Bridgeton pioneer., August 31, 1905, Image 7

About Bridgeton pioneer. (Bridgeton, N.J.) 1884-1919

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A Matter of
Encouragement
By Hubert McBcan Johnston
Copyright. WOU. by T. C. McClure
I pulled the sail in a bit and headed
ier more up into the wind. The
ireeze had freshened in the last ten
niuutes. Detestable, isn't It, how the
rind comes around to keep a fellow
iusy just when he's reaching an inter
sting stage? I had my nerve up, and
'm sure if it had kept off another five
ainutes I’d have had the whole mat
er arranged. And the worst of it is
don't think Phyllis minded a bit.
feally, I believe that girl cares more
or good sailing than for—well, for
rhat most girls do. I guess that's
rlay I like her.
“Confound it!” I said it under my
reath, but my mouth must have
loved.
Phyllis laughed. I really believe the
ttle vixen knew what I was thinking
HY,” I GASPED, “DID YOU HEAR WHAT
HE SAID?”
put. She brushed back a luxuriant
k that had somehow strayed across
mouth.
It is a nasty wind, isn’t it?” said
: in mock sympathy.
‘An ill wind’ I quoted, watching
weave the wisp of hair into place,
ind the lucky one this time?” she
stioned.
four hair,” I replied. “If I had
uuch nerve as that lock you’ve just
back”— I stopped. Phyllis was
;ing awfully stern. “Er—that is—
know”—
lylhs tossed her head,
f any one else ever ventured”— she
an. Then another golden ringlet
the very same thing. Thyllis has
most wonderful hair,
tu answer to your challenge!” 1
d. "If it hadn't been for that I’d
e”—
lieu we both laughed.
!on wouldn’t have dared,” said
Ills.
lat’s just like her. She never
ws down the gauntlet unless she’s
tive I can’t pick it up. She knew
well I couldn’t leave the tiller,
hyllla,” I answered truthfully
igh, “there are times when I'd dare
hing for just—for Just what the
got But a man can’t take lib
s without encouragement like a
>f hair can.”
lo," said Phyllis dryly. But she
n’t angry. There was an odd little
ness about the comers of her
th—the most adorable mouth that
1 was made—and somehow it seem
0 me that her eyes were brighter
1 usual. It may have been that
fresh sea air was responsible for
color of her cheeks, but I am in
d to doubt it.
rhat does a man call encourage
t?” she asked quizzically,
t I was not such a goose. I knew
well what she would say about
who acted that way, so I didn't
her. Besides, she would have
ed to know how I knew,
can’t Just tell you,” I replied,
it girls seem to know without be
old.”
:h a whimsical little smile as
lis gave me!
n afraid I’m not one of the ‘mos:
’ ” she said. “I'm sure if I on!.<
silo, you two spoons!” shouted ii
coarse voice right behind ui;
en’t you eyes for any one bin
■elves? Here we've been sailing
[side you for the last five minutes
lever a look out of either of you.”
fey Graham can be the most vul
aan in the world when he likes.
Grace Rawshaw is Just as bad.
nk that must be what attracts
to one another.
illo yourselves!” I grunted. ‘‘I
we could have seen you if we’d
id to very bad.”
ie, amiable man, ain’t he?" que
i>e irrepressible Darcy solicitous
3ow do you get along with him, 1
ls? Now, if I were you”— Grace
ec hand over his mouth, and I
'• I really had no desire to hear
st of it, and I felt certain the mis
i chump would finish the sen
if he got half a chance. I don’t
Phyllis wanted to hear it either,
otic beast!” I commented. ‘‘I’m
here was no one around to hear
His was looking very prim,
that's the way you feel about
ie said coldly.
ought she must be Joking. Such
hge in front was Inconceivable.
And the worst of it was I conldn’t
catch even the suspicion of a laugh in
her voice. She was serious as a judge
pronouncing a death sentence, and, by
Jove, that's just about how it sounded
to me.
“Why,” I gasped, “did you hear what
he said? He called us spoons—‘you
two spoons,’ mind you!”
“Well,” sniffed Phyllis, “he’s only re
peating what every one else at the ho
tel has been saying for the last week.
All the difference is that he’s not afraid
to say it to our faces.”
Phyllis looked straight ahead of her
and held her chin very high—the dear
est, straightest, squarest little chin.
There’s no nonsense about Phyllis’
chin. It's the most honest chin on
earth, I think.
“But, dear,” I protested, “I don’t
want people to say that.”
The second word slipped out without
either of us noticing it. But Phyllis
did not seem to be satisfied. She turned
her head the other way. Hang it all.
anyway; handling a boat handicaps a
fellow.
“I don't care about myself, you know,
Phyllis, but I don’t want them to say
that about you. You see, a man’s dif
ferent. You’re a girl, and it cuts more
odds.”
Phyllis turned her head ever so
slightly.
“And besides,” I went on, “we never
did, anyway.”
“Merely a lack of proper encourage
ment, doubtless,” saiff Phyllis icily.
"Not altogether,” I objected. “Some
times a fellow”—
“Doesn’t want to,” she finished for
me. "I see.”
There was no help for it. I simply
had to. I turned the bow up Into the
wind and let the sail flap whichever
way it wanted. Sitting behind her, I
reached around and took her hands.
“Phyllis,” I whispered soberly, “it
isn’t that. You know as well as I do it
isn’t that.”
Phyllis didn’t answer. I thought I
detected a sob, but I couldn't see her
face. She kept it the other way. When
I got her head back on my shoulder
her eyelashes were a bit wet.
“The hair had the nerve,” said I.
“The hair was not bred a gentle
man.”
“F.reeding has its disadvantages,” 1
returned gloomily.
“Encouragement is intended to offset
them.”
“Yes,” said I, “but I have had none.”
Phyllis’ lips, luscious as the ripest
cherry, hung temptingly near. I hesi
tated and lost. Phyllis buried her face
on my coat, and somehow her arm half
crept across my shoulder. I thought I
heard her whisper something.
“What is it?” I interrupted, bending
over to catch the answer.
And then she repeated it.
“I said there were different kinds,
Jack,” murmured the little rogue.
Would Take No Chnnce.
A traveling man wlio had been on a
business trip through northern Texas
while east of Greenville had occasion
to hire a buggy to go across the coun
try, and with the buggy there was
thrown in by the livery stable a negro,
who, the traveling man says, was about
the color of anthracite. The two
traveled across the muddy roads for
miles upon miles, and all was going
well when suddenly the negro rose In
the buggy.
“Look a-dah!” he shouted.
The drummer looked barely in time
to see an ordinary cottontail rabbit
cross the road like a streak of gray.
The negro prepared to get out.
“What are you doing?” demanded the
drummer, catching at the lines as they
fell. The negro got out Then he care
fully turned every one of his ragged
pockets Inside out backed up to the
place which the cottontail had crossed
and walked across the Imaginary line
backward. Then he climbed into the
buggy again.
“Dah,” he said. “Ain’ gwine let no
rabbit gib me no bad luck dis trip. No,
sab!”—Galveston Tribune.
Winning; His Consent.
“Put yourself in my place, young
man. Would you want your only
daughter to marry a penniless youth?”
"Put yourself in my place, sir. Would
you want to remain a penniless youth
when there were rich men’s daughters
to marry?”
“You confess that you’d marry my
child simply for her father’s wealth?”
“And you confess that you withhold
her from me simply because of my
poverty?”
“What other reason do I need?”
“What other reason could influence
you?”
“This talk is quite useless.”
“Quite.”
"We have nothing to gain by it”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“You take it philosophically.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Your daughter
and I were quietly married a month
ago.”
"Good gracious!”
Old Letters.
There Is but one thing to do with old
love letters—in fact with all old let
ters, love or otherwise—and that is to
burn them.
Letters are personal, the thoughts,
the wishes of the moment Letters are
seldom of historical interest. If so, it
is an easy matter to preserve those.
An old letter is seldom of interest
while life is granted to the writers, and
but a cause of misery after death has
claimed either. Should both writer and
the one addressed be taken from the
world the old letters are either care
lessly paraded or left to mold in a cor
ner of the attic.
When a letter—the ordinary letter,
which is but an exchange of personal
thought, hopes or dreams—is answered
it is time to bum it. It will then nev
er be read by curious eyes nor will It
serve as a bitter suggestion of a hap
pier past—Pittsburg Press.
Stage Talk.
William Gillette's House ‘Boat.
“Our Girl," Frohman
Musical Play.
[From Our New York Dramatic Corre
spondent.]
From the necessities of bis profession
it is hard for an actor to bare a real
“home" in the best sense of the word,
let William Gillette claims three. One
—the one in which he spends most of
his time when he is not appearing be
fore the public—Is a house boat.
The boat is called Aunt Polly and
is a house boat only in the sense that
slender lines have been sacrificed in
roominess of cabin and deck. The
Aunt Polly has a stanch seagoing hull,
is powerfully engined and is capable
of traveling at high speed. During the
summer time Mr. Gillette takes long
cruises in her.
This actor’s second home is among
the pine trees in the hill country of
South Carolina. A little log cabin sits
far back from main traveled highways.
This is his refuge from all care and
weariness. The little cabin in the hills
sees him but seldom now that his life
is so full of affairs which may not be
neglected.
The third of William Gillette’s homes
is his old home. His sister and her
family still occupy the old Gillette
homestead In Hartford, Conn. This is
a roomy old house in the colonial form,
vine covered, standing among trees of
dignity and age. Next door to the Gil
lette place is the Charles Dudley War
ner residence. Near by is the residence
of Samuel M. Clemens (Mark Twain),
while just over the way Is the former
residence of Mrs. Harriet Beecher
Stowe.
Charles Frohman has formed a com
bination for a new musical play. He
has arranged with Edgar Smith, who
for some time has been writing the
pieces presented at Weber’s Now York
Music hall, and Faul M. Potter, who
wrote “The Schoolgirl,” to combine in
writing a new book and lyrics, with
music by William T. Francis, who
wrote the score of “The Rollicking
Girl” and several of the numbers In
“The Catch of the Season.”
This musical piece is one which
Charles Frohman planned in Europe
and which is to be called “Our Girl.”
For this production Mr. Frohman has
already engaged thirty artists from
abroad. They are in the main clever
specialty people who are to have fea
tures in the review scene. The come
dians and singers of the cast will be
engaged in this country. This play Is
planned for production in New York
In January and at Mr. Frohman’s new
Aldwych theater, Loudon, in June.
"I shall never forget,” said Ethel
Barrymore to a friend the other day,
“tbe first time it flashed on me that I
,W iLLIAM GILLETTE.
was a star. I went early to the thea
ter to get ready for my first appear
ance In ‘Captain Jinks,’ and as I ap
proached the theater the electric cur
rent was turned on for an immense
sign over the entrance. I looked up,
of course, and read ‘Ethel Barrymore.’
Honestly, I came as near fainting as I
ever did in my life. Mr. Frohman had
said nothing of even featuring me, and
when I next saw him I simply went
up in the air and cried. I had dream
ed of that sign for years, and there it
was with no mention of the play—Just
Ethel Barrymore.”
ROBERT BUTLER.
CHESBRO’S EARLY DAYS.
Great Pitcher Once Lent Fourteen
Garnet Stralarht In Richmond.
The celebrated pitcher Jack Chesbro
before getting into fast baseball com
pany had a rather varied experience.
He was first signed by the Richmond
(Va.) club when Jake Wells, now own
er of a theatrical circuit, was man
ager.
Jake lost his first fourteen straight
games and was about to be released
when It was decided to give him one
more chance. He then went in and
won his next seventeen successive
games. Since that time he has been
marvelously successful. His major
league career began at Pittsburg,
which club got him from Richmond.
A SaggeMIon,
Presidents Johnson and Pulliam of
the American and National leagues
should heed the voices of some of tha
prominent officials who have not hesi
tated to protest against penalties Im
posed on certain players.
Why the Mystery Tale Succeeds.
The mystery element enters to a
greater or less degree into fiction of
every kind. Indeed, it is the base of
all literary Interest. Primarily we
read a story “to see how It comes out,”
and, other things being equal, the
story In which the clement of sus
pense by deft construction and subtle
Bhaping Is most successfully maintain
ed will be the most universally satisfy
ing and popular. The mystery tale of
today is a story in which the element
of suspense Is deliberately enlarged
and emphasizes! until It dominates ev
ery other consideration In the story.
Characterization, atmosphere, emotion
al values—all become subordinated to
the great business of plot development.
The marshaling of incident, the suc
cession of climaxes in crescendo order,
the cumulative sweep of the nnrrative
while the secret of the outcome Is care
fully withheld, Is the affair here. Like
a periodic sentence of titanic size, the
tale Is unrolled until with the conclud
ing paragraphs the meaning of all that
has gone before Is made clear.—Lee F.
Hartman In Harper’s Weekly.
Facts Al»out Itnnanan.
Under very favorable circumstances
a banana plant may give a stem of
fruit In nine months, but It generally
takes from fifteen to eighteen months
for the average plantations to be in full
bearing. The life of a plantation
varies according to the fertility of its
soli and topographical situation. Some
soils may need a rest in six or seven
years, while others may last practically
forever, as in cases where periodically
enriched by alluvial deposits. Sandy
loam, through which water or rain will
freely percolate, is the best soil for
bananas. The stalk needs a large
amount of rainfall for Its successful
development, but water must not be
allowed to remain on the surface or
immediately under the surface of the
soil surrounding It, lest the water be
heated by the tropical sun and be
come stagnant, In which case it will
kill the plant.—Chicago Journal.
loom ornNneH.
"In the straight toothbrush one thigh
bone of a beef twelve inches long and
four in diameter will cut four perfect
blanks. The same bone will cut only
two of these fancy curved pieces.
That’s one thing that makes the dif
ference In cost between plain and fan
cy,” said a manufacturer. "When the
bone is cut to length and shaped, bris
tles are hand drawn by wire or thread
through the brush part, each group of
bristles having its own leader. Then
they are securely fastened, and the
work is finished. When the bristles
first go in they are fully three inches
long. After being firmly secured they
are cut down to the size required.
What bristle is best? Well, in some re
spects that’s a matter of taste. It is
all hog bristle, but whether soft or
hard depends on the user.”
Diplomat and Philosopher.
A story is told in Paris of a diplo
matist who represented a South Amer
ican republic a few years ago. There
had been so many revolutions at home
that the financiers there had no time to
send him his salary, but he took this
misfortune philosophically, sold all the
furniture of the legation except a bed,
a table and some chairs and occupied
one room with his principal attache,
who cooked the meals. Any one who
called early on the minister would
probably find him cleaning the boots.
"What would you have?” he would
say, waving a boot expressively. “My
poor country is in another crisis and
has forgotten us again, but when I go
back I shall make a revolution and ap
point myself president Then we shall
have our reward for all this self de
nial.”
A Domestic Tragedy.
Divorces are frequently pronounced
In America on the ground of incom
patibility of temper. In England we
do not go so far as that, but I have
Just heard of a case where an old
family servant who. married the gar
dener separated from her husband
on exceedingly slight grounds. She
said that he would Insist on the glasses
being turned upside down on the side
board and that there should be anti
macassars on the dining room chairs.
And so, as they could not agree, the
unhappy pair separated. — London
News.
A Friendly Smnre.tlon.
An old man In a Scotch village had
a big eight day clock which needed
repair, so he took it on his back to
carry It to the watchmaker’s. As he
went along the village street an ac
quaintance met him, glanced at him
and passed on. After he had got about
fifty yards away hlB friend called out
to him, “HI 1” Back went the old man
laboriously to where the other stood.
“Man," said his friend, “would It not
be far handler If ye carried a watch?"
A Little Tale Prom Fairyland.
“Just by way of experiment,” said
the first fairy, “I appeared to ten men
at random and asked them to make a
wish, and seven of them wanted to
know how to play the races.”
“Ah!" said the other elf. “Only
seven? But, I presume, the others
thought they knew.”—runch.
III. Weak Point.
A man was killed by a circular saw,
and In his obituary notice it was stated
that he was “a good citizen, an up
right man, and an ardent patriot, but
of limited Information regarding cir
cular saws.”
Gave the Drlde Away.
Stella—Who gave the bride away—
her fu ther? Bella—No, her little
brother. During the ceremony he told
everything he knew about her.
Let us watch our beginnings and re
sults will manage themselves.—Clark.
MELISSA’S
LETTER
By Martha McCulloch-Williami
Copyright, inns.
by Martha McCulloch-Williams
It was rainy within and without
Melissa looked through dim eyes at
t> e streamy window panes, the long
Aiaut lines outside. Her aunt Judith
viewed them Instead with satisfaction
—they would serve so well to excuse
Melissa’s nonappearance at the ceme
tery. Nobody, Indeed, would go there
but the men of the post, the lifers and
drummers, and maybe a few fool poli
ticians, Intent on catching the Grand
Army vote. Thus thought Aunt Judith
to herself.
As Miss Hill and later Mrs. Bent,
Aunt Judith had not spent fifty odd
years In Carmel town without finding
herself able to forecast rather accu
rately what the townfolk would or
would not do.
Until this season she had been stren
uous In observing Memorial day. Even
yet, notwithstanding her quarrel with
the Farlngs and all their tribe, she did
not mean openly to slight the occasion.
She did not mean either that Melissa
should go along, the pet of thinning,
gray bearded ranks, her arms full of
flowers for the quiet green graves.
Melissa wasn’t a child any more—go
ing on nineteen and with her head full
of love and marriage.
Neither Melissa nor Aunt Judith had
kith or kin in the cemetery; there had
been no man of their blood to go off to
the fighting. All the same, Melissa had
always saved her choicest blossoms for
one especial mound. Private John
Faring’s grave. John Fnrlng 3d, the
private’s great-nephew, had seen her
do it, with openly worshiping eyes.
“He’s your Uncle John, too,” Johnny
had said, over and over, “because as
soon as we grow up your name will be
Melissa Faring.”
When a very young man proposes, his
elders often dispose—otherwise. John
and Melissa had found that out when
Miss Adrienne Day came on the scene.
That was six months back. Miss Day
had a temper and a big nose, but she
also had a fortune in hand.
Judge Faring and .(ft# madam were
mightily taken with her, as she In re
turn was taken with their son. So
they had set to work to break off that
childish affair between John and Me
lissa. They were not mercenary, only
thriftily ambitious for their one child.
Therefore it seemed to them hard and
cruel the way Mrs. Bent took fire at
their well meant suggestions. Sell
them her house and go away indeed
She would have them know if there
was any moving done they might do it
themselves. Site would have them re
member also a Hill had founded Car
mel; also thut the Farings of that time
hadn’t amounted to much. But they
were not to think that she was for
hanging on to Johnny Faring. Good
ness knew, Melissa could have better
chances simply for turning over her
hand. She (Mrs. Bent) had felt ali
along that with her looks and her
blood Melissa ought to look higher.
But as to telling the child what to do—
well, that remained with herself. Still,
if Melissa had any Hill blood in her, it
was mighty unlikely she would go into
a family that didn't make her wel
come.
The inevitable outcome was a break
and a pair of sore hearts. Then fate
took up the running and In cruel kind
ness gave Melissa a fortune—a fortune
twice as big as Miss Adrienne Day
could show. Johnny Faring did not
give up hope until he heard of It. Then
he turned very white, and after a
sleepless night shook the dust of Car
mel from his feet. He could never go
to Melissa and make her hear reason
now that such going would seem
shameless fortune hunting.
As yet the fortune had made little
outward change, except that then
were no more customers coming to the
Bent house, the old Hill homestead.
Aunt Judith bustled about helping the
maid of all work, the while keeping
a covert watch upon her niece. After
a little she said, speaking half medi
tatively:
“Come on up in the garret, Melissa.
A rainy day like this always makes
me want to rummage. Besides, I’ve got
to get out the flags. We'll put one
right on the peak of the porch and the
other over the front door. Of course
nobody’ll see ’em. Even this town
won't turn out in face of such a storm,
but I just can’t let the duy pass same
as any other. Even If the flags do get
spoiled we can afford to buy new
ones.”
“Yes,” Melissa said absently, “but—
I don’t feel like rummaging, Aunt Ju.
I think I’ll go write some letters in
stead, if you don’t mind.”
“H-m! Who to?” Mrs. Bent asked
sharply.
Melissa smiled wistfully. “I—hard
ly know,” she said. “Maybe I shan’t
write any—only sit and sew. It’s
about all I can do. I think there will
be no getting out today.”
“There won’t be. Take care of your
self. Don't mope,” Mrs. Bent said,
hustling away.
Melissa went softly to her own room,
opened tier desk and swiftly wrote
three lines. Then site huddled into
her waterproof and stole out very
softly with what she had written
tucked safely in her breast. She crept
through the garden, longing, yet not
daring, to take tire best of its bloom,
darted through the gate and almost
ran to the cemetery.
On the way she stopped here or
there to pluck roadside blossoms—
white clover, folded dandelions, big,
blue, scentless violets. All these she
bound into a knot with a blade of
grass. It was not a big knot. It
would hardly show in the long grass
over a sunny grave.
As she bent at last to lay it on the
grave she thrust into it the note. Then,
without a backward look, she hurried
away. In a little while she was home
again, with her absence undiscovered.
She sat down by the window, but her
eyes were no longer dim. Instead
they looked out at the rainy world,
bright and full of expectant hope.
John Faring 3d had come home for
Memorial day and in spite of the
storm went out to the cemetery. The
post had come and gone—all the old
fellows in carriages heaped with flow
ers—but somehow the graves did not
look as lie remembered them. The
flowers were humped and lumped and
straggly. Private John Faring had
not been forgotten, but ills resting
place especially was unlike itself. John
3d knelt dowu by it, heedless of oozy
turf, and tried with mannish awk
wardness to better its arrangement.
Thus his eyes rested upon the knot of
wild flowers and caught the dull gleam
of soddcu paper in tile midst of them.
Reverently lie unfolded the note and
read with blurred vision:
Dear Undo John—I bring you all I can
this year. Aunt Ju owns the flowers—
and she hates your name. But I love It.
John Faring Is the best name In the
world. I wish my name might be Faring.
There was no signature. John 3d
needed none. He bent and kissed the
knot of flowers, still fresh under the
pouring rain, then, with an uuuttered
prayer, turned about and went with
long strides toward the Bent house.
Melissa had called to him. He would
go to her iu spite of pride, in spite of
unmanly fear.’ What if the world dicE
scoff? He could endure it a hundred
times over just to look once again into
her eyes and see happiness. He had
been a coward, no kin at all to the
soldier sleeping there iu peace, to
have let the quarrel of tlie elders sep
arate him from his sweetheart—his
sweetheart—doubly dear in that she
bad shown herself thus brave.
Melissa met him on the porch. The
wet flag bravely strove to flutter in
the rainy wind over their heads. For
a minute they stood apart, looking
one at the other. Then John held open
his arms, saying:
“Darling, I found the letter, and I
am never going to leave you unless
you say I must.”
“I say you must stay,” Melissa said
under tier breath and hiding her face
in his breast.
A Man Eating Tiger,
In 1891 one of the Hageubecks and
Herman Roger, 8 hunter In the family’s
employ, went to India for tigers. Hear
ing of a savage man eater in a certain
district, they organized a party and
sallied forth to find him.
Crouching like a cat, with back up
and whiskers bristling, It waited Its
chance for a spring. One of the natives,
more venturesome than the rest, bold
ly charged it. With a sudden blood
curdling growl it was upon him and
he was brushed from his horse like a
man of straw. And then, though he
was n man of fully 145 pounds weight,
the great beast seized him as a cat
seizes a kitten and started off with
him toward the Jungle. It wus im
possible to shoot for fear of killing the
man, and so we had to make the chase
one of strategy. Finally, near the edge
of the undergrowth, we cornered the
tiger, and It dropped Its luckless bur
den. Then a bullet from an express
rifle ended Its days of pillage. It had
carried the man hulf a mile, and.
strange to say, ■ he was little injured.—
Leslie’s.
Corn tea and England.
It is an almost forgotten fact that
for a period of a little more than two
fears during the Napoleonic wars Cor
lica was a British possession. After
the evacuation of Toulon the British
government felt it necessary to taka
the island, and Lord Hood, with Nel
lon as brigadier, wus sent to drive out
the French. With the capture of Calvi,
July 12, 1794, where Nelsou lost hla
eye, the Island fell Into British hands,
and George III. formally accepted the
crown of Corsica, appointing Sir
George Elliot as British viceroy and
allowing the Corsicans to retain their
legislative assembly. In 179(1 the ac
tivity of the French navy In other
parts of the Mediterranean resulted in
a sudden decision of the British gov
ernment to withdraw from the island.
The evacuation was completed on Oct.
Ed of that year, and Corsica reverted to
France.
Cooking In Naples.
In Naples cooking is done anywhere
and anyhow—Inside and outside, on
sheet iron stoves, on tin boxes, in stone
Jure or in clay baked earth. Here a
cobbler sits from early to late out on
a comer of a sidewalk near a public
“Latrtna,” to which he attends when
ever necessary; when not, he mends;
also makes shoes. Near him is a gran
ite arrangement where he cooks hla
meals. It Is about one foot high,
square and open at the top, with space
deep enough for some charcoal. Be
low the coal Is a grate. On one side
at the bottom is an opening for draft,
and a savor; smell always arises from
a little black pot If one passes there
at noon or toward the evening. I saw
a stove and a woman busy cooking oat
on a balcony, with about six feet of
stovepipe braced against the railing,—
Chicago Tribune.
Giant Monument to a Child. I
Mount Grace, in Warwick, Mass.,
seems to be in a way a giant monu
ment to a little child. According to tra
dition, the Indians captured a Mrs,
Rowlinson and her child. As the party
■were passing through the woods on
their way to Canada the child died and
was burled at tho foot of the mountain.
The child’s name was Graco and tho
mountain has been Mount Grace ever
,lnce- Ji