3 mica ig Bellefonte, Pa., June 23, 1916. A HS SEs. THE MOONMAN’S LITTLE BOY. I went to the moonin a toy balloon One cloudless night in the middle of June; But I was lonely as lonely as could be Till the Moonman’s little boy played with me. He looked at me sort 0’ puzzled and queer, Then picked up a star and scratched his ear, And said in a voice sounding faint and far, “My, what a funny little boy you are!” I wanted to play with his bat and ball; But since he hadn’t any toys at all, We took a stone that was light as could be, And he played the jolliest game with me. When we were weary from romping and play We wandered far down the Milky Way, And drank our fill from a dipper of stars, Which the moonboy got from the hand of Mars. After the Moonman had tucked us in bed, A fleecy cloud pillow in under my head, : I dreamed my balloon went floating away And that I had come to the moon to stay. —By Alice Hoffman. THE ORDER OF THE DAY. The girl was small and meager, and her careful brown suit was small and meager-looking also: almost absurd, in fact, with that pitiful absurdity of yesterday’s ° fashions. There were other things less apt to be noticed by a careless observer—cour- age, and a glint of laughter in the straightforward brown eyes; firmness in the line of the jaw, delicate though it was; a carriage ' that was by no means lacking in spirit. The ‘house sat among its rhododen- drons, behind its marvelous hedges and wrought-iron gates, with con- scious arrogance. It was perfect of its kind, magnificent, isolated. The girl, catching sight of the number over the gate, gave a small gasp of dismay. She had not expected any- thing quite so formidable. For a mo- ment she could not muster courage to pass through the wrought-iron trace- ry, and walked rapidly by. Then she stopped. “Coward!” she cried. This was to herself. Her next remark was to the house: “I’m not asking to governess you!” And immediately upon the heels of that remark came a vision of a home- ly, sunny room strewn with boyish treasures, and three eager boyish faces bending over their play. It was a shabby room; the servants’ quarters of this house would have scorned to recognize it. Strange, the effect it had upon the girl. For, looking at the great insolent building with its windows veiled in laces and brocades, she murmered, “Oh, the poor little fellow!” And went straight up under the porte-cochere (which expressed its scorn of callers on foot all in vain, since she never noticed it at all,) pressed the bell, and faced without a tremor the astonished being who opened the door. “I am Miss Dupre. I called in re- ply to Mrs. Grosvenor’s note in re- gard to a governess.” That placed her at once, and she was shown—carelessly— to a small reception-room in old rose and ivory and gold. She sat there for some time—twen- ty minutes, half an hour. Then she -was summoned upstairs to more roses, this time blooming in French gray and silver. The great house was very still; there were none of the sounds that every-day houses know so well—the tinkle of dishes; chil- dren’s voices and scampering feet; somebody singing with half-spoken words; somebody dropping a pair of Scissors, or opening a desk or drawer, “or pulling a curtain up or down. The soft, pitying look deepened in the brown eyes. “Oh, poor house!” she was saying to herself. “Oh, poor, dead house! Why, you aren’t living at all. You don’t know what living is!” She sprang to her feet with a start at the sound of a soft stir in the door- way, and stood waiting, her pale face flushed and her eyes darkening. It was a way she had when she saw beautiful things; and the woman in the doorway, in dull blue velvet and wonderful silver fox, was very beau- tiful at a first glance, and quick to detect the genuineness of admiration. Little Miss Dupre did not guess it, but it was that startled tribute that won her her position. It was not set- tled, of course, without words. “You are Miss Dupre? Be seated, please. You do not look old enough to have had much experience.” “Only with my own brothers. There are three of them, so I know boys very well. And I have tutored for a year. I have references.” A shabby little glove, the kid nearly worn through, but beautifully mended, offered the references eagerly. She re- membered suddenly how very much she needed the place. A white-gloved hand waved the references away, “But you don’t laak French. Mrs. “But you don’t look French. Mrs. a French governess.” “I am American, but my grandpar- ents were French. I always used to speak it with them—I learned as a child.” A little half-breathless pleading crept into the clear voice; she had not allowed herself to doubt before, but— it was so very necessary, something to do. - “Herbert is extremely high-strun and sensitive,” his mother ay “I don’t know—" “I am so used to boys,” the clear voice urged. “I always get along with them.” “I suppose,” Mrs. Grosvenor said doubtfully, “I could try you for a month and see how Herbert gets along with you—one has to take chances. Will you ring that bell be- side you? Thank you. Felice,”—to the maid who noiselessly presented her- self,—“take Miss Dupre up to Master Herbert. You will come at ten o'clock tomorrow, Miss Dupre. And you un- derstand that Herbert is not to be forced—he must be kept interested, I shall expect you to teach him by means of games and such things. You, of course, will understand that, since it is your business.” Miss Dupre did not understand fully. The three noisy, eager little fellows at home had not been taught that way. But she answered prompt- 1 . YiThank you, Mrs. Grosvenor. I will do my very best. I hope I shall please you.” And she added, which was not at all businesslike: “You see, I love boys so!” : Mr. Grosvenor nodded a careless dismissal, and Miss Dupre following Felice’s pert little back, passed through more beautiful, silent, dead corridors, where the sunlight was shut out by shimmering silken hangings . at the windows, and sound was shut out by deep, soft rugs, and life was shut out by —what? Money? Luxury? Miss Dupre could could only guess. It was like a dream. Finally, up a second flight of stairs and down a third great hall. Felice opened a door. The windows here had no silken lids—only lace pulled aside to allow a narrow parallelogram of light. At one of those windows stood a boy, looking idly out. Felice’s crisp voice snapped like a whip-lash: “Master Herbert! Here’s your new governess. And Barker will come for you at four.” The boy at the window turned. Fe- lice, entirely uninterested, vanished. The two left alone took measure of each other. : The boy was thin, with a handsome, sullen, fretful face, and long, nervous, unboyish hands. He looked like some little wild thing trapped and at bay. It was as if ‘the soul of him realized in some dim way that it was missing its heritage, and was fighting blindly, desperately, for what it did not know. He strode forward and eyed the girl insolently. “I hate governesses,” he declared. “I hate studies. I'm not going to study—I don’t like you.” ’ The girl’s brown eyes met his coolly. Inside, the woman-heart of her was aching with pity. She longed to gath- er him up in her warm arms—to turn him out into the sunlight, to get dirty, and race, and fight perhaps, and then at night to hold him close and tell him stories in the firelight, and finally tuck him in bed. But she had told the truth when she said that she knew boys. She looked him over; her eyes narrowed a bit. : “I’m not at all sure that I shall like you, either,” she remarked thought- fully. The boy stared at her, startled. “Why, you’ve got to. You're my governess. You're”—where did he get that, at eight ?—‘“you’re paid to.” “Oh, no, I'm not,” she replied calm- ly. “That’s something money can’t buy, you know—liking people. I'm paid to teach you—that’s all.” “I ain’t going to learn,” he replied. “I wonder if you really can’t,” she said. “That would be too bad, wouldn’t it?” “I could!” he cried in a fury. “I could learn anything if I wanted to. I just don’t want to. That’s why I won’t—because I don’t want to.” She nodded. “I know,” she said. A silence fell. The boy fidgeted, started toward the window, turned suddenly back, and planted himself before her. “You don’t know how to!” he flam- ed. ; “How to what?” “Teach me.” “Why, of course not,” she agreed cheerfully. “Nobody can teach you.” . It was infuriating: it was like try- ing to beat water that slipped smooth- ly beneath one’s touch and then flow- ed. unconcernedly back again. The boy’s delicate face reddened with rage. ‘I hate you!” he cried. “I hate you, hate you, hate you! You’re”—he sought for a vulnerable place, and stabbed fiercely—“you’re homely— that’s what you are; and your dress is awful!” ~ The most annoying thing of all hap- pened then. The girl’s face changed. Little puckers came about the corners of her eyelids; her lips twitched; lights danced in her eyes. She was laughing. “That’s so funny!” she said—only she didn’t say it; it came out in rip- ples of laughter. “Oh, that’s so fun- ny! You're the funniest boy I ever saw.” Something in him weakened treach- erously at that friendly laughter. He never had heard anybody laugh like that before—not his father or mother or’ Felice or Barker, or the long trail of attendants and governesses who had, so far, made up his lonely little world. It sounded—nice. He longed to laugh with her, but he frowned in- stead. “Why am I funny?” he demanded. “I ain’t funny. I'll tell my mother.” He had done it now. A sudden tle heart frightened her. If he should —and she should lose this place! It was only a flicker; then she had con- trol of herself. “Oh, yes, you are,” she returned, with that confident friendliness of hers. “You see, you're different from any boy I've ever known. Because”’— the brown eyes twinkled again—¢“be- cause they all think I'm pretty. May- be”—the audacity of it was almost too much for her—“maybe it’s be- cause you haven't seen me with my hat off. They have. I know,” she looked at him pleasantly, “such heaps of boys.” It was horribly lonely being :left out. He had been so left out of a boys’ world all his life. He hated be- ing different. And, besides, she wasn’t homely. He took refuge in a hasty retreat to the second line of at- tac “Anyway, your dress is ugly.” She looked down at it. “Isn’t it?” she agreed frankly. “I think so, too. believe it, herself ?—“dress doesn’t matter.” “My mother thinks it does,” he re- torted unexpectedly. Miss Dupre caught her breath. “Oh, your mother—that’s different. She goes to places where you need beautiful gowns. I don’t. The boys like me better this way. It's better for frolics.” “What frolics ?” “All kinds. Soldiers, hunters, ex- plorers, Louis’s too old now. He’— she watched his face—*“he’s captain of the baseball team at school. But Dun- faintness in Miss Dupre’s staunch lit- | I hate it. But then, you see”—did she | iE can and Jack and their chums want to play.” : The boy turned to ask questions, wavered, almost yielded, suddenly hardened. “You said nobody could teach me.” “Of course. Nsbody can, really. You have to do things yourself, just the way you have to do your own walking. I couldn’t walk you.” A stir at the door, and another maid Barker, it seemed, was waiting to take Master Herbert for his riding lesson. Master Herbert frowned. “I won’t go,” he began. But Miss Dupre, apparently not hearing, broke in: “You take riding lessons? Jack will be so interested when I tell him. He has always wanted to ride. Oh, I'll want to hear about it tomorrow.” The change was magical—instanta- neous. The boy was transformed. “T’11 tell you,” he cried. “They can’t ride—can they—those boys? You tell ’em I can. And—and you'll take your hat off tomorrow, won’t you ?” Out on the avenue once more, Miss Depre drew a long breath. “Oh, the poor little fellow!” she cried, as she had before she saw him. Then she just saved herself from dis- gracing the avenue by an impulsive skip. For she had work—she had work—she had work! The boy was watching for her the next morning. “Did you tell them that I know how to ride?” he cried. “Take off your hat.” Miss Dupre nodded. “I told them,” she replied taking off her hat. In her soul she knew that she had an unfair advantage. She did look prettier without her hat—any woman would, when the hat had seen two winter's service. But Miss Dupre’s hair was in no wise remarkable, and she knew it, yet she looked at him with confident expectation. She knew that he would see it through the eyes of all those other boys, so calmly included in her sweeping statement of the day be- fore. ; “You do look better without it,” he told her. “What did the boys say about me?” The boys, it seemed, had said vari- ous things, some of them puzzling, but, on the whole, satisfactory. The delicate, fretful face kindled. “I’d show ’em,” he boasted. “They can’t any of them ride, can they? 1 can.” : b “Jack thought it would be so spler- did for playing St. George and the Dragon.” : “Who's St. George?” “You don’t know St. George 2” The boy’s brows drew together; it would be long before he could stand any mention of ignorance. “I could if I wanted to,” he declar- ed. “I don’t believe he was much.” “He’s Jack’s hero—or one of them. All the boys have their heroes.” Miss Dupre, learning rapidly, did not ask him who his hero was. Instead she plunged into a vivid recital of the story of St. George. The boy listened carelessly, attentively, finally breath- lessly. “I'd like him too,” he cried jealous- kitchen range. watching that this doesn’t burn or that doesn’t cook too slowly. And all the time you're standing over a roar- New PERFECTION Oil Stove ing fire—a veritable drudge. But with a New Per- fection Oil Cook Stove you do less work, get more done and you have greater leisure. For a moment after ou light a Perfection Po you are ready to cdok; no tiresome waiting, no wasted heat, no ashes to sift, no coal to carry, no wood to split. - REFINING CO. . You get up three meals a day, bake . a cake or something of the sort. That, with the rest of your housework, eats up your day, gives you no leisure and leaves you completely fagged. Now, it isn’t the actual cooking that takes up so much time or that’s so exhausting. No, it’s looking after the