October 31, 1930.
Bellefonte, Pa.,
TODAY'S PATH.
The path I've trod today is not for me
again;
The morn will bring new scenes,
visions to my eyes;
Bach leaf and twig,
of tender grass
Will greet the day, a little older grown,
and changed.
new
each tiny blade
I cannot tread this path again; help
me, dear Lord,
That deeds of kindness, thoughts of
love and tender words
May fill each day, and vain regrets may
never come;
My path leads
maze again.
on, I cannot tread it
FOUR RIDE THROUGH THE
RAIN.
Summer rain is more disconcert-
ing than the rain of winter. Per-
haps because it is so much more
unexpected!
It has a way of rising up, ghost.
like, out of the blue and gold of a
late, glowing afternoon, It has a
way of turning a contented, sunny
city into a place of wrath and
chaos. Sometimes it is almost like
a whip—lashing traffic, lashing peo-
ple, lashing the city itself. A whip
that flickers sharply over lifted
faces—that strikes across eyes,
blinding them with impish, prisma-
tic lights.
Berta, standing in the doorway of
the office building, shaded her eyes
with her hand. So that she could
more successfully locate an empty
taxi in the tumult of the rain-
swept, crowded street. Not that, at
the end of the day, Berta often
took taxis—she couldn't afford such
luxury! But this day was different
from other days. The rain made a
taxi a necessity rather than a sign
of affluence. Ruefully, from the
shadow of her lifted hand, she
surveyed her shoes, Thin, kid pumps
they were—prettily shaped. Yet a
pitiless rain, and four drenching
blocks to the subway, would practi-
cally melt from them all semblance
of smartness. As for the cheap
straw of her hat—she shuddered to
think of how the downpour would
blur its brave brim-line. To say
nothing of her gaily printed silk
frock! Far better, she told herself,
to be utterly extravagant—the price
of a taxi would be cheap, as com-
pared to the cost of renewing a
mutliated wardrobe. Better— All at
once she pursed up her mouth fora
whistle! But the whistle was not
forthcoming, for the taxi that had
looked so guiltless of fare had a
passenger. In fact, it seemed asif
every taxi in the world had a pas-
senger.
“It’s curious,” she thought, “how
many cabs there are when you
don't want them. Amd how few
there are when you do! It,” all at
once she was laughing shakily in
the farthest corner of her soul,
“4t's like life. You never want
things—not much—when you can
have them!”
She was laughing shakily inside.
But suddenly the prism lights on
her lashes weren't all from the rain.
For she was thinking of Dave, whom
she hadn't wanted—not really want-
ed! Until she had found that she
couldn’t have him.
Dave! It had been fun, greeting
him in the morning before the of-
fice was officially open, Coming
early just to pass the time of day
with him. It had been fun to won.
«der whether he’d’ ever ask her to
go to luncheon with him, forgetting
that he was the son of the com-
pany’s president and that she was
the least of the company’s filing
clerks. It was fun to know that he
was watching her, as she stood in
front of the dark green, steel -cabi-
net, shuffling through briefs. Fun
to know that some day he’d per-
haps take her to a theatre, in the
evening—oh, it had all been fun!
There had been nothing serious,
had been like walking down a street
knowing there were empty taxis on
each side of it—taxis that could be
called by the crook of one slim
finger.
But the fun had gone out of
everything when gaunt Miss Potter
—who was the office manager—had
spoken to her. In a voice so casual
‘that it was barbed. .
“I hope,” Miss Potter had said,
“that none of the girls around here
becomes interested in David Black-
well. Of course he’s charming—ut-
terly charming. Of course, too,
he'll inherit the business, one day.
But the fact that he's engaged—"
She had raised her heavy eyebrows,
had smiled acidly.
“He's so pleasant,”
said, to every one!
turn a girl’s head!”
“Turn a girl’s head?” Berta had
tossed her own head until the
crisply bobbed curls of it were
a dance. >
“We all,” she said, “knew that he
was going to be married!” Which
Miss Potter
He might easily
was, on the. face of it, untrue.
And then, almost as an after-
thought: “And anyway the girls
around this office are too busy
to think much about David Black-
well— or any one else! You see
to that, Miss Potter!” :
So, with a touch of sarcasm and
a masked, equally casual tone,
Berta had answered. But somehow
the chill in Miss Potter's voice had
blighted something warm and lovely
that had been growing in her heart.
Not that she had ever thought of
Dave in terms of marriage—of ro-
mance, even. Not exactly! But
still, knowing that he was engaged
—and probably to one of those glit.
tering debutantes that she had seen
pictured in many a Sunday sup-
plement—well, it made a difference.
Made such a difference that Berta
lingered, on the way to the office,
each morning. Trying, almost, to
be late, so that a gay greeting need
not be spoken. e such a dif-
ped itself around her, like a
It |
|
'
i
i
i
i
cloak,
whenever she felt Dave's eyes upon
her. Oh, it had made such a dif-
ference that she had been rude to
him when at last his luncheon in-
vitations had materialized—as she
had always known that it would.
“Miss Robinson,” he had said,
pausing on his way past the green
steel cabinet, “I wish you'd let me
take you to Shafford’s, this noon.”
(Why, she wondered, had he chosen
the most public, and smartest, tea-
room in the neighborhood?) “I
think,” there was something boyish
and appealing in his voice, “that
you'd be an awful peach to go with
me.”
But she had answered—with Miss
Potter’s chill, remembered accents
drowning out the appeal—
“No, Mr. Blackwell, I don't want
to.” She spoke desperately to hide
the tremble in her voice. “I don't
think you've amy right to ask me!”
That had been at noontime. And
the filing had gone badly all through
the whole of the summer afternoon
—perhaps because of the hurt that
she had seen leaping into his eyes.
Perhaps because of the flush that
had stained his lean,
face.
The filing had gone badly all af-
ternoon. And then, at closing time,
the light had been drained from the
world and the very sky had fallen!
And it had rained so suddenly, so
viciously, that the streets were rivers
an the sky was a tormented blot
of darkness.
And there weren't any taxis left
—no empty ones! Not, apparently,
in the whole of the city.
The doorway of the office build-
ing was crowded with jostling, talk.
ing people. From somewhere, back
of Berta, a girl
While two other girls, their hats
protected, after a fashion, by
spread out newspapers, started brave-
ly into the downpour. Men, intent
on making the five-fifteen to some
suburban place, turned up their
coat collars and defied the weather,
darting like wet sparrows along the
sides of the shops. Here and there
some one walked forth brazenly,
fortified by the armor of umbrella
and rubbers—there are people who
always, no matter how unexpected
the storm, have rubbers and um-
brellas! But for the most part the
crowd in the doorway—pushing
against each other in an impersonal
eagerness—mwaited, as did Berta, for
any sort of rescue that might come.
Waited, straining their eyes through
the rain and the tangle of traffic,
for the ultimate taxi. Waited be-
cause to them, as to Berta, the
summer rain spelled disaster to
clothing.
And then, suddenly, it arrived! A
bright maroon car—with the flag
triumphantly high. A cab so beauti-
ful, seen through the rain, that it
challenged belief! Berta, glimpsing
it first, as it cruised along, gave
one little gasp and darted toward it,
across the wet of the street.
Oh, taxi, taxi!” she called, as she
splashed through a puddle and
tripped against the curb. “Oh,
taxi!”
The maroon car Stopped. The
driver, leaning from his high place,
snapped open the door. Everything
was perfect until a burly figure
stepped in front of Berta, and laid
his hand upon the door’s handle,
and started inno uncertain accents
to give an address. Berta noticed
with sudden anger that the burly
figure was wearing a raincoat. No
danger of his suit being ruined!
