enor tpn
Bellefonte, Pa., January 11, 1929.
THE VICTORY OF CONNIE LEE.
Our town sits complacently beside
a great highway where once there
were buffalo tracks. If you start on
the highway—and travel far enough
—it will bring you to the effete East.
If you start in the opposite direction
—and travel a few hundred miles
farther—it will bring you to the ef-
fete West. Ourtown is neither effete
nor distinctive, nor even particularly
pleasing to the passing tourist. It is
beautiful only in the eyes of the
prairie-lover whose sojourn in the
mountains or by the sea has left him
homesick for the low rolling hills,
the fields of sinuously moving corn,
and the elusively fragrant odor of al-
falfa. Sometimes the snow and sleet
hold Ourtown in their deadly bitter
grasp. Sometimes the south winds
parch it with their hot, scorching
breath. But between these onslaughts
there are days and weeks so perfect,
so filled with lilac odors and the rich
pungent smell of newly turned loam,
so sumac-laden and apple-burdened,
so clean-swept wtih crystal rain, that
to the prairie-born there is nothing
like it on mountain or lake or sea.
To Ourtown, sixteen years ago,
from an Eastern university, came
Norman Harper, big, fine, clean-cut,
with a life dedicated to teaching.
And this is the story of Norman
Harper and his love for Cennie Lee.
For nine months Norman Harper
had been superintendent of the
chools in Ourtown. Unsettled as
to whether he would remain for an-
other year, he drove one night into
the country, with the vague idea that
the open spaces might help to clarify
his vision. A little way out from
town he stopped as the evening train
passed by and, having stopped, pon-
dered for a moment which of two
roads to take. How could Norman
Harper know that his whole future
hung on that finely balanced deci-
sion? How indeed! We never do.
Fate, that old woman who pushes
her human checkers about, laid a
bony hand on the steering wheel. To
the north drove Norman Harper.
His way lay past orchards, where
little pincushions of apples clung
to sap-filled branches, past alfalfa
fields ready for the first cuttng, past
corn fields in which green shoots were
already ankle depth. Ahead of him
an old man sat on a fallen log hold-
ing up his hand, a clumsy team be-
side him. Norman slowed down,
stopped.
“l guess I'll have to have some
help,” the old man called. “This fool
mare kicked me. I've fed her and
watered her and curried her for elev-
en years. I'd ’a’ said she was one of
the best friends I got till she pulled
off this trick. My name's Lee,” he
added.
Norman assisted the man to the
car and, leading the team, they drove
slowly into the farmyard with its
heterogeneous collections of buildings. |
The house itself stood in a little pick-
et-fenced yard away from omnivorous |
hens, where there were petunias and ;
zinnias sending forth multitudinous
blossoms. An old lady was shutting
up a brood of tiny chickens for the
night. She shaded her face with her
hand and came forward with little
birdlike movements.
The old man said curtly, “Ma, this
is Mr. Harper, the professor in the
scheols.” Ma shook hands with Nor-
man. She was as brown as a gnome
but sweet-faced and gracious.
“Topsy kicked me,” her husband
told her. “Darned fool! When I get
around to it I'll take it out of her
hide.”
ed child or beast with a stick, but he
enjoyed talking of the possibility.
Norman
Topsy and her phlegmatic mate to a
post and assisted the man into the
house. “Which doctor do you em-
ploy 7” he asked.
“Great guns! You talk like they
was grocerymen. The whole kit 'n’
bilin’ of ’em would starve to death if :
they depended on Ma and me. Got
Ma Some medicine a while back, but
got it in a drug store. Paid a dollar for
it too. You got some yet, ain’t you
Ma?” Ma nodded, proud of her
economy.
When the doctor arrived the old
man greeted him with: “Seems a fel-
low can’t stub his- toe around here
without callin’ out the state militia.”
But by this time Norman had sensed
the real nature of the kind heart that
lay under the prickly armor. The
old lady seemed to be of finer tex-
ture. She was gentle of speech, and
her hands, in spite of their toilworn
appearance, were as slender and
pointed as a Gainsborough.
This, then, was the couple whose
acquaintance Norman had made be-
cause Fate, that old woman of the
roads, had intervened. Feeling a
genuine interest in them, he went
back for a second and third call. It
was while on this last visit, in wan-
dering around the little place that he
discovered a wonderful view, where
the orchard reached to the high bank
of a bluff overlooking the far coun-
try. For an hour or more he sat
there enjoying the scene. The won-
der of the night filled and soothed
him. The quiet was a loving, brood-
ing thing, caressing him like a soft
hand on the forehead. The moon
shone down into the orchard, making
shimmering shadows of patterns as
dainty as the lace made by old Alsa-
tian women. The leaves on the Lom-
bardy poplars stirred, twinkled, lit-
tle dancing Pierrots in the moon. The
scene seemed wasted, he thought—
the beauty of it was so poignant.
With a féeling of reluctance at leav-
ing he turned to go to his car. It
was “Yen that the girl came up the
path.
Up through the orchard came the
girl, running as lightly as the sway-
ing of the shadows. At the edge of
the bluff she threw out her arms in a
gesture of abandon. “Connie !” she
called. “Connie Lee, come here !”
Norman stood silently in the black
Old Man Lee had never touch |
led the temperamental |
shadow of the trees. Again the girl
called, “Connie Lee, are you here?”
It was uncanny, weird.
Norman stepped from the shadow.
“I beg your pardon. I was afraid I
might startle you.” ;
She stopped rigid with a short in-
take of breath, so that he quickly ex-
plained his presence, telling her of his
visits to the old folks, and the dis-
covery of the view from the bluff.
“You like it, too?” Relieved, she
laughed a gay little crescendo laugh.
“I always loved it when I used to play
here. It has been seven years since I
have seen it. I’m Connie Lee.”
She, herself, was Connie Lee. She
had called to herself to come. She
might then be insane? Hardly. She
was cool, laughing. She had poise.
“Connie Lee has been dead for sev-
en years,” she announced. “And I
killed her. With my little bow and
arrow I killed Connie Lee.”
Falling in with the figure, Norman
asked lightly, “Who saw her die?”
The answer came quickly, “I, said
Ambition, “with my Ittle eye, I saw
her die.” She stood looking over the
bluff, apparently accepting Norman
as part of the landscape. “Well,”—
she threw her arms out in their char-
acteristic gesture—“it has worked ..
. the incantation... the fetish for
the gods . . . the sacrifice to the idols.
Connie Lee’s alive again.”
“You will be here for some time?”
With something of a shock Norman
realized that he was eagerly awaiting
her answer.
She frowned, evidently disturbed.
“That depends. I've run away.” It
secmed to give her a great deal of
laughing satisfaction. “It has been a
dream of mine to come back and stay
a year with Grappy and Granny. Un-
til a year from today .. . and then 1
vanish into the clouds like mist and
the zll-beholding sun shall see me no
more. That's ‘Thanatopsis.” Gran-
ny made me learn it ence for throw-
ing my patchwork into an old well in
the pasture. But if I stay, I have to
get some work to do. I thought may-
be I could get a position in the
schools. I planned to see the super-
intendent tomorrow.”
“I am the superintendent.” Norman
was immediately on his guard. To
have tapped the shell of 2 mud-turtle
would have had the same with-draw-
ing consequences.
“You? How terribly awesome!”
But that was mere persifiage. He
knew it had not awed her in the least.
“What are your qualifications?”
Norman was all seriousness, wholly
superintendent. No piece of femin-
inity with a great deal
through curved lips above a V- shap-
ed cleft in its chin could pull the wool
over his eyes.
She held up her ten fingers, drop-
ping them one by one as she named
“I can read, write, sing, play the
piano, and dance. I have sympathy,
pride, loyalty, a sense of humor, and
znovr first aid to the injured.”
“A few of them are essential,” he
admitted; “but our teachers have spe-
i cial training. Have you?”
“Oh, I’ve been to school,” she said
vaguely, “Well,” she made a little
shrugging motion of her shoulders—
“if I can’t get it. the vanishing begins
in a few days. Connie Lee will go
again to be a brother to the incensible
rock and to the sluggish eclod which
i the rude swain turns with his share
! and treads upon.
“I'll {alk to the board,” Le said has-
'tily——too hastily. “Perhaps it could
‘be arranged if you would take some
: intensive work in the summer school.”
“School? Oh, goodness, that means
‘more money. But maybe Grappy
{ would help me a little. You see before
{you the beggar maid. She has three
i dollars and nineteen cents to her
name, besides a ticket back”—she
{ waved her hand indefinitely—“back to
! the sluggish clod.”
| “Tell me about yourself,” Norman
! said. “Where have you been living in
{ the seven years?”
It was the giri’s turn to run to cov-
cer. “Let’s nog talk about that.” She
| was serious enough now. Then sud-
{ denly she fell into that care-free mis-
i chievous mood in which Norman was
"so often to see her. “If Connie Lee
{has been dead for seven years, why,
she’s been to heaven, hasn’t she?”
There was a little more conversa-
| tion relative to the view, and then she
left. Norman watched her go lightly
“down through the trees, humming a
‘gay little tune. For some time he
i stood by the bluff looking across the
i river, where the lights of the little
town gleamed like a thousand eyes.
"A star fell, an ember from the camp
fires of heaven. It might have drop-
ped into the little gray farmhouse, for
simultaneously a light shone from a
! gable window. The girl wanted to be
| here for a year. And, knowing noth-
ing about her, he had promised to use
‘his influence in getting her into. the
- schools. Like Topsy, had his common
| sense that he had fed and watered and
{ curried for years turned and kicked
(him?
| But in the year which followed,
Connie Lee did not embarrass her in-
tercessor. What she may have lack-
ed in technique she made up for in be-
ing a natural born teacher, one of
how to explain. Norman began tak-
ing her out in his car, although the
distance could not have been his ex-
cuse, for a middle-aged teacher for
whom he showed no such thoughtful-
ness lived three miles farther away.
Together they discussed a hundred
subjects, but of the past seven years
Connie was always laughingly vague.
teachers whenever he visited Connie’s
room, and equally self-conscious when
was happening to him.
And then—it seemed almost unbe-
lievable—the year had flown past.
When the end came swinging into
view, and Norman was sick with the
thought of losing Connie, he put his
love into words. For once the girl's
merry way was sunk in an agony of
appeal. “Oh, no, no !” she said
genuine distress, “not that—you
musn’t,” and sped precipitately into
the little gray house. Nor did she re-
had gore. But in it, somewhere be-
teen the lines, there was just enough
of the shadow of wretchedness to
make him feel that it had not been at
all easy for her to go. So, being nothing
but the embodiment of simplicity and
straightforwardness, he set about to
see her again.
Granny gave him her address, but,
it seemed to him reluctantly, even in-
timating timidly that she did not
want Grappy to know she had done it.
So, half fearful, half exulant, Nor-
man set out on the highway which
had been buffalo tracks, and drove
very far to a city of the East.
When he had cleansed and refresh-
ed himself he started out to the num-
ber which Granny had given him. He
found it, a huge pile of masonary
looking as much like a public library
as a home. If he was awed he gave
no sign of it, for the trip was not to
be fruitless. A bulter admitted him to
a hall through whose irridescent mar-
ble walls shone soft lights. A group
of young people came down the wide
stairway. One of them, in a blue din-
ner gown, a bandeau of pearls in her
hair was Connie Lee.
Seeing Norman, Connie went white
to the lips and stopped, bewildered.
Then she came forward. Yes, Connie
Lee had ample usec for her seven years
of social training. With poise she
shook hands with Norman and with
poise she introduced him to the girls
standing nearest. While she was
speaking, a young man who had come
up slipped his hand famihazly, af-
fectionately, into Connie’s arm.
“Mr. McCune, Mr. Harper,” Con-
nie named them. Then adreitly she
took the situation into her hands.
“Mr. Harper has come frem my other
grandparents,” she said to the young
people; if you will excuse us for a lit-
tle while, I want to ask him about
them.”
While the God of Tact looked on
approvingly, Connie led the way into
the library. The door closed, she fac-
ed Norman. “I should haxe told
you 2ll about everything while I was
there.” She spoke hurriedly as
though she would crowd a lifetime in-
of laughing .
to the interview.
terribly. This is my Grandfather
Winters’s home. My name is really
Constance Winters, although Grappy
always called me Connie Lee, just
as my mother was named. Grand-
father Winters’s youngest son was
my father. He came out to Ourtown
vears ago with two other college boys
to work on farms during their vaca-
tion. He met my mother. .they were
both so young. ..and they were mar-
ried secretly after a brief summer
courtship. He came back East to fin-
ish college, and died with diptheria.
His letters to my mother stopped sud-
denly. She must have been wild when
she could get no word. Then in her
distress she confessed her marriage
“I blame myself
"to Grappy and Granny. Grappy wrote
little
the Winterses, and the answer came
briefly that their son was dead. Then
my mother in her grief died when 1
was born. 1 have never known what
made Grappy dislike my other grand-
parents so, but at the slightest queS-
tion on my part Grappy would fall
into anger or silence. Grappy and
Granny were the only parents I ever
knew, of course. I had such a hap-
py childhood. The first thing I can
ever remember is Grappy catching me
up when he came in from work, and
saying ‘“Heigh-ho, your chin’s startin’
to split in two.” We three were so
happy until I was sixteen. Oh, I
tell you”—she broke off suddenly— '
“happiness is a queer thing. I’ve
lived the life of a poor girl and a rich
one, and I've learned a few things.
You can laugh just as wholehearted-
ly in a steaming hot kitchen as you
can in a ballroom, and you can shed
just as bitter tears on a satin pillow
as you can on 2 bundle of hay.” A
ashamed of her emotion she
hurried back to her story:
“Then, when I was sixteen, like a
fairy tale out my most cherished
books, my other grandparents came
to the farm. Grandfather Winters
had become very weathy in oil, and
I know now, what I didn’t know then,
that Grandmother Winters found her-
self possessed of everything but so-
cial position. I think she must have
argued that a young granddaughter,
if she were passable, could assist her
in getting a foothold. I know the
first thing she said when she saw me
was, ‘Oh, Jim, I do want her.
“But Grappy and Granny wouldn’t
let me go. Grappy was frightful..
how he talked! And then the Win-
terses began to tell me what they
would do for me. All at once Grap-
py’s anger seemed to collapse as
though he were beaten. I think he
must have suddenly seen that he and
Granny had so very little to offer be-
side the advantages the other could
give me. It was a pitiful moment as
I see it now. He said he'd leave it
to me. I can shut my eyes now and
see Grappy’s and Granny’s drawn,
stricken faces when I said I wanted
' to come. I told them I'd come back to
those rare souls who know intuitively
By the time that Norman grew con-
scious of criticism from the other
he neglected to do so, he sensed what
in |
see them....I'd spend a whole year
with them sometime; but Grappy told
"me never to darken the door of his
house again if I went.
me of course and it was a long time
before I sensed that he himself was
‘too hurt to know what he was say-
ing.
“Well, I came. I had everything..
You see.” She threw out her hand
in a little impersonal gesture which
took in the exquisite fittings of the
room. “But I always wanted to go
back. So I risked it. I hadn’t an
idea how they would treat me. I saw
Granny first, and then went down to
the barn where Grappy was. I stood
in the stable door and said, ‘Grappy,
you never mentioned not darkening
the barn door, Grappy looked up
| startled, and then crumpled down on
the milk stool and shed the first tears
{I ever saw from him. Of course
Grandfather Winters didn’t like it at’
all because I went. He threatened
‘me; but it ended in his only stopping
"my allowance for the time I was
. away.”
.
ing was merely a collection of words
‘to Norman. In the first pause he
went straight to the heart of the
port for duty the next day. She only, thing: “Who is Mr. McCune ?”
sent Norman a note which said she |
Constance Winters dropped her
‘with me now.
That hurt .
All this that Connie had been say-
eyes, “My fiance,” she said. And
Norman's love for Connie loomed be-
side them like a colossal, accusing,
third person.
“Let me explain that, too,” Connie
went on quickly. Which was the be-
ginning of her confession, for one
dees not ordinarily need to explain a
finance. “For several years there has
been an understanding between the
families that 1 was to marry Hal.
Grandfather and Hal’s father are in-
terested in a great many things to-
gether. The two are very much pleas-
ed with it..it has seemed the best
thing to do.” Connie was floundering,
when Norman interrupted, “Do you
love him?”
Connie evaded, with miserable eyes.
“I'm quite fond of him.”
Norman was making it yery hard
for her, standing there, tall and si-
lent and honest. *“When I was there,”
she faltered, “I began to feel....to
know....but I thought if I came
away quickly—Oh!” she said sudden-
ly, “I thought it would be a lark liv-
ing there like 1 used to with Grappy
and Granny. But I should never have
gone. 1 am terribly sorry now 1
went.”
“why?” Yes, Norman was exact-
ing his pound of flesh. But even
though Connie would not say why
she was so sorry, a fourth person
seemed to have siipped in to join the
group—~Connie’s love for Norman.
I'or a few moments they stood si-
lent, the man, the girl, and the two
shadowy but vital personalities. Then
the girl looked up and said earnestly:
“Who am I? Connie Lee, or Con-
stance Winters? You have every-
thing I haven’t—strength of charac-
ter, decision. I feel like a dual per-
sonality. Sometimes I think I have
two souls in one body. I'm weak,
soft, my environment shapes me.
Here, I countenance things I wouldn't
in Ourtown. I actually had the feel-
ing out there that I had gone back
to my own self. I’m prairie-born and
I love it. 1 was so happy all last
year; but wasn’t part of it due to the
‘Tact that it was a lark and I knew I
was coming back where everything
was lazy and pleasurable and easy?
If I'd go back out there. .with you to
stay..give them up here, Grandfath-
er Winters would cut me off from
him entirely. He told me so in no
chosen words before 1 left last year.
Help me; tell me—all our future de-
pends on it: Who am 17”
Though his face was tense Norman
held himself steadily. It was Life’s
big moment and Life had chosen to
scourge him. He felt cold, shivering,
even afraid but he made himself go
on.
“You're Constance Winters” he said
evenly. “This is where you belong.
Even if you hadn’t promised to mar-
ry him— and a promise is an inviol-
able thing—you wouldn’t be happy
the things you had cut yourself away
from, and want them. You would
need them to make you happy; and
your unhappiness would be mine. My
life is going to be largely a life of
service. I'l not fool my sclf into be-
lieving otherwise. My income—good
lord—after all this how could you live
on twenty-eight hundred dollars a
year in a six-roomed bungalow, with
only my love for you to keep you
from remembering what you might
have had? No; you belong here.”
Yes, Connie had been right in say-
ing that Norman had strength of
character.
She went white to her lips.
pect that’s true.” She,
steadily.
“Goody-by,” Norman took her hand.
Constance Winters held her head
very erect. “Good-by!”
So Norman Harper came back to
Ourtown. No one knows what the
outcome would have been if Grappy
Lee’s time had not then come to die.
On a mellow Indian summer after-
noon he stocd on the steps of the
back porch and looked across the
field for which he had fought
nature a half century before.
For a long time he watched the lazy
waving of the elms and Lombardy
poplars that he had planted, ponder-
ed on their drawing their substance
from the earth, thought of the won-
der of sap and bud, blossom and leaf:
how the leaves fell to the ground,
became mold, sank into the earth,
were drawn up, and again there were
sap and bud, blossom and leaf. Quite
suddenly Grappy felt cold, stricken,
crumbling like a shriveling leaf. For
a time he was frightened, feeling the
icy fingers, and then quietly, renun-
ciatingly, as though he too acquiesced
in the Great plan, he turned and
walked feebly into the house.
In the days that followed he want-
ed Connie to come. It was Norman
who telegraphed for her and Nor-
man who met her
When the train came out of the east
he steeled himself for the meeting.
Well, life was like that. We fought
off the cold, icy hands of death and
the hot throbbing ones of love. Con-
nie got off. “Is he living?”
“Yes. These sturdy old people. .it
is hard for them to pass out.”
They drove out the familiar way
in the soft haze of the Indian sum-
mer. But when they got there the
old man was back down Memory’s
road. And he did not stop at the
most important events. Little trivi-
“I ex-
too, spoke
al things were the ones he talked’
“about, resetting strawberries, the
county fair, clearing out the under-
brush. Was all of life, thought Con-
nie, composed of little things, thous-
ands of them to make a whole? Sud-
denly Grappy raised himself and
spoke clearly. “She’s my little girl
..they can’t have her. They didn't
want anything to do with her then
..defamed her dead mother’s char-
acter. ...She was a nuisance then....
said to put her in a foundling home
....orphan asylum... .give her away
anything. ...but not to bother them.
We took care of her....Ma and me..
Ma made her little dresses and I cut
“her Christmas trees....”
{| When the cows were coming up the
sumac-bordered lane Grappy passed
out, an old man whose life had been
' circumscribed, but who left behind
him an infinite number of kind and
| neighborly acts. After the manner
of country communities people began ,
You’d remember all
at the station. !
coming to pay their respects. The
president of the bank and the janitor
of the Whittier School came. The
division superintendent of the rail-
road sent hothouse roses and a man
and woman whom Grappy had be-
friended in their covered wagon down
the highway brought wild Bouncing
Bets as ragged and unkempt and full
of wanderlust as they.
Norman went out to the farm every
day of the week that Connie stayed
with Granny. He told himself it was
the decent thing to do. On Thursday
he made a request of her: “You
wouldn’t feel like taking your old
room, would you, just for tomorrow
while Miss Jones is away?”
“Yes,” Connie assented; “I'd like
ia PD
C.
In the middle of that Friday fore-
noon Norman, very businesslike,
wholly superintendent, stopped in
Connie’s room to ask her if she
would hand in a report, as all the
teachers were doing, recommending
any changes in the geography outline.
And Connie, very businesslike, wholly
teacher, said that she would.
In the the late afternoon Norman
stood at his office window looking out
at a fog settling down over the ra-
diance of the day, truly typical of him-
self. Who was it had said that life
was bright with its illusions, aspira-
tions, dreams? It was not true.
Life was raw. Illusions were mere
fallacies of vision. Aspirations be-
came aversions. Dreams were lead-
en vagaries. Wearily he turned from
the window and picked up the reports
of geography which had just come in.
From the groun he took Connie's
paper and held it a moment....the
last thing she would do for him. It
gave some recommendations formal-
ly numbered. There was another
sheet underneath. It said:
I further recommend that these
boys and girls be taught the differ-
ence between things worth while and
those that are passing, so that when
they are grown they will understand:
1. That a six-roomed bungalow may
be a realm.
2. That twenty-eight hundred dol-'
lars will buy red firelight, a steam-
ing kettle, a candle in the window.
3. That love, which is without fear,
has nothng to do with things.
Dazed, Norman stood in wide-eyed
fascination, looking at the swaying
words. Then he stuffed the paper in
his pocket, ran down-stairs to his
car, and drove to the Whittier School.
Although he banged the door and
strode noisily down the length of the
room, Connie, who was at the black-
board, did not lcok up but kept on
energetically filling in an autumn leaf
with red chalk. When Norman was
close to her she said, “Oh, how do you
do?” She was frightened now. It
was as though, having thrown a
match in the dry prairie grass, the
flame had turned on her. “I’m mak-
.ing an October calendar,” she ex-
plained volubly.
Norman took the piece of gaudy
chalk from her hand and threw it in-
to the waste basket. “Connie, you're
going to stay in Ourtown.”
“Oh, am I?” she asked politely.
“You're not going back at all. I'm
going East myself tonight and see
this McCune and your grandfather.
There’s no power on earth which
oives them any jurisdiction over you.
You can’t push and shove love around
like that. It’s not a commodity to
trade or barter. A promise is big,
but love is bigger. You belong to me
just as I belong to you. There’s no
appeal from Nature’s decision. We're
through today—now—with this com-
promising for money and position.”
She began no argument, made no
resistance. She only said, “Oh, Nor-
man, there never could have been
anybody but you.”
It has been fifteen years since Con-
nie wrote Hal McCune and Grand-
father Winters that she was sorry to
disappoint them, but how could she
do other than marry the man she lov-
ed? The Harpers still live in Our-
town. Norman has had his salary in-
creased to thirty-six hundred dollars,
which is almost two dollars and a
quarter per year for each character
which he helps to mold. No, Norman
Harper will never set the world on
fire; but in Ourtown he is like the
Rock of Gibraltar for all that is
strong and enduring. Connie is pret-
ty and contented. The eldest boy,
Edward, is fourteen. He looks like
his father, but in the middle of his)
chin there is a V-shaped cleft like
Connie’s. Maybe Grappy in heaven
pressed it in the baby flesh with
“Heigh-ho, your chin’s startin’ to
split in two.” Ruth is eleven, a femi-
nized Norman, grave and sensible.
Marian is eight, and is Connie all
over again. Then there is Norman,
Junior, five.
In the fifteen years since Norman
and Ccnnie were married they have
built on a bedroom, put in a furnace,
and bought a five-passenger car.
Sometime, when they get money
enough ahead, they are going to take
I a trip, although Connie tells the chil-
dren not to count too much on it. In
| the meantime they read avidly, and
in imagination climb the Alps and sail
the Mediterranean. “So that when
you do have a chance to go,” their
, father tells them, “you will have
something to take with you to the
mountains and the sea.”
Two years ago Grandfather Win-
ters died. In a few days Connie got
an imposing letter from a firm of at-
torneys. She was trembling so she
could scarcely open it. Just a few
thousand dollars from Grandfather
Winters, relenting at her disobedience,
and she could do so much for Norman
and the children. She opened it. Her
hope was as ashes in her mouth.
Grandfather Winters had kept his
i word. “To my granddaughter, Con-
‘stance Lee Winters Harper. .one dol-
lan?
i Still later the dollar
came.
it home to her. \
| Connie held it in her hand, looking
soberly at it. Then she threw back
her head and laughed, that merry
laugh which was like water bubbling
upward. That afternoon she put
some sandwiches in the picnic pail
‘and she and the children went down
the alley to the pasture where the
check itself ;
Norman cashed it and brought
For a few minutes ,
_
children played. The pasture ha’
been planted to alfalfa and the pur-
ple and lavender blossoms were thick
in the lazy afternoon sunshine. A
half-block away the children began to
sniff the air, like coast folks do when
coming home they first smell the salt
wash of the sea. When they arrived
Connie told them: “I have a new
game for you. All turn your backs
and shut your eyes.”
When they had done so, she took
Grandfather Winters’s silver dollar
out of her apron pocket and, stand-
ing on tiptoe, silently threw it far
out into the alfalfa field. “Open your
eyes,” she said. “Now, this is the
game: Out in the pasture is one of
the most valuable things in the
world. The game is to find it. What-
ever seems most valuable to you,
bring it in to me.”
All the rest of the afternoon Connie
put deft patches on the under side
of a tablecloth. The children roamed
about in the field that was like a lay-
ender sea, their happy voices shrill
with laughter. When the sun was
slipping behind the Lombardy poplars
she called them, “Time’s up. Come
in to base.”
_ They came scurrying in, all want-
ing to talk at once, but Connie stop-
ped them. “Edward is to tell first.”
And Edward said: “I couldn't
bring in the thing I thought was the
most valuable. It’s the elm in the
raiddle of the pasture. It stands
there so pretty, bowing and waving,
It made me think of the verses Fath-
er read to us:
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
“Think of never having a nodding
tree, Mother!”
“lI couldn’t bring mine, either,”
Ruth admitted. “Oh, I could have,
but I didn’t want to scare it. It’s a
little meadow lark in a nest on the
ground. Think of never hearing a
meadow lark sing, Mother!”
Marian threw back her head and
let out a rippling crescendo of laugh-
ter. “I could bring mine,” she chuck-
led. “It’s a Baby. It’s fair too, isn’t
it, Mother; because he was out there
and I think he’s the most valuable
thing in the world.”
They all laughed with her, but
there were tears in Connie’s eyes.
“Well, well!” she said to them.
“Trees! Birds! Babies! What lovely,
lovely things you found.’
Then they ate their sandwiches.
After that they trailed home, where
Father was sitting on the porch, and
saying, “I began to think you’d mov-
ed away.”
After a time the alfalfa was cut
and dried and hauled to the barn. The
field was plowed, and Grandfather
Winters’s legacy was turned under
the sod. But even though the rain
fell and the sun shone on it, nothing
ever came from it! Not a green thing
—nor a singing thing—nor a human
soul.—From the American Magazine.
i
SMALL BALLOTS ASSURED
FOR SEVERAL YEARS.
Last Falls Election Had the Effect
ef Reducing the Size of the
Ballot in Pennsylvania.
Only two political parties, the Re-
publican and the Democratic, will have
a place on the primary ballots next
September.
It is so far back that only two par-
ties had a legal standing in Pennsyl-
vania that nobody at the Capitol can
recall just when it did happen. In-
terest in the Hoover-Smith presiden-
tial contest this year weeded out the
minor parties and placed them in the:
same status as any independent move-
ment that may be formed after next.
year’s primary date has passed.
In order to preserve its political
entity, so far as the law is concern-
ed, a party must register at least 2
per cent of the largest vote cast at
an election. In the days when 42 to
45 per cent. of the potential voters
cast ballots it was not difficult for a
party to keep alive. But last month
80 per cent. of the registered electors
went to the polls and the official re-
turns show that the vast majority
were for Hoover or for Smith.
There were five other parties which
had places on the ballots last month,
but there are very few voters who
could mention even today a presi-
dential candidate of any of these. The
parties passing out, so far as the next
primary is concerned, were the Labor,
the Prohibitionist, the Industrialist,
the Socalist and the Workers-Com-
munist. Combined they did not poll
28000 votes. Had they all been rolled
into one party these five organiza-
tions could not have preserved their
status as a legally recognized party.
To have preserved the right to ap-
pear on the primary ballot any one
of these parties would have had to
poll 41,107 votes. That is 2 per cent.
of the Hoover vote of 2,055,382. The
Smith vote was 1,067,586, the largest
Democratic vote ever cast in Penn-
sylvania. One party, the Industrial-
ist, got only 308 votes; the Labor
Party, 3870; the Socialist, 18,647, and
the Workers-Communist, 2039.
The Socialist Party’s vote dwindled
so in recent years that two years
cago it lost its place on the primary
ballots, and the Prohibition Party this
year along with the Labor and other
smaller parties failed to get the sup-
port that would have given them the
right to nominate at a primary.
These parties can name candidates
just as any independent party can
put up a ticket; that is, by circulating
petitions for candidates and getting
the requisite number of signers. These
petitions are filed at the State Bureau
of Elections and if valid will place
the names of the minor party candi-
dates on the ballots for next Novem-
er.
{ eel eee
Playful Pachyderms.
A pipe line in the jungle region
of Sumatra invited the attention of
elephants, who enjoyed themselves by
dislodging sections of it. To offset
these antics, the pipes were painted
red, and the elephants now step cau-
tiously over the line owing to their
extreme aversion to red.
i
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