Democratic watchman. (Bellefonte, Pa.) 1855-1940, May 23, 1924, Image 2

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    Demorrali Wald,
Bellefonte, Pa., May 23, 1924.
There's a thrill and a throb in the air to-
A throb and a thrill ever new,
For billows have broken o'er wall and
Of red and of white and of blue.
The blood runs swift and a shrill huzza
Springs glad to the lips of youth,
‘While louder the silence speaks of those
Who fought, dear God, for thy truth.
It floats up the aisles of the village church;
It springs from the statehouse dome,
Jt kisses the breeze wherever it please,
Set firm in the heart of the home.
And all through the hours the incense of
Of prayers and of praise is swung
From a censer of gold that the children
While the storied past is sung.
The censer is memory’s storied urn
That holdeth for love and rue
The ashes of those whom each heart knows
Fought for the gray or the blue.
Fewer each year as the end draws near,
‘When none will be left, not one,
Who saw the sorrowful sights of war
Or shared in the brave deeds done.
But unto the children we tell the tale,
And once in each twelvemonth long
‘We honor the men who died for us
‘When the goodly land went wrong.
Antonia, only and very precious
daughter of Lucian, the great mer-
chant of Thessalia, now the betrothed
of Valerius, the brilliant young mag-
istrate of Cyprus, sat in her father’s
house, alone with her lover. Shock-
ing! sighed her august aunt Octavia,
their guest from Rome. But unto
Antonia, motherless and cherished,
many privileges were granted. And
whatever rights her father forebore
to grant, she took anyway in all se-
renity. Today, she and Valerius had
spent long hours on the vine-shaded
gallery. But not in love-making. For
today, only three days before their
marriage, Valerius had come to make
his bride a confession; a confession—
and a demand. By that confession, by
that demand, their whole life would
be ruled.
Small, im)erious, very childlike, de-
spite her sumptuous robe, her blazing
jewels, Antonia sat watching her lov-
er’s face with grave, wondering eyes.
Dark and vivid and splendid, Valer-
ius stood before her, his eyes flashing,
his eloquent hands flung wide.
“Shame on me, Antonia, that I have
not told you all this, long ago. But
you will understand. And—you will
do as I ask? You will grant my de-
sire, share in my heart’s dream?”
“You haven’t told me what your
dream is, Valerius. But I understand,
as far as you’ve told me. Years ago,
when you were just a little boy, your
father was sent from Rome to review
the Syrian legions. He took you
along because he hoped the journey
might make you stronger. Your right
leg had been withered from birth. And
your father was forever searching a
climate that might heal you. And
while in Galilee, you took a fancy to
a certain centurion, and insisted on
staying at his house, while yaur fath-
er and his officers inspected the coun-
try. What more?”
“Well—" Valerius’s voice deepened.
His boyish face glowed. “If only
you’d known that centurion, Antonia!
Decius, his name was. The wisest,
kindest old fellow! Always he griev-
ed because I must go lame through
life. Always he petted me, as my
stern, proud father never thought of
doing. And I loved him dearly, and
tagged him like a little lame puppy,
wherever he went.”
“I wish,” said Antonia, under her
breath, “that I'd known you when you
were a little boy. You must have
been such a darling.”
“Early one morning I looked from
my window to see Decius setting
forth in his chariot alone. This was
amazing. Always he drove in state,
as befitted his provincial rank.
“ ‘Wait, Decius! Take me!” I
shouted. Then I saw how worn he
was, how haggard. I knew that his
heart was sore. Joseph, his favorite
servant, lay dying. All the wise phy-
sicians of Capernium had tried to heal
him, and tried in vain.
“Ts Joseph worse?’ I asked. He
did not answer. He stared up at me,
intent, judging. Suddenly he ran up
the courtyard stair very softly, and
caught me up without waking the
slave who slept at my feet, and ran
with me to the chairot. The horses,
silvery Arabs, fled away like the wind.
“It was a long, hot ride. At last
we halted, in a mean by-street. A lit-
tle knot of people stood there. Talk-
ing to them, slowly and gently, stood
a tall man in a straight, white, seam-
less robe.
“The centurion leaped out. He
went straight to the tall man. I tag-
ged after.
“The man turned, looked at us.
Never, Antonia, have I known such a
look. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need
to. It was as if that one glance sum-
moned us, welcomed us, made us glad
and content.
“ ‘What will you of me?’
“The centurion bowed low. It was
strange to see him, the ruler, bent so
humbly before this common street
preacher in his seamless robe.
“ ‘Lord, my servant lies sick.’ The
centurion’s voice shook, his big hands
trembled. ‘I beseech thee, heal him.’
“I gaped. Ask this stranger to heal
poor Joseph, when all the great doc-
tors could not even ease his pain?
“Then I gaped some more. The
man didn’t look surprised, even. But
his face shone as if there'd been a
light behind it.
“(Go thy way. And as thou hast
believed, so be it done unto thee.’ His
voice rang out like a great gold bell.
“The centurion bowed to the earth.
Then, his own face aglow, he turned
back toward his chariot. But in that
instant, the strange preacher stooped
and touched my little withered knee.
He didn’t say one word. He just look-
ed into my eyes. The gentlest glance,
but with a little spark of fun in it.
‘We have a secret, we two,” that spark
said. And then—"
“Then—the centurion hadn’t seen.
He stooped to pick me up. But I
squirmed away, and shouted:
“Don’t carry me! Now I can
walk! And—oh! I can run! I can
run!’ ”
Antonia cried out. Her wide eyes
flashed, wet.
“The strange preacher had healed
you. Though you'd gone lame, all
your little life!”
“Aye. He had healed me. And the
centurion—he was like a man struck
dumb, for gratitude and delight. And
when we reached home, the servants
all swarmed out to meet him. They’d
forgotten all decoruui. They fell over
each other to be the first to tell.
“ ‘Master! Master! Joseph is healed.
Is risen as from the dead! Behold
“All my life shall I remember that
hour. And all my life cannot blot out
the day of my father’s return, his joy
at my healing, his bland scorn of the
miracle that had been wrought for me.
“(So you swear that he and thy
servant were both healed by that
freakish new prophet, Jesus of Naz-
areth? Tut, good Decius, where are
thy wits? My son is well, thanks to
the keen reviving air of this country.
Thy servant cast off his fever be-
cause it had run its course. Miracles,
forsooth! Can any such come out of
Nazareth ?’
“Very soon he took me back to
Rome. And that was all.”
Antonia studied her lover’s face.
“Not all, Valerius.”
“No. For now begins a new chap-
ter.” He leaned close. His voice
took on a pleading tenderness. “List-
en my heart. All these years, I have
gone strong and well, because of that
great mercy. All these years I have
longed to pay my debt, my measure-
less debt: it has been my life’s dream,
my one great hope. Now, at last,
comes my chance to repay. Yester-
day I had audience with the governor.
He tells me that I stand high in favor
with the Senate. ‘Speak, what post
do you most desire,” he said. ‘It shall
be yours.’ ”
“Oh, Valerius! How splendid!”
Antonia sprang up, clapping ecstatic
hands. “Oh, tell him, Alexandria!
How I've always longed to live there,
in that beautiful merry city! Or—
maybe a magistracy in Rhodes. You
could put your fortune into ships, and
trade with the far East. No, let’s go
to Messina! Think, a villa on those
sunlit cliffs, and Rome, glorius gay
Rome, only five days’ journey away!”
Valerius looked at her steadliy. His
face grew pale.
“Do you, then, care so greatly for
these splendors?”
“Care for splendors? To be sure I
do. Who doesn’t?”
“But—" He spoke slowly, as
against his will. “I—I'm sorry, An-
tonia. I didn’t think * * * Hark, my
darling. I have already chosen. I go
to Moesia.”
“Moesia!” Antonia gasped out.
“Yes, Moesia. Chief magistrate of
the whole province.”
“But, Valerius!” Antonia was trem-
bling, now; Resentful crimson burn-
ed in her cheeks. ‘“Moesia! Why, it’s
the very ends of the earth! It’s cold,
and lonely, and ugly, and only half-
conquered—revolts and battles every
day, almost. And no fine houses, and
no real society whatever! Why on
earth should you go there?”
“For just one reason.” Valerius’s
hard young jaw set. “Because I've
found out that scattered through Moe-
sia are many bands of Christians.
These worship in secret. They are in
danger hourly of their lives. If I go
to Moesia I can watch these people, I
can guard them, befriend them. It is
my chance, at last, my great chance,
to repay my debt, Antonia! It will
be my life’s dream—come true!”
“Pay your debt sone other way Va-
lerius. Give the Christians money.
Much money.”
“Could all my wealth pay for one
hour of my strength?”
“N-no.” She softened. “I, too, am
grateful. I shall search out Chris-
tians, and help them, as long as I live.
But—Moesia! How can you ask it,
Valerius 7”
She sprang up and caught his face
in both soft little palms and put her
soft cheek to his own. And as Valer-
ius snatched her close, she felt his
strong arms quiver, and she knew her
power, and forced it shamelessly.
“Think, Valerius! Up in those lonely
fortresses, I'd be a captive, a trapped
thing. I could never have any good
times, I'd never be happy, one min-
ute. I couldn’t even wear the beauti-
ful robes my father has given to me!”
“No,” said Valerius, gently. “No,
you’d never have the heart for gauds
or jewels, in that lone country. I
hadn’t thought of that. Maybe—
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe it is better for me to ‘go
“Valerius! You wouldn’t!”
“I may have to.” Valerius was all
tenderness. Yet his clear gaze did
not yield. “I go now. Think on this
matter, my dearest. Now—until to-
He gathered her up, put his lips to
hers in a long kiss, set her back upon
her ivory couch. Beyond the walls,
she heard his charger’s hoof beats die
Through the long sunny hours that
followed, Antonia centered every
thought on this amazing problem.
“Go to Moesia! Bury myself in
those endless lonely forests! I think
I see myself!”
“But Valerius wants this thing.” A
small inward voice awoke and clamor-
ed. “His one great wish—his whole
life’s dream—"
“Yes, I know he wants to do it.”
Antonia flushed. “That’s what hurts
so. Why, I don’t want anything in
this world, but Valerius. And our
home. And—our children.” Her clear
eyes misted, shone. “But Valerius!
He wants all that—and more. A
thousand times more. It isn’t fair.”
“But that dream is Valerius’s one
desire, his far horizon.” :
“His horizon is too far!” Antonia
stamped her foot. So she fumed and
debated. At last, when the shadows
grew long, she rose up and put on her
prettiest tunic, and washed her hands
in a lotion of roses that Euphemia,
her old nurse, had made for Antonia’s
mother before her.
seek her father. |
She found him in the atrium, scowl-
ing over a heap of scrolls; reports of |
unpaid accounts, these.
“Run away, I'm busy,” he said curt-
¥ antonts pushed the scrolls aside, |
planted herself on her father’s knee,
slid a slim fragrant arm around his
neck and took a firm proprietary grip
of one ear.
“The scrolls can wait. I want you |
to talk to me.”
“Talk? What folly brings you |
now?” Her father attempted to be
gruff, failed dismally, after the man-
ner of fathers, and leaned a bearded ,
cheek against her braids.
“Only two things this time.
do you know of the Christian faith?”
“The Christian faith?” Her fath-
er gaped, then shouted, “Little feath-
er-top, what have you to do with the
Christian faith, or any other mum-
mery? Know you not that we are but |
motes in the sunlight, tomorrow gone
forever? That it behooves us to live |
our lives, each hour? For tomorrow .
—dust, ashes, silence.”
His high, amused voice hardened.
His fine eyes grew bitter. “For that
is all of life. And all of hope.” I
“Then you think Christianity is all
wrong ?”
“I don’t weary myself to think
about it a moment. It contradicts all
that I have been taught from my
youth up. Therefore, I know it is the
talk of fools. Now, your second ques-
tion, small tyrant?”
“I want to know—" Antonia fal-
tred. Her father looked down into
her lovely musing face. His face grew
dark with pain. Twenty years ago,
another little girl, even more lovely
than this darling child, had sat, thus
musing, in the circle of his arms.
Flesh of his flesh, heart of his heart,
wife of his youth. Here, in his clasp,
her precious replica, whose beauty
could only stab, it was so like the
mother’s glance was an anguish of
remembered joy.
“Well! Your question?”
“I want to know—what a man likes
best in a woman.”
“What he likes best—"” Lucian’s
cool authoritative voice shook. A mo-
ment he was silent.
“All things are lovely in a woman
like your mother,” he said, slowly.
“But most lovely, to my mind, was her
trustfulness, her faith in me. Many
things, in our first wedded days, were
to her hard and strange. Long jour-
neys, rude ways of living, sleep in the
tents of the desert, years of homesick-
ness. But never did she murmur, nor
hold back. Always, she felt I must be
free to carry out my plans and my
ambitions. ‘Thy country is my coun-
try,” she would say. ‘Thy hope,
He halted. Suddenly, almost rough-
ly, he put Antonia on her feet and
pushed her away.
“Go, now. Is this the way you
would waste my time? And do not
come to me again with that—that fra-
grance on yaur hands. Do you
Antonia left the
small head high.
, “Anyway, he told me what a man
wants most,” she confided to her pet
peacock. “They want us, and their
own children, and their own way.
They want everything. Greedies!”
She crossed to the Court of the
Women. In her own room, she
crouched before the chest that held
her briday finery. Like every other
girl, she forgot all else in the joy of
her treasures. Silks colored like
spring flowers and stiff with handi-
work; furs brought by daring hunters
from the northern seas; jars of sweet
unguents; plumes; girdles of carved-
coral rosebuds. And then the jew-
““You’d never have heart for jew-
cls ”
Valerius’s words struck on her ear.
Oh, how could Valerius ask her to for-
swear them! These graven emeralds,
these moons of opals, these sapphires
like blue flames!
Again she sat and thought, intent-
ly, deeply. Till upon her musing came
her aunt, the superb and formidable
widow, Octavia.
Antonia rose and gave her defer-
“What were you dreaming of, here
alone?” asked Octavia severely.
Sheer mischief impelled Antonia’s
room with her
“Of ways to rule a husband.”
“Humph!” Her aunt sniffed. Only
a Roman lady of high degree could
have achieved that sniff. “There is
but one way: Be yourself sole ruler
of your house.”
“But suppose that your husband
wanted to do a certain thing. A thing
you hated. Suppose you felt that he’d
never be content unless you gave him
his way. What then?”
“Put your foot down.
Keep it down.”
“But—if you feared he’d always be
At once.
“Nonsense! Listen, child.” Her
aunt’s florid color deepened. Her firm
hands twitched. “Never have I told
any woman this thing. But for your
own good, I tell you. When I was a
bride, my husband gave me more
trouble than a little. My dear, he had
great skill as a bonesetter, and, if
you'll believe me, he went daily among
the common folk of Rome and tended
on their hurts, and would not let them
pay one farthing! For a wealthy
young bachelor twas but a harmless
notion. But the very day we were
wed, he told me that he planned to
give himself outright to this ridicu-
lous whim! ‘Some days, I shall spend
on my own concerns. But for the
most part, my stewards can oversee
my laborers. My real time and
strength I shall give to these others,
the sick and helpless who so need me.’
Have ever ye heard talk so outland-
ish? Be sure I brought my young
man up with a round turn. ‘Oho,”
said I. ‘And what of me? Will you
fill my house with your sick and fret-
ful friends, must my servants wash
their feet and bring them wine? Wiil
you forget your bride, and the duty
you owe to her?’ At that, he plead-
ed, and then grew harsh. But I only
stormed and wailed and vowed I would
not endure such shame. At last he
yielded, and promised, but in black
anger. ‘Anything for peace,” he said,
I recall. And for long he was wroth
and grieved and surly. But as time
passed, he set himself to widen his es-
| pretty one.
heap up wealth and gear. And he
“pid he ever reproach you?”
