|Rights||No Copyright - United States (NoC-US)|
|Publisher||Digitized by J. Willard Marriott Library, University of Utah|
|Article Title||Our. Boys and Girls|
DLRECTIONS FOR LETTER WHITING. WHIT-ING. "Write on one side of paper only. Do not have letters too lonp:. Addreps all letters to "Aunt Busy," Intermourrtain Catholic. Salt Lake City. Utah, April T, 1900. Dear Aunt Busy: I thought I would write you a few lines. This is the first time I have written to you. I am a little girl 10 years old. I go to the Oquirrh school. 1 am in the Fourth grade. 1 like The Jntermouintain Catholic. I go to choir practice every Saturday. I have some brothers and sisters. I pue.ss my letter is getting too long, good bvc, from your niece, MABLE STEPHENS. You write a very nice hand, Mable. Thanks for your kind opinion of the paper. AY rite poon again. Osrden, Utah, April 2, 1900. Dear Aunt Busy: We had a contest this morning and mama said she would give me a dollar if I won. A great big dollar is a whole lot for a little boy like me. I worked hard but got beaten. After a while Father Cushnahan came in and the boys told Father that I got beaten, and Father said let us try it over again, and we did, and I won, and you bet I was glad. I got my dollar. The boys all cheered for me. We had a grand celebration on St. Patrick's day. I spoke a long recitation. I am 9 years old and in the Fifth grade. I am very good sometimes). I think I will close, your loving nephew, RAYMOND RYAN. Aunt Buey congratulates her nephew on the contest. Dear Father Cushnahan Cushna-han did Aunt Busy- just such a good turn once. $ Ogden, Utah, April 2, 1500. Dear Aunt Busy: The boys call me jack of all trades but master of rone. I think 1 am the master of the whole school. Every night I lock up the window, turn off the water, bring in the coal and wood, i lock up the coal house and see that ! everything is right. Now I think that is a pretty good lot of work for a boy. Can you tell me who does more than ' that? If you can, I would like to see j the boy. I am not s very fond of books and study tftat I ever will get brain fever. Father Cushnahan thinks I am the be5t altar boy in the world and I think he is the loveliest prieet that ever lived. He is awful good to me. As I do not want to make my letter too long, I will close. Your new nephew, RICHARD MORRISSEY. i Aunt Busy welcomes her new nephew gladly. You surely are a good boy. Park City, April 7, 1900. D"ar Aunt Busy: I am 10 years old and I am in the Fourth reader. I go to St. Mary's school and I take music I have no brothers nor sisters. "Well, as this is my first leier I think this is enough. Your loving nephew, CHARLIE EONLON. Aunt Busy welcomes her new nephew from Park City, and hopes to hear from him frequently. Tell us about the groat mines and other interesting enterprises at the Park. 5 Salt Lake City, April 7, 1900. Dear Aunt Busy: I wish you a happy Easter. Don't you think it will be terrible if the I bishop i taken away from u? My j mama pays we ought to be both sorry I and glad, glad because of the honor conferred . and sorry because we have to loose him. I hope we wont loose him anyhow. I am sure all the children chil-dren would be sorry to see him go. He has done a noble work in this city and Jod will bless him wherever he goes, but all the same the church will never eeem the same. I know we will hate to see him go. I am sure I can see not why we should be glad as we all honor him where he is. Dear Aunt Busy, my sister Reerina is glad that you liked her letter. We all go to choir practice and . think our teacher a a great deal of patience with us. I am your loving niece, GENEVIEVE BROOKS. Yes. Aunt Busy thinks this will be dreadful, but let us hope it will not happen. Thank you, Genevieve, for your kindly Easter greeting. Salt Lake City, April 6, 1900. Dear Aunt Busy: lama little boy 7 years old. I go to the Sisters' school in the city. Papa has gone to practice for Easter at the cathedral. I am in the little Second reader. I spilt the ink one day. I am very sorry to hear about the fire in The Herald. I seen a boy walk on his hands. I know a little piece, shall I say it. THE PIECE. Little sunbeams warm and bright, turning shadows into light and making ail things gay. From your loving nephew, HOWARD CRAWFORD. Aunt Busy is very glad to hear from you. Howard. She has heard your papa sing at the cathedral. Write oon figain, and ask your dear little sister, Nora, to write also. SUCH A JOKE! He was a