Evening Star Newspaper, December 12, 1926, Page 96

r 6 ANTA CLAU porch of his house in Morris Brothers' toy department, jin gled his string of sleigh bells and smiled. Around him shoppers were making final, harried purchases. Depleted counters. I slon, turned on to 4| dusk of Winter. A last-minute feeling | hanging over ever I3 | One of the salesgirls waved her hand ss he table. | vou are out of a job Well, Sant after tonight- Out of a job! s He grinned back at her, as if it were | a joke. He knew better than to step | out of his part. An actor for nearly 40 years now, even though he had fallen to thé professional ignominy of a department store Santa Claus, the instincts of his calling were strorg upon him. If he | must masquerade in a red coat and a white beard, at least let him do it well No cheap, street-corner impersonation | it he could help it Only necessity, in the form of a long unpaid bill at Mrs. Hollins' theatrical | boarding house in West Fifty-first street, had brought him to Morr Brothers. “Could you, maybe, let me have $40, Mr. Dunstane? On account, you know? " Mrs. Hollins had asked this in an undertone of apology, meeting him on the stairs, one day back in No- vember. I wouldn't mention it, but there's the rent and the coal bill—-" “Oh, that's all right. That's all right. I—er— 1 have something in view, and before long I'll be able to straighten things out. You don’t mind waiting till a week from Saturday? I can fix it up then, I'm sure. “Well, 1 guess I'll have to manage somehow. 2 That such’ conversations generall. Hollins' part. Small and kind and hard-working she was, and so thin that the skin across her temples appeared to be stretched over knobs. She did all the cooking, and never made money, because she sympathized with her boarders. “I sure am glad you've got an en- gagement, Pop.” Pop Dunstane was what some of the Dboarders called him. She smiled, and this drew fine lines in the flesh covering her cheek bones. “Seems like sometimes a long lane don’t have no turning at all. But it does— What management you go- rs! And “The matter's not quite He went on down the stairs, not daring to look back at her. For if he did he would know himseif for what he was—a poverty-stricken old man, lying to evade his landiady. And yet, was it reaily a lie? always had something dimly in vies Was it his fault if it falied to mate- rialize? Except in moments ‘of de- pression, he lived on this vague, ex- hilarating hope of some event just around the corner. A “fat” part in a phenomenally successful play! It might happen to him, even at 64. * k ok X OT that he hadn’t had good sea- sons, now and then. And good parts, too. The remembrance of them filled him with a sort of glow, and enabled him to make the rounds of “COULD YOU, MAYBE, LET ME HAVE $40, MR. DUNSTANE? standing on the | Jadedeclerks. | at_present. | he pic | ing By Helen THE SUNDAY STAR, “TASHINGTON, Ormsbee “You're the fr. Dunstan, won't send any else till had a chance to see their merchandise manager. The one on the fourth floor, | they “said. They'll only pay $50 a week, but—well, things are pretty dull Things were always dull actor out of work. ik for an he had come to be Santa stowing dolls and games, lls, into the half-filled beside him. Very seriously, ed up a to soldier and e amined carefully. After which he put the soldier into his pack. All this was “business” which he had invented | and he was rather pleased with it. He went through it, although today customers were too hurried to notice him In the past weeks when people paused to watch him, he would heal them Look at him! Ain't he just like?” Or, “See, honey lamb, he's put- ting the dress on that dolly ‘Well, did you ever? He's a pretty cute old gentleman, isn’t he?” Their appreciation was as sweet- smelling savor in his mostrils. An audience! He could feel its responsive- ness. He played upon it. Made it laugh when he wanted, held it silent and attentive if he chose. John Dunstane knew that pleasing the kids was, in its way, an art, and he held his head a little higher. The job which he had undertaken in shame to pay Mrs. Hollins yielded him un- expected satisfaction. He even took a secret pride in hie performance, lavish- skill on his makeup. No limp beard, obviously false, but a nice, bushy one, the line where it joined his face being concealed