ee —————————————————
rain, Miss Mariette had christened it. |
~ Bellefonte, Pa., December 8, 1922.
es
HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS.
The way to make friends is as easy,
As breathing the fresh morning air;
It ain’t by an art to be studied
Alone by the men who can spare
The time from their everyday labors,
To ponder on classical lore;
It never is taught in a college
And it isn’t a trick or a chore.
The way to make friends is to be one,
To smile at the stranger you meet,
To think cheerful thoughts and to speak
them
Aloud to the people you greet.
To hold out your hand to a brother
And cheerfully say “Howdy-do”
In a way that he’ll know that you mean it
That's all that's expected of you.
Be honest in all of your dealings,
Be true to your word and your home,
And you will make friends, never doubt it
Wherever you happen to roam.
Condemn not the brother who falters,
Nor fawn on the rich and the great;
Speak kindly to all that approach you,
And give up all whining at fate.
—=Selected.
'UPSTAGE.
“And I said to him: ‘My deah boy,
don’t talk to me as if I were your
wife! And don’t imagine you're the
only Twin Six in town!” And we set-
tled it right then and there!” The
full, pouting baby lips broadened into
a reminiscent smile. The pink and
white cheeks dimpled. Miss Marietta
Malard, accent on the last syllable,
laid her trump card on the table for
the benefit of her listener, whose black
eyes sparkled with gratifying inter-
est. “And then he went out and
bought me a big 2
Just what the “big” was remained a
question, for Miss Marietta halted as
a girl slid into the chair next to hers
and stretched out a hand to dust a
film of powder from the face of her
mirror. They formed a queer assort-
ment, those mirrors, all shapes and
sizes, propped against both sides of
the rack that ran down the center of
the long make-up table. .
Into them gazed as many types as
there are flowers of the field, and just
two traits in common—all were slen-
der as birch trees, all young as Eve
before the serpent appeared. Except
that to most the apple was no longer
forbidden fruit.
At the moment there were some six-
teen in various stages of the costume,
largely imagination, which the pret-
tiest chorus on Broadway wore in
Scene I of “Good Night Cap.” It was
one of those musical melanges com-
monly known as girlie shows, and ad-
vertised in red splashes of poster as
“A Bevy of Beauties All under Twen-
ty.” The bloods of New York patron-
ized the Summer Garden with a loyal-
ty that brought them back at least
once a week. It was the one theatre
in town in which the chorus fraterniz-
ed with the audience, tripping down a
runway into the aisles to trill their
syncopated love ditties into the ears
of selected members; or swinging
overhead on ropes of roses, bare knees
periloasly near bald heads.
On the night in question, one of ear-
ly March, Miss Mariette Mallard’s vo-
luminous moleskin wrap was draped
over the back of her chair and she
pulled it round her with a pretty baby
shiver as she scanned the girl.who had
just come in.
“Well,” she observed, forgetting to
go'on with her story, “how is mam-
ma’s sparkler tonight ?”’
The girl bit her lip then turned with
a grin that was not in her eyes and
flashed under Miss Mariette’s little
nose the hand that had dusted the mir-
ror. On its third finger blinked a dia-
mond, the size and brilliance of which
was breath taking.
Miss Mariette promptly turned her
attention to the black-eyed one.
“Gracie deah, suppose you had a block
of ice like that—wouldn’t you try to
make your clothes live up to it?”
The black-eyed one giggled. “And
I wouldn’t be so upstage about it until
I did!”
The object of their amusement set
her teeth and turned back to the mir-
ror, addressing the reflection: “I pay
cash for my clothes. That’s more than
some people can say.”
The black-eyed one giggled again.
“They look it,” she murmured sweetly.
Miss Mariette indulged in a smile
still more saccharine. “They look as
if you paid nothing for them, my deah.
Take my advice and pay cash to get
rid of them.” She gave a dismissing
flourish of her small hand and patted
her pale blonde ringlets.
The chorus girl of today buys her
hats on Fifth Avenue and borrows her
manner from the same thoroughfare.
She never forgets that a lead awaits
her if she’s clever enough to look and
act the part. Not that Miss Mallard
had any ambitions in that direction.
But she did try to live up to the mole-
skin cloak and the car that called for
her every night. Only at unguarded
moments did Second Avenue scratch
through Fifth.
“You don’t know how to manage
him, my deah,” she concluded, baby
blue eyes fastened on the brilliant
stone.
