=
‘Bellefonte, Pa., August 31, 1923.
CS RY
THE INCURABLE HURT.
’Tain’t likely ez a awkward chap
Like I am, big and stupid,
Ud ever go a monkeyin’ ‘round
A dandy kid like Cupid; .
But, major, dern my ugly mug,
I done it once, fer certain,
An’ ef I live a hundred years
The thing’ll keep on hurtin’.
I never know'd a womans ways
Till one day little Kitty,
Her that’s the banker's only gal,
Come down from Timber City,
An’ stoppin’ at our boardin’ house,
Begun her purty flirtin,’
I guess with all the boys around,
An’ me, that’s doggoned certain.
Them eyes uv her’n shined like the stars,
That speckles night all over,
An’ both her cheeks purtier than
Two medders red with clover.
An’ when she talked—good Lordy, me!
Why can’t a man take warnin’ ?—
It seemed to me like all the songs
The bird sings in the mornin’.
I drinked it in an’ wanted more,
An’ she, I guess, unthinkin’,
Whuz tickled half to death to see
A thirsty man a-drinkin’;
An’ let me have it every day,
From June clear to October,
Tell I wuz drunk and crazy wild,
An’ she thought I wuz sober.
At last I up an’ told her straight
That I wuz fairly dyin’
Fer love uv her—and dern my boots,
She just broke down a eryin’,
An’ told me it wuz all in fun,
That she wuz only flirtin'—
An’ ef I live a hundred years
The thing’ll keep on .hurtin’.
—Free Press.
A LAW UNTO OURSELVES.
Washington Arch—white, upstand-
ing, clean—at the intersection of old
New York and new! Monument to
the spirit of 76! The gate to free-
dom!
Looking north, the freedom of pro-
hibition, censors and ticket specula-
tors. Looking south, the freedom of
fetish worship, slavery to the uncon-
ventional and low ceilinged table
d’hotes. North, the sweep of Fifth
Avenue trailing her train of silver
lights, an arrogant beauty sure of
adorers. South, Greenwich Village, a
careless grisette sitting in the lap of
indifference and kicking up her heels!
And between them, though few know
it, a square of sod covering the dead
of a bygone century.
A bit to the west on the south side
of the Square squats a little cafe
known as the Pink Kitten. For all
the world like its name, it crouches
on its haunches blinking lazy eyes out
of a ripe pink facade, yawning occa-
sionally to gulp a guest into its faint-
ly illumined interior.
They form an odd assortment, the
morsels the Pink Kitten assimilates at
meal. time—girls with elongated eyes,
some bold, some curious, some prom-
ising. Their look is direct, unflinch-
ing, without guile. Guile has no
place in the Village. Sometimes long
earrings jangle close to them, supple-
mented incongruously by sweaters
and flat sport shoes. Sometimes bat-
ik smocks in flaring reds, oranges and
blues indicate a closer adherence to
feminine covenants. Of the men,
there are those of the flowing tie and
scornfully shady fingernails. There
are others not long enough trans-
planted from north of the Arch to ig-
nore the traditions of the close fitting
coats instead of baggy ones and a
manicure stolen when the Village is
not looking. But whatever the differ-
ences in dress, their souls are garbed
alike—the law of individualism herds
them like sheep.
At the far end of the Pink Kitten
on a night when the snow covered
Square wore a smile of satire, a girl
and a man discussed this mooted
question of individualism, the impor-
tance of their own lives as opposed to
the great mass of humanity hide-
bound by the law of convention. The
girl’s eyes were not so innocent as
they were questioning, but one could
see plainly that their question still
remained unanswered. They were
very deep blue and very eager, veiled
with gladness half afraid. They
were full of the potentialities of pas-
sion and languor. They were woman-
eyes, with all the possibilities a man
wants to read in the eyes of the wom-
an he loves. The man who sat beside
her at the intimate little table was
reading them with an intensity that
flamed straight to their depths. It
burned, there, reflected in the sudden
drop of her lids as if its strength
were more than she could bear.
