wt
Beworeaic acon,
Bellefonte, Pa., January 15, 1915.
THE WAR TAX.
Uncle Sam has set a tax
On Pullman seat and chewing wax
On circus tickets, booze unmixed
And many other things ’tis fixed.
And Gladys at the drug store phone
In calling Tom, to which she’s prone,
To Uncle Sam must give her pence,
If she talks more than fifteen cents.
And when you send a wire to Jane,
And say to meet you at the train,
Then you must pay an extra mite,
Because the Europeans fight.
The tax on some, of course, is rough,
But it does not go far enough.
The country would be helped a bit
If several kinds of folks were hit.
‘The knocker should be forced to pay
‘Whenever he must have his say.
The man who always wants to fight
‘The city’s progress, 'twould be right.
If he were forced to pay a dime
For every slur, each separate time.
And many other kinds there be,
You know them well and so do we.
St. Louis Globe-Democrat.
BEFORE THE COURT.
It was the first day of the Christmas
vacation and among the throng at the
great New York station were many small
groups awaiting the train from New Eng-
land by which the boys of St. John’s
School were expected.
Prosperous-looking fathers exchanged
hearty greetings and mutual inquiries of
“How’s your boy getting on?” while
smartly-dressed, smiling mothers confid-
ed to each other their plans, and expect-
ant young brothers and sisters jumped
about craning their necks to see if the
overdue train were not in sight.
At last, long and heavily-loaded, it
puffed importantly into the train-shed,
and out between theropes that kept back
the waiting crowd came its hurrying pas-
sengers, among them the two car-loads
of rosy boys wearing St. John’s colors.
Some of the older ones passed careless-
ly along, but the small lads eagerly scan-
ned the crowd for familiar faces.
Then there arose subdued little cries of
“There he is!” and quick affectionate
greetings followed as boys slipped under
the ropes and submitted themselves to
embraces.
Among his fellows of the youngest
form come Dicky Tremaine, stepping
quickly in spite of flapping overshoes
which he had forgotten to pack and had
neglected to fasten.
In one hand he clutched a hastily-roll-
ed and bulgy uiwnbrella, and in the other
a bag as well asa dangling pair of skates.
He gazed eagerly at the waiting par-
ents as if in search of an expected face,
but only a sedate man-servant stepped
forward and deftly relieved him of his
burdens.
THE WELCOME
“Hello! Simpson! Where’s my moth-
er?” asked the boy.
“The Madam couldn’t come, Master
Dick, but she’s sent the car for you. May
I have your trunk check now, if you
please?” answered Simpson, setting down
the bag for a moment as he neatly re-
rolled the offending umbrella. ’
Dick produced the check from an over-
flowing pocket, disposed of a piece of
chocolate adhering to it, and called out
“So long, Mugsey, Merry Christmas!” to
another boy who was passing him under
the escort of an admiring family.
“That’s little Dickey Tremaine,” com-
mented “Mugsey’s” fond mother to his
proud father, who whispered back, “Not
much of a Christmas there, I'm afraid.”
At the curb 2 motor-car was waiting
and Dickey sprang to the front seat,
waving the not unwilling Simpson to the
padded shelter within.
“Not too cold for you?” queried the
chauffeur smilingly, as he threw a rug
- over the boy’s knees.
“Cold, rats! It was five below in the
dormitory this morning. Let her outa
little, Reed. This is great,” and Dickey
beamed approvingly at the avenue
as the big car swiftly purred its way up-
town.
Before it had fairly stopped in front of
his home, he had stormed up the steps
and given the bell a vigorous push. A
maid opened the door immediately, and
a fair-haired girl in a blue dress ran out
into the hall and threw her arms about
him.
“Cut that out now, Conty,” he ordered
with firmness, wriggling away from her
kiss and out of his overcoat at the same
time. “Where's Mother?”
“Oh, Dickey” sighed the little sister.
“I’m so glad that you've come! Mother
won’t be home until late and I’ve lots of
things to tell you.”
“What's the matter?” he demanded,
catching a note of trouble in her voice.
“Isn’t Mother well? Have you got into
another scrap with Fraulein? Can’t you
tell a fellow?”
As he spoke, she pulled him into the
library and carefully closed the doors.
“It’s something awful, Dickey,” she
said shaking her head solemnly. “They
don’t know that I know anything about
it, but I do. What do you suppose? Fath-
er and Mother are going to be divorced,
and we’ll never, never all live together
any more.”
Dickey turned on her with flashing
eyes. “Idon’t believe a word of it,” he
cried indignantly. “You've been listen-
ing to servams’ gossip, as usual. I shall
speak to Mother about it the moment she
comes in.”
Constance’s lip trembled. “Don’t be
cross to me Dickey,” she begged. “You
don’t know haw horrid everything is now.
Daddy has gone to the Club to live and
I never see him except on Sundays when
he takes me to the park. Mother's dif-
ferent, too, Dickey. She always sends
me off to Fraulein, and I don’t dare ask
her questions, she—-—"
There was a tap at the door and Simp-
son appeared looking slightly embar-
“Master Dick.” he said, “the Madam
left orders that you were to stay here in
the library as—er—MTr. Tremaine is com-
ing to see you at four o'clock. Also,
Fraulein says that Miss Constance is to
come to her at once, please.”
NEW COMPLICATIONS.
“Very well, Simpson,” assented the boy
mechanically, but Constance stamped her
foot wilfully.
“Tell Fraulein to let me alone,” she
said. “I won’t go upstairs! I'm going to
stay and see my father,”
Simpson hesitated, but Dickey drew
himself up with a new dignity. “You
needn’t wait, Simpson,” he said, and as
the door closed he pulled Constance
down to a seat beside him.
“Now tell me all about it Kid, and
don’t you dare boo-hoo,” he commanded.
Constance twisted her bit of a handker-
chief nervously.
“Don’t be mad at me, Dickey,” she
faltered. “I couldn’thelp listening when
Marie and Fraulein were talking in the
room next the nursery. They thought
I was asleep, of course. It isn’t sneaky
to listen when nobody will tell you the
things you've got a right to know.”
“Go on,” urged the impatient boy.
“What did those lunatics say?”
“They said there was going to be a
divorce. Marie said that American wives
were too cold—"
“French idiot, what does she mean by
that?” growled Dickey.
“And Fraulein said that American
ladies were not domestic and had too
much money,” continued Constance like
a parrot.
“Dutch Bonehead!” exploded Dickey
wrathfully, “How dare they talk about
Mother? She’s the nicest person in the
whole world.” :
“And so’s Daddy,” protested Constance.
“It isn’t his fault. He’s always kind and
jolly. Oh, I don’t see why they quarrel!
They always punish us when we do.
And, Dickey, Fraulein said that Mother
would probably take me to Europe to go
to school. I know I'd have to study and
practice all day and never have any
un.”
“And am I to be left here all alone?”
demanded the boy.
“Oh, they said that you would belong
to Daddy. You'll stay on at St. John’s.
I'd lots rather stay at home with Daddy
than go to that silly old Europe,” and
Constance kicked viciously in the sup-
posed direction of the old world.
“I don’t believe that Mother means to
go away and leave me,” began the boy
passionately and then stopped short, as
the door opened and his father came into
the room.
Constance ran to hi mn and as she pull-
ed his face down to her own, the marked
likeness between them was apparent.
Both were fair and blue-eyed; impulsive,
amiable, and pleasure-loving. .
The pale dark-eyed boy looked almost
of another race as he silently held out his
hand to his father, who put an arm about
him, gently detaching his little daughter.
“Glad to see you Dick,” he said. “I
want to have a talk with you. Constance,
you run along to Fraulein now.”
But she clung to him, crying “Daddy
dear, don’t send me away. I know what's
going to happen. I’ve just told Dickey
about it. Don’t send vour own little girl
away, please, please!”
Her father’s face twitched and he sat
down, taking her on his lap. Dick stood
facing them, his eyes fixed upon his
father’s face.
