TH ERE'S W,
ALWAYS /
ANOTHER
YEAR
MARTHA
OSTENSO
lW.NUSCR.VICECOPYRIGHT MARTHA 05TCN5Q |
CHAPTER I
ORDINARILY, when the Heron
River band—an eight-man in
stitution which included a twelve
year-old snare-drummer and a bass
drummer of sixty—played, of a
summer night, "Hail, Hall, The
Gang’s All Here,” and proceeded
with proper solemnity into “My
Country, Tls of Thee,” old Shad
Finney looked at old Nils Ulevlk
and said, ”Wa-al, she’s finished,
mate. We better get along.” And
Nils, sucking on his pipe, would nod
his head in grave accord.
But this was no ordinary band
concert night in July. The tele
graph operator, Albert Symes, had
let fall the information that the ex
press was going to stop at the
Heron River depot this evening. It
was not only going to slow down as
was its wont, to drop off the Incom
ing mall and to snatch up the out
going, but it was going to come to
a definite standstill. To let off a
passenger. And who hadn’t read
in today’s Maynard Times about the
shooting, over a gambling table in
Chicago, of Gentleman Jim Greno
ble— Gentleman Jim who still
owned half of the Grenoble farm,
fancily called Ygdrasil by a fancy
wife now long dead; and who had
a daughter who must now be nine
teen or twenty? Albert Symes, be
ing a man of honor In his profes
sion, hadn’t said that there had
been a wire to Sophronla Willard,
Jim’s married sister, about Jim’s
daughter, stating that she would
arrive on the evening train. But
Tillie Fink, of the telephone office,
had conscientiously listened in while
Albert had conveyed the message
to Phronle Willard at eight o’clock
that morning. So that It had been
unnecessary for Albert Symes to
betray his trust.
Another Interesting angle in the
situation was that Roddy Willard,
step-son of Sophronla, had mysteri
ously disappeared in his car yester
day. “Just a little trip,” Roddy had
said. In view of the fact that Els
beth Fink, the postmistress and sis
ter of Tillie, knew that four letters
had been placed In Roddy’s rural
mail box during the past ten days,
all In the same feminine handwrit
ing, the circumstances were Intrigu
ing indeed.
All In all, conditions certainly
warranted a change of procedure
■on the part of those two old cronies,
Shad Finney and Nils Ulevlk. They
stamped heartily enough upon the
advent of “Hall, Hall,” but after
that they glanced at their watches.
And immediately those others who
possessed watches drew them out
from snug pockets, looked at them,
gave a thoughtful wind to the
stems and replaced them.
There was a general movement
toward the depot, a block away,
across from the lumber yard. Eight
een or. twenty grown persons and a
scattering of children.
“D’you s’pose Phronie’ll be here?”
Shad whispered to Nils. “ ’Taint
likely she’ll send Jason to meet her.
The looks o’ hlm’s enough to scare
the old Nick himself!”
Nils shrugged. "She could do
vorse,” he remarked. “Yase yust
so good so his brudder Roderick.”
Shad spied Duke Melbank stand
ing amid four or five men on the
depot platform. Duke—whose real
name was Earl—was bareheaded as
usual, and his flaming red hair,
shaven close about the ears and
neck, could have been seen a quar
ter mile away.
Duke was tall, narrow-shouldered,
tubular. His body suggested a
length of sponge. He had a loud,
almost incessant laugh which was
peculiarly devoid of mirth and
meaning. He was an only son, and
lived with his mother on a shambles
of a farm fringing Heron River.
Since farming had become unprofit
able, Jess Melbank and her son sup
plied homebrew to the neighborhood
and to the campers on the lakes to
the north at twenty-five cents a
quart. Jess, in coloring, appeared to
have been the Inspiration of Duke.
She was as broad, however, as she
was long.
Soon after Shad Finney and Nils
Ulevik had gained the steps of the
platform, Jesse Melbank could be
seen waddling forward from the
shadowed extreme end of It The
evening being oppressive, Jess sank
with audible relief down upon a
bench against the depot wall, still
some distance from the group of
idlers who surrounded her son
Duke. Shad and Nils with a cer
tain feeling of distaste, It must be
admitted, edged nearer the group.
The two old men may not have
been listening to the utterances of
Duke Melbank—those utterances so
punctuated by his own snickers and
guffaws that it took au alert ear to
gather their meaning. They may
not have been listening, exactly—
because they were nice old men, not
given to busy Interest in scandal.
But they could, nevertheless, not
help overhearing.
Some weeks sgo, Duke Melbank,
on his thirty-fourth birthday, had
discovered Chicago. And Chicago,
Ned Burgess, editor of the Heron
River Sentinel, had established,
would never be the same again.
,Duke had read the news Item at
first sight with a slightly sour look,
because Ned considered himself
above everybody in the county ex
cept the Willards. But whatever
Ned’s intent had been, it was some
thing* to have your name in the pa
per, and at length the clipping
nestled in Duke’s vest pocket, along
with certain photographs he had got
from a traveling man who had been
in France.
Everybody in Heron River knew,
by now, what had happened on
Duke’s visit to Chicago, but tonight
was an occasion which called for
the retelling of the event.
“You w’as in the Grenobles’
suit, wasn’t you, Duke?” somebody
prompted.
“They don’t call it a ‘suit,’” Duke
disclosed loftily. “They call it an
‘apartment.’ Yon bet your punklns
I was In it I wouldn’t ’a’ got in,
neither, except I met oP Jim hls
self in a speak easy, and I come
right home with him, bein’ from his
home town. He was worried like,
and he didn't seem to know I was
along. There was a gang to his
place, all right, all right! Say, boy!
Maybe I didn’t smile like a wooden
fox after seven or eight o’ them
drinks they give me! And then”—
Duke drew himself up and hooked
his thumbs into his green-and-or
anga striped suspenders—“in she
comes! Silver pajamas, by hickory!
They was all playin’ roulette—you
know, like they play over to Gale’s
Point. Up gets this guy from the
table and she goes with him into
another room and shuts the door!
She never even seen me. Wouldn’t
’a’ known me, anyhow. Somebody
says it’s her, so I know. I get up
pretty soon and goes and opens the
door, easy like. And there she Is
with her back to me and this guy
bendln’ over her like he’s gonna
kiss her!’’ Duke croaked Joyously,
his head thrown back with the rel
ish of reminiscence.
Somebody prodded him. “Here
comes Phronle Willard. Duke!
Shut up!”
Duke glanced about him trucu
lently. “What do I care?” he swag
gered. “I seen Lucas—”
“He’s a big gambler, ain’t he,
Duke?" A spindly youth, who had
heard the story before, put the
question In an awed and avid whis
per.
“I’ll tell the world!” said Duke
loudly, straightening his arm and
tapping cigarette ash in the direc
tion of Sophronla Willard, the tall,
gaunt, dark-faced woman who was
at that moment ascending the steps
of the platform.
Nils Ulevik and Shad Finney
glanced anxiously at Sophronla as
she passed them. They hoped she
had not overheard any of Duke’s
talk, for they were law-abiding citi
zens, and had a distaste for public
violence.
But Sophronla Willard, straight
and strong as a pine, and as awe-in
spiring as one. Ignored Duke Mel
bank's little group Just as such a
majestic tree might Ignore the whis
perings of scrub growth in a forest
Black-gloved, black-hatted, black
crocheted reticule on her arm, she
took up her stand on the middle of
the platform and remained oblivious
of the eyes that were fixed upon
her. She stood, composed and
stern, looking neither to right nor
to left
Sophronla had had since eight
o’clock this morning to prepare for
her meeting with her brother’s
daughter, Anna—“Silver,” her moth
er had frivolously called her, be
cause of the pallor of her hair and
skin. Sophronla was washing the
separator in the milk house when
Jason had shouted to her that she
was wanted on the telephone.
Albert Symes, the telegraph op
erator, had read the telegram to
her. He had said first, clearing his
throat: “1 h»ve bad news for you,
Mrs. Willard." Phronle had said,
“Go on, go on, man 1 Read it.” Then
Albert had proceeded with the mes
sage: “As attorney to your brother
James Grenoble I assume the pain
ful duty of Informing you that your
brother was shot fatally early this
morning by one Lewis Rawson.
Rawson was killed by police as he
was trying to make his escape.
Your niece Silver Grenoble will ar
rive Heron River tonight’s train.
Take care of her. Benjamin nub
bard "
Sophronla had made no outcry.
She had given Albert Symes a curt
"Thank you.” Then she had seated
herself on the chair beside the tele
phone and had looked up at It, there
on the wall, for a long time. Jason
had stood near by. fumbling with
a piece of harness, or something
—she forgot Just what. Her eyes
had moved to him slowly, and It
seemed to her suddenly that this
Then She Had Seated Herself on
the Chair Beside the Telephone.
step-son of hers was more hunch
backed than usual. She could see
that pitiful excrescence of bone and
flesh mounting from behind the line
of his shoulder. She saw his mourn
ful, deep eyes—like the eyes of a
dog that had been run over and
begged to be removed from Its pain.
“Jim is dead,’ she told him, as
she might tell him that the clock
needed winding.
Jason turned the bit of leather
about In his powerful hands—hands
that could bend a horseshoe Inside
out without trouble.
"How?" he asked. His voice was
husky and soft as wind moving
over tall grass. “How did he dle7"
"He was shot.”
“Was he In Chicago still?”
“Yes.”
“It would be a gambler shot
him,” Jason said, and his glance
fell.
“I guess,” Phronle said. “His
daughter Is coming on tonight’s
train. It was Jim’s lawyer tele
graphed.”
“Too bad Roddy Isn’t here,” Ja
son said laboriously. "He could
meet her, Phronle."
The angry red sprang Into
Sophronla’s cheeks. “You’re good
enough to meet her, Jason,” she
said sharply. “You’re good enough
to meet anybody, and don’t you
think different!”
Jason smiled with great gentle
ness, as though it were Phronle who
was ill-formed. "You know I
ain’t* he said. “You’ve got to
drive In.”
“All right Jase," she replied, to
have it done with. "Now I’ve got
to finish the separator.”
The shining metal of the separa
tor made whirling disks befpre her
eyes. Jim—Gentleman Jim 1 Her
only brother, younger than herself,
handsome and wild as their grand
father had been. Not made for this
land their grandfather had home
steaded on, though. Going off the
deep end when his wife, Anna Eg
strom, that lovely Swede, had died
without asking your leave 1 Jim
had gone away then, leaving her,
Sophronla, In possession of half this
farm that had belonged to their fa
ther and their grandfather—leaving
her with the responsibility of the
entire farm, his own half as well
as hers! Going off after his wife’s
death, with his seven-year-old
daughter, as though the earth had
swallowed them up. What had
there been for Sophronla to do but
to marry Roderick Willard, the
widower on a farm In the next
county? He had built this new
house on the ridge, not more than a
stone’s throw above the little old
place in which the Grenobles had
lived for three generations, in which
Sliver Grenoble had been born and
Anna Egstrom had died.
Roderick Willard had been kind.
Sophronla had loved him, she sup
posed, so far as she knew anything
of love. And his two sons, in their
early ’teens then, had responded to
her mothering, had affectionately
accepted her. But Roderick, who
had sold his own farm before his
marriage to Sophronla, hnd wanted
to secure complete possession of the
Grenoble farm. Jim Grenoble, for
some romnntlc reason, had refused
to sell his section, although Rod
erick and his sons had worked it
through all the years.
Two years arter ner marriage to
Roderick Willard, when her step
sons were In high school at Heron
River, Sophronla had had her first
news of Jim. He and Silver were
In Alaska. Jim did not say what
he was doing, but Silver was being
looked after In a convent school.
Jim sent two thousand dollars, that
time, for Phronle to carry on the
work of the farm—and no ques
tions asked. The farm was paying
Its way then, and more. Phronle
thought Jim had probably gone
crazy.
Next year Jim was In Nevada.
And later In Mexico. Mining, he
said. His daughter was also In
Mexico. In the care of nuns, and
was learning Spanish and German
and French, Sophronla, remember
ing the fair child of seven, who was
so much like that dreamy, foreign
mother of hers, wondered. So
phronla wrote Jim then that her
husband, Roderick Willard, wanted
to buy him out. But Jim had some
sentimental attachment for the
place, because of his wife Anna,
who had called it Ygdrasll. That
word, In Norse mythology, Anna
had said, meant the Tree of Life.
There was a huge oak In front of
the old Grenoble farm house.
They couldn’t budge Jim. He
refused to sell. Why did he want
to hang on to a farm that he never
meant to visit again? He was
gambling for a living. Sophronla
would have guessed that, even
though Newt Fisher, who had run
into him In Nevada, hadn’t brought
the news back. But his wife Anna
had curiously loved her Ygdrasil—
silly name, silly woman! Sophronla
always grew uncomfortable when
she thought of Anna. Well, who
hadn’t loved her? She was gentle
as spring rain.
And what would this daughter
of hers be like? Sophronla won
dered with misgiving. Product of
convents (of all things—and Jim
raised a Presbyterian!) and board
ing schools from Nome to Nica
ragua—daughter of a fairy mother
who had died at twenty-eight, and
a father madder than his own
grandfather, who would lay bets
with the moon as to the color of
Its back-hair —what would the
daughter be like? She had been
born on this farm, It was true, but
would she remember anything of It
that was sane and sound?
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Did you ever meet a gangsters moll?
You never met one like Silver. Daughter of a gambler, she gave
her heart—and more—to the big shot of a Chicago “mob.” Yet,
something new, more exciting and more important, she discov
ered in the wind-swept beauty of the Dakota prairies.
But—
“To think,” she cried, “to think that when the real thing came,
it had to be wrong, too!”
THERE’S ALWAYS ANOTHER YEAR
by Martha Ostenso
This is the first installment BEGIN NOW!
Little Lights on
LIVING
SB
Bv MARIA LEONARD
Dean of Women, University of Illinois
© Western Newspaper Union.
PROGRESSIVE LIVING
THE word progressive comes to
us from the Latin word "pro
gredlor,’’ meaning to move forward.
Progressive living means forward,
not faster living. One scientist be
lieves that we, In America, have
lived about 100 normal years In the
last 25.
There Is no doubt about the speed
of our modern living when air
planes, through blizzards, carry
mall 220 miles per hour, when 1,000
cigarettes are made by one machine
in one minute (and consumed as
rapidly), when great turbines equal
In strength 900,000 man power, and
the Century of Progress was lighted
by a star forty light years distant.
Magic It seems when we, sitting In
our homes, can hear the President’s
voice from the White House In
Washington, or listen to the Christ
mas mass at midnight broadcast
from La-Madeleine In Paris. What
an amazing, Intriguing old world!
We are going fast, but where?
In Indianapolis there Is a great
speedway. Automobiles have sped
around Its track at 120 miles an
hour, but when they finished they
were where they began, for they
had been ruclng In circles. In the
hurry-scurry we call modern life
do we ever stop to ascertain wheth
er we are racing In circles or going
forward to higher planes of living,
and thinking? Civilization means
Intellectual, moral and spiritual
progress. With all due attention
paid to diets and physical exercise
over the radio dally, one would
think we were living physically in a
health age on the planet, but when
we see the large number of general
hospitals, filled almost to capacity
and also the Increase In the psy
chopathic wards In America, 75,000
beds for new patients a year, we
question It Is this faster or for
ward?
In our home life In America to
day are we, as a nation, going faster
or forward? The home Is the eco
nomic, moral and spiritual unit of
our country, said one of our recent
statesmen.
Also statistics have revealed that
more money has been spent for au
tomobiles In the last three and one
half years than has been spent for
homes In the last 150 years. Where
Is the security of childhood If
mortgaged by pleasure-swklng par
ents?
* • *
THE FAR-VIEW
Perspective is getting the
right slant on things whether
they be pictures or circumstances.
Any work of art or situation In life
Is not clear If out of perspective.
To an artist perspective Is the key
to success—without It he Is no
artist. So with us. In this art of
living, If we lose perspective, we
lose the true purpose of life.
The far-vlew, or perspective, is a
good habit to cultivate every day.
When looking out of the window of
a fast moving train, the near view
causes the fence posts and corn
stalks to dance by In one dizzy
whirl, which ceases when we take
the far-vlew to the calm hills and
peaceful horizon. Just so, with
our petty problems and worries,
which will be gone In a week from
now.
For the want of the far-vlew,
many persons of our own day have
lost their perspective In money mat
ters. I remember as a child my
father telling of a miserly old man
—a veritable SUns Marner—who
got his dollars so close to his eyes,
he shut out the sunlight. Even yet
do I mentally see two silver dollars
where his spectacles were. Poor
old man—he lost his perspective.
Some business men are working
harder and faster as the years roll
on, hoping to accumulate enough to
“lay off’' sometime In large lux
uriant homes and say within them
selves, “my soul, take thine ease."
What happens? About that time
health breaks and their savings go
largely to the hospital.
From a Chicago oflloe on the twen
ty-fifth floor, the view of Lake
Michigan was superb. A rising
young editor sat with Ids back to
the view, facing day In and day out,
a flat tan-painted wall. "Look
what’s behind you,” I said to him
one day, looking out or the window.
“1 haven’t time,” he said gruffly.
"You’ve lost your perspective at far
too young an age,” I remarked.
Many students come for counsel
asking: "What course shall I pur
sue? Shall I take a Job now. If of
fered. or finish my last year of uni
versity work?" My answer Is: “Get
the far view Do now what ten
years from now you will wish you
had done. He willing to sacrifice
any Immediate end for the larger
future good.” Perhaps In our stu
dent days we too were mentally
near-sighted, falling to fit each day’s
task into our life’s plan, perhaps
emphasizing credits rather than
knowledge, and knowledge more
than wisdom. In later years, per
haps spiritually near-sighted, we
still forget the far-vlew of how we
are dally growing old.
Fish Out of Water
By DONALD S. AITKIN
© McClure Newspaper Syndicate.
WNU Service.
THERE was an Inscription on
the back of the gold watch.
Presented to Henry Smlthers
In recognition of 35 years of loyal
service
Jones, Ward & Co.
“It’s beautiful, Henry!” Mrs.
Smlthers said.
Mr. Smlthers was slumped In an
armchair, hands dug deep In trou
ser pockets. “Well,” he said, "I
suppose It’s a pretty swell way of
telling a man that he's no good any
more.”
Tears floated in Mrs. Smlther’s
kindly brown eyes. She forced
them back, put one arm around her
husband's shoulder and stroked his
gray head.
“Don't take it that way, Henry.
Y’ou ought to be very thankful.
They've given you a generous pen
sion. Now you can enjoy a rest.”
Mrs. Smlthers did her best to
smile, but In her heart she was
afraid. Men retired against their
will from Jobs held almost a life
time, forced Into Inactivity, went
to pieces quickly.
• ••••••
Next morning, In spite of pro
tests from his wife, Mr. Smlthers
rose as usual at seven. He shaved,
dressed and was the first down at
breakfast.
He was moodily munching a
piece of dry toast when the click
clack of feminine heels sounded on
the stairs. Doris took her place at
the table.
Good morning, Daddy! Unfold
ing a napkin, she turned her pi
quant little face with Its bubbling
blue eyes In the direction of her
mother. "Gee, Daddy's lucky. Isn’t
he?" she said. "No more rushing
off with me to catch the 8:15 In
the morning. AH day to read hls
paper and do ns he likes."
George, tall and glowing from
hls morning shower, slipped Ibto
hls seat in time to echo the senti
ment.
“Yes, Dad,” he said. "Wish I had
a little of the spare time you’re go
ing to have. I haven't even had
time to try out my new fishing rod."
AH morning Mrs. Smithers’ pa
tience was sorely tried. Henry Just
moped around.
After lunch Mrs. Smithers decid
ed that something must be done.
She was afrnld of what might hap
pen If this went on. Resolutely,
she dried her hands and went to
find him. Henry was nowhere In
the house. The old brown hat he
sometimes wore was mlsBlng from
Its accustomed place in the hall. He
must have gone off somewhere for
a stroll. Mrs. Smithers went to
the telephone and put a call
through to the ofllee of Jones, Wnrd
and Co.
Mr. Ward, the president, listened
with astonishment. Then he said,
‘‘But, my dear Mrs. Smithers, we
can’t take your husband back! He’s
earned hls retirement If you think
the pension’s not adequate, perhaps
we could—’’
Mrs. Smithers had to begin all
over again.
“It isn’t a question of money.
Don’t you understand? Henry’s
whole life was In his Job. Now
you’ve taken It away 1 I’m afraid.
So afraid I Can’t you find a place
for him, somewhere, anywhere? Oh,
please, please!”
Gradually the president came
around. Yes, he began to see. If
she’d tell Mr. Smithers to come
down In the morning they’d talk
things over.
When George came home from
work she was almost frantic. They
drove down to the village to make
Inquiries. The butcher put them
on the track. His little boy had
seen Mr, Smithers heading down
towards the river where high banks
overlooked the most dangerous
part. Mrs. Smithers, white-faced,
exchanged glances with her son.
George drove grimly, sending the
car bouncing and bucking along the
deep-rutted lane. The last fifty
yards had to be covered on foot,
through trees. As they carnn out
close to the river bank, Mrs. Smith
ers uttered a little weak cry of dls
tress. Halfway up the slope lay a
crumpled brown object. It was
Henry's battered old hat!
George gripped his mother’s arm
and steadied ier. They climbed to
the top nnd looked down. Imme
diately below them, at the water’s
edge, sat Mr. Smithers on a large
rock—fishing! Mrs. Smlther’s eyes
closed and a little prayer of thank
fulness went up. Then she looked
down again and cried out:
“Goodnessgracious, Henry! Don’t
you know It's getting dark?" The
scolding tone In her voice was to
hide her relief. "Come on up.
We’ve got good news. They phoned
from the office. They want you to
go hack!"
Mr. Smithers raised the fishing
rod, swung the baited hook to an
other part of the stream and let It
fall In again with a little plop
lie looked up at the bank. “Ale
go back to that stuffy old office?"
he exclaimed. “Not on your life!
Look—” He laid the rod aside and
held up an insignificant little fish
about four Inches long. “I Just land
ed It,” he said, with eyes that shone
proudly. “Tomorrow I’m going
after the big ones. This new rod
of yours Is n dandy, George. Say
—I'm Just starting to live!”
Frock Keeps Matron
Looking “Just Right”
PATTEHH 2335
Looking just right about the house,
and neatly tailored enough for street
or porch appearance. Is no trick at
all for the handy woman who knows
how to run up a seam! The clever
matron likes the extra formality the
flattering revers lend the house
frock. The pleated sleeve—besides
being flattering—allows for plenty of
action and the paneled skirt with Its
roomy pockets has a way with It, if
the hips are just a bit too generous I
A neat pin-stripe cotton or tailored
geometric design would be excellent.
An eyelet batiste makes a lovely
street dress.
Pattern 2335 Is available in sizes
16, 18, 20, 34, 36, 38, 40, 42 and 44.
Size 36 takes 4*4 yards 36-Inch fab*
rlc. Illustrated step-by-step sewing
Instructions Included.
SEND FIFTEEN CENTS (15c) In
coins or stamps (coins preferred)
for this pattern. Write plainly name,
address, and style number. BE SURE
TO STATE SIZE.
Address all orders to the Sewing
Circle Pattern Department, 243 West
Seventeenth street. New Tork City.
CHICKEN FEED
“I need a holiday," said the very
pretty cashier. “I’m not looking my
best.’’
“Nonsense!” replied the manager.
“It Isn’t nonsense,” she replied;
“the men are beginning to count their
change."—Answers Magazine.
How Unfortunate
First Hobo—What yer reading In
that book that’s worrying yer so?
Second Hobo—I’ve Just found a
recipe for home-made beer and I alift
got no home.
No Bargain
Deacon Smith—Yes, sir, I hate to
say It but my wife married me for
money.
Elder Brown—Well, all I’ve got to
say Is that she earned It
Observed
Poetically Inclined Young Man—
The night has a thousand eyes—
The Object of His Adoration (In
terrupting)—My gracious, let me see
If my nose Is powdered and If my
hat Is on correctly.