The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 6, 1904, Page 1

et SISO e The Second Mrs. Jim,” by 3 8 ad, presents the 3 aw in a mew light. S Mrs. Jim is a some- pal type for fiction, d out fun and sweet na- X ture 1 give her at once a $ hig k as a funmaker, en- & { homely philoso- ¥ g about LS = n d take hold B 2 r siraighten ‘em PO you the *“old > think I'm one kind, an’ I think of marryin’ kinds. No, I n't T you. You em en an’ women" told you I wouldn't to stick to it, in’ to' say a little about I know I'm talkin’ a vou -see - what you'd nd if I married you. I b don’t get the chance very often to free ind. You'll say now that shows , but I think you'll under- d when I get through that there’s at difference between bein’ alone ’ lonely. Some of the loneli- 1 know lives in the same house n the same families with a lot of an’ some of the least lonely ones lives off In some little house all It ain’t all in bein’ where other , unless the other folks is your f folks. I don’t mean ‘“‘old maid” an’ “widow” now. I mean the kind of folks that thinks near enough like you do to make it easy gettin’ along with ‘em.. Religion is the thing that makes the most lonely lives, an’ it makes most of the other kind, too. You take a great big family, where all the folks thinks just alike except just one, an’ if that ain’t the loneliest place in all the world for that one I miss my guess. Then you take a little home where there’s just.one, an’ .he gets along well all by . himself ‘cause he don’t have no one to dispute with “men ap’ about religion, or folks’ characters, or A™widow” none of the disputin’ subjects. Somet maid” kind m times you find the other kind, that together, but you r kinds, .an’ there’s sure to be a pretty hard time for the can’'t agree with himself about religion. Robinson .Crusoe. was that=kind. - He was just as lonely as could be, an’ only because he couldn’t agree with himself about religion, an’, as I re- member, he spoiled the best part of h: story stickin’ in his own worries an’ disputes with himself. “ ‘Now, I agree pretty-well with my- self, so I don’t get lonely. But say, did you ever stop to think about how many words there -is -that mean lonely, an’ how few to say the other ‘thing? I hope it ain’t. ’cause 'there’s so many more lonely folks than there is the oth- er kind. Let's see, there's lonesome, an’ forlorn, an’ solitary, an’ desolate, an’ friendless, but I've never heard the word yet ‘that means just the other thing. “‘So mow*I-hope you won't go off with the idea in your head-that ' I'm a lonely old maid, for if you've followed what I've been tellin’ you, I think I've shown: you-that Fm not lonely an’ I'm not: that kind.” “Just then he broke.in to say some- thin’ I didn’t guite catch. % fWhat's that? Oh, will I go to the picnic - next Wednesday with you? Well, now, don’t it seem to you that after I've give you the mitten you'd better not waste any more time on me? Time flies, you know. Hadn’t you bet- ter tle ribbons on your whip—your switch, I mean? There’s lots of nice girls that won’t get to go to that pic- nic so you'll have plenty to pick from. You won't, eh? Well, I'll go then. Come early. “‘Oh, don’t you want ‘to take-some cookies ‘to those boys of vours? No, #"tain’t that I want them to get used to my*-cookin”. I didn’t know you had spunk enough to think of that. You're more the “men an’ women” kind than I thought. No, I won't think it over. 7An' you. needn’t plan to “pop” again next Wednesday. What's that? You won't come unless you can? Well, you needn't come, then. It’ll save me gettin® the dinner read You're comin you anyhow, be arly.’ anyhow, ‘cause I promised, be C Well, 1 won't go. min you? Well, if you come, come. ¢ “On Wednesday morning I hardly got my work done up w drove-up. I'll tell you what I some ‘way 1 remember pret everything that was said anc “‘Land s ¥ Why, I haven't got th up yet. Ho the as’ usual, I s'po: for you to do is get some fool girl to marry sorry T told an’' the “'w afrald it'll make you too Well, it’s too late mnow. reedn’t hitch your horse. I'll out. N bays like the coo try cake when I pienic, you can take to ‘em go home. What's that? my cookin’, do they? W like somethin’ to eat after be like your boys is, an’ without 10 care for 'em. When your cooked 8o nice, too, ‘an’ then for them to eome down to hired m. 8 An’ ‘their pa off galiivantin’ 'rc picnfes an’ such, so th care to home. No, I ap’ If you say another word about it béfore we get home to-night, 'l ge an’ walk. 1 guess the old cow won't get into the garden while I'm gone. I do hate fixfn® the fences when she does bregk through, so I put it till sbe eals uver?mung I've got. You've gt a good garderi? What's that to me? Do you-want me to get out an’ wall? “““There ~cmes Tom White’ team behind us. slow so't I can talk with his folks. Oh, I can talk with you most’ any time, seems llke. Say, you drive on ome side of the road; so Tom can drive up beside us: then we can visit all the way to the picnic. We won’t meet nobody, an’ it's easy to pull out if we do.’ “An’' we drove on to the picnic- ground, a-visitin’ away as fast as we could talk, me an’ Tom White. Tom's wife never was much of a talker. “After dinner when we was settin’ *round visitin’, Jim suggested we take & walk up the ravine. I remember just what I said to him an’ ev'rything about it. * ‘Now. what do you want to walk up that old ravine for? Must think you're young again, to go climbin’ over those rocks. You've never been there? Why, that's so, you moved here after you was married, didn’t you? Well, you'd have been there if you was raised around here. All the young folks goes. It's the worst place, or best place (accordin’ to how you look at it) for engagements, that ever I heard of. Why, I remember one picnic where there were either seven or éight ravine engagements, an’ all turned out pretty well, too. Oh, yes, I s’pose I might as well show you the ravine. Folks will \ (B STEPUEN CONRAD though. An’ I walk home to- if you say a word about “pop- A remember that. How many imes have I been up the ravine? I don’t know. I don’t keep a notched st t always went up with some one of the “old maid” or “widow™ kind, though. “‘Here's_the place where the paths 1 We'll take the middle one. Don’t many «take that, ‘cause the rocks is so rough. But you can help me. I want to show you the little waterfall. Most folks that come up e don’t see that. T turn off on ome of the other Laok out for reilin’ a bad place, but you talk, b I remember the first time Ic p here I didn't s e water- fal was one { en times, I guess. the waterfall It's an cold water w only han'k’chie: dcn't ¢ 5 am I ever to get walk knife, I'll cut your shoe better? Here, wait a minute. vour han'k'chief. Is that all hief you've got. with you? That ain't a han'k’'chief at all. Axn’ vour sock! Why, you'll have corns an” blogd-poison, an’ 1 don’t know what all the matter with you. Wearin" socks that ain’'t got either heels or toes! Well, if ydu go 'round like this, goin® to picnies, too, with such lgokin’ socks an’ han'k’chiefs, what must your poor boys have to stand? An’ they'll have corns all their lives if their feet ain't the 1 easy now.” I was Dusy wrappin’ up his ankle for some little while an” when I got done (I'd been doin’ some thinkin” too), I says real slow, ‘Do you know, Jim, if I hadn’t told you I wouldn't marry you, I'd almost change my mind? He said somethin’ I couldn’t catch. ‘What d'you say? You put on the best paix of socks you had? Well, Jim, if you think you can stand.it to wear whole socks an’ to carry han'k’- chiefs that ain’t rags, why—well, you can tell your boys, when you take ‘em that cake, that they might just as well begin to get used to my cookin’. ** CHAPTER IL The Weddin® Trip. “Why, come right'in, and take off your things. I haven’t seen you since before I was married. I guess you was the only one outside of the family that knew 1 was going to be. Set down, do.. What's that? Came over to ‘hear about the weddin’ trip? Well, there ain’t much to 'tell,” but I'll tell you what there is. “You know, the day we went .to the 4 ‘day. plenic when Jim sprained didn’t sprain it, I 4 an’ dasn’t ask h he was clever ¢ t that day was W Jim begin ta ried I toid b 1 weeks from the next Sa: would stuff, a boys an’ to a few days. It s to have him around up to meanness an’ to stir neighbor boys to s told Jim to be sure all. An’ th tellin’ the boys, I asked my house when he wer next Saturday, t to the boys abc rst an’ then we at figst, but he could say 1 still, then nobody heads full of nonsemse about step- mothers.’ Seem's if some folks don't have nothin’ better to do than try to e other folks’ children unhappy, any way. The o reason why step- mothers is hated so is just ‘cause gran'mothers an’ hired men an” help an’ all the others without nothin’ eise to think about stuff the youngsters’ heads full of yarns. An’ I told him as he drove off: ‘Now, there ain’t no rea- »n why you should come here again il the n' past seven, two-seated b for the da they looke 50 uncomf! still, for woolen su first time boys didn an’ carried went ov. at it for t looked kind o' bar barrels made the rcoms different, but I wanted to s to the place j went out an’ Jim ‘She’s the one that ma." I'd told h t ‘mother’ to the boys, they might want to th their ‘ma,” an’ of their dea ‘mother,” an’ there wa'n’'t mixin’ 'em right at the* beforehand which was v boys, Jimmie t the other. I didn’t want boys to ride in I says to Jim, © in the back.seat with me, mie drive? Then we can talk I'knew the boy was how well he could drive, the way he held the lines that he knew just ‘what he was doin Jim always drives a good team. I s'pose he wants a team that can make up for the time he loses with his siowness. “As soon'as we was started, I told the boys they'd better take off their coats, -an’ shoes’an” stockin’s. There wa'n't any use of their sufferin’ all They'd -suffer encugh when they got to:town with their shoes on. So they began-to feel-a little- more com- e, an an’ I knew by