ho —
Democrats
T—
—
Bellefonte, Pa., November 20, 1931.
THANKSGIVIN® JIM.
He always dodged ‘round in an old, rag-
ged coat,
With a tattered blue
his throat.
His dusty old cart used to rattle and
comforter tied on
bang
As he yelied through the village, *‘Gid
dap!” and ‘Go ‘lang!"
You'd think from his looks that
wa'nt wuth a cent—
Was poorer than Pooduc, to judge how
he went.
But back in the country don't reckon on
style
To give ye a notion of any one's pile.
When he died and they figgered his
pus’'nal estate,
was mighty well fixed—was old
“Squealin’ Jim Waite.”
But say, I'd advise ye to sorter look out
How ye say “'Squealin® Jim’ when the's
widders about,
he
He
They're likely to light on ye, hot tar
and pitch,
And give ye some points as to what,
where and which;
For if ever a critter is reckoned a saint
By the widders ‘round here, I'll be ding-
ed if he hain't,
For please understand that the widders
call him,
Sheddin' tears while they're saying it—
“Thanksgivin’' Jim."
He was little. Why,
Wa'nt skerce knee high
To a garden toad. But was mighty spry!
He was all of a whew;
If he'd things to do
"Twas a zip and a streak when Jim went
through.
But his voice was twice as big as him,
And the boys all called him ‘‘Squealin’
Jim,"
He was always a-hurryin' all through
lite,
And said there wa'n’'t time for to hunt
up a wife.
So he kept bache's hall and he worked
like a dog
Jest whooped right along at a trottin’
horse jog.
There's a yarn that the fellers that knew
him will tell
If they want to set Jim
him out well.
He was bound for the city on bus'ness
one day
And, whoosh! scooted down
pot, hooray!
The depot man says:
Mister Waite,
For the train to the city is ten minutes
late.”
Off flew Squealin’ Jim with his grip, on
out—and set
to the de-
“Hain't no rush,
the run
And away down the track went he,
hoofin’ like fun.
When he tore out of sight, couldn't see
him for dust,
And he squealed: ‘Train be jiggered.
I'll get there, now, fust!'-—
So nervous and active he jest
wait
When they told him
little mite late.
Now that was Jim!
He was stubbed and slim,
But it took a spry critter to stay up
with him,
His height when he'd rise
Made you laugh. But his eyes
Let ye know that his soul wasn't much
undersize.
And some old widders we had in town
Insisted, reg'lar, he wore a crown.
couldn't
the train was =a
As he whoopity-larruped on along his way
There were people who'd turn up their
noses and say
That Squealin’ Jim Waite wasn't right in
his head;
He was ‘cranky as blazes,"
growlers said
I can well understand that the things he
would do
Seemed looney as time to that stingy old
crew.
For a fact, there was no one jest
him in town;
He was 'most always actin’ the part of
a clown,
He would say funny things in his queer,
squealin’ style
And he talked so you'd hear him for
more than a mile.
But every Thanksgivin’
would start
And clatter through town in his rattlin’
old cart.
And what do ye s'pose?
whang down the street,
Yank up at each widder's;
the old
like
time Waite he
He would
from under
the seat
Would haul out a turkey or yaller leg-
ged chick
And holler: ‘“‘Here, mother, h'ist out
with ye, quick!”
Then he'd toss down a bouncer right in-
to her lap
And bolt off like fury with
there! Gid dap!”
Didn't wait for no thanks—couldn‘t
‘em on him!
Couldn't catch him to thank him—old
Thanksgivin' Jim.
‘Twas a queer idee
‘Round town that he
Was off'n his balance, and crazy's
could be.
They'd set and chaw
And stew and jaw
And projick on what he did it for.
But probly in Heaven old Squealin’ Jim
Found lots of crazy folks jest like him.
—By Holman F. Day.
—— Sp— A —————
HANNAH JANE'S THANKSGIVING
“Come out, Cherry. Don't you
want to come out?”
Hannah Jane fastened the door of
the canary's cage open with a twist-
ed hairpin, and the bird spread its
beak at her, uttering the fiercest
“G'lang,
work
scolding of which her little throat
was capable.
She withdrew a pace, and out he
flew, perching on a picture frame,
from which inaccessible vantage he
continued his bully challenge.
“The ingratitude of ycur sex!”
said Hannah, laughing in a repress- strode past her door Hannah Jane again
as if afraid someone would jifted her little shoulders and listen. | dressmaker,
ed way,
overhear her.
There was no danger. The walls
of the building were thick. Hannah
Jane's room was her castle, invaded
only by the customers whose old
gowns she made over.
Hannah Jane's was a humble line
‘of dressmaking, but none the less
‘necessary. She liked to go out by
the day and sit at a good home
table for her meals; but she had
learned how it heightened
ularity to be willing to eet tom
jobs of sewing at her room, and so
it was that her meals were nearly
all taken from the little gas stove,
which heated her pressing-iron, and
were shared only by the belligerent
canary, who considered her his
vassal.
There was some good points in the
arrangement, because it gave Han-
nah Jane opportunity to rest oc-
casionally when she was tired, and
to read a little poetry.
She was a bit of a philosopher.
If she sometimes felt inclined to
realize that Cherry was a rather
slender dependence as sole compan-
jon and care taker for a maiden
lady who was getting on, she limit-
ed herself to humorous literature.
It was only in her brightest mo-
ments that she indulged in the lux-
ury of melancholy; and how aston-
ished Hannah Jane's customers
would have been to suspect that she
read poetry at all!
‘Laugh and the worid laughs with
you,
Weep and you weep alone.’
were the lines she often quoted to
the canary, feeling quite worldly
wise and cynical as she did so, and
naively unconscious of the loneliness
even of her laughter.
A popular writer has said of one
class of women that if they live to
be eighty they still die young.
Of this class was Hannah Jane.
The women who received her pa-
tient suggestions for renovating their
old clothes, called her good na-
tured, prim little thing, and rec-
ommended her as reasonable.
She had lines in her forehead and
silver threads in her crimpled front
hair, and wore spectacles while she
sewed, and to the hurried women
whom she fitted she was merely a
convenient machine; but Cherry
knew that she was still a girl who
giggled at him, and who, when the
moon was clear could scarcely stay
in her bed, but sat long by the win-|
laudatory Li
dow murmuring rhymes
of the serene Queen of Heaven and
seeing such visions and dreaming
such dreams as come to the pure in
heart.
The janitress of the building knew
her as well as anybody in the great
city, for Hannah Jane had more
than once lent her a helping hand,
and at one time when the little
seamstress fell ill, and the rainy
day fund had to be encroached up-
on for rent, Mrs. Hogan had come,
like a good Samaritan, to her aid.
One morning Hannah Jane met
the janitress in the hall.
“It's yerself I was wishin’ fer,”
said Mrs. Hogan with a groan. “I'm
full o' rheumatiz this mornin’ and
two o' the roomer’s bed left to do—
Mr. Jenks and Mr. Wyman. Would
ye have time to help out a poor
“Just as lieve as not” said Han-
nah Jane, briskly. “You go right
and keep warm.”
Mrs. Hogan departed, uttering
blessings, and the seamstress flitted
down the corridor and entered one
of the rooms indicated.
There she whisked the bed clothes
about to the accompaniment of
nimble consideration as to whether
the gray braid she had bought to
bind a customer's skirt was a good
enough match.
Then, after a hasty dusting, she
repaired to the next room. Its
character was very different from
the last. Hannah Jane suspended
judgment on the gray braid and ex-
amined the photographs of men and
girls standing about..
She observed a pipe on the table,
a smoking jacket flung over a chair.
A faint odor of tobacco, which the
air from the open window had not
entirely banished, smote upon her
senses not unpleasantly. A hasti-
ly opened laundry bundle lay on a
chair.
Hannah Jane knew by sight and
hearing the young man who owned
those starched linens and the hose
that had fallen to the floor. She
also recognized his long, firm step
as it passed her door, and the easy,
deep heaviness of Wyman's voice
had often stirred her admiration.
She picked up his socks now with
some like shyness, and mechan-
ically turning them saw the effect
of the vigorous strides she so ad-
mired.
Hurriedly she examined all the
(socks in the bundle. Not one but
had its little or great ventilating Y'
gaps. The sight was sufficient to
stir the inhibited tenderness of the
woman heart.
“Poor fellow!" she murmured.
Then a positively exciting inspira-
tion assailed her. Supposing she
were to mend these socks and re-
turn them before their owner came
‘home. It was too bad. He would
never know.
Hannah Jane's hands moved deft-
ly while she finished the work of the
room and her cheeks burned guilti-
ly as she stole back to her apart-
ment bearing an unaccustomed bur-
‘den.
“A. Wyman” was written on a
tape and sewed to each sock. An
envelope on the table was addressed
to Allen Wyman.
“A nice name.
cided Hannah Jane.
This was a red letter day to the
little dressmaker. No school girl
{could have flushed more eagerly
than she over her bit of surrepti-
| tious benevolence.
She even turned her back to
| Cherry's cage as she drew the first
sock over her hand, and when the
bird flew to her shoulder she gavea
'little cry and tried to hide her work.
| “Don’t you tell!” she exclaimed.
| That night when the long legs
It suits him,” de-
led, with a warm consciousness till
| Wyman's door slammed.
| “What will he say?” she asked
| herself, thinking of the carefully re-
placed hose. Hannah Jane was as
ignorant as the canary of young
men's ways, or she would have
known how long it takes for com-
forts to stir their curiosity.
After this the in day of
the week to the dressmaker was
She an to feel a proprietorship
in the flexible whistle with which a
Wyman sped his own march throug
the hall night and morning.
Her familiarity with his clothing
increased and spread. There were
no more buttons missing, or rips
widening, or holes left unpatched in
the garments of the lucky possessor
of that musical voice and
physique, who litle dreamed that the
rose color of one woman's life con-
sisted in ministering invisibly to his
needs.
Hannah Jane in these days often
smiled through her spectacles at her
sewing, and her customers, some of
them, were moved to marvel at the
cheer of the lonely dressmaker.
"jer day dreams took one more
tangible shape. “What a wonder-
ful thing it would be to have a lov-
er like Allen!”
This thought, often entertained, by
imperceptible degrees captured Han-
nah Jane's fancy, until hour after
hour would pass in a delicious make
believe, at first ridiculed gently by
the dreamer, but at last becoming
a habit of thought as precious as
opium to the victim.
She began to bid her fancied lover
goodbye as he passed in the morn-
ing, with a tenderness that should
have insured his good fortunes
through the day.
Boldly telling Mrs. Hogan that she
was in charge of Mr. Wyman’'s
mending she obtained access to the
room, which she kept with an ex-
quisite neatness quite foreign to the
ahilities of the Irishwoman.
At night she welcomed him home
with a devotion none the less ar-
dent that she had to imagine the
pausing of the footfall at her door,
and the word of tender greeting
that met her when in imagination
she opened it.
She ceased to be shy in handling
the young man's belongings, for
were they not in a way part hers
well? She mourned lovingly
over an occasional spot of blood on
'his shaving paper, and in short in-
‘dulged in an intoxication of devotion
to her ideal.
A customer arriving one morning
with a pressing bit of work, was
astonished at Hannah Jane's firm
refusal to promise it at once.
“You've never been unaccommo-
dating before,” ejaculated the irate
woman. “I'm sure there's nobody
you ought to favor more than me.
You just said a minute ago you
hadn't much work on hand.”
“I can't do it right off,” repeated
Hannah Jane, gently, looking far be-
yond the speaker. She knew just
what clothing would come home
from the laundry, and just what
had to be done to it.
“Very well, then, I'll never trouble
you again!" ejaculated the other,
and flounced away.
The dressmaker had lost a cus-
tomer. She turned to the canary.
“Do you think he'll bring me a
rose to-night, Cherry-—or some
pinks? I like pinks,” she whisper-
Hannah Jane was not crazy. She
was only having her first love af-
fair, and like measles it goes hard
with the mature.
Sometimes she met W: in the
hall. What a happy face he had,
and how the light shone in his eyes
as he gave a passing greeting to the
little woman, whose timid yet search-
ing glances amused him.
“It's a fortune Mister Wyman's
after gettin',” said Mrs. Hogan to
the dressmaker one day. “Sure he
often does be givin’ me money of
jute and sayin’ I'm the dandy jani-
ress.”
The color that swept under Han.
nah Jane's skin would once have
made it peachy.
Familiarity with her happy new
duties rendered the little woman
‘bold and at last careless. Oneday
she had just laid some mended cloth-
ing into Wyman's drawer and was
packing it into place when a sound
startled her.
She turned, and the sight that
met her took all the strength from
her limbs. It was Wyman himself,
standing speechless in the doorway,
his lips apart. Hannah Jane lost
her head completely.
“You're too early!” she stammer-
“I'm a litle early. What"— Wy-
man smiled—"what can I do for
ou!"
“Your mending—I've just finished
—I was putting it Way.L
“What!” Wyman looked pleased
and enlightened as he advanced to-
ward her. “And you are the
Brownie who has haunted my den
‘lately? And I thought it was Mrs.
Hogan!” He uttered a laugh’ that
'ravished Hannah Jane's ears.
“I knew you sewed. 1 saw your
sign. Why, you have made a re-
spectable being of me!” The young
man continued to gaze at her in
| puzzled fashion. “But the mischief
of it is, Mrs. Hogan has reaped |
‘what you sewed. Ha, ha! That's |
| pretty good, itsn't it? Why didn't |
you tell me what you were doing?
You want to sue Mrs. Hogan right
off.” {
“Leave that tome,” returned Han-
‘nah Jane, blushing and trembling.
| She had edged little by little to- |
‘ward the door, her eyes held by his, |
land now she broke away in a little
| trot for her room, where only the
| canary knows what palpitating con-
| fidences he received.
| “Brownie! What a pretty idea!"
thought Hannah Jane. |
| The next day she again met Wy- |
/man in the hall at an unaccustomed
hour. His arms were full of bundles. |
| “Here's the Brownie lady |
i !"” he cried cheerily, while the
as she paused, wonder- |
|ed if any other woman ever had so
| many pleasant things happen to her.
| “Here are some clothes that won't |
(require mending for a while,” he
| ‘
went on, indicating his parcels; “but
I tell you I shall remember you for
many a long day. I'm glad I didn’t
go away without knowing who was
really my benefactress.”
“Go—go away!”
“Yes.” The young fellow flushed
with his happiness. “I'm going to
be married.”
upon her.
The dressmaker’'s lips contracted
and moved mutely.
“Yes; tomorrow at high noon
‘ll be rid of me.”
“By Jove, that little woman must
need the money!" was the thought
Hannah Jane's face left with him as
he moved on to his room, suddenly
sobered.
Cherry stirred uneasily on his
perch that night, and even trilled a
soft and reproachful serenade to re-
mind his mistress of her inconsider-
ateness.
It was midnight, yet both gas jets
were burning brightly, and Hannah
Jane still sat, a book upside down in
her lap, and an odd set smile on
her lips.
What an empty, bare room it was!
What an empty, gray day-—week—
month—year--no, no-—years await-
ed her. She dared not go to sleep
and wake up anew to the realization.
Such a dead, dead weight of monot-
onous oppression settled upon her.
“0, Cherry, don't sing!" she moan-
ed, unobservant of the book that
fell to the floor as she rose and
moved to the cage.
“ ‘How can ye sing, ye little birds,
When I'm so wan and fu’ o' cares?”
How did we use to get on—you and
I—birdie? We did very well,” she
said, softly. “It's dreadful to be
an old fool, because they're the
worst kind, birdie.”
The canary, excited and daring,
flew straight through the open door
to her neck and pecked at it cross-
ly. She closed her hand on his lit-
tle body and held him close, as she
walked softly up and down the
room.
“It's one o' the girls in those pret-
ty low necked photographs,” she
murmured, and the next time she
reached the bureau she stopped and
resolutely scanned her haggard face,
the thin hair her restless hands had
ruffled, and her spare figure.
“Oh, oh!" she moaned, meeting
her piteous eyes. The silky mite
she was clinging to in the agony of
her humiliation writhed indignantly.
She clasped her hands over her face
and the canary whirred back to his
cage as to an ark of safety.
“If I only knew how my soul
looks!” she sobbed softly, her thin
shoulders convulsed. “I might not
feel so dreadfully ashamed!”
The following day was Wednes-
day. There was a card on Hannah
Jane's door which read, Back Thurs.
ay-
She heard Wyman's gay voice de-
ploring to Mrs. Hogan the fact that
he could not bid his new friend good
bye, and soon afterward saw a let-
ter stealing under her door.
The long step and the gay whistle
had died away before she picked up
the envelope. It containd a scrib-
bled word of farewell and a sum of
money.
Still she sat there, deaf to the
noises in the street, deaf to the
noises in the building, to all save
the voices that spoke in her inner
ear, until toward evening thirst
drove her from her room.
She met Mrs. Hogan in the hall.
The Irishwoman threw up her hands,
evidently in wild excitement.
“An’ ain't it a dreadful thing, and I
can't take care of him. I loike Mis-
thur Wyman, but ye know my rheu-
matiz and—"
“What has happened?
Mr. Wyman?”
Hannah Jane, weak with fasting,
leaned against the wall.
“Sick in his room, and the doctor
lavin' him, and I've just told him—"
Here a gray haired man came to-
ward the stairway.
“Are you the doctor?" cried Han-
nah Jane, turning. “What has hap-
pened to Mr. Wyman? I live here.
What caa I do?”
The doctor bent his shaggy eye-
brows in quick scrutiny.
“Several things,” he answered.
“Come into my room.” Hannah
Jane threw open her door, and Mrs.
Hogan limped away murmuring.
“The evening papers are full of
it. Haven't you seen the head
lines?" asked the doctor.
“Nothing.”
“The poor fellow’'s bride dropped
dead just as she reached the altar.
Forgive me. Take this chair. I
didn't know you had a personal in-
terest. There now—I'm afraid I've
unfitted you to help me.”
“Mr. Wyman is stunned by the
shock!" said Hannah Jane, faintly.
“I'm not sure of his condition yet.
The whole situation is strange. As
you may know, Miss Frost was the
poor relation of rich people anxious
to marry her off, and they had no
interest in Wyman, save as a means
to an end. I know them well. The
girl had heart trouble. The end
came right there. No one seemed
to know what became of Wyman
after the catastrophe. He was
found in the street and brought here
Where is
and there was delay in getting me.
He may have had a fall. At any
rate, he is in a stupor, and if you
would stay with him, until I can get
a nurse over here—"
“Don't send any nurse! No one
must take care of him but me!”
cried Hannah Jane.
The doctor gazed, surprised, at her
pale little face.
“Very well, then,” he returned af-
ter a moment's hesitation. “By
tomorrow, unless he reacts well
from his conditon I will try to get
him into a hospital.”
“Never!” exclaimed the other.
“Ah! You are a relative?”
“No—not exactly. A-—connection
by—by—""
The doctor was too busy to care
why the eager, agitated woman was
willing to help him.
enough, and Hannah Jane accom-
panied him to the dismantled room,
where the strapped trunk of the
bridegroom still stood, while its
owner, unconscious of the subversion
He kept radiant eyes
The fact was |
of his world, lay in what proved to
be the first stage of an attack of
brain fever.
But it was not in this room that
Wyman first came back from the
reaim of his fantasies. He lay ina
where the sunbeams stole
through the shade and birds flitted
about.
“Still dreams, dreams” he thought;
then some one coughed. It was a
woman whom he now first noticed.
She was sitting across the room,
with a cap on her head and an apron
over her dress. With a pang nev-
er in after years wholly forgotten,
w realized that she was a
he had been ill.
The nurse's work-worn hands
pressed convulsively together, for
all at once there came weak-long
drawn sobs from the bed.
For a while she let him weep,
then she drew near and bent over
him in the shadow, her own eyes
raining.
“The doctor will be here soon.
Try to rest now, Mr. Wyman.”
“Torturers—torturers—to bring
me back to life! O Amy—and I
might have been with you!"
Hannah Jane had grown familiar
with the name ere this.
“Is there anybody-—your own peo-
ple—you'd like to have sent for!
We couldn't find any address.
“Nobody. I have nobody. Nei-
ther had she. But we had each oth-
er.”
“Poor boy!" Hannah Jane took his
hand in both of hers and they wept
h:art-brokenly together; and in upon
this unprofessional weakness of the
hitherto wise nurse walked the doc-
tor.
“Here, here, my
lady!” he exclaimed.
“He knows everything, doctor!"
lad—and my
“And is that reason enough for
‘you not to know anything?” de-
manded the doctor briskly. He
leaned over his patient.
“I understand, my boy; but we
can't die just when we'd like to,
and you have some blessings yet. A
little of the stimulant, please. You
want to get well if only to thank
your nurse here. Such devotions as
hers isn't to be bought.” It's only
women who can make love take the
place of sleep and muscle.”
Upon this Wyman looked long at
Hannah Jane as she bent to him
with a glass.
“It's the Brownie lady!”
in feeble astonishment.
It was the doctor's turn to stare.
Here was a puzzling situation.
In another week Wyman sat up
for the first time. No one was
more rejoiced than Cherry, who had
almost resigned himself to an eter-
nal night, and who welcomed the
partial lifting of the shadows with
alternate hymns of rejoicing and
animated scoldings for past hard-
ships.
He had lightened weary hours for
the patient, with whom he was al-
ways on terms of armed neutrality,
and now he perched on the back of
Wyman's easy-chair and sociably
pulled his hair.
“The bells are ringing,” said the
sick man, watching Hannah Jane as
she moved about the room. “Is it
Sunday ?"
“No, it's Thanksgiving Day.”
“Oh, Thanksgiving Day.”
Wyman's hollow eyes studied the
carpet, now for weeks bare of
shreds and clippings.
“Yes, and it is for me, laddie,
sure enough; the best I ever had,”
said Hannah, cheerfully. She had
doffed the muslin cap and was dress-
ed in her best black gown. “Wait
till you see the nice dinner Mrs. Ho-
gan is going to bring us in a little
while.”
It was a good dinner, and Wy-
man's mournful big eyes brightened
over it, for his nurse was so happy,
and Cherry so absurd in his assump-
tion of the role of taster to the com-
pany, as his own big frame was
crying out for food with a convales-
cent's appetite.
When all was finally cleared away
the three took naps—Wyman on the
bed, Hannah Jane in the big chair,
and Cherry, his feather packet stuf-
fed with celery, blinking sleepily on
the mantel piece.
At twilight Hannah Jane put some
large pieces of soft coal on the open
stove, and she and her patient sat
before the fire. The snuw had be-
gun to blow outside.
“This is cosy,” she said. She had
learned to smile above a heartache.
Wyman had days ago told her the
story of his short, swift courtship,
ending as it had in total eclipse, and
his sorrow was hers. If only she
could comfort him--could be some-
thing more than a mere cipher in
his life.
Yet it never occurred to her to
blame him for his self-centered de-
jection, or to dwell upon the uncal-
culating sacrifices she had made for
him. Her eyes were fixed on the
oily flames, and so she did not know
that Wyman was observing her cur-
ously.
he said
A realization of the singularity of
impressing |
the situation had been
him today in his returning strength
'as never before.
‘“‘Brownie,”” he said at last. “It's
a very, very strange thing you've
done for me.”
“Why? What?"
Hannah Jane's face turned hot in|
the firelight, for his tone was a new
one.
“The doctor said your loving de-
votion couldn't be bought. I'll swear
to that.”
The dressmaker screened her face
from the fire and him with one thin
‘hand, then because it trembled she
| dropped it.
| He went on, “You have given up
your work, have lost customers
| probably; at any rate weeks of
| time, have overdone—"
I “No, no!”
| “Now,” bluntly, “would you have
' done all that for any forlorn chap?
Are you an angel?”
Hannah Jane cleared her throat.
“I used to think you took care of
my clothes and my room with an
eye to the main chance. I don't
| think so now.”
i
nurse, that he had been ill and why |
“Why don't you?"
The little woman was beginning
to brace herself to explain in some
‘way the inexplicable.
“Because you haven't any. You've
done all this for some reason that
I've been hunting for for days.”
“Women do things without rea.
son,” said Hannah Jane.
“Not for such a length of time.
I've hit on : ma its’
because I've been so light-headed.
But I wish you'd tell me if I've
struck it. Am I like somebody you
were once in love with?”
All the girlish soul of Hannah
Jane blushed through her spare,
careworn body. It would soon be
over. Wyman would soon be well
and gone away, and again there
would be nothing in the world but
customers and the roofs, the moon
and the canary; but she would for-
ever have the memory of the de-
licious shame and relief and triumph
of this moment.
She met the dark, insistent eyes
as Wyman bent toward her.
“Yes,” she answered; ‘you have
guessed it.”
“Forgive me!” exclaimed the
young fellow. “What can I say to
you, Brownie? If I could make
another guess as clever, and find
out how in the world I am ever to
repay you! You ought to go away
and have a rest; and how will your
business start up again! My em-
ployers are holding on for me, but
how about yours?”
“I don't know, and I don't care.
I've always been taken care of, Mr.
Wyman."
“Don't you ever call me that
again. I'm Allen to you, and your
Allen at that. I'll take a hand in
helping Heaven to help you after
Hannah Jane's eyes filled with
bright tears, and her heart beat fast.
“If I can just hear you step and
whistle as you used to,” she said
brokenly, “and if I can only see you
sometimes I shall be repaid for
everything.”
“You have been using your sav-
ings,” said Wyman, reflectively.
“Well they were mine.”
He drew his lips together in a
thoughtful, noiseless whistle.
“See here, Brownie,” he said
last, gently. ‘“‘You're alone and I'm
alone. Let's have a little flat,
where you can be a swell modiste
and I can be boarder. It will keep
me from going to pieces to believe
that I'm some comfort to you.
Hannah Jane sat up very straight
her eyes big and wistful.
“You don’t mean it!” she ejacu-
lated. Her movement knocked dowr
the tongs, and Cherry, his luxurious
siesta disturbed, circled about the
room, tweet-tweeting angrily.
The little woman's joy made Wy-
man forget all woes of the moment
The canary lit on his head.
“I shall have a home as well as
you, you beggar!” he exclaimed.
“You won't mind if IT cry a bit,
said Hannah Jane, sobbing softly
“You don't know what it means—
it's only my way of —of Thanksgiv-
ing!"—Clara Louise Burnham.
at
THE TURKEY SUPPLY
IS FALLING AWA)
Turkeys are no longer plentiful a:
they were in the days of our fore
fathers. No longer can one go int
the woods of Virginia and com:
back with a wild turkey ready to b
roasted; for this bird, on account o
huge market demand and high deat!
rate due to diseases, is steadily join
ing the ranks of extinct species. I
order to combat turkey diseases
such as blackhead and limberneck
the government is issuing pamphlet
to the farmers carrying instruc
tions as to how the birds should b
reared and cared for. Accordin;
to the publication, the Poultry Item:
farms have been started—notably
farm on Manitoulin island—wher
ideal conditions for breeding turkey
prevail. The turkey birth rate ha
not fallen off to any great exten’
but cold-storage holdings show
falling off.
The southwestern part of the cour
try leads in the number of turkey
‘sent to market each year. Texa
takes first place Cs margin
about 5 per cent. e consumptio
is largest in the centers of populs
tion—especially in New Englan
where the holiday had its origi
The North western States are ir
creasing in output each year an
soon promise to rival Texas.
Driving the turkey to market is
picturesque scene. Six or eigl
'men escort a flock of a thousan
birds about ten or twelve miles
day. Sometimes they are drive
to dressing plants, where the owne:
have them dressed and sold to cit
dealers. Farmers near cities ¢
this themselves, thus saving expens
Some sections of the country have
day known as “Turkey Day,”
which ali the growers of the neig!
borhood kill and prepare their bird
|The next day they take them
town.
Although turkey is traditional
supposed to rule every Thanksgivir
feast, such is not invariably tl}
|case. Not all can afford so expe:
|sive a luxury; and if they cou
there would not be enough birds
Supply the demand. Those who
pocketbooks are equal to a Thank
giving dinner but are not quite 1
to turkey celebrate instead wi
| goose, chicken and Long Isla:
duck.
MARRIAGE LICENSES.
| Harry J. Page and Margaret A
na Faust, both of Oak Hall.
| Edward N. Smith, of Lanse, P.
land Freda L. Faughner, of Oscec
| Mills.
| Albert John Mileski and Mildr
| Virginia Williamson, both of Lar
| downe.
James I. Reed, of Pine Gro
| Mills, and Emma Louise Hendersc
| of State College.
| James Andrew Spangler and E\
lon Thelma Gardner, both of Blanc
| ard.
|