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Show Cotton woods By Jeanette Morrell THE cottonwoods were a dignified pair, one on each side of the path that led from the little bridge to the old white house. A tiny rose bush against the fence at their feet lifted her yellow blossoms shyly before their proud grandeur, but the gay little brook that ran under the bridge knew that the proud old cottonwoods needed his help to live, and he chuckled at them im-pudently. To the cousins playing on the grassy bank of the brook, the cottonwoods meant nothing more than shade. "Kitty," said the larger of the two, a boy of about six, "ya know, there's a lot of new baby chicks in the barn." Oh, let's go see 'em," squealed the delighted youngster, getting up from the ground. They hurried off. and the cottonwoods looked after them kindly. After a bit, Margaret came up from the barn where she had been gathering eggs. Her face was hot and she rubbed her sleeve over it impatiently. "Do you know what those little imps are up to now?" "I'm not going to trouble myself guessing, said Barbara, who was leaning against the larger of the two trees by the path, "this heat has curdled my brain." "Well, they have a great big stove pipe, and they're rolling those new baby chicks back and forth through it. I never saw their equal." "You'd better worry about something besides them. Your eggs will be hard-boiled if you don't take them in." After Margaret had gone, Barbara giggled a little and settled herself more comfortably against the old tree, She rubbed her hand caressingly over the bark. "What do you think about, all the years you stand here? Why are you here? Teach me how to be patient, old tree." Kitty and "Tom B." came panting up from the barn and plumped themselves down on her, eager for a romp. "Here, you little ruffians! Can't you let an innocent person rest a minute?" she smiled at the hot little brown faces whose fun suddenly changed to fear at the sound of a voice behind them. "Katherine!" and the ominous voice was ponderously followed by a stern and muscular woman. "What were you doing with those little chickens.' "We were des playin' wif 'em, Mrs. Turner. We didn't hurt 'em." Mrs. Turner slowly opened her great bony hand, disclosing a downy chicken, quite dead and stained with blood. "Oh, de poor chickie! Who hurted it?" "Katherine, you know who hurt it. Now, you go straight into that house and stay there. And as for you, young Thomas, you'd better go to your mother.' Shaken by sobs, little Katherine went into the house. "I say, Mrs. Turner, they didn't do that, did they?" "Miss Margaret found it dead under that stove pipe that they were playing with. I suppose it walked under there itself." She stalked into the house. Barbara followed her thoughtfully, and went up to the bedroom where she found Kitty on the bed, crying as if her heart would break. "Here, kiddikin, you mustn't cry like that. You'll make yourself sick." "I-wish-Mommie 'ud co-come back from New Yo-erk. I du-don't like that-old lady to take care of me. Barbie, I wou'n't hurt that little chickie, I didn't mean-" sobs choked her. Barbara rocked her gently until she was quiet:- "Listen, honey. Mother's going to be home tomorrow, and then everything will be all right." "But I don't want that little chickie to die; he was havin' fun coastin' in the pipe, and he can't play up in Heaven. Little chickies don't have any pipes up there." "Baby, do you want to see a chickadee's nest with me?" "Uh-huh." Barbara lifted her and they went down stairs and out to the cottonwoods. "Now if you'll be quiet I'l hold you up and you look 'way under the leaves and-" "I see it! I see it! It's made out of little sticks, and-oooo, Barbie! There's four eggs in it!" Barbara put her gently down. "Come on, I'll tell you a story." She took the baby in her arms and settled herself comfortably against the foot of the stately cottonwood. "Once upon a time, there was a little bird-" "Barbie, can little chickies go to heaven?" Barbara smiled and went on with her story until the tired little head drooped against her shoulder and the big blue eyes were closed. She leaned her head against the Cottonwood's rough bark and wondered how the brook could be so disrespectful to the old monarchs. She looked up at the little mother chickadee on her nest, and a feeling of peace came over her. If God made the lovely cottonwood to shelter the chickadee, didn't He take care of everything? "Thank you, old tree," murmured Barbara. "I know now why you're so patient and happy." Suddenly her face lighted. Why of course little chickies can go to Heaven. Molly By Frances Sorensen MOLLY turned over with a heavy sigh. She knew that she would be called any minute now. Every morning at exactly the same time she awakened and lay in the half darkness praying that they would forget to call her. How she dreaded to face another monotonous day in the hot fields. Work! Work! Work! Work! She pulled the blanket close around her face to smother the sob which made her throat and head ache, and waited breathlessly, listening to the sounds below. Her father was building a fire in the kitchen stove now. She closed her eyes tight and hoped that he would take a long time. Now he was moving around in the front room. Then the door opened and, "Molly," came in a gruff voice from below. Molly lay very still until the voice came again with a decided increase in volume, "Molly!" "Yes, all right," she answered in an assumed sleepy voice. She felt like jumping up and screaming, "Oh, go on and leave me alone. I won't get up. I won't. I won't." A hysterical laugh broke from her lips. At the same time each morning she awakened, waited for the same lusty call, and experienced the same rebellious thoughts; but always in the end she jumped out of bed, dressed hurriedly in overalls and shirt, and hurried out to the barn to help with the milking. This morning she lay a minute longer, but at length, not daring to remain, threw the covers back and slid to the floor. She glanced at herself in the mirror. How she ever kept her complexion so perfect was a miracle. Her hair was dark and it curled lovingly around her sweet oval face which was burned a deep tan from the heat of the sun. Soft brown eyes, which always contained a certain shiny light somewhere with in their depths, fit perfectly with the full red lips and perfect nose. But Molly was in an angry mood. She pulled her hat over her head and gave a disdainful sneer at herself in the mirror. "Old farmer's daughter," she said. With this she turned hastily away, and fearing that she was later than usual, hurried down stairs, found her milk pail and left for the barn. Now that she was up and dressed she felt a trifle better. The air was so velvety and cool. The horrid hot sun was not up yet. Everything was quiet and peaceful. Molly squared her shoulders, lifted her face to the sky and began to whistle softly to herself. As a rule Molly was a sweet girl, but of late she had become despondent and ill tempered. "Hurry, Molly. That hay has just got to be got in today. I'm afraid it's goin' to rain." "Oh, curses," Molly muttered under her breath, and out loud, "but Dad, it's too green isn't it?" "Pretty green, but I daresn't wait. It sure feels like rain." Molly knew what that meant, hauling green hay on a sultry, blistering day. She hurried, finished milking, and then went to the house for a bite to eat. Oh how Molly longed to stay in the house one day and help with the cooking and sewing. She often pictured in her mind a sunny little kitchen with green plants in the window and a canary twittering in a cage. Often she firmly declared that her girls should never be compelled to work in the fields. When company came her father would pat her on the shoulder and say that Molly could run the farm as well as he could. And it was the truth; there was nothing Molly had not learned to do in the way of work. She smiled, actually sensed a |