H _
---
A Frozen Law.
Philadelphia Ledger: An American
and a Scotsman were speaking about
the Intense cold in the north of Scot
"Why, It’s nothing at all com
pared to the colu we have In the
States," sa!d the American. “I can
recollect one winter when the sheep,
Jumping front a hillock Into a field, be
came suddenly frozen on the way and
etuck In the air like a mass of ice."
"But good heavens, man," exclaimed
the Scotsman, 'the law of gravity
wouldn’t aJlow that!"
"We don’t do things by half nt
home,” replied the other. The law of
gravity was frozen, too!”
The Most Forgetful Man.
Exchange: A minister’s wife, a doc
tor's wife, and a traveling man's wife
met one day recently, and were talking
about the forgetfulness of their hus
bands. The minister's wife thought
her husband was the most forgetful
man living, because he would forget
his notes and no one could make Out
what he was trying to preach about.
The doctor’s wife thought her husband
was the more forgetful still, for he
would often start out to see a patient
and would forget Ills medicine case ana
travel nine miles for nothing. ’’Well,"
said the traveling man's wife, "my
husband beats that. Ho came home
the other day and patted me on the
cheek and said: ’! believe I have seen
V<»\ir face before—what is your name?’ ”
Jlgg»—Before a girl la married she
gets a flower In her hair.
Jagg®—And after she Is murried she
gets her hair In the flour.
—
Mrs. Winslow • boothivq strop tor rii!Hr*a
iMthlnci potion* I ho ruoik, rndnctm infinminnoon. n'<
ist* pain euro* sit'd eoli". SccRnt * belli*
She—Procrastination Is the thief of
time. 1
He—There are other watch lifters.
WItAT CAI’SES HEADACHE. |
From Octoberto May.Colds are the most fre |
amenteauaeofHeadache. LAXATIVEBltOMO ,
QU INI N'Eretnoves cause. E.W.(trove on box 2nc .
A Surprising Mistake.
Tit-Bits: A short time ago some mem
bers of the education committee visited
a council school in a provincial town.
It was "examination day." and the
chairman of the committee, a large and
pompous old gentleman, was pres
ent.
A reading class was called, and a
bright little fellow rose, and In a mono
tone drawled through a paragraph
about a massacre In the time of Nero.
"Ah, um!” Interrupted the chairman.
"Will you please let that little hoy read
that verse again?"
The paragraph was given again pre
cisely as before.
"Ah! um!" exclaimed the wise man.
smiling like a pleased chimpanzee;
"why do you pronounce that word
‘massaker’ ?"
This youngster hung his head and
made no reply.
"It should be pronounced ‘massa
cree.’ ” continued the chairman, benign
ly
There was a painful silence for a mo- .
ment; then the teacher meekly said:
"Excuse me, Mr. Jones, but the fault
1s mine. I think, If that word Is mis
pronounced, I have told the cluss to
pronounce Is •nmssu-ker.' "
"Why. sir. may 1 Inquire?"
"I believe that Webster, who compiled
the great dictionary, favors that pro
nunciation."
"Impossible, sir!"
"Well, that Is a matter easily settled.
Here Is a copy of Webster's una
bridged. Suppose we refer to It ”
The education committee chairman
seized the dictionary and hurriedly
turned to the word. For a moment his
face was a study. Then he removed
hts glasses, wiped them on n red silk
handkerchief and, replacing them, suld
most solemnly:
"I am perfectly astounded, sir, that
Mr. Webster should have made such a
mistake as that."
oliTsurgeon
0*0004 Coffee t'oaeed lfande to
Tremble.
The surgeon's duties require clear
Judgment and a steady hand. A slip
or an unnecessary Incision may do Ir
reparable damage to the patleut.
When he found that coffee drinking
caused his bands to tremble, an Ills.
Burgeon conscientiously gave It up and
this Is his story.
“For years I was a coffee drinker
until my nervous system was nearly
broken down, my hands trembled so l
could hardly write, and Insomnia tor
tured me at night.
