San Antonio light. [volume], September 18, 1911, CITY EDITION, Image 8

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

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A Home Magazine Page for Women Readers of the Light
MARRIED LIFE IN
THE SECOND
YEAR
(By Mabel Herbert Urner.)
Mr». Prvntlc*. with a maxazin*. •
tiny worklunt and n parasol, paused
uncertainly In the doorway-
••Won't you join us?” naked Helen
cordially from the depth of a blc
wicker chair at the end of the ve
randa. .... , .
Mra. Prentice amlled. "Not Juet
now. J have auch a headache I won t
inflict myaclf on anyone at preeent.
And she passed on to a shady corn
er and nettled herself In a hammock.
She made no effort to h* nr read,
but raxed out at the sea through wist
ful, half-cloaed eyca
•Tm afraid It's a heartache, not a
headache that* troubling her." mur
mured Mrs. Stevens.
"A heartache?" Helen repeated
wondertngly. "Why, 1 thought rhe
was very happy."
"Then you're not a very close ob
server. my dear. Haven't you been
here long enough to know the gossip?
Haven't you seen her husband with
that Mrs Kline?”
Helen shook her head.
"Well, you will. If you'll take the
trouble. They're together constant
ly.”
"But she's so much prettier than
Mrs. Kline —so much more dainty and
refined."
"The Usual Way,
Mrs. Stevens shrugged her should
ers.
"Unquestioningly. The wife Is al
most always more charming and re
fined than the 'other woman.' ”
Helen, who was crocheting a silk
tie for Warren, worked on tn silence.
She wanted to know more about Mra
Prentice —to know why her husband
was Interested in this other woman
who was so much less attractive than
herself. Rut she had always shrank
from gossip. And now she hesitated
to put her question Into words. How
ever, Mra Stephens went on without
prompting.
“Don’t you remember the other
evening at the dance how he spent the
entire evening with Mrs. Kline —and
left his wife to take care of herself?
We tried to keep her In our party, so
she wouldn't seem so alone, but she
soon excused herself and went up
staira"
Helen glanced over at the slim,
white-gowned figure in the hammock.
The magazine and work bag lay un
touched beside her as she still gazed
out at the sea. Was she thinking of
that same night?, or of some other
instance of humiliating neglect?
“The next day she stayed 1n her
room all morning and when she did
come down her eyes were red and
swollen. She said it was only one
of her bad headaches—but, of course,
we knew better. She's such a proud
little thing, that's why she keeps so
much to herself. She’s so afraid we’ll
sympathize with her."
All the time Mrs. Stevens had been
talking about Mr. Prentice. Helen
had been comparing his attitude with
that of Warren's.
However neglectful Warren had
been of her, it had at least not been
because of another woman. That was
the consolation she always had. and
now somehow it seemed to mean more
than ever before. She felt that could
the little woman in the hammock
change places with her in this respect,
that she would gladly do so. Any wife
would prefer the neglect which arose
from selfishness or indifference to
that caused by admiration for other
women.
That evening at dinner Helen
glanced across the dining room to
the table where Mr. and Mrs. Pren
tice were sitting. He was rather a
good looking man. yet there was
something in his face she did not
quite like. Mr. Prentice looked very
sweet and delicately frail in a pale
lavender gown.
The Other Woman.
And then Helen's gaze wandered
around the dining room to Mrs. Kline.
She was strikingly dressed in black
and white. Unquestionably a hand
some woman, but of a most obvious
type, with none of the subtle charm
and femininity of Mrs. Prentice.
"Warren,” Helen asked abruptly,
do you know anything about the
Prentices?"
"The Prentices? Why, no, nothing
more than that they're rere at the
hotel.”
"Don’t you know Mr. Prentice at
all?”
"Oh, I’ve had a game or two of
billiards with him.”
"What sort of a man is he?"
"Decent enough chap, so far as I
know."
"Haven't you heard anything about”
—Helen hesitated —“about Mrs. Kline
and his neglect of his wife?"
"For heaven’s sake. Helen! Are
you taking up some old woman’s gos
sip?”
"You know I’m not! But I couldn't
help but hear something today that
made mewonder.”
“Well, suppose we let the Prentices
take care of their own affairs. I dare
say they can without our assistance."
Helen flushed and said no more.
But in spite of Warren's eurtness, she I
was conscious of the sense of pride
which she always felt at his swift re
jection of gossip in any form. That
was one of the fine things of his na
ture. He never gossiped about any
one. It was part of his creed to attend
etrjotjy to his own affairs.
Later In the evening, while Warren
was playing billiards. Helen strolled
out on the veranda and through the
gravel paths. She sat down on a bench
in the moonlight and from another
bench, behind a clump of bushes just
back of her came the sound of voices
—Mr. Prentice and Mrs. Kline.
Helen listened breathlessly ror sev
eral moments before she realized that
she was listening, and then with a
quick feeling of revulsion she hurried
back to the veranda.
She had not heard much, but
enough to fill her with a fierce Indig
nation that a man with so charming
a wife should be so disloyai—that he
should pay such sentimental. Inane
compliments to another woman.
As she came up on the veranda
Warren was just coming out of the
billiard room. Impulsively she took
his arm and pressed against it.
“Oh, Warren, inf some ways you
are good to me—very, very good to
me.”
"Heh! What's come over you?”
“Oh, nothlngl Only sometimes J
"ITllw (ChMireim H Ever MeF KeM IMmklley
DELOW is the first part of a story written by Miss Brink-
of her visit to Georgian Court, the home of MrJand
Mrs. George J. Gould, and her talk with two of the Gould
children Miss Edith and Baby Gloria.
The second part of‘Miss Brinkley’s story, accompanied
by additional attractive pictures of the Gould children, for
which they especially posed, will be printed soon.
(By Edith Gould.)
Part I.
It was hot in town that day. Hot
so that the hair of girls hugged tem
ples and neck in little wet circles—
hot so that tempers turned tender —
and the fine wine of living flat and
stale. The world drooped and sweat
ed, dust gathered thick and golden
on the sunny windows of the cars.
The world seemed suddenly full of
little useless noises; babies cried and
shoes creaked, and the streets outside
fairly rattled. Everybody in the long
rows of seats waiting for their trains
sagged, and everybody on their feet
walked in a jaded, persistent sort of
bravery. New York crowded close
down on folks who happened to come
from the big prairies and the high
hills, showing all the ugliness in her
chameleon face. It was a bad day
for exiles. It made me sick for dry
air and the lands that He close to the
sky. And then I left it.
At Georgian Court.
For Georgian court, the place where
Mrs. George Gould’s babies were all
left. One Is a real baby, and the
other has only the elbows, the knees,
the nose of that adorable state left.
THE MANICURE LADY
"I seen a lot of grand things in
Italy when I was abroad,” said the
Manicure Lady.
“When are you going to get through
talking about this ‘abroad’ stuff?”
the Head Barber wanted to know.
“Doesn’t little old New York seem
good enough for you any more? I
suppose there’s lots to see abroad and
I’m sorry I never got a chance to go
there, but I'm getting tired of hearing
your travelogues.”
"I never say much about it at
home,” said ths indignant Manicure
Lady, "because my folks is pretty
•well posted, but It seems to me that
, a benighted barber like you ought to
' be glad to hear about the glories of
j one of them old civilizations. When
' you butted in so rude I was just about
1 to tell you about Rome, the Infernal
think I don’t always appreciate the
ways in which you are—are—very
good.”
“Humph! Well, I’m glad my vir
tues are gradually dawning on you.”
"Now, don't tease me. dear,” press
ing his arm closer. “I’m very much
In earnest. You are good and true in
many ways.” And then as Warren
turned to enter, "Oh, let’s not go up
just yet.”
“Now, if you want to stay down
here and ponder on my seraphic traits
—you can. But I’m sleepy. I’m go
ing to "
Edith Gould
Some one went to call them, and I
waited in a big cool room with Its
door lying open to the blue sky and
the green outside. It didn't seem a
house. Flower odors drifted in and
out. The wind of all the outdoors
lifted the white leaves of books and
idly swung the tapestry fringes to and
fro. From somewhere bird-calls lift
ed into the air in sharp music, and
from out of the garden, through a
door that framed a mosaic of blue sky
and waving tree plumes and the bright
flickering of a fountain against the
sun, "ame the drowsy, monotonous
chai ar. 1 bickering of parrots. And
through it all, and over it all, persist
ed a queer singing that I knew and
yet couldn’t ’••‘member. While I rub
bed the brown-plush ears, with their
chamols-like lining, of a little fat
spaniel I tried to remember that high,
organ-like singing and the why of its
mysterious peace. And then out of
the green of the garden Into the cool
of the room came the two “babies.”
One was tall and dark and—limping!
The other was little and tawny-head
i ed and Incredulous.
"It was very, very careless of you,”
I said the tall dark one. “I’m in terrible
city which was sat upon by seven hills
and from there looked at the earth.
"If you don’t Interrupt me no more,
George. I will go ahead, but if you
think more of the awful inroads that
the safet> razors Is making into your
business than you do about old his
tory, then I say no more.”
He Is Resigned.
“Go on and shoot It," said the un
gracious Head Barber. “I’m getting
so used to punishment that 1 look like
Joe Grim.”
"Well, George, as I was going to
say. I think them noble old Romans
Is wonderful studies. The guide told
me all about one of them named
Horatius that got a couple of his gang
together and held a bridge against a
whole army of Tusk men. The guide
seen the farm the Romans gave Hora
tius for holding the bridge, and he
pointed It out to us. It was a kind
of minor league farm, according to
our Wisconsin farms, George, but it
was quite a plot at that.”
"You don’t mean to tell me that
there is any farm in Italy now that
was gave to this Horatius feller so
long ago!” exclaimed the skeptical
Head Barber. ”1 remember a little
about that Modern History myself,
and you got to show me if a farm
which was gave to a bridge tender
thousands of years ago Is still fenced
In. They didn't have no barbed wire
then, and stone fences must have been
unknown, and lumber would have
rotted.”
"The guide told me it was the farm
• THE SAN ANTONIO LIGHT
CopyrtahL 1*11, by the National News Association.
pain,” and one little white-socked
foot dragged painfully and one little
chubby, tanned hand pressed her hip
like an old man with the "misery.”
The tiny, tawny-headed one looked
even more mocking and unrepentant.
Unbelief danced In her black eyes.
When they were each on a side of me
I asked about it.
' "What was it?” I said.
“Gloria,” said Edith, with accusing
black eyes on the little elfish face on
the other side of me, "pushed me
against the balustrade coming up the
steps —and injured me. And n-w I’m
In terrible pain!”
But Gloria, the sinner, preserved a
deep silence and her eyes still shone
their unbelief. Their little knees
were rubbed and soiled, their linen
drtsses •umpled and covered with the
marks of strenuous play; both their
heads were half wet and heavy from
swimming; so a little German woman
carr ed them both away up into the
Inner regions of .this flower-filled
playhouse to be fluffed and fussed.
And the baby promised over her little
tanned shpulder that she would come
back "crimped.” And she did.
(To Be Continucd.-
Horatlus lived on,” persisted the
Manicure Lady. “He even showed us
the barn. He said that Horatius lost
three shotes one night and killed the
three Roman bums that had stole
them.”
"What else did your guide show
you?" asked the Head Barber "He
must have been some guide. Did he
show you Niagara, Falls, or the Mam
moth Cave?”
“You needn’t get fresh, George," re
torted the Manicure Lady. “He knew
his business, which is a lot more than
I can say for some of the barbers that
tonsoralize around here. He showed us
the hole in the great Roman wall, the
wall that was built by two fellows
named Romulus and Remick, and he
explained that the hole was made by
a rank outsider named Atilla the
Hun. I remembered that name be
cause I wrote it down in my traveler's
I note book. He told us how this out
sider broke into Rome with a lot of
his gang and cleaned up the wonder
ful city just as it was getting too big
for its own good, like New York. He
said that it used to be the same in
Rome as It Is here now, for that mat-
Lter, all graft and senators, only he
! explained that the senators In them
days was handicapped a little, because
they wore togas, a kind of funny
night dress that didn’t have no pock
] ets In It. On the level, George, he
talked so much along them graft lines
that it made me lonesome for New
York, and I’m sure glad to get back
home.”
The number of cotton spindles tn
the world is estimated at 135.000.000.
I of which number 20.000.000 have been
set in operation within the last four
I years
He Gets Fresh.
AN OLD WOMAN’S REMEDY
(By Dorothy Dix.
It is conceded that marriage Is gen
erally a tailure, so far as being pro
ductive cf happiness. Most married
couples are discontented, disillusioned,
disgruntled. The tie that binds them
to each other has become the ball
and chain of the convict, and you can
hear it clank as they walk.
Yet in the great majority of cases
neither husband nor wife has any
especial fault to lay at the other’s
door. Neither one has done the other
any great wrong. No grizzly skeleton
is hidden in their closet. No terrible
tragedy has wrecked their dream of
connubial bliss.
Nevertheless their vision of domes
tic happiness has been smashed into
smithereens. Their romance lies shat
tered about them, and they sit miser
ably among the ruins of their hopes,
with despair in their hearts.
Why is this? They do not know.
For the life of them they could not
tell you what has changed the wed
ding feast into dust and ashes on their
lips. They only know that somehow,
some way, the flavor has suddenly
gone out of everything, and left life
stale, flat and tasteless.
A Life Puzzle.
This is the more inexplicable to
them, because nothing has really hap
pehed to account for their marriage
being such a disappointment. John is
a good ntan, with no eye out for
sirens, and he works like a dray horse
to support his family. Mary is a good
woman, whose horizon is bounded by
her home. Yet she and John get
nothing but the bitter out of matri
mony.
In the course of a year I get at
least ten thousand letters from miser
able men and women, telling me of
their domestic unhappiness, and ask
ing If i can suggest a remedy for it.
The thing that strikes me most for
cibly In all of these letters is how
very, very seldom either husband or
wife makes a serious charge against
his or her mate.
Sifted down to the very bottom, the
grievance that these husbands and
wives have against each otaer Is
nothing but lack of appreciation. Thelp
marriages are failures for the loss of
so small and pitiful a thing as a word
of praise.
It Isn't that a man begrudges what
he does for his family, but it is a
hard and disheartening thing to of
fer yourself up as a dally sacrifice
before those who do not even perceive
that you are making a sacrifice at
all.
The life of the average married man
is one eternal grind at the mill, almost
without relaxation or amusement. It
takes every ounce of strength and
vitality that he has got to make a
living, every dollar almost that he
can scrape together to supply the enft
less needs of wife and children. It 19
they who go away to cool places in
the summer while he stays in the city
and works. It is they who have the
best clothes, who go on the trips, have
the family treats, while he wears hrs
clothes until they are shiny, and is
supposed to care for no livelier pleas
ure than reading the evening paper.
A Hard Life.
It is a hard, barren, bleak life, heavy
with burdens, and the one thing that
would redeem its joylessness, the one
thing that would make all of Its
labors and deprivations worth while,
and turn Its sodden skies into golden
sunshine, would be for the man's wife
to be actively and enthusiastically ap
preciative.
If she would dally and hourly show
her husband that she thought that he
was the most wonderful man in the
world, and the bravest and most
heroic, and that she was down on het
knees thanking God for having given
her such a treasure, why you may be
sure that that man would not look
upon himself as a martyr to matrl-
Gloria—The Baby.
mony. Marriage wouldn't be a failure
to him. It would be a great and shin
ing success.
And precisely the same thing may
be said of the woman’s side of the
question. When a woman marries her
husband becomes her world. He ts
her arbiter of success, her meed of
praise, her trumpet of glory. If she
is a good woman she can't go outside
of her home looking for admiration,
or praise, or understanding.
Think, then, of what it means to a
woman to be married to a husband
who never apparently notices her af
ter the wedding day, who never pays
her a compliment, or sees when she
has done her hair a new way, or
remarks on what wonderful meals she
gets up!
The life of the average married
woman is as dull as dish-water. It ,ls
a monotonous round of cooking and
cleaning, and sewing, and mending,
and baby tending. She, even more
than her husband, offers herself up
as a sacrifice on the family altar, and
with her, as with him, the bitterness
is that the sacrifice Is before a God
who is unseeing. If only her husband
would some times kiss her toil-Worn
hands, she would gladly work them to
the bone for him. If only he would
tell her that he would like to give her
a new dress, she wouldn’t care wheth
er she had It or not. It’s the thinking
that he doesn’t know nor care that
hurts.
All that the domestic machinery
needs to make it run smoothly and
without creaking is a liberal supply of
soft soap, applied where It would do
the most good. This is an old wo
man’s remedy, but it will work. Try
IL
■EK USELEMONADE
TO SUBDUE FUMES
When Blazing Alcohol Threatens the
Church Temperance Beverage
Comes Handy.
An alcohol lamp on the platform in
the Congregational church in East
ford village, where the annual fair of
the Ladies’ Aid society was in
progress tonight, became so ashamed
of being full of alcohol in such com
pany that it blew up In disgust, says
a dispatch from Middleton, Conn., to
the New York Herald. If a wash
boiler filled with lemonade had not
been handy it is impossible to tell to
what lengths the conflagration might
have gone.
As soon as the carpet on the plat
form blazed It was seen by everybody
present that only herculean efforts
could save the tinware booth, the
fancy goods booth and the home-made
cake bazaar from destruction. Those
efforts were not wanting.
Several young men and women of
the congregation rushed forward and
grabbed the wash boiler that was
brimmingfull of clear, sparkling
lemonade made of real lemons and
with not a headache In the boiler.
They poured the delectable contents
all over the burning carpet. The
lemonade put out the fire, but It was
such good lemonade that it made ex
tensive alterations In the design of
those parts of the carpet that had not
been affected by the fire.
A young man who had neglected to
check his raincoat as he came in had
reason to be glad that he brought it in
with him, because he was able to
wrap It around Mrs. Henry Bartlett,
president of the Ladles’ Aid society,
THE WOMAN AT
THE AGE OF
FORTY
(By Winifred Black.)
A woman killed herself In Michigan
the other day becauee. aha said, ah«
aaw by the mirror that ah* waa no
longer beautiful. It taka* no mirror
to tall ua that ah* no longer had much
sense, poor thing.
No longer boautiful—what of tt>
Ar* th* only happy woman In the
world th* beautiful woman? Look
aroi/nd you. aiat*r, and aee—don’t juat
glanc*. look.
Beauty la *11 right enough, but *a ■
producer of happlnea* it la th* gr**t
original failure.
What on earth haa coma over the
women of thia nation? Heve they all
got into their second childhood, or
what? Every other middle-aged wom
an I know la starving heraelf to death
trying to be allm, or apendlng every
penny ah* can swindle h*r huaband
out of trying to get her complexion
changed, or making a perfect figure
of fun of heraelf trying to turn her
hair some different color.
Something Else to Live for.
What’a happened to ua. aiatera? Isn't
there a thing to live for any more but
a beauty parlor? Can’t you breath*
unless you can make yourself think
that you have the skin of sixteen at
forty, or the figure of a sylph at
forty-two?
What difference does It make, real
ly. what kind of a figure a woman of
forty-two haa when you come right
down to it? Who carea? Just two
people on earth—the woman herself
and the woman's dressmaker.
If you're forty-two you can lace till
you're purple In the face, diet till
your temper Is on edge, massage till
your cheeks ache, buy new form
straight jackets till you'd rather take a
contract to fly to the moon than at
tempt to tie your own shoe, and th*
first slxteen-year-old that gets on tho
car looks younger, prettier, fresher,
more graceful and more attractive
than you can look if you spend the
last cent you can beg. borrow or steal
In all the beauty shops from here to
the Rue de Rivoli.
What's the use?
Whoever thinks of running * racd
with an automobile when he’s driving
a good, plain, serviceable grocery
wagon? Nobody but what they call a
“gone gump” down south.
What’s the matter with being forty*
two, and looking it? Is there any dis*
grace about that age. pray tell?
Who made It a crime to be fat?
Why should a woman hate herself
because her face tells the story of her
life? If her life has been all right
the story ought to be a good one and
pleasant to read. too. for every ona
with an ounce of brains in his head.
Missing the Mark.
A girl who tries to look like a m*<
tron always misses the marg, and a
matron who tries to look like a girl
never looked like anything but a goose
since the world began.
Does your husband admire young
looking women? ,
Good for him, he's a sensible man.
Who doesn’t like a pretty girl and ad
mire her, too?
In love with one of ’em? No, thank
you. for him, if he knows what he'*
about.
Why, the prettiest girl on earth gets
on the nerves of a mature man. If he
has a good, sensible wife at home who
knows him and his little ways, and
who takes pains to cater to him Just a
little bit harder when she sees Ilttl*
Miss Egotism getting in the path and
stealing a sly look over her shoulder
at a good looking, middle-aged hus
band.
Besides, what's the use of starting *
race on the wrong foot? You’ll never
win that way, sister, never In th*
world.. She can run faster than you,
she can look prettier, she can giggle
more.
But haven’t you any attractions of
your own at all? Make her Imitate’
you. Don't spend your vitality trying
to imitate her. Stand on your own
ground, be yourself, your own comfy,
good-humored, kindly, tolerant, broad
minded. interesting, real self and let
little Sweet Sixteen teeter along on
her high heels behind you, way be
hind, not ahead with you.
Fair, Fat and Forty.
Fair, fat and forty! Well, what of
it? It's the best time of life, the best
kind of weight and the best kind of
complexion to be any day in the week,
if you’ll only stand still and be it and
not tie yourself to a rag trying to run
away from the truth, not the dreadful
agonizing, tragic truth they try to tell
us about in the problem novels, but
the good, old, honest, comfortable,
friendly truth.
Look, sister, here comes forty-two
down the road. Don't run away from
her. Stand still and let her catch up.
Stretch out your hand and say,
"Howdy, friend, glad to meet you;
let's take a pleasant walk in the shade
together. Kind of hot back there In
all that glaring sun where Sweet Six
teen is, isn’t It?" And good old Forty
two will give your hands a kindly
squeeze and laugh a hearty laugh, and
be the best friend you have, as long
as you keep away from the aid to
beauty business.
Dies because she was no longer
beautiful, poor thing, poor, poor
thingl ,
And the happiest women I know
never were beautiful, never could b*
beautiful, never will be beautiful, and
wouldn’t know what to do with beauty
If they had it
and so prevented her dress from
catching fire.
Mrs. Bartlett and the other mem
bers of the society decided that th*
carpet had been so badly damaged
that it will be necessary to hold
another fair for the purpose of buy
ing a new one. One of the first things
that will be made for the next fair
will be a wash bollerful of lemonade.
The United States government is
the fourth to establish an aeronauti
cal laboratory. Belgium, France and
Russia have already done so.
The orange three that first produced
the navel orange 1s still growing and
bearing fruit at Riverside, Cal. It is
highly prized and Is protected by *
high iron fence. ’