-
Demoreaic; aldo
Bellefonte, Pa., January 21, 1921.
THREE GIFTS.
#Courage, Love and Fun.”—George Wynd-
ham’s motto.
By W. M. Letts, in the London Spectator.
Bach day a beggar woman at the portal
Of God’s high house, by urgent need em-
boldened,
I ask gifts for you, my well-beloved
Three gifts beyond the wealth of djinn or
mortal;
Courage to stand now all the earth seems
quaking
And wise men grow perplexed and king-
doms totter.
Now faith is sifted, old tradition tattered.
A broken world in need of each man’s
making;
Love that shall find your Kkith in friend
and stranger,
Brother in man and beast, in saint and
sinner,
And cleanse your heart or grudge or pride
or grievance,
Bidding you seek Christ in an asses’ man-
ger;
Fun ever quick to kindly speech and
laughter,
Swift with a jest the day your heart is
breaking.
Fun that shall cheer dull years and send
you whistling
Clear-eyed and cool to meet
Hereafter,
With these you shall
praise or pity,
Defeat shall brace you, conquest make you
humble;
So you shall fight and march and sing till
moonrise
Lights up the walls of the Celestial City.
the brave
not need men's
THE COMPACT.
The sun beat down upon the sandy
road. In places the highway
been swept bare by the wind,
which had piled the sand in drifts by
the roadside or in the near-by fields.
There was no grass between field and
road, and the long rows of corn stood
wilting in the mid-afternoon heat.
Running parallel with the road, like a
dejected companion, was the bed of a
stream, its sand as innocent of mois-
ture as the highway.
A man stood silent in the road, his
head bowed like the leaves of corn,
and bared to the scorching sun, his
y-felt hat crushed in his clenched
at. So he had stood, motionless, for
the last ten minutes. A sudden breeze
from the south sprang up and rustled
the dry leaves of a cottonwood by the
creek-bed. It struck the man’s cheek
like the blast from an open furnace,
and then passed swiftly to its real
mission, blasting the already doomed
corn. At the touch of the wind the
man lifted his head defiantly, as
though it had been a challenge, and
felt, though he did not deign to see,
the blight that marked the path of the
wind.
There had been no rain since June,
and this was August. But the prairie
crop is used to drought and there had
been hope for the corn until the hot
winds came three days before. Since
that time Enoch Cornwall had neither
eaten nor slept. At night he sat
brooding by his doorstep until dawn.
When the heat was most intense he
walked bareheaded through the fields,
lifting his head suddenly whenever
the wind smote his cheek. His great
frame had become gaunt, and his
cheeks drawn, but a fierce light burn-
ed in his eyes, bloodshot from sleep-
lessness and the glare from the sun.
The dust and burning heat had dulled
the blackness of his matted hair. The
perspiration had caked the dust on his
shirt. This defiant, uncared-for figure
was wholly alien to the zealous, self-
confident leader that had guided the
temporal and spiritual affairs of the
Walnut Ridge inhabitants for more
than two years. (Walnut Ridge being
a misnomer for a neighborhood that
had neither walnut-trees nor ridges,
but was the namesake of some happier
spot in that indefinite region known
as “Back East.”)
wall was the shepherd of a flock that
gathered to worship in the small, un-
painted school house barely visible on
the horizon from where he now stood.
But the school house had held no serv-
ice for three weeks because the flock,
one by one as the dry season advanc-
ed, had gone into the lands whence
they came, and Enoch had put forth
no hand to stay them. There had been
a day—and his eyes now filled with
scorn at the thought—when he had
babbled foolish words to his parish-
ioners about the providences of God,
and had exhorted them that, having
put their hands to the plow, they
should not look back. But that was
before the summer when the grass-
hoppers had riddled the promising
fields, or before the sand storms of
early spring had blown out the wheat,
or She hot winds had blasted the
earth.
Three times had the discouraged
people taken heart again, encouraged
by the fair promises of a crop, and
each time their faith had been mock-
ed and their efforts returned to them
fruitless. At first Enoch had preach-
ed with great fervor, assuring them
that God only desired a fiery trial of
their faith, and at the crucial moment
he would stay the forces of destruc-
tion as God had stayed the hand of
Abraham and restored Isaac. He
charged their early failures to a lack
of faith, and urged them with passion-
ate zeal to greater exhibitions of
trust.
He was gifted with the eloquence
and dominating zeal of the born lead-
er. His superabundance of physical
vitality and confidence carried his
flock through one hopeless period
after another. They became entirely
dependent on him as nature failed
them, the responsibility only increas-
ing his fervor. But when the answers
to his prophecies were continued fail-
aires and the fields lay wasted and
parched, doubt crept into his own
heart and his message had less as-
surance. His body began to succumb
to the constant drain on it. He stop-
ped working on the frame house that
he had been building by the side of
his dugout. He even ceased writing
to the girl in the East who was to
For Enoch Corn- !
come in the early fall, and her letters
to him lay unopened in the postoffice,
twelve miles away, whither he had not
gone for weeks. And the change in
Enoch’s mental state was reflected in
the settled despair on the faces of his
flock. Their dull, hopeless eyes accus-
ed him. He had failed as an interme-
diary between them and God. The cul-
mination came one Sunday when
Enoch stood before them and gave a
passionate message which sounded
woefully like a denunciation of Prov-
idence.
And now there was no need for ex-
hortation, because the little flock was
gone. Only a few non-church goers,
single men who lived alone in the dug-
out, remained to neighbor with
Enoch. As for the shepherd himself,
he no longer prayed—he only brood-
ed. Yesterday his best work-horse
had died. The one remaining was
sick. His cows were dry from lack of
pasture. But he made no effort to op-
pose the ravages of the drought. An
awful apathy possessed him. A fury
was slowly gathering within aim.
This morning he had noticed his Bible
open on the table, and he had thrust
it into the stove. But some force
had made him withdraw his hand, so
he had only pushed the book under a
chest out of sight.
Now as the wind passed over the
field his eye caught sight of some-
thing on the distant horizon. It was
a thunder-capped cloud, such as had
often formed in the sky since the dry
season came on. At the same instant
a black bird came sailing across the
waste, as if straight from the heart of
the cloud, growing larger as it ap-
proached, until, to Enoch’s distorted
vision, it blotted out the sky. It de-
scended slowly and settled on a bough
of the cottonwood. It was a buzzard
of unusual size, and it seemed to fix
its sinister attention on the man in
the road. The sight touched some
hidden spring which held the slow-
accumulating fury of days. The man
began to scream, jumping yp and
down in the road. He hurled violent
imprecations at the bird until he be-
came incoherent and only babbled.
Then he suddenly raised his clenched
fists to the sky and hissed, “You you,
you.” The effort exhausted him.
Weak with the heat and lack of food,
he began to blubber, muttering brok-
enly as he stumbled down the road.
Instinctively he sought the shelter of
some bushes and lay quiet until the
storm of his emotions passed. A
geat calmness came over him; his
nerves settled and his mind cleared.
He began to speak as if to a second
person, quietly and deliberately: “I
have done my best, but you have de-
ceived me. You have deceived my
people. I have no more faith in you.
I am under no obligations to you, and
I withdraw my allegiance to you. I
will depend on other help.”
He felt stronger then, much as if he
had prayed. Then he rose and looked
about, as if to shake off his former
personality he moved to another posi-
tion. Then, still speaking quietly, he
said: “If there be any other power
that can give succor, come. I do not
promise to trust until I have seen the
promise fulfilled.” He waited a mo-
ment, but there was no sound, not
even of ‘the wind. So he tramped
steadily down the road toward his
dugout. Once he thought some one
came out of the corn-field, just behind
him, but it was only the whir of the
buzzard’s wings as 1t passed over his
head. Again he was sure that he
heard the rumble of a wagon in the
road, but the highway lay bare and
empty in the heat.
