A Constant Reminder

A CONSTANT REMINDER By Glen Perrins Jane was a pretty little girl, — nice, sweet and lovable; but she had one bad habit, a habit which spoiled in some measure her popularity, not only with her folks but with her friends, neighbors and relatives as well. She scribbled on everything. Wherever she went she carried a pencil tucked away somewhere. While she was around the house she wrote on newspapers and maga- zines, and if they were unavailable she would scratch with a pin on the chairs and other furniture. Of course, her mother tried to break Jane of this bad habit, — she did everything to try to sitop her from scribbling, but of no avail. At the neighbor's, even, Jane was just the same. One day Jane was cured, however. And today, she has * * * but that were to tell the story. Perhaps we had better begin on that eventful day, for Jane, when her cure began. "Jane," called her mother one afternoon, "I'm going shopping and I want you to be a good girl. * * * If you are, I'll bring you a pencil and the largest pad of paper you ever saw." "And you won't care if I scribble then, will you?" replied Jane. "Not at all," replied the mother, "if you limit your endeavors to the pad of paper." And with that she left, and Jane was alone. Could Jane resist the temptation? Let us watch her. After her mother had gone, Jane wandered around the house, looking for something to do. It was not the first time she had been around it, and she felt that everything that had been done, had been done, and she let it rest at that. She stood beneath a large, shady tree, looking up at the roof. "What will I do," murmured Jane. "What will I — " But her thoughts were interrupted as she spied a large and rather smooth-faced stone, a marker in the wall of brick. "How nice my name would look up there," she thought; and suddenly she remem- bered the large white piece of chalk she had hid under the front porch. Forgetting for a moment her mother's reward if she did not scribble, Jane hastened to the porch for her chalk. Then, quickly getting it, she ran back to the side of the house where the smooth- faced marker was located. "Luckily," thought Jane, "the branches of the tree run near the house and I can easily reach the brick." She was somewhat of a tom-boy that afternoon. Clutching her chalk she climbed up into the tree and out on the

A CONSTANT REMINDER > 351 branch. It sagged a little, but Jane didn't notice, — she was too busily engaged in chalking her name on the marker. Then while she was that near the marker, Jane thought she would scribble a little on the bricks nearby. "Creak, creak," sounded the branch, and it began to sag. "Jane! O, Jane," called out someone. Was it her mother returning from town? Jane tried to climb back up the branch, but it swayed danger- ously, lower and lower. "Mother," screamed Jane, dropping her chalk and holding on for dear life. "Help me, help me." Luckily Jane had not aimed very high in her scribbling as- pirations, and her mother standing on a chair caught her young daughter in time. "Jane," said her mother as she led her by the hand into the house. "I'm going to punish you. I don't know how I'll do it, but you've got to be cured of your scribbling habit * * * I'm going to lock you up in your bedroom until you say you'll forget it." And with that Jane was led to the room. The pad which her mother had hurriedly bought in town, together with the shiny new pencil was burned. Jane saw her mother do it. Filled with resentment for a moment, when she was locked in her mother's bedroom, Jane took a pin and on the foot of her mother's large wooden-backed bed, she scratched, deeply: "This bed belongs to the old hen." Imagine how she felt after she had done the scribbling. She tried to efface her act, but it was there to stay. What would her mother say? Jane began to cry. Her last act had cured her. She wanted to tell her mother what she had done, but she was afraid. When her mother found her, Jane had cried herself to sleep, a very repentant girl. The mother realized that her daughter had at last been cured, and no more punishment was meted out. Today * * * Jane is a grown woman, and the bed which she received at her marriage still stands in her bedroom, bearing the scribbling, "This bed belongs to the old hen," — a constant reminder. Prayer At evening when the sun sinks in the West, And all the labors of the day are o'er, When Nature in it's sombre shades is dressed, And peaceful quiet folds the earth once more; 'Tis then I turn to God, my anchor sure, And thank him for his blessings manifold. O, may I hold fast to the iron rod And cberish all the gifts and grace of old, Finding, at last, a place within his fold. Mt. Pleasant ALBERTA JACOBS