Starting the fire, LESS WORK- More Done- Greater Leisure A Perfection is always ready to boil, fry, bake, roast—to do any kind of cooking without any preliminaries. Have your dealer show you its fire- less cooker, its separate oven and all its other refinements. | kerosene, the cheapest of fuels— burns it slowly. : : But don’t be satisfied with just any kind of kerosene. ter differs from oleo, Atlantic Rayolight Oil excels ordinary kerosene. And it burns For just as but- So to get best results from a Perfection, use Atlantic Rayolight Oil, | for it’s the kerosene that gives the most heat to the gallon, that burns without sputter, smoke or smell. That is always the same. Buy it from | the dealer who dis- | plays this sign. Costs the same as the i unknown, unreliable keroser.c. Philadelphia Pittsburgh just like him. I'd ride and kill drag- ons.” “Oh, yes, you can have him if you want to. Lots of people do. But maybe you’d like some one else better —maybe even some oné who is living to-day. Suppose we talk about a dif- ferent one every day for a while, and then you can choose.” ot To me more now,” he command- “Only one a day,” she replied firm- ly. “CanI haye him too? ~ Ill do ly. “You've got to think them over carefully, you know; because, when you have a hero, you try to live like him, you know. Maybe you wouldn’t like to take knocks—" ; “I'd knock ’em back; I’d beat ’em.” “But not at first—nobody does at first.” This was unpleasant, but he did not think of disputing her knowledge. She evidently knew. She took advantage of his hesitation to steal a march up- on him. “Are you good at arithmetic? Jack is; but Duncan hates it.” “I can do it,” he asserted promptly. He couldn’t—not very well. But his pride was her ally. He was flushed, tired, but even then obstinate, when lunch-time came and it was time for her to go. “What are you going to tell them about me ?” he asked anxiously. She nodded reassuringly. “Lots of things. Some nice ones.” More than that she would not tell. [Continued on page 7, Col. 1. FINE GROCERIES the market. sold by the quart and Compound goods at California Naval Oranges—seedless. Bush House Block, - - OMY. . 56-6 Fancy Wisconsin Cheese, with mild flavor. of Cheese it should retail at 28¢c to 30c per pound but we still hold our price down to 25 cents. It's a fine bargain at this We have made no advance on Canned Corn, At our present prices they are as good value as any food product on Our White potatoes are good size and fine quality Also Parsnips, Onions, Turnips, Sweet Potatoes and Cabbage. 5 If you are not pleased with Syrup in tin cans and pails try our fine goods gallon. We have a pure Sugar and a fine grade of 50c and 60c per gallon. Sure to please you. this season, but we have fancy fruit at 30c, 40c, 50c and extra large at 60c. Have just received some very fancy New Mackerel. Try them. We have the Genuine New Orleans Molasses—new crop, heavy body to sell by the quart or gallon. It will please you. Evaporated Peaches, Pears, Apricots, Prunes and Raisins, all at reasonable prices. Come to the store that has the goods you want. If you are not using our Vinegar, just try it and see the difference. SECHLER & COMPANY, Bellefonte, Pa. 571 «i= - Apply Business Methods In Your Home! A bank account makes for HOUSEHOLD EFFICIENCY AND ECON- When you pay the bills of the grocer, the butcher, the baker by check you know just how much it costs to run your home, BESIDES, A CHECK IS A RECEIPT. If You Haven’t a Bank Account Start One Today THE CENTRE COUNTY BANK, At the present market value price. Peas and Stringless Beans. The smaller sizes are all gone for light colored, BELLEFONTE PA, Shoes. Shoes. Prices on Shoes Reduced $2.98 $2.98 $2.98 On account of the backwardness of the season I have decided to dispose of my full line of LADIES LOW SHOES ‘regardless of cost. Nothing reserved, every pair and kind will be sold. ‘These shoes are All New Spring Styles, nothing old or out of style. I give you my personal guarantee, that not one pair of these shoes sold for less than $4.00 and the most of them Your Choice at $4.50 and $5.00. of Any Pair for $2.98 This sale is for CASH and CASH ONLY. All shoes must be fitted at the store as they cannot be exchanged. No shoes sent out on approval. This is an opportunity to purchase your needs in Summer Low Shoes for less than the cost to manufacture. These Shoes are Now on Sale, in all sizes and widths. You had better come at once in order to be fitted. These Shoes are the best that can be purchased, as high grade as Shoes can be made, and the price is less than you can purchase shoddy Shoes at the cheap stores. H. C. YEAGER, THE SHOE MAN, Bush Arcade Bldg, 58-27 BELLEFONTE, PA.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers