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Show f I LTTTER-WEITING DIRECTIONS. : i -t rito 011 one side of paper only, t o not have letters too long. : Address all letters to "Aunt Busy," la- t 11:1 -mountain Catholic. SOMETIMES, SOMEWHERE. 1 i i V', answered yet? The prayer your lips I have tdeaded, I ;,, ,iimi.v of heart, these many years? ''. i .... s faith begin to . (all, is hove depart- , ii!V i .Via! think you all in vain those falling ' i. sirs 7 1 g:,y twl the Father has not h"ard your y,.u shall have your desire, sometime, si'inewhere. I'nansw red yet? though" -when you first presented TI1N one etition at the Father's 1 hnme, t 5 med you could not wait the time of asking:. Sn urgent was your heart to make it i: : known ! Though years have passed since then, do not'despatr: Tin- 1ord will answer you sometime, somewhere. Fiiaiiswoivd yet? Faith cannot be unanswered. un-answered. Her feet are firmly planted on the Rock; jSmid the-wildest storms she stands undaunted, un-daunted, Nor .mulls licfor rthc loudest thunder :; si lock. Fhe knows Omnipotence has heard her praver, And eries. "it shall be done sometime, f somewhere!' Christian Rossetti. ! ' AUNT BUSY' HAS HER SAY. i Pear Xieees and . Nephews Aunt Unsv will pive you one more week in which to answer her questions, "What 1 1 would do with fl.OOO," and then she have another question ready. She l would really like to hear from Ogden ; before she closes her first question, i 1 A nephew from Montana wrote a few noiiihs ago that he believed the' Ogden hoys would not answer the questions a use they never expected to have ' that much money. "Well, Aunt "Busy 1 was so angry to have such an unkind thing said about her nephews In the beautiful Junction City that she never published the Montana boy's letter, and wrote him a personal letter, in which ! : she warned him to. never again write : as unkind word about the fine Ogden boys, who are so fiear to Aunt Busy. Please write to her next week and answer an-swer that $1,000 question, you Ogden boys. Aunt Busy will feel very sorry i if you fail her this time. A AUNT BUSY. " LETTERS AND ANSWERS. Ia Jara, Colo., May 23, 19P2. pear Aunt Busy "La Jara is an V American town, and is in the southern part of Colorado,, in Conejos county. It is about twenty miles from the boun- I dary line between Colorado and New : Mexico. , 14 Isn't it too bad about St. Pierre being destroyed by that volcano? It has been awful cold down here for the last few days. 1 will close now. t-' Your loving nephew. DENNIS M'CUNNIFF. ( Aunt Busy is glad that her nephew h Penn is remembered to write to her I MEain. and she is very pleased to know . al.out your home. Why do you not f write a little story about La Jara? Oh, why do you not write an answer to Aunt Busy's question, '"What I 1 1 would do with $1,000?" H f Salt Lake City, May 23, 1902. I P'-'ir Aunt Busy I should have writ- I tn to you sooner, but last -week I was I W'-parinff for my first communion, and I nid not write any letter. I made my ttn.-t communion at 9 o'cloek mass on I ; . (.St Sunday at the cathedral. I i rt.is n'lt did enough to be confirmed, t n;. oniy 9 years old, and am not very nv- I was too happy, however, to fee! .iiway bad about not being confirmed He-.-, old are you. Aunt Busy? It was !t .aat you were an old gray-haired, 'Oss wyman.- But I do not believe air cross: you write such nice lct-" lct-" s. (loodhy, Aunt Busy. Your loving -' V. NEIL. BONNEB. ; ii i Busy gives you a glad welcome ' e Xi-il. but do not wait so long I 'f t - next time. Aunt Busy thinks v e quite young enough to wait; I year for confirmation. i -'nv, you dear fellow, you surely do I lot nan to ask how old Aunt Busy I js V.r have written very kindly or; I '' r and she appreciates your good II :!!. She wishes to give you somt; ii i . irp. Xever ask a woman how old j j . s1'" is. You do not understand why, ; Aunt Busy does not, cither, j s;n-..ly is a weary, tired, cross old Pi: i i,;u never is too cross to enjoy ,4 'PM'! jhe letters from her dear If,'l,.-ws, who are the finest fellows in Am. y)( are on( 0f ner particu- I !a'!; dear nephews. May you always ' haj'pv as on your first communion commun-ion ,..iy. - " Salt Lake City, May 2i. 1902. 5 r";;' Aunt Busy: ;: ' 'bought I would write and ask to I bf o;,,,. one r,f your nephews. The i in our class are all anxious to ri . to you and to read your nice ler- s l,y i:i the paier. AYe think our class ; is Uf- best class in the house "and a. I I'roof of it is that we are the only ones j to w.-iie to vou. I come from Kimbei- y- I tah. where the.Annie Laurie mine j I have a brother here at the col- 1 irs- and also a little baby sister at I aoademy. We will soon go home) : f.ir vacation. We are going to! !iao ,,ur lieId day next Monday and j t!l' i.ys are all practicing running. S .1ii:v,i. u,k and throwing the hammer. I 1 "wld nke to run in the little, boys-I boys-I ,a " . l.ut mamma thinks I would get I hurt, our cadets are going to walk in parade on Decoration day. Good b'. Aunt Busv. Your loving nephew, 1 " ERNEST COL1RN. I Aunt Busy o'uite agrees with you, r Ernest, in thinking the boys of your ''lns.s the best in the sc hool, "i ou are all very dear to poor, cross, old Aunt I ;iiv, ;',nd she will miss your letters, P!l'l!y during the vacation time, rieast d not quite forget her then. Aunt r! ' " Busy thanks you for-your kind words. You will 'always -be one of her very welcome nephews. Aunt Busy sends her love to the dear mamma, who has such a bright, good son. Write soon again. Earnest. PLAYING LADY. She borrowed my hairpins to do up her hair She borrowed the skirt of mv gown to wear, And she managed her train with an elegant ele-gant air Small . Dorothy "playing lady." She came to call in a-neighborly, way. With her three doll-children in grand array, And we dared not smile at the things she'd say. 'Twould offend her, playing lady. She gravely discussed the children's ills. The doses they'd taken and horrible pills. And casually mentioned the doctor's bills With quite the air of a lady. The subject of dress she did not forpet, Nor the. ways of her servants, the shiftless shift-less set, Who surely would cause her insanity yet, For thus is life hard on a lady. At length she thought she must say farewell. fare-well. But she caught her foot in her train and fell As she made us a bow, and I grieve to tell. -; That we laughed at her playing lady. But 1 had a glimpse of her by and by, In a very short skirt, with her hair"a-fly. And she haughtily said when I questioned why "She was tired', of playing lady.". And I thought of some larger girls I knew Who, when life goes wrong, as it's bound to do. Find that being grown up is hard work, too, And get tired of "playing lady." . Hell Rumford. ' Little Rody. : He was a fair, fragile little urchin, with light curly hair and clear blue eyes that looked straight at you when he cried: "Buy a paper, sir? Carry your parcel ?" Yes, Jtedy was a veritable street arab, with no one to love him. no one to care for him; a poor waif that the world seemed to imagine was made of tougher stuff .thaa flesh and blood. But Rody was not accustomed to think over his misfortunes, and did Jiot consider himself ill-used because cold and hunger hun-ger formed a part of daily existence. When a few crumbs from the rich man's table fell to his lot he enjoyed them, and called himself lueky if a kindly passer-by dropped him a copper. Eleven was the precise time this small boy had inhabited our globe, and yet he had suffered more, much more,, than many of us easy-going. ' -well-to-do worldlings suffer in a lifetime. There was. a time when Rody was neither a waif nor an outcast, when he had a little cot and a fond mother who tucked him away each night in warm blankets as she kissed him, whispering softly, "God bless my own boy, Rody' God love my own boy, my own little Body:" That was a long time ago now, nearly four years, but Rody remem--bered it well, and often when he felt cold and miserable it did him good to think of those far-off days and to picture pic-ture to himself the cottage where he had knelt at his mother's knee and learned the first lessons of piety, truth and love. Yes, Rody liked to' dream of that happy time and relate to his wondering won-dering companions how he had once lived in a cosy thatched cottage and gathered -violets from mossy hedges and cowslips in green fields. "But why did j-ou not always stay where the trees and flowers were. Rody?" some pale-faced mite would ask. That was a question the boy never nev-er chose to answer. Perhaps he feared the tears which were so near his eyes might steal down unawares, and then Rody considered it unmanly to betray all he felt for his dear, dead mother. And yet, all the same, when alone: "Ah: why had she died and left him?" was the questioning cry of the child's heart. It was only in a shadowy, distant way Rody remembered his father, the tall, strong man who used to lift him on his shoulder, whistle to him and kiss him. One bitterly cold week in January that kind father died, and the doctors said pneumonia had claimed another victim as its . own. Body's pretty, fragile mother never recovered from : the shock of her young husband's dath. She pined away slowly, and before be-fore two years had passed was laid beside be-side him in the churchyard. At ihat time Rodv had only a vague idea of death. The poor little fellow cried when he looked at his mother's pali still faee and worn, transparent hands and begged her to speak to him. Kind friends and neighbors, as is their wont, took the child from the bedside and filled his pockets with sweetmeats. -"Don't cry, Rody!" they said; "your mother has gone to a happy home abov-e the skies." "Why did mother leave me all j alone?" wailed the child. "Because God called her," they told him; "and you must be a good boy and you'll be with her later on. Your Uncle Joe or his wife will be coming j for you from Dublin tomorrow, so don't cry any more." But Rody was not to be quieted. He sobbed anil sobbed and called: "Muddy: Muddy! your own little Rody wants you." Even when the hard-faced, black-eyed black-eyed woman who called herself Aunt Ellen lifted him fn a third-class carriage, car-riage, which was to bring him away from the sweet, wild country and the home he loVed, to a crowded tenement house in a dismal back street in the ! Liberties, stiH he cried. However, i young as he was, Rody soon found ' there was no good fretting or wailing for his dead mother. Aunt Ellen, to I ray the least of her, w as not sympathetic. sympa-thetic. From the first she regarded the I child as a nuisance. He would be the I cause of extra expense and trouble, and this one fact was quite sufficient "to I make Kody objectionable to his aunt. IThcle ' Joe Rody learned to regard in 1 2-ather a peculiar light. He was a dark. r- surly man, who at times was kind to ! the child, but oi tenet- beat him, swore ; at him and told him to begone and beg. ! For some time the child was unable to account for his uncle's uncontrollable : fits of passion, but as he grew older he -j began to perceive the reason why his ' uncle and aunt quarreled so frequently j and so fiercely why they declared they j hated each other thait. they wished j one another dead. Both were drunkards. drunk-ards. Uncle Joe was in the habit of spending spend-ing the greater part of the week's wages in the public house, and his slatternly slat-ternly wife was very little better in this respect. Alas: poor Rody was the chief sufferer, for he came in for blows from both parties. Often when Aunt Ellen feared to vent her angry passion on her husband, the child proved a convenient object on which to revenge herself. So, too, on the other hand. Uncle Joe relieved his feelings by beating beat-ing the poor child. Very soon Body's dimpled cheeks lost their roses, and a hunted, hungry look stole into his great dark eyes. For hours together he sat with, his little face pressed against the dirt-besmeared window, his. little heart, breaking for one word of love or pity. Things did not improve with time in Uncle Joe's dwelling. Each year a greater number of blows fell to Body's lot. Each year he longer more and more to get away from his inhuman protectors. One dark winter night, when the child had been maltreated more severely severe-ly than usual, he fled from his wretched home to return no more. Alone, hungry hun-gry and miserable, Rody started to eke out a precarious existence. Poor little mite: He faced the world with a braver heart than many a man. yet w hat a sickening feeling of despair often of-ten took possession of him as he stood at nightfall at the corner of some deserted de-serted street, a bundle of unsold Evening Even-ing Telegraphs under his arm and not a penny to call his own. Everywhere around him - was - food, - money and warmth, but only cold and hunger were his portion. But what had this small waif done? Of what crime was he guilty that he should gaze with famished eyes at the good things of this world and yet never taste of them no, were he slowly dying of hunger! Poor little Rody! He had injured no one, done no evil, but he was poor wretchedly poor, and, therefore, passers-by thought, if they thought at all, that it was meelfi that it was natural, that he should suffer. Body did not seek pity or wail out in distress. He bore his privations with a mute callousness which might have shamed many a stronger soul. He beat his cold, mud-besmeared feet against the wet pavement when they w ere cold, and contented himself with gazing in at savory dishes in cook shop windows when adverse fortune had left him sup-perless. sup-perless. But there was something which grieved Rody even more than cold and want, and that w as the: longing long-ing of his soul to love and be. loved. Even when he had been unusually lucky in the sale of his papers, or Dame Fortune had bestowed one whole shilling shil-ling on him as his own, the child felt that vague feeling of loneliness-which he could never have explained. Perhaps Per-haps it was this emotion which made him cling to the sweet memory of his. mother, and perhaps, too, it was the thought of her which kept "him so long from sin. But , the boy was human intensely human; he did, not pray; in fact, he had forgotten: God and prayeri' and when the poor, as we all know, become unmindful of their Father in heaven, or learn to regard him in a far-off, shadowy way, they find it very hard, indeed, in their wants and sorrows to keep to the right path. Rody was not an exception to this rule. He often felt it would be much more profitable to cheat or steal than be honest, much easier to lie than speak the truth, but, then, there was no one to care particularly, particu-larly, h thought, what he did; it was all the same hether he ws good or bad, and the fact of being upright had only left him destitute. - ' Such was the train of Body's thoughts one cold .winter evening as he stood at Grafton street corner with a few unsgld 'Evening Telegraphs' in his hand. "Little use I've for trying to live," he muttered between his chattering teeth. "Every one can have something but me. I'm the worst off of the whole of them," and Rody wiped away the unbidden un-bidden tears that were trickling down his cheeks with the sleeve of his tattered tat-tered coat. "Come, my boy, get on, now. You can't stand here," cried a voic by his side. Rpdy raised his clear, honest eyes to the speaker and then fled in terror, for the street arab generally regards re-gards the "Bobby in blue" as his natural nat-ural enemy. When he had reached the end of the' street, and not till then, he stopped. ... Poor little mite, his head was throbbing throb-bing madly, and his frame shook "with a hacking cough. A few yards from him was a gay toy shop, surrounding by laughing children. Rody. relieved from his fear, watched them. They all looked so happy, he t hought. He alone was mi-serable. Suddnely a bright shilling rolled towards him. tee gazed at it longingly. He knew it belonged to one of those, merry boys who were eagerly discussing the merits of a popgun. pop-gun. They had plenty, he. was starring starr-ing and ill. Besides, no one was looking. look-ing. He could ea-sily take it. He stooped down, picked up the money and then ran as if for his very life. But he had been seen, and six pairs of legs followd in swift pursuit, and shrill i voices yelled: "Stop thief! Stop thief!" -Rody heard them" and knew that he was followed. He strained every nerve, every muscle, to keep ahead of his pursuers. pur-suers. He darted down one street, now ran through one lane, now through another, an-other, until hefell exhausted in a dark gateway, his. brain swimming and the cry of "Stop thief:" still ringing in his ears. As he raised his hand to his throbbing forehead he felt it wet with warm blood. A thousand lights, he thought, danced before his eyes, while "Stop thief! Stop thief!" seemed to be echoed and re-echoed by the shrill winter win-ter wind. Although Rody pressed his little hands against his ears to deanen the sound, yet the weird cry still went on, only growing louder each minute, until it culminated in one long, wild shriek, and then Rody knew no more. Some hours later some workmen who were passing found a huddled up, senseless little figure in tthe gateway. They brought the child to the hospital' close by." There gentle nuhs'laid liim in a neat white cot to fight the battle eb-tween eb-tween death and life. When Rody spoke again only . wild, incoherent words escaped his lips. There was a strange, unearthly lustre in his blue eyes, ris pale cheeks were Hushed like scarlet, and the fair, unkempt curls tossed restlessly from side to side. "I hear them:they are coming, coming, com-ing, nearer and"'nearer they are crying cry-ing 'Stop thief" and I can run no further:" fur-ther:" he would wail. . It was all in vain that gentle Sister Winifred strove to quiet his fearful fancies: he only moaned those sad words louder, until it seemed as if he must die of the very grief and fear. At .last, however, the plaintive cry grew lower and lower and then died away altogethet. The fever' had gone, and, weak;', :'w hke, nd ; -waited. Rody lay, his great' blue eyes wandering from bed to bed., ..vainly trying to recollect ' himself and guess when they came to his bed and "said that the child might linger some time, hut want and exposure expos-ure had done. their work; he could never recover. Meanwhile .Rpdy had grown very patient pa-tient and quitL,, The comfort and kindness kind-ness which surrounded his cot puzzled his little brain, it was no different to the misery to which he was accustomed. accus-tomed. He 'listened w:onderingly to Sister Winifred's gentle voice telling of the love of the Sacred Heart for little children, and how Jesus used to take them in his arms and bless them and say: "Suffer little children to come to j me, for of such, is the kingdom of! heaven." Gradually Rody began to lose his -sense of loneliness. He knew God cared for him and watched over him j even more tenderly than his own long lost mother. , One day when Sister Winifred asked him where she should send for his father fa-ther and mother, he replied, raising hi sweet face in amazement: "They aro dead long ago!" he said, sobbingly. "I have been working for myself ever so long." . ' "Poor little mite," murmured the nun. "God loves you all the better for being poor and lonely; you are one of his favorite little ones!" As she spoke a faint Hush stole into the child's cheeks, for those words awakened in his childish heart pangs of keen, remorse, and he felt a great tearless sob . rise to his throat. The tad recollection, like a painful picture, rose before him that he had been a bad boy; he had forgotten God; he had stolen; and, oh! what-would mother say if she knew all? And as the thoughts crowded on him Rody cov-i. ered his head with the blanket to hide his grief. ... Needless to say, Sister Winifred's visits to Rody's, bed were. very frequent. fre-quent. He was "such a friendless anJ forlorn mite" she felt strangely drawn toward him. He. was always very shy and reserved when she spoke to him, and yet she was convinced he regarded her as a great friend. It was very true that Sister Winifred had not spent ten years, nursing little boys in vain. Little Lit-tle by little it grew on her that Rody was restless; some secret trouble must be weighing on his mind. She must win his confidence and bring him relief. re-lief. One wild evening, when the wind was sobbing and moaning pitifully around the city hospital, Rody seemed more disturbed than usual. "Are you weary and tired of the bed, darling?" asked Sister Winifred, laying her hand gently on the child's throbbing throb-bing forehead. For a moment Rody was silent, while the wind outside mercilessly, heat against, the window-panes window-panes and shrieked through the keyhole. key-hole. Ah! it reminded him so much of his last night inMhe streets and that stolen shilling!- "Sister Winifred," he cried, in, broken accents, "Sister; Winifred, I want to ask you, to ask you so many things that my head is aching with the thoughts of them!"' "I am listening, Rody," the nun answered, an-swered, gently., i VSister Winifred," he cried, "'where am I? Has the place anything to do with a prison? You know I should be in prison!" "No, Rody, no! You are in the' hospital, hos-pital, a place for good little boys who are sick," answered the nun; Rody at once raised his confiding eyes to the sister's sweet face, while his cheeks glowed like scarlet and his lips quivered quiv-ered as he said,"1 hurriedly.: "I am glad it is not a "prison; hut, Sister Winifreftf-Fam not a good boy. I stole, a shilling the night -i came here. Oh! I was so Hick nd 'tired tHat evening, even-ing, and the money tempted me! I've been thinking of it ever since, and tonight" to-night" but Rody , did not finish the sentence;, he buried his face in. his little lit-tle wasted hands and he sobbed aloud: "Don't cry, my poor little Rody," whispered the -nun, softly. "You are very-sorry for--st?ealing' trie shilling;, and Jesus will forgive you. He knew himself him-self w hat it was to be poor and lonely, Rody; pray to him and he will comfort you and he will have mercy on you." "Does he know how hard I tried to be honest? How badly I wanted money when I stole?" asked Rody. - "Indeed he does," answered Sister Winifred. "Out. good Jesus is. always watching over' us, and he knows everything." every-thing." f. .,. -.. : "Then I won't find It so hard to 'ask his pardon," the' child said. "He'll remember re-member how hungry and sick I was!" - , Poor Rody! Had he been ever so-eloquent so-eloquent he could never have described half he went through since his mother's death, and yet he felt very guilty indeed. in-deed. He had been tempted sorely,, but all he seemed to remember was that he had stolen. By degrees Sister Winifred learned from Rody the' story of his life, how-happy how-happy he had been for those first few years with his idolized mother, then his sorrow and loneliness in the city tenement house, and, lastly, Hs bitter struggle to earn a living in the streets. It was a sad tale, but it is the tale of many of our cities' and towns, fojr as a rule there are many dark days and heavy rainfalls in the lives of our city waifs. "Sister Winifred, I'll never forget to love God again, not even if I live to be ever so old," the child would cry, w ith his eyes full of tears and with clasped hands. "Would you find it very hard to die Rody?" Sister Winifred asked one day! Rody looked startled. "To die?" he repeated. . "Yes, Rody." The tears trickled down the child's cheeks as he gald, sobbingly; "I never thought of dying, Sister," he said, and turned his face to the wall. An hour later, when Sister Winifred came to her little favorite's cot, he took her hand, and, drawing her over to him, he whispered; "I won't be sorry to die if God wishes it, only, only Ivused to think of living and being very good, to pay back the shilling and to make up for all the time I was bad." "I understand, Rody, darling," the nun answered, as she wiped away her'; own tears. "You wish whatever God wishes." ,. ...-... "Yes, Sister." ' the child answered firmly. "That is what I mean." - ' One bright morning, when the sunbeams sun-beams fell softly across the neat white cot in the children's ward, Rody received re-ceived his last holy communion. During Dur-ing his lingering illness the kind Sister Sis-ter had prepared him for confession and he received his blessed Lord many times. His lordship, the 'bishop, who took a great interest, in the child when he learned his touching story, kindly came and confirmed him. A tenderhearted tender-hearted lady visitor had given him a beautiful picture of the Sacred Heart which he always kept near him and kissed over and over. During several hours on this morning he lay with his hands joined and his face lighted up with an undescribable look of peace and happiness. Once when Sister Winifred Win-ifred bent over his bed he murmured- "Jesus will soon come to take me home to himself in heaven." Before the evening shadows fell across his little bed, Rody said- ' "Sister, I am going to Jesus now Don't be long until you come to me sure you won't?" The words were followed fol-lowed by a sweet, grateful smile and all was over. His white child-soul had gone ''home" to God. The Irish Messenger. |
