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-
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ing fire—a veritable
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But with a New Per-
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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,
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A Perfection is always ready to boil,
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Have your dealer show you its fire-
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kerosene, the cheapest of fuels—
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But don’t be satisfied with just any
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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.