Beware atc.
Bellefonte, Pa., August 5, 1927.
m——
YOU
You are the fellow that has to decide
Whether you'll do it or toss it aside.
You are the fellow who makes up your
mind
‘Whether you'll lead or will linger behind
Whether you’ll try for the goal that’s afar
Or be contented to stay where you are.
Take it or leave it. Here's something to do!
Just think it over. It's all up to you!
What do you wish? To be known as a
shirk.
Known as a good man who's willing to
work,
Scorned for a loafer or praised by your
chief,
Rich man or poor man or beggar or thief?
Eager or earnest or dull through the day,
Honest or crooked ? It’s you who must say!
You must decide in the face of the test
Whether you'll shirk or give it your best.
Nobody here will compel you to rise;
No one will force you to open your eyes;
No one will answer for you yes or no,
Whether to stay there or whether to go.
Life is a game, but it's you who must say,
Whether as cheat or as sportsman you'll
play.
I"ate may betray you, but you settle first
Whether to live to your best or your worst.
By Edgar A. Guest.
BEFORE I COME FOR YOU.
“Until the rain in the afternoon
prevented the running of the second
Grand Prix,” read Kit Ellsworth from
the latest Paris letter,, “the same
crowd of elegantes were later seen
returning from Longchamps, stopping
at D’Armenonville for tea, or sipping
ices beneath the great red umbrellas
at Pre Cathalan’s—”
Virginia Harcourt, advertising man-
ager, reached for her last “ad” on
Paris gowns and tore it mercilessly
into shreds.
“Oh, don’t do that!” protested Kit
indignantly. “Oh, why do you? Why,
it was one of your masterpieces.”
“Masterpiece nothing!” flamed the
advertising manager, tossing the tat-
tered bits into the waste basket.
“Haven’t you just shown me what rot
it is even trying to do Paris stuff
with knowing Paris?”
“I don’t see why.” Kit took up the
cudgels with warmth. “Why, there’s
nobody in town can write Paris stuff
the way you do—”"
“Maybe not. But anybody who
knows Paris can tell right off it isn’t
the real Paris stuff: only my feeble
little notion of what the real stuff
might be. If I were really there—in
Paris now—"
Her eyes grew very dreamy.
“I—I used to make little plans
about it every night,” she confessed
without shame. “It—it sort of help-
ed. I even used to study up on their
money,—francs and centimes you
know. “You see, that was back when
I was earning six per and living on
herfings and crackers. You can’t un:
derstand, of course.”
“Maybe I can,” said Kit, to whom
the discovery that she could under-
stand had not yet lost its keen edge
of wonder. She rose now and gave
ber chief an impulsive hug. “And I
just bet my boots that you will see
Paris some day!” she whispered.
“Elizabeth won’t stay there always.
I've always said she’ll be marrying
a Russian Prince some day, and they'll
send you instead. Wouldnt that be
great—you in Paris?”
“Me in Paris? No fear! No such
luck, I mean,” said Virginia, toying
absently with the once unknown now
daily bunch of sweet peas at her belt.
“Unlikeliest thing in the world that
Eizabeth will ever leave. Anyway,
even if she did, they’d never send me!”
“Who else would they send, pray?
You're the very one. Only—” Kit
brought her warm young lips very
close to the other's ear. “Dou you
think you'd go—really?” she chal-
lenged. “There’s no telephone over
there on the Champs Elysees, and—
it’s Thursday, you know. Oh, you
needn’t blush. There he is now!” as
the desk ’phone began to jangle.
Yes, there he was now!
“Hello. Yes, it’s I. Oh, are you?
Yes, yes! About as usual. No, no,
not so busy as that. Yes, I can be
there. At one-thirty as usual. Oh
I suppose I could make it one. You
have something special to tell me—
ch, have you? As special as all that?
At twelve-forty-five then. Yes, indeed
—sure. No, I'll try hard not to be
late. Good-by!” 5
The advertising manager raised a
softly glowing face to the mirror and
studied it with contented eyes—see-
ing there the copper braids, too creamy
skin, and great gray eyes of her ab-
horrence a year ago, but viewing these
defects now as through a viel of tri-
umph, since he had cared for her, de-
fects and ail.
_ “Have you forgotten what time it
is?” came Kit’s rebuking voice at her
elbow.
‘Why,
twelve.” i
“Ivy one minute to twelve,” said
Kit sternly. “I believe you need a
guardian. Have you forgotten? Mr.
Higby wanted to see you at twelve.”
“Why, so he did,” she pulled up
sharply. “I declare I had forgotten
for a moment. I would have remem-
bered, of course.” :
Oh, well, it would not take long,
whatever it was on which the general
manager wished to consult her. What-
ever it was, it must not interfere with
her highly important engagement at
twelve-forty-five.
But Higby’s face wore unwonted
gravity as he motioned her to a chair.
When he spoke it was abruptly. “How
would you like to live in Paris?”
. “Paris!” Her delicate skin flared
instantly with eagerness. “You mean
you want to send me over for a trip ?”
“It is possible, Miss Harcourt, we
may want more than that.” He was
viewing her intently, though his tone
was casual. “How would you like to
consider living in Paris?”
“Living there?” the words came in
startled gasps. “Do you mean for-
ever 7”
no. It’s ten minutes
He smiled. “Forever is a long time.
But on the other hand, Paris is a long
way off. I was about to say for three
years.”
“Three years!” she echoed faintly.
“Why, then I'd be thirty-three.”
Ghastly age! “Then—then you don’t
need me here any more?” she heard
herself desperately sparring for time.
“It would be needless to say, Miss
Harcourt, how much we need you and
your work. If you go abroad, it will
only be because we are assured you
can be of even greater service to us
there.”
“Oh,” she cried, tingling beneath
this unheard-of praise.
He was viewing her very kindly.
“Our present representative we are
lesing by matrimony—as I foresaw.”
He frowned sligtly. The highly train-
ed, high-priced business woman of
marriageable age is an uncertain
quantity, as too often he had found.
“The question of her successor be-
comes, of course, a problem of grave
importance. There are naturally
many views of it to consider.” He
was studying her narrowly.
“First of all, salary. I believe we
are now paying you three thousand
dollars or thereabouts. But living
abroad is not living here,” he contin-
ued in a tone still casual. “The whole
scale of expense you will find very
different. You will have to live at a
hotel at first, certainly. You will
have to take cabs when you go out.
A woman in Paris does not walk in
the street alone. You will have to
dress differently.” His keen eye took
in every detail of her simple but ir-
reproachable little one-piece frock,
with quiet approval.
“The post of our Paris representa-
tive is a highly important one. You
will have to dress for the position.
For all these reasons we are prepared
to raise vour income to six thousand
dollars—"’
“Six thousand dollars!” He could
see her lids give a quick throb. “You
think I'd be worth all that?” she in-
quired with characteristic directness.
“We are quite willing to take that
risk, Miss Sarcour,” said Higby quiet-
ly. “But now I come to another point.
We would not care to send you to
Paris and think of you there as home-
sick or dissatisfied. If you go, we
want you to be happy there—happy
enough to want you to stay. For on
ourside it is of course highly import-
ant that our representative should
stay. Is there anything,” he paused
significantly, “anybody on this side to
prevent it?”
The first trace of anxiety betrayed
itself in his tone as she made no an-
swer.
“Oh, I see. You want more time to
consider. You are quite right,” he
conceded reluctantly. “The change is
a serious one. If you had a family
to consider, we could perhaps scarce-
ly suggest it; but you are, I under-
stand, quite alone?”
“Quite alone,” the words were al-
most steady.
“And can you continue so?” He
studied her gravely. “We are asking
for a contract only for three years.”
He paused, permitting the words te
sink in, Xi the. offer had come a year
before, with ‘what jubilance she would
have accepted it then. Ay, there was
the rub,—then! It was not then she
had to reckon with, but now. Could
she go away now, with happiness so
near, so close?
She raised pleading eyes. “Oh,
must I promise for three years?” she
begged desperately. “For one year,
ves, I could; but oh. no, not for three!
I couldn’t—"" she shivered slightly.
“That’s the dickens with a woman,”
mused the general manager impa-
tiently. “Here she’d fight to the last
ditch after every man in the store had
lain down; and vet now she’d let some
fool man step in and spoil her first
big chance.
“I suppose we must make it a year,”
he conceded pleasantly, aloud. “I
think we shall not ask you for a con-
tract after all. Miss Harcourt. Your
promise will be enough. And remem-
ber, by the end of the first six months
I expect you to write me you're so
in love with Paris you would not re-
turn at any price. Well, it is seettled,
then.” He pushed back his chair.
“You will need a little time for your
preparations. Can you manage in a
week? The Kaiserin sails June
first—"
“June first—" it was now May
twenty-third. She flushed slightly.
“It—it seems rather soon.”
“If you go, it is highly desirable
that you reach Paris before the June
races are over,” said Higby with quiet
decision. “That is a most important
season, and the Kaiserin is an excel-
lent boat. I will wire today for your
stateroom.” He rose, plainly disap-
pointed. “If you still need a little
time to consider, we can not refuse
that, of course. You will let me know
when you can.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Virginia. “I can
let you know after lunch.” She gave
a startled glance at her watch. It was
already one, and she had promised to
be at the Bellevue at twelve forty-
five!
It was nearer one-thirty when she
reached there, and a tall, broad-
shouldered figure came forward to
meet her.
“Oh, I am so sorry to be late!” she
faltered. “You don’t mind. do you?”
“Perhaps I did mind. You see, I've
an appointment at three, and I hate
to lose a moment. But it’s all right
now.” He looked hastily at his watch.
“I was only afraid you couldn’t come.
Foolish child, to hurry so!” He drew
her to a sheltered alcove, and placed
a cushion with profound gravity.
“Haven't I told you a hundred times
not to rush?”
“You'd rush too,” said Virginia
breathlessly, “if Higby had been tell-
ing you all the things he has me.”
She sank back against the pillow.
“Oh what do you suppose he wants
me to do? Or rather, I'll give you
three guesses.”
He viewed her tolerantly. How
much it meant to her, this strenuous
career-world in which he had so long
watched her battle with all a man’s
zeal and a woman’s ardor! That she
would be ready to leave it some day,
when the right day came, he had
never doubted; but now, manlike, he
felt a sudden pang of resentment.
“Will it take as many as three?
Some new sale, I suppose. That's
easy. You've smashed all previous
records in the May white sale.”
“Oh, something much bigger than
that.”
“You've bought out Leffingwell
Brothers’ stock, and he wants you to
feature it.”
“Oh, something much bigger than
that. One more—" she drew a long
breath.
“Must it be three?” He felt odd-
ly conscious of impatience. After all,
he had awaited three quarters of an
hour, and she had given yet no sign
of interest as to his own great piece
of news.
“Oh, I see well enough you could
never guess,” she concluded, with a
quick sigh. “Well, then, they want
me to go to Paris. What do you think
of that?” She waited breathlessly
for his answer, and, receiving none,
“For three years. And they're will-
ing to pay me,” for the first time her
voice faltered, “six thousand dollars.”
A sharp silence.
“Oh, I see,” said Collins in a voice
suddenly strained and formal. “AndI
suppose you've consented, of course.
One can do a great deal, or so I've
supposed, with six thousand dollars.”
The glow in his eyes was suddenly
extinguished.
“Yes, indeed,” she faltered.
I—I haven't said I'd go yet. In some
ways, I'd like to go. It’s something
you see, I've wanted always—since
back—to go to Paris for a time—”
Her heart was jerking to and fro.
He had not once called her “little
girl,” had not once looked at her.
“It is certainly a very great honor,”
he was saying with frigid formality.
He had picked up the wine list.
“Tell our waiter to add a bottle of
Chianti to that order.” He gave the
order sharply.
A strained pause.
“We must certainly drink to your
good fortune.”
“I—I haven’t gone yet,” said Vir-
ginia, feeling the world’s moorings '
slipping from her. If only he would
look at her long enough to melt that
awful chill!
The palm-sheltered orchestra broke |
into jubilant strains as the waiter fill-
ed her glass.
“To you in Paris.”
“Thank you.”
They barely touched glasses, and he
set his down with a sharp click. Hurt
pride raised its flag to her cheek.
“Sweetbreads? A few, yes, thanks
—or no. Just a little of the salad. I
haven’t so much time, you see.”
“I can quite see. If you are going
soon, of course there are prepara-
tions.”
“Yes, preparations.” She sank
back, too benumbed for pain.
There followed an endless, strained
meal, across an icy chasm. It was
only toward its close that she found
the courage to ask wistfully:
“But you—didn’t you say vou had
something too rather special ?”
