Lakeland Evening Telegram Newspaper, May 23, 1914, Page 12

GO0 000000000000 FOOT OF THE HILL sigu i By MARY ROBERTS RINEHART. ———————————————— Grandfather Haxley was a relic in the family. He had been handed down for many years, from father to son, along with the brass andirons and | the mahogany settle. Unfortunately, although the last two pleces of fam- {ly prcperty were more or less appre- ciated the older they grew, almost the reverse was true with the old man. When his daughter had died, in late middle life, she willed the family homestead—and her father, who had built it—to her son. The old man was seventy-five then, and his wife had been dead a dozen years. The grandson was kindly enough; to his mother’s father he gave a comfortable room and a half-contemptuous kind- liness which showed itself in a total disregard of the old man's politics and an evident idea that at three- score and fifteen one should lose all interest in this world and prepare for the next. If Grandfather Huxley rebelled, he sald nothing. He began to take the evening paper upstairs after the fam- 1ly had finished with it, and to spend a great deal of time polishing the sword he had carried in the Mexican war. molsture that might have been a tear, That night an idea seized him. He was of no use in the world; no one depended on him, no one needed him. He had lived 23 years past his al- Jotted time; perhaps the good Lord! ihud forgotten him. There could be | nothing but a burden. And so, the !next day, he began his pitifully few | preparations. He sorted out his let- | ters, and, finding none that he cared | to have profaned by alien eyes, he burned them all. He went over his wardrobe and decided that Mike, the gardener, should have his winter coat. When it came to his most cherished possession—the sword—doubts as- sailed him; so few were worthy of the honor. Finally, however, he decided to give it to Ellen's husband. After all, they had been kind to him; it was not their fault that they lived in a fu- ture in which he could have no share, and that he lived in a past which they had never known. So he wrote a little card, “To my granddaughter { Ellen‘s husband,” and tled it to the scabbard. | His preparations were made now. The sleeping-mixture stood on his bedroom table—an overdose; and when Ellen came back from the the- ater that night he would be asleep, i a8 he should have been long ago. He put on a clean neckerchief, and, ! sitting down in his big chair with the | sword on his knees, listened for the E glamming of the hall door below. The ( little wooden clock on the mantel, jno harm in taking a life that was | 0Old people as a rule have few pos- | With the queer pink roses on the face, sessions. One by one they dispose of . marked eight, five minutes past, ten unnecessary things. The belle of 50 minutes past; and still the family had years ago, who took a dozen trunks Dot gone out. The old man sat and and boxes with her to make a month's | thought—thought of the day he was visit, at seventy-five generally has an married; of long ago Christmases and old-fashioned bureau full of necessa- Tows of little stockings; of children ries, and, locked away in a little that had never lived to grow up; and trunk, a handful of letters and senti- mental trifles. And so with Grandfa- ther Huxley; the possessions of & litetime had dwindled to a huge up-. holstered chair, with which he de-' flantly refused to part, and his old sword. The sword hung in its scabbard just across from the old man's bed, where, in the sleepless hours that come to] age, he could lie and dream about fit. From much tramping and dragging the scabbard was worn away at one corner; it was that corner which gave Grandfather Huxley his dreams of long-ago marches through cactus plains and desert, his nightmares of long-ago thirst and heat. Below the sword was his wife's pic- ture. There was another portrait of her in the room; a photograph taken when her cheeks were furrowed and her thin, white hair parted and crimped; but, oddly enough, he never looked at that one. He was very, very old, and he lived in his youth. Everything between was hazy and dim.. The picture at which he looked was that of a girl, a little old water color of a girl with thoughtful eyea and frivolous hair. After his ninetieth birthday Grand- father Huxley became abnormally sen- sitive. Sometimes he could hear secraps of conversation about him, “And how old is the old man today? It's almost uncanny, isn't it?” “Oh, he's always just the same. But in the nature of things he won’t be with us very long.” One day some army officers dined | at the house. Grandfather Huxley pol- fghed his sword until it glittered, and fixed his white neekcloth with trem-! bling fingers. At the table the conver- | sation turned to things military, and | the old man, filled with fire, told Of]( that wonderful campaign of 1847. The | officers listened respectfully—they | were gallant fellows; but when Grand- | father Huxley dropped back in his| chair he heard the apologetic volce of | his great-granddaughter, Ellen, across the table “He's a dear old soul,” she sald,! “but getting childish now; go on with | what you were saying.” After dinner the old man went up-| stairs. He took the shining sword from his bed and fingered it lovingly. “] guess you and I have lived past our time,” he sald huskily, and then | he reached for his handkerchief and ‘polished away carefully a soot of | e ——— eee————————————————— then, with the sword before him, of Buena Vista and Monterey, After a time he began to feel hun- gry. He remembéred that there had been cream cakes for dinner, and that he had refused them. They were very nice, those little cream cakes— but then, after all, what did it mat- ter? If they would only go out— Grandfather Huxley sat looking at the picture hanging under the unfad- ed spot on the wall paper which marked the sword'’s resting place. Af- ter a little the picture faded and grew misty in outline. The old man's head dropped on his chest, and he was asleep. The fire burned to a dull red, bursting now and again into a smoking jet of flame, shining on the sword across the old man's knees, on the bottle beside the bed, and the nar- row, drooping chin of the sleeper. He wakened with a start. The crust over the smoldering coals had fallen in and the room was bright. From somewhere below was audible a faint, creaking cry, a wail that beat against the ear insistingly, paused for a second, to go on with fresh vigor. Grandfather Huxley looked at the clock. It was 10:30, so Ellen was not at home. He listened for Nora's step. Hearing no one, he got up heavily and went to the head of the stairs. The cries kept on, longer now, with fewer intervals for breath, and with an occasional hoarse note of infantile rage. The old man lost his look of indeci- sion; he turned back into the room and fumbled for his slippers. Then, with an agility that no one in the house suspected, he went downstairs to the nursery. The wicker structure of the baby's bed was vibrant with its occupant's rage. From among the dotted Swiss rufflings and blue ribbons Grandfather Huxley extracted his great-grandchild and gathered him into his em\pty old arms. The baby quieted at once; his wrinkled old face relaxed, and he set- tled comfortably, seeming to recog- nize the practised touch of hands that had handled, on occasion, three gener- atlons of babies. It was an hour later when Ellen came home She tiptoed upstairs ahead of her husband; then she paused and, with her finger on her lips, cautioned him to silence. The oldest and the youngest member of the family sat before the fire in dreamy, open-eyed content. When she that , THE EVENING TELEGRAM LAK ELAND, FLA., MAY 23, 1914, N ——— e — e ———— —_— e —~—ay b [ saw they were awake, Ellen went over and, stooping down, kissed first the baby, then the old man. ‘He wakened, and Nora must have been asleep,” said Granfather Huxley, apologetically. Ellen slipped her hand into his with a grateful little pressure. “What would we do without you?” she sald impulsively. “This family without you would be a ship without a keel, wouldn't {t?” Grandfather Huxley smiled, the first time for a week. Ellen got up and went toward the door. “I'm going to bring you something to eat. You ate no dinner at all, and there are some of those little cream cakes left. Perhaps, if you eat some- thing, you won't need the sleeping medicine.” Grandfather Huxley choked. “I'm going to throw that stuff away, every drop of it,” he said firmly. Left alone, he gathered the young- ster closer in his arms. “So the old man’s of some use, after all,” he mused. “A ship without a keel, eh?” A little later Ellen and her husband, in the butler's pantry below, stopped to listen. Grandfather Huxley was singing to the baby, and down the stairs came the stirring words of “The Sword of Bunker Hill,” sung in a thin, tremulous old voice. (Copyright by the Frank A. Munsey Co.) No Old Maids or Bachelors. According to the statistics of the last Japanese Blue Book there are very few Japanese women who do not marry. The majority of Japanese girls marry at twenty-one years of age. The men usually marry at twen- ty-six, but marriage at the age of fif- teen is not unknown, and 4,000 mar- riages at the age of seventeen were registered in the case of men last year, while 7,000 girls of the age of six- teen were married. The number of women who married at thirty was only 1,000 more, but the number of men who set up house for themselves at thirty was 18,000. The decline in the figures after this is rapid; only 3,700 men and 1,600 women of the age of forty married last year in Japan. Prac- tically every Japanese man who does not join a Buddhist monastery mar- ries. The old bachelor and the old maid are almost unknown in the land of the chrysanthemum, Warning. In a discussion of the number of automobile accldents due to careless or incompetent driving, Henry Ford sald the other day in Detroit. “These accidents do automobiling harm. They make people talk like Cornelius Husk. “Old Corn Husk’s little grandson gsaid to him one day, pointing to the horn of an automobile that had halted for repairs: “‘What's grandpop?’ “‘That, sonny,’ old Corn Husk an- aswered, ‘that i{s the thing they toot afore they run ye down.'” that there thing for, Gloves Stretched. To prevent kid gloves from split- ting the first time they are put on the hands I find it very good to place them between the folds of a damp tow- el for an hour or two before they are worn, writes a contributor to the Philadelphia North American. The dampness stretches the kid so that the glove gives to the required shape with: out splitting. i Wi ¢ v L &% $ S. M. Regar Co. 3 b Refrigerators and Butchers’ ] Supplies. Toledo Scales. Store % Fixtures. 309 Zack St. L. D, % Pphone 112, Tampa, Florida. PR T e e 3 Vegetables to & STEVENS BROS. 4 Baltimore's Leading House, i 226 S. Charles St. Ask the Editor. Baltimore Md. Ils;: Ship Your Fruit and @ SR EFRREDPEDPODEBOD | — GET THE GOLD SEAL BUTTER HAB- IT IT'S A GOOD ONE WHY? [t s a Crecamery Butter lected cream—It's scientifically pasteurized GOLD SEAL BUTTER [t's made from sc- _It's churned by the most scientific meth- ods—It's sealed immediately in air tight, odor proof packages—It's produced by meth- ods under conditions that meet the most strangent demands of the science of hygiene and sanitation, and so packed that it reachcs the consumer without a possibility of con- tamination from any surrounding influences. It's Pure, Sweet, Palatable and Wholesome It Costs No More Than the Other Kind ALL WEARING THE GARDENIA} | Made of Wax, Velvet or Satin, It 18| Just Now. Easily the Flower of the Hour ’ — 1 Once more the gardenia is the flower | of the hour. Worn with a strictly tal lored suit it is stuck through the but- tonhole of the coat’s left lapel and‘ with the fancy jacket it finds a rest- ing place at the joining of the low-| rolling collar or among the laces of the exposed portion of the blouse. | Nearly always a gardenia hides the fastening of a neckpiece or a scarf, and frequently it decorates the fabric muff which many women now carry because they “like to have gomething to put the purse and the handkerchief in.” On the jaunty little hats of turban, boat or semi-tricorne form, the gar- denla is often the sole trimming. It is placed on the shapes in black Milan straw, velvet or moire and, correctly posed, it is the smartest garnishing imaginable. Made of wax, the gardenia i8 un- questionably the most natural of ar tificlal exotics. But as 1t is expensive fn that material if purchased ready made, and is only to be copied by the expert worker with wax, the amateur flower maker would best use white velvet or wood-backed satin for the petals and dull-surfaced darkest green silk for the foliage. Lemon Verbena Sachet. Delightful sachets are filled with unusual odors. They are made of knitted silk fabric, and are long and | narrow, with fringed ends. One, for| instance, scented with lemon verbena, is made in soft, pale green. These sachets are sold in little boxes, con- taining cards on which a verse about the scent is written and the little verses and daintily decorated cards add to the daintiness of the sachets. Ready, Ky.—*1 was not able to do anything for nearly six months,” writes Mrs, Laura Bratcher, of this place, “‘and was down in bed for three months. I cannot tell you how I suffered with my head, and” with nervousness and wamanly troubles. Our family doctor told my husband he could not do me any good, and he had | to give it up. We tried another doctor, but he did not help me. i At last, my mother advised me to take Cardui, the’ woman’s tonic, 1 thought it was no use for | was nealy dead and | nothing seemed to do me any good. But | I took eleven bottles, and now I am able | to do all of my work and my own washing. 1 think Cardui is the best medicine in the world, My weight has increased, | and I look the picture of health. ** | 1f you suffer from any of the ailments peculiar to women, get a bottle of Cardui | foday, Delay is dangerous. We know it wifl help you, for it has helped so many thousands of other weak women in the past 50 years, At all druggists. 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