Evening Republican, Volume 23, Number 172, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 July 1920 — WILL-O’-THE-WISP [ARTICLE]

WILL-O’-THE-WISP

By A. MARIA CRAWFORD

(©, 1820, by McClure Newspaper Syndicate.) "Your job Is waiting for you, my boy,” said Telford McGraw, patting the broad shoulder of a convalescent pa* tient in St. Luke’s hospital. Jim looked up, a little smile twisting his wide straight mouth. “You’ve been a great boss, Mr. McGraw.” “Tut, tut,” said the old man. His merry round face' was wreathed in smiles. “I’ll be glad when you are well enough to come back to the office. Girls were all right during the war when we couldn’t do any better but give me a boy in my place of business, every time. Now that girl who took your position when you had to come out here to the hospital. She’s a clever little thing, but you know, sometimes, I actually forget that I am dictating because I am so busy watching the little brown curls around her face and wishing that I had a daughter as pretty. Well, here she comes! I didn’t tell you, did I, that she asked to come along with me? Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

He beamed in fatherly fashion on the girl who was walking slowly toward them. “Here’s Jim, getting as fit as a fiddle,” he called to her. “This is Miss Mary Sue Lenoir, Mr. Janjes McConnell, formerly Sergeant McConnell with the A. E. F. in France.” “I hope that you will soon be able to come back to the office,” she said soberly. Jim flashed her a quick look, half curiosity, half unbelief. “Sure you’re glad?” he smiled. “Yes indeed,” she answered. “I would like to get out of the office by April.” “She’s on the level, Jim,” said McGraws as he left. “She’s told me the same thing.” “You’re making a.pretty nice salary for a girl,” suggested Jim, after McGraw had gone. “Don’t you like the work?” She shook her head, turning to look out of a window. Jim leaned forward a little, looking at her. Mary Sue seemed sympathetic. “I can’t hold down a desk job for a Jong tim'e, maybe never again. I’ve developed nerves. I’d rather have lost a leg, or an arm.” He leaned back in his wheel chair, closing his eyes, half ashamed of himself for disclosing his secret. She said nothing and presently Jim opened his eyes. She had taken off the sailor hat and was leaning her head against the ledge, looking away at the trees. Again Jim felt a subtle little thread of sympathy between them. “The doctor thinks that six months on a farm will fix me up but I don’t know a thing about farming. YOu know- what farmers expect of hired help, brawn and muscle! And Til have to do something—to live.” Mary Sue got up, smiling a warm, friendly little smile at him. “There are some pear trees In bloom down the path. I’pi going to wheel you there and we’ll plan something together.” Once under the trees, Mary Sue sat down on the grass at his feet. “Isn't it lovely here?” she cried. Look! There’s a white throat building her nest In the crotch of that tree, with the white bloom all over it, like a flowering vine on a tiny cottage. I love the country, the birds and the flowers, the green fields, with daisies and buttercups. You’ll love it, too, when you go.” Jim smiled. “Not much,” he said. "Dark, old muddy roads, have to carry an oily, smelly lantern. I’m through with the dark and candles —had enough of it in Picardy and Flanders. Rats, too ! They’re always in barns.” “Not our barn! I’ve a lovely plan for you. It’s—it’s just fate,” she lifted her eager, dream-filled gray -eyes and Jim admitted that she was pretty. “I live with my Aunt Fanny and my Uncle Silas Lenoir. You’ll like him. He’s fine. He wrote to me only todax —that they need a young man on the farm this summer and they want me to find somebody for them before I go back. Uncle Si said that he wanted somebody who was good at figures, who could help him carry out some plans to improve the stock, to make the farm pay a maximum amount. You see, you’re It! And Aunt Fannie’s cooking! It’s too good to talk about. You’ll get fat. Sergeant—” “Oh, say Jim,” he pleaded, the shadow on his young face lifting for the first time. She clapped her hands and, as if in fairy-llke answer, a little flurry of snowy pear blossoms sifted down on her head and shoulders. “Will-o’-the-wisp-o’-spring!” he whispered. “It sounds great, the farm, Aunt Fannie, Uncle Si —and you—but you’d get tired of your job. I can’t let you fool yourself—and me.” Mary Sue moved very close to him, and her hand found his hand and held It, in warm sympathetic compa-aton-ship, there on the wheel chair. “We’re not dreamers nor faddists in the country,” she told him. “We’re simple folk and we feel a personal responsibility in our neighbors’ welfare. The folks in cities live next door to each other for years and never speak. We couldn’t do that. In a month’s time in the country, you won’t be conscious of a nerve in your body. O Jim,” she said softly “there’s peace and happiness and God in the still places. You’ll come? What shall I write Uncle Si tonight about you?” The boy leaned forward, feeling again the old urge of life, renewed dreams, hopes, the longings common to man. "Tell Uncle SI,” he said eagerly, “that I’ll follow wherever you beckon, Wlll-o’-the-wisp-o’-spring r