“Reproach me? Because I had
saved him from his own foolishness?
| Oh, now and then he threw me a hard
word, yes. But what are hard words,
when you have gained your will? But
get you to bed, now. The early sleep
will hold the roses in your cheeks, my
Good night!”
Her bangles clinked.
robes swept away.
Her long
Antonia sat still long minutes. Be-
fore her she saw the fact of her aunt’s
husband, dead ten years ago. A grim,
silent man with a face like granite,
What and dim, cold eyes, and on him always
a gaunt and terrible weariness.
Antonia clapped her hands and
there entered to her a servant, her fa-
| vorite, a Jewess whom all called Si- | was when
lence, since she so rarely spoke. Be-
tween the two, girl mistress and se-
date attendant, there had been little
Then she went to tates, to make great his argosies, to SIRENS FLOCK TO GOTHAM TO
| New York.—Danger signal—for
Democrats only! The most beautiful
and voracious adventuresses known to
the police of Europe are said to be
headed toward Madison Square Gar-
They are coming on every steamer,
with designs on the crowds attending
| the Democratic National convention.
The delegates themselves, being as-
, tute in the ways of the world, as in
| politics, are thought to be in no dan-
ger, but there are always hordes of
less sophisticated persons attendant
upon great public gatherings who fall
easy prey to the wiles of the accom-
plished eriminal.
{ Fashions in criminals change. Time
New York was charged with
i selling gold bricks to the visitors
i from “loway” and Down East, but
‘nowadays the masculine confidence
Life is too short to waste
In critic peep or cynic bark,
Quarrel or reprimand;
| 'Twill soon be dark.—Emerson.
Alligator or lizard skin is a type of
t shoe now being worn for sports in the
' South. This kind of shoe is now a ri-
val of the ever popular sport shoes of
buckskin or kid dazzling in their
! whiteness relieved often by straps and
saddles of colored leather to match
i the wearer’s gay sweater or jacket.
Softer than leather, beautifully mark-
i ed, the sport slipper of alligator skin
| is bound for high favor during the
i coming sports season. It is smartest
jin its own warm brown, but the skin
[is dyed black or gray or colored ac-
cording to one’s own preference.
These shoes are cut very simply, with
| perhaps a single strap to give them
fan atmosphere of semi-formality.
| They have no caps, but depend on
talk. But tonight, as she braided An- I man has given place to the woman ! their marking to break and soften any
tonia’s hair, the girl turned imper-
iously upon her.
“Silence, you have never told me of
your life berore I knew you.”
“Little to tell, my mistress. A
childhood in Damascus; wedded at fit-
teen to Jesse, a trader in camels; a
life of twenty years with my husband |
and my children, in the desert. Then
—my children grown and scattered,
my beloved taken from me. Hither I
came, and asked at this house for
work in the weaving. And here I
“A childhood in Damascus? Da-
mascus, the beautiful? On the des-
ert, were vou not homesick?”
“Homesick 7?” Silence smiled. “All
my days, have I breathed the spiced
wind that blew through the palms in
my father’s garden. All my nights
have I hearkened to the drowsy song
of its fountains.”
“And you gave up all that!” An-
tonia looked hard at her. For the
first time, she saw how clear were Si-
lence’s dark eyes, how sweet her
mouth, how serene her brow.
“At first I thought I could not bear :
it.” The grave amusement deepened
in Silence’s face. “I was a selfish lit-
tle goose; and when my lover implor-
ed me to go with him, I mind well
how badly I behaved. I wept, I sulk-
ed, I scolded. Almost, I had my will.
For he was mad for love of me, and
would have yielded, and moiled, all
his glorious life, a dull clerk, slaving
in my father’s warehouses. But, heav-
en be praised, at the very last mo-
ment, I caught the look in his eyes.
