THE TRUE STANDARD by Josephine Weatherly

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jan 27, 1904

THE TRUE STANDARD.

By Josephine Weatherly

"WELL, I declare! I don't see why she need to have come into our class to spoil our good times!" exclaimed Nellie Brant irritably, with an especial emphasis upon the word, "she." "Here we were, the 'Congenial Dozen,' used to each other's ways and satisfied with each other's company, and now she must make the unlucky thirteenth and spoil it all. I wonder who she is, anyway!"

"My papa says they are from the city," replied Julia Trenton, "and that they have come here to live on account of the mother's poor health. In fact, I believe he said there were but the two in the family, the invalid mother and this girl, besides an old colored 'mammy,' who, I imagine, is cook, chambermaid, and nurse combined; for I don't suppose 'my lady' turns her hand to anything!"

"No, indeed, she doesn't, judging from her white, delicate fingers," broke in May Jones. "Why, last Sunday when I sat next to her in church and offered her part of the book to sing from, I was positively ashamed of my coarse, red hands next to her white ones. But that is what it means to be the oldest girl of a large family and have, besides the housework, the yard and barn chores to look after. I wish—wish"—and Mary broke off abruptly with a deep sigh that was almost a sob.

"Well, I, for one, don't propose to pay any attention to this stuck-up city girl, Miss Lucille Haskins," declared Jennie Long. "She can't snub me, even if she does come from a big city and wear tailor-made gowns, and fancy Gibson waists, and sport rings upon dainty fingers; while my best garment is a twenty-cent lawn, and my only ring mama's wedding ring that got too small for her, for like every one else in this village, my mother has to work, and that means rough hands and big knuckles."

"Girls, I don't believe Lucille means to be stuck-up," came in a kindly tone from little Lucy Stone. "I think she has a very sweet face and gentle manners; and as for her nice clothes—well I think none of us would object to wearing such if we could afford it. I am sure we are misjudging her."

"There you go, Lucy Stone; always making excuses for people and seeing beauty where none exists! I actually believe you'd be willing to do the Sir Walter Raleigh act and spread your best Sunday-go-to-meetin' cloak down in the street for this newcomer to walk over, lest she soil her dainty patent-leathers!"

"Now, Jennie Long, for shame," broke in Julia Trenton, who already repented, in her secret heart, at her share in this conversation. "You know as well as I do that there is nothing toadyish about Lucy. She is just a living embodiment of that charity that 'thinketh no evil.'"

"Now, what did I tell you girls," said Nellie Brant, "that this girl being the thirteenth is going to prove unlucky for our class; for here we are about to have a quarrel on her account. O dear, O dear, why did she ever come here to disturb 'the even tenor of our way,' as the poet puts it."

The foregoing conversation took place one Friday afternoon as the girls of the sixth grade in the village school were on their way home. It will be seen that they were very much excited over the advent of this girl from the city, who, as they said, had broken into their erstwhile congenial circle.

Lucille Haskins burst into the sitting-room where her semi-invalid mother was lying on the couch, with a toss of her pretty curls and a flash of her bright eyes that were wholly foreign to her; insomuch that her mother exclaimed in surprise, "Why, Lucille Haskins! What is the matter with you?"

"Matter enough," said Lucille, beginning to cry. "I'm never going—back to that—school again. Here—I've been going in the class over two weeks—and not one of the girls—has even spoken to me beyond a stiff 'how-d'ye-do.' They let me sit at the end of the recitation bench—and when school is out—they all lock arms and go laughing and whispering. And from the way they glance at me—I know that I am the subject under discussion. O dear—I can't stand it any longer—even if I never get any education!"

"Well, well, dear. I am sorry," replied her mother. "But perhaps you have been to blame. Perhaps you have put on airs before these simple, kindly village girls; and yet that is not like my little daughter. Have you forgotten, dear, that I was born on the farm, and lived there until I was married?"

"No, mama, I have not forgotten; neither have I put on airs. I tried to make friends with the girls, but from the very start they seemed to have taken a dislike to me. What ever shall I do? I am so lonesome, and do so long for girl company and girl friends," sobbed Lucille.

"Well, let the matter drop for the present, dear, and go and help mammy get the tea ready. Her rheumatism is quite troublesome to-day," replied Mrs. Haskins gently.

How the "Congenial Dozen" would have stared could they have seen that "stuck-up city girl" setting the tea-table, pumping the water, going down the cellar for butter and cream, and then after tea wiping the dishes.

The next Wednesday morning the Long home was the scene of unusual activity. Mrs. Long was busy at the sewing machine upon a dress for Jennie that must be finished by nine o'clock, for Mr. Long was going to take Jennie to the city with him for a day's sight-seeing. Jennie was all excitement; for it was seldom that such a treat came into her busy, and as she called it, commonplace life.

"Now, there is Lucille Haskins. She goes to the city once a week to take music lessons, besides having lived there all the fourteen years of her life. I suppose she'd call me a 'greenhorn' and a 'country-jake' for being so excited over this trip," mused Jennie, as she flew about to get herself ready. "But I don't care. I am not going to let the thought of what she might think spoil the day for me."

The train did not leave the city until six o'clock, so that Jennie was thoroughly tired out with sight-seeing and was glad to lean her head against her

father's shoulder on the way home. She was just about to take a little nap when the loud crying of a baby in the rear of the car aroused her. Indeed, it aroused and annoyed everybody, for the crying was kept up for about fifteen minutes. Several of the passengers offered the child candy and oranges, but to no avail. The poor mother was either too used to its spells, or too worn out to be able to do much to quiet it. The soiled dresses of the little family—for there were two other little children besides the baby—and their tired looks and empty lunch-basket showed that they must have been on the road for several days.

The passengers were just about to resign themselves to the continued crying, when all of a sudden it stopped.

Everybody, Jennie included, looked around, and this is what they saw: A young girl with bright eyes and pretty curls had taken the baby and holding it up against her dainty shirt-waist was patting it lovingly upon the back, while, like a sentinel on duty, she began marching up and down the aisle with it, wholly oblivious to the surprised, as well as admiring, glances cast upon her.

"Well, I do declare!" whispered Jennie to herself. "Who would have believed it? To handle that dirty, rumpled-up baby, and in those lovely clothes, too. Why, I wouldn't do it, even with only this wash gingham on."

When the porter called the station where Jennie lived, she again looked back toward the family group, and saw the baby asleep upon the lap of the likewise sleeping mother; while the young girl who had brought about this peaceful state of affairs was quietly gathering her bundles together preparatory to alighting.

Again Jennie whispered to herself, "Who would have thought it!"

The next day, after school, the "Congenial Dozen" were holding an animated conversation on the way home.

"Now, girls, I saw it with my own eyes, or I'd never have believed it," Jennie was saying. "There she was with that lovely tan skirt and white shirt-waist, nursing a soiled, sticky, crying baby. The family looked wretchedly poor, too. Emigrants, I imagine, because the mother only shook her head at the various questions that people asked. Those who gave the child candy and fruit gave—gave—O, I hardly know how to tell it. They gave things that, while they cost money, were not the real things; while this girl gave—herself! I'm afraid I've not made myself plain; but I do hope you will understand. I'm sure you would have understood had you seen, as I did, the spirit of the act."

"Yes, Jennie, we understand," replied gentle Lucy Stone, who took it upon herself to be spokesman, the rest being too surprised to be able to do more than stare at Jennie.

"And I think," again resumed Jennie, "that the right thing for us to do is to go in a body and call on Lucille Haskins, and atone as far as possible for our unkind judgment and cold treatment."

The girls now found their voices and cried: "O, we're not dressed good enough to go a-visiting—especially on her!"

"Yes, we are," exclaimed Jennie. "Lucille has seen us in these clothes at school to-day; besides, now I know that she cares nothing for fine clothes, but just for people. So come along, girls. No time like the present for undoing the past."

Lucille herself answered the door and cordially invited them in and introduced them to her mother, who immediately proceeded to make all feel at home by her tactful remarks and kindly manner.

Not a word was said about the incident of the coach; but Lucille felt that for some reason or other the girls were differently disposed toward her than they had ever been before. "And to think," she whispered to herself that evening as she reviewed the pleasant afternoon she had spent with the girls, "to think that I imagined they disliked me. Why, they were only backward at first."

"And to think," said Nellie Brant, as the crowd wended their way homeward, "to think we thought she was stuck-up!"

Emporia, Kansas.