Evening Star Newspaper, August 20, 1922, Page 54

rig ™ PU Tl'a_e-Author: Henry Sydnor Harrison. 1t is like shaking hands with an old friend to see the name of Henry Sydnor Harrison. Some years ago his first book, “Queed.” gave him instant place among American novel- ists. Then at intervals—for Mr. Harrison is an author who | works long and_with infinite | care—came “V. V.s Eyes" and “Angela's Business” both suc- cesses. His latest novel is “Saint Teres: To get a short story from Mr. Harrison is an event, his time is 8o fully occupied with work scheduled ahead. “Pursuit” may be a bit cynical, but it gives much food for thought and re- flection. Mr. Harrison is the only | bachelor on our all-star iist of | American authors. | 3.1 | { \ i | L | MARY STEWART CUTTI T was the evening of May Hes- keth's picnic supper, small but memorable: and now the clocks. had there been any on the island. would have pointed close to mid- night. What was rare as this nignt in June? Sailing wisps of cloud shredded the face of the high moon: the blackness of the woods. the glades and dells, the vineicovered tocks and the empty quarry. were stippled and patched with silver: the lake was a sheet of silver stretching far away to lose itself in a lovely dusk. Through the verdure a soft breeze whispered; from the water floated voices of the merrymakers, re- ceding; and the woman stealing on light feet up the path, a slim and not incongruous figure in her white bath- ing dress, streaming to her waist, reflected that. for an hour at least, she would be | alone here. But it was not s From the im- penetrable shadows, as she neared the ruined cabin, the figure of a man ab- ruptly emerged upon the path. He stood confronting her. She started a little, and then she saw. with a wild shout of satisfaction, was her husband. “You!" she said, with the faintly mocking air she had long ago learned for him. ut fancy meeting you here!” “You—you looked like a—-" He began. a little confusedly. and then. breaking off. he cleared his throatand started again, more authoritatively: “I don't say T approve of that suit. but—but it does saem to fit in with the surroundings somehow. might almost have been mistaken—at a distance, that is—for a hamadryad. But ” “And what may th thing very nice to be may 1 hope! But 1 supposed & in the launch.” 0. no. I'm tired of drunks he, continuing to stare at her. nd, besides, swimming at night—ah—af- fects my sinus, as you once used to know. But you—why did you come back? You—you forgot something? She was smiling faintly. Her dark eyes derided him. “I almost forgot myself, if you count that! But no, in your sense, T'm not forgetful, only punitive. sinus is sound, but my temper uncer- tain. So I didn't go. A sweet night, sn't it? Well!” “But—what is it? y be? Some- mistaken for. you'd said Why, what hap- pened?” n o “oh, that. Yes, to be sure. T was| When she had married this man, unexpectedly kissed. you see. In the glowering at her now in the primal dark behind the boathouse, just as we were ready to start—oh, most fero- ciously, 1 assure You. Really that made me angry, though, of course, not so angry as I seemed. So I'm let- ting him paddle himself over alone.” Her husband’s dim heavy face seemed to darken. “Him? Who was 1t ‘My dear Horace, you'll agree that kissing and. teiling isn’t quite the act of a lady? No, no! But I'm inter- rupting your reverie.” No! Tellme! I—I wanttoknow.” “Your air of interest is awfully elvil, Horace. But I can't really be- lieve that you've begun at this late day to take an interest in my private life:” Her merriment exasperated him, clearly. “Howard Witheredge, 1 suppose— damn his impudence! What you can see in that—" “Oh, name me no names, please! And the incident's really not worth mentioning. I'm merely disciplining a beau, that's all. So we two have the pretty wilds all to ourselves: only thin Charmingly conjugal! But be sure I won't intrude, no. I'm off to dress. Good-bye!” no! Don't-go. T—" Having controlled himself with an obvious effort, the man resumed with awkward carelessness: “Ah, it seems too bad for you to miss your moonlight dip, when you enjoy it so—merely on account of the behavior of an alcoholic cad. Hem. 1 was about to say I'll paddle you over to the Pulpit myself.” She eyed him quizzically, and all at once was aware of the beating of her heart. * kX X #HE two stood close Logether in the darkness and beauty of the woods. The man’s ponderous dignity was manifestly a little strained. Why? For a long time past, indeed, it had been evident that she had un- dermined his case in their relation- ship. For weeks she had been con- scious, In her withdrawals and through the silences that she had made so common between them, that be regarded her with a new atten- tiveness. But he had stopped there; his price—or some cowardice, per- haps?—had restrained him from word or act. Was it the romantic solitude now and the sudden sight of her in her wood-nymph's guise? Was it the thought of those kisses she had just taken from another? What? Into her husband’s eyes had come & look she had not seen these three years, and she wondered suddenly If, here and now. beyond all calculation, her great moment had come at last. But do you think that she would yield anything tc him? Not she. Ironically grave, she answered: “You are always kind, Horace. But, ot course, I'd not dream of imposing on you that way.” ; “Na imposition at all. Td enjoy it. We find ourselves deserted, each by our own choice. What more logical than to join forces, eh?” “Logical™™ “And—and pleasant,”” sald he with his labored lightness. 'Why not? Or. it you don't care to join the party now, after what happened, why, we might just paddle about for a while. The night—the night's fine,” sald Horace. _ “Canoeing In the moonlight with ; ene's busbandl My dear man, do you 3 with unbound dark hair that this man s You | My RSUIT wint to make me the laughing-stock of the county ™’ Her laughter, thrilling unexpect- edly. took him quite aback; stung him, too, as she saw with pleasure. “A very littleof that sort of thing," she said, “and gossip would soon be- gin connecting our names!" “l don’t think you run many risks of that” he retorted with marked stiffness. “And 1 wish you'd cease this—this extravagant way of talk- | Ing. 1t'=provoking. Now come along. I—we'll enjoy it “On the contrary, shame.” “You're being absurd. Come “A thousand thanks, but no. There was a silence. The breeze fluttered her long hair. “1 see you actually prefer the so- 1 should die of ciety of drunken male flirts to that of * * * And this is typical, too—" He finished. all but impulsively for him: “I'm sure you ca realize, Laurel, how littie we actually see of each other—these day: Ah. but did she not realize! She lcaned back against the slender bole of a white birch and stared up jat him. liquid-eved, “How little! Why. Horace—good graciou That's literally all T can say—good gracious! Seven days a week under the same roof, but sepa- rated a single day in— “I know. L know!" he said in| another tone, embarrassed. It seems | |odd. 1 own—I'd hardly think it was possible. Aund still—I was, of course, sure you weren't conscious of it, | but. - He hesitated, peering at her with his short-sighted eyes: and then the natural man let go a little more of the unnatural constraint. “Why, Laurel! You go out some- where every evening, with or without me: or, if you don’t go out, you have people in. At odd moments. when there are any, in the little between times, as I might term them, you're lalways reading. or studying. or prac- | ticing something, or else you're writ- ing letters or you have a headache. turdays and Sundays, and usually | week days, too, you have people stay- |ing in the house, all over the place. | Noise. and dancing. and parties, and | rushing about. Never a quiet mo- | ment of—of just the domestic sort | “You certainly make it sound dit- | ferent from the home life of our dear {queen! 1I'd no idea it was so bad as i that. “T understate it. if anything. But—| | well. we won't o into it now. My point is: Here, by chance, we have a quiet hour for once—charming nature {and no noise—no drunks. Well, don't let's spend It standing on these rocks when the lake's right there. Come She shook her head in silenc faintly smiling. Gently she released the hand that he had abruptly clutch- ed. She thought his massive face paled a little then. * % x x [FROM far away over the water came the faint. muffled echoes of song. ound but accentuated the per- illness. On the solitary trail the husband and wife steadily eved each other, and she was thrilled with the knowledge of her immeasurable victory. In that second her mind's eve flashed backward. She thought of Anders Carthew and the time and scene which had been the turning point of her life woods, he loved her madly, and she, as she had soon understood, was ac- tually all but indifferent to him. Within six months her interest in him had become acute and constant; while he, incredibly, was detected in recur- ring lapses of ardor. After two years she adored him without restraint. and for days and weeks together he was frankly bored with her. Why? Was it the everlasting law of things that a relation can support only so much love, as a bucket holds so much water? Certainly efforts to charm this grave senior by doubling her wifely thoughtfulness and sweet sub- jections had but increased his ennul. There had come the inevitable day when she, with floods of tears, had packed her trunks and gone off on the al indefinite visit to her mother. So far their story had followed a fa- miliar course. Would