The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 28, 1903, Page 5

THE SUNDAY CALL. B (2" X 8 5 s TERS . > v =) P o N1 B0 e " . =83 s 2 2 v < /4 Tl o N “"\\\;/’,’r,’/ e DI R \,‘N,(/ U st iy PN PR s YN ':b;yw "f[/’/},’:: \ AN 1 ot ,7 J s & & 3 bl . 3 i W 7 o Eh 27 K b 2 " QW % i o> WaREEN'S D& AR = Y % 2 ; vl . % 237 . \% )@ YR S ==, — INTE RN 24 S, P\ N S T & B e A TS AN e ".v-i’m s I ’\rj‘ B A i ). 7N\l L 77N, S DRUSILLA’'S GARDEN | By Temple Bailey. HE garden was really nly a box on the fire- escape. But there were® pansies & in the tpring, and later a tiny until winter, a took the house and a picked off the the evening she for Drusilla was and filing the nails jcure establish- iter was first placed at re big ofce opposite the r of the tem which Dru- g man seated young girl tallation over the heads e pansies. ng hour grew to be an im- snt one to Drusilla, for she arrived e &t 6 and the dark young man aid eave untll 7. She sat up late nights & certain e lawn that had & at tralled over the iron steps of » fire escape to the further undoing of nfatusted young man over the way. e hummed lit nes that caused the nplete cessation of the “clickery-click- k" of th wachine opposite. t still she kept her eyes to herself, a sense of her aig- as ays and got ¢ ents and the pi ut I ain't golin r inelegant summing , Drusilla showed that she r of men. ilet on her bal- Romeo He the pansies, calmly into t when the dark he picked them fervid mes- she had a bot- on the fire- s on the la- Specific.” could nod isked back ’ roor g him alone with her the next paper: g T clicked off some- " s ine, and planted he sun came out, the epring was like bal- ed. So stopped irtesies, and the ness or worse if g a look of warmth to — ;\n: worse came. t happened one way at half Drusilla’s shade was go\‘n, but ?l::!d:’rxk young man knew that she was in her room, for once her pink-tipped fingers had edjusted the curtain, and a savory odor told of her supper cooking. “‘Clickety-click-click,” went the type- writer, and then suddenly—"Clang, clang,” deadened by its distance to the 23‘)1 floor, came the ring of the fire engine ls. The dark young man leaned out. r below him he saw great crowds gather l!x‘llg The smoke floated up from the puffing en- &lnes. Then all st once he caught his breath sharply. The windows of the third floor of the tenement were lighted with a golden glow, growing redder as he looked. The smoke poured out and jolned the smoke of the engines, while the black masses drifted up the fire escape and over the blooming little garden. :J'hu young man shouted hoarsely. “You,” he began. What should he call Rnr? He had never heard her name. ‘Young lady, little girl!” he shrieked. But there was utter silence across the w. Then he began to cough. “Help,” he gurgled, “help!” This brought Drusilla, in & pink wrapper, with a little frying pan in her hand She opened the door and 1:o)¢;g out anxioysly. ““What is 1t?" PR, e she demanded, coming to “Look!" shouted the young man. Already the flames were working up. :::m::dwehu; crawling up ladders like 3 shr Sl & eks came from the people Run down, run down,” ordered the young man. “It's the only way to save your life. “Down the fire escape. Go at he continued peremptorily, as Dru- = vdrlvered); = o down she fluttered, frying pan and all, looking ltke a pink b!on:mpu she grew smaller in the distance. Then the young man watching her saw her turn end come back. As she reached floor where the flames were raging, she swerved aside and ran desperately up the steps. “My garden, my garden!"” she gasped, as she saw the terror in his face. “I couldn't leave it to burn.” But the young man did not stop to hear the end. Like a madman he ran to the elevator. Then he sped to the street and began to climb towards Drusilla. Far above him she was staggering with her heavy burden, half blinded by the smoke. At the fatal third floor she stopped. the iron fire escape swept waves of flame. Two firemen just below, uncon- scious of the girl above them, were try- ing to turn a stream of water on a win- dow. The noise was deafening. The dark young man shouted frantically, and at last his voice reached them. “Turn it this way, turn it this way!” But they saw the motion of his hand and the pink-gowned girl above them and comprehended. As the water played for a moment over tue blistering iron, the dark young man plunced through and dragged Drusilla to safety. They were all drenched—Drusilla and her rescuer and the little garden. When they reached the street the dark young n Jed Drusilla to a secluded niche in the doorway of the big offic. building. All about them raged the excitement of a terrible catastrophe, and Drusilla, safe in the little haven, quietly proceeded to faint away. The dark young man caught her in his arms and mopped her face with his wet handkerchief. Then she opened her eyves and saw the informality of his attitude, and blushed. “We haven't been introduced,” she re. proached faintly, but she did not draw away from him. “As if that mattered,” said the blissful dark young man. The Sun D_;c'_zl’s Secret| By Lillian C. Paschal. | AVE 1t way if you wan but I won’t marry him! So there!” The girl's re- lious frame of 4 showed Itself every line of her aut little figure and after all, ts in melting hich excel in general oney-Bee, tc ebergs—even 2 gulltily under Nell's Par- en shot, and appealed to the other ember of this “‘quo of the Carter committee,” as N the incorri- gible, styled these after-breakfast coun- of these ou know don’t approv Bee. wusingly. “I think ging to him still.” ¥ night when he was - gf e,” put in Nell solemn- t ed him quite Ameri- ze By w h you—ah—mean civiliz- I wied. ‘Prezactly,’ I v didn’t show off any of dered King's very correct in his quite horrified. ng to the ralson “So very odies the whole Honorable Britain, now of 1s so correct in his love- not love-making at all, He takes me to the opera, rous in the matter of ets, and bestows upon at the proprieties -conducted affaire eh, ma en,” * remo rever do you get such ideas, I won- Ir's quite and you only nd “nevei been kissed—which draw- back we. will now proceed to remedy, < momsy, dear,” wheedled the girl with a coaxing expression on her piquant face and a resounding smack on her mother's cheek. “Don’t be foolish, Nell,” remarked Mrs. Carter, but with an unreproving twinkle in her eye. “This is a serious matter. Now, Beatrice, my child, why don't you wish to marry Mr. Mountby? I had rath- er hoped—he is wealthy, steady and sin- cere, with no bad habits. ‘Every inch a man,’ your father says, with no frills about him—"" “That's just it, mamma—he hasn’t any frills, and I like frills—every woman doues —she needs to be told she is nice in order to keep her nice—" “Is that why you're so nice to Larry Moore's blarney?” questioned Nell de- murely. Bee and Larry always quarreled unmercifully. She ignored this taunt and went on with dignit: “Mr. Mountby's face is always so im- passive—such terribly good form—he is so reserved and stand-offish. He never gives compliments, except the most laboriously made-for-the-purpose ones. He never says anything about love—only wants a wife. He hasn't as much sentiment as— as—Topsy here,” and Bee picked up her woolly pet and buried her pretty face and a half-sob in his friendly silken coat. Topsy showed his canine sympathy by licking the soft cheek, down which a tear was furtively stealing. ““Well, dear,” concluded the mother with a gentle sigh of regret, as she arose to leaye the dining-room, “you need not marry any one you do not love—"" “Oh, I didn’t say—" began Bee quickly, and bit her tongue, catching Nell's mercil- less ey “But,” Mrs. Carter paused with her hand on the door, “remember one thing, my daughter, men—even American men— don’t hang their best feelings in the sight of all eyel “Here endeth the first lesson,” implously concluded Nell, “or is it the fourth—or the seventh? How many have there been anyway, Bee? There was Tom and Ches- ter and Larry and—" “Well, I shall refuse this one, anyway,” rebelled the candidate for matrimonial honors, and the council meeting ad- journed. That evening Jack Mountby came for his answer. He was the personification of good form, from his smoothly parted hair and boutonniere gardenia to his ag- gressively correct patent leathers. His well-modulated voice was as calm when he inquired for Miss Carter as though he +- Sunday Call’s Half-Hour Storiettes Can’t Be Beat. had called for the menu at Sherry’s. If he trepidation over his impending fate, he certainly showed none in his im- perturbable manner. This balmy spring evening Bee had de- that the stage setting for her refusal of this impassive Eng- lishman should be quite in keeping with of the act itself. directed Jenkins to send her caller to the particular bit of bow- ery green in the grounds back of her sub- urban home. When she rose from the bench by the ivy-grown sun-dial—an English importa- eet him, Mountby thought he had never seen anything more lovely. It made him think of the rising of But all he sald was a f greeting and the felt any termined haughty the traged 1il tion—and came to him_vindictively budding lilacs. it was over she beheld the im- _ace in the moonlight, havoc wrought by her. When movable, well-bred no sign of any the evening star. formal ¢ walk, her own Foia & s, word m o 24 R D Vs P 9rieg So she had How charming you look this evenin, Bee hated the worn-out phrase. . an added fillip to her wrath, and she led - to his doom under the It was broad shoulders fade in a minute, “But I wish to God “It isn’t a dream, dear,” tremulously, “Unless it's and we need not wake at all!” She bade him a curt gaod-night, to which nity and stified love and longing gave an added hardness. As she turned toward the house and looked up to the light in her mother’s room she longed to throw herself into that haven of refuge and burst into a storm Her mother’'s words of the morning came back to her—*" love remains unsaid.” —he might have cared. would walk for awhile—under the lilacs. She went back siowly to the scene of arefully planned tragedy. Somehow it wasn't so dolefully cene she had imagined it would be. No, he had not gone. heavily upon the old sun-dial-and his were shaking violently with the terrible dry, tearless sobs of a man who had gone down into the deep. The girl had never seen a man cry before end it frightened her. floods of love and longing in her tender little soul let loose at the dreadful sight. She put her arms about his neck and kissed the pale face, passive no longer, but distorted with grief. 1 know it’s a dream, darling, and will e whispered brokenly. -'d never wake x 3 Perhaps, after all Anyway, pleasant as He was leaning All she answered as his arms closed about love's young dream— DAWCY THE SCAMP By Hubert McBean Johnson. H! May I not have this one?’ sald I “For the sake of ap- pearance, you know," I added, noting her hesitation. “Well,” replied Phyllis in an uncer- tain way, “for the sake of appearance, then.” The room was hot and stuffy and danc- ing is warm work anyhow. “The veranda is a lot cooler,” I sug- also?” questioned Phyllis, elevating her eye- brows. “Certainly,” I answered, glancing in the direction of Mrs. Gillesple. “It might look strange if we didn’t, you know.” “It has one advantage,” sald Phyllis. *“One does not need to talk out there.” Phyllis laughed. It sounded kind of good to hear it. Phyllls has a pretty laugh and particularly so when one has not heard it for a whole month. “Did you hear the latest?” I asked by vay of changing the subject. “Which 1s—?" questioned Phyllls, apa- thetically. “Of my engagement?’ I finished. Phyllis was interested. She leaned for- ward in her chair and rested her chin on her palms. “This time to—?" she pursued. But I was not going to commit myself. “What do you think of Gracie Raw- shaw?’ said I. “I thought. you preferred taller girls and blonde: commented Phyllis. “Beauty is only skin deep,” I quoted, sententiously. Phyllis herself is exceptionally pretty. “I suppose so,” she sald dreamily, tak- ing no notice of my remark. “But it's awfully funny,” she concluded with a lit- tle laugh. “I fail to see the humor of the situ- fon,” I replied stiffly. *“This is not ex- y a jesting matter with me.” should not imagine so,” said Phyllis dryly. “But I'll apologize. I used the wrong word. I ought to have sald, what a coincidence.” “Coincidence? How?’ I queried in con- eternation. ; I anticipated something, but I don't think Phyllis knew it. I flatter myself that my cigarette never trembled. I have always prided myself on my nerve. “T might make a little announcement myself,” said Phyllis quietly, with just the faintest suspicion of a laugh in her voice. “And the man?”’ It's remarkable how tobacco steadies one. “] belleve you will find people congrat- ulating Mr. Dawson Graham this even- ing,” replied Phyllis, demurely. “Lucky devil!” 1 ejaculated impolitely. 1 sald other things to myself. I never had much use for that fellow anyway. Phyllis bowed in mock courtesy “People are good enough to say so,” she assented. “I really can't say that I see it myself, but—" “We wouldn't have believed all this a month ago,” sald I “I would have laughed had any one suggested such a thing.” “How fortunate,” said Phyllis with ap- parent irreverence. “Which?’ 1 asked. “That I wouldn't have believed it, or that I would have laughed.” “That we found out in time.” Phyllis seemed quite serious. “Afterward it would have been apt to create such a scandal. said 1. “We did quarrel occa- “Occasionall sniffed Phyllla. “You might better say eternally. Why, I re- member one time—'" “‘I suppose there won't be time,” said I “But you have no idea how much I thought of you that summer, little girl."” “And now?” questioned Phyllis, softly. “Isn’t it rather late to dream of such things, with both of us engaged to other people?” said I 7 “Yes,” answered Phyllls, “I suppose it s. “You suppose,” said I, bitterly. “I'd like to punch Dawcy Graham's head. That's what I'd like to do.” “Perhaps—" began Phyllls, gently. *“Oh, here you are,” interrupted Mrs. 8t. Clair, coming out of the house. “I've been looking everywhere for you two. Phyllis, I want to introduce you to Cap- tain McDougall. Come, I'm sure Jack will excuse you for this dance.” “If I may have the next,” said I, seis- ing Phyllis’ card and jotting down my initials on it before she could remon- strate. Turning into the hallway I came face to face with Dawcy Graham. “Hullo,” cried I, restraining my desire to get a half-Nelson on him. “They tell me I'm to congratulate you. You're cer- tai a royal flush if ever there was one.” “Thanks, old man, thanks,” sald Daw- cy, linking his arm affectionately into mine and drawing me outside with him. “You're the very fellow I've been looking for. You see, it's this way. We've been engaged now for about six months, and this announcement is merely a prelude to wedding. I want you to support me in it. Wil you? What do you say?” Six months, thought It teok my breath away. The little vixen! And me to support him—if that wasn't rubbing it in “What's your governor think about it?" I queried to gain time. “I suppose he's known about it all along?” “Not much!” cried Dawcy. “Not mueh! He just found it out to-night when it was announced, but he likes it all right. Why, say, do you know when he heard it he actually made a pun. He sald, ‘Well, my boy, you're no longer the graceless young scamp you always have been!" ™ “I don't see it,” said I, lamely enough. “Where's the pun?” “Why, sgraceless,” explained Dawey. “Don't you see—graceless—Grace Raw- shaw, you know?” “Oh, yes,” said I weakly. “Ha, ha; I see now. How stupid of me. I wasn't thinkin I certainly did see. I saw several things that Dawey did not. “And you're going to stand up with me?" asked Dawcy anxiously. “Wed- ding’s in the early part of September.” “Am I said I, emphatically. “Glad to, my dear fellow. Nothing could give me greater pleasure. “Thanks,” he cried, enthusiastically. - knew you would. I must go and teil Grace. Well, see you later.” I walked across the floor to where Phyl- ls was standing with Captain McDou- all. "'I!n‘[ this ours?’ I asked. “Why, yes,” sald Phyllis, ostensibly consulting her card. “I believe it is. “Phyllis,” sald I a moment later, “Daw- ey Graham has just asked me to act as his best man.” There must have been something in my tone that warned her, for Phyllis looked up and caught my eye. “Jack,” she sald, “candidly, you're & goose. I told Grace this afterncon that I would aet for her.” “Suppose,” I suggested, “that we go outside on the veranda and sit it out?" “For the sake of appearance?” asked Phyllls, looking up at me and smiling roguishly. “Not entirely,” sald I |Burying a Friendship By Richard Barker Sheldon. ——— HEIR walk had led them along the old fa- miliar path, across the pasture, through a pine grove and finally out on the bluff. Fifty feet below the river swirled its slug- gish current seaward. Catherine, seated on a boulder near the brink, dug her parasol inta the loam of the bank. Tom Dayton sprawled comfortably on the ground and blew smoke rings. “It is a relief,” she said, “to know one man who won't talk love to you on the slightest provocation—even if he is smoky and sleepy and stupid every time you sit down with Lim for a minute.” “So they all talk love to you,” mused Tom. *“Don't suppose you help 'em out any—do! give 'em good openings and lead 'enMon and that sort of thing, eh Kitten? “It isn't my fault that I adore canoe- ing and dancing and golf,” she sald. “I go canoeing with some mild appearing youth, who apparently goes for the mere love of the river, or I waltz with some seemingly harmless man who evidently dances from the sheer love of it, or I knock a ball about the links with some athletic chap, like tow-headed Carter, and to all appearances our conversation will be confined to brassies and tees and so forth. But just as I congratulate myself that here is the hundredth man, who takes precedence over the other ninety- nine in that he doesn’t grow silly, the idiot always wishes the paddle or the waltz or the game might go on forever. It's disheartening and sickening. Why can't men be sensible like you, Tommy?”" “Arrant flatterer,” sald Dayton. “Four years,” she went on, “four sum- mers of perfect friendship. You've never once violated it.” “Not openly,” he said slowly. 'Nor otherwise,” she said firmly. ‘H'm-m,” he mused indolently. “Kit- ten,” suddenly propping himself on his el- bow, “you shouldn't wear such fluffy white dresses nor that sort of hat, and for the love of heaven don't put any of those marsh orchids in your belt again.” “And why not, pray?” she asked. “They are fatal to certain varieties of friendship,” he responded. “Tommy Dayton, sentimentalist,” she chided. “Tommy Dayton, mortal man,” he cor- rected. BSilence fell between them. “Kitten,” he sald at length, “I want to tell you about a piece of cowardl that came to my attention. Listening “U'm—u'm-m,” she said. “Sing on, Tomm:; “Well, there was a chap I knew once met a very charming girl. We can dis- pense with a description of the charms of this pair for the simple reason that he had none and she had so many that words could never do them justice. Now, this chap promptly fell in love with the girl, only he couldn’t tell her about it, for he was a poor devil of an engineer without one dollar to rub against another. But he had prospects in the world and, therefore, took heart, though he kept a seal on his lips. The girl came to be rather fond of him as a friend.” “Finally, off he goes to South America to build trolley lipes and make his pile, which latter he succeeded partially in doing. Each summer he came back to the States and the girl. And all the way up on the steamer he'd be making up his mind to let this girl know the true state of his feelings. Used to think up just what he’d say, and go way up forward in the bow evenings and practice it there all alone. Some rough night he’d be standing there spouting his proposal to the sea, when whack!—the splash of a wave, as the steamer cut her nose into it, would strike him In the face. ‘That's just what I'll get from her,” he'd say to himself, ‘cold water." And the nearer he came to home, the more he became con- vinced of this; uatil when he really saw her and she told him how delightful their friendship was he’d agree with her and keep on agreeing all summer.” “Rather a fool, wasn't 1" he finished. “Oh, Tommy, Tommy,” she said re- proachfully, “don’t tell me you wish we could stay here forever.” He rose and came close to her. “I'm sorry to give you pain,” he said, “but I have all the horrible symptoms— weakness of the knees and a tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth. I think I'm about to propose. I've played the coward long enough.” “It's—it's awful for a man to be a cow- erd, Tommy,” she sald gently. He stooped and hastily rounded a mound of loam into a miniature grave. At the head and foot he set small flat stones. Then he stood by solemnly with his hat in his hands. Said he: “Sacred to the memory of our dead friendship. It has outlived its usefulness and Is, therefore, much better dead. Come on, Kitten, let's go home and tell the folks.™ (Copyright 1903 by T. C. McClure)