Apron-Strings

Apron-Strings, by Eleanor Gates

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Title: Apron-Strings
Author: Eleanor Gates

Release Date: September 29, 2007 [eBook #22804]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK
APRON-STRINGS***
E-text prepared by Al Haines

APRON-STRINGS
by
ELEANOR GATES

Author of The Poor Little Rich Girl, Etc.
A story for all mothers who have daughters and for all daughters who
have mothers

New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers
Copyright, 1917, by Sully and Kleinteich All rights reserved
First edition, October, 1917 Second edition, October, 1917

DEAR ANN WILDE,--
It seems to me that there are, broadly speaking, three kinds of mothers.
First, there is the kind that does not plan for, or want, a child, but,
having borne one, invariably takes the high air of martyrdom, feeling
that she has rendered the supreme service, and that, henceforth, nothing
is too good for her. Second, there is the mother who loves her own
children devotedly, and has as many as her health and the family purse
will permit, but who is fairly indifferent to other women's children.
Last of all, there is the mother who loves anybody's
children--everybody's children. Where the first kind of mother finds
"young ones" a bother, and the second revels in a contrast of her
darlings with her neighbors' little people (to the disparagement of the
latter), the third never fails to see a baby if there is a baby around, never
fails to be touched by little woes or joys; belongs, perhaps, to a
child-study club, or helps to support a kindergarten, or gives as freely
as possible to some orphanage. And often such a woman, finding
herself childless, and stirred to her action by a voice that is Nature's,
ordering her to fulfill her woman's destiny, makes choice from among
those countless little ones who are unclaimed; and if she happens not to
be married, nevertheless, like a mateless bird, she sets lovingly about
the building of a home nest.
This last kind is the best of all mothers. Not only is the fruit of her body

precious to her, but all child-life is precious. She is the super-mother:
She is the woman with the universal mother-heart.
You, the "Auntie-Mother" to two lucky little girls, are of this type
which I so honor. And that is why I dedicate to you this story--with
great affection, and with profound respect.
Your friend, ELEANOR GATES.
New York, 1917.

APRON-STRINGS
CHAPTER I
"I tell you, there's something funny about it, Steve,--having the
wedding out on that scrap of lawn." It was the florist who was speaking.
He was a little man, with a brown beard that lent him a professional air.
He gave a jerk of the head toward the high bay-window of the Rectory
drawing-room, set down his basket of smilax on the well-cared-for
Brussels that, after a disappearing fashion, carpeted the drawing-room
floor, and proceeded to select and cut off the end of a cigar.
"Something wrong," assented Steve. He found and filled a pipe.
The other now dropped his voice to a whisper. "'Mrs. Milo,' I says to
the old lady, 'give me the Church to decorate and I'll make it look like
something.' 'My good man,' she come back,--you know the way she
talks--'the wedding will be in the Close.'"
"A stylish name for not much of anything," observed Steve. "The Close!
Why not call it a yard and be done with it?"
"English," explained the florist. "--Well, I pointed out that this room
would be a good place for the ceremony. I could hang the wedding-bell
right in the bay-window. But at that, click come the old lady's teeth
together. 'The wedding will be in the Close,' she says again, and so I

shut my mouth."
"Temper."
"Exactly. And why? What's the matter with the Church? and what's the
matter with this room?--that they have to go outdoors to marry up the
poor youngsters. What's worse, that Close hasn't got the best reputation.
For there stands that orphan basket, in plain sight----"
"It's no place for a wedding!"
"Of course not!--a yard where of a night poor things come sneaking
in----"
A door at the far end of the long room had opened softly. Now a voice,
gentle, well-modulated, and sorrowfully reproving, halted the
protesting of the florist, and paralyzed his upraised finger. "That will
do," said the voice.
What had frozen the gesture of his employer only accelerated the
movements of Steve. Recollecting that he was in