ai
Bellefonte, Pa., December 13, 1912.
“HOW DID YOU DIE?”
Did you tackle the trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
O, a trouble’s a ton, or a trouble’s an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it?
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that
counts,
But only, how did you take it?
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's
that?
Come up with a smiling face,
It’s nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to liethere—that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you
bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn’t the fact that you're licked that counts;
It’s how did you fight—and why?
And though you be done to death what then?
If you battle the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a
pounce.
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn’t the fact that you're dead that counts,
But how did you die? ;
~By Edmund Vance Cook.
THE WEILDING POWER.
henge the 4% bons be fel Xe Lo
in" march co t that expect-
ant hush with Which & church full of peo-
greets an advancing bridal procession.
pe head but one was turned to geta
st Rg look at the bride and her
train.
Sam Townsend, from his obscure seat
in the transept watched his wife H
where she sat in a front pew, her
back-tilted, with a gay little smile of
amusement on her lips, into which he
read a touch of irony. He remembered
many weddings at which they two had
sat together, when, at the critical mo-
ment, he had silently offered his hand-
kerchief, which was as promptly accept-
ed. “So sorry for her!” he was wont to
whisper. “No, envious, silly,” she had
invariably replied,
She had been an enchanting personal-
ity to be married to, that wife of his, for
the reason that she never suffered the
every-dayness of living to become drub;
for her life was rather a pattern of inter-
esting bits of mosaic, pictured and fitted
together by the magic of her imagination;
the surface of her sensibilities was as
ready for impressions as a fine white
piece of sculptor’s clay; and back of it
all lay humor.
During the elaborate ceremonials he
had plenty of time to follow a tortuous
memory trail through the circumstances
which had resulted in his sitting here op-
posite to her, a comparative stranger,
while he watched her head tilt back to a
more defiant angle and the irony in her
smile turn to bitterness. To him the
resent moment seemed a climax to the
nging for her which had been growing
in him since the first months of their
separation. It was not so much the wom-
an before him that he forcibly wanted;
although with her small dark head and
slender shoulders, rising from the ivory
sheen of her satin gown, she was even
more desirable than his longing had
ictured her. Rather it was what she
d stood for in these last months abroad, |
when all things fine or witty or sad or
womanly he had in a curious way related
to her. And now he noted about her a
sort of virginal aloofness which aroused
his masculine idea of possession, almost
coincident with the thought in which he
acknowledged his own guilt. He breath. |
ed a pagan prayer of thankfulness . that |
she was still his in the eyes of the law, |
but the maddening distance betwe ~n them |
had caused him to go far by this time. |
i
|
Herda's indifferent traveling |
about, suddenly met hir ie |
ling stare, and sto The direct, prim. |
itive yearning it his eyes sent the blood |
ing over her neck and even |
reddening her ears. She stiffened indig- |
nantly, refusing to fathom the pleading
element behind the other, What right |
had a man to look at her thus who had |
so wrongly misunderstood her; and, so |
misunderstanding, had deliberately sin. |
ned against her? Looking squarely at him, |
she smiled the hardest sort of a little |
smile, the more merciless, because, deep
within her, she discovered an answering
tendency to yield. |
_ With the obligato triumphantly burst.
ing into the Mendelssohn, their view of |
each other was blocked out by the wed. |
ding procession. Sam on his way down |
the aisle was surrounded by acquaintanc- |
i
into three leaps, and uninvited, j |
into the car and closed the door. Jumped
“Just for the appearance of the thing,”
he said, coolly, in answer to the blaze in |
her gray eyes. “You know people don't |
know our separation was intentional, At
the time we gave the impression that it |
was inexorable business,” i
“Listen to me,” she said, in a su i
ed voice; “don’t discuss anything Da :
could not stand it—not until we have h
been through the ordeal of this wedding |
dinner. You're supposed to have hurried |
Joe for Nina's wedding; so let it go at’
at.
“And if,” asked Sam, “I act -
ventional husband during ey the —
ing, may 1 come home with you later?”
“Yes,” she said, "you may”; and added
“for explanations.”
How at odds a man's extern | self
times with his internal self! Ye
he is like a faceted piece of crystal—
ded, reflecti ity, reti-
i
i
of
:
7
lt
f
i
Es
2
i:
iis
BE
gig
i 8
i
£ 1]
shiz
sEE%
| husband and children, could still find a
! your money and my social graces, but by
' have some envelopes stamped P. D. Q., it
| consciously used you as a model, so that
| uses her voice to call her husband great.
in- | never allowed myself to think of od
day. It makes me sick—physically sick—
!
te Jo goss
“The Westons are taking us; I'll ask
them,” she answered, and he understood
t she did not wish to be alone with him
til they two were in the shutin quiet
the library at home.
When they were dropped at their own
steps, Sam fumbled in his pockets, and,
carefully selecting a key from his
swung open the door for her to gb in.
enjoyed the act, it was so significant. It
seemed in a measure to bridge the gap of
the last eighteen months; but as he look-
ed at her he saw her chin quiver. He
dropped his things on the hall window-
seat, and, following her, he entered the
Bray 2nd 9d the doorstogether behind
im.
The strange familiarity of it all threat-
ened his poise. This long, book-lined
room, with its soft lights and its dim
tapestries, and the air touched faintly
with the smell of burning logs, made him
forget, for the moment, the wall in front
of him. He strode over to where his
wife stood before the chimney breast.
“Behold my temple, my altar fire, and
my Righ-prissiess,” he said, and his voice
“And you have defiled them, all three,”
she answered, in a low voice.
“"Herda,” he said, looking at her lips—
“Herda, can’t you blot it all out for one
minute?—can’t you let me have you
in my arms, feeling that there is nothing
in Sour heart but our love as it once
was?”
She did not answer him immcdiately;
SEF
she seemed to be sparring for time.
watched her hungrily as she let her even-
ing coat fall from her shoulders, and
started to off her long gloves, while
the fire light played over the warm soft-
ness of her arms and .shoulders. Her
heavy hair had slipped from its trim posi-
tion on the back of her head, and lay in
masses over her ears and on the nape of
her neck.
“No,” she answered, looking at him
more sadly than bitterly, “I don’t know
if it can ever be that way again. [ feel,
intuitively, that you were not alone at
fault; I knew that in some inexplicable
way I, too, had failed.”
the sparks. “If I had only been frank,”
he said. "told you my side of it all, as I'm
going todo this night, the whole thing
need never have happened.”
She seated herself in a high-backed
chair, where she could look at the fire
instead of at him. He could almost see
her think; he felt asa man feels who
watches a play given in a foreign tongue.
She began to speak quietly, half
musingly.
“When I look back, I know, I really
know, that you alone could not have
spoiled our lives, and yet I can’t put m
finger on the way in which I helped. It
seems to me I noticed something unusual
in your attitude shortly after I started to
write, and still, when I first tried it, I
thought you liked it. You always said
you were first drawn to me because I
was different from the other women you
knew. And then your life was so broad,
so full of important things, that I argued
that if I too could do something beyond
a woman's ordinary run of duties I would
be more than ever the perfect woman to
you. To be candid, it wasn't all on your
account. I wanted to prove that a wom-
anly woman, one with home duties and
place in her life for personal ambition,
or, rather, growth. [ wanted to see if |
couldn't sway people’s minds, not through
a something within me which was crying
for expression. So I took up writing,and
the first year when everything was re-
turned so promptly that you said I should
was a joke, and we laughed at it together.
You teased, but you were really helpful
with suggestions of vital facts, and I un-
every man I drew widened his eyes when
he spoke and had a smudge of gray over
his temple. Then my stuff took hold,
and you seemed to lose interest. Instead
of reading in here while I wrote, you
would go to your den or leave the house.
I missed you terribly at first, more your
interest than your presence, but I was so
excited and happy in the first intrinsic
proof that little I was worth somethin
that I suppose I didn’t attach a
importance to your wanderings. And
then—and then—"
Her voice hoarsened and the gray eyes
turned on him were dark with pain.
“And then I found the letter from that
woman—
Sam made a movement toward her,
but she waved him off. She was on her
feet now, leaning against the tall chair.
“Yes, me, the wife,” she went on, ina
low, bitter tone, “to whom you had
Promised such wonderful Shing. Why,
never go to a wedding now that I don’t
laugh at the mummery of it. You men
marry us for the little spiciness of differ-
brains in the same
bodies and souls? I to listen to
others’ wrangles with head high, ours
was the perfect union, give and take and
all the rest—"
She paused, then brought her clenched
hand down on the chair-back.
“In all this wide world is there no place
_ “Herda,” he said, “don’t you ink ie; |
for woman's self-expression?
ave progressed far since the time of
Solomon; you think with horror of the!
glories of his many wives and concubines.
And still, even now, your secret ideal of
a wife is the same as his, one who only
Absurd! If a man can’t be great without
his wife srying jt aloud from the house-
tops, why, let him stay little. You never
respected my mentality; it was my place
to respect yours. You adhered to the old
order of things. During our life togeth-
er I had given you my interest, my faith,
my whole thought. when I asked
a slight return, what happened?
£
Shuddering, she touched her hands to
buried her face in them
on the back of the chair.
Pig i
£E]gee
fr:
Hh
HE
33
£2
Hi
33
§F
HE
:
5
ir
:
i
3
n
f
]
:
3
He walked the length of the room and
back again. His voice took on a touch
of bitterness.
“I never can understand you women.
You don’t care a rap for the spirit of the
thing. Icould have gone on thus for
years, completely estranged, faithless in
every respect but theone, and you would
have stayed on with your head in the
clouds, serenely happy. It was the sym-
bolic act of unfaithfulness which sick-
ened you, not the spirit of it.”
He walked up and down the room
in.
“And then you banished us, me and my
loneliness together. You wouldn't un-
derstand without explanation, and I was
too to ain. I have led a per-
fectly decent life. That one sickening
trial taught me that apathy doesn’t lie in
that direction for me. The business ex-
cuse | went over for developed into a big
thing; it took all my time and energy to
run it. I went out, made acquaintances,
led quite a normal life, but I was alone—
God, how alone I was! Sometimes when I
went to the theater I would take an extra
seat, trying to pretend that you would
come presently and sit beside me and |
could slip my fi into the little open-
ing in the palm of your glove, as I used
to do here at home. Everything I saw or
read or heard reminded me of you. I tha
went to hear Tristan ev time it was
given, because it was the last thing we
went to together. Then last month a thaw
set in. London turned dank—I couldn't
Jace omothe spring without you, 2d
ught perhaps the tive of eigh-
teen long months would dim some things
and help you to understand others , and,
oh, my wife, I want you, I need you, as
in your heart you know you want and
need me.”
To him his longed-for hour had so
clearly come that he stretched his arms
for her, but she waved him back with the
same look of dread he had noticed early
in the evening. A chill doubt depressed
him. He quickly gripped her wrist and
piled her in front of him, where he could
ook at her searchingly.
“Herda,” he pleaded, hotly, “don’t be
hard. For God's sake, try to see my side
of it. Do you want our lives to go on
this way—wrecked, incomplete—the time
has been so long—Herda, don’t you really
want me back?” She made a faint move-
ment to free her hands.
“That's not the question any longer,”
she said, miserably.
“It is. Nothing else matters.”
“But Sam,” she cried, and her voice
was like a wail, “I'm not yours any
longer.”
e freed her so suddenly that she half
fell. His fack was gray.
“What do you mean?” he whispered.
“It’s a secret; no one knowns. Six
months after you left, I went out West—
not to one of the regular places, but to a
little town—and I got a divorce. Since
then I have been very quiet and have let
people think what they wanted to and
wonder as much as they liked.”
With adry sob he sprang toward her,
crushing her against him.
“You precious little dear,” he said, be-
tween ki “you nearly killed me just
now. ,Does that make any lasting differ-
ence? We're only engaged instead of
married, that's all.”
For an interval that neither took ac-
count of they stood there, each luxuriat-
ing in the sense of the other's nearness.
People who have known the depths of
love know how to strike straight for those
depths without lingering in the shallows.
Herda’s mother instinct went out to the
lonely man at the same time that her
woman's heart called for her husband.
Sam could not think—he was just happy.
Each was hel to make whole the
perfect thing their passion had been.
Later she took him Spacalrs, to show
him his sons asleep. older of them
still clutched two marbles in his right fist.
Sam smiled crookedly. The shameful
tears were near his eyes.
“Marble-time coming, Herda?"” he ask-
ed.
“And spring-time, dearest,” she echoed.
He fingered their little bath-robes and
bed-slippers wonderingly.
“I owe them an apology. Ever since I
reached town I haven't given them a
thought. It was all you, oh, wife of
mine. I'll makeit up to them though.”
She laid her finger on her lips, so he
drew her into the hall. Then he put his
arms around her in; he did not seem
to know an thing
“Listen, dear, I'll go now, back to my
loneliness for the last time.”
"You needn't,” she whispered, impul.
avy,
“You generous darling, I will, though,
for I want everything to be just right on
this second venture of ours. And in the
morning we'll stand in line for a license,
and we'll go across to Brooklyn and be
secretly married.”
“Just like the man who jum
into a
a bramblebush and scra i
‘or
em in
little inn I know of up the river. No
olf, Tw detinis, So Rothilig, ot a thing tn
but love-making and horses, I
know the hours be crowded.”
“It will be over too soon,” she mourn.
oe ee inn brough
- you t
down here and put up in our back
lump in his throat, so that he went on in
the Jarhe t-headed strain. a
" or a -present
a dozen reams and a
A Ra ot
a soft, cool hand laid itself on
“Don’t dear! What's the use of
to put it into words?” she
he kissed her and went.—By Duffic R.
West.
— ———— ———————— rr ———
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN
DAILY THOUGHT.
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Savior’s birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long;
And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad;
The wight aie wholesome; then no planets
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm:
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
~Shakespeare.
How black clothes deceive the eye, '
ety Soy ge of {he wearer wae
essor A
in a lecture upon “Optical Illusions.”
“My advice to a lady or gentleman suf-
fering from excessive rotundity,” said
Professor Stirling, “is to stick severely to
black. Light clothing adds considerably
to one’s apparent bulk.”
: He demoetrated the) point by exhibit-
ing simultaneously white figures on a
black SR Lig on a white
Although all the figures were
the same size those in white upon black
appeared to have much greater dimen-
sions.
Working upon this illusion, Professor
Stirling suggested that notices printed in
a limited space in white upon Black were
more emphatic than the ordinary black
upon white.
The uninitiated may well wonder where
the new colors come from. To them it
may be interesting to learn that they are
decided upon by a congress or board of
manufacturers across the seas, says a
New York Tribune writer. This color
chart, as it is called, is issued in time to
be used as a guide by the manufacturers
in this country, as as
women—and fortunately
increasing—who choose their clothes for
themselves, but by far the greatest num-
berallow their judgment to be guided by
the makers of fashion.
This year the combination of black and
white is still in the lead. Despite the
dictates of fashion, its popularity does not
seem to wane. An attempt is being made
to further the claims of navy blue and
white and such monotone combinations
as tan and brown, wistaria and purple
and pearl and dark gray.
One of the most important of the new
series of colors is that called “mistral.”
This includes six shades of blue, to the
deepest of navy blue and midnight. The
lighter shades of blue, the brilliant royal
and softer Dutch blue which the painters
of Holland have immortalized, are to be
used largely for trimmings. The more
subdued and mysterious Gobelin blue,
which the admirers of the old tapestries
fell in love with years ago, is another ef-
fective tone in this series.
We have gone to the woeds for what
promises to be one of the most popular
series of the winter—the browns. In the
French color chart this series is desig-
nated as “Alezan brule” and is in six
colors, ranging from the palest rust brown,
which nature gives to us so plentifully in
the autumn, to the richest of the brewn
series.
The six green colors are ranged under
the name of “colibri,” after the South
American bird of that name. The most
popular tones are the dark, soft shades,
such as reseda and myrtle.
The reds are in two series, one known
as cerisaie and the other as tomato. The
latter, while brilliant, has the delightful
advantage of being becoming to both
blondes and brunettes. Mulberry is an-
other tone seen in the costumes intend-
ed for an exclusive clientele.
Some of the lovliest colorings of the
season are shown in the violet shades,
ranging from a really brilliant violet to
the fuchia. The dahlia and prune shades
are particularly effective. The purples
with a bluish reflection are perhaps newer
than those with a reddish tinge. This
brings into favor such shades as eggplant,
heliotrope and wistaria.
Each season boasts certain novelty
shades, colors which nd for favor on
the whims of the smartly gowned woman.
As a rule these tones are so brilliant
that a touch of them as trimming, either
on a gown or hat, is quite sufficient.
A New Angel Food. —Sift together four
times one cup of UD. of pastry
our, three teaspoon ing pow-
der and a little salt; add to this mixture
one cup of scalding hot milk, then cut
and fold in the beaten whites of two
Furn into an unoiled tin and bake in
a moderate oven 45 minutes. Any flavor-
ing desired may be used.
Chocolate Sauce. Take one cupful of
milk, two tablespoonfuls of grated choco-
late, three tablespoonfuls of sugar, one
teaspoonful of corn starch and one tea-
spoonful of vanilla.
An attractive and convenient way to
serve a salad to a large family is to ar-
range it on a large platter. Make a
border of lettuce or celery leaves and set
a small low bowl or dish in the center.
Put crisp lettuce leaves round the bowl,
nearly hiding it; then the mixed
vegetables or the potato or salad in
a mound on each side. Sometimes two
kinds of vi ble salad are made, says
the Portl Express and Advertiser, es-
pecially if there is but little of any one
kind of cold vegetable on hand; the ends
of the platter will then present a con-
trast of color. Pour mayonnaise, boiled
PRES ig te fashion of individual
service, have all sal-
ads tastefully in the kitchen on
: but if served on a large
dish a or smaller portion can
i
E
|
i
water. cupful of boiling water,
stirring oe Cook for twenty
Taian, Shen add wo cupfuly of scalded
point. Strain.
3 tablespoons of melted butter, 1 teaspoon
| of soda. Enough graham flour for a stiff
batter, bake in a hot oven 20 minutes.
Ginger Bread.—1 cup of baking molas-
ses, 1 cup of brown sugar, one cup of
butter, 3 eggs beaten lightly, 3 cups of
flour, 1 cup of boiling water, 2 teaspoons
of baking soda.
Rice Puffs.—Add to 1 pt of cold boiled |
rice, one cup of milk, 3 well beaten eggs,
1 tablespoon of melted butter, 1 table.
spoon of sugar, 1 teaspoon of baking
powder, a little salt, and 12 oz. of flour to
make a thick batter. by spoonfuls
in hot deep fat and fry a
Serve dusted with powdered sugar and |
serve with Maryland sauce.
Maryland Sauce.—Cream 2 tablespoons |
of butter, 4 tablespoons of brown sugar, |
and yolks of 2 eggs. Add } cup of peach |
syrup and a small piece of cinnamon
bark, stir over hot water until it thick-
ens.
Flannel Cakes.—One pt. of milk (half
sweet and half sour), 1 egg beaten
arately, a very small teaspoon of
dissolved in hot water and added to the
sour milk, 1 tablespoon of melted butter
and lard, 1 teaspoon of sait and 1 tea-
spoon of sugar. Flour enough to make a
batter consisting of griddle cakes.
Sponge Cake.—Eight eggs beaten sep-
Sratuly, 2 cups of suger, can t iy
r, 1 even teaspoon ing ,
Flavor with lemon and bake in a slow
oven.
Beef Loaf.—2} Ibs. of lean beef and }
Ib. of fresh ham ground, 1 cup of sweet
milk, 1 teaspoon black pepper, a pinch of
red pepper, tablespoon of sugar, a table-
spoon of salt, 4 nutmeg. All well mixed
and made into one or two loaves. Bake
in oven 1} hours.
Stuffed Beef Stew.—Take a thick slice
from the round, make slits in it about
two inches long and almost through, fill
these with lling made from bread
crumbs, seasoned. Roll up and tie well,
put into a baking pan, add a slice of on-
ion and a carrot, a sprig of parsley and 1
qt. of water, cover and cook slowly for
about two hours.
Ginger Gems.—1 cup of brown sugar,
: cup of lard or butter, 1 cup of molasses,
cup of butter milk or sour milk, 2 cups |
of flour, 2 eggs, a little salt, 2 level tea-
spoons of soda dissolved in warm water,
1 teaspoon of cloves, 1} spoons of ginger,
14 spoons of cinnamon.
EXCHANGE,
Publicity Committee of Bellefonte Woman's Club.
Fetichism marks the lowest point of a
gross and degraded supesstition. It be- |
longs to savages and not to civilized peo- |
ple. Yet there are social fetiches to which |
mothers sacrifice their daughters in this |
enlightened land. And these sacrifices are |
no less horrible than those of the degrad- |
ed African who throws his writhing child |
isto the fire. The name of the great!
social fetich is Ignorance. Mothers see |
their daughters “standing with reluctant
feet where woman and girlhood
meet,” see them take the stepleyond and |
assume stupendous responsibilities
involved in marriage and motherhood, |
and yet they say no word of warning or |
enlightenment BR he; great physical |
change w m ngs to women. |
For those who have suffered through |
ignorance, and have allowed disease to
evelop in the delicate organs. Dr. |
DE i Ir
minister of mercy. It stops
ulceration and inflammations, cures bear-
ing down pains, mak
Hobble Skirt New to Him.
In Camden the other afternoon, a youn,
kin al . Aire nurs H
q steps along t. Her
skirt was tight enough in all conscience,
but a narrow black band, encircling it
just below the knees, drew it still ter.
As the young girl tripped out kle
A Fine Foundation.
“How is your twelve-year-old boy
progressing in his studies?”
“Brilliantly,” replied the anxious
looking parent. “He has thought up
the most marvelously extensive equip-
ment of questions you could imagine.
If he ever acquires the answers to all
of them he will be the wisest man
since Solomon.”
Had Another Engagement.
“Now, Willie, promise me you won't
fight any more.”
“Can't you wait till tomorrow,
mother? I've only got one more boy
to lick an’ then I'll be through,”—Life,
A Man to Be Avoided.
“Harduppe makes me think of a
busy bee.”
“Industrious, is he?”
“Oh, not in that way—nearly every
one he touches gets stung.”
An Unusual Order.
“Johnnie, do you wish the stork
The Usual Thing.
“I see where a man in New York is
complaining of being railroaded to
“Why did he wr-t them to take
him in am autcmobi. ?”
| has a new enthusiasm—the
GAVE OF SURPLUS WEALTH
Rich Men in Other Days Lavish in
Their Donations to Their Fa-
vorite Cities,
“M>ny a man who has inherited mil-
Hons,” once said Frederic Harrison,
“is gnawed with envy as he watches
& practical man turning an honest
penny. How he would like to earn an
honest penny! He never did; he nev-
er will; and he feels like a dyspeptic
invalid watching a hearty beggar en-
Joying a bone or a crust. Many a
rich man is capable of better things;
but he does not know how to begin!”
The ancient law suggests a restoration
of the liturgies, the public services of
rich men as they were organized in
the mode! Greek republics. “At Ath-
ens the liturgies were legal and con-
stitutional offices imposed periodically
and according to a regular order by
each local community on citizens rat-
ed as having capital of more than a
given amount. . It always re-
mained a public office, a duty to be
filled by taste, skill, personal effort
| and public spirit. Rich men contend-
ed for the office. The chief ambition
of a rich man came to be that of mak-
ing splendid gifts to his fellow citi-
zens, and theaters, stadiums, colon
nades, aqueducts, gardens, libraries,
museums, pictures, statuec—sall were
showered upon favorite cities by
wealthy men who possessed or covet-
ed the name of citizen.” A few mule
timillionaires in our American repub-
lic have made public benefactions.
May their tribe increase! The gift
of a public hospital or a school build-
ing is always in order.~The Christian
Herald.
PENNY WISE, POUND FOOLISH
Contractor Saved Mis Nickel, but Was
Out Something on the Trans.
action,
How to save a nickel and lose a
thousand dollars is a lesson learned:
by a Bronx contractor. He was at!
the Fordham station of the Third ave-
‘Due elevated and he wanted to go to
West Farms, at the end of the Lenox
subway, to submit a bid on a contract.
The ordinary way to make such a trip
would be to pay two car fares, but
this careful contractor saw a way to
complete the journey for a single
fare, but he says he will never do it
again,
He bought an elevated ticket and
rode down town to Third avenue and
One Hundred and Forty-ninth street,
where he got a transfer to the downs
town subway train. He intended to
ride down to the next station, Mott
avenue, get off there and cross to the
uptown side and ride back to his des-
tination, thus saving five cents, Une
fortunately that day there was an ac-
cident in the subway, the trains were
blocked for nearly an hour and he
was in a train that was stalled hair
way between two stations, When ne
finally did arrive at the office he found
all the bids had been opened and the
contract awarded. His bid, however,
was lower than the one accepted, yet
it was for a sum sufficiently large to
have shown him a cool profit of
$1,000,
Then he went out and spent about
£20 in drinks to drown his sorrow.,—
New ‘York Times.
Wonderful Sarah Bernhardt.
Sarah Bernhardt often has said it 1s
Ler enthusiasm and continued interest
in life and work to which she ascribes
her youthful appearance. Now she
moving
pictures. For years she refused to
pose before the moving picture cam-
era. Then she gave her consent and
acted “Camille” before a long string
of film recently in Paris. She could
hardly restrain her eagerness to see
the finished pictures, and when they
were shown to her she insisted the
whole play be repeated several times.
Fdmond Rostand accompanied her to
the exhibition, and when she had de-
lightedly watched the films run off sev-
eral times she turned to him with all
the enthusiasm of a chorus girl, say-
ing. “Now, what next is there for me
to do?”
Lincoin’s Superb Oratory.
In an address by Joseph H. Choate
on the occasioa of his eightieth birth
day, Mr. Choate spoke thus of Mr. Lin
coln's celebrated speech in Cooper
Union, in 1860: “With an awkward
form and most ungainly address, he
stood there with a little trepidation,
not very prepossessing; but when he
came to speak it was as a flashlight.
Not only his whole personality and his
face lighted up, but he seemed to
lighten up the audience, and for one
hour or an hour and a quarter he dis-
cussed the great questions of the day
and held the andience in the hollow of
his hand.”
Personal Affront.
Striking members of the Amaiga.
mated Skirt Stitchers were holding a
conference.
“Where is that tall, thin girl who
joined the union last week?” inquired
the walking delegates.
The secretary arose to reply:
“She handed In her resignation
morning.”
“What was her reason?”
“She took offense when she was
called on to act as a picket.”—Judge.
Clothes.
“What on earth d'you keep on clap.
ping for? That last singer was aw-
full”
“I know, but I liked the style of
her clothes and I wanted to have an-
other look at them."—London Opinion.
Es