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Show DIRECTIONS TOR LETTER WRITING. WRIT-ING. Write on one side of paper only. Do not have letters too long. Address all letters to "Aunt Busy," Intel mountain Catholic. Salt Lake City, March 10, 1900. Dear Aunt Busy: . 1 have been thinking of you all day, " I thought I -would write you a few lines and tell you that I like the boy's end girl's papa vory much. Dear Aunt Busy, I -would lik? to know you. My rapa is going: to lake my mamma and : me and my sister to the theatre next ! Saturday night to hear the lecture lor the orphans, tiood live. Aunt Busy. I NELLIE HOWARD, j You are very sweet to write such a rice letter to Aunt Busy. Indeed she i does love to hear from her little boys enl gin's. Aunt Busy is glad to know you a-e going to the theatre on the 37th. She is going too, for the little orphans. or-phans. Eureka, Utah, March 10, 1900. IVar Aunt Busy: as i nae teen so many letters trom jour nephews and nieces I would like to be one of them also. We are not going go-ing to have any sclebration this St. Patrick's Day owing to so many cases of smallpox. My papa keeps a candy Ft ore and is c ity recorder also. I have made a practice during Lent not to eat eny candy and I have not. I love to read the letters in the lntermountain Catholic. 1 don't suppose we will have any more school this term. I go to St. Joseph's school and am in the third lj-eparatory class. If you will accept rne as one of your nieces I will make 1 he next one more interesting. Good bye, Ironi your loving niece. KUPHENA M'PHEE. Aunt Busy is very pleased to find another an-other little niece in Eureka. She is always al-ways happy to find another niece from that busy town. Aunt Busy Is glad to know you like the Boy's and Girl's Department. De-partment. When Aunt Busy was a lit-lie lit-lie girl many years ago she never had any candy during Lent either. You are a dear, good little niece. Write soon again. Ogdpn. Utah, M2areh 7, 1900. Dear Aunt Busy: In last week's paper I read that you liad received three letters from charming charm-ing Ogden nephews so I thought it was time you should hear from some of your more than charming Ogden nieces. I enjoy reading the letters from my lntermountain cousins but I must say I always like to see dear old Ogden printed there. We are trying to be just as good as ran be during Lent, dear Aunt Busy, and we hope to be model angels by Easter. You know your little nieces here belong be-long to the Holy Angels' Sodality and Ave are often called by that dear name when we are real good. Sending you much love from your Ogden nieces, I remain. MAY O'CONNOR. Aunt Busy is delighted to hear at last from an Ogden niece. She is glad to know that the Ogden nieces are charming also. She does love her Ogden Og-den nephews and of course felt sorry not to hear from the nieces. But from now on, the Ogden girls will not neglect Aunt Busy. She is glad to hear about i the Holy Angels Sodality. Keep on try- j ing to be angels little Ogden nieces, j Write soon. I IAN MACLAS.EN AND THE CRUCIFIX. CRU-CIFIX. "Ian Maclaren" is the pen name of ' Rev. Dr. Watson, a Presbyterian minis- 1 ter of Liverpool. In The Potter's j Wheel he writes: : "When one enters the dimness of a i foreign cathedral he sees nothing clear- ly for awhile, save that there is a light ' from the eastern window and it is ; shining over a figure raised high above ! the choir. As one's eyes grow accustom- i ed to the gloom, he identifies the cru- ! eifix repeated in every side of the chap- j . and marks that to this Sufferer all kneel in their trouble and are comfort- ' ed. From age to age the shadow hangs I . heavy on life, and men walk softly in the holy place: but ever the crucifix faces them, and they are drawn to His feet and goodness by the imitation of the pierced Iiands." MISS RUTHERFORD'S WASH. "Mary Ellen, I wish you'd carry Miss Rutherford's wash home to her." Mary Ellen, not one jot or title of v. boss name was ever abated at home, although the feather factory and her social cirei.i knew her as Mamie, paused in Ijer occupation of tying a wide white bow beneath her chin. She did nor turn from the square little mirror th.-ut hung between the two windows win-dows of ;ie tenement kitchen, to show her mot bit, ironing energetically behind be-hind her, the mutinous line of her lips at the rftquest. She was tired of being told to carry Miss Iiutherford's clothes home. She c-mld scarcely recall the time when f-he had not been tired of the command. com-mand. Back into the remotest, pina-forcd pina-forcd past, every Saturday had seen her Miss Rutherford's laundry bearer. Lately she occasionally effected a transfer of the task to Tim, but he was generally reserved for longer errands. "Where's Tim?" she inquired now, Kiiort I v The habit of obedience was strong, and even a few months of wage earn ing independence at the factory hai not given her the courage to refuse outright the behest of the old woman who. with practiced arm. was sending her iron over a pink shirt waist. "Tim's at the ball game," replied Mrs. McNulty, oblivious of Mary Ellen's El-len's protesting attitude. "He won't lie home for supper, an' ye could get these things over to Miss Rutherford an be .back in time to go to the store for me before then." Mary Ellen looked steadily at some geraniums growing insolently bright In tin cans along the window ledge. They were but a painful blur of scarlet scar-let to her, for there was an angry mist before her eyes. She did not speak at once, "Well!" cried her mother, sharply, as she turned from the board to put a chilling iron on the Btove and to test . the temperature of a fresh one by trying try-ing its hot breath against her cheek. "Well, are ye goin' to stand there all night? Miss Rutherford's wash is all done up there in the basket in the corner." "I don't want to go," said Mary Ellen, El-len, sullenly. "Don't want to go!" cried Mary Ellen's El-len's mother, scorching a handkerchief as she held her hot iron still in astonishment. aston-ishment. "Don't want to go? I didn't ask ye, miss, whether ye wanted to go or not. I'd have known ye didn't wan; to go. Since ye've bt-en in the factory it s little ye want to do anywhere else Yc're ashamed, I suppose, to be takin' home the wash ye ain't ashamed to have yer mother iloin'. Don't want tu go. indace. miss" Mrs. McNulty's tongue was as tireless tire-less as htr hard and misshapen hand?: and as saarp as her keen eyes. Hes oration night have continued mucl longer hal not Mary Ellen broken in with a suilden and unexpected Hash o: spirit. "An' I ain't agoin', either." she said seizing her hat. "Of a Satidly. too. th-only th-only day I have for a little pleasure! With Wliit h (Teclnvnt ion of inde- pendence she dashed through th ! door and was picking her way through i the babies in the narrow hall before ! Mrs. McNulty had recovered speech j again. Then she sighed a little and I shook her head. "She might have stayed and helned me," she said. "Jim Dowd wouldn't i think less of her for it. I s'pose she j imagines I don't know what's the mat-j mat-j ter with her, with her airs an' her ' graces an' her new ties an' her sittin' up till midnight to copy Miss Ruther-! Ruther-! ford's shirt waists an' her askin' in-to in-to stop calling her Mary Ellen." Again Mrs. McNulty shook her neat gray head, but this time she laughed comfonable to herself though her laughter ended wearily. "She might have helped me tonight, for I'm tired." Meanwhile Mary Ellen, though she found Jim waiting at the corner, anc though he told her with fiatterint promptness that she "looked out e I sight." did not experience the delighr she had anticipated. Independence, to be enjoyed, should have no intermixture intermix-ture of remorce, and Mary Ellen's cur of freedom was bitterly tinctured with the thought of a stout, tired old woman wo-man journeying ceaselessly from an ironing board to the stove and back again. Whenever silences fell between her and Jim and they were in thf s-tate when silences are many anc sweet a picture came before her oi her mother, toiling, toiling, toiling. Sh-was Sh-was a little girl again, waking from sleep and seeing from her cot in the corner in the room the ceaseless worl-of worl-of the women. She remembered guilti ly how she had been used to say a such drowsy times: "When I'm big you shan't have to work so." She re called her pride when first she had be.e allowed to carry Miss Rutherford't clothes home, the boundless dignity sh? had assumed when she presented the scrawl of a bill, the eagerness with which she had clutcb.ed.the silver payment pay-ment and had borne it back to her mother. And, today "No, I don't want to go on a boat." she heard herseJf saying crossly. The boat had been the last of Jim's suggestions. He looked at Mary Ellen, pondering deeply. "Come over to the park, then," he said, "an' sit down, for I have some-! some-! thin' to aay to yer." Mary Ellen walked on. Her feet kept dragging time to a dialogue in her mind, in which one voice said: "You might have done that for her; it wasn't much, an think of all she's done for you," while the other replied: "Anyway, she needn't . have asked me to ug a basket of clothes home on a Satiddy afternoon." "Mary Ellen," began Jim, solemnly, when he had seated her on a bench opposite a fountain that showered pearls upon a pond of flatins lilies, pink and pale and languid, "Mary Ellen" "What are ye callin' me 'Mary Ellen' for?" inquired Mica McNulty, suddenly eeaping to attend to her two voices and listening to Jim instead. Jim belonged to the "Mamie"' set of her acquaintances. acquaint-ances. "The old woman oalls you that," replied re-plied Jim. "Well, that's no reason why you should," eaid Marv Ellen, smartly. "Yea, it :?," said Jim, sturdily, though he was slowly growing red beneath his tan and freckles. "Yes, it is, Mary Ellen. El-len. For I I like you like the old woman wom-an does. An' I want to take care er ye like sine always has and ray, Mary Ellen, I can call ye Mary Ellen, can't In Mary Ellen's breast was a tumult as though a flock of birds fluttered their tiny wings. The spray from the fountain foun-tain was a shower of gold; the lilies swam in opalescent beauty. "Say, I can, can't' I?" Jim persisted, whispering "Mary Ellen Dowd'.'" And Mary Ellen shut out the dazzling vision of the enchanted fountain, by covering her happy face with her hands, and saying, tempestuously and irrelevantly: "Oh, Jim, you'll always be good to mother, won't iou?" It was dark when thev walked eastward east-ward again, through the glittering busy Saturday night streets. They held fast to each other's hands and trusted the wide folds of Mary Ellen's crash ekirt to hide the embrace. They talked and planned, and bubbled with joy, or were silent in swift dreams of happiness. happi-ness. And Mary Ellen's heart yearned toward her mother with -a dim under- Standing of great tenderness and care. "I wish I'd taken them clothes home," ehe mourned to Jim, to whom she had told the story of her revolt. "She in't going to work ?o hard any more,' " Jim replied, and Mary Ellen thrilled to hear his masterful, kind voice. There was a crowd at the corner as they crossed Second avenue. A bicyclist bicy-clist was engaged in giving voluble explanations ex-planations to a policeman, who was making notes of his remarks. A wheel with spUntered spokes leaned against the curb. The proprietor of a drug store at the corner warned the mob awav from his door. "Them bicyclists," began Jim, fiercely. fierce-ly. But Mary Ellen uttered a shriek. "See! See!" she screamed, pointing to a scattering of white garments on the sidewalk, and to an overturned basket. "Oh. Jim, it's a judgment on me. It's mother." They pushed their way to the officer and begged for details. Then they fought their way to the drug store. "It's mctfher. I know it's mother," Mary Ellen moaned. The druggist made way for her. "Come in, if you think it's your mother." he said, and added reassuringly: reassur-ingly: "She isn't much hurt." On a lounge behind the prescription counter lay the stout figure of Mrs. McNulty. A physician bent over her. "Stunned by the fall," he saLJ to Mary Ellen. "That's all, I think She won't have to go to the hospital, if you don't wish her to. She coming around already." Mrs. McNulty's eyelida wavered a-moment, a-moment, then lifted themselves. She gazed about her blankly. Then memory mem-ory returned as she saw Mary E.len, crying at the foot of the lounge. She smiled a litt e grimly, but when' ehe spoke, celestial voices bidding sinners enter heaven could not have sounded sweeter in Mary Ellen's ear. than did her mother's words: "You'll have to take Miss Rutherford's wa?h home after all." Muneejs. SIX IMPORTANT POINTS. Six things a boy ought to know: 1. That a quiet voice, courtesy and kind acta are as essential to tlu- part in the world of a gentleman as cf a gentlewoman. 2. That roughness, blustering and even foolhardiness are not manliness. The most linn and courageous men have usually been the most gentle. 3. That muscular strength is not health. 4. That a brain crammed only with faeii? i not necessarily :i wise one. 5. That the labor impossible to the boy of 14 will hi easy to the man of 20. 6. That the best capital for a boy is not money, but the love of work, simple tastes and a heart loyal to his fr.ends and li is God. TUB CURIOUS MOUSE. Tic-kctty, ticketty, lock! A iU:U' mou.se oii:i)Ied to the clock. t wanted to see What i he hoi;:- chanced to be Ticketty, ticketty, took! Now. when it got up to the top It said, "1 think i shall stop, To hear the clock strike" Ticketty, ilcketty. uek! The mouse was too frightened to stir When it heard Uie clock give a loud whir. And then it struck three. Sjid the nicu.se. "Oh, dear me! Tt has wakened the cat That slept on the m:t, So off in a moment I'll he." - ' THE BABY. Oh. this is the way the baby came: Out of the night as comns the dawn, Out of the ember? ad the flame. Out of tht bud the blossom's on. The apple bough that blooms the same As in glad summers dead and gone, . With a grace and beauty none could name-On, name-On, this is the way the baby came! And this is the way the baby woke: And when in deepest drops of dew The shine and shadows sink and and soak Tho sweet eyes glimmered through and through. And eddyins-s and dimples broke About the lies, and no one knew Or could divine the words they spoke And this is the way the baby woke! And this is the way tho Taby slept; A mist of tresses backward thrown By quavering sighs where kisses crept With yearnings she had never known. The little hands were closely kept About a lily newly blown, And God was with her. and we wept And this is the way the baby slept! James Whitcomb Hiley. i BELINDA'S STORY. Belinda was the smallest cat That ever you did see. One day Belinda met a rat Quite twice as big as she. Now, what are you to do When a rat's as big as you? Belinda said: "I'm not afraid Of any rat alive. I'd swaiiow any rat that's made, Or two. or four, or live." , Now, how could she do that- Such a very little cat? The rat replied: "I never knew A cat as brave as I, But as for such a cat as you, I'll make you into pie." Did you ever see a rat Dine oil a pussy cat? Belinda said: "Superior cats Think fighting only fun. Just call a lot of other rats; I'll eat tnem evtry one." Now, don't you think that that Was a most courageous cat? Then other rats joined in the fight. Big, little, short and tall, Gray, brown and brindled, black and ate them all! Do you wonder how I know? Belinda told me so! TAKE UP THY CROSS. Charge not thyself with the weight of a year, Child of the Master, faithful and dear, Choose not the crass for the coming week. For that is more than He bids thee seek. Bend not thy arms for the morrow's load, Thou may est leave that to thy gracious God; Daily oniy, He said to thee, "Take up thy cross and follow Me." ROCK-A-BY, BABY. Rock-a-by, bafty! On the tree top. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock ; When the bough bends, the cradle will fall-Down fall-Down tumbles baby, cradle and all. i Rock-a-by, baby! The meadow's in bloom; Laugh at the sunbeams that dance in t'he room; Echo the birds with their own baby tune, Coo in the sunshine and flowers of June. i Rock-a-by, baby! As softly it swings Over the cradle the mother love sings; Brooding of cooing at every dawn. What will it do when the mother is gone? Rock-a-by, baby! So cloudless the skies. Blue as the depths of your own laughing eyes; Sweet is the lullaby over your nest That tenderly sings little baby to rest. Rock-a-by, baby! The blue eyes will dream Sweetest When mamma's eyes over them beam ; Never again will the world seem so fair-Sleep, fair-Sleep, little baby! There's no cloud in the air. Rock-a-by, baby! The blue eyes will burn And ache with that your manhood will learn; Swiftly the years come with sorrow and care. With burdens the wee dimpled shoulders must bear. Rock-a-by, baby! There's coming a dav Whose sorrows a mother's lips can't kiss away; Days when its song will be changed to a moan. Cross that baby must wear all alone. Rock-a-by, baby! The meadow's in bloom-May bloom-May never the frosts pall tho beautv hi gloom; Be thy world ever as bright as today it is seen, Rock-a-by, baby! Thy cradle is green. |