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So it was that my wife said: “Felix, you will have to go to the pork-barrel.”

This is the story of the pork-barrel.

It happened once, in a little parish in the Green Mountains, that the deacon reported to Parson Plunkett, that, as he rode to meeting by Chung-a-baug Pond, he saw Michael Stowers fishing for pickerel through a hole in the ice on the Sabbath day. The parson made note of the complaint, and that afternoon drove over to the pond in his “one-horse shay.” He made his visit, not unacceptable, on the poor Stowers household, and then crossed lots to the place where he saw poor Michael hoeing. He told Michael that he was charged with Sabbath breaking, and bade him plead to the charge. And poor Mike, like a man, plead guilty; but, in extenuation, he said that there was nothing to eat in the house, and rather than see wife and children faint, he had cut a hole in the ice, had put in his hook again and again, and yet again, and coming home had delighted the waiting family with an unexpected breakfast. The good parson made no rebuke, nodded pensive, and drove straightway to the deacon’s door.

“Deacon,” said he, “what meat did you eat for breakfast yesterday?”

The deacon’s family had eaten salt pork, fried.

“And where did you get the pork, Deacon?”

The Deacon stared, but said he had taken it from his pork-barrel.

“Yes, Deacon,” said the old man; “I supposed so. I have been to see Brother Stowers, to talk to him about his Sabbath-breaking; and, Deacon, I find the pond is his pork-barrel.”

The story is a favorite with me and with Fausta. But “woe,” says the oracle, “to him who goes to the pork-barrel before the moment of his need.” And to that “woe” both Fausta and I say “amen.” For we know that there is no fish in our pond for spend-thrifts or for lazy-bones; none for people who wear gold chains or Attleborough jewelry; none for people who are ashamed of cheap carpets or wooden mantelpieces. Not for those who run in debt will the fish bite; nor for those who pretend to be richer or better or wiser than they are. No! But we have found, in our lives, that in a great democracy there reigns a great and gracious sovereign. We have found that this sovereign, in a reckless and unconscious way, is, all the time, making the most profuse provision for all the citizens. We have found that those who are not too grand to trust him fare as well as they deserve. We have found, on the other hand, that those who lick his feet or flatter his follies fare worst of living men. We find that those who work honestly, and only seek a man’s fair average of life, or a woman’s, get that average, though sometimes by the most singular experiences in the long run. And thus we find that, when an extraordinary contingency arises in life, as just now in ours, we have only to go to our pork-barrel, and the fish rises to our hook or spear.

The sovereign brings this about in all sorts of ways, but he does not fail, if, without flattering him, you trust him. Of this sovereign the name is–“the Public.” Fausta and I are apt to call ourselves his children, and so I name this story of our lives,

“THE CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC.”

CHAPTER II.

WHERE IS THE BARREL?

“Where is the barrel this time, Fausta?” said I, after I had added and subtracted her figures three times, to be sure she had carried her tens and hundreds rightly. For the units, in such accounts, in face of Dr. Franklin, I confess I do not care.

“The barrel,” said she, “is in FRANK LESLIE’S OFFICE. Here is the mark!” and she handed me FRANK LESLIE’S NEWSPAPER, with a mark at this announcement:–