THE N U K-A. L, NEW-VOKKER 
761 
Amelia Avery’s Change of Heart 
By The Brown Owl 
A MELIA Avery walked slowly down 
the hill in the sand at the side of the 
State road A thick black veil covered 
her face, and she walked with a droop 
to her whole body that denoted great 
sorrow. 
As she passed the house on the hill, a 
woman peered cautiously through the 
curtains, then turning from the window’, 
she said in a relieved voice, to her 
Springfield cousin : 
"There, she’s gone by, thank good¬ 
ness !” 
“Who is she?” 
“O, I don’t believe you know anything 
about her. She used to own that farm 
on the corner above here, you saw the 
place as we came home yesterday, where 
they had such a fine flock of Rhode 
Island Reds. Well, about 10 years ago 
her husband died and in less than three 
years her only son died also. Of course, 
I am awfully sorry for her—everybody 
is—but she has a very comfortable home, 
and that's more than a great many have, 
left as she is. She sold the place to the 
husband of her niece, and she had it in 
the bargain that she is to have a home 
with them as long as she lives. 
“Instead of making the best of things 
she goes right on mourning and talking 
as if hers was the only sorrow in the 
world. You can’t get her mind off her¬ 
self at all. and I have begun to think 
that it’s all pure selfishness on her part. 
Her niece must have a time of it with 
her. She never lifts her hand to do a 
thing to help, because she thinks she is 
not strong enough to do any work. She 
just sits and mopes in her room all day, 
and then complains because the days are 
long and lonely and her sleep broken at 
night. When she comes in here I have 
to listen to the same old story all over 
and over, about her eyes troubling her, 
and the effects of last Winter’s grippe; 
all about her rheumatism and just where 
it bothers her the most, until I get so 
sick of it I feel like telling her just what 
I think. But goodness! When she is so 
offended if she thinks I am not listening 
to what she is saying what would she say 
if I were to tell her I think that selfish¬ 
ness is at the bottom of her trouble? 
“Interest her in war news? Haven't 
I tried time and again? I’ve talked 
about the dreadful trouble caused by this 
cruel war, and when I said how thank¬ 
ful we all should be to live in a coun¬ 
try free from such misery, she only 
sighed and told me in detail just how 
many times she heard the clock strike the 
night before. 
“She must be going down to see Mrs. 
Mason. They used to be girls together. 
They were married at the same time, and 
have lived here in this neighborhood most 
of their lives. Now there’s Mrs. Mason. 
Her husband died about six years ago, 
and since then she spends her time visit¬ 
ing around at the homes of her three 
children. Her son Jim lives below here 
on the old Mason place, and she came a 
couple of weeks ago on one of her visits. 
1 )o you know her children just fight over 
her to see which one can keep her the 
longest, and no wonder! She is just as 
dear as she can be. You never saw a 
happier person in your life, and I don’t 
believe she ever thinks of herself a min¬ 
ute. She is always busy for others, help¬ 
ing with the children or telling something 
interesting that she has been reading. 
O, you can’t help just loving her. There 
isn't a door in the neighborhood that 
wouldn’t fairly fly open if Mrs. Mason 
turned toward it. Mrs. Avery might 
learn a lot from her that would do her 
good if she could forget herself long 
enough.” 
“Come right in,” said Mrs. Mason a 
little later, as she opened the door for 
her old friend. There was a marked dif¬ 
ference betwen the two women. Mrs. 
Avery was tall and angular and her scant 
grey hair was drawn into a tight knot 
at the back of her head. Mrs. Mason 
was a tiny little old lady, with white 
hair, a smiling face, and a pair of merry 
blue eyes. Everybody loved her and it 
was no wonder that they did. 
“You are just in time.” she said gaily, 
waving a rolling pin in the air. “The 
folks all went to Grange this morning 
and little Jimmy and I have kept house 
all day, and now we are making ginger 
cookies. Just the kind you and I used 
to make, Amelia. I use the same old 
recipe, and I often think how we used 
to try to outdo each other making those 
cookies. I think yours were always just 
a little better than mine, Amelia.” 
Her visitor smiled very faintly. She 
had seated herself in the cozy kitchen 
and had removed her black veil. “Mar¬ 
tha and her husband went to Grange 
too,” she said, “and I have been alone 
all day. I got so lonesome that I just 
had to come out, but I suppose I’ll pay 
for it tonight. It always makes my 
rheumatism worse to travel up and down 
that Wilson hill." 
“What have you been doing with your¬ 
self all day—reading?” asked Mrs. Ma¬ 
son, as she carefully placed the thick, 
“She just sits and mopes.” 
soft cookies on tins ready for the oven. 
“Why!” answered her visitor in a 
tone of injured surprise, “I told you the 
last time I was here, that my eyes had 
got so bad that I couldn’t read much at 
a time without making my head ache. 
I remember telling you all about it. but 
I thought at the time you did not hear 
much of what I was saying. You seemed 
to be more interested in a sliver in little 
Jimmy’s finger.” 
Mrs. Mason stooped and kissed the 
forehead of four-year-old Jimmy as he 
stood by her side on a chair working over 
his bit of cookie dough. “Don't put in 
so much flour, dear. Your cookie will 
be so hard that even ‘Bud’ can’t gnaw 
it.” Then she faced her visitor with a 
smile.” 
“I remember now, Amelia. I am real 
sorry your eyes trouble you. Jimmy and 
I spent a good deal of the forenoon grub¬ 
bing around the old blush roses. I was 
so glad to find that they are not dying 
out of all. How are those of yours, 
Amelia ?” 
“I am sure I don't know, Helen. I 
thought I explained to you that I haven’t 
the physical strength for such things,” 
said Mrs. Avery wearily. 
“Well,” smiled Mrs. Mason. “Jimmy 
and I did get pretty tired, but it gave us 
an appetite for dinner. And do you 
know,” she added laughing, “we opened 
a can of sardines for our lunch, and 
what did that boy do but cut off all the 
tails and pile them at the side of his 
plate. When I asked him what he did 
that for he said ‘Well, Gramma, I’m des 
fraid if I eat em, de lis’ will wiggle urn 
tails fen dey go down!’ ” Mrs. Mason 
still laughing, turned to the oven door 
to look at her cookies while her visitor 
smiled absently, then sighed deeply. 
“I wonder,” she said slowly, and there 
was such unusual interest in her tone, 
that Mrs. Mason paused with her oven 
door held open, to listen. “/ tconder,” 
Mrs. Avery said again, "why it is I don’t 
sleep better nights.” 
Mrs. Mason did not answer at once. 
She took out the cookies, removed them 
to a plate and refilled the tin ready for 
the oven. Then she faced her caller. 
“I know, Amelia,” she said gently, 
“why you don’t sleep well nights, and 
why you are so lonesome and unhappy. 
I’ve felt bad ever since I came back to 
find you as you are, and I’ve just want¬ 
ed to have my say for once, only I’ve 
been afraid you won’t like what I have to 
tell you. and will be offended with me. 
Here, have a cookie, Amelia, and please 
don’t feel hurt if I say just what I 
think. Do you know I should think 
you had lived long enough in this world 
to know that you can’t be contented or 
happy unless you are of some service to 
someone besides yourself.” 
Mrs. Avery got quickly to her feet and 
started, with quick angry jerks, to ar¬ 
range her veil. 
“I see, I see, Helen Mason." she said 
sharply. “You are just like all the rest 
of the folks around here after all; you 
think I ought to race and chase my feet 
off, doing things for Martha and her 
family, when I haven’t the physical 
strength—” 
“There, there, Amelia,” said her 
friend. “I was afraid you would take it 
like that if I said a word. When I said 
service I did not mean work exactly. I 
mean that you must be of some use to 
others besides yourself, and there are 
lots of ways to be useful besides work¬ 
ing. Without knowing it you have got 
selfish, Amelia; yes. actually selfish, and 
you have just got to forget that self of 
yours before you can know what it 
means to be anyways contented. 
“I always thought that the next thing 
to being happy oneself was to make 
some one else happy. Did you ever try 
that, Amelia?” 
“I notice that nobody cares whether 
I'm happy or not, and I don’t see why I 
should start any such one-sided game,” 
said Mrs. Avery. 
“Why Amelia Avery,” replied her 
friend. “I feel as if I could just shake 
you! Don't you know that you get what 
you give in this world? Of course you 
knew it, but you have been so busy 
thinking about yourself that you have 
forgotten it. There now, here is a bar¬ 
gain,” and Mrs. Mason was again her 
smiling lovable self. “You just try for 
one week, Amelia, to make one person 
smile each day, and then if you don’t 
feel better for having done it I will own 
myself mistaken. Sit down again now, 
please; the cookies are out of the way 
and I want to show you some pictures I 
“We are making ginger cookies.” 
got in the mail today of Lucy’s chil¬ 
dren.” 
Half an hour afterwards Amelia Av¬ 
ery walked thoughtfully homeward nib¬ 
bling a cookie that her friend had in¬ 
sisted on her taking to eat on the way 
home. “My! but that cookie is good,” 
she said to herself. “I wonder if I have 
forgotten how to get them just right. I 
used to make them every bit as good as 
Helen’s, and I think I can do it yet, even 
if it has been over six years since I have 
baked any.” 
A new idea sent her up the Wilson 
hill faster than she had travelled in many 
a day. “I'll have plenty of time to try 
before they get home from Grange,” she 
said to herself as she hurried on. 
A little later, and she was flying 
around her old familiar kitchen, heqting 
the oven and hunting up the cookie ma¬ 
terials. When the first tinful came out 
of the oven she eagerly slipped a knife 
under one of them. Just what she 
feared. There was just a little too much 
flour in them to be real good and soft, 
like Helen’s. She glanced at the clock. 
There was over an hour yet before the 
folks would be home. Yes, there would 
be time to try again. She was sure 
she could get them just right next time. 
“I don’t know but that I could put 
in some potatoes to bake while the oven 
is hot. and fry some ham. Then we 
could have supper before chores. It is 
always so late Grange days.” 
She was just taking out the last of her 
second batch of cookies, and they were 
fine and light, when her niece came in. 
The kitchen was fragrant with the smell 
of hot supper nearly ready, a most wel¬ 
come sight after a long day away and a 
six-mile drive home. 
The unusual sight of Aunt Amelia 
flushed and smiling—yes. actually smil¬ 
ing—brought Martha Hunt to her side 
with a rush. 
“Why, you dear thing,” she said as she 
kissed her aunt’s furrowed cheek. “How 
perfectly lovely of you to do this, and 
you not. feeling well either.” 
But her Aunt Amelia was feeling 
well, better in fact than she had in years, 
and as she went to her room that even¬ 
ing after helping Martha with the dish¬ 
es and hearing about the Grange lecture 
on domestic science, she smiled a little 
to herself as she said: “I shouldn’t won¬ 
der if Helen Mason was right after all.” 
Is Latin a Help ? 
1 am a farmer’s wife of very moderate 
income. That is, I keep no regular help, 
but do most of the ordinary work for a 
family of from six to nine, hiring occa¬ 
sionally by the day or the hour for the 
heaviest work. I wash dishes and bake 
and iron, bottle from 50 to 00 quarts of 
Jersey milk every day. work in my flower 
garden, read, knit, sew. do some work in 
Grange and church, and am contented and 
happy. Thirty-five years ago my hus¬ 
band and I were graduated in the same 
class from one of our large State univer¬ 
sities. We both had thorough courses in 
Greek and Latin, with, of course, much 
other work. We seldom read Greek or 
Latin now. Neither do we open an alge¬ 
bra nor a trigonometry nor a calculus. 
We seldom read Milton, and not often 
Shakespeare. But underlying our lives is 
the foundation on which we have built, 
and the stability and durability of that 
foundation depends upon what we studied 
when we were young. 
In all discussions of this sort it seems 
to me people are apt to reason from a 
wrong premise, and therefore their con¬ 
clusions are faulty. To them education 
is for what you can get out of it. I hold 
that education is for what it can put into 
you. It is for development—to furnish 
you a storehouse for future use, a bank 
filled with treasure upon which you can 
draw as long as you live; riches that 
money can neither buy nor take away. I 
have no automobile nor many jewels, nor 
even a new Easter hat, but on my living- 
room walls hang some fine old classic pic¬ 
tures with modern ones, and old classic 
books rub elbows with modern classics. 
Italy and Greece are to me more than the 
countries of to-day. They speak to me 
of their ancient courage and struggles for 
liberty, and their strivings to express 
themselves in enduring art. 
Moreover, in the bringing up and edu¬ 
cation of our four children—all college 
graduates—we found our fund of infor¬ 
mation of great value in answering ques¬ 
tions and enlarging their ideas. Children 
quarrel less and have no time for much 
that is petty and mean when their minds 
are interested in larger things. All of 
them studied some Latin, one Greek and 
Latin many years. They can cook and 
sew and manage a house, and build and 
plow and fix an old gasoline engine so it 
will run. Their minds are alert and 
keen and inventive. As you see I am a 
firm believer in cultural studies. I wish 
the Hope Farm man could have studied 
Latin. He would have appreciated it. 
Michigan. n. H. b. 
