The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1909-01-07
Copyright 1908 by Benj. B. Hampton

the long ago the fragments of story I have not thought of for years-one fA that has been hidden in the dim lum-
 Der room of my brain where store my bygone memories.
 past do the cuffs of an old-fashioned coat, the futings of founce, or the lacings of a bodice from out quickly opened bureau drawer. Only when you follow the cuff along the sleeve to the broad shoulder; smooth out the crushed frill that swayed about her form, and trace the siken thread to the waist 1t frightened, can you determine the fashion of the day in which they were worn.
 And with the rummaging of this lumber room come the odors: dry smells from musty old trunks packed with bundles of faded letters and worth less deeds tied with red tape; musty smells from dust-covered chests. iron bound. holding moldy cracked wardrobes stuffed with moth-eaten hunt Ing coats. riding trousers and high boots with rusty spurs-cross- s-country riders these-roister- CTS and gamesters-a sorry lot, no doubt.
 & Or perhaps 1t is an old bow-legged high-boy- It's clubfeet sl1ppered on easy rollers-the kind with deep drawers kept awake by rattling brass handles, its outside highly polished that you are quite sure it must have been brought up in some distinguished family The scent of old Lavender and spiceF rose leaves and stick oretwo of white orris root, haunt this relic: my lady's Faces must. must be kept fresh and so must my lady's long white m1tts-they reach from her dainty knuckles quite to her @elbow. And so must her cobwebbed silk stockings and the flmy kerchief she folds across her bosom.
 It is this kind of a drawer that I am opening now-one belonging to the Little Gray Lady.
 As look through its contents my eyes resting on the finger of glove. the end of lace scarf, and the handle of an old fan, my mind goes back to the last time she wore them. Then begin turn ing everything upside down, lifting the corner of this incident prying under that bit of talk recall Ing what he said and who told of 1t q shah have the whole drawer empty before get through, and whose fault it was that the match was broken on. and why she, of all women in the world should have remained single all those years. Why, too. she should have lost her identity so to speak and become the Little Gray Lady.
 sa And yet no sobriquet could better express her personality: She was little-a dainty elf-like lit teness, with tiny feet and hands; she was gray --a soft silver gray-too gray for her forty years land this fragment begins when she was forty1 :: and she was lady in every beat of her warm voice speech-in all her thoughts and movements
 She lived in the quaintest of old houses fronted by brick path bordered with fragrant box which led up to an old-fashioned porch, it's door bright ened by brass knocker. This together with the the door, was kept scrupulously clean by old Mar garet, who had lived with her for years
 a But 1t is her personality and not her surround tngs that fingers in my memory. No one ever heard anything sweeter than her voice; and no- body looked into lovelier face even if there were little hollows in the cheeks and shy, fanlike wrinkles lurking about the corners of her lambent brown eyes. Nor did her gray hair mar her beau ty. It wa was not old, dry and withered-a wispy gray. (That Is not the way 1t happened) It was new. all-of-a-sudden gray, and in less than a week-so Margaret once told me-bleaching it's brown gold to silver. But the gloss remained and so did the richness of the folds. and the wealth. and weight of it.
 Inside the green-painted door with It's white trim and brass knocker and knobs there mar row hall hung with old portraits opening into a room literally all fireplace. Here there gouty sofas. and five or six big easy chairs ranged in 8 half circle with arms held out if begging some body to sit in them; and here too, was embroid- cred worsted fire screen that slid up and down a standard, to shield one's face from the blazing logs and there were queer tables and old-gold tatns looped back with brass rosettes-ears really behind which the tresses of the parted curtains were tucked; and there were more old portraits in dingy frames, and samplers under glass, and rug which some aunt had made with her own hands from odds and ends; and huge workbasket spill ing worsteds and last, and by no manner of means least, big chntz-covered rocking chair, the little ladys very own-ts thin ankles and splay feet things and lot more-and yet still maintain that the room was just one big fireplace Not alone because of the size (and 1t certainly was big Many doubting curly head. losing faith in Santa Claus, has erawied behind the old fredogs. the chflds fingers tight about the Little Gray Lady's. and been told to look up into the blue-a lesson never forgotten all their ives) but because of the wonderful and never; told forgotten things which constantly took place before it's blazing embers
 For this fireplace was the Little Gray Ladys altar Here she dispensed wisdom and cheer and love. Everybody in Pomford Village had sat in one the other of the chairs grouped about 1t and had poured out their hearts to her. All sorts of pourings: love afars for instance. that were hope- less until she would take the girls hand in her own and smooth out the tangie; to say nothing of bickerings behind closed doors with two lives pu1 ing apart until her dear arms brought them to- gotier.
 But all this Is only the outside of the old ma-