Have you lifted a stone from your brother’s way,
As he struggled along life’s road?
Have you lovingly touched some frail, toil-worn hand,
Shared with someone his heavy load?

O the things we may do, you and I, you and I;
O the love we can give if we try!
Just a word or a song as we’re passing along,
They will count in the great by and by.

Have you spoken a word full of hope and cheer?
Have you walked with a slower pace,
Till the weary of heart who were stumbling on,
Took new courage to run the race?

Have you held up your light through the shadows dark,
So that somebody else might see?
Have you lived with the Christ through the long, long day,
Gaining many a victory?

“No visit to New Orleans is complete without a pilgrimage to St. Roque, and you must go there. I have some wishes to make, and will go with you.”

So said my friend, whom I will call “Nell.,” for short.

“Some wishes to make?” I repeated.

“Yes,” she said. “According to an old legend, one may get any wish granted by walking to St. Roque—never stopping on the way—saying a prayer, and making a wish.”

“How easy! And who, pray, might St. Roque be?” I asked.

“O, he was just a saint,” she said, lightly, “a very holy man. I don’t know much about him, but I do know that wishes are granted at St. Roque’s Church. I’ve tried it. I wished once for money, and got it.”

Nell. was not raised a Catholic, but has drifted that way from superstition and association.

Seeing that I was still unbelieving, she appealed to Miss Cecilia, a lovely Creole girl, a native of the city, and a pure and tender lamb of the Catholic fold.

Miss Cecilia is religious. She attends all the masses, says all the prayers, names all the saints, and things heaven is a gigantic convent. When her brother lay dangerously ill she made nine pilgrimages to St. Roque’s, and is serenely confident that his health was restored on account of her penance in walking the five miles, and on account of the candles she burned and the holy water she sprinkled herself with. So she is quite an authority.

“Go, by all means,” she said; “you will never regret it. Any time is good, but St. Joseph’s Day is the best, except Good Friday. O,” she said, fervently, her fine eyes glowing, “it is a lovely place to go to pray!”

“I can pray anywhere,” I responded, “and don’t think that the place makes any difference.”

“But it does,” argued Nell. and Miss Cecilia in a breath, “because St. Roque’s has been blessed.”

“And who blessed it?” I asked.

They responded: “Why, the priests, to be sure!”

So a time was set for the pilgrimage, and, as a searcher for quaint and historic spots, I was glad to go; but before starting my friend took me to a little shop where all sorts of Catholic things are for sale—prayer books, images, rosaries, wax tapers, altar clothes, etc.

“Let me see a St. Joseph,” she said; and the shop-woman brought out some little pewter things that looked like cartridges. A pewter cap was on each, which, being removed, showed the tiny figure of a man with a child in his arms.

“Nickel apiece,” said the woman. “Maybe you take three for a dime.”

“One is enough,” said Nell.; and, while searching in her pocketbook for the nickel, she asked: “Which is the best charm for money?”

“St. Joseph is the best,” the woman said, “for money, but St. Benedict is the best for health. Always put the image in the shell on his head. See?”

Nell. took the tiny saint, whose value is so small, and led the way up the street. I, being a looker-on in Venice, followed her.

She stopped at the Jesuits’ church and went in. The pale and careworn face of a brother appeared at a little grating, and Nell. said: “Can I get this St. Joseph blessed?”

He bowed.

She laid a dime on the window sill, saying: “For the poor.”

He bowed again, took the image and the dime, and vanished, but returned in a moment, saying: “The Father has blessed it.”

“Now,” she said, as we went out, “this St. Joseph is yours. It has to be a gift, it has to be blessed, and it brings you good luck. Nearly every soul in New Orleans carries one for luck. Even the Jewish shop-girls carry them in their pocketbooks.”

I received it meekly, and it lies in my pocketbook; but if any good luck has come with it, I fail to know it.

As the old saying is, “we took foot in hand” and stepped off on our walk—a long, long walk, up one street and down another, until finally the picturesque little chapel, covered with ivy and surrounded by tombs, came into view.

At the gate is a little lodge, and in the windows are souvenirs for sale—tiny gold spoons, with the chapel engraved in the bowl (price, $1.50); beads, crosses, and more St. Josephs.

The door bore the legend, “No admittance, only on business,” and I was surprised when Nell. knocked.

A priest responded, who was the opposite of the Jesuit, being hale, hearty, and looking well fed. A few words passed and he handed her a tin candlestick, with a long, slim candle set therein, for a nickel.

“Will you have one?” she asked?

“No, no,” I said; “I can see well enough without a light.”

It might have been fancy, but I thought that a contemptuous smile played for a moment on the full lips of the priest; and not wishing to appear stingy in not buying the candle, I said I would like a “Life of St. Roque” that was in the window. It was a small pamphlet, and I supposed would be a nickel; but when he said a quarter, I declined.

We went up the beautiful shell walk, Nell. carrying her unlighted candle before her, and several other ladies doing the same.

The altar was ablaze with numberless candles, and was gay with flowers; pictures and images were on the walls; but my attention was drawn to the full-length marble figure which lay in a glass case under the altar, and before which all the candles were burning. It was the sculptor’s conception of the body of our Savior after the crucifixion, and was so real and lifelike that my heart contracted painfully as I gazed. The lifeless look, the suffering stamped upon the dead face, the thorn-wreathed brow, the wounded side, the pierced hands and feet, were terrible for me to look upon, and I wondered that others seemed so careless and unmoved.

On each side of the altar is a large urn to hold offerings to St. Roque. Hands and feet of marble and plaster hang thereto to commemorate miraculous cures wrought there. In a corner stand a pair of crutches, and marble hearts and blocks, with “Thanks” and “Merci” inscribed thereon, hang on the wall or cluster on the altar.

“O, it is wonderful,” says Nell., “the cures that have been wrought here!”

“Who does the curing?” I ask.

She answers: “St. Roque has it done.”

I look again at the pitiful figure under the altar, and think: “They put him to an open shame.”

Nell. dips deeply into the holy water, puts money into the contribution box, and we sit awhile on the old, old seats, while her candle burns itself away.

St. Roque’s is a tomb. I discover that the walls are numbered crypts for the dead. What is overhead I know not, but there is another story.

We go out and walk around the churchyard, and, in so doing, follow an old lady, who, Nell. tells me, is “doing” the stations of the cross. There is no room inside for the pictures which trace the life of Christ from the cradle to the tomb, so they have little porches built to shelter them, where people may pray. Some of the pictures are very old, and exposure to the air has faded and tarnished them; but some are in bas-relief, and are wonderful for naturalness of expression.

The churchyard is inclosed by a brick wall, and the wall is a tomb, or a collection of tombs, the coffins being slipped into vaults just large enough to hold them, and sealed.

But Nell. has another thought. “Let us go to the wish well,” she says, leading the way. It is a round hole in the middle of the walk, paved with marble; and one must look at his or her own reflection in the water, and wish.

A boy comes up and says “Would you like some sacred heart clover for luck?” and while Nell. is hunting another nickel for him, I examine the clover, and think that a touch of brown paint in skillful hands will work the miracle every time. “It is found in this cemetery alone,” he says and superstitious Nell. believes him.

He goes into the church and gathers up the empty candlesticks and takes them to the priest. Other visitors are coming in a constant stream with fresh candles, and this candle burning is certainly a source of revenue. Who gets it, I don’t know, neither do the devout Catholics.

Miss Cecilia tells me that it is a beautiful service at early mass, when the priest makes the round of the pictures, chanting in Latin (which they do not understand), and followed by the congregation; and she wonders that “poor Protestants can keep their religion together.”

St. Roque’s is only one of many churches here almost worshiped by the people, but having an added value in their eyes as being a granter of wishes. It is said that the Creole girls go there to wish for husbands. My friend only wished for the wherewith to keep up the husband she has.

“For Christ and the church” let our voices ring,
Let us honor the name of our own blessed King;
Let us work with a will in the strength of youth,
And loyally stand for the kingdom of truth.

For Christ, our dear Redeemer,
For Christ, the crucified;
For the church His blood hath purchased;
The church, His holy bride.

“For Christ and the church” be our earnest prayer,
Let us follow His banner, the cross daily bear;
Let us yield, wholly yield, to the gospel’s power,
And serve faithfully every day, every hour.

“For Christ and the church” willing offerings make,
Time and talents and gold for the dear Master’s sake;
We will render the best we can bring to Him,
The heart’s wealth of love, that will never grow dim.

“For Christ and the church” let us cast aside,
By His conquering grace, chains of self, fear, and pride;
May our lives be enriched by an aim so grand;
Then happy the call to the Savior’s right hand.

Once I knew a joyous maiden,
Happy as a summer bird,
Laughing, singing ‘mong the flowers;
Her young heart with pleasure stirred.
O the happy days of childhood!
How they flit like phantoms by!
While I retrospect those hours,
Wondering vaguely: Was it I?

How I marveled then at faces
Growing graver with the years,
And at eyes that lost their brightness,
Quenched their light in bitter tears!
Now I marvel at the gladness
Of the days so long gone by,
While I sit a silent weeper,
Wondering: Can this be I?

Happy hours—they have fled forever;
Happy heart has left my breast;
Childhood’s days have fled like shadows,
Womanhood hath brought no rest.
All alone in wintry darkness
Sit I as the days go by,
Thinking of my happy girlhood,
Wondering: Can this be I?

In heavenly love abiding, no change my heart shall fear.
And safe is such confiding, for nothing changes here.
The storm may roar without me, my heart may low be laid,
But God is round about me, and can I be dismayed?

Wherever He may guide me, no want shall turn me back.
My Shepherd is beside me, and nothing can I lack.
His wisdom ever waketh, His sight is never dim.
He knows the way He taketh, and I will walk with Him.

Green pastures are before me, which yet I have not seen.
Bright skies will soon be o’er me, where darkest clouds have been.
My hope I cannot measure, my path to life is free.
My Savior has my treasure, and He will walk with me.

Prince of Peace! control my will,
Bid this struggling heart be still;
Bid my fears and doubtings cease—
Hush my spirit into peace.

Thou hast bought me with Thy blood,
Opened wide the gate to God;
Peace I ask, but peace must be,
Lord, in being one with Thee.

May Thy will, not mine, be done;
May Thy will and mine be one;
Chase these doubtings from my heart;
Now Thy perfect peace impart.

Savior, at Thy feet I fall;
Thou my life, my God, my All;
Let Thy happy servant be
One forevermore with Thee.

My Jesus, as Thou wilt! Oh, may Thy will be mine!
Into Thy hand of love I would my all resign;
Through sorrow, or through joy, conduct me as Thine own,
And help me still to say, my Lord, Thy will be done!

My Jesus, as Thou wilt! If needy here and poor,
Give me Thy people’s bread, their portion rich and sure.
The manna of Thy Word Let my soul feed upon;
And if all else should fail, my Lord, thy will be done.

My Jesus, as Thou wilt! Though seen through many a tear,
Let not my star of hope grow dim or disappear;
Since Thou on earth hast wept, and sorrowed oft alone,
If I must weep with Thee, my Lord, Thy will be done!

My Jesus, as Thou wilt! All shall be well for me;
Each changing future scene I gladly trust with Thee:
Straight to my home above I travel calmly on,
And sing, in life or death, my Lord, Thy will be done!

“Matilda,” said Mr. Sanders, putting his head in at the kitchen door, “Brother Grice and Brother Lee, from Bumbleton, are here, and will remain to dinner.”

Mr. Sanders was a preacher, who preached at Bumbleton once a month; Matilda was his wife.

“Mercy on me!” she said, staring at him; but in a moment her gaze wandered past him across the field—still farther. She was wondering what she would have for dinner.

“Well,” said Mr. Sanders, fidgeting about the door, “they are in the sitting room, and I must go back. It is ten o’clock, Matilda.”

“I know,” she said, trying to smile. “I’ll have dinner on time; never fear. Go back to your company.”

He looked back as he turned to go, saying, in a hesitating sort of way: “You—you can make out, Matilda.”

“I think so,” she answered. “Did I ever fail?”

When he was gone, Mrs. Sanders sat for a moment gazing into the tub of peaches by her side, and two very bright drops rolled down her thin cheeks; but, wiping them off with her checked apron, she went to the back door, and called, softly: “Nell.!”

“Here, mamma,” answered a cheery young voice; and a curly-haired girl of twelve made her appearance, with foamy soapsuds on her white arms.

“Nell., there are two gentlemen here for dinner—two brethren from Bumbleton—and we must give them something fit to eat. What will it be?”

“O, mamma! What can we have? We have no meat, the cow has gone dry, we are out of flour—out of everything.” There was absolute despair in the girl’s voice.

However, the mother said, bravely: “Never fear; we must have dinner. O, I do hope they have brought your papa some money, and very likely that is their business. Now, fix up a fire, and we will fly around. I’ve got about half a gallon of flour that I have saved for starch. It will answer nicely to make a chicken pie, and a peach pie, also.”

“A chicken pie, mamma? Where is the chicken?”

Mrs. Sanders answered, regretfully: “I’ll have to kill Bennie’s pet.”

“No, no, mamma! It would kill Bennie to come home and find his chicken gone.”

“Not so fast, daughter. People don’t die of broken hearts about a chicken. I regret it, but necessity compels me to kill it.”

“I can’t see him killed, or eat him, either,” said Nell., sobbing.

Mrs. Sanders took down a tin box and rattled it. “One quarter,” she said. “Here, Nell., take it and run over to Mrs. Smith’s; she makes butter to sell. Get one pound of butter—which will be twenty cents, I suppose—the rest in fresh eggs, and borrow a cup of coffee; and hurry.”

But Nell. had gone speeding across lots, bucket in hand. Mrs. Smith was generous. There was a large pound of golden butter in Nell.’s bucket and eight newly-laid eggs in her apron when she returned; and she asked no questions, though she missed Bennie’s pet from the doorstep, and a plate on the table held a fat cut-up chicken.

The pie was soon bubbling and sending forth savory odors; but when the pan was lined with puffy paste for the fruit, Nell. cried, in sudden alarm: “O, mamma, it will be ruined; we have no sugar!”

Mrs. Sanders had forgotten that alarming fact, but her face cleared after a moment’s thought, and she said: “Run into my room, Nell.; look in the closet on the top shelf, and bring me that little jar of honey.”

“But, mamma, that is for cough medicine.”

“No matter; perhaps I can get more. The pie must be made now.”

In a little while the dinner was on the table and looked appetizing enough for any one. A snowy cloth and napkins to match and a tall fruit dish of cut glass filled with flowers in the center of the table pleased the eye; then the chicken pie, with its flaky crusts and rich gravy; the peach pie, tempting and delicious; a dish of scrambled eggs, potato salad, honey, butter, corn bread, biscuits, and coffee which gave off an aroma delightful to coffee drinkers. The dinner was a success.

Nell. was in fine spirits. “Now, mamma,” she said, “run into your room and put on another dress. You must not sit down to this pretty table in that old ragged wrapper.”

“But, Nell., my good wrapper is in the wash.”

“I know it, but don’t let on that all the good calico you possess is in the suds; put on your Sunday dress. Poor mamma, to have but one dress, and that one so old that I don’t know how old it is! But it looks nice yet.”

Mrs. Sanders came back in a moment, attired in a black lawn, which showed signs of darning and remaking, and possibly dyeing. Her still glossy hair was brushed back, but she wore no collar.

“Will I do, Nell.?” she asked, smiling into the bright eyes.

Nell., for answer, ran into the house and returned, out of breath, with an old lace fichu. “Let me fix you,” she said. “This old lace collar is more ‘holy’ than righteous; but when I gather it around the neck—so—and tuck the ends under—so—it looks real nice. Now, I’ll rattle the bell, and as my respectable dress is in the wash, I’ll go and stay with it while you all eat that lovely dinner. O, mamma,” a sudden seriousness coming over her voice and eyes, “I wish we could have such dinners every day!”

Her mother kissed her and she ran out, and in a moment Mr. Sanders and his visiting brethren came in. Mr. Grice and Mr. Lee were hearty, substantial men, and did justice to the good dinner set before them.

Mr. Sanders had been haunted by the lurking fear that his wife could not produce oil and meal from empty vessels; but the sight of the table revived his spirits, and he overflowed with good humor and hospitality. Mrs. Sanders, like the good, true woman that she was, waited on her guests to perfection, and made herself charming in a black lawn ten years old and an old fichu that had a hundred unnecessary holes in it.

Taken altogether, the dinner passed off well, and the brethren departed that evening expressing their satisfaction with Mr. Sanders as a preacher, and their pleasure in meeting his wife. As they rode homeward each seemed to be revolving some weighty subject in his mind, and finally Mr. Grice broke the silence.

“Well,” he said, “the parson is not as poor a man as I expected to find him.”

“Nothing like it, nothing like it,” replied Brother Lee, with great animation.

“She had a cracking good dinner to-day,” said Brother Grice. “I don’t know when I have tasted a better one.”

Brother Lee looked very solemn. Perhaps he was thinking of that chicken pie that suited him so well, or that third cup of coffee. “I hope,” he said—“I hope fervently that Sister Sanders is not wasteful. I think, of all men’s wives, a preacher’s wife should be saving.”

Brother Grice shook his head. “Ah, me!” he said. “I have been thinking, ever since we started home, that maybe she was. That pie, sweetened with honey, looked like it; I must confess that it did. Honey, Brother Lee, is worth twenty cents a pound, while sugar is but five cents. Being a merchant, I have a right to know.”

“Of course, Brother Grice—of course. Then there is another thing that kinder startles me: Sister Sanders, as you perhaps noticed, was dressed well—remarkably well, I might say, to be at home on a week day. I declare she looked better than my wife does on Sunday!”

Brother Grice turned his face off and coughed—out of delicacy, perhaps—for it was known that Brother Lee’s wife was the homeliest woman in Bumbleton.

“She was dressed well, indeed—fine lace around her neck! I think we got scared for nothing; put ourselves to the trouble of riding ten miles to see if they were really needy, and—lo!—they live better than we do at home. I did not ask him, for I saw for myself.”

“I didn’t, either,” said Brother Grice. “He can just wait until his year is out, and we will see that he is paid, as we agreed to do. I’ve no objection to Brother Sanders as a preacher or a man, but I do think that they ought not to get above their ability. If his wife can dress better at home than ours can when they go to meeting, he surely can get along. I think it is just as much his duty to preach as it is ours to hear him.”

“I think so, too. I don’t believe a preacher should be hired. He ought to preach for the love of the gospel. Paying preachers a big salary is just puffing them up with pride, anyway. If a man can preach, it is his duty to preach. That’s the way I look at it;” and Brother Lee, who owned five hundred acres of rich land and had everything else in proportion, hugged himself complacently.

“Brother Sanders does work, I suppose,” said Brother Grice. “He makes and mends shoes. He might make a good deal if he would try. He only loses Saturdays and Mondays at his regular appointments, tends four churches.”

That night, when Bennie had cried himself to sleep over the loss of his pet chicken, Mrs. Sanders went out on the porch where her husband was standing. She was a very weary-looking, pale woman, in her old, torn wrapper; but her husband knew she was beautiful.

“Well, dear,” he said, putting his arm around her and speaking very low, “we have been disappointed again. I did hope those wealthy brethren came to pay me something, but they did not. We will have to struggle on.”

His wife leaned her head on his shoulder, and the silent, unseen tears overflowed her patient eyes. It was hard. No more flour, or meat, or coffee, or sugar, or molasses, or milk; only a little meal, a remnant of butter, a few vegetables, and some fruit.

Poor patient, heroic preacher’s wife! With generous hospitality she gave them the best she had; and if they had come again, she would have made some other shift, some other sacrifice, to set a good meal before them. She was used to loneliness, used to privation; but she had a brave, hopeful spirit and a decent pride. Methinks if there is a brighter diadem than all others in heaven, the preacher’s wife will one day find it on her brow.

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This week I present to you some pictures I took last fall at my home on Quail Ridge in Parker County, Texas. Little did I know that that would be my last fall to spend there! This year for Thanksgiving I will soon be heading to my family’s new abode near Jefferson, Texas, in Marion County.