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A BIBLE THOUGHT FOR TODAY
- Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and
thanksgiving, and honor, and power, and.
might be unto our God forever and ever.
Revelation 7:12.
Nikolai Lenme, Dictator
TO pronounce judgment on any man In
the day of his death would be, for
merely human vision, a venture more
hazardous than wise, and particularly on so
beclouded a figure as Nikolai Lenine. Many
'■ mists must clear away and the years bring j
/ their mellowing perspective ere his part in
the history either of Russia or of the world
can be fairly assessed. The task would be
less difficult if we had only Lenine himself
to consider —his professed ideas, his pur
posed deeds, and that portion of his bril
liantly ruthless career for which he is pat
ently responsible. But in the working out
, of human destiny men are instruments as
well as actors, "moving about in worlds not
._LeaJized’’ and sometimes playing roles whose
effect they cannot dimly conceive. Thus a
tyrannous Pharaoh promotes an immeas
urably fruitful freedom, and a howling mob
of bigots serves, all unknowing, to fulfill
the plan of the Prince of good will. So
it may be with Lenine.
The Soviet chieftain is referred to in press
dispatches as leader of the forces that over
threw Russian czardom. This he assuredly
was not. The revolution .of March, 1917,
which led to the abdication of the last of
the Romanoffs, was not under control of
Lenine’s extremist faction; and on that very
account gave promise of a liberal, stable and
free government. Established by will of
the Duma, its minister of justice and ruling
spirit was the high-hearted Kerenski, while
Important posts were held by noblemen like
Mllyukov and Lvov. It announced a pro
gram of constructive reform Including free
dom of speech, universal suffrage, and elec
tion of a constituent assembly. At the same
time it pledged .the cause of the Allies, then
at deadliest grips -with Prussianism, unfail
ing support. The story of the ensuing years
would have been far happier for Europe, no
doubt, and far more creditable to Russia if
this leadership had held its own. But that
was not to be.
By November, 1917, Kercnski’s liberal
regime had fallen before the continued in
trigue and attack of the Bolshevik!. The
Duma had been abolished. Final authority
had been vested in a council of workmen s
and soldiers’ delegates. Lenine had been
made premier, and Trotski his bristling Man
Friday. Democracy fled. The ‘‘dictatorship
of the proletariat’’ began. In March, 1918,
a year after the first revolution, cams the
Ignoble treaty of Brest-Litovsk, in which
Lenine sealed his faithlessness to the Allies
and surrendered to Germany a vast part
of the Russian domain. All else to which
the democratic forces had pledged them
selves was flung to the winds. A constitu
' ent assembly, soon after convening, was
forcibly dissolved by the Bolsheviki when
they found themselves outnumbered and out
voted. All pretense of representative gov
k eminent was abandoned. A so-called “peo
pie’s commission,” backed by a congress of I
Soviet delegates, was given charge. The
hand behind the treasury and the army,
however, was Lenine’s. and his was the ac-
Ea| tual power. So perished freedom of speech,
general rights of suffrage, and government
■■ by and for the people. Czar Nicholas was.
dead. Czar Nikolai reigned.
Lenine’s professions were evremmy pomi-
his acts were extremely de-mv-.c.
Me must have believed intensely. th-' out
in the
upon h:s couiv.y
THE W VTA I’ll I.EK LY JOURNAL
Ito fasten upon the world. Elsewise, he
i would hardly have continued pressing his
| radical theory while Russia, victim of the
t experiment, sank deeper and deeper into
I
wretchedness and degradation. He repudi
ated debts of honor, he virtually declared
war against Western Europe and the United
States, he alienated his country’s best
i
| friends, he outlawed her staunchest and
! wisest patriots, he caused, or permitted.
thousands of her citizens of the upper and
middle classes to be killed, and the property
' oi thousands of others to be confiscated; he
trampled down religious liberty, he tyran
nized and terrorized, all to maintain a the
ory as ill suited to the broader needs of hu
man nature as to the loftier aspirings of the
human spirit. That he did so from firm
conviction is not gainsaid; but it was a
; conviction that "makes countless thousands
mourn.”
