——————————————————————————— et rT Demoralic Yada. Bellefonte, Pa., January 2, 1931. GOT TO BE FIT. to be fit in body and soul for the great work of the day. Got to be fit and fine and clean to toil in the mightier way: Got to be captain of self and strong in the will of a purpose high Teo lead in the labor of life's best hour ‘neath the glow cf a stainless sky. Got The body's keen strength and the blood's high zest are only a part of the scheme: The soul! and the heart must walk un- scathed in the flood of the thrilling dream; Got to be fit to face the light with your head held up to the stars, And noble in thought and in action as well as free from the sin that mars. Got to be true to 2 high ideal, and to live and to fashion your life In a way that is fit for the grueling test of the tuned and terrible strife; to be measured by standards of right as well as by those of skill; Got to be true to the laws of God and master of soul and will. Got rr — As THE SECRET ALTAR. Slater, the interne, went hurrying along the corridor of the North- eastern Hospital toward the room in which the senior surgeon Kennedy, having completed his evening rounds, was putting on his overcoat. “Can you stay to operate, sir?” he asked. “It's an emergency case. A motorcar turned over in that big pile of snow at the corner and pin- ned the owner under the chassis. They're bringing him in now.” “O Lord?" said Kennedy. “They're playing ‘Tosca’ tonight, What is it? Ribs?" “Leg,” answered Slater. “Fractur- ed in two or three places-—-compound, Benson has gone to clean the theatre and start up the boiler. Miss James has sent . for some nurses from the surgical ward.” Kennedy took off his overcoat. He opened his gold hunting watch and looked at the large black figures on the dial. “All right: I'll be there in five minutes,” he said. “Take him right into the operating room. And tell Miss James she can go ahead with the ether. I'll be ready as soon as she is.” The orderlies had carried out a stretcher to the overturned motor. car, which lay embedded upon its side in a small hillock of snow, like some defiant antediluvian. The chauffeur, dazed but uninjured, stood by the one glaring headlight, like a solitary eye, which cast a band of illumination over his robe of racoon skin, “Twasn't my fault,” he reiter- ated, twisting his goggles nervously in his ungloved hands, “He told me to let her out.” Two blond wo- men, whose throats glistened with gems, made frantic and ineffectual efforts to impede the work of the orderlies. But the man on the stretcher raised himself upon his hands and ordered them away an- grily. His face was twisted with pain, and from his cut cheek blood dripped into the creases of his starched shirt front and remained there. A blanket hid the mangled limb. The women followed him to the hospital entrance and fluttered there, sniffed with disgust at the smell of soap and water on the wood stairs, and, with a single, uncommunicated impulse, drifted out again in panic, the trains of their evening gowns’ trailing upon the freshly fallen snow. Within the anteroom of the theater Miss James was waiting; at her side was a blue ether bottle, a yellow bottle containing chloroform, rested on a glass shelf behind her, and she was fingering the sphere of a dilated gas-bag. In the oper- ating room, beyond the swing doors, the nurses from the surgical ward, who had forgathered there, were pulling hoods over their hair and fitting rubber gloves upon their hands. At one side of the room a copper trough sent up a cloud of steam among the empty tiers of seats and under the open lid a tray carrying instruments and gauze sponges emerged from the bubbling water. Miss James came in. “He's drunk-—do you know that?” she said to the interne, glancing back through the swing doors to- ward the stretcher, which had been wheeled into the anteroom, “He's had a drink or two,” cor- rected Slater. “He's been dining out. He's not drunk.” “I see no difference,’ replied Miss James, proudly; and she passed back into the anteroom, where the tient, who had been lifted from the stretcher, now rested on a glass table. The man said nothing: ig- norant of the extent of his injuries, which now no longer pained him, he facea his fate frowningly. Miss James fitted the mouthpiece of the gas-ballon over his lips and nose. “Breathe naturally,” she said. “Don't take deep breaths. That's right; breathe away.” Upon the other side of the table a nurse appeared, To the patient the room asssumed an indistinct aspect, the voices behind the doors com- mingled; a sense of suffocation op- pressed him and he drew in