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For Work.
BESSY
“I don’t see what my mother does,”
Said Bessy Anna’ Hyde,
‘‘l’m sure I do most all the work
There is to do inside.”
“Os course she bakes the bread and cake,
And washes out the clothes,
And then she sews for other folks.
Which every body knows.”
“But I wash every single dish,
And sweep the kitchen clean;
Yet no one thinks how hard I work—
And that seems awful mean.”
“Folks say: -Poor, patient Mrs. Hyde,
She works both day and night:’
Just look at what I have to do—>
It really isn’t right.”
“I’m sure if I could have my choice,
I’d quick take mother’s place;
’Twould just be fun to trim dress waists,
With ribbon, bows and lace.”
“I 'spect if I was dead and gone.
Her very first of wishes,
Would be, Oh my, for Bessy Ann,
To wash the dinner dishes.”
—Floy L. Sheldon.
For Woman’s Work.
JEFF.
BY VELMA CALDWELL MELVILLE.
His name was Jefferson Bidwell, but no
one called him anything but Jeff.
His father was a cowboy, belonging to
the ranch of one of the West’s great cattle
kings. His duty was—along with two
other men—to tend the cattle brought into
corral for the winter, and ride over the
country to see if the line riders were doing
' their duty. With Jeff and the other two,
he occupied a low, log building, known as
the ranch bouse. This house consisted of
one large square room and a rough board
“lean to” or shed.
The cattle-king who owned this ranch,
with several others in different localities,
was neither better nor worse than other
men of his class. He had thousands of
head of cattle, and counted his yearly
income by the tens of thousands of
dollars. His herds, in common with those
of other cattle-kings, reamed the ranges all
the long cold winter through, without food,
water or shelter, save what they could pro
cure for themselves—which was very little.
We have said this man was neither bet
ter nor worse than others of his class; but
perhaps he was better, for he had a son
studying theology at Princeton; and every
autumn, as soon as the winds began to
blow cold, he, with his dainty wife and
daughters, went East to spend the winter—
they could not endure the rigor of the
Western climate.
His family occupied a costly pew in one
of New York’s most fashionable churches,
read their prayers out of a gold-clasped
prayer book, and occasionally his name
headed a popular public subscription paper
with a princely sum.
Whether any vision of his starving,
freezing herds ever rose before him, to mar
the pleasing picture of his self-righteous
ness, we cannot say, but presume not—as
they were only dumb brutes : what did it
matter that they were as capable of suffer
ing as he, so long as they could not tell it?
They were his “stock in trade;” each
moan of agony had turned to the clink of
gold e’re it reached his pocket; each mute
appeal in their dying eyes, had changed to
the glitter of a diamond, e’re it gleamed on
his daughter’s white arms—aye, surely
what mattered it ?
But to return to Jeff.
His father had not always been a cow
boy. When the lad was six years old,
the family moved from the East, and “took
up a claim ”in Montana. His mother was
a delicate, refined woman, wholly unlike
her husband, and the little boy was like her.
Two years of hardships, privations and
neglect, followed, and then at the close of
the second severe winter, she meekly folded
her tired hands and gave up the unequal
struggle; not however until she had made
the boy promise to try to be good and
meet her in Heaven.
“ I ,know you will have
it hard, Jeftie,” she had
whispered tenderly, “but
I have prayed God not to
let you grow up to be a
wicked man.”
After that, the father gave
up trying to hold the
“ claim,” and, one chilly
spring morning, packed the
boy and their few belong
ings into a crazy old wagon,
drawn by two equally unre
liable looking horses, and set
out—he knew not whither.
One longing look Jeff cast
back at the lonely brown
mound where his mother lay
—then, creeping down into
the bottom of the wagon, he
gave himself up to his grief.
Three years later, we
find the father in the
the service of the cattle-king, as chief
herdsman or cow-boy, of the ranch. They
are far removed from the “ lonely mound ”
now, but the boy has not forgotten it.
Poor little Jeff had not a very pleasant
life among the rough herdsmen—whom no
amount of newspaper eulogizing can make
fit companions for children and refined
natures.
Our little hero had never even heard of
Boston, or the society with the long name,
(S. P. C. A.,) but no truer love for the
dumb creatures which God has made,
burned in the soul of the immortal Henry
Bergh, than did in this untutored boy’s
breast.
He knew of nothing of the word humane,
or its meaning, but he was loving towards
all the animals on the ranch—he was their
one earthly friend.
“ When I get big I'll have a ranch and
cattle,” he would sometimes say, adding
indignantly, “ but I won’t let ’em starve
and freeze, while I’m off on a bum.”
Then the men would laugh and call him
names, but he did not mind, as he was used
to it.
No wonder that he dreaded the approach
of winter, filled as that season was, and is,
with gross neglect and abuse of the helpless
cattle by the cowboys; and no wonder
that he grew faint and sick when, in the
spring-time, he saw the range strewn with
carcasses —mute reminders of the slow, ter
rible tragedies enacted there all the dread
ful months through.
Winter set in early, the year of which
we write. The cattle-ldng and his family
hastened to bring out their costly furs,
close up their splendid residence, and
betake themselves to a milder clime. This
man had paid a visit to the home ranch
the last thing, giving Jeff’s father, and the
others, strict orders to keep the cattle on
the range and see that the line riders did
their duty.
“Keep the herds moving; I cannot
afford heavy losses this season,” was his
parting injunction ; and Jeff, looking after
him as he rode away, muttered: “ Yes.
thats all ye care; ye wouldn’t turn round
’ter save the lot from starv’n, only fer yer
own money pouch. Wonder how ye’d like
ter be turned out on the range now, ter
pick yer liven under two feet o’ snow, till
warm weather again. I ain’t sure but I
wish yer had ter.”
At the home ranch, they brought in
about one hundred—or perhaps more—
head of cattle, intending to feed them the
wild hay they had put up, until it was
gone; then of course, they would have to
shift for themselves, as the thousands
beside must do from the first. “ It’s a
goin’ ter be a tough winter,” one of the
cowboys had said, “ ’nd we may ez well
keep up these choice uns fer a while,” and
so they did.
The horses were all turned loose, to live
as best they might, excepting the half
dozen broncos, needed by the men for rid
ing over the range.
By Christmas, the hay intended for the
cattle was almost gone, and Jeff heard his
father say, “ They’l soon have ter rustle for
themselves.”
A great blizzard came on, raging, with
relentless fury, for three days before New
Years; then the sun came out and the
mercury dropped to 40° below zero.
All this time the poor animals, in their
corral, had tasted nothing but snow, and
their piteous bellowing, and cries, fell on
indifferent ears—save Jeff’s.
The men had procured some liquor, just
before the storm began, and with this and
a greasy pack of cards, they beguiled the
time, excepting when asleep.
When the sun came out, Jeff, from the
top panes of the window, could catch
glimpses of the suffering, writhing mass,
showing dark against the whiteness every
where, despite their ice covered backs.
How he pitied them I
Before noon, the men were all stretched
out on their hard straw pallets, in drunken
slumber, for they had “treated” themselves
extra, it being New Year’s day.
Po >r Jeff, watching, with tear dimmed
eyes, from the window, turned suddenly
and surveyed the sleepers.
“ They’re dun fer fer three good hours,”
he muttered at last, “ and f any un does it
I must."
Then he piled logs on the fire, buttoned
his dirty jacket about him, tied on the bit
of an old blanket that served him for com
forter, took up his ragged mittens and
passed quietly into the shed. This place
was used chiefly for storing fuel. Near
thereof was an opening, used in summer for
a window, but in winter it was boarded up.
Leaving the middle door ajar, to admit
some light, Jeff hunted about until he found
a shovel, an axe and a pair of snow shoes.
Then he paused, looking doubtfully at the
boarded up window.
“ I can’t git out of the door, nor tother
windows,” he muttered, “so I’ve got ter go
through there.”
The house was banked with snow, nearly
to the top of an ordinary window, so in
order to get a start on the snow shoes, he
must get out above the snow ; but he had
to he careful, for if one of the men should
wake, his scheme would be thwarted.
After two or three ineffectual efforts he
succeeded in climbing up on the wood, and
gained sufficient footing to enable him to
pry and pul at the boards. One, to his
relief, yielded at last, making an opening
sufficient for his slight form.
►Securing the shoes, shovel and he
pushed them through the aperture, drag
ging himself after.
The next feat to be achieved, was to
keep a position there while he strapped on
the snow shoes, and this was no small un
dertaking, considering the temperature;
but Jeff was a plucky little fellow, used to
hardships, and success finally crowned his
efforts.
The snow was banked to within a foot
of the opening, so he had only to step off—
when once he had the shoes on.
Os course he floundered a little at first,
but was soon skimming over the glittering
crust, carrying the tools with him.
On he went, the piteous cries of the
starving herd acting as a stimulus, and in
his anxiety to reach and help them, he
forgot the hardships ahead.
At last he reached the shed containing
the horses. Poor creatures; their neigh
ings had been drowned by the storm and
the multitude of voices w’itbout.
The boarded side of the shed had, in a
measure, protected them from the iury of
the blast, but they had gnawed the poles
of their manger almost off.
There was hay for them in a rick just
back of the boards, and Jeff chopped away
manfully until he had cut two of them
away ; then, with higjshovel. he succeeded,
after prolonged effort, in making a narrow
path to the hay ; and carried it in arms
full, to the trembling beasts.
As soon as their wants were in a measure
supplied, he turned his attention to the
cattle in the corral; theirs seemed a hope
less case, with only his one pair of puny
arms and benumbed hands between them
and a terrible death. There was but one
way, and that was to chop out a portion of
the corral fence; giving them a chance—
if they were strong enough to use it—to
get to the hay ricks.
He was getting so cold I But he must
make the effort; chopping and shoveling
■would warm him—so bravely he went at it.
By the aid of the snow shoes, he reached
the enclosure, and then set to work shovel
ing awhile and then using the axe.
He worked quite fast at first; then his
arms ached so 1 His strokes became slower,
and finally it seemed he must sit down and
rest. But there were those poor brutes—
he must push on. A few more strokes;
then his arms refused to move and his
hands unclasped from the axe-handle.
Twice he essayed to pick it up, then—
then—
* » -» » :>s »
“ He’s a goner! ”
It was one of the cowboys who spoke,
taking the stiff little form in his arms.
“ And he was tryen to let the brutes out,
just as we orter done,” said the other.
“Guess this ’ll sober the old man off.
Shan't I tote him a spell? Poor little
Jeff!”
The rough fellow rubbed his mitten
across his face, then turning suddenly, said :
“ If yer thinks ye kin manage him, mebby
I better finish his job—just to please him.”
“Go ahead,” was the terse rejoinder, as
the first speaker, carrying the boy out in
front of him, in order to keep his balance,
skimmed along toward the house. He
had been awakened by a draught ol cold
air coming in from the shed, and as soon as
he missed Jeff, and saw the opening, he
understood.
Hurriedly he awakened his companion—
not deff’s father—and together they went
outfthe same way as the boy had gone, in
search of him.
“ Here, you old brute, wake up,” cried
Bill, roughly shaking Jeff’s father, who
was, by far, the worst intoxicated of the
three.
A growl was the only answer. One or
tv?o more efforts he made, then gave up,
and turned his attention to the boy.
Vainly he warmed and rubbed the body;
vainly he tried to force a drop of warm
spirits down his throat.
“No use; ’tis just as I sed; he’s a
goner 1 Poor little Jeff; 'nd he was sech a
good boy ! I’m allfired sorry I ever poked
lun at him; ’nd ter think we wuz all
drunk, ’nd he out doin’ our work 1 ”
“’Taint no use Jake,” he said, a while
later, when the other came in, “he died fer
his principles; he b’leved in bein’ kind ter
the creeters, ez he sed, ez could n’t talk
fer ’emselves.”
“Ole Bill ’nd us killed him the
same ez ”
“ I know it.”
Together, they made another effort at
restoration, but in vain; and when the
drunken creature on the floor became con
scious, and essaying to rise, called thickly 7
for a “drink,” Bill’s scared, white face
bent over him, and Bill pointed, without a
word, to the rigid form in the dirty 7 jacket,
stretched out on a wooden bench. There
was a woolen blanket under him, but they
bad purposely left him uncovered, to meet
his father’s gaze. With something between
an oath and a groan, the man sat up and
stared.
“ You helped, ye miserable critter,” mat
tered Jake, as if glad to have some one to
lay it on.
Then Bill briefly told the now thoroughly 7
sobered man, the story; causing the latter
to sink back on his pahet, and cover his
face with his hands.
To their credit be it said, they spent a
sober night, and in the morning they re
moved a hay rick, and dug him a shallow
grave over which the wretched father shed
a few tears.
“ Poor little Jeff! ” muttered Bill again,
as he shoveled in the frozen clods.
“ Pity he could n’t a lived ! ”
We do not agree with him. The dying
mother had prayed that her boy might not
grow up a wicked man, and now he was
out of danger—had died a hero, too.
Some day, that liitle ragged cowboy will
stand once more, face to face, with the
pompous cattle-king—someday !
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► m'-d n, MasyandbeatSPOß
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