New Britain Herald Newspaper, June 21, 1927, Page 12

NEW BRITAIN DAILY HERALD, TUESDAY, JUNE 21, 1927. My Sors Succtiearts LLUSTAUED 400 COPRISITED 57 JOUNSON FEATURES INC IDA McGlONf GIBSON that dreadful news that you want- (I do not blame Her tor holding it cd to go back into it all again. against me. “Phillip why do you not come| “You did not know that I felt home? there was a greater danger menac- “Surely you have done enough to [ing you at home—a danger to which appease that relentless dog of war. [death was preferable. “Surely you can now, in the fu- “Dear son, I have never said any- Rod and Phil are first to enlist. | ture, ‘look your grandchildren in the |thing about this before, but now Mrs. Tracy sends Phil a letter of | face.’ that it no longer threatens, I want introduction to Marta Tennis, the “Surely you owe something not [you to know that Lyra—oh, I can- daughter of her friend, who lives|only to your mother but to your- not talk about it even now. near the training camp to which |self. “I am very proud about your Phil has been sent. Marta, in her| “Son, there are streaks of gray cross, my son. It will go irto the ar- zeal to do her bit, offers hef ser- {on your mother's head. Yesterday |chives of your family, whose men “I do not say that to hurt you. It He aid; realize in those is only because I have before me |months in the hospital how much the great uncompromising truth of | ke was going to miss Rod—how Rod's death, that I have determin.|much he could miss Rod; that real- ed without the slightest hypocrisy, | Iy the outtit only meant Rod to him. either traditional or conventional, to | It was lonely and everyone was so write you exactly what is in my | sick and discouraged. mind. It was cold and rainy. It didn't “Do not mistake me, dear heart. |seem as though the war was ever I think perhaps you love me as|&0ing to end, and his lungs hurt. nuch as anyone of your blood ( There seemed no place for him could love one woman, but I know | anywhere. that I always have, and I always| The very trees, with thelr shat- will have, to take my chance with | tered trunks standing up so pa- all the other distractions in your | tlently to the continuous shell fire lite. seemed to say to him that it would “I have never been your interest | o on forever—and O God, he was in it, although I am sure I am your | sick—sick in body and in mind! greatest. With Rod I was the be- | Major Andrewa led him away as ginning and the end. I wish I could | he was going down into the dugout. have loved him as he loved me, but | _ “Tracy, you look like the devil. dear Wynne, it is & thrill that you | You've got to do something for or I will never have, because we | yourself. I'll tell you what let's do. have not the temperament for it. |An order has just come in to send Love’s Embers Adele Garrison’s Absorbing Sequel to “Revelations of a Wife” Beginning a New Seri: Ghost of Harry Underwood Rises Before Madge The name of Harry Underwood coming from Philip Veritzen's lips startled me almost as much as if Lilllan's recreant husband himself suddenly had risen before me. I had not seen the debonair, unscrup- ulous, irresponsible, but thoroughly engaging scapegrace for & number of years, and the mention of his name made me realize that I had given him no thought for almost the Coffee ana 'Pllllkllll: New Enghnd lady id, a_good many years ago, “‘It takes more than a punkin to make a good punkin pie.” True . enough —it takes sugar, milk, flour, seasoning. But most of all—how to use them. And it takes more than coffes beans to make a good coffee, It takes skilful knowledge and . art to blend them—the art so perfectly and Qdeliciously ex- pressed in YUBAN. ‘What Has Happened The entrance af America into the World war finds Phillip Wynne Tracy IV suficring from collapse of his first passionate love affair. Before this he had had a childish engagement with Natlee Jones. She now was a most distinguished even beautiful woman though in her late forties, but Harry Underwood had not possessed the patience to wait for the fransition. Always an cxemplification of the old Biblical phrase “unstable as water,” he had quarrcled with her about her changing looks, about the prospec- tive coming of her little girl to the home, and finally had left his home, and gone to the Orient. Inexplicably he had taken with him Grace Drap- er whose mad irifatuation for Dicky same length of time. Yet as clear- Iy as if his mention by Philip Verit- zen had been the showing of a cinema close-up, 1 could visualize his lithe figure, his undeniably hand- some face, sometimes wearing a | jovial smile, sometimes a sardonic grin,’ according to his mood, and his keen black eyes which I had scen soften into rare tenderness. 1 felt almost that if I should clpse my eyes | 1 could hear his deep vbice saying, “Well, Lady Fair” the halt moc ing, half tender greeting he always had accorded me since the first days | of my marriage when he and Lillian welcomed me, as Dicky's bride, so hospitably into their home and their | inner circle of friends. How much water had gone under the bridge since those days! T re-| membered when the beginning of the end had come for Lillian and Harry—when she knew that her! long Gethsemane was ended, and that she was to be given her smmll | ighter by her unhappy first mar- age. Her union with Harry Under- wood, prominent theatrical figure of Biroadway had been a “picking up of the wreckage of two lives and con- | triving & home from it to use her | own picturesque phraseology, and he had played her part royally, ven yielding to his desire to have her join the foolish procession of middle-aged and elderly women who futilely snatch at their lost youth with rouge and hair dye and all the | other cosmetic ‘machinery, T r membered the atrocious caric of youth she presented when T saw her, visioned also the painful picture she presented when her hair was passing through the different | shades of green and the other inde- seribable shades to its present beau- tiful silver whiteness, and her was paying for her abuse of it. | | By Thornton W. Burgess The onecs we please We also dearly love and ought to love to tease, —Miss Coyote. 0ld Man Coyote moved stitly. n»! wanted to bound forward to where Miss Coyote sat in the path with her | head turned, grinning at him. But | he was so afraid that at his first movement she would run away as | she had done so many times that he | took his first step slowly and stiffly. | Miss Coyote got to her feet. Old Man Coyote's heart sank. He paused. But he began to wag his tail. Miss Coy- | oted turned so that she faced him. Old Man Coyote took another step. Miss Coyote grinned more broadly than ever. She grinned as only a wolf or a dog can grin. Her tail be- | zan to wag. This was too much for Old Man Coyole. With a litile yelp of sheer joy he bounded forward. Miss Coyote bounded, too but she didn’t bound forward. She bounded off to one side. But the great thing was that she didn’t run aw: For a few minutes lhvro was u regular jumping or bounding match there in the Old Pasture. Miss Coyote bounded this way and that way, crouched with her head down on her forepaws, all ready to jump to one side or the other at the ap- proach of Old Man Coyote, turncd and ran a short distance, only to run back again, and altogether was as playful as a young puppy. Old Man Coyote wisely joined in the play. In fact, felt playful. He was so happy that he wanted to play. And so there in the Old Pasture these two fool- ishly happy folk were having a won- derful time. Finally, right in the midst of their play, Miss Coyote suddenly stopped and thrust her head out toward Old Man Coyote. Slowly Old Man Covot thrust his head forward until for just an int their noses ?OH('NMI In that touch Old Man Coyote h: the strangest feeling Without knowing how 41d know that never again would Miss Coyote run from him. Coyote backed a fev down. Old Man Coyot. inst 2 pass over ot » knew, he n all his y di fied. She simply Old Man L up 10 her y from 1ered Old really was funny. Never life had he been quite s Coyote didn't r and to wa replied Miss Coy looking very demur: T don't want you to,” Old Man Coyote “Can't triends “Aren’t we Coyote, preten “I don't Coyote, “I've Do friendly for a long have never given me a chance “Oh!” exclaimed Miss Coyote, re vou trying to he friendly " 3 15" answered Old Man Coyote, “and I have tried so I to get acquainted. You see, 1 don’t know anvthing about you and 1 do =0 want to “T know all about you," said ) Coyote. "1 know where yvou live, where vour favor sunning place | is, where you hunt, when you hunt replied we fri I»- ed Miss ing 1o look surpris- know.” suid 0ld rying to b time, but you hus ued through the years, a few months before in her suicide and an awful legacy of bitter un- heen involved in the attempt to have | displeased note had led her to attempt both my and's life and mine¢, and whose maniacal enmity to me had contin- ending only | happiness for me. With Lillian’s restraining influ- ence removed from his life, his old enemy, drink, had seized him, and he rapidly had become a derelict, crazed by liquor, and under the domination of Grace Draper, he had | Dicky’s airplane crash with him in a trial flight during the World War, but coming to his senses just in time, had brought warning to the fleld, and then cscaped from the of- ficers who were conducting him to prison. Service abroad under another name, and exceptional bravery had brought him ofticial pardon, and his life since that time had been a mys- terious and roving one. Two or three times T had seen him under circumstances of great stress, and had recefved the impression, Which | his own words confirmed, that he {always kept track of my movements. But 1 ure of one thing, that be- neath his apparently aimless exist- ence, he had one unwavering pur- pose—to atone to his country for the awful thing which he had attempted, and which but for Dicky's own re- sourceful bravery would have re- sulted in death for my husband. Mr. Veritzen's voice, with a faintly in it, brought me out | my absorbed retrospection with | J | “I sce T was wrong,” he said, hould not have put the query. consider it unuttered.” of Coyote blinked at this. He didn't| | for France, {another day wilhout news of | “Iinally I picked up a New York you ‘fn which you | jabout your wound and much of poor | the vices to the ** While at the training camp. Phil meets Gladys, a girl of the streets, to whom on an impulse of pity, he proposes marriage. The girl, for his to start life anew. Phil's regiment is ordered back to New York, presumably bound meets Natlee and, their love flam- ing afresh, they plan to be married. The immediate departure of the re- giment, however, prevents this. The regiment is ordered to the front soon after arriving in France and Phil is detailed on an extremely dangerous mission. Returning with important information he is wound- ed and Rod is killed trying to save his friend. Phil wakes in a hospital and received the Croix de Guerre for bravery. Here the story futher unfolds— CHAPTER XXXVIII A Note From Glad An orderly came in with the mail. Every man in the room full of convalescents looked up cagerly ex- cept Phil. He had been disappoint- ed so often that he had told him- seif he was forgotten. “Phillip Wynne Tracy IV. That's a hell of a name,” said a man who was sitting near him. for me buddy; it happens to be mine."” The orderly dropped two letters into his lap. He knew from their his mother and one from Natlce. Opening the thickest, he read: “My darling son: You cannot realize what your letter this morn- ing, saying that you wanted 10 go back to the front, has done to me. I have been living only in the hope that yBu would soon be sent home. “The last three months have been a perfect nightmare, rather die than go thro] more like them. irst, you must know reported ‘missing’. Then the long wait with no news whateve al though all my friends besieged the three you [ war office. <heart, such agony I suf- 1 tried to work. “Dear fered. ture, in self-defense, would send sleep to me at night. “I would wake in the morning, der as to how I was to get through you. paper and read that you—or som one with your name—had been pre- sented with the Croix de Gue “Major Aukland immediate! in communication with the editor of the paper, who cabled to his cor- respondent in Paris for more news. “Then again endless waiting, and last a long-delayed letter told me a little at but said nothing ahout to leave Rod's death, when you would be able hospital. “This morning a letter ing you had not haard since you were wound:d and ame, say- left, know just what to say you. So if I can know all about you. | I don’t see why you shouldn’t know all about me.” Old Man Coyote blinked at this. He didn't know just What to say. So for a minute he said nothing and Miss Covo‘u continued. “It looks to s if you didn't rcal~ ly v\am to know all about me."” Old Man Covote didn't see the mischicvous look in her eyes when e gaid this. “Oh, but 1 did!” he « “I did want to know all about you and I tried my v best.” ghed. “Oh, did 'And I thought all u were smart, If 1 all about vou, T don’t couldn’t find out all Iy wanted to. o M was only teas ing, for no one knew better than how very hard Old Man Coyote had tried to get acquainted with by T. W. Burgess) | The next story “Miss Coyote's | Story.” | Pimples and Blutches here is a clean, e any time, Hm b ¢ Pimples, Blemishes and similar Ski M 58 Coyote you" said the time th could find ou see why you out me, i 3 she (Copyright, 1 clear th for and | 3 mo clean. | Liquid astring FOR 5KIN IRRITAT!ONS That Baby You've| Longed For Burton hood Mrs. Advises Women on Mother- and - Companionship ars 1 was denied Yaitera | your or the regiment hospital He had never been kisscd good, refuses him, and he then in- | sists on giving her $1,000 with which | While in New York he ! “Not so bad ! .perscriptions that one was from | and I would | were | I tried to | fill every hour of the day that na-| with no other thought than of won- | while you were still in the hospital. ! from me | Major Aukland said to me, ‘Anne, I have been watching those patches of white grow amahg the dark locks of your beautiful hair, and although {T think they add distinction to your beauty'—yes, son, he said beauty ‘vet I have seen the grief and pain that put them there. “‘Now that you know your boy is alive, Anne, will you not rest and smile again?" “Phillip, you Major Aukland very much, no reason than that ne has been 50 kind to your mother. “I think he is the tenderest, most understanding man I 'have ever known. “I could not—I would not—have lived all through that you have been away, for him. ou say, son, that you owe your life to Rod, and that you intimate it was not worth the sacrifice. Just after you went away, Rod wrote to me that he never expected to come back to America. He told me that | all the joy he had evér known in his life had been in my house and in company with you and Natlee. He wrote me that he waated me to know that he would gladly give his life for you. “I am quite sure, Phillip dear, if Rodney Maxwell could have had his life would have end- | ca just the y it did. He gave it tor you—and Natlee. “Oh, I wish you would come home. son, instead of back to the front. I am sure you could do so if you wished. A wire or two which Major Aukland and 1 could pull bring you back here, at least on a | furlough. “0 God, will this war never end? “That young Jerome Kenyon who used to be so attractive to Lucia Randolph has gone in partnership with Natlee Jones' father. They are going into manufacture of condens- g milk on a large scale. Things arc changing very fast |over here, Phillip, and I know you will see it upon your return. | “Mr. Jones, 1 know, is very anx- lious to have Natlee marry Jerome. Her aunt Julia told me that he are going to like had it not {1is choice, would like to have her do it before | you return. “What Natlec thinks about it all, do not know “I do not Natlee very often, for, of course, you know I am in Washington most of the time, but I ceive her frequent newsy letters in which she says nothing ot herself. “All during that time you were missing, however, I talked to her |every day via long distance. “I have grown very fond of Nat- | {lee, Phil. I hope nothing will come between you and her. She still holds aloof, though, dear, and has cd in me what her feel- ds 1o you. “ghe holds tenaclously to the idea 11 ogave consent to your en- sting in the war because 1 was |afraid if you stayed at home you ht have married her. 1 me ng “That 1 should have preferred the | angers been subjected daught However, to which you lave overseas to her “law seems pripos it she really i so much in all his life it for | | this awful time | would | as a " leenvelone have always been brave, no matter what their other failings may have been. “I am sending you a letter that I must confess had disturbed me g little, I cannot fathom what it means, for although it was ad- dressed and written to me, yet I am sure it was meant for your un- { derstanding alone. “I know it was a woman who wrote it, and I am wondering why she should think you the most splendid example of a gentleman she had ever known. Some way the idea sticks that your sending to me for that $1,000 had to do with this mysterious letter. “I hope, som, it was a free gift and not a reparation. “Dear, dear boy, T am praying always timt some time this awful carnage will cease and that soon again you will find within your strong arms, “Your loving “Mother.” Slowly Phillip Wynne Tracy IV | put down his mother's letter and looked around upon the pale and maimed wrecks of young men about him. How far away from all this, it seemed. He felt, as did so many of his fel- lows who were fizhting and suf- fering on the French front, that the life he tad known was really gone forever, and when the end of the war came—if it ever did—there would be no place for him back home. There was always some one to fill up the ranks, he thought, as he read again the paragraphs his mother had written about Major Aukland. This man had filled up the gap and comfortcd her while he had been away. As time went on, if he wer# still away, his influence would grow while that of her son would wane. He was loath to read the letter | his mother had enclosed. He knew before he opened it that it was from “Glad.” but even it scemed to bring up only a dream of his other life. | At last he made himself unfold | the single sheet of paper. It began: “Will you, dear mother of the dearest son ir all the world, let one whom you will never know congra- ulate on the fact that Phillip | Wynne cy TV is recovering from his wounds and that France has pinned upon him for ‘bravery on the field of battle’ a croix de guerre. “I could not let the news go by without saying to you that you should be happy beyond all other { women in this world, for you are | the mother of the most splendid gentleman that T have ever met. To | have known him, even slightly, has | been salvation held out to one, who | for it, will always be glad. He slowly tore the letter into tiny | bits and dropped them into th | waste can. before he opened the one he knew was from Natlec. He wondered just what Natlee | would think of the letter he ha just destroyed. He wondered I'some day he would tell her. Slowly he tore off the end of the addressed in her hand, { Which he held in his hand. CHAPTER XXXIX | A Tetter From Natlee | Phillio Tracy did not realize that ihe had unconsclously delayed open- ing Natlee's letter, for after what his mother had written about Je- rome Kenyon, he was almost afrald to read its contents, Its first words, however, reassured him: “My Darlin “Thank God, Wynne, you're still in the land of the living. Thank {God, T can si: up here in my own j little room, sccure, I hope. from | interruption, and put my thoughts jon paper with the feeling | some time you will read them. “Even as J write these words, T feel that T am the wicke girl on carth for heing the Tleast bit { thankful for enything, when Rod is dead. “Out of my window T [the street the old oak tree where vou and I us:d to meet so often, and | where Rod comforted me that last time when I knew that you had en- listed and were going to war. | "I am sure you won't mind, | Wynne, dear, when T tell you that 1 have wished many times that T could have loved Rod fnstead of vou, for { love devotedly and sing- ly. Why, T know, if he thought at all after those cruel bullets hit him, it was with joy because he was sav- ing you for me. “Itodney Maxwell loved me his life, to love you. ir see across all Merely Margy, An Awfully Sweet Girl that | it had made himself feel old—so old You have only allowed me | “I expect I am utterly shameless to tell this to you. “My mother, or even your mother, would probably have died before ecither of them would have con- fessed to the men they expected to be their husbands, what I am going to write to you. “In their gencration a woman dnsidered herself immodest it she did more than submit herself to her lover's ‘Fiotestations of love'—as they would call them. She allowed him to kiss her. I wonder some- times if she ever kissed him in re- turn. he war has changed all that, Wynne. We girls that are being called ‘flappers’ over here, though just what anyone means by that I do not know, have seen our lovers g0 away from us with the sickening feeling that they would probably never come back, consequently we have torn away all—all the crepe of convention and we glory in free speech at least, “Oh, Wynne, I wish you would come home soon. I wish we had married as we planned that morn- ing before you left. I wish I were your wife. “I love you with alk my heart — with all my soul—but Dad’ is driv- ing me with his idea that I should marry Jereme Kenyon, aad some- times—don't misunderstand me, Wynne—I think I will do it. “There! I've said it, and I'm glad I have, for however much it may shock you, I am sure that it will mark me human in your eyes, and I bave never had a desire to he either a superhuman or a divine woman. “I am fond of Jerry. He is de- lighttully tender and uniformly gen- tle. He thows me in a thousand silent ways that he is fond of me. He defers to my tastes and follows my advice—something, my dear, that you have never done. I i him more than any other man I have. met except you. “Not ‘even poor, dear Rod had the power to make me feel his presence the moment he came into the room, and Jerry has this power. “I suspect you are thinking this is a very strange letter for a girl to write to a man who has, as it were, come back to her from the dead. Tt is just because I do realize this that T am writing it. “You are probably thinking that | it I love you as I say T do, I would have no place in my heart for any other man. “Have you never had a thought for any other girl? “And yet you say really loved anyone but me, “And, Wyrne, if making my whole body tremble while thinking of you—if my soul's longing for the sound of your voice is so great that when any other man speaks—even Jerry—I almost would stop my ears —means that I love you, then you must believe that I do. “Once you wrote that you judged your-love for me by these very in- dicatiens, which makes me think that a woman's love is no different than a man “I want you to remember, dear, that I appreciate all the hardships vou have gone through — all the bravery you have shown to go through them — and 1 am very proud that you are my man, “Natle The first thing Phillip thought after he read this letter was that the war was turning this old world topsy turvy. It had made his mother younger and more human in her heart, al- though she ccmplained of white in her halr. It had evidently brought virtue to Glad—if being chaste meant virtue. It had made Natlee somewhat skeptical on the subject of love, and you have never —and although not yet 21, he was sorry for his lost youth. He almost felt that Rod was the most fortunate after all. With death all about him, he knew that living was going to be much harder than dying could pos- sibly be, He was sure he could not go back home and take up the old life again where he had for so long been happy. His artillery was in the Argonne woods. There had been 14 of them i his own detail of headquarters company when they had started out so gayly from the little French town to go up to the front. When he ar- rived back with his outfit, he “ound | that he made the fifth thut was left—but the round of duty went on. i All the happy-go-lucky tempera- ment had gone out of Phil, how- }hn-m Burton Margarat & THIS FOR | down two men to the motor school at La Blanc. It looks as if every- body though this war was going on forever, and they have decided to motorize all the artillery.” “May be they think they'll want the horses for food, sir,” said Phil. “You needn’t try to change the subject, Tracy. I meant it. You've either got to go back to the hospi- tal or take this chance of going to school. I dont mind which.” All right. I'll go to the school. When do I leave?” “To night. Go and pack your things.” How Phil regretted that decsion, for it was only three days later that 4he armistice was declared and he was in La Blanc in the south of France. He would almost have given his soul to have been there with his outfit, when the guns ceased firing. Everyon2, however, seemed deliri- ously happy, but himself, in the lit- tle French town where he was a complete stranger. That didn't keep everyone from kissing him, though. He had never been kissed so much in all his life as he yas that day. Old women, old men, young women and children. Every American uniform seemed to hold their owr. special hero who had to be hugged and kissed and ex- claimed over and treated to a drink —and oh, how drunk he got! The next morning he could not determine if for him the end of the war was tragic or ridiculous. He had started out with such high hopes. Such wonderful ideals. He had flung himself into the breach with the enthusiasm of a young crusader—and ended by get- ting drunk. The motor school which Phil at- tended taught him all the things about the insides of tractors and motoreycles and how to repair them when they didn’'t work, and Phil kept wendering, “what's the use?” It was only at night that sitting in the dining room at a small cafe, drinking red wine, eating goat's milk cheese and bread, that he managed to recapture a little of the contentment of living that he had known before he had gone up to the front. Would he ever ecapture it as he had had it back home before he joined the American army overseas? (To Be Continued) Phil is sent to Germany. mother plans to go to see him and Major Aukland begs her to go as his wife. Will she? Y., June 21 (A—M na Brewster Hall, age, died yesterday, her birthday, at her home in Hastings, county. Mrs. Hall, one of the oldest women in this part of the state, was born June 20, 1826. Her father, Gil- bert Parkhurst, came from Vermont in 1826 to seftle at Hastings Center. She had lived in Central New York all her life. o BOSTON PU IN BID. New York, June 21 (A —Boston is the latest city to put in a bid for the 1928 democratic national con- vention, Clem L. Shaver, chairman of the democratic national commit- tee, here from Fairmont, W. Va,, said today:. News is contained in Herald Clas- sifled Ads. How to Make Yuban Use a rounded table- spoonful of ground YUBAN to each cup of fresh water, briskly boiling.Pour thewater into the percolator, then place coffee in thefilter and let water percolafeoverthecof- fee five to ten mil utes,dependingonthe temperature of heat and strength desired. —is the cide thot wes developed g, Melln, T "of nduecrial Research Quick relief l'rom pain, Prevent shos 101 years | Oswego | | {Block Island Rhode Islan(l Gpan July 1. Bpacial rates July and sede {son. Bathing, Boating, Fishing,Dancing, | THE ADRIAN Now Open. Ocean Vi Address C. C. L is a Prescription for Colds, Grippe, Flu, Dengue. i dilious Fever and Malarla. 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