The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 6, 1903, Page 11

. THE SUNDAY CALL. woman boasts that does not love children, ehy off; there is something wrong. Her heart or her head needs disinfecting, or her spleen 1s dislocated The love for Children begins in a miniature little woman when she hugs her first dolly to her baby breast, purs- ing it with all the tenderness of the grown up mother. Should anything happen to her dolly her little heart is broken and she will ery her little self to sleep with all the abandon of the big mamma who later on folds littie dead hands In sorrow and weeps In anguish over a little white coffin. Of course, there are children whom no one on earth could love, but I ques- tion if it be not the mother’'s fauit. The child who is loved at home grows up with a eraving for love, which will crop up, and love wins love In return that keeps the heart warm and bright despite the cruelties of fate. There are many women who are about as capable of filling the maternal role as they would be to handle a pow- der magazine, and the fact of mother- hood does not always carry with it a patent right to all the virtues to which sentimentalists give it a clean bill of sale There are many ways to love little people and the more sensible and rea- sonable the love the greater will be the respect engendered in a child’s heart. The foolish extravagant subservience that some mothers lavish upon a child is enough to disgust the little one it- self, who soon realizes that the mother is too weak and "king in character to instil into its mind and heart such pre- cepts as will best fit it for the battle of life not think that too much love spoiled a child or any one else, too little, with its burden of ne- furnishes the timber filling out nal institutions xcessive coddling with money ad bitum ruins many children, who, er being allowed one moment with- the ndance of a host of hire- up without a thought or f that self-rellance which is the ental principle of sturdy ma- glect, pe n turity it is not the sons of moneyed kings who forge a way to the top of our great institutions, it is the men who have had to dig their own way, who win through their own pluck. And the mother who molds the char- acter of such men deserves the meed of praise. The twentieth century idea that chil- dren are to be permitted to grow and not be decently raised finds few &dvo- cates among sensible people, or those who have at one time or another been engaged in the strenuous -occupation of keeping a set of live, energetic youngsters from making bonfires of themselves or of the roof tree, or in- dulging other equally wild investiga- A BO> \S MADE MORE GENTLE HR-OU ASSOCIATION SH AT LITTLLE SGIRLS tions in which the inquiring mind of a 3-year-old delights, and one young- ster bubbling over with an investigat- ing mania can manage to perpetrate more outrages in ten minutes than a grown-up would think of in ten years. The woman who loves children, be she mother or maid, can easily ac- quire the art of managing them by keeping little minds in the right chan- nel when she wouid not be able to ac- complish anything did she adopt sterner methods. The first time one comes in contact with a little one, be it girl or boy, generally settles it whether it shall be peace or war between them. The woman to whom children natur- ally trend has always much in her fa- vor, and her manner toward them re- flects her character. I do not belleve in the “ootsie toot- sie” business, but think a mother should treat her little people as if they had a reasonable share of commom sense from the time they are old enough to understand what is sald to them. There should be hours of play that should have all the fun that could be crowded into them, these to be followed by hours of rest. Little people need rest and quiet as much as they need air and sunlight, and, goodness knows, the mother and nurse and every one else needs a lit- tle rest, too, when sleepy time comes. A child has no past. It turns its lit- tle back upon each day with the set- ting sun and accepts the present as each day dawns. Over the sea of life it builds its castle in Spain and delights in dpeams of the future. The present is the moment which it recognizes and those interwoven with its life should seek to make even the sunshine brighter. The childhood of some little people is sadder far than the dreariest romanc- ing of fiction, and few appreclate the ifttle rorrows that steal into a child's life; robbing it of its birthright of hap- plness. Children who have not been allowed to revel In mud ples miss half the de- lights of childhood, and the housewife who invented overalls for little people deserves the gratitude of progeny. If any one has ever known a child who did not love its “blue jeans” it must bave had an abnormal streak some- where. The boy who has a carpenter shop in an old-fashioned attic and a palr of BY. COLONEIL. L Y THE W oMAaNn AR OUND ¢ WHOM CHILDREMN cLUSTER. 'S TTHE " omA™ \WwWHOSE HEA™NRT overalls in which to demonstrate his accomplishments In manual training, incidentally investigating all the oid clocks or rubbish there accumulated, is the envied of his set. And the wee maiden who can also don her overalls and be her little boy friend's compan- fon 1s more than delighted. The companionship of little boys and girls improves the character of both. The boy is made more gentle and ten- der by the association, and the girl ac- quires more force and strength, men- tally, morally and physically, than when reared in an exclusively feminine atmosphere. And the woman who loves children— ‘well, she is sure to be better, truer, no- bler and more womanly. She is a better wife, a tenderer mother and a more genial companion for both old and young. There is something appalling in the present social condition, where moth- ers are so absorbed by outside duties ~3 to be almost strangers to their own little ones. And little people do more thinking than they are given credit for. I heard a miniature littia soclety woman of five remark some time ago: “Mamma is very sweet, and I love her, but I know my nurse.” There is not only a powerful, but a rather touching on embodied in this unconscious plaint of childhood that might do better service for pulpit oratory than many of the eloquent tirades and sensational explosives by which so-called divines seek to achieve reputations and bank accouats. The woman who boasts that she can successfully divide her time among a number of outside Interests, club or otherwise, must of necessity neglect the one or the other. A woman with a fam- ily of little people, and sometimes one is more care than half a dozen, has all that she can attend to if she stays at home and minds her own business. The woman who does not care for children should not marry. The many stories lately ventilated anent a noted writer of children stories who so beau- tifully depicted child life caused & shock to many of her admirers. This womkn frankly admitted that she hated children and when consent- ing to become the wife of a widower, the father of two sons, she exacted the . W Mrs, S - T was commonly sald in Centervale that old Jim Stetson held the strings of his own purse and “kep’ a pretty tight holt on ‘em, too.” This ker- el el of truth from the chaff of the town gossip Mrs. Stetson was turning over in her mind as she darned socks under the yellow light of an anclent kerosene lamp one evening early in Christmas week. On the other side of the table her lord and master, Old -Jim—he of the closely held purse strings—perused the pages of the Weekly Mirror through two pairs of spectacles. Btetson was a middle-aged man of meédium height, inclined to portliness of figure and baldness of the head., His face was clean shaven save for the stubble of iron-gray beard on the chin, and this rather emphasized the hard, stralght lines about his mouth. which gave his face that expression locally characterized as “sot.” She glanced covertly across the table many times and furtively cleared her throat before she found sufficient courage to address her liege. “Father,” she began at length, a trifie more apologetical than usual, N THE RGHRT PLace e el ¥ ONE OF THE EIGHT--BY OT < (Copyright, 1903, by Otho B. Senga.) 3 BRAHAM ADAMS set his square jaws together in a manner not entirely pleasant to behold. He was " not a handsome man NV B at the best, and this A expression of stern determination did not add to his at- tractiveness.- “This thing has gone far enough,” he sald, aloud. “One way or another it shall be settled, and settled to- night.” He stretched out his long, lean arms and looked grimly at the great, bony hands. “One of those fellows wears a ring and plays the plano,” he: thought; and a ghost of a smile .touched the firm mouth. He walked with long, slow steps to the mirror and gazed at the face re- flected there. It was not unlike the man for whom he was named. with the high cheekbones, wide mouth, deep-set eyes and large nose. “You're not much to look at. Abe, he said, shaking his head at the re flection, “‘and Bruce is as handsome as a girl—and a good, square fellow, too,” he added, honestly, Abraham Lincoln Adams had come from a country home and a country lawyer’s office three years before. He had passed the examinations with high honors, and since his on to the bar had been remarkably success- ful. He felt that he was now in a position to ask the girl ‘of his choice. to share his life and the honors he was sure the future held for him. He had known the girl since child- hood. He was a big boy, studying algebra, when she sat dangling her plump legs on the front seat devoted to the infants. He Had t one term in that same school,"and she had tortured his faithful heart by an ab- sorbing interest in a pink-cheeked boy in her class, and by an utter inablility to master the mysteries of X, Y, Z. . He had left her with no word of love—he had his way to make, and the letters between them were few an unsatisfactory. . A year axo.she had come to Boston * to study music, and his honest soul had rejoiced. How happy he would be in having her so nedr. He could see her often, and take her about a good deal; and it would not be long now before he could tell her of the great love that was in his heart. of his hopes for the future, his plans for her happiness. But to his dismay he found Tillle hedged about, in a most inexplicable fashion, with formalities and conven- tions hitherto unknown. Eight young women had rented a furnished house, and with an aunt and uncle as housekeeper and pro- tector, were living in a little world of their own, superior to boarding-houses, and with a fine contempt for “homeg” and institutions. Adams wasn’t ‘quite sure whether the aunt and uncle were rented with the house, or if they were really related to one of these very modern young women. He called several times and was cordially received; but upon every oc- casion at least thrge of the other young ladles were present, and re- mained during his entire stay. Then he tried the plan of writing to Tillie, inviting her to accompany him to a lecture or concert. The little notes he received In reply were sweetly courteous, but he felt somehow thrown back upon himself—chilled and repulsed. , “You must remember that I am only one of elght,” was the tenor of the sweet little notes; “no one of us ac- cepts an invitation for herself alone. Which one of the girls would you like to include In your very pleasant plan for Thursday evening, or Satur- day afternoon?” ete. Then he settled down to a regular call .on Wednesday evening. He met all of the young ladies, and really had mu- opportunities for conversing any one of the others than with the one he sought. Bright, pretty girls they were, each earnest in her work, with high aims and youthful ambitions. An artist, a schoolteacher, a ter, a music teacher, a violinist, kindergart- ener and an r made up the list. Often there were other men there, and Adams soon discovered that he was not the only one who would like to see Tillie alone. After awhile he began to ‘wonder if the other men were as com- ]" By J. B. Oxford. | —_— & *“so long’'s Marthy goin’ to bring her husband home here for Christmas don't you think we'd better have a turkey 7" Hér husband turned to her. pairs of spectacles gave his fa pression of ridiculous ferocity. “Turkey?” he inquired explosively. “T guesa chickens'll do well enough.” “Last year when we was up to Mar- thy’s place we had turkey,” Mrs. Stetson pursued. “Seems to me we ought to do as much for them.” “1 cal'clate a pair of them chickens'll be full as good,” sald Stetson. “They're nice chickens, I know.” said Mrs. Stetson. “Them Plymouth Rocks is as plump as can be: but it seems though turkey fitted Christ- mas Dbetter—'specially when you're goin’ to have ¢ompany. Why couldn’t you kill one of them two turkeys I hatched out under the old black hen last spring and like to run my legs off bringin’ up? They're likely look- in' fowl, and one would be plenty bix enough for us.” “I sold 'em this mornin’,” said Stet- 80! The two an ex- Sold ’em?” she gasped. “Yes. Tom Babb wanted a pair of turkeys _to raffle off up to his store the night before Christmas, so I let pletely shut out as he, and the unwel- come thought suggested itself that Til- lie might manage to see him alone if she really wanted to. “Can it be that Tillle doesn’t care to see me?’ he asked himself. un- easily; “if it were so wouldn’t she tell me?” His own nature was so simple and direct that this would seem the most kind and true thing to\do. He could not understand the feminine com- plexity that led the girl to enjoy his unwavering, unspoken ~devotion. The protests of the other girls that she was unfair to the man, and did not deserve such homage, only Increased her determination to hold him at this disadvantage, and to ward off as long as possible the declaration she knew she’ must hear when once they were alone. But now he was resolved. He would not be a plaything for a girl's whim. Under cover of greetings from eight laughing girls, he was able to ask Til- lle if she would go for a short walk with him. “With another of the eight?” she asked, archly. “No, alone.” Tillie shook her pretty head in re- fusal, but her.heart beat faster. There was something new in the man’s tone— something masterful and commanding. that she had never known before. After a few minutes, he wandered. with apparent listlessness, to the fire- place, and, turning, faced the group. *Tillie!™ Y At the sound of the firm. compell- ing voice, eight astonished faces were turned toward him, and eight pairs of bright eyes gazed at him in constrained silence. He took out his watch and held it in his hand. He looked only at Tillle— for himg the others were not there. _Some foreshadowing of the greatness that was yet to be his fell upon the thin face and gaunt figure, and lent a strength and dignity that awed the girl's soul and held her gaze captive. “Tillie,” speaking slowly and clear- 1y, “in exactly two minutes I am go- ing to proposé to you. If you wish your seven friends to remain. I have no objection—" A horrified, gasping “Oh!” In sev- eral different voices, a rustle of silken petticoats, and seven breathless girls condition that these children should not share their home. And the man complied. Underlying this also one might read another sermon, or perhaps it ‘might more aptly be styled a tragedy. The woman who carries a fat, woozy poodle in her arms and drags a tired child by the hand is a sorry commen- tary on the pecullar workings of the feminine mind. The woman who has ro higher ambi- tion than to be led around by a dog at the business end of a string is hardly worthy of even decent Christian burial. The woman around whom ' children cluster is the woman whose heart is in the right place. Little people are exceilent judges of character, and the woman who is equally at home whether presiding at some stately function or entertaining a bunch of youngsters is the woman who will make the best wife and mother, and the old-maidy, actimonious female whose teeth are set on edge by a child's laughter had better remaln an old maid, or some fellow will be blooming sorry for himself before the curtain rings dgwn the grand finale. tetson’s Revolt *# bim have 'em.” Mrs. Stetson straightened herself in her chair. She felt the “stiffeninz” xo out of her knees, but her eyes flashed. Under the gross injustice of this thing her “crushed sperrit” had revolted. “Them turkeys was mine,” she sald in a voice whose tone was new te him. “I s'pose you paid for all the corm and grain they et,” he sneered. “They was mine,” she reiterated, and there was neither appeal nor apol- ogy in her words. “I guess it's pretty well settled whe they belonged to,” he said grimly. She rose from her chair and stood before him. She trembled violently, but her eyes never falterd as they looked into his. she said, ehokintlyx. “Jim Stetson,” “I'm goin' to have Christmas as want it. I'm goin’ to bave a turkey— if I have to steal it.” To his amazement she swept from the room before he could reply, and banged the door arter'hzr. . . . . - In the big bare room back of Tom Babb's store the Christmas raffle was in full swing. The room w hazy with rank tobacco smoke and the pungent smell bf recently consumed spirits pervaded the place. The sport- ing elemtent of Centervals with much laughter and many broad jokes shook the dice on an old counter from a dilap- jdated dicebox. In one corner the, twe turkeys were hung consplcuously for critical inspection. 9 At 9 o'clock the door leading from the front store opened. The crowd as one man craned heads to greet the newcomer; but Instead of bolsterous jibes they stared in amazement. and suddenly fell silent, for into the room, thin, frail, but determined, strode Mrs. Stetson. “T want to raffle,”” she sald simply. “How much does it cost?" “Twenty cents for three throws.” #ald Babb. Mrs. Stetson change. Much might be written of her ex- perfence In that dingy room: of how she threw to the limit of her cash capital (60 cents); of how one of the Dayton boys showed her how to count the dice, and as he bent above them slyly. turned them over to count higher. But that has all passed Into the offictal (unwritten) history of the town. Suffice it to say that at 9:30 Mrs. Stetson strode homeward with & plump turkey under her arm and the odor of vile tobacco about her clothes. Her husband sat by the kitchen table as she entered. She threw her bundle on the floor beside him. “T got my turkey,” she sald in chal- lenge. “Eh? Where'd you git it,” he sald stupefled. “At the raffle,” she sald deflantly. She was prepared for a storm of his wrath. She knew in that event just what she would say. To her sur- prise he calmly undid the bundle and critically inspected the bird. he sald “Good looking critter,” “You done first rate.” She felt the hot tears in her eyes. Her throat seemed parched and chok- ing. She sank into a chair. “] never done fust rate, neither™ she sald, brokenly. “It was all tobacco smoke—and they’d been drinkin'—but you drove me to it.” He smiled grimly. The hard lines about his mouth softened. He came over to her chair and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. Her sobs were unrestrained. “Sho!” he sald uneasily. “Don't take on so, mother. I promise you you won’t never have to raffle for another turkey—never.” passed over the HO B. SENGA ¢ scampered out into the hall and up the stairs. “Of course she’ll refuse him.” cried the girl who wrote stories; “isn’t he horrid?” “No,” answered the woman whe read stories; “he is mahifesting the one needful quality, and Tillle will mar- ry him.” “If she doesn't,” chimed in the ar- tist, “it will show that she lsn't bright enough to recognize a great maa ia the days of his obscurity.” “In which case,” added the xirl with the violin, “I shall try for him my- selt.” This was the last, and certainly the most stounding. Each girl went sliently to her own room, feeling that a great crisis had come in the life of one of the eight. Left alone, at last, with the girl he loved, Adams made no movement te approach her. His eyes had never left her face, and she ‘had not been able to look aside even when her com- panions fled from the room. “Tillie,” the grave voice grew sol- emnly tender, “I have loved you for years, and you have known it. There was small need for me to declare a love that had been yours since child- hood, and 1 would not seek to bind you by any promise until I could offer you a home as well as a heart. I am now ready to do for you all that & man can do for the woman he loves. Come to me, Tillle, and tell me that my love is returned—that you will be my wife, Tillle—" He held out his hand—the sreat, bony hand that wore no ring and could not play the plano; and the dark, homely face was illumifed with the mighty love and exceeding tender- ness that only a strong man knows. The girl rose slowly, her eyes still fixed on his, and moved toward him. as if impelled by some stronger power. #Half way she stopped. and raised & pitiful, pleading face to him. “Abe,” she whispered, “Abe, are you going, to make me come all the way?" He had intended to, but the passion- ate, thrilling sweetness of his bovhood's name overcame his resolve. One long step and he caught her in his arms. “All the way, sweetheart.,” he ane #wered, “but I will carry you the othee halt.”