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By VIRGINIA TERHUNE VAN DE WATER
CHAPTER XVII.
P ERHAPS Mary Panforth was
right when she told her mother
that one could not exp'ect a man
t° write as often as a woman dofes.
Certain it was that for the months fol
lowing that statement Gordon Craig’s
letters came always once a week. They
contained always the same excuse—
that he was "fearfully busy," and that
he knew Mary would not be vexed if he
did not take time from his work to
write often. After all, she understood
him so well that she would make al
lowances. Once he wrote that if she
found writing to him a burden, she
must not feel that she must communi
cate with him when she was worn out.
“Send me a line telling he how you
are every week or two," he suggested,
"and promise to let me know if you
are ill. But I can not bear to have your
letters to mo add to your already over-
heavy cares."
The girl smiled at she read. Even
vet, she mused, he did not appreciate
how much she loved him, how the
thought of him was the only bright spot
in her sordid life, that he and her moth
er were all the beings she had to love.
But he did know her well enough to
bejieve that she understood his not
writing oftener. Did she not know that
he was working for her, working with
all the strength.of his young manhood
to make* a home for her and to hasten
the time when he could claim her and
take her away from all this unhappi
ness and uncongenial toil? He did not
say at all this to her. But she knew,
ah. she knew! And she loved him the
better for not reminding her that it was
for her that he was toiling and sacrific
ing himself.
"Of course I understand," she wrote
to him in reply to his half-apology for
his one-letter-a-week habit. "I know
all about it, dear Gordon. Explanations
between us are unnecessary. I can read
between the lines and find there that
which you do not write, that which I
respect you for not writing. Each Mon
day evening now brings me a letter
from you. Keep on sending me a line
so that I will get it then, and I shall be
satisfied. Somehow it gives me cour
age to go back to work each Monday,
after a Sunday at home, 1f I know that
when I return at night I shall find your
letter In the box waiting for me. It has
never failed me on a single Monday
since you went away."
Why should she make any more pro
testations? She was not by nature ef
fusive. and she could not write what
was in her heart.
This message to Craig must have
crossed his epistle to her, a hastily
penned note, containing no news, say
ing merely that he was well and "still
at it, up to his neck Jn work."
"But I have the satisfaction of know
ing that I am making good," he added,
"and that is a comfort to any man. I
hope that by this time you are doing as
well as you deserve.”
There was something in this note, or
lack of something, that made the reader
vaguely uncomfortable. Surely next
Monday’s letter would be more satis
factory.
But next Monday no letter came.
Yet on Tuesday there arrived a posi
card, saying, "Well as usual, but fear
fully busy. G. C."
The following week was the longest
that Mary Panforth had ever known.
She looked forward with an eagerness
which she could not explain to Craig’s
next letter. She had a presentiment
that matters were coming to a Joyful
crisis, that soon he would tell her what
she already suspected, that she might
expect him soon.
She sat in the office late on Monday
afternoon, thinking. She had com
pleted her work for the day. and now
only waited for her employer’s per
mission to go home. It was February,
and the snow had begun to fall early In
the afternoon. The light on her desk
rendered the outer darkness blacker
than usual. The wind struck against
the panes with a force that made her
shiver. She decided to ask Mr. Pear
son if she might not go home now
without waiting for him to sign the
letters he had dictated to her. She
knocked at the door of her employer’s
office and it was not until she had
obeyed his summons to "come in” that
she remembered that Mr. Fletcher had
called to see him an hour ago, and was
still in conversation with him. Bowing
gravely to the visitor she proffered her
request to Mr. Pearson.
"Surely you may go," was the kind
reply. "I hope you have overshoes.
It’s a bad evening "
"Thank you!” she said. She remem
bered suddenly that when she had left
home that morning the weather had
been mild with the treacherous warmth
that February sometimes brings for a
day or two, and that she had foolishly
worn thin shoes and a light jacket.
Bert Fletcher, watching her, may have
seen a shade of dismay cross her fea
tures.
"Excuse me, Miss Panforth." he said,
"but it is sure an awful night. I am
not fixed up for it myself, so I’m call
ing a cab to take me as far as the
elevated road. Let me take you along."
The look in his eyes was again like
that of a kindly dog. Mary thought.
She was tired, and was in a hurry to
go home. An impulse made her an
swer frankly:
“Thank you! I will be glad to go
as far as the elevated in your ’cab."
Bert Fletcher could not afford to be
extravagant, but he decided quickly
that he would "blow in the price of a
cab all the way uptown" for this girl,
whom he adimred more than he had
ever admired any other woman. But
it was not until he was seated beside
her in the closed conveyance that he
remarked:
"I’m going to take you all the way
to your home, Miss Danforth. You
must let me do it just this once. Now
don’t say you won’t, for it’s fierce
walking, and you need to be taken
care of."
So worn was the girl that she found
it pleasant to be taken care of "Just
this once." She recalled this pleasure
with a sudden revulsion of feeling as
she looked in the empty letter box at
the door of the flat building to which
Fletcher had escorted her. She hur
ried up the one flight of stairs to her
apartment and opened the door with
trembling fingers. But the tray on
which her mail was always laid when
Mrs. Danforth received it was empty.
"No, dear," said the mother wearily,
as she came out of the kitchen and
met her daughter's inquiring gaae.
"No letter from Gordon again to-day."
One Woman’s Story Beauty Secrets of Beautiful Women A Token of A Tale of Adventure
The Care of the Hair as Told by Evelyn Carleton
By LILIAN LAUFERTY.
“f
F I had a million dollars," began
Evelyn Carleton, "I know ex
actly what I’d do " Where
upon the mind of the Beauty Editor,
attuned uhto lotions and garments of
rare texture, and "cures" and all the
adjuncts of beauty—which is so sel
dom unadorned—began to vision Jew
els rare, and creations from Parisiun
artists. But Evelyn Carlton went on
seriously. "I would adopt all the poor,
dear little kiddies 1 could find, and
I would take ’em all out in the country
and let them* kick up their heels iji
the long cool grass, and pick posies
and get dirty and clean again and
grow up with some of God’s sunshine
in their little hearts."
Ahem! "The Follies of 1913” were
being exploited down on the stage of
the New Amsterdam Theater in New
| York. In a dressing room on the third
floor the beautiful girl who thrills you
with loveliness when she sits in a
gold-armored figure on the gold hors*,
of Jeanne d’Arc was telling me of
an ideal that is greater to her than
all the lure of loveliness. Do you
wonder that Evelyn Carleton is a
beautiful girl? Most women who an
normal, and sweet and sane—and
womanly with the full heritage of what
their Malter meant them to be—are
attractive with the sweetness of ex
pression and the charm of the eternal
femininity that the Germans call
"Die ewige weibliche.”
A Pointed Question.
"But since you—supposedly—have
not a million dollars,” said I "won’t
you please tell me how you make life
and yourself as attractive as possible?
All the little means to the great end
of feminine humanity—Beauty.”
“Oh, but I am not a beauty,” said
Miss Carleton with misguided en
thusiasm. Excuse me, Miss Evelyn,
for remarking it here in open meet
ing, and in such wise that you have
no chance to talk back—"You are a
beauty.”
On with the conversation of the
evening. Said Miss Carleton: "I have
rather nice hair—no credit to me. it
runs in my family. It’s long and
thick, you see. I shampoo it at lea^t
fortnightly, and sometimes once a
week. About a shampoo—if you can
not get some one who is an expert at
the art, wash your own hair. Buy a
bottle of liquid green soap and shak-
some of the liquid into the masses of
your hair, rubbing away till you gel
a foamy white lather. Then wash an*
wash and wash some more until your
final rinsing water is clear as Croton
water ever can be. Just don’t leave a
bit of .soap in yo*r hair if you mean
to have it pretty and fluffy and tract
able. Don’t wear false hair, don’t
jam your head full of combs and
hairpins, don’t burn your hair off in
search of a curl that the first damp
hour will steal from you. Sham
poo it as 1 have told you. brush
it faithfully, and often open it to the
benefits of sun and wind ae often
as you can. All growing things like
;'un and air as Well as those little
kiddies of my million dollar dream,
you know'. At night and in the morn
ing loosen your scalp by giving it a
Love
“I shampoo
my hair fort
nightly.
“Don't wear
false hair.
“At night
and in morn
ing loosen
your scalp.’’
