The San Francisco call. [volume], December 06, 1903, Image 11

About The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913

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overalls in which to demonstrate, his
accomplishments in manual training.
Incidentally investigating; all the old
clocks or rubbish* there accumulated,
is the envied of his set. And the wee
maiden who can also don her overalls
and be her ¦ little boy friend's compan
ion is more than delighted.
* The companionship of ' little boys and
girls : Improves . the '•. character of both.
The boy is made more. gentle and ten
der by the association, and the girl ac
quires more force and strength,"men
tally, morally and' physically, than
when reared In an exclusively feminine
atmosphere.
'And the woman who loves children —
well, she is sure to be better, truer, no
bler and more womanly. She is a better
wife, 'a tenderer mother and a more
genial companion for both old and
young. '
There . is , something appalling in the
present social condition, where moth
ers ..are so absorbed by outside duties
is to be almost strangers to their own
little ones.
And little people do more thinking
than they are given credit for.
I heard a miniature llttm society
woman of five remark some time ago:
"Mamma is very sweet, and I lova her,
but I know my nurse." •
¦There is not only a powerful, but a
rather touchlng5sermon embodied in
this unconscious' plaint of childhood
that might do better service for pulpit
oratory than many of the eloquent
tirades and sensational explosives by
which so-called divines seek to achieve
reputations and bank accounts.
The woman who boasts that she can
successfully divide her time amons a
number of outside Interests, club or
otherwise, must of necessity neglect the
one or the other. A woman with a fam
ily of little people, and sometimes one
is more care than half a dozen, has all
that she can attend to if she stays at
home and minds her own business.
¦ The woman who does not care . for
children should not marry. The many
stories lately ventilated anent a noted
writer of children stories who so beau
tifully depicted child life caused a
shock to many of her admirers.
This woman frankly admitted ' that
she hated children and when consent-
Ing to become the wife of a widower,
the father of two sons, she exacted the
condition that these children should not
•hare their home.
And the man compiled.
Underlying this also ona might read
another sermon, or perhaps It might
more aptly be styled a tragedy.
The woman who carries a fat. woozy
poodle in her arms and drags a tired
child by the hand Is a sorry commen
tary on the peculiar workings of tha
feminine mind.
The woman who has co higher ambi
tion than to be led around by a dog at
the business end of a string is hardly
worthy of even decent Christian burial.
The woman around whom ' children
cluster is the woman whose heart ia in
the right place.
Little' people are excellent Judges of
character, and the woman who is
equally at home whether presiding at
some stately function or entertaining a
bunch of youngsters Is the woman who
will make the best wife and mother,
and the old-maidy. acrimonious femala
whose teeth are set on edge by a child's
laughter had better remain an old
maid, cr some fellow will be blooming
sorry for himself before the curtain
rings down the grand finale.
ONE OF THE EIGHT
BY OTHO B. SENG A
(Copyright, 1903, by Otho B. Senga.)
t=Z2^_J=$ BRAHAM ADAMS
Be * nls square jaws
\ffi-n&xf?y •& together in a manner
***^/iW^**"l nOt entlrelv Pleasant
r*V#^^ffi[ 3 i^>)! to benold - He wa3
I fe&f/$$$Bsxif m not a nandsome man'.
T^a^jrJEa^l at the best, and this
HB^™ I^aBm expression of stern
determination did not add to his at
tractiveness^r
"This thing has gone far enough.",
he said, aloud. "One way or another
It shall be settled, and settled to
night.".
He stretched out his long, lean arms
and looked grimly at | the great, bony
hands. "One of those fellows ; wears
a ring and plays" the piano. 7 he *
thought; and a ghost ' of a smile
•touched the firm mouth, t
He walked with long, slow steps to
the mirror and gazed at the face re
flected there. It was not unlike the
man for whom he was named, with'
the high cheekbones, wide mouth, '
deep-set eyes and large hose.'
"You're not much to look at. Abe."
he said, shaking his head at the re
flection, "and Bruce is as handsome
as a girl— and a good, square fellow,
too." he added, honestly. . .
