ST CE En OE da Bellefonte, Pa. April 9, 1926. WHAT IS THE USE? ‘What is the use of this impetuous haste? The end is certain, Let us take our time And hoard the vital forces that we waste Before our day has reached its golden prime. What is the use of rushing with spent breath After old age, its furrows, its white hair? Why need we hurry so to welcome death, Or go half-way, with hand stretched out to care? There is no use. Dear hearts, if we hut wait All things will find us. Let us pause, I say, ‘We cannot go beyond the silent gate That lies a short day’s journey down the way. So let us take our time in youth's fair bowers ; The summer season is so brief at best, Let us look on the stars and pluck the flowers, And when our feet grow weary let us rest. —By Ella Wheeler Wilcox. THE SOUL-MAKER. There was silence in the wide kitch- en, a bristling silence into which the clock ticked and the fire crackled like deprecating mediators. Opposite the stove was a table with three places set for breakfast on the white oil- cloth. One chair was empty; a crumpled napkin lay beside the half- full glass of milk. At the other places sat two women, one plump and flushed above her white shirt-waist, the other sharpened and gray, in a dull wrapper. Their eyes met hostile- ly. The younger woman spoke first: “It’s just as Sarah said. A charity boy—" “ ‘Brat’ she always said,” interrupt- ed the older, calmly. “Can’t be depended upon for any- thing but lying and stealing. I hope you’re satisfied now, Abby Price!” Abby took a sip of her coffee before she answered, deliberately, “No, I'm not satisfied; not yet.” “You mean you're going to keep him ?” “Why not?” “He'll grow up to disgrace you.” The round face of the younger woman twitched with approaching tears. “Now, Jennie!” Abby’s voice had an irritating calmness. “He'll be some years growing up, and I guess I can stand the disgrace.” “Well, I can’t!” Jennie’s chair rasped back over the kitchen floor. “And I won’t!” She threw down her napkin and hurried out of the room. Abby heard her angry staccato heel- taps on the stairs and then overhead. Without finishing her coffee. Abby gathered the few breakfast-dishes and carried them to the sink. As she set them down she glanced out of the window. On a stump by the shed door sat a small, white-haired boy, appar- ently intent on the manoeuvers of several industrious hens. The grim- ness cn Abby’s face settled into fierce determination, and with that she turn- ed at the sound of Jennie’s feet. Jennie stood in the doorway. “I'm taking Sarah’s advice,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a hand- kerchief, “if you're going to insist on keeing him.” “I am.” Abby glanced out of the window. “I won't help support a hired wo- man’s lying boy.” “Any one’d think you never lied in your life, Jennie,” said Abby. “He's only a little fellow.” “If he was yours it wouldn’t be such - a disgrace to keep him.” “S’pose I said I thought you were disgracing the family, going around sewing as you do.” : Jennie stopped sniffling. “Dis- grace?” she exclaimed, indignantly. “I make dresses folks are proud to wear.” “And you like it, don’t you? Mak- ing dresses, I mean. Don’t you? And Sarah likes being a respected book- keeper. You're no disgrace.” Jennie drew her plump figure up resentfully. “We go to work. You don’t have to—" “No; I just stay here, keeping the homestead together. It’s just as if 1 was a wife! You and Sarah keep me, don’t you? Suppose I'm sick of it, and want something different, like this boy?” “I s’pose it’s the maternal instinct, like Sarah said, stronger in you be- cause you've always stayed at home.” Abby swung on her heel. “Sarah may be a good business woman,” she said, over her shoulder, “but she’s an awful fool, too.” “She was right about the boy,” cried Jennie. “He took that piece of gold ribbon for Mrs. Blake’s dress right off my box, and said he hadn’t touched it. And you never spid a thing to him.” “Guess you said enough.” “I won’t help keep him!” “You needn’t.” Abby poured the water over her dishes with a splash. “I guess we can manage.” “You choose that charity boy ig- stead of your own sisters?” Jennie chocked. “ ‘Brat, Jennie!” Abby looked around at her. “Don’t be silly. You're choosing. Go and live with Sarah in the village.” “Sarah and I have reasoned with you—" “Don’t waste any more breath. Youll have to look out for the note on the place. But I can take care of Franklin and me.” Jennie flushed. “I don’t want to quarrel.” She hesitated, pursing her lips. “Good-by, Abby.” “Good-by.” Abby scoured at the porridge-dish. “Good-by.” She gave a vigorous rub and then paused. The side-door slammed shut. Outside the indow the boy still watched the ens. “Franklin!” called Abby. The boy gave a little jump and looked furtively around. Abby frown- ed. “He thinks it’s Jennie,” she said. Then she called more sharply, “Frank- lin!” He slipped off the stump and eame slowly in as far as the kitchen dor. “Will you bring me some wood, Frank-lin,” said Abby, briskly, with- out turning, “and a pail of water?” She smiled at the readiness of his disappearance. First she heard the pump-handle creaking; then small feet brushed along the path to the outer shed, returned, and an armful of wood clattered into the box. That was repeated twice, then came silence. Abby walked to the door. Franklin stood by the wood-box, his dark eyes, with their curious fringe of pale lash- es, very wide in his small, white face. They met hers with a furtive alert- nesss, and his thin little body stiffen- ed, tense for flight. Abby regarded him gravely. “Come here,” she said. Reluctantly he came. Abby touch- ed his white head gently and smiled at him. He started, almost as if she had struck him. “We'll say no more about it, Frank- lin,” she said. “It's time you were off for school. Finish your milk and wash your hands. Your lunch-box is ready.” Abby felt his eyes follow her as she moved about the kitchen. She said nothing until he took his cap from the nail and walked to the outer kitchen dor. Then at her “Franklin” he turn- ed sharply. “Come won't you? you.” “Will she be here?” “No; no one but us.” He gave a little sigh. “Yes, ma’- am,” he answered; “I'll be right back.” Abby watched him down the path to the gate. “He understood,” she said. “I’m sure he understood.” When he was out of sight Abby turned to her empty house. Sunlight filled the kitchen; the rooms beyond were dark and still. She stood with her head bent as if she listened. Countless days she had spent alone in the old house, while her sisters were at work; but to-day was differ- ent. The house waited, expectant; she felt it, and a flush crept up into her cheeks. “You’re mine now!” she cried sud- denly. “I can do what I please. Mine!” she repeated, loudly. And nothing contradicted. She walked into the sitting-room and flung open the shutters. She set the front door ajar, catching it with the padded brick which had served there for years. The fresh wind rush- ed through, shaking the everlastings that stood on the mantel-shelf. Abby seized the vase and with fierce delight carried it to the kitchen, where she thrust its dry contents into the stove. “There!” she said, as they blazed up. “I wish Sarah could see you now.” As she replaced the vase she wheel- ed upon the room. “Lord! How many times have I set you to rights! All my life I’ve spent doing things I had to do again the next day. Nothing ever to show for it. Nothing! And now— ed e, I feel like a convict that’s caped In a dark night and don’t Me with a little straight home to-night, TI'll—I'll be waiting for know where he is. boy! A little boy!” She looked once more about the sit- ting-room—at the large arm-chair which had stood unused in the corner since the end of the silent years when her father had watched her from it in moody helplessness, at the sheet- iron cover which Sarah had economi- cally had fitted into the fire-place. She had much to do before Franklin came back from school. Early in the afternoon she began to watch the path, a little shame- faced, for she knew school did not close until four, and Franklin had a long walk after that. She fed the chickens, built the fire for supper, and made hot apple-sauce and biscuit; then she saw him lagging up the path. She wanted to run to meet him, to brush off the ridiculously large cap he wore, and carry him into the house. But she only watched him come, her breath tightening in her throat. There, in some mysterious fashion, approached her chance; she did not know how. Three weeks earlier she had heard that Franklin Peck had no place to live that winter, as his moth- er was off in service—no one knew just where—and the farmer who had kept him was moving to the city. She had acted blindly in response to the chaotic desire within her, obdurate against the remonstrances of her sis- ters, unmoved by their wrath, even by their departing, and Franklin had come to live with her. Sarah had left at once; now Jennie had gone. The barest poverty faced her; she had a scanty annuity which they had eked out, and the little farm the three had struggled to hold. But the impulse that had driven her had no after- flavor of regret. For years her life had lain as dead as a rock at ebb-tide —a long ebb-tide. Now far off the water turned, and within her faint stirrings of her spirit answered. Franklin stood in the doorway. “Come in, Franklin,” Abby said. “I was afraid you’d be too late for sup- per.” . “Ain’t your clock fast?” He look- ed up at it suspiciously. “Why, I guess not. Did you come right home 7” “Yes’'m.” Evading her eyes, he stood on tip- toe to hang his cap against the door. Abby gazed in doubt at the back of his white head. There came into her mind a comment of the farmer who had housed Franklin: “He don’t know how to tell the truth.” Sarah had heard it at the store and brought it home in triumph. Abby turned away. Franklin shouldn’t see that she sus- pected—at least not until she had decided what to do.” “Supper’s ready when you are,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’ve set the table in the other room.” Franklin washed his face and brushed his hair in silence. Abby handed him a plate of biscuit. “Lay these on the table,” she said. Then she followed him softly. In front of the fireplace ‘was a little square table covered with a white cloth, a: pitcher The New : Cathaum Theatre | " 3 aw Srey w Ey = at State College. DEDICATED AND OPENED LAST NIGHT. LOOKING TOWARD THE GALLERY FROM THE STAGE. of yellow dahlias in the center, and a chair at the end. Franklin set the plate down and stood by the table, his head level with the flowers, like a larger, paler dahlia. Abby’s hands gripped her bowl of apple-sauce. She didn’t know what she had expected, bit suddenly she felt overcome with embarrassment. The red shawl she had thrown over the hollows of the arm-chair leered at her. Franklin was looking at that, at the opened windows, at the sticks in the fireplace which she had pried free of its iron cover. “There’s just two places,” he said. “Just two folks,” answered Abby. “Us?” asked the boy. Abby nodded. Franklin moved closer to her. “Did you want me to light the fire?” he whispered, eagerly. Abby nodded again. He was back with matches in an instant. Kneeling on the hearth, he puffed at the little sticks until he blew them into flames; then he look- ed up at Abby, his face aglow. She had taken her seat at the table. “It’s a good fire,” she said. He climbed into his chair, his eyes on the fire, where they stayed most of the time through supper. Once he turned them on Abby. “It’s a good chimney, I guess,” he ventured. “Yes, I think so,” answered Abby. “But a fire has to be lit right, too?” “Yes, that makes a difference.” After supper Abby-piled the dishes in a pan, and they pulled the table back to a corner, Franklin lifting one side. Then Abby pushed the arm- chair to one edge of the hearth and settled herself into it with a slight glance of defiance toward the empty wall above the mantel. Franklin sat in a low rocker—one Jennie had used as a sewing-chair—at the other side of the hearth. He rocked back as far as the rockers would swing, then for- ward with a jerk. Suddenly he stop- ped. “Are they coming back?” he asked. “Them others?” Abby started. She had just been wondering if the arm-chair wasn’t large enough to hold two comfortably. “I don’t suppose so,” she said. “They’ve gone. We're here alone.” “I think two is better,” announced Franklin as he began rocking again. Abby repeated his words to herself as she watched him. He rocked less vigorously, and his eyelids drooped in long and longer winks. She rose with a little sigh. “Bedtime,” she said. “I've moved you into the front chamber. You can take your lamp and call me when you are in bed.” “Well”—he slid off his chair—“the fire is most out.” She did not move after he had gone. The room held a new, friendly warmth.” “He is going to like it,” thought Abby, listening for his voice. Would she kiss him if she tucked him in? She never had, and he had been there for over a week now. But this was their first real night. Jennie nie’s words floated back, chilling her pleasant thoughts. her again? She heard a soft step behind her. Franklin set his lamp down on the table and shuffled slow- ly toward the door, one hand gather- ing up the folds of the faded night- shirt which engulfed him. “I brought it back,” he said. “Can you see to my fire all right?” “Yes, Franklin.” Abby hesitated. He was so little, so sleepy! “You haven’t anything to tell me?” “No’'m.” He blinked drowsily, and at Abby’s “Good night” disappeared into the dark room beyond. i “Abby’s cheeks burned as she went about locking the house for the night. ' At least she had not spoiled the end of the day. And perhaps the boy had been afraid, or perhaps he had not understood her; the teacher might ! have kept him after school. He : might never lie again. wait. With that decision her discom- ! ors left, and she went peacefully to ! During the Indian summer days that followed, the two settled into a pleasant routine of existence. Frank- lin learned to feed the chickens; he filled the woodbox, pumped the water, picked the fall apples. His cheeks grew round, and he came whistling up the hill at the end of his school- day. Abby spent her days waiting for that whistle. She waited—busily, to be sure—for fall farm work is heavy—but her real day began when the small figure came into sight be- tween the apple-trees. Sometimes he brought home his school-books and read to Abby after supper or puzzled over a problem in arithmetic. The arm-chair often held two very com- fortably. The winter shut in early. One morning they woke to find the first snow flurries, driven along by a sharp wind. Franklin insisted that he must go to school; and so Abby, in spite of his demurring, wrapped him in a plaid cape of hers and sent him off. That afternoon sh& waited uneasily for his return. It darkened early, and no small boy appeared. She tried to sit down with a basket of mending, but even Franklin’s stockings had no in- terest. Wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, she hurried down the path. The road lay white and deserted. As she turned reluctantly, something Had he lied to! black under a bush caught her at- ! tention. Frightened, she bent down. It was soft—a coat? She shook it out—her cape, with little pockets of snow in its folds. It had lain there some time, then. She climbed the slope, shielding her face against the wind. Perhaps in the warm kitchen she could decide better what to do. She built her fire up well, set the tea-kettle over, and then stared grimly at the clock; al- most half-past five! She would walk up toward the school. Well bundled this time in coat and cap, she started down the path. As she reached the road she stopped, her heart pounding. Was that something dark against the snow under the bushes again, moving this time? It emerged slowly, straightened, and came toward her. “Franklin!” she cried. He started violently, pulling away as she seized his arm. “Child! Where have you been? Youll catch your death of cold! Run ast.” He scurried up the path ahead of her. When she opened the kitchen door he stood by the stove, holding his hands out to the warmth. His : eyes met hers for an instant, and then | shifted. Abby closed the door against : the gust of wind that tried to chase er in. | “Where have you been, Franklin?” | He shivered as she felt of his cold hands. “Come here!” She drew him {down beside her on the couch, and , bent over to unlace his boots. “Why didn’t you wear the cape* You're frozen.” He twisted out of her arms. “I'm not cold.” He coughed. “I—I gave it to a little girl who didn’t have any coat.” He peered at Abby, and then , hurried on. “She was just a little girl, and awful cold. Ill find—I mean I'll get your cape probably to- morrow. I'll—” Franklin’s eyes had followed Abby's to the kitchen chair. Over it hung the cape. He slipped off the couch and put out a hand against it. “Did—did the little girl bring it back?” he asked, miseraby. Abby rose, dropping the shoe she held. She walked through the sitting- room, the table laid for supper blur- ring before her eyes. She hung: her . coat in the front entry and went on i to Franklin’s room. There she turned down the bedclothes, shook the pillow, rand, taking his nightshirt, returned : to the kitchen. Franklin’s eyelids fluttered as he tried to meet her gaze. I “I think you’d better go right io , bed,” she said. “Undress where it's warm.” | He took the night-shirt silently. Then Abby, waiting at the window of the sitting-room, strained her ears for every sound of his slow undress- ing. At length she heard rim enter the room and pause behind her. She did not turn, and his feet padded on into his own room. Presently she heard the creaking of the bed as he settled into it, then a little cough, then nothing more. 27 { She had no heart for a lonely sup- per. Drawing her chair close to the stove, she sat down to have it out. She had to do something now. Frank- in was a liar; she must punish him. She flinched at the idea of whipping him, and then seized eagerly-the con- viction that no blows would help him tell the truth. Would it do any good to talk to him, to tell him lying was wrong? Why was it wrong? Abby floundered unwittingly at the margin of metaphysical morasses. She lifted her head. He was cough- ing again. Poor, hungry little fel- low! A few minutes later, lamp in one hand and a bowl of bread and milk in the other, she tiptoed toward his room. His eyes stared up at her, dark and somber. She set the lamp on the dresser and seated herself at the edge of his bed. | “You better sit up and eat this,” “she said, gently. ! Franklin swallowed one spoonful , Obediently. “I—I don’t want any ‘more.” His teeth chattered. Placing the bowl on the floor, Abby leaned over the bed. “Put your arms around my neck,” | she ordered, pulling the covers down. { “There.” She straightened, her arms : tight about his slender body. “We'll go where it’s warm.” | She was gasping a little when she i reached the kitchen. “You're quite a big boy,” she said, as he slipped to the floor. “I'm going ; to tuck you up here on the couch.” She covered him with an old shawl, and went back for the milk and the lamp. Franklin’s eyes were on the door, leaping to meet hers the second she appeared. Abby pulled her chair close to the couch. “Now,” she said, trying to speak briskly, “eat this She would first. She held out a spoonful, when sud- denly he twisted away, hiding his face with one arm. Abby held her breath as he began to cry, softly at first, then in long sobs. “Franklin!” she said. He checked a sob, which escaped in a long sigh. Timidly she moved over to the couch, laying a hand on his shoulder. Frankie dear!” He whirled around desperately. “There wasn’t any little girl,” he cried loudly. “I—I lost your cape.” Then in some way she found him clinging to her, his wet cheek against her throat, and she was patting his shoulder while his sobs grew fainter. His heart, pounding against her breast, slacked its frightened race. Finally he looked up. “I didn’t wear it,” he said. “I—” A lingering sob choked him. “I—I thought the boys’d all laugh at me.” He hid his face again. Abby looked soberly at the top of his white head. “I'd like to buy a coat if I could.” She felt his body grow tense as she began to speak. “But we're very poor. Why, you're all I've got, Franklin—and you lie to me.” He shrank in her embrace. “Were you afraid? You lied some other times, didn’t you? What makes you?” His body quivered slightly. “Suppose you sit up so we can talk.” She took his arms from her neck and pushed him away so that she could see his flushed face. “Do you like the way it makes us feel?” He shook his head. “It makes me feel as if I'd lost you. Does it you?” He nodded, his lips trembling. “And we were friends, weren’t we, till you put this ugly lie between us—Franklin 2” He lifted his eyes, heavy with tears. “Are you a coward? Aren't you brave enough to tell the truth?” “I—was afraid.” Abby just caught his whisper. “I didn’t think you were a coward.” She spoke sternly. “You—won’t ever like me now?” Abby gathered him swiftly into her arms. “Oh, you won't do it again, will you?” She swallowed rebelliously; why should she wish to ery? “I—I was so lonesome.” He strain- ed against her. “I—I ain't afraid.” He fell asleep in Abby’s arms after she had watched him finish the bowl of bread and milk, She sat in the quiet kitchen, looking down at the small, sleep-flushed face. Once she brushed the light hair back from his forehead. Her random thoughts were bits of stick carried along in a flood of tender humility. She was content to see them float, without curiosity as to the stream’s source. After a time, when the kitchen grew cold, she rose and carried him in to his bed. He stirred drowsily as she tucked him in and kissed him. They said nothing about the inci- dent, but for several days Abby felt that Franklin watched her, silent and reflective. Then she thought he had forgotten, and when one night he brought home his reading-book and chose the story of “Cedric, the Brave Boy Knight,” to read to her, she made no comment on Cedric’s courage. Saturday morning, several weeks later, Abby was rolling out ginger cookies. Franklin knelt on a chair by the table, his elbows almost on the mixing-board, waiting with breathless. interest for the scraps Abby promised he should roll out. Abby carried a pan of cookies to the stove, and, as: she straightened from closing the oven-door, caught sight of a woman peering in at the window, a hand over: her eyes. Abby pulled open the door and confronted her. “I didn’t mean to peek,” the woman began, crimson. “But I knocked— and I wanted to know if nobody was home.” “Come in out of the cold,” said Ab- by. “Did you want to see me?” The woman paused on the thresh- old, the pupils of her eyes dilating. Then she rushed past Abby and threw herself beside the chair where Frank- lin knelt. “Oh, my little boy—my little boy!” Franklin shrank away from her, turning startled eyes toward Abby. The woman looked around, and Abby shut her lips suddenly over a scream. The faces were alike. The woman’s hat had slipped back; pale hair like Franklin’s fell about her foreMead; the same dark eyes beseecled Abby under white lashes. “He—he wouldn’t remember me much.” The eyes filled with tears. “But I—I'm his mother. He's grown: an awful lot.” She rose, wiping her eyes. Abby walked back to her cooking- table. “I suppose so,” she said, with- out looking at the woman. “I've come for him, please.” The woman plucked at her handkerchief. “I'm married—to Mr. Reed, over. in Brockton. He’s a kind man, and Franklin can have a good home there. I wrote a letter last month to the other people, them that had him. I didn’t know he was here until I got in town this morning.” She sat down on the couch, her eyes clinging to Frank- lin, turning for swift, deprecatory seconds to Abby. The tale emerged in nervous, hesi- tating bits. Abby tried to answer the woman civilly. She could see nothing but Franklin, drawing nearer his mother, sitting beside her, responding with shy awakenings of familiarity to her advances. She fell into a sti- fling dumbness. As the soft voice told her of attempts to find a place to work where Franklin could come, of efforts to save money to send him, of longing for him, Abby had only one thought: “She’s come to get him.” When Abby had cut her last cooky she glanced at Franklin. He was in- tent on his mother’s watch, and Abby wondered grimly that she could care so much because he had forgotten his desire to roll cookies. “My husband said we could pay his board,” the woman was saying. “You can’t,” cried Abby. “He's worth his keep, I guess.” “They have a horse,” announced Franklin, looking up, “and I could go to a town school. I have to go with my mother, don’t I?” he added, doubt- fully. : “Of course,” answered Abhy. The warmth of the kitchen was choking her. “Just make yourself at home,” she said, hurriedly. “I—I’ll be right back.” She went blindly through the little shed, along the path Franklin had shoveled, to the barn. She gathered an armful of wood in her apron, and then stood in the doorway. The cold air tingled in her nostrils; she could breathe there. But it was freezing her heart; she could feel it. Or did she feel only the wood she held tight- ly against her? She must go back. In the shed she stopped. She had left the door unlatched, and the voices within came clearly to her. “You have been a good boy, Frank- lin? You are glad you are coming with your mother?” “I like Aunt Abby,” answered Franklin. “I can come to see her, can’t 1?” “Sometimes. You've been a good boy, ain’t you?’ Abby was fiercely jealous of the yearning in the moth- er’s voice. “You ain't taken things or told lies?” “No’m.” Franklin’s voice sounded uncertain. “I like my boy to be good.” Abby heard Franklin slip out of his chair. He was coming toward the shed. As she laid her hand on the door to enter, he halted. “I wasn’t good.” Abby gripped the latch, “I—I lied to her.” “What?” . “I did—when I come.” She pulled (Continued on page 6, Col. 2.)
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers