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ER LESSON
Love Found a Way: to Cure
a Woman's Selfishness.
By BAKER B. HOSKINS, Jr.
Copyright by Frank A. Munsey Co.
BP PPTPTrTTT Tee eS
A big man and a little boy came
wearily in from the corral at sundown,
where they had just unsaddled their
horses after a very hot day of hard
riding. They had been in the brush,
and the scratches on their leather leg-
gings told the history of the ride.
They paused at the little back gal-
lery and mechanically drew off their
leggings, and the man removed his
boots and drew on a pair of house slip-
pers. The leggings were hung upon
pails in the wall. The man then took
down a tin basin and washed his hands
and face.
The boy followed his example like a
perfect model.
“Hurry up. you all!” came an im-
patient voice from the little Kitchen.
“Supper is ready and has been for half
an hour. You all poke around so it
will be 9 o'clock before the dishes are
washed.”
Later they took their places silently
at the table, where sat the woman
waiting for them. She wore a clean
white dress. There was an expression
of discontent written plainly upon her
rather full face. spoiling what would
otherwise have made a pretty home
picture.
They ate in silence, as they usually
did. There seemed to be a suppressed
something about the woman's manner,
which the man’s keen eyes noticed.
_but it brought no comment from him.
When he silently passed his cup for
more coffee the tension seemed to
give way, and the woman spoke bit
terly.
“Have you forgotten that the tenth
anniversary of our wedding comes next
week?”
“No, I haven't forgotten it.”
“Well, I have decided to spend it
with friends back in my old home.”
The woman spoke half defiantly.
The husband looked at her with a
startled air.
“Yes, 1 have made up my mind to
go,” she continued, “and there's no
keeping me from it. I've slaved here
on this ranch for you for ten years,
ten long years, without ever once go-
ing back, or going anywhere, for that
matter, except to the little town for
supplies. Here 1 am, as isolated as a
heathen, and if it were not for the
fashion magazines I'd be ten years be-
hind the styles. 1 never see anybody
except ranch folks; never hear any-
thing except ranch talk.”
The man looked at his wife in hurt
silence. When she paused and seemed
waiting for him to speak he began
slowly:
“It's been kinder hard on you, mam-
ma, and 1 had hoped next spring to
take you and the boy off on a visit.
But this year it is impossible. The
C
BHE AROSE WEARILY AND TIED HER APRON
ABOUT HER WAIST.
market was low, and we just did break
even on the cattle we shipped. We
simply haven’t the money.”
He said this as a direct appeal to her.
“Yes, we have, too,” she retorted
«There's $500 in the bank. I saw the
receipt for it in your pocket. It is halt
mine. The law gives the wife half of
the family property, and I'm going
to take my part and go back to my
oid home. I'm sick, deathly sick, of
this horrid, dry country. There isn’t a
tree that grows here but that has
thorns, and even the frogs have horns.
I haven't seen a piano in ten years.
and you know how fond I was of mu-
sic!”
“Why, Grace,” interrupted the man
at this outburst. “we can’t spend that
money! It's our ‘nest egg.’ We have
to restock the ranch with that.”
«Pye made up my mind to go.
There's nothing short of death that
can keep me from it. You'll have to
make more money fo buy stock with
or borrow money.”
The man's face went pale, and be at-
tempted to moisten his dry lips. His
red. heat inflamed eyelids seemed to
get redder. He spoke low: :
“If you take that money it'll be like
robbing me and the boy.”
Grace's face flamed. and she spoke
roughly.
«You are a fool, Sam McKnight!
Every woman has got to havea change
once in awhile—once in ten years, at
least.”
The boy looked at his parents in
wide eyed astonishment.
Never before had he experienced any-
thing like this. His mother afterward
ate little and sat with forced patience
until the hungry man and boy had tin-
ished their supper.
Then she rose wearily and tied ber
apron about her waist. She cleared
the table and began the irksome and
seemingly never ending task of wash-
ing and drying dishes, while the dis-
content of continuous household drudg-
ery was plainly written upon her face.
The father silently took the milk
bucket from the shelf.
“You needn’t pull off the calves to-
night, boy.” he said huskily. ‘Just
make down your pallet and go to sleep.
