The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1876-07-27
THAT HOMEMADE ICE CREAM.

"Good gracious, mar I" said Angel
lea Crane to her overworked parent, at
nightfal of a memorable day-a day
that marked the beginning of the young
Squire's Christmas holidaysat home, and
every minute Of 1t crammed and crowd
ed with labor for the entertainment in
his honor at the Crane homestead
''good gracious you amt going to
have some homemade cream, surely 2"
The young lady's nose, which was ex-
ceedingly retrousse already, was perched
high In the air with disdain. If there's
anything / can't abide," she said, "it's
frozen corn starch and that's all you
can make of homemade cream any way
you fix it p
"HoId your tongue, Angy," said her
mother; 'syoure the most Onfeelin'
creetur ever see. You'd have me har-
ness UP the team and drive away to
town and pay out mint of money,
when I kin just as we'll hev it for nothin'.
Hain't we got a prime new freezer.
and cream and eggs and ice, without its
costin' cent What more do you
wants"
ga prime new freezer - scornfully
dozen Of 'em !"
'Well, can't I borry 'em?" said her
prudent parent.
''And who's going to hang over 'em?"
said the young lady, whose stay at
boarding schOol had not obliterated the
home dialect. "They need to be turned
and turned, and everybody's worn out.
It's nearly time to dress now, and you
want little coolin' off yourself. You're
as red as beet"
"IIl stay if [ can be of any service"
said voice in the doorway.
"Why, Sally" said Mrs. Crane,
"you'n want to return home and dress,
won't you2"
tOR, I'd rather not, said the voice,
this time trembling little. CT don't
feel fit for any fun, Mrs. Crane. 1t
don't seem to me ever will again"
CT s'pose not, deary," said the farm
er's wife, with an expression of pity,
mingled with relief. "It'll be dreadful
convenient to hev you stay, Sally, if you
kin. There's a power to do yet, and
only one pair O. hands to do it. / s'pOse
you wouldn't keer to &c up lii the par
Tor but the freezers'n be in the cellar,
and the heater keeps it nice and warm
down there; and while you're a-makin'
the cream you kin listen to the music,
and hear the noise and all. It'll come
kind o nice to you that way, won't it,
SaIly?"
Good life, MARI laughed the viva
ci0us daughter; sis that what you call
nice2 It reminds me of the little hun
CRY boy who went to smell the steam at
the pastry cooks. "
''You don't know nothin' about the
way Sally feels said Mrs. Crane, 'snor
I don't think you could if you tried. I
believe you'd dance and whis' le about be-
fore the grass took root over your pappy's
grave; but Sally loved hern, poor child,
and she can't help thinkin' of the poor
school, aster lynn out there in the snow,
when here he was, only bit ago, as
click and smart as anybody. It's no
KNOWN whose turn it'll be next"
Whether the good woman had any rea-
son of her own for thus dwelling upon a
melancholy subject, it decided poor little
S8Iy's aversion for the merry. making,
and put to fight the gay Angelica, who
was In no humOr for red eyes and noses,
when the young Squire would shortly
come, and it behooved these features to
be at their best.
But Sally fell to sobbing outright, not
giving thought to the deleterious eff
feet Of tears upon her beauty, although
once upon time 1t was bright and bon
ny enough to ensnare the young Squire
himself. Long ago, when he drew her
to school on his handsome sled, he made
many q stumble over the ice in looking
back upon the sweet face under its scar
let hood, the little cheeks all aglow, and
the yellow curls wantOning about with
the brisk wintry air. Sally's was always
the biggest apple from the finest tree in
the orchard; the most luscious grapes
from the grapery found their way to Sal
Iy's desk; and in the intervals of his pos
sessing q pen-knife young Master Ban
dali left no blunt pencil in Sally's sachel.
When it became necessary that ne
should he sent to place Of instruction
BETTING his station in life, and the fat
had gous. tDrth that the dear old days at
the villa..e school should become part
and paIct.i Of the past; when he must
bid gOod-by to his romps In the new
mown hay, his races with the young colts
in the ten-acre field, his berrying and
pic-nicing, his coasting down the glo-
rious old hill; when he must part with his
dog Lancer, and his gun, and his pony
above all, with Sally-it was heart
rending time. Whatever grown-up folks
NAV think of these childish griefs, they
are as tough to bear as the heavier ones
that come later, and they leave great
ugly scars that are sometimes only half
healed over.
When VIII Randall cut Sally's name
and his own deep into the bark of the