. . . . .
"How many children in the street
Half naked I behold;
While I am clothed from head to feet,
And sheltered from the cold."

Now a ragged, half-clothed child, or one that could really be called
poor, in the extreme sense of the word, was the rarest of all sights in
a thrifty New England town fifty years ago. I used to look sharply for
those children, but I never could see one. And a beggar! Oh, if a real
beggar would come along, like the one described in

"Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,"

what a wonderful event that would be! I believe I had more curiosity
about a beggar, and more ignorance, too, than about a king. The poem
read:--

"A pampered menial drove me from the door."

What sort of creature could a "pampered menial" be? Nothing that had
ever come under our observation corresponded to the words. Nor was it
easy for us to attach any meaning to the word "servant." There were
women who came in occasionally to do the washing, or to help about
extra work. But they were decently clothed, and had homes of their own,
more or less comfortable, and their quaint talk and free-and-easy ways
were often as much of a lift to the household as the actual assistance
they rendered.

I settled down upon the conclusion that "rich" and "poor" were
book-words only, describing something far off, and having nothing to do
with our every-day experience. My mental definition of "rich people,"
from home observation, was something like this: People who live in
three-story houses, and keep their green blinds closed, and hardly ever
come out and talk with the folks in the street. There were a few such
houses in Beverly, and a great many in Salem, where my mother sometimes
took me for a shopping walk. But I did not suppose that any of the
people who lived near us were very rich, like those in books.

Everybody about us worked, and we expected to take hold of our part
while young. I think we were rather eager to begin, for we believed
that work would make men and women of us.

I, however, was not naturally an industrious child, but quite the
reverse. When my father sent us down to weed his vegetable-garden at
the foot of the lane, I, the youngest of his weeders, liked to go with
the rest, but not for the sake of the work or the pay. I generally gave
it up before I had weeded half a bed. It made me so warm! and my back
did ache so! I stole off into the shade of the great apple-trees, and
let the west wind fan