Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 19, Number 40, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 January 1898 — REFLECTIONS OF A SPINSTER. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

REFLECTIONS OF A SPINSTER.

1 Y fire is warm to<a night and crack's ,es merrl, y iu tlic open grate. My cat ls curled u p ° n her soft cushion and is blissfully purring, herself to sleep. Two . books lie on the I /& cozy little table near me, the “Reveries of a Bachelor” and the “Love Affairs of

an Old Maid.” My knitting, with its balls of pale blue and deep wine red, rests idly in my lap. I lean back comfortably in my big chair, and with halfelosed eyog I let my wayward thoughts wander where free fancy leads them. \v ho knows what tender feelings steal into many a lonely heart when the shades are drawn and a brooding silence settles down on a quiet little house? I cannot help wondering whether, after all, tny neighbor over the way Is more or less happy than I, and my bniud goes back to the? time when we were schoolmates. Lillian at 1G was the prettiest girl in school. Her wide-open blue eyes, her fcoft, round cheeks, and her waving hair ■iade her a picture of girlish beauty. Fhe never cared for study, but a romp, ■ picnic, or a dance was her delight. ■Well, nt 18 she married one of the “boys” and expected to have a gay time forever after. Iler Jack was a good dancer and drove a stylish horse, ■ll the girls envied her, and what more could one ask for? But the first year brought severe disappointments. Lillian grew' careless of her personal appearance and wildly Jealous of Jack. He bated scenes, and preferred to spend his time where he would not be annoyed by them. After lome bitter lessons Jack's wife learned to keep within certain well-defined limits. With her fresh beauty faded, and with the knowledge that she has lost her husband’s adoration, she drags ■ long a weary, life, in which there is ■either pleasure in the present nor hope for the future. Said I to myself, “I am far happier in certain loneliness than In such companionship,” and I looked ■round my cozy room with a sense of relief to think that no scowling face ■nd no harsh words marred my “Old Maid's Paradise.” Then I/took up my haif-flnished work ■nd knitted industriously for awhile. I was making some socks for little Ted, my young nephew. Who could tell the proud joy, the Infinite tenderness and love which were In the heart of Ted’s little mother? There was an answering thrill when 1 thought of her, and contrasted her life with mine. How closely she clasped the little fellow in her arms, as If she would shield him from all the world! With what eagerness she watched for the first responsive look, the first plain word, and the first tottering step. And there was even an absurd fondness in those tender mother eyes as she gazed on the ■ntlcs of her young son and Imagined them vastly superior to those exhibited by any other infant In the wide world. Ted was not a commonplace, everyday baby, not he. Ills wordless babblings ■were full of wisdom, only wo poor ordinary mortals could not. understand the mysterious language in which they .were uttered. , I I laid down my knitting and In the red coals of the open tjre grate 1 read the coming years, bringing I lie Inevltn* bl* changes for Ted ami Ids mother. The boy Is not satisfied to live within the clasp of those sheltering arms. He must see life, be free, go ont Into the world and judge for himself. The mother's eyes nre dim with gathering tears and she trembles with forebodings. Her boy, her little Ted, Is out there, away from her love and watchful enre. He mny be cold, or weary, or 111. *The great world Is pitiless, and mere arc many snares. She reads the vMipers and trembles at every aensn‘Aonnl Item. O, if she could only have I ept -him ss he #as, a little Innocent shlld, when she knew his thought* and directed bls actions. Her solitude Ti far more lonely than mine, and for the

moment I am glad that the tiny sock in my lap is for Helen’s child and not for mine. But as the years spin on I see Ted* a man; no longer a heedless child; the comfort and support of his mother. He has gone through the fires and come back.to her, with his boyish fancies, his egotism and ignorance replaced by the quiet decision and self-reliance of the .mature man. How his mother appeals to him, defers to him, ’and anticipates his wishes! In her eyes he is the wisest and the handsomest young man in the town. • She is proud of his loverlike attention to her, and with a flush on her cheeks and an wadded brilliancy in her dark eyes, she looks but a few years his senior. These are happy days, but in the height of their enjoyment the shadows come stealing. It is, at first, only a thought, an imagined preference, but it is soon deepened into a reality. Ted's mother believes In marriage. She would say so if you or I should ask her. She believes in it as the trueest and happiest condition for man and woman kind. She Las deliberately and firmly studied the question’, and decided that there is not a'single girl inlhe town who would make a good wife for her boy. There, are good girls, pretty girls, accomplished girls, but not one who combines the necessary gifts and graces. Lately' there lias been a difference in Ted. He has not talked so freely at dinner, and Inis been strangely absent-minded. He surely cannot be attracted by frivolous little Miss Flossie, the only and petted darling of Dr. Everett? Ted’s mother always admired her son’s taste until nbw, but in this most vital choice she cannot understand him. In vain she appeals to bls reason. He says little and acts much. Though he respects his mother’s opinions, she is forced to see that she is alienating him at each expression of them. So she decides like a sensible woman to make the best of things. Miss Flossie is invited to spend a quiet afternoon with her prospective mother-in-law. She is found to possess a shrewd little head, a warm heart and a charming manner. « After all that has been said and done they decide to make the most of each other, and in the intertwining of my balls of fleecy yarn I see the parable of their united lives. The last stitch on the last needle is bound off, and the playful kitten is rolling the bright remnants on the hearth rug.—Mary Pea< body Sawyer, in Boston Budget.