stage was terribly hot.
It had been exactly like a brick ov-
en all day. Even Duffy Gordon, a di-
rector who had sense of humor and
ed utterly fagged.
Walters,, the perspiration poured
down his lean, dark face and his an-
gry eyes showed plainly that he wish-
ed he had stayed in New York direct-
ing stage plays instead of having
been lured to Hollywood by a fat sal-
ary and the talkies. But he was
nastily, hopelessly patient.
. “No, no,” he said, “you do not put
the emphasis upon ‘me.” Why should
you? No one has questioned your
right to ham and eggs. No one else
wants your ham and eggs. The
dramatic point is that you are forc-
ing yourself to order ham and eggs
just as though your whole life
hadn’t suddenly fallen to pieces. You
Say it just as you would say it, only
more doggedly. If you know what I
mean. ‘Now get me some ham and
eggs.’ Like that. It is very simple.”
Judith James glared at him. “All
right,” she said bitterly. “I've been
four hours now ordering ham and
eggs and it seems to me I'm apt to
starve to death before I get ’em.”
~ “If you would do it as I tell you,”
suggested Herman Walters. “Like
Miss Cowl, for instance.”
“I'm a patient woman,” said Judith
through her teeth, “but if you men-
tion Jane Cowl or Ethel Barrymore
or Katherine Cornell to me once
more you'll never see your wife and
babies again. Come on, Duffy; let’s
get on with it.”
- Duffy Gordon looked at the white
faces of the camermen, shut up in
their hot, sound-proof safes, so that
the hum of the camera motors
couldn’t reach the microphone sus-
pended above Judith’s head. They
nodded like marianettes.
“Quiet, everybody,” said Duffy,
with a rasp in his voice.
A tense and breathless stillness
fell. A stillness that somehow seem-
ed fraught with danger.
“All right, everybody ?” said Duffy.
“All right,” said the head electri-
cian. From the different parts of the
gray box in which they were all en-
closed came eight repetitions of the
words, ending with the distant “All
right” of the door man, who had bolt.
€d the sound-proof door of the stage.
“Red light,” said Duffy tensely.
The red lights flashed on.
Duffy waved his arm one quick
gesture.
No familiar, stimulating sound of
the camera grind answered him. No
soft, helpful tune tinkled from musi-
cians off stage. No encouraging
sound of the director’s voice map-
ping the scene as it went along.
Nothing but silence, until Judith’s
voice leaped startlingly into the void.
‘Now bring me some ham and
eggs,” she said doggedly and looked
doggedly toward the ghostly cam-
eras behind their plate-glass shields.
Herman Walters was beaming, but
she saw Duffy take his nose between
thumb and finger. Since he couldn’t
speak to tell her what was wrong,
she could only finish the scene.
“What's the matter?” she demand-
ed when he signaled “Cut.”
“You forgot your face,” said Duffy.
“But the speech was perfect,” said
Herman Walters; “that is it, exactly,”
“That’s fine, said Duffy; “but they
got to look at her as well as hear
her, haven't they? She forgot to
look as if she had just lost the only
man she ever loved. Well, let's do it
again. Try to remember that the
Ie still takes pictures, Judy, my
T i»
“But do not forget the voice,” said
Walters severly. “Do exactly as you
did. Remember— ‘Now give me some
ham and eggs’—like that.”
Judy said nothing, being apparent-
ly beyond comment.
Once more they went through it
amid the deadly silence. This time
both Duffy and Walters beamed.
The beam was interrupted by the
low buzz of a small telephone behind
the director. Looking up, they saw
through the sheet of plate glass high
up in the gray wall that the mixer
was holding his telephone to his lips.
His voice came through loud and dis-
tinct.
“Sorry, folks,” he said, “but one of
the lights hummed a little and got in-
to the mike. Ask Bert to see which
one -it was before you do it again.”
Judith James got up slowly and
deliberately kicked over the table in
front of her.
the chair behind her.