The look of a little boy who sees his
dearest plaything torn from his hands.
The look of a man who sees his life’s
hope shattered at his feet.”
Silence paused. Her calm face was
softly rose-flushed now. Her veiled
eyes were stars.
“So you gave way.” :
“So I gave way. For you know not
yet, my little dear mistress, the truth
of your own man. But soon you will
learn. Learn that he is your own lit-
tle boy, your darling. And you can-
not have him grieved. But, while he
is as your son to you, yet he is ever
eh man, your prince, your lover. But
—your lover who dreams and whose
dream is to him even more than your
“So you went to *he desert with!
him. Because—"
“Because he was my heart’s heart.
And I—Oh, my little dear lady, they
love us, they love us! But dearer than
wife or child, more precious than life
itself, is their freedom. So take this,
my own wisdom, hold fast to it al-
ways, my sweet. You may ask all
other things of a man, and he will
grant them, and love you the better
for asking. But you shall not thwart
his High Hope. You shall not chain
him, trammel him, that he dares not
follow his Dream.”
Antonia did not speak again. Si-
lence finished her work, touched her
arm with the lightest caress, slipped
After a long while, Antonia roused.
She took up the bronze lamp, crept
away down the corridor to the dusky,
empty atrium. Here she helped her-
self to her father’s newest wax tab-
let, his pet stylus, his finest perfumed
seals. Then she went back to her
Daughter of patricians though she
was, Antonia was not a facile pen-
man. It took her a long half-hour,
brows bent, small pink tongue stuck
out considerably with the ardor of her
effort, to put it down.
To Valerius, Honored Betrothed of
my unworthy self:
I have been thinking over what you
told me. I said today that I wished I
had known you when you were a little
boy. I do not wish that any longer,
for I know now that you are just a
little boy still. And you are very pig-
headed, and stubborn, and set in your
way, and I would not have you other-
wise, because you are my little boy,
and I love you exactly as you are.
And because you are mine, your way
shall be my way, and your land my
land, and your dream shall be my
dream. And we will set forth to Moe-
sia the day we are wed.
She to whom you are more precious
than the breath of life, the light of
P. S.—I shall take all my beautiful
robes and jewels to Moesia, and I
shall wear them every day if I feel
like it. There, now!—A.—By Katha-
rine Holland Brown, in Woman’s
Home Companion.
The Return of the Southern Flags.
When it was first proposed to re-
turn to the southern States the Con-
federate flags which had lc-n captur-
ed in the battles of the Civil war the
proposition met with a storm of pro-
test. In 1905 the flags were ret:rned,
Massachusetts being the first tc act,
though it had been loudest in den n-
ciation when the proposal was aave-
cated by Sumner.
In the following year the command-
er in chief of the G. A. R., James Tan-
ner, asked in his Memorial day order
that the graves of the soldiers of both
armies should be decorated without
discrimination, saying, “The old flag
has been rebaptized since 1865 with
the blood of the North and the South
alike, and the ship of State is secure-
ly anchored for all time.”
! with the sob story and the latest po-
Iker tricks. It is even hinted that
some of the most advanced adventur-
‘esses will pull a political line, seeking
the advice of the rural statesmen on
how to form a finance committee for
the old home town.
However, the police department is
watching for the vampires. Their
names and habits are already known
here and special squads of police
women have been assigned to the task
of patroling the hotels to watch for
| their appearance. Twenty-five wom-
'en detectives have been withdrawn
| from other tasks to guard the Demo-
| cratic convention, it was learned.
| The women have been assisting in
making a preliminary survey of dance
halls and cabarets in order that New
{ York may present itself 100 per cent.
clean to welcome the visiting politi-
Mrs. Mary Hamilton, in charge of
the women police, said that large
i numbers of criminals always gather-
! ed during a big convention and that it
had now become necessary to provide
women police in oraer to keep track
of the new-fangled women blackmail-
ers and card sharks. She and her
squad were busy during the last
Chamber of Commerce convention in
New York, and last summer they were
invited to Washington to help the lo-
cal authorities protect the Shriners.
“New York resorts are not so bad
ilton. “Of the public dance halls not
more than 2 per cent. are vicious.
What disorderly dancing occurs is in
the so-called private clubs, where no
license is required. We need legisla-
tion to curb the evil of the dancing
club. But it makes me furious to hear
these tales of ithe wickedness of New
York. Our streets are the cleanest in
the world. Most of the Democrats
{will find nothing to disturb them.”
Pennsylvania Has Fourth Largest
Agricultural School.
Pennsylvania can boast of the
i fourth largest agricultural school in
| the entire United States, that at The
| Pennsylvania State College.
i Figures recently compiled also show
that only one other agri¢ultural school
in the
| country has lost fewer students in the
past five years than has that at Penn
State. Only two States made a gain
in the enrollment of agricultural stu-
dents, Maryland and Texas, but all
others lost from four to forty-six per
cent. in the five year period. The
losses are believed to have come as a
result of the unusual post-war manu-
facturing activities. There has al-
ways been an unusual demand for
Penn State agricultural graduates.
It is an outstanding fact that the
agricultural school enrollment of 570
men and women at Penn State is
larger than that in the great State
Universities of Wisconsin, Illinois,
California and Ohio and the Michigan
Agricultural College. Iowa, Cornell
and Texas lead Penn State in the
number of four-year agricultural stu-
dents, the first mentioned having the
largest, a total of 796.
The agricultural enrollment at
State College in 1919 was 633 stu-
dents. The loss has been less than
ten per cent., and the only other State
with a better record is Nebraska with
4.2 per cent.
Lee’s Retreat from Gettysburg.
One of the most dramatic incidents
of the Civil war was the retreat of
Lee’s army after Gettysburg, with its
hundreds of wagon loads ot wounded
A woman who lived by the road
down which this long line of scream-
ing, groaning and dying men was be-
ing hauled said it was the most awe-
some event of her life. They went
by her home during the night.
But even the wounded had to make
way for the guns. When the artillery
came thundering along the road the
officers in command of it forced the
wagons loaded with wounded to give
them the right of way, which was
A good many of the thousands of
the Union wounded at Gettysburg
were taken to Philadelphia war hos-
pitals by railroad trains. The nearly
6,000 dead in blue and gray who lay
on the sunny fields at Gettysburg gave
the opposing armies far less worry
than did the hosts of wounded.
The Flag on Memorial Day.
The following question is asked fre-
What is the correct way to put out
a flag on Memorial day, May 30?
Here is the answer, taken from the
United States army regulations: “On
Memorial day at all army posts and
stations the national flag will be dis-
played at half staff from sunrise un-
til noonday, and before noon the band
will play a dirge or some appropriate
{air. At the conclusion of this memox-
ial tribute, at noon, the flag will be
hoisted to the top of the staff and will
remain there until sunset.”
On Memorial day or other occasion
when the flag is displayed at half
staff, on raising the flag it should go
to the peak and then be dropped one
width of the flag. In striking the
‘flag it shonld be always returned to
the peak before retiring.
—Subseribe for the “Watchman.”
as has been charged,” said Mrs. Ham- |
land grant colleges of the
severeness of line. One very smart
{ costume in “log-cabin” brown was
completed by slippers, bag and hat
‘band of alligator skin.
Lizard skin being a trifle finer, is
better suited to: more formal wear;
{ afternoon and even evening slippers
are made of it or trimmed with it. It
adapts itself more graceuflly to the
"slimmer curves of the formal shoe
hon does the more substantial alliga-
{ While these two skins are most at-
‘tractive and decidedly new, the con-
' servative woman who prefers not to
, be among the very first to adopt a
| novelty can take refuge, as always,
| with perfect safety and good taste, in
the perennial patent leather. There
is every indication that the shoes of
| the coming season are to be far less
| complicated affairs than were the
i shoes of last spring with their many
‘colors and tortuous straps. It almost
seemed as if some of the slippers of
‘last season might have been designed
by the magician Houdini, so intricate
' were their straps and buttons. The
single strap, running across the in-
| step, or the centre strap that joins the
cross strap at the ankle, are still good,
and many of the newest shoes are
made in this fashion, particularly the
dress shoes.
i One versatile patent leather shoe
| with graceful tongue is worn with a
"bronze buckle to complete a brown
« costume, a silver buckle to complete a
gray and a buckle of blue steel to set
| off a blue frock. With the exception
| of the strap-slipper, the shoes of the
{ mode do not show the instep, but are
a far up over it, with gorings of
elastic to permit of their being pulled
on easily. On the very chic suede
shoe, such as are worn for afternoon,
the goring is concealed by a buckle,
and the clever woman again produces
the effect of wearing different shoes
| at different times by using a kid buck-
"le for the street and a metal buckle
for the matinee or the tea.
i. Cut work is still being used but it
is confined largely to the instep or the
, newest slippers, and is far less ornate
i than it was last year. Shoes, too, are
swinging with the pendulum that
| seems to be carrying us back to the
i happy medium.
While evening shoes of satin or vel-
vet still have their adherents, the slip-
per of gold or silver brecade is, as we
predicted, by far the smartest shoe
for party wear. A delightful feature
of these metallic fabrics is that they
can be, and are, tinted by hand to
match one’s favorite evening frock,
the little flowers or leaves in the de-
sign being painted pink or pyrple or
rose or green against the background
of silver or gold. In fact, the metal-
cloth shoe is so universally worn that
it depends on its buckle for individu-
ality. These buckles can be procured
In a variety of designs—bowknots of
rhinestones, rosettes of bright-colored
synthetic gems, flat plaques of seed-
pearls. One very distinctive model
boasts a conventional buckle of rhine-
stones with a semi-circular flare of
lovely point lace extending over the
Another beautiful shoe of the sea-
son is designed for wear with the robe
j de style, or the period frock of bro-
| cade or heavy taffeta. It is fashion-
‘ ed of silver kid, cut in genuine eight-
| eenth century style—not our very
pointed, modern adaptation of the so-
called Colonial shoe—with a broad,
round toe, a low heel, and a buckle
that is nothing more nor less than an
exquisite square miniature, bordered
with seed-pearls and backed by a ti-
ny frill of gray satin.
One’s best sleep is when the stom-
ach is practically empty. It is true
! that food puts one to sleep at first, by
diverting blood from the head; but it
disturbs sleep later. If one goes to
bed with an empty stomach, one can
often get along well with six or sev-
en hours’ sleep, but if one goes to bed
soon after a hearty meal, one usual-
ly needs from 8 to 10 hours of sleep.
The only way you can modify the
projecting shoulder blades is to put on
enough weight to hide them, or at
least round them with flesh. This
means you must sleep eight or nine
hours, eat fattening foods, and spend
as much time outdoors, breathing in
pure oxygen, as you can.
To avoid pyorrhea, soft, starchy and
gelatinous foods, cake, and the like—
should never be taken between meals
or the last thing at night. They
should be followed by food which will
act as a cleanser, such as uncooked
fruit and foods of fibrous nature. The
teeth must be brushed not less than
twice a day.
Don’t use ammonia or borax on
vour hair when you shampoo it—at
least, don’t use it in such quantities as
you are doing. A pinch of borax or a
drop or two of ammonia wouldn't do
any harm, but its too frequent and
overuse brittles and dries the hair.
Apple Salad.—Peal six round ap-
{ ples and take out large core, rub over
with lemon juice. Have a syrup of
| one cupful sugar, one cupful water,
| juice of one lemon, boiling before put-
{ ting apples in to cook. Turn apples
from time to time until tender, remove
and set aside to cool. Stick salted al-
| monds in the sides of the apples; fill
core with pineapvle, crystalized cher-
ries and marshmallows. Serve as a
| salad with boiled dressing or as a des-
sert with foamy sauce.