Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, December 10, 1913, Page 24

SECTION 2 VoL, XXIV. GRAND KapiDs, ITasca County, MINN., Grand Uapids eee Series WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 10, 1913 SECTION 2 Two Dollars a Yeer y Story Christmas eve, and Alice Maitland sat alone in her laxu- hed bou- g the fin- uches on the scarlet ay ibout a jewel e my bered er t cely to remember alf to a fraz- sis trying to alrea dy ne, a rm my who re is a silk smoking Joseph, that he will ups that hinted would ve an nder of the blessed 2nd a check for Jack for his relatives about letting one know what want, and that is a comfort, at any rate, at Christmas. “Then, tm-um-um, a gold bangle for Mayme Winslow that she will take down to the jeweler’s to appraise, e shell and ostrich feather fer Sally Stinton; she’il be sure to me something, though she hates e little cat, and a couple of dear bronzes for though whe old Mrs. Builion, "il put them in that d house of hers I’m sure I , 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. “Yeas,” 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 d: ” and then she sat still. way, do you not send him some lit- aren't tle trifle, just a token that you have ’ said Pride. “Even casual acquaintances may ex: | at Christmas,” eciously. e would cast my gift back at my * said Pride. ’ said her Heart, “is the ce on earth and good will It is a time when old ould be forgotten, when old ould be healed, when broken should be mended, and hearts es- tranged should be reunited. Why do urged her you not kiss and make up, as children 40?” “What!” cried Pride, “and be flouted once more?” “You were very tired of the old, tmpty life, with its monotonous rounds of insipid gayety,” went on her Heart. “1 Don’t Believe | Have Anybedy | 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, excepi the thing you wanted most of all—sin- cere and disinterested love. Your father and mother had died before you | could remember them, and you had been left to the care of a cold uncle and aunt. w done their enti seeing that you were properly fed ch in you a distrust of every human be ing who came about you. “You never knew the joy that othe girls had of being liked for them selves. 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 Forgotten wondered sometimes if they knew how | ‘heir 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. old Mrs. Bullion to take you away as her hired companion to a little auiet HAPPY CHRISTMAS MORNING rgctten the old days?” suggested | thought that they had | re duty towards you by/ ed and educated, and implanting | When suitors came you were | You persuaded dear | THE CHRISTMAS PARTY place, where no one would recognize | you. You wore plain little cotton! gowns, and snobs who would have | flunkied before the rich Miss Maitland snubbed ang@sdgnenadaiow,—.but Uthere iy | Was a man who saw the woman’s heart under the shabby gown, andgthe wom an’s brain under the common hat, and he loved you, and asked you to be his | | 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, nor anything, could change that. You me home,” continued her Heart, ‘and your worldy wise uncle and aunt called him a furtune hunter, and said that he was going to marry you for money. You did not believe them, ae d by, as you plunged inte j the cld life, with its sordid strivings, and selfishness, and disbelief in all that is high and true, the old distrust began to creep up and poison life again.” “He should have trusted your love," | said Pride; “he should have| known) that you were merely playing.” “His life,” said her Heart, sadly, “had not taught him how to play. It had all been hard, bitter seriousness, and so when he saw you smiling inta this other man’s eyes with the counter: | feit of the look you had worn when! your head lay upon his breast, he thought that you were faithiess| and loveless, and that you—you who) had so much—had come down out of your! high estate to rob him of the little he had, and to make life worthless.” “Then,” said Pride, desperately, “he | came and flung back your promise in| your face and told you that he was ashamed to have loved so poot a thing.” “Love does not go at any man’s bid- ding,” sighed her Heart; “you saw him . He looked ill, and worn, Temorrow will be Chtist | the cther day. ard poor. —”" began Pride; but Miss d had risen up with a look! on of great and exceeding joy. “Think, I can think of nothing but my love!” she cried, | The next morning Miss Maitland} arose early, and spent much time at) her desk printing a large placard in} bold ard unmistakable letters. This done, she donned a simple little gray | gown, much affected by her the sum- By AVIS INGALLS. F COURSE 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- jor-maid and the upper house-maid, ; in a whispered conversation. “The poor darlin:,” 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 Hllen laughed outright at the thought. It was here that Elizabeth had slip- ped into the window recess, her puises throbbing. If Cook’s little girl could run away why snouldn’t she? Elizabeth had not known it could be so cold when one got out into the night; but the stars had a friendly mer before, and over this she threw a leng ciosk. An hour later she directed her astcnished coachman to drive her to a ce’ building on one of whose Upper itoors a struggling young lawyer was, at the moment, engaged in de vouring with his eye the photograph of a comely young woman. As she reached his office door Miss Mait 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 twinkle, and the shop-windows looked feet; but she did not wait for him to so pretty with their tinsel drapings apeae os 4 and red paper beils that she almost Tom,” she said, hurriedly, “I—I— {forgot the cold as she went eagerly { have come to bring you a little Christmas present,” and with that she dropped the enveloping cloak aside, and pinned upon her breast was @ large placard with the inscription: 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 eat 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 ber baby sister by the hand and stamped her feet to keep them warm. “Sakes alive, yes!” said the other, in astonishment. “Ain’t that one with the black curls too cute for any- thing!” she added, gazing at it with wistful eves er ee “You darling,” he murmured, folding ier in his hungry arms. “It’s so hard to know what to get for a man, so I just thoaght I’d bring myself,” she said, hypocritically; “but “Could we go in and—and buy it?” asked Elizabth 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 chain 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 heaped in pyramids, with trays of fudge and moiasses-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 gum-drops were | 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 ag she 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. 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 d¢omplexion 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. oh, Tom, please don’t send this present back, and change it.” But he stopped | \er mouth with kieas | PREPARING How to Make “Old” Lace. | Once more we nave reached the} point in the revolution of fashion when laces, especially the real ones, | must have the old look now required | by the costumers in making up lace trimmed gowns. There is a way to make new lace look old, which, so far as color is concerned, cannot be told from the priceless heirlooms. All that is needed is a newspaper. | Strips of newspaper are cut a trifle | wider than the lace is to be tinted. To | these the edges of the lace are careful- | ly sewed. A roll of newspapers about | the size of an ordinary mailing tube | is then made, and the lace trimmed | newspaper strips are then rolled around this smoothly. The whole is | then sealed and laid away. In the course of a few weeks or months the lace will have acquired the most per- fect “old” color. A hundred years couldn’t produce any better results than the newspaper properly put on. Which He Rose to Remark. They were at the all with recollections of many a shocking case of tremendous weather to recount, and grovery, none was left out. Then cne ancient rose and said: “In seventeen hundred an But they cut in on him there and told | him they wouldn't do it if they was him, ‘cause see how all-swizzlin’ old | 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,” said he, “that in 1,799 cases outen 1,800 where folks remembered setch spells 0” hair raising weather there ain’t a ding word of ’em so!”’—Browning’s Maga- ‘ zine. FOR SANTA g : | ea ee ; | a