COPYRIGET, 1903, BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY . [Continued from last week.) CHAPTER VIL ANDY had secretly enjoyed the | commotion caused by the lit- | tie cireus rider being left iu the parsonage, at first be: | vause of her inborn love of mischiof | and later because Polly had become second in her heart only to the pastor. She went about her work, crooning | softly during the days of Polly's con- | valescence. The deep, steady voice of | the pastor reading aloud in the pretty ' window overhead was company, Sho! would often climb the stairs to tell them some bit of village gossip and leave them laughing at a quaint com- ment about some Inquisitive sister of the church who had happened to incur her displeasure, As spring came on Douglas carried Polly down to the sunlit garden be- neath the window, and Mandy flut- tered about arranging the cushions | with motherly solicitude, More days slipped by and Polly began to creep through the little, soft leaved trees at the back of the church and to look for the deep, blue, sweet scented violets. When she was able Douglas took her with him to visit some of the | outlying houses of the poor. Her | woman's instinct was quick to per- celve many small needs in their lives that he had overlooked and to suggest slmple, inexpensive joys that made them her devoted friends. ! Their evenings were divided between making plans for these unfortunates and reading aloud from the Bible or other hooks. i When Polly gained courage, Douglas sometimes persuaded her to read to | him, and the little corrections that he ' made at these times soon hecame noticeable in her manner of speech. She was so eager, so starved for knowledge that she drank it as fast as he could give it. [It was during thelr talks about grammar that Mandy generally fell asleep in her rocker, her unfinished sewing still in her lap. When a letter came from Jim and Toby it was always shared equally b Mandy and Hasty, Polly and the pa: tor. But at last a letter came from Jim only, and Douglas, who was asked to read it, faltered and stopped after the first fey. words, “It's no use my tryin’ to keep it from you any longer, Poll,” the letter began. “We ain't got Toby with us no more. He didn't have no aceident; It wasn't that. He just seemed kinder sick an’ aflin’ like ever since the night we had to leave you behind. 1 used to get him warm drinks an’ things an ‘try to pull him through, but he was always a-chillin’ and a’achin’. If it wasn't one thing it was another. 1 done all 1 Kkurowed you'd 'a’ wanted me to, an’ the rest of the folks was mighty white to him too. 1 guess they kinder felt how lonesome he was. He couldn't go: no more Inuzhs in the show, so Barker had to put on another man with hin. That kinder hurt him, too, 1 s'pose, an’ showed him the way that things was a-goin’. It was just after that he wrote the parson a-tellin' him to never let you come back. He seemed to 'a’ got an idee in his head that you was happier where you was. He wouldn't let me tell you ‘bout his feelin’ rocky. ‘cause he thought it might mebbe make you come back. ‘Snes Qui rut from us,’ he was allus a-sayin'. ‘l never spected to keep 'er.'”™ | Douglas stopped. Polly was waiting, her face white and drawn. He had | not told her of Toby's letter because with it had come a request to “say nothin’ ter the kid.” He felt that Polly was controlling herself with an effort until he should reach the end of Jim's letter, so he harried on. “The parson’s promise didn't get to nim none too quick,” he read. could stay with him up to the finish. It come round mornin’. much to It—he just scemed tired an’ peaceful-like, he did,’ he sald, meanin' the parson. ‘She knows, ehe allus knows,’ he whis- ered, meanin’ you, Poll, an’ then he was on his way. He'd already give me what was saved up for you, an’ I'm sendin’ it along with this"— A blue money order for $250 had flut- tered from the envelope when Douglas opened it. “I got everything ready afore 1 went on the next day, an’ 1 went up an’ saw the little spot on the hill where they was goin’ to stow him. It looked kinder nice, an’ the digger's wife said she'd put some flowers on it now an’ then. It was you what made me think ©' that, Poll, ‘cause it seemed to me what you would 'a’ done. You was al- lus so dally about flowers, you an’ bim, “I guess this letter's too long for me to be a-sayin’ much about the show, but the ‘leap-a-death’ girl got her'n last week. She wasn't strong enough for the job nohow. I done what 1 could for her outside the show, ‘cause I knowed how you was allus a-feelin’ *bout her. J guess the ‘Jeap-a-death’s’ husband is goin’ to jump his job soon, if he gets enough saved up, ‘cause him an’ Barker can't hit it off no more. We got a good deal o' trouble among “I'hat | seemed to be what he was waitin’ for. | He give up the night It come, an’ 1} got him a littie room in a hotel after | the show an’ let one of the other fel | lers get the stuff out o' town, so's 1 | } There wasn't | ‘I'm glad he wrote what the animals too. None o' the snakes | 18 sheddin’ like they ought to, an’ Jumbo’s a-carryin’ a sixteen foot band- age around that trunk o' his'n ‘cause he got too fresh with Trixy’'s grub the other night, an’ the new giraffe’s got the croup in that seven foot neck o' his'n. I guess you'll think I got the pip for fair this time, so I'll just get on to myself now an’ cut this short. I'll be writin’ you ag’'in when we hit Morgan- wn. “YOUR OLD MUVVER JIM." Douglas laid the letter gently on the table, his hand still resting upon it. He looked helplessly at the little, shrunk- en figure in the opposite chair. Polly had made no sound, but her head had slipped lower and lower, and she now sat very quietly with her face in her hands. She had been taught by Toby and Jim never to whimper, As spring came on Douglas carvied Polly down to the sunlit garden, “What a plucky lot they are!" thought Douglas as he considered these three lonely souls, each accepting whatever fate brought with no rebel: lion or even surprise. It was a strange world of sioies In which these chil dren of the amusement arena fought and lost. They came and went like phantoms, with as little consclousnes: of their own best interests as of the great, moving powers of the world about them. They felt no throes of envy, no bitterness. They loved and worked and “went their way.” For once the pastor was powerless in the presence of grief. Both he and Mandy left the room quietly, feeling that Polly wished to be spared the outburst of tears that a sympathetic word might bring upon her. They al lowed her to remain alone for a time: then Mandy entered softly with a ten- der good night, and Douglas followed her cheerily as though nothing at all had happened. wanted to tell him how grateful she was for all his care of her. She thought of the thousand little things that she might have done for him, She longed to recall every impatient word to him. His gentie, reproachful eyes were always haunting her. “You mus: come back, Toby!" she eried. “You must!" It was only when body and mind had worn themselves out with yearning that a numbness at last crept over her and out of this grew a gradval con sciousness of things about her and . returning sense of her obligation to others. She tried to answer in her old, smiling way and to keep her mind upon what they were saying instead of letting it wander away to the past. Douglas and Mandy were overjoyed to see the color creeping back to her cheeks. She joined the pastor again in his visits to the poor. The women of the town would often see them passing and would either whisper to each other, shrug their shoulders or lift their eyebrows with smiling insinua- tions, but Polly and the pastor were too much absorbed in each other to take much notice of what was going on about them. They had not gone for their walk today because Mandy had needed Polly to help make ready for the social to be held in the Sunday school room to- night. Early in the afternoon Polly had seen Douglas shut himself up in the study, and she was sure that he was writing, so when the village children stopped in cn the way from school for Mandy's new made cookies she used her customary trick to get them away. “Tag: you're it!" she cried and then dashed out the back door, pursued by the laughing, screaming youngsters. Mandy followed the children to the porch and stood looking after them as the mand little band scurried about the back yard, darted in and out among the trees, then up the side of the wood. ed hill, just