Bellefonte, Pa., October 3, 1913. LET US BE KIND. The way is long and lonely, And human hearts are asking for this blessing only— That we be kind. We cannot know the grief that men may borrow. We cannot see the souls storm-swept by sorrow, But love can shine upon the way today, tomor- row— Let us be kind. Let us be kind; This is a wealth that has no measure, This is of heaven and earth the highest treas- ure— Let us be kind. A tender word, a smile of love in meeting, A song of hope and victory to those entreating. A glimpse of God and brotherhood while life is fleeting— Let us be kind. Let us be kind: Around the world the tears of time are falling, And for the loved and lost these human hearts are calling— Let us be kind. To age and youth let gracious words be spoken, Upon the wheel of pain so many weary lives are | broken, We live in vain who give no tender token— Let us be kind. Let us be kind; The sunset tints will soon be in the west, Too late the flowersare laid then on the quiet “breast— Let us be kind. And when the angel guides have sought and found us, Their hand shall link the broken ties of earth that bound us, And heaven and home shall brighten all around us— Let us be kind. —Sacred Heart Review. THE BORROWED LOVER. “ "Tis this way with women,” declared Kerrigan: “some of thim will desave ye, and some will not, but ye will niver know which till ut 's done; for they ‘re all alike in the use of their eyes and tongues, and the proof of the puddin’ ’s in the ’atun’. Mind thot, laad.” . It was Sunday morning, and Kerrigan was leaning over the rail, looking dream- ily off across the waste of piled lumber to the spires and roofs of the city. The sun shone brightly; the yellow flood of the river lipped softly the barnacled Piles of the wharf; the hush of the Sabbath . lay over all. Nicolao had just over the side of the vessel for an all-day out- ing; but he turned at Kerrigan's warn- ing. He waved his hand airily. “Tha'’s alla right,” he replied. “Eet ees the gamble, yas—what yo’ expec’. Solong! Adios!” “Staay where ye arre,” commanded Kerrigan, sternly. “I 'm goun’ wid ye. "Tis a guardeen ye waant, ye light-mind child of misfortune. Wait till I change me clothes.” Twenty minutes later they crossed the wharf and passed cityward, something of Rerrigans grandfatherly air of protec- tion dropping away at every step. “Tis to be young,” he said; “I mind | was young wance mesilf. Where are ye gone’, laad?” “I hava the friend,” Nicolao replied; “his name is Porfirio—Portuguese, weeth the nice shop, nice fam'ly, nice daughter, yo’ know.” “I do,” said Kerrigan, ificantly; “ye 'd niver go ilse. 1 'll attind ye for yer own safety. 'Tis'on me mind. At the crossing they boarded a trolley, for the sun wag hot and Nicuiso ih haste; and going well forwa seated them- selves in the car. As Kerrigan glanced down to return the change of his fare to his pocket, he saw two hands meekly folded in the lap of the woman who sat at his left. The hands held a breviary and a handkerchief. He glanced up at the face of the holder—the fresh Irish face of a young woman. He sighed and looked away; he knew not why, but for an instant it gave him a desolate feeling of homesickness. Then Nicolao began to talk, and Kerrigan for- got the girl. But presently she left the car, and as she rose to her feet, he saw a handker- chief flutter to the floor. He leaned for- ward quickly, and, picking it up, hurried after his neighbor; but others between them, and she had reached the street and was stepping up to the curb | when he touched her arm. “Ye dropped it, acushla,” he said, and turning quiekly. she glanced at his out- stretched hand. “Then 't was a miracle,” she said, “and | belongs to the church, not to me.” She held up her own hand, in which safely reposed the breviary and the handker- which, Jervigan stared. 4 “Wid me two eyes I saw it drop as ye got up,” he declared. ] but one,” replied the girl. Are ur two eyes strong enough to see that 've got it still? And you 've lost your car. ” “I've lost more—~me good name,” Ker- tigan said. “I've stolen the handker- ef.” “Then you 'd better y for t- ance,” she advised. “111 give Bigg nh t the church is before you. Good-by, and thank for nothing.” Laughing, she hurried away R the steps of church, Kerrigan tingly watched then walked to a side porch and sat “I'll tak’ the hint to this extint,” he muttered, and patiently waited through the hour of service; but as the audience streamed fourth at the close he returned to the main door watching. But suddenly he felt a touch on his arm and a voice say: “I'll be going home now.” looked down into the face | of the girl. It was dem 2 gi very ure, though “Ah, 't is ye thot 'srepinted--of haard heart,” he said. ign arc tel) me so. ted of bu “I've repen naught but my sins,” aug). bat my sive” of them. But I'd borrow you for a little, if you have nothing better to do.” “I'l have po better to do all — = had risen | P was weazen, middle-aged, with a wry of ; BOL a. mun bout" ghe re plied: “My fiber and other vor hi: OL Toney» Kerrigan declared sol- | a laugh. a mesilf while I have ye,” he corrected “T would be good for them. But of course you'd not do it; you 'd only be soft-spoken and blarney- “I'm as gintle as a cow by nature,” he assured her; “But I'd sell me birthright aze ye. Now tak’ me home wid ye JBrove ut.” . “ worth trying,” ske replied. “You 'll stay to dinner? [I've taken to you, you know." “f accipt both the dinner and the comi- pliment, he answered, indly for both.” In the porch of their small house near the wall of the cemetery of the city her father and mother sat waiting as they entered the gate. “Mr fri Mr.——" The girl hesi- tated. "Rerigan« Thomat Kerrigan,” that tleman said promptly. Be My father and mother,” continued the girl. “Reilly's their name. The gen- tleman was very kind. He lost his car to return my handkerchief.” Her father, a weather-beaten little man looked Kerrigan over coolly as he nod- “Faith!” he said at last, “I 'm thinkin’ he 's likely to lose his supper before he returns it; he 's got it in his hand yet.” The girl laughed. “It was not mine, you know,” she ex- plained. “I don’t see the joke,” her father said irritably. “What's all the stir, Kate?” “Ye 'll see ut in time,” Kerrigan re- plied with composure. “'T is like this: she liked me betther nor the bit of white rag, so she took me instid.” “She was always greedy,” replied Reilly; “she 'd take the biggest lump iv'ry time, not countin’ the quality.” He turned to his wife. “Do ye mind thot, Mary?” “I don’t understand a’ the nonsince,” replied his wife, a meek little wisp of a woman. She rose and went into the house followed by Kate. Kerrigan was looking about him, and now said: “Ye have the cimetery handy, Reilly.” “I need to,” the old man replied. “I worrk in it.’ “'T is the fine job,” declared Kerrigan “Ye can feel all the time how much betther off ye are than yer neighbor. I doubt not ut makes ye consated.” “There ’s thim that are livin’ that make me feel the same,” Reiily said significant- ly. Heglared at , who nodded. “'T is a habit and grows on ye, like drinkun’,” Kerrigan declared. “What do ye do to cure ut?” “I choose me own fri'nds mostly,” Reilly said tartly. “Belikes ye will take the hint.” “l do,” replied Kerrigan. “'T is the raison ye worrk in the cimetery, I tak’ ut; the talk 's wan-sided. Ye'd like thot.” Kate came out and, seeing her father glowering, sat down by Kerrigan, care- lessly placing her hand on the back of his chair. “My father has taken to you,” she said with a coquettish glance. “He "ll monopo- ze you. in Rot Jee you at all. I'm air green wi e jealousy.” “Good Lord!" sputtered the old man, and glared at her, but she seemed not to hear or see. "We'll go for a walk after dinner,” she went on--“in the cemetery. It’s the only place I can get you away from him; for he works there in the week, and he'd sophie to spoil his holiday by seeing the g complacently “*T will be a sore thing to part from him,” answered Kerrigan, “for we're like brithers alriddy, barrun’ the size of us and | the looks; but I'd not like to remind him | of work, so we'll go, as ye say.” | “'T is the nice, quiet place for le,” Kate said and laughed. “You nd them all about, walking arm and arm, and sitting on the