PAGE TWO
(Continued from Page 1) ¢
Congregational ministry at a Bir-
mingham college, brought home with
him a young Welsh theological stu-
dent hailing from a remote farm-
house in Pembrokeshire. They fell
in love, and when, soon after, Edwin
Simon got his first charge in the
Hulme district of Manchester, they
were married in the little chapel at
Rubery, near to her Worcestershire
home.
To the end of her days she used
to dwell, with the flush of a bride
still on her cheek; on the ‘details of
this village wedding. She had been
teaching a-class of small children,
and, unknown to her, her pupils ar-
ranged to strew Spring flowers in
her path. It was-her husband’s birth-
day, and she chose the day because
she considered that the anniversary
had never been properly honored
down in Wales.
There are many happy marriages,
thank goodness, and this union of
nearly fifty years was certainly one
of them. The young couple were
both of them country-born and
country-bred, and there is not much
rus in urbe in Hulme. But they en-
tered on their task with zest and
incomparable devotion. It was be-
fore the days of organized clubs for
working boys or mill girls, but they
gathered round them all sorts and
conditions of young people—clerks
in the Manchester warehouses, who
had often themselves come from a
country home, apprentices to. dress-
making, servant girls, no less than
the daughters of neighbors, and
gave them a glimpse of the life beau-
tiful which some still living will al-
ways treasure.
She knew her English literature,
and there was high debate on Car-
lyle and Emerson. It was character-
istic of her insight that she firmly
rejected the view, derived from
Froude’s account and once so widely
accepted, that Jane Welsh must
have been unhappily married; and
when she visited, years afterward,
the gaunt and lonely house on Crai-
genputtock Moor where “Sartor Res-
artus”’ was written, she filled the
empty rooms with her vision of the
high companionship of man and
wife.
She had no singing voice, but she
read aloud exquisitely from the
poets—the early Tennyson and Jean
Ingelow best of all. Any one who
heard her tone as it passed through
the gamut of “Songs of Seven’’ or
dwelt, in a kind of musing restro-
spent, on the concluding stanzas of
“The High Tide,” will not easily
forget the experience. Yet her de-
light in beautiful things did not
make her impatient of daily house-
hold tasks. She would quote George
Herbert:
Who sweeps a room as for Thy
laws
~ Makes that and th’ action fine.
She kept up a round of district
visiting in a Manchester slum for
years, gaily making friends—but
never distributing tracts. She was
incapable .of the pose of a Lady
Bountiful bestowing gifts on the |
needy, and the garments that her
busy fingers were always making—
for she was a most practical and
accomplished needle-woman, usu-
ally reading aloud to a family circle
as she sewed—always seemed to be
given away to a friend, to a real
people could be so delightful and
friend, whose home troubles she
. shared and whose children she knew
by name. At the little house in Moss
Side there was never a Sunday eve-
ning when some lonely young man
did not find himself invited to sup-
per. And to one small boy she made
the home in that grimly suburb a
palace of enchantment. It seemed
so easy to be good when good
people could be so delightful and
amusing.
After twelve years of the rigors of
the North Country her health could
stand it no longer, and there follow-
ed twenty years more in the milder
climate of Bath. She filled to per-
fection the difficult role of “the min-
ister’s wife” with the endless round
of visiting and condoling, with sew-
ing parties and missionary teas. And
the wonderful thing was that, not-
withstanding her fine sense of val-
ues and her sensitive judgment, no
one ever left her presence without
feeling the better for. her bright
smile and vivid sympathy.
She had her own way with bores:
“If I don’t like what he is saying,”
she declared about a prosy preacher,
“l can always plant out my
thoughts.” Her praise was worth
having, for she only gave it when
she meant it. She once considerably
astonished an earnest band of
church workers by declaring how she
detested bazaars as a means of rais-
ing money.
In 1902 her husband gave up his
regular work as a Congregational
pastor, and then began the happiest
of all the periods in her long life.
Once again she lived in the coun-
try, first near Mells in Somerset,
and afterward near Broadway. There
were grandchildren to take care of,
grandchildren who had lost their
mother. And while her husband was
enjoying his fish-ponds and his golf
she lived with him through an In-
dian Summer of serenity which last-
ed for eighteen years more.
They 'had always longed to travel,
and now they did so. The first sight
of Swiss snow, the distant outline of
the Rockies—she never lost her
girlish ecstasy over each fresh ex-
perience. New friends as well as old
gathered round, and increasing age
made no difference to the bright
flame of interest and sympathy
which was reflected in her beautiful
A SON'S DEEP TRIBUTE TO HIS VENERABLE
THE POST, FR§DAY, MAY 8, 1941
MOTHER
face. :
Then, after her husband died in
1920, came the last phase, spent un-
der the roof of a devoted daughter
at Manorbier, which Giraldus Cam-
brensis (who was born in the Nor-
man castle there) declared to be the
“most delightful spot in Wales.” She
was fond of comparing the place
with the description in Matthew Ar-
nold’s “Forsaken Merman”’—and,
indeed, the description nearly fits.
