.
Brora itn
Bellefonte, Pa., March 5, 1926.
THE PRETZEL.
By “One Who Does” in the Lititz, Pa.,
Record.
A piece of dough, seized with the cramp,
Began to groan and twist and stamp;
Large salty tears came out his hide,
As great convulsion raged inside.
The baker saw him in his pain,
And knew at once how he could gain
By thrusting him into the fire,
And bake him as hard as wire.
No sooner was that dough within,
Then color came into his skin;
Hard, salty grains replaced his tears,
Enough to preserve his life for years.
The baker sold him to the store,
And with the profit made some more
Just like him, for a great demand
Was made for him on every hand.
Into the homes of poor and rich
(It surely has not mattered which.)
He has been going, far and near,
To grace their boards for many a year.
But people find, whe travel much,
He's specially liked where men are Dutch.
The reason’s plain; it’s this alone:
There he was born; it is his home.
So there among his own, you see,
He finds the greatest sympathy ;
Men recognize his fearful pain,
And eat him to relieve the strain.
This then, becomes a humane act,
Based solely on a well-known fact;
When dough with cramps you plainly see,
Just put him out of misery.
THE BRIDE’S WALTZ.
When he was twenty-six and his ad-
mirers began to call him a genius to
his face Iglesia used to shake his
head and say: “Yes, but it.is not my
fault.” This was because he had nev-
er quite forgiven his parents for what
they had done to him.
He had been kind and generous to
his parents while they lived, but there
were two injuries for which they
might never expect his pardon. He
still cherished in his heart the unwar-
ranted belief that he would have
proved as great a civil engineer as he
was now a concert pianist. He was
proud of his income and proud of his
repute, but although these vanities
often consoled him for the memory of
his slavish boyhood, he continued to
resent the arbitrariness with which
music had been commanded for him
and science forbidden. With all the
obsession of genius, he still maintain-
ed that his parents should have offer-
ed him his choice.
As to the lesser injury, he was far
more sensitive. When his parents had
realized that his career was merely a
matter of the calendar, they happened
to be convinced of the principle that
the most serious handicap to any mu-
sician is to be born American. The
boy was eight years old, dark-eyed,
dark-haired, even rather dark of com-
plexion. He had never played in pub-
lic; his talent was unheralded. So
they very quietly by process of law
had “Arthur Church” translated into
Spanish. And this was beyond Ig-
lesia’s power to forgive.
At the time of the discovery of
their son's talent the Churches had
just moved to Pennsylvania from Ore-
gon. Oregon had already forgotten
them and Pennsylvania was hardly
aware of their existence. The canny
parents delayed only long enough to
have their own names altered, togs
thereby preventing the newspapers
from unveiling the subterfuge, before
they sailed for Spain. .
The boy learned to read Spanish
and to write it and speak it. Present-
ly he began to think in Spanish as
well and to put quaint accents into
his native tongue. He studied and
progressed and was ‘discovered.”
Then they all came back to America,
and Iglesia’s parents were happy when
they died.
For nearly a score of years, then,
he had lived under a name he abom-
inated. And yet this distinction was
founded upon it. He couldn’t tempt
fate and the caprice of the public by
changing back.
At twenty-six he began to compose
a little, and on the day of his signing
the publisher’s contract for Opus 8,
a tone-poem in B flat minor, he had
already received in royalties on the
seven earlier works a trifle more than
$30,000. He was becoming a standard
composer as well as a standard per-
former.
“And yet,” said one critic to anoth-
er, “he still lacks something. Both
in his playing and his writing. Some-
thing vital. And it’s all that keeps
him out of the very front ranks, too.”
The second critic nodded confirma-
tion.
“True. He’s gone ahead too
smoothly and that is the answer. He
hasn’t had any troubles, and he hasn't
been in love. He’s just the least little
bit—well, say apathetic. Give him
time,”
Iglesia had been playing at a pri-
vate musicale. When the last encore
was accomplished he had risen, as
usual, to stand by his hostess and sup-
press his boredom while a long train
of guests saluted him with conscious
smiles and still more conscious flat-
tery. And Iglesia hated this. He
liked flattery in print, especially if it
were direst and straightforward, said
what it had to say and got over it, but
he hated to be gushed at or stammered
at or patronized, and so in receiving
strangers he kept himself as mental-
ly aloof as posible.
To-night, however, he was dragged
out of his aloofness by a girl who
brought up the end of the line. -At
the first glance he saw that she was
exquisite—her coloring was as warm
and delicate as a pastel; her eyes were
blue and thoughtful, and her mouth
and chin were at one instant adorable
for their child-like appeal and at the
next adorable for their striking firm-
ness. Incidentally, she had a beauti-
ful figure and she was wearing a gown
of sapphire-blue velvet which snatch-
ed at Iglesia’s imagination.
: tend not to like it. Why?”
Iglesia was hoping that she wouldn't
shatter the effect by some gross ban-
ality. :
“It was the very nicest thing I've
ever heard,” she said.
Iglesia caught his breath.
“Then to reward me,” he said, with
his faint Castilian accent, “won’t you
let me take you to supper?”
“But it wouldn’t be fair of me to
monopolize you, would it?” she pro-
tested.
“Fair to whom?” Already he was
guiding her toward a convenient cor-
ner.
It was fully half an hour before
they were interrupted, and during
that interval Iglesia had fallen ir-
revocably in love. Nor was it an
aimless passion which overcame him;
it was a normal and profound emotion
caused by a girl he had admired on
sight and found absorbing on ac-
quaintance. He was possessed by her
appearance, her voice, her manner,
her opinions. He had been physicaliy
weary when he had risen from the
piano; now he was alert and tingling
with electric energy?”
“And shall I see you again—ever ?”
he asked anxiously.
“Of course, you will,” she said.
“Might I"——
Her quickness of perception charm-
ed him.
“There will be a fight,” said Ig-
lesia, “between convention and im-
patience. I have to thank you for’—
He broke off abruptly and made his
familiar, infinitesimal bow.
“You were going to say?” she sug-
gested.
“I forgot myself. You had not
I almost earned
asked any question. {
another reproof.” He bowed again,
gave her his best smile, which was
matchless. “Oh, never mind,” he
finished, “I shall hope to have the
honor of earning it later.”
“Tea is at 5 o’clock. Yop've met
my mother already. She was just
ahead of me in the line. We'll both be
glad to see you any afternoon at all.”
He went home on tiptoe, inhaling
from the bottom of his lungs in ac-
cordance with all the best theories of
good health. Before his largest mir-
ror he stood for several minutes, de-
precating his features and wishing
that he were better looking. Finally
he shrugged shoulders at himself,
thanked his stars that he at least wore
his hair short, like a gentleman, and
whispered an excellent Spanish pro-
verb which has to do with inherent
conceit of mules. Then he took him-
seif off to bed and slept poorly and
was glad of it.
When impatience had mastered him
he went to tea, and became so
thoroughly demoralized that he broke,
of his own accord, one of his most
stringent rules and consented to play
informally. More than that, he trot-
ted out his new tone-poem in B flat
minor, Opus 8, which he had never
intended to play at all except as a
final encore on state occasions.
Later, when he had won a brief
tete-a-tete with his divinity, he ex-
plained to her just why he had play-
ed the tone-poem.
““But you mustn’t say those things,”
she persisted.
“And why not?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
In spite of her intonation, Iglesia
looked hurt.
“You women—all of you—you puz-
zle me. If I say a silly, gorgeous
compliment I do not mean you are
pleased, while you know very well I
do not mean it. But if I say the thing
that comes truly to me, then you pre-
She looked at him from under her
heavy lashes.
“It isn’t that. But I want us to be
friends”—— ;
“ ‘Friends! ” Said Iglesia, with
his palms outward. “How can a man
and a woman be friends? For a man
and a woman there are no fine distine-
tions of friendship. They are thrilled
to be together—which is love, or they
are not thrilled to be together—which
is indifference. There is nothing be-
tween. They may have for each other
affection, sympathy, undersfanding,
pity, hatred—but not friendship, un-
less they are of different generations,
or else they are icebergs. I speak,
that is, out of my own observation. I
have known many women, some of
them for years; they are not my
friends. It is impossible. And you
who have come so without warning
into my life”——
“But you've only met me twice.”
Iglesia waved his hands.
“But Dante had met Beatrice only
once.”
She gave him a smile so elusive,
and yet so comprehending, that his
heart moved a dozen beats a minute.
“I don’t agree with your philosophy;
so let’s try to be friends, anyway.
Oh, there’s one thing I meant to ask
you. Did you ever write any
waltzes?”
“Yes,” said Iglesia, reluctantly ac-
cepting the change of subject; “my
first composition was a concert waltz.”
She shook her head.
“No; I don’t mean a concert waltz-
I mean a real waltz.”
“And what,” he inquired politely,
“is a real waltz, then?”
“Why, it’s one you can dance to.”
Iglesia sat up straighter.
“1? 1 write waltzes for people to
dance to? For crazy orchestras to
play in restaurants—and hand
organs—hand organs with the little
monkeys attached—to murder on the
street corners? My dear young lady,
you do not realize what you are say-
ing.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” she assured him.
“You see, the other night you were
kind enough to ask me what I really
thought about your playing. And 1
said almost what I thought.”
“ ‘Almost?’ ”
There was something I—I didn’t
dare to put in. I didn’t think I knew
you well enough. But my idea about
friendship—it’s so different from
yours—is that friends are simply
people who want to help each other.
You play beautifully, of course, but—
may I talk to you just the way I want
to? Everything you do seems so cold
and polished and brilliant. And a
good deal of it I can’t quite under-
stand, It’s. so—academic. You're
living away over our heads. And the (
one thing that would bring you and
! your audiences ever so much closer
together is—well, suppose I say mel-
ody—melody, instead of mathemat-
ics.”
“Hm,” said Iglesia. “You would
have me support the hand-organs?
Is that it?”
“No. I'm terribly afraid I'm not
making it clear to you.”
“I share your terror,” he said hum-
bly.
The motion of her hands was very
pretty and very expressive.
“I was just thinking that if you once
let yourself go and put all the—the
interest into it that you put into the
things you say to me, you could write
the most wonderful waltz in the world.
And it would be good for you, too.
You've got everything but feeling.
You aren’t common enough yet. And
music is the commonest thing there
is. It ought to be, so that everybody
could understand it. And I was won-
dering what you could do to make the
very best out of yourself, and I
thought”
“You love to dance?” said Iglesia.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, ‘You love to dance.” It was
not an inquiry; it was a statement.”
‘Why, yes; I do.”
“As the saying goes, you would
rather die than eat—I mean, you
would rather dance than eat, and die
dancing. Is that it?”
“Pretty nearly.”
“I will write you a waltz,” said Ig-
lesia.
Her eyes widened, and the color
flamed in her cheeks.
“Not really?”
Iglesia’s eyes were burning.
“Not for the hand-organs, but for
you. If you doubt you shall see, you
shall hear. It will still be Iglesia,
still be music, but you shall dance to
it, if you like, and when you hear it
you will know that Iglesia is whisper-
ing to you, between the notes, ‘I love
you.’ ”
She shrank away from his vehem-
ence.
“B-but I told you you musn’t say
those things.”
Unseen, he pressed her hand and
rose.
“In that case I shall have to go
home and write them. I shall ask
your mother to bring you to my studio
on Wednesday. I shall play for you
anything you say. You will tell me
what you like best, and I shall play
it. Then I shall know better how to
write for you. And in the mean
time”——
She looked down.
“In the mean time,” said Iglesia,
subdued, “you have the opportunity
to learn for yourself how it feels to
be a lodestar.”
Tuesday afternoon he appeared in
recital at Aeolian Hall, and Wednes-
day morning, the critics were still
searching for fresh adjectives. At the
last moment he had changed his pro-
gram, and instead of interpreting the
ultra-modern composers, including
himself, he had unexpectedly chosen
to linger over the harmonies which
may be called chestnuts and are still
classics and still beautiful. &.
It had tdken the house exactl§¥ ten
seconds to realize that a new Igiesia
had come before them; and after that
he got a reception which had no par-
allel in his career. Never before had
women cried among the audience.
Ingenues had sometimes crowded to
the platform, bearing flowers and ma-
trons had sacrified their gloves in ap-
plause, but nobody had cried. Nor
had ever a sweeping wave of emotion
rippled from the stage to the lobby
and back again, and ceaselessly, so
that you could feel it in the air and
sense the personality which caused
it. Not in all his days had Iglesia
taken his calls as he did this after-
noon—taken them with tears in his
eyes, as though at last he had found
communion with his people. And they
wouldn’t let him go and Iglesia didn’t
want to go, and it was 6 o’clock be-
fore the carriage numbers began to
shine through the mist like little
beacon lights to signal the arrival of
Arturo Iglesia in the top flight.
By Wednesday morning the force of
the reaction hadn’t left him, and he
was very tired and depressed. The
newspapers came and he read them
and put them down quietly and sat
thinking.
“I must be worthy of her,” said Ig-
lesia to himself. “I must deserve her.
I must write her a waltz.”
His manager telephoned him that
the recital was worth, cumulatively,
a hundred thousands dollars. Might
he come at 3 to discuss a series of per-
formances for which they could now
demand the highest prices.
“I have a previous engagement,”
said Iglesia curtly, and hung up the
receiver.
She came with her mother at the
appointed time, and both of them
were radiant. They also had read the
newspapers.
“Tell me your favorites,” he said.
“Tell me the music you love best in
all the world. Make me a little list.”
And in accordance with the little list
he played in order the Chopin “Noc-
turne” in E flat, the “Military Polo-
naise,” the Paderewski “Minuet,” the
threadbare “Prelude” of Rachmanin-
off. Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song,”
“Traumerei,” “Liebestraum” and the
“Beautiful Ohio Waltz.”
Before he could complete his obliga-
tion, however, he was compelled to
admit his ignorance in one respect.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I am very
sorry indeed, but I have never in my
life heard of the ‘Beautiful Ohio
Waltz.’ ”
Here she had struggled with her
muff.
“That’s what I thought, so I brought
you the music.”
Iglesia examined it carefully.
. “It would seem to be very pretty,”
he said with an effort.
Another genius or a less purposeful
lover might have trifled with the situ-
ation, but Iglesia was toe far gone
even to feel contempt for the popular
tune, He played it with every regard
for its character and his own, and he
made of it in consequence a gracious
reverie. He had no means of knowing
that he roused by his attitude toward
it an answering ‘throb of devotion in
the girl he adored. He had no means
of knowing that from this instant she
forgot to look upon him as the prop-
erty of the world and saw in him only
a lovable, talented boy, whose sin-
cerity was not to be discounted and
whose vast ability was incidental to
his affections.
Certain it is that the weakening of
her resistance dated from this after-
noon.
her Doris unrebuked. There were
swift-flying seconds during which he
was permitted to rest his hands upon
hers. Paradise was in the foreground,
and yet, with all his new-found mo-
tives and all his resolution, he was
still fumbling for the theme of his
masterpiece.
It was not through lack of diligence
that he had missed a theme, and it was
not through any inhibition. He never
said to himself or thought that the
project was beneath his intelligence.
On the contrary, he accused himself
of gross stupidity.
As he sat at the piano seeing vi-
sions of her he was twice smitten with
vigorous conceptions. He converted
them on paper into Opus 9 and Opus
10. - One of them was rather like De-
bussy and the other was slightly less
intelligible. Both of them, judged by
the measure of modernity, were works
of art, but Iglesia knew in his despair
that Doris would call them coldly
brilliant, and he didn’t venture to con-
fess them to her. With dogged calm-
ness he placed them with his publish-
ers at an increased royalty.
There came an evening when he
danced with her for the first time. It
was at a formal, gloomy function, but
there was little of gloom about it for
Iglesia. She danced superbly; she was
the incarnation of the music that
swayed her. And presently she said
to Iglesia, looking up into his eyes:
“This is the ‘Beautiful Ohio.” Don’t
you see what a difference it makes?”
“I have been conscious of it,” he
said gravely.
“Well, can you imagine your getting
any closer to people’s lives? Look
around. And I can tell by the way
youre dancing, too. Don’t you wish
you'd written it yourself ?”
Iglesia didn’t cringe. Let her taste
be what it might, here was a definite
thing which she appreciated.
“I only hope that mine will please
you half as well.”
“When will it be done, Arturo?”
“I cannot say. As soon as possi-
ble.”
During subsequent weeks she made
the same inquiry and got very much
the same response. Iglesia was grow-
ing nervous about it. In sheer des-
peration he manufactured a bright
little impromptu for her, and she was
grateful, but not remotely satisfied.
She told him once pointblank that un-
less he kept his promise to her she
might easily doubt his ingenuousness. !
She implied that there was something
very mysterious about this professed '
love of his—love which could obtain
for him an increase of 50 per cent. in
his income but couldn’t stir him to the
creation of so small a token of esteem
as a simple waltz.
Iglesia boiled over. The trouble
was that Doris had demanded a task
so infinitely far below his compre-
down to it. He was literally unable
to think in musical terms at all with-
out thinking on a higher level than
she demanded. The task was too
elementary.
He tried to explain to her and she
grew dignified and said that she re-
fused to believe him. He expostulat-
ed, pleaded, lost his head and swore
by all the saints that she was more to |
him than any of them. Perhaps un-
intentionally she looked at him from
under her lashes.
“Heavens!” said Iglesia, under his
breath, and the next instant she was
in his arms.
She shrugged, and Iglesia, frighten-
ed by his own courage, merely held
her. She relaxed, and fright depart-
ed from him. He bent to her and she
averted her head. There was a tre-
mendous silence; at length he bent
lower and more pulsing silence.
“Youll have to go now, Arturo.”
Iglesia was aghast.
“Why, dearest? Why?”
“I—you’ll have to go.’
“After—that 7”
“Yes?”
“But it is impossible!”
“No—you must.”
“Say first that you love me.”
oF can’t.”
“And yet you do?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You will marry me, dearest? You
know that.”
“No—please, Arturo!”
“I shall see your father, and”’——
“No! You mustn’t! Not yet! Not
until I'm sure—you really love me.”
“Sure? Have I not said I"—
“And still you won’t do the least
little thing for me, Arturo. Oh, you
may want to kiss me and all that,
but”’——
Iglesia leaped to his feet.
“Mincemeat!” he thundered. “Is it
the infernal waltz again? 1 say I
I love you and you demand a waltz?
Doris”——
“Arturo!”
“I ask your pardon, dearest! ButI
say I love you, and then you”——
“But you make me wonder, Arturo.
And it was such a little thing I asked.”
He thought wildly of Opus 9 and
Opus 10, the impromptu, and his re-
cent press notices.
“Without it, am I so hateful to
you?”
“No, dear; no—but it’s all I’ve ever
asked. You promised it yourself.
And if you can’t keep such a little
promise to me as that, don’t you see
how I have to wonder—about bigger
promises?”
Iglesia mopped his forehead.
“And when I bring the waltz to you,
then you are convinced ?”
“You must keep your word, dear.
For your own sake, too.”
“Then I may see your father?”
“Y-yes, Arturo—— But you mustn't
kiss me again. No! You mustn’t!
Not until—until then, Arturo. That’s
rude of you! Where are you going?”
Iglesia, who had turned away, turn-
ed back to gaze down at her.
“Where would you suppose? To
the studio.” .
“But you're tired, dear. It’s past
11 o'clock.”
“The piano,” said Iglesia stolidly,
“never sleeps. Until I have won your
In another week he had called
‘confidence, dearest, I think I am to
follow its excellent example. You
have challenged me. Very well. I ac-
cept. I shall come to you only when !
I bring you your music.”
She stood by him, with her hand on
his sleeve.
Arturo, but—won’t you come soon?”
“Soon—or never,” he said. ?
| He immured himself in his studio
and his temper rose by degrees until
he had almost reached the point of
hysteria. He sent frenziedly to Broad-
‘way for an armful of the latest pop-
‘ular waltzes, and after he had dashed
through them he deliberately select-
"ed the least expensive vase from his
mantel and soothed his soul by smash-
ing it against the bricks of his fire-
i place. Then, miraculously, at this
| precise juncture, he caught a motif
out of thin air and rushed to the pianc
and played it over and over. With
descending enthusiasm he cocked ear
to it, and, finally, with a loud thump
in the bass, consigned it to oblivion.
It would do very well for a concert
waltz, but not for Doris.
i He telephoned to her, and the sound
of her voice inflamed him. He was
almost persuaded that she loved him.
Then he went back to the piano and
battled with it for half a day, and
broke down and cried, out of utter
“helplessness, on the keys.
Fortunately, he was ashamed of
himself. That alone might not have
' saved him from wrecking his disposi-
tion; he was assisted by an engage-
"ment in New Haven, and the short
! journey came as a timely respite. He
! achieved another triumph and return-
‘ed home. To Doris, over the tele-
i phone, he said.
| “You have not forgotten?”
| And she replied:
| “Not yet, dear. Have you?”
i “I am working,” he said.
"you?”
| “I—I’m waiting, Arturo.”
{ Once more he took to the piano, and
: the motif he had caught out of thin
| air was recurrent. He played it, and
{ frowned. He shook his head. With a
| sickening consciousness of failure he
i hunted up one of the popular waltzes
‘and stared at it with loathing. Then
grimly. Then enviously. And, of a
sudden, the motif ran in his brain
again, and inspiration came to him.
He took the manuscript to Doris,
and she sat by him as he played from
it. When he had ended he remained
“And
“It’s beautiful Arturo—it’s beauti-
ful!” she said, hushed.
Iglesia could hardly breathe.
“What did you call it, Arturo?”
“ ‘The Bride’s Waltz.” ”
“Oh!”
His hand, as it touched hers, was
icy.
“I understand that your father has
been reading in the library, May 1
i kiss you—once—before I go to him?”
Li: “Y-yes, Arturo—because I'm
i afraid.”
| To Doris’s father the interview was
distinctly embarrassing. He was a
; cosmopolitan, and he was proud to
i have his house frequented by great-
“hension that he couldn’t get his mind | ness; but Iglesia as an acquaintance
or as a friend and Iglesia as a son-in-
{law were two separate matters. And,
| in his best diplomacy, he tried to make
, Iglesia see that Doris’s mother must
{also be consulted. They liked him;
! they admired him; they approved of
him, but——
“I am calm enough—and I am man
i enough,” said Iglesia, “to listen re-
spectfully to the exception.”
Doris’s father looked
straight in the eye.
“It is the—er—the international
feature, my dear sir. And I repeat,
without prejudice to you or——”
“Then I shall have to tell you what
fills me with shame. It is a secret, It
is not my fault. You are not sure of
me, because of my name, my nation-
ality. Your daughter was afraid of
that, she told me she was afraid of
something. I did not guess. She was
afraid of this. Listen: Because of
your daughter, I have risked my rep-
utation as an artist with my public.
I have done it gladly. There is no
need to be alarmed—it was music I
wrote to please her. Now, because of
her, I gladly risk the reputation of my
parents, as people of discrimination
and tact, with you. My name was
Arthur Church, and when it was
changed we were living in Scranton,
Pennsylvania—if that is international,
I will be hanged. If I look like a
Spaniard, it is because I was born so;
if I have the name of a Spaniard, it
is because it was done by law when
I was young, to make capital of it; if
I speak like a Spaniard. it is because
1 was trained in Spain for this music
business.
A day or two after the engage-
ment was announced Senor Arturo
Iglesia, the famous concert pianist,
rode in a taxicab to that part of the
metropolis known as “Tin Pan Alley”
and told the chauffeur to wait.
Three stories nearer heaven, he
presently intruded upon the privacy
of a young man who, together with
a battered upright piano and a stool,
was the sole occupant of a large and
dusty loft. The young man, who wore
a wrinkled green suit and a checked
waistcoat, had neglected to remove his
derby hat, which was pushed far back
on his head. As he played, he smoked
a thin, dyspeptic cigar.
“Good morning, Mr. Milliken,” said
the genius, bowing.
The young man stopped playing and
greeted him effusively.
“Oh, hello, Iglesia!
little thing?”
“Most excellent, thank you. I have
made the contract. The advance pay-
ment is $10,000. There is alse $5,000
for exclusive privileges for one month
for some idiotic musical comedy. They
are mad over it. They say it will
sweep the country. I have here your
check for one-half the amount.”
The young man at the piano cross-
ed his legs and hugged them.
“That’s fine! Much obliged. Almost
wish I hadn’t agreed to keep my name
off it. Oh, it was generous of you to
split even. I don’t dispute that. But
if you'd used my name on it I wouldn’t
‘a’ asked for a nickel. I got a rep,
too. Say—I tell you what we'll do:
You put my name on it and take back
your check.”
Iglesia
How’s every
motionless until he heard her speak.
“Too late,” said Iglesia. “Besides,
it was our agreement.”
The young man sighed heavily.
“Sure. I know it was. Only—oh,
: well—I'll never spill the beans. Don’t
~ worry. Only, that’s a peach of a waltz
| —a peach!
“I don’t want you to kill yourself, |
‘that I provided the motif.”
Best I ever wrote.”
“You forget,” said Iglesia coldly,
“I don’t forget nothing. Then I
wrote her; didn’t 1?”
“Then I,” said Iglesia, “I rewrote
her. And made it what it is now. I
could not have done your part; you
could not have done mine.”
“Oh, well, we won’t quarrel. But I
wish my name was on it, though. Well
-—young lady like it?”
“Very much,” said Iglesia.
“Funny thing,” said the young man,
absently striking discords. “You're
Iglesia, and the young lady don’t like
your stuff. She likes mine: she don’t
know it, but she likes mine better. I'm
married myself. I make a living out
of this here business, and the old
woman she hates music like poison.
Can’t even have a phonograph in the
house. Piano? Well, not on your
life. Say, I'm doin’ part of the music
for this here Red Roof Revue. If you
should happen to want to dig up some
new tune or other and collaborate
again, why, I"——
“Heavens!” said Iglesia, insulted, on
the threshold. “Because I am an ar-
tist, do you think I am a bigamist
also? And, besides, I am composing
a sonata.”—By Holworthy Hall in the
New York Herald Tribune.
100 Below Zero on Planet Mars.
In certain parts of the United States
we have cold weather, but on Mars it
is 100 below zero, despite this, one of
the strongest proofs that we have of
the existence of vegetational life on
Mars are the seasonal changes that
are easily observable on the planet’s
surface and that made it such a fac-
cinating planet. to observe in a power-
ful telescope. Mars, writes Isabel M.
Lewis in Nature Magazine, has no
great oceans, seas or lakes, such as
cover three-fourths of the surface of
our own planet, and is dependent
largely upon the melting of the polar
Show cap in summer for its water sup-
ply.
These polar caps of very consider-
able size but shallow depth, melt al-
ternately and unlock the water supply
needed to promote the growth of veg-
etation. As the polar cap melts and
spring advances, the greenish color
that spreads over portions of the Mar-
tian landscape is clearly visible in the
telescope, and gives a beautiful tinge
of color to the planet that was noted
by many observers at the last op-
position. It seems sheer folly to un-
dertake to explain this spread of
greenish color over the planet at the
advance of spring as due to anything
except vegetation.
Until quite recently, it was very
generally believed that the tempera-
ture of Mars never rose as high as
the freezing point of water. There-
fore life on Mars was felt to be im-
possible.
That the temperature of Mars rises.
daily at noonday on the equator to a
temperature of 60 degrees to 65 de-
grees Fahrenheit was definitely prov-
ed at the last observation of the planet
by Dr. W. W. Coblenz, of the burean
of standards.
With the aid of astronomers at the
Lowell observatory, Flagstaff, Aviz.,
he made measurements of the sur-
face of Mars by means of a sensitive
little instrument known as the vac-
uum thermocouple, which measures
the heat radiations from the surface
of the planet.
The little instrument, attached to
the powerful forty-inch reflector of
the Lowell observatory, has revealed
many interesting facts about the cli-
mate of Mars.
It was also discovered, Nature
Magazine points out, that the temper-
ature of the morning side of Mars as
the equator is low, usually about 50
degrees below zero Fahrenheit, but
that the evening side is considerably
higher, generally around the freezing
point. This would be expected as a
result of the accumulation of heat by
the surface during the day. During
the coldest part of Martian night the
temperature would register close to
100 degrees below zero, it was esti-
mated.
Evidently, then, the Martian inhab-
itants would have to be so constitut-
ed that they could resist great ex-
tremes of temperature. This is quite
conceivable for there are many forms
of life in our own planet that survive
periods of intense and prolonged cold
by remaining torpid or hibernating.
ei iis
Way To Treat Them.
“The way to treat cubism and da-
daism and super-realism and all the
other catch-penny fads is to laugh at
them,” said Pene du Bois, the art crit-
ic, at a dinner in New York,
A super-realistic painter was giving
an exhibition. He button-holed a
well-dressed chap—a good prospect,
as they say in the business world—
and led him up to a picture and began:
“ ‘This will show you, old man, the
thing I'm after. We super-realists,
you see, strive for the purgation of
the superfluous, we paint esoterically
and not exotically, portraying noth-
ing but the aura or inner urge. Do
you follow me?
“ ‘Follow you?’ said the prospect.
‘Gosh, I'm ahead of you. I came out
of the bug-house last Monday.” ”—Ex.
reese fee tte.
Narrow Escape.
The professor was lecturing to the
medical class and stopped occasionally
to ask a question. “Suppose,” he
said, “a young womar in walking on
a slippery pavement fell and dislocat-
ed her ankle, and you happened to be
on the spot, what would you do?”
“Rubber,” answered the flippant
and unthinking young man. The rest
of the class held its breath till the
professor went on: . J
“Quite right. A vigorous rubbing
would serve to keep down the -swell-
ing until remedies could be procured
and applied.” And the students
breathed again,—Brooklvn Eagle.