clojelelele)
THE THIRD GENERATION
By Leila MM. Church.
i
1
Clelelelele)
Fro—
The mirror over the dressing-table
reflected the tired but flushed and
eager face of the mother as she
stood back, head at one side, to view
her last addition to the room—the
making of the bed. It stood in the
eorner by one dormer-window,
through which one might see entranc-
ing pictures of swaying elm tops, blue
sky, and far away the line of the hills.
The bed itself, a resurrection, was the
mother’s pride. Its four slender
posts were draped with a wonderfully
elever imitation of that which had
dressed it seventy-five years earlier.
And the valance, with quaint little
knotted fringe that the mother had
searched the city over to find, and the
sheet and pillow cases beautifully
embroidered with the daughter's
monogram—all standing waiting and
ready.
“Isn’t it all just too lovely?” said
the mother, delightedly. And then,
with a little anxious note in her voice,
*Do you think she will like it?”
The father stood in the doorway,
looking on..
“Why, yes; how can she help it?”
he answered, hopefully. Being a
man, he was optimistic.
The next day the daughter would
return from her long absence from
~ home, a visit of a few weeks with
- gousins in a distant town. Together
“now the mother and father stood, to
‘examine and to appreciate all the de-
tails of the great surprise." ;
The room had always been the
- daughter’s, since she had been old
enough to discover how fascinating
a third-floor room is, with four dor-
mer-windows, but the mother had
found the possibilities. With all the
.ardor of a girl planning her long-
dreamed ideal of a room, sie had
bought, selected, sorted and ban-
ished, till now it was perfected, the
fast thing was done.
It was father who had the fireplace
sway,
an- |
{0
fitted in, with its high, colonial
tel, and he also contributed. the
‘irons.
The mother selected the paper,
with its riot of roses and buds over
walls and sloping ceiling alike, and
she had covered the high-backed
rockers and low chair herself with the
flowered cretonne exactly like the pa-
per. The mirror was Great-Grand-
.mother Drake’s, and the candlesticks
at each end of the mantel; but the
dressing-table—not even father knew
how much she had paid for that from
her own allowance. The old dresser
had been in the room before, but it
looked quite different in its new cov-
er, and little new bedroom slippers
peeped from beneath the valance of
the bed,
With appreciative eyes. they both
studied the room. Over the mantel
was a dark old portrait of Grandfa-
ther Drake as a young man, in high
collar and satin stock, with sloping
shoulders and fancy waistcoat. The
oval frame was dull gilt and effective.
The mother was doubtful about it
—she feared it was hung too high—
then she wondered if the daughter
would care for ‘it, although she had
always been such a great admirer of
@randfather Drake. :
" Once the daughter had said she
wished she might have certain old
photographs of her father and moth-
er. On each side of the mirror, and
directly over the candlesticke <n the
‘dressing-table, was a small, oval
frame like that of Grandfather
Drake’s picture, only in one of these
was a demure little maid, with parted
hair, and low-necked, short-sleeved
gown, showing dimpled arms and
shoulders, and in the other the dear-
est, pudgiest, round-faced and won-
drously kilted little father.
‘“Weren’t you the dearest thing?”
eried the mother, giving him a sud-
den little hug.
“I don’t know,” he answered, smil-
ing, “but I am quite sure you were.”
‘Do you think she. will like it?”
she repeated again, after a pause in
which she took in every detail, the
result of weeks of planning and hard
work and anxious effort to please.
“It is just the sort of room I should
have liked.”
The next day was cold, with alter-
nating downpours of rain and fog.
+The father left late in the afternoon
for the depot, arriving a full half-
hour early, that he might be there in
time for the train.”
At home everything was aglow with
light and warmth. The dining-room
table was laid with the best silver
and china and the new table-cloth,
and was lighted softly from the can-
delabra, which were heirlooms of
great value. The library fire snapped
and crackled cheerily, and on the
piano and on the table in the hall
were bowls of carnations. A new
picture hung at the stair landing.
Everything was ready. Katie at that
moment, in the kitchen, was whipping
‘the cream for the delectable dessert.
The mother stood by the window,
watching and listening eagerly for the
first sounds ef arrival.
rayed herself in her best white wool
gown, with pipings of pink velvet,
worn over her very best pink slip.
Her cheeks were pink with excite-
ment, and in the coils of her soft
brown hair was tucked a pink geran-
ium. She ran from the window to
rearrange a flower that dropped too
far, and missed the sight of their
approach up the street; but at the
sound of feet on the porch, she was
at the door, the light streaming out
over her lovely flushed
eager, outstretched arms.
For a few moments little was said,
and the father made a great pretense
of kicking off his rubbers. Then the
daughter extricated herself and
looked around.
