Stop a minute, however, and think. The one thing we can none of us escape is growing old. To-day we are in the heydey of youth and activity, our cnergy confronts every obstacle, and we fear nothing, but day by day, week by week, by imperceptible steps and degrees, we are going forward to the time of silver hair and lessened strength on life's downhill slope. When that time comes we shall need consideration from our juniors, and we shall then feel that we have a right to our own lives, even though children and grandchildren wish to order them for us in their own way, and not after ours.

I have known old men and women, grandfathers and grandmothers, made very unhappy by the constant interference, or the perhaps gentle fault-finding of younger people in the home. Let grandmother potter about as she will; do not venture to order your mother around. Refrain from comment and criticism upon father and his methods of speech or somewhat conservative preferences. You have perhaps had advantages which your parents never had; you owe these advantages to their unfailing unselfishness, their hard work and their self-denial.

If they do not use the same kind of English that you do, if they occasionally have a lapse in grammar, or if their table manners are not quite up to the modern standard of etiquette, far be it from you to interfere. There is really no sin whatever in pouring tea or coffee into a saucer, as some old people like to do, yet I have seen young people inordinately distressed because of some such little act in their company.

I recall with shame some young people who apologized to me for their mother's lack of acquaintance with the conventionalities of the day. I blushed for them to think they were so ill-bred and crude, and my heart ached for the poor mother who was subjected to their foolish fault-finding.

Let me finish this chapter with a little bit of sensible verse by S. W. Foss. It is called "The Soul's Spring Cleaning," and it seems to me that it has a lesson for all of us. If we just take up the thought in this homely little poem we shall not be in much danger of finding fault with anybody. And fault-finding is an enemy to avoid.

Yes, clean yer house, an' clean yer shed,
An' clean yer barn in ev'ry part;
But brush the cobwebs from yer head,

An' sweep the snowbanks from yer heart.
Yes, w'en spring cleanin' comes aroun'
Bring forth the duster an' the broom,

But rake yer fogy notions down,

An' sweep yer dusty soul of gloom.

Sweep ol' ideas out with the dust,
An' dress yer soul in newer style;
Scrape from yer min' its worn-out crust,
An' dump it in the rubbish pile.
Sweep out the hates that burn an' smart,
Bring in new loves serene an' pure;
Aroun' the hearthstone of the heart
Place modern styles of furniture.

Clean out yer morril cubby holes,

Sweep out the dirt, scrape off the scum; 'Tis cleanin' time for healthy souls

Git up an' dust! The spring hez come! Clean out the corners of the brain,

Bear down with scrubbin'-brush and soap, An' dump ol' Fear into the rain,

An' dust a cozy chair for Hope.

Clean out the brain's deep rubbish hole,
Soak ev'ry cranny, great an' small,
An' in the front room of the soul

Hang pootier picturs on the wall;
Scrub up the winders of the mind,

Clean up, an' let the spring begin;
Swing open wide the dusty blind,
An' let the April sunshine in.

Plant flowers in the soul's front yard,
Set out new shade an' blossom trees,
An' let the soul, once froze an' hard,
Sprout crocuses of new idees.
Yes, clean yer house, an' clean yer shed,
An' clean yer barn in ev'ry part,

But brush the cobwebs from yer head,

An' sweep the snowbanks from yer heart!

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Our Aunt Mary.

OMEBODY once said that when conversation flagged you could always start it going by turning to your next neighbor and

innocently inquiring
your Aunt Mary:

into the trap and say

How long is it since you heard from The person would usually fall at once Why, I did not know that you had met my Aunt Mary," or "Aunt Mary is very well, I thank you," or "Aunt Mary has gone to California," or "Aunt Mary is coming to see us next week," the fact being that everybody has an Aunt Mary.

The sweet word "Mary," name endeared to Christians because it is the name of the blessed Mother of our Lord, has woven itself into every life and placed itself in almost every home. Quite often we find out that a person whom we have always known as Jennie or Gertrude or Virginia has also the baptismal name of Mary, and it is perhaps an impossibility to find anywhere a large family connection in which Marys are not as plentiful as daisies in summer or ripe apples in autumn.

Aunt Mary when she comes to stay at our house is always a welcome guest. Once when I was a child there was a question eagerly discussed in the family councils as to whether a certain dear and intimate friend who often made visits at our house could be comfortably entertained during a winter when many other things were on foot and the house was more than ordinarily crowded. The elders were reluctant about making up their minds that they would have to put off the guest whom they loved, and who had hitherto always come whenever she chose and always been received with open arms. A solemn-eyed little child, sitting with his toys on a rug and apparently too young to have entered into the merits of the conversation, decided the matter by piping up in a very resolute voice "There is room enough for Aunt Mary." Little Jack's verdict carried the day, and Aunt Mary came and stayed as usual, making the house brighter by her cheery presence and adding an element of interest to all that was going on.

There is many a sweet Aunt Mary to whom children go with quite as much confidence as to their mothers. In communities where the trained nurse is not easily obtained, and where primitive neighborliness still lingers, it is Aunt Mary

who goes, packing her little satchel with necessaries, to the household where measles has broken out, to the other household where they have scarlet fever, or to the other where death has entered bringing desolation and distress in his wake. Always she comes bringing comfort, joy and strength, this capable, efficient, charming Aunt Mary.

If there is a wedding on the carpet, it is she who is consulted about the great occasion itself, the bridesmaids, the maids of honor, the bridal gown and veil; it

is she who has known all about it from the very first, who was first aware that Eugene had looked longingly at Betty, and that coquettish Betty had at last yielded her heart to a persistent lover. Very likely Aunt Mary has a romance of her own. It might make the youthful lovers smile to know that this staid and

demure personage had in her own day had offers from courtly admirers, and that perhaps her heart was still faithful to one who for some reason or other never had the courage to offer her his hand.

One summer day long ago an elderly gentleman alighted at a little station in the mountains of Pennsylvania. In this village there was a school for young women, presided over by a gracious lady with silver hair and eyes still bright and keen, though she had seen her fiftieth birthday. Little reckoned she as she sat at her desk or presided in chapel, or listened to the confidences of the young girls under her care, that a stately and courtly judge who many years before had wooed her in vain, when her hair was golden and his brown, had in late life and widowerhood taken the pains to find out where she was and had come again once more to try his fate. To the great astonishment of all her friends, and to the consternation of the girls who had been her pupils, one day it was announced that this lady, Aunt Mary to any number of bright young kinsfolk, was about to enter the married state. Do not smile at elderly lovers. There is often a good prospect for happiness in the serenity of Indian summer, and life's late afternoon may be mellow and sweet to two who find it possible to unite their fortunes even in the waning day.

It

"My Aunt Mary," said a boy, "is as "is as jolly as any other fellow in town." was really a great compliment, and I quite understood it when I saw her, as eager and interested as anybody else, standing and watching a game of baseball, and absolutely shouting, in her interest, directions to her favorite players all over the field.

To another Aunt Mary came a motherless boy, a boy who had been neglected, who had few ideals, to whom no one had been specially kind or attentive. This boy had not been started right, and when he was taken under the wing of this gentle, yet spirited, woman, he had many faults and failings; but she knew how to reach a boy's heart, and before long there was the greatest change visible in Will. His school reports became steadily more and more creditable, day by day he made friends, the somewhat sullen and often boorish boy became transformed into a quiet-mannered, gentle and altogether agreeable lad whom everybody liked; and in years to come, when people shall find him in situations of honor and merit, it will all be due to Aunt Mary.

Sometimes Aunt Mary is very much discouraged. It seems to her that she has no special gift or talent, that she does not shine, and that people could get on very well without her. She is less apt than formerly to resent the title "Old Maid," because not only are old maids at preent as thick as blackberries in summer, and not only are they a most useful and excellent body of women without whom the community would fare ill, but the reproach once clinging to the term is entirely gone.