DISHRAG VINES. 



Margie was cross. It was a rainy day, 

 and she was having to sew; two things 

 she hated. 



"I think it might rain on school days. 

 And I wish dish-cloths had never been 

 invented," she exclaimed, jerking her 

 thread into a tangle. 



"You ought to move down south," 

 quietly said her aunt. 



"Why ? Don't they have rain and dish- 

 cloths there?" 



"Yes, of course they do ; and I will tell 

 you a true story, if you will promise not 

 to complain the least bit for the rest of the 

 day." 



Margie promised ; and, after threading 

 a needle, her aunt began : 



"When I was in Georgia, last October, 

 I saw a queer vine growing over the porch 

 of an old negro's cabin. It looked like a 

 pumpkin vine, with its great coarse leaves, 

 and it had green, gourd-like seed pods, or 

 fruit, hanging all over it. I asked the old 

 colored man, who was hoeing near by, 

 about it, and he said, in surprise : 'Lawsy 



me ! Didn' you neber heerd tell ob a dish- 

 rag vine afore?' 



" 'Dishrag!' I echoed. 



" 'Yes, they grows dishrags on 'em,' he 

 answered. Then, pulling off one of the 

 funny gourds, he cut it in two and showed 

 me the matted fibers inside. It seems 

 when these halves are dried in the sun, 

 that they become something like a tough 

 sponge. 



"He seemed very proud of the fact that 

 his wife had used one for a whole year, 

 and asked, in a tone half of pity and half 

 of disgust, 'Does you all hab ter use er 

 rag?' He was pitying me just as I was 

 sorry for him ! It was too funny to see 

 him hobble off, shaking his head and 

 laughing at a white woman who 'neber 

 knowed nothin' 'bout dishrag vines !' " 



"Will you bring me one next winter, 

 aunt ?" Margie asked. 



"Do you want to wash my dishes with 

 it?" 



"N-no. I'd rather hem cloths, I 

 b'lieve: but I'd like to try it on my doll 



dishes." 



Lee McCrae. 



A SNOW-FLAKE. 



Once he sang of summer, 

 Nothing but the summer; 

 Now he sings of winter, 

 Of winter bleak and drear: 

 Just because there's fallen 

 A snow-flake on his forehead, 

 He must go and fancy 

 'Tis winter all the year! 



— Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



156 