“Oh, nothing of any great import-
ance after all, 1 believe,” he answer-
ed carelessly. ‘*“They’ve simply offer-
ed me the chances to represent the
South American end of the business
in Buenos Ayers.” kor an instant his
eyes sought hers in a glance quick-
ly withdrawn. “It seems a reason-
ably good thing. Salary and commis-
sions after the first year.
start—five thousand dollars.” He
jerked out the words with exaggerat-
ed calm. “I shall probably go—"
“You are going to South America!
You are going,” the words were frag-
ments torn from her heart, “to live
there 7”
“Call it living, if you like.” Again
he was studying the card intently.
“To be there, in any case, for five
years or so, until the business gains
a grip.”
She forced a lip-smile. “For five
years. As well say forever. Isn’t it
true that people who go to South
America never want to live anywhere
else?” She too picked up the card
and saw its letters swell and jeer in
derision. This, then, was his great
piece of news! “And I suppose it’s
all settled, isn’t it? And it’s just a
splendid business chance for you.
You've often told me how important |
Then
that end of the business is.
what can I say,” she raised her glass
desperately, “except to drink,” she
forced the words from chill lips, “to
South America?”
“You are very good.” But he set
his down as though stung. So this
was all she cared!
She dropped her fork. So this was |
all he cared!
“You will pardon me, if I don’t go
back with you to your office.”
“Yes, indeed.” She struggled into
her coat, disdainful of aid.
understand.
ment at three.”
She was barely conscious that their
hands met: conscious only of the fierce
determination not to let him see her
pain. He had not even asked her
when she was starting to Paris. So
then he didn’t even care enough to
write! If that was so, then indeed
it was better ended—better ended—
better ended! The very paying stones
took up the words in a very fury of
derision as she made her way back
to her desk—and—
There followed racking, derisive
days of preparation, of a hastily
cleared desk, of new trunks bought
and filled, of the formulas of congrat-
ulation, of last-minute shopping, of
farewells—always the sense of what
was lost laying its blight on what was
left. Always the secret hope that he
would still write. He must write!
Yet here the week was speeding to
its close. He had not written.
She had not even told him—or had
she—the date of her sailing, June
first. Then he had no possible way of
knowing that or even her address in
Paris. Surely she might tell him that
much without too much loss of pride.
Or, after, did pride count?
On her way home that evening she
stopped at a telegraph office and sent
a message to Arthur Collins, Easton,
Pennsylvania:
Sailing June first Kaiserin Auguste
for one year. Address Paris office.
Best, wishes South America. Goodby.
‘Good-by—for if he did not answer
that, it would be good-by indeed! And
“But
Salary to!
“I quite |
You have an engage-
there lay but three days now before
sailing. Two days—one day—the
day! :
At nine-thirty of the fatal Thurs-'
day that the Kaiserin was to set
steam a taxi drew up at the crowded
Hoboken pier, and Virginia Harcourt
sprang out with lips firm set and eyes
suspiciously bright. She was alone,
quite alone, in the glory of her smart
taffeta traveling suit, and mound of
brand-new baggage.
The pier was a scene of wild con-
fusion,— porters darting to and fro,
baggage rushed aboard, groups of
friends exchanging farewells, tender
partings. With a little choke she fol-
lowed her baggage up the gangway.
“Good-by—good-by!...Be sure to
cable from Cherbourg....Yes, Ill
stand right here and wave. You can
tell me by the feathers in my
hat....Excuse me, Madam, this is
my place....No, a large steamer
trunk and two small ones. Where has
that porter gone to? How inferior
bottom of this merciless sea for the
sight of one loved face, the sound of
cne voice, saying—
“Virginia!” But this was no dream,
this grasp of firm, steady hands sud-
denly seizing her own and holding
them fast, fast, while the menacing
waters suddenly soothed to calm and
the whole world swung to peace and
safety.
“So you thought I'd let you sail
- without me,” the one voice in all the
mistake—"
i the service is—this should never be |
'permitted!....Good-by!..... What is
that officer waving his hands for?..
Crash, boom!....Does that mean we
Yes, of course you write too. ...Good-
bye—good-by!.... Well, it seems we’re
cut at lsat!”
