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Show I ; . , j Always Tell Mother. I t JUwavF tell mother. She's willing to hear. I wi 'inc to listen to tales of despair. S Tell' her whMi trials and troubles assail, 1 1 st k her for comfort . when sorrows I Tnkiii'Mher's hand when temptations 1 ' entice; ... j j.k ji,,r for counsel, seek mother s ad- . i ' vice. Ajwavs tell mother. In mother confide; roMeY no secrets from mother to hide; ' Train your thoughts nobly, nor let your 1 lips speak I words that would kindle a blush on ner 1 cheek. I Mather stands ready her aid to Impart; I Open to mother the door of your hearty ; Always tell mother. Your joys let her f ' share; . i Lift from her shoulders their burdens of care: , ' ! Brighten her pathway, be gentle and ii k;nd; Strengthen the ties of affection that hind. . ' Tell h-r you love her; look up in ner i free: , Tell her no other can take mother s place. I Always tell mother. When dangers betide. Mother, if need be, will die by your side. . , I Though you may be sunken in sin and disgrace, j Mother will never turn from you her ! face. Others may shun you, but mother, vour friend, Stands ever ready to shield and defend. Mother's devotion is always the same; Softly, with reverence, breathe mother's moth-er's name. AUNT BUSY HAS HER SAY. Dear Nieces and Nephews: Aunt Busy wishes to call your attention to the "picture on the first page of the paper this week. The bright pictured I lacs are Rev. Father Cushnahan's own dear altar boys and Aunt Busy's very dear friends, the Ogden boys. J The picture does not do the dear fellows fel-lows justice, because from the tallest I lads on the back row to the dear babr hov in front, they are the very finest i looking lads in America, and their dear I pastor, who stands back of them is one I of the dearest and best priests in America. Aunt Busy wishes to express her thanks to the dear fellow who sent her the picture. She is sure that all the children will enjoy seeing the dear Ogd- n boys, the dear fellows of whom j I Aunt Busy and everybody else is so proud. "When you see this picture jou i Tvill not wonder any more why Aunt Busv thinks so much of the Ogden lads. AUNT BUSY. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. Park City, April 10. Prar Aunt Busy: I go to the Sisters s -non. My teacher's name is Sister 1 1 fiabriella. I like her very much. I will I he ! years old Palm Sunday. I have Is little sister named Maggie, a brother named Patrick, another brother named Kddie. My letter is getting long, so I v ill sav good-bye. Your loving niece, ALICE M'POLIX. A very glad welcome, dear little niece, Alice. Aunt Busy is very proud of her dear nieces and nephews in Park City. Aunt Busy would love to know your bright brothers and your sister. J Oive thtm Aunt Busy's love and tel! them to write to her. ff course you like your teacher. All pood children like their teachers, and !of course you are a very dear, good child. De Lamar, Nev., March 3, 1903. j Dear Aunt Busy: I want a guess as J tn your sge. I think you are some-1 some-1 where near thirty. Am I right? We are looking forward to Easter and hope a priest will come here. I Mamma and para are going- to Salt I Lake next week: will only take baby! 1 sister. Please call on them. Aunt Busy, I they y,e at the cullen. My brother? broth-er? and sisters join me in lovii. Your ; niece, OEXEV1EVE M'NAMEE. I Aunt Busy gladly welcomed a. letter from her dear little De Lamar niece, if She only wishes the dear niece would h vrite more frequently. ! j Aunt Busy would have liked very well j i to . all on your parents, but she is such I : a busy old soul she hardly finds time I ' to sleep. About Aunt Busy's age! Now, J dear little niece, how ever do you ex- Ipet a fat. gray-haired old woman to I l,B only CO years old? You are very I flattering; indeed, Genieve, to consider I j Aunt Busy so young. Give Aunt busy's very dear love to the little ones. Salt Lake City, March 28. I l'ar Aunt Busy;. I have thought of I ritir.j,- you for a very long time, but 1 : 1 think the springtime brings us to do v'hat we leave undone in the winter- . Spring is here at last. I am so Paid hut 1 must tell you what I am go- I ir.R to ,.i this spring. I intend to be a FardeI)tJ.( for I am going to have a nice I l!o-,rT garden. I have two large boxes I planted with flower seed, so as to have I them early. I know that you would like p to i.;noW what I will do with the flow- t r!s. so I will tell you. I am going to I P've them to our dear Lord that means to -h, altars for I like to see beautiful I ilou.-rs on the altars. As I think my ' I f'"-r is long, I will close. From vour I "'K nepnew, V JOSEPH THOMAS. f "letter late than never," dear i Ti' ,,),, ,w Aunt BUSy js very pleased to he;ir from you Sne wishes you all j success with your garden, and is so 5 I'leased to hear about your plans for the altars. You have a beautiful Intention. In-tention. Joseph, and Aunt Busy sin-cerely sin-cerely hopes that other dear fellows 11 follow your good example. Write o,ten and tell Aunt Busy about the flower garden. ) Canon City, Colo., March 23, 1903. D(ar Aunt Busy: 1 am a little girl 15 years old. I have Written several poems and stories, vhih my friends would like to see Published, so please, find enclosed a l?ry entitled "An Evening Stroll," i fuiivh 1 like the beEt' Yours resPect NORA CALLICOTTE. I ; - .is-? Rlver St.. Canon City, Colo. AN EVENING STROLL. Twilight had begun and the stars peeped forth one by one in the silent expanse of heaven, when I wandered from the village to have a solitary communion with nature. The country road, bordered one side by a clear woodland stream, on the , other by grand old trees, whose ever changing shadows brought to my mind I the ever changing phases of life. Wearied and footsore, I stopped at I last to rest. The moon had now begun be-gun her nightly journey through that eternal waste, studded with the stars, the eyes of the night. A night breeze wafted softly through the trees and cooled my fevered brow. A feeling of contentment stole over me, such as I jhad never felt before. The vesper bell, calling worshippers j j to receive the benediction of him who Ihad made it possible, came faintly to my ears, borne on the wings of the i night. This and the low murmur of j the stream were all that broke the stillness of the scene. This was the consecration of my soul and mind. The shadows became deeper, the sound of the vesper bell was no longer heard, and even the stream had ceased its babbling as if in reverence to the mysterious night. The scent of wild flowers came gently gent-ly to me, as if wafted on a twilight zephyr. Somewhere In the woods a whip-poor-will began his plaintive cadence ca-dence and I gradually lapsed into a' deep reverie. When I awoke at last I felt refreshed. re-freshed. The night was far advanced, as I could see by the waning moon, and the faint flush of red in the east, the messenger of the sun. The flush gradually became deeper and then turned to purple. Wending my steps along the road in the direction of the village, I went over the events of the previous evening, even-ing, but it needed no call to memory to do this. Each and every moment of the time spent in that hallowed spot were indelibly written on my heart, never to be erased, and in after life, when my mind was weary, I went back in spirit to that scene, and the same feeling of rest and contentment would steal over me. NORA CALICOTTE. Dear little girl, your well-wijtten little lit-tle article was referred ty Aunt Busy, and she wishes to compliment you on your evident talent for writing. Aunt Busy would like to hear from you very often for the future. She suggests that you study hard, because you show ability. You have a very good style for a young writer. Aunt Busy is pleased to publish your article in her department. She is very sure the dear nieces and nephews will also be interested. in-terested. advL lli Cloo sl-.CMFW WW ; Leadville. Colo., March 29. 1903. Dear Aunt Busy: I read in this week's Intermountain Catholic that you wanted some of your nieces and nephews to guess your age. Mv judgment is 42 years. I may be a little ahead of time for your age, but I thought I would guess anyhow. Ye are all well at present. Well, I will bring my letter to a close. Good-bye, dear auntie. Your affectionate niece, LIZZIE F'CARTHY. Po. O. box 748. Leadville, Colo. Well, little girl, you are not so very "far off" in your estimate of Aunt Busy's age, but you are not quite right, though. She certainly is a very settled, set-tled, fat comfortable-looking old lady. Why do you not write often to Aunt Busy, Lizzie? Aunt Busy loves to hear from her dear Colorado children. The Boy From Town. Last night a boy came here from .town To stay a week er so, Because his maw is all run down , An needs a rest, you know. His name is Cecil, and he's eight, And he can't skin the cat, His maw she calls him "Pet." I'd hate To have a name like that. He wears a collar and a tie And can't hang by his toes; I guess that I wuold nearly die If I had on his clo's. He can't ride bareback, and today, When we slip on the straw. He ast if roosters help to lay The eggs I pick fer maw. When our old gander hissed, he run As though he thought he'd bite; And he ain't ever shot a gun Or had a home-made kite. He never milked a cow, and he Can't even dive or swim; I'd hate to think that he was me; I'm glad that I ain't him. He thinks it's lots o fun to pump And see the water spurt. But won't climb in the barn and jump For fear of gettin hurt. His clo's are offie nice and fine; His hair's all over curls; His hands ain't half as big as mine, He ought to play with girls. A little while ago when we Were foolln in the shed, He suddenly got mad at me Because I bumped his head. There's lots of things that he can t do, He thinks that sheep'll bite. And he's afraid of ganders too, But he can fight all r3et. Aunt Susan's Socks. old la- We me. who never g ISywliere. ought to eipect to have ""."."slfikn' as she was familiarly mite V.-U e painted bouse and earned livelihood ly UO -f.SuaW watched the slowly moving needles intently in-tently as she related some of the little happenings of the school. "I declare, Aunt Susan," she said at length, "it seems to me you are taking great pains with those socks. I shouldn't be so particular. You are going to sell them, and you will get just as much for them if you don't make them so well." "Yes," slowly remarked the old lady, "but when I was a girl the schoolmaster schoolmas-ter wrote one day on the board, "Whatever "What-ever is worth doing ai all is worth doing do-ing well, and," she added impressively, impressive-ly, laying her knitting aside, "I have tried to live that motto ever since. I don't know what poor boy in one of the lumber camps may wear these socks this winter. Men have a hard time enough working in the woods and they need comfortable socks. And then, too, I sell a good many to the city fellows who come down here. They are used to fine things and they want good socks. Many is the time I have heard my mother say, as she was getting get-ting dinner, 'Let's have a good dinner, as the president of the United States may call.' Perhaps the president or the United States may wear socks I make." At that Jennie smiled and said, as if in encouragement, "You want to make them good enough for him, don't you, Aunt Susan?" Several weeks passed and Jennie was again calling at the same place, when there came a knock at the front door, j and Jennie arose and ushered in Uncle Billy, as everyone liked to call him. "I vum!" he said, as he helped himself him-self to a chair, "It's been some j time since I've seen you, ain't it, Aunt Susan? How be you now? The last j time I heard from you you was having one of them rumaticky spells. But I hope you are over them. I've had them, and they are -worse'n than the seven years' itch. But I called in to see you on a little matter of business." At the mention of business, Aunt Susan, who had tried two or three times to say -something, but couldn't get in a word between Uncle Billy's, laid her knitting work aside and looked perplexed. "I want to know," continued Uncle Billy, "if you are making the kind of socks I used to buy when I guided them New York fellers. I got a letter last night from one of them chaps and he remembers the socks you used to knit, and he wants to buy some. Perhaps you would like to read the letter." He carefully drew a letter from his inside coat pocket, and handed it over to Aunt Susan, who adjusted her glasses and scanned the envelope closely. "From Washington, I do declare!" she exclaimed. - . - "Yes," said Uncle Billy, looking pleased. "It may be from the White . House." "What kind of a joke are you trying to play now. Bill Soule?" she asked. "No joke," he replied. "Keaa me letter." She opened and read half aloud: "My Dear Old Guide: When you guided me, one fall, in Maine, you gave me a pair of socks made by Aunt Susan Jones, and I have never found any socks so comfortable. I am going to Mississippi on a hunting trip, and would like six pairs of socks such as you gave me." She read the typewritten letter xvith ease, but the signature puzzled her foi a moment. At last she made it out, and exclaimed: ' " ' . - Tronv Theodore R6osevelt! Goodness Good-ness me! And he knows my name!" "And so ..you. ..are really, knitting socks for the president of the United States!" exclaimed Jennie, excitedly "And it's all because you had a gooc motto!" Sunday School Times. POPHAM AND PLYM.O u T xL Settlement at Former Didn't Stick and at the Latter It Did. (New York Tribune.) "Did vou ever hear of Popham?" asked the college professor of his friend, the advertising man. The advertising ad-vertising man shook his head. "Did you ever hear of Plymouth, then?" queried the professor again. The advertising man looked as u he had been insulted; but he only Sa"Why, of course. I went to school long enough to know where the first settlers of New England struck land. , "That's all right; that's all right, said the professor, as if to soothe the feelings of the advertising man. But Popham is an older landmark in New Kngland than Plymouth. In fact, it was the first English settlement north of the James river." , "But where is Popham?" broke m the advertising man. t popham," said the professor, is at the mouth of the Kennebec river, on .k. n of Maine. I spent my last summer vacation up (sic) there, i and it is a picturesque place. In the. .ti inter in-ter time th3 population dwindles down to about twenty persons, but it is ; quite a Place when its three hotels and its half-hundred cottages fill with guests "Now, the reason that you hear of Plymouth and you don't hear of Pop-; ham is that the people who landed 1 at . Plymouth stuck, and the Popham settlers set-tlers didn't. The first symbolizes perseverance; per-severance; the second, discouragement. Everything about Popham. except the summer boarding business, "has been a "Ply-mouth, as you know, was founded found-ed in 1620 Well. Popham beats that date by thirteen years. It ' was in August Au-gust 1607. that two boats, the Gift of God and the Mary and John commanded com-manded respectively by Captain George PoDham and Sir Humphrey Gilbert, reached the mouth of the Kennebec, and landed their colonists th rteen mifesfVom the present shipbuilding he'wfnter" which followed was so cold it almost froze the newcomers fast in the snowdrifts... In the language of one of the settlers, 'the frost was so vehement that no boat could stir on any business.'. The colonists finally sav summer again; but none of them dared to stay through another winder win-der So after a settlement of fourteen four-teen months they all went back to . E"Thenn"the old fort called Fort Popham Pop-ham is another illustration of the spirit of discouragement which seems to brood over Popham. . . Tn 1861 the government began tne erection of a granite fortification, out after the work had gone on for a time it was abandoned, and now its garrison gar-rison consists of only one man. "The Maine Historical society was nuirkened by the talk of a fort by the namfoi Foft Popham in 1862. It was banned to place a memorial stone. KmTof 'the settlement of the first New England colony in a few chiseled chis-eled ' words, in the arch of the fort's SrceleatToTwas held, but it was onlv ceremonial. The stone, was never St in the arch, and it now lies out back of the fort, with the inscription turned toward the wall," |
