The Redwood gazette. [volume] (Redwood Falls, Minn.) 1873-1940, 1880-08-26

Cease blazing in our sky
I'm give it up-that fly
Will get what he'll Fem @S"s sen. 4ran.crtp..
MY HERO.
For many years we bought our but
ter. milk and eggs at the Deacon
Witheridge Farm. When was ten
years old my grandmother thought that
l might be trusted to 60 for the milk,
warning me, as set out, that was to
hold the pail well away from me and
not spill. By another year the family
pronounced me large enough to be
trusted with the butter and eggs.
Garry them steady, child, and look
well to your steps, that you don't trip"
said my grandmother, as she stood on
the door-steps.
Now, Deacon Witheridge lived at
the top of the long Minot Hill; and on
awarm day, by the time had trudged
up its weary length, was ready
enough to accept Mrs. Deacon Wither-
idge's invitation to ''set down and cool
off," After several seasons of ''settin'
down and coolin' off," grew quite
familiar with the farm house and its in
mates. Mrs. Witheridge never liked.
It made NO difference that my grand
mother declared her most excellent
woman. the best butter-maker in the
town. never recovered from the i'm
preston of my first visit.
BE sure and go to the back door,"
was my mothers parting Injunction.
But when I reached the house no
back door could l find. l looked and
looked in vain. and was on the point of
turning back toward home, when, sud-
denly, with unwonted boldness, de-
termined to try the frOnt-door. l
made my way through the tall grass
which choked the path, and let the
heavy brass knocker fall with thump
that made me tremble. 1t was some
time before heard an answering foot
step, and then, on the other side of the
door, a fierce struggle with rusty bolts
and hinges. At last, with groan, the
door gave way, and l found myself
looking up at a gaunt woman. who inn
pressed me as being of supernatural
stature.
.'Ho! So it's nobody but you, is it?
What are you round here for, scarin'
folks half to death, for fear twas some
grand company"
II couldn't find the back door,"
began timidly.
"Couldn't find the back door?
Where. do folks centrally find back
doors?'
Imust have looked unable to answer,
for she went on:
"Why, round at the back O. the
house, most likely. But what do you
want Q the back door, when you git
there?''
'.Are you Mrs. Deacon Witheridge?'
l asked. family.
"Yes; I'm her. Speak up lively and
tell me what you want. Iain't got much
time ter waste. We're folks that work,
here"
More and more embarrassed, Stam-
mered out: II came after some milk.
Id like quart if you please. The
moneys in the pail"
"Well, you'll have to 60 round to the
back door. l don't want ter let yer
in here. You might track in dirt.
Just foller yer nose round the house."
1 did at last find the right door,
sion the temperance of the Deacon's
wife.
She soon reached the door, and
called in an extraordinary pitch of
voice:
stephen! Stephen!'
A boy who wds bending over the
woodpile, turned quickly and nervously
at her sharp voice, and came toward the
house.
II want you to go down to the milk
cellar. Stephen, and get some milk for
this child. Dip down under and don't
disturb the cream"
"All right, marm." he answered,
cheerfully.
"Come, step up quick. Don't walk
as if there was a ton O. lead on yer
heelsr'
Stephen held out his hand for my
pail, and invited my goodwill with a
friendly "Hullo."
Every well, l thank you," an
swered; for l had been taught at home
that "boys and some rather common
little girls said Hullor instead of
How do you doi'" l noticed that
Stephen looked a little puzzled as he
carried off my pail. l watched him as
he went. have called him boy, but
could not have guessed his age. His
form was slight and boyish; but there
were deep lines in his forehead, and a
care-worn look about the eyes. His
clothes were poor and hung loosely upon
him. Yet Stephens STOPPING shoulders
and thin face left no impression of sad
ness upon me then. His smile was too
CHEEKY. his Hullo'' too friendly for
that. For one thing I did pity him,
that he was, apparently, in the power
of Mrs. Deacon Witheridge. This
felt bond of sympathy, for was not l,
too, for the time being?
"Well, here yer be at last" said the
Deaconess, as Stephen emerged from
the cellar. "What yer goin' to do next?
Go down to the gris-mill?''
"Yes, marin; that's what the Dea-
con said. l s'pose I might take her
along, too" with nod in my direction.
That's the road she takes"
"Yes. l s'pose yer might, If it didn't
hinder YOU"
IAN right, little girl, come on"
clambered into the wagon while
Stephen united the horse. He stood q
moment with one foot on the wagon
step. and looked down at himself rather
ruefully.
II amt very spruce-lookin' TELLER.
am I? Amt yer most ashamed ter ride
with me?"
mo, I think it's NICE" said de-
cidedly.
"All right. I don't care, If you
DON'T" said he, cheerily, and jumped
in.
As we rode down the hill, / looked
curiously at Stephen from time to time;
but said little. was shy child and
never made the advances in converse
ton. Stephen vcntured remark or
two about its being q good summer for
hay and the Deacon's big crop. l could
not have answered with much enthusi-