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Wessington Springs herald. (Wessington Springs, Aurora County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1891, December 11, 1885, Image 3

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn99067997/1885-12-11/ed-1/seq-3/

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THE HERALD.
BT
batemau
a-
MdMWAT n.
WES3INGT0N SPRINGS, D.
A THANKSGIVING.
^My™*"agSyeftr ^CBT' 'tWM
T°: the pew belowf6'''
T°mdo!eeo^L^h
The
burnlnS
wc™
brightly upon my lonely
I had si-en the springs glad promise 'neath
I hurt ««, summer's smile unfold,
I harvests gathered when the
tieen nud turned to gold.
^k"outward s.°8nntlnS
envy the
Th£ycrJa^e"Ue ttCres'thoy
W'thmanUask
III
Wh,n\USfS aiulflbVn^8
a°W
tlnotesS)t„gfaUni^OSSOSS,0nS
ADd
^'"ast amen!'06
s&u
,!ly,our
George
and 1 cou,1
Cnde1,^WC
eyes
tlcta in my own.
heard
I entry—that Is what wo called
And our eves met just a moment, and your
slaucc dear was so kind,
ur
That, MtliouRh handsome tenor followed
1
dnlaVtVoa,Kldga^'d0Wn
th68teP"
And then, a little further, where our paths
should separate,
1
again, dear, with a ques-
And so it camo. about, dear, that wo neither
walked alone.
Home through the somber woodland we
strolled that happy day.
And It seemed the sun was shlninar, though
the sky was dull and gray
Though the dead leaves whirled about us
vet the world seemed full of bloom,
.And our fond hearts thrilled with summer
through the autumn's chilling gloom.
.And we won a happy knowledge, you and I.
dear, each from each,
-Heavenly sweet the revelations of our si
lence or our speech:
I, who hud not dared to hope, dear, with a
wonder glad and swift,
•Lifted up a great Thanksgiving for this gift
k. of every gift.
And we laughed about the tenor, with his
voice so strong and true,
And my envy turned to pity, as a lucky
man's! will do
For I knew tliut he would barter all the mu
sic that should roll
From lils singing throat henceforward, for
the song within my soul.
All the wealth I had not cared for in a bliss
ful instant grew
Very precious, since the future was to see it
shared with you
But nought that I could give you, well I
knew could ever be
Such a priceless, gracious giving as the gift
you gave to me.
And the (lay, begun so sadly, ended In a
dream of bliss,
That lias lasted ail the years, dear, from that
liappy hour to this
Through lire's smiles and tears, my darling,
'neatli the skies of blue or gray,
"IVe have thanked the dear God always for
that blest Thanksgiving Day.
—Carlotta Perry, in N. 1 Sun.
UNCLE SIMON'S ADVICE,
And the Havoc It Wrought in His
Own Household.
Old Farm,October 30,18—.
George Maxwell was sitting with me
-when the mail brought me a letter from
Uncle Simon Jones. To my surprise, the
letter contained a request that I should
come up and make him a visit. Uncle
Simon is George's great-uncle as well as
mine, and for the past two years George's
home has been at Old Farm. Nobody
knows why the arrangement was broken
up, but it was, and George is now earning
liis living as a clerk in the bank at
"Shall I go, George?" I asked.
"Please yourself," said George, laughing.
•'Don't make a permanent engagement,
though, for I don't believe you can stand it
long."
1 reflected. The school in which I am a
teacherhas been broken up by scarlet-fever,
1 have been unable to obtain another en
gagement, and my money is fast melting
iiway. Untler the circumstances I could
do nothing better than accept, especially
as
assured rue that he should not
feel at all aggrieved by my decision. So I
wrote to UiicTo Simon that I would com©
for a visit, anil here I am.
Uncle Simon is rather a fine-looking
man, tall, broad-shouldered and ruddy,
•with a fine, full beard of silvery white.
On the way home from the station lie start
led me once by
asking,
abruptly:
I
for­
get whether you know my nephew George
jlv heart gave a thump. Know George?
Well! But I only said: Oh, yes I have
known him all liiy life."
"1 was disappointed in George—much
disappointed," Uncle Simon went on. He
promised well at first, but he had one great
fault. hope that you are not above tak
ing advice from your elders and betters,
yTwasadn4le
startled at the sharpness of
his manner, but assured him that I
always grateful for good ^vice, not
thinking it necessary to add that 1 use my
own discretion in regard to following it-
Old Farm is not much of a farm, after
nil Since George left, Uncle Simon has let
fnost o??he la°iT Th4 house is large low
.and rambling, by no means imposing, but
vei^y%aii'"und^omfortab^, crownmgtbe
topmost swell of the lawn v'tb its creamy,
little when she saw '?e °Ah
as she shook herhead slowiy, siaymg
you won't stand it long not long, J"
won't—worse luck!"
haVJy"-^
a conBrmed lunatic, as the^
to believe. However, I will
she
fo re
see some definite sign of lunacy
take fright. November 5.
I had a visitor
S
ty girl! a plump, h'own
ifttlf thing, with
dChd?im"ed
a
"b^howBe^Wem8,nCl,ned ^-O-
S"I
am so glad you have come!" she be­
am,
before she was well seated. "I know
&
ne\»hH,been
Sunt
86at'd6ar'»nd1ln
Ana the parson preached and prayed dear
To rnrt"?
.bac,eJie
falthfu
raise
er andperaIge
SlVlDB otearnest
P™?"
Cnded h8d
br0n»ht
no
L,uU'-
tr0asurea
e™OT
OI»ly
blessings that
saw
eatli-
mori?heritftnc0'what
could a
no g,ad
thoughthe
and
h6rd9'
ona could not wln?VU
and
dled f0r
I Za momcnt-as
Rown oSf pray°
*°u
Ur
bounet- 9®°
®6e some ?nanOwasbheid0
lUmViCovvn!at
simple
y°U'
COULd/ht0to
What a
hand-
seteenUOrglanees' 'twas
a bItter
P00r tcnor! how 1 hated
^Sy°^dh\ToSoLt.h0anthemi'0Se
and
min"
Id '^K^en^as I stood tliero, for the music
dreadfully lonely
since Geo—Mr. Maxwell left, though wild
h?m"8
W not raw the
T1Wt
admission from
"Qeo—" rankled in my mind, and I
I did not respond as cor-
aially as I
might have done. However, Miss
Seidell seems a bright, innocent little body,
and, after all, it is natural enough that she
should call him George, as she did after
awhile without stopping to correct her
self.
','Djd George tell you why he left 1" she
asked, at last.
N®*hi»8definite,"Isaid,shortly,vexed,
I hardly knew why.
"Now that was nice of him, especially as
he has no idea that I know," cried Miss
George is a good fellow. 1 think I
must tell you though, for I havo made a
guess which may be right or not—"
putting my fingers into
my ears. I don want to know anything
but what comes to me naturally. It would
make things harder for me."
'Perhaps you are right," said Miss Lulu,
after meditating a moment.
1 don't mind calling him George—of
course that would be too absurd—but I do
think it hkgh time that I began to call him
Mr. Maxwell. It is quite enough for one
woman to call a man by his first name.
5r ??ems to know all about mo, and about
Mr. Maxwell and my childish intimacy.
1 answered all her questions about him as
well as I could, and she left at last, after
making me promise to come and see her
very soon.
Uncle Simon brought another visitor
nome to tea with him, a Mr. Arthur Parker
—rather a good-looking young fellow, tall
ana lair, with nice honest eyes and a frank
smile. Somehow, though, I fancied that
ne wished himself anywhere else, for a cat
in a strange garret would have been at
ease compared to him. As for me, I was
meditating upen Miss Lulu's visit, and I
am afraid I was rather stupid and absent
minded. ftwas horrified, at last, to catch
myself in the midst of a tremendous yawn.
Just as I recovered myself, in dismay and
perturbation, I caught Mr. Parker's eye.
lhere was a sympathetic twinkle in it
which, instead of embarrassing, quite re
assured me, and we burst out laughing
simultaneously. I was afraid that Uncle
biinon would be vexed, but he smiled and
beamed as I had never seen him do be
fore. When Mr. Parker had left, Uncle
Kimon expressed his approbation in modi
fied terms.
"It isn't generally well to yawn in com
pany, Maddie, but this time it was, per
haps, the best thing you could do, as it
broke the ice completely. Parker is an un
commonly fine fellow, and I was glad to see
that you i. ade a good impression."
Before I went to bed I scribbled a short
note to Geo—Mr. Maxwell, as I had prom
ised, telling him of my safe arrival, and
mentioning the visits of our two neighbors.
Of both I spoke in terms of unbounded
§[axwell
raise. Why? I wonder. Perhaps Mr.
will know, but I don't.
Iftvember 12.
I think I am beginning to understand
why people consider Uncle Simon difficult
to live with. It began the day after I came,
but it began temporately, out of deference
to my rank as a stranger. It was spiced,
too, with compliments.
"Niece, you walk well—very well but if
you would put do\vn your feet a little more
firmly, the effect would be better."
"Niece, you have a very smooth, pretty
complexion, but it is a trifle dark for blue.
Red, now, would be much more becoming.
Take my advice, and always wear red."
Uncle Simon has placed a horse at my
disposal. I always supposed that I rode
tolerably well, but after my first ride with
him I could only conclude that I was a
most "awful duffer" at it.
"Hands lower, body firmer. That's bet
tor, but—ah, well, keep on trying. AVhip
a little higher. Don't be discouraged.
We'll make a horsewoman of you yet.
You have been dreadfully taught, but
that's not your fault."
It was an immense relief whon Uncle
Simon suddenly shot from my side toward
a man who was laying a stone fence. The
man no sooner saw Uncle Simon, however,
than he fairly took to his heels, and bolted
across the fields. Uncle Simon returned
to my side with a crest-fallen air.
"It is the most extraordinary thing," he
said. "I have been trying to give Ben
Grimes some idea of the proper way of
laying fences. I thought he was getting
quite a fair idea of it, but lately I have
never been able to got speech of him."
"But, Uncle Simon," 1 said, "isn't fence
laying his trade!1"
"Eh?—oh, certainly," said Uncle Simon,
looking puzzled. "But what of that? Do
you suppose half the men in the world
understand their own trades? Lookers
on see most of the game, you know."
It was singular to see how every man
we approached suddenly found it necessary
to dart into the house or across the fields.
If Uncle Simon and I had been lepers, they
could not have fled faster nor more persist
ently. Just one stood his ground—a stur
dy, red-faced countryman, who awaited
us doggedly.
"Look a-here, squire," he burst out, be
fore Uncle Simon could speak, "if you've
got any 'advice' to give mo, you might as
well save your breath. I took it once—
more fool I!—and what did it do for me?
You remember my new wagon—brand
spick-and-span new, and cost two hundred
dollars? And you remember my bay horse
that I was going to sell because he balked?
'Don't sell him,'says you 'take my ad
vice and I did. Next time he wouldn't
go I took your advice and built a Are under
him, and what did that horse do? Just
stood stock-still till the lire began to scorch
then he gave a jump—just one—and not
another step would he budge. There he
stood, stiff as a post, and that wagon burn
ing to cinders at his
.tail. Jumped just far
enough to bring it over the fire, ho did. We
had to cut the traces and let her burn at
last. That's all, squire and if ever you
get me to take another bit of your advice,
you'll have to pay me for that wagon first
off."
The man turned on his heel and walked
away contemptuously.
"People are so pig-headed!" was Uncle
Simon's only comment and I responded,
devoutly: "They are—they are, indeed."
Uncle Simon admires Miss Lulu very
much. He is fifty at least, but I can not
mistake his frequent hints that some time
this home will, be hopes, be her home.
From the manner in which his brow clouds
over whenever Geo—Mr. Maxwell's and her
names happen to occur ia the same sen
tence, I have begun to form a shrewd idea
of the cause of the rupture. It is impossi
ble that Lulu can return Uncle Simon's ad
miration it is quite possiblo that she
should return that of—some one else.
Hence jealous complications, resulting in a
final rupture. "He who runs may read."
I wonder whether she overhears from
Mr. Maxwell? I thought he would have
answered my note before this, especially
after begging me so to write.
You
November 19.
I have begun upon a new plan. Things
are becoming monotonous, and it is time to
turn the tables. Uncle Simon, having crit
icised nearly everything else about me,
began this morning upon my hair.
"Niece, you don't wear your hair prop
erly.
There
ia but one way for a woman
to wear it that is, plainly parted and
coiled low iown behind. That way of pil
ing it all up on the top of your head is quite
out of character."
"Uncle, I am glad
you
mentioned it, for
it gives mo courage. I have often wanted
to tell you that you don't wear your beard
nroperly. There is but one way for a man
to
weir
it that is, with a neatly-shaved
chin, and only a mustache and long whis-
Uncle
Simon stared at me. "Are you
crarv?" he said. "Nice I should look, at
,5 time of life! But about your hair:
1$ show you how to fix it, if you like.
don't know how it would improve
y°"uSunclee
o( golden brown
*-t
I am in earnest," I said.
«Vrni don't know how much better you
wMld look. I'll show you how to shave, if
you like."
Uncle Simon began to aw. He stared at
•i® for a moment then with a sort of snort.
^C1Ufei*ienti' ^*1' di8gust, .he got up
aAble,
and
clouds. Phon he said, "Niece, you don't
hold your needles right."
asked
y°U kn°W h°W
done
t0
But I remonstrated: "Not at all, uncle.
I ve seen lots of men smoke, and I know
just how it should be done. You see—"
you let1110 and my pipe alono?"
said Uncle Simon.
"Yes," said I, "if you'll leave me and
my knitting alone."
Uncle Simon's eyes twinkled a little, but
he said nothing, only walked into the
kitchen—to take it out of Amanda, I sup
pose. If she were not the best creature in the
world she never would stand his constant
"advice."
•nr t. J. N be 21.
We had quite a little excitement here
last night. Lulu took tea here, by Uncle
Simon's invitation, and Mr. Parker hap
pened in afterward. Mr. Parker was live
lier than usual, quite brightening up under
Liulu chatter. I am beginning to suspect
him of an inclination in that qnarter, the
more so as Uncle Simon watched them
jealously, cutting in" at every opportu
nity. His face quite beamed when I took
pity upon him, and inveigled Mr. Parker
into a corner, leaving the field free for him.
ialking to Mr. Parker was more up-hill
work than ever, with his glances straying
away every moment to Lulu's corner. So
it was a relief when Uncle Simon went
into the dining-room to attend to the fire.
One of the many ways in which Uncle Si
mon maddens Amanda is by poking and
prying continually into every stove and
fire-place in the house, under the firm con
viction that no one can attend properly to
fires but himself. After he had left the
room Lulu and Mr. Parker drifted together,
lu kept my seat, which commanded
the door of the dining-room across the
hall. Suddenly, through the crack of the
dining-room door, I saw a flash of briUiant
light then came an insane scuffling and
skurrying, muffled shouts and ejaculations
in Uncle Simon's voice. Of course we all
rushed into the dining-rooin, to find
Uncle Simon incapable for once of giving
advice, as he capered wildly about tho
room, quite uncertain what to do. In the
course of his explorations he had taken
out the ash pan and set it upon a news
apo
paper, to preserve the carpet from injury,
Being hot, as ash pans are apt to be, it had
smouldered jor a
foment, and then flashed
suddenly into a blaze. Mr. Parker was the
only on.e of lis who had any sense, He took
in the situation ait once, and rushing from
the room, returned with some dark object,
which he threw over the burning paper,
pressing and trampling it down until the
flames were completely smothered. Uncle
Simon looked at the ruins for a moment, as
Mr. Parker removed the charred remains
of his new overcoat.
"For once," I thought, "Uncle Simon
will find it impossible to give advice." But
I was mistaken.
"It is all Amanda's fault," said Uncle
Simon. "What does she mean by keeping
her ash pans so hot? I must go and speak
to her about it."
Even Amanda, the long-suffering, blazed
up this time as fiercely as the paper had
done. I heard her voice, choked with angry
tears but any idea of the mischief Uncle
Simon was doing I had not, for Lulu was
whispering in my ear:
"I had a letter from George Maxwell
to-day. He wants to know how you are
getting on, and why you don't write to
him. What shall I say?"
Say? Let her say what she pleases. If
he wants to know about me, lot him ask mo
himself. It is an impertinence to send
messages in this roundabout way. What
is it to me?
11 P. M.
Just as I wrote the last word, Amanda
came to my door.
"I can't stand it no longer, miss," she
said. "It ain't the work I mind. No, miss,
it ain't the work, but it's this beastly nag,
nag, nagging, that an angel of light
couldn't stand, let alone tho old fellow
himself, saving his presence! He must
teach me to boil and bake and roast and
fry, to knead bread and scrub floors and
make beds, and the dear knows what all!
I've got a sick sister and a lame brother,
and lie gives good wages, or I Couldn't
have stood it as long as I have. I'm at the
end of my patience now, though, and good
luck to linn with the next one! I pinned a
dishcloth to his coat-tail once," said
Amanda, with a hysteric giggle, "and he
wore it all day. I took it off at night un
beknownst to him, and he's been wonder
ing ever since what made folks laugh so
that day. I'm sorry to leave you, miss,
but him I can't stand, nor won't. Only
one thing, miss, don't you go cooking for
him, if he goes down on his bended knees.
A saint's own temper couldn't stand it,
and you'd find -vrinkles coming round
your pretty eyes before you knew it."
No, Amanda, I shall not cook for him—
not I I'll starve first. I wonder whether
breakfast will be early to-morrow? I
wonder will it be good? "The day will
come, and wo shall bo wiser," as Gregory
Lopez was foud of saying.
a
began to AH and light
?I.ri j. I took up my knitting
and went on with it calmly. He contain
?i„,,
D!rufor,a while
through the smoke
knit' uncls?"
November 22.
It wasn't early, and it wasn't good. I
was awakened about eight o'clock by a
modest knock at my door. I answered
through the key-hole.
"Amanda has gone," said Uncle Simon
and I expressed all due surprise. "Can
vou cook?" was the next inquiry, to which
I returned a prompt and decided negative.
Having by this time struggled into a
wrapper, I opened my door to find Uncle
Simon looking uncommonly thoughtful.
"You are sure you can not cook, Mad
die?" he asked again.
"Dear uncle, what chance have I ever
had to learn? But that does not matter, for
you excel in it, you know."
"Do I?" said Uncle Simon, dubiously.
"But I replied briskly: "Why corta'inly.
How often I have heard you giving
Amanda directions, and wondered at your
skill! What a breakfast we shall have! I
am hungry already at the thought of it."
