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AMBLE WITH EULOGIA Old Spanish Missions GCftrtiClC A-tllCrtOIl
PART I.
*dXA POMPOSA • msx-d her hands
oft heY stomach and twirled her
A red spot was in each
eok, and the mole in
row jerked ominously,
ei in a taut line, and
of* were fixed upon a
window RtrumminK
raised with an air
thumb*
e-cidercd clieo
f*cam> ,^ycbro
lips waro.sei
ey(g
ftrl who sccj by th
guitar. nor chin
hf placid 1 fridlfforon
*hoti wlft stop
no more giant
ajKind Dona P<
! vD
thou think that 1 am wont
let ipy^daughter marry before she
n hemV ,Thank God, we have more
nee th® 11 our mothers. No child of
nine shall marry at fifteen. Now Helen
-thou shalt be locked in a dark room
1 am 1 opt v ti *• ;icrain I ' that 1.'■
erenadlng m i ' window 1 .to worn
Bt. Three nights have I been awak
ened by that tw-a-n-g, tw-a-n-g ”
"You need not be afraid," said her
aughiei, digging her little heel Into |
|lhe floor. J shall not fall in h>\. I j
ha^e no faith in men."
Her mother laughed outright in spite I
pt her ahger
Read Dumas' Novels.
"Indeed* my. Eulogist! Thou are very
uriae. And why, pray, has thou no
Ifanh in men ?"
Eulogia tossed the soft, black braid
(from AM* shouledra and fixed her keen,
oguish eyes on the old lady's fare.
"Because 1 have read nil the novels
the Senor Dumas, and I well know
i those men he makes. And they
never apeak the truth to women; al-
vays they are selfish and think of only
heir own pleasure. The women suffer,
they do not care: they do not love
|the women only themselves So I am
mot going to he fooled by the men 1
bthall have a good time, but 1 shall
(think of nr--?* If. not of the men
Her mother gazed at her In Bpeec-h-
less &ma zement
(book in 1
of locking from her daughter the few
volumes her dead husband' had collected
Then alie gasped with consternation.
"A flue woman thou wilt make of
parti, with such ideas a nice wife
mother, when the time cornea!
IThat does J'adre F! or gee say to that,
should like to know? It is very
range that he lets you read those
oks "
“I never told him." said Eulogia, in
differently.
"What."* screamed her mother "Thou
ver told at confession?"
"N6, 1 never did. It w’ns none of his
business what I read Reading is no
I confessed all "
Dona Pomposa rushed at Eulogia with
uplifted liands; but her nimble daughter
lived under her arms with a provoking
augh and ran out of the room.
Town Was Still Awake.
That night Thilogia pushed aside the
window and look-
tlful bare hills and
cli»yr_ San Luis were black in the
lilveilRiight. but the moon made tlie
(town light us day The owls were
htH.iiagl on the roof <>f the mission:
‘"wnftw iiei
otflg Tttie'beaut'll
.ulo
ould see them flap
few Indians were still
fall in love with me. I 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
ihou art sure that thou wilt he the la
fav^rita? 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 belter, all the same. Beauty is not
everything, my father. 1 have a greater
attraction than soft 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 eyes relaxed
their vigilance stepped off to the grass
and wandered among the trees. The
I brown ohj woman in dark silk sat
against the wall as dowagers do to-day.
Most of the girls wore bright red or
yollow gowns, although softer tints
blossomed here and there. Silky black
Advice to the
Lovelorn
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
BOTH RUDE AND CARELESS.
TAKA It 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 j
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 I were she \
would never make another engage- ;
ment with him. He has treated her in !
a way that is both rude a.nd careless, j
WITH HER PARENTS’ CONSENT.
D ear miss fairf'ax:
T am a young man 18 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
fuses* to go. Do you think it
would be proper for me to ask the
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 they sanc-
hair was braided close to the neck, the j tion the acquaintance, it will be all
right for her to accept your invitation.
Ask her if you may call on her.
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.
their
mov-
idr dark huts outside the
within the Padre walked
olive 'trees Beyond the
n was still awake. Once
dashed down the street,
wondered If murder had
in the mountains: the ban-
thick in their fastnesses,
wish she could see one. Then
ced eagerly down the road be
r window. In spite of the wis
agkepted from the French
istlper fancy was just a little
by Juan Tome!. Tlift black,
flesh®! f ->A* looked so tedder; tie rodi*
tifully! She twitched the cur-
to place and rah across the
Xfjet pattering upon the bare
he dumped into her little iron
drew the dainty sheets to her
A J ladder was leaned heavily
the- side of the house.
*ar|' an agile form ascend and
§Mf on the deep window sill
guitar vibrated under the
master fingers and a rich,
sang to her.
lay as quiet as a mouse in
not daring to applaud,
had sent her mother to
lover tuned his guitar and
song, but she did not
she was listening to footfalls
above. With a present -
what Vfas to happen, she sprang
with a warning cry', but she
late. There was a splash and
on the window seat, a amoth-
a qutpk descent, a tr1«
laugh from above. Eulogia
You Wanf
Skin ?
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M
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od Druggists Generally.
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,
a ml Eulogia sat down on the window
seat ami swung her feet with silent
wrath.
Dona Pomposa wore a rather short
nightgown and her feet were encased
in a i>alr of her husband’s old boots.
Her hair was twisted under a red silk
kerchief, and again she crossed her
hands on her stomach, but the thumbs
held the candle. Eulogia giggled sud
denly.
"What dost thou laugh «t. sem»pitaV
At the way I have served thy lover?
Dost thou think ho 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 Quevos."
"Oh, thou canst make sharp speeches,
thou Impertinent little brat, hut .luan
Tornel will seremlae under thy win
dow* no more! Go to thy bed! Diosl
but the ashes must look well on his
pretty irmstnrhlo Go. to thy bed I
will put thee on board in n 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 ami her Aunt Anastaela enter
ed the room Aunt Anastaela was very
large. In fact, she nearly filled the
doorway She also disdained whale
bones and walked with a slight roll.
Her ankles 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 alt over her indefinite features. Her
little brown eyes dwelt adoringly upon
little Eulogia, who gave her an absent
smile.
"Poor little ope!" she said in tier In
dulgent and contralto voice. "But it
was cruel in my sister to throw ashes
on thy lover. Not but what thou art
too young for lovers, my darling, al-
I though 1 had one at twelve. But times
I have changed. My little one, 1 have a
not© for thee. Thy mother is out, and
he has gone away, so there can he no
iarm in reading it"
"Give it to me at once!" and Eulogia
lived into her aunt's pocket and found
he note.
Shrugged Her Shoulders.
"Beautiful and Idolized Eulogia -
Velios! Adios! 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? But no! 1 will not believe it was
thee The dimples that play In thy
cheeks, the sparks that fly in thine eyes
God oI my life! i cMutod ball***
t hu' th* \ come from a Nnaliclous soul
No, enchanting Eulogia! consolation of
ray soul! it was thy mother who so
cruelly humiliated me. who drives me
from thy town lest I be mocked in the
streets Aye, Eulogia! Aye. miseri-
cordia! Adios! Adios!"
Eulogia shrugged h
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 hook "if thou hadst read the
Senor Dumas."
"Thou heartless little baby!" cried her
indignant aunt "When T 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, ray old mountain! I
only Joked with 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? 1 was
but angy because I thought thou hadst
helped my mother last night."
"Never! 1 was sound asleep "
"1 know, I know! Now trot away
1 hear my mother coming." and Aunt
Anastaela obedlaptly left her niece to
the more congenial company of Senor
Dumas.
Green With Fruit Trees.
HE hills of Ban Luis Obispo 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.
Th© garden of the mission was green
with fruit trees and silver with olive I
groves. On the white church and long
wing lay the red tile; beyond the wall
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 was sixteen,
but at that age she should go to balls
and have as many lovers as she pleased.
She walked through the olive groves
with Padre Moraga on the morning of
her sixteenth birthday. The new padre
ami she were the best of friends.
"Well," said the good old man. 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 hall to-night Art thou
happy?”
"Hupps There Is no such thing as
happiness, my father I shall dance
and flirt, and make all the young men
coiffure finished with a fringe of chenille.
As they whirled in the dance their full
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. Eulogla’s perfect little figure was
clad in a prim white silk gown, hut
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, a 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-
j tions.
“I Am Not a Man.”
| Bhe danced as airy as a rower on
the wind, but with untiring vitality.
"Senorita.” said Don Carmelo Bena,
"Thou takes! my breath away, post
thou never weary?"
"Never. 1 am not a man."
"Ay, senorita, 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 slay 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 us?
For, us 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 mla! Thou canst put
honey on th.v tongue. Light of my life,
Senorita —I fling my heart at thy feet."
To Be Continued To-morrow.
The Spinster By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
, Copyright, 1913, tjy Star Company.
shoulders,
r is satisfied perhaps,
him away. At least
i> go \o the convent.*’
sold, my little noe,”
facia, disapprovingly.
Ifteen years, and >et
<lde a lover as if he
usa. Mother of God!
*ht>uld have wept and
3ut» perhaps, that is the
young men are wild for
I.
ORE 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 cries,
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 I not part and parrel of Thy world,
And one with Nature? Wherefore, then, in me
Must this great reproductive impulse lie
Hidden, 'ashamed, unnourished and denied.
Until it starves to slow and tortuolis death?
1 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
Th© Woman in me crying for the Man;
The Mother In me crying for the Child;
And made no answer. Am 1 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?
II.
'T'HOU who hast made for such sure purposes
* The mightiest and the meanest thing that is —
Planned out th o lives of insects in the air
With fine precision and consummate care,
Thou who hast taught the bees the secret power
Of carrying on love’s laws ’twixt flower and flower,
Why didst Thou shape this 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,
IT spirit children only shall reply
Urfto my ever urgent mother cry?
Why should the rose be guided to its own,
And my love-craving heart beat on alone?
III.
V” ET do I understand; for Thou hast made
1 Something more subtle than this heart of me;
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 with 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.
YOU MUST DO NOTHING.
FJRAR MISS FAIRFAX;
l am eighteen and am deeply
in love with a young man who
often invites me up to the show.
He is an usher. What could J do
to gain his love, or show him
that I love him?
HEART-BROKEN.
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.
EXPLAIN IT.
P)EAR MISS FAIRFAX:
I 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
asked me again, but I told him
T did not care to go to the plate,
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.
Beauty Secrets:
“HAIR PULLING MAKES
IT GROW QUICKLY”
TROUBLED OVER NOTHING.
D ear miss Fairfax;
I am 28 and have been
keeping steady company for one
year with a gill 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 he 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? FT 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 - 1
understanding If all your friends
know it. By all means, give her an
engagement ring.
NO SERIOUS OFFENSE.
TYEAR MISS FAIRFAX:
I am 16 years of age. Last
week I was invited to a party to
which T 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 waft
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.
HKAR MISS FAIRFAX:
I would like to establish
a home. I have no woman ac-
qu.'Yntance. 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 w'ife, 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.
rtrails of Miss -Josephine Brown.
and most bewitching style. Every-*
one is in love with short hair, and con
siders a woman wdth curly locks, snip
ped off at fhe 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."
J~)EAR MISS FAIRFAX:
T
HERE seems to be one univer
sal and unanimous answer to
the 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 ours worth
living in. They may be a trial and
dren will not have to deal with them.
The man who is money mad most
times piles up his hoards of golden
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
ness of her life and feels that she has
a tribulation—they may be a care not lived hi vain and- been a drone
In the hive if she gives forth to the
world children. The poor washer
woman works and denies herself to
keep her family of tots together and
give them advantages that she had
not
Ofttimes in a c rowded car my little
lady comes in and perches primly on
the edg© of the seal, c There is a
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 easy and settle
difficult problem*, *o that hi* chil-
change in the atmosphere at once,
and humans who were glowering at
each other smile and laugh to see the
Jittle 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
«nd 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
childhood 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
the long ago till now.
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 nte 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 tw-'o hours’ travel
for home. After she got through
with this dance she w T anted 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.
This Model Greatly Reduced.
The Sad Lad\--I want a hat.
The Milliner—Yes. madam. • Merry
Widow ?”
The Sad Lady—No; miserable wifi.
By Margaret Hubbard Ayer.
M ISS JOSEPHIN'E BROWN, the
pretty actress, stood before the
| mirror and clutched her short
J curly mane with both hands. Then
I she gave a yank as if she were def.er-
i 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 j
j is the latest Paris method of growing
j hair in a hurry.,
“Yes, I cut it off because I had to
j be in style. And to be in style in
I Paris to-day means that you must look I
j 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 j
for all the Oriental plays* has set the
rage for short-haired coiffures, and
short hair is ah ' !y THE THING Ri c h milk, malted grain, in powder fomu
now in Paris. T,. . ni. you musi Forinfant8-inva lid s and growing children,
wear your hair very tint on the hear -
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 i
spoil ot the Tht PORUCK S Contains Pure JhIIK
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-es
continued.
“I want to have long hair for
eral reasons. First, 1 am in America
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MALTED MILK
0tAci& *** Jnutatwm
The Food-Drink lor all Ages
Fu re nutrition .upbuilding the whole body.
Invigorates nursing mothers and the aged.
More healthful than tea or coffee.
Take nO substitute. Ask for HORLICK’S
■t"ess I
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
Another Precocious Child.
A director of one of the great trans
continental railroads was showing his
3-vear-old daughter the pictures in a
work on natural-history. Pointing to
a picture of a zebra, he asked the
baby to tall him what’- H represented.
Baby answered: "Uolty.”
Pointing to a picture of a tiger in
the same way. she answered: "Kitty.”
Then a lion.
Elated with 1
tion. he the!
a chimpanze
sne answered:
er seeming quit
turned to the ;
and said:
Doggy.’
LU E
GEM
$4.75
Best Jellico $4.50
PIEDMONT COAL CO.
Both Phones M. 3648
"Baby, what is ihi:
“Papa."