beyond the church, The leaves once more were red and yellow on the trees, but today the air was warm and the children were wear- Ing their summer dresses. Polly's lithe girlish figure looked almost tall by comparison with the children about her. She wore a plain, simple gown of white, which Mandy had helped her to make. It had been cut ankle length for Polly wos now seventeen. Her quaint, old rashioned manner, her seri- ous eyes and her trick of knotting her heavy brown hair low on her neck made her seem older. Mandy waited until the children had disappeared over the hill, then began bustling about, looking for the step- ladder which Hasty had left under the vines of the porch. It had been a busy day at the parsonage. A social always meant perturbation for Mandy. She called sharply to Hasty as he came down the path which made a short cut to the village. “80's youse back, is yo'?" she asked sarcastically. “Sure I's back,” answered Hasty good naturedly as he sank upon an empty box that had held some things for the social and pretended to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. “Massa John done send yo' to de postoffice two hours ago,” said Mandy as she took the letters and papers from his hand. “Five minutes is plenty ob time for any nigger to do dat job.” “l done heen detained,” Hasty drawled. “Youse always ’'tained when dar's any work a-goin’ on,” Mandy snapped at him, “Whar's Miss Polly ?' Hasty asked, FAS = wy SHE HAD BEEN TAUGHT BY TOBY NEVER TO WHIMPER. It was many weeks before Polly again became a companion to Douglas and Mandy, but they did not intrude upon her grief. They waited patiently for the time when youth should again assert itself and bring back their laughing mate to them. CHAPTER VIIL HEN Polly understood that To- by was actually gune it seem- ed to her that she could never laugh again. She had been too young to realize the inevitableness of death when it came to her mother, and now she cculd searcely believe that Toby would never, never come back to her. She felt that she must be able to drag him back; that she could not go on without him. She ignoring Mandy's reference to work. “Nebber yo' mind ‘bout Miss Polly. She don't want yo’. Jes' yo' done fetch that stepladder into de Sunday school room.” “But I wants her,” Hasty insisted. “I's been on very ‘ticular business what she cuzht to know 'bout.” “Business? she repeated. kind ob business®™ “What “1 got to fix de Sunday scheol room.” | sald Hasty as he perceived her grow- ing curiosii=. “You come Lheah, nigzer!™ Mandy called, determined that nene of the village doinzs should escape her, “Out wid it!" “Well, i's 'bout de circus,” Hasty answered, seating himself dgain on the box. “Dey’s showin’ in Wakefield to- Claster’'s Clothing Store. Claster’'s Clothing SPECIAL, SATURDAY, MAY 22, '09 Men's 15c. Black, Tan and Fancy Hose FOR THIS DAY ONLY 6 Cents. Crider’s Exchange, night, an’ next month day's comin’ here.” “Dat same circus what Miss Polly used to be wid?" Mandy's eyes grew large with curiosity. “De very same,” and Hasty nodded mysteriously. “How yo' know dat?’ Mandy was uncertain whether to believe him. “Cause da's a big red wagon down. town wid de name ob de show paintea on it. It's de advertisin’' one what goes ahead wid all de pictures what dey pastes up.” “An' yo' been hangin’ roun’ dat wagon?" “l done thought Miss Polly might watt to know.” “See here, lazy nigger, don’ yo' go puttin’ no circus notions into Miss Pol- Iy's head. She don’ care no more ‘bout dem t'ings since her Uncle Toby done die. She done been satisfied right whar she am. Jes' yo’ let her be.” “l ain't done nothin',” Hasty pro- tested. “Nebber do do nothin,” growled Man- dy. “Go ’'long now an’ get a-work. “Tag; yowre it!" Polly cried. Mos’ 4 o'clock an’ dat Sunday school room ain't ready yet.” Hasty picked up the empty box and the stepladder and went out through the gate. He had barely disappeared when a peal of laughter was heard from the hillside, and before Mandy could get out of the way the young- sters came tumbling down the path again. “Lawsy, lawsy!"” she gasped as Polly circled around her, dodging the chil- dren. “Youse cheeks is red as pinies. honey." “Tag; you're it!” Polly cried as she touched the widow's auburn haired off- spring on the sleeve. There was much wailing when Willle passed the tag to little Jennie, the smallest girl in the crowd. “I won't play no more,” she sobbed, “‘cause I's always it.” To comfort her Polly began to sing an old circus song that the children had learned to love, and the little ones huddled about her in a circle to hear of the wonderful “Van Amberg” who used to “walk right into the lion's cage and put his head in the lion's mouth.” The children were in a state of nerves that did credit to Polly as an enter- tainer when Hasty broke in upon the song. “When yo' get a minute I want ter tell yo' somethin'.” “I have one right now.” And, turn- ing to the eager mites at her side, Pol- ly told them to run along into the grove and that she'd come pretty soon to teach them a new game. The youngsters went screaming and laughing on their way, and she breath- ed a sigh of relief as she threw herself down on the rustic seat that encircled the elm tree, “What is it, Hasty?" she asked, sus- pecting that he was in trouble with Mandy. “It's 'bout de circus,” Hasty inform- ! ed her bluntly. “The circus?’ She rose and crossed to him quickly. “It's in Wakefleld—-an' nex’ month it's a-comin’ here.” “Here?” Polly gasped. [To be Continued.) | i | i | 5214-1! A Thrifty Wife. A careful, prudent wife is a blessing to a man, especially to a poor man, but some wives are a little too careful. Lord Eldon's wife was somewhat “near,” as they say in England. His lordship was very fond of hunting and retired to the country for a few weeks toward the end of the season, where he was in the habit of riding a little Welsh pony, for which he gave 50 shil- lings. One morning his lordship, in- tending to énjoy a few hours’ sport, ordered Bob to be saddled. Lady El dou objected, but as company was present gave no reason. ments, however, the servant opened the door and announced that Bob was ready. “Why, bless me,” exclaimed her lady- ship, “you can’t ride him, Lord Eldon! He has no shoes on.” “Yes, my lady, he was shod this week.” said the servant, “Shameful!” exclaimed her ladyship. “How dare any one have him shod without orders? John," she continued, addressing her husband, “you know you rode the pony only a few times last year, so 1 bad the shoes taken off and have kept them ever since in my bureau. They are as good as new, and these people have shod him again, We shall be ruined at this rate.” First of the Swifts. Gustavus Franklin Swift, the first of this commercial dynasty, was a Cape Cod Yankee, who bought a steer now and then and peddied the meat from the back of a certain gocart which has since become famous. He moved to Albany and went deeper into meats, discarding one after another partners who had not the foresight and daring which he possessed. He located in Chicago at the beginning of those days of great possibilities in bringing into touch the new west and the older east. It was he who invented the first re frigerator curs. This was the one rev- olutionary act which put his sons and a few other sons in very fair control of half of the meat of America. He saw the market for dressed beef ex- tended only after the hardest of fights. All great revolutions are fought against. All the rest, all England, all Europe, fought the idea of dressed beef and then accepted it. 1 doubt if we could do without it now.—Cosmo- politan Magazine. A Voice From the “Gods.” In a certain theater which makes a specialty of melodrama there is a large following of gallery “gods,” and very naturally the “sky” assemblage is composed of knowing critics, who are loud in their demands to be pleased. Woe unto the actor who is unfortunate enough to incur their displeasure! Recently a play with a hair raising plot was put on the boards. The hero was evidently new to his part, for he fumbled his lines badly and spoke in a faltering tone. Perhaps it was for this reason that he did not meet with the sympathy of the gallery. Just before the crisis of the play the hero clasped his sweetheart in his arms and said: “Keep a brave heart, my darling. The worst is yet to come.” Whereupon a voice that bad no doubt received its training in crying “Extry!” on the street yelled out: “What are y' goin’ t' do, mister— sing ?’—London Tit-Bits. There Was Something Doing. In a barber's shop the other day 1 saw a man for whom I felt sorry—not that he needed my sympathy from the standpoint ~f charity, for he was a well to do man, having many business affairs, but I felt sorry for him be cause of what he was doing. A bar- ber was cutting his hair, He was hav- ing his left hand manicured. In his right hand he held a newspaper. He was smoking a cizar, and a porter was shining bis shoes. There he sat read- ing a newspaper. Three persons were busy waiting on him, doing their bes. to please him, and he was oblivious to the joy which his opportunity afforded him.—Fort Werth Star. What's In a Name. Talking of names, what's in them? A good lot sometimes. We knew a girl named Rose once. She was a daugh- ter of old Rose, and he, being a little romantic, christened her Wild. Cer tainly Wild Rose is a pretty name. In a few mo-| Bellefonte, Pa. ing! She married « man named Bull Then, agrin, we happen to know a carpenter named Pierrotezic Zrnchzizr- owskelowski. Now, whenever a fel- low workman saws down on a nail this chap always sings out, “What is it?" He thinks they are calling him. Yes, there's a good deal in a name. — London Scraps. Partners In Crime. The hard 'ooking customer had been arrested for stealing an umbrella. “What have you to say for your- self?” asked the police justice. “Are you guilty or not guilty 7 “I'm one o' the guilty ones, y'r honor, I reckon,” answered the prisoner, “The umbrella had the name of J. Thomp- son on the handle, G. H. Brickley stamped on the inside o' the cover, an’ ' I stole it from a man named Quimby.” i =Chicago Tribune. Knowing. “Does he know much? “Well, he not only knows that he | doesn’t know much, but he knows | enough to keep others from knowing , It"—Judge. | The Unfeeling World. | “Did you ever feel that the world | was agaius* you?" “Sure. 1 felt it this morning when 1 ! slipped on the sidewalk.”—Pittsburg ' Observer. As we grow less young the aged grow less old.—Bacon. Why They Moved. The Bingses, mother and daughter, had long cutstayed their welcome at their country friend's house. More- over, they evinced no sign of going nway nor did the mother seem to be In any way affected by the strong hints to go which the overtaxed hostess threw out from time to time. Finally, forbearance exhausted, the entertain- er decided to reach the mother through her daughter. So one day, calling the little visitor to her, she said, “Maimie, when do you expect to go home?” “Oh, I'm sure 1 don't know,” was the careless reply. “We've several other places to stop at yet.” “Well. when do you go on to the next place?” “Can't even tell that. Mamma says it's immaterial to her just when she'll leave here." “But, my dear child,” exclaimed the exasperated hostess, “doesn’t your mother realize how costly living is these days?” “Oh, yes, she knows how dear it is. That's why we left the city.” “Well, Maimie, 1 cannot afford to en- tertain visitors any longer, and I wish you'd tell your mother that at once!” “Is that an insult?” rejoined the child, turning haughtily to the speaker, “Why do you ask that, child?” “Because when we're insuited we go on to the next place!”—London Week- ly. Unanswerable. “Vicious circle” is a term often used in the medical world. An example of its psychological use applied to argu- ment may be found in Joseph A. Sco- ville's book. “Old Merchants of New York City.” A merchant of New York him as a bookkeeper at a Nevertheless Tom got into of reaching the office later the afternoon. When this state of af- fairs had gone on for a week, the mer- chant remonstrated. “But, my dear sir,” returned Tom, “how can I come any earlier? I don't get my breakfast until 1.” “But get your breakfast earlier.” “How can I? I don't get up till 12.” “Then get up earlier.” ““How can I" pleaded Tom, “when I don’t go to bed until daylight?” In the face of such convincing argu- ment there was nothing to be said. More Than Liberal. Mr. Highmus—You gave your son a lberal education, did you not? Mr. Muntoburn—Disgustingly liberal. His four years at college cost me $27,000.— Chicago Tribune. The greatest man in the world may stand as much in need of the meanest But, alas, the old man was not farsee- as the meanest does him.—Fuller.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers