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This Is the Opening Installment of the New Serial—Read It!
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| A RAMBLE WITH EULOGIA
PART I.
A Locc Story of I he Old Spanish Missions
By Gertrude Atherton
Advice to the
Lovelorn
D ONA POMPOSA crossed her hands
on her stomach and twirled her
thumbs. A red spot was In each
coffee-colored cheek, and the mole In
her scanty eyebrow Jerked ominously.
Her lips were set In a taut line, and
her angry-llt eyes were fixed upon a
«rirl who sat by the window strumming
a guitar, her chin raised with an air
of placid indifference.
“Thou wilt stop this nonsense and
cast no more glances at. Juan Turnel?"
demanded Doaa Pomposa. “Thou little
brat' Host thou think that I am wont
to let my daughter marry before she
$an hem? Thank God, we have more
„t*nse than our mothers. No child of
mine shall marry at fifteen. Now listen
—thou shalt be locked in a dark room
If I am kept awake again by that hobo
serenading at my window. I am worn
out. Three nights have I been awak
ened by that tw-a-n-g. tw-a-n-g."
“You need not he afraid,“ said her
daughter, digging her little heel Into
the floor. “I shall not fall In love. I
have no faith in men.”
Her mother laughed outright In spite
of her anger.
Had Read Dumas’ Novels.
“Indeed, my Eulogia! Thou are very
wise And why, pray, has thou no
faith in men?"
Eulogia tossed the soft, black braid
from her shouledrs and fixed her keen,
roguish eyes on the old lady’s face.
“Because I have read all the novels
of the Senor Dumas, and I well know
all those men he makes. And they
never speak the truth to women; al
ways they are selfish and think of only
their own pleasure. 'The women suffer,
but they do not care; they do not love
the women—only themselves. So I am
not going to be fooled by the men. I
shall have a good time, but I shall
think of myself, not of the men.”
Her mother gazed at her In speech
less amazement. She had never read a
book In her life, and had not thought
of locking from her daughter the few
volumes her dead husband had collected.
Then she gasped with consternation.
“A fine woman thou wilt make of
thyself, with such ideas—a nice wife
and mother, when the time comes!
What does Padre Florges say to that,
I should like to know.’ It is very
grange that he lets you read those
books."
“I never told him," said Eulogia. In
differently.
“What!” screamed her mother “Thou
•never told at confession?“
“No, I never did. It was none of his
business what I read. Reading is no
aln. I confessed all."
Dona Pomposa rushed at Eulogia with
uplifted hands; but her nimble daughter
dived under her arms with a provoking
laugh and ran out of the room.
Town Was Still Awake.
That night Eulogia pushed aside the
white curtain of her window and look
ed out. The beautiful bare hills and
circling San Luis were black in the
eiVvety night, but the moon made the
torn light as day. The owls were
hooting on the roof of the mission:
Eulogia could see them flap their
wings A few' Indians were still mov
ing along the dark huts outside the
walls, and within the Padre walked
among his olive trees Beyond the
walls the town was still awake. Once
a horseman dashed down the street,
and Eulogia wondered if murder had
been done In the mountains; the ban
dits were thick in their fastnesses.
Che did wish she could see one. Then
•ie glanced eagerly down the road be
Ceath her wdndow In spite of the wis
dom she accepted from the French
Romanticist her fancy was Just a little
touched by Juan Tornel. His black,
flashing eyes looked so tender; he rode
ao beautifully! She twitched the cur
tains into place and ran across the
room, her feet pattering upon the bare
floor. She Jumped into her little Iron
bed and drew* the dainty sheets to her
throat. A ladder was leaned heavily
against the side of the house
She heard an agile form ascend and
seat Itself on the deep window* sill.
Then the guitar vibrated under the
touch of master fingers and a rich,
sweet tenor sang to her.