by little tufts of hair which he built up on his cheeks each morning. And every day he im- provised new bits of “business” for the pleasure of his beholders. Tonight, however, all this would be over. After Christmas, the managers’ offices and the agents, again. “Noth- red pack ing today, Mr. Dunstane. What's that? Not at present- i No, these four weeks at Morris Brothers had not been a turning in the lane. It still lay straight ahead of him. When you're old you begin to suspect that you missed the turning, somewhere a long way back. You don't like to think of where you will bring up at the end. A grave in the Actors’ Fund plot—and a little headstone with your name on the billboards. Those billboards you never attained to, the headstone given in kindness by people who save you from the potter's field! They are your life. No, no! "Shut out the idea. It takes away vour courage. Keep your heart fixed on that magical something which is going to happen one of these days and make things different. Hold to it. How live at all without it? * kX X ANTA CLAUS put a box of domi- noes into his patk. Out of the corner of his eve he saw a man in a gray overcoat coming toward him. The man was perhaps 40. His face was drawn and ashy. He stepped up to the porch of the little house. “May I speak to you a moment?” he asked quietly. The performer gave him a Santa Claus smile and came to the edge of street off Park avenue. borhood didn’t look in the least like ON “He's 5 vears old,” said the fathex of the little boy, just as if he had been speaking to him all along. “His name's Hughie. He has pneumonia. The day before he was taken ill he went to Morris Brothers and saw Santa Claus."” The father smiled. “He talked us deaf, dumb and blind about it when he came home! 1 don’t suppose you'd remember him. though, out of so many children. Well, he's been counting up the d: till Christmas, as iively about it as though he weren't sick at all. Until yesterd: But then he began to get worse- Pop Dunstane caught the tone of those words. Duil. Inflectionless, al- most. That was the way people spoke when something they dreaded hung over them. “Children get better fast,” he sug- gested, because hetcouldn’'t think of anything else. “The specialist says there's a chance.” ~Again that steady — un- naturally steadv—voice. “The Santa Claus notion came to me this after- noon. It’s foolish of me, most likely, but I wanted to do something. And there’s nothing else.” Another silence. The streets were dark. The car was in Park Avenue, now. “He's a sharp child when he's well. You won't slip up and let him see you're faking, will you?—It might be bad for him if he discovered you weren't really Santa Claus.” The pride of his craft rose in Dun- stane. ““You tan depend on me. fessional.”” No response from the man in the gray overcoat. Perhaps he didn’t un derstand. “I mean I'm an actor.” That de- lightful sense of importance, as the statement rolled from his lips! ‘“Per- haps you've seen me play, John Dun- stane. I was the eccentric uncle in ‘Journey's End.’ It ran in New York elght or nine years ago.” “Oh,” said Hughes' father unim- pressed. And people usually quivered all over when they found themselves in the presence of a flesh-and-blood actor! “Much obliged to you for coming with me, Mr. — er — Dunstane,” Hughie's father resumed, as though the remark about “Journey’'s End” had been a mere parenthesis in the midst of his anxiety. “Maybe I didn't thank you I've been so worried.— Well, here we are. Oh, 1 forgot to say my name’s Thorcroft. Martin Thor- croft.—And I'll be glad to pay you. Whatever you think is right—- But he did not pause for an answer, His hand was tugging at the door- latch of the car. It was stopping before a house in a The neigh- I'm a pro- Fifty-first street, beyond Eighth ave- nue, where Pop Dunstane lived in a dingy old house. He knew it was a butler who opened the front door for them, because he had seen butlers in plays. A the stairs. The sound of the door must have brought her. scarcely more than a girl. * ok K FRAGILE, pretty woman who seemed terribly tired, came down Why, she was “Oh, Mart! The doctor's here ACCOUNT, YOU KNOW?” the managers' offices with dignity. But the lean years had far outnum- bered the prosperous ones. The years 80 many of them! Slipping along slowly at the start, but of late fairly whirling past him. Bixty-four, of course, is not actually old. If you're well-off and established, people say, “Getting on in years a|) and be Santa Claus to a | bit, but he's goipg strong. Doesn’t Ie's sick. | look over 50.” But if you need work,| The child’s father—it was plain | they tell you to your face that you're | enough. Only fathers and mothers | old. They tell you so often that you n to think you are. visited the dramatic agencies twice on the day Mrs. Hollins made her request for $40. Rooms swarm- ing with_people in search of engage- | ments. How young they were—that| is, young in comparison with 58, the | age Pop Dunstane admitted, profes- sionally. “No use going back in the after- noons,” he told himself. ““They only spot you for down and out.” But he went back. And on his return call at the Walford agency he was summoned from the anxious crowd of applicants into an inner cubicle. There he was informed that Morris Brothers, the big department stors, wanted some one to play Santa Claus, from Thanksgiving until Christ the erch, part you're playing. | | “No; I mean I want to talk to you, | vourself.” Art was evidently nothing to this in- | | dtvidual. Never, never forget the his hands gripped the flimsy iling. “Can you—? Wil | get_that look. “The store will be closing soon,” | |sald Dunstane. “If you'll leave me | the address I'll come.” “Right away, though. I have a car | waiting. I've been up to the execu- | tive offices and got permission.” The visitor exhibited a slip of paper, filled | in and signed. Santa Claus laid down his pack. | After all, there were no children to | watch his performance this day. He could go. Here and there preoccupied shop- pers glanced at him over their shoul- ders when he passed them In the aisles. Out in the street a limousine and a chauffeur, touching his cap. A huddle of curious passersby as Santa Claus settled into the back seat, followed by again.” whisper. means his coming back? He and | the nurse won't tell me anything——"' So this was the little boy's mother. The terror in her voice showed that. She was much younger than her hus- band. They went upstairs, and Pop Dun- stane waited. He wondered what he ought to ask for his visit here this evening. “Whatever you think right,” Hughie's father had said. Well, $25, maybe. An actor of the legitimate stage should not value his services too cheaply. Mr. Thoreroft returned. take yvou up to Hughle “But here’s the doctor. speak to you first.” ‘The doctor was short and square shouldered, and had an air of autho ity. He gave a slow measuring | glance at John Dunstane, as though he were looking at him, not at Santa Claus. “I may as well tell you,” he began, |“that I am going to try an experi- ment. Mr. Thorcroft understands that. He brought you just to give the child a little pleasure at the sight of you. But I want to use you for some- thing more important, if you're will- I'm to he sald. He wants to the man in the gray oygrcoat. Silence ing a mas. A new venture. their employ ofessional. between them. Ths car moved ing. Youre an actor, I belioge, B o0 oRe ~~ An Incident of the Time When Santa Was in Hard Luck. She spoke in a frightened | “What do you think it/ D. C., DECEMBER 12, 1926—PART 5. SOMETHING IN VIEW “Dunstane. profession.” proud of. “Good. Then you'll see what I'm driving at.” The doctor was speaking rapidly, like a stage director sketch- ing a situation before it is rehearsed. “Up there, we have a boy who is con- sclous at times, but at others he slips into a sort of stupor. That's a condi- tion T want to hold in check, because when he's in it he goes the way of least resistance. He doesn't make an effort to live—and we need that ef. fort even in a child. Well, we've been trying to hold his attention In little ways. But it's dificult. Santa Claus ought to catch his interest, though. Yes, many That was a record to be ars in the If you can get him to notice you and keep him noticing. Pop Dunstane began to see what was expected of him “I don't ask you to gy round the place and excit cau- tioned the doctor. vou alone with him, exXcept for the nurse. Then we'll see what happens. If the thing doesn't work—well, I'll put a stop to it. But if it does—we'll have pulled the child over these few hours and put the worst behind us.” | * % ok K | ROOM with Mother Goose pic- tures on the walls. The windows open. A trained nurse, wearing a sweater over her uniform. A small bed,"and on the pillow a snub-nosed face with brown ey Slowly the eyes fixed themselves on the new- comer. ‘“Hello, Santa Claus,” said | Hughle, quite unconcerned. Only he | caught his breath between the words. | ‘‘Hello, Hughle.” thought Santa Claus. bad | “I'm—sick.” Evidently a distinc-| tion to be hoasted of. “Is it—Christ- | mas?—I'll bet it is!—The iceman says | —I'll bet—" | Christmas eve. No_stupor now, | This wasn't so | That's why I'm | | Hughie considered this. “If— I want a skooter—'n’ roller-skates— 'n’_an aer'plane—, 'n'—" The words trailed off. The brown eyes grew dazed, as though everything | in front of them were fading. They had a look which Pop Dunstane had | seen before when people were very ill. | His knees felt weak. It was the| sensation you had when you heard the curtain going up on an opening night. Now you were in for it! He stepped closer to the bed. ‘“Shake hands with me, Hughie?" The boy shook his head ever so little. “Tired, eh? Well, never mind. Just watch me. Remember!" Santa Claus moved back from the bed and took his spectacles out of his | breast pocket. He put them on and | looked at Hughie over them. This| had always been good for a laugh. A flicker of interest in the child's face, but it died out. There were other pieces of ‘“busi- ness” with the spectacles. The per- former tried them. But Hughle's gaze wandered. You couldn’t be sure whether he noticed at all. To make him notice! Just a child, and life ahead of him. It was dlifferent if you were old and no one cared. But there were a father and mother walit- ing in the hall, out there. Hughle's father came to the door. His arms weré full of toys—a skooter and an aeroplane, games in bright-col- ored boxes. “My, my! I'm getting absent-mind- ed,” chuckled Santa Claus, as he went over to take)the toys. “Left my pack out in the hall. And Hughie's pres- ents in it.” He arranged them with great care on a table where the boy could see them. Hughle was watching now. “There's a skooter——!" He sighed happily. After that, though, the half-vacant, half-wild look came back. Then, slowly, the eyelids drooped. John Dunstane's heart sank. He ‘was losing the fight. But the rule of his profession held him. Keep on with the performance, no matter what happens. So Banta Claus busied himself at inspecting the afrplane. As he did 80, he began to whistle—a jollv !'ttle #ig tune. 'The sound made Hughie open his eyes. “I can whistle—too,” he announced. But the lips would not shape them- selves. o “Don’t try, Hughle. Just listen!" As Pop Dunstane repeated the tune, its words ran through his mind: “Johnny get your hair cut, Johnny get your hair cut, Johnny get your hair cut pompa- dour!” Hughie's gaze never left him till the tune was over. Then he began to set- tle back into the dullness which made no effort. Santa Claus started again. more assurance, this time. “Johnny get your hair cut—-" How long he whistled, as he sat at that table examining the toys one after another, he did not know. He only knew that while he kept doing it, | the child watched him. A clock struck somewhere in the | house. After a long while it struck again. And again, after another in. terval. Sometimes Pop Dunstane changed the tune to, “I'm Called Lit- tle Buttercup.” With Or, perhaps to, ‘Isabella! Oh, Isabella, You Are a Dalsy Queen of Spain.” But always a song of the past. He was surer of the melodies. And they were prettier, tao. He kept on whistling, “Johnny, get your hair cut.”” But now the tune was contending with a greater one, drift- ing in through the open windows. A carol. Many voices, from some church. “Oh, come, all ye falthful, Joyful and triumphant!” The doctor stepped over. “You needn't wait any longer,” he said. “His temperature is dropping, and I think he'll go to sleep.” * K ok ok JOYFUL and triumphant! Pop Dun- stane walked out of the room and down the stairs, to the majestic rhythm. For him, the silence of the house was singing. He had given a| good performance. Hughie was bet-| ter. i At the foot of the stairs he paused. Hughie's father or mother would come down to thank him. He wanted them to. Wanted to be told that he had done something out of the ordi- nary. At 64, you need praise. | He walted. He found a chalr, sat | down, and kept on waiting. Perhaps | they were talking with the doctor. | Through a swinging door from the | rear came the butler. He approached | Pop Dunstane nolsele: “Is he worse, sir?” h | e inquired, in | i ! alarm. “Master Hughie “No. He's better, the doctor thinks. | “Falth, God is §0od,” observed the | butler, “We've been terribly upset | here today, sir. And seeing you sit- ting there——" On the stage butlers draw them- selves up and announce, “Lady Flambury to see you, madam.” Pop Dunstane had no idea what they The individual before him now asked. “You'll be wanting to go home, | sir? There's a car waiting outside.” | John Dunstane stood up. He felt the strain of the evening. A sign of age, he knew, but he had no heart to struggle against it, or to walk buoyantly as he tried to in the agen- | professionals | | might be llke at other moments. l THE HALF-VACANT, HALF-WILD LOOK CAME BACK. THEN, SLO WLY, THE EYELIDS DROOPED. JOHN DUNSTANE'S HEART SANK. N \ N\ .{\\\ ANV /2 3 sk cies. The butler took him to the taxi, asked his address and paid the driver. And so, about midnight, a very tired Santa Claus climbed Mrs. Hollins' steps. He saw the taxicab whirl down the block, and not till then did he remember that he had been going to ask Hughie's father $25 for this evening. Well, he could go back to- morrow and get the money. Go back? Why, he didn’ street or number of the house where he had been. Near Park avenue, somewhere——. He would have to look it up in the phone book. But what was Hughie's father's name? He had heard it several times tonight. Something with “th" in the middle, like Northley or Orthwaite. He tried to remember. No use. He couldn’t think. % * * BOARDING-HOUSE Christmas dinner. John Dunstane ate it,| casting envious glances at his fellow who were _fortunate enough to have to hurry off for mati- nees. They grumbled. Theatrioal people never had a holiday like other folks. Just an extra performance. But Christmas behind the scenes has its own flavor. The geetings | called from dressing-room to dressing- The sound of an orchestra tuning up. For all these things Pop Dunstane longed, and he had no share in them. TUp in his hall bed. room. |room on the top floor was a postal card with a plum pudding on it, from his niece in New Hampshire. And a silk handkerchief which Mrs. Hol- lins had left in a box on his bureau. From a hook on the wall hung his discarded Sdnta Claus suit, waiting to be returned to the costumer. He put on his overcoat and went out to walk. . Past stage entrances he strolled—concrete alleys with fire- escapes overhanging them. Here was the Parnassus, where he had played In “Journey's End.” He tried to imagine that he was going to turn in at the stage door, as he used to. It was a cheerful pretense. At Hughie's house for a brief space last night Pop Dunstane had felt he could reach out and touch a future more glowing than the past. It was always like that when you had given a good performance. P know the | 1 He thought of Hughife. He won dered if the child were better—wished he might know surely. If only he could think of that name with “‘th" | in the middle of it, he might tele- ! phone and ask. He bought a paper. With fingers which shook just a trifie, he opened |to the page where the death notices were printed. While he held the paper at arm’s length, his glance went slow- |ly down the long column. No. No little boy of 5 whose name was Hugh. Pop Dunstane breathed with re- lief. Here, at least, was something to rejoice at. Then he recollected the $25 he might have had. Now that the sum was quite lost to him, he meditated that he might have | asked for $50. Not everybody could have done what he did last night! | Why hadn't he even left his ad- | dress? Tomorrow would - be Saturday. Nothing to do Sunday—the same. And on Monday, the agencies, where they | wouldn't offer him parts any more. What was going to become of him? If he could get out to California, Jasper Brannigan would very likely give him work in the movies, for Jas- |per was an old acquaintance. It | wouldn't do any good to write and |ask him, though. People always turn you down if you write, but when ‘_\ml're on the spot it's different. But the fare to California! To stay on at Mrs. Hollins' cling- ing precariously to the outskirts of his calling, was all fate held for Dun- }Slfim’. “Nothing at present"”—the | phrase of the agencies. They didn't |want you, that was what it meant. Pop Dunstane understood. And yet he had not been useless that night at Hughie's, he told himself. It was a comforting thought. Hughie! Was he getting well? At a stand outside of Morris Brothers' the actor bought a newspaper the next day and hunted through the death no- tices, as he had done yesterday. Again the column reassured him. That was Saturday. On Sunday he went out to the corner of Fifty-first street, got another paper, and re- peated his search. No hoy of 5 in to- day's list, either. It was certain now that Hughle was better. That was good! Pop Dunstane smiled. As he went home from the corner, without a second’s warning, that name with “th” in it came back to John Dunstane. There it was upon his tongue, as if it had never left him. | Queer ' that memories _behave so. | Thoreroft! Of course. He stopped on | the sidewalk, pulled a stubby pencil iml' of his pocket, and scrawled the | word upon the margin of his Sunday | paper, before he could forget. | Reaching the house, he consulted Mrs. Hollins' thumbed and dog-eared telephone book. The Thorcrofts’ ad- dress was there. Up two long flights of stairs, as fast as feet that stumbled would per- mit. He did not know why he was | hurrying, until he saw the red suit | still dangling from its hook. Into his battered traveling-bag he packed the costume, scarcely ac- knowledging to himself that he did it. Childish, this notion. And yet he could not give it up. He started for the region of Park avenue. He wanted to play Santa Claus to Hughie once more. * K Kok UGHIE'S father was at home. |ashy today. Yes, the boy could see | santa Claus. Pop Dunstane's heart leaped. For a few minutes, he would be a jolly saint in a red coat and for- get tomorrow and the agencles. “If you'll let me have a room where I can make up and dress,” he suggested, and moved eagerly towan® the sthirs. “Shall I go up?” “Just a minute. I wanted to ask if you got my letter,” questioned Mr. Thorcroft. “I sent it night before last, but the mails are slow on account of the holidays."” He shook his head. “No——"" “I wrote to thank you, Mr. Dun- stane—for all you did—the other night. It was something we can't ever—forget. 1 meant to see you that night, but when I came down with the doctor you'd gome. Well, we'd like to make some kind of return. Do vou remember, I was going to pay you, but we hadn’'t settled on the amount?” “I thought of $50, perhaps,” mur- His face was not drawn and| mured the man who had been Santa Claus. “No, mo! Something substantial. Say, $500 or $600." Pop Dunstane put his hand on the stair-ralling beside him. “It's too much.” “Nothing would be too much We've kent Hughie—and you helped Mr. Thorcroft looked away, and swallowed hard. Then he smiled. “Suppose we compromise on $500—" For many a year John Dunstans had not had $600 all at once. He caught his breath. Here at this in- stant, the miraculous event was hap- pening! The magical occurrence from around the corner, for which he had looked until his eves had grown dim. This money would take him to Cali- fornia—to the movies—to opportunity in his old age. Old age? Why, he felt younger than the 58 he mentioned at the thea- trical offices. The possibilities of life are infinite, even when your hair is white, “Oh, come all ye faithful, Joyful and triumphant!” Those aqudences were echoing in his heart. For he had had h that some day things would be different— and now they were going to be. To believe, and to keep on believing! That’s life, he thought. That is what makes you live. “Thank you,” he managed to say. Then, because he was happy, “I've heard, Mr. Thorcroft, that a person can have a funeral for §200. Is that s0?"" | Hughie's father, seeming rather | puzzled, supposed it might be. “That's good.” Pop Dunstane's shoulders lifted. The fear which had walked with him so long, was gone. He need not look forward to the Actors’ Fund plot and the little whit headstone. . “I'll put $200 in the bank,” he sald. “And the rest of the money I'l take to California. 1 have something in view, professionally. out there—" He stood for a moment, elated, with eyes upon the future. Then he started up the stairs, to make up and dress and play for Hughie. The world was brave, even as it had been in the 1880's, and hope was everywhere. (Coprright. 1926.) French People Are Worried by Echoes Of Old Prophecies Partially Fulfilled BY STERLING HEILIG PARIS, December 1, 1926. UROPE is awake again to prophecies of great changes that stirred the peoples just before the war, like the one probably best known and re- peated for centuries, when the peo- ples were stirred up: “When men shall fly, will go to war; The women will do the harvesting; the men will finish the vintage. Truly, men had just begun to fly— flying had come, at last. Also, twelve countrigs could be added up. It was so wonderful that people ac- tually hoped from it that the war would be short—ending with late autumn of 1914 (“the men will finish the vintage)! But the war contin- ued, and the grand old anonymous prophecy seemed in default. Great minds took strong account of the fever for prophecies, citing Renan —the fllustrious Earnest Renan, who could not be accused of superstition. Concerning the prophecies which had innundated France and Germany just before the War of 1870, Renan said categorically: “For centuries past, on the eve of great events, vague rumors and rep- etitions of predictions, sometimes pre- cise, and almost always realized, have warned the common people of danger: which threatened them. We can only recognize this mysterious instinct, without being able explain it.” Thus, early in February, 1814, when all Europe was tranquil, rumors of a general war disquieted the towns of Suabla, Franconia and province: around Berlin. They repeated the famous prophecy of the Monk of Hehnin, which, 300 years previously, had predicted the establishment of the Hohenzollern Empire and ‘‘the lamentable end of the third Em- peror of that family, in a great war.” It had considerably troubled the Kaiser; and when he had to flee to Holland. it was quoted everywhere as twelve kings NOSTRADAMUS, WHO IS AL- LEGED TO HAVE FORETOLD THE WORLD WAR IN 1540. HE SAID THE OF 1913 WOULD BE A YEAQYF PERILS.” ETESS OF TAGGIA, WHO DIED (IN ITALY IN 1837, % wonderful foretelling. But now, the ex-Kaiser is holding up his head again, and the end of the IHohenzol lerns does not seem so finally lament- able. Was the monk also wrong in just one thing? In Suabia popular spired tramps recailed the the woman of St. Inghbert whose verses have come frue the following: “When Germany shall be at her greatest the fall will come. I -ee horses of the Cossacks drinking in the Rhine and the Elbe.” When the Russians were pounding into Germany and Austria, this too, 'was quoted everywhere. But at the said, “That last did not get ow, on the except. part failed—the Co: to the Rhine or {other hand, with Russian Soviets threatening right and left, they | change the doubt to, “Is the prophecy perhaps not finished? Will those horses not yet drink in the Rhine and the Elbe?" In Bavaria a Wurtzburg University professor brought back from Italy the famous prophecy of Rosa Colomba, lovely young clairvoyant, who died in her flower, in 1837. Cardinal Man- | ning_admitted that she had foretold | the fall of Louis Philippe, the resto- | ration of Pius IX “by a Napoleon” {and the establishment of the King- jdom of Italy. Now, Rosa Colomba | announced another revolution in Italy | “after a great general war in which | Russian soldiers will bed their horses i the Church of Taggla.” | Is it not strange, people are now | saying, when the threat of Russian | Soviets increases—were the prophets | wrong in just that one detail? Or | may it be, perhaps, that their end has not yet come? In France they talk again of Nos- tradamus and the prophecy of Orval. Although France, came out of the war victorious, the fact remains that 23 prophets, beginning with Nostrada- mus, predict “the burning of Paris.” TFlattered and enriched by Henry II, ¢ [ Now Nostradamus_ nevertheless _foretold the King's death, “by the head, in iron and gold.” It happened when Montgomery’s spear plerced his gold Jousting helmet. So the celebrated “Quatrains” of Nostradamus, foretelling the future of France from the vear 1540, have been remarkably verified. They, qualify 1913 as “the year of perils,” foretell the great war and announce the burn- ing of Paris. More and more people ask: “Could the prophets be right in all but just one thing or two? Or are those things vet to com “Woe to thee, proud city!"” runs the great verse of the prophecy of Orval in Belgium. It had such political ef- fect in 1814 (when it was transcribed in the Belglan Monastery and certified used by the partisans of Louis XVIII for its verification Catherine Emmerich, the German girl whose visions and works have been almost household words in Ger- |ica, saw devils undermining Paris! | This is extraordinary, because, around 1810, when Catherine wrote it, nobody dreamed of such a thing as the Metro- politan subway ¢ day of fire and destruc- tion!” the verses run. “When the great Babylon shall be undermined the chastisement is at hand!” None of the prophets predict the ruin of Paris, but only the “punish ment of the proud city,” after which |is to be set up, according to a number of them, a new era of faith and | brotherly love. | Paris has heard so much! Yet it |did not come with the war, as most people thought it threatened to do. Paris asks: “Was it a failure? Or is it to come soon?"” These things pile up. Susannah Wett, the Antwerp banker's wife, is in it from the year 1820. In 1820, being “perfectly normal,” she fell into trances so notable that her husband and the municipality published a book on them. Susannah’s consciousness projected 100 years into the fu- 850 that she saw the war, the ishment of Paris.’ And, finally, they quote again the celebrated prophecy of Mayence, which had such effect both in France and Germany in 1914. The prophecy of Mayence dates from 1854. Thirteen of its eighteen verses came true up to the triumph of the German Empire, just befdre the war. Then came the terrific part, verses 14 to 18, which (they are now | saying) have not been entirely ful- | filied. These things, indeed, pile up when people are worried as they are in France. All the prophecy of Mayence came true, they say, except this last. They would like it to be a failure. “But may it not vet finish the ter. rific mixup which it threatens?” they ask. “14. In that day seven kinds of sol- diers shall fight against three kinds in the Quartier des Bouleaux from Ham to Padeborn. *“15. Woe to you of the north! The seventh generation shall pay the price of your ambition! Woe to you of the east! Never were such armies seen in the world! by the highest authorities) that it was | But, as a fact, the time was too early | | many, and are even known in Amer- | ‘“‘desolation of Belgium’ and the “pun- | | desperately SUSANNAH WETT, THE ANT- WERP BANKER'S WI WHO. » IN 1820, “PROJECTED HER CON- SCIOUSNESS 100 YEARS INTO THE FUTURE.” “18. Half shall half shall flee.” Very disquieting is the r be destroyed, and ference to Ham, Padeborn and the G fer des | Bouleaux. Ham s w wnin the war; but there is no doubt that the Fleld of Birch Trees ( eaux) exists aw: Westphali These prophecies worry people How much of them was failure? They lead up to the Great War, and quit—with only a hint of the re of Parls, in faith and love, “after punishment.” So, is the Great War entirely finished? Are the perils over and done with? France is extremely troubled France is, today, called “militarist.” It is entirely unjust. France holds to her war power and territories to raise troops and sup- plies, because France fears the future unless she be strongly prepared! But she fears the situation—hates it! Bismarck and Heine, the poet, both warned France of her peril. They are among the prophets! shall never pardon you, so long as you “The next war will cause the dis rance or Ger- * said Bismarck to the English painter Richmond in 1887. Heine, author of the “Lorelel,” saw such war of extinction to be inevitable. “Frenchmen, be on your guard'" he wrote. “I will tell you the bit- ter truth—you are hated in Germany. What we have against you { have never been able to learn. But wa exist!” y over near Padeborn. in Hair Dryer. DETROXT school girls now dry their hair after swimming by sitting on a bench and letting a draft of air from behind, heated to 130 degrees Fahren- heit, be blown upon them. The draft “16. Three times the sun shall pass over the heads of the combatants of smoke and ga “17. At last g claim victory. without being seen through the cl':':d' i comes out through a large pipe, and if the girls want exceptionally quick drying they can turn a switch which s up the velocity so that the speed: chief shall pro- heated alr comes out at the rate of | 2,000 cubic feet per ninute.