Evening Star Newspaper, May 30, 1926, Page 48

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C., MAY 30, 1926—PART 5. The Minister Who Thought He Was a Failure BY NELIA GARDNER WHITE HERE are two sides to every situation. There were two to the matter of Rev. John Mar- row. One, though we'll come to that later, belonged to John Marrow himself. The other belonged to the folks who came each Sunday to the little weather-beaten church at the Corners to hear him preach. They were fewer than in years past. Once the sheds in back were filled the Maynes' surrey, fringe around the top; the old but well-washed buckboard of the Laraways, the rubber-tired turnoup of Johnny Frazier, Walter Jones’ yellow- wheeled carry-all—they were in the same place every Sunday morning at half-past 10, rain or snow or shine. The sheds had not been full now, though, for several years. The Maynes had gone Wesi The Lara- way girls had gone away to college, and drove, now, a small scarlet car like a young wheeled demon, over the hills, never dreaming of stopping at the Corners church. Johnny Frazier had opened a gasoline station at his place, and his folks had a little road- side booth for selling ice cream and ginger ale. Their best trade was on Sunday. Walter Jones still came, sat in the same pew; but his wife was dead and the children never came with him. It is small wonder, perhaps, that folks didn’t come. John Marrow was getting old: he talked slowly—of faith and justification and atonement, terms that were old-fashioned and meaning- less to the new generation. He looked over the tops of his glasses before each of his many summaries. He urged, even after 27 years, that the voung folks come to prayer meeting. There were, perhaps, half a dozen of the “old guard” left; and a few of their children came, but their grand- children not at all. Jen Culliton was one who still came. She never thought much about the she just went. It was part and had been ever since a girl. She had been the eldest of 10, and, oh, the scrubbings, the hair-smoothini the buttonings, the admonitions it had meant to get nine, besides herself, ready for church and Sunday school! You might have thought she'd have hated it, but she never did. There was something very soul-satisfying in that long line of starched white dresses and blouses and shining faces. It happened once a yeek, and only once, that they were all clean and good together. she was married she had kept g as o matter of course. She ¢ hard six days out of week, and the seventh she Sometimes, in the first after her husband had died, she was hard put to it to have a whole white dress for her girl, Margaret, or & respectable blouse for Philip, but she managed somehow. Now she had taken her sister’s four children to raise, after their mother’s death, and she had Caroline, the eldest, to help her every Sunday with Joe and Ollie and little blind Peter. * ok k% OHN MARROW had been preaching at the Corners when she was first married. He'd not been so old then nor so set in his w: He'd not had, then, that discouraged droop to his shoulders nor that quaver in his voice. He was old now, there was no doubt of it; and yet he was as much a part of Sunday to Jen as was the day part of the week. It was not, perhaps, the things he =aid that inspired her. Sometimes, it must be confessed, she did not even listen. But she gained & peace there, in the big musty room, that lasted her throughout the week. And now they were talking of put- ting him out and having the new minister from Claremont come on Sunday afternoons. The young folks didn’t attend; there wasn’t much of a Sunday school; it was time they had some young man. But Jen felt irritated and lost- whenever she thought about it. John Marrow was something steady and lasting in her firmament. She knew the things peo- ple said were so; but she thought, too, of all the years of service the Rev. Mr. Marrow had given to the little old church, and she felt it would be a sort of betrayal to let him go now. He did his best, and his support was feeble. She got to thinking, one Sunday when there were only a~few there, that maybe she hadn't been as faithful as she might have been. She promised herself she’d go to prayer meeting Thursday night. * % 0\' Thursday night Jen came in from the barn about half-past 6. It was May and the old Culliton place was filled from end to end with the warm, soft fragrance of apple blos- soms and lilacs. School was over, and the children were visiting their father in Maryland. The house was empty without them; but it was quiet and restful, and Jen felt a tired con- tent. It had been a good day; she and Zeb (who helped her on the farm) had finished a big day's work. She had a basket of eggs on her arm, and when she reached the back porch she put the basket on the top step and sat beside it. 2 She sat silent for some minutes, let- ting the pleasant warm breeze, the memory-laden sinells and the comfort- ably drowsy settling-down noises of the chickens mingle with her thoughts. Suddenly, from down to- ward the Corners, there came a faint, sweet chiming, the sound of the first bell for Thursday night prayer meet- ing. Jen gave a little start—she had forgotten it was Thursday. She got to her feet, her big frame a little cumbersome from years and the day’s accumulated weariness. She was a queer enough figure, was Jen Culliton —a _big, bony, awkward woman in khaki shirt and trousers, sandy hair pushed ruthlessly back beneath a rag- ged straw hat, skin tanned and roughened by years of work in the open, chin square and purpeseful as any man's. And yet there was a dignity and agelessness about Jen 'that was very close to grandeur. She went into the house, washed at the kitchen sink and went to her room, where she changed the khaki clothes for a clean gingham, and tidied her hair. Because she was tired was no excuse to her for not keeping her promise, even though the promise was only to herself. “I clean forgot it was prayer-meet- ing night!” she said once to herself. “I'll hurry and get there before it's over.” i All the way along Jen kept thinking of Mr. Marrow. He lived three miles away on a little patch of stony farm- land and, even when the drifts were i the worst, he was always there to ring the first bell for prayer-meeting He'd not been very well when he first came, and he would just preach for them to help out for a year or two, he said, till he should get his strength back. They couldf’t pay much at the Corners, of course. And here he was yet—half farmer, half preacher— grown old among them! Jen felt a queer tightness at her throat, just thinking of him. She had a curious shame because she had not oftener gone to prayer.meeting. Jen came near the church, its worn old bulk rising gray and desolate out of the colortul May twilight. The Iit- tle yard was neat, because Mr. Mar- row kept it so; but the sheds were broken and the paint was peeling off. * ‘The apple orchard across the way, Jen thought, would have been a more fit place for prayer. As she stepped into the vestibule, she heard a voice raised appealingly. It was Mr. Marrow himself and Jen was aware, in a moment, of a strange quality in his voice—not his regular Sunday tones at all. “You know, Lord,” he was saying, “what 'tis to be alone! Why can't I get them to come? I've been falling Thee, Lord! 'Most 30 years and not one in Thy house on Thursday night! I'm not worth even the little' they give me—and they're golng to turn me out! I've tried, Lord; I've tried with all there is in me, but I can’t keep the young ones, they stray away out into the world. They laugh at me and my message! Mary—oh, Lord— Mary thinks they’re right; she thinks I've falled, too! And I have—I'm all alone—oh, Lord, stay Thou with me!"” Through the doorway ‘Jen Culliton saw the bowed white head above the old red plush chair by the leader’s ta- ble. There wil's no one else in the big, bare room. She went out as quietly as she could, and up the road toward home. The great mass of apple blos- soms across from the church was a misty gray and sometimes she stum- bled, because she could not quite see the path. She found she couldn't eat much supper. When she was in bed, she didn't pretend to sleep. She tried to think the thing out. She felt, though she did not know just why, a curious responsibility in the matter. She shrank, with a reluctance unlike her, from the responsibility. It was a busi- ness so filled with emotion and senti- ment that she was afraid -of it. Jen was as full of sentiment as a milk- weed pod is full of seeds, but she fled from expression of it, as though she realized it was hopelessly out of place in_her big, awkward homely self. But she couldn’t put the thought of old Mr. Marrow away from her. Probably, In a few days, they'd ask the other minister to come. Who'd tell Mr. Marrow? Was there really one among them so hard of heart as to be able to do it? They couldn't— an old man like him! Why, he was 8o feeble he’d only last a little while, anyway. And they begrudged him his peace for that little while! And he'd been so good to them ali! * % % X ¥ the morning she called up Allie Parsons. “Hello, Allle! This fs Jen. You folks pretty busy plantin'> . . . Say, Allie, I've got it in my head I want a little party tonight. I just made a couple gallons of ice cream; can’t you folks come over and help me eat it? . Oh, any time, soon as you get your supper work out of the way! I'm lonesome, with all the children gone. All right, Allie!” After that she called up the Fra- ziers and Laraways and Bartons and Joneses—all the neighbors on the hills close at hand. She made it a point that the young folks come, in spite of Caroline and the others not being there. “I've got a birthday coming in a couple days—guess I have a right to a birthday party!” she told herself, She went into the kitchen, and broke eggs recklessly for angel food and golden cake and solid chocolate. She ground up meat for sandwiches, and made the house bright and dustless. She had a little fright in her heart all day long as to what she was go- ing to do, and she grew confused when she tried to find words for her task. * After farm chores were done, the neighbors began to come. A few years back they'd had such gather- ings often, and they all seemed glad A Rundown Church and a Dwindling Congregation. to resume the habit. Allle and her family were first, and then came the Laraways. Even the two Laraway girls had come in the little red car. They brought an armful of bright- colored music, as Jen had asked them to do. It was a jolly crowd, full of reminiscences and friendly gossip. Fat Mrs. Frazier's big laugh set them off into & new gale of merriment every few minutes. Allie asked Jen to get out her ald photographs, and even the young folks had a lot of fun over them. Dot Laraway played the old organ, and they sang all the jaz- zlest of the jazzy new pieces. They were noisy and happy. But Jen cer- tainly did miss Caroline. ‘Then they opened the ice cream— yellow with eggs and cream—and the boys put on Jen's big aprons and passed the refreshments around. It was while they were eating that Jen gathered her courage into her hands and stood up. “Speech, Jen!" some one called out. Every one laughed. Jen tried to smile, but found it too serious a moment. “Folks,” she sald, and the laughter dled away suddenly, as all the little sounds of nature die away before the majesty of a storm. “Folks, I sup- pose you all wondered why I got it into my head to have a party tonight, with the children away and all. May- be you thought 1 had some reason outside of just neighborhood fun, though that’s reason enough, good- vs! But this isn’t my party. rs, either. It's Rev. Mr. Marrow's! They were all listening. Jen wished they wouldn't listen quite so intently —it was hard to talk with every one's eyes turned her way, and she wasn't so much of a talker at best. “We've been remembering tonight some of the days when we were younger. But there's some things we seem to have forgotten. Dot Lara- way, 1 wonder if you remember one Christmas when you were 4 or §, and you came to the Christmas exercises at the church and there wasn't any Santa Claus? You cried and cried; I recall just how you looked, curled up in your father's arims, your face all wet and hot from crying. It was a bitter night, and it had snowed so over in the hollow during the day that the man who had promised to be Santa ‘Claus hadn’t come. Mr. Mar- row slipped out and got out his horse and drove over after that suit. He had to walk part of the way, but he got back in time to be the funniest, Jjolliest Santa you'd ever seen!” “Johnny Frazier, do you remember the time you fell off the barn and broke some ribs, 'most killed your- self? I reckon you ain't forgot it! Remember how Mr. Marrow drove over 2 miles and back every night to help with the chores till you got #0’s you could be round again?” * k ok * he didn’t wait for John Frazier to answer, though he half rose as though to speak. “Bill Jones, maybe you've sort of forgot the time your ph dled. You was pretty small.” It was pretty hard sledding, I guess, with so many of you young ‘uns to feed and dress. I re- member seeing Mr. Marrow over plow- ing your garden—and didn’t he pay you boys for helping pick his straw- berrles, berries he'd always picked himself before? “Remember when your Cora had diphtheria, Allie? Who was it come every day to see if he could help out? “Who was it bought Sunday papers for the children, out of pocket, when we thought we couldn’t afford ‘em any longer? Mary—maybe you won't thank me for calling it to mind—but there was a time when you and Jim was close to parting over U. S. Park and Trail to Give New CATTERED here and there in America_are quaint and un- usual little settlements that have managed in some way to retain the charming customs and the language of the country from which they came, two or three cen- turies ago. In the Carolinas, for example, Prof. Young was fortunate in finding a series of delightful old ballads that are still being sung by the descend- anes of the Scotch emigrants, long after they have been lost to memory in the lochs and glens beloved by Bobby Burns. Rip Van Winkle is said to have awakened to a new day and genera- tion, but evidently he was able to converse with some of the residents of the Sleepy Hollow region made famous by shington Irving, as there still exists there little Dutch ity, members of which_speak glih, while their very houses are built of bricks brought over from Holland. Perhaps the most romantic of all these interesting settlements is the village of Martinsville, on the 16, in the heart around whom was woven the poem of_“Evangeline. It has always been a secluded little town, since it is three miles from the nearest railroad and, in spite of the fame that surrounded it as a result of the poem, has remained untouched by the modern trend until very recently. French is spoken as a matter of course, and though the younger gen- eration is absorbing a certain amount of English through contact with the public school, traditions die very hard THE MODERN and the older residents cling tena- ciously to their beloved customs of yesteryear. The hurried flight from the Grand Pre, the sufferings of the long and dangerous journey across the wilds, and the menacing bands of hostile savages form part of the legend that is told around the fire on wintry nights to every young Acadian. Longfellow’s “Evangeline” has be- come enshrined in the hearts of these kindly people, who regard her as the patron saint of their village. The romantic tale of the exile of the Acadians, and of the tragic part- ing of the charming Emmeline Labiche from her betrothed Louis Arceneaux in the excitement of the deportation, was described to Na- thaniel Hawthorne by one of the stu- dents at Harvard University, Edouard Simon, later Judge Simon. The pos- sibilities of the tradition seem to have appealed more strongly to Prof. Longfellow, than to Hawthorne, with what result is known around the world. Indeed, this famous poem has ings of a nation, and a state and national park is soon to comprise the regions settled by the gentle Acadians, while the trail across the thousands of miles between Winni- peg, Canada, and the sleepy Bayou Teche, with its historic oak, is to be known as the “Evangeline Trail.” * kX % IT would be 4nteresting to observe the advent of these new excite- ments upon the youngsters of St. Martinsville, as hitherto the annual arrival of the circus and the play boat, as duly announced by the cal- liope, was their chief joy in the quiet life of this remote community. REFUGEES QF ACADIA. Once a year, a millionaire goes past on his yacht from faraway Chi- cago, and the sharp ‘“toot” of the whistle brings down a swarm of hap- py children of all ages, as base balls and peppermints are invariably the order of the day, and are the sub- ject of juvenile dreams for the rest of the year. On one octasion, a plano was presented by the yachts. man to the convent, and no one has quite recovered from the delightful surprise of the generous gift. ‘Within the past few years there has been the occasional movie, and on one never-to-be-forgotten day the filming of the famous scenes around the old bayou, with a modern concep- tion of “Eyangeline” as represented by a descendant of one of the early Acadians. As all the older folks speak French, and frequently have but an imperfect understanding of idiomatic English in many instances, it is not unusual to hear them ex- plaining bits of the movie titles as they flash past on the sercen—and explaining them all wrong. For English is one of the luxurles, so to speak, of the last few years. Political speeches and bargain hunt- ing in the shops on Main street, as well as telephone conversation, are still in the liquid tongue of France. it is true that the weekly edition cf the Messenger is in English, but the really vital news of the day— obltuaries, for instance—is in French. The life of the community is very much what it must have been in the little town of St. Gabriel, on the Grand Pre. The day starts at 7 with a piping hot cup of delicious coffee served demi-tasse to the grown-ups, and with cream to the youngsters, by the family servant. Then every one 1DEA: OF EVANGELINE AS PORTRAYED BY MISS MILDRED DESSENS, A DZSCCNDANT OF Copyright by Martin & Olivier, goes back for a short nap, as break- fastis not until 9. The beds, by the way, must never be placed in a room so as to form the shape of the cross, as this is ex- tremely unfortunate, as every one in St. Martinsville knows. Nor are screech owls in favor, at least those that screech, as it is more than likely to be a sign of death, and, similarly, it is highly unfortunate to sew any- thing white on a Saturday or to cut out goods on Friday, as it means a death not later than Sunday. ‘These, of course, are simple precau- tions, but, as there is no undertaker in St. Martinsville, most important ones. Any kind of an illness is an expense, but it is doubly so on Bayou Teche, as the invalid at once receives sympathetic calls from practically the entire village, or if too ill to be per- mitted visitors, every one turns to with a will to help out. Colored workers come from far and wide to help in the kitchen, as of course the guests stay to what- ever meals are at hand. Chairs are set out on the porch and lawn, chick- ens are killed and usually a pig, and plenty of extra food is prepared, as it will certainly be needed. One rogm in the house, at least, is reserved for the family, but other- wisé the premises are more or less open to visitors to make themselves comfortable in. * K koK THE last words of a departed one are of great moment, and it is a distinct honor to be able to quote them with exactitude to anxious in- quirers. All the mirrors are hastily covered over in such a sad event, as the recent invalid should not, of course, bé permitted to see himself in a glass. A huge tub of ice is placed at once under the coffin, and the close friends of the family shroud it, and plenty of ice is put in preserve jars inside the coffin all round the sides. Since there is ng embalmer, there is a Board of Health rule of burial in 24 hours, so preparations are made to stay all night for the wake. More chairs-are placed on the lawn and under the trees, as practically the entire town will be there. Extra coffee s brewed and additional re- freshments of all kinds are prepared by the willing hands in the kitchen, as the family need not do a thing. Indeed, it is a time for lamenta- tions on the part of all the relatives, and large cards are hastily ordered printed, with deep black borders on them, and the information that “Mr. So-and-So, aged 60, died at such an hour. Funeral at the Catholic Church. All friends and relatives in- vited. By the family.” These are tacked yp all over town, on posts, and a large number at once mailed out to distant relatives, in en- velopes with suitable black borders an inch wide. The friends go on duty in several shifts, and change the candles, pass camphor over the hands and face of the departed, as this prevents blue- ness, and offer prayers. The nuns come in for a period to comfort the tamily. In the morning breakfast is served to every one present, and it is usual to have to set the table at least five or six.times. As there is no florist, people bring flowers' from their own gardens, and try to console the sor- JEN CULLITON SAW THE BOWED. WHITE HEAD ABOVP T some picayune little quarrel, and all us neighbors was taking sides with one or the other of you, and egging you on to quarrel all the more. And Mr. Marrow came over one afternoon when I was there, and he made us all cry before we got through. It was the end of the quarrel. Mary Burton’s face was crimson, but her eyes were suddenly wet, too. “And I don't know what I'd have done myself if I couldn’t have gone down there to the Corners every Sun- day. It's sort of put peace and courage into me, seemed sometimes as though I couldn't bear all the trouble and responsibility that came to me; but I found out how—I found out how! After Steve went, 'twasn't s0 easy—a good many rough spots come in the road. I don't believe there’s anybody here that hasn’t come to rough spots, when it comes to that and I guess, if you'll think it over, you'll find out that John Marrow was there 'most every time to help you over ‘em!” ‘There was shame on all the faces. “Now, Mr. Marrow’s old. Tle's slow, he’s old-fashioned, sometimes he's tire- some. We're tired of him, maybe. You young people think he's out of date.” Mebbe he is. He's great on faith—sort of his hobby. You say folks don’t talk about things that way any more. Mebbe not, but when the Dallas boy was arrested for steal- ing, I noticed how every last one of you girls and boys who'd played round with him, stuck by him! Times ain't changed so much—Only mebbe you practice faith more'n you preach it. And I wonder if you didn’t jearn your first lessons in faith right down there at the Corners church! Seems to me jt's up to us to put our shoulders under the wheel. There's| enough young folks up here to make a good, live Sunday school, and T don't know why you can’t have lots of good, jolly church socials like you used to have. A minister ain't all of a church, it’s got to have members. “Mebbe vou don't agree with all of Mr. Marrow’s notions, but, I say. when he's done so much for us all, we'd ought to stand by him for the few years he's got left. It would be worse'n shooting an old horse that can’t work any more, to let him go. He has a wife that's half invalid. ‘What would he do without the little he gets here? Why not even make it more? Most of us have been let to prosper. I'm willing to put another hundred a year in the salary, and I guess all of us could give some more if we tried. Mebbe I shouldn’t tell it, but last Thursday night 1 made up my mind to go to prayer meeting. I hadn’t been in a vear.” Jen paused, swallowed hard. Emotion was getting her, against her will! She went on, faltering a little . Old Mr. Marrow, all alone in the old church. Alone — after 27 years of labor for that church! Praying there —alone. Knowing he was a failure. They all saw him, as she had. “But he isn't, it's our job now to show him he hasn’t been a failure. To pay him back a little of what we've received from him. What if he hadn't been there those hard times I've spoken about? Folks, let's all get together again—Sunday morning!” * ok ok ok They were still for a long minute. Then Dot Laraway began to play soft- ly, “How Firm a Foundation,” and the 11 sang it. Allie stood up then. ou're right, Jen. We've been awful thoughtless. Why, when I think about that time we 'most lost Cora’ I'm willing to put a little more in towar raise in the salary; let's see if we can raise it 300, anyway— and tell him Sunday!” They gathered around Jen Culliton then, making pledges, drawn yet closer together by their new common cause. On Sunday morning Jen was there, as usual, five minutes before the last bell rang. There was old Walter Jones in his pew, Allie and her family in theirs—three or four others. Jen didn’t know quite what she'd expect- ed, but as she walked up to her place and sat down she was conscious of a sharp disappointment. It was all just as usual. Then she saw the two great crocks full of mountain pinks up by the pulpit. She saw, too. the little ta- ble down in front shining and free from dust. The first heaviness of heart turned to lightness. They shad meant it. Then she heard a car drive in beside the church, and another. ‘There was Johnny Frazier and Mary and their girl's children with them; Johnny's cousin Lem and his wife, the Payne bo; from down in the Hollow; Rill Follansbee, from up past Jen's. HE OLD RED PLUSH CHAIR BY THE LEADER'S TABLE. THERE WAS NO O} ELSE IN THE ROOM. With the flowers and the white dresses of the children and all it was like an old-time Children's day, Jen thought. Her heart was very full Johnny Frazier went up and lald an envelope on the pulpit. There was a aueer tension over the room. Folks were all acutely aware of each other and yet afrald to look at each other, a little ashamed of the emotion they ] could not hide. Old Mr. Marrow sat there with the envelope in his hands, staring at the paper it contained, even after they were all still, waiting for him to an- nounce the first hymn. Jen noticed how very white his hair was, how stooped his old shoulders, how deep the lines in his face. His hands, hold- ing the envelope, trembled. Jen sud- denly couldn’t look at him. She looked, instead, at the Plants children in the seat ahead of her. For an instant it seemed to Jen they were her Philip and Margaret come back out of the long ago. She remembered Mr. Mar- row's coming to dinner once and bring- ing them a little rabbit for a pet. Ie had always had a way with children. ‘The stillness in the big room was be- coming unbearable. It hurt. A soft breeze, sweeping across the room be- tween open windows, was almost voice. preacher in his worn Prince Albert. He_peered over his glasses at them, and the old habit bothered no one— suddenly only a loved part of him. “Dearly beloved,” he said at last in his quavering voice, then paused and drew out a big white handkerchief and rubbed at his glasses. Jen had a swift memory of a picture of “The Good Shepherd” that used to hang in the Sunday school room when she was a child. He'd been like that to them and they'd forgotten! For sever: seconds he stood there, rubbing aw at_the silver-rimmed spectacles, not alfle to go on. The whiteness of his handkerchief made Jen remember some one had said he did the washing since his wife had been so poorly. Mary Plants bent over, pretending to straighten her Tom's tie, and Jen saw her brush her sleeve swiftly acros her eyes before she lifted her head. “Dearly beloved,” he began again. swallowed hard and stopped. Jen's lids smarted; she ached to go on for him. Then he stood up, the shabby, old | E He séemed so very old and frail there, back of the great, glowing bouquets of mountain pinks. Too frail to carry all that great joy that crowded past his_emotion and found place in his kind, faded-blue old eves. That just giving an old man his rightfal dues should bring a look like that! Big Jea Culliton felt very small and humble? had a feeling that every one else in the room felt small and humble, too. Then strength came to the bent shoulders and_they straightened, it ever so little. Words came, too, halt- ing but fervent, stammering, but from such depths as, perhaps, only Jen had known existed. “The Lord is my Shepherd . . . T shall not want!” he said brokenly. “Friends, I forgot it. 1 was down in | the valley of the shadow—and I was afraid! 1 prayed for a miracle, not be- Tieving it would come! 1 feel little and hamed—that you should do this for me. I'm worn out. I can't do service for the Lord like I used to. I was dis- couraged, please God you will never know how discouraged! It—it was so black—I couldn’t see any light, mot even a small light. My faith was so small! No one came to the Lord's house to the mid-week service. I—T | rebelled—I thought I was all alone! | 1I—I've had poor luck these last years {on my place. Things wouldn't grow for me. My wife had to have a little | operation. I heard—I thought you |didn't want me any more. It—it seemed like a wall on every side. When—I thought I was going to leave you—after all these years—I— I'm an old man, I can't stand up to disappointments like I used to!” He fingered again the paper, looked down on them all; Jen thought again of he Good Shepherd.” He reached once more for his glasses. “TI'll try to work harder this vear. It—it's good to be wanted” There was suddenly the pathos of a wistful child in the old volce. on the old face was & kind of radiance | Even fiyaway Jeanne Laraway was fer suddenly unashanied. ! 1t afternoon Allle called Jer® ups vou heard about Marrow?” No; what is it “He—they found him in his chail this afternoon—just like he was leep. Jen, they said he was smil- ing? (Copsriht. 1026.) Fame to Evangeline and Acadians rowing relatives, their room. At the time of the funeral the yard and street will be crowded, as the entire town turns out, and all rela- tives close their places of business all day. As every one who dies has about a hundred relatives, this means lhnll business is practically at a stand- still. There is no race suicide in St. Mar- tinsville, and though it takes eight sons to act as pallbearers, there is generally that number ready for such a contingency. The mourning for the departed is by no means a temporary matter, and even neighbors will can- cel a party out of respect. Black i{s worn, as a mater of course, by even little children, and this is graded with regard to the closeness of the loss; father and mother require the heaviest mourning for three years; husband and wife for two, grand: mother and grandfather for one year. An aunt or uncle requires mourning for six months, and a cousin for three months, and flowers must be placed regularly on the grave each Sunday for six months. Of course, the period of this mourning is also indicated by a total eclipse of any kind of party, and one resident who lost her daughter wrote recently that she hasn't been out of the house for four years to any event. who sit apart in * ¥ k ¥ €] TN bon vieu cajin” regards poli- tics as highly important. The office of mayor or of sheriff is a dis- tinct honor, quite aside from the low emolument attached to such a post. Candidates are invariably Demo- cratic. in their sympathies, and .the winner keeps open house when the vote is anounced, but the loser closes up his place airtight and goes to Part of the fun is the encourage- ment of the voters, and in earlier days it is sald that. sometimes the cajins far out in the country were so- licited with substantial gifts of flour, or tobacco, and, in desperate cases, with a horse or buggy. = Rumor has it, however, that in some instances, the protege occasionally be: trayed his benefactor, in spite of the aforesaid princely retainers. Nowadays the barbecue is the big event of politics, and when a Senator is up for election this form of picnic is sure to be presented. In Louisiana a Senator ranks about equal to a President, and is greatly admired and loved. The political speeches are, of course, all in French, and form an im- portant part of the program of the barbecue, as does the dancing later, when wallflowers are conspicuous by their absence. The ox is roasted and sandwiches are made (kegs - of beer and casks of red wine were broached, of course, in the old days) and every one for miles around drives in for this big occasion. In the bygone days, when the en- gagement of a young couple was an- nounced, they were given a ‘“gumbo’ or an “egg-nog” rather than a “tea.” Gumbo is a local delicacy of the region that apparently requires great skill in preparation, according to Mrs. Brous- sard, wife of Senator Broussard of Louisiana. The Senator himself is a direct descendant of the exiled French- Acadians, and, needle‘ll dtofn}a:ly';l St. M: is very fond of , as heu?;::':lefiwn the town of New Iberia, only 7 miles away. Mrs. Broussard states: “You.cut uj chicken and oysters, for gumbo, brown your flour, with onions and ol celery, chopped and scraped. This all forms a thickish soup, which was served with rice and a glass of red wine.” 5 g According to Mrs. Broussard the very first hat made for women in America, prior to the Revolution, was made in the village of St. Martinsville, where today they wear the Ilatest known styles. “‘Previously women wore men's hats or scarfs over their heads,” she explained. Weddings are of the greatest pos- sible interest in the little French- Acadian community, and the prepara- tions for them are begun well in ad- vance. The bride has a tremendous assortment of lovely things to wear, as in the Old World, two or three dozen of each article, as well as of house linens. JIn earler days it was the custom of the bridegroom to provide the outfit worn by the bride on her wedding day, but it is no longer the vogue. A specially fine cook is engaged four or five days in advance to bake up a huge batch of fancy cakes for the reception, and these are all laid away on the pantry shelves as com pleted. The wedding cake is most im- portant, and is apt to be some eight “stories” high, beautifully frosted, with a wee bride and bridegroom on the top and small mementoes inside. As there are only two or three fami- les in town who are not of the Cath- olic faith, with the exception of the colored people, who are usually Bap- tists, the weddings are held at the his- toric old church of St. Martin's, be. side which is the revered grave of the original of Longfellow’s poem, Em- meline Labiche. o A honeymoon does not invariably require a wedding trip, so after a few days the friends pay calls, and the L (. i first Sunday after the wedding the happy couple appears in church, and for this auspicious occasion the bride wears a special dress of great’attrac’ tiveness made for the event. The marriage of widows or widowers is somewhat out of favor, and so the village has the pleasing custom of presenting them with a ‘“‘chari-vari,” when the newly married pair is serenaded with tin pans, horns and rattlings until, in self-defense, the door is opened and the crowd invited in to be “treated.” stubborn the uproar continues in- definitely,' night_after night if neces- sary, until finally substantial hospi- tality is afforded the energetic “musi- cians. * ok owx RIOR to 10 or 15 years ago, Christ- mas was celebrated at New Year, when the presents were dis- by “le Petit Bonhomme de Small shoes were placed at the open fire, and a big pillowes hung up at the foot of the bed, as no mere stocking would have held the anticipated presents. In those days. Christmas trees were not heard of, but every one received a big bag of firecrackers to set off, in addition to other gifts and every one in the little community plans to be at home for dinner on New Year day. Later in the afternoon, formal calls are paid to all friends and rela- tives, ‘and fancy prepared for the influx of visitors. There is no such thing as a “turkey dinner on Thanksgiving day” for the small boy of St. Martinsville, and he never even heard of Labor or Decora- tion day. The bank and the post office close with faithful regularity to celebrate these national holidays, If the bridal couple is | cakes and eggnog | but All Souls’ day, on the second of November, is considered the time to decorate the graves in the little ceme- tes and on Good Friday in Lent eve shop in the place is shut up tight for the day. Fourth of July arrives with floats !and jolly parades, but it is on Bastille day that the celebrations in the homes of these French-Acadian descendants commemorate an event in old France. There is no servant problem in St. Martinsville. Once a maid is engaged. she is generally with you for tne resc of your life, as the colored workers of the region are most faithful and loyal workers. An expert cook gets exactly $10 month, and this is considered a high wage, since be- fore the war a genius with the frying pan received only half that sum. Your general maid, who does no washing or cooking, gets $4 a month, and the laundress is glad to do a great big wash for the usual family of 10 children for a dollar and a half a week. Or she will scrub down the place for you for the gift of an old frock or hat. Often the m tress of the house will have half : dozen colored workers and pickanin. |nles around the place; one in the | kitchen, one washing, one cleaning the rooms, one in the garden, another {raking leaves, one wheeling the car |riage of the latest baby, and one fan« Ining the mistress herself with branch of a china ball tree. | Fifty-Four Years a Rector. The longest pastorate in the Protes- tant Episcopal diocese of Pennsylvania is held by the Rev. J. A. Goodfellow, rector for 54 years of one church in Philadelphia. MOSS-COVERED OAK ON THE BAYOU TECHE, WHERE LAND WAS RECENTLY DONATED TO LOUISTANA FOR A PARK IN MEMORY OF EVANG! E. A TRAIL FROM WINNIPEG TO THIS SITE, 3¢ 3E CALLED *“THE EVANGELINE TRAIL,” IS NOW BEING MADE. :