Newspaper Page Text
A Bachelor’s
Diary
Thoroughbreds—East and West <£
Copyright, 1918. Intern*Uon*l New* Senior
BY NELL BRINKLEY
By MAX.
A UGUST 23.—Being a copy of my
letter to Sally Spencer, who la
away off In Paris, while I am
confined to the house by Illness up here
hi the northernmost woods of the most
unspellable name:
My Dear Sally: Richards tells me
that you are solicitous about me. I
wonder If you are. It Is hard to believe
a woman is solicitous about a man
when she enjoys herself shopping In
Paris, while he lies sick and suffering
up In the northernmost woods of the
United States, unprotected from wild
Indians and pretty nurses.
I am sure If you could realize what 1
weird mysterious sounds there are up
here In the night, and which can mean
nothing: else but hobgoblins, ghosts and
Indians, you would realize my peril. For
when I call out for some one to shut out
their demoniacal shrieks and walls and
comfort me, there comes a very pretty
nurse, warm and sweet and rosy from
the nap she is trying to snatch some
where In the dim recesses of my room,
and puts her arms around me and is
most soothing^an<i tender
So you see. when I turn for help In
one peril, I am confronted by a greater
one, and there is no Book of Warnings
you could send that would help me. for
this stiffly starched person wouldn't let
me see it If you sent one.
Bhe Is a most domineering person.
Small, oh, very much smaller than you.
I am anxious to grow strong enough
to stand on my feet to see if she
reaches my heart. I mean, of course,
In stature. If she has reached It or
not, otherwise. Is a matter of no con
cern to you, away off there In Paris
enjoying yourself matching ribbons and
laces, while I am so sick here.
She has beautiful eyes, and the soft
est hair, and it Is her own, for I have
seen her comb. A sick man Is privi
leged to see a great deal which Is oth
erwise forbidden. I suppose It is to
make up for the calomel, being the
compensation found in every sting.
And when I call her, she comes
promptly, though she hasn’t had time
to put on her top layer of starched
things. When I rebuke her and tell
her It is not nice to be so hee^Rss of
my innate modesty, she says I am get
ting well fast That Is one sign a man
is out of danger when he begins to
notice what his nurse hasn’t on.
So you see, dear, my peril. Indians
without, for I hear strange noises In the
night, and a pretty nurse within.
The doctor says I am improving, but
very, very slowly. The pretty nurse says
if I continue to mend so rapidly she
will be compelled to demand a chaperon.
And there you are. One says one thing
and one another.
I think there la something wrong
with my spine, for when I try to move
it is to learn how very limited is my
vocabulary of swear words I have
grown so dependent on the help of the
pretty nurse that sometimes I cant
feed myself unless one arm is around
her neck. Isn't It distressing how help
less a sick man is when there is a
pretty nurse around? But then of
course, you are not a man and don t
understand. . , T
I think .in my next Incarnation 1
would like ,j be a tree. A tree lives so
much more sturdily and dies so much
more gracefully than a man. I said
something to this effect to the nurse, and
she replied that if 1 were a tree in my
next incarnation, she supposed it would
be of the lemon family. .....
August 24.—I am writing this letter on
the installment plan, not that I get tired
Writing, as i did when first injured, but
the nurse won’t let me write, and when
she came home yesterday and caught
me at it she scolded me. ... ^
This second installment Is written
while she and Manette have gone to
hunt wild blackberries, and Richards
will mail It to you before she returns.
She saye she Is jealous of my un-
lm i°suppose e i P s°hotfui t 'have reminded her ) If you happen to break a glass or
that she had no right to be jealous of j valuable glass ornament, It can ef-
attybody, but I am afraid If I offended | fectually and easily be mended in
her she wouldn't come to relieve my | t j,e f 0 n 0w j n g wa y : Melt a little lsln-
apprehension when I imagine 1 near ( g]as)5 , n splritg of wlne; ad(J a small
rt'nlght S S h^»ys it is only tl.e wind. , quantity of water; warm the mix-
and I am sure when day comes that it | ture gently over a moderate Are. When
was but at night when everyone In the mixed, by thoroughly ipeltlng. It will
house is asleep but the nurse and my- | form a perfectly transparent glue,
self it is quite natural and manlike that j which will unite glass so nicely and
I should grow more afraid ..I firmly that the Joint will scarcely be
ten nothing 3 ^hat" 1 vMh exrjte your'appre- ! Perceptible to the most cltteal eye.
henslon or cause you to cut short your
childish enjoyment of matching ribbons ( j ron m old stains spread In any
and laces in Earls. It Is^ Just as f lf ; fabric they come in contact with In
that the ocean rolls between us, for if | w h Tn remove them ctrptrh
you were here the pretty nurse would JJJ® ™ a f n - 10 remove tnem stretch
not let you see me the stained part over a basin nearly
Little Bobbie’s
Pa
T1
TE horsewoman of the West (yon meet her on a bend of a high
mountain road—you ask your way of her on the prairie trail in
New Mexico and Arizona, across sage and pine, over mild farm
land of the Middle West, over the placid rivers and the mild, gentle
hills of the far East—over all that lies between them)—the horsewoman
of the West looks Into the eyes of the horsewoman of the East. And
they smile! For they are the pick of tholr kind ar.d thoroughbreds,
and can afford to be gracious, as beauty can afford to be sweet to
beauty, in the East and the West alike the nondescript rider fills the
bridle paths, rigged out more or less alike, though perhaps you will
not believe that. You can scarcely tell one from the other save in
their degrees of bad riding. But the thoroughbreds, horse and rider,
East and West, the crack players of the riding game, stand as wide
apart In looks and manner as the poles. Only In these things are they
“blood”—their perfect "form” of so different a kind, their oneness—
the girl and the animal between her knees, the fear they never know
and the hearts that beat beneath shirts and chestnut hides!
East has her short-backed pony with his three-quarter bobbed tall;
her slippery little eggshell of a saddle, her short stirrup almost as
delicate and clean-cut as an engagement ring, her thorough mouthful
of bits, reins held taut but with fine feeling, and give to her hand and
the cruel curb a trifle more lax than the kinder snaffle. Over her
shoulder she carries her mallet, pointing to the misty blue heaven of
the Ea3t. She wears outing shirt, gloves, Jockey-lilte cap with Its
bird beak, white breeches, a short sleeveless coat, dull finished boots.
She is a perfect picture, shorn of useless ornament, a clean silhouette
fitted to the bald, green lawns and white balustrades of the Eastern
country, whose coloring is quiet, rich and cultured. Her hair Is close
and sleek like the lawns and as the mane and foretop of her brainy
pony are shaven.
West has her long-headed, sllm-legged pinto with his hint of the
Arab-Spanish horse who turned wild, bred 1. the Far West when It was
new. Foretop and mane are long as banners and wind-whipped. The
girl’s hair whips in the wind to match. Her bridle Is as simple a thing
as the Indians, with a trace of the silver and Jingle about It that the red
man loved. She has one bit—a curb—that, under a hand fine In feel
ing, Is a double one—tender snaffle and subduing curb. Sometimes
you will find her with bridle hung to saddle horn, the pony’s mouth
free, traveling In halter and single rein. Her saddle Is the “jhalr
saddle” of knighthood. There Is much leather and comfort about it
and she hugs It like a cavalryman. Bhe wears soft hat with wide brim
and three dimples In the crown; soft skirt, gloves, broad belt of leather,
skirt short and divided, and the tan of the desert, sturdy boots, heavy
of sole and broad of toe. Her stirrup Is a broad, safe thing that half
swallows her little foe.. Her rope swings like a coiled snake against
her Knee aud she doesn't like It new! Beside her the tall blossom of
the Spanish bayonet points to the ylyld blue of the Western sky. Her
tans and golds, flowing mane and tall of hair match the brilliant
yet thinly lovely cqlorlng of the West—the sage, the singing hills, the
ethereal distances.
Far apart they look—both thoroughbreds, crack players, harmoni
ous, in perfect form with the lands they are the flowers of. On the polo
field, wild mane and tall, loose hair and soft gray hat and much saddle
leather, would violate your eyes. In the vasty mountain and prairie
land, wrappe pony legs, shaven foretop and tail, rln stirrup and polo
coat would smash the picture Into bits. Each In the other's domain
would Beem flapping with useless trappings. In their own they are
fit and trim.
Only in these things are they of one blood—their perfect "form”
of so different a kind, their oneness—the girl and the nntmal between
her knees ,and the hearts that beat beneath shirts and chestnut hides.
HELL BRIHKLEY.
Household Suggestions
She won’t let the suffragette who
comes over from the hotel with bou
quets of yellow flowers and soothing
literature on “That Monster Man’’ get
Inside the gate. . .
“Are you jealous of her? I asked
one dav, and she said no, she wasn’t;
that when a man was sick, the last
women who could ever interest him was
a suffragette. Sometimes, when I de
clare the noises of the night are par
ticularly weird, she says it is the suffra
gette haranguing outside.
T repeat, Bally Dear, that I hope I
have written nothing that will disquiet
you. Borne days I think I am going to
die, and then I know you will be sor
ry you didn't come to save me, and the
thought always makes me feel better.
Like all the men, Sally. I find comfort
In the picture of a string of women
weeping over my grave.
But the pretty nurse say's I—Here I
f o again talking about the nurse when
intended to write nothing more than
good-bye.
Your—How shall T sign myself? Do
you insist on "friend.” Little Woman?
Perhaps that would he better, for .some
one might see it—the nurse, I mean,
not Jack.
Your friend, MAX.
full of boiling water, so that the
steam may penetrate the fabric, and
apply with a feather a teaspoonful
of lemon juice. When the marks dis
appear dip the material well Into the
hot water; afterward rinse very thor
oughly in cold water.
Make a paste the thickness of
cream with whitening and water, and
rub back over the top, sides, shelves,
door and back of the oven when
cleaning. Leave the door open for
a few minutes to dry. If this is done
once a week It will prevent burning.
Before scraping new potatoes, let
them soak for a little while in water
to which a piece of common washing
soda has been added. This will make
them scrape easily, and they will not
stain the fingers.
Always put a piece of muslin round
the band underneath the ribbon or
silk when trimming a hat. This srfves
the hatpins from breaking the straw.
The Tide
A Thrilling Short Story, Complete
T
The Best Food-Brink Lunch at Fountains
Insist Upon
ORIGINAL UADB lAR/^C
GENUINE HiH% LI
Avoid Imitations—Take No Substitute
Rich milk, malted grain, in powder form. More healthful than tea or coffee.
For infants, invalids and growing children. Agrees with the weakest digestion.
Purenutrition.upbuildingthewholebody. Keep it on your sideboard at home.
Invigorates nursing mothers and the aged. A quick lunch prepared in a minute.
HE little woman with the thin,
reddish gray hair threw a peb
ble into the water and said,
“Ah, me!" because she knew that n
half an hour the tide would turn and
she must go back to the convalescent
home on the cliff.
“The matron gave me till then,”
she said to the man at her side, “and
she’s been so good to me while I’ve
been there that I wouldn’t upset her
for the world. If I told her that I’d
bet you—after nil these years! If
I told her of what’s happened >”
“She wouldn’t believe it,” said tha
man sighing. “T can hardly believe
It myself. But I knew it was you
when I looked down from the prom
enade."
“I’m changed, Joe?” she suggested,
wistfully.
“Thirty years would change any
body.”
“Fifty-one next birthday—if It
comes. Sometimes—only sometimes,
Joe—I hope that it won’t come.”
Different Thoughts.
“I’m fifty-six,” he said, encourag
ingly, “but I never hope like that. ’
“They say that you’re very—very
rich ?”
“Plenty of money,” he said, quietly,
“but not rich. It’s when I look at
you that I feel poor, and miserable,
and helpless."
She laughed feebly.
"Thirty years!” she said again,
“And in all that time I’ve not heard
from you once.”
“Why did you go away? In the
beginning, I mean."
“When you came back from India?”
“Yes. Thirty years ago.”
“T left a letter for you.”
"1 have it low. You didn’t want to
see me again. Said there was some
body else. Said you were going
abroad.”
She was silent for a moment.
Then:
“You didn’t guess that It was a
He? You heard about father?”
An Honest Man.
“That would have made no differ
ence to me.”
“But he was a clergyman. That
made his sin the greater in the eyes
of the world. He never meant to To
anything that was wrong. I’m cer
tain of that. There was no fraud 'n
his heart; he believed there was
money at the bank to meet the
check.”
“He died?”
“Heart failure—just before the in
spector came to the house.”
“And you?”
“Ah! You’d have married me !n
spite of it all. But was It fair to
you? Always they would have re
minded you of it, and someone—I
forget who It was—said to me, ‘He
may be the greatest engineer the
world has ever known; he may como
back with a fortune, but Society’—
what did she mean by Society?—‘has
a long memory, and It’ll pity him
and you.' You married soon after
ward, didn’t you, Joe?”
“Three months. I was mad with
disappointment. I went out of the
house, after reading your letter, and
swore that I’d marry the first woman
who would accept me.”
“Steady, Joe! She was a good wife
to you.”
“Nobler than I. But she knew, I
think. Many a time 1 found her In
tears.”
“I’ve never cried,” said the little
woman, “never cried for 30 years. I
was past crying.”
The man said in a low. faraway
voice:
“I cried when she went; I cried
when the two boys were cut up In
South Africa; when the girl slipped
from me. I believe—I believe that I
cursed M
“Joe!”
“And when the last one I had was
lost here—here In this very bay—1
gave up entirely. The hand was
against me! That’s how I felt.”
“I read of It In the newspaper. He
was trying to save two children.”
“He got them on to the end of the
groyne before he was carried away
by the current.”
“And they never found him?”
“That’s why I’m here—looking for
him. I’m always her*—watching and
waiting. The tide’s cruel, Margot.”
“Just like life, Joe,” she whispered.
Again a long silence. The sun was
going down behind the Heads; a trail
of gold and amber and mauve lay
across the water, like a glorious path
way to the distant horizon. On the
promenade behind the little woman
with the reddish-gray hair and the
man who was rich, yet poor, the
crowds of holidaymakers paced to
and fro; the band on the pier away
to the right played melody after mel
ody, as though It knew the hearts of
two old children were beating in har
mony A boy of four ran down the
beach in defiance of a hysterical nurse
who called to him from the prome
nade. He w'as throwing pebbles in
the water, when a wave came surging
in. The little woman with the red - |
dish-gray hair ran toward the child !
and caught him by the arm. She
•poke to him very tenderly, and he I
turned obediently, and went back i
with her to his nurse. The watching j
man saw her kiss the child. When
she came back to his side her eyes j
were glistening.
“Thirty years!” she murmured “I-
can hardly believe it. • • • I’m glad
Up-to-Date Jokes
By WILLIAM T. KIRK.
M ISSUS BMITH la going to bring
her husband up to »ee u» to-
nlte, sed Ma. You ought to
meet her husband, beekaus he Is vary
brilyunt.
That is nice, sed Pa. I always like
to meet brilyunt people. It maike
me feel at hoam to find a other bril-
yunt man with wich to talk with.
What Is he, a actor?
No, sed Ma, he is a lawyer, but he
Is the gratest con-ver-aaahunallsrt
that I ever liesend to. The art of
plesant conversashun Is rapidly bee-
cumlng a thing of the past, sed Ma,
the saim as the art of polite letter
ritelng.
That Is vary true, sed Pa. In the
old days a young man wud rite a bu-
tiful letter to a yung lady, telling how
he was drawn toward her by sum
mystlck .spell fo nowadays, Pa sed,
If a yung man rites to a yung lady
at all, he rites like this: Say, kiddo,
youso have sure got me winging. I’m
so strong for you I feel like flandow.
yours to a crisp. Jack. That is the
kind of polite letters that gurls git
nowadays, Pa oed.
I know you will like Mister Smith,
Ma sed. He has traveled far and
wide. He knows grate men In every
land fo he tells it all so Interesting.
You think you are In a trance all the
time he Is telling about his adven
tures.
I bet he hasent had anv moar ad
ventures than I have, sed Pa.
Oh, yes he has, sed Ma, hi* is reel
adventures. You maik up a lot of
yure adventurea Walt till you heer
his conversashun.
Jest then Missus Smith fo her hus
band cairn. He was a tall, thin man
& he looked like a skool teacher. He
talked like one. too. I never herd so
many big words.
I am vary pleesed to meet you. sed
Pa wen he was lnterduced to Mister
fimith. My wife was telling me that
you have traveled far.
I have been contiguous to sum vary
reemoat parts of the earth, sed Mister
Smith. I think I may say without
feer of successful eon-tradlckshun
that I have been adjacent to or di
rectly in many of the moaat unpene
trated parts of the wruld. The fact
that I am a Nomad Is in-dub-ital, he
sed to Pa.
So It wuld seem, sed Pa. I used to
nomad a lot, too, until I got sick of
roaming fo settled down.
But your travel has been tnflnlte*-
mal compared to the roaming I have
did. sed Mister Smith. Why. beefoar
I was twenty I had been thru all of
TTraguav & Paraguay, wleh I suppoas
you mite be sed to be in juxta-
poslnhun.
& to deeskrlbe my peregTinashuns
! thru Africa wuld talk a week of
j steddy conversashun sed Mister
| Smith. Africa Is a somber continent,
fo to attempt to deeskribe its brood
ing misterv were futll, he sed. It
wud he too copious for yure limited
comprehenehun. Even if T were to
I reelate these things succinctly, sed
j Mister Smith, fo even If you fo I
agreed that I shud talk that length of
time, I feer that you wud wish to
abrogate that agreement beefoar my
be-wildering flow of w’ords was half
finished.
Then doant peregrinate, sed Pa.
I/et us talk about baseball. I was
heaping Huggins wud win the Nash-
unal Leeg pennant for St. Txniif*, Pa
sed, but I see he got kind of left at
the post.
Baseball does not Interest me. sed
Mister Smith. I wud fain converse
of other things things less of the
soil and moar etheerial. So he con
versed of other thlnes fo at last all
i of us except him wud fain go to bed.
I am glad Pa Isent brilyunt, he talks
enuff now.
SNAP SHOTS
By LILLIAN LAUFERTY.
D EAR love, a little column here
To you I am erecting;
A shrine, at least, from custom
old.
I fear you are expecting.
Be grateful, please, Q! Love, for I
Find raising columns rather hard.
For shrines, or temples there’s no
hope.
I’m not an architect—hut bard.
To-day folk* worship other gods.
The love of Love is now called gam.
mon,
Be thankful for your column. Love—
Temples to-day belong to Mam
mon.
* • •
MAIDEN MUSINGS — WHEN LOVE
IS DONE.
When a man get tired of her, the
wise woman says. “Amen.”
To lose friendship is sorrow, to lose
love is bitterness—but true tragedy
never dawns till both are gone.
The fragrance of a rose’s fallen
petals the sweetness of a kiss of
yesterday may linger in memory—but
an unwithered geranium has more
perfume.
In order to be part of life, we must
exhale love—for when the sun’s heat
and light fail, we will not know
there is a sun.
Love stumbles often when the path
is smooth, and leaps gayly. on
winged feet, over great obstacles.
Friendship may grow to love—but
life does not offer a perfect circle—
Leve can not forget Its flowers and
veil and be nun-ilke friendship.
• * •
I did not keep the rose he brought
After its day;
Although it lived a longer time
Than other roses may.
I let It go the way of a’l
For this one fear.
Because it might persuade my heart
That he was growing dear.
But now my heart is well assured,
And still I sing,
And no one here could ever know.
That T miss anything.
—Josephine Preston Peabody.
Accommodating’.
that I haven’t changed so much after
all.”
“You’ll never change,” he said. He
touched her hand. Bhe looked down.
He was holding a letter.
“Yours,” he said, In a whisper. “I’ve
kept It all these years.”
“And If you hadn’t met me you’d
have gone on keeping It?”
“Right to the very end.”
She took the letter from him, and
read It again and again.
A Hard Task.
“It was the hardest thing I ever
did,” she said, and there was a break
in her voice. “It took hours and
hours to write that letter, but some
thing told me It was the right thing
to do.”
“You should have waited—you
should have had more confidence In
me."
“Ah. me!” she sighed. “Moat
tragedies grow' out of little mistakes,
misunderstandings.”
He nodded listlessly.
“That sewing machine,” he said,
abruptly. “What did you mean by
that?”
"There was nothing else that I
could do. I don't think I could live
without the notae of the machine.
The sea's like It sometimes—when it |
comes over the stones. Makes you
feel lonely, doesn’t It? And yet It;
soothes.”
“The tide’s turning,” he said, and
he drew her closer to him.
“Turning,’’ ho whispered, and he
took the 30-year-old letter from her,
tore it. #nd threw the pieces on the
receding w'aters.
The wind that was taking the tide
out caught fragment# of the music as
It drifted from the pier, and carried
them out and away.
The reddish-gray hair was half hid
den by the man’s right arm. The
bell cea.sed to ring. The little woman
said: “God, Joe!” as though all the
happiness taken from 30 years had
been brought back to her in that mo
ment.
“Alfred, have you got everything?"
tenderly Inquired Baron Southmont’s
wife, as he started off on a Journey.
The billionaire burst into tears.
“There you go!” he exclaimed. “Al
ways saying things to give me pain.
You know very well, In ppite of all
my efforts, I haven’t yet succeeded in
getting everything."
Retired Haberdasher (late of Lon
don)—Now, then, ’Enery, I’m goin’ to
have a large party ’ere next week,
and I shall expect an unlimited quan
tity of milk, cream and butter. After
that the cows can ’ave a rest till me
an’ Mrs. P. return from the Conte-
nong.
“That’s a fine-looking old gentle
man! Bleater’s father, isn’t he?”
asked a collegian of a friend.
“Yes," was the answer, “but he Is
a champion at breaking his word!”
“You don’t nay so?"
“Yes—he stutters!"
Nurse (taking his temperature) —
Sir, you are In danger; your tempera
ture is 104.
Business Man—When it reaches 103
sell.
“Yes, it took me three months to
learn all about this motorcycle.”
“And what have you got for your
pains?”
“Liniment.”
“I hope you pray for all your
brothers and sisters, Dorothy?”
“Oh, no, auntie. I only pray for
baby; the others can pray for them-
eelvea”
Strangers Yet.
A negro woman In Savannah was
preparing to get married. For four
weeks before the ceremony she saved
up her wages, and Immediately after
the wedding she hunted up her mis
tress and asked her to take charge
of the fund.
‘Til take It. of course,” said the
puzzled lady: “but, Mandy, won’t you
be needing your money to spend on
your honeymoon?”
“Miss Mnv,” mid the bride, "does
you think I’se goln’ to trust myself
wid a strange nigger and all dat
money on me?”
FRECKLE-FACE
Sun and Wind Bring Out Uoly Spots.
How to RemOv* Easily.
Here’s a oh&nco. Miss Freckle- Fare,
to try a remedy for freckles with the
guarantee of a reliable dealer that It
will not cost you a penny unless It
remove* the freckles; while lf It does
give you a olear complexion the ox-
penn* is trifling.
Simply get an ounce of othino—
double strength—from Jacobs' Phar
macy and a few applications should
show you how easy it Is to rid your
self of the homely freckles and get
a beautiful complexion. Rarely Is
more than one ounce needed for the
worst case.
Be sure to ask the dri:gg1at for the
double strength othine, as this Is the
prescription sold under guarantee of
money back if it falls to remove
freckles.
1!
Good teeth
Good health
with
Certain Relief
from headaches, dull feelings, and low® * I
from headaches, dull feelings, and
fatigue of biliousness, comes quickly
— and permanent improvement in
bodily condition follows--after your
stomach, liver and bowels have
been toned and regulated by
"Walter, this knife is duil. and the |
Steak is like leather."
"Yes, sir. You can sharpen the j
knife on the steak, air.”
►id «»Ci J -vh.. o.
La boa... 10c., 2So.
RIBBON
DENTAL CREAM
.\yV
Delicious a/* 1
Efficient
COMES OUT
A RIBBON LIES
FLAT ON THE BRUSH
l!!!!l!iliDII!ll!>l