--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Hoggan, Lella Marler collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 14 number: 2 published: 1910-12 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Hoggan, Lella Marler, “Just a Little Blue Stocking,” *Improvement Era* 14, no. 2 (December 1910): 128–137." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1402unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera1402unse start_page: 128 end_page: 137 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1910-12) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1402unse publication_year: 1910 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1910, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Just a Little Blue Stocking Just a Little Blue Stocking. BY LELLA MARLER HOGGAN. I. — The Wild Teaches Jim a Lesson. "Don't you know, Hughie, I sometimes think that this is God's own land, and that that old mountain yonder is his temple," said Jim, as he and the old mountaineer drew rein at the little spring that bubbled up at the foot of the hill. "Yes, Jim, that's right, that's right; it is God's own land, and that is one of his temples. He built it with his own hands ages ago. He made these hills, too, Jim, and the lake, and the medder yonder, and them old pine trees and this little spring. When they're all muffled up in snow like this, they look mighty solemn and quiet like, and it makes a fellow feel like God's close around some- where." Old Hughie shaded his eyes with his hand and looked across the purple mountains toward the sunset. Only a few of the rug- ged summits stood out purple against the crimson-tinted sky. The others were cloaked and hooded in snow. "Now, right over there, Jim," he said, pointing to a break in the range, "right there where the sun's goin' down, is the place where you and me camped when you first came into the valley." "Is it?" questioned Jim. "I thought it was further south than that." "No," said Hughie decidedly, "that's the place right there. I used to camp there years ago. D'you 'member that little clump of quakin'-asp and that big rock at the side of the road?" "Yes." "Well, right there's where I used to make my camp-fire. JUST A LITTLE BLUE STOCKING. 129 There's a spring right there at the foot of the hill, and a little creek a runnin' out of it — suthin' like this one. I used to lay down there In the shade of the willers, while my hoss was a feedin'. I liked to listen to the wind in the leaves, and hear the water a laughin' and a bubblin' as it splashed over the moss and the rocks. The air alius smelled so fresh and sweet there. They was runnin' vines and hoss-mint, down along the stream, and the roses was alius in bloom up by the spring. ' ' The horses had finished drinking, and they cantered on down the half-obliterated road. The snow filtered through the twigs of the trees and bushes in great white wreaths, as the horses jostled them in passing. "Yes, I'll never forget that place," continued Hughie. "I alius feel closer to God, somehow, when I'm alone out in them mountains. It's the same feelin' as I have here when the snow lays muffled on everything." "I felt rather lonesome the night we camped out in those mountains," remarked Jim. "Yes, I recollect," mused Hughie. "But that was 'fore you got acquainted with the hills and the rocks and the forests. You'd feel different now. You have to get acquainted with the wild things 'fore you learn to like 'em. Now that little spring, up there where the horses drank— I'm acquainted with that spring jest the same as I be with a man or a hoss. And old Saw- tell peak over yonder— why, Jim, I know that mountain as well as I do you." "I believe you do, Hughie; and sometimes I fancy that the mountains and the rocks and the streams know you." "Guess they do, Jim; most of 'em, any way. They've taught me some mighty good lessons, boy. And they'll do the same by you, if you'll just open your heart to 'em." "I don't know, Hughie. You seem to be on better terms with them than any one else I know." "The reason the wild things know me so well, Jim, is because I love 'em so. When you get to loving the mountains and the woods and such things, you jesc feel as if they're waitin' 'round to do suthin' fer you all the time, and you feel sort o' related to 'em, somehow. And you begin to lovin' everything and every- 130 IMPRO VEMENT ERA . body. 'Taint the things theirselves that makes you feel that way, Jim — it's the One that made 'em. When you get close to the heart of the old world, my boy, you find God. And he helps you to find your own heart, and to find all the joy that's hid away waitin' fer you." There was quiet for some minutes, save the muffled thud of the horses feet in the new snow. Then Jim broke the silence with ''Don't you know, Hughie, that's the way I found God. When I came out here with you I did not know what I believed. I thought I was an atheist. At any rate, I felt sure I was not a Christian. But after I had lived in these mountains awhile I dis- covered that my heart had been made over, as it were. Of course, I was around with you considerable, and that made a dif- ference. A man couldn't live around you long, Hughie, without being a better man." "Maybe I