“Say you love me,” the man was
urging. “Say it—darling!”
“Do I have to say it?” came breath-
lessly. “Can’t you see it? Can’t you
feel it?” Then suddenly answering
that call of his eyes she crushed down
the barrier of restraint which had
held her inarticulate. “I love you so
that the fought of you colors every-
thing I do. want to be with you
everywhere—always. When 1 see
beauty, I don’t think of it as the sky
or sea or a sunset. I think how I'd
love to stand beside you and watch
you paint it—splash on the color with
that quick reckless stroke and your
eyes squinted up so that they don’t
see me.”
“They always see you—no matter
what they're looking at!” ;
She pressed the fingers that inter-
locked hers. “When I sing—even in
practice—it’s to you. And my voice
lifts higher than it ever could with-
out you! And there’s a note in it—
a note that couldn’t be there if I did
not feel—all you make me feel. If
ever I'm a great singer, Fred, it will
be you who have done it! Not study
—not practice—just loving you—"
She broke off.
“And when you’re alone at night—
in that dingy little room where you've
no right to be—do you think of me
then? Do you ever want me—my
arms—--"
“More than I can tell!”
They sat moved to silence by the in-
tensity of the force that. held them,
not individuals now but one with the
mighty surge of men and women
down the path of centuries gone and
up through centuries to come. They
sat with hands gripped and eyes lock-
ed and thought they alone had discov-
ered a glory as old as time.
“Fred,” she murmured finally, “we
mustn’t let ourselves be swayed. We
must reason the thing out calmly—
as calmly as we can. I'm twenty-
three and you're twenty-eight—it’s
not as if we were children.”
“It’s because we're not children that
we see things as we do—the only sane
way to preserve the most precious
thing on earth. Are all these theo-
ries of ours merely theories or are we
brave enough to live them? If we're
not, then we're cowards and hypo-
crites.”
“Free love,” she mused. “Yes, I've
talked a lot about it—and thought a
lot about it. It’s in the air down here.
But since I’ve known you, I’ve been
wondering—is there such a thing? Is
love ever free? I'm so dependent on
you, you’re so necessary to me—why,
if you were to get out of my life now,
most of me would go with you. I'd
be just a husk. Is that freedom?”
“Freedom from forces outside of
ourselves—that’s the way to inter-
pret it. A law unto ourselves—you
to me and me to you, that’s what it
means. To be able to do as we please
apart from man made laws of conven-
tion—not apart from each other!
Why, your dependence on me, sweet-
heart—I adore it! I want you to
want me—need me the way I need
you. I'd send the rest of the world to
the devil for you—to keep your love—
to have you. Near you—away from
you—I want that voluntary sense of
possession to hold us together. But
not involuntary—not the feeling that
the church and State bind us when the
bonds should be ours to make or break
as we choose.”
“If you ever broke them—if ever
you married any one else, I couldn’t
bear it. I couldn’t go on.”
“Marry some one else!” He flung
up a shaggy head, with a laugh deep
and rich as an organ tone. “Why,
dear girl of mine, you don’t think this
love of ours is the sort that a man
could treat lightly just because he be-
lieves that the best way to kill love is
to marry it! I’m yours as long as you
want me—only I want to be yours be-
cause you want me, not because con-
vention decrees it. You're convinced
of that, aren’t you?”
He bent down; his lips brushed the
hand he held, lingering, one by one,
on the sensitive, slim fingers. They
responded, tightening their clasp with
sudden convulsive tension. The hu-
man morsels in the body of the Pink
Kitten paid no attention to this slight
display of emotion. They were ac-
customed to frankness in all its
forms, busy with their own little lives,
their own important little passions.
“You are convinced of it, aren’t you,
dear heart?” the man persisted. “You
do believe with me, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered hur-
riedly. “That’s been my belief ever
since I've been in New York—ever
since I've lived down here, that is.
Only it’s always been in the abstract.
Until I met you, I never thought I'd
—live it.”
