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2 —'SEk ' wryTafegw**. ■ ii'>'> % ,/ ' F i jfe * . • ' C wmSa»«aiy iau <• „£, _ t .. :r,-- ;f nj|iiS » ■ ■< -< r s**TS'> " ' a Z_ - -c »?>• W ‘t- --***L-i=;- o. ■■■ 4 l ■-•*. :“ X. ■ , - 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.