Evening Star Newspaper, March 6, 1932, Page 83

ON, D.” C, MARCH &, 1932 GRAE- ~ 11 Thought He Was Boss of His Ozwn Home—By ISabel VVOOdmanWaltt but George joined him as the train pulled in. Gorham was all keyed up. “What do you think I drew, Wis? Gee, it's a hot one! But it wasn’'t so funny last night. Grace waited up for me and opened the box. It had a glass nursing bottle and two rubber nipples in it!” “That good old meerschaum smell! You'd know it anywhere!” snickered Holden. “Well, did you get your putter?” “Nope. What do you think was in that long thing—my cffice um- brella. I had hunted everywhere for it. Kinda greenish and shabby, but gosh! who cares when youre stuck in town and it’s raining cats and dogs? You're “Wiswell Gladstone Holden,” shrieked his wife, “where did you get those?” the only one, Wis, who got what he went after. That red bow helped you out. How did Mrs. Holden take it when she saw the pants? Give you merry aitch?” “I'll say.” “What do you care? You've got your pants.” “Pants nothing. I brought home,” Wis told lhim solemnly, “a pair of pink corsets. Laugh at off!” Suddenly both began to laugh. Their merriment infected the conductor and all the passengers. Presently the entire smoking car buckled up. > “I tell you, let’s go to their confounded rum- age sale tonight and make another stab at it, This is a matter of principle with me. It's pven more than that now. I've got to convince Imy wife about——" But the entire car had its par out, so Wis piped down. By the time the train crossed the Mystic River the two men had a plan. They parted at he right ramp in the North Station, Wis to ake the subway and George to walk uptown. A T precisely five minutes of 6 that afternoon Mr. Holden whistled La-da-da-aa—La-da da-dece!—as wont to do in the old courtship lays to announce his arrival. No response. Expectantly he looked on the hall table and yes, there was a letter! “Gone home to mother,” he feared it would say; but it proved to be only a millinery opening. He questioned Nora, to be told cryptically, “She’s out.” “Where'd she go, Nora?” 0 \M \ / ‘.,\s\\\.\ v \“"' ‘ Vi ) 1) . \ AR RN (KRR L DTN “She didn’'t say. I heard Mis’ Holden say she’d better start early because the rubbish sale opened at 6:30. Will you have your dinner now, sir?” “Yes right away.” Polly hadn’t left him then! He breathed easier. He dispatched his deli- cious calves’ liver and bacon, carrots and green peas, scarcely tasting them. An avalanche of scalding coffee washed down Nora’s unusually tempting Washington pie. After sprinkling his neglected baby zinnias he made a dash for Sorority Hall. The rum- mage sale was in full swing. He found George Gorham at his post just inside the door, as agre>d upon on the train. “Found anything yet?” “Nope. But it's early. Nobody's left. Lookit, Wis, that behemoth over there! She's just bought a grab with a red bow on it and isn't that white flannel peeking out the wrappings? I'd try her.” “Okay.” Wis slithered across the floor toward a portly woman with a Plymouth Rock hauteur and a visage like the Rock of Gibraltar. Timidly he touched her elbow: “Pardon me, madam, h-h-have you my pants?” “Well, I never!” in a startled gasp. “Sir, how '!‘\’v‘u"‘w | | dare you? There's a limit to what I'll put up with, even for charity.” “B-b-but, madam, I thought——" “You thought wrong!” An indignant back flounced away. Wiswell caught a peek at the exposed flannel. No, they weren't his, he decided. Whatever it was, was too clean. Polly hailed him from behind a grab-laden table. ““Oh, hello, darling! How about buying one of my bundles—the last one—only 25 cents?” Butter wouldn't have melted in her mouth! Was this the woman who, only that morning, had never wanted to see him again? Truly there was no accounting for the female sex. But before he could answer her, a dominating voice from the dollar table interrupted. “And now, ladies and gentleman,” shrilled a Mrs. Darlymple, clapping her pilump palms, “just a moment please.” “Here! Here!” bawled a man’s voice. “In order to make this rummage sale 100 per cent perfect,” resumed Mrs. Darlymple, as soon as she could get a little attention, “the ladies have decided to auction off the last remaining bundle from the dollar table. Step right up now and do your bit for the orphan children of Madagascar, to whom, as you doubtless all know, the proceeds of this sale are to be given. Go ahead, Mrs. Holden. Do your stuff.” From the outskirts of the group Wiswell saw his wife climb gracefully onto one of the hall's perilous folding chairs. She held aloft a lumpy package adorned with a huge red bow. Wis’ heart gave a great thump. His pants! It had to be. He'd scoured every salc that night. So had George. “She’s going to auction off your pants hissed George, forgetting his golf stick in his excitement. “Will somebody make me an offer?” Polly was saying. “Don’t he shy, you men. I'm counting on——" “One cent,” from the wealthiest man in Hopesdale. “Nothing under five cents at this rummage sale. Come again, Mister.” “Five cents,” amended the first bidder. “Five cents—one nickel—half a dime!” scofTed Polly. “Ten cents,” from Wis. “Ten cents. Thank you, Mr. Holden. The red bow’s worth that!” “Twenty.” “Twenty-five!” “It’s the right shaped bundle,” George said helpfully. “Thirty—only don't let me have it, Polly,” giggled a pretty girl assistant. “I'm only jack- ing the price up.” “P-f-f-ifty cents and its mine!” topped Wis. “Oh no, it isn't! Not while there's a drop of sporting blood in Hopesdale,” flashed the auctioneer-bandit. “One dollar!” thundered Colin MacAulister, who had often been called the nicest man is town by other men’s wives. “Two dollars,” Wis was not to be outdone. “At-a-boy, Wisie! Say, you must know what's in that grab!” a fat youth accused. “I'll take a chance and make it four.” HE moisture gathered on Wiswell Holden's brow. That ass to hi-jack him like that! And how pretty Polly looked up there, calling, “Four dollars I'm bid. Do I hear another? Come, bid another dollar, somebody! What's five dollars for the good of the cause?” The cause! “Five dollars and not a cent more!” bellowed Wis. After all, five dollars was little enough to pay for a principle. “Five dollars! Splendid! Do I hear another? Going—going—gone! Sold to Mr. Holden for five dollars. Here you are darling.” For one awful moment Wiswell felt a sink- ing sensation in the pit of his stomach. He knew that gleam in Polly’s eye! Suppose—but no, they had to be in that last chance! With a return of confidence he undid his red bow, while a curious group of onlookers pressed closer. His trembling hands tore at the wrap- ping in triumphant haste. Out sprawled a pink corselette, alive with writhing garters. Blindly he fled Sorority Hall. He needed comfort. Once in the sanctity of his own home he took a swig of Polly’s dandelion wine. When his wife returned half an hour later he pre- tended to be asleep. “Have a good time, darling?” She was on to his | um tricks. “Made me the laughing stock of Hopesdale.” snerted Wis. “Made a goat out of your own husband.” “The best sport you mean. Who else coughed up five dollars for the poor little orphans?” Polly pulled the bed iight switch. “Why, if he hasn’'t gone and set that wine glass down on his nice clean flannels!” Holden popped up like a jack-in-the-box. “My pants!” he blinked. “Of course, darling. When I saw in the garden he’'d set his heart on those pants, I brihed Nora to stick a clothespin on her nose and——" “And a good thing, too!” Self-respect surged through Wis’ manly chest. She hadn’t dared give away his pants! There was one home in Hopesdale where the husband still wore the pants and was boss. “I'm glad you aren’t lige that Gorham woman, leading poor George round by the nose.” “No. darling,” cooed Polly, “I wouldn't want to lead you ’round by your funny nose.” As she leaned over to give him a light kiss Wiswell saw that her eyes were dancing demons. Suspiciously he unfolded the white flannels. “I told Nora to boil them and boil them, till she got all the dirt out. Too bad. Polly sighed, “they’'ve shrunk so you can never wear them again!” (Copyright, 1932.) Piney Branch Road Settlers Continued from Seventh Page Miller vault, an open-top tomb. Here, close by, is the grave of Samuel Nichols Smallwood, mayor of Washington, who died September 29, 1824. His age is given as 52, and we are told he was a native of Charles County and a citi= zen of the District of Columbia for 30 years. And here also is the grave of that noted early speculator in District property, James Green- leaf, who, according to his attractive monu- ment, died September 17, 1843. HE old Argyle mansion, located on Upshur street west of Sixteenth, is a beautful old home, owned, the writer has been told, by Senator Porter H. Dale, who seems to like old residences. It is quite a good-sized structure and looks as though time had treated it very kindly. In the early days, according to a statement to the writer, this old mansion was for a while occupied by Baron Bodisco, the Russian Minister, who married the youthful Miss Williams of Georgetown when he was beyond middle age, and here the homely Min= Pythian Games Were O much stress has been placed upon the Olympic games that it is common to think of Greek contests in the light of athletic prow- ess, but equally as important as the Olympic contests were the old Pythian games, which gave most of their attention to the arts and literature. The beginning of the games stretches back into the realms of mythology and is credited to Apollo. According to the ancient belief, Apollo, flushed with his victory over the snaky monster Python, inaugurated the annual fes- tival. They were conducted under the lead- ership of the Delphians for many years, but around 600 B.C. they passed under the contro] of the Amphyctions. They were placed upon a four-year basis at this time and when given were employed to honor Apollo. Because they honored Apollo, the sweet sing- er of the Olympic gods, it was natural that the first Pythian games should be, in reality, a contest of musicians. The festival continued as such for a long period, but about the time the Amphyctions assumed control althletic contests, horse races and various competitions in art and literature were added, thus making of the festival not only a competition of culture, but a meeting of those not gifted in the arts of the day. The Pythian games, as such, ended around the first of the fifth century after the birth of Christ. Their influence has lived after them, ister kept several Russian bears for his amuse- ment. The writer knows that Baron Bodisco died January 23, 1854, and that he is buried in Oak Hill Cemetery, but he would like to check up on his living at Argyle before passing it along as a fact. Of course, we could not write a story of Piney Branch and leave out the Piney Branch Hotel and the Brightwood Trotting Park, for many years conducted by Frederick G. Rohr, father of Miss Lena Rohr, still a resident of the city. The Club Hotel, a very popular place, where cool drinks were served, was at the junctign of Piney Branch road and Seventh Street pike. Its proprietor was J. E. Moses, brother of W. B. Moses, who was very fond of fast horses, which he trained at the Brightwood Park, just down the road a bit. In more recent years one of Washington’s largest citizens, George C. Mountcastle—weighing 427 pounds—kept a liquor emporium on this spot, until reminded of the passage of the eighteenth amendment, when he retired from business. Contests of Culture however, for various contests in the present day date back to the Pythian games for their original inspiration. There are, for instance, the local and national contests for art and sculpture. Artists from all over the world compete in the big international displays to seek honors and prizes. In music the fame of the Welsh Eistedfod is world wide. At this meeting singers and cho- ruses from many lands meet to compete in contests, in which the various competitors sing or perform the same composition before a group of skilled judges. The Atwater Kent radio contest is a development of the same sort, with the local eliminations leading up to a final national contest. " The young orators of the country, meeting in their regional contests, from which the win- ners advance to the national and then inter- national contests, can look back to the Pythian games for the origin of their competition. Unlike the Olympic games, which have grad- ually reached out to embrace all types of sport and gather them under a single control, the Pythian games have been broken up and scat- tered into the various categories that originally were combined. Because of the diversification, the origin of many of the modern contests j« forgotten, but the Pythian games have bad% more profound effect upon the culture of the world than the Olympic games have had upon the athletic.