Page 4
THE LEXHIPEP
May 28, 1948
And So Goes the Story
—Nancy Sink
“With love that scorns the lapse of
time and ties that stretch beyond the
deep.”—Thomas Campbell.
Following are the words spoken by
Monsignor John M. Murry in memory
of the late Annabelle Susan Givins:
“The memory of Annabelle Givins
will long remain in the hearts of all
her neighbors. Annabelle Givins died
yesterday morning at the ripe old age
of ninety-four years, two months and
three days. Each year held a score
of happiness which incidents were re
told to her friends who gathered in
the rambling old house at the corner
of Birch and Eim Streets at least
once a week to beg Gramma Givins
for another story, for each was sweet
er and more elegant than the one
before it, etc.”
No eye was dry in the tiny church
that day, for everyone had pleasant
memories of the little old lady so
often seen about her flowers in the
spring, treating each one with her
own infinite tenderness, and who, in
the winter, so often welcomed strang
ers at her door—the little old lady in
her long black dress with a crisp white
apron tied neatly about her petite
waist. How sweet her life had been
for her and for everyone who loved
her so much.
In the congregation, where stillness
prevailed except for the frequent snif
fle of one of Grandma Givins’ friends,
sat a woman whose mind was on one
of the old-time stories. This woman
was Mary Arnold, and the following
story occupied her thoughts as she
sat in the tiny country church with
all her neighbors to pay homage to
the best neighbor of all.
Come! Gently roll the calendar back
for only three days. It was an ice-
beaten, snowy evening when the wind\
made the huge birch trees tremble
with cold and the hardened ground
crackle with the weight of the few
people who were forced to be out on
this so hectic a night. Only one
visitor ventured to the old house that
night. This was young Mary Arnold.
She had been welcomed at the door
by Grandma Givins, and they had
gone together into the little den where
an easy chair was waiting on each
side of the large, antiquated fireplace
in which crackled a welcoming fire.
On the hearth sat a tiny teapot with
two cups of tea already prepared.
When the two were seated comfort
ably in the big easy chairs. Grandma
Givins, in her calm, sweet manner,
recounted the following story:
“ ’Twas in the spring of 1872 that
the love story of Martha Bedford be
gan.
“There was to be a husking bee in
the neighborhood, and everyone was
preparing for the big event from Mama
down to little brother Joe. Martha
dressed in her Sunday-go-to-meeting
dress, for she knew full well that Sam
Carter would be there with ‘bells on.’.
And ho was, too. Sure, and they were
a handsome couple—Martha and Sam;
he the handsomest man about town,
and she ‘the belle of the ball.’ That
was the night he stole the first kiss.
That was the last time that Martha
Bedford ever saw Sam Carter, for it
was rumored thereabout that he had
left the little town in the heart of
Alabama, gone North, and was mar
ried. But Martha knew better. He
wouldn’t have done a thing like that,
not Sam.”
And here the story ended, for the
little old lady in the big brown easy
chair closed her eyes and was heard
no more.
The story ended for Martha Bed
ford, who in reality must have been
Annabelle Givins, for on a tiny, mar
ble-top table which sat beside Gramma
Givins’ easy chair lay a diary and a
pen. The diary contained the au
thentic story with the real characters,
Annabelle Givins and Sam Carter.
And in the tiny church the service
was over, and the crowd thronged tq
the graveyard just outside the church.
The men slowly lowered the body of
Annabelle Givins into the ground, and
the shovels of cold, hard clay made
a thumping sound on the big steel box.
If one could have been in the big
white house that afternoon about two-
carriage came to take the body of
Annabelle Givins away from her
friends, he might have seen the sweet
est, most sentimental part of Gramma
Givins’ story. There came an elderly,
white-haired gentleman ,who must
have been at least ninety-five, dressed
ih a simple black suit, majestically
carrying a cane in his left hand. The
cane was laid slowly aside, and the
black top hat lifted in reverence as
the old man raised the cold, withered
hand of Annabelle Givins and placed
on the third Anger of her left hand
two diamond studded rings.
And he now fully understood the
lines of Robert Browning as he re
called to his still clear memory the
words:
“There, that is our secret; go to sleep!
You will wake, and remember and
understand.”
And so goes the story of Annabelle
Givins—deceased.
THE HAPPY ENDING
(Continued from Page 3, Col. 2)
where.
The first morning that E va had
made her way through the thicket
and opened the big iron gate that
enciosed the cottage, John Whitcomb
was seated on the front porch carving,
which was his only trade now that
he had become very old. He suddenly
looked up from his work when he
heard the gate click. But when he
saw the small child he smiled and
invited her to come in. This she
did and very soon they were the
best of friends, talking as if they had
known each other always. Conver
sation between them was not as
friends, but rather as parent and
child. This was the beginning of a
new life for the old man, who for
merly lived in solitude. For the old
man, each day was spent in newly
found joy and happiness with little
Eva. And each night was spent in
complete peace because of the events
of this day when his dreams came true.
Little by little Eva was drawn away
from her Aunt Helen, who tried in
vain to persuade her to stay at the
big house and play with her twin,
cousins, Margaret and Martin. At first,
W'hen the three went to play, every
thing went along well. Then after a
few weeks, the twins began to become
envious of Eva. Before long they were
arguing and fighting over the many
playthings they had. They called her
■Mother’s pet”. A few days later they
began playing pranks on her.
The day was dreary because of rain.
It was not a hard rain, but rather a
constant patter on the windows. To
ward the latter part of the day it
had practically stopped raining. Mar
tin had almost persuaded Margaret
and Eva to go down to the old barn
to play sliding down on the hay. The
girls did not want to go. But finally
Martin won, and the three went run
ning through the mud and wet grass.
The barn had been built several years
ago and was used only to store hay
and other feed for the animals. It
was located only a short distance from
Uncle Johns’ cottage.
After playing quite a while, the
twins got tired and, being very mis
chievous, sought a way to play a prank
on Eva.
While Eva was sliding merrily down
on the hay, Martin meekly ducked
around the corner and went to the
supplies room. Here his father kept
the farm implements. Having looked
over the collection, Martin picked up
a mole trap. When he went back to
the hay pile, Margaret and Eva were
on the other side playing. He set the
trap at the foot of the hay pile and
called to the girls:
“Hey, let’s slide down once again
before we go home.”
“But, Marty, we’re tried,” replied
Margaret.
“Just once, then we’ll hurry home,”
he answered. “Come on, Eva; you
can be first.”
Eva scrambled to the top and went
sailing downward. Just as she landed,
there was a scream.
“Ha, ha—can’t even take a little
ride without getting hurt! Mama’s lit
tle baby!” ridiculed the twins.
Now ril Tell One
—James Tate
Some forest rangers of Delta River
National Forest were talking in front
of the big fire place in the main
bunkhouse. There was a new fellow
among them. His name was Johnny
Lister. He was listening to the men
talking. They were discussing the
things that had happened to them
since they had last seen each other.
One fellow in particular interested
him. He later found that his name
was Gus McIntyre. He was chris
tened Gustavias McIntyre, but he nev
er liked the name, so he took “Gus”
as an alternative.
Gus was telling of how he had
been trapped by a forest fire over
near Bald Rock. He had been check
ing a story of smoke being seen near
there. “Walking along, I decided to
get my bearings and climbed a high
cree for a look around. I saw that I
was not far from a creek and, smell
mg smoke, I turned and saw at my
back a great billow of smoke. Prac
tically falling, I came down the tree
and headed toward the creek. All th^
while the fire was getting closer and
closer. I soon came to the creek. It
was too shallow and too narrow to
offer much protection from the fire.
After wetting myself thoroughly, 1
waded downstream. The smoke was
getting thicker and thicker. I heard
a great roar close by. There was a
waterfall just in front of me. It was
falling about ten feet to the bottom
of a small ravine. I slid down one
side. Upon reaching the foot of the
waterfall, I saw the fire downstream
on both sides. I couldn’t go through
that. Looking around, I found a nar
row shelf about halfway up the water
fall. I had nothing to lose and
climbed up to it. I walked along its
narrow width until the water blew'
into my face in the form of a fine
mist. The water was' peculiarly get
ting warmer and warmer.”
At this point he stopped and lit his
pipe. Johnny was very intent on the
story and paid no attention to the
others.
Gus looked around and then con
tinued to tell his story, “The wind
began to blow harder until it blew
the water back on me, and pretty
soon I was drenched with very warm
water.”
At that moment the cook crept up
behind Johnny and poured a bucket
fuil of water all over him. Everybody
roared. Johnny blushed deeply.
Then the Captain came over and
said, “Don’t ever get too interested
in Gus’ stories. He is always telling
a big tale. None of them can be
true, because he is the mechanic and
never leaves the grounds except to
go to the village.”
Betsy
—Don Snider
“Get up and come on; we”ll race
thirty o’clock, just before the big black you to the house,” called Margaret
as they ran off.
But Eva could not move. Her leg
had been caught in the clamp, and
the force of her fall had pushed the
spike deeper into the ground so that
she could not even move the trap.
She screamed and she called, but no
one heard her. It was growing late.
Night was overtaking her alone. The
clamps were cutting the flesh deeper,
and she had fainted from fatigue.
.Uncle John had made a visit up at
the big house. Since Eva was not at
home, he was returning to his cot
tage. As he passed the barn, he heard
a faint whimper. He opened the door
and went slowly toward the hay pile.
He shined his light around, and there
at the foot of the hay pile lay Eva.
He murmured angrily to himself while
unfastening the clamps. It was all
the old man could do to pick up the
child and carry her to his house,
where he washed her wound and
bound it. It was not cut as deeply
as he had feared.
The very next morning he went to
town to carry Eva to the doctor. After
that he made arrangements to have
her adopted. The man at the desk
said, “But you can’t adopt this child.
You’re an old man! Don’t you under
stand? You could never care for her.”
But Uncle John quietly said, “I am
her grandfather. Her father was my
only son.” He reached to his vest
pocket and gave the attorney the
papers to prove the situation.
“Well, now, this makes the whole
thing possible,” was his reply.
There he goes on past the house,
down the road on to the sound side
where his little old barnacle-eaten
boat was tugging at its anchor’s end.
Old Jim stooped down at the water’s
edge, reached in thej bushes, and
pulled out his old pole-and-paddle,
also a little bucket in which he kept
old rugs to burn at night to keep
the sand fleas and mosquitoes from
carrying him off.
Well, he was off, and the night was
perfect. Across the sand dunes and
Marsh grass he could hear the loud
rumble and roar of the waves dash
ing gently against the white beach
sand. Old Jim did not appreciate
the hot jazz of the younger generation
nor the symphony orchestra of the
rich, for he was a fisherman, and to
ail good fishermen the waves played
the only music they could understand
and appreciate.
Ves, tonight was a special night for
Old Jim. ne was not going flounder
ing as usual; besides it wasn’t daric
iiignis. instead, a full moon was re
flecting Its Sliver rays off the white
Dcacn sand, and in the distance he
couiu hear a marsh hen shriek shrilly,
as the Old hoot owls do in the northern
woods on a clear night. Instead of
fishing tonight he was on his annual
Visit to gatner his white gold, as he
caned it. No, it wasn’t white gold
nor any kind of metal, but he was
going to fill his basket with the one
ining he loved above all, Betsy’s tur
tle eggs. He knew just when and
where to find these eggs. Not just
anyone could find turtle eggs like
oia Jim, for he knew the secret and
indeed it was a great secret.
Across the sound and very shortly
he was anchored at the foot of the
Old familiar sand dunes. He pulled
Liie bow of his boat up on the shore
and pitched out his anchor, smothered
his little smoke bucket out, got his
egg basket, and strolled up the side
01 the dune, then he paused and
looked around. The stars, the white
sand, the blue waters, the cool breezes
blowing softly from the northeast and
the beautiful moon, truly the creator
was a great God!
Hark! What was that he heard yon
der to the right—no, it could not be
—yet, but it was. There she was as
every year at the same time; there
was Betsy, the most wonderful animal
in all the land or in aU the sea. No
other man had ever experienced the
turtle love old Jim did for this old
sea turtle; nor had a turtle ever had
the affection that old Betsy had for
old Jim. Betsy was a real turtle,
and what a turtle! Old Jim said to
his best judgment she would weigh
at least two hundred pounds. Betsy
was covered with barnacles from bow
to stern, and she even had some
on her toenails, so Jim said. Betsy
■was getting pretty old, for it had been
many years ago when old Jim first
mei- up with her, but there was still
that old gleam in her eyes and in
old Jim’s too.
Old Jim went down to the nest and
instead of the usual two hundred eggs
there were two hundred and fifty white
eggs all neatly piled up. He reached
in his basket and pulled out two
large trout and gave them to old
Betsy; in response she gave a loud
whine. Old Jim gathered the eggs,
all but a few which he always left
to hatch. He bade old Betsy fare
well until next year when the moon
was again full in June, then he again
would see her.
John Whitcomb’s wife died several
years ago, leaving an only son. Then
the small town in which they were
living had been flooded, and all the
relatives had been drowned. ’Through
fortunate means John and his son
were the only ones to escape. His son
later married. Eva was their only
child. A year later both were killed
in an automobile accident, leaving Eva
with Aunt Helen.
For twenty years John had tried in
vain to trace his granddaughter. Only
two years ago had he succeeded in
his efforts. Now the rest of his life
would be spent in peace, knowing that
little Eva was living with him for
the rest of his life.