In a Mysterious Way

In a Mysterious Way By STELLA P. RICH G, ^EE, that's some dress, Ma." Ralph eyed his moth- er critically as she deftly helped the younger children into their Sunday clothes. "I can't remember when you didn't wear it and I'm — let me see — seventeen today, isn't it?" Sarah Maby's pale face flushed, "It isn't by choice that I'm still wearin' it, son." "No, and that's the truth, Ralph," broke in his sister Maida. "If it didn't cost so much to keep you in high school, mother would- n't have to wear a dress like that. It just makes me boil when I think how she gave you all the turkey money she had saved to buy her new window curtains, so you could get you a class ring." "I know, Ma, you were a brick to let me have that money, but what would they think of a fellow if he couldn't afford a class ring?" "What you think of mother for not having a new dress," dryly answered his sister. ing a little extra fixin' for dinner," she thought. A; Ai .MOS MABY came into the living room, shiny and uncomfortable in his Sunday clean- liness. "Ready fur meetin' Sarah? The Johnsons have gone by al- ready. Time we were starting, I guess." "I'm not quite ready, Amos. I'll come with the children," said Sarah, moving toward the kitch- en. "Ralph, you go on with your father, and don't stay after church. Dinner will be ready at four-thir- ty. Ralph carefully adjusted his tie, gave a final pat to his sleek, shiny hair, pulled his lavender bordered handkerchief a fraction of an inch higher in his breast pocket and joined his father. After the men were gone Sarah basted the chicken, throwing some of the rich gravy on the now fra- grant dressing. "I wish I could give him a real birthday present instead of just do- ,S she straightened up from the oven she caught a glimpse of herself in the little mirror above the washstand. For a brief sec- ond she regarded the image, then turned away with a sigh. "Never mind, Sarah Maby," she comforted herself. "This is the very last time you'll have to wear this dress. The Golden Rule sale starts Tuesday and I've got my ten dollars already. Lucky I did- n't get that navy blue satin I was about to buy when I was in Mont- rose last week. With all the ready- mades marked down one-half I'm sure to get something I'll like bet- ter'n anything I could make." Meeting over, Sarah hurried home. It was a long time since, breakfast. Her family would be starving. She was cutting a choc- olate cake when Ralph came in. "Gee, Ma, that looks good — and what's that I smell — chicken — well, for the love of !" "Your birthday, son. Where's your father?" "Special Priesthood meeting. Didn't you hear them announce it?" "No, I didn't. Must have been thinkin' of something else.' Amos came in presently and took his place in silence. He wore a self-satisfied air but paid little attention to dinner. "Pass your pa the gizzard, Maida. Amos, you're not eatin' natural — only two pieces of chick- er r "Don't worry about him, Ma. I'll take his share," offered Ralph. 1 HAT night in their bedroom Amos gave a nervous cough as he fumbled with his shoe- laces. Sarah stopped in the act of hanging up a coat he had flung across the chair. She knew that cough of old. It prefaced all seri- ous talks of her husband. "Well, what is it, Amos?" He didn't raise his head. "That Salem meetin' house — well, at Priesthood meetin' today the bishop told us that the Church had made a call for the wards to help that little town. It can't pay for its meetin' house. The con- tractor needs his money — the Church has paid its allotment — and well, you know what kind of a year it has been. The people can't sell their hay and the bishop says it is a chance for a big broth- er to help a little brother." "What did you pledge, Amos?" Hi The Author .E appeared not to hear her. "John Meyers he up and pledged twenty-five dollars." "He could afford it." "I know it, but I couldn't let him beat me, could I? I know we haven't a cent, but with yoiu chickens layin' good we could get it in a couple of months." "What did you pledge, Amos?" 'Twenty-five dollars. Ten of it has got to be in by Tuesday." "How was you aimin' to pay that ten?' "Well," he began a bit sheep- ishly, "I was wonderin' if you would mind lettin' me have that ten dollars you didn't use the oth- er day to get your dress with." "All right," she said presently.

The Improvement Era for August, 1930 697 She opened the bureau drawer, and handed him the money. "Thanks, Sarah," he counted out in dimes and nickels the ten dollars. "I hate to take it but I kinda' guess it is our duty." "Your duty, not mine! Oh, Amos, you will never change will you? It wasn't your duty to pledge ten dollars that wasn't yours. It wasn't your duty to pledge my chicken money that is all I have to run the house on, but you like that self-satisfied feelin' of out- doin' the other fellow without payin' the price. I wouldn't care if you'd just try to pay some of these bills yourself, but you don't — you don't. I try not to be lit- tle but how did we meet that al- lotment on our own church house! Seventy-five dollars of the one hun- dred I paid with my chicken mo- ney while you were around look- ing for jobs. You put in twenty- five dollars worth of labor while I helped Ralph put in the hay. No, it doesn't matter to you or the Salem meetin' house that I've squeezed out that ten dollars, nick- el by nickel, and dime by dime, from the egg money that has gone to run this house and keep Ralph in school these last four years. I wouldn't care if it were for things like this alone, — though how I am going to get anything out of that Salem meetin' house is more than I can see — but it is the same with everything. It isn't the prin- ciple, it is just outdoin' the other fellow. You remember when you pledged that eighteen dollars for that doctor book that no one but you has had time to look into — because John Meyers had took one, and I had to pay for it with money I had saved to buy a washin' ma- chine. Salem meetin' house — oh " But Amos didn't hear a word. It was characteristic of Sarah that she had long since recognized the futility of speaking her thoughts aloud. out of the poverty of body and spirit in which Amos lived content. He didn't confide in her any more. She found herself almost wishing that he would become interested in some good girl. It would anchor him — get him away from the Jen- nings boys at least. "I might not be back to do the chores, Ma," Ralph called to her from the back seat of the Jennings' Ford late one Sunday afternoon. "Ralph, don't stay out late. You know I can't sleep till you're in." "Oh, don't worry about me, Ma. How old do you figure a fellow has to be before he can take care of himself?" "Was Ralph at church to- night?" Sarah asked Maida when the girl came in a few hours later. "No, he's off with that Jennings outfit somewhere." A] .FTER the children were asleep Sarah picked up a book — one of Ralph's school books. How she wished she'd had a chance for an education, — why this was really interesting, 'The Relation of the Individual to Society. The clock struck twelve. Ralph ought to be home. She stepped to the door, listened. No sound. She tried to read but her interest was gone. One o'clock! Still no Ralph. She undressed and lay toss- ing for an hour and a half. She lived through a thousand things that might happen to him. Sud- denly she could stand it no longer. Springing out of bed, she slipped into her clothes, wrapped a shawl about her and went out into the night. From her porch she saw a light at Mandy Williams', her nearest neighbor, and caught the sound of a car driving away. 'That poor baby is worse." It was a relief to forget her trouble even for a moment. "I believe I'll run over." L .N the weeks that fol- lowed Sarah had little time to be- wail the loss of her dress. Amos had secured work with a threshing crew. Ralph, always obedient, now began to disregard her advice. He was often away with the Jennings boys, the roughest fellows in town. At home he complained bitterly of their poverty. Sarah wondered if her sacrifices had been in vain. She had wanted so terribly to lift him Mr .RS. STELLA P. RICH is not a stranger to readers of the ERA and other local publications, as she has been writing for several years. Recentlu she has broken into east- ern magazines.' She is a teacher by profession, having been engaged at the Fielding High School, at Paris, Idaho, as English instructor and at present is teaching English at the Brigham Young University, Provo. At her knock the door flew open. "Why, Sarah Maby, what you doin' out this time of night?" Mrs. Williams' face and voice were all solicitation. "I saw the light and was afraid the baby was worse." "Land, no. Sam just got a phone call from his sister, Mrs. Jennings. Her boys and two or three others — she doesn't know who, have got mixed up in a car stealing scrape. They are locked up in the city jail. One of the boys is badly injured. They have taken him to the hospital. Seems they stole a big sedan at Montrose — left their Ford down an alley — got some girls and started for the Biglow Springs. The sheriff fol- lowed them and overtook them just after the sedan had turned over." JARAH'S( hand, gripped a chair back. "I guess I better be gettin' home," she said feeling blindly for the door knob. "Why, , Sarah, are you sick? Here, lie down till morning and I'll have Sam take you over when he gets back." "No, I'm all right. I just need to get out in the air. I can't leave the children." "Shan't I walk over with you?" "No, no thanks. I'm all right, I tell you." Out in the night again Sarah shivered though she was uncon- scious of any cold. She felt numb, detached. By some power, not her own, her legs were carrying her to- ward home, where she was going to hide her shame. The numbness began to recede. An ache, acute and awful had her whole body in its grip. "My boy Ralph in jail!" like the tolling of a bell against her bare heart — "My boy in jail!" He had been valedictorian of his class. She remembered the line of graduates as they marched past the principal for their diplomas. Oth- er mothers weren't crying — they were smiling and yet she couldn't see her boy for that mist in her eyes. Such pride, such joy! Her boy, out of all the poverty that had hemmed him in, out of the meagreness of opportunity, her boy chosen to represent his class! OHE remembered that night when Ralph had nearly died of pneumonia. She had stood in

698 The Improvement Era for August, 1930 the doorway just as the black of night was breaking up into the gray of the early morning — like it was now — and she had prayed that God would spare her boy. Spare him for what? Jail! Ralph, her boy in jail! How could she live till she saw him? How could she live afterward? "Ma, why Ma, what you doing out here on the road this time of day? Ma, you're sick! Here — you're going to fall." Ralph led her to the doorstep, brought her a drink of water in the tin dipper. "Say, Ma, you weren't worrying about me, were you?" "Ralph — Ralph, how did you get here?" "Get here? With these two feet and I'm plumb tired out, too." His face darkened with anger, "I'm through with those Jennings boys for good, Ma. Left me to walk clear from Salem. And that wasn't the worst, either " "Salem? What do you mean?" R ALPH shifted from one foot to the other, "Say, Ma, I've been wanting to tell you for weeks, but somehow I didn't dare; the only reason I've been going with those Jennings boys is that I had to get up to Salem to see a girl there and I didn't have any other way of going. Those Jen- nings fellows will go anywhere." Sarah drew in a long, deep breath. "You see, I had a date up there with Sally last night," Ralph con- tinued. "I got her in the car and we rode around for awhile, and then someone suggested we go around by Montrose to the Springs. I was willing and so were the rest — all but Sally. She said no, she was going to meeting. Gee, you ought to have heard those pi- kers bawl her out, and her stand- ing there against us all. 'I'll go to meeting with you Sally,' I said, 'You fellows can call for me after- ward.' "Well, they weren't there when church let out so Sally and. I walked out to her place — it's three miles — and waited there a couple of hours till the old man began to get restless. I could hear him talk- ing to Sally's mother so I beat it. I don't want to get him down on me, Ma, because — well — I like Sally. "Well, I'm glad I'm home. Some walk from Salem down here. I'll do the milking and then if you don't care I think I'll go to bed for awhile." OARAH stood in the doorway and watched Ralph swing down the path with the milk buck- ets. The gray in the sky was gone. In its place great banks of crimson clouds heralded the arrival of another day. Suddenly a sound broke the stillness. It was Ralph's voice. What it lacked in quality it made up in volume. Loud and clear it rang out on the morning air. There was no mistaking the words, "God moves in a myste- rious way." "And I thought the Salem meet- ing house wasn't ever going to do me any good," Sarah thought humbly as she turned into the kitchen to start breakfast. Feed Them Rather Than Fight Them (Continued from page 695) Walker {happy) : Now like sun parley with the Indians. rising out of East. Been all dark —now bright. Had eyes, no see; ears, no hear. Mormon Chief, you say straight. Soldier Steptoe, his talk not straight. Spaniards, talk not straight. Mormons speak good words. First to tell truth. I no want my people kill and steal. Want raise corn, read books. Our children learn your talk, know what you say. Give me writing. Show my people Indians and Mor- mons at peace. W. W. : What could be more friendly? It is a good end to our This is a most successful trip. B. Y. : Yes, and I thank Israel's God. Remember always, we must never fight the Indians, we must feed them. Yes, Chief, we will give you writing. Come, let us eat now. W. W. : Over here by the big flat boulder, we can spread the feast. Come on all. Walker: We eat with white brothers. Afterwards we smoke pipe of peace. Together, we smoke pipe of peace. Curtain Sig,ns of the times By MARGARET C. MOLONEY "DELIEVE in signs? u I'll tell the world I do, with reservations. I don't believe that a black cat crossing my path will bring me bad luck — though I will circum- vent him if I can. But there are signs that cannot be questioned. For instance, when I have to buy geraniums each spring to fill my window boxes it's a sure sign that I was too trifling to carry through the winter enough to make my spring start. When the huge burlap sack full of marigold and zinnia seeds that was thrown into a corner of the store room has been eaten up by the mice, it is a sign that I did not care enough for the flowery road- side I had planned to safeguard the seeds. I was warned by a de- pendable gardener that the seeds would have to be suspended from the rafters, but "She does not what she ought, What she ought not she'll do; And then lean upon the, hope That chance will pull her through!" Now when I shall have to buy canned vegetables and fruit to carry us through the late winter season, is it not a sign that I was lacking in the virtues of a house- wife when I allowed loads of veg- etables and fruits to rot in my garden and orchard last summer? But, oh, and I'm so proud to report it to save my good name (like throwing salt over the left shoulder to divert evil when salt is spilled) when my asparagus shoots up great sturdy stalks the minute spring flashes the "GO" sign, it is a sure sign that I did not neglect it last fall, but covered it up comfy with blankets of fertilizer and straw. Wild honeysuckle weaving a green coat for the old woodshed tells my neighbors that I had enough pride in my community to expend great energy last fall bringing in the vine from the for- est. It's a good sign. No one can doubt it. Ferns, too, on the shady side of the buildings are a sign of pride and thrift. By these things our neighbors know us, and it behooves us to look to our signs.