oR Deuorralic; atc. “ Bellefonte, Pa., May 30, 1930. m—— SUMMER: A RHAPSODY. Howdy, Mr. Summer-time? Glad to see you here; Life becomes a pretty rhyme When your glows appear. All the world seems full of love ‘When your roses bloom, And your azwe skies above Drive away all gloom. Like to feel the touch so soft In your balmy air, And the breezes from aloft Tousling my hair, Love the rustling of the trees Like some fairy’s sigh, And to listen to the bees Droning lullaby. Love the scent of heliotrope, Pink, and mignonette; Love to watch the pansies open And the violet. Love to hear the cattle call QO’er the clovered mere, And to watch the waters fall O’er the silvery weir. Love to sit and watch the moon Smiling down on me, While the wavelets softly croon By the summer sea. Love to listen to the song Of the birds at morn. When the sunbeams come along With the day new-born. Love to hear the katydids Out there in the night. Like a lot of noisy kids In an endless fight. Love to hear the mercury Clicking with the heat— When it comes to little me Summer can’t be beat. Carlyle Smith. rt en fg fr. FANCHOT. You will remember—if you have sat in the stalls of the old French Opera House on Bourbon street, to hear “Le Jongleur de Notre Dame” you will remember Fanchot. Fanchot was Le Jongleur. not say he sang it. Mary Garden did that. Fanchot was the creature —body and blood and motley. A shrinking, undersized boy, meagerly fleshed; an eager body inside the juggler’s gauds; great gentle, sad, gray eyes; and a mouth pitifully young, forever twitching between pain and laughter—that was Le Jongleur, Incidentally, that was Fanchot. : : When they took him from his balls and tricks to put a monk’s robe on him, it tied a knot about your heart swelled to bursting. If so young, so eager, so full of quaint bravado, and passionate desire to please—but when in the last act) he came before the altar, casting | that robe aside, the knot broke, and your heart swelled to bursting. If you were human, and had not the temper of cold steel, you put a. hand to your eyes, unashamed. ! For Fanchot, in motley, singing his songs, dancing his dances, and | juggling his bright swift balls be-! fore the Blessed Mother—the only! offering he knew how to make her —was something not easily to be laughed aside. Like a gallant toy soldier come to life, he strutted up; and down, his little drum throbbed beneath his fingers, and his bells jingled. Above him, the high altar glowed, with lights like jewels. When he looked up to the pictured | face of Mary, his feet faltered, and his voice broke; but then he soon went on again, more eagerly than ever, leaping and whirling like mad in the earnest of his dance. Had not Boniface told him that the best one could do made always an acceptable offering in Her sight? And, this was his best—his highest reach—his Art. So when he fell panting upon the altar steps, ex- hausted near to death, and the white hand of the Virgin was stretched out above him in bene-’ diction—you credited the miracle. More, you saw your own accustom- ed prayers for what they were,’ sick, sorry things in the light of that boy's white faith. | That, as I have said, was Le Jongleur who was Fanchot. But Fancrot was not always Le Jong- I do leur, else this story need not be written. There is not much ma- terial in mere goodness for the stories that people will read. Fanchot in his ordinary self, was somewhat otherwise. His name, given him by certain doting parents and godparents in baptism, was Camille Jean Marie, which goes far to explain why he sang in a lyric tenor and wore neckties of delicate gray. When he was not rehearsing nor performing, nor riding about in taxicabs—a recreation which he adored—he lived at the Hotel de Paris, which, every one knows, is just across the street from the French Opera House, and shelters in its capacious gray bosom most of the latter’s song-birds. Fanchot had a room there and, in addition, when he chose to be at home for them, three plentiful meals a day. On the whole, he found it an easy and a pleasant life. Of an evening, he sat cosily ensconced behind the little table nearest the window—which was nearest the door—and sipped his sour, red wine, and gulped his cafe noir, and rolled and lit his subsequent cigarettes, with no interruption other than the genial nod of Charroom with his wife; or the shrill, comradely greet- ing of Handel, the premiere dan- seuse; or the languishing glances of Bergere, the fat soprano, who hugg- ed a little white dog with one hand, and manipulated a fork with the other. Fanchot sat quite alone, yet was not lonely, till there came upon the scene, the little Martier. Martier, to admit the grievous truth, was an inerloper. Poor, pret- ty Guyol, the original chanteuse legere of the troupe, had quarrelled with the manager, and departed in i haste, thereby forfeiting a month's salary; whereupon Martier, coming, as Fanchot justly considered, from Heaven-knows where, in answer to imploring managerial telegrams, took her place. Further, there being no other seat for the new-comer, she was put tete a tete with Fanchot at the little table. Further yet she was so pretty as to be proud, and so petted as to be spoiled—a dark, scornful little creature, rose-cheeked, with eyes like the evening star’s re- flection in twin pools. Furthest of all, upon the first evening, Fanchot had spoken quite kindly, meaning to put her at ease, and the hussy had flouted him. Somewhat after this fashion: “You have sunk elsewhere?” in- quired Fanchot with an air—indul- gent as an old gentleman in spats. “That runs without speaking,” she returned coolly, ‘else what should I be doing here?” ! “But your so charming youth,” he persisted kindly. Just at the first, she pleased his artistic eye. Martier bit her lower lip to stifle yawn. i “The bread, if you please.” i Fanchot presented it. a the curl that touched her cheek. While he parried and thrust in the her napkin daintly, you? vendictive fence she forced upon place is dull—eh? Are you looking him, he would have given his soul at me? I cannot always tell—be- to put his lips to her hand; and cause of the eye. Is it not quaint? while he laughed lightest at the And Fanchot would smile wryly fiatting of her notes, mentally he his hope once more flung back upon was down in the dust at her feet, itself. pra; that for her own sake, | “Tonight,” he would remind her she might not do it again, | “there is Juliette. I trust she will Nothing of this came home to not flat one little note. I have an Martier, though beside herself there ear so delicate.” was no soul in the troupe who did | But it grew tiresome, that game! not know the truth, or who failed,| Then at the end of a certain with truth temperamental wit, to week, the last in January, Martier, make a jest of it, who had gone as usual to the plan- The season marched, as seasons |tation, failed to return one morning; do, and one after another, subscrip- |and evening papers, hawked about tion nights were added to the past. | the street by careless -boys, printed By some quaint chance, the fickle "her name in little black letters, mid- public chose to be pleased with | way of a pitiful little list. There Fanchot and Martier in “Pagliacci” had been a wreck—a spreading rail —so “Pagliacci” was sung, an in- | and four lives lost. This was not, credible number of times, with in itself, so strange a thing. We Martier, an impish enticing Nedda, | must have wrecks, we who travel and Fanchot, a poignantly impas- fast. But when the wreck is at sioned Canio. Something more than !our door. the sad clown’s fury burned in| “See now!” coaxed Charpre . “shall we go?” They went up the stairs togeths Fanchot stumbling a little, like | men who has drunk too deep. { “The good God knows,” sigh | Charprent when they had reach i the little tenor’s room; “it all mak | Art—love, life and death.” | But Fanchot, who was Le Jongle had no answer. He lay, face dow .across the bed, and wept.—By Fa street grew less, There had beenno hie Heaslip Lea. performance intended for the opera | that night, and the hotel went ear- | ly to bed. The sound of the infre- | quent cars came like a crash across | the stillness. One might have heard BULL FIGHTING ONCE A RELIGIOUS SPOR the wire ness was without comfort. It was perhaps a little past the third hour after midnight, when Fanchot moved in his chair. He stretched both hands softly across the table, turned them palm up- ward, as a man who begs, and whispered a name. In that long, silent room, its echo did not cross the threshhold. “Well-Beloved!” he said, and again, shaken with longing, ‘my Well- Beloved!” A little mouse came out of its hole, and gnawed raspingly beside the fireplace—no sound but that. “Juliette!” said Fanchot, very stilly; one might have thought, to hear him, he held his breath be- singing. And the dark-' Bull fighting, now regarded me: {ly as a sport, and confined larg: Ito Mexico and Spain, once had religious significance and was co. {mon in many parts of the wor according to Dr. Bertthold Lauf jcurator of anthropology at the Fi Museum of Natural History, , Chicago. | Among six cast brass figu (from Borneo recently presented {the museum by N. H. Heerams eck of New York there is one ti represents two fighting bulls w lowered heads, intense with moti trying to gore each other. Sta jing behind each is depicted a m "eagerly watching the outcome the duel. 4 In its origin, the custom of ho ling public contests between bu tween words—the: do, who I for an answer. ory eo sten or bulls and men, formed part of Dear God—My Well-Beloved!” i ritual in connection with agricultu A little wind came up, and fretteq 2¢¢0rding to Dr. Laufer. The r at the windows. of the bullfight was sup posed A sob caught suddenly in Fan. | promote the fertility of the fie chot’s throat. or to forecast the crop output, “But I have waited!” he said, says. The ox, domesticated chie desperately low, and his hands for drawing the plow and thus he clenched in upon themselves, nail ing man to secure his daily bre into palm, rigid with agony. “Dear was regarded as sacred in God!—my Well-Beloved!” ancient civilizations of Asia, s Before his eyes, dark with pain, | there is evidence that ritual and strained with the hopeless hope fights date back as early even of re-visioning, a shadow fell and Prehistoric times. Dr. Laufer sa wavered. It grew, misting faintly! “In the art of ancient Crete C. into form beside that empty chair. | tests between bulls and young n Against the darkness, it was as a OF Women are represented. In : film; against the close air, as a cient Greece ‘bull-baiting,’as it v perfume; against the silence as a called, was held in honor of Pos heartbeat. don, god of the sea. In anci Fanchot sat wrung and tortured. i China the living ox was repla He scarcely breathed, His eyes by an earthenware image which p burned into the dark. | sonified the spring; it was bea Then, while the little mouse With the intention of beating rasped at the wall, and the little spring itself to hasten its arriv wind fretted at the windows, there | Ine underlying idea was that o came two other eyes that answered . Struggle between man and a be —wide, mocking eyes above a red , endowed with supernatural pow mouth, tilting at the corners. From 28d put to death that its vi the chair that had been empty might transfuse itself into across the table, smiled the little 8TOWINg Crops. Martier, and Fanchot sensed a _ vhere ritual bullfights voice. place, the animals are carefully “Oh la! la!” it murmured, “if you lected and trained. Shortly bef regard me so mournfully with the LHe combat their pugnacity eye of glass, I shall undoubtedly laugh.” . “My Well-Beloved!” said Fanchot in his heart. His lips moved but slightly, yet he said it again and again. “One would not have supposed that you sang Romeo,” the wide eyes swept him with a delicate disdain, the red mouth curled into a smile. Fanchot’s face paled, till even in that darkness, it showed a blur of light. A breathless ecstasy trem- bled in his voice. He spoke so low you might not have heard him, though you stood at his elbow. “Romeo?” he said it after her, lingeringly. ‘“Romeo was a poor fellow—he could only die when Juliette was gone. I have called you back, my Well-Beloved—I have called you back!” “Do you so flatter yourself?” She mocked him. “There you are,” he pleaded, “and here am I! Has it been one hour or twelve I have sat here? I can- not tell. I have taken my heart in my hands and wrung it dry. I only know I called you—and you have come.” “To see—” her chin lifted prettily —‘to see poor Romeo pray.” Fanchot's dry lips twitched. “I love you,” he said, “Ilove you! —Dbeyond all hope—beyond all peace. For every jest you flung at me I love you more—for every sneer—for every taunt. any night. I shall never forget.” She nodded her head, an ethereal mirth narrowing the beautiful eyes. murmur- “That sees itself,” she «There is no music in heaven,” he told her, in broken passionate whispers, “like the notes you have flatted. If I have laughed at them, the good God lied.” “Doubtless,” she nodded “doubtless you lied.” sweetly, My Well Beloved,” breathed Fen- chot hoarsely, “my little, little love!” A silence came between them. Across the table, his eyes devoured the shadowy curve of her cheek. The room sank away from conscious- ness. It may be that his hand trem- held, for suddenly a spoon clinked beneath it and at that a great shud- der took him, from head to heel. He shivered pitifully, like a man with the ague, setting his teeth that they might make no sound. In the street outside a cart went! clattering horribly, and after The air was ‘chill with dawn. At the windows, the dark grew slowly pallid. Vague shapes revealed themselves about the room. There was a careful step upon the stair, and Charprent stood in the doorway, in the twilight, he looked haggard and large and old. His by, a little, another. I have not forgotten aroused by forcing potent , down their throats. ‘the duel is lead in triumphal cession to the accompaniment drums and chants. He is then _rificed to the guardian deity of ‘crops whose representative he by the chief of the tribe in capacity as priest. No blood is lowed to flow; the animal is eit , clubbed to death or a spike is d en into its forehead. His flesh then divided and solemly consur at a ceremonial banquet of the ci munity that usually ends in a v drinking orgy. Finally the hc of a slain animal are set up 0 tall pole in a public place exalted as cult objects. “This custom is still observed the aboriginal hill-tribe of - sot ern China and Indo-China, in laysia and in Korea. ‘in Egypt bulls bred for the pur} “were made to fight one anot the victor being awarded a pi Bullfights are still common in Malay states not under British 1 It is a curious fact that the M: state of Menang-kabau in Sum: owes its name to a contest of {sort as far back as the fourtee century, the name meaning ““ i quished karaboa’ ( water-buffalo.) Madagascar fights between ¥ were the favorite sport of the mer sovereigns and their court! who availed themselves of such | casion for getting royally drunk liqu The visitor £ = At Mem] FAKE MAPLE SYRUP CAUSES JAIL TER One Pittsburgh man is in jai "default of bail and another has a heavy fine for selling “boot maple syrup in western Pennsylv: The “pure maple syrup” being ported into Pennsylvania by m truck from adjoining States found, upon analysis, to be the | dinary cane sugar syrup, artific colored and flavored. The pro was sold to food retailers, part ‘larly those in the small towns wetern Pennsylvania, direct 1 ‘motor trucks. Counties in Ww such operations have been repc | recently include Allegheny, E Somerset, Westmorerand, and ford. | The bureau of foods and che try is making a determined « paign to break up this ring i maple syrup bootleggers, All dealers who are approa by persons selling maple syrup low the prevailing price for genuine product are urged to b | guard and to notify the bureau foods and chemistry at Harris wherever there is suspicion of fi The bureau will take prompt j tion and prosecute every caseWw a careful analysis indicates tha product is not as represented.