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Doubiean:
WNU Bervice,
(Continued from last week.)
SYNOPSIS
—JIntroducing “So Pi
in his infancy. And his
DeJong, daughter of
oon Peake, gambler and gentleman
rtune, er life, to young woman-
in Chicago in 1888, has been un-
genventional, somewhat seamy, but
orally enjoyable. At school her
= id fails Hempe y
DeJog|
or, Selina
daughter of
empel, butcher. Simeon fis
ed in a quarrel that is not his own
lina, nineteen years old and
FrSotisalty destitute, becomes a mchool-
or.
CHAPTER YI—S8Selina secures a posi-
tion as teacher at the High Prairie
ool, in the outskirts of Chicago,
ng at the home of a truck farmer,
8 Pool. In Roelf, twelve years
son of Klaas, Selina perceives a
ares spirit, a lover of beauty, like
reelf.
CHAPTER IIL.—The monotonous life
& country school-teacher at that
e, is Selina’s, brightened somewhat
the companionship of the sensitive,
artistic boy Roelf.
CHAPTER IV.—Selina hears gossip
cerning the affection of the “Widow
siehvergs rich and good-looking,
or Pervus DeJong, poor truck farmer.
who is insensible to the widow's at-
tions. For a community “sociable”
elina Jrepares & lunch basket, dainty,
ut not of ample proportions, which is
uctioned,” according to custom. The
smallness of the lunch box excites deri-
lon, and in & sense of fun the bidding
omes spirited, DeJong finally secur-
ng it for $10, a ridiculously high price.
Over their lunch basket, whic elina
DeJong share together, the school-
eacher arranges to instruct the good-
paiured farmer, whose education has
neglected. -
CHAPTER V.—Propinquity, in their
Joiitiona of “teacher” and “pupil,” and
lina’s loneliness in her uncongenial
urroundings, lead to mutual affection.
Fervus DeJong wins Selina’s consent
be his wife.
CHAPTER VI.—Selina becomes Mrs.
eJong, a “farmer's wife,” with all the
rdships unavoidable at that time.
irk is born. Selina (of Vermont
stock, businesslike and shrewd) has
plans for building up the farm, which
be ridiculed by her husband. Maartje
ol, Klaas’ wife, dies, and after the
requisite decent interval Klaas marries
he ‘Widow Paarlenberg.” The boy
oelf, sixteen years old now, leaves
home, to make his way to France
and study, his ambition being to be-
ome a sculptor.
CHAPTER VI1L-—Dirk is eight years
old when his father dies. Selina, faced
{th the necessity of making a living
r her boy and herself, rises to the
fon, and, with Dirk, takes a truck-
of vegetables to the Chicago mar-
et. A woman selling In the market
place is an innovation frowned upon.
CHAPTER VIIL—As a disposer of
the vegetables from her truck Selina is
a flat failure, buyers being shy of
dealing with her. To a commission
dealer she sells part of her stock. On
the way home she peddles from door
to door, with indifferent success. A
Pliceman demands her license. She
none, and during the ensuing alter-
tion Selina’s irlhood chum, Julie
Home now Julie Arnold, recognizes
CHAPTER IX.—August Hempel, risen
to prommence and wealth in the busi-
ess world, arranges to assist Selina
making the farm something more of
a paving proposition. Selina grate-
fully accepts his help, for Dirk’s sake.
CHAPTER X.—Belina achieves the
success with the farm which she knew
was possible, her financial troubles
ending. At eighteen Dirk enters Mid-
west university.
CHAPTER XI—Dirk goes to Cornell
university, intending to make architec-
ture his life work, and on graduation
enters the office of a firm of Chicago
architects. Paula Arnold, daughter of
Julie, enters his life. He would marry
her, but she has a craving for wealth
and takes Theodore Storm, millionaire,
for her husband. The World war begins.
CHAPTER XIl.—Paula, despite her
marriage and motherhood, continues
interested in Dirk, their friendship be-
inning to cause gossip. She urges
irk to give up the profession of archi-
tecture and enter business for the
rreater financial reward possible. IDdirk
esitates, feeling his mother would not
approve of the change. >
CHAPTER XII1.—Dirk enlists in the
army, going to the officers’ training
camp at Fort Sheridan. He gets to
France finally, but sees no actual fight-
ing. Selina is Yaguely dissatisfied with
Dirk's progress, the tension increasing
svhen he tells her he has decided to
ive up architecture for business. Se-
ina’s success with the farm is now
ronounced. Paula's fondness for Dirk
oy to approach infatuation.
He did not know that Dallas played
until he came upon her late one after-
noon sitting at the piano in the twl-
light with Bert Colson, the black-face
comedian. Colson sang those terrible
songs about April showers bringing
violets, and about mah Ma-ha-ha-ha-
ha-ha-ba-my but they didn’t seem ter-
rible when he sang them. There was
about this lean, hollow-chested, som-
ber-eyed comedian a poignant pathos,
a gorgeous sense of rhythm—a some-
thing unnameable that bound you te
him, made you love him. In the the-
ater he came out to the edge of the
runway and took the audience in his
arms. He talked like a bootblack and
sang like an angel. Dallas at the
piano, he leaning over it, were doing
“blues.” The two were rapt, ecstatic.
I got the blues—I said the blues—I
got the this or that—the somethingor-
other—blue—hoo-hoos. They scarcely
noticed Dirk. Dallas had nodded
when he came in, and had gone on
playing. Colson sang the cheaply sen-
timental ballad as though it were the
folksong of a tragic race. His arms
were extended, his face rapt. As Dal-
las played the tears stocd in her eyes.
When they had finished, “Isn't it a
terrible song?’ she said. “I'm crazy
about it. Bert's going to try it out
tonight.”
WZ
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rie
\ }
“Who—uh—wrote it?”
politely.
Dallas began to play again. “H’'m?
Oh, I did.” They were off once more.
It was practically impossible to get
a minute with her alone. That irri-
tated him. People were always drift-
ing in and out of the studio—queer,
important, startling people; little, de-
jected, shabby people. An impecunious
girl art student, red-haired and wist-
ful, that Dallas was taking in until the
girl got some money from home; a
pearl-hung grand-opera singer who
was condescending to the Chicago
opera for a fortnight. They paid no
attention to Dirk. Yet there was noth-
ing rude about their indifference. They
simply were more interested in what
they were doing. He left telling him-
self that he wouldn't go there again.
Hanging around a studio. But next
day he was back.
‘Look here, Miss O'Mara,” he had
got her alone ior a second. “Look
here, will you come out to dinner with
me some time? And the theater?”
“Love to.”
“When?” He was actually trem-
bling.
“Tonight.” © He had an important
engagement. He cast it out of his life,
“Tonight! That's grand. Where
do you want to dine? The Casino?’
The smartest club in Chicago; a little
pink stucco Italian box of a place on
the Lake Shore drive. He was rather
proud of being in a position to take
her there as his guest.
“Oh, no, I hate those arty little
places. I like dining in a hotel full
of all sorts of people. Dining in a
club means you're surrounded by peo-
ple who're pretty much alike. Their
membership in the club means they're
there because they are all interested in
golf, or because they're university grad-
uaies, or belong to the same political
party, or write, or paint, or have iu-
comes of over fifty thousand a year,
or Something: I like ’em mixed up,
niggledy-piggledy. A dining-room full
of gamblers and insurance agents, and
actors, merchants, thieves, bootleggers,
1awyers, kept ladies, wives, flaps, truv-
eling men, millionaires—everything.
"That’s what I call dining out. Unless
one is dining at a friend's kouse, of
course.” A rarely long speech for
her.
“Perhaps,” eagerly, “you'll dine st
my little apartment some time. Just
four or six of us, or even—"
“Perhaps.”
"Would you
night?”
“It looks tco much like a Romaun
bath. The pillars scare me. Let's gr
to the Blackstone.”
They went to the Blackstone. The
head waiter knew him. “Good eve-
ning, Mr. DeJong.” Dirk was secretly
gratified. Then, with a shock, he
realized that the head waiter was
grinning at Dallas and Dallas was
grinning at the head waiter. “Helio
Andre,” said Dallas.
