Evening Star Newspaper, May 23, 1926, Page 84

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASH NGTON, D. C, MAY 23, 1926—PART - 5. A SHIP WITH SAILS ..o “ 0. ma'am”—Almira Peake shook her head: emphatic- yv—"I don't hook rugs for nobody.” Young Mrs. Willard | w: ised disappointed eyebrows. ‘But I've been quite sure you would + them for me,” she exclaimed. ‘“Not 'w, of course. I know how busy u are during the Summer. But next \inter, after the cottages close and aren’t working for Summer peo- No, I don’t hook rugs for nobody. \imira Peake repeated declsivel 11 braid you some, if you say so. “Rut isn’t that almost as hard work hooking them?”’ Mrs. Willard had termined not to quit the field with- it a struggle. Some thinks 'tis and some thinks un't. I guess it's all in the way wu look at it. All us younger' wim- . en has got out of the hang of it, as u might say. It's slow work, rug hookin® is, an’ terrible hard on the oulders. The city woman made a last desper- 11a effort. i “Isn't there any one in the place wwho heoks rugs?"” ; No, don’t guess there is. All the immen folks makes Ia to sell. here ain’t, as you mij much i1 for it now some- ody that’s been here for the Summer ind of takes a notion to a plece an’ vs it, but that ain't o » Then, why on earth Mrs. Willard checked herself abruptl 'he bay is lovely this morning, isn't it “Yes, guess it lc all right,” Mrs. Peake admitted, “but there's a storm in’. Hot weather in June ain't woman's seaward or said: “Have you hushand recently? be home almost any 0, 1 aint heard a thing. It's hree years since he went, an’ not a ne nor a word come from him no more'n if I w his wife.” She aused, then said slowly you git for mar lor. Mrs. Willard cast about in her mind for words of comfort. “Perhaps he hadn't a chance to send letters. He may not have touched port, you know. Such things happen now and then. Not with Dave Peake they don’t. The vessel he salled on made her trip (I snug an’ nice an' come back to P’o'tland Harbor in May a vear ago. Dave left her in furren parts, the aptain said. He said Dave signed on vessel that was goin’ the lan’ knows I shouldn't feel disturbed If I were R the city woman sald vaguely. “He'll be back quite soon now Mebhe.” ~ Almira’s rough, work- lardened hands plucked at her apron nervously. “Mebbe he will, but don't matter to me—now. visitor’s kindly interest seemed to un- lock secret doors of constraint in the :sherwoman’s heart. “I'm througl terly, “through!” I've woman could do. I've livin' decent and honest— immer fo knittin’ nin’ my hand to any- workin’ fo trap heads, hing 1 ¢ waited for Dave Peake to leave the sea.an’ settle down. Iavin' him off this way the hull time—Iit's more'n a body can stand!” Her starved eyes went seaward once more. “T told kim afors he went the last time I was sick o' livin’ here stark, sele, alone; said I was through lessen ried man had no business to go sail- ing, and it was almost four monthse {until he went again. That trip was a longer one. Almira, iting for him in the neat, white its. clamshell-bordered walk, ran out of money and went to Her skill as a laundress was and the Summer people were glad to give her work. making plenty of money by the time Dave came home. Dave said he didn’t like to see her Almira pointed out that the morey he left her hadn't lasted. She wouldn't stop wor ji keep on until Dave decided to Dave's face hardened at his wife's he repeated, “that I'll fix things so you don’t run sho faced him You'll mean all right, but then you'll go and sign on a vessel that'll plan_to be away six or eight months—an’ vou'll stay a year, mebbe & whilst things’ are so uncertain I'll just keep on the way Dave had just about made up his mind to stop at home for good, when Capt. Haines of the Sea Maiden, a six- masted freighter, came into Portland Harbor for supplies. the clrcumstances to Almira. see, if it was anybody exceptin’ Capt. Dave explained hy, doggone it, I'd stop home. But I ain’'t never seen it an’ I kinder hanker to go." Dave promised faithfully it should be his last trip. been mean for you this while he said, “me bein’ away off most of the time—but you know that’s the way things are when you marry an’ lookin’ for you to get back? You ~—"" her voice broke, stopped. “1 didn’t marry a sailor,’ “You wa'n't safiin’ you an’' me was Keepin' company, “No, but I was aimin’_to. there ain’t no Peake ever lived that wa'n't a sallor! all, I can see how things are, an’ I'l do llke ye want me.” He had meant it, at the time. could know come on the Porto Bello, Capt. Willlam Macalister, in Palermo Harbor? Or that Capt. bound _for undermanned? Or that Capt. Haines, with a full crew and his vessel loaded for the return voyage, would be willing to let Dave reship with Haines' old friend Bill But so it was. Delongings to fo'c'sle of the Porto Bello his maw not able to g John Gidden insisted. Mereen Davis. Mereen hadn't en T was late October when Dave Peake got back to Portland. The | eity lay wrapped in mufflers of fog and waiting helplessly slaughts of sajd. Always tall and spindling and kind of stooped over, it was queer that Her | Dave hurried cks. Some one from West Harbor would be down selling - | though she tried not to show it. It He could ride back with any one who | was so white and smelled queer. happened to be down. “If it ain't Dave Peak John Gidden was climbing up la ladder to Dave’s hand. “Glad to see you, Dave. When did you get in”" T You goin’ back home |different manner. But, in her aston- He glanced |of the ward. that Almira saw Dave. get to do whilst I} Unele Henry, he |instincts and training. She did noth- “Yes, right now. ing which might be construed as “mak- 1f. ‘long down There he is now. here’'s Dave Peake!” “Ye don't say!” Uncle Henry piped He grasped Dave's hands in| Say, Uncle Hen he was willin® to take one last trip then settle down. Said he wou then he up an’ shipped on anot vessel. Jest bound to k sin’ around the world.” flushed an apologetic an An wa'n't aimin’ to take on. It's jest—jest—it's three years today since he wen “Oh, I'm sorry!” sald Mrs. Willard. “You don't need to be. It's all right. It's o what 2 body could ex- pect, marryi ailor. 1 jest got to thinkin’, you say Tuesday you wanted me to come an’ wash winders, or Wednesday?" * K ok K EVERY one in West Harbor prophe- sled disaster when Almira Pettl- shall and Dave Peake were married. In the first place, no good ever came of marrying a man from away. Dave belonged to the Peake family from over near Portiand, where, some time in the vear 1630, the first Peake to land in the New World had made a clearing in the wilderness around Machigonne Point ond built there a house for his family hefore sailing away in the fleet of George Cleeve. Since that time the men of the Peake family had heen sailors—reckless, headstrong, self-willed mariners, all of them. “Stubborn as a Peake,” folks used to say. And the Pettishalls were also stub- born folk, with quick tempe: For a time it dld not seein that these openly expressed fears were to he justified. Dave settled down to a job aboard a trawler. He got home y two weeks or 8o, t Harbor and had for a few days eve bullt a home in W it all paid for in less than two years. Then, when they had been married ahout four years, Dave explained to Almira that he was going to make a voyage. There was a vessel in Port land harbor loading for Buenos Air He was gone the better part of a year. When he got back again the baby had been born—and had dled. Dave was remorseful. He said.a mar-lwith ye—'count of yer goin's on, “Gosh, Uncle Henry, the limit!” Gidden { comin' with us, Dave? “If ye got plenty of room, I'd like if vou ain't erjected. “You “Sure,” Gidden said heartily, “allus thoughtfully. tarnal up an’ comin’ as ye might be. N0, jest a touch o’ rheumatiz. allus hits me when I get up where| it's colder.” no rheumatiz 11 voice demanded. “No, don't seem like it." “Then ye'd oughter thar"—the old man nodded vigorous- 'specially as ye ain’t goin’ to have no welcome from ’'Mirey."” “I ain’'t what? Dave asked sharply. Uncle Henry, hev stayed ‘What d'ye mean?” if you ain't about me not * Dave leaned toward The 0ld man giggled ma- "Twouldn’t be friend- 1y to let you go home without know- No, sir; 'twouldn't be friendly.” “Without knowin’ what?"” Dave de- “You tell me what you got At the glitter in his eyes Uncle Henry drew back, whimpering. “Now, there ye go,” “scarin’ a poor ol' man that's yer 1 was jest meanin’ to he whined, well-wisher! ‘What was you meanin’?"” “Meanin’ to say if yve think goin’ to git any | took:"” Uncle Hen | in the place knows ‘Mire: *goli | Peake reminded him. “She come her stayin’ *way like y've done, an’ all. She's tol’ ev'vbody she was through!” Almira_hadn’t’ seen Dave come along the path. Suddenly the door opened, and he stood there, She dropped the ball of rag rugs on which she was working, jumped up and ran toward him. But Dave did not hold out his arms to her—and ‘Mirey could not guess how they ached to hold her close. He just stood there, frowning. She dropped her hands und looked at him in silence. “Folks are sayin’ ye're through with me,” he spoke in a loud, harsh voice. Is it true?” “They're sayin'~——" Almira began wonderingly, then paused to stare at her husband. Suddenly the Pettishall temper flamed up in her like fire in dry stubble. *“Dunno what ye've hear- ed to make you come stompin’ in actin’ like you are,” she said coldly. ‘Why wouldn't 17 he retorted. “Nice thing to' hear, an’ me gettin’ home I could—"" she cut fn. “The got back a year an’ a half ago “I come back as soon as ever the Porto Bello could fetch me,” he ex- plained. “What was you doin’ on the Porto Belio?" “I kinder shipped on her out of Pa- lermo.” ‘What for? Why didn't you stick to s alister if T wanted to, an’ I thought ight as well—-"" ‘es, vou'd think that” Almira laughed bitterly. “Any thing §0's you could s ! v away for a while longer! What'd you care that I'm here waitin’ didn’t care nothin’. It's more'n three vears vou been gone—three years “Yes, T kno “An’ now you come askin’ what I mean by sayin’ I'm through. I meant just what I said, an’ I'm glad y know I said it! I'm through!” dropped down in a chair and covered her face with her hands, sobbing wildly. When &he looked up Dave had gone. Almira Peak ran to the door, threw it wide, and screamed, “Dave! Dave!” but the figure did not turn. was rounding the head . . . After a time she closed the door, took oft her shawl and went slowly to hang it in its accustomed place. * ok k ok ain’t feelin'— The boat | (6) Short Voyage Was Promised, but It Lasted Three Years “I figger there ain't no tse of us two wastin’ breath, ‘Mirey don't want to see mo or sned a stopped an’ spoke trie 1o me when she was here afore. She's | stammered 'Lo,” and I oy aimin’ to do her duty by me—that's pesdniinto all “Wa'al, ye'd oughter let her—"" “What for?” Peake demanded sav- agely. “Ought to let her tell me it's a judgment on me for goin’ off like I done an’ not stoppin’ to home? S'pose ‘tis! T ain't got to hear about it, hev 17" “But what'll T tell her?” Gildden asked helplessly. “Thank her for comin’ an’ tell her she don't need to come again. ' Tell her soon as they let me out of here I'm a-goin’ down to Saflors’ Snug Har- bor, along with the rest of the ol’ junk that sets around an’ whittles out ships.” Gldden stared at him in frank dls- bellef. Now, Dave, ve're fest talkin' fool- 1sh,” he expostulated, “plumb foolish! Ye wouldn’t do sich a thing! Ef you ain't going to be able to use your feet for quite a while, you ought to come home.” Dave Peake stared in helpless wrath at the man before him. Finally his face softened. “Look here,” he sald, “'I s'pose it all comes to this: You can’'t figger nobody stayin’ away from home, but mebbe you would if Hattie'd up an’ tol’ ve she was through!” He spat out the last word bitterly. “An’ mebbe you would if she'd see ye a-layin' on yer back an' go right by without speakin'" Wa'al"—Gidden rose, a shambling, awkward figure in sea boots and faded sweater—"'s'pose there ain't no more use in talkin’. I'll come up to sec ye ag'in the next time I git over.” Downstairs Almira Peake got to her feet at the sound of Gidden’s steps. “C'n I—" she began, then stopped at sight of his downcast face. “Wa'al, not jest today. Ye see, he Bit by bit she drew from the re- luctant’ Gidden what Dave had sald. When he had finished there was silence for a few moments, then Al mira Peake rose. * k¥ ¥ N one of his trips to Portland John Gidden brought back a huge con- trivance, wrapped in burlap. Every one wanted to know what it could be, but he took it up directly to Al- mira Peake. To all questions he re- ¢ QOMEBODY'D oughter go ‘long |turned the same answer, ‘‘Jest some- with me, him bef: 0 bad off an’|thin’ ‘Mirey wanted I should fetch for They were talking in the store about been what you'd call strong, every one that the draft board selected him to go to war. Gidden suggested that| some woman should go along. Perhaps Mirey Peake. So it was arranged. The hospital frightened her, al- It was when she was tiptoeing out He was Iying in bed, looking at her s she came down the room. Perhaps g had not come on him so unex edly she might have acted in a ishment, Almira Peake followed her x show of her She walked out of the ward without looking at Dave again or speaking to him . . . A step echoed on the bave floor. SHE WALKED OUT OF THE WARD WITHOUT LO OKING AT DAVE AGAIN OR SPEAKING TO HIM her.” And Mrs. Peake was equally noncommittal. She had long since finished the braided rugs for Mrs. Willard. Gradually the news got ‘about that Almira wasn't well. _One ,morning Hannah Anne Pettishall observed that thers was no smoke coming from mira’s chimney, although it was near- ly 8 o'clock, and went over to see if anything could be wrong. Almira was in bed, huddled under the quil She =ald she wasn't what you'd call sick, Just feeling kind of mean. Almira did not get out of bed that day nor the next. The women took turn and turn about running in to cook for Almira and clean house. She, who had been the best housekeeper in West Harbor, seemed to take no interest in the: operations. She would lie for hours at time staring at the wall. One day when the women had gone she went upstairs, and hunted around until she found the old set of rug frames which had been her mother’ She brought them down, sewed on the burlap foundation for a rug, and went [}] a clawlike clasp. “What did ye come | John Gidden came in, looking at Al- mira with troubled eyes. “Dave's kinder bad off,” he said gravely. “Rheumatiz. He didn’t sail —he’'s been here ever since—ever since his trip on the Porto Bello. Took him bad in bhoth legs. “Will he get over it “Doctor savs he will, but he ain’t “You ain’t lookin' so{got no notlon when he'll get to walk | again. His legs are all kinder drawed up, with this here last spell.” “D've s'posc,” she said haltingly, hat T—" “No, 1 wouldn’t go up there if 1 was you,” Gidden counseled. ‘“Davo ain't hankerin’ to see vou. Kinder mad 'cause you didn't stop an’ speak. “Did he say he didn’t want to see me?" “Wa'al—yes—kind of.” Almira got to her feet. For a mo- ment she stared about, with the desperate, furtive eves of a trapped animal, then said, “Come on out of here—if we can get out.” In the days which followed her re- turn home Almira Peake fought with the wild beasts of anger. pity, love, terror and_hurt pride. She had to see Dave. Folks would talk, of course, She could hear them . . . “Run- nin’ after Dave Peake an’ him mnot wantin’ to see her.” The thought brought the blood pounding in her ears. Well, let them talk! Nothing mattered but Dave. * ok kK €TNJO.” Dave Peake said, his mouth drawn into a tight line of pain, “I don’t want to see her.” “But she's here,” John Gidden pro- tested. “I fetched her down. Ye can't Ihnve her come down an’ then not see ye!” “I didn't have her come down,” own self. I didn’t send for her.” to have no more truck with ye. She e said what?"” ‘Ain!t goin' 1o have no more truck | cut him short. “Wa'al, anyways——"" Gidden be- gan, but the man in the wheel chair “It's this here way, John,” he said, to work—putting the frame carefully :u; of sight before she went back to ed. It was not long after this that she sent for John Gldden. “You want me to do what?” he gasped. “Go and fetch Dave home,” she re- peated quietly. “Jest tell him how sick I am an’ that I got to see him afore he goes away. Tell him I ain’t astin’ him to come home to stay. Land, no! I jest kinder feel I'd oughter see him afore he goes.” “How'm I goin’ to fetch him?” Gldden demanded. ‘“His legs is plumb helpless. He can't walk a step!” “Let the hospital folks fetch him down to the boat an’ put him in.” “How'm I goin’ to get him up hers from the dock—s'posin’ he does come?” Mrs. Peake surveved him with quiet eyes. “Ye know well as I do how yo're a-goin’ to fetch him up. What for d'ye think I had you buy that wheel chair?” * ok Kk K ¢WHERE did ye get that?” Dave; s thought of some day joining Peake asked suspiclously as| Seeam the men who carried him up from the boat set him in the wheel chair. Gldden remembered his coaching only just in time. “Oh, thAUS|y yould rather be a bareback rider, 'Mirey's,” he said. *One of the Sum- mer folks sent it to her.” “Can't she walk, neither?”’ “She ain't so bad off as all that Gidden replied cautiously. “Still an’ all, she's findin’ the chair handy, she say He wheeled Dave Peake along the | former if it had not been for the cir- road toward home—Almira had made it quite plain to every one that she | cially quite well off. My talent as a wanted no one to come up with Dave | bareback rider or a lion tamer was except John—and cautiously propelled the chair up the low steps. “Here ye are, 'Mirey!” he called cheerfully. b Almira Peake, sitting in a rocking | that T had a voice. :Concert stage and opera were ' goals 10 be. regarded |estin the Amerioan circus. Of course, chair by the fire and wrapped Quilts, looked up. ’ “Got back early, didn't ye?” she sald quietly. ‘““'Lo, Dave.” Dave Peak to say something, silenog. “There.” Gidden put the stove lid back with unnecessary clattering and swung the oven door wide. “I'll jest fiu: ye up here, Dave, where it's real ot.” ‘Yo needn't bother; I ain't so awful cold,” Peake replied, adding, *“You goin'. to Po'tland tomorrer?” “I'm aimin’ to.” “I told John"—Almira spoke in even tones, without hurry or con fusion—"that mebbe ye'd be In a hurry to git wherever 'tis yv're goin’, an’ if ye air he's agoln’ to take ye— Bath or Po'tland, whichever you say." “The cloud of suspicion cleared somewhat from her husband's face. “That's fine,” he sald. “I'll go to Po'tland.” “Wa'al, guess I'll be travelin' ‘long.” Gldden went toward the door. “Don’t fergit about takin’ me to Po'tland tomorrer,” Peake reminded him. “I won't. Goo' night.” Almira rose and moved over to a frame by the window which Dave had not before noticed. She sat down be- fore it and began to work. He watched her for a few moments, then asked, “What ye dGoin’?" “HooKin' a. rug.” Another sllence, “What kind of a figger you puttin in?” he asked at length. “A ship.” Almira studied the pat- tern intently. “A ship—with salls “Huh!” Dave wheeled his ch 77T C— FEMTT i around the rug frame until it was bo- gSHE DROPPED DOWN IN A CHAIR AND COVERED HER FACE WITH HER HANDS, SOBBING WILDLY. side the one in which Almira sat, leaned forward and studied the pat. tern. “What ye call that?” He pointed toward one of the salls. ‘hy-—a sall.” hat kind of a one! #Dunno—iib, 1 gue “‘8ure, it's a §ib!"” He hitched his chair neare “But what kind of a Jib is ft—flyin’, balloon, or jumbo? “Jumbo, T guess.” “Wa'al, it it is, she's too fur for- | rard,” he pronounced. ‘“What made ye start a ship without waitin'— " He checked abruptly, asked, “Fishin’ 2 by Yes. “Out fishin’ *“Out fishin’. “What ve doin’ with a full mains’ up on her if she's out fishir pointed his pips accusingly at the guilty sail. “That had oughter be a ridin’ sail] “Mirey, for a fisherman's wite, you Almira did not seem to notice the pause. She said thoughtfully, o're right. I didn't stop to think of them things. Will ve take look an’ see if there’s anythin’ elss [ ain't got the way it had cughter be?" Dave Peake stared at the pattern. “My gorry! Will vou look at the way " he exclaimed. ‘Ye've went an’ made the bowsprit nigh half the length of the vessel! It's lucky for you, ‘Mirey, that I come over when ® | “Ain’t it!” Almira put down the. | s0 minded. Come on an’ eat. When Dave Peake wheeled his chair |4 heavy hook and stood up. “Would ye in® it I'll go git you a peneil an’ you can draw it the way had oughter be t supper.” | the altered patte “Guess 1 got it he said K you can't go Wrong.”, Ve can do it arter suppe back from the nd lighted pipe, he blew great ring of smoke in profound satisfaction. es like,” he safd. “Did ake good cookin’ t you make tha fetch it in?" “I made it." she said quietly. “I know how late cake with good. thick fcin’. There was another silenc Dave asked, Iy, W aimin’ to do with the rug “Sell 1t to Summer fc lard'd like 2 hull pas Kinder too bad I can't do them her.’ Why “It's heavy work, hookin', an’ shoulders ain't jest as.strong as the yvou can't ye | voice was different— | legs all | plays out. (1 fixed right now." | “Bbut I'd best hook the edge in | - did somebody | might be. T could go round on mv | shoulders allus | Liis face clouded. ut m, e'd jest about make one good betwixt us,” Dave sald bitterly. L got legs an’ y Almira v in' to go to Harbor. Are ve’" . that’s where I'm goin'.” ve goin’ to do ther much, T guess.” couldn’'t hook rugs,” his wife s @ work aave sald, “G ettin’ mixed up.” lamp. put it in the window, lowered went hack to the hey were washed and came to stand beslde his es! It looks aiff'rent now.' she commented. “You can do it twice s what T seems like. Heap to be made hookin' rugs,' ed fneredul feller make his 1ivin’ dofn’ he demanded urse Le could—a good liv you | s T'll hook in the | there in the s | edge of that rug and then there won't | shaking v “Guess I'd nigh ‘bout fergot what!be no chance of you g been wway He bent nearer the rug frame, The; “pose 1t'd be all right to fix the rags fo; scarcels fix the bling hands. D" ked hoarsel laid a "n missin’ Dave—missin® von terrible. I'm for the way I acted, awfup Yes She hand on one of v dldn‘t eak to me bark " he demanded ir “I thought—J—" to “I wes ecairt you wouldn't tal me,” ehggaid silly. “I knowed you was show 1ad, #n' T dldn't want to malje 2 of myselt afore folks. ‘I His arms went around her “Ain’t nobody in the world rything I've I can make « kind of work, Dave, t BY FLORENCE MACBETH. ‘ As Told to Prosper Buranelli. | HE thing that has happened | to me represents a case Ofl desire long felt and achieved | at last. Yes, I am a singer, I amn just back from a long | concert tour. ~ Seasons with the Chi- ! cago Opera Company have identified | {me with the lyric stage. You will {ask wherein I am concerned with the | big top, the circus, why 1 am so much | elated over an affair that is laid in | the famous old world where the man | | with the whip and the top hat sends | the bageback riders around the ¥ing. | vhere the trained tigers step and sunarl, where the trapeze performers | swing and drop bouncing in the big nat. where the clowns and elephants | | make feasts for young ey ‘here {the cry of “Hey, rube,” rallles the | canvasmen to the fight. There is a | sufficient backaround for it all, and {one quite strange as an opera sing- | er's story. | The circus is in my blood, and it {always has been. I was horn to the | scarlet and sawdust of the colossal | concoction of stupendous spectacles | and then I married into it. Both the { memories of early childhood and the | later glamour of romance have fas- tened on me the Vivid, hurly-burly mood of the main show and the side- shows. My profession is opera. My |life's effort has been directed toward | the trills and phrases I sing as Gilda, | Lucia or Marguerite. Yet a singular destiny has kept me in contact with the circus. My father is an old friend and as. | soctato of the Ringlings. He and {Jjohn Ringling were boys together, {and together they went adventuring |into the realm of the circus. As vouths in a small town in Minnesota they got up a show together. They organized the other boys and put on anite an ambitious Wild West affair. To them it was a thrilling success. They made a little money out of it. That was a caprice of early youth, one of those that later bring great results. It was a beginning that led to the Ringling brothers’ domination of the circus world. My father always remained a comrade and friendly assoclate of the Ringlings, one who kept in intimate contact with their affairs. In spirit he, too, belonged to the circus, and he prob- ably would have followed it in pro- fession had not a convenient oppor- tunity to attain prosperity come to him in the lumber business. Imagine a girl who is raised in a household where Intimate affairs of the circus are talked of constantly, where the famous magnates of “the greatest show in the world” are in- | timate visitors. When the crcus is !in town she is as familiar with things back of the scenes as another child is with a seat in the main tent. She hobnobs with the animal trainers. She 1s carried on the shoulder of the mighty Siberian glant. She watches the clowns rehearse a new act. When she learns to ride it is on the |back of Bucephalus, “the pony with |human intelligence.” That was I. And do you imagine I never had any 1 } f i as an equal the company of the glo- rious ones of whose friendship I was so proud? Not at all. The difficulty was that I could never decfle whether galloping with grace and dash around the ring, or one of those marvelous ladies in tights and with a whip who tame the lions and make the savage jungle beasts march around like Kkit- tens. I might have become a circus per- cumstance that my people were finan- | mot taken very seriously by my par- lents. They did not even give it a thought. It was, of course, a source of much more satisfaction to them FLORENCE Opera Singer’s Marriage Enables Her To Realize Life-Long Circus Ambition MACBETH. was lucky. My volce came in fine style. In a little while I was in op- era and on the road that led me to the Chicago Opera Company. That was a good deal better than jumping from the back of one gallop- ing horss onto that of another or cracking whips at lions. 1 now was {in a world where you give all of your soul to the baton of the conductor down in front, as he brings the vio- lins up to the phrase in which vou are to join them. The worst thing that can happen to you is for the C in “Caro Nome" not to come out clear and full and exactly on the pitch. Your fipal joy is to convey a high po- etical rhapsody of action and voice when Faust comes to court you and Mephisto looks mockingly on. Your Very delicate task is to compete with the sllvery voice of the flute when you are Lucia gone mad. That f{s enough to hold your effort and imagi- natfon. Yet I could never quite forget the circus. The Ringlings were my best friends. 1 never tired of listening to their storles of the big show. When- ever the circus came to a town where I happened to be, I went to it, visited backstage and renewed early mem- orfes. I like to think that I led my hus- band into the circus business. I was singing for the Red Cross during the war and met him when he was a member of the British financial mission to the United States. As en- gineer, he had had earlier experience in structural designing and engineer- ing for European amusement parks. That alone disposed him to an inter- highly. So.to vocal study-T went. I|I talked to him about the circus, told him about my father's early connec- tion with the big show and of my own memories of the actual life of the people that play beneath the great canvas. As a member of the British financial mission, his contact with the banks here led to his heing offered various business opportuni- ties. One was to take control of a big amusement venture in New York. That fitted in with his previous amusement park engineering in Eu- rope, and, besides, as I insist, my storfes about the circus had had their effect upon his imagination. An amusement park and the circus have their elements in common. So he took over the park. It was thus that I married into the very world that T had known when I was a child. You may be sure 1 was interested in my husband's venture. When I was not out in opera or in concert I took a hand in the affair, talked over matters, gave advice, thought up ideas and made myself generally useful. I consider myself a fairly good judge of such things as circus features. Had not my father been a partner of the Ringlings when as boys they got up a Wild West show? Had I not had circus instilled in my blood from the time I can first remember? I was an advocate of making the 'amu.‘ement park more like a circus, of putting in big show features. I wanted to be connected with some- thing that was as nearly as possible a circus. That is the point of it all. Things have turned out exactly ac- cording to my desire. It seems that new ideas are com- ing into the circus and outdoor amusement world. . Here is one. | nearest to m | were the lig |1ooking you would want to see. They | appeared - ready o Iyric dr: of outdoor entertainment. If the ani - were embraced A methodical proceed to there and then nd so on t would L complete and Tt would be in the for the current animal acts, T ot part of it lles Give me the lcopards and season, particu think the animal trained bear als. The = part of 4 ure that, sublime as eback rider and stand |on a galloping horse with one foot, it | i= £till more perfect to w: into the Tion cage and make the king of beastsy a hoop. Once T spokf to a big German who came over her with a_trained tiger act. The tigef gest and most ferociou to eat you alive at ny moment. You never heard such blood-curdling snarls er saw euch jaws as when he cracked the whip at |them. T was curious to learn how he trained them. “Do you beat them?” I sasked He replied with solemn disgust: “I don't hit them now, since T have been in America. The Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals won't let me That was quite true. The laws wbout being kind to animals for- le him to beat up the tigers. With the animal venture goes an- her that most people will think a fle dissimilar and perhaps even dis- harmonious. To me, however, it s quite as famliliar as the circu Tdeas in the wav of amusement parke are broadening. People like acrobats, freaks, equestriennes and trained ant mals. They also like opera. From this idea follows the opera company. We are going to give a standard rep- ory and will try to establish the as a permanent feature mal acts are my pet, so also is the opera company. The two things that have always been uppermost in my mind are the circus and the singing stagd. It seems as if I have them both now. It an opera soprano closes her nar- ration with the telling & gome curl- ous incident, it is likely to ba an fn- cident of opera. Bui T will tell vou one of another kind. Up on the park grounds stands the original subma- rine. It is Holland's famous boat. the first successful undersea craft. When, after Winter's rest, Spring renova- tions began, a man was found sleep. ing in it early one morning. He was an old tramp who had made the re nowned submarine his quarters for the Winter. He had fixed himself a bed there out of old papers and blan- kets. He had even an oil stove which kept the snug reom warm and on which he cooked his food. ¥e had had a very cozy bedroom during the cold months. It seemed a shame W0 evict him. But the weather was com- fortable and he decamped quite cheer- fully—perhaps until next Winter. Lead Into Mercury. EAD has been transmuted into mercury by experiments conducted at Amsterdam by Prof. Smits. The controversy over changing mercury into gold is still raging, but the lead mercury transmutation seems to have been definitely accomplished.