OCR Text |
Show f OUR BOYS AND GIRLS A QUEER EOY. He doesa'r study, it "weakens his eyes." But the "right sort" of book will Insure a ; sur rise. I Let l be about Indians. 7iratcs or bears. I And he's lost for the day to all mundane j affairs. By sunlight or gaslight his vision is clear. Now, isn't that queer? At thought of an errand he's "tired as a hound." Very wear' of Ufa arid of "tramping around." But if there's a band or circus in sight He will follow it gladly from morning- till nig-iit. The showman will capture him some dav, 1 fear. 1 For he is so queer. j If there's work in the garden his head "aches to- split." But mention baseball, and he's cured very soon. And lie''l dig for a woodchtick the whole afternoon ; Do you think he "plays 'possum?" he seems quite sincere. AUNT MATILDA'S OFF DAYS. "It's one of your Aunt -Matilda's off flays, Phemie. Don't mind her. child," said Uncle Jacob, who was cutting corn in the field. The stalks of corn were two or three feet higher than the little girl's head, as she stood w ith a small pail .full of water from the spring. "You come just in the nick of time I was so thirsty I thought I'd have to leave my-work and go for water." Uncle J'ac-cb had what Phemie called "a love-light look" on his face when he put the pail to his lips and drank of the clear, cold water. Pherr.'ie had been, crying, and Jacob knew it as i,oon as he looked at her face. "You see, Phemie, that Aunt Matilda's Ma-tilda's crab apples did not jell as stiff as she wanted them to yesterday, and she had to boil all that stuff over again. That's what's upset her. It is a big job to pour all that jelly out of the. glasses and boil it over twice, all I inue sos-sfy io wasn ana ury. "I washed the glasses, uncle, and dried them. I ti'idn't mini only kjnly I wish. Aunt Matilda was 'always pleasant, as she is sometimes. I love her so much when she sipt'aks in her kind way. She's so very kind when the is kind. "Folks will" have their off-days, Phemie, the best of them." "But you don't have any ' off-days, Uncle Jacob." "Maybe things do not go as criss-! criss-! cross with me as they do with most of folks, child." "Well, rour cow broke into the oat lot, you knew, and the bay colt was lost for a week, and then- the army worms came, and such lots of potato-bugs, potato-bugs, and just such sort of things as those -make off-days, don't they? But you never talked cress or looked cross about these troubles, Uncle Jacob." "Maybe the Lord gives me a large measure of grace, Phemie. We can't keep our tempers without His grace, child. And beside.3, if I had been upset and m-ade off-days for myself, what good would it have done? Your aunt does well by you. she" g'lves you plenty to eat. and she makes you a nice I clothes to wear a3 any of the other j girls have." j "Oh yes, Uncle Jacob, I know it, but " I . Uncle Jacob took the little girl in his strong arms and htt.gged her close to his loving heart, and then he gave her about a dozen kisses on both I cheeks. Phemie was the only child of his dead e'lster. Her father died before' heir mother did, and Uncle Jacob went out to the far went and brought the little orphan girl heme to live with him. He knew it was love that Phemie wanted that morning, as she stood with such a lovely look on her face among-the among-the cornstalks. Love is the greatest thing in the world for us all. There had never been anv children in the horse where Uncle Jacob and Aunt Matilda lived, until Phemie came there. They had lived twenty years without a child in the family, and Aunt Matilda had very prim ways of kee'ping house, because there had never been any busy hands to put anything out of place. And Aunt Matilda Ma-tilda did her own work, and not being: strong, she got very tired often, and Phemie had her tell -how she seemed to have her nerves all on the outside of her body. ' She spokf,- kindly at 'times to Phemie. but there was a great many off-days in Aunt Matilda's life, and the i'lttle girl tried to be "very patient pa-tient and do everything- she could in the way that would piease her utint. Aunt Matilda Wad even been so kind as to buy Phemie a large doll, and she had made preitty clothes for it, and it I was the little girl's greatest comfort. She went back to- the house, loav- j ing the little tin pail of water in the corn field with Uncle Jacob. It was j 1 her work, and of course tha nleasanf-est nleasanf-est kind of work, that of carrying a pail of fresh wafer to Uncle Jacob. when he was. working far a war from i the well. It saved h'im from walking back and forth, and losing his time from his work, and then Uncle Jacob was always e-o loving and kind when she brought him the water. When Phemie went into the kitchen there was a pan of potatoes on the table to pare and seme sweet corn to huk for dinner. She- sat down by the big table and began to pare -the potatoes. Aunt Matilda was straining . ' i-i umvmm, Minn im m M, . ..u ,,..,.. her jelly and putting in into the glasses: she had a troubled look on her face, and when Phemie asked how-many how-many potatoes she would pare, she spoke in a sharp way and said. "I should think you'd pared the potatoes long enough here to know, without asking." So the little girl put what she thought would be the right number in the kettle. "Such a bothering- time as I've had with the jelly." Aunt Matilda spake out, "it's enough to try the temper of a saint. I never had such a job of it before' in my whole life." t'nmtitimi' Phomlo thnucrht- Allnt Matilda meant that she was to blame for It in some way. because it was the first time she had ever been there at the felly making. Uncle Jacob came in, but hp did not say much. Phemie had noticed that he never did when Aunt Matilda had off-days. After the dinner work was done ur Phemie went to her little bedroom over the kitchen, and got her doll. She had named the doll Sarah, after he mother. "Sarah." she said, "we will go out together to-gether and sit down under the lilac bushes by the parlor window. You've been shut up here all day. I was busy with the work, or I should have taken you down before. Aunt Matilda is in aw ful trouble about her jelly." It was a. sunshiny place under the lilac li-lac bushes: the lilac blossom had gone long before, but there were some yellow artichokes in blossom, and at the right hand side. Aunt Matilda's gay bed of phlox made the place very bright. "I'm very lonely, Sarah," spoke Phemie, in a low- tone of voice, "so very lonely today. It's one of Aunt Matilda's off days. Uncle Jacob says, and I mustn't mind it. I tried to do everything- I could to please her. because be-cause off-days. I suppose, is some kind of sickness, and folks can't help sickness. sick-ness. I'm glad Uncle Jacob don't have that kind of disease, though: if he had it. too, I couldn't bear it here, Sarah. I L-rwu- T couldn't. It don't seemi to be a catching disease, and I am glad of it. I wouldn't like to get it. "Aunt Matilda seems so unhappy when they come, those off-days. But we'll d-o the best we can, Sarah, for this is the only heme we have on earth now. You .know Aunt Matilda mada us both such nice clothes to wear, and gives" us enough to eat, but you don't have to eat, Sarah." Then. Phemie hugged Sarah close to her heart as she buried her face in the doll's flaxen hair, and said: "Oh. what a comfort you are to me! I love you just as Uncle Jacob loves me; he never has off-days." While Phemie was talking to her dell. Aunt Matilda was putting her jelly away in the china closet near tne window. win-dow. The blinds were closed, but the window was open, and as she stood by thff closet shelf she heard what Premia said. Aunt Matilda, was really kind of heart, but she was one of those persons per-sons who unfortunately keep their best feelings in reserve. It had not occurred oc-curred to her that she had off-days; she knew when upsetting- things came she felt much irritated. It was true. I sne aCKnovneugcu iu iitrrse-n. urni upsetting things overcame her, instead of her overhanging them. She sat dow n In the large easy chair by the tire-place. tire-place. . . . . Living so quietly, she had not given out love as she ought to have done; she had lived too mueh within herself. She began to realize Phemie's loneliness, loneli-ness, her sweet obedience and patient work in. her -new' home. It is love the child wants, love that shows itself: and Matilda quickly went out of 'the parlor and opened the back kitchen door and called: "Phemie, Phemie dear! Where are you?" I Phemie jumped up in surprise. "Phemie dear!" She had never called her in that way before, and she spoke the "Phemie dear," in such a kind, loving tone. The little' girl came as quickly as she could, but before she stepped across the threshold of the door. Aunt Matilda Matil-da caught Phemie in her arms, kissed her, and smiled in such a loving way. Aunt Matilda never, had any more off-days. off-days. Phemie wonaeTed if she had taken some medicine that had cured her. When Phemie was riding . on the wood sled up the mountain side, one cold winter's day, with Uncle Jacob, she said: "Aunt Matilda is just as good to rn as as you are now, Uncle Jacob, and I really think she loves me; and oh. I am so very, very happy!" ACotirageous Rsscue. Courage is often spoken of as a "man-lv "man-lv ' virtue, but would It not be a truer definition to say a "Christian gift," since it is given even to young- girls to exercise it. as well as to brave, unselfish men? This was illustratyed some years ago by Alice Ayres, a young- servant living as nursemaid in an oilman's family. fam-ily. Not a grand position as likely to bring her public admiration, but one where she did her daily duties so faithfully faith-fully that her master and mistress felt j they could leave her in charge of the three .children usually confided to her! care. One night she put them to bed I and had no misgivings till the terrible cry of "Fire!" close below the window I came to frighten her; nor even did she realize that the atvful enemy was within with-in the very house in which she was, and "i ' ; had so far gaioed ground that the i-nly hope of escape for In r and her charges must be through the window. "Jump down, the bed will catch you!" numh-d in her ears from below: but I do not believe be-lieve she for a moment thought of leaving leav-ing her charges to save hfrself. Carefully Care-fully she carried each of the three little ones through the blinding smoke and ever-increasing heat, dropping each safely on the bed below, held by kindly outstretched arms. Then came the tirrur to save herself, and the attempt was I made, but whether the strain of what I she had just done had been too much for her powers, or the fast iticreasii-.g-! smoke and heat of the tire stupefied her, j she reeled as she jumped from the window, win-dow, and fell, not on the bed, but en I to the pavement, breaking -her spine, land so ending service and life. And o j also she escaped the danger of praise? from her fellow men, receiving, we may confidently believe, the praise which cometh of God. ' "Need I to Go to School?" ! "Oh. father, need I go to school?" I said Johnnie one morning as his mother ' was getting him ready. "I-don't understand under-stand books I never shall. I had rather cut wood with you in the bush, ami work ever so hard." "Johhnie. how did we fell that big tree yesterday?" asked his father. "A stroke at a time, and keeping "at it." answered the boy. "Exactly so," said the father. "A word at a time, and keeping at it. will make you a good reader: a syllable at a time, and keeping at it. will make you a good speller a sum at a time, and keeping at it, will 'make you master th hardest book in the world. A patient keeping at it, Johnnie, and you will bo a scholar." "Is that all?" asked Johnnie. "All." said the father. "I don't know but that I can do that." said Johnnie: and six years from that he stood first in the highest class at school. The Flying Fox. The flying fox is a very curious inhabitant in-habitant of the forest near Moreton bay, in. East Australia. It lives in flocks and moves generally toward.- the dusk of the evening, and the noisi produced by the heavy flapping of the so-called wings is very singular. The flock like quiet places, where there are. largo araucaiia.ii pine trees, with an J underwood of scrub and creepers. The f foxes hang in vast numbers from the ! horizontal, brant-hes- of the pine trees. I ff When there is a clear place among th J trees, an enormous number of the ani. mala may be seen, and their noise can I be heard, for directly they see anything unusual they utter a short bark, some- thing like the sound made by young rooks. Often every branch is crowded, ! and the young foxes are s-.'en either flapping their wings and holding- on with their hind feet and with their heads downward or snarling- and fighting fight-ing for places-. Suddenly the whole take to flight and flap their furry", wing-like sides and wheel around Iike heavy birds. Many fly with their young-holding young-holding on. to them. The creature H net a true fox. and there is a fold of , skin which readies from the fore to. the hind legs. - Everyday Sort of a Boy. I A boy once applied for a situation, says the Cincinnati Enquirer. "We don't like lazy boys here." said the manager. "Are you fond of work?" f -.o. sir, responueu me iwy, looKing j the other straight in the face. I "Oh, you're not. are you! Well, wa want a boy that is." "There ain't any." said the boy, doggedly. "Oh, yesHhere are. We have had over half a dozen of that kind here this morning to take the place wt have." "How do you know ihey are?" asked the boy. "They told me so." "So could I. but I'm not a liar." And the lad said it with such an air of convincing con-vincing energy that he was engaged at once. A Little Stepmother. Uncle Hello, Dot, got a new dolly? Little Miss Dot Hush, uncle! Don't speak so loud. She- is not one of my own, but belonged to Millie Sihmpson. j i who was cruel to her and 'bandonect j j her. So I have 'dopted her; but I don't I want her to know, 'cause I mean to I make no difference between her and my own dolliea. |