The Redwood gazette. [volume] (Redwood Falls, Minn.) 1873-1940, 1875-04-22


I've no one to scold when his beefsteak's cold,
And no small stockings to mend.
So the love that is lost never regret,
When | think what troubles might be:
When dinner is late l smile ut Fate,
And nobody storms at me.
-Harpe,'s Bazaar.
JERRY, THE MISER.
1t was cobbler's shop, breaking the
row of small private houses in a shabby
suburban street. How it came there no.
body knew. What is more, nobody cared.
Near the door on this particular after
noon were two females, the one elderly,
the other graceful and young; both in the
deepest mourning. In front of it were
two London street Arabs, as ragged as
mirthful; before it stood the oldest being
maginable-a little old man, about four
feet high, with not Over-clean face,
iron-gray hair, on which rested a worn
skin cap, shaggy brows, rather bow legs,
and dirty leathern apron. In irate
tones he was addressing the boys:
"On with you, you young rascal! If
you come playing your hop-scotch and
Sally-come-ups before my window again
I'll tlay you alive"
Before the muscular fists the boys fled,
hurting back derision. well done,
Jerry-old Jerry, the miser! Iah!"
The cobbler-for he hardly merited the
more emphatic title of shoemaker-paid
no heed, but, glancing sharply up from
his bent brows at the two women, asked,
and what may you want?'
We we see," began the younger
looking timidly toward the square card
in the window, you have apartments to
let
"No, I've rooms-rooms. l don't know
nothing of apartments amt up to
them-nor the rooms amt neither. Do
you want to see 'em?"
1--WE did wish
'.All right; come alongv'- and the lit
tie man swung round on his heel.
The two women, hesitating, looked at
one another.
1--WE had better see them, mother"
said the younger, with a wan smile Of
encouragement. His bark may be
worse than his bite, and all the other
places are so dear"
Following the cobbler through the
shop, he led them upstairs to the rooms.
There we're two, communicating by a
door with each other; they were poorly
furnished, but clean. AS the women
looked at them the cobbler stared at them
silently.
well" asked, "what do you think
of them?"
"They will do very WE'LL" answered
the widow. It's-only-the pricew
six shillings week-in advance"
"Six shillings!" calculated the girl.
'Do you think it too much.'
"On the contrary, 1t is cheap"
You know a lot of the world to say
that. How do you know l sha'n't clap
on the other shilling?"
Il don't; but should not fancy you
would"
About the references began the
widow.
Don't want any-you pay in advance !;
and as, whenever you leave the house, it
must be through the shop, you can't well
take the furniture without my knowing
Is it settled?"
"If you please; here is the first weeks
rent"
The cobbler took it, scrawled out a
receipt, nodded and left his dodgers to
themselves. Seated again on his bench,
meditatively, he scratched his grIzled
chin and contemplated the six coins in
his horny palm.
1.-TWO hobs a week lost to-day" he
remarked: Jerry, you miser. how could
you do it,"
The cobbier's dodgers proved very
quiet. They did not interfere with their
landlord, and he, apparently, did not in
terfere with them. His rent was paid to
the day.
They rarely spoke, save exchanging
the ordinary morning and evening salu-
tations when the daughter went through
the shop. The mother never left the
house. But Jerry, like most cobblers,
was man of observation, and he made
such comments as the following:
"She's beauty, she is; but awful
white and sad. It's my opinion it's hard
times with them upstairs"
Then, when the girl went out earlier
and came home later, even with sadder,
more depressed expression, he said: "Ill
tell you what it is, Jerry; she's seeking
work and doesn't get it!'
One evening, few weeks after Mrs.
Weston and her daughter rented the cob
blers apartments, the latter entered the
shop later than usual
The yellow lamp was flaring dismally,
and Jerry, q boot on his knee, was hard
at work After the customary saluta-
ton the girl was passing on, when the
cobbler's voice arrested her.
IL say, your mothers ill, amt she?"
he asked, nursing his knee with both
arms.
Yes, Mr.. Crayshaw, am sorry to
say she has been for some while ailing.
She-she-" and the young voice trem-
bled with tears-"is very weak"
Then you must give her lots to eat"
responded Jerry, staring out of the win
dow. The best thing for weak people
is nice roast fowl and bottle of wine.
Why don't you give them herr"
II wish was able, or even to provide
her less expensive dainties; but-but-"
and the tears fell fast" I cannot"
"Ah, that's the fault, you see, of hav-
ing no money. Good evening"
He resumed his work, and the girl,
scarcely cheered by this little episode,
went, with heavy heart, upstairs.
Mrs. Weston was SO ill, she was lying
on her bed. The candle was in the
room, and in the parlor crate burnt a
few sparks of fire, over which was
small saucepan. On the table was tea
tray and portion of previous days
loaf. 1t was such depressing welcome
home after the weary, weary day that
with difficulty the poor girl could con-
troll her emotion.
els that you, Clare?" inquired the
widows feeble voice.
"Yes, mother"
"Come to me, my child"
Clare pressed her white hands to her
bosom, made an effort. and passed into
the bedroom. But the mothers first
words beat down all her noble-souled,
heroic self-repression. ...
"Clare, dear, you had better success
today"
The girl dropped on chair and, bury
ing her face in the coverlet, burst into a
paroxysm of weeping. r
mo, mother" she sobbed, hysteri-
cally, "it's the same old, old story; I
can get nothing What shall we do?
feel heart broken"
Glare, Clare, my child" calculated
the mother, fondly embracing her, lido