Fp.
Beworiacon
Bellefonte, Pa., October 2, 1981.
A —————————————————————————————
for the Ithaca |
many years associate et | eer |
or
Watchman. i
hill, |
Of deepest blue; so tranquil they, !
And yet so stirring were their lustrous
depths,
That I saw wisdom, infinite and great,
Shine forth from them like star dust
through the night,
Her hair was sunlight circling round her
head,
And blowing gently In the Summer's
wind;
Her garment’s soft, white folds which
clung and swept
About her, made her seem an angel
standing there !
Against the sky. I thought she was, so
knelt
And hid my face from her transcen-
dency;
But then she turned, and turning look-
ed at me.
I raised my head and saw the glory of
her eyes,
And I could do but naught than kneel
and gaze
Into the depths, The goodness of them,
oh
The beauty of their gracious tenderness
Held me enthralled, and wordless, and
bereft
Of sense and sight and all but wonder-
ment.
Dear God, she spoke to me. Her voice
was music
Coming from the skies, the moaning of
The wind tossed trees, the sighing of a
reed,
The song of
down,
The infinite melody of joy and love:
“Kneel not,” she said, I stood and wait-
ed there,
For 1 am life lived truly through the
years,
For I am love, self-sacrifice,
Know thou, thou hast a
they hands;
A life thou hast,
blend
With beauty, nobleness and charity.
Soil not that trust, a life within thy-
self,
A life God- given to a man of earth.
Stand straight and face the world with
fortitude!
Thy majesty shall be to other men
water, rushing tumbling
and faith,
trust within
‘tis thine to mold and
A sign of God; 'tis that for which we
live;
Be thou not small, and low, and cen-
tered on
The happiness of self alone; but go
And make life great with love for oth-
ers; go
And let life grow in beauty and com-
passion,
"Til towering high, the gates of sin
far flung,
Thou livest as truly thou wast meant to
live.
Bow not to me, for I am only what
Thou mayest become,” thus ended she.
And I—
I turned, and as she bid me, took the
path
Which leads to nobleness,
on
A twisting in the road and sought again
To gaze on her sublime and lovely face;
I saw her standing on a wind-swept hill,
One hand inert, the other raised to
shade her eyes
Of deepest blue; so tranquil they.
And yet so stirring were their lustrous
depths,
That I saw wisdom, infinite and great,
Shine forth from them like star dust
through the night.
—Bettie Mitchell
I came up-
THAT WHICH NEVEX RETURNS
The captain paused for a moment
on the edge of the deck, his face
turned upward in the dim tropic
darkness. He was young, much
younger than the lean, middle-aged
man who stood at the rail of the
little schooner, and he appeared
anxious and troubled. Bendham,
the older man, seemed only bored,
so listless and so indifferent that
the boredom was like an illness.
“I oughtn't to go ashore,” said
they boyish captain.
“Go ashore,” said the older man
wearily.
“The river is rising, sir. What
will you do if she breaks her moor-
ings?"
“She won't. We're safe behind
the point. I've moored in this
spot before-—a hundred times.”
“I don't like to leave you, sir.”
The “sir” he added out of deference
to Bendham's age and his position
as owner of the schooner, and grudg-
ingly, too, out of respect for the
older man's superior experiences as
a navigator in this part of the
world.
Bendham's boredom vanished ina
sudden gust of rudeness. “I knew
every eddy in this river before you
were born, man!”
The captain, snubbed, descended
the short ladder and sprang into the
dory. Bendham remained at the
rail watching the boat making its
perilous way across the water to
the distant settlement.
“Won't they ever leave me alone?”
He felt the thought so intensely
that he spoke it aloud, savagely.
He was alone now save his wife,
who lay asleep below deck, and the
Malay who had remained on board
to serve him. On his mat the
Malay sat aft on the little schooner,
and Bendham was aware that the
yellow man was watching him. Even
the Malays seemed different, he
thought. Once he had liked and
understood them. Now he was
aware that he distrusted them and
that they disliked him. He could
not understand a change like that.
He turned to the Malay. “Go to
sleep,” he said in the man’s own
dialect. “I skan't need you. Ge
below the deck.
The Malay silently rolled up his
mat and disappeared down the com-
panionway, and Bendham felt a
quick sense of relief. He was alone
on the deck.
He was hungry for solitude. “I
{
am like a sick animal,” he thought,
yet nothing appeared to be the mat.
ter with him. It was no
tropical
| fever, for he knew all the varieties
of fever from long
had no
.
