Broil
Bellefonte, Pa., December 20, 1918.
Clristirias in a
Dugout
By
Sergeant Arthur Guy
Empey
Author of “Over the Top,”
“First Call,” Etc.
0-0-0
Mr. Empey’s Experi-
ences During HisSeven-
teen Monthsin theFirst
Line Trenches of the
British Army in France
ht, 1917, by The McClure Newspaper
(Copyright, bY Ld)
It was Christmas eve, and cold: not
the kind of cold which sends the red
blood tingling through your veins and
makes you want to be “up and at
em,” but that miserable damp kind
that eats into the marrow of your
bones, attacking you from the rear and
sending cold shivers up and down your
spinal column. It gives you a feeling
of dread and loneliness.
The three of us, “Curly,” “Happy,”
and myself, were standing at the cor-
ner of “Yankee avenue” and “Yiddish
street,” waiting for the word “Stand
to,” upon which we were to mount our
machine gun on the parapet and go on
watch for two hours with our heads
sticking over the top.
“Yankee avenue” was the name of
the fire trench, while “Yiddish street”
was the communication trench leading
to the rear. We were occupying “Y”
sector of the front line of our brigade.
The trench was muddy, and in some
places a thin crust of ice was begin-
ning to form around the edges of the
puddles.
‘We had wrapped our feet and legs
with empty sand bags, and looked like
snow shovelers on Fifth avenue. My
teeth were chattering with the cold.
Happy was slapping his hands on his
thighs, while Curly had unbuttoned
one of the buttons on his overcoat,
and with his left hand was desperately
irying to reach under his right armpit
~no doubt a “cootie” had gone mar-
keting for its Christmas dinner.
Then came the unwelcome “Stand
to,” and it was up on the firestep for
us, to get our gun mounted. This took
about five minutes.
Curly, while working away, was
muttering; “Blime me, Christmas eve,
and ‘ere I am somewhere in France,
'alf starved with the cold.”
Happy was humming “Keep the
Home Fires Burning.” Right then, to
me, any kind of a home fire would
have been very welcome.
It was black as pitch in No Man's
land. Curly stopped muttering to him-
self and Happy's humming ceased.
There was serious work in fri. of us.
For two hours we had to try .na nene-
trate that blackness with our straining
eyes 10 see tnat KFritz did not surprise
as with some Christmas stunt of his.
Suddet.ly, Happy, who was standing
on the firestep next to me, gripped my
arm, and in a low, excited whisper,
asked:
“Did you see that out in front, Yank,
“Did You See That Out
Yank?"
a little to the right of that black patch
in the barbed wire?”
Turning my eyes in the direction in-
dicated, with my heart pounding
against my ribs, I waited for some-
thing to develop.
Sure enough, I could make out a
slight movement. Happy must have
seen it at the same time, because he
carefully eased his rifle over the top,
ready for instant use. My rifle was al-
-ready in position. Curly was fumbling
with the flare pistol. Suddenly, “plop!”
as he pulled the trigger, and a red
streak shot up into the air as the star-
shell described an arc out in front; it
hit the ground and burst, throwing
out a white, ghostly light. A fright-
ened “meouw,” and a cat, with speed
clutch open, darted from the wire in
front of us, jumped over our gum and
disappeared into the blackness of the
trench. Curly ducked his head, and
Happy let out a weak, squeaky laugh.
I was frozen stiff with fear. Pretty
soon the pump action of my heart was
resumed, and once more I looked out
Into No Man’s land.
For the remainder of our two hours
on guard nothing happened. Then we
in Front,
“turned over” to the second relief ana,
half frozen, wended our way through
the icy mud to the entrance of our
dugout.
From the depths of the earth came
the notes of a harmonica playing
“Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Olé
Kit Bag, and Smile, Smile, Smile.”
Stumbling down the muddy steps we
entered the dugout. About eight boys
of our section, sitting on their packs,
had formed a circle around a wooden
box. In an old ammunition tin six
candles were burning. I inwardly shud-
dered at this extravagance, but sud-
denly remembered that it was Christ-
mas eve. “Sailor Bill” was making
cocoa over the flames of a “Tommy's
cooker,” while “Ikey” Honney was
toasting bread in front of a trench fire
bucket, the fumes from which nearly
choked us.
As soon as we made our appearance
In the dugout the circle stood up, and,
as is usual with the English, made
room for us to get around the fire
bucket to thaw out our stiffened joints.
In about twenty minutes or so the |
cold of the trench was forgotten and !
we joined in the merriment. The mu-
sician put his harmonica away, and,
bursting with importance, Sailor Biil
addressed us:
“Gentlemen, it is now time for this
ship’s company to report progress as
to what they have done for the Christ-
mas feed which is to be held tomor-
row at eight bells. Yank, let’s hear
yours.”
I reported one dozen eggs, two bot-
tles of white wine, one bottle of red
wine, eight packets of Gold Flake
“fags” (cigarettes), and one quart
bottle *of champagne, which had cost
me five frones at a French estaminet.
This report was received with a
cheer. “Ikey” Honney was next in
order. He proudly stated that he had
saved his rum issue for the last
eleven days, and consequently was
able to donate to the feast his water
bottle three-fourths full of rum.
would help out in making brandy sauce
for the plum pudding. Sailor Bill in-
formed that he had a fruit cake, a
bottle of pickled walnuts, and two
tins of deviled ham which had been
sent out to him from London. Each |
man had something to report. I care- |
fully made a list of the articles op- |
posite the name of the person donat- |
ing them, and turned the list over to
Bill, who was to act as cook on the
following day.
Just then Lance Corporal Hall came
into the dugout, and warming his
hands over the fire bucket, said:
“If you blokes want to hear some-
thing that will take you home to
Blighty, come up-into the fire trench
a minute.”
None of us moved. That fire buck-
et was too comfortable. After much
coaxing Sailor Bill, Ikey Honney and
myself followed Hall out of.the dug-
out and up into the fire trench. A
dead silence reigned, and we started
to return. Hall Blocked our way, and
whispered :
“Just a minute, boys, and listen.”
Pretty soon, from the darkness out
in front, we heard the strains of a
German cornet playing “It's a Long,
Long Trail We're Winding.” We
stood entranced till the last note died
out. ..“er about a four or “:e-min-
gie v: @ ‘he strains of “Th: wvanee
River” were wafted across No Man’s
Land teward us. I felt lonely and
homesick.
Out of the darkness from the fire
bay on our left a Welsh volce started
singing “It’s a Long, Long Trail.” It
was beautiful. The German cornet
player must have heard it, because he
picked up the tune and accompanied
the singer on his cornet. I had never
heard anything so beautiful in my life
before. The music from the German
trench suddenly ceased, and in the air
overhead came the sharp crack!
crack! of machine gun bullets, as
some Boche gunner. butted in on the
concert. We ducked and returned to
our dugout.
The men were all tired out, and
soon rasping snores could be heard
from under the cover of blankets and
overcoats.
The next day was Christmas, and
we eagerly awaited the mail, which
was to be brought up by the ration
party at noon.
Not a shot or shell had been fired
all morning. The sun had come out
and, although the trenches were slip- |
pery with mud, still it was warm, and |
we felt the Christmas spirit running
through our veins. We all turned in
and cleaned up the dugout. Making
reflectors odt of ammunition tins,
sticking them into the walls of the
dugout, we placed a lighted candle
on each, the rays from which turned
night into day.
Bill was hustling about preparing
the Christmas spread. He placed a
waterproof sheet on the floor, and add-
ing three blankets he spread another
waterproof sheet over the top for a
table cloth, and arranged the men’s
packs around the edges for chairs.
Presently the welcome voice of our
sergeant came from the entrance of
the dugout:
“Come on, me lads, lend a hand
with the mail.”
There was a mad rush for the en-
trance. In a couple of minutes or so
the boys returned, staggering under a
load of parcels. As each name was
read off, a parcel would be thrown
over to the expectant Tommy. My
heart was beating with eagerness as
the sergeant picked up each parcel;
then a pang of disappeintment as the
name was read off.
Each man in the dugout received
from one to four parcels. There was
still one left. I could feel their eyes
sympathizing with me.
Sailor Bill whispered something to
the sergeant that I could not get. The
sergeant turned to me and said:
“Why, blime me, Yank, I must bd
This
goin’ balmy. I left your parcel up
in the trench. I'll be right back.”
He returned in a few minutes with
a large parcel addressed to me. I
{
1
i
1 Eagerly Tock the Parcel.
eagerly took the parcel and looked
for the post mark. It was from Lon-
don. Another pang of disappointment
passed through me.
in London.
stant. About two weeks hefore I had
noticed a collection being taken up in
. the section and at the time thought it
, very strange that I was not asked to
i donate. The boys had all chipped in
| to make sure that I would not be for-
' gotten on Christmas. They eagerly
overhead, we sent a prayer of ven-
geance with it.
As the grave was filled in I imagined
a huge rainbow embracing the graves
in that cemetery on which, in letters
of fire was written “Peace on Earth.
Good Will Toward Men.”
But such is war.
JULIA WARD HOWE'S SALON |
As Hostess It Was Said of Her With
Truth That She Delighted in
Contrasts.
When I think of it I believe that I
had a salon once upon a time. I did
not call it so, nor even think of it as
such; yet within it were gathered
people who represented many and va-
rious aspects of life. They were gen-
uine people, not lay figures distin-
guished by names and clothes. The
earnest humanitarian interests of my
ber of persons interested in reform,
education and progress. It was my
1
part to mix in with this graver ele- |
ment as much of social grace and
geniality as I was able to gather
about me. TI was never afraid to bring
together persons who rarely met else-
. where than at my house, confronting
I knew no one
Theodore Parker with some arch-
priest of the eld orthodoxy, or Wil-
liam Lloyd Garrison with a decade.
perhaps, of Beacon street dames.
i friend said. on one of these occasions:
Then it all flashed over me in an in-
“Qur bostess delights in contrasts.” 1
confess that I did; but I think that
my greatest pleasure was in the les-
| sons of human compatibility which I
i crowded around me as I opened the
parcel. It contained nearly ¢verything
: under the sun, including some Ameri-
| can _cigarettes.
Tears of gratitude came to my eyes,
| but some way or other I managed not
| to betray myself. Those Tommies cer-
' tainly were tickled at my exclamations |
"of delight as I removed each article.
, Out of the corner of my eye I couid
see them nudging each other.
A man named Smith in our section
had been detailed as “runner” to our
captain and was not present at the
distribution of the mail. Three par
cels and five letters were placed on his
pack so he would receive them on his
return to the dugout.
In about ten minutes a man came
from the trench loaded down with
small oblong boxes. Each Tommy, in-
cluding myself, received one. They
were presents from the queen of Eng-
land, and each box contained a small
plum pudding, cigarettes, a couple of
cigars, matches and chocolates. Every
soldier in the British army received
one of these boxes on Christmas day.
At last Sailor Bill announced that
Christmas dinner was ready and weg
lost no time in getting to our respec-
tive packs, sitting around in a circle.
Smith was the only absentee, and his
parcels and letters, still unopened,
were on his pack. He was now a half
hour overdue.
Sailor Bill, noting our eagerness to
begin. *-'9 up his hand and id:
“New vs, we're all shi 3 to-
gether. Don't you think it would be
better to wait a few minutes more for
Smith?”
We ul. assented, but in our hearts
we were cursing him for his delay.
Ten minutes passed—fifteen—then
twenty. All eyes were turned in Sailor
Bill's direction. He answered our looks
with:
“Go to it, boys, we can’t wait for
Smith. I don’t know what's keeping
him, but you know his name is in or-
ders for leave and perhaps he is so
tickled that he’s going to see his wife
and three little nippers in Blighty, that
he’s lost his bearings and has run
aground.”
We started in and waxed merry for
a few minutes. Then there would be
an uncomfortable pause and all eyes
would be turned in the direction of
the vacant place.
Uneasiness seemed to prevail. i
Suddenly the entrance to the dug-
out was darkened and a form came
stumbling down. With one accord we
all shouted:
° “Come on, Smith, you're missing one
of the best Christmas dinners of your
life.”
Our sergeant entered the dugout.
One look at his face was enough. We
knew he was the beargr of ill tidings.
With tears in his eyes and a catch in
his voice, he asked:
* “Which is Smith's pack?’ We all
solemnly nodded our heads in the di-
rection of the vacant place. Without a |
word the sergeant picked up the let- !
ters, parcels and pack and started to
leave the dugout. |
Sailor Bill could stand it no longer,
and just as the sergeant was about to
leave he asked:
“Out with it, sergeant, what's hap-
pened?”
The sergeant turned around, and in
a choking voice, said:
“Boys, Smith's gone west. Some
bloody German sniper got him through
the napper as he was passing that
bashed-in part in Yiddish street.”
Sailor Bill ejaculated:
“Poor old Smith! Gone west!” Then '
he paused and sobbed out: “My God,
think of his wife and three little nip-
pers waiting in Blighty for him to!
come home for the Christmas holi-
days.”
I believe that right at that moment a
solemn vow of vengeance registered
itself in every heart around that fes-
tive circle. !
The next day we buried Smith in a
little cemetery behind the lines, While |
standing around his grave our artillery
suddenly opened up with an intense |
bombardment on the German lines, '
and as every shell passed, screaming
learned in this wise. I started, indeed,
with the conviction that thought and
character are the foremost values in
society. and was not afraid or asham- !
ed to offer these to my guests, with or
without the stamp of fashion and po-
sition.—Julin Ward Howe.
Not Slaves to Precedent.
Were one to analyze the careers of
200 or 300 of our leading men of
finance and industry it would probably
Al
husband brought to our home a num- WS the last straw.
. a rock and swore.
g a —————————————————————»
Cynthia White
— Pest
THD
By VINCENT G. PERRY
(Copyright, 1918, by McClure Newspaper
Syndicate.) |
With a quick jerk Horace Sangster
pulled L!s line from the water, and '
then cried out with disgust. The fish, :
if there had been one, had got away.
Three hours without a catch—it was '
enough to annoy a man with normal '
nerves, and Horace was far from that.
He drew in his line angrily and at- |
tempted to wind it up, but something
had gone wrong with lis reel. That
He sat down on
The sound of the word startled him.
He had not sworn for years. His |
nerves were certainly making a wreck
of him. The solitude of the place was
aggravating him, too. They had told '
him the simple camp life, with lots of
Such bosh! Why, there was hardly a
i thing about it that did not inake him
' feel worse.
This was the second day, and he
was going to make it his last. To be-
' gin with, he had had trouble pitching
his tent. The storm in the night had
kept him up keeping out the rain. Ev-
ery crack of the bushes or sound of
the birds in the trees caused him to
start uneasily. It was nearly as nerve-
i racking as an afternoon session with
the fourth-year «class. The thought
' of the fourth-year girls irritated him
| the more. They had been the cause
i of his breakdown, he felt confident.
| For months he had looked with dread
{ on the hour each afternoon that he
was forced to teach them mathematics.
They were just silly, thoughtless girls,
and would not have been so hard to
develop that not hwlf of them contin- | Put up with had it not been for their
ued in the line of business in which | ringleader, Cynthia White.
they started. but struck boldly out in
the direction where they saw the big-
gest opportunities and where their
inclination lay.
One of the earliest and most notable
instances of this was Commodore Van-'
derbilt, who was so old before he
turned to railroading that his family
and his advisers importuned him to
let well enough alone and not to en-
ter an entirely new field at his time
of life.
This readiness of brainy giants to
take up new things and to throw their
whole selves into them is really one
of the principal reasons why the
United States has led the world in so
many lines of endeavor. Wealthy
Europeans, as a rule, avoid the new,
avoid untried paths; they are inclined
to worship precedent. >.
Historic Old Lusitania.
Among the historical mementoes in
old Lusitania, which is an ancient
nsme of the western part of Hispania,
including a part of modern Portugal.
is an ancient church ruin which stands
oft the Rue De San Roque. It is the
former Carmo Cathedral, a conspicu-
ous object high above the Baixo. The
outer walls and piers and arches of
the naves still remain. The chancel and
chapels retain their roofs, and in the
precincts an archeological museum
has been established. Here many rel-
ics from ruined ecclesiastical buildings
have found a refuge, among others two
stone fountains in the Arabic style;
one from the extinct monastery of Pen-
ha Longa, on the serra of Cintra. The
other was brought from Barbary after
the conquest, in 1462, and given to
Prince Henry the Navigator, who pre-
sented it to the Faro church as a holy
water receptacle. There it had been
lying neglected for years in the ceme-
tery.
Good That Is Evil Spoken Of.
Our good is often evil spoken of
because of our thoughtlessness. The
woman who looked askance at a
stranger who had been shown into
her pew did not really mean to hurt
that stranger's feelings, to send her
! away from church that day with the
inward resolution never again to en-
ter its doors, but such was the effect
of her lack of thought. Our good
is often evil spoken of because of the
unnecessary harshness of our man-
ner. It is an oft-repeated excuse of
offenders of this kind, “I was born
with an unfortunate disposition; I
am brusque, and have no fineness of
touch; it is hereditary.” This is an
attempt to dodge responsibility, to
transfer the censure to our ancestors
—who cannot defend themselves.
. Harshness of manner may be tem-
peramental, but it is hardly constitu-
tional. It is an ungracious and harm-
ful habit, and it can be cured.
Influence.
The world is only just beginning to
understand the extent to which indi-
viduals and nations may be and have
been swayed by silent mental influ-
ence. A man prefers, of course, to be-
lieve that he is the master of his own
conclusions and the arbiter of his
own conduct; but let anyone ask him-
self how he arrived at any given con- |
i gler he was.”
ed poor and he still made vain attempts
Without exaggeration Cynthia was
the worst girl he had ever had under
his tuition. Her main object in life
seemed to be to torment the professor
of mathematics. Something always
turned up for her to argue about or
laugh over. There was always some-
thing for her to ridicule, and she nev-
er missed an opportunity to make him
feel mean—perhaps because she was
so large and he was so small.
foolish.
the college.
There was something he liked about
Cynthia, in spite of everything. The i
spirit of fun behind those twinkling
black eyes of hers appealed to him, ;
and the warmth of her laugh made him
long for something—something that
was not in his life.
Suddenly the laugh sounded close be- |
side him. He nearly toppled into the
water from the shock it gave him. He
turned quickly to confront Cynthia, a |
little way off, her eyes bulging over
with merriment.
eyes to make sure he
was seeing
come in that solitude.
ny there,” she laughed.
“Heavens!”
his feet behind a log.
socks to wade a creek.
“Don’t be alarmed,” she smiled en-
couragingly, “I am going to take off my
shoes, too. One can’t fish well with
shoes on. How do you like my cos-
tume?”
She was clad in khaki from head to
foot, and her hair was hanging in curls i
He had never re- |
over her shoulders.
alized how beautiful she was before.
“Jove! You look peachy,” he mur-
mured, admiringly, not realizing that !
he had used the word “peachy” for the '
first time since he had got his degree. | ological and historical collections are
That encouraged Cynthia to take a
seat beside him, Not that she needed
encouragement, for she would have sat .
there sooner or later. It did not take |
college professor and she was a mere |
student.
gayly.
Her home was near by and she had !
spent every summer fishing in that |
stream for years. She led him to 9 !
place where he was “sure to catch
something, no matter how poor an an-
‘When his luck remain-
Horace long to forget that he was a |
1
Soon they were chatting |
to land a trout, Cyathia did not fail to
laugh at him and assure him that he
was as funny as he could be.
Somehow it did net bother him to
be laughed at out there. The air seem-
ed to have got into his blood and given
him a sense of humor that responded
to her witty ridicule. He was not long
in catching onto the right way to draw
in the line, and before the afternoon
was over he was catching as many
trout as Cynthia. When they parted
he had gained her promise to search
him out the next day.
Camping agreed with him after that.
clusion or decided upon a certain line !
of conduet, and unless he can own to
an intelligent conception of divine
principle upon which he relies for
guidance, he will have to admit, if he
is equal to the analysis, that he has
been swayed throughout his career by
influences not his own.—Christian Sgl-
ence Monitor. ;
“I want to be let alone,” says the
ex-Kaiser. All right—solitary con-
finement! —Atlanta Constitution.
weeks of glorious days. Nerves? Why,
Fishing was the most wonderful sport
in the world when one had a compan-
ion like Cynthia, he decided after two
he had forgotten he had such things!
They would have still stayed out of
his mind had it not been that a rainy
day broke in on them. It mac: it
necessary to stay in his tent and try
and spend the day reading, wondering
all the while what Cynthia was doing,
Making fun of him, most likely—the
thought came to him quickly and left
5 3 . made for the spot.
fishing, would make a new man of him. ! D
After rubbing his !
him staggering. Perhaps she was.
Perhaps she had spent all those days
with him just to have something te
tell the fourth-year girls when she
went pack to college. He would have
to resign.
It would be just like Cynthia to do
it—but would it? This new Cynthia
was not a bit like the old Cynthia who
had made his life miserable. But as
the rain kept up his mind became
more unsettled, and before rhe night
was over he had made up his mind that
Cynthia had been making a fool of
him.
The next day he still thought it
When Cynthia appeared he hardly
spoke. She saw at once her presence
was not welcome. With a toss of her
head she started up the bank and ford.
ed the stream some way up. After
fishing alone for some time Horace
realized that he had been a cad. Cyn-
thia was too fine a girl to be insulted
like that. He would find her and make
amends. He started in the direction
she had taken and attempted to ford
. the stream where he imagined she had
! crossed.
The spot he chose appeared
quite shallow from the bank, but as
he reached the center, he stepped into
a deep hole and sank out of sight.
Cynthia looked up just in time and
with a cry jumped into the water and
When he came up
for the first time she was there to
clutch him and a couple of strokes took
them to safety. His body remained
limp in her grasp, and as she dragged
him over to the bank and placed him
on the grass, the pallor of his cheeks
alarmed her. He lay quite still. She
placed her ears to his breast and then
cried out with fright, “He’s dead!”
Madly she tried to shake him back to
life, and then she seemed to lose her
senses.
“Come back, Horace!” she cried. “Oh,
Horace, don’t die. There is so much
I want to ask forgiveness for. I was
just beginning to know you and liks
you, Horace—like you so much, Hor-
ace. Please open your eyes. I hava
been such a wretch to tease you. Oh,
Gearest Horace, open your eyes!”
And Horace did. He could not sham
any longer after being called “dearest
Horace.”
Cynthia’s hysteria vanished when
she discovered he was alive. She wag
very angry at first when he confessed
he had not been hurt at all and was
conscious all the time, but her sense
of humor came to the rescue and shd
Joined in his laugh.
“Please call me dearest Horace
again,” he said as he reached out for
her hand. But Cynthia would not un-
; til he had told her how much he loved
As he sat there thinking it over, Hor- | her and how miserable he would be
ace made up his mind he had been !
It would have been easy fo |
have arranged for her dismissal from |
Why hadn’t he done it? :
without her.
“Dear old pest,” he said just before
the kiss that sealed their engagement;
SANTA FE'S PROUD POSITION
Boast 1s That One Must Go to New
Mexico to Find the Real
American Art.
The new museum of Santa Fe claims
that “one must go to New Mexico to
! find an American architecture and an
American art.” The terraced houses
of the Pueblos, the Franciscan mis-
sions, are ingenious, for they have
been prcduced by the environment, the
native building materiai, and the cli-
aright, Horace smiled forth a greet- |
ing. Even the pest of his life was wel- |
mate. In Santa Fe, through the ef-
ports of the School of American Re-
. search, there has been fostered a ren-
“Oh, Mr. Sangster, you look so fun- |
“If the girls |
could only see you in your bare feet!” ,
Horace tried to hide !
He had forgot- |
ten that he had taken off his shoes and |
aissance of this ancient American
architecture, one of the fairest results
being the Museum building, or Tem-
ple of St. Francis and the Martyrs.
Six of the ancient Franciscan mis-
sion churches, 300 years old, are re-
produced in the facade, without de-
stroying the unity of its appearance;
they are Acoma, San Felipe, Cochti,
Laguna, Santa Ana and Pecos. The
outlines are hard, stiff plumb lines or
levels. There are no exact repetitions
or parallelisms, such as mark the
California mission style. The mas-
sive doors of Santa Clara have been
reproduced. There are cloisters and,
of course, a patio. The new museum
is an art gallery, part of the Museum
of New Mexico, whose priceless arche-
housed in the Palace of the Governors.
Here are Taos and Santa Fe art colo-
nies, numbering about 40 artists of in-
ternational note.
WAS USED TO QUICK ACTION
{ Moving Picture Scenario Writer Ac-
customed to Taking Things “on
the Fly,” as It Were.
He had never seen her before, but
he fell in love with her as she step‘
ped from the surface car. “Come,”
he said, grabbing her by the arm.
“We will take a taxi to the nearest
clergyman and be married.”
‘While waiting for the minister to
put on a clean collar, wash his hands
and otherwise prepare for the cere-
mony, the young man telephoned to
the nearest furniture store. “Hello!
Is this the general manager? Well,
I want you to furnish a three-room
apartment for me. There is one ad-
vertised in this morning’s Planet, No.
42 West One Hundred and ’Steenth
street. Yes, it is not very far frem
you. Have the furniture there in ten
minutes, please’.
Eleven minutes later a taxi raced
through One Hundred and ’Steenth
street, and the bride and groom en-
tered their new home.
“Doesn’t this seem—er—a little bit
sudden to you?” asked the bride, as
she sat down to get her breath.
“N-no, not exactly,” replied the
groom. “In fact, it seems the most
natural thing in the world. You see,
for the last five years I've done
nothing but write moving-picture
scenarios.”—Film Fun.
——Subsecribe for the “Watchman.”