Eulogia lay as quiet as a mouse in
the daytime, not daring to applaud,
hoping fatigue had sent her mother to
bed Her lover tuned his guitar and
began another eor.g. but she did not
hear it; she was listening to footfalls
in the garret above. With a pressnt-
srutm of what was to happen, she sprang
out of bed with a warning ory. but she
was too late There was a splash and
a battle on the window seat, a smoth
ered curse, a quick descent, a tri
umphant laugh from above. Eulogia
Well, my daughter, have I not won the battle?” said a voice behind her, and Eulogia sat
down on the window seat and swung her feet with silent wrath.
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stamped her foot with rage She cau
tiously raised the window and passed
her hand along the outer sill. This
time she beat the casement with both
hands, for they were covered with warm
ashes.
“Well, my daughter, have I not won
the battle?” said a voice behind her,
and Eulogia sat down on the window
seat and swung her feet with silent
wrath.
Dona Pomposa wore a rather short
nightgown and her feet were encased
in a pair of her husband’s old boots.
Her hair was twisted under a red silk
kerchief, and again she crossed her
hands on her etomach, but the thumbs
held the candle. Eulogia glgaled sud
denly.
“What dost thou laugh at. senorlta?
At the vc.y I have served thy lover?
Dost tlun think he will come again
soon?“
“No, mamma; you have proved the
famous hospitality of the Californians
the Americans are always talking about.
You need have no more envy of the
magnificence of Los Quevos."
“Oh. thou canst make sharp speeches,
thou Impertinent little brat, but Juan
Tornel will serendae under thy win
dow no more! Go to thy bed! Diosl
but the ashes must look w’ell on his
pretty rnustachlo. Go to thy bedi I
will put thee on hoard in a convent to
morrow' .’’ Then she shuffled out of the
room, her ample figure swinging from
side to side like a huge pendulum.
The next day Eulogia was sitting on
her window seat, her chin resting on
her knees, the volume of Dumas beside
her, when the door was cautiously
opened and her Aunt Anastacia enter
ed the room. Aunt Anastaefa was very
large. In fact, she nearly filled the
doorway. She also disdained whale
bones and walked with a slight roll.
Her ankle* hung over her feet, and her
red cheeks and chin were covered with
a short black gown Her hair was
twisted, into a tight knot and protected
by a thick net. and she wore a loose
gown of brown calico, patterned with
large red roses. But good nature beam
ed all over her indefinite features. Her
little brown eyes dwelt adoringly upon
little Eulogia. who gave her an absent
smile
"Poor little •one!" she said in her In
dulgent and contralto voice. “But It
was cruel in my siater to throw ashes
on thy lover. Not but what thou art
too young for lovers, my darling, al
though I had one at twelve. But times
have changed. My little one, I have a
note for thee Thy mother is out. and
he has gone away, so there can be.no
harm in reading it"
"Give it to me at once!” and Eulogia
dived into her aunt’s pocket and found
the note.
Shrugged Her Shoulders.
“Beautiful and Idolized Eulogia—
Adios! Adlos' I came a stranger to thy
town 1 fell blinded at thy feet. I fly
forever from the scornful laughter of
thine eyes. Aye. Eulogia. how- couldst
thou? Rut no! I will not believe it was
thee. The dimples that play in thy
cheeks, the sparks that fly in thine eyes
God of my life! I cannot believe
that they come from a malicious soul
No, enchanting Eulogia! consolation of
my soul! it was thy mother who so
cruelly humiliated me. wrho drives me
from thy town lest I be mocked in the
streets Aye. Eulogia* Aye, mlserl-
cordla! Adlos! Adlos!"
Eulogia shrugged her shoulders
"Well, my mother is satisfied perhaps
She has driven him away. At least,
I shall not have to go to the convent."
"Thou are so sold, my little noe,”
said Aunt Anastacia. disapprovingly.
“Thou are but fifteen years, and yet
thou throwest aside a lover as if he
were an old rebosa. Mother of God!
In your place 1 should have wept and
, beat the air. But, perhaps, that is the
i rtas'-a ju* l eans »ea «Tft jvjli iur
thee. Not but what I had many lov
ers "
“It is too bad thou didst not marry
one,” interrupted Eulogia maliciously
“Perhaps thou wouldst" and she pick
ed up her book "if thou hadst read the
Senor Dumas.”
