AUTUMN LOVE.

Waikato Argus, Volume V, Issue 376, 31 December 1898, Page 1 (Supplement)

AUTUMN LOVE.

More than one of the passing throng that went to and fro over the pavements of the little city park had noticed the small, tidy, comfortable, and serene-looking old lady sitting on one of the park benches near the fountain. The old lady had nothing to sell and no favours to ask of anyone. Had she offered any explanation as to why she sat in the park sewing or knitting steadily she would have said simply: 1 1 love to be out in the open air where the sun is shinin' an' the birds singin', with the blue sky overhead. Then, I like to set an' see the people go by, an' wonder where they're come from an' where they're goin. I've got so I know lots of 'em by sight, an' a good many of 'em nod an' speak to me so nice an' fr'enly like, and' some of 'em stop an' chat a little once in a while, * But I come here,' and then there would come a quavering and pathetie note into her voice, ' because somehow or other I seem to kind o' make trouble at home, though, laud knows, I try not to, but it don't seem to do any good, You see, I live with my son and his wife. My daughter-in-law, Susan, she seems to think it's kind o' hard to have me 'round, though I do every stitch o' the mending' an' all the plain sewin', an' there's a lot of it to do, for Susan has a big house an' rents furnished rooms, an' there's always sheet 3 an' towels to hem, an' I'm never idle, so I can't belp feelin that I earn my keep. 4 Then I've got a pension of 12dol a month that I draw every three months, but somehow it always happens that my son is in a tight, place an' needs the pension money to tide him over, an' then I guess he an' his wife fergit about it, for I never get it back ag'in, I wouldn't mind that if they could only feel that the pension money an' work I do paid for my keep. I do hate to feel that I'm a burden to 'em, an' I can't be any great of a one, for I'm real savin' an' careful o' ray clothes. 1 I'd go into an old ladies' home if I could save ray money so as to pay the entrance fee, but even if I did my son an' Susan wouldn't be willin' I should go because it would make talk, an' I reckon they'd miss my pension mightly. « So after I git the dishes washed up an' things o' put in order, I get my sewin' ready an' come out here in the park where I ain't in anybody's way an' where I don't make trouble for anyone. Susan says she don't think L accomplish as much sewing as I would if I was in the house, an' mebbe I don't, but I'm happier out here where folks seem fr'nly and pleasant like. The policeman on this beat comes round and chats with me now an' then an' calls me • grau'ma'am' an' sometimes I tighten up a button on his coat. We're real good fr'ens. Then the old apple woman is real fr'en'ly an' often runs over an' fetches me a speckled apple or pear. There's lots o' fr'enliness in the world. That grey-haired old gentleman ovor there the other side o' the fountain is one o' my friends, an' we chat together a good deal. He's got a pension, too, an' is situated a good deal as lam in other recpects. He lives with his married daughter, an' I gather from what he says that she wouldn't have 'im round If _it wa'n't for his pension. He gits 12dol a month, same as I do, but his daughter don't let 'im keep but a dollar of it, an' she begretches him that. It hardly keeps his pipe goin,' The old man referred to was inoffensive looking man of about 65 years. He was pretty shabbily dressed, and would have been even rugged at times had not the little old lady "kep' him mended up.' It was not uncommon to see him sitting in his shirt sleeves by her sido while she skilfully mended or sewed up rents in his shabby old coat. Ho bad a kindly face and childish blue eyes in which there was often a look of muto appeal. He spent most of his time in the p ark, because he, too, was ' in the way ' in his daughter's home. She was a shrewish and slatternly women with a tongue like a blade. Pew kind words ever fell from her lips, and none were ever spoken to her old father. When the old man's pension money came it was seized by his domineering daughter quite as if it were her own, and some months she failed to allow him even his dollar for " spending money.' It was a ' kind of comfort' he Baid, to talk over his troubles with some one, and he found the old lady to be a willing and sympathetic listener. They had not known each other until they had ' kind o' got acquainted,' as the old lady said. Now they were the best of friends, and the old man frequently road the newspaper to her while she diligently plied her needle. They made a pleasant picture sitting there under the elms, and more than one passer-by had said—' They would make a good study for an artist.' The old man had found her sitting there one spring morning when he camo walking rather wearily across the park. His ' rheumatis ' had been giving him a little trouble. ' But I reckon it'll not trouble you any more now that it's gettin'

so warm an' pleasant.' said the old lady encouragingly. • I'm hopin' not,, he said. ' I shall need all the strength I kin git to hold out agin' Martha, my daughter, the way I'm planam' to hold out next week.' « How's that V 'Well, my quarterly pension comes in, and I've made up my mind to draw it an' keep it my own self this quarter. I'm needin' a good many things an' I've turned my pension over to Martha ev'ry quarter for so long I'm bound an' determined to keep it this time. It'll be a hard tussle, but I'm goin' to do it.' 'I would so,' said Hie old lady sympathetically. ' It's kind o' funny but I've made up my mind to do the same thing with ray pension. Mine comes due next week, too, an' I'm goin' to keep ev'ry cent of it. I'm needin' a new calico dress an' overshoes, an' anyhow I want to have a little money in my pocket. It ain't right for me to give up so to my son, after all I've done for him. I jest shan't do it any longer. ■There was a resolute note in her voice, and she gave her head a little toss of defiance. ' You're right,' said the old man with decision. «It ain't right for us to be domineered over so. Sometimes I've thought of gettin' me a room an' shiftin' fer myself. I'd do it if my pension was a little bigger.' ' I've thought o' the same thing,' said the little old lady, ' an' I don't know but I'll do it yit. I'm real spry an' it wouldn't be no trick at all fcr me to keep house for myself. Laud knows I work harder and stedier now than if I was keepin' house in a room or two by myself. Then I wouldn't be in nobody's way nor make no trouble for anyone. I've got my own things, too. Ev'ry thing in my room in my son's house is my own an' they couldn't keep me from takin' them away if I had a mind to.' ' I've got a good cook stove, an' a lot o' things stored away,' said the old man. ' They couldn't make me sell 'em, for I didn't know but I'd want 'em some time an' I—l—.' He scratched in the gravel with the end of his cane, and there was silence for a few minutes. The pillow slip the old lady was hemming fell into her lap, and she let it lie there while she crossed her hands idly and looked at a pair of sparrows chattering away in a tree across the walk. Suddenly [the old man said slowly, without looking up : 'We might—that is, if you was willin'— put our furniture an' our pensions together.' 4 Yes, we might.' The old man dropped his cane and faced her eagerly. His wrinkled hand reached out and touched hers ; his voice was tremulous with eagerness as he said : • We will if you only say so. I've thought it over an' over ag'in, but I ain't had the courage to ask you to —to marry me. We'd be real happy an' comfortable together. If you'll just say the word we'll break 'way from all this bein' domineered over and live as we've a right to live. If you'll only say the word !' The next day the old lady, clad in her brown merino Sunday gown, and the old man in his Sunday suit, appeared in the study of the minister of a little mission church they both attended, and were married. ' It'll be an awful s'prise to my son an' his wife,' said the smiling old bride. «An' to my daughter,' said the bridegroom, and then he added valiantly : 'But let 'om say an' do what they will. I'll defend you ag'in 'em all, my dear.' There is not in all the city a happier or more contented couple than this pair of old pensioners in their two cozy rooms. They may yet be seen any fine day on their favourite bench iu the city park with the birds above them singing their love songs and their own hearts not too old to be filled with tender affections, with hopes and with harmonies,—J. L. Harbour, in the Detroit Free Press.