Evening Star Newspaper, September 13, 1925, Page 92

Painter of Place D’Armes Will a Pot of Paint Develop a Successful Love Affair? HAT scatter-brained young artist, you will keep your eves away from him,” or- dered only daughter. This was one morning in dragonfly time of Summer when Madeleine stood in the front shop room of Papa Vallon's little bakery Parisienne, which is down at one end of Burgundy near the Convent of the Sisters of the Holy Name. “But, papa,” protested Madeleine. “These artists, they make for no good.” “Yes, papoute, but— " “And this one which calls himself Peret, when he comes by the shop here you will not to be seen.” This last was a most unreasonable demand, for, as is generally known, those a Pascal Peret, [{ ame into the bakery Parisienne o when they saw Madeleine there. And as for Peret well, he had once gone to the ridicu lous extreme of standing for more than two hours in the sun on corner until he saw her inside, then, entering, had gone to the further length of purchasing one Creole chocolate, half a dozen tarts and three loaves of bread, in order to remain talking with her a most inordinate time. Even Papa Vallon realized his bakings were not so un usually superb as to warrant this behavior. By all this it will. perhaps be imagined that Madeleine was what is called pretty. Well, she was. - And she had a mind of her own. It is questionable just how this interview with her good and ellent parent might have ended this morning, but for the entrance at an oppertune time of M. Almee Francois de Lapouyade. Ha. It is you.” sald Papa Vallon breaking off suddenly in his lecturing of Madeleine. Now Lapouyade was the one man the old baker liked less to see in his shop than Pascal Peret. the artist For Lapouyade was the rental agent ‘“True,” responded Lapouyade, lay ing his dirty brief case on top of a pan of newly baked brioches. *How do you carry yourselt? ‘Like water in a cracked jug. thanks. My difficulties are many: my husiness is most abominable. “Pouf!" said Lapouyade, the tone of a man who heard such a tale often. “I wish often, me. that I would have a business fine like vou. I decide this morning I pay a visit by vou just to get the feeling op- the and ily, in so isit?” Papa Vallon actually growled. “Visit? Hein. you call it visit when you come at me to collect those rents.” “But, yes—- M. 'de _Lapouvade, haker. “Not never T eres on you unless you come at for those Tents. When I wish me some repairs do vou make appearance then? N then you stay away most complete. T.apouyade’s atmosphere grew cool er. “P have not known you desired any repairs whatever.” “It is that you not know never attend. I do not desire for once. demand.” The rental agent had visiblx “Eh? What it is there vou want friend?” “First me, it i building. “Paint? Paint!” Tt is unheard of.” cried Lapouyade. 'How much it is heard of [ do not car retorted Papa Vallon. ‘You hear me make" demand.” “But my dear sir,” expostulated the agent, “for 25 years T have handled this buflding, me. and not once never T hear one demanding paint by it.” “There will be paint. or else I will move quick out.’ Tapouyade, shrugged ok ok % PAPA VALLOXN grew more excited “I will refuse to sign the lease next which is soon due. The agent tapped thoughtfully upon his Then, brusquely: “That not think you will wish anyway. “Eh ‘I have wished not to mention it continued the agent, “but since you Dbring it up, I must inform you, my friend, that the rents will ascend at the next lease.” ‘Hein?" Papa “Again? Once already 1 set the old But 1 frozen my M that de Lapouyade, you ‘hear 1 wish paint by this pencil finger nails. lease. 1 do to sign her his Villon exploded those rents BY E. EARL THE SUNDAY SPARLING STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, SEPTEMBER R A ey I P Papa Vallon of his | the | ists of the quarter, including | “Bus. It is one rob- peaking para not to . I can’t, Pas- B leave me, please.” ow what is this?" cried the be- wildered fellow “It is my father.” And then (though, in view of the fact that she could not speak to him, it must be entered parenthetically), then she told him the entire story—so effectively that, at the end. he exclaimed loudly, awaking a man sleeping on a nearby bench “And leine. “I again Pascal exploded again, and the one on the nearby bench moved disgust edly to a more peaceful regios “I do not see it at all,” cried Pas Peret. “I do not see what I have, to do with it in the least.” “Why -~ 3 you who have heiped make the rents so high.” T He stared at her, hardly believing her words really earnesi And finding them very much he commenced to laugh She frowned. He laughed all the harder. She moved away from him angrily. He jumped after her. “Oh but look, Madeleine.” “My poor papa. you laugh at him." “I ‘was laughing G “It is very funny that he must be thrown out of his place, is it not? “I was laughing at myself.” “Hein “It is funny. 1 am accused of rais ing rents. And yet T do not own even one shingle of a roof.’ “Nevertheless.” she maintained, vou artists have caused the rents to 20 so high. It is only vou. Ever since you have come into the quarter it has been like this. One cannot have a home any more. no, without some one selzing it for a studio. One,can not have a place for business without some one taking it for a teashop.” Her voice quavered. “Figure your self. Pascal: my parent's bakery turned into such a teashop and called “The Closed Blind.’ or some name like | that.” “It is unreasonable,” he admitted. | “But it is not the artists who have | done it. It is those others 4 those society ones. who put electric lights into the old buildings and mod ern improvements, including bath tubs.” He donned a very injured air. “Look, Medeleine. have I not been forced to move three times in =o| many months because 1. too, have {been unable to pay the rent de. | manded?” “Well “Good-by T cannot see you any “Unless those rents higher you can | pay yourseif.” ! U1t s preposterous.” The agent squinted his eyes. | iness is business.” | ““It is not business. | bery.” | M. Lapouyade shrugged. | Thes Papa Vallon had a happy thought ! “You rent this bullding for that tea | shop you make yourself one big trou- | Ble, yes. It will be necessary to paint exterfor and interior all two.” | *“You have wrong,” said Lapouyade. | “They not want paint so much, those | tea shop ones. They wish these build- | ings to Jook so old. The more old the more good. In fact. I may say | butlding. that it is selected becau is well old. It makes one fine tea | shop. 1 assure.” Papa Vallon wilted into the chair at his corner desk. Madeleine, who | up to now had listened and said noth- | ing, cried, “It is a shame!” and put | her hand on her father’s arm, and glowered at M. Lapouyade. | The rental agent shrugged. “Eh, | well,” he said, picking up the brief | case. “So is it. But, by the way, I| desire to bring that client by here the morning tomorrow o inspect the bullding interfor. Au revol P THE interview between the old baker and the rental agent was | rough on poor Pascal Peret. the artist The poor fellow stood on one foot and then the other that imorning waiting for deleine to come to him. She had agreed to meet him in the square at 10 o'cloc She wa$ an hour and a half late, and when she did come her behavior was alarming. “What's up, eh?” asked Pascal She regarded him accusingly. “Is something wrong, my dear?" The look became more accusing. “My dear, speak.” Suddenly doxically. “T can’t spe: You any more cal see.” ever so vou cannot added speak Made to you good-by.” i more, Pas- { story, my dear Pascal. But I do not | | of the brush.” | dais. agent,” floundered Pascal. “I will see him. "1 will get him to paint your father’s shop.” “See him—him? I did not that you were a friend of his.” “Oh!—I know him quite well. He will do whatever 1 ask, I am assured.” | Perhaps it was the look of joy that came over Madeleine's face. Perhaps it was the trust he saw in her eyes. There is intoxication in such thing; most surely. He thre “Furthermort “furthe: ore, rents are not I i know | | 1l caution to the winds. he cried dramatically, ¥ will see that those| raised.” | 3 will receive you with| arms.” e in his own arms now.| Tears of happiness were in her eyes.| “Our future is assured,” he said as| he kissed them away By the time the happy traced his steps to his lat Orleans street he came to he had gotten himself in for. His companion, Livaudais, sharer of his studio and his misfortunes, found him groaning in bed an hour later. “What!" cried the exccellent Livau dais. “Did you eat too much {or' Munch?" “I have| Han “It is not the first time.” Livaudais | lighted a Picayune. “But let's hear | about it. Is it gambling or love?" | “Both. I have gambied with my | happiness and love is the stake.” ! Whereupon he told the story of his insanity. Livaudais whistled “And you do not know this rental| agent?"” “I do not know even his name or where he makes office,” groaned the stricken fellow. His friend blew a smoke. t would make a very melodramati artist had st studio in alize what My friend.” moaned Peret, ruined myself.” | careful ring of | A see what the denouement could be.” “Don’'t make a joke. It serious. You must help me.” “I do_not see that any help is pos. sible. However, yvou will find some | aspirins in the second drawer thers Pascal sighed lugubriously. He toss ed upon the bed. He beat his brow But, of a sudden. he jumped to his| feet, his face lighting up. | u an engagement tonight, he demanded % the state of my finances, how can vou ask? However, if you wish to arrange a spread with proper entertainment I am. agreeable.” “*No such luck,” replied Pascal I have an idea.” - ‘I have never liked ideas i “Listen. Since there is no chance| of getting that rental agent to paint| that bakery I will paint her myself.” “If you are crazy that is no affalr | of mine.” H “And you will help me.” continued | Pascal | “What? painter?” i is too| Livau “Know| | | | “but Am I an artist or a house | ave heard vou make certain ad- ances along that lne.” Pascal | smiled. “But listen. We will do it at night. No one wlill see vou. Your reputation will not be harmed.” “At night?” “This very night. | 1 at do vou * ok % PASCAL was not to We will paint a nocturnal canvas | that will surprise this old baker out of himself and which will melt his heart. We will paint it in bright colors which will ‘attract people into that shop. His business will jump. He will be able to pay higher rents. It is a glorfons | enterprise. refuse.’ be dismissed. | broke in the n'h'v.‘ “This night painting always gives| me a cold. I cannot do my best when | I must sneeze between each movement | 1 “I will lend you my heavy jacket | it you find these Summer nights so | cold “It is total foolishness,” strated Livaudais. “Havi tried to paint a buildi Have you ever done that? \“Do not cast reflections upon my | ability,” said Pascal Peret. “T remind vou that 4 both conceived and com pleted my noctursl ‘River at Night, in hours.”" > “And it looked it.” remon- vou ever at night? masterplece, | less than six retorted Livau- | | However, after another hour's| argument Pascal had prevailed upon Livaudals. The latter suddenly gave in | | raucous. {of ;out doubt, embrace the young artist N pink only there sparingly. They set forth for the Bakery Parisienne soon after 9 o'clock that night, Peret having ascertained that Papa_ Vallon always closed his shop and departed for home sharply at §. Thirty minutes after 9 the ladder was against the front facade of the one- story brick and stucco building. “You go up,” sald Peret. T will do the lower part.” “Your offer is kind," declared Livau- dais. “But 1 am forced to decline. You are thinner and if vou fall it won’t hurt you so badly All right,” answered Peret touchily. “But if T fall T will contrive to fall on top of you.” “Do,” retorted Liv: bow. “And you will f can of green paint.’ * ¥ * A D thus the most original noc- turnal painting in histery of the quarter was begun Fortunately for the two scatterbrains, the building was only one story high and narrow in width, and it joined with here and very udais, with a I full into a neigh- boring buildings on either side, leav- ing only the front possible to by painted. Fortunately, also, this was A region in which residents minded their own business. The fact that two young men were decorating a building by dim lantern light in the middle of the night did not interest those few who passed by. These took it as a matter of course, and were only careful, for superstitious | reasons, not to pass beneath the lad- der. The two worked in silence for the most part. There was only the sticky slapping of the brushes against the wall. “How comes it down there?" demanded once from his perch “Too much of your paint comes drippwg down my neck. if that is what you mean,” growled Livaudals. Gradually the street became de- serted. Footfalls sounded loud along the hollow stones. Peret’s grunts, as he moved the ladder, were THE TWO WORKED IN ¢ trimmings. It was the work of mad- | men. In the gray, somber setting of the Quarter it screamed insanely “Imbecile,” moaned Peret. “That imbecile Livaudais got his paints mixed Hours later Madeleine found her artist sitting forlornly on a bench in the square. The sun was beating down upon his bare head. He did not feel it. He did not hear her approach. He did not look up. “I have come to thank vou Pascal.” He started then and turned upon her a tragic face. Peret my dear ! And almost before they knew it the job was done. It was well, for| 13, 1925—PART J 5. AT | li‘\‘y W il \ dismissed this as one of his | “Don’t,” he muttered here to kill myself.” She, jokes. “My father is waiting for you.’ “I do not doubt ft.” “Lot us go.” “I prefer to die by my own hand, thanks.” 3 “He wishes to thank you at once, right now d Peret stuttered ‘; Madeleine continued, “It was a won- | derful idea to have the building paint- ed that way." | “I have come | The artist was unable to say any- thing. His mouth hung open. She took this for modesty “That person,” she went on. “That person who wished to make a teashop out of my parents’ bakery, she comes down this morning to see the place. It was very enjoyable. She gives one look and becomes very angry T would not have this if you give it to me,’ she cries at the rental agent.” Madeleine clapped her hands. “And there has been a crowd on the corner | all morning, and papa has done mor business than in months.” uggled manfully to his feet swallowed hard “How did you ever think of hay it painted that way?" demanded girl through the haze surround him. “Only : rtist could has thought of it g The artist squared his shoulders. “It is nothing,” he said in a voice which it may be hoped did not sound too strained. “It nothing.” Hr squared his shoulders more definitel ‘A mere nothing I will see owner of that building directly al arrange for him to reduce those renis | also."” (Covy the lantern had become dimmer and dimmer and was spluttering fitfully before final oblivion. Peret complained as he blew it out, “We should have brought along a! better light. I would like to see how it looks all finished.” “I am worried more how my hed looks,” said Livaudais, wiping his hands on Peret’s sleeves “Won't the old fellow be surprised when he sees this in the morning?” “He will not be nearly so surprised as I will be, if I ever manage to & this paint off my clothes and face,” growled Livaudais Livaudais fell into bed and was asleep five minutes afterward. Not Peret. Behold the hero tossing on his bed through the remaining hours | before morning, and behold him then arising, brewing a black concoction of coffee and hustling over to Bur- gundy to view his work by full day The sun was well up. His step was light, despite the lack of sleep. His heart was gay. FHis eye was bright. Pascal Peret was well satis- fied with himself and the world in eral. When Papa Vallon heard how the brutal rental agent had been prevailed upon, he would, with- BY SAM HELLMAN. OMORROW,” announces the misses, “we are going on a picni “Leaving me out, turns, “who's we? | ‘You can't have a picnic,” says the wife, “without hard-boiled eggs, so we've got to take you along. Besides us there'll be the McBrides and the Browns and— " ““With their brats?” I cuts in. “Yes," nods Kate. “Ten of us al-| together. We're going in the Brown’s | {car to Lake Gummish.” | | “Tell me all about it when you get | back, if ever,” I barks. “I'm dealing | | myseif out.” | “Don’t you like plenic: | frau. “Hell.” says 1, “I don't even like the way the word's spelt.” “You mean the way you spell 1 | comes hack the misses, sarcastic, the dictionary’s idea? | 71t makes no difference,” T assures her. “They ain't no way to spell it iinto a good time.” | “What, may T ask | terest,” comes back objections?"’ 4 | { i I re-| 1 | " asks m.] as a ‘savior and a son better, Madeleine would some embracing. There was one trace of a cloud to trouble the voung artist. He had also promised to attend to the rents to see that the agent kept them within just bounds. But then why worry about tha should be crossed only were arrived at * ok ok % S _he rounded into Burgundy his expression of anticipation changed slightly into one of surprise. For down the street he detected a lively little crowd. He detected also that it was gathered in front of the Bakery Pa risienne. He hurried his steps The little assembly in front of the bakery was laughing, gesticulating. He broke into a sharp run. Misgiv-| ing had him. Doubt ate his heart. And then he saw. That Bakery Parisienne, it was a riot. Tts upper half was dark green. with pink trimmings. Its lower half was glaring salmon pink, with Ereen The Man in the Box. What was do without no in Kate, “are your “In the first place.” T tells her, “I {can’'t work myseif into a hysteria of | joy over the idea of sardining myself | | with 10 other folks, including a kit of | kids, In a car that's just about able to hold 6 people uncomfortably, for | a 20.mile drive over the kind of road | that makes a detour through a swamp | | look like a boulevard. That's No. 1.” | “Go on,” urges the wife. I'm not listening. “In the second place. 19lke my food without “Without what?” asks Kate. * “Without ants, sand and cinders.” T returns. “Furthermore, T got no| ven to hunt lost children and find a | lot of poison ivy."” “What do you mean lost children." | puzzles the misses. “Who's going to lose 'em?" Bridges en they 1 continues, | i I are gone up too high. The baker’s look was so woeful that Tapouyade condescended to go into some detail ‘I have one client, vou must know, who desires this buflding here for tea shop. She ry fine lady, T assure, with much money, and | how much rents she will pay is no Do not talk like that.’ y “I cannot talk to you ever again,” | | she satd. sadly “Something must be done.” |artist. To this she did not answer, for al-| ready she had begun to move away. importance with her.” He was losing her forever. His senses “Tea shop!” echoed Vailon. reeled, but his wits remained with| “But yes. When she sees this $uild- [him. I | ing, the exterior, she decides herself | ‘‘Wait.” he cried. “T have an idea.| it is the place just she most wishes|Wait, my dear. Listen. 1. Pascal for. After that she sees it she looks |Peret, will yet save the day. | no further. She says this building is| s e the most quaint she sees vet. Well, |"J'HE artist was desperate. He did what is it T should make?” Not get-| not know what he would say next. | 1ing any direct reply Lapouyade an-|If he had an idea it was mainly to| swered this query himself. “I tell you.|stop her long enough to allow him my friend, I make one fool If I not self to think. But now Madeleine had | rent this place to her ail quick, isn't [stopped, and it was very necessary for | 12 him to say something. “My bakery one tea sho Well—" Papa Vallon “T—T—will cried the | groaned see this brutal rental il ! “\‘«’u' f Vit b u¢'< “r i Iy i LA e I . “All right,” he agreed understood that you will the | ladder.” i Paufa]l arranged Lur the necessary | whe: materfals at once. He horrowed a de- | <press c v 4 crepit ladder from a cabinet maker |ing fast e abome 3'3:,‘,,"1?‘: Byt et in Chartres street. He arranged for | San Francisco. Af the last stop (h the paints at cost price by agreeing | messenger had been sorrv tq o tas to paint a portrait of the clerk’s wife | ordinary rough box loaded from ‘he on the next Sunday morning. Choos- | truck: the experience was commoy ing the paints was a more difficult!enough, but it always depressed. him matter. The clerk suggested a,muddy | 3 little. SN rown. But the artist's esthetic | Frav nature won out._ He took & dark, 1us. | doven. mr piet mirgy Seitie oot trous green for the body of the build- | dropped into a doze. A endde ing, and for the trimmings chose a|lurch of the train roused him all:‘(‘l - bright salmon pink, which the clerk | he stretched himself awake. what s assured ‘the very latest thing in | his consternation at seeing that an exterior touch.” 11id of the b 01 Livaudais howled when he saw it. mchngq_ Coicialliin. o i hhh,” replied Peret. “It has al Now _express messen 3 ways been a theory of mine that house | gaily expectation of train wonbors: ann painters do not use sufficient original- | the thought flashed through his mind ity. And anyway, we will use thisn the twinkling of an eye that one of those gentry was in the box. As he got up from the chair he was re- lieved to see the lid quietly drop into its place. However, he knew that the bandit was no doubt watching his every movement from a hole bored in the side of the box and that what he did he must do cautiously. Moving out of the hidden man’s vision, he got his hands on a few nails and a hammer. Then he slowly worked his way through the lofty pile { of packages which he pretended to be rearranging, suddenly threw a heav trunk on the lid of the rough box, Jumped astride of it and nailed down the "lid securely. The imprisoned robber roared and struggled, but to no avail. The messenger rushed to the rear of his car and Jooked back through the coaches. He'could see the man’s con- federates “going through” the pas- sengers, who held their hands aloft while a member of the gang ‘“‘covered” them. The express car carried a val- uable shipment and the messenger de- termined to save it. Grasping the lever that operated the automatic coupfer; he put every ounce of strength he possessed into one terrific jerk.. The drawheads parted and a gap almost instantly opened between the express car and the coaches. Running back through his car, barring the door as he went. he reached the front door and shouted to the engineer to open his throttle. The engine and the express car leaped forward; but not a minute too soon. The bandits, emerging from the coaches, were insane with rage when they saw themselves folled, and poured volley after volley from their rifles into the fast-fleeing car. From the next station a coach and engine, with a posse armed to the teeth, went back to the relief of the stalled train, from which the ban- dits had long since fled. The ex- press car and engine, under a heavy police guard, proceeded to San Fran- cisco. The bandit was unboxed at the police station. He got a sentence of 20 years in the penitentiary. The messenger was rewarded with a sub- stantl promotion, “But it carry is | A VETERAN raflway expressmen tells a thrilling story of a fime n a certain messenger was alone in the ree i f i | “I suppose,” says I, “you don't re member that picnic we went on last with the Skiffles, where we spent all afternoon and part of a night beating i the woods for that squealer of lhelrfl."‘ “That don't happen all the time." | snaps the frau. “I suppose you'd quit | | going to ball games if some bleacher bum should ever get hit by a foul | ball?” * ook ] ALSO wants to remind you,” I goes on, “that at the same pic nic with the Skiffles one of the kid's | | got a_ toothache, that it rained cats | |and dogs the minute the grub was {1aid out. that old man Skiffie sprained an ankle trying to show how young | he was by climbing a tree, and that | you got bit by a bug on the nose and in | carried a comedy beak around for a | the middle of the Sahara desert. | week or so. I'guess you don’t remem- i ber those things.” i “I only remember nice things,” savs | Kate haughty. “You're the sort of | total loss that could spend three | months in Europe and not recall any- thing of the trip excepting that you once got & tough steak in Paris.” |air in the country is the bunk “Why Picnic?” Asks Higgins the Day Before; “You Can Put Ants in Your Food at Home” talking to 1 was “There's you, sneers. Kate no use It to e | mind you of the berries and fruit we | | “YOU DON'T REM'E_’\IBE_R THAT PICNIC NT ON ', ST WITH THE B FFI “All right,” T gri; “tell me sumot of the nice things $hat happened at | the Skiffle outing.” | “We got a lot of nice fresh 4 didn't we?"” she demands. | “You can climb up on the roof here | and get it just as fresh laid,” I an swers, “with the exception that it won’t be cluttered up with gnats and and-flles. That stuff about the fine The | alr's just as good at Forty-second and Broadway as it is at Joblotts Corne: The only reason that you're always hearing about the lovely air out in the sticks is because that's all they have to talk about. You maybe don't know it, but kids grow up stronger down in He East Side than they do out in Kansas, and T. B. is commoner in| Iowa than it is in the heart of Chi cago. Country air is an exaggerated | institution, just like country sausage.” “Maybe,” admits the misses, “but you have to g0 out in the country for @ quiet day, don't you?”" “It's not darn noisy in the city on a Sunday,” 1 tells her. “There's less noise on the main stem of any{ big town on Sunday than there is in But, S m,” | invites, “and tell me some more of them grand benefits we grabbed off at the Skiffle picnie.” “For ‘one thing,” says Kate, were sober all afternoon.” “I could be that way in the city,” I assures her. “Drinking is only an incident with me.” air. | (Continued from Second Pagé.) of the excuse to stay at home, so that | { by togorrow 1 shall be really as well | | as ever. i “Virginia's health is about the same, | but her distress of mind has been even more than I had anticipated. She de- | sires her kindest remembrances to both of you, as also does Mrs. C. “Clarke, it appears, wrote to Dow, who must have received the letter this morning. Please reinclose the letter to me here, 50 that I may know how to gulde myself—and. Thomas, do write immediately, as proposed. It possible, inclose a line from Robert Tyler, but I fear, under the circum- stances, it is not so. 1 blame no one but myself. “The letter which I looked for and which I wished returned is not on its way—reason, no money forthcoming. Lowell had not vet sent it. He is ill in New York of ophthalmia. Imme; ately upon,receipt of it, or before) will forward the money you were both s0 kind as to lend—which is 8 to Dow and 8% to\Thomas. What a con- founded business I have got myself into, tempting to write a letter to two people at once! ‘“However—this for Dow. My dear fellow: Thank vou a thousand times for your kindness and great forbear- ance, and don't say.a word about the cloak turned inside out, or other pec- cadilloes of that nature. Also express to your wife my deep regret for the vexation T must have occasioned her. Send me also, if you can, the letter to Blythe. Call also at the barber's shop just above Fuller's and pay for me a levy which 1 believe 1 owe. And | | Por Wanted 118 Job | when I shall forget either them or now God bless you—for a nobler fel- low never lived. “And this is for Thomas. My dear friend: Forgive me my petulance and don’t believe I think all I said. Be- lieve me, I am very grateful to you for your many attentions and forbear- ances, and the time will never come you. Remember me most kindly to Dr. Lacey, also to the Don, whose mustachios T do admire, after all, and who has about the finest figure I ever beheld—also to Dr. Fraile, Please express my regret to Mr. Fuller for making such a fool of myself in his house, and say to him (if you think it necessary) #hat I should not have got half so drunk on his excellent port wine but for the rummy coffee with which I was forced to wash it down. I would be glad, too, if you would take an, opportunity of saying to Mr. Rob. Tyler that if he can look over matters and get me the inspectorship T will join the Washingtonians forth- with. T am as serious as a judge— and much more so than many. T think it would be a feather in Mr. Tyler's cap to save from the perils of | mint julep and “port wines” a young man of whom all the world thinks so well and who thinks so remarkably well of himself. “And now, my dear friends, good- bye, and, believe me, Most trully yours, “EDGAR A. POE.”" This was practically the end of the Washington story for Edgar Allan Poe. He was not appointed to Gov- ernment service, either in Washing- ton or Philadelphia, but was destined to struggle on, fighting poverty and starvation until death itself was to “And not drinking.” finishes the frau. “an event. Didn't you and Hank Yeh.” says I. “but T could have done just as good down by the docks, | | with one exception.” “What's that?" takes up the misses, eagerly. “At the docks,” I tells her, “I might have caught a fish.” a good time fishing that | got yowd come back with the re- mark that you've picked better stuff off the garbage heap down by the railroad tracks. If they ain't nothing good about picnics, do imagine millions of people =0 out them every Sunday?" “If they ain’t no good in drinking I counters, “why do you imagine millions of people get all sloshed up over Sunday. The fact that a lot of people do a thing don't make it good does it?" “I don't jud th “If I want to kno is fine T merely vou're doing it Kood.” “Getting married to vou, 1 suggests malicious. 'We're talking about picnics,” wife reminds me, “and when | mention our marriage you're getting | about as far from a picnic as is pos | sible.” | ou're shouting. gal” I comes back. “and that's one of the reasons I don't want to go to picnics “How's that”” demands Katé. “I'm stuck on being married u | you.” 1 explains, “and I wouldn't go to nothing that would take me ton far away from the idea.” “If you got any other objections says the frau, “write ‘em out on Form B, and we'll lJaugh over ‘'em at break fast tomorrow. I've got to go mow and bake a couple of cakes for the why vou t way,” says Kate ~whether a thing find out whethe: If you are, it's mo for ex the soing to take along | " nods the misse: “and the later end of a misspent life that goe for a husband “You think I'm going? Not a chance in a million.” We had a pretty good time at thr pienic, at that 1 yelp PARIS, September 3. OR 30 years they have been try. fng it—to swim across the English Channel from Dover to Calais, or vice versa, a di tance of a little more than 2 in a straight line. 1 do not say as the crow flies, for neither bird nor airplane nor steamer crosses straight with all the currents and tides and eddies flowing forward and backward and roundabout in heavens and in the waters. After thevend of August winds and waves cut up too irregularly for a good try. In 50 years only five swim- mers, all men, have succeeded. In 1875 the English Capt. Webb swam across from the Dover side to the French shore by Calais, and it was in the month of April, when there are violent currents mixed with the regular tides. He had studied them all and failed with all—until he su ceeded. He took 21 hours and minutes to do it. For 36 years every body that tried failed, and then, in 1911, the Paris-Englishman, Burgess, vam across from Deal to Cape Gris- miles | Nez—in 23 hours and 40 minutes. Two vears ago the American Harry Sullivan swam over - Webb's course from Dover to Calais successfully, | but he took 27 hours and 23 minutes. That same year, it had particular luck, across—and both of them in unex- pectedly quick time. The Italian Tiraboschi did it in 16 hours and 23 minutes, and another American, Toth, in 16 hours and 54 minutes. What is there hard about it? . And why does it demand so much time? Gertrude Ederle, in the United States seas, when she was only 19, swam 21 miles in 7 hours and 11 minutes. Hurrah! But the wicked Old World English Channel has shown her a trick or two. All the swimmers who have tried agree in one thing—just when they are getting there, or think they are, some unexpected current seizes on them violently. Sometimes it throws them out of their course several miles. when every mile counts; or it plays with them, round and round, so that they get no -‘forrader” when every minute tells on their strength re- serves! The result is that the swim- mer gets his mileage all out of order without knowing jt. He has swum much more than 24 miles across the <channel, his strength is spent, and he has not crossed. Those who live on- the channel and by the channel try to comfort the de- 1923, as if two others bring the fame and peacé which, liv- ing, denied. feated swimmers by telling them, “Oh you had the tides against you.” They the swam | Why It Is Difficult To Swim the Channel all know that. All of them pass thei training time trying to get acquainted with the tides.. Near as the Frencl 11 st to th English, the tides | properly ‘wo called. often mark a: | hour’s difference on the two shores And @ ma 1 great differenca | whether the t swimmer meets {at the end, when he is getting tire | pushes him forward to success or | keeps him from advancing or sweeps | him_aside and Worse still are the shifty currents | which know no law here, where the | glgantic Atlantic Ocean rushes up into the North Sea and back again. A French swimmer who has tried wit] out letting the world know, as he did not wish to risk his other champior ships, says: “You have simply got to look or | the channel as an immense toboggan | And for the swimmer it is a toboggan |all the time. 1 am sure that is the ecret. You have got to find out how to glide up wave slopes, which are often movig forward much more | auickly than vourself. | “Then you must o auickly and gain on your first tide. Suppose, if T were swimming over, T should be in sight of Dover after I had been swim ming three hours—that would be close to the buoy—I <hould then certainly | met across. That is {¥e critical time for it is then that my tide would be rupning toward the English coasr That is what is very often forgotten when trials are made to swim across the channel. And you raust also re member to find out the difference of the tide on the other coast from that on the side you start from, for who ever swims ‘across has to do it to bogganing.” Be this ms it may, only five men, of whom two were Americans, did find out the secret before this year. Now we shall see what the women can do. . s. D. is R Testing the Soil. A MMONIUM nitrate performs an extremely useful function in fer- tilizing certain crops, especially grasses, as it enables them to take the best advantage of any phosphorus compounds present in the soil. When, however, the soil is a sandy one, am- monium nitrate is not the best fer- tilizer to use. The plants split it up into ammonia and nitric acid, and in a sandy soil they absorb more am monia than nitric acid. This free soid being left in the soil, accumulates, with the result that the sofl {= quickly sen dered acid.