Bellefonte, Pa., January 25, 1918. THE ROAD TO LAUGHTERTOWN. Oh, show me the road to Laughtertown, For I have lost the way! I wandered out of the path one day, ‘When my heart was broken my hair turn- ed gray. And I can’t remember how to play; F've quite forgotten how to be gay; It's all through sighing and weeping, they say. Oh, show me the road to Laughtertown, For I have lost the way. Would ye learn the road to Laughter- town, Oh, ye who have lost the way? Would ye have young heart though your’ hair be gray? Go learn from a little child each day, Go serve his wants and play his play, And catch the lilt of his laughter gay, And follow his dancing feet as they stray; For he knows the road to Laughtertown, Oh, ye who have lost the way! —Katherine D. Blake. CINDERELLA OF THE BIG °'UN. For the tenth time that morning the sun-baked man in the mere cat- beat leveled a pair of binoculars at the opulent steam-yacht that lay in the wide, sunbathed bay, a salmon among the minnows. To the casual observer it would have seemed perfectly natural for this gray-shirted khaki-trousered, deep- chested young seaman to be fascinat- ed by the graceful, efficient seven- hundred-and-forty tonner, a vessel well calculated to make the mouths of all good men water who had been born with that mysterious sea feeling which once made Vikings and pio- neers, and today fills dreadnaughts and cruisers and destroyers and sub- marines with the blue-eyed sons of Neptune. “The Big-’Un,” as he called her, with complete respect, had won his admiration from the moment that she had anchored opposite the yacht club and he had several times sailed round her to examine her points and finish, in the breathless, envious manner of a mongrel terrier round a majestic St. Bernard. For several days, how- ever, it was not the yacht that he had developed the incurable habit of ex- amining through his glasses, but the slight, sweet figure of a golden-hair- ed girl whose loneliness had stirred his sympathy and made her the little heroine of his thoughts. He had seen her first standing aft, with her hands behind her back, watching the seagulls that played like air-children above the water. It seemed to him that she had been cry- ing, and he resented the fact. She was so palpably a girl who should never be made to cry. Afterward, more and more interested and sur- prised and curious, he had watched her leaning disconsolately on the rail looking after the electric launch which put off every morning for the land- ing-stage of the yacht club and re- turned later with a little old man, a large lady and two exceedingly smart girls. He had seen her reading and pacing the deck, in brief conversation with the old man, who seemed to be worried and anxious. He was not much of a story-reader, but there was one, the favorite in his nursery, which had remained in his memory, and al- though this girl didn’t work in a kitchen in a torn frock with a large tom-cat for a companion he called her Cinderella, made up his mind that the large lady was the step-mother; the little old man her second husband and the two smart young women the ugly sisters. They were, as a matter of fact, very pretty and always dressed to kill. He, like the Cinderella of the “Big- ’Un,” had seen the launch take her usual passengers ashore, had sat for several minutes trying to make out’ what really was the story of that lonely girl, decided that probably there was no story at all, and that, if the truth were known, she was the apple of her father’s eye and her mother’s darling and was perhaps re- covering from an illness, and had just started to make ready to sail to the Point to do a good day’s work on his seascape, when the launch came up alongside. “Are you for hire?” . He looked up quickly, hardly believ- ing that the question was intended for him. The little old man, who was really only a rather small gray man in the middle fifties, with kind eyes and sympathetic mouth, had caught hold of his boat. He was just going to re- turn a laughing “No,” when a sudden thought struck him that he and his boat might be able to do something for Cinderella. “Why, yes,” he said. “Sure.” “Is your boat in good condition?” “Newly built,” he said, covering up his half-finished painting with a cush- ion. “Are you a good sailor?” He had to let a certain amount of smile go. He had lived many months of every year on a yacht only a very little smaller than his questioner’s. “As good as most.” “I see. Well, what’s your charge for taking out a young lady every morning, weather permitting, for a couple of hours.” . He hauled in the word “nothing” just as it was about to escape him. By jove, what a chance to take a place in his imaginary version of his favor- ite fairy story. What a chance to find out what really was the secret of his little Cinderella’s tears and loneliness! “I leave it to you, sir,” he said. The owner of the S. S. Albatross ‘looked