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of Belonging to a Family
A wise woman was telling this
little story at a tea the other day.
“I have two young sons,’’ she
said; “one of whom, is very or
derly, very methoth.dieal in. his
ways and very particular about
1) is belonging. The other boy irf
a happy-go-lucky harriimsearum
sort ot' a chap who scatters his
possesions to the four quarters
of tile earth, and who loaves n
room looking as if a cyclone had
passed through it.
“The two boys occupy the
same apartment, and the disorder
ly habits of the severer try the
very soul of his methodical broth
er ,nnd he is forever complain
ing about it.
“ ‘I sympathize with you,’ I
say to him. ‘li know just how ag
gravating it is to have to live
with an untidy person and to
have someone use your things
and not put them back, and 4trew
his own things about in forbidden
places, hut you must look at an
other side of the question. Hav
ing to put up with thu4 annoy
ance is part of the penalty that
you must pay fo- belonging to a
family. Belonging to a family
brings you many pleasures and
privileges , but it also brings
certain pains , among them the
necessity of standing other peo
pie’s peculiarities) and ways. It’s
the price you pay for belonging
to a family.”
I| wish that every household
in tile land might have the .‘fip
ient words of this Siolomon-in-Pet
icoats emblazoned on til** walls of
every room in it for it would cure
that disgruntled feeling that per
vades *k> many homes. Read it
again and let its philosophy, its
good, hard horse sense soak into
you:
“Having to put up with other
people’s peculiarities is the price
you pay for the privilege of b.
longing to a family."
Stick that motto cn your mir
ror,; .Mrs. Housewife, and when
you feel inclined to consider your
elf a domecMe slave and to com
plain about the monotony and
drudgery of getting up meals
that are eaten asj soon as cooked
of sweeping floors that have to
be swept over again the next day
of darning'stocks that get holes
in them within 24 hours, just
remember that your work is the
Price you pay for having a home
and a family.
If you are a lonely, homeless
'husbandless , childless woman
you would not have to cook and
•sew, and scrub and mend as
.you do but would you change
places with the woman who has
•nothing to do and nobody and
•nothing beloning to her? Hard
ly. Well, then pay the price for
■what you have without grumb
ling. / , •
And you, mother. What a
lale of woe you have to tel!
about being tied down at home
with your babies. You can’t go
out to theatres and parties ami
the children are always track
iug in dirt, and slpilling things,
and mussing up the rooms, and
you can’t walk across the floor
without stumbling over a toy
train or a doll a nd there isn’t ?
call for “Mother’’ You are fill
ed with self-pity as you contem
plate your lot . But what about
the feel of little arms about your
neck, what about the nestling of
downy heads against your breast
what about the million of fresh
interests that children bring iu-
By D:ro thy Dix
to your life.
And of the work and the worry
lis .just the price you pay for the
privilege, of having a family, and
believe me it is worth what it
costs. You can’t have your oakt
and eat it. too. You can’t have
leisure, or perhaps, as! fine clothes
as the childless woir.eii who has
nobody but herself to consider
but would you trade off your mu'
sery for a motor ear o t * a trip to
Palm 'Beach ? No, not if the
whole United States treasury
was thrown in to boot. Then
play square, and don’t begrudge
the cost tag of motherhood.
And you, oh .wife, how ofte’
Ido we have to listen to your
grumbling about your husband.
He’s got funny, fusby ways. H.
is cantankerous at times. He’s
more interested in the stock
market than he is in Ibrc-n. and
he isn’t a bit the hero of
romance that you thought you
were marrying. Irt is true that
he is a good provider, and that
you’ve got the best house and
th ' best clothes of any woman in
your set; but, heavens, how tir
e- 1 y o u get of trying to sidesstep
tile subject si that are like a red
flag to a mad bull to him and of
taking flying leaps to keep from
stepping on tin* Corns of his
prejudices.
Just console yourself with the
reflection that when you have
to rub your husband’s fur the
right way you are paying the
price for having a husband for
having :l strong arm on which t*
lea’ii for somebody to stand be
tween you and the world. Good
no cinch for a woman, but, all
things considered .matrimony is
about the best job going and it
makes! it an easier job if the wife
instead of magnifying her hus
band’s peculiarities, will jus 1
strike a balance and realize that
enduring his crankiness is the
price she pays for not being an
old maid.
And you, Mr. Husband. Oh,
of course, your wife itfu’t the
incarnate perfection, you took hei
to be before you married her. Sin
has! lost her figure and her com
plexion and she isn’t as bright
and vivacious as she used to be
and she’s got no more logic than
a hen ,and she’s got all Sorts of
foolish ways that you have to re
member to respect to keep her
from going into hysterics. Mat
rim )iiy isn’t all cakes and ale for
a majn any more than it is for a
man an more than it is for a
woman ,but ‘you know she’d die
for you if it would do you any
good ,and there isn’t a better
kept house than yours or better
looked after children ,and that
boy and girl of yours? Say, they
arc wonders .
What would you take to be a
loveless old batehelor, without a
home without children, with-
out an real vital thing to work
for. That \s worth standing
good many feminine shortcomings
for .isn’t it? Then settle your
♦*ore with life without trying to
welch on the bargain. 1
W e should all be happier if
we remember that having to put
up with other people’s peculiari
ties is the price we pay for the
privilege of belonging to a fami
ly.—Exchange.
Every one complains of the bad
ness of his memory, but nobody
of his judgment.—L a Roche
fourcauld.
lj*/I^tjf
Come, little comrade, let us fare acros*
the hills, beyond the city,
And wander In the open, where no voice
shall call to us for pity;
We’ll wade In brooks that babble by the
slanting fields and forest edges,
And listen to the winds that sigh and sing
through aromatic sedges.
We'll linger in the hawthorn’s shade and
carve the letters of our names
On mossy fences that were made by
hands that toll no longer claims;
I’ll lead you where the valleys lie deep
In the morning's gleaming dew.
The wild crab's fragrant blossoms I will
pluck from thorny boughs for you.
The friendly colt shall come to lay its vel
vet muzzle In your hand,
And we will watch the lambs at play,
and hear no master's harsh com
mand;
No clanging gongs shall terrorize and
there will be no shrieks of pain.
No maiming wheels nor warning cries, no
angry bickering for gain.
Come, little comrade, let me guide you
out beyond the roar and rattle
And show you that the world is wide,
that life is not a ceaseless battle,
And through the Joy that you shall know
and by the glee of your expression
The boyhood I had long ago shall come
again to my possession.
Unkind Doctor.
“I would suggest,” said the doctor,
after he had looked at the lady’s
tongue and felt her pulse, “that you
walk three miles every day and be
careful to chew everything you eat.
Take a light breakfast and avoid
sweets of every kind.”
"Yes, doctor.”
“That’s all. Good morning.”
"But, doctor, aren’t you going to
prescribe any medicine?”
“No, I never give medicine where it
can be avoided.”
“Oh, pshaw! I have saved up near
ly a dollar’s worth of bottles that I
wanted to exchange in at the drug
store.”
The Outlook.
THE OPTIMIST.
When war drums throt> no longer
And navies melt away.
The righteous will be stronger.
The just will have their day.
When all the warring’s ended.
And no man cheats for gain,
Then Virtue will be splendid
And Righteousness will reign.
THE PESSIMIST.
When armies are disbanded
And soldiers till the soil.
The people, to be candid,
Will still buy Standard Oil.
When navies are forgotten
And warriors cease to kill
We’ll probably have rotten
State legislatures still.
Pride All Around.
’Tm proud to say," boasted the
man with the large stomach and the
immense solitaire, “that 1 ain’t never
wasted any time readin' poetry.’*
“Well,’’ ventured the gentleman
with the seedy clothes and the high
brow. “If the poets were asked they
would probably agree that they were
proud of It, too."
Not a Hardship.
“Do Mr. and Mrs. Wickelson, the
people who live across the hall from
you. ever disturb you at night by their
quarreling? I am told that they fight
like cats and dogs."
“They do fight, but we are not dis
turbed in the least. My husband al
ways permits me to let the transom
down and listen without a protest.”
A crop movement may now
proceed. |
f since I took. n
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51 Acres good red and gray land;about half
of each well improved. 5-room house; ' a
plenty of out-buildings; fine pasture. .- t
Convenient to churches. 1 mile to a good
school; 1 mile to gin; 3 miles northwest of
Auburn, on a Route. -
Going cheap. For particulars, call on or write
W. H. PARKER, Auburn, Ga„ R. l.
Up-to-date Job Printing at The News.
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