Glacier County chief. [volume], May 20, 1938, Magazine Section, Image 11

About Glacier County chief. [volume] (Browning, Mont.) 1931-1940

Image provided by: Montana Historical Society; Helena, MT

                
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FIRST CLASS RESTAURANT, beer
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J. C. MORGAN. Realtor. Missoula, Montana.
GROCERY STORE AND FILLING
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$2,500 cash. MARION BRANDT. R. 4. Box 533,
Olympia. Wash.
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EARN MONEY collecting reptiles,
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TORIES. Springfield. Mo.
FARMS WANTED: With the comple
tion of Fort Peck dam. hundreds of farm
ers will be obliged to move from their Mis
souri bottom lands and will be looking tor
new locations. If you want to sell your land,
advertise it in the GLASGOW-FORT PECK
COURIER Box 218. Glasgow. Montana. Rates
one cent per word per Insertion. Stamps ac
cepted.
FARM LAND IS A SAFE investment
Buy Now. We have desirable farms in the
fertile Gallatin Valley Reasonable terms.
Specify size of farm wanted HINES REALTY
COMPANY. Bozeman. Montana.
900 ACRES IMPROVED, must be sold.
$2 50 an acre. 7 miles out. R. W. HARDING.
Manhattan. Montana.
FOR SALE: 435 Acres, 25 a. meadow,
40 a. under irrigation, 20 a. alfalfa, rest
grain and pasture. Price $6,000. $1,300 down,
balance 6 percent for 10 years. PETER BORN
HORST. Camus, Sanders County. Mont.
FREE LITERATURE on the beautiful
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lands there Easy terms. Write U. S. BARNS
LEY. Ozone. Ark.
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RUPTURED men, adjustable single or
double truss; or special case, send for fit
tlne chart W. HOFFNER. 15 E. Pearson St..
Chicago. 111.
MANY THRIFTY FARMERS now save
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serve the water when bclna diverted in Irri
gation ditches. Only 8 cents each, while they
last Address: F B. PRICE'S COFFEE ROAST
ING PLANT. Butte. Montana.
THE PERFECTION WATER Booster is
"the answer to a dry farmer's prayer.” It
la reasonably priced, sturdily built, economic
al to operate. For free information write the
PERFECTION PUMP WORKS. Department B.
Hysham. Mont.
LAKESHORE PROPERTY _
ON BEAUTIFUL FLATIIEAU LAKE—
-10 acres, home, orchard, summer sites.
Worth $4,000 but widow must sell and will
accept reasonable offer. BARBARA WERNER.
Polson, Montana
WE SELL from 300 to COO horses, cattle,
hogs and sheep every Monday, all sold by us
on commission We advertise over the corn
belt and have the cosh buyers. ELDER HORSE
SALE CO . Jamestown, N. D.
STEER HORNS FOR SALE from the
Lonahorn species of cattle now extinct In
Texas. Hiahly polished and neatly mounted
Six to i. ht feet spread. Free photograph
LEE BERTILLION
Mineola. Texas.
POLICE DOG, medium size, tan and
black, very friendly and named TIGE. Odd
thumb claw inside hind leg. Reward. MOUAT
RANCH. Nye. Mont.
CORD WOOD SAWS— Saw mandrels,
belting. Our goods are right and so are our
prices ALASKA JUNK CO.. Inc.. Spokane.
Wash.
RAISE PHEASANTS: Profit or pleas-
ure. Send 3c stamp for pamphlet. RAINBOW
PARM PHEABANTRY, Barrington. 111.
~
IDAHO— S lota 1125 with (IS cash, 17.00
per month. Owner, P. P. JOHNSON. Couct
d'Alene. Idaho.
RUBBER AND METAL Stamps, Sten
elh eh«» PAOtne STAMP womcß.
W. 510 Bpragu* Ave., Spokane, Waah.
WE MAKEBTAMPB. Rubber type.
HELENA STAMP WORKS. Helen*. Montan*.
Motorists in Mount McKinley Na
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M. M. A. MAT U. UN IB
FORT PECK PLANS
DEMOBILIZATION
CHIEF OF ARMY ENGINEERS DE-
CIDES UPON PROCEDURE FOR
DISPOSAL OF BUILDINGS
Will First Be Offered for Sale to Other
Governmental Agencies With out
Transfer of Funds, Advertised and if
Not Sold, Razed.
Plans for “demobilization” of
millions of dollars worth of con
struction and equipment at Fort
Peck when work is completed on
the gigantic dam call for offers of
these assets to government agen
cies, according to an outline of
demobilization policies by Maj. Gen.
Julian L. Schley, chief of army
engineers.
General Schley states:
“I now have a report from the di
vision engineer, Missouri river division, 1
Colonel Sturdevant, and after a thor
ough study of his recommendations and
those of the district engineer, Fort
Peck, I have decided upon the follow
ing procedure with respect to the dis
posal of buildings and other equipment
purchased by this department for use
on the Fort Peck project.
“When temporary houses and other
buildings are no longer needed at Fort
Peck, they will be disposed of by one
or more of the following methods in
order of preference:
”1. Offer of sale to other govern
mental agencies without transfer of
funds. 2. Offer for sale after advertise
ment. 3. Razing.
“In the case of equipment purchased
for use on the Fort Peck project, dis
posal in accordance with the following
procedure in the order stated will be
made:
"1. All equipment that has a remain
ing useful life will be reported by cir
cular letter to all other engineer de
partment districts. 2. Dredge parts and
other valuable equipment will be held
at Fort Peck until it is concluded that
they will not be needed in the engineer
department within a reasonable length
of time. Any property not needed by
the engineer department will be of
fered to other agencies at one-half the
estimated value. 3. Any property not
desired by the engineer department or
other federal agencies will be offered
for public sale after advertisement in
the usual manner.”
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PERSONAL
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CHEMI-GROW
GROW VEGETABLES, PLANTS, year
around without soil. Registered and ap
proved state of California department of ag
riculture No 493 Trial package fl Mail
orders to F H.' SAFFORD, state distributor.
Box 589. Kalispell. Mont. Agents write.
SWEET CLOVER SEED, Yellow Blos-
som; northern grown. Buy your seed di
rect from grower—s9.2s per cwt. Bison Flax
extra good seed. S 4 00 per cwt. Satisfaction
guaranteed D THORMAHLEN. Bridger. Mont
SEED CORN— Haney, Minn., 13, White
Dent. $1 75. N W. Dent. Falconer. White
Flint. Gehu. Tall Rainbow. $2.00; silage and
fodder corn. $1 25; all per bushel. Sudan Grass.
$4.00; Sweet Sorghum Cane. 13.25; Siberian
Millet, $2.00; Early Fortune, fl 50; Alfalfa.
$26 00 up; Sweet Clover, all per cwt dags
free. Order from this ad. Satisfaction or money
buck GRIMM ALFALFA ASSN., Fargo. N. D.
500 Co-operating Growers.
CRESTED WHEATGRASS, Standard
strain. Extra Fancy, 42c lb. MONTANA
SEED CO.. Box 429. Bozeman. Mont.
CABBAGE PLANTS— Montana grown,
90c per 100. Cauliflower, $1.25; Celery. 90c;
Tomatoes. $1.25. Asters, pansies, petunias.
Calendula, marigold, etc. Booklet. BALZ
HISER'S. Drummond. Mont.
•
WORLD'S FINEST Norraganxetts;
Eggs. HUDSONS TURKEY FARM. Tangent,
Ore.
J UINCS MM HI
CUSTOM WOOL CARDlNG— Knitting
yarns, blankets, socks, mittens. Batting
from your own wool Hove your worn out
woolen materials made Into excellent com
forter batting. Circulars Tree. CAMBRIDGE
WOOLEN MILLS. Cambridge. Minnesota.
Texas has a greater railroad mileage
than any other state of the Union. It
has 16,734 miles of railways, with Illi
nois ranking second with 12,282 miles
of track. *
—4 th* Claattned A6r«Hbm,N,
GLACIER COUNTY CHIEF
Beyond the Border of Chance
By Edwin Balmer
Published by Special Arrangement With The
Chicago Tribune-New York News Syndicate,
Incorporated
IN TWO PARTS—PART TWO
David spoke no word of this to the
girl with him, he merely felt it and
imagined that she felt it too, as he
clasped her close to him against the
sweep of the wind upon them. They had
ceased minutes ago to point out to each
other towers and steeples they iden
tified.
"Like it?” he said, looking down at
her.
"A lot,” she answered and caught
her breath a bit, as she looked up at
him. He thought: "I’ll ask you to marry
me,” but all he said was, "Ready to
go down?”
They traveled to the street together,
and the wind was blustery there. Direct
ly in front of the building a gust blew
Rowena almost about and something
struck, stingingly, on David’s cheek. It
was a scrap of cardboard which dropped
and caught in the opening of his coat
and lodged between his coat and waist
coat.
He picked it up, glancing at it, and
saw at once what it was—one of those
coupons passed out by a street pho
tographer to a person whose picture
he had just snapped.
If one wanted the picture of himself,
he accepted the coupon, filled in his
name and address, enclosed a quarter
and mailed it to the photographic
studio. If one did not wish the picture, 1
he did not accept the coupon and the
camerman threw it away.
This, evidently, was a ticket that had
been thrown away, and David "should”
have dropped it. The fact was, he did
not drop it.
Standing there in the wind, with
Rowena beside him, he thrust the
coupon in his pocket. After he parted
from Rena and had returned to his
office, he came on the scrap of card
board again and out of an impulse of
curiosity—as he then called it^he wrote
on the coupon his own name and ad
dress, enclosed a quarter and mailed
it to the studio.
On the second morning, he received
at his office from the studio of the
street photograher a small but clear
and excellent portrait of a girl as she
had been snapped on Fifth avenue
near the Empire State building.
The girl was, beyond the slightest
doubt, “Evelyn.”
He was alone in his office and he
sat staring at the little likeness, his
pulse suddenly and strangely hurried.
At what?
The mere mathematics of the occur
rence was alone sufficient to startle
him. Computations of the “change” of
this "happening” ran through his head.
The original incident, of course, oc
curred accidently; he simply happened
to have overheard the voice on the
phone. Then, the chance that he would
encounter the girl on her way to the
train was a calculable condition. The
odds against it were one in a hundred
thousand; or they might have been as
great as one in two hundred thousand;
or they might have been as great as
one in a million. Yet, the odds could
be expressed in figures.
Now, if he had merely met the girl
again—if he had happened upon her
in another subway train, or on a bus
or on the street—he still could repre
sent the chance by some sensible figure.
But the actual event defied calculation.
David felt himself suddenly hurried
past the frontiers of chance; he felt
himself, together with this girl whose
little likeness lay before him drawn
deep into the domain of Plan, and it
profoundly excited him.
Tonight, he was to go to see Rowena
again and he had thought that tonight
he would ask her to marry him.
Now he gazed down at the picture.
“No," he answered the question stir
ring within himself. "No, not Rena.”
Another question rose to replace that
to which he had replied.
"Who?” this question asked him.
“Who, then? Who?”
This he answered not positively but
with another question as he gazed at
the little likeness.
"You?” he said.
How could he find her? He wondered
during the next days. Should he
search? If so, how and where?
A hunt for her. when he had no
hint of here whereabouts, must be
futile; and, more than that. David be
lieved it unnecessary. He became com
pletely confident that something else,
in connection with her, was sure to
happen to him.
Something sudden, suprising, pleasant
and completely unforeseen. This feel
ing endowed his days with a constant
expectation that was agreeably excit
ing. But a week passed with nothing;
another week; a third; a fourth.
He carried her little likeness in his
billfold, and he had never done any
thing like that before.
David's escape from figures was, in
flight. All week long, he figured, com
puted. analyzed and tabulated data
and statistics, prices. profits, physical
properties. Tangible things all of them.
Then he washed his mind, and his
soul, clean and clear of them in flight.
The more material the things he had
tackled during the week, the more he
sought, the immatrial—ilk flying in
the clouds.
He had a little airplane of his own
which he kept in an airport in West
chester; and on this particular Satur
day afternoon—it was late in June—
the clouds came in their favorite forms.
