enolic atm,
Bellefonte, Pa., October 24, 1919.
HALLOWEEN ALPHABET.
A’s for the apples we bob for, and B
For the bonbons and buns that bewitch
you and me;
For the Brownies that creep out to see all
the fun;
For the broomsticks the witches ride—
ever see one? .
C stands for the cats that go prowling
about;
For the Hallowe'en cider we can’t do with-
out;
For the candles that puff and the caldrons
that sputter,
As the old witch leans over to stir and to
mutter!
D stands for the dance, where, decked out
in weird dresses,
Each one o’er his partner’s name puzzles
and guesses;
It stands for deep darkness; and then, sir,
comes E,
Standing up straight for every one—you,
likewise ME!
F stands for the fortunes we're told on
that night;
For the fairies who watch; for the flick-
ering firelight;
And G stands for folkses I don’t fancy
much—
Yes, G stands for
and such!
goblins and ghostes
And H, as is perfectly plain to be seen,
For our frolicsome festival night—HAL-
LOWE’EN,
When we most always have something
sweet—M’'mm! Oh, my!
A very sweet something beginning with I!
Ice cream! Why, of course.
bobs merry J,
Full of jests, joy and jollity,
away
For the: nonsense and antics that make
the night gay,
Followed close by that dignified capital K,
Who stands for the knights who have
come to the feast—
At most every party there's ONE night, at
Then up
jigging
least.
L stands for the lanterns that shine here
and there;
The hollowed-out pumpkins one sees
everywhere!
M's very important and so very serious—
He stands for the Hallowe'en moon, so
mysterious;
For the mirrors that tell us our fortunes,
and for
Many masks and the music and, more
than all, MORE
For the MAGIC, and that is enough, I
think, quite!
N stands for the nuts that we have on
that night;
And O for October, and other things, too;
For the orful old OGRES and odd fellows
who
Prowl about in the cornfields.
as a post,
For the pumpkins, the party; and Q fis
almost
As important; he stands for just EVERY-
THING QUEER,
For everything quaint; while old R stands,
my dear,
For REFRESHMENTS. Hurrah for old
R! say we all.
S stands for the spooks that we meet at
the ball;
For the scarecrows that cause us a terri-
ble shock.
And next comes old T,
“TWELVE O'CLOCK!”
‘When the revels are maddest and all are
unmasked,
And U is a letter who'll tell you, if asked,
That he stands for a fellow exceedingly
grand, .
Known up and down, everywhere, over the
Land—
UNCLE SAM! Next comes
mysteries vanishing,
All the goblins and spirits for another
year banishing.
And W stands for the witches that roam;
Y, for YOU all; and X, for the time you
get home!
P; proud
tolling out
V—all the
THE NIGHT CALL.
The first caprice of November snow
had sketched the world in white for
an hour in the morning. After mid-
day the sun came out, the wind turn-
ed warm, and the whiteness vanished
from the landscape. By evening the
low ridges and long plain of Jersey
were rich and sad again, in russet
and dull crimson and old gold; for the
foliage still clung to the oaks and
elms and birches, and the dying mon-
archy of autumn retreated slowly be-
fore winter’s cold republic.
In the old town of Calvinton,
stretched along the highroad, the
lamps were aglow early as the saffron
sunset faded into humid night. A
mist rose from the long, wet street
and the sodden lawns, muffling the
houses and the trees and the college
towers with a double veil, under
which a pallid aureole encircled every
light, while the moon above, languid
and tearful, waded slowly through
the mounting fog. It was a night of
delay and expectation, a night of re-
membrance and mystery, lonely and
dim and full of strange, dull sounds.
In one of the smaller houses on the
main street the light in the window
burned late. Leroy Carmichael was
alone in his office reading Balzac’s
story of “The Country Doctor.” He
was not a gloomy or despondent per-
son, but the spirit of the night had en-
tered into him. He had yielded him-
self, as young men of ardent temper-
ament often do, to the subduing mag-
ic of the fall. In his mind, as in the
air, there was a soft, clinging mist,
and blurred lights of thought, and a
still foreboding of change. A sense
of the vast tranquil movement of Na-
ture, of her sympathy and of her in-
difference, sank deeply intc Lis heart.
