THE DRUM LAKE EASTER SERVICE. 
A story of the Michigan Pine Woods. 
BY HERBERT \V. COLLING WOOD 
Copyrighted by the Rural New -1 orker. 
(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.) 
B UT Mamie did not stay here. She ran 
across the dreary room, and standing on 
her toes, loosened the latch of the door that led 
to another apartment. The door pushed open 
at last, and she ran in and closed it behind 
her. The room was pretty compared with the 
other one; for it had evidently been arranged 
by a woman who had known a certain refine¬ 
ment. The window curtains were caught 
gracefully at one side, and little bits of ribbon 
and other trifles that women can make so 
much of, were fastened about the room. 
On a scantily covered bed lay “Sarcy Sal’ 
—at once the ten or and the scorn of Drum 
Lake. She bad been, as Mrs. McKelvey said, 
“an awful bad woman,' 1 but now her days of 
wickedness were ended. Alone, with only the 
sneers and contempt of her old friends, she 
was paying the horrible reckoning that had 
been gathering for her through years. Poor 
“Sarcy Sal”—and to think what might have 
been. 
The sick woman turned her head wearily on 
the pillow as Mamie came running in. The 
great mass of golden hair rolled down over 
the coverlid as she slightly raised herself to 
help the little girl climb on the bed. 
“Did you have a good time, Mamie?” she 
asked. “Splendid”—answered the little girl 
gleefully, “and see, mamma, what the Parson 
gave me”—and she took the ribbon from her 
hair to show to her mother. 
The sick woman took the ribbon carelessly, 
and held it nearer the candle. She was about 
to hand it back to Mamie, when her eye fell 
upon the letters written on the corner, M. B. 
to H. A. S. G. 
“Who gave you this?”—she gasped, suddenly 
starting w T ith an effort from the pillow. 
“Parson”—said Mamie, wondering at her 
mothei’s excitement, It was all she could 
explain. She had not heard the “fool’s” 
other long-sounding name, nor could she 
have remembered it had it been told her. 
The wretched woman looked iu wild terror 
at the ribbon for a moment. Then her 
strength failed, and she fell back with a 
dreadful cry of—“God pity me, and let me 
die!” She covered her face with her bands, 
and sobbed like a child, as she had not done 
for years before. 
Mamie threw her arms about her mother’s 
neck and sobbed with her—“Don’t ky, mamma, 
I love ’ou.” 
The miserable woman mastered herself by 
a mighty effort. “Never miud, darling,”she 
gas ed, and she soothed the little curly head 
till Mamie sobbed herself to sleep. There 
they lay. The little girl slept soundly with 
her arms about her mother’s neck. “I love 
you,” she had said, and it was all her prayer, 
all her creed. But the woman could not 
sleep. She lay through the long night, moan¬ 
ing over and over again the only prayer she 
dated to make, “God pity me and let me die!” 
You will remember that we left the minister 
sitting by the fire in Mrs. McKelvey’s kitchen. 
We feel well disposed towards the melancholy 
lit le man and would gladly allow him to 
remain in that comfortable position. But in 
order that a truthful narration of the ev< nts 
of this history may be given, we must move 
him. He sat very patiently iu his place for a 
long time, thinking, no doubt, of his Easter 
sermon. 
Mrs. McKelvey broke the silence at last. 
“I see ye ’ave a fiddle in yer room, Parson, do 
’e play it, sir?” 
“Now and then, Mrs. McKelvey—are you 
fond of music?” 
“That I be, sir. Bill au’ me is wonderful 
fond of it. Bill kin tell jest ’ow a tune orter 
be played. Say, Parson, why couldn’t ’e 
bring out yer fiddle an’ play while we does our 
work. Pears ter me we kin git through 
sooner.” 
The Rev. Mr. Grayling did not need auy 
second invitation to go in search of his violin. 
He came the nearest to perfect happiness 
when he had his adorable fiddle under his 
chin. He rose from his seat very readily at 
Mrs. McKelvey’s invitation, and went at 
once for his musical instrument. 
“Now, Bill”—said Mrs. McKelvey, as the 
door closed behind the minister, “don’t ’ye git 
c arried away by no music so that ’e can’t peel 
them pertaters.” 
Mrs, McKelvey knew that music was as es¬ 
sential to a full development of her husband’s 
nature as salt was to his food. 
Mr. McKelvey said never a w T ord. He only 
grasped his potato knife more firmly, and 
spread out his feet as if to [intimate that the 
music that transported him for any distance, 
must be of a captivating nature indeed. 
The minister’s violin hung from a nail 
driven in the wall of his room. He took it 
tenderly down and held it to the light where 
he examined it carefully. I wish for the sake 
of romance 1 could say that it was one of 
those rare old instruments with a history that 
reads like a novel. I am writing from the 
facts, however, and truth compels me to say 
that the Rev. Mr. Grayling’s fiddle was a 
po.or, cheap affair such as one could buy in 
any music store. But if it had been made of 
gold, the “ fool ” could not have handled it 
more tenderly. He carried it very carefully 
back to the kitchen, and resumed his old seat 
by the stove. 
The Rev. H. A. S. Grayling A, B. etc., with 
nothing but his Easter sermon to think of, and 
the same gentleman, with his violin in hand, 
were two different persons, strange as the idea 
may seem. The little man looked almost 
happy as he sat by the stove the second time. 
From somewhere down in tue pockets of his 
dangling coat, he pulled a faded silk handker¬ 
chief, and placed it under his chin as a rest 
for the violin. Then with half-closed eyes, 
and head slightly roc king, he drew his bow 
over the strings of the instrument. 
Either the fiddle was very much out of 
tune, or else the minister possessed a highly 
cultivated ear, as for nearly ten minutes he 
did nothing but tune the instrument till it 
really seemed, as Jack Gray called it, “a box 
of aggerny.” First he would tighten a string 
and then let it out, only to go through the 
same performance a dozen times. 
It must indeed have been a most monoton¬ 
ous entertainment for Mr. and Mrs. McKel¬ 
vey, but they said nothing, evidently buoyed 
up by the thought that a most remarkable 
musical treat was sure to follow such a care¬ 
ful preparation. The “fool” himself seemed 
to eDjoy it thoroughly, so it was not all lost. 
Mr. McKelvey, the great musical critic, the 
man who knew “jest how a tune orter be 
played ” watched the parson carefully, 
though he did not for a moment neglect his 
work. If he could have expressed his thoughts 
without attracting the attention of the entire 
neighborhood, they would probably have been 
about as follows—* k ’E kin jerk a good bow, 
an’ do a clean job, when 'e gits ready.” 
But, sad as it may seem, Mr. McKelvey and 
his wife weie not to listen to the minister’s 
solo. Just as the parson finished his tuning, 
in fact he had risen to his feet and turned his 
back upon the audience, the kitchen door 
opened ana Jim Foster walked in. 
Had it been any one else, I actually believe 
the McKelveys would have riseD, voice and 
all, to drive the intruder away. But Jim 
Foster was a particular favorite with the 
boarding-house couple, for he had actually 
made the statement, before a large company, 
that “McKeivey’s kid tuck the cake away from 
any kid he ever see.” 
Now I will put it fairly to any of my read¬ 
ers. If a man of Jim Foster’s experience ai d 
observation should make such a remark about 
your baby, would you say one word if he in¬ 
terrupted the best musical entertainment you 
ever attended? Not at all; you would smile 
on him as sweetly as did the Me Kelvies, and 
pretend that you were delighted to see him, 
hoping all the time he had some new compli¬ 
ment for the small specimen of humanity 
in the cradle 
“Good evenin’, mum and Parson How are 
ye Bill?” was Mr. Foster’s salutation. Jim did 
not really have any particular solicitude for the 
state of Mr. McKelvey’s health, but I think 
he wished to recognize the fact that he con¬ 
sidered Mrs. McKelvey and the Parson, in a 
certain sense, superior to their companion. 
Mr. McKelvey nodded, Mrs. McKelvey 
smiled, and the minister after some little 
hesitation, put down his violin, and resumed 
his seat. 
Jim came to business at once. “Could I see 
ye outside fer a minnit, Mis’. McKelvey ?”—he 
said with a wink in the direction of the minis¬ 
ter, as if to indicate that the proposed inter¬ 
view’ would concern that individual. 
(TO BE CONTINUED.) 
“ EDITOR’S BACK STAIRS.” 
THE INTERESTING VIEW OF THE LATE DR. 
,T. G. HOLLAND. 
The columns of the newspapers appear to 
be flooded with proprietary medicine adver¬ 
tisements. As we cast our eyes over them, it 
brings to mind an article that was published 
by the late Dr. Holland in Scribner's Month¬ 
ly. He says: “Nevertheless, it is a fact 
that many of the best proprietai-y medicines 
of the day were more successful than many 
physicians, and most of them, it should be re¬ 
membered, w’ere at first discovered or used in 
actual medical practice. When, however, 
any shrewd person, knowing their virtue, 
and foreseeing their popularity, secures and 
advertises them, then, in the opiniou of the 
bigoted, all virtue went out of them.” 
Is not this absurd? 
This great man appreciated the real merits 
of popular remedies, and the absurdity of 
those that derided them because public at¬ 
tention was called to the article and the evi¬ 
dence of their cures. If the most noted phy¬ 
sician should announce that he had made a 
study of any certain organ or disease of the 
body, or make his sign larger than the code 
size, though he may have practised medicine 
and been a leader in all medical counsels, not- 
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