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Show I , ..Our Boys and rls.. I i j Edited by Aunt Busy, I This department is conducted solely In the tater- I ; ests of our girl and boy readers. :: Aunt Busy!s glad to hear any time from the I i nieces and nephews who read this page, and to give them all the advice and help in her power. Write on one Eide oi' the paper only. : ' Do not have letters too long. ; Original stories and verses will be gladly received : ! end carefully edited. The manuscrips of contributions not accepted will i be returned. Address all letters to Aunt Busy. Intermountain Catholic. Salt Lake City. TIME FLIES. !5ixty second make a minute, I So my father used to say. 'f : "What you've got to do, begin it, ' Or "twill not bo done today; Tor so f ast the seeond fly, You can't cat-h one not cau I. .Sixty minutes make an hour, '( So my mother used to tell; , While you've pot the strength and power ? Do your work and do it well; Or at night you'll have to say, "I've done nothing ai 1ne day." r - Twelve fast, hours mark the daytime, ' So my hild, 1 say to you; Fonie is work lime, some is play time; Do what you have got to do; For though fast you run down hill, Time is running' faster still. LETTERS AND ANSWERS, Salt Lake City, March 25, 1905. 7 'car Aunt Busy: j 1 hope you are very well as I am feeling fine. I 1 W!'t to church today because it is the feast of f the Annunciation. Aunt Busy, do you think it very I wrong to laugh just.a little bit when you are at -hurch? just had to laugh today something was j; so funny. 1 will write. to you -soon again. - . Yours sincerelv, I FLORENCE WALSH. I Aunt Busy is very well thank you, Florence, and n ally decidedly shocked at your question. She never dreamed that any little niece of hers would I I ever ask such a thing. If you can' not. refrain from ' laughing or any other bad conduct during services, why by all means leave the church at once. Bad i conduct in any church is to be condemned, and j Catholics should be very careful in this respect, Particularly because they are in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament in their own church. Aunt. Busy may appear severe, little girl, but . some day you will understand why. Your letter reminds her of a very unpleasant lime she had once when she was a-little girl. With J her mother she attended a funeral at a Protestant church. During the services, Aunt Busy, who was j really a very bad little girl, began to laugh. Her , ( mother looked serious and shook her head warn- ingly, but Aunt Busy thought she must continue To laugh, which she did until she reached home, ' when she stopped very suddenly. She got about the j best whipping that any small bad girl ever got. .Now this, in Aunt Busy's opinion, is what every I little girl should get who does not behave in i church. So be good for the future, Florence. ! Denver, Colo, March 28, 1905. Dear Aunt Busy : ' i I always write to you when I want to know i something important. I have a sweet little sister, j who is nine years old. I am thirteen years and I ) have many friends of my own age. They are nice girls, but they do not want to play with my Bister because she is too little. Mamma says I am not to I neglect my sister, and then the girls get mad at me 1 because I want her to always come with me and I I iiave a very hard time. What do you think about it, Aunt Busy? Your loving niece, MARY E. SHEEIIAN. Aunt Busy is pleased to be able to help you, j !Mary. She is a little severe on the subject on s which you are asking advice, though. Aunt Busy f ihinks your dear mother is quite right in what I s-hc tells you. You certainly should not neglect the lit lie sister for any friends. On the contrary, you should try hard to make her happy and insist on 1 vuur friends doing the same. You may not always h;ire the little sister, dear, and you can always find 1 friends. If any thing should happen to "little. ! sister,' Aunt Busy knows well what a heartache niece Mary would have, when she would remember the times that she did not want "little sister" with ! ' her. Treat "little sister" with loving kindness, j Mary, and you will never have any regret that you j wen;- thoughtless about her happiness. Of course i little sister must not be selfish and it might be well for her to play with her own little friends, and not insist on being with the "big?" girls always, but in any case, the big girls must try to treat the lit- I tie ones with love and kindness. I Salt Lake, March 20. I -My Dear Aunt Buv: I My time has been quite taken up lately in plan- I ''ins a surprise for my little sister whose birthday I i- next week, but 1 have not arrived at any con- elusions as