Yes, he was like a sick animal
that wanted to hide away and die.
appetite in weather like him.
It was the worst of all sicknesses—
an illness of the nerves.
It was hot, horribly hot, with the
menace of fresh torrential down-
pours in the air. The atmosphere,
he thought, must almost have reach-
ed the point of saturation.
difficult to breathe.
In the dim light of the moon he
looked about him at the raging riv-
er filled with grass, uprooted sap-
lings and all the flotsam and jetsam
of the flood. The river would rise,
he calculated, for perhaps another
forty-eight hours, and no more than
that. Never in all the years of his
experience had it risen higher.
On both sides of him lay the long
black lines of the shore.
what was there—a solid wall of
dripping jungle, broken only by the
It was
He knew
squalid settlement with its score of
twinkling lights. Now and then
the moon came from behind the
rugged storm clouds and turned the
churning river to molten silver.
The insects became intolerable,
whole clouds of them of a million
sizes and shapes, buzzing and whir-
ring, attracted the moist
night by the schooner’s lights.
He went inside a kind of tent
made of netting which had been
erected so that he could remain on
deck, because he found it impossible
to sleep or even breathe below deck.
It was near the bow among the
crates of plant specimens he had
been collecting during the past six
weeks.
Inside the little tent there were
two deck chairs and a rattan table
with several glasses, a fresh bottle
of whisky, a bottle of soda water,
a shaded oil light with the wick
turned low, and a bowl of rapidly
melting ice from the American re-
frigerating machine below deck.
“I travel in luxury now-—different
from the first time I saw this riv-
er,” he thought, and then, bitterly,
“And what of it?”
He lifted the netting quickly to
prevent the insects from entering,
and slipped inside. He poured him-
self a drink. Then he lay back in
the deck chair drumming the edge
with his long, lean, brown fingers.
He was a long, thin man with a
handsome narrow head covered with
graying, curly black hair. His
skin was yellow.tan, a color acquir-
ed permanently before he was thir-
ty-five from fevers and long expo-
sure to the sun. He was lean and
tough with unquestionable powers
of resistance, but he was neat, too
nervous and too well controlled; one
of those men who by instinct and
long habit never betrayed an emo-
tion, and so turn knotted and tense
in their very souls.
The night was still and yet not
still. There was no sound produced
by man, but a million sounds made
by nature itself-—the monotonous
buzzing of insects, the gurgling
sounds of the river, the bump of an
occasional log against the side of
the schooner. Once there was the
wild cry of a panther somewhere in
the jungle, and almost immediately
the solitary scream of a monkey.
He was aware of a wholl rimi-
tive world all about him, fil with
creeping, crawling, flying, climbing
and swimming things—a primitive
world in which eating and sleeping,
reproducing and escaping death,
were beginning and ending; a world,
he thought with a queer sense of
relief, which was, with all its sav-
agery, simple.
He had known it once intimately.
He had lived that kind of life. Why,
“Perhaps,” he thought,
» looked at his
ing back. Why can't they leave me
in peace? Alone!”
But he wasn't alone! Below deck
lay Jenny sleeping quietly through
the intolerable night. His wife.
She was always there, young, pret- &g0
ty, calm, a perfect wife. Yes, con-
found her, a perfect wife, thinking
only of him.
He could hear again her voice as
she stepped off the pier at Singa-
pore: “I thought I'd surprise you,
darling.” And before he could an-
swer she had kissed him in that way
of hers, so strange and passionate
in a woman so soft, gentle and
well-bred, a way which filled him
with distaste, because it made him
feel that she was always trying to
gain possession of him, or at least
of that part of him which he meant
to surrender to no one.
He closed his eyes. Why had he
not put her at once on the P. and
O. boat and shipped her home?
Why had he not escaped then and
there her awful devotion, that dread- |
‘to be a perfect wife?
he asked himself, was it impossible
to recapture it?
not a long time.
For twelve years had passed since
he went back to England a rich
man, and during those twelve years
he had grown richer and richer, and
life oddly enough had grown more
and more unsatisfactory. He could
not say why wealth had not made it
simple. His whole existence had,
on the contrary, grown steadily
more intolerable and now, when he
could endure it no longer, he had
come back again to the world where
he had made his fortune before he
was thirty-six.