helped you to see things a little — that's all — God done the rest." "I used to get up mornings and look up at the old mountain," continued Jim, "and feel thankful that I was here. It is so old and mystic and mighty. It lifts a man up to a higher plane and makes him want to be better. After that I learned to see the beauty in the lake and woods, and the pretty nooks and corners out in the hills." "Yes, Jim, God is in the quiet places, as well as in the mighty ones. Now, that little cove yonder is just as necessary to his plan as Sawtell peak is. It don't look much now, drifted full of snow as it is, but it's cool and shady in summer,and wild violets and sweet grass and medder posies spring up, and the cattle come to nip the grass and get a drink from the spring." Again they rode on in silence. Hughie was thinking. After a few minutes he said abruptly, "I alius feel sorry fer an atheist, Jim. They're missin' so much that God meant they should enjoy. They jest see the outside o' things, as it were. It's like lookin' at the printin' on a page, when you can't read a word of it. Its jest a jumble of marks. Now, if they could jest get acquainted with Nature she'd introduce 'em to God, and then they could find the way all right; for he's alius close around ready to help a man out if he loses his way. An atheist most gen 'ally thinks that he JUST A LITTLE BLUE STOCKING. 131 knows all about created things, but I want to tell you, Jim, he ain't on speakin' terms with 'em. Why if he was, it wouldn't be no time 'till he'd see what a fool he is, and he'd be too ashamed of hisself to look 'em in the face again." "That's the way I felt, Hughie, after I'd been out here with you awhile. I felt ashamed to think I had ever doubted God and his goodness. I'm glad I know these things, but I'm sorry that I did not know them sooner." II. — A Woman in It. "No use o' spoilin' today's sunshine by worryin' 'bout yester- day's rain, Jim. You can make good all you've lost. The home folks are alius glad to kill the fatted calf fer the prodigal's return." "Yes, I can make good with the home folks; but that isn't all, Hughie." "A woman in it?" "Yes, there was a woman in it — a dear, sweet little woman she was, too. She used to think a great deal of me — at least, I thought she did. And she was all the world to me. That was why I left home, Hughie. I couldn't stay around and see some- one else taking my place by her side." "Go on," urged Hughie seriously. "How did it all happen? Tell me about it." "There isn't much to tell," mused Jim. "It was Christmas eve, and she came with me to spend the evening with mother. She helped me to fasten baby's little blue stockings to the mantle above the grate. I took my little sister, Honey-Bird, onto my lap and told her the Santa Claus story, which she had heard every night for weeks. Nellie told her the story of the Christ-child. Then baby was tucked into her little bed, and father and mother and Nellie and I spent a pleasant evening together. While I was walking home with Nellie, we spoke of Christmas, and of Honey- Bird's bright anticipations for the morrow. Then I tried to tell Nellie what had been in my heart through the years. But she wouldn't let me say the words. 'No, James,' she said firmly, 'no, not while you look |at life as you do now. We could never be 1 32 IMPRO VEMENT ERA . happy.' I tried to tell her that I could be a better man if she would help me. Then she looked straight into my eyes. 'Why, James,' she said, 'you are not even a Christian! The man I marry must be a devout, sincere Christian. He must be strong enough to lead the way if my faith should waver.' I did not say any more until we reached her home. Then I said, 'I am sorry, Nellie, that our paths lead in different directions. I had hoped that we would some day sit together by an open fireplace and tell stories to little children. I had hoped that we would stand together and hang little Christmas stockings by the mantle. But if you do not love me as I am, I shall go away. I do not believe in winning a woman by making promises that are seldom fulfiled. So it will be good by this time, Nellie, instead of good night.' " " 'I am sorry, James, that our lives and our ideals are not more alike,' she said. 'You have been very good to me and I shall always remember you kindly. May God bless you wherever you go.' "Her hand touched mine for a moment — and only a moment — and then she was gone. And the joy went out of my heart with her, Hughie." "She done the right thing, Jim — the right thing. A woman'd be a fool that'd marry a man 'fore he was acquainted with God. A man like you or me, Jim, has to have the rough places in him made smooth 'fore he's fit to marry a good woman. Women can help men to read the things outo' life what's good fer 'em, but its better fer a man to learn his letters alone. Makes him more of a man. Then he ain't alius leanin' on a woman fer his moral strength. Even if he loses her, he's a man anyway." "And you think she did the right thing, then, in sending me away?" "'Course she did, Jim— 'course she did. Best thing 'at could've happened to you. You ain't lost no time. You've jest been makin' a man of yourself. ' ' "But, Hughie, if she really cared, don't you think she would have given me some little word of encouragement to have helped me along, while I was finding the way?" "Not a bit of it — not a bit of it. Why, Jim, if we could see the answer to all the sums 'fore we started on 'em, they JUST A LITTLE BLUE STOCKING. 133 wouldn't be no use of figgerin' 'em out. 'Tain't a good way to do, Jim, to get your money 'fore you finish your job." "But suppose you finish your work, and never get your pay- then what?" "Ah, Jim, my boy, that never happens! God never beats a man out o' what's coming to him. It's like I was a tellin' you, Jim, you might lose the woman, but if you've made a man of yourself, you're still a man; and that's wuth the price you've paid fer it, you know." The old man straightened up in his saddle and shaded his eyes with his hand again. "See that old pine tree down there, right to the point of the mountain?" "Well?" "Well, it alius stands right there, quiet like and unpretend- ing but alius right there. You kin see it fer miles away. When travelers git off the trail, or git lost in a storm, they look fer the old lone pine. Its one of the guide posts of these mountains. Well, Jim, some people's jest like that oil tree. You alius know right where to find 'em, and though they don't say nothin' they're alius pointin' out the road fer you to travel. Now, this little woman we've been a talkin' about has been a kind of a guide post to you. She didn't say nothin' — didn't make no promises, nor tell you what to do. She jest stayed right where she was and pointed out the road to vou. And you've been a thinkin' of her all the time, and been a tryin' to git into the road she pointed out to you. Now, Jim, the thing fer you to do is to go right back to Nellie and tell her you've found the way, and you're ready to walk in the same path with her now." "No, I'm too late," Said Jim decidedly. "There was another man who loved her, and he was a Christian. She is probably married by now." "Don't you ever think she's married, Jim. Girls like Nellie don't shift their hearts around every season. If she loved you then, she loves you now." "I'm afraid not, Hughie. You know two years is a long time to be away from the woman you love, especially when there isn't the least little tie between you to help her to be true." 134 IMPROVEMENT ERA. "Maybe you're right, Jim— maybe you're right," consented the old man. III. — Hughie's Christmas Tale. The journey was finished in silence, and when they drew rein in j'ront of the old bunk house the boys greeted them with a cheer. That night after supper the boys gathered in the cabin for a social game of cards. Hughie had been very quiet at supper, and he sat now and gazed into the open grate of the old stove and watched the large sticks burning. After the boys had finished a game he swung his chair around, facing them, and asked bluntly, "How many of you fellers are going home fer Christmas?" "None of us, I guess," answered the mail-driver, as he picked up the deck of cards and began shuffling them. "I don't know as anybody's goin' to leave the ranch, " said Nelson, "unless it's Jim. His letter looked rather suspicious." "Yes, how 'bout that letter, Jim? It smelled o' Christmas, sure enough," queried old Pete. "What letter?" questioned Jim. "I forgot all about Jim's letter," confessed Fred. "It's around here somewhere." And he began picking up the papers and scraps off from the long shelf. "Here it is," he said; and he passed it over to Jim. Jim looked at the address a moment, and then put it in his pocket. "Is it the right one?" laughed the boys. "It's from my sister, ' ' he said quietly. "Say, boys—" and old Hughie drew his chair up a little nearer to the table— "if you'll just let that game slide, I'd like to tell you a story." "All right, Hugh. Is it a Christmas story?" asked the mail- driver, speaking for the crowd again. "Yes, boys, it's a Christmas story, and it's a true one. It's about forty year ago now," began the old man, "since I come into the valley. I was just a boy then, wild and thoughtless and fool- ish. I'd alius lived in York state with my folks, in a quiet little country place. But I'd alius wanted to get out and away. Both my grandfather and my father had been pioneers. In their earlier days they'd lived out in the borderland. They'd tilled the soil, JUST A LITTLE BLUE STOCKING. 135 killed wild animals and fought the Indians. The warmth in their blood had been handed down from father to son, and a generous share was bestowed on me. I had an uncle out West who used to write us wonderful letters about the country, and when I was only a little chap I made up my mind to come West. And it wasn't many years 'till the chance come, and I was only too glad to take it. My mother tried to talk me out of goin', but when my father saw how determined I was he told mother he thought they'd better decide to let me go. She finally consented, and preparations was made in a hurry for my leavin'. I was glad she consented, 'cause I think I would have gone even if she hadn't. I can see her now as she looked them last few days 'fore I left. There was a sad, anxious look on her face, as she went about her work. Her eyes was full of tears she was a holdin' back. And I think she had a prayer in her heart fer me all the time, 'cause she seemed to be thinkin' o' me all the time. I remember how she washed my clothes and mended all the rents and thin places. She knit new heels and toes in my socks, and she darned and pressed and sponged my old suit 'till it looked like a new one. I kep' a tellin' her I didn't want to take many things, but she went right on fixin' 'em up as if I hadn't spoke. She tucked in warm gloves and mufflers and soft ties and handkerchiefs. She put in paper and envelopes and stamps, and she wrote her address on the enve- lopes and stamped some of 'em, so I'd be sure and remember to write. When it come time to leave she didn't say much — I guess her heart was too full to speak many words. She jest pressed my hand and smiled through her tears. "'Good by— be good, Hugh,' she said. 'Come back to us soon— God bless you.' "That was all. Then I passed out of the old gate, and rode down the lane and on into the great West. I looked back once, but a mist blurred my eyes. Mother and the old home faded from view. A great stretch of prairie came between us, and then the years held us apart. At first I didn't intend to stay away so long, but the years jest slipped away 'fore I knew it. I made new friends and learned new lessons and lived in a new world. When the buttercups and medder posies would blossom in the spring I'd promise myself a trip home in the fall. But when the 136 IMPROVEMENT ERA. wind whistled through the trees and frisked the red leaves about, and the snow come down in big flakes, I alius felt as if I'd better wait 'til spring. When Christmas time come along I'd alius think of 'em. Sometimes I'd send 'em a check, sometimes a box of trinckets, and sometimes I'd write 'em a letter. But somehow I never went home. I jest kep' a puttin' it off and a puttin' it off — and the years kep' a slippin' by. They jest went along so easy like that a feller hardly realized they was a passin', and after awhile they begun to double up on their selves. I used to get letters from home tellin' me what they was all doin'. They alius told me the most 'bout Birdie Lou, that was my baby sister. She was jest learnin' to talk when I went away. Fer two or three years she had 'em tell me 'bout Santa Claus. She alius wanted me to come home to tell her the Santa Claus story and to write the letter to him. After awhile they quit tellin' me of her pretty baby sayin's, and I knew she could talk plain; but somehow I alius thought of her as my little baby sister. I could see her in her little red apron, with a chubby fist poked in each pocket, comin' a smilin' down the path to the barn to meet me. Then father used to alius send me word of some new work he had to do, and say he needed me to help him. Mother alius asked me when I was comin' home. I used to tell 'em I'd be comin' home soon. In one letter I prom- ised mother I'd be home in time to help her plant her flowers in the spring, and I'd paint the fence for him, and I had a whole book full o' Christmas stories and fairy tales for Birdie Lou. "But when spring come a whisperin' through the sweet grass and the medder posies, and a singin' in the streams and glintin' the purple mountains, it jest sort o' held me here. And other springs came and went, and still I didn't find my way back. Then, one fall, I guess 1 got homesick. It jest seemed as if suthin' was a callin' me across them purple mountains and the big gray plain. It jest kep' a callin' and a callin'; but I said to myself, 'Keep still, Hughie, things is all right. Don't be an old fuss.' But it wasn't no use. If I'd go a fishin' down the creek it seemed as if my father was jest up the stream a little way a waitin' fer me; and if I went a huntin' it seemed as if he was a walkin' along side o' me. And he alius seemed to be a waitin' fer me to go with him. Guess I ought to a took the hint and a gone home, but I didn't. The JUST A LITTLE BLUE STOCKING. 137 days slipped along 'till Christmas was jest about here, and then one day a feller come over from the station house with a slip o' yeller paper in his pocket. Soon as I saw that scrap o' paper I knew 'twas fer me, and I knew that suthin' was wrong at home: 'Father very low — come home.' That was all it said. But that was enough, boys Hosses and trains couldn't go fast enough to take me back to the old home. I didn't send 'em word I was a comin', and so, of course, no one come to meet me. I walked from the station up to the house. My heart beat fast as I neared the old house again. From the time I left the old snow-capped mountains 'till I walked up the little lane, there'd been a prayer in my heart. By night and by day I'd kep' a askin' God to git me there in time I felt a little strange, too, as I asked him; 'cause all through the years he'd kep' a sayin, tome, 'Better go home this year, Hugh — better go home — the folks are a needin' you.' But I'd kep' waitin' along thinkin' I had plenty o' time. And now 1 stood at the old gate. It was night time and the lights burned low. I walked slowly up the path, boys, and stepped on the little front porch. (TO BE CONCLUDED IN JANUARY NUMBER.) ELDERS AT BALTIMORE, MARYLAND. Top row, left to right: Ambrose Call, F. Horace Gunn, Conference President. Bottom row: Mayben Fox, Joseph A. Bateman.