Bellefonte, Pa., April 27, 1928
FELLOW-FEELING.
(A gift of $195,000, has been made to
the Johns Hopkins University for the
study of the “origin, nature, and possible
cure of the common cold.”—Reuter.)
I knew a man, a learned man, a man of
much renown,
Who vowed that he would yet surprise
the native of his town;
He tried to square the circle; and, I
much regret to say,
Announced his purpose publicly. So him
they put away. :
I knew a man, another man of mist in-
ventive vein.
Who had perpetual motion rather badly
on the brain;
With little weights and wheels and things
he used to sit and play;
The neighbors got to hear of it.
him they put away.
And
I knew a man, another man of decent,
steady stock,
Who tried for weeks to add a pound of
tea to ten o'clock;
His calculations stretched for miles and
made a fine array;
He sent them to the House of Lords.
him they put away.
So
One morning as these pretty men were
sitting in a row
Upon the wall that hedged them in they
noticcd down below
Another man, a worried man, who mut-
tered as he went;
They asked him why his brow was sad
and why his back was bent.
He said, “I've offered forty thousand
pounds of honest gold
To him who finds a cure for what they
call a common cold.”
Upon the wall they looked at him, and
as one man replied,
“We're very pleased to meet you, sir.
Hi! comrade, come inside!”
—Lucio in Manchester Guardian.
THE SWAN SONG.
Arthur Whittaker sat on a green
park-bench and glowered at two quite
innocent swans which sailed majestic-
ally on the smooth surface of the
lake. They were as ompervious fo
his hostile gaze as though they were,
by some ornithic prescience, aware
that his indignation was not really,
directed toward them as swans per
se, but merely as integral parts of a
world which appeared to Mr. Whit-
taker, in his present mood, to be
superlatively unjust and unapprecia-
tive.
He was a thin, harassed-looking lit-
tle man, with an intellectual breadth
of brow rather over-emphasized by
the strategic retreat which his rapidly
thinning hair was making from its
smooth and shining surface. A pair
of tortoise-shell-rimmmed glasses, set
on a rather high-bridged nose, gave
to his kindly gray eyes a look of owl-
ish wisdom which was, in fact, an im-
portant part of his stock-in-trade; for
Mr. Whittaker was under-professor
of economics at McBride University,
which fact sufficiently explains his
look of intellectual perspicacity. The
look of harassment was the mark left
on him by the daily struggle to effect
a balance between the needs of a.
growing family and the utterly inad- .
equate yearly stipend with which the
University recompensed his services.
For seven years Mr. Whittaker had
been performing this balancing feat,
which grew increasingly difficult as
the parent-stem put forth three suc-
cessive olive-branches and that para-
sitical growth known as high-cost-of-
living wound its horrid tentacles in
a strangle-hold about the whole. The
figure is mixed, perhaps, but then, so
was Mr. Whittaker mixed. By such
gradations had he come, that he could
not yet quite see how he had arrived
at this pass.
At thirty, he had come to McBride's
full of the energy and enthusiasm of |
youth. The salary was small, to be
sure, but it would increase as his
fame grew with the completion of the
intensive studies of certain vital econ- |
omic problems which he proposed
making. Both he and Alice, who had
come with him, an adored and ador-
ing bride, had possessed the sublime
faith of youth in his ultimate success.
Now he was nearly forty, the mag-
nu opus still untouched, and no pros-
pect before him save a dreary con-
tinuance of the balancing feat already
mentioned. The grim master, Life,
had caught Mr. Whittaker and forced
him into the treadmill from which the
logical mind can vision no escape.
And Mr. Whittaker’s mind was, nor-
mally, eminently logical.
