The Topeka state journal., 1919-11-21
EDening Story
Azimuth-Ann.
BY MARTHA MeCULLOCH-
WILLIAMS.

her fil1al piety. Nav she wouldn't
never git over it if thar wasn't Ann
somewhars in baby's name" she had
confided to her visitors. But do like
names that sound tasty-Ann never
never was much to my mind"
So Azimuth-Ann toiled up the years,
thru Group. measles, school, first love
and getting religion, weighted with her
name. By the time she was nineteen
it had shrunk in all mouths to Azan-
the faintest pause after the Az. Still
it was sufficiently afflictive-all the
more SO that Granny resenting All
gold beads, no less her chain and
locket. to little Ann. her next eldest
grandchild. That was a shame-Httle
Ann, dark skinned and pale-haired,
became the heirlooms SO i'll. But since
she had inherited also a fine farm,
money in bank, also her dead fathers
thrift, the neighborhood did not say
out loud she was honely-but thought
it all the harder.
Azan was another sort-a gypsy
beauty, with big black eyes and cheeks
like a Jack rose. Graceful withaI-
her dancing was worth watching
walking she moved as lightly as the
bird on wing. Bright thingsN transfig-
ured her. In her long, red coat and
hat looped with gold braid she looked
another creature than the slim girl in
brown calico, something faded who
swer to Milby's halo.
Night was falling cold after a raw
and gusty November day. Milby, an
outlander hopelessly lost in the hill
country, had been genuinely relieved
by sight of chimney smoke Very
shortly he found himself sitting beside
blazing log fire, his numbed hands
resting in a pan of cold water which
Azan had fetched him. while hud-
die of sturdy children stared at him
from the opposite corner and ex-
changed awed yet audible whispers
among themselves.
Mrs. Belts, their mother had laid
her sewing across her knee to engage
IN AHA bic converse with the stranger
rum up moth? How funny-whut
could folks that lived in town. er
handy by it, wanter come down in the
| hills for? Nothin' ter see sir Moth
in a-tall. To be sho, thur wus cir
cuses once in SO often down at the
cross Roads! Father. he's up and
| said all the Children might go next
time. And next time was next week
| actually them brats hadn't done moth
in much since they knowed it, but
| eat and sleep and talk erbout it. Yes
she was goin'-in spite o. beIonpin'-
and the preacher not 1ikin' of it over
we'll The baby wasn't weaned. so he
| jest couldn't go onlesS his ma mIny did
and she didn't believe in bein' par
tial-not to big Children, nor little
uns"
Milby agreed with her on every
point, smiling to himself over the hu-
man comedy. His aching hands We're
| easy-a6 he made to put down the pan
Azau bent from behind him, snatched
| it and darted away. But he caught a
| glimpse of her face, flushed, humiliat-
| ed, scornful 1t gave him a curious
thrill-one that ought to have warned
| him to ride on away before he was
tempted to make love. 1t did no such
n q y tcpt tOf l1Y-rt
next days snow storm, and the day
after, crystal-clear but with a bitter
wind. He had taken the whole family
captive. The chilren ran over him,
| feeling in every pocket, playing with
his watch, his knife, aghast over his
pen-"the stick that made marks 18th
| out dippin'," the three initiated hand
kerchiefs he had by good chance sup
| piled to himself, most of all the ring
upon his finger.
| It touched him that the handker-
chiefs had been distracted while he
slept. and laid back ere he awoke deli
cately clean. 1t was the same with his
| socks-his shoes moreover were kept
at mirror polish. Father, otherwise
Jack Belts, a mighty hunter and in
different farmer, often bore him com
pany in the big room, where he slept
in state, long after the others in
bed. Jack was no dullard, only mis-
| fit pioneer, born a hundred years too
| late. He would have braved and con-
quered the real wilderness. Here in a
| stranded eddy of wild country. he was
| thwarted and stunted. But he did not
know it-that made part of the trag-
| edy. Milby saw that Azan was coming
| to know it-of her father, and of her
| self no less.
She had told him wistfu1ly of the
people down on the river" They
had bottom lands. fine houses, fine
clothes, even pianos. LittleAnn was
| of then-it was by visits to her AZan
knew the difference. No-she was not
going there again-no matter about
| reasons-it was just SO. Then Mrs.
Belts had explained, solely thru the
which left Milby more than ever be-
wildered. But Jacksy, the biggest
boy, to whom Milby was little short
of a demi-god, said disgustedly in his
ended: Nav thinks she's the slyest-
but I bet you don't know now no
more'n shucks what she's been tellin'
ye-erbout Little-Ann hatin' Azan on
account of Joe Hume. He runs the
mill. down yander, and LittleAnn's S
mind is sot on him-but ever sence
he seen Azan-why he's been keepin'
the path hot here"
oh. indeed! Joe: you mustn !
tell family secrets!' Milby whispered
conscious that he was unreasonably
angry, but not admitting to himself
the reason for it.
The revelation had come Saturday
afternoon late. Father was away, out
hunting despite the snow. Milby
ought to have gone with him, but had
stayed behind. At dark the hunter
came home, loaded with fur and
feather, also evidently in high good
humor. He said nothing outright. only
hurried thru supper. and after it put
a half bushel of yams to roast. Then
he made up the big room fire. chuck
ling hard as he did it. 1t was hardly
in full blaze before the dogs howled
in chorus. gay shouts rang over the
howlings, and father, flinging wide the
door rushed outside saying over his
shoulder to Milby, "Y ou've done seen
er snow storm-Row we'll show ye a
storm of ernother sort.
Thus began the storm party-a