Evening Star Newspaper, July 2, 1922, Page 55

THE. SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, STREETS OF PARIS BECOME A BALLROOM WHEN CITY CELEBRATES FRENCH FOURTH ANCING thevbay Away. From One_ End of the French Capital to'Another—How the Music | Is Supplied. and One Is Never Outside of Hearing Distance of the Latest Strains—The Old-Fashioned Polka and Quadrille Reign for a Day—The Fine Lady Dances With Her Butler and the Government Official With a Servant Girl. ; £ ‘ | BY STERL PARIS, June 22, 1922, NEVER knew how active and graceful a hump-backed man can be (or realized how many active hump-backed men there must be in the world) until I began to watch H the people dancing in the streets of Paris on the French Fourth. To be sure to see it. you must try the bandstands of the thickly popu- lated center, Tut last French Fourth, in rich Neuilly, the suburban-villa- park of west-end Paris, the inevitable hump-hacked man carried off the honors of the dancing in front of the Hotel de Ville. Conarm e “YOU CAN DANCE FROM ONE END OF PARIS TO THE OTHER AND NEVER BE OUT OF HEARING OF DANCE MUSIC BY MUNICIPAL ORCHESTRAS.” etted, did his graces. struck an attitude and held a hand out to his partner like a marquis. And hihs partner was his boss’ wife, and he an humble shipping clerk in & perfumery. And is not the dancing triumph of | the hump-backed man (and. more, his confidence to win it!) just the very mark of dancing in the streets of Paris on the day of the republic? Out at Newilly, I will call him humpback No. 1. For No. 2 the scene is different—but, first the argu ment and program. * ok ok * NOTHING so astonishes Americau 4V tourists as the promiscuous dancing in Paris streets on thej French Fourth. as July 14, the an- niversary of the fall of the Bastille, is called. To see men whirling away with gi~ls whom they meet without intro-| duction or the slightest guarantee: to look on while class distinctions are swept aside in the selection of part- ners. is. for a sure fact. calculated to shock the foreigner who does not know this annual custom of the re- public. Understood. it seems like a sudden return of the golden age of innocence and kindliness. With all its uncon- ventionality, there is no rough play. nothing that may be styled improper What is the miracle that makes the timid unafraid. the fastidious toler- ant. the rough-tough chivalrou The heart is there. It is a queer an- niversary sentiment. for one day burnt twice deep into Frencn consciousness —originally by the splendid ideals of the terrible revo- lution (which guillotined its own children when they lacked “frater- nity”). and now by the Sacred Union of 1914, where the Apaches of Paris joined with workingmen, bourgeois and nobility, in the defense of the soil. Thousands of happy marriages date from the republic’s anniversary danc- ing. The republic plans it so. It is Machiavellian politi 1t was the dancing in the streets of Paris on French Fourths from 1589 to 1914 that safeguarded the republic against royalism. socialism, Bonapartism, anarchy and the in- vasion that was lying in wait upon them and at last lost patience. * k ox x SO now. for Hump-back No. 2. Near- ly every hump-back's face has something noble. Such unhappy men and boys have a strange dignity. Their manner is reserved. Yet, under- neath, they think well of themselves, and the active ones are very active, when they let themselves loose. The bandstand was near the cen- tral markets. The old, narrow street was gay with bunting, flags and Chi- nese lanterns ready to be lit up later. It was almost twilight of a hot afternoon. Elders sat at little tables on the sidewalk. Some young couples seemed to be engaged in ex- hibition fox trots. Humph! A grizzled artisan glanced at the butcher's wife. A middle-aged couple rose with authority. A burly shopkeeper told his daughter to “sit there!” and bowed with ceremony to a pale war widow. The baker asked a very pretty girl—whose soldfer let her. Ta-ta-ta-ta! ta-ta-ta-ta! You should see them dance the polka! They shoo-ed off those tangos! I went inside for a moment, till T heard the crash-bang of the grand quadrille, the democrat of dances! In the gathering twilight the' small place was crowded. The quadrille, the great dance of the Paris people on the French Fourth! All the year round, let it be she shimmy! On the day of the re- public, when they dance before the ark, it is the old quadrille! Here ‘came Hump-back No. 2, in tri- umph. Everybody seemed to know him. He had curly hair and beard, like Jove. He seemed a giant’s soul im- prisoned in the twisted body. With lofty air, as all acclaimed him, he ‘was leading back the butcher’s lady to her chair and bowed and flour- ished, kissed her hand and bowed sgain, quite. low, with his hand_ on | beard e He leaped and pirou- ¢ Swhlcted, anial Crash-bang! The grand quadrille continued. And continued. too, the graceful hump-back. Back and forth, and chenge and turn. with a noble leg. | with a theatrical arm, with leaps and skips and steps of solo jigs. he led his quartet. Crash-bang! With courtly swagger he takes the grand- mother by the finger tips. at arm's length! They advance, bow as at Versailles and back off. the hump- | back with jig steps and flourishes. He invents steps. All stand still while he does cavalier seul. He swings the ancient lady. kneels hefore her as she gasps. leaps up and cracks his heels together, bows and leags her forth again—crash-bang! “Bravo! bravo!" they cry. * k %k % | THE dancing hump-back was the hero of the bandstand by the central markets. Like the quadrille, he stood for something more than himself: Girls everywhere. You see them best beneath the shade trees of the greater places, where the munici- rality sets up its gayest bandstands. The government pays an allowance for musicians—470 orchestras for Paris only. The ward mayors send their bills | in (as it were, to the federal govern- ment): “Dance music for the peo- vle. so much.” % Crash-bang! In the hot afternoon. the cafes' sidewalk chairs and tables overflow across the street. No ve- Ricles can circulate. But around the dancing. the rudest street boys leave clear space for the girls of Parls in their ballroom. Cool and self-pos- sessed. they stand like rich men's daughters at a costly function. See the unknown young men eye them. What a lottery! What romance! Every girl knows that her fate may take @ new turn on this sweltering afternoon of the French Fourth. It is like a vast masquerade—Iin their own faces. Unknown youths from every part of Paris! Unknown sirls, who come in bevies, laughing. careless and yet tense, alert for the adventure that can come but once a year. Every. girl stands on her merits. Every young man has a chance to please. Later, they may tell each other what their daily lives are. The sun is setting. The household- ers are illuminating. The municipal- ity lights its endless lines and fes- toons of colored bulbs. At the band- stand of the Place St. Ferdinand, it is another kind of romance. It is almost Neuilly the Elegant, but most of the residents know each other by sight. And, see, young men of some’ posi- tion have admired girls for six months, yet, could not make acquaint- ance. Now, at the republic's dancing, mutual friends will surely intervene. Hop! After a few fashionable fox trots (just to show they know it!) modern stuff is quite discarded for the polka, waltz, mazurka, as around the Central Markets. The blg beard- ed doctor polkas with the florist's daughter, the post office’s cashier with the salesgirl of the “Mere de Famille” the proud autogarager with his bony wife and the jeweler's son with his pretty cousin from Nan- terre. * * x % VWWATCH the clerks of the electric light plant be presented to the pretty stenographers who board at the “Amicitia” co-operative—and a delightful place it is, for any girl to Hve! Monsieur Durand, who owns an apartment house, is dancing with his pale child. She hopes that the red- headed law student will come. up and say to her father: “What a healthy mingling of the classe: Then he will ask her for the mazurka. Who are the three elegant ladies who bear themselves like countesses at a village fair? Their husbands are officials of banks and & reconstruction corporation. They have rich flats in the Rue St. Ferdinand.- And their husbands laugh: “Yes, dance, of course!” The florid man with the white is ‘the ward . deputy. Do . American congressmen .dance .ia .the streets with pretty servant girls— even on the Fourth? The weedy bird (bald forehead. straggling. pointed beard) is a world-famous French painter. Behold a great lady dancing with her butler. All dance together, trading partners, sons- of-family, valets, janitors. profes- sional men, wholesalers, retailers, women with jewels and girls without, and cousins from the country. Into which irrupts hump-back, No. 3. Smooth-shaved, ‘hair clipped, bul- let-headed, with a torso like a heavy- weight wrestler (ah, the tragic bulge behind those noble shoulders!). he came prancing on legs fit for a four- teen-year-old boy. But some legs, all the same, as soon appeared. * ok ok % RASH! Ump-ta-ra-ra! Ump-ta- ra-ra! The prettiest girl (she from the florist) sails right in with this astounding hump-back, at the first mazurka. And the thing is gaudy and high-hearted when you see how short he is beside this Flora. Ump-ta-ra-ra! _Ump-ta-ra-ra! He fairly bounces. Yet his dignity is hot- ly condescending. You would say a gYypsy baron. “Who is he?” folks whisper. “Oh, he's from the tannery,” they answer, “the old tannery, beyond the Neuilly bridge.” And does he work, year round, in smelly skins? Disgraced by nature, proud, suspicious, wounded to the HE great news of the Declara- tion reached the city of Boston about the 14th of the month. At that time there was not in all New England one British soldier who was not a prisoner of war nor one vessel in New England waters showing the British flag. When the Declaration arrived, therefore, there was rothing to hinder the full ex- pression of the public joy. and Boston extemporized a very spirited and ele- gant celebration. The town authorities were so polite as to invite to the public ceremony all the English officers then on parole in and near the town. It took place at the Town House on the 18th ot July. One of the British officers wrote a brief account of what he saw. The whole town, he said, was thronged, “and all the people were in their holiday attire. Every eye spar- kled witn delight and every tongue was unloosed.” The streets about the Town House were lined with Infantry, which this officer thought were “tolerably equip- ped.”” In Queen street, nearby, ar- tillery was stationed, the gunners standing near with lighted matches. The crowd treated the British officers with all due consideration, opening a passage for them to approach the building, and the troops glving them, as they mounted the steps, the usual military salute. . * X x % UST as the clock struck 1, Col Thomas Crafts, chalrman of the occasion, rose and read. aloud the Declaration of Independence. When this was finished, “the gentlemen stood up, and each, repeating the words as they were spolen by an offi- cer, swore to uphold the rights of his country ‘While this was going on within the building, the town clerk, on the bal- cony outside, read the Declaration to the crowd. At the close of the read- ing 2 shout of applause, which began in the hall, was heard by the people in the streets, who responded with loud hurrahs. Then was heard the measured firing of the cannon and a rattling salute of musketry. In the council chamber a banquet was pre- pared, and this was partaken of by the principal citizens. : The central point of interest in the evening was the corner of King and Kilby streets, in front of an anclent tavern called the Bunch of , Grapes. To this spot were brought all the Independence Day in 1776 heart. malignant, even, from too much unhappiness? You'd scarcely guess it, at the dancing of the French repub-| lic. Why, we quit the hump-backed | tanna lord of the mazurka and or- ganizing the quadrille, with the girls wild to be his partner. All things were against him, yet he floated to Olympus on the magic of his high heart—to dance music of a patriot anniversary. The last quadrille! It is long after midnight. The breeze is up. the air is cool. Over Paris we see the glow of the last big set pieces of fireworks. . Between dances they. lead their part- ners to their_mothers of their hus- bands, at the sidewalk tables or in chair-filled doorways. Fraternal glasses clink. The words pass lightly: “Vive la Republique!” Taey saye it lightly» “Vive la Re- publique!” But you feel that the an- cient sentiment is there, that gener- ous fraternity is winning out against legitimate exasperation, suspicious and indignation. Yet it will win out, Bill, sure! In memory, they look back upon a vasta of French Fourths, when there | was always dancing in the streets of Paris. Tears come to the eve. Fraternity Is their ideal, a fair ideal, all honest folks together. And, Bill, they do it! One day of the vear, they do i Which is one day more thany many others. Boston, such as the royal arms from the Town House, from the court-| house and the customhouse, all of which were heaped up at this historic corner and burned in a grand bonfire. In New York, where the American troops were assembling to defend the city against the expected attack, lhe' } celebration had a more military char- acter. At least, it began that way. In the afternoon the Continental Army was drawn up on parade and at the head of each brigrade the Dec-] laration of Independence was read. Both the troops and the people re- ceived it with loud acclamations. * X k X I the evening the equestrian statue of George 111, which had been for some years the most conspicuous or- nament of the city, was pulled off its base in the Bowling Green, and, to quote the language of a newspaper of the day, “was lald prostrate in the dirt—the just desert of an ungratetul tyrant.” The newspaper continued: “The lead wherewith the monument was made s to be run into bullets to assimilate with the brains of our infatuated adversaries, who, to gain 2 peppercorn, have lost an empire.” This last remark was an allusion to a famous sentiment uttered by Lord Clare in the house of commons, to the effect that a peppercorn in acknowledgment of Great Britain'e right to tax America was of more importance than millions of revenue without that ackrnowledgment. ’ On the same day all the debtors in the New York jail were set free. The next morning the leaden head of the statute of George 11l was conveyed in a wheelbarrow to the quarters of Gen. Washington and there left on the sidewalk before his door. It does appear that Gen. Washington had any other use for this object than the one to which the rest of the statue was applied. Probably the head, too, was run into bullets. The British and Hessian troops, who were tnen encamped on Staten heard of the overturn of the kin effigies of the three generals, Wash- ington, Lee and Putnam,. and Dr. Witherspoon, president of Princeton College. The four figures were placed upon 2 pile of fagots, the three generals facing President With- erspoon, who was in the act of read- ing to them the Declaration of Inde- pendence. All of the figures, extept that of Gen. Washington, had been covered with tar, when a violent storm came on, which obliged the troops to run for shelter. In the evening, when the storm had blown over, the figures were on fire and ail were consumed, the unterred figure of Gen. ‘This was acoounted “a "’w rsterious P";: menacing, prodigy.” | York and still keep a strangle hold lour merry little trio hasn't acquired D. C., BY SEWELL FORD. ‘D like to claim that this was all Que to a hunch of my own, and for the first few minutes after getting my lucky break I believe 1 did. But on thinking back to the gtart 1 expect I've got to han'd most of the credit to the poor fish'in the next block who's trying to make a saxophone player out of himself. If it hadn’t been for him—well, 1 hate to think of how many dreary Sundays we might have dragged out here. Perhaps some folks know just how to get through a hot Sunday in New on their disposition. Il admit that the knack. We start In biave enough with a light breakfast and the Sun- day papers, and generally we can last until noon without biting each other on the shoulder. But by 5 o'clock none of us is fit to live with. I can stand the heat and the smells and the noise, but not the monotony. Inez doesn’t care how dull things are. but 92 degrees Fahrenheit, humidity &6, is bound to get on her nerves. And Uncle Nels, who has a hard enough time living in the city anyway, gets restless. * % k% F course, from all the excursion | ads and railroad folders you can | figure out lots of places to go over | the week end. But after one or twu trips In a Saturday and Sunday mob we decided that the little old top- floor studio was a good place to stay in. Ever try to go to Coney Island, up the Hudson or out to the Bronx 200 wheri a couple of million other folks werg headed for the same spots? That's the trouble with New Yorkers. They're too blamed unanimous. Also It seems that most of ‘em aren’t so fussy about getting into a jam. They get hardened to it, T sup- pose. But to start a holiday by bor- ing your way into a sweltering crowd around gate No. 19, walting for half an hour or so with a strange. foreign gent breathing garlic fumes down the back of your neck. another jabbing bis elbow Into your ribs, arid a per- fectly unknown baby drooling over your shoulder—that's my idea of nothing at all to do. And when vou follow that up with a day spent scrambling for seats on a crowded excursion train, milling about at some resort, and riding home in the same car with a bunch of playful young toughs whose ambition is to rough- house the brakeman—well, [ pass it up! Yet it's either that or stick in town. Maybe you know, too, what the East Side is like after the temperature has been well warmed up. You cannot only feel the heat pouring in the win- dows to wilt you, but vou can see it | quivering in giddy waves from the pavements and roofs. You can even smell it. And, somehow, the roar of the L trains and the snarl of the gen- eral traffic is louder when the mer- cury climbs. Then, if you add an amateur saxophone player doing his worst not a hundred feet away, you'll get the picture. He wasn't a handsome bird. either —this near neighbor of ours. He had pop-eves and aeroplane ears and the | complexion of a cheese ple. Also for some mystic reason he preferred to do his Orpheus act in a sleeveless un- dershirt and faded biue socks, with his feet propped on the window sill Probably he didn’t want us to miss any feature of the performance when he tackled the “Home Again Blues.” but I'l say he was tempting fate. During the first hour of the agony I wondered how straizht I could throw a ripe egg if 1 had one, but after we had stood three hours of it I yearned for a sawed-off shotgun and an eye like Annie Oakley's. It was exactly 3:15. 1 remember, when he finally blew himself out and I gradually stopped seeing red. “Such a pest!” says Inez. “You think he gonna do that all summer. Trilby May?” “If he does.” says I. "I see where I'm liable to add to the crime wave. 1 can almost read the headlines in the morning papers, ‘Slain While Playing Saxophone. Prominent Pastry Cook Stricken Down by Frenzied Assas- sin. ' Skull Crushed by Electric Iron. Janitor Remembers Seeing Red- Haired Young Woman Climb Fire Escape. Police on Her Trall * k¥ K NEZ barely blinked an eye at that. “Could—could you hit him hard enough?”’ she asks. “See here, Inez, let's drop this." says 1, “before the idea gets fixed in our heads. If we could only get away somewhere for the week end.” “Louisa does,” suggested Inez. “She shuts up her delicatessen shop and goes visitin® her sister Julia by Sin- gas, New Jersey.” “Yes, that's all right for her,” says 1, “but T have no sister in Singac or anywhere else.” “That Madame Latour, who run paper flower factory on second floor, goes on Ines, “she goes out to sed her cousin on Staten Island.” “Well, that's stretching the bonds of consanguinity a bit.” says I. “but] in a pinch like this I believe I'd use even a second cousin 1f I could locate on “Ain’t you got no relations on east here?” asks Inez. “I thought you told | me— “wait!” I breaks in. “You're quite | right, Inez. Paw Dodge did hail from 1 somewhere in Connecticut, and the last T knew he had a sister still liv- ing there. She'd be my own aunt, wouldn’t she? Now what was the JULY 2, 1922—PART 4 ~ TRAILING “WELL,"” SAYS HE, “YOU'VE TAKEN YOU'RE TIME ABOLT COMING, HAVEN'T YOU, MISS DODGER?" paw didn’t call her that, of course. He used to tell about—m-m-m-m. I know—Luella! What do you know about that, Inez? I've gone and dug up a perfectly good aunt when I didn’t think T had a relative within a thousand miles. Shows what you can do when you get desperate.” “You gonna write her, eh?" asks Inez. “Then maybe she asks you to come make her a visit “And then, again, maybe she wouldn't,” 0: the only safe way is to ewarm in on her unex- pectedly and drop your suitcase In the spare room before she has time to frame up an alibi. Let's see if we can find a railroad folder that tells how one gets to Danberg.” % ¥ % % VW E were busy at that when Barry Platt drifted fn and let out casu- ally that he'd traded in his chummy roadster for a real touring car. “What a thoughtful old dear!" savs I. “That makes everything much simpler. “Eh?" says Barry, scratching his ear. “About visiting my Aunt Luella, of | course,” says I. “You didn't know I had one? Well, 1 don't always pa- rade my relatives. In fact, Barry. T had almost mislaid this one for good. and it was only by straining my mem- ory that 1 dug her up at all. And. by the way. can vou tell me offhand just where is Danberg, Conn.?" “No,” says he. “Why?" “Because that's where Aunt Luella lives,” says 1. “Anyway, it can't be such a long way off. and if your new car will hold four—well, 1 don’t want to scem to hint—but if we could all put in the next week-end trailing my dear old aunt I think it would be per- fectly lovely. Did you—er—suggest anything, Barry, boy?" “I was about to remark,” says he, “that T should be delighted. I'm not sure this is the open season for miss- ing aunts in Connecticut, but I'll look up the game laws.” “You'd better get a road map and find Danberg first,” savs L Later, when he had located the place, ‘way up toward the Massachu- setts line. we decided that Friday morning would be a good time to start. So we packed our bags, filled a Tuncheon box and made an early get-away on that date. Inez had draped herself in double veils, Uncle Nels was all gussied up in a freshly laundered sult, and I was looking as spiffy as possible in a pongee sport suit. “I don't care” says Inez as we swung into 5th avenue, “if that saxophone feller blows his head off Sunday.” “As for me.” says L “I'm hoping Barry can find Danberg without driv- ing all over the state of Connecticut.” “I'll show vou,” says Barry. “hat as an explorer I've got Columbus looking like a piker. We're routed straight through to Danberg on a non-stop schedule.” * k ok x F I hadn't read the blue book direc- tions to him he'd have been lost before we got through New Rochelle. As it was, we did wander around New Haven for a good hour before we got the hang of the yellow arrows. and he made two wrong turns in Hartford, but along about 5 p.m. we pulled into Danberg, triumphant, dusty and hungry. “Huh!" says Inez. “Kind of a wide | place in the road, ain't it?" “Have a heart, Inez,” says 1. “Re- member, this is my native town, and while T can't hand it much for size. it's a clean. homely little spot, even if it is rather strung out. those noble old elms along the main street? And how about those quaint old houses with the fanlights over the door and genuine brass knockers? I wonder which one of them is Aunt Luella's?" “Wouldn't it be a clever notion to ask some one?" suggests Barry. *“I'd have thought of that myself before long, smarty,” says I. “Why not here?* But the man at the filling station had never heard of Miss Luella name of that place which we left when I was a year or so old? Of course, I've heard him mention it when 1 was a As 1 remember. ‘it was up beyond New Haven. Or it was near Hartford. dd I can't dig up the name. Must have been my birthplace, too. But paw had done a lot of wandering around before he settled there and started a weekly paper, and he used to speak of so| many towns where he'd flivvered at varfous things that—I've got it! Dan- berg!” “Huh!” says Inez. “Danberg! Don’t sound like much.” “Oh, T don’t know,” says L “Dan- berg, Conn. That doesn’t listen so poisonous to me. Besides, one's n: tive town Is apt to be dear and sweet, no matter how humble. And -just think, Ines, perhaps in Danberg is a lovely old gray-haired aunt who may even now be watching longingly out through the rose-bowered lattice win- ow- for the lorig-lost niece she lost k of years and Yyears ago.” “What's her name?’ demands Ines. “Why,” says 1, “it must be Dodge. She was pAw's sister and an old maid. Yes, she should.be Miss Dodge. .But Dodge. He knew about the Dgdge brothers, and that gas was 29 cents that day, and that the Boston Ameri- cans had made three runs in the fourth inning, “but beyond that he had nothing to offer. So we tried at the post office, Where a squint-eyed young woman with a gold front tooth told us she was quite sure no such person lived in Danberg or vicinity. She had just finished canvassing the town for subscriptions to a woman's magazine, and she thought she ought to know. 2 “That's 0dd,” says [ “The last I knew I had an Aunt Luella here. But T suppose you're not responsible for aunts who are not claimed within thirty days, and I'm afraid it has been a good many years since I have heard directly from Aunt Luella. The young lady with the squint didn’t get wildly excited “over the case. She yawned and was turning away from the window when she re- lented and made a suggestion. Some die and some move away,’ said she, “but if your aunt ever lived here I'll tell you who would know which ‘she did. Jeft Tuttle. You'll find MI_O_“r.n,th_o epposite corner Aren't | in his real estate office, or else in the barber shop two doors beyond.” * ¥ ¥ % GHE was right. The little, shriv- eled-up old chap with the thin gray hair, the Baldwin-apple cheeks and the shrewd eyes admitted that he was Jeff Tuttle. “Know Luella Dodge!" he chuckled. “I sh'd say 1 did. Kept comp'ny with her on and off for ten years., until 1 saw it wa'n't any use and let Bill Sammis' widow rope me in. Mebby it was all for the best, though. Luella was one of these double an’ twisted old maids. and she had a mighty sharp tongue in her head—she cer- tainly did! Why, say, when she foynd cut I used chewin' tobacco, if she didn’t come purty nigh skinnin’ me alive before 1 could promise to quit was an all-fired smart woman, Luella Dodge was. Some different from that brother of hers—Eph Dodge—who was 80 lazy he could hardly git out of own way. Tried runnin’ a news- paper here, Ephraim did, but he never | made a go of it. and finally, after his wife died. he moved out west some- where with that kid of his. Maybe you know Eph, too?" “Slightly says I. “He was m paw.” osh all blicketts!” gasfed Mr. Tuttle, “if T ain’t gone and: “No apologies necessary,” says L “You're an accurate describer. Mr. Tuttle. Paw wasn't what you would call a go-getter. That's why I was left stranded on a sandy farm up in Minnesota. But 1 must take after my Aunt Luella. By the way, what did become of her? more ago, it must have been. Any- way. it was soon after they hired the new soprano at the Congregational Church. Took Luella’s place. you know, after her voice begun to crack. Somehow, Luella just couldn't stand the sight of that young lady. Didn't like the kind of hats she wore nor the way she held her chin, nor the trick she. had of rollin’ her eyes on the high notes, nor anything about her. Stood it about a month, Luella did. and then she went to the trustces and told 'em if that new soprano wasn't llet go she'd leave town herself. Course, they didn’t believe she would, but, b'gum, she did. Sold her home here. loaded all her belongin's Into a freight car, and went off up into New Hampshire somewhere to live. And that's the last I ever heard of her.” “You've forgotten the name of the town she moved to, T suppose?” says L. “It does slip my mind just now, miss.” says he, “but I must have it in my books, for 1 had to cancel some insurance policies and send her a pre- mium rebate. Yes, T had her addres at the time. Guess | can find it for you. Just a minute.” * % ok X and 1 walted twenty min- utes while Mr. Tuttle pawed through some dusty old account books, but finally he found what he was looking for. “Chenwick,” says he. “Yes, that's it—Chenwick, N. H. It's up beyond Keene, but 1 couldn’t say just where. BARR\' her my best regards and—er—don't let on that I'm a widow 1 was kind of sweet on her. once, I'll admit. | but tastes change. you know. and I— well, the fact is, I took up chewin’ again.” 3 “Trust me, Mr. Tuttle” says I “Besides, why rake up old ashes And I'm much oblige So we had to drive on until we came to a town big enough to have a fair sized hotel, and the next day we took up the aunt hunt once more, but with rather less enthusiasm. “It strikes me,” suggests Barry, “that your Aunt Luella might not be the kind who would welcome a crowd with open arms, hot biscuits and strdwberry jam. my aunt, Barry,” says L “If you will remember, she was simply our excuse 2 hot Sunday. All I held out was an aunt hunt, and we're having one. I'll say it's perfectly good country we're getting Into, too.” 4 Barry couldn’t deny it. Once we had plunged well into New Hampshire and climbed over some tall hills on smooth gravel roads, we dipped down again and began to follow the wind- ing bed of a river that couldn’t have been more picturesque if it had been laid out by a movie director. Now it would slide along between grassy. level banks; next it would pour in glassy sheets over a dam, with a fac- tory of some kind rattling’away with looms or lathes close by, and then ior a mile or so it would tumble and foam over shoals and bouldeis, as If in a great hurry to get somewhere. A boy on a‘bridge told us it was the Ashwillow, but from some signs we saw later we concluded the real name of the river was the Ashuelot. . Any- and join the church then. But per- haps she’s some relation of yours, | miss?” “Aunt, | Mr. Tuttle blew out his cheeks and | whistled. | “Ex-cuse me, miss.” says he. “She for getting out into the country over “Moved,” says he; “fifteen years or | him. And if you do find Luella, just give You all she had. “I'm not promising a thing about |and stay there. ! | I saxophon AUNT LUELLA_ way, it was a perfectly nice stream, and we didn’t lose it until we were almost into Keene. * % % * HAT was where Barry wanted to stop. He raved over the square, with its elm trees and watering trough and soldiers’ monument, and he made us wait while he snapped a picture of the white church spire ris- ing above the little park. “This is what I call a real New England town.” says Barry. “They say Denman Thompson used to live near here and always opened his sca- son by playing ‘Joxh Whitcomb’' or “The Old Homestead' in the town hall. And hanged if there isn't a real ox team crossing the square. | wonder i Cy Prime isnt driving i say. | don’'t blame your Aunt Luella for moving up this way. Wouidn't mind living here myeelf. ncle Nels agreed with him. even Inez admitted that of nice. But we had to push on to Chenwick. It wasn't far. and it wasn't much of a place when we got to it—just a cluster of quaint old houses under spreading elms. one or two stomes, a couple of churches and a public Iibrary. 1 found a man lean- ing against the hay scales and asked and it was kind him if he could tell me where Miss Luella Dodge lived. “Luella Dodge?’ says he. “You lookin' for her? Then I guress you'd |better step over and =ee Squire Sweat. That's his office over the feed store, “Oh, very well,” says I. “If the squire is the official guide to Chen- wick, I'll see him.” So Barry and I trailed up into a dusty little office and found a big, genial-looking old boy at a desk Iit- tered with fishing tackle. A pair of wading boots and a trout rod sug- gested that if we had come half an hour later we wouldn't have found As it was, he went right on sorting out hooks and flies after | peering curlously at us over the ‘top of his spectacles. “Fm looking for Dodge.” I announced. “You are?” says h you, young woman?" “I'm her niece, Trilby May Dodge," I told him. “Well,” says he. twisting a leader around his hat band, “you've taken your time about coming, haven't you, Miss Dodge?” “What do you mean?” 1 asked “Why,” says the squiry ‘ve been looking for you for two years—ever since 1 was appointed executor for your aunt's estat. state!” says L Miss Luella “And who are “Then—then she 1s. He nodded. “Two years ago this May." says he. “Pneumonia. But she hadn’t been well for some time before that. Couldn’t tell where to send word to you. She didn't know exactly her- self. And after the funeral I adver- tised in all the pepers for you.” You did?" says 1. “Which papers? “Why,” says he, “in the Keene Sen- tinel and the Boston Transcript and the Springfleld Republican. Didn't you see it in any one of ‘em?" “No.” says I. “I've been living in New York, and the Keene Sentinel isn't sold much on our block. But why were you 50 anxious to find me? DId Aunt Luella leave me a family heirloom or something? “Did she?" says he. “Why. she left There wasn't any- one else. Yes, miss, you get it all.” “All what?' I asked. “Well,” says he, “there’s the house and furniture, and® twenty acres of good farm land, and a fifteen-acre sugar bush, and an extra wood lot. and a few bank shares.” “Did you hear that, Barry?" savs 1 “I'm an heiress! 1own a farm, and a wood lot, and—and everything. lsn't that wonderful? But when do I get it all, squire.” “Why.,” says he, “'most any time, I guess. 1 was planning to go after some trout this afternoon, but . “Certainly, squire, this has been sprung on me so sudden 1 can well walt overnight to get used to the sen- sation. We'll drive back into Keene But T'll tell you— couldn’t you show us the place to- morrow, squire?” “Certainly, Miss Dodge.” says he: “any time before church. Come out right after breakfast, if you like.” 1 said we would. And as Barry and I went down the narrow stairs I sripped him by the arm. “Just think, Barr says I, “if It hadn’t been for that fellow with the (Copyright, 1922, by Bewel! Ford.) 0il From Bones. 7 HE business of extracting oils and fais from bones had an extraordi- nary ‘expansion in Europe, especially in Germany, during the war. Great numbers of ‘prl\'l e and municipal plants are still thus engaged and have reaped great profits. While the use of the auto-clave process has been in-_ creasingly extended, a more recent process, in which an important part is played by benzine, now threatens 1t oust the former, since it permits of more complate recovary of the- fats, t.hm:fi: the final product is less agres-