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[By Charles II. Robinson.]
It was all on account of the Widow
Amesy.
During the lifetime of her lord and
mnster Mrs. Amesy was nothing but
an atom flurrying around on the edge
of the social whirlwind, but, as a wid
ow with a tidy bit of money left her
by the lamented departed—that was
another matter. Then, the storm cen
ter sought to draw her in and squeeze
the money out of her. Being a wise
woman, she resisted the pressure and
invested her windfall in a little cot
tage, which possessed three rooms be
low and two more in the attic. This,
clay, which drew their prey down into
the depths without hope of extrication.
Naturally careless and reckless, Mr.
Jimson plunged into a quagmire, and
when he felt himself sinking, he
shouted for help. Fortunately the
widow heard his cries and rushed to
the rescue.
“What iu the world are you doing in
there, Mr. Jimson?” she inquired after
locating him in the semi-darkness.
“The cows, widow; I started after
them and forgot the slough in goia’
cross lots.”
“Walt, Mr. Jimson. and I will pull
you out,” and she made as if she
It,ii nan—tnr in .'■■■ —1 1 <<■ '
The Limb Bent Lower and Lower.
with even simple furnishings, took all
her avails and compelled her to look
around for the wherewith to satisfy
the cravings and clamors of her phys
ical nature, for she was a jolly and
weighty specimen of widowklnd. As
the doctor frequently said of her:
"The widow Amesy is a good-sized
chunk of a woman; able to take care
of herself and stand on her rights."
For some inscrutable reason the
widow had set herself up as ltie cham
pion of the weak—men, women or
children, there was no difference to
her—even in the case of a helpless
bird or deg, she would ruffle up as if
she had the leathers of a motherly
hen guarding her brood from the at
tacks of a ravenous hawk, and stay
the injurious hand. To the sick and
suffering she was kindness personi
fied, and her gentle disposition com
bined with her physical strength and
the knowledge of how to use it
brought her into constant demand as
a skillful nurse. Everybody know her,
respected her and had reason to he
grateful to her for services performed
at some period or other, and was
ready to fight for her if the occasion
required war on her behalf.
There was once a faint breath of
scandal, but the doctor dissipated it in
the most startlingly vigorous manner,
and after that, neither it nor any
other ill-wind blew in her direction.
"If that woman isn’t a saint, she’s
next door to being one,” was his
wind-up when he told the story.
Mr. Adoniram Jimson was the in
dividual in question. A “ne’er do well,”
hut ho took care of the widow’s cow
and calf, looked after her chickens
and ducks as a labor of love, and to
reciprocate many of her little surrep
titious acts of kindness in the shape
of fre9h baked bread, an occasional
roast chicken or a luxuriant pie, that
found its way into his scant pantry.
He accepted and ate everything he
louna mere in a penuuciory manner,
somewhat after the style of the raven
fed prophet, or rather like the bog
under the oak, that roots up and de
vours the succulent nuts without ever
looking up to see whence they come.
It so happened, late one evening,
that Mr. Jlmson started after the
widow’s cow and calf that had been
wandering among the brush all day
for pasture, and had apparently for
gotten the way home. It had been
raining steadily for forty-eight hours,
and the numerous sloughs, riverbeds
and buffalo wallows were so saturated
with water that it meant death to fall
into any of them because of the bot
tomless quicksands mixed with mircy
would go in after him, but he quickly
stopped her.
“No, no, widow, for God’s sake, go
back. You’ll mire yourself an’ both of
us’ll be lost.”
“1 have it,” said the widow’, quickly
taking in all the surroundings. “Have
patience, Mr. Jimson, and do not
struggle, or you will sink faster,” then
adding under her breath: “I must do
it; there's no time to get help; be
sides, nobody can see me.”
The big lower limb of a sycamore
tree stretched out over and beyond
him, but out of his reach, and her
thought was, that if she could dim
out on the limb, her weight would
bend it down so that he could seize
hold of it, and either draw' himself
on; or hold on to it until she could
procure other aid.
She climbed the tree and reached
the big limb after encountering numer
ous bruises and scratches, which, how
ever, she did not heed. Then resting
a moment, she stretched her body out
along the branch and began to crawl
Siowly toward Jimson, who soon un
• derstood what she intended to do.
"Widow.” he cried imploringly,
“you’ll fall off an’ be lost. Never
I mind me, widow, I ain’t of no account;
I’m in my last hole, an’ it’s jest as
well. For God’s sake, widow, go
back; don’t resk your life for me!”
“Be still, poor man,” said the worn
! an, crawling slowly along, her arms
and legs clasped around the limb. It
began to bend with her weight at
last, but she still kept on. almost fall
ing off. for the limb was growing
smaller and she could not grip it tight.
She flattened her body down upon it
like a worm crawling on a quivering
twig, all the time telling Jimson to
cheer up and she would save him. The
limb bent lower and lower still, until
Jimson had a tiny branch in his grasp.
“Now, hold on tight,” the widow
commanded, “and keep still. I am go
ing back, and when my weight is off
the limb it will spring up and pull you
out.”
) So saying, she began to crawl oacK
ward cautiously, lest a single slip
should throw her off her balance and
her efforts prove in vain. The broken,
jagged twigs and branches caught her
dress and pierced her flesh, but with
I resistless force she bore her whole
■ weight backward against them and
lore herself free, reaching the trunk
in satbty, whence she dropped panting
to the ground.
Jimson worked the sticky earth and
sand into the consistency of gruel, by
turning and twdsting, until finally the
downward suction cea3ed and the up
I ward spring of the tree branch began
| to draw him up and out. Then, climb
j ing hand over hand along the limb as
| it bent back to its normal position,
I the woman encouraging him all the |
way, lie finally reached safety, and, j
dropping from the limb to the ground,
broke his leg and fell unconscious.
When ho recovered his senses he
was lying on a couch in the widow’s
iitile parlor, the widow herself bend
ing over him with a bowl of steaming
tea which she made him drink.
”1 must go home, widow," said Jim
son trying to stand up and walk, but
falling to the floor, groaning with
pain. Lifting him 'back upon the
couch, the widow bade him lie still
while she went for the doctor.
"H-m-m, a v^ry bad case,” re
marked the doctor after an examina
tion of the fractured member.
“Crushed, twisted and broken. How
did it happen?”
When put in possession of the facts,
the doctor burst out. into a roar of
laughter. “What a sight! What a
sight!” he exclaimed as soon as he i
recovered his breath.
“What do you mean?” demanded the
widow, bridling up.
‘‘Why, your crawling out on that j
limb and crawfishing back again.” The ,
imaginative doctor again broke out !
into a fit of laughter, which was sud- ;
donly cheeked by a sound box on the j
ear afiminlstered by the angry worn- ;
an.
“You’re here to fix this poor man’s
leg, not to insult a woman!” she
snapped out with fire in her eyes.
“Widow, I beg your pardon,” said j
the doctor humbly as he turned to his |
patient.
“It will be six weeks before he can ;
crawl about on crutches, and two
months before he can attempt to !
walk,” was the fiat when the opera
tion had been completed.
“Six weeks? Two months?”
groaned Jimson. “Le’me go home. I
must go home,” and he attempted to
rise, compelling the doctor to hold
him down on his back.
“But the cow, widow, I must git the
cow,” said he plaintively.
“Never mind the cow, Mr. Jimson,"
said the widow; let it go to Halifax.
You’ve got to lie still for six weeks or
two months. I’ll take care of you.”
And she did take care of him, pull
ing him through until he was able to
walk.
Not long afterward, about ten days
before Thanksgiving day, the widow’s
little house was burned to the ground,
all she had in the world being con
sumed with it. When the bucket bri
gade finished fighting the fiery demon,
the latter had the best of it—there was
nothing left but the widow—yes, there
was the hencoop, but that was not a
r-"1...
“'D'ye think we’re going to let you livo
in a hencoop?”
At a town meeting, called for the
purpose, it was resolved to have the
widow’s house rebuilt ready for occu
pation on Thanksgiving day. Some
furnished money, others contributed
materials, and others still volunteered
to do the work.
There were delays and setbacks,
however, as is.usual whenever any
work is promised at a certain, fixed
time, so that when Thanksgiving
morning arrived the problem of com
pleting the job became knotty, but
having been promised and undertaken,
it had to be finished. By hard think
ing 'Squire Hobbs conceived the idea,
and to carry it into effect, he sum
moned his fellow townsmen and laid
the matter before them.
"You women folks,” said he by way
of consulting them, “you women folks
go home and cook up what you’ve got
in the house just the same as if you
wore going to get dinner—Turkeys,
chickens, geese, ducks, anything, and
cranberry sauce. The pumpkin and
mince pies are already ripe on the
pantry shelves. Then bring every
thing here by 4 o’clock. We men will
finish this house for the widow by
that time, and we’ll all eat our
Thanksgiving dinner on the spot. It
will be a house warming Thanksgiving
dinner and an old-fashioned barn-rais
ing combined. There’ll be board ta
bles laid outside for those who can't
get inside the house. You hoys and
girls, get all the boxes and barrels
you can find—there’s a lot of cord
wood in my hack yard that won’t he
missed—and if w'e don’t finish eating
by dark, we’ll have bonfires to see by
and warm up lip. Widow, you just sit
or stand around and boss things, It
being your house. No remarks, please!
