The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1883-12-28

She has never loved, and her unwOn
heart is still fresh with the dew of
youth. Though her lovely hair is just
beginning to be threaded with gray, she
knows not the feeling Of growing old,
neither do the passing years bring any
definite sense of want to her peaceful,
sunny nature, except, perhaps, some
times dreamy feeling Of Incomplete
ness, like the faintest shadow only of
pain.
Her city nieces tell her often, with
many hug and caress, that her face is
the sweetest and dearest in all the
world, that she looks '.quite too utter
ly'' quaint and lovely in her lace and
muslin kerchiefs and her pretty white
aprons; and she always answers depre-
catingly:
But, oh, my dears, am SO old-fash-
ionedr'
Nevertheless, when she is alone she
looks in the glass and bushes warmly,
half inclined to believe their sweet
words, and wholly glad that she is not
yet growing homely, though she feels a
little guilty, too, as if she ought to do
so. Then she turns away and signs
softly; she knows not why.
Now fate had ordained that when
Aunt Bethia came to visit in our family
we should be entertaining, as an hon.
ored guest, our Uncle Jeremiah Barker,
or "Uncle jerry as we children IA
miliarly called him, though he was only
distant relative on my fathers side.
He had been knocking about for the
last fifteen years or so in Australia, and
having amassed considerable fortune,
returned now to his native city, with
the hope of ending his days among his
kindred.
He was unmarried; and hidden Sc
cretly away in his rugged bachelor
heart was the long-cherished dream of
wife and ireside of his own.
But after spending the best part of
his life in rough toll, separated from all
/ society of women-or, in fact, society
of any sort-he found himself now
laboring under great disadvantages.
The girls that he knew and played
with when he was boy had grown so
far away from him in many directions
that he felt he had no part or lot with
them. and SO, slowly and sadly, the
hope of years began to fade away.
1t was just here that dear, old-fash-
toned Aunt Bethia came into his life;
and from the first moment of their
meeting Uncle Jerry appropriated her
in his heart of hearts, as the one woman
specially provided for him, and straight
way elected her to preside over that
| ideal future he had dreamed of.
In short, for the first time in his life
he found himself passionately in love,
and as men of his years are apt to do in
such case, he resolved to make ssshort
work of his wooing.
Accordingly he spent one week in
watching her every word and action and
in studying her face from under his
shaggy eyebrows, while he pretended to
read his newspaper.
Another week he devoted to follow
ing her about and waiting upon her
with such alarming assiduity, that the
little woman began to wonder and to
tremble at she knew not what
Finally, he grew impatient to know
his fate.
"What is the use of beating about the
bush?" he said to himself, in his blunt
fashion; ''if she don't fancu me now
she never will, and l may as well know
it"
So he came in upon her one afternoon.
the day before New Years, as she sat
knitting by the window, and, nerving
himself for a decisive effort, he thus adj
dressed her:
"Bethia. [ hain't known you long, to
be sure, but / feel better acquainted
with you to-day than should with anv
other woman in years time. Things
have changed 'mazingly in the fifteen
years that I've been away from home,
and the women most Of all. / find
don't know 'em.
1.-The girls that used to study out of
the same books with at school, | hear
talking now about 'cultur', and 'art,'
and afinities, and so on and so forth
all Greek to me. | left em dom
homework and knittin' stockin's, and
now find EN- playin' on the pianner,
and ravin' over picters and statoos-
things don't know nothin' about and
what more, don't want to!
"The only statoos that / ever liked
the looks on at all, is the Injun girls
standin' outside of the tobacker shops.
"And as for music-why, Bethia, I'd
ruther hear you sing old Naomi, the
way you did last Sunday night, than all
their rattle and chatter.
/" / did use to think, when was out
in Australy, that when / come home I'd
git married and try to settle down, but
l don't s'pose any of these new-fash-
Toned, highfalutin' women would have
me with all my money; and'' says he,
ungallantly, "by George! don't know
as | want them"
Aunt Bethia looked mildly shocked.
''You see,' he continued, apologetic-
ally, 1--WE couldn't take much comfort
| together less we felt somewhere nigh
alike about things, now could we?"
''Why, nc" said Aunt Bethia, can
didly, looking up at him in meditative
way; 81 don't s'pose you could"
And ] should hate to see my money
fooled away on trash that dol't care a
continental for, though | know women
are master hands to spend money, and
/ mean my wife 81 all have d plenty,
too.''
81 don't think all women are extrava-
giant, I'm sure,n said Aunt Bethia, with
some show of spirit. II know l amt,
unless" she added, deprecatingly,
''perhaps am in the matter of white
aprons. Mother always SAID so, and I
do like plenty of white aprons-say one
every afternoon.
''My wife shall have a clean one for
every hour in the day, if she wantsn'
roared Uncle Jerry, with enthusiasm.
''And, now think of it, by George,
if l don't believe white apron dresses
up a woman more than the big hooh-i-
moor couldi
''And shouldn't wonder, after all,
if them white aprons had somethin to
do with your lookin' so different from
other women-so kinder good and old
fashioned, you know
Aunt Bethia blushed and laughed
"They call me the 'old-fashioned
woman, she said, simply.
''And I am an old-fashioned man,
he said, significantly.
Then he looked at her and met the
startled glance Of her soft eyes.
MAY be it occurs to you, as it does