Bewooaaic Mado.
—
Bellefonte, Pa., May 13, 1927.
Be —————————————————— I ——=—
AMERICAN DEMOCRACY.
American Democracy,
Round which our hearts entwine,
Our heritage from Jefferson,
Whose principles divine
Have shaped the Nation’s destiny,
Shall steer our course aright,
And lead us on, unerringly,
Into sublimer light.
American Democracy,
To which the Nation now
Looks for the laurels of relief
To ease her anxious brow,
Should never more be handicapped
By inharmonious strife—
For peace within the party ranks
Means power to the life.
American Democracy—
By greed and graft despised—
Could settle all the grievances
That error has devised
If those in high authority
Would be as true and just
As Washington and Jefferson
Were to their every trust.
American Democracy—
To her hope lifts its hat—
May no man who presumes to call
Himself a Democrat
Her put his personal desires—
No matter what befall—
Above Democracy’s demands—
Above his Party’s call.
—By National Democrat.
A MAN IN THE HOUSE.
- Across the hedge, the Graham girl
was moodily batting tennis balls
against the side of the garage. On
her face, distinguished ordinarily by
good nature and excellent health
rather than by any very happy ar-
rangement of the features, was a look
of intense irritation not unmixed with
disgust.
The hedge was not high, privet
primly cut to the height of one’s
waist—the Graham girl was overly
tall—so that, every now and then,
under pretext of retrieving a ball,
she was able to glance across to
where on the adjoining lawn, young
Cyril Lucien St. Andrews Archibald
sat in the shade of the wistaria arbor
with an open volume of Rupert
Brooke’s poems on the knees of his
immaculate white flannels.
He was not, however, reading the
words of his dead countryman. On
his face, serious and thoughtful and
pinkly English, was a look of expect-
ancy shot through with what the
Graham girl, even on her side of the
hedge, could plainly see was a sen-
timental smirk. At least, that is
what she called it to herself, being a
person of forceful, downright speech
and few hesitancies.
Few hesitancies, that is, except in
the presence of the young English-
man across the hedge. She had al-
ways been aware of the fact that as
the only daughter of a wealthy father
(Henry A. Graham, railroads, etc.) it
did not become her to hesitate in any
one’s presence. But a ‘month or so
ago, when Cyril Lucien St. Andrews
Archibald had come to the adjoining
country house as tutor to Nina Car.
rington Devers’ nine year-old son, she
had known for the first time the tre-
mors of extreme shyness and had be-
come a prey to all sorts of new un-
certanties.
As for Cyril Lucien, he, too, had
been interested. The boy, his charge,
had been taken from a fashionable
school after a bout with scarlet fever
which had left him listless and droop-
ing. A famous specialist, once a New
Hampshire country boy himself, had
ordered his mother to let the child
run wild in “the real country, no Long
Island estate stuff” until the begin-
ning of the fall school term, and had
recommended, after a shrewd glance
at the small, disinterested patient,
his own home village, where there
were few summer people and where
the fishing, he added wistfully, was
exceptionally good. Tutoring, there-
fore, had been but an empty word,
and Cyril Lucien, with time on his
hands, had found that that time could
be put to good account in the com-
pany of the girl across the hedge.
Being a shy person, he had greatly
admired Mary Graham’s superb con-
fidence and forthrightness. Besides,
the way she played tennis reminded
the homesick lad of his own sisters in
England, so that he had felt at home
with her and greatly at his ease.
But now that was all in the past.
A week or so ago, the young and
lovely Mrs. Devers had arrived in
person, presumably to superintend
the running wild of her son. And
being frankly predatory where men
were concerned, she had, with a few
careless flutters of her beautiful eye-
lashes, made her son’s tutor her de-
voted slave.
So that now, unconscious of the
Graham girl’s irritated watchfulness,
Cyril Lucien was gazing like a moon-
calf at the sun-flooded terrace of the
sprawling, remodeled farmhouse,
where shortly, as he hoped, his em-
ployer would appear, a vision of love-
liness, and join him in the arbor.
Then he would read to her from the
thin volume on his knees.
aaa .Would I were, In Gran-
chester! In Granchester!
“But Granchester, ah, Granchester!
There’s peace and holy quiet there,
Great clouds along pacific skies,
And men and women with straight
eyes,
Lithe children lovelier than a
dream,
A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream,
And little kindly winds that creep
Round twilight corners half asleep.”
Perhaps, he mused, it would be just
as well to leave out the next few
lines. Brooke was a queer chap! But
—“In Granchester! In Granchester!”
The words must be chanted like mu-
sical syllables. He tried them over,
the first lightly touched like a violin
string, and the last deep as an organ
tone, beating time with his hand as
he read aloud,
“Oh, damn!” said the Graham girl
viciously, as she threw down er
racket and stalked away.
While upstairs in her own sitting-
room the beautiful Mrs, Devers, in a
primrose and mauve negligee, gazed
at her reflection in the mirror, and
pondered idly on what gown she
would wear that afternoon for the
further enslavement of the young
man in the arbor. Cod
Her mirror gave back a satisfying
reflection, and she regarded it with
complacence, as well she might. Her
hair was dark brown with copper
lights in the deep waves of it; her
eyes were of a darker and richer
brown than her hair; her eyebrows
were delicate little ares of black
haughtily arched over the contradic-
tory coquetry of her eyes. Her red
lips provocative, and curved always
as if by secret laughter.
Occasionally she glanced away
from her mirror, toward the window,
and then a tenderly michievous smile
would appear. She knew young Cyril
Lucien was waiting for her there in
the arbor, and that shortly, when she
joined him, he would read aloud to
her from one of his collection of the
yourig English poets. She knew also
that the Graham girl was stalking
about on the other side of the hedge,
casting malignant glances at the De-
vers lawn.
“He is such a nice boy,” she mus-
ed, “and I really must send him back
to Mary Graham—soon. After all,
she will have oodles of money, and
the poor lamb needs a rich wife. I
know his family is poor. And in
England Mary Graham wouldn’t be
se bad-looking.”
Feeling that this cryptic remark
needed explanation, even to herself,
she added: “I mean, she’s quite the
English type—raw-boned and out-of
doorsy. She looks avell on a horse,
And of course the poor boy seemed
quite smitten when I came up here
first. Just the same, I think I shall
wear the white crepe with the em-
broidered poppies.”
But because the day was warm, and
she felt languid, she did not hasten
to cast off the primrose and mauve
negligee, but continued to stare pen-
sively at her reflection, complacent of
its loveliness and at peace with the
world.
She turned with irritated briskness,
however, when the door of her room
was rudely opened without any warn-
ing knock, and her small son, Car-
rington, entered, stumbling clumsily
on the doorway, charging into several
chairs that seemed suddenly to have
entered into a malicious conspiracy
to impede his progress.
Nina's look changed as she watch-
ed his clumsiness. The irritation
died out of her glance, and in its
place came a troubled and puzzled
tenderness. As always, when she
contemplated her offspring in this de-
tached manner, she found herself
wondering just why Nature had play-
ed this supreme joke on her. For the
boy had nothing at all of her dainti-
ness and loveliness, but was, instead,
an exact replica of his father, the
bourgeois Jim Devers, whom she had
Sivoncad a year or so after the boy’s
irth.
The pugnacious look to the slight-
ly snub nose, the stubbornness of the
jaw, even the unruly shock of red
hair and the faint sprinkling of freck-
les over the nose and on the cheeks,
certain gestures, mannerisms, all
were Jim Devers. This time she
spoke her thoughts aloud.
“Ca¥rington,” she said with a puz-
zled frown, “you grow more like your
father every day!”
The boy, who had been shuffling
about uncertainly, looked up eagerly.
“How do you mean, I'm like him 2”
She passed over the form of the
question without the customary cor-
rection. “I mean,” she said, uncon-
sciously speaking as one speaks to
a grown person, “your looks, as well
as your manners—or lack of them,
rather. Why did you burst into my
room just now without knocking ?
Please put down that vanity case! I
know you are going to drop it.”
He put it down clumsily, so that
it tipped over a small silver vase in
which a single wild rose had been
nodding its lovely head. The rose
had been the morning offering of Cy-
ril Lucien on the shrine of his adored.
Nina shuddered.
“Leave it alone, Carrington! Don’t
you see you are only making it
worse? Just leave it! It doesn’t
matter.
what you wanted when you came in
here.”
But instead of sitting down, the
boy shuffled to the window and stood
looking out, restless hands playing
with the tasseled cord of the shade,
Nina waited silently.
“Mother,” he burst out at last,
“where is my father?”
Nina started. The peacefulness of
her mood was now completely shat-
tered, as though a noisy bomb had ex-
ploded in the quiet of her room. This
sudden question about her former
husband seemed to bring his turbu-
lent, restless personality back into
her life again, shattering quiet, mak-
ing demands, stirring up old antagon-
isms.
“Carrington,” she said at last, her
tone very casual—too casual, per-
haps, for complete sincerity—*“I
thought you understood. Your fath-
er and I were divorced when you were
a bahy.”
“I don’t see,” he said, suddenly de-
veloping a small boy whine, “why I
can’t see him once in a while. Why
doesn’t he come here ? Mother, what
does my father do?”
“He is in business. He owns a
string of grocery stores all through
the country. He lives in Chicago.
Surely I've told you all this before!”
“No, you never did. You never
told me anything about him. Has he
got lots of money?”
In spite of her irritation, Nina
laughed. “That’s so like him! Just
what he used to ask about people!
But since you are interested, I ‘ean
assure you that he has ‘lots,’ and is
making more every day. Do you
want money for anything? Even if
your allowance isn’t due—?”
“I don’t want money,” he interrupt-
ed; ‘I want a fishing pole.”
Nina sighed with relief. A request
for a tangible possession she under-
stood perfectly. “Why, of course!
Get Mr. Archibald to order the car
and take you in town to get one. And
then he can take you fis ing.”
But the boy turned suddenly to
face her, a black frown on his intent
little face. “I don’t want to go with
him! I want to go with Skinny.”
“Is Skinny the boy in the village
: you have been playing with?”
Sit down and tell me quietly |},
“Yes,” he answered gloomily. Then
added, “His father’s a drummer.”
Nina started in bewilderment, “I
don’t understand you, Carrington! I
don’t know what you want, nor what
you are talking about. I've let you
play with the village boys when Mr.
Archibald was around, and I have let
you have them here. But you are too
young to go fishing alone, with only
another boy of your own age. What
all this has to do with”—she hesitat-
ed—“your father, I can’t understand.
You never talked about him when
you were in school.”
For a time the boy seemed to be
struggling with an explanation, some-
thing clear in his own mind, but diffi-
cult to put in words. Finally, he
said: “At school it didn’t matter. I
never thought of it. Lots of the kids’
fathers and mothers were divorced.
Up here every kid has a father. They
ask about mine. Skinny’s father
takes him fishing when he’s home.”
Nina had a flash of understanding.
It was true that at the fashionable
school her son attended, divorce was
a commonplace. But now, thrust into
the family life of the village, the
child no doubt felt himself different
from other boys. She wondered if
she had been wise in following the
advice of the specialist, bringing him
up here out of what had always made
{up his small world. Still, there was
ino doubt but that he had improved in
( health since he had come. His eyes
{ were no longer too large for his face,
and he certainly was growing—in a
most disconcerting fashion. She
sighed.
“I'm sorry, Carrington. In a few
years, when you are old enough to
decide things for yourself, and if your
ably it can be arranged. But you
are too young to know what you real-
er has never asked to see you.”
She was dismayed at the effect of
this on the child. His independent,
little-boy look faded. Suddenly he
seemed only a baby about to cry. He
turned away from her and ‘made
blindly for the doorway, but paused
there for another last question.
or another boy like me?”
“No!” Tied Nina hastily. Oar.
rington, do please stop swinging that
door!” Then her voice softened.
“Son, come here a moment. I want
to talk to you.”
“No, you don’t. You just want to
make a fuss over me! I ain’t a girl!”
The bang of the door punctuated
his contempt.
Astonished at her own mood, as
well as her son’s. Nina sat still,
staring with unseeing eyes at the
closed door whose noisy ang seem-
ed to have shut her so completly out
of her son’s life. Why, she wondered
impatiently, had she ever mentioned
Jim Devers’ name to him? Vaguely
the thought came to her that she her-
self had been unconsciously sharing
the child’s loneliness, away from her
of pleasure, here in the sweet quiet
of the old-fashioned village.
It came to her now with a clearness
that shocked her into resentment
that she had been thinking how well
Jim Devers would fit into such an en-
vironment—he had always been at
hs best ‘when surrounded by simple
ings.
She could imagine him now, boy-
ishly enthusiastic, absurdly exeited
over trifles—“Come on, Nina, be a
sport! Let’s go fishing!”
As though her thoughts had been a
tangible cloak about her, she shrugged
her shoulders impatiently and turned
again to the mirror.
A short time afterward, wearing
the emboidered crepe, Nina joined
Cyril Lucien St. Andrews Archibald
in the wistaria arbor, all traces of
the recent disturbance banished from
her face. But although the gown was
a complete success, the sunshine gold-
en and warm, and there was an ador-
ing male beside her, incoherently and
wistfully in love, she found it difficult
to visualize the “peace and holy
quiet” of Granchester that afternoon.
Jim Devers, turbulent, impetuous
Jim, seemed crashing through the
wistful beauty of the poem, shatter-
ing the dream, and laughing at the
ruin he had made; while she walked
eside him in her old half-angry,
half-excited acceptance of his pres-
ence.
In the meantime, Carrington, still
gloomy and thoughtful, shuffled with
apparent aimlessness down the grav-
eled walk to the big iron gates. Once
outside, however, he squared his
shoulders; his walk became brisk and
purposeful; the frown left his face.
He ran down the road, shot off into
a side path across a field knee-deep
in clover, and arrived presently in the
dooryard of a neat little white house,
green-shuttered and trim, with a
rambling clump of out-houses at the
back. He skirted carefully round the
side of the house, on the watch for
possible grown-up interference, and
disappeared into the cool, shadowed
depths of a tool-house, on the floor
of which was stretched the thin form
of a boy about his own age, now, it
would seem, in the throes of composi-
tion. A book of white, ruled paper
lay before him, and he clutched a
lead pencil, the wood of which had
been nibbled away to release more
and more of the lead as the young
composer worked on with a hand
more heavy than expert, The greet-
ing between the two boys was laonic.
‘Hi, Red!”
9
“Hi, Skinny!”
Carrington seated himself on the
handles of a wheelbarrow, and lean-
ed over the boy on the floor, peering
curiously at the paper before him.
“Whadya doing, kinny ?”
“Writin’ to my old man. He's off
on a trip. I'm tellin’ him to come up
here to go fishin’ with me up at the
falls before the summer people catch
all the fish. He'll come all right if
I tell him to!”
Silence fell in the cool little retreat
of the children, broken only by the
labored breathing of Skinny as he
went on with his letter.
“Say, Skinny,” asked Carrington
himidly, “what did you say in that let-
ry
“Aw, just what any kid writes to
his old man! Told him about the
fishin’. That always brings them,” he
added wisely. “He'll get his time off
now and come home, I'll betcha!”
He laboriously added the last words
to the smudged document before him,
father wants you to visit him, prob- ,
ly want to do. Remember, your fath- i
“Has my father got another wife, |
“Car- |
friends and their determined pursuit |
{ then meditatively chewed at his pen-
ci. His thoughts wandered. “Did
your Ma say you could come fishin’
with me?”
Carrington kicked at the leg of the
barrow. “She said,” he muttered,
“that I couldn’t go with you alone.
My tutor will have to come along.”
Skinny allowed himself a shrill
{hoot of derision. “That sissy!” he
velped. “He’s a man nurse—that’s
what he is!”
Carrington, stung by the implica-
i tion that he needed a nurse, and still
having no arguments to refute the
charge, remained silent.
“Say, Red,” said Skinny at last,
turning over on his back and pillow-
ing his head on his letter,” why don’t
you write to your old man and tell
him to come up here while the fishin’s
good? Gee, I bet he'd come if you
wrote! Say, Red, what's your father
do anyway 7”
got a store. In Chicago. A big one,
maybe the biggest in the world.
guess he can't leave the store long
enough to come up here.”
The effect of this on Skinny was
electrical. He sat up and regarded
Carrington with round eyes of envy. In
his social world, the local store-keep-
er was second only to the local bank
president as a potentate and man of
affairs.
“Gee!” he said admiringly.
Carrington, surprised and delighted
by the effect of his words, pushed his
advantage still further. “Gee!” he
said with an easy relapse into Skin-
'ny’s own style, “he’s got everything
in the world in that old store of his!
He’s got fishing poles a mile long, I
guess, and”—he searched his imagin-
ation for further details—“and can-
‘dy! All the candy in Chicago! And
| automobiles!”
“Gee!” Skinny was more and more
, impressed. Carrington’s mother’s
chauffeur, her car, Carrington’s tutor, |
his clothes, and the big terraced
house on the hill he had accepted as
the customary adjuncts of a world in
which “summer folks” lived. But a
father who owned a store was some-
‘thing above and beyond all these.
This was something he could under-
stand and respect.
All summer he had lorded his su-
premacy as a fisherman, a milker of
cows, and the sole owner of a dog
named Skip, over his small friend.
Now he felt his superiority slipping.
He made a last attempt to regain it
by expressing a doubt.
“Automobiles, huh?
a garage, too?”
arrington was letting his imagin-
ation run away with him. He intend-
ed to enjoy this minute to the full.
“Automobiles!” he echoed contempt-
uously. “Why, my father’s got the
biggest garage in Chicago!”
Silence, while Skinny digested this.
When he
a garage himself. “Say,” he said at
last, get him to come up here, will
you?
“Sure!” said Carrington confidently,
still in his dream of a store-garage-
owning parent. Then as reality
crowded in, he added “Sure,” but with
no_confidence whatever in his tone.
Just then a mighty uproar in the
yard jerked both boys to ‘their feet.
There was the sound of a wild scuffie
punctuated by yelps that deepened
into growls of amazing volume and
fierceness.
Skinny rushed to the door. ‘That’s
' Skip,” he yelled, “fightin’ again!
' Lets beat it!” and he dashed outside.
i Carrington rushed, too. But before
he joined the excited Skinny and the
two dogs in the yard, he stooped and
i picked up something from the floor,
which he thrust hastily into his pock-
et.
Viewed as a combat, the dog prov-
ed a disappointment, because of the
i intruder’s determination to run away
and Skip’s magnanimity in letting
him, but the incident provided con-
Does he run
murmured excuse about “having to
see a fellow at the house,” took his
departure.
| The shadows were lengthening ove:
| the lawn when he arrived. Nina had
gone into the house, but Cyril Lucien
was still sitting, a beatific smile on
his face, in the arbor. The book of
poems had slipped to the ground, for-
gotten, while he went over again in
his mind ‘every word, every gesture
of his adored. She had been troubled
| he thought. "He longed for some dan-
i ger to threaten her so that he could
| prove his love by doughty deeds. H
| toyed for a time with the idea of res-
cuing her from drowning, until he
remembered that she was an accom.
plished swimmer—and he was not.
Burglars, perhaps—
He was rudely awakened out of his
dream by Carrington, who blundered
breathlessly into the arbor and stood
before his tutor, legs wide apart, an
eager, questioning look on his face.
“Say,” he began, choking in his
eagerness, “how do you find out
where a fellow lives, if you know he
lives in Chicago and you want to send
a letter to him?”
Cyril Lucien pulled his soaring
thoughts down to earth. “I say, old
chap, don’t begin your sentences with
‘say.’ 3 It’s beastly bad form, you
OW.
Carrington ignored this. One had
to stand for just so much of that sort
of thing before grown-ups ever an-
swered ‘a plain question. “How do
you?” he insisted, blocking the tu-
tor’s exit determinedly.
“Is it one of your school chums?”
“No,” the child answered, then, af-
ter a moment’s thought, he added,
“It’s his father.”
‘In that case,” said Cyril Lucien
absentmindedly, stooping to pick up
Rupert Brooke, he’s probably in
your Who's Who. Or in the Social
Register. They are both on the li-
brary table. Shall I look him up for
you, old man”
“No,” said Carrington ungraciously
and rushed away, leaving his tutor
with a baffled sense of having in some
way failed the child.
“Queer, unmannerly little chap!”
he mused. “Not a bit like Her. The
father must have been an awful
bounder!”
And he walked dreamily up to the
house.
(Concluded next week)
————————— re ————————
——The “Watchman” tells all the
news in a readable and interesting
‘style. Try it for a year.
Carrington did not hesitate. “He’s |
I | “transport”
ew up, he intended to own |
versation until Carrington, with a |
SOON FLY TO WORK IN
AIRPLANES.
Prediction that persons, in the
not distant future will fly from their
suburban homes to work in congested
cities using individual airplanes or
public service corporation ships, was
made by William P. MacCracken Jr.,
Assistant Secretary of commerce for
Aeronautics.
convocation of the Western Society
of Engineers he suggested that devel-
opment of aviation will bring about
a change in the trend of surburban
life and that city workers will be able
to have their home within a 75-mile
radius of the congested area. He
said there seems to be no reason why
success be extended
| of Milwaukee, Wis.
PREDICTION THAT PEOPLE WILL | Chi
|
I
In an address at the sixth annual '
Chicago’s suburban area cannot with |
78 miles north ,
With 20,000 miles daily flying on
| fixed schedules over regular routes, !
flying in
the United
States leads the world, announced Mr. '
' MacCracken who stated that several
airplane lines are contamplating
starting passenger service on fixed
routes in the United States this sum-
mer and expressed an opinion that
“undoubtedly” other companies will
follow the lead of the National Air
Transport, Inc., in obtaining contracts
to carry express by airplane. The
National obtained a contract last win-
ter to serve the American Railway
Express Company in flights daily be-
tween Chicago and Dallas, Texas,
Mr. MacCracken believes that fog
eventually will be overcome. Efforts
to abolish this handicap in landing or
taking off by use of radio beacons
may be successful ,it was suggested,
and attempts to disperse fog from
overhead, or from the ground up, may
be successfully carried out, too, it was
predicted.
rapid, Mr. MacCracken reported in
the last six months of 1926 the
air mail receipts were 75 per cent.
in excess of the preceding half year,
he remarked.
| Constantly increasing use of aerial
surveys for business projects, for in-
i dustrial expansion and for engineer-
ling data, was pointed out and com- |
mended. Air taxi service is being de-
veloped more and
throughout the country and the op-
erators are always ready, willing, and
in most cases able men Mr. Mac-
Cracken ‘continued.
He predicted that there will be a
great future in this country for sport
will increase national interest in avia-
tion. All the reported development
of branches of commercial ‘aviation
emphasize that it must have many
radical me-
in the
ed out, because unless
‘chanical changes are made
more community airports, he point. |
Growth of air mail is astonishingly
more widely 72-18-6t
1
i
1
. ships, it will not be practicable priv-
| ate
ately to maintain the large landing
i fields now required. Better airplots
{for a city mean better business for
‘that city he stated.
| A vast industry is bound to grow
{up around commercial aviation, he
pointed out, and already there are
signs that the Present: facilities for
manufacturing equipment . and sup-
| Plies are, generally speaking, booked
i far ahead with orders, Detroit, Clev-
{land, and Buffalo are striving hard
| to attain national leadership in com-
mercial aviation. Chicago is favor.
ed, he said, by virtue of the trans-
portation facilities already there and
by reason of geographical location
but should not “turn her back” on
this new form of transportation.
| Chicago has not vet decided if it
, will build a big airport on the lake
‘front near the down-town district, a
plan which was recommended at the
convocation by Maj. P. G. Kemp,
chairman of the Chicago Aero Com-
, mission.—Reformatory Record.
— eg
i Dowsing Rod Tells of Hidden Water
! Supply.
| —
{ Cattle were dying of thirst on a
certain farm in the west of England
| where the owner was faced with the
necessity of selling his property and
{losing a considerable sum of money
‘unless he found a good supply of wa-
| ter, says a writer in a London paper.
{ After numerous attempts to sink
wells, he hired a professional water
,diviner. Thes men are usually paid
jon results, and charge a fee some-
€ | times as low as $10. Not far from
the farmhouse, the dowser’s twig
gave him a definite indication that
water in plenty lay beneath his feet.
Digging was begun, but after sinking
a shaft bout 100 feet down no water
| ap
erwrought with anxiety, the
farmer called the dowser a swindler.
“The twig has never failed me,” the
man replied calmly. “Go down farth-
er.” A deeper bore was made, and
supply of water was tapped and an
artesian well constructed.
The history of the dowsing rod
goes back to ancient Egypt. The
finding of new water supplies by this
means has been practiced in England
since the reign of Queen Elizabeth, It
1s said to have been introduced by
German miners who were brought
over to teach Cornishmen how to
‘make their mines more profitable,
A successful water diviner has a
natural but obscure gift. Without
his forked twig, made of hazel—al-
though holly and blackthorn are also
favored—he is helpless to discover
the water. But in his hands, and his
alone, it indicates by its almost life-
like movements when he is over wa-
I.
