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A' By MAX. TJGUS1 23.—Being a copy of my letter to Sally Spencer, who la away off in Paris, while I am conhned to he house by Illness up here In the nortl ernmost woods of the most unspellable lame: My B«*.r Sally: Richards tells me that you a *e solicitous about me. I wonder if y< u are. It is hard to believe a woman s solicitous about a man when she «njoys herself shopping in Paris, while he lies sick and suffering up in the northernmost woods of the United Stales, unprotected from wild Indians and pretty nurses. I am sun if you could realize what weird myst< rlous 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 « ut for some one to shut out their demon acal shrieks and wails and comfort me, there comes a very pretty nurse, warn and sweet and rosy from the nap she is trying to snatch some where in th dim recesses of my room, and puts h« r arms around me and is most soothli g and tender So you se j. when I turn for help in one peril, I im confronted by a greater one, and th< -e is no Book of Warnings you could s( cd that would help me. for this stiffly s arched person wouldn't let me see it if you sent one. She is a most domineering person. Small, oh, v ry much smaller than you. I am anxlo is to grow strong enough to stand o> my feet to see if she reaches my heart. I mean, of course, in stature. If she has reached it or not, otherwi ;e. is a matter of no con cern to you away off there in Paris enjoying yoi rself matching ribbons and laces, while I am so sick here. She has b« autiful eyes, and the soft est hair, an< it is her own. for I have seen her co -.b. A sick man is privi leged to see a great deal which Is oth erwise forbi Iden. I suppose it is to make up fc r the calomel, being the compensatioi found in every sting. And when I call her, she comes promptly, tt mgh she hasn’t had time j to put on er top layer of starched things. Wh sn I rebuke her and tell her it is no nice to be so heedless of my innate ir )desty, she says 1 am get ting well fas . That is one sign a man is out of d mger when he begins to notice what his nurse hasn’t on. So you se , dear, my peril. Indians without, for hear strange noises in the night, and a pretty nurse within. The doctor says I am improving, but very, very sl< wly. ’ The pretty nurse s a ys I if I continu to mend so rapidly she ■ will be comp lied to demand a chaperon, j And there yc j are. One says one thing | anq one a no her. I think tl :re is something wrong with my spii e, for when I try to move it is to lear i how very limited is my vocabulary < ! swear words I have grown so dependent on the help of the pretty nurst that sometimes I can ^ feed myself jniess one arm is around her neck. Is 1't It distressing how help less a sick man is when there - ~ pretty nurse around? course. you are not understand.^ my next incarnation I would like to be a tree. A tree lives so much more sturdily and dies so much more grace!- lly than a man. I said something to this effect to the nurse, and site replied fiat if I 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 ttrst injured, but the nurse won’t let me write, and when she came hi me ye sterday and caught me at it she scolded me. ... This secoi d installment is written while she a d Manette have gone to hunt wild b ackberries, and Richards will mail it to you before she returns. She says fhe is jealou3 of my un known corres- pendent.” . _ . . I suppose ) should have rem'nded her is But then, of man and don't ^HE horsewoman of the West (you 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 thoir 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 East. She wears outing shirt, gloves, Jockey-like cap with its bird beak, white breecheB, 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, slim legged pinto with his hint of the Arab-Spanish horse who turned wild, bred i: 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 Btngle rein. Her saddle is the "chair saddle” of knighthood. There is much leather and comfort about it and she hugs it like a cavalryman. She 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, sate thing that half swallows her little foe.,. Her rope swings like a coiled snake agaidst her Knee and she doesn't like it new! Beside her the tall blossom of the Spanish bayonet points to the vivid blue of the Western sky. Her tans and golds, flowing mane and tail of hair match the brilliant yet thinly lovely coloring 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 tail, loose hair and soft gray hat and much saddle leather, would violate your eyes. In the vasty mountain and prairie laud, wrappe pony legs, shaven foretop and tail, rin stirrup and polo coat would smash the picture into bits. Rach in the other's domain woujd seem 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 animal between her knees ,and the hearts that bet.' beneath shirts and chestnut hides. NELL BRINKLEY. Household Suggestions If you happen to break a glass or that* sheAad no" right "to be Jealous of i valuable glass ornament, it can ef anybody, but I am afraid If I offended her she wot Idn’t come to relieve my apprehension when I imagine I hear wild Indians whooping around the door at night. Sh say. it is only the wind, and 1 am su e when day comes that. it was, but at i ight when everyone in the house is asle -p but the nurse and my- fectually and easily be mended in the following way: Melt a little isin glass in spirits of wine; add a small quantity of water; warm the mix ture gently over a moderate fire. When mixed, by thoroughly melting, it will form a perfectly transparent glue. self it is quit • natural and manlike that ■ which will unite glass so nicely and I should grov more afraid _ firmly that the joint will scarcely be I hope.~S&! v dear, that I have writ ten nothing t iat will excite your appre hension or cause you to cut short jour childish enj< ■ inert of matching ribbons and laces in Paris. It is just as well that the ocei n rolls between us. for if you were he e the pretty nurse would hot let .sou s* e me. She won’t let the suffragette who comes over rom the hotel with bou quets of yel ow flowers and soothing literature on "That Monster Man get inside, the ga e. ., _ . . "Are you jealous of her? I asked one day, and she said no. she wasn t; that when a man was sick, the last woman who could ever interest him was a suffragette Sometimes, when I de clare The no’tes of the night are par ticularly weird, she says it is the suffra gette haranguing outside. I repeat, Sally Dear, that I hope I have written nothing that will disquiet you. Some / lys I think I am going to die, and ther I know you will be sor- rv you didn't come to save me. and the thought always makes me feel better. Like all the men. Pally, r find comfort in the pictu e of a string of women weeping over my grave. But the pretty nurse says I—Here I go again talking about tie nurse when I intended tc write nothing more than good-bye. _ Your—How shall I sign myself? Do you insist or "friend,” Riffle Woman' Perhaps that would be better, for some one might s ie it—the nurse, T mean, not Jack. Your frierd, MAX. perceptible to the most citlcal eye. Iron moid stains spread In any fabric they come in contact with in the wash. To remove them stretch ihe stained part over a basin nearly 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 saves the hatpins from breaking the straw. The Bzst Food-Brink Lunch at Fountaina Insist Upon i» U/IDI aeiuhe liUnLlvW 9 l void Imitations—Take No Substitute r Rich milk, n alted grain, in powder form. For infants, i ivaiids and growing children. Pure r.utritic i,upbuilding the whole body, invigorates r arsing mothers and the aged. More healthful than tea or coffee. Agrees with the weakest digestion. Keep it on your sideboard at home. A quick lunch prepared in a minute. The Tide HE littla 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 all these years! If I told her of what’s happened ” "She wouldn’t believe it,” said the man sighing. “I 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 tho beginning, I mean.” "When you came back from India?” “Yes. Thirty years ago.” "I left a letter for you.” "I 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 lie? 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 do 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 A Thrilling Short Story, Complete forget who It was—said to me, ‘He may be the greatest engineer the world has ever known; he may coma back with a fortune, but Society’— what did she mean by Society?—‘ha* 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 I 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 ” "Joe!” “And when the last one I had was lost here—here in thi3 very bay—I gave up entirely. The hand was against me! That’s how I felt.” ”1 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 here—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-gruy 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 was 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 spoke to him very tenderly, and he turned obediently, and went back with her to his nurse. The watching man saw her kiss the child When she came back to his side her eyes were glistening. “Thirty years!” she murmured. “I can hardly believe it. * * * I’m glad SNAP SHOTS By LILLIAN LAUFERTY. that I haven’t changed so much after all.” “You’ll never change,” he said. He touched her hand. She 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. “Most 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 j could do. I don’t think I could live, without the noise 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 j soothes.” “The tide’s turning,” he said, and I he drew her closer to him. “Turning,’’ he whispered, and he I took the 30-year-old letter from her, t tore it, and threw the pieces on the I * receding waters The wind that was taking the tide: Up-to-Date Jokes By WILLIAM F KIRK. M ISSUS SMITH 1b going to bring her husband up to see us to- nite, aed Mo. You ought to meet her husband, brekaus he In vary brilyunt. That is nice, sed Pa. I always like to meet brilyunt peeple. It maiks me feel at hoam to find a other bril yunt man with wlch to talk with. What is he, a actor? No, sed Ma, he Is a lawyer, but he is the gratest con-ver-eashunallst that I ever ll»send to. The art of plesant conversashun is rapidly bee- euming a thing of the past, sed Ma, the saim as the art of polite letter rltelng. That Is vary true, sed Pa. In the old days a young man wud rite a bu- tlful letter to a yung lady, telling how he was drawn toward her by sum mystlck spell & nowadays. Pa sed. If a yung man rites to a vung ladv at all, he rites like this: Say, klddo. vouse have sure got me winging. I'm *o strong for you I feel like Sandow. yours to a crisp. Jack. That Is the kind of polite letters that gurl.s git nowadays, Pa »ed. I know you will like Mister Smith, Ma sed. He has traveled far and wide. He knows grate men in every land. & he tells it all so interesting. You think you are in a trance all the time he is telling about hi* adven tures. I bet he ha sent had anv moar ad ventures than I have, sed Pa. Oh, yes he has, aed Ma. his Is reef ndventures. You maik up a lot of yure adventures. Wait till you heer his conversashun. Jest then Missus Smith & her hus band cairn. He was a tall, thin man & he looked like a skool teecher. He talked like one. too. I never herd so many bJg words. Iam vary pleesed to meet you, sed Pa wen he was interduced to Mister Smith My wife was telling me that you have traveled far. I have been contlguou* to aum vary reemoat parts of the earth, sed Mister .Smith I think I may say without feer of successful con-tradickahun that I have been adjacent to or di rectly in many of the moasrt impene trated parts of the wruld. The fact that I am a Nomad is in-dub-ital, he sed to Pa. So it wuid seem sed Ps. T used to nomad a lot, too, until I got sick of roaming & settled down. But your travel has been inflnites- mal compared to the roaming I have did. sed Mister Smith. Why. beefoar I was twenty T had been thru all of T T raguay & Paraguay, wlch T suppoas you mite be sed to be in juxta- posishun. & to dee9kribe my peregrinashuns thru Africa wukl talk a week of steddy conversashun sed Mister Smith. Africa is a somber continent, K- to attempt to dpeskribe its brood ing mistery were futil, he sed. It wud be too copious for yure limited comprehenphun Even If I were to reflate these things succinctly, sed Mister Smith, & even if you & \ agreed that T shud taTk that length of time, T feer that you wud wish to abrogate that agreement beefoar my be-wildering flow of words was half finished. Then doant peregrinate, sed Pa. Let us talk about baseball. I was hoaplng Huggins wud win the Nash- unal Leeg pennant for St. Louis. Pa eed, but T 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 & at lart all of us except him wud fain go to bed. I am glad Pa isent brilyunt, he talk* enuff now. "Alfred, have you got everything?” tenderly Inquired Baron Southmont’a 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 npite 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’» father, isn’t he?” asked a collegian of a friend. “Yes,” was the annwer, “but he is a champion at breaking his word!” “You don’t pay so?” "Yes—he stutters!” | Nurse (taking his temperature) — i Sir, you are in danger; your tempera- I ture is 104, Business Man—When it reaches 105 | sell. "Yes, It took me three months to learn all about this motorcycle.’ "And what have you got for your I painn?” "Liniment.” "I hope you pray for all your j brothers and sisters, Dorothy?” I "Oh, no, auntie. I only pray for 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. "I'll take Jt. of course,” wald the puzzled lady; “hut, Mandy, won’t you be needing your money to spend on your honeymoon?” “Miss May,” paid the bride, "does you think I’se coin’ to trust myself wld a strange nigger and all dat money on me?” 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, O! Love, for I Find raising columns rather hard. For shrines, or temples there’s no hope. I’m not an architect—but 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 M USINGS — 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 moro 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 u perfect circle— Leve can not forget its flowers and veil and be nun-like 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 all For this one fear, Because it might persuade my heart That he was growing dear. But now r my heart is well assured, And still I sing. And no one here could ever know, That I miss anything. —Jonephine Preston Peabody. Accommodating. “Waiter, this knife is dull, and the steak is like leather.” “Yes. sir. You can sharpen the knife on the steak, sir.” baby; the others can pray for them- FRECKLE-FACE i Sun and Wind Bring Out Ugly Spot*. How to R«mov« Easily. Here’s a chance, Miss Freckle-Face, to try a remedy for freckles with the guarantee of a reliable dealer that It will not cost you a penny unless it removes the freckles; while If It does give you a clear complexion the ex pense Is trifling. Simply get an ounce of othlns— double strength—from Jacobs’ Phar macy and a few applications should show you how easy it Is to rid your self of the homely freckle* and get beautiful complexion. Rarely Is more than one ounce needed for tbe ! worst case. ( Be sure to ask the druggist for the double strength othlne, as this Is the prescription sold under guarantee of money back if it falls to remove > freckles. out caught fragments of the music as it drifted ,fr->m the pier, and carried i ss them out and away. The redtjish-gray hair was half hid den hy the man’s right arm. The; bell ceased to ring. Tbe little woman I said: "God, Joel” as though all the happiness taken from 30 years had been brought back to her in that mo ment. selvea” Certain Relief 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 BEEGHAM’S FILLS B*ld everywhere. ha boxes, 10c. t 2S*. Ilillillllliilllil Good teeth Good health with COLGATE’S THAOS. RIBBON DENTAL CREAM Delicious Efficient