—— ee ——————————————————————————————————
EE ——— tT wa th
Brworeaic aiden
Bellefonte, Pa., March 3, 1922.
A SONG AT HOME-COMING.
As I rode north, as I rode north,
My heart out of prison,
I saw the hills go raking forth
Like strong men newly risen.
Oh, the South is soft and merry, but she
touches lighter strings
Than the fury of the battle when the
North wind pipes and sings.
As I neared home, as I neared home,
My heart was like a lover’s.
I heard across the windy gloam
The harsh voice of the plovers.
Oh, the South is wide and kindly, and its
hearth is warm and bright,
But the North-born needs the welcome of
a rough and windy night.
As I rode in, as I rode in,
The wind roved wide of prison.
I was a free man, near of kin
To strong winds newly risen.
Oh, the South is soft and merry, and the
South is good to see,
But the stubborn lands and thrifty are the
garden soil for me.
—Halliwell Sutcliffe, in Westminster Ga-
zette.
erm
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.
(Concluded from last week).
Sun streamed in through the court-
room window as if there were no such
thing as crime on earth. It spun
through the shadows, lighting the
faces of those assembled, illumining
the indifferent curiosity of some, the
set stillness of others. It caught the
reflection of the snow piled high out-
side and spread the laughing glory of
it through the solemn room.
The prisoner, sitting with his coun-
sel, turned a look of wonder toward
that flare of light, as if already he
had grown used to the lack of it. It
fell upon the sharp profile with mouth
set hard. All the glow of outdoors
had disappeared. The look of the ag-
ile Arab was gone. So was hope.
But those in the court room were
too absorbed in the testimony of wit-
nesses to take note of a mere look on
a man’s face. All except two—two
women who had stolen in each day
and sat hidden at the back so that a
certain penetrating gaze from the
bench might not discover them. The
face of one was covered with a veil.
The other made no attempt to conceal
hers. It was lifted and held forward
so that no word might escape, and as
the days passed, its whiteness grew so
that toward the end it seemed as if
there were no blood left, as if life it-
self had been drained and only a mask
remained. From time to time she
turned toward the elder woman, to
find those serious eyes fastened on
her or drifting from her face to
Dean’s. Then she would glance swift-
ly away, not meeting the anxious
gaze.
Only these two caught the drift of
that look into freedom that twisted
Dean Cardigan’s face. From both
came to a low moan of pain. Babs slow-
ly brought her eyes to the twelve
men sitting in judgment and one by
one searched the iron-clad countenanc-
es for some sign. Across one, so plainly
written that it could be read without
effort, flashed contempt for the set of
wasters this Cardigan fellow repre-
sented. The juror wanted the thing
over and done with. Bab’s eyes dart-
ed, dreading, to the occupant of the
bench. His face told her nothing.
Her fingers worked inside her muff,
pulling at the lining until it tore away
from the fur.
“Connie,” she whispered, “do you
think it’s going against him? Do
ou?”
“Hush! Some one will hear you.
Evans musn’t know we are here.”
“All their evidence is only circum-
stantial. They couldn’t convict him
on that, could they?”
“If he tells where he was—it might
help.”
Bab’s eyes fastened on the othe:
woman’s.
“But he won’t—"
“No. It—it’s ghastly, isn’t it?”
The whispering stopped.
“You know that Mr. Cardigan was
not in his rooms all night?” the Dis-
trict Attorney pounded.
The old man in the witness chair
chewed his mustache.
“How do you know it?”
“I was running the elevator all
night, sir. If he’d come in, I'd have
taken him up.”
“And youre sure he hadn’t come in
before you went on duty ?”
“Yes, sir.” :
“How 20
“Because I took a package up and
there was no one there to take it, so I
took it downstairs again.”
“Do you know what time he did
come in?”
The old man hesitated, glancing to-
ward Dean’s bowed head.
“If you'll excuse me, sir, I can’t be
quite sure.”
“What time do you go off duty?”
“Seven in the morning, sir.”
“Was it before that?”
“Y—yes, sir.”
“Was it before five?”
“No, sir—it was not.”
“That will be all.”
Dean Cardigan’s counsel leaned
close.