Twelve years was
That primitive world was un-
changed. He was here in it's
midst. He had come halfway
round the world to satisfy the hor-
rible nostalgia, yet he could not find
his way back. It stood apart, a
long distance off, mocking him.
Somewhere along the way he had
got tangled in stocks and shares
and the responsibilites and conven-
tions of another world.
He felt that he was stifling and
that the only thing which could
save him would be to find himself
alone in a cave of ice where there
was no other life but his own. If
he could be alone again, alone in
the world with nothing save his own
health and spirit, as he had been
at twenty-two, he might recover
that thing which had gone away
forever, and something-—he could
not say what—which had given him
courage and direction.
And then immediately he felt cold
and chilled by the kind of chill that
was new in his long experience with
fevers. He took another drink, and
became aware of the roar of the in-
sects. It seemed to fill all the
world, growing louder, intolerable
and suffocating.
He almost extinguished the lamp
and waited for 2 time, but it was
not the lamp which attracted them.
The air itself was filled with in-
sects. The sound was unescapable.
He decided to drink himself into un-
consciousness. Otherwise, he felt
he would go mad.
And then he saw the light. He
did not know how long he had heen
sitting there when he heard the
clamor of mongrels in the settle-
ment on the shore. The lights
lone by one had gone out until there
i
| linen.
ful singleness in her determination
There she
was below deck, sleeping calmly
through the intolerable heat and
damp as if she were in her father's
house beside the quiet river in Dev-
on.
She never complained. She was
never in the wrong. You never
could put your finger on what she
did, saying, “It is this” or “It is
that.” Even these dreadful nights
had no effect upon her. She did
not fall ill. She did not mind the
insects.
No, she belonged to a different,
intolerable breed, and she was spoil-
ing his solitude by bri with
her a part of that life which he
wanted so desperately to escape. So
long as it clung to him he would
never find his way back. But then
once, long ago, he too had slept un-
aware of heat and discomfort. Per-
haps it was only because she was
young.
He thought, “I must not let her
become an obsession. I must not
blame her for everything.” But he
kept having thoughts which fright-
ened him with the suspicion that he
was going mad.
When he opened his eyes he saw
that the light was no longer mov-
ing along the shore. e
were no longer barking and gi
light was on the water, and he
knew now that it was not Mason
and the crew returning, for the light
did not move with the steady roll
of the dory; it bobbed and flickered
and slithered from side to side.
It was, he knew, a native craft
light as paper, and he wondered
what mysterious and urgent errand
could have engaged so fragile a craft
on such a night. But the sense of
his own misery overpowered his
curiosity. He did not rise from his
chair to follow the movements of
the light which came toward him
like a will-o'-the-wisp across the
surface of the swollen river. He
simply closed his eyes, still vaguely
aware of the buzzing of insects
which was like distant thunder.
His thoughts slipped backward
over the past, leading him to won-
der, “If I had done this or that,
would it have been different? Would
I have grown less tired and sick
of everything? I am rich. I am
successful. I have a beautiful wife.
I need only children to have every-
thing, and I am not sure that I
want to bring children into this
world.”
And after a long time, in the
midst of his brooding, he was start-
led by the sound of something
bumping gently against the side of
the schooner. He thought at once,
“It struck a log,” but a log would
have struck the schooner and slip-
ped past on its way to the sea, and
this sound continued bumping gent.
ly.
Then he remembered the bobbing
craft and the will-o'-the.wisp, and a
sudden wild excitement took
session of him. It was as if twen-
ty years had slipped from him and
he was a young man again on the
deck of a dhow, waiting on the
edge of the jungle, pistol in hand
with every nerve throbbing.
The long, thin brown hands clasp-
ed the edge of the deck chair and
his body stiffened with the effort
of listening. His heart beat more
rapidly and he was aware that he
was alive again as he had once
been. The whisky filled him with a
pleagant fuzziness, and he knew
that in the profound depths of his
soul danger, even death, was a mat-
ter of indifference. The great thing
was that he felt alive again for the
first time, he thought, in years; since
the night he had said goodby to
Albertine Robb and the old life on
the edge of the jungle clearing.
The light bumping sound contin-
ued and through it he heard another
sound—that of footsteps on the lad-
der. They climbed upward and
presently he heard someone walking
on the deck, coming toward him.
The moon had disappeared under a
black cloud and it was impossible
to distinguish anything through the
swarms of insects on the netting.
The steps came directly to the lit-
tie canopy of netting, which was
lifted with the quick, experienced
gesture of one who had lived long
in the tropics, and in the faint light
from the dimmed lamp he was
aware of a figure dressed in white
It wore jodhpurs made of
linen and a linen jacket, a helmet
| with a veil to protect the face from
faint accent which was neither
Dutch nce French nor Russian. She
spoke cwsually, as if they had seen
each other for the last time only
yesterday instead of twelve years
And in a second he relived a
whole decade of his existence that
was past forever—nights on the
river, in the Grand Hotel du Cap,
in Singapore, in Sumatra, and nights
on that ancient schooner Artemis,
long since bleaching on the coral
sand of an island not a hundred
miles from where he sat.
He heard her saying,
offer me a drink?” and recovered
himself. He turned up the light
and looked at her for a long time
in silence. He saw then how shock-
ingly fat she had grown. The vol-
uptuous curves had all swelled into
pure corpulence. The face was
puffy and badly painted. The sen-
suous mouth had gone shapeless.
She smiled, displaying two gold
teeth he had never seen.
“Will you
Only the eyes were unchanged,
fine, brilliant and exciting. For a
second he felt again the faint
warmth of a flame which once had
nearly devoured him. The warmth
was not for this woman, but for
this woman's eyes and husky voice
and for something which was a
memory—the memory of Albertine
Robb, part Dutch and Russian and
French, but one eighth Malay. It
was the Malay which in the end had
claimed her body. “Staying with
the governor.” He knew what that
meant and he knew the governor, a
fat Portugese with a green skin.
She did not seem to resent his
examination. She looked at him,
smiling. “Yes, I have changed,
she said. ‘““But so have you. Life
is like that.”
He asked a banal question. “Did
you bring a boatman?”
‘““No. I came alone.” She nod-
ded her head toward the settlement
“He was drunk, so I came secretly.
He is very jealous.”
“You're a fool to come alone on
this river.”
She looked at him in an odd way.
“We've been through much worse
than that together.” She treated
the rising river with scorn.
And he saw not this fat
woman but the Albertine Robb of
Juste before with au foe, beautifnl
y, tanned by the sun—his wo-
man but his companion, too, as
good as any man on an adventure.
He knew that body but not this
one. For no reason at all he
thought of Jenny, young, blond and
cool, below deck, so protected aml
soft and luxurious.
The visitor sat down and the deck
chair creaked beneath her weight
She seemed to find nothing unusual
in her strange night visit. It was
2 if they had parted only yester-
y.
It was not easy to recapture the
past. It was not easy to grow used
to each other again and sit talking
like old friends, because they had
been so much more than friends.
It was not easy for Bendham to sit
there opposite this fat Malay wo-
man with the fine eyes Rr the
warm voice, thinking all the while
of Albertine Robb as he saw her for
the first time in the bar of the
Grand Hotel du Cap.
Had it not been for the eyes and
‘the voice, he would have believed
this was another woman and he
would have been indifferent but he
kept seeing the eyes and hearing
the voice, and they brought back
not only visions of Albertine Robb
on the deck of the Artemis or
swimming naked on the white coral
beach, but of wild dark rivers and
native villages and brilliant sunlight
and a night sky filled with stars
It was not easy, and they felt their
way toward each other in bana)
questions. But it was easier for
her. She appeared to accept what
happened as inevitable, and in him
. there lurked fierce rebellion and de-
spair.
She said, “You. You have done
well for yourself. I've followed
your career from time to time,
when I came across English papers.
You must be very rich.”
“I am very rich. And you?”
She took a drink of whisky before
answering him. “Me—1I still have a
little of what you gave me.”
“T'll see that you have more.”
She laughed. “No. T don't need
more." He thought she looked af
him with scorn but he could not be
sure. “I have all IT need. I'm go-
ing to quit him when the next boat
comes in.” She nodded toward the
settlement. “He doesn't know it.
He won't know it until I've gone
Then I'm going to Penang.”
Dimly he saw that although the
Malay in her had claimed her body,
it had not claimed her mind. In.
side the fat body, behind the fine
eves, the mind was a European
mind and it knew where to strike
to hurt him most. She was telling
him that she was satisfied with her
life and was, in a way, happy, that
at least she had peace; and she was
telling him that all his money
meant nothing to her.
“And then what?”
“I shall take a house and grow
old and die.”
Peace. She was saying, “Peace.
I have Peace.” She did not even
resent his having paid her off and
left her twelve years before when
he left the East to become a power,
a rich man in London, to settlc and
marry and become a personage. |
g
3
® :
i
9
:
:
‘at his going, but silent.
moment, too, the Mala
on of her. *
turned back then
on?” he wondered.
“You stopped writing to me,” he
said. “I was afraid you were dead.”
instead of going
and
she the nurse.
Tina looked at him sharply and
he did not address her. He an-
swered the other woman, his wife.
“I'm here. It's all right. You can
‘go back to bed.”
“I read that you had married.”
She shrugged her fat shoulders.
“After
that—Besides, it was all
finished.”
“No,” he said. ‘“Things like that
are never finished.”
He heard the haunting, husky
voice against the drone of the in-
sects.
“When I heard you were on board
this schooner I had to see you once
more—for the last time. We shan't
meet . I wanted to see you.”
She hesitated and he had the im-
pression that she meant to say more
and checked herself. He saw a
look in her dark eyes that sent a
wave of warmth through him. They
were so near to each other for an
instant, and then immediately so
remote.
She laughed . “So I got Portago
drunk. He won't wake until noon
tomorrow. And I came.” She light-
ed another cigaret. ‘Maybe I
shouldn't have come.”
Looking away from him, she said,
“I didn't come to annoy you. I
don't want any money. I shan't
ever bother you again—ever.” He
But it was too late. Tina was
two women, it seemed to him, could
not have been more different. As
ghey stood facing each other, for
‘longed
an instant it seemed to him that
they were symbols of his two lives
and he knew that in the end he be-
to the gross, adventurous
one, to whom all life was an adven-
ture. He had always belonged to
her since that night so long ago in
the bar of the Grand Hotel du Cap.
With a great effort he said, “This
is my wife,” and to Jenny he said,
“This is Miss Robb, an old friend.
She heard I was here and came out
to see me.”
The two women bowed, and the
‘wife, if she suspected anything, be-
did not speak and she added, “You.
look ill and tired. Fever?”
“No, No fever. At least not fe-
ver of the body.”
“You ought never to have come
back to the tropics. You can't
stand it.” .
He burst out fiercely, “Why not?
I'm as good as I ever was.”
“No, Jim. Neither of us is, but
that isn't what I meant.” After a
silence she said. “Why did you
come back?"
He asked himself what she was
driving at. “I came back to look
out for my properties.” And, as if
he had forgotten, “Tu collect plants.
They're in those boxes on the deck.
They're for a museum.”
“Collect plants,” she repeated ina
voice gentle but tinged with acid.
“That's a good name for what I'm
doing, too,” and she nodded again
toward the settlement. “Collect
plants. We all have to do some-
thing until it's time to die.”
Presently she smiled and said, “I
passed Patna three months ago so
near that I scw the Artemis on the
beach. There's not much left of
her but a skeleton.”
skeleton. He did nut answer
her. He thought, “a skeleton.”
She continued, “I spent Christmas
at the Hotel du Cap. It's just the
same. Old Vermaeren is the same,
balder and fatter, a little.”
No, he thought, it was impossible.
Everything had changed. Balder
and fatter. And he decided to
abandon his plan of revisiting the
Hotel du Cap. But she continued
haved perfectly. She always be-
haved perfectly. He thought now
that her perfection would drive him
mad. Suddenly it was the other
woman, gross and horrible, whom
he wanted to stay on the schooner.
He heard his wife inviting Tina to
stay the night.
“No,” said Tina. “Your husband
thinks I should leave.” The wife
protested, but Tina said, “No, I must
return. There are reasons.’
And again she nodded toward the
shore and the Portuguese governor.
Bendham said nothing but stood
dumbly watching a comedy which
he felt was vile and disgusting.
The insects buzzed and the damp
heat was like a blanket. He
thought, “I hate them both. I can
bear it no longer.”
Then he saw Tina lifting her
flabby bulk with extraordinary ex-
pertness over the rail to the ladder.
He moved to the rail and found that
his wife, the soft, white, pretty wife
he hated, was there before him.
Tina slipped from the ladder to the
maddeningly to dredge the past,
dragging up memories.
“I see by the papers that you
made a fine match-—a woman young,
pretty, distinguished. You were
meant for that. I was never good
enough for you.”
“My Lord, good enough for me!”
“No, not in that way. I went
with vou as far as I could go. I'd
only have spoiled things. A Eura-
sian is’ beyond the borders and TI
was too well known in this part of
the world. I keep imagining you at
great dinners. People in hotels
cluster and whisper when you pass,
“There goes Bondham, the rubber
magnate.’ You're a great man, Jim.
I always knew you'd be. But I
couldn't go with you. I went as far
as I could.”
He was aware that she was bring-
ing back their old intimacy in spite
of anything he could do, and he
kept fighting against it. She was
in a strange way insinuating her
gross, painted self betwen him and
the pretty, gentie woman below
deck. No matter how he struggled,
she was taking possession of him.
“I heard that she is with you,”
she said, and looked at him sharp-
ly.
“Yes: she is below deck. She
minds nothing-—not even this heat.”
“A good wife. She never annoys
you. Wonderfully faithful and de-
voted.”
How did she know that? How
could she know that Jenny was like
a parasite liana? Devoted, faithful.
Suddenly he burst out violently,
“What are you trying to do to me?”
She answered him calmly. “Noth-
ing. I'm interested, curious. That's
natural-—even if T am an Eurasian.
I'm a woman. I'm glad you found
a good wife to care for you.”
“Oh, she cares for me. She never
allows me out of her sight.” And at
once he was ashamed of the out-
burst and the hitterness,. He be-
gan to hate this gress, tawdry re-
minder of his past. She would not
change now. It was too late. She
could not change any more than the
skeleton of the Artemis could turn
itself once more into a living ship.
One could not go back. He wanted
her to go.
“I don‘t ask to meet her,” she
was saying. “But I should like to
see her,” she laughed, “from a safe
distance. Are you bringing her
ashore?"
“Not here.” He had meant to
stay here. He had meant to take
Jenny ashore, but now he could not
stay. He could not escape soon
enough. If only this awful woman
would go and leave him in peace in-
stead of sitting there, gross
dreadful, a mockery of himself and
all his life and ambitions!
and |
His nerves cried out, but he be- |
frail, bobbing craft with a wonder-
ful dexterity.
“You must come again,” his wife
was saying.
“I think not,” said Tina. The
little craft bobbed off on the churn
ing rivor.
A solitary monkey screamed or
the distant shore, and again the
thought occurred to Bendham tha:
these two women were symbols o:
his two lives. The one was gone
moving across the river toward the
settlement, slipping always farthe:
and farther from him, never to re
turn. The other, beside him, wa:
there forever, until he died. H:
could never escape. And for th
last time he heard Albertine Robb’
golden voice. She called “Goot
night,” and disappeared.
He felt a sudden mad impulse t:
push his wife into the swollen rive:
It was so easy. His head buzze
and he heard her saying, “Jim, wha
are you doing? What's the mat
ter?” and the sound of her voic
restored his sense of reason. H
was holding her by both arms wit
the grip of a vise. He released he
and put his hands over his eyes.
“Jim, come to bed. What yo
need is sleep. You haven't slept fo
days.”
She began to stroke his’ head ger
tly but he stepped away from he
aware that he hated her with a
unbearable intensity.
“Go away,” he said dully.
away."
She tried to persuade him, but
shook her off with such savager
that she withdrew to alittle di:
tance and stood looking at him.
“Do you hear me?” he cried bi
terly. “Go below for heaven's sak
and your own! Get oui of my sigh
I want to be alone."
Silently she disappeared down tt
companionway, and as he turned !}
saw that the bobbing light he
reached the shore. The dogs b
gan to bark again distantly. Ti
light disappeared and he was alon
There were only the insects, mi
lions of them, buzzing and roarir
all about him. He coud not breath
tarlearsts International Cosmopo
an.
“G
KILL 15,400 DOGS
WITHOUT LICENSE
More than 15400 uncontroli
dogs have been killed by poli
officials so far this year, accordi
to the monthly report of the b
reau of animal industry, Pennsylv
nia department of agricuiture. T}
is a slight increase over the numb
killed during the corresponding pe
od a year ago.
The total number of dogs licens
to date is 476,056. While this tot
is 1500 less than the 1930 figure, .
increase is reported in twenty-eig
counties. Allegheny county lea
with over 30,600 dogs licensed.
increase of more than 3,000 has
curred in this one county alone.
Prosecutions of dog owners f{
disregarding the law now aggreg:
ed 3,802, or 240 less than a ye
ago.
Damage claims run higher in nu
ber but lower in value than in 19
Guide (breathless): “I just saw
man-eating tiger!”
Guide (preoccupied):
will eat anything!”
“Some 1m