Mary at the Farm | Page 3

check. The apron had a patch pocket, which usually contained small twists or little wads of cord, which, like "The Old Ladies in Cranford," she picked up and saved for a possible emergency.
One of Aunt Sarah's special economies was the saving of twine and paper bags. The latter were always neatly folded, when emptied, and placed in a cretonne bag made for that purpose, hanging in a convenient corner of the kitchen.
Aunt Sarah's gingham apron was replaced afternoons by one made from fine, Lonsdale cambric, of ample proportions, and on special occasions she donned a hemstitched linen apron, inset at upper edge of hem with crocheted lace insertion, the work of her own deft fingers. Aunt Sarah's aprons, cut straight, on generous lines, were a part of her individuality.
Sarah Landis declared: "Happiness consists in giving and in serving others," and she lived up to the principles she advocated. She frequently quoted from the "Sons of Martha," by Kipling:
"Lift ye the stone or cleave the wood, to make a path more fair or flat, Not as a ladder from earth to heaven, not as an altar to any creed, But simple service, simply given, to his own kind in their human need."
"I think this so fine," said Aunt Sarah, "and so true a sentiment that I am almost compelled to forgive Kipling for saying 'The female of the species is more deadly than the male.'"
Aunt Sarah's goodness was reflected in her face and in the tones of her voice, which were soft and low, yet very decided. She possessed a clear, sweet tone, unlike the slow, peculiar drawl often aiding with the rising inflection peculiar to many country folk among the "Pennsylvania Germans."
The secret of Aunt Sarah's charm lay in her goodness. Being always surrounded by a cheery atmosphere, she benefited all with whom she came in contact. She took delight in simple pleasures. She had the power of extracting happiness from the common, little every-day tasks and frequently remarked, "Don't strive to live without work, but to find more joy in your work." Her opinions were highly respected by every one in the neighborhood, and, being possessed of an unselfish disposition, she thought and saw good in every one; brought out the best in one, and made one long to do better, just to gain her approval, if for no higher reward. Sarah Landis was a loyal friend and one would think the following, by Mrs. Craik, applied to her:
"Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort, of feeling safe with a person--having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are--chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away."
She was never so happy as when doing an act of kindness for some poor unfortunate, and often said. "If 'twere not for God and good people, what would become of the unfortunate?" and thought like George McDonald, "If I can put one touch of rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman (I should add child) I shall feel that I have worked with God."
Aunt Sarah's sweet, lovable face was the first beheld by many a little, new-born infant; her voice, the first to hush its wailing cries as she cuddled it up to her motherly breast, and oft, with loving hands, softly closed the lids over eyes no longer able to see; whom the Gracious Master had taken into His keeping.
One day I overheard Aunt Sarah quote to a sorrowing friend these fine, true lines from Longfellow's "Resignation": "Let us be patient, these severe afflictions not from the ground arise, but celestial benedictions assume the dark disguise."
[Illustration: THE OLD SPRING HOUSE]
CHAPTER II.
MARY'S ARRIVAL AT THE FARM.
The day preceding that of Mary's arrival at the farm was a busy one for Aunt Sarah, who, since early morning, had been preparing the dishes she knew Mary enjoyed. Pans of the whitest, flakiest rolls, a large loaf of sweetest nut-brown, freshly-baked "graham bread," of which Mary was especially fond; an array of crumb-cakes and pies of every description covered the well-scrubbed table in the summer kitchen, situated a short distance from the house. A large, yellow earthenware bowl on the table contained a roll of rich, creamy "smier kase" just as it had been turned from the muslin bag, from which the "whey" had dripped over night; ready to be mixed with cream for the supper table. Pats of sweet, freshly-churned butter, buried in clover blossoms, were cooling in the old spring-house near by.
The farm house was guiltless of dust from cellar to attic. Aunt Sarah was a model housekeeper; she accomplished wonders, yet never appeared tired or flurried as less systematic housekeepers