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 ~ [*