Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1930-06-29


York's Broadway.
A broker who bought papers from her on the
fv had ncknamed her that because she re-
minded him of an Aunt EN- who had reared
him.
Like most happy misnomers it stuck. Aunt
Ems real name waS-well, no matter. There
was something short and stout and matronly
about the appellatiCn Aunt En-; something
kind and wholesome The name fitted the
little woman in black and the straw poke bon
net which she wore both Winter and Summer
as she sold newspapers to the flying world that
hurtled past her doorway.
Every evening at 5, rain, snow, shine, storm,
Aunt EN- stood shouting her wares in her door
way. when the last theater light blmked out
she wrapped up her loose change In q red
handkerchief tucked under her folding camp
chair for that purpose, and with her daughter
Wenda. who called for her, marched her way
home.
IN q way, Aunt EN- was quite character
about that busy neighborhood. In the quick
tide of it's ebb and flow she had known great
people by sight (some as customers), and hun
dreds of clerks and petty folk on their way to
subway and tram nodded Aunt EN- their good
morrow as they tossed their pennies, snatched
their dailieS and ran.
That little tucked-in corner in the doorway
had yielded Aunt EN- 20 years of livelihood.
Enough, mind you. to rear into successful
maturity six offspring with whom she had
struggled, widow, through years lean,
some of them, that the cutters in her face
still showed the ravages Of pain. deprivation,
hunger.
All that was changed now. Five Of the six
. of her children had left the nest, three sons
and two daughters, married, and were on their
own. A fairly prosperous little flock of petty
'tradespeople, set up here and there about the
:, great city in such small enterprises as sta
" toners shop, fruit stand or notion store All
of them given their start, too, by willing If
lean contributions from the old ladys change
handkerchief.
st" When she was so Aunt EN- might well have
felt entitled TO sit back and let those for whom
" she had toiled through the years do some of
the toiling for her.
That what lay heavily the heart Of
" Wenda, the only unmarried one of the flock
OF course the others all offered to contribute
to the upkeep of the old woman, but some
: how to Wenda who felt pasSionately about it.
there something half-hearted about the
profferings of the sons and the daughters and
the in-laws.
In hear heart wenda felt bitter toward these
brothers and sisters. 1t did not seem to twist
their hearts the way it did hers to see the old
woman standing bumped in her doorway
shouting.
MOT that the old woman could be easily
dissuaded from her labors. On the con-
trary, Wenda had occasion to know that all
too emphatically. After all, on her own earn
- ings as stenographer at $28 a week, wenda was
well able to take the burden of the labor of
long hours, outdoor exposure, to say nothing
of the mental aspect of the work, off her
mothers shoulders.
Night after night, calling for her mother
after theater hours, Wenda argued with her
spectacle to see the girl and the woman
huddled there together in the doorway
Wenda who had a pretty, eager sort of face,
as if she were smelling at star, and who was
attired in all the mock splendor of the New
York ONCE girl, wrapping the old newswoman
carefully across the shoulders in the knitted
jacket she had worn for years and stacking
the unsold newspapers in their corner of the
doorway where by arrangement, small boy
called for them before sun-up.
Sometimes Wenda had to admit to herself
that 1t was the sting of the social stigma that
went with her mothers occupation, almost as
much as the desire to spare her effort, that
prodded her on to remonstrance
Mama how do you think girl feels having
newsboy for a mother?"
Go along! newsboy for a mother was
what kept enough warm milk in your baby
Sottle to make you what you are
You're entitled to rest now"
Yese My boys and girls got enough strug-
gle to raise their own families"
II never marry. What fellow, the kind
I'd like, If I like any, would marry into q