“What use are abstract beliefs? It’s
like trying to paint a picture with an
imaginary brush. If we don’t live
Nok Werthink, we’re not living, that’s
all.
Her brow wrinkled and she looked
away, speaking very low.
“Mother would think we ought to
marry. She’d say there was nothing
real to prevent it.”
“She’s the best argument against
it,” he put in hastily. “From all you
tell me, her marriage has been hell—
ragged and bullied by an arrogant
Puritan who thinks she hasn’t the
right to breathe without him. You
were afraid of him, weren’t you?”
“Sometimes I hated him,” came
through pressed lips. “Sometimes
when he humiliated and hurt her, I
wanted to kill him. She couldn’t call
her soul her own. It belonged to him
and he never let her forget it. That’s
why I came away the minute I could.
I couldn’t stand it, and she wanted me
to get away from it. Living there—
in that narrow New England town
with my father and brother—they’re
so alike—would have killed all the
song there was in me.”
“Wait till we're in Paris,” he whis-
pered. “You won't realize the extent
of the song in you until you know the
city of song. The broad boulevards,
the Luxembourg Gardens, the crowd-
ed little houses of Montmartre, the
balls in the Quartier, Notre Dame
frowning over the Seine, it’s all so
paintable, so bubbling with beauty,
you'll have to sing for sheer joy of
living. And you and I togethor——"
Her forehead furrowed again and
the deep, intense blue eyes clouded.
“But, Fred, if I go abroad with you,
it will eat up the money I’ve got put
away for singing lessons. I won’t be
able to study over there at all.”
“Nonsense!” He swept aside her
fears. “What do you suppose all my
money is good for if not to defray the
expenses of both of us?”
“No—no!” The hand interlaced
with his tried suddenly to pull away.
“That’s not in our compact. That's
not freedom! That’s the pendulum
swinging the other way—that’s put-
ting me in the class of a—a kept
woman.
Her head dropped with the words
and he leaned over to lift it, his ar-
dent eyes once more engulfing hers.
“Dear, there must be no talk of
money between us—ever. I have so
much. The Emery fortune made in
patent medicine! What better way to
spend it than in art—your art and
mine? Your voice—my paints—
whatever I have belongs to us both!”
“No—we must both be free! I must
pay my way—you, yours. If I give
myself to you, it must be a mutual
gift—not for support or—or clothes—
or anything but the joy of giving. I
wouldn’t take a cent from you, Fred
—not one penny.”
He sat silent a second—this time
the silence of thought rather than
emotion. The consistencey of her de-
termination he had not taken into con-
sideration. It was his own argument
applied with unswerving fidelity and
he found for the moment ne way to
combat it. Yet it seemed too absurd
to take seriously. He, with the Em-
ery millions backing him, the golden
flood that had poured into the Emery
household with the sudden vogue of
Emery Reducing Tablets! It had in-
undated their happiness, that flood—
sent his father scurrying after pleas-
ures a hard working youth had denied
him—his mother into the divorce |
court—his sister struggling out of its
depths up the bank of social ambi-
tion—and himself, disgusted, away
from it all to art and the Village,
where money is almost a shameful
possession that makes one declasse.
Now for the first time had come an
opportunity to spend his vulgar al-
lowance decently—on this girl he
adored. His girl whose eyes so full of
promise and red-brown hair that
shone like fire where the light touch-
ed it, whose luscious lips and deep
cleft chin, whose voice and tenderness
spelled happiness for him! This girl
from a parsimonious family in a hide-
bound Massachusetts town—he want-
ed to lavish on her the luxury for
which she was made. And because of
their belief, their law of individual-
ism, their religion of love that must
be free, she was insisting upon the
use of the little hoard, gathered to-
gether for her musical education, to de-
fray her end of their love trip to the
land where love is lord. It was idiot-
ic—a humiliation. Yet how could he
meet it—what could he say?
“Suppose you were to find a back-
er,” he put to her slowly, “with such
faith in the beauty of your voice that
he’d be willing to pay for your lessons
anywhere until such time as you could
repay him.”
She looked up and smiled a smile
that glowed. “That’s a heavenly way
to get round it, and just like you, but
I couldn’t accept—you know I could
not.”
“But if I arrange to take a lien or
something on every cent you earn—
that’s the way all big singers do
things—and you’d be absolutely inde-
pendent.”
“Would I?” Do you think I'd ever
earn enough to pay you back?”
“Of course! You don’t know what
a golden tone you have, darling. You
can’t hear it as I do. Why, I'd look
upon the whole matter as the wisest
investment I'd ever made.”
Her head went to one side as she
leaned nearer, so near that his lips
touched the wave of hair falling
across her brow.
“It would be sweet to feel that
whatever success I might have years
from now would be due to your faith.
I'd love it!”
Once more they sat breathlessly
still. When he spoke it was with hus-
ky intensity that swayed round her
like the veil of smoke above them,
like the mystic aura of yesterday, the
perfumed secrets of tomorrow.
“We'll sail Saturday. You can be
ready by that time, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“My darling!”
“I—I shall have to lie to mother. I
hate doing it! It’s not that I'm
ashamed but she wouldn’t under-
stand.”
“Don’t see her! It would be too
hard on you. Write and tell her of
this sudden opportunity to go abroad
and study—that you’ve found some
people who are backing you. That
will satisfy her and it will be the
truth.”
“A half truth, dear!”
“But if she wouldn’t understand— |
and we know she wouldn’t—it’s to |
protect her, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Jean—love—we’re going to make
each other so happy!”
At the mention of the modest little
name, she raised eyes whose radiance
was a torch.
“They’ll call me Jeanne in France,
won’t they?”
“My little Jeanne d’Arc—my adora-
ble soldier maid with the courage to
live her vision!”
Four musicians in shabby green,
blue, purple and red velvet jackets
with tams to match took their places
in a tight alcove and, elbows touch-
ing, jazzed up their instruments. A
girl at a table against the wall pulled
her wide felt hat over a broad fore-
head that nothing could furrow, blew
the smoke of her cigarette specula-
tively into the eyes of her escort, then
chucked it aside, paid her check as he
paid his, and both got up to dance.
The first high pitched chord of the
latest fox trot fell across the hazy
air.
“Jeanne—come!” the man murmur-
ed. “I want to be with you—alone.”
They rose, hands still clasped.
A bobbed haired girl in a pink tam
and black apron shaped like a cat with
ears forming the shoulder straps re-
minded him that there was a bill to
settle. He smiled apologetically, dove
into his pocket and left a greenback
of astonishing proportions in the open
palm.
Together the two who were a law
unto themselves made their way
among the tables to the door that
opened on the snow draped Square,
silent as its secret dead against the
luminous night. The swaying song
of the banjo followed them, the swish-
ing sound of dancing feet, the mur-
mur of voices. The sides of the Pink
Kitten shook with laughter.
II
Paris—belle chanteuse! Paris—
with head flung up and song trilling
from longing lips! Paris—with
laughter in her eyes and confetti
trailing from her skirts! Paris—on
the eve of Mardi Gras, gay cocotte
for whose favors all the world pleads!
The narrow streets of Montmartre
were laid thick with a pattern multi-
colored and soft as a Persian prayer
rug. Over it tripped feet, young for
tonight even though the hair were
gray or had disappeared altogether.
yes bright with anticipation looked
through the windows of saucy cafes,
seeking the most gay, the most aban-
doned to frolic on this night of aban-
don, Passers-by shouted to one anoth-
er, then flung handfuls of confetti in-
to the laughing faces turned to an-
swer. Men grasped the arms of un-
known women and skipped along the
velvety sidewalks. Students with
caps perched over one ear marched in
groups of four chanting solemnly
songs that would not bear translation.
Festive and festooned, Paris was play-
ing as only Paris can.
In one of those side streets whose
tortuous curves and mysterious off-
shoot of alleys still bear the mark of
the Medici, couples incongruously
mated as to costume were streaming
under an arched doorway.
Above it rose-colored
lights announced:
BAL DE FANTAISIE
DU SOIR AU MATIN
ENTREE!
electric
| The building was one of the oldest
' of the neighborhood but only the shell
of the ancient structure remained,
probably the hotel of some stately
family demolished by the Revolution,
even its name forgotten. The inter-
‘ior had completely vanished under
modern carpentry and electricity. It
was from floor to dome a vast dance
hall. A staircase spreading fanlike
at the bottom led up to the balcony
where tables were laid. On each stood
a silver champagne cooler from which
a gold-coiled bottle neck protruded.
The stone walls were covered with
drawings in charcoal and colored
chalks—dancing girls, cartoons of men
in public life, unfinished sketches, all
of them contributed by habitues. The
floor was covered with swaying fig-
ures in costumes of dress and undress
fantastic as the name of the ball in-
vited them to be. The instruments of
the shoulder shaking musicians were
all of American vintage. The dance
they were playing was a fox trot
from a popular musical comedy. But
they played it with a little French lilt
that was like the raising of an eye-
brow, the winking of an eye.
Moving as one through the throng
were a man in the tights and doublet
of a troubadour and a girl whose slim
limbs ended in the soft pointed shoes
of the fifteenth century. They danced
with that complete oblivion that be-
speaks complete harmony. She wore
a tunic of light chain armor in replica
of an old painting of Jeanne d’Arc. It
clung gently to her young form, out-
lining its grace. Her helmet she had
discarded early in the evening and the
mass of her bronzed hair shone with
varying light under the colored lan-
terns. He leaned down, letting his
lips rest against it.
“Happy ?” he murmured.
“Heavenly!”
“Mon adoree!” He lapsed into the
language made for love.
She did not look up, did not answer
—simply nestled her head where it
seemed to fit, against his breadth of
shoulder. When the lilt died away
with a lingering wail, they mounted
the steps to one of the tables and
waited for the rest of their party. In
hilarious two’s they came stumbling
up—Felix, cubist sculptor of the new
French School, with Evelyn, his mod-
el; Coningsby Hoyt, dilettante, who
had come to France to escape the chil-
ling confines of British middle class
respectability; with him Nanette, the
dainty little dancer who was helping
him escape them; St. Espere, a young
writer whose epigrams all Paris was
quoting, and Henriette, new favorite
at the Comedie Francaise.
“A nous!” Felix announced, rais-
ing his glass, emptying it at one gulp.
“We who know how to work and play,
who have made a slave of life because
we do not make ourselves slaves of
living!”
“We,” St. Espere added, tongue
rolling a bit, “who live to love and
love to live!”
“We,” mumbled Hoyt,
and only ourselves!”
“To France, real life of the free,”
Fred Emery supplemented, glancing
with the lift of his glass at the girl
next to him, “where a man is not
afraid to be himself!”
They rose, those who were seated,
and eight glasses tilted.
Nanette pouted. “In
you drink now only with the eyes—
hein 7”
Emery laughed.
could notice it!”
Felix, the sculptor, swayed a bit un-
certainly toward Jean. “I should not
want to drink to your eyes, mon ange,
I should want to drown myself in
them!” His arm slipped round the
back of her chair, lips close to hers.
“Give them to me for one little mo-
ment.”
Emery leaned swiftly in front of
her flushed, averted face. In spite of
the laugh in his answer, his brows
were forming a straight black line.
“If you try any more drowning,
Felix, you’ll be gone for good—never
come up again, my friend.”
“Eh bien!” Felix shrugged, not
one whit nonplussed. “What more
sublime death? The eyes—and arms
—of la petite Jeanne—you have died
and lived in them many times, eh mon
Americain 7”
Emery started up. Jean’s
hands went out to halt him.
“Don’t pay any attention, dear,”
she whispered hurriedly. “Can’t you
see, he’s not responsible for what he’s
saying 7”
“He’s responsible to me!”
“Our Frederick is jealous, my
friends!” sputtered the futurist Felix.
“He thinks he is a modern! Mon
Dieu, he is primitive—like the man of
the cave, like the beast who snarls
when one approaches his mate!” He
looked up impudently at the towering
American. “Should you not be flat-
tered, my friend, that a Frenchman
with the taste of a connoisseur bows
to yours? Your little Jeanne is ador-
able—why should not another find her
desirable—an artist who knows line
better than you?” He made a flour-
ishing, unsteady bow.
Emery’s lips went white. Before
the girl could stop him, his fist shot
out and the little Frenchman, with a
look of soggy astonishment, went roll-
ing to the floor.
“Fred—don’t!” Jean’s frightened
breath caught. “Don’t make a scene!
He doesn’t mean anything—pick him
up. Fred—please!”
The music intervened with an al-
luring tango and the rest of the par-
ty, except for Evelyn, seized the op-
portunity to hurry down the stairs.
She sent the dart of an arrow from
her eyes at the assaliant of Felix and
stooped over to help him to his chair.
The sculptor’s teeth were chattering
with inarticulate Gallic rage.
“Fred,” pleaded the girl in the
Jeanne d’Arc warrior costume, “don’t
say anything more to him! Let’s go!
I'm tired anyway and it’s almost day-
light. Dear—won’t you?”
Without a word Emery took her
arm and they went down the steps,
she trembling a bit as she clung to
him. They pushed through the sway-
ing crowd. She was trembling as he
lifted her into a cab and gave their
address.
“If that dog hadn’t been drunk I'd
have killed him,” he muttered, arms
going around her. “Darling, you're
all unnerved.”
“Tt’s nothing—nothing! Only, Fred,
he felt he had the right to talk to me
that way. He's been sweet and chiv-
alrous every time he’s called but he
“ourselves
“Not so that you
two
America, |
' showed tonight the class he really
puts me in—with Nanette and——"
“Forget him!” Emery broke in.
“We both will—the whole episode.
It’s not worth thinking about. To-
morrow he’ll come over to the flat and
apologize. He’ll be all contrition.
Jean—dearest, tell me, you're not
going to let the thing bother you!”
“Fred—am I in that class? The
sort that can be insulted? Isn’t our
love the beautiful thing we thought it
would be? Tell me—tell me!”
“Of course it is!” And anxiously
he answered her question with anoth-
er. “Haven’t we had a perfect time?
Haven’t these months together been
heaven ?”
“Yes—they have. I didn’t think there
could be such happiness.”
(Concluded next week).
INFORMATION FOR SPORTSMEN.
The hunters’ licenses and tags for
every county in the State have now
been completed and shipped. Sports-
men are urged to obtain their licens-
es at an early date to avoid the rush
that is sure to follow later. Hunters
who neglect to make application for
their licenses far enough in advance
of the time they want to use same
cannot expect to go hunting, but must
wait until the license and tag have
been received by them. Up to this
time the 1922 tags and licenses have
been recognized. No one will be per-
mitted to use their old license and tag
after the licenses have been in the
hands of the county treasurer a suffi-
cient length of time to permit appli-
cants to secure licenses.
The blackbird season has been on
since August 1st. In many sections
thousands of blackbirds have been
killed, and “blackbird pie” is being en-
joyed by hundreds of sportsmen and
their families. This is one game bird
that may be killed in unlimited num-
bors without affecting the future sup-
ply.
The season for training dogs open-
ed August 20th, instead of September
1st, as heretofore. Training is per-
mitted from one hour before sunrise
until 10 p. m., eastern standard time,
on all game, except elk, deer and wild
turkeys. Dogs may be trained on rac-
coons at any hour of the night. No
training is permitted on Sunday and
no firearms usually raised at arm’s
length and fired from the shoulder
may be carried. Training at any time
during the training season is permis-
sible only so long as dogs are accom-
panied by their owner or handler and
are under control at all times. Per-
sons who take out dogs for training
purposes that cannot be controlled, or
persons who are careless and permit
dogs to injure game pursued assume
the responsibility and are liable to
fines.
Where training is contemplated on
privately-owned land, it is recom-
mended that the permission of the
owner to train be obtained in all in-
stances before so doing. While not
compelled by law to do so, it is rec-
ommended that persons training dogs
carry their licenses and display their
tag as a means of identification.
GAS TO DECIDE WARS,
EXPERT DECLARES.
Whole armies put to sleep and tak-
en prisoner in gas warfare is by no
means an impossibility twenty-five
years hence, Col. Raymond F. Bacon,
chief of the technical division of the
chemical warfare service, A. E. F.,
says in a description of the possibili-
ties of the future art of war made
public by the American Chemical So-
ciety.
The $2,000,000 spent on the re-
search organization did more toward
winning the war, Col. Bacon asserts,
than any $200,000,000 spent in other
ways. One of the greatest lessons of
the war has so far gone almost un-
heeded, according to Col. Bacon, who
continues: »
“To say that the use of gas in war-
fare must be abolished is almost the
same as saying that no progress must
be made in the art of warfare toward
making it more efficient or more hu-
mane. If one reads of the great bat-
tles of history, one will find that the
victorious General conquered his ene-
my usually because of the fact that
he so chose his position as to have his
flank protected by river, mountain
range or some naturally strong bar-
rier. :
“Much of the strategy of these bat-
tles consisted in maneuvering so as to
obtain the advantage of position.
With the use of gas it is possible to
saturate a piece of ground so that no
troops can cross it, and thus make an
artificial barrier for the flank or pro-
tect the lines of communication.
Moreover, these artificial barriers can
be kept barriers for just as short a
time as the strategy of the particular
battle demands. These are but hints,
but show the tremendous unexploited
possibilities of gas warfare.”—Ex.
CONTRAPTION OF 1876
NECESSITY OF TODAY.
Since 1876, when the telephone as
demonstrated at the Centennial Ex-
position in Philadelphia was regard-
ed as a “clever contraption but im-
practicable for business purposes,”
the world’s continents have literally
been swathed in communication lines.
At the time the first demonstration
of the telephone was made in Phila-
delphia, there were two instruments
in New York city. These were con-
nected by a single strand of wire at-
tached to the supports erected for the
Brooklyn Bridge then under construc-
tion to span the East River and join
New York’s oldest borough. .
In the 47 years intervening be-
tween then and today, the telephone
business in New York has seen some-
thing of an increase. The two puny
instruments of Manhattan and Brook-
lyn have given place to more than one
million in the five boroughs.
That is just one striking illustra-
tion of the development of the tele-
phone industry in the United States
in less than half a century.—Ex.
“I see,” remarked a gentleman as
he paid a small newsboy for his paper,
“that you are putting up a good many
new buildings in your town.”
“That is the only kind we put up
here, sir,” replied the little fellow
with a touch of civic pride.
RR
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize
Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies,
She drew an angel down.
Keep in your work basket several
large-size safety pins, and use them
to string loose buttons, hooks, eyes,
etc. Keep those of the same size on
the same pin, black hooks on black
pins, white eyes on white pins, ete.
Thus you never will have an untidy
work basket, or be delayed by not be-
ing able to find instantly what you
are looking for. Fasten the safety
pins to one side of the lining of your
basket—and your method of securing
neatness will be complete.
To darn a worn place in a shirtwaist
or other thin material, lay a piece of
paper—not too stiff—on the wrong
side and stitch back and forth on the
sewing machine to cover the spot.
The paper will keep the material
from puckering and will come off in
the wash. This looks much nicer than
patching and is done faster.
Speaking of last season’s clothes
reminds me of the value of following
a rather rigid plan of regularly send-
ing certain articles of apparel to be
dry-cleaned, or, if you happen to be
skillful in such work, as some women
naturally are, doing this work at
home at stated times. There is no de-
nying the fact that such a plan faith-
fully followed will and does prolong
the usefulness and good appearance
of all apparel, and the woman who ap-
preciates this fact and persists in such
a plan has always an advantage in
appearance and in economy over her
less particular sister.
