me but ordinarily grateful for such a boon as that you must see that I shall wish always to make your happiness. Happy? the angels will envy us!" To be put in a heaven - oh, to be fairly chased into it-and told sharply, by inference at least, to stay there now, like a lady, while somebody made my happiness for me! He had not understood one word of my appeal. He might as well not have heard me. Two pages of the retort discourteous, then: "And so, when I call you an angel," commented the man with something very like a sneer, "it is because I begrudge you everything?" "Yes, it is. You grudge me the least breath of freedom, and that is everything. I am to have for my life, for my body and brain and soul, nothing, except what comes through you. When are you going to give up YOUR work? Hoity toity-and there it is, this problem that the sex is putting up to us with more insistence in every generation. I'm glad I'm not my son's grand-son: he'll likely have his own troubles with the problem. But-can you blame 'em? The western Florodora Company has a new Angela this season in the person of a little western actress who can sing. Grace Hazard, who stands possibly five feet in her silken hose, is decidedly the "hit" of the big production this year, if the papers along the line of march taken by the organization can be believed. Her singing of The Fellow Who Might and The Galloping Duet are just about the most infectious fragments in the jingly, tuneful music play. Miss Hazard is a St. Louis girl and is now singing for the third year on the professional stage. She was the Book Agent in Yon Yonson two years ago, and, last season, toured the country with the Grau Opera Company in Wang, Isle of Champagne and El Capitan, taking the roles originated respectively by Della Fox, Elvia Croix and Edna Wallace Hopper. During the last two summers she was the head-liner of the Valley Opera Company at Syracuse. Mary C. Crawford has written, and L. C. Page & Co. have published, a very entertaining volume entitled The Romance of Old New England Rooftrees. Miss Crawford tells briefly twenty-four stories of persons and places in New England history. There are many pictures of historic houses, and quaint old portraits of the men and women who A LITTLE ESQUIMAU MOTHER AND BABE The photograph was taken by Winthrop Packard of Boston at East Cape, Siberia, during his recent travels in the Far North. The open door of the hut lighted the interior. The mother and babe peered out from their cosy bed of skins-the father, presumably, encouraging them with smiling glances over the photographer's shoulders-and a time exposure to the pale rays of the arctic sun did the rest, giving National readers a photograph almost unique. figure in these little stories. Of especial interest to our women readers is the sprightly and sympathetic chapter on Mistress Ann Hutchinson, Boston's first club woman. In all New York City, it was said recently, there is no public monument to any woman. Mr. Arthur Brisbane, the editor of the New York Journal, asked the readers of his paper to suggest the names of women worthy to be honored with public monuments in the Ameri can metropolis. As a reader of the Journal, I suggest the name of Nancy Hanks Lincoln, mother of Abraham Lincoln. Not New York only, but every great American city should possess public monument to this mother who gave to America the noblest man that has appeared in the history of this conti The people that honors its mothers is safe against the assaults of time. Indiana leads the way in honoring Nancy Hanks Lincoln, an ideal mother. On October 1, at Lincoln City, Indiana, the Nancy Hanks Lincoln Monument Association, headed by Governor Durbin, dedicated a shaft erected to mark the last resting place General John C. of this good woman. We come, O woman and mother, here to build our memorial to thee. Thine earthly garments were damp with the dews of the wilderness; thy feet were torn by the thorns of thy pathway; but in thine arms thou didst nourish the babe of thy sacrifices, him the master of his time, the beloved of the centuries to be; the ser vant of justice and the liberator of the oppressed. And so for thine own sake and for thy child's sake we are here to do this fitting honor. Here she gave that child in the simple log cabin now gone to ruin his first lesson: here in his father's presence she sowed the seed of truth and justice, afterward to mature a mighty harvest. Here she stood and pointed upward, little comprehending, if at all, the future that awaited. And this is all her story! But the years passed onthe nation was in the throes of a great war for its prolonged existence; at its head was the child of this woman. The struggle was to decide, as the cherished chieftain himself said, "Whether a nation dedicated to liberty could live or whether a government of the people, for the people and by the people should perish from the earth." He We see that son bowed by the weight of cares such as rarely have fallen upon human shoulders. wielded the power and enjoyed the affection of a great people. Armies moved at his command and navies obeyed his orders. Disasters recurring filled the earth with loudest clamors against him. Calumny belied him and hate spied upon his every act, but ever louder and louder sounded the bugles of advancing victory-and in the midst of this vast strife, from the stress of public trials and the pain of personal woes, we hear the worn and weary President, he whose lips spoke doom to rebellion and liberty to the slave, we hear him declare: "All that I am or may be I owe to my sainted mother." Thomas Lincoln and Nancy Hanks were married in Kentucky, June 12, 1806. The bride was twenty-three years old. She was tall, her skin was dark and she Her had dark brown hair and gray eyes. face was sharp and angular, with an expression of melancholy. In disposition she was amiable and cheerful, and she had received some education. After her marriage she taught her husband to read and write. The exact time of the arrival of Thomas Lincoln with his family in Spencer County, Indiana, is in doubt. It was about October 15, 1817. A year later a great many people of the settlement were afflicted with a disease MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF NANCY HANKS LINCOLN, MOTHER OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN, ERECTED ABOVE HER GRAVE AT LINCOLN CITY, INDIANA that was called "milk sick." With this Nancy Hanks died. The husband, Thomas Lincoln, performed the duties. of undertaker and sexton. He hewed from the forest the rude boards with which he made a coffin. Into it the frail body was tenderly placed and carried upon his back to a scantily covered knoll an eighth of a mile away. The boy Abraham and his sister stood weeping by each other as the grief stricken man lowered the body into its resting place. No minister could be procured at the time to perform the last rites. Until now the grave has never been suitably marked. It should become a national shrine. Α His Christmas Boots Some Remarks and Reminiscences by Uncle Ben FTER the average child has spent about four bellowing, kicking, squalling years, he is ready to be engulfed in his first ambition. If I should ask each one who reads this, What was your first ambition? few of you could answer-and so I will answer for you. It was an ambition to see Santa Claus. Am I not right? We all had it, and as little tots stayed awake all night, shivering in our nighties, trying to catch a glimpse of Santa making his mysterious passes into our long black stockings. Childhood fancies, how sweet they are; and what a black cloud arose before us when we learned for the first time that there is no real Santa Claus! Gladly would I recall the advent of the first Christmas to a certain curious bald-headed individual, who managed to arrive on earth just in time to be precipitated into the great holiday festivities. As I look back I see him a little stranger in a strange land, making googoo eyes at boys and girls alike, kicking large holes in the atmosphere, war whooping and hip-rah-rahing like an Indian as he ungraciously demanded to be put off at Buffalo or any other old place. But Mother Earth is kind; she faithfully follows him around in his maneuvers, bringing his kinsfolk along. He cannot lose the earth or his kinsfolk, and Christmas overtakes him eight months after he resigns himself to his fate. Not being able to converse in the English language very well, and spurning to anwser the ootsee, tootsee baby talk that gurgled forth from those around him, he only made faces at those who felt privileged to poke his ribs and tell him that "Santa is coming." And when they said, "O, hasn't he the dearest frown,” he felt like leading mother out into the hall and telling her to send them home. But whether he would or not, everyone insisted he was a good baby, and having duly filed their recommendations, Santa brought him a rattle-not that he was not already making noise enough! They merely wished to change the kind of pandemonium. pandemonium. The rattle worked well - it sounded like himself, five years later, dragging a stick along a picket fence. It put to rout almost everything that had legs. It even jarred a tooth out of his tender gums, which was a good thing, bceause the tooth had been wanting to air itself for some time. Santa also brought him a little rubber doll. He was especially fond of dolls, and promptly chewed this one as soon as his new tooth was in working order. The second year he had a vague idea that Santa was scheduled to arrive at a certain time, but let it go at that. He had not yet learned to want anything more than a full stomach, and as rubber dolls were not particularly appetizing, he willingly left Santa to be the judge of his deserts. Christmas morning he was presented with a tin horn, which had a plaintive mew. This was disappointing to his ears; but he soon found excitement enough. With his foot on the house cat's tail, and with horn in hand, he tuned up and played a duet that brought a climax in the affairs of the nousehold. He was getting in some very effective shadings and tremolos, when everybody who had feet came rushing in declaring the cat would scratch his eyes out. But the cat never came back with its tale of woe. And so passed another quiet year. When he wasn't busy catching fire at the stove, he was falling down stairs for amusement. He believed in action, not only for himself but for others as well. Those who had charge of him became expert sprinters. He The third Christmas he felt his gray matter wriggle for the first time at the mention of Santa's expected visit. had his brother sit down and write a letter for him to Santa Claus, requesting a train of cars, a ball, and a rocking horse. Santa got the letter and delivered the goods, much to his delight; and each in its turn met a sad fate before the week was spent. But he had become greatly interested in Santa Claus. When told that Santa did not like naughty boys, he was as good as pie. He devoured every picture book until the genial, be-whiskered face of Santa Claus rose before him like a pillar of fire. This enthusiasm grew upon him, until with the approach of Christmas of his fourth year, he was unsatisfied and felt that he must see Santa Claus, and here his first ambition took root. I will tell you its outcome. Having made repeated requests to be allowed to stay up and see Santa Claus, he was in each case over-ruled and hustled off to bed at the usual early hour, after first hanging up his stocking. But he did not sleep. He could not sleep, although he pretended to do so. Beside his bed was a pair of cute baby boots, red leather tops and copper toes, a present to him from an uncle in London, and which, strange to say, he highly valued. It occurred to him that if Santa would fill his stockings he might also get him to fill his two pretty boots as well. Suiting action to the thought, he cautiously arose from his trundle bed and crept from the nursery into the hall, where the big open fireplace glowed with the embers of the yule log. Under each arm was tucked a huge boot, and down he sat, waiting and waiting. It did not occur to him that Santa would singe his whiskers by shooting down such a place, or that he would be covered with chimney soot. Had Santa rolled into his presence, black enough to polish with a shoe brush, he would have been enthusiastically weclomed. But the tired eyes soon closed, and the fond mother, who had watched his brave disobedience from an adjoining room, carried boots and all back to bed without disturbing a childhood dream. When morning came the boots were still clasped tightly in his arms, and in them were bags of candy and of nuts. Santa had filled his boots after all. |