neil
Bellefouts, | Pa., January 2, 1914.
—
THE TURN OF THE PAGE.
' BY FRANK FILSON.
(Copyright by W. G. Chapman)
“Come along, 752,” said the head
warder cheerfully, clapping an enorm-
ous hand upon the young man’s shoul-
der. “The chief wants to say good-
bye to you.”
The convict stepped out of his cell
and followed the head warder obedi-
ently. Three years of discipline had
taught him to ask no questions, to
demand no reasons. He hardly dared
to hope that the pardon board had
granted his petition.
““Tention! Eyes front! said the
head warder mechanically, and the
convict mechanically obeyed. But the
governor stretched out his hand and
took the convict’s in. a hearty clasp.
“The board of pardons has granted
you your freedom, Graves,” he said.
“l strongly recommended it at the
last monthly meeting. I know that
you will run straight in future. If you
shouldn’t, remember that the disjonor
and shame will be mine, and it will
be just so much harder for the rest of
us. Here's a letter from your mother
in Mapleton,” he added, handing the
missive to the prisoner.
Graves read it and the governor
watched him curiously. The young
fellow had impressed him favorably
ever since he had entered the peniten-
tiary three years before to serve a
first sentence for forgery. He had
been a model prisoner; but he seemed
curiously hard. Even now he seemed
unaffected either by the letter or by
his release. -
“Yes, sir, I'll run straight in future,”
he answered.
“Good,” answered the governor.
“And my advice to you is, go home to
your mother. You have about thirty-
seven dollars coming to you. Go
‘home, face the world in your home
‘town, be a man and begin your life
anew. You will find people kinder
than you imagine. Good morning.”
He grasped the prisoner's hand
again and dismissed him. Graves
‘went out. Subdued and deferential
‘though he seemed, he remained total-
ily unmoved.
As a matter of fact, Philip Graves
‘was deeply move®, but for all that he
had not the least intention of return-
ing home. He took the train to the
capital and spent his money in two
days’ of riotous living.
The second evening found him pen-
niless. It was cold and dismally wet,
and the long tramp through the dismal
suburbs had not raised his spirits. He
sat down on the sidewalk and buried
his head in his hands. That was the
first time he had ever seriously sonsid-
ered the future.
“Forging’s a mutt’s game,” one of
the other prisoners had told him soon
after he was brought to the jail
“Take my tip, lad, cracking a crib’s
the only thing worth while. Why, all
you've got to do is to walk in after
the lights are out, take your pick, and
walk out again. But say, don’t carry
a gun, for that don’t pay. Just trust
to your legs if you have to get away
quick.”
Graves felt in his pockets. At
the bottom of one, hitherto overlooked
by him, was a dime. Graves knew
where he could get all the whisky he
wanted for a dime—if he chose the
time when the bartender was not
looking his way. He went there.
Graves tossed off the fiery liquid,
set down the glass, and went out.
New Year’s eve! He had not thought
of that. This was the evening for
making good resolutions. The record-
ing angel was writing the title at the
head of a new page of life. What
record would his page show this time
next year?
He walked the streets until his head
swam from the liquor. It was very
dark and the rain fell steadily. Graves
was wet to the skin. He walked an
immeasurable time, until at last, look-
ing up, he saw a house.
_ A flame of anger burned in his
heart, hotter than the fire in his brains.
Good resolutions! What were they
for such as he? They were for the
rich, for those who could afford to
keep the laws! He was no fool to be
bound by such a code.
He crept up the garden, felt a lower
window, and found that he could raise
it. A minute later he was groping in-
side a dining room.
Cautiously he struck and 1 a
match. Then he gasped in astonish-
ment. For on the buffet, carelessly
. laid out, was a galaxy of silver plate.
That central piece—that flat tray,
which he could put under his coat
and walk away with, must be worth
a couple of hundred dollars alone!
He would take it on his way out. He
opened the door and crept upstairs.
There were two rooms at the head
of the first flight. The door of one
was closed; the second door was open,
and inside, by the light of the lowered
gas jet, Graves could see a tabie
strewn with rings. He crept in and
stood staring at them. There were
nearly a dozen of them—diamond,
pearl, sapphire, cat's eye, flashing
emeralds and rubies. Itewas the dress.
ing table of some wealthy woman
who.
There was somebody in the bed!
An old, white-haired woman who lay
there, hardly breathing, flat, with
white hands picking at the bed covers!
Graves snatched up a handful of the
baubles and turned. Suddenly two
powerful arms caught him as in a vise
and he looked up into the face of the
middle-aged man.
“Come outside,
you—you dog!”
‘whispered the other. “Caught in the
Backward Look
BY Wilbur D - Teehil™
“Add ye year to year.’
So goes the old year forth, as
A king with no attendi
* — Isaiah xxix, 1,
i
As goes a monarch old, who knows
His further effort is in vain.
In stately sequence they have gone-—
The courtier months—and now, alone,
The old year proudly falters on,
The new year comes to claim his throne,
But we that stand as subjects stand
Within the temple of the years
While faints the narrow thread of sand
That in the timeglass now appears—
Should we look out adown the way
Whereon our eager feet would fare,
Or should we gaze at yesterday
d see what is recorded there?
Aye, backward then a moment's space—
Look b backward at the dimming hills
Ere yet old time with gentle grace
ith
drifting haze the distance fills;
Count now the heights which held the goals
Which had been ours to win and keep,
Save that we in our shrinking souls
Feared that the climb was long and steep.
Now sh the horizon whence we wend
Seems but a
Where frowning
0 ath all smooth and fair
ill and valley blend,
And any load were light to bear.
Could we go back! Ah, might we go
Once more upon the dwindling way!
The trials would not fret us so—
The trifles, now, of yesterday.
So, in the temple of the years
We gaze back at the fading view—
The composite of laughs and tears—
Then turn to face the roadway new.
The new year comes, as comes a king
Apparelled in rich stuffs and gold—
Grant that unto it we may bring
The good we garnered from the old.
(Copyright, by W. G. Chanman.)
act, you dirty sneak-thief! Let me
look at your face! So you would rob
a dying woman, would you? I'm go-
ing to strip the hide off you before I
call the police.”
“l didn’t know—" Graves babbled.
A feeble voice from the sick bed
made both start.
“John!” whispered the sick woman.
“John! It’s you, dear John! I knew
you would come home!”
The captor and the captive stood
motionless, thrilled by the pity in the
voice.
“John, won’t you come here and kiss
your old mother?” pleaded the voice.
“I knew that I should live to see you
again.”
The middle-aged man whispered into
the ear of the thief.
‘“Her son was killed in an automo-
bile accident last week. Now’s your
chance. I'll let you go if—"
“You're coming to me, aren’t you,
John?”
“Yes,” muttered the thief, and with
unsteady footsteps he staggered to-
ward the bed, found it, and sank down
upon a chair. He felt the hand of
the old woman close upon his.
“Are you John? Are you my boy?
I cannot see. Tell me that you are
John,” the old woman whispered.
“Yes, I am John,” the convict whis-
pered back.
She said no more for a while but
seemed to doze. Gently, by almost
imperceptible degrees, the man in the
room lowered the gas light till it was
only a little twinkling flame in the
darkness. And the thief sat motion-
less, his hand held tightly in the light
clasp of the dying woman.
After a long time she roused her-
self. “Johnny,” she whispered, “turn
me 80 that I can put my lips to your
ear” And the convict turned the
shrunken old body reverently, and
with a new and strange fearlessness.
Then the old woman spoke again, and
80 low and weak were her tones that
he could only grasp them by bending
his ear till her lips touched it.
“Johnny,” she said, “I want you to
be a good boy after I am gone. I
want you to be good for your old
mother’s sake, Johnny. There's no-
body will ever love you as I have done
—nobody in the whole world. You've
been wild, Johnny, dear, and people
have said hard things about you and
called you hard names, but I knew
that you were my boy Johnny, my
good boy, and that you were good at
heart. Promise me you'll always run
straight, Johnny!”
Graves promised.
“Then I can go in peace, Johnny,
dear. Kiss me.” The dying woman
| said the man.
“My dear fellow, I believe that Pro-
vidence sent you here—Providence,
which is only another name for God,”
“Go back and face the
world anew in your home town.”
Why, that was just what tis
ernor had said!
He held his hand out and the other
took it and grasped it warmiy. Sud-
denly Graves remembered. He pulled
cut from his pocket a handful of
shimmering rings. He placed them
pon the dressing table and walked
lightly out of the room. He did not
shufie now, for his heart was filled
with lightness and for the first time
in years he was at peace.
“I'm going home!” he murmured.
The rain had ceased and the air
was keen with frost. From the four
quarters came the sound of distant
bells. And then Graves remembered
that this was the New Year.
The book was still open and the
gov-
| new page had been auspiciously be
| gun.
‘THE MAN IN BUTTERNUT.
BY CAPT. F. A. MITCHEL.
There are natures to which danger
is too fascinating to be resisted. This
cropped out especially in our own war
on both the Union and Confederate
sides. There was another faculty akin
to the love for danger, though much
more rare. This was that cool assur-
ance svine men used in carrying out
their operations, especially when cor-
nered. Perhaps the most famous of
these men was General Morgan when,
as untitled John Morgan, with a small
band of some fifty rangers, he was
constantly harassing the Army of the
Ohio, at that time advancing south-
ward through middle Tennessee. He
would walk up to a Union picket who
was off his guard. rate him soundly
for his carelessiess, take his gun from
him and make him a prisoner.
Hane Barton when he went into the
Union service was a green Kentucky
farmer's boy. He was long, lanky and
had never worn anything better than
“butternut.” His brothers had joined
the Confederate army, and Hance, be-
ing on the other side, thought it his
duty to “balance up” so far as he
couid by enlisting for the Union. It
took time to make soldiers out of farm-
j ers, and there were cases wherein it
was impossible. This was because
there is nothing in farm work that is
i akin to military life.
Barton was one of those who could
never be turned into shipshape sol-
diers. He was slow at learning the
manual of arms. slow at learning to
march, slow at every methodical duty.
Soldiers are not allowed to leave camp
limits without permission. yet Barton
would make his way out between sen-
tries, steal through the pickets and
wander about on the enemy’s terri-
tory.
The matter having been reported to
his captain, he was called up before
that officer and. when questioned as
i to where he had been, told so much
i about the enemy.
their camp. their
. movements, their forces, their arma-
ment, that the captain spoke of the
matter to the colonel. The colonel
mentioned it to the general command-
i ing, and the result was that the de-
i linquent was directed to report him-
half raised herself and Graves took |
her in his arms and pressed his lips
ll Ji, i im
A
z !
3)
5
Ll Ti i
11
i
&
There Was Somebody in Bed.
reverently to her forehead. And not
daring to stir, he remained thus half
through the night.
The vital fires had burned them-
selves out; gently and imperceptibly
the life had faded out of the old
frame. The dead woman’s placid
smile seemed like a benediction.
Graves rose up. “I'm ready now,”
he said to the man.
“Go!” answered the man, pointing
to the door; and the ex-convict shuf-
fled along the carpet, his face work:
ing, his cheeks stained with tears.
He halted at the door, hesitated, and
shuffled back again. He went up to
the man.
“I don’t want to go,” he muttered.
“I want you to call the police. Say,”
he went on, in impassioned accents,
“I've got an old mother like that in
Mapleton, and she's alive and wants
me to come home. Do you think if I |
went that I could ever become a man
again? I've been in prison three
years.” .
The man’s hand fell on his shoulder,
just as the head warder’s had fallen.
He seemed sorry for him; it was odd,
to come to think of it, how kind men
were to one another.
self at headquarters.
Barton supposed that he was sent up
to the general to receive a reprimand
for his unsoldierly conduct. Instead,
the general made him tell all about
where he had been when he had sur-
reptitiously left camp and what he
had seen and, when he had finished.
told him that he was appointed scout
under the commander's own orders
and need not return to his regiment
except to get his effects. Since Hane
had no effects except what he had on
his person he did not return at all.
The arms of an infantryman would
not serve him in his new duties, and.
as to uniform, he was to wear the
“butternut” to which he had been ac-
customed, except when in camp, when
he could wear what he pleased.
Hance Barton breathed a sigh of re-
lief at the change in the situation. He
was henceforth relieved of the inter-
minable duties of a soldier —no an-
swering of his name at reveille roll
call, no guard mounting, no inspection.
no turning in at tattoo and lights out
at taps. All this irksome routine had
been exchanged for the ines.imable
privilege of running the risk of getting
himself hanged.
Barton was just the man for the re-
quired service. His accent was distinct-
ly southern, he had been accustomed
to the people of the south, and, as
to getting about over a country region,
he had learned it so perfectly in his
native state that he did not need to
learn it again in Tennessee. The gen-
eral sent him on several minor scout-
ing expeditions, but it was not till the
Army of the Cumberland was confront-
ing the Confederates—the former at
Murfreesboro, the latter at Tullahoma
.—that Hanc got in his most remark-
able work.
He left Murfreesboro one evening
after dark on horseback with an order
| directing the guards to pass Richard
Venables. He was mounted on a high,
lean horse. furnished by the quarter-
master from a lof that had not yet
been branded. He found no trouble in
personating a poor white citizen of the
country, for that was exactly what he
was. Indeed, no one would have taken
him for anything else.
When he reached a Confederate ve-
dette he said:
“Mr. Sojer, I'm goin’ south fo' to get
outen the way o' the Yankees that’s
comin’ down yere. Do you mind my
ridin’ right on?”
“You can go back there to the picket
post, and they'll take charge of you,”
said the vedette.
Hance rode on to the picket and was
[Continued on page 7, Col. 3.]
Dry Goods,
Etc.
LYON & COMPANY.
CLEARANCE SALE
——) of all (=
Winter
(Goods
We begin our Pre-Inventory
Clearance
Sale of
FURS, COATS AND SUITS
prices.
Buy your Blankets
", Mid-January
We are determined to close out all now,
they must be sold regardless of cost.
Broad Cloths, Heavy Suitings, Serges, Di-
agonal and Whip Cords at clarance sale
and Comfortables
now, it will mean a big saving to you.
Men, Women and Children’s Winter Un-
derwear and Hosiery at clearance prices.
—( WATCH FOR OUR (—
White Sale..
and Rummage Table.
Lyon & Co. .... Bellefonte
Shoes.
Shoes.
Yeager’s Shoe Store
‘FITZ
L >
The
Ladies’
Shoe
that
Cures Corns
Sold only at
Yeager’s Shoe Store,
Bush Arcade Building,
58-27
BELLEFONTE, FA.