benches in the shade, acne han They'll not notice us at Kerrigan, with good-natured generosi but Reilly rose up and stormed into honse, Slamming the door. ahd e ate his dinner rapid n silence, the others, aud loft the sable Jong 5 ore and when, ready for r walk, Kate and Kerrigan appeared in the “Wan worrd I “So the rich tell me,” said the girl with | | cemetery ; | kept near; but “and thank ye ' “Thin we'll not notice thim,” answered | M ward the gate, with her father following after “Thin I'l wid yez, ye ungrateful girl,” Reilly declared. “Thin take me ither arm,” said Kerri- | gan, with a solicitous air; but Reilly step- ped back, waving him off. | “Goon, ye | ! * he commanded. aye. ye kiow " Kerrigan agreed. 1. is more like a see marriage procission “For shame,” she cried, “to talk of i i | “If ye've no respict for yer owld father, | ye hussy,” Reilly hissed close at her ear, | Shink same to yersilf for the bowld- ; niss of yez."” | “To think you'd put the black name on your own daughter!” ' Kate cried, angrily. “I'll not ! listen to you.” flounced up the road. Reilly followed. He passed into the | behind them and stubbornly as they | avenue of live-oaks, he caught sight of a slender y man who stood in a path and watched Kate and i go by. Reilly beckoned to him, and the young man came hesitatingly forward. “And how are ye the day?” Reilly said y, and extended his hand. In mani- Trice the young man shook hands | of est su and said: “Well, Mr. Reilly, as the world goes. And how are you?” “Fine, Michael,” Reilly replied “though troubled a small bit.” He glanced ahead at the pair, who had not looked back. The young man's eyes also followed "Ave, it’s the world’s way,” he agreed with a somber air. “It’s up and down i with us.” “It is, Michael Cassidy,” replied Reilly. “But I've not seen ye for the long time.” As Michael et been forbidden to come to the house, he deemed it politic to make no reply. His silence left Reilly at a loss, and presently hesaid with a melancholy shake of the head: “It's God's truth, as they say, that a mon niver knows what's good for him.” Michael looked at him inquiringly. “Are you speaking of yourself, Mr. Reilly?” he asked. “I am,” Reilly confessed. "Here was I keepin’ a fine lad like yersilf from me and who should me daughter bring into it but thot big lump yon! Bedad! he fills the whole place.” “Lord keep us all!” exclaimed Michael. “ 'T is well said, Michael Cassidy,” re- plied Reilly. “'T is the bitter, true worrd."” “But not past mending, Mr. Reilly,” Michael said with a sly glance. “'T is only to let me come back and send the re flying.” “Flyin’ is it?” exclaimed Reilly, wrath- fully. “Faith! he flies like a tree.” “"T is your own house,” Michael re- plied. “You have only to say the word go. I know how it sounds myself.” “Have I? 'T is all ye know. I give him a couple or three hints of the same, and he was for takin’ me over his knee— me, the father of me own daughter. And what did she do but egg him on!” “Aye, that's bad.” “It is so.” “If you could manage to let him do it," Michael said thoughtfully, “and then call the police for assault, you'd have him fine. 'T would shame Kate. 'T would be bad for him.” “Would it?” Reilly said with scorn. “And how would it be for me in me owld e to be taken across a mon's knee? ell me thot.” Michael snickered, but quickly ehaliged his snicker to a cough under Reilly's wrathful look. “You're right, Mr. Reilly,” he said soberly; “'t would make angels weep.” “I'd not distress the howly wans to thot extint,” Reilly declared. He was si- lent a moment, then said with a brighten- ing face: “If you'd } pase a scrappy worrd wid him yersilf, Michael, and take ‘a clip or two of his fist, belikes Kate would take pity on ye and--" “The pity of a woman is a r tale,” Michael replied hastily. “Has Kate taken a liking to him?” “A liking to him, is it!” exclaimed Reilly. “She makes me fair blush for her bowldniss.” “Then she’s given me up, and it's no use at all,” Michael said with a groan. “Well, if she’s given ve up, ye've noth- 5 to lose by me plan,” argued Reilly. 