Evening Star Newspaper, June 16, 1894, Page 13

THE LITTLE ONES From the Alleys to the Sweetness of Country Life. GUESTS OF THE A Glimpse of a Charity That Giad- | dens Childish Lives. | CHILDREN'S HOME | fresh air, MORE ROOM NEEDED) } | ¥ GRACIOUS! IN this house they ring the dinner bell three times a day, and ev- ery time they have something to eat.” Such was the com- ment of a little chap last summer after he had been snugly in- stalled for his fort- night of happiness in the Children’s Coun- try Home, near this city. His surprise wi genuine, and it Probably echoed the sentiments of the score OF more of other young holiday seekers who had been taken out of the hot city for a glimpse at nature—-and a _ succession of Square meals such they had seldom ex- perienced before. The idea of regular eat- ing, and not only that, but plentiful eat- ing, of warm, soft beds at night and of clean clothes every day was enough to Stagger the mind ef almost any child who | hhad not been accustomed to such luxuries. | ‘Tkat is why the home has been established, | and why, indeed, it has been successful. This imstitution now has a record of @leven years of unbroken success, and it | Rew enters upon its twelfth season with ad- | mirable prospects, but with a pressing need | for more room in which to accommodate | the eager tots who seek its comforts every | summer. The house that was built in the spring and summer of iSSS has been out- grown, notwithstanding the fact that at | the time of its erection it was thought to be ample for many years to come. But of that later. The present season will open Bext Thursday, when Miss Nannie Gordon, the “visitor” of the home, will lead up- ward of twenty selected children out to the @reen groves that surround the house,which 4s stx miles north of the city, and just be- | yond the Zoo, that paradise of the young- | sters. To some of these children this will be the first glimpse of the country. To others it will be like the revival of a long- | neglected sense, while to still others it will be @ repetition of one of the pleasantest @aperiences in thetr lives. Te Roll on the Grass. ‘The Children’s Country Home is run as a charity for the purpose of giving to the | poor children of Washington, who would otherwise be cooped up within the city | throughout the hot weather, a chance to | get close to nature, to roll on the green | grass without feeling that fear of the blue- | coated guardian of the verdure that every | town child must feel, to climb trees with- out a sense of risk, to pick berries right off | bush, to go swimming in the creek | Without trembling on account of the law, | to wander about tne fields,plucking flowers, | without amy cures. In other words, this es- tablishment fs run to give as many young- |} Sters as possible a genuine summer outing, et no cost to themselves or their parents. ‘This is the primary object of the home. ore subtle, more earnest object, ll the into the hearts and mind: these littie waits some idea of right “5. of warity aad cleantiness, ideas that they may take with them to ir poor homes when their fortnight of ". The other object is not, of resented to the children or the Parenis themselves, but is pressed forward | carefully and kept always in the view of | the management. | Good results have been secured by this | dua! ideal. Not only have hundreds upon handreds of children been introduced to the wond presence of Mother Earth, but they have been sent, like so many lt- | te unconscious missionaries, tnto the lower | depih: lige, to leaven some- | Wha tion. It may as-| tonish many ingtonians to learn that th many byways and al- hys he most abject poverty exists. To be it ts the proper boast, well sup- | ported by Tacts, of citizens that’ Washing- ton has very poor people than any city of its size in the country. Yet, | n away in the depths of humanity that accumulate in every com- there wre pools, stagnant poois, of where existence takes the place of | and wh suffering comes so tit is accepted as the common lot of mankind. Weil Werth Doing. © places come forth young men » Ravin; been bred there with- un of human kindness ever touch- v ut onee getting a glimpse + Without an ideal bey: the f universal ea nd indiiference. rth working, and uch institutions as the Chil- | tiome seeks to mold and ¢ condition for tu- It is but litde that with its small butid- t grounds, but ft is a red with the little [wo weeks of com- cows and horses, those of natural living, and of sular food, de wonders | ether haudde munity, life, that dren's Country I into a x zrely Ww sd pangs of fr homes wiia resret at the | ending of a ier h as never ir little brains. Some Othe-s talk mothers and vey tell about rity of meals, these their That this nm the other < the twenty the home n whose * last season. re- ehild She much better ito the coun- her grati- t to told that the ee was the continu- rk at her own home, 1 - think that her f the Lady Visi for ti mana Ss to dis- Ss from the un- at child so thaa ¢ Miss Gord estigate each t from the chaff. The » send out only t can be und, the beginning of en itor, been winr in to take the children ‘They imagine, some- ters are to be carried poor asylums or s the struggle visitor usually he elders to let the when the happy day esset in their best, await them at the »lue jeans for 1 garb is put care- an be worn hozne, 3 usage of country bles make little dif- > jeans and ginghams. ne is supported entirely by volun- ms f-om charitably tnclined lows a bed by @ garden party fs Sach spring 3 this nets a ore dollars. Circles of church people contribute their mites. Little children of good circum- stances band together to do good in this line. One of these organizations, the “S. S. | U. F., is composed of little Georgetown girls, who guard the secret of their mys- | across places | “ terious initials with jealous care. They helped last year to give an organ to the More Room Needed. The time has come when Washington's oor need more room. Some of the chil- Gren have been sleeping on cots in the hall- ways for two or three years past, and the managers believe that the good folks of this city con afford to help out on a build- ing fund. So they ere seeking aid. The home during the summer months fs 'n the charge of two matrons, Sisters of the of St. Margaret y come from and do good service throughout th ‘The home is reached easti: cars on the Chevy Chase r ten minutes’ walk from that line. In addition to the poor children of good health who are taken out to the home, the visitor looks up worthy cases ef young- sters in the hospitals, who are pining for and these are sometimes givea more than the allotted two weeks. Many cases of invalidism have becn greatly helped by a season at this charming spot. Last season two children, whose father was killed on a train while on his way ago, were cared for at the home all , Who will be taken to the home vared for as long as possibie, The efficers of the home are chosen from among the twenty trustees, all of whom, as stated, are unmarried iadies. The pres- ent officers are follows: Miss Mary L. Wilkes, president; Miss Kate L. Roy, vice presid Miss Frederica Rod tary Margaret T. McPhe urer Occasionally the matron tn charge of the home takes the little ones on picnics in the near-by woods, and a glorious day is then speu ain, she takes them all over to tne Zoo, where they wonder at the enor- mous animals and admire the tiny ones. e creamm is served cn occasions, and cub- web parties tend to relieve the monotony of raiay days. The discipline is goud, and is caly broken by the occasional outbursts of homesickness among the little ones in the dead of nig There are few charities that appeal! so directly to the human heart as this. Nature herself begs in its behalf. cee THE PARTHENON, Its Appearance in the Days of Ita Glory. INTERIOR OF From Temple Bar. How was the interior lighted? Some have thought by a species of clear story, and much “learned lumber’’ has been” im- ported into the question. To little purpose, however, for, like most ancient buildings, it was either entirely hypaethral, open to the sky, or, more probably, partly so; a ve- larium or thick awning being drawn over the opening to shield the temple from a very hot sun and perhaps from the rare éownfalls of rain. The gold and ivory statue of Minerva Parthenos stood just inside the western doors of the building and in the Opisthodomus or western of the two chambers of the interior; here, also, the treasure of the city was kept, under her special caye, as all good Athenians be- Meved. ‘The remains of color found on the bulid- ing indicate that light blue and deeep red figured largely on the external entablature; whether the Shafts of the columns remain- ed in their native hue, or were stained a light lemon color, is uncertain; it is believ- ed, however, that ihe capitals were gilded. From bronze nails under the triglyphs gariands hung on festal days; shields cap- tured in battie were suspended on the east- ern front and perhaps elsewhere; the sround-work or field of the tympana, be- hind the statuary, was blue. The wall be- aina Lie columns was not an expanse of bare marble, but painted with heroic fig- ures of the deeds of gods and men; ail around were statues of bronze, silver and even gold, while the city at its feet and other temples added to the mass of color, the bright sun of Southern Greece flooding | the entire picture with light—an extraordi- nary scene. Not its least remarkable feat- ure must have been the quick, eager, rest- less crowd of Athenians themseives; the captives, the traders of neighboring nations, the slaves; everywhere life and movement, everywhere the critical, curious ways of @ people always intent upon seeing or hear- ing “some new thing.”* pea 5 ee eee A Master of the Business. From the Chicage Tribune, “ll not detain you two minutes,” said the book agent briskly, as he hung his hat on the back of a chair and laid a large volume on the lawyer’s desk. ‘This work, which I am introducing, sells Itself. It Is called ‘The Model Home; or, Housekeeping Reduced to a Science.’ Beginning with the plan of a six, seven, eight or ten-room house, as the case may be, it describes the best methods of fitting up each room ac- cording to @ general design, with a sched- ule of prices arranged to suit any purse, and—" “You needn't waste any more time de- scribing it," interrupted the lawyer. “I happen to know my wife wants that book. She has been waiting for it. If you will call at my house, No. 797 Pettis court, and inquire for Mrs. Grashly, she will take a copy of it at once. But stay! I might as well get it myself and surprise her. How uch is it?” yn you deliver it now?” es. I have two other copies with me. You may have this one, though it is not my usual way. Fiv six, seven—that's right. Thanks. Good morning.” After he had gone away the lawyer dis- covered the binding was defective. He also found tn the book the agent's card. It was inscribed: “J. Alfred Jones, No. 277 College row.” “That's lucky,” he exclaimed. “Broxby, the hall, lives at No. 279 College row. I'll ask him te send that fellow back here, and I'l! make him exchange this copy tor one of the others.” About an hour later a brisk moving book agent called at No. Pettis court and inquired for Mrs. Grashly. “Til not detain you two minutes, madam,” he said, when she had made her appearance. “This work, which I am in- troducing, sells, itself. It is called “The Model Home; or, Housekeeping Reduced to a Science.” Beginning with the plan of a six, seve eight or ten-room house, as the case m.: be, it describes the best meth- cds of fitting up each room according to a encral— ScWhy, I've been wanting that book for months, said