The great, glistening white "woolpack"
clouds of a calm, sunny summer day.
He jumped into his plane, pointed
into the breeze and climbed to the
clouds. He entered one, was blinded for
an instant and came out in a cavern,
roofed, walled, gigantic; a white hall
of Titans, a veritable grotto of the
gods.
Not the self-same gods and heroes
he had happened on before. At one
visit, Siegfried had signalled and Brun
hilde halted her swift, white horse.
At another. Priam appeared; and the
"topless tower of Ilium."
David had attempted, weeks ago. to
say in words some of the wonder of
these flights:
‘There are tall Valhalla’s halls,
There are the towers of Troy,
And Helen watching from the walls
Achilles' proud convoy.”
His friend. Arthur Winburn, had hap
pened upon the sheet of paper with the
verse and. saying nothing to David, he
had published the lines in his news
paper columns, and had written also
of David's flights but had not men
tioned his name nor described David
except ns "a statistician.”
David had never meant the verse for
publication, even anonymously; he had
never meant it for anyone but himself
- and perhaps one other person, some
where, sometime who, he hoped, might
like tt.
The wind had changed. David no-
ticed it first in the clouds which flat
tened and began closing their chasms.
He inspected the ground and saw
where he was. Over the Berkshires;
and from the east, mist was blowing!
log.
David flew for home and found him
self in fog. The ground everywhere was
gone. Dropping a bit, he grazed a hill
top and climbed quickly; when he
descended again, the swish of tree
tops at his wheels sent him up once
more and he circled cautiously, search
ing for a "hole." Meanwhile, his gauge
reminded him that, not having pre
pared for an extended flight, his fuel
was nearly spent.
The fog only increased and David 1
groped through it for more than an
hour. When his gauge warned him that
he could maintain flight for perhaps
five minutes more, he explored below,
established that he was over a forest
and climbed again. If he jumped here
and let his ship go, there seemed small
chance of injury to others; so he
fastened on his parachute, cut his
switch and "bailed out.” Dropped.
Through a count of 10, he fell; and
then pulled the cord.
Savagely, but reassuringly, the straps
jerked him; the plop of the parachute
spreading was like a pistol. He floated
in the fog, gently swinging, and he
heard his ship crash into the forest
far below.
Then, all at once, his feet were in
leafy branches. He scraped through
them and was flung to the ground.
How long he lay stunned and con
fused, he did not know. He became
conscious of a voice calling, a girl’s
voice: "Hello! Hello!”
“Hello!” he answered, and he caught
a quick lilt of relief as the voice re
plied: “You’re the flyer?”
"I’m the flyer.”
“Are you hurt?”
"No. I had a parachute.” He was
freeing himself from it.
“Was —anyone hurt?”
“No one. I was flying alone,” David
replied.
“Keep calling so I can find you,” the
girl said.
He could hear the soft sounds of her
steady progress as she pushed through
the underbrush.
He stepped into a little open space
and. at the end of it, saw leaves thrust
aside.
A girl emerged from the leaves'and
stood before him—a breathless and
lovely girl who gazed at him and halted
before him. He stared at her face as
she looked him over, and he was aware
of the rise and fall of her small bosom.
"You aren’t hurt!” she exclaimed.
"No. Not at all . . . You—hurried,”
he said, and it struck him, even at
that moment, as a strange and inade
quate remark, but he was extraordinar
ily excited.
For his perceptions, or his imagina
tions. played with him, or this girl
was "Evelyn.” She was without hat
and she had a thin, simple summer
dress, and she had been hurrying to
him, and also he had caught her
breathless both from her haste and her
concern over him. It all made her love
lier than he had remembered, or
dreamed. Evelyn, but it was she.
"Yes. I ran at first,” she said. "You
see, I heard you flying in the fog. I
heard you feeling for some landing
place; then I heard you climb—and
crash.”
"Yes, the plane crashed," David said.
"I hoped it was only the plane; and
you had a parachute. But I didn’t know
— till you answered.”
"You called several times before I
answered?”
"I thought you were killed.” she said.
"Then I was out, for a while, I
guess."