“For God’s sake, Dean, give me
your alibi. Give it to me now or—"
Something of the sense of what he
was saying must have telegraphed
itself to Babs. Perhaps his gesture,
perhaps the way his urgent hand grip-
ped the prisoner's arm. At any rate
her eyes, dilated with fright, sped first
to her sister, then to the two men.
There they rivited themselves. Her
lips ceased their uncertain trembling.
Suddenly she was on her feet. She
had steadied herself against the seat
in front and her voice rose above the
stillness.
“I can tell you where Dean Cardi-
gan was between ten-thirty and five.
He was with me.”
For an instant there was complete
silence as if the hand of time itself
had stopped. Then as with one move-
ment, hundreds of eyes pointed their
stare at her.
Barbara van Buren, butterfly, sway-
ed under the fusillade of that stare.
Her eyes closed. Her lithe young
body straightened to meet it as a sol-
dier’s might in the face of death.
“I've kept silent,” a voice she did
not know as her own went on, “be-
cause I thought he might be saved
without me. I thought I would not
have to tell. I—I was afraid—” the
voice broke in two.
Dean sprang up. Already Judge
Grant was rapping with his gavel.
But it was a movement altogether au-
tomatic. The Judge's face was the
color of stone. :
Through the courtroom surged the
hum of expectancy that told of recov-
ery from amazement, of moistened
lips and eager predigestion of new
scandal. 3
A gasp came from Connie and a
murmured——
“Babs!”
It was too late. The little head was
up. Her voice found itself.
“But I don’t count now. I—I must
not think of what this will mean to
me. If Dean Cardigan won't tell, I
must!”
Dean’s outstretched arm to stop
her, Dean’s muttered alarm that rose
finally to an outcry of protest and an
appeal to his counsel, “She musn’t!
She musn’t be allowed to!” were lost
in the hubbub that followed the hur-
rying toward Babs of a court attend-
ant.
“What do you want me to do?” she
asked.
He motioned to her. With head
erect, with eyes straining through the
dark circles surrounding them, with
hands clenched in her muff, she made
her way to the witness chair.
Some one at the reporters’ table
mumured:
“By Jove, Judge Grant’s sister-in-
law!”
Like a wireless, the message hissed
round the room.
“It’s the judge’s own sister. Bar-
bara van Buren. I'll say—some scan-
dal!”
Judge Grant sat stonily silent, too
stunned for action. Barbara passed
him without a glance. She stumbled
a bit as she mounted and stood wait-
ing.
The army of eyes turned its battery
full upon the girl. Her own fell, but
after a moment they lifted and she
addressed the astonished District At-
torney.
“If—if you'll let me, I'd like to tell
my story just as it happened. I—I—
it won’t take me long.”
She was sworn in, took her place
and with voice very low but unwaver-
ing she pinned her butterfly’s soul to
the wall of notoriety and crucified it
for all to see. :
“I had written letters to Dean Car-
digan — compromising letters—and
they were stolen from his locker at
the club. He told me of their loss
and tried to locate them, but it wasn’t
until Dickinson mentioned to Dean
that he might buy them back that we
knew he had stolen them. We knew
he hadn’t found them.”
The District Attorney objected here
and the Court, with face of granite,
sustained the objection. The fact that
Myr. Dickinson had stolen the letters
was ruled out of the evidence. The
girl watched them, a little perplexed.
“I'm telling the truth,” she said
simply.
For an instant her voice faltered.
But she managed to go on.
“I—I begged Dean to get them back
—I didn’t care how. Dean hadn’t
enough money to give Colby Dickin-
son his price, but he promised me—I
made him take an oath—that I should
have those letters in my own hands be-
fore Dickinson could do any harm
with them. Dean tried to make him
give them up and Dickinson just
laughed. The night they met at the
club for dinner, Dean had borrowed
enough money to make up what he
needed but tried first by threatening
Dickinson, to make him hand them
over. He refused and that was when
Dean jumped into the taxi and drove
with him to his rooms. He paid Col-
by Dickinson that money and left the
house before ten-thirty because he
was with me by twelve-thirty. He
drove out into the country in his own
roadster and he couldn’t possibly have
made it in less than two hours. It
usually takes three. My sister and
the servants had gone to bed and I
let him in myself. He gave me the
package of letters and told me that
Dickinson had tried to hold out one
but that he had gotten it, except for
the enveloppe which had been torn in
the fight for it. ‘I gave him a sug-
gestion of what my right arm could
do and he handed it over,” Dean said.”
She paused, looked out at the
throng. “That’s all, I guess. I—I
burned the letters early the next
morning—after Dean had gone.”
A long, humming silence followed,
silence thick with suspense, silence
with every eye in that room centered
on the white-faced girl.
The Court leaned forward, looking
over her head toward the counsel for
the defense.
“I have nothing to say, Your Hon-
or” Dean Cardigan’s attorney an-
nounced, rising. “All this is new to
me—absolutely new. I have been un-
able to persuade or coerce my client
into giving me his alibi, although I
knew he had one. It is evident now
why he kept silent.”
The District Attorney sprang to his
feet and a cross-examination by the
man whose success depended upon
other people’s misery was directed at
the girl whose soul had already been
stripped naked for the grilling gaze
of the multitude.
She repeated her story in different
words—but the story remained the
same in every detail.
“Young woman,” he snapped final-
ly, “you realize, of course, that this
tale of yours can readily be regarded
as a parcel of lies. We have no
proof that there’s one word of truth
in it.”
“I can prove that Dean Cardigan
was with me,” she said with apparent
calm. Then, without waiting for his
question: “At two in the morning,
our night watchman saw Dean’s road-
ster outside the hedge at my side of
the house. He looked up and there
was a small light in my room, so he
came into the house and rapped on
my door. He asked if I was
and I called out that I was.
all right
Then he
explained that seeing a strange car in |
the road and my light, he had been a
little worried and he apologized for
disturbing me. That was why I kept
Dean until I was sure the watchman
had gone.”
The cross-questioning stopped ab- |
ruptly. The dogged fury with ‘which
he had sought to trip her up subsided.
He straightened his coat. He sheok
down his cuffs. A look of tbe man
who is about to play the trump card
which he has saved for the end of the
game caused his brows to lift and a
smile of certainty to flicker at the cor-
ners of his mouth. With a sharp for-
ward movement he seized a piece of
paper and banged it down on the arm
of the witness chair.
“Write Dean Cardigan’s name,” he
commanded.
She took the fountain pen he hand-
ed her and wrote “Dean Cardigan”
with a hand that did not even tremble.
The District Attorney then asked for
the torn envelope tabulated “Exhibit
D.” The writing, except for the dif- |
ference in the ink, was identical.
And when the butterfly, with head
bowed, was helped from the witness |
chair and made her way somehow
from the courtroom, those assembled
knew that, in spite of more cross-
questioning, new witnesses, the call-
ing of handwriting experts, and all
be gone!
the formalities still to
through, the Scales of Justice had
swung swiftly the other way.
III
Surging like a tide over Washing-
ton Square, boys shouted extras in
high-pitched jubilant voices that told
of rapid sales. They elbowed one
another to announce the importance of
their news. The very streets seemed
crowded with it, no escape anywhere.
With beautiful eyes turned tragic
and hands clasped tightly, a woman
stared through the lamp light that fell
upon a man’s face of granite.
“Evans, won't you ask her to come
here? Won’t you? She needs our
protection now more than ever in her
life.”
“No—I will not. Once and for all,
I'm through with her. The whole
thing is teo disgraceful to talk about.”
“But surely you think she was right
to take the stand. Surely you think
it was her duty?”
“It was her duty to keep your name
—my name—clean, from the begin-
ning.”
“But you're not answering me.”
“I am. She's never been anything
bata burden and worry to you. Nev-
er!
“But I love her. She’s my little sis-
ter and we've always worshipped each
other. Evans, listen to me, won’t
you? You know what it means to
love. You know how I love you—
you know what your love means to
me, all that I'd sacrifice to keep it,
don’t you?”
|
He went to her and the harsh lines |
of his face softened for an instant.
“And you know that I'd give my life
to save you pain, that to shield you I'd
stop at nothing. That’s why I can’t
forgive this unbridled little sister of
yours. It’s what she’s put you
through, what you’ll have to face from
today on, that finishes her with me.” |
- & | woke up and looked out and saw you
He picked up an evening paper with
scare headlines announcing that Dean
Cardigan had gone free on the cor-
roborated testimony that at the time
of the murder he had been in Barbara
van Buren’s room in Judge Evans
Grant’s home on Long Island. There
was no attempt to gloss it over. Rath-
er did the sheet shift interest in the
murder to concern over the sins of so-
ciety’s younger set.
“You want me to forgive that!”
He flung away the sheet like a thing
unclean. “I'd be less a man than a
jellyfish if I ever let her come near
you again!”
She sat silent a moment while he
strode the length of the room, then
with shaking hands caught his arm as
he passed by her. Her uplifted gaze
was stricken.
“Evans—look at me—look at me,
dear. You'll be able to live down the
aftermath of this thing. You’re strong
enough for that—and we’ve each oth-
er. But she isn’t—and she has no one,
not a soul to turn to. There isn’t a
door that will open to her now.”
“She’s brought it on herself. Let
her fight it out alone. She’s not a
child. That’s final.”
“You know that I'll go on seeing
her, whether she’s with us or not.”
“If I forbid it—"
“I’ll see her just the same. We're
the same flesh and blood, Evans, and
what does the world or the world’s
opinion matter beside that?” The
eyes steeped in tragedy, pleaded with
his ruthless ones. “Evans—Evans—
don’t you—won’t you understand?
Won’t you hear me——?2"
But the man, the very upright solid
structure of whose life had been shak-
en by a woman's folly, could see noth-
ing but the havoc wrought, the fact
that for days to come his conferees
whose dignity had not been slashed
from under them, would either extend
tentative sympathy or meet him in
embarrassed silence or prefer not to
see him at all. That was the extent
of his vision.
At that same hour, in a little apart-
ment in the fifties of which the land.
lord was already preparing to break
the lease, a butterfly lay with batter-
ed wings and heart crushed under
the burden of what she had brought
upon herself. The continuous ringing
of the bell from downstairs, besieged
by representatives of the press was
like a death knell. The jangling of
the telephone had long since made her
lift the receiver and drop it like a
burning thing. .
She lay in the dark with hands
pressed against her ears and tears
that had not come during the days of
torture, scorching down her cheeks.
She was very white and very limp and
all vitality, all love of living, had left
her. For hours she had been quite
alone, with nothing but the incessant
noise of doorbell and telephone to re-
mind her of the world from which she
would now always be a thing apart,
cut off save for the contemptuous cu-
riosity of those from whom she could
hide. She had branded herself with
the scarlet for all time.
The bell in the little kitchenette
rang as if the finger upon it refused to
lift. She tried to shut it out. The
thing sounded as if it were in her
brain.
| At last she got up and felt her way
| to the speaking tube. She wouldn’t
turn on the light. She wanted to hide
| even from herself. A moment she
paused to gain control of her voice.
“There’s no use—l won’t see any
one. I won’t see any one at all. Please
‘go away, all of you.” Her voice
' shook then broke completely, and she
hung to the litti¢c box on the wall,
‘pleading with the desperation of ut-
‘ ter helplessness. “Won’t you go away
| —you'se killing me. I've no state-
| ment to give out. I’ve said all I have to
say. No—No! Let me alone—please
—please—oh won’t you go away?
Won’t you?”
! Finally as she paused, there came
| back through the din:
“I’ve given out a statement. I've
sent those men away. See me, Babs,
won’t you? Bab’s, it’s Dean!”
She went back, stumbling over fur-
niture and let him in.
When he was inside her door, he
slammed it and stood with shoulders
squared against it. And as is always
the case in big moments, both he and
the girl were silent. He remained
with eyes cutting through the dark to
rest on the faint outlines of her, and
presently after a long quiet moment,
he spoke. All he said was:
“Why did you do it, Babs?”
And she answered:
“I had to.”
{ She moved over then, drew down
the blinds and switched on one of the
lamps. It was a French bisque figure
, with fluffed-out chiffon skirts, through
i which a pink light gleaming saucily,
| softening the lines of two harrowed
faces.
She motioned Dean to a chair, but
he threw down hat and coat, caught
her and turned her about so that the
light fell on her tired eyes.
“I’ve been trying to reach you all
afternoon. From the minute I left
that place. No one answered your
’phone.”
“I took the receiver off the hook. I
just couldn’t stand it. They wouldn’t
let me alone and I thought that would
keep them away. But it didn’t. They
have been like a pack of wolves. Do
you think they're going to keep that
up always?”
“Why did you do it?” he repeated.
“You knew those letters didn’t belong
i
|
|
i
that night. Answer me!”
little gesture—“but there was nothing
else to do, was there? You see, 1
knew whom they did belong to and
whom you were with—and she had so
much more to lose than I had.”
ed another close and held her two
hands in a tense grip for several min-
utes.
“You risked everything—your repu-
tation, life itself for Connie.”
She looked down at the hands
was holding tight.
“Yes.”
“What made you do it?
you know ?”” he pressed.
“] knew—because that night when
your car drove up so late and stopped
at the hedge below my window, I
he
How did
climb over and hurry across the lawn.
I was frightened at first and waited
for the bell to ring, and when it didn’t
I went to ask Connie if anything was
wrong. I heard voices, yours and
hers, and knocked on her door, but the
voices stopped and no one answered
me.” She paused, for a second seem-
ed to stop breathing. “So then I went
back to my room and turned on the
lamp next my bed and tried to read
because I couldn’t sleep. And then
the watchman came just as I said, and
I told him everything was all right
and to go on down stairs. But I turn-
ed out the light after that and went
to the window and stayed there watch-
ing for you to go.”
“Then you did know that I hadn’t
killed Dickson.”
“Yes.”
“You knew, too, that those letters
I went after were Connie’s ?”
“No. Not until after the envelope
was found. I recognized her hand-
in the newspapers and I waited for
her to come forward and acknowledge
it. When she didn’t, I was terrified
for fear the judge would see and rec-
ognize it. But he didn’t—not even in
court. Isn’t it queer how blind we are
to the things that are closest to us?”
She looked up at him with a kind of
wonder and Dean’s lips opened. His
muscular hands still clinging to hers,
closed with a convulsive clasp that
was somehow beseeching.
“Babs—"
“I watched her during all the weeks
before your arrest,” she interrupted,
“and waited and waited. She did
me. She stayed in her room a lot and
when I passed it, I used to hear her
walking back and forth, back and
forth, back and forth like a machine
that could not stop. When I spoke of
you, or—or the Dickinson murder, she
time I turned from her, I felt her eyes
on me, driving into me to see whether
But when they did, I felt sure shed
tell them finally that you had been
with her. I didn’t see how she could
help it. I didn’t see how she could
love you and not sacrifice anything in
like that.”
Dean spoke then, huskily.
“She doesn’t love me, Babs. She
never did. I want you to believe
that.”
There was no answer.
“Fven, when, as a girl, she wrote
those letters Dickinson got hold of!”
Babs looked up then, swiftly, in-
credulously.
written before her marriage, the re-
sult of a wild infatuation that lasted
about as long as those things usually
do. But they were undated, marked
simply with the day of the week.
There was no way of proving that
your sister that you made the su-
to you. You knew I wasn’t with you
“Yes, I knew”—she made a queer
Dean put her into a chair and pull-
writing in the reproductions published
during the past three months and now
embraces the sending out of every-
everything to hide her agitation from
would steady her voice and talk calm- |
ly, too calmly, and all the while, every !
I knew—whether I suspected or even
guessed. I could feel she was count- |
ing on something happening to change |
things—that they wouldn't arrest you, |
that you could be saved without her. erect bearing are dependent upon rich
the world to stand by you at a time
. Mangan taken regularly for a while
| gives the blood that richness and red-
ness that produces bounding health
“Oh, yes,” he continued, “they were |
osm
ey hadn't been written yesterday. I.
had forgotten them completely, dida’t
even know I had them in my desk.
Dickinson called one afernoon. While
he was there I answered the phone in
my hall. And a few days later Con-
nie sent for me. She was in a fright-
ful state. He had informed her that
he had in his possession some letters
of hers that would make interesting
reading for Judge Grant. It was her
intense love for her husband—and a
bit of fear of him—that brought about
this whole thing. I thought, of course,
I could get back the letters. I didn't
believe Dickinson could be rotten
enough to hold up a woman. But that
was just his little game. He played
with her until I thought she would go
insane. At last she sent me a note
saying she depended upon me to get
them for her. She hadn’t enough
money to give Dickinson his price but
if I'd lay it out, she’d have it for me
within a few weeks. Only I must not
delay. She repeated that. Dickinson
refused to let me have the letters at
first. Then I showed him that de-
mand from her. In the excitement I
overlooked putting it back in the en-
velope. My one idea was to get to
your sister and give her the damn
things as soon as possible. That was
why I didn’t wait until the morning
to drive out. I didn’t stop to think or
reason. The poor girl had got to the
point of fearing her own shadow.
When I arrived, she insisted upon
going upstairs to avoid the possibili-
ty of being seen. It was her anxiety
—nothing more.”
He had not let go of her through-
out his low-toned recital. Now he
jenna down wi, more emotion than
e shown through a
a so gh all the weeks
“Babs—you do believe what I'm
telling you, don’t you?”
Babs did not give a direct answer.
Her head remained bent for a long
moment, a moment still as those in
court. Then she gave a faint smile
and it seemed to lift the haggard lines
Higa folry; touch.
ave faith in Connie,” she said
softly. “And I guess if I hadn't had
faith in you, I wouldn’t have prac-
ticed her handwriting or planned so
earsiully the story I told on the
nd.”
“Babs, was it only faith—only for
preme sacrifice ?” Dean bent nearer.
Was it only to save her and her con-
science? Babs—”
“Dean, I—"
“Answer me—was
alone?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t turn away!
the truth—or lying 7”
“I—I'm lying, Dean.”
His head came down to hers.
“And we don’t care, dear heart, if
this thing is never explained to th
world, do we?” Y ° :
it for her—
Are you telling
Her hands made as if to flutter
away from the pair that gripped
them.
“Dean—please understand! Don’t.
feel because I did—the only thing I!
could do, that duty or—or—Dean, !
don’t ask me to marry you be-|
cause——"
He did not wait for her to finish.
“I'm not asking you to marry me.
Tonight when I gave that statement
to the press, I told them we were
going to be married tomorrow. So
we've got to make good, haven’t we?
There’s nothing else to do.”
And that is the story of a butter-
fly’s soul.
It was brought to mind by the con-
fession of a man dying in St. Quentin
Prison, California. He stated that
among other crimes, he with a com-
panion had held up Colby Dickinson
at 3 a. m. of the morning he was
found, throttled and knocked him ;
down when he resisted and then fled
on the spoils to South America. The
papers gave the man’s story only a
paragraph, the Cardigan case having
long since gone down in history. And
besides, being killed by footpads isn’t |
a big news item at best—By Rita
Weiman, in Cosmopolitan.
RADIO BROADCASTING
HALTED BY AN ORDER.
Orders for temporary suspension
of radio broadcasting by amateurs,
because of interference caused regu-
lar radio service, was announced at
Washington last week by the Com-
merce Department. New regulations,
however, will be issued covering ama-
teur broadcasting as soon as some de-
sirable plan can be formulated.
Radio broadcasting, the department
explained, is a new wireless service,
which was developed very rapidly
thing from market quotations and
crop estimates, health talks, weather
forecasts, high class entertainment to
lectures, sermons, music and an-
nouncements as to stolen automobiles. .
The result has been to fill the air with
radio reports to the detriment of com-
mercial and necessary service.
THE MAN WHO LOOKS
VIGOROUS
Good Red Blood is the Only Sure
Foundation of Permanent Health
and Vigor.
Good color, bright eyes, solid flesh,
red blood. If your blood is not up to
the mark your general health can not
be. Late hours, eating the wrong
foods, working indoors, fatigue, affect
the blood. So many people eat well
and take exercise, yet never seem to
improve in health. Gude’s Pepto-
and vigor. It is a simple, natural way
to get well and strong. Gude’s Pepto-
Mangan comes in liquid or tablets—
at your druggists.—Adv. 67-9
———The executive council of the
Amreican Federation of Labor has
gone into a mighty poor business
when it begins an agitation to annul
a section of the constitution of the
United States. The worst foe the
workingmen ever encountered is the |
liquor traffic.
———._"e i a a BBE
JEWISH FESTIVAL OF LIGHTS
Has Been Held for Centuries as a
Memoria! of ihe Dedication
of the Altar.
Hanukkah, the Feast of Dedication,
also called “Feast of the Maccabees,”
is a Jewish festival beginning on the
twenty-fifth day of Kislew (Decem-
ber) and continuing for eight days,
chiefly as a festival of lights. It
was instituted by Judas Maccabeus,
his brothers, and the elders of the
congregation of Israel, in the year 165
B. C., to be celebrated annually with
mirth and joy as a memorial of the
dedication of the altar, or the purl-
fication of the sanctuary.
After having recovered the Holy
city and the Temple from the Greeks,
Judas ordered a new altar to be
built in the place of the one which had
been polluted by Antiochus Epiphanes,
who had caused a pagan altar to be
set up in the Temple of Jerusalem, and
sacrifices to be offered to his idol
When the fire had been kindled anew
upon the altar and the lamps of the
candlestick lit, the dedication of the
altar was celebrated for eight days
amid sacrifices and songs.
In the Talmud the festival is prin-
cipally known as the “Feast of II-
lumination,” and it was usual either
to display eight lamps on the first
night of the festival, and reduce the
number on each successive night, or
to begin with one lamp the first night,
increasing the number till the eighth
night. The lights are supposed to be
symbolical of the liberty obtained by
the Jews on the day of which Hanuk-
kah is the celebration.
er ———————————————
FIND HEALTH IN SUN'S RAYS
Ancients Had Full Faith in Treatment
Now Practiced in the Most Mod-
ern Sanitariums.
In a small village in the Adiron-
dacks there is a sanitarium where
patients take sun paths. And a high
price is charged for the treatment.
Bathing in the sun’s rays for health
is an ancient ceremony, handed down
from the earliest ages. Wiseacres in
bygone times used to bathe in the
sunshine, believing in the great value
of light as a destroyer of disease.
Light was the secret and universal
medicine by which they cured many
diseases.
Sunlight is the greatest factor in
our planetary existence; if it failed
al life would perish. One has only to
look at nature for potent examples.
In vegetable, animal and human life
the influence of sunlight is strongly
manifest. Compare the vegetation in
the gardens of a back street away
from the sunlight with similar growth
in the open country. Compare the
children of the country with those
living down a narrow street of the
city slums.
For creating good general health
and happiness no medicine is so ef-
fective as the direct rays of the sun.
A sun bath consists of letting the rays
of the sun bathe the skin each day,
preferably during the morning. The
body is, of course, wholly or partial-
ly uncovered.
Marine Phenomenon,
Late one January the steamship
Trafalgar, when within ten miles of
Wolf rock, off the southeast coast of
England, met with a remarkable ac-
cident.
A report like that of a cannon was
heard, and a large fiery body with
a tail 80 or 40 feet long struck the
water 20 feet from the vessel. It
was accompanied by a loud hissing,
and a column of water rose where it
struck the sea. Immediately after-
ward the ship seemed to be on fire,
the engine recom glowing with a violet
Hght filled with multitudes of sparks.
rhe mate engaged at the wheel suf-
fered a violent shock through the steel
rod in his hand. The crew fled to the
deck. It was found that all the com-
passes had been demagnetized, and
the ship had much difficulty in making
her way to Falmouth. It was prob-
ably a strong lightning flash which
struck the water, and the subsequent
electric phenomena were produced by
the dispersal of the charge supplied
to the surface of the sea.
ee pr— et —————————
“Gibraltar of Canada.”
Quebec citadel, sometimes called
the “Gibraltar of Canada,” is a strong
fortification covering 40 acres of
ground, and in its present form it dates
from 1828. The more modern forti-
fications were constructed in 1820-30,
substantially on the lines of the French
works of 1620. The citadel has been
garrisoned by Canadian soldiers since
the withdrawal of British troops in
1871. It incloses a parade and drill
ground, 42 acres in extent, surrounded
by barracks and magazines under the
walls. Heavy cannon are mounted on
the ramparts. A large stone building
forms the “Officers Quarters,” with the
“Governor General's Residence” (occa-
sionally occupied by him) at the east
end, overlooking the river.
A splendid vista can be seen from
the king's bastion at the northeast
angle of the ramparts. The west ram-
parts overlook the Plains of Abra-
ham.
em ———————————————
All the Symptoms.
“Was Mr. Grabceoin in his office when
you called?”
“No, he must have been playing
golf.” hme
“Are you sure about this?”
“Reasonably sure. The office force
seemed to think he wouldn't be back
goon. Most of the clerks had their
fee, up on their desks and three
stenographers were glued to tele-
phones.”—Birmingham Age-Herald.