Slike strani
PDF
ePub
[graphic]

THE B. OF L. E. ADVISORY BOARD AND THE TRUSTEES OF THE INSURANCE DEPARTMENT INVITED TO A CONFERENCE.

Top row-E. A. Shipley, Trustee; M. W. Cadle, Asst. G. C. E.; M. II. Shay, Sec. Ins.; C. H. Salmons, S. G. E.; Ash Kennedy, Asst. G. C. E.; E. W. Hurley. Asst. G. C.
E.; F. A. Burgess, Asst. G. C. E. Lower row-E. Corrigan, Asst. G. C. E.; W. E. Futch, Pres. Ins.; C. K. Mitchell, Trustee; John Welch. Chr. Trustees; W. T.
Christy, Trustee; J. S. Freenor, Trustee; W. B. Prenter, F. G. E.; H. E. Wills, Asst. G. C. E.; W. S. Stone, G. C. E.,

your influence, if possible, in persuading her to leave the stage. A letter addressed to her proper name, "Miss M. E. Randolph, Golden Butterfly company, New York," will be forwarded wherever she may be."

And so it happened that Miss Randolph, sitting in her dressing room at the theater a few days later, was handed a letter, and her large dark eyes grew wider and brighter still as she read this kindly invitation to become a member of the parsonage household.

"Your grandmother and I will do all in our power to make you happy," the note read, and the girl smiled at the superscription-"David Paul Randolph, pastor of Trinity church, Eastville, N. Y."

She leaned forward and made a little face in the glass, then turned to get a better view of the golden wings suspended from her shoulders. "My dear uncleminister," she confided to her charming reflection, "I don't really believe you could make me happy—in Eastville."

Telegrams in Eastville were usually associated with death or disaster, so when David Randolph received a yellow envelope his mother waited in suspense as he read the brief message.

"What is it?" she asked impatiently, while his puzzled expression changed to one of amusement.

"The Golden Butterflies have arrived in New York, he answered dryly, "and I am to meet 'Maisie' at Eastville station at 9 o'clock tonight."

"Maisie," the old lady repeated doubtfully.

Rain came pelting against the study windows, and the wind screeching down the garden path, threw wide the door. A girl stood there in the aperture, wearing a fur-trimmed scarlet cloak, whose hue rivaled the firelight; she tilted back her head in order to glance from beneath the huge brim of a plume-decked hat.

"You did not hear me knock," she announced. "I'm Maisie."

The young pastor came forward quickly. "Your telegram has just reached us," he explained. "I expected to meet you on the 9 o'clock train.”

Maisie laughed. "I intended to leave

New York later," she said. "When you know me better you will learn that the unexpected usually happens where I am concerned."

With a sudden impulse the elder woman took the other, scarlet cloak and all, into her embrace.

"Granddaughter, don't go back to that life," she said. "Stay and take your father's place in our home."

The girl drew in her breath sharply. "I will stay as long as you wish," she replied, "if you will like me for my own sake."

So the Golden Butterflies packed up and left New York, while Maisie remained at the quiet parsonage. The hitherto silent house now rang with her gay songs and laughter, and the creases and lines which "dull care" had traced upon the tired pastor's face vanished. Maisie laid aside the scarlet cloak and monstrous hat at his bidding, and with a sigh of regret folded away the orange silk which had caused such a tumult of criticism among the congregation. She even endeavored to smooth back the riotous curls which had been her pride and appeared at church one day. with neatly banded hair and attired in a gray gown of severe simplicity. It was pleasant to remember, as the pastor went about his duties, that Maisie would be there to welcome him when he returned, and he would hasten his steps in anticipation. It was pleasant also for the old lady to sit resting in the twilight as Maisie sang the half forgotten songs-ending up, perhaps, with a very modern burst of ragtime. But gradually a cloud appeared upon this happy horizon; the girl herself grew restless and dissatisfied; she spent afternoons in the city, returning at evening silent and depressed.

"Do you think,' ," the young minister asked haltingly, "that it is the old life calling her back?"

His mother hesitated a moment. "David," she said presently, "did it ever occur to you that Maisie may have a lover?"

His face turned strangely white. "You mean"-he asked abruptly.

"A letter came for her this morning with the name of a theater stamped upon

the envelope," the old lady replied. "Maisie gave a glad cry when I brought it and ran up to her room. Later she came down and, bidding me goodby, left for the city, making no explanation." The old lady paused again.

"Mrs. Thayer saw her coming from the stage entrance of a vaudeville theater after a matinee performance a few days ago," she added impressively.

"She is not acting fair," he exclaimed passionately. "If she has grown tired of our quiet ways why doesn't she say so? We would not force her to stay. I am going to find Maisie now," he cried, "and make her own the truth."

His mother followed him to the door, and her voice trembled. "Oh, David, she said, "it will be hard indeed to let her go."

He was just in time, no more. The great crowd came flocking through the doorways of the theater, and the young minister grimly stood waiting beneath a sign which informed him that this was the stage entrance. He was conscious of many questioning glances from various members of the company who passed laughingly on their way. Maisie came last, and his heart hammered painfully as he saw her. She carried a sheath of crimson roses in her arms, and a distinguished looking man accompanied her. She stopped in astonishment at sight of David.

"You?" she breathed.

"Yes, Maisie," he answered quietly. "I have come to take you home."

She held out her hand to the man at once. "Goodby, Tom," she said gently, then turned to walk obediently at David's side. In silence they traversed the streets and boarded a waiting train; then he leaned toward her.

"Oh, little girl," he said earnestly, "why did you not tell us you longed to go back to the stage-that you were tired of our simple home life?"

She looked up at him with tear-bright eyes. "Because, she answered distinctly, "I have never been on the stage; because the hours spent in your home have been the happiest ones of my life."

"My dear niece," he was beginning when she interrupted him wildly.

"That is also untrue," she said: "I am not your niece. Oh, let me tell my disgraceful story quickly, and when it is over and you have bidden me goodby believe that your kindness has not been wasted, even upon an impostor. Can you think what it means to be homeless, utterly friendless? That was my condition. My father, a poor professor of music, left mother and me years ago to struggle on alone; she sewed day and night to earn our bread, while I attended school. When she died a year ago I suddenly realized my own helplessness. A modiste for whom mother had sewed finally agreed to give me small parts to embroider, and it was a happy chance which led me thus to meet that little theatrical favorite, that warm-hearted girl, your niece, Marion Randolph. She kept me busily employed, paying generously for my work, and later declared that we had become too necessary to each other to be parted, SO we traveled on together, while I made myself useful to her in various ways. Marion had a faithful lover, manager of the company, and when her father died in Chicago he insisted upon taking care of her at once, and they were married, with myself the only attendant. Soon after came your letter offering this greatly admired and petite little actress the shelter of a peaceful home.

"Oh, how desperately I wished that the offer had been made to me!

"If we might only change places, Marion,' I said regretfully. And in a moment she was urging, suggesting delightful possibilities. 'Why not?' she insisted. "You will suit them much better than me. Tommie can provide all the home I want. Go for a time, anyway, and, when they have learned the truth, Maisie, they will love you too well to let you go.'

"Marion can persuade, indeed, when she tries, and, carried away by her enthusiasm, I recklessly entered into the plot and followed the telegram she had sent, even wearing the clothes she had provided."

Maisie's voice faltered.

"I have been happy, happy, until my numbed conscience awoke to reproach

me continually. When the Golden Butterflies came to New York I sought out Marion, telling her that I must confess, and she sent a note saying that if I was determined in my purpose she would be waiting, ready to take me away with her. The man whom you saw me with a short time ago is Marion's husband." The faltering voice broke into a little sob.

"Please," the girl begged, "do not tell your mother all until I have gone away."

She followed the young minister blindly down the aisle, and when the train rushed panting on again he turned to her eagerly.

"Oh, Maisie, dear, he said. "Do you think we could let you go?"

"But I have deceived you," she repeated wonderingly. "I am not your niece. Do you not understand?”

"I understand many things now," he replied. "Man can get along without a niece, little girl. What he really needs is a wife."

And a little old lady sitting alone in the firelight looked up as the two figures appeared in the doorway, a sort of subdued happiness seeming to infold them both. The girl's eyes shone starlike above an armful of strangely crushed and drooping roses.

"Maisie," the mother cried, "you have come home?"

"Yes," her son answered joyously. "Maisie has come home to stay."

An Early Insurance Scheme.

A very early scheme of insurance for the laborer took heed of the woman worker. In 1786 the leaping of the poor rates gave birth to the proposal of a "Universal Benefit Society." Mr. Hackwood summarizes the scheme in his "Good Old Times:" "Every laborer between the ages of 20 and 30 years," he notes, "earning 10d a day should contribute to a national fund 2d a week, and every woman earning £3 a year 1ąd weekly, and when sick or disabled should receive benefit at the rate of 4s a week, with 1s a week added for each child. There were, of course, many other de

tails, but the chief interest lies in the fact that this was perhaps the earliest proposal for the national insurance of the laborer against invalidity." Boston Globe.

"Good-bye, God Bless You!"

I like the Anglo-Saxon speech
With its direct revealings;

It takes a hold, and seems to reach
Way down into our feelings;
That some folks deem it rude. I know,
And therefore they abuse it;
But I have never found it so-

Before all else I choose it.

I don't object that man should air
The Galic they have paid for.
With "Au revoir," "Adieu ma chere."
For that is what French was made for;
But when a crony takes your hand
At parting to address you,
He drops all foreign lingo and

He says, "Good-bye, God bless you!"

This seems to me a sacred phrase,
With reverence impassioned;

A thing come down from righteous days.
Quaintly but nobly fashioned.

It well becomes an honest face,

A voice that's round and cheerful; It stays the sturdy in his place

And soothes the weak and fearful.
Into the porches of the ears

It steals with subtle unction.
And in your heart of hearts appears
To work its glorious function.
And there within the portals, long
It lingers to caress you;

I am sure no human heart goes wrong
That's told "Good-bye, God bless you?"

I love the words perhaps because
When I was leaving mother,
Standing at last in solemn pause
We looked at one another.
And I—I saw in mother's eyes
The love she could not tell me.
A love eternal as the skies,
Whatever fate befell me;
She put her arms around my neck,

And soothed the pain of leaving.
And though her heart was like to break,
She spoke no word of grieving.
She let no tear bedim her eye,

For fear that might distress me,
But kissing me, she said, "Good-bye."
And asked God to bless me.

-EUGENE FIELD.

Americans at the Gate.

"Next," called St. Peter. A dapper young fellow on the end of the bench yawned, arose, came forward with a

[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

"Yes, no doubt. Can you present any reason why you should be admitted?"

"Why, certainly. You know my father. My father was-"

"Never mind your father. We have dealt with him separately. Every man stands on his own merits here."

"Oh, I say, that's hardly fair. What's the use of being so strict about a little matter of that sort? Now, the governor-"

"If you are referring to your father I must ask you to again leave him out of consideration. What have you to say for yourself?"

"Oh, I say, Pete, don't be a grouch. I have always been a good fellow."

"What do you mean by a good fellow?"

"Why, don't you know what that means? It means, don't you know, a fellow who always treats everybody right, a good spender and all that sort of thing."

"But have you been a good earner?” "Earner! Oh, I say, what was the use of my being an earner when my father left me so much?"

"Well, since you insist upon mentioning your father, you may tell us what he did."

"He developed one of the most important industries of the country."

"And for that he was amply rewarded in both goods and honor?"

"I suppose so."

"And he saw that you got a good education and all possible advantages?"

"Oh, yes."

"And just because your father did something worth while you think that so

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

"It may look different to you down there on earth, but to us up here it is exactly the same principle. But, let me ask, do you insist on receiving the same treatment here that we gave your father? You remember, no doubt, that he had some pretty black spots on his record. Do you insist?"

"Oh-er-that depends. Now what-" "Here, clerk! Find out from the records what we did to this fellow's father and give him the same treatment, with double severity."-St. Louis Globe-Democrat.

English Railway Humor.

A teacher in a Birmingham school was endeavoring to explain the term "booking," as applied to our railway system.

"Now," he was saying, "can any of you tell me the name of the office at which railway tickets are sold?"

"The booking office," replied one of the lads.

"Right," responded the teacher.

At this moment his eye fell on a small boy at the end of the class who was evidently paying very little attention to what was said.

"Did you hear that, Spry?" he demanded.

ly.

"Wot sir?" asked the youth innocent

"As I thought, you were not listening. We will suppose your father decided to have a day's holiday and visit the seaside. What would he have to do before he could take a seat in the train?"

Without a moment's thought the youngster electrified his teacher by replying: "Pawn his tools!"-London Mail.

« PrejšnjaNaprej »