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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