# McClure's Magazine/Volume 27/Number 1/Idella and the White Plague

Extracted from McClure's magazine, Vol26 1906, pp. 106–112.
IDELLA AND THE WHITE PLAGUE
By
Joseph C. Lincoln Author of "Cap'n Eri," "Partners of the Tide," etc.
Illustrated by John Sloan
“SAKES alive!” exclaimed Mrs. Sparrow, dropping the letter in her lap and holding up both hands. “Well, I never did!”
Mr. Sparrow, reclining in the rocking-chair with the burst cane seat, his stockinged feet resting on the wooden chair without a back, started, opened his eyes, and gazed at his wife. Lycurgus Sparrow and Editha Sparrow and Edwin and Ulysses and Marguerite and Marcellus Sparrow, scattered here and there about the room, on the floor and the broken-down couch, raised their eyes from school-books and rag dolls, and looked at their mother. Even little Shadrach, the smallest Sparrow in the flock, seemed interested.
“I never did in this world!” repeated Mrs. Sparrow with unction.
“Never did what?” snapped her husband. “Land of love! Hain't you got any thought for my nerves? Here I be a-settin' and sufferin', tryin to fergit I've got any stomach or lungs, and you turn loose and holler like a loon. I'm all of a palsy. You never did what?”
“I never heard tell of such a thing in my born days, and you'll say so too, Washy, when I tell you. What do you s'pose Idella's been and gone and done?”
“Hain't lost her job, has she?” asked Mr. Sparrow, anxiously, sitting upright in the rocker, but holding on to the arms in order not to “bear down” too hard on the broken seat.
“No, not exactly lost it. But she's gone and—Oh, you'll never guess!”
“Well, I ain't got to guess, have I? 'Tain't a conundrum. I never see such a woman! Out with it! What's she done?”
“She's gone and—” Mrs. Sparrow paused to give the announcement due weight; “she's gone—and—got—married.”
Mr. Sparrow's stockinged feet struck the floor with a slap as their owner sprang up. “Married?” he repeated in a shriek.
His wife shut her lips and nodded solemnly.
“Married!” groaned Mr. Sparrow, and fell heavily back into the rocker. The remnant of cane ripped across and he sank floorward, doubled up like a jackknife. Then, apparently unconscious of his uncomfortable position, he stared out between his knees and again muttered “”Married!” in a dismal whisper.
“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Sparrow, “she's married without sayin' a word to us. If that ain't jest like Idella—independence all over. Here, Lycurgus! why don't you and Edwin help your father out of that chair? Want him to break his back?”
The two boys sprang to the assistance of their entrapped parent, and each, seizing an arm, pulled and tugged until they separated him from the framework of the rocker. The thanks they received were not effusive.
“Leggo o' me!” shouted Mr. Sparrow, shoving them to one side. “Tryin' to haul me in ha'f, ain't ye? Look here, Betsy! Who'd that girl marry? Has he got any money?”
“She don't say, Washy. She jest writes that she married him, and his name's William Burke, and she met him last winter at a dance of the Carpenter's Union. She——”
“A carpenter! A carpenter! And now she's got him to look after. That's it! Work and slave and worry yourself into the graveyard bringing up children and soon's they git big enough to earn somethin', off they go and marry another man.”
“But, pa,” broke in Editha, aged eight, “Idella couldn't marry you 'cause you've got marmer.”
“Be still, you sassbox you! Makin' fun of your sick father and your ma upholdin' you in it. What's goin' to become of us without the money that that girl's been sendin'? What's goin' to become of me—me, all but gone with consumption (cough) and most crazy with narvous dyspepsy? Oh——”
Betsy Sparrow hastened to interrupt and ward off the attack of “nerves” that she knew from experience was at hand.
“It's all right, Washy,” she cried. “That part's all right; better'n ever, most likely. Seems her husband has got a job buildin' the big hotel at East Wellmouth, and him and her are comin' down here to board with us. Idella says they'll pay good board and she'll help me with the house and washin' and things. We'll have more money 'stead of less; don't you see?”
“Humph!” grunted her husband, pushing a child or two out of the way and sitting down on the lounge; “that sounds lovely—on paper. Well, go ahead and read us the letter.”
Betsy read it. It was a long letter, full of good humor and cheery optimism. But then, Idella had always been hopeful and happy, even when, by virtue of rank as the eldest of Washington and Betsy Sparrow's troupe of children, she had given up school at fourteen to stay at home and mend and cook and sweep and tend baby while her mother went out washing. To be obliged to live in Wellmouthport the year around is, of itself, enough to sour the most saintly disposition; but to live in Washington Sparrow's rattle-trap shanty in the woods, with little money and scant food, and with the added discomfort of Mr. Sparrow's society thrown in—that Idella had done this for years and hadn't lost faith in the world is the best possible key to her character. To give up these duties and take service as maid-of-all-work with Dr Saunders and his family, first at their summer home at East Wellmouth, and then at the city mansion in Brookline, was in comparison like sitting down to rest.
Idella's disposition and willingness to work were inherited from her mother. Washington Sparrow was an invalid and knew it. In fact he knew it better than any one else. When he and Betsy were first married he went fishing occasionally and did odd jobs around town. Then his wife made the mistake of going out washing to add to the family income, and “Washy” began to develop symptoms. He developed in succession those of rheumatism, pleurisy, phthisis, and lumbago. At last his diseases narrowed down to two, nervous dyspepsia and slow consumption. These were satisfyingly chronic and debilitating. All day long he slept or smoked or sat by the fire, and his only function not impaired was appetite. The town physicians had long given him up. Dr. Bailey scoffingly prescribed a club, and old Dr. Penrose suggested Paris green. The children told their teachers that papa was too sick to work, and Betsy informed her washing clientele that Mr. Sparrow was “dreadful poorly.” She believed it, too, poor, self-sacrificing soul, and scrubbed and delved from morning till night to keep things going.
Mrs. Sparrow read the long letter through, stopping occasionally to comment.
“Jest listen to this,” she cried exultingly. “'I guess my comin' home will make things easier for you, ma. We'll have you playin' lady in the rockin' chair yit.” Ain't that jest like Idella? She allers used to say that. She don't fergit her poor old mother.”
[Illustration: “'Take it away!' shouted the invalid”]
“Huh!” grunted Mr. Sparrow, with sarcasm; “how 'bout her poor old father? Ain't no bouquets for him, is there? No, I'll bet there hain't.”
“Oh, she ain't forgot you nuther, Washy. Here's what she says: 'Tell pa that my livin' in a doctor's family has learned me a lot about diseases. I b'lieve I can cure him.'”
“Yes, she'll cure me a whole lot. No, sir! I've got my never-git-over and I know it (cough). Well, the sooner the quicker. I'll be at rest pretty soon and everybody'll be glad. Don't rag out in no mournin' for me. Don't put no hot-house wreaths on my grave. I know how you all feel and all I ask is to git through. I'm resigned. Git off my feet, you everlastin' young ones! Think I'm a sofy?”
The attack of nerves developed. Mr. Sparrow felt that he and his troubles were in danger of being overshadowed by the news of his daughter's marriage, and that it was time to come to the front. He stormed and stamped and coughed and groaned and whimpered. The children fled, the younger ones to bed and the others to prepare them for it. After a while the invalid fell asleep on the lounge. Mrs. Sparrow sat by the table mending and darning. She took up the letter and read it through again. Idella was coming back. Perhaps there was balm in Gilead after all.
And two days later Idella came. The depot wagon reeled and bumped through the sandy ruts and up to the little one-hinged front gate. It was a Saturday and the children were all at home. The allowance of washing for that day being “taken in” Mrs. Sparrow was at home also. They were all at the door to welcome the arrival, all but the afflicted Washington. He stayed by the cook-stove in solitary dignity.
Idella jumped from the wheel and ran in at the gate. “My sakes, ma,” she cried, grabbing Mrs. Sparrow about the neck and kissing her; “if it don't seem good to see you. And Lycurgus (smack), and Editha (smack), and Ed and 'Lys and Nap and Margie (a smack for each), and there's the baby! My! how you have grown!”
The children blushed and grinned and stared admiringly at Idella's jacket. A real store-coat, and new, not cut down and turned and made over a half-dozen times. And the gay hat with the red ribbons was new likewise.
“If it ain't fine to see you all again,” cried Idella. “Seems if the cars never would get here. Oh, and Bill must see you too! Bill, come here, will you?”
Mr. Burke was big and square-shouldered and sturdy. He came obediently at his wife's first call. It was easy to see who was “boss” in that family. Mrs. Sparrow wondered and envied.
They went into the house, Bill bearing the trunk as if it was no heavier than a carpet-bag. Mr. Sparrow, by the stove, did not deign to turn.
“And there's pa!” exclaimed Idella, running over and embracing him. “Why, pa! how well you look!”
“Well!” repeated the invalid indignantly, “maybe I look well, but I tell you——”
“This is my husband,” interrupted Idella briskly. “Bill, shake hands with pa.”
[Illustration: “The procession moved across the yard and into the rickety woodshed”]
Mr. Burke extended a hand of proportionate size to the rest of him, and mashed his father-in-law's flabby fingers within it. He growled that he was pleased to be “acquaintanced” to Mr. Sparrow.
“How's the cough, pa?” asked Idella.
Her father gave a tombstone sample of the cough before replying. Then he observed resignedly that it wasn't no better and he cal'lated it never would be.
“Oh, yes it will,” affirmed his daughter. “Dr. Saunders has learned me a whole lot of things. You'll see. Bill, open that trunk, will you please; I want the folks to have the presents we brought 'em.”
The word “presents” caused even the invalid to brace up and take an interest in life. There was something for every one; nothing expensive, of course, but all wonderful in that family.
“And now, ma,” said Idella, “jest let me change my duds and I'll pitch in and help git the dinner. I hope we're goin' to have herrin's. I ain't had a herrin' sense I left Wellmouth.”
That was the beginning. Before the next week had passed it was evident that there was a new manager in the Sparrow household and the name of that manager was Idella. She took charge of affairs at once and began to make improvements. The children all went to school regularly, the eldest included. On Tuesday Mr. Burke began his labors at the new hotel, leaving early in the morning and returning at six o'clock. In a fortnight Idella announced that her mother was to go out washing no more. She might “take in” the laundry work if she wished, but then it would be done at home and she, herself, could help. Mrs. Sparrow protested, but Idella calmly went ahead, saw all the regular customers and arranged with them. In a month Betsy actually realized that she had time, daylight time, to “set in the rockin'-chair” and do the mending. Idella cooked and scrubbed and dressed the children. She and her husband paid board, so there was more money on hand than ever before. It was wonderful, but it was true.
At first the invalid viewed all these changes with suspicion, but when he found that the food was better, that he wasn't asked to do anything and that, more important than all, his ailments were appreciated and understood, he became reconciled and told his wife that he could pass off in peace now because he knew that she and the children would be provided for.
But one evening, early in November, his dreams were shattered. They were seated in the kitchen, Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow, Bill and Idella. Lycurgus and Editha were doing sums in the front room. The rest of the children were in bed.
“Pa,” said Idella suddenly, “I don't s'pose you feel well enough to go to work?”
Her father, seated with his feet on the hearth of the cook stove, took his pipe from his mouth and turned an agitated face toward his daughter. He started to speak and then, recollecting, coughed long and with dreadful hollowness.
“I asked,” continued Idella, “'cause Bill says they need more hands to cut down trees and lug lumber over to the hotel, and he could git a job for you any time you wanted it.”
“Cut down trees!” shouted the sufferer. “And lug lumber! What you talkin' 'bout? How long do you cal'late I'd last doin' that? I'm slippin' into the grave fast 'nough as 'tis, jest settin' here hackin' and all tore to pieces with dyspepsy. Do you want to kill me all to once?”
His spasm of coughing this time was heartrending to witness.
“No,” said Idella, ”I told Bill you wa'n't fit to work. But, pa, I think somethin' ought to be done to cure you and so I'm goin' to try.”
“Cure! Humph! I'm past curin', darter. Don't you worry 'bout me. Doctors give me up long spell ago. No, all's left for me is to linger around and die slow. I'll be glad when it's over and so'll everybody else.”
“Doctors gave you up! What doctors? These one-hoss ones down here? I've been livin' for a year with a reel doctor and he didn't give folks up jest 'cause they had consumpton. No, sir! he cured 'em, and I've got his receipt
“It ain't no use—” began Washy, but Idella went calmly on.
“Your case is kind of mixed up, pa, I'm free to say,” she continued, ”'count of your consumption bein' complicated with nervous dyspepsy. The cures for the two is so diff'rent. But I've made up my mind to start in on your lungs and kind of work 'round to your Stomach, as you might say. Bill, where's the receipt for consumption?”
Mr. Burke, a grim smile hovering about his lips, took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to his wife.
“Consumption,” said Idella, looking at the paper, “ain't cured by medicine no more. Not by the real doctors it ain't. Fresh air night and day is what's necessary and you don't git it here by the stove. You ought to live outdoor. Yes, and sleep there, too.”
“Sleep outdoor? What kind of talk is that? Be you crazy or——”
Idella held up a hand. “Don't screech so, pa,” she said. “You'll wake the children. Bill, where's that magazine?”
Her husband produced a dog's-eared copy of a popular periodical and Idella turned its pages. “Here,” she said. “Here's a piece about curin' the White Plague; that means consumption. Let me read you a little of it.”
Mr. Sparrow declared that he didn't want to hear no such foolishness, but his daughter laboriously spelt out extracts from the article, which specified the dangers of dark rooms and confined atmospheres, and described Adirondack sanatoriums and open air sleeping-rooms.
“See, pa,” she said, holding the magazine before her parent's eyes. ”See that picture. That's a tent where two consumption folks lived and slept for over two years. 'Twas thirty below zero there sometimes, too, but it cured 'em. And see this one. 'Twas forty-five below where that shanty was, but——”
“Take it away!” shouted the invalid. “If you expect me to b'lieve such lies as them you're——”
“They ain't lies. Dr. Saunders had lots of patients with consumption and he cured 'em the same way. And I'm goin' to cure you or die myself a-tryin'. Our woodshed out back here is jest the place for you. It's full of cracks and the windows are broken, so there'll be plenty of air stirrin'. Bill took the lounge out there a little while ago; didn't you, Bill?”
“I thought I missed that lounge!” exclaimed Mrs. Sparrow, who had been listening open-mouthed.
“Yes, it's there. There's plenty of bed-clothes, so you'll sleep warm. You can wear your own clothes and Bill's old overcoat and set in the sun daytimes. We'll fetch you your meals. You mustn't come in the house at all. If you live that way all winter, why——”
“All winter!” The alarmed Washington leaped to his feet. “The gal's gone loony! She want's to kill me so's I'll be out of the way. I don't stir one step. You hear me? Not one step.”
“Some of Dr. Saunders's patients talked that way first along,” observed Idella, “but they had to do what he ordered. Bill, take pa out to the shed. I'll carry the lamp.”
Mr. Burke rose, squared his mighty shoulders, and advanced toward his father-in-law. He looked as if he rather enjoyed the situation.
“Betsy,” shrieked Mr. Sparrow, dodging into a corner, “be you in this? Do you want to see me murdered?”
Mrs. Sparrow was troubled. She had implicit confidence in her daughter, but she sympathized with her husband's infirmities.
“Idella,” she protested, “seems to me I wouldn't— Remember them nervous attacks he's subject to.”
“Nerves,” declared Idella, “come from the stomach. I'll 'tend to them later. We must cure his lungs first. Bull, fetch him along.”
Mr. Burke's hand settled firmly on the back of the invalid's neck. “Trot along, dad,” he commanded. Mr. Sparrow fought and hung back. The other hand descended and seized him by the waist-band. He moved toward the door, “walking Spanish” like a small boy in the school-yard.
Idella opened the door. ”Nobody can say,” she remarked with emphasis, “that I let my father die of consumption without tryin' to cure him. Come on, pa.”
“Remember, Washy, it's all for your good,” faltered Betsy, wringing her hands. The procession moved across the yard and into the rickety woodshed. Idella placed the lamp in a sheltered corner on the floor
“Bill'll stay till you git to bed, pa,” she said. ”Good-night.”
The woodshed door shut. The agitated sufferer looked at the bare walls, the heap of cord-wood sawed and split by Lycurgus, and the lounge.
“Git undressed,” commanded Mr. Burke. “Hurry up.”
[Illustration: “'Git right out and don't show your nse in here agin. You've got consumption, and it's catchin'. Git!”]
“I'll freeze to death,” protested Washy.
“No, you won't, not yet. Anyway, freezin's a quick death, so they say, and I've heard you hankerin' to die quick ever sense I got here. Git to bed; see?”
Mr. Sparrow threw off his outer garments and shiveringly encamped on the lounge. Mr. Burke took up the lamp and looked at him.
