PATE TAN
ea
E
by
Zona Gale
(Continued from last week).
* The Plows were at breakfast next
morning when Lulu came in casually
at the side door. Yes, she said, she
had had breakfast. She merely want-
ed to see them about something, Then
she said nothing, but sat looking with
a troubled frown at Jehny. Jenny's
hair was about her neck, like the
hair of a little girl, a south window
poured light upon her, the fruit and
honey upon the table seemed her only
possible food.
“You look troubled, Lulu,” Mrs.
Plow said. “Is it about getting work?"
“No,” said Lulu, “no. I've been
places. I guess the bakery is going
to let me make cake.”
“I knew it would come to you,” Mrs.
Plow said, and Lulu thought that this
was a strange way to speak, when she
herself had gone after the cakes. But
she kept on looking about the room.
It was so bright and quiet. As she
came in, Mr. Plow had been reading
from a book. Dwight never read
from a book at table.
“] wish—" said Lulu, as she looked
at them. But she did not know what
she wished. Certainly it was for no
moral excellence, for she perceived
none,
“What is it. Lulu?” Mr. Plow nsked
and he was bright and quiet too, Lulu
thought.
“Well,” said Lulu, “it’s not much.
but I wanted Jenny to tell me about
last night.”
“Last night?”
“Yes. Would you—" Hesitation
was her only way of apology. “Where
did you go?’ She turned to Jenny.
Jenny looked up in her clear and
ardent fashion: “We went across the
river and carried supper and then we
came home.”
“What time did you get home?”
“Oh, it was still light. Long before
eight, it was.”
Lule hesitated and flushed, asked
how long Di and Bobby had stayed
there at Jenny’s; whereupon she
heard that Di had to be home early oti
account of Mr. Cornish, so that she
and Bobby had not stayed at all.
which Lulu said an “of course,” but
first she stared at Jenny and so im-
paired the strength of her assent. Al-
most at once she rose to go.
“Nothing else?” said Mrs. Plow,
catching that look of hers.
Lulu wanted to say: “My husband
was married before, just as he said he
was.” But she said nothing more, and
went home. There she put it to Di
and, with her terrible bluntness, re-
viewed to Di the testimony.
“You were not with Jenny after
eight o'clock. Where were you?”
Lulu spoke formally and her rehears-
als were evident.
Di said: “When
home, I'll tell her.”
With this Lulu had no idea how to
deal, and merely looked at her help-
iessly. Mrs. Bett, who was lacing her
shoes, now said casually:
“No need to wait till then. Her and
Bobby were out in the side yard sit-
ting in the hammock till all hours.”
Di had no answer save her furious
flush, and Mrs. Bett went on:
“Didn’t I tell you? I knew it before
the company left, but I didn’t say a
mamma comes
word. Thinks I, ‘She wiggles and
chitters.” So I left her stay where
she was.”
“But, mother!” Lulu cried. “You
didn’t even tell me after he'd gone.”
“I forgot it,” Mrs. Bett said, “find-
fng Ninian’s letter and all—” She
talked of Ninian’s letter.
Di was bright and alert and firm of
flesh and erect before Lulu’s softness
and laxness.
“] don’t know what your mother’il
say,” said Lulu, “and I don’t know
what people’ll think.”
“They won’t think Bobby and I are
tired of each other, anyway,” said Dj,
and left the room.
Through the day Lulu tried to think
what she must do. About Di she was
anxious and felt without power. She
thought of the indignation of Dwight
and Ina that Di had not been more
scrupulously guarded. She thought of
Di’s girlish folly, her irritating inde-
pendence—*and there,” Lulu thought,
“just the other day I was teaching
her to sew.” Her mind dwelt, too, on
Dwight’s furious anger at the opening
of Ninian’s letter. But when all this
had spent itself, what was she herself
to do? She must leave his house be-
fore he ordered her to do so, when
she told him that she had confided in
Cornish, as tell she must. But what
was she to do? The bakery cake-
making would not give her a roof.
Stepping about the kitchen in her
blue cotton gown, her hair tight and
flat as seemed proper when one was
wot dressed, she thought about these
things. And it was strange: Lulu bore
no physical appearance of one in dis-
. tress of any anxiety. Her head was
erect, her movements were strong and
swift, her eyes were interested. She
was no drooping Lulu with dragging
step. She was more intent, she was
somehow more operative than she had
ever been.
Copyright by D. APPLETON AND "i
To I int
Itustrations by
Jrwin Myers
gjiaRe" ni
Mrs. Bett was working contentedly
beside her, and now and then hum-
ming an air of that music of the night
before. The sun surged through the
kitchen door and east window, a re-
turned oriole swung and fluted on the
elm ahove the gable. Wagons clat-
tered by over the rattling wooden
block pavement.
“Ain’t it nice with nobody home?”
Mrs. Bett remarked at intervals, like
the burden of a comic song.
“Hush, mother,” Lulu said, troubled,
her ethical refinements conflicting with
her honesty.
“Speak the truth and shame the
devil,” Mrs. Bett contended.
When dinner was ready at noon, Di
did not appear. A little earlier Lulu
had heard her moving about her room,
and she served her in expectation that
she would join them.
“Di must be having the ‘tantrim’
this time,” she thought, and for a time
said nothing. But at length she did
say: “Why doesn’t Di come? I'd bet-
ter put her plate in the oven.”
Rising to do so, she was arrested
by her mother. Mrs. Bett was eating
a baked potato, holding her fork close
to the tines, and presenting a profile
of passionate absorption.
“Why, Di went off,” she said.
“Went off !”
“Down the walk. Down the side-
walk.” :
“She must have gone to Jenny's,”
said Lulu. “1 wish she wouldn't do
that without telling me.”
Monona laughed out and shook her
straight hair. “Shell catch it!” she
cried in sisterly enjoyment.
It was when Lulu had come back
from the kitchen and was seated at the
table.that Mrs. Bett observed:
“I didn’t think Inie’d want her to
take her nice new satchel.” :
“Her satchel?”
“Yes. Inie wouldn’t take it north
herself, hut Di had it.”
“Mother,” said Lulu. “when Di
went away just now, was she carrying
a satchel ?”
“Didnt 1 just tel! you?’ Mrs. Bet!
Lemanded. azgrieved. “1 said I didn't
& fe : yy :
“Mother, which way did she go?”
Monona pointed with her spoon.
“She went that way,” she said. "I
#=en her.”
Lulu looked at the clock. For Mo-
nona had pointed toward the railway
station. The twelve-thirty train,
which every one took to the city for
shopping, would be just about leav-
ing.
“Monona,” said Lulu, “don’t you go
out of the yard while I'm gone. Moth-
er, you keep her—”
Lulu ran from the house and up the
street. She was in her blue cotton
dress, her old shoes; she was hatless
and without money. When she was
still two or three blocks from the sta-
tion, she heard the twelve-thirty
“pulling out.”
She ran badly, her ankles in their
low, loose shoes continually turning,
her arms held taut at her sides. So
she came down the platform, and to
the ticket window. The contained
ticket man, wonted to lost trains and
perturbed faces, yet actually ceased
counting when he saw her:
“Lenny! Did Di Deacon take tha
train?” .
“Sure she did,” said Lenny.
“And Bobby Larkin?’ Lulu cared
nothing for appearances now.
“He went in on the Local,” said
Lenny, and his eyes widened.
“Where?”
“See.” Lenny thought it through.
“Millton,” he said. “Yes, sure. Mill-
ton. Both of ’em.”
“How long till another train?”
“Well, gir,” said the ticket man.
“you're in luck, if you was goin’ too.
Seventeen was late this morning—
she'll be along, jerk of a lamb’s tail.”
“Then,” said Lulu, “you got to give
me a ticket to Millton, without me pay-
ing till after—and you got to lend me
two dollars.”
“Sure thing,” said Lenny, with a
manner of laying the entire railway
system at her feet.
“Seventeen” would rather not have
stopped at Warbleton, but Lenny’s sig-
nal was law on the time card, and the
magnificent yellow express slowed
down for Lulu. Hatless, and in her
blue cotton gown, she climbed aboard.
Then her old inefficiency seized
upon her. What was she going to do?
Millton! She had been there but once,
years ago—how could she ever find
anybody? Why had she not stayed in
Warbleton and asked the sheriff or
somebody—no, not the sheriff, Corn-
ish, perhaps. Oh, and Dwight and Ina
were going to be angry now! And
Di—Ilittle Di. As Lulu thought of her
she began to cry. She said to herself
that she had taught Di to sew.
In sight of Millton, Lulu was seized
«ith trembling and physical nausea.
&ne had never been alone in any un-
familiar town, She put her hands to
ber hair and for the first time realized
her rolled-up sleeves. She was pulling
down these sleeves when the conduct-
tor came through the train.
“Could you tell me,” she said timid-
ly, “the name of the principal hotel in
Millton?” :
Ninian had asked this as they
neared Savannah, Georgia,
The conductor looked curiously at
her.
“Why, the Hess house,” he said.
“Wasn't you expecting anybody to
meet you?” he asked, kindly,
‘¥o,” said Lulu, “but I'm going to
find my folks—"” Her voice trailed
away.
“Beats all,” thought the conducter,
using his utility formula for the uri-
verse. :
In Millton Lulu’s inquiry for the
Hess house produced no consternation.
Nobody paid any attention to her. She
was almost taken to be a new servant
there.
“You stop feeling sol” she said to
herself angrily at the lobby entrance.
i i AAT
RN
{
AKA
“Tried the Parlor? And Directed Her
Kindly and With His Thumb.
“Ain't you been to that big hotel in
Savannah, Georgia?”
The Hess house, Milliton, had a tra-
dition of its own to maintain, it
seemed, and they sent her to the rear
basement door. She obeyed meekly,
but she lost a good deal of time be-
fore she found herself at the end of
the office desk. It was still longer be-
fore anyone attendes her.
“Please, sir!” she burst out. “See
if Di Deacon has put her name on
vour book.”
Her appeal was tremendous, com-
ar{ strange writing presented theme
selves there, he said:
“Tried the parlor?’
And directed her kindly and with
his thumb, and in the other hand a
pen divorced from his ear for the ex-
Dress purpose.
Tn crossing the lobby in the hotel
at Savannah, Georgia, Lulu’s most
pressing problem had been to know
where to look. But now the idlers in
tbe Hess house lobby did not exist. In
time she found the door of the in-
tensely rose-colored reception room.
There, in a fat, rose-colored chair, be-
side a cataract of lace curtain, sat Di.
alone.
Lulu entered. She had no idea what
to say. When Di looked up, started
up, frowned, Lulu felt as if she herself
were the culprit. She said the first
thing that occurred to her:
“I don’t believe mamma’ll like your
taking her nice satchel.”
“Well!” said Di, exactly as if she
had been at home. And superadded:
“My goodness!” And then cried rude-
ly: “What are you here for?”
“For you,” said Lulu. “You—you—
you'd ought not to be here, Di.”
“What's that to you?” Di cried.
‘Why, Di, you're just a little girl—"
Lulu saw that this was all wrong,
and stopped miserably. How was she
to go on? “Di,” she said, “if you and
Bobby want to get married, why not
let us get you up a nice wedding at
home?’ And she saw thatithis sound-
ed as if she were talking about a tea-
party.
“Who said we wanted to be mar-
ried?”
“Well, he’s here.”
“Who said he’s here?”
‘Isn’t he?”
Di sprang up. “Aunt Lulu,” she said,
“you're a funny person to be telling
me what to do.”
Lulu said, flushing: “I love you just
the same as if 1 was married happy,
in a home.”
“Well, you aren‘t!” cried Di cruelly,
“gnd I'm going to do just as I think
best.”
Lulu thought this over, her look
grave and sad. She tried to find some-
thing to say. “What do people say to
people,” she wondered, “when it's like
this?”
“Getting married is for your whole
life,” was all that came to her.
“Yours wasn’t,” Di flashed at her.
“Lulu’s color deepened, but there
seemed to be:no resentment in her.
She must deal with this right—that
was what her manner seemed to say.
And how should she deal?
“Di,” she cried, ‘come back with
we—and wait till mamma and papa
i=et home.”
“That’s likely. They.say I'm not to
be married till I'm twenty-one.”
“Well, but how young that is!”
“It is to you.”
“Di! This is wrong—it is wrong.”
“There's nothing wrong about get-
ting married—if you stay married.”
pelling. The young clerk listened to
her, showed her where to look in the
register. When only ‘strange nes
“Well, then it can’t be wrong to let
them know.”
“It isn’t. But they'd treat me
wrong. They'd make me stay at
home. And I won't stay at home—I
won't stay there. They act as if I
was ten years old.”
Abruptly in Lulu's face there came
a light of understanding.
“Why, Di,” she said, “do you feel
that way, too?”
Di missed this. She went on:
“I'm grown up. I feel just as
grown up as they do. And I'm not al-
lowed to do a thing I feel. I want to
be away—I will be away!”
“I know about that part,” Lulu said.
She now looked at Di with atten-
tion. Was it possible that Di was
suffering in the air of that home as
she herself suffered? She had not
thought of that. There Di had seemed
so young, so dependent, so—asquirm.
Here, by herself, waiting for Bobby,
in the Hess house at Millton, she was
curiously adult. Would she be adult
if she were let alone?
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Di
ried, “to be hushed up an laughed at
and paid no attention to everything
vou say.”
“Don’t 1?” said Lulu. ‘Don’t I?”
She was breathing quickly and look-
ing at Di. If this was why Di was
‘eaving home, . . .
“But, Di,” she cried, “do you love
Bobby Larkin?”
By this Di was embarrassed. “I've
Zot to marry somebody,” she said,
‘and it might as well be him.”
“But is it him?”
“Yes, it is,” said Di. “But,” she
added, “I know I could love almost
'nybody real nice that was nice to
.ne.” And this she said, not in her
own right, but either she had picked
it up somewhere and adopted it, or
else the terrible modernity and hon-
esty of her day somehow spoke
through her, for its own. But to Lulu
it was as if something familiar turned
its face to be recognized.
“Di!” she cried.
“It’s true. You ought to know
that.” She waited for a moment.
“You did it,” slke added. “Mamma
said so,”
At this onslaught Lulu was stupe-
filed. For she began to perceive its
truth.
“I know what I want to do, I guess,”
Di muttered, as if to try to cover
what she had said.
Up to that moment, Lulu had been
feeling intensely that she understood
Di, but that Di did not know this.
Now Lulu felt that she and Di actual-
ly shared some unsuspected sister-
hood. It was not only that they were
both badgered by Dwight. It was
more than that. They were two wom-
en. And she must make Di know that
she understood her.
“Dji.»
“what you just sald is true, I guess.
Don’t you think I don’t know. And
row I'm going to tell you—"
She might have poured it all out,
claimed her kinship with Di by virtue
ef that which had happened in Savan-
nah, Georgia. But Di said:
“Here come some ladies. And good-
ress, look at the way you look!”
Lulu glanced down. “I know.” she
said, “but I guess you'll have to put
up with me.”
The two women entered, looked
about with the complaisance of those
who examine a hotel property, find
criticism incumbent, and have no
errand. These two women had out-
dressed their occasion. In their pres-
ence Di kept silence, turned away her
head, gave them to know that she had
nothing to do with this blue cotton
person beside her. When they had
gone on, “What do you mean by my
having to put up with you?’ Di asked
sharply.
“I mean Iin going to stay with
you.”
Di laughed scornfully—she was
again the rebellious child. “I guess
Bobby’ll have something to say about
that,” she said insolently.
“They left you in my charge.”
“But I’m not a baby—the idea, Aunt
Lulu!”
“I'm going to stay right with you,”
said Lulu. She wondered what she
ghould do if Di suddenly marched
away from her, through that bright
lobby and into the street. She thought
miserably that she must follow. And
then her whole concern for the ethics
of Di’s course was lost in her agon-
ized memory of her terrible, broken
shoes.
Di did not march away. She turned
her back squarely upon Lulu, and
looked out of the window. For her
life Lulu could think of nothing more
to say. She was now feeling misera-
bly on the defensive.
They were sitting in silence when
Bobby Larkin came into the room.
Di flew to meet him. She assumed
all the pretty agitations of her role,
ignored Lulu.
“Bobby! Is it all right?”
Bobby looked over her head.
“Miss Lulu,” he said fatuously. “If
it ain’t Miss Lulu.”
He looked from her to Di, and did
not take in Di’s resigned shrug.
“Bobby,” said Di, “she’s come to
stop us getting married, but she can’t.
I've told her so.”
“She don’t have to stop us,” quoth
Bobby gloomily, “we're stopped.”
“What do you mean?’ Di laid one
hand flatly along.her cheek, instinc-
tive im her melodrama.
Bobby drew down his brows, set his
hand on his leg, elbows out.
“We're minors,” said he.
“Well, gracious, you didn’t have to
tell them that.”
“No. They knew I was.”
=But, Silly! Why didn't you tell
them you're not?”
“But I am.”.
Di stared. “For pity sakes,” she
said, “don’t you know how to do any-
thing?”
“What would you have me do?” he
Lulu said, breathing hard, |
i too.
She Turned Her Back Squarely Upon
Lulu and Looked Out of the Win-
dow.
inquired indignantly, with his head
held very stiff, and with a boyish.
admirable lift of chin.
“Why tell them we're both twenty-
one. We look it. We know we're re-
gponsible—that’'s all they care for.
Well, you are a funny
“You wanted me to lie?’ he said.
”
.
“Oh, don’t make out you never told
a fib.”
“Well, but this—" he stared at her. |
“I never heard of such a thing,” Di
cried accusingly.
“Anyhow,” he said, ‘“there’s noth-
I've
We've got to have our
ing to do now. The cat's out.
told our ages.
folks in on it.”
“Is that all you can think of?’ she
Gemanded.
“What else?”
“Why, come on to Bainbridge or
Molt, and tell them we're of age, and
Be married there.”
“Di,” said Bobby, “why, that'd be
a rotten go.”
Di said, oh, very well, if he didn't
want to marry her. He replied stonily
that of course he wanted to marry
her. Di stuck out her little hand.
She was at a disadvantage. She could
use no arts, with Lulu sitting there,
“Well, then, come on to
looking on.
Bainbridge,” Di cried, and rose.
29y? 1 don’t know what to say.
don’t know what: I can say.”
she also rose, and laughed awkwardly.
“I've told Di,” she said to, Bobby,
“that wherever you two go, I'ma goinz
Di’s folks left her in my ene,
yuu know. So you'll have to take me
aiong, T guess.” She spoke in a man
ner of distinct apology.
At this Bobby had no idea what to
reply. He looked down miserably &is
the carpet. His whole manner was a
mute testimony to his participation
in the eternal query: How did [ ge:
into it?
“Bobby,” said Di, “are you going to
let her lead you home?”
This of course nettled him, but nut
in the manner on which Di had count-
ed. He said loudly:
“I'm not going to Bainbridge or
Holt or any town and lie, to get you
or any other girl.”
“Come on, Aunt Lulu”
grandly.
Robby led the way through the
lobby, Di followed, and Lulu brought
up tke rear. She walked awkwardly.
eyes down, her hands stiffly held.
Heads turned to look at her. They
passed into the street.
“You two go ahead,” said Lulu, “so
they won't think—”
They did so, and she followed, and
did not know where to look, and
thought of her broken shoes.
At the station, Bobby put them on
the train and stepped back. He had,
he said, something to see to there
fn Millton. Di did not look at him.
And Lulw’s good-by spoke her genuine
regret for all,
“Aunt Lulu,” said Di, “you needn't
think I'm going to sit with you. You
look as if you were crazy. I'll sit
back here.”
“All right, Di,” said Lulu humbly.
* * *® * * * *
It was nearly six o'clock when they
arrived at the Deacons’. Mrs. Bett
stood on the porch, her hands rolled
in her apron.
“Surprise for
brightly.
(Continued next week).
you!” she called
MOTORISTS MULCTED $90,000,000.
“Short-measure’” selling of gaso-
line was estimated recently by the
National Motorists’ Association to be
costing purchasers $90,000,600 a year.
This figure was based on an estimate
that each of the 10,000,000 motorists
of the United States buys two gal-
lons of gasoline daily and that the av-
erage filching by “short-measure art-
ists” actually amounts to 2 pints in
each 5 gallons, resulting in a total
loss to purchasers of 1,000,000 gallons,
valued at approximately $250,000.
The association announced its in-
tention to combat the short-measure
selling.
Recent tests with fraud detecting
devices, carefully made under official
auspices by representatives of auto
clubs, the statement said, ‘“‘developed
the astounding fact that out of a num-
ber of purchases of gas in 5-gallon
lots, there was a shortage running
from 1 to 8 pints each in over 50 per
cent. of the tests made.”
said Ih |
a
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
HERITAGE,
Nothing is lost—nor grief, nor joy, nor
pain;
No wreckage of today or yesterday—
The boundless granaries of life retain
All that the spendthrift ages cast away.
And each least grain we add unto their
store,
Whether it spring of happiness or tears,
Shall dower every unborn soul the more
With good or ill to breast the coming
years.—By Charlotte Becker, in
Hampton's Magazine,
There is no getting away from th
fact that skirts have taken Yo Son
selves many, many extra inches
around their lower edge. Not satis-
fied with growing longer, they have
become tremendously wider as well.
And not in the least gradually have
they brought about this result, We
went to bed one night with skirts
draped tightly and sinuously about the
figure, and we got up the next morn-
Ing with them circular, and pleated
until they measured yards.
One cannot deny that they are
charmingly graceful—when they are
graceful; but beware of the circular
model which is not fashioned by the
clever hand! It sags hopelessly just
where it is not supposed to sag, and
hikes up forlornly directly in front.
And although the uneven hem is
smart enough when it is meant to be
that way, there is no more dowdy
thing in creation than a skirt which
i 1s not properly adjusted.
The godet pleats are appearing at
every hand. New fa, i Tl
, ture their lovely smartness, and it is
!a strong-minded woman indeed who
ican resist their appeal. Like every
other mode which we have recently
{ had, they show a decided affinity for
Canton crepe, as well as the fascinat-
ing satin-back crepes. Godet pleats
1 at the sides topped by a silver filigree
: ornament; no sleeves anywhere about,
or long and loose and trailing when
they are; the wide-low neck, which
i still continues a favorite—and milady
| is garbed quite according to fashion’s
latest whim.
. For some time we have been hear-
ing rumors of the return of broad-
cloth. Fashion displays for some time
past have shown alluring models of
| this exquisite, - patrician fabric. But
there has been little of it seen except
in the shops. Now, however, it prom-
ises to come more directly to the
front, as though it might have been
waiting for the old-time width which
was the vogue when last it was in fa-
vor.
A most distinctive frock of black
broadcloth, soft and fine as satin and
lustrous as velvet, shows a circular
skirt of the greatest chic. The blouse
adopts a new note in dress by making
use of old blue batiste, which forms
Lulu was thinking: “What shall I, the sleeves, except for a tiny cap at
I. the shoulder, and the very deep chem-
Now | isette. Have you noticed that a great
! number of the new frocks are show-
ing these deep chemisettes? It has a
| way of softening the perfectly plain
| front, which many women did not find
{ becoming.
A correspondent from Pennsgrove,
N. J., wishes to start a rose garden,
and wonders if autumn is the proper
time. To which I reply: “None bet-
ter!” In fact, the important thing is
not the selection and planting of the
roses themselves, but the proper prep-
aration of their quarters. The border
cannot be prepared one day and the
tenants moved in the next. A thor-
ough deep turning, enriching, mellow-
ing and ripening of the soil for days
| is necessary, then a final settling of
the bed into position. The sooner this
work is done the better. After these
preliminaries certain hardy varieties
| of roses may be installed while dor-
| mant in late October or November. It
is more satisfactory to reserve deli-
cate tea and hybrid tea types until
late April.
_ There is one difficulty to overcome
in that section, a poor and sandy soil.
Poor soil is easily remedied; sandy
soil for roses must be eliminated.
Roses love a heavy clay liberally en-
riched with old manure. The top soil
of an old pasture is fine. Removing
soil means trouble and expense, but
the bushes will flourish from the start.
Dig oat the soil to the depth of at
least two feet, and fill the trench with
a mixture of top soil and old cattle
manure. Both may be procured at
reliable dealers, the top soil at $3 per
barrel of 350 pounds; shredded cat-
tle manure at $3.50 per bag of 100
pounds. Two barrels of soil with one
bag of manure would be required.
Then let the border settle.
Be sure the manure is distributed
principally at the bottom of the
trench, well mixed with the soil, so
that the roots, striking downward,
may obtain full benefit. I would
choose Grus and Teplitz for the rear
of the border. This, strangely enough
is a hybrid tea, but in a class of its
own, being included in the list of un-
killables. The plants obtain a height
of from five to seven feet, tremendous-
ly vigorous, with massive, erect canes,
furnished with splendid foliage until
frost. Clusters of vivid velvety red
blooms may be cut with stems a yard
long, like the American Beauty of the
greenhouse, and the plant is rarely
out of flower. No hothouse rose has
finer foliage. :
Ulrich Brunner, of a clear cerise
red, ranks at the top of the hardy
perpetual class (known as H. P.’s).
It blooms enormously in June, with
an occasional flower in autumn, while
Mrs. John Laing is unsurpassed
among the H. P. pink types. Each
stalk bears a single perfect bloom
with stem a foot or more long, mak-
ing it ideal for cutting. Frau Kar
Druschki (H. P.) is a worthy com-
panion with immense pure white
blossoms in a giant bush. Yellow ros-
es are not for the begianer.
Silks should not be allowed to
freeze, as they sunburn if put wet in
the sun. Silks of fast dyes should be
rolled while wet in heavy cloth or
turkish towel until they are right for
ironing, and not hung up to dry. The
irons used should be medium hot, as
the fabric scorches easily.