Evening Star Newspaper, February 26, 1922, Page 60

2 THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C., FEBRUARY 2, 1922—PART 4. BERRIES OF THE BITTERSWEET HE Man had a strong, broad face. upon. which the fingers of thought had left their im- print. Those restless fingers ,had thrust the nose forward, trenched : deep calipers in the aggreasive .-,nm.r taken the slack of the wide forehead and plaited it into five welts of con- centration that stood up between the heavy brows. Around the corners of the mobile mouth caution and firmness had worked with tiny etching tools. A thorough weork, vet In spite of all their efforts a sweet. whimsical mn—[ ness hid lke a dryad in the little. criss-cross lines which they had| drawn through the years. The eyes! were soft., contemplative. a H:tla' dreamy. They were brown eyes with tle dancing thrones of light on which laughter climbed at times and | signaled to the whimsical sprite that lived at the corners of the judicial mouth. A splendid face. A face to lead a natlon. A face that in ity strength and sweetness made one think of the face of Horak Ren, the hermit who was kissed by God. The man lay upon an enormous bed, his head upon a caressing pillow. The room was packed with the thick si- ience of tragedy, silence larded by the thin threads of xound that came from a clock upon the mantel. A queer clock. The very wide and white diat had its width and very whiteness thin and very black hands. A minute dial in lower center suggested, with: its one foolish hand, a medusoid mouth that nibbled unrelentingly at the seconds. Beside the bed sat a brown-bearded doctor, head thrust forward, elbow of right hand on knee, the half-opened hand supporting the chin: the age-old picture of baffled madical skill. The Man spoke. “Don’t worry, Richard. It was a queer thing to hap- pen, but—well, it hds happened.” “Are you in pain now?’ asked the doctor. “A little. “'Oh." yes.™ The doctor brought a cigar bex from the dressing table, struck a match and held it to the tip while the Man puffed. “1 feel a fool,” said the doctor meekly. “I'm so infernally helpless. Why, I—I feel like a child.” The Man smoked quietiy for a mo- ment, then put a question in 2 soft, even voice: “Do Herlon and Fiaschi agree regarding the examination? “Yen." “No points that admit of discus- sion?” “None.” I wonder could I smoke?" * x ¥ ¥ GAIN the silence stitched up the rents made by the questions and answers, leaving the clock its only enemy. From far down the street came the dreadful Keen of a running newsboy whose lips were drooling tragedy. The doctor hurriedly closed the window to the street, but he was too late. A few words ef the wretch- ed dirge, outstripping their unimpor- tant conjunctions, flung themselves into the room and rioted like the dis- jointed sections of a serpent, tll the silence stamped upon them. “Auto- mobile accldent . . . Broadwa: famous lawyer . .. ditg.” - The clock ticked louder. jointed words acted as an emollient 1o the brassy voice. The eves of the Man were upon the long minute hand. | three hours,” It became a huge tentacle, wrapping itself slowly around the hours, dron-l ping them one by one into the abyss[™' of the past. The quiet stirred 'the Man. queer,” he said, his voice clear and entuzted by the very | ! THE MIRACLE OF HER BEING THERE WAS DEEMED NO MIRA! | | AT ALL. which was written: “Will not be back till four.” Reynolds had found it pinned to the door of Marjorie's studio and had sent it back by mes- senger. “Oh, ior’” gasped Sam. “And—and The- dis- | BOW—how many hours—" He couldn’t complete the question. “Hé might remain conscious for said the doctor. “I Fiaschi said he was ex- He's suffering. He don’t know. traordinary.. ust be.” Sam returned to the quiet room. «jr's| The Man lifted his eyes from the pho- tographs to glance at the face of his diatinct, “very queer.- Two hours ago | Partner. 1 was on my way down town think- ing of all sorts of things, and now— well, the consultation? truth. -No false hopes, or anything like that.” The doctor moistened his lips, pair- 'No news?” he asked. 'Not yet,” stammered Sam; “but Richard, what's the result of | WeTe bound to have word soon. Very “Let's have the|Soon." ‘The white-faced clock clutched the “Very soon” of the hopeful Sam and used it as a chant It nearly mad- ed the fingers of his white hands and , dened Sam. “Very soon! Very soon! toward tha pillow. he said softly. leaned afrald,” I'm | Very soon!” sang the clock, and the “I'm much |lean black spiderlike hand throttled afraid. They say—well, they give no | the minutes gleetully. hoye.” How long?", ) “I can't say . . . jjve sent for your The quiet of the Man terrified Sam. It made him a little hysterical. There came to him & wild desire to carry partner. I've telegraphed Will and|the clock out into the flagged court Jack and your daughter Anue. nolds has gone for Miss Marjorie. “Then it's a matter of hours?" “I'm—I'm afraid so.” * % % % SAM. the partner, was the firat to)Sam,” he murmured. arrive. Poor Sam! When he re- ceived the news of the accident, the future, always an indecently strong and terrifying thing to Sam, had taken a grip of his nerves and pulled them till he had a vision of & thou- sand little devils hauling at them, Rey-|{and jump on it till every wheel and spring was battered out of shape. He thought he could sneak the clock away, but the Man detected him and smiled reprovingly. “Poor old “Don’t worry about the clock. It doesn't annoy me. See If—if anything further can be done about locating Marjorie. “Very soon!” sang the clock. “Very soon! Very soon!” WIiIl, the eldest son, arrived. A big man of twenty-nine was Will. in the fashion adopted by the candy |A rather clumsy fellow, carrying into pullers at Coney. The Man steadied the rush which Sam made from the door to the bed- side. He knew Sam. They had been partners for twenty-seven’ years. “Now, now,” he sald. “No fuss. it's all right, I—oh, damn it! old Sam!” middle age the awkwardness of an overgrown schoolboy. His face lacked expression; there was no evi- dence of great intellect. As Will approached the bedside the Man thought of his partner’s son, Poor |Young Sam. Young Sam was so much like Old Sam that people who didn't Sam, his eyes swimming, wanted |know the boy would stop him on the to do things. The Man gave him little tasks. _ “Get me the two photographs from my desk, Sam. The wife’s and Mar- jorie's. That's the boy! Put them here on the table. Fine picture of Marjorle, isn't it. Sam?” Sam couldn’t answer. He nodded his bald head and tried vainly té control himself. The Man regarded the two photosraphs with loving eyes. “You can hardly tell them apart,” he murmured. After & pause, he added, “Marjorie should be here soon. Reynolds went to the studio to bring her. She's painting well, S8am.” Sam gurgled foolishly. Replies came to the telegrams sent [often wondered about Anme. to the two sons and the married daughter. Will and Jack were on the way: Anné's husband wired that Anne and he were coming by a fast car. The Man began to worry about Marjorie. “Is Reynolds back?” he asked. The doctor admitted that Reynolds had reported by telephone. What's wrong?" asked the Man. iss Marjorie is not in her stu- dio,” answered the doctor. “Where is she? “We don't know. We're hunting :n every place we can think uf. Rey- nolds has seven others helping him. We're using taxicabs and the tele- waones.” * % % % IN the hall & minute later the dector showed Sam & serap of paper on street with the remark: *“If you're not the son of Sam Bradley I'll beg your pardon. How’s your dad”” No one, as far as the Man knew, had ever stopped one of his sons. Will's tongue was as awkward as his limbs. He asked stupid questions. He annoyed his father. * % % % TH.E Man studied his son’s face. He pondered. his brain particularly alert, on those children who seem to come out of a no parent’s land, miss- ing the characteristics of both father and mother. He reviewed Arne. A grim smile came to his lips as he thought of Anne. He and his long-dead wife had From somewhere out of the dim past a puritanical ancestor of one or the other, curious about the happenings of the nineties, had projected herself forward in the person of Anne. The Man told himself that he had always been a little afraid of Anne. She dis- liked the odor of cigars from birth (the man smoked twelve a day); she thought his fishing rods “dreadful she said her prayers aloud, never hurriedly Wwhispered them to friendly flower on the counterpan Marjorie did. ‘Where was Marjorie? Marjorie, the image of the sweet dead wife! ‘The Man asked Will to retire for a moment while he spoke to Sam. “We're doing everything" mered Sam. fice force out. stam- “I've got the whole of- I telephoned Young Sam, and he's organized them into a squad that's combing the town.” “Thank you, Sam,” said the Man. There was quiet for a moment. Then he Man spoke: “Sam! “Yes. $ “About Youmg Sam. I'd Tike to take him into the firm.” The whimsical dryad that lived lines at the corners of the splepdid mouth danced delightedly; laughter sprang upon the little bright thrones in the brown eyes. Poor old Sam blubbered like a baby. He called the Man “sir”” He hadn't called him for twenty-seven years. He cotldn’t speak. “He's the best in the office,” kon- tinued the Man. ‘I've tHoughj sd: for a long time. He's so much like you, Sam. Do you remember telling me years ago how, when you were a boy, you always ate the meat out of a sandwich before eating the bread, and how Young Sam does the sdme? Now, now, no fuss.” - After a little silence the Man spoke again. ] “Sam!” “Do you remember that Marjori€ and Young Sam liked to be close, to ®ach other last summer?” “Yes, I remember. “What happened? “They—they had a misunderstand- ing. Young Sam told me. A fool quar- rel. 1 was sorry, so was the boy.” The Man was silent. * k% F ACK arrived. WL ‘Then came Anne. Anne, solemn, severe, walking from the door with woe measuring . her steps. The Man, watching her, thought of an old print he had seéen years before. 1t showed & Christian martyr, who looked much like Anne, walking toward a huge frying pan Man—an inevitable proceeding for her reception. Anne touched the raw mnerve of the man—an inevitable procaeding for Anne. “Where is Marjorie?”" she asked. No one answered. The white-faced clock ticked, “Very soon. Very soon.” But Anne did not understand the lan- guage of the clock as the Man and his partner understood. “Isn't she hqre?” Again Anne's thin, piercing voice went out like a steel wire into the silence. Sam attempted to choke her infa- mous curiosity. ‘“They are trying to find her,” he said, softly. “But isn't she at her studio?” No." | ‘Don’t you know where she is?" “No.” Again it was Sam who flung out a throaty negative. The Man glanced at the white-faced clock. There was some relationship between the clock and Anne. He rec- ognized it immedliately. The clock, noisily masticating the seconds, hint- ed at the danger; Anne pointed it out in definite words. For the first time the danger found an opening in the armor of stolcism which the Man had wrapped around his pride, and he winced as the lance of terror was driven deep. He studied the faces of Sam and the doctor. Sam and the doctor knew how many hours he would last. He considered the value of the in- formation to himself. He avouldn't ask—but—well, in [the ordinary course of events Marjorie would be home by 4 o'clock, 8o, judging by their frantlc endeavors to locate her it was reasonable to think that every- t] A smaller edition of | thing would be over before. 4. Man glanced at the clock. | twelve-forty-seven. The Itz was With the most helpful reasoning, he had only three hours ‘in which to find Marjorle and [ | bid her good-bye. And where was Marjorie? * ¥ ok x ! | T"HE voiee of Anne, a voice that attempted to masquerade as a i whisper, disturbed his meditations. “ in the crisseross | | | I 5 i | cannot understand why Marjorie left o | R studlo without sending a message to the house” sald Anne. “Why didn't she leave—" The Man interrupted sharply. “Will you and Jack and Will go out for a little while?” he said. “Thank you. I wish to speak with Sam.” They Tetired, Anne walking as if the hot frying pan of martyrdom had been conveyed to the hall. Sam sprang to the bedside. “Listen, Sam! “Yes,” gurgled Sam, “I'm listening.” “There’s no news, is there?" “No—no. We—we have every one hunting. We—we are using every means we can.” “Sam" “Yes. “Do you remember the Howland matter when we couldn't find Judge Deschard and we only had an hour in which to get his signature?” “Yes, yes, I remember!” “What dld I do?" “Why, you—you locked yourself in your inner office for about twerty minutes; then you came out and told me quietly that you thought Judge Deschard was in & church praying.” “That's right, Sam. What did you do then?" “Why, you spoke with such con- viction that I inquired what church the judge attended. They told meip,n't be a fool! he worshiped regularly at a church on 5th avenue, so I took a taxicab and went there full speed.” “And he was there, wasn't he, Sam?' There was a little nots of joy in the Man's voice as he put the questio; : 4 “Sure.” answered Sam. “Sitting in a pew all by himself, praying. I'never i l l eyes upon her blushing was nervous, By face. She a trifle alarmed. They were not nice eyes, those that examined the flushed beauty of the girl. together. They were set too close And they had kinship with the thin-lipped, cruel mouth. “Marjorie!” “Yes,” murmured the girl. l | knew how you found qut that he was| there. The judge asked me, but I couldn’t tell.” “Sam,” sald the Man, smiling up st the flustered partner, “it would have meant ruin to four people Iif I hadn’t found Judge Deschard. That boy's parents, his wife, and his child. You remember. 8o I locked myself in my office- and prayed. Now you know. 1 prayed, and while I prayed I thought I was floating over the city looking into clubrooms and ‘hotel lobbies and—and finally I looked into a few churches and I—I saw the judge alone in a pew. I think I would never have found him if the judge had had his mind on other things but the boy he had sentenced. Do you understand? He wap in the church praying for guidance in that matter. He told me later. He knows how I found him.” In the silence the clock ticked madly. A whistle blew across the river. It was one o'clock. “Sam!" es, yes, I'm listening.” “I thought if you and Richard would leave me for a little while, I might—I might, Sam. Good 5ld Sam! Don’t worry. Yes, yes, I'll press the bell immediately I—I sense a change in my condition.” * % k% THE young man and the girl had walked down the gentle slope toward the river. and beautiful.. Upon the top of the slope was the inn. A discreet inn; a Lais of the city that had adopted rural life to shield its reputation. In the shaded |edly. “I've been thinking. Agaln her little “Yes" went like a soft sigh into the silence. “You like me, don't you?' questioned. “Say that you like Marjorid: “I—I do like you,” whispered girl. “Then, listen!" he commanded. “Listen to what I'm going to pro- pose. Listen, litte sweetheart, and tell me ‘that you'll agree! Oh, Marjorie, you're sweet! It's wonder- ful to be out here with you! We'll eat our lunch on the piazza all by our two sclves.” The girl smiled softly, a little bash- fully. The blush on her cheeks matched the red tinge on the leaves that were falling softly from the trees. The man was making cal- culations. For a moment he had ll_ekcd the nerve to put forward his proposition; then the wonderful beauty of the girl's face brought a sudden rush of desire that loosed his tongue. He leaned toward her and spoke hurriedly, excitedly, the words trip- ping over each other as if the tongue were afraid that the slightest break in that lariat of infamy would expose its wickedness. * k k% out he me, the THE girl had sprung away from him. It was a curious spring. She moved on the impulse of horror. as if to the big blue eyes a viper had suddenly appeared on the soft grass beneath her little feet. J “Listen to me!" cried the man. “Don’t speak till I tell you every thing. We'll go south! No one wi know! Florida. Cuba, anywhere! Listen! Listen! no, I won't hurt you! I don't mean any harm! There's sunshine down there, sunshine and blue waters and — and days of love. Trust me! No oue will know!” He jabbered unceasingly, jabbered in a queer, hysterical manner till the | expression upon the girl's face halted | him, throttled the stupid, infamous proposition, drove the insane words back. His stupid brain made an effort to ! save the situation. “Selze her!” sug- gested the brain. “Get hold of her before she gets away!” The man sprang forward with out- stretched hands, but, as he sprang, a change came over the face of the girl. The horror disappeared, and in its place came a look of amazement won- derful to behold. It was a glorified amasement that seemed to proceed from an inward vision. It startled the man. He stared, at her, a little fearful, a little thrilled, a little doubt- ful as to her sanity. “Daddy! Daddy! girl.. “Oh, Daddy! am coming, Daddy! Wait, Daddy! Wait! Wait for Marjorie. Walt!” The girl turned and rushed up the slope toward the drive, the young man Iin hot pursuit. He realized one thing as he followed: It was not from him she was fieeing. Something —something that he could not com- prehend—had come to her suddenly, and this unknown force had blotted him out, had wiped him completely from her mind, and was dragging her toward the point from which it came. toward 'the’ city, toward home! He screamed at her as she reached the driveway and fled in the direction of the highway. “Wait a moment!" Daddy!” cried the Yes, yes, yes! I he screamed. It was very soft|‘“Wait till I start the car! Walit, con- found you! It's a mile to the sta- tion! Damn it, you're insane!” He rushed back to the racing car and stumbled into It, cursing excit- He grabbed the wheel and the driveway was 2 snaky green racing|car sprang forward. car that seemed a little alarmed at the soft qulet of the place. “Dear Marjorie” whispered the young man, “it is so sweet to be with you. It's wonderful, isn't it? ‘Why—why, three weeks ago I didn’t know you, and now you ¢ * ¢ why, you trust me completely. trust me, Marjorle?" He was holding her little hands, his] ten old train to A ) Don’t youfed for She was out of sight when he reached the hedge. She had evidently rushed across a fleld and was hidden from view by a growth of young trees that covered the slope leading down to the railway line. The owner of the hard eyes debat- moment; then he addrossed the racing car. “If she prefers a rot- They were hard and flinty.] closed, but he opened them as his !lacking the soft depths that come|partner reached the bedside: with dreams. | dan, ] | Staff that know Marjorle—and Rev- | nolds—people that know her by sight. James Francis Dwyer welcome to it. the hades bit her?" * o x % SAM and the doctor tiptoed into the bedroom. The Man's eyes were Wonder what am,” he whispered. “Yes, yes,” answered the partner. “8am—she’s coming. Not—not for & little while; but—but she’s on the way." “Can we hurry her?” stammered 8am. “I—I mean, a quick car to pick her up. Where—where is she “She’s coming by train,” sald the slowly. “Listen, Sam. Get Young Sam and any of the. office I mean—get them up to the Grand Central station.” Sam rushed from the bedroom. ving the Man and the doctor alone. “Richard, old fellow,” said the Man, “would you mind reading something to me? It would rest my nerves. I'm—I'm a little jumpy. There's a book there beside you. In it are some verses on the ‘Spirit of the Fall’ Tlove the fall. They're mark- ed.” The doctor’s soft voice was soothing as he read Dandridgs's sweet lines: “Come on thy swaying feet, Wild Spirit of the Fall: With wind-blown skirts, of russet brown, Crowned with bright berries of the bittersweet. loose hair “Trip a light measure with the hurry- ing leaf, 3 Straining thy few late roses to thy breast ‘With laughter overgay, drooped down, That none may guess thy grief. Dare not to pause or rest, Lest the slow tears should gather to their fall, sweet eyes “But when the cold moon rises o'er the hill, The last numb crickets cease and all is still, Face down, thou liest on the frosty ground, Strewn with thy fortune's wreck, alas, thine all—" The doctor paused for a moment; then the Man murmured softly: “There on a winter dawn, thy corse I found, Lone Spirit of the Fall.” * % ¥ X IT was Young Sam that found ler. Young Sam that hurried her through the concourse and lifted her Into a waiting machine. *“8it tight!” he cried. little time! You know?" She nodded her head. The big blue eyes were wide with fear, the lovely face was stained with tears. She turned a grateful look upon Young Sam, a look that thrilled him. It was Young Sam that half carried her up the steps of the brownstone house, that shielded her from the questions of Anne, that opened the door tothe bedroom where the Man lay. 3 The Man's keen eyes were upon the door as she entered. “Marjorie!” he cried. “We've got “Little Mer- jorie!™ “Dadd:; Dad she murmured. Oh, Daddy! My Daddy!" The Man, holding her tight, moved his head as the son of his partner at- tempted to withdraw. *“Young Sam.” he said, and the old authority was in his voice: “stay here. 1 want to speak to you. I want to speak to you and Marjorie. Close the door;” And Young Sam, much upset vet curiously elated, closed the door. In that drive from the station to the house Marjorie had put out her little hand and touched his strong brown ! hand as it gripped the wheel. They seemed very close. He felt that the day had brought to him a trust, a wonderful trust. And later he found that it had. For Marjorie and her father there was left an hour alone together, in which the miracle of her being there was deemed no miracle at all—only a crowning of his life with “bright ber- ries of the bittersweet.” (Copyright, 1822. AIl rights reserved.) Rubber and Maple Sugar. AN interesting parallel las been drawn between the different varieties of rubber trees in the tropics and those of maple trees in this coun- try. Out of about 1,000 varieties of | trees, all of which produce more or less rubber sap, only forty or fifty have been found whose product is considered commercially valuable. ‘When a would-be cultivator of rub- ber goes to a tropical country and sets out a plantation of rubber trees, which the natives know do not belong to the right variety, he causes amused comment, such as would be excited by a South American who came to the United States and bored holes in soft maples with the expectation of ob- taining sugar sap. Experience has shown that excellent rubber trees transplanted from their native habi- tat to other regions having apparent- 1y identical soil and climate may flourish in growth. vet lose their pro- ducing power. Rubber culture re- quires great expert knowledge. | Curious Way of Mining. TBE increasing .depth to which 1t is necessary to go in following the vein of kaolin, or potters’ clay, mined near the Housatonic river in Connecticut, some time ago caused the Introduction of a novel method of mining. Wells from 50 to nearly 200 feet in depth are driven, and two pipes, the outer four inches and the inner two inches in diameter, are in- troduced. Water at a pressure of forty pounds per square inch is forced down through the smaller pipe, and rises through the larger one, bringing with it about 5 percent of solid matter, of which 75 per cent 19 pure kaolin. The Carat. Tm tiny standard of weight, al- though not one person in a mil- lion ever makes practical use of it, possesses great prestige because of its connection with dlamonds and other precious stones. But how many of us have any olear idea of the welight represented by & carat? In England it is customary to reckon 151% carats to the ounce, Troy. This makes the carat equivalent to 2053 milligrams, or 3.1683 graina At- tempts have been made to securs general recognition in all countri 1ot a metric standard carat of 200 you,” ke sid, “she'similligrams, » Well friends I | y | O the Editor: have got some bad news toda: for my admires and friends about something which is libel to happen to me and 1 would not mention it only I feel like it would be best If people is pre- pared in advance for same rather than have it sprang em them with-| out no warning and besides they may | be some of my readers that is In the | same fix like I am and don't know it | and I would be & fine Stiff to not| warn them and put them on their | guard. Well firlends I suppose the most of | you has heard of the science of as- trology which 1s the same thing like telling your fortune from what star “Maybe It’s a Hoodoo Year” Says Ring W. Lardner. we ain't carefull, things is going to happen to us this yr. which we wished they wouldn't but we will get along a whole lot better if we don't do noth- ing on impulse as they say and also if we observe a few don’ts which the lady that wrote the article has wrot« down. The first don't is don't marry for 12 months. The second don't is don't change your job or place o” residence The third don’t Is don't make no in- vestments. And the fourth dom't don’t go on no long journcy. Well friends T am sorry to may thu 1 have all ready went on a long jour- ney this yr. before 1 seen the articls but as for the second and third don'ts 1 will try and live up to them and the one about not makeing no Invesi- i LE N1 v pil “WELL, FRIENDS, I AM SORRY TO SAY THAT I HAVE ALREADY WENT ON A LONG JOURNEY.” you was horn under and personally I don’t believe in most of these kinds of fads but astrology is more like a sclence and some of the smartest peo- ple in the world is adherants of same and they's been hundreds of instants where they have told what was come- ing off by reading same in the stars 50 a man would be a sucker to call it a fake and laugh at it when they's S0 many smart people has made it their life study. Further and more I know of in- stants where astrologers has read a person’s character without knowing nothing about them only where they had a astrologer and she would read your character for $1.00 and T went in and she asked me when I was born and 1 toid her March 6 and she says I was born in the sign Pisces and 1 was the kind of a man that everybody could trust and the kind of a man that always trled to do the right thing by everybody. * X X *x WELL. friends. how is that for hit- ting the nail on the head and I will swear that the lady never seen me before and did not know who 1 was as that was hefore my name was a househeld curse and besides I didn't mention my name to the lady or at least not the right name. So you could hardly put it down for guess work and it looks like it would be silly to call it foney when they can get those kind of results. So that is what makes this such a serious proposition which I have just had my tension call té it, namely a article wrote by an expert astrologer in regards to what is going to happen this year. to people that was born be- tween the 27th of February and the 6th of March inclusive and if they's ments will be all the easier on of haveing made the long journey. But it ix certainly going to be tough to g0 a whole yr. without getijix married and in this connection 1 acct might tell you another thing that was - in the article namely that the tougi luck people for 1921 was people that was born a wk. earlier, i. e. between February 20 to 28 but the people that was born on the 27th and 28th jFeb. is also included in the hoodoo for this yr. and amongst the number that is jinxed for both yrs. is Ger- aldine Farrar. * % HE article goes on to say that Geraldine and the other gals and boys that was born on February 28 should ought to be specially carefull what they do in Feb, March, Oct. and Nov. Those born on March 1 wants to look out for March, Sept. and Oct. of | As for we March € guys we are sup- ° posed to beware of July, Aug. and Oct. Personally 1 wished I had be- wared of Oct. last yr. and I would not {of boughten $88.00 worth of world series tickets for a friend of mine which be afterwards give me @ sour check in payment for same. ‘Well friends so much for the article and if they's any of my readers and admirers who comes under the head of same why I hope this warning will do them some good. And while are on the subject of warnings might not come a miss f issue @ couple dom'ts which I get right out of my own head and mnot out of no astrology book and thes: don'ts is addressed to people that was born between the 1st of Jan. and the !31st of Dec. and if they observe same it will save them a verable hail « ! bad luck Includeing a bust in the jaw. me to " L any of my readers that is in the same | 1. Don't ask me for no world series < boat like myself and was born be- tween them 2 dates why vou and I my friends are in for a tough yr. Whether we are careful or whether | tickets. | 2. Don't tell me you know a | where they have got 6 per cent. becr. ! Fe RING W. LAR! “place Paris as a Sahara Desert | ST PARIS, February 16, 1922. OR sixteen entire months—ffom the beginning of August, 1920; to the epd of November, 1921— Paris h4d just the amount of rain that would be normal on the northern limit of the Sahara desert. December has not brought wetter weather, though it is badly needed for the crops—and for electricity and boats—throughout France from the English channel to the Mediterranean sea. Even the slushy snows of the first half of January bring no sub- stantial change in this longest and, for the most part, hottest drought on In the Lake of Annecy, where so many American soldiers on leave en- sinking of the water has become a serious matter. The lake is in the French Alps, 1,600 feet up, and Iits waters and those of the mountain glacier that feeds it supply power for the electric plants lower down. All the towns and factories of the val- leys depend on this water power for lght and force. After all these months of drought many of the springs are dried up, and the level of the lake has fallen considerably more than three feet. Even the little steamboats for tourists that carried doughboys on their excursions all around this most exchanting of Alpine lakes can no longer navigate. ‘What is to be done about it? For the electric light and power, which are the most immediate necessities, a siphon has been planted in the sufficient to further lower its one third of an inch every day and send the water thus gained down to the power houses miles away. That is the only means of keeping the Industrial life and the electric lighting of the region golng. This can Iast through January and Febru- ary. After that, unless the deluge comes, troubie will begin again. “ Al along the Mediterranean coast— lake 1 | i I I 4 { the Riviera, where people flock from the whole world for sunshine and fashionable life—electric light has had to be restricted through the win- ter in shops and hotels. An unusual effort has been made to keep Lloyd George and his conference brilliantly enlightened at Cannes, but others had to sit in something like our grandfathers’ candlelight meanwhile. ‘The oldest central weather bureau chief of France and perhaps of the world, M. Alfred Angot. has been asked what he thinks akout it. He says that during the 111 years that Paris has recorded observations in a sclentific way of her weather, no ing like it has been seen. The weather has been hot because it has been dry, and it has been dry because there have been no winds that bring rain. Month after month winds blow frem the north, and particularly from the aortheast, and seldom molsture- lader from seas to scuth anq west. Science does not know any Why? more than the Sahara, which—who knows—may be moving up to Paris. Curious Labrador. LABRADOR has been said to be = land still hardly known beyond its borders. The cold current tha: flows along its shores from the north dominates its climate, and notwith- standing that it is considerably farther south, it receives less con- tinuous sunshine than Alaska, be- cause its summer is shorter. The coldness of the soll and the dryness of the winds stunt many of its plants to such a degree that a larch growing at the southern end of [Labrador, which showed thirty-two snnual growth rings, was only nine inches tall, and its trunk was but three-eighths of an inch In diameter. Mineral deposits seem to be abundant. . but praspectors have been able to mtay but for short periods.