Monday, February 16, 2015


It seems to me that a great many of us women when we come to old age, could look back with more pleasure on our lives, had we tried harder to attain true Christian courtesy which means "thoughtful kindness." Tactlessness can become almost a crime. We have all been more or less guilty of it. But while there is life, there is hope and most of us may frankly say of ourselves, "There is room for improvement."

"What! You spent ten dollars on that hat? I call that extravagance!" virtuously pronounces Mrs. Tactless. Poor Mrs. Timid blushes nervously. Her John told her to buy a really good hat this time as she was the best little wife in the world, but Mrs. Tactless makes her feel quite guilty.

"You don't mean to say you have four cats? What nonsense! One cat is enough in any house," says Mrs. Plain-Spoken. "Drown three of them." In vain Mrs. Lonely Woman tries to explain that their home is so quiet that the cats and kittens, with their playful ways, amuse her. "Drown them, shoot them, poison them!" is Mrs. Plain-Spoken's final command.

"My, but you're looking yellow and your cheeks are all fallen in," says old Mrs. Pessimist, who is kind in her way, not in the least realizing that a woman in her forties still desires to "look nice" and may be rather upset by the depressing greeting.

"Oh, thank you, but I guess I've got heaps of handkerchiefs already," is the ungracious way in which Mrs. Selfish receives a Christmas present.

"You're always writing letters when I come. What a lot of money you must spend on stamps and look at the time you waste. I don't write a dozen letters in a year," proclaims Mrs. Gadabout, who is always grumbling because the mail man never brings her any letters. Mrs. Letter-Writer thinks lovingly of her old parents, her aunts, her brothers and sisters and friends in distant places and of the happy bond that has never been broken yet owing to her own "extravagance" in stamps and time.

"Time you put up new wallpaper in your parlor," cries Mrs. Thoughtless. "It doesn't cost much and makes such a difference." Mrs. Poverty does not feel like telling Mrs. Thoughtless that it is all she can do to get money for real necessities.

"Now, you mustn't give way. It is selfish, you know. Your dear child is better dead. She was never very strong and she will be far happier in Heaven," is the only consolation Mrs. "All-For-The-Best" has for a heartbroken mother who never again will hear dancing footsteps, never again feel two loving little arms, never again look into a pair of sweet candid eyes.

"What, you're never getting married surely! I think at your time of life you should be above such nonsense. The folks will just laugh at you." In this kindly way does Mrs. Cold Heart welcomed the shy announcement of elderly Miss Lonesome.

"Well, I've heard you preach a heap better than you did today," is the unsympathetic verdict of Mrs. Fault Finder on a sermon by her hardworking, anxious minister.

"Oh, what weeds! You must come and see our garden," says Mrs. Boastful to poor Mrs. Drudge who has to combine the duties of housekeeper and hired man.

Such are a few glaring examples of the tactless speeches we have all had the misfortune to hear in greater or less degree. Let us try to avoid not only the substance but even the shadow of this particularly unlovely failing.

Monday, February 2, 2015

THE LAND OF PROMISE, A Foreigner, Michigan, 1928

Dear Farmers' Wives:

I am writing to let you all know how much I appreciate American country life. To begin with: Six years ago we emigrated from Europe, my husband, one daughter and myself. We came from a small lively town in Czechoslovakia, my husband's native town. By birth I am a German.

We all looked upon America as "the Land of Promise." So we came in 1921 to try our luck in the much praised country.

We came straight to a large city. Imagine how dismayed I was! Nothing turned out the way we expected. I had to go to work, too, and we could barely make a living, the three of us. I cried so much then! I don't believe I ever cried so much before. I wanted to go back to my native land as I was happier there. Everything was so strange to me. I had severe headaches and I was a nervous wreck.

One day my husband came home with good news. He showed me an advertisement in a paper. It was about a farm for rent.

A week later we were on the farm. We never went back to the city again and don't expect to.

It's five years now that we have been in the country. And I enjoy it. I've never been sick since I left the dingy atmosphere of the city.

Want to go back to Europe? Oh! no, of course not! Never. 

My daughter, Helene, who was 11 years old when we emigrated, had to start school in the first grade. She is seventeen years old now and goes to high school and the professors say that she is one of the smartest pupils in a school of nearly 300 children. Helene loves school work and she expects to be a teacher after she graduates.

We are all pleased with country life and we're saving enough money so that we can have a farm of our very own.

I believe that there is something in the phrase, "The Land of Promise."

Saturday, January 3, 2015

1930's BOOK PREVIEW "AND THE TEAKETTLE KEPT ON SINGING;" Comfort from Pennsylvania; March 1935

The following letter is one that I often read aloud at speaking engagements. This letter will be included in my third book, The Farmer's Wife 1930's Sampler Quilt-Inspiring Letters From Farm Women of the Great Depression and 99 Quilt Blocks That Honor Them, due to be released in spring 2015. The block that accompanies this letter is called, "Mrs. Smith."

"Mrs. Smith"
The mercury was hovering around zero. The children started off to school in woolen clothes and fleece-lined overshoes and husband was in the barn with the sheep. In the house, fires were holding winter at bay. Mother was beating an egg for noodles for the beef broth simmering on the back of the range. The room was filled with the steamy aroma. A squeaking came from the snow outside. The door opened and in stepped Mrs. Smith.

“Oh! How warm it is in here!” she exclaimed. “What are you cooking? It has me hoping that dinner isn’t far off.”

“Just some scraps of beef and noodles for the broth,” Mother answered. “George told you I have a quilt in, and I’m glad you’ve come to help in the quilting.

It was only ten o’clock when they sat down together at the quilt. How their needles and tongues did fly! Laughter too, rippled along merrily. At eleven Mother fixed the fires, put the potatoes in the oven, stirred up some cup cakes, brought a relish and a jar of red raspberries from the cellar, spread a clean cloth, and set the table for three.

Mrs. Smith, quilting on, listened to Mother’s flying steps. Tabby, stretched by the fire, was the picture of comfort. There was a new smell of baking potatoes and cake. Brewing tea added its fragrance. The cold scurried over the floor as Father entered.

“I stopped in at the henhouse,” he said. “Eight eggs. Not so bad for this cold day. Hello? Got company?”

“Sure! Mable came over to help with the quilt.”

“Hello, George,” came from the sitting room. “No, I didn’t come to quilt. I came to escape a little of this dreadful winter. Some way, it’s never winter in Bess Worth’s house.”

“Now, don’t brag on my wife,” Father said banteringly. “It’s all I can do to live with her without that.”

March 1935

Sunday, December 28, 2014

I LOVE WINTER; by 12 year old, Anna De Marse, Minnesota; 1907

Of the four seasons, I love winter best. Then the busy farmers have their rushing work all done, and when the lovely white snow comes down and the old earth wears her white dress, how many nice sleigh rides they give their families.

Our papa often hitches up Mollie and Prince on the bob sleds in the evening and takes mamma and all of us children out for a ride and what a fine time we do have. We go to some neighbors and play games and sing songs and have a jolly time.

Other pleasant evenings are spent at home when the neighbors and their children come in.

And then the nice long evenings to read. I think I can learn more in one week in winter than I can in a month in summer. I think a walk on a clear frosty morning gives one a clear brain to learn with. I never missed a day or was tardy during the five months' winter term last year.

And then, the skating and sliding. I can't skate but I enjoy seeing the others. I can slide, though, and have a sled of my own. We have a hill right in front of our school house, and we school children can hardly take time to eat our lunch at noon, we like a slide so well. Our papas say that hill is a "shoe bill," but we children love it.

Monday, December 1, 2014

GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY; by Dr. John W. Holland; 1928

A reader of The Farmer's Wife in the Southland has asked me to discuss the subject of Growing Old. Rather an odd request, for "Growing Old" is not a very welcome subject in America just now. [Or 86 years later in 2014.] Beauty experts and Keep-young-societies are filling the land with Anti-wrinkle Truth, yet the simple fact remains that our yesterdays do not come back.

For most people, the advancing years are a blessing for through them we grow away from the follies and fictions of life to a real understanding of the meaning of things.

Growing old gracefully is largely a matter of living gratefully. 

To me, in middle life, sunrises and sunsets have lost none of their beauty. Mr. Thomas Edison, now at eighty says, "The things which I now do give me as much pleasure as the things which I did when younger."

There is really no age to the mind or to the soul. What seems to be age is a slowing up of the bodily processes. Glad of each morning, and grateful to God for the blessings of each day, my faith is that our souls defy the calendar.

To grow old gracefully, one must learn to sidestep worry. Worry is the plow that furrows our faces. It is a useless sin and does incalculable harm. Worry tries to tack tomorrow's load upon the tired shoulders of today. It causes us to reach our little hands to take the reins out of the great hands of God. Every time we give up to worry we release poisons into our blood that unfits us for our tasks, and make us take hold of the tools of life with palsied hands.

Jesus observed over-anxious people and said to them, "If God so clothed the grass which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, oh ye of little faith?"

The amazing thing about Jesus is that he could face all the suffering which he knew was ahead of him without worrying about it. He certainly is our Teacher and Master in the school of trust.

To grow old gracefully one must keep busy at useful tasks. The do-nothing becomes an is-nothing. Someone says, "Suppose a person is so crippled that he cannot walk, what then?" I would reply, "No one ever arrives at the place where he needs to be useless." I knew of a lady who was bedfast for years. Her room became a sort of shrine where people went to catch her faith and see her smile. Physically helpless, she became perhaps the most useful person in the town.

I once read in an undertaker's magazine, "If you want a coffin, stop working and you will soon get one." One is doing a useful task in the world who perfects an even temper in suffering, though he is deprived of active toiling.

To grow old gracefully, it is necessary to preserve faith in oneself, one's neighbor and in God. How much easier it is to preach this doctrine than it is to practice it! We fail to reach our ideals and then give up trying. Others fail us and we lose faith in them. Life shows its teeth to us and we lose faith in God. Yet, in all this there is hope for us. Even though we fail, we can believe that we are capable of better things. A man is always better than his worst. So is his neighbor.

A better understanding of the ways of God come to us with the passing of the years, making it possible for us at last to sing.

"Blest be the tempest, kind the storm
That drives us nearer home."

To me, old age is a beautiful thing and I am going to strive to keep to the above directions, hoping that I shall be able to prove them, should God give to me the time of gray hairs.

The Bible says, "A hoary (gray) head is a crown of glory if it be found in the way of righteousness."

Robert Browning adds:
"Grow old along with me,
The best is yet to be."

Monday, November 24, 2014

DOESN'T REQUIRE "TIME OFF"; by Mrs. P.N.; Wisconsin; 1930

Dear Peter Pan (the pen name of another farm wife):

I read your request in the December issue for a schedule which would enable you to spend more time with your children and their father. Perhaps I can help you.

If you will pardon me, I think your attitude is wrong. A well-known child specialist says, “Leaving the dishes in the sink, to gather the children to one’s knee, does not fill me with enthusiasm. The habit of orderliness is not taught by this method.”

Friends who live in cities often comment on the fact that a farmer and his family have a great blessing in being so much together. We have a boy and a girl. We are interested in the same things. My children and I have seen many wonders of the setting sun, coming in from the field on the tail end of a truck-load of potatoes. My husband and I had a lot of chummy afternoons this fall, traveling over the farm, to pick up piles of stone with which we made a foundation for our new garage.

Of course, we have happy times when we play together, but my point is obvious. We farmers and our children, working side by side, need not seek opportunities to be together.

I think our greatest family joy is our garden. The children get as much out of it as but we do, possibly more, because a child’s capacity for enjoyment is so limitless. Children who help make rows of carrots and spinach, don’t have to be bribed to eat them.

There are trees and shrubs about our home which we four have planted. The children have watched them grow husky with as much interest as I have. Every year our perennial flower border has a few additions. The children help decide what these shall be.

In the winter, when our hired help is gone, we all do chores. Coming in from the barn these winter evenings, we always stop to look at the sky full of glory. I could fill several pages full of things we do together, things that don’t take a lot of time and don’t call for a schedule. This spontaneous way has a distinct advantage. In fact, I think if one were consciously to sit down for an appointed hour with the children, there might be something forced about it. You know we take medicine at appointed hours.

I’m not “crazy clean,” but I like orderliness. The children help me in this, too, by keeping their toys picked up when they aren’t using them, and by hanging up their clothes.

When we review all the good times we’ve had since we had a family, it’s not the long trips we’ve taken over the state, which stand out in memory, any more than some afternoons we’ve spent husking corn, and rainy days when we’ve varnished floors.

Monday, November 3, 2014

HER DREAM CAME TRUE; March 1919; Part 5

He showed her the things he had collected by land and sea and together they fitted up the north room. She touched all his possessions with reverent, loving hands, arranging and rearranging, suggesting, talking a little, laughing softly, sometimes pausing, with a little intake of the breath, to look at his broad shoulders or note his sure movements or listen for his “Mother Cornelia!” The joy in the little white house might well have bulged the walls.

“See,” said Ray, standing at the window, “our happiness has spilled over into the rainy day outside and has made the sun shine through the clouds.”

It was there at the window, watching the sunshine glint across the wet leaves, that they spoke of the thing that had lain in the minds of both. It was with a joyous surprise that they discovered that they had both thought of it. The delicate flush rose in Miss Cornelia’s face as she said:

“I was afraid you would think me presumptuous!”

“My Heavens!” exclaimed the boy, “I am the presumptuous one. But I have wanted it all the time--to be legally your son.”

“And you know,” she suggested shyly, “I have some property--”

He turned quickly.

“Mother Cornelia, could you think--?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t, truly, dear, “she protested, taking hold of his coat. “But can’t I be just a little glad that there is something?”

“I have sometimes wished,” he responded “that you were downright poor so I could support you.”

She laughed gaily.

“And I am so blessed thankful that I am not. Your burdens will come soon enough,” she continued soberly. “I want the rest of your years to be as beautiful as life allows.”

When the long evening, with its music and songs and over-sea tales was ended, Ray turned at the foot of the stairs to inquire.

“Will you come and tuck me in, Mother Cornelia?”

She nodded, not daring to speak. When he had gone, a bright tear splashed upon her hand. Her face looked beautiful.

“To think,” she whispered to Mary, “to think he asked for that! Oh, Mary, I wish he were little, little! And my heart is just bursting with joy because he is so big and strong.”

She laughed a bit at herself and folded away her embroidery and went to stand before the fire. The whole room bespoke some new presence. A pair of big gloves lay on top of the piano, the music had been left scattered about, the fire tongs were out of place, the sofa cushions had lost their usual primness, and the whole room bore the air of having been waked up and used.

Miss Cornelia smiled happily at the disorder and stopped halfway up the stairs to say:

“Don’t straighten things up, Mary. I want to see them just that way in the morning. I want to be sure it is all true. And--in the morning--son and I will have a long talk!”

In the long talk that followed, she learned that the boy’s few, simple ideals were deep-rooted, that the thoughts of her son were clean thoughts. He spoke of some problems he had solved and a few conclusions he had reached. She saw that his lonely life had thrown him back upon his native strength, and she rejoiced at the straight-forward naturalness with which he gave her his confidence.

She pondered it all deeply. Is there a Power behind what seems to be just happenings? Was it meant that out of the loneliness of a maiden woman’s heart and an orphan’s heart, this joy should grow?

“It seems,” she said once, wonderingly, “that all this has happened often before, that it is only one of many, many such talks.”

“Doesn’t it?” he responded quickly. “I have just been thinking that. All my best dream has come true.”

He slept at last, with her hand beneath his cheek. When his breathing grew deep and even, she tucked the clothes about him and kissed him softly and stole downstairs to stand again before the fire.

Then quite suddenly she was sobbing in Mary’s arms with no clear reason for doing so, and Mary was rocking her gently with a low, tender crooning.

After a while the tears ceased and she smiled up into the kind blue eyes.

“Do you know what glorious thought came to me just now, Mary?”

Mary shook her head, then said quickly, “Maybe it’s the thing I was thinking--he’ll marry and there will be little feet?--some day--?”

“Yes. And oh, I just feel that I shall live to see it, and know all the joy--” Mary poked the fire meditatively.

“We’ll have to make the spare room into a nursery--”

“Oh, Mary, Mary!”

And Miss Cornelia wiped up the last tear with a laugh, a lovely mother-laugh.

The end.

Monday, October 20, 2014

HER DREAM CAME TRUE; March 1919; part 4

Miss Cornelia read into this incident an interest on the part of the captain that made her happy.

“He must be just a little more than usual,” she thought. “And his picture tells the same. The mouth and chin are firm, and the eyes--they are fine.” Mary, the spare bedroom doesn’t seem just the thing. It doesn’t fit, somehow. How about the big, high north room? We have always used it for storing things but we can clean it and put everything in the attic.”

Mary agreed that the plan was an excellent one and was for buying new furnishings. But Miss Cornelia was the wiser of the two. Her’s was the real mother-heart, after all.

“Just a bed and chairs and dresser. We don’t know his tastes. He may have a fish net and a torn old flag and maybe some strange knives. Just a new coat of buff for the walls, and then let him arrange everything to suit himself--Oh Mary, Mary, it can’t be really truly true that he’s coming home!”

The short winter days slipped away and the soft spring skies brooded over the quickening earth and almost before one could catch a sharp breath April was in the land.

Then began a great bustling and baking and stewing, in and about the old white house. Hot, spicy smells floated up from the kitchen, and a soft, clear humming floated down from the big north room. Miss Cornelia patted the pillows and wondered with wistful eyes if anyone had ever sung him to sleep or kissed him good-night. It was all strange and unusual but full of heart-comforting possibilities.

When the great day arrived, she did not go to the station. She could not bring herself to face the idle, curious crowd. But she pressed her face against the rain washed pane and, with wildly beating heart, watched old Henley’s ancient “bus” toil through the mud.

Then, almost before she knew it, she had opened the door, and her face was down against a wet overcoat and a deep voice was saying, “Why--mother! You’re crying!”

“No, I’m not!” she denied. “Stand off and let me look at you.”

She took in every detail while the hazel eyes smiled at her, and a big hand held hers. He turned the hand over with a meditative pucker of his brow and then raised it and kissed it softly squarely in the palm. There was no embarrassment or self-consciousness after that.

“Seems like,” said old Mary, an hour later, smiling from the kitchen door at the gray head and the brown one bent together above an old album, “seems like you’ve been here before and belong.”

The hazel eyes smiled back at her. “And don’t I belong, Mary?”

The ceremony of unpacking a small, hide-covered trunk was the big event of the happy day. Mary smoothed and petted and exclaimed over her Bombay shawl and laid it carefully away.

“But,” protested the boy, “that shawl is for everyday use. You mustn’t put it away like that.”

“Ray,” was the spirited rejoinder, “that shawl is too good for everyday. I’ll wear it to the Sewing Circle on Wednesday afternoons and to church on Sundays. So there!

Ray retired from the encounter laughing and placed in Miss Cornelia’s hands a beautiful little, gem-studded Buddha.

“That was the thing,” he explained, “that I wouldn’t tell you about.”

“But Ray, it must be awfully expensive.”
“I imagine it is,” and his eyes sobered.

“Don’t you know?”

“No, Mother Cornelia.”

She looked at him quickly.

“It was given to me,” he explained slowly, “by a man in India who was grateful to me.”

“Why was he grateful, son?”

“I saved his life.”

She put out her hand quickly as if to draw him from some peril, and then laughed softly at herself.

“I must not be foolish. I have to remember day and night that you face danger or the possibility of danger--and not be foolish.

So they went through the happy hours together.


Monday, October 13, 2014

HER DREAM CAME TRUE; March 1919; Part 3

“All must be fair and straight between you and me, my son. I always think of myself as a widow but I am not that in name. I am Miss Cornelia Baker. I will tell you about it, though it is not altogether easy because I never speak of these things to anyone but good Old Mary who has loved and tended me for many years.

“When I was a young woman of twenty-three I became engaged to a man named Ernest Gregory. He was second mate of a merchant ship and had every prospect of advancement. We decided to wait until he should have a captaincy, and then I was to live with him at sea. He got his ship in three years but one thing after another interfered to delay our marriage. One night in an awful storm, his ship, the Grayling, was driven upon the Hampstead reef, somewhere near Australia. Not one was saved.

"It was years before I could get hold of my life again. I could not bear the mention of the ocean or a ship.

"When I read about that good woman in Indiana I suddenly wanted a son who was on the sea. The thought seemed to bring me, somehow, nearer to him. Do you understand? All this was twenty-three years ago, five years before you were born. But I think some way, that you will understand.

"Don't forget to send me your picture. Do you have plenty of warm clothing these cold days?"

Miss Cornelia quite forgot that the Michigan was cruising in the southern Pacific; but the boy's next letter reminded her and she laughed merrily at herself.

"Dear Mother Cornelia:

I am going to call you that if you like it. I like it. It sounds sort of cozy.

"And now I am going to tell you something that will please you.

"We have been near Australia for two days now, and when I came on deck yesterday morning I saw the water foaming over the long line of rocks that lay just outside a stretch of sandy beach. I heard the captain talking to someone and I caught a word that made me stop and listen. The captain is over sixty and he knows all the history of these coasts.

"'Yes,' he was saying, 'that is Hampstead Reef, as ugly a little stretch as the eastern hemisphere can boast. I suppose it has done as much wickedness as any half dozen reefs.'

"'Tell us some of its crimes,' I heard someone ask.

"'Well, for one of its worst deeds, it sent the Grayling to her tomb with every man aboard, Captain Gregory commanding. That was twenty--no twenty-three years ago,'

"He looked over at the reef and his voice was softer than I ever heard it before.

"'Gregory was a fine chap. He was one of the most fearless and one of the best captains that ever docked in New York.'

"That was all I heard but it made me feel proud of the man my mother loved, and, as we passed the reef, I took off my cap to him who had faced his death there so long ago.

"I like your picture. You are a lot like I thought you would be. Here comes mine. It was taken a year ago and I am some heavier now. I'll have some others taken when I come home. Home! A real home with a fire place and a flower garden and a chicken yard. And you told me I could put rings and a punching bag in the big basement. Five more whole months!

"I have some little things for you, seashells and some little things made of bamboo and a little ivory lion and Something Else. I will not tell you what till I come. And there's a Bombay shawl for Mary and a piece of pottery from Algiers. You mustn't tell her though.

"There are heaps of thing to talk over together. We will talk together about everything, won't we? Some fellows don't seem to feel the need of someone to talk to but I do. My vacation begins in April, and I can spade up your flower beds. Won't it be fun?

"The other day the captain walked over to where I was working and whistling away (work seems to go so much faster these days) and he stood looking at me a while. It bothered me like the dickens and I guess I blushed and he laughed and said, "Have you adopted a mother, Durkan?"

"I guess I looked astonished and I stammered, "Yes, sir," and he laughed and walked away. Now how do you suppose he knew?"

Saturday, September 20, 2014

HER DREAM CAME TRUE; March 1919; Part 2

Both women dreaded and yet longed for the reply.

“It would be something to think about,” said Mary, wistfully.

“And yet,” said Miss Cornelia, thrusting away her embroidery frame, “do you know, Mary, sometimes I am afraid, just plain afraid! It seems almost like tempting fate. The sea took the best of my life away.”

Mary nodded understandingly.

“But it isn’t that way, honey. What comes from the sea this time will be making it up to you.”

Miss Cornelia looked at her doubtfully but said no more.

At last the expected letter arrived and Miss Cornelia carried it home with a wildly beating heart. She laid it before Mary, her throat too full for words.

Mary drew her silver rimmed spectacles down to her nose and squinted at the address. The romance touched her too.

Mrs. Cornelia Baker. I ‘spose she thinks you’re a widdy.”

Miss Cornelia flushed a little. “And am I not, Mary?”

“‘Deed, yes, honey, you are. Let’s open it and find out.”

There spilled out upon the table from the enclosed letter a slip of paper. They both looked down at it and then at each other. It bore the name of a man and the name of a ship. Mary put her arms around Miss Cornelia and a few tears of joy were shed on ample shoulder.

Presently they read the kindly letter together, and Miss Cornelia went away to write a reply of gratitude that a little astonished the earnest-eyed woman who helped motherless boys and boyless mothers to find one another.

The first letter from the good ship Michigan was a never-to-be-forgotten event in the life of the little white house set in the gay little garden. Miss Cornelia read and reread it, and then read it aloud to Mary whose eyes glowed as she listened.

November 3, 1918
Dear Mother:
When I got your letter, I wondered if here at last was someone who really belonged to me. Do you want us to really and truly belong? It isn’t just make-believe, is it? I don’t think from your letter that it is.

I will tell you about myself as you asked me to do. There isn’t really much to tell.

My parents both died in a fire in New York eighteen years ago when I was only a few months old. I was found and put into an orphan asylum where I grew up. From the time I was a little fellow, I have always had a hankering for the sea. There was a teacher in the orphans’ home that was good to me and helped me out, and after a good many ups and downs I got into the navy. It isn’t just what you would call an easy life but it is an interesting one. We learn a lot and we see a lot but it gets awfully lonesome sometimes. There’s a pretty good share of us haven’t any home at all. A fellow let me read a letter from his mother once and I cried like a baby over it.

I’m five feet, ten and a half, mother. How tall are you? I’ve just kind of got an idea that you’re little and sort of dainty and move quick, and your laugh--I can almost hear you laugh. That’s funny, isn’t it?

I'll send you my picture as soon as I can find one, and will send me yours? I want to know just how you look and not do too much guessing. And I’d like to know just a little bit about your life. I have a kind of an idea that you are a widow.

You will write again soon, won’t you?

Your loving son,
Ray Durkan

This letter also was addressed to Mrs. Cornelia Baker.

When she had finished reading it to Old Mary, she sat looking thoughtfully at the envelope.

“I must tell him the truth, Mary. There must be no deceit between me and--my son!” She dwelt lovingly on the word, with a dreamy smile in her eyes, then she tucked the letter into the bosom of her dress and went out to cut great bowls of bright cosmos and chrysanthemum to set about the house.

Her next letter included her picture and many questions about the boy’s work and plans and the happy assurance that they really and truly belonged to each other.

The part about herself she did not find so easy to write, but she launched into it fearlessly.