Beworrai ata,
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Bellefonte, Pa., March 12, 1909.
A SONG OF THE ROAD.
“Whatever the path may be, my dear,
Let us follow it far away from here,
Let us follow it back to Yester-year,
Whatever the path may be :
Again let us dream where the land lies sunny,
And live, like the bees, on our hearts’ old honey,
Away from the world that slaves for money —
Come, journey the way with me.
However the road may roam, my dear,
Through sun or rain, through green or sere,
Letus follow it back with hearts of cheer,
However the road may roam :
Oh, while we walk it here together,
Why should we heed the wind and weather,
‘When there on the hills we'll smell the heather,
And see the lights of home !
Whatever the path may seem, my sweet,
Let us take it now with willing feet,
And time oar steps to our hearts’ glad beat,
Whatever the path may seem :
Let the road be rough that we must follow,
What care we for hill or hollow,
While here in our hearts, as high as the swallow,
We bear the same loved dream !
However the road may roam, my sweet,
Let it lead us far from mart and street,
Out where the hills and the heavens mee! —
However the road may roam :
So, hand in hand, let us go together,
And eare no more for the wind and weather,
And reach at last those hills of heather,
Where gleam the lights of home.
—-By Madison Cawein.
THE RETURN OF FATHER.
Abbie Ann, the married daughter from
beyond Chicago, bad kissed her motber,
and now stood looking at her with pleasure
and relief, as if she were not only glad to
be at home, bus lighter-hearted {rom some
hidden reason. The old lady, Mrs. Jacob
Stimson, settled her cap with bands used
to such clever touches, and gave one fleet-
ing glance at the mirror, to make sure she
was trig and tight. She was a slender old
lady with soft cheeks and delicate features,
and the fastidiousness and coquetry of her
youth lingered in the hemstitched ruffle of
her apron aud the rigor of ber immaculate
collar, with its cameo pin. She regarded
Abbie Ann, a straight, fresh-colored wom-
an markedly indebted to the accessibility
of ready-made clothing, with a warm de-
light, the pink in her cheeks deepening
swiltly.
“Well I” said she. ‘‘Well I” Then,
with a sudden recognision, lost for a mo-
ment in pleasure, that the visit was a sar-
prise, she added, ‘‘But what set you out to
come ?’
“1'1] tell you in a minute,” said Abbie
Ann. She was looking about the kitchen
where she bad found her mother, witha
deep satisfaction, a sense of return. Abbie
Ann bad made her home in the Middle
West for many years, but she had not de-
viated by a line from toe New England
type, either in speech or in a certain simple-
bearted way of looking at things. ‘But
where's father ?"’
Her mother started perceptibly, and re-
covered hersell, She answered with some
primness, and at once it occurred to Abbie
Anup, with a throb of memory, that this
had been her mother’s tone when, asa
child, Abbie Ann bad asked too many ques-
sions and had been told to ‘‘ruu away now
and be a good little lady.”
“Why,” said Mrs. Stimson, ‘‘your lath-
er’s round scmewheres.”’
“Well,” said Abbie Ann, with an amazed
insistence, ‘*I 8’pose he is ; bus I wans to
see bim. Where's father?"
Mrs. Stimson drew up a chair before the
stove. It was a crisp day in the late fall,
and she indicated the hearth invitiogly.
“Don’t you want to pas year feet up
there ?'’ she asked, ‘'I guess you're kinder
- chilled.”
Abbie Ann shook her head. She was
more nearly impatient with her mother
thao she could have thought it possible to
be on a day of homecoming. A miserable
certainty, thrusts away from her through
the journey, came crowding back upon her.
“There ain’s anything happened to fath-
er?’ she asserted, in alarmed interroga-
tion. ‘Mother, you tell me.”
Mrs. Stimson was getting out the mounld-
iog-boaid, a prelimivary to biscuits for
supper.
‘Mercy, no!” she answered. ‘‘Your
father’s well us common.”
She went about her tasks, with a word
of affectionate interest here and there, and
Abbie Ann, having put away ber things
and taken a reassuring look of ber own as
the glass, sat down aud watched ber.
“Well, mother,’ she said at last, (ollow-
ing the old lady's deft achieving, ‘‘you’re
epry as a oas.”’ Mrs. Stimson gave a know-
ing turn of her wrist as she out tbe dough.
*‘I don’t know but I be,” she allowed,
with digonisy. ‘I don’t know why I
shouldn’s be. I ain’t tonched seventy-five
yet, an’ father’s only seventy. s.
don’t know’s there’s any reason why we
shouldn't be spry.”
“You wear a different kind of cap,”’ said
Abbie Ann, regarding her. “Thats sors of
changed you, first sighs I bad, bat I guess
I'd get accustomed to it. You never used
to wear such a big one, nor so far over your
- No,’ said Mrs. Stimson, still with dig-
nity. “‘1 don’s knows I ever did.”
*‘What made you change ?"’ usked Abbie
Aun, without thonghs, recrossing her feet on
the hearth. ‘Your bair ain’s gettin’ a mite
thin ? Mine's comin’ oat by bandfals., I
tell Edmund Isba’n’t have six spears to
draw the comb throagh, if it keep on as
it's begun. ‘Look at mother,” I says.
She's got a great head o’ hair. Father,
too.’ Mother, ain't it 'most time he's
‘comin’ in ?"’
Mrs. Stimson said nothing until she bad
set her bhiscaits to rise at the back of the
stove and covered them with a white cloth.
Then she tnroed, the blood in her face,
perhaps from her stooping or some unknown
agitation, and, holding her floury hands to-
gether, stood straight, and addressed her
daughter.
‘‘Abbie Aun,” she said, ‘‘lather’s np
chamber.”
Abbie Anu came to her feet.
“He is sick,” she asserted. ‘‘There, I
knew I"
“No, he ain’t sick. He's as well as ever
he was in his life.”
“Then why don’t he come down ?”’
““He don’t feel 30.”
The two women stood facing each other,
determination written all over the elder
face, and pure trouble upon Abbie Ann's.
““Why,”’ said she, stammering, ‘‘don’s
father want to see me?"
The old lady showed a brief impatience.
“Conrse he wants to see youn,’ she an-
swered. “You know father, Abbie Ann.
You're all he's got, an’ sets by you as he
does his life.”
be up chamber for ?"’
moving about with a perfect precision,
“Seems kinder cozy in the kitchen,
tall.”
only got on wo plates. Ain't I goin’ to
stay "”
her mother, tenderly, bus with a certain
hardness, too. ‘‘What makes you say such
a thing as that ?"’
and made her breathless.
1 kinder gummy. I guess "twill blaze com-
“Then,” said
She was
set
the table for supper.
“1 guess we'll have it in bere,” she said.
come
Her mother did not answer.
look nobody iz the face.’ ’
“Well,” said Mrs. Stimeon. She bad
fidgeted a little in ber obair, but now she
settled bersell with a determined ease.
“Well,” she inquired, ‘‘what elee d’ he
have to offer ?"’
Abbie Ann’s voice dropped to a porten-
tious note.
*“Well, mother, he did say more, and
that's what started we up to come. I says
to Edmund, ‘I'll surprise ’em aod tell em
I’ve come on to spend Thaoksgivin.” And
if I don’t see anything to trouble me, that’s
all I'11 tell; bus go I mast, for Burt Loomis
worried me to death.” ”’
“J don’t know’s anybody need he wor-
ried at anything Bort Loomis bas to fetch
an’ carry,” returned the old lady, defen.
sively. ‘‘Besides, what's he said? Said
your father’s changed some, [rom year to
year. Well, I guess most folks change.
Come to that, look at Bart Loomis bimsell.
There's his dintype in that albom. I gness
if he should look at it an’ then stan’ before
the glass he'd see he’d changed some bim-
sell in the course o’ forty year.”
Abbie Ann passed a hand over her koot.
ted forehead.
“That ain’t all. He dropped his voice
shen, and he says, ‘Abbie Ano, I guess if
all was known 'twould be seen yoor father
ain’t the man he bas been. It’s heen
months now since a uveighbor's ketohed
him ontdoor, and Al Brigham, that's work-
in’ for em now, day’s works, he rays your
mother gives all the orders and your father
don’t go out ill after dark. And once Al
mes him in the road 'loog about mornin’,
and your father had a kind of a white thing
tied round his head, and be wouldn't so
much as speak, and Al didn’s fairly koow
‘twas him. ”’
“Well,” said Mrs. Stimson, calmly,
“shen what made him say "twas him ?
What made Bart Loomis say so?"
“Oh, 'twas fast enough,” said Abbie
Ann, ina gloomy certainty. “I felt in
my bones "twas him. And I up and pack-
ed my trunk that very day, aud took the
train just as I was except for my new sait.”’
Mrs. Stimson was rearranging the fire
with extreme care.
“Well, now,” she eaid, easily, ‘‘I guess
I wouldn’s worry, Abbie Ann. Father's
all righs, dear, an’ #0 you'll see. I goers
it be padu’s been, mcther ’d ba’ told you.
How’s Edmund's business gestin’ on ?"’
Abbie Ano roused hersell to a corres-
ponding readiness, and they talked gravely
and again volobly through a long evening.
But at ten o'clock when she rose to take
the lamp ber mother bad significantly
lighted for ber, sbe paused a womens, to
ask wistfully :
“Ain't father goin’ to eat his Thanks.
givin’ dinner with ue %"’
Mrs. Stimson was covering the fire.
“Mercy, yes, I guess so!’ she returned,
with the same defensive briskness. ‘‘He
will if be feels to.”
Abbie Anon wae lingering, looking ab-
sently ino the flame of the lamp, as il is
hypnotized ber.
“It don’t seem to me, mother,” she ol-
fered, mournfully, to be again assured,
“don’t seem tome I could sit down to
Thavksgivin’ dinner anyway in the werld
and think father’s up there by himself and
nohody to say why nor wherefore.”
Mrs. Stimson turoed her by a decisive
hand upon ber shoulder.
“Thavksgivin’ ain’ till a day alter to-
morrow, anyways,” she remarked. ‘‘Now
you olip it up to bed. Your fire's ready to
blaze, if you want it. Don’t you burry
about comin’ down in the mornin.” We'll
have breakfast good an’ late, 80's to get all
‘ernited np.”
But Abbie Ann, in her own room, left
the door open a crack until she heard ber
mother ascend the stairs and balt as her
father’s threshold.
*“That you?’ came father’s voice.
“Yes, said mother, cheerfully.
“Alone ?"’
“Coarse I be.”
The lock clicked, the door opened, and
mother entered, and was fastened in.
Abbie Anon wandered about her room,
and looked with an absent-minded affec-
tion at the familiar appurtenances—her
little chair by the window and ber dol} sit-
ting in it like an effigy of remembered
the pin-cushion she bad worked in
bloe and red, ‘‘magic mice”. that were
gusaien by the directions to run if you
ooked at them fixedly, until the eyes were
dazzled, and that never rau at all. Then
“‘Bai, mother,” oried Abbie Ann, “you've
“Course you're goin’ to stay,’’ returned
New illumination shone on Abbie Ann
“Ain’s father comin’ down ?*’ she asked,
loudly.
“No, be ain’s.”
“Why ain’s be?"
“He don’t feel to.”
Then the act Mrs. Stimson had evidens-
ly expected, because she did not raise ber
eyes to see it or ber voice to prevent is,
came swiftly to pass. Abbie Ann stepped
with great determination to the door open-
ing on the kitchen stairs.
“I'm goin’ up there,” she announced.
“If father can’t come down, I can go up to
him.”
Mrs. Stimson went on setting the table,
bus after a moment she paused, a dish in
hand, to listen.
*‘Father,”’ she heard, ‘‘you in there ?"’
“Yes,” came ber husband’s voice. ‘“That
you, Abbie Aun?"
“Why, I can’t open the door !"’ rose the
other voice. in wild interrogation. ‘'Fath-
er, you locked in ?
“No, no,” came the answering note, im-
patiently. *‘Course I ain’t locked in. The
key’s on the inside.”
“Then you've looked yourself in ?"’
There was a moment's panse,and the old
lady. listening below, did smile a little in
ir ble satisfaction.
“Oh, father,”’ Abbie Ann was orying,
‘‘you juss turn the key I"
“There ! there I” came the reassuring
voice, with a warmth and proseciingiiee
adapted to a child. ‘‘Fatber’s all right.
You run down stairs an’ bave your supper
an’ be a good lady.”
Abbie Ann, standing there in all her
portly prosperity, conscious but an bour
before of her correcs ready made suit where-
in she means to cat a shine before the
neighbors, felt very little indeed and moss
forlorn. She felt perbape as she had years
ago when she was late at school and went
along the lonely road withous her babbling
mates, disconsolate under the sunshine and
with a dull ache in her heart because her
record was broken and she could not stand
up to be commended on lass day.
“Abbie Ann,” called her mother from
below, ‘‘don’s you stan’ there stirrin’ fath-
erall up. You come down here an’ see 'f
you can open this jar. I shought we'd
bave a mite o' quince, but the cover seems
if twas on for good.”
Abbie Ann came falteringly down. There
were tears in her eyes, and her mother,
seeing them, pushed the preserve-jar upon
her with a friendly impatience, born
though is was of sympathy alone.
“There ! there!’ she said. ‘We'll bave
our supper, an’ it'll be all right. You see
it 'tain’s.”
Bus before they sat down, she buttered
biscuits and ses them on a tray,companion-
ed by ample quantities of tea and quince.
Abbie Ann was watching ber.
“Here,” she said, when it was ready,
‘“‘gou let me take is. I'll carry is up.”
Her mother, tray in band, seemed to
wave ber aside with the motion of her
laden arms.
“You set down to your place,’ she said,
with firmness, ‘an’ don’t you move ont of
it sill I come back. Father don’t want you
should go up there, Abbie Ann, nor moth-
er don’t, either. Youn set down in your
place.”
Abbie Aun sat down, rested her elbows
on the tabie, and listened while she wept.
She followed her mother’s steps up the
stairs, heard the tray deposited briefly at
the door, and then she olick of the look.
There was a low colloquy above, the door
closed again, and her mother was coming
down. Abbie Ann made no effort to con-
ceal her misery. She wept onaflectediy
into her plate, but her mother pressed bis-
cuits and quince upon her with a cheerful
warmth, and poured unssinted tea. Abbie
Anu was nos used to sraveling,and she was
tired from her journey, but it seemed to
her that all her nervous misery of the mo-
mens had its fount in her unfathered state.
Ounce she looked up wish wet, reproachiul
eyes to ask :
‘Has father got any fire up there, or is
he setsin’ in the cold ?"’
“Fire?” returned her mother, scorun-
fally. ‘‘Meroy, yes ! He's the air-
tight goin’ an’ crammed full 0’ wead.
When I was up there I "most thought he'd
set the mantel-piece afire. Smelled like an
ironin’ sheet, ail scorched up.”
Then suppe was over and the dishes
were , and they sat by the sitting:
room hearth where the logs were
“Father got a lamp?’ Abbie Ann in-
quired, from a settled misery.
“Course he’s gota lamp,” said her moth-
er. ‘‘Here, you lay on this stick. It's
plete.”
But Abbie Ann had something to say
and she put the stick on abseotly. It did | an
blaze up, sud with she lighs on both sheir
faces she turned guiokly Shpds her mother,
as if to nse her courage before is ebbed,
“Mother,’’ she began, ** know why I
come on here like this, wi any prep-
aation to speak of and without sime to
write I was comin’ ?"
“Why,” said Mrs. Stimson, in frank re-
turn, ‘‘you come to Thanksgivio’.”
“Yes, #0 I did, but that wa'n’s all. We
planned to come next year, Edmund and
me together, bus somethin’s happened,
mother, and give me a regular scare.’
“Do tell I" said Mrs. Stimson.
Ske looked at Abhie Ann with unaffected
trouble born of mother love. Abbie Ann
warmed under it, and felt, with a: rush of
confidence, that mother would never in the
world let her suffer anxiety without as-
suaging it.
“Well,” she said,
out there, aud run in to see us on his
along. 1 was tickled to death to ges
of somebody from here, and I wouldn't
hardly let him get set down before I be-
gun on him. How was you
father? You was all right, he said, smart
as a trap. But when he come to father, he
veered and tacked and wouldn't say noth-
in’ till I just made him. ‘Sowethin’s the
|
:
!
I
%
behavior; and be was bent slightly,
some recently ired habis, is
seem, rather than involontary stiffness
of age. But to whatever necessity be bad
subdued, mother treated him, even in this
baste of preparation, with a tender defer-
y to receive, and be returned is
in » manner quite his own. It was in some
way a touching inf of service
tween them, an intimate recognition of his
baving offered something she thankfully
. After their hurried breakfast,
he went softly out, stopping at the door for
Need ware th carriage down the
guess ve the own
drive a piece, an’ back the horse in there.
Mebbe she won’s be so likely to hear.”’
Mother nodded and tied on her boone
waiting in a chair. Father lingered fora
moment more.
“What be I goin’to wear over my head?"
he asked, in a tone of extreme distaste.
She looked at she nigh and then at
his Sunday hat, also in waiting.
“You don’t #'pose—> she was
“No, mother,’’ said
§
g
beginning.
he, testily, *‘I don’t.
I won't put my man’s bat on over is.
You've got to up suthin’ else.”
a Sunday, if I recollect. Well for him.
It give him a good full week to talk in.”
Abbie Ann was embarked now upon the stood for a moment, deliberating.
flood of her communication. Then she hurried softly into the bedroom
“He says to me, ‘Abbie Ann, somethin’s [80d reappeared with an aucient cloud,
come over your father, and there can’t no- | made in a sober gray.
body find out what ’tis. You know he was | “I've seen men folks wear ‘em.’ she
a terrible spruce-lookin’ old gentleman,’ ventured. ‘‘Suthin’ o’ the kind, avy
says he, ‘fall beard and hair cut at the bar- | Mebbe a sear. 'Twas when they es
or cold ears, or the matter o’
n nodded frowniogly.
“Pat ous the light,” be ordered. ‘‘Then
you can bind it on.”
Mrs. Stimson blew out the light, in per-
fect understanding of him, as if the deed
were something nos to be ized bid
either of them, and in the a d
swathed her husband’s hend. She helped
bim into his overcoat, and he wens out,
her whispered caution in bis ears, to steal
through the shed and into the barn where
brown Jennie was finishing ber early feed
of oats. Mrs. Stimson tocked swo good
bardwood sticks into the fire, took a keen
look about the kitchen, and stole out after
him, olosiog the door carefully hehind ber.
She waited as moments to draw on her
woolen gloves and listen for Abbie Ann’s
step in the chamber above, or perhaps her
challenging voice. Bat the seclusion
within was as still as the world outside,
and she walked away down the path to the
old botternat-tree where her bushand and
the chaise awaited her. He helped herin
sod also mounted, and they went slowly
down the drive. Once out in the frozen
road he tightened the reins and put a hand
ov the whip for the warning shake brown
Jennie knew. As they started up, he
chookled.
“Good joke, mother,” said be, ‘‘good
joke! ’Most like ranvin’ away.”
The old lady looked round at him, start-
led, aud her eyes filled with tears. This was
the fires time for months that father, out
of his unnatural depreseion, had langhed
at all. Batshe did not answer from the
inner fulness of her heart, save with the
practical reminder:
“Don’t you forget we've got to stop at
Al's. 1dun’no’ what Abbie Aun’'d say
if she should wake up an’ fine herself all
soul alone in the house, She was worked
up enough as 'twas.’’
At the little cottage at the rise of the
hill they drew up, and mother got out as
it it were guite understood that she was to
do the errand, and tripped np to the door.
Al's wile pat her head out of the window,
a hedgnilt held about her, and inquired
who was siok.
“You s’pose you conld go over to the
house an’ keep up the fire an’ get hreak-
fast?’ Mra. Stimson asked. ‘‘Abbie Anu's
come home, an’ lather an’ I we're called
away to do some husiness—quite an im-
portant errant. We lefs Abbie Ann abed.
an’ when she wakes up if you 'd tell ber
bow tis an’ say we'll be home by ten at
the lates t—"
Mrs. Brigham wae putting down the
window. In spite of the quils, she found
is chill.
“Yes,” said she.
soon’s I’m dressed.”
Then Mrs. Stimson burried back to the
carriage, and father drove on.
full of ieminiscence. Something, some
flavor of their stealing away together or an
anticipated relief all his own, made it seem
to bim as if they were young and escaping
from the world. He recalled days of their
courtship, aud she kept even with bim,
step by step, until they came to their wed-
ding, and he told ber again she was the
handeomess girl shat ever walked a bride in
the county and that it was so remembered
to that day.
| like thread from a reel.
“Well, I've seen some changes,’ she
said, with a wistful sadness through her
calm.
“So's the world,” said father, pointiog
with bis whip. “Twa’nt so many monshe
ago ‘twas green av’ fall o’ buds, av’ now
‘tis brown. But 'twon’t be long before the
snow 'll be here to cover it, an’ then there
won’ be a fence poss but what's bavdsomer
'n any bloom. Don’t you worry, now.
There's different kinds of handsome, an’
one’s as good as another, only take em
right. Spring ain’t everything, nor bein’
young ain't everything, good’s is is.”
When be fell into his strain of talking
mother Stimson loved beyond everything—
her own speech or the business of the hour
—t0 hear him. The minutes seemed to fly
She forgot her
haste, and almost that Abbie Ann was
awaiting them. It was apriog again, and
he and she were young.
They were driving toward the sunrise,
and it was long after the full dazzle had
struck them in the eyes and then warmed
them happily, thas they drew up at the
little tavern on the edge of Overbridge, the
great town fall of cloth-mills. Few, even
of the hands, were stirring, and mother
Stimson got ous of the carriage and hurried
up the it she had planned her way
and ie, yo
Sopa awit de ifiy
be. Father, too, bad t often of this
coming. He left the reins and leaned
back in the carriage, his head in the corner,
as if be bad no pars in the business of the
call and longed only to escape the public
eye.
Within, mother Stimson bad met a
Segpy boy.
*Ia the Frenoh bair lady here?”’ she
asked. She was trembling now. The goal
of a long and eager was before her,
and she dared not she saw it.
‘Yes,’ the told her. The bair
Jody wie sill waving goi
by day, to get but she mightn’t be
up yes. [It was pretty
repelled the eye, and she
and very grave, was confron
with a professional arbanity.
son kept on trembling. In a moment she
found she was uutying her bonnet strings,
aud that the Frenoh lady, with sympathiz-
ing comments in a foreign tongue, was
belping her, aod that she bad not spoken.
Now the French lady ran a hand
over the denuded poll, without touching
it, but in some mysterious way seeming to
garnish it with invisible hair.
“A front?"’ she said, with a rolling of
the r’s, throwing into the Eoglish word a
weight of dignity. “A little waved, not
too Joick—graceli] yest
Mother Siimson’s hands were shaking
under her cloak. She whispered ber con-
fession.
“It’s been gone for a long spell. I've
felt it a good deal. My husband fels it
because I did. I wanted me a front, but
be wa'n’t willin’. He said "twas terrible,
false bair so; might be ous off 0’ the dead,
for all we knew, or some awful oreatur’.
So be said— I'll get my husband tocome
ap.
She was out of the room and down the
stairs. At the door she held up a beckon-
t,
her
“I'll go down along
He was
ing finger, aud father awaiting it, got ous
and followed her in with the same silent
Together they stood before the
ders, incredibly long, bung white bair,
luxuriantly carling. The Frenchwoman
could speak very little English outside the
vocabulary of her trade, but she did ander:
stand it to some degree, and more than
that, she interpreted the buman hears.
She stood looking at them for a moment,
her eyes widening with a fervid pleasure.
Then she exclaimed, partly in her own
language avd a little in theirs, and when
she cried, ** Beautiful ! beantifnl’’ is was
not apparent whether she meant the river
of soft hair or the devotion that bad bens
the old man's life to the achieving ol is.
Bas after that fires moment she moved
gunickly. She had him na chair and lean-
ed over him, soiseor« ready. the mother
stood watching, her hand« clasped avd ex-
peotation in ber eye. And ax the looks
were severed with that *‘«nip’’ thas means
freedom to a child and might spell deliver- sr
ance toa man, father Stimson lifted bis
head at every click; and whereas, when
she began, he had been abased and humble,
at the end he held himself firmly and look
ed mosher in the eye as if only he and she
knew what liberation means to him. The
Frenchwoman pad put the tresses on the
table, delicately, in a soft, ordered pile,
and now she laid her band over them,
caressing them as if they were the most
priceless of their kind.
“In a week you shall come,” she said,
“and we will fit it. You shall complain of
it? I will change, if need must. As for
you, mopsieur, I kiss your band.”
She had done it, deftly, prettily, as she
had cut the bair, and with a sweeping
curtsy, and father Stimson, mother follow-
ing, bad started down the stairs.
Is was after ten when they drove up to
She bad to knook several times, and at lass | their own door, where Abbie Aon, dis-
traught, stood waiting for them. Father
! called to her hefore she well could hear
| him. and kept on calling.
“That you,
“That yon ?"’
When the carriage stopped, Abbie Ann
Way at the wheel both hands grasping at
m.
“Oh, father,”’ she oried, ‘‘don’t you look
well ! You're as handsome as a pictore,
too. There's nothin’ the matter, is there,
father 2"
“Matter o’ we ?'’ said father Stimson.
He leaped ont bnoyansly. ‘‘I guess there
ain't, I'm too young fur my years, that’s
all’s the matter o’ me. You come here,
Abbie Ann, an’ let father give youa real
old-fashioned hug.”
A little later mother Stimson and Abbie
Ann were sitting by the fire while mother
toasted her chilled feet.
“Father 'n’ I thought we'd ride over to
town,’’ she was saying. There was a sup-
pressed excitement in her air, and it broke
forth ocoasionally in an eye gleam ora
triumphant tone. “‘We had some business
that had to be done. 'Fore you go home
I'll tell you all about it, but ’tain’t neces-
sary now. I’ve got the turkey stuffin’ to
think of, an’ father’s goin’ to pick over
the squashes a little an’ see if he can smell
out a mealy one.”
Father had come into the kitchen. He
was a tall man, and, from the way he bore
himself, not yet an old one. In bis band
be carrried an old-fashioned cloud.
“Well, Abbie Ann,” said he, “I guess
there'll have to be a proclamation for me
over 'n’ above the Governor's. I don’t re-
call as I ever looked for’ard to Thanks-
givin’ day with better feelin’s, Here you
he home with us, an’ mother an’ me—
Here, mother I’ He tossed her the cloud.
‘‘Here’s sathin’ you left in the buugy.
Kind of a thing to wear on your head,
ain't it 2’—By Alice Brown in Harper's
Bazar.
Abbie Ann?” he cried.
The Life Guards are two regiments of
cavalry forming part of the British houee-
hold troops. They are gallant soldiers,and
every loyal British heart is proud of them.
Not only the King’s household, but yours,
ours, everybody’s should have its life
need of them is especially
great when the greatest foes of life, dis-
eases, find allies in the very elements, as
colds, inflaenza, catarrh, the grip, and
Jaedtasals do in the stormy month of
. The best way that we know of to
strength adequate to nurse baby as their
own breast. The need at this time is real
strength which lasts. So called
: ant ad “stimulants’’ do not give
strength. They give a temporary sup-
port and a stimulated strength, which does
nothing to balance the drain of the moth-
er’s vital forces hy the noring ohild. Of
tions those containing aloo.
hol are most to be dreaded. Many a child
gives to those who use it, a real strength,
which the baby shares. It contains no al-
cobol, whisky or other intoxicant and no
opium, cocaine or other narcotic. It is the
best medicine for woman and woman's ills
whioh has ever been prepared.
An Automobile Free.
$0r | A/s0 an Upright Piano and $150 in Gold to Readers
of this ®aper.
PITTSBURG, Pa., March 8 — The Pitts-
burg Sun announces to-day thas it will give
away absolutely free an automoble, an
upright piano and $150 in cash as prizes to
those who solve the Booklovers contest.
The total value of the prizes is $1,350.
The publishers of the Pittsburg Sun in-
vite every person to enter this contest,
which begins soon, and which will be con-
ducted along the fairest lines. No matter
where you live, you have the same oppor-
tanity as the ent of Pittsbarg.
For fall particulars get the Pittsburg
Sun of March 12th or write the Contest
Editor of she Pittsbarg Sun Pisburg Pa.
t.
—————————
Pop a:
y quarters, milk, sour mi eed
Fi A. with the milk, dirty pails, ex-
posure to cold raivs and such unnatural
conditions.
C——————-"
~The giant bees of India build honey-
combs as high as eighteen feet.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
—
DAILY THOUGHT.
“Mere parsimocy is not economy. Expense,
and great expense, may be an essential part of
trne economy. Economy is a distributive virtua
and consists not in saving, but in selection.”
A pure snd wholesome, as well as appe-
tizing, orncker for children is one that was
originated by a doptor. Alter studying the
subject very carefully be came to she con-
clusion that not only must she food be fall
ol nourishment, but coutaining as it does
a vast awount of starch, it must be so
made that it will require a proper mastica-
tion before leaving the mouth (the starch
being converted to grape sugar by the
saliva). To accomplish this end, he ar-
ranged a special sort of cracker which,"
baked very haird and crisp needs to be
ground many times hy the teeth and thor-
oughly mixed with saliva, to prepare it for
swallowing.
He also discovered that, as is known to
be she case in apples, potatoes, etc., the
eatest nourishment of the grain was di-
rectly under the skin or grain coat, and be
had » flour made which included this pars
in its sabstance, as is not done in the ordi-
nary white flour. ‘This flour, composed of
wheat, oats, corn, barley or rye, is mixed
with spring water, then sweetened, fruited
or flavored to make it tempting, and final-
ly baked in a specially constructed oven to
eunsare the desired degree of hardpess, It
comes {orth in cracker form, an excellent
food for children.
Au ingenious invention has recently
been brought out for children’s underwaists
by which mothers are freed from the task
of sewing on new buttons; for, when a but-
ton breaks in the Iaundering of the waist,
as buttons have a habit of doing, by a very
simple device a new one may be put in its
lace without the aid of a single stitob.
e secret of it is this—a parrow tape
which comes attached so the button is
drawn through a stitched strap and back
again over the button in such a way that it
is made absolutely secure. What a time-
saver this will be for the busy mother and
the overworked nurse.
An excellent amusement for children,
and one which never loses its charm, is
thas of madelling, but great difficulty is
usually found in obtaining a good, pliable
material which will not dry and soon be-
come useless. A special kind is now for
sale which always keeps the same consia-
tenoy and is, besides, not the least bit
sticky or harmful. It comes in five differ-
ent colors, yellow, green, delfs blue, brick
red and gray, and these may be mixed to-
gether to give any desired sbade. In this
way the natural colors of the objects to be
copied may be carefully reproduced. Be-
sides being instructive and interesting to
the child, it gradually develops dexterity
of the fingers. The child, first attempting
the sirapler objects, as a spade, a worm or
a teacup, may by degiees advance further
until finally he will even be able tocon-
struct whole villages, together with their
inbabitants and avimals. Explanatory
pictures can be had with the material, il-
lostrating different objects and showing
how to make them.
The way in which a fine soft mull frock
is thickly plaited, but with its hem drawn
closely into a narrow band of Liberty satin
bardly more than swo yards in oircumfer-
ence, is amusing ou a litle maid’s slim
figore. It has a high satin belt, aod from
this belt to bem, both hack and front, there
is laid a panel of baby Irish lace, the two
panels connected on the sides by garlands
of detached Irish passementerie ornaments.
More of these festoon the round veck and
shoulders aud bob on the wrinkled
sleeves.
A Tiny, tiny tot is to wear a tan straw
pos-shaped bonnes encircled with a wreath
of green cherries and knots of elephant grey
velvet ribbon. A huge pufly mob cap in
white dotted net with a narrow turved
down shirred brim of the same, is lined
with rose-colored taffeta, and is trimmed
farther with a wide oretonne ribbon in
floral effect, fastened at one ride in a huge
flat square necktie bow. Big bowl-shaped
bats in straw, very simply trimmed with a
oretonne ribbon sied in this flat, square,
stiff fashion will be very smart for every-
day wear in summer, and quaint are the
real old-fashioned hoonet shapes with
strings, lined with silk or printed cotton,
and trimmed with a stiff rosette of the
same. Some bave a little 1ufiie about the
nape of the neck.
When you are a little bothered by hav-
ing a neighbor's child outstay his wel
and you would nos for the world
she mother or burt the child's feelings,
says the Milwaukee Journal, this plan,
which a clever mother bas thought out,
may belp you. She says, smilingly, when
the little chap has stayed a certain time
“Willie, when von pet ready to go home
remind me to give you a bundle. I have
one for you to open when you get home.”
In five minutes as the most Willie finds
thas be bas * to go home now,” and
trodges away ly with his bandle.
Cookies, a little fruit or a bit ot candy
will do for the contents of the prized ban-
dle, and cordial relations will continue to
exist between the two families.
Even if an evening gown has only a jel-
vo ii an eventos gown his oly 4 fob
M
thin glass and put a pinch of nutmeg on
top.