Evening Star Newspaper, March 8, 1925, Page 74

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. % A Winter's Tale sz=e= Raising the Query Whether Poverty Can Kill Power to Give. 1Z FRED and Liz Henry were | Katytown term for police station. He finally to go to the poorhouse. For 15 years since Fred snd Henry. Port had died leaving their wives penniless Katy- town had watched the struggles of fhe two women to hold the tiny mort- &ed white house in which all four nud lived. Katytown had helped all 1pat it could—had given work and ent in food and paid taxes and even nade a benefit—but now he two aging women could bear the burdeh no longer, and the first of the new vear the house was to be sold for debt. “And darling,” said Foxhall Phelps, “it's exactly what we'll want—that little house. Knock out a partition or two, throw up a chimney outslde, bulld In some bookcases and swing in a few casement windows—can't you see it? With period paper on he wall?" “Yes,” sald Marcia, “I can see it They went together to see the house the week before it was to be sold and two months before they were to married. Four smail ooms and a passage, & good dorway nd two sloping chambers filled them with delight. But this was all the delight that they had. L Henry received them. In a lage sufliciently sophisticated to have indignations and yet rarely to <now ennui, Liz Henry was a_bore. For 30 years she had bored Katy- town to tears. She always told it about her relatives and her mala- dies—they were all that she had, so th wa natural, but it w tiring. “Evenin’, Marcia; evenin’, Liz Henry said retty good, I guess. Only m' feet been troublin’ me some. M’ feet——" She was off. Liz Fred came in. She was young- hardly more than 60. She was really younger because she was more detached—could hear herself speak- ing, could laugh at herself. “Do shut up about your feet,” she said kindly to her sister-in-law. “They'd rather hear about my back—I know they would. She had a gen- tle. twisted smile. They told her that they had come to look at the house, Instantly over both women there rottled something like a fine white ash, dimming expression, even fea- id Liz Fred. x Z HENRY began both come here brides,” she said. We each had and lost two little children here. Don't it seem funny— if those four little things had been spared, we might not be going— where we're going.” “Shucks. They might all have been in jail” sald Liz Fred. “Two of them were girls” Liz ifenry reminded her with dignity, as it jails were for gentlemen. “Well, they might have vour feet,” sald Liz Fred, back,” she added. 1 wouldn't be sacrilegious,” Liz Henry sharply. 1 would,” said Liz Fred, much.” “This room in blue and that one in yellow,” Marcia said softly. “With Aunt Julia’s old mahogany,” xhall added in deep content. “And this adorable stalrway hung with the Japanese prints—-" Ashamed, she turned to the women to admire a fuchsia ‘We'll give you that when we go,” Liz ¥red said graciously. There was a knocking as they reached the lower floor. and in the doorway bulked Luther Falk, the Katytown dravman. “Come for the stuff,” said he. Liz Henry cried, “Oh—oh—" and quavering, like an owl's cry. Fred said sharply: “Tonight? “I thought—you wasn't to come for that till after New Year's,” Liz Henry faltered. “I'm goin' upstate for Noo Year's,” said Luther Falk stolidly, “so they said to take 'em now. I'm to cart 'em to a rummage sale in town. The toves and beds I can get when I come back aftcr you're—" he paused deli- cately. Liz Henry continued to c owl and clung to Marcia well night was going enough,” Liz Henry sald. last the week.” ¥rom that room Luther Falk tho table, the three cane-seated chairs, the plush couch, the braided rugs and the rocker with the strata f shawls. “Anythin’ more?" said he. T'll take the dinin' room duffel out the back door. ure you can,” said Liz Fred, and slosed the door upon him. “Shut up, Liz" she observed. “I'm glad to sec the old truck go.” “But what will you do,” Marcia de- manded, “all the rest of this week?" “Eat on the lamp-shelf,” said Liz Fred. “Bad on the feet and on the back—but grand for the digestion.” “We like it very much—the house, Murcia said hurriedl We've talked with Ben Tilson—we'll let him know what we decide. “And If we do take it,” Marcia went “I_hope vou'll both come and spend Sunday with us sometimes—" Her words dwindled before the tragedy in Liz Fred's eves. “I couldn’t bear remembering,” she said. And abruptly she, too, began to cry—cruel, choking sobs. Without a word she opened the door for them, one work-worn hand covering her ey But when Liz Henry height- ened her owl-like wailing. Liz Fred's sobs were cut off as if they had been to talk, “We inherited “and my said “that ¥ long Liz like an 'he fare- to be bad “Now it'll took on m sake, they heard closed the door IT in the white street, silent save for a brush of branches in a sighing wind, Marcia had Foxhall's m in both her own. “I can't do it live in that house. old ghosts wou Foxhall.” “Mighty tough,” shut her Liz she up, say as e said: “I can't Those two poor face us every day Foxhall muttered. “Mighty blamed tough! But I don't know whether we ought to give up the house—somebody’s going to live in it.” he argued. “Dearest, I can't bear it,” she said “The waste—and the cruelty. Those two have worked hard all their lives. They've done the best they could with | their equipment—and the handicap of tho mortgage. They've had children and lost them. What kind of a coun- try do we live in that can let its old veople end their days like that?” “I know,” said Foxkall. . “T always think it's a rotten deal. do anything, can we? “Can’t we?” sald Marcia tensely, “Can't we? I've that two thousand from Aunt Julia I was going to put into furniture. Suppose I put it into the house and you pay the rest, and we let them live in it as long as they live.” “But what'll they Foxhall aghast. “I could glve a few music lessons & month and never notice it, and turn the money over to them. Think, dear, it's their lives—all the rest of sll the life they've got.” “And what'll we do?" he demanded “Rent—for a little while. Or even ~—wait, for a little while? “Oh, let's rent,” said Foxhall. He kissed her. “I'll do it,” he said, “but it's your deal. I'll own up I'm doing it mostly for you." “It’s not nearly so reckless as buy- ing a car would be—and anybody would do that,” said Marcia thought- fully. “Let’s go and tell Tilson now before we change our minds.” Ben Tilson had two little room: gver the calaboose~which was the live on!" cried Foxhall,” | But we can't | | root | bottle—a bolled bottle, Foxhall; you { chiet | Foxnall lived there alone, with a cornet. They could hear his cornet all up and down Main street on Summer evenings, and stragglers In the calaboose woke and cursed or were charmed by its wav-| ering strains. “Two thousand down, balance in sayments at stated times,” said Me. ‘Have the papers for you tomorrow. Drop in my office. Goin' to live in it yourselves, are you?" ot—not right away,” owned. HEAVY boots were on leading to his rooms. was calling: “Ben Tilson! son!” He flung open the door and Bart Robey, the Katytown chief of police, stood ' there. art was vast and gentle—all his boots and his volce ay,” he said, “have you got any skim’ milk?" In his arms was a baby. Say, no,” Ben said imperturbably, but I got some coffee hot on the back of the stove. I'll get a cup.” “Peach of a father you'd be," said the chief. “You might pass 'im the beer. Even Miss Marcia. Evenin’, Mr. Phelps. Look at this ex- hibit, will you?" It ‘was a little baby, hardly six months old. She was quite silent save for groping breaths, but they were contented breaths. She stared fix- edly at the light of Ben's tipsy cen- tral burner and with an air of in-| tense abstraction chewed a blanket corner. She was quite clean and dainty and owned a fuzz of black| hair. “Have vyou Foxhall asked. Run in its m: sald the chief. he come to town on the ‘through— got off the train drunk and mussed up. I happened to be up there and 1 escorted her down to headquarters. She's pretty sick—got the doctor with her now. ~Say, ain’t it a cute little bundle?” “Give her to me,” said Marcia, per- emptorily. Ben's room had one rocker and there Marcia sat with the baby in her arms. “Open the draft, Ben,” she said, “it's cold here. Bart, pull down this shade, please, and give me that box for a footstool. Foxhall, you run| over to the hotel and ask Madge to boil a little water and fill a clean Foxhall * ook % the stairs A voice Ben Til- but arrested—it, Bart?" help her. What are you going to do with her?” she asked Bart. “Leave it with its ma, I s'pos “But it she's sick? Jacks, 1 dunno. “Would you mind seeing what the doctor says about her? The chief took his orders and re- treated. Ben was building up a roaring fire, Foxhall came back and the bottle was set to cool, with him to watch it. When the baby nestled and | grunted, Marcia stooped to it, rocked it, crooned. Watching her, Foxhall thought how restfully she was unlike | the girls he had seen who, in the| presence of a baby, became self-con- scious and absurd, extravagant in adulation. Marcia was, he decided, unlike other girlh. “Seems like if it clicked every time it kicked,” Ben said, “there'd be quite a rattlin’” And when the baby cried a littl >0 you reckon it'd care to hear ‘Angel's Serenade” ” he asked earnestly “Yes, Ben, T think Marcia told him. Ben was playing with terrible in- tentness, flame-colored in the face, his air wholly unrecognizable, when Bart Robey came back up the stairs. Bart's round eyes had grown tri- angular and his eyebrows were half- moons of concern. “They're goin’ to take her up to the hospital,” he said. | ays bring the kid and the nurses'll | have to take care of it. So if you'll give it to me—" “I'll do nothing of the sort,” said Marcia decidedly. “I'll take her home. A hospital's no place for a well baby,” she added firmly. “That's princely, Miss Marcia,” said Bart in rellef. “I feel responsible be- cause I run in its ma. And I own up I kind o' dreaded askin’ my wife to do it—she’s a right positive woman. And of course the calaboose is no ace to entertain a kid.” could keep her,” said Ben mod- she would,” laughed but Foxhall said: “You and 1 don’t seem to be of much . do we, Ben?’ ves, vou do,” said Marcia to| oure to carry her. And the most useful of any- been said Ben, “and the calaboose is asleep —which it will be—gimme a ring—' “And yowll make it some hot cof- fee, Bart from the stairs. They parted In the quiet street, the almost violent in his thanks. The same lcy crackle was in the branches, the same protesting squeak was in the snow—but there was an- other area of sensation In the two | who footed there. The house of Liz | Fred and Liz Henry was forgotten, | and so were their ineffectual tears. | When they reached Marcia’s home, insisted on coming in and watching. “Marcia, you know,” he said, “T've seen you drive a car and lead a woman’s-bill_meeting and make an omelet—but T never did see you care for a baby. I hope,” he added simply, “that this isn't the only one I'll sce | Youl Gars: for:\ | “So do 1,” sald Marcla quite as| simply. MARCIA'S mother was little and fussy, after the manner of— 1890, perhaps it was: later than hoop skirts, but before short skirts. She had no gift for the casual. Every oc- e o currence of life she regarded with italics and received with an embrace or declined with a thud. The arrival of the bab: thud. “I can't be bothered with it,” she affirmed with decision. “In the morn- elicited the |ing Marcia, we'll take it back.” “There isn’t any back,” Marcia ex- plained, “and I'll take care of It, ma- ma.” Foxhall hardly heard the plaints of Mrs. Banks which went on for some time. He merely sat and watched Marcia. And Marcia didn't forget him-—she was too deeply in love ever o be unconscious of him for a mo- ment—but she was excludingly ab- sorbed in the baby. She had found some small night garments of the younger children and she overrode her mother with a lovely conscious- ness of being in the simple right. Mrs. Banks might have some good sense, but she had not always a deeper wlisdom. The news that Liz Fred and Liz Henry had been left in a bare house for their final week in Katytown made Katytown indignant. Bart, the drayman, claimed to act on instructions from Ben Tilson, who was local poor commissioner. The situation seized on the imagi- nation of the Kattytown women, and they hurriedly arranged matters. A chair was spared from here, a rug from there, a table from somewhere else. By noon of the day following Luther Falk's onslaught the sitting room and dining room of the old house were agafn habitable. “It's only for the week,” everybody | said. “Let's make 'em as comfortable as we can for their last week. And let's carry them in all the food we can.” So not only the plain, nourishing food with which Katytown had been wont to sustain these two now found its way to their doors, but cakes and pastry and odorous casseroles, The little pantry overflowed and the deal table in the kitchen was laden. Those who dropped in to call were carried off to the kitchen to admire. Every dish was known to Liz Fred and Liz Henry by the name of the giver and was so told off in the display. “It's almost like having wedding presents,” Liz Fred sald, with her twisted smile. Under this unaccustomed sun Liz Fred and Liz Henry themselves took on a Wintry bloom. Every morning, having now no work to do and not knowing who might drop in to bring an offering, the two put on their decent best—merinos with white lace fronts. “Because we won't have no place to wear them when we get—where we're goin',” said Liz Fred, sagely, “so we might as well flam out in them now.” * ITTING thus one evening, in their black merinos, upon all the bor- rowed furniture, it was Liz Henry who brought forth first a groan and then an idea, “Four days left” she said. T keep thinkin' of the things I meant to do for folks.” Liz Fred said nothing. She was moving her shoulders in a little rocking motion as all over. T s'pose,” Liz Henry continued, it's some like dying—you're never quite ready. I was thinking about the poppyseed I promised Mis' Spate. Now I can’t take it to her.” There’s Mis’ Walker I promised to go in and set with and read to a while,” Liz Fred said. “I ain’t done it “An' 1 never showed Plant that new lace stitch. or helped Lyddy with her sewing for the little girl she took in. “What's the use Fred, harshl No all that now Liz_Henry began to cry. “I feel like I'd died and been buried,” she said, “with all my sensations in me.” Suddenly Liz Fred said, “Say!" Liz Henry looked up, startled and sniffing. “We got our four days left. Why not get such things done anyway said her sister, Liz Henry continued to cry for- lornly. “We couldn't,” she said “Not with the snow so deep and all They ain't got our galoshes,” said Liz Fred. “Not yet they ain't. Come along—Ilet's do some of 'em anyway Let's make a list and start out now." Liz Henry was apathetic, but as the list began to grow under Liz Fred's fingers, she joined in: “We promised Marcia Banks our fuchsia, but she could get that after ve're gone Why not have the fun of taking it to her ourselves?’ sald Liz Fred. The snow was falling gently and beautifully when the two set out next day. They were passably well-dressed —a stranger seeing them would have taken them to be two motherly vil- lagers, carrying a well-wrapped plant to a friend. When they opened the gate to Marcia's comfortable home they looked like any of her mother's visitors. Indeed, until a month ago, when the poor-farm had been decided on, that was what they were. It was as if that decision, at one blow, had robbed them of station and consideration. Now they seemed to have no identity aside from that day, four days hence. When Liz Henry and Liz Fred ar- rived Marcia was sitting by the fire with the baby. ¥ that's said Liz Henry. " Liz Fred said nothing, but with her thumb and fingers she touched the baby's arm. She looked at Mar- “Kitten,"” she said, “ain't = Aiet now?” said Liz use raking up the baby, ain't it “We heard all about ‘We brought you our fuchsia.” said Liz Henry, and unwrapped it. “We had it five years—we raised It. Ain't > if she was hurt| | w | they told her everything. it @ handsome thing?” And when Marcla demurred at taking it now, Liz Fred cried: “Shucks! We wanted the fun of giving It away.” “We ain’t never had much of that sort of fun,” said Liz Henry, and, if she had any stray tendency to tears, they dried under the mandatory look of Liz Fred, who cried: “Oh, Miss Marcia, we been having the best afternoon! Yes, sir—and we're going to have three days more just like it.” They poured it all out, the story of the done and the undone. “And tonight,” said Liz Henry, “I'm | going to teach Mis' Plant to make ‘three-and-five.” And tomorrow all day we're going to help Lyddy sew.” “And next day I'm goin’ to read to old blind Mis' Walker. There's some more, too—Iif the commissioners would let us stay over,” Liz Fred laughed. “We've got time to go to old Mis' Weber's yet tonight,” said Liz Henry. “We been putting It off ever since she took sick in the Fall” Marcia had never seen them so hu- man, so alive. She realized that she was on their list, to be given the fuchsla—it gave her a curious and salutary feeling to be visited, on a list, instead of visiting. Marcia was consclous of a dignity and a presence in both these women which she had never seen—perhaps, she thought, be- cause she had always unconsciously held these two to be negligible, or at best merely to be ministered to. She thought: “Oh, I'm going to tell them now. If Foxhall has the papers, he must come up and we'll tell them now. She left the baby with them and ran to telephone to him. Then she insisted on their staying for tea. * ok ok X ‘OXHALL came in and Marcia turned to him with a restful sense of sharing, which was one of the happinesses of her love. “Foxhall's voice is so desp and furry,” she had once said, “you just have to love him." The deep and furry voice had never been gentler than when he told Liz Fred and Liz Henry what he and Marcia proposed doing—and spread the deed before their eye: Never afterward could Marcia and Foxhall think of that hour without a kind of shame that any human being should be so abjectly grateful for food and shelter—"for the rudiments of food and shelter,” as Foxhall put it. It was only now that there became evident the depth of desolation which the poor old beings had suffered. “Ralsed from the dead—that's what it is," sald Liz Henry. “I ain’t much either—but we thank you and God ‘“We can't thank anybody so's it sounds like anything.” said Liz Fred. “You gotta know!" she cried flercely as they were leaving. She stopped again, laid her brown thumb and finger on the little sleeve and muttered thickly, “Kitten! Half an hour later Bart Robey called Marcia over the telephone. “It's an awful shame, Miss Banks he said. “I'm sure they done the best they could—but the baby's ma—she died.” To Marcia's startled question he had no satisfactory reply. No, not a word. Never really right in her head since they took her in. Died without sensing anything save that her hands kept groping around for the baby. No, no idea what her name was—no papers, no cards, hardly any money in her purse—nothing. She went back to the library and told Foxhall. She had left the baby in the depths of a great chair, but when she returned he had her in his arms. “Well, then, darling,” he said when Marcia told him, “what are we going to do about the baby?” “How exactly like you not to ‘What are you going to do”" told him. “I'm in on keep her?” h, Foxhall! Fred and Liz house, and take “Oh, thunder we couldn The baby awoke and joined in the talk with aimless gestures and em- phatic kicking. Mrs. Banks came in and, because it seemed to be her due, And Mrs. Banks was like the great adamant volce of certain “sane” public opi ‘on Nonsense. The child m be turned over to the soclety. Liz Fred and Liz Henry shoufd have gone to the poor farm—but that couldn’t be help- ed now, since ou two have been so headlong. And a mercy, too, If it keeps vou from saddling yourselves for life with a waif.” other, dear!” Marcia said help- ssly oo, your mother knows best,” said Mrs. Banks. “And this reminds me: I have a fresh coffee-cake for Liz Henry and Liz Fred. I'll run over with it now. 5 “Oh, Foxhall,” said Marcia when she had gone, “isn't there a better idealism than common sense? “You bet there is,” said Foxhall. dearest,” sald Marcia solemnly, an’t you see why it is that 1 adore the ground you walk on?” * x % * OJiuSY spent fan hous ayer the fig- ures. They stretched and squeezed their little budget. But they dare not let it include the adoption of two old ladies and a baby at one ke. \ it no use” sald Marcia at last. 'l telephone Bart tomorrow.” “But we're doing the less useful thing—the less social thing” said Foxhall, “Liz Henry and Liz Fred aren’'t so important as this baby.” “We're keeping our word” said Marcia. “That's social.” Liz Henry and Liz Fred were in the kitchen, before a savory slice of pot roast, freshly heated, and a dish of baked macaroni and cheese. “Though 1 dunno I'm sure, how we can expect to eat at all,” Liz Henry. “Oh, ain't it Heaven—ain't it Heaven!” “It's like having a hill rolled off your ohest,” said Liz Fred. “Here Wwe had an afterncon like other folks —and now this.” “We haven’t much furniture, but itd be paradise to live in the kitchen,” sald Liz Henry. “And I just thought of this: That farewell night we dreaded, there won't be none!” Mrs. door. “Come in and have a taste of some- thipg.” Liz Henry besought her. “Come in and help us celebrate.” “Were women folks to home again, sald Liz- Fred, “all owin' to your young folks. Oh, Mis' Banks—" “Marcia told me,” sald Mrs. Banks warming her hands at the cooking stove. “And I must say, foolish as I think it was, I'm thankful, after all.” “Oh, now that's good of you,” Liz Fred cried. “Yes,” said Mrs. Banks, her thin lips tightening adout her words, “if it hadn’t been for you two and the house, we'd have had a baby saddled on to us” rs. Banks told it, with the Katy- town manner of savoring the news in her enjoyment of it. In her pleased preoccupation she did not observe that Liz Henry and Liz Fred said nothing; that when, being talked out, she went away, they still said nothing save to thank her for the coffee cake. “Don’t mention it” said Mrs. Banks. “I love doing things for folks.” When the door closed behind her, say she he said. “Shall this,” Henry going in that he baby, too.” said Foxhall. “So Banks knocked at the side We can't keep Liz | |Rambler Renews Hi | C., MARCH 8, vy N “HAVE YOU ARRESTED--IT, BART?” FOXHALL ASKED. “GIVE IT TO ME,” SAID MARCIA. PEREMPTORILY. 1925—PART 5. each other. In that hour they seemed | to have grown very old. “What we goin’' to do Henry at last Liz Fred threw up her head. Why should we do anything?" “But the bab: “The baby'll where else.” “But Miss Marcia—she'd like to keep it—" She’ll have one of her own.” But, Liz Fred— “Don’t ‘Liz Fred' me! 1 ot home. I don’t have to be on the county. T got a place to stay the rest of my days. Do you think I'm going to be fool enough to give it up?* At this Liz Henry began her terrible owl-like quavers. “Nor me. Oh, I dunno what to do either!” she wailed. “Well, 1 do,” said Liz Fred. *“I" going to stay right straight here. She hurried upstairs to her room. Liz Henry rose and locked the door and blew out the lamp. Then she sat down by the cooking stove In the room above she could hear her sister’s chair rock on a board by the kitchen stovepipe which heated her | room. The stovepipe holes showed no light—Liz Fred, too, was sitting in the dark. said Liz “Do? find a home some- a to cry With the Historic Washington Land| ntinued from Third Page.) trustee’s sale, the executors of Payne buying it. The Payne estate, includ- ing Wakefield, was inherited by Dan- iel Payne's daughter, Betty, who in 1845 was married to Dr. William Wirt of Wirtland, in the Popes Creek country, and who was a son of Wil- liam Wirt, born at Bladensburg, 1772; died at Washington, 1834; schooled as a child in Georgetown and as a boy at the Rockville Academy, and who during several years of his youth boarded with Samuel Beall and his family in the old brick house called Locust Grove (standing) on the road from Wilson's store, on the old Georgetown-Rockville road, to Bell's (or Beall's) Mill, on Cabin John Run. From 1817 to 1820 Willlam Wirt was Attorney General of the United States, and in 1832 candidate of the Anti-Masonic party for the . presi- dency. Of course, you do not know that the Rambler has written of all the places at and near Washington associated with William Wirt, but it is so. In 1846 Dr. William Wirt and his wife, Elizabeth, sold Wakefleld to John F. Wilson of Anne Arundel County, Md, and he gave the farm to his son, John E. Wilson, who mar- ried Miss Betty Washington, grand- daughter of William Augustine Wash- ington, who inherited the Wakefield farm and built on it, about 2 miles from the site of George Washington’s birth house, a fine brick house, stand- ing, which he called Blenheim. If the Rambler is not mistaken, Mrs. John E. Wilson was the daugh- ter of Lawrence Washington, William Augustine’s son, and _Sallie Tayloe of the Tayloes of the Octagon House, in this city, and Kalorama. Mrs. Wil- son, who died about two years ago, used to tell the Rambler of happy times she had when a girl at Kalo- rama. I do not know the date of death of my old friend, John E. Wilson, but 1 am thinking it was| something more than 15 years ago. The George Washington birth farm of Wakefleld is owned by the heirs of John E. Wilson and Betty Wash- ington, except the small part bought by the Government for the monument and roads to it, and about 70 acres lately bought by the Wakefleld Na- tional Memorial Assoclation. In 1904 the Rambler was taken over the farm by Mr. Wilson in his buggy and he had dinner in the Wilson home. From the story written then the Rambler resurrects the follow- ing concerning the marker, which George Washington Parke Custis of Arlington put on the site of George Washington’s birth house: “Mr. Wilsen remembers the Custis marker. It was put in place in 1813 while Mr. Custis was living at Arling- ton. It was a big slab of Potomac bluestone and was probably quarried on the Virginia side near the present Aqueduct bridge. It was taken down the river by schooner and set at the site of ¢he Washington homestead, then clearly indicated by two chim- neys. The stone was in position when Mr. Wilson came into poss: sion of Wakefleld In 1846. A few years before the Civil War some colored persons, building quarters in the neighborhood, carried off this stone and put it in place as the back | Fred Sometime after midnight Liz Henry lighted a lamp. She went upstairs to her own room, across the passage from her sister's closed door. For half an hour she worked, gather- ing up her few belongings and laying them in order. She could hear Liz moving about and thought she was preparing for bed. But when at last she came out of her room, Fred's door was wide open and she herself stood in a litter of the con- tents of bureau drawers “Are you—are You Liz Henry breathlessly “Yes,” said Liz Fred listlessly, “I rose and goin'?" asked am. “To the poor farm—are you goin' to the poor farm? “Didn’t I see you was bent on it?" cried Liz harshly. Liz Henry crossed her They were both blinking, threshold. blinking {and bent—still more aged since they had last met “It ain't no such thing.” Liz Henry cried shrilly. “If you're goin’, you're goin” for your own reasons.” “You don't know what I'm going for?" Liz Fred blazed furiously Liz Henry stood for a moment, rub- bing at her forehead “Well,” she said at last, “it's so late now let's lay down with our clothes s Acquaintance to the house site. Tn handling it was broken in half, but the pieces were fitted together. Vi tors would chip the stone and carry off bits of it and during the Civil ‘War the stone disappeared.” %% ¥ the Rambler's mail thi was a letter from Dr. Henry Augus- tine Johnson, 1213 Lamont street. It is a long letter concerning Wakefield and the Rambler hands you this part of it: “It may be stated that there is a number of persons residing in Wash- ington who claim relationship to Gen. Washington, some of whom I have met, while there are others I have never had the pleasure of meeting. Some of the persons referred to are descendants of Col. Fielding Lewls, who married Elizabeth Washington. only sister of Gen\ Washington. would seem desirable and proper that the Rambler ascertain who these per- sons are residing in Washington, claiming relationship to Gen. George Washington, their place of residence, and statment from each as to their relationship to Gen. Washington. Such information obtained and pub- lished in The Star newspaper, would, T am sure, be gratefully appreciated by such persons and enable them to meet, become fully acquainted and form an assoclation of the relatives of Gen. George Washington residing in and return it the morning Jadjacent to the City of Washington. As a subscriber to The Evening and The Sunday Star for 55 years I would feel under great obligation to the editor and owners of the paper if they would obtain this desirable informa- tion “With regards to my own relation- ship to Gen. George Washington, 1 would state that William Augustine Washington, oldest nephew of George Washington and reciplent of one of the five swords bequeathed to his nephews, was my maternal great- grandfather, who married his cousin, Jane Washington, daughter of John A. Washington, brother of George Washington, she being my maternal great-grandmother. My maternal grandfather, Bushrod Washington, jr., son of William Augustine Washing- ton, married his cousin, Elizabeth Spottswood, who was the grand-niece of Gen. George Washington. My mother, Ann Ellza Washington, old- est daughter of Bushrod Washington, jr., great-grandniece of Gen. Wash- ington, married my father, Rev. William P. C. Johnson of Mount Zephyr, part of the Mount Vernon estate given to my grandfather, Bush- rod Washington, jr, by his uncle Bushrod Washington, and upon which estate my brothers and sisters were born, I being born at Leonardtown, Md., during the time my father was rector of the Episcopal church there.” The letter of Dr. Henry A. John- son contains information that his father, Rev. William P. C. Johnson, was rector of Pohick Church, and repaired it with contributions from President Van Buren, John Q. Adams, Daniel Webster, Francis Scott Key, and many persons of Washington and Virginia. He has the book with the autographs of contributors and sums contributed. He tells that he has a clgar case presented to Washington by Lafayette and a wax_impression of an open fireplace. Mrs. Wilson (nee Betty Washington), traced the/ of the seal with which Washington signed the death warrant of Maj. tha two old Women sat staring atlstone and compelled the marauders te | Andre, Liz | It | |on. That way there won't be no fare- | | well night | | Early the next morning, before the clear in white east, the |two went three times from the little | {house carrying light bundles: cas-| seroles and tins were left here an there: and a store o food—r | macaroni, coffee cake—at old lame Bardwell's and blind Mis' Walker's |and sick Mis' Weber's door. Toward 8 o'clock the two mbed the stair- | way to Ben Tilson's rooms | | “We wanted to know if we could| |go—where we're goin'—now,” said |Liz Fred. “On the 8:4 1 “Now?" said Ben. his morning’ | Quick to sense that this was a mo- | ment which had better be taken ad- vantage of, Ben said that he thought {it could be arranged—and arranged | |it. He did not question the | “Couldn’t—couldn’t our things be | |sent after us?" Liz Fred said low. “If they're read might as well stop for ‘em now,” said Ben oblivi- ously. | So the two sat in the car before the | | white house while Ben and the driver | brought out the shabby old valises. As | he turned from the locking of the door, | something in the aspect of the two | still figures in the car smote him with junwonted urgency. | sun rose a i’ | |dried the haby ar “Kind awkwardly To his amazement they both looked nd at him We going,’ dign and distinctne from choice.” “Our own Henry. “Of comprehend And Mr. Tilso “on the way back want the man sho for Miss Marcia Ban get, will he?” “Let's leave “Plenty time. When the door bell rang, Marcia was ba hing :he waby and crying quietly Her mo'Mer brought her the note waltted for her while she 1 rolled her in her Then she read the ill-spelled tough,” he said to them and smiled, said Liz Fred w “entire rou are free choice,” echoed Liz n co mumbled Ben, not * said Liz Henry from the depot we 1d leave this note s. He won't for- it said Ben now, 1 blanket. line r Miss Marecia We decided the farm after all We think i+ eall be an eazey life and we'rs bo getting lazey. Much ob.iged as' the samie and love. Love LI7Z HENRY AND right, 1 LIZ FRED.” :Facing a Solution—By J. A. Waldron The Story of ! a candle were tied in the middle, suspended horizontally and light- | ed at both ends it would not uratively speaking. much more quickly than burned his candle. Bafore he had time to realize much of anything but initial good fortune, @ honeymoon and something charac- teristic of “amusement” on the side, Reggle was dead. The life picture he| painted was all foreground, confused by glaring colors and high lights, He never even dreamed what per- spective means. After the obsequies, as his mun- dane affairs were being adjusted, Constance, his charming widow charming 'in spite of the life he had {led her, for vital youth was hers— | found that she would probably be| left little or nothing. But lacking | forethought, she did not worry. Their fine country place was legally in the hands of mortgagees, though she was permitted to stay on for a time. But resldence there was distasteful be- cause creditors or their representa- tives were intruding to make invén- tories related to their claim: Reg- gie had roved in a Rolls-Royce mo- tor, with which Constance was abso- lutely in love; and this she wished, if possible, to keep for her very own —or, if she could not keep it, to sell it for a stunning price. She did not even worry about maintenance of such a luxury if she should be fortu- nate enough to keep it. “I'll ask James about it she said to herself one morning as she waited for him to drive her out. James was her chauffeur. Thrilled by the speed James nego- | tiated with skill as they struck the smooth, broad boulevard, Constance galned courage. *“You must have no- ticed, James,” she said, “that I am becoming quite poverty-stricken— that I am losing almost everything I have.” Yes, ma'am,” was James' reply. “But one thing I hope to retain in some way—this dear car.” James slowed down and turned to observe her. “But you know, ma'am, I've got to have my wages—six months, now—a tidy sum, ma'am.’ “Of course! You can get your wages out of something on the place. File a lien, I believe, or something.” “Thank you, ma'am, I'm going to. i And I was thinking, ma'am, of leav- ing when my month is up—Saturday weelk that'll be.” “Oh, well! Then I'shall have to get another chauffeur. And I'm so fond of you, James! It's too bad!” James was uneasy. “But, ma'am, I've decided to lay a claim on this car!” Constamce fainted. In fact she crumpled almost out of sight in the tonneau. James, alarmed, stopped, and finding an_emergency bottle in a secret place—Reggle's idea, by the way—brought her to. “Oh, James. James! you do it?” “But some one else would claim ! the car, ma'am. You shouldn’t worry. There may be some way out of it. You know Merryman, the rich old fellow who lives in that fine place?” James pointed at a great roof that rose out of the distance. “I've seep the gentleman, James, as you know.” She was dabbing her nose and chin with a puff. Possibly] she had caught sight of Merryman on Reggie | How could a Domestic Problem horseback, for he way. “Well, ma'am, whenever we've passed Merryr he has eved this car with an envy you'd never think of a rich man.” “Yes, James, I've noticed him.” “And one day I met him alone, and he asked me the price of it.” “Indeed! And what did you him? “I told him I didn’t know, though I was coming their an tell at op here, James. We shall walt for him to come up.’ Merryman cantered up and stopped Anything the matter? Can I render any a ance?” he asked. “I really would like to talk with you a moment, sir,” said Constance. “Would you mind coming back with Not at all! In fact, T should be delighted. But we haven't been very neighborly, you know Why not keep right on to my place?” Constance thought “Why, yes. Why not? been very neighborly!™ So Merryman turned about and can- tered alongside to his stately seat “You can wait a few minutes, James, 1 shall not be long” said Constance. Merryman had dismount- ed and handed his horse over to a groom who had seen the return, helped her out with courtly grace and walked with her up a broad avenue. They were admitted by a butler who had the benign face of a bishop meditating on the beatitudes. In =a cozy room giving on the drawing room Constance had hardly seated herself when a man servant glided in and with the exactitude of an automaton set before them cakes and tea that must have been produced by magic. Constance told Merryman of things which were perfectly plain to him. She had wanted so much, she said, to keep her dear car, but James was about to attach it for wages, and now she would like to dispose of {t to some gentleman who knew its real value. And then she cried gently Merryman was both susceptible and sympathetic. He was a widower. “James tells me he has noticed that you have alwa; looked at the car as though vou wanted it," sald Con- stance with half a sob. “My dear young woman,” replied Merryman, taking her hand, “I have had an ldea all along that you loved that car. Really you should keep it.” “But I, also, have noted that you regarded the car with a long! pression.” She sobbed again. rou really desire—7?" Merryman patted her hand. “It was not the car I was always admir- ing as we passed (Copyright.) . Ice-Box Alarm. Y a simple device the problem of an overflowing ice-box pan is at once solved. All that is necessary, says the Scientific American, is to attach this alarm to any pan and, when the water rises to the level set, the float to which the alarm bell is attached is pushed up to the point where it will start the bell ringing and thus give ample warning. The pan can be emptied and the alarm rewound to act as a reminder on the next occasion. moment We haven't