WHAT AUNT MARTHY LEFT OUT.
By Anna M. Cune
I DON'T believe anybuddy lives, gettin' old as we, and looks back over life without wishin' they might live it over again. They can see so many things—well, not "lost" (for you can't lose something you've never had), but kind o' left out of their lives. Now, I ain't envyin' other people their good things, money, nor fine clothes, nor easy times (if you can't get 'em, envyin' only makes it worse), but things I might have had and didn't, till it was too late to make over and fill up the chinks o' my life with just the left-out things. "Some of 'em?" Well, I think I might o' had more of sunshine. Now that the children's all grown up, I kind o' wish I'd raised 'em different some way. They're good, respectful children, every one of 'em, but I miss somethin', and I think they do, an' we can't either of us change it now. And lookin' round I can see other homes in which 'twas missed, too, an' seein' how 'twas, I'd like to help others just commencin' to plant their rose-garden of a home in the world-wilderness. I've come to think you can make lots of things a habit—puttin' 'em in even if it is harder to do it and easier to leave 'em out. An' I can see now that's how we left some of the sunshine out, for the love atmosphere to the children is like the sunshine to the unfoldin' buds. You can't see how or why, but it perfects 'em. We read lots about the duty of "inculcatin' love of homes," and yet them writers are never practical enough to tell us how to do it. I've figured out for myself where I missed it in my "inculcatin'." In our family it wasn't really a lack of love, but a lack of expressin' it. Like the sun under a cloud, you know 'tis there, but it don't shine. We all just seem to avoid any demonstration of affection or feelin', as if 'twas sort o' foolish or weak-minded. We knew under this reserve was the same depth of home love and tenderness, but I tell you it took some great extremity of trouble to bring it to the surface, an' then it was too awkward in expression to be understood. We, John and I, give the babies kissin' and pettin', but let them grow away from11us by growin' up. I never noticed the first time my boy was big enough to be ashamed to kiss me, or my girl to climb into my lap. I was too work-distracted to play or plan with 'em, so the pleasure of their child-life was "left out" of mine. First I noticed was when I went back to Ohio last fall. John got my ticket, and checked my trunk, and then he come to the car window; 'twas the first time I'd ever been away since we was married, but he just says, "Good-by, Marthy; take keer of yourself," and when I came back, my big boy, Charlie, says, "Hello, mother!" Didn't I know they'd missed me every meal they set down to, and was glad to see me back? An' if I did, why should I care that they never said so? Well, mebbe because just then a pretty picter came into my mind of my sister, that I'd gone to visit, sittin' in her rocker, and her big boy bendin' over to kiss her an' tell her what a good mother she was. At the time, it struck such an actual pain of longin' through my heart that I had to go to the winder to hide my tears. No, it isn't the difference in people, either; 'tis all in the raisin', for sister was jest as busy dressin' and feedin' and washin' her houseful as I was, but she had her ideals, and she never let the "kisses," and "pleases," and "thank you's," and "dears" slip out of the home life, or let those barriers of restraint grow up instead, as I did; and this is just my advice: Don't leave 'em out, or you'll miss it all, as I do now. Well, I'll finish tellin' you now of those left-out things; of course not all. The things that come sharpest is to see other people a-puttin' of 'em in. I think I missed some of the poetry of life. I never made a rhyme an' I don't want to, but I believe the love of beautiful things is a sort of poetry in every soul. 'Taint so much what you have to look at as the eyes you see with. So many times I looked up at the clouds, an' out to the green fields, an' only thought of weather and crops, and so let that tender little beauty-lovin' plant die out for want of cultivation. "If I had it to go over?" Well, I think I'd put some of the sweet summer and bracin' winter into my life instead of so much quilt-piecin' and extra scrubbin'; an' I'd put some new thoughts from books into my mind to talk about. I'd find some time to lie under the trees just to think; an' I wouldn't be a-thinkin' how to make my new calico, nor what to get for supper, either; an' sometimes I'd let the dishes wait washin' a few minutes, an' sit down and talk with John and the boys in their noonin'. Well, another thing I missed for a long time was the music of life. I ain't no musician, an' can't carry a tune, but I might 'a' had music all the way if I would. Somehow I guess I started with my heart set to what you call a minor chord. I always saw only the sad and dark side of things, an' got in a way of complainin' and frettin' till I slid down in that tone constantly. An', my goodness! how it affects everything and everybody round you, and yourself, too, till it flats even what might have been good notes, and spoils them. It was a good many years before I learned to let the Master Musician tune my heart to sing His praise; but when it was once set to the key-note of joy, how it did change the world for me! I learned a lesson from a little school-teacher who used to, in going past, call to me over the garden-fence. Just a simple, "Good morning," but the cheerful courage, the hope, the inspiration to live and help others live, that she could put in those two words! There may have been blues, headaches, and nerves, but if so she bravely kept them back, and the music that crept out through her voice seemed to say, "Keep sweet! Keep the soul-life on top!" An' so I've come to think that sweetness of temper and cheerfulness are not a matter of nature, but habit. It's just like killin' out the nasty weeds in your garden; it takes hoein' and careful watchin' to keep it clean; but you're glad when it's done.—Anna M. Cune.