SALT OF THE EARTH

Evening Star, Issue 23379, 23 September 1939, Page 3

SALT OF THE EARTH

[Written by A Mixistkti’s Wife, for the ‘ Evening Star.’] I sat on tho manse verandah in tho late afternoon, revelling in the beauty of the old garden. Toiling up tho lane, laden with a parcel which proved to be jars of jam, camo Mrs M'Donald. Small of stature, she walked briskly and erectly, it surprised us to learn that this businesslike little lady had celebrated her seventieth birthday. Already we recognised her as being of the salt of the earth. She joined me on the verandah, and presently the children came in from school, bringing a neighbour’s boy with them. This lad stood listening to our conversation, as is his wont. Mrs M'Donald was showing me a finger nail, roughened by an accident. “I wonder,” she said, “ what girls who spend so much time polishing their nails would s think of my hands.” (I wondered, too.) I’ve no patience with that sort of thing,” the lady continued; “ our bodies will soon be in the grave. Why bother so much about our hands?” Echo answers why! I could just imagine our youthful neighbour gleefully repeating that at his own tea table later on. My visitor was silent for a few moments, then turned to me with a happy smile. “ After all,” she said, “ the problem of life is not a difficult one, for it solves itself so very soon—by death. Death may alter our place; it cannot alter our character. Though it mny alter our circumstances, it cannot alter ourselves.” “ Won’t you stay to tea, Mrs M'Donald?” the minister inquired when he came in from his visiting. “ No, thank you,” she answered firmly. “ I’ve never yet left mv husband to get a meal for himself if I could possibly be there. Some people talk a lot about loving—l like to show my love by my actions.” “ Then "i’ll run you home in the car,” tho minister said, reaching for his hat. The little lady rose to her feet. “ No,” sho insisted, “ I would rather walk. The two miles between my home and the township are what keeiß me fit ” She twinkled as.she added, “ Not many women my age can walk as well as I can, or get through so much work either.”

The next Sunday morning was very wet and cold. The only folk from a distance were Mr r and Mrs M'Donaid. It took more than wind and rain to keep them away from church._ But they were cold when they came in, for they had only a buggy and a very old horse. No cars had ventured out. The minister suggested to the faithful pair that it would have been advisable for them. to have stayed at home by the fire. The reply was, “ There frill come a day frhen we can’t be in our places. While we can, we will.” The venture brought no ill effects, for which we Were thankful. Some time afterwards 'the old husband met with an accident, from which he never fully recovered. Calling to see him, I found him bright and cheerful, still in possession of his quiet chuckle. “ A real lady came to visit me yesterday,” he told me. “Yes, and she sat on the chair you are sitting on now—a real lady.” I didn’t quite know what to make of his mood, so made some inquiries. “ Yes,” he said, quite seriously, “ it was Mrs Chesterton, a real ladv.” This elderly gentlewoman, with her regal manner, had made a deep impression. Then came a day when the old partner passed on. Before the funeral a service was held in the church. The little widow could not be persuaded to stay at homo. With the quiet determination that characterised her, she took her, accustomed seat at the front, very crushed looking, but sitting quiet and straight throughout. “ I would not have missed coming,” she said. “The service was such a comfort to me.”

Graciously refusing all offers of company she went back alone to the little home where she had spent all her married life. Shu decided to carry on the small farm herself, and when we called, a week later, she had just been round the sheep. She looked tired, for the day was warm, I asked'if she would not consider giving up the farm, and coming to live in the township. “ And what would I do all dav?” she demanded, with a smile. “ No, while my health lasts, I’ll stay where I am.” '■ “ I have a great deal to be thankful for,” she frequently remarked. With her cheerful courage and her determined spirit she reminded me of Mary Slessor, of Calabar fame. With her, what should be done could be done, with what she whimsically temped “ stick-at-it-iveness.” “ Better a willing boy with a wheel barrow than a baulky boy wilth a cart,” was one of her quaint sayings. ’ She lived with the good and great; her small sitting room was well stocked with books. She quoted Carlyle, Emerson, Kingsley, and Robertson Nicol; the ‘ British Weekly ’ and the ‘ Weekly Scotsman,’ with the local daily paper," kept her knowledge up to date. v . , I was back in the district when she celebrated her eightieth birthday. Her old friends gave her a little party and presented her with a travelling rug, for she was leaving the next week to visit her brother in Sydney. “ Are you going alone?” I asked. _ “ Why, yes,” she answered, evidently surprised at my question. “ My nephew will see me off at Wellington, and I’ll be met at Sydney. I have nothing to fear.” She looked a little troubled as she added, ” I reach my destination on a Sunday morning, and X don't liko tlmt o.t flll. 1 lijivg never travelled on a Sunday, and I don’t want to commence now, but I suppose I can’t help it this time. The Sydney trio proved a happy otic, but nothing "could persuade her to forsake the little homo she had come to as a bride. Thankfully she came back to all the old joys and interests, taking the best from life, and giving of her wealth of experience to those who loved her. _