Bemoreaiy aca,
Bellefonte, Pa., July 13, 1906.
Virtue of Prayer.
I do not undertake to say’
That literal answers come from heaven.
But I know this—that when [ pray
A comfort, a support is given
That helps me rise o'er earthly things
As larks soar up on airy wings,
In vain the wise philesopher
Points out to me my fabric's flaw;
In vain the scientists aver
That “all things are controlled by law.”
My life has ‘aught me day by day
That it availeth much to pray.
Ido not stop to reason out
The why and how. [do not care,
Since 1 know this—that when I doubt
Life seems a darkness of despair,
The world a tomb ; and when I trust,
Sweet blossoms spring up in the dust.
Since I know in the darkest hour,
If 1 lift up my soul in prayer,
Some sympathetic, Loving Power
Gives hope and comfort to me there,
Since balm is sent to ease may pain,
What need to argue or explain?
Prayer is a sweet, refining grace ;
It educates the soul and heart;
It lends a luster to the face,
And by its elevating art
It gives the mind an inner sight
That brings it near the Infinite.
From our gross delves it helps us rise
To something which we yet may be;
And so I ask not to be wise,
1f thus my faith is lost to me.
Faith that with angel's voice and touch
Bays: “Pray, for prayer availeth much.”
—By Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
A HOME-MADE FLAG.
Pierre Michaud was learning to be an
American. The busy city with its great
ootton-mills, where his father had come to
work, was a change indeed from the green
Canadian fields where he and hissister Ma-
rie bad played so happily, bat he had one
great pleasure—he went to an American
echool, and be loved Miss Sargent, his
American teacher.
Miss Sargent had to teach her little pu-
pils to speak lish as well as to read and
spell, for none of them were little Ameri-
can children. There were Francois and
Xavier Tetrault, who lived next 10 Pierre;
there were Antonio and Christina Polidori,
two little Italians who lived across the
street; there was chubby Hans Baumgart-
ner, who lived around the corner; tnere
was Rebecca Michelson, who wore scarlet
ribbons oo her black braide, the smartest
child in Mrs. Sargent’s room—and Miss
Sargent was trying to make little Ameri-
can citizens of them all.
It was the day before Memorial Day.
Miss Sargent was asking questions,
‘‘Now, children,” she said, ‘what day
is to-morrow ? You may answer, Xavier.
‘C'est le jour,” began Xavier.
‘‘He speak the Freuch,’’ interrupted lit-
tle Antonio.
‘‘We speak Eoglish in this school,” said
Miss Sargent.
‘‘You may answer, Rebecca.”
“It is the day of memory,’’ said the lit-
bie Jeweas.
‘“Yes,”’ said her teacher, ‘‘Rebecca io
right. Isis the day of memory, the day
when we remember the men who fought
for this dear land, and those who died for
their country. And what do we use to
decorate with on this day of memory ?
“Cest le drapean !" cried Xavier again.
“Who knows in English? What is our
American word for this beaatiful thing we
all love 7"?
“The flag! The flag!" cried all the
children.
*‘Well,”” said Mis2 Sargent,” I waut
every one of you to-morrow to bave a flag
flying from your window, to show that
thongh your fathers and mothers are Ital-
ian«, or French, or German, or Russian,
you tespect the memory of the men who
saved this conotry of ours. and want to
grow ap good American citizens. School
is dismissed.”
Pierre walked slowly home. He was
trying to think bow he could keep this
memory day. He was still thinking, when
his mother crept soltly from the house,
bringing bread and milk to the children,
that they might eat on the doot-step, for
their father, who was ill. was asleep and
must not be disturbed. Pierre looked down
at his worn shoes, at Marie's faded hair-
ribbon. There was no movey for flags in
that family; since the father bad fallen ill,
six weeks before, their mother had done
laundry. work at home, that the children
might have bread. Pierre wished he could
earn » histle money. Bat people did their
own errands in the foreign quarter, and
his mother wonld uot let him go away
from home. She feared the crowded, busy
streets, the hurrying trolley cars, the swils
aatomohiles. Litile Marie finished her
bread and milk; she did not go to school,
bat Pierre was teaching ber to be a good
American citizen too. A man carrying a
emall flag walked up the street.
“What is that, Marie ?’’ cried her broth-
er.
“C'est "homme," answered tie child.
“Speak the Eoglish !"’ cried ber brother-
“C'exs le man !" said Marie, laughing.
“A man with a flag,’ corrected her
brother.
**Hello, there's Rehecoa !" Rebecca
Michelson was carrying proudly a bright
new flag.
‘See, Pierre !"" she cried, “‘the red, white
and bine! I shall is from my window
bang. Where then ie thine ?”’
*‘The movey I have uot,’’ said Pierre,
slowly. “Our money goes to Monsieur
olla nd passed along. A
e n a . Across
be «treet Christina and ren were
banging tiny flags from their fourth story
window. ‘‘Me, I woald not have one so
small !'" cried Pierre. *‘Marie, why can
not make (fabriquer) a flag like Rebeo-
ca's?’ Marie nodded, ‘Oui ! yes, we can.
Is there not my old skirt of scarlet and thy
blouse of blae ?"’
Memorial Dat dawned clear and bright,
Sergeant Eben How, on his to Mount
Hope. to decorate the graves of some of his
igang lie
fog wreaths a y e
the door of the Michands howe. Some-
thing was draped over is. It was fearful.
ly and wondorfully meade. The stripes
were of differents widths and very crooked,
and some of the stars, made of old cotton
cloth, were five pointed and some were six,
and they were pasted intoan irregular field
of hine, but Sergeant Howe knew what it
was, Pierre and Marie sat proudly beneath
it, and the gay colors glowed in the morn.
ing sun.
‘French Johnny's kids, boys,” said Ser-
geant Howe. He balted his little squad.
‘“‘Attention ! Salute che colors!” The
kind-hearted Grand Army men gravely
saluted, not a smile on a single face.
Pierre stood up, his face glowing.
“Oh, thank you !"’ he said. ‘We made
it, the flag; we have not all the stars put
in, there was not cloth, some are not quite
~ | straight, nor all the stripes. We are Amer-
icans, Marie and I, but we could buy no
flag, my father is sick !"’
“That's too bad,” rald the Sergsant,
kindly; ‘‘yon did well te make a flag.”
“What do you do with so many ?
asked Pierre. Eben Howe looked at him
in astonishment. Was there a child in the
United States who did not know the cus-
toms of Memorial Day ? Then he remem-
bered. ‘“That’s the way we keep the day,
sonny,’’ he answered, gently. ‘‘We mark
wreath, #0 as to know we baven’'s forgotten
them. We're going to Mount Hope now—
Want to come along? You can carry some
of the flags if you want to.” Pierre need-
ed no second invitation.
‘‘Yes, go, Pierre,” cried his little sister,
“I of the flag will take care.”
It was a long walk to Mount Hope, hat
to Pierre, bearing flage, the proud progress
was all too short. Sergeant Howe sent
him with five of the squad across the street
to St. Bernard’s, while the others performed
their gracious errand at Moons Hep.
Pierre's companions were four men with
long white heards and beautiful white hair
thick and curling under the soft slouch bat
and Harry Owen, a watchman at the mill,
whom he knew in his working garb, but
whom the Sunday clothes,and the bat with
the cord about it, and the G. A. R. button
on the blue coat, seemed to transform into
a different person.
The sun shone brightly on the simple
crosses above the quiet sleepers, and as the
old soldiers removed the frayed and faded
flags which had bravely flattered above a
ear’s storm and sunshine, and placed the
utifal fresh colors in their stead, Pierre
felt a strange pride in these men of his
faith who bad heard and heeded the call of
duty in the hour of the nation’s need. He
touched the white-bearded wan gently on
the sleeve. ‘“‘Were you with General
Washington ?’’ he asked. Nathan Talbot
threw back his bead with a hearty laugh,
in which Owen joined, but seeing the boy's
embarrassment his mirth ceased abruptly,
and be answered, ‘No. lad, I'm nos quite
old enough for that; I was with General
Grant.” “And I with General Sherman,
bios gl ng aoe th pl
e strange men held no -
cance Pierre. The Civil War was ‘far-
ther over in history’’ than Miss Sargent’s
little pupils had studied, and his knowl-
edge of the Father of his Country was a
recent acquisition.
*“There, Nate, I guess we've remembered
all the Irish comrades,’ said Owen, as he
placed the last wreath on Terence O'Brien's
grave. ‘‘Poor Terence! He was fighting
next to me at Gettyshurg when a minie
ball struck him in the head, and he never
koew what hurt him.”
‘‘All these men are stravgers to me—I
went from Maine,’ answered Talbot, ‘‘in
the old Nineteenth, same regiment as Howe.
We were at Gettysburg, too. There weren't
many Dish with ne, but there was a lot of
em in the army, and brave fighters, too.
Well, there’s one Revolutionary soldier
over in the northwest corner, and
then we're through. The Daughters have
put up a tablet for him.’ The men led
the way and Pierre followed slowly. Were
all these graves of the Irish, then? Were
not the French brave ? or didn’s they love
this »o beautiful country enough to fight
for it? He must ask. “Do you uever
bave here no French to pus flags ahove?
Did we never for the country fight?" he
asked.
“French ?”’ asked Talhot, turning
around. ‘‘No, you folks wa'nt here then;
there were Freuch in the Sonth. Beaure-
gard was, hut I goess we didn’t have any on
our side.’ Pierre felt himself a foreigner
again. No reflected glory shoue upon
him. This wae only the American’s coun-
try, after all. Suddenly his eyes caught
the name npon the tablet which marked
the last resting. place of the solitary soldier
of the Revolution. ‘‘Edosard Fortier”
was the name on the shiniog marble. The
hlood rushed to Pierre's face, his pulces
leaped with joy.
“See. Mr. Owen !"" he crivd, “Fortier !
he was French, like ne—O. please read the
rest !"
*¢ 15 soldier of the Revolution.” read
Talbot. ** ‘Born in Pais, France, 1775;
died in this city, 1815. A brave so'dier of
the Count de Rochambeau, he was at York-
town at the surrender of Lord Cornwallis.’
.Pierre’s eyes danced.
*“Then we were brave,some of us French!"
he cried triumphantly.
“0, yes; there were French in the Revo-
lution,” said Talbot. ‘‘Lafayette and the
Count here. Ehen Howe can tell you all
about it. His folks were in the War of In-
dependence.”
Howe and the others wepe waiting for
them at the cemetery gate, and Talhot
took Pierre to Howe. If the walk up had
heen a triumphal progress to Pierre, the
walk home was ecstasy. Eben Howe wae
the third of the name. Hix grandfather,
the first Ebenezer, was a ‘‘Mivute man’ in
the Lexington Alarm; bis father, Ebenezer
second, was a seaman under Captain Hull,
on the ‘‘Constitaution.’”’ when she fought
the Guerriere.”” He himsell was the first
private to enlist in his conntry, in the lit-
tle Maine village which was his birthplace,
and he served through the whole Civil
War. The fourth Ebenezer was under
Roosevelt at San Juan hill, and received a
word of commendation from his colonel—
a fact of which his modest father was more
proud than all of his own faithful service.
Howe was a quiet man, and a great read-
er of history, and the story he told listle
Pierre on the long walk home of Lafayette
and de Rochambeau, of all the French | said
and the French money and sympa:
thy, all so freely furnished, made the child
supremely happy. ‘‘I don’s really think
the war w bave ended when it did,”
said Howe, in conclusion; ‘“‘at least we
couldn’s bave taken Yorktown withoat
Rochambean on land, and DeGrasse and
DeBarras and their fleets in the Chesa-
Jakke. Aod we Americans owe a lasting
ebt of tude to the French, and we
musn’s forget it, for they helped make our
country free,”” They had reached the Mi.
chaud’s honte,and Pierre held ont his hand
to Sergeant Howe with a gratefal smile.
pas dot Bi ig simply, “if m
people to free it, it my country
also, and if it ever needs me [ will fight,
moi, aussi !"’
Little Marie was sitting happily playing
with her doll, on the step heneath the gay
flag. Across the street fluttered the little
flags from the Italian tenement house. The
Sergeant looked again at the pathetic pro-
duet of unskilled listle fingers, then nt the
bright face by hie side. ‘‘Run into the
house,” he said, ‘and tell vour mother
I’m comicg in to see her.” Pierre oheyed,
and Howe turned to the men behind him :
“‘Boys,”’ he said, ‘‘it always seems as il
these colors were ours—just ours. Bat
all the comrades’ graves with a flag and a
— gs an
when little French children think enough
of the flag to wake one, it shows us it's
theirs, tco. And lads like this one are go-
ing to love it, and defend is,if there's need.
Let's help him along a bis. They're poor,
and his father’s sick.”’
‘Right you are,’”’ said Henry Owen.
“I'm glad to help John, he’s a good fellow,
down on his luck.”
“I rather guess we all want to help,”
said Natban Talbot. When Howe turned
over his collection to Mrs. Michaud, the
little French woman looked the gratitude
she could not express. And as Howe join-
ed his comrades they all raised their bats
in in salute to the two happy little
ildren under the home-made flag.
When Miss Sargent asked her little pa-
pils how many displayed a flag on Memii-
al Day, no band went up more proudly
than Pierre Michaud's.—By Hattie Vose
Hall, in St. Nicholas.
Clothing in Trees.
While we are considering the feasibility
of doiog away with wood as a building ma-
tetial on acconus of its high cost, is is a
little singular to learn thas wood is advo-
cated as a substance for clothing on account
of its cheapuess. Travelers in Europe are
familiarly acquainted with wooden suoes,
as they are worn by some peasants, but
garments made from wood have not yet
met their vision.
It is hoped that clot! made of wood will
not embarrass the wool market and lead to
the discontinuance of raising sheep except
for tood, for we should dislike to see a
profitable industry wiped out by the iutru-
sion of wood, which, according to souwe,
will not only furnish us with clothing,
bus also with food, as it does now partially
in Norway. This state of things would al-
low a man who owned a bis of woodland
to obtain all the necessaries of life from his
own little patch of ground without wastiog
time in cultivating products of avother
kind, aud sawdust pudding wight be
among the de icacies served on his table.
Think what a saving of time and labor
this devotion to wood would bring about,
aud bow it would simplify our now com-
plicated system of existence. Whether we
would become wooden heads under the
diet indicated remains to be seen, but, at
all events, we wouid not have to go far
afield for the means to live, though filled
with wood within and encom with
wood without we would not men of
iron. With asuit of wood we might dely
colds and the grip, and find is more effect.
ive in protecting us from death than the
steel armor of the olden time.
Bat badinage apart. It is said that wood
fibre being elongated to threads may be
woven into cloth of a substantial and dara-
ble character, and that from the results
thus obtained we may dress ourselves in
the latess fashions in a material that may
be a little stiff and unyielding, but which
will be in barmony with the economy
which is wealth.
Bus what shall wedo when our forests
are exbausted ? Return to our muttons,
perhaps, or to the cotton fields, where the
American of Afiican descent learns to la-
bor and to wait.— Budget- Beacon.
Fire Attracts Wild Geese.
A ‘‘norther’” in Oklahoma, recently,
says the Kansas City Times, brought with
it a heavy flight of wild geese and ducks.
At Guthrie and other towns having electric
street lights, geese circle all night in the
illaminated mist, often flying so low as to
be in reach of shot-gnns. A number of
geese were killed.
An old hunter =aid that on such a night
wild geese in high flight mistook these ra-
diant spots in the darkness for water.
Once in the light the geese quickly lost
their bearings, became confosed and sel.
dom extricated themselves nut daylight
revealed the cause of their deception.
“Knowledge of the attraction of fire hea-
cone for wild geese on stormy nights was
used to advantage by native sportsmen in
southern Kansas and the northern Osage
country where I lived in early days,” said
thie hunter.
“As fall aproacbed, a high landmark
wonli be chosen by the hunter and on its
top he would pile wood fcr a hig fire.
Then he waited for the storm that brought
the geese. Lighting his fire, its glare could
heseen for miles. Geese were drawn to
the spot by bondreds. I have known hnn-
ters to kill a wagon load of gees» 10 a sin-
gle night.”
A Probation System for Boy Offenders.
Iu Denver, the probation system hax,
perhaps, been developed to its highest
point. To the regular work of officers is
added a report system which even surpass.
es probation in keeping track of the prog-
ress of the delinquent toward reform.
Each boy hroaght into court 1s given a
card setting forth a number of gnestions
that bear upon his conduct. This he is re-
quired to present at court every Satarday
muting after it bas been filled cot and
sigued by his teacher.
At ere Saturday worowug sessions
Judge Lindsey makes it a point not to, si
on she bench. He goes down amoung’ the
boys and examines the report of each one
wich the deepest persoval solicitude. If
the report is good, he congratulates the
boys aud tells the other fellows thay ‘Bil.
Iy's got the laugh on the ‘cups’ now he.
cause he has cut out swiping things and is
beating every other hoy in the class.” If
the report is bad, the judge follows up the
buy with kind guestions vutil he gets at
the cause aud decides upon a remedy.— | and
From ‘The Children's Court in American
City Life in the Monthly Review of Reviews.
Joseph Jefferson was a strong heliever
in early marriages and he vever missed an
opportunity to impress his convictions on
young men. Ib an address at Yale he
*‘I abomivate bachelors. The older the,
grow the mote conceited they become.
was talking to ove and I asked him why
he did not warry. He ed the question
by telling we about different young women
The Japanese Labor.
The average monthly incom: of the Jag- | 2
anese workman i= now something less than
$8. And this is a bigh average. Oa this a
Japanese of the laboring class can keep a
family of five or six in comfort and clean-
lines and enjoy all the simple pleasures
dear to the Ja heart. These pleas-
nres do not consist of feasting and drinkiog
to excess and going to places of amase-
ment, hut are the pleasures afforded hy a
peculiar and complete love of nature in all
her moods. *‘Flower gazing’' is the Jap-
anese expression, and ‘flower gazing’
costs nothing to the family that is willing
to tramp any number of miles to reach some
spot particularly beautified by a luxariavt
display of one of the season's flowers
which, in their taro, fll every month from
the new year to the vew year. Ou these
expeditions, which we would call picnics,
the family takes its allowance of rice and
tea, of fish aud small pickled vegetables,
and irs feast is not such as it usually en-
joys at bome. The Japinese laborer works
on an average twenty-six days each month,
aod his homis are ordivarily from san to
suu. He doesn’t work as hard as his broth-
erin the West, he doesn’t accomplish as
much in a given time, not hy anv means;
but he does his work thoroughly, he is
eflicient, us a rale, and his pay hasalways
been quite sufficient for his needs.
Helives in a vrat little howe of two
rooms, spotles-ly clean and simple to ahen-
late hareness. Fu this he pays something
like $1 a mouth, and, thavks 1a the kindly
climate of his laud, he know « nearly noth
ing about the expense of fuel. A little
charcoal for a tiny hitweni is all he needs,
avd hit cooking cau h- done on this or oun
aless ;inamental one in 4 wee hit of an
additional roow called the kitchen. His
charcoal and hight together cost him less
thao $1.25 a month, acd for this be has all
the fuel and light be finds necessary. He
knows nothing ahont the stingof rigid
economy. Rice costs him more than any-
thing else. He has to pay ahout $3 for
enough of this commodity to keep his
family a month, and his only ship
really is thas his income is not saofficient
to piovide for bim the little luxuries of
diet that his more fortunate brothers enjoy.
And he bas his fish and vegetables, too,
each costing him a little less than $1 a
month ; and after everything is paid for be
still has enough left for a small supply of
sake, for tobacco, hair-catting and shaving,
for the bair-dressing of the women of
his family, and for the daily hot bath in
a neighboring public bathhouse that is so
necessary to the well being of every Jap-
anese.— Leslie's Weekly.
Some Advantage in Being Dead.
Col. Henry Watterson tells of the aston-
ishmeont and chagriu with which a certain
well-known citizen of Louisville, named
Jenkins, read a loug obituary of himself
pal in a morning paper of that city.
e at once proceeded to the editorial room
of the pupet, and after moch difficulty,
succecued tv obtaining audience of the
busy city editor. Laying a copy of the
paper before kim, be observed in a mild,
almost humble way, that he bad come to
see if the city editor could ‘‘tell” him
“anything about is.”
ith a snort of impatience, the busy
editor grasped the paper and bastily read
the article. “'It appears to be an obituary
notice of one Jenkivs,'’ he growled.
“What is there to tell about it? Whar is
the matter with yoo, anyhow ?"’
‘Ob, nothing especially,’ responded the
mild Jeukius, “only I thooght I'd like to
know how the obituary came to be printed
—~that's all.”
‘‘Came to be printed ?”' repeated the ed-
itor, iv irritated tones ; ‘why the man
died, of conise. My paper doesn't print
obitnary notices of living men."
“Perbaps vot as a rule,” gently replied
the visitor, **but in this case I bappen to
be the Jenkins referred to.”
Thereupon the city editor began a pro-
fuse apology. **We'll print a cerrection
at once,” ve said!
‘Well, after all,”’ observed the mild
Jeuking, ‘‘perhaps 'twould be better to let
it staud ; I'll show it to my friends when
they t1y to borrow money of me."
He Henmtd Too Much.
From the Seattle Post-Inteliigencer,
Tue public is invited to sympathize with
a quiet retiring citizen who occupied a seat
near the door of a crowded Green Lake
car last night when a masterfal, stout
woman entered.
Having no vewspaper behind which to
hide, he was fixed and subjogated by her
ghttenng eye. He rose avd offered his
place to her. Seating herself —withoans
thanking him—she exclaimed in tones
that reached to the furthest end of the
car:
**What do you want to stand up there
ti? Cowe here and «it on my lap?"
**Madam,”’ gasped the man, as his face
became scarlet. 'I—I1 fear I am vot de-
serving of such an houor.”’
“What do youn mean?’ shiicked the
woman. ‘You kuow very well I was
speaking to my niece there behind you.”
First Use of Potatoes in Ireland,
In the garden adjoining his house at
Youghal, Raleigh planted the first potataee
ever grown in Ireland. The vegetahle was
bronghi to him fiom the little colony
which he endeavored to establish in Vir-
ginia. The colonists started in April, 1585,
Thomas Harriet, one of their number,
wrote a description of the country in 1587.
He describes a root which must have heen
the potato:
“Openank are a kind of roots of round
form, rome of the higness of walnuts,
some far greater, which are found in
moist & marish grounds growing many so-
gether one by another in ropes, as though
they were fastened with a string. Being
boiled they are very good meat.”
The Spaniards firsts brought potatoes to
Europe, hut Raleigh was nndoubtedly the
first to introduce the plant into Ireland. —
be had known, finding some fault with | Ex
each one. But it appeared that all of them
had married.
“You are in dauger of getting left,” I
said to him. ‘You bad better burry up
before it is too late.”
“0,” said the bachelor, ‘‘there are juss
as fish 10 the vea.”’
“I know that,”’ I said, ‘‘but the bait—isn's
there danger of the bait becoming stale.”
— Everybody's Magazine.
——*"They say the vocabulary of the
average woman is very small. Have you
any idea how many words your wife uses
in conversation ?’
“Gracious, no ! they come too fast to
counts.’
——-Swiley—I hope yon won't mind if I
bring a friend home to dioner tonight,
dem?
Mrs. Smiley—Ohb, no; that is hetter than
being brought home by a friend after din- |
ner.
Hopeless,
From the Detroit Free Press,
‘‘Blanche is simply hopeless!" cried a
woman who was trying to teach one of her
friends to play bridge whist.
“Why?”
“I began by asking her if <he knew the
value of the cards,”’ continned the wom-
an, “and Blanche said, ‘Why certainly,
about 10 cents a pack!" *’
‘She is daft on the sahject of germs
and sterilizes and filters every thing in the
house.”
*‘How does she get along with her fam-
ily?"
“Oh, even her relatives ate strained!"
—— Doctor—1I thought yon were warned
not to go near the precipice.
Patient—1I was, hat I thought it was
‘only a blaff.
Ditting a
Douse Boat
By CLAUDE PAMARES
Copyright, 1905,
Harold Strong was a New York artist
and had painted the portrait of Ruth
Bascomb and fallen in love with her.
Whether she returned his love or not
was the thing he was worrying over.
Harry Stevens was a New York sculp-
tor, and he had desired to bring out a
marble. bust of Miss Bascomb and also
had fallen In love with ger. As to
whether she would consent to be
“sculped” and marry him ‘was a mat-
ter that gave him headaches. Both the
artist and the sculptor had sisters that
wore friendly with Ruth Bascomb, and
this was the general situation for the
playwright to build on.
The present situation was that Ruth
Bascomb's mother, who was a fairly
wealthy widow, had become possessed
of a house hoat and had determined to
float around Princess bay and up the
Shrewsbury river for a month or so.
Her guests were to be the artist and
his sister and the sculptor and his sis-
ter and two or three other persons.
A day was appointed, a tuz engaged
to tow the house boat down New York
bay and leave her at her first anchor-
age, and all was going merrily when
the villain hidden in the thicket show-
ed his hand,
It always has been suspected that he
was a villain belonging to the same
club as the artist and sculptor. He
became aware of the house boat party,
and out of pure deviltry and from no
desire to see the sculptor get ahead of
the game he worked his little trick.
The day before the boat was to sail
he fixed up a telegram calling Harold
Strong to Philadelphia to see about
painting the portrait of a millionaire.
The artist's return was indefinite.
He knew that he was leaving a rival
behind him, and he knew that the Co-
lonial Dame, as the craft was called,
would scarcely have come to anchor in
the bay and the moon risen above the
waters when that cheeky sculptor
would be talking soft nonsense to Ruth
Bascomb, but the artistic spirit was
strong within him.
He arranged with his sister to inter-
rupt if the sculptor tried to take advan-
tage of the occasion. Feeling himself
as secure as any man ever can feel
where a woman is concerned, he de-
parted on his mission, and the stately
Colonial Dame also departed on hers.
Sometimes a millionaire can be found
sitting on his front steps and smoking
a fairly good cigar and waiting to be
interviewed. Again he is as elusive as
the midnight mosquito. The one the
artist sought was elusive. It took a
whole day to run him down, and when
he was finally brought to bay his reply
was:
“Young man, don't try any of your
confidence games on me if you want
to keep out of jail. I didn’t telegraph
you. I want no painting of any sort. I
don’t like the look of you. If you are
honest, then some one has made a fool
of you; if you are a confidence man,
then try the first corner grocery.”
Harold Strong had been bunkoed. It
was only natural that he should believe
the game had been played by his rival.
He didn’t wait to devour even a sand-
wich before catching a train for New
York. For three hours he sat in a
chair car and murdered the sculptor.
He killed him in seven different ways
and was planning the eighth when he
arrived at a good sized town in Penn-
sylvania and was asked by the porter
if he wished to stop there. He had got
into a ear that had been switched off
at a junction on to another road while
he was doing the murdering act.
It was noon when the artist reached
New York. It was 2 o'clock before
he began his hunt for some craft to
take him down to Princess bay and lay
him alongside the house boat. The
sculptor had had one moonlight night
in which to weave his net of romance
around the vietim, but he should not
have another. The artist tried to char-
ter all sorts of crafts, from an Albany
day boat to a sand barge, but the after-
noon wore away and night was coming
on before he landed at the foot of
Thirty-ninth street, Brooklyn, and in-
terviewed Captain Jinks of the Merry
Sal.
“Can you charter me to find a house
boat in Princess bay tonight?’ repeat-
ed Captain Jinks as he bent his head
to scratch the back of his neck. ‘Yes,
sir, I reckon you can if you've got a
twenty dollar bill about you. You've
got a schooner right here which is not
much to look at compared with some
schooners, but if there is anything on
land or water that she can't pick up
I'd like to see it. That's her great holt.
young man—picking up things. There's
goin’ to be a fog tonight as sure’'s you
live, but if 1 don't hit that house boat
plumb center before midnight then I'll
never sing gospel hymns off Cape Hat-
teras ag'in.”
Harold Strong closed with the offer.
The crew of the Merry Sal consisted
of the captain and a lunkhead of a
young man and a boy of ten who had
run away from home and was trying
a life on the billows. The captain look-
ed upon the artist 2s a husband pursu-
ing an eloping wife; the lunkhead look-
ed upon him as an idiot for giving up
$20 when the captain would have tak-
en £10, and the runaway boy figured
it out that he was some sort of grafter
escaping from the police.
The opinion of the crew did not affect
Mr. Strong, however. He helped to cast
off the schocaer and cant her head the
right way and hoist the mainsail, and
presently she was careering down the
bay and avoiding as many statues of
Liberty, men-of-war and Staten Island
docks as she conveniently could. What
Was i + here at Pine-
ville, © puesome and healthy
ind wold Sz:ih a month ago, so
Jerzl i’: 1 his place, and he's In New
York. Dou't you see? It was really
very definite and businesslike and
right under the circumstances.”
“Oh, certainly, under te ecircum-
stances,” agreed Broderick, “So old
Gerry's postmaster instead of artist.”
“Both,” she corrected. “He has lots
of time to study, and it's good for him
—the responsibility, I mean. You
wouldn't know him.”
“I suppose not,” assented Broderick
uneasily. He tried to reconcile his lit-
tie circle of the universe, to make the
chaotic jumble fall into place and har-
monize. Gerald, Gerald the helpless,
erratic, fantastic, irrational, joyous
hearted, penniless artist, a person of
matrimonial responsibility, a postmas-
ter. But then he remembered the
young smooth haired person stamping
letters. Of course Gerald had found
his usual way out of the difficulty. He
had hired some Pineville lass to do the
heavy work, and he drew the salary.
It was like Gerald. But there was
Beatrice, Beatrice making biscuit. He
looked at her with troubled eyes, see-
ing endless vistas of Beatrices making
biscuit throughout the years.
“Don’t you miss New York?”
“Oh, so much!” she said. “I'll never
be happy until I get back.”
“Have you given up your own
work 7”
“Only for the time being. I shall
take it up again, of course. I shall
have to.”
Broderick's hands tightened in a sud-
den grip. So she was to work again,
turn out her endless succession of little
wash illustrations for second rate
monthly magazines. Gerald would not
mind, would not see the point. He
would think he was being broadmind-
ed and bohemian to let his wife carry
on her own art irrespective of him.
But Beatrice saw the point.
He rose from his chair suddenly, his
face white with the anger and love he
had smothered. Before he could stop
Bituse the words came leaping to his
ips:
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
She stood beside the little bare
kitchen table, her face raised to his,
her eyes bright with startled wonder-
ment at his tone.
“Why did you marry Gerald?”
“Marry Gerald! I?’ Some one was
coming along the white roadway. From
the kitchen window two figures could
be seen, and she pointed to them.
“There is Gerald, and that is his wife,
my sister Barbara. I am merely at-
tendant star to the honeymoon, They
brought me along to—well, to make the
biscuit.”
A minute later and Broderick met
the bridal couple on the wide veranda
under the funny roof. The bride was
the girl with the smooth dark hair who
bad been stamping letters, and she
laughed at him.
“I knew who you were, but I want-
ed Gerald all to myself, and I knew
Beatrice would take care of you.”
“She did,” answered Broderick hap-
pily, and as the rest went into the
house he paused to brush off traces of
flour from his coat collar. But Bea-
trice burned the biscuit.
The “Father of Leprosy.”
The gecko belongs to a family of
thick tongued lizards, which are wide-
ly distributed over the tropical and
subtropical countries of Europe and
Asia, and in all countries where he is
known he is thoroughly despised. Be-
cause of his repulsive appearance he
is called the “father of leprosy.” Down
to times comparatively modern it was
firmly believed that contact either di-
rectly or indirectly with the little rep-
tile was sure to communicate leprosy.
The investigations of modern zoolo-
gists have proved that the little animal
is undeserving of his name of “father
of leprosy” and that he is indeed a
most harmless and useful creature.
Since the old belief in the ability of
this reptile to communicate leprosy to
any human flesh which might come in
contact with his warty, sore looking
skin was exploded he has retained his
objectionable name solely on account
of the bad appearance he makes. His
skin is one mass of scaly and tuber-
culous excrescences that cover his body
from the tip of his tail to the end of
his nose. Every quarter inch section
of this repulsive looking body has a
general resemblance to the thickened,
callous protuberances that appear on
the human body in cases of leprosy.
On this account and no other the harm-
less little gecko was given the name of
being the progenitor of the worst form
of disease,
Ugly Athenian Coins.
It is little surprising that the Atheni-
an coins are less beautiful than some
others. They always preserved an af-
fectation of archaism. The Attic drach-
mas bore the head of Athene and on
the reverse an owl often standing on a
amusing tale how Glippus had been
sent to Sparta with a great sum of
money as a bribe and how he unripped
the bottoms of the sacks and stole
tiles roosted the owls.” The consterna-
tion was great. Glippus fled, and the
stern Spartans declared that for the
they would use iron coinage
made redhot and quenched in vinegar
to make It hard and unpliable. In the
laws of Solon, 600 B. C., the punish-
ment of death is recorded against forg-
ing the coinage.