the lady joyfully. “How much is it?’ bs n dollars.” “Are you taking orders for future de- livery, or can you let me have the book at once?” “I can let you have this one, I guess, [though it Is rot my usual way. I have another ene in my valise. Four, four-fifty, five, six n. That’s right. Thanks. Good-morning. ee oe ow ae A man called at No. that afternoon. “Ls this Mr. J. Alfred Jones?" he asked. ‘hat's my name,” answered the man came to the door. name's Broxby,” rejoined the caller. office just across the hall from that of Grashly, the lawyer. He teld me to ask you to call and see him the next e down town.” 8. Mr. Jones, meditatively, exactly what he wants. I am t for a book he’s been trying to . and I promised to let him have a copy It's called ‘The Model Home; or,’ “ ¢ « «© @ 7 College row late “If haps it that’s all,” said Mr. Broxby, “per- I can take the book myself and turn r to him tomorrow.” hy, you could, He was to pay own for it, though, and—and may- “How much ts it “Only $7. I've just got this one left, and rt for Indiana in the morning——” “Here's the money. “Let see--three, four, six, six and a half, seven. That's right. Thanks.” And Lawyer Grashiy goes occasionally into the library of his cozy flat at No. 797 Pettis court, looks at three large volumes, exactly alike, standing side by side in one of the book ca: and swears with great energy and volubility. Not te Touch Water. From the Chi 0 Record. The Salesman (in the dry goods store)— res; this Is a very pretty piece of goods, to be honest about ft, I must tell you that it will not wash.” The Fair Purc r—"Oh, that doesn’t ter. I only want it for a bathing suit, anyway.” soe All Explained. From Truth. Briggs—“Have you heard anything of that young relative of yours who went out west ten years ago?” Griges—“Why, yes. He is a member of Congress. Briggs—“Excuse me, old man. I wonder why you never mentioned his name” FASHIONABLE HORSES | i= They Are High Steppers and Have Docked Tails. THEY DO NOT LAS? VERY LONG Their Future Fate is Not Likely Pleasant. WHAT SHOULD BE DONE Written for The Evening Star. WHO NY ONE Aw out into the streets in the north- western section of the. city on a fine efternoon must be struck with the bril- Jiant display of horses and riages, to say nothing of footmen and coach- men, that greets his eye. The show takes very much the form of a procession, goes up one side of the street, down another and turns into @ side street when it feels so inclined. It is got up as processions usually are—for show. The horses are not mere creatures of a given amount of strength, to pull a given amount of weight; the carriages are not simply boxes on wheels, with seats in them; the coachmen and footmen are not merely men to drive and open doors—all of them have other than utiMtarlan uses, and are part of the pageant of fashionable life, and, perhaps, the chief part. Now, let us see what a swell turnout should be like. Must Be High Steppers. First, the horses should be high steppers, which, for the benefit of the uninitiated, may be interpreted into meaning horses that lift their feet high in the air every time they step, and especially perform high steps with their fore feet. In this matter it is true that the very high stepper is not an animal likely to last long on city pave- ments, as he comes down upon his hoofs with too much force and is apt in conse- quence to injure himself sooner than he would if he stepped more lightly. Similarly, he is not a good horse for driving a long distance in the country, because he expends too much energy on lifting his feet and rarely lasts as long on a country road as a less showy horse. The high stepper is thus emphatically a horse for show and a horse for cities, and is an expensive luxury, not only because he costs a great deal In the first place, but because also he often goes to pieces soon. But his beauty is not a mat- ter of dispute. He attracts attention every- where and everybody admires him. The next essential to the horse is that his tail should have been docked off short. There is no use im quarreling with this edict of fashion, be- cause it {s emphatically a fact. One might as well protest against the practice of men cutting thelr hair. Perhaps they ought to wear long hair, but they don’t. Horses’ tails ought not to be docked, but they are. Now, there is something to be said on both sides of this much vexed subject. In de- fense of the practice it can be truthfully said that the operation itself is not one of prolonged suffering at all. The tail ts chop- ped off,properly treated to stop the bleeding instantly aud there is the end of it. The operation takes only a few minutes. The tail bone is not a pecullarly sensitive part of the horse, and until the stump is healed there is no reason why !t should be used at all. Further than this, the dock-tailed horse is a city horse, and a rich man’s horse. He does not have to stand at the village store for hours, while the files nearly kill him, and he Is defenseless be- cause of the want of a tall He stands in the stable, with a light sheet thrown over him, and the files can’t worry him much. When he goes out it is for an hour or two of pretty rapid driving, and he does not stop at all very likely, or, if he does, he is so elaborately harnessed that the itching of a long tail would eo trap- pings. Against Docking the Tail. But here you must stop and can say rcthing more in favor of docking a horse's tail. Any mutilation of a noble animal like the horse ts wrong. It is especially so when it involves in all probability perma- nent inconvenience and suffering. This ts certain in the case of the horses to which the practice is applied. They are usually the best bred animals, and are selected because of their spirit. Consequently, they are unusually sensitive and suffer agony from the files if they are ever in a position where the flies can tother them. If com- mon cart horses had their tails docked trey would not mind it so much, being thicker-skinned, less nervous, slower to feel pain. The fine, high-spirited rich man’s horse—the very one that is docked—is the very one that needs his tail most before he dies. For, while he may not need it as kng as he is the horse of this rich man, always remember that as soon as he in- jvres himself, as soon as he sho’ failing powers, he ts sold, and sold to anybody who will pay for him. There ts no sentiment in the sale of a horse, and when he passes out of your hands he may go into the hands of a humane man and he may not. Even if you are exceptionally careful and will not sell him save to some one who will give him as good care as he got from you, how can you tell what will be bis fate when the man who buys him, in his turn, selis him? Think of that beautiful spirited horse of yours, whose tail you have had docked, in the end dragging a shambling old dust cart, wiggling his poor stump of a tail while the flies feast off of his patrician Blood. It is an old saying that men deserve every pun- ishment that falls to their lot because of their cruelty to their horses, but the one that deserves the greatest puntshment of all is the rich man who, for the sake of fol- lowing a passing fashion,cuts off his horse's tail and afterward sells him. If he intends to take the full responsibility of his action he will keep the horse he mutilates as long as he lives, aud then no one can quarrel with him seriously. There fs in nearly all cities a law against docking horses’ tails, but a really humane measure would be one to forbid any man from selling a dock-tailed horse, which would compel the man who committed the cruelty to support the vic- tim of it always. The Custom Comes and Goes. Yet it ig strange how this custom has come and gone and come again. About twenty years ago, as many of us can very well remember, there were a few old bob- tailed nags to be seen, survivors of a fash- fon that had gone out fully fifteen years before, which puts the last reign of the bob- tailed horse before the present fashion came in nearly forty years back. But it had been in vogue at perlods long before. In the pic- ture which represents Maj. Mowbray seiz- ing the bold highwayman Turpin (who es- caped, too, on that occasion), while the dy- ing “Black Bess’ has simply a square- banged tail, the other horses are apparently docked, and this happened more than a cen. tury ago. Twenty years since the fashion prescribed a long flowing tail, thén the square banged tail became the proper thing, and it still remains the favorite method with many people. But about ten years since the swells began to dock their horses, and now it must be confessed that it is what nearly all of them do. If you can shut your eyes to the cruelty you must confess that it makes a horse look natty and atyl- isi swil his ih. As for all the ways of dressing the docked tail, they are almost too numerous to men- tion. Some people like the fan-shaped tail, an effect produced by so cutting the hair and parting {t afterward, so as to make it spread out like a fan. Others like ft cut off square, close up to the bone, and another style is to allow it to grow and hang over, so that It looks for all the world like a little feather duster stuck into the horse. An- other, and the stupidest fashion of all, re- quires the hair to be cut off short all along the bone, so that it looks like an abbrevi- ated rat’s tail. There is really, if one chooses to go into it, a great deal to be learned about what at first sight appears to be such a simple thing as the tail of a horse. Must Have No Check. If you wish to appear right among the swell horses as the driver of one of them you must on no account have him checked. He must carry his head with an arched neck or In the air, but he must not be ham- pered with a check rein. No one will quar- rel with this fashion. In the country, per- haps, a check is necessary, and It is cer- tainly so if you stop by the roadside, when horse will be ite certain to put his down and In to eat grass unless have him checked up, but this is not the case in the city, and the style of a good horse is not added ‘to if his head is pulled into an unnatural posture. course, these s have nothing to do with trotters. They are said to trot better when they wear the check rein, and in all probability the theory is correct, but the fashionable horse is not a trotter, and a high rate of speed is not expected of him. Therefore, nature is allowed this one point, if no other, and horses are tolerably comfortable in this one respect. But, on the other hand, the fashionable horse {s usually driven with a curb bit, not because he goes better, but because he is supposed to look better when thus driven. Let us tell the truth about it. If he is un- comfortable about the mouth he tosses his head and looks spirited, and there are a good many drivers who make the curb bit and the whip the chief factors in producing a@ stylish pair of horses. “Whip then up and rein tuem in” would probably be the advice of a swell driver if he told the truth. Some horses are so high strung by nature that no whip is necessary, but this is net the caye with all of them, and often the very same pair of horses that prance along the street with every appearance of ambi- tion and high spirit would, if driven by @ plain citizen, more humane than swell, in all likelihood go jogging along with a loose rein, like a couple of good old family nags. ‘Now, such horses as have been described here can be bought for almost any price, if an intelligent man is buying them. A chop- ping ax will convert the long tail of any horse into the required dock tall, and the driving will do the rest, with the exception of the high stepping, which ts hard to teach to the horse who has not some natural gift in that direction. ‘There are, however,means of teaching i¢ which are sometimes suecess- ful. One way is to walk the horse in deep straw for hours every day, He may in this way acquire the habit of lifting his feet high and continue to do it when he ts in harness, but {t is not safe to count on his doing so. You may try trotting him over ploughed fields, also, and this has a good effect sometimes. But the best high step- per is the horse that is born so. ——— A Philosopher. From the New Ycrk Press. Rathburn sat in the little brary of the home of his friend, whose daughter he was to marry. He laid down a volume of Schopenhauer’s essays and mused: “People who live in such security and comfort as I enjoy have little opportunity to put phil- osophy into practice.” He rose and entered the drawing room, where he saw a young man who had just been shown in. “Why, Escott,” he said, hastening for- ward to shake hands with the youth, “I thought you were in London.” “The house called me back,” explained the young man, whose face wore a pensive expression. Z You don’t look exactly well, my boy.’ Escott smiled and sat down. “I've been bothered some,” the youth said, embarrassedly. Then in an outburst of candor he added: “You see, before I went away I thought I was soon to marry. We didn't have her father’s consent, but we thought that would be all right. Well, her father wanted to marry her off to some friend of his—she didn’t even tell me his name—and she decided to please her father."” “Do I know her?” “It would hardly be right to tell you who she is, although you are an old friend of mine. You might misjudge her.” ‘Not at all,’ replied Rathburn, congratu- lating himself on the occasion to apply some of his philosophy at last, if only in another case. “She may have been quite right. Her obligations to her father may outweigh her duty to you. The multitude magnifies the importance of love. Tne love of man for woman, or vice versa, is not by any means the highest or most meritorious thing that can engage a human being’s thoughts. There are other and loftier things than love. A man who resigns himself entirely to love is not worth taking seriously. wouldn't give much for a person who = overthrow a disappointment in ve." a “I know all that,” said the younger man gloomily. He rose and paced the room, nd heaved a sigh. Presently he “A man ts a fool, I admit, whe over- estimates love. Yet {t is every man’s pre- rogative to make that kind of a fool of bimself at some period of his life. As far as I know, though, you have escaped.” Rathburn laughed guiltily. . I have not. I've been caught at last. But my being a fool doesn't prevent me from know- ing that I'm one. I do think a great deal of love a: the present moment. In fact, I'm going to marry.” “Congratulations, old fellow! Who is she?" Rathburn pointed to a portrait. Escott looked first as if he doubted the correctness of his vision. Then he stared’ in open- mouthed astonishment. “Are you surprised?” asked the other man. “Why—yes—I never imagined that you were the one. It was now Rathburn’s turn to be as- tonished. But he speedily controlled him- self. When he spoke a moment later it was with quietness and coherency. “My dear boy, neither did I imagine it. So she loves you. I half suspected there was some one. That gives you the privilege of being the fool in this case, and me the opportunity of acting the philosopher. I love her, I acknowledge. But even at this moment I see clearly that there are greater things in this life than love, and F know that 1 shall outgrow this experience. She belongs to you. But I'd rather you'd tell her I said so. I'll see her father.” And he started toward the door. “My dear friend,” murmured Escott, in whom gratitude was too great to find ade- quate expression on the instant, “H'sh!” rep! Rathburn, motion! toward the doorway curtains’ at the — of the drawing room. Escott looked. The girl stood there. She had evidently heard Rathburn’s speech of renunciation, for she her tearful, smiling eyes and stood waiting for Escott to approach her. A manent later ine two Young ‘people were vaguely conscious of the be door. a thburn, walking down the st forced hts ‘breath to a regular and tem” perate pace and compelled every other feel- ing to give way to a pardonable pride in having proved the practical efficacy of phil- = in the small affairs of this little eos Written for The Evening Star. “A Violet’s Dreath.” 4 In my heart's very tnmost corner Rests the print of a flower fair, Whose perfume brings peace to my sorrows And lightens my soul's despair. Tm. T cherish the sweet, modest blossom With a love that is strong and fast, Whose constancy lingers forever From it's birth in the far-off-past. mL Close to my lips I press tt, With a rapture tender, yet gay, And nestle its head on my bosom, ‘To shield it from change or decay. Vv. Sweet violet! the hand of an angel Must bave dropped you down on the earth, To bring peace to the suffering creatures Who have known so little mirth. ve Like a breath from the far-off heavens, Creeps your perfume into the beart, Where ft rests enchatned for ever, From the sorrower never to part. vi ©, flower of love! You have sweetened ‘The life that was crushed and sore, In whose breast your fragrance shall linger, For ever and ever more. LEIGH FORD. — —— see Marringe-a-la-Mode in Chicago. Il, we are waiting for the verdict—What's that? Good! Ab- solute divorce for Mra. 1 al right, parson, let ‘er gol” 1 A MIDDLE-AGED DOOM From the New York Times. Among the many loyal friendships formed in the class of ‘71 at Pierson there was not one so fervent and enduring as that be- tween Harold Markham and Alfred Jer- maine. I, on the part of Germaine, my humble self, can vouch for its unfeigned sincerity, and as for Markham, why, I would, of course, vouch even the stronger for him. Naturally, 50 close an intimacy had such physical encouragements as Mrs. Holmes. has exemplified in “Darkness and Daylight” and “Sunshine and Shadow” metaphors. Markham was big and florid ¢ the advancing dawn; I was slight and swarthy lke the retreating twilight. He pulled lustily on an oar; I, habitually, on a cigarette; but in act and purpose we always pulled amicably together. One of our common designs was that after graduation we should attend the law school and side by side enter the legal lists In the city; another, concerned certain tender pass- ages between his sister Jane and me. But hardly had I translated the Latin of my dipioma whea fate in the shape of my father clipped these continuing ties. He was taken sick, and, on nearing convales- cence, was ordered by his physicians tn pain of death to reside in a certain Italian sea- port town. I was all his kindred in the world, hence all the world to him; it fol- jowei that I must share his exile. Mark- ham and I sorrowfully agreed that absence would make our hearts yet fonder, and that I should, through private study, fulfill our plans; and I departed, confident in the ex- pectation of returning in a year or so. Ah, well, that year or so inexplicably multiplied. Time glided impercepfibly un- der the Italian skies, as it had in those olden days when Horace wrote “Eheu Fu- gaces, In that equabie climate my father maintained the equilibrium of invalidism, and I, that of inertia. Our fe was tran- quil, even unto torpidity, disturbed neither by physical nor mental exigencies. He was rich and 1 was young. “Had been” and “to be then alike could walt. He had his circle ef old crony friends, with whom he gossiped and played whist: me, who but recently had felt the full responsibility of a senior, they treated as a mere lad, and bade disport in the sunshine. And, little by little, the charm of sweet nothingness allured alway my energies. Why, when every one around me cultivated leisure, should I alone be hur- ried? I took little trips, I studied the lan- guages, I wrote magazine articles, I pub- lished a book of sonnets. At first my correspondence with Mark- ham had been a pleasure; it dwindled into a duty, and subsided into a regret. After all, I would see him before long, and an hour's talk would exceed miles of criss- cross writing. And so I delayed, and daw- dled and dreamed. 1 was popular in the so- ciety of the town, and, as it was composed of married people, much petted. It was gracious in its easy sloth; nothing was ever required to be done in haste; if it were, I was the one to do it, since I had plenty of time. And so the fugacious years glided as little considered as the cycles of eternity, until a stop came in the death of my father. Beyond my grief, which was po!gnant, this event was a shock to me. It seemed so unnescessary. He was just becoming ac- customed to such a rational, comfortable life. Wasn't it cruel that after we had come abroad in search of health, our plan should so soon be frustrated? Ah,cruel, in- deed! But yet, in the regret over this brev- ity of time, I was constrained to consider its length. Was it possible, fifteen years since we had arrived! And was I thirty-five years old? I, who was so youthful, so un- used to any responsibility? Come, now, I really ought to return before long and join Markham, who must be beginning to make @ start at the law. For a day or so I studied over my neg- lected books, finding even more dust within than had accumulated on their covers. But pshew! what was the use; why should I not take my time? My father’s old friends ridiculed the idea of my leaving. “ ‘Festina lente,’ my boy,” they said, “you are young and independent; see a little more tury, they put their together and wrote unusual letters and pulled unwonted strings, and lo! I was appointed consul and thus bound to remain. Ah. Amir labentes! Even under period of life when five years made vast differences. old. My mirror told me that my face and jorm had remained practically yee ly mustache, perhaps, was _™ trifle heavier; there were a few gray lining my brow, but these I had been often assured i, Markham. He could doubtless with justice claim that if ever our plan was to be carried out it was about time to begin. Well, 1 would go to his aid. Luckily, I was rich, and my connections would bring a certain import- ance to our young firm. So I packed up! and sold and gave away my belo: what a singularly old-fashioned lot were, too, on examination, farewell to my butterfly companions, many of whom seemed to be deteriorating into grubs, and sailed for home. There was a pleasant company aboard, quite a number of jolly young people, of whom I quickly became the jolliest, with a due proportion from respectable middle to reverend age. The Davenants were a conspicuous family. They sat at my table, and seemed to find zest in their meals from the fact. Mrs. Davenant was a comely, well-preserved matron, whose sweet nature naturally attracted a young man’s confi- po | and regard. Mr. Davenant was a @ravé, dignified, gray-haired man, a judge, 80 I learned, of one of the state courts, and never without his judicial mantle. Yet there was nothing severe about him; he would sometimes smile quite affably at my witticism. I often intended asking him whether “Chuoby” Davenant of ‘70 was a relation of his, but something always pre- vented a long conversation—somebody, rather, the most important, the most per- scnal, the sweetest body in the world, his daughter Ethel Davenant. Ah, what a charming girl she was, to be sure! We became companions and friends at once. There seemed just the right difference in age and experience be- tween us. She had but recently come out of a convent, where she had been receiving her instruction since childhood, for her mether was of French birth. Thus I was doubtless the first unmarried young man she had ever associated with. Need I say that my pupilage of years in the most ex- clusive circles of one of the most exclusive continental towns now stood me in good stead? It were idle to deny that she was n-anifestly impressed by my , flat- tered by my interest, and captivated by my speech. As for me—well, it seemed that vacation days at old Pierson were renewed, and that again I was strolling through the magical vistas of Calypso’s isle. One night, when we were but a few hun- red miles distant from our journey’s end, the rhythmical, restful, assuring throb of the engines ceased. In an instant that wonted pulsation was converted into the throes of a panic. Out from the state rooms rushed the passengers, their clothing vary- ing inversely in quantity with their fright, end most of them were woefully frightened. Recalling my attendance at college morn- ing chapel, I let my great ulster cover a multitude of sins and set forth, intent on unselfish purpose. In the throng that strug- gled about the companionway, despite en- treating stewards and menacing officers, —_ Davenant sustaining his faint- ing wife. jut where was Ethel? As I thought, he lcoked around id missed her. His eyes mine in pleading and received a sti fast promise. I rushed hither and thither through saloons and cabins. In a remote blind passage I found the girl, groping her way, distraught with fear. My voice re- animated her heart, my hand snatched a heavy wrap, and my arm bound it around her and supported her steps. Ah, me! That was no time for words. In yiel pressure I felt her ready acquiescence, recognized that love which casteth out fear. Had that moment of peril been fatal it still would have been the happiest of my Ute. I was fain to kiss her little feet that flashed in and out like flitting snow birds! lervous Debility, Decay of Body and- Mind Self Distrust, Poor Me Lack of Ener al United States Academy Medicine and Surgery, 807-809-811 14th St. N. W., Bet. H and I Sts., Washington, D. C. 4 PERMANENT INSTITUTION FOR THE SCIENTIFIC TREATMENT AXD CURB OF Nervous and Special Diseases. OFFICE HOURS—MONDAY, WEDNESDAY AND FRIDAY, 9 A.M. TO 4 P.M. ‘TURMDAT, THURSDAY AND SATURDAY, 9 4M. TO 3 P.M. AND 1 TO 8 P.M. SUNDAY,10 0 & geseaat confidently did my heart ebb and flow as I sought my rest, for I knew that thus early in life had I achieved my felicity. ‘The next morning Ethel was not to be But seen. She had taken a severe cold and was | Jane's thin lips merely smiled @ mute aym quite feverish, her mother said, and in the i simple saying that good woman spoke vol- Y’ came from the umes of sympathy and concurrence. In-| den, stalwart lads and graceful ao deed, when I bade them farewell on cisem- carcless laughter; barking, both Mr. and Mrs. Davenant, Im @ acquaintance with society novel's most approved style, substi- bows, and os tuted “au revoir,” and heartily’ invited ‘But my ‘ons me to visit at their home. Of course, I ac- ‘Doldly to her side. cepted, for was not that home also to be me; but why that mine? her dear face; why 1t was the following afternoon that, with | that glance of confusion toward her com- heart bounded with ingenuous enthusiasm, ? I entered the vast building where the of- I crept upstairs to my room, mechanically fices of Harold Markham, esq., were situ- 4 to ‘SS. drmk her ated. That exaltation, however, perceptibly | down,” when ef a sudden the ewful iene lessened when I reached the fifth story and erwhelmed me It saw door after door lining the front marked ince I had “Here's with his name. Evidently my old friend cy 4 had made a beginning. I hoped not rashly. | over twenty years then, had I but if he was splurging my fortune would | regarded the graduates As beck settle and my judgment restrain him. numbers, as relics of hniatory. In the main room there was @ concourse | course. How must L, therefore, now of young men ee myself? <a ing authorities as riven by ic ne-| T ceased my hum: sullenty mate cessity. It was with difficulty that I inter-| my toilet. The ‘tam meke over the deor te rupted oné sufficiently to send my name to| the next room was open, and Ubrough their chief. Having succeeded, though, in| came curls of cigarette smoke. Evidently that hazard, 1 waited so long indeed that | some of these precious young men were my sed head of on Biggar y y = opm - — ne . Evidently, for out from the tur ashes in my mouth. At length a bell sound-|moil of most vulgar laughter I heard this ed, and I followed a lad in buttons, whose ue manner gave me the impression that for ant what I was receiving I certainly ought to be humbly thankful. - ‘A door opened apd closed bebind me. I | plied ." whom I apprehended to be sprang forward with both hands extended | my hopeful godson. and my “heart in my throat. “My dear| “1812, hey* Well, T hope he'll hang hime Markham,” I cried, and one hand fell to| self up on a hook, or do a @ie or something my side, ‘while my heart slitpped into my | considerate, or the first thing you know boots. From behind a great desk there for- | he'll ao eres “Upidee’ or “The Bulldog on mally progressed a corpulent, heavy-shoul- | the OF some other chestnut im @ dered ay bald, with face deeply lined = 2 es bordered by scraggy red whiskers streak jescended to the carden and strolled with gray. He was dressed in voluminous thoucht throveh the shrubbery, and dingy black, and garb and bearing in-| It formed a curious mase, with here and dicated that immobile condition which pre-| there rustic seats and summer cedes decay. Even as he advanced he eyed | was resting, like Marius on the ruins d uneasily the piles of papers around him, | Curthege, when from one of these erbors yet he was not unkind in manner; neither used my grandfather to be when I broke into his study. ka. Jermaine, I believe?” Markham be- gan, glancing at my card. “I am sincerely glad, sir, to welcome you back after your absence of many years, and to renew our agreeable acquaintance. Won't down?” I was more than willing to do so, my knees were in such a quake. I actually fal- tered something about trusting that I did rot interrupt him—the idea, as if I could inconvenience my old chum Har- "Markham replied rather question- - “I have a few moments to spare be- important insurafice conference. speak of your plans. 1 suppose you to set your house in order and to came soft, sweet Voices. help but_ hear. — “Horrors, Ethel,” raid one, “you wouldn’ think of dancing with him. He would old as the hills! ~~ ee oa he is,” uppose sighed Gear familiar girls could have been oterting, bot coul ve : times a dreadful without reason. . Lp ih] i : i t “Ne af it 5 : ; 57 H er the dusk until my arms I that I had not yet given over my | form. preference for the law, that— “Impossible,” he answered, “you are too old. Above all things, people require ex- perience. Think of the years I worked as those young men out there are working. Could you do that? Ridiculous, and, luck- ily, unnecessary, since your fortune renders you independent. No, no, my dear fellow, along the sunny side and ‘desipere in lcco.” That's about your size. And now—" and he looked at his watch. “And now,” I repeated, rising, “I had better go, and visit my family lot, and seek out an unobtrusive funeral director—” . Markham, with a “A little plain truth friends You can't eat your cake and have it, too, you know. Now, let me see, where are you stopping, at the Elite? Well, this day week you Jet me pick you up and take you out at Roseborough. I'm going for a few days. We have quite a of young people staying with years!” 2 i ee bedi we coyly to a couple a little Ethel and my “They have been she sim) 1 yk “How appropriate and all of “Not Judge Davenant of the state court,” cried eagerly, for I recollected that his summer home rough. y’ Davenant. Well, good- until this day week at 4 p.m.” out of the offices, agitated by was a 2 From the Philadelphia Times. Her summer complexion ts not the only thing of interest to the summer girl. In- deed, it is not the polmt of chief tmport- ance to he>. Her feet are the subject which engrosses her best mental effort She has discovered from past experience that whether she rushes about tennis courts or taking my piace as a leader among “quite a lively party of young peo- third was amazement that the el . man whom I had rever- enced as a probable father-in-law should turn out to be “Chubby” Davenant, the hero of innumerable college scrapes. However, the volatility of years came to my aid. I simply refused to think of disagreeable things. Doubtless my Ethel would be one of that jolly crew with whom Markham had surrounded himself, despite his senility. I would show them all,and especially my host, that no man was so fascinatingly danger- ous as he who while young in face and heart howd old im experience. “Desipere in loco,” That day week at 4 p.m. promptly, as if Markham in statuesque rooms or dances all the evening, whether she climbs mountains or ts driven them, her feet are apt to trouble her. The explanation ts not far to seek. seems to expand the feet and has no ap- parent effect on shoes. Therefore the court had just opened, ‘stopped for | Shoes purchased im April ace instruments me with @ light road wagon, drawn by a|of torture in July. All shoes for summer spanking team of bays. wear should be at least half a size larger “Look out for the bundles,” he said, apolo-| than those worn im the winter. Low shoes getically, as I strove with difficulty to find| Which leave the ankles f-ce and the ctr~ @ footing. “Of course the children had lots | Culation unimpeded are best for al! use of commissions.” except walking. In walking @ boot which “Have you many?” I hazarded. does not admit sand and which “Thirteen. That is, three died in infancy,” ankle is a positive necessity. he added regretfully. ‘Good Lord!” I ejaculated. “Why, you must have married a widow with a ready- made family.” “I don't know what you mean by your -made family,” retorted Markham, testily; “I Tessie Armour, Jane's friend, the year we were graduated. You used to know her very well yourself.” Why, of course I did. Little Tessie Ar- mour! How pretty she had looked at junior promenade, and how jealous old Markham had been, and Jane, too. “I'm sure,” I said, courteously, “nothi: could be nicer than such a nest of chicks. But don’t they interfere somewhat with your social pleasures, with your lively party of young folks, for instance?” “Interfere! Why,'the lively party’ is com- posed of their friends, of course. You see, the — have just come home from Pier- son, where they are seniors, and naturally brought some of their classmates with them. And then, Anna and Bessie have their girl friends. There's Ethel Davenant just ar- rived from Europe. By the way, one of our collegians, they are twins, you know, is named after me, and the other after you. There's proof that you haven't been forgot- ten. Now, what do you think of that?” I didn’t say what I thought of that, but I @id think, and moodily, until our journey terminated. We turned into well-kept grounds, over a winding, shady road; we @pproached a mansion essentially rural in possible leather, brown tn black, as the lighter shade absorbs heat. that he: feet give fence. The undue waist produces pain wrists and ankles until i j i | i if ri water, in which a dropped. As the water bot water to m4 the Dry -the feet rul thoroughly with @ an ounce of water and a phor, well been rubbed with thi | age peil 4 | A 5 i H i i i ie ra i J ¥ | i FE fy f ; i f Li i if F e. 5 vos mcttlod the montior. tonight, ii i t r | > Agitator—“Of've been all over this town, fan’ it’s goin’ to ther dogs; thot’s phwat & ts” American Mechanic—“What's wrong with Nt] pitator—“Ot can't get up a stroike amp phwere.”