new boy, and we didn't like him very well. Mayb he was too good. Anyway, he was always studying study-ing in school time, and he had such a Hober look that we just named him "Old Solemnity." and let him alone. He scowled his forehead into wrinkle? when he studied, and had a fashion of reading his history lesson rolling his eyes round to see where the places were . on the map. till he did look funny enough to make anybody laugh. Dirk drew a picture of him on his slate, one day, and the lellows nearly went into fits over it. At recess we left him to himself. You pee. there were enough of us fop our games without him, and we didn't believe be-lieve he. would be much good at playing. play-ing. He used to stand and lock at us. and he looked pretty sober somiimes; but we didn't think much about it. One morning Te-d brought a big orange or-ange to school. He was always bringing bring-ing something, but this was more than common; we didn't pet oranges very often. He had It all wrapped up in paper, but he promised to divide it with Dick and me. Then he showed us something else a big potato that he had cut in a likeness of Tom's face. Tom was the new boy, you know; and it really did look like him. It was the shape of his head, with a knob on one side for a nose; and Ted had scored queer little lines in the fore-head, and given the mouth and eyes just the right twist. Just then the bell rang, and we hadn't a chance to show it to anybody else; but Dick said: "We'll put it on a stick and pass it round at recess. My, but Tom will be madi" Ted rolled it up in a paper "so its fine features wouldn't be rubbed off," he said, and dropped it into a drawer underHhe seat, where we kept our pencils pen-cils and traps generally. After we had been busy over our books a little while, another idea struck him, and he whispered whis-pered it to me. "Say, let's slip that into Tom's pocket where he'll find it at recess. We will tell the boys, so they'll all be watching, watch-ing, and it will be the biggest joke out. Dick can manage it; he sits nearest to him."' So I told Dick, and he slipped his i hand into the drawer behind him. and when he got a chance, dropped the little lit-tle bundle into Tom's pocket. We three hardly dared to look at each other, for fear we'd laugh. But that was every bit of fun we got out of it, for the minute min-ute recess came, before we had a chance to tell any one. Tom rushed up to us with his face like a full sunrise. "I'm ever so much obliged to you fellows, for I just know you're the ones that did it," he said: and I hadn't thought he could talk so fast. "It waa real good of you. and I mean to take it hone to my sister Sue. You don't care, do you? She's sick, you know" There he stood, holding up our nice big orange! Dick had made a mistake in the package, and we knew pretty well who had the best of the joke. We'd have made good models for potato heads ourselves just then, for we all stood and stared for a minute, with our mouths open. "Why, we didn't" began Dick; but Ted gave him a pinch that stopped .him. "We hope she'll like it," said Ted. grand as a pryice. Ted isn't selfish, anyway. "Is Sue the little lame girl I've seen at your house?" So Tom told us all about her I suppose sup-pose he thought we must be interested, or we wouldn't have given the orange how the scarlet fever had left her lame, how worried his mother was about it, and how he was trying to help all he could. We did get interested, sure enough. We put that potato where nobody ever saw it, and we got into a way of bringing some little thing for Sue nearly every day after that. We like Tom first-rate now; he's tiptop when you get to know him. I never told anybody but Grandmother how we came to get acquainted, and. she laughed and said: "A good many of the people we dislike, dis-like, dear boy, would look very differently differ-ently to us if ony we took the trouble to be kind to them." I "MISS MARY." There died last week in the Convent of the Order of Holy Cross, New Orleans, Or-leans, a lady who bad been a devoted inmate for forty years, not, indeed, as a member of the order, but who had served it faithfully and well. Miss Mary Allen, or "Misa Mary," as she was known, had a peculiar but beautiful beauti-ful life history. For the first time Miss Mary's life story has been made known. Hundreds who hae known her during all these years and noting the honor and reverence rever-ence paid to her in the community of the Holy Cross were under the