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THE STARKVILLE NEWS. VOLUME 11. I The Old Signor I I By I I LAWRENCE HENRY I (Copyright, 1903, bjr Daily Story Pub. Uo.) YOU never saw Fapncesca? Ah, she was a dream. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. In a Kiralfy ballet, too; deuced odd I should find her there, don't you think? She was just coming out of a sea shell, or .something or other, when I discov ered her. Such insinuating grace of movement charmed me; but I saw at •once she was a novice, for there was in every posture a modest shrinking, while in her deep, black, lustrous eyes burned the story of innocent maiden hood’s outraged sensibilities. But what a dream of beauty! A form lithe, sinuous, dainty as a nymph’s; voluptuous in its tantalizing curves as a Moorish sultana, an ec stasy in every line. Her hair, black as a‘ raven’s wing, reached almost to her girdle. A poem of love was her face, the skin a warm olive, soft, sooth ing. inviting, while the red coral of her arched lips made the white teeth with in glisten like polished ivory. It was, however, in the depths of her magnifi cent eyes that everything was summed up. Timid at the moment, but with mirrored possibilities unlimited; hate and love, passion and tenderness, in tensity and languor—l saw all there, and I —well, I went around behind the scenes. I knew the stage manager. Duval. Lt>oked him up, and in a casual way, you know, sought some information concerning my maid of the sea shell. She was on the pay sheet as Fran cesca Pauli; had made her first ap pearance only a few nights before; possessed a father, a swarthy, keen eyed old chap of rather distinguished appearance, whose lowering brow sug gested something unpleasant, also a brother, Pietro, no less threatening, possibly more formidable; that both the father and . Pietro always most zealously escorted Francesca to and from the theater. I thanked Duval, but as I was leav ing him he cried after me: “Look out, old man, I know you’re dead game, but it’s dangerous! Those dagos don’t play lawn tennis.” After a brief search I found my sweet enchantress in a recess between some stage trumpery, apparently trying to evade the attentions of an overgrown lout of a fellow, who, with greasy leers, was trying to do the gallant. As I stepped up I chanced to hear his last remark, and T knocked him down. "Oh, signor!” she murmured, “you have my gratitude!” and her voice was like the chords of a harp. “Ah, you speak English!” I eager ly responded. “Oh, yes. Pietro and I do. but poor papa not so well. Ah, but aren’t you afraid that big brute will come back?” She came close to me, forgot the flesh ings, her bare neck and arms; as.she turned her troubled face up to mine I caught the incense of her breath. I could hardly resist the impulse to grasp her in my arms and press her to my heart. Ah, those women from that far-off sunny land! They learn things in the nursery that some women never know. “Oh, you must not spoil it all now,” she gently cooed, as she shyly backed away. Then she seemed to remember the scantiness of her attire, for. glanc ing down at herself, a reddish glow mixed with the olive of her cheeks, the long lashes of her eyes fluttered with out lifting. Hesitating a moment, she suddenly, like a startled fawn, glided by me and disappeared in the wings. As she passed a low-keyed, breathless sentence quivered to my ears: “I am to be here every night.” After that I managed to see Fran cesca often, always at the theater, however, and alw-ays with the certain ty that at the last drop of the curtain the old Italian and Pietro, the son, were to appear. This was awkward, of course. I remember an occasion, after my sweet, pulsating little divinity and I had reached terfns of excellent under standing, that the signor suddenly ap peared before me as I was entering the theater. In tones vibrant with emo tion he startled me with “Ze w-anta to maree my Francesca?” For a moment I was nonplussed and stared blankly at him, then all at once the humor of the thing struck me—me want to marry—and from the corps de ballet! 1 could not repress a smile. “Looka out, signor!” he hissed, “ze life at stake in zissa play. Zis not ze heart of ze card, but ze womai’s heart!” Darting at me a venomous look from eyes that seemed to turn green like a cat’s, he lost himself in the crowd. Well, to cut it short, one night the old signor, and the faithful Pietro came to the theater for their Frances ca, and she was gone. She was not theirs any more. I heard afterward of the awful row they raised. Pietro was for everybody’s blood, while the old man sobbed and tore his hair, and muttered vows of vengeance—but they returned home alone. I thought I had been loved before I met Francesca. Bah! One don’t know how deuced flat a claret is until he sips champagne! Love once blos somed to her was the breath of life; it mixed with her blood, tingled in the caress of her fingers, burned in the touch of her lips. It was not many weeks after we were established that I became aware when down town I was being shad owed. Once I caught a glimpse of Pietro’s menacing face as I suddenly redoubled my tracks. One afternoon Francesca and I were returning from a little expedition of our own. As the cfib rounded the cor ner to the entrance of our apartment building, she joyously exclaimed: “Oh, there is Pietro. I will tell him!” But Pietro wasn’t there when she finished her sentence. He darted into a near-by court, and was to be seen no more. Francesca was visibly an noyed. That evening she pleaded with me to remain at home, but I had a special engagement. As I went out I cautioned the night porter to let no one disturb her. I had previously ordered a carriage; it was waiting at the curb. I stepped forward, and, stooping over, pulled open the door. That instant a pair of long, bony hands pushed through, the aperture and clutched me by the throat. With a strength that seemed to be Herculean I was dragged inside, bound hand and foot, and gagged. “Maleditto!” exclaimed the one with the fingers in a guttural snarl, and I recognized the voice of the old signor. The other was Pietro. The latter slid out, climbed to the box, and lashed the horses into a gallop. I tried to cry out. but with the gag 1 was dumb. Fancy my state of mind. Finally we brought up before a for bidding-looking house in a narrow, de serted street, and I was lifted to the curb. The horses were given their heads, and as they wandered aimlessly away into the night I was roughly seized, carried in through a dark hall way, down a narrow passage to a squalid, dingy room, where I was de posited on the floor. Pietro locked the door after us, then said something to the signor in Italian that made the old man growl with fiendish approval. The latter, turning to me with a sardonic leer, muttered: “Make happy ze mo ments; it ees few.” Both went ont through another door, and I heard the bolt slide into place. They were going to murder me, and do it with diabolical finesse. I was given the tortures of anticipa tion while they leisurely discussed the method. My thoughts wouldn’t come cohesively, for my brain grew scggy and obstinate and refused to compre hend. All at once, as if struck with a blow, Francesca came into my head. Fran cesca! I could see her, at home, tucked in her dainty bed; her beautiful face nestled softly against the pillow. “THREE CHEERS.’* The orioles have come again. Their voices glad the bright new yerr; They’re just as cheerful now as when They last year sang and nested here. There’s one that perches near rhy door And warbles forth its Joyful song. He never tires, but sings It o’er. And o’er again, the whole day long. Although his lay is for the mate That sits with patience on the neat, I’m sure she feels not more elate Than I who watch his heaving breast; For I enjoy the song ho sings As though ’twas meant for me alone. And listen while he gently swings Upon the bough by breezes blown . And this the song he sings In glee: “We’re here; three cheers; cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer." The words are plain is words can be. He sings them loud and sings them clear. But cannot count his cheers, I’m sure, For he calls for three and then gives four. But long may he and his cheers endure— I’ll not complain though he gives a score. —John S. Martin, in Chicago Record-Her ald, Peculiar Senses. Many naturalists believe that ani mals possess senses unknown to hu man beings, something not included in our fivefold range of seeing, hear ing, feeling, tasting and smelling. Insects especially give evidence of STARKVILLE, MISS., FRIDAY, JULY 24, 1903. But the bolt clicked, the door opened and my executioners had returned. With stealthy, catlike movements they approached me; I was helped to my feet and placed upright in an angle of the room. Pietro glided back, leav ing the old signor standing before me’; his hard, rigid face set; in his eyes the cold, sinister gleam of pent-up hate and ferocity. Facing me, and assuming the dignity 'of a Homan judge, he proceeded in a solemn, vibrating voice: “No man can leeve who deeshonor ze name Pauli. Francesca, my honor, my love, ze steal. To-day she ze meestris, to-morrow worse. Ze play ze game—ze lose. I kill you.” Leaning forward with a convulsive tre mor, I thought he was about to plunge the blade into my heart. How I strained for speech —but the gag, I was dumb. Ah, why did he not strike! I was dying a thousand deaths. For an instant there was the sly ness of the tomb; then the rumbling wheels of a carriage sounded from without. Suddenly this stopped, a voice called “Whoa!” Then the pattering of fast moving feet in the passageway; somebody violently grasped the knob of the door to the room —it would not open. The signor and Pietro stood breath less, transfixed, A key scraped in the lock, rtie door flung back; on the threshold stood Francesca. “Matre di Dio!” hoarsely breathed the old man. Francesca, scantily attired, hair dis heveled. her eyes ablaze with a fever ish glow, her cheeks whiter than ala baster. My heiFrt gave a great throb of joy. A moment’s hesitation, and she grasped the meaning of the scene be fore her in one overwhelming im pulse. With a heartrending cry of an guish she leaped forward, seized the signor’s hand, and fell on her knees before him. “Father! father! For the love of Jesus spare him! Kill me—no. wait! See what I have got: Wait, father; that’s a good father!” She fumbled in her bosom and drew forth a paper. “There, father, see; he’s my love, my life!” “Back, child; zee ees my deeshonor. I kill him!” he replied, as he spurned her from him. Frantic with alarm, she rushed up to Pietro. “Pietro, my brother, you love me —see. read! lam his wife.” Pietro took the paper reluctantly, glanced at it skeptically, suddenly gave a start and read eagerly. “Father! father!” he almost screamed. “Come —look! it is a mar riage certificate!” With a hurried stride the old man was at his side. They examined the document with almost frenzied cun ning. In low, quick tones they dis cussed its import. Pietro, well versed in English, seemed satisfied, and was explaining to the father. Meanwhile Francesca had not been idle; the old man in the flurry had dropped his stiletto. She secured it. and in a twinkling my bonds were cut and she was smothering my face with the sweetest kisses mortal man ever welcomed. Well. I guess you can figure out the rest. They were satisfied the mar riage certificate was all right, and it was. You remember I told you Fran cesca and I had returned from a little expedition of our own that afternoon. It was then we w ere married. possessing pow-ers of perception pe culiar to themselves. The wasp Bem bex, says J. Carter Beard, makes her nest in sandbanks that are some times acres in extent. On leaving she covers it up so carefully that it is in distinguishable from t*he surrounding surface, and yet on her return she flies direct to it without hesitation. Another wasp, as if possessed of a kind of X-ray sense, unerringly lo cates the hidden eggs of the mason bee under, a thick layer of sunbaked clay, and deposits her own eggs in the same cells. Upton and the Cup. Sir Thomas has already declared that if Shamrock 111. is not success ful he will built a Shamrock IV. Per haps, remarks the Chicago Record- Herald, he hopes to make the Amer icans give up after awhile through sheer inability to think of any more names for their boats. Getting: Around to Cxar Agraln. A crazy man tried to club the em peror of Austria the other day, and the Chicago Record-Herald remarks that it must be about the czar’s tun again, _. ■- - - - A SIOUX BRAVE ON THE WAR PATH. Find Clilef Sitting Ball. No other tribe of American Indians has created so much con sternation along the dine of advancing settlement as the Sioux. Un til within a few years they contested every inch of ground gained by the whites in the Dakotas, and for many years after the close of the civil war gave our little army any amount of trouble in that section. At one time the different tribes of Sioux Indians practically controlled the territory from the Arkansas river on the south to Lake Winnebago on the north, and from Lake Michigan on the east to the Rocky moun tains on the west. They are now confined on reservations in the north west. SCHOOL AND CHURCH. Out of 468 permanent lecturers at the Berlin university, 170 belong to the medical faculty. Three Tufts college students were expelled recently for “cutting chapel” more than the law 7 allowed. Dartmouth college’s growth has compelled enlargement of its chapel. Religion has a chance at Dartmouth. The authorities of the Berlin swim ming baths are giving free tickets to the scholars of the muncipal schools. A census of churches of the old city of London by the Daily News, tak en on the first Sunday in May, showed that the combined attendance at the City temple. Congregational, was 7,008, while that at St. Paul’s cathe dral was 2,337. The combined attend ance on the Nonconformist churches was more than double that at the es tablished churches. The honorary degree of LL. D., re cently conferred on James McNeill Whistler, the painter, by the Univer sity of Glasgow, is the second honor which this distinguished and resolute artist has received from Scotland, as the Royal Scottish academy elected him an honorary member a few' months ago. These are his only official British honors, although he has lived in London at least half of his life. For centuries cock-fighting was en couraged in English schools; Fitz stephen in the twelfth century men tions it as an amusement of London ers and that yearly at Shrovetide the boys of every school brought cocks to their schoolmasters and all the fore noon was spent in school witnessing these bird® fight. As late as 1790 the income of the schoolmaster of Apple cross in Ros-shire was drawn partial lj- from cock-fight dues. Down to 1815, at least, there was an annual exhibi tion pf cock-fighting at the Manches ter grammar school. A Real Clam Bake. It is worth while to have seaweed, if you have to drive 20 miles for it, but, if unobtainable, you can make shift with well-moistened hay, grass or such material to make a steaming bed for the viands to cook on. First a layer of seaweed, several inches deep, then your potatoes, sweet po tatoes, clams and green corn in or deV% using judgment, so sis not to have your material burned by too much coals or heat, ad yet be sure of enough heat to finish the cooking. Potatoes, if large, will heed to cook longer than the clams or cprn. The latter should be husked, with the ex ception of one layer of husk over the kernels. Now cover all with seaweed, and let the mass steam for from 20 to 40 minutes. Frequent inspections, with attending burns and sooty fin gers, are part of the fun. —Country Life in. America, NUMBER 20. HUMOROUS. Not Guilty.—Mrs. Feedum —“Wer© you ever'charged with intoxication?” Fag-g-ed Ferguson (sadly)—“No, mum, I never could git de barkeep ter charge even one drink.”—Kansas City Jour nal. His Diagnosis.—She—"l have got four new wrinkles in my face since I married you.” He—“ Too bad I I pre sume it comes from worrying over mil liners’ bills which I can’t pay.”—N. Y. Weekly. He Wasn’t Sure.—“ Stand up, McNul ty,” said the police magistrate. “Are you guilty or not guilty?” “Faith, an* it’s mesilf as- can’t tell thot till Oi hear th* ividence,” replied McNulty. — Chicago Daily News. The Streets.—Excited Woman —“Mr. Policeman, could you tell me if the streets have been swept since I dropped my purse?” Policeman — “What time last year did you drop it, ma’am?”—Baltimore American. Defective.—The Patron—“ Your pic ture isn’t bad, but the drawing’s a bit off, isn’t it?” The Artist —“How’s that?” The Patron—“ Why, the clock says ten past ten, and the right tima now is a quarter to four.”—Pick-Me- Up. “My new play is sure to make a hit.” said the eminent actress. “It give/me an opportunity to show 20 su perb gowns.” “Gracious! how many scenes do jou appear in?” “Only five,' but one of them’s a scene at the dress maker’s.”—Philadelphia Press. His Idea of Generosity.—“ Did you turn that needy friend of yours emp ty-handed from your door?” “N0,,” answered Mr. Kermudge. “I didn’t let him go away empty-handed. I mad© out a statement of what he owes me* and told him how much interest he’d save by payin’ cash.”—Washington Star. Good for Farmers. Digging up a city is a good thing for the farmers. You can have no idea of the number of and horses that have been employed in New York recently in carting away earth taken out of the subway and excavations for skyscrapers. Most of them belong to farmers in New Jer sey, Long Island, Connecticut and the nearby counties in New York state. Instead of being practically idle much of the fall, winter and early spring, they have earned big wages for their owners. Furthermore, the demand for good horses among the contractors has boomed prices tre mendously. —N. Y. Press. Blue Grass Circle. The Kentucky blue grass is con fined to-a circle where the dolomitic limestones of the Silurian outcrop, t and the Johnson grass of the souths is confined to the soils of the cre*t taceous, —Geographical J, umaL ~ [*