Evening Star Newspaper, April 24, 1921, Page 64

VEE HAS A LAUGH ND then, again, you can't tell. About what pecple want and what they don’t want. Also it may be well enough to feel sorry for folks, but when you start in fixin’ things up for 'em you're takin’ & chance. Still, it's being done in the Dbest circles. And, if T do admit it myself, we've got, right in our family, one of the grandest little fixers in the business. Uh-huh. Vee. Not that she's one of the kind to nosc in on all occasions, but she sure is an easy sympathizer: and it it comes right, without seemin’ to do the goat act, she's apt to slip over a few kind words or maybe & generous act here and there. Yet in this case of Max Hadley's T didn't quite see how anything could be done. We didn’t deliberately hunt up Max with the idea of spillin’ any sympathy. What we was after was ducks—Muscovy ducks. Maybe you don't know that particular brand. or maybe you're an expert. But if you've ever met one roasted just right. with the proper kind of stuin’ and a couple of slices of bacon draped across his wishbone, and some crab apple jelly on the side—well, I'll let you tell 'em. 3 Where Vee and I first got acquaint- ed with choice nourishment of that kind was durin’ a Sunday dinner up at the Robert Ellinses once last win- ter. Oh, yes. That's one of the ad- vantages of being a confidential pri- vate sec. an’ livin' in thesame suburb with the boss. As I remember, I was: helped oftener to the duck, but Vee, was more enthusiastic in sayin' how, good it was. e : l ! | “Perfectly delicious:” says Vee to Mrs. Bob. “Where on earth do you find such things? I never see them in the market. Which was where Mr. Robert comes in with this sketchy description of Maximillian Hadley and his wild feather farm. “I's 'way out toward Montauk nearly a two-hour drive from says Mr. Robert, “and it's a forlorn-looking place enough after you get there—just sand dunes and beach plum_bushes. miles from any- where. And this Hadley person who owns it is a queer character. Started ‘it four or five years ago as a private game preserve. 1 believe his scheme was to raise all_sorts of wild game for the big New York hotels—English pheasants. partridges, quail, canvass- back ducks and so on. Sounds rather crazy, doesn't it? But he certainly went into it on a big scale—fenced in more than a hundred acres of land. ut up elaborate buildings and boug! it o ! 2ot of fancy game birds. As a side| VEE SHOOTS OVER AN ENQUIRIN' line he planned to entertain hunting) LOOK AT ME, BUT ] SHAKES MY parties over the Week ends. You| gEAD. IAIN'T STRONG FOR MIXIN® could go out there with your pet| Lo choke bore and your particular friends, | TN shoot as much Rame as you cared to and have it served for dinner the same | gian't know there was so much of A a4 oestal petce Long Island that wasn't being used. * X X X So many fine sites for glass factories . ise failea | 8N4 sand paper mills. And it wasn't ¢BUT somehow the enterprise failed |, ;) neariy 5 o'clock, after we'd got to work out. Either the quail de- lost a couple of times, that we lands elined to stay where they'd been care- at this Wild Feather Farm joint. : It's wild, all right, and it's more or fully bred, o they refused ;o?epxched cere I TalliciehEl andiicalmoreoF to order. 1 don't know. Anyway, very | call a perfoctly good farm. And it's few hunting parties ever went there and [ about as cheerless and forsaken a Hadley's great scheme dwindled down to | 2pot. a8 you could find = Nothing but sand an scrubby es, an a the raising of Muscovy ducks, which he| ;i 00 of the Atlantic beyond the sells whenever any one has enery | unes just as Mr. Robert had d enough to drive out after ‘em. Te | scribed. But he hadn’t done full was a Mrs. Hadley with him for a time. | 300" ¢ “this group of weather- but I think she must have quit. At|3ofiel “Luildingm They'd . been Jeast 1 saw no evidences of her the | 20000, DOIAINER W TREY ot med last time I was out. Max is still there. | boen peeled off. Here and there a s et lm’“!:ood“"’ m’ s¢ed¥ | window pane had been broken. A these days Quh e 2 000 n " he | half wrecked windmill stuck up like dreamed -chap s he Swas. < a orazy ghost. And the sand had started in. Used to drive around i!i a drifted over everythini roadster and wear sport clothes. Now a2 & he Fides a bicycle and wears old khakl * &% % uniforms that he must ve ught at - some Army sale. But, then, I suppose | ["HLE main Fouse was quite a sizeable the ducks don't mind.” affair, with something like a doz- -too. The right kind of people. But even taught some of them to do|just then the cook left and—Well, tricks. | there are some things a man can’t do. I was just wonderin’ how I could|You see, Louise had grown tired of hint to Hadley that we weren't shop- | it. Lonesome. She wouldn't lift a pin’ for trick ducks, but for a pair|finger.” that would look well on a big blue “Louise?" says I. platter, when he suggests that if “Mrs. Hadley,” he goes on. “She we'll stroll up to the house and wait | wanted to stay dressed up and be in a few minutes he'll pick out & couple | here with the fashionable folks who and get 'em ready for us came out as week-end guests. Be- “Walk in and make yourselves at!sides, she wasn't much of a cook. home,” says he. “Thel She'd been brought up as a milliner around.” in her mothers shop, up in Roch- So we drifts back to the house and | ester. Inherited the business. And in through the double doors. We finds|1 think she rather lald it up against ourselves in what must have been|me for persuading her to sell out and fixed up for a whale of a big living| Invest in this scheme with me. But room. Probably it was quits nifty|I Put in all I had, too. If we'd worked when it was new, for there's a lot of | together we could have made a big painted furniture and stained willow [ thing out of it. She wouldn't. though. pieces around, with silk shaded elec- | Wanted to get back to the city. So— troliers and cretonne hangings over Well she went. Two years ag the windows. The place had all ““I ‘And you've been here alone ever ® | since?" asks Vee. siens of having been done by an In- 1 M 4 ey nods, reaches for a can of S smoking tobacco and puts another load in the corn col more intelligent, too,” says he. “I've ‘“They taste like they'd lived satis-len or fifteen rooms in it. I should BL‘T it sure had gone to wreck and M";-"’:‘;yn! ‘Y::r ;llng:eav:‘r‘-; 7:;{: or S smyway.” am X i ruin since. In front of the tiled|3eard from ‘her since she judge. This was where the week end And aterwards, about ofice a week|JudE®. regular, Vee would announce: “You|hunting parties were supposed to know. Torch{v e m“:! dkf'he owe l:;': gather. But on the wide front veran- et some oOf 10se ducl wi s nimme! very scam ! da there was nothing except a few “Uh—huh,” I'd agree, and it would|bleached porch chaira The double ride at that until the next time. doors were wide open and nobody in But then here the other day she|sight comes home from a shopping trip to| I hadn’t blown the horn moren town and springs this discevery on|couple of times, though, when out me: “I was in Jacquin's looking at{gshuffies this human scarecrow that hats,” says she. “I found the stunning- | we guesses must be Max Hadley. est little toque affair, too, just a|He's wearin’ a dirty pair of khaki simple—But, Torchy! Who do you sup- | army breeches with leggins to match, pose waited on me?” a gray flannel shirt with one sleeve *“Mrs. Jacquin®”’ says L half gone and a battered old straw She shakes her head. . Alfo he's smokin’ a well-colored “Then Jack Jacquin himself.” says L!corncob pipe and his face is covered “There isn't any such person.” savs|ith at least a week’s growth of she. “No. it was no one we really|stubby whiskers. From the veranda know, but we've heard the name.” " [he stares and blinks at us sort of says I, “that narrows|stupid. “Mr. Hadley, ain't it?" says L ‘Why, yes" says he. “How about our buyin’ a pair of ducks?’ 1 asks “G you can” says he, still stari: By degrees, though, he seems to!low; Vee shoots over an inquirin’ look at me, but I shakes my Head.” I ain’t strong for mixin’ in. “Well, says I, gatherin' up the package of ducks, “I expect we'd be! ter be starting toward home. “Giad you came,” says Hadley. It ~—it does me good to see folks now and then. Hope you'll run out again soon.” HE follows us out as far as the veranda and waves to us as we get under way down the sandy road. At the first turn, though, Vee makes me stop. “Torchy,” says she, “I simply can't g0 without telling that poor man where his wife is.” “What good would that do him?* I asks. “But—but he might write to her” says Vee, “or give me some message that I could take to her—some word that would induce her to ge back and see him and—and fix things up.” “Huh!™ says I. “T don’t know about that” “But just think, Torchy,” she in- sists. ‘“There he is. alone and friend- less, moping about day after day among the ruins of his dead hopes. Isn't that pathetic?" “I expect it is' says I “But I don’t see just what we're going to do about i “At least,” goes on Vee, “you might tell him that I know where his runa- way wife is. “Couldn’t you write that on a pos- tal card and send it to him just as easy?* says I “And it might be a week before he went to the nearest post office to get it,”” says she. “Meanwhile there's no knowing what he might do. Didn't you notice the despair in his eyes?’ " says I, “but T noticed that he hadn't shaved recent. Better write it out, Vee. And you might inclose a few safety razor blade: But there’s no kidding her out of anything she’'s made up her mind to do. “T'm sure if he knew where she Tas.” insists Vee, “that he would want 0 send some message to her. Do back, Torchy." § =~ ‘Oh, very well, you said, didn’t fireplace a cheap wood range has beea set up, with the smoke pipe run cas ually up the chimney. From the fryin® pan and the coffee pot it was plain that this was where Hadley did his cookin’. Near by, on what had once been a decorsted gate-legged table, ‘were some dirty dishes, & catsup bot- tle and a sugar bowl. And in one corner a cretonne cushioned daven- port was made up as a bed. Old news- papers were scattered around, a fancy brass bowl wae half full of potatoes and onions and everywhere was dust and grease stains and general litter. “What a messy plac says Vee. “Why. he must live here, in this one room.” “1 should say that was a good guess.” says I “And all alone,” adds Vee. “Uh-huh.” says 1. “How dreadful!” says Vee. “Torchy, ‘we must find out about this poor fe! hy he lives hera in this way, ST s I'll write the number on a card. So I climbs out and trots back, to find Max Hadley squattin’ on the front steps right where we'd left him, his back against a post and his corncob drawin’ {ree. He seems to be watchin’® some gulls cirdin’' around high up against sonie white popcorn clouds, and he's a little startied when 1 appear again. ¥By the way,” says I, “‘we almost for- got _to tell you about Mrs. Hadley.” “Eh?’ says he, starin’ at me. ““The little wife ran across her in town the other day,” says I ‘“We'd heard about you and she remembered the name. Found Mrs. Hadley at her old trade, in a milliner's shop. Here's the address. ‘“Well, he don’t grab it eager, hold out a trembly hand for it. I has to shove it into his fingers. Takes a little time for them things to soak in, though. And some people work up their big_emotions slow. I waits for him to murmur her name husky and brush away e salty tear. But away the st nothing like “YOU'D BE SURPRISED,” SAYS HE, “TO KNOW HOW MUCH COM- PANY MUSCOVY DUCKS CAN B THEY HAVE SO LITTLE TO SAY come out of his trance. He tows us out back and shows us his ducks, or as many of 'em as are on hand to answer roll call, which is a couple of hundred. The rest of 'em he says are off feedin’ in the marshes and they'll be flyin' in pretty soon. al- though some may not show up until dark. Depcnds on how many miles off they've wandered. “But T should think they'd get lost somctimes,” says Vee. the reason that his wife stays in New York while he—" “Easy now, Vee' says L. ‘“We're no probin’ committee, you know— simply duck customers.” “But you might get him to talk- ing.” she insists. “You're clever at that sort of thing. you kno “Me!" says I “Quit kiddi I'll see what I can go.” So when Hadley comes in with the ducks all wrapped up I gives him a it down ®0 it ought to be easy guess- §n’ Let's sec, was it Mary Pickford, or Anna Pavlowa, or Sussanna Coc- roft?" “How absurd!” says Vee. ow see if you can remember. She was such a clever, smart-looking saleswoman that I asked her name, so that I could call for her again. And what do you or even But think? She said she was Mrs. Max| “Not Muscovies” says Hadley. |few chatty openings. “Quite an es-| "2 v & Hadley. 1 knew I'd heard the name|“They always know where home is | tablishment you've got here,” says I og:’d{""‘; h’:}’;k',"'b ‘I suppoged she before, just as well as anything.and they're bound to get back to the “Oh, yes,” says he careless, scrapin | &5 J8€, 10 her Ol business. So that's but at the time I couldn’t recali just where. Wasn't that stupid of me? And it wasn't until I was half way home on the train that it came to me. Can roosting place at night. They know me. too, and I think they're rather fond of me. Anyway some of them are. Tl show you. Here you, Pete! a pair of old shoes out of a wicker easy chair and slumpin’ down while he_relights his corn_cob. “Let's see,” says I, “didn’t you start “You see.” I goes on, ‘“Vee's liab to be in there again this week and she thought you might like to send back some word."* You teli? Come here. you rascal. out to raise game?" ot 1. i o “Hm-m-m!" says I scratchin’ my| At which one of the ducks comes| He nods and puffs away silent. A ,:‘u“fi,’“'"' says he, starin ear. “Max Hadley? Sure, T've heard{waddlin' up to him and rubs against| ~“What went wrong with thel ““Naturally.” saysI. And I stretches scheme?* says L. “Everyt] says he. “Tough luck,” says I a good proposition, tos Which seems to be the right line. “It was,” says he. “I should have made a fortune here if—Well, if I'd had any one to help me. I had a fine flock of pheasants started; I'd planted wild rice and got the canvass backs and red heads coming: and the quail were getting thick. Had two or three hunting parties come out, his legs until Hadley lifts him up and strokes his back iike you would a Kitten. They're vivid colored things, with all that green and blue on their wings and the turkey red topknot ef- fect on their heads and <ind of flossy looking, eh?" gests. “Alongside of them the com- mon garden duck would look like a Auntie” says L day laborer in overalls watchin’ So the next afternoon, which isjcousin Muscovy start for a fancy Saturday, we gets out the little car dress ball, wouldn't he?” wand makes the excursion. Honest, I Hadley nods. “They're so much that name. It was mixed up with—er with something or other that yo eat. 1 know—ducks—Anchovy duc! “Muscovy.” corrects Vee. At Wild Feather Farm. And if you can gethome early enough tomorrow we'll drive out there and get a pair for our Sunday dinner as a surprise for Auntie. “I'd do almost anything to surprise my ear for him to frame up some- thing tender and appealin’. “Thanks," says he, “but I guess 1 won't bother you. “Oh, come!” says I “This pride stuff don’t get you anywhere. It's what's always complicatin’ the plot, as you can see any time you go to the movies. Keeps folks apart, strings out the agony, and delays the close-up clinch until the Igst reel. Now my tip is to chuck your pride overboard and relay something ten- Listens like 1 sug- By Sewell Ford THE RAMBLER WRITES OF RIPON LODGE, ONE OF THE VERY OLD HOMES OF VIRGINIA road. Literally, it is a rough road. but the Rambler must not say that | because the people living along that | road are proud of it and the Rambler must go down that way again. and dinner time comes around once a day. He must have friends. But, really, A Search Among Tomb- stones for Data and Names—The Value of touch,” and this is not that kind of a | ho co creek and on its yonder side rose | |some were maarked by rude country e stood. Below lay wide Neabs-| the hills of Leesylvania { All around in the woods at the tip of the ridge were gra A few were marked by inscribed stones, you would call it a smooth road. It is{rock and many were not marked. | G . one of the good roads around Wash-|Two wide, long. heavy slabs of| rammarians to the/|inston and is infested with autos. It |brown stone lay side by side on the 1d L Th :n;"cnh““ngoml'lm“dnm'z‘ damf;:lrlo& |Kround. On one was an epitaph, but “I 2 0 vallk on it withou al not a letter could be deci ed. Tom | OF At ATEe MO S ot e wute g baes [0 e Me e & i A = " iy d swept the flat stone clear of t Writ . |sylvania and turning to the right. you | & i 8 ing °£ pure Eng may 8ee near the left side of the |€0ating of earth. thin in places. th road a long, thick slab of freestone, ' in Places. which covered it il the lish—A Visit at Ripon Lodge. carved: “Heare lyes ye bodey of Wil- HE Rambler came out woods of Leesylvania hard but not wholly smooth road which conncets the ancient | village of Occoquan and the older town of Dumfries. As I look on that phrase, or clause, ‘“not wholly smooth,” the doubt oppresses me whether or not I should pass it along to a reader. I can not tell whether the adverb “wholly™ should be employed, because I do not know whether I should modify or qualify the adjective *‘smooth.” A road or any other thing is smooth or it is not smooth, and 1 wonder whether I am warranted in suggesting that there are degrees of smoothness. I would not worry about this if T felt that the eyes of intelligent persons were the only eyes that would follow these lines. But there are other Kinds of per- sons called “grammarians” who read not for information, but to pick out words employed or related in some way not prescribed by a rule of grammar and about which rule of grammar thel grammarians probably differ. ‘The grammarian may be useful in_ some way, but in what way the Rambler is unable to tell. The grammarian may be able to put up some kind of an argu- ment or excuse for being, but there never was a bad cause for which some kind of an argument could not be put up. There is one thing of which the Rambler fecls sure—one among the many things which he is sure of—and that is that a grammarian cannot write. That is. a grammarian cannot write in the way which constructs with words pictures or images which the reader can see, A grammarian never wrote a line of literature. His work in the line of writing is about as happy, as graceful, as cheering as a table of phases of the moon in an almanac, or a list of the kings and queens of England with the dates of their reigns. A grammarian never wrote a line that had more poetry or humor or human nature in it than the multiplication table. And this may also be said with truth of the writing of a horde of “professors of English.” Their style is so cold that it never warms a reader; so hard that it never softens a reader into a smile or a tear. The mechanics are so obvious and so audible that a good reader can see the wheels go round and hear the axle creak. It is stiff. It lacks all grace of line. It lacks spontaneity of har- mony. The reason is, or the reasons are, that a writer of that kind is self- conscious, that he feels he must write by rule and keep the rule on the table at his elbow, and that readers are in- terested in his “technique” and his style, rather than in his thought or his message. A Man may know all the rules of poetry and never write a poem; know all the rules of art, and never paint a picture; know all the laws of harmony, thorough base and counterpoint, and never write or sing a song that touches a man's soul and starts him drifting on gay dreams or reveries that are sad. The reason is that these people never progress farther than rules. Knowing rules is but the beginning Perhaps a man cannot write with- cut having learned his rules, though this is debatable, but a man to write well must have passed so far be- yond the rules that he seems to have forgotten them. Pardon this digression. You have all heard men and women say, giv- ing an upward tilt to the nose or brow, “It is newspaper English!” or, I do not write for the news- ;1 contribute to the maga- zine Dear hearts, the best Eng- lish today is written for newspapers, much of the worst is written in books and the very worst is often found in magazines. A of the into a liam E. Herries. who died May 16, 1698, aged 65 years. By birth a Britaine —A good Soldier, A good husband, A Kinde Neighboure.” * X ¥ X OT a line has the Rambler been able to learn of this man more than is written on his tomb. Yet he may have been a prominent citizen. Perhaps he was wealthy and his poor neighbors laughed at his poorer jokes till their sides ached; or, per- haps they sat silent and charmed while he gave his opinion, which he got out of a newspaper, as to what Jaws were needed to save the coun- try from ruin and disgrace, for no | doubt the colony of Virginia was threatened with disaster just as the United States has been facing the greatest crisis in its history ever since it was born. Perhaps this man who had suc- ceeded as a farmer was often called upon by the directors of the Dum- fries Lyceum and the trustees of the Occoquan Academy, if there were such institutions, to talk to the students on “How to Succeed,” or to deliver an ad- dress on the “International Relations between the Hindoostanees and the Cherokee.” or ‘“The Relation Between the Red Rays of Mars and the Fiscal Policy of the Athenians,” or “The In- fluence of the Poetry of Bryon on the Rate of Foreign Exchange,” or “A Comparison Between the Rich Colors of Raphael and the Pallid Marbles of Phylias.” Probably, being & success- ful farmer. it never occurred to the people to call upon him for advice as to how to keep potato bugs from chewing up potato vines or how to keep cabbage worms off the cabbage. You know today that when a man be- comes eminent in making steel r: or mining coal or pickling pigs’ feet, hosts of us sit_enthralled, while he gives us his opinions on government and art. But we really must travel along the road if we want to get to Ripon Lodge, the American ancestral hall of the Blackburn family and a place about which the Rambler hopes to tell many facts that will interest you, if vou are interested in people who passed to the skies long, long ago, or perhaps whose spirits may not be floating joyously ‘at such great heights, but are still dwelling among the scenes they loved before there came to them that strange translation we call death. The Rambler crossed Neabsco creek, where it is narrow—that is, about two miles west of the Potomac, Straight ahead points an old road which the Rambler believed to be that road which the early Virginians traveled in passing between Dum- fries and Occoquan. The good road turns to the right, passes east along the north side of the creek, climbs der and gummy to Louise. How about | to high land and turns north. Fol- e low that road about a mile from the bridge grer the narrow part of i eabsco creek and you c E tamps his pipe down careful and| private lane, which sytrikeumgle! ;&r: seems to be thinkin' the grobo!i-l:‘!:.et left side of the road. =Tail wal- tion over. But at last he shakes his cesistan ere and one side head decided. “I—I dom't think T'd|Sfih¢lane 18 bordered by an apple care to send any word to Louise,”| It was not this spring. but last ®ays he. November, that the Rambler came to “You won't go even half way, eh?’ ]lhls lan‘ek and stopped to rest. A walk was says . “Then 1 expect Vee'll have to [ 005 I8 behind and ahead of do it for you. She’ll make a thor- him and some walnuts and apples, both of which fruits wer i ough Job of it, believe me.” on the ground, promised a Sood “How's that?’ says he. “What—/|junch—and kept the promise. It was wl{(a):, w:l lfhde do?;‘l sttong veobably|E :vu:a;t salad in the rough. Being = , she’l raw 3 refreshed, h e E20n fehedidrawlic sunng; probaty: the Rambler thought he alone and yearnin' your heart out would try the old lane for adven- waitin’ for her to come back. And ture. '!;Xe reabaoned that it must lead somewhere, s I'm bettin’ Vee gets her started with- ccause that is a habit in a week lanes have. So, speaking to the old That does seem to stir him up. lane, the Rambler said: “Lead on, “Louise?’ says he “Back here? Say. thou pretty lane, and I will follow 1 hope she doesn’t suggest anything thees i thou, wilt bring me ot whic £ni; > like that. Please don't let her. 1—I a ufnisheth a story trust she doesn’t.” * X kX big news- paper spends more money for good English in a day than a magazine spends in six months. There is a wider and a deeper knowledge >f the English language in a news- paper office than in any other kind of an office. But somehow we seem to have slip- ped off the road that connects the ancient village of Occoquan and the older town of Dumfries. It is not a smooth road because a fair diction- ary meaning of smooth is “having a surface so even that no roughness or_points are perceptable to the i ' * ¥ ¥ ¥ 1 will sing thy praise in print." * *x x X THE lane led up a hill, turned this way and that, and when the Rambler had followed it a sufficient distance and to a sufficient height he saw a big frame house, gray with age and bearing some of those marks which years put on houses as well as on men. Old garden shrubs grew around, a good-natured horse browsed and the place afforded a view so fine of tIL. Potomac, Neabsco, the intervening lands and the wooded hills across the shining water that such wearin2ss as the Rambler had felt was now not weariness at all. Out of the front door of the old house came a man. He had left his hat hanging on a wooden peg in the broad haliway and his head was cov- ered with a shock of gray hair. The Rambler spoke and he spoke. The man with the grayer hair told the stranger with the camera that the place was cailed Ripon Lodge, and he said his name was Thomas Marron. “Not Tom Marron of the post office, the old 1st Regiment and the battery? Well, well, how glad I am to see you! Funny that we should run into each other down in this neck of the woods, ain’t it? You're looking well, Tom. 1 had lost track of you and I know that great numbers of the old boys up town will read of this happy meeting with interest.” And so forth. But the long an¥ pleasant talk which Tom and 1 had as we sat on the grass under the boughs of a big Kentucky coffee tree is not a part of this story. You turn- ed to this column to read about Ripon Lodge and you are going to get it if you hold on long enough and don't tire. Tom led me along a path which ran south from the house and through woods of oak and pine to the south- ern tip of the ridge on which the “What! says I. “You don't mean to say that you don't want your wife to come back, do you?" Hadley nods emphatic. “I guess you don't know Louise very well,” says he. “I do. She—she has rather a sharp tongue, Louise. And just remember that we lived here, practically alone with each other, for nearly two years, watching our money slip away and my grand scheme go to pot. Of course, 1 was some to blame. So was she. We had plenty of time to thrash all that out. And we did—day and night, week after week, month after month. It— it wasn't pleasant. In fact. it was hell. And since she left T've been sort of resting up. Everything has been s0 quiet and peaceful, you know. It— it has been almost like heaven. I'd like to have it keep on; for a few years longer. anyway. Of course, it's! very good of you folks to want tof send her back and all that, but—well, you understand, don't you? “I get a glimmer here and there.” says 1. “When it comes to conversa- tion from Louise you're overstocked, eh “I'm afraid 1 am,” says he. But don't you get lonesome?” T asks. “You'd be surprised,” says he, “to know how much company Muscovy ducks can be. They—they have so little to say. “Far be it from us, then. to crash in," says I. “So long, Max." nd we shakes hands like old friends. “Well,” asks Vee, when I'd ploughed back through the sand. “Scratch_the fond reunion stufr,” says 1. “He prefers ducks.” And even when I've sketched out the details Vee can hardly believe it. “Eut he can’t like living a hermit xistence such as that” says she. T'm sure he must be wretched and lonely. “I wouldn't be too sure” says I. “Remember, all you've heard from Louise was when she was sellin’ you a hat.’ = took from his pocket a piece of chalk and rubbed it over the stone. Again he swept the slab with the whisk. The chalk filled the carved markings in the stone and most of the letters stood out white against the dark background. And this is what the ola stone tols “Here lieth the body of Collo. Rich- ard Blackburn, who _departed Life July the 15th, 1757, in the year of his age. He was born Rippon in England, from whence he came to Virginia. where he acquired a reputable character. Intro (in- scription chipped and eroded). Pre- ferred by the Governor to the Emi- nent Stations and Command in_the (eroded, but the word is most likely ‘Colony’) as well as by the People who made (him a) Representative in the Generall As (sembly) of this Collonoy, where he discharged his (duty) with Honour to Himself as well as to his Constituents who re- posed in him this Important Trust. He was a man of Consumate Pru- dence, Frugality and Indefatigable Industry Whereof he made a large Fortune in (word illegible) years. He was followed to the grave by his inseperable friend the Honoura ble William Fairfax and other Gen- tlemen of Distinction together with | his Disconsolate Relatives who mourned the loss of so worthy and usefull a man. To them and to the Country This monument is dedicated to his memory by his friend John Baylis (8)." * k% % NEXT to this stone lies-a similar =Y one, but there is no inscription on it. Not a word, not a name, not a date. It, no doubt, covers the grave of the wife, or the widow of Richard Blackburn. These are the only Blackburn graves in the woods of oak and pine at the south tip of the . ridge, which can be identified. Back from the tip of the ridge and nearer the old house is a newer graveyard. It adjoins the older. A number of graves are there. Those Wwho became owners of Ripon Lodge after the property had passed out of the Blackburn family, rest there. One stone is inscribed: “Sacred to the Memory of George Atkinson, who departed this life at Rippon Lodge. Prince William County, Va., on the 30th of January, 1544, in the 59th year of his age. A native of Clifton, Nottinghamshire, England.” Another stone, standing within an iron picket fence, is_inscribed: “In Memory of George R. AtKinson, born December 23, 1850, died September 26, 1901. ‘An Honest ‘Man is the Noblest Work of od.” Some of the/ descendants of George Atkinson of Clifton, England, and Ripon, Va. live near Ripon, at a preity place called Edgewood. once a part of the Ripon Lodge property. Sallie, the oldest child of George Atkinson, married Dr. Milton Ish (if the Rambler can read his notes) of Loudoun county, and Dr. Ish built Edgewood. The daughter of Sallie Atkinson amd Dr. Ish, Mrs. L. E Strother is the owner of Edgewood. The Rambler stopped there for water nd talked long with Mr. and Mrs. trother, other friends, and particu- larly with Miss L. Chamberlin, teacher of the school at Wood- bridge. (The Rambler has always had a weakness for school teachers, actresses, trained nurses, cashier: telephone operators, stenographers, heiresses and other classifications of ladies, but there is no news in that.) Before we leave Ripon Lodge let us take note of the difference in the spelling of the name. On the tomb- stones it is “Rippon Lodge.” In many of the old records which the Rambler has seen it is Rippon Lodge and in others it is Ripon Lodge. In the epi- taph of Col. Richard Blackburn. who named the place, it is “Rippon,” and it is inscribed that he was born in Rippon, England. That epitaph was evidently written by John Bayliss. who dedicated the memorial to Col. Blackburn. Turning to the Encyclo- pedia Britannica, you will find what follows, and much more if you wan “Ripon, a cathedral city and mu- nicipal borough in the Ripon par- lismentary division of the West Rid- ing_Yorkshire, England, 214 miles N. N. W. from London on the North- eastern railway. Population (1901), 8.230. It is pleasantly situated at the confluence of the streams Laver and Skell, with the River Ure, which is crossed by a fine bridge of nine arches. The cathedral was founded on the ruins of St. Wilfrid's Abbey about 80. There is a line of earls of Ripon in England and there is a city named Ripon in Fond du Lac county, Wis. For these reasons the Rambler spells the old Virginia home “Ripon Lodge- Here is a_little note of interest. The site of the city of Ripon in Wis- consin was purchased in 1838 by John cott Horner, who was born in Virgini in 1802, was secretary and acting gov ernor of Michigan territory in 183! and the first secretary of Wisconsin territory in 1836-37. The village of Ripon was established in 1849, and Gov. John Scott Horner named it “Ripon” after the village of his an- cestors in Yorkshire, England. This governor. John Scott Horner, who founded the city of Ripon. Wis., was a relative of the Blackburns of this | was a carpenter and contractor and built many houses in Virginia. There is a tradition that he buiit the Mount Vernon mansion for Lawrence Wash- ington in 1743 One of his sons. Col Thomas Blackburn., who was born at Ripon Lodge in 0 and died there in 18 married Christine Scott. a who was a son of the Rev. John Scott, who was a son of the Rev. John Scott and Gov. Horner was descended from ‘ that Scott family. But it is a long story which the Rambler has to tell. with many names of the Scotts Blackburns, Washingtons, zeye Peytons. Claphams, Crawfords, Tur ners, Harrisons. nclairs. Balls, Fauntleroys, Browns, Wallaces and A VIEW OF RIPON LODGE, PHOTOGRAPHED BY THE RAMBLER. many other related families, and he does not want to try to tell it all in one story. It took too much work to get the facts. Precious Stones Found ‘ North and West of City I¥ the seams of the gray rocks around Wishingion men have found various Dbeautiful crystaly which are classed as precious stonef. They may not be very precious fn the commercial sense, but they are § for use in jewelry, and perhaps 2 better name for them would be “jewgl stones” or “gem stones.” The gray rocks that underlie the region north and west of Washington are gneiss. At some time they were subjected to such pressure that clefts opened in them. These clefts were wide in some instances and narrow ip others. The crevices at a later periog were filled with quartz, and it is ip these seams of quartz that the gem stones have been found. Mineralos 1 gists will probably tell you that yels low. green and ultramarine crystals of beryl have been found. Beryl is not uncommon in many parts of the United States, but specimens withouk fractures or other flaws, and there- fore suitable for jewelry, are not coms mon. Topaz_has been found in the rocks near Washington, and tourmas line specimens have now and th rewarded the patient and sharp-ey prospector. Tiny garnets have beeb found in the rocks. No diamonds have ‘been found, but some mineralog have been heard to say that they lieve such a discovery might be mad¢. No one should become excited about this. So far as reported or recorde@ no one has ever made any money by finding precious stones in the rough i the District of Columbia. Precious stones have been found in many pari of the United States, and yet corn a hog raising remain safer ways af making a liv: than hunting for precious stones. There I8 a_diamond- bearing area in Arkansas, the finding of diamonds his been reported on camore creck in Indiana, and nu- merous red, green and blue tourmaline crystals are taken from the rocks of Maine. Southern California sends out tourmaline gems, North Carolina and Georgia send out golden beryl and amethyst, Montana eapphires are famous, fine opals come from Hum- boldt county, Nevada, and turquoi from Colorado. Maryland and Vir- ginia oysters give up pearls, Virginig produces amethysts amd gold, goid nuggets have been gathered along Rock run and other creeks in Monte gomery county, Maryland, and di monds have been found in Wiscon- sin. Michigan, Ohio, California and Texas. Facts About Salt. VWHETHER a man’s taste for salt is acquired, hereditary or elemen- tal is a matter for discussion, and for discussion that comes to no conelu- sion, but that all so-called civilized men and nearly ail so-called uncivild ized men eat salt is a fact. That man can live without the salt that is taken from mines or from the sea by evap: oration seems to have been estab- lished. but to take salt from a man who has used it all his life is to give him considerable trouble. That trou- ble may be mental or physical and it may be both. Doctors, as usual, will not agree. One may consider sait as a food or merely as a condiment which gives savor to food, and in one sense it seems to be a medicine, for some authorities say that salt is of great benefit in the animal economy as an antiseptic and as a preventive of in- testinal worms. It seems to be estab- lished that domestic cattle are thy | better for it and it has come to e considered a necessity for horses. Ni stock-raiser would neglect to “salt™ his animals. Stephansson, the arctic _explorer, telling of his meeting with blonde Eskimos in Coronation gulf, said that the natives of the far and frozen north. who have had no contact or slight contact with whites, do not like food flavored with salt. He also said that the habit of taking salt like the habit of taking a narcot poison, is hard to break, but that after going without salt for a month or more one ceases to pine for it, and that in his case. after being without it for six months he found that the taste of meat boiled in salted watkr was disagreeable. Persons who have the salt-taking habit insist that they require it. Some insist that they need more pepper, mustard, vinegar and sugar thai other persons do. Perhaps this is true and perhaps these person the meaning of the words * “desire.” Many wild animal have taken naturally to salt. seem to The “salt-licks™ oY this country were the ! places where herds of buffalo, which roamed the land east of the Alle- ghenies as well as the region west of the Mississippi, traveled in order ta lick the ground that was coated with Ripon Lodge. Richard Blackburn born at Ripon. Yorkshire, and so. also was his wife, whose maiden name was Mary Watts, who was related to the noted hymnologist, Dr. Watts. These good people Were living in Prince William county in 1734. Col. Richard the mineral. The aborigines of the land which came to be the United States knew the uses of salt and it was a common practice with some of the tribes to eat hickory ashes with their food, those ashes containis quite a thigh per cent of saline m: ter. K L ‘