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CHARLEY JOE
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Opera House Building,
Behind Express Office .
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All kinds of laundry neatly done. Will open for
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“THE OLD RELIABLES
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For reliable Insurance, life and fire, see
KILGORE & RADFORD, Insurancec Agents,
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TIE LAST ACT,
Arriving at a Decision About
Changing Its Ending.
By VIRGINIA BLAIR.
[Copyright, 1909. I y Associated Literary
Press.)
“You must give it happy end log."
said Miss Atherton
Carrot hers looked tit her gloomily
“Not unless you say 'Yes.' "
“As if that had anything to do with
It,” said Miss Atherton scornfully.
“It has everything to do with It."
said Carrot hers. “When 1 write a piny
1 write as 1 feel. If 1 am sad the play
will be sad. and If 1 am happy the
(tiding will he happy. And 1 can't he
happy as long as you persist in refus
ing me; hence 1 shall have to give m\
play a sad ending.’’
"Oh. well, then,” Miss Atherton
tossed her head, “end il any old way
Cut 1 won't play it if it doesn't sui:
fne.”
A week later lie t ailed her up. "It b
finished," la' said, "and you can read
It at your leisure.”
“ftend it to me.” she said and set the
next afternoon.
Carruthers found her alone .very
beautiful in a violet crape house g'own.
with her dark hair handed with a gold
ribbon.
“I want you to dress like that in tin
last act of m.v play." lie said, “and
carry violets. It will give the propel
note of mourning.”
“Thou you have made it sad?" sin
demn tided. — '•**r**&/z^**~+*
“Yes. The lien Lie is a isio.-’iiy prill
cess who spurns her lover all through
the play, and in the end lie finds an
other woman moro gentle, more kind,
and the princess is left alone in her
haughtiness. That is why 1 want you
to wear a purple gown.”
"Oh!” said Miss Atherton somewhat
faintly.
When he came to the last act lie saw
that Miss Atherton was intensely in
terested. “But I don't think I am at
all like that,” she said Ingenuously ns
he finished.
"Who said you were?” lie demanded
“I am writing of a princess in Egypt.”
The color flamed into her face. "Of
course. I had thought you had me in
mind.”
"I perceive,” Cnrruthers replied,
“that you and the princess have cer
- - ——.
MISS ATHERTON S EVES SNAPPED.
tain characteristics in common, and
that is why you would lit the part or
the part would tit you But the ques
tion now to decide is. ’Who shall take
the part of the other woman?’ ”
”i believe you have spent more time
on her than on the other woman,” Miss
Atherton said jealously.
Carruthers looked at her out of the
corner pf his eye. "I had thought of
Miss Muir us your opposite. She would
fit in. I think."
Miss Atherton's eyes snapped. “She
isn’t half as gentle as you might irnag
ine.”
“Dear lady.” Carruthers remonstrat
ed. "perhaps you are not a judge of
gentleness.”
"Oh. well”—Miss Atherton laughed a
little—"my temper isn't in good shape
this morning. You'll have to forgive
me if I criticise everything and every
body.”
“What’s wrong?” Carruthers asked
solicitously.
“Everything." succinctly. "I've got
to give up my apartment for one thing
Aunt Sarali has to go back to Bine
Point, and I can't live alone."
"Of course not.” Carruthers agreed
promptly, “and you couldn’t find a bet
ter time to marry me.”
“Marry?” she came back at him. “An
actress hasn't any right to marry.”
“It depends upon the point of view,”
Carruthers stated. “Of course If you
loved me"—
“Please don't talk of love,” exclaim
ed Miss Atherton. "1 have enough of
It in my plays."
“To return to our mutton,'' said
Carruthera calmly. “I shall give Miss
Muir the part of the helpless heroine
who so works on the sympathies of the
scorned lover that he turns from the.
princess to her."
"You have made the ending happy
for the other g?rl, then?"
"Yes; you can't pile sadness on too
deeply.”
"And the princess sits in the purple
twilight. In a purple gown, with vio
lets clutched in her two white hands,
and moans. ‘My lost love, alas!' or
words to that effect. 1 can’t see my
self doing it." remonstrated Miss Ath
erton. “You’ve simply got to change
that ending.”
“Rut how?" questioned Carruthers.
“Have another lover in the back
ground for the gentle maiden and ie
the princess relent at ttie last min
ute. You can still keep her in the pur
ple twilight and the purple gown, hut
you can have her lover at her feet,
with the golden moon flooding them
with light."
"But the print css wouldn't relent
not the kind of princess in tlie piny."
"Slit 1 might." Miss Atherton liesi
tated. ‘ You know you can never tell
just what a • woman will do.”
"Would you.' Carruthers demanded
eagerly—"would you relent?"
"1 am not talking of myself." Miss
Athertou told him coldly; "1 am talk
ing of tin 1 princess in the play"
Carruthers folded up his manuscript
before ho answered. "Then, positive
ly. I shall not change the last act. I
had thought of a better one than that
of purple twilight and a lover at hei
feet. 1 had thought of the princess at
dawn on the terrace, with -a wreath
of roses On her head, and coming
toward her with outstretched hands
was her lover, and the glory of the
rising sun about them both"—
“BoiitjMful!" brokejn Miss Athortou
“Wc will have "that." ••**.as****
"\V<_ will have that," was the
stuTiiiorn rejoinder. "As 1 have told
you. 1 am not In a mood for ha lip.''
endings.”
"Oh. well, have your way, then.'
said Miss Atherton crossly.
During rehearsal Miss Atherton ob
served that Carruthers took especial
pains with Miss Muir’s part.
"You act as if she were the star.”
she remonstrated one day just before
the last act.
“I like her part.” lie said. "It fits
in with my ideal; 1 want the audi
ence to realize what gentleness and
sweetness may accomplish as against
beauty and pride."
Itefore Miss Atherton could answer
she was called for the last act.
She played it well, putting into it all
the despair of a woman who. having
seQrned love, knows that she has lost
that which she prizes most in the
world.
Even In iter street gown she made it
effective, for with the violets against
her lips she murmured: "1 shall wear
no other flowers. They are the flow
ers of mourning, and all my days 1
shall mourn—alone!"
As the last word came in a whisper
she stared, unseeing, into space.
“Beautiful!” Carruthers told her
when she came off. "Beautiful!"
“But I don’t like it." she sobbed. "It
makes me miserable to play It.”
lie took her to a quiet spot where
they could talk. "Why should it make
you miserable?” he asked.
"Because I want happiness," she an
swered, "in inv play—and in my life.
Carl.”
She had never called him that. For
a moment he stared at her. Then he
cried, "You mean that you will?”
She smiled, but her lips were white.
“Yes. I want my life to have a hap
py ending. Carl."
"Dear heart." he whispered, "I will
change the last act.”
The Wrong Man.
“A marriage had been fixed for 10
o’clock.” said a clergyman, "and I had
an appointment with the bishop at
11 ;30. Half past 10 came, a quarter
to 'll. and no bride or bridegroom.
Presently the clerk announced their
arrival. 1 went out. The couple stood
in the usual place at the entrance to
the chancel, and I began the service.
“‘Please, sor.’ began the man.
“'Don’t speak now.’ I said and con
tinued the service.
“ ‘I am very serry. sor. but’—
“‘Never mind now.’ I said hastily.
‘I cannot listen to excuses, for I have
no time to spare.’ And again 1 went
on with the marriage service.
"A movement of the unhappy man
caused me to look up.
"’But I am not the man!’ he
shrieked, like some frightened animal.
‘I have only come to say the cab has
broken down, sor.’ he gasped. ‘I am
only the best man.’ And, with a sigh
of relief, he mopped his brow. All the
while the lady smiled serenely.
"Poor man! Did he get a fright?
So did I. for I was new at the work
and did not know what the conse
quence might be.”—iDtidon Telegraph.
Lost and Found.
‘‘Found a dollar yesterday.”
"Lucky boy!”
“Not so lucky. In stooping to pick
it up 1 drop|>ed and broke my eye
glasses.”—Kansas City Journal.
Transposed.
Griggs—The doctor said I must
throw up everything and take a sea
voyage. Briggs—Got the cart before
the horse, didn’t he?—Boston Tran
script.
THE TEAJHER.
Ho took the sou! of a little child,
Fresh ami plastic and good,
And he hammered it into the fashion
Of n grown man’s iron mood;
Early and late lie heat tit it
With blows of a grown-up fist,
Till the little soul forgot itself
And vanished in the mist;
The little soul forgot itself
And wamh rod far away,
And all that was left on earth at last
Was a form of ductile clay.
Ho took the sottl of a littl child,
1 lelicate, s< >ft and sweet,
And ho trod its dearest ilhtsii n
I.iko dust beneath hi> foot;
He sneered at fts simple learning,
Aml jeered at its gentle glee,
And made of sill its hidden things
A solemn moekthy;
lie fastened it down with hahits,
And tied it about \\ith dread.
Till tile gentle soul of the little' child
i For v. ry anguish fled.
He took the soul of a little child,
T his teacher stern and kind,
Ami ho slowly hammered it into the
shape
Of a grown-up blockhead s mind ;
He bound it about with habits,
And fastened it with a rule,'
Till the little soul fain was of death
And hated his dreary school;
And all that was left was a mockery
()f childish hope and joy—
A poor little puling monster
They called him the “model hoy.”
Hubert Warren Gilbert.
WHAT IS A JRIEND.
“Wlmt is a friend?” It is the fel
low who will inconvenience himself
for yon. It is the man who will
sit beside your bedside when your
frame has been touched by disease.
It is the man who will conn* to you
when the clouds are black, while
the muttering thunder of misfortune
growls along the sky. It is the man
who will say: “Don't he discour
aged. I see you are in trouble, let
me help you out.” It is not the
man who will do you a kindness
only when lie feels he will get in re
turn full value for services rendered .
\\V would not give two cents for
a man who writes his name in fancy
letters in our friendship album if he
would not visit us when we are in
trouble. —Kx.
Youare proud of
your wife and chil
dren. Why don’t you
bring them to us to
be photographed?
We will give you a
picture that will make
you prouder still.
ALLEN’S ART
STUDIO
WINDER, GEORGIA.
Tt spoils all a woman’s pleasure
in shopping to Buy anything.
The way to write a good loye let
ter is to Ere careful not to say any
thing rational in it.