Evening Star Newspaper, June 9, 1929, Page 101

C. JUNE ©, 1020 PART 7. cather — Story by Bess Streeter Aldricl an 11" ho Caught the ter Aldrich—Is One y Memorial Azeard of That Fact It Is st Stories of the anted to carry out that old habit of protect- g her. “It’s ridiculous,” w¢ said. “It's beautiful,” mother said. If we expected his garden to deteriorate, we ere mistaken. He took more pains with t than ever. More often he came to the back Hoor with its products for us. Once, some one poke tactfully about paying him, that he bught to have some compensation for his work, e looked pained. “Oh, no,” he said, with Fentle dignity. ‘“Please do not speak of it hgain.” He found out the neighbors' various likes and islikes. “I put out some turnips for you,” he faid to mother. “I do not care for them my- kelf, but I want you to have some.” Yes, & ind old man. And he continued to manage the weather. ‘I do not want to intrude.” He came to the ack door. “But I see your family is making breparations to go to a picnic.” “Yes, Mr, Parline. Wouldn't you like to go ith us?” “Oh, no, thank you. You are very kind. But have work in my garden. I went to a picnic bnce in my youth. It was a very enjoyable becasion. I wanted to tell you that I think it will rain before night. The wind has switched o the east and the temperature is 5 degrees higher.” The queer old codger. And then, as the years went by, he began to clude others than the immediate neighbor- ood in his gifts—people he had not known be- ore and with whom he became acquainted in he cemetery. W hether his wife was bored by triviality of his life, we could not know. Vegetables, flowers and the weather—they were Mr. Parline’s whole existence. CEMETERY is a friendly place. You talk with people there whom you have not known in town. “The grass ought to be mowed,” you may say to the wealthy widow by her husband’s mausoleum, or “Do you think the peonies will be out by Memorial day?” to the Italian fruit vender by his baby's grave. So people who talked to the old man “out there,” even though they lived across town, became the recipients of his garden products. For three vears he lived his queer, busy life there alone wih his garden and his thermom- eters It was in December of the third Winter after his wife’'s death that the gray clouds of the big snow began rolling up from the northwest. Some one saw him slip out of his gate, lan- tern in hand, and hurry down the street. “You don’t suppose that poor old man is go- ing out there to the cemetery?” Mother was solicitous. She put a shawl over her head and hurried out a side door. We could hear her calling, “Oh, Mr. Parline!” When she came in she had deep sympathy in her eyes. “I told him I thought he ought not to go out when it looked so snowy. He said in his dignified old way, ‘That's why I want to go. I must get out for a few minutes before the storm breaks.’ I suppose he feels that he protects her just as he used to. Isn’t it pathetic?" We had supper. Company came. It began to snow—soft, damp, heavy flakes. It was late when it came to us that there was no light in the Parline cottage. Father went over. When he found no one, he went after two other neigh- bors and together they went “out there.” I think from the first they expected to find— what they found. He was huddled up against the stone, where he had crumpled while stoop- ing down to look at the thermometer. The doctor said death had been instantaneous, that he had evidently taxed himself hurrying to make the trip before the storm broke. They brought him home. Neighbors went into the little house, not so immaculate as in the old days, but in order. In the kitchen they talked in low tones about the old man, as though from the front room where he lay he might hear their comments. A queer old man, they all agreed, but kind, unusually kind. Mother went into the cellar and brought up scarlet-cheeked apples and mel- low pears. ‘“He would have wanted to pass them around,” she said, with that understand- ing of humanity which she always seemed to possess. Scrupulously she polished them be- fore she served them. (I‘HE cousin and a young married daughter came. The cousin cried a little, tears that were not especially sad. “I didn't feel that I knew him very well,” she told us. “When 1 took care of Cousin Sarah he was always very kind to me. He brought me everything from the garden and kept me supplied with fuel But I never really got acquainted with him. When we did talk it seemed to be only about the weather. But he was a good old man.” They took him “out there” where his wife was, and the dead geraniums under their thick covering of snow, and the parsley from the vegetable garden, and the thermometer. In the evening mother and I went over and sat a while with the cousin and her daughter. They replenished the fire in the kitchen stove with some of the wood Mr. Patline had brought in. They brought apples and elderberry wine from the cellar. The house had that lonely feeling which hangs over one from which a soul has just gone. Drawn by thoughts of the old man's hobby, mother walked over to the huge bank calendar hanging there on the kitchen wall. The last day of the year it was, and so the last of the, calendar with its one vacant page. Mothev thumbed over the closing pages, each ane filled with the old man's wavering writing. Indica- tions of snow. Wind in the east. Temperature 20 at the north side of the house; 19 at the barn; 18 out there. Underneath was a home- made set of shelves, all the old calendars of the bygone years in neat piles, the dates print- ed on the backs. Through the clean, small-paned window, we could see low clouds breaking and slipping into the cast. We were no doubt thinking the same thought—of the old man lying “out there” in the dignity of death, with the scudding clouds and the wind in the west, the old man who had lived close to the wind and the rain, the hail and the snow. Death would not seem so sig- nificant to him tonight as the importance of the setting—the rift in the clouds and the end of the storm. There was the last vacant page on the calen= dar. He would have wanted it filled. Mother looked at it for a moment, then, picking up the short, stubby pencil hanging limply on its long string, and wrote the weather for the day—the gentle old man’'s long day: Shadows gone from the valley—no night—and the need of no can- dle -— sunshine — eternal sunshine —and the Seven Stars. (Copyright, 1929.) Bringmg Up the Baby Continued from Page Eleven. “Yes, ma'm,” repiied the clerk. “What do you want today?” “Oh, anything will do,” she wearily responded. “Send me—send me a pound of hamburger,” and the butcher boy, jotting that down, went out of the house. T}m following day, to judge by the appear- ance of her eyes, the erstwhile soubrette had been weeping. She listlessly told the butcher boy he might as well keep on bringing hamburger steak every day till she told him different. “Right then,” regaled the butcher boy to the attentive Mrs. Bixly, who resided in No. 4 in the apartment house across the street, “I knew their marriage was tottering on the rocks. When a family starts taking hamburger reg’lar, there's something radically wrong. “It shows that they just don't care, and have given up hope. Not-that it's the fault of the hamburger, Miz Bixby. Just the same when a family takes to getting hamburger steady every day, I say there’s something wrong. Well, what did you tell me to bring this after- noon, Mix Bixby?" “Oh,” absently returned that lady, getting her mind back to the business in hand, “any- thing will do—might send up a pound of ham- burger.” A week later the outdoor emissary of the butcher shop, despite many proddings of the Maloney door bell, could get no answer, and he was turning away when a taxi drew up in front and Spike Maloney. suitcase in hand, stepped out. Secing the butcher boy he came on around to the rear, “Didn't know you'd been away, Mister Ma- loney,” vouchsafed the butcher boy. “Uh-hub,” rejoined that worthy glumly. “Been away several days on business. Things just ain’t going right lately and I'm all upset. I know you'll keep it confidential, but the wife and me has agreed to disagree.” “Yes, sir,” said the other. “And will you take this meat into the house? The back door is locked.” “Locked?” repeated the former pugilist blankly. “Then Honeybunch and the baby must be out somewhere. Say, how was Battling Buster when you seen him yesterday?” “He looked sickly to me, Mister Maloney,” truthfully replied the butcher boy. “Kind of peaked he was, and Miz Maloney said he wouldn’'t even drink his milk or play with his toys a-tall. Said he kept crying and putting his little hand to his side as if it hurt him. Said that if he got no better she might take him to the doctor.” “Gee-gosh!” exclaimed Spike, fear crowding his eyes. “She should of wired me. The kid's never been ailing before, Might even be at a hospital now. I must find out about it.” He hastened worriedly across the way to a house on whose porch reclined a lady neighbor. He said something to her, and at her answer he exclaimed in horror and immediately came running back to the surprised butcher boy. “Good night!” he ejaculated, white-faced and trembling. “She’s taken the baby to be operated on! And not a word to me about it! I must go to him! The lady give me the number. I must prevent it if possible. I can't have my boy operated on! It would kill me!” He dropped his suitcase and began to run wildly down the street, the butcher boy, in ex- citement, following. Rudely, the ex-boxer thrust aside amazed pedestrians, accidentally knocked down several stout ladies and gentle- men, lost his hat, planted a solid blow to a policeman’s jaw when that aggravated individ- ual essayed to stop his mad flight; and after five minutes of pandemonium, with the perspir- ing and saucer-eyed butcher boy at his heels, burst into an office in a business building. THE room, obviously, was of a dressmaker’s; there were machines, clothes models and racks of dresses and coats hung about. A thin lady, of foreign countenance, sat in one chair, and near her in another was ensconced Honey- bunch, while on Honeybunch's lap nestled Mar- maduke, reverently engrossed in sucking a lollypop. They glanced up, astonished, as Spike Maloney dashed frantically into the room. “My boy!” he cried, clasping the lad to his breast. “My baby! Are you wounded? Are you hurt? Oh, thank heavens, I was just fm time!” “What do you mean, Spike Maloney?” tartly demanded his stupefied wife. “Just in time for what?” “To save him from the operation!” he re- torted angrily. “You shall never have my baby cut open.” *Who said we was going to operate on him?™ Honeybunch, wrathful and bewildered, des manded of her red-faced spouse. “The butcher boy, here,” explained the ex« pugilist coldly, “told me the kid was ailing in the side yesterday, and a while ago the lady in the rear of our house said you had taken him uptown to have his, his ansambles cut out. “I didn't know there was anyithing wrong with the kid when I checked out, or I wouldn't have checked. And you never told me,” Spike accused his seemingly highly amused wmate, “that there was anything the matter with Mar= maduke’s ansambles. “As a matter of fact,” the ex-pugilist rattled on, “I didn't suspect the kid had ansambles, but whatever they are I'm back here to see that my boy don’'t go to no operating table and have his whole career ruined the way I did. If I'd of kept away from the incision makers the promoters wouldn’t be looking around today, for someone to wear the heavyweight crown. I'd be wearing it myself. “But that isn't what I came here to talk about. I'm here to keep you,” and he aimed an accusing forefinger at Honeybunch, “fromx wrecking this little feller’s whole life, and if he has anything cut out it will be over my dead Spike held Marmaduke out with the full length of his powerful arms and peered anxiously into the untroubled countenance of the future master of the art of self-defense, who continued contentedly to noisily reduce the size of the lollypop that distended his rosy cheeks, “You don't look sick, old timer,” said Spike, “and I'm here to inform you that no one's rcbbing you of your ansambles, whatever and wherever they are.” “Ze ensemble, M. Maloney-—don't you know what that ees?” the thin lady interrogated. “Not exactly,” defiantly confessed the man, “Doctors have such funny names for things. Buat I think it's something like the appendix.” “Ze ensemble,” elucidated the dressmaker, § “ees ze complete apparel. Ze baby ees now a grea, beeg boy, and so for heem I am going eut out hees ensemble, or hees leetle pants and hees leetle jacket.” SPIKE looked aghast at this sudden informae tion, the butcher boy back of him began to sniggle, and Honeybunch laughed rather hyse terically. But, glaring at the amused others, she went up to her mortified husband, put her arms around him and said: “I'm sorry you didn’t understand, dear. And Marmaduke is perfectly well today. I just meant to surprise you with his new boy’'s suit.” “*‘S’ all right,” mumbled Spike, “ ‘s’ all right. Bat I just hated to see him operated on. Ge», I been the dumbest fool!” “No, you haven't, disagreed Honeybuneh. “You're a dear, thoughful man; and I would of done the same. Maybe this has opened my eyes. I'm sorry I been so mean to you, Splke.‘ And I'm willing he should be a boxer just like you wish.” “No,” demurred Spike. “It's all my fault. I'n willing he should be a vaudeville star, just like 'you want him to be.” *‘A boxer,” said Honeybunch determinedly. “A vaudeville star,” said Spike firmly. “I said a boxer!” shrilled Honeybunch, gete tiag mad. “And I said a vaudeville star!™ shouted Spike, his face red. ‘The dressmaker interceded, smilingly. “But for why you all ‘don’t wait and let the leetle lad judge for heemself?” “Why, that's a good idea!” exclaimed Spike, “I never thought of it.” “Neither did I,” admitted Honeybunch. “And that's just what we will do. Please kiss me, Spike, darling,” and Spike darling did. As the butcher boy, disappointed that it was al} over, prepared to leave, Honeybunch turned to him and said, “Oh, by the way, you can stop that regular hamburger order. I waat a three-pound fryer tomorrow.” (Copyright, 1929