“Good evening, Miss O'Mara.” The
text of his greeting was correct and
befitting the head waiter at the Black-
stone. But his voice was lyric and his
eyes glowed. His manner of seating
her at a table was an enthronement.
At the look in Dirk's eyes, “I met
him in the army,” Dallas explained,
hen I was in France. He’s a grand
ad.”
“Were you in—what did you do in
france?”
“Oh, odd jobs.”
Her dinner gown was very smart,
out the pink ribbon strap of an under-
garment showed untidily at one side—
her silk brassiere, probably. Paula
would have—but then, a thing like that
was impossible in Paula’s perfection
of toilette. He loved the way the
gown cut sharply away at the shoul-
der to show her firm white arms. It
was dull gold, the color of her hair.
This was one Dallas. There were a
dozen—a hundred. Yet she was al-
ways the same. You never knew
whether you were going to meet the
gamin of the rumpled smock and the
smudged face or the beauty of the lit-
tle fur jacket. Sometimes Dirk thought
she looked like the splendid goddesses
you saw In paintings—the kind with
high, pointed breasts and gracious,
gentle pose—holding out a horn of
plenty. There was about her something
hb genuine and earthy and elemental.
He noticed that. her nails were short
and not well cared for—not glittering
and pointed and cruelly sharp and
horridly vermilion, like Paula’s. That
pleased ‘him, too, somehow.
“Some oysters?’ he suggested. “They
«re perfectly safe here, ‘Or fruit cock-
tail? Then breast of guinea hen un-
der glass and an artichoke—”
She looked a little worried. “If you
~—suppose you take that. Me, I'd like
a steak and some potatoes au gratin
and a salad with Russian—"
“That's fine!” He was delighted.
Ae doubled that order and they con-,
like the Drake 1e
asked Dirk
|
popular.
sumed it with devastating thorough-
ness. She ate rolls. She ate butter. She
made no remarks about the food ex-
cept to say, once, that it was good and
that she had forgotten to eat lunch be-
cause she had been so busy working.
All this Dirk found most restful and
refreshing. ‘
Usually, when you dined in a res-
«aurant with a woman she said, “Ol,
I'd love to eat some of those crisp
little rolls!”
You said; “Why not?”
Invariably the answer to this was
“I daren’t! Goodness! A half pound
at least. I haven't eaten a roll with
butter in a year.”
Again you said, “Why not?”
“Afreid I'll get fat.”
Automatically, “You!
fou're just right.”
He was bored with these women who
talked about their weight, figure, lines.
He thought it in bad taste. Paula
was always rigidly refraining from
this or that.’ It made him uncomfort-
able to sit at the table facing her; eat-
ing his thorough meal while she nib-
bled fragile curls of Melba toast, a
lettuce leaf, and half a sugariess
grapefruit. It lessened his enjoyment
of his own oysters, steak, coffee. He
thought that she always eved his food
a little avidly, for all her expressed
indifference to it. She was looking
a little haggard, too.
“The theater’s next door,” he said.
Just a step. We don’t have to leave
here until after eight.” £
“'That’s nice.” She had her cigarette
w~ith her coffee in a mellow, sensuous
atmosphere of enjoyment. He was
talking about himself a good deal. He
felt relaxed, at ease, happy.
“You know I'm an architect—at
least, I was one. Perhaps that’s why
I like to hang around your shop so. I
get sort of homesick for the pencils
and the drawing board—the = whole
thing.”
“Why did you give it up, then?”
“Nothing in it.”
*How do you mean—nothing in it?”
“No money. After the war nobody
was building. Oh, I suppose if I'd
hung on—”"
“And then you became a banker,
h’'m? Well, there ought to be money
enough in a bank.”
He was a little nettled. “I wasn’t a
banker—at first. I was a bond sales-
man.”
Her brows met in a little frown.
“I'd rather,” Dallas said, slowly, “plan
one back door of a building that’s
going to help make this town beauti-
ful and significant than sell all the
bonds that ever floated a—whatever it
is that bonds are supposed to float.”
He defended himself. “I felt that
way, too. But you see, my mother had
given me my education, really. She
worked for it. I couldn’t go dubbing
along, earning just enough to keep me.
I wanted to give her things. I want-
ed—"
“Did she want those things? Did
she want you to give up architecture
and go into bonds?”
“Well—she—I don’t know that she
exactly—" He was too decent—stiil
too much the son of Selina DeJong—
to be able to lie about that.
“You said you were going to let me
meet her.”
“Would you let me bring her in? Or
perhaps you'd even—would you drive
out to the farm with me some day.
She’d like that so much.”
“So would L”
He leaned toward her,
Nonsense.
suddenty.
“Lieten, Dallas. What do you think
of me, anyway?’ He wanted to know.
He couldn't stand not knowing any
longer.”
“I think you're a nice young man.®
That was terrible. “But I don’t
want you to think I'm a nice young
man. I want you to like me—a lot.
Tell me, what haven't 1 got that you
think I ought to have? Why do you
put me off so many times? I never
feel that I’m really near you. What
is it I lack?” He was abject.
“Well, if you're asking for it. I do
demand of the people I see often that
they possess at least a splash of splen-
dor in their makeup. Some people
are nine-tenths splendor and one-tenth
tawdriness, like Gene Meran. And some
are nine-tenths tawdriness and one-
tenth splendor, like Sam Huebch. But
some people are all just a nice even
pink without a single patch of roys!
purple.”
“And that’s me, h’'m?”
He was horribly disappointed, hurt,
wretched. But a little angry, too. His
pride. Why, he was Dirk DeJong, the
most successful of Chicago's younger
men; the most promising; the most
After all, what did she do
but paint commercial pictures for fif-
teen hundred dollars apiece?
“What happens to the men who fall
in love with you? What do they do?”
Dallas stirred her coffee thought-
fully. “They usually tell me about
it.”
“And then what?”
“Then they seem to feel better and
we become great friends.”
“But don’t you ever fall In love with
them?” Pretty d—d sure of herself.
“Don’t you ever fall in love with
them?”
“I almost always do,” said Dallas.
He plunged. “I could give you a
lot of things you haven't got, purple
or no purple.”
“I'm' going to France in April
Paris.”
“What d’you mean! Paris. What
for?”
“Study. I want to do portrait
Oils.”
He was terrified. “Can’t you do thew
here?”
“Oh, no. Not what I need. I have
been studying here. I've been taking
life-work three nights a week at the
Art institute, just to keep my hand
in.”
“So that’s where you gre, evenings?”
He was strangely relieved. “Let me go
with you some time, will you?” Anv-
thing. Anything.
‘She took him with her one evening,
steering him successfully past the stern
Irishman who guarded the entrance to
the basement classrooms; to her
locker, got into her smock, grabbed
her brushes, went directly to her place,
fell to work at once. Dirk blinked in
the strong light. He glanced at the
dais toward which they were all gaz-
ing from time to time as they worked
On it lay a nude woman.
To himself Dirk said, in a sort of
penic: “Why, say, she hasn't got any
clothes on! My gosh! this is fierce.
She hasn’t got anything on!” He tried,
meanwhile, to look easy, careless,
critieal, Strangely enough, he succeed-
ed, after the first shock, not only in
looking at ease, but feeling so. The
class was doing the whole figure ir
oils.
The model was a moron with a skin
like velvet and rose petals. She fell
into poses that flowed like cream. Her
hair was waved in “wooden undula-
tions and her nose was pure vulgar-
ity and her earrings were drug-store
pearls in triple strands but her back
was probably finer than Helen's and
her Lreasts twin snowdrifts peaked
with coral. In twenty minutes Dirk
found himself impersonally interested
They Had Sandwiches and Coffee -at
an All-Night One-Arm Lunchroom.
.n tone, shadows, colors, line. He
listened to the low-voiced instructor
and squinted carefully to ascertain
whether that shadow on the modei’s
stomach really should be painted blue
or brown,
Even Dirk could see that Dallas
canvas was almost insultingly superior
to that of the men and women about
her, Beneath the flesh on her canvas
there were muscles, and beneath those
muscles blood and bone. You felt she
had a surgeon’s knowledge of anatomy.
It was after eleven when they
emerged from the Art institute door-
way and stood a moment together au!
the top of the broad steps surveying
the world that lay before them. Da:-
lug said nothing. Suddenly the beauty
of the night rushed up and cover
whelmed Dirk. Gorgecusness and
tawdriness; color and gloom. At the
right the white tower of the Wrigley
building rose wraithlike against a
background of purple sky. .
Just this side of it a swarm of imp-
ish electric lights grinned their mes-
sage in scarlet and white. In white*
TRADR AT
then blackness, while you walter?
ygainst syour will. In red:
THE FAIR
Blackness again. Then, in a burst of
both colors, in bigger letters, and in
a blaze that hurled itself at your
eyeballs, momentarily shutting out
tower, sky and street:
SAVE MONEY
Straight ahead the hut of the Adams
street L station in midair was Vene-
tian bridge, with the black canal of
asphalt flowing sluggishly beneath.
The reflection of cafeteria and cigar-
shop windows on either side were
slender shafts of light along the cana’
An enchanting sight.
“Nice,” said Dallas. A long breath
She was a part of all this.
“Yes.” He felt an outsider.
e sandwich? Are you hungry?”
“I'm starved.”
They had sandwiches and coffee at
an all-night one-arm lunch room be-
cause Dallas said her face was too
dirty for a restaurant and she didn't
want to bother to wash it. She was
more than ordinarily companionable
that night; a little tired; less buoy-
ant and independent than usual. This
gave her a little air of helplessness—of
tatigue—that aroused all his tender
ness. Her smile gave him a warm rush
of pure happiness—until he suw her
smile in exactly the same way ut the
pimply young man who lorded it over
the shining nickel coffee container, as
she told him that his coffee war
grand.
“Wan?
Chapter XV
The things that had mattered so
vitally didn't seem to be important,
somehow, now. The people who had
seemed so desirable had become sud-
denly insignificant. The games he had
played appeared silly games. He was
seeing things through Dallas O’Mara’s
wise, beauty-loving eyes. Strangely
enough, he did not realize that this
girl saw life from much the same angle
as that at which his mother regarded
it. In the last few years his mother
had often offended him by her attitude
toward these rich and powerful friends
of his—their ways, their games, their
amusements, their manners. And her
way of living .in turn offended him.
On his rare visits to the farm it seemed
to him there was always some drab
dejected female in the kitchen or liv-
ing room or on the porch—a woman
with broken teeth and comic shoes and
tragic eyes—drinking great draughts of
coffee and telling her woes to Selina—
Sairey Gampish ladies smelling un-
pleasantly of peppermint and perspira-
tion and poverty. ‘“And he ain’t had
a lick of work since November—"
“You don’t say! That's terrible!”
He wished she wouldn't.
Sometimes old Aug Hempel drove
out there and Dirk would come upon
the two snickering wickedly together
about something that he knew con-
cerned the North Shore crowd.
It had been years since Selina had
said. sociably, “What did they have for '
dinner, Dirk? Hm?”
“Well—soup—"
“Nothing before the soup?”
“Oh, yeh. Some kind of a—one of
those canape things, you know.
Caviare.”
“My! Caviarel”
Sometimes Selina giggled like a
agughty girl at things that Dirk had
taken quite seriously. The fox hunts,
for example. Lake Forest had taken
to fox hunting, and the Tippecanoe
crowd kept kennels. Dirk had learned
to ride—pretty well. An Englishman—
# certain Captain Stokes-Beatty—had
Initiated the North Shore into the mys- |
teries of fox hunting. Huntin’. The
North Shore learned to say nec’s’ry
and conservat'ry. Captain Stokes-
Beatty was a tall, bow-legged, and
somewhat horse-faced young man, re-
mote in manner. The nice Farnham
girl seemed fated to marry him. Paula
had had a hunt breakfast at Storm-
wood and it had been very successful,
though the American men had balked a
little at the deviled kidneys. The food
had been patterned as far as possible
after the pale flabby viands served at
English hunt breakfasts and ruined
in an atmosphere of lukewarm steam.
The women were slim and perfectly
tailored but wore their hunting clothes
a trifle uneasily and self-consciously
like girls in their first low-cut party
dresses. Most of the men had turned
stubborn on the subject of pink coats,
but Captain Stokes-Beatty wore his
handsomely. The fox—a worried and
somewhat -dejecteddooking animal—
had been shipped in a crate from the
South and on being released had a way
of sitting sociably in an Illinois corn
field instead of leaping fleetly to cover. |
At the finish you had a feeling of
guilt, as though you had killed a cock-
roach. .
Dirk had told Selina about-i , feeling
rather magnificent. A fox hunt.
“A fox hunt! What for?”
“For! Why, what's any fox hunv
for?’
“I can’t imagine. They used to he
Jor the purpose of ridding a fox-in-
fested country of a nuisance. Have
the foxes been bothering ’em out in
Lake Forest?”
“Now, mother, don’t be funny.” He
told her about the breakfast.
“Weli. but it’s so silly, Dirk. It's
émert to copy from another country
‘te things that that country does bet-
ter than we do. England does gar-
dens and woodfires and dogs and
tweeds and walking shoes and pipes
and leisure better than we do. But
those luke-warm steamy breakfasts of
theirs! It's because they haven't gas,
most of them. No Kansas or Ne-
braska farmer's wife would stand fer
one of their kitchens—not for a minute.
And the hired man would balk at such
bacon.” She giggled.
“Oh, well, if you're going to talk
lke that.”
But Dallas O’Mara felt much the
same about these things. Dallas, it ap-
peared, had been something of a fad
with the North Shore society crowd
after she had painted Mrs. Robinson
Gilman's portrait. She had been in-
vited to dinners and luncheons and
dances, but their doings, she told Dirk,
had bored her.
“They’re nice,” she said, “but they
don’t have much fun. They're all try-
ing to be something they're not. And
that’s such hard work. The women
were always explaining that they lived
in Chicago because their husband’s
business was here. They all do things
pretty well—dance or paint or ride or
write or sing—but not well enough.
They're professional amateurs, trying
to express something they don’t feel;
or that they don’t feel strongly enough
to make it worth while expressing.”
(Continued next week.)
Served the Purpose.
<
The captain, taking inspection, no-
ticed Private Brown had no tooth
brush.
“Where's your tooth brush ?” he de-
manded.
“Here, sir,” said Private Brown,
producing a large scrubbing brush.
“You don’t mean to tell me you can
get that thing into your mouth?”
shouted the captain, angrily.
“No, sir,” replied Brown, without
changing his expression. “I take my
teeth out.”—Good Hardware.
Her Face Her Fortune.
“My sister is awfully lucky,” said
one little boy to another.
“Why?”
“She went to a party last night
where they played a game in which
the men either had to kiss a girl or
pay a forfeit of a box of chocolates,”
“Well, how was your sister lucky ?”
“She came home with thirteen box-
es of chocolates.”—From Everybody's
Magazine.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
The greatest man is he who chooses right
with invincible resolution, who resists se-
cret temptations from within and without,
who bears the heaviest burden cheerfully, °
who is calmest in storms and most fearless
under menace and frowns, whose reliance
on the truth, on virtue, on God, is most
unfaltering.—Channing.
Small screw-eyes screwed into the
right-hand side of the ice-box with the
proper distance apart make a very
convenient holder for ice-pick.
Tie a cloth around your wrist when
washing ceilings or anything over-
head. The rag will prevent the water
from running down your arm. °
A toothbrush used for dampening
seams for pressing saves time. Fhe
brush opens the seam as it is drawn
along and facilitates the work.
Try ironing men’s soft collars on a
Turkish towel doubled to four thick-
nesses. The collars will iron much
easier. They will be smoother and
shine like new when finished.
To cut bias folds, fold the bias ma-
terial the desired depth for as many
i folds as needed, then crease with a hot
‘iron. It is easy to cut biases prepar-
ed in this way.
