MAIN STREET.
atria anil circled, clctrlri and plrli.
Bangs, pompadours, trisiles and curls
DWIll Kllllll-IMKt IIITM I nilU lltlll.
Round the Open Mint of Puturday Night!
Old men, young men, real boys anil boys
Web-footed, clgnretted,
"Mother's Only Joys!"
Women with bundles and babies and
cares,
The babies In go-carts with Teddy Bears,
Cross and sleepy and squealing wltn woe,
Tired of staying, but don't want to go!
Tipsy men gravely threading the. male,
Trying vainly to relnta It all
Willi tlielr lost Yesterdays!
An Alley Belle with palmed check,
Locking fur a lover
tJp and dnwn Main Street, where the
an-llghts quiver
The long, l int:, long street ending In the
river.
If.
Lightness nnd laughter en girlieh Hps.
Or they echo the. poisoned Jest tlmt slips,
A serpent thing, now In shade, now In
llKht,
Through the Open Mart of Saturday
Niulit!
Big boys, little boys, reil men nnd men
Foul -hearted, passion -stricken,
Hogging for their den!
A tiawker c rying his burnished wares.
By the Bide of the popcorn man, who
shares
"His torchlight with him; around them a
troop
Df hnlf-revealed children a, cherub
broup!
Frail housekeepers piling their baskets
wide
Servants to the bodies of those they love,
Woman's pitiful pride!
A Factory ilrl with w ilsl turned low,
Looking for :i lover
Up nnd down Main street, where the
arcllghts nuiver
The long, long, long street ending In the
river.
11T.
Gnyety ripples the Fpring-tnned air
The grace of girlhood Is everywhere!
Shop doors stand free, full streams of
light
On the Open Mart of riatnrrtny Night!
The Hunter stalks his big Kami a dove
In the beginning, enmeshed
In the name of lxve!
And at the corner with ling nnd drum
Some Soldiers proclaim liod'a kingdom
come!
Phallow-eyed women gazing In windows
At their waxen sisters, standlmr In rows;
While above the clamor, a wall between
"They're hanging men and women mere
For wearing of the Green!'1
A High Rchool lilrl, with sweet nrnn bare,
looking for a lover
Up and down Main Street, where nre
arcllghtB quiver
The long, long, long street ending In the
river.
ENVOY.
You mothers, who carried these girls,
Bore them In love nnd pride.
Do you know the men that walk tonight
With ribald Jest, at their side
Up and down Main Street, where the
arcllghtB quiver
The long, long, long street ending In the
river?
-H. Rea Woodman, In New York Times.
Through the Storm.
The final rupture came two years
after their marriage. Emily In rebel
lious anger told her husband that she
would no longer live In the game house
with his mother. "You must choose
between us,' she said, her splendid
voice vibrating with all the unleashed
emotion of her being, yet with no fal
tering in It. "If she stays I go."
Stephen Fair, harassed and bewil
deerd, was angry whn the relentless
anger of a patient man, roused at
last.
, "Go, then," he said sternly, "I'll never
turn my mother from rny door for any
woman's whim."
The stormy red went out of Emily's
face, leaving it like a marble mask.
"You mean that?'' she said, calmly.
"Think well. If I go I shall never re
turn." "I do mean, it," said Stephen. "Leave
my house it you will, if you hold your
marriage vow so lightly. When your
senses return you are welcome to come
back to me. will never ask you to."
Without another word Emily turned
away. That night she went back to
John and Amelia. They, on their part,
wercomed her back gladly, believing
her to be a wronged and ill used wo
man. They hated Stephen Fair with
a new and personal rancor. The one
that they could hardly have forgiven
Emily would have been the fact of her
relenting toward him.
But she did not relent. In her soul
the knew that, with all her just griev
ances, she had been in the wrong, nnd
for that she could not forgive him!
Two years after she had left Steph
en, Mrs, Fair had died, and his wid
owed sister went to keep house for
him. If he thought of Emily he made
no sign. Stephen Fair never broke a
word once passed.
And now Stephen was ill. The
strange woman felt a certain pride in
her own inflexibility because the fact
did not affect her. She told herself
that she could not have felt more un
concerned had he been the merest
stranger. Nevertheless she watched
for John Phillipses homecoming.
At 10 o'clock she heard his voice in
The kitchen. She leaned out of bed
and pulled open the door. She heard
voices below, but could not distinguish
the words, so she rose and w.ent noise
lessly out into the hall, -knelt down ty
the stair railing and listened. The door
of the kitchen was open below her and
a narrow shaft of light struck on her
white, intent face. She looked like a
woman waiting for the decree of doom.
At first John and Amelia talked of
trivial matters. Then tse latter said
abruptly, "Did you ever hear how
Stephen Fair was?''
"He's dying," was the brief response.
Emily heard Amelia's startled ex
clamation. She gripped the square
rails with her hands until the sharp
edges dented deep into her fingers.
John's voice came up again, harsh and
expressionless.
"He took a bad turn the day before
yesterday and has been getting worse
ver since. The doctors don't expect
him to live till morning."
Stepken, her husband dying! In
the bursting anguish of that moment
. her own soul was an open bcok before
, her. . The love she had burled rose
Irora the deeps of her being In an aw
ful accusing' resurreetion.
Out of her stupor and pain a purpose
formed Itself dearly. She must go to
Stephen, she must beg ana win his for
giveness before It was too late. Bhe
dared not go down to John and ask
him to take her to her husband. He
might refuse. The Phillipses had been
known to do as hard things as that.
At best there would be a storm of pro
test and disapproval on her brother'
and sister's part, and Emily felt that
she could not encounter 'dint In her
present mood. H would drive her mad.
She lighted a lamp and dressed her
self noiselessly, but with feverish
haste. Then she listened. The house
was very Btill. Amelia nnd John had
gone to bed. She wrappad herself In
a heavy woolen shawl banging in the
hall and crept downstairs. With
numbed fingers she fumbled at the
key of the hall door, turned it and
slipped out Into the night. -In
after yenrs that frenzied walk
through the storm and blackness seem
ed an unbroken nightmare to Kmily
Fair's recollection. Often she fell.
Once as she did so a j at; Red, dead limb
of fir struck her forehead and cut in it
a gash that marked her for life. As
sho struggled to her feet and found
her way again, the blood trickled down
over her face.
"Oh, God, don't let. him die before I
get to him don't don't don't!" she
prayed desperately, with more of de
fiance than of entreaty in her voice;
then, realizing this, she cried out in
horror. Surely some fearsome punish
ment would ( tune on her for such wick
edness she would find her husband
lying dead.
When Emily opened the kitchen door
of the Fair homestead, Almira Bent
ner cried out in her alarm. Who or
what was this creature, with the white
face and the wild eyes, with torn and
dripping garments and disheveled,
wind-wrlthen hair, and the big drops
of blood trickling from her brow. The
next moment she recognized Emily,
and her face hardened. She bad ali
ways hated Emll Fair.
"What do you want here?" she asked
harshly.
"Where Is mv htifband?" said Em
ily. "You can't see him," said Mrs. Sent.
ner, dofiantly. "The doctors won't al
low anyone In the room, but those he's
used to. Strangers excite him."
The Insolence and the cruelty of her
speech fell on unheeding ears. Emily
understanding only that her husband
yet lived, turned to the hall door.
"Stand back," she said, in a voice
that was little more than a thrilling
whisper, but which yet had in it some
thing that cowed Almira Sentner's
malice. Sullenly she stood aside, and
Emily went unhindered up the stairs
to the room where the sick man lay.
Emily pushed them aside and fell on
her knees by the bed. One of the doc
tors made a hasty motion as if to draw
her back, but the other checked him.
"It doesn't matter now," he said, sig
nificantly.
Stephen Fair turned his languid, un
shorn head on the pillow. His dull,
fevered eyes met Emily's. He had not
recognized anyone all day, but he knew
his wife. "Emily!" he whirpered.
Emily drew his head close to her
face and kissed him passionately.
"Stephen, I've come back to you.
Forgive me forgive me say that you
forgive me."
"It's all right, my girl," he said fee
bly.
She buried her face in the pillow be
side his with a sob.
In the wan, gray light ot the autumn
dawn tho old doctor came to the bed
side and lifted Emily to her feet. She
had not Btirred the whole night. Now
she raised her white face with dumb
pleading in her eyes. The doctor
glanced at the sleeping man on the
bed.
"Your husband will live, Mrs. Fair,"
he said, gently. "I think your com
ing saved him. His joy turned the
ebbing tide in favor of life."
"Thank God!" saiu Emily Fain-
Springfield Republican.
SUDAN ARABS' DUEL3.
Where Pastoral Life Doesn't Always
Lead to Peace and Quiet.
The country to the southeast of Te-
kar is the home of the Hasas; the
Hadendoas. occupy the khors to the
south and the plateau to the south
west. Both of these are black Arabs,
speaking different languages.
The Hasas live almost entirely on
sour milk, while the Hadcndoas are
agricultural as well as pastoral. Their
dokhn and durra. milletlike grains,
were ripening in February and being
protected from countless swarms of
small birds by men who 6tood on ele
vated platforms, from which they
cracked loudly large whips with palm
leaf lashes twenty feet long.
The dress of these Arabs is a cotton
sheet held in by a belt In which they
carry crooked knives. For other
weapons thoy use sticks, speaM and
swords. Firearms are prohibited.
Judging by the many scars borne by
the men the pastoral life Is by no
means so peaceful as the poets would
lead us to think. Many of the scars
come from duels, in which the men
stand face to face and cut each other
alternately in the bad: till one cries
Enough!" Cairo correspondence San
Francisco Chronicle.
Even With the Policeman.
A policeman in a country village
where "cases" were rare one day camo
across his landlord in an incapable
state. The chance was too good to be
missed, so the landlord was summoned
and fined to the amount of 14s. 6d.
The fine was paid, but the police
man's feelings can be better imagined
than described when on reaching home
he found his rent had been raised six
pence a week, and so It continued for
twenty-nine weeks, when the landlord
coolly Informed him that "he had paid
the fine, and could have his house at
the former rent." Tit-Bits.
ntr --'V
? Briber and Bribee
i
Is By Nathaniel C. Fowler, Jr.
OT more than a hundred years ago there lived In a city not
more than 16,000 miles away from New York, but not the
city of Boston, oh, no, that city of more or less culture, an
alleged bold, bad, wicked, grafting politician, who candldat
ed for the mayoralty. The good folks, and especially those
who forgot to vote, oppose his election, and talk against
him ran In that circular Btreatu which somehow seems to
circulate within itself.
tins nun of alleged evll-dolug owned or controlled a paper with a circu
lation not quite large enough to make it one of the great advertising mediums
ot the locality, but it was filled with advertising. The goody-goody people
the talkers and the shirkers said that the paper was a blackmailing sheet or
a receptacle for the deposit of bribe money. It either was or It was not; but
any way, It was filled with announcements of big corporations and other con
cerns, officered by church folks, society folks, and other people of conventional
goodness. If the paper was not a good advertising medium, why did these
good advertisers udvertlsc In It? If it was a blackmailing sheet, and used as
a catch-all for bribery, why were not the announcements limited to the con
cerns which did not stand high In the community? Now these good people
these non-voting citizens who decry bribery and graft did not seem to have
anything to say against the alleged good people who advertised In the alleged
bad paper.
I am not much of a mathematician, but somehow the arithmetic of sens
permits me to figure out that, If this paper was a bribery sheet, the advertisers
in It were bribery-makers and bribe-givers, and that they were a great deal
worse than the follow who took the money. Sometimes the bribe-taker needs
what he gets or tries to get. This Is not a good reason, but may be an excuse.
The great business house or corporation which pays the bribe is a much more
dangerous menace to society than the fellow who takes the bribe, I do not
believe In bribe-asking or bribe-taking, but it seems to me that we snould
not condemn the bribe-taker and commend or condone the brlbe-glver. From
The Christian Register.
fJC I I lilt I
Ey William H. Hamby
RUTH is the only thing that never produces ennui. The
human family has never become Intimate enough with It to
be bored.
Although the philosophers have been giving It u hard
chase for many thousand years, they have never run It down;
and It Is still spry enough to elude the flank movements,
cross cuts and center rushes of the college professors.
Ever since the sinuous track ot the Old Berpent was
discovered upon the sands of time, Truth has had a pretty
large contract. In addition to its regular business of uprooting Error and
demolishing Falsehood, it has had to do some lively sidestepping to keep from
under Innumerable weighty theories that wanted It as a foundation for ad
vertising purposes. It has also required some skillful dodging to escape a
number of creeds that were foreordained to embrace it.
During the past two hundred years, while the politicians have been madly
ruBhlng around to nail Lles, the scientists have been as wildly and success
fullyendeavoring to skewer Truth and hang it up to dry.
Like Liberty, Truth has had to stand for a good deal of abuse on account
of Its friends especially those long-haired, pale-raced, wild-eyed, adoring
esoteric friends who are always praying to be allowed to kiss the hem of Its
skirt.
This is doubly embarrassing, for Truth does not wear skirts. It Is not at
all certain that It wears anything, but if It does, It has entirely too much at
stake to risk Its reputation by materializing in the guise of that sex whose
chief charm Is Its uncertainty.
Then, too, Truth has been sorely tempted. Considering the coldness of
the climate in which it is supposed 1o dwell, and its undressed state, it surely
has been hard to reject all the varnish that has been offered it by the orators.
And when we see the kind of people that usually have It cornered, we ar
struck with the great moral backbone It must have required for Truth to
resist the smiles of the many charming liars who have come to woo. From
Life.
n
n
Consumption of Matches
A By Roy Crandall .
ATCHES are such trifling objects, such lnflnitesimally small
Udllinnta tn Ol .tativ U,1Un1nnnln- Innl, I. It n . I I 1.
M, j iv iv uanj uvuacncc-Jlug LADH, lliai It ULVLJ UOLUU1DU
1 Madame to learn that so vast a number of the little "sul-
phuric splinters" aro consumed each day that National For-
I ester Glfford Plnchot, In working out the problem of saving
I thn 7(10 Oon finO. nrraa nf Aniarlnnn fnfaat ImJ. rnm
jKK I tlon. is pondering on the match industry as one of the fac-
hMl I tors of an almost unbelievcble wood watse.
wmmmJ It takes many a match to make a tree, and it mav hn
difficult ior the mind to believe that manufacturing matches means the annual
wiping out of hundreds of square miles of forest lands, yet such la a fact, and
when some of the figures have been massed together the reasons become a
bit plainer.
Last year 3,000,000 matches were lighted every minute of the day nnd
night In the civilized world, and of the vast quantity America used no less
than seven hundred billions.
With 3,000,000 matches going Into flame and smoke with each tick of the
clock, one with a mathematical turn of mind seems driven to the task of learn
ing how many were burned each hour, each day, each week, each month and
during the year, and then how many each man, woman and child in the United
States Is entitled to annually.
It's simply a question of old-fashioned multiplication, and the completed
task shows that ISO.OOO.OOO wero used each hour, 4,320,000,000 each day 30
240,000,000 each week, 907,200,000,000 each month, and 10,880,400,000,000'dur
ing the year. If the Federal Census Bureau is correct in the estimation of
85,000,000 people in the United States, an equable division would allow 1"8 073
matches to each during the year. '
now Jyot to Invest
Tv Alexander Tinnn Jlfiuof JCVmst K-um
SJ'-'V of the flew York Evening Post wiiSC?
J IRST, never invest in nnything on the basis of an advertising
F
-
i
prospectus, and especially avoid such propositions when
they are announced in glaring and sensational form, with a
liberal uso of capital letters to attract attention. Second,
never Invest in anything which makes the promise of very
largo profits with no risk; if the profits are real and sure,
the fact that the Investment is offered to you at a low and
iwmm apparently attractive price measures the largeness of the
, risk. Third, never Invest In a mining scheme or in any
joint-stock enterprise of which you know nothing, on the representations of a
promoter or a friend who knows no more about It than you do. Fourth, never
invest in a private business enterprise unless its soundness and profit-earning
capacity are demonstrated to your satisfaction and to that of conservative
men to whom you submit the data. Fifth, never invest in a security because
somebody has heard that its price is going up; the story may have been cir
culated by someone who knows something wrong about the Investment and is
anxious to sell what he holds himself. Sixth, never invest In anything
mining stock, railway stock or manufacturing stock simply because its price
is low. It may possibly be a bargain, but its price may also be low because
it is worthless, or because it Is doubtful whether the stock will ever pay any
return whatever on tho investment. Woman's Home Companion.
The Caterpillar.
Th' Caterpillar he' all luzt.
Jus' Ilka th' curtain In our door!
I brlke a little tassel off
An' put It by him on th' floor,
An' how I know w'lch one he la
la 'cause lie walked, away, you see
But I don't care so very much
If he don't want to play wit met
Be's got too many feet, I think,
'Cause one time I was In my swing
An' he sat down, right on my lap,
An' scared me Juil like ever'thlngl
I didn't know wheie be came tuui
('Way, 'way up In th' big, high tree).
Be only can have kuves to eat,
But he's as fat as he can bel
I'm glad w'en It comes summer-time,
My Mamma don't make me fur clo'ea.
Th' Caterpillar mus' wear Ida
Jus' ever' single place be goes!
I saw him Wen tin took his walk
Klght up an' down our apple tree,
Wlf his fur coat all buttoned up
1 gucsa he wished 'at he was rael
An" w'en It's rnlny do you s'pose
Th' Caterpillar's Ma makes him
Put rubbers on so ninny feet
Bo's he won't muddy up th' limb?
-Marle Louise Tompkins, in Harper's
Weekly.
. . A Bluejay.
I thought it would Interest you to
hear about a bluejay that I found. It
was in winter and quite a lot of ice
and snow was on the ground. The
poor bird's beak was stuck to the ice.
He was almost dead when I found him.
I brougb him in the house and my
brother got a box and we set it on the
radiator with him in it.
We thought he would die. but soon
he was so lively mamma had to put
alats on the box so he could not get
out When I came home from school
at noon we let him go. We went out
on the roof, took off the slats and let
him fly away. He seemed be glad
to go, but he came to our house every
day. Ruth Johnson in the New York
Tribune.
Rather Have Half.
The difference between common
sense and mathematics was illustrated
in a remark which was made in a
school one day.
It was the mental arithmetic class.
The master asked Smith, "Which
would you rather have, half an apple
or eight-sixteenths of an apple?''
"Wouldn't make any difference,"
said Smith.
"Why not?"
"Eight-sixteenths and one-half are
the same."
At this reply, Jones, who was sit
ting near, sniffed scornfully. The. mas
ter heard him.
"Well, Jones," said he, "don't you
agree with Smith?"
"No, sir," said Jones; "I'd much
sooner have one-half an apple."
"And why, please?" t
"More Juice. Cut up half an apple
into elgbt-slxteenths, and you'd lose
half the juice doing itl" Children's
Answers.
Climbing Mount Rlgl.
I want to tell you of an experience I
had In Switzerland. It was around
Easter time in the year 1905, when
we were at Lucerne. One day mother
told my brother, sister and myself
that we would climb Mount Rigl. Of
course, we were all delighted, and we
started at 8 o'clock in tho morning. It
was not a very hard climb up the first
part of the mountain, but pretty soon
we came to where there was snow,
and from there it began to grow hard
er. At last we reached as high as we
could go because the snow became so
deep that It shut out the paths and
we stopped at a hotel near the top. Af
ter getting our luncheon we strolled
around to a place where we could get
a good view of the scenery. We saw
several mountains, Including the Jung
frau, and no less than eight lakes. It
was after 3 o'clock when we started
the descent, and we reached our hotel
in time for supper at 6 o'clock, after
passing a very enjoyable day. John
Ketcham in the New York Tribune.
Little Grade and Granny.
Say, mamma, why can't I have a
granny?"
The question was asked by little
Oracle Donlvan of her mother.
The two were sitting beside the
cheerful grate fire discussing the
events of the afternoon. Gracle had
attended a birthday party given by her
friend, Nellie Thompson, and there she
had seen Nellie's dear old grand
mother, whom the Thompson children
called "granny." And as the dear old
"granny" hod tald the children many
interesting stories during the party, It
had occurred to Gracle that It would
be nice for her to have a "granny," for
the fact Is Gracle did not understand
the exact relationship of a "granny."
She knew what grandmothers and
grandfathers were, but she had never
before met with a "granny." So the
question to her mother.
"Why, darling, a grandmother is of
ten called "granny," explained Mrs.
Donlvan. ("Your own grandmothers
are both living, as you know, and they
are your grannies, dear." '
"But they are not real, sure-enough
grannies," declared Gracle. "My
Grandmother Donlvan Is always so tall
and fine and talks so grand and wears
a diamond brooch and a black silk
gown and real lace. And she never
romps with me or tells me stories. She
says I should not ask questions when
I begin to want her to tell me about
things. And she says children's noise
makes her nervous. No, mamma, my
Grandmamma Donlvan could never be
a real, sure-enough granny, such as
little Nellie's granny is. And my
Grandmother Ball is so very ill much
of the time that she doesn't like to
have me around, and she says I muss
up her work basket and that I dont
keep my fingernails clean, and that
my hair ought to be braided tightly
instead of being curled and tangled. So
Grandmamma Ball could never, never
be a real, sure-enough granny, either,
for real grannies don't look at your
fingernails nor your tangled hair, nor
they don't mind your mussing their
work baskets, for they are sort ot
like children themselves. Nellie's
granny Is only she's very old and
sweet. And when she smiles Into your
face you think of taffy, she's so nice.
Oh, I'd love a granny like her." '
"Well, my love, you will know some
day that old people cannot all be like
Nellie's granny, for when they have
lived so many years, suffered so many
disappointments, so much grief, so
much sickness, and ever so many such
hard things that come with time, they
forget their own childhood days, and,
thus forgetting, cannot understand the
desires of the little folks growing up
about them." So explained little
Grade's mother to her.
But Gracle shook her head, saying,
"I don't know anything about what
makes grandmothers different to gran
nies, mamma, but I do know I want a
granny. I want my grandmothers, too,
for they are very dear and good; but
most of all I want a dear old granny
that tells stories and doesn't mini
noiBe, dirty fingers and tangled hair."
Then Bridget, the cook, knocked at
the door to ask permission to show her
old mother over the house. "Sure, an
Mrs. Donlvan, It's such a folne house
that you've got that I'd be afther
showing it to me old mlther what's
come In to spend the day with me.
You know, she's from the country
fifteen mile away an' seeing your
folne house would rest her a bit, I'm
thinkin'. She's that tired, mum."
"Certainly, Bridget, show your moth
er over the house," consented Mrs.
Donlvan, glad to grant so simple a re
quest from her good-hearted and
worthy servant.
"May I go with Bridget?' asked llttls
Gracle, eager for any variety In the
home life.
"Certainly, dear," smiled Mrs. Donl
van. And now I shall run across the
street to chat a minute with Mrs.
Brown. She's been quite ill of late,
and I must go in and help cheer her
up."
Then the house was left to Bridget,
her old mother and little Gracle. And
as the three walked about the rooms of
the pretentious home Gracle watched
with pleasure the happy expression on
the old lady's face. "Ah, how beauti
ful," she would exclaim. "An' may I
lay my hand on that sofy?" she asked
admiring a beautiful sofa In the re
ception hall.
"Come, sit on it beside me," cried
Gracie, liking the pleasant-faced eld
lady. "Come, sit on it, I'ts very nice
and soft And do you know any
stories? I love stories, I do."
The old lady sat down beside Gracle.
smoothing her frayed frock with her
workworn hands, a smile of unexpect
ed pleasure brightening her counten
ance. "Yes, 'dearie, I know many,
many stories, but they are all of auld
Ireland. Ah, an' there we had the
folne times when I was a little one
like yereelf, sure. Ah, but It is nice
to' have a dear little one like yer In
nocent self about. I pray the time
may come when bright little grand
children will be about me knee, a-beg-gln'
for stories."
"Oh, come, mother!" laughed Brid
get "But If you're goin' to sit here
on the sofy like a folne lady I'll be
goln' back to tho kitchen to look after
me fowl what's In the oven." And
Bridget hurried out of the room.
Then Gracle took hold of the old
wrinkled hands and looked tenderly In
to the sweet aged face. "Won't you be
my granny?" she asked in a soft whis
per. "I have grandmammas two of
'em, but I have no real, sure-enough
granny. You are just the kind ot
granny I want. Will you be mine?"
Tears gushed from the eyes of the
dear, sympathetic old Irish woman,
and impulsively she stooped and em
braced the beautiful little lady-girl at
her side. "Ah, you are an angel, darl
Int," she said. "But It's not flttln' fer
the loikes of me to be your granny. I'm
too old and plain."
"You're not, declared Gracle. "When
you smile It looks just lovely, and
you're very, very good and kind. And
I want you for my granny. Please do
not say no."
'Then I'll be your granny, my little
one, if yer own dear mlther will permit
such," smiled the good old woman.
"And now, shall I tell you a story of
me own childhood, when I lived In
dear auld Ireland? Them was the
folne days, me darllnt."
"Ah, yes, a story, a story," cried
Gracle. "Ah, I knew you would be a
sure-enough granny! Oh, I'm so hap
py to have found you! And I'll love
you always and always, and I'll go to
see you In your home, and you'll come
to see me here, and while others may
bo my grandmothers, only you shall
over be my granny."
And half an hour later Mrs. Donlvan
crept softly to the reception hall to
take a peep at Gracie and her new
found "granny," who were still sittinr.
hand In hand, cn the sofa, the "gran
ny" relating a most interesting story
while Gracie listened. "Bless them,"
whispered Mrs. Donlvan,- and silently
stole away. "Gracie has at last foand
a 'granny.' "Washington Star.
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