They were out at last,
the gang-
planks withdrawn, the orchestra burst- |
mg with joy. No longer the faintest
excuse to scan that cheerful churning
mass of waving hats and handker-
' chiefs, to wring from it the one face,’
the one pair oi eyes, in all the world
{that mattered, which wasn’t there.
I So he had not even come to see her
| off—as in her folly she had dreamed '
‘he would!
only in its death pang. Yet he might
(still have written; there might even
now be—
A letter!
of that? A surge of hope shot through
The hope admitted itself |
Why had she not thought
i her, as she joined the already lengthy .
i line where mail was being rapidly dis-
| tributed.
“Anything for Harcourt?” she
brought her eager face close to the
: window.
The clerk ran through an imposing |
i package of mail under H with mirac- |
ulous swiftness and handed out two |
letters and a telegram. She twitched
open the telegram first.
| Higby:
dence of the house go with you.
written pages of advice.
| ber, not a drop of city water in Paris!”
| How good he was! And this from
(Kit: “To be cpened the second day
out.” The lines blurred. Well, it was
good to know that one had a few
friends, true friends who really cared,
even if—
“Got your steamer chair lady?”
| “Why, no.
i she consulted the steward vaguely.
| Constant best wishes and the confi-
And from her doctor three closely |
“Remem- |
It was from ,
1
|
|
|
i
i
i
i
I
i
i
|
Must I get it so soon?” |
I “It ain’t any too soon, Lady, if you
; want to make sure of your own deck.
Where’s your stateroom?” he inquir-
| ed judicially.
| “B—41,” she faltered.
i found it yet.”
en; but maybe I can work you in
jon the Kaiser Promenade.
! for sure, lady.”
She hastily dug into her purse.
“Thank’ye, lady.
do. Better find your room right off,
See what I can!
“I’ve not |
i
“Better find it soon, lady. You're!
Ei off the Kaiser deck. That’s all
ta
Can't say |
and make sure your baggage is there.
You're down that way.
to the left.”
arm down a narrow white-and-gold
hall of many devious turns, reaching
at last B-41.
Keep turning
She followed his vaguely Wavine
It was quite empty.
1 No, her baggage had not arrived.
What if it had not beer brought
: aboard ?
She sat down on the edge of the
‘berth. and caught a glimnse of her
i pale face in the glass and behind it— |
what was this?
‘cn the stand a bunch of sweet peas!
iworld but one? But thev hore no
| card.
In a glass decanter |
you're not crying! Why,
world was saying. “Foolish child!
From the moment I got your wire I’ve
been planning this. Think of it, four
days on deck with you!”
He laughed boyishly.
“And then four days in London be-
fore I sail for Buenos Ayres. Bat
only for a year.
“What’s a year? Before I come for
you—if you'll just say so—if—if—if
—Look up! Tell me—it’s not all a
The voice for the first
time grew anxious. “Aren't you the
{least bit glad to see me after all?
Merciful heavens!
Virginia,
little girl!”—By Vera Edmondson.
Then why—why ?
Desert Animals That
Scorpions Can’t Harm
One of the most fascinating chap-
ters in animal poisons is the subject
of natural immunity, the fact that
some animals are immune to the poi-
sons of others and remain unhurt if
stung or bitten by the poisonous ani-
mal, whereas all other sorts of beasts
succumb,
A case in point is that of desert
animals which are unharmed by a
scorpion’s sting. The desert fox, the
kangaroo rat and other inhabitants of
deserts where scorpions abound are in
this happy position. Their cousins,
living far away from the desert, would
at once be seriously injured by a
scorpion’s sting, whereas the desert
breeds remain unhurt, It is to be sup-
posed that in the far distant past,
before the desert animals had this
complete immunity to scorpion venom,
those which were stung and could not
resist died, leaving no offspring. Their
luckier brothers, who happened to
have a hardier constitution, survived
and left behind them a resistant race
of descendants.—Prof. H. Munro Fox
in the Forum,
Eskimos Have to Marry
Whenever there has been talk of «
tax on bachelors in England, there
has been a chorus of protest. Yet
their bachelors may consider them-
selves lucky, for amongst the Eskimos
of northern Canada marriage is com-
pulsory.
Christian Leden, the Norwegian ex-
plorer, who recently returned from a
three years’ stay among them, says
that no people live a cleaner family
life than the Eskimos. Each man has
as many wives as he can support, and
all are remarkably good natured. Bad
temper is considered a sign of being
possessed by a devil, and lying is a
crime punished by death. ©
Leden came across only one woman
who was not married, and that was
due to the fact that her hair was too
short.—London Tit-Bits.
The Other hMan’s Job
It is useful to examine our own
capabilities when we find ourselves
envying the lot of others. Are we mak-
ing good in our own sphere of work?
That is the first test. If we are mere-
ly pottering along in an undistin-
guished way the chances are we should
do the same in any other role. In
our own work we are very conscious
of its difficulties and barriers. Our
advancement is slow because we daily
' encounter the little lets and hindrances
She rose trembling. Oh, who could '
have put them there? Who in all the |
She pressed the bell violently
‘and a white-haired stewardess re- |
; sponded.
“Quest-ce-que Mademoiselle de- |
i sire 7”
“Is it the custom of the company to
| give all the lady passengers flowers?” |
she inquired.
puzzled dissent.
oiselle. Je crois qu non.”
“But they have no card.”
“Could not some friend of Madem-
‘oiselle have provided them ?”
. “But I have no friends aboard.”
i Had Mademoiselle consulted the
' ship’s list?
No, Mademoiselle had not. She
could only raise the flowers to her
suddenly quivering lips. It was only
a hideous coincidence, sweet peas in
her stateroom; but why did she have
to be reminded just now of what life
never more could hold? It was not
fair in the least! With her baggage
lost too!
The thought steadied her. She
must find that baggage at once, flow-
ers or no flowers. She made her way
again down the white-and-gold hall
of many turns, and found a deck.
She walked to the end of the deck,
and stood grasping the brass rail,
staring desperately at the fast-fading
line that meant home, and all its
tender, budding hopes, left behind
forever.
“Oh, why did I come? They couldn’t
have made me come. I must have
thought I wanted to; but I don’t—I
don’t!” It was no advertising manager
now, but a heartsick girl, lifting
frightened eyes to an insolent, oily
sweep of waters.
The last skyscraper had dwindled
now to a desolately uprised finger
pointing—to what? To barren, empty
days in a foreign land, drooping like
a dead bough. After to-day there
could be no more than that. All life
must be dry and sterile. Never, never
again one to whisper “little girl!”
She dropped her face suddenly in
her hands, quite regardless of who
might see. The world was too heavy.
Why keep up the farce of pretending
any langer she cared for Paris and all
its empty baubles? Can baubles fill a
life? Why not admit at once that you
would gladly see them all sunk to the!
The stewardess shook her head in|
“Mais, non, Madem-
that are hidden from the outsider.
But these would be much the same in
any other job. If we cannot surmount
them in our own case, it is unlikely
we should be more successful in a
position with which we are wholly un- |
acquainted.—Exchange,
Children’s Day
It is not possible to determine when '
Children’s day originated. From early |
times many pastors devoted a certain
Sabbath for special services for chil-
dren. In 1856, Rev. Charles H. Leon-
ard, pastor of the First Universalist
church of Chelsea, Mass., set apart a
Sunday for the dedication of children
to the Christian life. This was the
second Sunday in June. In 1868 the
Methodist convention recommended
the second Sunday in June to be an-
nually observed as Children’s day. In
1881 the Ecumenical Methodist eouncil
of London recommended the same day
and similar action was taken in 1883
by the Presbyterian General as-
sembly.
Schoolboy “Howlers”
Extracts from written answers to
tinglish schoolboys’ examination pa-
pers “The Nile is the only remark-
able river in the world. It was dis-
covered by Doctor Livingstone, and it
rises in Mungo Park.” “Constantino-
ple is on the Golden horn, a strong
fortress, has a university, and was the
residence of Peter the Great. Its
chief building is the Sublime Port.”
“Cyprus came into our possession in
i878, and was given to Lord Beacons
field.” “Julius Caesar invaded Britain
100 B. C. The condition of the Brit
ons was in a rude state. The peopl:
lived in huts made of straw, and th:
women wore their hair down the!
backs with torches in their hands.”
Guards Poodle’s Body
New York.—A white French poodle
struck by an automobile in the Bronx
was shot. Before the body could be
removed from the street along came
4 mongrel.
guard.
For 24 hours it stood
‘Believe That Stolen
Articles Bring Luck
An extraordinary example of the
survival of foolish superstition was
disclosed in the case of a Hampshire
(Engiand) farmer who was convicted
of stealing turnips from a neighbor.
He explained to the magistrate that
he could easily afford to pay for them,
and that, moreover, he had plenty of
turnips of his own, but he wanted
stolen ones to make a concoction for
a cow which had fallen sick, for he
firmly believed no other could be s~
efficacious.
A similar belief is held in many
parts of Germany, where practically
everyone buys a ticket for one or
other of the state lotteries. Many un-
educated peasants will tell you they
are sure of winning if the ticket they
have was bought with stolen money.
In Turkey, copper rings are worn
on the fingers to prevent erysipelas.
If the ring has been stolen from some
one else, it is supposed to answer itr
purpose twice as well.
Examples might be multiplied from
every quarter of the earth, Most
probably the superstition arose from
the natural desire of the criminal to
find some excuse for his delinquencies
U. S. Grant Won Bride
While Fording River
Ulysses S. Grant selected an odd
time to propose marriage to Julia
Dent. Lieutenant Grant from West
Point had met Julia while on a visit
to the home of his chum in St. Louis.
He fell in love with her and decided
to return to pursue his attentions, re-
lates Edna M. Colman in “White
House Gossip.”
Their betrothal occurred while they
were fording the Gravois river. They
were in a light rig, the young man
driving, The waters were swollen and
the current so swift from the recent
heavy rains that they were in grave
danger. The manner of her clinging
to him in her fear of the water in-
spired him with the courage to pro-
pose to her then and there. In after
years she often related to her grand-
children the story of the betrothal,
placing special stress on the old su-
perstition that unusual strength and
constancy were attributes of many
pledges made over running water, says
Capper’s Weekly.
Thrift Aid to Courage
Thriftlessness often fosters cow-
ardice. Thrift inspires courage. Shift-
less persons rarely have much back-
bone. They are so dependent upon
others for assistance that often they
cannot assert themselves to preserve
their self-respect. Their wasteful
habits sap their self-reliance, their
self-assurance. The thrifty individual,
of the other hand, has learned to stand
on his own feet. He has learned how
to take care of himself, how to man-
age his affairs, how to provide against
emergencies. Therefore, he is little
inclined to submit to uncalled for in-
dignities. Nor is he afraid to take
reasonable risks. His financial back-
ing gives him courage. And without
courage few successful careers have
been built up. Thus we arrive at this
formula: Thrift develops success.—
Forbes Magazine.
Kin to a Mysterious Race
So long ago that it is impossible to
say when, there dwelt in Europe or
Asia a most remarkable tribe of man-
kind, These people are not mentioned
in any ancient history and no legend
gives a hint of their existence. They
were the so-called fathers of the Ary-
ans who now people the earth, and
the knowledge we have learned about
them has been .learned through the
study of words. Word by word the
language of the original Aryans has
been exhumed from the descendent
modern languages until, pieced to-
gether, they tell the story of a van-
ished people. Historians tell us that
words and customs are a great index
to the life of any race.—Capper’s
Weekly.
Crashing the Gate
A young son came to his mother one
day carrying an invitation to a chil-
dren’s party to be given by one of the
mothers in the neighborhood. As it
carried an R. S. V. P. the mother at
once dispatched an acceptance for her
son. The boy attended the party as
planned and some time afterward the
mother asked him where the envelope
was in which his invitation had come.
The son replied: “Oh, I didn’t get
any envelope, I traded a marble for
the invitation.”
Her Idea of It
“How much for this little spool et
silk?” asked Audrey, who was shop-
ping in a neighborhood store. “Twen-
ty cents? That is about twice what 1
usually pay.”
“But most of the silkworms died last
vear,” said the proprietor.
“I suppose if I wanted a roll of tape
most of the tapeworms would up and
die, too?”
Thereupon the astute little girs
walked dignifiedly out.—Kansas City
Star.
Dinosaur “Revamped”
Une of the world’s largest dinosaur
{Tornieria), which died about 30,000,
00 years ago, is to be put on its legs
again at the Natural History museum.
South Kensington, England. The
Tornieria lived im the estuaries of
rivers, laid eggs, and ate floating veg:
etation. It was about 50 feet long
and 30 feet high, and weighed some
thing like ten tons. Its bones wer:
‘ound fp Tanganyika.