Scatter!
The house was on hand at the hour
named, so were the women and the
combined Thanksgiving dinners.
Of course, the house was not big
enough to accommodate all the merry
crowd that wanted to get into it, but
those who could not squeeze in gath
ered around it as close as they could
to eat and hear the speeches of the no
tables, who practiced oratory until
tne small hoys notified them that the
fuel had given out. Then they all
■went, home tired, but full and happy.
Wras the widow happy? Not a bit
more than the others.
BILLY’S THANKSGIVING UNCLE.
“Thanksgiving’s coming again. Klop
sy,” said Billy Dick. "But 1 forgot,
you don’t know Thanksgiving, do you?
You were only the ragman's dog then.
You ought to have been here—why, do
iVl 8W* JUMWfmW.'Ul.Ul■U'U.WWWI 'll
Took Care of Him Until He Could Walk.
fit habitation for her, although she
thought she might fix it up and get
along all right until she could afford
to build some sort of a shanty to pro
tect her from the inclement weather.
She refused all offers of aid, but
’Squire Hobbs laid down the law and
she was compelled to yield.
“You will go over to my house and
stay there until we have built you an
other house," said he with a deter
mination that overcame her resistance.
you know what 1 did last year? An
auto and I ran away together. And I
remembered, of course, that a boy
whose name Is Milton Montgomery
Norton can't disobey, so we—Jiininy
Ann! What do you supposo la the
matter?”
Flopsy’s tail wagged knowingly, but
he didn't answer. He was either jeal
ous of this “Jiminy Ann,” whom he
had never seen, but to whom Billy
Dick often talked in this way. What
lie niu see was uie io*n messenger
waving a telegram.
"For me?" asked Billy expectantly.
"Naw!” cried the boy. "It's fer yer
mother. Sign fer it.”
Billy Dick laboriously signed his full
name on the blank, and he and Flopsy
ran in with the telegram. Mrs. Mor
ton was busy in the dining room care
fully packing a valise with Thanksgiv
ing goodies, pies and cake and jellies.
"A telegram, mother," cried Billy
Dick, “for you."
"Oh, Billy Dick!” was all she could
say, for telegrams came so seldom that
they always frightened her.
"It's—it’s probably from Mrs. Walk
er.” suggested Billy Dick in his reas
suring manner. “Open it and see.”
“Mrs. Walker is in Turkey,” laughed
Mrs. Norton at his comfort.
Billy Dick tore the envelope open
and Mrs. Morton read the telegram
aloud:
"On way East. Arrive Thanksgiv
ing 10 a. m. “John and Dorothy.”
"Goodness!” cried Billy Dick.
Uncle Jack and Aunt Dot to visit us!”
and he capered around the table.
"Yes. it is nice," said Mrs. Morton,
“but, Billy Dick, they’re to arrive
Thanksgiving day, and that means our
other plans are spoiled.”
Billy Dick hadn’t thought of that,
that certainly wasn’t pleasant, for the
expedition they had planned was to go
down to Norfolk, for the father, who
was in the navy, was unable to leave
the yard to come home for the holiday.
And such a cooking time as they had
had. Capt. Morton had written that the
food there was poor, and if they camo
down to bring some “frills,’’ and it was
the “frills" that Mrs. Morton was now
packing in the hag.
"And—it busts our plans?” echoed
Billy Dick. “O mother!”
"We must stay at home, Billy Dick,
and disappoint your lather, too.” Mrs.
rosy ana i* ropsy ana miss Kisie, woo
was his Sunday school teacher and .Sis
very best girl, and the fun he and
Flopsy had last year earning their
Christmas from Mr. Minders. And the
old gentleman laughed and enjoyed
the jokes, and in turn told Billy Dick
what he did years and years ago when
he was a boy.
So the time passed away quickly,
till word was brought to them that
there had been a wreck on the road
and that no train could run through to
Norfolk that night.
“But I must go.” said Billy Dick.
"My father Is waiting for me. I’ll
give them a dollar if they can let me
through.”
A dollar was a large sum to Billy
Dick, and as it was all he had it was
a valuable offer.
The colored waiter showed his teeth
pleasantly. ’’Sho’. dey aln' gwine lef
eben de pres’dent troo,” he said, "Sor
ry. sab.”
Billy Dick looked frightened. "But—
but,’’ he said, “my father was to meet
mo and telegraph to mother that 1 got
here all right, and mother’ll be so
worried. And father says it Is coward
ly to worry a lady.”
“Well, well, It is too bad,” said the
old gentleman, "Your father won't
worry because he knows I am here,
and we'll telegraph to your mother If
you like.”
So Billy Dick ate the rest of the
supper, convinced that a small boy
couldn't do much to clear the railroad
if they would not even do it for the
president himself.
After the Ice cream was finished,
they went to the telegraph office and
sent the telegram.
"Can you give mother my love?”
asked Billy Dick.
The old gentleman chuckled and
nodded.
Then there was nothing else to do
An Outdoor Thanksgiving Dinner.
Morton's sweet voice was trembling.
Billy Dick could not stand it—he and
Flopsy had to go out on the piazza to
think it over.
“O, Flopsy, Flopsy,” said Billy Dick,
burying his head in Flopsy’s ears. “I’m
glad you don't know what Thanksgiv
ing is like, and a visit to pops at the
yard, for you can’t be disappointed. 1
feel—Jiminy Ann, there’s something
the matter with my eyes, and I’ve got
a kind of a pain somewhere in my
stomach, I guess, and-”
The door opened and Mrs. Morton
came briskly out. ‘T have it, Billy
Dick, I have another plan. We mustn't
disappoint your father entirely. You
and the goodies shall go to Norfolk,
while Rosy Posy and I stay at home
and receive Uncle Jack and Aunt Dot.
Could you go alone?”
Billy Dick began to grow tall. He
felt on a level with his pretty moth
er’s shoulder as he answered:
“Why, of course. That would be
jolly, except for you and Rosy Posy.”
So Billy Dick started that afternoon,
with a dollar in Ills pocket, and his
ticket carefully stowed away in an in
side pocket. It was a three hours'
journey, and he had to change cars
twice.
As he stepped ofT the train a little
old man with white hair and a jolly
smile came up to him.
‘‘Well, well, well,” he said, “how you
have grown! This is Billy, isn’t it?
Yes? Well, I declare—come right
along with me. The train is late, and
we’d better get some supper here.”
Billy Dick "wasn't quito sure who
the old gentleman was. but as ho
seemed familiar with him, why of
course it was all right. It Would not
be polite to ask him who he was, and
a Morton is always polite, you know.
Probably it was great-uncle Howell,
whom he had seen years ago. Yes, it
must be, thought Billy Dick, though he
did not know that he lived in Rich
mond.
So the two went off together across
the street and round the corner to a
hotel.
Billy Dick had never been in a ho
tel before, and before he was half
through supper he made up his mind
that as soon as he was big enough he
would persuade the family to come
there—it was so nice to have hundreds
of things to eat all written out so
you might choose as many as you
wanted.
The two sat there, the very old man
and the little boy having the best of
times. Billy Dick told the new-found
great-uncle all about home and Rosy
but spend the night in Richmond with
the new-found uncle, and such fun it
was to stay at a hotel!
Early in the morning Billy Dick
and his great-uncle took the train for
Norfolk, and soon the engine was
puffing into the station.
And—O, joy! there was Dad anx
iously peering through the window for
his boy. He had Jumped on the train
before it stopped and bad Billy Dick
in his arms.
In fact, Billy Dick forgot all about
his now-found uncle, for his father
was so glad to see him safe and sound.
”1 must telegraph your mother at
once, Billy Dick," said his father. “She
has been almost worried to death
about you when I could not telegraph
her that you had arrived.”
“But great uncle Howell telegraphed
—didn't you?" asked Billy Dick, turn
ing to the old gentleman, who was
greeting some friends.
“Who?" asked Capt. Morton.
“Why,” began Billy Dick, and as he
noticed that his father didn't shake
hands with the old gentleman, and
that the old gentleman apparently
didn’t know his father, he introduced
them.
"This Is my father; don't you re
member him?” he said.
“Your father!” exclaimed the old
gentleman. “Your father is my
nephew, William Walters.”
There surely was some mistake
somewhere, or was he dreaming?
“Aren’t you Billy Waters, William
Walton Waters?” asked the old gen
tleman.
“1 am Milton Montgomery Morton,
sir,” said Billy Dick.
“You said your name was Billy,”
said the old man.
“Billy Dick,” explained Capt. Mor
ton. “He's always been called that
because-”
Then the old gentleman began to
laugh, and Billy Dick laughed, too, as
did Captain Morton and the other
friends that came up. And the whole
thing was explained when one lady
said: ‘Why, Billy Waters’ mother tele
graphed that he was sick and couldn’t
come.”
“And—and the telegram?” gasped
Billy Dick.
“Went to Billy Waters’ mother—•
with your love in it," laughed the old
gentleman. "She must havo been sur
prised to get it with her own Billy
right at home!”
Billy Dick's own mother was noti
fied at once, and his “great uncle
Hawell" helped him and his father to
eat the goodies she had packed in th«
bag.
