Downton Bellefonte, Pa., October 13, 1916. WATCH THE CORNERS. When you wake up in the morning of a dark and cheerless day And feel inclined to grumble, frown, Just glance into your mirror and you will quickly see It’s just because the mouth turn down. Then take this simple rhyme, Remember it in time, It’s always dreary weather in countryside or town When you wake and find the your mouth turned down. pout or corners of your corners of If you wake up in the morning full of bright and happy thoughts And begin to count the blessings in your cup, Then glance into your mirror and you will quickly see It’s all because the mouth turn up. Then take this little rhyme, Remember all the time, There's joy a-plenty in this werld to fill life’s cup If you'll only keep the corners of month turned up. —The Sabbath corners of your your Visitor. FUEGO. It was in that part of the world which is neither France nor Spain, the part which is south of one and north of the other, west of Italy, and east of the sea. The inn stoed, gray and weather-beaten, below acacia- trees. They grew persistently up the side of the low mountain, and June had brought their one week’s holiday of long blossoms to hang, white and still, over the crumbling eaves. The American woman sat on the steps, looking down the yellow, nar- row road. She was more lonely than alone, for the keeper of the inn was near her, unpacking his new cases of wine and talking at random. “Madame finds our mountains wearisome,” he said, slipping th husk from a thin bottle. “Or perhaps madame finds it too difficult to paint —or,” correcting himself, “not beauti- ful enough.” A fraction of a smile hardened one corner of the woman’s mouth. It was not the innocent reference to her painting, it was the “madame” that made it hard. Gazing down the road to the open fields of valley stubble, she winced at the unmarried years that brought “madame” to the lips of the keeper of the inn. She had be- come selective in the matters of life. She chose her words. And inn-keep- ers never choose theirs. She called herself a painter now, not an artist. Success made artists. She did not answer the keeper of the inn. She knew there was nc need till the new case was empty. His in- termittent voice went on with the monctonous irregularity of an in- sect’s. Gradually her mind heard it, and she listened again. “But life, the travelers tell me, is dull everywhere. That applies, of course, only to gentlefolk and to ar- tists. So you should be glad, mad- ame, that you are simply rich, and have the qualities of neither.” A cylinder of straw fell near the woman’s feet, and she leaned over and picked it up. “How glad I am,” she said slowly, “that you do not speak humorously.” The host paused, a bottle in one hand, a wrapper in the other, and looked at her. “But, madame,” he said, a little troubled, “how could I speak lightly upon so delicate a sub- ject? It is only when ma-mademoi- selle is gloomy that one tries to amuse her.” “Yes,” said the woman, absently. She was gazing again at the distant stubble-fields. The thoughtful mad- emoiselle had been more troubling than the thoughtless madame. The insect voice hummed on, but she searcely heard it. She was enu- merating four, six, seven weeks, one, two, five pictures; one mountain; one Spaniard; one French peddler; one- half peasant French, one-half peas- ant Spanish, total one peasant (the three of them had been different, but their pictures much alike;) and, yes- terday, one acacias. Piain bad, the acacias. Acacias are mostly white, with pink handles. Seo, of course, her white had given out, when she had enough pink for a Psyche. “Perhaps the circus would amuse madame. It is here now, and there will be a performance to-night, and if all do not come to-night, another to- morrow night. The preparations are in progress. Has not madame notic- ed? Or perhaps she would not inter- est herself. It is all there, directly before her eyes.” Far down in the yellow fields the black, moving objects took on mean- ing for her; the oxen lowing and lifting their heads in the shimmering glare, the ebony band that crossed their necks, the manikin human fig- ures that moved fro and to against the gold of the sun; and that straight line, up and down, that came between her eyes, like a coarse woof in the canvas—that must be the tent-pole, dark and naked in the radiating heat. “There have been stranger things than that madame should be amused by the circus. Except me, all in the town will be there.” “And will that be so many?” This time the smile touched her eyes. “And from many miles as well— several in the mountains, and mare than a league mcre through the val- ley. In all, above two hundred, either to-night or the sum of both nights.” In a flash of sunlight from the bur- nished field she saw a streak of black curve across the horizon. A man had lifted the yoke from the oxen, and thrown it on the ground. The dark line of the tent-pole had vanished, and around it was rising a drcoping gray cone. “Even there have been some who have gone the two nights—with the privilege, on the second night, of kiss- ing the lady gymnast. Though that would not interest madame, unless to paint. But I cannot say if that would apply to this circus—whether there i would be such doings. Yet I know | | that ’t is a fine circus, and if it were not for my profession, I myself would go. i afraid of fire. Even madame, with | her brave red hair, might be afraid of i a thing so unnatural as that. But this remembers the Xernel of his errand, he spoke again. “This,” his voice I quavered, “this disappointment, sig- | | girl is not afraid. She rides standing | {up upon a horse. very fast, and she carries a wooden ring set on fire, and throws it in the air. Tt can be said with some reason that she is a magic. For she catches the ring, all fire, again and again. and at last she jumps through it, holding it in her hands, upon the horse’s back. In order that there be no cheating, sie lights the hoop her- self, madame, from a candle. Indeed, she would let you come from your own place and light it... . She is a Spanish girl.” A faint cloud had floated into the valley, and hung melting beyond the tent. An arm of the dying sun reach- ed out and struck it, and lavender blood suffused it. One shaft of gold light struggled in the fields. The woman rose. “Perhaps madame would conde- scend to accompary my wife. My wife will always go to the circus. At least madame might find something there that she could paint.” The woman laughed. “Or some- thing to fal! in love with,” she said. “Ah,” said the host, deprecatingly, “now it is madame thai is humorous.” She lcoked at him abruptly. “Please call me my name,” she said; “stop calling me ‘madame.’ Say ‘miss,’ and then my name.” Startled and abashed, the inn-keep- er stared. “As you see fit,” he .stammered— “madame—mademoiselle—" Through the faintly star-lighted night the trio journeyed slowly down to the circus—the American woman and the inn-keeper’s wife together in the little cart, the inn-keeper leading the donkey. The American woman spoke to him. “Why do you not see it with us?” “But my wife must see it,” he ans- wered, simply; “we may not leave the inn to the servant.” Two yellew torches flared at the entrance to the tent, and in their glare the woman descended from the cart, the peasant woman clinging, in a quiver of nervous excitement, to her arm. She looked for the picture of the Spanish girl who was not afraid of fire, but a torn red cloth had been hung over it, and where this sagged at the top she could only read, in crude, yellow letters, “La Fuega!” Across the entrance rail the host was speaking to them. “I will return for you.” His wife released his hand with a gasp, and now, with all ten fingers fastened on the woman’s arm, dragged her under the folds of the canvas. They sat on boards in the small, dim tent. It was nearly filled, and half lighted by one vil lamp in the center. The circus began: a dingy parade of animals: a llama, a monkey on a dog, a manufactured zebra, in single file like a celibate procession into the ark. Ther a man rode on two horses, hands in air, feet two feet apart, and a pair of lady gymnasts like a set of sullen statues, pulled their trapeze from the roof. “Nothing, nothing that I couldn’ do myself,” reflected the American, erimly. Then came the clown. : His hair was red, redder than her own; tight, like crinkled waves of paint, upon his head, and his face was as white as milk, a hue that, in the thin glare of the lamp, was whiter, deathlier than powder. With her chin on her hand the American woman was leaning forward, and as he stood still to bow she found herself looking straight inte his eyes. He bowed—toward her, and to right and left. He was the clown, and the crowd laughed. Even hefore he com- menced his tumbling, his grotesque- ries, they laughed. He was a clown, and they did not know that he was not funny. They had come to be amused. The inn-keeper’s wife was tuzging at the American’s cloak. “It is now,” she whispered, %“ensely. “When the clown is finished, then the Spanish girl comes with her fire! Oh, I am too happy! If only my dear husband were with me!” The clown gravely left the ring amid shouts of laughter, and in antic- ipating silence the audience stirred and waited. “Ah, look, look, madame!” pleaded the inn-keeper’s wife. “Look at the cate, over there. She will come in there! See, the clown has sat down there, just where she will come in. He is to hand her the candle. See, he al- ready has it in his hand!” And the woman gazed again into the white face of the clown. It was an ascetic face, thin and long and del- icate. Across the circle of the tent, it was a narrow, white triangle, wit" eyes of hollow spots, like a piece of linen with two heles burned in it; but already, on her painter’s vision, its acute outlines had fastened like the first, unchangeabie strokes on an en- graver’s plate—the angular, red-yel- low brows, above the brown, round, reddish eyes, the slender, shadowing bones over the hollow cheeks; the sharp, small, hawk-like nose; the straight line of the sensitive mouth, colorless above and below the narrow scarlet of the tight-closed lips. The voice of the inn-keeper’s wife was whispering, like a vibrant wire in her ezr. : “Now, now! She must come now! Surely she must come now!” But an old man was standing in the gateway. Hesitant, his silk hat twisting in his hands; he advanced before the hush- ed, expectant villagers. The" intangi- ble pall of a coming calamity was up- on their holiday spirits. In the center the oid man paused and looked helplessly around. Then his eyes met those of the clown, where he sat cross-legged by the gate, and, seeming to take new courage, he bowed. “Signore and signori,” he began, unsteadily—“signore and signori. I have to tell you that Senorita Fuega will not appear to-night. We crave your patience and your pardon.” His voice stopped, and then, as one who The horse rides 180, : : : i nore and Their treasure is a girl who is not | broken hearts, for it is hecause Senor- ita Fuega died last night. For this reasor we hope that you will pardon us, and that you will enjoy the rest of our performance.” He turned away with drooping shoulders toward the gate; buta warning finger from the clown arrest- ed him, and he turned back again. There was more courage in his voice this time. “I did not tell you, signore and sig- nori, that our clown will take her place.” In the deep quiet of the audience, a quick throb passed thrcugh the Amer- ican woman’s heart. The inn-keep- er’s wife leaned against her heavily. In the gateway a horse was stand- ing, and out of the darkness the clown sprang onto its back and rode into the ring. He had doffed his black and white costume, and the peasants saw him riding in the knee-breeches and short jacket of their own people. In the center of the ring, planting its hoofs, the horse stopped, with the clown erect, fragilely poised, on its broad haunches below the hanging lamp, his heop in one hand, his candle in the other. Her elbow on her knees, her chin upon her wrist, the American woman leaned forward. He touched the candie to the hoop, water, curled, licking, around it. Then the yellow circle sprang from his hand into the air, and the clown rode around the ring, tossing it high and ahead of him, again and again, catch- ing it in his naked hand, twirling it around his head, flecking the golden disk from the muscles of his long, white fingers frcm ore palm to the other. It was his hands on which the wom- an’s look was fastened, as they closed and twitched and opened on the bounding ring of fire. She had thought of La Fuega’s feat as a thing of dexterity, of harmless, arithmetic calculation; of La Fuega as a poor child of trickery, flaunting 2 spangled gown through a dangerless trick- ruled flame, with two unfired spaces in her hoop, where she would catch it with the accuracy of long, hard-work- ing y=ars. But she could see the hands of the clown, and the unmistakable lucidity of sight bound her brain to conviction. Once, tearing her eves from his "to his side. signori, we tell you with | and bright fire, like a snake in boiling . hands, she saw his face through the ring. Directly in front of her he was dancing the hoop in short circles be- fore his body. Behind the light of it, the zrimson hue of his mouth was gone from his face, and she locked upon dead color, chalk outlines, and the tunnels of his eyes. Their depths focused in hers through the fire, and the hallucination told her that there was some pact between them. The flickering hoop passed over his head, down around his body, under his flying feet; up again, spinning alone into space, back to his hands, urder his feet, over his head. A fluttering gasp came from the staring people. The clown was gene. The Miracle of Fire was over. They passed out of the tent into the night, jostle¢ by the chattering peasants. Under the torch-light, on the metal-green grass by the mule cart, the old circus-master was bar- gaining with the inn-keeper for a piece of ground in the cemetery. The dead girl was his daughter, and, re- specting his grief, the inn-keeper sold to him cheaply. She heckoned the host to her, “What is the trouble?” she asked. “God has taken his daughter from him, madame, and he says that God’s will be done. But there is yet grief left on earth for him, for he must send her to the Madonna in that un- painted box, without a pall.” The woman, her purale cloak on her arm, went to the old man quickly. “Senor,” she said, “forgive a stranger’s intrusion. May she pay a tribute to your dead? Will you per- mit your daughter to wear my rai- ment to the Virgin?” As she held out the purple cloak, the old man raised his black eyes to hers. “It has covered many dead things,” she said. Watching her like a fright- ened dog in winter, dumbly he took it on his trembling z2rms. The priest, the old man, and the inn-keeper spreac the royal color on the coffin. The clown’s voice came through the mist. “Signora is herself a Virgin!” Turning, her soul shrinking under the innocent words, she saw that he was holding his own short, tight jacket outstretched. “No, no!” she said, stepping back. For answer he lifted his head toward the sky, and she saw the fine rain beating on his upturned face. Then he silently slip- ped it over her arms and around her. As his hands touched her she convul- sively clutched the jacket together at her breast, turning away. “I have done nothing,” she said. “Madame has done the Virgin's work,” he answered gravely. “Is that nothing? When Madonna looked into my eyes last night, I felt that she was looking into my soul, which has been damned. But I felt that che was kind, and to-day I know that she is kind.” From the graveside the tones of the priest came hollow and melan- choly through the rain. The coffin of La Fuega, who was not afraid of fire, sank into the oblong hole. Again the woman and the clown were the last in the somber proces- sion. She walked with her eyes or the ground. She felt that he was going to speak again, and looked at: him. There was a hesitant, ing appeal in his eyes, and glance he spoke. “Is there a thing that I could do for the Madonna?” query- at her Instinctively, helplessly, the answer | flashed to her lips: “Let me—” She stopped the words. The desire to see his hands had possessed and unnerved her. She choked back the cruel re- quest, and instead remembered her earliest desire. “Before you leave the town, let me paint vour picture.” In his voice was an innocent sur- prise:. “To paint my picture? The Ma- donna, then, is an artist? But this she could have had for the asking! I® is too little a request.” His longing to serve her swept a i deep color to the woman’s face; and As they plodded upward through the dark, the inn-keeper’s wife, with a ' deep sigh, bent from the cart and leaned her band’s shoulder; but presently she turned and looked wonderingly at the American woman. “Madame is weeping,” she said, patting her gently on the knee. “Mad- ame weeps for the poor girl who is dead 7” “Yes,” said the American “And for all women.” The next morning mass was said for the dead child in the church, and the American woman knelt, shivering, on the bare floor. A drizzle of fine rain would descend presently, for a head against her hus- suddenly the inevitable answer trem- bled from her: “Tell me how she died.” A strange light flashed face. “Ah, that, Madonna, is indeed a aift! Yes, when I have given it, the Madonna will know! For in that, I pay to her the last life of my soul.” A sense of omen kept her silent, and they walked after the far, dim shadows of the old man and the inn- keeper and the priest and the rest from the circus. She felt her con- tract, and she knew that che was trembling. As before the church, like some spirit his quiet vcice came upon her out of the mist. (Concluded next week.) into his Yom Kippur, The Day of Atonement. The Day of Antonement (Hebrew name, Yom Kippur) fell on the tenth day of the month of Tishri, corres- ponding to Octoker 7 of the current woman. gray day had fallen upon the valley | and risen up from it in patches of thick mist. The host of the inn was by her as they went out. “Perhaps it would interest madanie to know why this girl can be buried, died in another For knowing that she town and without a priest. absolutions: the absolution of fire and of water; the absolution of desire; the absolution for these who die in war. Dying in fire, one is therefore purged and escapes purgatory com- pletely; in water and in war, aceci- dents, madame, are bound to happen. And in desire—" She laid a restraining hand upon him. “Ask the old man if I may fol- low his daughter to the grave.” The inn-keeper looked at her. “Put madame would be doing an honor!” She pointed to the old Spaniard. “Tell him I would like to honor his daughter. Ask him if I may go.” “Madame has a kind heart,” said the voice of the clown over her shoul- der. The procession started, drearily, in the gray mist, plodding along the lonely miles to the burying-ground. Now before her, iike a wanderer, now behind her, like an echo, the clown walked silently, with bent shoulders. The wavering string of dim figures reminded her of the parade in the cir- cus. One of the lady gymnasts car- ried her baby, and might have been the dog with the monkey. She pictur- ed the old man {urning handsprings to his daughter’s grave. She stood apart, lonely, depressed, as the coffin of boards was set down. The priest, centered in the small group of mountebanks and peasants, was preparing to read the burial serv- ice. A few paces away, the clown, his elenched hands hanging motionless, rose through the gray light like a weird monument. The old Spaniard was talking to the host of the inn. His vague, meandering grief had given place to some particular sorrow, and his arms, in a despairing gesture, reached out and fell, like the clown’s, er | the Jewish New Year. in | our church there are many necessary ! calendar. A special service the even- ing before ushers in the solemn occa- sion, which service is known as the “Kol Nidre” (All Vows), so called from the opening words of the intro- ductory prayer. This introductory prayer is noteworthy, among other things, for the .profoundly beautiful melody to which it is traditionally chanted. Arranged {or modern in- struction, the Kol Nidre melody now finds place on vavious symphony pro- grams. The Day of Atonement itself is the great White Fast, the culmination of the penitential days inaugurated by The Bible in several passages designates it as the Sabbath of Sabbaths. In ancient days its observance was characterized by elaborate. priestly ceremonial and sac- rificial rite, as described in detail in Leviticus XVI. All this pomp of ritual disappeared with the downfall of the Temple at Jerusalem. But the loss of priesthood and altar did not affect the vital significance of Yom Kippur as such, which still remains the supreme day in the religious cal- endar of the Jew. . Its primary purpose as the name “Day of Atonement” implies is to ef- fect an atone-ment in the ethical and spiritual life of the individual and the community; to restore, i e, the sense of harmony between man and his own higher self, between man and God, wherever and however that harmony has been broken by sin. All the aus- tere ceremonials of the day, the pray- ers and fasting from eventide to eventide are meant to work on the conscience, the heart, and the soul, and bring them to the mood of genu- ine contraction for the evil of the past and the yearning desire for amend- ment in the future. Coupled with the call to “repentance” is the comforting assurance that God’s tender mercy and pardon will be vouchsafed to those who are truly penitent. No mediator is necessary, no vicarious sacrifice. The only requirement for forgiveness is the sincere turning from sin and the coming to God in love and following His law in loyalty. One of the most impressive fea- tures of Yom Kippur devotion—con- tinued for the entire day until sunset —is the memorial service for the dead held usually in the afternoon. The concluding service of the Day of Atonement is called Neilah and the tone of its prayers is holy joy in the consciousness of God’s forgiveness and loving favor. School Teacher Will be Elected Pres- ident. The profession of teaching may this year point with pride to the fact that four candidates for President of the United States were all formerly teachers. Mention has already been made of Wilson being a son of a Pres- byterian preacher and Hughes being a son of a Baptist preacher. The can- are also alike in that they hold a liberal supply of college and univer- sity degrees. vears a college professor and presi- dent of Princeton University. ed to the Governorship of New Jersey. It is noteworthy that the Democratic, Republican and Prohibitionist candi- dates for President have all been Gov- ernor, Wilson of New Jersey, Hughes of New York, ard Hanley of Indiana. After Mr. Hughes graduated from taught law at Cornell and was a lecturer for some time at the New York University Law School while he was practicing law. Mr. Hanley was born on a farm in Champaign county, Ill, and the boy learned to read and spell at home. A “History of the Civil War” was a sort of text book. When he was 16 he walked over into Indiana to find work and also to find advantages of a nor- mal school. He became a country school teacher, and in this profession he learned to speak before audiences. Country school debating societies gave him the training in oratory in which he probably excels any other candidate in the field. Though he taught country school several terms he turned to the law, and most of his mature life has been spent in law and politics. Allen L. Benson, Socialist nominee for President, was born in Michigan, where he taught school, worked in a chair factory and in car shops before he got 2 job as a newspaper reporter. Most of his life work has been on newspapers. He was managing edit- ior of a Detroit daily and served on | the staff of several other dailies in ! various cities. An old acquaintance | says Benson would rather argue than ! eat and can do beth at the same time. { The Socialist platform this year bears down hard on what is called “capital- istic militarism.” Mr. Benson thinks it not improbable that the Sosialists will carry Oklahoma this vear. They now have one member of Congress, London, of New York. Victor Berger, of Milwaukee, who was the first So- cialist to serve in Congress, is a can- didate this year, and the Socialists would like to have in the next Con- gress at least Berger and Debs, in ad- dition to London.—Pittsburgh Dis- patch. Planning for Spring. It is well to plant the bulbs during this month so that they may be ready to come up with the first warm weath- er, and seeds and perennials which were sown during the summer may be bedded out now in the place where they are to bloom. The geraniums which have been out should be cut back and either pot- ted for the winter or else stored away in a cool cellar. The best way to do the latter is to shake the soil from the roots and hang the plants upside down. Kept in this manner, they will be quite ready for planting next spring, when the frost is out of the ground once more. After the first frost has come the dahlias, caladiums and cannas must be dug up, allowed to dry in the sun, the ‘tops cut off and then stered in a cool, dry place. If you have grown vegetables, the ground should be cleaned up as soon as the crop is over; the stumps and tops should be burned, as they are very ligely to harbor insects which would then be there to greet vou next year and increase your bur- dens. As insects are bound to be marauders, anvhow, now is the time to get in some preventive work, so dig up the soil or, better still, have it plowed, and then leave it rough so that the frost can penetrate and kill off the eges of the bugs or the tiny grubs which may be nibernating be- low the surface. This is a ood sea- son to plant asparagus, but it re- quires a rather heavy mulching of good manure. When protecting the plants against frost we must remember that there is such a thing as overdoing it and that some plants, while requiring a little protection, may die from tco much. Roses, for example, are better kept if the ground is spaded up around the roots and leaves piled in a good mound than if they were tied up in straw as they are so often. The canes will get frozen, but anyhow they ought to be cut back in the spring, so that does not matter. Lilacs and rhododendrons can be treated in the same manner. If the winter is mild and the spring early, care should be taken that the leaves rotting round thé plants do not become closely beaten down and mat- ted together, for if they do they will cut off the ventilation and cause the plants to decay; and it is better not to cover up the perennials until the ground is frozen about an inch deep. Pansies and forget-me-nots must be covered very lightly with straw and kept dry, consequently it is best to plant them in raised beds, so that the water will drain off. If the pan- sies are taken up late in the winter and brought into the house they will bloom very early—in fact, in a few weeks from the time of repotting. Only Mud Slinging. “Do you expect a landslide next fall 7” “No,” replied Senator Sorghum. “Out our way I’m afraid the only movement in political real estate will be a little nud slinging.”—Washing- ton Star. How He Knew. “Are you sure that is a fashionable resort 7” “It must be. Nearly everybody you meet laments because the war makes a trip abroad quite out of the ques- tion.”—Birminghem Age-Herald. didates of the leading political parties | wd the power and corrigible authority of this From ! the presidency of Princeton he chang- | Brown University he taught Greek | and machematics at Delhi, N. Y., later | { hyssop and NM FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN. DAILY THOUGHT "Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners; so that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, sow weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it ; with many, either to have it sterile with President Wilson was for many | idleness or manured with industry, why, lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blaed and base- i ness of our natures would conduct us to i most preposterous conclusions; but we have reascn to coo! our raging motions.— Shakespeare. Fashion makes the selection of a good looking long coat an easy task this year. There are some wraps severely plain in cut and trimming, suitable only for rough usage. Others are so made that they can be utilized both for afternoon and evening wear, thus providing the wearer with two garments for the price of one. If a long coat is not to be found in vour wardrobe, then you must remedy this defect without delay, for it is an absolutely essential garment in the outfit of every woman. You indeed feel that you are committing an ex- travagance in purchasing a long wrap, for in reality you are being economi- cal. You will get more comfort and wear out of this sort of a coat than a dozen suits or half a dozen dresses. It can be utilized on all sorts of occa- sions—for motoring, walking, shop- ping or for evening wear. There is no limit to the use to which a long coat can be put, for it can be worn a dozen different times with the feeling that it is smart and quite correct. Suit coats will he much longer than last season. Many come to within four to six inches of the dress hem. They are mostly belted with a wide or narrow belt. While they conform in a way to the figure, they do not fit. The belts are used to draw them in at the waist high or low, as the figure seems to need. Many have hip seams. Collars are large, loose shawl or sai- lor shapes, folded into careless pleats. Furs used for coilar and cuffs are of rabbit and rat, beautifully dyed. Fur trimming is used in narrow bands. Skirts are to be full but not flare as last season. They are low boct top, length. Stout or older women will wear then two to three inches longer. They are filled inte the waistline on thin women and laid in flat pleats on stout figures. Hair importers are fearful lest in the near future an ineradicable odor of kerosene will linger about many of the “rat,” transformations, frizzes and false bangs worn by feminine customers. Much of the hair now used comes from China. Since the war began it has been brought direct across the Pacific. The United States Public Health Service has decreed that all future shipments must be dipped in kerosene. The importers claim the kerosene sr.ell of the hair from Chi- nese ports will alienate their custom- ers. American women are buying more hair now thar ever before. One mil- lion pounds of it was brought in from China alone during the last fiscal vear.— International News Service. Tea and coffee do a child more harm up to its sixth year than whisky or beer fed to it in proportionate quan- tities would do, according to Dr. N. LaDolt Johnson of Chicago. Plain sponge cake without frosting is not dongerous, but otherwise sugar should be avoided as much as pos- sible, ne said. He alse declared candy should never be given the child under 6 years of age, and no cakes or cook- ies containing an excessive amount of sugar should be allowed. A child’s play is really its most im- portant business, for in it the exer- cise necessary for the growing body is obtained and at the same time lessons are learned which leave an everlasting impress on the character. . For this reason it seems almost in- comprehensible that any mother should be satisfied to provide her children with toys that vitiate its good taste or by a teo complete me- chanism deprive their owner of the joy of achievement, the necessity of using his or her quick-wittedness or imagination. There is no need to rive a baby one of these repulsively ugly rag dolls with staring eves and distorted feat- ures, when there are lovely, cuddly bunny rabbits with bright-colored coats, and dear, soft little doggies, which can be held in their little mas- ter’s arms as he goes off to the bye- bye land, and these pretty toys will be cuitivating his sense of proportion and artistic truth, and at the same time giving him a soft corner in his heart for his four-footed neighbors. From Japan comes a very complete set of doll’s furniture which would delight any small honte-maker. It is cut out of a sclid block of Wang Yung wood and can be reassembled inte a block again by the use of a little pa- tience and ingenuity, a fact that makes it a most instructive toy, -ar- rying out the Montessori game of solids in a more advanced and more interesting form. Another fascinating toy which would bring joy to any little boy and to a good many girls is a blue car- penter’s apron, with a wide pocket in which there is a very complete set of ‘diminutive tools, and for the more domesticated wee lady there is a doll’s dressmaking outfit, put up in an at- tractive box. With toys such as these, not to men- tion the better known games in which many can take part, a child can at a very small cost be taught to educate itself unconsciously, learning lessons that are of far greater value for after life than many of those given in the classroom. A nuraber of women are known to be in Russian infantry regiments. Women number one-fifth of the fac- tory workers in Pennsylvaina. —Put your ad. in the WATCHMAN. a?
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers