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The Saguache Crescent
Saguache , Colorado
May 23, 1901     The Saguache Crescent
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May 23, 1901

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e figure hole the king all m in the the fig- g feath- ty easy .han re- ;pended. ~estions, tucks. e skirt. ds, and ~LET. f wear- celet is ribbon It in a astened it, says ck vel- e neck, clasp brooch aracter s, trim ,d 9ip- taffeta, steel M. One cup of a cup well; Ld two lg tea- ake Sn boiled baked lis are ked in sugar, :rod a am of ring it Ltl the ~r has Pour ~t in a made stir or gh re- ut t6n ~pread bake- ad the d roll a half sized adde~ iron lough lk in im aels. *ne o S, ant ted i] tee re: ~s, ) guess there won't be a great of flowers on Sylvester's grave year," said Sarah Cook. Her had a certain triumph in it, but ti~aded in a decorous sigh. 'I guess there won't, either," re- Zled her sister Mrs. Kemp. "I s Phebe Ann is too sick to think ~h about it." Her voice sounded :~s Sarah's. |LUcy Kemp dropDed her sewing for ~linute and turned her face toward Window. "It seems 'most too bad, It?" she said, meditatively. she's done so much every and thought so much about it." don't know as I think it's too said Mrs. Kemp. "Of course I'm Phebe Ann is sick, but wheu it to these flowers she's always Sylvester's grave with, Dec- day, I guess there was a great of it for show. It would have different if he had been in the but I've thought a good many when I've seen Sylvester's gray,3 more flowers on it than any of ~oh~ier's, that Phebe Ann had a eye to what folks would say, for She felt so bad." the band!" cried Lucy. Was a very warm day for the sea- as warm as midsummer. windows were wide open. The Women and the girl leaned their out and listened. They could far-away music. Two little girls their hands full of flowers ran Just forming down at the hall," said Lucy. "Annie Dole are just going." came over" here for flowers ~lnornlng," said her mother, "and Old 'era I hadn't any to give. All ~ad was lilacs, besides that little Y rose bush, and they'd got all the lutes they wanted of their own, and [~re was only Just three roses on that ~Bh, and I could not bear to cut 'era. ~ l}rocesston ain't coming--the mu- ~,don't sound a mite nearer. It ~,~'t be here for an hour yet." |.~'I don't s'pose Phelye Ann's husband ~ll lift his finger to help us, even if r.~ Should be taken away and he ~t Without a chick nor chi'ld in the ~ld,', said Mrs. Kemp. |~hebe Ann's husband was her own ~d husband's brother, but she never ~,,~s of him by his own name. [1 Wonder how much Phebe Ann'c r hcand has got?" said Sarah Cook. [ ell I guess he's laid by a llttl~ [~ething They must have, with no ,, ily:,, F~ebbe he will do something if it [~ happens that he ain't under any- r,y else's thumb.' ['It won't make any difference now. L~,~ lald under the thumb so long that In all flattened out of the shape he l i WONDER WHO PUT THOSE FLOWERS THERE?" ia ~ade in. He used to bow Kind ~ideways behind Phebe Ann's back l~ I met him, but he don't do tha~ '~' I met him face to face the other .Y, and he never looked at me. I q't know what poor Thomas wouhl if he was alive. I wonder what I,ey is picking lilacs for? Lucy!" ,What say?" Lucy's sweet, thin ~called back. Her smooth, fair ~ Was half hidden in a great clump lilac bushes by the gate She was bending the branches over and break- l~g off full purple clusters. "What you picking those lilacs for?" "I just thought I'd pick a few." "What for? I ain't going to have any in the house!They're too sweet-- they're sickish!" "I ain't going to bring them into the house," said Lucy. She let a branch fly back and ~ent across the yard with a great bunch of lilacs in her hands. "I wonder what she's up to?" said her mother. Lucy returned Just beTore the pro- cession passed. The cemetery was a little way beyond the house. Her mother and aunt, and a neighbor who had come in stood at the windows listening eagerly to the approaching music. Lucy joined them. The pro- cestson filed slowly past: The Grand Army men, the village band, the min- isters and local dignitaries, and the rear-guard of children with flo~ers. An accompanying crowd thronged the sidewalks. "'I've just been saying to Sarah that Phebe Ann won't have Sylvester's grave decked out much this year," said