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| <Charprent, the paper crackling in
Fanchot’s gray eyes on such nights. | the hold of his great fist, came first
A fire of longing touched him, and to the Hotel de Paris with the news,
a flame of wild regret. “In “Ro- | Tohis wife who had met him on the
meo et Juliette” he was the wistful- | stairs with some inconsequent
pleasantry about his lateness, he
“You cannot have had much ex- lest lover those walls had seen—as
perience.” | Juliette was the shyest maid—what
“Not too much,” retorted Fanchot lacked in impressiveness of
pertly, “but enough.” | stature, he atoned for in earnest-
«You would sing Musette, one nessbut it was hard for any man to
supposes—a very delightful Musette.” love poetically to the undercurrent
she
Now it is not Musette who thas
the important role in “Boheme.”
The little chanteuse flung Fanchot
a disdainful look. |
«Mimi,” she corrected laconically. |
“Ah?” said Fanchot, still quite
innocent of any desire to offend,
“one would not have supposed it.
Nedda ?” :
She merely nodded.
“‘Michalea ?”’ i
An affirmative motion of the eye-'
brows. i
“Juliette ?”
Another nod. !
At that, he smiled, with pleasure |
accompaniment that Martier played
him.
When, for example, she leaned
from the balcony into his yearning
arms, he having gallantly ascended
the rope-ladder and pledged him her
tender heart—between the outbursts
of their duet, she tortured him in
a delicate whisper.
“Do not jut your face so near—
I cannot sing—"
“Oh la! la!—if you regard me sO
mournfully with the eye of glass, I
shall undoubtedly laugh.”
“If only you do not flat!” hissed
Fanchot, before vowing, in exquisite
—the boyish, deprecating smile of limpid harmonies, that yonder moon
Le Jongleur. | might prove his constancy. .
¢I also sing Romeo. It is of my | By reason of the merciless exigen-
best.” | cies of Gounod’s music Juliette was
She looked him over accurately. | thereupon faint with happiness, but
“One would not have supposed it. | in a murmur following sweetly, so
We have no sugar at this place?” |that her red lips barely moved, she
Fanchot signalled the disinterested wielded the lash once more.
waiter. Having a friendly heart,! “I do not care that you should
Fanchot endeavored still to con- hold me so close.”
descend. And Romeo, swearing his soul to
“You will not find us difficult— her service, muttered in the first
we little ones of the ra.” i free second, with dry lips—
“What does it matter?” inquired; “I have no wish—”
the insolent Martier, and rose from | Wherein he lied shamefully—from
the table, having finished her meal. the depths of a fiery furnace, as it
She left Fanchot staring. | were.
There you have in its beginnings | But Martier did not laugh. Being
a very pretty feud, for Martier con- Juliette ee insiesa 2
tinued "to sit at Fanchot's table, | Hite Arms BlOUL 8 Heck, Aon
and soon his spirit rose against her | only as her dark hair swept his
continued flagellation. It was not a!
Fret pie you ke Aaving. 3 SHEA, DL pet UC
finest expression in juggling balls | co DS Fly, With
before an altar; but clean it was—' refinement o on, :
as spirits go—and childishly sweet, Solute quintessence of unkindliness:
a coll be lilly Vicious, too, | ip in: Jeet jiself.
d | In spite of all which, “Romeo et
when someone prodded it, as Martier a was one of Fanchot’s few
chose to do invariably. It was as, : in life. At least it
if she had conecived a feline dislike Bic Ry e te he boy ve.
for him, unsheathing her claws when- | 3nq not all the little Martier’s un-
ever he approached, and defied him ghegkable cruelties could rob him
to smooth her fur. Soon there was of a consequent choking happiness
open war between them, to the that endured to the fall of the cur-
good-natured amusement of the rest {gin
of the troupe.
“She is a cat, that little Martier,”
said Fanchot gloomily to Charprent
one day. :
Fanchot was not a Cave-Man, as
one sees that delightful tradition,
It occurred to him not once in the |
said five words, his kind square-
jawed face paling dreadfully, his
voice a husk.
“The little Martier,” he told it
thus,” is dead.”
“Ninette!” shrieked
clutching the railing.
Ina moment she essayed to laugh,
timorously.
“Macaque! You jest.”
“Read, said Charprent, ana held
the paper up before her eyes, where-
upon madame went presently, and
with no warning beyond one strang-
led gulp, into a clamor of hysterics.
She had been fona of the willful
girl.
“That is well enough, “muttered
Charprent, “we must all grieve, we
others—but who is to tell Fanchot ?”
Not Bergere— who, when she
heard of the tragedy, clutched her
cheek, and wept loudly. She had
been jealous of Martier, but one
can’t be jealous of the dead. Her
tears were real.
Handel cried out between her sobs
that she would not dare, she could
not bear to hurt a fly.