Holding the forked ends of the twig
securely in both hands, the point is
ser walks over water, the point of
the twig may jerk downward, and
actually point to the spot where the
water is hidden. When a fresh black-
thorn twig is used, its movement is
often so violent that the bark peels
off in the dowser’s hands, and ocea-
sionally the twig breaks.— Exchange.
———————
———Alligators are becoming scarce
in Louisiana because of the demand
for the skins from which suit cases
and purses are manufactured. One
company destroys an average of 10,-
000 alligators monthly. Government
protection for alligators has been be-
gun in some southern States.
at a depth of nearly 200 feet a large | 33
allowed to stick upward. As the dow- | go
Idren Romp Under Healthful Vio-
.let Rays.
Paris.—An ultra-violet ray: sun
that is never clouded shines on an
artificial sand beach in a basement
of Paris. Children, wearing only a
pair of trunks and smoked glasses,
play there on their way to health.
This city sea beach is a part of the
Institute of Actinology, a clinic fight-
| tuberculosis.
Edouard Herriot, minister of pub-
lic instruction, dedicated the beach at
a little ceremony, while the young
patients played in the sand.
The beach is 40 feet square, with
the walls covered with bright alum-
inum for reflection, and the blinding
mercury lamps above.
NEW ADVERTISEMENTS
OUSE FOR RENT.—Phone Mrs, H.C.
Valentine, 113 W. Curtin St., Belle-
fonte. Phone 337-R 72-13-tf
RANKLIN SEDAN.—Brand new 1927
Franklin Sedan, five passenger,
never used, just delivered. New
car can be purchased at an attractive dis-
count from the regular price. Write or
phone Sim Baum, Bellefonte, Pa. 72-18-3t
UERNSEYS FoR SALE.—A fine
Guernsey cow. a heifer and a bull
calf, all eligible to registry. These
animals are all in g00od condition and of
A 1 blood that might improve that of any
grade herd. Inquire of Cross and Meek,
Bellefonte, Pa., or phone Bellefonte 520-J
DMINISTRATRIX'S NOTICE.—Let-
ters of administration having beem
granted to the undersigned upon
the estate of George H. Musser, late of
Boggs township, Centre county, deceased,
all persons knowing themselves indebted
to same will please make payment, and
those having
must present
for settlement.
claims against the estate
them, duly authenticated,
MARIA C. MUSSER,
Administratrix,
Gettig & Bower, Bellefonte, Pa.
Attorneys. 72-18-6t
XECUTRIX’S NOTICE.—Letters test-
amentary upon the estate of Eloise
Meek, Jate of Bellefonte bor-
ough, deceased, having been granted to
the undersigned, all persons knowing
themselves indebted to same are request-
to make prompt payment, and those
having claims a ainst said estate must
present them, duly authenticated for set-
tlement.
Mrs. WINIFRED B. MEEK MORRIS,
Executrix,
5420 Ellsworth Ave.,
Pittsburgh, Pa.
MENDMENT OF CHARTER.—In the
Court of Common Pleas of Centre
County, Pa., No. 175 May Term,
1927.
Notice is hereby given that an applica-
tion will be made to the Court of Ci
2 A Pleas of Centre County, Pa., in the above
flying, saying that clean, wholesome | stated matter on the seventh day of June,
competition will develop and that this | 1927, at ten o’clock A. M., or as soon there-
after as conveniently may be, for the ap-
proval and granting of an amendment to
the charter of THE UNIVERSITY CLUB,
as set forth in the petition therefor fil
the said Court to the above mentioned
number and term, agreeably to the pro-
visions of the “Corporation” Act of 1874”,
and its supplements,
i BLANCHARD & BLANCHARD,
72-18-3t . Solicitors.
HERIFF'S SALE.—By virtue of a
writ of Fieri Facias issued out of
the Court of Common
SATURDAY, MAY 21st, 1927.
The following property :
All that ‘e tain: Messuage, tenement and
lot of ‘grousd. situa , lying and’ ‘being; im
the Township of orth, ' (Now PortsMa-
tilda) County . of Centre . and . State ‘of
Penna., bounded and described as follows,
to-wit :
Beginning at a Post in the middle of
what is known as the “Plank Road,” now
the State Highway, at the Southwest cor-
ner of the United Brethren Church lot
situate in Port Matilda; thence along the-
line of said Church lot North 42 degrees
West 231 feet to a post on line of Budd
Thompson; thence along land of Budd
Thompson South 50 degrees West 150 ft. to-
a post; thence along land of Jacob S. Wil-
liams South 42 degrees East 250 feet to a
post in ihe middle of said Plank Road;
thence along the middle of said Plank
Road North 44 degrees East 150 feet te a
post, the place of beginning, Having
thereon erected a large two-story brick
garage,
Being the same premises which were con-
veyed to William W. Shultz by Jacob S.
Williams by Deed dated August 28th,
1925, and recorded in Centre é
Deed Book Vol. 134, page 445.
Seized, taken in execution and to be sold
| as the property of William W. Shultz.
Sale to commence at 1.30 o'clock p. m. of
said day.
E. R. TAYLOR, Sheriff.
72-17-3¢
| Sherifr's office, Bellefonte,
Pa., April 26th, 1927.
HERIFF'S SALE.—By virtue of a
writ of Fieri Facias issued out of
the Court of Common Pleas of
Centre County, to me directed, will be ex-
posed to public sale at the Court House
in Bellefonte Borough on
Saturday; May ist, 1927...
The following property :
~All those ‘three certain messuages, ten-
‘enients ‘or tract of. land situate in the Vil-
lige of Port Matilda = (now Borpugh),
Township of Worth, County of Centre and
State of Pennsylvania, bounded and des-
cribed as follows, to-wit:
NUMBER ONE: Beginning on High
Street, corner of Lot No. 35; thence South
along High Street 60 feet to lot No. 31;
thence West along Lot No. 31, 200 feet to
West Street; thence North along West
Street 60 feet to Lot No. 35; thence Kast
along Lot No. 35, 200 feet to High Street,
the place of beginning; the said lot being:
60 feet front on High Street and 200 feet
back to West Street and known as Lot No.
Plot or Plan of Port Matilda, Centre
Pennsylvania, having
erected a two and a half story frame dwel-
ling house, the title to which became vest-
ed in the said Mortgagor by deed of A. WwW.
Reese and Clarissa Reese his wife, dated
May 16, 1916, and recorded in Centre Coun-
ty, Pennsylvania June 7, 1916, in Deed.
Book Vel. 117, page 602.
NUMBER TWO: Beginning at a post
on the East side of an alley 16 feet wide,.
a public alley leading from the said road
Southeast along the land of Nancy Ben-
nett’s Heirs; thence along said State
Road, North 52 degrees East 50 feet to a
Post and line dividing Lots Nos. 1 and 2;
thence along said line South 37 degrees
East 150 feet te Water Street; thence
along said Street 50 feet to a post; thence
by said alley first mentioned North 37 de-
grees West 150 feet to the place of begin-
ning. Having thereon erected a frame
dwelling house, and known as Lot No. 1
in the GeneralPlan of Bennett's Addition
to Port Matilda, and being the same prem-
ises, the title to which became vested in
the said Mortgagor by deed of Clara RB.
Bennett and William Bennett, her hus-
band, dated May 23, 1918 and recorded in
Centre County in Deed Book Vol. 122, page
NUMBER THREE: Beginning at a
stake corner of Lot No. 1; thence 48 de-
rees Bast 70 feet to stake; thence North,
38%, degrees West 140 feet to Oak Street ;
thence along Oak Street South 48 degrees:
West, 70 feet to stake; thence South 38
degrees East 140 feet to stake, the place of"
beginning ,and being known as Lot No. §
in C. W. Keller's Addition to the Village
of Port Matilda, having erected thereon.
a frame dwelling house, the title to which
became vested in the said Mortgagor, by
deed of C. W. Keller, dated Sept. 13, 1917
and recorded in Centre County, in Deed
Book Vol. 121, page 51.
Seized, taken in execution and to be sold
as the property of W. W. Shultz.
Sale to commence at 1:30 o'clock Pp. m,
of said day.
E. R. TAYLOR, Sheriff;
Sheriff’s Office, Bellefonte, Pa.,
April 28 1927. 72-17-3¢