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'1»?! ' '.I~i*i.i"§“a u ___ii iii: BY HATTIE WIIITNEY . t ' m. 'Kb-‘M' o: 34.. ' ' - .92. co - . h o o a 0 0.0 o 3 c a we were always getting out of Wood at Maple Knoll. It was the big fireplace in the sit- tingiroom that ate up all the fuel we could get. I never saw such an in- satiable monster. Yet we couldn't make up our minds to close it up and put up a stove instead, because of its radiant cheerfulness. How jol- ly it was, just when the first touch of a winter's twilight stole on, to pile fresh hickory logs on the old an- dirons and watch the flames dash up the chimney's throat and light the whole room with a mellow crimson flame. But the wood! Of course. we three Women couldn't very well go out and chop and haul it, and our funds did not always warrant hiring large quantities laid in, besides which the neighboring help we could get Was 'not very dependable on at all times. Maple Knoll was a lovely place, but didn’t bring in much revenue, worked, as we were obliged to 'have it done, by any Tom, ‘Dick or I-Iar- ry we could pick up; and the old house was picturesqueâ€"but leaky as a sieve. Still, we managed very well about everything else, but for fuel We were obliged to depend on get- ting a load hauled now and then when some neighbor had the time and inclination to undertake it. December though it Was, we had had a. streak of regular Indianâ€"sumâ€" mery weatherâ€"a mild atmosphere inâ€" terwoven with a soft smokiness. Our stove wood had run out, and the neighbors ha¢a11 been too busy haulâ€" ing cordwood to attend to our needs. Our chip yard was in good condition, however, and We had been levying on it for cooking purposes, using what little wood we had for the fireplace, as we didn’t need much, and had gone jogging along in an easy, grassâ€" hoppcry way, as if the pleasant weaâ€" ther were going to last all winter. We woke up the morning of De- cember 30 to find the World nearly lost in a most beautiful blizzard of whirling snow. Not only was the outward world 'a white desolation, but there were little drifts all over the inside of the house. “Dora,” I shouted, bouncing out of bed and landing with one foot in a. snow bank, “how many chips did we bring in last night?" , “About enough to cook breakfast with,” Dora answered, with the calm- ness of despair, as she shook a little puff of snow out of her shoe. I hopped out of my drift and rushed to the window. ~ “Meantime, let’s go down and make a fire and get a good warmâ€"up if we do perish afterward." “We’d better save the sittingâ€"room wood until after breakfast,” counâ€" ‘ seled Dora, “and just have a. fire in the cookâ€"stove till then, and eat in the kitchen.” ‘ "Sure," said I, “that’ll be a lark.” In spite of the dismal outlook we had a cheerful fire ~and a cozy kitch- en when Aunt Laurr A1110 down, and then while slw began to prepare breakfast Dora and -I did ourselves up like Laplanders and plunged out Into the blizzard to feed and milk the cows, after which “we braved the winter’s blast Ion-g enough to trans- port my treasure stump to the house, which we did partly by lugging and partly by rolling it over and over. Breakfast was ready when'we got it safely under cover, and notwithâ€" standing our impending doom, we fell upon the ham and fried potatoes and pancakes, and enjoyed our meal immensely. _ ‘ "Girls," said auntie, when the last potato and the last crimpy brown batterâ€"cake had vanished, “I don’t want to'dampen your spirits, but there .isn’t a chip left, and how we’re going to cook dinner I don’t see." ' “Nett,” said Dora (who was just three months older than I), “we'll cook dinner by the fireplace." “Dora,” I said, “you're gifted. That's what we will, and imagine we're our own greatâ€"grandmothers and greatauntsâ€"how lovely!” “Well, you’ll have to help, miss, and I/ doubt if you think it so lovely before you get through,” returned Dora. "You’ll be baked a beautiful brown." , We took an inventory of our stores to see what there was we could cook by the fireplace. . “There’s a sparerib, for one thing," announced Dora. "We'll hang it up by a string in front of'the fire.” “Potatoes we can boil by hanging the kettle on the' hook and chain,” said Aunt Laura. ' . “And the sweet potatoes We can roast in the ashes,”-I added. . “And bake‘corn in a skillet in the hot coals,."’. finished Dora. "Goody.”‘ said \I, "that's a fine enough dinner for a. blizzardy day like this. Of"’coursc,'nobody'll come._’.'