FHEULDIEAR {'/ " 1: ' |H " , * u * WmMJjm A guest goes forth 'f Returning never- Y<, t not forgotten w ' quite. He brought us much of good Which we mistook for til Because misunderstood God's purposes and will. So with no unkSnd thought We see the Old Year go. Content with what it brought Of whether weal or woe. "We could not If we would Detain these Hying years, "We would not if we could Exchange for joys their tears. God knoweth all our needs Far better than we do. Our thoughts. Intents and deeds Lie open to His view. The record of the past Has many a blotted page, With markings overcast That darkir lines presage. The record, closed and sealed, Awaits us till that day When it shall be revealed In all its dread array. Lord, help us read aright The lessons of the years. To see light in/fhy light Through all our doubts and fears. —William G. Haeselbarth, in Christian Work. I/OROTHY HUNTERIT \ (ALLER.^ (ANDI<.EADELES«AMBL£ •«- AT? T , ' aHy morning of the s? . A\»°/ Saturday before ?• K(fQ, v ' m L New Year's day Vl 112 ant ' Dorot h y Hunter was wash i n g the breakfast dishes at the sink in the farmhouse kitchen, when her mother came hurriedly in from the sitting room, with a flushed, anxious face. "Oh. Dorothy, dear," she said, "do you think you could stay alone and take care of baby all day and, per "HERB, TAKE THIS," SHE SAID. Laps, all night? Deacon Parsons just stopped to tell u.s that Aunt Kate has fallen and broken her arm, and she wants us to come over as quickly as possible." "Why, yes, of course 1 can," Dor othy replied promptly. "You hurry right along and get ready; I'll heat the soapstone and help you get start ed, and after jou're gone I'll finish the work." "1 hate to leave you, daughter. It will be a lonely day for you, and, though we shall try to eoine, of course, it may be just possible that we cannot get home to-night; it is nine miles to Dunbar, you know, and I'm afraid there is a storm coming on. You are sure you are not afraid, Dorothy?" "Afraid? Why, of course not. You forget that I was 14 last month, and what in the world should I be afraid of, anyway?" and Dorothy laughed at the thought. A few moments later she stood at the window with two-year-old Neliie, the baby of the family, in her arms, and watched her father and mother drive away down the snow-drifted roa«J. She smiled brightly as long as they remained in sight, but when a turn in the road hid the sleigh she felt just, a bit lonely after all, and it was not surprising that she .did. There were no other houses within sight, their nearest, neighbor lived a mile away, and, standing as it did upon a seldom-traveled road, the Hunter homestead was :i dreary place. However, Dorothy did not spend much time meditating. She paused just long enough at the window to note the few, big. slow-falling flakes, advance messengers of the coining storm, and then went about the be lated household tasks. So much was there to be done that not until the ©ld clock upon the mantel twanged tin* hour of three, did Dorothy pause for more than the short rest which she took while eating* her simple din ner: then, with Nellie in her arms, she sank gratefully into the old-fash ioned rocker by the sitting-room win dow, and as she glanced out was sur prised to see how fast and furious the storm had grown. The snow was falling' so heavily that she could not even, see the barnyard fence, and she remembered with a sigh of relief that her father had said the chores were all done, so that the stock would need no further attention until morning' if he should not return that night. As site sat and hummed a drowsy little tune to the baby, Dorothy thought she heard the gate latch click, and a moment later some one knocked loudly at the door. She hastily laid Nellie in her crib an<l went to open it, and there, to her surprise, stood a great, bearded, rough-looking stranger. A tramp! thought th girl in dismay that was not lessened by the man's request, made in a hoarse voice, to be allowed to come in and get warm before going farther in the storm. Dorothy had been taught that hospitality is a most gracious virtue, so she assented to the stranger's plea, and drew a chair for him close to the roaring fire. "Isn't this the Hunter farm?" in quired the unwelcome guest, after a moment or two, as he spread out his brown hands to the grateful blaze. "Yes, sir. That is my father's name," replied Dori-thy quietly, re sinning her seat by the window. "Where is lie? The folks haven't nil gone away and left you alone, have they?" For a moment Dorothy hesitated, and then she told him the story of her aunt's misfortune and how her parents had gone to render her what ever assistance they could. For a long time then the silence was unbroken, and Dorothy began to think it high time that her guest was taking his departure, when lie suddenly said: "You couldn't make up your mind to let me stop for the night, could you, sis? I've come a long ways to-day and am tired enough. I'd be right glad if you could let me stay." "(), 110, I couldn't do it! I am sure father and mother would not. wish me to. You must goon, and don't you think it is time you started? It is getting dark, you see," and Dorothy half rose from her chair in her eager ness to urge the departure of this man, of whom she was growing more than half afraid. "Well, T suppose it is time to start if I've got to go."and the stranger rose wearily and buttoned his worn coat tight up to his chin, to keep out the freezing blast of the storm. "Mow far is it to Dutton?" lie added, turn*- ing again to Dorothy. "Two miles. It's a good ways to walk when you are so tired. I do wish father and mother were home so you could stay here," and then she asked softly, as though she were al most ashamed: "Have you any money to pay for your lodging when you get to Dutton?" "It's a shame to have to tell it, .Miss but—" the stranger began, and then he coughed and stammered, in embarrassment, and the sympathetic girl hastened to his relief. "Oh, yes, I know!" in a pitying tone. "You must have had bad luck," and then she went to a drawer in the bureau and took out a shabby, lit tle pocketbook in which were two coins, a silver dime and a half dollar. "Here, take this," she said, laying the larger piece into his hand. "I have more and shall not need it; it will pay for a bed and breakfast for you, poor man." The stranger took the motiey and a moment later was swallowed up in the storm, and Dorothy was left again alone. At nine o'clock that night, when she had long since given them up and gone to bed, Mr. and Mrs. Hunter reached home, tired artd chilled from their long ride. Dorothy thought, it might frighten her mother to be told of her visitor, and so de cided to say nothing about him for that night at least, and contented herself with telling that she and the baby had been very comfortable. The next Monday night, which was New Year's eve, as Dorothy came in rosy and smiling from her mile and a half walk from school, she was as CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1901. tonished to find her tramp visitor in the sitting-room, with baby Xellia perched comfortably upon his knee. "What does it m--tn?" she asked turning from the stranger's laughing face to her mother. "It means," replied the deep voice that Dorothy remembered so well, "that 1 am your I'nclc Harry, just back from the Klondike with a pocket lined with gold, and willing and anxious to divide with the generous little girl who would give almost her only cent to a poor, miserable tramp." And then he told how he had has tened straight to his sister's home, upon his arrival from the far north, and finding her away, and beingobliged togo to a town 20 miles distant, upon a business matter, had decided to keep the secret until his return. "And I'll always be glad that I did," he said, holding out his hand to Dor othy, "because, by this means, I found out what a dear, kind-hearted little girl I have for a niece." Dorothy has grown very well ac quainted with Uncle Harry since that stormy Saturday, and many delightful things have come to her through his kindness; and she wonders now how she could ever have thought his voice rough and harsh, or ever have taken her splendid, big-hearted uncle for a tramp.—Detroit Free Press. THE NEW YEAR'S GREETING. We liook nt the Future Tlirouigli n Reflection of Our Own SOIIIH. "Happy New Year," "Happy New Year!" rings from merry voices and chiming bells everywhere, startling the echoes in response, "Happy New Year!" Whoever knew of a note of gladness, says the Union Signal, that did not go reverberating through all space, and repeating itself on the harp strings of every human life it touched? "Hut who knows it will lie a happy new year?" asks the would-be-wise, quizzical')'. "Who expects it?" growls the cynic. "Who hopes for it?" sneers the man whom life has defeated. "It cannot be happy," say the ' sorrow ful. and the world is full of the sor rowful. "It will not be happy," say the soured and embittered, and the world is full of the disappointed. "It could not be happy, with all the mis ery and poverty in it,"says the pes simist. "It shall not lie happy," says the enthusiast, "until it is rid of its sin and selfishness." "Happiness," says the philosopher, "is not the ob ject of life, but usefulness." "Such a happy new year!" says the young mother, clasping her winsome, dimpled darling to her heart; and "It shall be a happy new year," says the Christian optimist, standing with bared head in the halo of light that comes streaming down the vistas of tiie future, seeing far into the circles, "When light shall spread and man be liker man. Through all the seasons of the golden year." Would you lie a cynic or a philos opher? The sorrowing' and disap pointed who are without hope, or the .sorrowing - who feels that "tears are for the night, and joy eoineth in the morning ?" Would you be a pessimist, seeing only the mists, or an optimist, looking beyond the narrowed horizon of to-day? Would you .see fate in the world, blind, inexorable and hard, or God in the world working out the destiny of human souls? The new year is a new outlook. You look at it through the reflection of your own soul. If you have made it broad, and deep, and shining in the light of God's face, it will shine on. If it is troubled and turbid it will only give a flash here and there on its surface. ***#*»» We know that sorrow and disap pointment must come. The travail of pain is the birth of righteousness al ways. We know that temptation will assail virtue, that we must struggle with intemperance to the bitter end; we know that the strong will oppress the weak as long as they can and dare, but we know also that the process of education is, if slow, abso lutely sure, and that in great crises, public opinion sometimes turns with the force of a whirlwind and sweeps away every barrier. The most potent forces of the universe are the silent ones; the voice of God is the still small voice; truth is universal, and we are teaching men and women, and better yet, children to see it. We know not how the better time is coming, nor when, but we know why, and so wo echo "Happy Xew Year!" and look forward joyously to the day when Ail men's good Isn each man's rule, and universal peace Mp like a shaft of light across the land And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Through all the circle of the golden year. And feeling sure That unto him who works and feels he works The same grand year is ever at the doors." HE MADE O\I,Y O\E. i jjjj Mr. Goodheart—Are you going to make any good resolutions? Mr. Jleartgood—.lust one, and you may gamble that I'll keep it. Goodheart—Oh, that's what they all say. Heart good—-Yes; but mine is that I'll never make another one. Aflndtiiefa? « 3 Q O (f*, LONE—alone at the \"~k B mid'night hour sit- A P jf g ting-, my soul and (WW * Harking sound' of IL'—the wind's c o m plaint, listing the time go by, Fronting each to the other's thought, with the moon's face, sweet and thin, A-wateh at the space of the window place, waiting the year begin— Waiting us usher the Old Year out ar.ei wel come the New Year in. Heavy my soul with grief and pain—heavy, and bowed with tears. Worn with the weight of Sorrow's hand, not with the weight of years; And 'twixt us many a thing of woe, many a thought of sin, While the moon outside, like a pure-eyed bride, was waiting the year begin— Waiting us usher the Old Year out ar.d welcome the New Year in. My soul It spoke in the stilly dark—spoke, and' I shrank and heard, The chords of my being pulsed and leaped, affrighted like captive bird; I heard, and I knew that such words were true—while the new moon, sweet and thin, With, sad surprise in her tender eyes was waiting the year begin— Waiting us> usher the Old Year out ard welcome the New Year In. And I plead with my soul: "Judge not— judge not!" and I prayed: "New Year, bring grace." I fell on my knees in the hush and dark—l wept and hid my face; For out of the finite bounds of Time, from the realms of"the might have been," Tost pulcher of the infinite past bearing mistakes and sin, Th-e Old Year stole as the church bells chimed—and the New Year entered In. —Mary Clarke Huntington, in Good House keeping. ff'ZHs / year • if my darling <'oti Itl only have the wine! How hard it is to be so poor, so poor." Annie heard her mother's words, al though they were not intended for her to hear. She saw her brush away the tears from her eyetvand then go back to Teddy's room. "What did the doctor say, mother?" asked Teddy, in <a weak voice; "did he say I will get well?" Annie heard the reply: "He says that the fever is broken, and that all you have to do now is to get well." Teddy's voice trembled as he replied: "Oh, mother, 1 was ;»fraid he woulf! *ay I might die, and 1 wonderfd who would take care of you and little An nie. 1 am gl«d Ood is going to li tme live to do it. Now I must begin to get strong! Can't you give me lots to eat ?" Annie saw her mother's lips quiver as she turned her face from Teddy. "Yes, my son. but not too much at once, you know," she said. Teddy looked very thoughtful. "Hut is there anything in the house, mother? 1 have been sick a good while, and my last wages must he nearly gone, and you haven't had time to color many photos lately, have you?" The boy's* mother answered, brave ly: "Sick folks mustn't bother about these things, you know." Then she left the room, and Annie saw that she did so to hide the tears which were streaming down her worn face. "I must do something; I wonder what it will be?" murmured Annie to herself, and, crushing her hat down over her curls, she slipped into the street. Annie thought constantly of wine for poor Teddy, and wondered if she sum moned courage to beg a bottle whether anyone would be kind enough to give it to her for a poor sick boy, her only brother. She knew that sometimes grocers kept wine, especially around holiday time, and felt sure if they only knew how very, very much it was needed at home by her poor sick Ted dy that some one of them would sure ly give her a bottle. Then there were other places where they sold nothing but wine and such stuff, for she had seen big windows full of the bottles, with pictures of great hunches of beau tiful grapes standing behind them. Annie wasn't a bold, forward child; she was timid, but brave and resolute; her love for her brother, at least, made her brave for the time; so she resolved in her heart to beg for the wine which the doctor said would bring back strength to Teddy. Christmas had come and gone, but Teddy was so ill with the fever that Annie thought nothing about the absence of the frifts usual to that happy d«y; but now Ted dy w>as to grow better, and she did long to be able to make his New Year's and her mother's brighter than Christmas had been. As she wandered down thp streets revolving these thoughts in her mind and wondering how she might get the necessary wine she passed many a gay scene. Early evening had closed down on the cily, and all the shops were aflame with light and brightness. Annie gazed wistfully at the pretty things in the great windows; she was but a little maid, and could not help wishing for pretty things for herself and for her mother and Teddy. Rut the wine—she must not linger; she would only look in one more shop and then—then she v.ould seek the great shop where wine was sold in bot tles; surely the big, rosy-faced man whom she had often noticed standing in the doorway of his shop would listen to her story of poor Teddy and give ber the wine. So she stood before this last store—it was a jewelry store —and, oh, how beautiful the jewels looked—sapphires and rubies and diamonds —how they flittered. The sight was enough to fascinate older eyes than Annie's. Presently something in* one corner of the vwindow caught her gaze —it wasn't a jewel, it was a switch of love ly hair; not one, but several, and be low theiri in pretty, shallmv, satin lined boxes., were clusters of curls. A sudden thought came to Annie; she pressed her little hands together and held her breath, then paused a mo ment to gain courage, and passed reso lutely into the great store. A kind looking man came forward to meet her and said: "What can Ido for you, lit tle lady?" "Do you buy hair?" she asked. "Sometimes, little one; why do you a sk ?" "Will you buy mine? See, I have plenty!" she answered, taking off her hat and shaking her curls down over her shoulders, and looking up with anxious eyes. "But, my little girl, are yoifr curls yours to »ell?" "Oh. yes, sir; if you only knew why I must sell them, I am sure you would buy them. Teddy is so ill that lie needs things, and mother —" and here she choked up so she could say 110 more. "And you want to sell your beautiful hair to buy things for your sick broth er; is that it, littlie one?" "Yes, sir." "I wouldn't take it. but—" "Please don't refuse me, sir; my hair will grow in again; it grows awful fast; see, it is below my waist!" "It is beautiful, a very rare color, and so curly," said the man. stroking the rippling mass of shining hair. "Mother's is just like mine, only it is a little fady here and there. You will take my hair, won't you? Please do; it will: surely grow again, and my brother needs things so very, very much; the doctor says so!" The man led her into n back room "DO YOU liUY HAIR?" SHE ASKED. and himself cut the glossy locks, lay ing each curl carefully down. Then he called a man who wore a white apron and gave the little shorn head into his charge. "I believe that you are prettier than before," the kind man said, when the hairdresser had finished. Then he laid a little roll of bills in the child's hand and bade her be careful not to lose it on her way home. Annie hurried home. When she ar rived mother was reading to Teddy, and Annie crept in like a Little mouse. She removed her hat carefully, se> as not to spoil the hairdresser's work, then dropped the bills in her mother's lap. with a "Merry Christmas and a Happy Xew Year, mamma!" "Oh!" screamed Teddy. "Oh!" screamed mother, as they both saw and knew all. "How came you to think of it, my poor baby?" asked the mother. "It's for wine—wine is better than curls any day," answered Annie; then, turning to Teddy, she hugged him in joy and said, softly: "Get well, Ted dy, and pay me back some day!" Then she told how it all happened, and how she was going in a couple of days to see her curls in their pretty satin-lined ease. After they had both kissed her and thanked her over and over again she crept away. "I'm glad I did it; but how lone some .my pretty curls will be!" said the child. But the curls were not at all' lone some. The kind man was looking at them when one of the boys showed a gentleman in. The visitor was a big man and he had gentle eye s, though his face was somewhat rough to look at "I'm quite out of heart, Alfred; T can get no clew; but what's that you have there? Pretty, aren't they?" "Yes, beautiful!" Then the kind man told all about the little girl who sold the curls to him, so she could have money to buy things for the sick brother. "Alfred, this hair is just the color of K1 lie's: could it be? Could it be Ellie's child's hair?" "She's coining here day a fter to-mor row to see her curls in their satin-lined box; then if you will be here you can find out who she is," answered the jeweler. Sure enough, Annie came to see her purls as they looked ready for sale; she wanted to see the box. While she was admiring it and telling about Teddy, and how the wine was doing him good, .the stranger with the gentle eyes ar rived, lit- talked to the little girl for awhile, then surprised the jeweler a«cf little Annie by bursting'into tears. "They've told you about I'nele Lukt*. haven't they?" he asked. "Oh, yes, often," replied Annie. "H«? is in Australia, where the bark falls the trees and the leaves stay on, uiui w here the birds have no w ings, and n erything is so queer!" "But what if he Mine home?" "Oh, he won't," she said; "niotln T has lost him completely." "Hut he has come home. I ani hr.** Then there was what Annie called "ai time." That was how it happened that just as the doctor was praising Teddy's pa tience, and saying how the wine hart helped him, there was a great flutter in the hall, and Annie bo unci d in, drag ging a big man with kind eyes iu a rough face by the hand. "My curls found him. It is Uncfe Luke, mother, and he has money enough to buy my curls back two or three times. I know, because he said so." And then there was much more of "a time." And the doctor held Teddy's hand while Uncle Luke told about his long search for his sister, and mother explained about fa ther's death and her removal to the city, and how she lost Uncle Luke's address and could rot get a letter to reach him. Then they talked about Annie's curls, and the doctor blew his nose furiously and dug at his eyes, and Annie heard hitn say: "Old idiot that 1 am! I guess I'll try to see about a way of getting wine when 1 prescribe it again for a boy whose mother has that frightened lock in her eyes." Annie tucked her little shorn head under the doctor's arm and whispered: "Hut you see how it was best, don't you? My curls found so much for us— they brought us an uncle. .lust Took at mother; don't she look happy? Isn't a good uncle the best New Year's pres ent in all this world?" Wine is a good medicine when one needs it, and Teddy improved rapidity —so rapidly that he was almost ready to try the new sled that Uncle Luke brought home to him 011 Xew Year's eve. ASi for Teddy's mother, the rosesj began to tint her cheeks again, aiuf Annie was sure she was the pretties* and best mother in all the world.—La dies' World, Xew York. A Goo<l Resolution. One of the best Xew Year's resolu tions we have heard of anybody mak ing is this: "Xot to speak of mis takes which make no difference.** How often the harmony of the home is destroyed by the persistent mem ber of the household who will argue half an hour over the merest, trifle. If one holds an erroneous opinion on a subject of any importance it should by all means be corrected. But what possible difference does it make whether Aunt Jane came in dinner 011 Tuesday or Wednesday? Yet we have listened to heated dis putes that cast an ugly shadow over on entire meal, or spoiled an even ing's enjoyment, upon subjects of «<s more moment than the time of a visit or the state of last week's weather. In dealing with children accuracy of statement should t»e earefully cultivated, lest a habit of exaggeration or untruthfulness he developed. But for adults the fore going resolution is worthy of gen eral adoption.—Helpful Thoughts. THE "PIIOVK" WAS THE CAI SE OF IT ■ - "Not for me!" I wouldn't swear off; "Good resolutions"—l have no desire; For it would be folly for any sane i<ian As long us he uses the wire. 13
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers