Beara Hi
vet ss est————————
a a.
Bellefonte, Pa., October 11, 1912.
——
FOR HIM WHO WAITS.
Everything comes in its own good time;
It is we who get in a hurry.
The wires get crossed and our hearts grow sad
With watching and waiting and worry.
To have and to hold of worldy goods,
Or winning a common living,
Absorbs of our time a greater share
Than all of our schemes of giving.
Everything comes to the one who waits,
Save the things we dread from habit.
Some have a way of catching cold
As a boy might catch a rabbit.
Some have a way of looking down,
No matter how bright the weather;
They seem at a loss to understand
Why troubles all come together.
Everything comes our way in time,
Whether we're brave or shrinking,
Comes in about the way we shape
Our habits of life and thinking,
Lives that are lived in a stress of pain
Cannot be blithe or cheery,
While the heart that sings in its love of song
Will never of singing weary.
Everything comesto us all in time—
Money and health and station,
None are so small but they have a right
To the beunty of all creation.
A right? Why, yes, there's a place on the top
For the best in every calling;
The fellow who climbs without looking down
Need never have fear of falling.
~—Afwyn M. Thuber.
AT THE END OF THE LANE.
When they reached the lane that led
to the house on the knoll, Renshaw touch-
ed the driver on the shoulder. “I'll get
out here,” he said. The surrey stopped
and Renshaw stepped to the ground. He | Rensha
ron
held his watch in t of one of the car-
riage lamps. “Nine o'clock,” he said.
“Come back at eleven.”
The driver, with the silence of a man
in a dream, turned the horses around
until they faced the village, and the
sound and sight of the surrey were soon
lost in the night.
Renshaw looked around him and laugh-
ed. Many years had passed since he had
last been at that corner and it is well to
Jeet old friends with a smile. A breeze
the south enveloped him. “I
my arms to the night,” quoth he, “and
my love hath embraced me.”
And so he stood with that air of whim-
sicality which was his charm.
He dropped his arms then to search for
a Gigaretie, and when the flare of the
match lighted his face, it disclosed a
smile that began in wistfulness and end-
ed in longing. “Faugh!” said Renshaw.
“To poison the perfection of night with
a fume like this!” He dropped the cigar-
ette and stepped upon it. “Advance!”
he cried, and he entered the lane.
It had been eleven years since last he
had walked through the lane. Previous
to that, the house on the knoll had been
his home for three other years—three
rs in which he had worked with
es and canvas and had painted his
name on the column of fame. “I came
here poor and went away rich,” he
thought, “or did I come here rich and go
away poor?” The paradox pleased him
and he waved his hand at the moon.
“Are you on a holiday, too, My Lady?”
he asked cf her. “Then give me a
dance!” He turned to his shadow on the
road and performed the steps of a con-
tredanse, humming:
Advance then, oh, my dear,
Draw near and give a sign:
And calm thy petty fear,
For. oh, my heart is thine.
And now my longing to eclipse
I'll place a kiss upon thy lips.
“Come now,” he said to the moon, “tell
me the secret of your attraction, that I
may know the better how to paint you.
Is it your pallor? No; for pallor is only a
symptom. Is it your melancholy? No;
for melancholy is a symptom, too. Then
Why ate you so pale and why are you sad
why do you move them so? , NOW
I know! It is because you are extinct, be-
cause you are the Fok of what was
once a life. And so I will paint you shin-
ing on 2 tomb and again the world will
ud and wonder at my insight!” He
waved his hand with a rueful gesture.
“Ah, we ghostly ones!” he added. “How
well we know each other! We move the
but we cannot move ourselves!”
his right was a pond and in the
he caught the moon's reflection.
of a shade,” he said, “that is
" The pond poured itself over a
j away on a bed of stones.
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opening in the trees.
t an illumination!” thought Ren-
in the road. “Could
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on the knoll looked down at | there some one in particular?
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He looked up at the
moon. “Ah, we ghostly ones!” he smiled,
and he climbed the piazza steps of the
house on the knoll.
The door was paneled with glass over
which a curtain had been stretched, and
the light in the hall shown through upon
Renshaw’s face. Blue-pale he seemed,
in the rays of the lamp that filtered
through the curtain, blue-pale and older
than his years. “It is difficult to make an
entrance without knowing the cue,” he
was thinking. “I wonder if Sarah still
reigns in the kitchen.” On the tips of
his toes he walked around the piazza and
red in the kitchen window. “To the
ife,” said he. He went to the kitchen
door and opened it.
The kitchen was large, almost fabulous
in its size, as though it were intedned for
the theater of an epic. Corners and cup-
boards were lost in its shadows and its
area made its cleanliness the most ap-
parent. Along one of the walls stood
the range, itsdamper open and disclosing
a fiery Maltese cross. th this excep-
tion stove was black and gave no in-
dication of the fire that burned within.
A clock ticked somewhere with an insis-
tence which was magnified because the
clock was hidden in darkness, the senses,
cheated of sight, demanding more of the
ear. Along another wall was a table
and at this table stood a servant, | eq
adjusting a lamp which she had
been trimming. “Ah, villain!” thought
w, “what have you done with m
Sarah?” And perhaps because of his sense
of lost illusions, “and to me...” he
thought, “and tome..."
Sarah, still bending over the lamp, turn-
ed it the wrong way and for a moment
the kitchen was dark. Then, reversing
the motion of the wheel, she turned the | aq
lamp up high and watched the wick to
see T it were burning straight. Her face
was well above the lamp and the sha- |
dows gave her a startled, almost a vio-
lent, look and accentuated the upward
open | turn of her nose. Her eyes were far
apart, her mouth large and yet tenderly
shaped, although her face and body were
thin to the point of emaciation. She
stepped back and the shadows fell at
once from her face, but the look of vio-
lence seemed to go more slowly, as if in-
deed it were loath to go at all.
“Good evening, my Lady Windowmere,”
said Renshaw, taking a step forward and
bowing low. Once she had posed for
him; he had called the picture “Lady at
Window,” and ever since he had insisted
upon the title.
“Mr. Renshaw!” she gasped. But, see-
ing his look of disappointment, she cor-
rected herself. “Good evening, my lord!”
She curtseyed low, and then approaching
curtseyed again. In her air, in her car-
riage, and as though but darkly seen,was
the genius of tragi-comedy, that strange
gift of laughing in tears and Veiring in
mirth. “My poor Sarah!" thought -
shaw. And he winked his eye at her and :
placed his finger drolly on his lip.
“What's the matter?” she whispered.
"Don’t they know you're here?”
“Not vet.
thought I would come around and see
what it was all about. And besides, I've
got a present for you.”
“For me?"
Deliberately and with a pretense of
pride, he produced a brooch, a necklace
and a bracelet in oxydized silver and
amethysts. “They are,” he said. "for
My Lady Windowmere.” He fitted the
bracelet and necklace in place and pinned
the brooch at herthroat. With her head
heid back she looked at him with that
startled glance which was a part of her.
Sow did you know I'd be here?” she
said.
“I knew,” he said, and his voice was
very knowing.
“ow on know I wouldn't be—
married?” she asked.
“Because men are fools,” he easily
us orutaiwide. “You sp ightt”
es wide. "You are
the A, “They are fools—all fools—
t id
“And I am not exempt,” he said. "And
now tell me what the is for.”
ich led into the
&
“Is she married!”
“Married? No! Didn't I tell you that
“But. at least,” said Renshaw, “isn't
Sarah.
packing and
stay away,
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Y | skirt gleaming with the sheen of silk and
I heard the noise and I]
said, watching Sarah and the cake. “Isn't
this a surprise?”
“The best I've had for years!” ex-
claimed Mr. Knowlton, his face lighting
and his voice rambling over the room.
Renshaw sat between them, and while
they talked he looked from time to time
at the company, some of whom he knew
and to whom he sent a smile.
“But I wish they would not lock so sad
when their faces are in repose,” he
thought. "Or are they right and am I
wing? And is this life a sad and serious
thing?”
Another cry of delight interrupted him.
He looked up and Mary was holding out
her hand.
“How you have grown!” he said. He
arose and, her hand still in his, she tried
to guide him to the dancers in the next
room. “But can’t dance,” he said, “and
besides—I would rather talk.”
“And so would 1,” she said. “We'll
walk around the piazza until the quad.
rille is finished. Will you wait for me
out there?—or some one may come and
get you. I must find a veil to put over
my head.”
He opened the door and stood framed
in the darkness. Then he shut the door
and walked across the piazza to peer up
at the moon and the stars. “Back again,”
he said. "Did you miss me?” The leaves
rustled on the branches.
sighs in the trees,” quoth he, “and they
whisper your name.” He looked up at
the shadows that swayed above him. “I
wish you would spell it,” he gently mock-
The door opened and he turned
around. Mary was silhouetted against
the light of the hall, the cascade of her
her veiled hair shimmering like an aura.
She closed the door and joined him.
“Let us walk on the grass,” he said.
“Itis dry, for I have tried it.” She gath-
ered her draperies around her, and placed
her hand on his arm. “Truly, but she
grown,” thought he. “And what
have you done since I went away, Mary?"
he asked, aloud.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Then you have done better than 1
have,” he answered her. “For I have
taught my eye to paint, and now it can-
not see; and I have taught my mind to
express and now it cannot feel.” :
“I saw your picture ‘The Song of the |
Nightingale,’” she said. "Wasn't that |
seeing and feeling?” i
“Just paint and expression,” he said. |
“An uncertain night, a trembling bush
and a moon that looks ready to weep.” |
He glanced at her. Mary's face was up- |
ward turned and her eyes were glisten-
ing. Renshaw followed her glance. “Ah, |
we ghostly ones!” he sadly smiled, his |
lips moving but making no sound.
"And ever since I saw it,” she said,
“whenever I think of it—at night—"
They walked in silence for a time. The
music of the violin was borne to them |
from the house and the music of the wa- |
ter floated toward them from the brook. |
Renshaw, abstracted and as though he |
were by himself, hummed a note or two
and then pleasantly sang to the stars:
“Awake, then, oh, my dear,
Draw near and give a sign:
And calmthy petty fear,
For, oh, my heart is thine.
And now my longing to eclipse
I'll place a kiss upon thy lips.”
Mary's hand moved on his sleeve, but
he noted it not and while he sang he
kept his eyes upon the stars with that air
of detachment which had lately grown
Spon him. Mary frowned a little to her-
se
"We must notgo far,” she said. “I am
engaged for the next dance.”
is eyes were on the darkness above.
"We are all engaged for the next dance,
Mary,” he said, “but we cannot always
tell who our partners will be.”
She seemed to miss his meaning. “I
know at least who mine is going to be,”
,she said.
He turned to her then like a man who
is pleased with the L “My
word, but you have grown!” said he.
He looked at the stars, which pleased
him; and he looked at the brook, which
eased him, too. And then he looked at
with the same air of pleasure with
tars.
“Let's go back,” she said, “or they'll be
looking for us.”
of it, he took her hand.
whispered.
They ran to the house.
“Wasn't that like old times?” he laugh-
ed, for thus they had run when she was
a girl. Mary's breath was coming deeply
and her eyes were very bright.
“How you have grown!” he murmured,
“Let's run!” he
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which he had gazed at the brook and the | %€!f
“Yes, Mary.” As though unconscious 1
“Why shouldn't I be?” Their eyes met
in the mirror.
“No; let's make him jealous,” whis-
pered Renshaw. "He asked you for the
dance because he knew that if he didn’t,
some one else would. And life is a dance,
Joo, Mary. So let's make him jealous.
Shall we?”
Mary's glance for a moment,
and for the third last time that night
she frowned to herself.
“I will start by asking him to let me
have the next dance with you,” said Ren-
shaw, half turning away.
“But you can't dance.”
“Oh, we'll sit it out,” he said. “That's
part of the play.”
: "But I don’t think he will let you have
it.
“Pooh!” laughed Renshaw. “Watch!”
He gracefully sauntered out of her
sight and reappeared with her mother on
his arm. The two approached Thompson
and after a minute's conversation Ren-
shaw returned to Mary.
"Your mother is going to dance with
him,” he said, “so that we may talk over
old times. Let us sit on the stairs. We
shall be out of the way there and we can
talk and watch at the same time.”
A ruby lamp threw its glow upon her.
"My Mary has grown to be a beauty,” he
thought, “and I don’t wonder that Thomp-
son is already watching us with the eyes
of a dragon. . . . I wish that I had the
eyes of a dragon, too, but—" For already
he had unconsciously begun to appraise
the girl by his side in picture values and
to analyze the shading and the texture of
her beauty.
"Did you see the present I brought for
Sarah?” he asked, changing the trend of
his thoughts.
“No!” And she was all attentive. “A
resent?”
He told her about it. “I brought three,”
he said. "One for Sarah; one for your
mother; and one for you.”
“For me?” she cried.
From his waistcoat he drewa locket.
“You remember the butterflies in the
‘Magic Cloud?” he asked. “And how you
helped? The picture won a medal and I
had a locket made of it—for Mary.” But
almost while he was giving it to her he
was watching the dancers in the next
room. “I saw him then,” he wh
“and his face was like a thu oud.”
She held the locket in her hand and
looked at it, but there was no pleasure in
her glance.
“1 wonder,” Renshaw was thinking as
he watched the dancers, “whether there
can be any jealousy without love.” And
quite unconsciously he added, “The
young fool."
“You got it in Paris?” asked Mary,
! looking at the medal.
“In Paris, ves. The reverse side is
polished. That is your monogram.”
She turned the medal over and over, as
though she would get a story from it.
Jere must be a wonderful place,” she
said.
“Too full of confusion—no one can be
sure where he's going.” Renshaw's voice
had a trace of bitterness in it.
“But if we cannot tell who our next
partner is going to be,” she said, “Why
should we wish to know where we are
going?”
Renshaw looked at her with approval.
“Let me put it on for you,” he said. He
unclasped the chain and she lowered her
head, looking at him threugh her eye-
lashes. “Yes, my Mary has grown to be
a beauty,” be thought, and his heart mov-
ed a little. “Now that is strange,” he
mused, and he turned to self-analysis to
explain the phenomenon. “It may be
the glow of the lamp,” was the doubtful
answer. “Perhaps if it were some other
color—"
She was telling him about an old collie
that used to accompany them wherever
they went and Renshaw’s mind became
crowded with pictures of the days before
Fame had called him on her silver trum-
pets, and nearly every scene was a set-
ting for Mary. He was carrying her on
his shoulder over the shallows of the riv-
er. They were having their lunch in a
grove and she, with all the dignity of her
ten years, was cutting the bread, and he,
with the maturity of a man of twenty-
one, was watching her. Orit was raining
and she was walking home with him un-
der his raincoat. Or “I know!” she was
crying in an excited treble. “Paint a pic-
ture all flowers and butterflies and blue
. And in the corner, looking at every-
thing as though he couldn't understand
it, now paint an old toad.” And through
these memories he looked at the girl of
twenty-one who was sitting by his side |
on the stairs.
“And am | the toad?” he asked him-
“Poor Shep,” said Mary. “He was nev-
er the same after went. And every
day he would go to the end of the
Sie and wait for You there.” And drop-
ping her voice, “Is he watching?” she
w leaning over and at
But Renshaw had eyes for
her.
“Mary,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Renshaw?”
He looked 2% up vith Toph, put the
reproach nto a .
ent loneliness and a presentiment Li
even ter loneliness to come. “It is
DE "lo yopre, te
ol », a ”
himself, “or a toad,” came the
told -
tler thought “You know my first name,
don’t you asked, aloud.
” he
“Yes,” said , still leaning forward
3 | past ia the Sacer, har
| m, other y-
oar ,
voice was very low. “Then why
dont Jou we A Be a. il” she
you are
“or it may be—because I have
grown.”
oA ati she looked him and smil-
at dancers. butterflies,
and blue sky,” Renshaw, and for
the second time he felt his heart move
within him,
“I saw him then,” said Mary, “and, oh,
," said Renshaw, “I have kissed
E
how he looked over here.
!
4
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ous he will be! Janghed M
oo Lue v he so. head.
y she
“You tease!” he said. “You know I
meant it; and now give me a kiss and
say, “Yes.”
And again she said, “No.” Then falling
into his previous mood she added, “You'll
like it better if you don't get it. For the
sweetest kisses—I've read somewhere—
are those which aman can’t have.”
The music had stopped and young
Thompson appeared before them. “I
have the next dance, too,” he said, “and
I shan’t give that one up, Mr. Renshaw.”
“You were very good to let me have
the last,” said the latter, rising. He look-
ed down at Thompson and noted the
earnestness of the younger man’s expres-
sion and the arrangement of his hair,
arched over his forehead like a tunnel.
‘He lends himself to caricature.” thought
Renshaw, walking away, “but at least |
could not draw himas a toad. I'll give
Mrs. Knowlton her present, and then—"
He searched his pocket for the cameo
earrings and buckle which he had brought
from Rome. One of the earrings was
missing and he remembered then that
something had dropped from his pocket
when he drew out the locket. “It’s in
the hall by the side of the stairs,” he
thought, and he retraced his steps.
Thompson and Mary were on the stairs
and when Renshaw stooped to pick up
the earring he heard the young man ask-
ing her a question.
“Ah-ha!” murmured Renshaw to him-
self, hurrying away. “I thought I would
bring him to the point.” He placed the
cameos in his pocket and went outside.
“The curtain falls,” he said, and he shut
the door behind him. “I shall feel better
soon,” he told himself, and he turned his
face to the moon. “Ah, we ghostly ones!"
he sighed. “What have we in common
“I'm glad there's no nightingale here.
and a moon that’s ready to weep—and I
am na Jarea
n the r opened and for the sec-
ond time Mary appeared silhouetted
against the light. e saw where he
Was and walked over the grass toward
m.
“Mother is looking for you,” she said,
“I told her I'd find you.”
In the darkness at the end of the lane,
the surrey from the station turned around,
one of its wheels screeching against the
guard.
“What a hateful sound!” shuddered
0," he said. “It has come to take
me away. But didn’t I tell you that we
would make Thompson jealous? And,
Mary, I wish you all the happiness in the
world, and—"
She placed her hand on his sleeve.
“Don't,” she said. “I told him ‘No.'”
He looked at her and suddenly his eyes
seemed blurred and his heart came to his
throat.
“And will you marry me?” he asked.
His hand was fretting his watch-chain.
She opened his arm as though it were a
gate and lightly settled her head upon his
shoulder, His arms closed around her.
“My beautiful bird of God!" he gently
tied By George Weston, in Harper's
azar.
AUTUMN.
The lovely summer days have gone
And autumn time is here,
The trees are turning from their green,
To red, and gold and brown.
The melancholy days are here,
The sad time of the year,
For the lovely summer days have past and gone.
Oh! lovely, golden summer,
Why didst thou leave so soon,
The asters they are blooming,
The stars are twinkling down;
The forests will soon be turning
Their leaves to coats of brown,
For the lovely summer days have past and gone
And the lonely autumn days they now are
here.
The wind it sighs amony the trees
As evening shades draw nigh,
And whispers gently through the breeze
That the autumn days are hers;
For the lovely summer days have past and gone.
—Mary E. Gunsallus.
Every seventh year, so science
the vitality of the body is at its lowest.
t is then most liable to be attacked by
disease and less able to fight off such an
attack. Just watch the record of dea
seventh period of seven years.
This is the climacteric period of human
life. There is no doubt that the
may be fortified againdt disease, and
ysical vitality increased by the use of
. Pierce’s Golden Medical 3
Thousands have proven the truth of
statement and have declared that they
owe their lives to Dr. Pierce's wonderful
“Discovery.” Dr. Pierce's Pleasant Pel-
lets are very effective in cleansing the
body of foul accumulations which
mote the development of disease.
i
at you
“We shall be gla
you, madam. What amount do you wish
NS furanm i
. mean a accoun
as I have at the big dry goods stores.”
open an account
ease.”
Artist —“Those
Pia (sag). are angels
.
with them? But all the same,” he added, '
An uncertain night, a trembling bush, |
are not ostriches,
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN
DAILY “THOUGHT.
Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing
with the growth of summer I never yet have
seen.— William Cullen Bryant.
Hallowe'en Party for Young Folks.—
Begin the party with the game of visit-
ing the Witch's House. Signs can be pin-
ned up in various places, pointing the
way. Dress up an old witch on the plan
, of a scarecrow. She should have a brown
cambric face, with painted features, a tall
witch's hat of black cardboard, and
sticks for arms. Her skirts can cover her
feet, but she must have a cape over her
shoulders. One of her arms must have a
crooked end, such as can be i
an old umbrella-handle. Her house may
be an improvised tent in the corner of a
room, or she may stand in front of dra-
peries hanging between two rooms, so
that someone may be stationed out of
sight behind her.
Blindfold each person in turn, and give
each one, as his turn comes, a kettle to
place on the witch's hand, or, in other
words, to hang on the umbrella-handle.
Every time the kettle reaches the hand
successfully, a fairy, personified by a ti-
ny doll dressed in gauze, should appear
from under the witch's cape and drop a
little packet into the kettle. The fairy is
fastened to the end of a pair of tongs,
which are handled by the helper behind
the witch, so that they will drop the
package into the kettle. Although the
blindfolded person will not see the be-
stowal of the gift, all the others will.
The packet that the witch bestows may
contain any souvenir that the hostess
wishes to ve. A 500d chtice | ould be
pop-corn s wral in oiled paper,
and afterward in yellow crepe paper, and
decorated with a Jack-o’-lantern face in
ink or water-colors. The guests need
| not realize that the gifts are eatable until
after they have home.
When everyone has succeeded in plac-
ing a kettle in the witch's hand, give
each a paper upon which some fa-
miliar nursery rhyme has been written,
or the name of some popular childhood’s
| hero; as, Red Riding Hood or Yankee
| Doodle. After they have received the
‘bags, ask them to join in the game of
Apple Cap: Setof ord
ress a number of apples in gay
of cloth or crepe paper, made after the
pattern of dusk cage and tied with a bow
under the chin. Make faces on the apples
by pressing candies or beans into
| toserve as features. Arrange to have
. each apple cap distingui by some
characteristic that will make it illustrate
the lines written upon one of the bags.
| Each person isto find from among
3pje caps sitting about on tables and
| chairs the one that belongs in his bag.
| Yankee Doodle, for example, can have a
' feather stuck in his cap; Golden Locks
| can be distinguished by the yellow curls
about her face, and Jack Horner can have
| a raisin in his mouth. Each hostess will
| be able to think of the characters most
' familiar in her locality, but below are a
few suggestions:
Jack Horner (raisin in his mouth).
Yankee Doodle (feather in his cap).
Red Riding Hood (ed hood).
Gelden Locks (yellow curls).
Little Boy Blue (blue collar; small
paper trumpet in mouth).
Blue Beard (a teard of blue thread).
Puss in Boots (cat face, thread whis-
kers, and paper ears; resting in a boot).
Old woman Who Lived in a Shoe (paper
spectacles; resting in a shoe).
Humpty Dunipty (an egg instead of an
apple).
Santa Claus (cap and bell, beard, and
bag of toys).
Miss Muffit (sitting on grass, beside
toy spider).
ng Cole (crown; bit of coal for jewel
in it,
To carry out the idea of the witch’
day in the refreshments, place a big
witch's kettle, cut out of a pumpkin, in
the center of the table, and set on its
| rim a row of little witches with hickory-
nut heads, witches’ hats, and buack crepe-
with a hickory-nut on the top of the u
i right. The cross-bar will form
of blank ni 1 Lo bod oe push
0 paper abou! y, a
the sharpened lower end of the
1 into the pumpkin to hold the figure in
place.
| the kettle itself from a tripod
| made of wi ' brooms,
‘an occasional sign-post, stuck in twist
body | g00ls, pointing the way to the witch's
ike the ae Bg
i e o ry pump an!
{out of bio my with a bit of red
flannel or a red candy for a tongue. The
| tripod is wound with vines and decorated
i the orange lanterns and paper
| Before each plate stand small
:
2
of an
sterilized milk, and sugar if desired.
| —Don't read an out-of-date paper. Get
"all the news in the WATCHMAN.
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