Bellefonte, Pa. July 20, 1906.
A —————————
Marriage Superstitions,
Married in January's hoar and rime,
Widowed you'll be before your prime.
Married in February's sleety weather,
Life you'll tread in tune together,
Married when March winds shrill and roar,
Your home will lie on « foreign shore.
Married "neath April's changeful skies,
A chequered path before you les,
Married when bees o'er May blooms flit,
Strangers around your board will sit.
Married in month of roses—June—
Life will be one long honeymoon.
Married in July, with flowers ablaze,
Bitter-sweet memories in after days,
Married in August's heat and drowse,
Lover and friend is your chosen spouse.
Married in golden September's glow,
Smooth and serene your life will flow.
Married when leaves in October thin,
Toil and hardship for you begin,
Married in veils of November mist,
Dame fortune your weddiog ring has kissed.
Married in days of December's cheer,
Love's star burns brighter year to year,
SOMETHING
TO SELL
by oi. Cor
Copyright, 1008, by W. R. Caldwell
At the ringing of the doorbell a blush
blended suddenly with the happy smile
on Elisabeth Mellen's lips. It was
Teddy Davenport, of course! Hadn't
he called regularly at this hour of the
afternoon for weeks and weeks?
“I'm so glad you've come, Teddy,”
she cried, giving him both her hands.
She always had for him this warm,
impulsive greeting. But Davenport
was not responsive for once. The slen-
der, jeweled hands were quickly re-
leased. His lips wore no answering
smile. There was a new line in his
face.
“Something has gone wrong, Teddy,”
she said in her quick, direct way.
“Yes.”
“Is it so very, very bad?’
“As bad as it well can be,” he groan-
ed.
Elizabeth paled a little, Teddy was
not one to take alarm at nothing. But
instead of asking what troubled him
she drew a little nearer and sald:
“Let the unpleasant news wait. I
want to talk of something else. Yes-
terday we were debating whether we
would announce our engagement at
once or not until next month. Why not
settle the question now?”
“That's the very thing I came to talk
about!” he exclaimed. Then he went
on hurriedly, before she could make
any response.
“Elizabeth, I'm glad now that we
took no one into our confidence. ‘Twill
make things easier and better for you.
You are no weakling; you may as well
have the truth straight out. I very
much fear that everything will have to
be given up.”
She looked at him for a moment as if
stunned. “What—what do you mean?”
“You know, dear, nearly my whole
fortune was put into Lookout mine. I
so wanted to double it. Then I'd be
as rich as you. A man likes to have
as much money as the woman he weds.
So I took a desperate risk. Everything
promised well at first, but I've just had
bn gy Mn
‘éourse it ‘méedns financial ruin.
to begihi agiiin at the bottom
of the
dder. It may take yeavs to
work my way up. It would be
to you ito ask. you to walt, 1 will
doit. 1. give pou back your promise.
alanlyg
white lips
m. The
You are
free. vo! in
(A sudden:
of, the,
do it, and willingly, If I would permit
the sacrifice. But I will not. How
can I take so much and give nothing
in return?”
“You will give yourself.
“Not from a man's standpoint. Don’t
tempt me. I had this fight out by
myself before I came. I shall always
love you, always be true to you, but
until fortune smiles again we ean be
only friends.”
Elizabeth loved him the better for
his unyielding firmness and pride. Aft-
er he had gone she stood for a long
time at the window, the light gone out
of her beautiful eyes. What a pity
that so paltry a thing as the loss of
fortune should wreck the happiness of
two lives! Could nothing be done?
Suddenly a thought came to her like
an Inspiration and she acted upon it
at once. Crossing the wide hall to a
small room at the rear of the library,
she took the telephone directory fram
its shelf, ran her finger down the long
column of names until she came to the
fetter S. Then she called up Mr, San-
ford of the legal firm of Sanford &
Rollins, and the following conversation
took place:
“Mr. Sanford, you have charge of
Mr. Theodore Davenport’s business af-
fairs?”
“Yes.”
“Is it true that his Lookout shares
have greatly depreciated in valu?”
“Excuse me, madam. That is a pri-
vate matter. I cannot discuss it with
fn ”
That Is
stranger.
“You needn't be afraid. Mr, Daven-
port has just gone from here.
Miss Elizabeth Mellen of Gramercy
Park.”
“Oh—ab—yes!” It was curions—the
| change that had come into the voice Bt
| the other end of the wire. “Of
| then, it is quite unnecessary to keep
| anything back. The mine Is In ve
| bad shape—even worse than Davenport
| 1s aware.”
| “I'd like to have a talk with you, Ar.
| Sanford, if I may. Can you call at
| my house this evening at 8 to meet my
| business manager?’
“I will come with pleasure, Miss
! Mellen.”
“Thanks, Of course you understand
that Mr. Davenport is not to know of
this.”
“You can rely upon my discretion.”
“That is all. Goodby until 8.”
The following afternoon Elizabeth
sat waiting with flushed cheeks and
| shining eyes. On the stroke of the
clock Teddy bounded up the steps.
Witheut giving the servants a chance
, to announce him, he rushed into the
| drawing room and caught her in his
| arms.
| “Such wonderful news, my darling!”
| he cried joyously, kissing her. “San-
: ford has sold my Lookout shares at
| par to somebody with more money
| than brains! The mine can’t be in
| such a hopeless condition as I was led
to believe. Sanford dropped a hint
that the new owner has been investi-
| gating privately and knows what he's
about. Well, he's welcome to make
what he can out of it. It's of my
hands, thank heaven! And now we
will announce our engagement as soon
as you please.”
“Then let it be tomorrow, Teddy,”
Elizabeth murmured, with downcast
eyes.
There was a punctured silence.
“I—1 have a prejudice against long
engagements,” she whispered present:
ly. “Why not be—married—in three
weeks?”
“You darling!” he cried.
® * » ® ® * *
At the first stop on their wedding
Journey Elizabeth dived to the very
bottom of her trunk for a mysterious
package. With this tightly clutched in
hands that shook a little in spite of
herself, she confronted her husband of
an hour.
“Teddy,” she began rather tremu-
lously, “it is the custom to make gifts
on an occasion like this. Suppose you
and I inaugurate 2 new departure, 1
have something to sell if you can be
induced to buy.”
Smiling into her solemn face, he ask-
ed teasingly:
“Is It a kiss?’
“Of course not. How absurd!
made out in your name! Elizabeth,”
he cried sharply, “explain! What does
this mean?”
“Oh, Teddy, forgive me,” she plead-
B
a day thao other people.”’
‘“Yes: hus think what he saves on hair
outs and. shaves.”
PSs SLL L 008 old
Gerald’s
Wife us
IZOLA
FORRESTER
Copyright, 1906, by Ruby Douglas
Broderick swung off the 4:30 ex-
press, walked quickly up the steps
leading from the railroad platform and
took his first look at Pineville. Those
who lived in Pineville proper were con-
tent to call it Pineville. Gerald had
written that they did not live in Pine- |
ville proper, but in Pineville-by-the-Sea, |
otherwise Pineville improper.
All that Broderick saw were pines, |
plenty of them, a flat white ribbon of |
roadway and a bit of a postoffice, |
roughly shingled, in the midst of the
nearest clump of pines. He stepped !
into the postoffice as the central spot '
of civilization. Some one was stamp- |
ing letters behind the glass inclosure, |
a girl with smooth dark hair. Beatrice !
had smooth dark hair. i
He watched the girl stamping letters |
with interest and wondered why some |
one did not tell her to wear her smooth |
dark hair in two soft braids around her |
head, erown fashion, as Beatrice did.
“Where do the Vaughans live, |
please? he asked finally, when the
stamping ceased.
“The Vaughans? Oh, Mr. Gerald
Vaughan and his wife? It's a brown
house down near the shore, with a
wide veranda and a funny roof. About
a mile straight down the road.”
A wide veranda and a funny roof. |
That sounded like Gerald. He won- |
dered how Gerald's wife liked it. Bea-
trice was artistic, but not artistically
eccentric. She had a horror of things
pdd, bizarre, so called bohemian, and
vet she had married Gerald. And Ger-
ald‘’s brother knew that Gerald was
utterly odd, bizarre and bohemian, so
called.
He walked on down the flat white
BOLL 000000 III's
Lily that last day. She had been more
than the sort of a girl to fall in love
with. She had been a good fellow, a
ment. He had nothing to
with. He bad not been in a
2
§
3
g
=
z
4
3
g
g
wait until next summer. And now, in
April, he had returned to New York
to learn that Gerald was in disgrace,
bad married on nothing, eloped to Pine-
ville-by-the-Sea, N. C., and his wife
was Beatrice Stafford.
Gerald's mother had said they were
penniless, Gerald's father had remark-
ed that he didn't give a rap. They
could exist upon love and art.
More or less for Beatrice's sake and
a little for Gerald’s, Gerald's brother
had taken it upon himself to visit the
bridal couple and help Gerald. Smoth-
ering his own love, he had made up his
mind that as long as Beatrice had
married a Vaughan she should not suf-
fer from It,
There was no bell at the door of the
little brown house with the funny roof.
It was merely a bungalow in weather-
ed shingles, and he pounded on the
door lustily until it opened and Bea-
trice stood before him,
She was not the blessed damozel
type yet. Her smooth dark hair was
wound about her head in just the same
crown fashion, and she wore a short
dark blue linen skirt and a white shirt
waist. The sleeves were rolled to her
elbows, and from her finger tips to el-
bow dimples there was flour sprinkled.
He had not expected to see her face
to face so soon or alone. Neither had
he expected her to act as she did. The
color rose in her cheeks, tipping even
her ears with pink. It was an old hab-
it. He remembered it.
“I thought you were in London,” she
sald.
“You don't give a fellow a very de-
cent welcome after he's traveled from
London to this wilderness to say con-
gratulations.”
He stepped into the hall after her.
She hesitated and laughed, looking at
her floured bands.
“I can't shake hands with you, and—
and the biscuits are in the oven. i
shall have to watch them. Do you
mind coming out to the kitchen?”
He didn't mind. There appeared to
be only three rooms—the studio-sitting
room, the dining room and the kitchen.
Collapsible ready-in-a-minute studio di-
vans were in the sitting room and din-
ing room in lieu of bedrooms. It was
all charmingly, most uncomfortably
edd, bizarre and bohemian.
“Where's Gerald?" he asked when he
had found a chair in the kitchen.
Beatrice knelt beside the stove to
look at the biscuit. He could not see
her face,
“He went to the postoffice for the
last mail. You must have missed
him.”
“Well, what ever made him come to
this lost corver?”
“Oh, because it was the chance of
something definite, you know! Don't
you know?" she added quickly, seeing
the puzzled look on his face. “Well,
Gerald's chum, Netherby Ames, broke
all to pleces last fall from overwork
and so on, and he was ordered down
here. And he couldn't afford to come
and stay iadefinitely, so he pulled 8
2 | the confident reply.
! bit.
few wires, and things happened. He
——— - -
she couldn't avoid she crawled over
until she struck deep water on the
other side. She struck the fog at Fort
Hamilton, and then the anxious artist
asked:
“Captain, isn't this going to make it
dificult for us to find the house boat?’
“Not at ail, my son—not at all,” was
“I told you we
should bave a fog, but that it would
make no difference. The Merry Sal is
a-sailin’ of herself. She's a-follerin’ of
her own nose. I've told her that I
want her to hit a house boat c#lled the
Colony Damned, and she'll do it or
sever look me in the face again.”
“The Colonial Dame is the name of
the boat,” corrected the artist.
“Well, I got near enough to it for
the schooner to understand what is
wanted. You just enjoy yourself and
don't worry. Lord. but I wish you
really knowed what a nose this craft
has got for smellin’ out other boats and
things! One night I was comin’ around
Sandy Hook In such darkness that I
couldn't see my hand before my face.
I didn't krow whether the Hook was
five rods or five miles off. I left it all
to Sal, and what did she do?
ashore so hizh and dry that I got off
without wettin® my feet. Show me
ansther craft tit can do the trick.
No, sir, you necin't worry one least
I'l! hit that house boat inside of
another hour if the wind holds.”
Aboard the Colonial Dame all had
gone well. She had been towed down
to the bay and anchored. The sculptor
felt that the game was in his hands
and was determined to win. He
counted on a moonlight night, rippling
, waters, wavelets softly tunking against
the sides of the boat, poetry, sighs and
the soft strain of music floating over
the waters from some summer resort
where sandwiches sold at 15 cents
each. The fog came and blotted out
the moonlight. It was too damp to
git on deck, and the artist's sister ac-
companied them down in the cabin,
and his suit did not advance. At 10
o'clock the house boat rocked silently
on the waters with all on board retired.
At about that hour also the captain of
the Merry Sal was saying to Harold
Strong as they walked the quarterdeck
together:
“Yes, sir, the Sal has got a nose on
her, and there is really no use for me
to carry a compass. I've told her to
smell out that ere boat of yours, and
she’s a-do!n’ it. I'm reckonin’ she'll
hit it within fifteen minits. Why, I
could tur: in right now and feel that if
that boat of yours is anywhere on Prin-
cess bay the Sal would hit her with-
in"—
The Sal hit her. Whether she was
guided by Providence, the lunkhead of
a young man or by her nose may never
be known, but as a matter of fact she
suddenly crashed into the Colonial
Dame and cut her down to the water's
edge.
There were shouts and screams and
vells of confusion. It seemed for a
moment as if all on board the house
boat must be drowned, but luck was
with them. The tide had gone out and
there were only three feet of water
under her keel, the crew of the Sal were
active on the bows of their craft, and
the artist went overboard at the first
crash and fished around until he found
the right party and then saved her in
a sopping, but uninjured state, He
also magnanimously extended a saving
hand to his rival and to his future
mother-in-law, and as he piloted them
to the sandy Jersey beach and counted
heads to find all present and accounted
for he was hailed from the departing
schooner with:
“Well, good night, young man. I
told you the Sal had a nose on her and
would hit this ere house boat in the
darkest night, and you see I am a mari-
ner who speaks the truth. Good night
all. Take the Merry Sal when you
want a schooner with a smeller on
her.”
The Art of Begging.
The head waiter of a famous New
York restaurant said the other day:
“A few nights ago, after having
charge of a very large dinner, I started
for home. My way led me through
West Seventy-second street, where,
late as it was, I saw a little girl only
a few years old sitting on the lower
step of a private stoop, crying and
sobbing as if her heart would break.
I stopped to ask her what was the
matter, and she told me that she had
got lost uptown, that she knew where
she lived — in Sixteenth street — and
that if she only had car fare she could
get back there. Being In a hurry, I
gave her a quarter and started to pass
on.
“The moment the kid got the coin
way.”—New York Post.
Some Strange Customs.
A very interesting account Is
of the strange customs of the Bed-
ouins of the Sinai peninsula in
i
1H
gfaz78
§
GRR
Why, |
she smelled Ler way along and went |
: y 8 ent | To proceed, ete.’ "—Exchange.
‘winner.
Symptoms, !
*A physician was talking about his
patient's symptoms,
“Young, strong people don’t give me
enough symptoms when they are ll”
he said, “but the middle aged and the
aged give me too many. Thinking
about their health all the time, study-
ing their condition all the time, the
aged and the middle aged discover a
symptom in every muscle, in every or-
gan, in every limb. Thus they confuse |
me.
“The average sufferer of fifty or so
will pour upon my head a deluge of
rymptoms like this:
“‘Well. doctor, I'm miserable all |
over, feverish one minute, freezing
the next. I've a gnawing pain in my
hip and side and back and an all gone
sensation in the stomach, with a shoot-
ing, neuralgic headache over the left |
eye. I have a queer taste in my mouth, |
a dizziness when I stoop over and a |
dull ache up and down the right side,
along with a kind of numbness. I
cough a lot, my throat’s sore, and I've |
the earache. Appetite’'s fair, but not
what it should be. I have a feeling of
lassitude, and I'm very weak. These |
are only a few of my main symptoms.
An Unruffiled Spirit.
A contented spirit was Mrs, Snow's, !
so contended that at times her neigh-
bors found it trying and took on un-
righteous satisfaction in presenting any
small thorns which might prick through
her comfort.
“No, my Angie hasn't the measles,”
sald Mrs. Snow one day. “Well, per-
haps it seems strange she should escape
the epidemic, but my children are un-
usually fortunate always In those re-
spects. Of course I take the best of
care of them, and, then, they inherit a
tendency to throw off any germs. I
anticipate no illness with Angie.”
In spite of this the redoubtable An-
gie came down with measles a week
later, and the inquiring friend again
approached Mrs. Snow.
“Yes, dear Angie has the measles at
last,” said the contented mother. “Now,
most of the other children are well, and
as the doctor has plenty of time to at-
tend to her it really seemed an oppor-
tunity for Angie. I don't suppose there
ever was a child on whom they came
out more beautifully than on Angle,
I tell the doctor I think he may well be
proud of his little patient.”—Youth's
Companion.
The Atmosphere.
Even if it were possible for man to
live without breathing air he could not
exist on the earth if It were without an
atmosphere. Plants derive carbon, the
most important element of thelr food,
from the air, and without plants there
could be no food for animals and there-
fore no human beings. Water also
comes from the atmosphere, but if
there were no water there could be
neither plants nor animals. If food and
water could be supplied in some other
way the world would still be unhabit-
able by plants and animals owing to
the severity of the cold. Wi an at-
mosphere th would be no winds and
consequently no waves or ocean cur-
rents. The sea—If we may suppose one
to have been supplied by some un-
known cause—would be a stagnant
pool, uninhabitable by seaweed or fish.
American Buyer In London.
“My American accent came near to
taxing me just £430 on my last trip to
London,” remarked a clubman. “When
I tried to buy a certain bulldog pup
there the kennel man priced it at $500,
as he had me sized up as an American
and, in his regard, an easy mark. I
made a deal with a cabby at the hotel
stand, who went around and bought
the same pup for me at $60, a very fair
price, as the dog will never be a show
1 gave a $10 tip to the cab
man, so I made $430 by employing an
agent who called his hansom an ’an-
som and his horse an ‘orse.”—New
York Sun.
Jackdaw and Magpie.
In England the daw is hardly ever
mentioned but as Jack, yet daw and
not jackdaw is the proper name of the
species. [It is suggested that the ple
owes the “mag” to some corruption of
Margaret or Meg. To mag is to chat-
ter, but whether the verb was derived
from the name or the name from the
verb is a question, It is more than
probable that the Jim Crow of Ameri: |
ca (the old name for a negro boy) was |
brought across from England in the
days when a crow was Jim, as a swal-
low was Dick.—London Standard. |
Egg and Bottle. |
Take a boiled egg, remove the shell, |
have a bottle with a large neck, add |
a piece of paper to the neck and light
it. When in blaze put the egg on it.
point down, and the heat will pull the
egg with great force Inside. Now put
again a blazed paper in the bottle and
manage to bave the egg in the neck
point up, and the heat will push out
the egg with an explosion.
Perpetual.
“You always appear to be worried
about your housekeeping,” remarked
the sympathetic friend.
“But really,” replied the housekeeper,
“there are only two occasions when 1
am really worried. One is when 1
haven't a servant and the other is when
1 have.”
At the Art Museum.
Her Husband—That statue isn’t true
to nature. His Wife— What's wrong
with it? Her Husband—Why, it repre-
sents a woman sitting still, saying
nething.—Columbus Dispatch.
In It?
Ethel-Mamma, what makes the lady
dress all in black? Mamma--Because
she is a sister of charity, dear. Ethel
Is charity €zad, then?
The first Lombary poplar in America
was planted by Michaux in 1785.
Denver's First Stagecoach,
On the 17th of May, 1850, Denver
turned out to welcome the first through
coach of whal was destined to grow
into the “Overland Mail,” an enterprise
which for sheer American pluck and
daring must be forever linked with the
‘ame of the “Pony Express.” Red
shirts drifted to the outskirts of the
asamlet and dotted the hills around.
ilard faced bartenders made rely for
the “hottest night that ever tore the
camp loose.” The artillery of holster
and saddle boot was unlimbered for an
ecstatic fusillade. There was lively
betting in dust and nuggets that the
first through stage had been gathered
in by Indians, with takers as eager to
stake their faith- that the scalps of
driver and guard would come through
intact. At length a swirl of dust show-
ed far down the trail. It grew into a
vellow cloud that crept toward the
eager hamlet. Then six mules, stretch-
ed out on the gallop, emerged from
this curtain, and behind them was the
lumbering, swaying stage, come safely
through on time, and Denver was in
touch with the world where men wore
white shirts and lived In real houses.
The cheers that roared a welcome to
this heroic enterprise were echoed In
every western town which hoped and
longed for a link of its own with the
home country, “way back east."”—Out-
ing Magazine.
The Polite Burman,
In the cities of Burma, where the
natives have been long in contact with
Europeans, says the author of “Bur
ma, Painted and Described,” they have
lost some of their traditional polite.
ness, but in the country districts old
school courtesy Is still the custom, An
English gentleman who had bought a
new pony was trying him out on a
Burman road when the animal bolted
and ran at top speed down a
road. In the way ahead was a native
cart, In which was a family party ou
holiday making. The pony dashed inte
the back of the cart, threw his rider
into the midst of the merrymakers and
severely Injured the Burman who was
driving. Before the Englishman had
an opportunity to explain his unexpect.
ed onslaught the Burman picked him-
self up and bowed low. “My lord,
my lord,” he said apologetically, “the
cart should not have been there.”
:
.
Inherited Memories.
A writer in the Nineteenth Century
tells a strange story of “inherited
memories.” The ruins of an ancient
Roman fortress rise from the grounds
of a Mr. Phillips. A clergyman called
upon the owner one day and asked te
see the ruins, “He told me he had a
distinct recollection of living there and
that he held some office of a priestly
nature in the days of the Roman occu:
pation,” said Mr. Phillips. “One fact
struck me as significant. He insisted
on examining a ruined tower which
had bodily overturned. “There used te
be a socket In the top of it,’ he weni
on, ‘in which we used to plant a mast,
and archers used to be hauled to the
top In a basket protected with leather,
from which they picked off the lead:
ers among the ancient Gorlestonians.'
We found the socket he had indicated.”
When Paris Was Dirty.
It takes the labors of 4,000 to keep
the city of Paris clean today, but ix
times past that capital did not care s¢
much about the matter and was nol
always pleasing to look upon. In 1348
King John of France made the reques|
that Parisians should not allow thelr
pigs to roam the streets. Charles VL
(1868-1422) complained that the prac
tice of throwing rubbish into the Seine
made it a “great horror and an abom-
ination to look upon.” Until the sev:
teenth century everybody who could
went about Paris on horseback in orde:
to avoid contact with the flith of the
streets. Various ordinances were made
to compel the people to sweep the road
before their own doors, but it was nol
until 1791 that the dust cart became ar
institution.
A Lullaby.
Magistrate—You are accused of at
tempting to hold a pedestrian up at 2
o'clock this morning. What have you
to say in your own behalf?
Prisoner—I am not guilty, your hon
or. 1 can prove a lullaby.
Magistrate—You mean an alibi.
Prisoner—Well, call it what you like,
but my wife will swear that I was
walking the floor with the baby at the
hour mentioned in the charge.—~Chica:
go News.
Ibsen on Friendship,
like you to do It so that your
would come on a day when I
give up a real nice engagemen
tend it. Oh, you men are so
sg