“Oh,” she exclaimed indignantly,
“that’s my taxi. I saw it first. I
called you first—didn’t I, driver?”
“I's a dollar tip for you,” he
said quickly to the driver. “It's
more’n you'll get from her!”
There by the curb, with her hat
already dripping, with her shoes al-
ready sodden, Berta stood. In an-
{ger as inarticulate as it was acute.
op you're mean,” she managed.
“ —!
It was just then that another
figure shot out, across the street,
from the doorway of the office
building. A man figure—but slim-
mer, less burly, than the one that
wore the raincoat.
“The lady’s right,” said a famil-
iar voice. “It’s her cab. See!
You—" the voice was suddenly gen-
tle, “you get in, Miss Robinson. I'l
take care of this fellow—"
But the fellow, despite his bulk,
was turning away. Muttering some-
thing unpleasant, albeit beneath his
aa While the taxi driver laugh-
eda.
“Wotta bum! sympathized the
taxi driver, before he questioned,
“Where to, Miss?”
Wetly, forlornly, Berta was climb-
ing into the maroon cab. With the
consciousness of David Blackwell's
hand beneath her elbow. He—oh,
she told herself fiercely, he was so
sweet. What if he were engaged to
fifteen debutantes. Here he was
standing in the rain, ready to figh
for her! 1
“You're awfully kind, Mr. Black-
well,” she said swiftly. ‘“You—you
probably wart a cab yourself, too.
Can't we—"' it took all her courage,
after the past noon’s rebuff to _say
it—‘“can’t we share this one?”
With a smile—the nicest sort of
smile—Dave was swinging in beside
her. No hesitation here.
“Turn over toward the avenue,”
he told the driver joyously, “and
I'll tell you where to go from there!”
And then, to Berta, “You're the one
that's being kind. Say I thought,”
he leaned toward her, “I thought—"
But Berta already was regretting
her impulse. Already she was mov-
ing away from her rescuer to the
farthest corner of the seat.
“You were very kind,” she said
again, “to help me. But I'm going
only as far as the subway. I live
very near the uptown station, you
see. Only across a narrow street.
It’s the four blocks, at this end—
I'd,” she was talking against time,
“Pd have been wrecked if T'd had
to walk them! So you'll drop me at
the nearest entrance, won't you? And
I'm going—" her purse was open,
in her hand, “to pay the fare, that
far—""
But Dave was interrupting. “Like
fun,” he exclaimed, “I'l drop you at
frence that self-consciousness wrap-' the subway entrance! When Ive
! wanted to talk to you for weeks,
sun-browned
laughed shrilly.
‘for months. Ever since I first saw
'you. I'm going to take you to the
‘door of your house—and I hope you
‘live ten miles from here! And then
I'm coming in to meet your people—"
| ‘Somberly Berta surveyed him.
Even more somberly she spoke.
| “I live 'way uptown,” she said
‘slowly. “It might just as well be
ten miles! And—you can't meet
my people, Mr. Blackwell. I'm—
Tm quite alone in the world. Ilive
in a girls’ boarding house. And I'd
' rather—really, much, much rather—
that you'd leave me at the subway!”
It was a long speech for Berta.
But it wasn’t the length of it that
| made her so breathless. It was the
way David Blackwell's eyes were
looking at her. It was the sudden
! thrill that sounded in his voice.
“Say,” he questioned, “what do
you think I am, anyway? Even if
| you hated me, I'd take you home on
an evening like this, and—" why
was he laughing so very softly ?—
| somehow I can’t think that you
‘really do hate me! Why you used
'to act as if you sort of liked me,
Until the last few days—"
The car had swung over to the
avenue. The long, glittering avenue
with its white, already lighted street
lamps,
the darkly shining asphalt. The car
had reached the avenue, and the
{taxi driver was knocking on the
front window. Was again asking
'a question.
“Where to, now?” he bellowed
through the thickness of the glass.
Dave's voice had a set, dogged
{note to it, as he bellowed back.
| “Just drive uptown,” he called.
| “right on up the avenue.”
He added to Berta, in a voice that
was lower, but still set—
| “Let's get this straight. Why on
‘earth have you acted so different,”
the bravado was going out of his
‘tone, now, “in the last few days?
‘You've been as cold as a little ice-
berg. And this noon! Whew! Well],
‘you certainly put me in my place,
| this noon. Now, tell me some-
| thing. Why hadn’tI,” he was frown-
ing, “a right to ask you to have
|lunch with me? I think it's only
: fair—"'
| Berta, conscious that her hat was
.
dripping, conscious that her brave’
printed dress was shapeless with
rain, conscious that, from damp
shoes to damp curls she was looking
“her worst—spoke mervously.
i “Youre one to talk about being
fair!” she exclaimed, “and if you
don’t know why some things aren't
right, it's,” she fought with a rising
sense of hysteria, “it’s just shout,
time you learmed!”
The frown was growing on David
Blackwell's face. During the fol-
lowing moments of slience—while
police whistles blared on the avenue
and whips of rain beat against the
taxi windows—Berta felt that his
very eyes were losing their boyish-
ness;
{more stern. She clenched her hands
together tightly in the damp lap of
her printed silk dress. She waited,
with a curious sense of fear in her
| heart, for him to speak, Waited
while her pulse_beats kept time to
the tattoo of the rain. Waited un-
‘til she was afraid that the rising
lump in her throat would choke her.
Until finally Dave's voice sounded.
| A voice so strangely grave—grave
'and yet tremulous—that it frighten-
ed her.
| “If,” said this new voice, which
she had never heard, “if he can't
ask her tc go to lunch with him,
then,” with a swift movement David
Blackwell’s hand had settled down
over Berta’s tightly clenched hands
—*“if a man can't get a girl away
from a whole office force, so he can
let her know that he’s falling in
love with her! Why,” Dave's face
was very near, suddenly, to Berta’'s
face. “why, I'd like—”
But Berta’s hands were jerking
themselves away from that swift,
hard clasp of his fingers. And her
head had jerked back, too, into the
farthest corner of dim cab. And
it was the message of Miss Potter
that rang through her tone, when
she spoke.
“Oh,” she half-sobbed,
think you’re horrid.
What,” her
shill,
love? To—to act this way!”
They had left the bright, gallant
part of the avenue. They had gone
through the shopping district, past
the great houses that spoke so
stridently of wealth, They were
coming to the place where the fringes
of prosperity lay against the hem
of shabbiness. But neither Berta,
nor the boy beside her, was noticing.
The whole world for them bounded
by the four walls of a taxicab. It
|was such a breathless, heated, wor-
{ed young world!
“You,” Dave was stammering, “you
havens any right to tell me that
iT
| “And “you,” Berta
“haven’t' any right—”
And then suddenly the two of
‘them were thrown forward with a
jerk that was sickening. Thrown
forward so abruptly that they clutch-
ed at each other with the instinc-
tive gasp of small, startled children.
So abruptly that they didn’t realize,
for a moment. that the taxi had
stopped—that there had been a
, thin, desperate scream. It wasn’t
‘until the white-faced chauffeur
dragged open the front window that
‘they were conscious of tragedy. It
wasn't until he spoke. For—
“Honest to Gawd,” groaned the
taxi driver, “I didnt touch her! She
slipped in front o’ th’ cab. I never
even touched her coat, let alone—"
H didn’t finish. He was climbing
down into the street. So, for that
matter, was Dave, So was Berta.
The three of them hurried around
to the front of the taxi (and the
pavement was slippery, - mo wonder
she'd fallen!) tothe place where the
woman lay.
She looked like nothing but a
crumpled heap of rusty black gar-
ments, lying there under the gray
blanket of the rain. Even with the
lights of the cab shining full upon
her small body, one hardly felt that
it was a body. Tt was so small, so
limp. =o £rail! Only the broken pa-
per bag beside her made the mo-
“oh, I
Just—horrid!
voice was childishly
interrupted,
that made silver paths on’
that he was growing older, .
“what do you know about;
‘ment real and poignant, The brok-
en bag from whicih had spilled sucha
piteous half loaf of bread, and two
potatoes, and two apples. Though
the men hurried, it was Berta who
reached her first—before even the
police officer from the corner could
get there. Before the crowd from
the pavements had closed in. It was
Berta who sank down in the street,
careless of what the puddles might
do to a printed silk frock, and
lifted a tired head into her leap. A
weary, white head from which a
shabby bonnet was falling.
“She’s so old,” breathed Berta.
“Such an old lady! I wonder—"
But the old woman, herself, an-
swered the half-spoken, half-thought
question, by opening faded, blue
eyes and speaking.
“I've got,” said the old lady, “to
get home. He's waiting, you see—
T've got to get home. To him)”
Dave also was kneeling in the
street beside Berta. The rain had
plastered a streak of hair across his
forehead. The rain dripped from his
chin. To Berta he was beautiful.
The taxi driver was twisting his hat
in his hand. The crowd was mut-
tering, and motor horns, all about,
were blaring angrily at the thought
of a traffic block.
The policeman arrived, panting.
“Knocking down an old women,” he
began, “you big—"
But before the taxi driver could
speak, the old woman, herself, came
to his defense.
“It wasn't,” she said weakly, “his
fault. I was crossing—where I
shouidn’t. I should’ve gone to the
corner. But I was in such a hurry
She paused, fighting for com-
posure, “I slipped,” she said at
"”
last, confirming the driver’s word— '
“I fell in front of the cab, He
stopped—short. He never even—"
her ‘head dropped back against
Berta, “touched me.”
Uncertainly the policeman looked
from one to the other. From the
huddled heap that was the woman to
the belligerent, shaking hulk that
was the driver. The crowd swayed
back a little—after all, a man who
has committed no offense can be
neither arrested nor mobbed!
| It was Dave who settled the mat-
ter.
“Give me a hand with her,” he
said to the taxi driver. “We'll lift
her into the cab and take her
home. Get in first, Berta—" neither
of them conscious of the fact that
he had not called her “Miss Robin-
son”—*“so that you can steady her.
Here—" to the policeman, “is my
card. If anything comes up, you
can reach me at this address.”
In the manner of one who knows
relief—on a wet night your sane
policeman aviods trouble and the
writing of either slip or summons—
the officer stepped back. While
Berta, climbing into the cab, held
out her arms to receive the shabby
small figure that the two men hoist-
ed in beside her, And then Dave
. was back in the taxi-—and the driv-
er was again on his seat.
Somewhere a whistle sounded, and
the traffic was once more in mo-
tion.
The address that the old woman
whispered, after a moment, was
such a mean one! And yet it was
only seven blocks from an avenue
lace, down the length of a city!
Berta, holding the small
against her shoulder, smoothing back
the tumbled white hair, was sharp-
ly conscious of the meanness. Just
as he was conscious of the utter
poverty of the woman’s rusty dress
and broken shoes.
“There, there,” he soothed, “don’t
worry. Just rest. Just,” she smil.
ed, across the white head, to Dave,
“just relax. We'll see that you're
all right. Don't,” for suddenly the
thin little body was shaking, “don’t
hold back the tears. It'll be much
better if you cry. Don’t—"
But, as if the touch of Berta's
hand had released a hidden spring,
the woman was speaking.
“I don’t dare to cry,” the wo-
man’s thin, broken voice said shaki-
ly. “He mustn't know, you see!
He'd know if I let myself—cry. I
mightn't be able to stop. TI might
not,” the shaking increased, “I
might not be able to get over cry-
ing—if I once let myself start. Then
he’d know!”
Wisely, very wisely, Berta asked
a question. Knowing that the old
woman wanted to talk. That she
must talk!
“He?” she questioned. ‘“Who—"
The old woman, with an effort al-
most heart breaking, tried to con-
trol the quivering of her body. “My
husband,” she said. “That's who I
mean. Why, if he knew how close
I come to—it—" She paused, pant-
ing—“If he knew, it'd kill him. He
couldn't go on, you see—not with-
out me. I was bringing in—our
supper, Oh,” with realization came
the tears—the tears that could no
longer be denied, ‘oh, where's my
parcel? It was—our supper. His
supper.”
The parcel. A broken bag that
' had contained a half-loaf of bread,
| two apples, and two potatoes!
' Swiftly Dave leaned forward, was
‘tapping on the window.
“Stop,” he called to the driver,
ou the next food store you come
0.”
To the old woman he was gentle.
“Never you mind!” he told her.
“We'll get some more supper for
him. For both of you.”
But the old woman was right.
Once she had started crying, she
couldn’t seem to stop.
“I haven't any more money,” she
sobbed pitifully. “I haven’t—"
But Berta’s arms were holding
‘her suddenly tighter, and Berta’s
smoothing hand upon the white
hair was all at once more firm,
“There, dear,” said Berta, “don’t
trouble about that! We'll see that
‘everything is all right. We'll,” her
voice held the crooning mother seund
that is latent in every woman's
wvoice, no matter how young she is,
“we'll see that everything's lovely!”
She didn't tell the broken old
soul in her arms to stop crying.
Perhaps she knew that the sobs
would die away while the cab wait-
ed in front of a delicatessen store
and Dave went inside. It was only
that swung, lik -
ey } 22 Sharing neck lhe sound of friendly tapping fin- 5G
figure )
AE
ro
after he had come back, a huge
bundle in his arms, that she spoke
“Everything will be all right!” she
repeated then. “Youll be home in
a few minutes, with him!”
But, though the old woman had
gained control of her crying by the
time they drew up in front of the
tenement, everything wasn't all
right—quite. For the two men had
to carry her gently up the four
flights of rickety stairs, while Berta
followed with the bag of food.
“Not that anything’s hurt about
me,” the old woman said bravely,
“only I'm sort of shaky.”
Yet, when they reached the land-
ing at the top of the fourth flight
of stairs (it was the top flight, too)
she made them set her down. And
while they stood, waiting, she set.
tled her shabby bonnet upon her
head and smoothed her sodden,
wrinkled skirt. She was not even
limping, as she pushed open thr
door and led the way into a bar
little roora—a room lit by the
merest flicker from a gas jet. And
as she entered that room, her voice
called out. Called out so brightly
that Berta fought to keep back a
swift flood of tears.
“Here I am, Father,” she called.
“It was raining hard, so some friends
brought me home. I'm sorry—"Oh,
she had said he mustn't know of
the accident! I'm sorry I was late!”
From an armchair in the corner—
such a dilapidated armchair—irose
a man. Older, if possible, than the
woman. More white of hair, more
fragile. With both hands stretched
out before him, he came through
the flickering light toward the sound
of that bright voice.
“Dearest, dearest,”
happened to my girl.”
{ Slowly, haltingly, he came across
the room. His old face crumpled up
into a smile, his hands feeling the
air in front of him—his eyes focus- |
he said. Just!
, that! Then, after a moment, “I was,
beginning to worry about what had
ed beyond the little group in the
doorway. It was the movement of
those hands, the far look in the
eyes, that made Berta lean sudden-
ly back against Dave; that made
her fingers search’ wildly for his
fingers.
“He couldn't go on, not without
me—" so the old woman had said.
“He mustn't guess that anything’s
happened. He'll know” (not, “he’ll
see”) “that I've been crying!”
All at once Berta,
the unnncessary preening, there on
the fourth floor landing—remember-
ing the little business of a hat be-
ing straightened, a garment smooth-
d, choked back exclamation of .
0, cho For oa old man, com- ; come by it naturally.
real pain.
ing toward them, was blind—
They were backagain in the taxi, |
unpacked
after the food had been
(such reckless food—roast chicken
and cream and salads, and tins of
coffee and pounds of butter), anda
bill had been pressed into a wrink-
led hand. After a woman from
across the fourth landing had been
called in to take overnight charge,
a woman had told them the sorry
story of an aged couple, stranded
and penniless and alone.
in the taxi.
the rain beating its ceaseless tattoo
against the cab windows. Only
somehow that tattoo had taken on
gers!
. They were back again in the cab.
The gay maroon-colored cab. And
with something of am effort
was speaking. With an assumption
of lightness that neither he,
Berta, felt!
“Dad,” he said, “has a place
the country. Tomorrow I'll see that
they're taken to it-—the two of
them. I'll see aboutit the first thing
in the morning. And now,”
laughed shakily,
dress? So that I cantake you home
at last.”
Berta gave a street number.
voice faltered over the giving of
that number. The wall between them
had been down—and now, impas-
sively high, it was building up again.
In desperation she spoke.
“Dave,” she said (and neither of
them realized that it had always
‘been “Mr. Blackwell” before) .“I
want to apologize to you. For what
I told you—"
With a weary gesture the man
was brushing his hand across his
forehead. “Perhaps,” he said, “per.
haps, after all, you were right. See-
ing them, back there, has made me
wonder whether either of us knows,
anything —about love! And yet,”
suddenly his voice was vehement
again, “I'l like to know one thing!
Tell me this! Why wouldn't you
go to lunch with me? Tell me.”
Berta's gesture of withdrawal was
| also weary.
back into her place. "I'd heard of
your engagement,” she said simply,
“Miss Potter had just told me.
That was why—"
But David Blackwell was leaning
forward. ‘Miss Potter?” he ques-
tioned. And then—“But I'm not
engaged! It must have been—" All
at once his mirth was filling the
cab. ‘I get it now,” he chuckled.
“She came into dad's room—Miss
Potter. On a morning when dad
was just finishing one of his long
tirades. Saying that when I was
married, he'd maybe give me a part-
nership. She missed the first half
of what he said—he’d been telling
me that it was time I settled down,
that I ought to find the right girl
pretty soon, Of course, he should
have phrased it, “if I got married.”
The ‘when’ threw the Potter woman
off, I guess. Why, you little—"
All at once Dave's arms were
around Berta. All at once he was
kissing her!
“I've wanted to’ do this,” he told
her fiercely, “ever since I first
saw you-—Oh, I don’t know a darn-
ed thing about love! But darling—"
the desperate note was again in his
voice, “you'll teach me, won’t you?
So that perhaps when we're old, we'll
be—" they were back again, swift-
ly, in the dimly lighted, shabby room,
“like them—"
A maroon colored taxicab drew
up in front of a brownstone house.
remembering :
Th re !
Shut in eli, Were J most young people are, you cannot
Dave
nor
he |
“what is your ad-
Her !
She seemed to shrink |
received fish in
f
p——
for a while. And then the chauf-
feur tapped meaningly upon the
window.
“You're here!” he said, and grin-
ned as he watched a bedraggled
young man help an even more be-
dragged girl to alight.
The young man grinned in an-
swer and reached toward the pock-
‘et in which he kept his bill fold.
“What's the damage?” he asked,
and his voice sang anthems as he
spoke.
The grin died away from the
chauffeur's face. He surveyed the
meter ruefully. And then he spoke.
“Say, buddy,” he said, “the dam-
‘age—it’s fierce! And those old folks
were swell. And I like your girl,
‘too. Say—" it was the chauffeur’s
moment—let's go fifty fifty on this.
You just gimme half what the meter
says—" —Hearst’s International
Cosmopolitan.
YOU CAN'T AFFORD TO
DISPLAY BAD MANNERS.
In the old days kings and nobles
could afford to be had mannered and
usually were.
| Today the heads of big industries
can afford bad manners, but most
of them have learned that they are
costly luxuries.
Young men and women, with their
futures to look out for cannot af-
ford to be bad mannered at all.
That many of them are so, never-
theless, is an indication that their
observation is bad and their educa-
tion imperfect.
As a school child I often heard
teachers insist that the pupils be
polite to them and to parents.
But I mever heard any of them
put enough emphasis on the value
of good manners generally.
I do not need to say that most
people like civility, and are far more
likely to take an interest in civil
people than they do in loutish ones.
Yet loutishness is by no means
confined to ‘“muckers.” You meet
with it everywhere, on the street,
in shops, in offices, and even among
policemen, who would be far more
useful in enforcing the law if they
'did their work without assuming
that they are the lords of creation
and every body else is a crook or a
moron.
The kind of politeness that is ser-
vile is just as much bad manners as
; rude speech and sullen looks.
But ordinary civility which springs
from a desire to treat others as
they have a right to be treated is
an invaluable asset. ?
Never imagine that it cannot be
cultivated, if you don’t happen to
Never say to yourself that you
are as you are, and that others
must take you that way or leave
you alone.
| If you are mortal youare capable
'of improvement, and doubtless meed
(it. Begin with your manners.
| Use consideration in your treat-
i ment of others, employ ordinary po-
[1itaness in speech with them, and go
out of your way to do favors if
the chance to do them comes-
If you are young, and poor,
i
as
afford to do otherwise.
Every sullen answer or ugly look
| you give another person is full of
| danger, but the danger is to your-
| self.
i People have troubles of their own
| to think about, and they don’t want
to add to them by having to think
up retorts to unpleasant speeches.
| Eevn well mannered people find it
difficult to get happily through the
jn early years of life,
71 mannered people find it im-
possible —John Carlyle.
NEW POLCY TO RULE
a FISH IN WATERS
der a mew policy adopted by
th of Fish commissioners
and announced today applications
for the distribution of fish will no
longer be accepted. All distribution
“will be entirely in the hands of the
' poard and will be limited to those
| streams in which careful investi-
gation has shown that the species
to be disturbed can thrive.
| The action of the board followed
' the results of a survey made of
smaller streams in all sections of
the State. The survey showed
conclusively, board members said,
‘that many streams for which ap-
| plications frequently had been re-
' ceived were dried up entirely or so
low as to be unfit for fish life. )
The new policy of the board is im
keeping with recent practices ex-
cept that it will assume sole re-
sponsibility for the fitness of the:
waters in which fish are distributed.
In recent years the board has
limited the distribution of trout to
the major streams in the various
| counties. Applicants had to desig-
‘nate the stream in which they de-
sired to plant fish andif the records
of the board showed the proposed
water undesirable the applications
were refused.
i Much of the same policy was fol-
lowed in the distribution of young
bass. Bass were planted only in
the larger streams and all applica-
tions for small lakes and ponds.
were rejected.
' Although sunfish, yellow perch and
catfish can live under conditions un.
suitable for other species the board’
limited the distribution of each to
what were known as suitable waters.
In the future fish will be distrib-
uted according to the same policies
but will be done with the board's
own equipment and under direction
of a trained personnel.
A complete file of persons who
recent years is
maintained in the board's offices
here. Whenever possible such as-
sociations, clubs and individuals in
the districts where shipments are to
be made will be notified and asked
to cooperate.
Members of the board believe that
the new system of distribution will
guarantee all young fish reaching
suitable waters in condition to sur-
: vive easily the transition from the
The sort of brownstone house that
could be only a boarding place for
business girls. It drew up and stood
hatcheries.
RE
—Read the Watchman for the news .