Newspaper Page Text
Little Bobbie’s
Pa
By WILLIAM F. KIRK.
V
m
vu.
MU
AYED up late with Ma last nite
beekaus Pa went to a lodge bank-
wet & Ma sed she wud feel lone-
up In the country If I dtdent stay
keep her cumpany. I guess Ma
kind of scared, beokaus wen we
the city thare Is always ihe
to call up & up in the country
isent any poleece. So I stayed
Ki
It, ' lr
<i In
^•/ece
Tf
was awful good, for him. He
Ma & me was up waiting for
J. so he dident stay vary long at
\ bank wet. He was hoam at 11
| ?ek, but he brought a man with
& the man had drank too much
^opane & Pa had enuff too.
[later Hathaway, sed Pa, here is
>t. waiting for me. Wife, sed
hta is Mister Hathaway of Oali-
Bobbie, this is Mister Hath-
*.y of the Golden West. He is a
-»ller & a gen tel man. It does my
hart good to run into a Westerner
«ffConn, sed Pa & I was telling Mister
Hathaway he wud have to stay here
tonlte insted of going to a hotel.
You have a wonderful fambly. sed
Mister Hathaway, wen he was taking
off his overcoat, a wonderful fambly.
He hadent saw us at all, he was look
ing on the floor for a peg on wich to
hang his overcoat on.
Yes, I think thay are wonderful,
sed Pa.
“It is a wonderful thing to have a
wonderful fambly, sed Mister Hath
away. I u.‘«ed to have a wonderful
£ambly too, a wife & son, but that
was long ago. Thay are sleeping
thare last sleep now, out ware the
blue Pacific rolls endlessly in upon
ti»e golden strand. Then Mister Hath
away beegan to cry.
Thare, thare, sed Ma. doant feel so
badly. Let me hang up your coat &
tu|k this chare.
These teers are unmanly, sed Mister
Hathaway, but wen I think how
happy I once was. & see how happy
yu-e husband is now, I must weep.
Thu workings of Fate are inskru-
tabil, he sed. Then he tried to set
dow n on the back of the chair & Ma
belted him into his seet.
T\ll me all about the bankwet, sed
Ma. Did you have a nice time?
How cud 1 have a nice time, sed
Mbner Hathaway. The guests were
cmil/ng & the wine was sparkling,
hut . cuddent touch it. It wud have
chokt d me. he sed. beekaus my hart
was iway out in the West, ware the
blue Pacific thunders aggenst the Seal
RockThen he began to cry sum
moar
I was out thare three years ago
with By husband sed Ma, & we saw
all ths >-ieals on the rocks. Thay was
very ninning. I thought, thay played
around so happy.
Of <»urse thay played around hap
py, se e Mister Hathaway. Why shud-
dent twiy be happy. Did them seals
have a«y wunderful fa^nbly lying un
der th* ,:green sod of my native state?
No, th.fy did not. Who dares to say
that they did? he hollered.
Nobody, my deer .Mister Hathaway,
sed Ma. Plees calm your self. You
»huld at leent have sipped sum of the
wine, sed Ma. It wud have cheered
you up.
The wine, the sparkling, mocking
■wine, sed Mister Hathaway. Take it
away from me! Why shud I drink
it, sed Mister Hathaway Then he
went to sleep in the chair & Ma
wiped the teers off his cheeks & sed
Poor man, I haven’t the hart to skold
now. Ma is a deer Ma.
Then Pa put his friend to bed.
Snap- ■-*
■-* Shots
MAIDEN MEDITATIONS.
N Fate’s menu most of us have to
be satisfied with a half-portion of
love and a demi-tasse of happi
ness.
Don’t be sure that a man is in love
with you just because he runs after
you; reserve judgment until he gets so I
agitated about his cherished "freedom” |
and "independence" that he runs away j
from the little girl who is threatening j
them.
The Three of ’Em—Betty and Danny and Billy By NELL BRINKLEY
_ ^ . u-1_|— ... _ ^ — - -
H ERE they are—the three of ’em. They sing through all
my days. Nobody' seems ever to get tired of the
sentimental tale of a Man and a Girl and Love 1
Sometimes I think I do—when I’m stumped for an idea
and I lean nfy head on my hand and my brain goes round and
round—yet always comes back to the three that seem to flicker
behind all my days—a Betty, a Billy, and Danny.
I appeal for an idea to my mother, or the Gentle Cynic.
My mother smiles and puts her brown head to one side.
“Why, make a picture of a Man, a Girl—and Love!”
And she ends up triumphantly as though she had
thought of something new.
And the Cynic gives me an amused look from the bachelor
face of him and says, “Oh, make a picture of a Man, Love—
and a Girl!” He thinks he HASN’T thought of anything new.
And they’re both right. It’s new and it’s old. And there
1 go—making a picture that holds the darling three of them—
Nell Brinkley Says:
Betty and Billy and Danny.—whatever the idea.
Here they are—with no idea behind—just the three actors,
making their little bow. She is sometimes blond, sometimes
gypsy-dark. Always her mouth is full and luring. She walks
with the grace of the wind in the grasses. There are always
little lines that make her fairy-like on her high-instepped feet.
And she is always in love.
Danny is a “wishtful, ” warm-bodied slip of a boy—some
times called cherub. He has a slow and melting eye and a
taking way with him. He is greedy of hearts. He is the big
actor in the drama—and even when he is in only a moving
picture—where he’ll never hear their praise—-the people clap
and whistle. And if you’ve once had his rose-leaf, steel-strong
hand around your heart, you’ll remember it, I swear! He
looks a jolly outlaw.
Billy is—why, he’s the Man. Lots of men don’t like
him—but the gifts all do. I wonder what that means. A blond
man wondered to me, roughing up his Viking, goldy mop,
“Why, you make his hair forever BLACK I”
Maybe I have a tender spot for black hair because my own
is blond. But that isn’t the whole reason—the why of it is
most practical and earthy—I make it black because I need a
black spot in the picture so many times—and his head often
is the only place for it. x
And when the picture cries aloud for BLACK, why Billy’s
blond head must go.
He is the acto/ with the yearning eyes, the eagle nose, the
tender mouth. And he follows Betty with wide arms the world
around, crying, “Come to me, picture girl—lift up your lips
to me 1”
He’s always in love, too.
It’s a mutual admiration affair—“arms all ’round!”
Here they are, the three of them—the pawns that I move
about in different figures day by day
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
By ANNA KATHARINE jGREEN
One of the Greatest Mystery Stories Ever Written
; The Cure for
Jealousy
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
Y OUR husband's sister is jealous
of you and wants to get him
away from you. does she, little
woman? You've been married two
years and every time ydu’ve quar
reled, it’s been about that sister or
something: she tried to get your hus
band to do. She makes fun of you
and he can’t see it. She gets you
into false positions and he can’t re
alize it. She makes you believe your
husband wishes he’d marry the girl
he was so sweet or> before he met
you and you cry and tell him you
wish he’d married his old sweet
heart, ->so there!
Doesn’t Do Any Good.
And then he's cross and won*t
speak for a day and you wish you
were dead and she always happens
in to see you Just at that time and
gets you to say things you don’t
mean and, oh dear, what shall you
do, and was ever a human being so
afflicted before?
There, there, little girl, don't cry.
It doesn’t do a bit of good, the cry
ing. It does harm—-lots of harm—
that’s why the Jealous sister Is al
ways making you do it, she wants
to do you harm, poor silly, small-
minded thing, and you are playing
right into her foolish hands, you
funny little woman, you.
Turn right around in those tracks
of yours and turn to-day—this very
hour. She wants to make you quar
rel with your husband—well, don’t
you do it. Be sweet to him, sweeter
than sugar ever dared to be. Tell
him how nice he Is and hosv good to
look at, and how clever, and tell
him you are sorry for the old sweet
heart. She must feel dreadfully at
having to give him up—and say you
don’t blame her at all for loving him,
and tell him you think his sister is
sweet and tell sister so, too.
Every time sister tries to hurt
your feelings, act* as if you thought
she loved you sincerely and was
trying to help you and be, oh so
grateful and so good and so loving.
Tell siister how much brother loves
her, and how you admire him for
It. Tell sister how you love brother
and how anxious you are fo^ brother
to love you. Tell brother that you
want sister to like you—and never,
never let her dream that you think
she is mean, or scheming, or jealous,
or anything that she should not be.
Don’t understand, don’t see, don’t
realize—don’t you know that a soft
bran wall is the beMt thing in the
world to keep out a bullet? They’ve
found that out In the army. Don’t
let a lot of fool tacticians know more
than you do. Be soft, be sw’eet, be
yielding—and she can’t even touch
you.
| Don’t Fight Back.
Fight back and she’s got you
beaten before she begins. That’s
what she wants—to make you flgh f .
Don’t satisfy her. You won brother
from all the re^t of the world full of
girln. He must have liked something
about you to make him do that.
Find out what that something is—
and practice it day and night and all
the time—sister couldn’t keep him
away from you when he was just a
sweetheart. * Why, she hasn't even *
chance now that you are his wife.
Make his home the sweetest, pleas
antest place on earth for him. Let
her do all the quarreling, all the
fighting, all the disagreeable things.
AMSOciatc yourself in his mind with
all the pleasant things—a low voice,
a light laugh, a happy smile, a good
dinner, quiet peace; love and laugh
ter Sister can never fight that eorar-
bintion in 'all the world. Try it and
see—you’ll be amazed to And how it
will work.
Nearly.
"Dear Mabel,” he began, "do you love
me?"
"O-h, George!"
"Don't you, Mabel? Just a little tiny
bit?"
"Well, y-e-s, George."
"And if I married you would your
father give us a separate establish
ment?"
"Yes, George."
"And take me into partnership?"
"Yes, George."
"And would your mother ktiep away
from us except wher. I Invited her?”
"Seh would, George."
“And your brothers and sisters, too?"
"She would, George."
“And, of course, the old gent would
settle my debts?"
“Of course, George."
"And buy an automobile and provide
Now that ships that fly in the air
and pictures that talk have come true,
some genius may discover a way to
make platonic friendship work.
Be careful about your "innocent
flirtations”—it is easy to start some
thing, but not quite so simple to stop
it when you have had enough. The
party of the second part may want to
keep on going.
gist*. Write the Lehman F-aboratory. Phiia-
.klphia. I’*.. for booklet telling of reeo?eriea
and additional evidence.
(Copyright, 1913, by Anna Katharine
Green.)
TO-DAY’S INSTALLMENT.
The packet might have been removed
from the table before that gentleman
took his place at the curtain; and, if so,
the probabilities were that he did not
even know of its existence.
As he asked himself this question, he
raised his head and unconsciously
glanced about. As he did so his eyes
fell on a certain chintz-covered sofa
that filled one corner of the apartment
in which he sat; and remembering that
it was the one article which Genevieve
had requested to have brought over
from her old home, he rose hurriedly
and approached it. It was old, it was
ugly, it was uncomfortable; he had
never seen her lie or even sit on it, and
yet she had not been easy till it was
brought into the house and established
in this bijou room, where each and
every object surrounding it was a work
of the highest art and greatest expense.
There must be a reason for this inter
est in so incongruous an article. Could
it be—he did not complete his thought
but rapidly stooped and ran his hand
around the seat.
He stopped suddenly. He had touched
something smooth and firm and round.
It was a roll of paper, and, the moment
he drew it ut he recognized it for the
one he was In search of by the looks of
the writing upon it and the small thread
of blue ribbon that surrounded it.
But before pursuing the matter fur
ther; before even V undoing the roll he
held in his hand, he went in to look
at his wife again, for he was not easy
long away from her side, and though
the minutes had been few since he had
seen her, an occurrence of such impor
tance had taken place that it seemed
a# if hours instead of minutes had
elapsed.
When he returned, he closed the doors
between and took up the roll. About to
pierce the secrets of another soul, he
had a moment of recoil. But an in
stant memory of his purpose gave him
tiie hardihood he required, and, tear
ing off the simple blue ribbon that held
the sheets together, he smoothed them
out before him, and took his first glance.
Great heaven! this was no man’s writ
ing; nor was it such as he would ex
pect from the woman he believed Mil
dred Farley to be. It was—he stoped
wth a gasp, looked around him to see
that he had not lost control of his reas
on, and then glanced hack. The effect
upon him was the same, it Tt was noi
his own wife’s writing, it was so like
it. Jumping up, h# procured the two or
three notes she had written him before
they were married and compared them
with the lines lying before him. The
chirography was identical. The words
he was destined to read were Gene
vieve’s! written to whom, and for what?
This was the secret it had now become
his duty to unravel.
Glimpses of a Buried History.
Meanwhile Mr. Gryce was engaged
upon quite a different search. Con
vinced by Mrs. Cameron’s evasions and
by the ravaging effects of his* examina
tion upon her that a murder and not a
suicide had taken place in Genevieve
Gretorex’s room, he found it had become
his duty to discover what motive this
petted child of fortune could have had
for desiring the death of so humble a
person as her dressmaker, as it had
become that of the doctor to establish
the sufficiency of Mildren Farley’s own
despair for the tragedy which termi
nated her existence.
He went, therefore, to work upon this
matter with his usual vigor and pre
cision, his method of procedure having
0*1 e point in similarity with that of Dr.
Cameron. This was that it started with
a fact of which he had spoken to no one
and which dated back to the moment
when Mrs. Gretorex first heard from his
lips that her daughter had been inter
ested in a person by the name of Farley.
That name—he was sure of it—had
awakened memories in the elder wom
an’s breast which were connected with
some secret she sought to hide and
which it disturbed her to think had been
discovered by her daughter. . Whatever
k the secret was. whether of honor or dis
honor. happiness or unhapplnen, it was
evidently one that he ought to make his
own; for upon these old family secrets
present crimes often hang like the final
link upon the end of a rusty chain.
To Mrs. Olney’s house he therefore
repaired, and after some talk with that
lady, sat down before the trunk which
held the effects of Mildred Farley. But
he did not remain there long, for the
letters he found were such as he had
seen before, and consisted of school girl
notes, interesting enough to the writer
perhaps, but of no value to one on the
search for tiny kind of knowledge. Be
sides it was not in the letters written
to Mildred that he expected to find the
clew he was seeking, if the secret he
was after was an old on^, he would be
more likely to discover tokens of it in
the correspondence of the mother. So
he sought out Mrs. Olney again with
the question as to where he should look
for souvenirs of Mrs. Farley.
Whereupon he was directed to an old
chest in the attic, which, being emptied,
produced more than one packet of just
such letters as he desired to see, old
letters with discolored writin, some of
them bearing the date of ten years
back and some of them of twenty. With
these in his hand he felt that he held
the key to the widow’s history, and
going back Into the room provided for
his use by the accomim>datlng landlady,
he set about perusing them with all the
care and circumspection of which he
was capable.
They were from various persons, must
of them women, and il was not long be
fore he discovered that those signed
with the name of Annie showed the
most familiarity with the widow’s af
fairs, as well as expressed the most af
fectionate interest In her. To these
therefore he paid the most heed, and
was soon rewarded for his efforts by
gaining a very good idea of Mrs. Far
ley's early life and circumstances.
They were such as are very apt to
follow a runaway match such as hers
had evidently been; six months of ex
treme Joy, followed by sickness, want
and growing neglect on the part of him
who led her Into this trouble A few
months later and the sickness had In
creased and the poverty deepened; then
some blow, dreadful but keen, called out
the hurried line, "O, my poor darling,
bear up till I come; you shall not en
dure this fearful grief alone!" after
which there was a lapse of letter writ
ing on the part of this person for
months, and when it was taken up
again the frequent expressions of sym
pathy for her correspondent’s widow
hood, showed what this grief had prob
ably been; though there were other and
less comprehensible allusions to some
great sacrifice she had made, which
threw an air of mystery over this por
tion of the correspondence that for some
time the detective found It Impossible
to penetrate.
Not till he read in a much later let
ter. "I hope your sweet little Mildred Is
well; I wonder if the other one has
flourished as rapidly and looks as well,"
did the light he was seeking break Tn
upon this seemingly commonplace his
tory. Then indeed he appeared to catch
a glimpse of something tnat might lead
him out of the maze ills imagination
had’wrought for itself, and he ad
dressed his attention to the remaining
letters of the packet with renewed in
terest. But beyond a sympathetic word
here and there, and some expressions
of relief that }lrs. Farley had had the
courage to resign a part of her bur
den In order that the rest might be
sustained, he found nothing to corrob
orate his suspicions till he suddenly
stumbled upon these words at the be
ginning of a letter dated from New
Y ork:
"I have news for you. T have seen
her. and she is as much like Mildred
as any little lady brought up in the
lap of luxury could be like a child
who has not always had two pairs of
shoes for her feet. I met her as she
was going to school. I was on the
sidewalk In front of the house, and she
passed so near me I could have caught
her in my arms. Why didn’t I?
"She would only have thought me
crazy, and that wouldn’t have done me
any harm, while the letting her go by
me as if her sweet body did not con
tain a drop of my blood did. But her
rich dress and the haughty way in
which she held up her head overawed
me, and I did not even follow her down
the street, though I own my heart went
after her almost as much as if she had
been my own child. What grief, what
longing must be yours! I appreciate it
now that I have seen with my eyes this
facsimile of the darling you have re
tained for your own solace.”
And this letter was signed Annie like
the rest, and bore a date only ten years
back.
After this Mr. Gryce was not aston
ished to fin<^ a change In the direction
of the epistles addressed to Mrs. Far
ley. From being sent to a small town
in Ohio, th^y were .now Inscribed to a
certain number in Bleecker street. New
York. The widow had moved herself
and her child to the great metropolis,
and henceforth the letters recognized the
fact that a stern conflict was going on
in her breast, that, added to her daily
struggle for bread, was fast undermin
ing what little health she had.
At last, words of condolence took
the place of words of hope, as the two
struggles culminated; followed by sud
den congratulations that she had found
strength in her weakness, £Tnd had not
only been saved from breaking a most
solemn oath, but had found in the
child who shared her life fortunes a help
and comfort that would yet compensate
her for all she had lost and suffered.
And then a sudden failure on the part
of Annie to write; with hurried lines,
manifestly from some other member of
this same Annie’s household in which
hojie was expressed that Mrs Farley
was well and news given of the Invalid,
as Annie was henceforth called; winding
up with this single injunction In the old
handwriting, "Do lie careful; Mildred's
happiness as well as that of the other
depends upon keeping things as they
are. Remember your oath."
And the packet was exhausted. But
what had he not learned? Or, at least,
what was lip not at liberty to surmise?
Procuring the date at which the first
mention of Mildred was made, and stor-
irfg up In his deep memory the name of
the tow’ll from which came these letters
signed Annie, he left Mrs. Olney with
a sense of great professional compla
cency, notwithstanding the secret dread
which sprang upon the track of a crime
destined to plunge a beautiful woman
and a noble man into a pit of shame
and dishonor.
What he did with the facts hp now
gleaned and what result followed his
pursuit of the unknown Annie to her
place of residence, 1 leave film to tell
for himself in the ensuing chapter.
To Be Continued To-morrow.
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