"Sure you’re all right now? You
don't need to—rest?"
"You live near here?”
"The house is hardly two hundred
yards away; on the edge of the woods.
Think you can reach it?”
"Your house?" David said. He was
not thinking as to whether he could
reach it; be was thinking: "If she
lives here and she’s Evelyn, it wasn’t
chance that the log came and the fuel
failed. Oh, this—this is far beyond
Chance.”
"My father’s house," she replied.
“I can get to it,” David assured her
and she turned, leading him to a dimly
discerned path through the trees.
The house, which he entered, was
small—little more than a cottage, but
its main room was large and pleasant.
It had a broad, stone fireplace, and
old andirons ujxm which fagots were
laid.*An iron crane hinged against the
stone and a kettle hung from the crane.
Well-filled bookshelves made one wall,
and there was a piano open and with
music upon it.
David instantly liked this room and
whoever lived here. As he looked about,
he listened, but there was no sound
or stir elsewhere in the house. He was
alone with this girl who had discovered
him and who was so strangely linked
to him.
Did she know it? And was she, be
yond any doubt, that girl?
He realized that he was staring at
her.
"Sit down, please," she said, without
any offense, "and rest."
"Rest?" said David. "I don't want
to rest."
"You don’t feel—shaken now?"
"Shaken?' he repeated and did not
otherwise deny it for he was shaken,
but not as she meant.
"You're cold?" she asked him, for he
was quivering.
“Cold? No.”
"It feels damp." she said, and she
stooped to the hearth, struck a match
and lighted the twigs below the fagots.
He watched her hands, slim and
white and pretty at their little pre
occupation. She wore no ring, lie no
ticed.
"Frank is here?" he asked suddenly.
"Frank?" she looked about and up
at him. "No. Not now . . . what do you
know about Frank?”
"He came up with you in April, didn't
he?"
She arose very slowly, the color
drained from her face. "Yes, he came
up but not with me. He came after
my mother died."
"Oh," said David, "forgive me.” But
he proceeded—he had to go on now.
“That was what had happened that no
one could do anything about. You see.
you were saying that, when I first'
heard your voice.”
"I don’t—understand.”
“I was in New York. I took up the
phone that afternoon and I heard a
girl—you—.speaking to Frank.' He
called her —you—’Evelyn.’ 'lt' had just
happened, and you were taking the
train. You are ’Evelyn,’ aren’t you?
And that Evelyn, too?”
“I’m Evelyn," she said. “I’m that
Evelyn . . . but how did you know, just
hearing over the phone ? r ’
“I took the subway that day a little
after five, and there you were beside
me.”
"How did you know?”
"You were beside me, and I thought
—I felt that you were she. I followed
you to the train and saw you meet
‘Frank’ and heard him call you ‘Evelyn.’
Then I went away ... Do you remem
ber me at all?’’
She met his eyes quite steadily. "No,”
she said, honestly, not unkindly.
"Not at all?”
"Not at all,” she replied to him and
added, quietly, "That day, I had just
heard that my mother had been hurt.”
"My name is David Freeward. I’m
a statistician. I deal, really, with very
sober things. I’m considered a responsi
ble sort of person. Please don’t think
I’m —shaken, when I show you this.”
His hand was in his breast pocket and
he took out the billfold and the little
likeness. "Isn’t this also you?”
She took it from him, her fingers
' touching his. She gazed at the picture
and then up at him again.
। "How did you get it?" she asked.
"I didn't get it, it came to me.”
"Came to you? How?"
He told her. watching her while she
looked down at the little likeness and
then up at him during the telling: “You
see?” he said at the end. "That followed
my overhearing you, and then being
beside you in the crowd. And now, fly
ing blind and with my fuel gone. I came
down here, and you found me. You see
now? Oh, don’t you see?"
She was meeting his eyes no more.
She had been holding the little picture
of herself but now she laid it down,
and he could not decide whether he
had frightened her.
"You said.” she asked at last, "you
are a statistician?”
I "Yes.”
“I’ll get water,” she suddenly de
cided. moving from him.
"Water?”
“For the kettle.”
It was for escape, he knew, as she
went out. but she returned with a
pitcher from which she filled the kettle.
She swung the crane over the fire and
immediately disappeared again.
She was gone so long that David be
came certain that he had frightened
her.
He realized that he had built some
what. at least, upon the feeling that the
evidence of Plan must have displayed
itself in some way to her. But It had
not. She had known nothing, felt
nothing in respect to him. She had not
even recollected him from their en
counter in the subway train.
She reappeared with a tray which
she placed on a low stand beside him.
He saw that her hands, as she laid
down the tray, were trembling a little
but she was not actually frightened.
“You ought to cat something.” she
said.
She had brought cold meat and
bread and butter: and salad in a bowl;
huge strawberries and -clotted cream.
She had brought two plates, two cups
and saucers, lifted the kettle and
poured the boiling water into her tea
pot. Then they sat opposite each other,
the little stand between them.
"Father usually is here but tonight
he will be late," she said. "He’s a doctor
. . . I’ve been coming up* each weekend,
since mother went.”
“You’re the only daughter?”
"The only child.” she said. <So Frank
was not her brother.! "It was terribly
sudden —about mother. An accident.
Father and she"—she stopped.
She had been looking down, serving
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him, and he had been watching her
hands. For a moment, their eyes met.
"They were in love, you were going
to say/’ David encouraged her.
"Yes. They reminded me so often of
Matthew Arnold’s poem, ‘Dover Beach.'
Do you know it?”
“ ‘The sea is calm tonight/ ” David
repeated. ‘“All, love, let us be true to
one another! For the world— ’"
He waited and she proceeded—
“ ‘which seems to lie before us like a
land of dreams, has really neither joy,
nor love nor light . . . nor peace.’ The
poet meant, unless one makes it for
another, by caring so much—and being
true —as they cared and as they were.”
• • •
She looked away and now David
knew’ that he had never frightened her.
He had come into a broken household
where great love had been. He thought
of this girl born to that love and
brought up by it and forever incapable,
therefore, of putting up with less in
herself.
“What do you do in New York?” he
asked, as they talked of little things.
“I work in a bookshop near tne
Battery. Law books."
“Besides that,” said David, "you do—
what?”
"I like to play and I try to write
music.” she admitted and now, as she
studied him once more, he realized that
she was making some difficult decision.
She arose and went to her piano.
He saw her halt as if she doubted
the resolution she had lust made; then
she sat at the piano and struck a chord.
From her Ungers flowed a theme,
stirring, exciting, majestic. It was full
of feeling yet endowed with dignity.
Suddenly her voice began to accompany
it. She did not sing, she spoke, pre
senting the word theme of her music:
“There are tall Valhalla's halls.
There are the towers of Troy!”
For an instant David doubted his
ears; then he sprang up.
“And Helen watching from the walls,”
She finished:
“Achilles’ proud convoy.”
She stopped playing and her fingers
fell from the keys. David stood over
her but she did not look up.
"Where did you get that? Evelyn,
where did you?"
“From you—didn't I?”
“From me?”
“Didn't you write it? Aren't you—
the statistician?”
“I wrote it. I'm the statistician,” he
said and, recollecting, realized: “You
got them, of course, from the news
paper. They were printed.”
She looked up at him now and met
his eyes. “But of all printed things—
the millions and millions of printed
things—l found yours and copied it and
tried to picture it in music. What you
felt in your flights in the clouds.”
She caught her breath and he put
his hands on her shoulders She was
trembling far more violently than be
। fore, but he knew that no fear was
in her. It was her awe at the doings
of Design which had brought him to
her and her to him.
“I was working with your words,” she
whispered, "actually using your words
and wanting to fly with you some day
in the clouds, when I heard an airplane
in the fog and I went out and called
and you answered.”
"You're not afraid," he said. "You’re
not afraid at all.'
"Of you?”
"Of how we're caught together. For
we are caught together—we must be.
There can't be Frank or anyone else
for you."
"There was never anyone else for
me."
"There couldn’t be. as there was never
anyone else for me. Design would never
do so much without holding something
particularly wonderful for you and me.
Superstitious Egyptians frequently
chiseled the legs off animal hiero
glyphics.