The Cecil Whig., 1885-11-21
Why MargFry DaW Sold Her Furniture.
BY VIRGINIA L. HARRISON.

name is MarS"1y DaW. Truly ahu nom
estly, Margery Daw. And sorry am to
luk that it must have been some dis
reputable ancestress of mine who inspir-
ed the nursery rhyme:
"See saw. Margery Daw
Sold her bed and lay or straw"
However, as l have not inherited her dis
regard of cleanliness and comfort, and as
the song has pleased many a generation
of children, and, moreover, as ouI race,
so far as known, has never done anything
else for the public good, why, perhaps
We ought to be proud of that other Mar
gerry Daw, after all.
When was child my name was a
burden to me, because other children,
whose names were unknown in song or
story-but, dear me ! What d es any
one care for what annoyed me fifty years
ago?
am spinster (who spins not, unless
and, although old enough to have more
sense, it gives me satisfaction to say that
l am spnster from choice.
Moreover, l am a wealthy spinster, and
live in the old mansion in which | was
born, surrounded by the massive furni-
ture which was in it long before my time.
Eighteen years ago, my only brother
and his wife died, leaving to me their
little girl, who, against my wishes, had
been named for me. Margery.
More than three years ago at Broad
Harbor, we met an artist, Paul Glenn,
by name. He was an artist and he was
p )or; aud from what saw of his paint
ing, he wa poor artist. And-yes, !
will tell the truth lie was tie son of
man who, in my girl ood-Nc. That
be made to tell it on the last day even.
Only when Guy Glenn's boy asked me
for Margery said, NJ. not while lived.
After we returned home, they must
have met frequently, and on the morn
ing of February fourteenth, Margery
came and put her arms around me and
kissed me. Her lashes were wet with
tears when she laid her face against
mine, and said she was going out. That
morning my little MaIgery, whose baby
smiles had cEcercd my broken heart,
passed out of my life, leaving NE as she
found me, childless and alone. In the
evening messenger left note from
her. She had gone out to bc married to
Paul Glenn.
My heart was ever one to know its
own bitterness, but to hide it from
others. So Margery's room was shut up,
as she left it, and, as l said, she passed
out of my life.
have not been we'll for some months,
and have not strength to go up and
down stairs often.
l have always used my fathers secre
tary, which stands where he lefi it in the
library. Feeling the need of IA desk in
my own room, and wishing it to cores
pond with the other furniture, drove
to Sighfor's and bonght an Old fashioned
little writing table, which was placed
near my bedside.
| was awakened that night by curl
ons scratching sound in this table.
Thinking that Il stray mouse hal taken
refuge there, |, who had lived in an old
house long enough to be philosophical
about such visitors, soon fell asleep
again.
The next day I carefully busted my
new piece of furniture, and had arranged
in it my paper, envclops. postal cards,
etc, when, upon opening a little drawer,
discovered a lead-pencil and sheet Of
paper half covered with writing. Now,
understand, it was not secret drawer,
nor was the paper yellow with age. Il
was modern Irish linen writing paper,
which had probably been evolved dur
ing last year from flax seed.
am not superstitious, but confess
the Thompson Wave" which orna-
ments my head, nearly stood on end
with fright, when, remembering the
mysterious scratching of the night be-
fore, | read the following:
THE TRUE STORY OF MARGERY DAw.
'See, Saw. Margery D.w
Sold her bed and lay on straw"
l, M.rgcry Daw, died one hundred
and fifty years ago, and had lived just
twenty-five years. This little writing
table was given to ne on my fifteenth
birthday, by the dear Aunt, who had
been Father, Mother, everything to me
since | could remember.
Dear as she was to me, the time came
when had to choose between her and
one dearer still Aud on February four
teenth, in the year 1884, | left my
Aunt's home, and was married to Will
Cleeves. After that, refused 20 see or
communicate with me; but sent every
thing of mine, to the address we had left
for her: with the rest, this little writing
desk.
We were very poor, even Whiie VIII
was able to work, but, in IA few months,
his health failed, and sooa, anxiety and
poverty broke me down, also.
One by one, our possessions were sold,
and, at the end of a year, when my hus
band died, there were left only this desk,
a few chairs, and my bed. Then the
desk and chairs went, AMI, finally, liter
ally and truly, sold my red. and lay on
straw, and on that straw, | died OF ctar-
vation, on st. Valentines Day, in my
twenty second year,
write this, that you, my descendant,
may no longer blush to bear my name
have said that am not supersti-