Undo Simon wont down-stairs slowly,
very slowly, and I am afraid that I laughed
to myself while completing my toilette.
The cloth was crooked, when I went
down at last the plates didn't match
there was not a spoon upon the table but
all that was nothing. Such coffee! such
toast! such black, chippy scrambled eggs!
and such a woful Uncle Simon! It was
wicked, but I laughed until I cried as I sur
veyed the scene.
"I have always heard," said Uncle
Simon, "that it is easier to do things your
self than to tell others how, but I begin to
doubt it."
Uncle Simon went off on a servant-hunt
after breakfast, and I washed up the dishes
and put things away, tolerably certain that
I should not be fouud fault with this time.
Lulu came in while I was about it.
"It's precious little use for him to go
servant-hunting," she said. "People about
here know him a great deal too well."
It took only one look at Uncle Simon's
face, when he came in at last, to know that
his mission had been a dead failure. He
glanced at the table, still covered with its
red cloth.
"Dinner will be late to-day, Uncle Si
mon," I said.
Uncle Simon groaned, but said nothing,
and presently I heard him knocking the
things about in the kitchen. Peel mean?
Of course I did. Under any other circum
stances I should havo tried my hand at
cooking, and no doubt made a thorough
botch of it. As it is, I feel a "masterly in
activity" to be the only safe course.
The door opens and Uncle Simon's head
appeura.
they
1
certainly not but that does
my
knowing how it should be
"No," I said. "But, uncle—pray forgive
me but the way you smoke really dis
tresses me. You don't fill nor hold voui
pipe right, and—"
"Ana prav, miss," he said,
"do you know
how to smoke?"
"Certainly not," I said "but that does
not hinder my knowing how it should be
done, does it?"
"Well, it just does," said Uncle Simon.
generally boil pota«
p, Maddic?"
Till they're done," I reply, promptly,
os, but when are they done?"
Vhen they are fit to eat."
do not seem likely to get much near
erlo it than this, and at present the suc
of the dinner seems problematical.
5 p. m.
steak, very black outside and very
PJlJf and transparent within, and potatoes
with hard lumps in the middle—that was
oxr dinner. Luckily, Amanda left us
plenty of bread and butter, and the pre
serve closet is well stocked. After dinner
I gave Uncle Simon a little advice in my
turn, and we sallied out in search of pro
visions which need little or no cooking.
With plenty of eg^rs and canned provisions
we may carry on the siege for a while. I
shall keep my eye upon Amanda, and am
not without hope of inveigling her back
when Uncle Simon is quite tired of the
present state of affairs.
November 26.
I think both Uncle Simon and I weigh
a few pounds less than we did a week ago.
Under our starvation regime Uncle Simon
has waxed meeker and meeker every day.
When it came to the prospect of eating a
Thanksgiving dinner of his own cooking,
he fairly collapsed. Then I decided that
the time had come, and went in search of
Amanda. She was loth to come back at
first, but yielded to my representations of
the altered state of affairs. I don't think
Uncle Simon has been into the kitchen once
since aer return. In other respects he is
gradually becoming more liko himself,
though decidedly subdued.
Aiifl now about my own private affairs.
It was on my way back from Amanda's
thoc I met him. "Him," of course, means
Gforge Maxwell. He was looking very
fierce and angry when we first met, but
softened a little as we shook hands. I sup
posed that he had come to see Lulu Belden,
and took very good care to express no sur
prise at his presence. I chattered on for
awhile about tho state of affairs at Old
Farm, but he stopped me suddenly.
"Don'ttalk about such things now, Mad
die. You know why I have come. Don't
pretend to ignore it."
I stared at him. I had no idea what he
meant, nor What answer he expected.
"I have come," he continued, "to ask you
why not one of mv letters has ever been
answered—why I have never heard a word
from you since that first note which was
filled with praises of Arthur Parker. Is he
the cause of your silence?"
"Arthur Parker!" I cried, and then went
into a fit of laughter which must have con
vinced the most incredulous. "But what
do you mean by your letters? I have,
never had a line from you since I have
been here."
George stared in his turn. "I have
written to you six times," he said. "Fin
ally, I grew wild, and wrote to Lulu Bel
den to inquire about you. Her answer
told me that you were well, and that
was all. At last I could stand it no.
longer, and came to see for myself. But
what on earth can have become of the let
ters?"
Evidently the wisest course was to go to
the Post-omce and ask about them. The
first inquiry brought forth the entire budg.
ct, which I grasped as one who has found
a treasure.
"Why in the world were they not
given to Mr. Johneswhen he asked for Miss
Barry's letters?" asked George and the
Postmaster laughed.
"He never asked for them, and we didn't
know who Miss Barry was. Mr. JohneS'
doesn't come here any more for his mail.
