Five Mile Beach weekly journal., 1914-11-20


- as she looked up she caught the
reflection of her face in a mir
ror over the table and sighed again.
"0h. dear. If l were only slender
and graceful and grown up young
lady or a princess and lived in a pal
ace and had heaps of money and could
carry punches of flowers to sick peo-
pie! sBut here l am. nothing but Bes-
sic Gray-short. stout and homely,
with a broad face and a wide mouth
and not exactly poor. but then l have
to work rather hard for a little girl. and
as for the troubles of this world. some
how I don't feel so badly about them
as I ought to, or else the people around
here don't have any to speak Of"
'sNow's your chance said a little
squeaking voice. Where did 1t come
from? There was nothing In sight but
a heap of pumpkins on a board just
outside the window and little colored
girl passing the garden fence. scantily
clad and shivering in the cold Novem-
Der sunshine. All that Bessie knew of
her was that her name was Poppy.
and she belonged to a family that were
very shiftless, it appeared, from their
unwillingness to work and their ignO-
rant ways of doing the little they
could do.
But it could not be this little girl
who spoke. She was hurrying on with
out turning a glance toward the house,
eager, no doubt. to reach her miserable
shelter from the cold.
Bessie's curiosity was fully aroused.
She went out and stood upon the door
step. The colored child was out of
sight. and everything was still but
the wind, and that hardly whispered
through the leafess boughs of the pear
trees. But there was the voice. close
to her now. Help me down." 1t said.
And Bessie's mouth opened wider than
ever as she saw the topmost pumpkin
of the pile at her side moving itself
without aid of hands. She took hold
of its stem. and, although it was one of
the heaviest of the lot. she scarcely felt
its weight at all.
Garry me ill.," said the voice again
pantingly.
Bessie had not believed her own ears
until now. A pumpkin talking! That
was more wonderful than Aesop's ia
bles. truly. But why shouldn't it speak
as well al the brambles and oak trees
nA1 h.o 80 I~akkIoa0 c. -Aoh4--11 Az
great. thing over upon it's side and roll
ed it, or. rather. let it roll itself, up the
steps into the kitchen.
Cook me-" said the little. painting.
~squeaking voice again. "Cook me-"
Just then her mother came In. Moth.
er, may l make some pumpkin piesT'
said Bessie.
~ I'll, l don't cafe,s was the answer
OF the busy woman. sNone of us seems
to be so very fond of them, but you can
make them if you'll only promise to get
somebody to eat them"
But the pumpkin began to squeak i'm
patiently: Cut me upl Cut me up!'
Determined to have her pies as nice as
they could be made, she poured out her
milk, stirred in spice and sweetening
and made the crust light, wondering
while she rolled 1t out who would eat
the pies when they were done.
But the pumpkin told her as it boiled
in the kettle-no longer with that low
squeak, but with a deep, musical rum
BILE, as If laughing with joy over its
W fate-"Black Poppy's people; black
Poppy's people," And why shouldn't a
pumpkin rejoice in the sacrifice of its
own life for a benevolent purpose?
And Bessie herself, when she carried
the pies to Poppy's wretched home.
having first set one aside in the cup
board that her mother might see that
she could bake pies worth anybody's
eating, looked almost beautiful with
the excitement of doing a kindly deed
Her sun Drowned hands and stout arms
were just fitted for the beautiful work
they had been doing, and she had as
much reason to be proud of them as
any lady Of her delicate fingers, for
certainly those are the prettiest hands
that do most willingly the work they
were made for.
And black Poppy's people could not
have received one of the graceful min
istering spirits of the story books with
more eloquent gratitude than they did
the homely little girl and her heavy
basket Of pies. Indeed, to those half
starved beings she was a vision Of love
liness, a real angel of mercy!- New
York Press.