to what to do about it. Can you advise :ne. Aunt Busv? Yours in haste, s PETER ROBERTS. I Aunt Busy is delighted to hear from the dear, j nejihew, who is planning some happiness for his s H-ter. Aunt Busy, funny, old and gray as she is, I rr;ilv loves "surprise" parties yet. Why not have the regular old fashioned kind of party I Have all j your little friends meet at some given place and I 'ii' ti all w-alk in just as the girlie" is studying, j reading, or better yet. washing the dishes. Then I 'lay games, have a taffy-pull, music and a general K"oJ lime. Aunt Busy is proud of you, Peter. ! ! Salt Lake City, March 26. I l'r;ir Aunt Busy: 1 I want to tell you that we have subscribed for :if Intermountain Catholic and like it very much. J 1 always read the boys' and girls' page first. This ic the first letter I have written to you but I'll try i ''1 not make it the last. Well, I guess I will say "goodbye.' From your loving nephew, j PATRICK O'BRIEN. 3 le;ir nephew, Aunt Busy gives you a cordial I er,,luo; hhe js vcrv pleased to know that you like I the Intermountain Catholic, particularly the boys' 1 ' -jw girls' department. Write often, Patrick, te- 1 eal,. Aunt Busy loves to hear fromher clever, ! hn'ght nephews. ) I CARLOTA'S FAME. 1 lUy Miss Claudia Abbey. Holy Rosary Academy, I Woodland.) I Night had silently drawn her sable curtains j around a tired world," at the close of one of those 1 Perfect days in June, when all nature is arrayed n h. r loveliest and brightest garb. The sun had disappeared from his throne in the heavens, giving Place to the queen of night, the beautiful moon. 1 In a stately mansion of one of the proudest of I English noblemen this night had been selected for I ii event in which merry England was interested, j for it would witness the entry of the lovely daugh- S ) 1rr of Lord Caryle into the society world, where I he was destined to play a prominent part. The praises of the matchless charms of this proud, if . LI i i I " - i . golden-haiied beauty, Lady Evelyn, had rung far ami wine. Una i preparations were in progress within this place may ou ten to the reauei's imagination . Jimnuut lignts snone from every wmauw, ana the soit, meiouius music ot a iamous Italian orchestra was waited on the baimy breeze, its sweet notes ttoatcd on, on, to a dismal garret on the outskirts ot Caryle castle. At their souud its lonely inmate arose, laid aside her brush and easel, and, leaning tar out of the window, rapturously listened to the entrancing strains. One gazing at her could not fail to be attracted by her appearance. Ringlets of beautiful black hair clustered around her pallid brow. The sweet face wore a look of subdued sadness. But what most appealed to the beholder were the soft eyes, fringea by their silken lashes. In them one might read the longings of her Spanish heart. Sarce eighteen summers had passed over her head, yet she was the eldest of a family of eight children, whose parents were dead. She it was who maintained main-tained the others by her daily toil. From her lather lovely Carlota Mendoza had inherited her extraordinary ex-traordinary talent for painting. After listening- for some time at the window, she hastily draped her head with a mantilla, and, softly closing the door, descends the narrow stairs, and before long Carlota, the poor Spanish artist, is standing in the beautiful grounds at the Caryle mansion. Finally charmed by the melodious strains issuing from the spacious reception halls, she hastens has-tens with eager steps to the balcony, where, shrinking shrink-ing into a secluded spot, concealed from view by a leafy palm, she gazes with awe on the most brilliant bril-liant spectacle within. Stately ladies, arrayed in costly gowns, moved about the, beautifully decorated rooms, but their charms paled visibly compared to those of the queenly belle of the evening. In a magnificent robe of satin and lace, her golden hair gleaming like an aureole crowning her stately poised head, the lovedy Lady Evelyn stood, radiant, beneath a bower of flowers, and Carlottc Mendoza, as she gazed spellbound at her, mentally sketched the face of England's lovely daughter.' At length she softly descends the marble stairs, returning to her humble home, but that scene of splendor and the likeness of Lady Evelyn haunted her dreams that night. When Carlota rose next morning she formed the resolution of transferring to canvas the face of one who had so impressed her. Every hour of the day and far into the night she diligently worked at the portrait. At each stroke of her brush the picture seemed more lifelike. The soft curves of the face were perfected; the violet eyes shon bneath the clouds of golden sunlight which coiwned her figure; fig-ure; the ruby lips seemed to speak. Instead of a haughty queen of society appeared a sweet, modest girl. The portrait was completed, and as the artist viewed her work she realized that her labor had not been in vain. At a famous London art gallery thousands were admiring a portrait which had so excited the favorable fa-vorable comments of all lovers of art. Lard Caryle, recognizing in the picture the face of his idolized darling, purchased it, and sought out the artist, and, when iound to be a poor Spanish maiden, he conducted her to his home. A warm friendship sprang up between her and the daughter of the house, and during that season society knew not whom to admire more Carlota, the charming daughter of Spain, or their own buautiful Lady Evelyn. Through the generosity of Lord Caryle a comfortable com-fortable home was provided for Carlota's little brothers and sisters, while she continued to gain fame in her chosen profession, making her name an inspiration for young struggling artists her life worthy their imitation, as well as their sincere admiration. . " THE RED DEER AND HER BABIES. The Story of Mother Love Among Wild Animals. (By Ellen Yelvin, F. . S., in Home Companion.) In one of the thickest covers of a beautiful ! shady forest in Germany a red deer was standing one day looking placidly at the deepening shadows, and wondering how soon she could venture out for some food. She had a double reason for being anxious ; she was a mother deer, and a short distance away, artfully art-fully concealed in the high heather, were two pretty pret-ty little fawns, with spotted bodies, delicately formed legs and feet, well-shaped heads, and beautiful beau-tiful eyes, just like their mother. She had no fear of their being seen, for before leaving them that morning she had made them lie down by giving each of them a gentle pressure with her soft nose, and told them not to move until she came back. The little fawns were always very obedient, and did just what she told them. They both lay quite still, huddled up in their own peculiar pecu-liar fashion, with their noses turned to their tails, much in the same fashion that a dog lies, and the only sign of life was when they turned softly around to change their position, or took a quiet peep around with their large, dark eyes At the same time that the mother deer was thinking about going back to them they also were wondering when she would come, for they were beginning to feel very hungry, and wanted, their supper, resently there was a little rustle in the heather, and, forgetting caution, the two little fawns sprang up, tried to balance themselves on their rickety little legs, and looked around eagerly. But instead of their mother's graceful, dignified form they saw, creeping stealthily and warily through the heather, an animal with a soft, steel-gray, steel-gray, furry coat, a round, hairy, wicked face, with big cruel eyes that never winked, outstanding whiskers whis-kers and'sharp-pointed ears with, curious little tufts at the tops of them. This was a lynx, or wildcat, and one of the red deer's deadliest enemies when fawns are about. The little fawns did not know what it was, but they knew, in some way or other, that it was something some-thing to be afriad is, and the cruel face, with its tufted ears, and the terrible, sharp teeth, which it showed at sight of the fawns, made them shiver with fear. In vain they called for their mother in their soft, gentle manner,' while their slim, delicate bodies sank down again on the ground, the thin, weak legs refusing to hold them up any longer. Not a sound could be heard but the soft rustling of the heather as the wildcate made his way slowly but steadily toward them. But the mother deer knew all about it. She was always careful to take up her position to the windward, so that she could catch th very faintest scent of a lynx, fox or any other enemy who might be lingering around in her neighborhood. She had just decided that the sun was sinking, and that it was time for her little ones' supper, when borne to her on the evening air came a strong whiff of a wildcat. Shy and timid, like all red deer, in this case the mother deer forgot everything but the fact that there was a wildcat about, and that it was probably on the lookout for her fawns. In ar. instnn: she became be-came nervous, restless and anxious, but there was no sign of fear, for her mother-love made her think of nothing but the safety and protection of her children. Could she only tell exactly where the enemy was it would not be so difficult, but a hidden foe always ; made her uneasy. She came out of the forest for the wildcat was a long way off yet and moved slowly across the patch of heather vhpjr.hej.vKttle ones were hidden. Then suddenly sne stopped, her legs and feet hidden, and only her reddish-brown body showing; her graceful head was turned to one side in a listening attitude, her whitish-gray throat was beating rapidly, and her liquid brown eyes glancing in all directions, wide open and wild with fear. Then the rank smell of the lynx grew stronger, and in a small pathway caused by the bent-down sprays of the heather she saw, to her horror, a full-grown full-grown lynx making straight for the hiding place' of her children. There was no more hesitation. From a gentle, shy creature starting and quivering at every sound, she was transformed through her motherhood into an angry, furious animal. iWth a wild bound forward she came upon the lynx with such appalling suddenness and with such a shower of kicks from her sharp hoofs, that, surprised sur-prised and startled, he decided, after giving vent to his rage and disappointment by snarling fiercely and spitting violently, to go home and try again some other time. So, hissing, spitting and scolding scold-ing in his ugly passion, he made off, looking back now and again to send another shower of hisses back at the mother deer, and hoping with all his heart that she might got killed, so that he could get the fawns after all. But the mother deer did not get killed. She lived to bring up her babies; and very proud she was of them, for very few red deer have more than one fawn at a time, and she not only had two, but they were particularly fine young animals, healthy and strong. And so they all lived very happily together to-gether after this until the fawns were able to take care of themselves, and then the mother deer, having hav-ing done her duty faithfully and well, went back to her husband and joined the herd again. THE GIRL. "Well, I'm sorry enough that I did it. If 1 had it to do over again I should do differently." Emily spoke, with real regret to the aunt who was always a sympathetic listener to the telling of her girl troubles trou-bles or pleasures. "Gertrude will never forgive me, she said so. And if she chooses to harbor anger against me I can't help it." "I'm sorry to see broken what appeared such a beautiful friendship as that which has existed between be-tween you two." "So I am, but I can't help it. I told Gertrude, once that I was sorry.- I said all that could reasonably reason-ably be expected, but she wouldn't listen." "I don't think I have heard the full account of what occcurred." "It was bad enough," admitted Emily, regretfully. regret-fully. "I was going down town and Gertrude ran over and asked me to mail a letter for her. I laid it on the hat rack until I went out. Then Phil called me out the back door to see something about his rabbits, so I went that way, and the letter slipped my mind. In the afternoon Gertrude came over, and the moment I saw her at the gate I thought of that letter. I hated to let her know I had neglected neg-lected it, so I hurried down and covered it up intending in-tending to take it to mail just as soon as she went away. It was cowardly not to tell her I felt it so at the time. Well, that was the day Counsin Eleanor Elean-or came, and if you'll believe me. Aunt Amy, I didn't think of that letter again. Two days afterwards after-wards Gertrude came in, and as my evil star would have it, Maria was just cleaning the hall, and the letter lay there in plain sight. "Il'm, h'm," Aunt Amy shook her head. 'Gertrude was standing in the sitting room holding it when I came down; " "I shouldn't like to have been you," commented Emily's aunt. . "You would not. She stood there without a word listening to me as I blundered and stammered stam-mered and fell all over myself trying to explain and excuse but what excuse was there?" ' "What, indeed?" : "When I stopped she. asked me if I had not thought of the letter when she came in that afternoon. after-noon. That was the worst of it, for'of course, I had to own that I had, and had refrained from telling tell-ing her because I was ashamed. I begged her to sit down, but she still stood there while she told me, with a cold manner which I could see was put on to hide her fire of. feeling underneath, why it had been such a matter of concern to her that the letter should go promptly. It had been written in answer to one from her cousin, whom she loves very dearly and who is out of health. The cousin was on her way south and asked Gertrude to come to her for a day as she passed through the city, and to give her an address at which she could meet her. If 1 had been candid enough to tell Gertrude of my neglect that afternoon the letter might still have, been mailed in time. So it's about as bad as it can be, you see." "Yes," assented Aunt Amy. "I hadn't a word to say at first as Gertrude finished and turned away. Then I followed her to the door and tried to tell her something of my shame and regret. She would not listen to me, but went away. That was three weeks ago, and we never speak now." "I must confess," said Aunt Amy, "that I think Gertrude has pretty good reason for harboring angry an-gry feelings, as you call it. You certainly did her a deep injury." "You think she never can get over it?" "That depends on how much of the grace of God she has in her heart." You see," said Gertrude, "I never could forgive it of her. How could any one ?" "I am sure it would be a difficult thing to do," said the person, Gertrude's teacher and very dear and trusted friend, to whom she was telling her sore grievance against Emily. 'If she had only been more frank with me. If she had told me that day. Even afterwards, if she. had only been fair with me. But to wait until I found out her neglect just by accident. It seemed so tricky and deceitful." "It certainly was so. Your severe disappointment disappoint-ment was greatly increased by the way in which it had come about." "Yes, if it had been through some accident I could have borne it better. Now, Miss Vernon, mother says I ought to forgive Emily, but how can I?" . "Sometimes," said her friend, thoughtfully, "I think it a good thing to try to even ourselves up against our friends." "I don't quite understand you." "I believe I am rather obscure. I mean, we all have our faults. Some of us have those which lean in one direction, some in another. Pride, selfishness, selfish-ness, lack of candor, laziness, inconsiderateness, carelessness what an ugly list it makes. Can any of us say we are entirely free from all" these?" "Not I," admitted Gertrude. "There are several pretty good reasons for forgiving for-giving an injury," went on her friend. "In the first place, we like our friends to turn a lenient eye on our own faults. We do not like to be severely judged. We want them to deal gently with us because be-cause they love us. So let us try to feel that way towards our friends' faults. We are not perfect ourselves let us not expect perfection in them." "I surely am not perfect," said Gertrude, thoughtfully. "So much for our friends' side; now let us look giving spirit, one which will hold onto and cherish a grudge, which will allow its own sweet serenity to be clouded. Can we afford to submit tc uch an affliction because our friends have dc.ie us a wrong? O, we cannot. Let us". forget;. .-. Let, uprise oil the wings of forgiveness into ah atmosphere which will keep us far above the being annoyed by trifling injuries." "O, I see I see it," said Gertrude, her face beaming with the light of a new thought. 'Why, don't you see it. Miss Vernon forgiveness, true from your very heart, means so much. It covers all there is." "Exactly, dear. When we once reach the height of true forgiveness it is so far, so very far, above the petty things which mar a friendship that they are left out of sight. Blotted out, as we are promised, prom-ised, our own shortcomings will be. You remember, remem-ber, it is human to err, it is divine to forgive." Emily stood at her own gate as Gertrude walked down the street towards it. Of late Emily had begun be-gun to resent the continued anger of her friend, and had made a point of avoiding her. But today she turned an appealing look towards her, although fully expecting to see her pass without notice. But she stopped, saying: "Can you come down to the grove with me?" "To talk it over?" faltered Emily. "No, not a bit of it." said Gertrude, with a smile. "To forgot it. We can't afford to waste these glorious hours in talink over an old grievance." griev-ance." Sidney Dayre in The Advance. It is a far cry from the praying of Moses and the fighting of Joshua to the simple statement of .Tames, that "faith without works is dead." yet how strongly the scene depicted the saying, tho' enacted fifteen centuries before. And now constantly con-stantly are we brought face to face with this truth of the ages, but in a changed order! Those were the days" of faith; these are the days of works. Then men depended too much on God; now they depend too largely upon themselves. Just as Joshua and his army could make no headway while the hands of -Moses were not lifted, however valiant val-iant their efforts, so we go down to defeat in this valley of life, if somewhere on the heights at hand the spirit is not in communion with higher and better things than those we can hear and see and feel in the world about us. |
