Atlanta Georgian. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1912-1939, August 04, 1913, Image 10
Advice to the
Lovelorn
Confessions of a Medium & i 3
(Hypnotizing the Hypnotist.)
Being an Expose of Frauds Practiced by Self-Styled Spiritualists, Clairvoyants, Etc.
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
NOT THI'.SE DAYS.
Dear Mias Fairfax:
I am 26 years old and have just
received a proposal of marriage
from a man one year my senior.
Do you think 26 Is too old to get
married—In fact, I will be 27 be
fore we are married? Do you
think a woman of 26 should mar-
rv a man only one year her sen
ior? What I’m afraid of is that
we might outgrow one another.
A man at 30 is young; a woman
at 30 is middle-aged. I love this
man very much, but after a few
years I wouldn’t like to be laid
aside for fairer and younger faces.
R F.
I am confident you are worrying
yourself needlessly. You will not oe
middle-aged at 30 unless you continue
to think you are old and make your
•elf so.
Get married and don't let a gray
hair to-morrow spoil the happiness
of to-day. To me, it seems that your
ages are ideal.
DON'T GIVE HER UP.
Dear Miss Fairfax:
I am in love with a girl and
love her with all my heart, but
there is one thing I have against
her. and it is that she swears oc
casionally. I have asked her to
stop this, but she won’t. Now,
don’t you think if she loved me,
she would do it? What Is your
opinion of a girl who swears?
W1LI.IE.
It is a bad habit, but one which, I
am sure, you can help her to break.
You might And a su^estlon in you**
method of reform in “The Taming jf
the Shrew.”
”IT TAKES TWO” ETC.
Dear Miss Fairfax:
I have been calling on a young
lady for the last few months, but
owing to her stubborn disposition
we had frequent quarrels. Would
you advise me to discontinue call
ing on her? PERPLEXED.
Certainly. For I do not like the
way in which you speak of her, taking
to yourself no measure of the '..lame
for your disputes. If you married,
end continued to quarrel. I am sure
•he would get the worst of it.
The Restless Spirit
By MRS. FRANK LEARNED.
Author of “The Etiquette of New
York To-day."
E ARLY in life it is well to realize
that the spirit of restlessness
must be resisted as an enemy
to a normal condition of mind >r
body. Many people think that to
achieve results they must hurry, make
a stir. Good work and hurry do not
go together. Clear thought and flur
ry' can not dwell In the mind at the
same time. The person who succeeds
in life has steadiness of mind, self-
dlsclpllne and quiet thinking. The
mind that is not flurried by events nr
activities balances (he person who
achieves good results. The mind that
Is clouded by flurry can not face op
portunities or solve problems.
Some persons think that they im
press others with their importance bv
talking about being terribly busy and
telling of the rush In which they live.
There is no time ior any pleasant,
friendly interchange of thought. They
are ‘%otng on” somewhere and have
not a moment to stop. One feels,
when talking with them, as though
one were whirling along in a motor
or on an express train.
To live in a state of unrest and
feverish excitement is not conducive
to happiness. It is better to try to
do a few little things which are worth
while than many of the things which
require a continual drive and arc a
waste of energy or time—and certain
ly a waste of peace of mind.
There are numberless little tasks of
everyday life which need to be done.
A good way to cure restlessness is to
do them, and to do them as well as w*
can. It is a very pleasant thought
that there Is generally something that
each one of us can do. some very lit
tle thing perhaps, some small, lowly
task or act, but which no one els*
can do; or there is someone to whom
no one can be quite as useful as we
may be. Too often we neglect those
little things which are plainly before
us. almost asking to be done
A girl who is on the watch for the
little duties at home and does them
cheerfully and gladly will And that
they help to make happiness.
It may not seem a great thing to go
on an errand for a mother, or to
•pend an hour in mending, or in ar
ranging a room, or putting a desk in
order, or making a delicious dessert to
please a father; but perhaps these arc
some of the little daily things de
manding to be done. Any form of
work is worth doing, and If it is done
in the right spirit, it is sure to bright
en our own lives and the lives of oth
ers
The trouble is that the spirit >f
restlessness creates a desire to d«»
anything else but what is the affair of
the moment. There is a discontent
with present surroundings, a vision
ary longing for occupation* for which
erne may be totally unqualified.
A giri must try to see very clearlv
what are her duties at home and
whether she is needed there before
she determines on an Independent ca
reer away from home. A very old
and sweet saying is a great help in
time of doubt as to action—“Do the
duty *that is nearest. The second
duty will already have become clear
er.”
NOT WELL ENOUGH TO WORK
In these words is hidden the
tragedy of many a wage-earning
woman who supports herself and
is often helping to support a fam
ily on meager wages. Whether in
office, factor>. shop, store or kitch
en woman should remember that
there is one tried and true reme-
\ dy for the UN to which all women
s are prone, and that i* Lydia E.
< Pinknam’s Vegetable Compound.
Jt creates the vitality that makes
work easy.
THE YOUNG LADY NOW
AROSE AT MY BIDDING. AND
I EXCITEDLY THREW MY
HANDS BEFORE HER EYES,
RUBBED MY THUMB ON HER
TEMPLES. SPOKE QUICKLY
AND FORCIBLY AT HER,
By Charles D. Isaacson.
(Copyright, !!HJ, International Act vs
Service.)
W E will call the man Milton Jones.
You know him well by a far
different name, which has often
appeared on the billboards. College men
have listened to his scientific lectures.
He has been the friend of noted psy
chologists and mind experts. He has
written books and conducted courses in
hypnotism and helped medical men in
peculiar, obstinate cases. He has often
gone after “bad” boys for church pur
poses. His big, masterful eyes have
stated out in black, silhouetted pictures
in many a magazine advertisement, but
there ills name did not appear
I am telling you all this about him
because I want you to realize the impor
tant position he occupies in scientific
circles. Then when I show you what
I did to him you will understand why
I beg you to "steer clear " There is a
crew who are mulcting hundreds of ro
mantic, ambitious people of their earn
ings, making them believe they are get
ting a course in hypnotism.
Mr. Jones once asked me to be his
"subject.” A subject is a person per
fectly willing to be made ridiculous be
fore an audience, for their amusement
and the hypnotist’s fame and profit.
For the sake of experiment 1 consented
to his proposal.
"Very fine," said Mr. Jones, "only
there are several things I must tell you
beforehand, in strict confidence.’’
"But 1 thought you were going to
hypnotize me," I began.
A Confession.
"I am going to try to,” he inter
rupted. “But sometimes my experi
ments do not work out just as I wish
them to. Then you must pretend that
I have you under my will, and do just
as I say anyway—you see?"
"Hut I thought you told your au
dience that your subjects are hypno
tized." 1 argued.
"1 do, but don’t you understand?” he
asked, getting impatient.
“No, 1 don’t," I retorted stubbornly.
Well, we didn’t get much further. In
asmuch as I wanted to try out a scheme
l had in mind, however. 1 pretended to
be overwhelmed by his argument and
finally consented to assist him.
The first sitting was held privately
before a number of his friends. When
Jones—-now "Professor" Jones said:
"Will any ladles or gentlemen volun
teer to come up here and permit me to
mesmerize them?" I found 1 was not
the only subject.
About seven men responded. Then
Mr Jones proceeded with his work.
Strange mesmeric passes before the
eyes of all his subjects were made, and
soon he bad them tinder control. It was
at the Juncture when things were grow
ing most excited that 1 slipped, unob
served, into an adjoining room. 1 at
tached a bath spray to a faucet, gently
playing a fine stream of water on the
faces of the "hynotized" subjects.
His Debut.
A man "fishing" with a penknife be
gan to rub his nose and stare about.
Another whose neck was "stiff" sud
denly found he could move it with alac
rity. A fellow' who couldn't shut his
mouth didn't wait to swallow much of
the water before he closed his jaws
with a snap. One of the subjects w*as
supposed to be unable to rise from the
floor, but the liquid showed very soon
how powerless he was. One who
couldn’t stop repeating "My name is
Mary Smith—my name is Mary Smith"
ceased to gurgle. It was curious to
watch the men Immediately regain their
senses, and my dear friend “Professor"
Jones, became very much embarrassed.
It was a little after this that I re
gained the confidence and good will of
Mrs. Jonef sufficiently for him to over-
LOOKING FEARFULLY WAY
DOWN DEEP IN HER EYES.
“SLEEP,” I SAID, “SLEEP.
YOU FEEL YOUR EYES GET
TING HEAVIER AND HEAVIER.
YOUR HEAD NODS. YOU ARE
SO VERY DROWSY. I WILL
look my little "joke." He explained—
to his own satisfaction -that the sudden
shock had aroused the subject from his
hypnotic trance, he being still unable
to realize that I didn't believe they had
ever been mesmerized.
Nevertheless, some months later Mr.
Jones received an invitation to attend
a private experiment arranged for my
initial debut as a full-fledged hyp
notist. I myself personally wrote Mr.
Jones, saying that I had at last become
fully convinced of the truth of his per
formances and had succeeded in par
tially accomplishing some of his lesser
wonders.
Mr. Robley was the guest of honor.
He was Introduced os the great and
renowned scientist of two hemispheres,
to which he replied with a short speech,
in which he told us how proud he was
to he w’ith such a bright and intelli
gent audience, etc., etc.
I bowed. After a short preliminary
talk I announced that 1 would be as
sisted in the first test by a young lady.
Would she kindly step up? She came,
very pretty and blushing. Would the
pianist kindly strike a chord, for her
to sing by? He did, but her response
was terrible. Off key, rasping, un
musical it sounded like a fog horn in
distress. Would the pianist please try
again? But this time everything was
worse and the people began to shift in
their seats.
The young lady was motioned to a
place, where she sat down. 1
“Mr. Haverman has a few words to
say regarding my assistant,’’ 1 an
nounced. and a gentleman arose to tell
how utterly voiceless the lady was. and
Mr Remington corroborated what lit
SUPPORT YOU TO THIS
CHAIR. REST NOW. SLEEPY
AND SLEEPIER—YOU ARE SO
VERY, VERY SLEEPY. YOU
ARE ASLEEP!”
HER HEAD DROPPED BACK
AND SHE BREATHED LIKE
ONE IN A DEEP SLUMBER.
said, and Miss Lem bier vouched for
every word that Mr. R. had spoken—al
though the audience as a whole did not
need much evidence along that line.
The young lady now arose at my bid
ding. and I excitedly threw my hands
before her eyes, rubbed my thumbs on
her temples, spoke quickly and forcibly
at her. looking fearfully way down deep
in her eyes.
Put Her to Sleep.
"Sleep," I Raid, "sleep. You feel your
eyes getting heavier and heavier Your
head nods. You are so very drowsy. I
will support you to this chair. Rest
now. Fleepy and sleepier—you are so
very, very sleepy. You are asleep!"
Her head dropped hack and she
breathed like one In a deep slumber.
"Rise, ‘ I went on. "you are now
asleep and yet awake—to do my bidding, j
I>o you understand? You are to sing
sweetly and feeling and In perfect tune
and time. You understand? The pian
ist will play the accompaniment of 'The
Holy City' and you will Join him.
Now—”
To the wonder of the audience and
particularly Professor Robley, she feebly
arose. Forth from her throat came a
thrilling gush of full-voiced sweetness.
Like a Patti or a Melba Lhe girl gave
us song after song of melting moledy.
Then I passed my hand before her
eyes again and cried: "Awake, awake.”
as she was in the middle of a note.
And the voice cracked and broke and
fell into discordant chaos.
Milton Robley shook my hand enthu
siastically. It is so easy to fake a
faker. The girl was in my scheme to
hypnotize the hypnotist!
Enjoying the Quiet
“O
1
V
O-O-H!” sighed the feminine
member of the household, re
laxing into a hammock. “If
it isn’t heavenly to be here in the
woods—and with the lake “
“Ah-h-h!” echoed the masculine end
of the sketch, subsiding with a groat
slump into another hammock. “Tnis
is great! So fresh and still!”
"Yes,” said his wife; “it's the still
ness that particularly appeals to me
after the eternal racket of the
city
She broke off with a jerk. Simul
taneously she sat up in her hammock
and stared with horrified eyes at her
husband, who likewise had been gal
vanized into anguished life. Each of
them bent an ear toward the left for
some seconds. Then, with a little
shuddering groan. they subsided
weakly.
Borne on the clover-scented air
from the third cottage down the roa i
came the raucous tones of a phono
graph. and a cheap one at that. Some
vaudeville queen with a nasal voice
was singing about something that was
”a beautiful dream,” sinking with an
energy that promised no surcease
throughout the succeeding months of
summer.
"I suppose a lynching party really
wouldn’t do," said the male listener,
gruffly.
"If I have to listen to that all sum
mer.’’ said his wife, hysterically, I
shall just die! Or go crazy! Why,
all that bore me up while the people
in the flat below and the people
across the street used to play simul
taneously was the reflection that soon
I should go to the country, where
there was no sound but the sound of
the birds!”
“Well, that's a bird, all right!" said
her husband. “I don’t believe I want
to rest in this hummock!, I want to
take a walk, a long walk—about flva
miles in the opposite direction—ar.d
forget it!”
‘‘She's one of the friendly sort.” re
ported his wife later in the day. in
tones of despair. "They’ve taken the
Rigby cottage for the season and s'.v*
stopped to tell me how to weed the
nasturtiums. She told me her hus
band gave her the phonograph for hex-
birthday and she wanted to know if [*
wasn’t lovely of him. 1 suggested that
she might spoil it by bringing it out
in the damp air like this, but she said
she wouldn't think of hurting John’s
feelings by leaving It at home."
"Did she mention that she had so
licitude for our feelings?" asked the
man.
“Site asked us to come down and
listen to it,” replied his wife, sweetly.
”8he said they had some lovely rag
time records and all the latest song
hits."
With a gesture of despair her hus
band warded off such a possibility.
Tlie squeaky phonograph play ed on
from breakfast time till dusk. Some
times a footlight favorite warbled
about the lovely dream, again it was
a "honev" song or a ragtime song.
Robins tied the spot, thrushes vacat
ed. Rven the grasshoppers were
grumpy.
The very day that the man listener
had enlivened luncheon by relating all
the things he would like to do to the
phonograph he came In from weed
ing the garden to find it on his front
porch. Sitting surveying it much as
though it were a deadly cobra was
his wife.
"She just brought it down." she told
him. weakly. "Site and one of the
boys. They have to go to Chicago to
a sister's wedding and she didn’t like
to leave it at the cottage for fear
something would happen to it. And
she thought maybe we might enjoy
using it while they were gone. Cteorge
Arnold, stop looking a( me like that!
What could I do?”
"You are a well, strong woman."
said hei* husband, in a hollow voice,
"and you let her wish it onto you!
Where is the ax?"
"There is at least some satisfac
tion.” he said as he went to bed that
night, "in knowing that I hold my
enemy in the hollow of my hand. I've
got that phonograph where it can't
help itself. And think of all the
things 1 might do to It!”
That night the wind rose and the
man got up to close the windows and ,
doors. Stumbling through the living
room in the dark, he hit an unfamiliar j
object, and there was a terrific crash !
When the wife arrived with lights \
they found the phofiograph in pieces
all over the floor. It was beautifully 1
smashed.
"Stop!* cried his wife as the man ■
danced insanely around the wreck,
chortling with joy. "Don't you real - |
ize—that you've got to go and spend
good money to buy her a new one?" I
How to Kill
Time
W ITH her small nose pressed
against the screen door, the
small neighbor looked wist
fully into the grown-up neighbor’s
kitchen.
“Come out and play with me,” she
coaxed. “There isn’t a soul of a per
son to play with me at my house. My
daddy’s gone to town and my mother’s
gone to town and my grandmother's
sewing me a dress and Hilda's mak
ing bread. Can’t you come out and
play?"
“I’m afraid I can’t Just now,” re
sponded the grown-up neighbor. "I’m
busy myself. But you can come in
and talk to me while I work.”
The small neighbor opened the door
and skipped in with alacrity.
“Why aren’t you at school?” in
quired the grown-up neighbor as the
door slammed behind her visitor.
The small neighbor gave an embar
rassed wriggle. “Well," she said, “thii
morning when I first got up—I mean
when I first didn’t get up, you know—
1 didn't feel very well. My head
ached something fierce. So my moth
er she said if I kept on not feeling
well I didn’t need to go to school. I
stayed in bed till she went to town
and then I didn’t go to school.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” said
the grown-up neighbor, sympathet
ically. “I suppose in a little whity
you'll have entirely recovered.”
"I shouldn’t be surprised,” agreed
the small neighbor.
Her New Piece.
She meditatively dipped into the
open flour box one small hand, over
w r hich there was a slightly brownish
film, as though it might previously
have been dipped into a miid pie.
“I guess I’ll go into the other room
and play my new piece,” she volun
teered after a moment’s pause.
“Do,” urged the grown-up neighbor,
cordially.
The small neighbor disappeared and
presently the strains of the new
“piece" could be heard from the liv
ing room. In a few moments the mu
sician returned.
“Wasn’t that a beautiful piece, and
don't you think I play it nice?” she in
quired with proper modesty.
“Yes, it was beautiful,” replied the
grown-up neighbor. “Now, suppose
you run back and play it once more,
and by that time I think I’ll be ready
to play with you.”
When the second musical feast was
over and the artist had returned to
the culinary regions, the grown-up
neighbor asked, “What do you want
to do now?”
The small neighbor reflected. "Do
you remember,” she said finally, “that
once when I was here you made
candy?”
The grown-up neighbor admitted
that she did remember the occasion.
The small one thereupon smiled up
at her sweetly and ingenuously. “Do
you know,” she said, “that I can re
member how good that candy tasted?”
now?”
“I think I would,” responded
other.
“But you have a headache.” ven
tured the grown-up neighbor, du
biously. "I don’t suppose you would
feel like eating any candy even if we
made it.”
The small neighbor looked up at her
friend doubtfully. “Oh!” she cried
as she detected the incipient twinkle
in the neighbor’s eyes, “you’re mak
ing fun. You’ll let me have some
candy, won’t you? My head feels per
fectly good. I could eat a bushel of
candy and it wouldn’t hurt me a bit.”
It Was True.
“I’m afraid,’’ said the grown-up
neighbor, seriously, when the candy
was on the stove* and the small visi
tor was standing on her tiptoes to
watch it bubble, “that the awful ac
cusation made against me is true.”
The small neighbor’s eyes grew very
large and round. “What?” she asked.
"Well, you know there is a story
going the rounds to the effect that
you’re getting badly spoiled by me.”
“Spoiled like apples?” Inquired the
small neighbor. “All brown and
wrinkled and soft so you can stick
your finger into them?”
“Well, you’re not brow r n and wrin
kled, and I don’t believe I could stick
my finger into you.”
“Well, then. I don’t mind being
spoiled.” chirped the small one. “I
guess I like it.” Then she threw' her
arms around her friend’s neck. “Do
you know,” she w'hispered, “I’d rather
stay here and play with you than go
to any school I ever went to in all my
whole life.”
The grown-up neighbor gave her a
severe hug. "I’m simply flattered to
death,” she declared.
A minister in a small country vil
lage, who was noted for his absent-
mindedness, was once observed 10
stop suddenly in the middle of his
sermon and heard to mutter:
“I knew she would—I knew she
would!”
After the service was over someone
asked him the reason.
"Dear me," said he, “did I? Well,
you know, from this pulnit I can just
see old Mrs. Rogers’ garden, and this
morning she was out pulling up «
cabbage, and I thought to myself,
‘Now', if that cabbage comes up sud
denly, she’ll go over;’ and just then
it came up and over she went.”
• • •
American papers are not always
complimentary to political candidates.
This is how The Petersburg (Va.)
Index refers to the man it is op
posing:
“He is already a noted man in the
community, and between keeping out
of Jail and getting into the Legisla
ture he w’ill be pretty busily engaged
between now and the 8th of the
month.”
* • •
Professor—You say they contested
the will of the deceased'
Student—Y'es, sir; and the court
held that he was suffering from hal
lucinations.
Professor—On what grounds?
Student—It appear? that he left
three-fourths of his property to his
mother-in-law.
Husband or Children?
By DOROTHY DIX.
P ROBABLY the most difficult prob
lem that a woman ever has to
face is when she is required to
hold the scales of Justice between her
husband and her children, and decide
how much of her time and attention
belong* to'each.
Of course, there are women w’ho are
temperamentally all wives. There are
other women who are, by nature, all
mother. For these the question settles
itself. There are also some women
fortunate enough »o be married to men
who are as instinctively paternal as they
are maternal. These also happily es
cape having to try to unriddle the rid
dle of whether it is best and wisest
for a woman to spoil her littlest baby or
her biggest baby.
Much is to be said on both sides
of the question. On the one is a moth
er’s duty to her children, her responsi
bility for them, the fact that they are
belter off with her than even with
the most competent servants. On the
other side is the difficulty that the
woman who ceases to bf* a wifl^, for the
sake of becoming a nurse maid to her
children, is mighty apt to lose her hus
band in the process, and that the wife
who won’t go with ber hnsband when he
wants her to go left behind. Like
wise it Is true that little Johnnie can be
safety left alone in his crib with his
bottle of sterilized milk, while if Big
John is left alone he is apt to wander
forth In search of bottles that are ster
ilized.
He Is Proud.
On the things that women can never
undestand is that, except in rare cases,
a baby, even his own baby, is the most
uninteresting little animal in existence
to a man He is proud of it, and he i*
fond of it In a theoretical way, but
he’s bored stiff if he has to spend more
than five minutes at a time in the
infant's society. For the life of him,
he couldn’t spend hour after hour as a
woman does, palpitating and thrilling
over the mere sight of a little red,
squirmy, wriggly thing with no more
expression on its countenance than a
cream cheese, and with about as much
intelligence as an angle worm.
Therefore, when he comes home of
an evening, after having paid his com
pliments to Miss or Mr. Baby, he wants
some rational amusement. He wants
his wife to sit with him and talk to
him after dinner, as has been their wont,
or to go out with him to the places
of amusement they have been in the
habit of frequenting.
On her part the woman Is absolutely
obsessed by the baby. She can get all
the excitement, all the amusement, all
DOROTHY DIX.
the pleasures she wants bv watching
the cute way the baby breathes and the
wonderful way it opens its eyes and
shuts them again. She would be per
fectly blissful if her husband would sit
on the other side of the cradle and rhap
sodize with her; and if he won’t she
leaves him to read his paper alone while
she Worships at the shrine of the cradle.
As for going to a place of amusement,
she wouldn’t think of doing such a
thing. Something might happen to
baby while she was gone.
A Rare Breed.
It is literally true that there are
many homes in which, after the com
ing of the first baby, the man of the
house simply exists as a purveyor of
food, and clothes, and pleasures of
the children He doesn’t even have an
identity, nor a name. He. is only "papa,”
even to his wife. And she never thinks
of consulting him pleasures or prefer
ences, nor doing anything for his enjoy-
men. He is supposed to get his reward
in life from observing the children have
everything done for them.
Now and then we do observe one of
By DOROTHY DIX
these masculine angels, and see a man
who has no life outside of his children;
but the breed is rare. The average
man is sufficiently fond of his off
spring, but because he loves Johnnie,
and Jamie, and Mary, it has not Inocu
lated him against a taste for a few
other outside pleasures. He wants his
wife’s society. If he loves her, and he
wants to go about a bit, and he resents
having his nose put so completely out
of joint by the pink fists of a baby.
Right here is where the wife’s prob
lem comes in—shall she go with hus
band, or stay with baby? If she’s of
the ultra-maternal sort, all of her in
stincts urged her to stay with the chil
dren. She’d rather talk baby talk to
a gurgling infant than to hear the
most brilliant dinner partner converse
at his most Inspired moment, flhe’d
prefer telling about Little Red Riding
Hood to a round-eyed child to seeing a
Belasco opening. She’d rather dance
the baby after his bath than to be the
j belle of the finest ball in the city.
The Wise Woman.
But—and it’s a capital BUT—if she
' won’t go with hubby, hubby goes alone,
and while she’s holding the children’s
hands while they go to sleep and hear
ing their prayers, hubby is mighty apt
to be holding ?ome other woman's
hands, and saying some things that
aren't his prayers to the other lady.
And the result is that by the time the
children have gotten to the place where
they dpn’t need mother, and mother be
gins to feel the ned of a husband again,
she finds out that husband got lost,
strayed or stolen while she was neglect
ing him.
Women may resent this state of af
fairs as much as they please, but their
resentment doesn’t alter human nature.
Men are going to be men to the end of
the chapter, and it’s going to be eter
nally true that the woman who keeps
her husband has got to keep her hands
on him all the time, and she's got to
pet him, and humor him, and go along
with him, or else he’ll leave her.
An reality, children will bear a little
neglect better than a man, and they
aren’t in half as much danger of being
kidnapped as a husband is. Moreover,
you can hire nurses to look after your
children and keep them entertained, but
a woman leaves her husband's enter
tainment to other people at her peril.
Therefore, the woman who has to choose
between the two, sings her husband to
sleep, and spends the evening telling
him fairy tales rather than her baby.
The trouble is that most women do
too much for their children and too
lktle for their husbands. This isn’t
fair. The man who supports the fam
ily is entitled to a run for his money,
even from his own wife and children.
]
Pi
pet
^0 To-day’s Complete Short Story ^
CHICHESTER S PILLS
TUE DIAMOND KRA>D. *
Nl> BRAND PILL* fw •»
year* known a s B«*t. Safest. Always Reliable
SOLO BY DRUGGISTS EVERYWMFB5
M ARCEL DUPREZ, the artist,
was in search of inspiration
when chance led him to the
Moulin de la Galette.
He was sitting over a glass of bock
and watching the dancers through a
trellis of painted green woodwork en
twined with faded artificial wistaria,
when the face of Pipette smiled out at
him from the whirling crowd. It was a
vivid, haunting smile, one which could
not easily be forgotten, and before the
night w*as old it flashed at him over
the rim of a wine glass which she held
gayly to her scarlet, curving lips.
Three days later she came to his
studio as the model for his new picture,
"The Brink of Folly.”
Hour after hour, while the sunbeams
danced and flickered upon the wall op
posite and Marcel worked in all the
zeal of a new and fascinating theme,
she would sit as still as a woodland
mouse, a wistful expression in the
depths of her almond-shaped eyes, her
dark hair tousled bewitchingly about
her small head.
The picture took three months to com
plete—three months of hot. golden after
noons under the sloping roof of a Jittle
Montmartrolse atelier.
It was inevitable that they should fall
in love.
"When my picture has brought me
success and I have become a great
artist—a famous artist," Marcel would
sometimes begin, stepping back from the
easel to slip an arm about the girl’s
supple waist. And the latter would re
tort:
“Yes, my love; I know all that you
are going to say. But for the present
we are in love and together. What more
can we ask?" A,nd her little, warm lips
would close passionately over her lover’s
smiling mouth.
Very Happy.
They were as happy as two children
in a field of buttercups.
Sometimes they would make an ex
cursion to St. Cloud and. climbing the
hill behind the little river town, look
down over Paris as it lay spread at their
feet. *
One day as they wandered, with arm*
entwined, among the long avenues of
emerald-tinted trees, Pipette made a
confession:
“Of course, I don’t love him any more.
I don’t think I ever did love him—
really,” she faltered in conclusion, a
pink blush dyeing the tip of an averted
chin. "I thought when he went away
that he had gone forever, that he would
never come back—and I was glad. I
wanted to be free. He was so violent:
he frightened me. And now he is in
Paris again. I saw him this morning
on the Pont Neuf. Oh, I am afraid—
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afraid that he will somehow take me
away from you. Anti I love you so! 1
love you so! Don’t let him take me,
Marcel!”
She clung to him hysterically, her fin
gers tightening upon his arm, tears fill
ing her lashes with quivering liquid
crystals.
"Hush, hush, my love," he whispered
back soothingly. "No one shall take
you from me—that I swear!” And
bending his head he tilted her face to
kiss the glistening drops from her
troubled eyes.
• • •
“The Brink of Folly” was receiving
the final touches of the brush by the
fading light of a September afternoon.
Suddenly the sound of a step along
the passage outside sent Pipette spring
ing to her feet, the soft sunset dreams
of the past half hour dropping about her
like the folds of a gossamer veil.
He Arrives.
"What was that?”
The thumping of a fist upon the wood
en panels, accompanied by a demand
for entrance in*a man’s hoarse, drunken
voice, broke sharply in upon them.
“It’s he—Paul. What shall I do?
What can I do?" she pleaded wildly, an
agony of fear in her voice, her eyes
raised beseechingly to those of her
lover.
For one long paralyzing moment they
stood facing each other in silence. Then,
lifting her bodily in his arms, the mar
carried her across the room to where
the now finished canvas stood propped
against the easel.
"Hide, quickly—behind the picture!”
he commanded, and stepped hurriedly
back.
The next instant the frail lock of the
door gave way beneath the pressure of
a heavy, lurching shoulder • and the tall
figure of a man reeled unsteadily into
the room.
'Tve got you now. my pretty one
tou II not escape me this time—you
?£ii«ri rour pr £ clous lover.” he muttered
thickly, as he stumbled forward over
the uneven floor, a sinister gleam flash
ing from some object which he held
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• l
clasped in his right hand. Then, catch
ing sight of the painted life-like por
trait of Pipette smiling whimsically
across the darkening room, he halted
abruptly as though hypnotized.
The next moment he had sprung for
ward with the snarl of a wild beast and
struck savagely at the canvas with the
sharp blade of a stiletto.
There was a shrill, terrified shriek as
the hidden girl sank wounded to the
ground, one little white arm flung out
upon the floor beyond the edge of the
mutilated picture.
For a while it lay quivering in a pool
of pink sunlight, the same little white
arm that Marcel had so often kissed.
Then the fingers curled up like the petal
of a flower and were still.
'< I
< 1
I
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