Then she said, very quietly, “I
won't ask for ham and eggs again
today if I never eat another mouth-
ful. I don’t care if they tear up my
contract. I can go back to the glove
counter and like it. I don’t care
what happens, I'm going home. We
spent four hours getting a scene so
it suits both you geniuses at the
same time and then one of the lights
horns in on me. I'll be here at nine
o'clock tomorrow morning if you find
I'm still on the pay roll and we'll
start this war again; but right now
I'm through.”
“Why, Judy,” said Duffy Gordon.
“Why—why, Judy! You never quit
before in all your life. Come on,
kid. Leave that temperamental stuff
to some of these foreign stars.
You're a regular. It won’ take more I1do,I won't be able to keep up. I. I
than half an hour to fixthatlight. |
and then—"
“By that time,” said Judith James,
looking straight at him, “I shallbein
my own little bed with an ice pack
on my fevered brow and a high ball
in my fevered hand. I am supposed
to take a singing lesson tonight from
spend an hour with that great stage
star, Miss Helen O’Neal, learning my
speeches for tomorrow. I'm not go-
ing to do either. I'm about to-col-
lapse. And if anybody even whispers
talkies to me during the next twelve
hours I shall give a great imitation
of Ruth Snyder doing her stuff.
bid you all a very pleasant good af-
ternoon.”
With which, for the first time in
six years of motion-picture stardom, |
the little green garden and into her
own dressing room, and there she put
her head down on her arms-and began
to cry. :
“Darn the talkies,” said Judith
James, and she didn’t stop crying
while she said it. “I say darn the
talkies and I don’t care if the whole
Academy of Motion Picture Artsand
Sciences and Will and the
bishop all hear me. Here I was a
perfectly good star, with my pictures
m money -and my fan mail get-
ting bigger every month. I've spent
ten years—ever since I was sixteen
—Ilearning to be a good silent actress.
Bernhard’s golden voice,
else in two months I'll be trying to
live on my income.”
Anna, Judy's maid, interpolated a
soothing, “Now, Miss Judy—
“I don’t care,” said Judy.
d-darn the talkies.”
“Hey, hey, that’s blasphemy, arson
and high treason,” said a voice in the
doorway.
Judith looked up, still crying. It
takes a very pretty girl to look pret-
ty with real tears running down over
a mask of sticky grease paint. Judith
wasn't pretty enough for that. In
fact, she wasn't exactly pretty at
any time.
She was—just Judy. But when you
find a girl who is not very pretty and
still is a motion-picture star making
money at the box office and getting
twenty-three thousand fan letters a
month, she is an exceedingly danger-
ous woman. Obviously, she has
brains and something more enticing
and more durable than prettiness.
“I say
Judith James was all of that, be-
sides being rated by the studio at
large as a “peach of a kid.” Every
director on the lot swore by her and
she was the pet of the publicity de-
partment.
The young man who stood in the
doorway of her dressing room at
that moment was, in fact, the head
of the publicity department. His name
was Ralph Forrest.
“What's wrong, darling?” he ask-
ed.
“Talkies,” said Judy. “Oh, Ralph,
what am I going to do? Who in-
vented these talkies, anyhow? I'd
like five minutes alone with him in
a dark alley. I can't even talk to suit
them and now I'm supposed to sing.
Sing songs. If I can't talk, how can
I sing?”
“Of course you can sing,” he said.
“I've heard you. And very good,
too.”
“That,” said Judy, “was just sing-
ing. This is—singing. What do I
know about putting over a song?
This time next month T'll probably
be slinging hash for a living.
Ralph—"
But just then Ralph remembered
that he had left a distinguished
young man outside on the steps.
“Can I bring Lou Berger in a min-
ute?” he said. “He just got here
from New York. He's going to write
‘one. He's a marvel. You know—
he wrote “Other Girls’ and ‘The
Flower Song’ and—" -
i “I know,” said Judy, “but look at
Ime. I'm not fit to meet my own
' shadow.”
i “Aw, Judy!”
! “Oh, well,” said Miss James,
! “swhat’s the difference?”
| So Mr. Lou Berger, of New York,
{came in and was duly presented to
| Miss Judith James, of Hollywood.
| Now New York had left its un-
! mistakable stamp upon Lou Berger.
i layer of stamps. The outer one was
| smooth and glossy and elegant, daz-
| zlingly bright like the lights-of Broad
way. A slightly bored but jovial
| superiority that went well with his
reputation as the best of the latest
, crop of song writers.
| Under that was a layer that was
! really hard—a layer consisting most-
: ly of fear of life and distrust of peo-
! ple. That had originated during the
| lean days when he battled for suc-
| cess and missed it time after time on
tough breaks and double crosses. But
| still deeper, so deep that it wasim-
! possible to see it or even imagine it,
, was the wistful, hungry, lonesome
! kid, with all the artistry and senti-
' mentality of his race. i
i Judy James certainly didn’t see
‘that inner man—then. If she had—
but she didn’t. You can- hardly |you to play
blame her, for she looked upon a
young man with wise eyes and a
skeptical smile. tein
I
i
! These song writers, anyway—Hol-'|
lywood was overrun with them. Hol-
lywood was full of all sorts of things
now. - Stage actresses with throaty
voices and stage actors with English
I Hollywood, it seemed to Judith
James, was all gummed up with
things that had. sprung out of the
| talkies.
eyes upon Mr. Lou Berger, the fa-
“mous song writer.
! “I'm certainly glad to meet you,
Miss James,” said Lou Berger.
“You're a girl I've always wanted
to meet. You should lave gone on
the stage.”
| “I've done pretty well in the mov-
ies,” said Judy. “How do you like
it out here, Mr. Berger?”
| “I guess I'm going to like itall
right, even if ‘it isn't New York. But
they've piled up so much work for me
'I don’t expect to have much time to
‘enjoy myself. Every company in
Hollywood wants me to work for it
and even turning out tunes the way
guess they realize now that the song
| makes the picture.”
i “Maybe,” said Judith James. “My-
self, there are things Yd rather do
than look at three hundred feet of
somebody proving
does for humanity.”
the hot cement roadway and through
Now I have to be Jeritza and Sarah
too. ‘Or.
| In fact, you might say it had lefta
o
the songs for Ganna Hanson's next bench and began to play.
Then she kicked over accents, and foreign stage directors. |
1
So she looked with cold
i
‘she could take care of he
‘worked hard and never missed a
‘much. I haven't got any voice. Say,
erself, ver-
bally and otherwise.
Judith Ja -had
Yte than thats while she.
in gi “all the fun she could while
she co! had her name in
electric lig
and used them, watched her step,
|
|
trick. That was why she decided at
this particular moment that silence
was—or might me—golden.
So Mr. Berger proceeded uninter-
rupted: FX : :
“Voices, even, don’t matter so
I've heard people could hit all the
high C’s in the orchestra and all I'd
do would be pat my hands together
and say, ‘That's high C.’ You know.
Then along comes somebody that—
they just know how to sing a song
and they've got a song tosing,andI
get all choky and feel funny in my
knees. That's all. It’s just knowing
how and ha feeling.”
He looked full at Judy. There
could be no question that she was ;
id giving him her undivided atten.
on.
“Take this piece of Ganna Han-
son’s,” continued Mr. Berger. “I
don’t know the story and I don’t
know whether Ganna Hanson can
sing or not. I don’t care. I've got
a couple of numbers in my head that
hit me crossing that desert in New
Mexico that are sure fire. One of
them I call ‘Desert Dawns.’ When
I get through teaching her how to
sing them, there won't be anything
to it. This is my game,”
“I thought Miss Hanson was still
in Sweden,” said Judy James.
“She is,” said Ralph Forrest, from
the doorway, “but she'll be back
next week.”
Judy James turned around and
looked again into Lou Berger's dark,
hard eyes.
“I wish I could hear you play that |
song, Mr. Berger,” she said softly. |
“I'd give anything to hear you sing !
‘Other Girls I—I've always loved
that song.”
Lou Berger took up his hat. “Come
along lady,” he said. “I've got a
little office over here with a piano in
it and I'll play it for you. You haven't
really heard ‘Other Girls’ unless
you've heard me do it.” .
“If you'll let me get this hot make-
up off,” said Judy, “I'll be right ov-
er.”
The office of Mr. Lou Berger reg-
istered the change that had come to
motion pictures. There had been red
velvet drapes and Italian mirrorsin
directors’ offices for some time. But
the mahogany grand piano was a
new departure.
Judy James curled up in one cor-
ner of the davenport and dropped her
chin on her bare arm. Her face had
come alive and was glittering with
an interest which was the essence
of suitable flattery.
Lou Berger sat down
‘on the piano
He could play. His fingers seem-
ed to pull at the keys and give them.
a little throb that reminded her of
the harp she used to hearin the con- |
vent at High Mass.
“Gee,” she said, “that’s a knock-
out.” |
“Yeh, that’s a real number,” said
Lou. “Here's the one I got for Han-
son—‘Desert Dawns.” * i
The refrain filled the little room !
with tom-toms. Judy listened. He
could sing. The hard-boiled little
devil could write songs. This was
his game, all right. :
“Do that again,” said Judy.
Two hours later, Lou Berger said
“You'll think I'm the original guy
that goes on whether you ask him
to or mot.” :
“I asked you,” said Judy, getting
up slowly. ‘I—it is late. I hope
I haven't kept you.” : of
“Nobody ever keeps me if I don’t
want to be kept,” said Lou Berger.
“When I got things to do, I go do |
'em. You can’t dally around these
days.” Saad!
“Why-—why don't you come home
with me to dinner?” said Judy James
prettily. “I live out in the Malibu
—that’s our loveliest beach you know
—and it’s nice and cool. After—Miss
Hanson gets back I'll probably nev-
er ‘see you. I promise I won't ask
to ° any more.”
“I don’t mind playing,” said Lou
Berger grandly. “I got a dinner en-
gagement, but it’s not business. Lead
the way, lady, I'm yours for tonight.”
“That wouldn't be a bad title for
a song,” said Judy James. f
“You got a bean on you, lady,”
said Lou Berger. “Just a minute till
I jot that down.” i
On-the way to the beach he whist-
led softly and Judy James counting
the notes, smiled to herself.
Seven golden evenings, driving
straight into the burning suu as it |
settled lazily into the purple Pacific. '
Seven little dinners in the ‘cool patio
of Judy's Spanish bungalow, where
the waving candle flames touched
hanging ferns and brilliant flowers
to magic. Seven moonlight nights on |
the little balcony above the white !
sands, with the silver sheet of the sea
glimmering and whispering ‘below
them. Seven ‘times Judy all smiles
and dark eyes and soft words. :
The Malibu supported Judy val-
iantly with all its beauties. to
“You got me, Judy,” said Lou
Berger “I had an idea all women
were poison. But you—Judy, do
you think you could ever love me? '
never knew there was
ke Jon: I Suough, 3sould write
cs, but s one’s got me stopped.
I can’t say what I want to. Only— |
Judy, dear !" ¥
When he had kisged her, she drop-
what the dentist ped her head on his shoulder.
“I love you, Judy,” said the man,
| “I'll tell you something,” said Lou, ' almost bitterly, as though te yield-
Monsieur Garrault. I am supposed to . “and believe me, I know what I'm ed up some long-guarded treasure.
talking about. There isn’t any rea-| “What about it?” |
son for looking ugly ‘when you
.
“Maybe some day—" said a soft
It’s -all a matter of knowing howit's voice against his coat sleeve.
done. ‘The way I sing a song, you
would think I looked ‘like some lead-
“Judy 1”
“_maybe some day T'll say sure,” |
ing ‘man, which”—for the first time said Judy.
she rather liked his smile—*I don't.
The "throb of his heart must have
I You got to know how to handle your lulled Lou Berger's sensitive earsso
mother. Anyway, when I'm singing, that he did not hear the triumph
{the way I put over a
couldn't remember how
song, you
I look.”
little Judith James walked off the something. From the glint in her
set. eyes it was probably as well that she
She walked off the set. and across 3
and shame that fought each other
1to write songs for Jud
| rhythm
to young
orion. “These
‘Lutz shrugged.
won't: work-with Hanson. © He wants
Harry Lutz, head of pro-
- song - writers.”
“He : says he
James.”
_ “He won't work with Hanson?”
! Mr. ‘Stecker seemed unable to credit
so monstrous a thought. “But all
the men—" eo
“He says he hates Swedes,” Mr.
Lutz repeated. “He says she don’t
inspire him. He says her feet are
too big.”
“Well, then, I guess fifty million
people must be wrong,” said Mr.
Stecker violently. “She inspires
them to pay plenty of money into
the box office. He's a fool.”
“The truth is,” said Hary Lutz,
“he’s cuckoo about Judy. He's sup-
posed to be pretty hard-boiled, but
Judy took him into camp like he
was just back from six months’ lo-
cation in Sing Sing. He says she
inspires him. He sayr he’s got some
songs for her that will make all the
other theme songs sound like hymns.
He says he can't write ‘em for any-
body but Judy. He says—”
“He says—he says!” shouted Mr.
Stecker. “Has he got a contract to
write for us or hasn’t he? What of
it, if Judy James hasn't got good
songs? It doesn’t matter. I don’t
think she'll make the grade in the
talkies. But Hanson—she’s our big
bet. You tell him I said he was to
work with Hanson.
“I already told him that,” said
Lutz. ‘He won't do it. He saysit’s
only for pictures—his contract—and
he’ll go back to New York and write
a new musical show. He says Judy
James is the best bet in talking
pictures. He says he can make her
great. I think he'll go unless you
let him do what he wants to.”
Mr. Stecker sat in heavy silence.
‘These talkies,” he said. “There
wasn’t enough trouble making pic-
tures without we had to wish all this
on ourselves !”
“He says Judy James, with his
songs and the way he can handle
her, will be the sensation of talking
pictures,” quoted Mr. Lutz imper-
turbably.
Two months later, coming out of
the projection room where they had
just seen and heard the latest sound
production starring Judith James,
Mr. Stecker looked at Mr. Lutz and
spoke reverently.
“Song writer or no song writer,”
he said, “he was right. I never
thought she had it in her. That Des-
ert Dawns.” I liked that. Tell ev-
erybody to get busy on Judy James
—publicity, stories, everything. How
are she and that song writer getting
along? I heard they were engaged.”
“The papers printed something,”
said Mr. Lutz, “but you can’t tell in
this business. They had me engaged
last week and I been married seven
years to the same woman. Personal-
ly, I don’t think so. He can write
songs, but it don’t look to me like
Judy has fallen for him.”
Judy was glad when it was over.
Breaking the bad news had been
more difficult than she had expect-
ed. Lou had been so good to her.
And he was: sort of amusing to
have around.
She had stalled it off as long as
she could, ‘but when he demanded an
answer, there was dust one course
for her. She didn't love him. OI
course she didn’t love him. She
tried to salve her conscience with
the fact that she had never told him
that she did.
“You let me think you did,” Lou |
had said, when she mentioned this
in her own defense.
kiss you.”
Well, she wasn’t going to worry
about Lou Berger. Perhaps she
hadn't been exactly on the level,
but he had been fair game. A man
like that should know how to take
| care of himself. Anyway he'd soon
forget all about her. Probably she
was worrying about nothing:
Only—he had looked so hurt, sad
and hurt, when she told him it was
all over.
“Just a summer flirtation, eh?”
he had said, too qUISHly
3ut the laugh
‘Judy had Jengher
had died under Lou’s blazing eyes.
It was all over, in spite of what
Lou had said at the train. She had
gone down to see him off when he
left for New York.
“You may think it’s over,” said
i Lou Berger, “but you're wrong. I'm
not going to let you forget me,’
ever. You wait.”
Sitting ‘in Duffy Gordon’s softly
lighted drawing room, Judith James
was thinking of those last words.
The Gordons were giving a . din-
ner party. A number of important
people in the picture industry were |
: there, enjoying themselves.
It wss
the hour after dinner, before people
settled down ‘to bridge or went out
into the playroom to see a picture
run,
Judy watched them moving about,
but her thoughts were wandering.
She hadn’t meant that. She hoped
it wouldn’t take her long to get rid
of this guilty feéling and to stop
m him.
Then Duffy turned on the radio.
There was a buzz and then the
clipped voice of the announcer.
“This is the National Broadcast-
ing Company, New York City, pre-
senting its regular Tuesday-night
concert. We have a real treat for
you this evening. Mr. Lou Berger,
the famous song writer, is going to
sing you his latest number. Thisis
the first time it ‘has been presented
anywhere. Stand by, everybody.”
Judy stiffened. The room fell in-
to silence. Everyone turned toward
the radio.
Softly - the piano rippled, all
t ‘in the left hand, all melody
in the right. The voice, throbbiag
and a little ‘husky, drifted across
three thousand miles and filled the
room with plaintive sweetness.
“Outside your window the breezes
are blowing,
Out in your patio the flowers are
growing,
The sky is as blue as ever,
The sun shine bright each day.
Doesn’t it seem any different, dear,
Since I went away?
Judy—Judy-—"
The girl gasped. Her heart was
beating so hard that it made her
|in Judy’s voice and made it almost sick.
didn’t. Judy ‘was a sweet kid but "said Mr. Stephen Steckér, president famous.
Judy opened her mouth to say ugly.
Then:
Into the silence the voice sang, a
haunting, lovely, delicate melody of
“You let me
“What's ‘all this ‘about Berger?” the kind for which Lou Berger was
My heart won't let me, Judy.
' The flowers: 1 how,
Are ‘the flowers that grow
A eels: ee
Each day is a heartache without
Each long. night I dream about
you, :
ud so, for me,
All the sunshine must be
In my Memory.”
“Gosh, what a song !” said Duffy
Gordon. “What a melody !”
Ganna Hanson blew an insolent
little ring of smoke. “The tune she
is very pretty, eh?” she said, in her
broken English. “The words seem
trivial.” fy aa :
“I thought the words weregreat,”
said Bobby Gunton, who had been
Judith James’ leading man in her
last picture. “Judy sure does in-
spire song writers.”
“I think it’s a beautiful tribute,
Judy,” said Mrs. Gordon, and came
to put an arm around the girl's
quivering shoulders.
“How about a little bridge?” said
Judy James. “I'm learning contract
and I need practice.”
That was that.
“Malibu Beach” didn’t come out
until two weeks later. By that time
the whole world was singing, play-
ing and whistling “Judy.” It seemed
to Judith James that she never
moved without hearing that plain-
tive plea: “Why can’t I forget you,
; Judy?” i
Forget? Well, she wasn’t forget-
ting him.
Then they added “Malibu Beach.”
There was nothing plaintive about
that. It was a hot number.
“Seven days, seven nights,
On Malibu Beach.”
The kind of music that sets your
pulses throbbing. Dizzy, intoxicat-
ing music. -
Judith James went on with her
work. For the first time she was
grateful for talkies. Otherwise tne
orchestra on the set would have
been playing “Judy” and “Malibu
Beach” all the time. But they ran
in her blood without any orchestra
to play them.
Then she got a wire. It said:
“Tune in tonight at nine o’clock un
KFK.” No signature.
“I certainly will not,” said Judy
furiousiy.
Tune in, indeed! She wandered
restlessly about her pretty living
room and glared at the silent radio.
What in the world was he upto
now? Another “Judy,” probably. It
was sheer persecution. But —he
must love her an awful lot to keep
writing such wonderful songs.
Maybe she had better find out
about this. What was the use of
trying to get away from it? She'd
have to hear it sooner or later.
All she had to do was to turn the
little knob and she'd at least know.
She turned it.
Sitting all alone where they had
so often sat together, she listened.
New York was to call it the
greatest song Lou Berger had ever
written.
“You'll
heart.
You can say
Go away
Every day
always be —my sweet-
Bul yvull always bo—my owroct- |
heart. ;
I'm just waiting for you ro call
"So I can sing the greatest song
of all—
Here comes the bride.’
But if you still say no
Wherever I go '
sweet-
{ Youll always be—my
heart.”
“Oh, why am I crying?” said
Judy to herself. “Oh, oh, why am I
crying?” : =
i Through the flutter and beat of
the orchestra that had taken up the
tender melody, the telephone bell
rang sharply. :
Judy James went to answer ‘it.
“New York is calling you,” said
‘the impersonal voice of Central.
“Judy !” i
“Oh, Lou,” said Judy, “I'm crying.
I guess I'm lonesome. I didn’t know
| you cared liked that. If—if I've got
i to hear you sing all the rest of my
life T'd rather it’d be here than over
that darn radio.”
“I'll be right over,” said Lou Ber-
ger, “on the mext mail plane.”
, Theorchestra was still playing,
‘You'll always be—my sweetheart.”
13 earst’s International Cosmopoli-
‘ tan.
EASTERN JACK RABBIT
The jack rabbit of the New Eng-
land States is not the same species
ag the jack rabbit of the western
| prarie and plains and in fact is not
native to America but is a European
hare which has been introduced in-
to this country at various times and
has become established in certain
parts of New England and New York
as well as Ontario and certain other
places, according to the American
Game Protective association 2a°ws
service. :
This large hare is a fine sporting
animal and would have been intro-
duced much more widely in America
‘except for the fact that it is more
or less destructive to crops and
fruit trees and consequently is ob-
jectionable to agriculturists,
‘Where this hare is hunted its hab-
its are found to be far different from
the cottontail rabbit or the western
native jack rabbit. It is large and
agile and able to run long ‘distances,
behaving in many respects like the
native red fox. When followed by
dogs it takes to the open country
and moves in wide circles, some-
times two or three miles across. It
is reported to jump the astonishing
distance of 30 feet. Unlike the snow-
shoe hare it doesn’t inhabit the
cedar swamps and doesn’t hole up,
but spends its time in ‘the open
country in depressions and clumps
of grass depending, when ‘detected,
on speed or dodging ability for its
escape.
The flesh of this hare is very pal-
atable and in Europe is highly priz-
ed.
The progressive and suc-
cessful merchant or business man
these days must go after trade.
Newspaper advertising is his ‘best
fmethod. Try the Watehnan,
rcan’t I forget you, Judy? 1
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
“Age is a quality of mind.
If you have left your dreams behind,
If hope is cold;
If you no longer look ‘ahead,
If your ambitions’ fires are dead,
Then you are old.
But if from life you take the best,
And if ‘in life you keep the jest—
If love you hold,
No matter how the years go by,
No matter how the birthdays fly,
You are not old.
—The Quaker.
—Vogue reiterates the correctness
1 of the leather-heeled shoes for walk-
ing and for wear with tailored
clothes. :
It can be stated that all heels on
walking shoes are lower. Two io
two and a fourth inches is the ac-
cepted height.
The popularity of the tailored
Oxford continues, with four eyelets
for winter, instead of the customary
three.
For daytime, slippers that match
or harmonze with an ensemble are
smarter than those that are in de-
cided contrast.
With the prevalence of dark green
ensembles, this year, the dark green
s Shoe ranks next in importance to
. blue.
| Daytime colours, in order of im-
portance: Black, chocolate-brown,
blue-fox brown, navy-blue, dark
green, and dark red.
In shoes of the semisports type,
ithe brown calf or -calf-and-suede
| combinations are smartest in dark
chocolate-brown.
Very new and right looking is the
combinaton of black suede and black
patent leather for formal afternoon
shoes.
Black patent leather shoes piped
; with beige kid in a tone that blends
| with the stockings are very smart
this season.
The reptilian leathers are still fav-
jourites, black lizard being particu-
larly good for autumn and winter
wear.
A popular fashion that trends the
upward path in chic is that of having
the bag and shoe match in leather
and in colour.
In the matching of accessories,
however, such as the bag and shoe,
Vogue cautions against achieving
to studied an effect.
The evening slipper that may be
dyed to match, harmonize, or con-
trast with the frock continues tc be
the favourite.
Crepe de Chine and satin shave
the first rank for evening, with
moire running a close second in
fashion importance.
In keeping with the formal aspect
of the evening mode, there are more
‘brocades seen this season than for-
merly.
Very lovely are the evening slip-
per with vamps of delicate Beauvis
embroidery and fine seed-pearl
motifs. :
The embroidered slipper, however,
if not delictely worked, has a ten-
dency to make the foot look larger.’
This year, gold and silver kid con-
tinue to be smartest as trimmings
| for crepe, satin, or moire avening
SHppers. nit ere rf
It is interesting to note that the
larger portion of the kid-and-fabric
Svening slipper is usually made of
The use of pearly kid in soft pas-
tel tones, usually matching the
coloured fabric of the slipper, is
new and charming. "
«Perugia is making a whole slip-
per of pastel antelope and kid with
a fine tracery of gold that is very
charming. i
—Bigger and more elaborate hats
for winter are being announced by
fall headlines. Wider brims, very
long in the back and shirred close
to shallow crowns are predicted.
New models show amazing diver
sity and irregularity, each one
seeming -to take on a different air
from that of its neighbor. The off
the face movement, however, will be
the most popular method of femining
flattery this winter and even hats
with downward brims are shorter
in front and the brim caught up or
folded back. -
One milliner is showing a darling
black felt with shallow crown anc
very deep black brim. Orange vel
vet, crossing the front, passes
through slits in the brim to flare al
each side beneath the most becoming
effect. Another shape which will be
important this winter has the wide
brim turned flat on the forehead anc
broadened at the sides.
Turkish Candy.—Cook togethe:
until it threads when dropped int«
cold water, two cupfuls granulatec
sugar, one-half cupful of hot water
When it reaches the thread stag:
pour over the beaten whites of tw
eggs and beat until it commences tc
grain. Add any kind of nutmeats
pour into greased square pans ant
cut in squares when cool, or maki
into a loaf, and slice.
—Take a good look at yourself
You will need to know your virtue:
as well as your faults before yo
decide on your winter wardrobe
The women are already ordering
madly but wearing their new clothe
rather cautiously. One sees man;
of the snug, - gripping evening
gowns but few striking day ensem
bles.
The winner this Autumn for th
street is certainly the black an
white costume. I admit my satis
faction in having predicted this las
June from Paris. The tweed en
sembles remain much the same bu
their popularity has increased
hundred times. Already in the coun
try and for traveling they are th
super-chic choice. Later when th
really cold weather arrives they wil
be equally smart for town.
They are more colorful and th
"fabrics softer and more charmin;
than last year, but the smartes
women still wear short (mot abbre
viated) skirts and many of then
still insist on an overblouse rathe
than a tuck-in waist. i
—Velvet has again risen to th
top of the fashion world. Ever;
well-dressed woman is adding velve
to her Fall anid Wihiter ‘wardrobe.