deep breaths to end it. “I think we'll have you 50," he heard the an- aesthetist say, and he felt his head shifted. Bells rang, a dazzling light floated before his eyes. “It's over,” he thought. “If--if—" He remembered no more. Miss James removed the balloon, affixed the ether cone, and poured a few drops on it from the blue bottle. She signed to the orderly, and the table was wheel- ed noiselessly through the swinging doors into the operating room. Kennedy was waiting there. He was attired in white linen; a linen hood covered his hair and a chin-piece con. | cealed his beard. His arms were bare to the elbows, and bichloride of mercury solution dripped from his rubber gloves upon the tessellated flooring. A nurse lifted the tray of instruments out of the copper trough and placed it on a table which pro- jected over the patient, gled limb, while at the man's head Miss James sat quietly, watching his laboring chest. From time to time, with swift, decisive movements, she poured out e.her from the blue bottle upon the mask. Miss James raised the slack wrist and pressed her fingers on the veins. There she sat, mo ess, her beau- tiful, strong, sexless face like some compassionate androgyne's, and she only stirred from time to time to pour a few more drops of chloroform upon the mask. Now all was silent in the theatre as the surgeons work- ed, save for the laboring breath, the bubbling water in the trough, and the click, click-like knitting-needles, of the forceps as they clamped the arteries and accumulated round the would like bunches of house-wives’ keys. When the suttring was half completed Miss James removed the mask and the eyes opened unseeing. ly upon her own. Slater tied the last suture and clip, off the ends. The orderly wheeled out the table with its inert burden. The nurses uncovered their hair; Kennedy peel- ed off his carmine gloves and divested himself of robes and masks. “Seven- teen minutes,” he said, looking at the black figures on the dial of his gold hunting watch. “I'll see the second act, after all.” “Are you feeling better?” the night nurse. Her voice broke on the man's ear out of bleak unconsciousness. He be- came aware that he was lying in bed, his eyes wide open. Three bare walls swam round him, trem- bled, and stood stili. An electric light burned at his head; outside it was night, with patter of sleet against asked the panes and wheel sounds muffled by snow. Memory went leaping backward to the gas-balloon, the ope. rating table, the accident; but be- tween the last moment of that an. terior consciousness and this was an awful hiatus; not such as that from which one wakes out of sleep, but of some measureless depth that he had crossed. He sought for some most slender bridge of consciousness with which to space it, but could find none. He lay upon his back, cramped; his head low, and his injured leg was held immovably in a round, cage-like structure which projected underneath the bedclothes, “Are you better?” asked the night nurse again, standing beside him. “Pillow,” he muttered. “I'm slip- ping down.” “You shall have one soon.” “I'm slipping down,” he murmur- ed, clutching at the sides of the bed. “You're raised on blocks at the back. That's why. How do you feel 2" “All right. Give me a drink. Is it all over? Did they cut me up?” The nurse placed the rim of a lass against his lips. “Take a ew sips,” she said. “Yes, they ope- rated on you last evening. doing splendidly. That's enough wa- ter for the present; you shall have some more when I come back. 1 must go and look after my others.” She had to tiptoe to bend over the bed, elevated as it was on wood- en blocks behind. As she passed out of the door his eyes followed her curiously. She had stood at his side when the anaesthetic was administered, and had wondered then at—something. He was too tired to remember it, He tried to sleep, but his thoughts buzzed like a saw, and an interior personality propounded ceaseless problems that refused to wait for their solution, but fled into a maze of dreams, He was glad when he saw the nurse bend over him again, a pillow in her hands. “What hospital's this?" he asked. “This is the Northeastern.” “Who are the other patients? Aren't you my nurse?” She smiled. “Yes; hut there are twenty-nine of you. We're rather crowded.” “I thought one had a nurse for oneself. I can afford to pay for what I want and I'm going to have one. And a larger room than this —is this the best you have?” “This is a little room off the ward. It was the best we could give you, You are really in the ward.” He looked out through the open door into the corner of a large chamber, from which came sounds of breathing, snoring, men stirring in beds, and an occasional smothering cry. “Have I been put in with the charity patients?” he demanded. “I don't know just what arrange- ments they have made with the hospital. We treat everybody alike that comes to us. They're all the same when they get their night- shirts on--just sick human crea- tures.” She placed the pillow under his hecd and rearranged the sheets. He lay silent while she did this. Then he burst out: “It's a damn queer ending to a theatre party. We were going to see what was that piece called?-- ‘Tosca,’ There were two ladies; have they called up about me?" “Not so far. If any one calls I'll let you know in the morning. We have a telephone outside the ward. She finished her work. “Now want you to sleep. call in the morning.” He bit his mustach angrily. “I'l discharge that fool of a chauffeur, anyhow!” he exclaimed. ‘See here! Tomorrow I want to see the hospi- tal secretary--the moment he's dressed understand?” He spoke in| ac- of one to give orders. the peremptory tones customed “I'm going to move into a private | room at once and have a nurse to myself. TI think I shall have you; you seem to know your business.” “All right,” said the nurse, sooth- ingly. “Now go to sleep. I'm go- ing to put out this light. There'sa bell by your hand; if you want any thing, ring.” He called her back as she was moving toward the door. Lying there alone, helpless, he felt a vague | sense of dependence, of need of con- Then they began to work, cleansing the man- You're § I'm sure they'll fidence. “Do you know what Iwas afraid of when] was lying on the table?” he asked. I thought I'd have to have my leg cutoff. I think I'd blow my brains out if I had tc bea cripple. But I wouldn't ask what they were going to do to me.” He dozed till dawn. When he awoke the sky was saffron and green: the rooftops were a dazzling white, and fine snow drifted against the window and melted upon the curious crystals shriveling into water drops. He had dreamed that his leg was amputated and rejoiced to wake and feel the nerves throbbing from knee to ankle joint. Present- lya man ina patched dressing- gown, carrying & basin half filled with water and a towel, shuffled in. “What do you want?” asked the sick man, staring at him resent- fully. The man grinned propitiatorily. The stubble of a beard covered the creases of his drawn face; his skin was of a strange pallor, his cyes very large and staring. “Put out that light,” exclaimed the sick man angrily. “Do you know this is a private room?” The man grinned again and grunt- ed in some unvocal language. Angry words rose to the patient's lips, but seeing that the intruder was hold- ing the basin for him, he checked them and rinsed his face and hands, wiping them upon a towel which the man handed him. A minute or two afterward the night nurse en- tered. “Well, I was glad to see you sleep- ing so soundly when I came in," she said. “Who's that?” asked the man, as the intruder shuffied out of the room, bearing the basin. “That's Joe. He's one of our best patients. He likes to make himself useful. Can I do anything for you before I go off duty, Mr. Lamar- tine ?" “How do you know my name?" “It's on your chart, over your head.” “But you don't know that I'm Frederick Byrant Lamartine,” said the man, sneering at the expression of his name. “You've heard of me?” She shook her head. “You've heard of the bankers, Lamartine and Webb?" “I can't recall the names.” “You mean to say you don't?” cried the man in astonishment. “Why, the reporters have been hounding me for weeks—about that * He broke off abruptly. “1 smashed one of the blackguards' cameras yesterday. The fellow snap. ped it in my face as I was coming out of my house. I caught him, though.” “We haven't much time to read the newspapers,” said the nurse, smiling, How do you feel this morning ? “I feel all right, except that my ankle hurts confoundedly. Was it broken 7?" She nodded and began to smooth the bed. “Now I'll leave you to the day nurse,” she said. “Wait a moment. As you go out, please see that the secretary is sent to me immediately. I want to make arrangements about ng my room. And I want him to bring me some writing paper and envelopes. I'm going to write to that fool ofa chauffeur to take himself out of my employment. Has anybody called me up?” No,” said the nurse; “nobody has called.” “You wanted to see me?" asked the hospital secretary, coming into the room late that afternoon, He was a short, stout man, bland, smil- ing, and deferential. “Yes, and I've been wanting to see you sl! day. Didn't you receive my message this mcrning?” “I did. I'm sorry I couldn't get around before, Mr. Lamartine. What can I do for you?" “I don't like this room you've put me in. It isn't fit for a dog-kennel. I want the best private room you have and a nurse to myself. I can afford to pay for them, as you prob- ably know.” “What's the matter? Aren't they being good to you here?’ “Confound it, sir, I don't want to be stuck into the charity ward with a lot of diseased tramps who keep me awake night snoring and groan- ing, I want my clothes and my check-book and my private papers. I want my stenographer at hand to give dictation to. I have a few in- terests, improbable as it may seem to you. I sent the orderly for my clothes this morning, to get my pocketbook and some papeis, and they wouldn't give them to him.” “Ah, well, that's to keep away germs, you know. We'll have your pocketbook and papers taken out and sent up to you. Now I dare say you'd like a lot of things that wouldn't be altogether good for you. Try to be patient just a little longer, Mr. Lamartine, and we'll fix you up comfortably. All our rooms are full at present, and besides I doubt whether Dr, Kennedy would allow you to be moved for a day or two. We shall have a large room vacant on Thursday, and we'll do our best to make you happy there. The orderly will get you anything you want. A man brings around the papers every morning. Shall I have them sent up to you?” “No!” shouted Lamartine. “I don't want to see a newspaper while I'm here. And if two women call --I don't expect them now, but they might telephone—tell them I won't see them or anybody.” “What are your hours?” ed the night nurse mean, how long are here?" “From seven till seven.” What, twelve hours a day? And poor pay at that, I suppose, Why don't you organize a union and | strike for an eight hour day?” | “I never thought of that,” answer- ed the nurse, opening the window and drawing down the shade. “Now you could probably earn twice as much in an office down- town. Women get quite good sala- ries nowadays. At least, mine do. They're all afraid of me,” he went ont, smiling rather grimly, “and they think I'm a slave-driver, but I he ask- abruptly. “I you on duty never worked a girl more than nine hours a day. And then get Satur- day afternoons off all the year around, he added, w her face. He had a proposition in his mind which he meant to make later. “Will you post this letter for me?” he con- tinued, as she went toward the door. “It's to that fool of a chauffeur; I've told him not to let me see him He lay there, wondering, after she had gone, and through his mind drifted that elusive question that had puzzled him as he lay on the operating-table, There was some incongruity, some missing quality, about these women. Eager as they were to serve, pitiful to those in pain, zealous to anticipate each want, their motives were different—dif. ferent from the fear his workers showed. And, while they obeyed, yet they dominated each situation as it arose by some secret of person- ality that he had not yet solved, that would make any of them in- valuable to him in his bank, with its big clerical staff. How could such as these keep order among that wardful of rough patients, so that they were obeyed even while they served? Why did they hear those oaths and bear those specta- cles? He could find no soluticn that en- tirely answered his problem. “What's the matter with that out- lander with the ghastly face who wanders in here?” he asked his nurse later. “Why doe he do the work of the orderlies?” “What, Joe? He likes to wander round and get some company.” “I mean, what is he suffering from?” “Carcinoma.” “What's that?” Cancer." “Whew! Is there much chance for him ?" “Not the slightest. He's been operated on three times. That was he that cried in tbe night when you complained to the secretary that somebody awakened you." “Does he know?" “Oh yes, he knows." As she went out Lamartine called her back. “Let me have that letter I you please,” he said. add something.” When she was gone he tore it into three pieces and watched them flutter out of the window. On the fourth morning Slater, the interne, came in, preceded by the orderly, who carried a small glass table on which were instruments, a pile of gauze, alcohol, and bichlor- ide. “Well, how do you feel, Mr. Lamartine?” he asked. “We're go- ing to dress your wound today. Any pain 7” “Nothing to cry over, but I feel it all the time. It's just as though somebody were boring into my ankle with a blunt gimlet.” “Oh, it'll stop soon. which ankle?" “Why, the one in the cage, The one you operated on, of course.” The interne removed the cage and unwound the es. “You haven't ary ankle,” “We took your leg off at the knee.” gave “I want to You mean— And instantly the pain ceased forever. The interne dressed his patient, glancing at him above the bandages as he lay there, frowning, his face set into a scowl, his teeth clinching. The orderly came back afterward and found him lying in a sort of lethargy. “Beg pardon, Mr. Lamartine, did Dr. Slater leave his scissors here?” he asked looking around. “I want to send a message to the hospital secretary,” Lamartine an. swered, “Yes, sir, I'll take it myself.” “Tell him I've changed my mind about moving into that room tomor- row. I'll stay where I am until they let me out.” On the evening before his de- parture he was seated in his wheel- ed chair upon the hospital roof, within the smoking room which had been built out toward the edge of the parapet. The sun's reflection still brightened the western clouds, and through the snow-cased frames of windows lights shone cheerfully. Far underneath he heard the snow- muffled sounds of traffic; far down the street he saw the lamps of restaurants with taxicabs before their doors, and crowds collecting for the night's pleasures. life seemed far alien from this with- in that quiet place, a throne of si- lence under the night skies. His mind was not made up, Would life indeed be possible so, crippled and crutched as he must go thence. forward? For days and nights he had postponed the ultimate decision, hiding meanwhile the scissors, with their sharp points, under his mat- tress. He had them now. None of those whom he had known had called. They had sent flowers and cards, clerks and sten. ographers inh his employ had left re- spectful condolences at the gates be- low, but none had braved the sights and the scenes of the hospital ward. Well, that accorded with his own creed-—-to the sound wolf the hunt amid the pack; for the sick beast a hole in the ground in which to lie. When he got well he would have taken up his life where he had left it—the strong, material struggle by day: by night the scramble after di- version-—-the only life he knew. But now, when half of life was gone- was it worth while? Never, since the accident, had he looked at the newspapers. But now he spread them out upon his knee and began reading them. Here it was, on the accustomed front e, old, familiar black-lettering telling the old, well known story in all ugliest details of a family divided and an old name dragged in the mud for the amusement of the brainless multitude. Interviews, alimony, wit- nesses in hiding even during his illness, then, the newspapers had been hounding him. But now, for the first time, he felt crushed hy this enmity. Life for him had always That | “The Lamartine Scandal,” the its | contesi, rutnless and merciless, but one in waicn, tarice armored with tae panoply of wealth, he nad met all his aaversaries on more than equal lerms and vanquished them. victory to the strong!—and he had been sirong until a litue pile of snow contounded him. ‘The ring ol wolfish adversaries was baying nim; he must succumb unless ne founa some stronger armor, some source of strength such as those women seemed 10 know the secret of, so strong that it could yoke itself Lc humility and falter not. He had seen men in the ward: one, with less than a lung, painfully exhaling and inhaling air all day through water sypnons, to develop those fragments of cells that still remained to hiin, gasping to gain the breath that came so easily to Lamartine. And others—Joe! Had he been he, he could not have en- dured a day to work and wait while life ebbed and the darkness crept round and over him. He felt, too, that it was this same subtlewomen's power that threw the mantle of its strength around them. Why, these were giants in com- parison with him, now that he was humbled. It was he who was weak, he who had pitied them, whose name had been a synonym for rapacity and relentlessness. And with this knowledge, like clear sunlight when a shade is withdrawn, the secret rushed in on him. Strength was theirs because they had laid aside the potencies of their sex, their \.eakness, that they might serve. Jhey lit those fires upon their tem- ple altars that would never go out so long as one sufferer remained, Vestals of the human race, minis- trants of common man. He felt their merciful strength envelop him ana laughed. He wheeled his chair to the window, and pushing it up, threw the scissors out into the snow, “I'm going back to fight” he said. He was trying his crutches along the corridor between the wards while waiting for the elevator to arrive, when, passing the room which he had occupied, he smelled the pene- trating fumes of ether, and, enter. ing, saw one who lay upon the bed where he had lain. And she bent over him and held a glass to his lips; on her face was the look that he had seen when she stood near him by the glass table. Then at last he understood, and he never spoke the speech he had prepared. This was their never-fail- ing source of strength; perpetual service, but to the race alone; and without this their lamps would dwindle and the fires die. This gift he must attain alone, in ways un- known to him; and he must seek them, not now, nc, yet tomorrow, but every day of his life. He turned and hobbled toward the waiting elevator. His motor car was at the door and his chauffeur was waiting there. He sprang forward and threw a fur coat around him. “Well, sir,” said the hospital secre- tary, “I hope you've spent a pleasant time with us and feel that we have done our best for you,” He grasped him by the hand. “Don't slip on the snow. Dr. Kennedy says you'll be able to be fitted for an artificial limb in a couple of weeks. Wh-n you've got it on you won't know the difference.” He backed, smiling, toward the hospital entrance. “1 see they've fixed her over as good as new,” said Larmatine, look- ing approvingly at his machine. “Home, William.” --By Victor Rous- sean, in Harper's Weekly. — STATE GIVES FREE FUEL TO JOBLESS A program directed toward help- ing the unemployment situation and relieving distress in Pennsylvania was advanced by the Pennsylvania Department of Foresis and Waters, by authorizig forest officers to issue wood permits on the State forests to any person in need of fuelwood who cannot afford to buy it. Forestry officials feel that the forests of Pennsylvania which be- long to the people of the Common- wealth, and now comprise more than 1,500,000 acres, offer opportu. nities for relief in many parts of the State. According to State Forester Joseph S. Illick, a Statewide survey shows that the demand for fuelwood is greater this year than it has been for many years and that there is ample fuelwood in the State forests to take care of the needy, At least 100,000 cords are available and ac- cessible for immediate use, In some localities there are large quantities of blight killed chestnut, and in other places there are hun- dreds of cords of fire killed trees which will make exceptionally good fuelwood. The removai of this dis- eased and damaged material will serve a double purpose, as it will relieve distress and improve the con- dition of the forest. District For- esters have been instructed to help the unemployment situation in every possible way and will co-operate with local welfare organizations so that those in need will have fuelwood available for home use. Special areas have been set aside in available places on the State forests where the cutting may be done according to approved methods designated by the forest officer, Permits will be issued, but the sale of any material removed from the State forests under this plan is not permissible. Welfare and civic organizations may take advantage of this plan by getting in touch with the District Forester and arranging for some qualified person to do the cutting. The Department is also planning its road building program for next year, and cutting of rights-of way of roads to be constructed next year will be started immediately so that fuel wood may be obtained as a re- sult of the cutting. -In summer there are often 0500 forest fires 5 dav Twenty per cent! of them are incendiary Lightning been a farts one ont of every ten. FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN DAILY THOUGHT The worst bankrupt in the world is the man who has lost his enthusiasm— H. W. Arnold. ~~There is no doubt that the mod- ern woman grows constantly more fastidious. She is not satisfied with beautiful costumes, but she must also have beautiful accessories at- tractive to the most minute detail. She is careful not only about her figure, but about her hair, teeth, throat, hands, face and make-up, To be thoroughly in the vogue to- day, a woman must not only use cosmetics adapted to her type but must change them to harmonize with her changes of dress during the day. For the early morning, for the glare of noonday and the more softened light of evening different types of make-up are suitable. There are many types, but for the present we shall discuss the eight commonest types of beauty and the make-up that should be used by each. The blonde with blue eyes, fair hair and fair skin may choose ger. anium rouge, geranium or ruby lip- stick, creamy powder and blue eye shadow. The girl with ash blond hair, brown eyes and creamy skin may use coral rouge, geranium or cardinal lipstick, rachel or 2aatu- ral face powder and brown eye shadow. If milady has chestnut hair, hazel or gray eyes and ivory skin she will find raspberry rouge, raspberry or ruby lipstick, cream powder and blue eye shadow becoming. The Titian blonde, with her auburn hair, brown eyes and white skin, will find coral rouge and cardinal lipstick, creamy powder and brown eye shadow flattering, but the bru- nette with brown hair, brown eyes, and fair skin, should choose rasp- berry rouge, raspberry or ruby lip- stick, creamy powder and blue eye shadow. The worker brunette with black hair, hazel brown or black eyes with olive complexion needs a darker face powder, raspberry rouge and brown eyeshadow. The brunette with black hair, blue eyes and fair skin may use geranium rouge, gera- nium or cardinal lipstick, cream powder and blue eye shadow. Another type of brunette with black hair, black or very dark eyes and deep olive skin needs the darkest shade of ochre or old ivory face powder, raspberry or crushed rose rouge, ruby lipstick and brown eye shadow, Then there are the sun-tan pow- ders in darker or lighter shades for sport and evening wear. Powders fo sun.tan make-up come in vari- ous shades, ranging through deep cream, old ivory, copper, bronze, sun glow, banana, evening glow, and rose India to tans and pw Golden brown shades are for bru- nettes and coppery shades for the blondes. The newest make-up isapple blos- som. It is running side by side with the new sun-tan make-up com- plexion. “Be fair, if you can't be dark becomingly,” is the vogue of moment. By autumn the apple blossom tint should be in full swing, because sun-tan is not baccming to every woman. The kind of sun-tan that can be put on and take off at pleasure makes blue eyes look faded, and if the brows and lashes are light it is necessary to use eye make. up to give the de- | sired effect when used by blondes. Brown and black eyed women with dark eyebrows and lashes are safe, but the blue or gray-eyed wo- men should use lining pencils and eye shadow when wearing sun-tan make-up. Purple eye shadow, orchid, mauve and green powder with light lipstick will be seen on the blondes, The modern girl's struggle to make her skin appear luminous, especial- ly in evening make-up, is reflected in the apple blossom face powders and rouge. These odd shades of face powder that do not attempt to be natural are more effective under artificial lights, But it must be re- membered that the application of this type of evening make-up re. quires artistic skill or the result will be grotesque rather than beautiful. Using coiffure, make-up and evening gown or pastel hues is the vogue and in direct contrast to the sun-tan make-up. Meals of the Future.—More than half of the working hours of the women of the world are spent in the preparation and serving of food for their families and in cleaning up afterward. We predict that speciali- zation will abolish a good share of this work in the future home. Cafeterias will draw many men and women workers and school children to meals away from home. This will make a big difference and help solve the problem for the housewife who also has 2 job out. side her home. But the biggest change will be the community kitchens which cook meals to order and deliver them in thermos containers and then come and get the dishes and cart them away to wash. Menus will prob- ably be issued by the week and the housemother can order for her fam- ily once a week, just as meals are now ordered for the person at a restaurant. It is probable that kitchenettes, with their electrical equipment for a cup of tea or toast or some home made trifles, will continue forever, but the top-heavy kitchen of today is doomed by the fact that women are being so largely employed away from home and by the industrial rev- olution which is invading the home and doing household tasks commer- cially and enmasse. This innovation will reach the town dwellers first of course, since it will be more work- able when folks live near together but it will undoubtedly extend to the rural population in time, as but- ter making, bread making and dress making have done, The housewife’'s hands are so constantly in soap suds that her skin is made tender and injured by the alkali. This may be remedied in nart hv rubbing a little vinegar r her hands when the afternoon work is done.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers