Newspaper Page Text
4-
Red Velva Molasses Candy
Bring one Quart of RED VEL VA to
a bntl; add best butter, keep stirring
until syrup hardens when dropped
into cold water. Grease pans, pour
candy on them to cool. When cool
enough to handle, pul! J
candy from tips of A
*31596135 fingers until it be- JH
|.jSjfAjA comes a solden
HBH color. f ' V
Just try Velva with this recipe and see how fine It Is. You’ll
get flavor at Its very best and quality at Its finest. There Isn’t
anything like Velva for waffles, griddle cakes or candy any
where, by any name—there’s nothing made that Is as good as
In the red can for making candies and biking cakes.
It has mors than syrup flavor—it hne Velva flavor,
that makes telling about it impossible You must
taste it to know what we mean. Will you? Ten
cents up. in c ean. sanitary cans. Velva in the green
cans. too. at your grocer's.
PENICK & FORD. L td.
New Orleans. La.
Send for the booh of Velva
Recipe,. No charge.
"»»» -"T'-W
.... .....
The Manicure
A Cloak for Evening Wear
A brenchy Model of Ultra Attractiveness
By WILLIAM F. KIRK.
(<T GK)T proposed to yesterday,”
I said the Manicure Lady, “by a
gent that has nothing but mon
ey and Is going to have a bungalow
out in California. If It wasn’t that he
U so old and feoble-like I think I
should have snapped him up, George,
because 1 have always thought I
would like to live in a bungalow In
the summer, especially In California.
The climate is so balmy there, I sup
pose on account of there being so
many balm trees. Hut I don’t like to
think of nursing a old gent during the
last years of his life, especially as he
might Mve to be 90. Father has the
gout once in a while, and that taught
me long ago never to marry old age
and sore feet.”
“I never thought that you would
care for a qtilet life in a bungalow.”
said the Head Barber. “You, with all
your life, charm and dash. I never
figured that anything short of the
Smart Set speed would make any hit
with you afteb you married.”
A Kind of Feeling.
“I always said that. George,” ad
mitted the Manicure Lady, “hut lately
there has been a kind of feeling in my
heart that I am getting sick of the
city and city life. The old geezer that
I was just telling you about, the one
that proposed to me. took me out in
his car, and we went along country
roads all the afternoon. Gee, it
seemed good and restful to hear song
birds instead of old clothes men. and
to smell lilacs instead of the subway
air. There had been some rain, and
the sun was just commencing to shine
as we drove along. Everything was
growing except my affection for the
old gent. He talked so much about
money and all it could buy that 1
could almost imagine I was back in
the city, so I looked away from him
all I could and looked at the hills and
meadows.
“Do you know, George, I wish I
could meet some rich young farmer,
like you read about in the magazine
stories—a man with serious blue eyes
and the strength of a panther, the
kind that speaks to his rough men in
commanding tones, but purrs like a
kitten when he comes home at night
to greet his dainty little wife."
“Why don't you try to win a hus
band like that?" asked the Head Bar
ber. “If you could nail one with plen
ty of acres and a honest heart, It
would be the real way for you to live.
The wives of the neighbors could
teach you how to keep up the house
work on the farm, and you could teach
’hem all the latest slang and scan
dal. It would all be new for you and
it would sure be new for them. Try
it.”
A Fine Chance.
“A fine chance a girl has got to
come in contact with a honest young
rich farmer, ‘toiling down here among
barbers the way I do," said the Man
icure Lady. “There is a lot of eligi
ble comes ‘in here to have their nails
did, ain’t they? Fresh actors and boy
comics and press agents and ex-book
makers. On the level, George, I
haren’t saw a gent in this place for a
year now that would even dare to
propose marriage to me without being
sure of a quick getaway. No, the
farmer boy that I would like to marry
is far from me and from this life, and
1 juess I will never see him and he
will never see me. Maybe he is some
where dreaming of a girl like me now.
and maybe sometimes when I am
alone at night I dream of him. There
comes that fresh ticket scalper now—
all gab and no tips no time. Oh. dear!
What'-s the use of getting away from
’em?”
Up-to-Date Jokes
Reporter: “I’ve a good piece of news
hero this morning. I found a person
vho had been confined to ope room his
♦ntire life.’’
Editor: “Good! Send it up. Who is
It?"
Reporter: “Why. a three-day-old
baby down at our house.’’
* * *
Brown ito Robinson, who is reading a
telegram with a look of anguish on his
face): “What’s the matter, old fel
low? Somebody dead ?”
Robinson (crushing telegram with
both hands): “No; somebody alive!
Twins!’’
* * •
Hadsum—What skle do you generally
take when your wife gets into an ar
gument with somebody else?
Wiseacre—Outside. It’s safer.
* * *
Guest—Why don’t you put at least two
oysters in your stew?
Walter—We tried it, sir, but they used
to quarrel.
* * *
Parson—Do you know where little
boys go when they smoke?
Boy—Yes; up the alley.
* * *
He—Shall I bring you an ice while
Miss Yell fort is singing? Pray take
some.
She (a rival of Miss Y.)—Thanks,
no. If I took anything it would be
chloroform.
* * *
She—And that scar, Major. Did you
get it during an engagement.
He (absently)—No; the first week of
our honeymoon!
Husband’s Gifts
If You Are a Wife You'll
Appreciate This
A N evening coat of pale pink brocaded satin. The top is made as a
kimono, cut with the half sleeve, this being finished by high Ren
aissance lace.
The collar is of the new Medici shape, which will be worn for the next
season, made of cross-wired lace. At the back an ormanent of cord
finished by a tassel completes this collar.
The fullness, at the height of the knees, is caught up in a high flounce
of lace, the head Of which is caught by a huge garland of big roses and
foliage.
Cleek of the Forty Faces
By T. W. HANSHAW.
Maxwell
House
Blend
a coffee of such
exhilarating and
palate tickling fla
vor that it makes
you thankful for
life and good liv
ing.
Sealed cans at grocers
Cbeek-Neal
Coffee Co.
Copyright by Doubleday, Page & Co.
TO-DAY’S INSTALLMENT.
^ t y NDER such circumstances,’’
I J went on Miss Renfrew’, “it
was only natural that I
should be horribly frightened, and
only too willing to act upon the con
stable’s suggestion that we at once
look into the Round House and see
if everything was right with my un
cle.”
“Why should the constable suggest
that ?”
“Everybody in the neighborhood
knows of the bitter ill feeling exist
ing betw’een the two men; so, of
course, it was only natural.”
"Hum-m-m! Yes! Just 6o. Did
you act on Constable Gorham’s sug
gestion then?”
“Yes. I led the way in here and
then up the covered passage to the
laboratory and opened the door. My
uncle was sitting exactly as he had
been when I looked in before—his
back to me and his face to the win
dow—but although he did not turn,
it was evident that he was annoyed
by my disturbing him. for he growled
angrily, ‘What the devil are you com
ing in here and disturbing me like
this for, Jane? Get out and leave me
alone!’ ”
“Hum-m-m!” said Cleek, drawing
down his brows and pinching his chin.
“Any mirrors in the Round House?”
“Mirrors? No; certainly not, Mr.
Headland. Why?"
“I See What You Mean.
“Nothing—only that I was wonder
ing if. a.< you say, he never turned
and you never spoke, how in the
w orld he knew that it really was you,
that’s all.”
“Oh. I see what you mean." said
.Miss Renfrew, knotting up her brows.
“It does seem a little peculiar when
one looks at it in that way. I never
;bought of it before. Neither can I
explain it, Mr. Headland, any more
han to say that I suppose he took it
for granted. And, as it happened.
Vie was right. Besides, as you will
Vemember. I had intruded upon him
Lily a short time before.”
"Quite so," said Cleek. “That’s
Ivhat makes it appear stranger than
aver. Under the circumstances one
ryight have expected him to say not
yiiat are you coming in here for?’
brt ‘What are you coming in for
ain.’ Still, of course, there’s no
' ■Vounting for little lapses like that.
G(A on. plehse -what next?"
• |Vhy, of course. I immediately ex-
pluf . <i what Constable Gorham had
sail and why 1 had looked in. To
\vh»h he replied, 'The man’s an ass
GetL ut!’ Upon which I closed the
loorV ind the constable and I went
awajflLat once.”
“Constable there with you during
it all \hen°”
"Yes.| certainly—in the covered
p?)ssagj just behind me. He saw and
iear(J it, all; though, of course, nel-
•her of l.s entered the laboratory it-
se’f. Thrre was really no necessity
when w(\ knew that my uncle wa-
safe and ft >und. you see.”
"Quite «». .'* agreed Cleek. "So you
siut the d >or and went away—and
then w’qat?;
"Constant Gorham went back t>
his beat, and I flew as fast as I could
to meet Mr. Drummond. It is only a
short way to the old bridge at best,
and by taking that short cut through
the grotunds I was there in less than
ten minutes. And by 8:30 I was back
here in a greater state of terror than
before."
“And why? Were you so much
alarmed that Mr. Drummond did not
keep the appointment?”
The Fleeing Man.
“No. That did not worry me at all.
He is often unable to keep his ap
pointments with me. He is filling the
post of private secretary to a larg*?
company promotor, and his time is not
his own. What terrified me was that,
after waiting a few minutes for him,
I heard somebody running along the
road, and a few moments later Sir
Ralph Droger flew by me as if he
were being pursued. Under ordinary
circumstances I should have thought
that he was getting into training for
the autumn sports (he is. you may
know, very keen on athletics, and holds
the County Club’s Cup for running
and jumping), but when I remem
bered what Constable Gorham had
i said and saw that Sir Ralph was
i running from the direction of this
house, all my wits flew; I got into a
sort of panic and almost collapsed
with fright.”
“And all because the man was com-
irtg from the direction of this house?”
To Be Continued To-morrow.
Machine for Composers
E veryth
chlnery
VERYTHING is done by ma-
ery nowadays," has been
common expression for a
decade or more, and every year brings
it nearer the truth. One of the latest
inventions is a device for writing mu
sic by machinery.
A Swedish inventor named Nystrom
invented the apparatus, which may
be used in connection with any key
board, either piano or organ. It Is
operated by means of electricity, and
when a piece of music is played in tlje
ordinary way. ihis device, called a
“melograph,” records the sounds on a
chemically prepared ribbon, which has
been treated with a preparation of
wax to allow the impressions for each
tone.
After the music has been played the
ribbon may be removed and read, just
as one would read shorthand notes or
the telegraph code. And in reading it
the proper notations may be made,
when—presto—there is the music, ac
tually “written by machinery."
One of the greatest values of this
invention is to composers. A com
poser may finally strike exactly wha;
he wants and play, it as though in
spired. Under the old method he had
either to memorize it by playing it
over and over, and then writing it, or
jot it down, note by note. With the
aid of this invention he may play hrs
o-omportion, remove the ribbon, and
then* i; is. ready to copy into lasting
U Tin. Another feature of this inven
tion is that the ribbon may be placed
in a >jMM.*iaf!y constructed play* r and
played as ordinary music rolls are put
into a mechanical piano and played.
M RS. DOUGLASS drew out her
sewing dubiously. She glanced
at the delicate embroidery
that Mrs. Swift was working and at
the gauze for a waist on which Mrs.
Horton was deftly’ sewing beads.
Then she sighed deeply.
“I’ll have to explain to you,” she
said, "why I’ve got this atrocious
waist to finish. It's a present!”
All eyes turned to examine the
work she held. It was rather heavy
in texture and of a peculiar shade
that was neither a yellow npr a tan,
but bore a tint resembling dish
towels. It was embroidered in brown
silk, with stiff little vines of brown
leaves running up the front like rail
road tracks, and similar vines twin
ing stiffly around the neck and cuffs.
“I could cry!” complained Mrs.
Douglass. “You see, my husband
came in all elated last night and
announced that he had a present for
me. He is the most horribly sensi
tive man you ever saw, so when he
opened the package, though I almost
screamed when I pictured myself in
the dreadful thing, I had to rave over
its alleged beauty to satisfy him. The
worst of it is that he’s so pleased he
wants me to wear it to the theater
to-morrow evening. Bo I've got to
get it finished and wear it."
A Warning.
”Oh, you poor dear!" Little Mrs.
Jones’ voice was filled with pity and
sympathy. “You’ll be sorry.
“I know how he got that dreadful
waist," went on Mrs. Jones. “My
husband years ago was taken in by
j the same kind of agent. He brought
! me home what he thought a wonder
ful hand-embroidered waist direct
! from Armenia! I hated to hurt his
feelings, for it was when we were
first married, but I lived to regret
; the false enthusiasm I displayed to
gratify him. For what do you think?
i The very next day he came in all
smiles and said that as luck w’ould
have it he had run across the same
man while he was visiting some other
man’s office, and he bought me three
j rqore w’aists!
“Then I plainly told him what I
really thought of the horrid things.
Since that time 1 have tried to edu-
i cate him up to some slight knowl
edge of what’s stylish in women’s
dress—and he’s all over his hurt feel
ings. It had to be. I couldn’t have
Endured any more such presents.”
“That reminds me,” said Mrs. Swift,
“of the time my husband went East
when we were very yourtg. I had
a friend whose husband always
brought her things when he went on
trips, and I was jealous. So I told
my husband that I expected him to
bring me a present. He said he'
would. So I waited anxiously for his
return, imagining all sorts of lovely
things. When he took out a big
package from his suitcase I fairly
trembled with eagerness to open it.
! What do you suppose! It was twen-
1 ty yards of purple wool goods, for a
dress! Purple, of all colors! Why,
purple in those days was regarded
■ as a simply impossible color. I never
1 asked him to bring me another pres
ent. I preferred the money; then I
could choose what I wanted.’’
He Was Crazy.
“My husband was just as bad,” re
marked Mrs. Horton. “He was crazy
| lo surprise people. If I ever men-
i tioned a thing 1 wanted I was sure
I not to get it; at least, if I seemed to
expect it. But one Christmas I was
simply wild for a little French clock.
I had looked at tjiem so much and
dreamed of them so often that it did
not seem as if there could be any
other kind in the world. I couldn't
help wishing out loud for one. Frank
heard me, but he thought he’d sur
prise me the other W’ay this time by
actually giving me what I wanted.
“When Christmas morning came,
there at my place at breakfast was a
big black walnut clock—the kind that
you find fn school rooms and kitch
ens. My heart stopped beating for a
second, and I could have cried for
vexation! I had so wanted a little
glaw and gold French thing for my
dainty room! He didn’t remember
what kind of clock I wanted, and he
liked the solid clock, with a nice clear
face and big hands, that made a good
loud noise when it struck the hour,"
A New Pet.
“Did I ever tell you about the time
my husband brought home a ferret,
one of those dreadful little animals
that bite and burrow in the ground?”
asked Mrs. Tortman. “He bought the
beast from a man who kept ferrets for
hunting Think of keeping a ferret In
a little four-room fiat! There we had
that smelly animal for four whole
months before I got up courage
enough to say that I didn’t love him
too much to part with his company
willingly! That ferret was a birth
day present, you know!”
Mrs Douglass smiled woefully.
“They’re all dreadful.” she conceded,
“but you didn’t have to wear your
1 clock or your ferret or your purple
dress! My husband believes that I
| was sincere in my praise of this waist
and I can’t tell him now that I hate
the thing! And to the theater!”
Mrs* Douglass dropped a tear on the
waist, then glanced at the clock and
hastened her stitches.
A Style in Aigrettes
Result: Dead Heat,
IT was a fateful day for Pottleby, the
* corn plaster king. when, having made
his pile, ho deeded to settle down and
buy a real estate In Bonnie Scotland
with his money. «
But no one warned him, and he in
time became one of the real, old-fash
ioned lairds, and Immensely popular.
So popular, indeed, that he was invited
to act *as judge of the pipers at the
local sports gathering
So he sat away in a small tent, while
the pipers strutted and puffed at their
windy Instruments to and fro in front.
Every reel and horn-pipe In Scotland
had squealed and droned Its way to
life, and now there was the silence of
the grave.
But no sign from the judge.
One of the officials hurried off to
get the verdict.
“Who’s won?” came in a chorus of
hoarse, whispers, as he reappeared.
“1 dlnna ken wha’s won." he an-
swered; “but ane o’ ye’s kilt th’ puir
laird!”
Foresight.
“Mr. Grimes,” said the rector to the
vestryman, “we had better tuko up the
<•< flection before the sermon this inorn-
inb!"
“Indeed."
“Yes, I’m going to preach on eeon-
Naturally.
Muggins Whatever became oi thy
friend «>f yours who used to have money
to hum?
Huggins—He's .sifting the a&lies
Advice to the
Lovelorn
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
YOU ARE TOO YOUNG.
EAR MISS FAIRFAX:
I am a young man, eighteen
years of age. and I am desperately
in love with a girl 29 years of age.
She has the most beautiful eyes and
hair, and ruby red lips, and a style
that can’t be beat. I don’t know
whether she loves me or not; I
haven’t asked her yet I can’t get
up enough courage to ask her. Toll
me how I must begin. I think she
likes me, for one of my friend*
told me that she speaks well of
me. JACOB.
I will not tell you how to begin, for
the reason that you are too young. The
girl is eleven years your senior, and
when you ar«- old enough to love with
reason you will look back and laugh at
the value you are now placing on her
good looks.
Much in a Name
Small black Tagal hat with a huge tuft of black aigrettes disposed in the shape of a fan. Small
brim is slightly rolled on the side.
“The Land of Make-Believe”
H 5LEN burst into the little stu
dio, breathless from the climb
of dark stairs, and threw’ her
arms about the neck of the tall fel
low who was seated before the easel.
“Greg, Greg!” she exclaimed. “What
do you think? I’ve accepted a posi
tion—and I’m going to begin to
morrow*!”
Greg put down his brush and gently
pulled her arms away.
“A—a position, Helen,” he stam
mered. “What do you mean?”
“If you think I’m going to sit still
and do nothing when w r e need money,
you’re mistaken.’’ she broke in. “I
found a position as—as governess to
a dear little girl. They’re to pay me
a pound a week. That will do a lot
of good, Greg, until those horrid art
editors begin to appreciate -your
work.” .
Greg rose and held both her hands,
with, a suspicious moisture gathering
in his gruy eyes. “But, Helen,” he
protested, “I can’t allow you to work,
dear. I simply w r on’t listen, that’s all.
We can get along somehow for the
time.”
She cuddled up within his embrace.
“Now, do be considerate, Greg,’’ she
argued. “The people are nice, and the
little girl seems to like me very much.
And it isn't work at all. dear. Why,
I’m only to take the girl out for
w’alks. It’ll be fun." •
“I know, Helen," he said, with some
thing like a choke in his throat; “but
it’s the principle of the thing. The,
idea of a big, strong man like me
sitting here and you out working”—
Words of Praise.
“There, there,” she interrupted,
clapping a hand to his mouth. “We’ve
dl.ocuosed that before. Any ordinary
man can find w r ork. That is easy
You must remember you’re a genius
—that you’re striving for something
worth gaining.”
He laughed at her rambling, earn
est argument. “I’m not so sure of
being o genius." he declared, kissing
her. “No one appears to think so
except you. However. I suppose you
must have it your way."
Bo the following morning, bubbling
over with enthusiasm, she tripped off
to her duties. Greg watched medi
tatively from the studio window, aft
erward sitting down before the easel,
working on the cover promised for
that day.
Everything had been different since
their arrival in London. In the prov
inces, on the newspaper, he had mad**
a good living, and his work was well
thought of. Here he had to fight even
for an interview, and his drawings
were returned with ever increasing
regularity. Luckily, he found some
advertising pamphlets to illustrate,
and a few' of the bes«t pictures sold
to a second-class magazine that paid
neither well nor promptly—but the
little helped.
II.
A dozen times, that long, lonesome
day', Greg dropped his work and
stared moodily out of the window'.
Helen’s work was not hard—but.
after all, it was not right. Rather, a
thousand times, had he remained in
Lancashire, with his small but reg
ular salary, than be here where no one
cared—and where Helen had to
work.
In the evening she came back, kiss
ed him eagerly, and fell to work pre
paring supper.
“You ean’t imagine what a glori
ous time we had, the little girl and
I, Greg,” she broke out. “Her name’s
Margie. We took a long walk out
in liie park, and had our build and
things on the grass. I don’t see
where the day has gone. Were you
lonesome, dear old genius?”
He laughed, rolled himself a cigar
ette, while she brought a match and
lighted It for him, afterward sitting
on the arm of the chair. Supper over,
he went to work again, while she
leaned over the table and watched
him—love, admiration and faith shin
ing in the depths of her big eyes.
Thus the day slipped by. Helen
departed early. Work fell off more
than ever. He sickened of the weary
rounds. Day in and day out he met
wdth the same curt refusals. His
work was gone—he knew it. But they
would never take the trouble to ex
amine his sheets. Helen’s little wag*
helped matters along to no small ex
tent. although it pained him to real
ize it.
As the days sped on into weeks,
Helen seemed to grow quieter than
usual; her cheeks did not look as
fresh, nor her eyes as bright as they
should. Greg noticed every little
thing with something of a grip at
his heart; but whenever he mentioned
the fact she laughed and told him his
eyesight was growing very bad.
Near the Crisis.
One day Greg tossed his drawing-
board across the room, and stood very
straight, very determined, before the
window. Two weeks had passed
since he had sold his last drawing.
Things were approaching a crisis. It
could not go on for ever this way.
An hour later, with a strangely
thumping heart, he was out in the
street. Helen should not be the only
breadwinner. Genius was all right
in its place, but it did not bring In a j
living. He remembered suddenly a
sign that hung in a factory window a j
few streets away. Without slacken- {
ing his speed, he turned down the ;
street and went boldly into the office. \
A stout, red-faced man met him,
and asked a few questions. Five j
minutes later Greg had donned a pair
of overalls and was loading paper
boxes into a dray. In return for this ,
he was to get 25 shillings a week.
He reached home that night before i
Helen did, cleaned up a bit and
awaited her coming. As her first foot
step sounded on the stairs he threw i
open the door and took her in his j
arms.
“What do you think, Helen?” he
cried. “I’m really working at last, i
I’m on the staff of the Tribune, and 1
I know I’ll be all right. You needn’t!
work any more after to-night.”
III.
Two more weeks passed. Gregg
manage 3 to get off from the factory
before Helen arrived homo. He tried
each night to bring home some little
trifle that would please her; a flower,
a box of sweets or some cheering,
news. Over the supper table they;
would exchange the day's experi-
oncea.
One day at the factory busily pack
ing his boxes into the ever-empty
dray a gir.’ came running down from ;
the upper floor.
“Got a handkerchief?” she inquired,!
anxiously. “One of the folders has
cut her hand.”
Greg straightened, pulled out a
freshly Ironed, blue-bordered one that
Helen had given him that morning,
and gave it to the waiting girl. Air
hour later he had forgotten it.
That night, as usual, he was first ’
to arrive at the studio. A letter,
pushed beneath the door, caught his
eye. He picked it up. noting with
a MUdcicn tightening at his throat
that it was from the Tribune Maga
zine. It was in their hands he had
entrusted a bundle of his best work.
Trembling, he tore it open and read
the short letter:
Good News.
Mr. Greg Hamilton,
Harcount Studios:
Dear Sir—Your drawings have
been found acceptable, and we
should be glad to confer with you
about regular work. Yours truly,
H. H. HALL.
Greg sank wearily to the cduch,
stunned with the sudden good news.
Was it possible, after all, that he was
to become a regular contributor to
the magazine—the best magazine In
the city? Helen need never learn
about the factory now, and all the
white lies would be forgotten.
She could not come home soon
enough now. Wouldn't it be a glori
ous surprise for her—this note? She
must have been right, after all, in de
claring he was a genius.
There were steps In the hall now
It must be Helen. He came to his
feet and rushed across to the door,
throwing it wide open. Helen was
outside. With a cry he waved the
letter badly before her.
“Helen. Helen," he blurted out.
“Everything is all right. I'm to join
the staff of the Tribune, and”
Something choked in his throat, and
the very room appeared to reel for the
moment.
Helen was through the door now
and in the yellow glare of the lights,
and wrapped about her right hand
was his blue-bordered handkerchief.
EOPLE ask: ‘What’s In a
name?’ remarked the bos’n
■*" to the other boarders, who
had eaten everything in sight and
were still loath to leave the table,
“but there is» an awful lot in a name.
“Once I knew a woman who named
her son Roderick. The old man wtta
at sea at the time, and when he got
home and saw what the old lady had
done he got six months’ hard labor.
“He said to his wife; ‘How in
thunder are you going to mak* a
sailor out of a boy with a ribbon
counter name like that?’
“ ‘He ain’t going to be a sailor,* an
swered the old ladv. Then the six
months’ hard labor got after the old
man from that point. It reached him
the next morning at 10 o’clock.
“It stood to reason that a boy
named Roderick couldn’t be a sailor.
That’s why his* mother gave him the
name. It was more tonnage than the
luw allowed.
“Again the old man went to sea,
and his wife named the next son
Kenneth Orlando. The old man got
a year for that. It was a cinch that
a boy named Kenneth Orlando could
never be a sailor, either.
“The old man never was quite hifh-
self after that. He said he never
heard of a sailor raising male mil
liners before. He felt that the dis
grace was terrible!
Galled Him Zob.
“He stayed away from the sea to
be on hand at the next christening,
ana he named the boy Zob. We all
thought he was goin’ it rather strong
to give a kid such a name as that.
But ho said he wanted to fix him so
he could get a job on a sand scow,
and that would sort of even up on
the rest of the family that had gone
In for millinery.
“He hung around for another year
or two waiting for a chance to name
a boy Dub, so that he could get a
Job on a garbage boat, but luck was
against him.
“The old man would come home
with a good supply of tobacco and
he and Zob would sit up and smoke
and swear and chew like good fel
low. 1 '. But if Kenneth Orlando as
much as looked at a pipe—whang!
He heard from his ma. And Rod
erick had to have clean hands all the
time. Those two boys did everlast
ingly hate their lot. They had to go
to school and sit up straight, and
be nice all the time.
“The other, Zob, sat around in over-
ills. and his dad would hand Zob his
plug every time he took a chew him
self.
The Outcome.
“The result w as. bad,” said the
bo^n. “You wouldn’t believe It, but
when their ma was sick with a fever
those two clean boys ran away from
home. One got a Job on a collier, and
the other on a hog schooner, so they
could be dirty and tough all the time.”
“And what became of Zob?”
“Oh, Zobbie? After the old man
died Zobbie took to society and went
around looking like a wedding usher.
I think he got a situation as lace
salesman.”
"Oh, Dear No!”
A girl, forced by her parents into a
disagreeable match with an old man,
whom she detested, when the clergy
man came to that part of the service
where the bride is asked if .she consents
to take the bridegroom for her husband,
said, with great simplicity:
“Oh, dear, no, sir! Rut you are the
first person who has asked my opinion
about the matter.”
His Wife’s Aim.
"The object of the average explorer
seems to be to acquire enough muterial
for a lectur#.”
“Yes; that is my wife’s aim when she
explores my pockets."