Gathering Feathers

GATHERING FEATHERS By Samuel Fletcher Being a stranger in that city, and being interested in people, I went to the central park to see the sights. In such a place one may sit by the hour and watch the sights walk by. (This statement is by no means original, but why worry about that?) I seated myself on a bench under a beautiful white birch that was just bursting into leaf, and looked about me. I am not deeply romantic, but, somehow, in the early springtime things appear much better than they really are. The grass looks fresher and greener than at other times; the sky looksi bluer; the breezes feel more caressing; laughter sounds merrier; men, out of work, less despondent. I thought to myself, if ever I write a tragedy I shall have the events take place at some other season than in the spring of the year. "Jack, my boy," said a voice at my side. I turned about with a start. A well-dressed old man was gazing down at me. His hair was like the white fog that clings to the side of a mountain. His face was wrinkled and worn and worried. "Jack, my boy," he repeated, "give me some more feathers." "Why," I stupidly replied, "I have no feathers. Besides, my name isn't Jack. You've made a misi — ." "Jack," he interrupted, putting his hand gently on my shoulder, "you and your sister should help your mother to gather feathers. My boy, save your feathers; save your feathers!" His hand clasped tightly on my collar. Somewhat bewildered, I tried to think of something to do or say, for it dawned upon me that this old man was mentally sick. I glanced sidewise to see how far away was my nearest help. I must confess that it was with a feeling of relief that I noticed a man hurrying to my assistance. "For shame, Mr. Wills," said the man. "You promised not to go away." The old man dropped his hand from my shoulder and walked slowly away, shaking his head. The younger man turned to me. "I hope he didn't annoy you," he said, "but Mr. Wills is generally well-behaved, so we often let him walk about the grounds of the Sanitarium. The Sanitarium, you may know, is only a couple of blocks from here. We apologize for not keeping a closer watch." "Not at all," I replied, "I'm glad to have met Mr. Wills — have met, understand. Do you know, the poor old fellow mistook me for his son, Jack." "Yes, he often mistakes strangers that way, especially if they happen to be young. You're a stranger, I take it?" I admitted that I was.

GATHERING FEATHERS 729 "This boy, Jack," he went on, "ran away to sea. It seems strange that the old man should think so much about him now. He never seemed to take much interest in the boy before he left. Nor the girl either, for that matter. He had a daughter, too, you may know. She went away about the same time as her brother. Found work somewhere, I think. "The trouble with Mr. Wills was that he didn't have time for anything but making money. I hardly think he had a friend except the cold dollar. His wife grew to be like that, too, they say. The children grew up to make money but never to spend it. Not that I believe in loose spending; but kids need homes, and it takes a lot of love in a house to make it a home. "Well, after the youngsters were gone, Mrs. Wills didn't last long. You wouldn't have thought it, but, somehow, it just took the life right out of her. The day after she was laid away, we found Mr. Wills here in the park, looking for his son, Jack. "When he was taken into court and officers were sent to search his house, what do you think they found? Over forty thousand dollars hidden away!" I thanked him for telling me that unusual story. "Just one thing further, I would like explained," I added. "Why did he beg me for feathers?" "As near as I can tell it's like; this: Mr. Wills had a favorite saying. Whenever anyone would approach him and ask for anything for the poor, or for a donation for a church, or for any other chari- table purpose, he would always answer, 'Sorry, but I can't afford it. I must feather my own nest first'." Preston, Idaho. Recipe for a Wedding Cake By Mrs. Grace Wharton Montaigne Take two heaping measures of love and mix together in a common purpose: sweeten with two full hearts: sprinkle in a few little ones accord- ing to taste; for a rich ruddy color, break in the yolks of two purses, but do not make too rich, as by doing so it crumbs and separates too easily; do not season with fragrance of cloves. Stir the batter thoroughly until it is even all through. It should be stiff enough to withstand the slaps of poverty, and dents left by sorrow should slowly close. Place before a genial hearth to rise: bake in a moderate oven of even warmth, avoiding all excess of heat. Do not use icing or frosting. Serve in the home on all occasions. Avoid serving with tongue or cold shoulder. The quantities given are sufficient for one household. Delta, Utah.