The Maryville times. (Maryville, Tenn.) 1884-1944, 1899-03-04

TT WAS the ideal place for summer
holiday-a pleasant old farm with
red roof, where lichens grew in patches
Of yellow, and the stonecrop and house
leek in patches of green; house with
long, low rooms, elbow grease, and beds
whose coarse homespun linen sheets
smelt of lavender.
There were, indeed, two lavender
bushes in the garden, as we'll as roses
and stocks, sweet clove-pinks and ''old
man." The farm was stocked with in
teresting live creatures-cows, pigs,
chickens, turkeys, and pigeons; there
were sheep dotting the downs behind
the house, and from the front windows,
across the orchard, where the apples
were beginning to grow hard and
round, you could see the long, shining,
blue line of the sea.
Mabel Roscommon liked that sea line,
and she liked the garden, the orchard.
and the rest of tall but the turkeys.
She was little afraid of these, because
she was by profession high school
teacher and had been taught how to
manage children, but not how to man
age turkeys-an art, by the way much
simpler. Now she had come to the
farm for her summer holidays. To be
alone was new to her. for she was one
OF large family; and to be for whole
weeks in this country was new to her,
too, for she had never before been near
the sea for more than week at time.
The down country was to her reve-
lation.
She had big sitting-room to herself
and shared the simple meals of the
farmer and his wife. The laborers and
the maids ate at the lower end of the
long table. Mabel thought it was such
a nice plant reminded her somehow
of the feudal system. The dignified
simplicity of farm life appealed to her.
Gradually a passion Of love awoke in
her for the little, ordinary, useful
everyday things-the needful work re-
peated at the appropriate hour, the
changing magic of morn and noon and
evening, the restful distances of down
and sea, the intimate fairgrounds of
hedge and orchard. AT first she read
good deal, but gradually more and more
time was spent with Mrs. Fry. Mabel
followed her in and out to the dairy, to
the kitchen, to feed the pigs, to collect
the eggs. And the eyes of the faded
middle-aged woman grew tender,
though her words were always the ex-
planatory commonplace or the mourn
full biographical
But one day--it was the day when
Miss Roscommon first churned the but
ter-Mrs. Fry sighed and said:
"My little Alice would haI been about
your age if she'd lived. own l should
ha' dearly to ha' taught her to churn.'
1t was that night that Mabel kissed
Mrs. Fry when she said goodnight"
and almost wished as she crept be-
tween the cold, lavender sheets, that she
had been born farmers daughter
She had discovered her vocation. 1t
was not teaching, as she had steadfast-
ly believed, nor literature, as she had
secretly dreamed; her true vocation
was the pastoral life-not to forget
the great life of the world, the hurry
and hustle, the cleverness and bravery
the wise and the great; not to forget
them--to honor them from afar, but
to take no further part in the strife and
struggle of strenuous life; to watch il
from the safe haven of the little life, the
quiet, ordered, placid life of the farm
This was her vocation-her fate was
high school teaching.
When Robert Fry cam. home-th,
only SON of his mother, the farmer
wifez-AIabel shared in the hustle o
glad preparation that heralded hi
coming. He was in business in Lon
don, but he was coming homb for hi
hOlidd his mother said.