Abraham Lincoln Adams had come
from a country home and a country
lawyer's office three years before. He .
had passed the examinations with high
honors, ; and since his admission to
the bar. had been remarkably success-'
ful. He' felt that; he was now in a ;
* position'; to ask - the : glr^ 'of : his ' choice .
to share his life and the honors he was
sure the future held for him. *
He. had known the girl since 'child-/
hood: '.; He was" a ;'¦ big boy.V studying
algebra; whenT she ; sat ¦; dangling ,; her v
plump legs on. the front ; seat ? devoted '¦¦',
to the > infants. 1 He Kad taught ' one "?
term". In' that same : school, tmdj she had .
tortured his falthf ul' heart by "an ab
sorbing, interest In a pink-cheeked <boy.
; in : her, class,; and ;by<an J , utter-- inability-^
to master, the mysteries, of, X, 1 Y./Z.V
; He had left her with no word of
love—he had his way to make, and the ?
letters > between them ; were - few and
unsatisfactory.. . v •
A year ago she had come ' to Boston *
He took out his watch and held it In
his hand. He looked only at Tillle—
for him * the others, were not there.
Some . foreshadowing of the greatness
that was yet to be his., fell upon the
thin face and gaunt figure,' and lent a
strength and. dignity that awed the
girl's soul and held her. gaze captive.
"Tillie,", sneaking slowly and clear
ly, ' "in exactly two minutes I am • go-
Ing to propose to you. If you wish
yo. ur seven friends to remain. I have
no objection — "
A horrified, gasping "Oh!" in ' sev
eral different voices, a rustle of silken
petticoats; and seven breathless girls
Tillie shook her pretty head In re
fusal, but her. heart beat faster. There
was something new In the man's tone —
something masterful and commanding,
that she had never known before.
After a\few minutes, he wandered.
w!th apparent listlessness. to the fire
place, and, turning, "faced the group.
'•Tillie!" \-,
At the sound of the firm, compell
ing voice, eight astonished faces were
turned toward him. and eight pairs of
bright eyes gazed at him In constrained
silence.
But' now. he was resolved. He would
not be a plaything for a girl's whim.
Under cover of greetings from eight
laughing girls, he was able to ask Til
lle if she would go for a short walk
with him.
"With another of the eight?" she
asked, archly.
"No, alone."
His own nature was so simple and
direct that this would seem the most
kind and true thing to Vlo. He could
not understand the feminine com
plexity that led the girl to enjoy his
unwavering, unspoken devotion. The
protests of the other : girls that she
was unfair to the -man. and did not
deserve such homage, only Increased
her determination to hold him at this
disadvantage, and to ward off as long
as possible the declaration she knew
she/ must hear when once they were
alone.
pletely shut out as he, and tha unwel
come thought suggested itself that Til
lle might manage to see him alone If
she really wanted to. (
"Can it be that Tillle doesn't cara
to see me?" he asked himself, un
easily; "if it were' so wouldn't she tell
me?" . .
to study music, and his honest soul
had, rejoiced. How happy he would
be In having her bo" near. He could
see her often, and take her about a
good deal;' and it- would not be long
now before he could , tell her of the
great love that was In his heart, of
his hopes for the future, his plans for
her happiness. . .
But to his dismay he found Tillle
hedged about,. In a most Inexplicable
fashion, with formalities and conven
tions hitherto unknown.
Eight. young women had rented a
furnished house, and with an aunt
and 'uncle as housekeeper and pro
tector, were living in" a little world of
their own, superior to boarding-houses;
and with a fine • contempt for "home*"
and institutions. Adams wasn't 'auite
sure whether the" aunt and uncle were
rented with the house, or if they were
really related to -one of these very
modern young women.
He called several times and was
cordially received; but upon every oc
casion at ' least three of the other
young ladles * were present, and re
mained during his entire stay. Then
he tried the plan of writing to Tillle,
inviting her to accompany him to a
lecture or concert. The little notes
he ' received in . reply were sweetly
courteous, ;¦ but he. felt somehow
thrown back upon himself — chilled and
repulsed.,, ,
"You must remember, that X. am only
one of eight," was the '¦ tenor.' of ¦¦¦¦ the
sweet little notes; "no one of us ac
cepts-an invitation "'for. herself alone.
Which one of the girls would you
like-to include , in your' very pleasant
plan for i Thursday ; evening, or Satur
day .afternoon?" etc. v
' Then he. settled down to : a regular
call on" Wednesday evenlnsr. He met
all'dfithe young ladies, and really had
better * opportunities for < conversing
wlthiany, one* of* the- others than with
'thelone he sought j Bright, pretty girls
they ".were,*; each earnest: in, her work,
with high aims and youthful ambitions.
An artist, a schoolteacher, a a
music teacher, a ; violinist, kindergart
ener and ; an editor made up the list.
: Often " there were other men there,
and Adams soon discovered that he was
not the only, one 1 who. would like to see
Tillle alone. After awhile he -began to
wonder if the:other men were as corn-
¦campered out Into tha hall and as
the stairs.
"Of course she'll refuse him." cried
the girl who wrote stories; "isn't ha
horrid?"
"No," answered the woman wh»
read stories; "ha Is manifesting tha
one needful quality, and Tillie will mar
ry him."
"If she doesn't." chimed in tha ar
tist, "it will show that aha Isn't bright
enough to recognize a great man in
the days of his obscurity."
"In which case." added tha girl with
the violin, "I shall try for him my
self."
This was the last, and certainly tha
most astounding. Each girl went
silently to her own room, feeling that
a great crisis had come in the life of
one of the eight.
Left alone, at last, with tha girl ha
loved. Adams made no movement to
approach her. Ilia eyes had never left
her face, and she -had not been able
to look aside even when her com
panions fled from the room.
"Tillle." the grave voice grew sol
emnly tender, "I have loved you for
years, and you have known It. Thera
was small need for me to declare a
love that had been yours since child
hood, and I would not seek to bind
you by any promise until I could offer
you a home as well as a heart. I am
now ready to do for you all that a man
can do for the woman ha loves. Coma
to me. Tillle, and tell me that my lova
is returned— that^ you will be my wife,
Tillle—"
He held out his hand— the great.
bony hand that wore no rins and
could not play the piano: and tha
dark, homely face was illumined with
the mighty love and exceeding tender
ness that only a strong man knows. ¦
The girl rose slowly, her eyes still
fixed on his. and moved toward him.
as If impelled by some stronger power.
Hailf way she stopped, and raised a
pitiful, pleading face to him.
"Abe," she whispered. "Abe. ara
you going, to make me come all the
way?" 5
He had intended to, but the passion
ate, thrlllinc: sweetness of his boyhood's
name overcame his resolve. One long
step and he caught her in his arms.
"All the way. sweetheart." he, an
ewered, "but I will carry you the other
half."
Little peopla need rtst and quiet as
much as they need air and sunlight,
and, goodness knows, the mother and
nurse and every one else needs a lit
tle rest, too, when sleepy time comes.
A child has no past. It turns Its lit
tle back, upon each day with the set
ting sun and accepts the present as
each day dawns. Over the sea of life
it builds its castle In Spain and delights
in dreams of the future. The present
is the moment which It recognizes and
those interwoven with Its life should
seek to make even the sunshine -
brighter.
The childhood of some little people is
sadder far than the dreariest* romanc
ing of fiction, and few 'appreciate the
i'ttle sorrows that steal Into a child's
life., robbing It of Its birthright of hap
piness.
Children who have not been allowed
to revel in mud pies miss half the de-;
lights of childhood, and the housewife
who invented overalls for 'little' people
deserves the gratitude, of progeny. If
any one has ,'eve'r^ known , a child who
did' not love its "blue Jeans" it must
have had an abnormal streak some
where. •
The boy who has a carpenter shop In*
an old-fashioned attic and a pair of
tions in which the Inquiring mind of
a 3-year-old delights, and one young
ster bubbling over with an investigat
ing mania can manage to perpetrate
more outrages in ten minutes than a
grown-up would think of In ten years.
The woman who loves children, be
she mother or: maid, can easily ac
quire the art of managing them by
keeping little minds in the right chan
nel when she would not be able to ac
complish anything did she adopt
sterner methods.
The first time one comes In contact
with a little one, be it girl _or boy,
generally settles It whether it shall be
peace or war between them.
The woman to whom children natur
ally trend has always much In her fa
vor, and her manner toward them re
flects her character.'
I do not believe In the "ootsie toot
si e" business, but think a mother
should treat her little people as if they
had a reasonable share of commom
sense from the time they are old
enough to ' understand what, is said to
them.
There should be hours of play that
should have all the fun that could be
crowded Into them, these to be followed
by hours of rest.
'^r Y» «VHEN a woman boasts that
\ A Jshe does not love children,
Y Ehy off; there is something
*¦ wrong. Her heart or her head
needs disinfecting, or her
¦pleen is dislocated.
The love for children begins In a
miniature little woman when she hugs
her first dolly jto her baby breast, purs
ing it with all the tenderness of the
grown up mother. Should anything
happen to her dolly her little heart is
broken and she will cry her little self
to sleep with all the abandon of the
big mamma who later on folds little
dead hands In sorrow and weeps in
anguish over a little white coffin.
Of course, there are children whom
no one on earth could love, but I ques
tion if It be not the mother's fault. The
child who Is loved at home grows up
¦with a craving for love, which will
crop up, and love wins love in return
that keeps the heart warm and bright
despite the cruelties of fate.
There are many women who are
about as capable of filling the maternal
role as they would be to handle a pow
der magazine, and the fact of mother
hood does not always carry with It a
patent right to all the virtues to which
sentimentalists give It a clean bill of
sale.
There are many ways to love little
people and the more sensible and rea
sonable the love the greater will be the
respect engendered in a child's heart.
The foolish extravagant subservience
that some mothers lavish upon a child
is enough to disgust the little one it
self, who soon realizes that the mother
is too weak and Sacking In character to
instil into its mind and heart such pre
cepts as will best fit it for the battle of
life.
I do not think that too much love
ever spoiled a child or any one else,
but too little, with its burden of ne
glect, furnishes the timber filling out
per.al institutions.
Excessive, coddling with money ad
libitum ruins many children, who,
never being" allowed one moment with
out the attendance of a host of hire
lings, grow up without a thought or
ldea\>f that self-reliance which is the
fundamental principle of sturdy ma
turity.
It is. not the sons of moneyed kings
¦who forge a way to the top of our
great institutions, It is the men who
have had to dig their own way. who
win through their own pluck.
And the mother who molds the char
acter of such men deserves the meed
of praise.
The twentieth century idea that chil
dren are to be permitted to grow and
not be decently raised finds few advo
cates among sensible people, or those
who have at one time or another been
engaged in the strenuous- -occupation
of keeping a set of live, energetic
youngsters from making bonflrei of
themselves or of the roof tree, or in
dulging other equally wild Investiga-
him have 'em."
Mrs. Stetson straightened herself In
her chair. She felt the "stiff enlnc" *o
out of her knees, but her eyes flashed.
Under the gross Injustice of this thin*
her "crushed sperrlt" had revolted.
"Them .turkeys was mine." she said
in a voice whose tone was new ta
him.
"I s'pose you paid for all the corn
and grain they et." he sneered.
"They was mine." she reiterated,
and there was neither appeal nor apol
ogy in her words.
*:i guess it's pretty well settled wh«
they belonged to," he said grimly.
She rose from her chair and stood
before him. She trembled violently,
but her eyes never falterd as they
looked into his.
"Jim Stetson." she said, chokingly.
"I'm goln' to have Christina* as I
want it. I'm goin* to have a turkty—
if I have to steal It."
To his amazement she swept from
the room before he could reply, and
banged the door after her.
¦ •• •% "• ¦;¦•¦¦••. -~- : ¦«•¦¦.¦¦• -v.
In the big bare room back of Too
Babb's store the Christmas raffl*
was In full awing. The room was
hazy with rank tobacco smoke and the
pungent smell bf recently consumed
spirits pervaded the place. The sport
ing element of Centervalo with much
laughter and many broad Jokes shook
the dice on an old counter from a dilap
idated dlcebox. In one corner tha two
turkeys were hung conspicuously for
critical inspection.
At 9 o'clock the door leading from
the front store opened. The crowd
as one man craned heads to greet tha
newcomer; but Instead of boisterous
jibes they stared in amazement, and
suddenly fell silent, for Into tho room,
thin, frail, but determined, strode Mrs.
Stetson.
"I -want to raffle." she said simply.
"How much does It cost?"
"Twenty cents for threa throws."
tfald Babb.
Mrs. Stetson passed ovsr tha
change.
Much might be written of her ex
perience in that dingy room: of how
she threw to the limit of her cash
capital (60 cents): of how one of tha
Dayton boys showed her how to count
the dice, and as he bent above them
slyly . turned them over to count
higher. But that has all passed Into
the official (unwritten) history of the
town. Suffice It to say that at »:S0
Mrs. Stetson strode homeward witl)
a plump turkey under her arm and the
odor of vile tobacco about her clothes.
Her - husband sat by tha kitchen
table as she entered. She threw her
bundle on the floor beside him.
"I got my turkey." she said In chal
lenge.
"Eh? Where'd you fit it." ha said
stupefied.
"At the raffla." sha said defiantly.
She was prepared for a storm of
his wrath. She knew In that event
Just what sha would say. To her sur
prise he calmly undid tha bundle and
critically inspected the bird.
"Good looking critter." ha •aid.
"You done first rate."
She felt the hot tears In her eyas.
Her throat seemed parched and chok
ing. She Bank into a chair.
"I never done fust rate, neither."
she said, brokenly. "It was all tobacco
¦moke— and they'd been drlnkln'— but
you drove me to It."
Ha smiled grimly. Tha hard lines
about his mouth softened. Ha cam*
over to her chair and gently placed a
hand on her shoulder. Her sobs wera
unrestrained.
"Sho!" ha said uneasily. "Don't
take on so, mother. I promisa you you
won't never have to raffle for anothar
turkey— never."
"so long's Marthy goln' to bring her
husband home here for Christmas
don't you think we'd better have a
turkey?"
Her husband turned to her. The two
pairs of spectacles gave, his face an ex
pression of ridiculous ferocity.
"Turkey?" he Inquired explosively.
"I guess chickens'll do well enoueh."
"Last year when we was up to Mar
thy's place we had- turkey," . Mrs.
Stetson pursued. "Seems to me we
ought to do as much for them."
"I cal'clate a pair of them chickens'll
be full as good," said Stetson. .
"They're nice chickens. I know."
said Mrs. Stetson. "Them Plymouth
Rocks is as plump as can be: but It
seems though turkey fitted Christ
mas better- — 'specially when you're
goln' to have Company. Why couldn't
you kill one of them two turkeys I
hatched out under the old black hen
last spring and like to run my lees
off bringin* up? They're likely look-
In' fowl, and one would be plenty big
enough for us."
"I sold 'em this mornln',"* said Stet
son.
"Sold 'em?" she gasped.
"Yes. Tom Babb wanted a pair of
turkeys. to raffle off up to his store
the night before Christmas, so I let
: - g- ——*. A T was commonly Bald
LTfirS^ifPiSiii * n Centervale that old
$r(fe3^Waif' Jim Stetson held the
a strings or his own
"^S^Sr P urse aR( * "kep' a
I JkV^iMwjpIi P retty tight holt on
li<^Si?=H^UH 'em, too." This ker-
XViMjjiimE^cJ^va . nel of truth from the
chaff of the town gossip Mrs. Stetson
was turning over.ln her mind as she
darned socks under the yellow light of
an ancient kerosene lamp one evening
early in Christmas week. • On the other
side of the table her lord and master,
Old • Jim— he of' the closely held purse
j strings— perused the pages of the
Weekly Mirror through two pairs
of spectacles.
Stetson was a middle-aged man of
medium' height, inclined to portliness
of figure and baldness of the head. His
face was clean shaven save for the
stubble of iron-gray beard on the chin,
and this rather emphasized the hard,
straight ' lines about his mouth, which
gave his face that expression locally
characterized as "sot."
VShe glanced covertly across , the
table many times and furtively cleared
her throat before she found sufficient
courage to address her liege.
. "Father," she began at length, a
trifle more apologetlcal than usual,
| By J. B. Oxford. I
MRS. STETSON'S REVOLT
THE SUNDAY CALL.
LOVE FOR
CHILDREN
11