For a time he realized that all things,
and he too, some day, must grow old;
and he felt the universal pathos of it
more sensitively, perhaps, than he
would ever feel it again.
If you had told Carmichael that
this was what he was thinking about
as he sat in his bachelor quarters on
that November night, he would have
Jered at you and then laughed a lit-
e.
“Nonsense,” he would have answer-
ed, cheerfully. “I'm no sentimental-
ist; only a bit tired by a hard after-
noon’s work at Cedar Grove and a
rough ride home. Then Balzac always
depresses me a little. The next time
I'll take some Dumas; he is a tonic.”
But ju faci, no one samme in to i
terrupt his misgivings and rouse him
to that air of cheerfulness with which
he always faced the world, and to
which, indeed (though he did not know
it), he owed some measure of his de-
lay in winning the confidence of Cal-
vinton. He had come there some five
years ago with a particularly good
outfit to practice medicine in that
unique and alluring old burgh, full of
antique hand-made furniture and tra-
ditions. He had not only been well
trained for his profession in the best
medical school and hospital of New
York, but he was also a graduate of
Calvinton College (in which his fath-
er had been a professor for a time),
and his grand-uncle was a Grubb, a
name high in the Golden Book of Cal-
vintonian aristocracy and inscribed
upon tombstones in every village
within a radius of fifteen miles. Con-
sequently the young doctor arrived
well accredited, and was received in
his first year with many tokens of
hospitality in the shape of tea-parties
and suppers.
But the final and esoteric approval
of Calvinton was a thing apart from
these mere fashionable courtesies and
worldly amenities—a thing not to be
bestowed without due consideration
and satisfactory reasons. Leroy Car-
michael failed, somehow or other, to
come up to the requirements for a
leading physician in such a conserva-
tive community. He was brilliant,
perhaps, a clever young man; but he
lacked poise and gravity. He walked
too lightly along the streets, swing-
ing his stick, and greeting his ac-
quaintances lightly, as if he were
rather glad to be alive. Now this isa
sentiment which Calvinton regards as
near akin to vanity, and therefore to
be discountenanced in your neighbor
and concealed in yourself. How can
a man be glad that he is alive, and
frankly show it, without .a touch of
conceit and a reprehensible forgetful-
ness of the presence of original sin
even in the best families? The man-
ners of a professional man, above all,
should at once express and impose
humility. Young Dr. Carmichael had
been spoiled by his life in New York.
It had made him too gay, light-heart-
ed, almost frivolous. It was possible
that he might know a good deal about
medicine, though doubtless that had
been exaggerated; but it was certain
that his temperament needed chast-
ening before he could win the kind of
confidence that Calvinton had given
to the venerable Dr. Coffin, whose face
was like a tombstone, and whose prac-
tice rested upon the two pillars of
podophyllin and predestination.
So Carmichael still felt, after his
five years’ work, that he was an out-
sider; felt it rather more indeed than
when he had first come. He had
enough practice to keep him in good
health and spirits. But his patients
were along the side streets and in the
smaller houses and out in the coun-
try. He was not called, except in a
chance emergency, to the big houses
with the white pillars. The inner cir-
cle had not yet taken him in.
He wondered how long he would
have to work and wait for that. He
knew that things in Calvinton moved
slowly; but he knew also that its si-
lent and subconscious judgments
sometimes crystallized with incredi-
ble rapidity and hardaess. Was it
possible that he was already classified
in the group that came near but did
not enter, an inhabitant but not a real
burgher, a half-way citizen and a life-
long new-comer? That would be
rough; he would not like growing old
in that way. But perhaps there was
no such invisible barrier hemming in
his path. Perhaps it was only the
naturally slow movement of things
that hindered him. Some day the
gate would open. He would be called
in behind those white pillars into the
world of which his father had often
told him stories and traditions. There
he would prove his skill and his
worth. He would make himself use-
ful and trusted by his work. Then he
could marry the girl that he loved,
and win a firm place and a real home
in the old town whose strange charm
held him so strongly even in the
yague sadness of this autumnal night.
_He turned again from these mu-
sings to his Balzac, and read the won-
derful pages in which Benassis tells
the story of his consecration to his
profession and Captain Genestas con-
fides the little Adrien to his care, and
then the beautiful letter in which the
boy describes the country doctor's
death and burial. The simple pathos
of it went home to Carmichael’s
heart. -
“It is a fine life, after all,” said he
to himself, as he shut the book at
midnight and laid down his pipe. “No
man has a better chance than a doc-
tor to come close to the real thing.
Human nature is his patient, and each
case is a symptom. It’s worth while
to work for the sake of getting near-
er to the reality and doing some defi-
nite good by the way. I'm glad that
this ish’t one of those mystical towns
where Buddhism and all sorts of va-
garies flourish. Calvinton may be
difficult, but it’s not obscure. And
some day I'll feel its pulse and get at
the heart of it.
The silence of the little office was
snapped by the nervous clamor of the
fo a bell, shrilling with a night
call.
Dr. Carmichael turned on the light
in the hall and opened the front door.
A tall, dark man of military aspect
loomed out of the mist, and, behind
him, at the curbstone, the outline of a
big motor-car was dimly visible. He
held out a visiting card inscribed
“Baron de Mortemer,” and spoke
slowly and courteously, but with a
strong nasal aspect and a tone of in-
sistent domination.
“You are the Dr. Carmichael, yes?
You speak French—no? It is pity.
There is a want of you at once—a pa-
tient—it is very pressing. You will
come with me, yes?”
“But I do not know you, sir,” said
the doctor; “you are—"
“The Baron de Mortemer,” broke in
the stranger, pointing to the card as
if it answered all questions. “It is the
Baroness who is very suffering—I
pray you to come without delay.”
“But what is it?” asked the doctor.
“What shall I bring with me? My
instrument case?”
The Baron smiled with his lips and
frowned with his eyes. “Not at all,”
he said, “Madame expects not an ar-
rival—it is not so bad as that—but
: she has had a sudden access of an-
guish—she has demanded you. I
pray you to come at the instant.
Bring what pleases you, what you
think best, but come!”
The man’s manner was not agitat-
ed, but it was strangely urgent,
overpowering, constraining; his voice
was like a pushing hand. Carmichael
threw on Ris coat and hat, hastily
picked up his medicine-satchel and a
portable electric battery, and follow-
ed the Baron to the motor.
The great car started almost with-
out noise and rolled y purring,
with unlit lamps, down the deserted
streets. The houses were all asleep,
and the college buildings dark as
empty fortresses. The moon-thread-
ed mist clung closely to the town like
a shroud of gauze, and concealing the
form beneath, but making its immo-
bility more mysterious. The trees
drooped and dripped with moisture,
and the leaves seemed ready, almost
longing, to fall at a touch. It was
one of those nights when the solid
things of the world, the houses and
the hills and the woods and the very
earth itself, grow unreal to the point
of vanishing; while the impalpable
things, the presences of life and death
which travel on the unseen air, the in-
fluences of the far-off starry lights,
the silent messages and presentiments
of darkness, the ebb and flow of vast
currents of secret existence all around
us, seem so close and vivid that they
absorb and overwhelm us with their
intense reality.
Through this realm
ly imposed upon the familiar, homely
street of Calvinton, the machine ran
smoothly, faintly humming, as the
Frenchman drove it with master-skill
—itself a dream of incarnate power
and speed. Gliding by the last cot-
tages of Town’s End where the street
became the highroad, the car ran
swiftly through the open country for
a mile until it came to a broad en-
trance. The gate was broken from
the leaning posts and thrown to one
side. Here the machine turned in and
labored up a rough, grass-grown car-
riage drive.
Carmichael knew that they were at
Castle Gordon, one of the “old places”
of Calvinton, which he often passed
on his country drives. The house
stood well back from the road, on a
slight elevation, looking down over
the oval field that was once a lawn,
and the scattered elms and pines and
Norway firs that did their best to pre-
serve the memory of a noble planta-
tion. The building was colonial;
heavy stone walls covered with yel-
low stucco; tall wooden pillars rang-
ed along a narrow portico; a style
which seemed to assert that a Greek
temple was good enough for the res-
idence of an American gentleman.
