Newspaper Page Text
A Bachelor's
Diary
By MAX.
EBRUARY 23.—1 t is so lfln:.: since
F I poured out my confidence into
vour white paper ears, Diary,
that you are looking as neglected us
a run-down clock, and the reason 's
not what one of your romantic notions
mighit immagine,
No, I have not been on my honey
moon. | know that when a man gors
on his honeymoon he never takes lis
diary with him, but when I go cn
such an uncertain trip I intend to do
that very thing that I may frankly
write down in black and white if the
journey has proved a disappointment.
That will be something new under the
sun; not the disappointment, my mo:t
patient friends, but the diary! Dis
appointment on a honeymoon is an old
story, but one that has never been
told-—-that is, we mean men have never
told if we are disappointed. The
women bheing to tell of their disap
pointment before the wedding cake is
cut.
Where He Was.
I have been abroad! 1 was called
to KFrance ‘the morning after.,” 1 do
not remember the date, but 1 know it
was the morning after Sally Spencer
telephoned for me to come to her
house, and I went over, cxpecting to
find Jack there, of course, and fouad
her all alone in the house with even
the servants gone,
I found many things, the chief one
of which is that I am not any worse
than other men. That is a discovery
every man makes when he takes
his conscience into a dark and lonely
spot in the woods and wrestles wita
it in purely Scriptural fashion.
On the way to the woods, to speak
figuratively, I met Bob Sloane. Just
divorced by his wife because another
man had divorced his wife because of
Bob Sloane. Regarded the wrecking
of two homes a 9 a joke, and has no in,
tention of marrying the woman niade
homeless on his account,
Also when in the woods wrestling
with my conscience, met Alan Hari
ing. Old bachelor like myself, who
was on his way to meet a gay party
who were to be his guests on a cruise
in the Mediterranean. Called it an
affinity cruise because those to be his
guests were not married. Cease to be
affinities, he said, when they marry.
Would 1 go along after getting
throngh my business in Paris? I ro
fused without the lecture I once would
have given, feeling in"my self-disgu=t
that I was not fit to criticise. s
He Feels Better.
It was after several meetings with
old friends like this that I decided 1
was no worse than other men. A
very degenerating sort of comfort,
but one which we all at different
tinmes employ to put our better selves
to sleep Then, with this discovery, 1
emerged from the woods, dragging
my badly drugged and knocked-out
conscience behind me,
It was while still in this mood, the
nearest Kkin to spiritual exaltation
that a man knows, that 1 arrived in
Paris, and found myself one cold
gray day in the bright morning room
of the home of Mrs. Martin Post,
whose husband, my confidential agent
abroad for many vears, had died six
weeks before. 1 had spent the day
before in my Paris office installing
poor Post's successor, and called on
his widow to express my condolence.
What o blossoming-out effect such
a bereavement has on a woman! He
had married her, I recalled, some ten
years bhefore, a little French .giri of
plain face and shy ways, and had
brought her to this country on a wed
dingntour, and T had given a dinner in
their Thoror. 1 wondered then what
Post had seen in hér, 1 wondered no
longer when a very pretty woman, ail
in black, stood facing me a few min
utes later, letting me hold her hand a
little longer than necessary, and even,
when | spoke feelingly of Post, shed
ding a few tears on my shoulder.
A Widow's Tears.
They were not disfiguring tears. A
widow's tears, somehow, are never of
the disfiguring kind.
If ever 1 see a widow who hascriad
hes eyes red and her nose blue 1 shall
feel that here, at last, is one whose
grief is unique.
Mrs. Post's tears rather enhanced
her attractiveness by the appeal they
made to m@ superior strength and
chivalry, and, looking back now, I
can see that I held her hands quite,
quite long and that when she put her
head on my shoulder I rather enjoyed
her grief, remembering that the Bible
urges all good Christians to comfort
the widowed and the fatherless,
1 remained in Parig a month longer
than I had intended. Mrs, Post's
helplessness in all fitancial matters
making my stay imperative. 'l'rue
she has a father and several brothers,
but, some how, she said, she had more
reliance in me because poor, dear
Martin had alwgys had such confi
dence in me. And I felt that T must
live up to poor, dear Martin's opinion
and devoted much time to putting his
widow's financial affairs in shape and
taking her to places of amusement,
that I might divert her mind from
her overw helming scrrow
And she always, when she spoke of
oor, dear Martin, would cry on my
!hnulder, g 0 that 1 grew quite in the
habit when alone with her of men
tioning poor, dear Martin to her in
every breath.
I had heard that when those in
sorrow give way to tears it makes the
grief easier 1o bealf,
The Weekly Georg
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o Little BoblLie’'s Pa ®
By WILLIAM F. KIRK.
P HE teecher asked me to rite a
r essay about the buties of Na
ture, I sed to Pa last night, &
I doant know anything about it. I
cant rite about it if 1 doant know it.
Then you will nevver beekum a
riter, Pa sed. A riter can rite about
anything, w Nether he knows anything
about it or not.
1 doant agree with vou, deer, sed
Ma.
Nevver-the-less it is the truth, sed
Pa, It always caim natural to me to
rite, & I nevver cared wether 1 knew
about a subjeck or not wen I rote
about it.
& that is jest why you nevver rote
anything that anybody evver heard
of, sed Ma. Doant get Bobbie's hed
turned with yure foolish speeches.
You know he cant rite about the bu
ties. of Nature unless he has seen
them,
Thay are all about him, sed Pa.
That is why 1 taik him hunting &
fishing with me so much. I will start
his essay for him, & then he can fin
nish it & he needent tell his teecher
that 1 helped him if he doesnt want
to. Then Pa went into the library &
this is how he beegan my essay:
The buties of Nature are very buti
ful. That is to say, thay are luvly
to the eye, wich is the same thing
differently expressed. The waving
tree, the lowing kine, the gentel frog
that sets on yonder primrose bank &
blinks at the sun, the trout that darts
up the streem & grabs an angel worm
with a hook in it, the lamb that
stretches its graceful limbs in the
pastur, all of these buties of nature
ou ENTIRELY OVERLOOKED) e s
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are pleesing to the human eye & the
soul of a thinker like me,
l What a awkward way to begin a
essay, sed Ma, to say The buties of
’Nuturn are very butiful. It is like
\ saying the halr on a dog is vary hairy.
Doant imterrupt me till I bave fin
) ished, sed Pa, this is how {'end my
part of Bobbie's essay:
From the beginning of all time
man has looked up to & adored the
buties of Nature. The leg¢ves on the
tree are green in the summer & so
\ls the grass on the ground. This
are a green that no artist has eyver
i matched. What grate painter, except
my brother, evver painted a flaming
forest in the Autumn, all crimson &
goald. 'The buties of Nature can not
be did oaver by man, but eternal &
sublimely butiful thay shall butify
Nature until the planet has crumbled
away to dust a bhillion years from
now or maybe a billion & a quar
ter yeuars,
I think you better let Bobble rite
Lis own littel essay, sed Ma. The
teacher will think the poor child is
very dumb if he starts off his es
say like that,
Is that so? sed Pa. I doant think
yvou are much of a critic, séd Pa.
You nevver rote anything yureself &
certainly if you cant rite vou cant
criticise.. To be a critic, ‘one must
be a riter, too.
Well, med Ma, if that I 8 the case
you arent much of a critic eether.
Bobbie, wouldnt you rathei rite yure
ocwn essay? |
No, I sed, I think that is a grand
start Pa has rote. |
When Ma wasent looking Pa gaiv
me fifty ments & of caurse 1 took
it but T am going to rite my own
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