San Antonio light. [volume], June 21, 1911, CITY EDITION, Image 8

About San Antonio light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1911-1993

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WEDNESDAY,
~ mni : ~ 1 11 — 1 11 — " - ■
:I A Home Magazine Page for Womenßeaders of the Light ,
Man, Not Woman,
the Emotional
Animal
(By Dorothy Dix.)
For a long time, one nt the chief
reasons urged against giving women
the light to vote was that women were
BO emotional they could not be safely
trusted with the ballot.
Now comes along a g-eat nerve
•pecialist who declares men are 'far
more emotional than women, and that
it nas taken centuries of training and
hard fight ng to'give then the power
»to suppress their emotions, and to rs
aist the desire of a good cry. or go
Into hysterics.
Of course men are more emotional
than women, though they display their
"feelings" In a different way. Men.
that is Anglo-Saxon men, don't burst
into tears, when they get wrought up;
but neither do women, always, unless
there Is something to be ga ned by it
Weeping is not a reliable barometer
of a woman's emotions. It Is the
measure of her ability to work people
and get what she wants.
Generally speaking, crying Is be
coming a domestic art. A wife weeps
to get a new dress. A business woman
doesn't weep because she'll get fired
if she does, and so the waterline in
•motion between the two sexes. U
gradually drying up.
Barring tears, as the indication of
hysteria. In every other matter of
temperament, man is far more emo
tional than woman, as even the most
cursory observation wig show.
Take the Matter of Swearing.
Take, as a very common, example,
the matter of swearing. Suppose, In a
crowd, somebody steps on a man's foot,
isn’t the a'r immediately rent with
blue blazes? Doesn't the man sputter,
and fume, and emit forked lightning,
and call upon all of his gods to consign
the malefactor to places where he
won't need an overcoat even In win
ter?
But suppose an even worse accident
happens to a woman, and some gi»at
lumbering lout treads upon her fine
new frock, and tears It past all mend
ing. What does the lady do? Doe*
she rip out a sizzling oaths and
tell the man what she thinks of him.
and what she hopes will be his ulti
mate doom? •
Not at all. She smiles sweetly and
•erenely in his eyes, and says that It
doesn't matter. She may be thinking
things that begin with a big. big D. but
■he doesn't utter them, and this Is a
triumph of self-control that na man
could exhibit under the circumstances.
Take note. also, of how men go to j
pieces over tr'fles that women meet I
with perfect calmness, as exhibited in ।
the simple act of booking up a eown. I
Every married woman will testify '
that, when her husband fastens her up
In the back, he yelps every time he
jams his thumb against a point, and
bolls over with rage when he falls to
make a hook and loop-eye connect,
and that, dur'ng the entire perform
ance. he says perfectly awful things
that are shocking to listen to.
Observe, too, the difference when
mother has a headache and when fath
er has one. Who's loony then? When
mother has a headache, she goes about
her business as usual. She sits at the
head of the table and serves the soup,
and sees that father has everything I
the way he wants It. and all that
anybody knows about her suffering Is
that she doesn't eat anything herself. I
and looks white and drawn.
But, heavens alive, when father i
comes home from the office with a |
headache there's something doing! He |
keeps everybody on the jump for hot
water bags, and Ice packs, and poul-1
tices. and special dishes, and takes
forty kinds of headache medicines, and
sends for the doctor, and a trained
nurse .and Is scared bine for fear he
Is going to die.
Any surgeon will tell you that a'
little mite of a woman will walk into
an operating room and climb up on
the operating table with no mov
emotion than If she were going
to play bridge, whereas nine-tenths of
the men patients are in such a blue
funk of fear, they have to be given a
little ether In their rooms and carried,
unconscious. Into the operating room.
Women can get pretty well worked
up over a club election, but they never
go so far as to yell themselves black
In the face, and tear off their bats and
dance upon them when candidate
goes through; nor do you ever ob
serve them walking about with a
fdacard around their necks, or trund
ing a wheelbarrow up Broadway, or
paying other fool election bets Into
which their emotional temperaments
have led them.
HIGH HONORS IN LAW
Miss Hazel M. Cole, of Springfield,
MasA. who is the first woman to carry
off the highest honors In the history of
the Albany Law school, New York.
The SHORTEST Minute in the World «®
mi. MftfMl Mm A-arUUon
_
MARRIED LIFE THE SECOND YEAR
Helen Has a Glimpse of a Happy Wife and Mother.
(By Mabe! Herbert Umer.)
Warren E. Curtiss, Broad Street.
York City:
Have heard nothing since the six
teenth. Are you ill? Am very anx
ious. Wire. HELEN.
Helen counted the words. Thir
teen' No—no, she would not send a
telegram with thirteen words. She was
-ar too superstitious for that. What
could she-leave out? She crossed out
the "am” —that left twelve. If she
could got it down to ten. it would
be just seventy cents. Again she read
It over, and crossed out “have” and
"the.” It now read;
Heard nothing since sixteenth. Are
you ill. Very anxious. Wire.
How could she get this telegram to
the office without anyone knowing?
By pretending to receive letters from
i Warren, she had so far kept her fam
ily in ignorance of his silence.
She must make some excuse for an
etrand to Main street. The pattern for
Winifred’s coat! She aga’n copied the
telegram, and then went down on the
porch where her mother was sewing.
"Mother, I think I’d better get that
pattern for Winifred’s coat now, so I
can cut it out this afternoon."
"All right, dear. Don’? you want to
take the buggy? You can got back be
fore your father will need it."
Helen looked out at the gate, before
which Topsy was standing.
"But Tom needn't drive me. I can
I manage Topsy. You know I used to
drive her.”
"Yes. I guess you can. She's gentle
enough.”
Helen unhitched Topsy, turned her
■round and drove down the shaded
tree-arched street. It had been a long
time B'nce she had driven, but Topsy
Jogged along In the same lazy way.
Forgetting about the pattern, Helen
drove straight to the telegraph office.
"What time will this reach Now
York?" handing her message to the
drowsy-looking operator.
He looked up at the clock—it was
Just ten minutes after 1.
"It takes about two hours, delivery
and all —but there’s that much differ
ence in time between here and there.
So. I'd say they'd get It around this
t'me.”
"It's seventy cents for ten words—
Isn't is?” drawing out her purse.
"Yes. ma'am; that’s the rate to New
York.
As she drove slowly back her mind
was filled with torturing doubts
Should she have sent the telegram? Or
should she have waited a day or so
lenger? And yet It seemed that she
had reached the limit of her endur
ance —that she would not go through
another day unless in some way she
heard from him.
He might have wrjtten and the let
ter miscarried! Oh, If she could only
bel'eve thaV And yet, sh» thought of
how small a proportion of letters are
ever lost.
How many women when waiting
anxiously for a letter that does not
come, have asked themselves over and
over. "Could it have been lost in the
mail?”
And Warren’s writing was not very
plain. He wrote a careless, hurried
hand, and she had even known him
thoughtlessly to address a letter to
New York that was intended for an
other city.
Could he have written her and forgot
to mail it? Perhaps even now he was
carrying the letter in his pocket!
AU these possibilities and many oth
ers she had thought of, over and over.
Last night she had slept hardly at all.
And this morning she had determin
ed to telegraph. She could not stand
another day’s suspense.
But. now that the telegram was
gone, she began to dread the conse
quences. Would he bo angry? Would
he think sho was fool'sh and impatient
—and yet it had been ten days since
his last note!
"Why, it’s Helen Curtisl”
Helen started.
A pretty young woman, with two lit
tle children, wgs waving at her from
the porch of one of the houses, and
now she ran joyfully down to the gate.
Helen drew up Topsy, and leaned out
of the buggy to greet her old school
mate, Edith Morr’son.
"I saw by the paper that you and t
your little girl were here.” exclaimed ■
Edith, after the first enthusiasm of
their greeting. “But I have been spend
ing the week with Harold's mother out
at Spring Valley and just got bark. I
was going to call on you tomorrow.
Can't you stop and come In a moment
now?”
Helen hesitated.
"Oh do. I want you to see the chil
dren, and Harold’s here, too. He's not
gone back from d'nner yet.”
Helen tied Topsy to the hitching
post, and they went up the walk to
the pretty two-story frame cottage,
with Its well-kept lawn and flower
I beds.
"This Is my hoy. Harold," ns a sturdy
little chap of 5 came toward them.
“And this is Frances—She's 3.
Frances, a doll-faced little girl, was
sitting In a big chair nursing a black
k'tten. They sat on the porch and
talked a f»w moments, and then Edith
took Helen through her house. It was
a simple, unpretentious little home,
and yet a real home. There was some
thing very sweet and Intimate about its
atmosphere.
Harold, big and sunburnt and
wholesome. came In from the garden,
where he had been fixing the grape ar
bor. He greeted Helen most cordially.
"I'm sorry I’ve got to get back to
the store. But you must come over
and have sunt>er \< ith us and spend the
• evening while you’re here."
Tie kissed his w'fe good-bye. and
swinging both children tin to his broad
shoulders, took them with him as far
as the gate.
“You're very happy, aren't you?"
Helen asked impulsively.
Edith was stooping over to nick up
one of the children's hats. "Hapny?”
she looked up her face aglow. “I think
I’m the happiest woman in the world.
And I’ve the best and dearest husband.
Sometimes I wonder what I have done
to deserve him.”
"Oh. I’m so glad, dear." Helen mur
mured gently.
“Do you remember,” Edith went on.
as she smoothed the curls of her little
boy who had climbed Into her lap. "Do
When a Maid and Love First Meet
you remember how as girls, we declar
ed we would never marry? We were
going to have careers. You were to
study music and I art. Wasn’t that
lit?” Helen smiled and nodded.
"What foolish ideas girls have,”
holding closer the little form in her
arms. "As though any career would
I compensate a woman for 'her man
.and her child.’ <>h my dear, there ’s
no happiness in the world like that of
| a happy wife and mother."
“Yes,” Helen reported wistfully,
j gazing out at a flowering bush in the
i yard. "There Is no happiness like that
of a happy wife and mother.”
Daysey Mayme
Writes of Her
Mother
Sojio years ago the czar of Russia
made an appeal for un.versal disarma
ment. and it is the bpast of my mother.
Mrs. Lysander John Appleton, that she i
was the first woman in the world to
respond.
Rising from her chair, where she
had been reading the reports of the
Peace conference at The Hague, she
hastened into the dining ro< m and,
reaching behind the door, she tock
down from the wall a bundle of poach
tree sw'tches she had used for years
to chastise my brother. Chauncey De-
Vere. and me when we did wrong.
"It can never be said of me,” she
said, throwing the switches Into the
fire, "that I do not sanction universal
disarmament."
From that day to this neither of us
was ever punished, and sho always ha I
: good excuses when we misbehaved.
I On one occasion, when Chauncey
I Devere was twelve. I , cnlne Into the
I parlor where mother was enteftaln ng
a caller, throw his hat on the floor.
1 kicked over a chair, and growled that
I he wanted his dinner, "and be quick
I about it.” ,
"You must excuse my son’s bal
I manners.” said my mother to her call-
I er. "he was sick when a child an.l be
cause of hls sickness we humored hltn
till he became spoiled.”
"Was he sick long?" asked the call
er. expecting to bear, no doubt, of days
, and weeks and months of pa'n, and a
suffering prolonged for years.
“Oh, yes," replied my mother with a
«Igh; “he had the measles six days
when he was- throe years old. and since
then we have always had to let him
hls own way.”
School Girl: Extra care must be
taken of your skin during the hot sum
mer. If your skin is very tender you
should wear a thin, cool veil. A lay
er of cold cream with a thin coat of
rice powder is a good preventative of
tan and freckles and ads as a sort
of mask when out in the hot sun. But
termilk is an excellent bleach. Fill
the wash bowel with the milk and ap
ply it to the face with the hands In
the same manner that you bathe it
with water. Allow it to dry into the
skia and then anoint the face with
cold cream.
THE SAN ANTONIO LIGHT
(By Francos 1,. Garside.)
By Nell Brinkley
THE APPLETONS SHOW HISTORIC SPOTS
Dnysey Mayme, Her Father and Mother Entertain Aunt Cordelia Dur-
(By Frances L. Garside.)
When Aunt Cordelia Updike goer
on a trip she takes with her a large
thirst for knowledge and a note bodk
that is not much smaller.
In' this note book she makes memo
randa of all she sees and hears that
will be interesting to work into a pa
per to read before her literary society
at home, and she arrived at the home
of Lysander John Appleton with every
pencil sharpened.
"They have an automobile," she had
mid when leaving home, "and are
equipped to take me around to all the
historic spots. I anticipate a groat
gleaning of knowledge while with
them."
Aunt Cordelia Updike was taken for
a ride.
HEAD OF WOMAN SUFFRAGISTS
Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt of Now York, who lias been re-elected pres
ident of the International Woman's Suffrage alliance, at the sixth congress
of the alliance, in convention at Stockholm, Sweden. A thousand delegates
from Europe, the United States, Australia and South Africa, were present
at tho opeulng of the congress.
Ing an Auto Ride.
"This spot,” said Lysander John,
after driving two miles, "is a noted
one. It was right here, in the fall of
1910, that I lost my first tire.”
Aunt Cordelia looked bewildered,
but tried to appear Interested.
Showing the Noted Spots.
The automobile began to slow down
before an immense.building, and Aunt
Cordelia opened her note book and
moistened her pencil.
"Don't you remember,” said Lysan
der John, turning to his wife, "about
this curbing? It was here I ran the
machine on the sidewalk."
Aunt Cordelia hastily concealed her
note book, and smiled feebly.
"Is that a historic stream?” she ask
ed when they neared a bridge.
Lyrnnder John spelled the name for
JUNE 21, 1911.
TheManicureLady
Meets a Song
Writer
the Man| cure Lady.
I think it is terrible when a young
married couple don’t get along good
together. Especially if they have a
baby In the house.”
"Lots of them don't get along anv
too Rood, admitted the Head Barber
u* stealthily at a scratch on hls
right hand, ‘but somehow thev always
make up in time and everything goes
along. That's all there Is to life any
how. I guess—Just going along. Even
when married folks ain't fighting with
each other they are fighting with the
world, fighting for existence. I got to
kick in tomorrow with $3O rent, and
it's going to leave me as clean as a
cake of aoap " . .
" Oh - struggles for existence is
different than what I mean,” said tho
Manicure Lady. “It ain’t «o bay to buck
Fate, and folks that can't afford to
nave fires geta used to being cold and
sating canned things. But when a
young couple that ought to bs every
thing In the world to each other I
think all couple ought to—etarts in
throwing things at each other, verbal
and utensil. It Is really a pity. George.
“A Swell Song Writer."
“We had company of that descrip
tion to the house last night. Brother
Wilfred has been telling me for a long
time about a young song writer that
he has met along Broadway. ‘He's a
swell kid, and he has a swell wife, be
cause he said so,’ Wilfred kept telling
us. 'And I have Invited him up to the
house some night for dinner. They
have a little boy 4 years old.’
“The old gent didn’t warm up to the
suggestion much, George, because
brother is so far back with hls board
that the old gent is thinking of
calling It the first of the year and be
ginning all over again; but mother is
that warm hearted that she said ’cer
tainly,' and so, last sight, up comes
the song writing wonder and his wife,
and their young song writer, aged 4.
“None of us took to the song writer,
especially the old gent. He was one of
them loud young hicks thaUcouldn’t
make no Impression on anybody except
Wilfred. Anybody can make an Im
nresslon on that boob brother of mine.
George. This one was the limit. I have
met a lot of regular song writers In
my day, and some of them are the salt
of the earth.
“Men like Billy Jeropte and Eddie
Madden and Harry Williams are one
kind of song writers, clever and dandy
buy way you take them, George.
“This young hick writer that poor
Wilfred introduced was something
terrible, and you don’t know, George,
how sorry I felt for his noor wife. She
was real sweet too, and I think she
had a fine sense of humor before he
took a!1 the. laughs out of her with his
■well headed ways.
The Old Gent Froze Up.
“The minute he got into the ftftnlly
circle T could see the old gent freezing
up. The old gent don’t go much on
poetry' of any kind, even the best. You
know how all them old Scotchmen !«
George. They think that Bobbie Burns
wrote all the good stuff and that
Dante should have been sent up the
river for life. Anyhow, the first bal
lad of hls own that the young song
writer sang—and he sang It off key—
the old man was hiif enemy for life.
" 'Please, dear,’ said hls little wife,
'don’t sing your songs tonight. You
have a cold.' We could all see that
she had enough breeding and class •
be embarrassed, but good it d d
her. That waYt of a husband of hers
shut her up with a cross sentence and
a cro«ser look, and kept on singing his
ballads.
“I couldn't help thinking how sad
the future of his faptlly would be.
Jeorf ?. What If his'kid should be a
song writer, too. when he grows up—
that kind of a song writer?"
her, and Aunt Cordelia wrote it hastily
in her note book, and paused with pen
cil in the air and a look of pleasure
at the river, for further information.
"Haysay Mayme lost a nineteen-dol-
Mr hat I'n that river when we were
crossing it one day” said Lysander
John, "and we never got it back.”
A place was pointed out to her
where the wind had blown Chauncey
Devere’s hat into a watering trough.
After a ride of four miles, In silence,
she was shown a tree limb that had
caught and torn off Mrs. Appleton’s
false curls, and two miles further on,
she was told to look at a certain grassy
spot.
"That” said Daysey Miayme, “Is
where we stopped for lunch one day.”
Aunt Cordelia Dazed.
Aunt Cordelia Updike clutched h«f
note book tightly in both hands and
began to look a little dazed. The land
scape flew by so fast that all she saw
were fences melting Into trees and
trees floating away In green seas of
grass, and whenever the machine
slowed down enough to make the blots
before her vision assume definite
shape she was told that "here we ran
cut of garolene" or “there the wind
shield broke” or “here the lights went
out."
"There are historic spots around
here, I don't doubt," she wrote back
to her literary club sisters, “but they
are rapidly floating out of memory on
a sea of gasolene."
Didn't Enjoy Her Coronation.
Quite freely did Queen Anne write
on the subject of her coronation, say«
a writer in the July Strand:
"I need hardly tell you," she says.
In a letter addressed to one o« her in
timates then abroad. “I suffered ago
nies yesterday, although Lord Jersey
very considerately arranged that I
should be spared being on my feet as
much as possible, for which I owe him
much thanks. But in getting Into the
chair I gave my right foot such a
wrench that I was fain to cry out, but
hearing the cries of the multitude sus
tained me then and afterwards in the
Abbpy, although when I rose with the
help of the archbishop I was forced
to keep my eyes on a very gaudy es
cutcheon on a pillar, little —lnding hls
words, until he nudged me to turn to
the east. Moreover, what is not usual
with me, my finger was so swollen
that when the ring was cut on it was
too small, and caused —«> much pain
in the endeavor to make it pass They
should have provided two. and so T
told Somerset to tell the duke. You
can well believe that I had more need
for rest than food and further cere
mony. but these dutle? were not to be
withstood, and I endured them to tho
end without complaint as you hava
heard.” w