where the air is pure and the streets are clean. You see, at a glance,
by the sanded doorstep, and the window-panes without a speck,--perhaps
blooming roses or geraniums shining through them,--that the tenant
within, however poor, knows the art of making the best of his lot. How
different from the foul cottage-dwellings you see elsewhere; with the
dirty children playing in the gutters; the slattern-like women lounging
by the door-cheek; and the air of sullen poverty that seems to pervade
the place. And yet the weekly income in the former home may be no
greater, perhaps even less, than in that of the other.

How is it, that of two men, working in the same field or in the same
shop, one is merry as a lark,--always cheerful, well-clad, and as clean
as his work will allow him to be,--comes out on Sunday mornings in his
best suit, to go to church with his family,--is never without a penny in
his purse, and has something besides in the savings bank,--is a reader
of books and a subscriber to a newspaper, besides taking in some
literary journal for family reading; whilst the other man, with equal or
even superior weekly wages, comes to work in the mornings sour and
sad,--is always full of grumbling,--is badly clad and badly shod,--is
never seen out of his house on Sundays till about midday, when he
appears in his shirt-sleeves, his face unwashed, his hair unkempt, his
eyes bleared and bloodshot,--his children left to run about the gutters,
with no one apparently to care for them,--is always at his last coin,
except on Saturday night, and then he has a long score of borrowings to
repay,--belongs to no club, has nothing saved, but lives literally from
hand to mouth,--reads none, thinks none, but only toils, eats, drinks,
and sleeps;--why is it that there is so remarkable a difference between
these two men?

Simply for this reason,--that the one has the intelligence and the art
to extract joy and happiness from life,--to be happy himself, and to
make those about him happy; whereas the other has not cultivated his
intelligence, and knows nothing whatever of the art of either making
himself or his family happy. With the one, life is a scene of loving,
helping, and sympathizing,--of carefulness, forethought, and
calculation--of reflection, action, and duty;--with the other, it is
only a rough scramble for meat and drink; duty is not thought of,
reflection is banished, prudent forethought is never for a moment
entertained.

But lo