Bellefonte, Pa., July 11, 1919.
THE SONG OF THE STARS.
The morning star began it
At the dawn of creation’s birth,
And the circling spheres go swinging
And singing it unto earth.
And earth shall forget her groaning,
And learn the songs of the spheres,
And the tired shall sing that are moaning,
And the sad shall dry their tears.
As the sears tread paths appointed,
And the sun gives forth his heat,
So the sons of men shall labor.
Ere they rest in leisure’s seat.
And kings are to serve the people,
And weaith is to ease the poor,
And learning to lift up the lowly,
And strength that the weak may endure.
Lo, the burden shall be divided,
And each shall know his own,
And the royalty of manhood
Shall be more than crown or throne.
And the flesh and blood of toilers
Shall no longer be less than gold,
And never an honest spirit
Into hopeless bondage be sold.
For we the people are waking,
And low and high shall employ
The splendid strength of union
For liberty, life, and joy.
—~Silver Cross.
THE MURDERER.
(Concluded from last issue.)
The mate measured him with a
practiced eye. Though he had the cra-
zy courage of a bulldog, he was too
much an expert in warlike emergen-
cies tc overlook the risk of trying to
rush a desperate man armed with a
knife; the chances of the grapple
were toc ugly. There was something
lunatic and strange in the youth’s
glare also; and it will sometimes hap-
pen that arn oppressed and cowed man
in his extremity will shrug his meek-
ness from him and become, in a
breath, a desperado. This had its
place in the mate’s considerations.
“Finish, den!” he rasped, with no
weakening of his tone or manner.
“You don’t tink I'm goin’ to vait all
night for dem rope-yarns—hey?”
He turned his back at once lest
Conroy should venture another re-
tort and make an immediate fight un-
avoidable. Before his eye the silent
audience melted as swiftly as it had
appeared, and Conroy was alone with
his sick sense of having ventured too
far, which stood him in place of the
thrill of victory.
The thrill came later, in the fore-
castle, where he swelled to the acula-
tion of his mates. They, at any rate,
had been deceived by his attitude;
they praised him by word and look;
the big Greek infused a certain gen-
iality into his smile. Only Slade said
the wroag thing.
“I was ready for him as soon us
he meved,” Conroy was asserting.
“And he knew it. You should ha’
seen how he gaped when I wouldn’t
put the knife away.”
The men were listening, creliting
him. Old Slade, in the background,
took his pipe from his lips.
“Ar' now I suppose you're satis-
fied,” he irquired, harshlv.
“How d’vou mean, satisfied?” de-
manded Conroy, coloring. “You saw
what happened, didn’t vou?”
“You made him gape,” said Slade.
“That was because he made you howl,
eh? Well ain’t you calling it quits,
then—till the next time he kicks
you?’
Some one laughed; Conroy raised
his voice.
“He’ll never kick me again,” he
cried. “His kicking days are over.
He’s kicked me once too often, he
has. Quits—I guess not!”
Slade let a mouthful of smoke
trickle between his lips; it swam in
front of his face in a tenuous film of
pale vapor.
“Well, talkin’ won't do it, anyhow,”
he said.
“No,” retorted Conroy, and collect-
ed all eyes to his gesture. “But this
willl”
He showed them the thin-bladed
knife which the Greek had given him,
holding it before them by the hilt.
He let a dramatic moment elapse.
“Like that!” he said, and stabbed
at the air. “Like that—see? Like
that!”
They came upon bad weather grad-
ually, drawing into a belt of half-
gales, with squalls that roared up
from the horizon and made them for
the time into whole gales. The Vil-
lingen, designed and built primarily
for carge capacity, was a wet ship,
and upun any point of sailing had a
wav cf swooping in water by the many
tons. In nearly every watch came
the roar, “Stand by yer to’gzallan:
i ! Then tha wait for ten
« while the wind grew and the
our-masted back lay over and
imped ner bluff bows through rac-
ng seas, until the next ordae, shril-
ier and more urgent, “Lower away!”
ond the stiff canvas fought and slat-
++1 az the vards came down. Sea-
b. + and oilrkias were the wear for
every watch; wet decks ind the crasa
of water caming inboara over the
rail, dull <cid and the rasp of heavy,
sodden canvas on the numb fingers,
became again familiar to the men,
and at last there arrived the even-
ing, graved with tempest, on which
all hands reed topsails.
The mate had the middle watch,
from midnight tili four o’clock in the
morning. and for the first two hours
it waz Coaroy’s turn cn the lookout.
The rest in oilsxias and sea-boots,
were standing by under the hreak of
the poov: save for the sleeping men
in the shut forecastle, he had the
fore part of the ship to himself. He
leaned against the after rail of the
forecastle head, where a ventilator
somewhat screened him from the bit-
ter wind that blew out of the dark,
and gazed ahead at the murk. Now
and again the big bark slid forward
with a curtseying motion, and dipped
up a sea that flowed aft over the an-
chors and cascaded down the ladders
to the main-deck; spray that spouted
aloft and drove across on the wind,
sparkled red and green in the glare
of the sidelights like brief fireworks.
The splash and drum of waters, the
heavy drone of the wind in the stilts,
the clatter of gear aloft, were in his
ears; he did not hear one bell strike
-
<
! from the poop, which he should have
| answered with a stroke on the big bell
behind him and a shouted report on |
the lights.
“Hoy!
hey?”
It was the mate, who had come for-
ward in person to see why he had not
answered. He was by the fore fire-
rail, a mere shape in the dark.
“Sleepin’—no, sir!”
“Don’t you hear von bell shtrike ?”
cried the mate, slithering on the wet
deck toward the foot of the ladder.
“No, sir,” said Conroy, and stocped
to strike the bell.
The mate came up the ladder, haul-
ing himself by the hand-rails, for he
was swollen beyond the ordinary with
extra clothes under his long oilskin
coat. A plume of spray whipped him
in the face as he got to the top, and
he swore shortly, wiping his eyes with
his hands. At the same moment Con-
roy, still stooping to the bell-lanyard,
felt the Villingen lower her nose and
slide down in one of her disconcerting
curtseys; he caught at the rail to
steady himself. The dark water, mar-
bled with white foam, rode in over the
deck, slid across the anchors and
about the capstan, and came aft to-
ward the ladder and the mate. The
ship rolled at the same moment.
Conroy saw what happened as a
grotesque trick of circumstance. The
mate, as the deck slanted, slipped and
reached for the hand-rail with an
ejaculation. The water flowed about
his knees; he fell back against the
hand-rail, which was just high enough
for him to sit on. It was what, for
one ridiculous moment, he seemed to
be doing. The next, his booted feet
swayed up and he fell over backward,
amid the confusion of splashing wa-
ter that leaped down the maindeck.
Conroy heard him strike something
below with a queer, smacking noise.
“Pity he didn’t go overboard while
he was about it,” he said to himself,
acting out his role. Really, he was
rather startled and dismayed.
He found the mate coiled in the
scupper, very wet and still. He took
hold of him to draw him under the
forecastle head, where he would have
shelter, and was alarmed at the inert-
ness of the body under his hands.
“Sir!” he cried, “sir!—sir!”
He shook the great shoulders, but
quickly desisted; there was something
horrible, something that touched his
nerves, in its irresponsiveness. He
remembered that he might probably
find matches in the lamp-locker, and
staggered there to search. He had to
grope in gross darkness about the
place, touching brass and the uncan-
ny smoothness of glass, before his
hand fell on what he sought. At last
he was on one knee by the mate's
side, and a match shed its little illu-
mination. The mate’s face was odd
in its quietude, and the sou’wester of
oilskin was still on his head, held
there by the strings under the chin.
From under its edge blood flowed
steadily, thickly, appallingly.
“But—" cried Conroy. The match-
flame stung his fingers and he drop-
ped it. “O Lord!” he said. It occur-
red to him then, for the first time,
that the mate was dead.
The men aft, bunched up under the
break of the poop, were aware of him
as a figure that came sliding and tot-
tering toward them and fell sprawi-
ing at the foot of the poop ladder.
He floundered up and clutched the
nearest of them, the Greek.
“The mate’s dead,” he broke out, in
You schleepin’ up dere—
a kind of breathless squeal. “Some-
body call the captain; the mate's
dead.”
There was a moment of silence;
then a cackle of words from several
of them together. The Greek’s hands
on his shoulders tightened. He heard
the man’s purring voice in his ear.
“How did you do it?”
Conroy thrust himself loose; the
skies of his mind were split by a
frightful lightning flash of under-
standing. He had been alone with
the mate; he had seen him die; he was
sworn to kill him. He could see the
livid smile of the Greek bent upon
him.
“I didn’t do it,” he choked, passion-
ately, and struck with a wild, feeble
hand at the smile. “You liar—1I didn’t
do it?
“Hush!” The Greek caught
again and held him.
Some of the men started forward;
others had slipped into the alleyway
to rouse the second mate and captain.
The Greek had him clutched to his
bosom in a strong embrace and was
hushing him as one might hush a
scared child. Slade was at his side.
“He slipped, I tell you; he slipped
at the top of the ladder! She’d slip-
ped a dollop of water and then rolled,
and over he went. I heard his head
go smack and went down to him. 1
never touched him.”
“Hush!” It was Slade this time.
“And yer sure he’s dead?”
“Yes, he’s dead.”
“Well—” the old man exchanged
nods with the Greek. “All right.
Only—don’t tell the captain that tale;
it ain’t good enough.”
“But—" began Conroy. A hug
that crushed his face against the
Greek’s oilskin breast silenced him.
“Vat is all dis?”
It was the captain, tall, august,
' come full-dressed from his cabin. At
{ his back the second mate, with his oil-
skin coat over his pajamas, thrust for-
ward his red, eheerful tace.
Slade told the matter briefly. “And
it’s scared young Conroy all to bits,
sir,” he concluded. ;
“Come for’ard,” bade the captain.
“Get a lamp, some vun!”
They followed him along the wet,
slippery deck, slowly, letting him
pass ahead out of ear-shot.
“It was a belayin’-pin, ye-es?”
queried the Greek, softly, of Conroy.
“He might have hit his head against
a pin,” replied Conroy.
him
“Eh?” The Greek stopped. “Might
’ave—might ’ave ’it ’is ’ead! Ah, dat
is fine! ’E might ’ave ’it’is ’ead,
Slade! You ’ear dat?”
“Yes, it ain’t bad!” replied Slade,
and Conroy, staring in a wild attempt
to see their faces clearly, realized that
they were laughing, laughing silent-
ly and heartily. With a gesture of
despair he left them.
A globe-lamp under the forecastle
head lighted the captain’s investiga-
tions, gleaming on wet oilskins, shad-
ow-pitted faces, and the curious, re-
mote thing that had been the mate of
the Villingen. Its ampler light re-
vealed much that the match-flame had
missed from its field—the manner in
which the sou-wester and the head it
covered were caved in at one side, the
cut in the sou’wester through which
clotted hair protruded, the whole
ghastliness of death that comes by
violence.
With all that under his.
eyes, Conroy had to give his account |
of the affair, while the ring of silent,
! hard breathing men watched him and :
marveled at the clumsiness of his sto- |
“at is strange,” said the captain.
“Fell ofer backwards, you said. Itis
very strange! And vere did you find
de body?”
The scupper and deck had been | z :
! bother,” and forthwith slipped out.
washed clean by successive seas;
there was no trace there of blood, and
none on the rail. Even while they
searched, water spouted down on
them. But what Conroy noted was
that no pin stood in the rail where
the mate had fallen, and the hole that
might have held one was empty.
“Ah, vell!” said the captain at last.
“De poor fellow is dead. I do not un-
derstand, quite, how he should fall
like dat, but he is dead. Four of you
get de body aft.”
“Please, sir,” accosted Conroy, and
the tall captain turned.
“Vell; vat Is it?"
“Can I go below, sir?”
that found him, sir.
rather bad.”
“So!” The tall captain considered
him inscrutably, he, the final arbiter
of fates. “You feel bad—yes? Vell,
you can go below!”
The little group that bore the mate’s
body shuffle aft, with the others fol-
lowing like a funeral procession. A
man looked shivering out of the door
of the starboard forecastle, and in-
quired in loud whispers: “Was ist
los? Sag, mal—was ist denn los?”
He put his inquiry to Conroy, who
waved him off and passed to the port
forecastle on the other side of the
deck-house.
The place was somehow strange,
with its double row of empty bunks
like vacant coffin-shelves in a vault,
but solitude was what he desired.
The slushing lamp swung and stank
and made the shadows wander. From
the other side of the bulkhead he
could hear stirrings and a murmur of
voices as the starboard watch grew
aware that something had happened
on deck. Conroy, with his oilskin
coat half off, paused to listen for
comprehensible words. The opening
of the door behind him startled him,
and he spun roud to see Slade making
a cautious entry. He recoiled.
“Leave me alone,” he said,
strangled voice,
It was me
I feel rather—
in. a
before the other
could speak. “What are you follow-
ing me for? You want to make me
out a murderer. I tell you I never
touched him.”
The other stood just within the
door. the upper half of his face shad-
owed by the sou’wester, his thin lips
curved in a faint smile. “No?” he
said mockingly. “You didn’t touch
him? An’ I make no doubts you'd
take yer oath of it. But you should
not have put the pin back in the rail
when you was through with it, all the
same.”
“There wasn’t any pin there,” said
Conroy, quickly. He had backed as
far from Slade as he could, and was
staring at him with horrified eyes.
“But there would ha’ been if I had
not took a lock round while you were
spinnin’ your yarn to the old man,”
said Slade. “I knew you was a fool.”
With a manner as of mild glee. he
passed his hand into the bosom of his
coat, still keeping his sardonic gaze
fixed on Conroy.
“Good thing you’ve got me to look
after you,” he went on. “Thinks I,
‘He might easy make a mistake that
‘ud cost him dear;’ so I took a look
round. An’ I found this.” From with-
in his coat he brought forth an iron
belaying-pin, and held it out to Con-
roy.
“See?” His finger pointed to it.
“That’s blood, that is—and that’s
hair. Look for yourself! Now 1
suppose you'll tell me you never
touched him!”
“He hit his head against it when
he fell,” protested the younger man.
“He did! Oh, God, I can’t stand
this!”
He sank to a seat on one of the
chests and leaned his face against the
steel plate of the wall.
“Hit his head!” snorted old Slade.
“Couldn’t you ha’ fixed up a better
yarn than that? What are you snive-
lin’ at? D’ye think yer the only man
as ever stove in a mate’s head—an’
him a murderin’ man-driver? Keep
them tales for the Old Man; he be-
lieves ’em, seemingly; but don’t you
come them on me.”
Conroy was moaning.
touched him!”
“Never touched him!
the pin; it’s yours!”
He shrank from it. “No, no!”
Slade pitched it to his bunk, where
it lay on the blanket. “It’s yours,”
he repeated. “If yer don’t want it,
heave it overboard yerself or stick it
back in the rail. Never touched him
—you make me sick with yer ‘never
touched him!”
The door slammed on his scornful
retreat; Conroy shuddered and sat
up. The iron belaying-pin lay where
it had fallen, on his bed, and even in
that meager light it carried the trac-
es of its part in the mate’s death. It
had the look of a weapon rather than
of a humble ship-fitting. It rolled a
couple of inches where it lay as the
ship leaned to a gust, and he saw
that it left a mark where it had been,
a stain.
He seized it in a panic and started
for the door to be rid of it at once.
As if a malicious fate made him its
toy, he ran full into the Greek out-
side.
“Ah!” The man’s smile flashed
forth, wise and livid. “An’ so you ’ad
it in your pocket all de time, den!”
Conroy answered nothing. It was
beyond striving against. He walked
to the rail and flung the thing forth
with hysterical violence to the sea.
The watch going below at four
o’clock found him apparently asleep,
with his face iurned to the wall. They
spoke in undertones as though they
feared to disturb him, but none of
them mentioned the only matter
which all had in mind. They climb-
ed heavily to their bunks, there to
smoke the brief pipe, and then to
slumber. Only Slade, who slept little,
would from time to time lean up on
one elbow to look down and across to
the still figure which hid its face
throughout the night.
Conroy woke when the watch was
called for breakfast by a young man
who thrust his head in and shouted.
He had slept at last, and now as he
sat up it needed an effort of mind to
“I never
Here, take
recall his trouble. He looked out at
his mates, who stood about the place
pulling on their clothes, with sleep
still heavy on them. They seemed as |
usual. It was his turn to fetch the
coffee from the galley, he remember-
ed, and he slipped out of his bunk to
dress and attend to it.
“I won’t be a minute,” he said to
the others,
trousers.
A shaggy young Swede near the
door was already dressed.
“I vill go,” he said.
as he dragged on his
“You don’t
The others were looking at him
now, glancing with a queer, sharp
met his eyes.
were a stranger.
kind of haste.
speak and make them answer.
“On de gratings,” he was told. And
the Swede who fetched the coffee add-
| ed, “Sails is sowin’ him up now al-
ready.”
“We'll see the last of him today,”
said Slade. “He won't kick nobody
again!”
There was a mutter of agreement,
and eyes turned on Conroy again.
Slade smiled slowly.
“Yes, he keeck
once too many
times,”
said the Greek.
his head. “He t’ink it was safe to
kick Conroy, but it zindt,” he obsery.
ed. profoundly. “No, it aindt safe.”
“He got vat he ask for. . . .Dodn’t
know vat he go up againdst. . . . No,
it aindt—it aindt safe. ... Maybe
vish he aindt so handy mit his feet
now.”
They were all talking; their mixed
words came to Conroy in broken sen-
tences. He stared at them a little
wildly, realizing the fact that they
were admiring him, praising him,
and afraid of him. The blood rose in
his face hotly.
“You fellers talk,” he began, and
was disconcerted at the manner in
which they all fell silent to hear him
—*“you talk as if I'd killed him.”
“Well! . .. Ach was!”
He faced their smiles, their concili-
atory gestures, with a frown. -
“You better stop it,” he said. “He
fell—see? He fell an’ caved his head
in. An’ any feller that says he did
not—"’
His regard traveled from face to
face, giving force to his challenge.
“Ve aindt goin’ to say nodings!”
they assured him, mildly. “You don’t
need to be scared of us, Conroy.”
“I’m not scared,” he said with
meaning. “But—Ilook out, that’s all.”
When breakfast was over, it was
his turn to sweep up. But there was
almost a struggle for the broom and
the privilege of saving him that trou-
ble. It comforted him and restored
him; it would have been even better
but for the presence of Slade, sitting
aloft in his bunk, smiling over his
pipe with malicious understanding.
The Villingen was still under reef-
ed upper topsails, walking into the
seas on a taut bowline, with water
acoming aboard freely. There was lit-
tle for the watch to do save those
{trivial jobs which never fail on a
{ ship. Conroy and some cf the others
were set to scrubbing teak on the
poop, and he had a view of the sail-
maker at his work on the gratings
under the break of the poop, stitch-
ing on his knees to make the mate
presentable for his last passage. The
sail-maker was a bearded Finn, with
a heavy, darkling face and the secret
eyes of a faun. He bent over his
task, and in his attitude and the slow
rhythm of his moving hand there
was a suggestion of ceremonial, of an
act mysterious and ritual.
Half-way through the morning
Conroy was sent for to the cabin,
there to tell his tale anew, to see it
taken down, and to sign it. The cap-
tain asked him if he felt better.
“Thank you, sir,” replied Conroy.
“It was a shock, findin’ him dead like
that.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed the captain. “I
can understand—a great shock. Yes!”
He was bending over his papers at
the table; Conroy smiled over his
bowed head. Returning on deck, he
winked to the man at the wheel, who
smiled uncomfortably in return.
Later he borrowed a knife to scrape
some spots of paint off the deck: he
did not want to spoil the edge of his
own.
They buried the mate at eight bells;
the weather was thickening, and it
might be well to have the thing done.
The hands stood around, bareheaded,
with the grating in the middle of
them, one edge resting on the rail,
the other supported by two men.
There was a dark smudge on the sky
up to windward, and several times the
captain glanced up from his book to-
ward it. He read in German, slowly,
with a dwelling upon the sonorous
passages, and toward the end he
closed the book and finished without
its aid.
Conroy was at the foot of the lad-
der; the captain was above him, read-
ing mournfully, solemnly, without
looking at the men. They were rig-
id, only their eyes moving. Conroy
collected their glances irresistibly.
When the captain had finished his
reading he sighed and made a sign,
lifting his hand like a man who re-
signs himself. The men holding the
grating tilted it; the mate of the Vil-
lingen, with a little jerk, went over
the side.
“Shtand byder tobs’l hilliards!”
roared the second mate.
Conroy, in the flurry, found him-
self next to a man of his watch. He
jerked a thumb in the direction of the
second mate, who was still vociferat-
ing orders.
“Hark at him!” he said. “Before
we're through I'll teach him man-
ners, too.”
And he patted his knife.—~By Per-
cival Gibbon, in Harper's Monthly
Magazine.
An Extremist.
“Isn’t Nextdore’s wife rather fond
of an argument 7”
“Is she? Why that woman is so
fond of an argument she won't even
eat anything that agrees with her.”
—— Subscribe for the “Watchman.”
“have a stronger
LIKE BETSY ROSS.
Girl of 1919 May Easily Construct |
Her Own Starry Flag.
The American flag is one of the
easiest in the world to make since all
of its parts are in straight lines.
Any school girl who is able to sew can
make a flag for about one-half of what
it will cost her at a store, and still
and more durable
| ¢cne when she has it finished. There
are twe principal ways of proceeding
in the making of the American fag.
. The one used by most persons is to
. determine first the width of the
interest and turning away when they
It was as though he
| mined. The second method
“That was a queer thing last!
night,” he said to the nearest. : i
“Yes,” the other agreed, with a
stripes, so that if the fiag is to be
made of silk, ribbon may be purchas-
ed ef a standard width. From this
the size of the flag may be deter-
is to de-
cide either the width or the length of
' the flag and then compute the amount
They sat about at their meal, when |
the coffee had been brought by the |
volunteer, under the same constraint. |
He could not keep silent; he had to: a ) )
! since two-inch ribbon
“Where is he?” he asked, abruptly. |
: goods store.
of material from the size decided
upon.
Let us assume that we wish to make
a flag from two-inch silk ribbons
is a standard
size and may be purchased at any dry
Since the stripes will
be two inches wide the width of the
i canton or the blue field, will be seven
| times two inches or 14 inches, and its
length will be the same, since the
canton of the American flag is square.
! The canton is also one-third the length
of the
| times two inches or 26 inches.
The shaggy young Swede wagged |
flag. Then the flag will be
three times 14 inches which equals
42 inches and the width being 13
Thus,
to use two-inch ribbon, one will have
a flag three and a half feet long and
a little more than two feet wide.
MATERIAL NEEDED.
The next thing is to determine just
how much two-inch ribbon must be
purchased, so that the stripes may be
made with little or no waste. There
are three full white stripes in the com-
plete length of the flag, which equals
126 inches, and added to that will be
three short strips two-thirds the
length of the flag, or 84 inches, mak-
ing a total of 210 inches, or about six
vards. For the red stripes, it is nec-
essary to add one extra short red
stripe of 14 inches, which is about a
half of a yard. Thus, for a flag made
with two-inch ribbon, it will be neces-
sary for the maker to purchase six
vards of white and six and a half
yards of red ribbon. The canton will
be fourteen inches square and the stars
may be made from smaller widths of
ribbon. There must be 48 stars ar-
ranged in six rows of eight stars
each. By using a ruler, the exact po-
sition of the stars may be determined
and they can be easily cut if a paper
pattern is made beforehand.
By the second method one deter-
mines the length of the flag—for ex-
ample, make the flag 21 inches long.
By applying the same process of com-
putation backwards, the size of the
carton will be seven inches square and
the width of stripes one inch. The
amount of material may be determin-
ed by the same calculations used in
the first method.
The official origin of the flag with
the 13 alternate red and white stripes,
representing the United Colonies, in
a blue canton, which was raised on
Prospect hill, Cambridge, on the first
day of Janutry, 1776, has never been
satisfactorily determined. It is com-
monly thought that the continental
congress appointed George Washing-
ton, George Ross and Robert Morris
a committee, authorized to design a
suitable flag for the nation and that
they called upon Mrs. Ross, who was
conducting an upholstery business on
Arch street in Philadelphia. The con-
firmation of this report is not to be
found in the Journal of Congress.
There seems to be little doubt that
the American flag is a growth rather
than a creation. Few of the writers
have declared that both of the stars
and the stripes were derived from the
coat of arms of Washington’s family,
which contains both devices, but be-
yond that coincident no other evidence
has been produced to prove this.
MADE OFFICIAL EMBLEM.
On June 14, 1777, the American con-
gress in session at Philadelphia adopt-
ed the following resclution:
“Resolved, That the flag of the 18
United States be 13 stripes, alternate
red and white, that the Union be 13
stars white in a blue field, represent-
ing a new constellation.”
The credit of making the first flag
is given to Betsy Ross. William J.
Canby, a grandson of Mrs. Ross, de-
clared that Betsy Ross was shown a
rough drawing of the flag, which was
explained by George Washington.
She objected to the six-pointed stars,
and suggested that they be five-point-
ed. General Washington is supposed
to have redrawn the sketch, changing
the star to five points. At first
Washington declared that five-pointed
stars would be hard to make, but Mrs.
Ross demonstrated that by one clip of
her scissors she was able to make a
perfect five-pointed star.
In 1912, the United States congress
admitted Arizona and New Mexico in-
to the Union and the stars then num-
bered 48. The law did not provide
how the stars were to be arranged,
and for a long time a considerable di-
versity existed in this respect. How-
ever, on October 29 of that year, the
proportion was definitely fixed and the
manner in which the stars were to be
placed was determined. Since that
time the same rule has held good, that
of six rows of eight stars each.
Giving Entire Satisfaction.
There is a remarkably effective combi-
nation of blood-purifying, nerve-strength-
ening, liver-stimulating remedies. It is
Hood’s Sarsaparilla for the blood, taken
before eating, Peptiron for the nerves,
taken after eating, and Hood's Pills for
the liver, taken as needed.
It is giving entire satisfaction. Persons
suffering from a combination of ailments
such as cause eruptions on the face or
body, paleness, pallid lips, cheeks and
ears, and constipation, especially find it
beneficial.
The treatment accomplishes so much
that, although there are three medicines,
it is the most economical. Rach of these
medicines is of superlative merit for the
troubles for which it is especially recom-
mended. Each is geod alone; all are
good together. (Get any one, any two, or
all three of your druggist today. 64-27
Running Expenses.
“The home stretch,” once a racing
term, now applies to making a mod-
erate salary meet all domestit require-
ments.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
Tke best woman is the woman who is
the least talked about.—Old Proverb.
Mrs. Reginald De Koven, wife of
the great composer, thinks that the
way to fight Bolshevism is to begin
with the children.
By 330 votes to 218 the French
Chamber of Deputies has decided to
discuss the provisions of a bill giv-
ing women the right to vote at elec-
tions of the municipal general and
district councils.
The Women’s International Con-
gress at Zurich has decided to invite
the various national sections of the
International Women’s League to or-
ganize meetings of protest against
treaty.
Over 50 per cent of the workers
in the Philadelphia candy factories
are women.
Only one woman in every four in
the candy trade in Philadelphia re-
ceives as much as $14 per week for
her labor.
The Hempstead, L. I., Harbor Yacht
club is under the supervision of two
sisters—Mamie and Ella Miller. This
club is probably the only yachting or-
ganizaticn which has its clubhouse
solely in charge of women.
_ A bill introduced in the British Par-
liament allows women to become jus-
tices of the peace and enjoy all the
privileges accorded one in that office.
Miss May Kitson, an 18-year-old
Erdenheim, Pa., girl, desires to aec-
company the first flyer who attempts
to cross the Atlantic ocean without a
stop.
Miss Bettie Fisher, yeoman, recent-
ly inherited over $2,000,000 from a
distant relative, but she still sits at
her desk in the Navy building in
Washington.
Ten rew policewomen were recent-
ly appointed in New York, making a
total of 28, for special duty among
young people at dances, picnics and
other public places.
With summer fashions practically
“set” for a few weeks at any rate, let
us hope, it is time to talk of such
things as colors and those minor de-
tails that stamp the woman who takes
an artistic interest in her clothes
from the one who just throws on
“something to wear.” There is a de-
cided trend toward black, black and
white—which usually turns up about
this time of year—and black and blue.
Why black should prove such a fa-
vorite color for hot weather is a
question unless, which is probably
true, it makes such stunning contrast
among the paler pastel tints and the
brilliant sports colors of a summer
throng of well dressed people. Under
certain circumstances, too, black is,
in fact, a cool color, as, for instance,
in the case of a darling little black
taffeta, all fluted ruffles and relieved
with wide fichu collar and deep flow-
ing cuffs of white organdie. And
again, black is not so warm for the
summer street frock in simple lines
of lustrous satin. There is a notice-
able vogue for these satin street
dresses with long loose blouses and
flowing sleeves. Often they are com-
bined with facings or other trimmings
of king’s blue, and sometimes the sat-
in changes its mind and is king’s blue
instead of black.
Brown for fall, say modistes and
milliners who “know.” As an assur-
ance of that mode we catch glimpses
even now of such things as a brown
dotted foulard with puffed bands at
the hip-line of brown mousseline,
brown tulle hats both in the toque
and picture dimensions, and brown
net frocks for the summer dance. So
vou see this idea of certain colors be- .
ing too warm for summer wear is
largely fancy, for it depends entire-
ly upon how they are developed.
In the lighter frocks, orchid and
vellow seem to rule. Lilac is one of
the prettiest of the organdie shades.
It is being used extensively, too, even
for the organdie hats, which are be-
ing made to match the frocks. These
hats, by the way, are showing the
new maline draping in contrasting
color, and a chic use of black or sil-
ver flowers, or simple bows of narrow
black satin ribbon.
Which brings up another detail of
summer fashions which, though small,
is going to make a decided difference
in the general effect of a costume.
Large hats are being raised now by
some means to show the eyebrows.
Often this feat is accomplished by
making the erown of the hat small
enough to make it set rather high on
the forehead. Other times the hat is
raised by an underbrim trimming of
flowers of silver, or tiny ribbon bows,
often of silver ribbon. Sometimes
the high coiffure alone will hold the
hat sufficiently high, so that its droop-
ing will not hide a pair of pretty eyes
or quizzical brows.
A pretty trimming seen on a new
blouse suggests that some startling
things in handpainting may be ex-
pected when wash materials have out-
lived their summer popularity. This
was a peplum or tunic blouse, by the
way, with the peplum split to make a
short apron in back and a much long-
er one in front. The trimming, how-
ever, was done with paint applied
thickly to resemble beads. One can
imagine what lovely effects could be
had on Georgette in both dark and
pastel shades from this new ‘“chro-
mite” work, as they call it.
Handpainting, in flat effect is also
to be seen on fine blouses, and very
often is supplemented by beads.
Another very exquisite blouse trim-
ming is a machine cat-stitching used
like a fagotting for seams and arm-
holes. The machine hemstitching has
been so popular that home dressmak-
ers are sure to welcome this new
short cut, should it prove practical.
While still on the subject of blouses,
it would not do to omit mention of
another slightly more bizarre trim-
ming capable of practical adaptation.
It is the use of huge millinery flow-
ers as contrasting color touch. These
flowers are often partly appliqued on
to make them an integral part of the
blouse, and not just an applied acces-
sory.
The summer blouse of Georgette,
with a touch of filet lace or insertion,
is having quite a vogue, particularly
at one of the most popular shore re-
sorts. The whole blouse is, as a rule,
entirely hand-made, and the cembina-
tion of Georgette and filet makes as
dainty an object of apparel as one
could desire.