“sowie
Bellefonte, Pa., May 23, 1919.
EE ET
IN APRIL, 1919.
By Susan L. Harlacher, Stormstown.
‘We thought that spring was really here,
There were signs along the way;
The pussy willows beckoned,
The birds had come to stay.
The leaves were on the apple trees,
The peach trees were in bloom,
The dainty colored hyacinths
Filled the air with sweet perfume.
Then cold winds blew from out the north,
The snow began to fly,
The ice was frozen at the pump,
There were gray clouds in the sky.
‘We, shivering, sat around the fire,
To warm our frosted toes,
And wondered what our fate would be,
If everything was froze.
“GARRISON THE BRUTE” OH,
WHAT A WATERLOO WAS
HIS!
It was asserted in the business
house of Best and Twombly that Ed-
na Hutton was the only person in
that great establishment who was not
afraid of Garrison. Not everyone
hated him; a few of his associates
even admired him, and almost every-
one admitted his unusual ability. But
there is no question that the great
majority of Garrison’s fellow work-
ers feared him and writhed under the
swift and terrifying attacks of his ra-
pier-like tongue.
Nature, in making him, had had an |
eye to friendship and love. He was a
big, powerfully built, up-standing
chap, with a fine head and a really
handsome face, whose beauty was ob-
scured by an habitual expression of
sardonic gloom.
He rarely looked at individuals
when he spcke to them, but, gazing in-
differently past their profiles, dropped
his few words out of the down-drawn
left corner of his bitter mouth. In
his right cheek, however, there lurked
a thing as incongruous as a bird’s
nest in a cannon’s jaw. It was a
slight indentation which, on the very
rare occasions when Garrison smiled,
turned into the abysmal dimple one
sometimes sees on the face of a
laughing baby.
Each day fresh instances of Garri-
son’s verbal brutality went through
the great building, rolled on tongues
of office boys, clerks and department
managers, and often reaching even to
the splendid isolation of the private
room of the two members of the firm.
“The man’s a bully,” said Twombly,
who was an old man and a gentleman
of the old school of business. “He
talks this way because he knows he
can get away with it. His men don’t
dare to retort, or they’d lose their
jobs. He'd stop quick enough if he
thought it would cost him his bread
and butter. If you or I had the nerve
to call him down, just once, good and | ually perfectly poised young person
hard—"
Young Best shook his head. “He’d
leave,” he declared, “and we can’t
spare him—just now, anyway, while
there’s so much sickness.”
The senior partner sighed. “He’s a
Nero, that chap,” he declared, “and
we're making a big mistake in giving
him so much rope. Before he gets
through he will destroy himself or his
men, or both.”
Best considered the suggestion,
moving about the office with his quick,
noiseless tread, his eyebrows knitted,
his brown eyes on the floor.
“I don’t know,” he said at last.
“I’ve been thinking about Garrison a
good deal lately. I don’t like the things
am hearing about him. If he goes on,
he’ll destroy himself, right enough. I!
But life usually takes a |
admit that.
He had spoken as always, loudly
and harshly. Now, by the sudden si-
i lence that fell over the great count-
ing-room, he realized that everyone
had heard him and that, presumably,
: everybody was watching the little
=== | scene and listening for Miss Hutton’s
| reply.
That young lady, who had been
i seated at her desk, rose slowly, first
laying down her pen with delibera-
tion, and picking up the circular with
a deliberation as great. As a rule,
her voice was singularly low and soft;
now, though she stepped within two
feet of arrison and faced him
squarely, she addressed him, not loud-
ly but with a penetrating distinctness
which carried every word she uttered
to the ends of the big silent room.
“Here is your circular, Mr. Garri-
son,” she said.
and it will not be.”
For a Second Sarrison vos 9; gag) |
ed to take the pamphlet she offered !
H a ' resignation and left, and that would !
I am here to |
speak for my associates—for the girls |
who can’t resign and get out, for the
him. Then, recovering himself, he
cast a burning glance at her.
“What d’ve mean?” he demanded
slowly.
“I mean that I shall not do any.
more work for you, of any kind. I
am not under your orders, and”’—this
last clearly and icily—“I do not like
your manners.”
“It is not finished, | ; Y
| by talking about them,” she explain-
“So far as I am |
——
sensations swept over him. It was
disagreeable to be mixed up in a thing
like this—with a woman! He came to
a sudden decision.
“Qh, let’s cut this out,” he said ab-
ruptly. “I suppose I was rude to Miss '
Hutton. Probably I haven't a leg to
stand on.” :
“Are we to understand that you are
apologizing, Mr. Garrison?” asked
Twombly gently. : .
Garrison grinned again as mirth-
lessly as before. :
“Why, yes, I suppose so,” he said.
“If that’s what Miss Hutton wants.”
le fen't’
Edna Hutton spoke very quietly’
but also very firmly. i
“My own feelings have nothing to
do with this matter, and I shouldn’t
have dreamed of taking up your time
ed to the partners. ;
concerned, I could have written my
have been the end of it.
girls who have to remain and endure
Mr. Garrison because they are sup-
{ porting someone and dare not risk
! being out of work, even for a week or
| two.
I don’t think it is too much to
A slight but audible gasp went | say,” she added slowly, as if she were
around the office.
several excitable stenographers. For
perhaps a quarter of a minute no oth- |
er sound broke ‘the stillness of the
room.
“We’ll see about that,” said Garri-
: room.
found himself becoming a little sick,
"actually physical sick, He set his.
i teeth, and again turning his back to
| the group, stared out of the window.
| This was an infernal business! It was
son at last, between his teeth.
“We will,” agreed Miss Hutton
warmly. “And we will see about it
right now. I am going into Mr. Best’s
office to offer my resignation—and to
tell him why I am offering it. Will
you come with me?”
Garrison had been facing her, head |
down, like an enraged bull. Now,
suddenly, his head rose.
“You bet I will!” he snarled. “We'll |
have this thing settled mighty quick.”
He led the way across the room,
and the head of every individual there
twisted itself to follow the progress
of the big blazing-eyed man and the
erect, gray-clad, slender figure of the
girl who quietly followed him. Sev-
eral of the women tried to catch Miss
Hutton’s hand as she passed their
desks, several of the men made signs
of warm admiration and approval;
but she saw none of these demonstra-
tions. Looking straight ahead of her,
she made the short journey, which
suddenly seemed so long, to the door
of the private office.
Here Garrison did what was, for
him, a Strange thing. He opened the
door, stepp back, and waited for
her to precede him. Then he followed
her into the small ante-room and
stood beside her while she tapped on
the inner door.
Both Best and Twombly were in
the office, and both rose as the proces-
sion of two entered. The eyes of the
artners were on Miss Hutton’s pale
Ne charming face. The eyes of Gar-
rison were on it, too. All three men
saw that its steadiness was threaten-
ed, that its lips were beginning to
tremble, that for the moment the us-
could not speak.
Mercifully the eyes of Best and
Twombly turned away and fastened
on the face of Garrison; and Garri-
son, as he felt their gaze, thrust his
hands deep into his pockets and stalk-
ed indifferently toward the window.
The situation was his, and he knew it.
In another moment the girl would
burst into hysterical tears, the scene
would become ridiculous, and the two
partners would be annoyed at their
enforced share of it. But he had not
counted on the quick brain of young
Best. Young Best had grasped the
meaning of the visit, had beaten Gar-
rison to its finish, and had promptly
decided to change the nature of the
denouement.
“Well, Garrison,” he said briskly,
chap like Garrison in hand and knocks !| “what's the meaning of this?”
a lesson into him that’s a lot better ;
than anything we can think up. And
that is what I'm waiting for. The
thing will work out som > ‘he TILL
ng OE ® Vay ® he said indifferently.
ended optimistically.
And it did—in a very different fash-
ion from what anyone could have
foreseen.
For that day Garrison received
what the office force joyously called
“his first call-down!” And the person
who administered it was no other than
the one person who did not fear him,
the quiet, well-poised and thoroughly
efficient Miss Edna Hutton.
Garrison approved of Miss Hutton.
She was in no sense under his author-
ity, but the work of her department
was contributory to that of his—the
publicity department—and finding
that he could always depend on her
for swift and efficient service, he had
fallen into the way of making sudden
demand upon her and giving her im-
perative orders. Thus far, she had
obeyed him without question.
On the afternoon of the explosion
he had dropped a circular on her desk
and curtly commanded her to. make
certain additions and revisions with-
in an hour. The order was an unrea-
sonable one; the work really required
two hours instead of one, and it meant
also that Miss Hutton must drop oth-
er important work which she had
been anxious to finish that afternoon.
For the first time, in listening to
Garrison’s crisp words, she hesitated,
and her teeth caught her under lip, a
trick they had on the rare ocasions
when Miss Hutton was undecided.
But Garrison had rushed back to his
desk without waiting to observe this
effect, taking it for granted, as he al-
ways did, that his instructions would
be obeyed. With an uneasy crease
defacing the smooth surface of her
brow, Miss Hutton laid aside the work
she was doing and took up Garrison’s
circular.
Twice during the hour that follow-
ed she was interrupted: once by a
conference by the sales manager, the
second time by young Best himself.
The result was that when Garrison
strode up to her desk and silently ex-
tended his hand for the revised circu-
lar, Miss Hutton was not only un-
ready but was also slightly unstrung.
“It’s not finished, Mr. Garrison,”
she said curtly.
Garrison cast a swift look at her.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“I’ve had interruptions.”
Garrison’s lower jaw went forward
with the quick thrust of an angry an-
imal.
“When I give you orders I want
them obeyed,” he barked. “Bring this
circular to me, finished, in thirty min-
utes. Get that?”
Garrison grinned. It was not a
ce grin, and it did not show the dim-
ple.
“Miss Hutton invited me in here,”
“She thought
she had something to say to you; but
I think she’s going to have hysterics
instead.”
He looked at her as he spoke, and
under his words and that smouldering
glance the girl’s nerves steadied.
Best, too, was still alert. .
“Oh, no, she isn’t,” he said. “Here,
Miss Hutton, take this chair.” :
He crossed the room, drew a chair
forward, facing the desks of the two
partners, and seated her in it. His
manner was exactly what it should
have been, cooly courteous, wholly
businesslike. When she was seated,
he and Twombly resumed the occu-
pation of their swivel chairs. ;
“Sit down, Mr. Garrison,” invited
Twombly. speaking for the first time;
but Garrison shook his head.
“Guess not,” he said sardecnically.
“I'm the prisoner at the bar of justice,
you know, so I'd better stand.” :
He turned his back to them again,
and stared out of the window at the
windows and roofs of the biuldings
across the street, and at the network
of telephone and telegraph wires di-
rectly before his eyes. An odd sensa-
tion swept over him. This was a
beastly business! Then, in the little
group behind him, he heard the girl’s
voice. It was very low, very cool and
controlled. :
“I hope you will forgive me,” she
was saying to the partnrs. “I’m not
going to break down or make a scene.
I'm simply here to offer my resigna-
tion; and, because of others, I think
I ought to tell you why I am handing
it in. No one could speak who isn’t
going to leave. But I think you
should understand.” Tio
“Go on, Miss Hutton,” invited Best
briskly. And Twombly added, in a
different tone, “And speak as freely
as you like.”
In his heart, old Twombly was ex-
ultant. He foresaw a bad tem min-
utes for Garrison, and rejoiced in the
prospect. “Take as much time as you
please,” he added. ;
“Thank you.” That was a mistake
on Twombly’s part. The gentle tone
almost shook the girl’s newly regain-
ed self-control. But she went on
after a very slight pause. :
“T asked Mr. Garrison to come in
with me,” she began slowly, “because
I intend to say certain things about
him, and I want him to hear them.
Then, if I say anything he thinks un-
just, he can defend himself.”
Garrison had turned now to face
her. As he looked at the charming
gray figure in the chair, another of
It was uttered by | thinking it out, “that every woman
| in the place who has to come in busi-
' ness contact with Mr. Garrison would
‘leave if she could, and that many of
. the men would do so, too.”
There in the
surprise,
was utter silence
Garrison, to his
becoming a nightmare.
“That’s strong talk, Miss Hutton,
said Best.
“I know it is. I'm weighing every
word.” Edna spoke quietlv. too,
quietly and rather wearily. “It is a
fact that every woman in the place
goes to Mr. Garrison’s desk with her
heart in her mouth. She knows that
while she is there, however short the
time may be, he will say scmething
unkind—something brutal, something
that will rankle; and he always does.”
The silence in the room deepened.
No one spoke.
“The result,” Edna continued, after
a pause, “is that she is not only
wretched the rest of the day, but she
is almost unfit for work. I believe
that Mr. Garrison’s speeches and
manners are destroying almost fifty
per cent. of the efficiency of our wom-
en workers.”
She stopped. Garrison did not
turn. He was no longer angry, he
was simply stunned. The impression
that this experience was a bad dream
deepened. And it was such an end-
less dream! He felt as if he had al-
ways heard and always would hear
the sound of that cool, implacable
Tice rising from the group behind
im.
“Have you anything to say, Garri-
son?” Best asked. “It’s your turn,
you know.”
Garrison swung round and faced
them, shrugging his big shoulders
with a quick, irritable movement. as
if casting something unpleasant from
them,
“No.” he said indifferently.
Best turned again to Miss Hutton. |
“There is no defense,” he said, trying
to speak lightly. “But you know that
—er—aside from his manner, which,
we admit. is sometimes unfortunate,
Mr. Garrison’s services are very val-
uable to the firm.”
“Yes,” agreed Miss Hutton, “I
know that. But may I say just a
word more?”
“Go on,
Twombly.
“Thank you.
mind is simply this: Is Mr. Garri-
son’s work sufficiently valuable to
counteract the effects of the influence
he exercises on others? I have often
thought,” she added simply, “that he
is like a poison gas!”
Garrison actually started. This was
going it a bit strong! The girl was
actually trying to oust him from his
Miss Hutton,”
job! She was putting up a good fight |
against him, too, a calm, dispassion-
ate, deadly fight, without heat, almost
without prejudice. With a strong ef-
er.
“We need not continue this discus-
sion. My resignation,” he said casu-
ally, “is on the table—in plain sight
right beside Miss Hutton’s!”
urged
The question in my |
' their glances met and held.
‘ two closely, broke in at this point.
“You’ve had both an apology and a
iy > ~ r i 1 1 A
those odd, new, highly unpleasant: “I won't!” snapped Garrison. Again “Well, that’s differ'nt.” The boy
| made way for him.
i Best, who had been watching the | on the right.
i explained as Garrison left the eleva-
: tor on the second floor.
“That’s the door,
But yo’ can’t ring,” he
“The bell’s
promise, Miss Hutton,” he said cheer- | took out. Jes’ knock.”
fully.
them and call the incident closed.”
“For myself, yes,” said the girl.
ped.
| “Good lord!” he almost shouted.
“What do yeu want me to do or say?
i That I'll kiss them good morning, and
i bring them candy?”
Twombly put up a thin veined hand.
“Leave that to the future, Miss
Hutton,” he said, “and go back to
your work.”
For some reason, one always obey- | he said quietly. “I came up to inquire |
| —and—and to see if there is anything |
| we can do.”
ed Mr. Twombly. “Very well,” Edna
said, and left the office.
the members of Best and Twombly’s
staff drew their own inferences. Gar-
ferent.
with his usual curtness.
from business ignored them all.
manner to the men remained unchang-
ed—brusque, indifferent;
tongue was curbed.
persistently haunted him. He even
dreamed of it. and of other scenes in
which Miss Hutton figured.
At first his emotions varied. He
was by turns furious, depressed. puz-
zled.
' scorched by the humiliation of the
whole episode. Always he missed Is !
e
na Hutton’s excellent service. ;
was far and away the most efficient
and dependable woman in the office.
He found himself thinking about!
the girl more and more. How she de-
tested him! He knew the other wom-
en detested him as much. But that.
did not matter. They, like the men
around him, were mere shadows in a
shadowy world. Just how
shadowy his world had always been,
Garrison never realized until the day
i when a flaming figure took the cen-
tral place in it and suddenly filled it.
Then, for the first time, he knew that
on this earth, there was exactly one
human being whose life was vital to
bi and that that life was burning
out.
Miss Hutton had been ill three days
before he heard of it. He missed her
atcual presence, of course. Of late he
had been surprisingly conscious of her
presence in the great room when she
was there. But it did not occur to
him that she was absent on sick leave.
“What’s the matter with you?” he
snapped at his stenographer on the
fourth day of Miss Hutton’s absence.
“You’re using your brains even less
than usual!”
Miss Martin looked at him with un-
resentful, red-rimmed eyes.
‘oulped. “I feel so awful about Edna
. Hutton.”
brusquely.
“Why she’s dying!” Miss Martin
gulped again. “Didn’t you know
that?” she added, in quick response
to some change in his expression.
“She’s got pneumonia. They don’t
expect her to live through the night.”
| For an instant Garrison stared fix-
! edly at the blotter on his desk. It was
| covered with crisscross pencil lines
: which today had an odd effect. They
| seemed to be running all over the
place.
, briefly. “Take a letter to Hendrick,
| Bangs and Company. . . .
! The dictation went on. At the end
{of it Garrison asked an unexpected
| question.
| “Where does Miss Hutton live?” he | most dropped in his tracks
! pose they all think my reformation
| won’t last.”
demanded.
Miss Martin gave him the street
! and number, artlessly revealing her
! surprise as she did so.
| on his hat and coat, left the office.
For some reason he did not under-
| stand he was not breathing well.
i had to go to a certain street and num-
fort of will, he pulled himself togeth- ber. He had to be near. as near as he
i could get, to Edna Hutton, who was!
! dying—to Edna Hutton, who could not
I live through the night.
| She lived far up town, but a sub-
i way train rushed him to her station
“We aren’t going to accept either jin half an hour, and a few long strides
resignation,” declared young
cooly. “We're going to straighten
out this thing in another way. Have
you anything to suggest; Miss Hut-
ton?’
Miss Hutton reflected. “If I say
what I have often thought,” she said |
at last, “it would sound very cruel.”
“Better get it out.”
at Garrison. “You can stand it, can’t
you ?” he asked.
Garrison grinned his sardonic grin.
“I gues so,” he muttered. But he was
conscious of a pang of apprehension.
What, in heaven’s name, was the girl
going to bring up next?
“It seems to me,” Edna continued
slowly, still with the effect of careful- |
ly weighing her words, “that Mr. Gar-
risen has a certain amount of cruelty
in his nature which he has to work off.
Because we are around him, and are
his obvious victims, he works it off on
us. I have often wondered if we could
not divert it into other channels.”
Twombly smiled faintly. Garrison’s
sardonic mouth twisted, but he said
no word. He stood very quiet, look-
ing at the gray figure in the big chair.
It was an odd look for Garrison—in- '
tent, thoughtful, and with something
else in it, a new quality. It was this
quality that caught Miss Hutton’s
glance. For a long moment their
look held. Then the girl rose.
“I haven’t done any good, she said.
“I'm sorry. But, about my resigna-
tion—I really must insist on your ac- !
course the place.
cepting that. O.
would be impossible for me after this.
I will work until Saturday, and if you
can get someone today to fill my place
I will give her all the help I can.”
Garrison spoke at last. “So far as
I am concerned, you’re safe, if that’s
what you mean.” he said, addressing
her directly. “I promise that I won’
speak to you again.”
‘Miss Hutton shook her brown head.
Her charming face looked pale and
tired.
“You can get back at me without
speaking,” she replied, “and in' a
thousand ways.”
Best glanced |
Best! took him to the modest apartment |
house where she dwelt. On the way
{ he passed a florist’s shop, and, not-
| withstanding his sense of haste. he
rushed in and bought her an armful
i of pink roses.
“Dozens,” he told the clerk.
. you’ve got.”
In the hall of the apartment house
i he met a rebuff. “Ain’t takin’ no one
up to the Huttons’,”
“All
evator. “Miss Hutton’s awful sick.
I'll take the flowers an’ yo’ card,” he
added generously.
Garrison had no card, but he imme-
| diately handed over the roses. {
{| “How—how is she?” he almost |
stammered.
The boy’s face sobered.
funeral, boss,” he said gloomily.
“You don’t mean—she’s—dead ?”
“P’raps not yit,” conceded the boy.
| “But t'night, I guess. It’s a shame,
too,” he added resentfully. “She was
jes’ fine, Miss Hutton was.”
Garrison stepped into the elevator.
“I'm going up,” he remarked simply.
He was a big man, and the stocky
i elevator boy was not, but the next in-
stant he found himself outside of the
car. The boy faced him, panting.
“If yo’ start any trouble here I'll
have yo’ run in,” he said. “I promis-
ed the doctors I’d keep things quiet,
and I'm sho’ goin’ to!” .
Garrison stood dully staring at him,
and something in his look killed the
boy’s resentment. .
“Her flat’s jes’ above, on the next
floor,” he explained more quietly.
“These walls is thin. The docs wants
her kep’ quiet.”
Garrison drew a deep breath. There
was nothing he could do. And yet,
wasn’t there? A man was often use-
ful in a crisis. Perhaps there were
things to be got, mesages to sand.
i He took a bill from his pocket and
handed it to the boy.
“Let me go up,” he said briefly. “I
represent the firm. I want to see if
there’s anything more we can do.”
“I think you ought to accept ! ]
i son had knocked, and as he waited :
heart stopped beating. From
“But the others—how about them?” ' within he heard a sound that tore at
{ Garrison's overstrained nerves snap- | his consciousness—the short, agoniz-
| ing gasps of a human being strug-
i gling for breath. When the door was
i opened he entered softly and found
| himself confronting, in the dim little
i hall, an older edition of Edna Hutton,
{ a slender woman of thirty, with fea-
i tures reddened and swollen by weep-
| ing.
No one except the four persons |
, concerned ever knew exactly what |
rison and Miss Hutton never spoke to |
each other, and had no further busi- |
ness relations, but Garrison’s manner
to the other women was certainy dif- |
He gave them their orders |
and aside |
His |
but his,
i But—but everything else is going
In Garrison’s inner man. however, !
‘a mere marked change was working.
The little scene in the private office
Sometimes his very soul felt:
i her!”
“It’s because I'm so worried.” she | I magn
V T ’ ao i
What @ve mean?” he demanded { see, I love her,” he, repeated again
‘Well, get back to work,” he said | ¢own that I'm white by comparison
{ with what I was,
: When she had |
| departed, Garrison arose, and, putting |
He |
i had to get out into the open air. He |
into the firm’s office,” she said.
read it all in one long look you gave
explained the :
young negro occupant of the tiny el- |
| Home Companion.
“Guess it’s ’bout all over but the |
There was an interval after Garri-
his
“I’m from Best and Twombly’s,”
“Come in.”
She led the way
Garrison’s being.
“How is she?” he whispered.
“No better—yet. But—she
she’s going to live.
up hope for 2 minute!”
“That’s good.
tion. “That’s half the battle!”
“Yes, that’s what the doctors say.
against
strength.”
The nurse hurried from the inner
room, leaving the door open behind
her, and crossed to a room beyond.
Garrison, his eyes drawn by an invis-
ible force, turned them on the occu-
pant of the bedroom. Then, blindly.
stumblingly, he passed its threshold
and dropped on his knees bv the bd.
“Get well!” he muttered thickly.
“Get well!”
He had expected to find her uncon-
scious.
her. And she’s losing
and the eyebrows puckered childishly.
He was aware that the married sister
was pulling at his arm, was trying to
get him out of the room. The mo-
ment was too big for anything but
dim and , truth.
“Let me alone,” he said. “I love
He saw Edna’s lips moving, and he
rose and bent over her.
“Forgive me.”
“Yes”
Her eyebrows were still knit. Her
| tase: already terribly changed, was
twisted like a child’s about to ery.
She made a slight gesture, a very
slight one, which he knew meant dis-
missal. But as he turned to go, she
stopped him, and with a glance indi-
cated her sister. It was plain that
she had something to say, and at last
she brought it out.
“Don’t —say —anything —to hurt
! her!” gasped Edna Hutton.
And in those six words, from those
lips, at that moment, Garrison had:
the lesson that changed his life.
“I won’t,” he said, and in some way
got out of the room.
“Let me stay,” he begged Mrs. Mer-
“Perhaps I
can help. Anyway, I've got to watch.
I've got to know how it’s going. You
and he added slowly, as if to himself,
“and I never loved any human being
before.”
Edna Hutton did not die. She was
a good fighter, and to die at twenty-
six was no part of her plan. She said
she had too much to do, and Garrison
agreed with her.
“It’s going to be a stiff job to make
me over into a decent citizen,” he told
her, the third week of her convales-
cence, as he sat on a stool at the foot
of her big chair. “They say down-
] but every little
while I—I—I—forget. I'm afraid
| they’re awfully sorry for you. When
| I told Best you and I were going to be
married as soon as you're well, he al-
I sup-
“That’s because they don’t under-
stand,” said Edna. “They don’t real-
ize that we're peeling off the husk
! you built around the shyest nature a
man ever had. You thought rude-
ness was your only protection. You
discovered it as a boy, and developed
it as a man.”
“Yes,” agreed Garrison cheerfully.
“I found that the other fellow was
1 sure to hurt me if I didn’t hurt him
first. Of course, it got to be a habit,
and when I realized that everyene
| hated me I began to run amuck.”
There was a short silence between
them. “The odd part of it is that you
| understood,” he went on suddenly.
| “How long have you understood ?”
pris future wife smiled down at
him.
“Ever since the day I dragged vou
“FT
me, when the interview was over.
From that moment,” she added, soft-
ly, “I began to know the real you!”—
By Elizabeth Jordan, in Woman's
| Prof. Borland New Head of State
College Dairy Department.
Andrew A. Borland has been ap-
| pointed professor of dairy husbandry
at The Pennsylvania State College to
succeed Frederick Rasmussen, who
was made State Secretary of Agricul-
ture by Governor Sproul. This an-
nouncement was made recently by R.
L. Watts, dean of the agricuitural
school.
Professor Borland has been in
charge of dairy husbandry extension
at State College for the last four
years. He came to the college from
the University of Vermont, where he
was head of the dairy and animal hus-
bandry departments.
_ After graduating from Penn State
in 1909, Professor Borland pursued
advanced study at the University of
Wisconsin where he was given the de-
gree of Master of Science in 1910.
He was engaged in research work at
State Oellage during the following
year, and then went to Vermont, re-
maining there four years.
He hails from Mercer county, where
he taught in thé public schools for
several years before going to State
College. His extension work in this
State has brought him in contact with
farmers in virtually every county.
He will have charge of a large com-
mercial creamery for which more than
300 farmers furnish milk.
~——Subscribe for the “Watchman.”
into a simple, i . Tein ;
happened during that interview, but | pleasant little living-room. From a | Pig a nice little pink-and-white pig
: room at the left of it came the strang-
led sounds that pulled at the roots of
] Why, that’s great!”
Garrison spoke with sudden exulta- |
| brious lamentations that the doctor
But the eyes that turned and |
looked at him showed understanding, |
COULDN'T EAT PET.
Outspoken Revolt at Dinner Table Re-
sulted in Neighbors Having Poetic
Revenge and Enjoying Dainty
Dish of Roast Pig.
A well-known physician in town has
a family of small children who are
crazy about animals, and every stray
dog or cat is always sure of a good
home if they happen to wander near
the doctor’s spacious residence. In.
deed, the doctor calls his home the
“Zoo Annex,” for it harbors not only
dogs and cats galore, but three cana-
ries, two white mice, five pigeons, one
conversational and profane parrot and
a brown squirrel, so an animal or two
, more doesn’t count.
Somebody gave the children a baby
with funny little squinty eyes and a
cute little curl to its tail.
The children were wild with joy over
"their new pet, and installed it in the
says |
. : i
She hasn’t given | didn’t adapt himself to his surround-
laundry. but evidently the little pig
ings, and persisted in staying up late
nights and giving voice to such lugu-
christened him “Jeremiah.” This name
was too long for the children to man-
age, so they called him Jerry and loved
him to death.
Jerry grew so fat he could hardly
waddle. but he was great fun and frol-
Icked with the youngsters and had a
grand time, and even his squeal had a
Joyous note in it by day, but once night
fell Jerry seemed to grow so low in his
mind that he refused to be comforted,
. and his tones were as shrill and piere-
ing as a hanshee’s.
He grew so big that he looked like a
young mountain lion in the arms of the
children, and occasionally he would es-
cape to the front of the house and wad-.
dling up the sgeps, would lie
down and drop Into slumber, so that
visiting patients had to fall over or
step over the reclining Jerry. Then
to add to the general discomfort his
squeals grew deeper, like unto the vo-
cal efforts of a basso profundo, So
the doctor, losing all patience, de-
clared that Jerry must pass on and
pass out. So one day when His
children were in school Jerry took his
first automobile ride, ending up at the
butcher's, who had orders to return
Jerry right side up with care, ready
for the oven and the Sunday dinner.
The children, in ignorance of this
foul deed, searched high and low for
the missing pig, but he couldn’t be
found, and after weeping violently for
the first day, grew resigned to their
loss, after the manner of children, and
seemed to forget him.
Sunday came and the family assem-
bled at the dinner table. Norah, the
cook, came In, bearing aloft the plump
form of Jerry roasted to a turn, with
his tail turned in a sancy ringlet and
an apple in his mouth.
There was a moment of absolute
silence, fraught with significance for
the doctor and his ‘wife. then one
of their eagle-eyed youngsters shriek-
ed: “It's our Jerry,” and set up a
dismal howl which the rest soon joined
and fixing their guilty parents with
uncompromising looks demanded to
know why their beloved pig was be-
ing served up as a burnt offering.
They were aided and abetted by
Norah, the cook, who, wiping a fur
tive tear from her eye with the cor-
ner of her apron, muttered: “Shure,
'tis mesilf thinks it a sin to murder the
baste.”
Not one mouthful of the martyred
Jerry would any of the mourning
youngsters take, and the parents sud-
denly lost all desire for roast pig and
decided that the late Charles Lamb's
dissertation of that delicacy was all
wrong.
Jerry, the baked, was removed with. -
ovt delay and sent to a neighbor's,
who took a poetic revenge in eating
the animal that had squealed them into
insomnia for weeks past.—Buffalo
Courier.
A Delayed Funeral.
George I. King, known by every man,
woman and child in Brown county and
bv all visitors who go to Nashville by
way of Helmsburg, has been the stage
enach driver between Nashville and
Helmsburg and the hearse driver for
Nashville’s only undertaking establish-
ment for ten years.
Recently there was to be a burial at
the Story cemetery, twelve miles south
of Nashville, and King was called on
to drive the hearse. He hitched two
horses to the hearse and started from
Nashville at 5 a. m. After he had
driven within two miles of the ceme-
tery. he got out to walk up a steep
hill and noticed that he had forgotten
to put the coffin in the hearse. He
turned the horses’ heads toward Nash-
ville and made the trip back in short
time. He loaded the coffin and
changed horses and resumed the trip.
The burial was delayed four hours.—
Indianapolis News.
“Only Man is Vile.”
The Quai d’Orsay, where the peace
delegates gathered, contains soft,
sumptuous carpets, gilded chairs,
heavy square armchairs, artistic
tnerble tables, wonderful damasks.
which have so often figured in former
descriptions of brilliant assemblies
since the early days of the third Na-
poleon. Some connoisseurs of these
chiects demand that the sumptuous
catpit be covered or iemoved, in order
to allow the plenipotentiaries of*thoke
heroie ceuniries to smo¥ke cigarettes at
their ease, even when absorbed by pas-
sionate debates.
Completing the Passage.
“When two egotists meet it's a
case of an I for an I,” says the Phil-
adelphia Record. ;
And wher two motorists meet, it’s
a toot for a toot, what!
er
Se?
Cin?