When threading your sewing ma-
chine needle, turn the flash-light on
: the opposite side from the thread and
the eye will show up plainly.
| To save time and bother in hanging
out clothes, tie a bag around your
waist to hold the clothes-pins.
Insert rose cuttings in a small Irish
potato and they will never fail to root.
| How to Remove Summer Stains.—
i The sooner you attempt to remove an
{ offending spot the more satisfactory
j will be your efforts. Second, know
| what made the stain before you do
(anything about it. Many a stain,
properly treated, is easy to remove.
If attacked by the wrong methods,
however, it stubbornly persists and is
often worse than in the beginning.
Look it over carefully to see if you
can determine its exact cause. Was it
made by grass, automobile-oil, ice
cream or cream sauce, paint, tar or
fruit juices?
For example, test its nature with
your finger-nail. If it shows white, it
is probably sugar or a cream sauce.
Then look on the back of the fabric;
for sugar stays on the surface while
cream goes through to the other side.
Then carefully follow the directions
for handling that special stain, both
for removal and after-treatment, be-
fore you proceed with the general
cleansing and pressing. Some com-
mon summer-time stains yield rapidly
to the following directions:
Grass—Wash in cold water if the
stain is new. If it is old, spread with
molasses, then wash it in cold water.
If the fabric is colored, sponge the
spot with alcohol.
Grease—Wash with plenty of yel-
low soap and luke warm water. Try
to absorb it with powdered magnesia
or French chalk. Use a hot iron over
blotting paper. Dissolve the stain
with a grease solvent.
Fly Paper (of the sticky variety)—
Wash with yellow soap if the spot is
fresh. Sponge or soak in turpentine,
which will dissolve the sticky sub-
stance. Then cleanse by washing.
Cream or Ice Cream—Wash in luke
warm water and white soap. On white
goods use washing soda, one-half cup
to one cup of boiling water, then dis-
solve in half a tub of water and let the
garments stand in this for fifteen min-
utes. Then rinse and wash as usual.
On colored material, chocolate or fruit
stains complicate the cream removal,
so follow up the treatment given
above with their special treatment.
It is important for you to decide
how best to proceed in the cleansing
and pressing of each garment to make
it appear most like new. This de-
pends entirely on the material of the
garment, of what fibers it is made, if
1t is white or colored. And if it is col-
ored, is the thread dyed, or is the pat-
tern merely printed on the outside of
one surface? All white and uncolored
goods are easier to handle both for
the spot removal and for washing #nd
ironing. The moment you attack a
colored fabric you enter into the realm
of the unknown, for it is not always
possible to know the reaction of dyes
when affected by soap, sun and heat.
If the garment or article is colored
or printed in colors like print, chintz,
linen, gingham and other similar pop-
ular materials, the colors should be
carefully set with the proper mordant
before you attempt to wash them.
Place the garment in cold treated
water the time required, rinse it in
clear cold water, let it dry, and then
proceed with the ordinary washing.
Various colors are best set by cer-
tain substances as follows:
To set blues and greens use one-
half cup of strong vinegar to every
four quarts of cold water.
To set pinks, blacks and browns use
two cups of kitchen salt to every four
quarts of cold water.
To set lavenders use one tablespoon
of sugar of lead to every four quarts
of cold water.
To set mixed colors, as in prints, it
is safest to use salt as for pinks and
‘blacks.
All colors should be washed and
rinsed in luke warm water—never in
hot. If the article is cotton, linen or
any heavy mixed fabric, it can be
washed in much hotter water than
should be used for a silk. Silk mater-
ials, silk and cottons, or artificial silk
fabrics with a high gloss or glaze are
affected by heat both in the washing
and in the ironing.
Pure silk is particularly affected by
heat, because it is made of a delicate
animal fiber which quickly cracks,
rots and disintegrates if treated with
extreme heat, acids or alkalis. White
silks are turned yellow by the sun, and
colored silks are liable to fade badly.
Therefore, silk dresses, particularly
popular this season, should never be
hung outdoors or near an intense
light, but should be dried inside in the
shade. They should be pressed when
only about half dry.—The Designer
Magazine.