——————————————————————————— 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.