Newspaper Page Text
2
Jk. - J;-7 s ’
i x.z ‘HD®* S-'& }
•A Wj? X*-' ® jK i
,r r ' ' v 'j s
Fob Woman's Work.
Tlhe Olldl War’s Wamnmgo
'HAT have you sown, beloved,
In the year that is passing away?
w
Where fell the seeds that you scattered,
And what shall you reap to-day?
What have you sown, beloved,
Abroad in the sweet springtime?
The soil was surely ready
In every land and clime.
What heavy heart have you gladdened
With earnest, helpful speech?
Have you sought with words of kindness,
The erring ones to reach?
Have you planted thorns and thistles
Where erstwhile grew fair flowers?
Have you guided a weary pilgrim
To cool, refreshing bowers?
For Woman’s Work.
obstos belils,
Aunt, and Wedding IJells.
Letter I.
UNSHINE everywhere! Sunshine
vC~)) flooding the broad meadow, sun
shine lingering longingly in the tops of
those stately pines; sunshine glowing
golden in the crowns of the snowy lilies;
sunshine making a flashing, burning
light of the long steel rails that bore me
away from you and sunshine at last,
my darling, in this darkened heart of
mine, for I stand on the threshold of
the winter—the winter that had seem
ed so long, so cold, so dreary; the
winter that we dreaded much more
than we dared to say.
Oh, tender heart and true, your lips
said cheerily: “Come back well and
strong” when I kissed you goodby in
the cold, gray morning, but your faith
ful eyes could not hide their mute
anguish.
Did you think I did not see and
feel that? Ah, when I held your cold
little hands in mine for the last time,
when I gathered you close in my arms
—the arms that should have been
strong to shield you—when youi’ head
drooped for one moment of utter de
spondency on my shoulder, I think my
heart was frozen. To save you the
keen anguish of the pain that I knew
must come to me, I let them send me
away—to die!
But why am I writing all this to
you now? Do you know why I do
not dread the days of coldness? Can
you think what radiant guest has ta
ken my hand and will be with me
through the dreariest day? Ah, hope,
heavenly hope, is leading me, is even
beckoning me on. For, oh, my dar
ling, I shall live; I shall live for love—
and for you. I feel it in every new
wave of life that surges over me, in
every delicious sense of freedom from
pain. And every little member of the
animate creation that hums and buzzes
and chirps in this forest around us
seems to say to me: “Live, brother,
live and love.”
What if the waiting time be long?
Once it was written in that Book where
all is truth: “And they seemed unto
him but a few days for the love he
had to her.”
I thought I was ready to go when
such seemed God’s will, but the joy of
this knowledge seems to fill my soul,
for, oh, my darling, I shall live; I shall
live —for you!
Anna E. Mayks-McFall
Oh, say, have you done your utmost
To lift the burden of care
From those you love best? Were you
mindful
With these, your pleasures to share?
Were you mindful, oh, father, at evening
The home-coming hour to bless?
Did you greet the ones in the doorway
With smile, or tender caress?
Were you mindful, oh, sister, oh, brother,
That childhood was flitting away;
That far in the distance, To-morrow
Would lead you away from To-day?
Yes, the year is waning, beloved,
And soon shall have passed from sight—
Have you done what you could, beloved?
’Tis gone! A sweet good-night!
Letter 11.
You ask me to write of everything
that you may know just what my
life is—that you may become, too, a
part of that life.
You say that the way of life goes
on at home nearly the same, outward
ly; that I must not blame you if you
sing about your daily duties, for that
you ever speak brightly to my mother
and father of their absent boy. Ah,
my loyal little one, you cannot hide
your heart from me! Did I not read
all the brave self-forgetfulness of those
other weeks when you added: “And
since your last letter came it has not
been so hard.”
Shall I send Hope’s sister, Patience,
to dwell with you? For father and
mother will not so readily believe the
truth that is so strong, and my life
shall honor you for the days in which
you shall be as son and daughter to
them. It shall not be easy for either
of us, this waiting—carissa mia—but
in the end, the glorious end, we shall
once again be studying Italian together
in the low-cushioned bay window.
But I am not answering your letter.
I am not telling you of place and peo
ple that you may almost dwell among
them. Picture to yourself, then, just
the typical southern home. Broad pi
azzas encircle the house, which is
high from the ground. I have heard
the history of each of the many vines
that clamber up the sides; heard it
from an indefatigable small boy who
attempts conversation with me when
ever I may appear for my daily air
ing. He is a perfect little gentleman,
with solemn brown eyes—no matter
how grimy the hands nor how torn the
shirtwaist may become in the rough
and tumble play with his brothers. He
has quite a courtly grace when ue
doffs his cap and says: “I hope you
are feeling better, sir. la there any
thing I can do for you?”
This morning I wandered into the
parlor which differs very little from
most rooms of that kind. I picked
up a beautifully bound volume of Al
drich and carried it out among the
vines, meaning to look over that “In
vocation to Sleep” that has haunted
me so often. I shall have to memorize
it to keep it with me.
But the fly-leaf interested me beyond
everything else. In a tremulous hand,
unmistakably that of old age, was
WOMAN'S WORK.
written, “Captain Thomas Elton, from
his affectionate Great Aunt,” and just
underneath, in round, schoolgirl hand
writing, so entirely different, came the
words, “I told you so!”
I wondered over this little bit of
family history, for, of course, I could
not ask. My little gentleman was by
my side then, and noticing the book
open he said, with a chuckle of de
light, hardly in keeping, I thought:
“Great aunt said she could write it.
We knew she could, but grandmother
hardly believed she could make it look
like that.”
She must be very old to be Captain
Elton’s great aunt. But I forget that
I haven’t told you anything of the
family
I distinctly realized in those first
weary days that I was among those
whose gentle and unobtrusive kind
ness would be unvarying. Mrs. Wil
liam Elton lives here, as you know,
with her eldest son, and “Pine Ha
ven” has been in possession of the
family from early days.
I wish I could describe the queemy
dignity of this grandmother to whom
all deference is paid. They all con
suit her in every way and the guest
within her house feels himself honored
when she graciously entertains him.
Mrs. William Elton has an unbounded
influence among the vast circle of
friends and relatives.
Yes, I might well say relatives, for
fancy, dear, what it would be to have
cousins and cousins of every degree
and every age.
There are six boys in this family of
Captain Elton’s, and just across the
road in Mrs. Maynard’s cottage a fam
ily of girls with pretty little Lois at
the head. I hear them speak of aunts
and cousins “across the branch,” of
others away at school, of letters and
boxes from relatives in Georgia, until
I almost fancy myself among the pa
triarchs of old, with their many tribes.
But they speak oftenest and most
lovingly of “great aunt,” until my in
terest is much excited. I fancy she is
the fairy godmother from the way
they dwell upon her name. Isn’t it odd
their calling her so? I’ve never heard
“great uncle” mentioned, so I have
presumed that she is a widow of seven
ty or eighty years.
But there! the mail has come and
I know by the size of the envelope
little Edwin holds up that it comes
from you, my regular little Wednes
day clock! All things here shall van
ish and once more I shall be with you.
Letter 111.
I took my first drive yesterday and
oh, it was delightful beyond thought.
To creep back again to life, to feel
God’s fresh air blowing about you, to
see the flowers blooming once more
around you, to go on and on with nev
er a break in the soft green woods,
with never a jolt or rough place on
these even roads! After those weeks
of imprisonment—but I had not meant
to tell you that. Yes, the long rain,
when sky and air and earth seemed
one monotone of gray—brought me al
most to the shadow land.
The boys were banished to Mrs.
Maynard’s, and in all her busy house
keeping Mrs. Tom Elton found ever
a spare moment for something for the
invalid. I am glad mother wrote to
her, but I knew she would. I am
in the sunlight again, and through it
all Hope was constant.
Mrs. Maynard went with me. I like
her very much. That looks common
place when written, but with me it
means that truly. Her face wears the
look of peace attained after weary
conflict. She has had such sad trials,
of which I can tell you some day. J
heard great aunt’s name again today,
and I think I am rather justified in
my opinion.
Mrs. Maynard just before coming
home turned the pony's head toward
a long lane through swaying pines.
“Now I shall take you through what
great aunt says is the loneliest drive
in all the land.”
“You are all very fond of her,” I
said, hoping to hear more.
“Yes, we couldn’t do without her,”
she answered emphatically. “I think
a stranger finds out at once that great
aunt is the one absorbing thought
with us all The children just wor
ship her, almost.”
Yes, I hear them speak so lovingly
of her.”
“She is so good to them,” Mrs. May
nard said, adding, “but that is an in
exhaustible subject.”
Today I found Nat crying over the
loss of his greatest treasure, a bau
that great aunt had made “her own
self out of most nothing.”
I must not stop without telling you
that I have seen great aunt’s photo
graph. Just as we reached the cottage
Mrs. Maynard said, in her soft voice:
“Now, won’t you come in and have
lunch here before climbing those high
steps at mother’s?”
It was in her tiny sitting room that
I saw a beautiful finished crayon. A
servant, whose time-honored connec
tion with the family gave her free
dom, came in with the tray. She stop
ped before the picture, which had evi
dently just arrived, and said slowly:
“Well! well! dis what Mis’ Great
Aunt done sent you? Ain t you proud
on it. My, if it ’tain’t like Ole Miss
to the very life.”
And indeed it wonderfully resembles
Mrs. William Elton. I suppose they
are sisters.
You say that I am really getting well
when I take up again my old ways of
“character guessing.” Then you be
lieve it! Since for me the boundary
lines are set and since you are mak
ing the light and life at home, we must
make believe that we are writing histo
ries of the lives around us. I shall
learn many lessons of patience here,
and I shall not let my winter pass in
vain. Tell me, with your own true
woman’s heart, what I can do to make
a drop in the happiness that will fill
this house at Christmas.
In my last letter I sent you a list of
names and ages of all the Elton and
Maynard children, and 1 know you
are devising many pretty things for
that Christmas box. Now, mother
must put in something for “great
aunt.” I hope this letter will be in
time, for I heard today she would
spend Christmas with them. I can
not write any longer now, and this
must go unfinished—only, my great
love must fill every corner.
Letter IV.
I am thinking of what this Christ
mas will be to us—apart. Will it seem
like the same joyous festival, when,
for the first time in all your life, you
cannot give me greeting? I can shut
my eyes and almost see the dear fa
miliar room and the morning beams
year after year surprising either a
boy or girl who had stolen down into
the library to be earliest with “Christ
mas gift.” Here they say “Merry
Christmas” instead.
Do you remember last Christmas?
Can you forget that early gray dawn,
when, in spite of weakness, I slipped
down to the old meeting place and
lound you sobbing your little heart
away on our old cushioned bay win
dow, and all because you thought I
would be too sick to come down? And
do you remember—then? Ah, that
was a trysting time that dwells in
one’s heart forever. But the same joy
lives on, darling, and the Christmas
tide blessing is a holy one of thanks
giving this year.
I confess that I am getting complete
ly mystified about great aunt. I shall
not be surprised to see the veritable
godmother who so wonderfully trans
formed Cinderella’s pumpkin.
I did not tell you how the announce
ment of her coming was received. For
a day or two the children had been
quite eager for the mails.
“No letter for me,” Frank would ex
claim. “Why, I want great aunt to
tell me how she made that pine burr
frame last year.”
And you know she wrote that she
would make half the squares in my
sofa cushion for grandmother,” Lois
Maynard said.
Aunt Hattie, did great aunt ask
DECEMBER, 1901.