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About The commoner. (Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-1923 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 1, 1905)
"T"r" rTr 'W M .-M-rMt.terw., n m '& - 10 The Commoner. VOLUME 5, NUMBER 4J F .imxMM.jiiai?tfBWgujnvmiMn.4mmi P' 27ie Home Department ONE THANKSGIVING DAY By "Helen Watts-MeVey MHiV VM' 4 . M The day Is done, and as wo aro too tired to think, wo take up our favor ite paper, or livo over again the "days that are dead;" and this dwell ing upon memory's pictures has both its sad and its sunny side. Tills day, of all others, belongs to the family home-gatherings, family reunions, meetings and greetings of frionds, and feastings about tlio old home- board, amid the old home scenos from which the young feet went out into the restless world beyond, nover to come back quite the same. They carried away with them somothing the world's warfare wrenched from them, and for which it has no recom pense to bestow. Homo was indeed home in those old days, when father and mother bore tho burdens and buff e tings of the rude old world for their children's sako, and tho dear, scarred hearts Grieved bittorlv when at last the nurslings found their wings and flew away. But at Thanksgiving time, tho "children" come trooping back, and father and mother, grown dimmer eyed, greet them with warm hearts, seeing Utile change, despite the troops of Uttlc folks the wanderers bring back with them from- the world. Are they all here? AH the boys and girls that went away? The faded eyes glisten as they count the faces, gleaming down tho row. No vacant chairsin the stalwart men and graceful womon, the old eyes see but the "children" of their love. Father wipes his spectacles, smiling still, and looks down tho row to where "mother," lovely white'-haired mother, sits behind the cups and sau cers. To him she is unchanged. He has seen her every day, and she but grows dearer with the passing years. But the children: as you grow accus tomed to thoir prosence, you feel faintly that there is somothing wrong. You look at mother, and you see a wistful' look in her patient eyes, and you know that she, too, is looking for something she does not see. At her right hands rHr " n hriT,f.fr,o0,i matron, whose fair hair recalls the" golden curls of little Ella; but the quiet, sober;face beneath it lacks the laughing dimples that Ella always carried, and the smile that lights up hor face is little like the abandon of merriment that always hung about Ella's atmosphere. Yet, as she calls across the table to "Tom," she flashes her saucy eyes, and her graceful hands have the old, gleeful gestures. Tho voice has the same sweet ring, yet there is something plaintive in its cadences. You look at "Tom," and the rich deep voice that answers is little like the high-keyed treble you listen for, and instead of tho ruddy, boyish faco of the memory-picture, you see a sober-eyed, serious man whoso lips only smileTom used to laugh with his eyes. You look at him with a startled realization of his length of limb, and wonder whether ho could get into the low-celled garret; or if he could lie comfortably, or sleep as dreamlessly in the low bed up stairs, from which ho ran away one winter's morning, long ago. What has he done with his old, boyish an- Trnill07 F?w8"ly ho handles his knife and fork, or nibbles at tho cake mother made so much of "because Tom always liked It." And you see! m """ "', '""ias are larger and whiter; they were small and scrubby in tho old days, and Tom never did take kindly to soap and water. He catches your oyo and smiles Yes, it is Tom; but thero is something gone. Tom lives in the city now, and con trols a large manufacturing plant, and men count him a king in finances; but this morning he caught the dear, faded old mother in his arms and kissed her, just as he used to do in the old, old days. A shrill, merry challenge pipes up from the pathway outside, and you turn to call Charlie; but it is only Charlie's boy, so like his old self, skurrying down the walk, with hands and mouth full of pantry stores and in full pursuit of the young rogue is it mother? No, mother sits before you, smiling. It must be Fanny; but you had forgotten that Fanny was middle aged. And then vou rfimnmbpr that Fanny has daughters of her own, and lives just over the ridere. ami that her home is famed for its hearty hospitality and wholesome good cheer. A soft, low voice recalls you, and you turn to the right, where a face bearing traces of some bitter sorrow, furrowed more by tears than by time, and framed in slightly frosted hair, smiles at you a slow, quiet smile whose fountain seems away down in the depths of a chastened heart; and you wonder, for a moment, who is this patient-faced, sad-eyed woman who sits where you told them to seat little, curley-haired, laughing Loy. You loved her tho best of all your brood, you thought, because so few could understand her varying moods. Then, suddenly you remember that, long ago, little Loy, with the saucy smile and swinging hair, went away from the old home, to follow an un kind fortune; and you remember to have heard that the sea of her life was torn by cruel storms and swept by wild winds, and that the sky was tempest-clouded, all the way. But she comes back to you, today, calm and strong and hopeful in a beautiful faith that smiles even through traces of tears. And you re member, too, that little Loy has won a name, and is claimed by a wide uircie or mends who bless her be cause of the work she is doing, and that her home is far, far from the quiet place that gave her birth. But she speaks, and you know that she Is only little Loy in heart, even though the brown curls lie in simple bands upon the calm, white forehead. But you wish she had not changed, for you loved her so as she was. Big, boisterous Ben Ben, who used to have a voice like a foghorn, and from whose wild, harum-scarum ways every farm animal fled in terror, and who was always ready to "make things move;" who loved nothing bet- r,M,ttU,luu uxercise or bis strong limbs and steel muscles. But his heart was as big as his burly frame and the restless boy has developed into a man whom men love and re spect, and I the world is better, bt cause of Ben. Ben is quiet enough now, and deep down in his brooXg eyes lies a fund of thought which ripens into big inventions, at times' and his voice is low and tender with a groat love as im BnB.im . "J. '.i father and mother, an3 hTs b)s hanTs Hera Is a letter with a faraway X postmark. You lift it wonderingly. Who is it from? Yoii look around the table every chair is filled; surely, none are absent! Then you realize that there are the new claimants upon your love that "the boys" "have brought home with them, and you break the seal and read the greet ings and regrets that Katie sends you Katie, that was always "father's boy," and was forever at your heels, ready to help or to hinder, to coax a favor or commit a fault; but sho was always so dear, and you missed her so, when she went awav. Sho writes: "Somewhere, not far from you, dear old Daddie, the spirit of your 'Tom-boy is hovering, and you must try to feel the touch of her wings on your dear old cheek." Then, you realize that there was another. You look across the hills, and the voices are all hushed as you bend your head above your plate, your hands before your face to hide your tears. You know, and they know, that over thero in the cemetery is a marble shaft, and upon its smooth face is inscribed the legend of little Lottie's life. A little sob shakes your breast, and somehow, you know with out lifting your eyes that other eyes are full of tears at thought of the little daughter and playmate who left you long ago to follow the trail of the fairies, but somehow, never found the paths to Earth again. And you have missed her so! It is but for n mnmonl oi -.. must not sadden the home-coming of your nurslings with your tears for the gentle little soul that has slept so long, and you turn to those that are left you, feeling that "He doeth all things well." And when, bye-and-bye, the strangely-sobered children rise quietly, though with much gay badinage, from the table, leaving many choice dishes untasted, many choice morsels untouched, you follow their forms with wondering eyes, for they bear about them an atmosphere of distance and change which leaves ySm 0ld heart stransely lonely and chill. And, somehow, you wonder what mother is waiting for there seems nothing left. But not for long. Here comes a wild rush of noise and laughter; a boisterous, skurrying band, that pour, like wild things, into the vacant chairs. It is like old times. How they clamour and call for their favor ite bits of turkey and thin slices of Pink ham! Hero are the appetites here, the laughing eyes and tumbled curls! How the little gormands sweep everything before them not always without a scramble and squabble, but it is like old times, and you laugh Li ml1 Slld?S achQ afc thG ancs of the little rioters. And when the last morsel is crowded into the puffy lit tle cheeks, the last bone picked clean, the scramble for the last confection ended, the little, atinkv u , ..j mt,O0 IUUUU your own, the little greasy mouths. u i i , ' u oweet young voices shriek or coo their satisfaction, then rush away as they came a whirl wind of fun and frolic, and leave you comforted, though with swelling hearts and silent lips. You feel something S?WI).nIn, ?9UP throat Poking back the 'God bless them" that you fain would utter; everything grows dim and misty through the tears that Will 1-vllnl w... - . ... uiiim yuuv eyes, ana you look, at mother, and see that she, too, is J lu jf Ivri though brave, ly trying to smile. And you draw the dear old head down ion yZ shoulder and together sob out tho thanks you both feel for this once' more gathering together of the chil dren and the children's children about iuo uume-ooara tnat has been silent so long and you have so hungered for their coming. AT EVENING TIME Love, give me one of thy dear hands to hold, Take thou my tired head upon thy breast; Now sing to me that song we loved of old The low, sweet song about our little nest. We knew the song before the nest was ours; We sang the song when first tho nest was found; Wo loved the song in after, happier hours, When peace came to us, and con tent profound. Sing the old song to me, tonight, be loved, While I, my head upon thy faithful breast, See wonderous visions in the fair firelight, And our whole hearts are satisfied with rest. Better than all our one-time dreams of bliss Are peace, content and rest secure as tnis. What though we missed love's golden summer time? His autumn fruits were ripe when we had leave To enter joy's wide vineyard in our prime, Good guerdon for our waiting to receive. Love gave us no frail pledge of sum mer flowers, But side by side we-reaped the har vest fields; Now, side by side we pass the winter hours, And day by day new blessings aro . revealed. The fever heat of youth,' its restless glow, Its high desires and cravings mani fold,. Its wild delights, its victories and de feats, Have passed; and we have truer joys to hold. Sing, then, tho dear old song about the nest So long withheld, and yet, so full of rest. ' Selected. " jSa It-rising Bread Under a separate heading, I give direction for making salt-rising bread, In accordance wjth tho request of several readers. This bread requires great care, from start to finish, as It is much more uncertain of success than bread made with yeast. It re quires to be made oftener as it dries out so quickly, and while "rising gives out a very unpleasant odor. This odor is the result of acetous fer ANOLDANDWBIiTiTRlTCn IIKMKDT Mns. wiNHLow'flSoivrniNO svntrrfpr ohlM" Nothing Blmuld always ho used for children wnua Icethlnff. Itsoftons tho jroras, allays all jmlu.nir" wind collo awllstho boat remedy for dlarrnos. Tweaty-flYocontaa bottla. I), )'' IjU.-'i) VBB M $Jtei