Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, December 10, 1913, Page 23

af = SECTION 2 VoL, XXIV. No. 21 Grand Uapids Herald-Reviec eS GRAND KaPiDs, Irasca County, Minn., WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 10, 1913 . by Daily Story Pub. Co.) T was and Alice Maitland riously furnished bou- doir, putting the fin- ishing touches on the gifts she was to be stow on the morrow. She tied the last bit of scarlet ribbon about a jewel box with mathematical precision, tucked a ow, and pushed iness. “There,” the heap of p: she exclaimed, surveying ittered the there, thank I’ve done my s done! é y and remembered at is likely to remember myself to a fraz- nught on paresis trying to or people who already ing there is, Let me see,” aking up the packages checking them off with was half sad, and half jacket for Uncle Joseph, that he will never wear, and the Sevres cups that Aunt Maud coyly hinted would be an acceptable reminder of the blessed season to her; the s g of pearls that Adele has been openly admiring for d a check for Jack for hig ‘S—one’s college | bashful about letting one know what! cere and disinterested love. they want, and that is a comfort, at any rate, at Christmas. Christmas eve, | sat alone in her laxu- | | tle trifle, just a token that you have | not forgetten the old days?” suggested her heart. “Never,” said Pride. “ven casual acquaintances may ex: change gifts at Christmas,” urged her | Heart, speciously. | “He would cast my gift back at my | feet,” said Pride. “Christmas,’ said her Heart, “is the | | time of peace on earth and good will j towards men. It is a time when old | wrongs should be forgotten, when old wounds should be healed, when broken | | ties should be mended, and hearts es- | tranged should be reunited. Why do you not kiss and make up, as children flo?” | “What!” cried Pride, “and be flouted } once more?” | “You were very tired of the old, | ®mpty life, with its monotonous rounds of insipid gayety,” went on her Heart Hy qt} ect ee “1! Don’t Believe | Have Anybody | Love.” “You were that loneliest and most for lorn of human beings, a great heiress and an orphan. All your life you had had everything you wanted, except Forgotten relatives .aren’t..the thing you wanted most of all—sin | Your } | | | 1 father and mother had died before you | could remember them, and you had THE CHRISTMAS PARTY place, where no one would recognize | mer before, and over this she threw a you. You wore plain little cotton! leng closk. An hour later she directed gowns, and snobs who would havé| her astcnished coachman to drive her flunkied before the rich Miss Maitland | to a certain building on one of whose snubbed mther floors a struggling young lawyer was a man who saw the woman's heart was, at the moment, engaged in de under the shabby gown, andgthe wom | vouring with his eye the photograph an’s brain under the common hat, and of a comely young woman. As she he loved you, and asked you to be his | reached his office door Miss Mait- Hy s By AVIS INGALLS, F COURSH there was snow, newly fallen — what would Christmas be without that? And _ sleigh-bells, all a tinkle, and cheery greetings and gladsome smiles on every hand; and there were clear twink- ling stars now above the house- tops looking down from a deep blue sky, and, of course, it was nothing but hustle and hustle, , in most places, and all the necessary hullabaloo that makes Christmas the adorable holiday that it is—but—and here is where my story comes in. On a quiet street, where the better class of houses stood, a trifle away from the shopping district and the street car lines, a little face was pressed against the window-pane, and two large tears stole down over a straight little nose. Other little girls were joyfully looking forward to this happy season, but Elizabeth Rockerby felt sadly at a loss and out of place as she stood in her black velvet and lace in her grandmother’s huge draw- ing-room. She had overheard the par- lor-maid and the upper house-maid, in a whispered conversation, “The poor darlint,” Nora, the house- maid, had said. “The poor darlint! And is it Christmas the little one’s after havin’? Never a bit of it! Don’t ye believe it! Oh, the poor lamb! that solemn and stiff-like in her black dress—” “Think of Cook’s Ruby rigged out like that!” said Ellen. “Do you think she’d stand it for a minute? Not on your life; She’d be down under the table pulling the cat’s tail; and she’d be teasing her mother for goodies, when she got tired ‘that! But this pale-faced mite, she’s passed from one calculating relative to another, till she hasn’t got a speck of zzip left in her. Do you know what Ruby'd do? She’d run away!” and Hillen laughed outright at the thought. It was here that Elizabeth had slip- ped into the window recess, her pulses throbbing. “Then, um-um-um, a gold bangle for . been left to the care of a cold uncle Mayme Winslow that she will take! 2nd aunt, who thought that they had to the jeweler’s to appraise, done their entire duty towards you by se shell and ostrich feather | Seeing that you were properly fed fan for Sally Stinton; she'll be sure to Clethed and educated, and implanting send me something, though she hates in you a distrust of every human be me, the little cat, and a couple of bronzes for dear old Mrs. Bullion, though where she’ll put them in that overcrowded house of hers I’m sure I don’t know, and—oh, things for the servants, and steins and etchings for the men who have been nice to me— and—er—I don’t believe I have forgot- ten anybody I love, or who holds a kindly thought for me.” She paused. abruptly, pushed the gay litter of cosily trinkets away from her with cisdainful hands, and with a sud- den rush of tears, buried her face in her arms on the table. “Yes,” she murmured brokenly to herself, “there is one that I have for- gotten, and he is the one in all the world that I have remembered most, and to whom I would give all if I dared,” and then she sat still. “Why do you not send him some lit- ing who came about you. “You never knew the joy that othe girls had of being liked for them selves. When suitors came you were told they were fortune hunters. Peo ple, in speaking of you, never praised you for any charm of your own, or any grace, or accomplishment. They al ways said that you were rich, and you | wondered sometimes if they knew how their words hurt, or how it must seem to a girl to come to believe that there was nothing about her that could win love—that she must buy it with the money she hated, “Finally you began to realize that your whole nature was being warped by your environment, that your soul was being atrophied, and so you ran away from it all. You persuaded dear old Mrs. Bullion to take you away as her hired companion to a little quiet HAPPY CHRISTMAS MORNING wife. “We shall be very poor,” he said, “for I have my way yet to make in the world, but, please God, we shall fight the battle out shoulder to shoul der.” “You remember,” went on her Heart, “how, with your head upon his breast, and his arms around you, you planned out the future—the little house, with the rose above the door, the dear little economies, the struggies, and the final success, and you drank deep of the cup of joy, for you knew life had made you rich at last, for you were loved for yourself alone—ioved as a woman would be when a strong man trembles at her touch, and his smile grows soft and tender only for you. Then, at last, came the time when you had to tell him that you were none other than the rich Miss Maitland—” “And he went white as death while he listened, and said that had he known it he would never have asked you to be his wife,” interrupted Pride. “But it. was then too late,” triumph | antly cried her Heart; “he loved you, | and nothing—not money, nor position, If Cook’s little girl could run away why shouldn’t she? Elizabeth had not known it could be so cold when one got out into the night; but the stars had a friendly twinkle, and the shop-windows looked so pretty with their tinsel drapings and red paper bells that she almost forgot the cold as she went eagerly from one gay collection of toys to an- other, an felt the companionship of children, as she rubbed shoulders with ragged newsboys and pinched-faced little girls who gazed quite as eagerly as she at the Christmas dolls hold- ing outstretched arms to the passers- by. “Are they—are they to sell?” she asked timidly, of a little girl who heid her baby sister by the hand and staraped her feet to keep them warm. “Sakes alive, yes!” said the other, land’s courage wavered and sank, but, taking a death grip upon it, she hur riedly passed the office boy, and before she knew it was in his presence. “Alice!” he cried, starting to his feet; but she did not wait for him to speak. “Tom,” she said, hurriedly, “I—1— [ have come to bring you a little Christmas present,” and with that she dropped the enveloping cloak aside, and pinned upon her breast was a@ large placard with the inscription: “You darling,” he murmured, folding ter in his hungry. arms. in astonishment. “Ain’t that one with It’s so hard to know what to g8 the black curls too cute for any- for a man, so I just thoaght I’d bring thing!” she added, gazing at it with myself,” she said, hypocritically; “but be ieoitt ae eerie Two Dollars a Yeer “Could we go in and—and buy it?” asked Hlizabth earnestly. “*Course we could, if we had the ninety-eight cents.” “Come on, then!” said Elizabeth, and, grasping her incredulous compan- ion by the hand, she plunged into the store. “The doll with the black curls!” she stammered. “May I buy, it for this little girl?” “Sure,” said the salesman. Elizabeth fished a dollar bill out of her little ehain purse and watched curiously as the child lifted the doll tenderly in her arms and walked out, forgetting, in her delight to say “thank you,” and the baby sister toddled after. Out in the street again Elizabeth saw two small boys with their faces glued to the window of the next shop, where sticks of candy lay in fascinating rows, and chocolates and gum-drops were heaped in pyramids, with trays of fudge and molasses-candy in between. She stopped, and, without any hes- itation this time, gave them each a cent. Her chain purse was empty now, her exhilarating occupation gone, and she stood, a forlorn little figure in her ermine and velvet, on the corner of the crowded street. She had remained thus for some lit- tle time when she heard a quick step behind her and she was quickly grasp- ed by strong but kindly hands and swung on to the steps. “So-ho!” said a big man, who had come up the street. “It’s Mistress | Elizabeth Rockerby! What are you up to, Betsy Jane?” “Cousin Bob!” gasped Elizabeth. “Yes, ‘Cousin Bob,’ and now, ‘cry your trail,’ little sister!” “I—I. ran away,” falterer Elizabeth. “Well, come along in and I'll intro- duce you to the cousins,” said Cousin Bob, cheerfully, and then I’ll ’phone ‘em up and tell them that it’s our turn to have you.” And Elizabeth snuggled her fingers happily into her big cousin’s hands as the stepped forward into a naw Maw The World’s Gypsies. The gypsies have passed under a va- riety of names, arising either from their supposed original country or the callings and characteristics of the race. The old English Egyptian, the Spanish Gitana and the Magyar Pharas nepek (Pharaoh’s people) all point to an Egyptian origin. The Scandinavian Tatare identifies them with the Mon- golian hordes which terrorized early Europe, while the French Bohemian suggests yet another country as their cradle. Y As to the names bestowed by their supposed character, the Arab boldly calls them harami (a villain), the Dutchman heydens, or heathens, and ~ the Persian takes his name from their complexion and dubs them karachi, or swarthy. A charter of William the Lion, as early as the twelfth century, mentions their Scotch name of tinklers, which is commonly supposed to be a corruption of tinker, although possibly the substitution of “t” for “z” has pro- duced this form of the Italian zingaro, one of the most widespread of gypsy appellations.—London Spectator. | >h, Tom, please don’t send this present back, and change it.” But he stopped | | Ser mouth with kieasa PREPARING j loveless, and that you—you who) had! jace will have acquired the most per- nor anything, could change that. You, Ets arene hee yea | came home,” continued her Heart,| How to Make “Old” Lace. | “and your worldy wise un¢le and aunt} Once more we nave reached the called him a furtune hunter, and said | point in the revolution of fashion | pets he was going to marry you for! when laces, especially the real ones, | dig te aa ne did not RAR cai must have the old look now required ; ut, ky an y, as you plinged intd) py the costumers in making up lace the cld life, with its sordid\strivings, ! chuiaba: gowns. There is a way tal and selfishness, and disbelief in all that | make new lace look old, which, so far | is high and true, the old distrast began !as color is concerned, cannot be told to creep up and poison life again. ' from the priceless heirlooms. | “He should have trusted your love,”| jl] that is needed is a newspaper. | said Pride; “he should have\ known} strips of newspaper are cut a trifle | that you were merely playing.\ | wider than the lace is to be tinted. To fs His life,” said her Heart, sadly, | these the edges of the lace are careful- had not taught him how to play. It ly sewed. A roll of newspapers about had all been hard, bitter seriousness,| the size of an ordinary mailing tube and so when he saw you smiling into | is then made, and the lace trimmed fou of tha gad Sou bad’ ween. Weael per es! eae rie wee | aroun is smoothly. ie whole your head lay upon his breast, he/ then sealed and laid away. In the thought that you were faithiess| and) course of a few weeks or months the so much—had come down out of yout! fect “old” color. A hundred years high estate to rob him of the little he | couldn’t produce any better results had, and to make life worthless.” | than the newspaper properly put on, “Then,” said Pride, desperately, “he came and flung back your promise in| your face and told you that he was! Which: Be: Rose: to Hamar ashamed to have loved so poot al They were at the grovery, all with thing.” | recollections of many a shocking case “Love does not go at any man’s bid-/ of tremendous weather to recount, and ding,” sighed her Heart; “you saw him)! none was left out. Then cone ancient the cther day. He looked ill, and wprn,/ rose and said: ard poor. Tomorrow will be Chtist| “In seventeen hundred an’ ”— mas d2y—” | But they cut in on him there and told “Think—” began Pride; but Miss) phim they wouldn’t do it if they was Maitland had risen up with a look! on} him, ‘cause see how all-swizzlin’ old her face of great and exceeding joy. “Think, I can think of nothing but my love!” she cried. The next morning Miss Maitland | it'd make him, they said. But the an- | cient pushed his specs up on his fore- head and went right on. “What I was goin’ fer to say was,” SEN AE CS EB arose early, and spent much time jat said he, “that in 1,799 cases outen 1,800 her desk printing a large placard \in} where folks remembered setch spells 0” bold ard unmistakable letters. This! pair taising weather there ain’t a ding done, she donned a simple little gray| word of ‘em so!”’—Browning’s Maga- gown, much affected by her the suim-| zine, , | L FOR SANTA