You can lengthen your last year’s
sport skirt by adding a hem of gros-
grain ribbon of matching or contrast-
!ing color, and perhaps running two
additional bands of the ribbon above
the hem extension to further carry
out the trimming effect.
Sleeping gowns and pajamas of
wash silk, piped with color, are an au-
tumn innovation in lingerie. Fine
striped and checked silks in two col-
ors on a white ground are much used;
as, for instance, a tiny line of red
crossed by blue for the check effect,
and two or more lines of varying
width arranged in clusters for the
stripe designs.
. Cascades of narrow accordian plait-
ing matching the dress material as a
side front and side back trimming on
the skirts of simple line dresses are a
summer fashion that will continue
through the autumn.
Blouses for the coming autumn and
winter show a strong Chinese influ-
ence, traceable in the trend of neck-
liness, the shaping and treatment of
the sleeves, and particularly. in the
fabrics and their colors and trim-
mings employed.
It is particularly desirable to can or
dry the fruits and vegetables raised
on the farm, as the raw products can
be gathered and treated when abso-
lutely fresh and at just the proper
stage of ripeness and tenderness for
best results.
The average farm family probably
cans annually more than 150 quarts
of fruits and vegetables, the greater
part of which is fruit. Canning clubs
have been instrumental in stimulating
interest in canning on the farm. The
drying of fruits and vegetables, sn
old farm art until recently on the de-
cline, has been revived quite gener-
ally within the past two years. This
process offers a good means of pre-
serving perishables without entailing
expense for containers, as in canning.
The tea hour forms a delightful
background for all the little individu-
al touches of hospitality which one is
usually at a loss to know how to in-
troduce into the merely formal call.
As the custom of serving tea infor-
mally whenever callers drop in at the
tea hour is advancing so rapidly into
general usage, many hostesses, who
are just beginning to make the tea
hour an occasion, will be glad for
some suggestions as to menus, meth-
ods, and graceful service.
. Tea must be either piping hot or
icy cold, and while hot tea may be
served throughout the year, iced tea
is infinitely more refreshing in the
summer months. Temperature is the
first essential of delicious tea; flavor
is the second, and lies in the variety
selected. For serving with lemon,
Orange Pekoe or a good quality of
green and black mixed is more agree-
able in flavor than other teas, which
are more delicious with cream. As
tea may be considered a thin, rather
acid beverage compared with the
richness and body of coffee and choc-
olate, the thinner quality of cream is
the better choice.
Hot tea must be served “hot,”
whether brewed in Brown Betty or the
electric urn, or made with boiling wa-
ter and the tea-ball. If the tea hour is
protracted, it is always advisable to
have another pot of water simmering,
so that additional tea may be made
instantly. The most delicate tea fla-
vor requires fresh, boiling water, but
this is not always possible under all
circumstances. Cream and lemon in
the thinnest of slices should be serv-
ed, sometimes inserting in the lemon
one or two of the smallest of spicy
cloves, or notching the edges as an
ornamental touch.
A new device for serving hot tea is
the electric or alcohol urn with a large
tea-ball attached by a chain to the
cover, so that it may be drawn up
when the tea is sufficiently strong, or
lowered when more strength is desir-
ed or additional tea is required. When
a separate tea-ball is used with the
hot-water urn, it is a clever idea to
have a supply of tiny cheesecloth bags
holding the same quality of tea as the
ball. This obviates the necessity for
refilling the ball at the table. These
little bags, kept in an air-tight re-
tainer, are ready at a moment’s no-
tice, and the new tea-caddy with the
glass base is an ideal receptacle, since
it displays the number remaining.
The tea may be made in the kitch-
en, using a Japanese earthenware pot,
which gives it an especially delicate
flavor. Then pour it into a silver or
china tea-pot, which has already been
warmed with hot water.