Bellefonte, Pa., September 11, 1914.
HUMAN.
There are none of us just quite perfect,
There is something wrong in the best;
We're all so mortal and human,
And none more so than the rest.
When it’s all summed up at the finish,
And the Lord strikes balance that day,
If we only just cry we are human,
It will be about all we should say.
There is nothing so common as fault is,
And mistakes and errors all make;
And why should we rail at a brother
Or lift a finger to shake
In the face of some stumbler? It’s human
To take a misstep now and then;
We scoff at the weakness of woman
But the weakest of all are the men.
This thing af revenge, getting,
Of laying for some one. Ah, me!
What fools we all are in our weakness,
What pity it is we can’t see!
Stain character, smear reputation?
What you throw vengeful brother, is mud;
But look where your own heart’s corroded,
And that stain on your hand is of blood!
There are none of us faultless in this world,
So why should it be worth while
To trouble our hearts with this hatred,
To envy some brother his smile!
We're human, so awfully human,
And why should we think it would pay
To go round creating obstructions
To place in some poor fellow’s way?
The Story oi
Waitstill
Baxter
By KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
Copyright, 1913. by Kate Douglas Wiggin
SYNOPSIS
Waitstill Baxter and her sister, Patience
Patty), keep house for their widowed,
ean father. Ivory Boynton, whose fa~
ther disappeared, is interested in Waitstill.
He takes care of his daft mother.
Mrs. Boynton expects her husband to
urn. Rodman, a young boy, is a mem-
of the Boynton household.
Ivory’s father abandoned his family to
follow Jacob Cochrane, a mystic. Pa~
tience chafes under her father’s stern
rule.
Patty has two admirers—Mark Wilson,
an educated young man, and Cephas Cole,
who is unlearned. Mark kisses her.
Waitstill is spending her life in loving
care of Patience. Aunt Abby and Uncle
Bart Cole are friends of the whole com-
munity.
proposes to Patty and is rejected. In his
agitation he lets the molasses run all
over the store floor.
|
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{ Peter Morrill's opinion.
“If things was a little wite dif'rent
all round 1 could prognosticate who
| Waitstill could keep house for.” was |
kind of a certif'’cate of Aaron's death
“You mean Ivory Boxnton? Well, if :
, the deacon was asked he'd never give |
his consent. that’s certain. an’ Ivory |
ain’t in no position to keep a wife
anyways. What was it you heerd
hout Aaron Boynton up to New Hamp- |
shire, Peter?” asked Abel Day.
“Consid’able. one way an’ another.
an’ none of it would ‘a’ been any com- |
fort to Ivory. | guess Aaron 'n' Jake i
, Cochrane was both of ‘em more Inter- *
. ested in savin’ the sisters’ souls than :
: the brothers’.
Aaron was a fine ap-
| pearin’ man, and so was Jake for that !
. thy?
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i
{
light complected, fat an’ lean, tall an’
» | short, twins an’ singles—Jed Morrill
matter, 'n’ they both had the gift o |
gab. There's nothin’ like a limber
tongue if you want to please the wo-
men folks. If report says true. Aaron
died of a fever out in Ohio some-
wheres. Cortland’s the place, I b’lieve.
Seems ’s if he hid his trail all the way
from New Hampshire somehow, for as
a usual thing a man o’ book learnin’
like him would be remembered wher-
ever he went. Wouldn't you call Aaron
Boynton a turrible 'arned man, Timo-
Timothy Grant. the parish clerk, had
just entered the store on an errand; '
i but, being directly addressed and judg- |
ing that the subject under discussion |
was a discreet one and that it was too |
: early in the evening for drinking to
begin, he joined the group by the fire- |
side. He had preached in Vermont for '
several years as an itinerant Metho-
dist minister before settling down to
farming in Edgewood. only giving up
his profession because his quiver was
so full of little Grants that a wander-
ing life was difficult and undesirable.
When Uncle Bart Cole had remarked
that Mis’ Grant had a little of every- ,
thing in the way of baby stock now— |
black, red an’ yaller haired. dark and
' had observed dryly, “Yes, Mis' Grant |
Jed.
kind o' reminds me of charity.”
“How's that?” inquired Uncle Bart. |
“She beareth all things.” chuckled
“Aaron Boyton was indeed a man of
most adhesive larnin’,” agreed Tim-'
othy. who had the reputation of the
largest and most unusual vocabulary
in Edgewood. ‘Next to Jacob Coch- :
rane 1 should say Aaron had more
grandeloquence as an orator than any
man we've ever had in these parts. It’
don’t seem ’s if Ivory was goin’ to take
after his father that way. The little |
feller, now, is smart ’s a whip an’
could talk the tail off a brass monkey.” |
“Yes, but Rodman ain’t no kin to the |
Boyntons.” Abel reminded him. “He
inhails from the other side o the |
house.” :
“That's so. Well, Ivory does for cer-
tain, an’ takes after his mother, right !
‘enough, for she hain’t spoken a doz-
Cephas Cole, tending store for Baxter, |
Although they love each other, Waitstill
and Ivory suppress their affection because
of their household cares.
Patty and Waitstill go to church, al- :
though their father is too mean to give
them fitting garments. Waitstill sings in
the choir. .
A strange young woman in the Wilson
pew, a visitor from Boston, makes Patty
Jealous. Haying time arrives.
Waitstill decides to disobey her father
by paying a visit to Mrs. Boynton. Uncle
Bart discourses to Cephas on woman's
ways.
Mrs. Boynton confides in Waitstill, tell- :
ing the girl she believes Rodman is not
her sister’s child, but she cannot be sure.
To punish Waitstill for disobedience
Deacon Baxter locks her out all night. :
Bbe spends the night in the barn. Pa-
tlence sympathizes.
Patience Baxter is embarrassed amid a
multitude of suitors. She thinks Mark is
fickle.
Trying to trace his father, Ivory writes
to Waitstill a long account of Boynton's
following of Cochrane, with which Mrs.
Boynton was not in full sympathy.
The village gossips are busy with the
names of Waitstill and Ivory, but in a
friendly and sympathetic manner.
In Ivory’s absence young Rodman min-
isters to Mrs. Boynton. She is ill and
sends Rodman for Ivory.
Ivory receives proof of his father’s death
and succeeds in convincing his mother of
it. Waitstill volunteers her help in the
Boynton housekeeping.
[Continued from last week.]
nobody else had gone,” said Rish Bix-
by. “When his wife died he refused to
come into the house till the last min-
ute. He stayed to work in the barn till
all the folks had assembled and even
the men were all settin’ down on
benches in the kitchen. The parson
sent me out for him. and I'm blest if
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“} remember that i well.”
en words in as many years. 1 guess.
Ivory’s got a sight 0’ book knowledge. |
though, an’ they do say he could talk |
; Greek an’ Latin both, if we had any of
the old skunk didn’t come in through |
the crowd with his sleeves rolled up—
went to the sink and washed. and then
set down in the room where the coffin
was, as cool as a cowcumber.”
“I remember that funeral well,” cor-
roborated Abel Day. *An’ Mis’ Day
heerd Levi say to his daughter. as
soon as they'd put poor old Mrs. Bax-
ter int’ the grave, ‘Come on, Marthy;
there’s no use cryin’ over spilt milk;
we'd better go home an’ busk out the
rest o’ that corn.’ Old Foxy could have
inherited plenty o' meanness from his
father, that’s certain, an’ he’s added to
his inheritance right along. like the
thrifty man he is. I hate to think o’
them two fine girls wearin’ their fin
vers to the bone for his benefit.”
“Oh, well, ’twon’t last forever,” said
Rish Bixby. “They're the han’somest
couple 0’ girls on the river. an’ they'll
get husbands afore many years. Pa-
tience ll have one pretty soon, by the
looks. She never budges an inch but
Mark Wilson or Phil Perry are follerin® -
behind, with Cephas Cole watchin® his
chance right along too. Waitstill don’t
seem to have no beaux; what with fly
in’ around to keep up with the deacon
an’ bein’ a mother io Patience, her
tends is full, 1 guess.”
em in the community to converse with,
| I've never paid no intention to the
“’Twould ’a’ served old Levi right if
dead languages, bein’ so ockerpied with
other studies.”
“Why ‘do they call ’em the dead lan-
guages. Tim?" asked Rish Bixby.
“Because all them that ever spoke |
’em has perished off the face ¢’ the
land,” Timothy answered oracularly,
“Dead an’ gone they be, lock, stock
and barrel; yet there was a time when |
Latins an’ Crustaceans an’ Hebrews |
an’ Prooshians an’ Australians an’ 8i-
mesians was chatterin’ away in their |
own tongues, an’ so pow’ful that they
was wallopin® the whole earth, you |
might say.”
“I bet yer they never tried to wallop |
these here United States,” interpolated ;
Bill Dunham from the dark corner by
the molasses hogshead.
“Is Ivory in here?’ The door opened
and Rodman Boynton appeared on the
threshold.
“No, sonny, Ivory ain't been in this
evenin',” replied Ezra Simms. *l1 hope
there ain’t nothin’ the matter over to’
your house?”
*“No, nothing particular.” the boy an-
swered, ‘only Aunt Boynton don't’
seem so weil as common, and I can’t!
find Ivory anywhere.”
“Come along with me, I'll help you
look for him, an’ then I'll go as fur as!
the lane with yer if we don’t find him.” |
And kindly Rish Bisby took the boy's’
hand and left the store.
“Mis' Boynton's had a spell, I guess!” |
suggested the storekeeper, peering
i ard in my small way.
Day. “Uncle Bart sees consid'able of
Ivory, an’ he says his mother is as
quiet as a lamb. Couldn't you git no
out o' that Enfield feller. Peter? Seems
‘s if that poor woman oughter be stop-
ped watchin’ for a dead man: tucker-
in’ herself all out an’ keepin’ Ivory an’
the boy all nerved up.”
“I’ve told Ivory everything 1 could
i gather up in the way of information
and give him the names of the folks
in Ohio that had writ back to New
Hampshire. [ didn’t dilate on Aaron's
goin’s on in Effingham and Portsmouth,
‘cause I dassay 'twas nothin® but scan-
dal. Them as hates the Cochranites ’ll
never allow there's any good in ‘em,
whereas I've met some as is servin’
the Lord good an’ constant an’ indulg-
in’ in no kind of foolishness an’ devil-
try whatsoever.”
“Speakin’ o' Husshons,”
Dunham from his corner,
ber’—
said Bill
*1 remem-
“We wa’'n't alludin® to no Husshons.” |
retorted Timothy Grant. “We was
dealin’ with the misfortunes of Aaron
Boynton. who never fit valorously on
the field o° battle, but perished out in
Ohio of scarlit fever, if what they say
in. Enfield is true.”
“Tis an easy death.” remarked Bill
argumentatively “Scarlit fever don’t
seem like nothin’ to me! Many's the
time I've been close enough to fire at
‘the eyeball of a Husshon an’ run the
resk 0° bein’ blown to smithereens!—
calm and cool [ allers was too! Scarlit
fever is an easy death from a warriors
p’int 0" view!"
“Speakin’ of easy death.” continued
Timothy. “vou know [I'm a great one
for words. bein’ something of a schol-
ticed that Elder Boone used a strange
word in his sermon last Sunday?
Words air cur'ous things sometimes,
as I know, hevin’ had consid’able leis-
ure time to read when 1 was joggin’
’bout the country an’ bein’ brought !
into contack with men o® learnin’. The
way I worked it out, not wishin’ to ask
Parson any more questions, bein’ some- |
thing of a scholard myself, is this: |
| The youth in Ashy is a peculiar kind
0’ youth. ’n’ their religion disposes ‘em
to lay no kind o' stress on huming life.
When anything goes wrong with ‘em
an’ they get a set back in war or busi-
ness. or affairs with women folks, they
want to die right off, so they take a
sword an’ stan’ it straight up wher-
ever they happen to be. in the shed or
the barn or the henhouse, an’ they '
p’int the sharp end right to their waist
line, where the bowels an’ other vital
organisms is lowcated, an' then they
fall on to it. It runs ‘em right through
to tie back an’ kills ‘em like a shot. and y
that's the way I cal'late the youth in
; Ashy dies, if my entomology is correct,
as it gen’ally is.”
“Don’t seem an easy death to me,”
argued Ezra, “but I ain’t no scholard.
| What college did you attend to, Tim ?”’
“I don’t hold no diaploma,” responded
: Pimothy. “though I attended the Ware- :
ham academy quite a spell, the same
time as your sister was goin’ to Ware-
ham seminary where eddication is still
bein’ disseminated though of an awful
poor kind compared to the old times.”
“It’s live an’ larn.,” said the store-
keeper respectfully. “I never thought
of a seminary bein’ a place of dissemi-
nation before, but you can see the two
words is near kin.”
“You can’t allers tell by the sound,”
said Timothy instructively. “Some-
times two words ’ll start from the same
root an’ branch out diff’rent, like ‘crit-
ter’ an’ ‘hypocritter.’ A ‘hypocritter’
must natcherally start by bein’ a ‘crit-
ter.’ but a critter ain't obliged to be a
‘hypocritter’ ’thout he wants to.”
“1 should hope not.” interpolated
Abel Day piously. “Entomology must
be an awful interestin study, though
I never thought of observin' words my-
self, ‘cept to avoid vulgar language an’
profa; ity.”
“Hi sshon’s a cur'ous word for a
man.’ interjected Bill Dunham with a |
last despairing effort. *“I remember
seein’ a Husshon once that”—
“Perhaps you ain’t one to observe
closely, Abel.” said Timothy, not tak-
Ing note of any interruption, simply |
using the time to direct a stream of to-
bacco juice to an incredible distance,
but landing it neatly in the exact spot
he had intended.
. self. you might say. observin’ is. an’
there’s another sing’lar corraption!
The Whigs in foreign parts. so they
say. build stone towers to observe the
evil machinations of the Tories. an’ so
the word ‘observatory’ rome into gen-
eral use! All entomology; nothin’ but
entomology.” ;
“lI don’t see where in thunder you
picked up so much larnin’, Timothy!”
It was Abel Day’s exclamation, but.
every one agreed with him.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Rod That Blossomed.
VORY BOYNTON had takea the .
horse and gone to the village on
an errand, a rare thing for him
to do after dark, so Rod was
thinking as he sat in the living room
' learning his Sunday school lesson on
the same evening that the men were
gossiping at the brick store. His aunt
| had required him from the time when
he was proficient enough to do so to
read at least a part of a chapter in the
Bible every night. Beginning with
| Genesis, be bad reached Leviticus and
had made up his mind that the Bible |
was a much more difficult book than
“Scottish Chiefs" notwithstanding the |
fact that Ivory helped him over most
of the bard places. At the present |
Juncture he was vastly interested in |
| the subject of *‘rods” us unfolded 'm
the book of Exodus, which was beir g
| studied by his Sunday school class.
What added to the excitement was the
fact that his uncle’s Christian name, |
Mebbe yon no
“It’s a trade by it-'
ing rods of Moses and Aaron that had
a strange effect upon the boy's ear
when he read them aloud, as he loved
to do whenever he was left alone for a
time. When his aunt was in the room
his instinct kept him from doing this.
for the mere mention of the name of
Aaron, he feared. might sadden bis
aunt and provoke inher that danger-
ous vein of reminiscence that made
Ivory so anxious.
“It kind o’ makes me nervous to be
named Rod. Aunt Boynton.” said the
boy. looking up from the Bible. “All
the rods in these Exodus chapters do
such dreadful things! They become
serpents. and one of them swallows up
all the others, and Moses smites the
waters with a rod. and they become
blood. and the peuple can't drink the
water and the fish die! Then they
stretch a rod across the streams and
ponds und bring a plague of frogs over
the land. with swarms of flies und hor-
rible insects.”
“That was to show God's power to
Pharaoh and me!t his hard heart to
obedience and reverence.” explained
Mrs. Boynton, who had known the
Bible from cover to cover in her youth
end could stili give chapter and verse
for hundreds of her favorite passages.
“It took an awful tot of melting, Pha
faob’s heart!” exclaimed the hoy.
“Pharaoh must have been worse than
Deacon Baxter! | wonder if they ever
tried ‘to make him good by being kind
to him: [I've read and read, hut 1
can't tind they used anything on him
but plagues and famines and boils and
pestilences and thunder and hail and
fire! Have | got a middle name, Aunt
Boynton. for | don’t like Rod very
much?"
“I never heard that you had a widdle
‘name: von mast ask Ivory.” sa’d his
aunt abstractedly
“Did my father name me Rod, or my
mother?”
“I don’t really know. Perhaps it was
your mother, but don’t ask questions.
| please.”
“I forgot, Aunt Boynton! Yes, I
think perhaps my mother named me.
Mothers ‘most always name their ba-
| bies, don’t they? My mother wasn't
‘ like you, she looked just like the pic-
| ture of Pocahontas in my history. She
never knew about these Bible rods, I
guess.”
“When you go a little further you
will find pleasanter things about rods,”
said his aunt, knitting, knitting in-
tensely, as was her habit, and talking
as if her mind were 1,000 miles away.
“You know they were just little
branches of trees, and it was only
God's power that made them wonder-
ful in any way.”
“Oh! T thought they were like the
singing teacher's stick he keeps time
i with.”
“No; if you look at your concordance
' you'll find it gives you a chapter in
Numbers where there’s something
beautiful about rods. I have forgotten
the place. It has been ‘many years
since I looked at it. Find it and read
it aloud to me.” The boy searched his
concordance and readily found the ref-
erence in the 17th chapter of Numbers.
“Stand near me and read,” said Mrs,
i Boynton. “I like to hear the Bible
read aloud!”
Rodman took his Bible and read,
slowly and haltingly, but with clear-
| ness and -understanding:
“1. And the Lord spake unto Moses,
saying,
*2. Speak unto the children of Israel,
and take of every one of them a rod
according to the house of their fathers,
of all their princes according to the
house of their fathers twelve rods:
, write thou every man’s name upon his
rod.”
Through the boy’s mind there darted
the flash of a thought, a sad thought.
He himself was a Rod on whom no
man's name seemed to be written, or-
. phan that he was. with no knowledge
of his parents!
i Suddenly he hesitated, for he had
caught sight of the name of Aaron in
the verse that he was about to read
and did not wish to pronounce it in
his aunt's hearing.
“This chapter is most too hard far
me to read out loud, Aunt Boynton,”
he stammered. “Can I study it by my-
self and read it to Ivory first?"
“Go on, go on, you read very sweet-
ly. I cannot remember what comes
and I wish to hear it.”
The boy continued, but without rais
ing his eyes from the Bible:
“3. And thou shalt write Aaron’s
name upon.the rod of Levi: for one rod
shall be for the head of the house of
. their fathers.
i “4, And thou shalt lay them up in
- the tabernacle of the congregation be-
fore the testimony. where I will meet
| with you.
“5. And it shall come to pass that
| the man’s red. whom I shall choose,
i shall blossom: and 1 will make to cease
from me the murmurings of the chil-
_ dren of Israel. whereby they murmur
against you.”
Rodman had read on. absorbed in
the story and the picture it presented
to his imagination. He liked the idea
of all the princes having a rod accord-
ing to the house of their fathers. He
| liked to think of the little branches
being laid on the altar in the taber-
' nacle, and above all he thought of the
' longing of each of the princes to have
his own rod chosen for the blossom-
ing.
“6. And Moses spoke unto the chil-
dren of Israel. and every one of their
"princes gave him a rod apiece, for each
prince one, according to their father’s
houses, even twelve rods; and the rod
‘of Aaron was among their rods.”
i Oh! how the boy hoped that Aaron’s
‘branch would be the one chosen to
‘blossom! He felt that his aunt would
! 'be pleased, too. but he read on steadily,
through the door into the darkness. | Aaron, kept appearing in the chronicle | with eyes that glowed and breath that
*“’Tain’t like Ivory to be out mights
and leave her to Rod.”
“She don’t have no spells,” said Abel, many verses about the wonder work- \
-
as frequently as that of the great law- |
! giver Moses himself, and there were
came and went in a very palpitation
of interest:
[Continued on page 7. Col. 11
AISI
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AGE NEEDED TO GIVE CHARM
Hew Buildings, Clean and Freshly
Painicd, Are Unattractive and
Seem to Lack Dignity.
A new building, clean and freshly
painted is cne of the most unattrac-
tive th.ags in the world. Take a
shining cw house, set in a treeless
lot, without shrubbery or vines. It
looks as harsh and bumptious and
obtrusive as a fresh young agent who
sets his foot inside the door the mo-
ment it is opened to keep it from be-
ing shut in his face.
Age i3 needed to give charm and
dignity to buildings, to make them a
part of the landscape. A new piece
of stonework or brick or stucco
stands up like a sore thumb. It does
not fit in with the rest of things. The
planet is somewhat weathered by the
winds and rains of millions of years,
and a permanent addition to it needs
at least a little weathering to har-
monize.
The gray of the great cathedrals
which have accumulated the smoke
and dust and grime of centuries is
one great source of charm. To clean
Westminster Abbey’s hoary walls
would ruin them. An example of tho
cheapening effect of newness is con-
spicuous in Kansas City in the partly
cleaned walls .of the new station.
The gray stonework is wonderfully
impressive in its massive dignity.
But where the walls have been
cleaned and whitened they give the
impression of staring artificiality and
primness wholly out of keeping with
the general scheme of a monumental
city entrance.
of the station the devastation wrought
by the cleaning will be repaired with-
in a few years. Meanwhile it may
stand as a horrible example.
New things generally are more or
less distressing—new shoes, new
clothes, new houses. They all have
to be lived with awhile before they
get humanized.—Kansas City Star.
SENTIMENT STILL RULES Us. CANARY POPULAR
i Every Street in French Capital Echos
Thought and Science Kept Much in
Background, Notwithstanding All
Our Prctending.
Notwithstanding all our pretending
that we are of an age which lives and
thinks scientifically, we are still, for
Happily, in the case .
the most part, not creatures of thought !
but creatures of sentiment. With most |
of us, for instance, the relationship of i
the sexes is still a matter to be re-
garded sentimentally. We still ignore
as much as possible the physical and
social faets back of that relationship.
We still, too, for the most part, have
sentimental political affiliations with
glorious ideals, but little conception
of the facts which condition their real-
ization, with much of unreasoning
loyalty to parties or persons. We still
are apt to have and desire a senti-
mental sort of education for our chil-
dren, on a cultural basis which ig-
nores at once the necessity of knowl-
edge of the facts of real life and the
vulgar necessity of our children’s
earning a living. We still speak, with
pathetic dignity, in terms of a senti-
mental economics based on life as a
sentimentalist would have it rather
than on life as it is. We still enjoy
sentimental literature. We still pat-
ronize sentimental drama.—Bernard I.
Bell in the Atlantic.
Two Meanings.
The different meanings that a sim-
ple turn of expression can give a word !
are often curious and sometimes amus- |
ing. An anecdote of Charles Lamb, the
famous English author, illustrates this
very pleasantly.
On a wet, miserable, foggy day, in
London, he was accosted by a beggar
with:
“Please, sir, bestow a little charity
upon a poor, destitute woman. Be-
lieve me, sir, I have seen better days.”
“So have I,” said Lamb, handing the
poor creature a shilling, “so have I.
it’s a miserable day, even for Lon-
don.”
A similar illustration is of the man
who saw some mischievous boys car-
rying off fruit from his orchard.
“What are you about?” he called,
lustily.
“About going!” called one of them,
as the marauders disappeared over
the fence.—Youth’s Companion.
Genius Required.
A kind-faced Bostonian, while wait-
ing on a corner for a car recently, was
attracted by a melodious piano which
a young Italian was grinding.
“It must be somewhat difficult to
turn that crank as steadily as you do
and keep such good time,” said the
Bostonian, as he dropped a coin into
the performer’s hat.
“Not soa deeficult,” replied the Ital
ian, his face becoming illuminated
with a smile. “You see, I no gotta da
monk. To turn da crank dees way
stead’ keepa da tim’. But turna da
crank an’ watcha da monk sam’ tim’;
ah! That taka da arteest—da true
arteest. Eet ees da monk, signor, that
demands de genius!”—Buffalo En-
quirer.
Where Dickens Lurks.
“Dickensy” names are to be discov-
ered in the most unlikely localities, as
those whose travels take them to Bur-
gundy may have discovered. In Macon
there is a Rue Dombey, which, apart
from its name, is worth exploring for
the sake of one or two fifteenth cen-
tury timber houses with most quaintly
carved fronts. And by a strange coin- |
cidence, on the banks of the Saone,
about seven miles out of Macon, there |
FACTS ABOUT COMMON WORDS
Peck at First Meant Any Grain
Basket—Corpse, a Body Alive
or Dead.
Equivocation, a word now applied to
any evasion, was once understood to
mean the calling of diverse things by;
the same name.
Peck at first meant a basket or re-
ceptacle for grain or other substances.
The expression at first had no refer
ence to size.
Starve was once to die any manner.
of death. Wycliffe’s sermons tell how:
“Christ starved on the cross for the
redemption of men.”
Tariff was the name of the Moorish:
chieftain, Abou al Tarifa, who had a
fortress near the Straits of Gibraltar
and levied toll on ships and merchan.
dise passing through.
Corpse once meant a body, whether
living or dead. Many old writs are
extant in which the sheriff or his
deputy is commanded to bring the
corpse of such a man into court.
Saturnine is an astrological term.
It was once used to describe the char-
acter of an individual born under the
influence of the planet Saturn, a
malevolent deity.
To prose once signified to write in
prose rather than in verse, and a
prosy man was one who preferred to
clothe his ideas in prosaic rather than
in metrical form.
A sycophant was once a person who
watched the frontiers of Attica to see
that no figs were brought in or car-
ried out without the payment of the
proper duty.
Prejudice was originally nothing
more than a judgment formed before-
hand, the cl.aracter of such judgments
being best indicated by the present
meaning of the word.
A saunterer is believed by some :
etymologists to have originally sig-
nified a man without lands, such a
person naturally wandering to and fro
in search of employment.—New York
Tribune.
IN PARIS
With the Song of That Tune-
ful Bird.
The Parisian has an amiable weak-
ness for the canary. Every street
echoes with the song of this bird, and
during holiday times when families
are away there are concierges whose
more or less restricted quarters are
positively cumbered with cages of
canaries. But in or out of the sea-
son the bird market is held every Sun-
‘day of the year in the City Island,
and there is always a lively trade
in canaries. One venerable crnitholo-
gist who dwells near the market has
spent his life in teaching canaries
to sing, and he has, after years of
effort, produced a pure white canary
with a song as powerful and sweet as
any yellow or green bird ever sold.
The supply of the white canaries be-
ing at present very limited, those sold
at the Paris market have brought com-
paratively high prices. These birds
are as white as any dove and with-
out a speck on their plumage.
The Parisian has his own special
way of transporting his canaries to
the cage that awaits them at his
home. The bird is placed in a small
paper bag and pinned to the lapel of
his coat.
Record of New Race.
Although four Americans have won
the Epsom derby, only one American
bred horse has ever captured it—Iro-
quois, owned by the late Pierre Lor-
illard, in 1881. The classic was won,
this year by Herman B. Duryea, an!
American, who raced the French -bred|
horse, Durbar II. The Kentucky:
jockey, MacGee, rode the winner. The
late William C. Whitney won the great)
English turf classic with Volodyovskl:
in 1901. Mr. Whitney had leased the
racing services of the horse. In 1907,
Richard Croker won the derby With,
Orby, bred in Ireland. Sir Martin, an!
American-bred horse, owned by Mr.
Walter Winans, was winning the great
event a few years ago when he fell
at the famous Tottenham corner, and
with him fell the hopes of America’
. for that year.
Ticklish Bridge Work.
The most interesting and dangerous-
looking stage in the construction of
suspension bridge is the building of
the floor. In this work the builders
have nothing to rest their work on
and must build out each way from the
towers, securing the floor, piece by
piece, to the heavy steel bars sus
pended from the main calles far above.
The work is done with (lerricks that
are equipped with booms long enough,
to reach out ahead c¢? the finished
: structure and hoid the girders sus-
. pended while they are being riveted in
place. As each section of the floor is
completed, the derricks are moved
ahead and the construction of the next
section is begun.
Earning’ Her Living.
Miss Curley kept a private school,
and one morning was interviewing a
new pupil,
“What does your father do to earn
i his living?” the teacher asked of the
little girl.
“Please, ma’am,” was the prompt re-
ply, “he doesn’t live with us. My
mother supports us.”
“Well, then,” asked the teacher,
how does your mother earn her liv-
ing?” :
“Why,” replied the little girl in an,
irtless manner, “she gets paid for:
s a village called Boz.~—London Chron- | staying away from father.” — New,
cle.
| York Timee, : En tS re