Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 122, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 May 1913 — ZIOIA’S OFFERING [ARTICLE]

ZIOIA’S OFFERING

There Were Many Beautiful Ultes, but Her Own Dear Self Counted Most BY GEORGIA LOTT SELTER. If Ziola Potter had lived in a large town, she would doubtless have been called a very charming woman. However, in her own, plain-speaking little community, people wondered why on earth she didn’t marry and live like other folks! —. There was no use in trying to conceal such apparent facts as the leaking of the roof, and the coldness of rattling windows and loosened clapboards, or that most of her scanty living came from the little garden and a few hens in a house as dilapidated as But Ziola managed in some unimag' inable way to wear frocks of a daintiness and style beyond most of her neighbors. And she could loop back her frayed curtains, arrange her antiquated furniture on her faded carpets, and serve tea from her delicate old cups with an air that every one of them envied. Having neither husband nor child to absorb her attention, her one great interest in life had grown to be the upholding of family tradition. And just what a task thib is for two slender hands and a still slenderer purse, only those who have tried can know. One day in rumaging through some old papers, she came across this significant item in one of her mother's accounts: “Made our usual Easter offering.” Usual Easter offering. What on earth has she to otter? But an offer she must make! Ziola counted on her fingers—-she had never had much experience with 'figures except in subtraction —there were eight months of interevening time. o ' But time was of no account. After a sleepless night, the great idea came to her. Flowers! She already had the best igarden in the little village, and her flowers were all that ever graced the bare, little church on Easter. But this year—and every year to come—there should be banks of flowers, until the congregation learned to look upon them as her “usual Easter offering!" A warm, sunny strip along the front of the garden was chosen, and spaded painstakingly. She knew every trick of fertilizing and working the soil, planting the bulbs and protecting them through the winter. In the early spring, when other gardens were still wet and cold, the green sprouts began to shoot up industriously. She counted every stem, every leaf, every blossom. |‘l love everyone of you,” Ziola whispered, “you beauties! There is just one week left for you to grow—you must hurry—hurry!” Bending above them absorbed in itheir beauty and fragrance, she was unconscious of all else, until a mighty splintering and throbbing crashed upon her. At her very feet lay a confused mass of fence pales, crushed flower stalks, an overturned runabout and a man’s scared face. Ziola, her hands clasped over her throbbing heart, stood in soundless misery. “Are you hurt?” cried the man, .struggling to his feet in the midst of ithe wreckage. Ziola did not stir. “For heaven sake, madam, speak to me! Are you injured?” “No,” said Ziola, bitterly, “but look at my beautiful flowers!” With a sob she flung her apron over her face and dashed past his into the house. “Well, if that doesn’t beat the Dutch!” George Gibson stood still in astonishment —angry astonishment. “Flowers! She does not think about my life, or my ruined machine, or her own narrow escape!” He looked about ruefully. A farmer driving slowly down the otherwise deserted street, came at his call, and they soon had the machine righted and «jt>ack in the uneven road, apparently none.the worse for its escape beyond the knocking off of considerable paint. But the fence! ' 1 “It was about ready to fall down, anyway," muttered Gibson, in no pleasant humor, “but I expect Miss Pepperbox thinks I had no business cardning into it And I think the country has no business to have such roads that a fellow cant stay in them. I can’t see how on earth I came to make such a •uke!” He hesitated a moment. “I expect I’ll have to tell her I'll come back and mend the fence, or she twill arrest me.” And be strode up to 'the door and rang the old knocker. No response. >, “But surely she hears," he muttered, Tinging for the third time. “Well, I’ll come back to-morrow. Maybe it is just as well not to see her today!” And he smiled grimly as he climbed into his machine and whirred away. Ziola sat still in bitterness of spirit. For the first time in her life she refused herself to her neighbors, when they came to inquire about the wreckage. “I can’t see them, and go out there and look and talk it over and over," she whispered fiercely when she heard some one coming. “1 just cannot do it!” . Her wondering fowls went supperless to their early perch, because she dared not venture out to feed them. -She sat on in the darkened house, not trying to stem her grief and dlsapuointmenL 'll I -W" «.

When Ziola went forth bravely next morning, able to smile grimly about her adventure, she found a box on her back porch. Upon the top, when the wooden cov< er was removed, was a note begging her to accept the cbntents in part rep l aration for the damage done her garden. It was filled with bulbs of many shapes and colors. “This doesn’t help my Easter offering,” slie said, “but I suppose I ought to be grateful for such a fine collection.” And when a little later the damaged runabout stopped decorously before what was left of her gate, she opened the door with her usual graciousness at the first ring. “Ah—good morning.” The man held out his card. Ziola smiled when she read tt “Is it possible this, is Cousin Mady’s Cousin George?” she inquired. “So I learned last night when I told her about my blunder,” Gibson smiled in response. “And believe me, Miss Potter, I was more sorry than before, if possible. I’ve come this morning to do w'hat I can toward restoring order out of this chaos.” “That is quite unnecessary, I assure you,” she answered. “A fence is supposed to be a protection against the intrusion of strangers. Mine proved entirely inadequate when put to the test, so it is equally unnecessary to replace it.” “We’ll settle that later. Now, Miss Potter, tie a veil over your hair and come with me. I promised Cousin Mary I’d bring you over for dinner.” Ziola was surprised to find herself enjoying her ride, and later allowing him to bring her home through the fragrant twilight. Next day he insisted upon replacing the broken fence, and then in planting the flower border with the new bulbs. Mtss Potter assisted as a matter of conscience, And last of all, on Saturday afternoon, she found in the old parlor such a mass of beautiful lilies as she had never dreamed of possessing. angry and impatient I was,” she cried contritely, “and here I can make my flower offering after all.” In the early morning, Ziola entered the little church, her arms aching with their beautiful burden, her heart full of rejoicing. But she stopped in amazement when she lefted her eyes. The chancel was a bower of loveliness. The air was heavy with frangrance. “Ziola,” cried George Gibson, coming quickly toward her,, “do you like it? It is your Easter offering.” “It is beautiful,” whispered Ziola. “And now, dear child,” taking her burden from her, “I want you to make another offering today—more sweet and precious than this. Cousin Mary is in the vestry. She'says she will give us just five minutes and her word of honor not to peep! Then she is going to take you home and help you through the mysteries of dressing. “Ziola, will you marry me, here, this morning, among the flowers?” Ziola caught her breath sharply. “Isn’t this just another way of unceremoniously running down my fences?” she asked, with an uncertain smile. “Perhaps so, dear. But haven t I more than repaid the damages?” ' ~ “Yes,” she admttted.lettingher hands remain in his, “I —believe you have!” (Copyright, 1913, by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.)