: : i ' Down on their knees in the schoolyard, mark- | ing a ring in the ground, : Poising the prizes of battle each on its little | earth mound, Breathing, for luck, on the shooter, playing by | time-honored laws, i Silently eyeing the glassies and moving back- | ward to taws; i Slick'ries and cloudies and agates, all in & gor- | | geous array, Shooters all nicked up with half-moons—April, and soon to be May. ! Bringing up mud from the bottom. holding one | arm up with pride, ! Floatfng and diving "way under, coming up on | the far side: i Clothes on the bank quite forgotten, spring- board all slippery and wet, Cries from the door offthe kitchen—coming!— | | West. right soon, but not yet. ! Trousers and waists wet and muddy—home and | the woodpile so high, | Silence—and suspense—and supper—June, and | Game of the Terrors and Tigers; blue shirts, | white pants and red socks, { Hearts almost stilled in their beating, eyes on | the man in the box; i Swish of the swift-wielded willow, thud of the | ball in the mitt, | Cries from the bleachers, “Oh,;Reddy! Bring in that run with a hit!" Crack! Where the bat meets the baseball, swells such a turbulent cheer, Reddy's tne hero of Sandlots—midsummer, August quite near. Nut stains and berry-brown!fingers, freckle and stone bruise and tan, My! How the time hasiflown from us since the vacation began? A Oh, but the summer was splendid! Oh, but the June-time was glad! Wish it could be that way always—what a va- cation we had? Comes melancholy September, sorrowful end 1 whe year! —f. W. Foley. THE WICKEDNESS OF PHOEBE. | — | In the first place it should be under-, stood that I am old enough to be Pheebe's | father. dandled her upon my knee bits of blue bows, one her now, ETOWN up 2s she is,—~were I to find her rowning, for example, and thereupon, as before, seize her incontinently by the heels and drag her back to the and life again,—~would not the eternal woman in her rise, drenched, blurred, §isping, Polling at her skirts, and cry: “Wretch! re you! Go away!” No; on second thought 1 feel that Pheebe would do otherwise. I believe that she would throw herself into my arms, so into any man’s arms that seemed near and strong with an "Oh, oh, oh, Whatever-your-name-is!” 1 believe this because I find that I must always think | twice at least, and usually three times, to | | here, but on temple, to keep the elf-locks out of | general, s £% § EY, thoughtlessly left 28 fe 3 3 ; zg =8 i $0 y led her al ticular future, emnly assured her that £8 “Why, they look at me just as if had once been Phaebe informed me. “And isn't it,” I said, “just dear, that they were like you She smiled. “What, the Misses Caraway ever like me, Uncle J ™ Su wy nel i ashe. rls they must have been!" she aii wre you not a nice, proper girl, “Oh, of course,” she assured me; “but —Now dows Tou © and ever tell any- body that I it, Uncle Jimmy-—cross your heart—but I simply adore wicked- ness!" It is a rule of mine never, upon a astounded. Charing occasion, to appear A Jie Geli permissible oh A Bi at times : confession 's, astonishmen my A “In other people, Uncle Jimmy.” “Oh, of "Other people, of course. Surely. Still, ou do adore it?" ell—" hesitated. “Of course, Uncle Jimmy, that is not a statement which one—one would want to get out.” “Oh, no, of course not." “It’s a little too—don’t you know?—too Uncle Jimmy." “Oh, far too general," I admitted. “I should not have made it,” she went on, “if I had not known, of course, that you would understand. You always do.” “That's very kind of you, Phebe,” 1 » | replied; “very trustful of you, I'm sure.” “It is not all men that I would trust so,” she assured me. “Heavens, no!” 1 should hope not," I replied. “Now, you seem to think,” I went on speculatively, “that the Misses Caraway, for example, did mot adore wickedness at an early period in their careers. “Well, what do you think about it, Un- cle Jimmy?" There was real wickedness in her eyes now. a LY" with great deliberation, “I have in the-Misses Caraway,” and giggled de- lightedly, but would say no more. Now, it may appear from this conver- guess what Phebe would do in a given | sation of ours that there was no good rea- instance. { Her eyes were blue when she wore biue ey are gray now, and wide and brimming with such endless wonder that I rub my own, short-sighted as they are, to make out what in the world the dear child is looking at. You would think, to gaze at her, that gomething marvelous was happening, perhaps behind you, or in the air; whereas the vision, I fancy, is in her own fair soul. Or she sees, it may be, something in life that you and I used to see, once, but have forgotten. To! Phaebe, this old earth is scarcely twenty. To have her glance fall and dwell Hyon Jou is to feel yourself part and parcel of blessed springtime, the roseate airs of which enable her to gaze smilingly upon the wintriest things. Her ces are the sweetest flattery that I know of; they seem to make yo! : y Smilass, mar- ried, gray i ow that deems you—an Er aD fo to all manner of sunlit blossomings and dreams. not guess that in those eyes of hers I have read far more than she ever tells me. I have descried in their mists ane shinings more, I than her precious broker’s clerk can find in them, with all his t gazing. He is onl twenty-three. t, pray, do such ~ f their own love- low o stories? Whar kind of romance would he make of Pheebe? Some maudiin nonsense | tha about violets or stars. Iam not her Uncle Jimmy, but she calls me so. We are unrelated save by those early ties that I have mentioned, a kinship not of blood, but of our own sweet will, and of that propinquity which no mere garden like ours, er thorny, can divide. lives next door. | ! We all worship her—my wife, my chil- dren, and the stranger within our gates, | I I refer to that estimable young - lead a vol June, is not eyes, their seemi ferment among charms De those little blue bows that I chanced think ot She is, 1 confess a Hille fower than angels, yet, were it not for fair, fresh, flower-like girls, how would men ever have dreamed of such Beavenlly things? Phosbe, int sutimer, for in sprigged muslins, or whatever the fluffy things are, gives one the impression of a being that might float away the rosy bosom of a cloud, wih a wap in her fingers. Not that the child isn’t solid, you understand. 8 i i il i : : : t I i } | i Feri FRE = # g ] son in the world wha should ever be as- tonished by Phaebe Dix again. It should have prepared me, you may think; I should have been ready for anything. Ah, but you don’t know Phaebe! “ jo you,” said ne broker's clerk, speaking to me privately as man to man, “we ar2n't half good enough for these dear innocents of ours. [would do any- thing in the world for Pheebe. 1 offered to give up smoking but she wouldn't let me. He said this ruefully, as if he could im- agine no greater proof of a man's devo- tion than dashing amber and brierwood into a thousand pieces at his lady’s feet. “She says she likes it," he went on rather less mournfully, I t, as his pipe drew better. * says t if she were a man, or some women even, she would smoke herself." “Little devil, eh?” I murmured, for the cub amuses me. [draw at him, some- times, as he draws his brier. Oh," he assured me in some anxiety, “she didn’t mean anything by that, you ee meat de ge a eis a , gen manly fellow, Armstead is, and a college man. He is e—the 2 g 8 $ 5 g g 8 think, have been pretty much the same. since Eve was a mere saucy ribling. Nay, Por not except the Misses ; : ; 78 fi i ; i She her “All the ," she said. “Now, Un- Jimmy" i h f | i i ‘ like me themseivest possible, my | torted once?" 7 Well. : : 2 1 & § you, I mean,” I retorted. | aspersions agg I won't stand | i her answer. "Do! Jimmy, or we may | you know. Such : crowded at the dinning: | i i i : h sili i to ve you any t | special one in mind?” | looking mercy, no! What do / know | about such dreadful places!” ! “You seem to think that [do] I re- | hy i as was her calm, even scornful | ! answer, “I assume that you are a man, | Uncle Ji » ! “True;” replied meekly; “I am,! Phaebe. But it has been so many years, | Meth “Really,” I assured her “I 'm trying to | “You 'll have to hurry,” she said tap- | | migh “Well, then, the truth of it, Pheebe—" “You should not have told me the truth of it. You should not have dared to tell me the truth of it.” “But,” said I, “Phcebe, for the life of me, I don’t see—" “Of course you don't see. Of course you understand a woman?" “Well, I guess you ‘re right there,” I “You were perfectly willing,” Phebe went on, speaking low but tensely, and straight before her that the few passengers might not observe her motion. “perfectly willing to expose a young giri— She swallowed hard—" “It was your own proposition, Phebe. “Why, 't either! and ends at the farms Why, it was n't either! I told you that by Ra H ney must I wanted to see life. a tears, glistened I gd n't say—" She n, tears, actually her eyes—*“And the—the Misses Caraway.” “l did know, Phcebe; but you can't see life, my dear, without seeming to be (a part of it, you know—to other peo- ing her foot, “or the fun will be over.” | ple. pi flectively. What was the name of it?” i “That 's what I 'm trying to think | F heebe.” it “Oh, you old slow-poke!” she exclaim. | ed, haif-laughing, half-frowning at me. | “Was it the Blue Rabbit?" | “No, it was n't ths Blue Rabbit.” | She caught my arm. i “Do be careful where you take me, | won't you? I only wanted to see a little | —but you will be careful, won't you?— won't you, Uncle Jimmy?” “Of course,” I said. “I wouldn't like to be the means of getting you arrested, Pheebe.” “Oh, don’t, Uncle Jimmy! Why, you "ll scare the life out of me, if you go on using such dreadful ” “Well,” I said, mollified by the apparent success of my rebuke, and by what I was inclined to consider a ra virtuous conduct of a—a delicate situa- tion, “I do know a place, Phaebe.” “Oh, do you, Uncle Jimmy?” She seemed Ar rt mad, I thought, and relieved. “Yes,” I assured her; “and it is called —or used to be—is still, I think—that is, if I remember correctly—" “Called what Uncle Jimmy?" “The—the Gay Paree, 1 believe.” “Don’t you know, Uncle Jimmy?" “Yes, I—I believe that I know it is call- ed the Gay Paree.” “It sounds promising, doesn't it?” she replied. “Let's go. e on. How do ’ car,” 1 explained, helping her into it, “will take us to the very door.” “Side door?” she whispered. “No, front,” I replied. “Front did you say, Jimmy?" There was, | fancied, a shade of disappointment in her tone. “Front,” 1 assurred her. “Oh, it 's all uite open and aboveboard at the Gay Bs You may rest easy.” “And do they have little stalls with curtains, Uncle Jimmy?" “Gracioue, no!” I said, my rule, as I have remarked before, being shattered utterly. “What in the world would they want curtains for in a public cafe?” “That 's so,” she replied. “It never occurred to me. But they serve wine there?” “Wine? Oh, yes—wine. Lots of wine. Two colors. And soup—beautiful so very nourishing—natural-history soup.” “Natural-history soup!” “Yet. Contains specimens of all the flora and fauna of the Eastern States.” “It does!” “You "ll see.” “And does it—does it taste nice, Uncle Jimmy?” “De-licious! It's a bowlful of educa- tion ” “And do they have music, too?" age Oh, yes—music: three fiddles anda up, you know— “Is n't that jolly!” murmured Phaebe. "ANS wale I ; red her. “Everybody “ m assu e “ else, you know, and thinks how awfully wicked everybody else must be.” “They do” said Phebe. ny. of course. That 's what they go. “Add will they think me wicked, Uncle “Uncle Jimmy!" “Eh?” “Uncle Jimmy, I want you to stop this car. “What?” “1 yan: you to stop this dreadful car, ow “But what fore?” “I want to get out. I want to get out right here.” “But, my dear Phabe—" 2 “But, Phoebe—" skilfully | and hope “Can't you?” It was a meek little "Can’t you?” “I 'm afraid—oh, I 'm afraid I 've ro cross, Uncle Jimmy." “Not a bit of it,” I essured her. "You ‘re hungry, that 's all. We 'll get a bite done here opposite the station, Pelham, before the train pertectly respec ectly, 1 asssure you. ere is no life there—none what- ever, my dear Pheebe.” “Sure, Uncle Jimmy?” “Sure pop.” ed less of me, Uncle Jmmy?” "Oh, my dear!” “Or that I 'm foolish?” "My dear child!” “Promise Uncle Jimmy, faithfully—cross your heart to die-~that you 'll never, never, mention ou !"—By Roy Rolfe Gibson, in Century Magazine. : irits revived most charmingly. A Hymn tnat Sung Itself. An interesting story of. how Dudiey Buck was seized by the divine power of a hymn, and produced fitting music for its | one and only performance, is told in The | Westminister. The relator of the incident 16 he Rev ord, the earl a pastor in Conn, in y days of Buck's career there as an organist. In Dr. Spalding’s church was “a most notable group of singing men and women," and “he was their master, their soul, and ours also.” The writer this “an instance of his surpassing genius,” and writes: study window I heard the practicing in the 1 went in i to the close. He had never be- ore met with it. Not many of your read- ers ever seen it. It runs thus: Darkly rose the guilty morning, When the King of glory scorning, Raged tne fierce Jerusalem: See the Christ, His cross uplifting, See Him stricken, spit on, wearing The thorn-plaited diadem. Not the crowd whose cries assailed Him, Nor lhe hands that rudely nailed Him, Slew Him on the cursed tree; Ours the sins from heaven that called him, Ours the sin whose burden galled Him In the sad Gethsemane. For our sins, of glory emptied, He was fasting. lone. and tempted, He was slain on Calvary; Yet He for His murderers pleaded; Lord, by us that prayer is needed, We have pierced, yet trust in Thee. In our wealth and tribulation, “As Buck read on, his face gathered into a y. The tears rained down upon the Neither of us spoke for RE hym de a ae a n.' ‘No,’ i t will have one.” ‘And the choir?’ I asked. will be all ready,’ he answered. Sunday morning came. The TEL Ty x Then I to the congregation. holy i : tL : 1, Subscribe for the WATCHMAN. ers to the lower altitude of Szechwan ' , province, where is found another tree,’ feeding upon which the insect makes its don’t see. When does a man ever Wax. | This removal is one of the most pic- turesque feaiures of the industry. Thou- ; sands of porters are enveloped in it. The colonies of insects removed from the trees ~~ he por- ters, who must bear them from two to ! four hundred miles. The way lies over i the rocky 5 2. § ii i i At daybreak the men find some at the shade r burdens, Rishtfal Oh, it's meals, and go tosleep. At nightfall they are under way again. : 2 i paths and heights of the Szech- » won Mountains, through several cities, where the masters All the jour- the sun's fast. At the farms where the wax is to be ! formed the leaves containing insects are tied tothe limbs of trees, where the heat And seated in the Pelham, her famish. | 0, SOHN oD ted in the m, her fam | these are the source of he way, I . 't think the : short time the entire tree is covered ou re sure you don nk any the shining white, so that, but for i heat, one would believe the tree was hid- ; them. Crawling form cocoons j den in frost. This white covering is some- times a quarter of an inch thick over most me,” she said—"promise me, Of a tree. It is scraped off and refined, and from it are made candles for | household, | many othe things ' of best quality | family at i . { Peking. The Useful Lemon. | der wide the — for the temples, ahe , More and more the neck is and an annual tribute the long time thraldom of is sent to the royal’ I helped two sufferers from rheuma- ! bari | tism in back and leg to regain good health pits | by this formula: A 1. Put into a cup of hot water (as hot | can drink) the juice of a, back, showing throats uncovered an inch ; also a teaspoonful of Ep- | som salts, and drink that the first thing | in the morning, when thestomach is emp- | . with the same, and relief the ey | 2. Two or three slices of lemon in a | "3. A | bilious 5. skin 8. for is 1L 12. 258% il g 2 2 i g iE% £2 = of irs : 5. A lotion water will trees that are ful | teaspoon _ juiee in a - | Joell (black) up of coffee will ‘relieve 8 | yop yyy 1 inen Wedding ~itis thre twen- remove 7. Lemon Juice with olive ail is far superior to vinegar for ressing; equal for blending. i juice with loaf sugar is good 5 Sreuas appc alla irritation caused by insect 10. An old-fashioned remedy for croup | ee le meat may adding a teaspoonful 03 Sng. 3 veaspootiul of Jom: life among cultivated fruit trees. ever, from Syria comes stories of olive- | centuries old, and of lemon juice in a 4. A teaspoonful of lemon juice or the tieth half of a lemon squeezed water in the morning is an excelient liver corrective. . Lemon juice in a cleansing tooth wi i ing the tartar, but sweetening the breath. | of lemon juice and rose- | intoa cupof hot ' in water makes , not only remov- tan and whiten the i i tions of the juice | bites. | be made tender of lemon juice | extraordinarily long How- | established without any ques- | | £ : 1 i sf Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell When | embark. The newest coiffure is flat in front and piled heavily over the ears. It is called the Brittany. Milk.—Put the milk ina the opening with white Maple Cream.—Take one cup of 8 ,oneand a half cups of butter and a i i £ : :f Z I 4 gEsFs 55 I 2 i : 3 & FE popular. collars and boned head sunken inside 25 pi mands the elongation of the the throat. The fancy quite ¢ it is no uncommon thing to see in fashionable tea rooms, at five o'clock, women, with neck piece and coat thrown g or two, sometimes more, below the base of the throat. Even if the throat lacks ndness, anniversary. All the decorations should be pure white with a touch of blue for flax Pe soms. Use blue Canton or Japanese china with your finest linen dollies. Beautiful blue linen dollies may be pur- chased at any of the Chinese shops. The spinning wheel spicuous in the decoration scheme. If there is an heir-loom it should be given a prominent place in the room. con- It may also be inscribed at the top of the invitations. Lay a sprig of forget-me-nots at each place serve the ice cream in blue dishes. Chicken salad with hot wafers, stuffed olives and coffee are sufficient for the rst course. Cake and cream may very properly form course. The Correct Luncheon.—If it is a formal. affair, the invitations are sent out 10 days or two weeks in advance. Guests may be invited to a smaller more inf luncheon by word of mouth, al notes are better, as they serve to busy or forgetful people of the date, time, etc. g a & i ! ; 3 § : : § | f i i i i Hl
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers