The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 6, 1904, Page 4

serves, or anything except just the most common things, that we just had to have. We hadn’t had any cake for almost two weeks, now, an' sauce only once when we had company. Jim looked around over the table, an' then he says more'n I ever heard him say at one time before, ‘Ma, I guess we might as well have all we want to eat, now, again. I told Hawkins this after- noon that we-wouldn't want his farm, wouldn’t have no“use for it. An' to- morrow, you can do your bakin' for that picnic next Wednesday, "cause on Saturday we're goin’ to town, all of us, to get the boys some clo'es, an' to ar- range for a boardin’-place for 'em 80's to be ready when school begins. ~Ap’ you can send Mis' Jones’ sewin’ back an’ tell her you ain't goin' to do it An’ then I said, for of course I had to have the last word, ‘Why, pa, that sew- in’ is the waist I'm makin’ to wear to the picnic next week.’” CHAPTER VIL A Martyr to the Cause. “Good mornin’, I'm right glad to see vou. Thought since Jim had to come over here to attend court that I'd come along and spend the day. Oh, yes, I'm well. You heard I was sick? Yes, the report got around. I did have to have some help for awhile, but we're all all right again. The boys? Oh, they're both well. Frankie is in the high school in town. Stays in from Monday till Friday. Jimmie's helpin’ to run the farm. ‘How old is he? did you say? Oh, Jimmie's 19, now, an’ Frankie's 17. He wants to be a doctor, an’ so we're givin’ him the chance. Jimmie wants to stay on the farm, an’ he's doin’ right well, too. Jim seems to be gettin' =0 he don’t care if he don’t work. Talks about movin’ to town, an’ I expect he'll want to give up the farm to Jimmie as soon’s he gets married. “Oh, no, he ain't thinkin' of gettin” married, now. He was thinkin' pretty serious awhile ago, but he's got all over k Of course, he wouldn’t have got married right away, he’s so young, but he would have got engaged, an’ he's the kind that don’t back out of anything when he gets started, so I &'pose he’'d be wantin' to get married pretty soon if T hadn't been sick. An’ that's what I come to tell you about. It seems so good to have one place where I can C e an’ talk without it's bein' spread over the township. Of course, it handy to have things spread 1 awhile, but this ain’t one of * it's no fun talkin’ to Jim , for he don’t seem to under- But Jimmie's different. He can understand, but this ain't a subject s best to talk to him about. “What am I talkin’ about? Well, ain’t 1 goin’ to tell you just as soon as on the next farm, the Hawkins one, you know, the one we didn't buy, an' was pretty well acquainted before ever Jimmie come home to stay. Then he went to one of their parties, an’ pretty soon his little drivin' mare an’ new top buggy was workin' nights an’ Sun- days, an’ even then it seemed as if they couldn't keep up.. Of course, I knew all the time what was goin' on, an' while of course I knew it was one of the new folks, 1 hardly thought that Jimmie would be such a fool as to take the least likely one of the whole lot. But that's just like a boy, looks is all they think about. Well, of course, I'd been over to visit 'em, an' I kep' my eyes open, Any woman that thinks any- thing of her sons keeps her eyes open when there's girls around that there's any" r of her boys takin' a shine to. An' ] noticed when there was any work to be done, that the oldest girl was called on to do it, an' that the one that Jimmie was so sweet on was late in comin' down to meals, an’ she went "round the house till ‘leven o'clock with her shoes unfastened, an’' her hair wasn't combed till the dinner-bell rang, one mornin’ 1 was there. I don't be- lieve in that sort of thing, an’ my boys ain't used to it, at least not since I've been their ma, an’ I knew that Jimmlie didn’t ever see that side of the girl's character. . “Jimmie kep’ on gettin’ worse an' worse smit, an’ finally I made up my mind it was time to do somethin’, They wasn't engaged yet, I knew that, but they was just on the point of bein’. Anybody with any kind o' eve can tell when a young couple is just on.the point o' bein’ engaged. I don’t know just how it is, but if you ever see a couple together, or see one of ‘em when the othér is spoken of, you can always tell, v “One week I wrote to my sister an asked her to come an’ see me the next week Thursday. I knew she'd get there about 10 in the mornin’, an’ then I began carryin’ out the rest of my plan. I got Jim to arrange the farm work so that Jimmie could be around the house for two or three days just before my sister come, not loafin’, but workin’ near enough the house so he could come in two or three times in the forenoon, an' the same in the after- noon. “On Monday mornin’ after Jim had gone to town with Frankle, I was taken sick so I couldn’t do anything. I rung the dinner;bell for Jimmie an’ then went into the house an’ dropped onto the lounge in the sittin’-room. He come in on the runm, an’ found me stretched out on the lounge, an’ he ha.d to help me to the bedroom. I wasn't so sick as I was just weak. I told him I'd been havin' such spells for some time before, for he was awful scared, ANNOUNCEMENT. For the purpose of encouraging California and Western writers, by offering a consideration for short stories equal to that paid by the best magazines, and for the purpose of bringing young and unknown writers to the front. the Sunday Call announces a weekly fiction con- test in which a cash prize of $50 will be paid each week for th® best story submitted. There is no section of America more fertile in ma- terial for fiction or more prolific in pens gifted to give spirit to the material at hand than is California and the West. Therefore the Sun- day Call offers $50 for the best story submitted each week by a West- ern writer. rule, be given the preference, but all strong stories, Stories of Western life end Western characters will, as a and especially strong stories by new writers, will receive careful consideration. Each story will be judged strictly upon its literary merit. Type- writtén copy is the easiest to read and will receive the first consider- ation from the editor. but do not hesitate to send a story in hand- writing if you cannot afford to have it typewritten. Fifty dollars in cash for a story of not less than 2500 words and not more than 3500 words is approximately $17 per thousand words, or 1.7 cents per word. The highest price paid by the leading magazines for the work of any but the very best writers is rarely more than two cents a word, more often one cent and a2 half, and generally one cent. With the majority of magazines the writer, after his story is ac- cepted, is compelled to wait until the publication of his story before he is paid, a period of seldom less than six months. and usually from nine months to a year. I can? Now I'll staft at the beginnin’. Last year when Jimmie come back from town school, an’ made up his mind to stay on the farm, he found we had some new neighbors. They was a whole parcel of ’em, mostly girls, with a shif’less, oI’ t'bacco-furnace of a father, an’ a dragged-out, washed-out, o'’ mother, an’ the whole lot of ‘em went slantin’ along like as if they was up against the wind. An’ I o' suspected they had consump- , the whole kit an’ bilin’ of ‘em, but asn’t sure, an’ I ain’t yet. But the all looked slick’s could be, when was fixed up. All had yaller hair, F an' pink cheeks, an’ blue eyes, that's ¥ bright an’ pretty now, but just you walit till they've been through what thelr mother has, or any other woman that lives on a farm, an' they’ll have that same dragged-out, white-eyed look that their mother has. “That’s one trouble with boys gettin’ married. They don’t look far enough back even to see the mother. The girl herself is the whole thing with them, an’ three-fourths of the time they don't seem to think that ‘like mother, like daughter, like father, like sen,’ an’ when they 't happy after they're married, they blame ev'rybody but themselves. Just s'pose they was out buyin’ horses. Wouldn't they expect to get a crib-bitin’, kickin' colt if the mother was a cribber an’ a kicker, an’ the colt had been raised with the mare? An' yet they don’t use half the judgment in pickin’ out their wives that the commonest fool does in buyin’ his horses an’ cattle, If it's good pay- in’ policy to have pedigree cattle, an’ registered horses, an even pigs, why, in the name of common sense, ain't it a good payin’ policy to know what your wife's folks was, whether they was the kind that starved out ev'rywhere they ever lived, or whether they really had gumption enough to do things an’ make a livin’? An’ you can’t depend on the kind o’ houses the folks live in to tell anything about it. Some of these here log cabins back in the woods turn out better pedigreed youngsters than some of your swell houses in town. You've just got to use your common sense ’cause the finest regis- tered cattle don’t always have the best stables. That is, use what's a wo- man’s common sense! Seems like that's a man's uncommon sense. Well, it seems as if when I get started on this subject I mever can stop, an' I don't get the chance to talk very often on it, for Jim just laughs, an’ of course I can’t talk to the boys. There's things that it's just as well not to talk to the boys, but that don’t mean that you mustn’t impress it on ’em some other way. But I'll go back to what I was tellin’, now. “When Jimmie come home he found these new neighbors. They'd moved in The stl_)ries} accepted in this contest will be paid for immediately upon publication, and will be published on the first Sunday following the judeing of the week’s manuscripts. an’ wanted to go for the doctor. Then I told him that all we needed to worry about was for some one to do the work till my sister come on Thursday. I had felt the spell comin’ on, so I'd written for her. But we'd have to have some one to do the cookin’ an’ look after me a little, 'cause the men had their work to do around the farm.. So I told him to go over an’ see if Jennie couldn’t come over an’ stay till my sister come. I said somethin’ about that she ought to be willin® to come, an' Jimmie blushed like anything. But he started off, 80 as to have her back by dinner- time. After he was gone, I got up an’ hid away some more of the bakin’ I'd done the Saturday before, thinkin’ it Jjust as well that Jiminie should have a plenty of his girl’s cookin’. You know since Jimmle had been workin' on the farm, we didn’t have any hired man, so I couldn't get the hired man’s wife to help out. “She came back with him, an' they found me in bed, restin’ a little easier than when he went away, but it was pretty near time for Jim to be home, an’ Jimmie had left some work that had to be finished .so they both had to go to work. It was kind o' lone- some layin’ there flat on my back, but I'm willin’ to suffer in a good cause, an’ if that wasn't one I never see one. The girl had her conceit right with her an' went to work to get a big dinner. I could smell it when she some in to see how I was gettin’ along. have so much good victuals go to waste, an’ yet I thought of my plans, an’ I can give up a good deal to have my plans go through, “Jim come home before dinner, an' for a minute was pretty badly scared, but I calmed him down. an’ finally per- suaded him not to think he had to go for the doctor. I told him we could get along all right till my sister come, an’ then she’'d bring me round all right. “Jennie looked smart an’ chipper as could be at dinner, an’ I guess it wa'n’'t more than half spoiled, an’ besides there was some. 'of bakin' left, but I knew that would run out at supper- time. Then she would have to make bread or biscuits. I hoped she'd try both. T could hear Jimmie come in ev'ry once in awhile durin’ the after- noon an’ stop an’ talk a while with the girl, an’ finally after what seemed like days, supper time came. All I had was tea an’ toast, an’ the tea was too weak an’ the toast was cold. But I remem- bered the other martyrs, an' thought how glad I ought to be to get even that much. Before gettin'-up time next mornin’, I made up my mind that most of them that's what they call ‘chronic invalids’ is really sick, so sick of layin’ ‘round that they're so weak they can't get up. “I don’t think breakfast went off so very well the next mornin’, for I I hated to -- THY¥: smelled things burnin’, an’ Jim come in after eatin' an he looked o drawn-like an’ dissatisfled. I kind o’ pitied him, but still I thought I was sufferin’ for his boy, so why shouldn’t he? Jimmie come In several times in the forenoon, to see me, he said, but he #pent more time in the kitchen than with me, 1 was feelin’ better in the af- ternoon, but thought I'd better stay in bed. I had some of my own cookin' where 1 could get at it, so I wasn't s0 bad off as the others. mie looked as if he wasn't really enjoy- in’ his meals, an’ I pitled him, but I thought he could stand it a few days now better than all his life afterward. Kind o' like havin' a tooth pulled, It hurts like ev'rything for a minute or two, but that's lots better than havin' to stand the toothache for a year or so. ednesday come and went, an' Jen- nie still tried to keep things gein', I noticed Jimmie didn't come to the house quite so often. An' both him an’ Jim looked hungrier than ever. On Thursday mernin’ 1 was feelin' so much worse that I had Jim stay in with me while the young folks had break- fast. This meal was the turnin’ point of my whole scheme, so 1 wag anxious it should go all right. An' it went. When she called Jim to breakfast he said he was goin' to stay with me, an’ I told him my sister would be there so he could take Jennie home before noon, an’ my sister could cook betten'n I could, ‘If it was only half so good, 1 wouldn't be kiekin', after these last few days,’ says he. “I had the room .doors open so I could hear from the dinin’-room, an' I couldn’t hear nothin’, so I had to get up to see how things was goin’. I peeped through the crack of the door, an' there the two sat, Jennie at the head of the table, an' Jimmie across from her, Jimmie looked as slick as a tin whistle. He always did, From the time he was little he was always just so p'ticular.. He used to ask me to put on faded patches on his overalls in- stead of new pieces, so they wouldn't show so. He wasn't proud, but they didn't look so well. He didn't care for their bein’ patches, but he objected to the contrast. An’ he was always just so, But Jennie, she hadn't half combed her hair, an' her shoes was un- buttoned, an' I could see two buttons off her walst in the back, an’ I noticed Jimmie didn't look at her very often. He would try to drink some of the coffee, which couldn’t have been very hot, 'cause it didn’t steam like it, an' then he’d draw a long breath an’ try one of the biscuits, That seemed to SAN FRANCISCO . SUNDAY CALL I noticed Jim- ‘hi nobody but just our own folks. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t need to, from the “way he eat. I really thought he’'d dle, an’ Jim was just as bad. They both eat till I thought even the table wouldn't be left. “How did it come out? Oh, Jimmie's buggy stayed in the shed an’ his mare in the pasture the next Sunday an’ the next week Jennie went to a picnie with another fellow, so Jimmie didn’t feel as if she was breakin’' her heart over m. “I tell you the best way to cure love- sick young fol is just to plant ‘em side by side an' let ‘em gee each other, in falr weather an’ foul weather, sun an’ rain, an' if they can stand that for a few days they can stand it for a lifetime. Most people can't keep on their company manners more than a day at & time an' after that day is the time that does the work.” CHAPTER VIIL A Woman's Wiles, “Why, good afternoon. I'm awful glad to see you, Haven't seen you to have a visit with since I don't know when. Two years, 1s it? Well, several things has happened since then. Of course, if you lived over In our neigh- borhood, you'd kmow all about ’em. At least the neighbors there think they do. But I came over just to free my mind, I've just got through about the hardest plan to work that I ever under- took. You know how hard it is to do anything without tools that you can depend on. Well, it's a sight harder to do with tools that thinks they know what they're doin’ all the time, an' you're afraid they'll go ahead an’ spoil all your plans. ‘ “You know I've always taught the boys to come to me whenever they got in trouble. Real trouble, I mean, Oh, no, I make 'em stand little things by themselves, but whenever I see 'em worryin' for some little time, I usually manage to give ’em the chance to tell me about it, an' if I can’t help 'em out, well, they're pretty near past helpin’, though I do say it myself. “Jimmie had been kind o' blue an' fiidgety an’ tired-lookin' for some little time. All right again? Well, you just walt till I get through an’ you'll knew. I stood it havin' him around that way till T thought it was pretty near time ==—————==Fach Week for the Best. SHORT STORY $50 8% Submitted to SUNDAY CALL be worse than the coffee, so he'd try some of the fried potatoes. My, how mussy they looked in the dish! He passed his cup back once for some more coffee. He liked coffee, an’ I didn’t see how he could stand it, but I guess he thought he had to drink it anyway. An' before she could fill the cup she had to brush back some strag- glin’ hairs that looked as if they was goin' into the cup, an’ I see Jimmie scowl, an’ I thought what a great big difference it makes whether you see ‘the light hair flufin’ 'round her face’ when you're settin’ beside her on a moonlight night, or on a mornin’ from across the breakfast table. “Then_Jimmie'd try to talk. I al- ways made the boys talk at meals. I don't believe in folks settin’ down an' feedin’ themselves as if they was stuf- fin’ the business end of a thrashin’' ma- chine. An’ all Jennie could say was just nothin’, an’ giggle, only she didn't feel much like gigglin’ now, she was so cross. Then Jimmie gave up an’ sat tryin’ to eat an’ not sayin’ a word, an’ 1 thought again how much different the same giggle sounds when you hear it in the moonlight or on Sunday after- noon, when ev'rybody’'s careless an’ happy, an’ when you set opposite that sume giggle at the breakfast table ev'ry ay. “Finally Jim made such a fuss that I was afraid the young folks would hear him, ‘cause I wouldn’t go back to bed. ‘Why, do you know, he really thought I was sick all the time an’ I didn’t dare tell him what I was tryin' to do for fear he would give it away? So I went back to bed an’ Jimmie come'in to see how I was before he went off to work. He looked hungrier than ever an’ I pitied him. I almost wanted to reach under the pillow an’ give him some of the cookies that I had to nibble on be- tween times, but I thought it better not to. Then he started off to work an’ I knew that he was quite cured when I see him start off to the other end of the farm in spite of what his father had planned for him to do near the house. “About ten o’clock sister drove up, all alone, an’ she brought me ’round in short order. Or at least that was what Jim thought. Of course I told her what was up. An’' she cured me riglt away an’ at eleven Jim started home with Jennie an’ right glad she was to get away, Then we pitched in an’ if we didn’t have a rousin’ old din- ner for those two men when they come to answer the bell! Jimmie was as pleased as could be to see me up an’ around. An’ he looked mighty relieved ‘when ‘he looked .around and didn’t see for him to come to me. I see one day he was tryin’ to arrange it so we could have a good talk together, so I planned for him to take me to town. I don’t know of a better place to talk than in a buggy. An’' then I kind o' think Jimmie's more used to talkin’ on such subjects as he was goin’ to talk about when he’s out drivin’. So we started out for town, an’ as soon as Wwe got started he begun. I don't remember just what he sald, but the substance was that he wanted my advice about a girl that he’'d been goin’ with, an’ he thought she was the only one for him, an’ she seemed to like him, but when he popped the question she give him the mitten, an’ the poor boy was all broke up. He kind o’ stammered an’ gct so mixed up that I had to guess about half he was tryin’' to say, but I knew most of it before, so it didn’t make a difference. Of course, I couldn’t let him know that I knew it at all, ‘cause it’s just as well sometimes that the men should think we women's as slow an’ dull as they be. I kep' on askin’ questions, an’ he kep' on feelin’ worse an’ worse, I knew the boy was pretty badly smit, as I thoroughly ap- proved of the girl. Of course, I knew her. There ain’t a girl in our part of the country, nor many in other parts that I don’t know. An’I know whether they ever look at my boys, too, an’ I know ev'ry one of their families back as far as when they first come to the county, anyway. Why, a mother's got to know them things. How's her boy goin’ to be happy if she don’t see that he gets the right girl? Of course, I never interfere when a boy's in love, but it's just as well not to let him get in love with a girl that ain’t the right one. I don't know what boys does that ain't got no mothers, or is so far away from ’em that the mothers can’t know the girls the boys knows. But usually, if the boy is right smart, he'll look around an’ find a second mother, who'll kind o' take the place of the one that's gone, or ain’'t there, an’ help him out when he needs help. “As I was sayin’, I knew the girl. I'd been to a picnic once where she was. Picnics? Of course we go to picnics, as long as we can stand to ride in rockin’- chairs in the backs of wagons, or can stand to be dressed long enough to get to the picnie place and back, an’ I have heard of one old man who always had a cot took along in the back of the wa- gon, so, if he had to, he could lie down all the way home. What's picnics for but to go to? An’ do you think the young folks is goin’ to have all the fun? Well—seems as if I couldn’t stick to what I'm tellin’ to-day to save my neck, One reason’s cause I'm feelin’ so good. Why? Oh, just you wait till I get_done an’ you'll know. ‘“Well, at this picnic that I was &t, this girl that Jimmie liked so well started in gettin’ the tables set for din- ner, I could see by her business-like way that she knew what she was doin’. I'd never met her before, but I knew her folks back for three generations. She took right hold, an’ she ran things. She didn't ‘round. My, no! That ain’t the way to run things! She just started the poor sticks that wasn’t any good at helpin’ off after water an' ferns to decorate the table, she sald. I knew that it was just to keep 'em out of the way. An’ the worst old crank in the iot she got to makin’ sandwiches. I heard her tell this one that she could cut the nicest, thinnest, eve ces, an’ that old crank just swallowed it all in, an’ believed it. Catch anybody gettin’ round me that way. She just kept things goin' that way till she had the dinner all fixed, an’' the folks down to the table, an’ she played those folks off against each other (the old crabbed ones, 1 mean) till she got 'em all seated ‘round the table cloth, so that each one thought he was the one person in that crowd that was bein’ honored by the way the seats was placed. “I saw she had her eye on Jimmle, so as soon as dinner was over, an’ I heard her say, ‘Well, I helped get the dinner on. Somebody else can get it picked up,’ I calls Jimmie an’' says, ‘I want some of that peppermint that's growin’ down by the spring in the next pasture. Will you get me some? He looked kind o'-as If he had some other plans, but he said he would. I thought it just as well that she shouldn’t think she could whistle, an’ have Jimmie come, like as if he was a puppy. “] gaw him start off, an’ then I got to visitin', There was some folks that lived over where I used to, an’' I had about twenty years of ketchin’ up to do, an' I had to hear all about the folks that had died, an' got married, an’ all, since I'd left there. Then one old man got started on a long-winded yarn (I thought nobody else would ever get a chance to talk again) an’ I began thinkin' about how that girl, after she'd got the dinner, just walked out an' left the rest to do their share. An’ 1 made up my mind then an’ there that she was the right kind. There's the awfully willin’ kind that’ll work an’ work an’ never seem to know when they’ve got their share done. Then there's the kind that knows when they've done their share, an’ stops when they get it done. That's the kind 1 like. I believe it's as wrong to do more than your share of work as it is to shirk your share. One way, you cheat somebody else out of the chance to do their share, an' the other you just about, let me see, fifty times three hundred an’ sixty-five, is about eight- een thousand, and three meals a day is about somethin’ over fifty thousand.’ T'a worked it out beforehand, so I had it all ready. I watched him close when I said that about settin’ down to the breakfast table, but he didn’t seem to suspec’ nothin’, so I went on. I talked pretty plain to him. It was right I should. I owed it to the boy an’ to my- self to do it. ‘An’ say the first I(hree hundred and sixty-five days there'll be just you two at the breakfast table, if you don’t have no hired man boardin’ with you, an’ after that, there’ll be a new little face ev'ry year or so, an some of the faces will be like yours an some like hers, an’ there’ll be sickness, an’ sorrow, an' some happiness mixed in with it. Maybe a good deal of hap- piness if she’s the right one, but there’ll be mighty little if she’s the wrong one. An’ all through it Jimmle was as sol- emn as an owl, an’ said when I got done, ‘Mother’ (he's called me mother most always since he was fifteen), ‘T've thought out all that, an’ there’s just one girl that I want, an’ I'm goin’ to have her if I can get her, an’ if you can help me, all right, I want you to do it, but if you can’t, I'll go it alone, but I'-a goin’ to keep on tryin'." “Well, v-ien I see he was in earnest, I told him I'd help him all I could, an’ told him I thought he might make his plans to be married Christmas time, but not to say nothin’ about it to nobody. Only one thing he must do, he must keep away from the girl, an’ if ‘he happened to meet her, he must act kind o’ cool, an’ as if he thought he could stand it if she didn't care for kim. He almost refused, but I says, *All right, then, no weddin' for Christ- mas,’ an' then he come 'round, mighty quick. Only he said he didn’t think he could act that way, an’ I told him it was a case of got-to, nothin’ else. Seems so queer to me that men can't act and put on as If they was just the opposite from what they is, when a wo- man has to do it all the time. “Hé seemed to feel lots cheered by our ride, an’ the next Sunday afternoon I sent him away over to the other side of the county. No special errand, but there wa’'n’t no use his hangin’ 'round that girl, an’ the drive wouldn't hurt him. Of course, he thought the errand was a do-or-die matter, or he wouldn't have felt like goin’. “On Tuesday the next week I put on my things an’ went over to one of the neighbors that knew this girl's folks pretty well, related some way, I guess. 1 just dropped in to visit awhile, an’ to get a pattern for a new kind of apron she had, an’ of course I wanted to start the good: work. Now I've always thought this neighbor was a good _spreader. Just as you're the other kind. RULES. 1 No story will be considered that is less than 2500 nor more than 3500 words in length. The length of the story must be marked in plain figures. In the selection of stories names will not count. The unknown writer will have the same standing as the popular author. As one of the obiects of the Sunday Call is to develop a new corps of Western writers no stories under noms de plume will be considered. If a story earns publication it will be well worth the writer's name. v Stories not accepted will be returned at once. Those selected will be published one each week. v This fiction contest will be continued indefinitely. wvi An author may submit as many manuscripts as he desires, but no one writer will be permitted to win more than three prizes during the wvil contest. Always inclose return postage. No manuscripts will be returned unless accompanied by return postage. Vil Write on one side of paper only; put name and address legibly on last page, and address to the SUNDAY EDITOR OF THE CALL. SAN PRANCISCO, CAL. force somebody else to do ycur share. An’ I don't know but cheatin’ is the Worst of the two. I know I'd rather do the shirkin'. An' I could see that she knew when she'd done her share. “Come time to start gettin' ready to go home, an’ somebody began yellln' for the young folks to come back. We all come in wagon loads, so there wasn't to be any leayin’ the young folks toc come home in their buggies when they got ready, an' besides most of us had our chores to do. Well, I be- gun to look around for Jimmie. I never needed to look for Jim. If he ever got out from under my feet 1 was glad enough. Frankie was in_town, in the doctor's office studyin'. Pretty scon I see Jimmie comin’ up the hill, an’ who should be with him but that girl, an' as I live, he didn’t have a sprig of pepper- mint. I didn't say anything when he come up, but that girl, she looked at me kind o’ sassy like, ap’ I could have hugged her right then an’' there, when she said, ‘I guess Jimmie forgot all about the peppermint, but here's some I brought for you,’” an’ she pulled out from the front of her shirt waist a lit- tle smitch with about three leaves, an’ handed it to me. Jimmie didn't have nothin' to say all the way home, an’ he’'d shut up like a clam if 1 so much as mentioned peppermint for awhile. “So you see I knew the girl, an' I felt as bad as Jimmie did about it, only I knew it was the best thing for him that she wouldn’t haye him first askin’. It's lots more worth while havin' any- thing if you have to work an’ scheme an’ contrive for a year or so gettin’ it, than if it falls into your arms first thing. . “I told Jimmie that the best thing he could do was to keep away from her. Of course, he didn't want to. I told him, of course, that I thought there was nicer girls, an’ girls that would make him better wives, an’ that he ought to remember that he was goin’ to have the farm, an’ that he'd be one of the best catches in the county, so he ought to look around, an’ not get snapped up by somebody that didn't have anything at all. Maybe I stretch- ed the truth when I sald what I did about better wives an' nicer girls, but if a mother ain’t got the right to stretch the truth for her boy's sake, who has, I'd like to know? “Then I began real serious-like askin” him if he'd ever stopped to think what it means to get married, an’ to give up all the flirtations with other girls, an’ just stick to one. An’ if he thought this girl was the one girl that he'd like - to set down to breakfast with, an’ din- ner an’ supper, too, for the rest of his life. ‘Just think,’ says I, ‘there are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, an’ three meals in the day, an’ you'll live at least fifty years, so you'll have to set down to the table with her When I want a thing kept, an’ I'm pretty near bustin’ holdin’ it in, I come over an' tell you, but when I want a _ thing spread, an’ well spread, an’ spread without bein” mixed in the pro- cess, I go to her. She tells ev'rything, but she tells it straight. If I want the thing well mixed an’ stretched before it’s spread, I go to another neighbor. She couldn’t tell anythin’ straight if it was only two words. Well, we got to talkin’, an’ she happened to mention the girl, an’ sald somethin’ about Jim- mie’s goin’ with her, an’ I says, kind o careless like, ‘Oh, he ain’t goin’ with her any more. An’' do you know, I don’t care if he don't go with her? She's a nice enough girl, but—well, I've got some other plans for Jimmie.” There was a new family moveéd into the town- ship over east, an’ I knew she’d think I was thinkin' about one of them girls. The next day I sent Jimmie over to the new family’s on an errand, an’ the day after that my spreadin’ neighbor hitched up an’ drove over to where the girl lived that Jimmie wanted so bad. ““Well, there was a picnic the next week, an’' Jimmie took one of the new family’s girls, as I told him to. He didn’t have a good time, but what's one picnic more or less, when there’s a. lifetime’s happiness at stake? The next week there was another picnic an’ the girl was there. Jimmie bad gone with me, but he got away durin’ the after- noon. I went down after some of that peppermint that Jimmie hadn’t got for me the time before, an’ while I was comin’ back (I was alone, havin’ man- aged to get away from Jim for a little while, though he did look kind o’ lost without me), who should I meet but Jimmie an’ his girl, an’ her hair was kind o' mussed, an' her cheeks was so red, an' Jimmie's eyes twinkled so, an’ yet he looked so sheepish, that I asked just this way, ‘When’s it goin’ to be?" An' Jimmie burst out, ‘Christmas.’ 1 sent Jimmie on ahead, tellin' him I had a few things to say to the girl, an’ while we was talkin’, she says, ‘The only reason I give him the mitten the first time he asked me was just ‘cause you folks was so well off, an’ 1 ain't got nothin’, an” I was afraid you'd be throwin’ that up to Jimmie all the time when we was marrted. But when you told Cousin Jane what you did about me, that made me mad, an’ I made up my mind to get him in spite of you. Then I laughed, an’ sald, ‘Well, I'll try ::k get along with you for Jimmie's e “'An’ that's why I come over to- . We want you to come to the wod?u’: Christmas. I know it's a long time ahead, but it's the last big doin’'s we'll be havin® on the old place, for Jim an’ I's goin’ to move to town the first of the year so that Frankie can have somebody to look out for him.”