Here shall the wild birds sing, And still thy branches bend. Thy axe shall harm it not. George P. Morris TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STAR Twinkle, twinkle, little star! When the glorious sun is set, In the dark blue sky you keep, As your bright and twinkling spark Selected THE TELEPHONE-A MEMORY The last heavy moving van had driven away. The owner of the house, a stern-faced man, had watched it out of sight, then turned back for one last glance about the familiar rooms to see that nothing had been forgotten. His tread sounded hollow in the deserted rooms; an air of loneliness filled the bare house, and something of its chill struck to his empty heart and made him shudder. With a sigh that was almost a groan, he returned to the hallway, when suddenly, near the telephone, he caught sight of a little sheet of paper, pinned to the wall, and covered with different names, some written carefully in violet ink-they were for constant reference others were scribbled hastily in pencil, toward the last. There it was before him, alive and tangible almostthe beautiful page of life that had been his for a few short years. All that he had made up his mind to forget was there a fragment of human life on half a sheet of paper! With tender care, the man removed the thumb-pin and took the paper from the wall. It was a bright yellow color and as he stepped into the empty parlor the light seemed strangely reflected when he carried it to the window to read it. At the top, her name was written: Louise, the most beautiful name he knew, for it was that of his beloved, and the number beside it, 105-08 Orange, was a veritable song of triumph. That was the beginning; she was in the country then, while he was working in the city and planning this home that was to be their heaven; how often had he called that number to tell her of the progress that he was making, and to invite her to run in and see how he was getting on; what delightful little surprises he had arranged each time and how over joyed she had been with his thoughtfulness! Several erasures followed. Then came the number of the florists, and the livery stable. Then there were several furniture stores; that was when he was gradually building their home. Then there followed T. Cook & Son, Florida; that stood for their honeymoon journey. Next there came Met. O. H.; newly married, they went to the opera every Friday evening. This was their happiest time, for they recognized their own love in the communion of beauty and harmony in the country of dreams, in the land that lay back of the curtain. Directly below was the number of his bank. That was his work, the vital power which gave him bread and the means to create a fireside and a home, the very base of existence and its foundation. The number had been crossed out, for the bank had failed. Finally he had found another position in a bank, but only after a long interval, after months of care and anxiety; several names and numbers were written in on the edge as of temporary importance. Then a man's name, struck through with a pencil, recalled one of their friends of high social standing, sudder ly ruined and obliged to leave the city, so fragile and unstable is the wealth of this world. Immediately below, the lines of hasty pencil scribbling commenced. The violet ink ceased abruptly. First came the name of the doctor; and then the simple word, mother. That was the mother-in-law's number, the gentle lady who, keeping discreetly on one side not to trouble the happiness of the new household, came so quickly, so quickly when appealed to in the time of sickness, so glad to be with them and to help them. Rougher and more hasty grew the writing. The number of an employment agency; that was to engage the nurse. The druggists . . . things were more serious then... the dairy. . . only pasteurized milk was to be used. Then the names of the grocer, the butcher and the baker. The household seemed run entirely by the telephone. That was because the mistress of the house was no longer in her accustomed place. She was in bed sick. What followed, the man could but dimly see. A mist had gathered before his eyes. He grew paler still and the hand that held the paper tightened until the knuckles showed white. There was a blank space and below, written in trembling letters, the name of the funeral director, and a number now illegible as though blotted out by the stain of a tear, and beside it; "two coffins, one small, one large." Then-nothing. Only dust-the end of all things in this world! The man looked pitifully at the paper for a moment, then kissing it, put it in his pocket. In a few minutes he had relived years of his life. He went out, his head held high, carrying with him a heart full of sorrow and tender memories. In his agony he thought to himself: "I have had all that is best on earth, a wife, a fireside, and my work! What is there left?" D. R. Anderson. WHAT IS GOOD? "What is the real good?" "Pleasure," said the fool; "Beauty," said the page; "The answer is not here." Then within my bosom "Each heart holds the secret, By permission. John Boyle O'Reilly. |