DemortalitA atc,
Bellefonte, Pa., November 6, 1914.
TO A MAPLE LEAF IN AUTUMN.
(“We all do fade as aleaf’’)
How like to Man art thou!
Canst thou thy change foresee—
What leaf upon the bough,
What bough upon the tree?
It was but yestere’en
Thou wert a loyal part
Of Summer’s solid green
That stirred the grateful heart.
But Night upon thee blew
With pale and frosty breath,
And left thy natural hue
Aflame in glorious death.
Or was there from thy birth
An ichor in thy blood,
. Transmuting the dull earth
To Autumns’ golden flood?
Thy going is not grief:
Thy splendor shall but make
Soil for another leaf
That follows in thy wake.
1in my Autumn hour
Do envy thee in thine:
Thy joy-diffusing power,
The year’s consummate wine.
The light of yonder tree
My keenest hurt doth salve;
Better the gold we see .
Than all the gold we have.
When my green strength be stayed,
And frost shall summon me,
If like a leaf I fade,
0, let me fade like thee!
—Robert Underwood Johnson, in the Outlook.
THE HOME COMING.
Margaret Demming looked around the
familiar, shabby little parlor which she
had left so willingly almost a year be-
fore, when a benevolent “providence”
had lifted her from a dreary teacher’s
desk in the small home town into the
larger life of a big Eastern city. It
seemed so queer to be back again, back
for a whole week among the oldpeople,
the old things and old memories that she
had almost forgotten in the excitement
and interest of the new life.
“Everything looks just the same,” she
said, with a sigh that might have been
either disappointment or satisfaction. “I:
col almost believe I'd never been away
at all.”
Her mother, with fingers that trembled
a little at the unaccustomed happiness,
took Margaret’s veil and scarf and hung
them on 2a chair.
“Maybe you’d better go up-stairs and
lay your things off,” she said. “You'll
want to wash up a bit after the journey.
I've made the back room ready, and
you'll find some clean towels laid out.”
“Yes, I'll go up,” said Margaret. “But
where's father? And isn’t Ted home
yet?”
“They’ll be in after a while,” her moth-
er answered. “You know Ted doesn’t
leave the shop till six; and he’s had to
work overtime lately; one of the men
was sick.”
Margaret glanced at the tall, thin
woman at her side. The year seemed to
have wrought little change. Her face
was a trifle thinner, perhaps, a trifle
paler, with a few more lines, but there
was the same quick, nervous energy
when she moved and spoke, the same
tired patience in repose. It was the face
of a woman of whom life had exacted
much and given little in return.
“You look so nice in your new things,”
Mrs. Demming said, admiringly. *I
wish now I'd taken time to change; but
there'didn’t seem to bé a chance, some.
how.”
“Never mind,” said Margaret. “It
doesn’t matter. And, besides, every-
thing looks so homey. It's all just the
way it used to be,” she repeated.
There was a moment’s silence. “We
had the hall-stand mended,” said Mrs.
Demming, “and there’s a new carpet in
the hall. But otherwise guess it’s pretty
much the same.” Then, “I've got to look
* at the oven,” she added. “Do you mind
going up-stairs alone?”
“Why, of course not,” said Margaret,
and her mother hurried back to the
kitchen. How young and fresh and
capable her little Maggie looked; how
good it was to have her home again!
Margaret gathered up her things and
looked once more around the room—at
the ebony piano, the worn chairs, the
old-fashioned mirror, the bunch of ever-
lasting flowers on the corner table. She
missed something, though, from the man-
tlepiece. What was it? And there was
a patch of paper on the opposite wall
that had not faded like the rest, evident-
ly where a picture had hung.
How she had hated that paper! The
landlord, in a perverse fit of generosity,
had put it on during her vacation two
years ago, and on her return she had
found festoons of pink and purple roses
staring at her all around the room.
“What on earth possessed you to let
them do it?” she had asked her mother
in dismay. “We can’t possibly live with
that pattern. It kills everything in the
house.”
Mrs. Demming had excused herself,
. nervously. “It needed doing so badly,”
she had said, “and I thought you'd like
to come and find it all nice and fresh. It
will tone down, you know.”
Margaret had answered nothing. What
was the use? No one would understand
her artistic agony. She remembered
how ashamed she had felt the next day
when a kindly visitor remarked how
cheerful the colors looked. “Fortunately
I'm not responsible for the choice,”
Margaret had replied, coldly.
That was merely one instance among
many. What battles she had fought in
the name of: “taste” and “art!” How
many times she had tried to bring order
out of chaos, to enforce her own ideals,
to banish exasperating family relics to
the oblivion they deserved, and put in
their place things which embodied her
ideas of beauty and harmony. But no
one seemed to realize what such things
meant to her. “You're always finding
fault with something, Maggie,” her
brother would remark.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me Maggie,”
she would say. “It’s so common.” She
had tried to make it “Marguerite.” There
was a flavor of medieval romance about
the word; it reminded her of a pale
Tennyson poem or a ballad of William
Morris. But her mother said she could
never remember how to spell it; she
always got the “u” in the wrong place.
So this touch of pre-Raphaelitism was
never attained.
But why bother about that now? After |
all, it really didn’t matter.
up nothing, really, for she was only
And she going to remain a week. - She would
went up-stairs into the little back bed- | never tolerate them if her stay were to
room, with its clean white linen and | be permanent. And, besides—her prob-
freshly laundered curtains—the room
where she used to sleep. - She hung up |
her wraps, washed off the dust of the!
journey, gave her hair a few needed |
touches, and then made a tour of in-.
spection through the rooms. She paused |
in the doorway of her mother’s bedroom. |
Just the same—only the rug a little more !
worn and the paper a trifle more faded. |
“Ah, they've mended the knob at last,” |
she thought as her eyes fell on the lower |
bureau drawer. She stooped and pulled
it out mechanically. Yes, the broken !
knob had been taken off and a new one;
put on. It didn’t quite match, but never had she to refuse this sacrifice? Would |
mind; at least one could pull the drawer | it not be far wiser to accept it as a vol- | :
i untary step in the older woman’s intel- | was a pile of small stones ready for fix-
lectual progress? What right had she to |
assume her mother was incapable of |
out straight. |
She was pushing it back again when |
something caught her eye—a bit of
china, white with a brown spot. She
took it out. How funny! It was the!
little old china dog that used to sit on |
the corner of the parlor mantelpiece, the |
dog with the broken ear and the patient, |
perpetual grin. How often she had tried |
to persuade them to throw him away! |
He was so ugly, so useless, so absurd. |
He wasn’t heavy enough for a paper- |
weight, he didn’t even hold matches;
there was absolutely no excuse for his
existence. i
“But it would be so unfeeling,” her!
mother had often said. “Your dear aunt
Emily gave him to me justa week be-
fore she died. She said he always used |
to cheer her up.”
And so they had to let him stay. But!
now—what was he doing in the bottom !
bureau drawer? And what was that
piece of silk he had been wrapped in?
She drew it out; ah, yes, it was another
of her artistic nightmares, a yellow hand-
painted scarf, the one that used to hang
over the corner of the mantelpiece, to
Margaret’s resigned disgust. It had been
a wedding present of her mother’s, made
by an old school friend, and in its day
had been considered “quite a work of:
art.” And in the drawer, beneath it, was
a faded frame of plush and gilt, with a
portrait of ‘dear Aunt Emily” dressed in
the forbidding garb of forty years ago—
respectability personified. n= Margaret
understood now that odd patch of bright-
ness on the parlor wall. Of course, why
had she not remembered sooner? That
was where Aunt Emily used to hang.
But why—what were they all doing here?
Then suddenly the meaning of it dawn-
ed upon her. This was part of her
mother’s welcome; this was her way of
sparing Margaret's feelings, of making
home a little nearer what she had al-
ways longed for by putting out of sight
the things she had disliked.
A lump rose in Margaret’s throat and
the out-lines of the china dog grew blur-
red. A wave of tenderness and gratitude
swept over her, and for a moment she
struggled to choke back the tears. There
was something so touching, so mutely
pathetic in this belated acquiescence in
her wishes, this silent self-effacement of
middle age before the ideals of a younger
generation. By this one simple action
of atonement all the past offenses against
her love of beauty, all the wounds to her
artistic feelings, were somehow healed.
For it had always been her feelings—
argaret’s feelings—that had counted.
In fact, until this moment it had hardly
occurred to her, except in the vaguest
way, to consider the matter from any
other point of view. She had talked of
individualism, of the sacredness of self- |.
expression, of the stunting influence of
old traditions, old prejudices, old beliefs.
But it had been her own individuality,
her own need of expression that had cen-
tered all her thoughts. Of the others—
well, she had simply not thought about
it from their standpoint; that was all.
She looked down at the old china dog
with his brown patch and his broken ear,
at the painted flowers on the yellow
scarf, and the portrait cf Aunt Emily
staring out of its plush-and-gilt frame.
Would she have done this? Had she ever
hidden her own likes and dislikes in def-
erence to another’s opinion? She might
have abdicated for a moment, unwilling-
ly, ungraciously, but she could recall no
instance when she had done so with vol-
untary self-denial. What if her sense of
values had been distorted? What if she
had laid too much stress on the outward
symbol, too little on the meaning behind
it? What if simple kindness were bigger
than art?
Besides, thirty years from now perhaps
her modernism would have become old-
fashioned. Her children, in turn, might
try to convert her to fresh doctrines of
life and art, smile indulgently upon her
‘‘queer” notions, speak slightingly of
things she had held in reverence, things
that had been part and parcel of her own
life. And she would try to readjust her
vision, to give up the old faded treasures
that once meant so much, and keep pace
with the intellectual procession of anoth-
er day. Butit would be like tearing out
a part of herself, being traitor to her
own youth, and she would still cling
secretly to the old gods and the old
altars, while striving outwardly to adapt
herself to the new. And by and by, as
the years crept past, her children’s chil-
dren would grow up with still newer
convictions, still more “advanced” ideals.
And they in turn. . . . So: would the
wheel spin on. :
“Have you got everything you want,
dear?” called her mother from below.
Margaret started guiltily and closed
the drawer.
“It’s all right; I'll be down directly,”
she answered. 5
She rose slowly and stood there a min-
ute or two, thinking. Just in that brief
space things had changed so. Her whole
outlook seemed different. She seemed
somehow to have got away from herself,
outside the narrow hedge of her own
“individualism,” off where she could see
things—people—life—from an impersonal
point of view. Before—ah, yes, she knew
it now—they had been warped and con-
fused, distorted by the colored glass of
her imagination—or, perhaps, lack of it;
but now she could see clearly, as though
through a clean pane. Some invisible
hand had washed a window in her soul.
She had got “perspective.”
°
Margaret stooped and opened the bu-
reau drawer again. She looked at the
china dog, and the portrait in the plush-
and-gilt frame, and the faded scarf. An
impulse of generosity swelled in her
heart. She would take them down-stairs
and put them back in their old places!
She would reward her mother’s sacrifice
by one of her own. :
But as she lifted the scarf out of the
drawer, Margaret paused. After all, she
reflected, the impulse was not really a
generous one. It was only superficial—
another of her “poses.” (She was begin-
ning to see through herself by the light
of a new self-criticism.) Even if she did
put the things back, she would be giving
ing thoughts went deeper—would such
an action be quite fair to her mother? It
would be condescension, a gift spoiled by
the giver’s sense of superiority, the sort
of concession which the other would re-
sent: Instead of healing, it would widen
the breach between their sympathies.
Moreover—she realized slowly—dear as
these old treasures might be, neither
they nor the memories stood for could
ever mean quite so much as a daughter’s
love and happiness. Today is always
greater than yesterday, and tomorrow
bigger than either. After all, what right
readjusting her viewpoint? Age has as
much right to self-development as youth; :
why not accept the sign of it framkly |
and with gladness, as a sweet and normal
thing? And since the outgrown symbols
had been put away, let them find togeth-
er new and better ones to take the old
places. Yes, that was the sollution—that
was the right and beautiful way.
As Margaret rose to her feet the door
opened and her mother came into the
room, her thin face flushed from the
heat of the oyen, her blue-check apron
dusty with flour. She started to say
something—then stopped and looked
down at the open drawer. Her hot
| cheeks flushed deeper and a troubled
look came into her eyes.
“Why, Margaret! How did you find
them?” she exclaimed with a note of dis-
may in her voice. *I put them away... .
I remembered you never liked to see
them around. I wanted youshould have
things the way you liked when you came
home. And now...” She hesitated.
In her eyes there was a strange embar-
rassment, a mixture of disappointment
and surprise, as though ashamed by the
! discovery and failure of “her simple ruse. !
But something in the girl's face reached
her—vaguely at first, then with a wave
of sudden comprehension.
“Maggie!” There was a little break in ;
her voice, like a half-sob, and a mist rose
in her eyes.
Margaret tried to say something light
and playful, to treat it all as a matter of
course. But somehow her voice wouldn’t
work, and she achieved only incoherence.
For a moment they looked at each other
silently, timidly almost, and with a little
cry the elder woman stretched out her
arms. For a second or two she held the
young figure closely, with a world of
tenderness; then, at a sudden recollec-
tion, released her with a quick movement
of self-reproach. Margaret had always
hated so to be “petted.” How could she
have let herself forget!
The two stood there.
broke the silence.
“I want to show you something I
brought home,” she said. “It’s only a
Then Margaret
very little picture, but I think you'll love |
it. It’s a copy of a Whistler etching that
I had framed specially for you. If you
like it, we'll hang it up where Aunt
Emily used to be. And can’t we find
something beautiful for the mantelpiece
—a little jar or a bowl to hold some flow-
ers?”
Mrs. Demming hesitated. “There's
that blue jar the old potter gave us years
ago.” :
“Why, of course!” cried Margaret,
eagerly. “That's the very thing!”
“Yes, we'll find it now,” repeated Mrs.
Demming, with an odd quaver of happi-
ness in her voice. “And while we're
down there,” she added, “you must see
the strawberry jam I’ve put up for you
to take back.”—By Ella M. Ware, in
Harper’s Bazar.
Annual Convention American Civic As-
sociation.
The tenth annual convention of the
American Civic Association will be held
at Washington, D. C., Wednesday, Thurs-
day and Friday, December 2nd, 3rd and
4th. It will be a most important meet-
ing, from which will go out inspiration
to all parts of the United States for ad-
vanced effort for the making of beauti-
ful and healthful community life and for
the preservation of great national scenic
wonders such as Niagara Falls and the
national parks.
The American Civic Association was
formed at St. Louis in June, 1904, by the
consolidation of the American Park and
Outdoor Art Association and the Ameri-
can League for Civic Improvement. The
Washington convention will, therefore,
be an anniversary occasion and distin- |
guished, it is expected, by the presence
of many of the charter members of the
Association and by a program of unusual
excellence, relating to city and town
planning, city and county parks, neigh-
borhood improvement, the abatement of
the billboard and smoke nuisances, Niag-
ara Falls preservation and national parks.
Distinguished speakers who are recogniz-
ed authorities on these subjects will be
present, not only from the United States,
but from Canada and some other foreign
countries. The year 1914 has been a no-
table one for the American Civic Asso-
ciation in respect to the work that it has
done to arouse and assist hundreds of
towns and cities to important work for
their physical improvement. It has also
been a notable year in that the Associa-
tion has cleared itself of a deficit cf long
standing which it incurred in its notable
crusade for the saving of Niagara Falls
against commercial incursions. An-
nouncements will be made at the Wash-
ington convention looking toward a
larger service to American communities
by the Association during the years to
come than has ever before been possible.
Delegates representing civic leagues,
women’s clubs, commercial organizations
and many other societies, from all parts
of the United States and Canada, all di-
recting their efforts for a more beautiful
America, will be present.
The colored preacher who remarked
“Brethren, there is one place to which
we can turn and always find sympathy—
the dictionary,” probably meant more
than he said. Certain it is that about
the only place to which some women
could turn for the sympathy they need,
would be the dictionary. The husband
doesn’t sympathize. The family whisper
“Mother has one of her nervous spells
again.” Everybody seems to feel ag-
grieved that their liberty to slam doors
and romp around the house should be
curtailed by the requirements of “Moth-
er’s nerves.” Help is better than sym-
pathy, and help for every nervous wom-
an is found in Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Pre-
scription. It heals diseases of the wom-
anly organs which cause nervousness,
and it nourishes the nerves themselves
into strength. It does away with the
“nervous spells” of women.
FROM INDIA.
By One on Medical Duty in that Far Eastern
Country. Getting Ready for a Trip to the
Mountains. Color-Washing Rooms. Etc.
: JHANSI, SEPTEMBER 12th, 1913.
Dear Home Folk:
How can I write letters when my whole
thought is, “what shall I need in Kash-
mir.” On my way to see a sick woman
the other day, I chuckled to myself as I
‘saw lying by the roadside a young man
dressed in mighty thin garments, rest-
ing, seemingly, in great content, hands
behind his head and his back support
ing the road and I said to myself, “anoth-
er tired individual.” I won't select a
pile of stones to rest on but I will do all
the loafing that I know about after next
| week. We will leave here early Monday
morning and from that time on I only
intend to do necessary things.
Tell father to get out his atlas and
come along; I'll supply dandy fishing
streams and country as wild and bezuti-
ful as even his tree-loving soul could
want. Rawl-Pindi will be the end of the
railway, then Baramulla, and on to Srina-
gar by Landau. From there we will go
on to the Liddar valley where we camp
for a short time and visit beautiful native
gardens and see queer, small villages. It
is up this valley we are hoping to have
our first snow storm. We then go back
to Srinagar and Gulmery- and Wular
Lake; and then we’ll have to come home:
Truly, I reckon it will all be over in al-
this. I hope all our plans carry and
we'll have a nice time, without having
to walk home, for it’s a fairish step this
jaunt to the mountains—twenty-eight
hours by rail and nearly two hundred
i miles of driving.
I bought myself such a nice little tin
trunk (box) to carry my wardrobe in
and when I arrive in San Francisco I
| sure will be considered an immigrant;
never saw its like except with the newly-
arrived—at Ellis Island, American (?)
It not only more nearly suits my ward-
hence costing little for transportation.
| The American trunks are a delusion and
a snare in this extra-luggage-pay-coun-
try; one almost pays their ticket over
again if using a big box, but my new box
surely does look ridiculous when Iglance
at it. Ones clothes and heavy things go
in the “hold-all” that, of course, will be
carried right along in our compartment
and is passed free by the railway; what
light clothes and things that are left go
in the box. Heigho! Cheating the rail-
ways, for there is but little to weigh.
The whole bungalow is upset as it is
the time of the year for color-washing
(colored white-wash) and all the rooms
must be done once in two years, so that
between my packing and the house-
cleaning my room looks as though it had
been struck by a cyclone. I'll straighten
it all out before I leave but just now one
can only wade in. This color-washing,
like everything else, is a slow, slow job
and instead of lasting but a few days it
will likely take months, and in the mean-
time we'll sleep under the beds and eat,
no doubt, on the floor.
bad as that, but pretty nearly.
Good morning? I went off to bed and
had a good night’s sleep and am feeling
ready to do any amount of work, so asl
haven’t much to tell you about, will truly
try next week to tell you of my journey
and will try to make it as interesting as
this is stupid.
There was a nice rain yesterday and
today this is a good world to live in, even
if we are eating in our reception room.
Have I ever slept on a spring bed, I won-
der. For some timel have been sleep-
ing on a “newar” bed, a frame filled in
with broad woven tape, cool but hard,
until today I begin to think ‘had I ever
slept on springs.” If I keep on I will be
in prime condition to go camping; won’t
need cots, merely a blanket to wrap my-
self in and that will be all. You see I
am preparing to “tramp it” home from
Frisco, know I'll be “stony broke” as
these English say, so at least I can get
on that way.
I can’t say whether you will receive
letters regularly from me for the next
few weeks, as we will be days away from
Srinagar, the capital of Cashmir, but I
will try to send them each week.
(Continued next week.)
Rockaby, Baby.
There are few girls in this country
who have not heard the nursery rhyme
sung by mother:
Rockaby, baby, in the treetop;
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come cradle, baby and all.
But how many know the origin of
these lines? Shortly after our forefath-
ers landed at Plymouth, Mass., a party
were out in the field, where these Indian
women, or squaws, as they are called,
had papooses—that is, babies—and, hav-
ing no cradles, they had tied them up in
Indian fashion, hung from the limbs of
the surrounding trees. When the wind
blew, these cradles would rock. A young
man of the party, observing this, peeled
off a piece of bark and wrote the above
lines. Itis believed that this was the
first poetry written in America. —Girls’
Companion.
Time's Changes.
“Before we were married you sald
you'd lay down your life for me,” she
sobbed. “I know it,” he returned sol-
emnly; “but this confounded flat is
so tiny there’s no place to lay any-
thing down.”
most as short time as it takes me to write |
robe of the present day but also is light |
and will be easily carried by a coolie, |
Oh, really, not so |
ESKIMO WHALE DANCE.
When Arctic Natives Feast and Pick
Their Life Mates.
A very primitive custom ot the na-.
tives ot the Bering and arctic coasts
of Siberni. a custom that has come
down froin generations of savage ao-
cestors, is the annual celebration of
the whale dance, when the Eskimos
select taeir wives.
f
LR RGRTE RER,
THREE TOASTS.
Giant Strides In Fixing the Boundaries
of Our Country.
At a dinner party given by Ameri-
! cans residing in Paris some years ago
When the sun moves southward at |
the end of the short suminer season
and the ice closes up the northern
seas the whales come down to open
water, Then. in celebration ot the
season's catch, the ice dwellers assem-
ble for the whale dance. which lasts
twenty-one days.
The great dance circle is prepared,
and in the center the dancers. both
male and female, perform the most
savage of evolutions and motions to
the accompaniment of rhythmless
beating c¢f the tomtomms and weird
chanting. The dance songs tell of the
prowess of the hunters and of the
history of the tribe. <The movements
of the women are surprisingly grace-
ful, and they mean to show in their
dance that, as daughters of a great
people. they are possessed of all the
qualities such women should have.
‘The men execute pantomimic scenes of
the bunt and go through ali the mo-
tions. of the kill. They spear the ice
bear, slay the walrus and seal and
finally, with extraordinary contortions,
vanquish the mighty whale.
During the last days of the feast,
when the time arrives for the selection
| of husbands and wives, the man per-
forms his mate dance before the wo-
man he has picked out.
he promises to provide her generously
with the fruit of the hunt, both food
and fur. [f she is pleased with him
she walks out and dances her accept-
ance and shows how she will look
after the igloo. When they have
danced before each other they are mar-
ried after the custom of the tribe, and
he leads her off to his walrus - hide
lodge.
there wers propused sundry toasts con-
cerning not so much the past and
present as the expected glories of the
great American nation. In the gen-
eral character of these toasts geo-
| graphical considerations were very
prominent. and the principal fact
{ which seemed to occupy the minds of
the speakers was the unprecedented
bigness of our country.
“Here's to the United States.” said
the first speaker, “bounded on the
north by British America, on the
south by the gulf ‘of Mexico, on the
| east LY the Atlantic and on the west
by the Pacific ocean.”
“But.” said the second speaker, this
is far too limited a view of the sub-
ject. In assigning our boundaries we
must look to the great and glorious fu-
ture, which is prescribed for us by the
manifest destiny of the Anglo-Saxon
race. Here's to the United States.
bounded on the north by the north
pole, on the south by the south pole,
on the east by the rising sun and on
the west by the setting sun.”
Here the third speaker arose. a very
serious gentleman from the far west.
“If we are going,” said this truly pa-
triotic American. “to leave the history
past and present and take our mani-
fest destiny into account, why restrict
i ourselves within the narrow limits as-
In pantomime |
signed by our fellow countryman who
has just sat down? [I give you the
United States, bounded on the north
by the aurora borealis. on the south by
the procession of the equinoxes, on
the east by primeval chaos and on the
west by the day of judgment.”—Phil-
adelphia Press.
WORKED HIS WEAK POINTS.
Mr. Ape Had No Memory, but Lots of
During the dance they feast on |
whale.
is about an inch thick and looks like
rubber. The solid blubber between it
and the true flesh is usually about four-
teen inches thick. The black skin and
the blubber, the latter cut to the thick-
ness of the former, is called moktuk
repulsive to the civilized ear, is most
palatable. It has a flavor something
The skin of the baleen whale !
Curiosity and Cowardice.
“Curiosity and cowardice,” said the
one legged veteran, ‘‘are the chief
characteristics of all monkeys and of
most men. | worked in a zoo after
the war. [I was the keeper of the mon-
key house. My biggest charge was an
ape the size of a twelve-year-old boy,
i and it was through his curiosity and
and is considered a great delicacy. It :
is eaten raw and, although it sounds
like that of chestnuts.—Youth’s Com- |
panion.
Prime Numbers.
cowardice that I used to manage him.
“We exercised, this ape in the big
room every day, but when we wanted
him to go back to his cage he’d climb
up to the roof of the big room, and
even with food you couldn’t tempt bim
: down.
It might appear at first that every |
number can be divided by some num-
ber besides itself and one; but many
numbers cannot, and it they cannot
they are known as prime numbers. Of |
all the numbers having a value of less |
than 1,000, there are 169 that are
prime. Of these twenty-six are smaller °
than 100, twenty-one appear between |
100 and 200, sixteen between 200 and ;
300.
sixteen between 300 and 400,
seventeen between 400 and 500. four-
teen between 500 and 600, sixteen be-
tween 600 and 700, fourteen between '
700 and 800, fifteen between 00 and
900 and fourteen between Y00 and
1,000.
His Vacation.
A woman had a negro cleaning the
yard for her. His wife had been dead
for several years. So his employer
seized a favorable moment and pro-
ceeded to sound him.
“John,” she said, “you're a good,
steady man. Lots of women would be
glad to have you. Why don’t you get a
wife?’
John leaned on his rake and scratch-
ed his head reflectively.
“Well, I tell you,” he replied. “You
know I was married seven years, an’
I've got to have a rest.”—Indianapolis
News.
The Price of a Kid.
Cordova is full of fun, says C. Bogue.
Luffmann in his “Quiet Days In Spain,”
and in the leisurely pace of life there
the observer has time to see and appre-
ciate all of it.
In the market one day a small boy
with a big apron and a pompous man-
ner was offering half of a small kid to
a woman for a peseta. She objected
that it was very tiny, and he fairly
smothered her with: “Woman! Do you
want half a bull for a tenpence?”
Which?
Is woman more interesting than man,
or the reverse? Man varies more. He
has more genius in exceptional indi-
viduals, and less of genius-like insight
in the average person. He completes;
woman endures. He builds externally,
she at home. He fights; she preserves.
Our worthless opinion is that men are
more interesting than women, but that
woman is more interesting than man.—
Harper's Weekly.
Natural Objection.
“Why won’t that rich old: curmudg-
eon let his young wife act in amateur
theatricals?” :
“Because the last time she took part
everybody raved about the way she
acted a merry widow part.”’— Baltimore
American.
Getting In the Picture.
“Some have greatness thrust upon
them.”
“I know. They blunder accidentaliy
into a film.”—Kansas City Journal.
A Compromise.
Fond Hubby (starting down town)—
What will it be, love—flowers or candy?
Wifie—-We'll compromise, dear. You
tan send both.—Judge.
-
Nothing is. possible to him who is al-
ways dreaming of his past possibilities.
“So I would go to Jack Lover and
take him gently by the arm and direct
his attention in a quiet, mysterious
manner to the dark passage under the
steam pipes.
“Lover and 1 every day tiptoed to
the pipes. We pretended to point out
to each other some horrible, unknown
creature in the passage, and we’d say:
‘Look out! There be is! There he is!’
“As we held each other’s arms and
bent over and peered into the darkness
we'd hear very soon the delicate pat-
ter of small, active feet. The ape’s
curiosity had got the better of him.
He crouched beside us. He, too, peer-
ed into the dark passage fearfully.
“Then suddenly Lover would shout:
‘Look out! He’s coming out! He's
coming out!” And we’d scamper away
in the direction of the ape’s house.
But the ape would be ahead of us.
He'd rush into his house in a perfect
whirlwind of excitement and terror.
Then—click! We'd snap the door to
on him, and he’d look very foolish.
“Every day we fooled the ape in this
way. He was long, you see, on curios-
ity and cowardice, but very short on
memory.”’—Chicago Herald.
How Hadley Proposed.
The way President Arthur Twining
Hadley, according to a Yale legend,
asked his prospective father-in-law for
{ permission to marry his daughter was
characteristic. At the time this gentle-
man, Luzon B. Morris, occupied an an-
omalous political position. He had re-
cently been elected governor of Con-
necticut, but his claim was disputed,
and the state was in a political turmoil.
“Mr. Morris.” was the way Mr. Had-
ley approached the subject of his call,
“I hope that I—at least—may be per-
mitted to—to call you—governor.”—
World’s Work.
Speed of the Street Song.
One of the curious things about the
popular song is the rapidity of its dis-
semination among the street children.
Few of them can hear it at first hand
at the music halls, yet long before the
latest catchy tune has found its way to
the barrel organs or Sunday newspaper
you will hear it rendered with amazing
accuracy by tiny boys and girls. It
seems to travel like rumor through an
East Indian bazar.—London Standard.
His Kick.
“Why don’t you go to the doctor with
that cold ?”’
“Can’t afford it.”
“You buy a pair of shoes when you
need them?”
“Yes, and that ends the transaction.
The doctor keeps telling me to come
again.”—Louisville Courier-Journal.
Her Coaxing Way.
She—Oh, sweet hubby. be so good
as to make me a present of 100 marks.
He—Well, if you need them you may
have them. She—Oh, how nice! Now
you need to give me only 300 marks
more for my tailor's bill!l—Fliegende
Blatter. :
Flower and Weed Test.
How to tell the flowers from the
weeds: Pull them up by the roots. If
they are flowers that will be the last of
‘em; if weeds. only the beginning.—
Chicago News.