Bown ten
Bellefonte, Pa., July 30, 1920.
The Farmer.
By Susan L. Harlacher.
I sing the song of the plain folks,
Of the toilers in the sun;
Of those who work from the dawning
’Til after the day is done.
It is they who feed the nations,
Who garner the golden grain,
Working thru’ heat of summer,
Thru’ cold, and sleet, and rain.
No tablet of fame is erected
When their work on earth is done,
And they're gathered to their fathers
For the rest and crown they've won.
A MODERN MONA LISA
Although it was late, two urchins
were already sprinting across the road
to see what had happened, and Paul
Loring knew that they were sure to
be the forerunners of a crowd. With
sudden decision he raised the uncon-
scious girl in his arms and carried
her to the car, laid her on the seat,
started the engine again, and turned
the car in the direction from which
he had come.
Presently, emerging into a quiet
square, he stopped before one of those
typical Bloomsbury houses—mostly
boarding houses now—which were at
one time the homes of merchant
princes. Jumping out, he opened the
front door with a latch-key, and, con-
veying the still unconscious girl in-
side, deposited her upon a leather-cov-
ered couch in his study.
Then he bounded upstairs, two steps
at a time, to the drawing-room.
A tall graceful woman looked up
from a book she had been reading as
he burst into the room.
“Why, Paul!” she began in surprise.
“Look here, Mother,” he said. “I
nearly ran over a girl. She’s faint-
ed and I've put her in the study. Do,
for goodness’ sake come down and see
if you can bring her to. Besides,
Bradley sent me an urgent call and
I must go.”
Mrs. Loring followed her son down-
stairs and began to do things a cap-
able person is expected to do in such
a crisis. She dispatched her son into
the dining-room for brandy. When
the young man came back with this,
she was removing the girl’s hat with
its costly osprey plumes.
“I’d better loosen her clothes,” said
Mrs. Loring presently.
Still he lingered, which was fortun-
ate, as he was able to hold the girl
up while his mother wrestled with the
mysterious back-fastenings of a
flimsy georgette crepe creation.
“You can lay her down now,” said
Mrs. Loring when she had stripped
this from the rounded, white shoulders
and was beginning to undo more
mysterious inner garments.
Paul obeyed, but managed to snap
a silken cord which hung around the
girl’s neck. This was attached to a
wash-leather bag. Paul’s clumsy
hands had jerked the bag out and, in
the unaccountable manner of inani-
mate things, it flew across the room
and, falling to the floor, burst open.
“Oh, darn!” he said, going down on
hands and knees to recover the valu-
able rings and trinkets that were
scattered round. Having replaced
them in the bag and laid this on the
table, he noticed that the girl was re-
covering.
His mother was speaking gently
and stroking the girl’s hands. Under
cover of the soothing murmur, he
came close to the head of the couch
and gazed down at the girl’s face. At
that moment her eyelids fluttered and
rose, and a pair of liquid eyes gazed
straight up into his own.
For a second eyes held eyes and then
the girl slowly smiled. With that
smile the color ebbed back into her
face, and he found himself marveling
at the delicate pink and white of her.
Once more she smiled at him, with
lips softly parted, and as she gazed
into his eyes her own slowly closed
with an effect of languorous content
that set his pulses racing.
“I think she’ll be all right now,
Paul,” said his mother, and Loring
started. A subtle exchange of mag-
netism between himself and this girl
had made him forget that the uni-
verse held anything save the desire
to gaze into swooning, wine-colored
eyes.
“You’d better go now, dear,” con-
tinued the elder woman. “I know
your business is urgent.”
The young man made an impatient
gesture.
“Bradley must waix, Mother,” he
said.
There was a faint elusive half-
smile on the girl’s lips that reminded
him somehow of the Mona Lisa. He
was certain it had not been there be-
fore he spoke and yet—He lost track of
his thought to watch with pulsating
wistfulness for another revelation of
the wonder of those eyes. They re-
mained obstinately shut, but present-
ly in a golden, vibrating voice, she
spoke.
“Where am 1?”
“I—I nearly ran you down with my
car. You fainted and I brought you
here.”
The girl placed her hand over her
forhead and eyes as if trying to think.
“I can’t remember,” she said.
“Of course not,” soothed Mrs. Lor-
ing. “You were unconscious when my
son brought you here. You must rest
on this couch for a little while and
then, when you feel quite well, I'll
send for a taxi and my maid shall
see you home. We live in Poltimore
Square. Is it far from your home?
“I—I don’t know.”
“What is your address?” persisted
Paul’s mother gently.
“I don’t know. Oh, don’t you un-
derstand? I can’t remember—a sin-
gle thing.” :
Mrs. Loring looked at her son in
consternation, but he was gazing fix-
edly at the girl.
“Never mind, my dear, don’t worry,”
she told the latter. “You’ve had a
shock, but it'll all come back to you
presently. Can you remember your
name?”
The girl shook her head helplessly
and gazed at the man with clinging,
pitiful eyes that seemed to implore
him to help her.
wash-leather bag.
other’s hands.
thing to you?” :
The girl examined the trinkets as
if she had never seen them before.
“Are these mine, then?” she asked.
“Yes. By the way, I hope they're
all there. Paul upset the bag just
now.”
The girl’s hands dropped listless-
ly to her lap and her eyes dropped
until the lashes showed strangly dark
against the delicate skin. Two tears
hung for a moment upon them and
then rolled down her cheeks.
“Oh, what shall I do?” she moaned.
“Why can’t I remember?”
“It’ll all come back presently,”
promised the other woman with a
confidence she was far from feeling.
“The best thing you can do is to
lie still and rest for a little while.
Come Paul, I want you to telephone
Dr. Grant while I rouse Butler and
tell her to get the spare room ready.”
Unwillingly enough, the young
man followed his mother from the
room.
As soon as the door had shut upon
them the girl sat up, no longer lan-
guid and pitiful. Her first act was to
examine the bag of trinkets for some-
thing which, apparently, was not
there. Then, remembering what Mrs.
Loring had said about the bag hav-
ing been upset, her gaze wandered
round the room. A yellow glint in
the far corner caught her eye. With
a whispered exclamation, she rose
from the couch and tiptoed across
the room,-to pick up a narrow ring
of plain gold. For a moment she
stood fingering it and dreaming, with
the cryptic, Mona Lisa smile again
hovering about her lips; then, sudden-
ly, she walked to the open window and
threw it from her, far out into the
night. ;
“Really, Paul, the position is imi-
possible. This girl has been here a
fortnight and we are as far from
finding out anything about her as we
were in the beginning. It seems ridic-
ulous that you, an expert in unravel-
ing mysteries, should have been foiled
by such a simple case as this.”
The young man put down a book as
his mother entered the study, and gaz-
ed at her frowningly.
“You don’t sound altogether hospit-
able, Mother,” he said, “and con-
sidering that my reckless driving is
responsible for her loss of memory—"
‘“That’s a red herring, Paul. Can
you honestly say that you have tried
to find out who she is?”
Loring laughed.
“The expert investigator is at a dis-
advantage when pitted against the in-
stinct of even the most ordinary, ev-
eryday, common or garden mother,”
he remarked, apparently irrelevantly.
“Then you haven’t?”
“No, I haven't.” .
In that moment, Mrs. Loring thank-
ed Heaven that she had not voiced
her mistrust of the stranger.
“But, my dear, is this fair to Mel-
isande herself ?” she asked, endeavor-
ing to be tactful.
“At present she shows no over-
whelming desire to be informed on the
subject,” he remarked dryly.
Mrs. Loring metaphorically raised
her eyes and hands to heaven.
“But she may have parents, friends,
relations—a- fiance who adores her.”
Loring winced.
“I rather think she is her own mis-
tress,” he remarked presently. “There
has been no inquiry at Scotland Yard
and no one has inserted advertise-
ments in any of the papers. A beau-
tiful young woman with all the ap-
pendages you suggest couldn’t disap-
pear as completely as she has done,
without raising an outery.”
“Then, Paul,” said Mrs. Loring, for-
getting, in her anxiety, to be tact-
ful, “has it struck you that there may
be another reason why there is no
outcry? Has it occurred to you that
she may be—worthless?”
“Mother!” en
“You know, Paul, you used to say
that you required to know a great deal
about the reputed honest man before
you passed him as such, and that you
never took anyone on trust.”
“Ah, but she is different!”
“Do you mean that you are pre-
pared to take her on trust?”
“Absolutely, Mother. I am cer-
tain she is as pure and good as she is
sweet and beautiful and I—I love
her.”
Mrs. Loring was stunned into si-
lence. Paul Methodically placed a
mark in his book, shut it, and return-
ed it to its place on the shelves. Then
after lingering a moment constrained-
ly, he went upstairs to the drawing
room.
“Finished studying?” called a gold-
en voice from one of the deep window
recesses.
He crossed the room and stood si-
lently gazing down at the girl’s hon-
ey-colored hair.
“You have been a long time,” she
said, and there was an exquisite elu-
sive tenderness in her tone that made
the words sound like a caress.
“Have 1?”
They smiled at each other. For a
time there was silence. It seemed to
Paul as if he could never withdraw
his gaze from the clinging, ardent
gaze of those wine-colored eyes. With
an effort he broke the spell.
“What are you reading?”
She held up a sumptuous edition of
“Pelleas and Melisande.”
“This,” she said. “I wanted to
know why you called me Melisande.”
Again their glances met and linger-
ed
“How far have you read?” asked
Paul huskily. ;
“To where the king found her in the
wood—just as you found me. And
she had lost her crown—just as I have
lost my past. Please tell me the
rest,” she urged. :
“The king placed her before him
on his horse and rode away with her
to his palace,”
“Just as you did,” she said softly.
And then—" :
“And then the king made her his
queen,” ;
Again the glances of the two be-
came entangled, and somehow, seek-
ing each other blindly, their hands
met. He was down on his knees be-
side her now, his face very near hers.
“Melisande, Melisande!” he cried.
“Do you want me to find your lost
crown?”
“No, no!” she breathed. :
“And will you be my queen?”
Mrs. Loring suddenly thought of the | For answer she smiled silently and
“This was round | gaz
your neck,” she said placing it in the | their locked glances
“Does it recall any- | unendurable.
gazed at him till the poignancy of
became almost
With a moan he tore
his gaze from hers and buried his
face in the soft fragrance of her
breast:
The girl pressed him to her, then
drew away and gazed past him brood-
ingly, not seeing the thing upon |
which her eyes rested. i
“Afraid? Of what?”
“Of my past. Of what you may
learn some day.”
“No, beloved. I know your crown
was of pure gold. I know that your
lost memories were pure and sweet.”
For a space they clung together,
and then Paul forced himself to speak
again.
“Yet I am afraid,” he said slowly.
“Afraid lest in my selfishness I should
be wronging you. Suppose, in that
lost past, you had loved a man whom
you would still love if the past came
back to you. I have tortured myself
by thinking that perhaps one of ve-
rings
The girl started.
“Yes?” she cried, and the voice had
an edge to it that sounded foreign to
her honey-sweet personality.
“I have thought that any ome of
your rings might be an engagement |
ring.”
-S92 © apew pue ureSe paws yg
ture as of breaking shackles.
“If so, I repudiate it, as I repudiate '
eeverything that might come between
us,” she said.
“ Then you will marry me, belov- '
ed?”
“Yes, heart’s dearest.” |
Rapturously they exchanged kisses
until, suddenly, Paul felt her clinging
to him like a frightened child.
“Let it be soon,” she cried. “Oh,
Paul! Let it be soon, for fear some
clutching hand should arise out of my
past and tear us apart.”
“Mr. Bradley would like you to
come to the telephone, sir.”
Loring hastily put down the letters
he was cutting open, and rose from
the breakfast table.
“Excuse me for a moment, Melis-
ande. I shan’t be long,” he said. i
His wife sighed and drummed an!
impatient foot on the floor until he |
returned, when she greeted him with |
a wonderful lighting-up of eyes and |
face. |
“Bradley accuses me of not doing |
my share of the work,” he said al
trifle ruefully, as he resumed his seat. |
“Oh, Paul, how ridiculous!” i
“It’s the truth, my dear. It’s been |
so hard to tear myself away from you, |
even for a short time, that I’ve left
more and more to old Bradley, who,
good fellow as he is, has at last kick-
ed. He says he’s been working so
hard for the last two years that he
absolutely must have a rest, and I!
must carry on alone for a bit.”
“Paul!” i
“It’s only fair, Melisande. I can’t |
let him do all the work while I draw |
half the money. By the way, he tells
me he has written -a letter about a
case. Now where the dickens— Ah |
ves, this is his handwriting.”
Loring picked up a letter as he
spoke, and began to read, his brows
gradually drawing together into a
frown as he did so.
“H’m! I shall have to run down
into Hampshire after breakfast,” he
said. “Where’s the time-table 7?”
“Oh, Paul—not today ?”
“Why not, dear?”
“It’s our anniversary. Had you for-
gotien? Just two years ago today
you found me lying in the roadway.”
“You have made me transcedently
happy,” he said gazing tenderly into
her eyes. “Do you know that, even
vet, when I wake in the morning I
am sometimes afraid to look lest I
should find you gone and discover
that our life together has been merely
a wonderful dream?”
“Then, Paul, don’t go today. Brad-
ley can——" :
But Loring shook his head. i
“We'll keep our anniversary tomor- |
row—or at least the first day I have
free, beloved,” he corrected himself.
“Tomorrow never comes,” she quot-
ed petulantly.
It grieved him to see her mouth
drooping at the corners and he tried :
when he left her to kiss away her
disappointment.
Throughout the journey Loring
brooded, as was his custom when
alone upon his happiness. How won- '
derful Melisande was! And how won-
derfully she loved and compelled him
to love her!
Still meditating, he arrived some |
two hours later at the gates of Selsted
Hall, buried deep in beechwoods and
larch trees.
“Home of the Lennox-Foxes since!
the days of Good Queen Bess, and all |
that, I suppose,” he mused. “But
why, I wonder, are the blinds all
down? Has there been a death in the
house 7”
The suggestion of gloom contrasted
with his mood unpleasantly. A foot-
man with a crepe band round his arm |
admitted Loring and took him at once |
i
into the presence of a tragic little old
man dressed in black.
“Mr. Loring, I had a daughter,” be- |
gan Sir Lennox-Foxe bitterly.
Loring thought he understood.
“I saw that this was a house of
mourning. I'm very sorry,” he said
simply.
“This house is in morning today for
her mother,” blazed the other fierce-
ly. “She—my daughter Pamela, died
i
|
i
\
to me four years ago, when she left |
the house with her lover, taking her
mother’s jewels with her,”
The old man paused for a moment, |
struggling to regain his self-control,
“For two years after she left us, I
had her watched, and then—she com-
pletely disappeared.
trace her have failed. But she must
be found! I understand that your
reputation is world-wide and I believe
that you, if anyone, can find her. I
will pay you any money you care to
ask.”
He turned to a safe, and, unlocking
it, took from it a bulky portfolio.
“There,” he said, placing it in Lor-
ing’s hands, “you will find every scrap
of information likely to be of use—
the girl’s description, a lock of her
hair, an account of her two years of
disgraceful adventure after she left
home. the description of her mother’s
jewels—everything, up to the time,
two years ago today, when she dis-
appeared utterly. I shall be glad
now if you will come with me.”
Wonderingly, Loring followed his
| in the coffin.
him of somebody; he could not think
| of whom.
almost happy.
is suffering as she deserves to suffer.” b
| ing. “How salemn you are!
All efforts to |
guide upstairs to a state bedroom,
where, in her coffin, lay the earthly
remains of Ladv Lennox-Foxe. Lor-
ing saw, lying there, an old lady of
unbelievable fragility from whose
face death had smoothed all wrinkles
and signs of sorrow. Her hair, he
noticed, was as white as the linen sur-
rounding it.
“This,” said the bereaved husband
tonelessly, indicating the still figure
“is the work of my daughter.
“The day we discovered her flight,”
he continued, “Death laid his hand on
my wife. For fone years she has been
slowly dying and I—I have stayed
my hand for her sake.
“Now I have something else to show
you,” he continued grimly, and again
Loring followed him.
He conducted to a picture gallery
in the Elizabethan wing where before T
a painting in.oils of a comely, middle-
aged woman with fair hair and a
gracious smile, Sir Lennox-Foxe
stopped.
“That was my wife five years ago,”
he said. “Do you wonder that I want
to find the murderess, that I want to
make her suffer?”
“No,” answered Loring.
He was, indeed shocked at the dif-
ference in appearance between the
pictured woman and the pitiful mask
The portrait reminded
“It’s little enough I can do, after
all,” the old man said drearily. “But
when she is found I shall charge her
with the theft of her mother’s jewels
and prosecute her with the full vigor
of the law. For such time as she is
in the place of shame with her fellow-
criminals, I shall be almost content—
I shall know that she
He moved along a few paces to
where hung a drapery. Abruptly
pulling this aside, he revealed anoth-
er painting in oils.
“Look well at this picture,” he said.
“There she is—wanton, murderess,
and thief. Look well, so that you will
know her when you meet her.”
Loring looked. In the silence a
sunbeam moved downward, like a
pointing finger, illuminating with slow
inevitableness the pictured face of
his wife.
When Loring returned home that
afternoon, he found Melisande, dream-
ing in his study.
“Oh, Paul,” she cried joyously. “I
didn’t expect you for hours.”
He stood regarding her with no re-
flection of her joy on his face.’
“Why, dearest!” she said, laugh-
I don’t
believe you even realize that I’m here.
Your mind is following up clues in
some old dry-as-dust case.”
His eyes dripped before hers and
mechanically he laid a portfolio on
the table.
“What’s that?” she asked, darting
at it like an eager bird.
“Don’t!” he cried sharply.
“You needn’t have been so afraid
of my seeing it,” she remarked, with
adorable playfulness. “I don’t sup-
pose I should have understood. You
seem to forget that I'm the youngest
wife in the world—only two years old
today.”
At that he turned and stared at her,
then crushed her to him, pressing pas-
sionate kisses upon her eyes and hair.
“Yes, yes,” he cried brokenly, “you
came to me, newborn, two years ago.”
“Paul,” she said anxiously, disen-
gaging herself, “is there anything the
matter? You're somehow—different.”
“Am I dearest?” he asked, with a
return to his natural manner. “Per-
haps it’s because I have work to do.
Now will you run upstairs, like a good
girl, and leave me to do it?”
Reluctantly, she obeyed and, after
locking the door, Paul Loring set to
work to burn the portfolio and its
contents.—By Katherine Harrington
in Hearst’s Magazine.
Pennsylvanians Named.
Three Pennsylvanians have been
named on the National Advisory coun-
cil of the Modern Health Crusade, a
movement in the schools. They are
Dr. Thomas E. Finegan, State Super-
itendent of Schools; Dr. Charles J.
Hatfield, a prominent Philadelphian
who is managing director of the Na-
tional Tuberculosis Association; and
Mrs. Frederic Schoff, of Philadelphia,
president of the National Congress of
Mothers and Parent-Teacher Associa-
tions.
President Wilson has endorsed the
crusade in these words: “To the
35000 young Health Crusaders of the
District of Columbia and to the 6,000,
000 Health Crusaders in the United
States:
“It is deeply gratifying to me, as it
must be to every patriotic citizen, to
know that the children of the country
are striving so earnestly to cooperate
in building up the health of the na-
tion. It is my earnest hope that ev-
ery boy and girl will continue the
good work until the 20,000,000 school
children of the United States are
united in the one great cause of bet-
ter health for the children.”
The National Congress of Mothers
and Parent-teacher Associations has
jadopted a resolution endorsing the
|
[Modern Health Crusade and urging
‘all of its local organizations to make
the crusade a part of their program
for community betterment.
i
| Industrial Accidents in Pennsylvania.
Industrial accidents killed 1,297
Pennsylvania workers during the first
six months of this year, according to
figures announced by Clifford B. Con-
nelley, commissioner of the Depart-
ment of Labor and Industry. During
| the same period, 95,5640 persons were
injured in the industries of this State.
Since January 1 Pennsylvania work-
men lost 359 eyes, at a workmen's
compensation of $484,952. During
the first half of 1920, the following
losses of limbs were suffered at the
| compensation cost indicated: 162
at $92,664.
reau, so far this year has paid com-
pensation awards totalling $83,404,435.
In June, industrial accidents injured
14,994 workmen and 242 of them
died as a result of their hurts. The
| record of disabling accidents for June
|is approximately 1,400 more than
I May. .
| hands, at $288,945; 72 feet, at $108,- |
350; 34 arms, at $70,731, and 48 legs !
The Workmen’s Compensation Bu- |
“Blue Grass.”
Among the most famous passages in
the writings of the late Senator John J.
Ingalls is his tribute to grass.
Next in importance to the divine
profusion of water, light and air,
those three great physical facts which
render existence possible, may be reck- i
oned the universal beneficence of |
grass. Exaggerated by tropical heats |
and vapors to the gigantic cane con- |
gested with its saccharine secretion,
or dwarfed by Polar regions to the
fibrous hair of northern solitudes, em- |
bracing between these extremes the |
maize with its resolute pennons, the |
rice plant of southern swamps, the
wheat, rye, barley, oats and other cer- |
eals, no less than the humble verdure
of hillside, pasture and prairie in the
emperate zone, grass is the most
widely distributed of all vegetable Le-
ings, and is at once a type of our
life and the emblem of our mortality.
Lying in the sunshine among the but- :
tercups and dandelions of May, scarce-
ly higher in intelligence than the
minute tenants of that mimic wilder-
ness, our earliest recollections are of
grass; and when the fitful fever is
ended and the foolish wrangle of the
market and forum is closed, grass
heals over the scar which our descent
into the bosom of the earth has made
and the carpet of the infant becomes
the blanket of the dead.
Grass is the forgiveness of nature—
her constant benediction. Fields tram-
pled with battle, saturated with blood-
—~torn with the rust of cannon, grow
green again with grass and carnage is
forgotten. Streets abandoned by traf-
fic become grass grown like rural
lanes and are obliterated. Forests de-
cay, harvests perish, flowers vanish,
ut grass is immortal. Beleagued by
the seven hosts of winter, it with-
draws into the impregnable fortress
of its subterranean vitality and
emerges upon the first solicitation of
spring. Sown by the winds, by wan-
dering birds, propagated by the
subtle horticulture of the elements
which are its ministers and servants,
it softens the nude
world. Its tenacious fibers ‘hold the
earth in its place and prevent its sol- |
uble components from washing into
the wasting sea. It invades the soli-
tude of deserts, climbs the inacces-
sible slopes and forbidding pinnacles
of mountains, modifies climates and
determines the history, character and
destiny of nations. Unobtrusive and
patient, it has immortal vigor and ag-
gression. Banished from the thor-
oughfare and the field, it bides its
time to return, and when vigilance 1s
relaxed, or the dynasty has perished,
it silently resumes the throne from
which it has been expelled, but which
it never abdicates. It bears no blaz-
onry of bloom to charm the senses
with fragrance and splendor, but its
homely hue is more enchanting than
the lily or the rose. It yields no
fruit in earth or air, and yet should
its harvest fail for a single year,
famine would depopulate the world.
One grass differs from another
grass in glory. One is vulgar and
another patrician. There are grades
in its vegetable nobility. Some vari-
ties are useful. Some are beautiful.
Others combine utility and ornament.
The sour, reedy herbage of the
swamps is base-horn. *Fimothy and
clover are a degree higher in the sc-
cial scale. But the king, is blue grass.
Why it is called blue, save that it is
most vividly and intensely green, is
inexplicable; but had its unknown
priest baptised it with all the hues
° the prism, he would not have
changed its hereditary title to im-
perial superiority over all its hum-
bler kin.
Weeds and Hay Fever.
Interesting observations made by
Dr. William Sheppegrell, president of
the American Hay Fever Prevention
association, are reported in a paper
published by him. As a result of a
weed-cutting campaign carried out in
New Orleans in the Spring of 1916
the number of hay fever cases was
reduced to less than 50 per cent. of
the usual prevalence. The “cold
storage” treatment of the disease, in
which practically all ventilation is ex-
cluded in order to insure the absence
of atmospheric pollen, is said to af-
ford only transient relief, while the
low temperature is likely to cause
bronchitis. The effects of an abund-
ant rain on hay fever patients is
beneficial because the rain not only
washes the pollen out of the air, but
also permanently removes its toxic
qualities, so that it is harmless when
again blown into the air after the
rain is over. This has been proved
by laboratory experiments, in which
pollen, after submersion in water, was
inhaled’ by hay fever subjects with-
out any apparent effect.
New Windpipe for Man Gassed at
! Chateau Thierry.
A marine gassed at Chateau Thierry
was brought to the Jefferson Hospit-
al in Philadelphia, on Tuesday, for
an operation in which surgeons will
give him an artificial section to his
windpipe.
He is Roscoe Rodgers, Healing
Springs, Ala., formerly a member of
the Sixth Regiment. After being gass-
‘ed he lay on the battlefield two days.
When he reached a hospital it was
found the poison had eaten away a
long section of his windpipe. He was
sent home and first operated upon at
a hospital at Biltmore, N. C. The dis-
eased tissue was cut away and an
aluminum tube set in through which
he could breathe.
Two weeks ago the tube clogged
and army doctors in Washington de-
cided another operation was impera-
tive. Dr. Chavalier Jackson, of Jef-
ferson, was chosen to perform the
delicate operation. On account of the
patient’s condition only local anes-
thetics will be used.—Ex.
|
No Style to Them.
Mrs. Warbucks (trying to select a
gift for her son)—Why, all of these
fiddles look alike to me!
Salesman—But they differ greatly
in tone, madam, to say nothing of
price.
Mrs. Warbucks—Oh, hang the tone
and price! Haven't you something in
a period design ?—Buffalo Express.
outline of the |
| Women Voters May Keep Secret of
Their Exact Age.
Harrisburg, Pa.—Unless some un-
sympathetic registration boards desire
| to make the election laws a shade
' stricter than they really were intend-
led to be, Pennsylvania women, when
| they qualify as voters, will be saved
from giving away the secret of their
exact ages. That is the opinion of
{ state officials who went over the ques-
tion today.
One of the requirements neces-
sary to qualify as a voter in the first
second and third class cities is that
they be personally registered on fixed
days every two years. There is a
| long list of questions to be answered,
one of which requires the telling of
the “approximate” age. Among the
other questions asked are the name,
‘addresses, occupation, length of resi-
dence, height, approximate weight
and color, but there is not a word
about date of birth.
i _ Under the term “approximate” age
: Pennsylvania women will have a sub-
‘ terfuge. Their sisters in boroughs
‘and townships who do not have to
: bother with personal registrations are
not in danger of revealing their age,
as the only thing they have to do is
! to convince the assessor that they are
i more than twenty-one years old and
‘have lived in the district for two
years.
