Demo Wada
Bellefonte, Pa., March 17, 1922.
BE WHAT MOTHER THINKS YOU
ARE.
By Willis 8. Adkin.
‘While walking down a crowded city street
the other day,
I heard a little urchin to a comrade turn
and say,
“Say, Chimmey, lemme tell youse I'd be
happy as a clam
If I only wuz de feller dat my mudder
t’inks I am.
“She t'inks I am a wonder an’ she knows
her little lad
Could never mix wit’ nuthin’ dat wuz ug-
ly, mean or bad.
Oh, lots o’ times I sit an’ t'ink how nice
'twould be, gee whiz!
If a feller wuz de feller dat his mudder
t’inks he is!”
My friend, be yours a life of toil or un-
diluted joy,
You still can learn a lesson from this small
unlettered boy.
Don’t aim to be an earthly saint, with eyes
fixed on a star,
Just try to be the fellow that your mother
thinks you are.—The Commoner.
—— eee.
CROSS PURPOSES.
“I don’t care if he does hear,” de-
clared Emmy Franklin. “I've a good
mind to throw that door wide open
and let the smell of the griddle cakes
and sausage go right in there. It is
all stuff and nonsense. Why should
our own brother have to have his
breakfast taken in to him on a tray,
and have soft-boiled eggs and toast
and grapefruit, and eat while he reads
the morning paper? I'm just about
sick of it!”
“You know that was the way poor
mother brought him up, and she
charged us to take care of him, be-
cause he was delicate,” said Hattie
Franklin. She was a tall, pretty wom-
an. :
“Delicate, nothing!” said Emmy im-
periously. “And what is more, I hon-
estly think it is hard on William. I
believe he would like these nice sau-
sages.” ; ;
“But Emmy, the sausage might dis-
agree with him, and you know poor
mother was so careful—”
“Yes, I know, and mother was
wrong.”
“Emmy! Mother is dead.”
“I can’t help that. She might have
been wrong when she was alive, She
was wrong. Here we are sacrificing
everything to a mistake our dear
mother made, and can’t undo, and I
certainly believe we are hurting Wil-
liam. It is wrong, Hattie; you know
it is,” said Emmy.
“I don’t know.”
“Now, Hattie Franklin, don’t pre-
tend you don’t know, when you do
know. Here's poor Peter been wait-
ing all this time to marry you, and
now his mother’s dead, and he needs
you more than ever. He will have to
hire a housekeeper.”
Hattie blushed, then the tears stood
in her patient eyes. “Peter knows
how I am situated,” she said pitifully.
“Qh, yes, but what does he think in
his heart of hearts? He must think
that you prefer your brother to him.
I know, of course, you could marry
Peter if I would promise that I would
stay right here with William all the
rest of my life; but as for me, I
won’t.”
“I’m not asking it of you, Emmy.
Suddenly Emmy began to weep. “I
might as well promise,” she sobbed.
“I shall never have the chance to mar-
ry; that is, not the chance I would
look at.”
Hattie looked at her, and her own
eyes became redly suffused. “Is Dicky
going away ?” she whispered
“Yes, Kate told me yesterday. He
has that splendid chance in Boston.
He can’t wait here any longer,” Em-
my sobbed outright.
“Don’t, Emmy dear.” :
“I can’t help it. Here we are, living
all the lives we've got on earth, and
not getting what we ought to out of
them. Sometimes I wonder if mother
was right. Sometimes I wonder if it
is best for William. And I don’t re-
ally know where I am at. I dont
know whether we are not putting our-
selves out sometimes when William
wouldn’t mind if we did things we
wanted to. Mother was always so
afraid he would be hurt. Maybe he
wouldn't be. I want to have Peter
and Dicky and Kate to supper Wed-
nesday evening—Dicky is going
Thursday—and I'm such a coward I
am not crazy, but for once William
might mind—he never did care much
for company, you know—and yet may-
be he wouldn’t, and I'm a fool. I do
know one thing—Peter and Dicky are
worth a hundred of William, if he is
our brother. They are men, anyhow.”
“Oh, Emmy, don’t talk so.” :
Suddenly Emmy sat up straight.
She began to laugh wildly.
“Emmy, what ails you?” cried Hat-
tie, staring at her with frightened
eyes. oT :
“We are going to give in to Wil-
liam’s preference,” said Emmy, chok-
ing with sudden laughter. “Oh, don’t
look so frightened, Sister Hattie. 1
am not crazy, but for once Willitm
shall wish we hadn’t humored him,
even if he does want us to, as mother
always said he did. He shan’t have to
put up with company at a meal. We'll
humor him all right, don’t you be
afraid.” J :
Emmy came close beside her sister
and whispered. Hattie smiled faintly,
but she protested. “Oh, Emmy, Iam
afraid it’s an awful queer thing to
do,” said she, “asking Peter and Dicky
to take her somewhere to supper in-
stead of coming here.” : .
“I don’t see why. It certainly is
humoring William. And I am going
right over to see Kate and tell her we
can’t have them on Wednesday.”
She got her shawl and white hood
from a peg on the kitchen wall, and
went out, despite her sister's faint
protestations. Hattie saw her cross-
ing the field to another house, whose
roof rose steeply behind a row of fir
trees. .
As she went about her work Hattie,
for the first time, realized a sensation
of intense indignation against her
brother. Left to herself, she would
have been incapable of it. She had
one of the gentle, feminine tempers
which require a fulminate of another
temper to awaken it. Emmy for the
first time had succeeded. Hattie
thought of poor Peter Foster, who
would have to cook his own dinner
this dreary day, and her heart rebel-
led. Peter would not be sitting in the
warm library, like William—William
was town librarian. Peter was a doc-
tor, and he would be driving miles
through all this storm, and he would
come home to a cheerless house and
be unwelcomed.
Suddenly Hattie thought of the
probable housekeeper. Yes, Peter
would be obliged to have a housekeep-
er. She might be young and pretty.
Then Peter, if she made him comfor-
table, would be tired of waiting long-
er for a woman who preferred her
brother and his comfort to him. He
would marry that housekeeper! Hat-
tie felt a sharp sting of jealousy.
After all, why should William de-
mand so much? Why could not he
get married?
There was Kate, Dicky Maxim's
married sister. She had been a wid-
ow for four years. Everybody knew
how she made her husband obey her,
for his own good; nobody denied that.
Kate’s husband needed a firm hand.
He had lived longer for it. William
would have no relish for that firm
hand, but Hattie suspected that it
would be good for him. “Why can’t
William marry Kate?” thought Hat-
tie.
She clinked the dishes unnecessari-
ly. She slammed doors. She stepped
heavily. Soon she heard William
close the front door. It was much
earlier than he usually left the house.
The library did not open very early.
“I'm glad of it!” thought Hattie.
“We've kept the house quiet too long
for William. I shan’t keep quiet for
him any longer.
Suddenly Hattie caught sight of her
face in the little kitchen looking-glass,
and was horrified. The gentleness
was gone. The eyes wee alert, snap-
ping. The cheeks were flushed.
Soon Emmy returned and she was
radiant. I've seen Dicky,” she an-
nounced. “He has a plan. You've
got to say yes, Hattie. It is the only
way.” She went close to her sister
and whispered.
“You scare me,” said Hattie. “I'm
afraid it is a dreadful thing to do.”
She did indeed feel alarm, but along
with it a certain sense of triumph.
Suddenly the head of a bay mare,
glistening with rain, appeared beside
the window. “Here’s Peter,” said Em-
my. “How fortunate! I'm going to
tell him what Dicky says.”
She met Peter at the outside door.
She talked rapidly. Hattie, tremu-
lously waiting, heard the man’s quick
laugh. Then he came in, and Emmy
vanished up the back stairs.
Hattie clapped her hands to her
hair. “It looks lovely,” said Peter
with another burst of laughter. “Here,
sit right down, Hattie. I've some-
thing ‘to say, and I've got to say it
quick, for my mare won't stand in this
storm, and I've got a patient threat-
ened with pneumonia, and I don’t dare
stay a minute.” :
Peter took both of Hattie’s little
hands, damp with dishwater. Then
he talked. He did not stay long. He
kissed Hattie and bade her not to be
frightened. (People were always bid-
ding Hattie Franklin not to be fright-
ened.) Then he was in his carriage,
and the bay mare was plunging alarm-
ingly on her way to the road.
When Emmy re-entered the kitch-
en Hattie was sitting limply in the
rocking-chair. She looked pale.
“Well?” said Emmy.
“Oh, Emmy, it is awful, and we are
doing wrong.”
“I don’t think it is awful at all, and
I know we are not doing wrong,” said
Emmy.
“But how can we manage? And it
is so soon.”
“I don’t think it is very soon. It
strikes me as being very late,” said
Emmy dryly. “And as for managing,
everything can be managed. The first
thing to do is to make two loaves of
fruit cake. Do you realize how very
little time there is?”
“Oh, Emmy!”
“Don’t look so frightened, Sister
Hattie.”
“William!
hom?”
“It is the very best thing we can do
for William. Do look at it sensibly,
Hattie.”
They told William at noon that they
had decided not to carry out their
plan of having Peter Foster and Dicky
Maxim and his sister to supper on the
following Wednesday. William list-
ened with his usual quiet composure,
and made no comment. After dinner,
while he smoked in the sitting room,
Hattie again rattled dishes, slammed
doors and stepped heavily, and again
William set forth for the library be-
fore his usual time.
That evening William Franklin
went rather early to his room. Before
he fell asleep he heard the front door-
bell ring. Then he heard voices, one
of them a man’s, in the front entry.
After awhile he heard the bell again.
Again he heard voices. William knew
that his sisters had callers. He lay
awake a long time, thinking. He, as
well as they, had his perplexities.
During the next week he made no
sign whatever that he was aware of
anything unwonted going on. It
stormed nearly all the week, but his
sisters went out, and the dessmaker
came. Also there were callers during
the evening. William took himself to
bed early every night. He seemed
very calm, but he was in reality per-
turbed. He realized within his in-
most soul that oldest awe of the
world, that of the male mind before
the aroused, mysterious female of the
species, The terror of the boy-child
before feminine secrecy was upon
im.
He told himself angrily that some-
thing was going on; that it was an
outrage that he should not be inform-
ed; but he actually dared not inquire.
This was the first time in his entire
experience of womenkind that any-
thing like this had occurred. He was
bewildered. He had a queer feeling,
as if gravity itself were reversed. He
What will happen to
felt like that )
old woman of the clipped petticoats,
in Mother Goose. He almost doubted,
like her, his own identity.
When William came home from the
library on Wednesday evening he saw
the usual bright - light shining out
from the dining-room windows. As
he entered the hall it struck him as
queer that neither Hattie nor Emmy
called out a greeting, as they always
did. He missed Hattie’s soft, pleas-
ant voice and Emmy’s clear, ringing
tones. :
On entering the dining-room Wil-
liam was astonished to see the table
laid for one. It was carefully laid, as
it always was. He opened the kitch-
en door. The silence and darkness
smote him like a blow. As he turned
back into the lighted dining-room he
saw an envelope lying beside his
plate. He sat down and read its con-
tents in a dazed sort of way.
“Dea brother,” it ran, “We have
gone to have supper with Dicky and
Peter. It is to be our wedding sup-
per. Forgive us for surprising you,
but there didn’t seem to be any other
way. Peter needed me so badly, and
Emmy felt she couldn’t let Dicky go
to Boston without her. Your loving
Hattie.
“P. S.—We have left plenty of
things cooked for you. You could get |
Minty Griggs to come every morning
and cook and clean up.”
William Franklin, sitting there in
the deserted dining-room, had exactly ,
the look of a little boy entering his
school-room for the first time. It was,
in reality, hard upon him. Love, after
coddling him against the winds and
suns of life until he had lost, possibly, |
all his power to face them, after hold-
ing him so close that his very growth
had been prevented, had suddenly let
him go. The crash had been a risk.
It remained now to see what would
come of it. Any woman, seeing the
man beside the table that evening, in
his desolate house, would have let her
reason go to the winds for love of the
poor, forsaken little child staring
fom his blue eyes.
William did not eat his supper. He
went to his usual chair by the sitting-
room window. He sat there, staring
out at the deepening dusk, and a
strange and rather solemn thing be-
gan to happen. It was as simple as
the growth and flowering of the plants
on the window sill. It was not, how-
ever, as common an occurrence.
It is seldom that a man of adult
years, who has been trained to walk
in a certain track of life, by influences
against which he has never actively
struggled although he may have real-
ized at times inward impatience, has
mental power to work a radical
change along different lines. It prob-
ably cannot be done unless the pre-
vious course has been almost wholly
due to outside influence.
William was a man but little re-
moved from the normal, although his
adoring mother had forced him, when
young and pliable, into mild abnor-
malities. He was a man of sensitive
type, but, left alone, he would never
have come under tyranny of the type.
That he had been so forced had be
due to the loving, although rebellious
attitude of his womenkind. However,
he had also been influenced by his own
love and consideration for them. Em-
my had been entirely right about that
matter of the breakfast sausages. He
had come to loathe eggs and he
smelled the savory odor with a raven-
ous appetite. But he feared lest his
sisters, who had prepared his dainty
breakfast would be hurt.
Still now that he was left alone, the
pernicious influence of his whole life
became evident in his mental attitude.
The man, who would have been a
strong plant of a definite species, had
been grafted into a hybrid. Now,
thrown into solitary estate, with the
customs of a life-time shattered, he
had a mighty task of readjustment.
There was good stuff in William,
staunch fighting blood. He threw
all the mental light of his soul upon
himself and faced the situation. He
did not shirk. He rather began to
kick himself with fine, strong kicks of
manhood.
Finally he began to talk as he sat
there. His voice had a monotonous
cadence, like a child reciting a lesson.
He accused himself. He analyzed
himself before his own tribunal. There
was not once a tone of pity. He did
not spare himself.
“All your life,” William Franklin
told himself, “you, a man, have let
women carry you along like a child in
their arms, when you ought to have
carried them. Carry them! You have
not even carried yourself. And that
is not the worst of it. You have been
such a fool that you liked it most of
the time.”
William stood up, and the man was
transformed. He was still pale. He
had been through a strange and bit-
ter ordeal of nature which a grown
man, with all his understanding, sel-
dom understands. It was like upon
the conviction of sin of his Puritan an-
cestors, and yet unlike, since it was
not so much sin of which William
stood convicted, but perversion of
soul-growth. He stood there with all
his pampered sensitiveness under his
feet, where it would remain during the
rest of his life. It would endure, but
it would not reign. The man hence-
forth would reign.
A swiftly moving figure passed the
window, and William recognized Mrs.
Kate Sheldon. He flushed. He cross-
ed the room hastily and opened the
door for her. She pushed past him
and entered. She looked up at him
with a sort of defiance.
“Well, what are you going to do
now, Billy Franklin?” said she.
She was a handsome woman, very
small and delicate-looking. Her fair
hair tossed over a boyish, candid fore-
head. Her black eyes were steady,
her lips frankly smiling. William
gazed at her, and again the poor
frightened boy looked out of his eyes.
The woman made a slight movement,
then she stood still.
“What on earth are you going to do
now, Billy Franklin?” she demanded
again. Her voice shook a little.
“Stay awake,” replied William un-
expectedly. “I have waked up, and
now I propose to stay awake.”
Kate Sheldon stared at him.
“You ought not to have come over
here,” said William abruptly.
immortally astounded
Kate laughed. “I know it,” said
she. “At this very moment Mrs. Sam
Trotter and her mother and her hus-
band’s sister are staring with all their
eyes out of the windows of the Trot-
ter house, watching to see how long I
stay. They are all speculating as to .
what I came for.”
“You came,” said William with a
chuckle, “ for Emmy’s blue shawl
She left it over a chair in the sitting-
room.” :
“Don’t be foolish, William,” - said
Kate. Then her tone changed. “I
don’t see what you are going to do,
Billy,” she said.
William opened his mouth. She
stopped him. “Now, you listen,” said
she. Kate began to talk. She talked
swiftly, unhesitatingly.
“I know pefectly well that I am do-
ing somethinrg most sensible women
would think me a fool for doing,” said
she. “I don’t care, and yet I do care.
But I can’t help it. No woman gets
through this world without making a
fool of herself at least three times.
They may think they don’t. I was a
fool the first time, when I was only a
girl, and I thought you were enough
of a man to ask me to marry you. I
was a fool the second time, when I
was so ashamed because I thought I
had been mistaken that I married the
other man. I made him a good wife,
though,” said the woman proudly.
“He never had any cause to complain.
I made him as happy as any woman
could, and I nursed him through con-
sumption. He was sick when I mar-
ried him, poor man. I don’t know that
I could have married him if it had not
been for that. I certainly did pity him,
and that meant an awful lot to me.
But, looking at it just the way it was,
I see that was the second time I made
a fool of myself. :
“And now I know perfectly well
that I am making a fool of myself for
the third time, and—and—"
Kate started violently, for William
had risen suddenly and was motion-
ing her to be silent. “You stop,” said
William. “Don’t you say another
word. Supper is on the table. Emmy
and Hattie left it. You stay and have
supper with me. Let the Trotters
watch. Guess it will amuse them. We
will have supper. Emmy and Hattie
have done the best thing for me they
ever did in their whole lives. They
left me a good supper and they waked
me up. High time I was waked up.
Sit down Kate.”
The woman flushed a little. Sud-
denly she had a sensation of relative
positions changing. “Had I better,
after all, Billy?” she inquired. “The
Trotiers—"
“The Trotters be hanged!” said
William. Kate regarded him admir-
ingly, but also with a little awe. She
took the chair which William placed
for her.
“I have waked up,” said William as
he took his own place. “I reckon, to
do myself justice, that the women who
have belonged to me have helped me
in taking too long a nap; but I ain’t
going to blame it onto them. I sup-
pose they got to petting me by degrees.
I reckon I wasn’t very strong when I
was. little, and I was the youngest. I
know I was always sort of ailing. I
wasn’t strong.”
Kate was almost weeping. “No,
you were not, William,” she said bro-
kenly. “You were very delicate. No-
body thought you would live to grow
up. And you looked like an angel,
too.” She fairly sobbed.
“Angels have to live up to their
parts,” said William firmly. “I reck-
on angels are harder worked than
men. They are if they have to do the
police work they’re said to. I would |
rather work digging by the day than
watch out over the man that dug; and i
with nothing coming for it, either, ex-
cept the man’s own private harp and
crown, if the angels don’t happen to
quit. Look here, Kate, I know it is
almost too late. I have worked my
guardian angel too hard to have the
right to be called a man on this earth, |
but I have turned around; perhaps not |
as well as if I had turned around
sooner; but I have waked up and turn-
ed around, Kate.
“I am different,” said William, and |
his voice rang more firmly. “I shall
stay different. But I do know that I
am the kind of man who all his life ;
needs the sort of care women can give |
him. Maybe that is nothing to be |
ashamed of, if I don’t take advantage |
of it. I shan’t now; I shall take care
in my tun. Maybe, now I have come
to realize it, that is nothing to be
ashamed of.”
“No, it isn’t,” cried Kate. Her voice
was full of tenderness.
The two ate their supper. Neither
was aware exactly what was eaten.
William rose. “Now,” said he “you
must go home. I am going with you.”
“I will clear away the dishes first,
Billy.”
“Oh, Lord, hang the dishes! Let's
start. Are you sure you won’t carry
Emmy’s blue shawl? The Trot-
ters—"’
Kate’s face blazed. “I don’t care
what the Trotters think,” said she. “I
did not come here to ask you to mar-
ry me, Billy Franklin.”
“I don’t think you did. It would be
an insult to me,” answered William,
simply. “It would show me that you
thought I hadn’t any tongue in my
head, or any brains. I am going to
ask you myself as soon as we get to
your house, Kate. If you will, it shall
never be for you as it was for my sis-
ters. There is never to be any more
setting me apart as if I were a little
better than other people. I shall do
the man’s work about the house, and
you are to do exactly as you wish with
the woman’s work. I shall split up
the kindling-wood, and make the fires
and take care of the garden, and shov-
el snow, and never act put out, no
matter what you cook. It shall be
cabbage every day, if you want it.”
“I don’t,” replied Kate with a spir-
ited look, “but I do want to feel that
I could if I would.”
William laughed. “I'll raise cab-
bages,” said he jubilantly. “Come
along Kate.”
Then the two went out under the
stars for their short walk over the
field; the woman with her mother-
heart of love for the pitiful little boy
that had been looking out of William's
eyes when she entered; the man step-
ping lightly because he had begun to
lose the greatest burden of all-—the
supreme love of self.—By Mary E.
Wilkins Freeman,
phia Record Magazine.
BURNING UP PENNSYLVANIA.
During the five years ending with
1920, fire losses in Pennsylvania caus-
ed the destruction of property valued
at the astonishing total of $96,779,659,
according to figures made public by
‘the National board of Fire Under-
writers, which compiled the statistics
from its Actuarial Bureau's records.
‘I'hese figures reveal, in a startlig way,
i the price being paid by the State for
public ignorance and carelessness in
handling fire hazards. :
The causes are classified under
, three headings, of which twelve are
designated as “strictly preventable,”
with a total of $24,103,264 or 24.9 per
cent of the whole; nine are designated
as “partly preventable,” the aggre-
gate being $36,926,072 or 38.2 per cent
of the complete loss, and in addition
there are those listed in the “un-
known” column, which total $35,750,-
233 or 36.9 per cent. The “unknown”
losses may be considered as largely
preventable since, if determined, they
would have been distributed among
the other causes.
In analyzing the figures, it is
found that while “exposure,” which
means the effect of communicated
fires, was responsible for the heaviest
loss, $14,637,282, the principal specif-
ic cause of fire was “electricity,” with
a toll of $7,885,613. This indicates
how the safest form of power and light
is abused in Pennsylvania as a result
of carelessness.
as causes of fire, were “Matches-
Smoking,” $5,614,154, then “stoves,
furnaces, boilers and their pipes,”
$4,614,728, and then “spontaneous
combustion,” $3,845,189.
Pennsylvania stands second among
all of the States in the amount of loss
by fire and the figures quoted should
be increased by about 25 per cent to
cover losses not reported to the Na-
tional Board of Fire Underwriters,
The State’s losses during the five
years from 1916 to 1920 inclusive av-
eraged $19,355,511 per annum. If the
total of $96,779,559 could have been
used instead of wasted, it would have
built 19,3556 houses at $5,000 apiece
(sufficient to furnish homes for 96,-
775 people, or more than the popula-
tion of Wilkes-Barre and Oil City) or
it would have built 9,6773 miles of
good macadam roads at $10,000 a
mile.
A study of such figures indicates
the need of public education in fire
prevention. It should be realized that
property destroyed by fire represents
an utter and irretrieveable loss to the
people as a whole, while the inexcus-
able toll in human life and suffering
‘can hardly be compared.—Ex.
MINE FIRE BURNS
THIRTY YEARS.
. The biggest mine fire in the world
is raging in Perry county, Ohio, in
what is one of the finest seams of
soft coal in America, if not in the
whole world. This fire has been burn-
ing for thirty years and, according to
; those who know about the coal depos-
its there, it may burn for another thir-
ty or even longer. The fire began
Just as an ordinary pit fire in 1885,
and the owners of the mine were not
unduly alarmed as they thought they
could soon get it under control. They
started by pumping water into the
mine. But this did not seem to make
any impression; the fire burned as fu-
riously as ever, although millions of
tons of water were poured into the
mine. All the coal under 400 acres
belonging to these men vanished dur-
ing the course of the years, and the
. fire went on to the next estate of 550
acres, and on to the adjoining proper-
ty of 400 acres. This was not the end
of it, for up to date nearly 1,500 acres
of coal have been consumed and still
the flames go ahead.
The idea that the fire could not
eep on because there would not be
sufficient air was held at the begin-
ning. But the layer of coal is compar-
atively near to the surface, never
more than a hundred feet down and
some times as close to the top as ten
feet. As the fire rages great cracks
appear in the ground and a kind of
chimney is opened up which makes
the flames burn all the more strong-
ly. The district is a strange one in
which to live. Quite often there is a
rush of flames from the ground fol-
lowing on a tremendous explosion.
Now and again a spring of water
which has always been cold will be-
come boiling hot. Or a great tree
will suddenly fall over because all its
roots have been burned away. Many
houses have had to be moved or aban-
doned, as when the underground fire
gets near, it is not safe to stay in that
part. The ground might fall in all of
a sudden and a house and its occu-
pants be thrown into a blazing fur-
nace. Yet most of the people do not
seem to mind the danger much for
they are hard at work mining the coal
that has not caught, anxious to get it
up before the fire reaches it.—Refor-
matory Record.
FISH SCALES USED.
Nothing hitherto has been deemed
more worthless than fish scales; yet
the commercial fishermen now find a
market for them at a very satisfac-
tory price, fifty cents a pound.
It should be said, however, that only
the scales of some species of fish, such
as the shad, the river herring and the
sea herring, have value. These sil-
very scales are now systematically
saved by the fishermen of Maine,
Massachusetts and Virginia, and dur-
ing the last year six tons of alewife
scales alone were thus collected and
sold.
The scales are used in the manufac-
ture of “pearl essence,” which is the
material employed for lining the glass
globules commonly sold as imitation
pearls. It is a beautifully irridescent
substance, and, separated from the
scales by chemical means, is utilized
in the form of a slightly milky fluid
which looks as if shot with all the
hues of the rainbow.
The best job work can be had at the
“Watchman” office.
in the Philadel-!
Next in importance, |
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
i DAILY THOUGHT.
I Truth crushed to earth, shall rise again—
! The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
! And dies among his worshippers.
i —Bryant.
i
i In colors there is no evidence that
‘black is preferred. Red runs riot
i everywhere and the shades of it are
‘never somber. Burgundy is taboo;
flame, flag, lacquer are omnipresent
colors in whatever material the sea-
son offers. The color of war is the
chosen color for peace. Possibly it is
. a flag of sarcasm to the Disarmament
i Conference. It started on its wild and
: victorious career at the time Wash-
ington was the center of the world
| discussion as to how and when war
could be controlled by civilization. :
| Green, the color of the Amazons, is
| the rival of red. It, too, is a color of
| ancient war, when a far-famed race
i of women fought as well as men and
with as little, if not less, conscience.
! Is the heralding of this vivid color
: another token that women have gone
i into the field of battle, if not with
' swords then with votes?
i The tender shades of green are not
i accepted. Fashion takes the biting
tone of this universal color, mixing it
with some blue, again letting it strike
' the eye like a clear jewel. Both Amer-
{ica and France weave soft fabrics in
| it, somewhat like Chinese crepe, and
1 France delights in a coarser open can-
vas material that reminds one of the
| samplers of Revolutionary days. One
could embroider a trite and sincere
motto on it in colored wools and frame
| it to hang in the hall.
! Gray has something of prestige;
| brown has little over here, although
i we hear much of it from Paris, but
; as it is the least happy of hot weather
colors, there is little thought of it, ex-
cept as a possible forerunner of au-
tumn fashion. The tan and beige
tones are still in the ascendency and
there is a mixture of pink in the sand
and beige colorings that is not only
pleasing to the eye, but attractive
against the flesh. It has more warmth
than the cold tones of tan and can be
used for more purposes.
Dark blue has its uses, but they are
not often gay ones. The world needs
certain steady principles and clothes,
so dark blue serge and crepe fill that
breach. They take the place of black,
happily, and the dressmakers see to it
that the change is strongly accentu-
ated. One must record quickly, how-
ever, the fact that the milliners are
not as progressive as the dressmakers
in trying to argue against black for
trade’s sake, for Lewis, and many
another master milliner of France, is
pushing the all-black hat for spring
and making a success. They argue
that they tried to force the colored
hat on women and they would have
none of it, so now they are giving
their imagination free play to invent
alluring black shapes. For these hats
they use black satin, the old reliable.
On it they put wings and ribbon and
sometimes curious and conspicuous
ornamental hat pins in bright colors.
Of ccurse, red and green come into
their own just here.
There is a struggle for the suprem-
acy of metals in costumery, which
may also reflect the terrific battle be-
tween currency in various nations
which is the aftermath of the war.
Gold fights for its life in splendid
gowns and silver runs into extrava-
gance on plain frocks and hats, which
does not keep it away from the dance,
the dinner, the play. v
The new embroidery is of silver and
black, not ribbon, nor silk, nor wool,
but braid in fine width and patterned
like Slavic embroidery. It is quite
good to look at and not difficult to do.
We are bound to see much of it when
the new clothes for spring and sum-
mer begin to appear in public.
FOR MEN
At its topmost best men’s dress is
a darksome affair, holding one down
to monotony and a uniformity which
stifle the “I” and “my” of individual
taste, Therefore, any departure from
the same old, tame old thing is to be
hailed with genuine relief.
The wing collar, which was widely
in vogue some ten years ago, is by
way of coming back, as a fashionable
form for day dress. It may be worn
either with the bow-knot tie, or with
the four-in-hand.
If the bow-knot tie be chosen, the
ends may be square, pointed or round,
and the cravat may be plain-colored
or boldly spotted or striped. The tabs
of the wing collar are straight rather
than slanting, and the tie is knotted
over the tabs, not underneath.
“All Dressed Up and No Place to
Go.”—Echoing the comical, cynical re-
frain, “All dressed up and no place to
go,” the everyday American puts on
formal evening clothes only when the
obligation of high occasion inflexibly
compels him. Otherwise, he is a stick-
ler for the dinner jacket (Tuxedo) and
nothing seems to be able to wean him
away from this easy, leisurely turn-
out.
The accepted dinner jacket of 22
closely follows the body lines of the
day sack, except that the lapels, shawl
or peaked, are faced with dull ribbed
silk, moire silk or bright satin.
American designers have brought
informal evening dress to a much
higher pitch of perfection than it is
developed abroad, introducing a rich-
ness of piping taping and facing and
a figure-flexing fit, which are so won-
derfully well done, that they seem al-
most overdone.
Besides the conventional unfinished
worsted cloth of plain black, there are
many patterned effects to be met, as
bird’s-eye and barathea weaves, cords,
invisible plaids and shadow stripes,
2, i course, executed in black upon
ack.
Other details of dress are the new
and fuller derby hat; the bold-tab
wing collar and the narrow “once-
over” cravat now again beginning to
be worn.
What makes “the mad hatter” so
mad? It must be that he is driven
distraught by the impossible hats
some men insist upon wearing, not-
withstanding well-meant advice. Since
the hatter has been schooled by years
of experience in sizing up heads.