Mrs. Kemp. Her voice was pleas- anter and more guarded thanbefore. "I heard Phebe Ann was pretty low," said the neighbor. Phebe Ann's husband went softly behind the nurse to the bedroom. Phebe Ann looked up at him and beck- oned imperatively. He went close and bent over her. "What is it, Phebe Ann?" said he. "Is It--Decoration day?" she whis- pered with difficulty, for she was growing very weak. "Yes, 'tis, Phebe Ann," said her husband. "Have you got--any flowers for~ Sylvester's grave?" "No, I ain't. I ain't thought of It, Phebe Ann, with your being so sick and all." "Go--get some!" she panted. Her motioning hand and her eager eyes spoke louder than her tongue. "Yes, I will, I will, Phebe Ann: Don't you fret another mite about it.'" The nurse followed him out of the room. "I can't go to the green-house!" he whispered agitatedly. "It's five miles away!" "Land, get any kind of flowers!" said the nurse. "Get dandelions and buttercups, if you can't find anything else." The old man took his hat down with a bewildered air and went slowly out of the yard. At the gate he paused and looked around. There were no flowers in the yard; there were several bushes, rose and phlox, but it was too early for them to blossom. Over at the left stretched a field, and that was waving with green and gold. Phebe Ann's husband went over into the field and began pulling the buttercups in great handfulls, and the grass with them. He had all he could carry when he left. the field and went sol- emnly down the road. Sylvester's grave was at the farther side of the cemetery. The old man. with his load of buttercups and grass, made his way to it. The soldiers' graves were decorated with flags and flowers, but the people had gone. The cemetery was very still. When Johz Kemp reached Sylvester's grave, h~ started and stared. There was a great bunch of lilacs on the grave and three charming, delicate pink roses in a vase. "I wonder who put those flowers there!" he muttered. He laid the but- tercups and grass down on the grave; then he stood still. It was over twen- ty years since the boy Sylvsster had been laid there--a little soldier who had fought only his own pain. "I wonder who put those flowers there!" John Kemp muttered again. He went out of the cemetery, but instead of turning down the road toward his own home, walked hesi- tatingly the other way toward the house of his sister-in-law--Thomas' wife, as he always spoke of her. Lucy's face was at ohe open win- dow, her Aunt Sarah Cook's at the other. "Lucy!" called the old man, stand- ing at the gate. Lucy came out to him trembllngly. Sarah Cook ran to tell her sister; she thought Phebe Ann must be dead. "Do you know who put those flow- ers there?" asked the old man in a husky voice. "I did," said Lucy. Her face flushed. "I thought there wouldn't be anybody to see to it, now Aunt Phebe Ann is sick," she explained timidly. Her uncle looked wistfully at her, his eyes full of tears. "Sylvester was a dreadful sufferer," he said. Lucy did not know what to say. She looked up at him, and her soft face seemed to take on distressed lines like his. The old man turned abruptly and went away. "Phebe Ann is sinking," he said, indistinctly, as he went. Lucy's mother and her aunt rushed to the door to meet her. "Is Phebe Ann dead?" Sarah Cook called out. "No, she ain't dead." * "What did he want to s~,e you for?" asked Mrs. Kemp. Lucy hesitated; a shamefaced look came over her face. "What did he want?" her mother asked, impera- tively. "He wanted to know who put some flowers on--Sylvester's grave." "Did you?" l "Yes'm." :~ "What did you put on?" -~ "Some lilacs and--roses." "You didn't pick those roses." "O, mother, the lilacs didn't seem quite enough! Aunt Phebe Ann has always done so much!" Lucy said. tier mother and her aunt looked at each other. "I shouldn't have thought you'd have picked those roses without saying anything about it," said her mother, but her voic~ was embar- rassed rather than harsh. She went back to the kitchen and proceeded with her work of making biscuits for supper. The sewing was all finished. Lucy set the table. After supper they went out in the cemetery and strolled about looking at the flowers, in the soft. low light. "Who brought all that mess of buttercups and grass, I won- der?" said Sarah Cook, as they stood over Sylvester's grave. "I guess it must have been Phebe Ann's husband--it looks just like a man," Mrs. Kemp replied. Lucy got down on her knees and straightened the buttercups into a bouquet. "I wonder if she'll live the night out," said Sarah Cook, soberly. "I've listened to hear the bell toll every morning this week," said Mrs. Kemp. "I don't believe she can live much longer. I'd go up there tonight if I thought she wanted me to." The next morning Mrs. Kemp, list- ening with her head thrust out of the window in the early sunlight, heard indeed the bell tolling for Phebe Ann. "She's gone," she told Sarah Cook and .Lucy; and Lucy cried. They all went to Phebe Ann's funer- al and followed her to the grave. Mrs. Kemp's and Sarah Cook's eyes were red when they came home. "There were a great many good things about Phebe Ann, after all," Mrs. Kemp said. "I always said there was," Sarah returned defiantly. The morning after the funeral John Kemp came to the door. Lucy an- swered his knock. He looked old and dejected, but he tried to smile. "I want to see you a minute," said l~e. "No, I can't come in--not this morn- ing. I'm coming before long. I hope things will be different from what they have been. It was her wish. 1 went home that day and told Phebe Ann how you'd put the flowers there, and she beckoned to me to come and lean over. Then she made out to tell me. She wanted you to have Sylves- ter's money that we put in the bank for him when he was born. It's been growing. We haven't spent any, ex- cepting for the flowers, and its near five hundred dollars. She wanted me to give it to you right away, and you're going to have it Just as soon as I can get it out of the bank. Phebe Ann said you could have some more schooling and not have to work so hard. And I guess you'll have more than that, too, some day, if you out- live me. Phebe Ann, she thought mebbe I could make some arrange- ments with your mother and aunt to come to our house and live, and take care of it. She said she didn't want any other women in there. She knew they were good housekeepers and would keep things the way she did. You tell your mother I'm coming in to see her some time before long." John Kemp went feebly down the walk, and Lucy returned to the kitch- "DO YOU KNOW WHO PUT THOSE FOLOWERS THERE?" en. The door had been ajar, and her mother and Sarah Cook had heart! every word. They were both crying. "Coming Just now when we didn't know which way to turnt" sobbed Sarah Cook. "Poor Phebe Ann!" "Well, there's one thing about it," said Mrs. Kemp, brokenly, "there sha'n't one Decoration day go by as long as I live, without Sylvester's ] grave being trimmed as handsome as if his mother was alive!"~Y@uth'$ Companion. .~ :, @ BY THE DUCHESS. CHAPTER IV.--(Continued.) fitting raiment got very little of Miss "Don't be alarmed," said the new- Sylverton's society. comer, "it's only me, and not the long- --- expected come at last in the shape of CHAPTER V. the'midnight marauder'--I like my It was just at this period that Miss grammar, don't you, Mildred? How are Trevanion became aware of a certain you old boy? Glad to see you. Had no idea I should first" come upon you spooning with my sister in the moon- light, but accidents will happen. Are they all quite well, Milly?" "Quite well," Miss Trevanion an- swered, feeling rather disgusted and sore about the moonlight innuendo and indignant that Denzil should stand there silent and allow it to pass for granted; "but you need not accuse me of flirting so soon, Charlie. I am noV" given that way, as you know, and Mr, Younge came out merely because he fe|t the night warm." "Just so," said Charlie. "Odd how one always does feel the night warm when there's a girl on the balcony! And so," glancing through the bright red curtains that concealed the room, "you have be~ :~ going in heavily for society tonight. I can see Mrs. Dev- erill, and a fat young man, and your :father, Younge, and 'my pretty Jane,' i and Sir George eloquent on South- downs, and here, to excite my curi- osity, the end of a blue silk dress, and there--I say, Mildred--come here. Who is the young person in tights?" t "That's Mason of the 10th," young said Miss Trevanion, "and though he doesn't intend it, his slothes always seem too small for him. The blue dress you see belongs to" Frances Slyver- ton." "Oh, does it!" exclaimed Charlie, turning away abruptly. "Come in and show