The Forerunner Part 59

1.00 A YEAR .10 A COPY

Volume 1. No. 6 APRIL, 1910 Copyright for 1910 C. P. Gilman

The human soul is built for the love and service of the whole world.

We confine it to the love and service of five or six persons, and the salvation of one.

WHEN THOU GAINEST HAPPINESS

When thou gainest happiness, Life's full cup of sweetest wine; Dost thou stop in grieving blind Over those dark years behind?

Bitter now, rebellious, mad, For the things thou hast not had-- Before everything was thine?

Dost not rather wonder why Nearing blaze of joy like this, Some prevision had not lit Those dark hours with hope of it?

That thou couldst in patient strength Have endured that sorrow's length-- _Nothing_--to the coming bliss!

Now, awaken! Look ahead!

See the earth one garden fair!

See the evils of to-day Like a child's faults put away!

See our little history seem Like a short forgotten dream!

See a full-grown rising race Find our joy their commonplace!

Find such new joy of their own As our best hopes have not known!

And take shame for thy despair!

MARTHA'S MOTHER

It was nine feet long.

It was eight feet high.

It was six feet wide.

There was a closet, actually!--a closet one foot deep--that was why she took this room. There was the bed, and the trunk, and just room to open the closet door part way--that accounted for the length. There was the bed and the bureau and the chair--that accounted for the width. Between the bedside and the bureau and chair side was a strip extending the whole nine feet. There was room to turn around by the window. There was room to turn round by the door. Martha was thin.

One, two, three, four--turn.

One, two, three, four--turn.

She managed it nicely.

"It is a stateroom," she always said to herself. "It is a luxurious, large, well-furnished stateroom with a real window. It is _not_ a cell."

Martha had a vigorous constructive imagination. Sometimes it was the joy of her life, her magic carpet, her Aladdin's lamp. Sometimes it frightened her--frightened her horribly, it was so strong.

The cell idea had come to her one gloomy day, and she had foolishly allowed it to enter--played with it a little while. Since then she had to keep a special bar on that particular intruder, so she had arranged a stateroom "set," and forcibly kept it on hand.

Martha was a stenographer and typewriter in a real estate office. She got $12 a week, and was thankful for it. It was steady pay, and enough to live on. Seven dollars she paid for board and lodging, ninety cents for her six lunches, ten a day for carfare, including Sundays; seventy-five for laundry; one for her mother--that left one dollar and sixty-five cents for clothes, shoes, gloves, everything. She had tried cheaper board, but made up the cost in doctor's bills; and lost a good place by being ill.

"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor hall bedrooms a cage," said she determinedly. "Now then--here is another evening--what shall I do?

Library? No. My eyes are tired. Besides, three times a week is enough. 'Tisn't club night. Will _not_ sit in the parlor. Too wet to walk. Can't sew, worse'n reading--O good _land!_ I'm almost ready to go with Ba.s.set!"

She shook herself and paced up and down again.

Prisoners form the habit of talking to themselves--this was the suggestion that floated through her mind--that cell idea again.

"I've got to get out of this!" said Martha, stopping short. "It's enough to drive a girl crazy!"

The driving process was stayed by a knock at the door. "Excuse me for coming up," said a voice. "It's Mrs. MacAvelly."

Martha knew this lady well. She was a friend of Miss Podder at the Girls' Trade Union a.s.sociation. "Come in. I'm glad to see you!" she said hospitably. "Have the chair--or the bed's really more comfortable!"

"I was with Miss Podder this evening and she was anxious to know whether your union has gained any since the last meeting--I told her I'd find out--I had nothing else to do. Am I intruding?"

"Intruding!" Martha, gave a short laugh. "Why, it's a G.o.dsend, Mrs.

MacAvelly! If you knew how dull the evenings are to us girls!"

"Don't you--go out much? To--to theaters--or parks?" The lady's tone was sympathetic and not inquisitive.

"Not very much," said Martha, rather sardonically. "Theaters--two girls, two dollars, and twenty cents carfare. Parks, twenty cents--walk your feet off, or sit on the benches and be stared at. Museums--not open evenings."

"But don't you have visitors--in the parlor here?"

"Did you see it?" asked Martha.

Mrs. MacAvelly had seen it. It was cold and also stuffy. It was ugly and shabby and stiff. Three tired girls sat there, two trying to read by a strangled gaslight overhead; one trying to entertain a caller in a social fiction of privacy at the other end of the room.

"Yes, we have visitors--but mostly they ask us out. And some of us don't go," said Martha darkly.

"I see, I see!" said Mrs. MacAvelly, with a pleasant smile; and Martha wondered whether she did see, or was just being civil.

"For instance, there's Mr. Ba.s.set," the girl pursued, somewhat recklessly; meaning that her visitor should understand her.

"Mr. Ba.s.set?"

"Yes, 'Pond & Ba.s.set'--one of my employers."

Mrs. MacAvelly looked pained. "Couldn't you--er--avoid it?" she suggested.

"You mean shake him?" asked Martha. "Why, yes--I could. Might lose my job. Get another place--another Ba.s.set, probably."

"I see!" said Mrs. MacAvelly again. "Like the Fox and the Swarm of Flies! There ought to be a more comfortable way of living for all you girls! And how about the union--I have to be going back to Miss Podder."

Martha gave her the information she wanted, and started to accompany her downstairs. They heard the thin jangle of the door-bell, down through the echoing halls, and the dragging feet of the servant coming up. A kinky black head was thrust in at the door.