She was a perfectly healthy, fresh,
nice-looking girl of about nineteen,
with clear, gray eyes, a rather round
face and a pretty color. People said
that, with a few changes in her hair
and a slight tightening of the lips,
she might resemble strongly her
mother’s mother, Grandmother Bell.
“My, but aren't you all ablaze
here!” she said, cheerily. “And
flowers—why, Mother Drake, how ex-
travagant!”’
The mother’s face grew sobor a
trifle.
‘““‘Shall I go right up, mother? 1
want to get into something comfort-
able.”
“Yes, dear.
bag.”
The father and mother exchanged
a very knowing glance. The daugh-
ter started for the stairs, and they
eagerly, trying to appear unobtrusive
and above suspicion, followed. At the
first flight he put down the bag, and
they finished the last flight at a gal-
lop, close at the heels of the daugh-
ter.
Hand in hand, with pleased, ex-
pectant smiles, they stood in the door-
peering in as the daughter en-
tered. The fireplace, where a small
log was cheerily burning, sent out a
soft glow, aided by the candles on
the dressing-table. The dull frames
of the pictures sparkled bravely in
places. One chair was drawn com-
face and
Father will carry your
fortably to the fireplace, while anoth-
er
were on the table, and the bed showed
stood invitingly near. Flowers
snowy and tempting, with its fittings
beautifully embroidered with the
monogram of the daughter.
They watched her stand, amazed,
and look slowly around the room.
Turning suddenly, she saw them
there in the doorway.
“How awfully nice!” she said, af-
ter a silence that was breathless on
the part of those without. “Why,
what made You do it? I am afraid
you’ll get all tired out, mother.
Seems to me you don’t look quite as
well as usual to-night,” scanning re-
provingly the face of the one stand-
ing in the doorway, whose pretty
color had almost entirely disappeared.
“It is very nice, I am sure,” she
continued, going up to the fire to in-
vestigate that. ‘You're a great per-
son for surprises, mother. New pa-
per, although I really think I like the
old paper better, I had it so long,
dad, and new curtains, and I see you
have the same old bureau. But where
on earth did you get the bed?”
There was a pause, when the
mother tried bravely several times
to say something. At last, murmur-
ing an incoherent remark about din-
ner, she turned and fled.
The father found her at one corner
of the library sofa, staring straight
ahead and with one hand tightly
clenched over a ball of a handker-
chief. He smiled whimsically.
“How about it?” he asked.
you think you are going to cry?”
She shook her head mutely. Then
each, seeing the anxious face of the
other, suddenly began to laugh, to
laugh long and heartily at the whole
situation.
“Anyway, you are better off than
I am,” he said, finally. ‘She spoke
of the bed, but sk=2 didn’t say any-
thing about the fireplace.” And he
put his hands reflectively deep into
his pockets.
The mother only laughed, but it
ended with a little sob that caught
at her throat.
One evening a few days later the
mother was called away to a sick
friend. + The daughter brought her
books to the library, where the father
stood, rather aimlessly moving about
the table. Ever since the night of
her arrival home, the father had
acted queerly, it seemed to the daugh-
ter. Often, after a long sober pause,
she would find him studying her in-
tently, as if there were something he
could not understand.
Of course the mother was always
mother, one expected her to be what
she was. That day one of her girl
friends, whom she had taken up-
stairs to show her new room, had re-
marked, “What a perfectly lovely
mother you have! If I'had a mother,
“Do
‘just like all the Bells,
happiest person on earth! I should]
love her to pieces!”
The daughter had taken it as a
matter of course, and smiled caree
lessly at her orphan friend’s ravings.
The father went to the safe, and
after a short search, brought back
to the table two little leather-covered
books, worn and old-leoking. He
called the daughter to him.
“Here is something I should like
you to read to-night—I think you
will find these interesting. I have
always meant to have you read them
some time, and to-night is a good
time—you’ll be alone. I am going
down to the shop. You will find me
there if you want me.”
She took the books and glanced at
them curiously. At the door he
paused. “Don’t fall asleep before
you read them, and drop them into
the fire,” he added, humorously.
“They are precious.”
- “No, indeed, I won’t, father! What
are they?” But he had gone.
She opened one of the books. The
name on the fly-leaf caught her atten-
tion—‘ ‘Cornelia / Bell, Diary for
188—.” How odd, how interesting!
she thought. Mother’s diary! She
drew her chair to the open grate, then
abandoned it and dropped to the
hearth-rug, where she began to read.
It was the later diary she read
first, the happy chronicle of the moth-
er’s first meeting with the father, of
their growing friendship, her shy de-|
light in the secret of her love for
him, and later, exultant and awed
joy over the precious thought of his
love. Tender, shy and quaint emo-
tions were expressed in those pages,
the story of a maid and a man in
their beautiful youth, one’s father
and mother.
The daughter was conscious of
queer little thrills of interest as she
read of these things, little intimate
manners and tender caresses, when
they were new and strange and won-
derful. It was like the mosk entranc-
ing love story.
And to think it was father and
mother! It made one’s heart grow
big and soft and eager to love.
“Dear old dad!” she murmured
with a smile, as she read an eloquent
account of a charming necktie he
wore in his youth. She understood
now why mother and father each
must ever be young to the other.
She finished the book and gazed
dreamily into the fire. New thoughts,
new ideas came into her mind.
“What a very fascinating girl mother
must have been!’ she said, aloud.
For a long time she thought deeply
over what she had read. Precious
indeed they must seem to father,
these books.
After a while she opened the other
diary, written before father had ap-
peared in her life. Grandmother
Bell, whom the daughter had stood
in awe of most of her life, figured
strongly in the pages.
She felt that she never understood
before how lonely her mother had
been as a girl, although she had al-
ways known that her childhood had
not been particularly happy. She
could see why she had been so lonely
in spirit, the mother as a girl was so
entirely different from her brother,
who was a good deal of a prig, and
from her Puritan mother:
The daughter smiled as she read
in one place, “To-day mother re-
ceived a letter from her friend, Sarah
Smith, who is a terribly good wo-
man. She wrote she had been to
visit a poor, sick woman, bedridden
over twenty years, who believed in
the Life Everlasting, but liked to
have some one come in now and then.
I laughed. Mother said I laughed
the worst
think she though: she could say to
me.’
In another place she read, “What
I like about Thanksgiving and Christ-
mast and New-year’s and Fourth of
July is that it is a holiday, and you
dress up, but you can sew and do
things. Sundays there are so few
things you can do. I know some girls
who always make candy. I shall let
my girls make candy, week in, week
out, night and day, if they like.”
And again:
“I said to mother, ‘I always make
helieve I am a butcher slicing off cold
boiled ham when I cut bread, don’t
you?’ Mother was disgusted. ‘No,’
she said, coldly, ‘I have no desire to
be a butcher.”
Sometimes sentences or paragraphs
caught the daughter’s eye. The tears
sprang quick to her eyes as she saw
her successful, rather pompous Uncle
John in the lines, “When we were
ready to go, John kissed his wife,
nodded awkwardly to me, and said,
coldly, ‘Well, good-by.” I get so hun-
gry for something to love and hug
and squeeze, and never let go. I
wonder if I had a husband if he would
kiss me good-by.”
The daughter remembered that the
mother’s husband was equal to the
most affectionate, and was glad.
The pages that interested the
daughter most contained an account
of a home-coming of her mother from
a short visit. Never before had she
realized how much it might mean
to one who loved all the little beaut-
ies and graces ‘of life to live sur-|
rounded by those who never dreamed,
never idealized, and lived in a small
She -had ar- and one like yours, I should be the | world of plain outlines.
She was with her mother, in the
pages of the-diary, on the car of her
return home. She saw the eager girl,
in imagination, with a love for home,
in spite of all, a desire to see her
mother and tell her of her visit, of
the things that had happened, and to
show the little gift she had denied
herself to bring home with her. She
could hardly wait to open the door,
all eagerness, all smiles.
When the door opened, she saw the
girl mother enter joyously, ready to
be welcomed. And she saw vividly
her Grandmother Bell, sitting there
at one corner of the dining- {oom
table, gloomily lighted by a small
kitchen lamp, eating bread and but-
ter with a cup of cold tea, her severe
face not softened in the least by her
dark woolen dress. The daughter
could see her look of amazement as
the girl mother entered; she could
hear her say, “Why, what made you
come home to-night? I didn’t expect
you till to-morrow.”
And then, when the wonderful gift
was produced, a new table-cloth, that
appeared to have been wished for,
and representing a sacrifice of long-
saved money, she could see her ‘un-
fold it slowly, almost severely, rub
one corner between her two hands,
hold it up to the light, spread it out,
and say, “What made you spend your
money, Cornelia? I had hoped you
would get a new hat. The table-
cloth is very nice, though I never
cared much for the snowdrop pat-
tern. How large is it?”
The daughter laughed. It sounded
exactly like Grandmother Bell.
The mother had written out her
heart’s burden in her little diary.
At the end of this episode she wrote,
“When I have girls I shall just lie
awake nights planning how I can
make them happy, and everything as
bright and pleasant for them as I
can. I shall let them do as they
please, and try every way to please
them.
won’t care, like mother.”
The other affair—when the girl in
the diary had made a dressing-sack
for a surprise for her mother, and
spread it out invitingly in the best
front roora, and written a series of
notes containing directions as to how
to find it. The daughter laughed to
think of the grandmother running
from pincushion to parlor vase, from
teapot to chair-cushion, each time
finding a note telling where to go
next.
“I should think Grandmother Bell
would have been dizzy,” she thought.
At last, when she found the dress-
ing-sack in the front bedroom, she
said to the girl mother, “The shades
are up and the sun is fading the
carpet. How long has that been like
that? - The dressing-sack is all well
enough, but don’t ever leave the
shades up again like that.”
After finishing the diary, the
daughter sat still on the hearth-rug
for a long time. She thought of all
she had read and learned of the
cheerless life that must have been
her mother’s, of her sensitive tem-
perament, her love of the beautiful,
and the austere Grandmother Bell. |
The words kept repeating themselves
“Perhaps they won't
she. had
in her mind,
care!”’—the girls whom
planned to do so much for.
The daughter suddenly realized
how much the mother had’ done for
her one girl, what a dear, lovely,
charming mother she was, taken al-
ways as a matter of course. She felt
now that she never had appreciated
her, she had been like Grandmother
Bell. Tears came to her eyes and
rolled unheeded down her cheeks,
staining their pink roundness. She
looked at the picture of the mother
on father’s desk, mother in her wed-
ding-gown, as she was at the begin-
ning of a newer and a happier life.
She clasped the little books against
her wet cheek. “Dear girl mother,”
she said, softly. “I do love you.”
Suddenly she rose and went in|
search of father. Along the halls
she crept softly, quickly, as if she
feared some one would steal away
the beautiful thoughts that kept
crowding into her mind. Father was
in his workshop, in the basement,
where he liked to think he made
things, and where he framed pictures
sometimes, and had a good time.
. She opened the door, filled with the
thoughts of her mother, and went
to him.
“Father,” she said, softly, her eyes
still bright with the tears of her
emotion. He did not hear her at
first. When she called again, and
laid her face against his shoulder,
he looked up. He put his arm round
her and drew her to him.
_ “Father,” she said, again.
time there was a little break in her
voice. “I have read the books, and
can’t I—can’t we—oh, let us do some-
thing for mother—quick!”—The
Youth’ s Companion.
‘Many a man whose aim in life is
to acquire riches proves to be a
mighty poor shot.
¥
; It is necessary to strike the average
man below the belt if you want to
reach his pocketbook.
' Every young girl thinks she is com.
petent to write a book called “Advice
to Parents.”
But perhaps, after all, they
| toward the end.
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Power of Suggestion.
It was the reserve force stored up
in the years of conquest and the habit
of triumphing in whatever they under-
took that gave such power to the
Washingtons, the Lincolns, the Glad-
stones and the Disraelis, says Orison
Swett Marden in Success Magazine.
It is the reserve power which we feel
back of the words and between the
lines of a powerful book; not what is
actually in the printed words that im-
presses us most. We are not s6 much
affected by what an orator like Webs-
ter actually says as we are by what
he suggests; the latent power, the
mighty reserve force that we feel he
might put forth were the emergency
great enough.
“That Tired Feeling’’
Is a condition, not a theory. Far from
being a matter of trivial or joking com-
ment, it is a condition of real danger. It
is a mnever-failing symptom of a state of
the blood and nerves that will not cure
itself, but, unless prompt measures are
taken, will go from bad to worse. Just
now, when so many contagious diseases
are prevalent, it makes the system espe- .
cially susceptible to attacks of sickness.
To mention ‘‘that tired feeling’’ is to sug-
gest the remedy—Hood’s Sarsaparilla,
unquestionably the most successful blood
purifier, nerve tonie, appetizer,and general
“spring medicine.” It makes people well.
19
Tendency of Government.
~ There is no question that American
democracy is veering away from rep-
resentative government toward a form
of democracy in which executive and
the people themselves will make laws.
And, notwithstanding all the perils
that come from centralization of pow-
er, which is the ultimate effect of the
abandonment of representative gov-
ernment for so-called direct action, so
long as legislative bodies continue to
be proved unreliable, and strong-will-
ed and honest executives offer them-
selves to the people, so long will this
trend continue. Unless &8e people
discover and utilize ways of selecting
better representative lawmakers, or
legislators prove themselves more
trustworthy, the transfer of power
and prestige from the legislature to
the executive will continue, untii
there is in effect a king ruling by
popular consent, uncrowned, but a
despot to the extent that he can play
on the popular mind, its passions or
prejudices.—Boston Herald,
How Scott Bore Adversity.
Once when I was staying with Mr.
Ruskin he took delight in showing
me his Scott MSS. He brought down
“Woodstock” from the shelf, and
turning the leaves over slowly and
lovingly, he said: “I think this is the
most precious of them all. Scott was
writing this book when the news of
his ruin came upon him. He was
about here, where I have opened it.
Do you see the beautiful handwriting?
Now look, as I turn over the pages
Is the writing one
jot less beautiful? Are there more
erasures than before? That assured-
ly shows how a man can and should
bear adversity.”—London Graphic,
-
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