The rest were no less stubborn—
like frightened children.
“Then I, myself,—sighed Char-
prent.
A gloom settled down upon the
Hote! de Paris, like a clinging black
pall. The women gathered in Berg-
ere’s room weeping, and remember-
ing little sunny episodes of the dead
girl's life. The men clogged the
hallways, smoking solemnly. Into
this atmosphere of darkness and
color, came Fanchot, and closed the
door behind him.
At first they thought, Charprent
and one other who went gravely
to meet him, that he did not know.
He wore a gray suit, with a red
flower in his button-hole and his
madame,
soft gray hat was pushed quite rak- !
ishly upon the back of his head.
Then they saw his face, and Char-
prent, not knowing why he did so,
took the paper from Fanchot’s hand.
“Am I late for dinner?” asked
Fanchot, and that was all. The soul
of the man, like a naked thing
seeking cover, caught up the first
flimsy commonplace it could find to
shelter its agony. :
“No,” said big Charprent, clumsil
“Yes, but I had rather have her
scratch than purr,” was the basso’s
deep-voiced condolence. “It is so
hard to be rid of them—when they
purr.”
Fanchot shrugged. He was fresh
from an encounter, and his wounds
yet smarted.
One deep wound which Martier
had inflicted, and continued to rub
with salt, concerned acutely the per-
sonal comeliness of the little tenor.
Fanchot had a cast in one eye—
a very slight cast—scarcely cast—
to be noticed, and surely not to be
remarked upon. Martier observed
it, however, and all was grist that
came to her wicked mill.
“You have perhaps an eye of
glass?” she inquired pleasantly one
evening at dinner, when the feud
had been more than usually in-
tense.
Fanchot indignantly denied it.
“But why should you care? It is
a very good eye—the difference is
slight. I should scarecely have
known!”
“It is my own eye, he assured her
in white heat rage.
“But yes,” she murmured sooth-
ingly, “it becomes your own, since
it is paid for. A perfect match, I
assure you, I should never have
known, except for a little crooked-
ness—like a cast.”
“It is a cast,” said Fanchot be-
tween his teeth, “in my eye.”
“One understands,” she agreed in-
dulgently, “in your eye—not in the
one of glass. No matter!”
Thereafter she lost no occasion of
tormenting him. Fanchot was im-
potent, till an unexpected, but quite
perceptible flatting of Mimi’s notes’
one night, gave him his opportunity.
Next day at luncheon, he rose to
the occasion. 5
“How you must have been morti-
fied!” he consoled her, “last night—
to flat so dreadfully!”
“1?” cried Martier, “to flat!”
Her brown eyes flamed fury. The
blood swept up into her cheeks.
“The papers speak of it— you
not seen?” suggested Fanchot mila-
ly. No matter! Let us talk of
something more pleasant—"
Martier was out of the room, and
halfway up the stairs in quest of a
morning paper, before the last
word left his lips.
“Touche!” chuckled Fanchot to
himself. But he pushed his plate
aside, and ate no more lunch that
day.
For Le Jongleur who was Fanchot,
and Fanchot who was Le Jongleur,
had come to love the one who flay-
ed him. Slowly, but with the sure-
ness of a punrise it had come to
him that his taunts were so many
weak defences, so many feeble bar-
ricades against an encroaching tide.
While he answered her with a
sneer, his eyes were hungry upon
course of a tumultuous season that tender, “you are not late, my boy.”
no woman is won by humility, and|{ And the third man added eagerly,
that trifle of brute force will move he too clutching the ordinary, for
mountains. It may be he had never comfort:
heard of a Cave-Man, or, having “There is perhaps an hour yet.”
heard, may be that he shuddered | “That is good,” said Fanchot, but
at the heresy. In any case, where when they looked to see him go up
rudeness and determination might the stairs carrying his grief like a
have been wisdom most effective, | burden, he crossed the threshold of
he preferred to rely upon caustic the dining-room, walked straight
epigrams, which broke beneath his to the little table by the window,
weight—added to their own. placed his hat upon the floor, sat
So things grew no better between down, rested his elbows upon the
the little tenor and the chanteuse cloth, and stared at the empty
legere—if anything, they altered chair—the chair of little Martier—
for the worse. Day after day the which stood there facing him. All
two broke bread together at the lit- | of this he did like a man in a
tle table, and scorned each other dream, not deliberately, but with
furiously above the salt. Theaudi- an unseeing sureness. The forks
ences that filled the Opera House | pesides her plate were awry, and
from parquet to gallery that winter, he set them straight. Then he sat
never knew that each red-rose mo-'once more quiet, looking across the
ment of “Pagliacci” was a delicious table, his hands clasped loosely be-
' eyes, my dear!
agony to Fanchot who sang it.’
They applauded—those big stupid
audiences—and in the boxes, the de-
butantes, all white and pink like |
wild flowers, murmured, rustling |
among themselves: i
“Isn't he sweet? —Fanchot! Those
No less than burn-'
ing!—and eyelashes long as your
arm.” i
Poor Fanchot! Martier had not.
observed those eyelashes, or she
would doubtless have asked, with a
delicate sniff, if perhaps he braided :
them before retiring at night. :
It was well into January when,
the first slackening of work appear-
ed and with it the first easier days :
for the singers. Mardi Gras came
early, with a rout of balls preced-!
ing it, and the Opera House was,
by right of tradition, converted on
such occasions into a ball-room.
Not more than two nights out of a
week, therefore, were Bergere and
Charprent and Martier and the rest
of them in demand. They took ad-
vantage joyfully of their increas-
ing idleness, Charprent and his wife
made long excursions into the coun-
try, returning foot-sore and jubliant.
Bergere and her little white dog
underwent a rest cure with a mas-
seuse in attendance. Flippant, slen-
der Handel haunted the shops in an
orgy of chiffons. Fanchot, daily, took
solemn, aimless rides in buzzing
taxicabs, And Martier—Martier went
away, as often as chance permitted,
to a certain charming plantation
house, in one of the Parishes, where
the hostess, a poet in a small and
delicate way, delighted to play at
bohemia, and worship genius in its
hours of ease.
She was a witch, that small
Martier. Upon each fresh return,
when Fanchot, hoping against hope,
greeted her tentatively, she trod up-
on her wound. You may imagine
her little French heels, dappled
with blood, tapping blithely, none-
theless, upon their way.
fore him, his shoulders drooping.
He was like that, while Charprent
stood and watched him. When
Charprent went away, he did not
move; and he was like that, yet
later, a live man, stiffening to stone,
while the Hotel de Paris ate its sor-
rowful dinner around him, mufiling
the noises of fork on platter, that
i grief might go undisturbed. The
waiter brought him one course after
another,
touched.
Charprent, stopping on the way
out, his big face distorted with feel-
ing, laid a hand on the nearest gray
shoulder.
“My boy,’ he suggested huskily,
“if you could perhaps eat—"
“Bh?” Fanchot did not look up,
he merely moved his head. “An-
other time.”
“The God knows we can
only wait,” the older man continued.
“TI am waiting,” said Fanchot.
And there was no answer to that,
Charprent could see for themselves.
So softly, and with a beautiful
understanding that seemed mot to
be aware of Fanchot’s presence,
the company slipped out, the wait-
ers cleared the tables deftly, and
the dining room was again deserted.
Through the semi-gloom, the white
cloths, and the dim goblets, the
plated forks, and the tall carafes
showed eerily. An air of weariness
hovered about the place, an air of
crowded yesterdays and juggernaut
. tomorrows.
Fanchot, in his corner, sat very
still, and outside, at intervals, the
cars roared by like rushing winds,
When it was nine o'clock and still
the little tenor had not moved, a
waiter came quietly to Charprent,
an air of sympathetic apology upon
his weazened face. He was an old
man, and in his time had slept
with sorrow.
“One would not disturb him,”
he said, “but it is the rule of the
house. After nine hours, no light
and took each away un-
|
|
“Put our your light,” the basso
told him. “Have no concern. Ishall
be here.”
The waiter hung back a moment,
wistfully.
‘If one might remark it—she was
a child of the sunshine, that little
one.”
“It is true,” said Charprent sim-
ply, “but the good God knows.”
The waiter went back to the
dining room, walking softly, and
turned out the single gas jet that
had been burning upon the chande-
lier. It left the place in a musty
shadow. Only the gloom of an
arc-light across the street sifted
through the closed windows, and
thinned the blackness.
“If there is anything monsieur
wishes,” offered the waiter, hesitat-
ing before the little table in the cor-
ner.
“Eh?” said Fanchot, answering as
if from a great distance, but quiet-
ly. He added, after a moment,
seeming to remember, ‘There is
nothing.”
When the waiter had gone, time
passed unremarked. Noises in the
-—
“Ah!” she would cry, unfolding burns in the dining room—and he shirt was open at the throat, a:
How this sits there still.”
'nis eyes were heavy with slee
Cautiously, he crossed the room, ax
laid his kindly hand on Fanchot
‘shoulder.
i “It is not long, he muttered, “b
fore the house awakes—and o1
would be alone with his grief. A
night, is it not? I have watche
It may be that you would sles
{now, my friend.”
| “She was there, said Fanche
and pointed across the table.
“But yes,” said the older ma
Soothingly. “Now, let us go, befo
ithe servants come. It has been
‘a length—this night!”
+ Fanchot’s tired mouth twitche
, his shoulders heaved with a lo
~shudddering breath. >
“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.