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♦ WATER ©fore this hart was low bn! her fro an$ n, assailed by jht her by tho to him?'* h« y ©yes glared ones lifted to trembling with mgh pale, an* added fuel to 3 he shook he# e!” he roared, f his powerful ragile woman force that she xe floor. With* e the husband ise. ntll after mid* Ife, bruised In listened and lonely hours, le village tav* », from which hopelessly in* ught home by » door for he# mpanion, ®h# was hers no to-morrow all Informed tha! inkard. often take an o be able to ex* rful words with uanagew?” ’ said the Head nice man, took >out Mrs. D'Hrv* out real gents lat I call having ■ me,” groaned “I suppose yon give me my t.” high brow fo| istonier to Mas i tried to say and even tho a. where I com# word,” replied Inary. I'm sur* r out.” Time. -the house pair of very ther looked at ind said: hands as dirty the child, “but ave you under* ian.” out a patent on fea ii ■ v «■ 14 5Z ■ ■ II • I IK Iil4 » Ii ii i> it it it ih it «t !b :5 ir •s i! !§ ;§ I n f ♦ ♦ >x v ♦ T A Bachelor’s Diary By MAX. A UGUST 2S — 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 most unsellable name; MV 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 Pails, 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 weird mysterious sounds there are up here in the night, and which can mean nothin* 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 nurse, warm and sweet and rosy from the nap she is trying to snatch some where in the dim recesses of my room, anil puts her arms around me and Is most soothing an<j tender Fo 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 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 heedless of my innate modesty, she says 1 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. Ho you see, dear, my peril. Indians without, for I hear strange noises in the night, and a pretty nurs© 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 Is 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 can t teed myself unless one arm Is around her neck. Isn't It distress:!* how help less a sick man is -amen there Is a i.retty nurse around? But then of course you are not a man and don t understand. ^ my next incarnation I would like to he a tree. A tree lives so i |,,ch more sturdily and dies so much more gracefully than a man. I said nothing to this effect to the nurse, and vtip replied that if 1 were a tree in my i ty incarnation, she supposed it would l. of the lemon family. Uisust 24.—I am writing this letter on ■ Installment plan, not that I get tired ■ iting. as i did when first injured, hut nurse won't let me write, and when came home yesterday and caught 11 This ^second** 0 installment Is written she and Manette have gune to i int wild blackberries, and Richards I'll mail it to you before she returns. She says she is jealous of ni> un ''YrpposTO^uW have reminded her ♦l at she had no right to be jealous of anybody, but I am afraid If I offended her she wouldn’t come to relieve my apprehension -when I Imagine I hear wild Indians whooping around the door at night. She says it is only the wind, and I am sure when day comes that It was but at night when everyone In the house is asleep hut the nurse and my self It is quite natural and manlike that i should grow more afraid I hope, Sally dear, that I have writ ten nothing that will excite your appre hension or cause you to cut short your cl lldish enjoyment of matching ribbons and laces in Paris. It is Just ae well that the ocean rolls between us, for If you were here the pretty nurse would not let vou see me. She won’t let the suffragette who comes over from the hotel with bou- ouets of yellow flowers and soothing literature on “That Monster Man get inside, the gate. "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 noises 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 days I think I am going to die, and then I know you will be sor ry vou 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 says I—Here l go again talking about the nurse when f Intended to write nothing more than good-bye. Your—How shall I sign myself? Do vou 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. Thoroughbreds—East and West Copyright, 1918. luternation*] News Harriet BY NELL BRINKLEY r; IB 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 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 tails her slippery little eggshell of a saddle, her short stirrup almost as fielfcate and clean-cut as an engagement ring, her thorough mouthful of bits, reins held taut but with fins 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 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-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 fina 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 stlrrnp Is a broad, safe thing that half swallows her little foe. Her rope swings like a colled snake against her Knee and she doesn’t like It new! Beside her the tall blossom of the Spanish bayonet points to the vivid biuc 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, ric stirrup and polo coat would smash the picture into bits. Each in the other's domain would seem Sapping 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 valuable glaa* ornament, it can ef fectually and easily be mended in the following way: Melt a little i$in- 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, which will unite glass so nicely and firmly that the joint will scarcely be perceptible to the most citlcal eye. Iron mold stains spread In any fabric they come in contact with in the wash. To remove them stretch 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. 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 Best Food-Brink Lunch at Fountains HT Insist Upon HORLICK'S ORIGINAL GENUINE Avoid Imitatlons-Take No Substitute Rich milt, malted grain, in powder form. More Healthful than tea or coffee. For infanta, invalids and growing children. Pure nutrition,upbuilding the whole body. Invigorates nursing mothers and the aged. The Tide A Thrilling Short Story, Complete T' Agrees with the weakest digestion. Keep it on your sideboard at home. A quick lunch prepared h 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 mugt 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! Tf I told her of what’s happened ” “She wouldn’t believe It,” said the man sighing. "1 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 vpu once.” “Why did you go away? In tha 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 w'as a clergyman. That made his sin the greater in the eyes of the world. He never meant to anything that was wrone. 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, 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 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 fiever 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 tne 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 was throwing pebbles in the water, when a wave came surging in. The little woman with tfie 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 bark 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 n 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. “Tt 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, Up-to-Date Jokes By WILLIAM F. KERX M ISSUS SMITH Is going to bring her husband up to see us to- nlte. sed Ma. You ought to meet her husband, beekaus he Is vary brtlyunt. That Is nice, sed Pa. I always like to meet brfiyunt peeple. It malke me feel at hoam to find a other brh- yunt man with wlch to talk with. What Is he, a actor? N'o. 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 salm 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 joystick spell A nowadays. Pa sed. If a yung man rites to a yung lady at all, he rites like this: Say, klddo, youse have sure got me winging. I’m HO strong for you [ feel like Sandow. yours to a crisp, Jack. That Is the kind of polite letters that gurls git nowadays, Pa sod. I know you will like Mister Smith, Ma Red. He has traveled far and wide. He knows grate men In every land. A 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 any moar ad ventures than I have, sed Pa, Oh. ye* he has. sed’ Ma. his is reel adventures. You maik up a lot of yure adventures. Wait till you heer his conversashun. Jest then Missus Smith & her hus band cairn. Ho was a tall, thin man & he looked like a skool teecher. He talked like one, too. I never herd so many big word*. I am vary pleesed to meet you. sed Pa M en he was interduced to -Mister Smith. My M-lfe 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 1 may say without feor of successful con-tradickshun that 1 have been adjacent to or di rectly in many of the moast unpene- ! trated parts of the M-ruld. The fact j that I am a Nomad Is in-dub-ital, he j sed to Pa. So It wuld seem, sed Pa. I used to nomad a lot, too, until I got sick of roaming A settled down. But your travel has been Infinites- mnl compared to the roaming I have did. sed Mister Smith. Why. beefoar I Mas twenty T had been thru all of Uraguav A Paraguay, wich I sunpoas you mite be sed to be in juxta- postohun. & to deeskrlbe my peregrinashuns thru Africa wuld talk a week of steddy conversashun sed Mister Smith. Africa is a somber continent, & to attempt to de^skribe its brood ing mistery were futll, he sed. It. wud be too copious for yure limited comprehenshun. Even if I M'ere to reelate these things succinctly, sed Mister Smith. A even if you & I agreed that I shud talk that length of time, T feer that you wud wish to abrogate that agreement beefoar my be-Mildering flow of words was half finished. Then doant peregrinate, sed Pa. Let us talk about baseball. I u r as hoaplng Huggins wud win the Nash- unal Leeg pennant for St. Louis, Pa fled, 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 A at last all of us except him M*ud fain go to bed. | I am glad Pa isent brilyunt, he talks enuff now. "Alfred, have you got everything?” tenderly inquired Baron Southmont’s Mdfe. 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 ©pit© of all my efforts. I haven’t yet succeeded in getting everything.” Retire] 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 cun ’ave a rest till me an’ Mrs. P. return from the Conte- nong. “That’s a fine-looking old gentle man! Bleaters father, isn’t he?” asked a collegian of a friend. “Yes.” uas the answer, “but he is a champion at breaking his word!” “You don’t say so?” “Yes—he stutters!” * Strangers Yet. A negro woman in Savannah was preparing to get married. For four weeks before the ceremony she saved up her Mages, 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,” said the puzzled lady; “but, Mandy, won’t you be needing your money to spend on your honeymoon?” “Miss May,” smid the bride, "does you think I’se goln’ to trust myself Mid a strange nigger and all dat money on me?" n l , danger; your tempera- --When it reaches 105 " What dld yOU mea " by ! SlL you nre k ln * I ture is 104, “There was nothing else that I j Business Man could do. I don’t think I could live , gen. Mithout the noise of the machine ! The sea’s like it sometime*—when It | .. T , t took me three monthg to comes over the stones. Makes you j feel lonely, doesn’t It? And yet It » soothes.” “The tide’s turning,” he said, and 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- 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 unu-lthered geranium has more perfume. In order to be part of life, M-e must ex;uufe lovg—Xor when the suas heat I 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 he 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 ft 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 T miss anything —Josephine Preston Peabody. he drew her closer to him. “Turning,” he whispered, and he took the 30-year-old letter from her, tore it. and threw the pieces on the receding waters. The wind that M’as taking the tide out caught fragments of the music as it drifted from the pier, and carried j them out and aM’ay. The reddish-gray hair was half hid- i den by the man’s right arm. The 1 bell ceased to ring. The little woman i Mid: ”Gk>d, Joel” as though all the! happiness taken from 30 years had | been brought back to her in that mo ment. learn all about this motorcycle.” “And what have you got for your pains?” "Liniment.” ‘1 hope you pray for all your brothers and sisters, Dorothy?” ‘N>h, no. Hunt if. I only pray for ha by; the others can pray for them selves.” FRECKLE-FACE Sun and Wind Bring Out Ualy Spot*. How to Romov# 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 ie trifling. Simply get an ounce of oil.mo— 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 la more than one ounoe nesded for the worst rasa Be sure to ask the druggist for the double strength othlne, as thfs Is the prescription sold under guarantee of money back if It falls to remove freckles. Accommodating. “Waiter, this knife is dull, and the steak is like leather.” “Yes, sir. You can sharpen the knife on the kteak, air.” Certain Relief from headaches, doll 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 BEECHAM’S FILLS Good teeth Good health with Said erary where. la b«x«., 10c. t 2Ss» RIBBON DENTAL CREAM Delicious Efficient COMES OUT A RIBBON—LIES FLAT ON THE BRUSH