THE SONG OF THE WORLD. There's a song that the hammer is singing A ringing and wholesome song. Of the day's bread won, Of the day's work done, Of a mold well cast In the fiery blast— And never one blow gone wrong. There's a song that the engines are singing, A deep and echoing song. Of the whirring wheel And the burnished steel, From the lightest spring To the mightiest swing— And never a stroke gone wrong. There's a song that the sails are singing, A humming and a catching song, Of the prow that braves The raving waves Of storms outsailed, And of ports safe hailed— And never a helm gone wrong. There's a song that the world is singing, Of its labors done— And of Right that masters Wrong. ~ Isabel Bowman Finley, in St. Nicholas. QUITTERS. disguised behind an unobtrusively im- i i ) i 8 £ gi = 1H £ E t hgh high Drunkard,” said Cl “i Re momentary across high- 1 " sai av tally, booted knees, a foot in listlessly the word they use.” through the black marsh water under. The girl did not flinch. "Never mind hi and narrow seat. words,” said she. "And keep still, any- out of the northeastern dis- | way, for a minute. I want to think what the most moving of outdoor we can do about this.” he melancholy whistle of unseen | “There's mighty little can be done,” yellow-leg, he had rarely said Claverly, “for a man that's down his lips and tried his ; and out.” His sister drew away from him. "Out?" she echoed in a cool Itttle tone. “Out,” Claverly repeated indifferently. “Billy Claverly,” his sister cried, "you | talk like a fool! You're not ‘out’ as long A was | as you're alive. Nobody ever had a big- brewing to the eastward, and the surf on | ger chance. Look at the friends you've o oa ou Hgquy: Wheew ! got. You Liens with Jou, like . ing diapason to minor piping the | Tommie. Every es you, you. wind in the chimney-tops. { They'll work their heads off for you. And Miss Claverly sat with her chair drawn you make them trust you. Look when up before the fireplace, her slippered feet they put youon the A. & N,, and you crossed to the blaze in one of the imme- | not thirty-five. Don’t talk about being ' morial attitudes of women, ahand shield- | ‘out,’ when everybody knows what you ing her eyes and face from the glow. can do.” They were alone together in their old Claverly stoppedher. “Not any longer, + house above the marshes, Claverly and Kid,” he said. “My reputations gone, | : ! il we 15 ie i tell you. And my friends. | can't find i Claverly, un as the night was, paced | any one to trust me now. Why,” he : restlessly up down shadowed | said suddenly, “I don't believe I even room,—it was immense in the vague fire- | trust myself." light,—smoking and looking at the hand | The girl laughed impatiently. _ | that half hid his sister's face from him, ' away,” she said. To Oncoast came a Good Samaritan | somehow. i | It was a frail-seeming hand and wrist, | “I cant. “Talk “I don't,” Claverly repeated stubbornly. Listen! When I went on that pressive waistcoatand wearing pearl-gray | and the face itself was the most delicate | Trans-Pacific junk-heap I wanted to make Spals—a trifle conscious of his power to | of New England ovals. But he knew weil | good. God only knows how much I y deeds, as Samaritans often are, but still at bottom a simple, sincere fel- low, and possibly Claverly's staunchest He stayed the night, and in the morn- ing, while they waited for Miss Claverly to give them breakfast, he offered Claver- ly a place in charge of traffic ‘on the Oregon-Arequipa erland, standing, back to him, at a window meanwhile. Except for that, he betrayed none of the embarrassment he felt. But Claverly understood, and, as he was, he became for 2a moment hi old lightly scornful self, now that the ultimate choice was offered him. His shoulders, that had seemed to hang so heavy, took on their old square- ness. His somber features lighted, and the old insolent challenge leaped up in his eyes. He looked as tall and clean and young as he had ever been. He laughed, and the Good Samaritan had the grace to redden. Then Claverly turned serious. "So it's come tothat?” he mused. “Jim, why should a man go away from every- thing"—he glanced about the breakfast- room, cheerful with morning sunshine and massed goldenrod and asters—"every- thing like this, to boss ore-road traffic in some unheard-of place?” He had never lost a trick of looking his man or his situation square in the face. He did it now. Jim Hoxsey looked just as squarely back, and under his roly-poly pinkness and his trivial preciseness of dress and manner the rgal man showed. There was no distinction in him, as there was in Claverly, but there was solidity. “I haven't a notion what you're driving at,” he lied. “Itis a great opening for any one. South America is the country of the future.” For a moment the eyes of the two men fought. Hoxsey's fell, and Claverly smiled at him with less of mockery. “You're the same good old chap still,” he said. “I'll give your offer what they call my serious consideration.” “Do,” Hoxsey urged very serious him- self. "It's a great opening.” “And openings,” Claverly mused, his smile all bitterness now, “lead to holes. And holes are convenient places for dis- posing of a certain sort of men.” Hoxsey ri again. “Bill.” he said, “you know you can always have Snytiuve I've got. But what are you ng to do? You can't go on this way.” Claverly shrugged his square kts: for an instant, into abject weariness. He looked like an old man. “What?” he agreed. * your solution of the ing , Jim, seems ideally simple. I'll think it over.” “I say,” the girl broke in, them in sleepy rosiness, “you seem tremendously in earnest about something.” nderlay If Claverly felt it too, he gave no s rs vay nen hovel” he y ten up n- dolent recklessness. “Give Jim his coffee before I hurl him at his train. He wants “Wire me the minute you decide,” he mumbled. “It's a great opening. Im- Miss Claverly gave him a sidelong out of inscrutable eyes. “Are we talking,” she asked, "of volcanoes?” “Something of that sort,” said Claverly, solr again; and Howse, solidly ph - perous prosaic though he was, felt a rt such ™ iy io a of thoro to Rave a thing EA sort hanging over them. . “I'll take the day to think it over, Jim,” said Cayerly. "I'll wire "And I,” Miss Claverly said to “will wait with you for enlightenment.” oxsey came as close to { a sister fiat Claverly like Rose averly. The banker went back to his bank, and Claverly out to another day of shooting which held no interest. The world was sportsman’s heart; nor they tore at slavering,and FEE sunrise un. | enough the i them. To him, girl, in her long, | slimness, her spritelike poise of v | mind, her unbreakable reserve that pass- ‘ ed outwardly for shyness, had long been the most satisfying of women, to the eye speechful but unfailing friendliness she had been the most under standing of fo panions. They responded to each other's moods like strings tuned in the strong unison of an octave. But that night everything was out of tune. More than Oncoast had changed to him. Even his sister's accustomed silence vexed him. He halted abruptly ‘and tossed his cigarette-end on the logs. He watched it flare up and shrivel to a cinder before he spoke: "Kiddie, this is no good. I'll go back to town tomorrow.” | The girl, uncrossing her feet, smother- | ed a little yawn. The fire was sleepy-hot, | and she had tramped a score of miles that | day. “It seems pretty to me,” she said lazily. * ething wrong with you?" Claverly stared at her. Then his little smile, so bitter, so incredulous, and vet so very likable, rested on his lips. "Noth- ing more than usual,” he answered some- what dryly: The girl caught the shade of emphasis. She laughed then, Claverly’s own old laugh, full of the easy insolence of one ivi Wes smal troubles fone but ghtly. "Been getting your bumps?” she rd “I thought so when you and Jim Hocks were gassing away this morning.” “Rather,” said Claverly. © The girl glanced up at him, and turned her face quickly from the sight of his. “Billy!” she cried incredulously, “how could I guess it was something real?” Then, quietly enough: “Want to tell me? I suppose you do, or you wouldn't have spoken about it.” “lI don't know why I spoke,” said Claverly, “except you asked me if any- thing was wrong.” The last words hel a quick, sa mockery that made his voice sound high and strained. The girl, wi t looking up, stretched out her hand, and after an instant’s hesi- tation Claverly took it, and quieted too. “Now tell me,” said his sister. And a sudden impulse to talk to her, to say out to some one what a score like Hoxsey more or less vaguely guessed or knew, and dared not speak of, swept Claverly away. He had walked alone for months, and she was the only living crea- ture of his blood. His voice turned colorless. “They fired me from the Atlantic & Northwestern a year and a half ” he told her. “I went to the N. & S. Six months ago they fired me there. I got a job with a jerk- water mountain line— call i Missouri- Trans-Pacific. ng for air right then, and me u| if anything is wrongs’, Again his pitched sharply up to The rr his hand. “Just one to tell me, Billy,” she said at last. the habit —firing—men like you without a rea- son.” Claverly wrenched his hand away. “Can't you guess why?” he asked. a very old s have told TY. dvacon Army meetings, with a cu E Colles prospect for the ng. They 4 ' Want to hear my °* iences?” Well,” he flung at her, drunk. 1"—he gave the phrase a curious flat emphasie, 28 it he quoted some one else—"1 get drunk on the job.” . The girl seemed to flame into quiver- ing Nie, though she sat unstirring in her am. said no more, but that little was enough for Claverly. die her “Whatever you say,” begged A “please don't preach at me.” _ Instantly the girl's tense body relaxed in cool indifference. “It does seem to be up to you,” she said. “What are you going to do about it?” _ Her self-control sent a pin-point of ir- | ritation pricking at Claverly’'s strained ‘nerves. “I suppose my quickest wa i out,” he told her, “would be to get drun light! ightly hmm,” breathed the girl “I dare say. But ‘ if im. “Good God, Kiddie! he cried, ‘don’t you suppose I got deathly tired of it long ago?” t down | Jud the gir) meld fo Him; “Si here,” she said. Giatecly cheved , nestling on the floor beside chair just as had done, together, a hi times had been his tower of strength babyhood, » the girl at But you last, going to ought and to the imagination, as in her rarely | h that could show in! “You, Billy? You doing that!” She | Peru. wanted to! It was the only time [ ever fair ! really tried. And—I couldn't. Itwas the and | same old story. No, Kiddie; [I've failed too many times. | tell you, [I can't trust myself again.” The girl drew away once more. “I'd hate to admit it, anyway, if it was me,” she told him bluntly. “I'm past all that,” said Claverly wearily. “You were right,” she resumed then. “About going away, | mean. Oncoast is | no place, the way you're feeling. You! want work—the hardest kind. See,” she | inted. “Over in that corner where it’s ttest, there's a man just sizzing for! something to happen. That's you, Billy. | You watch. He'll bust up in a minute. There! And you're the same. You've had your bumps. You've stood it all you | could. To-night you're busting up. And! to morrow you'll go back, and you'll get | another job—" { That word was unfortunate. It woke | in Claveriy the fever, the fierce need, | that had been consuming him. “Another job!” he cried, and flung his cigarette | away and jumped to his feet. “What do | you know about it?” he demanded. “What do you know about getting a job? | You're es] want work the hardest ! way. It's my only chance. It's all there is in living—for me, anyway. Just work | and the drive to'get through it. But get.’ ting it! friends who hate to tell you they have nothing for you. Try it once! Try sit- ting in ante-rooms with office-boys who know as well as you that the boss don't | want to see you. Try having men hurry you through interviews, very anxious to | see you more at leisure on a later date they never set. Try seeing the crowd melt away before you, cocktail hour at, the club, for fear you'll strike some of | them for work. They'd rather you struck | them for aloan. Try dining by your-! self when you don't want to. Try some of that,” said Claverly, “and you'll know , what being down and out means. [ tried | to for six weeks before I came down here. And now you tell me to go back and try ! some more of it!” | And then all at once she laughed, not | # lazily or insolently, but a warm purr of sound such as Claverly had never heard before. It caught him by the heart. In one of her rare impulses of tenderness, she flung an arm round his neck and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “You're a tragic goat,” she said, “and I'm another. We aren't the first that have gone through this sort of thing and won out. To-morrow’s a new day. Sn your head down on my knee and one cigarette while 1 read your future for ou in those coals. Then I'm going to , and you are too.” And Claverly, coming her steadiness, as he always was, up. The gi just smiled up at him. “Spit it ou I,” said she, in the kennel-pad- dock-flavored of vouth she still sometimes fell into. “It does you good.” The kindness of her, and the steady were too much for Claverly. cheerfulness, The revulsion came. He flung himself | real down beside her face in her skirts, he said. “If again, and buried his “I'm sick for work,” feyd only give me one more chance! 1 ma ve learned my lesson. But—no, ‘re right. They couldn't trust me. When it gets a man as its got me, there's no more chance for him except—" He raised his head and looked at her squarely. He had to tell her sometime; it might as well be now. Esse he said, “the kind of chance Jim Hoxsey offered me.” She looked at him questioningly. “Jim offered you a chance? “He came down just for that,” said Claverly. She smiled. “That's like Jim, she said. “Where is it?” Claverly did not smile. “Down in Being a burden and a bore to b | othes morning, I am afraid.” stood tall and straight be- | incredibly remote. “I hate awled. “You aren't my broth- | before I'd quit. Before I'd | a I'd take the /it-tlest, mean-est . 1 : i Her anger at himself was the last thing | he had expected. But she spoke the | challenge of blood to blood. rose to | his feet, angry as she was, and as cold. , “Nevertheless,” he said, “I 1 go ! Peru. 1 have sense enough to know when | I amdown and out, and pride "3 She did not look at him. “I'd never them make me run away,” she said. “I'd start at the very bottom.” A smile that was half a sneer curied ! Claverly's lip at the inane little phrase, | drudge of the barren moralists. It set there and hardened, and his eyes took on | the vacantness of introspection. He was looking back to the beginning. The beginning was a springtime morn- | ing in the city, when Claverly closed a | door marked with his name and stepped across a big, cool-smelling room, as straight and nonchalant, as arrogant in! carriage of chin and shoulder, as he had ' been under the fire of the prving eyes, friendly but still prying, outside its shel- | ter. But inside him waves of nausea at life, and all it hz: done with him and he | with it, beat and surged sickeningly. He sat down at his desk, and even in his misery the little habitual smile, half bitter, half incredulous, touched his lips. | It was his desk no longer. That morn- , ing, an hour ago even, it had been his. Now he had none. His glance rested idly on a desk-clock, : a toy in gold and leather, his sister's gift to him on his last birthday. Its tnv pointers maried the half-hour. At pre- cisely twelve minutes past, he knew by ‘some silly trick of recollection, the Chief's summons had come. All that had happened in less than cighteen minutes by his sister's fcolish clock. Men often spent as long as that | over a vacant cigarette. Claverly slid down into his chair,—like wise his no longer,—and those arro- gant shoulders sagged like an impotent | old man's. Outside, where eyes watched, friendly but prying, to learn what dose had been administered and how he swallowed it, straight-backed indolence had been easier than any other thing. But here, alone— He rested his chin on his palms, propping his elbows on the chair-arms, and gazed at the orderly dis- | order where the clock, remorseless in its miniature fashion as devouring Time himself, ticked away more minutes. Never before had it ticked away so many idle ones out of a working day. But this was not a working day for Claverly. He slipped down lower into the massive office chair, and the implica- tions of his situation were revealed to him in one mercilessly swift flash of intel- ligence. Its very swiftness left the black sea of dizziness rolling in its wake again. He covered his staring eyes with a hand. But suddenly he raised his head. A sob, quickly choked back, had caught his ear. He stumbled to his feet and swung around. He was not alone, after all. From her | desk by the window, a stenographer, a | slip of a girl, trim in business woman's | lack, rose too, more panic stricken than | he had been. “Mr. Claverly,” she stam- mered, “I—tried not to, truly. But—but | —oh!" she cried, and sobbed again. Instantly Claverly was his masked self, | clgan, tall, young, with thoroughbred P ud strength in every turn of cheek and jaw and shoulder and flank, with a challenge in his eyes and in the smile, | wholly likable for all its incredulity, that just touched his lips. “Miss Helm!" he said. “Still waiting? | I shall have no more work for you this morning.” A moment, while the smile | touched his lips more strongly, with more of its amusement in it. “Nor on any | The girl's eyes opened wide. She step- | ped swiftly toward him, and foran instant it seemed that she meant to grasp his rm with those groping fingers of hers— IRplocing hands they were, quite literally. “Mr. Claverly!"” she cried. “It can't be as bad as that? They'd never let you— leave—the road!” Claverly's smile became frankly amused and tolerant. “Oh, no,” he told her. “The road is merely—firing—me.” She did not sob again. Her lip quiver- ed, and then, as something in her answer- ed to the insulting disdain in him, the vibra ig enduring thin 3 a ntly u ing. watching her as she leisurely gathered up) her work to leave him, was of htening, they “Good-by, r. Claverly?” just as cb as she was saying it. But the moment was too crowded with flex A he, thrusting out his “Peru?” she echoed, a bit startled. "ell? he asked. “Thats a long ay off. But, still, I Cavers Tiaijé vio aMgwer. None was musn't kick, if it's a chance. You must take s—square.” t waited through the space of two a hin : his attitude, | quick breaths. He plucked at the collar “Jim's a 0 it must be all | again. “Well?” he repeated. The mon- right. But why do you look so—so queer osyllable held the crass brutality of a should think you'd pny The bitter, incredulous smile curled Claverly’s li “I ought to be said he. “It's my last chance.” his self-control gave way. “Kiddie,” he cried, “can’t you understand! It's--quite the British thing they offer me. A chance to save my face, and theirs, in the Lost ‘Little black who've gone about it? [I Iam.” Then she understood him. “So,” she said, slow scorn gathering in “they want you to run away? The and moderately ! The very prosperous self- ' blow delivered straight into an undefend- fier voicS: | sro ed face, Claverly, standing indifferently at ease the table, smiled ever so slightly. “Well, sir?” he said in his turn. H voice was and nged on, his impatien po e he 4 lparicnny on em demurrage. And his wire ay on your des: from 4 B. m. Monday 10a m. yesterday. Why didn't he get authority?’’ ” ow—why n the dhestion came with od in, fhe like the fist of a bucko mate crashing into gi | things, the reaction came. | traffic in the yard, monotonously sing: a seaman'’s face. | smiled “I don't Bh He it,” said he, his voice still colorless. “I have a notion, though, it was the same old story, sir.” The t might have amused him. The veins in the old man’s temples bulged. “Same old story!” he shouted. “Drunk on the job, eh! I've stood a lot from you and never said a word. But"— he leaned forward, and the words came with the vicious speed of short-arm blows ! iu when you have the nerve 10 offer it as an » excuse— * The little smile still curled Claverly's lips, but the corners of them lifted warn. ingly, like an Ayredale’s. “Mr. Holt.” he said, still in that colorless voice, “I mere- ly answered your question. No excuses have been offered.” His eyes met the ald man's steadily. For an instant Holt glared. Then his angry face turned gray and stony. He picked up a pencil, only to lay it down. “I beg your pardon,” he said with averted eyes. Claverly twitched his shoulders. “Mind if I smoke, sir?” he asked. "Smoke your darned head off if you want to!" Holt spoke with a swift re- turn of anger. Then, quietly enough: “You know as well as | do why I've stood for so much from you. You've banked on it. You're the best man we ever had to get traffic and move traffic—-when vou want to. But there's a limit. There's such a thing as justice to the man that does stay on the job. What religion I've got boils right down to this: God cer- tainly hates a quitter.” “I should have resigned vesterday, sir,” said Claverly, “only”"—he stopped to in- hale a whiff of smoke and blow it out again—"it seemed more appropriate, all round, to wait and give you a chance to —fire—me." “Well,” said Holt, grimly matter-of fact, as if he spoke toa recalcitrant train- man instead of to his freight traffic man. ager, "you're fired.” He punched a but- ton on the desk-front by his knees. “Good-by,"” he said. “Good-by, sir,” Claverly had answered, and even as the door closed behind him he heard Holt dictating, “In regard to the new Equipment 5's—"" That rather daunted even Billy Claver- ly’s self-assurance, it came so quickly. But he had strolled back through the i office, between banks of typewriters and adding machines, with nothing save a little tilt to his chin and a little added indifference in his smile giving notice to prying, sriendly eyes that the pet of a trunk-line railroad had just been dis- charged in the course of a morning's _ That had been merely the easy wear ing, for a minute longer, of the mask he had worn for years. Easy, too, even amusing, the recall of Miss Helm to the paths of discipline, the friendly nod in response to her com farewell. . But, once alone with his sister's toy as it ticked away the empty minutes, alone with the grunt of locomotives and the click and grind of car-wheels that rose to his window from the bustling terminal train-shed far beneath, bringing with them now and then whiffs of acridly sul- phurous coal-smoke, incense to the rail. road man in him-—alone with those The roaring song, beat a refrain in his ears: “You're fired, Billy Claverly.—Good-by, good-hy. You're fired,—Now in re-gard to—those Equipment 5's—" Came, too, a daunting and an unex- pected mistrust of the future, immediate and more remote, The world that went with eddying ‘smoke-curlg and’ clicking wheels, a place of pressing activities and interests and duties, lay empty about him as an empty The day held no furniture of work for him, there or any- where, nor the days to come, unless he made it for himself. Claverly, gazing dully round the room where work, close-p: portion, felt the first stabbing ache of lonesomeness for it, as for the sight of some dead friend—the ache that in the months to come was to drive him through the Valley of Humiliation. His door-latch clicked, and before he could straighten up a heavy hand rested on his shoulder and Holt’'s voice said: “Pve been thinking ar you this way, like a hot potato.” ven in that stormy, unpredictable old san, the reversal of attitude was so un- expected that Clav was taken utterly aback. But his and tangible | enough to cut and eat, had been his daily | about you. I can't| ment was at once | - T hen, silent] y. Be got r them to his sister. ind she, still quivering with disdain of him, and all men, and all the world, pat out a hand and took them.—By Rowland Thomas, in .WcCinre's Magazine. up and FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN DAILY THOUGHT. Smiles live long after frowns have faded. — Jawies A. Garfield. Most of the new fashionable silks have the satin finish. One-piece dresses are increasing in popularity. They are suitable not only for morning wear, but for the more dressy occasions. Taupe (mole) is an old favorite cos- tume color now brilliantly revived. For the young girl the dainty pastel shades are preferable in evening wear to Xie more brilliant colors which are now with us. In thin materials the skirts are cut a trifle wider at the base, but in tailored costumes the skirt is still conspicuously narrow. The use of fur trimmings on evening gowns is quite marked. Chenille embroidery is coming promi- nently to the front this year. Velvet is the predominating feature in the realm of the fine tailored suits. The young girl in her teens is prover- bially difficult to dress, but Voy often the simplest and most sensible solution of the difficulty is to copy mother and to adhere to the tailormade. The fine stripes that are so fashionable make very suitable schoolgiri costumes, especially in the vague black and gray stripes that are now worn. The skirt is cut simply with an apron back and front fastened down by large buttons of the material; the coat is short and single or double breasted without trimming, but with the collar faced with gray velvet. Matching the costume, the hat should be of gray beaver, with just one touch of color, a cerise feather. In the Woman's Home Costpanion there is what is called “The Bon Itis a department of practical household news sent in by readers from various parts of the country. Followingis a sug- gestion sent in by a mother in Michi “I buy the sweaters for my pa She same color, and when the sleeves ave given out, as they always do lo before the body of the Tas I — new sleeves ofthe whole part of one sweater for the other one.” A most charining afternoon dress is in black and white striped taffeta and the touch of black plush, together with the “line” of the bodice and skirt, lend jt grace and distinction. The sash train is also a noteworthy feature. To introduce a welcome touch of color add a satin rose of deep and red —to resemble the damask rose, or a cop- per. colored rose with vivid green leaves. For a brighter frock taffeta, with a cherry-colored ground and a stripe of black or maroun, executed in the same design. The skirt may be long or short, ds one pleased, but itis to be recorded that the long skirt gains in tavor almost . daily for house and dress wear. Still the rumors of full skirts, pleats, flounces and even of crinolines persist, but in the ateliers of the best dressmakers no signs of these calamities—as most of us regard them— are discernible. One of the fashionabie “rainbow” gowns “created” but a day or two since by a well known couturier:re showed a plain “underdress.” _ Undne redness of the face can be re- lieved for a time at least by placing the | feet in hot water to draw the blood from | the head. The stays should never be tight, and no highly seasoned foods or | condiments indulged in. The girdle is present in almost all de- t have the smallest swallowed up in another emotion which | are knitted scarf of silk half strangled him with its intensity—the | With ball or trimmed ends is pain of reviving fulness. He had ately the sabretasche. another chance. He not known till y asa girdle. All then what he'd give for one. In that in- | kinds of ribbons are used as well stant he took more vows of faithful serv- ice flian hie could have paid off in a life- me. “I've been thinking about ” Holt his hand said while pressed | eff a I rough- | work a wire?” , a little wonder- sort of a ham opera- ness. ingly, [ used to be shook off the friendly hand. “Start in at the bottom and work up again?” he books.” erly laughed. But mingled with § i to Jim Hoxsey's pity, and Peru. spoke again. "I'd die first,” A Ty fe 't run for did an absurd thing. Behind him, on the writing-table, were telegraph blanks. He walkéd over there and sat down and scribbled wo mes. his to Hoxsey: No, thanks, old man. No hoies in mine. And this to old man Holt: Twant that thirty-five a month. God certainly does hand it to a quitter. Th siaef fits | gelatine is soft, i ' 5 giz 2 i Chicken Broth.—Take a chicken or . fowl and break the bones. Clean care- . fully. Put into a saucepan two quarts of : water, a small onion, two tabl | mer for six hours i if a chicken. Ler wa ick. ly wi £014 cream and thet to spriukle {ell with flesiveiored powder until it is {mn Hic, Hobgoblin C Serve frozen cider Hr Tr made of papier mache a erent expression, fv Jaaves alsy can 0 . 28; i i i i
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers