Bellefonte, Pa., June 20, 1919.
EE ES
JOHNNY’S GARDEN.
I'm going to have a garden, yes; but you
need not suppose
That in it will be planted a tulip or a
rose,
For I am going to purchase the plants
that I like best,
And here's a list of some of them—TI've
not thought up the rest.
I'm very fond of oyster stew, and oysters
broiled or fried,
And so I'll have an oyster plant, to keep
me well supplied.
And as I just love omelets—and sometimes
hens won't lay—
A thrifty egg plant I'll set out, and pick
the eggs each day.
Then, I am very fond of pies—and they're
kept out of reach—
So I'll have three large pie plants, apple
and mince and peach. :
And I shall have a rubber plant, and when
there’s rain or frost
I'll just run out and pick a pair—for mine
are always lost. :
Another plant I want to buy—I've never
seen it yet—
But seems to me it would be wise some
candy-tuft to get.
And so, you see, I've thought up all the
things that I like best;
And, as I said, I haven't yet decided on
the rest.
—Youth’'s Companion.
THE ACE’S STORY,
At the end of the second act of
“The Straight Road” the popular
leading man himself obligingly held
the curtains apart at the center for
the young aviator who limped reluc-
tantly through them onto the narrow
strip of stage before the footlights.
For an instant even Remsen Orr's
keen eyes were dazzled by the bright
glare of the big crowded theatre, and
the sound of hand-clapping came to
his troubled ears as though from a
reat distance. He wondered vague-
y who it was they were applauding,
and it was only when he made out
the distinguished Miss Cromer lean-
ing far forward in her box and tap-
ping her white gloved hands together
at him that he realized that he him-
self might be the object of this enthu-
siasm.
So he swallowed the lump that had
suddenly and inconveniently come in-
to his throat and smiled ingratiating-
ly at his audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began,
“I want to start right with you by
making a confession—this is the first
speech I ever made in my life!” * And
then he added ingeniously, “I don’t
mind telling, because I expect most
of you would have guessed it, any-
way, before I had finished!” A little
ripple of laughter floated up to him
at this sally. “You see, even if I am
an aviator, I am not a wind-jammer!
And I'll make another confession—I
never felt so like flying in my life!”
He smiled again confidentially at his
amused audience. “But Miss Cromer
made me promise to say something to
you tonight, and you know what Miss
Cromer says, goes.” He threw out
his good hand—the left one was ban-
daged—toward the handsome white-
haired woman in the box, who frown-
ed in mock anger and shook her head
at him.
The audience laughed again, this
time at the distinguished Miss Cro-
mer, who was known to everybody as
an enormously rich, philanthropic
woman whose word was law, and then
the boy, moving a step nearer the
footlights and leaning a little heavily
on his thick stick so as to take the
weight off his injured foot, suddenly
dropped his light manner and began
to speak seriously:
“1 felt it was a great compliment
for a—a youngster like myself to be
asked to speak in this theatre tonight
on behalf of the Third Liberty Loan.
But I know that I was asked only be-
cause I have had the privilege of be-
ing for six months at the flying front.
If you don’t mind,” he went on earn-
estly,” I'd like to tell you in a few
words just what the Third Liberty
Ioan means to us airmen, and if I can
make you feel the least little bit of
what we feel about it, you'll come
gorogs with your dollars. Shall I
He shifted himself on his hurt foot
and glanced inquiringly and brightly
at his attentive audience. There was
a low murmur of assent and then a
tense quiet more complimentary than
any noisy applause could have been.
And in the silence he began to speak,
diffidently at first, and then with a
straightforward telling power and
convincingness born of experience
that went direct to the hearts of his
listeners.
“We believe that this game is liter-
ally in the hands of the airmen,” he
said by way of peroration. “This war
is going to be won by the allied avia-
tors, than whom there is no braver
set of men—though I say it who
shouldn’t, perhaps. They do not
know fear—” Suddenly he stopped.
“That’s not quite true,” he said.
“There is one fear that besets us all,
and that is that when we fall there
will not be others to take our places
—to carry on.
“Of course we know that this Gov-
ernment is doing its best, but we are
impatient, we airmen. More than
anything else in the world we want to
be sure every time we take the air,
that, should disaster be our lot, there
will be a hundred, a thousand others,
better taught, better equipped, to take
our places. That means that we must
have thousands of planes—the best,
the fastest, the stanchest. Those
lanes will cost money, huge sums. I
ow it! And to furnish those huge
sums the Government must have mon-
ey, and to have money you, ladies and
gentlemen, must buy Liberty bonds!”
He bowed and limped backward a
little. There was a burst of applause
from the audience and the cast of
“The Straight Road,” bunched togeth-
er in the wings. The leading man
was grinning encouragingly at the
young speaker and making signs for
him to go on. But the boy shook his
head. At the curtain he hesitated,
and raised his good hand.
“If there is anybody here who
would like to subscribe—" he said
tentatively. ;
“Ten thousand dollars,” said a qui-
et voice from an upper box, and a
ortly gentleman, leaning forward,
eckoned to an usher. :
In an instant the theatre was in an
| uproar. Ushers and young girls in
| white with the Liberty Loan tricolor
| across their shoulders scurried up and
down the aisles furnishing blank cer-
tificates to people impatient to lend
their money to the Government.
Above the hum of voices rose the
staccato announcements of big sub-
scriptions, drowned instantly in wave
upon wave of applause. Hands shot
up in air in every part of the theatre,
from the orchestra to the fifty-cent
seats in the top gallery, signalin
willingness to buy bonds, large an
small. Back of the still lowered cur-
tain the leading man, the actor-man-
ager and young Orr were seated at a
table receiving the pledges brought in
and counting them up.
Miss Cromer left her box and went
behind the scenes. She laid a hand
on the young aviator’s arm.
“Good boy, Rem!” she said, and
then she turned to the two men.
“Didn’t I tell you he’d make a hit?”
she demanded enthusiastically. “How
much has come in?” :
The leading man glanced hastily at
a paper the management shoved over
to him and and added the total to his
last column of figures.
“Thirty-eight thousand and some-
thing over-—we haven’t got the sec-
ond balcony returns yet.”
“That’s what I call a truly success-
ful speech, Remsen,” said Miss Cro-
mer appreciatively.
“Beginner's luck, Aunt Kate,” he
grinned. She wasn’t really his aunt.
only one of his mother’s oldest and
best friends and his godmother.
“Nonsense!” said Miss Cromer au-
thoritatively. “I’m very much pleas-
ed with you, and as a reward of ex-
ceptional merit I'm going to take you
off to my apartment for supper with
a few nice people who are dying to
see and talk with a real aviator.”
The young man groaned. “Oh I
say, Aunt Kate; you’ve butchered me
to make a Roman holiday once this
evening—isn’t that enough? I don’t
want to do the ‘real aviator’ act for
your idle rich. Honestly, I want to go
to the club and to bed. The unusual
excitement of making a speech has
brought on fever, I think—"
“Nonsense, Remsen!” interrupted
Miss Cromer briskly. “You can try
that sort of camouflage on your fami-
ly down in simple, unsophisticated
Philadelphia. It won’t go here in
New York. You come right along
with me. Those people will be mad if
we keep them waiting too long. The
supper will be good, I promise you.”
“I don’t deny that food is attractive
after six months at the front,” said
young Orr in a hollow voice. “What
I don’t like is people. I won’t go.”
“Well—you’ll like some of these
people, and you'll simply have to do
the ‘real aviator act,’ ” retorted Miss
Cromer. “You know you said your-
self, that what I say goes.” And then
she added soothingly: “One of the
prettiest brides of last summer is to
be there, Lily Morgan, she was. Mar-
ried Meredith Carlisle, you know. She
came out two or three seasons ago—
before your time, I expect, but you’ve
probably heard of her.”
Remsen Orr turned
looked at Miss Cromer.
“Lily Morgan!” he said in a curious
tone, and then he added quietly,
“Yes, I've heard of her.” He waited
an instant. “I’ll go,” he said.
It was Miss Cromer’s turn to look
at the young man.
“Oh, very well,” she said drily.
“Fletcher's outside with the car and
the manager’s making frantic motions
for us to get off the stage. They're
trying to set it for the last act, I ex-
pect. We'd better be going.” And
she led the way to the waiting motor.
As they sped up Fifth Avenue Miss
Cromer turned to her godson with an
inquiring glance.
“Ever seen Lily, Rem?”
The young man shook his head.
“Never laid my eyes on her,” he
said carelessly. All his interest seem-
ed to have evaporated. “You’ll have
to introduce me to your ‘prettiest
bride.” ”
Eventually they sat opposite each
other at the long Italian table in Miss
Cromer’s dining-room, and Orr ac-
knowledged to himself that she must,
indeed, have been one of the loveliest
brides of the preceding, or any other,
summer. Yet with all her fairness
her little red mouth drooped in a
curve of childish selfishness. She was
fascinating—and unmistakably a dar-
ling, but a spoiled darling. The youn,
man caught himself staring a go
deal. Her husband sat near her. He
was a handsome, well-set-up chap, and
Orr decided that they were an uncom-
monly good-looking couple.
The “few nice people” had evolved
into a dozen or more, and Orr, in spite
of his modesty and honest objections
to being lionized, couldn’t help a thrill
at the flattering attention of all these
people. When he talked they listen-
ed with rapt interest. Of course there
were a good many foolish questions.
But he was prepared for that, and he
answered with truly marvelous pa-
tience and politeness.
“Isn’t it awfully thrilling up there
alone, above the clouds,” inquired the
Jeuy debutante at the end of the ta-
e.
sharply and
“Why yes—that is, I suppose so,”
assented young Orr rather vaguely.
“But, you see,” he explained apologet-
ically, “I never really thought about
it before. There is so much else to
think about when one is doing ‘ceiling
work’—your drife meter, your angle-
of-attack, the signal lamps, the oil
and gasolene gauges, the alimeter,
the inclinometer, the air-speed meter,
the stabilized telescope, the distance
indicator, the spirit levels, the sex-
tant, the compass, the planes, enemy
aircraft—"
“Oh!” said the girl breathlessly,
“excuse me!” =
“Certainly,” said young Orr polite-
ly, and a trifle puzzled. “I was just
telling you. Of course if there is any
time over one ay. perhaps thrill—or
pray; lots of the boys pray, and some
of them think of their mothers and
their best girls. One man told me
that that was his prayer—the girl he
was going to marry. He just thought
of her, and things went right, he said.
He was the bravest and finest chap I
ever knew. I think his prayer must
have been the best sort of prayer, be-
cause—” He hesitated and began
twisting the stem of his unfilled wine
glass between his thumb and finger.
Lily Carlisle looked across the ta-
Ye and smiled inquiringly at young
Tr
“Because what?” she asked.
Orr raised his keen eyes to the girl.
——
They were cold as steel and as inpla-
cable.
“Because it saved him—until he no
longer had her to pray to,” he said
evenly.
The wife of one of the French sec-
retaries turned quickly to the young
aviator. ’
“You intrigue us, Monsieur,” she
said. “Are we not to hear?” :
“What's the story, Rem? Outwith
it! You mustn’t trifle with the curi-
osity of the people!” commanded Miss
Crome from her end of the table.
Orr gave a little shrug.
isn’t much to tell and you won’t be-
lieve what there is, but if you'd really
like to hear it—” He looked tenta-
tively around the table and once again
let his glance rest on the girl oppo-
site.
She threw up her head a little.
“Of course—why not?” she said,
and then with a sudden movement she
turned quickly and looked at her hus-
band. He was leaning forward inter-
estedly. ea
“Go ahead, Orr,” he said. “It
sounds bully, so far.” :
“No; it isn’t a ‘bully’ story—it ends
wrong.” 3
“Well, that is a handicap,” admit-
ted Carlisle, pulling at his cigar.
“But I bet it’s a good one up to the
ending.”
“Yes,” assented Orr eagerly, “it’s a
good one—up to the ending. Any
story about—Prescott, we'll call him
—is bound to be good; he was such a
corking chap, you see.” He stopped
ang looked down thoughtfully at his
plate.
charming eyebrows. “We wait, Mon-
sieur,” she said plaintively.
The boy looked up quickly. “I—I
beg your pardon. I was thinking of
the first time I met—Prescott—and of
how kind he was to me. 1 had just
gone to the flying front, and of course
I had a lot of things to learn. Pres-
cott was awfully good zbout putting !
me wise to the game. I remember
one day, telling him I thought I'd be
pretty well scared if, when alone on
patrol duty, I should happen to meet
a number of enemy chasse machines.
He turned on me quick as a flash.
“ ‘Of course you'll be scared; I'd be
scared, too, only I have a sure talis-
man, Orr. Nothing can happen to
me!”
“He Jo3e a queer little laugh and I
laughed, toe, rather foolishly, because
1 didn’t understand—I thought he was
joshing me. I came to learn, little by
little, that he meant what he said.”
The boy stopped again for an in-
stant, -and then, recollecting himself,
took up the thread of his story.
“Of course, almost any young fel-
low with perfect nerves and eyesight
and hearing can become an aviator of
sorts. But for the superfine work, the
absolute mastery of all tricks of air
maneuvers, the quick and perfect
judgment, the instantaneous co-ordi-
nation of brain and eye and hand
which makes the brilliant fighting pi-
lot—well, he must be born, not made.
What others have to be taught, he
must know by tuition. To watch a re-
ally great aviator fly is to become
convinced that the Darwinian theory
is susceptible of variations. It is ea-
sy enough to believe that he derives
from some great bird of the air.
“Well—Prescott wasn’t that sort
of a pilot at all. In spite of his splen-
did record, no one thought of him as
a wonderful airman. I don’t know
how we knew he wasn’t, but we did.
We all felt that way about him, as
though some unseen power were guid-
ing him and keeping him from harm,
rather than any great skill of his
own.”
“But,” objected Carlisle, leaning
back in the chair and speaking be-
tween little puffs of cigar smoke, “if
he was under—special-——and—super-
naturally powerful—protection—how
did he—happen to be—killed 7”
“That,” said the boy slowly, “is the
story.” ‘
Madame de Roseauville gave a lit-
tle sigh of satisfaction.
“Enfin!” she said.
“Oh,” countered the boy, “don’t be
too elated; I warned you it wasn’t
much of a story!”
“Go on, Remsen!” commanded Miss
Cromer. “Do you think we are going
to be cheated out of that story at the
—literally—eleventh hour?” and she
glanced at the clock.
The boy shrugged his thin young
shoulders again. “Oh, very well! . .
. . I hardly know how Prescott and I
got to be such pals. He was a good
deal older than I am, five or six years,
I expect. Perhaps it was because I
was young and in need of a good
friend—Prescott was like that. There
was nothing of the ‘Viking of the air’
about him. He was rather short and
ugly and unassuming. In spite of his
exploits—he shot down three Boche
planes in one day for one of them!—
he never got the least bit of a swell-
ed head.
“‘Why should I be proud and
haughty, Orr?’ he would say laugh-
ingly to me when we talked over some
particularly daring stunt he had pull-
ed off. ‘You know there are a dozen
airmen who can do better jazz work
than I can, but they’re apt to get kill-
ed and I’m not; so it’s up to me to go
aloft and do the dirty work.’
“When he said that sort of thing
with that sort of air, what was one to
do? I would just stare a little and
nod, as though I understood, and he
would talk on. When I was away
from him I would swear to myself
that I'd ask him straight out, the very
next time I saw him, why in the dick-
ens he felt so safe and sure, but of
course I never did. I'd get cold feet
when I was with him.
“And so it ran on for a month and
more. But one evening I found out
a The day’s work was over and
we were lying out on the ground near
the hangars, smoking and talking,
when up came Allen from a Y. M. C.
A. hut with a bagful of mail. It was
about as unexpected and as welcome
as manna from heaven. We all took
it as though it were manna from
heaven—at least no one bothered to
thank Allen or inquire how he hap-
pened to bring it. We just fell upon
the letters and papers. I snatched my
own, and as I was turning away I
saw an envelope addressed to Pres-
cott, so I grabbed it, too, and took it
over to him. I mechanically looked
at the letter as I went, and I saw that
the superscription was in a girls
handwriting. . . . Prescott had
been quite a bit off from the rest of
us lying quiet on the ground, smoking
and looking up at the darkening heav-
ens after a fashion he had. There
was no moon—so we were fairly easy
light enough for me to see his face
when I handed him the letter. I was
simply thunderstruck by his expres-
sion. He looked as though he had
seen a vision from heaven. I had al-
ways thought him ugly until then. Be-
fore I knew it I had blurted out, ‘So:
that’s your talisman!” and then, feel-
ing that I had made an unpardonable
ass of myself, I began to stammer
some sort of an excuse.
“But Prescott stopped me. ‘Can
| that nonsense, Orr!’ he said amiably.
“There |
‘You’ve stumbled on my secret and
I'm glad of it. I've wanted to talk
about her to somebody, and you—
well, you are the only one I could
talk to.’ He smoked for a moment in
silence.
then we'll talk. This one’s frightful-
ly overdue,’ he said, looking carefully |
at the postmark.
“So we sat there, reading our let-
ters by the light of two hooded torch- |
es, and afterward we talked. I'm
glad we did—it was the last time I
ever saw him so brilliantly and en- |
tirely happy.”
Young Orr looked around the table
anxiously. “Am I boring you?” he!
asked. “Ill try to hurry . .. Well, |
it was a rather fragmentary story
Prescott told me. 1 gathered that he
had been a wild lad, reaping where he
had not sown and sowing where he
had decided it were wiser not to stop
to reap. I judge he hadn’t had much
to be proud of in his career until this
girl had fallen in love with him. That
had changed everything. And at first
i he had been supremely and unthink-
Madame de Roseauville raised her
ingly happy. And then his awakened
conscience told him he hadn’t deserv-
ed such wonderful good fortune. He
felt that he ought to square himself
with life before he could accept such
happiness. He was in arrears with
life’s opportunities and responsibili-
ties, he told me. . . . And then the
war came and he had his chance to
make good. She hadn’t wanted him
to go, it seems, and Prescott had to
fight not only his own desires but
hers, too. But he was firm—he had
to do something to make her proud of
him, to purify himself by fire, to be
worthy of her, he said.”
The boy stopped and looked around
at his audience. “Think of that—that
humility from a man who was risking
his life, not once but many times
every day, for right and justice and
humanity!
“At last she saw the thing as I did,
Orr,” he explained, ‘and she promised
to wait for me and to watch over me
while I was gone. I can’t tell you
how safe I feel—I don’t believe any-
thing can touch me.
as these poilus do about Notre Dame
de Bon Secours. Well—she’s my la-
dy of Succor, and I'd like to put up
an ex-voto to her like those we saw
in that little church the Boches shell- !
He looked at me!
ed the other day!
again with that wonderful expression
on his face.
“¢As long as she’s with me I'm
safe, utterly safe, Orr,’ he said with
absolue conviction.
“It was the next day that he
brought down the three Boche planes.
He fought Rperniy, Marmont, the
French ace, told me. I had a sprain-
ed wrist and had to stay below. Pres-
cott went up alone at first and ran
across a pair of Albatrosses in no
time. He climbed and maneuvered
until he got betwen them and the sun,
and then shot them down, one after
the other, in ar incredibly short time.
I saw the trails of smoke and the
burning planes falling—falling! Then
Marmont and Thornberry went up
and were near enough to see him out-
maneuver another Albatross, come to
the aid of the others, and riddle the
fuselage with a well-directed shot.
That evening Prescott came into his
own. Those who had honestly doubt-
ed whether he would ever develop in-
to a great fighting pilot made amends.
“ “You're cited for valor in my re-
port, and you’ll gect the Croix de
Guerre all right, all right, my boy,’
our captain told him joyously.
“I felt that I hadn’t done him jus-
tice, either, and I told him so. But
he only smiled at me, linking his arm
in mine and drawing me outside to
pace up and down in the soft dark-
ness.
“I feel like a fraud, Orr, with all
this fuss being made over me.) he
said. ‘You know the truth—she’s do-
ing the fighting for me. I wouldnt
take the cross at all, except—except
that it might be a proof to her that,
with her aid, I’ve done something a
little worthy of her.
“He talked to me for an hour, and
I never saw a man so in love, and so
humble and so eager to be worthy the
woman he adored.”
The boy stopped - and pushed his
chair back from the table.
“Go on, Rem!” said Miss Cromer.
“You always stop at the most inter-
esting places!”
“I was thinking that perhaps it
would be best to stop there entirely—
to leave Prescott happy and safe,
walking up and down in the soft
dusk,’ said young Orr thoughtfully.
“Qh, please finish,” begged the lit-
tle debutante at the end of the table.
“All right, only I told you—you
won’t believe the rest of it, anyway!
Well, for a month after that letter
came Prescott was a terror to the
Boche .airmen, if ever there was one!
He did wonderful stunts in his 220 h.
p. Hispano-Suiza. He seemed to
lead a charmed life, sure enough.
There were six stars on the ribbon of
his cross by the end of the month. He
had all the rest of the escadrille look-
ing like has-beens.
“And then one day his luck chang-
ed. He began having accidents,
small ones at first, then more impor-
tant things. . .. I could see that
they worried Prescott—but not in the
usual way. Any other fellow would
have gone around openly bemoaning
his streak of bad luck, cussing out
the Boches generally and, very possi-
bly, begging for a mascot. But Pres-
cott didn’t do any of those things. In-
stead, he grew very quiet.
“‘There’s something wrong,’ he
said to me one day in a dull voice.
“ ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
“‘You know well enough what I
mean, Orr,” he said, and without
another word he turned and left me.
“It was about a week later that we
got a bunch of mail—all, that is, ex-
cept Prescott. That’s a way the mail
has of coming over there. You wait
until you are heartsick for a word,
and then, all of a sudden, out of a
clear epistolary sky will come innu-
‘merable letters and papers and you’ll
gorge yourself with home news.
“In the evening Prescott came to
about a Boche attack—but it was still ,
‘Let’s read our letters and’
I feel about her |
hard day’s work up above.
Boches had been particularly nasty
. for several days and it was all one
could do to get a little rest and time !
: for a cigarette.
“I was feeling pretty good, but a
look at Prescott’s white face destroy-
ed all my contentment. He had had
' a bad accident that day. An enemy
! bullet had cut away the metal stabili-
. ty control of his machine, and it was
only by holding the broken part in
place by one hand while he steered
' with the other that he managed to
land safely. Nobody but Victor Chap-
| man had ever come out alive after
such an experience.
“He stood looking down on me.
‘What's the matter?’ I asked quickly.
“I’ve lost my Lady of Succor,
Orr,’ he said in a curious, frightened
| voice. \
“ ‘What do you mean? How do you
| know? you haven’t had any letters,’
I stammered disconnectedly.
“Prescott gave me a queer smile.
{ “‘Lord! I don’t have to wait for
' the postal service to get me the news,’
| he said.
“I stared at him uncomprehending-
‘ly, and suddenly he stopped smiling
i and became quite serious.
“¢I want to talk to you a little, Orr,
! —if you don’t mind,’ he said very
gently.
“‘Cut ahead!” I choked over the
words. He seated himself on the
ground beside me.
“ ‘It’s only this—there’s something
gone wrong.’ He recurred again to
the familiar, vague expression. ‘I
don’t know what. I only know that I
am no longer protected, no longer
safe—I’'m vulnerable, like you other
fellows now, and I want to ask a fa-
‘vor of you, Orr. When I “go west” I
want you to take her the cross and
these few letters of hers I've saved,
and tell her that I’ve tried honestly
. for all these months to be worthy of
her. Tell her that I’ve loved her with
. all my heart and soul, and that all I
ever asked of fate was to live to go
back and tell her so. . ... Ei
The boy stopped once more and
| waited an instant.
“And he did not get back, Mon
i sieur?” asked Madame de Roseau-
i ville pityingly.
i “No—he was killed the next day.”
“How ?” asked Miss Cromer.
“We had a free-for-all fight with
| the ‘Traveling Circus! ... An zne-
| my shot set Prescott’s gasolene tank
{on fire, and he fell in flames—drop-
| ped from the zenith like a falling
i star’?
Meredith Carlisle leaned foiward
| interestedly.
. “But you haven't told us the most
| important part, Orr. What had ‘gone
| wrong?’ ”
| Madame de Roseauville lifted her
dark eyes to Carlisle’s.
part, Monsieur: the essential is—did
this poor Monsieur Prescott know be-
fore he died?”
Orr turned quickly to the French-
woman.
“That’s the way I felt about it.” he
said. “He had lost her—why, didn’t
particularly matter, I take it. But,
no—he never knew.”
“What didn’t he know, Rem ?” Miss
Cromer spoke in an aggrieved voice.
“That she was to be married to
another chap. She married the day
Prescott was killed.” He glanced at
his wrist watch. “By jove! it’s aw-
fully late—you people will have to ex-
cuse me for talking so much!”
Young Orr opened the door of the
motor for Lily Carlisle while her hus-
band ran back for the fan and gloves
she had left in the dressing-room.
For an instant the boy lingered, lean-
ing on the sill of the lowered window
and letting his hard young eyes rest
on the girl’s frightened ones.
“Shall I keep my appointment with
you tomorrow, or may I give you the
—things—now ?”’ he asked.
She put her trembling hands over
her pale face.
“Now!” she said in a low voice.
The boy felt in an inside pocket and
drew out a small package which he
dropped in her lap, and gravely lift-
ing his hat he turned away.—By Ab-
bie Carter Goodloe, in Woman’s Home
Companion.
The Disadvantage of Education.
The advantages of education are
so numerous and so evident that they
do not have to be proved. Occasion-
ally, however, there are disadvantag-
es as well.
The daughter had
from finishing school.
“That air,” interrupted her father,
as they were talking together in the
dining room.
“Father dear,” interrupted the girl,
“it’s vulgar to say that air.” You
should say ‘that something there,’
or preferably just ‘that.’ ”
“Well, this ear—"’ commenced her
father.
“No,” his daughter interrupted
again. “That is just as vulgar. You
should avoid such expressions as ‘this
ere—"’
“Look here, my girl,” said her
father. “I am going to say exactly
what I mean. That air is bad for this
ear of mine and I am going to shut
the window.”—Youth’s Companion.
SUGAR WILL BE SCARCE.
Canners Warned to Order Early or
Ge Without Supply Later.
The United States Sugar Equaliza-
tion Board issued a statement warn-
ing American distributors that unless
they place orders early they may not
be able to obtain sufficient sugar to
meet the demands of the canning sea-
son. :
“Reports from Europe,” said the
statement, “indicate an even greater
demand for sugar than was expected.
As soon as shipping is more plentiful
so that Europe may begin importing
its sugar supplies in larger quantities,
the demand on American refineries
gril be so heavy that they will find
difficulty in caring for orders that will
come in later from American deal-
ers.” :
Dealers can hope to gain nothing
by withholding orders, the statement
concluded, as there is little likelihood
of a decrease in prices.
just returned
Anxious.
Waiter—All right, sir, all
You’ll get served in time.
Diner—Well, rush it. I want to get
through this meal before the prices
rise again.—San Francisco Chronicle.
right.
me. I was lying on the ground in the ,
dusk, smoking and resting afigh 2 i
e |
“Oh, that is not the most important.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
i We must learn to see the good in the
| midst of much that is unlovely.—George
, Eliot.
Have you noticed that the silhou-
| ette, that rather indefinite thing which
| causes fashion designers as many
: anxious hours as the ticker does the
| stock investor, is slowly changing?
i Or maybe you are like most women,
| who go to bed calm with the assur-
i ance that the new silk frock is per-
| fectly lovely and wake up the next
morning to find it all wrong. Maybe
it is your shadow that gives the infor-
mation or the shop window that con-
trasts your figure with that of the
ultra-fashionable woman beside you.
To be on the safe side, therefore, keep
your eyes open for wider skirts, and
shorter ones.
Tailors tell us that the fall suits
will not be any shorter than six or
seven inches from the ground and that
they will average about forty inches
in width. Waistlines are growing
more definite every day. Especially
is this so in the thin summer frocks
which are belted quite frankly at the
normal waistline with satin and moire
ribbons and sashes of self-material.
Their tucked or ruffled fullness
springs in straight lines from this
waistline, for, of course, one could not
expect to hobble along in an abbrevi-
ated organdie dress, for instance.
Silk frocks, however, are doing
some of the things that may be ex-
pected for fall. They are taking on
what is known as the “toy-top” skirt
draping, with exaggerated fullness at
the sides and flat effects front and
back. One skirt so draped drops its
fullness in “umbrella” pleats at the
sides and crosses its two breadths at
the back in diagonal line. It is ex-
tremely narrow at the foot, but the
double breadth at the back, which is
not seamed but left free, allows per-
fect freedom of movement.
It could hardly be expected that the
decidedly uncomfortable skirt would
last long, and while American women
will probably not adopt the skirt so
short that it leaves “nothing below
the knee but the shoe,” as one writer
ably put it, they will welcome the re-
turn of the moderate skirt that is
practical and becoming as well.
To keep a sweater trom losing its
shape take a piece of tape and sew on
the shoulder seams and underarm
seams. The same thing can be done
with a knit sweater that does not have
the seams. Just sew the tape where
the seam should be, on the inside.
This is especially good for school
children’s sweaters, as it always holds
the shape and looks well.
Developments in the sweater line
seem to be confining themselves to
curtailments of the new filet sweater
until it is: often seen as very little
else but a girdle of the filet mesh in
some bright color and attractive de-
sign, with shoulder straps also of the
mesh. Besides the wool. these are be-
ing made in mercerized cotton, real
silk and the lustrous fibre silk. Their
sole purpose is to add a touch of bril-
liant color to the thin summer frock
or white blouse and skirt.
Some retail dealers, says the Boston
Transcript, are reported as opposed to
: button boots for women next fall.
They object to being obliged to de-
vote so much time to fitting them to
their customers, for, as compared with
the lace boots, they do not fit so
smoothly over the instep. Therefore,
they. do not try to sell button boots.
In spite of this trade objection, it is
probable that by the time the retail-
ers are called on for boots for fall and
winter a supply of button boots will
be; fortheoming, and many will be
sold.
All over the country the retail
trade is working to sell low-cut shoes
to women. Window displays show
few, if any, boots for summer wear,
and, as the sentiment just now favors
oxfords and pumps, a good movement
of such merchandise is the result.
Since the temperature at times is
high enough to make the spats un-
necessary, buckles are coming into
their own, for a spat generally con-
ceals the buckle. Dealers are having
a large call for buckles, and as prices
range from 50 cents to $30 a pair, the
variety is great.
Real Irish Crochet.—There is a
tendency to collar and cuff grand-
motherly calicoes of modern smart-
ness in real Irish crochet, and nothing
could radiate more chic.
Organdies are particularly inter-
esting. A little frilled coat of peach
organdie looks most at home over a
skirt of cream net, and one finds col-
ored organdie frocks inset with bands
of hand-embroidered white organdie.
There are cotton frocks, too, with
trimmings of taffeta, chiefly bands
and quillings ,and some of these
frocus have little jackets of the taf-
eta.
White swisses, dotted in color, oft-
en have inset bands of organdie in a
plain color to match the dots, and
there are also frillings of point
d’esprit.
If you would be well dressed never
weary of observing detail.
Iced Coffee Cup.—Strain into a
bowl one quart of strong, clear coffee,
add sugar to taste and sufficient rich
milk to make it the desired strength.
Chill thoroughly and pour into tall,
thin glasses, haif-filled with cracked
ice. Top each portion with a mound
of sweetened whipped cream, flavored
with vanilla extract, and dust the
cream with a tiny bit of ground cin-
namon.
Boil together one quart of water
and one pound of sugar for seven
minutes. en add the grated yellow
rind of two lemons and three oranges
and boil for three minutes longer.
Let stand until cool and strain. Al-
low the liquid to cool, add the juice of
the lemons and oranges, one quart of
pitted sweet cherries with their juice
and two diced bananas. Let the in-
gredients become thoroughly chilled,
add one quart each of cracked ice and
carbonated water and pour over a
small block of ice, placed in a punch
bowl. :
Pare and grate a large pineapple;
pour over this the juice of four lem-
ons, add one cupful of sugar and one
quart of unfermented grape juice. Set
in the ice-box for three hours and add
one quart each of the carbonated wa-
ter and the chilled water.
a tall glass pitcher, half-filled with
cracked ice.
Pour into |,
Le
«i