Newspaper Page Text
A Bachelor’s
Diary
By MAX.
A UGUST 23.—Being a copy of my
letter to Sally Spencer, who Is
away off In Paris, while I am
confined to the house by Illness up here
In the northernmost woods of the moat
unspellable rame:
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
Pa: is, 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
we rd mysterious sounds there are up
heie 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 wails and
comfort me, there comes a very pretty
nurBe. warn? 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<j 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.
She 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
see 1 her comb. A sick man is privi
leged to see a great deal which Is oth
erwise forbidden. I suppose it is to
ma ce up for the calomel, being the
con. pen sat ion 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
thli gs. When I rebuke her and tell
her it la not nice to be so heedless 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
not ce what his nurse hasn’t on.
Bo you sec, dear, my peril. Indians
without, for I hear strange noises in the
nig.it, and a pretty nurse within.
The doctor says I am improving, but
very, very slowly. The pretty nurse says
if 1 continue to mend so rapidly she
will be compelled to demand a chaperon.
Ant there you are. One says one thing
and one another.
I think there Is something wrong
with my spine, for when I try to move
It is to learn how very limited is my
vocabulary of swear wonla I have
grown so dependent on the help of the
prt: ty nurse that sometimes I can t
feet 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
cou *se you are not a man and don t
understand. , ,. T
1 think in my next incarnation I
world like to he a tree. A tree lives so
mm h 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 I were a tree In my
nex incarnation, she supposed it would
he of the lemon family. . . , ^ „
A igust 24.— I am writing this letter on
the installment plan, not that I tired
wriiing, as i did when first injured, but
the nurse won’t let me write, and when
nhe came home yesterday and caught
me at it she scolded me. n , „
This second installment is written
whi e she and Manette have to
bunt wild blackberries, and Richards
will mail it tc you before she returns.
She says she is jealous of my un
known correspondent.”
I suppose I should have reminded her
that she had no right to be Jealous of
anybody, but I am afra.d if T offended
her she wouldn't come to relieve
apprehension when 1 Imagine I
Wild Indians whooping around the door
at right. She says it Is «nly_ the ^wlnd.
Thoroughbreds—East and West ^ <£
Copyright, 1018, International News Barrio*.
BY NELL BRINKLEY
//
Little Bobbie’s
Pa
By WILLIAM F. KIBX.
M ISSTJS SMITH going to bring
her husband up to see us to-
nite.
T"
a x
iE horsewoman of the West (70a 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 ard 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 tail;
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-like 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, slim-legged pinto with his hint of the
Arab-Spanlsh horse who turned wild, bred t 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 "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, safe thing that half
swallows her little foot. Her rope swings like a coiled Bnake against
her Knee and she doesn’t like It newl 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
land, wrappe pony legs, shaven foretop and tail, rln stirrup and polo
coat would smash the picture Into bits. Rack in the other’s domain
would 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 baa*, beneath shirts and chestnut hides.
HELL BRIXKLEY.
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 malks
me feel at hoam to find a other bri;-
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-sashunallst
that I ever lissend to. The art of
plesant conversashun Is rapidly bee-
cuming a thing of the past, sed Ma,
the saim as the art of polite letter
riteing.
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 A nowadays. Pa sed
If a yung man rites to a yung lady
at all, he rites like this: flay, kiddo,
youse have sure got me winging, rm
so strong tor you I feel like Sandow.
yours to a crisp, Jack. That Is the
kind of polite letters that gurls git
powadays, Pa ®cd.
I know you will like Mister Smith,
Ma sed. He has traveled far and
wide. He knows grate men in every
land. ft he tells it all so Interesting.
You think you are in a trance all tho
time he is telling about hla adven
tures.
I bet he hasent had Anv moar ad
ventures than I have, sed Pa.
Oh. yea he has. sed Ma. his Is reel
adventures. You maik up a lot of
yure adventurea Wait till you beer
his conversashun.
Jest then Missus Smith ft her hus
band cairn. He was a tall, thin man
ft he looked like a ekool teecher. He,
talked like one. too. I never herd so
many big words.
I am vary p lee sed 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 contiguous to sum varv
reemoat parts of the earth, sed Mister
Smith. I think I may say without
of successful oqn-tradlckshun
feer
Household Suggestions
If you happen to break a glass or
valuable glass ornament, it can ef
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 n.ix-
ai t igni. »•»« “-‘VavVomes that it ture gently over a moderate fire,. When
**£1 VStTat nfght* when everyone in the mixed, by thoroughly melting, it will
u n ,;u asietn but the nurse and my- form a perfectly transparent glue.
v -opui/a that w hi C h will unite glass so nicely and
firmly that the joint will scarcely be
perceptible to the most citlcal eye.
self it is quite natural and manlike that
I should grow more afraid
I hope. Sally dear, that I have writ
ten nothing tnat will excite your appre
hension or cause you to cut short jour
childish enjoyment of matching ribbons
and laces in Paris. It I® luat&a'we fabric they come in contact with in
that the ocean ^rse' wou ld the wash - To remove them stretch
Iron mold stains spread in any
you were here
hot let you see me.
She won’t et the suffragette who
comes over from the hotel with bou-
oue ,s O' yellow flowers and soothing
Utei ature on "That Monster Man get
inside the gate. t ,
“,vre you jealous of her? 1 esked
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 s iffragette. Sometimes, when I de-
clar » the noises of the night are pnr-
tlcu arly weird, she says It is the suffra
gette harangi Ing outside.
I repeat, Sally Pear, that I hope I
have written nothing that will disquiet
cou Some days I hink I am going to
die, and then I know' you will be sor
ry you didn’t come to save me. and the
thoi ght always makes me feel better.
I.ik< all the tnen, Sally. I find comfort
in he picture of a string of women
weeoing over my grave.
B it the pretty nurse says I—Here i
r o j gain talking about the nurse when
T intended to write nothing more than
good-bye. , _
Your—How shall I sign myself? Do
you Insist on ‘'friend,'’ Little Woman.
Perhaps that would be better, for some
one might see It—the nurse, I mean,
not lack.
Your friend.
the 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. W'hen the marks di»-
MAX.
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 w'hen trimming a hat. This saves
the hatpins from breaking the straw.
The Tide
A Thrilling Short Story, Complete
Up-to-Date Jokes
T he
re<
The Best Food-Brink Lunch at Fountains
SC Insist Upon
ORIGINAL llAni ’C
GENUINE Hvniklvfl W
Avoid Imitations—Take No Substitute
Rich milk, malted grain, in powder form. More healthful than tea or coffee.
For infants, invalids and growing children.
Pure nutrition,upbuildingthewhole body.
lo\ igorates- owsing mothers and the aged.
Agrees with the weakest digestion.
Keep it on your sideboard at home.
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 w’ould 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 w'hat’s happened ”
‘ She wouldn’t believe it,” said the
man sighing. “T can hardly believe
it myself. But I know it w'as you
w’hen I looked dow r n 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 w'ere 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 w'as a clergyman. Ths.t
made his sin the greater in the eyes
of the world. He never meant to -*0
anything that was wTong. 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 in
spite of it all. But was it fair to
you? Always they w'ould 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 coma
back with a fortune, but Society’—
what did she mean by Society?—‘has
a long memory, and It'll pity hi;n
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'. T
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 this very bay—1
gave un entirely. The hand was
against me! That’s how I felt.”
“I read of it in the news-paper. 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-gray hair and the
man who was rich, yet poor* the
crowds of holidaymakers pac ed to
and fro; the hand on the pier away
to the right played melody after mel
ody, as though it knew the hearts of
tw'o old children were beating in har
mony. A boy of four ran down tho
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
epoke to him very tenderly, and he
turned obediently, and w’ent back
with her to his nurse. The watching
man saw her kis.s the child. When
she canv* back to his side her eyes
were glistening.
“Thirty years!” she murmured. “I
can hardly believe it. • • • I’m glad
that I haven’t changed so much after
all.”
“Y’ou’ll never change,” lie said. He
touched her hand. She looked down,
lie was holding a letter.
“Yours,” he .^aid, in a whisper. ‘Tve
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.
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, O! Love, for I
Find raising columns rather hard.
For shrines, or temples there’s no
hope.
I’m not an architect—but hard.
To-day folk,** worship other gods,
The love of Love Is now called gam
mon,
Be thankful for your column. Love—
Templee 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—hut true tragedy
never dawns till both are gone.
Tho 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—
Love 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.
“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, hut 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 T
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
soothes.”
“The tide’s fuming.” he said, and
he drew her closer to him.
“Turning.’’ he whisjiered, and he
took the 30-year-old letter from her,
tore it, and threw the pieces on the
receding waters.
The wind that was taking the tide
out caught fragments of the muBic 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 ceased 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 ho 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 spite 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! Lleater'H 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 say so?”
•’Yes—he stutters!”
that I have been adjacent to or di
rectly in many of the moast unpene-
trated parts of the wruld. The fact
that I am a Nomad is ln-dnb-ital, he
sed to Pa.
So it wnld seem, »ed Pa. I used to
nomad a lot, too, until I got sick of
roaming ft settled down.
But your travel has been tnflnites-
mal compared to the roaming I have
did. sed Mister Smith. Why, beefoar
I was twenty I had been thru all of
TTraguay ft Paraguay, wich I suppoas
you mite be sed to be in juxta-
poatohun.
ft to deeskTihe my peregrinashuns
thru Africa wuld talk a week of
steddy conversashun sed Mister
Smith. Africa is a somber continent,
ft. to attempt to deeskribe Its brood
ing mlstery were futil, he aed. It
wud be too copious for yure limited
comprehenshun. Even if I were to
reelate thes*e things succinctly, sed
Mister Smith, ft even if you ft I
agreed that T shud talk that length of
time, I feer that you wud wish to
nbrognte that agreement beefoar my
be-wilderlng 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 I.oeg pennant for St. Louis. Pa
sed, but I see he got kind of left at
the post
Ba»eball 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 things ft at las»t all
of us except him wud fain go to bed.
I am glad Pa isent brilyunt, he talks
enuff now.
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 it. of course,” said the
puzzled lady; “but, Mandy, won’t you
bo needing your money to spend on
your honeymoon?"
"Miss May," paid the bride, “does
you think I’se goin’ to trust myself
wid a strange nigger and all dat
money on me?"
Nurse (taking his temperature)—
Sir, you are in danger; your tempera
ture is 104.
Business Man—When it reaches 103
sell.
“Yep. 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, Dorotihy?"
“()h, no, auntie. I only pray for
baby; the others can pray for thera-
aelvea”
FRECKLE-FACE
Sun ard Wind Bring Out Ugly Spots.
• “ “ illy.
How to Rcmovj Easily,
Here’s a chance, Miss Freckle-Face,
to try a remedy foi frecklew with the
guarantee of a reliable dealer that it
will not oost you a penny unless it
removes the freckles; while if It does
give y«>u a clear complexion the ex
pense ;*» trilling.
Simply get an ounce of othlne—
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 gat
& beautiful complexion. Rarely la
more than one ounce needed for the
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.
Good teeth
Good health
I let 4t go the way of all
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 I miss anything.
—Joeephine Preston Peabody.
W1U1
Certain Relief fW(?ATF ,<: *
from headaches, dull feelings, and 9 ® Li
from headaches, dull feelings, and
fatigue of biliousness, comes quickly
—ard permanent improvement in
bodily condition follows—after your
h
stomach, liver and bowels have
been toned and regulated by
BEECHAM’S
Accommodating.
“Walter, this knife is dull, and the
steak is like leather.”
“Yes, sir. You can sharpen the
knife on the steak, rir.”
PILLS
laid everywhere.
la boxes, 10c. v 25*
RIBBON
DENTAL CREAM
Delicious /,
Efficient