A Women's Fame.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1587, 29 April 1887, Page 3

A Women's Fame.

" Plfase, mamma, set supper row," pleaded little Winnie Vaughn, standing at her mother's knee in their one poor little room. Clare Vaughn—Private Vaughn's wife, and be was killed in the glorious old Sixth—held her pen still for a moment over the written sheet, and with her left hand smoothed her little girl's tnmbled hair. "Wait a moment, pet, until Johnny comes," she said encouragingly. '• Tea, mamma, I'll wait," was the brave reply; and the lip, put up grievingly, smiled back in the mother's face, and then Winnie went to the window, and tritd to make her fii gers keep pace with the rahdrops running down the pane. Care Vaughn wrote on rapid'y, with a nervous haste and energy. She wa* only copying manuscript, and need not think at all. It was this mechanical part of her business that wearied her. She had time to remember then that winter waa comii g, and the children would need so many things—so many more than she had money to buy ! 1c was an ever-recurring problem, this struggle for bread. At last Clare's work was finished. "With a long sigh of intense relief she shut the book tbat served the purpose of a portfolio, and lifted a leaf of the table that was her only writing-desk. Little Winnie's face was pressed close against the window pane, for the twilight of a rainy day deepened fast into gloom. " See, mamma !" she cried at last, with childish triumph. " Johnny is coming under an umbrella—somebody lets him—now he is opening the gate Oh ! 1 love somebody—the kind gentleman with the umbrella ! " Johnny Vaughn did not come up the stairs like other boys. He bad learned to walk quietly, as people walk who are in earnest and have no time to waste. He opened the door softly, so as net to disturb " mother." Children learn such things when toil is the teacher. " I'm so glad mother finished early. Aren't you, Winnie? he said, standing by tbe fire with his arm over \Vu,nie's shoulders; the evening seems so long when she keeps on writing and writingl" "It was so long—you dor't know how long, Johnny ! And it's long every day, and so still! Oniy mother's ten in tbe whole to n.ake a noise. But it's supper time now," and Winnie's sigh was as lull of relief a 9 her mother's bad been. It was such a simple supper—only baked apples and some slices of br< a.i. No king's supper was eaten with such relish. After the three plates were washed and put away in the closet over the mantel, the mending basket found a place on the table. Winnie's little garments were carefully looked over and made whole by the tired patient fingers. It wouid be a rest, indeed, to fold her arms for one evening. But little Winnie, the pet and pride of the household, must not be clotaed in ra^s. The children had so many little things to say to each other; Winnie had seen a s;ai of such nice black horses go by that day ; and ore of the scholars gave Juhu.y half a peach — halt of a whole peach ! And then the wonderful waik under the umbrella ! It was a tl-asant :::.■. that a'ter-eup-ptr hour. Then Winnie's golden eyeLishce dro« p-u heavily, and the children said '" Our Father " at tbeir mother's knee and nestled down to sleep on trie same pillow. After tbat, Johnny's jacket must be carefully scanned ; her Doy must go among tbe other children at school neatly clad. It was growing near to midnight when Clare's eyer closed in bleep

Jo tfct morning when the sunshine woke tbe children, brtakiaal was ready. It was only to replace tbe tregments on the table, and Ciare was sitting there writing already. Daylight was cheaper than candle-light— God'* daylight I—ard no moment of it was wafted in tbe pale widow's room. It waa October now ; the apples could not hold out much longer ; then there would be need of more bread. The warm noons would be cv»r soon, and there must be .-. fire kept through the d»y. It waa cold now in tbe morning* for J ■h: ivV ba:e brown fret. it was a uttperate struggle. If then need had been lew, date's energy would bare Hugged, [trhaps Swimmers for life do not siacken their ifforta eve 1 aher they feel that they are in v&m. Thus Clare's it. ugbta, under the *hip and apur of mceee.tv, grew into bright, pleasant page*, such hi her lite-history might have been under happier circumstances. Every day there waa the long walk to the Post Office—rente were low« r out of the village—and Clare would nut eend her boy out into the temptat:oca laid m the street People at the windows saw her pis*, and at tint won dered bow she could fiad time to walk every day. But after a while it b came something of course, and nobody won dered. 1 >at walk waa worth everything to Ciare Vaughn. It kept her from growing wime and worn. Tut fresh air and sunlight are free to ali God's children alike, and they hare a wonderful influence in keeping m young and vigorous. Shut in frum tin ouUide loveliness, and tbe blessed ministry of iigot and air, she might have been misanthropic and gloomy; but now her written thoughts were full of

buoyancy and faith in the All-Father's love. Clare Vaughn grew famous without knowing it. She had rot even wished for fame, \fter a while she became something more than that; she was almost rich. Her long toil had brought its reward at last—fame and wealth. To another woman it might have been a triumph. To her it was bread enough for ber two children, warm garments, and a winter's fire. It was everything to be rich, it was nothing to be famous. Sometimes in the twilight she sits dreamin? of a nameless grave in Virginia. What is fame to a woman who remembers a far-away crave that has widowed her life ? What is it worth to her that her name is a household word over the land, when the lips that ever breathed it tenderly and reverently are covered with grave mould. A woman's fame ! Poor Clare ! If she had been happier she would never have been famous. Other wora»'n, happy women, who have dear homes guarded from care and so row never have time to think out thoughts that r»pptal to human hearts, and give them form in brave, cheerful words. Their lives are too full of sunshine, too full of little daily joys to learn the true sympathy with human life which gives power to words to thrill and move human souls. Poor Clare! She will not forget that tbere are other toilers, patient earners of bread, whose reward will come only in that other lire, where " G.>d shall wipe all tears from their eyes." They will not forget. The heart that is taught of sufFerirg is well taught; from bruised hearts ever flows a tide of warm spmpathy into all other lives. There is a blessedness beyond all other bliss, peace that passeth understanding, and it cometh to us when our hL'h-built hopes have fallen so low that we can clearly see the Hand that blasts our Eden, only to lead us upward, where we shall find our beloved by the river of life crowned with immortal bloom. And when we awake we shall be satisfied !

MAJOR BROWN'S COON STORY*. "I was down on the crick this morning," said Bill Gate?, " aud 1 aeed any amount of coon tracks. 1 thiuk they're agoiu' to be powerfu ly plenty this* srasou,'' " Oh, yes," replied Tom Cuker, " I never beam tell of the likes before. Toe whole woods is lined with 'em. If skios is only a g >od price this season, I'll be worth somethin' in the spring, sure's you live, for I've jest £>>t one of the best coon dogs in all I.lin >is." " You say you never heard tell o' the like o' the coons I " put in Major Brown, an old veteran, wno had been e?j tying bis tobacco in silsnce for the last half hour. " Wby, you don't know ennythiug 'bout em. Ifyou d a come here forty years ago, like I did, you'd a thought coons! I jest tell you, boys, you couldn't go amiss for 'ein. We hardly ever thought of pes-ti-riu' them much, for their skius were not wjrth a darn with us—that is, we couldn't get enough for 'em to pay for the skinnin'. I recollect I went out a bee huutin'. Wal, arter I'd lumbered about a good while, I kinder got tired, and ») I leaned up agin a big tree to rest. I hann't much more'n leaned up afore somethin' give me one of the a'lfiredest nips abou; the seat o' me britches I ever got in my life I jumped about a rod, and lit a-rurinin', *rid fcept on a-runniu' for over a hundred yards ; when think, stz I, it's no use rucnin', and I'm snake-bit, but runnin' won't do any good. So I just »topt, and proceeded to examine the wound. I soon seed it was no snakebite, for thar's a blood-blister pinched •n me about six inches long. Think, says I, that rather gits me. What in the very deuce could it a bin ? Arter tbinkin' about it a while, I concluded to go back and look for the critter, jest for the curiosity o* the thing. 1 went to the tree and poked the weeds and stuff all about, but darned the thing could I see ! Purty soon I see the tree has a little split a-sunnin' up it, and so I gets to lookin' at that. Directly 1 see the split open about haf an inch, and then shet upagen; then I sees it open aud shet, aud open and rthet, and open and slut, right along as regular as a clock a tickm'. Think, nz I, what in all creation can this mean? I knowed I'd got pinched io the spit tree, but what was making it do it ? At first I felt orfully scared and thought it must be something dreadful; and then agin I thought it mourn't. Next I thought about haLts u <i ghosts, ai d about a-runnin' borne and sayin' nothin' about it; aLd then I thought it couldn't be any on 'em for I'd never hearn tell of 'em a pes terin a feller right in open daylight. At last the true blood of my ancestors r z up in my veins, an I told me it 'ud be cowardly to go home and not find >ut what it was , so I lumbered for m) axe, 'tnrmined to know all about it, or olow up. When I got back I let into the tree, and purty soon it come down and smashed into flinders—and what io you think ? Why it waß rammed ind lammed smack full of coons from top to bottom ! Yes nir, they's ram'd in so close tuat every time the} breathed they made the split open •"