The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925, 1911-08-17
A Little Story
Young Steady.

1t is evening. The. old fashioned
lamp in the little cottage has just
been lighted and from its place on
the mantle casts tender rays upon
the form man and woman. There
is nothing unusual about the appear
ance.of either, except that the wo-
mans hair is streaked with gray and
the face of the man bear traces of
care, such as the passing of years
seldom record. The cares Of the
day are over and in silence, husband
and wife live again the years gone
by. 1t was not always thus. The
time was when those now silent
rooms resounded with the merry
laughter of children and the now
wan face of the mother shone with
the light of mothers pride and
love. But times have changed.
First it was little Willie, the baby
they used to call him before he was
taken away. Through the cottage
window, the last rays of twilight
played gently about a marble slab
in the family plot, but the aged pa
rents saw it not. Perhaps for
moment their thoughts rested upon
May. How good and pure she was.
To know her was to love her. Like
a ray of purest sunshine she had
filled their lives with joy. But this,
too, was long ago. May now be-
longed to another. The love and
kindness she once lavished upon
father and mother, she reserved now
for the man who had won that love
and the children that had come to
brighten her new life.
Yes, perhaps they thought of May
tonight. And still, that stern look
on the fathers face was seldom as
sociated with the daughter he loved
so well. And again, how clearly we
can trace, by the light of the flicker
ing lamp, those tears that make their
way slowly doyn the furrowed cheek
of the aged mother. Silly she turns
her gaze upon the father. She fears
he will chide her, but he is busy
with his own bitter thoughts. Once
more her gaze wanders until it rests
upon portrait on the opposite wall.
The tears are falling fast now. She
does not attempt to conceal her grief.
Slowly the father raises his head and
gazes at her, but no reproach passes
his lips; his own eyes are moist and
that hard stern look has given place
to one of sadness. No; they are not
thinking of May tonight.
But of the three pictures that pre-
sent themselves to the minds and eyes
of the aged parents of the lit
tie grave, over which the shadows
of night are fast drawing the mantle
of darkness and peace; the happy
wife and mother whose presence no W
graces another home and the picture
on yonder wall ll-why is it the latter
brings tears to the eyes the aged pa
rents and fill their hearts with sad
ness? 1t is only the picture of a
little boy youth of some thirteen
care-free years whose cheeks glow
with the rosy tint of healthy child
hood, and whose frank blue eyes re-
fleet the innocence of a heart that
knows not wickedness or deceit
But it is more than that. 1t is the
picture of the first born, and as the
eyes Of the loving parents rest tend.
erly upon it, a thousand precious
memories are awakened in their
breasts.
Once again, for the thousandtl
time, they journey back in though
to the days of long ago. Then, al
now, they often sat quietly tcgethel
at the close of the day. But there
was no May then, no little gray,
Ger which to mourn, no picture Il
bring unhappy thoughts and bite
longings. How bright and rosy tht
world looked to them then, as happy
in their love for each other the.
faced the future Ger which they 81
loved to plan. Through tear-dim
med eyes the mother smiles, she i
thinking perhaps Of the first grea
JOY when God entrusted to thei
keeping mothers greatest treasure
She gives no thought Of the care and