im-pression im-pression that she was a -wealthy but eccentric lady, who did not wish to become be-come a sister, but chose to make her residence in a convent, and that at death the institution would materially benefit bv her bequests. Her story was told by Mother Desert at the open grave, and came as an answer an-swer to the query: "But Miss Mary was a rich lady, was she not, and chose to reside with the sisters because she did not have a religious vocation, yet was very near to it? Way back in 1S38 she was left an orphan in one of those' terrible yellow fever visitations which used to devastate devas-tate New Orleans before science learned how to control the disease so effectually. effectu-ally. One day she came to the houtse of the sisters, leading "Little Blind Mary." as she was called, by the hand. Mother Desert was deeply touched and took the children to her heart. The little blind girl was taken to the most eminent oculists for treatment, but all wa3 of no avail; they declared that she must remain blind for life. She told the sisters how good Mary Allen was to her; for over nine years the two little girls had been inseparable. Other little girls who had been left orphans by the yellow fever epidemic were educated: several became members mem-bers of the order and rose to positions of eminence in it. Mary Allen might have done the same, for she was considered con-sidered the brightest of the group, and developed into a most cultured and lovable lov-able woman, but she never entered the religious life; she declared always that she never intended to leave the convent walls, but also added that she was not going to take the veil either; and those who knew her best, knew, too, that it was her devotion to this poor blind orphan girl that kept her back. All her spare moments she would spend with Mary Mitchell, who soon became paralyzed as well a? blind, and who for thirty-five years has kept her room ; in the ancient asylum of the institution : adjoining the great mother house of i the order in New Orleans. Twice a week she is brought down to the services ser-vices In the chapel, viz., Sundays and Thursdays, and also on holidays of obligations, obli-gations, and during all these years it was Mary Allen who helped to carry her down. Such devotion, uch love cs bound these two orphan girls from the early age of two and three years through all the changing years is rare, and it was often said among the sisters and pupils that long years ago Miss Mary would have taken the veil if it were not for the fact that she would have to take the vow of obedience. "Go here, go there," at the voice of her superiors, and this would have separated sep-arated her from "blind Mary," the friend and confident df her early childhood child-hood years. Mise Mary became a leading teacher I in the order, for she might as well have been considered a sister, so beautiful and pure and holy was her life, so unselfish, un-selfish, so loyal and so earnestly did she labor in all things for the welafre of the community for which she and her orphan or-phan friends were so deeply indebted. The Bible says: "Greater love than this no man hath that he lay down his life for his friend." "Miss Mary's life was given for her blind and helpless friend "Blind Mary" still lives on. Mother Desert cays that she is the saint of the convent and the source of many blessings bless-ings that have come to it, for her beail-tiful beail-tiful life of patience, resignation and prayer, have borne fruit. She was brought into the chapel to sit beside the coffin of her dearest friend; she passed her faded hands over the face, and quietly kissed it and said: "It is well; soon I will join her in the heart of Jesus." And she sit quietly praying while the remains of the friend so truly loved and whose life had been a sacrifice for her because ?he was sa poor, so humble and so atilicted, was borne to its eternal rest. vTHISFEHING IU CHURCH. The worst of ail kinds of sounds in church is that of human voices not engaged en-gaged in the service: worst in indecency, indecen-cy, worst in moral transgression. Even religious conversation is wrong; secu- lar conversation is profanity. Comments Com-ments on the service itself, if favorable and friendly, are impertinent: if critical crit-ical are disgraceful: if comical, or calculated cal-culated to provoke laughter, are infamous. infa-mous. The insults lies against his courts, against the authorities of the church, against the congregation. A whisper reaches farther than a whisperer imagines. imag-ines. And wherever it reaches it may rightly stir indignation. It is a form of ill manners, the more deplorable be. cause it is scarcely capable of rcbuk-and rcbuk-and suppression by any other means than a general sense of good behavior and a right education. THE BOY AND THE SPARROW. Once a sweet boy sut and swung on a limb; On the ground stood a sparrow-bird, looking look-ing at him. Now the boy he was good, but the sparrow spar-row was bad. So it shied a big stone at the head of the lad. And it killed the poor boy; and the sparrow spar-row was glad. Then the little boy's mother flew over the trees. "Tell me. where is my little boy, sparrow-bird, sparrow-bird, please?" "He is safe in my pocket," the sparrow-bird sparrow-bird said; And another stone shied at the fond mother's head. And she fell at the feet of the sparrow-bird, sparrow-bird, dead. You imagine, no doubt, that the tale I have mixed; But it wasn't by me that the story was fixed. 'Twas a dream a boy had after killing a bird: And he dreamed it so loud that I heard every word. And I jotted it down as it really occurred. A FELLOWS MOTHER. "A fellow's mother," said Fred the wise. With his rosy cheeks and merry blue eyes, "Knows what to do if a fellow gets hurt By a thump or bruise, or a fall in the dirt. "A fellow's mother has bags and strings. Bags and buttons, and lots of things; No matter how busy she is, she'll stop To see how well you can spin your top. "She does not care not much, I mean If a fellow's face is not quite clean; And if your trousers are torn at the knee, She can put in a patch you'd never see. "A fellow's mother is never mad, And only sorry if you are bad; And I'll tell you this, if you're only true. She'll always forgive you, whate'er you do. "A fellow's mean who would never try To keep the tear from her loving eye. And the fellow's worse who sees it not That his mother's the truest friend he's got." THE BABY WENT TO BOYLAKTX He sat on my knee at evening, The boy who was "half-past three," And the clear blue eyes from his sun-browned sun-browned face Smiled happily up to me. I held him close as the twilight fell. And called him "My dear little son," Then I said: "I have wondered for many days Where is It that my baby's gone! "I'd a baby once In a long white gown, Whom I rocked just as I do you. His hair was as soft as yellow silk. And his eyes like violets blue. His little hands were like pink-tipped yours are so strong and brown: He has slipped away, and is lost, I fear; Do you know where my baby's gone?" Did my voice half break as the thoughts would come Of the sweet and sacred days When motherhood's first joys were mine? Was a shade of regret on my face? For close round my neck crept a sturdy arm. And the boy who is "half-past three" Said: "The baby he went to Boyland, And didn't you know? he's me!" Philadelphia North American. WHEN COMPANY COMES. (By Mary Allegra Gallagher.) When company comes, I'm a fair-haired boy; I can do as I please, and still not annoy. You see, it's like this, while my Auntie May Tells all the funny things I do and say, I rise right up, and cry "more plums," And I get all I want, when company comes. But when company's gone, ah me, ah me, I'd rather be down in the depths of the sea. ' Oh, that lecture I get 'til my poor head hums. Why don't I behave when company comes. I'm scolded and scolded, and hard as I try, I never am good, even whipp'd for a lie. But I know I can hope for liberty, rest, If only there's word of a coming guest. And at night when I say my ev'ning 1 prayers, I kneel right down at the head of the stairs, And I ask for company, company whew! For He was a boy, and He sends it, too. I'd ne'er be a hero aunt ne'er would be dumb. So think of the blessings when company's come. The Weekly Bouquet. IF I CAN LIVE. If I can live To make some pale face brighter and to give A second lustre to some tear-dimmed eye, Or e'en impart One throb of comfort to an aching heart. Or cheer some wayworn soul In passing pass-ing by; If I can lend A strong hand to the fallen, or defend The right against a single envious strain, My life, though liare. Perhaps, of much that seemeth dear and ' fair To us on earth, will not have been In vain. The purest joy. Most near to heaven, far from earth's alloy. Is bidding cloud give way to sun and shine; And 'twill be well If on that day of days the angels tell Of me, She did her best tor one of Thine. Helen Hunt Jackson.