Bem itdpa.
Bellefonte, Pa., December 17, 1926.
SR EAS,
A CHRISTMAS PRAYER.
Just for today, dear God, give me the faith
That gilds each star to eager, childish eyes,
And paints in smoke-wreaths blue the
chimneyed wraith
Of reindeer speeding far through Christ-
mas skies.
Let me again, as in the days of old,
Slip hand in hand, with every face a friend
In every tinsel-shine find purest gold,
And treasure-trove at every rainbow's end.
Let me forget the pretense and the show,
The mummery of those who give—to take,
And thrill once more through Christmas
candle-glow
‘While carol-echoes set while streets awake.
I would shut far from me the wiser years,
And close my ears to wisdom’s gain--and
loss;
I would be blind to Want and Woe and
Tears,
Nor test each bauble-sheen to find the
dross.
Lord, let these Christmas bells sing back
the dream:
Give me my world this day, glad, undefiled,
From primrose-dawn to hollied taper-
gleam,
In all the sure, sweet vision of a child.
—By Martha Haskell Clark.
resteentneeeneee feeeeeee.
“NARY CHRISTMAS.”
Old Madame Channell, who was
eighty that month, woke on the morn-
ing following Thanksgiving Day with
a vague sense of impending disaster.
It was a moment or two before she
could classify it. Then she remember-
ed that it was the date on which Hil-
degarde, her eldest daughter-in-law,
appeared during the forenoon to con-
sult with her regarding the plans for
their exceptionally merry Christmas.
“My land!” she said aloud in an ex-
asperated whisper. She resolutely
turned her face away from the light
and tried to sleep again, but inexor-
able habit was too strong for her. It
was almost half past five, and she still
rose at that hour, winter and summer,
dressing herself and her wisp of silver
hair without calling her maid. This
custom was a source of much annoy-
ance to Hildegarde and other mem-
bers of the family, but a great com-
fort to the maid and herself. She
waited to hear the hall clock strike
the half hour, and she thought a little
of staying in bed and sending down
word that she was not well, but she
knew this subterfuge would avail her
little. It would merely delay matters,
unless, indeed, she was able to sumn-
mon up a mortal malady, and she had
no intention of doing that for at least
ten years.
* She dressed herself with quick and
capable fingers, and was ready long
before a sleepy-eyed maid brought up
her breakfast tray. Old Madame
Channel despised food on a tray, but
Hildegarde had explained to her, very
gently and brightly, that it was hard-
ly fair to the rest of the household to
have the disturbance of Grandmama
breaking her fast in the dining-room
and the chill gray dawn at a little af-
ter six. Whenever Hildegarde ex-
plained anything, she did it so firmly
and so thoroughly that there was no
possible room for argument left; the
subject never had to be brought up
again.
Hortense, her maid, appeared short-
ly before eight, and did something to
her hair, and dusted flesh-colored
powder over her thousand-wrinkled
face and manicured her hard little
brown claws. Then Humphrey, her
chauffeur, sent in to know at what
hour she would like to drive, mention-
ing that (Mrs. Henry Channel was
Hildegarde) had suggested the after-
noon, as she had an engagement with
Madame for the morning.
When she had agreed to three
o'clock, her companion, Miss Fisher,
came up to her sitting-room, bring-
ing with her the book which she was
reading aloud. Miss Fisher was a
large, soft woman with a singularly
expressionless face, and she always
read books which appealed to her per-
sonally—mild, well-bred books with a
gently sad ending; but it did not mat-
ter in the least, because the old wo-
man never listened. She had plenty
of things to think about or, at least,
to remember. She had been alive for
eighty years, and she had borne eight
children and reared eleven—a dead
sister’s brood added to her own—and
light fiction left her rather cold. She
was slight and small, and very brown
and weathered-looking, and Hilde-
garde told her friends that it was
amusing and very touching to see how
dear Mother Channell clung to her
quaint old-fashioned diction. Madame
Channell knew, as a matter of fact,
that the safest diction for her to cling
to was silence; she never shocked or
embarrassed anyone so long as she
kept still, and she kept still a great
deal of the time. :
She felt it was only fair to make
Hildegarde as comfortable as possible,
because Hildegarde did so much for
her comfort, as witness, Miss Fisher.
The old lady hadn’t thought that she
needed a companion, but her daughter-
in-law had; and if Miss Fisher hadn’t
added to the sum of Madame Chan-
nell’s happiness she had to everyone
else’s in the family. She had lifted
a great load off their minds. Now
they could say, “Oh, Mother Channel”
(or Grandmama, if it happened to be
the second generation) “is with her
companion, you know, Miss Fisher.
Such a nice woman, and devoted to
her! We feel we are very fortunate
in securing her. She is really very
unusual.”
Madame Channell didn’t know
wherein her companion was unusual
except that she was unusually duil;
but she presently got used to her and
minded having her about very little.
At eleven o’clock she looked up from
her knitting and spoke: “When you
get to the end of the chapter you
might as well stop, Miss Fisher. Mrs.
Henry’s coming up to talk Christmas
with me.”
Miss Fisher closed the book reluct-
—
antly. “That was the end of the
chapter, just there. Must we leave
the lovers in this bitter, bitter quar-
rel?” she inquired archly.
“I guess they’ll keep,” said Madame
Channell. “There’s Hildegarde now.”
The companion went softly out of
the room by another door as Mrs.
Henry Channell entered it. She was
a high-colored, heavily handsome wo-
man with a buoyant step and manner,
and she bore down upon her little old
mother-in-law with a great deal of
heartiness.
“Good morning, Mother Channell!
Did you have a fine, restful sleep?
Not too tired from all ‘the festivities
yesterday, are you? Sure you feel
like starting our Christmas plans?”
Madame Channell knew she would
never feel any more like it than she
did then, or any less, so she merely
nodded and went on with the bed
jacket she was knitting for a bazar.
Hildegarde had a sheet of mono-
grammed note paper and a beautifully
sharp pencil, and she set to work at
once to make her lists. “The same
dear old program, of course,” she
said—“ a reading of the Christmas
Carol at three o’clock on the after-
noon of Christmas Eve, then a high
tea for the wee ones, and a dinner
dance for the older boys and girls,
and the tree, of course, and a mid-
night supper, and the Christmas waifs
singing under the windows, and then
the stockings in the morning, and the
family dinner at two, and a buffet sup-
per that evening for the young peo-
ple—” Her pencil flew smoothly over
the page.
“My land!” said the old woman,
half under her breath.
“Yes, Mother Channell?” Hilde-
garde looked up alertly.
“That’s what you do every single,
solitary year!” She felt the other’s
questioning surprise, but she went
doggedly on. “Don’t you ever want
a change? Don’t you ever want to
do anything different?”
“What have you in mind, Mother
Channell ?” asked Hildegarde patient-
ly. “Have you something to sug-
gest?”
“Well, I don’t know’s I have,” her
mother-in-law muttered, subsiding. “I
don’t know’s I’ve thought of anything
special, but—"
“Why, dear Mother Channell”—she
was gently reproachful now—“you, of
all people, to want to change the
beautiful old Christmas customs!
Think of what they mean to you, with
all your dear ones around you—your
children’s children—and their chil-
dren! Why, the way you have always
kept Christmas is proverbial! You
are the very spirit—"
“All right, Hildegarde, all right,”
said the old lady, hastily. “Let’s go
on with the plans.” !
The rest of the plans, beyond notes
as to caterers and orchestras and dec-
orators, were concerned with gifts.
Madame Channell had twelve of the
first generation and twenty-two
grandchildren and five great-grand-
children to remember; but, strictly
speaking, she didn’t really have to re-
member anything, for Hildegarde re-
membered everything and everybody
for her. All she had to do was to sign
checks for the next two weeks, and
write on Christmas tags and tie up
parcels in tissue paper and red baby
ribbon and springs of holly for the
remainder of the time until the twen:
ty-fifth of December. She knew that
Hildegarde said to her friends: “Dear
Mother Channell, all her gifts are so
personal-—she ties them up herself,
and writes on the cards in her little
old trembling script. We really can’t
realize what Christmas means to her!”
(This was entirely true.) Hildegarde
had built up so clever and consistent
a legend about the old head of the
family that she had come to believe it
herself. Madame Channell, who was
slightly as deaf as the family sup-
posed her to be, often heard her af-
fectionate little asides: “Dear Mother
Channell, isn’t she quaint? But I
don’t dare let her dwell too long on
those early days when she and Father
Channell were pioneering.... It ex-
hausts her, emotionally.” It likewise,
as the old woman was cannily aware,
let in too strong and prosaic a light
upon the humble beginnings of the
great Channell clan, and she was
grimly docile when her eldest daugh-
ter-in-law brightly changed the sub-
ject.
Hildegarde finished her gift list and
rose to “And where shall you
drive this afternoon, Mother Chan-
nell? In the park? It is still very
beautiful in the park—we’ve had such
a late fall.”
Madame Channell evaded her eyes.
“No, I guess Ill drive down-town,
Hildega . There’s something I want
to do.
Mrs. Henry halted on the threshold.
“Can’t I do it for you, Mother Chan-
nell? Or one of the maids; or Miss
Fisher? I think it’s so much pleas-
anter for you in the park.”
“I'm going to Badger, Coates, and
Badger’s,” said her wmother-in-low
shortly.
Hildegarde®s carefully shaped eye-
brows went up. “Must you, really?
Mr. Badger is always so glad to come
to you, you know. Sha’n’t I telephone
him for you?”
“My land!” said the old woman. “I
want to go. I want to see Dave
Quincey.” : :
‘The sun went swiftly under a cloud.
“Dear Mother Channell, don’t ‘you
think you have a rather ‘exaggerated
idea: of—" :
Old Madame Channell put down her
knitting, and there were two red spots
on her cheekbones and her voice was
shrill,
“I guess you may’s well know, Hil-
degarde, now as later, that I'm goin
to make young Dave one of my heirs.”
Mrs. Henry closed the door very
quietly and came back into the room.
She was breathing a trifle quickly,
but her voice was calm and kind. “I
don’t think you quite mean that, Moth-
er Channell.” (Hildegarde had such
a clear, logical brain that she fre-
quently knew what people meant bet-
ter than they did themselves.) FT
think you mean that you are going to
leave him a nice little legacy, because
he is the grandson of Father Chan-
nell’s dearest friend, but not that—”
“I mean,” said her mother-in-law
steadily, “that he’s going to be writ-
ten into my will, and share like my
| slip of a girl in the driver's seat, had
own grandsons. That’s what I mean.”
“Don’t you think that will seem—
rather odd—to people, when we have
so many splendid lads of our own
blood ?”
“I guess it won’t seem any odder,
nor as odd, as it would for a fuss Yo
be made over it,” said Madame Chan-
nell grimly. She knew she had Hil-
degarde there. Her will would be
sacred. “That’s what I'm going to
Badger, Coates, and Badger’s for to-
day. I've let it go too long. He won't
know anything about it—young Dave.
There’s enough young ones round here
already, spoiled with the idea of
money coming to them.” Miss Fisher
rapped discreetly and presented her
large soft face at the door. “Come on
in,” said the old woman. “Mrs.
Henry's going. We're all finished.
Now you can see how those fools made
it up.”
She left Miss Fisher in the limous-
ine that afternoon when she went up
to see her lawyers. When she had fin-
ished her business with the younger
Mr. Badger, she asked to have young
Quincy summoned. The younger Mr.
Badger assured her that the boy was
doing astonishingly well; they were
really extremely pleased with his pro-
gress. She received him in, a small
inner office which he seemed to fill to
overflowing. He was a big, rangy
boy with a thick thatch of fair hair
and arresting blue eyes, and he swung
her off her feet and kissed her, and
called her Aunt Sally and made a fuss
over her, and her thousand-wrinkled
face broke up into unsuspected lines
of cheerfulness. That young Dave
was the grandson of Father Chan-
nell’s dearest friend was part of Hil-
degarde’s legend; but Madame Chan-
nell never disputed it. The fact was
that he was her dearest friend. Hank
Channell had been a hard-working,
hard-headed, hard-drinking person
about whom, as he would have bcen
the first to admit, there was no fool-
ishness. There had been a good deal
of foolishness about the first Dave
Quincy. He liked to hunt and fish and
play the fiddle much better than he
liked to chop wood, and, consequently,
he had not amounted to very much,
nor had his son, who was very like
him. But David Quincy the third
was going to amount to a great deal;
old Madame Channell had pledged
herself that. It hadn’t been romance
at all, according to the dashing mod-
dern standards of her grand-daugh-
ters; she had been much too busy with
her own eight children and her dead
sister's three, and the cooking and
washing and mending and gardening
and butter-making and the chickens,
and she had held certain quaint no-
tions (she was quaint even then) that
being married to Hank Channell, while
it might not be her pleasure, was her
business. Dave Quincy had helped
her with her meager flower garden,
and played the fiddle for her, and car-
ried the heaviest things, and made
foolish little jokes, and that was about
all there had been to it; but it was the
one lyric note in a large and heavy
volume of prose.
The exaltation which followed her
decisive action with regard to young
Quincy brightened up the first part. of
December for her amazingly, and
while Hildegarde accepted it silently
and sensibly there was a compression
and sharpness about her which the old
lady found stimulating; but by the
middle of the month she began to have
her annual feeling of being smother- |
ed by tissue paper and choked by red |
baby ribbon. The house was very
gay, and while Madame Channell kept
rigidly to her own suite of rooms, ex-
cept at meal times, her family con-
scientiously brought their giddiness to
share with her, or at least to exhibit
to her.
“Mama thought you'd like to see my
new frock,” one of the younger grand-
daughters would say, dashing into her
sitting-room. (She had six grand-
daughters, who ranged from fifteen
to twenty, who plucked their eyebrows |
and used layish lip sticks and rolled
their stockings and smoked bold or
furtive cigarettes, according to age.)
Often on these occasions she would
put on her other spectacles and look
fixedly at the vision presented to her,
and then shake her head and say,
grimly, “Well, the Lord send you
sense; vou’ve lost all shame!” And!
the girl would drop a light kiss on the |
top of her head and say, “You old
lamb!” and fly to retail delightedly"
Grandmama’s latest quaintness.
By the sixteenth, she was spending
several hours a day tying up gifts and
inscribing cards. When she did up a
gold cigarette case her inclination
was to write:
Out upon you, fie upon you,
Bold-faced jig!
but she never did. Instead she wrote,
“With best Christmas love to Mar-
jorie Anne from her loving Grand-
mama.”
The only thing which varied the
monotony was the theft of two of the
‘Channell cars—a racer belonging to
one of the splendid lads of Hilde.
garde’s protest and Hildegarde’s own
‘coupe, and it was several days before
they were recovered. They had been
taken by lawless youths and maidens
for joy rides and abandoned when the
gasoline gave out. The ‘Channells
were very much annoyed with the law
for not being more stringent.
Then, less than a week before
Christmas, Madame Channell’s limous-
ine—loaned to one of the older grand-
daughters for attendance at a tea—
was taken. (Humphrey had left it for
less than five minutes, he asserted,)
This time the thief was a girl sixteen
who had been making the police a lot
of trouble, and she had incited others
to follow her shameless example, and
had headed a vandal’s parade down
the main street of the city, sitting in
Humphrey’s sedate place, driving at
a rate of speed never before known to
that grave vehicle. There were five
cars, perilously close together, ‘and
when the girl had jammed on her
brakes to avoid running over a lame
dog—traffic had prevented her turn-
ing out—the motors behind had tele-
scoped. She herself had been thrown
through the glass front and sustained
some bad cuts. Young Dave Quincy,
catching sight of Madame Channell’s
car careening at a mad pace with a
run after it and witnessed the entire
accident.
“Aunt Sally, it was the gamest
thing I ever saw!” he reported excit-
edly. “She was cut on both hands,
and one of her arms had a vein spout-
ing to beat the cars! And, gee, she’s
a pippin to look at! Well, she just
held out her arm to me—I rushed out
to the car as soon as it happened and
picked her up—and said, ‘Tie your
handkerchief around that geyser, will
you?’ And the moment I did she ran
down the line and looked over the
wrecks and sorted out the kids that
were most hurt, and made me help her
load them into your car; and by that
time a policeman arrived and got very
busy trying to arrest her, but she said,
‘All right, all right, but don’t bother
me now! I'm rushing these kids to
the hospital! I've arrested myself al-
ready; I’m going to court as soon as
I’ve got rid of this load. Stick around
and see if I don’t! i
“So the cop hops on the running
board, and this youngster drives with
the blood sprinkling down from a cut
and her head and her hands all daubed
with it, and my fancy tourniquet not
stopping up that vein any too well,
and we dash to the Receiving Hospital
and deliver our consignment of wound-
ed, and then she heads the car around
and beats it down to the courthouse,
and jumps out and runs up-stairs, not
waiting for the elevator, and bursts
into the juvenile court—the cop and I
trailing after her—and says, ‘Judge,
I didn’t break my promise to you be-
cause I wouldn’t promise not to nip
another car—I just promised to try
not to; and I did try, but it wasn’t any
use, and I borrowed a big bus, and we
had a parade and we got in a jam,
and I shot through the show window.
There’s nobody hurt very bad and I
rushed ’em all to the hospital, and the
bus is here, and so’'m I, and I guess
vow’ll have to pinch me again! ”
“My land,” gasped old Madame
Channell, leaning forward, two spots
of bright color in her faded face.
“I never heard anything so brazen
in all my life,” said Hildegarde.
“Well, the judge seemed all broken
up about it,” young Dave went on,
“and he turned her over to some wo-
man there, and I brought your car
back, and the cop held me up to say
I must get you to appear against the
girl, Aunt Sally. He claims this judge
is too easy on kids, and they're get-
ting so bold they'll steal a street car.
He says if all the women at that tea !
whose cars were taken will come and
make a fuss, it will have a lot of
weight with the court. Of course, as
far as I am concerned, that girl was so
game, and she’s such a pippin, Aunt
Sally—"
Hildegarde didn’t think he was con-
cerned at all, and she made the fact
civilly clear; and she thought it was
Madame Channell’s duty to society to
appear with the other women and help
to make an example of the young
malefactor. She regretted having to
subject her to such a strain, but she
felt it was a matter of principle.
“I'd just as lief go, Hildegarde,”
said the old woman. Her dim eyes
kindled. “My land! Wish I’d 'a’ seen
it, too, Dave! How old d’you say you
thought she was 7” ,
“Sixteen, and a pippin, Aunt Sally!
Sort of a gipsy type, you know—slim
and olive-skinned, and black eyes
and——"
“I think Mother Channell ought to
rest now, if you don’t mind excusing
her,” said Hildegarde. “All this has
been emotionally exhausting for her.”
The other women agreed with Hil-
degarde about their civic duty and
they filled up two benches in the small
court-rcom on the following day.
Humphrey and Miss Fisher and Hil-
degarde and Dave Quincy came with
Madame Channell, and she had a chair
placed well forward for her, so that
she wouldn’t miss anything.
The judge didn’t seem very much
impressed by the unusual influx of
wealth and fashion in his chambers,
but he seemed sincerely interested in
Madame Channell, and he got up to
speak to her and shake hands with
her. He said he had always wanted
to know her, which Hildegarde pri-
vately thought rather presumptuous
and uncalled-for. He was very de-
cent, however, about rearranging his
docket so as to dispose of the girl's
case at once, and not keep the ladies
waiting any longer than necessary .
He greeted young Dave very warm-
ly, too, and they appeared to have a
private word together. Hildegarde
trusted that the youth was seeking to
Impress the magistrate with the grav-
ity of the affair, but she did not feel
very much confidence in him.
Then the girl came in with a wo-
man probation officer, and the judge
had her sit down beside him, and pat-
ted her shoulder and asked how she
felt, and if her cuts were troubling
her. She looked even younger than
sixteen, because she wore a childish |
middy blouse and a short and skimpy |
skirt, and Hildegarde noticed with |
perfectly logical annoyance that she
had a great quantity of naturally cur- |
ly hair. (Hildegarde had to have her
own permanent wave renewed every |
few months.) She was surprisingly
neat, and her hair was such a very |
dark brown that it shadowed her rath- |
er thin face and made her eyes look |
even bigger and blacker than they ’
were in reality.
The judge seemed very greatly de-
pressed, and it appeared to be difficult
for him to deal with the matter in
hand. He began to talk to the girl in ,
a rambling sort of fashion, but as he
was telling her things she already ,
knew he addressed himself, more or |
less, to old Madame Channell, who
leaned forward in her chair, a hand |
cupped behind her ear.
Some of the women had dreaded it,
much as they felt it proper to come, |
because they were gentle and kindly |
persons, and they shrank from seeing
punishment inflicted, however well de-
served it might be; but it apparently
wasn’t going to be harrowing at all.
The girl sat very still, with her slim
brown hands, browner for the white |
bandages, clasped in her lap, and
listened to the judge.
“Sally Dart,” he said, sorrowfully, |
“I'm all broken up about this thing.”
“My land!” said Madame Channell
under her breath.
name, Sally!”
“That's my own
, were anything else I could do with
| “Say,
| “Wait a minute! I'm going to sit up
“I’ve tried and tried to trust you,”
he went on. “I've tried to help you
to trust yourself. You know I’ve liked
you a lot, Sally, and I've believed in
you, because I know you're only kind
of a bad girl.” Sally Dart’s dark head
lifted a little. “There are so many
kinds of bad girl you might be, be-
cause you're just about alone in the
world, and you haven’t had much of a
chance, but youre only bad about
swiping cars to drive. Aside from
that,” he paused, as if weighing the
matter very seriously, “aside from
that, I'd go so far as to say you're a
good girl, an unusually good girl. But
here’s the pity of it: We—the world—
have to be much more concerned with
your badness than your big goodness.
I think I know why you steal cars to
drive. You’ve never been anywhere
in your life, and you've been pretty
closly tied down at home with your
sick father and your stepmother and
her six children, ang hen you get a
chance to go, you go,’and you go fast
and far!” Sally Dart nodded vehe-
mently, and her own brown hair fell
about her face.
“I guess, perhaps,” he said, looking
at her consideringly, ‘““way back in
your family they sang the song of the !
open road and it’s in your blood. But:
that doesn’t mean anything to the po- |
lice, Sally, nor to these ladies here;
whose cars you and your gang took.
It was square of you to take them all
to the hospital, and it was square of
you to come here and own up to me.
But I'm afraid squareness can’t save
you now.”
The judge was a small man and he
looked very tired as he talked on.
“There’s only one thing I can do with
you. If you were a boy, perhaps we
could figure out some sort of job for
you with machines—see if we couldn’t
get you fed up with them. But you're
a girl, Sally. So—” he stopped and
cleared his throat and looked up at the
ceiling—*“so I guess I’ll have to send
you up to the Reform School.”
Sally Dart sprang to her feet with
a cry which echoed through the close
room. Old Madame Channell was in
a position to see her clearly, and in-
stantly she was reminded of a moun-
tain lion which Hank Channell had
once trapped alive and kept in a cage
for days, until she had begged Dave
Quincy to shoot it. It wouldn’t eat
or drink or sleep; it had only looked.
It was years since she had remember-
ed it, but she was remembering it now.
“Hush, Sally,” said the judge. “I'm
sorry; you know I'm sorry. If there
you— But you know it’s your fifth of-
fense, and your stepmother has wash-
ed her hands of you, and there's no
one responsible for you. I'm mighty
sorry to send you up there, Sally, be-
cause I know what it will be like for
you to be penned up, and I hate to
think of your being with girls who are
all kinds of bad girls. I know you will
do your best for me, but it’ll be pretty
hard not to pick up their ways and
their ideas.” He shook his head and
looked at her, where she stood tremb-
ling, making an odd, moaning sound. |
“But you see, Sally, no one wants
you, and you haven't got a job.”
Old Madame Channell was on her
feet, shaking like a. withered lear.
“She has, too, got a job,” she snapped,
“and somebody does want her!”
