—————————————————————————————
AN APPEAL.
Admund V. Cooke.
Are we given eyes that we shall not see
That man is thralled and mammon free?
Are we given ears that we shall not hear
The sob of humanity sounding near?
Are we given hearts that we shall not heed
The strength of wrong and the might of
Greed ?
Are hands to grasp and never to give,
No matter how others die—or live?
Are we given tongues that we shall not
speak
Though we see the mighty crush the weak.
Are we given sense that we shall not feel
Except what touches a selfish weal ?
Are we given brains that we shall not know
The rights we own and the rights we owe?
Then ho! my brothers; awake! arise!
Use ears and tongues and brains and eyes!
Be sure of the ground on which you stapd,
And then let nobody stay the hand.
You reach to the aid of the right and true;
It is yours to learn! It is yours to do!
REVENGE.
It may be sweet but love is sweeter.
Her name was Mary-Martha Hon-
eywell, and that made a poem—so
people, who are mostly prose, called
her Bud, and she was without rever-
ence. Her father was a black sheep
(so his family said) and her mother
(so his family said) was an upstart.
Let it stand—adding, only, that her
father was as peaceful as cleanliness
and that her mother had been as beau-
tiful as the Twenty-third Psalm and
not at all unlike it.
Had you known that people were
ever born in Nevada? Bud was born
there, away up in the northeastern
corner of the map in a tie house built
at the base of a mountain.
One reason why Felix’s family—
two unmarried sisters, elderly now
and always exemplary—said he was a
black sheep was because he had dared
to step out of the innermost exclusive
circle in Washington, where he and
they had been born and reared, for a
breath of newer, more vigorous air.
In order to do this he had embraced a
profession which the Misses Honey-
well had considered disreputable—
mining engineering—and had gone
West to California, and had found Ce-
cilia—that was the lovely name of
Bud’s mother—and had married her,
and had never been homesick at all.
How Felix and Cecilia happened to
come to the tie house at the base of a
mountain in Ruby Valley is a long
story, having to do with love, and with
a lead and silver mine. How they hap-
pened to remain there is a shorter
story. They stepped into the old, de-
serted house and looked out of one
window at the range of Ruby Moun-
tans, and they looked out of another
window across thousands of miles of
serenity—and Cecilia took off her hat,
and Felix built a fire of sage-brush in
the big fireplace, and they said, “We'll
stay for a little while.”
Two years, and Bud was born and
Cecilia went to dwell in the house of
the Lord forever. Bud and Felix
stayed on together for nineteen years,
and into a gracious September, and
then Felix took a notion.
He took the notion because some
young tourists from Boston took the
wrong road and came by mistake to
the tie house. The tie house had
grown very grand during the years;
outside it was covered with stucco and
shaded by aspen trees, and inside it
had Navajo rugs ard a wall of books
and a grand piano tucked slyly away
in one corner of the living room. So
the young tourists treated the tie
house with respect and put on their
best airs and graces for it. After
they had driven away in their sedan,
Felix produced his notion.
He said, “Honey-bud, I've decided I
want you to accept Aunt Violet’s and
Aunt Lucy’s invitation to you to come
to Washington and visit them for a
Winter's season.”
Bud closed a book on a finger of
hers and we see her for the first time.
It is an adventure, seeing Bud for the
first time, a heady sort of experience
that leaves one rather breathless.
“I'm not,” she answered Felix’s no-
tion, “going back East to visit those
two old stiffs who were mean about
mother.”
“That’s all long past,” he said. “I
have decided that I want you to ac-
cept the invitation.” 7
She rose from the chaise-lounge,
she was strongly slender as a sword
is slender, and walked to the window
and said, “But I’ll not go, you know,
Fe. I'll not go.”
“Yes, I think you will, Honey-Bud,”
he responded, as if he were agreeing
with every word she had said.
“Are you planning to go?”
“No— You see, there is no reason
why I should go.”
“I see,” she replied, dangerously.
“But what I don’t see is why I should
You have read that Felix was peace-
ful; no mention was made of wisdom.
He said, “Bud, I realized this after-
noon, when I looked at those young
married people, that it was time you
were meeting men of your own class.
Every girl has a right to a home, and
PR
He got no further with it. Then
and there Bud went on a rampage.
Two weeks later, in Chicago, Bud,
instead of going directly to another
train as had been arranged, got into a
taxicab and went to a hotel recom-
mended by Miss Bobbed-hair as swell,
gee, yes! but awful high-priced. Bud
and Miss Bobbed-hair (who was re-
turning eagerly to Chicago where she
made—she said—seventy-five dollars
a week, and to her sweetie, who was—
she told the world—some sheik) had
met on the train and effected a sort of
chumminess, due, largely, to Bud’s in-
sistent friendly overtures. :
From the hotel in Chicago, Bud sent
two, telegrams. A short, formal one
to her waiting aunts, and a longer and
less formal one to Felix.
————
_ His reply came the following morn-
ing: :
“Run along now Honey-bud and
be a good child and do not try to
threaten your father, who has no
fear. Felix Honeywell.”
Bud shredded the yellow half-page
to bits, stamped on the bits, and went
out to a barber-shop and had her long,
intensely brown hair bobbed.
She left Chicago three days later
with excess baggage amounting to
three new, well-filled trunks, a heart
overflowing with accumulated rage,
and a blackly wicked determination.
“My dear,” said Aunt Violet Hon-
eywell, a tall lady with a cane, a
waist-line and a big, brazenly unpow-
dered nose.
“My dear,” said Aunt Lucy Honey-
well, a replica of Aunt Violet, nose
and all except the cane.
“Well, I'm right down pleased to
meet up with you,” said Bud. :
“We trust,” said an aunt, “that you
had a pleasant and not too fatiguing
journey.”
“Pll tell the world,” said Bud.
“Indeed,” said an aunt.
“How sweet,” said Bud, which is a
perfectly proper flapper remark to
make in Washington about anything
from the President to the Potomac
River. But Bud was looking at Uncle
Joe, the negro coachman, in his plum-
colored livery.
“He sure is grand, isn’t he—ain’t
he 7” said Bud, as she stepped into the
carriage—the Honeywell sisters had
not, as yet, conceded motor-cars. “I'm
cuckoo about purple! I bought me an
orchid party dress in little old Chi
that sure is a knockout.”
“And your dear father?” said an
aunt hurriedly. “He is well? He will
miss you sadly, we fear.”
- “Yes,” Bud answered, “Fe has his
health. No, I guess he won’t miss me
so much. He wants me to get mar-
ried, you see. That’s what I came
back East for—to get married. Hus-
band, home and children. Everything
like that.”
“My dear Mary-Martha,” Aunt Vio-
let leaned forward a trifle and put a
tightly gloved hand on Bud’s knee,
“though dreams of homes and chil-
dren to bless those homes are most
natural, most laudable, indeed—our
young girls here (I say this with no
spirit of fault-finding, nor of unkind
criticism) do not speak so urestrain-
edly of them.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bud. “But you
see that’s what I came back East for.”
“Dear child,” Aunt Lucy admonish-
ed, “sweetly innocent as your frank-
ness is to us, you must not be equally
frank to others. Those girlish hopes
of yours may be cherished, but must be
hidden deep in your own bosom.”
“A hope chest,” said Bud, and gig-
gled.
Neither of the aunts giggled.
But, a few afternoons later, during
a tea which her aunts had described to
her as merely a little informal affair,
a major-general giggled. That is to
say, he pounded the arm of his chair
and roared, “Ho-ho!” and; “Ha-ha-
ha!” and wiped his eyes, and reached
over and patted Bud’s shoulder. If it
had not been at one of the Misses Hon-
eywell’s teas, people would have sup-
posed that the major-general was re-
ally having a good time. A passing
colonel turned and stopped. An ad-
miral deserted a princess who was
wearing false teeth. An Ambassador,
who had sneaked away for a cigarette,
appeared. You have seen crowds gath-
er where food samples are being giv-
en away? It was like that.
From behind their ancient silver
teapots the Misses Honeywell beamed,
and in their faces was the satisfied ex-
pression of fulfilled prediction.
