Srmiliad Bellefonte, Pa., June 28, 1912. YVETTE'S|GHOST. {Copynignt, 1911, by Associated Literary Press.) “Are you a ghost?” little! Yvette. i The ghost smiled. “Now you know as well as 1 do,” he told her, “that. there are no ghosts left—the sensible! people haave killed them all” : “What I can't make out,” pursued; Yvette, unheeding, “is how you got! in here, and why no one else seems: jo see you—this morning, for instance,; when 1 was sitting with my auntie in; the morning room. The windows were: shut, the door did not open, and yet: all at once 1 looked up, and there you, were standing smiling. And auntie got up suddenly—she said she felt a change—and left the room without: seeing you?” “Now, I ask you, do I look like a: ghost?” sald the handsome man in the’ well fitting tweed suit, as he rose from his chair and made a leisurely inspec- tion of himself in the glass over the asked mantelpiece. “Do I clank? All re- spectable ghosts clank. Do I appear at midnight and point a spectral finger? Not a bit. My entrances are as you have justly observed, noise- less. The latest visit I have ever paid you was well within the conven- tional calling time. No, Yvette, I am too respectable to be a ghost.” He dropped back into his armchair. Yvette crossed the room with a pleas- ant little rustle of silk skirts, sat her- self down on the sofa facing him, and considered him gravely. “It's six months since you've been coming and going like this,” she said reflectively. “The first time you came I remember you nearly frightened me to death. It was a winter's afternoon. 1 was sitting by the fire reading, and all of a sudden there you were sit. ting in the same chair staring at me." “Well, you stared back at me,” re- marked the ghost. “You looked so pretty, too, with your flushed cheeks ‘and the flame light dancing on your i 1 L | vam | it ) | i ” 1 I WI : lh . ] i pL hair that I wonder 1 didn’t kiss you then and there.” His merry eyes danced as he noted her rising color, "Alas, that ghosts don't kiss, Yvette!” ‘he finished whimsically. “And when I asked you how you got in,” pursued Yvette, pretending not to hear, “You told me you were a relative of the people we had just taken the house from, and had lived here so dong you couldn't keep away. You said, too, you came to look for some thing; but you never told me what it Was." : “Perhaps it was only a memory,” sald the ghost; and suddenly, though dt was a warm afternoon, the room seemed very cold, so that Yvette shiv. ered and was glad when a long streak of belated sunlight came gliding sud. denly across the floor. “And then you asked me not to tell any one I had seen you"—she return. ed bravely to the attack, though the fading day had stolen the sunshine back. “You said you knew a secret way of coming and going, and that no one but me would ever know you came,” i “Well, no one does,” retorted the ghost, “though I will admit I've had one or two narrow shaves. This morn. ing, for instance, if your aunt had looked up before I slipped behind her I'd have been caught sure.” “Why, of course; how stupid of me!” cried Yvette joyfully. “That's how you arranged it, and auntie is short-sighted. Then you aren't a ghost after all. I'm so glad. Be cause sometimes, you know, I've been frightened about it, and wondered—" “Foolish little Yvette,” said the ghost tenderly. “Haven't I warned you not to take me seriously? No man, be he human flesh and blood and not merely dust and bones, is worth tak. ing seriously. Smile, Yvette, and let ime see how blue your eyes are when they look into mine. Love is short as life, Yvette; we must make what use of it we can.” “Have you ever loved?” asked Yvette, her white firgers pulling rest- dessly at the lace of her blouse. ' “Heaps of times,” replied the ghost promptly. “Some for a week and a day others for an hour. Once I loved itill—" a frown creased his brow—*"but flet us talk of other things. Had I a lhetrt left, Yvette, I would give it to Mw, but the worms have sucked the #fy Zrom it. I'm nothing but your ' , Yvette—" : ‘1 covered? There ‘came a clatter of high-heeled thoes. The door flew open suddenly, tnd the ncise of a gay voice tumbled 'iato the rom. | “Dreaming in the dark, as usual,” it | ralled, while its owner stood hover lug at the threshold. “Shall I come in und disturb you?” “No,” said Yvette,” scrambling hur tiedly to her feet, almost stumbling in lier eagerness. “I was just coming down.” She passed her arm beneath that of the intruder, but her heart was luttering still as they descended the stairs. Supposing he had been dis- She needn't have troubled. tad she glanced back into the room as she came out she would have seen that anybody entering would have found nothing but the twilight and emptiness. Some few days afterward Yvette, chancing to be in need of some quaint garments to help in the dressing of some quaint characters she was get- ting up, persuaded the old housekeep- er to let her rummage in an old attic at the top of the house, where all such treasure trove was to be found. Yvette was repaid by the rare spoils brought to light. Yvette’'s laughter and chatter filled the somber room and deadened the sound of the rain outside. But presently the laughter stopped, and only the rain beat loudly on the «ill “Who—who is that?” asked Yvette, white lipped as she held out a dnsty photograph to the staring housekeep- er, the photograrh of a tall young man in tweed, with an exceedingly | merry smile, | “Why, bless me,” said the house | keper, “if it isn't the picture of the | young squire—him who owned Fox | Craft manor. He was killed out huni- | German Folklore. Germany is the familiarity one soon noting the types immortalized by brothers Grimm. Indeed it would quite as difficult to imagine without Mother Hulda, Goldilocks, Red Riding Hood, the Brementown Musi- cians, Hansel and Gretel and the rest of the company of dear familiars, as it would be to think of old London with- out the Pickwickians. German paint- ers, sculptors, musicians invariably try their talents of portraying their ideals | among the children's fairytale folk, | and it must be a fine bit of work in- | deed that passes the muster of Ger | man criticism. One of the strongest | bonds that holds the German in the | characteristic grip of loyalty to the | fatherland is this very pronounced | love of children and fairy tales.—The | Christian Herald. Sleep. Investigation by scientists of the nature of the sleep of persons in nor- mal health shows that it varies ac- cording to the dally diet and the dif- ferent hours at which sleep is begun. Altogether, the ideal hour for retiring is ten o'clock. The sleep of a person going to bed regularly at approximate- ly this time gradually augments in in- tensity for the space of an hour. It then suddenly becomes very profound, reaching its maximum intensity at about eleven-thirty o'clock. Within five or six minutes from this time it has been found that the sleep begins to be less deep. In an kour the sleep- ing—a terrible stir it caused in the | ©F I8 again in the same condition of countryside, 1 remember.” i “How long ago was this?” asked ! Yvette dully, i “Let me see,” sai the housekeeper, | pondering; “a matter of 20 years or | more, 1 should say. 1 was ‘tweeny' | maid in those days in this very house. | Many and many a time have i seen | him come riding up to this door. He | was engaged 10 our young lady—a fine | young lady she was, too—he was fair | get on her. It seemed as if he was fair Yieep away from the house. She took | on terrible when he died.” i “Is she dead, too, then?” queried | Yvette, still in that pale, small | voice. i “She married a London gentleman | afterward,” sald the housekeeper, “and had seven children. But | have heard | she wasn't happy. She's been dead | these four years or more,” she added. | “Why did you think it necessary to | lie to me?” usked Yvette very coldly | of the ghost that evening. The ghost, who was lounging coms fortably in his favorite arm chair, sud- | denly sat upright. His dark eyes lin- | gered long on her white face, i “So, little Yvette, you've found me | out at last,” he sald quickly. “Well, I | had meant to ring down the curtain’ myself on the little comedy long be- | fore this; but I was a coward. Yvette, afraid to face the dark, for I shall be very lonely, little Yvette, out there, all ‘alone in the cold and the never ending | night.” “But it wasn't me you came to see,” said Yvette, standing before him, slim and drooping, in her white apron; it ‘was that other girl—the one you were engaged to.” The ghose rose suddenly and came and stood beside her. “I came to see you always after the first time,” he said softly. “This first time I admit it was to revisit the spot where I had spent my happiest days, but afterward— Ah, Yvette, no one has eyes so blue as you. They make it hard for me to say goodby.” “But why should it be goodby?” cried Yvette, sharply, and moved to- ward him with extended arms, “Ghost or no ghost, 1 love you!” She strove I clasp him, but gently he eluded er. ; “No one may love the dead,” he told her gently. “The dead are beyond love, they are beyong life. My little Yvette, it must be goodby.” “Then if that is s0,” cried Yvette, weeping, “ah, kiss me once before you go! Only to feel your arms around me, only to feel your lips on mine, will comfort me in all the empty years.” She stopped. A strangled cry broke from her, a great gulf of cold air seem- ed suddenly to envelop her. She was frozen, frozen to the bone; then a mer- ciful darkness came upon her, and she fell forward on her face. In after years Yvette married, and was happy in her choice, but she never loved her husband as she had loved the ghost.—The Sketch. Snowstorm in London. There is always a touch of incongru. ity about snow in London. Gilbert White, who visited London on January 22, 1776, in a snowstorm, was sur- prised at the changed aspect of the city. He journeyed “through a sort of Laplandian scene, very wild and gro- tesque indeed. But the metropolis it- self exhibited a still more singular ap- pearance than the country; for, being bedded deep in snow, the pavement of the streets could not be touched by the wheels or the horses’ feet, so that the carriage ran about without the least noise. Such an exemption from din and clatter was strange, but not pleas- ant; it seemed to convey an uncom- fortable idea of desolation; ipsa silen- tia terrent.’—yondon Chronicle. mm—. Nothing insurmountable. Nothing is impossible; thére are ways which lead to everything; and if we had sufficient will we should al- ways have sufficient means. —La Rouchefoucauld. | attacked the garden hose to the gaso- | captivity. A farm of twenty pairs of | grown foxes should produce from 40 slumber as at about a quarter after eleven. From that time until after two o'clock the rest is steady and | light; from two until four it aug- | ments and then it consistently di- | mintehes until it ceases at the cus- | tomary time of rising. | { Filled Icehouse With Hose. According to an ageount included in a letter received here from the north- ern part of the staie, the farmers up there are not going to be bothered about ice prices this year. The let- ter was recounting the conditions of the exceptionally cold winter. “We filled our Icehouse easier this winter than ever before,” the letter zaid. “When the cold was at its height we line force pump, and turned the water into the icehouse, which had previous- ly been lined with frozen cakes of sawdust. One night was sufficient. Next morning the icehouse was filled with a solid cake of ice, frozen to an unusual degree of hardness, We mere- ly nailed up the door, and have ice enough to last all summer.”"—Indianap- olis News, His Cursory Glances. Aunt Caroline and the partner of her woes evidently found connubial bliss a misnomer, for the sounds of war were often heard down in the lit- tle cabin in the hollow. Finally the pair were haled into court, and the dusky lady entered a charge of abus- ive language against her spouse. The judge, who had known them both all his life, endeavored to pour oil on the troubled waters. “What did he say to you, Caroline?’ he asked. “Why, jedge, I jes’ cain’t tell you all dat man do say to me.” ‘Does he ever use hard language?” “Does yo' mean cussin’? Yas, o@h; not wif his mouf, but he's always givin’ me dem cussory .glances.”"—Lippikcott’s. Horse's Charge Scattered Soldiers. A sensational incident attended the recent Australian mélitary maneuvers at Oakleigh, Vic. Some drivers be- longing td the field artiliery were having lunch outside a tent, when a horse in the vicinity bolted. The ani- mal made straight for the soldiers, who, being unprepared for attack, could not withstand the charge. Halt a dozen men were knocked in confused fashion amongst dishes and miscel- laneous articles, and most of them re- ceived some injury. Demand for Black Fox Skins. According to government reports, there are only a few dozen genuine black fox skins in North America eack year in the wild state and there is great demand for the skins in Eu- rope. As the black puppies usually fall a prey to the red females in the wild state, the market is almost de- pendable upon the amimals raised in to 60 puppies in a year. Lion's Brief hour of Freedom. The only lion in the menagerie at Lal Bagh, Bengal, India, escaped from its cage recently, and attacked a pair of bullocks drawing a cart within the garden. The driver just contrived to escape by scrambling up a tree. The lion afterwards concealed itself, and two Mahomedan shikaris were called in to shoot it, but they only managed to wound the beast. An hour later a resident of Lai Bagh Road cycled up with a rifle and killed it, Poets Are Sometimes Made. “Poets are born and not made,” | said the young man with the pale, in- teresting face and the long hair. “Are | they?’ replied his wife. “Well, I'll | show you that they are made some- times. I'll make you watch the baby | while 1 go shopping this morning or | you shall never have another dollar that my father sends to me.” Uses of ie: =FE I i g 8 &¥ £5 til and also for making little inferior to olive burned in lamps and used in facture of soap. Meal | sald to be got from the | tugal, and these, roasted, substituted for coffee. The also used, like almonds, for soothing emulsions, and in some of the old world are boiled and fed to infants. The leaves are good fodder for cattle; the stems serve for fuel and contain much potash.—Harper's Weekly. 2 FER E FE : ; iz he The Simple Life. | The charm of the bungalow is not | in the main due to its little cost or to | convenience of its plan or to its ar- | tistic exterior, but to the fact that there is a great proportion of the | American people who desire to live | more simply and with less convention | than they find necessary in the typical | suburban community, says a writer in | Leslie's. There is probably no one of | us who does not occasionally long for a place in which he can wear his old clothes with comfort, and bring up his | children in the simple and natural way | impossible in the city and difficult in { the suburbs, and it is to this vague | longing for a simpler and less artificial | life that the great popularity of the | little, rough-buflt houses we call bun- | galows is due, Just a Girl. Wanted—Girl. Just plain girl Should not be addicted to the harem skirt habit; rats and puffs not re- quired. She need know nothing about bridge whist or social scandal. In- ability to decipher a French bill of fare will not count against her. Need not have done and have been done by foreign countries, If she can sing and play a bit, sew and cook a trifle, so much the better, It is desirable that she have a little kindness of heart— for people, young, #niddle aged, and old, and for animals. Need not be versed in church creed, but should believe in decency. In a word, we want just a wholesome, lovable, good, old fashioned girl. No others need to apply. Will come after you.—~Judge's Library. Lincoin’s Rules for Life. Do not worry, eat téree square meals a day, say your prayers, be courteous to your creditors, keep your digestion good, steer clear of bilious- ‘mess, exercise, go slow and go easy. Maybe there are other things that your special case requires to make you happy, but, my friend, these I reckon will give you a good lift.— Abraham Lincoln. Bad for Chickens. “I think, dear, we may as well give up the idea of reising chickens this year.” “Why? Don't you think it will be a gpod year for chickens?” “No. It will cost too much to feed them. The man next door tells me that he has joined a golf club, so he isn't likely to have a garden.” New Strength for Bad Backs BELLEFONTE RESIDENTS ARE LEARNING HOW TO EXCHANGE THE OLD BACK FOR A STRONGER ONE. pi your back ache, feel weak and Do you suffer headaches, languor and the urine discolored, passages irregu- for ; fo is generally ache. ae 3 etc nd prove ney rend ows doer he end ht 2 proof in Bellefonte endorse- Mrs. H.1. Taylor, 70S, Water St., Belle- Ty ot Doan's Kidney Medical. A TS IE RIT I IIIT Tt's A Cure That's Sure i -FOR- RHEUMATISM, GOUT. SCIATICA, AND a ts wi JONES BREAK-UP /AND IT WiLL CURE YOU Always in stock at For sale Sidney Krumrine, arn : ny i nd nd nd od onl bond i nd L 2 mm mia wim wm em Your Suit for the.. Can be Bought Best AT FAUBLES Just See Us and you will know WHY. FAUBLES. Yeager's Shoe Store Fitzezy The Ladies’ Shoe that Cures Corns Sold only at Yeager’s Shoe Store, Bush Arcade Building, BELLEFONTE, PA. Bellefonte, Fa.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers