--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Unknown collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 33 number: 5 published: 1930-03 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Unknown, “Out of,” *Improvement Era* 33, no. 5 (March 1930): 329–331." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3305unse 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: improvementera3305unse start_page: 329 end_page: 331 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1930-03) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3305unse publication_year: 1930 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 1930, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Out of Out of Chapter Four TWO hours after Curly start- ed her lonesome pilgrimage to the city, the Turner fam- ily wakened to a warm kitchen. No odor of green wood or doty chips permeated the room. The stove held a bright, steady glow, with embers dropping through the grates. Granny Turner was pre- paring a treat. Johnny cake and molasses! Young Bud, half boy and half man, grinned his appre- ciation and voluntarily filled the water bucket. Cassy hurried out, wondering at the celebration. Millie rose reluctantly, looking pale and heavy-eyed. Lastly came Steve, deliberate and dignified, as befitted the head of the house. They gathered around the stove, praising the pleasant warmth and the cheery glow. Never had the oven been so hot or the cake such a golden brown. "Whar's Curly?" demanded Steve as he and Bud sat to eat while the women folks served. Ti LJRANNY'S gaunt old face .became more set and leathery. She served Steve a huge wedge of steaming cake, covered with mo- lasses. "You-all listen good," she de- clared. "Curly's gone. I sent her ter town — ter thet thar Town Lady what sends things hyar. Curly ain't ourn. Cassy's least one died abornin', an' Steve fetched thet thar baby from town. Ef he'd nary brung her, Cassy'd died, she would. Weuns never told no- body— just me an' Steve knowed. Weuns brung her up fair, but she couldn't stay no more. I bin awatchin' Abe Walters. He's bin ahangin' round hyar lots. Last night he tried ter tote Curly off an' marry her. He's gotta marry Mil- lie, he has. I give her the things she had on when she come hyar, an' she ain't acomin' back no more. Weuns're agoin' ter hev a weddin' right smart." Granny had never spoken so much at any one time before. Now she felt exhausted and turned to more familiar tasks. HE effect of her announcement was varied. All eyes turned accusingly upon Millie. She faced them boldly, defiantly. Then sensing the fact that her parents were more grief-stricken than angry, she lost her defiance, slumped down on the kitchen bench and sobbed audibly. Cassy sank into the solitary rocker, flung her apron over her head and moan- ed as she rocked. "My least one! I wants my least one!" Steve Turner reached for his gun, cleaned and shiny, above the door. "I've a mind ter shoot thet thar Abe Walters," he threatened. "He's just no count, he is." "You all best get him fur the weddin'!" Granny raised her voice above the laments of the two crying women. Steve reluctantly replaced his gun, and putting his arm awkwardly around Cassy's shoulders, tried to offer consola- Burning /^IVY WILLIAMS STONE Vw/ Cassy. "I nussed her in this hyar chair, I did." Bud stood up, squared his shoul- ders, faced his family with new determination. "Do youns mean honest, she warn't ourn?" he demanded. "Not my sister?" "She war thet jedge's baby. Thar war two of 'em in a buggy, side the court house, the day Silas Hoggan went ter trial. I fetched one, an' left one. Weuns did a good job, Granny an' me." "She hed larnin' ways," lament- ed Cassy. "Ain't she never comin' back hyar no more?" piped Millie. "No!" Granny's quick re- sponse seemed final. But close on her decision Bud put in a hearty "Yes!" tion. D« 'ON'T youns carry on so," he admonished. "Weuns didn't have no hold ter her. She's the least one of thet jedge. I fetched her partly cause he took this hyar farm, partly cause youns war thet near dead. Our least one died — he war all blue. Granny an' me buried him out under thet big tree what I never would cut down." "She war my least one," sobbed Di DEFIANCE of a grandmother in the mountains is defiance indeed. But Bud Turner's boyhood seemed to drop from him like a cloak as he continued, "She air a comin' back. I allers liked her better'n Millie. I couldn't help it. She war so little and thin. 1 uster hoe her corn rows an' tote her wood. I walloped Millie good the time she let go the hoe on Curly's toe. I aims ter get her some day an' marry her. She hed larnin' ways. Don't youns fret, Ma; I'll bring her back, an' youns kin listen ter the end of that thar book." "Now I knows why Granny alius dipped her hair," wailed Cassy. "She war af eared ter let folks see them thar golden curls." M ILLIE sat upright, rubbing her reddened eyes. "Kin I hev her things?" she queried. "I wants thet thar red shawl an' her lookin' glass, an' the long blue ribbons. I don't want them thar books nor them thar tooth brushes." Cassy turned belligerently to- ward her erring daughter. "Youns air ter blame fer all this hyar trou- ble," she cried. "I ought ter wallop yer." She raised a threat- ening arm over the cowering Mil- lie. Then suddenly realizing the 330 The Improvement Era for March, 1930 weary months which lay before the child-woman, her anger changed to compassion. "Set up an' eat, Mil- lie," she admonished. "Youns kin hev my 'lasses on youns cake. 'Pears like ets thet sweet it hurts my teeth." Harrison .Home had reached its capacity. Twenty beds and twenty girls had been Miss Eunice's ambition. Orphans seeking home life, country girls seeking education, girls escaping from the drudgery of poverty- ridden environment. The last comer, crippled Amy, had the sleeping porch. Every night Miss Eunice made the rounds of the twenty sleepers, tucking in loose covers, turning off forgotten lights, locking doors. Then on to her own room, body weary but soul happy. "What would you do, Miss Eunice, if another girl drifted in, say tonight?" queried Amy as Miss Eunice passed her door. "If she had to sleep in the street if you didn't keep her, what would you do, now honest?" "Gracious, Amy! I would have to let her stay all night anyway. I'd wrap her in one of my gowns and tuck her in with me. If she were little, like you, it would be a real wrap around, wouldn't it?" Miss Eunice laughed, for she never had time to count her calories. JHE passed on to her own room. For twelve years she had never failed to pray for the re- turn of the lost Pamela. While Judge Harrison had tabooed the subject in his own home, and Echo was afraid to discuss it, Miss Eunice watched and waited and prayed. Many girls of varied types had sought the shelter of Harrison Home during those twelve years, but none had ever answered the description of the missing child. But on this eventful night, as Miss Eunice turned off her own light, there came an urgent ring of the bell. "I just feel it's the twenty-first girl," cried crippled Amy. "O Miss Eunice, do let me come down too!" JjUT Eunice Harrison scarce heard her. On the porch stood an oddly assorted pair. Dr. Locke, the good, kindly physician who had ministered to the many needs of her growing family, stood waiting for admission. He half led, half carried a young girl, or a large child, Miss Eunice could not tell which. As she admitted them the child's strange appearance seemed like a page from a fairy tale. Her bare feet were grimed and coarsened; her tousled bare head was startling. The black hair sud- denly whitened at the roots, form- ing a straight contrasting line in the middle. She looked fatigued and frightened. A pair of worn shoes were flung over one shoul- der; a small tin box was clutched under the opposite arm. She wore a brown flannel dress which some- how seemed familiar to Miss Eunice. One hand was clutched in a firm grasp, as if something pre- cious were being guarded. The round molded face was too neglect- ed for beauty; and was strangely dark, as if grimed. Her hands were rough and cracked, and bore un- mistakable marks of toil. Only the eyes, in spite of fatigue, looked at Miss Eunice unflinchingly and beseechingly. "Where have I seen this child before?" was the ques- tion which flashed across the mind of the kind Miss Eunice, even be- fore Dr. Locke spoke. "I've brought you another daughter," he laughed. "Sit down, child. You're here, so you can let loose of that tin box and rest your arm." "But Dr. Locke, who — where and why?" cried Miss Eunice. "I can't take girls in this way. No clothes; no letter. Perhaps she's run away." "I picked her up about ten miles out. She'd lain down beside the road, too weary to walk farther. She was coming from Crow's Nest. She's got a tiny piece of paper in that closed hand. It has your name on it. Torn from a parcel post package, looks like. Give the lady the paper, child." Li JKE an automaton Curly handed over the crumpled, moist scrap. Miss Eunice smoothed it out and recognized her own name and address in her own hand- writing. "What is your name, dearie?" "Curly — Curly Turner," in an almost inaudible whisper. "And your daddy's name?" prompted Miss Eunice. "Steve Turner." Then noticing the flash of understanding that came over the face of Miss Eunice, the child quickly added, "Granny sent me. She said I couldn't stay no more. She sent youns this hyar box." "Give her this pill and put her to bed," ordered Dr. Locke. "She's walked farther today than most girls her age do in a year. Maybe she'll sleep all day tomorrow. Wonder I didn't run over her, she was that close to the road. I'll take a look at her in the morning." 'Til give her supper," the mothering instinct was always up- permost in Miss Eunice. "Have you had any supper?" "Granny gev me bread, an' hawg meat, but ets all gone. Ets a right smart ways ter youns house." Knowing the natural reticence of mountain folks, Miss Eunice asked no further questions, but fed her youngest charge some light food, washed off the surface dirt and wrapped her around in one of her own voluminous gowns. "Weuns nary takes our clothes all off," volunteered the child when the night gown appeared. "Just the top dress. Weuns ain't got no white quilts," she looked with awe at the sheets and pillows. And as blessed sleep crept quickly upon her, she muttered, "I can't tote wa- ter ter night Pa, I's thet weary." A: ,S soon as the child slept, Miss Eunice hurried down to inspect the precious box. Why had Steve Turner sent his child to her? There was no lock upon the box, but the lid stuck as if rusted, and it took considerable strength to pry The Improvement Era for March, 1930 331 it open. Finally, out on the table fell a complete outfit of clothes for a small infant. Little white kid shoes, silk hose, an embroidered dress, a cashmere coat and bonnet. All were partly mildewed and ex- uded a musty, stale odor. In the toe of one shoe Miss Eunice found a delicately wrought gold locket and chain. She recognized it in- stantly as one of the pair she had given her brother's babies at their christening. She did not need to open the locket to know the word "Pamela" would be engraved within, but she did so, for the pure joy of double assurance. "Oh," cried Miss Eunice, as tears coursed down her cheeks, "no wonder Steve Turner never tried to kill James. He took a deeper re- venge. Oh, the poor, forlorn little thing! They have dyed her hair and worked her nearly to death. Her hands are bleeding and one toe is all black. Oh James, and Echo and Portia, the lost is found! My prayers are answered! I'll wait till morning and bring them all over together. What a rejoicing we will have!" 1 HE Hon. James F. Harrison shaved every morning at seven-thirty. He breakfasted at eight, seven days a week, twelve months a year. After what he termed "endless patience" he had succeeded in teaching Echo the nicety of soft boiled eggs, the fine point between brown toast and burned, and the superiority of overnight grape fruit. At eight- thirty he tutored Portia for an hour. At least he thought he tu- tored Portia. Since he could not have a son, he was determined this surviving daughter should fill the niche in his scheme of life reserved for the boy. Portia, however, had well defined, if private, plans con- cerning her own future. At ten the judge sat in court, ready to mete out justice, unfavored with mercy. On the morning following Miss Eunice's discovery, the judge had just lathered one cheek when a sharp ring at the front door ar- rested his attention. The voice of an excited woman rapidly ap- proached his sanctuary, despite Echo's pleadings. "Please wait un- til he finishes shaving, Eunice. I'll -**k him to hurry." Wild-Rose By H. EDWARD BRIDGE JL'M just a wild-rose. All I have to offer Is perfume sweet And soft mossy ground Around me, For tiny baby feet To dance on. B »UT Miss Eunice did not hold the reverence for her brother which he had instilled into his wife. "I've seen him shave before," she retorted, taking a bit of pleasure in disturbing his careful plans. "Come with me, Echo. Such news! James, Echo, I've found Pamela! Your lost baby has come back. She has come to Harrison Home. I have her in my home; in my bed, in my night gown. Get Portia, and come quickly!" Echo gave one wild glance backward toward the con- venient couch and quietly effaced herself from the little drama by fainting. James F. Harrison pro- ceeded to lather the other cheek. "Eunice, you are too sentimental for words. Has some over-bur- dened mountaineer inveigled you into taking one of his flock? Or has some indigent auto tourist pre- vailed upon your credulity with a likely story? Do not worry about Echo; she will revive promptly." Mi LISS Eunice gazed at her brother in astonishment. "Jimmy," she pleaded, "I'm not joking. I have the child — your child. I have the clothes she wore when she disappeared. The stock- ings and shoes, the bonnet and coat, the locket I gave her, with her name engraved upon it, they are all there! Now will you be- lieve and come?" "Some one is a clever impostor," added James. "No wonder you believed. You are sentimental and credulous. Undoubtedly these people, whoever they are, figured that out ahead of time. Are you going to keep the child?" "She's yours," flashed Eunice. "She even looks like Portia, only she's smaller, weaker and thinner." "Since you are so insistent and my breakfast is cooling, I must disillusion you, Eunice. Last June when I supposedly went fishing in Montana, I really went to attend the funeral of Pamela Harrison. She lies buried in a little mountain cemetery. Aged twelve years, six months. I erected a modest but suitable monument. So that chap- ter is closed." OH," gasped Eunice, "You paid for the funeral of some other child!" "The people — her foster par- ents, telegraphed me collect. They had taken her from a wreck, of which she was the sole survivor. They kept her until she died. Measles I think, or maybe pneu- monia. Really, I was so glad to have the long uncertainty ended, I asked few questions. I paid the bills, paid the good people who had kept her and hastened home. Now Portia's future will not be menaced with the uncertainty of a possible double." "Oh," gasped Eunice again. "Who was credulous this time? Did you see any proof that the child was your lost baby? Did they produce a locket engraved Pamela ? Did she look like Portia ? How did she get into the wreck? Did you see her?" "Really, Eunice, you might have made an attorney had you been a man. But my child is dead, and thank God, I know where she is! This terrible uncertainty has un- nerved me for years, and now threatened to become a menace to Portia's youth. I will not come to your home to see your foundling. I told you years ago, I would not enter my old home if you dese- crated it. Echo will not come either. And please, do not make Portia's life unpleasant by thrust- ing this child in her face. ^ Keep her, if you choose, but she is not Pamela Harrison/' He struck the wash basin with his shaving brush with much the same gesture he would have used when striking his desk with a gavel. Eunice felt herself dismissed. She cast a quick glance toward the prone Echo. A flutter of half closed lids gave her (Continued on page 362)