spo
Beware fac,
hi Beiiefonte, Pa., May |, 1908.
Now 1 Lay Me Down to Sleep.
“Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep.”
So the baby learned her prayer,
Kneeling by her mother's chair
In her little bed-gown white;
Said it over every night,
Learning in her childish way
How a little child could pray.
“Now I luy me down to sleep,”
Said the child » maiden grown;
Thinking, wit’. a backward glance,
How the happy past had flown
Since beside her mother's knee,
With a child's humility,
She had said her simple prayer,
Feeling sale in Jesus’ care,
“I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep” —
Yet the words were careless said,
Lightly had the hand of time
Laid his fingers on her head;
In lite’s guiden afternoon
Gay the belis and sweet the tune,
And upon her wedding-day
She had half forgot to pray.
“Now I lay me down to sleep —
How the words come back again,
With a measure that was born
Half of pleasure, half of pais;
Kneeling by a cradle bed,
With a hand upon each head
Rose the old prayer soft and low
As a brooklet in its flow,
All along, with bended head,
She had nothing but her dead;
Yet with heart so full of care,
Still her lips repeat the prayer.
Rest at last, O storm-tossed soul,
Safe beyond the breakers’ roll;
He, the Lord, her soul shall keep;
Now she lays her down sleep,
~Truth in Life.
THE OLD WOMAN'S STORY.
Bebind the hedge, the lawn spread like
a park. The grass was as close and fine ar
a green plush; the uundolations of the
ground were padded and upholstered with
it; theeun and shadow lay upon is iu a
figured design of leaves. Great trees stood
about it, in their ordered places, as stolid
and dignified as if they bad been set oat by
a butler—oaks, full-leaved and rounded
maples, chestnuts loaded with blossoms,
and elms that upheld a green lacery of
festooned branches, femininely slim. And
in she midst of it all, surrounded by formal
beds of flowers and bushes, a huge build-
ing of ruddy sandstone, with innumerable
windows, lifted beavily a square, squab
tower.
It was the almshounse. On this million-
aire’s lawn, ander these pompous trees,
groups of old women in diesses of blue
denim, with gingham aprous, sat gossiping
over their sewing, smoking olay pipes,
counting the beads of their rosaries, or doz-
ing io she heat of the sun, as wrinkled as
lizards, and blinking against the blaze of
light shat gave au almost repsilian sparkle
to their puckered eyes. Veterans iu the
unending battle of life, no longer able to
stroggle for the food to keep them strug-
gling, they bad been brought here to die
in peace.
Amoug them was a Mrs. Judd, an old
English woman who had impressed the
nurses with her patience avd oapabilisy.
They did not have to use any stratagems
to draw her to her weekly bath. She kept
her room neat with her own hands. She
did not hide between her mattresses any of
the useless trifles whioh she others misered
up in a sevile acquisitiveness shat went
even to the rubbish heap for tins, and stole
cutlery from the tables, and made a hoard
of moldy crusts. She did not cvmplain of
her meals. She quarrelel with uobody.
She sat alone, placid, white-haired, and
frail; and her skin that bad evidently once
been beautiful, «till preserved on her old
cheeks the soft whiteness of a dried peach.
When a nurse joined her on her bench
under a magnolia tree, her eyelids flattered
—a¢ they do when one is wakened from
the bhlinduaze of a day dream —bat she did
not turn to greet the astendant.
‘Lonely ?’ the girl asked.
“NJ, miss,” she sad.
The nurse was a dark-haired, dark-eyed
youog woman with a deep voice. She had
irregular features of more charm than
beanty. “I’m going to leave you next
week.”
“Yes, miss.”
She showed no interest; and the girl ex-
plained, importantly : “I'm going to be
married.”
**Yes. miss,” she replied in the same
tone. She added, in 4 moment : “When
the men want you, there's no denying
them. It has to be, miss.”
The girl smiled at this recigued view of
ber fate, ‘‘You know what is is to be war-
ried.”
“Yes, miss, I've been married swice."
She had kept her eyes on the empty level
of the lawn, and the narse wondered what
she saw there to hold her thoughts—what
memories, what faces, what ghosts of old
events.
‘““Had you any children 2”
“Children ? Yes, miss.” She folded her
hands on her checked apron. ‘‘Children
are the great thing while they lass, but
they go off an’ leave you, an’ have ohil-
dren o’ their own; an’ you wouldn’t know
them if yon met them on the street. Some
of them die, hut you ferget which ones it
was. Youn ferget their names. An’ when
you try to remember, you have them all
ssixed up, children an’ grandobildren to-
gether.”
“They don’t come to see you here ?"’
