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For Woman’s Work.
Asleep in the Park.
I
S THE morning foul or fair, Little Comrade? If the sun shines
lead me out into the light. lam so tired, and the night has been
so long! Let us go to the park. Though I cannot see the beauty of
the roses blooming there, I can catch their sweet fragrance on the
balmy air.”
‘‘But, Grandpa”—she had called him that since the day he had
found her in the street —‘‘it ain’t mornin’, it’s evenin’, an’ the sun’s
gone away. Did you think ’cause I’ve been sleepin’ so long ’tis
night?” and the child looked up with a sudden ripple of laughter.
But ‘‘Little Comrade” loved the old blind, deaf man with all a child’s
passionate nature, and a sudden flood of pity filled the warm, impul
sive little heart, beating beneath the faded, cotton frock, and, nestling
closer to the bent figure, she took up the cold, listless hand, and led
him carefully, tenderly down the attic stairs and out into the sweet,
dim twilight.
It was a pretty picture, but strikingly pathetic. She was such a
wee bit of a lassie and he so old and bent! And, too, she was a wonder
fully beautiful creature: slender and dark, with tangled curls as black
as night, a small, red, laughing mouth, and wide, asking eyes, the
color of a chestnut burr. No one seemed to notice them as they
trudged slowly along, and ‘‘Little Comrade” chattered almost
ceaselessly.
At the corner of the block they suddenly came face to face with
a dozen or more boys and girls—operatives of the big cotton mill.
Drawing the old man aside, the child pressed close against the
palings, her little grimy palm held out to the passersby. Some of
them pushed roughly against the two silent figures, with rude cries of
‘‘Clear the street, you beggars!” but one pale-faced girl paused to
drop a shining penny into the small, outstretched hand. Several
others followed her example, till, when they had all passed on, the
tiny fingers were over-full. How she laughed-this happy, careless
waif —as she tip-toed up to tell ‘‘Grandpa” of their good fortune! And
when, a few moments later, she led the old man out of a bakery—one
small, pretty arm clasped tightly around a huge, brown loaf of fresh
bread —a happier child than she could not have been found beneath
the sun.
She knew what it meant to hunger and suffer. She was merely a
waif —a child of the slums’ —when the old man first stumbled across
her in his blinded way; but now she was his sole comfort —the one
gleam of sunlight that warmed the drear, grey winter of life. He
was thinking of this as they wandered on, and he listened with re
newed interest to —not the senseless babble of her words, but the
sweet melody of her childish voice, that rippled with all the music of
a mountain brook.
He remembered, too, how she, a ragged, barefoot atom of hu
manity, had saved him from being crushed by the ruthless wheels of
a trolley car. That was how they had found each other. One day,
long, long before, he had wandered out into the street, and was aim
lessly walking on, when, all in a trice, he had felt himself pushed
quickly backward —so that he almost fell—and had heard a child’s
voice warning him of some unknown danger. But when she had led
him away and told him all, how he was just stepping upon the car
line, and how a rapidly approaching car was almost upon him, he had
blessed her and called her ‘‘Little Comrade.” She smiled and said
she liked the name, and to her he bad ever been ‘‘Grandpa.” From
that day she had been his brave little guide, friend and protector.
Reaching the park, they sat down on the soft, new grass to rest
and eat their supper —a supper which ‘‘Little Comrade” declared was
fit for a king.
‘‘l cannot eat now, dearie,” the old man declared; ‘‘perhaps I
shall do so when I get back to the attic. I am too tired now —too
tired!” and he rubbed his poor old wrinkled hand across the blinded
eyes, in a strange, dazed way. He did not tell the child of the sud
den, cutting pain that was throbbing his brow, and he could not ex
plain to her the dull, leaden chill of numbness that was stiffening his
limbs. A peaceful, far-away look settled over his features, and his
tired, hoary head drooped to his breast.
‘‘Little Comrade” ran from flower to flower, glad as the butterflies
of spring, and kept calling out something about the blossoms.
‘‘’Tis growing too dark to see them now, Grandpa; the red roses
are black, and I don’t love these white ones, like the people put on
coffins. Let us go home.”
No answer came, and the child crept back and nestled close be
side the motionless figure on the grass. One small arm stole around
the old man’s neck, and she fell asleep with her dark, curly head
against his shoulder. Beautiful dreams came to her—dreams of a
lovely home, where peace and plenty reigned, and where she and
Grandpa roved over sun-kissed hills, and daisy-flecked dells. Oh,
’twas a wonderful, wonderful home! And when she awoke, Grandpa
had gone from her forever —gone to share even a more beautiful home
than the one she had seen in her dreams.
Leila Mas Wilson.
WOMAN’S WORK.
For Woman’s Work.
PEN
s
in her physical make-up; I fear
none in her mental She had
many strong likes and disliaßpMO “half
way house” for her.
There were those, in her large circle of
acquaintances, for whom she cared noth
ing at all. But those directly in her path
way she either loved or disliked.
She was very positive in her views—a
little too positive. She must have been
born under a contrary star, for contrari
ness was second nature to her. She
thoroughly enjoyed an argument, but
hated to acknowledge defeat. She often
struck a false note in her speech, and it
jarred on no one so much as on herself:
but she had a certain kind of pride that
compelled her to take no notice. She was
often sad; but as this made her look mad,
she tried to look as cheerful as possible.
And so, those who could not run and
read, too, thought she was but a surface
bubble. They did not know that she
buried her troubles deep down in her
heart, and that years after others had
forgotten them, they came to her during
long, lonely hours, their faces wet with
tears.
She loved books passionately. They
were dear friends that never changed.
Winds of adversity never frightened them
away—only brought them closer. She
was a loyal friend through good and bad
repute.
• * * ♦ •
He was little, and old, and bent, and
gray; and to look at him, you would say
he had seen the blue summer skies and
felt the white snows of a hundred years.
The more you thought about it, the firmer
you became in this belief, until, at last,
you would decide he might have been old
when George Washington was young. If
you would ask those around, they would
shake their heads and answer: “He was
here when I came.”
; He dearly loved his sip of toddy. But
. best of all did he love to sit on a cracker
I barrel or goods box and talk of the good
old times, and of the weather, and gos
: si pl Oh, ye evil spirits, a male gossip!
i What can there be worse than this?
t Gossip he rolled as a sweet morsel under
his tongue. It was a little town where he
lived; boasted two dozen houses, “skule
l house,” “meetin’house,” grocery store (the
5 inevitable corner grocery!), and a millinery
shop, with a postoffice in one corner of
- the room. This millinery shop was owned
i by an old maid of forty, his niece, who
- run it, the postoffice, and the affairs of the
> people for miles around. She and our lit
r tie old man lived back of the shop in two
1 little rooms.
Twice each day, after the mail had been
_ brought in and distributed, would our lit
, tie old man perch himself on a stool, draw
1 his knees up till his chin rested on them,
, clasping the aforesaid knees with his
- arms (looking for all the world like an old
| goblin) while “Hanner” read him the
, neighborhood news. He would greet it
’ with sundry chuckles and “Wall! wall!
1 Hanner.” “He! he!” “So Sam Smith got
-a postal kerd to-day.” “Du tell.”—And
1 how he did admire the flourishes and
, adeptness with which “Hanner” would
manipulate the aforesaid “postal kerd”
1 when Sam Smith would walk in and in
quire, “Enny mail fur me ter-day?”
Shiloh Payne Langford.
Cfl fl F'PußouN A!y!B§ee9 S £a! Sro w IM. 9£t’ kS I™S®
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“ HE WAS tall, angular.
) She had no soft r dimples
For Woman’s Work.
A SKETCH.
IMOGENE E. JOHNSON.
DAY in August, a California
day. There has been no rain for
A
months; the ground is covered with the
herbage dried by the sun, and bleached to
a pale, golden hue. There having been no
rain for so long, the earth is perfectly dry
and affords a healthful couch covered by
the soft covering of seared leaves and
grasses. On the south side of the house
there is a place where the ground is slight
ly sloping, with a couple of pine trees to
give shade, and a cypress hedge which
forms a screen.
There, lying flat on his back, a man
enjoys the comfort of his position on the
yielding mat of dried grass beneath him;
enjoys the warm, still air, and inhales the
fragrance of flowers, mingled with the
indescribable odors given out by the gold
en covering of the earth, and the spicy
breaths of cypress and pine that come in
whiffs with every movement of the air.
Lying thus, with the pine tree’s shade
about him, and the sky, which shows no
speck of cloud in all its great, blue bright
ness above him, with dreamy, half closed
eyes, he gazes upward at the tree-tops,
at the feathery plumes of the pines, at the
flne-cut foliage of a giant live oak stand
ing near. Then he looks far over to the
west and sees the mountains, with long,
brown slopes where the trees have been
cut away, and dark green where they still
stand, with deep, dark canyons cleft be
tween.
Toward the house is a big tree, and the
hot sun brings out the pungent odor of its
leaves; there is also perceptible a smell of
honeysuckle and of petunias.
Turning on his side, and resting his
head on his arm, the man watches a pair
of caged birds bathing in a dish of water;
little tame things they are, who dip, and
spatter, and splash, then sit on the side of
the dish and fluff up their feathers, shake
off the drops of water, then splash into the
dish again. A blue jay flies screeching
into the great oak; a humming bird flits
about the honeysuckle, and the bees are
droning all among the flowers.
Presently the man turns on his back
once more, and looking into the sky, sees
a great eagle slowly circling round and
round; circling, rising a little higher at
each revolution, and with each cycle
moving farther westward, farther south
ward; screaming, circling, he rises higher
and yet higher, with each turn growing
smaller in appearance; soaring up and up,
farther and still farther, until when grown
a mere speck he disappears behind the oak:
strangely enough, at the exact place in
the oak behind which the eagle disappear
ed, appears a tiny humming bird hover
ing for a moment, then settling on a twig
he tweets, and buzzes, and hums his curi
ous attempt at a song.
The man pulls bis hat over his eyes and
sleeps. The shadows lengthen, the sweet
scents fill the air, and no near sounds
break the silence save those of the birds
and bees, and now and then a soft sighing
in the pines as evening approaches.
Free to all Women.
I have learned of a very simple home
treatment which will readily cure all fe
male disorders It is nature’s own reme
dy and I will gladly send it free to every
suffering woman. Address, Mabel E.
Rush, Joliet, 111.
MAY, 1898.