Norwich Bulletin Newspaper, October 26, 1921, Page 10

ADDY was a failure. Eighty D years of successive defeats had proved it. At two a mule had kicked him across a woodpiie. The scars still showed on his cheek. Starting with money, but handi- capped with too much confidence in hiz fellows, Daddy had trusted and g'ven away without thought of him- self. In course of time he married more money simply because the girl he Yoved happened to have it; and most of this went as had his own. But his wifo never questioned. Quite the re- verse. This was the golden thread in Dad- €y's life. When dying she said thero of more value than s one of them. ved as many oth- 2 wes housed Atie in a one for a cow- shed, in a and laid a rough floor of discarded slabs. He pald rent by chopping fire- The Great Failure wood for the o%ner. This morning, on his eighty-second birthday anniversary, Daddy was sit- ting on a box gazing questionably at the rags. He had bought them as he could, from door to door, with small amounts gleaned by chopping wood and doing odd jobs. The speculation had looked toward profit. But prema- turely the man who was to buy the rags dled, and the stock was left on Daddy’s hands. It didn’t mar the cheerfulnass of the knotty old face. That was always cheerful; his eyes al- ways twinkling. As he sat there, Dad- dy reached out his hands over an old stove, picked up in trade. The pipe led to a hole in the side of the shack. Around this hole a good deal of cold alr came in. The rag question was important just now. One of Daddy’s legs had stiff- ened under 2 sudden attack of rheu- matism so that his really dependable means of livelihood, the sawhorse in a corner and the wood saw on the wall, could not be used. “Hello, -Bill,” he called cheerfully. “Sit down on the box. Glad to have somebody to speak with—though f guess all your talk’ll be ’bout Liza Ruth. How soon you goin’ to get mar- ried?” “Don’t look like's ever,” gloomily. “Fact'ry’s shut down, an’ I'm out of work, an’ mothin’ likely to come till Spring opens, when there’ll be plenty o’ plowin’ an’ garden jobs around.” “Well, that’s only a few months.” “They'll kill Liza Ruth ’fore then. She grows peakeder every day Her uncle, toa! But then he just about works his own children.to death, an’ Liza Ruth’s only a niece. Don't give her half ‘nough to eat, an’ no clothes. Goes round this weather in a thin cal- fker an’ with shoes worn to her stockin’s. An’ I can't do a thing.” He dropped down with a force that almost crushed the box to the floor. “An’ I OTHER GREY watched the M last flash of her daughter’s smart little auto as it glided smoothly out of the driveway and down the road, with a feeling almost akin to relief. For the first time since she had fourneyed from the old New Hamp- shire farmhouse a month ago to live in her daughter’s luxurious home she was being left alome, and Mother Grey, though she chided herself guiltily for the thought, was undeniably happy at the prospect of three long days devoid of calls on and from Marion’s aristo- cratic friends; of being freed from the necessity of making elaborate toilettes, and of doing the hundred ‘other things with which Marion had contrived to keep her busy, with the well-intention- ed purpose of "keeping the dear little mother from dwelling on things.” Mother spent a happy hour in her little sitting-room arranging with lov- ing care the pictures of her old friends and neighbors from “back Lome,” smii- ing tenderly at cach dear familiar face. Then she unpacked her books—the big Bible, the volumes of poetry, her precious albums, and, away down at the very bottom of the trunk, her cook book! She turned the yellowed pages reverently. There were copies of reci- pes in many handwritings, some of the writers long since dead. “Oh!” exclaimed mother, “my fingers Jjust itch to go to cooking!” She glanced out of the window and beheld the maid going down the steps.. A sudden crafty little smile played around mother’s mouth Feverishly she divestéd herself of the shimmer- ing silk gown and donned a comforta- ble gingham house dress, relic of the happy days “back home,” and a blue checked apron. Armed with the cook- book she descended to the kitchen. A big pan of freshly-picked bluebherries sat on the table. “I declare!” crooned mother delight- edly, “if I won't make a berry pie!” She was in the midst of rolling out the crust when the front doorbell rang. Mother, freeing her hands somewhat from flour by the simple expedient of *OT » LO‘VETAND .. By Parke Whitney only figgered on $50,” he groaned. .“Seems like o b!g husky feller like me ought to get that. But {twould hire a small shanty back in the woods, put ia a few things an’ a stove, an’. pay the minister, an’ leave a little to start on groc'ries. Mighty skimpy, I 'low, but 'twould be taken care of her so much better'n she'll be over there. I'm scared to think how she'll get through the Winter.” Daddy nodded sympatheitcally. “I know just how you feel, Bill,” he said, “an’ I know Liza Ruth's uncle. We've Just got to get her away from theére.” His hand went {nstinctively into his pocket, then was withdrawn with a rueful laugh. “Gettin’ old an’ childish, Bill,” he apologized. “Now an’ then 1 forget. Long time ago I had money down in the bottom of my pockets, an’ when I'm sort of worked up I'm apt to feel for some. I wanted to give it to you an’ Liza Ruth for a start. But— say, how'd you like to go in with me here as partners?” “On’ what?” “Makin’ | plh:hvor]_( quilts an’ spreads,” explained Daddy. “I b'lieve there's money in it an’ I b'lieve I'm goin’ to be int’rested—I mean I blieve we all are.”. - Bill waited. “There's pleces ‘nough.on the floor an’ in them bags to make forty,” Daddy went on, an’ there's sale for such things round here. I notice some of the stores car- ry just common quilts marked $2 an’ real hand-stitched piece ones ought to be worth four times more. But even at $2, usin’ these rags, we could make money. What ’speclally started me is a fair they’re goin’ to have next month. You see, they give prizes to the fair, an’ ones that want to can mark prices on their quilts an’ sell 'em. ;l‘hey had a falr three years ago an’ I was hired to keep the hall clean, an’ I noticed they most all sold. Everybody seemed to buy.” “I can’t ‘sew,” objected Bill. “My fingers are too big. I couldn't gew on a button.” “Don't . need to,” edolly. “I canm. Been sewin’ an mendin myself up a good many years. Once when I was married an tied up with rheumatics, my wife learned me to knit an’ make lace an’ do fine sewin.” I'll handle the needle and’ you can wash out an’ iron the rags an" sort of help. “But that won't be fair to you.” ' “Yes, it will. Don't you see, it'll be company - for - me an’ "—he tried to jump up, but fell pack with a grunt as the lame leg refused to take part in such vioient exercise. “What's the matter?” asked Bill. “Nothin’, only a lot of idees struck me all at once, an’ I forgot the leg,” grimaced Daddy, but with his eyes twinkling. “You're ready to do any- thing; I s'pose?” “Anything that’s all right,” emphat- feally. “Well, take my saw an’ sawhorse an’ go over to Mr. Green's, the storekeep- er, an’ tell him you'll cut all his wood at take it out in groc'ries. That'll fetch him. Put today in there. To- morrow go to the minister’s and saw his wood. Take that out, too.” “What in?” asked Bi#l “Liza Ruth. But walt’l I get ---As in Olden Days through. Next day go to Hiram Pot- ter's an’ saw his two cords for money. He's give me the order, but tell him I'm laid out. Take his $2 and buy nails an’ hinges an’ a cheap door an' a one-sash window.” “What for?” dazedly: “To build a lean-to room. behind this. The owner won't care—an’ be- sides it'll be his when we're through. There's a pile of old slab lumber he told me to use for fire-wood if I want- ed to. It be plenty for the lean-to, You and I'll build—or, no, I forgot the leg. I'll work on the quilt an you'll build. You can do it in a day.or a day an’ a half, can’t you?” “Yes, but what—" “For me to move into, of course,” laughed Daddy. “You an’' Liza Ruth will move in here. We got to get her away from there, say, 'bout Sat'day. You'll go for her an’ take her to the minister's, then bring her straight here. Liza Ruth can help me with the sewin’, an you can hunt round an’ do all the jobs you can. An'—" But Bill: was gone. He had grabbed the saw and sawhorse and bolted through the door. Daddy chuckled softly, then went energetically to work at his piece-sort- ing. By Abner Anthony wiping them on her apron, and bliss- fully unconscious of the powdery ridge across Ler nose and cheek, opened the door. And there on the veranda, daintily booted, gowned and gloved, every care- fully marcelled gray hair in place be- neath her exquisite hat, stood Mrs. J. Augustus Blynn, come' to pay a call on the mother of her daughter’s most intimate friend! For one awful moment mother was seized with a wild impulse to slam the door in the aristocratic lady’s face, and flee from the house ere she disgraced her daughter still further. Then her natural good sense and kindly hospi- tality asserted itself. “Won't you step right into the draw- ing-room,” she invited, ‘and excuse me for jyst a moment. 1,” her eyas trav- efled uncertainly from her floury apron to her visito~’s face, “I was making a berry pie,” she finished bravely. A sudden gleam of interest flickered into Mrs. J. Augustus Blynn's bored eyes. “Berry ple!” she breathed. She laid a smooth jeweled hand on moth- er's gingham shoulder. “My dear, will you allow me to come into the kitchen and watch you? Oh, those berry pies I used to make!” she continued, shak- ing her head reminiscently, as she fol- Jowed mother eagerly into the big, airy kitchen, “Weren't they 'stmply delicious—ah, I see you're using an old-fashioned deep pie-plate. That's as it should be. These modern shallow ones are painfully inadequate. May T Just see your recipe?” She took the cook book eagerly, her habitual air of bored indifference quite gone, ‘as she turned the pages. Suddenly she uttered a little delighted shriek. “My mother’s Sunshine Cake!” she exclaimed joyfully. “There never was another rule that equalled it, and I lost hers years ago. She taught me to make it when I was a girl, and folks said it was just like hers.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I could make that sunshine cake after all these years, I know I could,” she murmured half to herself. . By Joella Johnson e e —————3 EE! girls make me tired. Let G a young doctor come to town and every girl in the place makes it a point to—" “Bob West!” cried Bob's sister, starting up from the couch,a red spot on either cheek, “if you think I've been mear him, you're mightily mistaken. 1 wouldn't go near his old office if I was dead!” With the last word, Phylis burst in- 10 hysterical weeping, and buried her face in the cushions. “Aw, forget it,” said Bob, “I wasn't hitting you, anyway. Guess I'll be go- ing while the going’s good. So long!” Outside the door his lips puckered into a whistle. Whistling, he emerged Benevolent Sister down the walk. Now, one’s lips may be engaged in whist’ing the gayest of gay airs and at the same time one’s mind be occupied with the working out of a solution to some weighty prob- lem. Bob was thinking, not-a new oc- cupation for him, although it would be hard to make anyone in Mansfield be- lieve it. “I wonder what's the matter with old Pril (Phylis was just four ycars her brother’s senior). She did look 2l in, come to think of it. Let’s see; she’s been working for old Bainbridge going on five years, and anybody that knows anything knows he's fierce to work for.” So ran Bob's thoughts. “Why is Phil working?” asked his conseience. “She’'s working for you! -For you! For same monitor. It was true. Unable to attend col- lego herself, Phylis was determined Bob should. In the fall he was to enter Harvard. He had been working all Summer, but it had been pleasant work, that of taking parties on the lake in an up-to-date motor boat be- longing to the one hotel which the village boasted. The cool breezes from the lake were preferable, ah, much, to the dingy back room where Lawyer Bainbridge had his office and where Phyllis was em ployed as his stenographer. As Bob’s thoughts reached the pqint where it seemed as if every bird on the bough screeched forth words: “She's you!” answered the working for you! For you!” nhe slammed the front gate, and stepped from the curb directly in the path of 3 tearing, tooting, oncoming automobile. The next thing that Bob knew he heard 2 groan. Again he heard it, and yet -again. The sound was close by, ah, very close. He opened his eyes. Aface he had seen before somewhere bent over him. “You young scalliwag!” came a brisk voice, “wait iill I get you out- side you'll sport more than one black eye.” At that Bob tried to sit up but firm hands kept him down. In the room someone sobbed. Came the brisk voice: “No bones broken. Bruises, lots of from the house. Whistling, he strode ONNY-BUNNY and Little Moth- S er were looking in at the mil- liner’s window. They were al- most laughably alike, with their curly brown hair, blue eyes and trim slight-' fess, and the expression on the two faces was much the same as Sonny- Bunny's in front of the candy shop dtspl. Their eyes were riveted upon 2 dainly creation of white straw anll pink roses. Even the little boy knew it just to be the thing for Little Moth- or “Go in an’ buy it, moth’,” he begged. “Can’t, Sonny,” said Little Mother, ber che tone belying her longing eyes. “There haven’t beeu enough weddings this Spring. “Weddings?" queried the child. “Yes; you know daddy gives me the wedding fees for my own. This year there haven't been enough so I can of- £5rd a new hat.” A% this moment the minister drove up in his sbiny Ford and took his wife and little son for the homeward drive. The new Ford had been necessary but almost too expensive. This had some- thing to do with the lack of money for a new hat fox Little Mother, Wken Sonny-Bunny got home he changed into his blue overall suit and went out in the parsonage orchard to reflect. He did it in the crotch of the August-sweet trees, which grew low and was a capital nest for a smalil bor. Little Mother needed some weddings, he knew a little about weddings, for mother had explained something about them when young couples had come to the house. As far as he could see, though, weddings came unsolicit- ed. Sonny-Bunny was positive that his father did nothing to attract custom. At this moment Silas Lovejoy chaned to drive by. The sight of him started the child’s mind upon a new tack. A conversation between his pa- rents, overheard only the other day, ‘em, but let’s be devoutly thankful it's no worse. I hope it's enough, how- ever, to cure him from throwing him- self in front of automobiles in general, and mine in particular. I'll run in again during the day.” “Gee, I had the funniest dream,” said Bob with a yawn. It was in the wee small hours of the night, and Phyllis had shooed her mother off to bed and taken her place by Bob's bed- side, “I dreamed you and Dr. Boyd met each other at Aunt Kate’s last Sum- mer, and just because ‘we haven't got whacks of ‘mon’ you wouldn’t let him know where we lived. In the dream Dr. Boyd came dancing into the rcom Just as if he were young.” Mother’s kind eyes were soft with sympathy, and a crazy little idea came into her head. “Dear Mrs. Blynn,” she said, “how would you—" she hesitated, aghast at the very boldness of the sug- gestion, “why won't you let me get you one of my house-dresses and you can make your mother's sunshine cake, right now.” “Oh!” breathed her visitor, “if you only would!” Ten minutes later Mrs. J. Augustus Blynn stripped the rings from her d :in- tily manicured hands and plunged eager fingers into the big brown mix- ing bowl in her lap and began “cream- ing” the butter and sugar for the sun- shine cake, “He is young,” murmured Phylis, laying her head on Bob's pillow. “And he said,” continued Bob, “‘Ah, " Ive tound you at last and I'm never going to let you go!' Say, honest, sis. aren’t you sorry you've got a broth- er? “I'm sort of sorry for the girl who hasn’t a brother,” came from the oth- er end of the pillow. “You're a good sport, Phil,” com- mented her sbrother, pulling her long braid of hair. It was his style of be- stowing a caress, and Phylis with a happy heart accepted it as such. It was some- weeks later that as young Dr. Boyd was picking Bob up quite as though he were a baby and was depositing him in the chair by the window Bob opened his mouth and shot out these words. “We've troubles enough without you hanging around here.” : “Troubles. What do you call trou- bles?” queried Dr. Boyd. But Bob was gazing out bf the win- And in due time the berry pie, all flakey golden crust stained here and there with little purple pools to hint at the lusciousness beneath, and the sunshine cake, a thing of beauty and fragrance, were placed side by side o cool. “I haven't been o happy for years!” declared mother’s visitor. 3 “I'm so glad!” beamed mother cor- dially, then her bright face clouded. “I don't know what Marion will say,” she said hesitantly. “Maybe I'd better mot tell her.” “Nonsense!” differed Mrs. J. Augus- tus Blynn decidedly, “it's high time we began teaching our daughters to cook!™ dow. “Dr. Boyd,” he said suddenly, “what do you think of a fellow that allows his sister to work herself to shreds to put him through college?” “I think it's high time he put the brakes on and stopped it,” answered the doctor. “I'm going what's more—" “Hold on,” interrupted the doctor, “I'm not done. I was about to add and let her husband advance the funds.” Bob glared at him, “I'd see a sister of mine skin her husband out of the money to put me—" Bob stopped. “Who's she going to have for a husband?” he asked suspi- ciously. A “She’s promised to give me a try at it,” answered the doctor with a grin. “I had a hunch it was you,” sald Bob with an answering grin, “I guess all the balm that's been used in this house in the past fortnight liasn’t been used on me,” he added. to,” sald Bob, “and By Jennie Slater recurred to his memory. “How long has Silas Lovejoy been going with Abbie Dunn?” mother had asked. 2 “Seven or cight years,” had been the minister’s reply. “Well, I should think they would get married now,” mother had said. “Since old Mrs. Lovejoy died there's nothing to prevent.” '“Silas is 2 man of habit,” responded the minister. “He’s got into a rut, and he’ll stick there till somebody or some- thing jolts him out of it.” ‘The mental processes of a child may be. as direct as light, or as circuitous —well, as a country road. After mull- ing it over for a while Sonny-Bumny concluded that it would be a good idea to mention the subject of weddings to Mr. Lovejoy. . That afternoon Sonny-Bunny went fishing in the brook. There was 2 myth that a trout lived in this brook, and Sonny had spells of trying to catch him. On the other side of the brook was Mr. Lovejoy’s potato patch, and in the patch the owner, hoeins. Sonny had thought he might be there. By and by, the trout declining to ap- pear, the small boy went over to visit Mr. Lovejoy. “Hullo,” respoded the child. He sat down beside the green rows, in the shade, and watched the man work. By-and-bye Mr. Lovejoy came and drank from the water jug hidden in the 3 bushes near the child and sat down to rest a bit. “Mr. Lovejoy,” said Sonny-Bunny se- rlously, “did you ever think about get- tin’ married?” “Hey? What? Git married? for?” cried the man. “Why lots of folks do—you know— and then you'd have somebody to do the housework,” stammered Sonny, a trifie frightened. “Well, I never seemed to get round to it.” “It says on one of the motto-cards at school, ‘Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today,’” said Sonny. “And Moth’ says today is all the time ‘What anybuv!y ever has to do anything, Yes- terday’s gone and tomorrow never gets here.” = “She’s a wise woman,” said Silas. “Daddy says a man without a wife is a poor mis’ble thing,” remarked Sonny.' “He says Moth’ has bgen the making of him.” » “Sho!” “Mr. Lovejoy,” timidly, “are you a poor mis'ble thing ’cause you ain't married?” A pause. “Yes, I be!” whs the re- ply. “Then don’t you think you better get married right off?” suggested Sonny. “Yes, I do!” came the answer with emphasis. A week later the minister almost had heart failure when Silas and Abbie Dunn appeared at the parsonage to get married. Unfortunately Sonny-Bunny was in bed and knew nothing about it till next morning. He saw the bill which his' father gave to his mother, however, the same that Mr. Lovejoy bad handed him with the license. It was big enough to cover the new hat and the white pumps little mother wanted. Sonny-Bunny feels sure that he engl< neered that wedding—and so he did— but somehow he Las never felt just like telling even little mother anything about his connection with. it! Return of Big Bear By Elsie Endicott I { OLDEN-HAIRED Sonny, the G pride of the Thurston house- bold, had never before been punished. On this occasion, his pa- rents had decided that to further *“gpare -the rod” was to “spoil the ehild” Asaresult of this decision, gonny was called into the living room and his chastisement delivered with great solemnity, then he was sent to bed. SFrom his bed the child could see tha moon arise; he counted the stars and planned what he would do could he be up there among them. But as the grievances of childhood are soon for- gotten, he thought of the splendid time he had had rioting around the garden disguised zs an Indian chief. “It was nice fun,” thought the chief, “to behead the sunflowers, for they were so- tall.” What was the use of moping in bed when the stars were calling him, and besides, didn’t Big Bear go out after dark? After reaccning cut his childish Icgle, the rroden Indian twined the bed spread about him (for, in his pic- ture book, Big Bear was enveloped in a blanket) and fearlessly went down the dark back stairs for a last skirmish before sleeping. After skulking around in all the dark corners of the garden without finding any enemy, the cautious Indian crept Tp behind the Summer house. On hearing voices within, he thought his chance had come to.toma- hawk someone. So he-awaited the op- portune time. There! There’s your ring, Jack Nor- ton, and never speak to me again.” (Sonny recognized the voice as that of his Aunt Alice.) “This is final?” No response. “Then I understand that silence gives consent,” with these words Jack strode away. Sonny sat down and pondered. Sonny sat down and pondered. “What did this mean?” But, being an active lad, he:decided to investi- gate and entered the Summer house. There he saw a white figure crum- pled in a heap moaning, “Why did you leave me? Why did 1 let you go?” This made the child sorry for his misdeeds so he crept softly up to hgr saying: i “Aunt Alice, I didn’t runaway. I'm back again.” : Receiving no answer but the same “Why did you leave me?” he said: “Do you mean me, Aunt Alice, or do you want Mr. Norton?” . Sonny walted a short while for a re- ply and receiving none he untwined the spread from about him; giving it to the weeping girl with this statement: “I guess you mean Mr. Norton. Dry your eyes on this so they won't be red when I bring him back.” Mr.and Mrs. Thurston who were en- joying the cool evening on their front porch were amazed at seeing a littie boy in white pajamas go speeding up thestreet, and were thankful that their son was sound asleep under the cov- ers. 3 Up the street ran Sonny, never stop- ping ‘till he reached his destination, which was when he collided with a young man who. was disconsolately walking homeward. With what. little breath he had left, and with much stamping of his right foot, the brave” Indian gave vent to his feelings. “You bad, naughty man! Don’t you know any better than to'make my Aubs Alice cry. You ought to be ashamed of yourself to make a girl ery. I wouldn't do that to anybody smaller'n me. I'm going right home and tell my daddy on you.” g He would have turned to carry out his threat had not Norton stayed him and questioned: “How did you get here?” Sonny’s fighting blood was up, “I ran here "cause you made Aunt Alice cry. C'mon back”and ’pologize, same as I do when I quarrel with Cousin Nettie.” ‘Tugging at Jack's coat in his anxiety to bring him back to Aunt Alice, he told of how he had overheard the last part of their disagreement, but before the child had finished his tale Norton caught him up in’ his arms aud hure ried back to Alice. « .- © i . e