“No, miss.”” The tone in which she an-
ewered was not merely indifferent ; it was
even absent-minded. She nodded at the
view befors her. ‘‘It’s like the bit of crop.
ped paddock that was between the house
an’ the beck."
‘A stream, miss— with big stones in it.
An’ in the ‘‘floodtime it makessuoh a noise
as you never 'eard, all night long when
you would be sleeping. My room, up the
stairs, looked out a window, over the
kitchen garden an’ the stone wall an’ the
bit o’ paddock an’ she beck. . . The
beck! . . . Ah, miss, when we left
Liverpool, an’ I sat on the deck watching
which way we went so I could know the
way back again, the noise o' the water
wade me ory for the beck ! An’ in my slee
at night, with the ship tossing, I dream
o’ the heck ! An’ all day long the olonds
went by high over ’ead, back to Old Cua-
iston an’ she meadows an’ ghe beok.”’
The girl waited until this emotion should
pass. “Were you all alone?’ she asked
Zeutly.
“No, miss. Ele was with me.
away together.”'—'‘Why ?”’
She shook her head. ‘It's a long story,
miss. It began before we ever knew it, -
We ran
when we went to school sogether. An’
uot soch schools as you have ’ere, miss.
The floor was all stone like a sidewalk; an’
there was no stove hut a fireplace that
harned peat; ao’ iu the big pot that hung
there we pus the potatoes we brought fer
our dinners—hoys an’ girls—an’ marked
them so we'd know our own, an’ put the
peat on the top o’ the pot lid, redhot, an’
roasted them all together. There's no such
potatoes now, mis« none so hig an’ mealy
—though Cousin William used always to
bave the higgest 0’ mine—till Harry fought
with him an’ pus him to shame.”
*‘Was that in England ?”
“Yes, miss. In Camberlaund.
**You see, miss, I was horn in London,
hat thev brought me to Camberland when
I was a little thing, because my mother
was dead an’ my father gone off with his
regiment. An’ when von come to the
fields so. from the choke of houses an’
streets, it’s the wonder of life, an’ vou
never ferget it. I remember to this day
driviug across the fells with Uncle Wilson
the first time I come to the house, an’ how
red the sky was over the hills
“It must have been beantifnl.”’
“It was, miss. It was a great large farm
with a stove house as big as an inn, with
slates on the roof an’ slates down she front.
An’ in the side, there was a gate, like yoo'd
see to a prison, an’ it opened into the yard
where the carts were an’ the doors to the
barn. An’ the barn was ail stone like the
house, an’ the house an’ the barn were
joined into one by the wall and she gate.
Bat to come in the house by the front door,
you went through a gate in the garden
wall, an’ smelled the sweet briar, an’ lifred
the knocker. An’ downstairs the floors
were slate, miss, an’ they washed them
with milk.”
“How quaint I"
“Yes, miss. It was all a great marvel to
me. [ osed to wake up in the mornings
with joy, the air was so sweet ip my lungs.
An’ I would lie an’ listen to the beck an’
the birds together, till I thought my heart
would barst, wise, with just nothing at al|
but ’appiness. That’s the way it is some-
times wheo you're young. Bus to be young
on the Beok Farm was to be so the whole
day long, miss.”
She paused to tura over in her memory,
wistfully, those treasured recollections.
“There was Uncle Wilson, a red-faced man
as big as a giant. He worked the men all
day in the fields, or be was away at market
at three o'clock of a morning an’ not back
agaio till night, eo I saw bat little of him.
Av’ there was my aunt that was tall, too,
but spare, an’ with a long face like you see
oun an old ewe—an’ a good housekeeper, but
#0 saving that when she sewed she would
make me pick up her basting threads an’
wind thew on a spool to 'em dish-towels
with. Au’ there was my Cousin Willian
an’ the baby. An’ that was all 0’ shem—
except the servants that were ’ired by
Uncle Wilson at the fairs on Michaelmas
an’ Candlemas, twice a vear,men an’ wom-
en, the women t0 work in the fields as
well as she men.
‘“They ali treated me the same as if I
was one o' their own—though my aunt
held is against me that my mother had ron
away with a soldier before I was horn—
an’ made me work, $00, a8 soon as I was
old enough to mind she bahy an’ belp in
the kitchen an’ sweep the floors. Bat is
was Cousin William that made trouble,
plaguing me the way boys plague their
sixtess an’ teasing me abouts my red bair,
aotil Harry faoght with him at school
about the potatoes. That's the way it is
with some boys, miss, Because they like
you, they plague you an’ drive you about;
an’ when you turn against them fer is,
they almost hate you because they like you
still an’ you don’t like them.”
The nurse nodded and smiled.
Yes. I know.”
“At first it was just that we went to
school with Harry when he would come
down the road from his father’s farm—an’
walk back with us when school was over,
an’ go berrying with us, an’ nutting—all
children sogether, an’ vo shought of ’arm
—riding in the carts 10 the hayfields or
'elping pile the peat when they out it in
the spring to dry. He was a strange lad.
Harry, miss. He hated his books an’ he
wouldn't learn in them, because at nights
he conldn’s sleep like the others that work-
ed on the farm an’ tired themselves ons an’
snorted when he wold be awake, staring at
the dark. But then he found picture hovks
at ‘ome an’ began to be always reading
them an’ bringing them to read to us, an’
his father woald buy them in town when
be went to markets, an’ pat them ander
the pillow fer Harry so find when be waked
—‘Rohinson Crusoe,’ I remember —fer it
was after he read us from ‘Robinson Crasoe’
that we played it among the rocks up the
beck, an’ killed a lamb, an’ bad to bury it
in the peat bog so Uncle Wilson woanlduo’t
know—an’ stories aboot America an’ In-
dians. An’ that was how Harry began to
be a scholar.
“Those were the good daye, miss, when
we were all young. We played ‘jacks’
with pebbles, an’ hop-scotch on the stones
of the walk, an’ bad games up the beck,
an’ went pickin’ wild apples an’ all such.
My Uncle Wilson had an oatmeal mill with
an ugly big water-wheel that made a great
noise—an 'orrid big wheel that splashed
an’ rattled iv a box; an’ Harry played is
was a giant turning the wheel, an’ frighten-
ed us so [ dreamed of it as nights, an’ woke
with my legs trembling.”
“Yes. And wo?”
‘‘Well, miss, to tell the truth, before we
were big enough to leave schoo! I was mad
about the boy, an’ he would be nowhere
without me. He was as lean an’ quick as
a bound, an’ he would do things to make
me soream—like leaping across the rocks
o' the beok when it wes in flood or jomp-
ing from the eaves o’ the barn into the hay-
carts as they drove in. An’ Cousin Wil-
liam was ’eavy like his father, an’ slow
like his father, an’ though be could throw
Harrylin a wrestle he pever dared fight.
But it was him that carried stories to my
aunt, an’ she said Harry was a wild young
ruffiau. An’ at last she ordered him awa
from the house one day that Cousin Wil-
liam fell from the haylofs because he tried
to follow Harry in some pranks—an’ I was
told to play no more with him.
‘“You know how such things grow, miss.
There was a sheep stole, an’ Cousin Wil-
liam told how Harry’d killed the lamb an’
buried it in the peat bog—though ’twas a
ear gone sinoe—an’ then there was bicker-
ng between the farms ; fer Harry’s father
took the boy's part an’ guarreled. An’ all
the farmers roundabout had shares in
meadows where they cut ’ay, an’ there
started a dispute about our share an’
theirs, miss—an’ #0 it went on, till Harry
had to pass me without looking aside when
we were coming to church o’ Sundays, an’
we only met up the beok when I could
steal away from the others an’ have our-
selves alone,
“That was near the end o' the good
days, miss. Cousin William grew to a
strong lad, so fat his cheeks shook when ke
walked; fer he walked ’eavy on his heels.
An’ he talked ‘shee’ an’ ‘thon.’ like the
rest, with their way o’ speaking without
ending the words, as if they got the month
“Yes,
open on a broad ‘oo’ an’ had their jaws
stock. An’ he ed me now with his
calf’s eyes an’ his ribands bought on mark-
et days; an’ his mother plagued me because
she saw how it was with him,an’ she would
not have ber son marry a girl with nanghs.
Au’ Harry went away to town to study to
be a scholar, just when they were mowing
the bracken on the fells fer the winter's
kiodlings—an’ my schooldays were over-
an’ I thought shere would be no more
'appiness fer me in this world, miss.”
“Didn't you write to him ?*’
‘No, miss. There was no way to get
the letters. But when he come ‘ome fer
Christmas, we met agaiv down by the
bridge an’ told each other everything there
was to tell. He called me ‘Little Miss
Mufles’ an’ teased me hecause I was so
small, but I knew he liked me small an’
clumsy. An’ when be kissed me good-hy,
I knew it was the same with him that it
was with me, an’ I went singing aboat the
kitchen till Isaw Aunts Wileon looking as
me out o’ the corner of her eye; an’ after
that I only sung, soft in my own room, sit.
ting at the window, an’ looking out at the
frosty beck.”
She wax smiling the smile of memory
and soft thoughts, her eyes ses and vacant.
The girl beside her bad the same expres
sion and the same gaze. But the girl's
smile was clear-cut and sparkling, freshly.
minted ; aud the old woman's was as blar-
red as the face on au old silver coin.
The girl sighed. ‘‘And so you ran away
”
“No, miss. Nos shen. Not till after.
Not till Harry's father apprenticed him to
a lawyer, an’ Uncle Wilson went agains:
my aunt. an’ said I'd make a good wife fer
Cousin William, an’ [ began to plot an’
plan how I should do.
““Harry would come ome Suudays, au’
we would meet unknown to any one un
less my aunt—an’ I think she kuew, miss,
fer she found ways to let me ran off an-
known to Cousin William, though she said
nothing. Sbe would sooner I had Harry
than her sou. An’ if Courin William knew
of Harry, be hid it fer the sake ©’ being
right with me —an’ from what he said, I
knew he thoughts Harry would ferget we
in town—an’ so I wens to church with him
Sundays, an’ pulled the wool over his
eves. An' there we were, all playing
double, miss, the one with the other, an’
Harry deceiving his family the way [ did
mine.
“What troubled me most was that Har-
ry chafed at his apprenticeship an’ was all
fer running away to London—or to Ameri-
oa to make his fortune, if I'd come ; fer he
wouldn't go so far away sn’ leave me to
Cousin William, though I swore I would
as 8000 be wed to an ox. We had no mon-
ey. Ieaw never a penny from year's end
to year’s end on the farm, miss ; an’ Harry
was not much better. Bat we used to meet
an’ talk plane—the way women folks will
—an’ make love as if money fer marrying
was no matter.
*“Then one Sunday he didn’t come, an’
the sun set on me as if it was never to rise
again. I was afeard shat what Cousin Wil-
liam said was coming true about Harry, an’
this the beginning of is. But that night
there was a tap on wy window an’ the case-
ment rastied, an’ I saw it was Harry, dark
against she sky that was full 0’ moonlighs,
He was standing on a ladder that he'd oar-
ried from she barnyard, an’ he langhed an’
kissed me an’ said it was because his father
bad found him ous an’ forbade him to he
wasting his time raonoing after a girl when
he should be thinking of his studies. An’
now he would have to see me Sanday
nights, after all were abed.”
The girl bad turned, her lips parted, as
it she were about to speak.
The old woman hurried on : ‘It was
his nature to do such things, miss, an’ to
take more delight in them because o' the
daring. I was afeard fer him an’ fer my-
self ; but that wore off with his coming
again an’ again. He was a dear lad, an’
made love like a book. We mes at the win-
dow or sat on the big window seat, with
scarce light enongh to see each other’s faces
when we kissed—whisperiog an’ making
our promises an’ namiog each other fond
names—an’ the guilt of it made is all the
sweeter.” She lingered on it, smiling.
Her smile faltered and changed slowly.
She said : ‘An’ shen, of asudden, the end
came."
**Yon were—They found ont?’
“Yes, miss. Cousin William—he must
have gaessed what was going on, though
Harry was careful to put the ladder back
where he found it an’ leave no footprints in
the mold o' the garden under my window.
Cousin William— We never knew how it
was. But one black night when the sam-
wer was just warming, an’ Harry had no
more than reached the top o’ the ladder an’
put bis arms up to me, some ove rushed
around the side o’ the house from the
kitchen an’ Harry jumped.”
She stopped. She dropped ber voice.
“It was dark, miss. He didn't do it o’
purpose. Bat he came down on my Cousin
William--avd- there wasn’t so much as a
gioan . . . He was all in a heap with his
’at crushed down on his face and his chin
on his chest, his neck broke, dead, miss, I
saw him when I come down the ladder an’
clung to Harry an’ told him to run fer his
life.”?
‘Good Heavens !"’ the nurse gasped.
She made the gesture of a fataliss. “It
was done,” she said. ‘‘There was no un.
doing it, an’ Harry would not go without
me, an’ he bad to go, mies. It would be
found out. It would be said they’d quar-
reled about me. So I olimbed back an’
made a bundle o’ my clothes, an’ when I
came to the window Harry called to me to
get all Cousin William's clothes, too ; an’
I didn’t know why he wanted them, but I
orept to his room an’ got them, an’ I was
shaking so my teeth chattered in the
dark.”
‘“Yoa—"'
‘‘I bad but the one thought; thas Harry’d
be hanged fer murder, an’ I'd have to help
him gest away. He told me what to do, an’
Idid is. I've often wondered since, miss,
where I found the strength, bat I was like
a mad woman with fear, an’ I breathed so
hoarse that Harry put his band over my
mouth fer fear I'd be heard indoors.”
“Good Heavens !”
‘‘He shut my window, an’ took down the
ladder, an’ smoothed over the marks in the
loam with bie 'and, an’ laid Cousin Wil.
liam on the ladder covered up with the ex-
tra clothes I'd brought ; an’ then he took
one end an’ bade me take the other, an’ we
stumbled down the paths to the back door
o’ the kitchen, an’ out into the ook an’
80 over the fields to the peat . I tell
once, miss. An’ after it was all over, my
teeth were sore to the roots with the way
I'd clenched them. But it had to be done.
‘‘ ‘We must 'ide him somewhere,’ Harry
said, 'till we ges away.’
‘An’ so we come to the place where
they’d been digging peats an’ left their
es fer the morrow ; an’ there was a pile
o' the peats already stacked to dry, an’
Harry went at them with his ’ands to shift
them an’ I helped. I was oryi miss,
whimpering with fright; an’ we to wait
every now an’ then the moon to break
out of a cloud, an’ I don’t know whether I
was more feared o' the dark that hindered
as or the moon that showed us what we had
to hide. An’ Harry said never a word. but
worked slow an’ careful, with only a glance
about him—when the moon came out clear
~—80 see that no one watched,
‘‘An’ then we bad the pile moved. An’
then be dag into she bog with a spade, An’
then be told me to go away au’ turn my
back; avn’ I tarned an’ fell on my koees an’
stopped my ears with my bands au’ prayed,
m yed fer Harry to get away sale—
till I thooght is was nos my prayers bus
my bands that'd aid him, an’ came hack to
help him put back she peats, praying to
myself, but working, too, till it was all as
we'd found it, an’ no sign of anything hid.
Av’ then Harry wens to pot the ladder
back in the haruyard. an’ I fainted. miss,”
‘“Horrible I’ the girl said with her face
in ber hands, thinking of she nnforsunate
man throst into shat hole in the swamp.
The old woman shook her head sadly.
“It was the only way, miss. We've gone
over ita hundred times since, and it was
the only way that'd saved ws. “They'll
think he’s run off with yoo,” Harry said.
That's why he wanted the clothes from his
room, miss. An’ when [ go,’ he said,
‘they'll think I've followed to try an’ find
you. We'll ger to Liverpool. An’ long
hefore they know where he is, we'll be hid-
den away in America.”
**Bat yon hadn’t murdered him !"’ she
oried. “Yon conld have told them that—
and let hin: he haried like—
‘Hush, child. Huh." She canght the
naree’s hand in a trembling cluteh. “He
was dead at oor feet an’ Harry had killed
him I"
The girl made an effort to rise, hut sank
back again on the hench, freeing her hand
hat unable to do more. She was pale and
nauseated.
“It all tarned out as he said. He hid
me in his father’s haro, in a hiding place
he’d used as a boy, hetween the joists of the
hayloft an’ the roof. where there was old
harness an’ broken tools—an' brooght me
food in the morning an’ told me my uncle
was out an’ off to town, an’ the news was
abroad that I'd ran away with Coasin Wil.
liam. He wens over to the Beck Farm,
then, like a wan crazed with jealonsy, an’
my aunt railed out on me, an’ there was no
one workin’ in the peat hog, an’ he saw
that everything was sale. His father, out
0’ pity fer him, said nothing ahous going
back to his studies that day. Au’ in the
night he came to me with clothes of bis
own an’ a sheep sbears to cut my hair an’
money in hie pocket fer our passage ; an’
when I was dressed likea lad av’ our closhes
in a bundle together, we fled away across
the moors.”
The nurse, stiff and silent, her vy
averted, sat as if in judgment npon gaily,
not knowing what to say, what to dou, or
how to receive this confession which she had
beard. And the old woman went oo :
‘At first it was all ’orror an’ grief to me,
like a had dream ; an’ my feet blistered
with the heavy clogs I wore, an’ my legs
were wrung with pain, miss, But when I
thought that we'd done nothing wrong—
unless the money that Harry took an’ I'd
made him promise he'd send shat back
from Amerioa—an’ there we were, all alone
in the world together, an’ him loving me
an’ carrying me in his arms when I could
walk no further—why, miss, I said to my-
self : ‘He'll be caught an’ taken from me
some day, an’ I'll be bappy now while I
have him. An’ so we were. We hid by
day in the hedges an’ waste places, an’
walked by night barefooted with our bun-
dles ; an’ it was swees to bave him with
his arm about me, an’ sweet to lie on bis
shoalder sleeping in the grass.
‘‘Happiness hides in strange places, miss ;
we found is there in the mides 0’ fear. We
were like she wild things o’ she wood thas
knew nothing o' this world, but what we
saw passing us on she roads when we were
'id. We bad clap-bread from his father’s
kitoben—the kind they make of oatmeal
an’ store in barrels ; an’ be would leave me
hidden an’ go alone to buy food from the
houses, though we did not dare do this till
we were far away. An’ we were wetted by
the rains an’ burned by she sun, an’ hungry
an’ footsore, but as’appy as never was, It
was our 'oneymoon, miss-—-such as it was—
an’ I was wishing is would never end. I
could’ve gone on with him fer all time,
wandering like gipsies, with none to plague
us. I made a five figure of a boy ; an’
once when we were canght among the trees
at a brookside, he named me as his yoang
brother come down with him from the
North to work on the farms ; an’ I was so
brown an’ handy no one wouid saspeos.
Just to be free o’ skirts an’ petticoats an’
able to run an’ olimb fences like a boy was
a joy of itsell, miss ; an’ when we came at
lass outside Liverpeol, an’ I bad to put on
my own olothes again, I felt as if my winge
were clipped to go back to a cage.
“Down amid the big ware houses, built
in stone the color o' smoke, we found a
waterside lodgiog house an’ stayed there
till Harry learned about the ships an’
bought an old chest an’ some oluthes Zor us
hoth an’ went aboard with me at night.
We were away pext morning over the wa-
ter, an’ shen I cried, miss, fer the hills an’
the beck, an’ promised myself that some
day when all was forgotten I'd come back.
An’ even now, miss, when I sit at my win.
dow upstairs, I think what it'd be to be in
my own little room over the garden at
‘ome, with children, perhaps, an’ grand-
chil"ren about me, instead o' what is is.”
She selapecd into the silence from which
the noree first roused ber, and thers
was no change in her expression except for
the tears that brightened her eyes.
‘What became of Aim ?’ the girl asked.
‘‘He died, miss, in the West, where he
went, under a new name.’
‘‘And you married again ?"
‘Yes, miss,an’ my second husband never
came back from the war, an’ my boys wens
farther west, an’ I thought to make my
way to Cumberland, maybe, 20 I came to
New York an’ worked ’ere, but I got my-
self no farther, an’ never ’eard word o’ the
Jari, ter I was gles 2 fk bat ;
preserve a ly, m e mummies
in gust, oo 1 4 nt not Hey found him
at an m |
“What a life !”’
“Yes, miss. It bas its own way with
you—life. Iocan’ complain. It all bad
to be. An’ now I can sit ’ere an’ see is all
{2% a plaia aa I could with ny ld eyes
it was 'ere betore me. Your body grows
old, mies, bus not yourself. You'll see,
mies.” —By Harvey J. O'Higgins, in Col-
lier's.
Winner of the Collier's $1,000 Prize in the
I never yet heard man or woman much
I was not inclined to think
the better of them and to transfer any
suspicion or dislike to the person who
appeared to take delight in pointing ous
. of a fellow creature says a
writer,
— Raw grated puts applied on barn
scalds will relieve the pain PD lian
SU
The Catholic Marriage Law.
Which Went Into Effect at
Saturday 18th.
Midnight on
The drastic new marriage law of the
Roman Catholic church went into effect at
widoight April 18sh. For the iuforma-
tiou of the laity of shat church as well as
for Protestants, who will find the papal
decree of interest, as it makes special re-
ference to them under certain conditions
the WATCHMAN publishes a brief <ynopsis,
The chief features of this new law regard -
ing marriage are a= foliows:
1. Every bishop (or vicar general or
administrator of a diocese) can validly
marry in his own diocese any parties, ir-
respective of the country or place whence
they come, The bishop can delegate any
priest to do the same.
2. Bishops or priests may not assist at
marriages until they have assumed office.
3 There is vo marriage at all if the
priest be compelled to witness it. There
i* no marriag- il she priest does not ask
and receive the consent of the parties,
4. The authority which the bishop has
in bis diocese, the parish priest bas in his
parish.
5. The bishop outeide his diocese and
the pastor outside the limits of his parish
cannot validly marry their own or other
#atjects without due anthorization.
6 Marriage before a priest who is sns-
pended or excommunicated hy name will
he no marriage at all.
7. Marriage of all Catholics (both par-
ties Catholics) before a minister or civil
magistrate wiil be no marriage as all.
8. Marriage of all fallen away Catho-
lies (who have become Protestants or
infidels) before a minister or civil magis-
trate will be no marriage at all.
9. Marriage of a Catholic to a non-
baptized person is vever a real marriage
unless the church grants a dispensation.
Such a marriage before a minister ora
jnstice of the peace is no marriage at all for
two reasons,
10. Marriage of a Catholic to a Protest-
ant (one never haptized in the Catholio
church) before a minister or civil magis-
trate will be no marriage at all anless the
holy see makes a special law for the United
States.
11. Marriage of a Protestant to a Pro-
testant (protestants shat were never bap-
sized in the Cathoiic church) is valid.