yourself" sug- gested Denzil. "You can't think how awfully glad they will be to see you. It was only yesterday your mother was complaining about the short leaves of absence you get, and your coming now so unexpectedly, will enhance your value doubly." "My dear fellow, consider~I'm in morning costume," protested Charles, gayly. "Would you have me throw discredit on the house of my father? Why, these Deverills are so nice they would not know exactly how to treat a fellow who could so far discard ap- pearances as to turn up at half-past nine in a gray tweed. Mildred, I will: bid you a fond good-night, and be vis- ible again some time tomorrow, when you have gently broken the news of my arrival. Is my old room appropri- ated by anyone? Can I have it? "Never mind your room yet," said Mildred, "do you think I can let you go i again so easily? No, come in this imoment when I desire you, and show i yourself to the company in general. i I would not miss mamma's look of sur- i prlse and delight for anything; so I must insist on your obeying me--and, besides, you look charming in gray. Come, darling--do." "Well, on your head be it, if Mrs. Deverill retires in confusion," Charles murmured, and followed his sister obediently into the warm, handsomely furnished drawing-room. Miss Sylverton, sitting just inside the window, looked up with a sudden start as he passed her, and, crossing the room to where his mother sat, laid his hand lightly on her shoulder. He was not a handsome young man ---was, in fact, the plainest Trevanlon of them all--but the action he used to- ward his m@ther was full of such ten- der, beautiful grace as might have belonged to the most polished cour- tier of the olden days. Lady Caroline turned, and half cried aloud in her intense surprise and Joy. He was her eldest-born, the be- loved of her heart, and she welcomed him" accordingly; indeed, every one seemed only too glad to see once more Charles Trewmion's fair, sunburnt face, and hear his honest, happy voice, unless perhaps Miss Sylverton, who, once her astonishment at his sud- den appearance was at an end, ap- peared to lose all interest in his pres- ence, and went back to the rather one- sided flirtation she was holding with "the man in tIIghts." "How d'ye do, Miss Sylverton?" Charles said ~resently, and Frances put her hand coldly into his. "Have you been getting on pretty well? You cannot think how happy it makes a fellow to be heartily welcomed after a long absence, as I have been welcomed by you." "I cannot say how long or how short your absence has been," Franc~s re- torted. "as I have had no means of remembering when it was when you went." "Whose fault was that?" he said, gently. "Was it mine?" There was Just a suspicion of tears under the long dark lashes. "I don't think I ever forbid you to come and say good-by at Siy- verton, did I?" "No, not exactly, perhaps; but there are more ways of forbidding than those expressed in words. I have a dim recollection, a faint idea, that somebody told me, a few months ago that she hated me." "And I dare say she will tell you so again before she dies," returned Fran- ces, with a little, low, happy laugh; "meantime I am very, very gIad in- deed, Charlie to see you home again." "Are you, Frances?" said Charles, softly. After that, the young man in close failing of Eddie's about which she had hitherto been ignorant. It came to her knowledge in this wise: One hunting morning during the chilly early break- fast, at which she always presided, her father having a prejudice in favor of the coffee administered by her fair hands, it so happened that the post ar- rived rather more than twenty min- utes before the usual hour, and conse- quently the various letters were hand- ed to the assembled men to peruse at their pleasure, while getting through the agreeable task of devouring cold game-pie. "Two for you," said Sir George, and he flung Eddie a brace of missives that fell a little short of his coffee-cup, and lay with the black sides turned uper- most. One had a large square envel- ope, and a crimson splashing crest and coronet, singularly unfeminine, which attracted general attention for a mo- ment. Mildred, Idly toying with a teaspoon, looked up a minute later and noticed that the lad's face had grown wonder- fully dulI and pale for him, and that he was staring at the now open letter with a pained gravity unusual in his case. "Has she bowled you out, Trevan- ion?" asked young Cairns, with a gay. thoughtless laugh, from the far end of the table, where he sat near two other men of his regiment staying at King's Abbott for a few day's hunting. "Regularly knocked over, eh? You look like it." "Not quite so bad as that," Eddie answered, the dejected expression dis- appearing altogether from his counte- nance with such rapidity that Miss Trevanion, still watching, concluded her fears had been groundless and dis- missed the incident, as meaning noth- ing, from her mind. Later on, toward the evening, how- ever, wandering leisurely up-stairs to dress for dinner, and having occasion to pas'~ through the picture gallery, beyond which lay many of the bed- rooms, her own amongst the number, she beheld Eddie at a distant window, his head pressed against the painted g|ass, his entire attitude suggestive of despair. Even as she looked there arose before her a vision of broken bread and half-cut pasties, with much plate and china, and a gaudily-crested envelope lying in their midst. She went up to him and laid her head upon his shoulder. "Anything the matter?" she asked, lightly enough, not anticipating any real trouble. He turned and faced her, thereby displaying a countenance betokening anything but that inward peacefulness commonly supposed to come from the )ossession of a quiet conscience. "Why, Eddie," Miss Trevanion ex- claimed, "what is it? What has hap- pened? Why are you standing here alone?" "Nothing has happened," returned Eddle, in a voice that perfectly suited his face, and so was lugubrious in the extreme; after which he most un- gratefully turned his back to her. "Surely you will tell me," she ex- postulated. "It can be nothing so dreadful as your manner seems to im- ply. Come, Eddie, speak to me; per- haps--who knows?--I shall be able to help you." "Nobody can help me," said Eddie. "Nonsense! It isn't like you to be so down-hearted--is it? and I can generally assist everybody, you know; so let me try with you. You will con- fide in me, dearest, will you not? In: deed I cannot be happy while you look so miserable." "Just so," broke out Eddie at last, with the reckless scorn people gener- ally indulge in when conversing with their best friends--that is when their best friends have succeeded in driving them into a corner--"and of course you will have no difficulty in putting your hand in your pocket now this moment and giving me three hundred pounds on the spot." "Oh$ Eddie, what is it you mean?" Miss Trevanion asked, now thoroughly frightened, ready money being an article very scarce and difficult of at- tainment in the Trevanion household, and Sir George's private affairs and general "hard-uppishness" being well known to the elder members of the family. "I mean that I have been gambling and have lost three hundred pounds," Eddie said. And then Miss Trevanlon felt that the trouble was a very real trouble, indeed. She could not speak to him for a moment, and so kept silence. Presently he spoke again. "There is iiothing to be done, Mil- dred, that I can see," he went on-- nothing. I have no means of paying this money, and so I suppose the soon- er I proclaim myself a blackguard and get out of the country the better for you all." "Do not say that," Mildred said, in a low Voice. "Is there no way of man- aging it? Let us think well before we give up in despair." "There is no way," ~ ~Id--"none." I have tong overdrawn my years al- lowance, and the governor Is too har~ up to advance, even if he would, an- other fifty--to say nothing of what I want. Besides, Mildred, I~I could not bear to tell him of it; he has so often warned me against gambling on account of that wretched old story about Willoughby Trevanion. I think it would almost break his heart if he, fancied the family curse had broken out again in me, and--oh, Milly, I" swear to you .I never meant it; it all came about so suddenly, so miserably. I had always been proverbial for my luck, until that evening at the vis- count's rooms, and then I lost my head, I think; and the worst of it is Poyntz is just now so deucedly used up himself that he can't afford to wait." "For how long has this--this gamb- ling been going on?" Miss Trevanion asked. "About a year and a half." "And how have you managed to pay your debts during all that time?;' "I never lost much before, and, when I did, was always sure to win it back* again the following night. That was the evil of the thing, you see; it drew me on, encouraged me, until I~ felt I couldn't lose, and then in the~ end, as I have told you, my luck de- serted me, and left me as I am now, hopelessly in debt, and dishonored,, and so on," wound up the poor boy, with a miserable choking sensation in, his throat. "Oh, dear, what can the matter be?" sung bonny Mabel, at the top of her clear, sweet voice, the words, sin- gularly appropriate, albeit unmeant as they were, echoing merrily through the chamber as she came swiftly to- ward them through the gathering gloom. Her advent, unexpected as It was,, left Eddie and Miss Trevanion speech- less. % "Why, you two," she said--"are you struck dumb that you both stand there so silent in the twilight? Has the 'holy friar' of our establishment ap- peared unto you and deprived you of the organs of speech? Mildred, you remind me of some stricken saint, leaning in that position, with the painted light of that window falling full upon you in such a dim religious ghostly sort ~)f manner; while Eddie-- Good gracious, Eddie, what's the mat- ter with you?" Miss Trevanion glanced at her, brother, and he said: "Oh, tell her--there is little good in, keeping it secret now, when every one~ will know it soon," and so "the queen" was enlightened forthwith and, con- trary to all expectatl'ons--as she was, generally the most easy-going of the~ Trevanions--was supremely indignant, on the spot. "Well, I have never heard anything. so disgraceful," declared that august' young personage, when the recital was finished to the last word--"never!" And, if anyone but you had told me of it, Mildred, I should not have beliewd them. I think"--to Eddie--"you ought, to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself, when you know poor papa is in such. difficulties, and no earthly way of get- ting out of them. No, Mildred, I won't stop; it is useless to shake your head~ at me behind his back; I mean to say! just what is on my mind--and I think~ too much could never be said on such a subject. You may spend your life glossing over other people's faults, but ,I am not an angel, and cannot; be- sides what is to be done? How the. money is to be paid I cannot imagine, I'm sure; and, in fact, I have no pa- tience with him!" concluded Mabel, slightly out of breath, but with a fin- ishing touch of scorn that would have done credit to a parliamentarian. " (To be Continued.) i Farms Can Be Blade to Pay. A professor in Cornell university. has been discussing in print the ques- tion whether a farm can be made to pay..~ He thinks it can, but with some mental reservations on~. the subject of: what it means to have a farm "pay."- He says of one of his early experi-, ences with his farm: "Half of coun- try life is in the living. It is in the point of view. It is in the way in which we look at things. Thoreau re- joiced when it rained because he knew that his beans were happy. One day my man was agitated because the woodchucks were eating the beans. He would go to town at once and buy a, gun. I asked him how many beans the~ woodchucks would probably destroy. He thought from one-eighth to one- quarter of an acre. Now, one-quarter of an acre of field beans should bring me a net cash return of $3 or $4. Ii told him that he could not buy a gun,, for that money. If he had a gun he: would waste more time killing the woodchucks than the beans would be worth. But the worst part of it would be that he would kill the woodchucks, and at daylight morning after morn- ing I had watched the animals-'as they stole from the bushes, sniffed the soft morning air and nibbled the crisp young leaves. Many a time I had spent twice $4 for much less entertain- ment. My neighbor thought that I ought to cut out the briers in the fence corner. ,I told him that I liked to see the briers there. He remarked that some folks are fools. I replied that it is fun to be a fool." Let children know something of the worth of money by earning it; over- pay them if you will, but let them get some idea of the equivalents; if they get distorted notions of values at the start they will never be rlghted.~Tal- mage. The tooth often bites the tongue,, and yet they keep together. Despise not a small wound; a ~ kinsman or an hum,ble enemy.