ET, End
Bellefonte, Pa., November 1, 1929
THE ROMANCE TRAIL
*There’s many a man since things began
Who's followed the romance trail,
‘And many’s the sad and lonesome lad
‘Who could tell you many a tale.
I'm meaning them who some condemn
As men who've failed to rise,
Who left the¢ir ‘home and went to roam
Under the distant, foreign skies.
Yet those who scowl and those who growl
Are those who've stayed behind,
They criticize those wandering guys
As fools who hawe :no mind.
They fail to see with clarity
The ties of the “Pot o' Gold,”
They never hear the call so clear
That beckons ‘the yesung and old.
Now .2 .man ;may .stay 'til his dying day
On the ‘hearth that iis tis own,
Or %e may go .as the winds do blow
The sweeds that thave mat .sown.
Yet bith these guys 'hawe equal ties
That make them both the same,
They'we both been ‘horn amd -they’ll both
be shor
Where they've finished out their game.
It's no disgrace to have your mlace
At either home or trgil—
For you always know you can always go
To Him of the Hgly Grail.
You've always a friend till the bifger.end
A help in the Master's hand,
For you he’ll gare no matter where
You stop to mgke your stand.
So remember now the big thing's how
Not where you live today,
Not what you do but is it true
Have you played square om the way.
And some of you guys who criticize
Them of the wandering tribe,
Had better look out before you shout
Maybe you need the jibe.
A —.——"
THE OLD MAN CLEANS
HIS BIG REVOLVER
By Mary Roberts Rinehart.
They never spoke of the years.
Between them was the fiercely main-
tained fiction of youth; eternal, pas-
sionate, virile youth.
When she lagged on her ridicu-
lous hesle 3 he Would pause, breathless
and as atic, and they wo -
mire the view. y al
“Charming, eh, darling?”
“Lovely. The sun on the river—”
She would ease her small feet in
her tight slippers, frivolous with
buckles, and look for a bench; and,
seated, she would slide her feet out
of her pumps, and he would take in
long breaths of air, He would look
out over the river, so as not to see
what she had done, and she never
slipped her arm through his until he
bat ceased that old fight of his for
I
Sometimes people passing stared
at them; the little old lady, with her
dyed hair, her bangles, her unutter-
ably frivolous hat. Her loose throat
was secured by a wide band of black
velvet, with a paste buckle in front,
and this she wore very tight, so that
at night there was the mark of it
on her neck, a red rectangle which
would not rub away. On warm days
the band made her hot, and small
thin trickles of the black paste she
used on her eyebrows and lashes
would extend down onto her cheeks.
Then he would say: “There is a
tiny smudge of soot on your cheek,
dearest.”
She would get out her mirror ond
wipe off the stain, while he gazed |
out at the panorama of life which |
passed them as they sat on their
bench. It moved so fast, so incred-
ibly fast. There were days when he
felt slightly dizzy from it, although
he never told her. He would not
wear glasses.
“I am dirty,” she would say, re-
pairing the damage. “They burn
so much soft coal. There ought to
be a law.”
And as if to support this fiction
between them, to bolster up her
pride, sometimes she would lean to-
ward him and flick imaginary soot
from his stiff white collar.
He was very straight, very aqui- |
line, very old. From the rear, ashe
marched along, he gave a jaunty
impression of youth—his flat back,
his swinging cane, his neat spats.
And before her he never relaxed.
His chest was out, his shoulders
squared.
Crossing streets, he had to resist |
j afraid of firearms she would retreat
into the bedroom, and later on she
the impulse to offer her his arm. She
did not like him to offer her his arm.
It was as though she was old and
needed help.
Not that she told him that. She
said it was quaint; quaint and old-
fashioned.
“Nobody does it, dear.”
“It is those heels of yours,” he
would grumble. “They are deadly,
and with things moving so fast—"
“You would hate me in anything
else. You know you would.”
From under the mascaro she
would glance up at him coquettish-
ly, and he would look around quick-
ly and then kiss her beringed hand.
So many rings, one after another;
little diamonds, scraps of sapphires
—sapphires were her birth stone—
baby pearls.
“I love your little feet.
erything about you.”
She would color delicately under
her purplish rouge, and for a mo-
ment there would be between them,
not the illusion of youth, but youth
itself. Their hearts would beat a
little stronger; his grasp on her
hand would tighten. So they would
sit
Little children would pass them,
turning limpid eyes on them.
“Look, Annie! Look at the fun-
ny people!”
J“Hush for goodness’ sake! How of-
ten have I told you—?”
But for that moment they were
armored against intrusion: just the
two of them on a park hench, seeing
about them, like young lovers, only
a shadowy world of no importance.
On rainy days, or when the wind
came fiercely down the river, they
did not go out. They sat in their
tiny apartment, their two chairs by
the window, their knees
And often he read aloud to her, the soul.
stilted TONAceS Of thelr Youth She would be filled with love and
“My dear master, I am Jane Hyre: | thankfulness, that he was hers
I love ev- | be.
making herself
dreadful bit of frippery out of
from her trunk—and glance 2
but he would read steadily
had not noticed, or if he
Years ago she herself d gone
away from him. A wild impulse, '
soon regretted. She had gone :
with another man But she had
come back again. i
“In truth? In the flesh? My Hiv- |
Jane” |
“You touch me, sir—you hold me, |
and fast enough: I am not cold.
like a corpse, nor vacant Meoan am
im”
Yes, she had come back. It was
a long time ago. He had blamed
himself as well as her. He had been !
jealous, and maybe inattentive. He:
had had to work so hard, but that
was so they could lay up something
for their old age. But it had been
hard for him. He had been quieter |
since. It had done something to his.
belief in himself. That was why
she was so careful now.
“That's such a nice tie, dear. It
matches your eyes.”
“You're a ridiculous woman
Matches my eyes, indeed!” And he
would draw himself up to his full
height and look at her. “So you
like me a little, do you?”
“I adore you.”
But sometimes, at night when he
was ‘sleeping, she would think of
those old mad days, and feel young
and oddly light. She had almost
forgotten the other man. She could
not even recapture his image. He
was unimportant now, save for the
one thing. He had desired her. He
had loved her madly. Her memory
discarded those later days when he
had ceased to desire her or to love
her, and clung tenaciously to the
rest,
In the morning she would have
forgotten, but she would be happy.
She would fetch from the trunk
some terrible bit of velvet and a
cluster of flowers and make herself
a hat, and when it was made they
would go out for the daily walk, the
flowers bobbing, people staring, and
a little song in her heart.
She did not know what she had
gained was reasurance: the belief
that she could still hold her own
man, For that, too, was a part of
the fiction between them, built so
carefully that now they believed it:
that each was still attractive to the
other sex, that the men who stared
at her curiously needed but a look
to follow her, that the young women
who eyed him as a relic of some
queer past were predatory crea-
tures, bent on luring him from her.
“That’s rather a pretty girl, dar-
ling,” he would say.
“She's a trifle fat,
think ?”
Or:
“That's an interesting man.”
“He's Jbot a gentleman.”
“I don’t like the
you.”
She would be secretly delighted,
and at the next turning of the path
she would glance back. Casually;
oh, very casually, but she never fool-
ed him. He would walk on, swing-
ing his stick almost violently. Once
she was quite certain that the per-
son who was not a gentleman had
halted and was gazing after them.
Perhaps it was because they were
so entirely alone. There had never
been any children, and they had no
money for friends. There were even
no relatives. Here and there over
the country there were graves they
had never seen, and in these graves
lay their past.
The present, a bit of the future,
apd each other—that was all they
had. And they were always togeth-
er; even in the apartment hardly
more than an arm’s length away.
When his joints stiffened it often
seemed that the liniment had been
applied to her, and when her head
ached he too inhaled the menthol.
If she fancied minced chicken he ate
it, although he loathed it, and when
he craved a boiled dinner she order-
ed it from the restaurant below, and
ungrumblingly shared it.
All their possessions they shared
save their clothes; indeed, each had
but one possession. She had her
vanity box, and he had his revolver.
On Saturday nights he wound the
clock, and on Sunday mornings he
cleaned his revolver.
don't you
way he looked at
She fixed the card table before
him, and he took the revolver apart
and worked it. Because she was
would open the door a crack.
“Have you finished?”
“All finished. Come in.”
He would hold the box—it was in
a velvet-lined mahogany box—in his
hands, and like those occasional
memories of hers at night, the hold-
ing of the box gave him renewed
confidence in himself. He felt mas-
culine and strong and dangerous. It
was as though he said:
“See, I am still a man. There is
death in my hands. Beware of me.
Be careful.”
Not until it was on the shelf
above the books did she seem to re-
lax again.
But she was not really afraid
of firearms. She only pretended to
One winter he developed a bad
knee. She put cloths soaked in ar-
nica on it, but there it was, swollen
and painful, and he could not get
about. She never left him, except
once in two weeks to get her hair re-
touched. It was dyed so black that
it had to be watched carefully.
Not that they admitted to each
other the purport of these absences
of hers.
“rll have to go downtown today
for an hour or two, dear.”
“All right, honey.”
“I have some errands.”
“Then you had better have some
money."
On the retouching days he would
give her five dollars or so, but every
three months or maybe less he
would give her twenty. When she
came back he would not refer to
any change in her, but he would tell
her she was beautiful.
“Beautiful, and the light of my
4"
again, that he was still faithful,
fiiat she wae hadag his. For the
ed in
when
old.
He
to fall back on
forgotten,
ahead. Not
Now and then !
pain kept him awake,
came like a demon, and sat on the
fa of the bed and
“It has to come. One or the other
of you.”
decline to think about it.”
“You do think about it. Don’t
lie. Which first? It will be easier
for the one who goes first.”
“Then let her be the one.”
But that was dreadful. She lying
there, cut off. Her breath stopping,
her little beringed hands folded
across her breast; and who loved
life, who held to it so tenaciously.
“No! Take me first.”
And then he saw her alone, old
and alone. Nobody to admire. her
pretty things, her pretty gestures,
her little birdlike mincings and af-
fections. Nobody to help her across
the streets, or sit on the bench with
her, or read to her on rainy days.
Not that! Oh, not that!
This, however, was only a night
and not often. He was contented
enough in the daytime to be sure of
her, to wait for her, to watch for
her with the odd illusion of girlish-
ness which distance lent her, walk-
ing home to him through the park.
He had no far glasses, only the ones
he read with; but he always knew
her. .
It was while watching her soone
day that a terrible thought came to
him. Suppose he went first? Would
she marry again? He saw no ab-
surdity in this. She was so little
and so soft, so feminine.
liked admiration. He had seen her
preening herself.
Also she would be lonely. She hac
hardly ever been alone; not fo
years and years. Not since he hat
found her, abandoned by that scoun-'
drel, sitting by herself and staring
at a packet of sleeping powders. He
had brought her back, and she had
never been alone since.
He gave her a queer look that day
when she came in. She was warm
from the walk, and a small black
island had formed beneath each
eye; the familiar aura of dye filled |
the room. ‘
“And what have you been doing
all this time?” she inquired.
ting into mischief?” |
Her tone implied that there was
no mischief beyond him, but he did
not smile.
“I have been thinking,” he said.
“You have no life of your own. No
life without me.” |
“Why should I want anything
else?” 1
“If you were left alone—" i
She put her hand over his mouth. ;
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You've
been left too long. You're morbid.”
After that, however, he made her |
leave him each day. It was as
though in his jealousy of the future
he was teaching her to be alone, to
be contented to be alone. When she
protested it frightened him. She
must learn.
Day after day he sent her outto’
walk, pretending she needed exer-'
cise. She did not walk. She sat on
a bench—alone now—and because it
was cold she could not slip off her
high-heeled shoes.
He could not see her there, save.
as a dot of vivid purple, or blue, or
green. He would watch this, and rub
his old hands together. She was
learning now, learning to be alone.’
Not that she liked it.
ed daily.
“It’s foolish. I can put a blanket
over your knees and open the win-
dow. Why should I go out?”
And her protests pleased him,
while he remained insistent. |
“I get tired of you, woman!” he
would say. “Hasn't a man a right
to be alone now and then? Get out
with you!”
She would pretend to be angry,
and he would drag her down and’
kiss her, and for a moment—no
more—the illusion of youth filled the
room, and the demon covered his
face. -
One day something unusual about
the bench caught his eye. She was
a purple dot that day, and beside
the purple was another dot, black.
She was not alone. At first he
thought it was some casual passer- |
by, but later he was not so sure.
The black dot remained, and it
seemed to him—but this was prob-!
ably imagination—that the purple
one was excited; that it was moving
its hands, tilting its head.
He was uneasy. He watched jeal-
ously, and after a long time the
black dot got up and moved away.
When she came in she said nothing
about it, but she was still excited.
You could not foo’ him about her.
She was excited. She hurried in
and went to the mirror, and stood
there turning her head this way and
that.
“Was it pleasant in the park to-
day, honey?”
It was a moment before she an-
swered him. It was as though she
had had to summon her thoughts
from a far distance.
“Wonderful,” she said. “The air
was glorious, and all ‘the pretty
nursemaids, with the children—"
Something had happened to her.
She was not jealous of the pretty
nursemaids any more, and she
not mentioned that black dot. His
hands clenched; he gazed with fury
at the swollen knee which left her
alone at the mercy of the world.
She was vague all that day, and
secretly exultant. When he want-
ed ham and cabbage she .ordered a
salad, and 80 ie two crers
to y for. e ernoon he
mg her digging in the trunk, and
when she ‘éame back she had a scrap
of red velvet: in’ her hands, and a
She protest-
And she Eyr
the little room,
| tile ?
Later on he saw her with her red
earrings in her hands, comparing
them. She had not worn those ear-
rings for years; she had been wear-
ing them when she went away from
him, so long ago.
" That was a Saturday. ]
he wound the clock, and the next
morning he cleaned his revolver. He
held it for quite a while before he
put back in the box, and she put
head and said:
“How long you are!”
he put the box away and she
came in.
All that next week she was very
gay. She bought a new bottle of
scent, and she perfumed her ears
just before she started out. Some-
times she loitered, looking at the
clock; he would pretend not to no-
tice. And once she was a trifle late,
and he watched her hurrying across
on her absurd heels to the bench
that black dot already occupied.
His knee grew worse day by day,
and in the afternoons he would have
fever. Then he would look out at
the black dot, and it would swell
into sizable proportions and become
the other man, still young and de-
bonnair and cruel. Then she would
come back, and the fever would go
down.
But she was detached. Sometimes
he had to speak to her twice. Lone-
liness began to grip him about the
heart like a strong hand, even when
she was in the room, and at night
the demon on the foot of the bed
made faces at him and laughed.
“Now which?”
“Take me.”
And the demon laughed and
laughed, until she leaned over and
shook him.
“Are you sick?”
“No. Why?”
“You were laughing in your sleep.”
In the soft night light, with her
black hair loose about her, she look-
ed almost young again, young and
passionate and beautiful. He groan-
e
She did not notice how ill he look-
ed that week, and he did not tell her
about the fever. She was busy mak-
ing herself a gray hat with a pink
rose on it, and a gray band for her
neck. He even continued to read to
her, and one day he finished “Jane
e.”
“My Master has forewarned me.
Daily he announces more distinctly,
‘Surely I come quickly!” and knows
I more eagerly respond, ‘Amen; even
so come, Lord Jesus.’ ”
His voice broke; he sat staring at
the page. She did not notice, how-
ever. She was dressing to go out,
and a heavy despair settled on him.
He saw that he had lost her again,
that the undying coquette in her
had triumphed once more.
“How do I look? Am I all right?”
He summoned his old heartiness.
FL look lovely to me. You always
0.
On Sunday morning she put on
“Get- the new hat and a new pair of slip- SOORE CONSTABLES
pers, very tight. He .saw that hey |
hurt her, but he said nothing. He
had grown rather silent. She had’
brought the revolver before she left,
and opened the card table, but he
did not fall to work.
He watched her instead, going to
her assignation at the bench. How
young she looked, with her gay hat
and her high heels and her little
body! How-—undying! What was
it the other man had written, after
she had come back?
“You will always be young to me,
young and lovely. I have been a
brute and a beast, but something in
me will always love you.”
She had been a little queer with
him after that, for some time.
He did not clean the revolver that
morning. His hands shook too much.
And he was feverish. When he clos-
ed his eyes there would be not one
demon but many. At first they were
small, but when he looked at them
they grew and grew until they were
enormous.
There faces changed too; one fea-
ture would melt into another, and
there would be glimpses of counte-
nances he had long forgotten. It was
as though his whole past crowded
hung from the
chandelier and sat on the bookshelf,
and as though it mocked him for his
age and feebleness; he who had once
been a man.
“A man!” it said. “You a man?
A shell; a simularcrum!”
The demons shouted, and it was
as though all the tragedy of all the
| old men in the world was crowded
into the small room. It echoed with
their futile cries, their feeble furies.
He covered his ears. He refused to
join them. He was still a man; there
there was death in his hands. Fu-
Feeble?
kill.
stiff, and braced himself against the
open window. The gray and black
dots were close together. Ah, they
were standing now. That was bet-
ter. -
Don’t think. Don’t stop to think.
Act. Be a man. Steady now. Steady,
for heaven’s sake. On the black.
One on the black. That was roulette
The black dot used to play roulette;
he would leave her to play roulette.
He stiffened, aimed and fired, and
with the racket the demons rushed
out of the room and left everything
quiet. Quiet and peaceful. Outside,
too. The two dots had separated,
and each was going its own way.
He looked down at the revolver
and smiled faintly. Then he straight-
ened himself. It was as though that
futile shot had restored his man-
hood. He felt strong again, able to
cope with her, to defeat her.
“I won't have you meeting that
fellow. Do you hear?”
Let her cry.
It was some time before he saw
the bullet hole in the window frame.
An hour before that would have
daunted him, but not now. He would
conquer that hole. What was a bul-
had | let hole to him?
There was a crafty look about him
as he hobbled about, a bit of whimsy.
He would outwit her, sharp-eyed lit-
tle soft thing that she was. A bit
of soap to fill it, then a touch of red
to match the wood.
He found some red salve in her
vanity box and finished the job. But
when he had put the salve back he
stood looking down into the box.
With this she
bunch of satin cherries.
tection against fear.
Nonsense. He could .
He got up slowly, his knee being °
He saw it now for what it was. |
It was her armory, her secret pro-
fought her demons; of age, of future
loneliness, of death.
When he had closed the lid he bent
down and kissed it. Let her have a
friend, let her sit on a park bench
and thrust out her tiny feet to be
seen and admired. Let life be bear-
able, and sweet and kind, to her.
When she came back he was
cleaning his revolver, and she pout-
ed at him.
“What? Not done with that old
thing yet?”
He smiled up at her. Behind her
gayety he saw a little sadness, and
there were black lines on her
cheeks, as though she had hurried
back to him in the spring heat.
“Wgs it pleasant outside?”
“Very. And—oh, yes, I must tell
you. I was talking with a nice man.
He came and sat down beside me.
Rather young and distinguished. He
writes books. He said he would put
me in a book! Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Not at all ridiculous, darling,” he
said gravely. “Who better deserves
it? ut—on a half-hour’s acquaint-
ance?”
She did not answer that. She
said nothing of the past week. Per-
haps she was afraid of hurting him.
Or perhaps she herself knew vague-
ly that she had been absurd.
“He's going away,” she said, her
voice slightly flattened. “He goes
tonight. He lives away from here.”
She went to the mirror and glanced
at herself. “Goou heavens, why
didn’t you tell me my face is dirty?”
“It’s the soft coal, honey.”
Above the purple rouge, below the
dyed hair, her eyes met his, and with
a little cry she went toward him and
dropped down on her knees.
“What ever would I do without
you?” she said hysterically. “I
can’t bear to think of it. I can’t.”
His thin old hand caressed her
hair, and to his sensitive nostrils
was wafted that peculiar aura of
perfume and dye which now he saw
served her as his revolver had serv-
ed him, as strength against the en-
croaching weakness of the spirit.
“My darling,” he said. “My beau-
tiful darling!”
Suddenly he felt tired. His eyes
under their beetling brows made an
effort, looked up at the hole in the
window frame, so neatly repaired.
Then they closed, and he smiled.
“Y am so jealous of you,” he mur-
mured. “So jealous! I must be very
young. You—you will always be
u oy 3
And he felt her move closer to
to him. He was her reassurance and
her strength. She needed him. She
would always need him, and he
would never fail her. Never, please
God.
He slept, and for a long time she
knelt there, afraid to move away.
Then she rose and, going to the
bedroom, proceeded to make up her
reddened eyes again.—Hearst’s In-
ternational Cosmopolitan.
em —— re ———
WHO FEATHER NESTS
Seman |
Denouncing the activities of cer-
tain constables in various parts of
the State, who, is it charged, are
using the “Through Traffic Stop”
law as a means of personal enrich-
ment, the Keystone Automobile Club
yesterday announced it is preparing
to proceed legally against such of-
ficers.
J. Maxwell Smith, General Man-
ager of the Club, said numerous
complaints have been made by mo-
torists who have been summoned for
failure to stop at intersections
guarded by the “stop” signs. In
many instances, he continued, the
alleged offenders have found that
the charge against them would be
“forgotten” on payment of $1 and
sometimes $2 to the constable
swearing out the information.
“This,” said Mr. Smith, “is not our
idea of law enforcement. As a mat-
ter of fact, it is a despicable hold-
up. The constables involved are
boldly taking advantage of an ex-
cellent law, enacted for the safety
of the public, to further their own
personal interests. .
“We welcomed the enactment of
the ‘Thru Traffic Stop’ law as a
valuable aid to safety on the high-
ways. We believe its proper en-
forcement to be absolutely necessary
if the tremendous toll in human
lives is to be reduced in this State.
Motorists should understand that
the stop signs means just that, and
not merely a slowing of the car. No
matter whether there is a clear view
of the intersection from all sides
and no other traffic is in sight, the
motorist is required by law to come
to a complete stop before proceeding
across or into the intersecting high- :
way.
“Constables are not empowered by
the law to settle with offending mo-
torists for $1 or any sum. Justices of
the Peace who wink at such prac-
tice are mo better than the holdup
constables. The Keystone Automo-
bile Clubis now engaged in gathering
evidence agai officers who are
bringing the law into disrepute, and
fair notice is served that the
practice be discontinued.” i
METER 10 MEASURE
BUMPS ON HIGHWAY
Extensive use of the “roughome-
ter” devised by the Pennsylvania
Department of Highways will be
made during the next four weeks,
Samuel Eckels, chief engineer, to-
day announcd. Pavement laid dur-
ing the present season will be sub-
ject to a rigid examination for rid-
ing quality.
The instrument is mounted on the
front axle of a touring car which
is driven at average rates of
over the new vement. Undula-
tions or ridges in the pavement suf-
ficient to cause spring action on the
car are recorded on the instrument
in vertical inches and fractions. A
meter on the instrument board of
the car makes the reading.
A standard of twenty-five accum-
ulated inches of “roughness” per
mile has been set to determine
model riding surface. Pavement
meeting this standard causes no
perceptible vibration in the car and
passengers are being given the best
in modern highway construction.
—The Watchman gives all the news
worth reading, all the time.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN,
Daily Thought.
‘‘Have you had a kindness shown?
Pass it on. :
‘Twas’ not given for you alone,
Pass it on. !
‘It will travel down the years: ’
It will wipe another's tears,
'Til in heaven the deed appears,
Pass it on.”
—If we are wonderi why our
children are cross and ieritable, per-
haps it’s because we are cross and
irritable ourselves.
Are we forever asking them to do
unreasonable t $? That's anoth-
er cause for temper in children.
So many parents order their ehil-
dren about like machines, never
stopping to think that on top of
Dose machines are heads—t
eads—and that in their breasts ar
hearts—hearts that can’t help react
ing bitterly sometimes at injustice
and thoughtlessness.
Aren't we forever shouting “Stop!”
or “Go and do this or that” without
the slightest regard of what they
happen to be doing at the minute?
There will probably be a protest
at this, but so be it. Until we can
bégin to treat children with a frac-
tion of the consideration that we
have for people of our own age, I'm
afraid welll have to put up with
anger, and temper, and sulks and all
sorts of y
Certainly we have the right to ex-
pect obedience, and pretty prompt
obedience at that, but it is surpris-
ing how well consideration on the
part of the parent and willing obe-
dience on the part of the child, mix.
“Jerry, go down and drop this let-
ter in the box.”
“Oh, mother, I just have three
pages to finish this book and the
mail isn’t lifted until six. Please,
may I?”
We can say, “Yes, certainly, Jer-
ry, but go the instant you're
through,” or we can say, “March,
i When I tell you todo a thing,
lo Ln
It isn’t necessary to point out the
reply that will leave a glow of warm
gratitude in Jerry's breast or the
one that will smoulder and flare up
into flame, not so much at disap.
pointment over the story which he
can finish later on, as at being
treated so summarily just because
he is a growing boy.
Of course, it all depends.
Jerry's hurt need fot rankle if he
is the sort of boy who needs mar.
tial orders.
Perhaps he is a careless, forgetfu
fellow who, as soon as he finishe:
his book, will go out and play bal
and let the letter lie on the table
In that case it is quite fair to say
“Son, I know what happens wher
you put things off. I can’t depen
on you, so I can’t do you the favo
of letting you finish your book now
You'll have to go.”
But to go back to the question o
anger causes in children, I thin]
we’ll find that many of them can b
avoided if we use our own judg
ment in our treatment of them.
Self-control in children cannct b
a possibility until they can witnes
self-control in their parents.
—Two young mothers, each wit
small children of her own, decide
that a book dealing with the subjec
of food for children and the correc
cooking of that food ought to b
written!
And, unlike most of us who kno
that certain things ought to be dons
but put off the doing of them, the
sat right down, the two of them, an
wrote the book.
It’s a most interesting book, we
written, the recipes all “kitchen-tes
ed;” it is intended to supplement tk
doctor’s insructions, and to teac
mothers and nurses, and all wk
have dealings with the very youn
but rising generation how to prepai
its food.
One point in particular do I a]
prove of in this book—it urges mot}
ers not to economize on the qualil
of the food they buy for their chi
dren.
The freshest eggs, meat, fish ar
green vegetables should be boug!
for them; the milk they drink oug:
to bear a trade name which
synonymous with honesty, sanit
tion and trustworthiness. So Ww
the children’s health be protected.
—There are delightful recipes
the book; for instance, Eggs Bak
in Tomato Cups. There's a splenc
dish for children, combining all t
vitamins in the tomato with the e
cellent and aristocratic qualities
the egg.
Here is the recipe: Scoop out fo
tomatoes (I'm allowing you fo
children, you see), put them into
casserole and sprinkle them Ww:
salt. Put a teaspoon of butter
each tomato and bake for tenm
utes.
Break an egg in each toma
sprinkle bread crumbs over the t
dot with butter ana brown for abx
ten minutes longer.
—A fine housekeeper credits !
kitchen alarm clock with much
her efficiency. She sets it for ti
to start dinner, feed the baby
medicine, give her grocery ord
over the phone, baking cakes, call
the older children in to help set
table and scores of other things.
—Dingy iron beds and unsigl
dressers and chests of drawers
be rejuvenated and made beaut
by painting. There are many 1
quick-finish paints on the mar
including some new ones that do
smell painty. Apple green is ag
color to choose.
—Many of the softest and n
feminine of new winter blouses kb
fitted yokes either front and kt
or just in the back. A shell }
satin one has a modernistic s
down yoke in the back, with
center step-down almost reac!
the waistline.
se.
—If your blouses are solid ¢
‘that does not run, roll them in !
towels as soon as you rinse
iron before they are thoroughly d
If there is a chance that the =<
will run, wash quickly, rinse in
water, stuff full of tissue pape:
hang on a hanger.