But the clean buff and white of the
house had long since faded. The stuc-
co had cracked, and, here and there,
had fallen from the stones. The paint
was dingy, peeling in round blisters
and narrow strips from the gray wood
underneath. The trees were ragged
and untended, the grass uncut, the
driveway overgrown with weeds and
gullied by rains—the whole place
looked forsaken. Carmichael had al-
ways supposed that it was vacant.
But he had not passed that way for,
nearly a month, and, meantime, it
might have been tenanted.
The Baron drove the car around to
the back of the house and stopped |
there.
“Pardon,” said he, “that I bring you |
not to the door of entrance; but this
is the more convenient.”
He knocked hurriedly and spoke a
few words in French. The key grat- |
ed in the lock and the door creaked
open. A withered, wiry little man,
dressed in dark gray, stood holding a
lighted candle, which flickered in the
draught. His head was nearly bald;
his sallow, hairless face might have
been of any age from twenty to a
hundred years; his eyes between their
narrow red lids were glittering and
inscrutable as those of a snake. As
he bowed and grinned, showing his |
yellow, broken teeth, Carmichael
thought that he had never seen a
more evil face or one more clearly
marked with the sign of the drug-
fiend.
“My chauffeur, Gaspard,” said the
Baron, “also.my valet, my cook, my
chambermaid, my man to do all, what
you call factotum, is it not? But he
speaks not English, so pardon me
once more.”
He spoke a few words to the man,
who shrugged his shoulders and smil-
ed with the same deferential grimace
while his unchanging eyes gleamed
through their slits. Carmichael
caught only the word “Madame” while
he was slipping off his overcoat, and
understood that they were talking of
his patient.
“Come,” said the Baron, “he says
that it goes better, at least not worse
—that is always something. Let us
mount at the instant.”
The hall was bare, except for a ta-
ble on which a kitchen lamp was burn-
inz, and two chairs with heavy auto-
mobile coats and rugs and veils
thrown upon them. The stairway
was uncarpeted, and the dust lay
thick along the banisters. At the
door of the back room on the second
floor the Baron paused and knocked
softly. A low voice answered, and he
Wont in beckoning the doctor to fol-
ow.
If Carmichael lived to be a hundred
he could never forge that first im-
pression. The room was but partly
furnished, yet it gave at once the idea
that it was inhabited; it was even, in
some strange way, rich and splendid.
Candelabra on the mantelpiece and a
silver traveling lamp on the dressing-
table threw a soft light on little arti-
cles of luxury, and photographs in
jeweled frames, and a couple of well-
ound books, and a gilt clock mark-
ing the half-hour after midnight. A
wood fire burned in the wide chimney-
place, and before it a rug was spread.
At one side there was a huge mahog-
any four-post. bedstead, and there,
Fropped up by the pillows, lay the no-
lest-looking woman that Carmichael
had ever seen.
She was dresseds in some clinging
stuff of soft black, with a diamond at
her breast, and a deep-red cloak
thrown over her feet. She must have
been past middle age, for her thick,
brown hair was already touched with
silver, and one lock of snow-white lay
above her forehead. But her face was |
one of those which time enriches;
fearless and tender and high-spirited,
of indistin-,
guishable verity and illusion, strange- |
a speaking face in which the dark-
lashed gray eyes were like words of
wonder and the sensitive mouth like
{legs become white.
a clear song. She looked at the young
doctor and held out her hand to him.
“I am glad to see you,” she said, in
her low, pure voice, “very glad! You
are Roger Carmichael’s son. Oh, I
am Fld to see you indeed.”
“You are very kind,” he answered,
“and I am glad also to be of any serv-
ice to you, though I do not know who
you are.”
The Baron was bending over the
fire Jeatfanging the logs on the and-
irons. He looked up sharply and
spoke in his strong nasal tone.
Pardon! Madame la Baronne de
Mortemer, j’ai ’honneur de vous pre-
senter Monsieur le Docteur Carmic-
chael.”
The accent on the “doctor” was
marked. A slight shadow came upon
the lady’s face. She answered quiet-
y:
“Yes, I know. The doctor has come
to see me because I was ill. We will
talk of that in a moment. But first I
want to tell him who I am—and by
another name. Dr. Carmichael, did
your father ever speak to you of Jean
Gordon?”
“Why, yes,” he said, after an in-
stant of thought, “it comes back to
me now quite clearly. She was the
young girl to whom he taught Latin
when he first came here as a college
instructor. He was very fond of her.
There was one of her books in his li-
brary—I have it now—a little volume |
of Horace, with a few translations in
verse written on the fly leaves, and
her name on the title-page—Jean |
Gordon. My father wrote under that,
‘My best pupil who left her lessons 2%
unfinished.” He was very fond of the |
book, and so I kept it when he died.”
The lady’s eyes grew moist, but the |
tears did not fall. They trembled in |
her voice.
“I was that Jean Gordon—a girl of |!
fifteen—your father was the best man
I ever knew. You look like him, but :
he was handsomer than you. Ah, no, |
I was not his best pupil, but his most
wilful and ungrateful one. Did he |
never tell you of my running away— |
of the unjust suspicions that fell on!
him—of his voyage to Europe?”
“Never,” answered Carmichael.
“He only spoke, as I remember, of
your beauty and your brightness, and
of the good times that you all had
when this old house was in its prime.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, quickly and
with strong feeling, “they were good
times, and he was a man of honor.
He never took an unfair advantage,
never boasted of a woman’s favor,
never tried to spare himself. He was
an American man. I hope you are
like him.”
The Baron, who had been leaning
on the mantel, crossed the room im-
patiently and stood beside the bed.
He spoke in French again, draggin
the words in his insistent, masterfu
voice, as if they were something
heavy which he laid upon his wife.
Her gray eyes grew darker, almost
black, with enlarging pupils. She
raised herself on the pillows as if
about to get up. Then she sank back
again and said, with an evident ef-
fort:
“Rene, I must beg you not to speak
in French again. The doctor does not
understand it. We must be more cour-
teous. And now I will tell him about
my sudden illness tonight. It was the :
first time—like a flash of lightning— |
an ice-cold flame of pain—"
Even as she spoke a swift and
dreadful change passed over her face.
Her color vanished in a morbid pallor;
a cold sweat lay like death-dew on hey
forehead; her eyes were fixed on
some impending horror; her lips, blue
and rigid, were strained with an un-
speakable, intolerable anguish. Her
left arm stiffened as if it were grip-
ped in a vise of pain. Her right hand
fluttered over her heart, plucking at
an unseen weight. It seemed as if an
invisible, silent death-wind were
quenching the flame of her life. It
flickered in an agony of strangula-
ion.
(Concluded next week).
Small Profit in Raising Hogs.
That there is not a big profit in hog
raising, despite of soaring prices, is
indicated in a report which has just
been made to Farm Agent Berger, in
connection with the experiments made
on the farm of Ira Light, near Iona,
Lebanon county. 2,613 pounds of
young pig were turned loose on the
farm last spring, under the supervis-
ion of the Farm Bureau, and this net-
ted a product of 6,140 pounds, accord-
ing to the report. As some of the
hogs were sold before the final report,
averages were used to make up the
report. The hogs were therefore
reckoned as having been on an aver-
age of 113 days in pasture. They.
were fed mostly on temporary crops
of oats, soy beans, rape and peas,
which were cultivated for their espe-
cial benefit. The grower was granted
an allowance, in the reckoning, for
the feed which he put into the hogs
and for every other detail which con-
tributed to the expense of their rais-
ing, but was not allowed anything for
the labor required in feeding them.
Reckoned thus he made a profit of
$4.95 on each pig, but took the
chances on hog cholera and other dis-
eases, and as a matter of fact he did
lose two out of the fifty, and the prof-
it is thus reckoned on a product of 48.
It was stated that the high cost of
feed kept down the net profit. The
hogs were turned out to pasture on
June 3, and were weighed out last
week.
How to Tell a Laying Chicken.
There are difierent ways of telling
a laying hen. Sometimes one glance
alone will tell it but other times dif-
ferent tests are required. If the pel-
vie bones are well apart it denotes
laying qualities. These bones should
be a good distance from the end of
the breast bone. The pelvic bones
should be pliable. Layers can be pick-
ed out by the capacity between these
three bones. A hen that lays shows
a fullness and softness there. The
non-layer is hollow there.
The comb of a layer is red and
smooth. The non-layer has a small,
dry yellow vent. If laying the hen
has a large, moist and flesh colored
vent.
A hen that has yellow legs is rest-
ing. When a hen lays the yellow
leaves her. The white first starts at
the vent, then the eyelid, the earlobe,
the beak and last the leg. It takes
about six months of laying until the
By the eyelid is |
meant the séconhd eyelid. 3!
SUFFRAGISTS MAY VOTE FOR
NEXT PRESIDENT.
Those not directly in touch with the
National American Woman Suffrage
Association are apparently not in-
formed as to the present status of the
federal amendment for woman suf-
frage. I beg leave, therefore, to sub-
mit the ratification schedule compiled
from the latest issue of the Woman
San, {omaisl organ of the N. A.
HAVE RATIFIED, 1919,
SESSION.
Illinois, June 10; Wisconsin, June 10;
Michigan, June 10; Ohio, June 16; Penn-
sylvania, June 24; Massachusetts, June
25; Texas, June 24.
FAILED TO RATIFY.
Alabama, July 8; Georgia, June 24.
RATIFIED AT SPECIAL SESSION, 1919.
New York, June 16; Kansas, June 16;
Missouri, July 3; Iowa, July 2; Nebras-
ka (Senate) July 31, (House) August 1;
Arkansas, July 28; Montana, July 30;
Minnesota, September 8; New Hampshire,
September 3.
Total have ratified, 16.
SPECIAL SESSIONS CALLED, 1919 (NO
DATE).
Wyoming, suffrage; Colorado, suffrage;
Indiana, non-suffrage; South Dakota, suf-
frage; Utah, suffrage; Arizona, suffrage;
California, suffrage; Washington, suf-
frage.
SESSIONS CALLED FOR OTHER PUR-
POSES.
October; North
AT REGULAR
Maine,
te,
LEGISLATURES TO MEET 1920.
Kentucky, January; Louisiana, May;
Maryland, January; Mississippi, January;
Virginia, January.
TO MEET 1920 AND 1921.
Georgia, New Jersey, Rhode Island,
South Carolina. :
TO MEET 1921 (REGULAR SESSION).
Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Idaho,
Indiana, Maine, New Mexico, North Caro-
lina, North Dakota. Oklahoma, suffrage;
Oregon, suffrage; Tennesse, partial suf-
frage; Vermont, West Virginia. All to
Carolina, no
| meet before May, 1921.
From this summary it can be seen
that sixteen States have already rat-
ified the federal amendment. Seven
State Legislatures passed it at their
regular sessions in 1919, viz: Illi-
nois, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio,
Massachusetts, Texas, Pennsylvania.
Seventeen States have called special
sessions in 1919 in order to ratify,
and of these nine have already acted
favorably—New York, Kansas, Mis-
souri, Iowa, Nebraska, Arkansas,
Minnesota, New Hampshire. Twen-
ty more States must ratify before
woman suffrage can become a law,
but of the required number some are
assured as being already suffrage or
partial suffrage States. There seems
to be little doubt that the ballot will
be finally won by the women—at least
in 1921. If more special sessions of
State Legislatures are called complete
ratification may be attained by 1920
—that is in time for the next Presi-
dential election. As so many women
are already qualified by State legis-
lation to vote for the President of the
United States, it seems eminently de-
sirable that the ratification of the fed-
eral amendment should be expedited
' by special sessions of the State Leg-
, islatures in order that all American
' women-citizens may participate in the
same political privileges.
ment has already been ratified (June
24, 1919), yet women of this State
cannot vote at the next Presidential
election unless the required number of
other States shall have ratified ia
time. This, of course, is because
there has not been any grant of equal
suffrage in Pennsylvania by State leg-
islation. A bill for woman suffrage
was introduced into the Pennsylvania
Legislature at its last session and
i dW. W
In Pennsylvania the federal amend- | ty
passed its first reading. It would be
a good thing in my opinion, to have
this measure put through anyhow so
that, no matter what other States
may do—no matter how long politi-
cians may dilly-dally—in Pennsylva-
nia women will be insured the right to
vote at the next Presidential election
just as legally as the women of Okla-
homa and Wyoming will vote. Let
us have the ballot by both state and
federal legislation and then every-
body will happy.—By Eleanor M.
Heistand-Moore, in Philadelphua Pub-
lic Ledger.
NEW ADVERTISEMENTS.
OR SALE.—One 435 cu. ft. steam boil-
er, four radiators, $125.00. Two
solid walnut plate glass wall cases,
9 ft. each, and four plate glass floor cases.
F. P. BLAIR & SON.
64-37-tf Bellefonte, Pa.
ARMERS TAKE NOTICE.—I will in-
sure dwellings at $1.00 a hundred,
and barns at $1.60 a hundred, on
the cash plan for three years, and dwell-
ings 50 cents a hundred, and barns at 80
cents a hundred on the assessment plan
for 5 years as against fire and lightning.
64-28-1y J. M. KEICHLINE, Agent.
DMINISTRATOR’S NOTICE.—Estate
of Kate E. Murray, late of the Bor-
ough of Bellefonte, Centre County,
Pa., deceased.
Letters of administration having been
issued to the undersigned by the Regis-
ter of Wills of Centre county, all persons
+ having claims against said estate are re-
quested to make them known and all per-
sons indebted to said estate are requested
make payment thereof without delay,
0
MARY DOWLING,
Administratrix.
Care Hotel Chelsea,
Atlantic City, N. J.
Blanchard & Blanchard,
Attorneys. 64-37-6t
XECUTOR’S NOTICE.—Estate of Ed-
ward Allison, late of the town-
Ship of Potter, in the County _of
genre an State of Pennsylvania de-
ceased.
Letters testamentary in the above es-
tate having been issued to the undersign-
ed by the Register of Wills in and for the
said County of Centre, all persons havin
claims or demands against the estate oO
the said decedent are requested to make
known the same and all persons indebted
to the said decedent are requested to make
payment thereof without delay, to
ANNA MABEL ALLISON,
HARRY M. ALLISON.
Blanchard & Blanchard,
Attorneys,
Bellefonte, Pa.
Executors,
Spring Mills, Pa.
64-38-6t
EGAL NOTICE.—In the Orphans’
Court of Centre county, In the
matter of the Estate of Robert F.
Sechler, deceased. To the heirs at law,
creditors, and other persons interested in
said estate:
Notice is hereby given that Carrie 8.
Sechler and Myra E. Sechler, Administra-
tors, have filed in the office of the Clerk of
said Court, their petition praying for an
order of sale of the real estate of said de-
cedent, fronting 25 feet on North Spring
street, in Bellefonte borough, Centre
county, Pennsylvania, and extending back
200 feet to Locust Alley and fully describ-
ed in said Ppelition, at private sale, for the
ayment of debts, to Winifred M. Gates,
or the sum of .00. If no exceptions
be filed thereto, or objections made to
anting the same, the Court will take
nal action upon said petition, Monday,
November 3rd, 1919.
W. HARRISON WALKER.
HARRY KELLER,
64-40-4t Attorneys for Petitioners.
UDITOR’S NOTICE.—In the Court of
Common _ Pleas of Centre county.
No. 52 December Term, 1918. In
re Assigned Estate of W. W, Herman, of
College township, Centre county, Pa.
The undersigned has been appointed an
Auditor by said Court to make distribu-
tion of the balance of cash in the hands
of I. J. Dreese, Assignee of the above
. Herman, as shown by his
first and final account duly confirmed by
said Court on the 24th day of September
A. D. 1919, to and amongst those legally
entitled to receive the same, and to make
report to December term of Court 1919,
will meet all parties in interest, at his of-
fices in the Masonic Temple Building,
Bellefonte, Pa., on Monday, the 10th day
of November A. D. 1919, at ten o’clock a.
m., when and where all parties interested
shall present their claims and be heard,
otherwise be forever debarred from mak-
ing any claim against said assigned es-
tate.
ate W. HARRISON WALKER,
64-40-3t Auditor.
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