Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 22, Number 81, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 June 1901 — Fourth of July [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Fourth of July

DAME JULY'S NOISY CHILD. 4&e rose In the morn, good Dame July, .And looked at the clock, with a smile and a sigh. As she stood In her spotless gown, "**He never was known to be late,” she said; "It surely is time he was out of his bed. I hope he is hearty and well, the dear! Such a beautiful nap he has had! A year ts none too long for him. Hark! what s that?” She gave her ribbons a hasty pat, And smoothed her apron down. S. thnmp, a bang, on the floor above •"He’s up!” she cried, with a look of love. A bang and a thump—and then ©own over the stairs with a bound he came. And shouted and hugged the dear old dame TUI her cap fell off and her breath was goift. He called for his drum and he called for his horn. He danced and whistled and laughed and And raised such a breeze that the flags he flung aTrom the windows flapped again. •"It’s only my Fourth!” good Dame July To the wondering neighbors that hurried by With motherly pride explained; "He Is Just a little bit noisy and wild, X must confess, but the dearest child! My others are all of them gentle and mild. But children alwuys so—boys will be boys, of course, you know! And down on her motherly knees she went, And helped him to Are off his gun, content. Though her fingers were burned and her apron rent, And her ribbons all spotted and stained. ft was early dawn when his fun began; From garret to cellar he romped and ran Through the neat little, sweet little house. ?e strewed the parlor with taugle of toys, he walls re-echoed with riot and noise; He broke her china and rumpled her hair, And wore all her pretty new carpets bare: And the sun went down and the stars came out To see what the racket was all about; And at twelve clock with a final shout He frightened the midnight mouse. “The dearest child!” said Dame July, And she looked at the clock with a heartfelt sigh. As she righted her cap with care. "I hope he has had a good time, the dear. And—will stay asleep for at least a year! The sweetest children sometimes, I find. Are a trifle wearing to body and mind. For boys will be boys, and I’m rather glad My Fourth was the—only—boy—I—had. And sleepily nodding her dear old head, "I guess I had better be going to bed—• f’m a little bit tired—myself!” she said. And went to sleep In her chair! —Woman's Home Companion.

off oblivious of what was passing behind the desks. This day a fresh grievance had come, through the suggestion of, a youngster at recess that they “beg a lock of Miss Independence Day’s hair to light firecrackers with to-morrow.” Well, to have such a name and red hair in th#hargain, was too much, and she grew more and more raging. She had one of those strong, intense natures, which bear long in silence but once giving up, give up utterly for the time. Bursting into the house, she threw herself into her mother’s arms in a passion of tears, sobbing: “Why did you give me such a dreadful name?” Mrs. Day petted and soothed and drew from her by degrees the story of accumu-' lated woes. When she was somewhat quieted, she said: “I always meant to talk to you about your name, Pen, dear, but was waiting until you were a little older. I regret I did not do it sooner, but I had no idea what my little daughter was bearing. “You know your father and I lived in England years before you were born. Your brother, whom you never saw, lies in a green church yard there. We were poor, and life was pretty hard for us, so we decided to try our fortune in the United States. Everything prospered with us after we came here. Your father found constant work, and we were very happy. I suppose that is the reason why he became so devoted to his adopted country. He used to say he was the best kind of an American citizen; others were bom so, but he was one from choice. Then the Civil War broke out and I could see he was uneasy thinking he ought to enlist, but he would not do so until he hnd saved enough money to keep me comfortably, and so matters went on until the second year of the war. I remember it was the 20th of March previous to your birthday. The last think he whispered to me was; ‘lf a baby comes call it Independence. That name will answer for a boy or girl, and it fits so well on ‘Day.’ ’’ “I partly believe he meant it for a joke to make me smile instead of cry, but there was no time to explain, for the next minute he had kissed me and was gone. I need not tell you how lonely and anxious I was. The time went on to those dreadful days in the first week of July, 18»33. Yes, your father was at Gettysburg. How anxiously I watched the papers and on the third —that's nine years ago to-day—the evening paper brought the terrible news to me, as to many another woman. There was the list of the dead, and there was his regiment; there was his company and there was his name —James Day. No other man named Day in that company; there could be no mistake. He had been killed in the first of the fighting. I can see those fearful letters now when I shut my eyes.” Here Mrs. Day broke down, and little Pen could not say a word, only stroked her mother's hand silently. After a minute Mrs. Day controlled herself. “Next morning, the morning of July 4, you came, my darling, my comforter, and this is the reason you are ‘lndependence Day.' I could not give you any other name. You are your father’s own child —his hair, his eyes, even his intense nature, are yours. Now that ehe knows, I am sure my little daughter’will be as brave as he was, and proud of her name because of him. Remember always, dear, not a boy of them would laugh if they knew the real story.” So it happened that when Miss Independence Day went to school on the morning of July 5, there was a certain new dignity in the child’s bearing; when roll call came her voice had lost its petulance and had gained an unknown sweet-

ness, withal a ring that reminded one of a clear toned bell. Something in her alt said, “You may tease me as much as you like, I shan’t mind, for I’ve got a secret,” and we all know that when boys find teasing does not tease they stop. This is not all, however, nor even the best part of the story. One day before her tormentors had grown tired of stirring her up as they called it she chanced to wear a string of coral beads. Jack Lyman, the would-be wit of the school, snaSched at it rudely, calling out, "Here’s Indie’s coral strand.” Seeing her look erf perplexity he added mockingly: “If yer don’t know what that means, better jine a girl’s missionary s’ciety.” Stung by the contempt in his voice, resolute little Independence made up her mind she would know what it meant. Of course she asked her mother, and, though Mrs. Day was not over wise on missionary topics, she had heard Bishop Heber's grand old hymn and explained its meaning as best she could. The story took hold of the child with a strong fascination. She never would put on those beads again, but she often took them out of their box and looked at them with something like affection, repeating softly to herself, “Indie’s coral strand.” She always said Indie’s, not India’s, as if it were a personal possession. God sometimes uses small means to accomplish great purposes. By such little things the girl’s interest in missions was awakened. It grew as she grew to womanhood, and India became the country of her dreams. Her twentieth birthday found her motherless, with no duty to bind her to this side of the world; it found her also strong in purpose to live her life in that far-off land, working for its people. If, mingling with this devotion, was a lurking thought that no heathen would ever learn to call her by her Christian name, who will blame her? Thus it was that little Independence Day grew up to be a self-reliant woman, and on this 4th of July she is too far away for mischievous boys to twit her about her red hair or her name and too happy in her work to care if they did.— Indianapolis News.