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For Woman’s Work.
If a wandering thought in your bosom is wrought,
That makes you remember your sweetheart’s too short,
Or, when lovely smiles on her features abide,
You discover with grief the loved one’s cross-eyed;
In short, if you fancy one moment that Earth
Could to such another fair image give birth,
You never have loved her; such thoughts only prove
You know very little, or nothing, ot Love.
If you suddenly meet her alone in a room,
And feel no great earthquake, or are not struck dumb;
If she tries to regale you with well seasoned jest,
And you answer her sanely, when you are addressed;
In short, if you act as you usually do
To other young lady acquaintances, you
May set this truth down, without the least doubt,
You never have loved, and you’ll soon find it out.
If you notice she has a slight limp in her walk,
Or find the free use of your tongue when you talk;
If a thought of the price of ice cream by the quart,
Or the pounds of pound cake and candies you ve bought
Ever enters your brain; if you cannot forget
The piles of confections that bring you in debt,
Be careful, commit not yourself, tor ’tis plain
You are not in love; try your fortune again.
If invited to go to some grand Christmas fete,
You feel a desire your stomach to treat;
If told to dissect the old gobbler—dread feat—
And you cut not your finger instead of the meat;
Then abashed, if you send not the whole gobbler—slap!
With its rich, oily substance right into her lap,
Why, then, all your courting is mere white-wash stuff—
You know not the preface of Love, sure enough.
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For Woman’s Work.
Hiram Berridge’s Martha.
MA, I’M GOING to college,” said
pretty Martha Berridge, as she
stooo looking out the kitchen door.
“Well, afore you start, s’posin* you pare
that basket of apples an’ put ’em out to
dry,” was the tart reply of Mrs. Hiram
Berridge to her seventeen year old daugh
ter.
Martha was used to her mother’s blunt
•ways and did not mind, so, with a good
natured “All right, Masey, dear,” went
cheerfully to work on the apples while her
mother busied herself with the Saturday’s
baking, remarking the while: “It do
seem strange some people never gits time
to rest.” The Berridges, like many other
farmers, were in comfortable circum
stances but averse to spending money
“useless” as Mrs. Berridge said, and like
many women of her clsss, she scorned to
hire extra help; when “under the weath
er,” as on the day in question, she was apt
to be a trifle caustic in her remarks.
Martha was the only child, and al
though her parents were as frugal in the’r
caresses as they were in their general ex-
Eenditures, Martha knew she would carry
er point. She was the apple of their eye,
IF.
and nothing she had as yet asked had
been denied her. But her tastes were
simple and her wants easily met, so when
she made the assertion, “I’m going to
college,” it almost took her own breath.
Martha possessed a bright mind, and
had kept at the head of her class in the
town school where she attended. She had
graduated the spring before, as the smart
est and prettiest girl in the class, and, con
sidering her education “finished,” she had
settled down to the rural sports of the
neighborhood with all the zest of an ac
knowledged belle.
The past summer had brought a ripple
of excitement in the advent of two young
lady boarders whom her mother had taken,
avowedly “just to be accommodatin’,” but
in reality to enlarge her snug little bank
account, that was intended to “set Marthy
up.” At first Martha fought shy of the
boarders under the impression that college
girls “put on airs” and were altogether
“too booky” for simple country folks, but
after awhile this shyness wore away, and
Martha began to accept the girls’ invita
tions to join them in their rambles. She
was astonished to learn how much mom
WOMAN’S WORK.
these city girls knew about birds, trees’
flowers and rocks, and all the outside
world, than she, who had been raised in
their midst.
“And just think! They can talk poli
tics with Father and discuss every subject
under the sun with the young minister,”
said Martha in “going over’’ the girls
with her nearest neighbor. And how
graceful was their every movement! Mar
tha comprehended that a college educa
tion meant more than book knowledge.
Her own life suddenly seemed very empty
as she pondered over a great many things.
The quilting bees in which she had been
the central figure, the picnics and hay
rides she had ' inaugurated were all well
enough in their way, but they failed to
satisfy; there seemed to be a something
wanting, and her thoughts finally culmi
nated in the opening sentence of this sto
ry:
“Ma, I’m going to college, with a de
cided emphasis on the going: and to col
lege Martha went.
* * *
That was two years ago. In the inter
vening time matters had not gone well at
the Berridge farm. Farmer Berridge had
happened to a painful accident that had
laid him up a cripple for months, and Mrs.
Berridge, with hard work and anxiety,
had grown crcs’ accordingly.
“An’ there’s Marthy off a-spendin’ ev
ery cent I can rake an’ scrape,” said she,
wrathfully. “’Twas a fool trick of mine
a-lettin’her put all that butter’n egg an’
board money in*her head. If I’d a-*now
ed things was a-comin’ to this pass she
shouldn’t a-gone a step; an’ like’s not,
she’ll come home that stuck up an’ bossy
there'll be no gittin’ along with her. I’ve
a great mind yit to make her come straight
home.”
“Now, Folly,” said farmer Berridge in
a mollifying tone, “just you let Marthy
stay her time out; with her learnin’ she
can teach an’ help pay off that mortgage.
I’m glad she wants to git more schoolin’,
fur she might dig her finger nails out here
an’ not be able to help us no great sight.
No, I’m just powerful glad she’s where
she is,” and Mrs. Berridge knew that set
tled it. Hiram didn’t often have a “say,”
but when he did, he set his foot down
hard.
“Well, I don’t care,” (Mrs. Berridge al
ways would have the last word) “she
might ’a staid at home an’ married Bob.”
Said Bob was an orphan and a cousin
fourth removed, and, as Mrs. Berridge
said, “ff powerful good boy,”—good, be
cause of his want of energy to be other
wise. It there was one thing on earth
that Martha had an aversion to, it was a
purposeless being calling himself “man.”
Bob was somewhat akin to the horse: put
in the traces, he worked; taken out, he
roamed. It was always a wonder to far
mer Berridge that his energetic wife could
consider Bob Denham for a son-in-law.
But, as Hiram said: “Some wimen are
queer critters and past findin’ out.”
Time wore on, and things came to a
crisis by the time Martha came home
armed with her “sheepskin.”
“Well, now, Marthy, will that strip of
paper tell how to cure sick cattle, pay off
a mortgage, and straighten out things
that’s all at sixes an’sevens?’’ said Mrs.
Berridge, as Martha triumphantly held up
her blue ribboned diploma.
“Why, Mother, what is the trouble? ’
asked IM artha in a surprised tone. Mar
tha had not been allowed to come home
during her two years at college on account
of “them pesky railroads a-chargin’ so
much,” and had spent her vacations with
a “forty-second” cousin on the paternal
aide. Nor had she been apprised of the
state of affairs at home. “I won’t have
her worried,” said her father. “It’ll be
Fard enough when she gits here.” So
Martha remained in blissful ignorance of
the great sacrifice being made for her.
“Matter?’’ said her mother in answer to
Martha’s inquiry. “Why we’re on the
verge of bein’ sold out, bag and baggage.
If that ain’t matter enough I’d like to
know.”
“And you never told me,” replied Mar
tha in a hurt tone.
“Not another word, Mother,” inter
posed the father. “I won’t have Martha
a-Laying awake all night a-figgerin’ out
problems. Time ’nough in the mornin’.”
Nevertheless, Martha did lie awake
■wondering what it all meant, and arose by
dawn the next morning, resolved to find
out. She busied herself about breakfast,
and on going to the milk-house for cream,
found it empty—not a milk-pan to be
found! “What can this mean?” she said
to herself. “Can it he possible that
tcbey’ve sold Sukey and Rose to help pay
may expenses?” Rushing back to the
she asked: “Mother, where are
Sukey and Rose?”
“A. C. G.”
“Dead! as like as not. We ain’t had a
iit drop of milk to use in more’n a week.
Both at’em sick; so’s the horses, so’s the
hogs; in fact, ever’thing on the place’s
ailin’.”
“All but Bob, he seems to flourish,”
said Martha with a knowing smile.
“Poor Bob!” returned Mrs. Berridge
with evident pity in her tone: “I don’t
know as how you’d fourd any of us here if
it hadn’t a been lur Bob. Bob’s a likely
boy, Marthy. ’Tain’t his fault that ever’-
thing’s goin’ to rack an’ ruin.” Martha
smiled at her mother’s unbounded faith,
but offered no lurther comment.
After the breakfast things were cleared
away, Martha put on her mother’s sun
bonnet and started out to take a survey.
A few glances convinced her that the last
two years had played sad havoc with
things in general. She found the gates off
their hinges, fences rickety and down in
places, the barn in a general state of
dilapidation, and as she said, “everything
wears an air of Bob.”
“Poor, thrifty Mother; no wonder she’s
cross! And Father! He must never be al
lowed to see things in this shape,” mused
Martha, as the effect of shiftlessness
struck her vision.
“Bob,” said Martha, encountering Bob
at the barn, “where are Sukey and Rose?”
“In the back meadow, Marthy,” an
swered Bob.
“What seems to be the matter with
them, B ’b?”
“I don’t just know, Marthy; they seem
to be ailing.”
Martha made her way to the meadow
and found the cows drinking from a dirty
poo) of water. She further noticed that
the pool was fed by drainage from the
surrounding barns. “No wonder they are
ailing,” soliloquized Martha. “Poor
Rose! poor Sukey!” and Martha drove
them back to the barn. The once sleek
horses came in for a share of pity, and
Bob was dispatched to the house for a
clean bucket to-water the animals from
the pump. And how they did enjoy that
pure fresh water! signifying their satisfac
tion by rubbing their dirty, wet noses on
Martha’s spotless gingham.
“Bob, how long have the animals been
drinking out of that pond?” she refrained
from saying “stagnant” for fear of fright
ening away a truthful answer.
“About all spring; ’twasn’t worth while
to pump water when they could get it
without.”
“Well, Bob, don’t let them drink from
it again.”
“Why, Marthy?” asked Bob in open
mouthed astonishment.
“Because that water is rank poison, and 1
I am surprised that the cattle have not
died before this.”
“Do tell! How awful smart you are,
Marthy!”
“I don’t know that I’m ‘awful smart,’’
but I know better than to permit cattle to
drink from a stagnant pool,” and with
this thrust, Martha turned and went back
to the house.
Seeking her father she learned enough
of their financial troubles to set her think
ing. “Father, are you willing to turn the
farm over to me?—for awhile, I mean,”
added Martha, seeing her father’s look of
astonishment.
“Whatever could them white hands do
in runnin’a farm?” asked her father in
amazement.
“1 could at least see that the cattle had
pure water, and keep the place from go
ing quite to rack and ruin.”
“Don’t you think school teachin’ would
suit you a powerful sight better? I hate
to see you throw ’way all that schoolin’.”
Mr. Berridge was beginning to get a little
bit uneasy about that mortgage.
“I shall put my knowledge into practi
cal use, Father, never fear: but the ques
tion now is, what is to be done with the
farm?” Martha did not wish to distress
her father by going into details, but she
told him enough to convince him that the
management of affairs must be taken out
of Bob’s hands.
“An’ you shall have it, Marthy; by the
powers you shall! An’ if Bob or Mother,
either, says anything, just you send ’em
to me.”
Martha felt equal to coping with the
opposition, so went to work laying her
plans. After securing a trusty farm-hand
she went to town and ordered lumber,
nails and lime.
“Marthy! Marthy!” exclaimed her moth
er in consternation, as she saw the mate
rial unloaded. “Whatever’ll become of
us? Here we're head-over-heels in debt
now, an’ you gittin’ them things on cred
it.”
“Don’t worry, Mother. I had them
charged to the new firm, Martha Berridge
& Co., and they will be paid for.”
_ “That voice’s got the true Berridge
ring,” said her father proudly, as he noted
Martha’s reply.
Martha renewed her acquaintance with
all the old nooks and corners, and took a
hand in all kinds of work. She had a few
boards put here, a little paint there, a
JANUARY, 1899