Ealefonte, Pa., September 30, 1921.
EE EAST.
THE REQUIREMENTS OF HONOR.
It’s only a matter of thinking right,
It’s only the way that you look at things,
It’s only yourself that you have to fight
When an easier way the tempter brings.
It isn’t a difficult thing to do
If you stop te think as you go along;
The crossing roads shouldn't puzzle you,
It’s easy to choose the right from the
wrong.
Decency isn’t a life-long task,
It’s only a matter of thinking right,
It’s only yourself that you have to ask
When you face a deed that may bring a
blight.
It’s only an instant from right to wrong,
Though oft, indeed, must the choice be
made,
If you stop to think as you go along
You will never whine that your feet have
strayed.
Honor's a thing that we all can keep,
How’er we differ in sirength and brain,
Decency isn’t so vague and deep
That a man should needlessly take a
stain.
The line is sharp and the line is clear,
As the day is never confused with night,
It isn’t so hard to be honest here,
It’s only a matter of thinking right.
AFTER MIDNIGHT.
Though it was only the first night
of the house party, the big hall clock
chimed midnight before Nicholas left
the gay -group that had gathered
around the log fire in the hotel lobby.
He did not take the elevator but
sauntered slowly up the broad flight
of stairs that led from the living-
room to the floor above.
The ‘rest called up to him with
laughing taunts as he looked down at
them over the banisters, and he sigh-
ed with relief as he reached the first
turn of the wide staircase. A good ci-
gar and the magazine he had up in
his room; then he would turn in, to be
fresh for the morning’s golf.
As he lifted his eyes he saw ahead
of him a black-gowned woman who
was slowly going up the few remain-
ing steps. He was approving of her
slender, V-necked back when, at the
sound of Nicholas’s feet on the thick
carpet, she turned and stared down at
him.
He in turn stared up at her, finding
her young and pleasing. Her glance
was so steady that he started to pass
her with a perfunctory little bow,
when she spoke.
Nicholas noticed that she had a
creamy skin, with unhappy eyes and
a petulant little mouth.
“You look nice. Don’t you want to
come in and have a smoke?” Glanc-
ing back over her shoulder, she went
on up the stairs.
“She has earrings on,” thought
Nicholas cautiously, remembering re-
marks of his sisters about such pagan |
jewelry. He followed her slowly and
in the dimly lighted hall he stopped.
It was quite unconventional, he ar-
gued, forgetting the good magazine
up in his room.
“Well ?” she asked; not even a smile
on her pale face. Unconsciously Nich-
olas must have glanced towards the
staircase. From below came the hi-
larious mirth.
“] have never cared much for this
sort of thing,” Nicholas said stiffly.
“This isn’t ‘this sort of thing!’ ”’ she
retorted, her full, sulky mouth tight-
ening. “I'm terribly lonely. I'd talk
to any one who looked nice. All right
then. Don’t come!”
She turned away from him, sweep-
ing down to the end of the corrider.
Nicholas looked miserably around
to see if any one were looking, then
hurried after her.
“Just for a minute,” he said reck-
lessly.
Though for a sober-going man his
decision was tremendous, she showed
“no signs of pleasure or displeasure,
unlocking the door and going in with-
out further invitation.
Nicholas, to whom this nocturnal
visit was a cataclysmic event, felt
hurt that she was not more impressed
with his yielding to the swaying of the
long earrings. But with a nervous
look down the corridor he shot into |
the room.
She was turning up a great many
little ping lamps that revealed a sit-
ting-room so luxurious that he was
quite dazed—which he showed by
sinking into a low arm chair to rise
again very suddenly, followed by an
angry, spitting ball of fur.
“Oh!” murmured Nicholas. “I'm
afraid I sat on the cat!”
There was only a faint smile on her
face and Nicholas felt as though it
would have to be something extraor-
dinarily funny to make her really
laugh. He himself thought there was
humor in the situation—his going in-
to a strange woman’s room at mid-
night and then sitting on the cat!
“Cigarettes? Cigar?” She thrust
a well-supplied tray in front of him.
Nicholas had been kept so thorough-
ly guarded by a thoughtful family
that he had never before been with a
woman who smoked.
This one sank into a chair opposite
him, took the indignant Angora up in-
to her arms, smoothed it into purring
and blew skillful little, smoke rings
across the room.
Nicholas had always thought-—se-
cretly—it a cozy thing to smoke with
a pretty woman; but at this, his ini-
tial experience, he felt a little uneasy
and tried to remember whether any of
his house-party had rooms on the sec-
ond floor. The problem of the man-
ner in which he was to get out with-
out being seen was already taking
away his pleasure in his own daring.
Then she turned on him her serious
dark eyes that never smiled.
“Who are you? What are you do-
ing down here?”
Perfunctorily Nicholas felt in his
poekes for a card, but she interrupted
im.
“No, I don’t mean that. I don’t care
anything about your name. I just
mean, why are you here?”
Nicholas looked at her earnestly.
This was not the flirtation he had
braced himself against. “I’m here,”
‘about fifty-five.” She paused.
he answered literally, “beacuse, what
with working at the office——" {
“Qh, I see! The tired business
man!” 5
The cat tucked its paws beneath it-
self, curled up in her lap, and went to
sleep.
‘ Ves admitted Nicholas, wonder-
ing if she were making a joke. “I like
golf when I get a chance, and these
people asked me to come along. Then
Sunday and the holiday came togeth-
er, so it seemed a good chance——"
“Um,” she said thoughtfully, con-
sidering his words. : Fae
There was a pause in which Nicho-
las fought between the desire to lean
back in that comfortable chair and the
discreet inclination to get out of this
peculiar atmosphere.
mark startled him. :
“I suppose you'd like to know who
I am—not that it matters in the least,
but you’d like to know what I do?”
There was a half-frozen smile on
Nicholas’s face.
“I’m companion for a very rich old | sent her checks instead.” She sighed.
lady.” She made the statement chal-
lengingly as though he might contra-
dict it. “She likes hotel life, goes
from one to another all over the coun-
try. I—I’m the poor relation. I have
to follow on!”
Nicholas noticed that her " black
evening gown was very plain and that
the only ornaments she wore were the
dangling earrings he had been train-
ed to avoid.
“I'd say that was all right!” he ob-
served. “You must see a lot of the
country!”
“Oh, yes!” she said indifferently.
“Only I never see it as I like to—it’s
always been from an automobile. I'm
never alone except evenings like this.”
Nicholas relaxed ever so slightly.
“How is it you have your evenings?”
he asked.
“She gambles then,” she said con-
temptously. “I hate cards. Wherever
we are, she picks up a crowd to play
with. I amuse myself. An~nd she plays
late.”
“Doing it now?”
She nodded. “In the card room. If
she wins, she’ll be nice. If she loses
——" She shrugged her shoulders.
“But you ought to be dancing, or
talking—or with someone——""
“Or flirting?” She pushed the cat
out of her lap and began to pace up
and down the room. “I don’t like it.”
Nicholas felt uncomfortable. He
didn’t like to have people walk up and
down the room as they talked. No
one he knew at home did that. Be-
sides, it annoyed him to have her an-
nounce in this cold blooded way that
she didn’t like flirting. Why else had
she asked him in.
She paused before a jar filled with
arbutus. “Isn’t this a wonderful per-
fume?” Bending caressingly over it,
she went on: “You see I've lost my
taste for men as men. Since I've
been—in this position—I've learned
too much about them.”
“How 7”
“She’s married.” She pointed down
stairs with a hand that Nicholas no-
ticed was very small. “She did it five
years ago.”
“I thought you said she was ‘old,”’
said Nicholas the definite.
She shrugged her shoulders again.
“It seems old to me, though she’s only
“She’s
she said
supported him ever since,
slolwy.
“Is he well and healthy ?” Nicholas
held back his scorn until he heard her
answer.
She began her pacing again. “Per-
fectly well and healthy.”
Nicholas snorted. “He must be a
dirty cad!”
“I’ve come to think it wasn’t all his
fault; it’s the way he was brought
up.’
“But no woman can respect a man
she supports!” commented Nicholas
heatedly. “It’s all wrong!”
She flicked off some cigarette ash
as, still pacing up and down, she pass-
ed him. “Are you married ?” she ask-
ed, staring at him, though in a way
that, queerly enough, caused him no
resentment.
“No.” Nicholas wondered why he
did not resent her curiosity.
“Live alone?”
“No. With my mother and two sis-
ters.”
“Support them?”
Nicholas colored up. “Yes and no.
My mother has a small income. I—
kind of help out a little.”
She waved her hand. “I know. 1
have you sized up exactly.”
Nicholas stiffened. “I don’t see
how.”
“It’s all money,” she declared,
standing over him. “It’s terrible to
admit it, but it’s a gauge of character.
You support your mother and sisters
and you can’t help but be a good sort.
You let your wife support you and you
are a rotter!”
Nicholas fumbled to refute her.
“Oh, I know!” She nodded her dark
head wisely. “I know all about mon-
ey. I’ve been disillusioned a long
time. It’s all that counts with most
people.”
“You've got the wrong point of
view.” |
“No, I haven't.” She sat down ona
little footstoel in front of the fireplace,
touching a match to the logs piled
within. “The reason I've always liked
this hotel,” she said irrelevantly, “is
the open fireplaces.”
Yellow flames danced up the chim-
ney and weird shadows over the soft-
ly lighted room.
“I ought to go,” thought Nicholas.
“It must be nearly one o’clock.”
“No,” she continued. “I know all
about marriage and too much money,
from watching this woman I'm with.
It’s the loneliest life in the world. No
one likes her for herself. They're just
out for what she has. She feels that
everyone is ready to do her.”
Nicholas thought of his sisters.
“Why doesn’t she go in for church
work, or settlements, or Red Cross—
something like that?”
“She did. She told me. At first
she thought it was one’s duty, partic-
ularly if one had money. One ought
to help the poor. And she heard that
there were such fine women in that
kind of thing.”
“Didn’t it work?” asked Nicholas.
“My sisters seem to like it. They
seem to like it. They work awfully
hard.”
“| “I never thought of that,”
She clasped her small hand around
her knees.
“She says—this was quite a while
ago, after her parents died and she
got all the money—that at first she
was very happy in it. I mean being
on directors’ boards and meeting those
fine women. They seemed to be glad
to have her one of them and she
thought she was going to have some
real friends.”
i Her head, outlined against the
' crackling flames, drooped as she told
the story, in a monotonous, unemo-
: tional tone. .
| “Then—slowly and gradually—it
came over her that the only reason
they had for wanting her was her
money. They didn’t care in the least
. for her, these fine women; they just
Her next re- wanted some one on their boards who
{had unlimited wealth. They each
, wanted their charity to be ahead, just!
‘like men in business.”
! said
Nicholas thoughtfully.
“So she got out of every one and
“You don’t know what a lonely life it
is!’
Hastily Nicholas went over his lim-
ited list of friends. “I’ve neve
known any very rich people.” Senin
She paid no attention to him. “Then
the men—she told me that she thought
at first that she was attractive,
thought she attracted men. But she
i said she got over that quickly. All
they were after was her money, the
same old story. So she made up her
i mind she would never, never marry.”
| “But she did!” It was like a fairy
tale to Nicholas, this unfolding of the
emotions of a circle unknown to him.
| “Yes,” she said briefly.
A spark flew out from the fire
‘against the hem of her soft black
| gown. She hardly moved as Nicholas
| stamped on it and returned to his
chair.
! “I've known her for a long time,”
! she mused.
“I hope she pays you well.” Nicho-
{las had become an impertinent, eager
1 partisan of this slender figure by the
re.
She shrugged her shoulders with a
foreign gesture that she must have
picked up on her travels. “She pays
me well. But it’s so lonely. * * *”
Nicholas, confused, was always lit-
eral. “But I should think you’d like
the money if you’re—poor!”
look since he had seen her. He had
kept looking for some light in her
heavy, brooding eyes. “Money, really
and truly, means nothing at all to me.”
Then she bit her lip hastily. “Her
husband follows her around—every-
where.” .
“Why has she stood it all this
time?” Nicholas demanded. His
head, unused to domestic complica-
| husband.
{ him?”
“First of all, her religion won't let
i her. Then, in spite of everything, she
i always had rather conventional ideas
about marriage; she doesn’t really be-
| lieve in divorce.” There was another
! shrug. “So there you are!”
| “But she doesn’t have to see him!”
| said Nicholas, bewildered. ;
“It’s queer,” she said slowly, “that
the world doesn’t seem big enough to
| get away from him.
i
“Why doesn’t she divorce
hurrying from one place to another,
so as not to see him.”
ed to hear more about this bitter mid-
dle-aged heiress, who spent her nights
gambling and her days running away
from a spendthrift husband.
The woman did not move from her
thetically. “I’m sorry you're going.
I'd like to talk all night.”
“It’s half-past one,” said Nicholas
nerveusly. “I must go.”
When she spoke her tone was rather
wistful.
“I suppose back home—with your
two sisters—you have awfully nice
times with girls?”
“I havent any girls.”
turned the door-knob uneasily. &
“But they have one picked out for
you, of course,” she said decisively.
“How’d you know that?” asked
Nicholas, - thinking - self-consciously
of a certain buxom Louisa in the
house-party down stairs.
“Oh, I know! And you go off on
nice walks in the country with her!
And carry your lunch in a shoe box?”
Once more he caught a note of longing
in her voice.
“Sometimes.” Nicholas opened the
door, cautiously listening to see if any-
one were in the hall.
“I’ve missed all that kind of thing,”
she said soberly.
Nicholas hardly heard her.
“If I could get away from everyone
—and have walks in the country with
a beau—a beau who liked nice——"
There was no one around, Nicholas
decided, and it was a good chance to
make his escape.
“Good night,” he said grufily. “I'll
see you in the morning.”
She rose to her feet, suddenly tall,
her apathy slipping away from her
and a note of decision in her voice.
“In the morning when you see me,”
she announced imperiously, “you are
not to bow or recognize me.”
ly.
“Because I don’t want you to. Isn't
that enough?”
“Oh!” murmured Nicholas. Then,
as there seemed nothing else to do or
say, he repeated that he must go.
She merely took up a magazine and
he moved awkwardly towards the
door. Hurrying steps down the hall
made him drop the door-knob, and
made his large bulk as inconspicuous
as possible. :
His mind was full of wild thoughts.
He hoped his mother wouldn’t-hear-of
this. If only Louisa and the other
this floor! * * *
He heard her cross the room, open
the door, and close it again.
“It’s just a telegram,” she said, and
her voice sounded very tired.
Nicholas crossed the room with des-
perate speed. “I'm going!” he mut-
tered.
He remembered afterward that she
looked white in spite of all the little
pink lamps, but, bent on getting away,
She flashed him the first animated I
tions—whirled with this annoying:
I suppose that
explains in a way all this hotel life—--
Nicholas rose reluctantly. He want- |
footstool by the fire, locking up apa- |
Nicholas
“Why not?” asked Nicholas Stupid.
hasten across to the window, where he i
girls of the house-party were not on:
he slid softly through the door into the
thall. Down its padded length he tip-
"toed; no one was in sight and the only
signs of life were the shoes neatly
' placed outside the doors.
At the staircase he paused. “It was
all right,” he thought, relieved to be
safely out. “Only I don’t much like—
that—kind of thing.”
i Feeling curiously awake, he turned
| back down into the lobby. The house-
party had all gone to bed; that was
, evident, for the huge room was empty
'except for the clerk at the desk, a
| sleepy bellboy and two scrub-women
in a far corner of the room. Nicho-
‘las, feeling lonesome, crossed to the
office desk on the excuse of getting a
match.
{ “Have to stay up all night?”
asked idly.
| The clerk was a dapper little fellow
who liked to talk. “Yes,” he said,
leaning over the desk. “Eleven to
| seven * * * those are my hours.”
| Nicholas, puffing at his cigar, asked
{a few inconsequential questions about
the golf course to which the clerk re-
“plied verbosely.
| The ringing of the telephone bell
broke into tke clerk’s chatter.
“There you are! You see some one
had to be here all night to answer the
phone.” His voice, however, “as he
answered, was quite cool and profes-
sional. “Yes, certainly, Mrs. Poin-
dexter. I’ll send a boy right down to
the garage. The car will be here in
ten minutes. Yes, I'll send up for the
baggage.”
As he rang off he shook his head at
Nicholas, who was still fumbling his
memory for a definite picture of the
mysterious woman on the floor above.
“Can you beat it? Wants to leave
in the middle of the night!” he whist-
led. Then he turned to prod along the
sleepy bellboy and to telephone in
many different directions.
Nicholas, still leaning against the
desk, did not move, but continued
smoking in a desultory fashion, only
half conscious of the flurried move-
ments behind him. Poor little thing,
she had seemed very lonely. He won-
dered if he couldn’t take her for a
walk in the woods. Only she had said
—very emphatically, almost haughtily
—that he musn’t recognize her; she
had evidently meant that very ser-
iously.
“Here they are now,” whispered the
clerk behind him. :
Nicholas looked up and was startled
to see the woman he had been think-
ing of, the first of a strange retinue
to come out of the elevator.
i In a heavy fur coat and hat, she
- came towards the desk, followed by an
older woman, also heavily and mys-
teriously coated. A maid, bellboys,
with numerous boxes, bags, umbrellas,
and coats, assembled themselves in a
confused mass near the door.
She had reached the desk before she
saw Nicholas. Then her eyes met his
and, mindful of her warning, he did
not show any recognition as she asked
for the bill.
She was very near him there at the
desk, certainly not more than twelve
inches away, and Nicholas longed to
speak to her. Having a definite mind,
he wanted to settle that question
about the shape of her nose. He want-
ed to see what was the color of her
hair.
But she did not turn again in his
direction and, before he realized it, she
had started for the door.
Nicholas’s mouth opened wide in
dismay—he was afraid that she would
slip off and that he would never see
her again. Their eyes met. An arbu-
tus flower fe!l from her belt; there
‘was a gust or cold night air and she
disappeared.
Before the clerk came back from the
outside, Nicholas, with the look of a
. thief, had siezed the little flower, and
was back leaning against the desk.
i The clerk’s face glowed as he re-
turned behind the desk.
| “Say, that was some interesting!”
he rattled on. “They told me it might
happen. She keeps a suite here year
in and year out, only she calls herself
Mrs. Poindexter. Of course the office
here knows her real name, and on the
Q. T. I'll tell you that she’s the Duch-
ess of Attleborough. It seems she has
detectives follow her husband all the
time, the good-for-nothing Duke or
whatever he is. When they think he’s
getting a bit too close, they telegraph
and, no matter what hour of the night,
she beats it!”
|
he
Nicholas glanced at the clock which
said half-past two. “Has the young
woman—the one who paid the bill—
been her secretary long?”
i “Her secretary? She’s the Duch-
ess! Couldnt you tell? Huh! I'd
{know a Duchess anywhere? Haven't
{you ever seen them around? The old
one’s the companion, aunt or cousin or
something.
| The unrcomantic Nicholas’s head
!swam as he climbed slowly up to bed.
“She had pretty eyes,” he thought. He
stared across the room. “I should
‘like to have held her hand—the hand
of a duchess!” he said aloud and quite
| distinctly.
lunch in a shoe box!”
, He started and looked around guilt-
‘ily. But the room was quite empty
!and the only noise was the thumping
of the steam radiator.
“This must stop,” said Nicholas
firmly, and he strode across the room
‘to the writing desk and began a let-
ter:
Dearest Mother: The house-
party isn’t much and I am won-
dering how I can stick it out for
three days. Louisa is nice but I
never noticed before what big
hands she has! Still, there is the
golf to fall back on. * * * *
He looked at his “watch.
three o’clock.
“I’ll finish the letter in the morn-
ing,” Nicholas said, turning out the
light and fumbling in his pocket for
a crumpled flower that smelled of the
wods.—By Baron Gayne de Meyer, in
Hearst's.
It was
Marriage Licenses.
Charles N. Lauck and Maude M.
Walker, Runville.
George W. Smith and Sarah E.
Dawson, Bellefonte.
—Get your job work done here.
“And she wanted a picnic
GIRLS OF WHOM TO BEWARE
Japanese “Widowed Physician” Hands
Out Some Words of Caution to
Susceptible Male Sex.
In “What to Tell Our Grown-Up
Rens About Women,” a pamphleteer
wno calls himself “The Widowed Phy-
sician,” has made a list of the things
he dislikes in girls. He admits that he
deals with “objectionable characteris-
ties,” but disarms the criticism that be
fails to indicate positive virtues by
saying that “the nice youth needs no
gualities of the opposite sex.” “The
Widowed Physician” sums up his
ideas in a few brief warnings, as fol-
iows, the Japan Advertiser states:
Beware of the girls who manicure
their nadls to the shape of a claw. I
dp not know why, but beware of them.
Beware of girls who prefer to dress
in purple or scarlet colors.
Beware of grils who are heavily
scented.
Beware of the girl who is too obvi-
cusly modest and demure. She doth
protest too mueh.
Beware of the girl with low, sloping
rorehead and dry, straiglit, coarse,
jute:like hair. Any experienced mag-
istrate will tell you that this type of
woman frequently summons her hus-
pand for assault and battery.
Beware of the imtensely religious
girl. She does not meam to be dan-
gerous, but the fact that she is so
devotional indicates that she pos-
sesses an unbalanced temperament.
Beware of the girl who sidles up to
you, or lays hands on you; or comes
s0 close to you as to lead you readily
to lay hands on her.
Specially beware of “married wom-
en’ of reputed responsibility, whom
you have formerly had every reason
to pelieve in and respect, when these
swine weinen, by acts ebvious or guard-
ed, show you that they would not ob-
ject to your being more intimate with
them than you know in your own con-
science you ought te be.
Beware of the mothers who are anx-
ious as to the future of their daugh-
ters.
beware of the girl who drinks wines
freely ; she will make a poor wife and
a worse mother.
Reware of the girl who dresses in a
slovenly, artistic manner.
The “Widowed Physician” recom-
mends two types—the tomboy and the
“pert, modern, self-sufficient learned
young woman,” He adds: “She would
sharpen your wits every time.”
Turn and Turn About.
Prof. Nicholas Roerich, the Russian
painter who refused the post of min-
ister of fine arts in the Lenin govern-
ment and who is now in the United
States, tells an amusing story of the
initiation of the soviet system fin the
imperial opera. The entire staff of
the opera house in Moscow, directors,
scene painters, singers, were instruct-
ed that thereafter all were to be treat-
ed on an equal basis.imo one being
considered better than another, and
all to receive the same wage. It may
be imagined that the temperamental
stars did not receive this: without emo-
tion. On the night of the next per-
formance the tenor in the leading role
eould not be found and a frantic
search was made while the audience
waited. Finally he was discovered by
an amazed manager selling programs
in the lobby.
“What madness. is this?” shouted
the manager. “Don’t you know we
are holding the curtain for you?”
“Ah,” answered the singer with
ironic sweetness, “you see we are ail
equal new. Tonight I sell the pro-
grams. Let one of the ushers sing
my role.”
The New Santa Barbara Light.
Many persons are still fond of the
oil lamp to read by at home. In the
house it still gives the amount of
brilliancy desired. But lighting engi-
neers claim superiority for the elec-
tric light in a fog.
An electric light of 1,000,000 candle-
power is to be installed in the Santa
Barbara lighthouse. The light itself
is not 1,000,000 candre-power, but the
light is intensified by the use of re-
fractors ingeniously cut and placed.
In clear weather the light will not be
visible any further than the old oil
lamp. which shincs 20 miles. The
light is 178 feet above sea level and
20 miles is the horizon limit. But in
foggy weather the new Mght will be
visible two or three miles in phace of |
one mile, the limit of the oil lamp’s
beams.
Rocky Road to Knowledge.
A man who was acting queerly
about the rooms of the local library
last week excited much comment. He
was in search of some book of ref-
erence but refused to accept the aid
of the librarian in his search. After
he had made a second or third visit !
and gone it was learned he was a
member of a debating society and had
been chosen to uphold the affirmative
on the question: “Could you and
would you order the courtmartial of a
soldier who saved the lives of the
members of his company by shooting
the company cook ?’—Pottsville (Pa.)
Journal.
Artificial Limbs of Metal.
At St. Themas’ hospital, London.
Dr. Edred M. Corner, one of the most
famous surgeons in England, has been
conducting experiments with light
metal artificial limbs on soldiers who
had lest limhs Auring the war and
whose recovery had been slow. These
show that about 90 per cent of thigh
amputations can advantageously be
fitted with light artificial limbs, with
which the men are atde to walk with
, less fatigue and more satisfaction,
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
Music ean noble hints impart,
Engender fury, kindle love;
With unsuspected eloquence can move
And manage all the man with secret art.
—Addison.
Train the Kiddies in Generosity.—
“I am worried,” writes a mother to
me, “because my little son is so self-
ish. How can I teach him to be gen-
erous?”
Well, selfishness is a problem, I'll
admit, but happily it is not unsolva-
ble. That selfish little boy of a wor-
ried mother can be made generous to
a fault (if such a thing is possible) if
she will, for a time, labor unceasing-
ly, with faith, patience and tact.
There are, of course, some children
who are what we call “naturally” self-
ish, while others are naturally the op-
posite; but I think intelligent mothers
will agree with me that the average
child is originally neither one nor the
other, and that his early training de-
termines his standing. However, even
the “naturally selfish” child is far
from being hopelessly selfish. All he
needs is help to a different attitude of
mind if he has ever had any serious
thoughts about the subject at all—
which he probably hasn’t.
The youngster of tender years, say
from the first cry to five years, does
not readily comprehend that others be-
sides himself may desire things in-
tensely. Yet I have seen a year and a
half old child give up a toy smiling-
ly, not once, but several times in suc-
cession to his various relatives, who
delighted in putting him through the
generosity test. This dear little smile
was the result of his young mother’s
patient training and constant watch-
fulness for “psychological moments”
as it were, for the teaching of unself-
ishness.
Do not force a child to be generous
—that is, to give up its possessions
unwillingly. Such a method is a great
mistake, for it makes the child re-
sentful, besides giving him an un-
beautiful idea of a beautiful virtue.
Forced giving is likely to be felt as
an unmitigated and unjust depriva-
tion. The better way is to educate
little folk up to the point where they
find happiness in giving, in making
others happy. Do not fail to call at-
tention to this * happiness when the
child has performed a generous action,
thus impressing it on the young mind
and heart.
tories of generosity are always
helpful both in training young ahd
to be generous or in that greater
problem—the one overcoming any
selfishness that may have been allow-
ed to develop. Is there anything fin-
er than the spirit with which Louisa
Alcott’s dear “Little Women” give
away their very delicious breakfasts
to a nearby poor family? This char-
itable incident is especially appreciat-
ed when one knows that it really hap-
pened in young Louisa’s own life. Oth-
er stories especially good for instill-
ing generosity are “The Three Cakes”
and “The King of the Golden River.”
The life of Peter Cooper will be en-
. joyed by the older children.
i Selfishness in a girl or boy ap-
| broaching womanhood and manhood
i 1s, of course, more difficult to cope
{ with than when found in younger chil-
! dren, but the idea of sending the for-
| mer upon short trips with social work-
i ers, or taking them oneself to see,
‘and help where possible, cases of dis-
| tressing need, is effective. Such cas-
| es usually appeal to the most callous,
| so that there is at least a softening of
| the soil in which the seeds of gener-
; osity, tactfully planted by the home
! folk, may hope to grow and flourish.
Very often laziness is the real cause
; of a child’s selfishness. I know a man
who is ever ready to give away money
: in preferences to his own services, not
| because he is wealthy, but because he
!is thus absolved from using his indo-
i lent body and brain; he is not gener-
| ous; he is merely paying for what he
! wants—ease. The highest generosi-
| ty is self-sacrifice, unless the contents
; of the pocket is needed more than
i one’s personal services.
_ The poor little only child is always
in danger of becoming selfish: from the
sheer lack of opportunities to share
i toys and goodies with other children.
Consequently it is wise to encourage
the sisterless, brotherless ones to seek
companionship among other children
and to invite those companions into
| your house or garden where mother-
eyes may be upon them.
It is lamentable, but true, that some
mothers deliberately make children
selfish. What do you think of the
woman who gives her little girl {wo
cakes after school accompanied by the
; remark, “Now do keep them for your-
i self and don’t feed the whole neigh-
: borhood!” And in the same class is
i the trolley-car mother who whispers
| to her adolescent son, “Keep your
i seat. You paid for it and you're just
; as tired as she.”
Not only should children be taught
i to give; they should be taught to give
! graciously. Many a shining gift has
| lost its radiance because of the man-
| ner with which it was presented. The
| “gifting spirit” is a lovely thing which
| glorifies even the passing on of an old
‘garment. To give tactfully, quietly
i (even secretly); to give freely, gladly
—abh, then giving becomes worth while
and giver as well as receiver is en-
; riched. -
But that reminds me. If few folk
know how to give beautifully still
fewer know how to receive graceful-
ly. Make it a point to express a frank
and unmistakable gratitude or appre-
ciation when a little child performs a
generous deed. Thus will the kiddie
be set an example, and he, too, will be
“generous” with his gratitude and re-
ceive in the same spirit as that in
| which a gift is offered.
i Creole Kisses—Take one cupful of
sugar, two cupfuls of milk, and cook
slowly, stirring enough to keep from
sticking. Try in water, and when done
enough to hold just in the water add
butter the size of an egg and half a
teaspoonful of vanilla. Remeve from
the fire and place in a pan of cold wa-
ter until cool. When the finger can be
placed on top of the mixture without
burning heat until creamy. Add a
cupful of shelled walnuts and mold in-
to patties. They are creamy and de-
licious as any bought from the stores.