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
< i T \ ° you M
\_) Kiri, "t
\
gv
'W ; 'y
> > :
WH
S
• w
MISS EVELYN \
CARLETON
rotary massage with your finger-tips;
this w’ill stimulate the flow of blood
to the scalp veins* and blood vessels
and feed the roots of the hair. For
a tonic my mother used to recommend
breaking a few quinine capsules into
bay rum. and applying this on alter
nate nlehts.
“Tonic should always be applied
from a bottle with a shaker top, oi
dropped into the partings of the hair
from a bottle with a shaker top, or
dropped into the partings of the hail
from a medicine dropper. The idea is
to get it into the skin from which
the hair is deriving its nourishment—
and not to get the hair oily or greasy
and so ready to attract a coating of
dust. To sum it all up. keep your
hair and scalp clean, stimulate th->
flow of blood to the scalp, and feed
the roots of the hair, and I am sure
f
the results will justify you for ‘tak
ing pains.’
"All I can add to my ‘betuty inter
view’ is to go back to my beginning
again and recommend tht.t grown
ups try my dream-for-children—liv
ing out in the golden nunshine. It is
good for hair—and figure and dispo
sition.”
In Parting.
Whereto be it added that out
doors surely offers you some of th
health and beauty with which it has
so generously dowered Evelyn Car
leton. Next time you shampoo your
hair, dry it out in the golden sun
light—and when you behoid with joy
the vital glowing mass into which
the sun has transmuted your locks,
just register a vow to try a little sun
shine tonic on your nature!
THE MIRACLE
A Startling Short Story Complete
S OME days ago I heard somebody
speaking about policemen in the
most disparaging manner.
“You are quite right.” I agreed;
“they are all rascals, and in proof
thereof i should like to tell you a lit
tle incident. I have on my country
place a gardener named Ullmann,
who was formerly a policeman. In
spite of his 58 years he still makes
a very young impression. For years
he was the terror of tramps and va
grants, and now he is tenderly nurs
ing flowers with his big, powerful
hands, which have knocked down
more than one criminal. The flowers
have changed him altogether, but he
says this is because he is breathing a
different air now. One morning I
met him in the vegetable garden. He
had Just been sprinkling the straw
berry beds and was in his shirt
sleeves. He was evidently in mood
for a chat that day, for he addressed
me.
A Beautiful Night.
“I have now been in your service
for nine years, monsieur," he said,
“and I want to tell you how happy I
have always felt here, much happier
than while I was a policeman. That
is a dreadful calling, I tell you.
Whether you put criminals in prison
or cut their heads off, they are not
punished enough. It would be much
better to condemn them to become
policemen, even if only for a few
months; then they would have more
than enough of it. But probably the
public might object. When you look
at me, as I am now' in my working
clothes, you would think that my life
had always been smooth sailing, as
content as I look. And still I tell
you I have met with enough expe
riences to write more than one sen
sational novel,
■•I was very young when we first
married, and at first we had a hard
time to make a living, and later on
worse anxieties came to us through
a wayward child who wreaked our
happiness. Of all the sorrows he
caused us, I will tell you the one
which shocked me most.
■ It was a beautiful summer night,
the say was full of stars and it was
DREE CLASSES OF MEDICINES
are the Animal, Vegetable and Miner
al. of which the Vegetable King
dom furnishes by far the most and
the best. More than 700 varieties of
roots, plants and herbs are known by
pharmacists to hav*» medicinal value
and probably the "Tfldlan Medicine
Man" knows of as many more. It was
in this most interesting study, more
than forty years ago, that Lydia E.
Hinkham. of Lynn. Mass., discovered
. ,, r now famous Vegetable Compound
> r woman's ills, which has proved of
incalculable value to hundreds of
thousands °f American w’omen. Its
w< nderful success proves its merit.
bright moonlight. It was about
twelve years ago. I was walking my
beat from the Bois de Boulogne to
Passy together with my mate, a Cor
sican, whose sense of hearing was so
sharp that he could hear the ants
running. From time to time a cab
rolled by and through the windows
we caught a sight of kissing couples.
The night was made for loving. Sud
denly we were startled by a piercing
cry. ’Help! Murder!’ We rushed
toward the sound and found a man
who was trying to strangle a gentle
man, who wore a light coat over his
evening dress, evidently on his way
home from a dance.
"Before the bandit had time to look
around we had the handcuffs on him.
but unfortunately we had come a lit
tle too late, for his victim was bleed
ing profusely from tw r o stab wounds
in neck and face.
“You had better stay here," I said
to my chum, “while I rush this fel
low to the station house and hurry
back with an ambulance.
"I started off with him. We had
about half a mile to walk to the sta
tion house. He made no attempt to
resist, which would have done him
no good, a.s he was handcuffed and I
had a good hold of his coat collar.
We did not exchange a single word,
but suddenly he stopped under a
street lamp and said:
" ‘You don’t seem to recognize me.’
"He threw back his head, his cap
fell off and I recognized—the face of
my own son.
"It was a dreadful shock. Even if
you have been fighting burglars and
footpads for twenty years you still
remain human. My heart stopped
beating.
His Son’s Plea.
“He looked at me with horrified
eyes and open mouth and stammered;
'I have never done you ai^y harm,
father. You won’t have me sent to
prison, will you?’
“AVhy I did not drop dead or go
insane on the spot I do not under
stand, but a miracle happened. I felt
my brain and heart growing cold,
and in one second I saw a thousand
things; the day when he was born,
when he was christened, his sweet
little baby face; I saw him go to
school, where he was the first in ev
erything, our flat on the top floor of
a tenement, and his poor mother
stooping over his bed, when he was
saying his prayers.
"Then I imagined the terrible catas
trophe. I saw his mother fainting
as she heard of the dreadful calam
ity. the reports in all the newspapers,
our honest name disgraced. I do not
know how to explain it to you, but my
heart swelled with pity and love of
the unfortunate boy. I took the
handcuffs off his hands, and whis
pered: Hun away from here.’
“I have never seen him again. If
what I did was wrong. I hope Hod
will forgive me. That‘s right, don’t
be bashful—•—”
At these last wo r ^s ’.e knocked a
fat caterpillar off a lea. of cabbage.
T HREE men were sitting together
in a compartment of a train
speeding across the steppes of
Russia at 60 miles an hour.
The man who was sitting between
the other two was about 32, hand
some, with a high, Intellectual fore
head and a very determined mouth.
He had been thinking so much dur
ing the last hour that it was impos
sible for him to think any more. He
felt as if he were facing a high wall,
which, as far as he could see, was
quite insurmountable. Twenty-four
hours ago he had been a happy man.
possessing the best a man may pos
sess in this world—a beautiful wife,
who loved him as passionately as he
loved her; three lovely children—
Alex, Helena and Anna; a splendid
practice and good health.
Now everything was changed. He
bad been seized by a hand whose grip
was as cruel as it was inexplicable. A
man may fight cruelty, but to fight
stupidity is hopeless, especially when
stupidity is protected by power.
And Sergius Koltschtn thought that
when he had been singled out for ar
rest it was not only cruel, but also
stupid. He had done nothing, had
violated no law, no matter how anti
quated or unjust. He was wealthy
enough to be harmless. While he was
pondering over his lost happiness, he
suddenly broke the silence, asking:
“The truth is this, I suppose that I
shall be kept idle for a long time?”
The two men nodded assent.
“You cee," said the more intelligent
of them, “it is not wise to think too
deeply or be too smart. Neither Is it
wise to speculate on what may hap
pen or not. You must take things as
they come.”
“Then you are a philosopher your
self.”
“It is better so."
A Warning.
"No,” said Koltschin, ■harply, “it Is
not better so. One should try to make
the future better than the present.”
"Try to tell *that when you are ex
amined, and see what you will get.”
"I shall have nothing to say when I
am examined, but that I have done
nothing to justify any examination. I
do not want to make the case worse
than it is."
A short silence followed.
"I suppose,” said the more intelli
gent of the two keepers, "that you
love Russia? All you revolutionists
have only the best intentions."
"I am no revolutionist," said Kolt
schin.
"You are thought to be one, at any
rate.”
“But, strangely enough, I am not. I
am merely an ordinary physician,
with no other interests but my pa
tients and my work. I may have some
sympathy with the revolutionists, but
I take no part in their propaganda."
"But perhaps you Know somebody
who does?”
"Yes, I know several.”
"A man Is known by his friends.
Perhaps you help your friends. Per
haps you have had a man under your
roof who may some day throw a
bomb."
Suddenly Koltschin remembered
Savarin. He had never been able to
understand why he was arrested, but
now he understood everything, and
aiso understood how exceedingly dif-
i *iculi u would be to prove his inno
cence. Only a .‘•'hort time ago Savarin
had spent several nights at his house.
He was an old friend, and the day be
fore he left he had said he whs going
to Odessa, but would not tell anything
about his business there.
"Has anything happened in Odes
sa?’’ Koltschin asked, at the same
moment realizing the danger of ask
ing this question.
The Bomb.
"Nothing, except that a bomb has
been thrown with the result hoped
for.”
"Do you know who threw it?”
"A man named Savarin.”
The other keeper looked at him
significantly.
"Then you knew that something
was going to happen in Odessa?”
Koltschin saw that he had placed
himself in an exceedingly dangerous
position. He knew in fact that he
was already sentenced and that he
should prolvably nevei see his wife
and children again.
• • *
The less intelligent of the keepers
Invoked the help of one saint after
the other, and when at last he knew
the names of no more he began to
pray for the help of his little father
the Tzar.
The other keeper sat pale as a
ghost while Koltschin was bandaging
bis crushed leg with Mtrips made from
his shirt, which he had taken off.
A fe\v yards away was the wreck
of the train, which had caught fire
and ^he flames were creeping closer
to the place where the poor keeper,
invoking the saints, was pinned down
by the wreckage.
Koltschin saw that the flames would
reach him sooner than the help of the
saints and at the same moment the
poor man looked up and perceived his
great danger. He screamed with
anguish.
"Be quiet ” said Koltschin. "I will
save you if I can.” The keeper Imme
diately forgot his saints and his < zar
and begged Koltschin hurry. Kolt-
scln had finished bandaging the
other’s leg. and was now struggling
with a strong temptation. He only
needed to leave this man who had
heard his words about Odessa to his
fate and he would be silent forever.
But a moment later he had released
the poor fellow, and. li** ving bandaged
his wounds, he began to attend some
of the other wounded. It was a ter
rible scene. With the carelessness so
common in that country, a couple of
heavily loaded freight ears had been
left on the track near a sharp curve
the night before, the express had run
Into them at full sp» : ed and the whole
train was now a burning pile of
w'reckage.
When the wrecking train at last ar
rived, it brought two high official*,
sent out to investigate the fate of the
dangerous revolutionist. Dr. Koltschin.
They walked along beside the
wrecked train trying to locate him,
entirely unaffecetd by t K e sight of the
sufferings of the woun *d. Suddenly
they discovered Koltschin. who was
hard at work saving human lives.
In Danger.
They stopped and looked at him. It
was evident he was a surgeon and, as
he had attended many wounded, lie
probably could give them some infor
mation. One of them touched his
shoulder and said:
"We are looking for a certain Ser
gius Koltst hin. a dangerous revolu
tion*^! He was in charge of two
keepers.”
"It is none of my business to know
darigerous revolutionists, even when
I see them. To me a broken leg is a
broken leg, whether it belongs to an
official < r a bombthrower.”
"That is true enough, but It does not
help us."
"I have no time to help you. As you
see, I am busy setting this leg. But
if you will w’ait a moment I will show
you the two keepers, w’hom I have
just bandaged.”
The older official bowed courteously.
“We are exceedingly thankful to
you,” he said, politely.
A moment later Koltschin intro
duced the two officials to the helpless
keepers.
"These two gentlemen are looking
for a dangerous revolutionist named
Koltschin. hut as far as I know he
was burned to death under the
wreckage of the car that held him
down.”
Saved.
The less intelligent keeper, w’ho
knew' what it meant to be pinned
down under the car, which had now
been completely consumed by the fire,
stared at Koltschin with open mouth,
but did not utter a word. The other
keeper, however, said very calmly:
“That is quite correct. It was hw-
ful. Koltschin was burned up alive
and we were helpless to save him."
"Most deplorable,” said one of the
officials.
"He has received his sentence," said
the keeper.
Koltschin drew a breath of relief, he
felt a free man once more. Officially
he was now dead, but he had won
back his life, his children and every
thing that made life worth living, for
in the hearts of these two wounded
men he had found something you inu>
find in Russia as well as anywhere
else.
• • •
Somewhere on a shelf In a Russian
office lies an official report of Ser
gius Koltschin’s death, but the same
Sergius Koltschin is living in Paris,
happy and respected, with his wife
and children.
A Joke on a Joker.
That inveterate Joker, Sothern, had
made an appointment with Toole to
dine at a well-known restaurant. The
hour of meeting was fixed, and Soth
ern arrived some few minutes before
the appointed time. An elderly gen
tleman was dining at a table some lit
tle distance from that prepared for
the two actors. He was reading a
newspaper, which he had comfortably
arranged before him, as he was eat
ing his dinner. Sothern walked up to
him, and striking him a smart blow
between the shoulders, said:
"Halloa, old fellow! Who would
have thought of seeing you here? I
thought you never ”
The assaulted diner turned round
angrily, when Sothern exclaimed:
"I beg you a thousand pardons, sir;
I thought you were an old friend of
mine—a family man whom I never
suspected to see here. I hope you
will pardon me.”
The old gentleman growled a reply,
and Sothern returned to his table,
where he was presently Joined by
Toole, to whom he said:
"See that old boy? I’ll bet you
half a dollar you daren’t go and give
him a slap on the back and pretend
you have mistaken him for a friend.”
"Done!" said Toole; and done it
was immediately, with a result that
may U* imagined.
u'p 1
think," writes a young
that it i» proper for a
girl to kiss a man when
they are merely friends?”
I once heard a girl describe a box
of candy an admirer had sent her.
"It was just sublime,” she gushed.
"I never saw a grander, more mag
nificent, more beautiful, more artistic
or finer box of candy in all my life.
Words can’t describe it.”
"What words would you use." I re
sponded dryly, "to describe the Grand
Canyon?”
She had seen the Grand Canyon.
After a moment’s thought she replied
that she would use the same; that she
knew no words that would express
more than grand, magnificent, beau
tiful, artistic and fine.
A girl asks if it is proper to kiss
a man who is merely a friend. Sup
pose 1 say, "Entirely proper. He is a
good friend; no wrong is thought or
intended. Go ahead and kiss him."
She kisses him. She kisses him
often, for that is a pleasure that once
indulged in knows no limit. Some
day she has a lover.
It is a parallel case with the girl
who exhausted her adjectives on the
box of chocolates, and would have to
use the same on the Grand Canyon.
A Proof.
The lover asks for a kiss as a proof
erf her love, and she gives this man
she loves with all her heart, and
who loves her, the same proof of af
fection she gave a man who was
merely a friend; one who is here to
day and gone to-morrow, and kiss
ing all the girls who are foolish
enough to kiss when on his way.
One of the greatest offenses a man
can commit is to kiss and tell. He
coaxes a girl to kiss him, and the
kiss, which is sacred with her, is
only a passing incident with him.
He laughs about it afterward, as
one laughs at an easy conquest, and
TELLS.
It was given in all innocence. It
is not accepted as a proof of inno
cence in the more vulgar minds of
men. It cheapens a girl in the eyes
of the man she kissed, and degrades
her in the eyes of those who hear of
it. Not any man can kiss her, but
they get that impression, and the
love of a girl whom any man can
kiss is not valued highly, nor eager
ly sought for.
It is a privilege with a price, and
the girl pays. She commits no crime;
she is guilty only of folly, but it is
an injustice for which there Is no
redress that one of her sex must al-
w’ays pay a greater price for folly
than one of the other sex pays for
a crime.
There is a rule which clever wives
heed. It is this, "Always leave some
thing untold.” Curiosity is the foun
dation of interest, and the man is al
ways interested in his wife if she
keeps him guessing.
There should be a rule somewhat
similar in the game of Love. ‘‘Don’t
give all." The kiss should follow
the engagement ring. If it precedes
it, there is usually no engagement.
Long for More.
If there are few kisses, there is
always a longing for more. The
caress that is given grudgingly and
shyly is the caress most highly prized.
Love is all there is in life, but it
becomes only a passing sentiment if
treated lightly. The love that is
greeted with a kiss that was given
the mere acquaintance of yesterday
never lingers long.
Don’t kiss this mere friend, my
dear. Somehow. I can't believe that
he is a real friend, or he would not
ask it.
lERE’S a bear in the woods',”
announced Mrs. Peavy, w’ith
unction as she settled her
self on the porch among the unpacked
trunks and uncrated baggage that a
summer resorter always takes along.
"What?" stammered Mrs Biggett.
unbelievingly. "In these woods?”
Mrs: Biggett might be pardoned for
her incredulity, for she had spent !
!«everal summers in the mild little
forest bordering Blue Flag Lake and
nothing more ferocious than rabbita,
chipmunks and squirrels had been
visible in that time. "Why, I think
that's dreadful!" she said when the
fact had wholly permeated her brain.
"I don’t contract to go big game
hunting w’hen I go away for the sum
mer! How can I manage a hear with
a crochet hook or a tennis racket?
How ”
"You can’t manage him, because
you can’t get near enough," explained
Peavy. "Sflll, I suppose that
when he gets desperate with hunger
he will break into our cottages and
attack us. They say he must have
wandered down from the North. The
rural postman saw him crossing the
road and. poor man! his horse
climbed one tree and he went up an
other and they never did collect all
the mall. His nervous system Is com
pletely shattered, they say.
He Saw Him.
"Several men have gone hunting
him, and the Thompson boy really
saw him, but Just in time he remem
bered that his gun had nothing but
bird shot in it—so he climbed a tree,
too. According to the stories told me
since I came, nearly all the trees In
the woods have been climbed by
about all the male population around
here. The exercise must be very
healthful. My husband is so fat thar
I know it would be good for him, but
he says he doesn’t hanker after bear
hunting as he did when he w’as a
boy. He stole a pig from a farmer
the other night ”
"Your husband?”
“Certainly not!” snapped Mrs
Peavy, indignantly. “I refer to the
bear! Oh, it really Is a tremendous
animal! The postman said it was as
big as a Newfoundland dog. but the
Thompson boy had a longer look at it,
and. he says It is fully as big as their
cow. The game w r arden of this coun
ty has been after it and he is a very
reliable man. He was quite close to
the bear, because the tree he climbed
had only one strong branch, and it
was near the ground. He says that,
measured from tip to tip, the creftture
must be twelve feet long. It Is terri
bly exciting—nobody dares take any
walks at ail!”
"I think it is perfectly horrid!” in
sisted Mrs. Biggett, beginning to un
lock trunks energetically. "I’d go
right back to the city if I thought we
were to be haunted by wild animals
all summer! Why doesn’t somebody
shoot the beast or set a trap, or some
thing? My goodness—where do you
suppose my children are?”
"All the mothers on Blue Flag Lake
are saying that," commented Mrs.
Peew cheerily. Mrs. Peavy had no
| children.
"The minute they are out of sight
the parents think they must be eaten
. up bv the bear. I should think he
' would be desperately hungry, because
| there really is nothing in the woods
for him to eat but roots. When we
! had to walk to the chicken farm I
made my husband carry his bowie
knife that hf bought to clean fish.
John is a great friend of the game
| warden, and the game warden is very
Indignant over the whole affair. H«
I says when a man takes office to see
I that the fish and squirrels of a county
are protected it Is a mean trick to
i shove a bear off on him. I believe
* he is going to ask the county board
| for a gatling gun for protection.
"I’m so nervous I can’t sleep nights.
I keep expecting the bear to climb in
at a window—and once .when I acci
dentally got the woolen blanket
wrapped tightly around my neck. I
wok** up, thinking all was over and
the bear had me!”
"I never heard of such a thing,**
said Mrs. Biggett. still indignant. It
is no way to run a summer resort! i
am sea ed to death, because my chil
dren art? so naturally reckless. I real
ly must go and look for Herbert at
once ”
"I’ll go with you,” said Mrs. Peavy,
with unction. “Not that I think any
thing h&a happened, but you never
can tell—my goodness!”
Her voice rose in a crescendo shriek
hs she grabbed Mrs. Biggett’s arm.
The Bear.
Before them the spectacle was pr«.
Rented of Herbert Biggett. aged 13;
Genevieve Biggett, aged 9, and tw*
or three other children clustered In
terestedly around a small, shaggy obJ
ject which was lapping milk grate
fully out of a pan.
“We found him in the woods!” Her
bert explained. “He followed when I
called, and he’s awfully hungry, and
he does tricks! Up, Bruno!"
The bear obediently stopped lap
ping milk and sat up on his little hind
legs Then he gratefully licked hi#
finder’s hand with a pink tongue.
Kin we keep him?” chorused th*
children. "He’s so cute!”
"t think I’ll be going now,” seta
Mrs. Peavy, weakly, to the still par
alyzed Mrs. Biggett. ’Tl] never be
lieve a grown man again as long as t
live!”
Up-to-Date
A teacher, instructing her class on
the composition of sentences, wrotw
two on the blackboard, one to exem
plify a misstatement of fact and the
other to illustrate bad grammar. Th*
sentences thus read as follows:
"The hen has three leg*! Wh4
done it?”
The teacher then called to one o9
the children.
"Harry,” she said, "go to the black
board and show' where the fault ilea
in those two sentences.”
Harry slowly approached the black
board, evidently thinking hard. Then
he took the chalk and wrote:
"The hen never done it. God dona
it.”
• • •
An old Scotch golfer was asked to
lay two to one on a match in which
he was likely to be much the bet
ter,
“Na, na, my man," waa hig reply;
"gowf lsn’ a game to be degraded by
the vice of gambling, like your horsa
racin’, your pigeon shoottn’, an’ th*
rest. It Is to be played for the pur*
lovo o’ the game.
"Besides,” he concluded, “there’s na*
twa tae ane aboot It—but I’ll lay y*
sax to tower."
to women nmmiuiintniiimiiinnniii
1 THOSE HEADACHES I
2 If accompanied with backache, S
E drain?in*-down pean, do not hava 2
2 to be. Nature never intended that 3
2 women should aaffar in this 2
2 manner.
Dr. Pierce’s
1 FAVORITE PRESCRIPTION |
E For forty years has proved won- ~
2 derfully efficient aa a remedy 2
2 for woman’s peculiar weaknesses 2
2 and derangements. ^
flllllllllllllllll Tev Dreggist ku it is Sl.3
More Than He
Expected
%
Husband and wife had a little tiff.
He buried his nose in a morning
paper, while she gazed out of the
window with persistent Intentness.
Thus an hour and thirty minutes
passed. A lady passed by. Husband
dropped his paper and looked at her
admiringly.
"Ah!” he said, "that’s a fine wo
man. And a widow, too. Don’t you
think she’s handsome?”
"Yes, rather. You seem to like
widows.”
"Indeed I do. They’re charming”
Husband evidently thought th»s
w'ould pique his partner. But it
didn’t.
"Alfred." said she. tenderly, plac
ing her hand softly on his arm.
"Alfred, I was in the wrong a little
while ago. when I became angry with
you, and I’m sorry, so sorry. Wili
you forgive your little wifey?”
"Certainly. Dor t say another word
about It.”
“And will you grant a little request
I have to make of you, hubby, dear?”
"Of course. Anything that lies in
my power.’
“You say you think widows are
charming ?”
"Yes, I did say so, but ”
"Then make me one; that’s a good
husband. Oh. I shall be so happy?”
Try This
With Your
Typewriter
• 4-
Better Tea
Only rich, full flavor
ed teas, carefully
grown and properly
cured go into the pack
ing of
Maxwell
House Blend X C3
Iced or Hot
It Hitt the Spot
Urtk. K-lb. .nd l-lh. Air tight
Ctniatar*
Ash your grocer fur ft.
Cheek-Neal
Coffee Co.
If it is an L, C. Smith & Bros., the writing
will be in perfect alignment, even though the whole
machine is raised up by grasping the platen roll.
Tf it isn’t an L. C. Smith & Bros., you will
find that you will have to be an expert juggler to get an
impression of the type.
The Ball-Bearing L. C. Smith
& n T •. is so closely ad-
Bros. 1 ypewriter j U8ted tbat the
carriage is firm during the entire travel from the be
ginning of the line to the end.
In printing capital letters, the carriage is not shifted,
either horizontally or perpendicularly, as on other ma
chines, but remains stationary. The type is shifted, not
the cylinder against which the paper rests—that moves
in only one direction and one space at a time, to receive
the next letter of the line.
Call us up and tell us when we can give you a demonstration
of our typewriter.
L. C. SMITH & BROS.
TYPEWRITER COMPANY
121 N. Pryor St.,
Atlanta, Ga.
Phone Ivy 1949
\m
Ball Bearing
Typebar
Joint