Donahoe's Magazine, Volume 15, No. 4, April, 1886

The dining-room was but a pace from the hall door, and Patrick had heard quite distinctly a thud, as of something heavy falling down.

In a second he was out into the darkness, and nearly stumbled over an inert mass of humanity. It was a man – or the remains of one.

"He looks bad, Phil," said Patrick, "run for Dr. Naughten while I put him on the sofa." Phil threw his warm Inverness cape about him and seized his hat and was off in a trice; meanwhile the three men, left with the unconscious fourth, laid their burden down upon the sofa, loosened his neckerchief and collar, but no sign of life was there.

"Drink," said Arthur, "that cursed drink." The other men shook their heads in silent acquiescence. It seemed an age before the doctor, who lived only a few doors off, came upon the scene, not in the best of humors either, for he, too, had been making the night merry after the fashion of these four friends.

The doctor felt his pulse. "I'm no use here," said he. "The fellow's been dead this half-hour."

"Dead?" echoed the friends. "Dead?"

"Yes."

"But," said Patrick, "we heard the fall only a few minutes ago."

"Likely enough," said the doctor, "he had got as far as your door, propped himself up against the corner, and then went completely off into his last long sleep."

"Impossible!" they all exclaimed. "A man to die standing up!"

"Possible," retorted the doctor, "and in this case, as you say you heard the fall, most certain. Good evening, gentlemen, there is nothing more for me to do," and the doctor hurried away.

So this poor wretch of a fellow-man had been "seeing the old year out," but the old year was made of tougher stuff than he, and had seen him out.

They went for the police, who came with the stretcher (ah! what tales that rough canvas bed could tell, if it had the gift of tongue!), the body was taken away, and the four friends sat around the table again, but they raised the glass no more to their lips, though the punch-bowl was steaming still – their eyes turned fearfully to the sofa where death so lately lay in state, and for a few minutes a dreadful silence reigned.

"Oh! that awful drink, what harm it is working. I'll not taste another drop these six months." This from Patrick Hallahan.

"Nor I," said Phil.

"Nor I," said Denis.

"Nor I," said Arthur.

"Agreed," they all said, "and let us see if we cannot keep our word."

"And now let's break up, for I'm feeling sick at heart," were Patrick's words, and they separated.

They met six months after at the same place, and they had kept their word, though they never spoke of it to each other. They had been out to dinner parties, to "at homes," to balls and routs, for they were well-to-do, wealthy men of business, but they succumbed never once. They simply said, "No, thank you," when the wine was passed on, the grog went round. They still entertained, as was their wont, and gave their guests the best of their wine cellar, but they abstained themselves. One of them employed more than one hundred workmen. These men noticed a change in their master; he was more gentle with them in a way, quite as severe in the matter of time-keeping and of hard work, but he took an interest in their welfare, asked after their homes. One of them who brought him his luncheon from an eating-house near at hand, remarked that "the master never used the corkscrew now," and that "the bottom of his master's tumbler was never stained." The ninety-nine other men knew this ninety-nine seconds after. "If the governor, who works harder than any of us, can do without his liquor, dang it all, I can." Jack Furniss gave this forth to two pals, and these three entered quietly into a compact, upon fine of 1 d., to take no beer for a week; they took no beer for four weeks, for six months. Men are after all like sheep who follow their superior, the shepherd's dog; the dog leads this way or that way, and the flock follows. The dog (Jack Furniss was foreman to his master, a kind of shepherd's dog to the rest) led the way to pure spring water, and the whole flock – save the traditional black sheep – followed, not all at once, but little by little.

Now let us back to the shepherd and his three friends, who are met together six months after that awful death. The cloth is laid for four; sherry and claret shine upon the table, the champagne is underneath the sideboard in an iced pail – lemon, sugar, the silver ladle in the family punch-bowl.

They sat down, and after the soup, when the fish was put on the table, Patrick Hallahan passed the sherry to Arthur, Arthur passed it to Phil, and Phil handed it to Denis. Curiously, yet true enough, the decanter came back in the same state as it started.

Then these four plain men of business rose like one man, and joined hands across the table. Not a word was spoken, but that grip of the hand spoke all they had to say to one another.

It is said they were satisfied with themselves and with one another, so satisfied that they had no wish to go from their word, even though the time of keeping it had gone by.

Afterwards they acknowledged one to the other over their cigars – for if they drank nothing strong they smoked very strong, and, be it said, very good tobacco – they acknowledged that their life had been brighter, lighter than before, their mental vision clearer, their home happier; and many a fellow-creature round about them could have added that their lives had been made brighter and lighter, and their mental vision clearer, and their homes happier, by the example and kindness of these four friends.

There is an anecdote told of a certain priest who once happened to be riding a spirited young horse along a road in Ireland. His reverence whilst thus engaged was met by two gentlemen who had lately been raised to the magistracy of the county, and being in a good humor, they thought they would amuse themselves by quizzing him. "How comes it, good Father," said one of them, "that you are mounted on such a fine horse? Your predecessors, the Apostles, I understand, always performed their journeys on asses." – "That's easily explained," answered his reverence; "the fact is, that the Government has of late been making magistrates of the asses, and therefore I should not consider it respectful to travel about on the back of one of the fraternity."

Juvenile Department

THE FLOWERS' ELECTION

An election is now being held,
For the flowers are all mad for a queen;
The "speeching" and voting go on,
And cause a most terrible scene.

One tulip, a smart little flirt,
Screams loudly and long for the rose;
But a wee, giddy, columbine bud
Does flippantly interpose.

Nextly a cauliflower speaks,
For his cousin the cabbage he votes;
At which e'en a butterfly grins
As onwardly he lazily floats.

A full-blown and strong-minded flower
Votes loud for republic and peace!
Or else for a strawberry plant,
Who's her grandmother's brother's aunt's niece.

Next marigold speaks to the crowd,
Who is known to be forward and pert;
But a nettle makes stinging remarks,
Till the speaker declares himself hurt!

And then to rampage they begin;
Sweet William is scragging a rose;
Sweet-pea in a neighborly way,
Is pulling young marigold's nose!

Such a noise and confusion ensues
That a snail faints away on the wall;
And never as yet have I heard
What the end of it was after all.

    Maud Egerton Hine, a child of less than eight years old.
"Doing anything now, Bill?" "Oh, yes, I'm busy all the time." – "Ah! Glad to hear it. What are you doing?" – "Looking for a job."

THE LITTLE FRENCH GIRL OF ST. SULPICE

When I was in Paris, a year or two before the terrible war broke out, I often went to the church of St. Sulpice. A grand old place is St. Sulpice, not so majestic outwardly as Notre Dame, but far more interesting to me. Its painted chapels, its noble altar with the royal seat in front, its chairs full of kneeling people, from the splendid dame to the bonnetless peasant, its gorgeously dressed priests, its magnificent organ, – everything about it charmed and interested me.

One day I saw a little girl asleep at the foot of a statue. The calm, white, marble face seemed to look down in pity on the child, whose beauty startled me. Her white cape-bonnet had fallen from her head, and curls, lustrous as gold, and quite as yellow, fell over neck and cheeks. What long, dark lashes she had! Her complexion seemed blended roses and lilies. But her dress was very shabby. The most beautiful feet will get soiled if they go shoeless, and this child seemed one of the very poorest of the poor.