George D. Thorn, chief of the Bu-
reau of elections in the State Depart-
ment, said that he did not think
that the women would be embarrass-
ed by registration boards demanding
their exact age under the wording of
the law.
“Who is going to dispute with any
woman what her approximate age
is?” asked Mr. Thorn. He recalled
a practice of former Representative
Marlin E. Olmstead, of this city, who,
whenever he registered, stated to the
board gave his correct age. Regis-
tration that he was “over fifty,” but
never boards always marked the con-
gressman at “over fifty.” Women
may do likewise, Mr. Thorn said.
| Fires Cause Heavy Loss in State.
_ Harrisburg, July—Reports of fires
in Pennsylvania during the first three
months of 1920 which have been filed
with the Bureau of Fire protection in
the Department of State Police show
that outside of Philadelphia and Pitts-
burgh there has been a total of 1656
fires causing an estimated loss to the
owners of building and property of
$3,760,605.
The reports made to the State Bu-
reau come through its agents in every
county of the State and are made after
the insurance adjustments are cover-
ed and there is little chance of inac-
curacies on the estimated damages
that the flames have created. On
most occasions hasty estimates of fire
losses are never borne out by final
‘adjustments, but the State waits for
its reports until insurance adjusters
say what the real damage was, or
make estimates where no insurance is
carrizad.
12,862
During 1919 there were
fires in the State outside of Pitts-
burgh and Philadelphia and the total
. estimated loss was $17,742,241. The
‘most fires occurred in January with
a total of 1265 but during March
there were 1257 conflagrations caus-
!ing the highest total monthly loss of
the year of $2,249,269. The lowest
| number of fires to occur on any single
i month last year was in May with
i 760. All records show that there are
fewer fires during the summer
months.
The records for® this year show a
great improvement throughout the
State against the fire menace, there
| being but 597 fires reported in Janu-
ary, 505 in February and 554 in
March. The losses have been little
more than half of those the first three
months in 1919.
JACKSONVILLE.
. Miss Frances Spencer, of Chicago,
is spending a few days with friends
hereabouts.
Miss Anna. Spigelmyer spent Sun-
day with the Misses Martha, Ethel
and Florence Neff.
Mr. and Mrs. Earl Armstrong, of
Zion, were over Sunday guests at the
home of County Commissioner George
M. Harter.
Mrs. Walter Daley, of Altoona, and
Miss Hope Strunk, of State College,
were week-end visitors at the George
Ertley home.
S. Yearick and family, of Philadel-
phia, are visiting friends in this vi-
cinity, Mrs. Yearick’s former home.
They drove here in their big, new car
and found the trip delightful.
Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Thiel and
daughter, Doris, who formerly lived
in this vicinity, attended the festival
held here last Saturday evening and
had a pleasant time meeting their
many old friends. Many other
people from a distance were here for
the festival, which proved a decided
success. The Howard band furnished
the music and quite a nice sum of mon-
ey was realized.
MEDICAL.
The Proper Course
Information of Priceless Value to
Every Bellefonte Citizen.
How to act in an emergency is
knowledge of inestimable worth, and
this is particularly true of the diseases
and ills of the human body. If you
suffer with kidney backache, urinary
disorders, or any form of kidney
trouble, the advice contained in the
following statement should add a
valuable asset to your store of knowl-
edge. What could be more convinc-
ing proof of the efficiency of Doan’s
Kidney Pills than the statement ef a
Bellefonte citizen who used them and
who publicly tells of the benefit de-
rived ?
Mrs. L. A. Hill, E. Bishop St., says:
“I am bothered by backache ocasional-
ly, but I keep Doan’s Kidney Pills in
the house and the benefit I derive from
their use is very gratifying.”
Price 60c, at all dealers. Don’t
simply ask for a kidney remedy—get
Doan’s Kidney Pills, the same that
Mrs. Hill had. Foster-Milburn Co.,
Mfrs., Buffalo, N. Y. 65-30.
So’