Such a gallant wind that
Sweeps my narrow street—
But somewhere there is a
Stronger gale to meet.
Such young wild-eyed flowers
In my garden beds—
Somewhere sweeter blossoms
Lift their pedaled heads.
Such a dizzy gladness
Waking with the sun— |
Somewhere hearts are lighter
With a gayer fun.
Somewhere just beyond—we
Cannot make them out—
Are the lovely things we
Only dream about.
Down each stretching road and
Up each pointed hill—
Always just a little
Further still.
TRUST THE IRISH FOR THAT
Old Maggie O'Riley sat in a wheel
chair by her kitchen window. She
stared out at the garden, the cow
shed and the chicken house, desolate-
looking in the against the |
great wall of dark pines. It was late
September in the north country, and
there was nothing left in the garden
but a few frostbitten tomatoes, For
the rest there were dead beet tops,
dried bean vines and weeds.
It ought to be cleared off and
spaded for spring, old Maggie was
thinking. Last year at this time she
had spaded it and worked the dirt
over until it looked as square and
flat as a huge stove top. And she
would never do it again.
The cow shed out there by the
pines wes apparently no different
from usual, but old Maggie knew
that Daisy was not inside it. They
had taken Daisy away and sold her
because an old woman in a wheel
chair cannot take care of a cow. The
chicken house, too, was empty. The
neighbor boys had loaded the boxes
of Plymouth Rocks on their trucks
and taken them to the dealer over
at the Corners because she could
never again go out to feed them.
“Never!” It is the most cruel word
in any tongue.
The chair in which old Maggie
O'Riley sat was new, of shining oak
and rubber-tired. “A lovely chair,”
Mrs. Schulter, her nearest neighbor,
had said when she helped unpack it.
The big chair had come all the way
up from Minneapolis by train and
truck after Mrs. Schulter had writ-
ten the letter and sent the money
from the sale of Daisy.
Yes, it was a nice chair, Maggie
had agreed grimly. But it held you
with two iron hands. Its wood drew |
you and absorbed you into itself, Its
rubber-tired wheels sucked at your
heavy old Jauba and clutched them !
tly in their grasp.
Hy looked down at those two
limbs that a few weeks ago had so
unexpectedly failed her, had so sud-
denly turned traitor to her. They had
taken her back and :orth between
the house and the garden, the chick-
en yard and the cow shed, the woods
and the lake shore-back and forth
for years. They had made her no
trouble, given her no complaint. They
were part of her. They were herself.
And then, as though they had been
concealing something from her, con-
cocting a joke behind her back, they
had suddenly failed her. It had
proved a cruel, malignant joke. For
now they were no longer a part of
, NO her own self. They
were alien thi heavy, cumber-
some, like knotted white birch logs.
timber!
e looked sullenly down
their outlines under the gray calico
dress. Dead timber—Useless!
had always made use of ev 1
around the little house in the woods |
where she lived alone. With a neat-
ness that was proverbial with the
few neighbors, she had kept up the
place in the clearing. And if there
Was no use for a thing she either
buried it or burned it. But this time
it was different. There was no use
in the world for two dead legs, and
she could neither bury them nor
For the rest of the afternoon
Maggie sat looking out toward the |
shed, the chicken house and the |
garden with the dark wall of pines
the distance. She might hav~ sew-
She might have read. But old
Maggie O'Riley’s hands, gnarled and |
laid. And over the Schulters had not |
guessed t old Maggie O'Riley
could not read. i
This afternoon, Maggie was more |
grieved than ever about her condi. |
tion. There were peovle in the world, |
she was thinking. who did not like |
to work. lazv folks who shirked the
burden of labor. And all she would |
ask of life would be to be about
and work hard again. How she
would work! Up and down the little
place she would go tirelessly. Never’
would she ston except for sleep, if
thev would only come to life again
—those dead legs.
Suddenly a wave of rebellion swent
her. Tt seemed that it must not be
true that she was this way. Tt could
no be. She told herself that she
would rise above it. She would not
Tet it be so. She would get out of the
hated chair and step on the floor.
With a magnificent strength of
will she threw herself forward. But
only the trunk of her bodv moved.
The dead, immovable weieht held
her fast. Och! Mother of Christ! T¢
t
was true. Old Maggie broke into
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gie sitting there so helpl |
chair, while the soul of her swept
up and away from Maggie—away |
from those dead old legs. Her im-
agination stopped at that picture.
She could not quite conceive what
incidents would follow. She only |
knew that it would be worth the!
doing—to have that fine exhilarating |
feeling, that bouyant sensation of
getting away. |
For a long time she toyed with the
subject. The church forbade it, but
it did not seem It was not
really like killing one's self, she ar-
gued. People killed themselves with
guns and ropés and in other terrible
ways. But this—this was just a little |
white powder. All there was to it
was to drink her coffee with a little
cream and a little sugar—and a little
white powder. She herself would not
be harmed. She would go away free.
Only those old dead legs would be
left behind.
The church ought not to mind
that. It seemed so fraught with ease,
so filled with relief for such small
effort. A little white powder! And
then a reward-—that great moment,
that laughter-provoking moment of
looking back and crowing over old!
Maggie O'Rilev's dead legs,
Even the Schulters would never
suspect. To find an old woman dead
in her chair sometimes happened.
They had found old Mrs. Mendenhall
that way over at the Corners four
or five years ago. If she sat close to
the stove and threw the little box
into the fire just as soon as she
drank her coffee.
She muffled over the details in her
mind. She would have everything
ready. There was no one to care a
great deal. Mrs. Schulter would prob-
ably throw her apron over her head
and cry a little, for they had been
close friends for these two. years.
But after all, she would be relieved.
She would not have to come over any
more and get old Maggie into the
chair or help her back to bed. Ernie
and Emil Schulter would not have
to take their time to do her chores.
She ate no supper at all, When
Mrs. Schulter came over to help her
to bed she was still planning craft-
ily. For a long time she lay
of the various catastrophes that
might overtake her in her present
wretched state. She might get so
much worse that she would be bed-
ridden. The Schulters might move
away. Mrs. Schulter might get sick.
Some other unforeseen thing might
happen. Yes, it was best. She was
quite calm about her decision.
The next morning when Mrs.
Schulter came over Maggi
ready for her. She assumed a forced
the men go past her house and made
out from her window that they were
carrying Emil Schulter into his
house. ¥mil, who had been on a va-
cation from his work as a forest
ranger, swinging along that very
morning with his young powerful
strides, had been brought home in-
Jjured.
Maggie at the window an hour lat- |
er saw the doctor come from his |
long drive through the woods. He |
was in the house for several hours.
It was late evening before Mrs.
Schulter could get in to e. Mrs.
Schuiter told her more about it.
Emil had been over to the Corners
in the truck. Something had gone
wrong with the steering gear and he
had run into a tree.
“It'll be weeks before he's out
again, months maybe,” his mother
said, She threw her apron over her
(head and broke out crying. “To see
him there hopeless wantin’ me right
by him all the time, always so big
and strong and full of life.” ‘Then
she thought of e and added
apologetically: ‘“Tain't so hard for
you, Maggie. You're old and you're
a woman. 'Tain’'t half so hard for
you.”
Maggie said nothing. Yes, she was
old and she was a woman. But it
was hard. She looked at Mrs. Schul-
ter sitting there swaying “ack ana
forth in her misery ana crying for
her boy. Even before this happeneaq,
Mrs. Schulter had worked all day
long, and now with this added bur-
den of taking care of Emil.
“You can't come over to take care
of me anymore. 'Tis too much to
ask. I ain't worth it. It's me that
| ought to 'a’ died instead hangin’ on
good for nothin’
8. ul wiped her
nt ay may tht again, M
manage. I'm strong yet.”
When Maggie was in bed she told
herself that the little white powder
was the answer to the problem. But
she would not take it just yet. It
would only add to Mrs. Schulter's
burdens. It ought rather to be when
Emil was over the first danger. And
it would be so simple just her usu-
al coffee with a little cream and a
little sugar and a little white pow-
der. Then sleep, and Hat, wallderful
momen rising up an ng
away from the cumbersome body;
that great moment of looking back
and laughing to see old Maggie
O'Riley sitting heavily there in a
chair.
In a few days they lifted Emil,
too, in a big chair by the window.
bulky out-
ter had brought over all of Maggie's
roomed house, But with the arrival
of her chair Maggie had insisted that
such work cease. “No,” she had said, M
“If it's got to be, it's. gut to be—ana | eonanggle prt
’ 's goin’ m wn ; V
ve me hats g y gether; Schulter
They had all been and Ernie,
Schulter had come the
and hammer and chisel, and
off the old-fashioned threshold
between the rooms
smooth, so that
easily from the
room to gy Mo
took turns
bringing the water. “Anything
to side, i
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great H
still strong and active.
those old lad
let her go.
Mrs. Schulter
Maggi
on the top shelf I'm wantin’
lower. There's a toothache one and
the peppermint I might be needin’,
Would you be kind enough to clean
off the top shelf and get ‘em down
close to me?”
So Mrs. Schulter, nn pee.
haps, of the canned pies
that she ‘must make, swept every-
thing into a lower shelf.
:
was grand. You'd 'a’ thought
was in the same room.”
Old Maggie listened incredulously.
It wasn't sensible—such talk.
The dishes and the washin’
‘clothes boilin’ over and me havin’ to
m across the Seating he waved and
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‘gie lay helpless. It was after ten
when Mrs, Schulter came, tired and
Maggie.
with the
‘hot and apologetic.
“Everythin' was at once,
stop in the very midst of it all and
get somethin’ for Emil. IT never saw
a mornin’ 80 rushed.”
= hurt Maggie anew. She was put
0
pain of it. Well, tomorrow it would
not matter. Mrs. Schulter could come
over al seven or eleven or not at all.
When she came over in the evening
she would find Maggie asleep in her
chair by the stove. Never to bother
' her again!
All day long from her chair Mag- |
' gle cleaned the house.
She put every-
thing in shape. Tuesday morning it
was to happen. Coffee with a little
cream and a little sugar, and a little
white powder—and then that high
bouyant sensation of getting away
from her loathsome self, away from
those dead limbs,
All afternoon she sat by the win-
dow. The slanting rays of the pale
October sun hung over the lonely
little house.
Suddenly something was happen-
ing at the Schulters. They were
coming out of the house and over
this way—all of them-—Schulter and
Ernie and Mrs. Schulter, Emil, too,
sat leaning out of the open window,
watching. The men-folks were
ing a box and a big iron horn and
wire--a great coil of wire.
They came in the back d
filled the tiny kitchen.
frightened, wheeled her
toward them.
-
oor. They
Maggie,
chair out
“Maggie, it's for you!” Mrs. Schul- '
ter's voice was high and excited.
Emil made you one, too, from a
secondhand one with some parts
missin’. The week and more he's put
every minute on it. "Twas for this
I had to quit my washin’. ‘Maggie
must have one, too,’ he tells us the
minute we had 'Settin’
ngin’ him the parts from
another old one a summer tourist
left at the Corners. And me bringin’
hammer and the bit and
brace every minute of my time, till
I thought I'd never get a thing done,
let alone takin’ care of you.
“I felt terribly neglectful, but
Emil, he's that set on finishin' it
quick. It made me torn betwixt the
anxiousnes of you havin’ the singin’
and speakin' too, It seemed for all
the world like T was harmin' my
own mothar, Maggie, leavin’ you go
that way—me losin’ her when I was
little makes you seem like my own.”
The men-folks were setting the
contraptions together. They bored a
little hole at the edge of the window
pulled a wire through. Thev
strung a long wire from Maggie's
chimney to the old cow shed. Collie
ran excitedly before them.
“Jenkins said the old automobile
battery was wore out,” Ernie was
tell his father: “told me to he
hii to it, ini it'll hold juice for
Maggie for a spell yet.”
Maggie could scarcely adjust her-
self to all this commotion after the
quiet of the past days. And she wor-
ried about the wire
when
tune in bet-
wrong, Ernie?
What would happen?” Maggie was
“Oh, 'tain’t goin’
You just wouldn's
get anything. And before you go
bed turn this around. There ain't a
chance in a dozen there'll be light-
nin’ this late, nor a chance in a mil-
lion it would strike if there was, but
if it did, it would run down into the |
”
Maggie did not like anvthing run-
ning around loose in her house, mice
or lightning. And she did not want
Ernie to leave her alone with the
machine. :
“You're all right. You'll get onto
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little black
wheels. And right in the room a man
started to sing: !
fi
“Oh, the days of the Kerry H
Oh, the ring of the piper’'s tune!
Oh, for one of those hours of glad-
ness—"
Old Maggie had not had one hour |
of gladness for months, but sudden- |
ly her heart was leaping to the pip-
er's tune.
“When the boys began to gather
In the glen of a summer night,”
Old Maggie could see them as
plain as day—Michael and Patrick
and Terry. Ah, well! It was because |
there had been only one Terry in
the world that Maggie had never
married.
“And the Kerry piper's tuning
Made us long with wild delight.”
It was all there before her. The
| work was done. The peat was gath-
ered. The moon shining through the
trees. All the young folks had come
into the glen. And Terry was com-
ing toward her,
"Laue ana lasses, to your places,
Up Lhe middie ang auwn again,
Lewy wuchea her lianas, sSne
slippeua ner own into wem. Ald tneu
4 Suabge Lung nappened. uid Mag-
' 81¢ U Kuey Seemed w leave ner boay.
She rose out or it ang Joined tne
lurong oi young people uunecing on
the green. She wus red-cheekea ana
lithe anda spry. With lerry she was
dancing. Au the magic of youth she
had in ner teet. And she looked back
at the old Maggie O'Riley sitting
| there so helpless with the immovable
limbs. Threw back her head, she did.
and laughed at old Maggie, so old,
80 helpless, with two dead logs for
legs. She made sport of her—old
Maggie tied to a chair. “Is it grind-
| Stones ye're havin' for feet?” she
mocked. “Watch me!” she called
and danced the faster,
“Ah, the merry-hearted laughter
Ringing through the happy |
glen!”
Faster and faster she danced.’
“Look at me,” young Maggie O'Ril-
ey called to old Maggie O'Riley, “you
, wid yer dead legs! Is it the wings
| like the lark I have? :
| the thistledown I om!"
They had whirled to the trees at
‘the edge of the glen, Terry held her
close and kissed her, so that she |
half swooned at the sweetness of it. |
i
thought of my neglectin’ and the | :
! “And the sound of the dear old
music,
Soft and sweet as
yore.”
The song died away on its last
lovely Neng note. A man's voice |
was saying briskly that this was
Minneapolis.
Old Maggie sat back heavily.
Sint John She ing! It was so.
away in Minneapolis a
man had sung to her up in the pine
country--sung the gayest and dear-
est old tune of them all.
And now Ernie
in days of
up
he was, to go after his girl at the
Corners. gil
“How you comin’, Maggie? he call- |
ed. “Did you like it?”
“"'Twas heaven itself,” said -
And then she was wantin’
know: “Who did it, Braie?
REFERER oo
EE
tten the old legs that wi
like dead birch logs.
Now she would always
to forget them. With a few
| the little black wheels she r
| to rise up and away from ol
| gle O'Riley sitting there so hea
in the chair.
On Tuesday morning she poured
her coffee. She put in a little cream
and a little sugar, And that was all.
When she had finished her breakfast
she wheeled over to the cupboard.
From it she took a little white box.
Then she wheeled herself over to the
stove and put it in the fire.
All the morning she worked at
her accustomed small tasks. She
would not permit herself even to
glance toward the enchanted box. It
was. after eleven when she finished.
She wheeled herself over to the J
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help hurrying over again. Fei roused yd
whole over an open fire,
the food for a festival banquet. The
matzoh cakes were eaten together
with bitter herbs, as reminders of
the unhappy lot of the ancestors who
lived in bondage and of their hasty
departure from the land of oppres-
sion. Drinking of wine, singing of
songs and recounting of the wonder-
ous tales of the Jewish past, helped
to make the festive eve y
and joyous. That the children might
be provoked to curiosity and be led
to ask questions of “whys and
wherefores,” every effort was made
to introduce novel and unusual ac-
tivities during the course of the eve-
ning's ceremonies.
In modern times the festival ban-
quet is still held, and constitutes
the most interesting and exhilirating
“function” of all the Passover ob-
servances. It is called the “Seder
service. On the Seder table, three
cakes of matzoh are placed, one
over the other. Over it are laid bit-
ter herbs, a sheep's shank-bone or a
fowl's wing roasted over an open
fire, a green vegetable, an
scorched in the flames, and a dish
prepared by mixing ground nuts,
scraped apples, cinnamon and wine,
which forms a paste symbolizing
the mortar used by the slaves who.
built the ancient Egyptian cities and
monuments, The youngest child is
required to ask at least four ques-
tions, and in answer to these, the
story of the birth of Jewish freedom
is recounted, embellished with tales
of marvels and miracles. Four
of wine are to be drained by each
person. The matzoh and bitter herbs
usher in the Seder dinner. Children's
songs close the evening's entertain
ment, of which the oldest and most
popular is one of an “only kid who
was eaten by a cat, who was bitten
by a dog, who was struck by a stick,
which was burnt in a fire, that was
quenched by water, etc.”
Synagogues, the S
the Bass.
with free-
to furnish
messages preached during
over festival usually deal
dom as a human ideal.
SNOW STORM COST STATE
MORE THAN $200,000
The State Highway
recently announced that
snow
March 6 blizzard
000,
The department engaged 3
and 750 trucks and tractors
work.
The department also gave
ance in where
former
000 m
Ee
5
f
access for
give access to cemeteries,
E
§
| | BY LOCK HAVEN MAN
Charles E. Orner, of n,
is the 16
published in
Signing off! You couldn't fool old
Maggie a second time. Signing off
meant quitting. She chuckled at her
wheels and heard a violin pla:
But at the moment she saw
Schulter drive into the clearing,
wheeled herself hurriedly to
window and raised it.
e
She
the
that!"—By Bess Streeter Aldrich In
the Cosmopolitan,