: cent stamp without my jumping on hw. ¢ * And when I couldn't my studs— Jove, ‘I was a brute! Just had to dig out. You | see, in a business like mine” —instinctive- Belletonte, Pa., May 16, 1913. A RECIPE FOR SANITY. Are you worsted in a fight? Laugh it off. Are you cheated of your right? Laugh it off. Don't make tragedy of trifies— Don't shoot butterflies with rifles— Laugh it off. Does your work get into kinks? Laugh it off. Are you near all sorts of brinks? Laugh it off. If it's sanity you're after, There's a recipe in laughter— Laugh it off. — Henry Rutherford Elliot, in The Century. PARTNERS. If the man in white serge at the best table in the summer-resort dining-room had not demanded that the heart be cut out of his grapefruit and a cherry substi- tuted therefor, if he had not sent for shaved ice—"and plenty of it"—it might never have happened. That was the first thing the woman noticed. To be sure, there is nothing remarkable about a person wanting ice on anything from | rice pudding to potatoes—when the last room is taken at the Pines Hotel and the mercury is hovering around ninety-six. He was, nevertheless, fascinating to the woman in pink linen at the next table. On the other hand, he found some- thing interesting in Mrs. Montgomery, and appeared to be speculating about her between such moments as he tastidiously 2 he SSE Jetor dishes and fanned him with a newspaper. There may have been, on his handsome face, wrinkles of worry over the life that BE a prea: cum- m up- ward movement, and dressed leisurely, far from vour alarm clock, in spotless, beautifully creased white flannels; when you are wearing a lavender tie pricked by a pearl stick pin, and white canvas shoes that don't pinch at all, you can manage, whatever the state of nerves, to illustrate an article on “Sum- mer Fashions for Men.” The woman in pink looked him over— his carefully brushed, wavy pompadour, tripped as they rushed into the dining- room like a belated cyclone His grapefruit with its shopworn cherry, his nicked bowl of ice were brought. Painstakingly he made a nest of the ice and set the grapefruit therein. The residue of ice he disposed tiarawise about the ruby cherry. Then he took powdered sugar and sprinkled it over the whole until it resembled nothing so much as a snowdrift. Now let there be no misunderstanding. There was nothing inflammatory in the glance sent her occasionally over the snowdrift. There was nothing amatory in her dark-brown eyes as they rested fascinated upon him. This is the story of a triangle, but the man in white was only what very learned ones, who dis- course about Heredity, Environment, and and Variation, call a Contributing Cause. To be exact, Ada Montgomery was wondering what John Montgomery was eating for iis lunch at Kohisaat’s, back in Chicago. She was wondering if there were flies—those indiscreet ones who carry destruction on their bare feet; if he was drinking too much coffee, eating too many doughnuts; if he was remem- bering that his black. serge was a little— just a little thinner than his blue; if he put down his bedroom window before he went to the office in the morning—to keep out the heat; if he opened it the minute he got home to let in the little breeze that sometimes came around the stone wall; if the ties were piling up on his chiffonier. . . . Beside her mother sat Paula Mont- gomery, a beautiful, blooming girl named, seventeen years before, by her father, who said, “This child is going to be Paula! I may never have a son. You never can tell.” Having seen that she was adequately christened, he had proceed- ed to call her “Little Peach.” There never was a son,and now at seventeen the only child was still Little Peach to him. In the absence of maternal viiance Paula served herself with a half-dozen sugar cubes and a generous helping of catsup. “Mother,” said she, when the older woman looked back from the man at the best table, “when it's so warm here, what must it be home in Chicago? It must be awful! What shall we do after lunch? I want to stay in swimming for hours! I believe I'm going to throw off those wings today and go all by myself! The instructor said yesterday that I get the a om be surprised?” crept like sunrise over her cheeks. “It 'll be cool under the water, anyway. Must | wait for an hour after eating? At home it must be—" “Listen, Paula, I want to hear what those men are saying.” The man in white, and the man in what had been white yesterday,having dis- cussed the Presidential election, the Pa- osition, Canadian reci- Legislature, were, with narrowing circles, coming cago. Wo Sip said the almost Ye ont eating as read, “ ‘ninety-eight in shade’! Listen to this here: ‘Twenty prostrations’ yesterday. More fatalities feared today-—man fell—top of building’ —damn it all, what's a man doing on i our | Be re ie Tne Tecching | 1056, You see that money's all to shoes, over which the Amesbury twins ‘ly he felt for a card; instinctively he | gan to stalk his “there, 1 ‘em home! Oh well, I'm not talking two weeks I'll go back calm asan | You see, in a business like mine— Waiter! LE I Eb he cately wi head. “Ah, here comes dessert, Ice- cream! Good!” “Ice-cream here ain't like it is some places. though,” complained the grumb- er. 5 ' he, mother, tie?” With a perfumed handkerchief Paula was wiping her white throat. | “Why, child, I hadn't noticed—" i 1 t you had. Well, I think he iis. Mother, do you think that white ‘ serge he has is cooler than black—or— blue? His isn’t lined, though. Oh, isn't the heat awful! There's one thing, though, { we know it'll be cool by evening. The | wind is off the lake every night.” Then the grumbler, eating the ice- | cream that wasn't so good, read again | from the newspaper, ignoring the con- text. “Is marriage a ip?” He | demanded it of the man in white. They | were still discussing the answer to the | conundrum when the last spoonful of Paula's fletcherized ice-cream cooled her lovely throat. The last she and her mother heard as they rose from the table was the grumb- | ler protesting that marriage wasn't, what lit used to be; human nature wasn't cli- mate wasn't; everything wasn't. “Shall we rest on the porch, mother, till I can go in? My, I wish I was in the water right now! Wonder if that hand- | some man with the lavender tie will go in.” The two women went out on the porch. There was one vacant rocker, and anoth- er from which a large woman with pearls on her bare chest grudgingly removed her Irish crochet. “Hold my chair a minute,” said Paula, “I think I'll write a letter to daddy—and maybe Tom.” Mrs. Mon and her daughter had been at Pines tour days. Mr. Montgomery had a vacation at this time also; but he spent it in ng over the mixed-up books of other s. He was an unusually bookkeeper. “Little ” he had said for years, on the 1st of August, “it's too ood to And I don’t want to go on a vaca- doing nothing? 1'd fly to pieces. stand it!” Mr. Montgomery was a first- class actor. Not even he himself guessed how clever he was at pretense—which is saying a good deal for an actor. The money for Paula and her mother to come with had been accumulated by clever economies. Although their friends went away for anywhere from a week to two mon they had never thought it ible—on an ordinary salary. The fact is that Paula's father had ex- pected every year that the ordinary salary would be merged into an adequate in- come. Personally, he was now of the opinion that he was an average person, right to his own opinion. If his wife and daughter agreed to his diagnosis of the case they kept it hidden from the world. They had a beautiful Arabian lace piece at the plate glass in the front door; but they never had grapefruit for break- fast. They had a little Oriental rug in the little reception-room, but they wrap- newspaper around the ice to protect it from the weather. Paula, charming, blossoming Paula, wore entrancing gowns; but upstairs in the little front-hall bedroom (turned into a guest-room when relatives from Dodge Center were invited “for the week-end”) was a worn machine and a denim bag of patterns tacked on the wall; and almost every night Mrs. Montgomery rubbed a very little cold-cream into her needle- pricked fingers. Paula's mother was ambitious for her- self, but she was more ambitious for the girl Was not her daughter far more beautiful than the debutantes whose pic- tures illustrated the Sunday society columns? The woman might not remem- ber on the instant the name of the Sec- retary of the Treasury, but she knew the details of the latest wedding on Lake Shore Dlve. ad usly for Paula, 0 vantageously for her father and mother bent every energy, good. tion. What'd 1 do, just Siteing, round uldn’t that he belonged to the class that earn | their increments. Every man has a| brain kept going relentlessly. She could not keep up with it. It was like a child's drops, hitting every stair, out of the { was no catching the disturbing sugges- tion and putting it out of sight. It urged her on and on. Minutes passed—an hour. Other women fanned and talked. Outwardly she appeared quite motion- Jest. But she was trying to catch the “There, mother, I'm going in now! I've written to daddy and told him every- thing; what a good time we're having, ' and how cool it is nights, and all about the meals. I'll just send a post card to Tom. He collects post cards from every- where. Tom's a regular kid! Oh, the Amesbury twins are going in. Perhaps | can help them.” “Yes. And I'll go in, too.” “Of course. Come on, mother. glad we've got those lovely bathing- was this morning!” “No, after all, I believe I'll not go in. I'm—not—feeling just well. and have a good time ful. There are the twins! dear! Little boys.” Her eves were inex- ibly tender. “Run along, dear, and sure to fasten your stockings!” Paula ran but she did not pre- side officially at near-drowning of the Amesbury twins, who asserted, their drip- ping hands on the richest woman's em- purpose, because they wanted tc be “like the big mens that doved off'n the sum- mer board saying their prayers with their hands together.” At that moment Paula, wings discard- ed, assisted by the erstwhile man in for the Orient. That evening it vas unspeakably hot, even at The Pines Hotel, which assured its patrons, in italics, of a nightly breeze off the lake. Not a breath of air stirred, and only the lazy lapping of the little waves against the pier reminded one that it was cool down under the water. “What must it be in Chicago?” said Paula, as they went into the hotel. At midnight Paula sat up and pulled up the covers over her bare shoulders, for a delicious breeze blew the curtains into the room. “Still awake, Paula? slept?” “No, I can't seem to get to sleep—I don’t mind, though—I'm resting. It was so cool in the water today. I'm glad I learned to swim—His name is Eames, Mr. Eames. Mother! Do you suppose daddy's all right? It's only people that work up on top of high buildings that get | affected, isn't it? Do you think he re- | members to sleep the other way of the | bed—with his head to the window?” { “I hope so, dear. Oh, I hope so!” | Paula's mother swallowed several times, ! but she lay perfectly still, and the sob in her throat made nosound at all. One learns to do that at forty-five. “We must sleep, dear, we must.” They lay hand in hand, staring into the cooling dark with the rigid quiet the body can assume when the mind whirls off into space. The next morning they dressed weari- ly, avoiding each other's eyes, “Did you get to sleep, Paula?” There were dark circles under the girl's great blue eyes. “For a little while. I—Mother—I dreamed—last night!” She reached up her small around her mother’s neck. “Mother,” she implored, "I dream- ed—about him!” Quick fear startled the woman. The child was not quite eighteen. And Tom —why, he wasn't out of knickerbockers more than three years! It couldn't be! Haven't you ‘ball dropped at the top of the stairs, that | door, down the descending street. There I'm suits. My, I believe it’s hotter than it: I think per-' haps it was the grapefrpit—you go,Paula, do But be very care- | i Aren't they | chasing an error in a column of figures. | Kalka and am at the foot of the moun- tains and find I must wait twenty hours | his left until a train comes, which will land me | | ples. | sound o | where off in his brain. Some one with white, was actually swimming—straight | | the chair. “l think we might have grapefruit. I do hope we can get home in time ie At three in the afternoon a dusty train Walking down the platform, Paula and her mother, correct in linen suits, met the man in white, his arms full of four sailboats in varying sizes and a doli's dresser made after a lost art by imbed- ding shells, gay buttons, bits of glass,and what not in cement. “Mr. Eames, my mother,” said Paula, a little proudly, wondering how many nephews he had. “] wanted to ask you some:hing, Mrs. Montgomery,” said he. “I had a notion you knew all about summer resorts, and I wonder if you could tell me where my wife could go—with little children— babies—twins. | want her to go off some- where, and you know—most places— don't want the little scamps. They're al! right, too!” And, sure enough, Mrs. Montgomery produced from her embroidered bag a fold- er which announced that the presence of Mr. Eames's twins and any other chil- dren he might possess was earnestly re- quested at the Lakeside Inn, $2 up. He took the folder eagerly and turned away. She called him back. “Mr. Eames,” said she, “do you remember the name of the place where he goes fishin—the man that didn’t ike his ice-cream, you know —the place that wasn’t so far from Chi- cago and where the fishing was good?” | He remembered it, and she wrote it wn. At five o'clock John Montgomery was | It ran away from him like a little demon. He chased it up and down and across, hand gripping his burning tem- | There was a curious pain some- | Where at the back of his head; but he! t on—he was a nickel short. of the t and the buzzing tinkle some- asthma called: “Man named Mon ery here? He's wanted at the 'phone.” | At first the man that was wanted could | den, which | was sorry to leave as the | not ! hea got up. The pain at the back of his had become the end of an iron rod here was a ring at a ielgplione some- | t col | where in the outer office. ncerned | i FROM INDIA. By One on Medical Duty in that Far Eastern Country. En“Route to Simia. A Dreary Coun- try but much of Interest to be Seen. Fair Accommodations but Long Waits. Some Beau- tiful Scenery, and Mountains that are Cuiti- vated. Living on $5.00 Per Month. ——— Dear Home Folk: SiMLA, May 26th. You must hear of my trip to this city, which took from Monday night 7:55 un- til 8:00 o'clock Tuesday night, not allow- ing for the waits on connections, else it would have taken until 12:30 Wednes- | day, so that it really is quite a journey. Oh, the limitless waste of country here; it is appaliing—sand and cacti for miles and miles, suddenly a pea fowl looms high in the air and one is immedi- | ately interested, but only for the mo- | ment for the jungie again stretches away as far as the eye can see. where the herds of camel that now come into sight find enough to live upon, but soon we are in the irrigated section and the whole face of things undergoes a change. Near the tracks are huge date palms in which sit big, fat monkeys, making their meals from the blossoms; in the | distance, the farmer cutting his graia, and in the same picture the threshing helps complete my knowledge of India, for although travel in India leaves much | to be desired I, a veritable tramp, would join the barnacle family had I to remain for life in this country. sample of accommodations: at Simla. Fortunately, in the waiting: room of the station I find a very nice | { “Ayah,” who unpacks my “tiffin” basket and makes my tea, while I have a bath ' linen knees, that they did it on | him not at all, for there was no one to | and fresh clothes. The meal she pre- call him up. He only noticed it because . Jaculiae similarity between the pares from my basket is so attractive that one is ashamed to grumble at the | poor connections and immediately I go in search of sights, the most interesting of which proved to be a beautiful gar- green oi the shrub trees was most re- that went down his back and fastened to | freshing to my eyes; but all good things so the red spots would go away, and somehow got to the telephone. He sank gulped down something which he hoped was water, leaned his numb elbows on the desk, and listened. Startled, he answered the voice and talked into the receiver: “Little Peach? Little Peach! You back? Anything Wrong? You ain't sick?—you or moth- er? Mother?—she’s all right? But what did you come back for? It's awful here —the heat—" He closed his inky fingers around the receiver and whispered: “Didn't the check get to you? I sent another yesterday. Oh! Yes, I'll be home. Just a little more here at the of- fice— Little Peach, wait! Let me hear your mother's voice—" When he came home Paula was at the door to meet him. There were squeals of joy and murmurs of love. Her moth- er was digging the hearts out of grape- fruit and putting cherries and ice on top. She ran to him, and they clung to each other for a long moment in silence. Then, “You're all right, John?” she whis- pered “You're all right?” “Sure!” smiled the First-class Actor. “Sure. Never better. My, how hot itis! But, Ada, you're here—you and Little Peach! Come here to me, you young scamp!” He laid his white cheek to the scamp’s pink one. “Tell me, honest, now. It wasn’t Tom? You didw come back—it wasn't Tom, now?" “Tom, daddy! That child! Why, he's a regular kid. No,daddy, I'm going to be a trained nurse, or a deaconess, or— something.” After dinner they sat out on the stoop while the bedrooms cooled a little. Some people were wal steps. said he would walk, but he couldn't look in the loveliest faces in the world unless he sat down. As they sat, a cavalcade passed by: a pretty woman in pink, the replica of the woman the 1 a : g 5 i ; | | z i 5 E Beiiit hil Hr £2 | B 8 SS g i 1 gg i i | f g HH FEE £583 After a v'hile he pried it loose | got up, staggered a little, blinked hiseyes | and in journeying back to my luggage at | the station I almost forgot the gorgeous- | beside the desk, picked up a glass and | ness of that garden in the two dust have their ending, so we are told here, storms encountered. The faithful Ayah was prepared for me nevertheless, and my bed was ready for occupancy, she sleeping on a native mat thrown across the door, for protection to me and to be enabled to awaken me at first sight of my train. About the middle of the night she packed all my remaining luggage, called me to count my bundles, and I was put aboard the Simla —Kalka train, a narrow gauge affair which makes the fifty-mile run, at an altitude of five thousand feet in six hours, zig-zagging back and forth up the mountain in a most amazing fashion. The scenery is delightful, reminding one of the Canadian Rockies, the highest points of which one goes through, while here we go over them, making one sit in wonderment at what is coming next. These mountains do not descend in long | sweeps, like our mountains in the States, | but seem to have small shelves of from three to ten feet rise at regular intervals, all of which is cultivated, so that the na- tive farmer has his farms in steps, right | up the sides of the mountains, all under cultivation, made possible by the irrigat- ing system—water trenched from springs above. : There are at least a dozen ‘“‘stops” on the way up,—at each military post and the summer homes of many “Plains folk.” The air grew so much cooler that one was glad of a top coat to avoid a cold which, by the way, amounts to a serious calamity in India. A little incident hap- pened right here, which I must pass on | to you. Just before we arrived a health officer boarded our car; we were travel- ing in the third compartment, and from the one directly in front of us he took a boy with a well developed case of small- pox. Needless to say, our car was taken from the train and we were transferred to the one in front. Hardly had I be- come settled when a woman addressed me, asking if I was related to the “Meeks” at Lucknow, my marked lug- gage telling the tale, and you have no idea how “homey” it felt to know there really were Meeks in this far away land. My acquaintance proved to be a Salvation Army nurse living on fifteen rupees a month—five dollars—to feed, house and clothe herself for four weeks; and she lived on it for six years, until ill I wonder " ————— —————————————— STURIES OF SHERIDAN. The Great Writer Had a Hard Time Dodging His Creditors. Like many a brilliant man before and since his time, Richard Brinsley Sheridan had a habit of resting on his oars a bit too long when he thought himself tired. Then, finding himself short of money, he would borrow. This habit increased with his years, and, moreover, his efforts to discharge his obligations grew less and less. His reputation at last was such that trades- men demanded cash on delivery. Benjamin Robert Haydon, who was himself woefully addicted to the same bad habit, tells with evident giee two stories of his fellow sufferer. A butcher one day brought a leg of mutton to Sheridan's house. The cook took it, put it into the kettle, and went upstairs for the money. As she stayed away some time, the man entered the kitchen, took off the cover of the kettle. fished out the joint and walked off with it. But the laugh was not always on Sheridan, A ereditor whom he had successfully avoided for some time came plump upon him as he emerged from Pall Mall, There was no possi- bility of dodging, but Sheridan did not lose his presence of mind. “Oh,” said he, “that’s a beautiful mare you're on!” “D'ye think so? “Yes, indeed. How does she trot?” The creditor was pleased—even flat- tered. He told Sheridan he should see The railrvad men try tomake one a8 . and immediately urged the mare to do comfortable as possible but here is a, I reach jq.n had turned again into Pall Mall her prettiest. But long before the animal's best pace was reached, Sher- and was lost in the crowd.—Exchange. NEATNESS IN ATTIRE. It Not Only impresses Others, but Is a Factor In Self Respect. The fixed habit of presenting always a neat and cleanly appearance to the world is sure of a double reward. It not only creates a favorable impres- sion, but begets a sustaining self re- spect. It is scarcely reasonable of a man who does not respect himself to look for much consideration from others. It is not the cost of clothing, but the scrupulous care of it that counts. The man of slender means should be neither “toppy” nor “sloppy,” but always tidy and neat in his attire, seeing himself with the coldly critical eye of a possible employer to whom an applicant's dress may mean much more than his address or politest de- portment. Style in writing, as defined by the fastidious Chesterfield, is the dress of thoughts, so the true style of the aver- age man may be correctly surmised from the care he takes of his personal appearance. He needs not be finicky, but should always be free of grease spots and dust. He should like his bath even if it has to be taken by means of a bucket. He should never neglect to brush his hair, his shoes, his teeth, his coat. trousers and hat. If he can't afford a pressing iron he should put coat anfl trousers under the mattress and sleep upon them. If laundry is a serious item, he should wash his own handkerchiefs, dry them on the window panes and never by any chance be seen with a soiled one.— Philadelphia Press. A One Time Literary Mystery. In the Newry Telegraph, an Ulster (Ireland) triweekly. on April 19, 1817, under the simple head of “Poetry” ap- peared what Byron called “the most perfect ode in the language”—*"The Burial of Sir John Moore.” Byron or Campbell or any of the others to whom this poem was variously ascribed would doubtless have been proud to claim it. But the author was the obscure curate of Ballyclog. in Tyrone, Rev. Charles Wolfe, and the fame of ihe piece was but a posthumous fame for him. Not until his death of consumption in 1823 at the early age of thirty-two did the authorship become known to the world. And Wolfe, whe wrote much other verse of merit, is remembered only by that one poem which sprang from the columns of au provincial newspaper to universal recognition in the big world of letters.—London Chronicle. Larvae Nests. By breaking open rotten logs one can find in midwinter the grubs or larvae of many of the wood boring beetles, and beneath logs and stones near the margins of ponds and brooks hordes of the maggots or larvae of certain kinds of tlies may often be found huddled together in great masses. The larvae of a few butterflies also live over win- ter beneath chips or bunches of leaves near the roots of their food plant or in webs of their own construction, which are woven on the stems close to the buds whose expanding leaves will fur- nish them their first meal in spring. of a building—‘man in office’—huh! ‘she himself’ — ‘temporarily insane—many children dying with cholera infantum'— ain't it hell! Re waiter! Ice in my tea’s all melted it up, can’t you! Can't expect a thimbleful of ice to hold its shape today. Lord! What do you s’pose it's like in Chicago?” The man in white reached for the paper. “Where does it say that about— that—children being ?" He read. “After all, it's just a newspaper report. You can’t ely on it. Anyway, it's just in the poor districts. These mothers—I don’t imagine they know how to feed children.” “Well, I wish was fishin’! Place up in Michigan not far from Chicago. phi doy A lot cooler’n this!” The almost white one was a chronic grumbler. "Great place! Wish I was there! Fish bite like a | in too lovely a fi . : > health made her unfit for service. But: he ror Son, “I thought you had such a good maid coming¥” “] did. But when she called up on her “Why, of all things! Why, how did know? Doesn'the % 2" you ? walked down the steps, for cer- tainly a white to To + EXDaCt Whike serge io been surprised at the bill from Field's. But what if she had hired every- thing made? Most women did. found herself with mak ing certain defenses for herself. The twins while “virtue reaps its reward.” We are invited to visit her at their mountain ne phone my husband answered her.”. farm, and hope to do so before Jeaving | “Well? Simla. | “Well. he was so much charmed by At last we reached our destination and | her voice that 1 didn't engage her.”— such a rush to secure coolies, identify | Cleveland Plain Dealer. baggage, then get a rickashaw, for it is | by these hand-pulled and pushed ve- § 3 g E 8 They two went in “It's an awful night,” said Paula’s fath- er, “but you're here, Ada! Come i —— minute. I to tell Turn About. ” “The doctor made we show him my that one travels about in this cliff dwelling city.” A two-wheeled OuEUe. aud it cost me $2. but 1 got on the order of a large baby cart, | “How *" a tongue in the middle, and two «I; a poker game last night I mad travel. 2 : : : i gf to pull and two to push, is the usual | him show me his bands, and it cost of him $5."—New York Times. EH The yearly residents vy- with each other in their extrava- - of the liveries of their wagon increasi g Permanent, Maud—Are you engaged to Jack for week.] good? Ethel—It looks that way. I COUNTS Jo don’t think he'll ever be in a position ——Have your Job Work done here. | to marry me.—Boston Transcript. I anervous wreck! Just had to dig out. Got so I didn’t dare shave myself—hand shook so! And ugly! Say! The office boy couldn't steal a one-
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers