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For Woman’s Work.
The Days With Nothin’ Special To Do.
DE REDDER STAMEY.
I like the days with the dreamy haze —
VsJ, q The days with nothin’ special to do;
I like to work, but like to gaze
On days with nothin’ special to do.
The rain drips down through the golden sprays
Like the thoughts that sift through the bygone days,
In these days with nothin’ special to do.
The winds sigh low and a rustle keep,
In these days with nothin’ special to do;
The eaves of the cottage and bird-house weep,
On these days with nothin’ special to do;
These rainy days with their load of care
Trickling down through the chinks of the atmosphere —
These days with nothin’ special to do.
When the sun shines bright—’tis another thing,
On these days with nothin’ special to do!—
I’m up with the lark, in the busy spring;
But these days with nothin’ special to do
Jes’ rests my soul when the labor’s done,
And the clouds hang low from sun to sun—
These days with nothin’ special to do.
The back must bend and the joints must ache;
But these days with nothin’ special to do
Makes me feel that life has its give and take;
For these days with nothin’ special to do
Recall the days when we used to be
As free as the waves on the summer sea.
An’ I jes’ rest now in the dreamy haze,
Wand’rin’ again in the far-off days—
The days with nothin’ special to do.
For Woman’s Work.
iHEY lifted the “Squire” tenderly,
and carried him home. When they
T
came in sight of the big gate just as
day was breaking they saw Nina wait
ing for them.
At the sight of her David shrank
back among the crowd. Perhaps he
remembered her cruel words, “You
have been a thorn to me ever since I
came.”
After they carried Mark in, the doc
tor came and the men went off. Da
vid lingered near, but no one seemed
to notice him, for all was confusion.
After a while Nina came to the door
with the doctor.
“He’ll pull through all right,” said
Dr. Miles, cheerfully. “He’ll lose his
leg, but he got off easy.”
Nina stood at the door shading her
eyes with her hand as the doctor drove
away. Did she see the crouching fig
ure under the old pine tree? I cannot
tell. Only God and her own heart
can answer that. With one step for
ward, as if he meant to enter, and
again shrinking back, David had wait
ed all this time. He heard the doctor’s
verdict and still he lingered. But Nina
shut the door and no one came out to
him. So once more he went back to
Wassamassaw and Maria’s derisive
laughter.
V.
“Well, child, I have time at last to
rest a spell. Come and tell me all
about that drive,” and Aunt Mary set
tled herself comfortably in her big
rocker on the broad piazza, a basket
of stockings by her side. Rest only
meant change of work to this busy
woman. At seventeen she had married
Joe Miller, a farmer in Georgia, and
from hard work at home she had gone
to harder work on her husband’s farm.
But she had never dreamed of any-
DAVID.
(Concluded From Last Month.)
thing else —never known any other
way of living.
Her vigorous health, her resolute
spirit and her brave heart made her
home a happy one. Four sturdy boys
called her “mother” and to every one
else in the country round about she
was “Aunt Mary.” When her father
and mother died the old farm in Pine
ville was left to her. They moved back
and easier times seemed in store for
them.
Most of her neighbors “took board
ers” for the winter, for the healing
virtues of the pines had brought many
visitors to the little village. But Mary
held out against such innovations,
“Having strange people sitting around
idle in her house.? No, indeed!” But
one day there was a timid knock at
the door and a request for water by
a gentle girl whose tired manner touch
ed the motherly heart. Then it came
about that Professor Raymond left his
little Nell to Aunt Mary’s care for the
winter.
Sometimes Nell had wondered at the
look of wistful sadness with which
Aunt Mary sometimes watched her.
One day she asked anxiously, “Do you
think I am very sick, Aunt Mary, that
you watch me so? You don’t look at
any one else that way.”
“No, child, no; but, oh, you have a
look on your face so much like some
one I greatly loved in the long ago.
Sometimes I think you must be kin,
but maybe it’s just the soul shining
through like —like my poor David,”
and the tears were hastily brushed
away as she hurried off.
But this afternoon Nell sat on the
low steps, her hat was in her lap, her
face looked rosy and the tired expres
sion had vanished.
“I think the very air Is balm, Aunt
WOMAN’S WORK.
Mary. I am better already. Do you
know, the pines seem always so lone
ly—each one to itself. And what are
they saying? It is mystical and haunts
me. Sometimes it is sweet and sooth
ing, but today it is so very sad.”
“Yes, that’s the way it always
sounds to me now —mournful-like,” an
swered Aunt Mary, drawing the darn
ing cotton through the huge hole in
Bob’s sock. “And there’s trouble
enough around here —the Lord knows
—for them pines to get that lesson by
heart.
“No, honey,” she continued, as if in
answer to a quick look of sympathy
from Nell. “I ain’t a-thinkin’ of my
self. I’ve got my good man and the
boys and a home, and I ain’t had
more’n my share of worry, so I’m sat
isfied. But it’s poor people who get
life all twisted like and there seems
no way to get it untangled, but for
death to cut the Gordian knot —like
that king that Alec was reading of
last night. But go on, child; I’m tak
ing too much talk to myself. Did you
go alone?”
“I started with Alec, you know, but
just as we got to the cross lots Mr.
Miller called him, and so I thought I
should have to come back, as you think
I’m not strong enough to hold old
Tom. Just then such a pretty girl
came cut of the woods with her hands
full of sweet bays, and Mr. Miller
said:
“ ‘Just in the nick of time, Ruth.
Jump in and show this little city lady
all around these woods,’ and before
either of us could say a word we
were driving along together like old
friends. Such a funny way—without
even an introduction. But, you know,
girls are girls everywhere, Aunt Mary,
so it did not matter. I told her that
my name was Nell Raymond and that
I had come from the city to lose my
troublesome cough among the pines,
and that I considered Ashley the love
liest place in the world. She said that
her mother considered Ashley insuffer
ably dull, but for her part, home is
home. She has such a positive little
way of talking. Do you know her,
Aunt Mary?”
“Know Ruth Halcot? Well, the
county ain’t so big that many folks
get out of my knowing; leastwise the
Halcots—leastwise them,” and Aunt
Mary sighed as if the remembrance
of some old trouble haunted the hap
py present.
“Mr. Miller likes the girls and claims
that it ain’t her fault; but I can’t for
get—though the Lord knows I’ve tried
mighty hard not to be bitter. Don’t
get bitter, dearie; don’t let a hard
feeling for one man or woman run
through your life and turn everything
else contrary. I said I didn’t have
troubles of my own, for I’ve given
them to the Lord to carry for me, but
I have not learned yet not to fret over
ether people’s who don’t know where
to put theirs.”
Nell loved these quaint speeches
(“mother’s sermons,” the boys called
them), and dearly she loved this coun
try home where quiet contentment
reigned and where all the household
had been taught the lessons of neigh
borly kindness.
“Aunt Mary,” Nell said, breaking the
silence that had softly spread its shad
ow upon them, “I want to tell you
something. We wero driving far out
on the Wassamassaw road, when we
came to a lonely graveyard. It made
my heart ache, for it was so neglected.
The wall was broken in many places
and the weeds had taken possession.
The wooden headstones were falling
in pieces, and yet there were one or
two graves that looked as if they were
newly made. It seemed as if the poor
people could not find time even for
their dead. We were turning away,
when we saw, under a beautiful wil
low tree in one corner, two graves.
The grass was smooth and green upon
them and looked as if lately clipped.
The fence near by was mended, as if
by clumsy but tendet hands, and on
the smallest grave were the loveliest
wild flowers I have ever seen. The
grave was covered with them, fresh
and pure and beautiful, and all of del
icate colors. On the other grave there
was one crimson rose. The head
boards were painted white and on one
was ‘David’s Wife,’ while the little
one was marked ‘Silence;’ there were
no other names or dates. Wasn't it
strange, Aunt Mary? Ruth said she had
never heard of the place.”
Nell did not glance up, or she would
have seen the puzzled look of pain on
the dear face above her.
“Just as we were driving back a
wild looking man ran out of the woods
crying. ‘Stop! Stop!’ but Ruth said:
‘I am Squire Halcot’s daughter. Stand
back,’ and she touched the horse with
the whip. I was so sorry for the poor
man, with his pitiful face; but Ruth
held my arm and would not let me
get out. When we reached the vil
lage and stopped at the Halcots for
some water Ruth said, hastily, ‘Don’t
tell mother. I’m not allowed to drive
to Wassamassaw, and I did not know
I was near there this afternoon. Os
course 1 shall explain it all tonight.’
There are so many mysteries here,
Aunt Mary. When I said that her
father was so handsome and looked
like a soldier, Ruth turned perfectly
white and whispered, ‘Don’t ask any
thing about his wooden leg. We are
never to speak of it. He was hurt
somehow when I was a baby, and
mother whipped Bradley for asking be
fore visitors if father was shot in the
war.’ Isn’t it all strange, Aunt Mary?”
“Strange? Yes, child, life is all
strange. But for Mark’s daughter not
to know! Oh, the misery of it all,’’
and the voice usually so calm quivered
with indignation. Nell looked up in
surprise.
“Auntie, is it wrong for me to know?
It all sounds like a story. Tell me
about it.”
“Well, child, I feel as if I must, al
though why you should know such sor
row I can’t say. It isn’t like a story,
for all comes right in the end in
books. This will never come right,
and yet the end is coming, surely,
surely. In my young days the Halcots
lived in that same old homestead that
you think so pretty now. There were
just two boys, Mark and David. Mark
was one of these quick-as-a-flash kind
of boys, real handsome and peart, as
country ways go. They didn’t make
any claim to style in those days. The
mother died when David was a baby.
Poor David! He was a quiet, solemn
little fellow, with slow ways and
‘lackin’." as all the folks said. Nobody
seemed to care for him. Mark was
every one’s favorite, and he could even
wheedle cross old Mrs. Gregory, the
housekeeper, out of anything. David
almost worshiped Mark, yet Mark was
mean and sly enough to get out of his
scrapes, while poor David always came
in for a double share of punishment.
Kindness would have helped him, for
he had quiet, sunshiny ways when he
was out in the woods with the birds
and the flowers. Many a doll’s house
has he made for me in the old fence
corners. I loved him, best of all, but
Nina could not bear him. He was
better than any of the rest of them,
Nell; he was like your people, and
tney did not understand him. When I
was married it most broke my heart
co leave him with them. I begged him
co go, and my good husband would
nave been glad enough to have him.
But David said he must stay and help
Mark. Oh, dear child, may you never
reel as I did when 1 came home and
neard all about it.” And then Aunt
Mary told all the sad story, from the
election day to that night when Mark
was lost.
“Oh, Aunt Mary! Aunt Mary!” Nell
was sobbing now, with her head on
Aunt Mary’s lap.
“And didn’t Mark go out to him after
that —and bring him home?”
“Could anything, you think, put a
common thought, even, between Nina
and Maria? The whole village was
talking about it, and so, when Mark
was well he drove out to Wassamas
saw. But that was six weeks after
FEBRUARY, 1902.