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"Bellefonte, Pa., April 3, 1925.
AN EASTER SERMON.
“I'm glad that Easter Sunday's here,”
Said Mrs. Henry Gray.
“My bonnet new and other gear
I'll wear to church today.
A vein of glory will pervade
My hymn of praise and prayer,
For when my toilet is displayed
How Mrs. Bliss will stare!
“I hate that horrid Mrs. Brown,
‘With all her quirks and smiles.
Of all the women in the town
She apes the coarsest styles.
She bought her bonnet 'way last spring
And wears it now for new.
And as for that old Thompson thing,
I vow I hate her too!
“I hear Miss Jones, the cross eyed eat,
Has bought a new pekay
And terra cotta Paris hat
To wear to church today.
And Helen White has got a dress
They say is just divine.
Come, Mr. Gray, and do you guess
It’s half as sweet as mine?
“There go those awful Billings girls.
They paint and powder too.
They pad and wear cheap bangs and curls.
They do—I know they do!
You needn’t laugh. I boldly say
And stake my honor on it—
I'll paralyze them all today
With my new dress and bonnet!”
She was a very tiny child on that
day when her nurse took her into the
great department store. She was so
tiny that it was not hard for her—
once the firm grip upon her hand was
relaxed—to scuttle away, quite unno-
ticed by her usually vigilant guardian.
It was a day of bargain sales—white
sales. To Nancy, hurrying along, the
whole world seemed crowded with la-
dies’ skirts and’ ladies’ feet. Silk
skirts and cotton skirts and cloth
skirts. Feet in modish satin slippers
and feet in down-at-the-heel kid
It was fun at first, running away.
It was a game——a new game to play
with one’s nurse. But as the exciting
moments passed, another feeling—not
a play feeling—began to grow in
Nancy’s heart. It was a sacred feel-
ing. A lonely feeling. Suddenly
Nancy wanted to see her nurse again;
wanted to see the slim, smiling moth-
er who sat always-in a cushioned chair
by the window; wanted to see her
kind, preoccupied father. All at once
the strange skirts, and the. stranger
feet, terrified her! $
But—even though she was very ti-
ny—Nancy did not cry. She was a
repressed child—trained to silence.
Even as a baby she had controlled her
small griefs. For Mother, sitting in
the chair by the window, must neither
be worried nor disturbed. - Mother was
ill! She must be cared for tenderly—
must’ be protected. Nurse had ex-
plained * #* * Often. * * *
So Nancy—though she knew that
she was lost—did not cry. She wig-
gled her way past the skirts and the
shoes, and never paused until she was
close beside a counter. Behind the
counter busy ladies pulled out boxes
and put boxes away again. Nancy
was afraid to speak to them, they
seemed so important. Wide-eyed,
quivering of lip, she climbed upon a
stool in front of the counter. And
there nurse found her a half-hour lat-
er—forlorn, but with the air of a wee
stoic. Her chubby legs dangling
tiredly in space, her chubby hands
tight clenched and cold.
“But,” the busy ladies behind the
counter protested—in response to
nurse’s frenzied questioning, “but we
didn’t know she was lost! We thought
she’d been told to wait. She never
Nancy had not said anything! But
she spoke on the way home in the taxi
which nurse—reduced to hysterics—
“I don’t like it—being
Nurse, who loved her, clasped the
straight little body.
“Were you frightened, darling?”
“Yes—" said Nancy.
That was all. Her vocabulary was
too small, too limited, to give any ex-
pression of her sense of fright. She
had known black horror at the thought
that she might have to sit forever up-
on that stool—while the unheeding
world passed by. There was anguish
in the feeling that nurse would never
find her. That Mother’s hands—slim
and white—would never again beck-
on her to a place beside the cushioned
When Nancy was nearly six—al-
most three years later, it was—she
rescued the white dog. A fuzzy, un-
kempt dog, with an emaciated body
and pleading eyes and a brown spot
on his wistful, small face. He had
come to the garden gate—even in the
city Nancy’s home boasted a wee,
handkerchief square of green lawn
and a flowerbed! He had come, haif
begging to be admitted, half afraid to
enter. Nancy, who had watched him
pick his timid way across the street,
between vehicles, who had seen him
shudder back from a kick and shrink
from a teasing whistle, threw wide
the gate and called gently. It hurt
her in a strange, poignent way that |
the dog could not, immediately, rec-
ognize her friendship. That he hesi-
tated on the threshold of her home.
She called again. :
The dog was trembling violently.
He had been through a tremendous
experience, the grim adventure of be-
ing a pariah. All of his small dog
soul longed to answer the summons of
the loving little voice, but his cau-
tion—bred of ill treatment—forbade
any recognition of even the tenderest
outstretched hand. He would have
trotted on, a trembling wraith of a
puppy challenging death at every
street corner, if Nancy had not ap-
pealed to his gnawing hunger. For
all at once she thought of a cookie in
her pocket. A large cookie, with su-
gar on it. Eagerly she brought it
forth; -enticingly she extended it to-
and made a feeble snatch at the cook-
ie, she closed the gate. And raced
kitchenward for a saucer of milk.
Later in the afternoon—when the
dog, fed and bathed, was beginning to
regain his confidence in the God-of-
things-as-they-ought-to-be — Naney
took the small stranger to visit Moth-
er. Mother still sat in the chair by
the window, but her smile, though
just as frequent, was not as gay as it
once had been. And her slim hands
‘had become transparent, rather than
“May I keep this puppy?” Nancy
asked breathlessly. “May 1? He’s so
—sweet!” ; ;
Mother, her head lying back against
a blue cushion, answered with anoth-
er question. “Where did you get him,
honey?” Mother asked. “Who gave
him to you?” : :
Nancy answered breathlessly, with
the pain lying stark in her eyes. “He
was lost,” she said. “I took him in.
It’s—it’s awful—to be lost!”
Mother’s loving arm drew the little
girl close. She knew so well the story
of that far-away, terrible half-hour!
“Always, dear, we must be kind to
little lost things—"’ she said. “Musn’t
And she kissed Nancy very tender-
ly. That special kiss lay warm on
Nancy’s heart for many years!
It was just two months later that
Nancy and the white dog, playing se-
renely on the scrap of a garden, saw
the doctor drive up hurriedly and dash
into the house. But that wasn’t a
thing of great moment, for the doctor
came often, and he was usually hur-
ried. It was rather more surprising
to see Father come, a few minutes
later, in a taxi. Father was a man of
routine; he was not given to stopping
home of an afternoon! Nancy won-
dered, as she tossed a rubber ball to
the puppy, why Father was taking a
holiday. And then nurse, strangely
agitated, came running out of the
house with Nancy’s hat and the pup-
py’s leash. ‘And they all went for a
long walk in the park. It was nearly
dark when the three of them reached
home. : :
.lancy, tiredly, asked to say good-
night -to Mother. Always she asked,
and nearly always she was allowed,
to go to Mother’s room. It was a ben-
ediction—almost like saying “Now-I-
lay-me”—to kiss Mother good-night.
Moher’s room was fragrant with flow-
ers, and her hair waved about her
white face, and her eyes were bril-
liant! But this night Nancy was sent
directly to the nursery. And later
Father came—a thing that he seldom
had time to do—and tucked her into
bed. And Naney told herself that she
would have thought her father had
been crying—if ever men cried!
The next day nurse—strangely si-
lent and red about the eyelids—took
Nancy on a shopping tour. An expe-
dition that began in the morning and
lasted well into the late afternoon.
And Nancy was too weary to notice
the air of mystery about the house.
Only she could smell a warm, sum-
mery scent of roses. Even in the far
nursery she could smell them.
“Mother must have lots o’ flowers
tonight,” she said sleepily to nurse.
“They're sweet—'way ° down here
through the hall they’re sweet. Can
I kiss Mother good-night ?”
But nurse turned away her head
sharply. “Mother’s not so—” she be-
gan, and then—“Nancy, dear, don’t
ask to see your mother just now!”
And nurse bustled away, as if she
were very busy—and very tired of
The next day was fair. A blue and
gold day. Again nurse, early in the
morning, took Nancy from the house
that lay so silently behind the square
of city garden. Nurse took Nancy to
the country in Father’s largest lim-
ousine. They picnicked in a field that
was gay with the green of growing
things, and Nancy found some blue
violets, late-blooming and lovely. She
picked them to take home to Mother.
Mother’s eyes were like violets!
The ride and the picnic had both
been long. Nancy slept, on the way
home, with her head in nurse’s lap and
the blue flowers drooping from her
small, moist hand. Father carried
her in from thecar and tucked her
into bed. And his crisp mustache
tickled her cheek as he kissed her.
But Nancy could not understand why
Father hurried from the room when
she asked if she might go—in her
white, little night-dress and blue felt
slippers—to Mother’s room.
It was the next morning, as she
again played in the scrap of garden,
tossing the rubber ball to the puppy,
that she heard the ladies. Two ladies
who walked past slowly, with long and
furtive glances toward the house.
Nancy, feeling their eyes upon her,
turned self-conscious and stopped
tossing the ball toward the waiting
small dog. She did not want to listen,
but the ladies, though their voices
were low, spoke clearly.
“That’s the child,” said one of
them. “Little Nancy Todd * * *”
The other woman answered. ‘“Plen-
ty of money, and a lovely home,” she
said slowly, “but—poor little girl! To
lose her mother!”
To lose her mother! Nancy caught
her breath sharply. That was why
Father had acted so strangely. That
was why they had made excuses to
keep her from Mother’s loved pres-
ence. Why nurse had been so strange!
Mother * * * Mother was lost!
With a quick little rush Nancy turn-
ed from her play. Hurried into the
“Oh, nurse,” she was calling fran-
tically, through the halls—*“Oh, nurs-
Nurse came hurriedly. She stood
at the foot of the staircase, an agi-
tated figure in a blue and white uni-
form. Of her Nancy asked a question.
A breathless, frightened question.
“Have we lost—Mother ?” she ques-
Nurse, so crisp in her uniform of
blue and white, stared at the child.
And then, suddenly, nurse’s kindly
eyes overflowed with the pent-up grief
of the troubled days. ww
“Oh, my darling,” she was sobbing,
“we didn’t mean to tell you .* .* .*
Yes, honey, your mother is—gone—"
Nancy brace2 her straight, little
back. Her mouth quivered, but she
did not cry. And then she darted past
ward the small animal. And, when
he edged toward her, into the garden,
nurse and was running up the wide
staircase to Mother’s room. :
‘through the scrap of a garden. Ang
ing for her coming in some dark alley-
ed her pass.
the child was so sure of herself, he
said later, that he did not dream she.
was out alone for the first time.
scurried across a car track and a wide
avenue. Peering into possible—and
in a frightened, wee voice.
sax the white of something waving to
with a great leap at her heart, it was
only a curtain blowing from an open-
ticed the little girl.
quite unconscious of the people who
crowded in upon her. They were only
before her—a white, patient face, with
dark hair waving
A white face with the smile :
swept from it. And blue eyes with a.
great loneliness in them!
gan to feel tired, when her feet grew
heavy and dragging, that Nancy knew
fear.” Not fear for herself, this time.
Fear that Mother had gone so far that
there would be no catching up with
her!. Despite her weariness, the fear
lent new strength to Nancy. She be-
gan to run, darting, like a funny, lit-
tle mechanical toy, between knots of
crevice or cranny or possible hiding
drooping with utter fatigue, just when
against their forced gait, Nancy came
upon the door that swung open. A
friendly door set in a wide brownstone
building. A building with windows
done in gold and sapphire and ruby-
colored glass. With a tall steeple that
pointed, like a finger, to a fluff of
white clouds that sailed above the
city. There were words printed, in
letters of gold, upon the door. Nancy
could not read them, but their mes-
sage must have spoken gently to her
the letters of gold.
But something about the open door
spoke reassuringly to her discouraged
little spirit. The house, inside, looked
so dim and cool and restful.
Mother—hurrying past—had thought
peaceful silence of the place.
haps Mother was there, now!
ing for some one to come—to fetch
with no sense of lagging, that Nancy
climbed the few low steps of the
church. She was not afraid of a
strange house, even though it was big!
But a sensation that she could not ex-
plain came over her, as she stepped
through the wide-flung door. A feel-
ing that, in an older person, would
have been called awe!
great room, inside, furnished with
taken to a church, before—she did not
. room, barely distinguishable through
the dimness, Nancy could see a plat-
form. And in the back of the plat-
form a great cross that glowed and
draw her, that cross! As if something
comforting lay in the glow of it.
Somehow the child expected to find
that room in disorder. A shaken, un-
quiet room. But it was just as it had
always been. Except that Mother—
laughing from her chair by the win-
dow—was not a part of it. Except
that Mother was gone. The draperies
were held back daintily with their
wide satin ribbons. The cushions, the
down quilt, were as freshly blue as
ever. There were flowers in a low
bowl. But Mother—Mother was gone.
The ladies had been right. Mother
Nancy had been lost, herself. Look-
ing back across the years, she could
remember the loneliness of her vigil
as she sat waiting on the high stool.
Mother—she could see pretty Moth-
er sitting on just such a stool, waiting
to be found. Mother who always lay
back, propped up by soft cushions, in
her easy chair. Mother's feet in their
slippers, would dangle pitifully. Per-
haps Mother would cry! Perhaps—
even worse—Mother would be afraid
And Nancy was remembering the
white dog. How he had crossed the
street, hesitant, pitifully terrified.
How he had shuddered away from
both kicks and caresses. How he had
been uncertain when she called to him.
How he had been forlorn, hungry.
Would Mother—Ilost—be as terrified
in her way as the small, white dog
had been? Would she, so fragile, so
tenderly cared for, run down streets
and over trolley tracks? In her silk
bedgown and her lacy negligee ?
All at once Nancy turned from the
room that, though empty, was so full
of Mother’s dear presence. She was
running down the stairs, past nurse
who still crouched, sobbing, upon the
Wife and Husband
Both Il with Gas
I had gas on the stom-
The first dose of Adlerika
helped. I now sleep well and all gas
is gone. It also helped my husband.”
spoonful Adlerika removes GAS and
often brings astonishing relief to the
Stops that full, bloated
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Runkle’s Drug Store.
B. Brinkley. ONE
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For Liver Ills.
You can’t °
feel so good
but what NR
will make you
e do not. advise people to save every-
thing they make beyond a bare living.
If they did not spend a certain percent-
age on luxuries we would have very bad
But there is a happy medium.
Everyone should have a budget.
This budget should include an item
It is more foolish to spend everything
than it is to deny oneself everything.
First National Bank
lowest step. She was opening the
front door noiselessly and hurrying
the wrought-iron gate clicked to, be-
Nurse was not aware of her going.
Of that Nancy was sure. She was
glad—she longed to be alone! She
knew that she would succeed where
the rest had failed. She knew that
she would find Mother!
She hurried down the street, a
small, purposeful figure. With wide
eyes searching each areaway, each
space between houses. Perhaps Moth-
Caldwell & Son
er, scared and hungry, would be wait-
way * kk
The policeman, at the corner, watch-
He did not stop her—
By Hot Water
Once she called
But though she stopped short,
Perhaps some of the passers-by no-
But Nancy was
Only one reality stood out
softly back from it.
It was only when her short legs be--
With eyes that missed no
And then, just when her body was
legs were protesting
“Enter, rest, and pray!” said
Nancy could not read the words.
Perhaps Mother, worn out
had crept into the
It was with no feeling of hesitation,
The house was strange. It was one
Nancy had never been
In the front of the
shone. It seemed to
Creeping down the aisle, between
the long benches, Nancy felt very
much alone. But, strangely enough,
she did not feel lonely. She felt some-
thing near and friendly. As if some-
body else were in the great room. It
did not surprise her, all at once, lo
hear a voice. A deep, shaken voice,
“0 God,” the voice was saying,
“help me to help others. Give me an
understanding heart. Give me a love
that will see beyond the little ways of
life * * * Give me the faith that
~ Nancy, coming forward slowly and
silently, could see a figure, at last. It
was a man, in black. He knelt in the
(Continued on page 7, Col. 1.)
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