pared apples (sitting on high stool). To pantry where refrigerator, cabinet and cupboard are all in one area. Το pump for water to make crust and back to cabinet. To stove to put pie in oven. To woodbox to get wood, and back to stove To sink for pan and cloth. To stove for hot water and back to sink. With a few steps she washed the dishes, cleaned up the cabinet, and put the dishes, pan, and cloth away. In other words, she "used her head to save her heels." This is not an exaggerated case of poor arrangement, for many such cases have been found this year. A woman needs but to give some intelligent thought to equipment and its arrangement in order to take the "drudge out of drudgery." In other words she should "use her head and save her heels." THE LOST BOY BY CARL HOLLIDAY University of Toledo, Ohio Along the street I see some laddie go, And in the deep night when the streets are still I see again the face, and hear The voice that rings its merriment so shrill; And so I think that as I gaze, heart-sore, I see my boy, and love all boys the more IN Prologue BY LILLIAN M. AINSWORTH NTO the heart of a gentle Poet a fair and delicate Maid one day sang her way. Her personality held winning sweetness, her mind a wonderful intellectual power, her life was of unsullied purity. Fair and fragile as the flowers she loved, this child of Heaven came among the earth-born men and women, wearying with earth's sordidness, to bring to them a bit of the melody to which her soul vibrated. A century has completed its cycle since the feet of the Maid sought the hard paths of earth, paths that were early abandoned for the heavenly abiding place. Yet, as the Maid journeyed she sang, and the clear cadence of her song vibrated to an answering note in the soul of the poet. But the Poet was a man, and while his soul The clear eyes of the poet searched in the eyes of the Maid for his answer, but her gaze was already fixed on the sunlit tops of the Far Country. For a brief moment the heart of the Poet failed him and his song held a discordant strain. But it was because, being a man as well as a poet, he could not fully understand. And when, a little later, the Maid went singing her way to the Place of Peace the Poet's soul vibrated to the celestial Do you believe in "treating 'em rough?" Evidently Whittier did, but at the same time the gentle poet was too tender hearted to be a "cave man." "I know that I have knelt too lowly Mrs. Ainsworth has given a beautiful revelation of a hidden chapter in the life of Whittier. If you love real romance read it. thrilled at the notes in the song, in his heart he loved the Maid who sang. And although poets have understanding hearts, he knew not, as yet, what the Maid knew, that her place was not here, but in the Other Country, where his feet could not enter for many, many years. But the Poet dreamed his dreams of happiness, as men and poets will, while the angels were tuning the harp of the Maid for Heaven's melodies. One day the Maid heard the voice of the Poet calling and asking her the eternal question of a man to a maid. music and his song rang true, with never a false note. An English writer is quoted by one of Whittier's biographers as saying, "If Whittier, who is unmarried, ever had a love story, he has not sung about it in the ears of the world." Not with a prying curiosity that would lay bare to a coldly inquisitive world the tender and sacred emotions of the dead poet's heart, or rudely unearth that which he chose to keep locked in the recesses of his memory, is the following brief chapter in Whittier's life revived. Students of Whittier's biography are cognizant of the fact that a rumor was extant at one time to the effect that the poet was engaged to be married. If an unkind fate shattered his hope of union with one who would have proved an inspiration to his highest endeavor, whose soul would have blended with his in the true unison of perfect mating and brought to hands of the writers, appeared the poem under Whittier's name, and, however one may regard it as a literary production, no one will deny that it breathes the sentiment of a disappointed and heartbroken lover. The fact that it was written only a month following the report of Whittier's engagement to Miss Hooper is a coincidence suggestive of the belief that he sang truly. "Pass away like thoughts unspoken The vows that I have said, I give thee back thy plighted word-” Here is the full text of the poem: To****** John G. Whittier "Forgive thee-yes, I do forgive thee, And bless thee as we part, And pray that years may never leave thee My agony of heart. I call no shadowy malison Upon thy fair young brow, "I know that I have knelt too lowly "Tis over now, the charm is broken, I give thee back thy plighted word, Like music by the slumberer heard, "Go now, the light of hope is on thee, Thy lover's claims are o'er; A thousand smiles thy charms have won thee, They'll win a thousand more. Though false the heart it veils so well "Go, heartless girl, thou'lt smile tomorrow As I had never been, And spurn thy lover's words of sorrow, God help thee in thy pilgrimage; Loved being, fare thee well." It will be noted that there is the same number of asterisks in the title that there are letters in the name "Hooper." Whittier was a resident of Philadel phia in 1839. In July of that year his health failed, and he called upon his cousin, Moses A. Cartland, to assume his editorial duties, which the latter did. Might not his sorrow, manfully suppressed and hidden from the prying eyes of the world, burned more deeply into the poet's heart and hastened the crisis when his very life. was despaired of, as is referred to on page 254 of Pickard's work? One has but to read the memoir of Lucy Hooper to understand that she must early have realized how futile. any dreams of earthly happiness must be for her. Always delicate and ethereal, the dread disease, pulmonary consumption, with which she fought a long and losing struggle, found feeble resistance in her physical frame. Two years following the incidents referred to in this article, at the age of 24 years, this promising young poet laid down her pen and answered the higher call. And it was then, perhaps, that the Poet fully understood, and his song rang true, with never a false note. And he sang: "Farewell! a little time and we Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow thee, As pilgrims through the Gate of Fear Which opens on Eternity. Yet we shall cherish not the less All that is left our hearts meanwhile; The memory of thy loveliness Shall round our weary pathway smile. Like moonlight when the sun has set, A sweet and tender radiance yet. Thought of thy clear-eyed sense of duty, Thy generous scorn of all things wrong— The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty Which blended in thy song. BY WILLIAM M. STUART Have you ever misjudged your neighbor? Perhaps you are doing so now. There is rarely a character so despicable that it hasn't its redeeming virtues. Even old Mose had his as is shown in this concluding installment of Mr. Stuart's story. Continued from October Issue Mose loved children and was never so content as when one or more of his numerous brood was following him about. And this was not a particularly difficult feat for even the brief legs of the youngest of his flock to compass. Mose loved all the children of the neighborhood; for they never referred by either word or action to his well established reputation. During the war he failed to display much interest in the struggle until told that the Germans made war on children. He thereupon promptly placed a second mortgage on the farm and invested the proceeds in Liberty Bonds. On the part of the children, their love for him was blended with admiration. For who but Mose would leave his farming to engineer a fishing party? Who but Mose would take a flock of boys on a wood-chuck-huntcould play ing expedition? Who mumble-the-peg so well? Who knew so many stories and was so willing to tell them? Especially was his repertoire of ghost and Indian stories. extensive. Who could make so many curious things by means of the simple tools of jackknife and a stick of pine? From even the lowly and despised milkweed he could devise many attractive ornaments. He could He could skin a rabbit quicker, pitch quoits straighter, whistle louder, imitate the calls of birds and beasts more realistically, and even make doll dresses better than any person-male or female in the township. Hence it came to pass that Mose Duryea was the children's friend. Friday was fair and hot. The recent rain dried rapidly from the grass under the fierce rays of the July sun. After a substantial dinner, Mose hitched his team of blacks to the decrepit mowing-machine and drove out to the road with the intention of going down to the lower place and cutting the clover. In the front yard were his own Ruth and his neighbor's Polly playtogether. The ing happily girls begged clamorously to be allowed to accompany him. Mose reflected between puffs of his pipe and at last took both the girls on his lap and clucked to the team. The colts were feeling in great fettle. They pranced and cavorted with arching necks and pawing hoofs. Mose regarded them with loving eyes wherein a shadow of trouble lurked. To-morrow would be Saturday. Would he lose them then? He put the distasteful thought aside and sang to his giggling lapful of girls as the mower rattled on its way to the clover. Coming to the field at length, Ruth began to loudly importune her father. "Oh, Daddy," she cried, "show Polly and me whare the big bank is-where it falls way, way down." "Not on yer two little tintypes," demurred Mose. "That's a nawful dangerous place." "Oh, come on, Daddy. Tie the team and show us. We won't fall off." |