Such philosophy is rarely found. The most perfect sample I ever met
was an old woman, who was apparently the poorest and most forlorn of
the human species--so true is the maxim which all profess to believe,
and which none act upon invariably, viz. that happiness does not
depend on outward circumstances. The wise woman, to whom I have
alluded, _walks_ to Boston, from a distance of twenty-five or thirty
miles, to sell a bag of brown thread and stockings; and then patiently
foots it back again with her little gains. Her dress, though tidy, is
a grotesque collection of 'shreds and patches,' coarse in the extreme.
'Why don't you come down in a wagon?' said I, when I observed that she
was soon to become a mother, and was evidently wearied with her long
journey. 'We h'an't got any horse,' replied she; 'the neighbors are
very kind to me, but they can't spare their'n; and it would cost
as much to hire one, as all my thread will come to.' 'You have a
husband--don't he do anything for you.' 'He is a good man; he does
all he can; but he's a cripple and an invalid. He reels my yarn, and
_specks_ the children's shoes.
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