"Resides, how could l safely perform
operations with unsteady hands, using
knives and Instruments of precision?
When I saw plainly the bad effects of
coffee, I decided to stop it, and three
years ago I prepared some I’ostum, of
which I had received a sample.
The first cupful surprised me. It
was mild, soothing, delicious. At this
time I gave some I'ostum to a friend
who was In a similar condition to mine,
from bi^e use of coffee.
“A few days after. 1 met him and he
was full of praise for Postum, declar
ing he would never return to coffee but
*tl ‘k to I'ostum. We then ordered a
full supply and within a short tlmo my
nervousness and consequent trembling,
as well as Insomnia, disappeared, blood
circulation became normal, no dizziness
nor heat flashes.
“My friend became a Postum enthu
siast. his whole family using It ex
clusively.
“It would be the fault of the one
who brewed the Postum, if It did not
taste good when served.
The best food may be spoiled if not
properly made. Postum should be boil
ed according to directions on the pkg,
Then It Is nil right, anyone can rely
on It. It ought to become the national
drink." “There's a Reason.” Nairn
given by Postum Co.. Rattle Creek
Mich. Read The Road to Wellville,'
In pkgs.
I
,_THE_—
Story of Francis Cludde
A Romance of Queen Mary's Reign.
I BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.
i 1_—-- --—... *
He paused. Had the fire died down,
or was it only an imagination that
'the shadows thickened round Lhe bed
. behind him and closed In more nearly
. on us, leaving his pale grim face to
S confront me—his face which seemed
I the paler and grimmer, the more satur
nine and all mastering, for the dark
j frame which set It off?
"He did this,” he continued slowly,
! "which came to light and blasted him—
he asked us the price of his service in
betraying me his brother's estate.”
"Impossible!" I stammered. “Why,
Sir Anthony"
"What of Sir Anthony, you would
ask?” the chancellor replied, interrupt
ing me, with savuge irony. "Oh, he
was a papist, an obstinate papist! He
might go hang—or to Warwick jail."
"Nay, but this at least, my lord, is
false!" I cried. "Palpable false! If my
father had so betrayed bis own flesh
and blood, should 1 be here? Should I
be at Coton End? You say this hap
pened eight, years ago. Seven years
ago I <Ame here. Would Sir Anthony"—
“There are fools everywhere," the old
man sneered. "When my Lord Hert
ford refused your father’s suit, Ferd
inand began—it is his nature—to plot
against him. He was found out and
execrated by all, for he hnd been false
to all. He fled for his life. He left
you behind, and a servant brought you
to Coton End, where Sir Anthony took
you In,"
I covered my face. Alas, I believed
him! I, who had always been so proud
of my lineage, so proud of the brave
traditions of the house and its honor,
so proud of Coton End and all that
belonged to it! Now, If this were
true, I could never again take pleasure
In one or the other. I was the son
of a man branded as a turncoat and
an Informer, of one who was the
worst of traitors! I sank down on
the settee behind ine and hid my face.
Another might have thought less of the
blow, or, with greater knowledge of
the world might have made light of it
as a thing not touching himself. But
on me, young as I was, and proud, and
as yet tender, and having done noth
ing myself, it fell with crushing force.
It was years since I had seen my
father, and I could not stand forth
loyally and light his battles as a son
his father's friend and familiar for
years might have fought it. On the
contrary there was so much which
seemed mysterious in my past life, so
much that bore out the chancellor's
accusation, that I felt a dread of Its
truth even before I had proof. Yet I
would have proof. "Show me the let
ters!" 1 said harshly. "Show me the
letters, my lord!”
“You know your father's handwrit
ing?"
"I do."
t knew It, not from any correspond
ence tuy father had held with me, but
because 1 had more than once exam
ined with natural curiosity the wrap
pers of the dispatches which at Inter
vals of many months, sometimes of a
year, came from him to Sir Anthony.
1 had never known anything of the con
tents of the letters, all that fell to
my share being certain formal mes
sages, which Sir Anthony would give
me, generally with a clouded brow and
a testy manner that grew genial again
only with the lapse of time.
Gardiner handed me the letters, and
I took them and read one. One was
enough That my father! Alas, alas!
No wonder that 1 turned my face to the
wall, shivering as with ague, and that
all about me, except the red glow of
the tire, which burned Into my brain
seemed darkness! I had lost the thing
l valued most. I had lost at a blow
everything of which I was proud. The
treachery that could flush that worn
face opposite to me, lined as it was
with statecraft, and betray the wily
tongue into passion seemed to me,
young and Impulsive, a thing so vile
as to brand a man's children through
generations.
I turned. Now I saw only the water
and the dark line of trees which fringed
I the farther bank. But above these the
| stars were shining.
| Yet In my mind there was no star
| light. There all was a blur of wild pas
sions and resolves. Shame and an
angry resentment against those who
had kept me so long in ignorance—even
against Sir Anthony—were my upper
most feelings. I smarted under the
thought that I had been living on his
charity. I remembered many a time
when f had taken much on myself, and
he had smiled, and the remembrance
stung me. I longed to assert myself
and do something to wipe off the stain.
But should I accept the bishop's of
fer? It never crossed my mind to do
so. He had humiliated me, and I hated
him for It. Longing to cut myself off
from my old life, I could not support a
patron who would know and might cast
in my teeth the old shame. A third
reason, too, worked powerfully with me
as I became cooler. This was the con
viction that, apart from the glitter
which the old man's craft had cast
about it, the part that he would have
me play was that of a spy—an inform
er. A creature like—I dared not say
like my father, yet I had him in my
mind. And from this, from the barest
suspicion of this, I shrank as the
burned puppy from the fire—shrank
with fierce twitching of nerve and
sinew.
Yet If I would not accept his offer
it was clear I must fend for myself.
His threats meant as much as that, and
I smiled sternly as found necessity at
one with inclination, f would leave
Coton End at once, and henceforth I
would fight for my own hand, I would
have no name until I had made for
myself a new one.
This resolve formed, I turned and
went buck to the house and felt my
way to my own chamber. The moon
light poured through the lattice and
fell white on my pallet. I crossed the
room and stood still. Down the middle
of the coverlet—or my eyes deceived
me—lay a dark line.
I stooped mechanically to see what
this was and found my own sword
lying there, the sword which Sir An
thony had given me on my last
birthday. • But how had it come
there? As I took if up something
soft and light brushed my hand and
drooped from the liilt. Then I remem
bered. A week before I had begged
Petronilla to make me a sword knot
of blue velvet for use on state occa
sions. No doubt she had done it and
had brought the sword back this even
ing and laid It there in token of peace.
I sat down on my bed, and softer and
kindlier thoughts came to me—thoughts
of love and gratitude, in which the old
man who had been a second father to
me had part. I would go as I had re
solved, but I would return to them
when I had done a thing worth doing,
something which should efface the
brand that lay on me now. With gen
tle fingers I disengaged the velvet knot
and thrust it into my bosom. Then I
tied about the hilt tho old leather
thong, and began to make my prepar
ations, considering this or that route
while I hunted for iny dagger and
changed my doublet und hose for
stouter raiment and long, untanned
boots. I was yet in the midst of this
when a knock at the door startled me.
"Who is there?" I asked, standing
erect.
For answer Martin Luther slid in,
closing the door behind him. The fool
did not speak, but turning his eyes
first on one thing and tlten on another
nodded sagely.
“Well?” I growled.
“You are off, master," he said, nod
ding again. "I thought so."
"Why did you think so?” I retorted
impatiently.
AL in nine IOI uic .yuuiig Ul [US to
fly when the cuckoo begins to stir,”
he answered.
I understood him dimly and in part.
“You have been listening,” I said
wrathfully, my cheeks burning.
“And been kicked in the face like a
fool for my pains," he answered. "Ah,
well, it is better to be kicked by the
boot you love than kissed by the lips
you hate. But Master Francis,' Master
Francis!" he continued in a whisper.
He said no more, and I loked up. The
man was stooping slightly forward, his
pale face thrust out. There was a
strange gleam in his eyes, and his
teeth grinned in the moonlight. Thrice
lie drew his finger across his lean
knotted throat. "Shall I?” he hissed,
his hot breath reaching me, "shall I?”
I recoiled from him, shuddering. It
was a ghastly pantomino, and it seemed
to me that l saw madness in his eyes.
"In heaven’s name, no!” I cried. “No!
Do you hear, Martin? No!”
He stood back on the Instant, as a
dog might have done being reproved.
But I could hardly finish in comfort
after that with him standing there, al
though when I next turned to him he
seemed half asleep and his eyes were
dull and lishy as ever.
“One thing you ear. do," I said
brusquely. Then 1 hesitated, looking
round me. I wished to send something
to Petronillu, some word, some keep
sake. But I had nothing that would
serve a maid’s purpose and could think
of nothing until my eye lit on a house
martin's nest, lying where I had cast
it on the window sill. I had taken it
down that morning because the drop
pings the last summer had fallen on the
lead work, and I would not have it
used when the swallows returned. It
was but a bit of clay, and yet it would
serve. She would guess its meaning.
I gave it into his hands. "Take this,”
I said, "and give it privately to Mis
tress Petronilia. Privately, you under
stand. And say nothing to any one,
or the bishop will flay your back, Mar
tin."
CHAPTER III.
The first streak of daylight found
I me already footing it through the for
est by paths known to few save the
woodcutters, but with which many a
boyish exploration had made me fa
miliar. From Coton End the London
road lies plain and fair through Strat
ford-on-Avon and Oxford. But m>
plan, the better to evade pursuit, was
instead, to cross tile forest in a north
| easterly direc tion, and passing by War
wick to atrike the great north roat
1 between Coventry and Daventry
! which, running thence southeastward
! would take me as straight as a birr
• might fly through Dunstable, St. A1
bans and Barnet to London. My bag
gage consisted only of my cloak, swore
• and dagger, and for money l had bu
i a gold angel and a few silver bits o
f j doubtful value. But 1 trusted that tld
store, slender as it was, would meet m:
- . charges as far as London. Once ther
? 1 must depend on my wits either fo
- j providence at home or a passag
f j abroad.
l I Striding steadily up and down hll
?' for Arden forest is made up of hill
. and dells which follow one another a
therefore I hid my face In the cor
ner of the settle, while the chancellor
gazed at me awhile In silence, as one
who had made an experiment might
watch the result.
"You see now, my friend," lie said at
last, almost gently, "that you nuiv be
base born In more ways than one. 'But
be of good cheer. You are young, and
what I have done you may do. Think
of Thomas Cromwell—his father was
naught. Think of the old cardinal—my
master. Think of the duke of Suffolk—
Charles Brandon, I mean. He was a
plain gentleman, yet he married a
queen. More, the door which they had
to open for themselves I will open for
you—only, when you are Inside play
the man and be faithful."
"What would you have me do?" I
whispered hoarsely.
"I would have you do this," he an
swered. “There are great things brew
In the Netherlands, boy—great
changes, unless I am mistaken. I have
need of an agent there, a man. stout,
trusty, and, In particular, unknown,
who will keep me Informed of events.
If you will be that agent, I can procure
for you—and not appear in the matter
myself—a post of pay and honor in
the regent's guards. What say you to
that, Master Cludde? A few weeks,
and you will be making history, and
Colon End will seem a mean place to
you Now, what do you say?”
I was longing to be away and alone
with my misery, but I forced myself to
reply patiently:
“With your leave I will give vou my
answer tomorrow, iny lord, "I said as
steadily as I could, and I rose still
keeping my face turned from him.
"Very well," he replied, with appar
ent confidence. But he watched me
keenly, as I fancied. "I know already
what your answer will be. Yet before
you go I Will give you a piece of ad
vice which In the new life you begin
tonight will avail you more than sil
ver, more than gold—aye, more than
I steel—Master Francis. It is this. Be
| prompt to think, be prompt to strike,
I be Flow to speak! Mark it well! It is
a simple recipe, yet It has made ine
! what I am and may make you greater.
- Now go!”
I 1I | pointed to the little door opening
on the staircase, and 1 bowed and went
| out. closing It carefully behind me. Or
I the stairs, moving blindly In the dark
1 fell over some one who lay sleeping
there and who clutched at my leg. 1
I shook him off, however, with an ex
, elamation of rage, and stumbling dowr
, the rest of the steps gained the opet
elr. Excited and feverish. 1 shranl
i with aversion from the confinement o
I my room, and hurrying over the draw
, bridge sought at random the long ter
| rate by the fish pools, on which tin
i moonlight fell, a sheet of silver, broket
only by the sundial and the shadows o
i ’he rosebushes. The night air, weep
ing chill from the forest, tanned nr
• chec ks as 1 paced up and. down. On
i way l bad before me the manor hous
—the steep gable ends, the gatewa
tower, the low outbuildings and cor
■ stacks and stables—and flanking thes
) the squat tower and nave of the i hun t
do the wave and trough of the sea,
only less regularly, I made my way
toward Wootton Wawen. As soon as
I espied its battlemented church lying
In a wooded bottom below me I kept
a more easterly course, and leaving
Henley-in-Arden far to the left passed
down toward Leek Wootton. The
damp, dead bracken underfoot, the leaf
less oaks and gray sky overhead—nay,
the very cry of the bittern fishing in
the bottoms—seemed to be at one with
my thoughts, for these were dreary
and sad enough.
But hope and a fixed aim form no
bad makeshifts for happiness. Strik
ing the broad London road as I had
purposed, I slept that night at Ryton
Dunsmoor and the next at Towcester,
and the third day, which rose bright
and frosty, found me stepping gayly
southward, travel stained indeed, but
dry and whole. My spirits rose with
the temperature. For a time I put the
past behind me and found amusement
in the sights of the road—in the heavy
wagons and long trains of pack horses
and the cheery greetings which met'
me with each mile. After all, I had
youth and strength, and the world be
fore me, and particularly Stony Strat
ford, where I meant to dine.
There was one trouble common
among wayfarers which did not touch
me, and that was the fear of robbers,
for he would be a sturdy beggar who
would rob an armed foot passenger
for the sake of an angel, and the groats
were gone. So I felt no terrors on that
account, and even when about noon I
heard a horseman trot up behind me
and rein In his horse so as to keep
pace with me at a walk, step for step
—a thing which might have seemed
suspicious to some—I took no heed of
him. I was engaged with my first view
of Stratford and did not turn my head.
We had walked on so for 50 paces or
more before it struck me as odd that
the man did not pass me.
Then I turned, and shading my eves
from the sun, which stood just over his
shoulder, said, "Good day, friend.”
"Good day, master," he answered.
He was a stout fellow, looking like
a citizen, although he had a sword by
his side and wore it with an air of im
portance which the sunshine of oppor
tunity might have ripened into a swag
ger. His dress was plain, and he sat
a good hackney as a miller’s sack
might have sat it. His face was the
last thing I looked at. When I raised
my eyes to it, I got an unpleasant
start. The man was no stranger. I
knew him in a moment for the mes
senger who had summoned me to the
chancellor's presence.
The remembrance did not please me,
and reading in the follow’s sly look
that he recognized me and thought he
had made a happy discovery on finding
me I halted abruptly. He did the same.
“It is a fine morning.” he said, taken
aback by my sudden movement, but af
fecting an indifference which the
sparkle in his eye belied. "A rare day
for the time of year.”
"It is,” I answered, gazing steadily at
him.
"Going to London? Or may be only
to Stratford?" he hazarded. He fidget
ed uncomfortably under my eye, but
still pretended ignorance of me.
"That is as may be,” I answered.
“No offense, I am sure,” he said.
I cast a quick glance up and down
the road. There happened to be no one
in sight. "Look here!” I replied, step
ping forward to lay my hand on the
horse’s shoulder, but the man reined
back and prevented me, thereby giving
me a clew to his character, “you are in
the service of the bishop of Winches
ter?”
His face fell, and he could not con
ceal his disappointment at being recog
nized. • “Well, master,” he answered re
luctantly, "perhaps I am, and perhaps
I am not.”
“That is enough,” I said shortly.
"And you know me. You need not lie
about it, man. for I can see you do.
Now, look here, Master Steward, or
whatever your name may be”
"It is Master Pritchard,” he put in
sulkily, "and I am not ashamed of it.”
"Very well. Then let us understand
one another. Do you mean to interfere
with me?”
in; gnrineu. wen. 10 De plain, I do,"
he replied, reining his horse back an
other step. “I have orders to look out
for you and have you stopped if I find
you. And I must do my duty, sir. I
am sworn to it. Master Cludde."
“Right,” said I calmly, “and I must
do mine, which Is to take care of my
skin.” And I drew my sword and ad
vanced upon him with a flourish. “We
will soon decide this little matter,” I
added grimly, one eye on him and one
on the empty road, “if you will be
good enough to defend yourself.”
But there was no fight in the fellow.
By good luck, too, he was so startled
that he did not do what he might have
done with safety—namely, retreat and
keep me in sight until some pa3sersby
came up. He did give back Indeed, but
it was against the bank. “Have a
care!” he cried in a fume, his eye fol
lowing my sword nervously. He did
not try to draw his own. “There iif no
call for fighting, I say.”
“But I say there is,” I replied blunt
ly
“Call and cause? Either you fight
me, or I go where I please.”
“You may go to Bath for me!" he
spluttered, his face the color of a tur
key cock's wattles with rage.
(Continued Next Week.)
Stamp Recalls Legend.
From the Kansas City Star.
Switzerland has Issued a new series
of postage stamps, one of which pos
sesses unique interest. The subject of
this is little Henric, the son of Wil
liam Tell, the marvelously accurate
cross-bowman of Burglen. The story
is familiar to all.
Tell was at the fair at Altdorf and
was arrested by the men of Gessler,
the cruel governor of the canton of
Uri. who suspected the cross-bowman
of disloyalty. Little Henric had been
persuaded to run away to the fair by
his mischievous cousin Philip, and the
latter offered an indiscreetly public
Insult to the emblem of authority that
Gessler had erected in the market
place.
Philip escaped, but Henric was
seized, and Gessler promised Tell his
freedom if he would shoot an apple off
the boy’s head. Otherwise he would
be slain. Tell thereupon directed Gess
ler to kill him as he would not take
the chance of injuring the lad.
But the governor declared that if
Tell did not try to do as he was bid
both father and son would be slain
on the spot. Seeing that Gessler was
determined in his wicked purpose Tell
selected two arrows. One he thrust
In his girdle and the other he fitted ta
his bow.
The apple had been placed on the
boy’s head, and the father turned and
faced him. There was an instant ol
suspense, then the sharp twang ol
the bowstring, and the apple was
fairly pierced by the arrow. Tell hac
saved his boy’s life and his own.
Gessler, thwarted in his purpose
turned to Tell and asked why he had
placed the extra arrow in his girdle
i and the crossbowman replied:
I j “For thee, tyrant! My next marl
: j would have been thy bosom, had .
' i failed in my first.”
, The new Swiss stamp shows Henrii
' armed with hts father’s crossbow ani
s with the arrow-pierced apple in hi:
’ hand. The other stamp of tin
» series shows Helvetia with the Alp:
mountains in the b-t.kground.
j Brazilian coooanul palms live fron
» 600 to TOO years.
IS TETRAZZINI A
SECOND TP'LBY? ALL
NEW YORK ASKS
Twenty Yearn She Sang in
Public Without Exciting
Great Applause.
NOW HER VOICE THRILLS
Eyes Always Seek Those of Her Man
ager When on Stage—He Even
Answers Her Phone and
Opens Mail.
New York, Special: Is Tetrazzini an
other Trilby, and is her manager Sig.
Bazelli, another Svengali, who hypno
tizes her as she sings?
These questions all of musical New'
Yorlc is asking.
For 20 years this singer, who as
brought the music lovers of the world's
two greatest capitals to her feet, sang
in obscurity, one night here and one
night there in different cities in differ
ent countries. She was .not a great
singer then, she attracted no attention.
And then her manager secured for her
an engagement to sing in Covent Gar
den, London.
For eight months she rested. And
then she walked upon the stage as
one in a dream, and, looking straight
at Sig, Bazelli, she sang as never worn-1
an sang before. Such applause! Such
rapture! Ir. one day her fame had
spread throughout. London,
She came to New York for the pres
ent season, under contract with Oscar
Harnmerstein to sing with the Man
hattan Opera company. She burst in
brilliance on wondering New York.
Men of experience and gravity pro
claimed her greater than Patti, and
they asked each other:
"Who could have wrought these
miracles in the voice of a woman who
sang to obscurity for 20 years? Why
did she never sing until she met
Bazelli? Does she only sing her best
now when under his control? And
why is It that only since his reign
over Tetrazzini lias she' startled the
world?”
Eyes of a Svengali.
The mysterious Bazelli, with eyes
black, briiliant. piercing—eyes, with
mystery lying deep in them and cun
ning gleaming through them like fire
through glass—faces her each night as
she sings. She is nervous and til at
ease as she stands in the wings await
ing her call, if anyone speaks to her
on the way from her dressing room to
the wings she is thrown into a state of
nervous distress. She seems afraid that
her voice will tail her. She walks out
timidly and as she stops her eyes
search the faces in front of her for
that of Bazelli, and then she begins to
sing, looking straight into the eyes of
Bazelli the while.
At first her voice is like the thin,
peevish trebles of a cross child, and
the lower notes have an automatic
tuaiity like the first asthmatic wheezing
of a phonograph before it breaks into
the full swing of the record. It is as
If she has not yet come under the
hypnotic spell of her master. But she
watches him and his eyes, with the
strange hypnotic power, peer into hers.
And then there flows those amazing
high notes which one has described
as the coloratura fireworks that ffil
the listener’s mind with visions of fall
ing blossoms, rockets breaking softly in
a dark sky, silverthroated nightingales
thrilling rapturously in dark woods,
and meadow larks rising ecstatically to
greet the sun.
r-\ UI315M313 i mprQSSiviTSt,
Another tells of her performance as fol
lows:
"When she comen on the stage In
"Rlgoletto" or ' 1 -a Travlata' she babbles
on In the prattle anti cooing of infancy.
She suggests the vaudeville stage more
than the dignified land of grand opera.
Then of a sudden comes the change, and
she pours forth tones golden, ringing, of
intoxicating beauty.
“ 'Look at me in the white of the eyes,
Svengali used to say to Trilby. And
Tetrazzini looks Into [he whites of Ba
zelli's eyes as she sings. She leaves the
stage exhausted and Bazelli goes to her.
assists, almost carries her into a car
riage, and takes her home. One can read
ily picture Bazelli saying to her after one
of these triumphs, as Svengali said to
Trilby.
"Sleep my pretty one, and the next she
knows she is in bed, liretf unto death,
quite unconscious of the fact that she,
whose voice had once been laughed at,
had Just sung at a concert where flowers
and jewels had been Bung at her feet
In her hearer’s mad enthusiasm.
Slg. Bazelli receives all the callers of
I,a Tetrazzini, even though they be her
relatives or intimate friends. He opens
all her letters and answers those that
In his estimation are worthy of response.
He answers her telephone-arid speaks Im
patient, authoritative English to all in
quirers for the well guarded, hedged about
diva, who six months ago was only known
as a plump and prattling prlma donna in
second class musical centers.
In the early days of his ascendancy
over the prlma donna the man whom
many insist is a Svengali always sang
with her. He sang Borneo and Alfredo,
Faust and all the other parts which fur
nish tenors, love songs and opportunities
to stand close by and gaze Into the so
prano's eyes.
Du Maurier. describing Svengall's in
fluence over Trilby, wrote:
"And then he turned his attention to
Trilby and told her—the tone deaf, whose
singing at that lime was ‘too funny for
laughter,’ as ‘some things are too sad and
too deep for tears'—and you shall see
nothing, hear nothing, think of nothing
but Svengali, Svengali, Svengali!"
And Trlbly shuddered and said:
"He reminds me of a big, hungry spider,
and makes me feel like a fly!''
A Wife in Bondage.
Tit-Bits: He was that rare and great
jy-to-be-admired person, a real live
duke, and he holds sway over many
workers. To give him his due. he is
a good master, and for the most part
I his kindness is greatly appreciated by
his retainers.
But Boh Willet is a laborer with dem
ocratic proclivities and marked distaste
! for work, and recently his ducal master
determined that one thing to do with
Bob was to dismiss him. Whereupon
he did so, and Bob came to the conclu
sion that the tli^e had now arrived
when the pride of the peerage should
| be humbled. The difficulty was to think
of something sufficiently biting, for the
I duke was a good master, as has been
i | remarked. Then an inspiration flashed
1 j on Bob. The duke's duchess had been
i , appointed a Iadv-in-waiting to the
i ■ queen, and this was Bob's opportu-.ity.
' "All right, yer grace,” he said, "I'll
I go. But I'll take heart to say this:
Though I'm a poor man, I've never had
1 j to send my missus out to service, ami i
that’s more'n some people can say." I
A TEMPERANCE WORKER.
Says Pe-ru-na is a Valuable Nerve and
Blood Remedy.
MISS BESSIE FARRELL
MISS 3 ESS IE FARRELL. 1011
'Third Ave., Brooklyn, N. Y., is Pres
ident of the Young People’s Christian
Temperance Association. She writes:
“Penroa is certainly a valuable nerve
and blood remedy, calculated to build up
the broken-down health of worn-out
women. I have found by personal ex
perience that it acts as a wonderful re
storer of lost strength, assisting the
stomach to assimilate and digest the
food, and building up worn-out tissues.
Jn my work I have had occasion to
recommend ft freely, especially to
women.
“I know of nothing which is better to
build up the strength of a young mother,
in fact all the ailments peculiar to
women, so T am pleased to give it my
hearty endorsement.”
Dr. Hartman has prescribed Peruna
for many thousand women, and he never
fails to receive a multitude of letters like
the above, thanking him for the wonderful
benefits received.
Man-a-Lin the Ideal Laxative.
Just That;
Dinks—You should lay up somethin*
for a rainy day, old man.
Winks—A rainy day doesn’t bother
me. What I want is enough surplus to
enable me to face a few cold waves.
Johnny's Little Joke.
Johnny—George Washington wuz er
great man. de fader of his country an’
all dat, hut jest de same yer kin bet.
yer sweet life I’m glad I w’uzn’t him.
Tommy—Why not ?
Johnny—’Cause lie’s dead.
WE PAY HIGH PRICES FOR FUR*
and hides, or tan them for robes, rugs or
coats. N.W.Hide & Fur Co., Minneapolis.
Holy Tea.
Bellman: A young Englishman with
a title and a healthy appetite recently
went to spend a f<?w days at a monast
ery In Switzerland. By chance he ar
rived on a Friday, when the fare was
especially frugal. He had little to eat
that day and went to bed hungry. Dur
ing the night, as is their custom, one
of the fathers went to the cells with a
benediction, “The Lord be with you.”
which, of course, he said in Latin.
When he came to the door of the vis
itor’s cell he knocked and said, “Dom
inus tecum!” “Who’s there?” cried the
young Englishman. The monk repeated
“Dominus tecum!’’ “Ah. thanks, I’m
much obliged.” said his lordship, get
ting out of bed. “Please put it down
outside.”
1 I
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