The Ocala evening star. [volume] (Ocala, Fla.) 1895-1943, 1922-05-20

And the Way He Drew Her Int He
Arms and Kissed Her.
30 many tomorrows now! And what
do they all amount tor And so II
just keep writing, as / have time, till
! bring it to the end.
I'm sorry that 1t must be So sad and
sorry an end. But there's no other
way, of course. There can be but one
ending, as l can see. I'm sorry.
Mother'n be, sorry, too. She doesn't
know yet. ] hate to tell her. Nobody
knows-not even Jerry himself-yet.
They all think I'm just making q visit
to Mother-and l am-tin ] write that
letter to Jerry. And then
believe now that I'll wait till i've
finished writing this. I'll feel better
then. My mind will be clearer. I'll
know more what to say. Just the
effort of writing 1t down
OF course, Ii Jerry and hadn't
But this is no way to begin. Like
the little Mary Marie Of long ago l am
In danger Of starting my dinner with
ice-cream instead Of soup! And so j
And that was at the wedding.
remember that wedding as If II
were yesterday. can see now, with
Mary Marie's manuscript before me
why it made 30 great an impression
upon me. 1t was a very quiet we'd
ding, of course-just the members Of
the family present. But shall never
forget the fine, sweet loneliness Of
Mothers face, nor the splendid
strength and tenderness of Fathers
And the way he drew her into his arms
and kissed her, after it was all over
well, / remember distinctly that even
Aunt Hattie choked up and had to
turn her back to wipe her eyes.
They went away at once, first to
New York for a day or two, then to
Andersonville, to prepare for the real
wedding trip to the other side Of the
world. I stayed in Boston at school.
In the spring, when Father and
Mother returned, and we all went back
to Andersonville, there followed q long
period Of just happy girlhood, and
suspect / was too satisfied and happy
to think Of writing. After all, I've no
ttced it's when we're sad or troubled
over something that We have that tin
Cling to cover perfectly good white
paper with confessions" and stories
Of my life" As witness right now what
I'm doing.
had Just passed my sixteenth birth
day when we all came back to live In
Andersonville. For the first few
months / suspect that Just the glory
and the wonder and Joy Of living In
the old home, with Father and Mother
happy together, was enough to I'LL all
my thoughts. Then, as school began
In the fall, came down to normal fiv-
Ing again, and became a girl-just q
growing girl In her teens.
How patient Mother was, and Faith
er, tool l can see how gently and
tactfully they helped me over the
stones and stumbling-blockst that strew
the pathway Of every sixteen-year-old
girl who thinks. because she has
turned down her dresses and turned
up her hair, that she is grown up, and
can do and think and talk as she
pleases.
II was that winter that went
through the morbid period. Like our
childhood's measles and whooping
cough, It seems to come to most Of
us-us women children. I wonder
whyf Certainly 1t came to me. True
to type cried by the hour over fam
cied sights from my schoolmates. and
brooded days at a time because Faith
er or Mother didn't understand" i
questioned everything in the earth
beneath and the heavens above; and
In my dark despair over an averted
Glance from my most intimate friend,
I meditated on whether life was, or
was not, worth the living, with pre-
ponderance toward the latter.
Mother-dear motheri-looked on
axhast. She feared. I think for my
life; certainly for my sanity and
morals.
II was Father VINO came TO the res
cue. He pooh-poohed Mothers fears;
said Il was indigestion that allied me,
or that was growing too fast or per-
haps I didn't get enough sleep, or
needed. maybe. good tonic. He took
me out Of school. and made Ii point
to accompany me on long walks. He
talked with me-not to -me-about the
] birds and the trees and the sunsets,
and then about the deeper things Of
| life. until. before realized It. ] Wa
sane and sensible once more. serene
| and happy in the simple faith Of my
childhood.
|