1106 
RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
Keeping  Mother  Out  of  the  Martha  Class 
By  Eva  Rose  Wilson 
“Well !  Well !  Well !”  the  youngest 
Ailmns  exploded,  then  with  his  father  and 
two  brothers,  he  surveyed  the  dining 
room  table  in  silence. 
Everything  on  the  table  was  arranged 
“  I  ain’t  never  been  married  tnyscit” 
to  perfection'  and  everything  was — raw! 
The  “hot  biscuits,"  which  Mr.  Adams  in¬ 
sisted  on,  were  neat,  little  doles  of  dough 
arranged  on  the  plate.  The  custard  pies 
were  salved  with  nutmeg,  all  ready  to  he 
popped  into  the  oven.  The  roasting  ears 
and  peas  wore  served  in  their  usual 
dishes,  hut  what  a  difference.  With  a 
guilty  start,  Mr.  Adams  remembered  tha< 
Emily,  the  Adams’  hired  girl.”  had 
asked  him  all  week  to  get  some  fuel  for 
her. 
But  then  the  wheat  simply  had  to  he 
cut.  The  crop  was  extra  heavy  and  the 
weather  had  threatened.  To-day  would 
see  the  end  of  it  if  they  hurried  through 
their  meals  and  worked  as  long  as  day¬ 
light  lasted,  lie  was  tired,  hot,  hungry. 
There  was  an  ominous-looking  bank  of 
clouds  in  I  he  west.  This  was  a  pretty 
mess  for  four  hard-working  men  to  find 
when  they  were  straining  to  their  utmost 
to  get  the  crop  out !  Righteously  indig¬ 
nant.  he  wheeled  about  to  face  the  guilty 
Emily,  who  was  just  coining  from  his 
wife’s  bedroom  with  a  tray  in  her  hands. 
‘‘Set  down  there,  Mr.  Adams,”  she  said 
calmly  enough,  us  she  waved  him  to  a 
chair  and  closed  the  door — although  a  red 
spot  glowed  on  each  cheek  hone,  and  her 
lips  were  set  in  a  thin  line.  “You  can 
tire  me  if  you  like,  but  you'll  have  to  wait 
till  I've  said  my  say  out.” 
The  dumbfounded  man  sat,  meekly 
enough.  <1  id  the  three  hoys,  and  this 
newly  risen  prophetess  of  the  pots  and 
pans,  hands  oil  her  hips,  began  her  "say." 
“Hid  ye  ever  rend  the  Bible,  Mr. 
Adams?"  she  asked.  “If  you  have,  you'll 
remember  what  the  Lord  said  to  Martha 
and  Mary  about  Martha  concernin'  her¬ 
self  too  much  about  the  little  things,  a  .1 
worl’yin'  herself  sick  over  somethin’  hat 
didn't  amount  to  nothin'.  Well,  your 
wife's  been  just  like  Martha.  Mr.  A.iams, 
and  you’ve  let  her  he.  and  that's  ine  rea¬ 
son  she  had  that  spell  with  lu  r  heart  last 
week,  and  you  had  to  hire  me. 
"Now,  just  wait  a  minute.’’  she  said 
comraandingly,  as  the  irate  farmer  strove 
to  rise,  “and  I'll  show  you  what  1  mean, 
if  you  don’t  see. 
“All  your  life  you  and  these  boys  have 
farmed  on  a  big  scale — but  you’ve  let 
your  wife  and  mother  worry  all  the  time 
about  such  little  things  as  gettin’  fuel  to 
cook  with.  She’s  Combed  this  place  for 
old  wood  and  corncobs,  just  because  you 
men  didu’t  have  time  to  stop  and  get  her 
an  oil  stove  or  haul  some  coal  or  split 
some  wood.  She's  made  herself  an  old 
woman  keeping  this  house  a-sliinin’,  when 
slut’s  had  to  carry  every  drop  of  water 
for  every  hit  of  washin’  and  cleanin’  slut’s 
done.  1  don’t  blame  her.  I  don’t  blame 
Martha  neither.”  She  pondered  a  minute 
gravely. 
“Maybe  it’s  wrong,"  she  went  on,  “hut 
I  alius  had  a  kind  of  a  hard  foolin’ 
towards  Mary.  She  wasn't  no  better’ll 
Martha,  just  n  little  slicker,  that’s  all, 
an’  more'll  likely  swept  the  dirt  in  the 
corner’ll  set  the  broom  before  it,  smiled 
an’  let  it  go. 
"I  ain’t  ever  been  married  myself,” 
continued  Emily,  grimly,  “but  I  ain’t 
lived  around  married  folks  40  years  for 
nothin’. 
“Land — the  women  that  keep  still,  just 
because  they  don’t  want  to  raise  a  fuss, 
and  keep  in  the  way  till  they  drop  in 
their  tracks — and  you  men  let  ’em  do  it 
You  boys,”  she  turned  on  the  amazed 
three,  “you’ve  been  away  to  school,  hut 
you’re  blind  as  bats,  every  one  of  you. 
“I  ain't  sayiu’  you’re  mean  to  her,"  she 
waved  them  down,  and  went  on,  “but 
do  you  know  what  the  doctor  said  to  me 
this  morn  in’?  ‘Well,’  he  sen,  ‘no  wonder 
this  woman’s  sick.  Look  at  that  coal 
house  and  well.  I  toll  you  those  two  things 
have  killed  more  farm  women  than  any 
other  two  that  1  know  of;  he  sex — like  he 
was  talkin’  about  somethin’  new.  I  let 
him  think  so.  But  land,  I've  knowed  it 
for  years  ! 
“Is  there  any  reason  why  that  coal 
The  Airedale^  Homely,  but  Right  There 
house  is  away  down  there?”  she  asked 
abruptly. 
“I — never  thought  of  it,”  answered  Mr. 
Adams,  helplessly. 
“Well,  you  can  think  about  it  while 
you  eat  your  dinner,”  answered  Emily  as 
she  stalked  out  of  the  room. 
"Whew!  A  regular  Daniel,"  said  the 
oldest  Adams  boy  with  a  low  whistle.  “I 
guess  we  have  given  the  mater  a  pretty 
rotten  deal,  haven't  we?  Now  what  had 
we  better  do  first?” 
Mr.  Adams  arose  and  thoughtfully 
went  into  his  wife’s  room,  and  the  thive 
bOys  heard  him  say :  "Oh  yes,  mother, 
we  had  a  fine  dinner,  don't  you  worry,” 
and  the  door  closed  gently  and  the  three 
boys  talked  for  a  long  time,  while  tiie 
Tiles,  unnoticed,  soaked  up  their  crusts 
and  the  biscuits  flattened  in  the  warm 
room. 
"Mother's  going  to  take  a  vacation,” 
announced  Adams  senior,  finally  appear¬ 
ing  in  the  doorway,  “l’ut  the  team  to  the 
buggy,  one  of  you,  and  the  others  saw 
some  wood." 
“Mother”  was  got  safely  out  of  the 
house  without  seeing  the  tell-tale  table. 
Mr.  Adams  put  her  on  the  train  and  took 
her  to  his  aunt’s  in  the  next  town  to 
spend  two  weeks,  laughing  at  her  protes¬ 
tations  that  "she  was  all  right,”  and  tak¬ 
ing  her  breath  with  the  figure  which  he 
thought,  the  wheat  would  bring. 
For  the  next  two  weeks  things  hummed 
about  the  old  Adams  homestead.  Mrs. 
Homer,  the  college  girl  who  had  married 
their  nearest  neighbor,  and  whose  new¬ 
fangled  notions  Mr.  Adams  had  watched 
dubiously  heretofore,  was  called  in  for 
consultation,  and  the  matter  of  remodel¬ 
ing  the  kitchen  left  in  her  hands.  Mr. 
Adams  the  words  of  Emily  and  the  doc¬ 
tor  ringing  in  his  ears,  handed  out  the 
money  lavishly,  and  Mrs.  Homer  knew 
how  to  spend  it. 
The  visit  of  Mrs.  Adams  lengthened  to 
a  month,  and  the  job  was  completed  -hot 
and  cold  water,  a  gasoline  engine  to  run 
the  washing  machine  and  churn,  a  brand- 
new  oil  stove  and  tireless  cooker,  a  wide 
new  screened  living  porch  on  the  east — 
these  were  only  a  few  of  the  marvelous 
transformations  which  met  the  eyes  of 
the  astonished  woman  as  her  husband  and 
three  big  sons  took  her  over  the  house  on 
her  return. 
In  the  living  room,  finally,  when  all 
the  new  things  had  been  exclaimed  over, 
Mr.  Adams  led  a  transformed  mother, 
with  shining  eyes  and  (lushed  cheeks,  up 
to  the  library  table  where  the  family 
Bible  lay  open.  Flo  pointed  to  the  pas¬ 
sage  and  read :  "My  daughter,  you  con¬ 
cern  yourself  too  much  with  little 
tilings.” 
“Henry,  what  in  the  world  do  you 
mean  ?"  gasped  “Mother”  in  bewilder¬ 
ment. 
“lie  simply  means,  mother,”  said  the 
youngest  Adams  boy  with  a  tender,  little 
smile,  “that  you  are  not  In  the  class  with 
Martha  at  all — and  we’re  going  to  see 
that  you  don’t,  get.  into  it,  too.” 
Not  Like  Other  Children 
I  was  silling  on  a  bench  on  the  beach 
watching  the  Little  One  at  her  play.  She 
was  piling  the  sand  high  over  her  brown 
legs,  tin'll  delightedly  thrusting  them 
forth  again.  She  was  making  good  use 
of  her  few  seashore  days.  There  were 
two  baths  each  daj  in  the  ocean;  sun¬ 
baths  without  number;  tunnels  to  dig. 
forts  to  build..  The  world  was  to  her  a 
wonderfully  interesting  place. 
As  I  watched  her  keen  enjoyment  of 
simple  things,  a  group  of  thro”,  evidently 
a  grandmother,  he-  daughter,  and  b<T 
grandson  approached  us. 
As  they  talked,  disconnectedly,  of  (lie 
miserable  weather,  the  poor  accommoda¬ 
tions,  and  the  social  stagnation  of  the 
place,  they  lot  me  know  also  vvliat  a  se¬ 
rious  and  delicate  undertaking  the  train¬ 
ing  of  Brandon  was.  He  was  not  like 
other  children.  lie  had  been  most  ten¬ 
derly  and  constantly  cared  for.  They 
studied  his  every  mood  and  anticipated, 
when  possible,  his  every  wish.  The 
mother  now  carried  a  cushion,  which  she 
soon  placed  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
bench.  Brandon  was  requested  to  seat 
himself  upon  it.  This  lie  scorned  to  do. 
The  spirit  of  some  ancestral  freeman 
must  have  hidden  him  to  stand,  lie  did  so 
with  such  assurance.  Mamina  groaned 
A  New  Hampshire  Girl’s  Pel 
her  failure.  Grandmamma  recollected 
that  Brandon  was  as  good  as  his  mother 
was  at  his  ago.  Brandon  was  uplifted, 
and  mother  quieted  for  a  few  seconds- 
Mamma  then  changed  her  tactics.  She 
would  dig  a  tunnel  for  Brandon,  mid  he 
would  then  sit  upon  the  cushion.  She 
proceeded  with  her  part  of  the  contract, 
pleading  for  his  interest.  lie  conde¬ 
scended  to  squat,  to  inspect  it.  There¬ 
upon,  grandmamma  begged  him  to  rise, 
telling  him  that  squatting  was  much  too 
tiring.  The  man  of  six  heeded  not. 
Mamma  echoed  the  command,  twice, 
thrice,  half  a  dozen  times.  Brandon  ap¬ 
parently  heard  no  voice.  She  threatened, 
Grandmamma  expostulated.  "I'm  sure 
lie  doesn’t  hear  you,”  she  said. 
“Ts  he  deaf?”  asked  the  mother,  an¬ 
grily. 
“Of  course  not;  but.  you  know  that  I 
always  speak  to  your  father  half  a  dozen 
times  befor i  lie  answers  me.  (I  could 
believe  t!  at  he  thereby  ">vcd  five  an¬ 
swers).  You  don’t  always  unswei  me 
yourself,  Ludie !” 
August  in,  1910. 
Brandon  looked  appreciatively  at  his 
grandmother,  then  again  at  the  tunnel, 
and  continued  to  squat.  1 1  is  mother  was 
dissatisfied  with  tin-  results. 
“1  like  obedience,  mamma.” 
“Yes.  so  do  I  ;  but  wait,  until  the  child 
gets  some  age  on  him.  A  child  of  six 
doesn't  understand  what  you  say  to  him. 
You  expect  him  In  he  a  dcmi-god-” 
The  small  young  man  was  becoming 
restless.  11c  began  to  cast  longing  eyes 
toward  the  ocean.  lie  demanded  to  go  in 
bathing.  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of, 
chorused  his  trainers.  He  would  catch 
his  death  of  cold;  lie  wasn’t:  strong,  like 
other  children.  Brandon  fretted:  and 
stormed,  and  raged.  It  was  time  to 
move.  "It.  was  a  pity.”  they  said,  “that 
he  was  not  strong  enough,  but  had  he  not 
sneezed  the  night  before?”  No  doubt  the 
ocean  was  more  attractive  to  him  than 
barrels  of  chocolates  and  sodas;  hut  they 
had  tested  the  chocolates  and  sodas  and 
found  them  quite  safe.  So  mamma  de¬ 
cided  upon  the  hoard-walk  and  its  charms 
to  divert  Brandon's  mind. 
They  were  gone.  They  had  killed  15 
minutes  of  trine.  The  Little  One  turned 
to  me  with  an  old  look  on  her  face. 
“What  makes  them  all  so  tired,  mother?” 
she  asked.  l.  s- 
His  Two  Best  Friends 
A  few  years  ago  a  young  man’s  father 
died  leaving  him  very  little  money;  but 
through  the  advice  of  his  mother,  a  fine, 
strong,  self-reliant  woman,  he  invested 
his  small  funds  in  a  Holstein  cow.  That 
cow  was  a  “top-noteher”  and  at  once  be¬ 
gun  to  produce  for  the  young  mail  after 
the  manner  of  her  kind.  So  that  to-day — 
but  that  comes  later.  Let  him  tell  it. 
Recently  the  young  man  attended  a 
'  show”  at  the  town  hall  and  heard  a  song 
entitled  M-O-T-H-E-lf .  the  words  of 
which,  set  to  a  catchy  tune,  run  ns  fol¬ 
lows  : 
"Eve  been  around  the  world,  you  bet, 
But  never  went  to  school 
Ilnrd  knocks  are  all  I  seem  to  get 
1  ’crimps  I've  been  a  fool. 
But  still  some  educated  folks 
Supposed  to  he  so  swell 
Would  fail,  if  they  were  called  upon 
A  simple  word  to  spell. 
Now  if  you'd  like  to  put  me  to  a  test 
There’s  one  dear  name  that  I  can  spell 
the  best ; 
‘M’  is  for  the  million  things  she  gave  me 
‘O’  means  that  I  owe  her  all  I  own; 
T”  is  for  the  tears  she  shed  to  save  me 
‘IF  is  for  her  bauds  that  made  a  home. 
‘E’  is  for  her  eyes  with  lovelight.  shining 
IF  means  right  and  right  she’ll  always 
be. 
But  them  all  together  they  spell 
MOTHER, 
A  word  that  means  the  world  to  me.” 
This  song  took  right  hold  of  the  young 
man,  for  his  mother  was  all  the  words  im¬ 
plied,  and  more,  to  him.  Moreover,  the 
music  haunted  him.  He  sang  the  song 
and  he  whistled  the  tune  for  days.  The 
contemplation  of  his  mother’s  attributes 
led  him  to  further  consideration  of  his 
own  blessings  and  gradually  other  words 
crept  into  the  song  Ope  day  he  surprised 
everybody  at  the  farm  and  made  a  tre¬ 
mendous  hit,  by  singing  the  now  familiar 
song  with  the  words  twisted  this  way: 
"II”  is  for  the  home  that  she  has  bought 
me, 
“D“  is  for  official — at  the  pail ! 
“L"  is  for  my  land,  now  free  from  mort¬ 
gage, 
‘S'  for  silo,  splendid  sire  and  scale. 
■  T”  is  for  the  twins  and  triplets  lusty. 
"1.”  her  ease  with  record  and  renown, 
“I"  the  ills  from  which  she  has  removed 
me, 
“N"  a  nation,  handing  her  the  crown  ! 
Starting  the  Barnyard  Circus 
(Taken  all  together  they  spell  HOL¬ 
STEIN. 
The  cow  that  brings  prosperity!) 
A  young  mail  just  starting  in  life  can 
have  no  better  friends  than  a  good  mother 
ami  n  Holstein  cow.  And  if  is  well  for 
him  if  lie  knows  as  this  young  man  does, 
lmw  to  spell  and  define  these  two  words. 
— The  Ilolstein-Eriesiau  Register. 