The girl’s lips opened, then shut
tight. She had told them where the
ring came from—and they didn’t be-
lieve her. Besides, if she tried to
answer them she’d cry, and she’d die
rather than let them see her do that!
It was the same struggle she went
through every night and two matinees
a week, sometimes with bravado, more
often in choking silence. They made
her ashamed, those two, that for her
the apple still hung high on the tree.
If they wanted to think some man had
given her the diamond, so much the
better! It would make her seem pop-
ular and less a little fool.
She downed the tears by vigorous
motion * * * Qhe sprang up—
a kick of her heel sent her chair spin-
ning—and ripping open the clasps of
her one piece serge dress, she tossed
it on the hook in the wall where hung
a plain brown ulster and imitation
seal turban—alley cat caught in the
Ramm——
Then she gritted her teeth, pulled the
chair back into place and slashed on
make-up. :
Sallie MacMahon, listed in chorus
annals as Zara May, was one of those
who merited the splashing announce-
ment of the red posters. Her long
mermaid hair, with its glisten of sun-
set on the sea; the same gold in the
lashes that shaded her deep blue eyes;
the transparent quality of her skin
with the swift play of young blood un-
der the surface gave to Sallie’s beau-
ty a luminous quality Sallie herself
did not possess. Sallie was just a
girl, with a facility for doing what
she was told. The daughter of a
Scotch father with somber eyes and
an Irish mother with laughing ones,
both of whom had sailed the misty
river into unknown lands after a stor-
my sojourn together in this one, she
had been left at fifteen to take care of
herself, with a love of the beautiful on
one hand warring against a sense of
economy on the other.
Sallie loved soft furs and clinging
silks such as swept into the chorus
dressing room nightly, but she had no
desire to follow the tortuous path by
which such luxuries are achieved.
However, the fact that the Mallard
girl and Grace assumed she had done
so, did not at all disturb her. It was
their ridicule she feared, their jibes at
her clothes. Speeding across the stone
floor under the Summer Garden stage,
she tried to bring a smile to her lips.
They merely quivered.
There came the march of a military
air and the girls filed up the wobbly
wooden steps and through a trap door.
Sallie brought the smile to her lips,
fixed it as if it had been glued there.
Her young elastic body rippled
through the number under the chang-
ing lights. She loved the jazz, loved
the stir of rhythm, and had it not been
for the ache in her heart whenever
she set foot in the theatre, she would
have loved the work. She was nine-
teen. Music was in her blood.
She danced through the varying
scenes with swift changes of costume,
hurried dabs of powder and little time
to nurse her woes.
A number toward the end of Act II
was her favorite. It was the one in
which the girls trooped down the run-
way and trilled to some not always
embarrassed occupant of an aisle seat:
“Oh-oh-oh-oh-h-h-h-h-—
Won’t you—smile at me ?
Often as she swayed through it, it
never failed to give her a thrill. Like-
wise she never failed to get what she
demanded.
Tonight as she syncopated down the
aisle a light shone from her deep eyes.
Kindled by the smoldering defiance of
earlier evening, it was utterly uncon-
scious of seeking an object. But the
gentleman in the particular seat that
was her territory could scarcely have
been expected to know that. To him
it constituted challenge.
“Oh-oh-oh-oh-h-h-h-h—
Won’t you-—smile at Me?”
urged Sallie.
‘the man’s lips parted. “You just
will!” came 1n a flash of white
bet
tee ik :
Sallie’s mind was not photographic.
It registered no definite impression of
the individuals occupying her particu-
lar aisle seat. They came and went,
vague as shadows. But this man’s re-
sponse and his quick flashing smile
with its personal note made her sud-
denly realize that she had been sing-
ing to the same smile every night that
week. She wondered about him all
through the performance. She was
still wandering as Miss Mariette step-
ped into a short-waisted chiffon dress
and pulling it over slender hips slip-
ped her arms through the spangled
shoulder straps. She and Grace were
going to a party, and the latter
emerged like a full blown rose, black
eyes dancing above a gown of Ameri-
can Beauty satin. Then both sat down
and took some of the make-up off their
faces.
Sallie was in the act of pinning on
the alley cat.
“Do show him to us, my deah!” per-
siffaged Miss Mallard. “Don’t be so
—er—close, even if he is.”
Sallie jabbed the pin into her head,
winced in pain and, with chin trem-
bling and eyes closing on hot tears,
hurried into the corridor, followed by
the familiar titter. Blindly she made
her way up the stairs to the stage en-
trance.
Outside a blaze of darting lights
proclaimed that Broadway was rub-
bing the sleep from her eyes and pre-
paring to dance. As she stepped into
the glare, Sallie brushed a hand across
her eyes. Lined up at the curb was a
row of taxis. The modern stage door
Johnny no longer stands bouquet in
hand. He remains discreetly in his
cab or car, and only when the lady of
his choice emerges does he do like-
wise.
As Sallie moved toward the curb
some one called “Good evening”’—but
that being a familiar method of ad-
dress, she passed on without a glance.
“I say,” pleaded the voice, “won’t
you smile at me again?”
Sallie turned then. Descending
from a big yellow car which, had she
known more of auto aristocracy,
would have stamped itself as of pro-
hibitive peerage, was the man: of the
aisle seat.
“Wait, please!” he begged and his
teeth gleamed as they had in the thea-
tre. They were nice teeth in a boy-
ish mouth, and upon Sallie they had a
disarming effect. In spite of an in-
stinctive impulse to run, she hesitat-
ed. The talon scratches inflicted in
the chorus dressing room were still
bleeding and the smile of the man
who had ceased to be a shadow was
balm.
He reached her, lifted his hat.
“Come for a ride, won’t you?” he
asked.
“Oh, I couldn’t!”- she answered
promptly.
“Why not?”
“I—I just couldn’t, that’s all.”
He gave her a curious, somewhat
puzzled look. “Round the park—
once ?”
“]—-I—no, thank you, I couldn’t.”
“Then let me drive you home.”
“I—I don’t live very far. I always
walk it.”
“Well, ride
Again that disarming gleam.
it tonight. Please!” | of
and a tremor on her lips. “It’s nice of
you to want to take me, bu »”
“But I've been coming here every
night this week trying to make you
see me. And until tonight you never
even knew I was alive. Don’t you
think you ought to be a little kind to
a fellow who’s as devoted as that?”
Sallie looked down tracing a pat-
tern with the toe of her boot.
“Please—I—thanks just the same,”
she brought out finally.
She took a step toward the curb,
away from him.
And just then came one of those
feathery gusts that send whirling the
wheel of fate. Miss Mariette Mallard
and Grace issued from the stage door,
their exchange of glances telling too
plainly that they were still enjoying
the laugh at her expense. At the curb
waited a limousine quite overshadow-
ed by the gorgeousness of the big yel-
low touring car. They drew near,
still giggling.
Swift as a bird, Sallie veered back
side.
“You can take me home”—it was
breathless—“I’ll let you do that!”
He helped her in.
est of smiles she turned, inclining her
head in the direction of the two girls.
As the car sped round the corner, they
halted abruptly and, like Lot’s wife,
stood rooted where they stopped.
II
To a woman, the discovery that
| events do not work out as planned
comes in the nature of a disappoint-
ment. To a man, the same discovery
adds zest to the determination to make
them do so. The man in the yellow
touring car was amazed to find that
Sallie actually did permit him to drive
her home, and no farther. He had an-
ticipated that run round the park at
least once—probably twice—possibly
three times. He had even anticipated
a cozy supper at which, across a table
not too wide, he could drink deep of a
pair of well-like blue eyes shaded with
gold. But Sallie gave him her ad-
dress, ten blocks from the theatre, and
though he urged with all the mascu-
line dominance of which he was capa-
ble, she made him halt in front of a
brownstone house sagging as if with
the weight of its own years.
The man looked up the steep steps
to where a flicker of gaslight sifted on
to the broken mosaics of the vesti-
bule.
“Is there where you live ?”’ he quer-
ied, still holding the hand by which he
had helped her.
Sallie nodded, adding as she tried to
withdraw the hand, “Thanks ever so
much.”
“Here—just a minute!” He drew
name yet!”
“Zara May.”
“On the level name, I mean.”
“Oh”—she flashed him a smile—
“that one’s good enough.”
“Peaches and cream would fit bet-
ter,” came in quick response.
She jerked her hand away. “Good
night, Mr.—Mr.—" =.
“Patterson. Jimmie Fowler Patter-
son. You'll notice I'm not so stingy
as somebody else!”
She caught hold of the rusty iron
railing. He sprang into the car.
“Well, I can wait!
Miss Zara May.”
Two emotions played havoc with
over the girls and fear.
her narrow rear window she watched
the patch of dull blue mellow into dull
gray, she assured herself that tomor-
row she would do nothing more than
walk past the yellow car with a pleas-
ant “Good evening.”
But of course she didn’t. Not to-
morrow—nor any other night that
found it waiting at the stage entrance.
And that became every night.
In the chorus dressing room an au-
ra of new interest surrounded her.
That car commanded respect. The im-
pudent black eyes of Grace began to
gaze critically at a certain framed
likeness she had hitherto displayed
with pride. His car wasn’t a marker
to the one that called for Sallie.
Mariette even restrained her inclina-
tion to persiflage until one evening
some ten days later when Sallie came
in after the final act and caught her
hunched on the floor, back up, meow-
ing with all her might while the alley
cat reposed over one ear.
All the old wounds tore open. The
blood gushed to Sallie’s head. She
grabbed the hat and slapped Miss
Mariette’s face, leaving the latter too
startled to retaliate
too full for speech.
He gave a broad grin. “Shall we
make it up the Drive and back to Ree-
tor’s.
“I’d just rather ride if you don’t
mind.”
They spun up Broadway, through
Seventy-Second Street and into the en-
veloping shadows of Riverside. The
moon was up, a new crescent streak-
ing its modest trail across the water.
On the opposite shore the chain of
lights was a necklace of clustering
jewels laid on the plush of the night.
Sallie nestled into the deep leather-
cushioned seat, somewhat to the far
side. A sharp wind lifted the curls
from under the despised turban and
sent them flying across the man’s face.
He stole a moment to turn and gaze.
“You're a winner!” he murmured.
Sallie scarcely heard him. She was
lost in the intoxication of speeding
motor and racing March wind. Never
had she experienced anything like it.
Gradually its turmoil soothed her own.
She closed her eyes.
When they opened it was to meet a
swift turn of road, the houses mount-
ed to a higher level and before them,
far into the star-eyed night, a stretch
of wooded walk, through which the
Hudson shimmered.
“What’s this?” she asked, hand
grasping his coat sleeve as if to stop
the onward rush.
“Lafayette Boulevard. You've been
up here, haven’t you?”
“
He slowed down, eyes mocking.
“Honestly! I've never even heard
it ”
“Good Lord!” he whistled and star-
to him. Instantly the man was at her |
With the sweet-
her back. “You haven't told me your
See you tomorrow,
her dreams that night—exultation |
As through
Miss | through every vein.
|
in kind. And the ulster.
when Mr. Patterson begged her as he | ed himself, and for the first time Sal-
did each evening to drive out to sup- | lie saw him under revealing electrici-
per, she stepped into the car, throat ty. i
Sallie looked up with eyes clouded | ed at her. “How long have you been
in the show business?”
“About a year.”
“Well, what have you been doing all
that time?”
“Working, most of it.”
“But after working hours?”
“Qh, home right after the show. I'm
pretty tired then.”
He gave another low whistle, still
regarding her curiously, that puzzled,
half skeptical expression creeping in-
to his eyes.
“And Sundays?”
“I visit the girls I used to work
with.”
“Where?”
“You mean where did I work?”
He nodded, still with that curious
measuring of her.
“In Brooklyn—in a department
store. I was at the perfumery. And
one day Miss Barton, Bessie Barton—
ever hear of her?”
“Rather! Peach of a voice—in ‘Kiss
Me Again.’ ”
“Yes. She was playing over there
last year and she came in to buy some
French extract—it’s awfully expen-
sive ”
“I know.”
bought a big bottle—it was eight-'
eighty an ounce—she asked me if I'd
with this ring.
ever wanted to go on the stage. She
said I was ” Sallie paused.
“Go on,” he put it quickly. “A
beauty who didn’t belong behind a
counter.”
“How did you know?” came won-
deringly.
“I don’t need blinders to make me
see straight,” he remarked succinctly.
“Well you—you’re right—that’s
what she did say—and told me she'd
have her manager put me on if I
wanted it. So I went with them—-
twenty-five a week. It was a lot more
than I was getting at the store. And
when she closed, they took me on at
the Summer Garden.”
“And you still go round with the
Brooklyn crow?”
the defensive.
“They’re my
shouldn’t 1?”
He stared at her again.
he remarked to himself.
They dashed up a hill.
“I guess we’d better be going back,”
she sighed regretfully.
“What’s the matter?
like it?”
“It—it’s wonderful!”
old friends—why
“Queer!”
Don’t you
Luxuriously
! night.
“] waited on her. And after she’d
“Whew, what a stone!”
“Yes,” replied Sallie, “it used to be
my mother’s.” : .
He stared. After which a knowing
twinkle touched his eyes and a laugh, |
equally knowing, his lips. He said
nothing.
“Honestly it was,” Sallie protested.
His stare probed her—then came a
faint flash of resentment. “I wasn't
born yesterday—not quite,” he an-
nounced.
“Please—please believe me!” Tears
started to Sallie’s eyes.
“Your mother owned a stone like
that, and you had to work in a depart-
ment store?”
“It does sound funny. But
true!
it’s
We never had any money after
my father died. Nor before either.
He just saved and saved, and then
when he was gone mother just spent
and spent. She went crazy spending.
She said he never gave us enough to
eat when he was alive and she was
going to make the best of it now that
he was dead. So she went to the sav-
ings bank and took out every cent and
had a wonderful time—for awhile.
Hats and dresses and movies every
She was awfully prett Pp
“I believe it,” came vehemently.
“And she never did have a decent
thing to wear while my father was liv-
ing. Then one day she came home
‘Baby,’ she said—she
always called me her baby—‘there’s
not much left, and before it’s all gone
I want to be sure you're fixed. If I
put it in the bank TI take it out
again, so this way we’ll always have
something we can hock if we need to.”
He chuckled then. “An did you ever
need to?”
“Often.”
Unwittingly, perhaps, his gaze
shifted from the diamond to her dress
and hat. She needed no intuition to
interpret that look. Experience had
taught her exactly what it meant.
And where defiance had met the girls
in the dressing room, a wave of shame
now swept over her.
Some note in his voice put her on
Gazing at him in his immaculate
perfection, her fingers twitched to toss
the alley cat out of the window. Yet
she could not apologize for it. She
could not explain that, being her fath-
_er’s daughter, she was bainking such
she nestled down, eyes half closing
again.
“Then have a heart! I've been jit-
neying you from the theatre for two
solid weeks.
won’t you?”
i She laughed, a ringing laugh free
as the March wind. “You must think
I’m an awful grafter.”
“I think you’re a sweetness.”
The laugh died down. “I guess we’d
better be going back.”
They swung round. “All right.
But we'll stop at Arrowhead first.”
“What's Arrowhead?”
Once more that swift quizzical look,
then his head went back with a long
chuckle. “By George, you are cute!”
““What’s so funny about my ask-
ing?”
“It’s called Arrowhead Inn, sweet-
ness—and we're going there for sup-
Pe ont”
“Now I guess you think you're not
hungry ?”
“No—I am hungry.”
Her prompt and unexpected reply
, pleased him hugely.
i “Right! There you are!”
! They were flying up a drive, round
a grassplot and under a porte-co-
| chere. Sallie saw a house girdled with
' glass that glowed, warm and allur-
ling.
i She went into the hall while her
host parked the car. A mirror on the
| from the one she saw habitually in the
| jagged glass of the dressing table or
the mottled one above her washstand. |
Its eyes were glistening, red lips were
laughing, and at the corner a dimple !
danced. The blood surged underneath !
the smooth skin and went singing
i
1
Mr. James Fowler Patterson refus- |
ed the first table offered, selecting one
close against the window with an in-
timate little lamp shedding its blush
over the cloth. Sallie had never felt
so important, not even the night after ,
her stage debut, for then she had been |
conscious solely of the fact that she!
was dancing with no skirt on before
a lot of people. |
The head waiter helped her out of |
Mr. Patterson then seat- |
His hair, parted at the side and!
brushed straight from his forehead, '
gave evidence of having been in boy- |
hood the color affectionately known as |
“carrots.” But frequent use of water
and military brushes had charitably
darkened it. Remnants of freckles
lingered where no amount of hatless
motoring could promote more than
one coat of tan. Above them, gray
eyes not so young as they might have
been searched a world with which they
were well acquainted. Smiling, they
were a boy’s. In repose, as old as any , Pay
frequenter’s of stage doors.
Sallie’s gaze settled not on his fea-
tures but on his clothes. Patch pock-
ets slanted across the coat. The waist-
coat was high and of the same dark
blue material threaded with a hairline
of white. From the sleeves she
thought rather too short, he shook
down blue silk cuffs matched by a soft
collar. His blue Persian tie was held
in an immaculate four-in-hand by a
small pearl scarf pin. The correct-
ness, the perfection of detail, were to
Sallie positively thrilling. As he
picked up the menu, she noticed that
his hands were wide and muscular
with no shine on the nails. She was
glad he wasn’t a dude.
He proceeded to order with the
casual ease of one whe knows the
chef’s best dishes. Sallie pulled off
her gloves, crossed her arms on the
table, leaned forward to listen with a
kind of awe. He turned back and as
he did so his glance fell on her hand.
It riveted there, then slowly traveled
upward accompanied by the same low
whistle he had emitted as they drove
up town.
Be a little sympathetic
b ? | of a new experience, though she wish- |
derly.
of her earnings as could be spared
against the day when the sapphire
sparkle would fade from her eyes.
As the bushboy shook out the glist-
ening white napkin and placed it
across her knees, she felt an absurd
inclination to slide under the table.
Mr. Patterson’s attention, however,
had turned to the silver dish of frogs’
legs submitted for approval, and Sal-
lie’s discomfort vanished in the thrill
ed he had ordered a nice thick steak.
When they were once more on the
i Drive he leaned over, quickly freeing
one hand, and gave hers a squeeze.
“You’re an adorable infant!” he
whispered. “Don’t know just what to
make of you, but you've got me
going!”
Sallie looked up a little uncertainly.
“My right name is Sallie MacMahon,”
she stammered.
“I don’t eare what it is” came ten-
“My name for you is the same
as your mother’s—Baby!”
wall reflected a face very different
(Concluded next week).
School to Save Human Life.
Flat dwellers in New York are now
' to be blessed in the erection of a bac- |
teriology building in which the pub-
lic will be shown how to prevent dis- |
ease. A museum with models will
demonstrate how to eradicate rats and
flies, how to ditch to do away with
malarial mosquitoes, and how to in-
dulge in home pasteurizing of milk.
Also the sanitary handling of food
and the proper kind of plumbing that
should be installed in the public safety
will be shown.
Truly New York is a wonder city.
Medically there is nothing like it in
the world. Your millipnaire pays ten
thousand dollars for an operation from |
skilled hands that perform the same
operation on the needy free of charge.
For the poor the city is a medical and
. surgical paradise.
Forward looking men, of course,
have now come to see that prevention
is becoming more and more necessary
in the practice of medicine. In the old
days doctors were taught how to cure
disease.
how to prevent it. It is high time the
national and State governments rec-
ognized the necessity of following .
New York’s lead.
rrr ett A eee,
A Matter of Speed.
“Talking about dinners,” said the
retired salesman, “I remember one I
had when I was on the road. I went
into the best restaurant in the town
with some fellow salesmen.
“We ordered the finest thing in din-
ners. Then the bill came round and
we couldn’t decide who was to pay.
Everybody offered, and so did 1.”
“Awkward for you all,” agreed one
of the listeners, skeptically.
“Yes,” continued the salesman,
“and, as we couldn’t settle the matter,
I proposed we should blindfold the
waiter and the one he caught must
ay.
“Good idea,” said another listener.
“Who did he catch?”
“I don’t know,” replied the sales-
man, briefly, “but he hasn’t caught me
yet.”
Not Bad Cook But Bad Stomach.
The word dyspepsia means literally bad
cook, but it will not be fair for many peo-
ple to lay the blame on the cook if they
begin the Christmas dinner with little ap-
petite and end it with distress or nausea.
It may not be fair for any to do that—
let us hope so for the sake of the cook!
The disease, dyspepsia, indicates a bad
stomach, that is a weak stomach, rather
than a bad cook, and for a weak stomach
we know nothing else equal to Hood's Sar-
saparilla. This digestive and tonic medi-
cine helps the stomach, gives it vigor and
tone, relieves dyspepsia, creates an appe-
tite, and makes eating the pleasure it
should be.
The biliousness and constipation found
in so many cases of dyspepsia are gently
and thoroughly relieved by Hood's Pills,
which act in perfect harmony with Hood's
Sarsaparilla.
Now they are being taught !
ARE JUST “PA” AND “MA” NOW
Modern Children Lack Oldtime Digni-
i fied Titles for Their Parents,
Declares a Londan Writer.
When I was a small boy, forty years
ago, children almost without excepticn
addressed their parents as “papa” and
“mamma.” When a boy grew older and
went to school he frequently took to
saying “sir” to his father, though, be-
hind his back, he usuaily referred to
him as “pater” or “the governor.”
At the same time he gave up saying
“mamma,” which he considered child-
ish, and took to calling his mother
“mother,” or sometimes “mater.”
It was about twenty years ago that
the abbreviations “pa” and “ma” began
to be generally used. They came from
America, where they had already been
in use for many years.
Some children used “daddy” instead
of “papa,” and after a time “papa”
went out altogether, and was replaced
by “dad” with those of older growth.
Today “dad” is almost universal.
Even the little shaver of four or five
calls his father “dad.” As for “mama,”
it is as obsolete as “papa,” and mater-
familias is now known universally as
“mum.”
The only part of the kingdom in
which these abbreviations have not
found favor is Scotland, where the
mcse formal “father” snd “mother”
are still insisted upon.—Loaaon An-
swers.
TO BE MODELED IN BRONZE
Winners of British Dog-Racing Con-
tests Will Have Memories Pre-
served by American Sculptor.
rn.
Cuptain Cuttle, winner of the Der-
by; Music Hall, winner of the Grand
National, and Guards’ Brigade, win-
ner of the Waterloo, are among the 25
British champion dogs to be modeled
in bronze by the American sculptor,
Herbert Haseltine. The King's Labra-
dor retriever, a champion of his class
and declared at one show to be the
best dog of the year, has already been
modeled.
Haseltine is an inspired sculptor of
the horse, says an art critic. Besides
achieving a perfection of detail that
delights the most fastidious owner, he
, has tne gift of imparting the animal's
i character to his studies. Horses talk
| with their ears, and in each of Mr.
Haseltine’s models the set of the ears
! most common to his subject is careful-
ly reproduced,
That other animals can and do in- .
spire him he has shown in bull-fight
sculpture. One study of his shows a
proud, powerful beast with fight in
every line.
Historical Error.
The new stamp for Christopher and
Nevis, two Leeward isles in the West
Indies discovered by Christopher Co-
lumbus in 1493 and now British pos-
| sessions, shows the discoverer look-
| ing through a new spy-glass, remarks
| the London Daily Mail
The “Bulletin” of the French Astro-
nomical society expresses indignation
at what it terms this latest example
of the general ignorance of matters
| astronomical, for, of course, Christo-
pher Columbus died more than a cen-
tury before Zachariah Haussen, maker
of spectacles, made some one else's
fortune by devising the telescope.
His children, playing with some of
his lenses, had found that when two
lenses were placed at a certain dis-
tance apart the weathercock, away on
the top of the neighboring church
steeple, could be seen through them as
distinctly as if it had been brought
nearer. ;
{
|
Copper and Calcium,
It is reported that Professor Hart-
ley of Dublin has photographed, in
ordinary air, spectroscopic lines, due,
among other things, to copper and
calcium. It is believed that they arise
' from fine dust consisting of these sub-
stances, projected into the atmosphere
by road vehicles and by smoke and
the sparks of trolley wires. It is from
the latter that copper is supposed to
come. The quantity of copper thus
found is excessively slight. Indeed, it
is only the delicacy of the tests that
renders it appreciable. Lines due to
lead, carbon, iron, manganese, nickel
and magnesium have also been de-
tected, but the quantity of these sub-
stances is even less than that of the
calcium and copper, the lines of which
are always prominent in the spectra.
Rare Edition of Bible.
The only known copy of the first
Protestant Bible printed in Latin has
recently come into the possession of
the public library at Cambridge, Mass.,
says Popular Mechanics Magazine. It
is valued at $100,000 by the library au-
thorities, which seems reasonable in
view of some book transactions. The
printing of this edition was done in
1527, at Cologne, by Peter Quentel,
who shortly before had printed an
edition of the New Testament for Tyn-
dale. The text is in black letter, with
numerous woodcuts by Anthony of
Worms, some of which had been used
in the Grenville edition of Tyndale’s
English New Testament, published in
1526.
eee an
Good Indications of Oil in Bolivia.
A company has been organized re
cently for the purpose of exploiting
the petroleum deposits said to exist
near Cochabamba, Bolivia. It is re.
ported that numerous indications of
petroleum have been found in the vi-
cinity of Cercado and of Quillacollo,
including readily inflammable gases
emanating from two wells in the local-
ity. Favorable reports on this section
have been previously made by repu-
table geologists.