about him nervously and even guiltily. The man at the helm was gazing keenly at an object a hundred miles away, but one big ear was strained to catch every word that passed. “Very good. Follow me to the yacht, and the sailings shall com- mence this morning.” The young artist rubbed his eyes. Had he really heard all this or dream- ed it? Was it a fact that he had be- come the owner of a boat for hire, or was this incident another part of the story that he had weaved round the was the departing launch cutting were tied up and began to see how I swiftly through the smooth glistening water and there was the kindly pro- | C ¢ file of the little old man and there, plain as a pikestaff. You’re a better look old ‘and little at that moment, silhouetted against the almost unbe- | artist than I shall ever be, Cinderel- | came forward. was getting on through glasses.” “Um,” said Jack. “One thing’s as “Gee! I shall have to say some- | minutes to eight, undressed, got into | thing in .a second,” thought Jack. his bathing suit, dived overboard and The little old man who really did | swam strongly toward the “Big-'Un,” “My dear,” he hur- reflections of her many lights danc- lievably blue sky, the self-assured la. You know things where I can |ried to say, “don’t you think it would ing round her. yacht and Cinderella waiting eager- ly—near the companion. He sprang up, shoved his canvas in the bunk of his cabin house, put away his shaving-tackle and pajamas, the remains of a loaf and a jar of mar- malade, threw the shells of several hard-boiled eggs and the two empty halves of a yellow grapefruit over- board, gave his strip of carpet a vio- lent shaking, wrung out a mop here and there with quick, expert hands, combed his hair, shoved on a sunburn- ed panama, stuck his naked feet into a pair of newly-whitened tennis shoes, jumped back into the cockpit, hauled up the mainsail, cast off the hawser from the mooring, got under way and made a bee-line leg for the “Big-Un.” Who would have dared to say that he was going by accident, without any effort of his own, to have the de- light of bringing a smile into the wistful eyes of the little girl whose loneliness had stirred his imagination and whose beauty had put him clean off his work? Let no grinning scep- tic ever say again that the proper: welcome to a new moon doesn’t bring luck. The impossible comes to pass far more often than dramatic critics and the dry-brained people of Mis- souri can ever be made to believe. To bring a smile into young eyes— that would be a good deed in a hard world! Cinderella jumped into the catboat the very moment it ran alongside. It seemed to the hired man that she al- most flew into it like a bird let out of a cage. The little old man, the cap- tain and the mate watched from the yacht, and the eyes of several sailors were on her as she sat down in the cockpit and waved her hand. On all those different faces there was the same human look of gladness. It was all very peculiar. And then, leaning over, the little old man gave out a warning. “Mind, not longer than two hours, Angela dear!” “All right, papa ... two hours. How glorious to be free for two hours!” She added these strange words in a low voice in which there was a little quiver and with the long intake of breath of an escaped pris- oner. Clear of the Albatross, the artist gave his sail a good full and beat to windward, on the starboard tack, the tiller under his left arm. There was a fair breeze from the north and a hot sun, a sky as clear and blue as a healthy eye, and away across the rip- pling bay a gap through which the sea sparkled and glistened in a mer- ry mood. What a day for youth and joy! It was not with the impersonal eye of the artist that our young friend looked at the girl whom he now saw closely for the first time. How could it be? She was the heroine of a story which had become a very vital part of his hourly thoughts. She was a young and golden thing who had set his sympathy alight, worried and dis- turbed and interested him, and moved him to a growing desire to help and serve, and as he looked at her en- throned in his cockpit he metaphoric- ally flung the good word up to the sky—Love. worth looking at, with her corn-color- ed hair, wide wistful eyes, little tip- tilted nose, full red lips and round sweet chin. Why paint seascapes ever again, he thought, when there was such a face to reproduce? And as to loving—good Lord, it was the only thing to do in life! “Do you like sailing? he asked. “Yes, thank you,” she said. “Why didn’t you get the little old . . . I mean your father to fetch me before 7” “He was afraid—that is, it didn’t occur to him—to either of us.” She caught herself up and hedged, obvi- ously unwilling and afraid to be per- fectly frank. “What shall I call you, please,” she added. “I’m known as Jack to my friends,” he answered, showing two lines of very good teeth. “What may I call you?” “Miss Murray, I suppose.” Jack shook his head. “Not out here,” he said. “I've got my own name for you.” She looked at him with the frank and fearless interest of a child. Gray shirt open at the neck, sun-tanned skin, strong, young, honest face, kind and whimsical eyes, khaki trousers much the worse for wear, brown mus- cular arms—this was a man who be- lieved in fairies, knew how to talk to little boys, and won the instant trust of birds and beasts. “Have you? What is it?” “Cinderella—if you don’t mind.” A blush made her skin like apple- blossom. “I wondered whether you were going to say that.” Jack was amazed. The story that he had made up about this girl was a very private one of his own. She caught his astonishment and laughed. “I have glasses, too,” she said. “Ah! TI see!” “So did I. You're an artist. I've often watched you come back from the Point and sit looking at your pic- ture with your chin in your hands and a frown on your face. And I didn’t mind your watching me—at least not after the first time, because I knew that you wouldn’t unless you had imagination and sympathy, and I trusted you and made you a friend.” “Thanks,” said Jack, and took off his hat to her, with an odd touch of gravity and respect. _ She acknowledged it with a charm- ing little bow. No wonder a seagull gave a little shrill laugh as it flew over these two children. “And then one day, when I saw you looking after the launch—my glasses are very strong—I knew by your expression that you had found out that I had lost my mother and had a stepmother.” “And two ugly sisters,” said Jack, before he could stop himself. “Who are really awfully pretty.” “And always dressed to kill.” “And I said to myself: ‘He calls me Cinderella—I'm certain he calls me Cinderella,” and it made me laugh and feel less lonely and miserable, and I used to watch for your sail every afternoon just before sunset and girl and the “Big-’Un?” No. There be quite cheerful by the time you \ And, by Jove, she was | ‘only guess them.” “It was quite easy,” she said, with something like a sob. Jack bent forward and touched her arm. “Is there any little thing you want to tell me?” “Not today—not yet. It may be unlucky, and I’ve had so much bad luck that I’m afraid.” “All right. There’s plenty of time the tiller, Cinderella, and I'll make a seaman of you.” And so it went on. Morning after morning the hired man ran his cat- boat alongside the “Big-"Un” and took the little bird out of her large cage for two delightful stolen hours, watched always by the little old man, the captain, the mate and many of the crew—and all of them trusted Jack implicitly, they didn’t know why— and were as glad as he was to see Cinderella smile. But they never guessed that there was a third person quiver full of very sharp arrows. and that was Jack, because one of those arrows had gone clear through On their way back one morning, Angela—now quite a useful seaman —told Jack something that he was was afraid of bad luck. “Have you ever heard of George Marshall 7” she asked. “Do you mean George Marshall of New York, the man who owns race- horses and dyes his mustache black and has bags under his eyes?” “Yes. He is the cause of my being punished.” “That brute! Why?” “Before we left the city he went to stepmother and said he wanted to marry me.” “Marry you! It would be as crim- inal as putting sunshine in a whiskey bottle.” “All the same, stepmother was very glad. Father loves me, and she’s jeal- ous—at least I suppose so, because she wants to get rid of me and said that Mr. Marshall was a great catch. | He came to the house every afternoon and brought flowers, and they didn’t | like him any more than I did and withered quickly. I said I wouldn't | marry him and there were lots of | scenes and stepmother spoke very | loudly and called me a little fool and | when we came on the yacht she said | I shouldn’t join in anything or be al- | lowed to go ashore until I saw sense.” | “I thought it was something o’ that sort,” cried Jack. “But good gad, | what about your father? He doesn’t | want you to be that man’s wife, does he?” ! Angela gave a little sigh. “Fath- | er’s not very big, you see, and there ! are three people against him, and he | thinks I might be happier away from ! stepmother. I wonder if I should, | Jack? I’ve forgotten all about hap- | piness since father brought stepmet er home, with Enid and Cora. A man ' who is kind to horses might be kind | to me.” For a moment Jack sat frozen and | speechless. He had seen this man’ Marshall in New York many times. He was almost an institution in the ! cabaret district. He was “dear old! George” to any poor, painted girl who | couldn’t afford to choose her friends. ! He bought everything, from antiques’ to virtue, from horses to honesty. | “Cinderella,” he said, leaning forward | with a queer horror in his eyes, “if you say that man’s name again, if! you ever think—even think—of him, | whatever cruelty you have to endure, | rn—ria——» i “What Jack?” Her heart began to ; jump and tumble. | Jack’s voice broke and he finished ! his threat with a funny, awkward, ' boyish gesture. And to Angela it’ seemed that a great choir of high | voices suddenly broke into a melody | so wonderful that everything unhappy in the world was swept away by it. And then she looked up at the yacht ! as they ran alongside and the world | was silent again, as though someone | had shut the door. “What’s the matter?” asked Jack; | anxiously, as he heard her gasp. Get- | ting no answer he followed the fright- | ened eyes. There stood the large la- | dy, like the avenging angel, with her lips compressed, her hands tight to the rail and her eyes glistening with rage. Nearby, the ugly sisters stood ! together, bored if anything, with per- haps the slightest amount of amuse- ment. Behind, nervous and guilty, the little old man—the captain—the mate and some of the crew, and all ther mouths were open and all their eyes very round. “What a stunning picture,” thought Jack, taking it all in, the color, the feeling, the expres- sions, everything. “I’ll do it, and call it ‘Caught.’ ” : Trembling and cold Angela went aboard and Jack, tying up, followed her. His old panama was browner than ever, his gray shirt had lost a button, his khaki trousers were wet with spray and his feet were bare and brown. He had forgotten to shove on his shoes. “So, this is the sort of thing that ou do behind my back, is it? This is the kind of deception that goes on when I'm ashore?” A loud voice? Cinderella was right. To her it seemed to carry to the yacht club. It seemed to her that all the world was being informed that she had earned the reproaches of this hard lady who owed a dead woman a grudge for having been the mother of a daughter so much prettier than her own. “Gee! I shall say something in a second,” thought Jack. “It appears that you got round father,”—(the little old man shook his head violently. “Never said one word,” he telegraphed, “not one”)-— “overcame my implicit instructions to the captain” (“liar,” tapped the skip- per on his imaginary wireless) “and most probably have been carrying on a most disgraceful flirtation with this boatman.” (“Mother! Mother!” said Cora). “Why not? A girl who can conceive such a scheme is capable of anything.” and we're both young and life’s leng, thank God. And now collar hold of | seated in the cockpit—a blind passen- ger with a chubby face, a bow, and a | Only one of them all knew all this, his heart and filled the world with joy.’ dying to know, but had refrained with | a huge effort from asking. He, too, | i be better and kinder——" | Making as little plash as possible i The large lady returned the last: he breast-stroked to the starboard i word full, as though it were a tennis | side of the yacht. He had seen the i ball. “Kinder?” large lady and the two ugly sisters | “Yes, kinder,” cried Jack, stepping and the little old man sitting forward | forward and facing her up squarely. under the canopy. A victrola was! i “I've got to say something although playing the music of “Katinka.” | ’m only an old boatman. I don’t flirt: From one of the portholes a towel ; He swam | | with the ladies I take out for a sail ' gleamed in the moonlight. { and I don’t need long sight to see that (to it. “Cinderella!” this one could have you up for cruel- ' he called softly. ty to animals, and if you don’t altar| And Cinderella’s beautiful face was your ways right now I'll have the Hu- instantly framed. “Oh, Jack, there mane Inspector pay you a visit and! may be sharks!” she cried. your name shall go down to history | among infamous stepmothers. you get me?” ling! The words tumbled out of his mouth | till the end of the week.” and he stood with bare head and| “Oh, why.” square shoulders and hands tight! clenched and a cloud of indignation ! go on smiling whatever happens and all about him like smoke. Every man | wait. I love you.” in .hearing—nearly sixty—swore to: “And I love you, Jack.” stand him as many drinks as he could ' “Then throw me one of your shoes. swallow. (“A reg’lar feller,” thought Never mind why. Throw it.” the skipper). Then, in the amazed! In a moment a little white shoe pause that followed, he looked round : floated on the water and Jack pounc- quickly, caught ever so many eyes, ed on it, and tucked it through an ‘including the blazing ones of the !armhole into his bathing-shirt with a large lady, who now seemed to be per- : chuckle. fectly huge, became hideously self- ed his hand, and she caught it and conscious, turned on his heel, got pressed it to her lips. somehow or other into the famous “Till the end of the week, Cinderel- catboat, shoved off, hauled up his sail, la. I love you. Trust me.” put the helm up, caught the wind and | “I shall love and trust you, Jack, if long-legged it out toward the sea. the end of the week never comes.” And as he went he swore. “God bless you, Cinderella.” Of course he had settled the hash “God bless you, Jack.” for Cinderella. He knew that-—driv-! There was a plash and he was gone. 'eling idiot that he was. He should, Lots of things happened before the have stayed in his boat, sneaked away end of the week. The catboat was de- {and held his peace. Under those cir- 'serted. No old panama and gray “Cinderellay!” ! cumstances there might have been a shirt could be seen on her by Cinder-- The John | ‘ thousand-to-one chance that the little | ella through her glasses. lold man would have disobeyed orders | B. Brownings arrived at their house again. As it was, the odds were a with John B. Junior, and motor-cars ! million to one. The large lady’s voice | from all sides filled the wide drive, j could be even é x {heard it—he could see it in her eyes. in which sat the large lady, the little | Probably one or the other of the ugly old man and the two ugly sisters. | sisters would be told off to spy on John B. Junior was not, however, at | Cinderella now and her smile would , the tea-party. Then Saturday came fade and die. “My word,” he cried |and with it George Marshall from ! aloud, to the intense astonishment of | New York, who, with all his baggage, a passing gull, “save the world from | was taken aboard the “Big-"Un.” ' stepmothers. Who said Siberia?” Cinderella met him fearlessly, because Gee, but he was angry and sick. Sup- Jack loved her and was up to some- pose—just suppose—that his tactless thing. Her smile led the large lady which lay like a fairy ship, with the! He knew that she would say that. | Do | What a little mother she was, the dar- “Cinderella, you won’t see me ; “I'm up to something. Trust me, | “Catch,” he said, and kiss- | louder than he had and among others one from the hotel | outburst had the effect of presently making Cinderella turn her wistful eyes to that beast Marshall as the Prince who could take her out of the kitchen and the beetles—he meant the “Big-"Un” and its crew. It was almost dark when he return- ed, hungry and full of schemes, to his mooring. He had no food on board. | That meant putting on decent clothes and going into the town. He was just about to dive into the cabin-house to change when he caught sight of the yacht’s dinghy coming in. He went in, flung open a cupboard, caught up a piece of note paper and a pencil and wrote this: “Hang a towel out of your porthole at eight o'clock tonight and stand by for me. Jack.” He ad- dressed an envelope to Miss Angela Murray and went into the cockpit and sprang on the quay and waited for the dinghy; and as it came alongside sat down and put his feet into it. “Will you do something for me?” he asked. The boy grinned, ' a gold tooth: light. | gleaming in the uncertain “Sure! Name it, brother.” “Take this note to Miss Angela and see that she gets it when nobody’s looking. T’ll post that mail for you.” “Fine,” said the lad. “She shall have it, bet your life. Say, you're some boy!” “So are you,” said Jack, pushing the boat off. “So-long, old man.” “So-long.” Then he changed, went up to the town and as he stood in the glare of light of the new postoffice he examin- ed the letters that he had undertaken to post. They might need stamps. As he looked them over, he dropped one. The envelope had not been stuck down and the card it contained slip- ped out a little way. He caught sight of his own name and before he could remind himself that even hired boat- men don’t read other people’s corres- pondence it was too late. “Weather simply wonderful here,” it ran in writing that was round and upright. “We read of New York and its snow storms and then look at the blue sky and the sun on the water and smile. The hotels are crowded and there's lots to do. We go ashore to the bath- ing-pool every morning and dance after. Mostly we lunch at the hotel with various parties and play golf in the afternoon. The greens are sand. It’s so funny. Angela is in trouble, of course. A most curious girl—so secretive and watchful. Caught flirt- ing with a boatman. Can you believe it? And there’s George Marshall crazy about her! He'll be down this week. How perfectly wonderful about John B. Browning. I read yes- terday of his having re-made that vast fortune that he lost a year or two ago. This place is Browning mad, you know. They have a large house here which they open up the day after tomorrow. John B. Junior will be the catch of the season. He’s very good- looking, they say, and is devoted to art. Enid and I are looking forward to meeting him and, in the language of the comic-song writers, ‘We intend to do our best to bring it off.” Write soon. All love. Cora.” Jack put the card back, stuck the envelope and dropped it in the box with the other letters. He was as much annoyed with what he had read as with himself for having read it. “John B. Junior will be the catch of the season,” he repeated, a ghastly picture forming in his mind of him- self, nervous, self-conscious, being worried and pestered by a bevy of girls who almost frankly looked through his head at his father’s mon- ey-bags. “Holy-smoke! What a life! And George Marshall will be down this week, will he? Right. Now I know what to do. Cinderella shall have the fairy tale I weaved about her played out to the end. Who shall be the Prince? Well, that’s easy.” He didn’t dine at the big hotel, after all. He bought bread and pickles and ham in cool slices and several bottles of beer, loaded his pockets and re- turned to the quay. All these he ar- ranged on the small table in his cab- in-house and then, at exactly seven {to say that “at last this queer child thas seen sense.” But it made the lit- tle old man more nervous than ever. Angela, the wife of that man! It was unthinkable. At half-past four on Saturday served on the deck of the “Big-’Un” and George Marshall, in a very new suit of brown, and white shoes, was talking soft-stuff to Angela, his stiff high collar digging into his baggy chin, the sail of the catboat was haul- (ed up, Angela saw this happen and, {with her heart in her mouth, she | jumped up and ran to the rail. It was the end of the week and she trusted Jack. There were three people in the cockpit of the boat which had given ‘her those happy stolen hours—three strangers. A charming lady, a fine- looking strong-faced man and—who was the young man in the blue flan- hat and the blue-and-white tie? Jack —it was Jack! Running alongside, and secured by the lad with the gold teeth and the friendly and astonished grin, the lit- tle party came aboard. The large la- dy hurried forward. “My dear Mrs. Browning,” she said, “this is indeed a pleasure, and Mr. Browning, too. Welcome to the Albatross.” Butter melted in her mouth. Introductions followed — George Marshall on his best behavior, Angela with her face like a flower. And then Mrs. Browning, with her hand on Jack’s arm, and a rather curious smile on her face—she and her boy had no secrets—said: “Mrs. Browning, I want you to meet my son.” It was Angela who laughed. She had to. She couldn’t help herself. The sight of the large lady and the ugly sisters as they turned to see the hired boatman—their amazement and chagrin, the awkward pause, the thrill of drama—was enough to make a sphinx turn up the corners of a pes- simistic mouth. With consummate coolness, al- though his heart was beating hard, Jack came to the rescue. “How do you do, Mrs. Murray? This is a great pleasure. How do you do, sir? We've met before, haven't we?” He bowed to the ugly sisters and to George Mar- shall and to Angela and then with a quick smile at his mother he added: “By the way, we've got something which I believe belongs to someone on the yacht,” and out of his pocket he brought a little white shoe. “Is yours, Miss Cora? No, it’s just a bit too small, I see. No, on the small side too. Then it must belong to Cinderella, I suppose,” and he went down on one knee in front of Angela, who, seeing now why he had asked for it, slipped her foot forward. It fitted like a glove. “Cinderella!” The familiar word was echoed inwardly in the brains of the large lady and the two ugly sis- ters. The little old man looked al- most big and young. shall’s lips shaped themselves into an oath. The story of the old nursery fairy-tale came back to them all. This sun-tanned young man, the hired boatman, the catch of the season, was playing the part of the Prince. Words failed! the blind passenger who used to sit in the catboat. And then, as the party sat round the tea-table, trying to be bright, Jack went aboard the hired boat with An- gela. “Will you excuse us?” he call- ed up. “We don’t want tea.” George Marshall’s face was not good to look at. And presently as the sail filled, Jack spoke: “Take the tiller,” he said, “You shall steer my boat and my life now. They're yours, Cinder- ella.” And she took it with a proud smile. “And we are going to be happy ever afterward, aren’t we, Jack?” “You bet we are,” said Jack. “Do you see that stake away out there?” “Yes. Why?” “That’s where I kiss you.” She made for it like a seaman. And the blind passenger waved his hand at them from the quay and went | afternoon, just as the tea was being | nel clothes, the spic-and-span straw | it! Yours, Miss Enid? . George Mar- | It was a great moment for "off to look for other young people. ‘ Busy fellow that, eh?—By Cosme ; Mamilton, in Hearst’s. : Heal(h and Happiness “Mens sana in corpore sano” An ache in the back, and a pain in the head, That's the grippe! A choke in the throat and a yearning fer bed— That’s the grippe! A river of heat, then a shiver of cold, i A feeling of being three hundred years old, A willingness even to de as you're told— That's the grippe! { —Somerville. Number 31. CATCHING COLD. i One catches a cold, says Dr. J. H. Kellogg, in Good Health (Battle . Creek), because for some reason the skin lacks resistance. Apply a cold- water compress to a person’s head for several hours, and he will begin to complain that his forehead is sore and painful; he will have neuralgic pains in his forehead; the skin and the flesh become sore. This pain is called “rheumatism,” for lack of a better term. It is simply a painful, | sensitive condition due to the lower- ing of the blood-temperature which | permits waste matters to accumulate in the tissues, causing the nerves te i become abnormally sensitive. He goes on: “Thus in a general way we may say {that the cause for taking an ordinary cold is lowering of temperature of the blood, either locally or generally. If a person has been perspiring from ex- ercise and sits down and lets the wind ‘blow on him he soon begins to feel chilly. While he was exercising, his muscles were generating heat. “For a muscle generates heat, just as a dynamo generates electricity. By its action, heat is generated, just as ‘by the revolution of the armature of ithe dyname electricity is generated— 'and, in fact, in a very similar way; {not in the way a stove generates heat, | but in the way in which a dynamo i generates electricity. | “If a person expires when exercis- ing, it is because he generates more {heat than is needed to keep the body warm, so it is necessary that the body should be cooled, and perspiration is i simply the effort of the body to cool | itself off. Bathing the skin with wa- ter and allowing the water to evapeo- rate also have the effect of cooling the skin. : “Now, when the perspiring individ- ual ceases to exercise and sits down, the effect is that of putting out a fire or blowing out a light. The extra generation of heat ceases, so the evap- oration goes on without any extra heat being produced, because the skin is wet and the clothing contains mois- ture and the evaporation causes a chilling of the body. “It takes but a few minutes to pro- duce this result; then in order te warm the body up, the muscles are set into spasmodic contraction. There . are shivering and sneezing, which are I signs of a kind of general spasm. | © “When one sneezes, he does not | sneeze with his nose, but through it. i It is the entire body that is exercis- ing. Every muscle contracts. The feet are lifted up from the floor. There is a jump of the whole body. It would be quite impossible to hold anything steady in your hand when you sneeze; but the motion is partic- ularly of the expiratory muscles. There is a sudden contraction of these muscles, with an explosive effort of nature to warm the body up. “When you sneeze, you say, ‘Oh! I am taking cold.’ That is a mistake. You have taken cold. Your tempera- ture ‘has been lowered and you al- ready have the cold, and the muscular spasm is the effort of nature to cure it. “Now if you want to help Nature, the best way is to keep right on ex- ercising. You feel a little shiver started here and there, and you feel chilly. Now set your muscles to work as hard as you can. That is the quick- est way to stop the shivering. “Certainly one can prevent himself from taking cold. One sits in church and a draft blows on the back of his neck. He says: ‘I am going to geta cold. I shall have a stiff neck to- morrow.’ “You do not need to have a cold. Just make the muscles contract as hard as possible; keep them working so they will keep the skin warm, and you will not take the cold. “And the best of it is that one does not have to take gymnastic exercises or walk in order to exercise. One can ‘sit perfectly still and work so hard as to make himself perspire freely—by making every muscle of the body tense. The hands can be kept straight at the sides, with the muscles perfectly rigid. Make every muscle of the body rigid and you will see pretty soon that you are breathing hard. Pretty soon you are taking deep breaths. “You may see that it is hard to do that, but nevertheless one can sit quietly in church or other gathering and look the speaker inthe face, and at the same moment work as hard as though he were running to eatch a train, or one may sit at his desk and dictate important letters or papers | and at the same time be doing hard { physical work. { “Thus one does not need to take : cold because he is sitting still, for one { does not need to be idle and relaxed | just because one is sitting still.” Everybody Cured. “What became of Flubdub?” { “Oh, he quit. His business ran out | years ago.” | “What was his business?” | “He used to peddle a cure for bash- | fulness.”—Louisville Courier-Journal. | : Always Well Behaved. { Farmer Bilkins—The ’ere pig I | bought from ’ere last week ’as bin an’ | died! | Farmer Giles—Wull! wull! thet’s funny. ’E niver cut any of them ca- pers when I ’ad un.—Cassell’s Satur- day Journal. 2 o A ie’
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers