New Mexico state record. (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1914-19??, 1920-02-20

the noise OF her quick fingers on the
keys began
Fifteen minutes passed. Henry
Bradford got up and n~ervously paced
the floor. lie wandered through the
Eagles small composing room. the
odor OF ink in his nostrils. The Office
cat leaped out into the circle of light
but when he stopped to pat it. il
scurried away.
Its getting late. Ann" he com
planned. at last.
You wait. Henry" she replied in
turbed.
Twenty minutes later. she rose
from the machine and turned toward
her desk. Her firm gaze caught Hen
ry Bradford's unsteady one, and held
it fascinated.
"A little editorial, Henry" she an
nounced. Il think | shall call it "A
StainedIGlass Window. | should like
to read it to you. if you don't mind"
Yves" he stammered. This thing
was getting on his nerves. He glanced
timidly out at Main street. the band
concert was long since over, the pave.
ments were almost deserted now. He
dropped into a chair, and fixed his
eyes on a calendar on the wall. Go
on, Ann" he said.
Miss Parkins smiled her twisted lit
tie smile. and began:
over thirty years ago. the writer
of this editorial had a friend. a happy
girl whose heart beat fast and whose
eyes shone bright with the very Joy
OF living. For live she did-every mo
ment of every day to the full-and
she looked forward to the future with
eager expectancy.
And then-she married the man
she loved. a man she thought fine and
noble. to be his companion and his
partner. Her face alight with pride
and happiness, she followed him of to
the home he had waiting for her-a
great farmhouse back in the hills.
And there suddenly. tragically, she
earned that she was to be not his
partner, but his unpaid servant. He
worked her to the last ounce of her
strength; he drove her as effectually
as if he had stood over her with a
whip
Few who have ever lived on a
farm realize the drab, terrible, monot-
ony of labor that many women on
farms endure, Some die; some go
mad. This little bride of whom We
write, did neither. She became a
machine She went to bed at eight
o'clock each night. weary of body and
soul. She rose at four each morning
still weary. She cooked. she swept.
she baked, she MIXED, and churned.
She never entered her parlor except
TO clean it. All the pretty little things
OF life for which she longed were de-
MED her. All the companionship of
books and friends that had formerly
been hers was shut off from her now.
She was married,
"'Woman's place is I'm the home
The tragic m aiming of that sentiment
to her, In the home. not as wife and
companion, hut as a prisoner, with
the curtains down, the doors barred.
and all the joyousness of life pass
ing by on the ether side! And all
this that her husband might pile dol.
lar on dollar that. IN greed and selfish.
ness, he might grow Itch,
Those who had known and loved
her saw the light driven from her
eyes and the spirit from her soul To.
ward the close of her life the family
moved from the farm into a great city
house that her savings had paid for.
She might have broken her bonds
then; but it was too late She wan
dered about through the rooms OF that
house, a dazed look on her face. a
broom and dustpan in her hands. She
had forgotten how to live,
Not long ago a little, crushed.
beaten, humble, forgiving woman was
buried out on the hill. 1t was all that
was left of the girl we knew thirty
years ago.
But surely you say. the woman
is TO have her reward. Surely. all
those years of faithful sacrifice are
to pass without some acknowl-
And YOU are right To re-
pay her for all those humdrum.
.penned-up years when she might have
been enjoying the world she lived in
as she enjoyed it when a girl. she is
have-a stained glass window in a
Mapleton church.
That is the tribute of a loving hus.
to the wife he enslaved. That
is the proof that she did not live
and die-in rain A stained glass
bought with the money she
gave her life to hoard!
The chief figure in the design of
window is to be that of a m
on a Observation-Disclosures
her face a reflection of the peace that
Is TO be found-we Understandable the
house. The friends of the dead
will see the irony of this. only
they recall that never once did
sit in church on Sunday morning
when her mind was not busy with the
she must hasten home to cook. !
hat her man might eat when he had
worshiping his Maker.
Sometimes God must look down {
lnd smile a sad little smile at a few {
IF the things that are done in his
I
Miss Parkins finished reading. her l
yes flashing. her cheeks afiame.
What she had written was written s
rom the heart. She looked over at {
Henry Bradford. His face was ashen c
low. he wet his thin lips with his
so that's what you think of me. is $
t." he managed at last to say. s
That's exactly what think Han. 6