But his mood on this balmy after-
noon of early June was far from nor-
mal. Otherwise, he would, at this
moment, have been sitting down to
six-o’clock dinner in the stuffy din-
ing-room of the shabby apartment
which he called “home,” instead of
idly loitering in the park. As he very
well knew, it was Nora’s night out,
and a nice sense of domestic obliga-
tions should have dictated absolute
promptness at the evening meal. Bui
this knowledge, which, by every can-
on known to the order of considerate
husbands, should have caused him ex-
quisite twinges of conscience, only
succeeded in awakening a species of
vicious joy, to which he gave immedi-
ate expression by making a violent
pass at the turf with his stick. The
movement caused the brief-case which
had reposed on his knees to fall to
the ground, scattering its precious
contents—the notes of his last lec-
ture to the hapless students in “Ke-
onomics A”—to the frolicking wind
which watfed them, like flying blos-
soms, among the trees and across the
glassy surface of the lake.
Mr. Whittaker made no attempt at
recovering them. He gloomily looked
at the more curious of the swans ex-
amine a sheet, apparently decide tha:
it was not edible, and sail proudly off.
“I don’t blame you!” he exclaimed
savagely. “You've better sense than I.
A swan, at least, gives voice to one
song before it dies; but I'm dead, to
all intents and purposes, without ev-
er having uttered a note!” He stooped,
ed moodily for home. ;
He was, indeed, in a violent state
of physical and mental revolt. Per-
haps the former was responsible for
the latter, for Mr. Whittaker had in-
dubitably ranged recklessly and with
eye among the hors-d’oe=vres
at the facully luncheon in honor of
Claude Gilliam, and there are sages
who say that even the fate of empires
has hung in the balance because His
Royal Remnants, or the Duke of Who-
sis, partook indiscreetly of forbidden
delicacies.
But. Mr. Whittaker, being decidedly
of a spiritual rather than a material-
istic trend, found other causes for his
dissatisfaction with the world. It
was the sight of Claude Gilliam, bril-
liant and successful, receiving the ad-
vlation not only of the semi-enlight-
ened press, but of the small select
circle of those who really knew, that
had filled his usually kindly soul with
rancor.
Old “Gil” and he had been chums in
their college days, and rivals for the
same honors in their chosen field—
honors which he, Arthur Whittaker,
had won by a length. Old “Gil,” they
had said in those days, was industri-
ous and plodding; whereas, Whittak-
er—ah, there was a man with an in-
tellect keen and scintillating as a two-
edged sword, bound to win a high
place among the aristocracy of in-
telligence. The memory, to-day, pro-
duced in Mr. Whittaker a pang of
acute agony, so absolutely were the
positions of the two men reversed;
Gil, the brilliant and sought-after;
himself, the plodding cart-horse.
The wound still rankled as he went
up three flights of stairs to his apart-
ment. Of course, the elevator was out
of order.
Alice met him at the door, with
baby Herbert in her arms. She looked
decidedly crumpled, and Herbert was
dismally wailing. Mr. Whittaker
noted these things with a subtle
quickening of his sense of injury.
“Arthur,” she exclaimed, when they
had exchanged the usual perfunctory
kiss, “you’re so late that I couldn’t
keep Nora. I've saved your dinner in
the warming-oven. I hope you won’t
mind fixing things yourself. I must
give the children their baths and put
them to bed. Linda seems a bit fever-
ish, and Herbert's cutting a new tooth
%0 it’s been dreadfully trying.”
He muttered something that passed
for a grudging acquiescence, threw
down his hat and stick, and made his
way to the kitchen. There the sight
of the dried-up roast, congealed gravy
and leathery potatoes only served to
heap higher the mountain of his in-
juries. But he ignored the adage:
“Never let a meal go down on your
wrath”—unwisely, as it proved, for
the mingling of the unpalatable mess
with the undigested remnants of the
luncheon hors-d’oeuvres produced in
him a heavy and soggy condition of
soul and body that augured ill for
the family peace. Filled to repletion,
he now desired only to sit and weep
over the wrongs of the world.
Stealing back to the living-room, he
selected a new needle for the phon-
ograph, and put on the most melan-
choly record in his possession. It was
Massenet’s Elegie. The singer’s tones
soared out in cosmic sadness. He
drank it in greedily, to the last haunt-
ing notes.
Alice’s voice broke in harshly on
his holy revery. “Oh, Arthur! I wish
you wouldn’t! I can’t get the children
to sleep while you play! Herbert is
so fretful! I'm sorry, but—”
He sprang up, glaring. But a gen-
tleman must not utterly give way. He
"still managed to articulate with dig-
nity, albeit through clenched teeth,
and with stertorious breathing.
{ “Very well! If there is no place
i for me in my own home—I—will—go
—out.” He picked up his hat, and
made for the door.
But Alice’s last words marred the
dignity of his exit. “Oh, Arthur! I
knew you’d eaten something that dis-
agreed with you at that luncheon!”
With the cool night air fanning his
aching brow, he became once more
able to think consecutively. It was
this cursed domesticity that had been
his ruination. Nothing worse could
happen to a man of genius, he re-
flected, than a wife and family. They
crushed out initiative with the relent-
less fatality of a Juggernaut. In the
home, which it took all his resources
to maintain, he had not even a cor-
ner to call his own to which he might
retire. Why hadn’t he had the wit
to remain single like old Gil, instead
of tying himself down to give individ-
ual proof of the theory of Malthus?
Pausing at the intersection of two
streets, his gloomy gaze encountered
the brilliantly lighted entrance of a
cinema palace. He had always chosen
to denounce the moving-picture hous-
es as haunts of the intellectually bar-
ren. He had never profaned his soul
by entering one. But tonight it fitted
his mood to subject himself to this
profanation. Grimly, he pushed his
way through the swinging doors into
the Haunt of Ignorance.
Mr. Whittaker gave vent to his
mental and physical agony in a hol-
low groan, as an affecting bit of reel
life faded from the screen, and the
vampire vamped her tortuous way out
of the life of the villain. He fled from
the hall without waiting for the cus-
tard-pie comedy. The wires of his
mental apparatus were, for the nonce
hopelessly crossed. He was only
aware that he yearned, with all his
tortured soul, for the freedom which
he had madly surrendered under the
influence of youth and passion.
Nor did the yearning pass with the
passing of the night. It burned, a
clear and tantalizing flame, through
the weary hours of the following day
while he went about the daily duties
which had suddenly become to him as
Dead Sea fruit.
. As he sat in the department office
late in the afternoon, classifying the
day’s grist of ‘notes, Claude Gilliam
breezed in, overflowing with health
and good spirits.
“Ha! Old Whiffles,” he' said—Whif-
fles had been Arthur's nickname in
college—*“still hard at the toil that
‘sticketh closer than a brother’? Drop
it for once, old man, and join me in a
spree in memory of old ‘times. Join
us, I should say, for whom do you
think I'm taking out to dinner to-
night? Rosemary!”
i . dow / ‘t mean Rosemary that the man who had a wife and
picked up the leather case, and start Not—you don’t m ary | Sho on ho had 5 Mife sm
i tune. It shackles a man; he daren’t
Gilder?” :
“The very same. The Egeria of
our “college days!” :
“Why,” said Mr. Whittaker, “I've
scarcely thought of her for— I'm
ashamed to say for how many years.
I didn’t know she was in the city.”
Gilliam assumed an expression of
mock horror. “And she the leader of
your intellectual Bohemia! Why,
Whiffles, old man, you've let yourself
w one-sided! I'll venture that you
on’t even know that Rosemary has
become famous!”
“Famous ?” gasped Mr. Whittaker.
“Fact! Why, Rosemary is Jane
Gold, the famous feminist lecturer
and author. Pen-name, you know—
guess Rosemary struck her as too
frivolous. Why, you'll see her name
in almost any magazine you pick up.
She has a tremendous following. Cuts
all kinds of a figure. Why, she’s even
been in jail for distributing pam-
phlets on—well, a very delicate sub-
ject.
Mr. Whittaker blushed. “Is she—er
—married ?”’ he stammered,
“Heavens, no. She’s far too eman-
cipated for that. At any rate, come
along and you shall see her in all her
glory!”
Mr. Whittaker snatched avidly at
the glittering bait. “All right, I'm
with you, Gil,” he said. “Just a min-
ute while I telephone to Alice.”
