Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1896-07-24
A NEW ENGLAND LADY.

A NEW ENGLAND LADY.
As write the words, quaint, small
figure steps noiselessly out of the past,
slight figure, too, though well-knit, weigh
ing scarcely ninety pounds. The face is
gently old and withered like a late-hanging
peach, keeping still shade of its youthful
pinkiness. The hair, brown and fine, with
a wide, white parting and snug twist that
curls when released, is kept in unvarying/
place by an old-fashioned BACKBONE. Two
small, fiat curls are held close to the, deli
cate ears, partially covering them, by
modern side-cOmbs.
The eyes, gray-blue and cleaf, look out
on world that has been hard to their
owner, who has not repai1tt in kind. She
must have wondered oXen at its hardness
in the years before sHe accepted it bravely
as something in thEgeneral plan.
The gown, cle2h and becoming, is Of fine,
old-fashioned %alico-always of calico and
always cle9M-chocolate brown in color
and Lightly sprinkled with tiny sprigs Of
white. "a Bingham apron of blue check is
tied with smoothly ironed tape strings
aT9Gnd the waist, which is trim as a young
girls. About the neck kerchief of thick
muslin, that might be cousin to the Breton
Golf, carries with it the thought of spotless
purity that always attached TO Aunt Lois.
She was aunt TO the town-never invited,
but always hidden to its festivities, to take
the part she loved best; without which, tea
party, sleigh-ride-supper winter dance, and
wedding feast would be incomplete. When
she appeared, serene and capable, response
bility dropped at once into her hands, and
the satisfied householder took no more
thought for the day or the morrow.
Aunt Lois was by no means the grande
dame, the fine lady, Of whom we think and
speak vaguely. She was too fine, too grand,
for careless speech. From her early youth
she had been bearer Of almost incredible
burdens-burdens borne in silence, with
such dignity and sweetness that they be-
came blessings.
"You see, | never had rheumatism or
any ailment, not even a headache, so |
could always work right along day after
day." "My back was strong, or l couldn't
have done great many things that were
necessary" Many time l carried my
first baby two and three miles to do house
cleaning, and back again at night. He
was so good could put him to sleep and
tuck him away in rockingham where
nobody could sit on him. So you see he
wasn't much hindrance. But l went a
little early and stayed later, of course, to
make up the time lost, aud right thank
full was to be able to do it,"
Aunt Lois had mothered not only eight
children, but a good-natured, worthless
husband TO boot, who sawed the wood for
home use and kept the kettle boiling when
ever he could be spared from the more hi
lsrious pastimes of the tavern. No work
was too hard or too disagreeable for Aunt
Lois, no weather too wet or too cold. She
was the happiest perhaps at those embar-
RAISING times when one family was moving
out as another moved into house, and
she as capable high priestess had charge of
the lares and penates of both.
"But what are you going to do for your
dinner?" one would ask. "There is posi-
lively nothing to eat in the house since
that last load went, not so much even as
spoonful of tear'
'Now, child, don't you give it one single
thought" Aunt Lois would reply comforta-
bly,. There's a kettle full of hot water.
It's better for most folks than tea, you
know. never was much of tea-drinker;
and put cracker in my pocket, too, this
morning, for knew you d be all stirred up
today. It's all want, certain. 'Tisn't so
easy to starve as you think, and 1 never
was hungry like some folks. l rather
think the Lord knew when he made me
what sort of work he'd laid out for me-"
And never was back more beautifully
fitted to its burden. On being demonstrated
with one day for carrying a heavy basket
up three long flights of stairs without stop
ping to take breath, she said authoritatively
as she kept on: Don't say a word, don't
say one word Some folks don't have any
stairsr'
When Aunt Lois was in full vigor and
nearly seventy years old, her youngest
child, a lifelong invalid, died suddenly.
This daughter was the cheerer and com
forter Of her life, inherting the high cour-
age and fearless faith of her mother The
neighbors near and far, in tender apprecia-
ton, sent flowers and messages to the be-
reaVed home, and two ventured to 90 in
person, dreading, as all did, TO see this per-
sonification of strength and cheer reduced
to the pitiful straits of ordinary humanity
when it's last prop is gone.
The little house stood quite by itself,
mile outside the town which had gradually
drawn near. Poverty marked it for her
own-a little, one-story dinghy brown
house. Its tenant was one of the folks
who had no stairs. Three rooms and a
roof to cover them were all she owned, but
SAASSS hSA ANDOl VI JCdlo lldu pdlu lOIs one
welcomed her guests with the same quiet
composure that attended her alike on SOL
emn or joyful occasions, giving them the
two chairs near the fire, fetching footstools,
begging them to remove and dry their
wraps, for the night was damp.
"Her face shone," said one of them af-
terward. "We couldn't speak of the dead,
but she did. Tears came when she asked
us to take her dear thanks to the people
who had been SO kind to her. She had
not expected such things. She said heaven
had always been rather lonesome spot to
her. There seemed to be so little to do
there, according to all she had heard and
read. But now that Amy was there, as
she hoped, twas good deal to look for
ward to. Other people had more ideas
about it, she supposed, A good many of
her babies had gone before when they were
little things, but Amy" Not word of
her own sore grief, of her utter loneliness.
In straits of unexpected guests, in house
cleanings weddings, funerals, nothing was
ever quite orthodox without Aunt Lois,
who lived on alone in her desolate house.
Her husband had died years ago, so little
missed that the neighbors soon forgot him;
her one remaining child had married hun
dreds OF miles away, into poverty more