3 v
longed light Phineas and his comrades | - “And that is where I was captured,” FROM INDIA.
h .
The Old ‘“Amen Corner’’
Demorvahi atc
Belletonte, Pa., March 5, 1915.
Ee ————————————— er
THE LUCK OF E. HECOX.
rei.
Phineas Hale, a native of Uxbridge,
Massachusetts, and late first sergeant of So
the Twentieth Bay State Regiment, ' hav-
ing acquired title to, and taken posses-
* sion of, his Virginia farm, like a thrifty
husbandman gave his first attention to
the deplorable condition of the fences
and hedges. Of the former little remain-
ed save a few scattering rails and hard-
- wood gate-posts, a stone here, and there
a rotting log imbedded in the turf, all of
which just served to indicate the original
demarcation of the Along the
road the cedar hedges had been burned
. into the sod, so that the old house on his
- newly acquired demesne d over
what was practically a rolling prairie.
It was on the first Sunday after taking
possession, an unusually warm morning
in the month of March, 1866, that Phineas
set out to explore more minutely his
. new possessions. He was young and
energetic, and as he took his way across
the old fields he pictured to himself the
happy transformation his thrift and in-
dustry would bring to pass in the years
to come. The objective of his walk was
the timber lot which lay at the back of
the farm, and, while his critical eyes
rested on the gray tree-tops, not yet
leaved out, he was speculating on the
- proportion of oak and hickory available
for fence rails.
A week of hard labor on the walls and
"roof of the old stone barn served to
make the sacred day of rest peculiarly
attractive to Phineas. He keenly ap-
preciated the privilege of wandering
about in the soft indolence of the spring
sunshine. Moreover he was well ground-
ed in the austere New England theology,
so that it was with a God-fearing as well
as a complacent frame of mind that he
picked his way down a rock slope on the
eastern border of the woods, and stop-
ped to look about him.
The warm sunshine penetrated into
this small glen, sheltered from the wind
that had fluttered his shirt sleeves on the
uplands. The fresh green grass was
sprouting in the hollows along the edge
of a tiny brook, and the earth, newly re-
leased from the winter’s frost, sent up
faint odors that suggested the advent of
spring plowing. Blue shadows lurked
behina every stump and stone and lay in
small flecks under the loose gray leaves
lifted softly by the eager grass blades;
against the shadows salient objects stood
revealed with unusual precision and
‘ sharpness.
A gleam of light on a peculiar some:
thing before him caught Phineas’s eye.
At first glance it looked like a slender
gray root, protruding in such odd shape
that it seemed to beckon him nearer. He
stepped indolently at first, until he halted
suddenly at what he saw. He was not
horrified as a civilian might have been,
just surprised and interested, as an old
soldier might be by a comrade calling to
him out of the ground.
The skeleton hand whose bleached
joints curved forward, the forefinger ris-
ing above the others, was certainly in
the act of beckoning. The double bone
of the forearm, which upheld the hand,
stood stiffly out of the bare, red soil, and
a remnant of ragged blue sleeve lay on
the surface of the shallow grave. It was
by no means a startling discovery to
make on the border of a great battle-
field. But peace had lasted a year now
and this was not what Phineas regarded
as Christian burial. A little freeing of
the remaant of blue sleeve from its
earthly surrounding brought to light a
thick brass button which bore on its sur-
face the shield and device of the State
of New York. :
“Poor fellow,” said Phineas; “it looks
like he’d been beckoning for a coffin for
four years—maybe five, according to
which battle he was killed in. It’s likely
he don’t lie any too easy. He shall have
the coffin that he wants so badly and
decent Christian burial this very day.”
With this inward expression of sym-
pathy, Phineas began to bestir himself.
“There is that long packing-box I brought
the books down in,” he thought to him
self as he hurried back to the house; “it
will fit him like a glove. If I knew his
name I'd set him up a head-board.”
The carpenter who had been helping
him on the barn the day before had gone
to Manassas. Phineas felt quite equal
to the work himself, however, and after
hitching one of the horses to the stone-
boat he brought out the box and nec-
essary tools for digging. As he made
his way back to the scene of his dis-
covery his mind was occupied with specu-
lations about the life and death of this
unfortunate compatriot who had been
mutely holding up his shriveled hand
through so many years, for want of a
better tombstone.
Phineas hitched his horse on the oppo-
site side of the branch and carried the
pine box over on hisskoulder. The light
sandy soil yielded easily to the spade,
whose grating sound in the quiet glen on
this still Sabbath morning struck omin-
ously on his ears. Old ‘soldier that he
was, he stopped in his work now and
then to look about him and listen to the
reassuring notes of the early robins in
the woods. When patches of the mil-
dewed blouse began to show under the
red soil, he worked more carefully, hav-
ing recourse to his fingers to remove the
earth. Presently he uncovered a bit of
tarnished metal that had rusted away
fyom the cap front. This proved to be a
pair of brass cross-guns, and holding
them in his hand he straightened himself
and swept the field with military eyes.
“The battery must have been on that
knoll,” he said half aloud, “and the cais-
sons over here in the hollow.” He had
himself been engaged at the second bat-
tle of Bull Run; the preliminary skirmish
at Groveton had overrun the very ground
on which he stood, and had continued
until dark. His ideas of the tipography
of the ground were a little vague, but he
felt pretty sure that his regiment, which
had been on the skirmish line, must have
been somewhere in the low land on the
opposite side of the knoll. It was not
quite four years since the happenings of
that summer's night,. and one peculiar
effect in the darkness, which no soldier
could ever forget, came vividly to his
mind: All had been quiet for some min-
utes along the front of his regiment, and
the men were lying on their guns, listen-
ing with satisfaction to the scattering
shots, receding and fitful. Above them
the stars were glittering in the moonless
sky and behind them a dark mass of
woods rose back against the overarching
canopy of countless worlds.
"Suddenly the stillness was broken by
the roar of a field-gun, and in the pro-
ad seen the Union cannoniers braken
back in the act of firing—each number in
his place, and behind and above them
are arms of the gunner thrown up at the
command to fire. He remembered them
fixed for an instant like fiery statues, and
i then, as the halo which encircled them
paled, he saw the gray silhouettes of the
men spring on the wheels in the act of
rolling the gun forward from its’ recoil.
startling was this momentary vision
that he had scarcely heeded the howl of
the shell which sped high over his
head. The same scene was quickly re-
peated by another gun a little to the left
of the first, and then alternately, until
four shots had been fired. The regular- |
ity of the firing was such that Phineas,
keenly on the alert after the first dis-
charge, could almost distinguish the
lineaments of the men. He remember-
ed the writhing landyard flying through
the air like a fiery snake, the black
sponge-staff held aloft by number one,
and then whirling vaguely as the man
who held it sprang in to reload against
the fading mass of number three, with
his thumb-stall pressed on the vent.
“Well, I declare,” exclaimed Phineas,
looking down at the poor skeleton half
unearthed, "I shouldn’t be sursrised if I'd
seen you before.” And then he fell to
work vigorously, thinking at the same
time of that phantom section on the hill.
When the dirt had been sufficiently
removed and loosened about the sides,
Phineas lifted the poor burden out on
warm ground. It was plain that the
man had been a cannonier. Phineas
bent over and looked carefully for some
indication of a bullet-hole. The coat had
given away in so many places that he
could determine nothing externally, but
as he passed his hand over the left
breast he heard a sound like the crinkle
of paper. When he had loosened the
two or three buttons which still held to
the rotten fabric, he thrust his hand into
an inner pocket and drew out a letter,
yellow and mouldy, and, strangely
enough, through the center of this letter
was the hole traversed by the bullet.
Then his quick eye caught sight of a
black object dangling between the ex-
posed ribs of the skeleton. He dropped
the letter on the ground in his eagerness
to secure this other property, which
swung at the end of a leather thong.
Phineas’s eyes fairly bulged as he caught
another view of the work of the bullet,
which had cut its clean way through the
rim of this cheap silver watch, which
must have been in the same pocket and
behind the letter. It was corroded and
eaten with rust, but the hands were im-
movably fixed on the enameled face.
“Five minutes of nine!” exclaimed
Phineas, his mind going back to that sul-
phury summer night four years before.
“That must have been the" time, and a
finer mark for a sharp-shooter I never
saw. [I've certainly seen you before, Mr.
——. Ah, where's that letter?”
The stained envelope bore on its left-
hand corner an unfurled flag with the
words below, “shoot him dead on the
spot.” The colors from the flag had run
and the bullet had pierced the center,
but it was written in a fair round hand,
and with a little study Phineas made out
“Hecox” for the surname, and of the
Christian name he could only be certain
that the initial was E. The letter was
further addressed to “Battery L., First
New York Artillery Camp of First Corps,
near Culpepper, Virginia.”
Tenderly lifting “E. Hecox of Battery
L,” he laid him reverently in the pack-
ing-case, composed with some difficulty
the skeleton hand which had been beck-
oning to the outer world so long, and
carried the light coffin across the branch
and placed it on the stone-boat. He de-
cided to bury E. Hecox, temporarily, at
the foot of a certain plum-tree in the old
en.
It would be hard to imagine a more
quiet and decorous funeral procession
than this progress across the fields in the
stillness of the Sabbath noonday. Phineas
walked gravely at the horse's bridle, and
the stone-boat with its unconscious bur-
den glided noiselessly over the turf.
“Maybe those four shells balanced his
account with interest,” reflected Phineas,
“and maybe they didn’t—all the same, it
was hard luck for E. Hecox.”
It was late in the afternoon before the
self-appointed sexton found to examine
the letter. The postmark was oblit f-
ated, but fortunately the name of the
town where the soldier had lived was
plainly written in the upper right-hana
corner on the first page of the letter
itself, “Allen’s Hill, May 15, 1862.” As
far as Phineas could make out, the letter
related only to domestic affairs. It was
neatly written, well expressed in terms
of patriotism and devotion, and neither
the cruel bullet nor the mildew had en-
croached on what were probably the last
written words of conjugal love E. Hecox
had ever read. “I pray hourly for your
preservation, for the success of the Union
cause, and for your restoration, dear
Eben, to the arms of your loving wife—
Letty.” :
“She has given him up years ago,”
mused Phineas; “information as to his
Wheteabonts will be a relief instead of a
shock.”
When he had written his letter he
discarded “Letty” and addressed it to
Mrs. E. Hecox.
Week after week passed. It was Sun-
day again. It had come to look quite | th
homelike about the house and garden,
the air was already perfumed with the
luxurious blossoming of the spring.
Under the plum-tree a plain head-board
with the name of the deceased soldier
had been erected over the grave. The
old colored mammy who was at the head
of Phineas’s domestic establishment was
moving about the yard gathering dande-
lion roots for greens, while Phineas him-
self was enjoying his morming pipe on
the gallery. No reply had come to his
letter.
Aunt Phillis’s old ears first caught the
sound of wheels, and, straightening her-
self, she shaded her eyes and looked
down the road. Then she planted her
hands firmly on her broad hips.
“Ef 1 got any sense left, Marse Hale,”
she said, “dat’s Tom Little’s wagon
from 'Nasses Junction an’ he ain’ cyary-
in’ none o’ de ladies aboot yer.”
The carriage stopped at the veranda
steps, and five minutes later the pretty
widow Hecox was comfortably seated in
the gallery glancing over the exterior
of the bullet-perforated letter. The half-
minute so spent im: Phineas with
a new sense of the hard luck of the man
in the garden or any other man who had
lived so short a time with such a wife.
Ted ot 2 ondof the Sumit of
thoughts si y that ra ullet-
hole, and when she raised her glistening
eyes to Phineas’s face he rose and silent-
ly offered his arm. In silence they walk-
ed across the yard and through the gar-
den until they stood before the grave
marked “E. Hecox.” A few pink blos-
Ir
mde Essen.
eet sens et i Sete een ernest.
You ask me why I look so sad, a saying not a word:
Why, Becky, thoughts of long ago my memory have stirred.
I'm thinking of the meetin’ house where preached old Father Horner;
But mostly I've been thinking ’bout that dear old “amen corner.”
Them days long since have fled and gone, dear friends have passed away;
And that old meetin’ house is going to decay.
I looked around among the folks, if any I may see;
But all are gone it seeme to me, but Becky, you and me.
I see the dear old corner yet; ‘twas close beside the altar;
Them good old souls whose seats w<re there, had faith that would not falter.
Their hearts were all aglow with love ; their shouts would awe the scorner;
Like thunderclaps, their loud "amecas”
would shake the “amen corner.”
Indeed, it seemed sometimes we sat by cool Siloam’s fountain.
And then, again, we seemed to stand on Sinai’s awful mountain.
No matter what the text may be—for sinner, saint. or mourner,-
There always flamed the Spirit's fire around the “amen corner.”
It was as if the Pentecost, with flaming tongues of fire, ;
Was still a bringin’ heaven down and lifting souls up higher;
And loud as was the earnest voice of dear old Father Horner,
Far louder were the grand amens that shook the “amen corner.”
That dear old spot was holy ground, the very gate of heaven;
The glory cloud seemed resting there, by mercy’s shower riven;
The manna and the smitten rock, our hungry souls sustainin’,
Along the road beset with foes from Egypt up to canaan.
Sometimes, I well remember yet, things seemed a little dreary;
The meetin’s ‘peared a little slow, the
people dull and weary;
Then victory would seem to be with Satan and the scorner
Until a “Hallelujah” broke out from the “amen corner.”
Then quick as lightnin’ things would change; the foe would flee before us,
And shouts of “Glory!” “Praise the Lord!” would blend in mighty chorus.
I tell you, Becky, ’tis a truth, it cheered the weakest nourner;
Old Satan never would prevail against that “amen corner.”
The tears will dim my failin’ eyes, my heart gets almost broken,
Whenever I'm in the meetin’ house with not an “amen” spoken;
Our preacher is a learned man, not much like Father Horner,
He preaches while the people snore in that old “amen corner.”
They’ve got a bran-new meetin’ house with cushions for the people,
And windows made of painted glass, and on the top a steeple.
A paid choir does the praisin’ (?) now they’ve no bench for the mourner;
They’ve Brussels carpet on the floor, but where's the “amen corner?”
I tell you, Becky, I believe that’s why we keep retreatin’;
The world and Satan have combined to give the Church a beatin’.
They say they have found a better way: “religion has no mourner;”
And so they've smashed the mourners bench and killed the “amen corner.”
But wife there’s one thing comforts me, the Church will be a standin’,
When Satan and his scoffin’ crew have made a final landin’,
The Church is built on solid rock, and proof against the scorner;
We'll find the New Jerusalem much like the “amen corner.”
—Selected.
soms were fluttering down from the over- | heavily
hanging plum-tree, and every cup, like a | the end
cavity in the dry earthen mound, held a
tender fleck of color. Phineas smelled a |
faint odor of warm cloth, like the cumu-
lative aroma of Sunday clothes in church, '
far sweeter in his nostrils than the per-
fume of the plum blossoms. He felt a slight
tremor in the slender form at his side; !
a half-stifled sob, hardly louder than the
buzz of the honey-bees in the lilacs, and |
then, in obedience to the pressure of the |
brown glove on his arm, he turned back
to the house. : |
The ample form of Aunt Phillis filled
the doorway, and her voluble welcome |
made up for any amount of sympathetic i
silence as she took authoritative posses-
sion of the widow and led her away into
the darkened house.
Left thus alone, Phineas was over-
whelmed with more thoughts of the ill
luck of the man who had exchanged his
life for the problematic execution of
four shells, and wondered how many
other widows’ tears had gone into the
unsolvable balance.
~ Later in the day Mrs. Hecox and
Phineas found themselves together again
on the gallery in the soft May evening.
The fair Northerner by this time had re-
garded that composure and even vivacity
which is perfectly proper in a widow of
four years. Phineas asked questions now
and learned that, but for a little daugh-
ter whom she had left in Washington,
she was quite alonein the world. Phineas
heard with more than indifference—he
was not even sorry. That she was going
back to her part of the world in the
morning, which was not his part, struck
him as a misfortune more in the line of
his sympathy. 3 :
“Not if I can help it,” he said to him-
self, and as soon as he had formed that
nebulous resolution a great fear of this
kindly little woman who had so strange-
ly become his guest sprang up in his
heart. Never had he felt such terror of
the volley of a regiment. Never before
had he realized what abject moral cow-
ardice was. As his eyes devoured the
vague outline of her figure, half lost
against the bushes that shut in’ the
porch, he felt compelled to say some-
ing. “Courage—forward now,” he
muttered and began. 4
The commonplace sentences, however,
which he heard himself utter, nearly
broke in two in the middle, of their own
heaviness; he rolled the last lumbering
half over his dry tongue as if the words
were leaden. :
There was nothing in the character
or conduct of Phineas Hale that would
justify describing further that painful in-
terview. But he had to do with a sensi-
ble widow, who knew the value of a
good home, and who was not like to mis-
understand the haltering utterance of an
honest man. She asked time to think—
a week and she would write him—and
write she did in exactly seven days a let- | gu
ter that sent Phineas to the seventh
heaven of delight.
She might not be able to love him just
as she had loved her first husband (who
she could never forget was the father of |
her little Emily), but she was sure she
could be a good wife to him—and with
that Phineas was satisfied, as any reason-
able man should be. As for staying at
Allen’s Hill, she had no desire or occasion
to do so, as the ill luck, which had con-
stantly pursued poor Hecox, had left no
substantial possession in that small vil-
lage which required her attention. Phin-
eas went on there and brought his bride
and little Emily back.
Having left nothing but a memory, it
would seem that the ill luck of E. Hecox
had descended to his widow by a sort of
. the first on which
invisible entail, and that the co-jointure
of evil portent had borne even more
upon her second husband, for at
of five short years in her Virgin-
ian home Mrs. Hale found herself again
a widow, and all that was mortal of poor
Phineas lay beside the remains of what
seemed to have been his good and evil
‘genius. This time, however, the widow
of two "soldiers was left in comfortable
circumstances, for the Hecox blight had
not affected the material fortunes of the
last deceased. :
At this time Decoration Day had scarce-
ly been heard of in Virginia, and the
widow of the two soldiers,
to lay some fresh floral offering on the
graves of her dead, chose her own days
and chose them frequently during the
season when flowers were to be had.
Easter, however, being a festival, was the
day in all the year which the widow had
adopted for a special day of memorial of-
ferings, and, this particular Easter being
she had had a double
duty to perform, her tribute had been
more lavish than ever, and so impartially
distributed that only the fact that the
stone marked “E. Hecox” occupied the
right of line could by any critical military
person be construed as indicating the
slightest preference on the part of the
widow for one husband over the other.
There was no one in the garden when
little Emily, now ten years old, came up
the graveled walk leading to the two
graves under the plum-tree, which was
itself covered with blossoms. The air
was heavy with the perfume of flowers
everywhere. The soft south wind wand-
ered out on the spring fields and she
stopped and listened to the echoes of all
the rapturous spring melody. Suddenly
she looked forward and saw a figure on
Sraiches just disappearing over Battery
ill.
An hour later Emily and the man with
the crutches came together in the very
glen where E. Hecox had first been
buried. When she found that he had
been a soldier they sat down on the
rocks in the cool shade and he told her
that on the night of the battle of Grove-
ton he had helped to bury a very dear
comrade in that little glen where they
were, and that the work had been so
hurriedly done in the haste of retreat
that, whatever else he had forgotten, he
: had not forgotten the shallow grave of
his friend. Now that he at last had
found the’ place and had ‘come back,
somebody had been there before him;
‘ and he pointed sadly to the grass-grown
hollow from which the poor skeleton
. had been taken, and showed her an over-
ground wound in the bark of the tree
which he had scored with his own hand
to mark the place.
“The name is gone,” he said, “and I
can’t recall it now. I've forgotten many
things, my dear.”
‘Then little Emily told him what she
had heard about the battery that fired in
the night and lighted up the hill with its
ns
“Yes, that was it,” he said, and he told
her how he had pulled the lanyard on
the same gun where his poor friend had
sponged and rammed, and how his friend
threw up his hands and fell back into
the arms of the man who thumbed the
vent before he could get to him, and
how, if he had not been captured on the
second night thereafter, a great many
things that had happened in his life
would have turned out differently.
He looked very grave and paused for a
long time to think, and Emily was silent,
too, out of respect for the memory of his
comrade.
“I suppose, my dear,” he said present-
ly, “that you have often been on the
road that leads from the stone bridge to
Centerville. Isn’t that the name?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. That was the
“pike,” and her father Hale had told her
all about the retreat.
said the soldier, speaking slowly, laying
his crutches together on the grass along-
| side the rock where he sat, “and but for
the nights we had been marching and
i the hard work at the guns, it never would
have happened, never happened at all.” :
i “It was twilight,” he went on, “when
i we crossed the hill where the bluecoats
{lay so thick and still, and then we went
| splashing through the creek, where the
| bridge is now, the strong wheels
| ing over stones and ammunition-chests,
i and so out into that very road. It grew
{dark at once, and the stars came out
| among the broken clouds and shone down
| on two and sometimes on three columns
of batteries rumbling abreast, and flash-
| ed on the bayonets of the infantry mov-
ling in the fields alongside. What with
the clouds scurrying above us and the
stifling dust in which ‘we moved, we :
could hardly see the batteries posted on
the hills to cover our retreat. We were
So weary and spent that the men fell |
asleep on their horses, and the great |
| sweaty horses themselves dozed and
reeled about ‘in the halts. I remember |
now, men-crawled up on the carriages '
and slept; slept with hands against the |
big saddles; slept on the very road itself, |
trusting to be kicked into wakefulness ;
by their comrades whem the column .
moved. I must have dropped down in a
fence-corner from sheer exhaustion.
Neither ‘the rumbling wheels nor the
tramping men nor the falling rain could ‘
waken me, and I slept on until all the
army had passed, and I was found before
daylight by the cavalry of the enemy. I
tried to run, and they shot me, here and
there.” He pointed to his head and
swinging trouser-leg. “And since then I
began to forget—but now things begin to
come back, all but names—names I can’t
get.” i
Just at that point of the narrative he
stopped and pushed himself to the one
good foot, then turned away on his
crutches with a sigh to look across at
the hill. i
When they walked on again, Emily re- |
minded him that he had not yet told her |
the whole of his story, to which he made |
answer that there was a great deal to tell |
if only he could remember it all just as it |
happened. Being on the old field again
helped him to remember things wonder-
fully. He had been somewhere where
he had been sick and hungry and cruelly .
treated, and afterward he had been taken |
some place else, where he had been bet- :
ter treated, but from which they would |
not let him go away until just lately,
when he began to remember better. i
“There are lots of men like me there.” :
he said—“lots. I'm going back, but Ii
thought if I came here perhaps it would ;
help me find out what I want to know.”
As they neared the house, little Emily |
would have taken the soldier's hand, if !
both hands had not been occupied with |
his crutches. The simple story of his
own misfortune had completely won her |
childish heart.
“There lies the father whom I never
saw,” said little Emily softly, pointing to
the oldest stone and looking up into the
soldier’s face. Then the soldier raised
his €ges for the first time to the marble
slab.
“Ebenezer Hecox!” he gasped, taking
a step back on his crutches. And then
he looked up at the sky and around on
the trees in the low evening light with a
weak sense that he had just been dream-
ing—and then his eyes came back to the
hard staring letters cut into the stone—
and then he heard the sweet voice of the
child at his side.
“Remember all—everything now,” he
said, speaking hoarsely, “Hecox—Allens
Hill—home! Garlinghouse—that was his
always eager ) buried him, the Colonel Jones, Battery
name; he wore my coat that night—we
L, First Corps, Sergeant Cross—the
names—the names! Forsyth, Banks,
Keller, Moore, Petrose”—he called the
stations at the gun. “Hecox! Hecox!—
thank God! Thank God!”
Then the soldier looked down into the
eves of the child, shining with tears, and
for answer he took her to his arms and
kissed her.
“I've found myself—I knew that some-
thing would happen if I only heard a
name cried. I felt it! I have come back.”
Little Emily looked up. “Here comes
mamma,” she said. “She's calling me—
won’t you come into the house and rest
a while?”—By H. W. Shelton, in Harper's
Weekly.
$6,600,000 Needed Monthly to Supply
Belgians’ Food.
All agencies engaged in Belgian relief
must occupy themselves with the im-
mediate tasks of providing bread for the
total population of Belgium and of sup-
plying all food for one-fifth of that popu-
lation, according to the second report of
the Relief Commission sent abroad by
the Rockefeller Foundation. This re-
port, given out Monday night, states also
that clothing must be supplied to certain
communities, temporary shelter must be
provided and employment must be given
to the unemployed. These relief mea-
sures, the commission estimates, will
necessitate an expenditure of about $6,-
600,000 a month.
Of the total Belgian population of
7,000,000, the report states, 80 per cent.
are able to pay for their bread; but the
grain from which to make the bread
must be purchased in foreign countries
and distributed under the protection of
the American government,
Fetichism marks the lowest point of a
gross and degraded superstition. It be-
longs to savages and not to civilized peo-
ple. Yet there are social fetiches to
which mothers sacrifice their daughters
in this enlightened land. And these suc-
rifices are no less horrible than those of
the degraded African who throws his
writhing child into the fire. The name
of the great social fetich is Ignorance.
Mothers see their daughters “standing
with reluctant feet where womanhood
and girlhood meet,” see them take the
step beyond and assume the stupendous
responsibilities involved in marriage and
motherhood, and yet they say no word
of warning or enlightenment as to the
great physical change which marriage
brings to women. For those who have
suffered through ignorance, and have al-
lowed disease to develop in the delicate
organs, Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip-
tion is a true minister of mercy. It
stops drains, heals ulceration and inflam-
mations, relieves bearing down pains,
migkss weak women strong and sick wom-
en well. ;
Her Two Steady Jobs.
When a woman really loves a man
she takes equally great delight in
making him comfortable when she
thinks he is miserable and miserable
| dianapolis Star.
when she finds him comfortable.—In-
ind- |
| the Western continent;
m—
| By One on Medical Duty in that Far Eastern
Country. Christman as It Was Spent in that
: Far-off Foreign Land.
i
i JHANSI, DECEMBER 25th, 1913
: Dear Home Folk:
| Here itis, 11.30 on Christmas night
{and I have just gotten in from a very
nice dinner party so remembering, as I
- passed my desk, that tomorrow was mail
: day and also a day upon which I was to
i visit a mission farm some distance away,
| my steps bedward stopped and I am try-
ing to tell you about it all; but the
thought came to me, I wonder whether
I'll have time to die properly when the
time comes, or will that, too, have to be
sandwiched in between other events,
My day has been a nice one and there
were many nice things happened but I
was a wee bit disappointed in not having
even a catd from home to read, The
WATCHMAN gave me the news, so I
wasn’t lett entirely desolate; but I know
if I stay here much longer Saturday mails
won't matter so much, even now a mail
that brings no letters is not the horrid
blue thing of a year ago.
The rest of the household were invit-
ed to the H’s to dinner so our house took
care of itself, and the servants had an
evening off. Itis more like Christmas
weather tonight—clear, crisp and cold
and the stars hang down from the sky
just like they do on a wintry night at
home, and our hostess had a grate-fire
tonight and it did look inviting. Then,
too, her cook did know how to roast tur-
key—it just melted in your mouth, and
she had little mince-pies, another thing
that was more than good. But the table
decorations were all pink and white, and
they should have been red and green,
but all the good things were there, even
to the plum-pudding. Those foolish lit-
tle crackers ended up the feast, and we
all looked most foolish with the little
caps and masks perched upon our heads,
I started rightly by going to church
this morning and then hurrying home to
allow the nurses to go to their church an
hour later and had'I had any brains this
should have been written at that time,
and not now, for I had to sit there for
two hours waiting for those foolish vir-
gins to make their toilets and go to
church. Now don’t ever tell me that the
only maidens who “prink” are found in
these dark
skinned sisters of theirs, with only half
the clothes, have them all “skinned a
mile” as to time required for dressing,
I then came to the bungalow and hay-
ing lost hours and hours of sleep, just
calmly went to sleep at the table, so
crawled to bed as soon as breakfast was
over and then couldn’t pull myself awake
again except when a servant would call
to me here was a “chitty,” or a “doly,”-
and up I would have to get and answer
the letter, or tell the sender of the “do-
ly” that they were the “nicest souls on
earth,” in a dozen different ways, and
then I went back to bed and slept some
more. It was then tea-time, hospital
time, time to dress for dinner, and then
£0; and here I am again. .
The samples came correctly and I
think they are beautiful both in quality
and price but horrors, we are not Pitts-
burgh millionaires out here so guess the
lady in question had best stick to Eng-
lish stuffs; they are a bit cheaper, if not
so beautiful. I wonder if my brains are
leaving me, I surely don’t seem to have
any for use tonight, so do forgive me,
but I'm going to bed.
(Continued next week.) ,
Little Talks on Health and Hygiene.
BY SAMUEL G. DIXON, COMMISSIONER OF
HEALTH.
WORRY—to choke or strangle says
the dictionary. It is not necessary to
seek for the further definition for that is
truly the physicial manifestation of
mental torment.
Worry strangles our mental powers
and chokes the bodily functions. There
are innumerable instances in which phys-
ical decline and death are directly trace-
able to worry.
It is true that in everyone’s life, force
of circumstance, bitter experiences and
trying problems must be met, considered
and conquered. No matter how vital
these may be or how much real thought
is required in their solution, worry will
never aid and it inevitably handicaps all
effort to obtain a clear point of view and
the establishment of a true perspective
toward life’s happenings.
The ancient philosophers deemed wor-
ry unworthy of men of true mental at-
tainment. Our physicial makeup is so
finely adjusted that any distress of mind
reacts upon the bodily functions. Ex-
cessive anger is often followed by illness
and worry with its accompanying mor:
bid thoughts has a like influence.
There is a close relation between our
physical and mental selves and a sound
body is a reserve force behind the mind.
When you are tempted to worry bestir
yourself physically. Exercise in the open
air, a long tramp or some similar diver-
sion will often times prove a sufficient
stimulant to aid materially any mental
effort you may make to cast off the
burden.
Another and even more effective meas-
ure is to keep busy at one’s daily tasks,
Occupation, if it be of a nature to require
close application, is one of the most
effective cures for worry:
Luck Vs. Brains.
Luck counts once in a while. brains
count all the time.—W. H. Lou_..