“O-oh!” said Gilliam. “I'd all but
forgotten that you were married. Per- |
haps Mrs. Whittaker would come?”
“No, no!” responded Mr. Whittaker
hastily, reaching for the telephone.
“She couldn’t possibly leave the chil-
dren. They’re—er—teething, or
something.”
It turned out a brilliant and highly
successful evening. Rosemary's wit
was as scintillating as Gilliam’s eulo-
giums had promised. She had de-
veloped amazingly since their college
days, when, as a rough-haired, rather
lanky girl, whose gray eyes burned
with an insatiable hunger for knowl-
edge, she had given the two friends a
close run for honors. Her jet-black
hair was smartly and becomingly coif-
fured, now; her angles had softened
into delightful curves, and her brow
was as smooth, her delicately tinted
complexion as unimpeachable as a
girl’s. Yet the charming frankness of
her gaze, and the yay camaraderie of
her manner had not altered with the
years, and the three friends met with
as little stiffness and embarrassment
as though their last parting had tak-
en place but yesterday, instead of
ten years before.
Whittaker, as by some miracle, dis-
covered himself again possessed of
the gay insouciance of his youth. His
brilliant guips were greeted with old
zest. Life had once more taken on
an edge; an edge so keen that it was
not yet quite dulled when the alarm
clock roused him from slumber in
the gray dawn of the morning after.
He sat down opposite Alice at the
breakfast table; still basking in a
sense of well-being which even the
matutinal wailing of the teething Her-
bert had not succeeded in dissipating.
Shortly he became aware, by some
subtle process well known to those
who have lived for years in close cofn-
munion with another, that Alice had
something of importance to communi-
cate to him. He laid aside the morn-
ing paper with whose head-lines he
hay deen coquetting during the grape-
ruit.
“Well ?” he inquired, genially.
She flourished a letter before his
eyes. “Mother writes that she’s going
to her cottage at Gloucester this week
and she wants me to come and bring
the children for the summer. They
really need the change, and if you can
get along with Nora for the two
weeks until the University closes, we
may as well go to-morrow. That's
what she wants. I hate to leave you,
but you can come on as soon as school
is over”.
Mr. Whittaker’s eyes brightened.
“If you really want to spend the sum-
mer there, I've got an idea, Alice,”
he said. “We don’t want to keep this
beastly apartment another year, any-
how. Let’s give it up now, and store
the furniture. I can get a comfort-
able room cheap at the Faculty club.
That'll be the change I need this sum-
mer. I want to stay in the city, and
do some real work. I had a talk last
night with Gilliam over some ideas
I've been meaning to work out for
ever so long. He thinks I can make a
great thing out of a series of articles
on Unemployment—fame and money,
too—if I can only get at them. This
will give me a splendid chance to
work without interruption. I’ve been
getting moss-grown, Alice. I've got
to polish up a bit, or else be thrown
into the discard.”
And so it was settled. Two days
later, Alice and the children departed
for Gloucester, Alice slightly appre-
hensive—and tryingly prodigal of
suggestions concerning the wearing of
rubbers on wet days, and the necessity
‘of careful diet for one of his dys-
peptic tendencies. But these things
he mercifully forgot in the regained
joy of his bachelor freedom. He found
himself, with utter lack of dignity,
whistling a gay little tune—and he
disapproved, on pricinple, of popular
music.
That night he celebrated the “cast-
ing-off of burdens” with a little din-
ner at the “Gray Goose.” Gilliam
and Rosemary were his guests. If
Gil was, at first, inclined to chaff him
more than a little on his widowed
state, Rosemary’s sympathetic inter-
est more than made up for it. He
even fancied that Gil’s flings were
partly due to a jealous sense that
“Whiffles” was drawing more than his
just share of that lady’s attention.