A little way back, peeking over the
wall of shoulders made by the Ambas-
sador and the others, stood a young
captain named Gideon Beebe—small-
ish and tidy and bashful. Many wom-
en, meeting him for the first time, had
thought, “What a beautiful baby this
boy must have been!” Consequently,
since he was devoid of vanity, he
dwelt in bewilderment and deep con-
fusion. :
“Big?” Bud was saying when he
came to the group. “The Washington
Monument? Poo! The Ruby Moun-
tains could pick their teeth with that
thing any morning after breakfast.”
Every one laughed except Captain
Beebe, who stood unsmiling and re-
garded her with worried, round brown
eyes.
Bud looked up and over into the
brown eyes. Poor Bud! She thought,
“What an adorable baby that y
must have been!”
“Not,” she continued, “that they
would. They are mannerly moun-
tains.” It was the first emendation
she had made that afternoon. The
brown eyes remained worried.
“Say, listen,” she said to the major-
general, “who is that brown-eyed fel-
low standing up back there, right
straight ahead of us?”
“Ah-ha,” chortled the major-gener-
al. “I supose you mean young Cap-
tain Beebe. Ladies often—er—that is
—notice his boyish beauty, as it
were.” :
“No,” said Bud. “It is because he
is neat and clean and cool-looking,
without any trouble.”
Bud yawned widely, and closed her
jaws with that odd crunching sound
that yawns sometimes induce, “I'm
sleepy,” she said. “I wish I could take
a nap.”
A second’s pause, and then the
laughter. Bud turned to the nearest
dignitary and whispered, “Say, listen.
Are they laughing at me, or what?”
“Indeed they are not laughing at
you,” returned the dignitary softly,
“but from sheer joy because of you.”
“Poo!” said Bud. “Ill bet you are
trying to—to—to kid me.”
When the last guest had taken his
departure—the last guest had been
Captain Beebe—Bud saw that some-
thing shining had crept into the four
aunts and that spots of color nearly as
pink as their noses had come into their
cheeks.
“My dear,” said Aunt Violet, “you
are a success.”
“Indeed,” said Aunt Lucy, “it would
| scarcely be superlative to say that you
‘are a triumph.”
“Do you mean,” faltered Bud,
“that you weren’t ashamed of me 2”
“We are,” said. the aunts, “very
proud of our niece.”
a ——
“Though, perhaps,” said Aunt Vio-
| let, with a warning glance for Aunt
Lucy, “you did allow young Captain
Beebe rather to monopolize your soci-
ety during the last hadf-hour.”
“However,” Aunt Lucy repudiated
the warning glance, “Captain Beebe is
of excellent family—and, though I
naturally hesitate to mention it, he
has, we have understood, a suitable in-
| come, a most suitable income, to sup-
i
ceives from his country.”
“Captain Beebe,” said Bud, “is most
distasteful to me. I dislike him ex-
ceedingly. I—” she paused. “I mean,”
she continued, “that that guy sure
didn’t make any hit with me. These
fast workers give me a pain.
stuff. Poo!”
She turned then and ran up-stairs
to her room, and looked at herself in
the big mirror with the guilt frame
above the marble mantel. She was
. wearing one of the many frocks she
‘had chosen with infinite care in Chi-
cago. The saleswoman had called it
i “a snappy little imported model.” A
supreme impertinence in yellow, with
grace notes of scarlet, may give a
clearer impression to the lay mind.
Two fat tears gathered in her blue
eyes and. dribbled down her cheeks.
Ten minutes later she was looking for
a dry handerchief and calling herself
what all sensible women call them-
selves when they waste good, wet
tears in private. “A fool—a darn
fool!”
That evening the aunts wrote a let-
ter to Felix. Eleven days later down
one wide, white page Felix was proud
of Mary-Martha, congratulatory to-
ward her, and at the bottom of the
page he had the cheek to say that, as
he had thought, he had known his lit-
tle daughter better than she had
known herself.
Bud, though she had never kept
letters, folded this one and put it with
her gloves and went down-stairs to
one of her aunts’ quiet, informal din-
ners where she told a senator that,
thanks just the same, she wouldnt
give a whoop for a card to the gal-
lery; but that if he could get her a
ticket to see him and the other sena-
tors some time when they were being
shipped underground on that funny
little scenic railway of theirs, it sure
would be the comicalest experience
she would be apt to have in Washing-
ton.
“More comical,” questioned Captain
Beebe, who was sitting beside her on
a divan with a tiny cup filled with
black coffee in his hand, “than the ex-
perience you had this morning riding
in the park?”
The park that October morning had
been color victorious—color clear and
compelling as a bugle call. And Bud
had gone daft with the beauty of it,
and Captain Beebe had lost his head.
But here, in the ponderous, dimly
lighted drawing-room, he found it
again.
“I’m sorry,” he went on, “awfully
sorry. I began at the wrong place.
girl to marry me and, as you know, I
bungled it all up and made an ass of
myself. What I was trying to say
was that I love you very dearly, Mary
Martha, as you know, and that.l want
you to be my wife.” AEE
“Miss Honeywell,” came down a
colonel’s voice from above her left
shoulder, “regarding that interesting
fraternal order of which you were tell-
ing me, the one to which your father
belongs—"
“The Ancient Order of Hoo-hoo
Owls, do you mean?” questioned Bud.
“Mary-Martha?” pleaded Captain
Beebe.
“Oh, said Mary-Martha pettishly,
almost shrewishly, “do stop pestering
me. Please go away and let me alone.”
Captain Beebe, because he was
humble, rcse and bowed and went
away, carrying carefully the tiny cof-
fee-cup in his hand.
He stayed away. There were other
flowers, other bonbons, other callers.
But it so happened that there was only
one Captain Beebe. His absence left
a hole in things.
At the beginning of the new week
blond and tall and Greek-godish, to
al the hole that Captain Beebe had
eft.
Until he appeared in the drawing-
room one afternoon neither of the
aunts had been aware of his existence
in Washington or in the world. After
Bud had presented him to them they
seemed even less aware of his exist-
ence than they had been before.
“Who pray,” said an aunt, as soon
as the object had departed, “is the
creature, Mary-Martha 7”
“His name is Mr. Vernon Povill. It
seems so cozy to have a mere mister
around, don’t you think?”
“And what is his profession? By
what right is he a guest in our
home ?”
“He is a baker. Just now he is out
of a job at baking, so he drives a truck
and delivers the bread and cakes, you
know. I met him down in the kitch-
en and invited him to call some time.
He reminds me of all the wide, open
places in the West. I'm going to a
show with him tomorrow night.”
It was, the aunts seemed to think,
an impossible arrangement. They
said a great deal about it and finish-
ed by asserting that they did not re-
ceive the baker boys. :
“Nor actresses,” said Bud, and the
blue eyes squinted unbecomingly.
(Bud’s mother had been an actress.)
A few minutes later, in her room,
Bud said, “At last!” which might
mean anything or nothing. In a mov-
ing-picture theatre the following
Vernon Povill.
The weeks following after that were
horrid in the extreme. Bud, so the
aunts said, behaved like a madcap
and a wanton. At any rate, her as-
plement the modest stipend he re- |
Shiek-
You see— I've never before asked any :
Bud suddenly produced an object,
evening she sat in the dark beside |
. their fifth telegram, the sixty-three
“carefully counted and well-considered
words that they had sent the evening
before.
“Yes, I know,” said Bud, when they
i told her that Felix felt that her visit
should be curtailed. “Yes—I know.
- But what about my coming-out party
{ —my formal days 00, as you call it.
Biv 4 only ten days away now, isn’t
{it ?
“So many people,” murmured an
aunt are sending regrets.”
| “We have checked the lists,” said
i the other aunt. “You may see for
yourself.”
Acrossby was unchecked; so were
{ Arnold and Atwood. But there vas a
‘ check beside Banefield, and another
! beside Beebe.
On her knee Bud smoothed the pa-
' per out neatly, smoothed and smooth-
‘ed and smoothed it.
| “When am I to leave?” Bud ques-
tioned, and smoothed the paper again.
| Susie, it seemed, was packing. Har-
kins was attending to the ticket and
drawing-room reservations. Uncle
Joue would drive them to the Union
Station day after tomorrow after-
- noon.