“Thou heartless little baby!’’ cried her
indignant aunt. “When I love thee so,
and bring thy notes at the risk of my
life; for thou knowest that thy mother
would pull the hair from my head. Thou
little brat! To say I could not marry,
when I had twenty "
Eulogia Jumped up and pecked her
on the chin like a bird.
“Twenty-five, my old mountain! I
only Joked Tjrith thee. Thou didst not
marry because thou hadst more sense
than to trot about after a man. Is It
not so, my old sack of flour? I was
but angy because I thought thou hadst
helped my mother last night.”
“Never! 1 was sound asleep ’’
“I know, 1 know! Now trot away
I hear my mother coming.'' and Aunt
Anastacia obediently left her niece to
the more congenial company of Senor
Dumas
Green With Fruit Trees.
HE hills of San Luis Objspo shot
upward like the sloping sides of
a well, so round was the town,
let patches lay In the slopes—the wide
blossoms of the low cacti.
The garden of the mission was green
T
with fruit trees and silver with olive
groves. On the white church and long
wing lay the red tile; beyond the tvall
the dull earth huts of the Indians.
Then the straggling town, with its
white adobe houses crouching on the
grass.
Eulogia was sixteen. A year had
passed since Juan Tornel had “'sere
naded beneath her window’, and, if the
truth had been told, she had almost for
gotten him. Many a glance had she
shot over her prayer book In the mis
sion church; many a pair of eyes,
dreamy and fiery, had responded. But
she had spoken with no man. After a
tempestuous secene with her mother,
during which Aunt Anastacia had wept
profusely, a compromise had been
made. Eulogia had agreed to have no
more flirtations until she w r as sixteen,
hut at that age she should go to balls
and have as many lovers as sis* pleased.
She walked through the olive groves
with Padre Moraga on the morning of
her sixteenth birthday. The n#W padre
and she w r ere the best of fri^eds.
“Well," said the good old A d, push
ing the long white hair from his dark
face it fell forward whenever he
stooped "well, my little one, thou goest
to thy first ball to-night. Art thou
happy?"
“Happy? There Is no such thing as
happiness, my father. I sBSll dance
and flirt, and make all the young men
fall In love with me. 1 shall have a
good time. That Is enough."
The padre smiled; he was used to
her.
“Men Shall Love Me.”
“Thou little wise one ' He collected
himself suddenly “But thou art right
to build thy hopes of happiness on the
next world alone.' Then he continued,
as If he hud merely broken the con
versation to say the Angelus; “And
thou art sure that thou wilt he the la
favorita? Truly, thou hast confidence
in thyself an inexperienced chit who
has not half the beauty of many other
girls."
“Perhaps not; but the men shall love
me better, all the same. Beauty is not
everything, my father. I have a greater
attraction than aoft eyes and a pretty
mouth.''
“Indeed! Thou baby! Why, thou art
no bigger than a well-grown child, and
thy mouth was made for a woman
twice thy size Where dost thou keep
that extraordinary charm?" Not but
what he knew, for he liked her better
than any girl in the town As the
night was warm the younger people
danced through the low windows onto
the wide corridor, and if eyea relaxed
their vigilance stepped off to the grass
and wandered among the trees The
brow’n old woman In dark silk sat
against the wall as dowagers do to-day.
Most of the girls wore bright red or
yollow frowns, although softer tints
blossomed here and there Silky black
hair was braided close to the neck, the
coiffure finished with a fringe of chenille.
As they whirled in the dance their fyll ^ er if you
bright gowns loowed like an agitated
flower bed suddenly possessed by a
wandering tribe of goddesses
Eulogia came rather late. In the last
moment her mother had wavered in her
part of the contract, and not until
Eulogia had sworn by every saint In the
calendar that she would not leave the
sala, even though she stifled, had Dona
Pomposa reluctantly consented to take
her. Eulcgia’s perfect little figure was
clad in a prim white silk gown, but
her cold brilliant eyes were like jewels,
her large mouth was red as the cactus
patches on the hills, a flame burned in
either cheek.
In a moment she was surrounded by
the young men who had been waiting
for her. It might be true that twenty
girls in the room were more beautiful
than she. but she had a quiet manner
more effective than animation, & vigor
ous magnetism of which she was fully
aware, and a cool coquetry which
piqued and fired the young men. who
were used to more sentimental flirta
tions
“I Am Not a Man.”
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
BOTH RUDE AND CARELESS.
D ear miss Fairfax
Is a young girl keeping
company with a young man Justi
fied in feeling offended when the
young man making an appoint
. ment to meet her on the way
home from business does not keep
this engagement, this having
happened twice? The excuse
given by the young man for not
keeping the appointment was. “he
had forgotten all about the ap
pointment." ANXIOUS.
She most certainly Is Justified in
being offended, and if 1 were she 1
would never make another engage
ment with him. He has treated her in
a way that is both rude and careless.
WITH HER PARENTS* CONSENT.
D ear miss Fairfax
I am a young man IS years
of age. During business hours 1
am forced to answer the telephone
very often. I have struck up an
acquaintance with a young lady
over the phone and have asked
her to go out with me. but she re
fuse- to go. Do you think it
would be proper for me to ask th^»
young lady again, and would it be
proper for her to accept the invi
tation? G. H.
She is quite right in refusing to go
to the theater with a mere telephone
acquaintance. If you call at her house
and meet her parents, and the> sanc
tion the acquaintance. It will be all
right for her to accept your invitation
r cull on her. ]
TROUBLED OVER NOTHING.
D ear miss Fairfax
I am 28 and hav e been
keeping steady company for one
year with a girl of 18. We are
about to be engaged Do you
think it improper to be married
to a girl ten years younger than
yourself? To be engaged, what is
the proper way to do it and must
it be announced ? Also is it nec
essary to present her with an en
gagement ring" E. F. S.
She is not too young for you. Ask
her to marry you, and if she accepts,
you are engaged. If her parents know,
further announcement is immaterial,
though it is a safeguard against mis
understanding if all your friends
know it. By all means, give her an
engagement ring.
NO SERIOUS OFFENSE.
JJEAR MISS FAIRFAX;
She danced as airy as a flower on
the wind, but with untiring vitality.
“Senorita." said Don Carmelo Bena.
"Thou takest my breath away. Dost
thou never weary?"
"Never. I am not a man.”
"Ay, senorlta, thou meanest”
“That women were made to make the
world go round, and men to play the
guitar.’’
"Ah, I can play the guitar. I will
serenade thee to-morrow night."
“Thou wilt get a shower of ashes for
thy pains. Better stay at home and
prepare thy soul with three card
monte.’
“Aye. senorita. thou are cruel. Does
no man please thee?"
“Men please me How tiresome to
dance with a woman!"
“And that is all thou hast for ue?
For u9 who would die for thee?"
“In a barrel of aguadiente? I prefer
thee to dance with. To tell the truth,
thy step suits mine."
“Ay, senorita mia! Thou canst put
honey on thy tongue. Light of my life,
Senorita—I fling my heart at thy feet.”
To Bo Continued To-morrow.
The Spinster
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Copyright, 1913, by Star Company.
I.
ERE are the orchard trees all large with fruit;
And yonder fields are golden with young grain.
In little Journeys, branchward from the nest,
• A mother bird, with sweet insistent tries,
Urges her young to use their untried wings.
A purring Tabby, stretched upon the sward.
Shuts and expands her velvet paws in joy,
While sturdy kittens nuzzle at her breast.
O mighty Maker of the Universe,
Am 1 not part and parcel of Thy world.
And one with Nature? Wherefore, then, In me
Must this great reproductive impulse lie
Hidden, ashamed, unnourlshed and denied,
Until it starves to slow and tortuous death?
I know the hope of Springtime: like the tree
Now ripe with fruit, I budded, and then bloomed;
We laughed together, through the young May moms;
We dreamed together, through the Summer moons;
Till all Thy' purposes within the tree
Were to fruition brought. Lord, Thou hast heard
The Woman in me crying.for the Man;
The Mother in me crying for the Child;
And made no answer. Am I less to Thee
Than lower forms of Nature, or In truth
Dost Thou hold Somewhere in another Realm
Full compensation and large recompense
For lonely virtue forced by Fate to live
A life unnatural, In a natural world?
n.
T HOU Who hast made for such sure purposes
The mightiest and the meanest thing that Is—
Planned out th e lives of insects in the air
With flpe precision and consummate care,
Thotf sho hast taught the bees the secret power
Of carrying on love's laws Wwixt flower and flower.
Why didst Thou shape .his mortal frame of mine,
If Heavenly joys alone were Thy design?
Wherefor the wonder of my woman's breast.
By lips of lover and of babe unpressed,
If spirit children only shall reply
Uifto my ever urgent mother cry?
Why should the rose be guided to its own.
And my love-craving heart beat on alone?
"r
111.
Y ET do I understand; for Thou hast made
Something more subtle than this heart of ms;
A finer part of me
To be obeyed.
Albeit I am sister to the earth,
This nature self is not the whole of me;
The deathless soul of me
Has nobler birth.
The primal woman hungers for the man.
My better self demands the mate of me;
The spirit fate of me,
Part of Thy plan.
Nature is instinct w'ith the mother-need;
So is my heart: but. ah, the child of me
Should, undeflled of me,
Spring from love's seed.
And If in barren chastity I must
Know but in dreams that perfect choice of me,
still with the voice of me
Proclaim God just.
I am 16 years of age. Last
week I was invited to a party to
which I was requested to bring a
young man I invited a young
man whom I know to be very re
spectable and polite, but I had
known him a very little time, and,
at that, only to talk to. Now.
what I want to know is if it was
right to invite him. ANXIOUS.
You have been introduced and you
knew him to be honorable. Under
the circumstances, you did no great
wrong. The mistake, if there was
any. lies In the custom of asking a
girl of 16 to hunt up a boy escort.
TELL YOUR BEST FRIEND.
T~\EAR MISS FAIRFAX:
I would like to establish
a home. I have no woman ac
quittance. Can you give me any
help or direction toward the at
tainment of my desire either
through social or direct introduc
tion? H. G. M.
Tell the best friend you have
among the men. If he is married, he
will tell his wife, and every woman
is. at the bottom of her heart, a born
matchmaker. She will see that you
meet other women and have a choice.
YOU MUST DO NOTHING.
FAEAR MISS FAIRFAX:
I am eighteen and am deeply
in love with a young man w'ho
often invites me up to the show.
He is an usher. What could I do
to gain his love, or show him
that I love him?
HEART-BROICEN.
You are too young to be involved
In any sentiment as serious as lov
ing. Make no attempts to win his
love, and teach yourself to know that
you do not love him.
Beauty Secrets:
“HAIR PULLING MAKES
IT GROW QUICKLY”
Two Portraits of Miss Josephine Brown.
D',“
T'
HERE seems to be one univer
sal nfid unanimous answer to
ihe question of “What makes
life really worth the living:?"
No matter to whom you put it. if
he or she has lived—and in the living:
Joyed and suffered—the one answer
that is given is “Children.”
And, after all, the little tykes do
make this old world of ov"s worth
living in. They may he a
tribulation—they may t*
dren will not have to deal with them, change in the atmosphere at once,
The man who is money mad most | and humans who were glowering at
times piles up his hoards of golden each other smile and laugh to see the
and a sacrifice—but where is the one
who answers to the name of father or
mother, who are really human men
and women, who do not prefer chil
dren to all forms of wealth and all
shades of glory.
We see the king on his throne try
ing to make things ea«y and settle
coins for the children who come after
him. The parent who lives in the
hovel sees better times coming for
his children, and is content to put up
with his hard lot, knowing that he
will live again in their enjoyment and
in their ease.
The society lady knows the vapid-
al and ! ness of her life and feels that she has
are | not lived in vain and been a drone
in the hive if she gives forth to the
world children. The poor wrasher-
woman works and denies herself to
keep her family of tots together and
give them advantages that she had
not.
Uft times in a crowded car my little
lady t omes in and perches primly on
djmuuJl iT.ybJepu* m ^iuu. tu» cuu«. wn X&an. tan
little one ape her grown-up sisters.
The nifty little kid you meet on the
way, who looks up at you with
friendly eyes, clear and unafraid,
stirs your heart more than all dreams
and visions of money and success.
The little tatterdemalion you meet
makes you want to change conditions
so that all children can be taken
away from the city and given the
joys of the country and a taste of
chiidhood close to nature.
And the baby, who plays with its
little pink toes, and is all unconscious
of your presence, is of more interest
than the speculations and theories
of the philosophers who have filled
the libraries with their thoughts from
EXPLAIN IT.
MISS FAIRFAX:
am a young lady of eighteen
Some time ago a young man ask
ed the pleasure of my company
to a show. I refused It; later he
staked me again, but I told him
I did not care to go to the place,
but changed my mind and went
by myself. I met him as I was
entering. He did not say any
thing. Since then he has spoken
to me, but has never asked for
my company. Lately I have come
to like him very much. DOT.
Explain it by saying you changd
your mind, but do not take it to heart
if he never asks you again. Your
actions showed you did not care for
his company and that is what rankles.
SHE WAS WRONG.
UJEAR MISS FAIRFAX:
I took a lady friend of mine to
an evening dance, and at 11:30
o’clock I asked her to come home,
and she begged me to wait until
she had just one more dance. See
ing that she enjoyed it. I consent
ed, but it was to be the last, as
we had about two hours' travel
for home. After she got through
with this dance she wanted to
wait for the next one, and I re
fused to give my consent. With
this she claimed I offended her.
MARK.
She did not keep faith with you,
but her offense is not serious. If you
took her to the dance for her pleas
ure, and that is always assumed, you
should be glad to stay as long as
she chooses, reserving to yourself the
decision not to take her again if she
chooses to stay too late.
By Margaret Hubbard Ayer.
M ISS JOSEPHINE BROWN, the
pretty actress, stood before the
mirror and clutched her short
curly mane with both hands. Then
she gave a yank as if she were deter
mined to pull all her pretty reddish
hair out by the roots.
"Don't look so worried." she said
to me. "I’m not mad at myself. This
Is the latest Paris method of growing
hair in a hurry.
"Yes, I cut It off because I had to
be in style. And to be In style In
Paris to-day means that you must look
as if you had short hair. Most of
the really smart women are really
cutting theirs off altogether.
"Leon Baker, who did the costume
designing for the Russian ballet and
for all the Oriental plays, has set the
rage for short-haired coiffures, and
short hair Is absolutely THE THING
now In Paris. To be chic you must
wear your hair very flat on the head
and bound around with a silk sash
of Oriental material, from under
which a few short curls are allowed
to escape.
"There must be no wad of hair to
spoil the contour of the head. The
head must look very boyish, indeed,
and those women who have cut all
their long hair off attain the true
Bakst effect,” the pretty young act-ess
continued.
"I want to have long hair for sev
eral reasons. First, l am in America
again, and America has not accepted
the short-haired woman. Over here
you still think short hair masculine,
while in Paris short hair is consid
ered fascinating on a woman's head,
and the boyish look of these Bakst
coiffures is the latest and smartest
and most bewitching style. Every*
one is in love with short hair, and con
siders a woman with curly locks, snip
ped off at the nape of the neck, much
more attractive than her sister of
Sutherland descent.
“I shall never keep my hair very
long any more, because I know the
delights of short, healthy, clean hair."
This Model Greatly Reduced.
The Sad Lady—I want a hat.
The Milliner—Yes, madam, ‘'Merry
Widow ?”
art® £a<t.LadyW<
Another Precocious Child.
A director of one of the great trans
continental railroadB was showing his
3-year-old daughter the pictures in a
work on natural history. Pointing to
a picture of a zebra, he asked the
baby to tell him what it represented.
Baby answered: “Colty."
Pointing to a picture of a tiger in
the same way. she answered: “Kitty."
Then a lion, she answered: “Doggy."
Elated with her seeming quick percep
tion. he then turned to the picture of
a chimpanzee and said:
“Baby, what is this?”
"■PAi'a,". aina-ass -
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Both Phones M. 3648