'riHLtC RURAL N EW "YORKER 
531 
Our Own People. 
T HERE was a funeral last Summer iu 
this neighborhood, and the longest 
procession, Caleb White says, he has seen 
in all the years among the hills. Caleb 
has a good memory, and the privilege of 
many years. A good woman has gone 
away—and yet remains. In the short 
time I have been here I never knew her 
well, personally, though I saw her often 
in the homes of her friends. I said I did 
not know her well personally, and no one 
who knows this community can help 
knowing her. I never so desired the gift 
of impression as I do now on my return 
front her funeral, that I might give some 
idea ever so faint of what a good woman 
means to a community like ours. 
We children at home used to love to 
‘‘leave our mark,” as we called it, wher¬ 
ever our rovings led us. It was a bit of 
childish mysticism, quite unaccounted for 
now that we have grown older and wiser 
—perhaps—but it had its meaning. It 
was instinctive desire of the young soul 
to perpetuate the knowledge of its ex¬ 
istence upon a forgetful earth. My mark 
1 remember was a rude monogram. With 
what secret diligence I carved it on fence 
posts, on the barn doors; how we dared 
each other to climb the higher trees in the 
grove back of the house, and there among 
the brittle branches of the White poplars 
cut our names in the face of the rising 
sou. On one occasion when the new 
church was building, we climbed up on 
the scaffolding high over the altar and 
scratched our names. How we dared do 
micli a sacrilegious thing in spite of our 
strict puritanical bringing up has always 
been another mystery equal to the desire 
‘‘of leaving our mark” behind us. Then 
we spent hours chiseling it deep in a 
hard-headed bowlder in the pasture, 
where if man had been as kind as na¬ 
ture, it would have remained to this day, 
but a few years later the new barn needed 
a rock foundation, and our historic bowl¬ 
der was one of the first to be used for 
that purpose. 
So she left her secret mark upon the 
neighborhood—as we all do—for good or 
for ill upon those about us, in accordance 
with the strength of that character 
which abides within us. For a long time 
I did not know that it was she, though it 
was not hard to see that some strong 
good woman had passed that way. I saw 
the mystic sign of her deep character let¬ 
tered in many a hearthstone. I heard it 
speaking bravely from the lips of a weak 
friend. It is carved on the plastic heart 
of many a child. And I believe in the 
immortalities of the soul ; yes, I always 
believed that, but never so strongly as 
since I have known of her. I too live 
more deeply because she was here. She 
was in no outward way an extraordinary 
woman, nor was her life eventful. She 
was born in this neighborhood, and I saw 
her lying still that morning in the same 
sunny room of the same house where she 
had come as a bride so many years be¬ 
fore. Here among the common hills she 
grew up, here among the common schools 
she received her education. In old neigh¬ 
borhoods people come to know one an¬ 
other; it is not book knowledge or clothes 
knowledge, but that sort which reaches 
down into the springs of human char¬ 
acter. Mere greatness offers no reward 
compared to that supreme triumph of 
having grown old, holding the respect of 
those who know us best. 
I shall never forget that morning, 
standing outside of the open door of her 
home. It was a June morning, warm and 
blight; the old orchard, not far off, was 
still in blossom, and across the road on a 
hillside cattle and sheep fed unconcern¬ 
edly. Not half those who came could 
find room iu the house, but stood un¬ 
covered under the trees. From within 
came the odor of flowers, and the minor 
intonation of some one speaking. The 
preacher did not say much. Why should 
he? Everyone knew; words would only 
cheapen that knowledge. I do not re¬ 
member what he said, there was so much 
about us that spoke of the life of a good 
woman but not her death. 
A man who stood near me gave a more 
eloquent tribute than any preacher could 
have done. I saw him keep his ground 
f or a while, with that grim courage of 
man who dreads emotion more than pain, 
and then I saw him crying behind a tree. 
He was not a relative of hers, only one 
of many into whose deep lives she had 
entered. He was one of a family of chil¬ 
dren whose mother knew no higher aims 
than her own selfish desires. It was be¬ 
fore the laws of compulsory education, 
and thus they grew up, without school¬ 
ing. until she started. the night school 
during the long Winter evenings after the 
day’s work, and taught them all they 
ever knew of books. The man who cried 
behind the tree had been her pupil, was 
now a prosperous merchant, a man who 
helped to make the laws, a power in his 
circle. “But for her I should have been 
what I was then, a common woodchop- 
per.” 
They sang “Lead Kindly Light,” and 
as they came out the narrow door in the 
sunshine, I thought of how she must have 
The Rural Patterns 
When ordering patterns , always give 
number and size desired. Price of 
each pattern 10 cents. 
8582 Girl s Coat, 6581 Semi-Circular 
2 to 6 years, skirt with Yoke, 
24 to 32 waist. 
8594 Girl’s Apron, 8568 Girl's or Boy's 
8 to 14 years. Pajamas, G to 14 years. 
come out daily through the many years 
to look upon the beauty of hills and fields, 
the familiar landscape changing with the 
seasons which she would know no more. 
Along the pleasant winding road to the 
cemetery the community spoke its feel¬ 
ings that human nature is sweet and ten¬ 
der. Hers had been a plain, hard life. 
And yet it seemed to rise in the commun¬ 
ity like a great tree, its roots deep in the 
earth, its head above its storms. So 
barren and uneventful, you will say, but 
goodness is uneventful. It carries no 
confusion, but is deep, quiet and simple. 
It does not sit in the high places, but is 
felt in the friendly hand clasp, or the look 
of ;t kindly eye. If she ever really hated 
anything in this world it was whiners. 
If there was anything she was ever ready 
to give to the deserving it was sympathy. 
They laugh yet over the woman who used 
to come to spend her Summers and cure 
her “nerves” at this home. One day the 
woman told a long story to “Her.” After 
listening quietly, she said : 
"You are suffering from a very common 
complaint; you have not enough work to 
do. You have become selfish; go home, 
discharge your servants, be a companion 
to your husband, do your own cooking, 
make your own beds, take some little 
child to bring up, since you have none of 
your own; do something for somebody; 
forget yourself, and you will get well.” 
The woman was much offended, but she 
took the advice, became a useful woman, 
and to-day there was a wreath of white 
roses sent from the city by that woman. 
It was before the days of sanitary 
science, when several deaths occurred in 
one family, and were considered a special 
visitation of Providence. She told them 
to dig a new well and stop using the barn 
well water for drinking and house use, 
and later when the poor Jacobs family 
came down with diphtheria she nursed 
them through the sickness, but saw to it 
that the cellar was cleaned of decaying 
vegetables, and the accumulation of filth 
in the bark yard was properly dealt with. 
When Mrs. Willets told her little Jennie 
was a cripple, she went right over and 
found little Jennie had the “rickets.” 
“No. Mrs. Willets,” she said, “the Lord 
never intended that child should be a 
cripple; it's none of Ilis work. You 
have simply not given the little thing the 
right kind of food. You’re a busy woman 
with that great family to cure for. Let 
me take little Jennie for a while. I be¬ 
lieve the Lord will see that she gets well 
with plenty of good milk, meat, broth and 
other things.” Mrs. Willets gladly let 
her take Jennie, and the Lord was more 
than willing that she should grow strong 
and well and as hearty as any in the 
family. 
She loved music and understood it. It 
was she. with the teacher’s help, who 
started the singing school, and the glee 
club that was renowned far and wide for 
their musical ability. 
And there was another story which had 
been forgotten, or rather remained untold 
out of deference to a sort of neighbor¬ 
hood delicacy, and I cannot tell it now. 
Only one woman leaning on the arm of 
her husband coming late from the distant 
city with the beauty and carriage of a 
queen and the humility of a little child, 
knelt at her side, while her tears fell un¬ 
restrained. “My more than mother,” she 
whispered. And I saw the people stand 
back in deference to her. I said I would 
not tell the story, for no one could ever 
recognize in this useful, handsome ma¬ 
tron, the pretty, ignorant little girl who 
ran away from her home so long, long 
ago, but who was rescued, brought back, 
and supported in every way until the past 
had been forgotten and she had stepped 
from the home of the one who cast no 
stone, into her own home iu the great 
city. Ah ! she had been a leader of the 
people in the quiet hills. She had been 
a leader of an age that is past, a sort of 
moral pioneer carrying the light into each 
heart and home of the country side, a pio¬ 
neering more difficult than any we have 
known. We see it now, so dimly, when 
she is gone, and we reflect so sadly that 
we did not stop to thank her, so used had 
we become to her ministrations; so busy 
we were with our own affairs when she 
was among us. I wonder if there is any¬ 
one here who will take up the banner that 
she has laid down. 
And I had forgotten the preacher’s 
text: “He that is greatest among you, 
let him be,. . . as he that doth serve.” 
And we came away with a great aching 
sense of loss, thinking how perhaps in a 
small way we might honor her memory 
by doing something for somebody else 
even sis she had done. 
THE COUNTRY UK.\TLKWOMAN. 
Eggless Coffee Cake.—One-half scant 
cup of brown sugar, a little more than 
half cup of molasses, one rounding table¬ 
spoon of shortening creamed thoroughly 
with the sugar, a little salt, then molasses 
beaten in till light, then one-half cup of 
strong coffee measuring a good half as 
you do of molasses. cup flour, spices 
to taste. hks. c. G. 
Economy Suet Pudding.—One cup suet 
chopped fine, one cup New Orleans mo¬ 
lasses, one cup sweet milk, oue teaspoon 
soda iu milk, one teaspoon cinnamon, one- 
half teaspoon cloves, two cups flour, one 
cup raisins chopped and dredged iu flour 
the last thing. Steam two hours and 
then set in oven to dry a minute. This 
will keep two weeks iu cool weather. To 
be eaten with whipped cream. 
MRS. c. G. 
S 
UGAP 
When ordered with a 
$10 Grocery Order 
25 pounds, 98^ 
Parkin Groceries, such as flour, coffee, ten, 
canned vegetables, dried vegetables, ham, 
bacon. tish, cereals, crackers, preserved 
fruits, relishes, confectionery; laundry, 
toilet, and home supplies of all kinds. 
GROCERY BOOK FREE 
Send a letter or postal today for your free 
copy. Just say, “Send me free a copy of 
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Larkin Cx*+ buffalo, n. y. 
FLORIDA GRAPEFRUIT 
and ORANGES RIPENED 
IN THE SUNSHINE ON THE TREES 
Are sweet and healthy. My fruitis cut, and 
shipped direct from my grove prepaid to the 
consumer ::::::::::::: 
GRAPEFRUIT, per standard 80 1b. box, $1.00 plus Ex. 
ORANGES, “ . 1.75 
MIXED, . . “ 1.50 
Write for delivered prices to your station. 
L. A. HAKES 
Winter Bark, Orange Co., Florida 
lyp; 
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Trinity BUg., New York j 
R AGS, Bags, Old Rubber and Metals 
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6 ;, 4c. per ft. Best quality soft 
copper cable. Freight prepaid, 
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Complete installing directions. Valuable catalogue 
free. ROBINSON & SEIDEL CO., Box 58, Washingtonville, Pa. 
LIGHTNING RODS 
Honest 
without a Fish Brand 
can you run your 
farm on rainy days 
I 
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The 
Children 
Can Help 
I received the Indian Bead Outfit and 
we are all delighted with it, especially 
little Mildred, who helped to get some of 
the subscriptions towards it. Hoping 
that I will have a much larger order to 
3end next time. Yours truly. 
M. B., R 2. Elizabeth, N. J. 
We would like to send you 
our new Reward List, show¬ 
ing hundreds of articles given 
as rewards for obtaining sub¬ 
scriptions to The Rural 
New-Yorker. Postal will do. 
Department “M.” 
The Rural New-Yorker, 
333 W. 30 th St., N. Y. City. 