Hildegarde had risen and was hur
rying forward, and young Dave
Quincy was grinning widely, and Sally
Dart had stopped her lamentation and
was listening dazedly. ;
The old woman advanced sternly |
upon the little judge. “You don’t
know what you're talking about. I |
want her. She’s going to be my
chauffeur!” |
~ Hildegarde disposed of the scene |
temporarily as hysteria—poor Mother i
Channell had been overcome by the |
emotional strain, and she blamed hei
self severely for subjecting her to it,
but not half promptly and joyously
handling the girl over to the custody
of the old lady, nor young Quincy for
aiding and abetting in every possible
way. But it was not so easy to dis-
pose of the girl herself. She was
lodged for the present in the garden-
er’s cottage, and the limousine was
undergoing repairs; but it would be
out only too soon, and then this ab-
surd fancy of the old lady’s must be
dealt with. Meanwhile, it seemed wise
to occupy her mind as fully as pos
sible with other things, and so the red
sea of Christmas preparations rolled
up, and over her threshold. Old Ma-
dame Channell didn’t believe there
was any peace on earth, and she was
rapidly losing all her good will toward
men.
When Humphrey came up to re-
port that the limousine was repaired
and returned, and to ask if she cared
to drive during the forenoon, she sent
him packing. “If I do, Ill go with my
own chauffeur,” she said. “I told you
to report to Mrs. Henry for orders
from now on.” At ten o'clock she
sent down-stairs, after tying up her
last parcel—which seemed to her the
million and tenth—and inseribing the
last card.
The old head of the house had her
bonnet and her warm cloak on and
she let herself quietly out of doors
and went to. the gardener’s cottage.
Sally Dart came running to meet her.
listen,” she said, eagerness
radiating from her, “the big bus is
back! Say, did you mean it—honest-
ly, cross you heart?”
“Cross my heart, hope-never-to-see
-the-back-of-my-neck,” said Madame
Channell solemnly. “Come on!” Just
as they were glid ng out of the gar-
age she cried td the girl to stop.
front with yeu. I'm dressed warm.
Won’t do me ‘a mite of harm.”
The girl was wearing her shabby
middy blouse and pinched skirt and
her head was bare, but her olive
cheeks glowed warmly.
“Look here,” said the old lady, “first
off, we're going to get you something
fit to ride in! ‘Go on down to Ful-
er’s,”
Thy found the trimmest and smart-
est of brown tweed suits, with a dark
brown velvet toque, and brown suede
gauntlets, and high brown shoes, and
a boyish silk shirt with a round col-
lar and an impudent little tie, and Sul-
ly Dart looked astonishingly like the
flapper granddaughter and their pals,
only, Madame anmell considered,
i “go ahead!
much less of a bold-faced jig. They
drove to the office building which
housed Badger, Coates, and Badger
and sent up for Dave Quincy. “I want
you should come for a ride with us,”
said his benefactress. “You'll have to:
sit inside in that jail, but I guess it:
won’t hurt you, for once. Tell ’em:
you won't be back for a while—I’'m.
not going home till I have to. My
land!—red baby ribbon’s like the red!
rag to the bull to me, and the rustle
of tissue paper fairly makes me gag!”
Young Dave’s blue gaze was on the
transformed Sally, but his voice was
warm with sympathy and indignation.
“I wish you could cut it out, Aunt Sal-
ly! I wish you could just ditch the
whole show!”
The old woman sat staring at him,
her eyes narrowing with the intensity
of her gaze. “Well, good lord, why
can’t I?” It burst from her, and she
began to shake as she had done in the
court-room. “Why can’t I? Tve
wrapped and written and signed:
checks; there’s nothing for me to do!
This may be the last Christmas I ever
see, and I vum it'll be the way I want
it!” She stopped trembling and be-
came brisk and collected. “You fly
up-stairs, Dave Quincy, and get me
some money—Ilots, two or three hun-
dred dollars, and you tell Badger to
telephone Hildegarde just before three.
o'clock that I've decided to spend’
Christmas out of town with friends;
and that I’m all right, and she doesn’t:
need to worry. Then we’ll drive round
and get your bag, and buy Sally and’
me what we’ll need for a day or so,
then we’ll go!”
They lunched at a road-house and
dined in a town, and at ten o’clock
they were bowling smoothly toward
a bright young city. The old lady was
still up in front, bundled to her ears
in a fur robe. Her bonnet was askew,
and there was no hint of powder om
her little, shining beak. She would
have been very sleepy if she hadn’t
been too happy. Early in the day she
had forbidden her companions to men-
tion the date, but now she reopened
the subject herself.
“The small fry’s gone to bed now,
but there’s about fifty stockings hung
up round the fireplace....and Mar-
jorie Anne and her gang of hoodlums
are dancing like South Sea Islanders
....and not much more on.... Well,”
she sighed, “live and let live. It’s
their way, I s’pose.” She was feel-
ing very calm and very amiable, It
was odd, but she seemed to have left
Christmas behind and journeyed to
find it; to have cast aside the letter
for the spirit. Sally Dart’s slim young
body beside her seemed to warm her
more than the fur robe did, and when-
ever Dave Quincy tucked her up and
waited on her, the years folded back
for a swift instant, and she saw hard-
won flowers in a prairie garden and
heard old-fashioned tunes on a fiddle.
....She found herself hoping that
Hildegarde’s headache was better.
After all, poor Hildegarde——she
worked like a nailer for all she got
out of life. And Hildegarde wouldn’t
bear malice; she would soon weave
this mad prank into the legend. The
old lady, chuckled impishly. “I bet
vou Hildegarde’s telling somebody this
minute how quaint: “Mother Channell
was, slipping away for a quiet holi«
day! I bet you she’ll make it the
quaintest thing I ever did, Hildegarde
will!”
“Say, listen,” Sally Dart leaned
coaxingly nearer, “do you care if I
step on her?”
“Who 7—Hildegarde ?” The
lady sat up, startled.
“No, the boat—the big bus here!”
“All right,” said Madame Channeil,
Step on her!”
The great car shot forward like x
living creature, and the girl at the
wheel laughed aloud, joyfully. The
little old woman sat bolt upright,
swallowing great mouthfuls of the
fine, frosty air. She reflected good-
humoredly that she was glad they
were having their kind of good time
back home; then she let herself plan
happily for the two young things un-
der her care.
“I didn’t know a body could be as
glad as I am, at my age,” she said,
presently. “I guess all I needed was
to get away from the doings for once.
Nary Miss Fisher, nary dinner-dance,
nary guest towel and boudoir cap,
nary Hildegarde—my land!” She
rocked so vehemently with mirth that
young Dave inside started toward her,
and the girl took her foot off the ac-
celerator. “Nary Christmas! Chil-
dren, listen—Nary Christmas!”—By
Ruth Comfort Mitchell.
old
——Ladies’ $5 velvet, satin and
patent kid pumps, $3.85, Yeager’s Tiny
Boot Shop. 50-1t
Lock Haven Normal School to Confer
Degrees.
At a recent meeting of the State
Council of Education, at Harrisburg
authority was granted the Norma
schools of the State to confer degrees
on students having completed the
work required therefore.
Dr. Dallas W. Armstrong, principa
of the school, explains that the State
Council of Education is very carefu
not to grant this privilege to an;
school that cannot measure up to the
council’s standard for doing this work
He congratulated the members of the
faculty on the fact that their prepar
ation and teaching experience ha¢
been rewarded with this approval an
also felicitated the students on th.
fact that the state council considere:
their work to be of such a grade as t
grant this action.
It will now be possible for student
to receive their Normal school certifi
cates and Normal school diplomas a
usual after completing the require
two years’ work; the last two year
required for the bachelor’s degree ma
be taken immediately after comple!
ing the two years’ course, or, if nec
essary, may be taken after the stuc
ent has been teaching for a year ¢
two. This arrangement, he pointe
out, makes it possible for any one dc
siring the degree in education to of
tain one.
A —————— A Sr ———————
——Men’s $7 sixteen inch high to
leather shoes, $4.85, Yeager’s Tin
Boot Shop. 50-1