the Sacred Unction was applied, as those tender and mercy-breathing words of the Church were recited, imploring God's forgiveness for all past sins and frailties, her thin, wasted hands were joined reverently in silent prayer. When the priest was leaving she whispered, ' Come back, Father; it won't be long now. You have been so good to me. Mother and I had to bear much in our poverty and sickness, but it is worth all these sorrows, and a thousand times more, to be brought so

near to God in the end, and, Father—you’ll take care of mother when I’m gone?’ =' How little we know of the ways of God, and how little we know of the influence we exercise by our simplest words and works of charity upon those we meet. It is eight months since we first saw Stella Margrave going to work. The morning is as damp and foggy as it was then. The door of the house in East street opens and four men appear, carrying a narrow, deal coffin. Regardless of these, the working people are making their way through the fog. Grind —grind—grind—the human machine runs on. A wheel has been broken, cast aside, and replaced. But amid all this din and turmoil, amid all this strife and struggle, amid all this human surging to and fro, the Almighty reigns supreme. The church Stella Margrave passed so often, worn and weary, received her remains within its sacred walls and imparted to them a last blessing. How many noble-hearted souls there are created by God for a high purpose, but who seem born to suffer and to weep. But outside of the Church they must bear their anguish alone. How they envy those who, like the penitent Magdalen, can kneel at the feet of Jesus and hear from His blessed lips the sweet words of pardon and peace. In vain do they listen for that voice calling the ' weary and heavy-laden ’ to comfort and rest, for that voice is only heard within the * Shepherd's fold.’— Lir/norian.