Bellefonte, Pa., February 12, 1915.
A —
NANCY HANKS.
Prairie child,
Brief as dew,
What winds of wonder
Nourished you?
Rolling plains
Of billowy green,
For horizons,
Blue, serene;
Lofty. skies
The slow clouds climb,
Where burning stars
Beat out the time:
These, and the dreams
Of fathers bold,
Baffled longings,
Hopes untold,
Gave to you
A heart of fire,
Love like deep waters,
Brave desire,
Ah, when youth’s raptures
Went out in pain,
And all seemed over,
Was all in vain?
O soul obscure,
‘Whose wings life bound,
And soft death folded
Under the ground;
Wilding lady,
Still and true,
Who gave us Lincoln
And never knew:
To you at last
Our praise, our tears,
Love and a song
Through the nation’s years!
Mother of Lincoln,
Our tears, our praise;
A battle-flag ;
And the victor’s bays!
—By Harriet Monroe, in You and I.
ANNE RUTLEDGE.
This is a True Story of the Life Romance of
Abraham Lincoln.
By FraNCIS NEWTON THORPE.
[Continued from last week.]
“Abe, put me up two pounds of loaf
sugar.” A customer had entered. It
was the Rev. John Cameron, the Presby-
terian preacher—“Elder Cameron,” as he
was called.
“I’ve got to run over to Robert John-
son’s—Sister Johnson has sent for me.
I'll get the sugar on my way back; my
wife wants it for her morning baking.”
“Now, Elder, never you mind about
calling for this sugar; Mrs. Cameron
will want it right away and I'll slip down
to your house with it myself. Isee Berry
coming, and he'll ‘tend store.”
The preacher thanked him and went
on his errand.
“I say, Abe,” called out Berry as he
entered, “I reckon that business will be
better with us, now our biggest rival is
leavin’ town; McNeil has shook the
place, and Hill hasn’t any head for busi-
ness. McNeil is goin’ back to Yankee-
dom.”
“Well,” drawled Lincoln, apparently
intent only on putting up loaf sugar, “I
can’t honestly say that I wish him a bad’
passage.” Tucking the sugar under his
coat to protect it from the rain, he left
the store to deliver it into Mrs, Cameron’s
hands. The errand took him straight
past Rutledge’s, and nearly a quarter of
.a mile bevond.
. “And you just took all the trouble to
fetch me that bit of sugar, Abe? Well, I
reckon I’m obliged to you summat. What
is the old song?
‘Sugar’s sweet and so be you.’
And they do say, Abe, that John Mec-
Neil’s goin’ to leave town; sold out;
made a heap o’ money, they say, right
‘here in New Salem. Well, if there is
‘any money to be made in these parts I|
reckon a Yankee would get it; ’tis pre-
_ cious little I see, or you either, I reckon.
I wonder how Annie Rutledge likes it,
his goin’? Is she to follow, or is all that
milk sour? ’Pears to me thatif I wasa
young feller loose in these parts I'd see
to it that Annie Rutledge didn’t put on
mournin’ for John McNeil. Yes, Abe,
I'm obliged to you for fetchin’ the sugar:
there’s no knowin’ when the Elder will
get back.” And the good woman turned
to her baking. :
The savory smell that poured forth
from the open door reminded Lincoln
that he had not been to breakfast, which
v7ith him was a somewhat movable feast;
but usually, if the hour was not too late,
he found something awaiting him for
breakfast at Rutledge’s, for Mrs. Rut-|Y
ledge, with whom Lincoln was a favorite,
took an anxious thought for him—he
seemed such a lonely soul, and she never
failed to have a bite ready for him, come
what time of day or night he might. When
now he reached the dining-room at the
tavern he found the last guest served
and the room empty. 3
“Am I too late?” he asked Mrs. Rut-
ledge, whom he met in the hall.
“Oh no, Abe; I'll find a plate o’ some-
thin’ for you, hot or cold, though our
mornin’ vittles is about clean gone, and
me just a-bakin’ more. I'm doin’ an egg
for Annie, and I'll get you up a dish 0’
bacon at the same time. TI’ll call you
when things is ready.”
Usually, when late to his meals, he
waited in the barroom, that being the
common resting-place for menfolks about
the tavern.
“Jes’ step into the parlor, Abe.”
Mrs. Rutledge’s pride in her parlor and
her motherly feeling for him had led her
to the politeness which he felt he must
accept. He felt the warmth of the room
ashe opened the door. Going to the
hearth, he raked out the coals and threw
on a few sticks from the wood-box in the
hall. The blaze quickly rolled up and he
found the touch of comfort soothing.
Annie often sat in this room, sewing by
the west window. He went over to the
window, thinking of her and of the van-
ished horseman. There was no one in
sight, neither in the yard nor down the
road; yet Lincoln was laughing a quiet,
strange sort of a laugh to himself, as
now, his hands clasped behind his back,
he paced up and down in front of the
fireplace. His chin was thrown forward,
his eyes on the floor, and he seemed to
gather cheerfulness as he moved about.
A loose sheet of paper on the floor near
the mohair sofa caught his eye. He
picked it up; a sheet torn from some-
body’s account-book; thirteen thousand
dollars’ worth of pro , Turning it
over, he read on the back, “John -
Neil” Then it all flashed across his But the Elder was quite convinced of the
accuracy of his wife's stroke, and as they her.
mind; the embers on the hearth, the
paper evidently dropped from the hand
of some person sitting on the sofa. Mc-
Neil and Annie had spent the evening
wended their way homeward, choosing
their steps over the muddy path with
practised skill, they explored still more
before together here; the paper inven- thoroughly the mystery surrounding Mc-
TeN ll ! Neil. While yet under the spell of the
twice-told tale the Elder betook himseli
toried McNeil’s possessions.
“Ready, mow, Abe.” Mrs. Rutledge
was in the door-way announcing his
breakfast. “You won’t mind eatin’ with
Annie, I reckon, Abe; she is 2 bit late
this mornin’ like yourself.” |
“If Annie will endure me”—he was
smiling, inwardly delighted at the favor
Fate was showing—"] think I can endure
her.” .
“Good morning, Annie”—he bowed
awkwardly as he accosted her. “Your
ma says that if you’ll endure me I may
eat breakfast along with you.
right?”
“We keep open house here, Mr. Lin-
coln, and are always glad to have our
guests with us.” The even resonance of
her voice gave no hint of the long, weary
ht she had passed.
ee in heart than he had been all
day, he.took the chair opposite her. But
he soon discovered that Annie was not
disposed to talk, though she was known
to be the best talker of all the New
Salem girls. And looking into her face,
he detected dark lines beneath her eyes,
and her cheeks seemed a trifle faded.
Perhaps the horseman had not vanished,
after all. TE
Finally he could keep silent no longer.
“I reckon you are not feeling right pert
this morning, Miss Rutledge?”
He usually called her Annie, but there
was thatjlook in her face which forbade
so intimate a word. .
“Oh, it’s the weather; the wind howled
so last night I could not sleep.” She
spoke slowly and with indifference.
‘Twas a noisy night; glad I'm not on’
the road.” He was thinking of some of:
his journeys to and from Springfield in
bad weather, but the look on Annie's
face told him straightway that he had
said the wrong thing. He saw that she
was thinking of McNeil, and this now
distant traveller brought to mind the.
paper he had found on the parlor floor.
“Annie”—he did not stop to weigh
speech as he reached his hand across the
table—“perhaps you know something
about this; I found it a few minutes ago
by the sofa.”
She looked at the paper, but did not
take it. Awkward and brusque as he
was, his heart went out to her. “Annie,
you are not well this morning. I didn’t
mean to stir you up so. I reckon I have
made a mess of it. John’s business
won't last forever” (he was secretly
wishing it might); “he will come back
before long. He's the richest man in New
Salem; he’s honest; he'll do what he
says.”
He was pleading for McNeil, but his
compliments somehow failed to restore
her; rather they agitated her the more.
Suddenly, with an effort, she arose,quick-
ly picked up the paper, and, without
saying a word, left the room.
His astonishment was complete. He
had never seen her this way before; his
memories of her were of laughter and
song and high spirits and embodied hap-
piness. He saw her cross the threshold
and put her hands over her face, bursting
into tears. Then he knew that some-
thing was wrong.
Had McNeil deserted her?
He caught up his hat and hurried from
the tavern, knowing now too well that he
loved Annie Rutledge, and that he could
think of nobody else in the world. He
went back to the store a changed man;
the world put on a new face. Nature
seemed changed. Everything now seem-
ed possible to him, and a more ambitious
man was never born. For the first time
in his life he seemed to get a good look
at himself. Something had happened that
put him into new relations with th
whole world. !
His face must have reflected the trans-
formation working within him, for Berry,
his old partner, catching its new expres-
sion, said to him as he entered the store:
“Why, Abe, what’s happened? Youlook
as if you were just elected President.
What did Sam Hill say to you?”
“I haven't seen him.” a
“He was just in here askin’ for you;
wants you to tend postoffice. I told him
I reckoned you'd take it. Better run
right over and see Sam; a postoffice is
dreffly desirable property.”
“But liable to sudden change of ten-
ants,” added Lincoln; “think I'll in-
vestigate. this claim”—and he turned his
face toward the store, general mer-
chandise, grocery, and postoffice, kept
yu a few days before by Hill & Mc-
eil. :
It was Elder Cameron who let out
Annie’s secret. The Rutledges were very
friendly with the Presbyterian preacher
and his wife, and a few evenings after
McNeil’s departure Mrs. Rutledge had
them to tea. In a moment of confes-
sional weakness the mother unveiled the
state of Annie's affairs, winding up
ith:
“And I tell her it’s a lucky escape,
Elder. What do you think?”
“Providential, Sister Rutledge, prov-
idential; a clear case of desertion. Un-
doubtedly he has committed some mis-
demeanor in his younger days. Murder
will out, you know. He knows that the
law has got on his track and he has fled,
probably to one of the Western settle-
ments.
The Elder, like all New Salem people,
always spoke of “out West” and “the
West” with the easy speech of Boston or
Savannah; New Salem had established
its claim to classification with “the East”
by existing five years.
“John McNeil go to one of the settie-
ments?” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, dis-
gusted. “Now, husband, if you don’t
talk just like a man. Do you think that
after gettin’ hold of all that money he
would go West? No, sirree; no West for
him. I say that this Mc-what-do-you-
call-him has a girl somewhere else, and
has simply cleared out of New Salem to
go to her. Mrs. Johnson thinks so too,
though she don’t know all what we
know now since Mrs. Rutledge has told
us herself, and we must keep it to our-
selves. But Mary Johnson is pretty pert,
and I vow I believe she’s right and she
don’t know it. As long as this miserable
critter Mc-whatever-his-name-is was a-
makin’ money he stayed here, and he
was sharp enough to pick out the finest
girl in the place and pretend to court
her. Now he’s got his pile, he’s shook
her; that’s all, the wretch! I wish I had
hold 0 him with a pair o’ tongs; 1
wouldn’t dirty my fingers a-touchin’ him
myself.” : :
And Sister Cameron poised her head
and tapped her foot on the floor and
looked indignant and relieved.
The Elder’s wife was harder than the
Elder; the eternally feminine is some-
times that way. She was mistress of the
entle art of to; and her opportuni
Bad come. Even Mrs. Rutledge. a
Is she!
i to Hill's store for his evening mail, and
i there embraced
the opportunity to re-.
| peat the news to Hill, as the party most’
closely identified with the late McNeil.
Sam listened to the end, as was his
wont, without comment, and the Elder
‘ took his leave. Just before closing the
| store for the night Hill repeated the
, whole story to Lincoln.
! “ don’t believe that John McNeil is a"
! dishonorable man,” protested Lincoln;
“I have said so before and I say so now.”
This was his only comment.
But he was conscious of a new order
of sensations. What if Elder Cameron’s
interpretation of the situation was the
true one?
All day long ‘the line from the old
hymn had been ading in and out of
his thoughts, and all day long Annie's
sad face had looked out upcn Lincoln
from everything before his eyes.
Locking up the store, he went up to
the loft where he slept. The new joy
within him waxed stronger and trans-
formed the penury about him into inde-
scribable wealth, and the chiefest treas-
ure of all did not seem hopelessly be-
yond his reach. Rivals, poverty, toil—he
seemed possible and easy to him; he
would finish his law studies and begin
life in Springfield, with her, the fountain
of his hopes.
It was with infinite contentment, the
contentment of youth and hope and
wealth, abounding health of mind and
body, that he threw himself on his bed.
How long he lay there he could not tell.
He seemed to be in a singular, an in-
describable vessel which moved with
great rapidity toward a dark and in-
definite shore. The strangeness of the
vessel, the mystery of the shore, possessed
him. So real was the vision, he started
forward to penetrate the darkness just
beyond-—when he awoke.
The moonlight sifting through the
cracks and crannies revealed only the
barren loft over Sam Hill’s store. Here
was no mystery; he lay down again. But
once more he was on that strange ship,
traveling with incredible swiftness to-
ward that dark and gloomy shore, and
again he strode forward to pierce’ the
mystery of that strange coast, again to
awake suddenly.
Why had the dream come twice? His
poetic nature was quivering—whether
with curiosity or superstition he did not
ask. Strange, strange premonition! He
could not know that this same vision,
this mysterious messenger from the un-
known, should come to him, years later,
just before the anxious journey to his
inauguration as President of the United
States; again, just before Antietam and
Murfreesboro; again, before Vicksburg
and Gettysburg; and, last of all, on the
night before that day of tragedy, the
ever-to-be-remembered 14th of April.
But now, sitting on his bed, in the loft
of Hill's store, the second rising of the
spectacle interested him strangely. He
was deeply introspective, and now he
turned upon himself that serious search
so frequent with him, that self-examina-
tion so inseparable from his impassable
melancholy. And the light of this search
somehow seemed to fall on a balance-
sheet whose items were basic and funda-
mental, not of broad acres or bank bills.
“His thoughts were running easily fiom
the centre of that loose sheet which he
had given to Annie Rutledge that morn-
ing at the breakfast table. He remem-
bered Annie when at Mentor Graham's
school she sat near him, and he used to
think that her fair face filled the whole
room with beauty. And now he ran
over the whole course of his existence:
he was meeting this beautiful spirit in
the little intercouse of daily life—at the
store, by the wayside, at meeting, and at
the merry gatherings with the young
folks of New Salem. And he could see
the shapely little hand, the lustrous, ten-
der eyes, and could hear that voice, that
indescribable voice. How could he wait
till he should meet her again? Would
the dawn never come? He must speak
to her, for to him she meant life—life.
The dawn broke; the new day came
with inconsequential affairs; the sun
sank down into the prairie—and he did
not see Annie. Days passed; she seem-
ed to have vanished away.
“Where is Annie?” he at last inquired
of Mrs. Rutledge.
“Annie isn’t feelin’ well these days; I
reckon it’s the dreadful spell of weath-
er”—a reply which carefully concealed
all the facts save one.
- A week, two weeks, three passed;
Lincoln caught glimpses of her, but : she
seemed inaccessible to him. But her
face betrayed her sufferings. Her moth-
er insisted that Dr. John Allen bé called,
but Annie delayed with vague excuses
| from day to day.
- About the end of the third week Lincoln
unexpectedly found the opportunity he
had been seeking. Toward evening she
came down to the post-office; the mail-
coach had discharged its bag and its pas-
sengers, and Annie had calculated nicely
the time when the letters would be ready.
“Any letter for me?”
No one in the store save Lincoln heard
the soft little voice.
“I think so.”
Her face lighted with new life as
he handed her .several letters, but the
light quickly faded; none was from him.
Lincoln saw the shadows gather and
encompass her with gloom. With slow
steps, her grief almost mastering her,
she turned from the store. He could re-
sist no longer. Catching up his hat, he
left the office and was swiftly by her
side. He said not a word, fully aware of
the pit into which he had fallen; and
this in silence they walked on side by
side.
Suddenly he burst forth in the most
eloquent plea that ever fell from his lips.
He argued that McNeil’s silence confirm-
ed the suspicions of her friends. Hehad
deserted her; he was unworthy of her.
But very lightly and slightly did Lincoln
dwell on McNeil; it was the story of his
own love for her he was telling. Never
had she imagined that a man could talk
as Abraham Lincoln now talked to her.
Could the language of life yield such
treasures and such a tribute? McNeil
had been affectionate after a fashion,
but this man’s love was an ecstasy of
passion, a transforming power. Not one
word did he say of farms and shops and
dollars, ‘but life, life, companionship, de-
votion—endless, endless devotion to her.
And then he told her his mysterious
“Moving swiftly toward a strange, in-
definite shore,” the words took -
sion of her mind. “A strange, indefinite
was not thinking of these. Everything:
shore;” yes, on such a shore was she:
now wandering. Her heart sank within
. This was the beginning of Lincoln’s
courtship of Anne Rutledge.
(Concluded next week.)
Wilson Phones Sanfrancisco Without
Break.
“Hello, Mr. Moore,” a voice said in a
telephone receiver a few minutes after
six o'clock on Monday night, and the
wire passing through New York which
had been guarded over every mile of the
thousands between the Atlantic and Pa-
cificOceans was in use for the second
time on Monday.
The voice was that of the President of
the United States talking to Charles C.
Moore, president of the Panama-Pacific
Exposition, President Wilson being at his
desk in the nation’s capital, and Mr.
Moore in San Francisco.
“This is indeed a pleasure, President
‘Wilson said, and then added that he was
looking forward to his trip to the coast
and the exposition when he would see Mr.
Moore.
With Alexander Graham Bell, the in-
ventor of the telephone, listening to the
conversation from New York, and Presi-
dent Vail, of the American Telephone,
& Telegraph Co., with his ear to a re-
‘ceiver at Jekyl Island, Ga., President
Wilson continued to speak over the first |
telephone line to be operated without a
break from one coast to the other.
Still speaking to Mr. Moore the Presi- ;
dent said:
It appeals to the imagination to
speak across the continent. It is a
fine omen for the exposition for the
first thing it has done is to send my
voice from sea to sea. I congratu-
late you on the fine prospects for a
successful exposition. I am confi-
dently hoping to take part in it after
the adjournment of Congress. May
I not send my greetings to the man-
agement and to all whose work has
made it the great event it promises
to be, and convey my personal con-
gratulations to you?
It is a pleasure to be able to ex-
press my admiration for the invent-
ive genius and scientific knowledge
that have made this possible and my
pride that this vital cord should have
stretched asross America as a new
symbol of our unity and our enter-
prise. Will you not convey my cor-
dial congratulations to Dr. Bell? And
I want to convey to you my person-
al congratulations, sir.
The President then spoke to Dr. Bell
as follows:
May I not congratulate you very
warmly on this notable consumma-
tion of your long labors and remark-
able achievements? You are justi-
fied in feeling a great pride in what
has been done. This is a memorable
day, and I convey to yow my warm
congratulations.
The President said that he could hear
Mr. Moore in San Francisco very dis-
tinctly.
President Wilson’s conversation from
Washington with San Francisco was
overheard by scores of persons in the
telephone company’s offices, including
city officials, business men and mer-
chants, and representatives of engineer-
ing and civic organizations.
The trans-continental service will not
be established for public use until about
March 1. It will cost $20.75 for a person
in New York to talk for three minutes
with a person in San Francisco, and $6.75
for each additional minute.
An Important Decision.
An important decision affecting the
banking law was made by the appel-
late division of the supreme court in
Wulff vs. Roseville Trust company, in
which the court vacates an attach-
ment in this state against the property
of a financial institution in New Jer-
sey which has been closed by the
commissioner of banking and insur-
ance. The court held that New Jer-
sey law relating to the closing of a
bank by the commissioner is similar
to the provisions of the New York
banking law and that the commission-
er “is deemed to have become vested
with the title to the assets of said in-
stitution as the trustee of an express
trust.” The court says that “in such
a case no creditor is permitted to ob-
tain a preference over others or to ob-
tain a lien upon the property of the
bankirg institution after the commis-
sioner has taken charge thereof.”
Sneezing as a Diagnosis.
A sneeze is responsible for the dis.
covery by City Clerk Newton that he
had three broken ribs and a dislocated
shoulder, says a Hanford (Cal) dis-
patch to the Los Angeles Times. Sev.
oral days ago Newton and a number
of friends were returning from an
automobile ride when the machine
turned over. He was slightly injured,
but thought nothing of it.
Later he sneezed vigorously and
the pain increased; he sneezed again
and then hastened to see a doctor.
The physician, after an examination,
informed him that he had three bro-
ken ribs and a shoulder out of joint.
Since then Newton has been too ill to
work. His friends are now wondering
whether he would have felt the in-
juries if he had not sneezed twice.
“Our Friends the Enemy.”
. A zealous bobby captured a work-
Ingman and haled him into court on
the charge of being an unregistered
German. The man swore he had a
Russian birth certificate, and pro-
duced it. Then said the magistrate
severely:
“But why then have you for ten
years been masquerading as a Ger-
man?” : !
“Because,” answered the mah apolo-
getically, “when I came to England
ten years ago the feeling against Rus-
sia was so strong that I was obliged
to pass myself off for a German.” —
Molly Best in Harper’s Weekly.
Rapid Changing. :
“Well,” said the janitor of the city
hall in Dixmude, as he shoved another
bomb off the bed coverlets preparatory
to rising, “well, I wonder which flag
I'll have to put up over the building
today!"—Detroit’ News.
——Have your Job Work done here. -
FROM INDIA.
By One on Medical Duty in that Far Eastern
Country. A Potpouri of Speculations for the
Homeward Trip. Waiting for the Last Feast,
Etc.
JuANSI, DECEMBER 5th, 1913
' Dear Home Folk:
Here it is again, a letter to write and
nothing to say for although there have
been clouds and many dark looking days
yet only a few drops have fallen, and
you know drops don’t help to fill wells
Or grow grass.
“Cooks” sent me a letter today and I
think I shall follow as nearly as my mon-
ey will allow their itinerary, and itis
this: Leave Colombo February 14th, ar-
riving at Hongkong the 26th; March 3rd
leave Hongkong and reach Shanghai
three days later, and from that until
April 10th I shall have for sight-seeing
: in China and Japan and leave Yokohoma
April 15th, reaching Honolulu by the
20th; one week on shore and then reach
San Francisco by May 3rd, and from
there I am not sure just which way I
will go East, but know you will hear of
me soon enough.
I am dressed and sitting waiting to go
out to dinner tonight and for once they
know where America is on the world’s
surface—even Philadelphia has a place—
“and I really feel as though I belonged
somewhere. So many times when told
where I was from the hearer gave an in-
* credulous stare and said, “Oh, yes!” and
I felt as though I must be a waif—no
home, no city, not even a country to of-
feras a back-ground; so you seel am
really looking forward to this dinner with
pleasure.
| The days are flying past and I feel as
| though I could not get half ready, but of
course when the time comes I will be
quite packed up and the train will sure-
: ly take me with it, even if I do travel in
' my ancient wardrobe.
| Did K. ever get a small packet I sent
"to him in August? It was only a tiny
thing but held four old Indian coins for
“cuff links for him. I am sorry if they
, are lost for I can’t replace them, as they
| were gotten at a curio-dealers in Luck-
now; they really were not beautiful, but
' were curious and I think he would have
liked them.
Friday morning.—The rain came at
last; not as much as we would like, but
* at least the dust is settled for the time
and this morning it is delightfully fresh
and clear. The dinner last night was a
big success, at least, so far as pleasure
; was concerned, and the food was es-
| pecially good, so all was well. The se-
cret of these people’s knowledge lies in
| the fact that they have relatives in New
' York and have many times visited there.
I had a strange experience on the way
home; I was stopped by a man (native)
| carrying a lantern and I asked, in a very
‘nasty voice, “What do you want?” It
{ was eleven o'clock at night and at a
| rather dark place on the road and I
' didn’t intend to be scared out of my wits
‘for any reason. As I spoke, a young
Englishman stepped out of the shadows
‘and said: “Do you speak English?” 1
| nearly laughed aloud and bit my tongue
to keep from saying, “Sure, its the only
‘ one I do speak,” but realizing how obvi-
ous it was, waited for the man to make
his wants known and then he said:
“This is my first day in Jhansi and I
can’t find my way back to my bungalow.”
Fortunately I knew the place he men-
tioned to be only two bungalows further
along the road and told him so. He of
course thanked me many times, and I
drove on, grinning at the absurdity of it
all. It is strange, but to be lost in one
of these English cantonments is not fun
for the lost one since they are all roads
and compounds, but few bungalows, and
+ no really landmarks to help out, especial-
ly at night; but really he was within a
few feet of the gateway.
The “Mohorram” festival isnow in the
air; the “tajiyas” (those bright-colored
tombs) are appearing on every side, and
the one festival in northern India that
seems to excite the Mohammedans, and
I always feel that those drums will some
day tell a story of an uprising; and many
of the missionaries who have lived here
for along time think the same thing,
and it will occur just at the Mohorram
season. I know I don’t want to meet a
group of frenzied Mohammedans unless
I can’t find another way around. They
just seem to go wild—but I have told you
all about this before, and it is really not
due for ten days yet; there are only the
mutterings now and we all stay as close
in doors as we can during the three days
it is in full swing. oa
Have I ever told you that these In-
dians have a custom very like the Mexi-
cans. There are many date-palms about
here and many of them have a triangu-
lar cut just under their leaves and I, of
course, asked what could have hurt the
trees so far above the ground, and was
told it was done by man in his effort to
make for himself a liquor, as it ferments
and is very intoxicating. It is contrary
to the teachings of both the Hindu and
the Koran but of course, like others,
they don’t live up to their teachings.
But now Iam going to write a Christ-
mas thank-you and a congratulation to
one of the girls, as she sent me word of
her engagement two weeks
say good-bye.
(Continued next week.)
Bilious People who have found no re-
lief in ordinary medicines should try Dr.
Pierce's Pleasant Pellets. They are won-
derfully successful in relieving and pre-
venting that discouraging complaint.
the drums make the night hideous. It is
ago, so will | ed.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN
DAILY THOUGHT.
*‘I am not bound to win.
But I am bound to be true.”
—Abraham Lincoln,
An attractive centrepiece is made of a
round work basket, gilded and stood on
a frame of three gilded drumsticks,
crossed. In the centre of basket is stood
a big gilded arrow with hearts dangling
from the tops, strings of different sized
hearts dangling from edge of basket to
the cloth and surrounding the arrow are
masses of flowers. i
The strings of hearts can be cut from
gilt paper, tied with ribbon to match
flowers or they can be in colored paper
in several tones of the decoration—which
is usually pink or red.
A novel frame for a shallow entree or
pudding dish is a covering of pasteboard
shaped like a crown, with hearts ram-
pant from the points of crown, also paint-
ed on the crown itself. These may be
all in one color as of gold or silver paper,
or the crown can be gold and the hearts
red or pink outlined in raised gilt.
To do this raised gilt, first trace a line
of paste very thickly, and when it has
dried cover with gilt paint. The crown
may be without a base and slip round the
dish or can be provided with a bottom
and the mold supped into it.
For ice or entree cups pretty home-
made affairs can be made by pasting on
ordinary paper pate cup to the top of a
section of mailing tube—the smallest you
can get. This is gilded and the opposite
-end is pasted to a heart-shaped base of
, cordboard. :
DECORATIVE BASKETS.
The decorations for such a cup may
be infinitely varied. It can be conveyed
with frills of paper tied with baby ribbon,
while round the standard is twined more
ribbon, through which is thrust a single
natural rose or carnation; again the cup
itself is covered with paper petals to rep-
resent a pink or red rose, while tied to
the standard are two cupids cut from gilt
paper—as if supporting the cup.
Little silvered baskets, such as are sold
to hold Easter eggs may be filled with
moss with short stemmed flowers in it.
On the handle perch a cupid. cut from
silver paper or a doll dressed to represent
the God of Love.
Instead of ‘using these flower baskets
for place cards, the filling may be omit-
ted and the basket lined with paraffin
paper and filled with ices in the tint of
the decorations. ;
An individual valentine candle makes
a pretty place card. This may be an
ordinary tin stick of good shape covered
with gilt paint with hearts tied to the
"handle. Use unshaded candles in the
color of table decorations.
A novel idea is to paste small hearts
on these candles at irregular intervals.
On each heart is a number which corres-
ponds to a given number in a gayly dec-
orated basket used as place cards. When
the candle burns to a certain number
the book is consulted and a fortune read.
HAVE FORTUNE TELLING.
To make this fortune telling more in-
teresting, each booklet should have a dif-
ferent set of fortunes. Where the hos-
tess entertains close friends, these may
be amusingly personal, or they can be
couplets culled from love poems.
Care must be taken against fire. As
soon as the flame approaches too close
to a heart it should be pulled off. A
safer way, perhaps, would be to paint
the hearts and number in raised gilt.
Improvised candlesticks ¢an be made
from heavy cardboard, with heart-shap-
ed base, handle of bent wire and cup of
four small hearts placed point up in the
centre of the base. With gold and silver
paint and a box of water colors, such
candle-sticks can be colored to suit any
decoration. ;
GARLANDS ON TABLE.
Dainty garlands hung on the sides of a
tablecloth can be made of smail pink
rose-buds—artificial —festooned in scal-
lops, with clusters of dangling gilt hearts
from the points of the scallop. Similar
garland can be draped from the chande-
i lier to ‘the edge of the table to form a
i canopy top, or they may end much near-
er the centre to outline a round mirror,
which holds a low bowl of flowers.
Attractive place cards may be two
small hearts of covered satin, tied to-
gether with bows of baby ribbon and
fastened with a loop. Those for the men
may be penwipers with leaves of chamois
on inside and a small calander pad past-
ed on outside; for the girls have leaves
of fine flannel for needle book, with a
tiny pair of scissors attached and a small
pocket of satin on the under heart to
hold a thimble.
It is sad for a child when illness cen-
fines him to his room on one of the holi-
days he considers especially his own.
Unless he is too ill for any excitement
special effort should be made to make up
to him for his loss. iy
A Valentine celebration. for a sick child
can easily be arranged, and well man-
aged will make all the other children
sigh to go to bed next year.
Begin the day with a valentine break-
fast tray. Let it be trimmed with a bor-
der of tiny red hearts or use one of the
decorated paper napkins in appropriate
heart designs that can be bought for a
few cents, :
Buy at the five and ten cent stores a
few cheap dishes in heart shape, or make
them of pasteboard covered with red
paper. Cut the bread for toast witha
heart cutter and shape thin bread and
butter similarly, tieing it in packages
with red ribbon, through which is run a
gilt dart.
~ Under the plates and glasses should be.
tucked cheap valentines, only to be
opened when the food and milk is all
disposed of—as excitement is likely to
prove hard on appetites.
In arranging for the invalid’s day re-
member that quantity counts more than
quality, so get numerous valentines
rather than handsome ones. The penny
postcards, cheap comics and oddities in
lace and printings will be quite as much
enjoyed as costly affairs.
The valentines should be delivered in
various ways. Some of them can be
mixed in each disagreeable task before
the young invalid. Tucked in the towels
for the bath may be a big envelope that
is to be opened as soon as a good child
is dressed; pills can be given in vivid
heart-shaped boxes; bitter medicine
should have on the tray with the dose a
particularly interesting missive to be
read just as soon as the dose is swallow-
Great |
it to have one of the other
children asa postman with cap and
cape and | ol bag for a mail bag.
He can ch ‘the bed at intervals
each day, first ringing a bell outside the
door, to announce his approach. But
one or two valentines should be deliver-
ed at a time as fun is much greater when
prolonged. - i :
A