After middle age she always wore
over her silvered hair a cap of spe-
cial design—the Coiffe de Rosporden
—which she had picked out as being
the most becoming head-dress dur-
ing a happy Summer spent in Brit-
tany. Gerald Kelly has reproduced it
in two splendid portraits of her, and
in each you can see her dignity’ of
poise and ‘that still look of hers”
which all who met her will recog-
nize.
Perhaps it is a mistake for a son,
when burying his mother, to wear
his heart upon his sleeve. Certain it
is that all who had the fortune to
know her well felt that her friend-
ship was a perpetual benison, and
no description can convey to strang-
ers the flawless impression of full-
ness of life and sweetness of spirit
that she spread around her. In these
latest years of peaceful old age she
spoke seldom of her husband, but
he was always in her thoughts. She
was not one to make a mope of sor-
row; the beauty of holiness mingled
easily with her sense of fun. “I al-
ways told your father,” she said,
“that I must be buried with my wed-
ding ring on my finger; otherwise I
might be tempted to flirt with the
Archangel Gabriel.” When she was
laid by his side in the beautiful
churchyard at Cheriton, she had her
wish.
The days that follow the close of
such a life bring many messages
from those who knew her well, and
even from some who once caught a
glimpse of her and always retained |
the impression. Sympathizing friends |
often hesitate to write, wondering
if silence is not best. But letters
such as these do not only bring
consolation; they fill in the line of
a character, and they show that the
picture is not overdrawn, or merely
charged with emotional feeling.
“I only saw her once,” writes one.
“It was during the war, just before
I went with my division to France.
A preacher had been ‘strafing’ the
Germans in unmeasured terms and
I had caught the tone. I shall al-
ways keep in mind what she said to
me.” Here is another: “You made
a fine election speech that night,
but I have forgotten it all; what I
remember so well is your mother’s
face as she sat on the platform.”
It was often-se, though she was
entirely unconscious of the effect
she was making, and was incapable
of striving for it. She was a Puritan
of the old school, and it was only
in later life that she sometimes went
to the theatre. On these rare visits
to the play her enjoyment was that
of an absorbed and delighted child.
Sitting with her in the stage box to
see the revival of “The Professor’s
Love Story,” I was handed a note
at the end of the second act from
Harry Irving. It ran: “Who is the
old lady you have brought with you
who is making Henrietta Watson
forget her lines?” At the end of the
evening they invited her behind the
curtain and treated her like a queen.
In the war years the outside staff
at Upton Wold was reduced to one
boy, temporiarily employed in*the
garden. He has not seen her for
twenty years, and he is a man now,
and has moved to a different part
of the country; but he writes: “I
have met many fine people since
those days, but your father and
mother stand out in my memory
as gentle, good and just. They could
be firm, but not mean. What a hap-
py country England would be if]
employers and employes could only
work together as was possible with
them.”
There was sternness in her, for she
was much too strong a character not
to speak plainly of cruelty and
wrong, but her power of rebuke lay
far more in letting you know. that
she was grieved than in any de-
Oh tine sh touched th cloud Thot kissed
Brown pastures bleak ond for; —
I leaned my cheek mlo amist
tnd thought 1 was a star.
Wl this was very long ago
And 1 am grown ; but yet
The houd that lured my slumber so
L never can forget
~ SONGS FOR MY MOTHER
Anno Hempstzid Branch
EE AY
lovingly in her
good you have
her gratitude for a service was like | chen vegetables. Her husband, who
the bestowal of a rich reward. To! believed in making a practical use of
the kind soul who tended her so|much of the ground, found one
last illness and dis. [morning that she had been out as
charged for her the intimate duties | soon as it was light in order to ap-
of the sick room she whispered: | propriate a coveted corner, and had
“When I go to heaven (and I hope | nailed up on the trunk of an ad-| fault, but the poor thing didn’t
I may), I shall. run straight to the | joining pear tree the text, with Bible | know the difference between the |her hand again. She paused and said pletely from her mind, for with her
Throne of God and tell Him how | reference all complete: “Cursed be| weeds and the plants!’
been to me and ask | he whe removeth his neighbor's
| landmark.”
trowel, remained her joy to the
very end. She explained the short- |
comings of an unsuccessful candi-
date for the post of personal com-
panion by saying, with a delicious
twinkle: “You see, it was not her
Ee remo ee a,
so quiet and peaceful, so old and
yet in heart so young, so trustful.
The little children say ‘we love to
play with her because she loves to
play; she doesn’t only play because
we like it>—and the little children
are right. She does love to play and
is so joyous and cheery. So much
sorrow has she known, but there
is always room for another’s sor-
row, always time to listen to an-
other’s troubles and to give a help-
ing word. °
“Now her life is calm and easy,
but I doubt if she is happier than
when it was crowded and difficult.
Those hands have known hard work
and they worked willingly and
cheerfully for those she loved. She
is so frail that one is fearful that a
breath would cause that white can-
dle to flicker out. It will go out one
day, but so softly and gently that
we shall not realize that it is going
until we feel the dark.”
What was the secret of the im-
pression which she made on so
many, even on those who saw her
but once and yet could not forget
the meeting ? Her personality shone
through every word and glance, but
it was the sense she instantly gave
you that what she felt and said was
the just expression of her calm,
brave, sensitive spirit which gripped
the heart. She did not need to in-
sist, or repeat, or underline; her
strength lay in her quietness; if she
had praise to give, one thrilling
smile expressed it all; if she had to
chide, she never nagged.
Nearly sixty years ago we were
walking, mother and child, hand in
hand, down the street which led to
our Manchester home. A group of
small boys of about my own age,
strolling along in manly independ-
ence, passed us on the pavement,
and a glance from one of them
prompted me to withdraw my fin-
gers. I hoped she had not; noticed
the cowardly action and was relieved
that she said nothing about it as we
walked on.
Clark D. Bishop
Buried At Noxen
Former Director Had
43 Great-Grandchildren
The funeral of Clark D. Bishop, 79,
who died Sunday morning following
an illness of complications, was
held Wednesday afternoon from the
late home in Noxen with services
in charge of Rev. E. M Greenfield
of Hawley, a former pastor of the
Noxen church.
Mr. Bishop was born in Rush,
Susquehanna county, the son of
the late John and Matilda Gibbs
Bishop. While still a young man
he engaged in the lumber business
in Wyoming County with his father.
The great part of his life was spent
in Noxen where he was carpenter-
foreman for the J, K. Mosser Tan-
ning Company for more than 34
years.
He served as school director in
Noxen Township for a number of
years and was at one time constable.
His wife preceded him in death
some years ago, and his daughter,
Mrs. John McKenna, a teacher in
the Noxen schools, died about five
years ago.
Surviving are the following chil-
dren: Mrs. Thomas Patton, Noxen;
Mrs. Burton Waltman, Mrs. F. B.
Anderson, Long Island, N, Y.; Miss
Angie Bishop, Wilkes-Barre, and
Voyle Bishop, Johnson City, N. Y.;
30 grandchildren and 43 great-
grandchildren.
Interment was in the family plot
at Orcutt’s Grove cemetery.
nothing till my disloyalty sought to
make amends. She never referred to
the incident again; I am sure that
within an hour it had passed com-
As we turned in at our gate I took
to forgive was indeed to forget. But
ver ently: “My little boy, i
Y genty y Yo MEVEr| Lith her remorseful 6-year-old the
Him to reward you openly!”
One of her lifelong passions was,
mere pleasure of directing and en- |
joying the result (which some one |
has described as the satisfaction of |
being ‘“‘gardened to”), but a keen |
delight in carrying out her own plan |
with her own hands and “making |
things grow.”
She taught her children, and many ,
other children, too, everything she |
could about English wild flowers,
and for many years used to ex-|
change letters with one of her bro- |
thers whenever either of them came
across an unusual species. Her copy
of “Flowers of the Field” still holds
within its leaves some treasured spe-
cimens,
One who fifty years ago was start-
ing his business life amid the bricks
and mortar of Manchester recalls
today how she showed him a sun- |
dew she had found in a Derbyshire
ramble, and how her enthusiasm
fired him to search for a similar
plant till he found one on the moors
above Glossop and proudly carried
to her his prize.
This longing to bring some share
of country joys to young people |
whose work tied them to the city
was always urging her on. For years
her husband and she organized and
carried through a May-Day festival
in the ugly school rooms attached to
the Manchester chapel. Hampers of
flowers and of moss were sent up
from her Worcestershire home to
deck out the building, and there
were competitions to encourage
writers of verse and prose, and a!
meeting to celebrate the annual mir- |
acle of returning Spring.
The hour of festival was 6 o’clock
in the morning; for when it was
over, Manchester work people had
to be at business betimes. I well re-=
member hurrying down with her in|
the dawn for the final preparations; |
the “knocker-up,” with his long pole, |
was still going his rounds along the !
empty streets.
Our garden at Bath was only a
small one, and she grudged the
nunciation, and the bright smile of
space that was taken up with kit-
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CHARLES
Your Massey-Harris Dealer
SWEET VALLEY, PA.
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H. LONG
Here is a sketch of her written
a few years ago: “An aged face,
Gardening tasks with stool and | beautiful and tender, waxen white,
devotion to her garden—not the | basket, with gloves and clippers and | and lined with sorrow and care, but
*$2.75 a month.
be ashamed to hold my hand. A son
is never too old to hold his mother’s
hand.”
memory endured. It came back for
the last time with that handclasp
that means so much when the dy-
It was so like her to have said ing can speak no more.
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practically every home can afford it.
The rate for electric water heating has been ‘i
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2.43
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