Tomorrow will be a hard day for us.”
The man had gone to the pen where
the hungry calves were bawling. When
he came back he strained the milk and
washed the bucket. Then, taking his
pipe, he went out and sat by the creak-
ing windmill and smoked.
He slipped into the kitchen when the
morning star came up and kindled the
fire. While the coffee was boiling he
went to the cowpen to milk and feed
the horses.
When he came back the wife, with
the same weary, discontented look in
her eyes, was putting breakfast on the
table.
When breakfast was on the table
Sam went out and touched the boy on
the shoulder.
He rose and dressed quickly and
went into the dining room, where his
father was already eating. He took
his place silently and gave his atten-
tion to his food. Before the sun was
up they rode away. There was a
strange comradeship that existed be-
tween this big man and little boy.
They rode stirrup to stirrup for a long
time; then the boy asked:
«What does she want to go off for,
dad?”
The man turned away his face. “You
will understand some day, son.”
“Why don’t you tell her what we are
going to have on the anniversary ?”* the
boy queried. ‘Bet she'd stay then!"
I don’t want to try to buy ber love,
son.”
The minds of both were filled with
thoughts of this during the entire day.
It was dark when they returned home.
They went through the same routine
as on the previous night. If the man
had hoped the woman would change
her mind during the day he was disap-
pointed, for he saw when he entered
the roex that she had got out her
little trunk and had packed it. He ask-
ed in a very quiet, very calm voice:
“When are you going?”
Her reply was not so calm.
«In the morning. The boy will drive
me to the station. You will give me a
check for my part of the money.”
“You needn't be in no hurry to come
back!” rejoined the man bitterly.
When the day that marked the anni-
versary came the two did not go off on
the range, but lazed around the house
doing up odd jobs.
of the morning a wagon with a heavy
load came creaking up to the house.
“Back up to the gallery and unload
her, boys,” said Sam.
The wagon was backed up according-
ly, and the huge, heavy thing was un-
loaded. By the exerted strength of all
the men it was moved into the house
and placed in the front room.
The boy hustled around with consid-
Toward the middle
opened the piano, turned and looked
man. Later the man was able to!
read it:
—— why don’t you write for me to come
home? Don't you want me—don’t you
really care wheiher 1 «ome back or not
after the yo i$ you aave ioved nme so
faithfuily? [dont yuu GisS me—don’'t you
need me enough to Write ror me Lo com.
back 7—
The father experienced the same dif-
ficulty in reading that the son bad.
He, too, cried.
The fever cooled somewhat, and the
neighbor went home. He promised to
return on the morrow. After be left
‘ the boy went to the front door and
. one of the old songs.
| very soft and very sweet.
erable importance, getting the hatchet |
and other tools for opening the box.
When the front of the box was re-
moved the room in the isolated little
ranch house was illuminated by the
presence of a piano.
«Is a dandy, if shine counts for
anything,” Sam remarked.
When the piano man went away the
best horse on the ranch was led behind
the wagon. The bargain had been
made months before, and it was one
that had cost Sam something.
Days slipped by, and the piano re-
mained silent.
pothing was heard from the mother
who wanted a change.
restless, and the boy asked questions.
Then the man fell sick. Drinking
from the stagnant water holes over the
prairie gave him fever. The boy beg-
ged him to write for the mother to
come, but the father shut his Ups tight-
ly and said no.
“She left of her own accord, and of
her own accord she must return, if re-
turn she does.”
The sick man took te his bed, butt
etill he would not let the boy write.
Sam was so sick that the boy had to
stay with him all the time. When the
little fellow could stand the strain. no
longer—while his father was asleep—
he scrawled a letter to hig mother:
Dad he’s sick, and we've got a piano for
you. Wor’t you please come home?
The letter was written, but how to
mail it was a problem.
A neighboring rancher rode over the
next morning, bringing a letter that
had lain in the postoffice for several
weeks. The boy
that it was from his mother, and he
opened it with trembling hands and
tried to read it. but he could not for
tears.
The rancher took the letter to read it |
to the boy. but soon folded it and
placed it under the pillow of the sick
| the side of his bed.
Weeks went by, and |
The man grew
|
instinctively knew \
looked out. He saw the figure of a wo-
man struggling along the dusty trail.
The distance then was too great for
him to recognize her. He watched as
she drew nearer. It seemed to him-
yes, it looked like—it was his mother:
He sprang from the gallery and ran
toward her, crying:
“Mamma! Mamma!”
The woman saw him and quickened
ber weary pace. She held out ber
arms, and he threw himself, sobbing.
into them. hiding his little dry. red
face against her bosom. The mother
wept.
In his joy at her coming the boy for-
got the piano. i
“Dad—he's sick. He's been mighty
sick, but he's better now, ‘cause he's
asleep.”
The woman released her son and ran. |
panting, to the house. When she reach- i
;
“WHAT A MISERABLE CREATURE 1 HAVE
BEEN!"
ed the door she stopped, electrified.
then fell upon her knees and leaned
her head against the piano.
“Oh, heavens! What a miserable
creature | bave been!”
She was crying and sobbing when
the boy came to her.
“Play some, mamima. Dad says you
' can make one of them talk—that I just
ought to hear you play. We can make
it sound, but we can’t make it play.
We got it on the anniversary. Dad
traded his best horse and some money
to hoot for it.”
The woman sobbed afresh. but she
longingly at the sleeping man; then she
played, with stiff and awkward fingers,
Her notes were
The man stirred, but did not open
his eyes. “Son.” be said, “1 have just
had the finest dream. I dreamed that
your mamma had come home to us and
that she was playing for us.”
“Sam, Sam!’ cried Grace, running
across the room and falling down by
She reached over
and gathered the man in her plump
| arms, while her tears fell upon his
| face.
| that was new to him—the face of
He looked up and saw a face
Grace, but purged from all discontent
! and filled with a look that hungered |
for the love of husband and son—hun-
gered to minister to them in those du-
ties wherein she had failed.
Sam reached up his hard hand and
stroked her head gently.
“Did yeu have a good time, honey?”
he asked in a weak though bappy
voice.
“Oh, Sam.” she cried. "It was SO
different from what it used to be. Eiv-
erything was so narrow and crowded;
and how I missed you and our boy! 1
almost died of homesickness. And—
and—you didn’t write. I thought you
all didn’t want me to come back, and
1 tried to stay away, and it nearly
broke my heart. At night i would go
out and look at the stars because I
knew they were shining over you two
and over our home 1 would wake in
the night thinking 1 heard the wind-
mill creak or the calves bawling be-
cause you were late in getting in to
milk, and, oh, I would cry and cry:
Tm never going to be cross with you
any more. I'm going to be different.
«When I couldn't stand it. any long-
er T got on the train, and it couldn't
coms fast enough. I had the conductor
put me off at the crossing because I
was afraid I would have to stay in the
town tonight. and 1 couldn’t stand the
thought of being away from you all
another night. So 1 walked” —
The man was crying, and the boy.
geeing him, began fo cry also.
“You walked from the crossing!” he
interrupted. “Why, sweetheart, it's
ten miles!”
nestled down close to him. It was all
right; he called her “sweetheart!”
The tired. happy woman nodded and
|
|
| like forty!
How Weather Makes Us Work
The ideal climate is said to be found |
in many parts of the world, but no
one knows exactly what it is. The
whole matter depends on our defini-
tion of “ideal.” If we are looking sim-
ply for rest and pleasure a warm and
sunny climate is probably the best.
If we want to go fishing something |
different is preferable.
sential fact in the lives of the major-
ity of mankind is work.
the climate which is best for work is
ideal from that point of view.
If we take efficiency in the daily
work of our life as our standard it is
possible to measure what people ac-
tally do under different climatic con-
ditions, and thus to form an estimate
of the bost kind of climate. From the
work cf ,about five hundred factory
operatives in southern Connecticut and
of about eighteen hundred students at
West Point and Annapolis I have pre-
pared curves showing the relative ef-
ficiency under different conditions of |
temperature, humidity and storminess.
These curves, based on investigations
among a large number of individuals,
| agree with similar curves prepared on
the basis of a smaller number of peo-
ple by two Danish psychologists—
Lehmann and Pedersen, in Copenha-
gen. The two sets of data show that
. the physical activity of the races of
western Europe is greatest when the
average temperature is about 60 de-
! grees—that is, on days when the ther-
mometer goes down to perhaps 50 or
55 degrees at night and rises to about
65 or 70 degrees by day. Mental ac-
tivity, on the other hand, is greatest
when the average is a little below 40
degrees—that is, on days which may
| have a frost at night.
Since life consists of both mental
| and physical activity, and each is es-
sential to success, the most favorable
| conditions would seem to be those
! where the temperature never falls far
below the most propitious point for
! mental work or rises above the opti-
| mum for physical work.
i words, if the mean temperature were i
| the only thing to be considered, the
best climate would be one where the ;
In other
Therefore !
The most es- |
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1 A crfect Remedy for Consfipa
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TFacSnile Signature of
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| EX months old
ER Alaa -35 CENTS
average in winter is about 40 and:
the average in summer about 60 de-
. grees. Only a few parts of the world
| are blessed with such conditions.
The most important of these, both
| in area and in population, is England. |
| Next comes the northern Pacific coast
of the United States, from Oregon to
| the southern part of British Columbia.
| Here,
unfortunately, the mountains
rise above the sea, and sO prevent the
| favorable conditions from penetrating
far inland. A third highly favored
area is found in New Zealand, espe-
cially the southern island. This, like
its two predecessors, is recognized as
one of the highly advanced parts of
the earth. The fourth and last of the
places where the mean temperature is
particularly favorable is not generally
so recognized. It lies in Patagonia
and the corresponding part of Chill
between latitudes 45° and 50° S. Few
people live here, and we are apt to
think of it as of relatively slight value.
Jt.differs from the other three regions
in having a deficient rainfall except in
the western part, which is extremely
mountainous.
From what has just been sald it
must not be inferred that the climates
of England, the northern Pacific coast
of the United States, New Zealand and
Patagonia are necessarily ideal. Mean
temperature is by no means the only
important condition. In the first place,
not only a deficiency of moisture, as
in a large part of Patagonia, but an ex-
cess, as in the mountains of southern
Chili or in Ireland, which otherwise is
almost as favored as England, may
hamper a country. Such conditions
produce not only an adverse economic
effect by making agriculture difficult,
but also a direct effect upon people’s
capacity for work. A moderate de-
gree of dampness—that is, a relative
humidity of from 65 per cent. in sum-
mer to 90 per cent. in winter—is favor-
able, but when the summers are wet
or the winters very dry people do not
work so well—Ellsworth Huntington,
in Harper's Magazine.
er
Abolishing Age
It is a momentous time, fraught
with—well, fraught with something or
other. The spirit of change is in the
air. Old things pass away, giving place
to the new. Father Time, fugiting in
his well known Marathon, is passing
a given point. He'll get by, of course,
put humanity makes a great to-do
whenever he passes this or that mile
post. The system of arbitrary meas-
urement seems to be necessary to
men, but it has probably slain more
perfectly good people than all wars
and famines and pestilences put to-
gether. Legions die of old age—by
the calendar.
«Three score and ten years I have
lived—goodness! And it doesn’t seem
But my time's up, and
I gotter to be be goin’ Good night—
be good to the children!” And we go
—just because we have the notion that
we are wound up for just seventy
years.
Whoso lives by the clock must die
by the clock. Out with your horologes,
your almanacs and calendars! And
this all leads up to a suggestion:
January 1st is the day of making
resolutions, presumably for the bene-
fit of the resolver and his friends.
Very well, then, let us all resolve to
quit having birthdays, to quit in any
way keeping tab on the flight of years.
The better half of our readers we
know, will welcome this suggestion,
and the chuckle-headed sex may follow
if the suggestion is formalized. Let
us then appoint a commission—a com-
mission to abolish age. Do we hear
a second?
Some people are always talking
about how square they are, and we
don’t notice any corners sticking out
of them at that.
—— pe
ad BCWMAN'S
IMAGIC SEAL, GOLDEN
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FOR SALE BY
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ORIA
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