Richard Tremaine, the elder, had a
strange feeling of being before two
judges, and he began to speak with diffi-
culty.
“I don’t know what you children have
heard or how you heard it. The truth
is that it seems best for your mother and
me—to—to—separate.”
There was a pause until Constance
said in a scared little voice.
“But what about Dickey and me, Dad-
dy? We don’t like ‘separating’ at all.”
“I suppose, my darling,” said the fath-
er sadly, “that you will stay with your
mother and—"".
“And never see you, my own Daddy,”
‘she cried, holding him fast.
His eyes grew moist, “My little girl,”
he said, reassuringly, “we shall see each
other very often, I can take you to the
Park, you know, and to the theatre when
you're a big girl—"
But the levity of his tone rang false
even to childish ears and Constance sob-
bed, “No, no, Daddy, that isn’t enough.
I want to eat my breakfast with you.”
Mr. Tremaine looked at Dick as if for
help against feminine tears, but the
boy’s face was set and stern.
“What is to become of me, Sir?” he
asked.
“Well, you'll stay at school, you know,
and then go to college, of course. I'll
try to give you a good time in the holi-
days. We are going to be good friends,
Dick,” said the father pleadingly.
“And my mother?” asked the boy.
“Oh, your mother will see you often, of
course, and—"
But Dick interrupted desperately, “I
know how it will be. There’s a fellow
at school whose father and mother are
divorced. His mother comes to see him
and she has to ask him what he did in
vacation. She doesn’t know. He just
belongs to his father. On Sunday, once,
in chapel, when the clergyman spoke
about the evil of divorce, that boy got
all red and looked ashamed. He knew
that we all knew about his family. It
isn’t fair to Conty and me. Isay it isn’t
fair, Sir.”
As his voice rang shrilly on the last
words, he turned to see a tall, slender
woman, ghastly white in her dark furs,
who stood gazing at him.
“Mother!” he cried, and ran to her
outstretched arms.
Passionately they clasped each other
as she murmured, “Dickey, my darling,
my own little boy.”
Then she released herself gently and
looked at her husband. “I beg your par-
don,” she said with formality. “They
did not tell me that you were here.”
“I had my latch-key and let myself in.
The servants did not see me,” he said as
if in apology. “I will go.”
AN ACCIDENT.
He kissed Constance and went toward
the door, but the little girl uttered a
heart-broken wail and rushed across the
room after him. Her stumbling, im-
petuous feet caught in a rug and she fell,
pot head striking the sharp corner of a
case.
“There she lay as still as death at her
father’s feet.
“My God!” he exclaimed, as he bent
over her and saw the blood on her fore-
head. “Have we killed her, Eleanor?”
His wife stood at his side, “Run, tele-
phone,” she gasped; “we must have a
doctor at once! Hurry!”
She lifted Constance and laid her on
the sofa while her husband caught up
the telephone book in his trembling
hands, but Dick shot out of the room,
past the servant in the hall, and out of
the house.
Over the snowy street, like a good
little football player, he ran and caromed
into a young man coming out of a house
which bore a doctor’s sign.
* Dick tackled him, “Are you the doc-
tor?” he asked.
“That’s what I am,” said the other
amiably. “What's up, youngster, you
look pretty scared?”
“My sister! Her head is cut open.
Please come along. It's just across the
street.”
“Hold on a second until Iget some
things,” answered the doctor as he dash-
ed back into his office and re-emerging
followed Dick up the steps of the Tre-
maine house, where Simpson watched
anxiously at the open door.
In the library Mr. Tremaine was still
at the telephone; his wife held Con-
stance’s listless hand; a German woman
was washing the bleeding forehead, and
some one in the corner was ejaculating in |
fluent and excited French.
The doctor took command of the situa-
tion as a captain clears the deck in a
storm, and when Constance opened her
eyes again, the room was quiet and dim.
Dickey sat at her feet on the sofa and a
strange young man held her wrist with
his fingers. :
“I want Daddy,” she said feebly. :
Then from behind her stepped her
father and knelt down at her side. She
put her hand in his, sighed comfortably
and closed her eyes again.
“There, she’s all right,” said the young
doctor, gently laying her arm upon the
sofa. “Put her to bed and keep her
quiet. I'll see her early tomorrow.”
He rose to go when his keen eyes rest-
ed on Dick.
“This young man looks pretty white
around the gills,” he said. “When did
you have your lunch, youngster?”
“Well, I didn’t like the lunch they put
up for us at school, so I chucked it out
of the train window. I usually have tea
with mother the first day of vacation,”
faltered Dick in shaky tones.
There was an exclamation from some
one in the dusk, a quick hand on the bell,
and an order hastily given to the servant
who promptly appeared.
“WE MUST TRY AGAIN.”
“That’s right,” said the doctor, who
knew nothing of the cloud that hung
over the house of Tremaine. “You have
a jolly tea-party with mother, but don’t
disturb my patient here.”
He donned his overcoat and picked up
his hat. “Good afternoon,” he said, and
added to Dick as he left the room, |
“Merry Christmas, sprinter.”
Then from out her shadowy corner
came Eleanor Tremaine and stood con-
tritely before her husband.
“Richard,” she said, “for their sakes
we must try again. I have been too
proud. Forgive me.”
He reached up from his seat by the
child and took her hand. Dick saw him
kiss it softly as-he answered, “It was my
fault, Eleanor, mine.”
A discreet footfall sounded in the hall;
Simpson entered with his shining tea-
tray and set it down.
Then, better to Dick than ail the good
things for which his empty little stomach
yearned, more beautiful than the gleam-
ing silver and transparent porcelain, were
the sprigs of holly which Simpson, in
token of the morrow, had ventured to
put upon the well-laden tray.
Dick picked one up and fastened it in
his mother’s gown, saying to her half
shyly, “Merry Christmas!”
She, smiling at last the lovely smile
that to him meant home and holidays
this year and for all the years to come,
answered softly in his ear: “And a happy
New Year for us all, please God, my
Dickey.”—By Emily Sargent Lewis, in
Harper's Bazar, December, 1914.
Our Friend—the Banana.
The banana is of the Musa family, em-
bracing many species and varieties, and
is to be found almost everywhere be-
tween the tropics of Cancer and Capri-
corn, extending its limits a few degrees to
the north and south in some cases.
While certain varieties of the banana-
tree, so-called, attain a respectable size,
the species most generally cultivated for
the fruit are the kind that average a
height of four feet. The smallest bana-
na is that of the “fig” variety, one that
is comparatively unknown in our north-
ern markets, but the one almost exclu-
sively eaten in lands where the banana
is grown.
The banana is mostly grown from
“suckers,” or roots having “eyes” like
potatoes.
Each of these eyes will produce a
plant. From the largest of the piants
appear at the end of one year or more a
huge purple blossom hanging from a
| thick stem, large and round at the base
and tapering to a point, being composed
of many compact rows of big overlap-
ping petals. From the base of the blos-
som these petals curve upward, showing
the tiny “hands” of bananas, each hay-
ing from eight to ten “fingers,” the term
applied to the individual fruits by the
cultivator,
In this fashion the successive hands
are gradually brought to view by the un-
folding and dropping of petals on
alternate sides of the stem, until the
bunch is complete. When the fruit has
been formed, a period of three months is
usually consumed in “filling” or attain-
ing its full size. Although it is still
green, the bunch is then cut and hung in
a shaded place to ripen. Bananas, like
pears, ripen best after being gathered.
From banana skins there is obtained a
tough fiber that may be woven into a
cloth. Juice yielded by the skins during
the operation of extracting their fiber
has been employed as the basis of an in-
delible ink and has also been fermented
into an excellent vinegar.
France Must Go Cold.
In the American Magazine appears a
war article by Will Irwin, special corre-
spondent of that publication. The article
is entitled “Hats Off to France,” and it
gives a complete, vivid picture of the
courageous French in their present mis-
ery. Of the threatening coal shortage
he says in part:
“France must go pretty cold this win-
ter. The Germans held all summer and
fall the coal mines of the northern strip.
The rest of the mines, their workmen
exempted as a military necessity, must
serve first of all the navy and the arms
factories. Even at that, coal is a bulky
burden to the railroads, which are run-
ning irregularly. Everywhere the peas-
ants are stripping the last branches from
the trees in order to keep the pot boiling
this winter.” So
SN —
Lightning,
The color of lightning is almost entire-
ly due to the nature of the substance in
its track that is made incandescent. The
blue, red, purple, or silver tints, which
are vrdinarily much more brilliantly
marked in tropical countries than they
ever are in this latitude, are due to the
same circumstance as that which pro-
duces the color desi y communicat-
ed to the light of different kinds of fire-
works.
Each different foreign ingredient that
floats in the air has its own hue,
which it can communicate to the light-
ning. The vapor of iron has one kind of
shine and the vapor of sulphur another.
FROM INDIA.
Sy One on Medical Duty in that Far Eastern
{| Country. Back to Jhansi After Six Weeks in
i the Mountains. A Homey Letter.
i Juansi, NOVEMBER 21st, 1913.
' Dear Home Folk:
i “A very Merry Christmas and a most
| bright New Year.”
| 1 just must prod myself into some
Christmas spirit for here in Jhansi all
| the winter aspect that Kashmir had is
‘ gone and, as I told you, the water failed
—dust, dust, “slathers and gobs” of it
every place, in your mouth and lungs,
until I am getting to again feel my
clothes. I lost some fat while away and
felt rather lank but if I swallow as much
dust in the next two months as I have
these ten days, well, I can’t imagine
just what I will wear when starting home.
{| It all seems like a dream, my going
| home, and yet I have written to Cook’s
| for my passage, hoping to leave Colombo
by the twelfth of February, so it’s a real
fact. Iam glad to leave India in many
ways, but of course, a wee tinge of re-
gret creeps in when I know I shall never
see these people who have been so kind
to me; but you know that has been my
portion for so many times think I ought
to have gotten accustomed to “breaking
ties” by this time.
I am almost ashamed to write letters to
you after those long ravings I sent while
away, but must bubble over to some one
when seeing things, so be prepared for I
know I will do it all again when I start
on this homeward way.
The hospital is closed this morning
and so I am sitting chatting to you while
four of the nurses take a second exam-
ination, they having failed in the first
one, given them before I went away.
They are seated on the hard, cold stone
floor, writing on their knees, and look
determined to succeed, and the questions
are as easy as I can make them, sol
have no doubt about them; but I do sym-
pathize with them for I remember how
my heart used to jump when I had to go
and tell how little I knew about things.
Already we are feeling the shortage—
eggs have gone to fifteen cents for small
ones, per dozen, and eighteen cents for
large ones; (small ones are the size of
bantam’s eggs at home.) Milk is now
16 A. (32 cents) per “seer” (two quarts.)
By the way, speaking of prices, in Kash-
mir you could get all the vegetables you
wanted at two to four cents a “seer”
(two pounds.) Eggs were but six cents
a dozen, fruit: apples and pears, six to
eight cents a dozen, so that the actual
living was cheap. But wood—any fancy
articles, jam, sugar, crackers, cheese,
house rent, (an ordinary boat, little and
mean, costing ten and fifteen . dollars per
month) were all just about the same, or
even more than you are paying at home.
Coolies are paid two to four cents ata
time, but you nearly always have to hire
three or four, so again the tipping is
nearly what I used to give in the States
—ten and fifteen cents; and then, the
worst part is that this must be given at
every station, if you happen to change
cars, and having to carry so much with
you for comfort, makes it expensive.
The actual train fare from Jhansi to
Rawal Pindi (twenty-six hour’s run) was,
third class, four dollars; but it allows of
but thirty pounds of luggage, so that by
the time I paid excess luggage, tariff I
had added six dollars to my fare; and
ten dollars was not so very cheap afterall
for the comfort!you had.
I just wonder what you are all doing;
if Christmas is making as little stir in
your lives as it is in mine this year it
will pass as any day might—not a single
gift will I send, just a few little notes,
and it will all beover. In one way I am
sorry for this inertia, but it sure does
save energy, and India is not kind in
giving surplus anything to strangers.
Next year, if all goes well, perhaps, with
you all,;I can revive a bit, so I am living
in hopes.
I had so much to tell you and now I
seem to be able to think of nothing. At
least I can tell you I hope to have a
month in China and a week or two in
Japan, ;then a wee while in Pasadena,
and so will arrive in the East in May or
June.® Am not looking forward to it all
with any great pleasure as both lack of
-| money and the fact that I must travel
alone, detract from the delights of it.
I received a most charming gift from a
native woman and when I get back and
you see my weird jewelry (all gifts) you
will readily understand how brilliant, and
yet how tawdry it all is out here.
1 should have much to tell you for I
know I have written but little for several
weeks, and yet it is all so much thesame.
Even the gaunt wraiths of cattle prowl-
ing around eating the dry leaves, (for
that is all that is to be found on the
ground now) are just the same; of
course, this should be their full season,
and one wonders how their poor bones
and skin will hang together for another
six months. :
One of the biggest stores in the ba-
zaar burned last night, and not a drop of
water could be used. They estimate
their loss at two lac’s of rupees (two
hundred thousand rupees, or sixty-six
thousand dollars.) Just to stand and
watch your possessions burn up and not
one thing done to save them—well, that
takes courage; since no one will fall to
and help another out as they do in Eng-
lish speaking countries. This is a coun-
try of “pice” and work (any kind) is
only done for money. ;
Friday morning—And this must go in
today’s mail, but what a day—everything
upside down, truly I can’t say even I am
on my feet, much less how can I write a :
letter, especially when my poor brain
cells are empty and in chaos. The pa-
tients are at times almost more than I
can-be smooth with and I am afraid I am
most irritable. Don’t think this is due
to any other cause, but I had to make
out a hospital report and the assistant
made many and various mistakes mak-
ing me re-write much, and you know
how impatient I am with stupidity. The
do not understand the meaning of the
English words and won’t ask to have
them explained.
. I wish you could see the garden we la-
bored over so hard last spring; not a
single green leaf, and nearly all our flow-
ers dead. I regret all those hours of
sleep lost and that steamy heat endured,
just to have a pretty garden—and this is
the result. The violets and the ferns—
those we gave water, and they alone, are
in their greenness. When I get backI
am going to camp on father’s grass—the
greenest, sofiest spot I can find, and
there I shall yell (for I have learned the
habit of shouting when I want anything)
—for roast chicken, French fried pota-
toes, pumpkin pie, and any and all sorts
of berries and I know I'll be a regular
bear if I don’t get them. What a lot of
rot I do talk about, you might think I
really cared about my food—I don’t, not
a whit, and it’s only words, like ‘most
folks prayers.
May you each and all have the best
kind of a Christmas and the nicest kind
of a New Year.
(Continued next week.)
Starvation Stalks Among Jews of the
Holy Land as Results of War.
BY THE RELIGIOUS RAMBLER.
As outlined in this column many weeks
ago, Turkey has become embroiled in
the war, and a whole train of religious
complications have ensued. Once more
the blood-stained soil of the holy land
sends to heaven the cries of the desolated
and the dying. The ears of Christen-
dom are keenly alert to news of the
places about which we all learned from
the Bible.
One of the earliest dispatches reported
fighting at Gaza, where Samson carried
off the gates of the city. ‘l'urkish troops
have mobilized around the gulf of Akaba
and the Sinai peninsula, and they are
quite as likely to cause trouble with their
commissariat as did the children of Israel
when Moses led them over the same
ground, more than 3000 years ago. Turk-
ish troops have been concentrated at
Mosul on the Tigris, which is across the
river from ancient Ninevah, say the same
day’s dispatches, and are moving from
there toward Egypt. The average reader
has no conception of the hundreds of
miles of desert travel involved in this,
and by troops inadequately equipped and
provisioned. All of Palestine proper is
astir with the movement of Turkish
troops.
Private advices, which I have been re-
ceiving from the holy land, indicate
wide-spread distress and devastation
caused by the wholesale conscription of
all men, Christians and Moslems alike,
between the ages of 18 and 42. It ap-,
pears that the Jewish colonists in Pales-
tine are especial sufferers, and there
have been acutal deaths from starvation
among those in the holy city itself.
The reason for this is clear. Most of
the more than 60,000 Jews in Jerusalem
are from Russia, Rumania and Germany
countries affected by the war. Their
source of livelihood has been the “por-
tion” which they have received through
the mails. War and Europe's financial
paralysis have summarily stopped this.
Very many of the colonists are old folk,
who have gone to the land of promise to
spend their declining years; and they are
unequal to the special exertions neces-
sary to secure funds or to leave the
country. Comparatively few of these
Jewish settlers are Americans; but if
relief goes to them it will have to be
sent chiefly from this country.
One bright prospect appears on the
horizon for those Zionists who may sur-
vive to realize it. Defeat for Turkey
means disintegration. Palestine would
then pass from Moslem control, probably
into the hands of a commission of the
powers, with considerable self-rule for
the inhabitants. Thus, the vexatious
burden of Turkish authority and ex-
actions would be lifted from the Jews in
the holy land. They would be free to
colonize to the full extent of their ability.
It might even be that at least a part of
Palestine would become a Christian-Jew-
ish democracy, with full religious toler-
ance. The site of David's temple, which
is now the Moslem Mosque of Omar,
may pass once more into the hands of
the chosen people, and worship be re-
established there according to the laws
of Moses.
Still more significant, as a possible re-
ligious consequence of the war, assuming
Turkey's ultimate defeat, would be the
realization of the dream of the Crusaders.
The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where
now sits a Turkish guard, day and night,
would become wholly a Christian pos-
session, and the scepter of the Moslem
would pass from the land which we call
holy. Russia’s dream of restoring the
cross to the mosque of St. Sophia, at
Constantinople, is likely to be realized.
Time brings dramatic changes, but the
fulfillment of the magnificent surprises
of the Crusaders of the middle ages, after
these many centuries, would thrill the
imagination of Christendom.
Meantime, though, the Christians in
Turkey are destined to suffer severely
because of the war. With Turkey in
conflict with most of the great powers,
which have hitherto protected Christians
from Moslem fanaticism, the Moham-
medan population will feel free to wreak
their hatred upon defenseless neighbors.
The Roman Catholics,the Greek Catholics,
the Armenians, the Chaldeans, Jacobites,
Copts, Nestorians, Maronites and Protes-
tants (such are some of the many va-
rieties of Christian faiths in the holy
land), will all feel the bloody reprisals of
fanatical Moslems. Added to the deadly
blight of poverty will be the worse hor-
ror of persecutions and massacres.
No nation outside of the levant has
citizens and property more widely dis-
tributed over the Turkish empire than
the United States. The American board
and Presbyterian missionaries are found
dotted over large parts of the extensive
territory of the Turk, from Mardin to
Constantinople. Wherever there is a
greatest fault I have to find is that they !
mission there are native Christians and
American property to be protected. And
the missionaries traditionally stay by
their posts. Now that the capitulations
have been canceled by Turkey, who can
tell what will befall?
Along the Mediterranenan, in unforti-
fied cities, are the great American mis-
sion schools, with Syrian Protestant Col-
lege, of Beirut, at their head. In Sidon
and Tripoli and Alexandretta and Mes-
sina and Tarsus (a few miles in from the
coast), and Smyrna, there are important
mission stations of the Americans. In
most of these places there are also Ger-
man missions. Both Haifa and Jeffa
have German religious colonies; while
on both ends of Mount Carmel are mon-
asteries of the French Carmelites. The
great American colleges at Constantinople
are outside the reach of the foreign war-
ships so long as the Dardanelles is held
by Turkey.
There is a possibility that a deliberate
effort may be made to embroil the United
States in the present strife by attacks
upon its citizens and vested interests in
Turkey. Certainly in the complexity of
the problem the situation for this coun-
try is vastly increased.
As I have more than once pointed out,
the possibility of a general “holy war,”
the uprising of all Moslems everywhere
against all Christians, is too remote as to
be almost negligible. The knowledge is
general among Moslems that the sultan
is not a true caliph, for though he is the
keeper of the green flag of the prophet,
vet in his veins runs none of the blood
of Mohammed or of his tribe of Koreish.
Moreover, the solidarity and simplicity
of Islam has been broken by modern
civilization. Every Moslem in Egypt
knows that life and property are safer
under British rule than under Turkish;
and that religious freedom is complete,
while prosperity is greater. More than
10,000 caravan fires on theroad to Mecca,
the Indian and Egyptian pilgrims have
| contrasted the protection and assistance
given them by Britain with the tyranny
gnd extortion which they suffer in Tur-
ey.
So while Turkish Moslems may massa-
cre Christians, and cry aloud for a
“jehad,” or holy war, yet the Moslems of
other nationalities, Indians, Egyptians,
Arabs and Malays, will be slow to jeop-
ard both their civil and religious liberty
by attempting to make war against their
own national rulers.
With enhanced interest and anxiety,
the people of America will read the war
news from the larid which embraces the
oldest empires of history.—Philadelphia
Record.
HOW MALTESE DERBY IS RUN
“Go-as-You-Please” Rules Govern a
Yearly Sporting Event in
That Island.
Horse racing is a favorite sport the
world over, but it is doubtful whether
any nation can boast of a more unique
race course or claim more remark-
able ideas of the sport than the Mal-
tese. Once a year, says a writer in
the Wide World, the road skirting
Sliema harbor is reserved as a race
course and the people turn out in thou-
sands to back their favorites. There
is no regulation of the course; the
crowd simply clears out of the way as
the horses come along. The jockeys
ride without bridles or saddles and
each carries a whip in either hand—
one for his own mount, the other to
keep back any horse which may try to
overtake him. We saw one of the
spectators deliberately trip a horse by
putting his leg out, at grave risk to
himself. These things, however, in-
credible as they may seem to sports-
men in this country, are taken as
quite a matter of course, and conse-
quently hardly a year goes by without
a fatality of some kind. All things
considered, it is not likely that the
“go-as-you-please” rules of this Mal-
tese derby are likely to commend
themselves to our turf authorities.
History of Westminster Hall.
Westminster hall is used as a vesti-
bule to the houses of parliament, but
in it were held some of the earliest
English parliaments. Edward II and
Richard II were deposed in this his-
toric hall. Here English monarchs
gave their coronation festivals, Here
Edward II entertained the captive
kings, John of France and David of
Scotland.
In this hall Charles I was con-
demned to death. Here also Cromwell
in 16568 was saluted with wonderful
enthusiasm lord protector of England.
He wore no king’s crown, but he held
a Bible in one hand and a golden scep-
ter in the other, and he was clad in
royal purple lined with ermine. But
only eight years after this great honor
the protector’s body was dragged from
his grave in Westminster abbey and
thrown into a pit at Tyburn, while his
head was exposed on one of the pin-
nacles of this Westminster hall, where
it remained for over twenty-five years.
~ Pleasure in One's Work.
Pleasure in work produces a sym-
pathetic, teachable mental attitude to-
ward the task. It makes the atten-
tion involuntary, and eases the strain
of attending. It stops the nervous
leaks of worry. . One of the secrets of
lasting well is to avoid getting stale
and tired and in a mental rut. Pieas-
ure gives a sense of freedom that is a
rest, as a wide road rests the driver.
To know a thing thoroughly and at-
tain mastership in it, one must be
drawn back to it repeatedly by its at-
tractions, and must find one’s powers
evoked and trained by its inspiration.
—Prof. Edward D. Jones, in Engineer-
ing Magazine.
Different Now.
“He's sure that the people can’t be
trusted to act wisely in great public
matters.”
“That s0? Only last week I heard
him telling that he believed in the
people.”
“I know. He was running for office
then, and most of them voted for the
other fellow.”—Detroit Free Press. :
—Have your Job Work done here.