The clouds were piling up in the
southeast, but he did not heed them.
When he reached the dugout he
straightened up the untidy rooms
which had not been cleared out for
days, working calmly, steadily, despite
the increasing ‘darkness. The wind
had fallen and the prairie was op-
pressively still. He did his chores,
looked after the sick horse, and sat
down to supper. It was his first meal
for days. He ate long and deliberate-
ly, paying no heed to the increasing
thunder or the spurts of wind which
sprang up now and then. He cleared
away the dishes and went outside,
walking between the corn-rows. It
was pitch dark and ominously still.
A great quiet was upon Enoch Corn-
wall’s soul, but it was not the oppres-
sive quiet of the storm, but rather a
kind of exultation, a waiting for
something which was to come. Once
he lifted his arms as if in invitation.
Then he passed on while the wind rag-
ed through the corn. He halted sud-
denly, thinking a figure approached,
but when he stopped it seemed to dif-
fuse itself into the general darkness.
As he walked he was conscious of a
subtle change in himself. He felt as
though he was assuming another per-
sonality with different motives and
purposes. He walked lightly, and
power surged through him until he
felt there was no limit to his strength.
Once he lifted his head and listened,
as if to some one speaking, then he
answered aloud, deliberately, “Twen-
ty-five years.” Again a figure seemed
to loom before him in the road, but
the next moment the storm broke with
a thunder peal and lightning flash
that rived the heavens and then let
fall a curtain of blackness and a del-
uge of rain. The man stood quietly
in the field, unconscious of the down-
pour. When he came to himself he
was sitting in his own dugout, drench-
ed to the skin. He looked wondering-
ly at the window-panes down which
the water was streaming. It had been
raining an hour. He became con-
scious of his wet clothes and reached
for a dry coat. In doing so he knock-
ed something to the floor. It was a
part of his accumulated mail which
some neighbor had brought from the
postoffice. He stooped and picked up
a letter which was in Marian War-
ren’s handwriting. One sentence as
he opened the missive caught his eye
and held it: “I am coming to you,
Enoch, because I feel in some way you
need me.”
He read on:
“Maybe I feel this way because the
crops have not been good. I hope I
can find a school and teach this win-
ter. It is not fair that you should
bear all the burden. The Beals fami-
ly are moving into your community
next month, and I can travel with
them for company.”
He noted the date of the letter. It
was weeks back. - He put the letter
away without surprise or emotion,
feeling only that the long responsibil-
ity for others had fallen from him,
and that his own affairs were being
shaped by a superior force. He ac-
depied the new administration, or
whatever it was, with the passivity
that follows prolonged exhaustion,
and went to bed to sound and dream-
less sleep.
The sun that waked him in the
morning was not the glare of yester-
day but a softened glow that might
have been shed by a sun of May. That
morning might have been the first
that followed creation, so fresh and
sparkling was the earth it saw. Men
standing in their dugouts said a mir-
acle had been wrought. The corn
stood upright, rustling its slender rib-
bons in the breeze.
A neighbor riding past Enoch’s door |
called, joyously, “It’s the turning-
point!” and so it was called ever after-
ward.
Enoch, looking far across the ho- |
rizon, had muttered after him,” The
turning-point,” and wondered what
that might imply.
The rain had been general. The cri-
sis was past and the news spread
quickly. Covered wagons moved
down the deserted road and a new and
hopeful immigration quickly repeo-
pled the abandoned communities... In
the van of this:immigration came the
Beals family, bringing Marian War-
ren with them.
“And so you came, Marian, accord-
ing to promise,” Enoch said.
“Yes, I came as I promised,” she
answered, wholly alien to his mean-
ing. “And now I am going to teach.”
“No; we must marry at once. You
are part of my reward.”
“Of course, if you wish it,” Marian
answered, a little puzzled by Enoch’s
manner, “but we can wait until the
new church is built.”
At this Enoch’s manner became
more decisive. “There is no church
now,” he declared, his tone strange in
spite of his precaution. Then, seeing
Marian’s look of astonishment, he ex-
plained that the church had been :
abandoned because the members had
left the neighborhood and that it was
not likely to be resumed again, be-
cause the incoming population were
of various faiths. He could not have
told why the words cost him so much
effort nor why the whole explanation,
though true enough, seemed like a
patchwork of lies. He dared not sug-
gest, as he wanted. to do, that they be
married before a justice of the peace
and go straight to their own home.
Marian’s wedding festivities seemed
much like a makeshift at best com-
pared with the one she had once plan-
ned, so he consented to let Mrs. Beals
decorate her house and prepare the
wedding dinner that was too great a
holiday to pass by in ordinary fash-
ion. They were married within a
month after Marian came, and the
days preceding it were filled with mis-
ty glamour for Enoch. He looked up-
on the past summer as a bad dream
that was over. He did. not stop to
{ analyze ‘other great changes that had
come into his life. He rather put by
| all questions that arose and accepted
without question such things as the
gods provided.
Sometimes in those days he lifted
his head exultantly and laughted, he
knew not why. He had done this on
the morning of his wedding, before he | tivation of their farms, about the care |
Blindly he turned the leaves and be-
gan at random on a chapter singularly
inappropriate for the founding of a
new home. He read the chapter about
how Esau sold his birthright for a.
mess of pottage, and could not again
find it, though he sought it earnestly
and with tears. He laid the book
down heavily, resolved never to read
it again if it gave forth such words of
torure. He sat in silence while Mar-
ian knelt and finished the family de-
votions.
Later he went out into the night and
. looked up at the quiet stars and won-
: dered if there was in all the universe
| a being so tortured as he. He thought
: of the weary days to be lived through
in the stretch of years that lay before
' him, and raised his clenched hands to
the stars, but dropped them again—
| realizing the futility either of plead-
ings or curses—and went into the
house.
The days that followed tested his
| vitality and strong will-power to sup-
i port an appearance of happiness be-
| fore Marian. She knew in a vague
! way that he had fallen from grace,
but try as she might she could not
enetrate the barrier which her hus-
and imposed between her and his in-
‘ner self, although in general he was
more submissive to her than in the
days when he ‘had been the eloquent,
. domineering,” spiritual leader of his
i flock. He was tender now where he
had once been harsh and assertive, be-
i ing at once more refined and less emo-
i tional, gentler and colder than the
! former Enoch.
i After the new church was built he
, could not avoid attendance, and sat in
i stony rigidity beside Marian’s absorb-
ed worship. He was half touched,
half resentful ove: the knowledge that
this absorption was the petition of the
| saintly wife for her wayward husband.
During the revival services, which
. were protracted agony to him, he knew
that he was the subject of much pray-
er and solicitation by the congrega-
, tion, and that Marian was regarded
as a model of wifely piety and mar-
tyrdom. Painful as this was to his
sensitive nature, it was better than
hypocrisy would have been, and in-
finitely less agonizing than the serv-
ice itself. The songs sometimes woke
depths of old emotions and longing,
and he was once more in fancy before
his flock in fiery exhortation or tender
pleading. Then he remembered the
barrier that interposed: between him
and the santtuary,.anda feeling like
ice closed about his heart.
Marian carried her burden, too. She
was compelled to sit dumb and help-
less, sensible of a grief she could not
fathom, and unable to pierce the
gloom or reach a hand to bridge the
gap between herself and Enoch.
_ As the years progressed he settled
into the role of the confirmed unbe-
liever in the eyes of his neighbors,
and church attendance was not incum-
bent upon him. He went only at rare
intervals to propitiate Marian but the
i rarity of the occasions redoubled their
i torture.
{ __Outwardly Enoch had prospered.
! He had accumulated many acres. His
| crops never failed, and his breed of
| stock was the best in the community.
| He came to be the model for the far-
; mers in that part of the country. They
j came to him for advice about the cul-
The boy understood and questioned no
further. He comprehended Enoch as
no other human creature did. There
was a bond between them stronger
than the ordinary bond of father and
son. It was as if from the dank and
evil swamp of Enoch’s despair had
sprung this rare and exotic plant. The
an impression of ephemerality, as if
he were only a temporary visitor in
this material world. That might have
been because he inherited his mother’s
fairness instead of the massive mas-
culinity of Enoch. He did not lack a
boy’s love of merriment, but under-
neath was a gravity beyond his years.
Enoch trembled with apprehension
when Sonny grew old enough to be
sent from home for better schooling
than the neighborhood afforded. The
winter of his absence was one of ach-
ing loneliness and occasional seasons
of the old haunting fear, but it ended
at length, and Sonny returned, taller
of limb and manlier of bearing, but as
eager to follow his father about as
ever. Enoch came as near to peace as
he had ever known those first few
days of renewed companionship with
Sonny. For once the days were too
short for him. They did not contain
enough hours to say all that waited to
be said between him and Sonny. He
could not bear the hoy out of his:sight.
‘Sometimes-he arose inthe night . to
look on his face as he slept. He drank
in the features, absorbing the image
of them for some future time when
they would be denied him.
The summer opened with fair pros-
pects for a good season, though it was
unusually dry. But as weeks passed
and the dry weather continued the
people realized they were facing a
serious drought. Not that a single
season’s failing could ruin the pros-
pects of a prosperous community, but
it threw a depression over the country,
and the people began to talk of the
great drought a quarter of a century
before. Enoch, absorbed in Sonny’s
prasence, had not succumbed to the
depression as early as his neighbors,
but as the drought continued, with oc-
casional hot winds, a strange restless-
ness seized him. Something in the
glare of the sun on the sandy roads,
and the sight of the parched fields,
recalled another scene when the land
lay like an unpeopled desert. As the
days succeeded one another there
was going backward. He half expect-
‘ed at times to see the buildings and
other outward signs of the years’ pas-
sage disappear. He watched with
strained eyes the water in the creek
that crossed his farm dwindle day by
day, much as a man might watch the
running of the sands inan hour glass.
Even Sonny was powerless to break
the spell that was weaving upon him.
Enoch no longer looked at the boy
with adoring eyes, but searched the
sky or sat motionless, listening, wait-
ing for something, his eyes alert, but
oblivious of the objects at which he
gazed. Sonny watched his father
closely, often following him at a dis-
tance on his solitary excursions into
the fields. Sometimes, waking sud-
denly in the night with a sense that
his father was not in the house, he
sought until he found him, a lonely,
silent figure in the moonlight. Occa-
sionally he made his presence known
by laying his hand on Enoch’s shoul-
came into the house for Marian. At, of their stock, and every conceivable | der, but more often he stayed apart.
| question that might arise in farm | He divined that the sight of him tor-
‘of the formal ritual,
the sight of her, sweet and demure in
all her white draperies, something in
his brain snapped. Marian, the
neighbors standing stiffly in funeral
silence about the little room, the min-
ister with the open book, vanished.
Enoch was fighting his way through
an awful blackness, battling with a
wind that was destroying the world.
It was only an instant or only an eter-
nity, but when he came to himself he
was mechanically repeating his part
and staring
through the window opposite at a cot-
tonwood tree. A sudden hot breeze
stirred the curtain. A bird flew across
the sky, aiming straight for the tree.
Enoch stared apprehensively, but it
only dipped and passed out of sight.
As early as he could do so he slipped
from the house into the yard and
searched the sky, but there was no
bird in sight and the wind was soft.
Yet he heard somewhere, like the dim
toll of a bell in his soul, the sound of
doom. When he returned to the house
a well-meaning neighbor slapped him
on the shoulder and rallied him on de-
serting his bride. :
“Remember, you're no longer a free
man.”
The words set all the bells tolling,
and he knew in that hour that he
would never again be free. He wore
invisible but no less powerful shack-
les, the more painful in that nobody
else knew of them. When he next
looked at his bride it was with a sense
that he must share her with an invis-
ible presence that walked always just
behind him.
How he got through the awful day,
playing his role of happy bridegroom
before the guests, he could not tell.
How Marian could fail to see through
the miserable pretense, he could not
fathom. But the neighbors united in
saying that they had not suspected
that Cornwall was such a genuinely
good fellow, and Marian noticed with
surprise jokes and laughter which she
had not remembered as characteristic
of her rather serious preacher-lover.
The day finally closed and they
drove homeward. Enoch fell into
such a silence that Marian jested with
him, and then became silent herself,
hurt by his attitude. Enoch had look-
ed forward to the evening for respite,
but, with the necessity for being gay
removed, an awful misery settled over
him, the more keen because he real-
ized that his one hope of solace had
failed him. He aroused himself at
length and sought to appease his
bride, uttering half-hearted jests that
in no wise deceived her.
In the gloom that encompassed him
as he did his familiar chores he did
not foresee the difficulties that were
sure to arise from his anomalous po-
sition. So he sat down to their first
meal together, unthinking. Marian
bowed her head and waited, expectant-
ly. Then when the silence grew un-
bearable she herself said grace. But
she avoided Enoch’s eyes, and he
knew his conduct had been inexplica-
ble to her. As head of the house and
as a minister of the gospel he could
not avoid leading in the family devo-
tions. At bedtime she brought him
her own Bible and sat down, waiting.
‘ management. When he realized how
casily scccess fell to his lot, it came
to be a kind of substitute for other
happiness, and he engrossed himself
in his work more and more as time
passed. His shackles galled less, be-
cause of long usage—except at inter-
vals, when fear caught him in its old
grip.
His satisfaction in his broad acres
and filled granarics was built upon a
definite hope after his son’s birth.
Nine childless year dotted with three
little graves preceded this event.
Marian’s childlessness had been the
chief sorrow of her life, and she
yearned over the boy; but from the
time he had first reached up tiny fists
to Enoch, to the end of his life, he was
his father’s son. On the day of the
baby’s birth Enoch descried on the ti-
ny fist a mark that took on the faint
but unmistakable outlines of a bird in
his eyes. He took up his little son
tenderly and said with passion, “Little
son, you are mine, mine.”
At last Enoch had found a compan-
ion, one who understood him and did
not probe the wounds in his soul. The
two were seldom separated except for
the times which “Sonny,” as his fath-
er called him, grudgingly gave to
school and sleep. He rode the horses
when he was too small to walk, and
followed in the furrow, manfully
holding the plow handles when he
grew older. His mother complained
that after she took off his long dress-
es she never saw him in the house ex-
cept at meal time. Occasionally he
played truant from school on sunny
days in spring and came running joy-
ously across the field to Enoch, whom
he disarmed with a guileless smile.
“I was lonesome for you, fadder,
and so I camed back,” he would say.
After that Enoch could not chide him.
It was inevitable that Sonny should
ask about the mark on his hand, put-
ting by his mother’s tender interpre-
tation that it was the kiss which the
angels had given him. Sonny was
serious-minded from his long associa-
tion with his father, and put no cre-
dence in such foolishness. To this
question Enoch had answered:
“You know markers put their trade
mark on their particular goods. You
are my own particular son, and that
is my trade mark on you; and no-
body,” he had finished solemnly, “can
claim you from me.”
“But did the angels put it there,
fadder?”
“I don’t know, Sonny. I can’t say,
but I hope so.”
The boy ever afterward regarded
the symbol with pride as his father’s
“trade mark,” though he said noth-
ing, realizing intuitively that it was
something his father did not want
mentioned. Once the boy had ques-
tioned him about God and the eternal
problems that knock sometimes in
every child’s mind. Enoch explained
to him as he had never been able to
explain to any one else, without pain
or effort, that it was not possible for
him to discuss these questions with
him, but he could learn all he wanted
to know from his mother, and he must
believe implicitly what she told him.
| tured his father. He often caught his
father’s eyes on the birthmark, but no
word was spoken concerning their
changed relations.
It was a day in mid-August when
the sky was filled with thunder-caps
that Enoch wandered, without notic-
ing his direction, down an unused,
sandy road. The scene took on a
strange familiarity. A bare cotton-
wood seared by lightning stood before
him, and straight from the southeast
a buzzard flew across the sky and set-
tled on the tree. The blood beat
against Enoch’s brain. Steps came
out of the corn-field behind him, and
he listened as he had done for days,
feeling that his waiting was nearly
over. The next moment Sonny laid
his hands on Enoch’s clenched fists.
His muscles relaxed. His eyes met
the compassion in Sonny’s and became
sane. The boy stooped and picked up
a stone, which he aimed at the buz-
zard on the tree. The bird arose and
flew into the far sky whence it had
come, the two watching it silently out
of sight. Then Sonny spoke:
“It will never come back, father.
Let’s go home. The heat is terrible.”
Enoch looked at the boy and realiz-
ed that he was ill. :
“Sonny, you're not well!” he cried,
sharply, restoring at once their old re-
lationship. ;
“It is only the heat, I think. Ihave
not felt well lately. I’ll be all right
iwhen we get to the house.”
But his feet stumbled as he spoke,
and Enoch put his arm around his
shoulders, and the two made their
slow way across the field. :
Marian stood in the doorway, wait-
ing for them. The fever she had ex-
pected was come. Sonny fell uncon-
scious across the door-sill at her feet.
They put him to bed and summoned
a doctor and nurse. Through the long,
oppressive hours of the hot afternoon
the watchers about the bed waited.
For them time was suspended and life
was centered on a single fact of exis-
tence.
an early twilight of the late after-
noon. Some subtle presence had en-
tered with the twilight. The docter
closed his watch. His head dropped
imperceptibly lower. The nurse ad-
justed the curtain. Thus the great in-
truder in the quiet room announced
his presence, not with the blare of
trumpets, but in apparently slight and
casual acts. A great rage and despair
seized Enoch. He laid hold of the
framework at the foot of the bed,
great beads of sweat on his forehead.
Sonny turned his head slightly,
looking with clear eyes at his father,
and said in a weak voice, “I'll be all
right, father, when the rain begins.”
Then he drifted back into unconscious-
ness.
Enoch turned and went out into the
night. Blacker than the thick dark-
ness of the storm was the weight of
doom upon him. This was the end of
his weeks of waiting. But he felt no
defiance, only an awful sorrow. With
a great cry he threw himself on the
ground and dug his nails in the dry
earth. He sought pleas for mercy,
but found no words. The wind shook
boy was healthy enough, but he gave |
came to him a curious sense that-time
An approaching storm made |
the trees and the lightning increased,
but the man lay groveling on the
ground. At last he arose. There was
no power to whom he might appeal,
no help in all the world. An accusing
Deity did not even arise to confront
him. He was utterly desolate and
alone. He returned to the house.
In the brief time of his absence the
Presence had installed itself in the
household like an undesired guest who
ignores the contempt of the hostess
and remains. But something else had
come, too, that seemed to check the in-
solence of the unbidden Presence.
The hours of suffering had worn
grooves in Sonny’s face, but peace
had come now, and he only waited for
Enoch. He could not lift his hand
from the bed, but Enoch saw at a
glance that every trace of the birth-
mark was gone.
“It’s all right, father,” he murmur-
ed. “I am glad I could do it.”
Enoch stumbled to his knees, a lost
name on his lips. “My God, my God!”
. The rain began to fall gently out-
side—By Alma G. Madden, in Har-
per’s Monthly Magazine.
ONLY MUSEUM OF PENNA. ART
AT STATE COLLEGE.
George Gray Barnard’s Model of the
“Kneeling Woman” Latest Ad-
” dition.
The only special museum for the
collection of the works of Pennsylva-
nia artists that exists in the State, is
maintained at The Pennsylvania State
College, and was augmented recently
by the addition of the original plaster
model used by George Gray Barnard
for his celebrated figure “The Kneel-
ing Woman.” The finished product of
this study was made for the New
York estate of John D. Rockefeller.
The model is the most massive of the
many articles that have been gather-
ed together at State College, repre-
senting the handiwork of native Penn-
sylvanians in the field of art, and was
donated to the college by the great
sculptor. Widely known as the pro-
ducer of the famous groups at the en-
trance to the Keystone State capitol
building, Barnard was born and rais-
ed in Bellefonte, twelve miles from
State College.
The model made by Daniel Chester
French for his famous statue of La-
fayette which stands in New York
city, was given to the college by the
sculptor. An alumnus of Lafayette
College recently presented that insti-
tution with a replica of the figure of
Lafayette.
City Beautiful May be Only Skin
Deep.
It is possible for the “city beautiful
to be only skin deep,” according to
Professor A. W. Cowell, head of the
landscape gardening course at The
Pennsylvania State College. - In teach-
ing the theories of this movement
that has swept the country in recent
years he urges his students to take
advantage of every chance to acquire
rzal and lasting attractiveness in
every way possible and from the prac-
tical, human and aesthetic stand-
points. Several graduates of Penn
! State are actively engaged in city
| planning and public improvement, and
! the training there has met with such
j success that steps are being taken to
i elaborate on the “Country Beautiful.”
| The science of city planning has
taken its place among the professions
and has a present following in the
United States of a hundred or more
professional experts, besides the land-
scape architects and thousands of cit-
| izens serving on local planning boards.
i The principles of the city planning
are studied at State College through
text books and lectures by Professor
Cowell, who has been a recognized au-
thority on the subject throughout its
development. Planning problems,
real estate sub-division, traffic and
housing problems are treated in a
practical way, and in addition to its
study by landscape architects, classes
are frequently joined by students in
civil and architectural engineering.
Hunters Should Return License Stubs.
Many sportsmen throughout the
State are under-the impression it is
not urgent that each man who secured
a hunter’s license for 1920 see to it
that the stub attached to the end of
the license is sent to the Game Com-
mission at Harrisburg at the close of
the season, or as soon thereafter as
possible. This is an entirely errone-
ous impression. The Game Commis-
sion earnestly requests that all these
stubs be sent in immediately whether
any game was killed or not, and any
sportsman who has up to this time
neglected to send in his report should
see to it that this is done at once.
The work of tabulating the data
from the individual reports received
is now under way but unless hunt-
ers who have not yet sent in their re-
ports get busy, it will delay this tab-
ulation considerably. The data al-
ready collected is producing informa-
tion that will be invaluable to every
resident of the State.
Do you want your county to fall
down in this matter? If not get
busy; send in your report and see to
it that ygur fellow-sportsmen do the
same.
Respectfully yours,
SETH E. GORDON,
Sec’'y Game Commission.
Pipes to Carry Coal.
New York officials are considering
a plan to keep the city supplied with
fuel by means of two 14-inch pipe
lines extending from the anthracite
region in Pennsylvania. According
to R. P. Balton, a mechanical engi-
neer who has worked out the scheme,
there is a fall in elevation of 2000
feet between Scranton and New York
and this would make it easy to force
coal through the pipe by water pres-
sure. The two pipe lines, he says,
would carry 7,000,000 tons of coal for
the city’s needs.
WE
Time to Go.
“She said ‘No?’ ”
“Yes,” said the dejected suitor.
“Cheer up. A woman’s ‘No’ some-
times means ‘Yes.””
“Not in this case. The door bell
rang and she produced the other
man.”—Birmingham Age-Herald.