i Beara "Bellefonte, Pa., September 20, 1912. “ONE OF THESE LITTLE ONES.” “What of the garden] gave?” God said to me, “Hast thou been diligent to foster and save The life of flower and tree? How have the roses thriven, The lilies I have given, ‘The pretty, scented miracles that spring And summer came to bring?" “My garden is fair and dear,” 1 said to God. “From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear Close-trimmed its sod. The rose is red and bright, The lily a live delight; Thave not lost a flower of all the flowers That blessed my hours.” “What of the child I gave?” God said tome. “The little, little thing I died to save, And gave in trust to thee? How have the flowers grown ‘That in its soul were sown, The lovely, living miracles of youth And hope and joy and truth?” “The child's face is all white,” 1 said to God. “It criesfor cold and hunger in the night; Its feet have trod ‘The pavements muddy and cold; It has no flowers to hold, And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.” “Thou fool!” God said. —By E. Nesbit, in New Age, London. THE PRICE. ‘As Lester brought himself to speak of something which for days he had avoid: | ed, there stirred in his mind, half ac- knowledged, the realization that the sub- tlest and most unequivocal commentary we are wont to make upon those of our close acquaintance lies in the subiects which we hesitate toapproach with them. He lingered over the breakfast-table, sort- ing from among the letters that had come by the early postoffice. M looked up from the enjoyment of con- templating an especially large and bril- liant cherry, still held suspended between thumb and finger. “Do you mean to make the reserva- tions today, dearest?” she asked It removed all further possibility of de- lay, beyond the slight time gained by putting into his pocket the selected let- ters. “Should you be very much disappoint. ! ed if we were not to go? : He could almost have wished that he had refrained from saying it. There had come upon her face an expression he shrank from seeing. It had hardened into lines of reproach, with a prompt and i pposition that she was being thwarted, imposed upon. “Should you really mind so much?” he repeated, nevertheless. “I don’t see how you can ask.” As he himself recognized the superflu- ity of doing so, he abstained from reply. “What is it this time?” she inquired, in a ong of cold restraint. “Business n: He shook his head. “No—not that. At least—not my business.” She waited. “It is yours,” he added. Her look chang- ed to one of non-comprehension, shadow- og by slight uneasiness. “Mine?” she sai . | He put the portfolio back into the in- ner pocket of his coat. “Have I lost any money?” “Well,” he led up toit, “in a way, yes. In the way one generally loses money if one happens to own improved real estate. There is always deterioration, you know. Buildings grow old-fashioned, they don't meet the proper requirements—as to safe- Yq and that sort of thing.” Sh e was evi- tly a trifle relieved. “I wonder,” he propounded “if you have ever seen that tenement of yours?” He referred, she knew, to a building her father had made | over to her at the time of her matiage, | the rent from which, together with the dividends Spon a few shares of stock, represented her do and gave her a small income she might call her own. “No,” she answered, “I have never seen it.” “I wish that you had.” He was look- ing at her reflectively. “I wish you would & down there with me in a day or two. Youd Undessiana betees. Ever since ve been looking after it for you there day be fo fo fiom ae > or repairs of one sort a a rei mes I've gran ; t other day I thought I'd better run down and see what all the trouble was about. Do you know where it is, even?” She e the names of the streets, * assented. “But that doesn’t imply much to you, I dare say. It's not exact- a delightful neighborhood. However, He Boynd to be wach in every! large until the world grows a little wiser, probably, There ought not, how- Sak he issiements in ich a tate of r. Even the law's uirements aren't fulfilled—and oe slack He had not paused to reflect that he! .was passing criticism upon her father. | And she herself did not take it so, or else | she accepted as a matter of course that ferupulous right-dealing was not to have | been in that quarter. “Are they likely to make us trouble?” | He would rather not have had her put it in quite that way. “Who?” he a! little shortly. ; al to th i re ate ca and it ars an effrt to clea his brow. “1 don't think they are.” tried to gentle, | allowances to consider the were due, | “It has to be pretty atrocious before the authorities get around taking n ce.” “Well, then?” Her mind was clearly | more at rest. “I don’t see what we have to bother about.” It was impatient, more | than a little irsitable. i g g next year,” he s he might abandon the matter, yet against it by a vivid recollection of what he had so lately seen. “Next year be some other reason why we 't " In the slight flushing of color and of the lashes he her meaning; and he could not but feel that the potential cause of ] t one. “You promised me faithfully that we should go this summer.” Msi ay he answered, with ing my word,” he wi perceptible hardness. “I merely thought that you yourself might change when I laid the facts before you.” She took another cherry and put it be- tween her lips. He realized how charm- ing she looked, the picture of delightful womanhood that she made, across a just was not to be used upon her. . “Not in the very least,” she asserted. “I was nice about it before—but this time I can’t be disappointed at the last minute. By and by we'll be able to put the old building ip order.” As he walked down the street and stood waiting for his car he was seeking to jus- tify her. If he had made allowances all along, could he not continue to do so now? From the first he had seen much of what had shown itself a little more clearly today. But he had excused it as the result of circumstances, of conditions —believing it to be only a surface trait. ' the And he had further maintained the con. viction by appeal to the evidences of the A e was not merely a very pretty woman. All the possibilities of what he hoped for in a wife were suggested—in the breadth of the forehead, under the heavy, parted hair, in the large, wide- spaced eyes, in the generous modeling of her features, in the habitual sweet gravi- ty of her look and tone. Those, he had assured himself, were not signs which sould ai, They Shicated pL an, primary things—t which in thelon run must become pr od and manifest. It was only the accident of her up-bringing that was to blame for certain superficial characteristics which were not quite lov- able, admirable. She had been too much petted, too much sheltered and humored by a far from discerning father and moth- er. But when she should be put to the test she would show the finer things of her nature. Had she not done so, in- deed, by consenting to be his wife? From the worldly standpoint she might have asried So hotter Hore than guce, In ng him she oregone a great which she had been trained to consider desirable. And it had necessitated with- standing no little’ opposition in her home. + Exactly because of this he had been all the more anxious To gratily her desires. So that, since she been his wife, this was the first time he had put any obsta- cle in the way of a pleasure. To be sure, he had cut short their wed- ding journey—as she had reminded him. But that had been understood before- hand. The condition of his affairs at the time had made it imperative that he should be soon at home. By way of com- pensation he had promised this few months in Europe. It was natural that she should cling to the plan. It meant something definitely desirable. On the other hand, the condition of her property, the discomforts and worse of the tenants, meant no reality. Her imagination did not compass it. Of all that side of life she had the vaguest ideas. “If they thought it so bad—they would move,” she had said. He could have smiled in sad compassion. Bue Because he preterjod to think about it no longer he accept paper w| was thrust upon him by a keen-faced, ill- Slothed little newsboy, and went out to take approaching car. To M 4] however, jefe done and unoccupied to think over what - ed, the reflection that she had Te nt did not bring the satisfaction that t might have brought to a nature for which self-gratification was the one de- sirable thing. A nervous discom- fort was followed by rising It was not fair that she should thus be made to feel oh that her own But why should make herself unhappy for a lot of people in the slums whom she had never seen, and who, after all, prob- ably didn’t think themselves badly off? Of course she had no intention of neglect- Ee a he y wait a little longer. to the summer of idling in Italy—to her deferred wedding , If one were never to have any pleasures because somebody else had to with- ou! i wouldbe a dull wobid pulsion acting from within her own soul —-something new, unfamiliar, and most unwelcome. Ey ie confit wero tot wi alone within-doors. She went out, first to buy several the trip, and afterward to lunch wi girl who had been the une. they were. Then, abruptly, it occurred to her that she might be torturing herself need- lessly. th her h had not Beyond that her quick and anxious questions elicited little. He had gone | | half an hour ago. They 4d not know | when to expect him : | She hung up the receiver and turned | | away. The building was on fire—he was | | down there. And he had said it was un- | | safe. Her ideas of what might occur at | | vague as the greater part of those that | | had to do with the workaday, practical | jworld about her. Several times, of | | done no great damage. But she had only | , paid attention to the splendor of flames | and smoke and to the handsome engine | horses. So her imagination was free to | | conjure up visions of her husband rushing | 1 in to aid the firemen, risking his life that i others might be saved. If he were to be | hurt—killed— | It took possession of a mind already | overwrought, and instantly she was al- most beyond control of reason. All that | presented itself clearly was a wish to be | self. | She sent the maid in haste for a cab; : and before it came she was on the steps, waiting. The driver was moved from the | stoical acceptance fostered in his kind | in so far as to look around at her curi- i ously when she gave the address. i | Itwas a smooth and silent progress | down the street. They passed house | after house, square after square. They | came into the district where progress | could be only a few yards at a time, with | ! intervals of waiting for the moment of serried mass ahead, or for a police- man’s signaled permission. When her impatience became too great she asked if they could not go more quickly. At. the next opportunity they turned to the | right, gliding away with fewer interrup- | tions. Directly they were on an avenue | completely unfamiliar. Its length seemed | limitless. Again she spoke to the man. | “Is it much farther?” she said, her! voice high and nervous. “We're a little over half-way,” he told her, imperturbably. She fell back and sat watching the reg- | ister of the fare changing slowly before ! her eyes. It was oppressively quiet in| this part of the city. A region of store- | houses it seemed to be. She began to re- | call tales of women who had been taken | away like this, who had disappeared, and | had never been traced. The storehouses | changed to what she supposed must be slums. Perhaps they were reaching the end at last. Her fingers went to the door-handle as there reached her ears the chug-chug of engines and the sharp clang of a gong. In a minute they had stopped. The driver turned and spoke. "It’s as near as I can go,” he said. She stepped out to the sidewalk. They were upon the of a crowd that filled the street from side to side. The air was thick with smoke, darkening the sky of late afternoon. It poured from the roof and windows of a building in the distance. A tougue of flame licked out here and there, rolling up, falling back as a stream of water drove upon it. There were ladders in use. Down one of them a fireman was carrying something— some one, A hand was laid upon her arm, and she turned, startled. “Was 1 to wait?” the driver asked. “Oh!” she said. had better wait.” “You're likely to get lost in the crowd and can't find me again,” he sugges with civil decision. “Maybe you'd better pay me now.” She took the money from her purse. “Don’t go away,” she Now that she was here she realize the “I forgot. Yes—you j | i yr Le HH = q iq ge TI 7 g i FEFEEE di ji Hi fir! elie i 4 g : : iE isi F Jit jisEefE Hist | Healt ; i : : : | g § i s : 2 tion were as | the ted, | that of all those others, the vast majority i “I went to find you,” she came out with what she had half meant to withhold. “I went down there.” “You went down there!” he repeated, incredulous. “To the fire! But why in the world did you do that?” Her only answer was an uncontrollable buest of tears. | With his arm about her he led her into | room adjoining, and when she was soothed to quietness he explained the de- lay which he took to be the cause of her t nerves. “I wanted to wait | overwrough ve every intention of keep- | course, she had seen fires, ones that had ‘until after all danger was past—until I was sure nothing more was going to! catch.” i It did not, however, seem to be all that | her mind. “Were there many | rt?” she asked. It was reluctant, as if | the utterance was again forced from her. W “I don’t know—exactly,” he answered. | "I believe several were killed and injured. | It was a bad business.” i Her hands clinched upon his in a ner- | vous contraction. He spoke no further! than the bare fact. But she near him, to go down to the fire her- | could have felt it kinder if he had accurs- ' © ed her unsparingly. Anything would have been less terrible than this distance he 50 | uietly assumed to be between them. et that very order of fear which com- pels one to go toward some dreaded thing that may be lurking in the dark made her put one question more. i “And woman with the child—the | one who jumped?” t “They caught them in the nets. The poor thing was beside herself. If she had waited they could have taken her out. | She didn’t seem much the worse for the | experience,” he added. “I saw her stand- ing on the steps of your building just be- fore I left.” Momentarily he failed to account for the perplexity, the dazed bewilderment that his words Jroduced, Then the truth 8 itself. “Did you think it was your building | that burned, Margaret?” “They told me so at your office." "To be sure they did,” he assented, “because I thought so myself when I left. But you said you had been down there, and I had forgotten that you don’t know the place when you see it. No,” he set right the misconception. “It turned out to be a Souple of tenements close by. For a good while, though, there was danger the flames would spread.” “It was not my property, then?” She spoke as if yet only half comprehending. “And the people—the people who were hurt—they were not my tenants?” “No,” he repeated. He was something at a loss to comprehend her manner of taking it. But he was too tired to make much effort at understanding. It had not occurred to him that she was interpret- ing the inertia of fatigue as indifference toward herself. “I am sorry you were worried about it, | dear,” he said, as he settled back in his | chair to smoke and rest. And he motion- ed that she should place a heap of cush- ions upon the floor, as she liked to do, sitting beside him. Absently she laid her hand on his knee, and he put his own over it, giving himself up to his weari- ness. . It was not wholly weariness of the flesh. The dissatisfaction of the morning,driven away for a time by crowding events, re- turned now, as something which was henceforth to be the accompaniment of his leisure, of all the moments whose oc- cupation would not crowd it out. He felt unreality beneath this seeming close com- panionship. Was their life to become as of husbands and wives for whom he had always entertained a half-contemptuous pity because they remained in partial, makeshift relation? Yet now he understood better how they could adjust themselves to the compromise he could once have been so sure of scorning. Love was to be Jeckoned with—and Tantiage —apart from ents of pure a. and, she was He wondered if she were thinking of the fire and its results. What impression had it made upon her the nervous excitement which had spent itself in tears? And then, as if in reply to the question, she spoke. i 1 : g ii § g I § 2 8 £ g i : { : f : 55 4 2 g is | i ie 7Ed i g : i i f id f i ki = fi eit ip sitesi g : : i is : : g . es, which allows for the all | in the » FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN DAILY THOUGHT. A man’s true wealth hereafter is the good that : he does in this world to his fellows.—Mahomet. A collapsible hat bag, which is just the | ' thing to take when off for a vacation, where closet room is often limited, can . be made at home with good results, says the Pittsburgh Post. A 20 inch circle of cardboard covered with some fancy material is the founda- tion. Either silk, lawn or cotton print can be used and the may be a com- bination of plain and goods of ! the same kind. Three rows of material are sewed to the foundation, the first two being four inches wide, the last strip eighteen inch- ing and cas- ing. A draw string in the casing is the means of closing the bag. Between the other strip a piece of bone in a narrow casing holds the bag out in circular form when it is drawn up. Cardboard standards fastened to the foundation are folded so that they, too, will be collapsible. This box or bag can be packed flat, and hen needed the standards are set up and the bag is drawn into shape and tied with the draw string. The three-quarter sleeve is ousting the elbow sleeve for day wear and it remains be seen, says a writer, whether we shall be wearing them to the wrist uni- versally and for how long. The long { sleeves are more becoming to the arm and hand, and it has often been a terri- ble revelation during the vogue of the elbow sleeve to see the thin arm and the red hands which wiser women would have covered. One of the new notions is a long shoul- der that drops for two inches over the | arm, and a slightly full sleeve that is, gathered into the arm with a piping cord. | and with such a sleeve there is a four- inch cuff that falls over the hands. French women looked upon these with kindly consideration, for they never care to show their arms or their necks except at home. They are too wise to allow sunburn to di re their Jprewty skins, and most of the Parisian dresses have deep collars and wrist ruffles. But long sleeves may have armholes set in the usual place, only a little longer | than usual; and this is a step in the right | direction, for when they are tight to the arm hey interfere with freedom of move- men The long sleeves are buttoned or hook- ed closely to the wrist. Many of the washing dresses have! muslin or net sleeves, which are delight: fully cool, and you see these also in sat- i in gowns. { | — Many of the smartest little satin and silk coats are very vague in line, left un- lined, or lined with chiffon. Straight, | shapeless, self-trimmed little garments | though they are, they are invaluable for slipping on over frocks. A little coat of this kind may have the neck and sleeve corners carefully turned back to show a lining of vivid chiffon or gaily colored soft silk. A coat of a bright color with a scarf girdle or sash to match is often worn with a skirt or one-piece frock of white or neutral tone, and always looks pretty with the lingerie frock. i The superstitions relating to marriage | are perhaps the queerest of all supersti- | tions. Even the custom of the bride toss- | ing her bouquet to the bridesmaids is pure superstition, though we scarcely consider | it such since it is so universally in vogue. | Even this superstition does not compare | with some of the others. { Our forefathers believed in magical in- vocations, love philters and fastings. June was then, as now, the month of months. The Romans considered it the | most fortunate month of the year, for the | season of marriage was June. | If there happened to be a full moon on the wedding day this was ly fortu- nate. They also believed that it meant In those days the marriage was never considered fortunate if the bridal party, EE a oul priest a a acat, a or : while all would go well if it Tell a spider or a toad. rds rhe Averican Girl! 's Home . Nilsen Laurvik says: “What has marriage to offer in com- Rénsation for the many things of which it Soprives hes, is a question t the of today asks herself with a growing skepticism. What ties of en- t does it hold that are not open to before marrying? And with an in creasing sophistication she confidently an- swers: ‘None,’ weighing with the great- est nicety the actual and known joys of girlhood against the problematical and re- : EASILY PREPARED MENUS FOR SCHOOL CHILDREN, (1) Brown Bread Sandwiches filled with gs g : 8 ges i | give the 3 3 FARM NOTES. —Cows fed grain in addition to plenti- ful pasture gave decidedly more after the pasture season than those not so fed—so reports Cornell Station as the result of four years’ experiment. —The Michigan Station found that su- gar beets and mangels would produce when fed in combination with grain, as high as 700 or 800 pounds of k per acre when the hogs were allowed to gath- er the roots themselves, crops in- clude mangels, sugar beets and carrots. —Sheep should not be allowed to re: main in p places, especially in win- ter; and by no means in a damp place at night. Rot and hoof diseases result. However, if a sheep has the rot it is well to it cure if possible. A recommended treatment is a mixture of one part of liquid camphor, two parts turpentine, three parts water, giving the sheep a ta- blespoonful two or three times a day. —Lettuce seldom thrives at mid-sum- mer except in sections where soil and climatic conditions are suitable. Endive is quite a desirous substitute for lettuce for mid-summer culture. This crop is grown much more largely in foreign countries than in the United States but it is hoped that American growers will Crop more attention and pro- duce it on a larger scale for mid-summer use, _ —In sheep breeding and feeding exper- iments at the South ota Experiment Station the Cotswold lambs made the largest gains per head daily, required the least quantity of grain and produced a fleece that t 26 cents more per head Shati gu 07 Dread, Of the Down reeds ampshire, Shropshire and the Oxford were about in value of fleece per head, but the Shropshires required more pound of gain than did the Oxfords. —Lettuce for fall frame culture should be sown not later than the middle of Au- gust. Big Boston and May King are the most popular of the heading varieties, while the Grand Rapids is the leading loose-leaf variety for frame culture. The seed should be sown in fine, moist ground and care should be exercised that the bed does not become too dry before the plants are 3p. % Sto three weeks the seedlings wi ready for transplanting and they may be set in solid beds or in flats. Three or more weeks later they will be ready for the cold frame, the soil of which should be made very rich by the application of plenty of rotten ma- nure. It may be an advantage to use some lime, and commercial fertilizer may also be used if desired. —The pure-bred animal, or the beef animal of good eats more food than the scrub. This is the reason why he makes more economical gains than the scrub, rather than the popular belief that he makes a better use of his feed. The | scrub requires a larger proportion of his feed for maintenance because he eats less. That is if it requires the same amount of feed to maintain his body a day as is required by the pure-bred ani- mal and he eats less, then a larger pro- portion is used for maintenance. Itis al- so a fact that in steers of equal weight both the dressed carcass and the propor- tion of high-priced meat to the lower priced cuts are larger in the pure-bred steer than in the scrub. These are the reasons why the pure bred steer is supe- rior to the scrub and brings a better price and not because he can make ma- terially larger gains on a given amount of feed, as is popularity thought. The peach crop of Southern New Jersey is practically at an end for this season. In the vicinity of Hammonten returns have been unusually good—one man who refused $10,000 for his crop on the trees. realized $6,000 more by shipping the product himself. From the Elm station a train of fifteen carloads of peaches went out in one shipment. Besides the heavy shipments from three railway stations, four automobile trucks are kept, busy carting direct to merchants .in ladel- phia. The peach crop in South Jersey is a money-maker, and each year hundreds of acres of young trees are set out. While the tree is hardy, growers peo- | have a Shs peach in the early swelling and blossoming habit of the flower buds. If during the winter or early spring there revi mag weatiues fhe lle ma n growth and afterwa - ed W frosts, WHERE TO LOCATE ORCHARD. In making a selection of a location for a peach orchard care must be taken that the section is one where the buds are least likely to start into wth and before the settled weather of spring When ble, elevated lands should be sel and the planting done on the northern and western slopes. Low lands should be avoided, as on such sites late frosts are severest. It is also bad to glant on sunny southern slopes, as trees +f the but a can be grown the peach bn Tory a wal on gravel- ly loams. The so poor that they might declared worthless for any other crop. When the soil is very rich there is apt to be an ex- Poet~—I called to see if had an opening for me. You Editor—Yes, there's one right behind you ; shut it as you go out, please. —Finest Toh Work at thie nfirs. A
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers