"Industry need not wish."

"In things of moment, on thyself depend, Nor trust too far thy servant or thy friend; With private views, thy friend may promise fair, And servants very seldom prove sincere."

Besides these quaint sayings, which became a part of the proverbial wisdom of the world, Franklin had a comical remark for every occasion, as, when a boy, he advised his father to say grace over the whole pork barrel, and so save time at the table. He once admonished Jenny in regard to her spelling, and that after she was advanced in life, by telling her that the true way to spell wife was _yf_. After the treaty of peace with England, he thought it only a courtesy that America should return deported people to their native sh.o.r.es. Once in Paris, on receiving a cake labeled _Le digne Franklin_, which excited the jealousy of Lee and Dean, he said that the present was meant for Lee-Dean-Franklin, that being the p.r.o.nunciation of the French label.

Every event had a comical side for him.

Let us bring prosperous Benjamin Franklin back to Boston to see his widowed mother again, after the old story-book manner. She is nearly blind now, and we may suppose Jamie the Scotchman to be halting and old.

He comes into the town in the stagecoach at night. Boston has grown. The grand old Province House rises above it, the Indian vane turning hither and thither in the wind. The old town pump gleams under a lantern, as does the spring in Spring Lane, which fountain may have led to the settlement of the town. On a hill a beacon gleams over the sea. He pa.s.ses the stocks and the whipping-post in the shadows.

There is a light in the window of the Blue Ball. He sees it. It is very bright. Is his mother at work now that she is nearly blind?

He dismounts. He pa.s.ses close to the old window. His father is not in the room; he never will be there again. But an aged man is there. Who is he?

The man is reading--what? The most popular pamphlet or little book that ever appeared in the colonies; a droll story.

He knocks at the door. The old man rises and opens the door; the bell is gone.

"Abiah, there's a stranger here."

"Ask him who he is."

"Say that he used to work here many years ago, and that he knew Josiah Franklin well, and was acquainted with Ben."

"Tell him to come in," said the bent old woman with white hair.

The stranger entered, and avoided questions by asking them.

"What are you reading to-night, my good friend?" he asked.

"The Old Auctioneer," answered the aged man. "Have you read it?"

"Yes; it is on the taxes."

"So it is--I've read it twice over. I'm now reading it to Abiah. Let me tell you a secret--her son wrote it. My opinion is that it is the smartest piece of work that ever saw the light on this side of the water. What's yourn?"

"There's sense in it."

"What did he say his name was?" asked Abiah.

"Have you ever read any of Poor Richard's maxims?" asked the stranger quickly.

"Yes, yes; we have taken the Almanac for years. Ben publishes it."

"What did he say?" asked Abiah. "I can not hear as well as I once could.--Stranger, I heard you when you spoke loud at the door."

"Repeat some of 'Poor Richard's' sayings," said the stranger.

"You may well say 'repeat,'" said the old man. "I used to hear Ben Franklin say things like that when he was a 'prentice lad."

"Like what, my friend?"

"Like 'The n.o.blest question in the world is what good may I do in it?'

There! Like 'None preaches better than the ant, and she says nothing.'

There!"

"I see, I see, my good friend, you seem to have confidence in Poor Richard?"

"Sir, I taught him much of his wisdom--he and I used to be great friends. I always knew that he had a star in his soul that would shine--I foresaw it all. I have the gift of second sight. I am a Scotchman."

"And you prophesied good things to him when he was a boy?"

"Yes, yes, or, if I did not, I only spoke in a discouraging way to encourage him. He and I were chums; we used to sit on Long Wharf together and _prognosticate_ together. That was a kind of Harvard College to us. Uncle Ben was living then."

"Maybe the stranger would like you to read The Old Auctioneer," said Abiah to the Scotchman. "My boy wrote that--he told you. My boy has good sense--Jamie here will tell you so. I'm older now than I was."

"Yes, yes, read, and let me rest. When the bell rings for nine I will go to the inn."

"Maybe we can keep you here. We'll talk it over later. I want to hear Ben's piece. I'm his mother, and they tell me it is interesting to people who are no relation to him.--Jamie, you read the piece, and then we will talk over the past. It seems like meeting Ben again to hear his pieces read."

Jamie the Scotchman read, and while he did so Abiah, wrinkled and old, looked often toward the stranger out of her dim eyes, while she listened to her son's always popular story of The Old Auctioneer.

"That is a very good piece," said Abiah Franklin; "and now, stranger, let me say that your voice sounds familiar, and I want you to tell me in a good strong tone who you be. I didn't hear you give any name."

"Is it almost nine?" asked the stranger.

Jamie opened the door.

A bell smote the still air, a silverlike bell. It spoke nine times.

"I never heard that bell before," said the stranger.

Suddenly music flooded the air; it seemed descending; there were many bells--and they were singing.

"The Old North chimes," said the Scotchman; "they have just been put up.

I wish Ben could hear them; I sort of carry him in my heart."

"Don't speak! It is beautiful," said the stranger. "Hear what they are saying."

"O Jamie, Jamie, _father_ used to play that tune on his violin."

"_Father!_" The old woman started.

"Ben, Ben, how could you! Come here; my eyes are failing me, Ben, but my heart will never fail me.--Jamie, prepare for him his old room, and leave us to talk together!"

"I will go out to Mrs. Mecom's, and tell her that Benjamin has come home."

"Yes, yes, go and call Jenny."