He has his letters sent to Eastbourne, three
miles away."
"What does he do that for?" George nat
urally asked.
The Postmaster hesitated. "Woll, you
see you're some kin to him, and may
be you know his little ways. It's about a
month ago now that he wanted to show
us how to sort the mail—by the initials
of the first name instead of the last. We
didn't just feel like taking his advice, and
so—"
"I see," said George and we both
laughed.
"So you were not deeply smitten with
Parker, after all?" said George.
"Not I but what about you and Lulu
Belden?" I asked.
"You know, of course, that this is the
rock upon which Uncle Simon and I split,"
said George.
"Because you both admired her, and he
was jealous," I said, sagely at which
George fairly roared.
"Not exactly. Because he wanted me to
admire her and I wouldn't, or rather I ad
mired somebody else more. He 'advised'
me to address her, and when I declined,
further 'advised' mo to leave the farm,
which I did."
There is no use writing down auy more
of that episode. There is no fear of my
cvor forgetting it, and as this journal is
written solely for my own eyes, it would
clearly be a work of supererogation.
November 29.
Yesterday George ate his Thanksgiving
dinner with me. Uncle Simon was dazed
at first by the news which we had to tell
hira, but, after some cogitation, was moved
to look upon it favorably. More than that,
it seems that I am something of a favorite
with him, in view of which fact George is
to be taken back into favor. Noxt week I
go back to my school, the scarlet-fever hav
ing disappeared, and George will take my
place here—until next spring, and then
something may happen which will bring
me back to reign over the old place as its
mistress.
"It isn't what I meant for either of you,"
said Uncle Simon, ruefully. "You'know
what my plaus wero for you, George, and
Madeline there I had intended for young
Parker. I promised him the first chance."
I fairly jumped as Uncle Simon revealed
the plot, which I had never suspected. No
wonder Mr. Parkor always looked like a
"fish out of water" in my presence.
"The only thing I can see now," con
tinued Uncle Simon, thoughtfully, "is for
Lulu and Parker to put up with your leav
ings. I shall advise them—"
"No, dear Uncle Simon, for Heaven's
sake, no more advice!" I cried. "Just see
the havoc it has wrought in your own
household, and would you go on scattering
it recklessly about the world? You will
have the universe in a blaze."
Uncle Simon laughed, rather sheepishly,
and was silent.—Ilelen F. More, in Har
per's Bazar.
.. ,1—
How to Kill the Blues.
Generally speaking, if you are
troubled wiih "the blue3," and can not
tell why, you may be certain that it
springs from physical weakness. In
stead of lying on the sofa and courting
painful ideas, if you are a desperate
lover, a hypochondriac or a valetudina
rian, you should be up and stirring
yourself. The blood of a melancholy
man is thick and slow, creeping slug
gishly through his veins, like muddy
water in a canal the blood of your
merry, chirping philosopher is clear
and quick, brisk a3 newly broached
champagne. Try, therefore, to
set your blood in motion. Try,
rather, what a smart walk will do for
you set your pegs in motion on rough,
rocky ground, or hurry them up a
steep, cragged hill build stone walls
swing an ax over a pile of hickory or
rock-maple turn a grindstone dig
ditches practice "ground and lofty
tumbling pour water into sieves with
the Danaides, or, with Sisyphus, "up
the high hill heave a huge round stone
in short, do anything that will start the
perspiration, and you will soon cease to
have your brains lined with Black, as
Burton expresses it, or to rise in tho
morning as Cowper did, "like an in
fernal frog out of Acheron, crowned
with the ooze and mud of melancholy."
—Profess Mathews.
READING FOR THE YOUNGf.
GRAPES THAT ARE SOUR.
(^Esop.)
It happened, one day,
A fox, on his way
To the house of a neighbor, snied
Some fruit of the vino
So luscious and line
That to pluck it ho boldly tried.
Now Hoynard was smart.
And lon^oil in his heart
Tho fruit above him to (father
But ho quickly found
Tlie height from tho jrround
Would prove an obstacle, ratiio
Concluding'at last
He'd have to go past
With all of his etlorts misspent,
For consolation
In his vexation
Ho to his philosophy went.
Oh, why should I sigh
For those grapes so high,
Which, if plucked. I really would find
Much too sour, j'ni sure.
For me to endure?
So I'll cease to trouble my mind.™
MOUAr,.
I wonder if we
Do not sometimes soe
That which wo ardently covet,
Like the grapes, too high
For us to get nigh,
No mutter how much we lovo it.
And, like tho fox, Hud
Belief for our mind
In pretending that what we sought
Was not to our tasto.
And not worth the waste
Of our labor, our time or our thought.
—Allie 11. Lewis, in Golden JJayi.
TOM'S FAIRY.
A Sure-Enough Thanksgiving-, and Wliero
It Came From*
It was only Aunt Nannie after all,
though Tom would havo you believe it
was a real fairy with wings of silver
gauze and a wand—liko the one in his
story book of Jack and the Beanstalk.
It was only Aunt Nannie, but when
I
say that I say a great deal, and 1 feel
like going back to cross out that word
only, for fear it may seem to take-from
her power.
If you could see her you would laugh
at the word power in connection with
her. She was such a little woman.
She looked as if you could carry her in
one hand but indeed one must needs
have a high hand to carry her. In all
disputed points she carried herself so
well that she generally "carried th«
day," too.
Well Aunt Nannie was planning a
dinner party for next day. She had
invited Mr. and Mrs. Stay-at-home, Mr.
Growler and Miss Nobody's-own to
Thanksgiving dinner.
She would have out her very best
cliiua and silver, her snowiest cloth,
her prettiest crystal and then such a
good dinner as she would prepare!
Her mouth fairly watered as she
thought over the dainties she would
give to these less favored friends. For
Aunt Nutiuie just loved to see people
happy about her, and her kindliness
went further than that, she loved to
make them happy by her own eli'ort.
Many a weary night her frail little
body knew, from having given too
much strength in tho day to the care of
others.
What a little body she was, to be
sure! Just a patch of goodness, if I
may call her so, but a patch that
mended many a torn life and made
whole many a rent in pocket-book or
heart-strings.
Somebody laughingly called her "the
little straight up and down woman,'1
because her soft, black dress clung so
closely to her slim ligure, and it was
not a bad name for her cither, for, in
matters of right and wrong, she was
the most decided character
I
ever
knew.
Well, she was this morning in one
of her happy moods and when the
door opened and Mrs. Williams, her
friend from up town, came in. Aunt
Nannie rose to meet her with a bright
welcome.
Mrs. Williams had many thing3 to
tell and to ask.
How much cream did she use in
Charlotte llusse for eight persons? did
she clear her wine-jelly with eggshells?
was Mis. l'roudlifc coming to her din
ner? and did she know that tho Smiths
had invited the new doctor to their
lio'.rse? and Ella just home from abroad.
Wouldn't there bo a grand display in
that dinner.
Well, it wasn't for her to criticise, but
she did think if they would care for
their own relations, the Brownwells, it
would look better. They were so poor,
the Brownwells, and since Mr. 15. 's ac
cident at the mill, he had never been
able to resume his business life.
"If they were as near me in the mat
ter of relationship as they are in the
matter of houses, I should feel that I
ought to help them, but they are nothing
to me exi-ept as far as common human
ity is concerned, even if they do live
next door."
£o said Mrs. Williams as she chat
tered on this topic and that, and when
she rose to go it was with cheery kind
ness in her pretty face and a heart
overflowing with good will, so long as
that kindness and goodwill did no.t cost
her any particular eli'ort. Alter tho
door closed upon her visitor Aunt Nan
nie stood thoughtful for a few moments
and then began to busy herself once
more about the dinner preparations for
the next day.
But she moved very slowly this time,
and there were two words ringing ia
her ears: "Common humanity!" Was
it true then that one's next door neigh
bor was no more than that?
Aunt Nannie had known these Brown
wolls in their happier days, when the
father was a successful merchant. She
and Mrs. Brownwell had often been
thrown together in hospital work and
in their flower mission. The children
at the Brownwell house iearned to love
the sweet, pure face of mamma's
friend, and called her affectionately
"Aunt Nannie," as if to claim some
relationship to one so good and kind—
so that Tom was not unknown to her,
as she stood thinking of him among
the rest, this cold morning, and plan
ning how to bring warmth and cheer
into that home of theirs.
Their lives had only drifted apart
somewhat on account cf Mrs. Brown
well's active homo life and her own
failing health, neither being free to join
in the work for the public good as
heretofore.
"Well," said Aunt Nannie, at length,
shaking her pretty head in a decided
way, "It shall be a real Thanksgiving
dinner in the Brownwell house, even if
this party gets no farther than the son*
course."
Now, when that little woman madfl|
np her mind "there was an end on it."
The good she willed toward others was
bound to be carried out, and you might
"depend on it" Therefore it was that
ati hour later found this nme frail
little woman stepping into her carriage^,
With a list in her hand as l?,ng as that
hand which held it, and a basket
stowed away beneath the coachman's,
feet, which same basket was destined!
to carry many good things before it
should cry "Hold! enough!" Front
butcher to baker, from market to gro-1
eery, the carriage rolled.
There was a big turkey, a can of
oysters, a bunch of crisn celery, somo
fine apples from the market, a minco
pie and big cake from the baker's
and last of all Aunt Nannie drove to
the florist's and got a great bunch of
the pretty, bright chrysanthemums,
yellow and white, to make the wholo
basket look g&y.
Oh, how pretty and tempting it did
look! Aunt Nannie forgot all about
feeling tii-:d in ber eager gladness over
lier purchases.
Tho last thing that went Into the bas
ket was a card saying merely "Littla
Tom's Thanksgiving dinner," and then
oil' went James through the gloaming
to deliver tha precious bundle".
Now we will leave-Aunt Nauaie, and
follow the- basket, for if I were- to tell
you liow weary her journeying abont
town had made her, how she liatli to lia
on her lounge all next day instead of
being at the head of her table as- sh#
had hoped to be, it would make yon
feel sorry, and that is not what J: am
telling you this for but rather, to iaak»
you glad.
Aunt Nannie was-glad—glad way t®
the bottom of her heart—and' so I will
tell you. only what she would have told
—the happy side—and leave out' tha
shadows from my pencil sketch thi»
time, though- you'may guess- they. ac«
there.
When James reached the door offtlli»
Brownwells, Tom himself came to ones
it
For Mrs. Brownwell!" said! James,
in his deep voice, and, placing the bas
ket on-the door sill, was off in a trice,
leaving Tom half stunned by sueb
treasures of sight and smell as came- to
him from its contents.
"Mamma!" screamed Tom,, "dt®
come and see! Here is Thanksgiving:
sure-enough! You must have been!jok
ing when you said we had nothing but
potatoes for dinner to-morrow, or else
the fairies have heard me wishing to
day, for here is celery and apples, and
and mince-pie and (his voic»
growing louder) a real turkey and cak»
and oh, Mamma, flowers, too!"
Mrs.. Brown well's heart was fall,
there was a big lump in lier tliroai
which would not bo swallowed as she
saw the thoughtful present, and when
she discovered the little card, whose
writing needed no name to tell its au
thor, she said "yes. Tom, it was our
good fairy. Nobody else could liav-o*
known just what would make us all- so
happy."
And Tom never knew anything else
but that that pie and turkey cama
straight from Titania's throne.—Mar~
jorie Flemynrj, in School and llome.
•f DISAGREEABLE. THINGS.
A Bit of Advice by "Aunt Marjorle
Of course nobody prefers disagreea
ble to agreeable things. I never heard
of any one who was delighted to sit ia
the dentist's chair did you? I never
found it very pleasant to" beg pardon
for having done wrong, nor charming
lo go a mile or two out of my way on
an errand which was made necessary by
my own forgettulness nor, I confess,
:ire pills quite as much, to- my taste a»
sugar-plums.
But, my dears, your- Aunt Marjorie
learned a great while ago that some
times disagreeable things must be done.
And the best and wisest way is to do
them at once and bravely. If you
grasp a nettle firmly, it is much less
likely to sting you than if you take
hold of it lightly and c-arelessly. If
there is a lesson for to-morrow which
you do not like—that '-old" .arithmetic
or those "old" boundaries—do not pus
off studying it until you have finished
your history and peeped into your bot
any and colored your map, but tug
resolutely at the hard lesson first, (iefc
that out of the way,, and. then with a
clear conscience you may attack, tha
others.
Nobody admires a coward If yon
happen to know that there is a cow
ardly drop of blood in certain bov,
how you despise him! Why, I've
heard tiny children in the street call a
playmate "fraid cat," and porafc at
him with an air of contempt, as
though that word left nothing more to.
be said.
But, Fred, Will, Jenny,, what if you
are aware that you are, 'way down in
your heart, a bit of a coward now and
then? You- do not like to own it when
you make a mistake. There are cer
tain stiff and dignified people who
rather frighten you, and when papa
sends you with a message to their
houses, you hesitate and. sa.y: "Can
not Tom go?" Yon are sometimes
afraid to say "No" when you are
urged to do something which is against
the home law or the rule of the school.
You are the very tiniest bit in tha
world a coward.
Trust your Aunt Marjorie, dears.
This will never do. A girl or boy, to
amount to anything, must be brave.
And when a disagreeable thing faces
you. face it. You will always find that
it was not half so bad nor so dreadful
as it seemed in the first place. Half
the trouble was in your own fancy.
JJarper's Young People.
—Somo time ago a young lady who
desired to get off the train at Army
Point, near Benicia, said to Conductor
Dan West: "Mr. West, please let me off
at Army Point." West growled out:
"This train always stops at Army
Point How do you know my name is
West?" Her answer was: "You havo
been pointed out to me dozens of times
as Dan West, the surliest man on the
road." West bit his lips and went on.
—Suisun (Cal.) Republican.
—Boys are sometimes very bad, and
sometimes parents are no better. It
boys have any inalienable right it is to
ft good home and a decent example

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