The Bluffton news. [volume], June 15, 1939, Image 7

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THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 1939
THE DIM
LANTERN
By Temple
BAILEY
O PENN PUBLISHING CO.
WNU SERVICE
THE STORY
I—Young, pretty Jane Barnes,
who lived with her brother, Baldwin, in
bherwood Park, near Washington, was not
particularly impressed when she read that
rich- attractive Edith Towne had been left
the altar by Delafield Simms, wealthy
New Yorker. However, she still mused
over it when she met Evana Follette, a
a neighbor, whom the war had left
etely discouraged and despondent.
Evans had always loved Jane.
CHAPTER n—That morning Baldwin
Barnes, on his way to work in Washing
ton, offered assistance to a tall, lovely
ftol in distress. Later he found a bag she
had left in the car, containing a diamond
on which was inscribed “Del to
Edith—Forever.” He knew then that his
passenger had been Edith Towne. Al
ready he was half way in love with her.
That night he discussed the matter with
Jane, and they called her uncle, worldly,
sophisticated Frederick Towne. He visited
them at their home, delighted with Jane's
simplicity. He told them Ediths story,
and they filled in the missing lines.
CHAPTER III—Because her uncle de
sired it, Edith Towne had accepted Dela
field Simms, whom she liked but did not
love. That did not prevent her from be
coming furious when he failed to show
up for the wedding. She disappeared im
mediately after the wedding was to have
taken place. Hearing the story. Baldy and
Jane sympathized with Edith, not with her
uncle. The next day Jane received a basket
of fruit from Towne, asking if he might
call again.
(Now go on with the story.)
CHAPTER IV
Mrs. Follette had been born in
Maryland with a tradition of aris
tocratic blood. It was this tradi
tion which had upheld her through
years of poverty after the Civil war.
A close scanning of the family tree
might have disclosed ancestors who
had worked with their hands. But
these, Mrs. Follette’s family had
chosen to ignore in favor of one
grandfather who had held Colonial
office, and who had since been mag
nified into a personage.
Mr, Follette, during his lifetime,
had walked a mile each morning to
take the train at Sherwood Park,
and had walked back a mile each
night, until at last he had tired of
two peripatetic miles a day, and
of eight hours at his desk, and of
eternally putting on his dinner coat
when there was no one to see, and
like old Baldwin Barnes, he had laid
him dowrn with a will.
At his death all income stopped,
and Mrs. Follette had found herself
‘on a somewhat lonely peak of ex
clusiveness. She could not afford
to go with her richer neighbors, and
she refused to consider Sherwood
seriously. Now and then, hou’ever,
she accepted invitations from old
friends, and in return offered such
simple hospitality as she could af
ford without self-consciousness.
She had, too, a sort of admirable
courage. Her ambitions had been
wrapped up in her son. What her
father might have been, Evans was
to be. They had scrimped and saved
that he might go to college and
study law. Then, at that first dread
ful cry from across the seas, he had
gone. There had been long months
of fighting. He had left her in the
flower of his youth, a wonder-lad,
with none to match him among his
friends. He had come back crushed
and broken. He, whose career lay
so close to his heart—could do now
no sustained work. Mentally and
physically he must rest. He might
be years in getting back. He would
never get back to gay and gallant
boyhood. That was gone forever.
Yet if Mrs. Follette’s heart had
failed her at times, she had never
shown it. She was making the farm
pay for itself. She supplied the peo
ple of Sherwood Park and surround
ing estates with milk. But she
never was in any sense—a milk
woman. It was, rather, as if in
selling her milk she distributed fa
vors. It was on this income that she
subsisted, she and her son.
Later he and Jane walked togeth
er in the clear cold. She was in a
gay mood. She was wrapped in
her old orange cape, and the sun,
breaking the bank of sullen clouds
in the west, seemed to turn her
lithe young body into flame.
“Don’t you love a day like this,
Evans?’’ She pressed forward up
the hill with all her strength. Ev
ans followed, panting. At the top
they sat down for a moment on an
old log—which faced the long aisles
of snow between thin black trees.
The vista was clear-cut and almost
artificial in its restraint of color and
its wide bare spaces.
Evans’ little dog, Rusty, ran back
and forth—following this trail and
that. Finally in pursuit of a rab
bit, he was led far afield. They
heard him barking madly in the
distance. It was the only sound in
the stillness.
“Jane,’’ Evans said, “do you re
member the last time we were
here?’’
“Yes.” The light went out of her
eyes.
“As I look back it was heaven,
Jane. I’d give anything on God’s
earth if I was where I was then.”
All the blood was drained from
her face. “Evans, you wouldn’t,”
passionately, “you wouldn’t give up
those three years in France—”
He sat very still. Then he said
tensely, “No, I wouldn’t, even
though it has made me lose you—
Jane—”
“You mustn’t say such things—”
“I must. Don’t I know? You were
such an unawakened little thing, my
dear. But I could have—waked you.
And I can’t wake you now. That’s
my tragedy. You’ll never wake up
—for me—”
“Don’t—”
"Well, it’s true. Why not say it?
I’ve come back a—scarecrow, the
shadow of a man. And you’re just
where I left you—only lovelier—
more of a woman—more to be wor
shiped—Jane—”
As he caught her hand up in his,
she had a sudden flashing vision of
him as he had been when he last
sat with her in the grove—the swing
of his strong figure, his bare head
borrowing gold from the sun—the
touch of assurance which had been
so compelling.
“I never knew that you cared—”
“I knew it, but not as I did after
your wonderful letters to me over
there. I felt, if I ever came back,
I’d move heaven and earth.” He
stopped. “But I came back—differ
ent. And I haven’t any right to say
these things to you. I’m not going
to say them—Jane. It might spoil
our—friendship.’’
“Nothing can spoil our friendship,
Evans—”
He laid his hand on hers. "Then
you are mine until somebody
comes along and claims you?”
“There isn’t anybody else,” she
turned her fingers up to meet his,
“so don’t worry, old dear,” she
smiled at him but her lashes were
wet. Her hand was warm in his
and she let it stay there, and aft
er a while she said, “I have some
times thought that if it would make
you happy, I might—”
“Might—love me?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. "I didn’t say
it for that. I just had to have the
truth between us. And I don’t want
—pity. If—if I ever get back—I’ll
make you love me, Jane.” There
was a hint of his old masterful
ness—and she was thrilled by it.
She withdrew her hand and stood
up. “Then I’ll—pray—that you—
get back—”
“Do you mean it, Janey?”
“I mean it, Evans.”
“Then pray good and hard, my
dear, for I’m going to do it.”
They smiled at each other, but it
was a sacred moment.
The things they did after that
were rendered unimportant by the
haze of enchantment which hung
over Evans’ revelation. No man
can tell a woman that he loves her,
no woman can listen, without a
throbbing sense of the magnitude of
the thing which has happened. From
such beginnings is written the his
tory of humanity.
Deep in a hollow where the wind
had swept up the snow, and left the
ground bare they found crowfoot in
an emerald carpet—there were hol
ly branches dripping red berries
like blood on the white drifts. They
filled their arms, and at last they
were ready to go.
Evans whistled for Rusty but the
little dog did not come. “He’ll find
us he knows every inch of the
way.”
But Rusty did not find them, and
they were on the ridge when that
first awful cry came to them.
Jane clutched Evans. “What is it
—ch, what is it?”
He swallowed twice before he
could speak. “It’s—Rusty—one of
those steel traps”—he was panting
now—his forehead wet—“the Ne
groes put them around for rab
bits—” Again that frenzied cry
broke the stillness. “They’re hellish
things—”
Jane began to run in the direction
of the sound. “Come on, Evans—
oh, come quick—”
He stumbled after her. At last he
caught at her dress and held her.
“If he’s hurt I can’t stand it.”
It was dreadful to see him. Jane
felt as if clutched by a nightmare.
“Stay here, and don’t worry. I’ll
get him out—”
It was a cruel thing to face. There
was blood and that little trembling
body. The cry reduced now to an
agonized whimpering. How she
opened the trap she never knew,
but she did open it, and made a
bandage from her blouse which she
tore from her shoulders regardless
of the cold. And after what seemed
to be ages, she staggered back to
Evans with her dreadful burden
wrapped in her cape. “We’ve got
to get him to a veterinary. Run
down to the road and see if there’s a
car in sight.”
There was a car, and when Evans
stopped it, two men came charging
She was in a gay mood.
up the bank. Jane gave the dog into
the arms of one of them. “You’ll
have to go with them, Evans,” she
said and wrapped herself more
closely in her cape. “There are sev
eral doctors at Rockville. You’d bet
ter ask the stationmaster about the
veterinary."
It was late when Evans came to
Castle Manor w’ith his dog in his
arms. Rusty was comfortable and
he nad wagged a grateful tail. The
pain had gone out of his eyes and
the veterinary had said that in a
few days the wound would heal.
There were no vital parts affected—
THE
and he would give some medicine
which would prevent further suffer
ing.
Mrs. Follette was out, and old
Mary was in the kitchen, singing.
She stopped her song as Evans
came through. He asked her to
help him and she brought a square,
deep basket and made Rusty a bed.
“You-all jes’ put him heah by the
fiah, and I’ll look atter him.”
Evans shook his head. “I want
him in my room. I’ll take care of
him in the night.”
He carried the dog upstairs with
him, knelt beside him, drew hard
deep breaths as the little fellow
licked his hand.
“What kind of a man am I?” Ev
ans said sharply in the silence.
“God, what kind of a man?”
Through the still house came old
Mary’s thin and piping song:
“Stay in the fiel’,
Stay in the fiel’, oh, wah-yah—
Stay in the fiel’
Till the wah is ended.”
Evans got up and shut the door.
Jane was waked usually by the
hoarse crow of an audacious little
rooster, who sent his challenge to
the rising sun.
But on Thanksgiving morning, she
found herself sitting up in bed in
the deep darkness—slim and white
and shivering—oppressed by some
phantom of the night.
She came to it gradually. The
strange events of yesterday. Evans.
Her own share in his future.
Her own share in Evans’ future?
Had she really linked her life with
his? She had promised to pray
that he might get back—she had
pledged youth, hope and constancy
to his cause. And she had prom
ised before she had seen that stum
bling figure in the snow!
In the matters of romance, Jane’s
thoughts had always ventured. She
had dreamed of a gallant lover, a
composite hero, one who should
combine the reckless courage of a
Robin Hood with the high moralities
of a Galahad. With such a lover
one might gallop through life to a
piping tune. Or if the Galahad pre
dominated in her hero, to an inspir
ing processional!
And here was Evans, gray and
gaunt, shaken by tremors, fitting
himself into the background of her
future. And she didn’t want him
there. Oh, not as he had been out
there in the snow!
Yet she was sorry for him with a
sympathy that wrung her heart. She
couldn’t hurt him. She wouldn’t.
Was there no way out of it?
Her hands went up to her face.
She had a simple and childlike faith.
“Oh, God,” she prayed, “make us
all—happy—”
Her cheeks were wet as she lay
back on her pillows. And a cer
tain serenity followed her little pray
er. Things would work together in
some way for good. She would
let it rest at that.
When at last the rooster crowed,
Jane cast off the covers and went
to the window?, drawing back the
curtains. There was a faint white
ness in the eastern sky—amethyst
and pearl, aquamarine, the day had
dawned!
Well, after all, wasn’t every day
a new world? And this day of all
days. One must think about the
thankful things!
Baldy wanted to hear from Edith
Towne so much that he did not go
to church lest he miss her call. But
Jane went, and sat in the Barnes’
pew, and was thankful, as she had
said, for love and warmth and light.
Evans, with his mother in the pew,
looked straight ahead of him. He
seemed worn and weary—a dark
shadow set against the brightness
of those comrades on the glowing
glass.
After church, he W’aited in the
aisle for Jane. “I’ll walk down with
you. Mother is going to ride with
Dr. Hallam.”
They walked a little way in si
lence, then he said, “Rusty is com
fortable this morning.”
“Your mother told me over the
telephone.”
He limped along at her side.
“Jane, I didn’t sleep last night—
thinking about it. It is a thing I
can’t understand. A dreadful thing.”
“I understand. You love Rusty.
It was because you love him so
much—”
“But to let a woman do it. Jane,
do you remember—years ago? The
mad dog?”
She did remember. Evans had
killed it in the road to save a child.
It had been a horrible experience,
but not for a moment had he hesi
tated.
“I wasn’t afraid then, Janey.”
“This was different. You couldn’t
see the thing you loved hurt. It
wasn’t fear. It was affection.”
“Oh, don’t gloss it over. I know
what you felt. I saw it in your eyes.”
“Saw what?”
“Contempt.”
She turned on him. “You didn’t.
Perhaps, just at first. I didn’t un
derstand .” She fought for self
control, but in spite of it, the tears
rolled down her cheeks.
“Don’t, Janey, Don’t.” He was in
an agony of remorse. “I’ve made
you cry.”
She blinked away the tears. “It
wasn’t contempt, Evans.”
“Well, it should have been. Why
not? No man who calls himself a
man would have let you do it.”
They had come to the path un
der the pines, and were alone in
that still world. Jane tucked her
hand in the crook of Evans’ arm.
“Dear boy, stop thinking about it.”
“I shall never stop.”
“I want you to promise me that
you’ll try. Evans, you know we are
going to fight it out together ...”
His eyes did not meet hers. "Do
you think I’d let you? Well, you
think wrong.” He began to walk
rapidly, so that it was hard to keep
pace with him. “I’m not worth it.”
And now quite as suddenly as she
had cried, she laughed, and the
laugh had a break in it. “You’re
worth everything that America has
to give you.” She told him of the
things she had thought of in church.
“You are as much of a hero as any
of them.”
BLUFFTON .NEWS, BLUFFTON, OHIO
He shook his head. “All that hero
stuff is dead and gone, my dear. We
idealize the dead, but not the liv
ing.”
It was true and she knew it. But
she did not want to admit it. “Ev
ans,” she said, and laid her cheek
for a moment against the rough
sleeve of his coat, “don’t make me
unhappy. Let me help.”
“You don’t know what you are
asking. You’d grow tired of it. Any
woman would.”
“Why look ahead? Can’t we live
for each day?”
She had lighted a flame of hope in
him. “If I might—’’ eagerly.
“Why not? Begin right now. What
are you thankful for, Evans?”
“Not much,” uneasily.
“Well, I’ll tell you three things.
Books and your mother and me.
Say that over—out loud.”
He tried to enter into her mood.
“Books and my mother and Jane.”
She caught at another thought. “It
almost rhymes with Stevenson’s
‘books and food and summer rain,’
doesn’t it?”
“Yes. What a man he was—cheer
ful in the face of d^ath. Jane, I
believe I could face death more
cheerfully than life—”
"Don’t say such things”—they had
come to the little house on the ter
race, “don’t say such things. Don’t
think them.”
“As a man thinks—Do you believe
it?”
“I believe some of it.”
“We’ll talk about it tonight. No, I
can’t come in. Dinner is at seven.”
He lingered a moment longer. “Do
you know what a darling you are,
Jane?”
She stood watching him as he
limped away. Once he turned and
waved. She waved back and her
eyes were blurred with tears.
In Jane’s next letter to Judy she
told about the dinner.
“We had a delicious dinner. It
seems to me, Judy, that my mind
dwells a great deal on things to eat.
But, after all, why shouldn’t I?
Housekeeping is my job.
“Mrs. Follette doesn’t attempt to
do anything that she can’t do well,
and it was all so simple and satisfy
ing. In the center of the table was
some of the fruit that Mr. Towne
sent in a silver epergne, and there
were four Sheffield candlesticks with
white candles.
“Mrs. Follette carved the turkey.
Evans can’t do things like that—
she wore her perennial black lace
and pearls, and in spite of every
thing, Judy, I can’t help liking her,
though she is such a beggar on
horseback. They haven’t a cent, ex
cept what she makes from the milk,
but she looks absolutely the lady of
the manor.
“The cousins are very fashiona
ble. One of them, Muriel Follette,
knows Edith Towne intimately. She
told us all about the wedding, and
how people are blaming Edith for
running away and are feeling terri
bly sorry for Mr. Towne. Of course
they didn’t know that Baldy and I
had ever laid eyes on either of them.
But you should have seen Baldy’s
eyes, when Muriel said things about
Edith. I was scared stiff for fear
he’d. say something. You know how
nis temper flares.
“Well, Muriel said some catty
things. That everybody is sure that
Delafield Simms is in love with
someone else, and that they are say
ing Edith might have known it if she
hadn’t always looked upon herself
as the center of the universe. And
they feel that if her heart is broken,
the decent thing would be to mourn
in the bosom of her family. Of
course I’m not quoting her exact
words, but you’ll get the idea.
“And Baldy thinks his queen can
do no wrong, and was almost burst
ing. Judy, he walks in a dream. I
don’t know what good it is going to
do him to feel like that. He will
have to always worship at a dis
tance like Dante. Or was it Abe
lard? I always get those grande pas
sions mixed.
“Anyhow, there you have it. Edith
Towne rode in Baldy’s flivver, and
he has hitched that little wagon to a
star!
“Well, after dinner, we set the
victrola going and Baldy had to
dance with Muriel. She dances ex
tremely well, and I know he en
joyed it, though he wouldn’t admit
it. And Muriel enjoyed it. There’s
no denying that Baldy has a way
with him.
“After they had danced a while
everybody played bridge, except Ev
ans and me. You know how I hate
it, and it makes Evans nervous. So
we went in the library and talked.
Evans is dreadfully discouraged
about himself. I wish that you were
here and that we could talk it over.
But it is hard to do it at long dis
tance. There ought to be some way
to help him. Sometimes it seems
that I can’t stand it when I remem
ber what he used to be.”
Evans had carried Jane off to the
library high-handedly. “I want
you,” was all the reason he vouch
safed as they came into the shabby
room with its leaping flames in the
fireplace, its book-lined walls, its im
posing portrait above the mantel.
The portrait showed Evans’
grandfather, and beneath it was a
photograph of Evans himself. The
likeness between the two men was
striking—there was the same square
set of the shoulders, the same
bright, waved hair, the same air of
youth and high spirits. The grand
father in the portrait wore a blue
uniform, the grandson was in khaki,
but they were, without a question,
two of a kind.
“You belong here, Jane,” said Ev
ans, “on one side of the fireplace,
with me on the other. That’s the
way I always see you when I shut
my eyes.”
“You see me now with your eyes
wide open—”
“Yes. Jane, I told Mother this
afternoon that I wouldn’t go to New
York. So that’s settled, without your
saying anything.”
“How does she feel about it?”
“Oh, she still thinks that I should
go. But I’ll stay here,” he moved
his head restlessly. “I want to be
where you are, Jane. And now, my
dear. we’re come to talk things ont.
You know that yesterday you"made
a sort of—promise. That you’d pray
for me to get back—and that if I
got back—well, you’d give me a
chance. Jane, I want your prayers,
but not your promise.”
“Why not?”
“I am not fit to think of any wom
an. When I am—well—if I ever am
—you can do as you think best. But
you mustn’t be bound.”
She sat silent, looking into the
fire.
“You know that I’m right, don’t
you, dear?”
“Yes, I do, Evans. I thought of
it, too, last night. And it seems like
this to me. If we can just be friends
—without bothering with—anything
else—it will be easier, won’t it?”
“I can’t tell you how’ gladly I’d
bother, as you call it. But it wouldn’t
be fair. You are young, and you
have a right to happiness. I’d be a
shadow on your—future—”
“Please don’t—”
He dropped on the rug at her feet.
“Well, we’ll leave it at that. We’re
friends, forever,” he reached up and
took her hands in his, “forever?”
“Alw’ays, Evans—”
“For better, for worse—for rich
er, for poorer?”
“Of course—”
They stared into the fire, and
then he said softly, “Well, that’s
enough for me, my dear, that’s
enough for me—” and after a while
he began to speak in broken sen
tences. ‘Ah, silver shrine, here
will I take my rest After so
many hours of toil and quest
A famished pilgrim .’ That’s
Keats, my dear. Jane, do you know
that you are food and drink?”
“Am I?” unsteadily.
“Yes, dear little thing, if I had
you always by my fire I could fight
the world.”
When Jane and Baldy reached
home that night, Baldy stamped up
and down the house, saying things
about Muriel Follette. “A girl like
that to criticise.”
She yawned. “I’m going to bed.”
The telephone rang, and Baldy
was off like a shot. Jane uncurled
herself from her chair and lent a
listening ear. It was a moment of
exciting interest. Edith Towne was
at the ether end of the wire!
Jane knew it by Baldy’s singing
voice. He didn’t talk like that to
commonplace folk who called him
up. She was devoured with curi
osity.
He came in, at last, literally
walking on air. And just as Jane
had felt that his voice sang, so she
felt now that his fett danced.
“Janey, it was Edith Towne.”
“What did she say?”
“Just saw my advertisement. Pa
per delayed—”
“Where is she?”
“Beyond Alexandria. But wre’re
not to give it away.”
“Not even to Mr. Towne?”
“No. She’s asked me to bring
her bag, and some other things.”
He threw himself into a chair op
posite Jane, one leg over the arm of
it. He was a careless and pictur
esque figure. Even Jane was aware
of his youth and good looks.
Edith had, as it seemed, asked
him to have Towne send the ring
back to Delafield—to have her wed
ding presents sent back, to have a
bag packed with her belongings.
She started up the stairs but be
fore she had reached the landing he
called after her. “Jane, what have
you on hand for tomorrow?”
She leaned over the rail and
looked down at him. “Friday? Feed
the chickens. Fefld the cats. Help
American Boy 8 Mo.
American Girl 8 Mo.
Christian Herald 6 Mo.
Home Arts-Needlecraft 2Yr.
Household Magazine 2 Yr.
McCall's Magazine 1 Yr.
Modern Romances 1 Yr.
Modern Screen ................. 1 Yr.
Open Road (Boys) 1 Yr.
Pathfinder (Weekly) 1 Yr.
Parents' Magazine 6 Me.
Screen Book 1 Yr.
Silver Screen 1 Yr.
Sports Afield 1 Yr.
True Confessions 1 Yr.
Woman’s World 2 Yr.
Sophy clean the silver. Drink tea at
four with Mrs. Allison, and three
other young things of eighty.”
“Well, look here. I don’t want to
face Towne. He’ll say things about
Edith—and insist on her com
ing back—she says he will, and
that’s why she won’t call him up.
And you’ve got more diplomacy than
I have. You might make it all
seem—reasonable. Will you do it.
Jane?”
“Do you mean that you want me
to call on him at his office?”
“Yes. Go in with me in the
morning.”
“Baldy, are you shirking? Or do
you really think me as wonderful
as your words seem to imply?”
“Oh, if you’re going to put it like
that.”
She smiled down at him. “Let’s
leave it then that I am—wonderful.
But suppose Mr. Towne doesn’t fall
for your plan? Perhaps he won’t
let her have the bag or a check
book or money or—anything—”
Jane saw then a sudden and pas
sionate change in her brother. “If
he doesn’t let her have it, I will. I
may be poor but I’ll beg or borrow
rather than have her brought back
to face those—cats—until she wants
to come.”
(To be Continued)
Richland Center
Mr. and Mrs. Earl Matter and dau
ghter were Sunday dinner guests of
her parents, Mr. and Mrs. L. E. Cook
and daughters.
Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Steiner spent
Saturday evening with Mr. and Mrs.
Robert Gerber and family.
Mr. and Mrs. Dwight Dailey and
sons spent Sunday in amnion sburg.
Mr. and Mrs. Francis Gratz and
children of Sidney Mr. and .Mrs.
Kenneth Gratz and Mr. and Mrs.
Richard Core and daughter of Lima
Mr. and Mrs. J. L. Gratz and son. Mr.
and Mrs. Ernest Gratz and granddau
ghter Mary Kathryn were Sunday
dinner guests of Mr. and Mrs. Reno
Gratz. Afternoon callers were Mr.
and Mrs. Fred Basinger of Columbus
Grove and Mr. and Mrs. W. F. Gratz.
Mr. and Mrs. Donald Cuppies were
Wednesday evening supper guests of
Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Miller and fam
ily.
Mr. and Mrs. Ed Marquart and son
Melvin spent Thursday evening with
Mr. and Mrs. Geo. Schick.
Mr. and Mrs. John Burkholder re
turned home Sunday evening after
spending the week in Valparaiso. Ind.
Mr. and Mrs. Otis Fett and daught
ers spent Thursday evening with Mr.
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PAGE SEVEN
and Mrs. Wayne Zimmerman and
daughter.
Mr. and Mrs. Harold Badertscher,
Mrs. Wayne Zimmerman, Mr. and
Mrs. Sam Badertscher and Mr. and
Mrs. Robert Ewing spent Sunday
excning with Mr. and Mrs. Wikier
Badertscher.
Mr. and rs. Woodrow Luginbuhl
of Waverly, Ohio, and Mr. and Mrs.
Clyde Grant and son were Sunday
dinner guests at the J. I. Luginbuhl
home.
Mr. and Mrs. John Ramseyer and
family of Columbus and Myrtle Man
ges were week end guests of Mr. and
Mrs. John Hirschfeld and son. Sun
day dinner guests were Mrs. A. C.
Spangler and daughter, Ora.
Mr. and Mrs. Clem Suter spent Sun
day evening at the Amos Gerber
home.
Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Miller and
family spent Sunday afternoon with
Mr. and Mrs. Clarence Steiner and
family.
Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Matter and
children, Mr. and Mrs. Ed Marquart
and son Melvin spent Sunday even
ing with Mr. and Mrs. Russell Leiber
and family.
Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Niswander and
daughter Betty and son Alliason, Mrs.
Amos Luginbuhl and granddaughter
Glenna Swick and Mr. and Mrs. Don
ald Dillman, Mrs. Ella Dillman and
Mrs. Weldon Luginbuhl attended the
wedding of Cassie Luginbuhl and Ar
thur Yerkes of Lima in the Congre
gational church last Tuesday even
ing.
Mr. and Mrs. Francis Gratz and
children of Sidney Mr. and Mrs.
Kenneth Gratz and Mr. and Mrs.
Richard Core and daughter of Lima
Mr. and Mrs. Ear! Matter and daught
er, Mr. and Mrs. W. C. Schaublin and
Mr. and Mrs. W. F. Gratz spent Sun
day evening with Mr. and Mrs. Ern
est Gratz and grandaughter, Mary.
Mr. and Mrs. Wayne Zimmerman
and daughter and Mrs. Sam Bader
tscher spent Sunday afternoon with
Mr. and Mrs. Dwight Frantz and
daughter.
Wayne Matter of Ft. Wayne is
spending the summer with his uncle,
Earl Matter and family.
Mr. and Mrs. Eldon Basinger of
Canton, Ohio Mrs. Barbara Basinger
and daughter, Mel vena and son Har
ley of Pandora Mr. and Mrs. Menno
Basinger and daughter. Meleta, Mr.
and Mrs. Milard Basinger and son of
Columbus Grove spent Monday even
ing at the Amos Basinger home.
Spend th* saving when you get there I
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the money you save going by Greyhound Super-Coach I
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American Fruit Grower 1 Yr.
American Poultry Journal.. .1 Yr.
Breeder's Gazette 1 Yr.
Cloverleaf American Review 1 Yr.
Country Home 1 Yr.
Farm Journal-Farmer's Wife. 1 Yr.
Home Arts-Needlecraft 1 Yr.
Home Friend 1 Yr.
Household Magazine 1 Yr.
Leghorn World 1 Yr.
Mother's Home Life 1 Yr.
National Livestock Producer. 1 Yr.
Pathfinder (Weekly) ... .26 Issues
Plymouth Rock Monthly.... 1 Yr.
Poultry Tribune 1 Yr.
Successful Farming 1 Yr.
Woman's World 1 Yr.
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