that have been the end of it, right there, but for An- | ders Carthew? Nothing seemed to her more certain. Beyond doubt An- ders, who was twice her age and had taken an interest in her, paternal or otherwise, from her sixteenth year, had penetrated her with a new and startling concept. For Anders wouldnt accept — he would hardly listen to—her own ready formula, long since smoothed by the women of all ages. “Oh, no," he had said, in his merciless, kind way. “It isn’t that you ‘love him too well' That's letting yourself down too easily. It's simply that you love him with too little pride—and no good sense at all.” And a little later, when she had conquered her first furious indignation and sat down agaln, he spoke words which she took at last for truth, and which filled her in the end with an over- mastering purpose. For Anders had said that a man's necessity is not to be loved. but to love; and that, to love, his fixed need is to pursue—and con- quer. | * Kk K ok O she, because she had a will, and it seemed that her whole life was at stake, had actually achieved this impossible. She had warped her nature, she had broken her heart to pieces; she had recovered the reserves of maidenhood, made herself again mysterious to this once familiar; she had fanned the last flickering ember to a flame. Now here he stood suing her in the romantic night—her Hor- ace, bored no longer, and still and still ¢ ¢ * Was it not ironical that, here in the Instant of her tremendous triumph, her mood should be so skepti- cal and cool? How large was Horace's nose, she unsentimentally considered, how halting his tongue, how really small his vanity and caution. Had something then permanently passed away? In the long process of repres- sion,s of moral separation, so painful at first, had she wrought in herself an irrepgrable change? She wondered, smiling shadowily, in that second of thick silence. Now the man, having drawn back a step, spoke abruptly: “Look here, what's come over you?" “Come over me?” “You've changed so much—just in this last year—that you're like an- N X “Yes, she's matured very much since the baby came,” said Horace, and yawned a little. “ghe is charming still. And a more exemplary and devoted wife I never saw. That pleases me so much. Do you know, my son,” continwed Mrs. Seymour suddenly, “two years ago when I was here—that spring—I was rather afraid she was drifting away from you—just a little?” “Really! What an Idea! No, I re- member that summer on the lake particularly,” said Horace thought- fully. “We had a wonderful time.” “Oh, it's evident enough that I was By Henry Sydnor Harrison mistake said his mother archly. “She absolutely ‘worships you. That's as clear as noonday. “Oh, yes,” said Horace. 'There was a little silence. Down in the pasture lat, behind the barn, the buxom new dairymaid was cligb- ing over the stile. ‘The Tass had a trim leg. Having adjusted his glasses a little, Horace satisfied himself oa that point. “In fact, it the dear creature has a fault at all,” he finished {ndolently, “I'd say that she loves me a little too wel (Copyright, 1922. Al rights reserved.) AROUND THE CITY By Nannie REFINED woman, suddenly bereft of financial support, was compelled to go to work for herselt and child. Un- trained, there was no line in which she was sufficiently skilled to obtain employment. She was not Young enough to fit herself for any spe- cialty, and. besides, she must have im- mediate money for rent and food. In such crises, clothes do not count. Failing in every effort to gain usual employment, she had to take the first job that she could find—a poor job in a garment shop at plece- work wages: so many shirts, say, at so many cents, with a swarm of women coralled in a crowded. close-air room, with their sewing machines clattering ceaselessly for L MIDNIGHT SPED THE SLIM, WHITE-CLAD WIFE, AND HARD BEHIND CHASED HER HUSBAND. you, Laurel! This constantly evasive |instinctive repulsion even, that swept|having planned anything of the sort, manner. Flippant, I am bound to call | through her. she wheeled abruptly in her tracks it, and—and provoking. 1 think the| She succeeded in extricating herself |and fled away from him. time's come to remind you that a hus-|and backing away rapidly, shaken| If that was a confession of weak- band has some rights—and 1'm not get- | and angry, and vigorously rubbed [ness, unluckily it did not settle her ting mine [ with the palm of her hand the cheek [difficulty on the spot. With dismay, “But—why, all this is news to me, |her husband's lips had just grazed.|she heard the large feet of Horace ar! Your rights! I'd thought vou |Still, her fixed smile mocked him. [pounding after her down the path. ! frightfully fatigued with them.| “Don’t you think, all things consid-| She ran as for her life. | whatever they are, years ago, and |ered, that's quite a liberty ™ It was a sight for the gods. no doubt, | gladly | He lunged for her, saying gutter-|In the still midnight beneath the “Never! No! Ridiculous. T——" all serene moon, in this lonely place, “Ah, that poor memory of yours, fail- Il show you a liberty!—God! You|wildly and primitively beautiful, ing vou again, I said she. shaking | forget vourself—you need to be|through the groves and among the her finger in a manner insufferably | taught— crags sped the slim, white-clad wife, | satirical; and resumed demurely: “But | “No'—p-positively, you don’t know dark hair flowing after; and hard be- of course I'm glad that you've forgotten | me well enough for this! Flease!— hind, grunting and snorting. menac- sobbing like a de-| You brute!—-" ing. too, chased the heavy-built man, serted village 14ss, most crudely taxed | . e s her husband. Different from the ou with having ceased to love me, and | GHI3 managed again. though with | home life of the queen, indeed: You, poor dear. could only reply, “There, |~ difficulty. to free herself from| On the open path, his clumsiness there! Most soothingly. T own. vet it | those violent. cluiching arms. Her[was equalized. She looked back, mortified me at ‘the time, 1 remember. | light airs were gone. She had{ fearfully, over her shoulder. He w. You've forgotten explaining to me that | thought just now that if Horace|gaining on her; no doubt of that. life wasn't meant to be an unending | touched her, she might actually hate | Instantly she left the path, song of romance; that it was normal | him; it had not occurred to her that|scrambling over the rough boulders! and necessary ; that the disturbing hey- | she would fear him. vet so it was.|which flanked it here, plunging into of love should descend o after- | Now, as he came after her again. | the copses, if such they were, bound- to twilight—-"" | muscnlarly potent and altogether wil- | ing away through the virgin woods, “So that's it’” he interrupted sudden- | ful. panic, suddenly and unaccount-| sure-footed as a fawn. With a wild Iy u've never got over that one ' ably, took possession of her. Without [ bursting of follage and cracking of | little scene—a mere incide “Oh, I remember. T've been thinking back a good deal. here lately,” he went on. rather thickly. “You went off on a visit to your mother's then, and when you came back, the change had come— that was the time. You'd assumed this singular and unwifely attitude; this unfair—"" - “What adjectives, my dear Horace! Was it unwifely or unfair to learn the lesson my own husband set me?” “That's more flippancy—you know it is. Look here—I wish to know. Did you then—or have you at any time since—come to take an interest in—in somebody else?” * k ok ok HE looked up through the black leaves toward the moon, an odd BY C. M. WAGNER. hall he sat down and looked about tumult in her breast, and laughed a i ] PUDS is not much of a dog |meditatively. It was so cool and com- et Yatestisiad Ryt oxmiad e b of when it comes to the social|fortable on the marble floor. Spuds course. And I'd supposed that even a wife was entitled to some privacy. Re- member, Horace, I've never questioned you, though all the world has known when you've looked over the fence. But the breeze is freshening and I've de- tained you long enough. Now I'll dress, waiting in the cabin—" i “Not so fast, not so fast!" said her husband, blocking her way. “We've started a conversation; we'll finish it now “Oh, pardon me, I thought you had finished.” I've not finished! Laurel, T wish to know plainly: ‘“Are you trying to say, by—all this—that you no longer Spuds: A Self-Made Dog He Was a Tramp by Nature—Being a Mon- grel Dog, He had No Connections and Desired None—But One Day Traffic Cop Charlie Clark Saved His Life and Then Couldn’t' Lose Him. Spuds Adopted Charlie and Became Respectable and Respected. let out a of joy at his discovery. That yip was unfortunate. He felt the tip of a broad toe pressed gently but firmly against his ribs. He looked up and found a watchman ex- plaining politely, if forcibly, that the City Hall was no lounging place for a mongrel pup on whose paws time hung heavily. Spuds looked resentful for a moment and then headed for the duor like a streak of lightning. He didn't quite know what it was all about. A panic seemed to seise him: for once he was terrified. How he events of the 400 of the dog world. But when it comes to that greatest of all virtues, grati- tude, Spuds’ diminutive shoulders tower far above the heads of the milk-fed aristocrats who eye him disdainfully from the soft cushions of their motor cars. Spuds is just an ordinary mongrel who makes a precarious living trot- ting around the streets of Newark. At least, he did at one time. Today he is probably the best known dog in the entire city. He is a success if there ever was one. He has had his picture on the front pages of the newspapers, he has been interviewed by star reporters and he is a celeb- | stranger. other person—a stranger.” To be sure, her heart swelled a little at that. “But you hardly offer that as a com- plaint, Horace? Hastily recalling our past, I feel sure you must find any change in me an improvement.” “That's Just the tone I don’'t like from love me? “Oh! Really! I'm afraid I've never thought to ask myself such a ques- tion.” “Ask yourself now. my right.” Her merriment died. “I am. And Horace," she said, re- garding him duskily, “honestly—I don't know the answer. Yet in that moment, exactly, she seemed to herself to have the answer. Yes, something had gone out of her, now and forever. Funny, but you couldn’t crack and make over your nature for nothing. “Oh, you don't know?" he sald darkly. “Well, the time’s come for you to find ou “Why? What's your interest in the ancient point? Haven't I the best authority for saying that love wasn't meant—" “That's enough of that! 1 won't have this attitude any longer. Plenty of time—and kisses too, it seems— for every whipper-snapping nincom- Ppoop—nothing at all for the man you married.” ut. my dear Horace, I can't turn myself on and off like a hot-water faucet! And the nincompoops never taught me that the heydey of ro- mance—" “Stop provoking me this way “Willingly. Good-bye! But, in- deed, you mustn't think of me as a Horace. I assure you I'll always think of you as among, my very best friends.” His dim face flooded with color. “You're my wife. Do you under- stand that? My wife!” “Wife is a relative term,” she said a little faintly, again seeking to pass him. “Bupt I'll leave you now.” “I'm ddmned if you will,” said the man, in a terrible voice. And, his dignity broken altogether, he seized her furiqusly in his arms. The violence of that embrace aston- ished her. Still mors surprising, per- baps, was the wave of resigtance, of rity in his own right. He is a self- made dog and he carries his honors with dignity and modesty, just as self- made men do. Spuds started out on his career in very inglorious fashion. No one knows just where he was born or anything about his ancestors except that they must have been very ordi- hary mongrels, if Spuds is a true son. One day Spuds decided to forsake the old homesteaders and strike out for himself. He seemed to find the world of streets, of alleys and garbage cans a fascinating one and became a con- firmed tramp. \ For a short time he was adopted by the school children in one of the big public schools of the city, and was petted and fed until he waxed very sléek and elegant, but he soon tired of the soft life and struck out again. He avolded that school like the plague whenever his wanderings took him anywhere near it. * ok k * ONE day Spuds stopped in front of the city hall on Broad street and eyed the imposing structure with in- terest. He had never seen such an imposing building before, with its white stone trimmings and broad, shining stalrs. He had been In all kinds of hovels and shacks and tenement houpes, where he had sometimes been -r celved with open arms, but more of- ten with curses and kicks. Still his nomad soul had never been discour- aged and he entered each new bulild- ing with the spirit of the explorer. Spuds decided that he would ex- plore the city hall. He eyed the tall smiling traffic cop on the corner calmly as he trotted by him and stop- ped for a moment at the foot of the stairs. Then he wagged his stub of a tail and started up the stairs: Nothing happened to him. He slip- ped through the great door and head- ed across the marble corridar. ‘When he reached the center of the T insist. It is l i l I thanked his stars when he reached the top of the landing and caught a glimpse of the sunlight and the sky again! In his eagerness he whirled down the long flight of stone stairs like an animated ball of fur. Without stopping to look to left or right he sped across the street. Suddenly Spuds heard a grating roar in his ears. Somewhere dimly he heard a woman scream. He caught just a glimpse of 2 huge trolley car bearing down upon him rapidly. He gave one despairing howl and tried to stop. His feet slipped and he skidded with claws valnly trying to grip the hard pavement. Just as the car was about to hit him he felt a strong hand sweep him from the ground, and he found himself clutched up to a hard chest. Spuds sobbed and burled his head in the -khaki uniform he found around him. HIE was dimly aware of voices that died away after a minute or two and he timidly looked out at the world again. When he lifted his head he found himself looking into the smiling face of Charlle Clark, traffic cop in front of the City Hall. “That was & narrow squeak you had, my boy,” said Charlle. “Never cross a street without looking to the right and left, and watch out for. the trolley cars. They’d clip you an awful shot if they hit you,” he continued gravely. With that he carried Spuds to the curbstone and left him while he went ‘back to his job of guarding the crossing. Spuds sat down with wonder ir his eves. After a time he got up and stroll- ed across the street and sat down at Offcer Charlie’s feet. He had made up his mind. Jt was time he stopped roaming around the streets like .a tramp. He would settle down. And he did. He's been scttied down ever since. He is as famillar a ‘might on the crossing in front of the City Hall Charlie ever was. 8 ucn.nlq, and'that ended nlfl.m.. far as he ‘was " * K ¥ ¥ has gilned boughs, Horace leapt after her. On the aifficult terrain, her superior nimbleness gave her the advantage; the distance between them steadily widened. Once she heard his hoarse voice panting, “Stop! I tell you, stop Now the strange thrill of the chase, the throbing excitement of the quarry, set her blood afire. thought, “Pursue, and 2 laughing frantically to herself, flew the faster. And then, as she sped across a sweet open space, a glade no doubt, powdered with bright moon- light, she glanced back again, un- wisely. Alas, her foot caught in a trailing vine and she pitched to the sward. The misfortune, which wasn’t rectified in a second, cost her her lead. Releasing herself, rising dizzily, she found the pursuer almost upon her—almost, but not quite. She just eluded his fingers, breathlessly dodg- ing; she doubled and turned; and so, in a moment. suddenly, she found her foet set on the winding path again, and lo, just ahead. was the old land- ing, and beyond, open water. She had forgotten the water; she welcomed the sight of it now. She was quite spent, and those resolute feet were close behind. Flying over the loose boards, the harried wife dived cleanly into the haven of the lake. That Horace would follow her in this maneuver had not occurred to her. He was an indifferent swimmer, and his sinus, as we know, was sensi- tive. Never having.seen him angry before, however, she had no doubt underestimated the force of his rage. In fact, the conquering male did not hesitate an instant. His ponderous body. flying feet first, broke water hardly a second behind her own. Unhappily for her, the lake was shallow here, a tall man could stand on the bottom, and Horace was tall. In fine, while she was still submer; ed her foot was roughly . seized. Coming up, spluttering, she found herself effectually prisoned. * x ok * FHUS the man, like Neptune with a mermaid, had his way. The stars looked down upon the odd con- jugal caress. Upon the woman's lips, gasping and watery, the lips of Horace, just as gasping, came water- ily down. Though her heart ham- mered with 2 wild excitement, there was now no strength in her. After an instant her feeble struggles cea: ed. Another Instant and, marvelous- 1y, resistance seemed no longer of any importance. Under this master- ful embrace the wife's ill, her whole being. indeed, seemed all at once mysteriously to dissolve within her. ou witch! I will adore you for- ever,” panted Horace wetly. And then her bare dripping arms, lifting, went around his neck Under the impulse of his great love the days and the weeks that follow- ed became for the wedded pair like a new and richer honeymoon. Her elusiveness faded, her reticences and reserves—all the provocative with- drawals, learned after how much tribulation, came to seem not only superfluous, but altogether unworthy. Since Horace gave so lavishly, how inconceivably mean spirited to dole back to him with a thrifty and cal- culating hand! ‘Willingly young Laurel let herself ®0. The new banns brought their un- experienced blessing. Now God was ready, in the old phrase, to smile upon this union. There came anoth- er June and then another, and Laurel's first child was six months old. Otherwise, perhaps, it would hard- 1y have been bearable. She sat In her room near the acreened open window, nursing her boy, whom she had no thought of ‘weaning yet. The sultry after- noon was quiet. From the piaszsa be- low floated up the voice of her hu: band, idly exchanging domestic views ‘with his adoring mother, arrived the day before for her yearly visit, but she did not need that sound to make her remember his nearness. On the stand beside her lay a note from Howard Witheredge, who had lately “come into her life” again. She had just been thinking that nothing could be more symbolical than that. Her name came vaguely wafting up to her. “Laurel's stoutened,” sald her mother-in-law, rocking comfortably, though with & touch of asthma. “It's not unbecoming to her. I think she eight hours a day. On the first day, she felt that she must rush out or faint for want of fresh air, but— many of us know what we manage to endure when starvation is the driver! None of the employes was of a class that she had ever known, but the one whose machine was next to hers was so personally objectionable that she felt that she must—she must—ask to be moved to another machine. But, of course, she did not; she was too abject to ask favors. The work—so many garments ready- cut for stitching— was laid on each machine in the morning, all to be com- pleted at a certain time. Otherwise there was no making the barest bone of a living. Resolving not to look at or speak to her offensive neighbor, the forlorn tyro | got through the first day somehow, but | on the second morning the machine needle plerced her finger and she had to leave her pile of scarcely touched work and go to have the injury dressed. | The agony was great, but she returned as soon as she could—to find that the garments had been taken from her machine. The shock of losing her job so in- creased the pain that she walked the floor in distraction, holding her hurt hand in the other. worker paused long enough to tell her not to worry—but you can't help worry- ing over a tragedy like that—so the woman took her suffering to the street and walked miles of desperation until, along in the afternoon, she gained nerve enough to go back to the shop to ask for another trial. ‘When she went to her machine there was the pile of finished garments ready to turn in. The offensive neighbor had to do it for herself. The woman is still on the job and manages to make enough to swear by— or at, according to one's financial views —but her neighbor is her comrade. As she told an old friend the other day: “I can see only kindness in everything she does and says. And I have come to realize that Kindness is a most beau- tiful thing. And that it knows no class.” * ok X % SHE is a nice little girl and the other day she was left in the care of a kindly neighbor while her moth- er went down town. And the child had a lovely time. First, she fed the birds—it seems that in that pleas- ant neighborhood every back garden is a bird sanctuary in the matter of wren boxes and ever-fresh water— then she tidied up the flower beds and hunted the lawn for any maraud- ing weed: then she played around a bit and then she was hungry. Her hostess asked her little guest what she would like for dinner and the child was sure that what she loved best of everything was bread and gravy—a wish that was bounti- fully supplied. Of all the good things on the table what she wanted—and A kindly voiced | laid aside her own work to give her day | to the strange comer who was too hurt Lancaster- “So? Did they have trouble getting a minister?” “How do You mean—oh, you dread- ful boy—of course not. He isn't that kind.” “You said he was all kinds.” Which shows the importance of se- lecting exactly right words. * % % x VENERABLE citizen who lives on the street called Easy is au- thority for the statement that the “wolf at the door’ is the common enemy of man. Likewise, woman He said so—like this: . “If you have ever heard him growl or felt the sharp white of his teeth. you will never be able to forget him. no matter how the checks take to fii- ing in. Some folks who have fought their way to prosperity may pretend not to remember, but it Is ‘bunk,’ my dear. AIll ‘bunk.’ When I was a lit- tle jigger, the wolf was always at my door. Sometimes he almost had me by the throat—but I downed him at last, though I shall never lose the scars. “I often wonder what poor little boys do now to make an emergency penny. In my day I could pick up a job on any street holding a horse. There is no telling how many thou- sands of boys have been saved from starvation or stealing by holding horses. There are no horses today. “Once when my mother had no money for the rent, she pawned my dead father's watch. It brought money enough to square the landlord and feed us until she got work. I am wearing that watch today. You couldn't tide over hunger and evic- tion these times with a watch, be cause there are no blessed balls Progress is a mighty fine thing, but 1 am thankful I had my fight with the wolf when horses and pawnshops were around to give me weapons.” Which is one commendation, any- how, for that semi-modern zra that age calls “the good old times.” Story of Red Cross. TTHE battle of Solferino. fought in 1859 between the allied French and Sardinians and the Austrians, was one of the most sanguinary conflicts of modern times. Twenty thousand Austrians and eighteen thousand of the allies were killed and wounded. To Henri Dunant, a Genevan phi- lanthropist who witnessed the battle, it seemed that the wounded, not the soldiers who met instant death, were the real unfortunates. The military hospitals, overburdened, proved in- adequate. Most of the wounded were left in agony. Thousands who might have been saved by timely help died upon the battlefield. The Swiss philanthropist and other volunteers did all they could to re- lieve the suffering, but that was com- paratively little. The Genevan asked himself what could be done to miti- gate the horrors of war. He devoted much thought to the problem until, finally, he was able to suggest a plan of action. This plan he set forth in a pamphlet entitled “A Souvenir of Solferino.” Dunant advocated an international society composed of volunteer nurses ‘who should hold themselves in readi- ness to follow armies and aid the wounded of any nation, to be pro- tected by all nataions as neutrals and non-combatants engaged in works of {mercy. This pamphlet proved to be the foundation upon which the Red Cross Society was organized. Dunant's proj- ect was warmly approved by his own |government. When Dunant went to {Paris he found that there, too, the pamphlet had made a deep impres- slon. The day after its publication in the French capital, Mme. de Stael, sister of the Duc de Broglie, caused the Red Cross badges to-be displayed in her {drawing room. To visitors who ask- ed their meaning she made such con- had—was bread and gravy and gravy 1 vincing answer that both Parisian sc- and bread. And at last, in sighing|ciety and the French government out the languor of complete fulfili-!were soon committed to the Red Cross ment, her eves caught the vision of a lemon pie on the buffet. It was a most alluring pie, golden brown everywhere except where it was golden yellow, with bubbly crust all around. The small girl turned to the lady with that might-have-been expres- sion that the poet rhymes about and ' asked if it had been intended that she should have had a slice of that ple. The lady assured her that it ‘was their dessert, whereupon the guest tried to insert fingers on either principle. The international conference that organized the society was held in {Geneva in October. 1863. By the end lof the following year thirteen gov- lernments had officially approved the Isociety’s purpose, and today every civilized nation sustains it. The good it has accomplished since then is well I known and millions and millions of dollars have been subscribed for its support. Dunant in winning his fight for the organization of the Red Cross lost his side of her blouse walst and shook her head despondently: “Sometimes I has elastic belts that own—that is, his own financial ven- tures were disastrous. Happily, how- ever, the dowager empress of Russia and the federal council of Switser- will stretch and sometimes I has|jong granted him rellef in the shape bands. This one is a band.” She knew her limitations. Which is an important matter, if you recall that one of the wise men who lives in Plutarch's Lives tells his world that “Man knoweth not when it is seemly that he stop.” He didn’t reckon on small girls. * k ¥ ¥ MATRON on the skirmish line of age was dispensing social news to & mature listener of the movie-idol type. She was all georgette and shiny diamonds and he was perfection in ‘white flannel. While they talked each’ dawdled over a sherry-tinted iced something in a long glass fringed around with mint—at a roof-garden table—with twilight and palms all around. “You haven't heard about Cla ‘Well, if you want a shell shock, poor Clara is married—at last! Of course, on the general principle that a single woman belongs to the younger set until she marries or dies of old age, Clara kept up the fiction of being & girl, but—it looked very hopeless for the poor thing until, without giving us the least hint, she went off and » has—settled—somehow, Horace. She|married a western man who is all n ‘polse™ kinds of a Mll!ouln." of pensions. “Circles of Life.” TTHE traveler among the islands of the tropics finds few more curi- ously interesting sights than the coral reefs that surround them. The variety of color exhibited by the reefs where the living corals abound is ‘won- derful and beautiful that in a flower garden. But the eye of the naturalist detects beauties and points of interest that entirely escape the eye of the casual or careless visitor: for every circling reef is the home of a vast varlety of living forms, which exhibit some of nature's most cun- ning handiwork in the adaptation of means to ends. Among these curious inhabitants of the tropical waters is, for instance, the caput medusae, an animal that bears & remarkable resemblance to a plant, and whose remote ancestors in the most ancient oceans of the earth contrived to prolong the existence of their kind by developing a means of ¢ keeping the water around them com- paratively pure. This is only one of a multitude of wonderful little anl mals to be found in such places ¥ s AR 3 ;