4 might take ye back.” “And be where I was before,” objected Michael, “and that was nowhere at all, with you against me. That's the plain word between friends, Mr. Reilly, and no harm Ta d d 1 “But that's done an as told ye,” Reilly irritably aa “I'm for ye now, Michael. 'T is her pity that's the only way to win her now.” “Faith! I think I'd get it,” answered ichael, dolefully; “then the man's as ; | broad as a house.” “Well, if it comes to the blows bechune ve,” Reilly said, “just grapple wid him, back of the head wid me stick.” He gripped his cane hard as he added grim. y: “Bedad! I'll put me heart in it, and that’s no lie. Now come on and try me But Michas) still held Back > he “What's changed you all at once?” asked. “You never liked me.” “That lump,” said Reilly. “He'll rwalk’s marry her out of hand before over if ye do not stop him.” “And if I do stop him, will I have her myself?” Michael asked. E me “Then God be with us all, and here goes!” said Michael. They quickened their pace and caught up with the pair, and Kate, looking back, FE. a it g to see us, Mr. Cassidy,” Kate said a “It is,” Michael “The is fairly overrun. oP, as Yluse Js MOS hangin do 4 1” excla..ned Kate. “There's not been a soul there in Michael laughed disagreeably. “It's not an hour since I saw this wind- i § " strike, and I'll give him a little small clip on the | Plaze “Ye will,” Reilly promised. “I've pass. | began WOrTa. strike quick and hard, Mr. Kerrigan. I'd like to have it over. And . look out for the old man’s stick.” Ker- grinned. on Kerrigan's left, had not heard the aside, and she grew pale. She lean- | ee forward now to say sweetly: | “And how are your father and mother | —Michael? Are they well?” | “They ” Michael answered; “buta | bit low in spirit. I'd take it kindly if ' you'd the big monkey you've got | with you before their gate. Belikes it would smarten them up; they're fond of a A They heard Reilly chuckle. “Aye, Michael's the b'y,” he muttered, and gripped his stick hard. Kerrigan stopped short. “We'll go now,” he said stiffly. “With all my heart,” retorted Michael, and turned back. But Kate caught Ker- rigan's arm, pulling him forward. | “Would you leave a giri in the middle | of a walk to go following after a joker | like Michael?” she cried. “Sure, he was ' always up to his tricks. It's some little, | small joke on his father, the poor old man. I'll have naught to do with it.” The two men stood glaring at each other, thegrisnnus of Kerrigan's face be- ing lighted, however, as he stood with his back to Kate, by a sly wink. “Is ut a joke?" he demanded. "Would you call the lady a liar?” Michael asked hotly. “She says it's a joke; and if she says it's one, it is, even if it isn't. your face?” “I niver quarrel before ladies, but we'll take a walk soon and try to match faces,” Kerrigan said significantly. “You couldn't please me more if you asked me to your wake,” replied. “Oh, Father, there's your little work- house,” nervously called Kate. “1 left something in it when I brought you your dinner-pail Thursday. I'll get it now, if | you've forgotten it, as usual.” i “I niver forget it,” retorted Reilly; : and to prove his contention, led the way ! to the tool-house. | It was a stout little stone house with a strong door, and as Reilly opened it, he | stepped in, looking back at the others | with a sour smile. | "Forget it, did I?” he snapped. "Now, i where did ye I'ave what ye left?” “I hid it on top of that shelf—a little, small box,” Kate said. "Will you reach it down, Mr. Kerrigan? You're as tall as | the house yourself, and 't will not trou- | ble you, like these small men.” i Kerrigan stepped into the room, and in a flash she closed the door and locked it “Now, Michael, run, if you love me!” | she exclaimed. “Do you think I want to ! see you murdered before my eyes? Your | courage is two sizes too big for your : body. { But Michael did not move. “Better be murdered than see you mak- , ing love to that brute,” he said doggedly. “I'll see it out now.’ | She caught him by the shoulders and tried to push him away. . “But it's not making leve, Michael dear,” she replied. "It was just to stir father.” She explained in a word, with Michael's face gradually relaxing in a grin. “Well, you've stirred him all right,” he said; “he wants you to marry me now. We'll wo it at once before he changes his mind.” “In a hurry like this!” she cried. “Oh, I couldn't.” “All right,” he replied, and seated him- self on the door-step. “Then I 'll stay and be murdered.” For a moment Kate stood irresolute, wringing her hands, “Oh, what shail I do!” she murmured. “I told you—marry me now,” he re- plied. He went to her, and taking her | hands, said quickly: “I've the license; I've had it for weeks. It would be the fine thing, would n't it, to have it found like that on my dead body?” “I think I should die of shame,” she confessed. “It would hardly seem de- cent.” “It's the true word you say, Katie dear. You see, there 's nothing left but to use it.” “Sure, it would make me fesl like a widow, and me not vet a wife,” she said. “I'll go, Michael. It 'is all that’s left for us now. Hurry.” Inside the barred window Kerrigan and her father saw them hasten away. Her father chuckled. “She fooled ye,” he said, for Kerrigan had not found the box. “She did,” agreed. He seated himself on a stool and looked about him complacently. “Ye 've the nice little for wet weather,” he went on. “For anny weather,” Reilly replied. He had suddenly become genial, and he began to talk of his work. “Thirty years I've worked here,” he said at the close, “and I've put by a little against me owld age. And now Kate will marry, and there's wan trouble liss off me mind. Michael 's a good b'y.” "He is,” Kerrigan with great ness. “Did ye him black- guarrdun’ me to me face as bowld as ye ? Me hearrt warrmed to the laad. “Aye, and he fooled ye well; they both did,” said Reilly, and chuckled. . did, answered ‘And now I'm like a hin in a coop; but I'm not alone.” For a moment Reilly looked at him, and! he ib BE e it Fd y. “Ut 's me way,” replied Kerrigan. “I'm a sedenthary mon by nature, though I'm slight! Ut of Laces, though ut all Slightly Ju I'li shmoke now.” He took his pipe from his pocket and leisurely to fill it. “But ye lost the girl,” Reillv told him. “Can 1 lose what I niver had or waant- ed?” Kerrigan asked. “I don’t know.” “It was not an hour since ye were,” . “What of that?” of was borrowed only,” exclaimed Ker- “ .| _ “And what do ye mane?” demanded Reilly. Twi what Katie said,” answered Ke “We were standun’ before the ch whin up edged a red-headed little old mon, and says she to me, ‘May I bor- row ye for a bit?’ ‘Sure,’ says I. And she borrowed me to get rid of the mon, and now she ’s borrowed anither to rid of you and me. Sure, she’s t wan.” was t ahead, piec- ss stay truth together, he looked up. “And nayther of meant nothing at all by all the love-talk?™ “Nothing at all,” answered Kerrigan. Are your manners as awry as | Michael airily | ! you have your key, though I'm thinking now she’s made me fair’ her, as if he was the last earth! Yo can't tyust » an at all.” imes ye can and sometimes ye cannot,” amended “but ye niver know which ut is till ut ’s too; late.” “It 's the the true - Reilly. He si out a touch of pardonable pride: “Well, she 's no fool, and she's me own daugh- ter. There's in that.” ByL. Frank Tooker, in The Century Magazine. Letter Reads Two Ways. Constructed Without Punctuation, Placing of | Marks Changes Meaning. | A queer letter, so constructed without , punctuation that it can be read in a pum- | ber of different ways, giving directly op- posite meanings, isin the possession of W. G. Shaff, now living in Illinois. He copied it from an Indiana newspaper ‘when he first came to this country in | 1855. He is now 78 years old, says the | News, The letter follows: : He is an old experienced man in ! vice and wickedness he is never | found opposing the works of iniquity he takes delight in the downfall of | the neighborhood he never rejoices i in the prosperity of any of his fellow- i creatures he is alwaysready to assist in destroying the peace of susiery ne takes no pleasure in serving the Lord | he is uncommonly diligent in sowing { discord among his friends and ac- | quaintances he takes no pride in la- | boring to promote the cause of Chris- tianity he has not been negligent in endeavoring to stigmatize all public , teachers he makes no exertions to | subdue his evil passions he tries hard | to build up Satan's kingdom he lends | no aid to the support of the 1 among the heathen he contributes largely to the evil adversary he pays no attention to good advice he gives great heed to the devil he will never go to heaven he must go where he | will receive his just recompense of { reward. Rest and Banish 4 Nerves. A case of “nerves” is like a bad habit: | easily acquired and hard to get rid of. { Nervousness affects the digestion, dulls | the eyes, gives a strained look to the | muscles of the face, and, if allowed its ‘ course, will even make the hair thin. So | the woman wants to be beautiful must { keep an eye upon the state of her nerves. i The best cure for nervousness is rest. | Resting is an art known to few women. | The only way a woman may get re- i pose and relax the body and nerves is by ; actual will power. Carrots are prescribed by physicans | and beauty dectors alike as a cure for nervous indigestion. You are told to eat them three times a day, either cook- ed or raw. Young onions or scallions are excel- lent eaten with plenty of salt; also lettuce with salt and plenty of olive oil, but no vinegar and red pepper. Sleeplessness is the greatest menace that tired or overwrought nerves have for beauty and health. Sleep may be induced by warm milk sipped slowly, or, if this is ineffective, by long draughts of cool water and a cold bandage around the brow. A woman needs to give double care to the preservation of her health—once for her own happiness and once for the health and happiness of the children she may have. How often does she take this extra care of herself? Rarely,indeed, un- til she has entered upon a course of suf- fering, and has learned from experience the necessity of care. It t tobe a part of the mother’s duty to instruct her daughter in the necessity of preserving her womanly health. The budding girl ought to be taught that the high office of motherhood has its weighty obligations and responsibilities, and that if is peril in motherhood it is chiefly due to the neglect of the necessary laws of health. The best way for young women to protect and e r womanly health is to use Dr. Pierce's Favorite Pre- scription on the first symptom of irregu- larity. Irregularity is the beginning, often, of complicated and painful femi- nine disorders. “Favorite i regulates the periods, cures Inflamma- tion, ulceration and female weakness, soothes and strengthens the nerves and enriches the entire body with vigor and vitality. kt contains neither alcohol, nor narcotic. Japanese Color Education. In Ja only a blind child could be insensible to color, after long days under the pink mist of the cherry-blossoms and the crimson glory of the maples in the sunny green and yellow fields, or with i i TRIE iz fast 2 i A : : Ti g £7 : £ g i i! : 3 Medical on cures , eight per cent. of all who use it. ——Paradox.—“I'd like to give you beauty wrinkles.” “l didn't know there were such ngs.” ~He—Don't you think the plain truth in a photograph is best? She—Not if the trurh is too plain. —For high class Job Work come to the WATCHMAN Office. Golden ninety- + FROM INDIA. By One on Medical Duty in that Far Eastern Country. A Case of Mistaken Suspicions. Queer Trees. Where Parasol asre Indispensibie. —— JHANSI, SEPTEMBER 28th. Dear Home Folk: Speaking of styles, I must tell you a good story: There is one pretty woman here who has a beautiful figure and is fond of wearing the tight-fitting frock. Last night a Mrs. Mead. whom I have found charming, told us that seeing this woman walking across the golf-links a | few hours before, she had remarked, “isn’t it too bad that poor Mrs. Westmacott has had such an accident; she must have | fallen into a well or pool of water;’’ the dress was shiny and clung so closely. | She said she was chagrined a little later to find that Mrs. Westmacott had on a | very beatiful new satin gown which fitted rather closely, giving her the above ap- i pearance. To say that I grinned does | not express my delight; and Dr. Maclel- | lan, who surely does appreciate a joke, i stuck her handkerchief into her mouth ‘ina hurry. It was an excellent descrip- , tion of the lady's appearance. | know | we ought to have gotten accustomed to | all this ina country of so few clothes and yet, since one sees the brown skin- ned native somehow, you can't forgive | the individual with a white skin for mak- | ing such a display. Methinks | would | prefer no clothes to too few, as 1 know | this sun would soon turn the white skin ; brown and so again I would not need to | mind. To go back to the weather: A curious effect on trees is seen in cur garden. | About two dozen small, gnarled, crooked | trees are down there and they have been | the only ones that have held their leaves the year round; the bark is rough and the entire effect is as though they had | been blown on continuously by the salt | sea air. This morning the sun was shin- | ing beautifully and the sky a glorious i blue and these curious trees looked as | gray as though covered with frost or i . { flour. I went to examine them and found that they were putting out their new leaves, which instead of being green were gray, and the effect was heightened by the little berry of purplish gray which tipped almost every branch. Your imag- ination did not have to work hard to see the gray mist rising all about these trees, although not a bit of moisture was in the air. The thing seemed so unusual to me I had to speak of it and 1 was told that the trees are a species of hawthorn. They are not beautiful—simply unusual, yet seem like thiscountry—always old, old, old, yet putting on at times the sem- blance of youth. You would indeed enjoy this country, 2xcept the traveling, which to me is much too horrible to even think about, unless the compensation is indeed worth- while. One needs a Delhi or an Agra to make up for other horrors, such as dust, storms, etc. The sweeper, with his bundle of twigs for a broom, has started to clean up the walk; it is not in the least in need of it, since no leaves or twigs have fallen, but he thinks he must earn his “pice” and so stirs up the dust. My objection to his method is, that with the same bunch of twigs he will a little later come in to sweep my pretty green rug, which is bad for the rug, and likewise for my clothes which are hanging around to dry. As the natives do not respect clothes the least bit they are rarely put away, and I am not around to do it so you see how itis. But you can't change the native's habits, no matter what he has to work with and the twig broom must be ac- cepted. The sun is shining beautifully this morning and of course I must be off to the hospital. What I wished to tell you is, if you see me going about at night with my parasol, infact you'll never see me without one, don't tell folks I am “pagal” (weak-minded) but just the fact of hav- ing gotten into a habit I can't break off; truly one here should be a past-mis- tress in the art of handling an umbrella. I used to think it bad enough to have to - | go about with a bag, but I declare, bags have their use but to be tied to a para- sol—well, let me tell you I do not ap- prove of the habit, but the sun loves one and the kisses at the back of the head especially, are to be avoided or indeed one will become “pagal.” I will likely be buying pretty silk affairs at home, al- though a linen, lined with plain green cotton stuff is sufficient here, for of . | course all these are double. I am to go to a home-talent concert tonight. Friday morning.—We went to the con- cholera, leaving a family of five children and a wife, without any means of sup- port and the officers started this affair to help a bit. We had three “rupee” ($1.00) seats, as indeed everybody had whom I knew. It was given in a large hall in which wasa sort of stage, and was all very amateurish; but really most of the songs were new to me. so Idid not object as seriously as I t otherwise have done. We grew early,and hurried home by twelve o'clock, altfough we left home until after nine o n uni : 3 g i 7 B ' “yy
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