The San Angelo press. (San Angelo, Tex.) 1897-1907, 1905-05-18
The Story of a Few plain Women.

BY REBEccA HARDING DAVIS.

BY REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.
One thing is sure in this strange
life of ours, and that is, that
every human being that comes
into it has his or her load to
carry. The burden usually,
seems oddly unsuited to the bear
er. This great Qgcen, born in
the purple, sheltered by delicacy
and luxury from her cradle to her
grave, carries always a fetid can
Ger in her flesh; while that poor
ditcher has u hunger gnawing in
his heart for noble music which
he never can hear.
Each man knows how heavy
the load is in his pack. 1t is for
him to choose how he will carry
it; whether like slave whipped
to his work, or like q soldier bear.
ing it as a banner while he
marches to victory.
1t seems to me that it is that
one thing-the way in which we
choose to carry our burden
which gives us rank in the mighty
marching phalanxes of souls that
pass necessarily through this
world. We may be sure that the
great Powers and Principalities
looking down on us from above as
we march do not class us by the
report that one of our ancestors
was baronet or a beggar, nor by
the amount of money in our
pockets. But they watch whether
we totter under our pack with a
whine, and are ilabby and cow
ardly at heart, or whether we
carry it with courage and rever-
ence as a cross laid on US by God,
and so claim kinship with the
great Elder Brother of us all.
/ should like to tell you of a
few women from whom great
sacrifices we're demanded in life,
and or how they carried the
weight laid upon them. The story
is the more significant to us be-
cause they were commonplace,
plain women like ourselves. They
had not, like Marie Antoinette,
high rank, compelling heroism
from them, nor had they, as St.
Theresa or the Maid, the mighty
fire of genius burning within
them to tighten their way.
They were just ordinary girls
and mothers with common-sense
and sanity, and a faith which
never faltered that behind all the
strange miserles of life there is a
Heavenly Father, and that He is
is kind.
About the middle of last CEN
fury there lived in little village
near Chicago yonng girl named
Mary Willard. There was moth
ing dramatic nor exceptional in
her looks or character or life.
She was o wholesome, loving
child, living in sheltered home.
BELIEVING her father to be the
wlsest of living men, her sister q
wonderful poet, and her brother q
hero after Sir Philips own pat.
tern. She studied and sewed and
sang, and kept a secret diary of
her maidenly dreams like count
less other innocent girls. But at
the age when these innocent
children begin to dream of love
and marriage Mary crept closer
to Christ and learned to under
stand the great message of His
life. Her soul slowly filled with
the hope that He would give her
some great work to do for Him in
the world.
Some missionaries, we are told,
went from the little village to
India, and the girl watched the
train carry them out of sight, and
when the congregation, standing
on the street, sang "From Green
lands icy mountains" that their
benediction might follow them a
little way, she sang also, with
tears, but with her heart throb-
bling with hope. "She, too, some
day might be sent by Him to the
far, dark places of the earth to
carry His light! !" Surely, one
would think, all innocent wish,
and one which God would grant.
But when Mary was nineteen
she was called by Him, not to GO
to heather nations to tell the
story of Christ for their healing,
but to die-to creep into the
earth, to lie there, silent. Hell
undellvered message tore her soul
in her last hours. She held out
her little hands even after they
were growing cold in death, as il
she would have blessed the world,