/ But somebody did come, as they usually: do .~whe.n.y-.- you .think- they” Won't; and who of .all personsbutâ€" Rev. Cyrus Melton! Dora vfairly aquirmed when Aunt Laura brought him right into the sitting-room,.for, of course, she couldn’t take him‘ any: qwhere else, .- unless ~ she ‘wanted' to: freeze him. So in he came, smiling ',lacid1y, and there was the rib cook- ‘ in front of the fire with a skillet set under to catch the gravy, and there was Dora with her face like a hollyhock, turning a great hoecake in another skillet, and there was I prodding in the ashes with a long fork to dig out the sweet. potat0cs! Not that it mattered much about me; but some folks were beginning to observe that Rev; Cyrus was a trifle more attentive to ‘Dora than the fact of” her being one of his flock war- ranted, an-d I knew that in her eyes he was about as near a state of perâ€" fection as a mortal man needed to be. He Was just riding out, he explainâ€" ed, to see old Mrs. Hankins, who was sick, and had been delayed a lit- tle by the blizzard and been on the road quite awhile; he had brought a bag of oats for his horse, and had come up through the side lane and taken the liberty to put the animal in our barn to eat his oats, while he himself ran in to see how we all far- ed this inclement day, etc.‘, etc. I slid out while he was thus discours- ing and rushed to the parlor with a very forlorn hope of finding a stray stick or two left over there, making a fire and getting him into the parâ€" lor while we finished the dinner. The hope died as I poked my head into the arctic desolation of our best room. It was on the east side, where the spiteful wind had been batâ€" tering at it all night, searching out a hundred crevices about windows and door to hurl the fine, powdery snow through. There Were drifts, varying in size, on the piano, on the chairs, and a-dainty white powdering all over the carpet, which the wind had puffed in under the door. You. could fairly feel the gale whisking about your ears. There wasn't a scrap of wo>d nor a chip in the wood box. ‘- Relinquishing a wild idea of chopping up a parlor chair or two to make a fire of, I scootcd back to the sitting~room chilled to the bone. Dora, putting as bold a face upon the situation as possible, was bring- ing in dishes from the diningâ€"room and setting the table right under the eyes (if the minister, who was chatâ€" ting away as serenely as .if he hadn’t driven us all frantic by his ill-timed call. Aunt Laura had levied on her cellar goodies and produced preservâ€" ed quinces, apple jelly, pickled peach- es and chowâ€"chow, so the dinner wasn’t so frightful. they were so big and clumsy, and Dora had crumbled the edges in turning tncm. . But that good man seemed to think we had a banquet, and even the corn cakes didn’t go begging so far as he was concerned. We all made merry over our pre- . dicament as we told him how it hap-3 pened, and he joked about it, too, but shook his head a little, and said-it oughtn't to go on that way. He proceeded upon his errand soon after dinner, and we went about our work with what spirits we might. It wasn’t more than two hours after,he left that Uncle Jink, a dilapidated old colored man, appeared with a yoke of steers, which he left in the lane while he Calla) plodding through the snow to the how-1.0. - “Heel-d y’all was out 0' wood," he grinned, “so I 'lowed I'd come an’ snake up a few logs ’n' split for de fi’place ’n' whack up some fer de cook'n’ Stove." “It's very kind of you, indeed,” said Aunt Laura, “for we are in great need of woodâ€"only I’m afraid I can’t pay you for it toâ€"day, Unâ€" cl'eâ€"" “Dass all rightâ€"dass all right," inâ€" terrupted Uncle Jink; “don't y'all bod-dab ’about datâ€"dass all right," and he scuffed away, leaving us a lit- tle mystified, for it was not quite like Uncle Jink to be so indifferent about compensation for his good deeds. ' “Of course Mr. Melton went told him to come, and either The only thingl I was ashamed of was the corn cakes; . an object of charity," groaned Dora, “cspecialiy-â€"" “Oh. well, I don't suppose he'll preach about it next Sunday," I said, consolineg; but Dora wouldn’t cheer up very much. Still, it Was very comfortable to have plenty of wood, and I felt grateful to the good iinan for instigating Uncle Jink to come to our assistance. Of all the 365 days of that year the three hunder and sixty-fifth was the most dismal at Maple Knoll. It opened with a drizzling, soaking rain, much more depressing than the blizzard from which it evoluted; the kind that dampens your spirits in spite of all the philosophy you can bring to bear against it. The sky was a dismal gray waste without a slit of light. Aunt Laura had a racking neuralgia in her face. Dora had been dreaming about charity and wood all night. As for me, I had a little trouble of my own which popped up just now more aggressive- ly than ever. I never had but one lover (I never ’wanted but one), and he was a poor young man who had gone to the frozen Alaskan regions with the avowed intention of making his fortune and coming back to share it with me, rebuild the old house inâ€" to a stately mansion and take care of Aunt Laura and Dora, which was quite proper; for, you see, I had been gathered into the family when I was left a small orphan, in Uncle John's time, and he and Aunt Laura had not made an atom of difference between Dora and me in their love' and care. But now it had been so long since I had heard from Frank I couldn't help being afraid he had frozen to death or been buried in a snowslide. And this dreadful rainy day I couldn't even have the satis- faction of going or sending to town for the mail, if there should possibly be any news. Dora and I had an unwritten law that the more downcast we felt the jollier we should force ourselves to |be. To-day I think we degenerated 'into silliness in our efforts to be Icheerful. lut a lot of smaller trouâ€" lbles followed each other so persist- lentlyâ€"-such as the refusal of the cook stove to draw, the falling ofithe light bread in consequence, a slip in the mud on Dora’s part, etc., etcâ€"that when, to cap the climax that evening our beloved fireplace smoked sulkily and relentlessly, we felt that We might as well wind up the year by rroing to bed at eight o’clock. a When we were all snuggled down land the lights were out I could have lcried just out of low spirits, but I 1wouldn't. I knew God could see far- lther ahead than We could, and I put ieverything into His hands and went. to sleep. 'I slept so soundly that I was greeted the next morning by a savâ€" ory, sagcy scent of frying sausages ,coming up the little back stairs beâ€" :fore I fairly got back from the ;slumber world. Dora was down in ‘the kitchen singing “Lightly Row” !over the biscuits, and looking as ifresh as a peach, with her rosy cheeks and clear gray eyes. And the .stove was drawing beautifully. And Aunt Laura came doWn without a speck of neuralgia and feeling .as spry las 21. girl, to finish breakfast, while Dora and I went forth to do the milking. And behold! the sopping rain had turned into a lovely soft snow in the night, not a blizzardy snow like the one before the rain, that blew in everywhere, but a gen- tle, fine, thick powder. It had stopâ€" ped falling now, and the air felt crispy and bracing. The sun wasn’t shining yet, but there was a mellow look in the sky, as if it meant to lpop out any minute. New Year's calling was not much in vogue in our rural district; still, 'and it was Aunt Laura’s way to make a paid redâ€"letter day of the opening one of him or agreed to if we didn't," ex~ the year, and always to be prepared pounded Dora,.and looked as if she for any were ready to fall in a heap. “It was very good did," said Aunt Laura. stray caller who might chance to appear. She had a cheer- of him if he ful fire in the parlor, a plentiful supâ€" ply of coffee and cake on hand, and “Goodâ€"yes; but who wants to be we all put on our pretty house dress- The Duckâ€"That turkey used to bé‘ artful Wild. The Roosterâ€"He’s a. “dead one" I now, all right. '3 because of this, he snails and on and prepared to be happy whether anyone came or not. At half past nine a pleasant melody of sleigh bells jingled along, and the cutest'little cutter stopped at our gate, and here came Rev. Cyrus Mel- ton smiling up the walk. We were mighty thankful for the contrast be- tween this call and his last one; but such is the perversity of man. I im- agined he looked a little disappoint- ed at not being ushered into the cooking regions again. Still, he smiled very goodâ€"naturcdly, with those jolly brown eyes of his, as he fished something, out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Miss Nettie,” he said, “I felt it in my bones that you couldn't get any mail up here on the hill all yesâ€" terday, and I dropped in at the post office as I came by this morning, and found you this.” Maybe I didn't know what it was, even before I saw the handwriting on it, and perhaps I didn't fly to get it and scamper out to the big fireplace and curl down beside it on a little wooden stool to read my letter all alone. Frank hadn’t made a fortune, he wrote me, and -he didn't know as we conld have a big mansion built, but he had dug enough gold to re~ pair. the old house and make us all comfortable, and he was on his way home that blessed minute to metaâ€" morphose Maple Knoll into the finest little farm in the country, take care of aunt and Dora and (incidentally) marry me. When I got back to earth again Mr. Melton had'taken‘Dora off in his sleigh for a ride, so auntie and I had a little jollification of our own, and I forgot 'all about lunch time. It didn't matter, though, for when the sleighng couple came back they didn't seem to know much of any~ thing. I fell on Dora in the hall and told all about Frank’s letter, and she hugged me black in the face and said she was tremendously pleas- ed, but he wouldn't have to take care of her, because that was going to be attended to by Rev. Cyrus, who was the clearest man in the world, but crazy as a icon, because he confessed that he had fallen more in love with her than ever the day he came and found her baking hoe- cake in the fireplace. We celebratedth'at night by having the biggest fire of the season in the old fireplace, which behaved splendid- ly, and we sat up till all kind of hours, Aunt Laura, Dora ,and I, with no light but the mellow crimson and gold brilliance of that big old black cavern, roasting nuts and red apples, talking about the new paths opening before us, and telling each other how grateful and thankful we ought to be for this happy opening day of the new year. ' M‘sâ€"H_ A HAPPY NEW YEAR. Some Mistakes to Avoid if 19‘s} Is to Be a Better 'Year Than 1903. “Happy New air is tremulous greetings of 10\c. They have gar- lanc‘ed our homes and our hearts with richer wreaths than those of holly or evergreen or mistletoe, writes Gerald B. F. jIallock. Yet we must concec‘e that many people, if we may judge by many indications, are not happy. 'Why? For general answer we may paraphraSe Shakesâ€" peare's word about greatness, and say: “Some people ale bmn to be unhappy, some achieve unhappiness, and some have unhappiness thrust upon them.” Some seem, indeed, to be born unhappy, constitutionally miserable. Some have unhappiness thrust upon themâ€"they are placed amid circumstances they cannot change. But the vast majority of unhappy people simply achievc_ un- Ycar 1” Tie very with the holiday happiness; they have brought it upâ€" i on themselves, and they alone are to blame for being wretched. It is . a work of their own doing. * * * l‘eople try to-find happiness in wrong-doing, and they are always (Ti:- appcu'nfcdj, and so they became mor- cse and sul cn and wretched. Wizon a I‘erson says he is very unhappy, it is a pertinent thing to ask: “What have you been doing? What makes you unhappy ‘2 What sin have you committed .whose memory sits like an‘aVCnging spirit in your heait, glaring at you with eyes that never slumber ‘2” How often a downcast haggard, despaiiing face indicates some dark record in‘ the life. The person has done wrong and is sufâ€" fering for it. It is sin that makes tle life a burden and tie soul unâ€" linnit?- But there are many lesser evils, and much more under our control, which many people peimit to act as preventivcs of happiress. For. exâ€" ample, how much happiness is pre- vented by tlte simple fact of‘ undue sem-i-tiveness. ' We are liable to alâ€" low the most ti'i'Vial thing to‘irriâ€" fate us. “An irritable man," it has been well said, "ll-es like a hedgeâ€" hog, rolled up: the wrong way, tor- turing himself with lzis V'owxrquills, Exaggerated egotism is another of those preventable and- yet far too common things that stand in,,,,thc way of our happiness. Tit-ere is many a man the cause of whose unhappiâ€" ness is simply “lathe-believes inim- self to be‘of'vastly more importance than other people think he is. He feels that ,he' is unappreciaied, and frets at everything and everybody, and is generally unhappy.» Selfâ€"conceit, pure and simple,“ is at the base of all that kind of unhappiness. ,. Si ill diz'olliei‘}-, way .that happiness is prevented i?: by the 'h‘abit‘of borâ€" rowing trouble. This is far too tommon a fault with us all. "to I s present may be well enough, but we peer out into the future and think things awa are coming. There is a comet whisking its fiery tail among the stars, and it certairly wi.l demolish our planet by a certain day ! Business is doing pretty well for the time of the year, but I am wonderfully afraid that there will be a panic before tlte season is out ‘and a general breakdown of failures ! The war may be over, but I very much fear we shall find a resumption of hostilities or we shall be into ‘anâ€" other ore before the end comes ! Did you ever lzear anybody talk like that? With too many of us it is just fret, fret, all the time, not over actual, but just anticipated troubles; wozrying over imaginary evils. As Tapper says: “It is ills that never happen that have mostly made men miserable." We read not long ago an account, talcn from a railroad journal, which says that moonlight is especially dreaded by engineers. People won- der acci"cnts should happen on bright moonlight nights But the engineer would far rather plunge through decieat darkness. On a bright moonlight .night he is con- stantly in a state of nervous tenâ€"- .sion, because of confusing shadows ahead. Right across the track lies a. shadow: a few rods away it looks precisely like a man lying there. It is not a man, but a shadow. Then a. row, or a horse, or a tree, seems to be lying athwart the rails. It is only a shadow, but it bothers the engineer to tell whether it is a shadâ€" ow or not. He must watch xery closely. He is kept in a constant strain by those apparitions, until he almost begins to doubt his senses. Many an engineer reaches the end of lzis run on a moonlight night, tired in soul and body merely from his constant light with shadows. But engineers are not the only people who weary themselves with fighting shadows. It is a besetting sin with far too main of us. Shakeâ€" sg'eare says: “Each substance of grief hath 2O shadows, which Show like 'grief itself, but we not so." There are people, and plenty of them, haggard in face, bowed groan- ing to tie earth, with a pile of nothing but shadows on their backs. Now, if we ieally want to be happy we have got to stop fighting shadâ€" OWS, to (ease borrowing trouble. ,Be- sides, what's the use of worrying? It will be time enough to cross the biilge when we get there. “Taking trOUble on interest," some one calls it, it is ‘such folly. To make the mistakes we have mentioned is how not to have a happy new year. To avoid .these mistakes during 1004 will go far toward making the year as happy as we could wish. __+_.____._ The New Year. .._.__.. The clock struck twolve in the old church tower, 7And the old year slipped away, To be lost in the crowd of phantom years In the House of Dreams that stay All wrapped in their cloaks of gray. Then swift and sweet o’er the door’s . worn sill . Came the youngest child of Time, With a gay little bow .and 'a merry laugh, And a voice like hells aâ€"chiine, Challenging frost and rime. He found there was to do, The strong and the Weak were here, And both held out their hands to him, And gave him greetings dear, The beautiful young New Year. plenty for him “You must ‘ bring us better days,” they said; “The Old Year was a cheat." Which I think was mean when the year was dead; Such fate do dead years meet, To, be spurned by scornful feet! “I bring you the best a year can bring," The newcomer stoutly spake, “The chance of work, the gift of trust, And the bread of love to break, If but my gifts you'll take." The noblest thing a year can lay In the lap of you or me, The brave New Year has brought this day, It is Opportunity, Which the wise are quick to see. +__.____ HE HAD A LIVER. )1 “Life is a failure, said the tired- looking passenger, in a graie and fair-away voice. “Man is a tau-d, woman a bore, happiness a delusion, friends-hip _a humbug; love is a dis- ease, beauty 21. deception, marriage a mistake, a wife a trial, a child a' nuisance; good is merely Lily-pocricy, evil is detection. The whcle system of existenceâ€"life, morality, society, humanity, and all thanâ€"fie; a_.‘ii.c.llow:' wisdom is ego’é’ tism; generally is 'i'i’n'be;ili'ty.. There; is ._nqthi_ng of any importance .but'~ , and; after all, what is eyerythii g ‘? ‘Noth’? shaim. .()u.r boasted money. Money is everything, ,ing. ,Ai‘-T-l‘~l‘-fl' l” __ “Glad to meet you, ._s.rir," said the thin little man with. tlte gingelâ€"hued ‘whiskers, ext-ending his hand (organ; ly to the speaker.. "I, hayefldyspepâ€"é sia pretty .badly at. times myself." 'V ‘ “And you will,re\;er idi‘gc‘t inc?“- asked the gill ,of. her lover,.a gr0< men's, assistant, -.,-‘_.‘N,c§'er,’,’ he said, abs-.cntly. “Ia titeie anytmng mori‘ to-day ?’°