The Labor enquirer., 1882-12-23
A NEW YEARS STORY.


tlful thing to be alive? UmphI That
depends- she muttered. I
1t was some story with dilutions of
oarlyle In il, that she was reading.
Martha's eyes were reasonable gray.
and the projecting forehead, under tire
coarse, yellow hair, promised good deal
Of strength and intelligence, but the
brain below was little drunk just now
with half comprehended Carlyle and
Emerson. She had just left school and,
you know, every reading girl between
leaving school and falling in love- has a
passion for metaphy ysics-made-easy.
TO think of living" looking out
into the clear December night glimmer-
ing into softer starlight, the gray 2eyes
slowly filling with tears. "It might be
worth trial-to live somewhere, where
there would be room for work, or sharp
pain, or happiness. In the thick of cities.
If she were a man she could be on a
battle field tonight" her blood hot and
her teeth clenched Even women could
do something in hospitals; they lived
years in day there. But here-here-"
The clearer the thought Of the full,
chivaIric life yender grew to her, the
deeper was the disgust on her face. She
caught the window sash as If it had been
an iron grating, looked up and down the
narrow, muddy street, into the back
yard, at the room within, with its white
washed walls, rag carpet and green and
yellow chairs. 'Bah-hw with a gutteral
outbreak. Pm sick of the whole Of it,"
Martha's three years Of schooling, at
the seminary on the hill, had not clean
ed off some little vulgar traits of man
ner; had not even made her conscious
Of them. But, apart from that, she was
an honest, earnest girl, with good, right
feelings below all. Well, it was true,
there was not much of the polish or deli
cacy Of life around her, you might have
thought, that evening. Her father was
the turnkey of the town prison; they
lived in the front rooms of the jail,
wide and well-ighted enough, but with
the musty smell of crime about them,
somehow, and the cells and their thieves
or drunken vagabonds just on the other
side Of the hall wall. She could hear
two of the tipsy Irish women, putin last
night, yelping at each other now Her
father, a raw bOned man in a red shirt,
was smoking pipe at the other side of
! the room, and below the window where
she stood was basement kitchen, where
her mother, fat and jolly, was finishing
the weeks washing the two jail bull
dogs were snarling over heap of bones
at the door. Martha had been starching
all day herself, and her hands were stiff
and bleeding.
No, not an inviting, poetic life, GER
tainly; yet maybe (glancing at the glass
good enough for her She did herself
injustice in the look, perhaps, seeing
only the stout, solid figure, and the fea
lures both heavy and dull. She did not
know how a bit of cheerfulness and a
smile kindled the whole face into down
right beauty, just as it did those coarse
jailroOms of theirs.
~MattY," said her father, knocking the
ashes out of his pipe. "Don't you want
to puta on clean collar and things
Sam'll be up before the meeting, he said"
"lt don't matter"
well, tell him I'm gone on. We're
going to clench old Dyke tonight on the
govner question" going out and pulling
his coat on as he went.
at didn't matter for Sam" Her
conscience twinged her sharply. She
went to the glass, smoothing her hair,
Strengthening her dress Sam loved her
as nobody else ever would; for two wears
he had been working hard, so that thew
could goto housekeeping in the spring:
not saying much, but dogging on, dav
after day; she ought to remember that.
Well, she did. Poor Sam, with his snub
nose and brushy red hair! There was
not much room in his nature for heroic
effort, or deeds of derring-do: how
absurd those longings of hers tonight
would seem to him. :.
ltwas long time since Martha ToIivar
had spent so much thought on her lovers
nature, She had grown so used to him.
1t seemed to her that they had been
engaged since they were children,