Bellefonte, Pa., October 17, 1919.
EE ——————
THEY ALSO SERVED.
Within the great Hall of the Clock
That measures Life and Time,
The spirits of the martyred dead
Slain in the mighty War—’tis said—
Gather in light sublime.
And ’round the judgment board there
wait
Perchance, in shadows gray,
The lesser souls of low estate
That helped to win the day:
The plunging steeds that charged and
reeled,
The patient mules borne oversea—
That died in glory on the field
Or fell with the artillery;
The ‘courteous and industrious dogs”
That dragged the wounded from the
fray,
And found the missing dead, and wrought
Great service in that day;
The wailing cats, the fluttering owls,
Canary birds that drooped and died—
First victims of the poisonous fumes—
That warned of the oncoming tide;
And all the creeping things that came
With foresight of the gas and flame;
The rcdent-seeking snakes, that rid
The trenches of the deadly pest;
And white mice from the submarines
That made the deep-air test.
Yea, all of these, meet there
In unseen currents of the air
Amid the great ones; bringing all
Their causes to the Judgment Hall.
—M. E. Buhler, in New York Times.
ASPEN MANAGES.
Aspen disciplined herself to sit
away from the window during this
last brief, intolerable wait, which she
employed in rereading Harry’s letter,
fancying she heard his voice:
I’ll be gettin’ my papers any minute
now. I'll send a telegram when I
start, and if I’m on time I'll come
right out. I couldn’t stand waitin’ to
phone less I had to, an’ hearin’ you,
without havin’ you right there. And
I'd rather not have you meet me. I'd
rather wait a bit longer an’ have you
all at once. You know how we feel
about havin’ folks around.
You know it’s funny. Try as I
may, I can’t seem to see ahead much
beyond just seein’ you. It’s like as if
that had to come first before I can
think much. Maybe it’s because we
have still got a lot of gettin’ ac-
quainted to do yet.
Her choice of what to wear on this
third successive most important day
in her nineteen years had been a mat-
ter of some indecision.
One possibility was the old white
dress she had worn a year ago Sep-
tember at the Sunday concert in the
city park, when she had taken her
knitting to a far bench just within
sound of the distant music and had
found Harry stretched moodily before
it. In spite of the shy propriety of
the country-bred, their lonely youth
had called and comforted, and the girl
who had no soldier had “adopted” the
boy setting forth next day with no
woman to weep to see him go. A
brief kiss in the dusk had been their
farewell, for she had not let him re-
turn with her to her aunt’s house with
its vulgarity and teasing.
Then there was the shabby blue
serge she had worn the Sunday, four
months later, when he had magnifi-
cently traveled hundreds of miles
from the far Southern camp to which
he had been transferred, in order to
spend with her the few hours that
their exchange of letters had made
imperative.
The wanderings of that January
day—with the thermometer register-
ing five degrees below zero and the
town in the grip of a coal famine—
had ended in a miracle. Barred from
her aunt’s kitchen by a noisy group
collected in the one known spot
where breath did not congeal to fog,
their sensitive ecstacy of undeclared
love had shivered from pillar to post |
in an evangelical city destitute of
courting .places on the best of winter
Sundays. Desperate, the boy had at
last brought her to his old employer.
Bradford Quay, on wishing his
young typesetter Godspeed, and as-
suring him of his continued interest,
had not expected to be asked to sup-
ply a warm room for a few evening
hours, that a grim-lipped, smoldering-
eyed youngster might have a chance
“to really get acquainted” with his
girl before he went to France. But
Aspen had never gone back as dress-
maker’s assistant to the aunt who had
fallen in bad company. She had stay-
ed with the Quays, helping both seam-
stress and nurse, highly beloved by
the three small Quays and their par-
ents. “Being a sort of supersome-
thing in the house—dashed if I know
quite what,” Bradford Quay would re-
mark contentedly; “but every family
ought to have one.”
The third dress she had spread be-
fore her in her room on the top floor
of the Quay mansion this cool April
day was of brown velvet, like the oth-
ers ridiculously small and straightly
fashioned, as for a child. The mater-
ial was a Christmas gift from Mrs.
Quay, and she was well aware that
she was bewitching in its unaccustom-
ed splendor.
And because she was nineteen she
bad chosen to wear the most beauti-
ul.
She was in a transport of happiness
that had dimmed Bradford Quay’s
quizzical eyes as he watched her that
morning at breakfast with the chil-
dren. “Dash it, Emily,” he had wor-
ried to his wife, “those infants have
only seen’ each other twice, and at
that not for a year and a half of the
most formative period of their lives,
with him trenchin’ it in a cootie dug-
out and her in this house gettin’ used
to finger-bowls and subjunctives!”
“Of course they’ve been writing—"
she offered doubtfully.
“Correspondence course!” he snort-
“Do you know I half wish, Brad—"
“What?”
“Do you think Paschall March—"
He paused in his restless tour of
the living-room.
it too,” he stated. “Paschy’s a king;
but he’s forty, and I don’t believe in
tanglin’ up the generations. Paschy
Sught bo find somethin’ more used to
ivin’,
ed
“So you've noticed |*
“I don’t believe she has any idea—"
Emily began.
“That cash an’ culture are makin’
eyes at her!” he finished. “No; she
wears a charm against even seein’
’em. I've caught her more than once
fishin’ down her neck for these skim-
milk-colored letters with a red trian-
gle branded on the shoulder.”
“Your figures are getting involved,
Bradford; and you haven't pronounc-
ed a final
commented.
“Well, the look in that kid’s eyes
for the last week has gotten on my
nerves,” he admitted as he kissed her
and departed.
Aspen had planned that no one else
should see Harry first. The Quays had
taken the children to the circus and
she had instructed the waitress not to
answer the bell. She would stand be-
hind the door as she opened it; he
would step in; she would shut it
quickly and he would find her there
alone. Then she would take him into
the back room with the davenport
that the Quays had good-naturedly
turned over to them that bitter Janu-
ary evening; and because there was a
March chill in the April day a low fire
would be burning on the hearth that
had blazed for them before. She her-
self had not been able to plan for
Viele future very definitely beyond
that. :
The moment came when she heard
the bell, when she opened the door,
when she closed it and Harry stood
before her; when their fingers touch-
ed, then clung for an instant before
he had her in his arms.
He was the first to speak. “It’s
funny,” he whispered. “There was
times over there when I wondered if
it had ever really happened—you an’
me like this!”
“Come on in,” she cried breathless-
ly. “This is no place!”
Established on the davenport be-
fore the low gold-and blue flames and
the whitening ash of nearly exhaust-
ed logs, they grew silent,
“You talk,” he commanded. “Me
later. I can’t, somehow—yet.”
She obediently started in. “Oh,
they're wonderful to me,” she ended
as she began. “And I adore them all,
from Mr. Quay down to Braddy!” ;
“You seem pretty much at home in
this grand place,” he commented.
“I'm used to it now. At first it
made me tiptoe around like a muse-
um,” she chuckled, “But you get
used soon.” s
She did not see the shadow in his
blue eyes as he nodded and swept the
room again with a critical glance that
lingered on a table laden with current
ologies and isms, some still in their
paper jackets.
“Lots of books,” he said.
“Hmh. I've been reading them a
bit. You learn loads of things;
though some of them are awfully
queer.” :
“I never held much to books, some-
how—before, anyway,” he replied.
“Never was around ’em much.”
She changed the subject. “I wrote
you your old job’s waiting.”
He did not answer her directly.
“You know that fellow I bunked with
longest over there—the one I wrote
that got killed—he’d been to college.” !
“Everybody can’t go to college,” |
she flamed in response to his tone.
“Besides, everybody don’t need to.
Some folks are so nice without it that
it scares you!”
He made a suitable reply but the
shadow returned to his eyes. There
followed a series of silences, not so
beautifully complete as at first; once
or twice Aspen was dimly conscious
that there was something they ought
to be talking about and weren't.
“They’ll be coming soon,” said As-
pen.
“Then we're goin,” said Harry firm-
ly. “Well find a place to eat early,
before the crowd, and then we'll go to
a movie.”
“I was hoping,” she laughed happi-
ly. “You've grown heaps, Ha
O’Brien!” she cried as they stood.
“I'll bet you're six feet! And inches
and inches wider. And older—”
He nodded. “An’ you’re littler than
ever,” he replied. “An’ more like—
like—"
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe like a
kitten, that'd squash easy.”
MLL not very poetical,” she gig-
gled.
“I know,” he muttered. “I'm not.”
“Goose;” she chided, twisting a but-
ton of his soldier’s coat. Then, “You
know, Harry—”
He leaned to catch the scarcely
spoken words. “What—Aspen?”
“I often used to wonder if when
you came back it would seem—well—
natural. Or sort of queer—so long
as it was only twice—"’
i He understood her.
i 7
“You know!” she told him.
He nodded once more. “It’s funny.
It always seemed natural, even that
first day in the park when I'd never
laid eyes on yu before. Just sort of
—exactly right.”
“I'd better be getting my coat,” she
decided after a moment.
“I guess. An’ cover up that dress
good for fear of rain. It—it’s velvet,
ain’t it? You look like a queen in it
—that lace an’ all.”
She paused in the doorway. “I feel
like a queen—tonight,” she stated be-
fore she fled.
Gradually the boy began to talk,
though that first evening and usually
thereafter his speech was not of the
grim business of killing, but of the
daily routine of preparation to kill.
“An’ you rub against all kinds to-
gether,” he told her at dinner. “The
roughnecks an’ the fellows that know
somethin.’ It makes you think. You
can just sort of see where there all
goin’. The fellows that know some-
thin’ are goin’ to get ahead, an’ the
others are goin’ to stand still an’
shrivel up.”
“You know a lot!” she cried.
“No, I don’t,” he contradicted mood-
ily. “I'm not along in my trade. I
was an awful dawdlin’ fool—all
asleep—just a kid. I'd ought to have
gone to night school if I'd had any
ambition. An’ I ain’t—I’m not gram-
matical; though my job’s a composit-
or, it never sunk in. Just listen to
me aside of you!”
She chuckled. “That’s just what
I’m so happy doing I’m scared!”
“What?”
“Listening to you right here beside
me. And besides, Mrs. Quay says
Mr. Quay says you have a fine head.
So. that’s all of that!”
“Much he knows about my head,”
“How does
‘g’ since you began,” she
hi
Harry grumbled in a gratified bass as
they entered the motion-picture
house, featuring a millionaire
drama in which the figure, coiffure,
gowns, lingerie and. furs of a current
favorite were shown among regal sur-
roundings obviously unaffected by the
servant problem.
after the dosing
the state boa s ;
they walked away in the spring night
Harry spoke.
“It’s funny. Thinkin’ of you livin’
in grand fashion like that all these
months an’ takin’ to it like a duck to
water.”
“Not grand like that.”
“Same as,” he insisted.
That's all you know,” she laugh-
e
salute approved by
was her triumphant rejoinder.
Shucks! You know what you’ll get
when you get back, for teasin’ me,”
he threatened a bit heavily.
She got it. Nor did she see, nor
would she have understood, the fear
in his eyes that accompanied that ab-
rupt final kiss.
But in the following weeks she
identified the thing they should be
talking about and weren’t. It was
the future. The simple plans form-
ing in her mind she found herself un-
able to broach to Harry, grown tight-
lipped and thinner. Gradually not
only the mention of the future but
even her chatter of her daily life—of
the elder Quays, the children,
es, silences in which he so clearly suf-
fered that she never doubted his love
for her.
He was back at his job with Brad-
ford Quay; “working like two men;
the union’ll call him down soon,” the |
But to his:
latter reported to her.
wife Bradford Quay fumed: “Some-
thing’s up, Emily; what'd I tell you! ,
The boy’s a furnace. I think he wants
to talk to me and can’t—yet. I be-
lieve he’s one of these sullen tongue-
tied cusses that turns the key on his
worries and keeps ’em shut up till
there’s an explosion. If that’s the
case, God help ’em both; it’s a dis-
ease. And as for Aspen—Emily, that
kid’s eyes are naked. There ought to
be a law!”
“Have patience, Bradford,” his wife
counseled calmly. “You and I both
lost five pounds once, when we were
engaged, and managed to pull
through—you, especially!” She ac-
companied this last with a glance at
his plump figure that dismissed him
in high dudgeon.
Just once Aspen asked Harry what
was the matter, why he was so quiet.
“lI ain’t quiet. Nothin’s wrong.
How could there be—with me havin’
you?” he had replied tensely, crush-
ing her hands in his till they ached.
“Me an’ you,” he whispered.
Then came evenings when he was
absent from her, without telling her
how he spent them. :
After one of these, she was waiting
for him in the small cubby-hole of a
nondescript sitting-room that had, by
tacit agreement, come to be her do-
main since his return; she was sew- |
ing in the long twilight after the
children’s early ceremony of supper
and bed. Paschall March, dining in-
formally with the Quays, found his
way to her as he had often done be-
fore. She welcomed him, for this
grave slender man with the fine eyes |
was a favorite with her and the chil-
dren; though he spoke little, his sim- |
ple presence added to their pleasure.
He now sat beside her on the window
seat, leaning to touch the sheer white |
fabric on her lap.
“A dress?”
She nodded.
“Tucks and gores and gussets and
biases and all the rest, I suppose,” he
added.
She laughed obligingly at the worn
masculine joke.
After a brief silence he spoke wist-
fully. “Wedding dress, perhaps?”
Sudden tears blinded her as she
bent her head lower without reply.
“Why, my dear!” he said. “You—
you musn’t be unhappy.” He repeat-
ed it in an urgent troubled undertone.
“You—you musn’t be WHRApDE-
Starting at a sound, they looked up
quickly to see Harry standing in the
oorway. And Harry caught in Pas-
chall’s eyes that which Aspen had
never seen, before they were instantly
veiled to a cordial friendliness at her
introduction.
“Who was that man?” Harry asked
savagely when the door closed. )
She told him. 5
“Rich, and a college man and all
that?” :
“I think so.”
“He's in love with you.”
“He isn’t!”
“Yes he is!”
“He is not.
old.”
“Not so very. Not as things go
nowadays.”
“You're being silly.”
“No, I'm not. I'm bein’ sensible,”
he retorted with bitterness. “If you
know what you're about, you'll marry
him—he can give you everything—
“You’re horrid! You’re horrid!”
“I don’t mean only velvet clothes
an’ servants an’ a big house,” he went
on. “I mean learning and books and
good manners, an’ all the other
things you deserve an’I ain’t got!
Dor’t think I don’t know! I didn’t all
along over there—not till I got back;
but I know now!”
She was very quiet. “Know—ijust
exactly what?” she asked.
“That I won’t be fit to take care of
you for years, an’ that I ain’t got the
right to ask you to wait for me an’
keep off fellows like this March that
can put you where you rightly belong
tomorrow!”
“How do you mean—years ?”
“Just that. Even settin’ aside that
I’'m—well, sort of common yet, 3
can’t keep you like you ought to be
kept on twenty-five a week with
prices what they are. An’ that’s all
I get; with thirty the most I can ex-
pect unless I study a lot so as to work
up. This trade ain’t gone up during
the war like the others; it’s the worst
paid there is.
“An’ I'm going to work up. I've
started. I’m goin’ to night school al-
ready. An’ it ain’t only for you; I
got to for myself too. The war wak-
ed me up. That college fellow that
got killed—what’s the use of him dy-
in’ and me livin’ if I’m just goin’ to
stay put all my life an’ not make the
most of myself? I got it in me; I'm
goin’ to study—everything and make
And, anyway, he's
melo- |
They departed
of censors, and as |
“ know a lot,” he retorted darkly.
“You said awhile back you didn’t,”
her
sewing, the books she read—faltered
and failed before his stubborn silenc- '
| good, an’ get out of the shop and in-
to the business end of it where you
| them some day;
! drivin’ me to it.”
“So that’s all!” said Aspen.
| “Aint it enough?”
{ “I'm not surprised at you wanting
; to work up. I planned that too. But
| I don’t see—"’
| “It’s plain to me,” came his dogged
answer: “You're soft an’ little. An’
{ you're a lady. Look at what you're
: used to here! I got too much pride,
‘an’ I love you too much, to let you
slave an’ pinch for me while I'm
workin’ all day an’ studyin’ all night.
A man’s got no right to a girl like
you he can’t take care of, an’ be com-
pany to, an’ give a nice home an’
pretty things. Nor a man that calls
himself a man won’t keep a girl dang-
lin’ up for the time he’s wasted—
specially when men like this March
here—"
“You stop right there!” said As-
pen.
speaking in a dreary monotone that
correctly gave the impression of an
endless repetition; it was clear that
the thoughts at last uttered had been
| revolving restlessly within him till
| they had become an obsession. But
| at the anger in Aspen’s tone he look-
'ed up aghast. He could not have told
what he expected from her, but it
was surely not this white face with
rigid lips and blazing hostile eyes.
“What about me?” she asked.
“Here you never stopped to ask me
' what I want! You never thought of
; me!” she cried.
| “It’s you I am thinking about!” he
i answered hotly.
{ “It isn't?!
“It is!”
“If that’s so, why don’t you ask me
what I want? Maybe I'd rather—”
“But a man can’t—"
| “There! I told you! You're just a |
| selfish, stubborn pig, Harry O’Brien!”
I +. “Pm not!”
{ . “You are!”
i “Then if you think that—"
. “What do you want, anyway, if
you won’t do this and you won’t do
that?”
His anger failed before the misery
of the words that were before him,
but his temperament carried him in-
evitably to the disaster of speech. “I
think I oughtn’t to let you go on be-
in’ engaged to me—" he muttered.
Al right,” agreed Aspen with a
nod.
He watched her stupidly while she
collected her sewing materials and
without further glance at him left the
room. When he no longer heard her
slightly unsteady steps mounting the
stairs he stumbled from the house.
And I've been thinking harder than
I ever thought before in my life,” said
Aspen to Bradford Quay in his study
a week later. “You have to do a lot
of thinking when you love a person,
don’t you? I never realized. Spe-
! cially when that person’s just a man;
and you're not much used to each oth-
er yet. Of course I got mad. He'd
set me nearly crazy and here it was
nothMg. Just a lot of ridiculous old-
fangled notions and being upset by a
velvet dress and—and ae And
then not even talking it over with me,
as though his ideas were the only
ones that counted! He wouldn’t list-
en to me, so I just let him have his
own way till I could see how to man-
age. I've figured out that it’ll be nev-
er any use my trying to argue with
him. The only thing will always be
to just go ahead and manage things
i myself when I once make up my
! mind. I’ve thought of a plan. Mrs.
| Quay says it’s all right as far as her
i part of it goes, and what I want to
i ask you is if it would make him mad.
{ Being a man yourself, you’d know.
It’s queer to me he can’t see all that
really counts is my being right there
to look after him while he’s working.
He’ll get used to having me around
soon and then I won’t distract him—
I'll be a help!” :
While she proceeded to outline her
scheme in the austerely simple style
of a recipe or directions for knitting,
Bradford Quay watched her; the
tricky dusk showed a smallish child
in white dangling from the edge of a
cavernous leather couch. He re-
strained his emotional temperament
and forced himself to answer in a
matter-af-fact tone:
“Speaking as a man, I think I can
promise you that it will not make him
m
She slipped to the floor with a re-
lievd sigh. “That’s all right, then.
Now I'll go ahead.”
“Of course you’ll let us help you.”
“Some—thank you very much. But
I'd better do most of it myself, don’t
you think ?”
The humility of his reply amazed
him on later reflection. “You know
best, my dear,” he said.
At the end of two feverishly busy
weeks she sent a note:
Dear Harry (it read after final re-
vision): Please come to 918 South
60th street next Saturday afternoon
at three o'clock. You get off at
Smithfield Avenue. Come to the back
apartment on the second floor. You
needn’t bother to answer. I'll be
looking for you.
ASPEN.
On this occasion she did not wait
for him in the velvet dress, though
the unseasonably cold June sunlight
could have justified it to a determin-
ed vanity. She wore instead the out-
of-date white frock in which he had
first seen her. But above the skirt,
tco short and full for the current
fashion, there was a sweater of pink
as tantalizing as the brown velvet,
though to a degree informal and noth-
ing to be afraid of.
She was hemming a white scrim
curtain in a room about the size of
two double beds, containing a cot with
a brown burlap cover and a rose-col-
ored pillow, on golden-oak rocker, one
square golden-oak table, and a gold-
en-oak bookcase with two empty
shelves, one shelf of books and one of
blue and white china. On the table
was a low bowl of pink garden roses
that were standing upright from a
perforated glass island in the corner.
. She sat in the rocker with her back
{ to the window, which looked across a
| cement valley to a similar rear win-
{dow in a similar row of two-story
| apartments having their entrance on
| the next street. Of the two doors in
| the wall facing her, one led to the
| outer corridor, the other to a room
dim under a skylight, a room that
meet with men like Quay and this
i man March here. I’m goin’ to be like
i I may be a partner
yet. I got it in me, an’ somethin’s -
He had been staring at the floor, |
showed a large white enameled bed, a
' golden-oak bureau, and, further than
that, only space for the movements of
one conservatively built person at a
time. Through an arch along the
wall to her right, one stepped into a
i vestibule half the size of a bath-mat
i and was confronted by two more
i doors. These were at right angles,
the one leading into a very small,
bright kitchen in the rear, the second
into a compact square bathroom
i faintly lit from the kitchen; it was de-
' lightfully white, but with a tub adapt-
ed to none but children and contor- !
: tionists.
| Aspen held to her task with diffi-
| culty as a noisy nickel clock on the
| bookcase showed the moments pass-
| ing three. She had not counted on
Harry’s unfamiliarity with the neigh-
| borhood interfering with his record
{ for promptness, by making him ten
minutes late.
(* Nor did the moments immediately
' following his arrival pass quite as she
i had rehearsed in any of the hundred
! variations of the scene that had kept
| her awake at night.
i She opened the door this time to a
| young man whose splendid jauntiness
, of new spring attire—he had out-
I grown all his civilian clothes of the
{ pre-war period—was in sharp con-
| trast to his set face with its deeply
! shadowed eyes determinedly blank. '
The force of his wretchedness had on-
ly served to strengthen his conviction
that he was in the right, and he had
steeled himself against showing ten-
derness that might be contrasted as
weakness. But in thus steeling him-
self against the betrayal of one over-
, powering emotion he had lost the
: ability to release any emotion at all,
| even that of surprise. Afraid to so
; much as touch her hand in greeting,
and afraid to relax his self-control
by exhibiting any normal feeling, - he
stood there far less polite and less ap-
| broachable than a bill collector.
i Now no matter what the catastro-
phe that might follow, Aspen had cer-
tainly expected surprise to begin
with. It was as though by not show-
ing surprise Harry refused to let the
curtain go up on the play.
“H-hello.” she said after a pause.
“Come in.”
When she had closed the door there
was another silence.
“I'm late,” he remarked tonelessly.
“It’s pretty far out,” was her reply,
not quite steady.
Suddenly she sat on the couch, for
her legs had become quite incapable
of supporting her. “There’s a chair,”
she said.
He made no move.
“What—what do you think of it?”
she inquired in a voice still less se-
cure.
“This place, you mean? Who lives
Be ”
e do.
He stared. “What do you mean!”
he cried hoarsely.
With the lifting of the curtain she
lost her stage fright. “I’ve rented it
much in it yet, only just. enough to
gether—"
“Aspen!”
“We're going to be married at half-
past four. The Q
the minister.
the—the ring the other day; and they
are in the top bureau drawer.”
His rigidity was breaking up with
the tragic strain of an ice-locked riv-
er in the spring. “But Aspen!” he
cried.
you musn’t—"
“Being married is both our busi-
ry O’Brien, and the sooner you learn
—for us—for a year. There’s not!
! house—an’
start. We’ll want to do the rest to-
that the better. I'm going to keep on
Woking for the Quays. So I won't
be lonely; and if I don’t want to £0
there sometimes, there'll be sewing I
can bring home. I’ve figured we can
get along perfectly well on your wag-
es. I'll save mine for the bank, and
we can use just a little sometimes for
extra things that come up. Lots of
girls—ladies do that now. And if you
think I'd rather have velvet dresses
than you—oh, don’t, darling, don’t!
Don’t cry, Harry! Don’t cry!”
He was kneeling, his face buried in
her lap, his arms holding her.
“You've been such a great big
goose,” she whispered later through
her own sobs.
. “Never again,” was his tense prom-
ise.
She achieved a sincere chuckle as
she dried her eyes.
“What's the joke?” he asked in a
bewilderment which her reply did not
dispel.
, “Im thinking I maybe can man-
age!’ she said.
Bradford Quay was sentimental and
subdued as, following the minister,
he solicitously led his perfectly ca-
pable wife back through the dark cor-
ridor and down the stairs to the
street after the ceremony. But on
the way home he recovered his buoy-
ancy. .
“Dash that youngster, Emily! Here
she practically kidnaps that you
chap—foregoes every wedding tradi-
tion dear to women—is going on
wage-earning after marriage—and
plans to practice God knows how
many new-fangled bob haired
schemes on him she learned from the
unblushin’ literature lyin’ round our
all because she is in a
deuce of a hustle for the old-fashion-
ed right to darn his socks and fry his
bacon and slap a mustard plaster on
him when he’s escaped without rub-
bers!”
“You will find Bradford,” was his
wife's reply, “that the eternal femi-
nine will utilize even feminism to ac-
complish its ends—thus completing a
neat circle.”
“That’s the most hopeful outlook
i for feminism yet,” he retorted. “And
perhaps it suggests an unadvertised
explanation of it, eh, Emily ?”
“Perhaps,” she answered.—By Dor-
othy Culver Mills, in Everybody's
Magazine.
Adelina Patti Dies in Wales.
London.—Madame Adelina Patti,
the prima donna, died in her resi-
dence, Craigly-Nos Castel, Wales.
The fulfillment of her last wish, that
her funeral should take place in Par-
is, probably will be postponed until
settlement of the railway strike.
Adelina Patti was born of Italian
parents in Madrid, Spain, February
19, 1843. Her mother was a well-
known singer and her father, Salva-
tore Patti, also was associated with
the opera.
Five years after the birth of the
child, who was destined to soar to the
heights of popularity as a singer,
Madame Patti’s family, having suf-
| fered considreable losses in Madrid,
uays are bringing
I got the license and
“Oh, my God, I don’t dare— |
nesses—as much mine as yours, Har- |
came to New York, where Maurice
Strakosch, who married an elder sis-
ter, Amelia Patti, was manager of
the Italian Opera company.
Adelina was placed at once under
the tutelage of her brother-in-law,
and made her first appearance in the
Academy of Music in New York, No-
vember 24, 1859, as Lucia in Donizet-
ti’s opera. “Lucia di Lammermoor.”
Her success was instantaneous, and
her musical career from that debut,
in 1859, until her retirement, was a
brilliant series of artistic successes.
Talk about adventures |
Men in the Navy come
home with the kind of
experiences that most
chaps read of only in the
books.
Here’s your chance!
Uncle Sam has, as you know,
a big Navy and gives red-
blooded young fellows like you
an opportunity to step aboard
and “shove off”.
What will you get out of it?
Just this:
A chance to rub elbows with
foreign folks in strange parts of
the world.
The chance for good honest
work on shipboard—the kind of
work that teaches you something
geal: the kind of work that puts
! In the N.
your
moral wi
—“and from there we went to Japan’
beef on your shoulders cad hais
on your chest. :
You will get 30 care-fres vacae
tion days a year, not counting
shore leave in home or foreign
ports.
You will have the kind of come
radeship in travel that sailors
know.
You will have regular pay;
over and above your meals, lodg=
ing and your first uniform outfit
—good stuff all of it.
You can join for two years.
When you get through you'll be
physically and mentally “tuned
up” for the rest of your life.
You'll be ready through and
through for SUCCESS.
There’s a Recruiting Station
right near you. If you don’t
know where it is, your Poste
master will be glad to tell you.
: : To any Father and Mother :—
8 food, health, work and play, and
are are looked after by responsible experts.
Shove off !-Join the
U.S.Navy