12. Marriage of a Protestant (haptized)
Ion non-haptized party is no marriage at
a
13. Marriage of a non-baptized man to
a nou-baptized woman is valid a= a lifelong
contract. These parties donot receive, how-
ever, the sacrament of matrimony.
14. Tbere will be no marriage at all
unless there be two witnesses; one witness
with she priest will nos suffice.
15. Bishops or priests should not wi-
ness marriages until they are morally onr-
tain that the parties to he married are ree
to enter the matrimonial state, hence as
far as possible dispensation from the publi-
cation of banns should not be songhs.
16. For the lawlal celebration of a mar-
riage one or other of the contracting parties
should bave a domicile or live for a month
in the parish where they are to be married.
This condition is not however, essential
for the validity of a marriage.
17. Marriages of persons without fixed
abode should be referred to the bishop be.
fore the ceremony takes place.
18. Marriage should take place in the
parish ohurch of the bride, unless there be
good reason to go to the pastor of the bride.
groom,
19. There are new rules to he ohserved
hy the priest for the registration of mar-
risges. When contracting parties are to
be married in a church were not baptized
in that parish they should before mar-
riage secure their baptismal certificates.
20. Marriaze entered into when there
is danger of death can he witnessed by any
priest with two witnesses, provided there
is not time to reach the bishop, parish
priest or priest appcinted by either of
these,
21. If for an entire month parties can-
not seonre bishop, parish priest or any
priest appointed by either of these, they
may in the presence of two witnesses (there
is not marriage il there be not two wis-
nesses) declare their consent to marry.
They are then in she eyes of the church
and hefore God married. As soon after the
marriage as possible they should send their
names to the parish priest for registration
and do whatever in required to have their
marriage legally recognized by the state.
Pointed Paragraphs.
Marriage is a short cut from romance to
reality.
The man who poses as a model citizen
has a bard job.
You can flatter any man by telling him
he is flattery-prool.
Awong the other trusts we have mis-
trusts and distrusts.
A wise man alwave pretends to take the
advice his wife hands him.
Courtship is expensive, marriage more
so and alimony—well, that’s the limis,
Never judge the kind of mother a man
had by the woman who marries him,
It is easier to do a charitable act shan it
is to refrain from talking about is.
There is always a good-paying job on tap
for the wan who can deliver the goods.’
Be kind to your friends, be agreeable to
your neighbors and beware of your enemies,
The young man and young woman who
undertake the voyage of life withous some
reliable ohars, showing the rocks and
shoals where health may make shipwreck,
are inviting catastrophe. Of all books,
fitted to give instruction on the care of the
body, the preservation of ite health, none
can compare with Dr. Pierce’s Common
Sense Medical Adviser. It tells the plain
peat | grath in plain English. It deals with
uestions of vital interest of both sexes,
8 1008 pages have over 700 illustrations.
some in colors. This book is sent absolutely
Sree, on receipt of stamps to pay expense of
mailing only. Send 21 one-cent stamps for
per covered book, or 31 stamps for cloth
ing. Address Dr. R. V. ny Bul-
falo, N. Y.
Whistitng Women,
There is a superstition shat is is very
udlacky for a woman to whistle. It arises
from 2u old tradition that while the pails
of our Lord’s oross were being forged a
woman stood by and whistled, and, curi-
ously shoagh, comparatively few women
ever whistle.
Takes Some Smartuces 10 Do That.
Whenever we hear a woman boast that
her husband winds the olock, wipes the
dishes and puts the children to bed we
wonder if he is smars enough to know how
“to do anything else.
¢ “Better to wear out shoes than sheets.
FOR AND ABUT
er ——
WOmEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
If we wish to be just Judges of all things let us
first persuade ourselves of this ; that there is
not one of us without fault . BO man is
found who can acquit himself. —Seueca.
———
In case of sickness aud she confusion of
baving strange servants and nurses ip the
bouse put your best china and glass under
lock and key, as in a chia closet. Nog
that there will be any ediated desire
or plan to destroy, bat mg a tendency
0 use whatever is bandy. Once the wrirer
v bbe i > a dozen fragile water
klasses en by rapping on the thin
rim 0 break shem i hv... hy
PB oiop rik Dusde used fine heavy linen
nner napkine for wi medicine s,
which left indelible ois Pov
While at the druggist’s one can buy
ready-to-use mustard plasters and com-
pounds that are even bester than home.
wade poultices, itis well to have some-
thing on band for immediate use, even if
circumstances never bring is into use. A
quart cau of flaxseed meal closely sealed
will give material for good poultices, A
few dry red pepper pods, also kept in a jar
make 2 stimulating hot tea, usefal for a
cough or overcoming a chill. Is is a pure
red pepper, whioh cannos alwaye be said
of the ground article.
To make flaxseed meal poultice pour
rapidly boiling water onto she meal sod
beat bard, for this brings out the oil in the
meal. Spread ona square of cheesecloth,
leaving a clean margin of two inches.
Fold this edge over on the mixture, lay on
another square, which comes shree or four
inches all ronod beyond she poultice. Lay
iton a hos plate, place a pan over and
carry at once to the sickroom.
No sick person should be compelled to
step out of bed without slipping on sofs
wool bed shoes, for the chill shat would
vot effect a well person may be dangerous
to the weak one. A loose robe of flannel-
ette or eiderdown is also needed when a
patient is able to sit op for a few minutes,
as to have the bed made.
Maoy of the new season’ frocks for
cbildren bave she skirts finished with two
or three broad tucks a few inches above
the bem.
It is curicus how constantly this fashion
recare. It is very orvamental and yet se-
vere, and is particularly aweful on short
skirts, whioh is is always diffionls to trim
saitably. For more elaborate gowns we
appear to be returniug to the days of
draped skirts, and although we are nos
likely to tie up our knees in oloth sashes,
the new Directoire frocks, when made of
soft materials such as muslin and chiffon,
bave quantities of stuff looped up, and
sucked and gathered all the way down
from waist to hem. Those who are strong
on hygiene dislike these skirts because
they are such dust-traps.
Batcher’s blue linen is an extraordi-
nurily useful material nice and color. It is
not included in she liss of dingy, dark
colors, yes it is a long while before it looks
dirty. It is very hecoming, exceedingly
durable, and, of course, a most excellent
washing material. In some households,
indeed, the obildren begin to crawl in
batoher’s blue and they leave school in
butcher's blue, Itisa mistake however,
to les them ges tired of it, but an occasional
frock will prove a lasting boou. It requires
very little trimming save that of some
emart stitching round the bem and on the
bodice, and a stitebed baud of is will serve
excellently as a belts.
An excellent idea uot onlyfor those in the
| room, hus also domestic people who
discharge household duties is the over-all.
Not she loose and ~hapeless pinafore, but
a really well-ont garment. Althongh
made in one piece it has a belt which
fastens neatly ronnd she waist. The skirt
is only a couple of inches shorter shan the
skirt of the dress, and is quite as full. It
bas no collar, bat is prettily ornamented
with stitching, of bands of ite own material
at the base of the throat. The large sleeves
are drawn into long and olose-fitsing onfls,
which are made tight enongh not to slip
down over the hand. The over-all! can
either fasten at the back or have a double
front.
‘‘Have you noticed that many hostesses
are serving rock candy orystals instead of
sugar with after dinner coffee ?'’ inquired
an observing woman. ‘‘I've tried it my-
self and have found that the prestiest ef-
fect is gained by buying an equal amount
each of red and white rock candy and mix-
ing the irregular shaped crystals in a low
glass bonbon dish.
*‘These are served with a bonbon spoon.
There's an especial advantage in this plan
for those who want very little sugar, as
the smallest quantity pussible may be
taken, lees than the ordinary piece of cut
sugar. This rook candy is absolutely pure,
very cheap, and gives a particularly deli-
cious flavor to black coffee.
‘Another new kink I noticed at a lunch-
eon was the passing of swo little glass
dishes with she salad course. One dish
held finely minced green peppers and the
other tiny slices of little new onions. The
ruests took what they wanted and eprink-
led it on the salad, which was a combina-
tion of lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers,
‘‘At the same luncheon a fancy omelet
with burning ram was served instead of
the usual sweet course. Instead of the
ordivary river of fire running placidly
around the plaster the effect was quite
spectacular and reminded ove of miniature
volcanoes. I found thas this effect was the
result of stacking lumps of sugar in heaps
at intervals round the platter.” —New
York Sun.
An idea which has been followed out b
a number of girls for sleeve linke for their
morning waists of the tailor-made variet
in the flannel is to get the plain mote
peat! buttons, which are sold for men’s
evening wear.
They are flat buttons, just like those
which are sewed on shirtwaists, only finer
and of a more attractive design.
They are small in size, and when used in
the tailored shirtwaists, they are exoeed-
ingly neat, aod at the same time smart
looking.
With them are warn scarf pin and belt
buckle to match.
The Cameo. —It has been revived entha.
siastically.
It is the same delicately flashed and
skillfully carved thing worn by our grand.
mothers.
A large one set around with rhinestones
is often used for a belt buckle.
A row of four of these medallions set on
a gold band forms one of the most popular
bracelets,
Cameo necklaces, too, bear witness to
the revival of the style.
Even cameo earrings are noted in the
shop windows.