“Good-night,” observed the carpenter. Then he added: “There's one thing more I ought to say. To-morrer I'll be away to work, but you're not to come into the house. You'll stay outside same as Idella tells you. If you come in or try any funny business, why—” he meditatively opened and closed a fist like a ham—“Well, you don't die of consumption anyhow.”
He withdrew. Mr. Sparrow was alone. The fresh-air cure had begun.
Next day the invalid, wrapped in Mr. Burke's trailing ulster, spent a lively series of hours chasing the patch of sunshine as it moved around the exterior of his dwelling. His meals were brought to him by Idella. Betsy had evidently received orders not to interfere. Through the window he could see the fire in the cook-stove and the luxurious rocker that had been his throne. He begged and pleaded to come in, had spasms of coughing and attacks of nerves, but his daughter was adamant. “It's all for your good, pa,” was her one reply. Washington was strongly tempted to enter by force, but the thought of his son-in-law's fist and the gentle hint with which it had been displayed prevented his yielding to the temptation. He slept in the shed that night.
The following afternoon he had an idea. After dinner, eaten on the back steps, he watched his chance and hurried off, through the woods, on a mile walk to the billiard-room in the village. There he found a roaring fire and a comfortable chair; also some free lunch which served for supper. When he reached the shed at ten o'clock that evening, he figured that he had found a way to outwit his guardians.
But Mr. Burke made a pilgrimage to the village the next morning on his way to work, and when Washington opened the billiard-room door that afternoon he was received with a roar from the proprietor
“Git out of here shouted the latter. “Git right out and don't show your nose in here agin. You've got consumption, and it's catchin'. Git!”
The discomforted Mr. Sparrow “got” and tried the store. There he met the same reception. After loafing about the wharf till twilight he returned home to a picnic meal and the lounge.
He stood it for a week, and then announced that he felt enough better to risk a day inside. But Idella didn't see it in that light.
“I'm glad your lungs feel better, pa,” she said. “I cal'lated they would. But, of course, you must stay outside this winter anyhow. Now, I guess it's time to start in on the dyspepsy line.” She produced the sheet of paper that had been the beginning of her father's troubles. “For dyspepsy, pa,” she said, “and partic'lar for nervous dyspepsy, which is the wust kind, you have to diet and take exercise. We'll begin on the dietin'. 'In severe cases patient should take nothin' but hot milk.” Well, we've got plenty of milk; that's lucky.”
Washy sprang from the wash-bench where he had been sunning himself. “Do you have the face to tell me,” he screamed, “that I can't have nothin' to eat but milk? Why that's——
[Illustration: “—oh joy! be found a nail loose behind a cellar window”]
“That's docter's orders, pa. I'm goin' by doctor's orders; and see what they've done for you already.”
“I can't live on milk! I hain't a baby. I hate the stuff! I don't b'lieve no doctor'd ever——”
“Well, we'll call Dr. Bailey and see what he says. I'll bet he'll back me up.”
Mr. Sparrow didn't take the bet. He knew Dr. Bailey, and the latter's opinion of his case.
“Aw, Idella, please—” he pleaded.
“For your own good, pa,” said Idella. “I'll fetch you the hot milk.”
She did, a quart of it. He drank it because there was nothing else. For a week he lived on milk and fresh air. He tried every neighbor, and they were few, within two miles, but they had been posted and refused to feed him. Also they told him it was all for his good. He could not smoke because his daughter said tobacco was the worst thing possible for both his ailments. As for the prescribed exercise, he got that running about to keep warm.
“Aw, Idella,” he pleaded, one Sunday morning when the sky was overcast and the cold wind gave promise of a northeast snowstorm. “Aw, Idella, won't you let me have somethin' hearty? Only a hunk of bread, say? I've drownded my insides with milk till I feel like a churn. I can't keep on drinkin' the stuff: it goes agin me even to smell it. The bare sight of a cow makes me seasick.”
But it was no use. “All for his good,” his daughter said. These words had become to him almost as unpalatable as the milk.
The northeaster developed. By night the woodshed shook and rattled like a hencoop. The snow streaked in through the cracks and sifted over his nose whenever he brought it above the blankets for air. Also he was tremendously hungry.
At midnight he arose, desperate, and shook himself into all the garments on hand, including the ulster. Then he opened the shed door and went out. The thought of Bill and the fist pursued him like a Nemesis, but he didn't care. He was going to be warmed and fed even if pounded to death afterwards.
He crept about the house, trying every door and window. He had tried them on previous nocturnal excursions but had always found them locked. This time he was more thorough, and at last—oh joy! he found a nail loose behind a cellar window. He worked it back and forth, while the snow drifted over his back. Finally the nail gave way and fell inside with a jingle. He waited, breathless, but there was no sound from within. Then he squeezed himself through the window.
He tiptoed up the creaking cellar stairs and into the warm kitchen. The storm was making a terrific racket around the house and that was a Providence for him. He held his hands over the stove for a moment and then tiptoed to the pantry.
He knew where the matches were kept and took some. They were of the “eight-day” variety and noiseless. He lit one and by its light saw, on the pantry shelves, cold ham and bread and ginger cake and mince-pie. Also there was milk, but he didn't look at that.
Mr. Burke was the first of the family to finish dressing next morning. He came downstairs, lamp in hand, and opened the door leading into the kitchen. Then he stopped, stared, and went back after Idella. He led her to the door and pointed.
There, in the rocking-chair before the cook-stove, sprawled Washington Sparrow, fast asleep. His feet were on the hearth, a fragment of pie crust was on the floor by his hand, his countenance was turned upward toward the ceiling and on it was an expression of perfect peace and comfort.
As the Burkes stood and stared, Mrs. Sparrow came from her room and joined them.
“My soul and body!” she exclaimed.
Washy heard her and awoke. At first he merely opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling. Then he sat upright and turned around. His jaw fell.
“Well, pa,” said Idella, sharply, “what sort of doin's is this? What do you mean?”
Mr. Sparrow looked at his daughter. He essayed to speak. Then his glance fell upon his son-in-law's fist and remained fixed. He said nothing.
[Illustration: “There, in the rocking-chair before the cook-stove, sprawled Washington Sparrow, fast asleep”]
“The idea!” cried Idella. “After all I've done to cure you. Roastin' in this red-hot kitchen and eatin'—Is that mince-pie crust by your hand?'”
Lycurgus had appeared and gone away again. Now he came back.
“Ma,” he said, “he's et every blessed thing in the butt'ry.”
“I—I—” faltered the invalid wildly. “I—I didn't mean to, but I was starved and froze and——”
“Mince-pie!” exclaimed Idella. “Well! Now we're in a nice mess, and all to do over again.”
“I'm all right now, anyway,” protested Mr. Sparrow. “I ain't coughin' none and the grub don't distress me a mite. Not ha'f so much as that dratted milk.”
“All to do over again!” repeated Idella. “And I don't know as we'll ever cure you now. Git outdoor this minute. And you mustn't eat a thing, even milk, for three or four days. Open the outside door, Bill.”
Bill opened the door. A howling gust of wind-driven snow swept in. Mr. Sparrow felt its freezing breath and shivered
“I'm all right, I tell ye!” he shouted. “I feel fine. I'm cured. Better'n I ever was, dunno's I ain't.”
“Are you sure, pa?”
“Course I'm sure. Don't I know? I'm all cured.”
“Well, that's a mercy!” said Idella. “I knew 'twas the right receipt, but I didn't think 'twould work so quick. Bill, pa's cured. He'll go with you to take the job at the hotel this very day.”
Washington's facial barometer sank to “cloudy.” He choked and hesitated.
“Course you mustn't go if you ain't surely cured, pa,” said his daughter. “Maybe you 'd better try the shed and milk for a month or so longer.”
The snow danced along the kitchen floor. It reminded Mr. Sparrow of the previous evening in the woodshed. “I'll go,” he said, “but I'll work kind of easy fust along, so's——”
“Oh, no! You must work reel hard, so's to git the exercise, else you'll have a relapse. You'll see that pa works the way he'd ought to, for his sake, won't you, Bill?”
Mr. Burke nodded. “He'll work,” he said sententiously.
The news of the wonderful cure spread quickly. Dr. Bailey laughingly congratulated Idella upon it.
“Yes,” said that young lady, “I cal'late he's cured, at least for a spell. Anyhow, the 'Everybody Works but Father' song don't fit our fam'ly no more.”
[Illustration ]
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1944, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 79 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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