{ “Hardly a thing at all left for me
to do,” said Bud, as if she meant it,
and sighed, as if she had not meant it.
; “Oh, well, anyway I've a date with
i Vernon for tomorrow night.”
{| “We'll stop in Childs’ for a snack,”
: said Vernon when tomorrow night had
| come and had nearly gone, and the
‘long, dreary musical comedy had re-
‘leased its victims.
“No, said Bud.
“Thought you said you didn’t want
to get home till way late tonight.”
“Well, then,” said Bud.
i They walked rapidly under the pal-
: lid, mistily beautiful globes that haif
| light Washington at night. At the
corner they heard a man’s voice that
{ managed to be a din, all by itself,
“ shouting numbers.
“Come on, hurry,” Vernon urged,
, “the show at Poli’s is coming out, and
| there’ll be a crush.”
i “A Poli’s audience coming here?”
i questioned Bud, as she looked past the
i man baking pancakes behind the plate
glass front into the glaring white-
tiled place beyond.
“Sure. Everybody comes to Chiids’
around midnight in Washington.
It was true. Vanity-case was there,
and brass knuckles—chewing-gum,
and lorgnette—fountain-pen, and hy-
podermic needle—all there, making
the place as cosmopolitan as the Judg-
ment Day will be.
“There’s a guy at the other table,”
Vernon said to Bud, “that’s been rub-
berin’ at you ever since we came in.
If he don’t cut it out, I'll step over
and knock his block off.”
“I don’t pay you,” Bud reminded
him, “to knock guys’ blocks off.”
“Say, lay off on that pay stuff, can’t
you? You ain’t the first lady who's
been willin’ to pay for me escortin’ her
out, now and again—-"
“I know, I know,” said Bud wearily.
: “You have told me about them all, I
think.”
“Oh, I have, have I? Well, I'll tell
the world that any bird who ever tried
to get fresh with a lady friend of mine
got more than he was lookin’ for.”
| “He isn’t trying to get fresh,” said
i Bud. “He is a friend—an acquaint-
! ance of mine.”
“Can that. I wasn’t born yesterday.
Say, if you like that guy’s looks bet-
ter’n mine, just say so. See?” -
“You have been drinking,” said
Bud. “When I engaged your services,
you told me, you may remember, that
you never drank. Shall we go now ?”
“I'll go,” said Vernon, “when I’m
damn good and ready to go. See?
You've high-toned me as much as I'm
goin’ to stand for. See? Sure I had
a few drinks between acts. Whatcha
goin’ to do about it? You make me
sick, you do. Payin’ me to run around
with you, ’cause you can’t get a guy
to take you out without payin’ him,
and then pullin’ the high and mighty
line. Wha's five dollars a night and
expenses? - Zat worth——"
He continued. Bud scarcely heard
him and did not answer. She sat and
thought what a long way it was to the
red brick house on N Street. Once
she had shot a mad coyote at too close
range; and once she had pounded flat,
with a club, the head of a coiled rat-
tlesnake, and neither time had she
been afraid. But now she had no gun,
and she had no club, and she was
afraid.
Then they went out, leaving behind
all the people and the pancakes and
the bright, white light and the fresh
guy who had been Captain Beebe.
She hoped Mr. Povill would not
think of a taxicab—he rarely did—
but she was afraid that he might think
of it if she suggested a street-car. So
she made no suggestion, but walked
along beside his lurching steps.
They came to Lafayette Park, the
winning little park that Bud had loved
better, perhaps, than anything else in
lovely Washington, because of the
pink babies and the gray squirrels.
But tonight the place was as solitary
as a bad dream. Bud was afraid.
As they went from Pennsylvania
Avenue into the park Vernon grasped
her elbow: “Help you along,” he ex-
plained. “Sorry I got rough. ’Smy
heart. Got a weak heart. But any
lady cut with Vern Povill is as safe as
in her mother’s arms. Yes'ir. Safe
as mother’s arms.”
He stopped and stood still, holding
her elbow firmly. “Tha’s the idea,” he
exclaimed. “Tha’s the idea. You ain’t
much for looks, nor manners, but I
| hold no grudge. Goin’ away. Should
'tell you good-by. Come to my safe
arms——"
“Don’t be so silly,” commanded Bud.
“Let go of my arm and come right
along now——"
{ “You got me wrong,” interrupted
Vernon, “this’s what I mean. You're
|
{
tonishing popularity began to wane. |goin’ away. Clear across continent. |
| The troglodytes may welcome into’ Gotta tell you good-by. Wha's thei:
Written Into
the Records of
Human Mercy
In fire and flood,
tornado and
earthquake, dis-
aster of all kinds
Service to Disa-
bled of World
War and—
Men of the Army
and Navy
a
Home Hygiene
Nutrition
Life Saving and
First Aid
Family Work
Volunteer Service
American” Junior
Red Cross
Public Health’
These chapters of the great work of
the Red Cross indicate the tremendous
scope of its activities—world-wide in its
range, yet ready even for the little hid-
den pains of human beings—-the Red
Cross asks your support for the varied
tasks it has undertaken.
Read about them below.
In the past 44 years it has expended $46,000,-
000 for relief work following disasters.
It has directed or participated in relief work
in 90 disasters the past year.
Since the Armistice it has expended $53,000,-
000 for services to the disabled veterans of the
World War and to the men of the regular Army
and Navy. It is now assisting an average of more
than 100,000 disabled veterans and their families
each month.
To more than 249,000 soldiers, sailors and
marines on active duty it continues to give the
same supplementary volunteer relief and Home
Service it gave during the World War.
Abroad it represents the American people in
works of mercy when great catastrophes cause
abnormal suffering. It was the agent of America
in extending relief to disaster sufferers in ten
foreign lands during the past year.
It maintains an enrolled reserve of 42,000
nurses available in emergency to the Army, Na-
vy, U. S. Public Health Service and Veterans’ Bu-
reau, and for service in epidemic.
Within the year 900 Red Cross public health
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the health of children and fostered understanding
of personal and community hygiene.
51,121 women, girls and boys have taken
courses in Home Hygiene and Care of the Sick
under Red Cross direction the past year. More
than 500,000 have received this instruction since
the activity was initiated. :
Through its Nutrition Service it helps promote
individual and community health by teaching
the principles of sound nutrition; 138,000 children
and 20,000 women have been taught the import-
ance of proper use of foods the past year.
More than 49,000 men, women and youths
have received training in effective methods of res-
cuing and reviving the drowning; 20,000 complet-
ed the Red Cross course in first aid during the
year and 150,000 were reached with demonstra-
tions by the Red Cross First Aid Car.
In 500 comunities the Red Cross Chapter is
the only family welfare agency.
Volunteer workers have produced in the past
year 181,330 garments, 1,356,636 surgical dress-
ings, and 105;946 pages of Braille for the blind;
they have made 14,220 motor calls and fed 24,840
persons in emergency canteen service.
In the Junior Red Cross 5,738,648 enrolled
school children are learning the value of service
to others. With the children of 40 other countries
they are creating bonds of friendship and under-
standing.
The Red Cross Helps Everywhere—
Help the Red Cross by your Membership
Red Cross Annual Roll Call
November 14==21I
their close caves a bit of humanity as | use of a park for, tha’s what I wanta |
bland, gray eyes that belonged to her fresh and restful as a breeze off the know—"
| sea—provided, of course, it blows
{ from exactly the same sea over which
| She Mayflower came sailing—but a
traditionless baker, blond and bulky,
a different matter.
Long night-letters, guardedly word-
| ed, but delirious incall other respects,
| were sent flying: west by the aunts to
: Felix, and they disturbed not at all
| that peace of his.
! “She is bluffing, but send her home
if it seems best,” was the answer to
jis
At that moment Captain Beebe
' stepped up—he had been stepping
i right along behind them ever since
| they
I
|
|
had left the restaurant—-and '
said: “Miss Honeywell, I might, per-
| haps——
One of Vernon’s huge arms swung
upward and the fist landed near the
i tip of Captain Beebe’s Ensly pointed
i chin. Captain Beebe went backward
(Continued on page 7, Col. 2.)
1
i
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