He was wrong in that, though. Gil-
liam knew quite well that Rosemary
was insatiably bent on working up
material for her forthcoming book,
“Marriage, a Failure.” He even im-
agined she was being a bit brutal in
her unmerciful baiting of poor old
Whiffles. And, anyhow, he didn’t al-
together fancy Rosemary’s continual
harping on “woman as the one victim
of marriage.” That viewpoint had
rather gouten under his skin in her
last book. It was not long before he,
too, became imbued with the zest of
argument.
“Bacon was quite up to our modern
theorists,” he announced, “when he
wrote, a couple of hundred years ago,
any longer take the chances that put
the romance and keep the zest in life.
Don’t let Rosemary’s argument on
the woman’s side blind you to that
fact, Whiffles.”
Whittaker was a bit bewildered un-
der this double attack. They seemed
to expect him to answer them with
arguments for the superiority of the
married state. Yet he had a vague
feeling that they would interpret his
failure to do so as rank disloyalty to
his order. But what could he say?
Marriage was a failure? Wasn’t the
fact that he was obviously growing
stale at forty, the proof?
Nevertheless, out of very decency,
he had to essay an answer. “But,” he
said feebly, “it is the duty of man to
reproduce his kind, else how could the
world go on?”
Rosemary was back at him on the
instant. “A horribly abused theory!
Aren't you working on the problem
of Unemployment? Don’t you know
that the world is already over-pop-
ulated?” And so, calling a spade a
‘ spade, Rosemary went on to demon-
strate that his family was not only
| the crime against himself, as he had |
recently come to recognize it, but an
offense against society as well.
It was a bewildering, but, on the
whole, stimulating evening. He fol-
lowed it up by a succession of others,
increasingly more so.
But, somehow, the intensive studies
on unemployment failed to progress.
taker sought the University library in
a fever of energy, but a few hours of
dilatory labor served to dissipate his
interest.
If Alice, the practical, had been
called upon to diagnose his case, she
would have traced his symptoms to
idigestible delicacies, consumed at late
hours. Mr. Whittaker unhesitatingly
attributed them to overwork, and the
| pangs of soul growth.
Gilliam, leaving a few weeks later
to deliver a series of lectures in Chi-
| cago, was frankly concerned about his
friend. “See here, Whiffles,” he said
as they walked home, arm in arm,
from Rosemary’s apartment on their
last evening together, “of course,
Rosemary’ deuced clever, and all that,
but you don’t want to take her ideas
too seriously. I hate to admit it, but
I guess I'm man enough to tell you,
that, sometimes, when Rosemary and
I get to harping to you against wed-
ded love, I suspect it’s—well, largely
because we have to convince ourselves
that, since we haven’t had it, it’s not
worth having. I'm bound to say, you
have taken our stabs mighty decently,
and that’s why I feel that I really owe
this confession to you. Maybe my
name is known today to a wider pub-
lic than yours, but it’s a much less
appreciative one. Old man, Pd give
Mr. Whittaker’s surprise and dis-
gust could not have been greater had
the skies fallen. Crass sentimental-
ity from Gil!
cover that the idol he had been re-
garding with reverence during the
past few weeks had, after all, only
fact, beeen profaning, by his very
presence, the intellectual temple of
the high-priestess, Rosemary. He was
positively sickened. He muttered
some half-audible reply—he really
had to be decent to old Gil—but he
parted from him as soon as might
e.
He enjoyed his evenings with Rose-
mary a great deal more, at any rate,
now that Gilliam was gone. He must
lalways have been a disturbing pres-
ence; they simply hadn’t realized it
before. Whittaker wasn’t, perhaps
exactly in love with Rosemary, bu
many of her theories.
As for the future, he didn’t permit
himself to think of that. Of course,
things, arrive, and with it, Alice and
hasten the morrow by taking thought
for its coming. He wrote perfunc-
tory letters to Alice, whose glittering
generalities were designed to hide
rather than to reveal his thoughts.
Her replies dealt chiefly, as wives’
letters will, with Herbert’s teeth, and
Linda’s cough. Alice was incurably
domestic. If she had possessed only
a moiety of the savoir-vivre that was
Rosemary’s! *
He managed to trick his heretofore
Puritan conscience into believing that
he was quite justified in forgetting his
domestic responsibilities, if he could
during these days of primrose dalli-
ance. He would have his swan song,
at least, and if, afterward, he was
doomed to go back to the living death
of domesticity—well, what must be,
must be.
One morning in late July, he was
carefully dressing preparatory to a
day’s junketing in the country with
Rosemary when the telephone bell
jangled harshly. Alice's voice came
singing across the wires.
“Oh, Arthur! Isn’t this a surprise?
I'm at the Grandon. I just got in
this morning. I couldn’t bear to think
of you sweltering alone in this beast-
ly city. I left the children wth moth-
er, and came to make you ‘comfy.’
We'll hunt a new apartment to-day.”
Mr. Whittaker did some quick
thinking while she talked. An un-
righteous indignation burned in his
soul. What right had she to come—
yes, snooping into town like that?
Of course, he could break his engage-
ment with Rosemary; she was accus-
tomed to allow herself as great a lati-
tude in breaking engagements as if
she had been a quite unemancipated
coquette. But not all the Alices in
the world should force his hand like
that.
He answered her twitterings in a
voice of chill reproof. “You shouldn’t
have come, Alice, without letting me
know. It's ridiculous for you to have
come to town, anyhow, in this hot
weather. And I can’t possibly go
apartment-hunting, I've an import-
ant engagement—I should be on my
way to keep it right now. No, I'm
sure I can take you out to dinner to-
night. Of course, if I possibly can.
Yes, I'll come to the Grandon tonight.
Don’t overdo. Sorry! Good-by!”
He slammed up the receiver and
rushed out. An hour later, he was
seated beside Rosemary in her smart
There were mornings when Mr. Whit- |
the world to change places with you.”
the regulation feet of clay—had, in |
he certainly was in love with a good :
the children; but he didn’t intend to |
| runabout, bound for the cool river-
road.
But he could not respond, in kind,
to Rosemary’s gay banter. He felt
heavy, and a bit dull. Guilty, too;
he had been unkind to Alice. It hurt
him to remember how the unhappy
lilt had gone out of her voice at his
words. Perhaps she had suspected—
why, by Jove, of course, that was it!
What a fool he had been not to realize
it at once. Wives were always bitter-
ly jealous; they had to be, from the
very nature of their position; Rose-
mary had often pointed that out.
He awoke, suddenly, from his rev-
erie, to become aware that she was
addressing a question to him. He
gasped and stammered.
“Why, Arthur,” she said, patting
this hand in her frank, friendly way,
“whatever is the matter? You are
positively distrait today! I merely
asked you when your wife was com-
ing back to town.”
He gurgled. “What—I—er—I don’t
know!” She suspected, then—feared
to lose his companionship. For she
interpreted that look. He meant more
to her than he had supposed. It was
; a thrilling, and, to tell the truth, a
‘rather terrifying thought.
It was an all but perfect day, and,
amid its glamour, Whittaker found
! courage to frame a high resolve. He
“would not give up Rosemary and his
' new-found freedom. Alice would have
to understand that. If, with unrea-
soning jealousy, she chose to force an
, issue—if, in short, he had to choose
‘ between them, well, he’d show Alice,
{that was all! He must find means
‘now, today, to relieve Rosemary's
| anxiety, to let her know that he would
not give her up.
When, with the falling of dusk, they
turned again on to the city boule-
~vards, he hadn’t yet found the proper
words, however. Rosemary suddenly
broke a long silence.
| “I can’t keep my dinner engage-
ment with you tonight, Arthur. I'm
frightfully busy. I'm packing.”
i “Packing ?”
| “Yes. I’m starting for Chicago to-
morrow.”
| “Chicago?”
i “Yes. I’ve been meaning to tell you
-all day. You see, it’s really you that
i put it into my head. That is, it’s see-
ing how perfectly devoted you are to
{ Alice, how you’ve pined since she’s
. been away. Why, you've no idea how
i you've changed since that first night.
You were so gay and care-free, so
i contagiously happy then; and since
! she’s been away—why, you’re positive-
!ly dumpish! Don’t misunderstand me;
i truly, I admire you for it. You've
| mod me believe that there is some-
thing besides the prosaic in marriage;
i that it doesn’t kill the higher emo-
j tions.”
{ Mr. Whittaker way floundering in a
sea of utter bewilderment. He had
never, in his wildest moments, imag-
ined that it would come to this. That
she would leave the city on his ac-
count! He had no words to answer
‘with. He could only repeat, miser-
It was a blow to dis- ' abl
ably:
| “To Chicago!”
| “Of course. That's where Gil is.”
| “Gil?” he gasped.
“Yes. That's just what I’ve been
telling you. I'm going to marry him!
! everyone does. But I've always said
one couldn’t live up to them under
{ the present regime. You've made me
Of course, you know my principles— |
i
MEMORIAL.
In loving remembrance of my sister,
Annie Powers, who died January 24, 1928..
I can see your face in the radiant flowers,.
I can see your eyes in the azure skies,
I can hear your sweet voice calling from
heavenly bowers.
A dear, kind, loving sister was taken
from earth away,
We are left sad and lonely
And don’t know what to say.
One sad in the east
One sad in the west
God, alone, knows what's best.
I shall miss you, dear sister,
As you have missed me
But God does all things for the Best.
You will watch, wait and pray for me
Till life's sun shall set in the Golden
West,
And I shall come to thee.
KATHRYN POWERS MASSEY.
Los Angeles, Cal, Apr. 16, 1928.
Must Give Warning.
Another clause in this section, pro-
vides that “the driver of an overtak-
ing motor vehicle, not within a bus-
iness or residence district shall give
audible warning before passing or
attempting to pass a vehicle proceed-
ing in the same direction.” A busi-
ness district is defined in the code as.
“the territory contiguous to a high-
way when fifty per cent or more of
the frontage thereon for a distance of
three hundred feet or more is occu-
pied by buildings in use for business.”
A residence district is defined as “the
territory contiguous to a highway, not.
comprising a business district, when
the frontage on such highway for a
distance of three hundred feet or:
more is closely built up with dwell-
ings, or by buildings in use for resi--
dences.”
The proviso which prevents the
driver from the requirement of sound--
ing a horn or other warning device
when passing or attempting to pass
a vehicle proceeding in the same di--
rection in a business or residence dis-
trict makes clear the necessity of
equipping vehicles with a mirror to
enable the operator to obtain a view
of the highway to the rear from look-
ing backward from the operator's po-
sition for a distance of at least 200
feet to the rear of such vehicle. It
also serves to emphasize the im-
portance of keeping the rear window
free of any sign, poster or other non-
transparent material. In view of the:
exemption from the requirement of
sounding a horn or other warning de-+
vice in a business or residence district.
operators of motor vehicles within
such districts should exercise care and
caution in driving, taking care to give
proper signals when turning to the
left or suddenly stopping either in
yrafic or on the right side of the:
road.
Lee Statue Unveiled on Anniversary
of Surrender.
The adoration of the natiom was
lavished on Monday before the great.
stone carving at Stone Mountain, Ga.,,
immortalizing the Confederate chief--
tain, General Robert E. Lee, and those:
who followed the “lost cause.”
On the sixty-third anniversary of
the April day in 1865, when Lee sur-
rendered to General Grant and bade
his veterans return to their homes, a
see it’s quite possible. Aren’t you go- | vast assembly watched two flags drop
i ing to felicitate me?”
fs
rom the mountain side to reveal the:
Mr. Whittaker’s house of cards had ! features of Lee, preserved in granite.
come tumbling about his ears with a for all time.
vengeance. So it was all twaddle,
this prating of freedom?
Mayor James J. Walker, of New
Only the York city, accepted the memorial for
jealous cry of the unchosen, the bar- the nation. Then five-year-old Robert,
ren? Suddenly, his heart leaped with
a savage longing for Alice—yes, and
the children.
Somehow—he never quite knew
‘just how he managed it—he gave
voice to the conventional phrases.
“You can drop me at the Grandon.
I’ve an appointment there.”
He fairly flew to the elevator, and
thence down the corridor to Alice's
room. At his first eager knock, the
door flew open, and Alice was in his
arms, laughing and crying at once.
{ “Oh, Arthur! I knew you would
come!” ;
| “Of course, I would,” he said, kiss-
‘ing her again and again.
| “And, oh! my dear,” she said when
{ she could get her breath again, “I've
found the duckiest apartment! Over-
looking the lake, too. And you can
have a study all to yourself where the
{ children won’t annoy you. And oh!
Arthur! Your Dr. Stiller came up on
the train with me. And he told me
—in strict confidence—that you're to
have a full professorship next year,
with all the emoluments thereof. He
says that your faithful work and
staunch conservatism are a wonderful
inspiration in these days. Oh! Isn't
life good? I never reailzed it so ful-
ly before.”
To hide his guilty face, he stooped
to pick up his magazine which she
had dropped face down at his knock.
He stood staring absently at the page
where it lay open. Noticing, she
laughed.
“I was just glancing through a fem-
inist article by that Jane Gold. Don’t
you think she writes the silliest stuff ?
I guess she needs a good man to
teach her sense!”
Whittaker could not stifle a little
sigh. “Oh! well,” he said, cryptically,
“I’ve an idea this was her swan song,
too.”—Dorothy Hull, in McCall’s.
Post Card Rate Cut.
The house passed the postal rate
revision bill recently, reducing the
rate on private post cards from 2
cents back to 1 cent.
It also permits business houses to
enclose unstamped self-addressed re-
turn envelopes in advertising matter
and these could be mailed back with-
out postage. An extra charge of 2
cents per letter or card would be col-
lected. Business houses said prospec-
tive customers would be more inclined
to answer advertising literature if
they did not have to stamp their re-
plies.
Shenk: “Eugene, why did you say
that Caesar was killed by a woman ?”
Eugene: “Because when he was
stabbed, he cried out ‘you brutess’!”
"Then, as though by an afterthought:
September must, in the course of
E. Lee, IV, great-grandson of the.
commander, released a cage of doves
and delightedly watched them flutter:
free. Symbolizing the States that
contributed to the memorial, the
doves whirred up as a signal for the
dropping of the veils.
Slowly the curtains, a flag of the
Confederacy on one, and the standard:
of the United States on the other,
fell away, leaving in white relief on
the cliff the nearly completed bust of
Lee and the outline of his equestrian.
figure. A cheer rang out while the °
army band played softly.
Industrial Executives to Gather at
State College Next Month.
More than 200 industrial executives:
of the State are expected to attend
the annual industrial conference and
the engineering extension convention
at the Pennsylvania State College
next month. Both conferences are de-
voted to methods by which the college
engineering divisions. can increase:
their service to the industrial pros-
perity of the State.
At the industrial conference rep-
resentatives of the largest public util-
ities and industries will meet and will
discuss the training of technical stu-
dents, and will probably recommend
points to be stressed by the college in
training its students. In the exten-
sion convention representatives of the
hundreds of industries where employ-
ees receive night class and home study
instruction will take up problems in-
cident to this work, which is rapidly
increasing in scope each year.
May Guests Sail.
Sixty-three friends and neighbors
of Walter A. May and his wife, of
5807 Solway street are aboard the
Cunarder Aquitania, en route to Par-
is to attend the silver wedding anni-
versary celebration of the couple on:
April 27.
The party, which left recently from
New York, includes 27 couples, three
bachelors and six unmarried women.
May and his wife left 80 invitations
for the trip when they departed last
January for a foreign tour. Seven-
teen of those invited were unable to
make the trip.
May, head of a chain of drug stores
in Pittsburgh, is paying the round
trip expenses of the guests. Each
member, in addition, has been: given
$100 with which to meet incidental
expenses of the voyage. The presence
of the party at the anniversary cele-
bration is costing May $75,000, it is
estimated. Fifty-six of the guests
are to return on the Berengaria on
May 7. The others will prolong their
European visit.