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VOLUME xft r II. NUMBEB 9.
The Terrible
Tragedy of the
Auburn Tresses
? EW YORK. —No matter how
many times you walk along
I Amsterdam avenue, in the
I sixties, you will never see
[I Elizabeth O’Rourke in the
8 group of women standing
around the entrance of the New York
flat building in which she lives laugh
ing and exchanging the neighborhood
gossip or running out to the stores
near by, writes Maude H. Neal in the
New York World.
If you should ask for her of any
of the tenants they will look puzzled
and not be sure than any such person
lives there, although they could tell
you in a second if Mrs. Casey's hus
band came in sober the night before
or whether Annie Allen is still keep
ing company with her young man.
Yet it is not so very long ago that
Elizabeth O’Rourke was one of that
qme group—a plump, good-natured
Irish girl, “giving back as good as
she got” in the banter of the neigh
borhood as it passed in the early
evening hours, when the streets are
turned into a sort of promenade for
the young people who have been tied
up in factories and stores all day.
Every morning she issued forth
briskly at the same hour and every
evening she came back, more or less
wearily, a well-known, well-liked fig
ure in her little world. \
If you recall these facts to the gos
siping crowd at the doorway a flash
of recollection will come across one
of the faces, and In a low voice she
will say:
"Oh, you mean—why, she lives
fourth floor back, on the right.”
As you start to climb upward It
seems to you that you^ have left a
hush in the chattering group behind
you—a strange, significant silence
that you do not understand.
But if the world has forgotten
Elizabeth O’Rourke you find her very
far away from that same world when
you have entered her three-room flat
where she lives with her old mother
and her brother. The chances are
that you won't see her.
Visitors Not Welcome.
When you have told the old woman
who peers out whom you are seeking
she bids you wait a moment. Then
there is the sound of hurrying steps
Inside and a door closing before you
are admitted. Then the mother tells
you/'-Yat Elizabeth is not at home.
P^ver, I did see her, because I
iVisers ah e( j on business, to find out
jbal affec\ O g resg ber suit for damages
whom he a | oss o f ber hair had made,
separation. her misfortune, so I was
an American, t 0 CO nceal any shock I
seclusion oft)
ehr JJrunntnn SulbtitL
might feel, and very glad I was that
I had myself in hand when she stood
before me with a hesitant, fearful
look in her eyes, like one w r ho ,is ex
pecting a blow.
It was easy to see that Elizabeth
had been a good-looking woman, with
a soft, almost childish expression on
her face. She is 28 years old, and on
account of her good features her mis
fortune has left her less repellent
than it otherwise would. Her health
seemed excellent, so that she is quite
likely to live to be 70 or 80, but she
was very nervous at first as she sat
fingering the skirt of her shapeless
black dress.
Twelve years ago, when Elizabeth
was 16, she followed the precedent of
all ber seven sisters and brothers
and went out to make her living. She
got a place with a drug manufactur
ing firm, and from that time on all
the working hours of the day were
passed there.
Before the Trouble.
It was an uneventful life. Perhaps
if you had asked Elizabeth then if
she was happy and satisfied she
would have hesitated at declaring
that she was.
Two years ago Elizabeth had be
come what is technically known as a
pill-coater. In good times she made
seven dollars a week—in slack sea
son —well, she made less. It is easy
to imagine that munificent sum did
not purchase all the things Elizabeth
would have liked to adorn herself
with to go to Coney Island and the
church fairs and the picnics of the
O’Brien association with her “young
man.”
But Elizabeth had one glory—be
sides a nice disposition and a simple,
kindly sac had a head of beau
tiful, curling auburn hair.
“Well,” said Elizabeth, “one morn
ing—that morning I mean —the blow
pipe of the machine kept falling down
on me and I was very impatient.
Every time It did that it meant that
I had lost time and could coat fewer
pills that day. You see, I got two
cents a thousand, and to make a dol
lar you have to hurry. It fell down
again, so I climbed up to fix it. I
was getting down when I felt a lit
tle tug at my head.
“It w'as my hair, caught in the
shafting. I tried to pull it out, but it
wouldn’t come.
“I felt myself going up. I screak
ed. I felt a horrible, horrible pain—
something tearing—l was way up in
the air—l couldn’t stand it —that tear
ing.
“Then something gave way. I fell.
IRWINTON, WILKINSON COUNTY, GEORGIA, FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1911.
I didn’t know anything more tor ti
time. I couldn’t see.
“The doctor came and put some
thing in my arm. It was days and
days later when I came to in the hos
pital.
It was sickening to hear it. But
she had described just what had hap
pened. Her scalp had been torn off.
and her forehead and her ears Her
eyelids, too, were torn away, and only
a relenting Fate forbore to snatch
along with them her eyes.
So you can see why she came in
to see me looking as if she expected
a blow. She conceals her scars the
best she can, hut what woman could
ever venture forth with that terrible
blight across her face and in her
soul?*
“I can’t bear to go any place,” she
said. “People look so, and I can see
many of them turn away in disgust.
You can’t imagine how you feel to be
a thing like that. And, oh, the chil
dren —that is what I hate and what
hurts me most. They stare at me so
and the smallest ones are afraid of
me —that’s the worst. And I’m always
afraid some bad little boy, who
doesn’t realize, might laugh or shout
at me.”
Her Life's Monotony.
“What do you do with your time?”
I asked.
"Nothing. I help with the house
work, but that’s soon done. Then
there isn’t anything else. 1 walk
around —from the door in there to
the window—and look out —then back
to the table in the back room, and
then to the window again. There
isn’t much to see. There’s no use for
me to try to fix up, or make clothes.
I’ve just let myself go. What’s the
use? I’m in prison—I am —in prison.”
"What do you think about, Eliza
beth?”
“I don’t know —most of the time
about my trouble. I cry a great deal.
I am so sad. I live it all over, every
day. What is there for me to think
about? Or hope for? Or plan about?
You don’t know how wretched I am.
Sometimes I cry out. But whiSt’s the
use?
“I try to be patient. But what’s the
use? What the reward? There isn’t
anything in the world for me.”
“When I first knew anything in the
hospital, they wouldn’t let me see my
self. For weeks before that I was In
darkness, because of the injury to my
eyes, but when I was in the light I
wanted a handglass. They wouldn’t
give it to me. My head was all bound
up, but I didn’t know.
“The nurse tried to break it to me,
but I didn't guess. Finally the day
came when they first unwound the
bandages from my head and I saw
what had happened. I thought I
couldn’t live. The tearing the day it
hardened came again, worse, to my
heart I thought I would kill myself
rather than live a thing like that.
But I die-; * —l don't know why.”
Keepa Torn Tresses.
Miserable Quasimodo, looking out
over Paris from your refuge in Notre
Dame and watching the dying strug
gles of the only woman who had call
ed you friend—wretched "Man Who
Laughs,” eating your heart out with
your Wolf —unhappy Cyrano, resign
ing your dreams of love —were your
sufferings like this?
We sat there in silence, a few min
utes, then Elizabeth said, “Would
you like to see my hair?”
Without waiting for my answer,
she went over to an old trunk and be
gan taking things out of it.
Finally she brought out a shoe box..
I cannot explain the feeling of bohror
I had when I saw it. I felt as if I
were going to see a dead thing. Not
a peaceful, quiet corpse, laid quietly
away, but some strangled creature,
whose unhappy ghost refused to be
laid.
Then she opened it, and we stood
looking down at it—a great mass of
curling auburn hair, that had been
cut from the machines when the acci
dent happened. Some of it was
snarled and broken, but in places it
triumphed into the burnished waves
which had once laid so smoothly
upon the poor, marred head.
“It was pretty, wasn't it?” she said,
putting a gentle, caressing finger
lightly upon a curl.
An Infant Cuvier.
Miss Griggs easily induced the
wealthy Mrs. May to let her son Fred
die join the vacation class in natural
history that she was organizing for
children.
"I'm sure he'll love it!” said Mrs.
May, with surprising enthusiasm. “And
you will find that he knows a lot about
natural history already.”
“Indeed! That is very pleasant,” ;
murmured Miss Griggs, vaguely, for
she was not prepared for scientific ;
attainments in a spoiled boy of five.
"Yes,” said Mrs. May, complacent
ly, “ever since Freddie was a baby
the chef has made all his blanc mange j
in the shape of rabbits and squirrels,
and only lately he has begun to make
him marsiimallow frogs and chickens
and turtles, and Freddie simply wor
ships them —you can't get him to
touch anything in a plain mould.”
“1 am sure,” concluded Mrs. May.
“'that you will find Freddie very ad
vanced for his age.”—Youth's Com
panion.
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