Yet, Lenine assuredly served some larger
purpose than- would appear from the imme
diate tangle and stress of his little hour
upon the stage. Some there are, indeed,
who hail him as a high political ana social
prophet, as a thinker far in advance of his
time, whose ideals the future will justify.
They liken him to the intellectual leaders of
the French revolution, declaring that he has
kindled a light which, though it startles to
day, will lead tomorrow. This, in our way
of thinking, is a purely fanciful interpreta
tion of the Rusisan dictator’s role. He may
be compared to the terrorists of the French
revolution, but not to its great heralds and
constructive thinkers. He brought the world i
no fresh or emancipating idea, but an exag
gerated formula of mid-nineteenth socialism,
a nostrum over which Shakespeare grew
merry three hundred years ago:
I’ the commonwealth I would by con
traries
Execute all things; for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letters should not be known; richces, l
poverty
And use of service, none; contract,
succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard,
none;
No occupation; 411 men idle, all . . .
All things in common, nature should
produce,
Without sweat or endeavor.
When all this is said, however, the fact j
remains that for more than five years Lenine
did govern—years of tremendous tumult and
peril. Repeatedly his rule was challenged
at home and denounced abroad, but to the
day of his fatal illness he continued master.
Kolchak, Denikin, . Wrangel, all led armies
against him, with the moral if not .material
support of foreign powers; and all were
beaten Lack. Mediocre talent could never j
have survived the continued crises through |
which Lenine pas :d, or have held together |
the wild ar l motley forces on which his ad
ministration rested. A ruthlessly practical
genius he a,ms, despite vagaries and visions,
or he would have succumbed long ago to the
storm of events.
Further, he governed more in accordance
with economic-truth and with more of ‘‘de
cent respect for the opinions of mankind,”
as his experience deepened. Gradually he
w;m coming to an understanding with west
ern as well as central Europe, ana in time
perhaps would have made it possible for the
United States to extend a measure of recog
nition to Moscow. Above all, be governed
at a time when sheer anarchy threatened;
and that, at last, may be judged his redeem
ing achievement. So vast and populous a
country as Russia, whether her fortunes be
good or ill, her politics reassuring or alarm
ing. can not bo left out of the worlds ac
count; nor could so masterful a personality
as Lenine’s. From the fact that the helm of
the Soviet government has been in other
hands for months since his illness became
critical, it is inferred that the effect of his
death on Russian affairs has been discount
ed; this ma, or may not prove true. But
the effect of his life on the currents of na
tional and International history will cer
tainly grow more clearly marked with the
advancing tide of years.
PREMONITIONS
By Dr. Frank Crane
LEND me some hard words'. |
Os all the fool asinine, silly, childish, i
contemptible, dangerous, morbid, wicked i
and entirely abominable toadstools that grow ;
in the soul’s garden, the Premonition is the j
worst.
The most joint-loosening, sinew-softening. ’
/narrow-melting, courage-sapping of mental ,
poisons, the head and front of all noxious i
manias, is the feeling that ‘‘something is go- j
ing to happen.”
The writer knows whereof he writes. For
he inherited from the mother’s side a predis
position to this weakness. Many a time when
leaving the house he has felt come over him '
the certainty that he would never return, |
Often when coming home he has dreaded to ■
open the door, being possessed of a peculiar
conviction that he would find some member
of the family a corpse. Boarding a train,
the picture of that train being wrecked has
taken swift seizure of his mind.
For the comfort of those similarly affected
he may say that never once has a premoni- .
i tion of his come true, and whenever any ill- ;
luck did befall him the faithless apprehension !
■ had failed to ring the bell.
Without undt\e boasting, therefore, he can i
say now that Ine has entirely rid himself of ,
this uncomfortable obsession. There are things '
he fears, but he is not afraid of nothing.
If one will sponge all this dream business, i
all these vague, bilious forebodings from the j
mental slate, and determine forevermore not |
to be afraid unless there is some intellignt •
ground for it. he will be wiser, healthier and I
happier.
The utter uselessness of premonitions is
shown in this: that even if true they are of I
no value, for they never fortify us to meet !
calamity, but on the contrary, weaken us and j
enfeeble us to succumb before it.
[ 1924.)
THE LOVE TRAP
What has gone before. —Gail Martin
lias been engaged to George Hartley
I for two years .when she discovers that
he is in love with another woman. She
gives him his freedom, but when he
goes to the other girl and asks her to
marry him she laughs in his face. Gail
longs to get out of town, but her father
refuses to give her the necessary money,
and she is forced to endure the small
town gossip..—Now go on with the
story.
CHAPTER XXI
The Eleventh Hour
Ca EORGE did not appear at church that
j- morning and Gail breathed a sigh .of
relief that she was not to encounter
him. After the service’ she did not stop to
speak to anyone, but hurried out, and was
half way home when Violet Fowler caught
up with her.
"Gail, you mustn’t avoid people like this,
everything will be much harder if you do.”
Gail did not answer. She was not in the
mood to listen to Violet’s confidences and it
was only when Violet mentioned George’s
name that she turned her head.
“I suppose you’ve heard the latest about
George?”
"Please don’t tell me any jnore gossip. I
don’t want to hear it.”
‘‘This isn’t gossip, it’s news,”' Violet per
sisted. "Good heavens, Gail, you have to go
on living in Dalesburg, you’re not going to
retire into solitary confinement, are you?”
Gail did not answer, but the imperturbable
Violet went on 'with what she had to say.
"George has sold his car. The agency
bought it back, but of course he'll lose
money on this transaction. Poor George, he
had big ideas -while they lasted. 1 wonder
how he feels now.”
Gail made no reply, and having reached
the big frame house on Cherry street, the
two girls stopped for a moment on the side
walk.
"Come in and have dinner with us,” Gail
spoke on impulse. . It wasn’t so much that
she wanted Violet, anyone else would have
done equally well, if not bettor. But she
dreaded the Sunday meal eaten en famille,
and after what had happened that morning
at breakfast, she knew that her father
would be gruff and surly.
"Do you really want me?”
"Os course I do,” and Gail linked her
arm in Violet’s and drew her up the path to
the house.
Violet served her purpose in making the
meal less unpleasant than it would have oth
erwise been. She chatted gayly, about noth
ing at all, and if Henry Martin answered in
monosyllables for the most part, at least he
answered. Not for the world would he
have offended a guest lest the gossiping
element of Dalesburg deem him inhospitable.
And afterward, Mrs. Martin sent the two
girls out of the kitchen and did the dishes
herself. ,
Violet went home about 3 o’clock, and
Gail -was just about to climb the stairs to
her room when she heard steps on the porch
and the next moment the doorbell rang.
Hurrying across the square hall, Gail pushed
open the screen door. Tommy Nash, the
station agent’s assistant, stood outside, and
a grin spread over his face when he saw who
it was.
"Hello, Gail,” he drawled lazily, "got a
telegram here for you. Lucky itt came in
just around the time when the afternoon
train was due, or it would have been held
up till tomorrow.”
He handed her the square yellow envelope,
held up a greasy book for her to sign, and
then lingered as though loath to depart’.
Gail could not help• smiling. Os course
Tommy knew what -was in the telegram and
he wanted her to open it before he left.
There was something about the way he
stood there looking at her that made Gail’s
heart suddenly beat fast. She had never
received a telegram before. Who could have
sent it to her? Suppose, just suppose, that
out of a clear sky something was about to
happen to her, something nice, something
that Mould mean escape from 15<ilesburg.
she wanted to laugh at herself for such
an idea, but somehow she couldn't. Tommy
was grinning broadly, and somehow she
couldn’t shake off the conviction that she
had only to tear open the envelope to find
her life entirely changed.
CHARTER XXII
M hat Was in the Telegram
TT p in her own room, with the door
FJ locked, Gail tore open the square yel
low envelope and drew out the inclos
ure. With trembling fingers she smoothed
out the paper and read the few words
scrawled upon it:
, (T _ . "Mill Valley, Cal.
Deborah Martin died here three days ago
You are mentioned in the will. Letter will
follow.
"LONG & COSGROVE,
rp , "Lawyers.”
The telegram dropped from Gail's nerve
less fingers to the floor, and she sank into
a chair by the window.
Aunt Debbie, whom she had not seen
since she was a child, then not more than
two or three times. Why, it seemed incredi
ble, a thing too fantastic to be believed. And
yet there was the telegram, and Gail picked
it up from the floor and spread it out on
her knee.
Aunt Deborah Martin was her father’s
aunt, her own greataunt, Gail remembered
her dimly as a tall, spare figure with a thick
crown of heavy gray hair and piercing dark
eyes. She had a vixenish temper, too, and
she and Henry Martin had quarreled in the
past, so that her visits to Dalesburg had
suddenly ceased. .Aunt Debbie had always
been determinedly independent. She would
brook interference from no one. Thinking
back, ( T ail remembered a time in her own
life when she had flown into a passion over
some fancied or real grief, she could not re
member now. Aunt Debbie had been visit
ing them, and she had taken Gail’s part, she
had laughed heartily at. the display of tem
per, and when Henry Martin had wanted to
punish the child, she had said with a touch
of anger:
tjie glad that you have a child with some
character. She isn’t going to be walked on
She’ll amoufit to something; vou mark my
word!”
Gails lips curved into a wistful smile as
she remembered that her father had given
away. Aunt Debbie was someone to be
reckoned with. She was important because
she was independent and had her own
money.
, Dear Aunt Debbie! And then suddenly
Gail was brought back from the past bv a
sudden stabbing recollection of the present
Aunt Debbie was dead! Rut she had left
a will, and she, Gail, was mentioned in it
What did that mean? Why, of course, it
could mean but one thing. Aunt Debbie' for
some unknown reason had left her some
monej. It probably much, perhaps
not more than a hundred dollars. Rut a
hundred dollars meant freedom 'it meant
leaving Dalesburg forever, and Gail’s heart
brimmed over with gladness at the verv
thought.
■‘Letter will follow!”
Reading the words over. Gail wondered
how soon she could count on receiving that
letter. If they had written soon after send
ing the telegram the letter might arrive in a
day or so, but if they waited it might not
come for a week. Ought she to tell her
father and mother? But of course, why not?
bhe was of age, she was free to do as she
■ liked with whatever money Aunt Debbie had
MY RECOLLECTIONS OF STONE MOUN-1
TAIN
IT was said to be seven miles distant from j
where I was born in DeKalb county, !
Georgia. My earliest visits anywhere are I
connected with the mountain.
It has always been a place to go to see
as a curiosity, or singularity, or quaint I
oddity.
When I can first remember about it I was
told that some of the kinnery came to see
us, and as there were no railroads, and gen
erally difficult dirt roads, a trip to the mouu> |
tain meant a day’s full undertaking, to pre-I
pare a lunch, get the youngsters dressed, all :
to go in vehicles drawn by horses, to spend j
the day. A party assembled when I was ;
only three or four months old (as often told j
to me in later days). My black mammy, my
nurse, was in the crowd, until a good rest- '
ing place was picked, on the mountain to sit '
and hold the baby until my parents pointed !
out to the visitors the particular features!
of this giant rock, which erupted at some !
time during the past centuries and swelled |
up many hundred feet above the sea level, i
one great stone.
It was no new sight to mammy, who was ■
quite contented to nurse the baby, and which i
slept away the most of the time.
There was a place to get fresh water i
lower down on the slope, and the kinspeople '
were delighted with the outing, and enjoyed j
the lunch, and I presume the baby had a
good time of her own, too.
That was in the fall of the year 1835. !
How many times I was taken over the same !
ground I am not able to say, but I have !
distinct recollection of my first experience ;
after a tower was erected on the summit,
with several stories and several little sets of
stair steps. There was a big crowd present!
that day. The bottom floor was quite a big j
room and filled with visitors from Decatur i
and regions roundabout. There were fiddlers j
and dancing. I can yet see my frisky little j
self held by father between his knees while I
we watched the dancers. I was dee-lighted ,
beyond doubt. My own feet itched to dance
a little. A booth was near at hand and I '
had been overjoyed to be given a white can
dy dove, white as snow, except its eyes, I
which were bright black birdshot, and some :
pink and black touches to decorate the bird. ■
I had never seen one before made out of >
candy. My father had a country store as i
well as a plantation, a woodshop and black-'
smith shop, and I knew all about stick can- ’
dy, but the candy bird was an ornament I
and a decoration until I became tired of it, >
and it went.
At the next visit, in the course of time, ,
was to see the tower in ruins. A big storm '
nearly blew it out over the mountain top. ]
We school children were there on a picnic '
occasion. Next, I remember that Mr. Aaron
Towers decided to erect another tower, for
the tourists to get 'some accommodations,
and these tourists would come from Nash
ville to Savannah and vice versa, and stop
occasionally to see the giant rock, that could
have told a big story if it had not been born ■
speechless!
The second tower was also blown down j
and never again rebuilt. ’l’he next one will
be stronger. In my girlhood days we were
in the habit of going on horseback, of car- ;
rying our young guests to see the wonderful
Stone Mountain. It was a rare, strange -
scene to visitors always.
The first State Agricultural fair was held ;
MY FAVORITE STORIES |
By Irvin Cobb
It has just occurred to me that in this ;
series of stories dealing with all sorts of
people in all sorts of callings and profes
sions, I have, until now, entirely overlooked
the city editors of America. The slight,
while entirely unintentional, appears all the
more remarkable in view of the fact that
for fully twenty years of my life I took
orders from city Editors and was, for awhile
—until the owners found out what was the
matter with their paper and fired me—a
city editor myself.
Sc now, in an effort to atone for neglect
ing the members of this invaluable class,
I shall lump together certain stroies relating
to city editors.
Os course, everybody in the newspaper
game—and a good many out of it —know
the classic yarn of the Park Row editor who
was called on the telephone by a reporter
whom he sent out on rather a difficult and
delicate assignment.,
“.Mr. Blank,” said tne reporter, in a sorely
troubled voice, “I went to this man Flanna
gan and* I asked him the questions you told
me to aks'him but instead of answering like
a gentleman, the great big burly ruffian
kicked me down a flight of stairs and black
ed both my eyes and told me that it I dared
to bother him again he’d kill me.”
“Is that so?” shouted his chief; “Well,
you go right straight back to that man Flan
nagan and tell him he can’t intimidate me!”
One night a broken-down special writer,
much addicted to drink and to borrowing
small sums, came stumbling into the edi
torial rooms of the old New Y.ork Sun.
Amos Cummings glanced up from his desk
and saw him. lie beckoned a member of
the staff over.
“For heaven’s sake,” he whispered, “get
that chap out of here before I see him!”
A third story that I think of also has the
merit of having happened:
A youth who had not made a glittering
success as a newspaperman, used the tele
phone to explain to his over-lord of the city
room why he had failed to secure admis
sion to the presence of a certain wealthy
gentleman just then in retirement as the
result of considerable unwelcome notoriety.
“I located our man in his private office,”
he stated. “I knew there was a rear en
trance. So I went around to the back door
and rapped, and a fellow who looked as
though he might be a watchman or a special
detective opened the door about an inch
and looked me over an’d then, just as he
slammed the door shut, he said: ‘‘l’ll bet
you’re one of those dam’ reporters.”
“Go back there and take him up!” shout
ed the boss. “Why, you've got a dead
cinch to bust that guy flat.”
In the fourth one a city editor plays an
objective, rather than a subjective, part. A ,
candidate for governor in Illinois came to
his secretary with this word:
“The city editor of the (naming a
Chicago daily) just called up on long dis
tance to demand that you make a categor
ical reply to the charges printed against
your manager this morning.”
“Give him an evasive answer,” said the
statesman, —“tell him to go to hell!”
(Copyright, 1 9 24.)
left her. And if her father had any idea
that he could persuade her to put the money
in the hank, she would very quickly show
him that she had no such intention.
As Gail sat there dreaming, the anxious
lines in her face were smoothed away and
she looked almost happy again. At last she
was to escape from the love trap, delivery
had come at the eleventh hour, but she was
confident now that nothing could keep her
a prisoner any longer.
Tuesday. “Father and Daughter” and
"Thrilling Plans.” Look at the label on your
paper and if your subscription expires “1
FEB. 24.” renew now so as not to miss an
installment of this splendid story.
THE COUNTRY HOME
BY MRS. W. H. FELTON
SATURDAY, JANUARY 2«, 1924.
in the village known as the town of Stone
Mountain, about 1847, if my memory is cor
rect. It was just a beginning, but it be
gan with a pull and a push and became at
tractive to Georgia politicians of that era in
stantly. Hon. Mark A. Cooper was one of
the prominent originators. I do not recall
many names.
In 1848 my parents planned to go to the
fair, and we did go, all the family-. It was
a great sight to Georgia Crackers. Accom
modations were limited. Big rooms in the
hotels were partitioned .off into smaller ones
by swinging quilts and counterpanes. We
only stayed one night and two days, and
were glad to ,get back to beds and lorsake
pallets. But I had a good time, anyhow.
A sample squash was ticketed at something
over eighty pounds. When I took a turn
at the scales I weighed as much and no
more than the squash. The figures remained
in niy mind because of the coincidence in
weight figures.
Somebody’s big circus was In evidence.
My father and I took in the circus. It was
a swell affair. My mother and little sister
didn’t care to go, but I did, and my atten
tion was largely given to the bareback riders
and the clown. They were good enough for
me. The greatest attractions of those primi
tive days were circus shows and horse races,
camp meetings after the crops were "laid
by,” and quiltings, also corn shuckings, log
rollings and militia musters. The sharp little
fife-blowing and the "tat tat” of the drum
beating I can still hear, if I am very much
inclined to reminiscence of the past.
I have ridden horseback up the mountain
side, where no vehicles ever tried to go,
many times in those early days of my young
life. Girls were early taught te ride horse
back and were generally good riders. Car
riages were scarce, and the riding horse was
epsy to saddle and bridle and it was com
mon for two to ride the same horse at the
same time, one in the saddle, the .other
perch-fed up behind, and with great enjoy
ment to both.
I realized my importance when I could
mount and pull up my little sister, and to
gether go visiting or hunting chestnuts and
chinquapins. Those were happy, carefree
days for youngsters.
After the Georgia railroad was completed
to Marthasville, later Atlanta, it was fash
ionable for big picnic gatherings to make
an annual visit to Stone Mountain by rail.
It was great progress.
We, as a rule, did not make long trips
anywhere, and those Stone Mountain picnics
were looked for with great expectations by
young and old.
Somewhere in the early fifties Rev. Dr.
Aleaxnder Means, professor of chemistry at
Emory college, wrote a poem tn Stone
Mountain. It was forwarded to me at cob
lege and I posted it in the back of my
geometry (school book) to be suie to care
for it. For years I kept track of the book,
then Sherman came through Georgia and
scattered things generally.
It would be a treat to see the poem once
more, because Dr. Means was a wonderful
man, great student and eloquent preacher in
his day. He was a real pioneer in regard
to electricity, all .of fifty years ahead of his
co-workers, t. never hear of a new wonder
emenating from electricity that I do not
say to myself: "I do wish Dr. Moans could
see it!” Maybe he does. Who knows?
MASKED FEARS
By H. Addington Bruce
a LMOST everybody nowadays knows
/A that large numbers of people are af
'*’■ dieted with phobias, or irrational
dread of »one thing 'or another. Compara
tively few ’'people know that in many cases
the phobia is a kind of covering or mask for
a deeper dread of which the phobiac is un
aware.
And this fact is of great significance, in
that it helps to explain the usual inability
of phobiacs to overcome their dread by exer
cise of will power. Necessarily they exert
their -will to no purpose by directing it
against the wrong object.
The outcome might be different, and in
fact victory might be easy for them, if they
appreciated what they really feared. It is
not the least meritorious of the many
services rendered to humanity by modern
medical psychology, that it has found away
to give phobias insight into their masked
fears.
Typical is the experience of a man—by
occupation a sailor——who consulted a med
ical psychologist, Dr. T. A. Ross, because
of a tormenting dread of the dark. To be
alone in a dark place was agony to him,
and he stated that he had thus dreaded the
dark as long as he could remember.
Questioning him closely, however, Dr.
Ross drew from him a curious bit of in
formation—namely, that his dread of the
dark completely disappeared whenever he
was at sea. Not once did it trouble him
until his ship again put into port, when It
returned -with full force.
Suspecting from this that the dread of
the dark masked a dread of something else,
Dr. Ross, putting the sailor into a state of
mental relaxation known to be favorable
' to the emerging of subconscious memories
j and ideas, directed him to think of his child
hood and especially of early episodes when
he experienced the dread.
One long forgotten incident after another
was recalled, until finally the sailor remem
bered a happening from which, it now
seemed to him, his dread of the dark had
dated.
He was passing through the lower hall
of his father’s house, his story of this hap
pening ran, and was startled to see what he
took to be a man’s face peering at him from
around a curtain. It was night, the only
light in the hall was from the moon, and
he now believed that shadows had tricked
his eyesight with the illusion of an imagined
face.
Rut at the time he was convinced
burglar was in the house, and he fled to his
room on the top floor. From that night he
had been in fear lest a burglar spring at
him from some hiding place in the dark.
He had confided this special fear of burglars
to no one, and had repressed it as cowardly.
Stilly, clearly, it had persisted as a general
fear of the dark.
Which accounted for the fact that while
at sea—where no burglar couid be hiding—
he was free from the dread which tortured
him. This being pointed out by Dr. Ross,
the sailor for the first time found himself
equally free from his dread while ashore —
and has remained free from it.
Repeatedly medical psychologists have
found other phobias—dread of closed places
dread of open spaces, dread of cats, of
crowds, and so forth —similarly serving to
mask fears of something other than the ob
jects consciously dreaded.
And commonly in such cases the cure of
the phobia has been a comparatively easy
matter —often a surprisingly easy matter —
once psychological analysis has revealed the
true meaning and cause of the dread.
(Copyright, 1924.)
After the matrimonial knot is tied a girl
quits making tea and learns'to make coffee.
It often comes to pass in after years that
the man born with the silver spoon in his
mouth 13 unable to produce the spoon.
HER MONEY
' BY CAROLYN BEECHER
What has gone before.— Althea Cross-
by inherits a fortune on condition that
r she marry before she is thirty-five. She
1 falls in love with handsome young Dr.
Peter Graham and marries him wlth-
J out telling him about the condition In
’ I the will. Eventually he hears gossips
} i discussing it arid assumes she married
3 ; him to got possession of the fortune.
31 He becomes cool and she assumes he
1 married her for her money. She be
-3 comes very jealous of her husband’s
kindly attentions to Mrs. Ruth Williams,
; a wealthy patient, and also of the nurse
i in his office, Mabel Howard. Althea
> meets Kenneth Moore and his gaiety
1 attracts her. —Now go on with the stoi*y.
i
CHAPTER XLIX
i i A MOTHER week and Doris can leave
3 /A tlle hospital,” Peter said. "She is
r x x doing finely now, but, poor child,
it has been a long, hard fight.” He seemed
. | never to understand that Althea was not
r I interested in the child, did not wish to talk' - -
j about her. (
, ; He had seen her nurse a cat with an in-
I , jured leg, holding it in her lap and caring
_| for it. She was sympathetic with her friends,- -
e her maid. So he laid her distaste to visit-
ing the hospital to a dislike to look upon
j the suffering children—if he allowed himself
to think of excusing her at all.
"If she loved me she would go to please
j me, but as she doesn’t, there’s no reason
’ she should crucify herself by seeing the chii
’ dren suffer,” Peter thought.
_i "Where -will she go?” Althea askfcd, know-
I ing well enough that Peter was aware she
j knew, trying to make him think she had
" ' forgotten.
"Why, to Mrs. Williams’. I told you some
1 time ago that if she lived she was going
there for a time.”
"Oh, yes, I remember.”
1 Peter launched out upon a surgeon’s hob-
-by, the success of some new and delicate op
-1 oration—such as he had performed on Doris
a —and told with more animation than usual
how pleased he was at his little patient’s
I condition. As he talked Althea thought how
attractive he was when his face lighted up,
e how different when he spoke of ordinary
things with her. He forgot he didn’t love
her when he was interested in some old op
g oration, something connected with his pro
g session, but remembered it at other tiifies.
f So she argued with herself as she listened
and, just for the sake of watching his ex-
pressive face, asked a few questions to lead
t him on. '
e | And he, pleased at even this slight show
| of interest, was nothing loath and talked on
f ; pleasantly and interestedly until a call from
a : the office took him away.
" [ "Why can’t he aways be like that?” Al-
I i thea asked when alone. Not knowing it was
i her interest that had warmed him to his
? subject more than the subject itself.
1 t as Pe^-er her he said:
i * lf . only she Y-ere always like that!”
j Then sighed deeply.
g So once more they separated at cross-pur
r poses, neither dreaming what was in the
j. ( heart of the other.
I I
| Althea told Miss Bundy that Doris would
j soon be able to leave the hospital and that
■ Miss Howard would go to Mrs. Williams’
with her for a short time.
"Then what will she do—that Miss How
ard I mean?” Miss Bundy asked, her thin
lips tightening.
s 1 don’t know, Miss Bundy, but I think
-i from what the doctor said he intends to have
1 her back here in his office.” /
I And fire me?" the question was venom-
J ous And the look that flashed from her
hard blue eyes was venomous also.
1 m sorry—-I’d like you to stay. But of
- course, Dr. Graham does not consult my
wishes about his office affairs,” Althea re-
i j plied.
r M He d . surely kee P if you asked him
to. .Miss Bundy’s tone was wheedling.
"I never have interfered—” Althea be
t gan, then blushed as she recalled the time
t she had discharged Miss Howard. "But I’ll
speak to him,” she added, "as I told you I
should like to have you stay.”
i Miss Bundy mumbled her thanks but her
y face was still dark. Had she not overheard
g the comments of the patients, their kind in
quiiies anent Miss Howard, their questions
as to how soon she would return, she might
i have been more hopeful. But although she
y had tried to forget nothing of importance in
1 the office, Dr. Graham's short businesslike
manner, never addressing her save when j
necessary, was not inducive to a feeling of 4m
V permanency. 7 ~
- "He’s like all the rest of them doctors!”
a she murmured. "He wants a Nretty-faced
aon ng nurse. But I won’t get out without
, a struggle. I like this berth—no telling
2 what her liking for me may lead to if I
stay. I wish I knew why she don’t like that
. Howard girl. I must get it out of her. I
- don’t thjnk she’s jealous of her—it’s that
3 Williams woman she’s afraid of. It’s some
s thing else something I have got to know.”
i Althea also was wondering how she could
t biing about the retention of the woman
whose personality was disagreeable to her—
s in spite of her pretended liking and her
, wish for her confidence. If Peter refused
f her request there was nothing she could do.
3 But she so seldom proffered one perhaps he
3 would listen to her in this.
- ; "I don’t like her but at least she won’t
i make love to Peter, tell him she loves him,
and work on his sympathies. And,” grimly,
r I don t think he will be tempted to embrace
- her even if she cries,” her thoughts on the
, r time she had seen his arm about the weep
i ing Miss Howard.
- It isn’t right that I ehouldn’t havw
1 something to say about the women he bring®
- into the house,” she said in bitterness.
i Continued Tuesday. Look at the label and
if your subscription expires ‘T FEB. 24,” re«
I : now now, so as not to miss an installment of
I ’ this splendid story.
I
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s
Q. Is there a term applied to animals who
i sleep during the summer, as "hibernation”
jis applied to winter? N. S.
A. "Estivation” is the term applied to
those animals which pass the summer in tho
! state of dormant vitality.
> old is Corra Harris, the novellstT
A. She was born at Farn Hill, Ga., In
; 1869.
; Q. Is Jbeodorp Roosevelt's grave on Sflga-
j more Hill? L. S.
!| *.'• ,^ 13 ~ rave Ls n °t on Sagamore Hill top.
r < It is located a short distance above the-cove
-! road on the ridge of a knol’l commanding the
. j inner bay about two miles from Sagamore
Hill.
Q. Did Pocahontas have another Indian
name? C. W. F.
A. The real name of Pocahontas was Ma
toaka. Pocahontas is a verbal adjective,
meaning fee or she l s playful. This nick
name was used by Pocahontas’ father, Pow
hatan, in epeaking with the Virginia col
j onista.