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THE DELUGE
3g DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS, Author of "THFCQSZWc
fcQfyjaRSfjT /sar *y t?» AoaBs-jrsaazs cosz&zvyo
CHAPTER XVIt.—Continued.
' They’re mamma s friends,” Anita I
i'as answering. “Oldish and tiresome, j
When you leave I shall go straight on
up to bed.”
' I'd like to—to see your room—
"here you live,” said 1. more to my
self than to her.
I sleep in a bare little box,” sbe
replied with a laugh, “it's like a cell.
A friend of ours who has the anti-germ
fad insisted on it. But my sitting
room isn't so bad.”
Langdon has the anti-germ fad,
said 1.
She answered “Yes,” after a pause,
and in such a straiDed voice that I
looked at her. A flash was just dying j
out of her face. “He was the friend 1
sj>oke of,” she went on.
You know him very' well'.’” I asked.
We've known him—always,” said
she. ”1 think he's one of my earliest
recollections. His father’s summer
place and ours adjoin. And once—I
guess it's the first time I remember j
.-eelng him—he wa3 a freshman atj
Harvard, and he came along on a i
horse past the pony cart in which a
groom was driving me. And I—l j
was very little then—I begged hitn to ;
lake me up, and he did. I thought he j
was the greatest, mo-> wonderful man ^
that ever lived.” She laughed queenly, j
' When I say my prayers, l used to !
imagine a god that looked like him to j
say them to.”
I echoed her laugh heartily. The'
idea cf Mowbray Langdon as a god
struck me as peculiarly funny, though
natural enough, too.
Uisurd, wasn't it?" said she. Hut
her face was grave, and she let her
cigarette die out.
”1 guess you know him belter than
that now?”
Yet-—better," she answer'd. slowly
and absently. "He's—anything but a
god! ”
And the more fascinating on that
account,” said I. ■ i wonder why
women like best the really bad. dan
gerous sort of man, w ho hasn t any re
spect lor them, or for anything."
I said this that she might protest,
at least for herself. But her answer
was a vague, musing. "I v.-onder—1
wonder.’’
I’m sure you wouldn’t.” I protested
earnestly, for her.
She looked at me queeriy.
"Can I never convince you that I'm
just a woman’" said she mockingly,
".lust a woman, and one a man with
your ideas of women would fly from.'’
I wish you were!" I exclaimed, j
Then—I'd find it so—so impossible to
give you up.”
She rose and made a slow tour of
the room, halting on the nig before
the closed fireplace a few feet from
me. Tsat looking at her.
1 am going to give you up,” I said
a? last.
Her eyes, staring in!o vacancy, grew
larger and intenser with each long,
deep breath she took.
I didn't intend to say what I'm
about to say—at least, cot. this even
ing,” I went on, and to me it seemed
to bo some other than myself who was
sneaking. “Certain things happened
down town to-day that have set me to
thinking. And—I shall do whatever I
can for your brother and your father.
But you—you are free!”
She went to the table, stood there
in profile to me, straight, and slender
as a sunflower stalk. She traced the
silver chasings in the lid of the cigar
ette box with her forefinger; then she
mok' a cigarette aDd began rolling it
slowly and absently.
Please don't scent and stain your
fingers with that filthy tobacco,” said
1 rather harshly.
' And only this ac.ernoon you were
saying you had become reconciled to
my vice—that you had canonized it
along with me—wasn't that your
phrase?" This indifferently, without
Turning toward me, and as if she were
thinking of something else.
"So I have," I retorted. "But my
mood—please oblige me this once.”
She let the cigarette fall into the
box. closed the lid gently, leaned
against the table, folded her arms
upon her bosom and looked full at
me. 1 w as as acutely conscious of her
every movement, of the very coming
and going of the breath at her nos
trils, as a man on the operating table
is conscious of the slightest gesture of
the surgeon.
'You are—suffering!'" she said, and
her voice was like the flow of oil upon
a burn. "I have never seen you like
this. I didn't, believe you capable of
—of much feeling."
I could not trust myself to speak.
If Boh Corey could have looked in on
that scene, could have understood it,
how amazed he would have been!
"What happened down town to
day?” she went on. "Tell me, if 1
may know.”
“I’ll tell you w hat I didn t think,
ten minutes ago. I d tell any human
being," said I. ' They've got me
strapped down in the press. At ten
o'clock in the morning—precisely at
ten—thty're going to put on the
screws." 1 laughed. “I guess they'u
have rue ^ueezed pretty dry before
noon."
She shivered.
'So you see,” I continued, "1 don't
deserve any credit for giving you up.
I only anticipate you by about twenty
four hours. Mine's death-bed repent
ance.”
"I'd thought of that." said she re
flectively. Presently she added:
Then, it is true.” And l knew Sammy
had given her some hint that prepared
her for my confession.
"Yes—I can’t go blustering through
the matrimonial market,” replied I.
I’ve been thrown out. I’m a beggar at
the gates.”
”A beggar at the gates,” she mur
mured.
I got up and stood looking down at
her.
"Don't pity me!" 1 said. “My re
mark was a figure of speech. 1 want
no alms. 1 wouldn't take even you as
alms. They'll probably get me down,
and stamp the life out of me—nearly.
But not quite—don't you lose sight of
that. They can’t kill me. and they
can't tame me. I'll recover, and I'll
strew the street with their blood and
broken bones."
She drew in her breath sharply.
“And a minute ago I was almost
liking you!” she exclaimed.
1 retreated to my chair and gave
her a smile that must have been
grim.
“Your ideas of life and of men are
like a cloistered nun's," said I. "U
there are any real men among your
acquaintances, you may find out some
day that they're not so much like lap
dogs as they pretend—and that you
wouldn't like them, if they were. *
"\Vha.t—just what—happened to you
down town to-day—after you left me?"
"A friend of mine has been luring
me into a trap—why, I cEJi't quite
fathom. To-day he sprang the trap
and ran away."
“A friend of yours?"
"The man we were talking about—
your ex-god—Langdon.”
"I.angdon.' she repeated, and her
tone told me that Sammy knew and
■
j 'SHE BLAZED A LOOK AT ME THAT LEFT ME ROOTED THERE,
ASTOU XDED."
| had hinted to her more than 1 sus
! peered him of knowing. And, with
j her arms still folded, she paced up
, and down the room. I watched her
; slender feet in pale blue slippers ap
i pear and disappear—first one, then
i the other—at the edge of her trailing
1 skirt. Presently she stopped in front
! of me. Her eyes were gazing past
! me.
“You are sure it was he?" she
asked.
1 could not answer immediately, so
j amazed was 1 at her expression. 1
| had been regarding her as a being
; above 'and apart, an incarnation or
youth and innocence; with a shock it
now came to me that she watt exper
ienced, intelligent, that she understood
the whole of life, the dark as fully as
the light, and that she was capable to
live it, too. 11 was not a girl that was
questioning me there; it was a
woman.
I “Yes—Langdon.' I replied. “But
j I've no quarrel with him. My reverse
! is nothing but. the fortune or war. I
I assure you, when I see him again. I'll
! be as friendly as ever—only a bit less
of a trusting ass, I fancy. We’re a lot
of free lances down in the street. We
change sides whenever it's expedient;
I and under the code it's not necessary
J to give warning. To-day, before 1
' knew he was the assassin. I had made
! my plans to try to save myself at his
j expense, though I believed him to be
j the best friend I had down town. No
: doubt he's got some good reason for
! creeping up on me in the dart.”
j “You are sure it was he?” she re
| peated.
“He, and nobody else.” replied I.
He decided to do me up—and l guess
he'll succeed. He's not the man to lift
his gun unless he’s sure the bird will
; fall.”
“Do you really not care any more
! than you show?” she asked. "Or is
your manner only bravado—to show
off before me?”
“I don't cane a damn, since I’m to
lose you.” said I. “It'll lie a godsend
to have a hard row to hoe the next
few months or years.”
She went back to leaning against
the table, her arms folded as before.
I saw she was thinking out tometiling.
Finally she said:
More endurable?" I suggested, as
she hesitated.
"Less unendurable," she said with
raillery. Then she added. "Less un
endurable than profiting by a—creep
ing up in the dark.”
I thought I understood her better
than she understood herself. And sud
denly my passion melted in a tender
ness I would have said was so foreign
to me as rain to a desert. 1 noticed
that she had a haggard look. "You
are very tired, child,” said I. "Good
night. I am a different man from
w hat I was when I came in here.”
"And I a different woman,” said
she, a beauty shining from her that
was as far beyond her physical beauty
as—as love is beyond passion.
"A nobler, better woman," I ex
claimed. kissing her hand.
She snatched it away.
"If you only knew!” she cried. "It
seems to me, as I realize what sort
Hats Reveal Life Srories
Broadawy Dealer Tells Different
Stages from Men's Headgear.
“So,” said the Broadway hatter.
; "you can't fool me on human nature.
I You can tell any man by his hat.
! There's the dandy who comes in and
buys an opera hat and one of those
• fool things that turns up square in the
j front. There’s the tough who never
| takes a hat until he’s tried it on at an
angle of 30 degrees. There's the skin
flint that buys one hat a season anu
sticks to it till the whistle blows.
Why, 1 can even tell you the story of
some men's lives by their hats. For
instance, see that sport over there
| paying five dollars for a rough straw.
Well, wuen he first came in here he
used to buy a dozen hats a season.
; everything from a high silk to an
j auto cap. Then one day he stopped
all of a sudden and took to wearing a
derby.
| " ‘You're married,’ said I, and he ac
knowledged I had hit it.
"A year later he came in, in an
aw'ful hurry, and wanted a two-dollar
affair. I wasn't surprised.
“I have decided not to accept your
release.”
I sprang to my feet.
■'Anita!” I cried, my arms stretched
toward her.
But she only looked coldly at me,
folded her arms the more tightly and
said:
"Do not misunderstand me. The
bargain is the same as before, lr you i
want me on those terms. I must—give ]
myself.”
•'Why?” I asked.
A faint smile, with no mirth in it,
drifted round the corners of her
mouth.
"An impulse." she said. “I don't
quite understand it myself. An im
pulse from—from ” Her eyes and
her thoughts were far away, and her
expression was the one that made it
hardest for me to believe she was a
child of those parents of hers. "An
impulse from a sense of justice—of
decency. I am the cause of your trou
ble, and I daren’t be a coward and a
cheat." She repeated the last words.
"A coward—a cheat! We—1—have
taken much from you. more than you
know. It must be repaid. If you still
wish, I will—will keep to my bar
gain."
"It's true. I'd not have got into the
mess,” said I, “if I d been attending
to business instead of dangling after
you. But you’re not responsible for
that folly.”
She tried to speak several times,
before she finally succeeded in say
ing:
"It's my fault. I mustn't shirk.”
I studied her, but I couldn't puzzle
her out.
“I've been thinking: all along that
you were simple and transparent," 1
said. “Now, I see you are a mystery.
What are you hiding from me?”
Her smile was almost coquettish as
she replied:
“When a woman makes a mystery
of herself to a man, it's for the man's
good.”
I took her hand—almost timidly.
“Anita,” I said, “do you still—dis
like me?”
“I do not—and shall not—iove you.”
she answered. "But you are-"
of woman I air., that ! am almost
worthy of you!” And she blazed a
look at me that left me rooted there,
astounded.
But I went down the avenue with a
light heart. "Just like a woman.” 1 was
saying to myself cheerfully, "not to
know her own mind.”
A few blocks, and I stopped and
laughed outright — at Langdon's
treachery, at my own credulity. "What
an ass I've been making of my3elf!”
said l to myself. And I could see
myself as I really had been during
those months of social struggling—an
ass, braying and gamboling in a lion's
skin—to impress the ladies!
But not wholly to no purpose.” 1
reflected, again all in a glow at
thought of Anita.
XVIII.
A WINDFALL FROM ■‘'GENTLE
MAN” JOE.
I went to my rooms, purposing to
go straight to bed. and get a good
sleep. I did make a start toward un
dressing: then 1 realized that I should
only lie awake with my brain wearing
me out, spinning crazy thoughts and
schemes hour after hour—for my im
agination rarely lets it do any effect
ive thinking after the lights are out
and the limitations of material things
are wiped away by the darkness.
I dressed myself again and went
out—went up to Joe Healey's gam
bling place in Forty-fourth street.
Most of the well-known gamblers up
town, as well as their "respectable"
down town fellow members of the fra
ternity, were old acquaintances of
mine: Joe Healey was' as Close a
friend as I had. He had great fame
for squareness—and, in a sense, de
served it. Wifh his fellow gamblers
he was as straight as a string at all
times—to be otherwise would have
meant that when he went broke he
would stay broke, because none of the
fraternity would •stake" him. But
with his patrons—being regarded by
them as a pariah, he acted toward
them like a pariah—a prudent pariah.
He fooled them with a frank show of
gentlemanliness, of honesty to his
own hurt; under that cover he fleeced
them well, but always judiciously.
That night, I recall, Joes guests
were several young fellows of the
fashionable set, rich men’s sons and
their parasites, a few of the big down
town operators who hadn’t yet got
hipped on “respectability—they play
ing poker in a private room—and a
couple of flush-faced, flush-pursed
chaps from out of town, for whom one
of Joe’s men was dealing • faro from
what looked to my experienced and
accurate eye like a "brace" box.
Joe. very elegant, too elegant in
fact, in evening dress, was showing a
new piece of statuary to the oldest
son of Melville, of the National In
dustrial bank. Joe knew a little some
thing about art—he was much like the
art dealers who, as a matter of busi
ness, learn the difference between
good things and bad. but in their
hearts wonder and laugh at people
willing to part with large sums of
money for a little paint or marble or
the like.
As soon as Joe thought he had suffi
ciently impressed young Melville, he
drifted him to a roulette table, left
him there and joined me.
“Come to my office," said he. “I
want to see you.“
He led the way down the richly
carpeted marble stairway as far as the
landing at the turn. There, on a sort
of mezzanine, he had a gorgeous little
suit. The principal object in the sit
ting-room or office was a huge safe.
He closed and locked the outside door
behind us.
• Take a seat, sam ne. "Ton II like
the cigars in the second box on my
deak—the long one.” And he began
turning the combination lock. "You
haven’t dropped in on us for the past
three or fo^g months.'* he went on.
"No." said I. getting a great deal ot
I pleasure out of seeing again, and thus
intimately, his round, ruddy face—
like a yachtman's, not like a drinker's
—and his shifty, laughing brown eyes.
; "The game down town has given me
enough excitement. I haven’t had to
continue it up town to keep my hand
in.”
•Tve noticed that you are getting
too swell to patronize us fellows,’’
said he, his shrewd smile showing
I that my polite excuse had not fooled
! him. "Well. Matt, you're right—you
■ always did have good sound sense and
a steady eye for the main chance. I
| used to think the women’d ruin you,
{ they were so crazy about that hand
some mug and figure of yours. But
■ when I saw you knew exactly when
j to let go, I knew nothing could stop
i you.”
By this time he had the safe open,
disclosing several compartments and
a small, inside safe. He worked away
at the second combination lock, and
presently exposed the interior of the
little safe. It was filled with a great
roll of bills. He pried this out,
brought it over to the desk and began
wrapping it up. “I want you to take
thi3 with you when you go." said he.
’Tve made several big killings lately;
and I’m going to get you to invest the
proceeds.”
(To be Continued.)
I “ ‘How's the baby?' I asked as I
handed him the cheap brown derby.
“ ‘Fine,’ says he, just as if it was
perfectly natural the whole world
should know he had a baby.
‘ A week later he came in looking
pale and seedy. He wanted a black
derby and a mourning band.
“That was a year ago. He hasn't
been buying many hats since then, but
this afternoon he came in and bought
half a dozen of the best varieties—
derby, straw, silk, auto, tennis, every*
thing for sport.
“I'd like to see the girl. Hope we ll
get the wedding order, anyway.”
Swiss Savin gs.
Fifty years ago, in Switzerland, 180,
! 000 depositors possessed $12,000,000 in
1 167 savings banks. There are now
! 1,400,000 depositors possessing $160,000,
000 in more than 300 savings banks.
At the Woman’s Club,
j "Does your husband like calves’
brains?”
. "Oh, he's got to like ’em. They’re the
' only ones he’ll ever have! ”
TRADE AT HOME
Why Farmer Should Give
His Support to the
Local Merchant.
PRESERVES HIS OWN MARKET
Depreciation of Village Property
Must Inevitably Mean Deprecia
tion of Agricultural Property
and Encouragement of
Monopoly.
- (Copyright. IMS, by Alfred C. Clark. >
The most serious problem teat con
fronts the rural towns and villages
of this country is the competition of
fered local enterprises by the cata
logue houses of the large cities. It is
a problem for which a solution must
be found if the prosperity and sta
bility of the nation is to stand.
And the solution of th's great prob
lem lies in the han ' •. of the people of
the towns and villages and the farms,
especially the farms.
The people of the rural communities
have everything to lose and nothing
; It- you are doing these things it is
i time for you to stop antr consider the
; future. You will have to look but a
! little way ahead to see the result, and
j it will not be an attractive picture that
greets you. The prosperous com
munity of which you are now a part
will fade like the summer flowers be
fore the winter winds, and almost as
quickly.
It is the fact that there is a market
within close proximity to your farm
! that makes your acres valuable. The
| men who maintain this local market
! for you are the men who cause the
i railroad trains to stop at your town.
; Take them away and soon the town
jwill be wiped off the map. The
i churches will close for lack of support.
■ The schools will cease to be a pride,
and your sons and daughters will lack
I the opportunity that is theirs by right
j o: birth, and your acres, that are now
| valuable because they lie in close
I proximity to a market, will show a
j depreciation that will astonish you.
; Your interests are identical with
i those of the merchants of your town.
! By sending your dollars to the city
! you may cause the merchants to close
i their establishments, but when they
are forced to this they can pack their
stock of goods and go elsewhere, but
you cannot pack up your farm aad
i move it: your acres must lie in the
.
Give your town a chance by patr
may confidently expect its growth in t
real estate valuation. Send your mone
look for the reverse. The picture telli
to gain by sending their money to j
the catalogue houses, by jiassing by :
their local merchants and sending ;
their dollars to the concerns who have ;
absolutely no interest in their com
munities.
These catalogue houses do not pay j
taxes in your town; the local met- '
chant does. They do not build side
walks in your town; the Jocal mer- '
chant does. They do not contribute ;
to the building of roads over which !
the crops of the farms are hauled to
market; the local merchant does.
They do not help to build school
houses for your children; the local
merchant does. They do not assist in
the support of your churches; the
local merchant does.
But there are some things the cata
logue houses do for you and the
first and greatest of these is to assist
materially in bankrupting your com
munity. The dollars they take away
never come back to you. They will
never help to make a city of your til
lage. They will never increase the
value of your real-estate holdings by
making local improvements.
Let us look at the subject from the
standpoint of the farmer, for it is the
farmer who Is the greatest patron of
the catalogue houses.
The town or village one, two or
three miles from his home is his mar
ket for the butter and eggs and other
produce of his farm. The half dozen
or more merchants of the town, each
anxious to obtain his full share of the
business of the community, maintain
a competition thrt affords to the
farmer at all times top prices for the
products of his farm. It is these half
dozen merchants that make farm
profits possible; the profits are in no
way due to the catalogue houses of
the cities.
But the farmer persists in sending
his dollars to the city. He wants a
buggy, or a set of harness, or a pair
of stockings, or any of the necessities
or luxuries of life, and to get them he
I takes out his mail order catalogue and
looks at the finely printed cuts, reads
| the well written description, and, pass
ing the local merchant by, the nier
i chant who has purchased his produce
at the best market prices, the mer
chant who has helped to build the
community, he sends his dollars to
the catalogue house in the city and
takes what they choose to send him.
What is the result?
One after another the doors of the
local stores are closed, and where at
one time there were half a dozen mer
chants, each bidding for his share of
patronage by offering fair prices for
that which the farmer had to sell,
there is now but one merchant who
has a monopoly, not only of the sell
| ing. but of the buying as well, and he
! pays what he pleases for the farmer's
! produce.
The farmer can continue to send his
money to the catalogue house in the
city for his supplies, but he cannot
send his produce to the same place.
In disposing of that he is absolutely
dependent upon his local merchant,
and by his patronage of the catalogue
houses he has killed competition, and
must now take whatever is offered for
what he has to sell.
Mr. Farmer, are you helping to kill
the goose that is laying your golden
egg?
Are you sending your dollars to the
catalogue houses and by so doing kill
ing the local industries of your town ?
Are you putting your merchants out
of business, and creating a monopoly
that will pay you what it pleases for
the products of your farm?
jnizing your focal merchants and you
usiness and population and a raise in
i to the catalogue houses and you may
the story of the possibilities.
bed you have builded for them whether
it be fair or foil), and it is “up to you,"
Mr. Farmer, to spend your money at
home, and in this way you can solve
the greatest problem that now con
fronts this country.
Will you do it?
YANKEE IN DIAMOND FIELDS.
Commissions to Study a Country
Which Produces Such Men.
Mr. Alfred Mosely is an Englishman
who admires American ways so much
that he sends commissions here to
study ns.
Mr. Mosely does not admire us
without a reason. It is not a very
specific reason. Its name is Mr. Gard
ner F. Williams, and it is by way of
being an American mining engineer.
Mr. Williams directs the diamond out
put of the world.
Mr. Mosely made his fortune in
South Africa. He watched Cecil
Rhodes' dream of empire develop and
knew the men who made it real. The
one who took his imagination was
Gardner Williams.
Here was a man who had left
Michigan at the age of 15 to go with
a pioneering father to California in,
the flush days of the early mining
camps, had had a taste of California
mining, had gone when still a young
man to explore in South Africa and
had become a general manager of the
great monopoly of the diamond
mines. ,
A fighter of financial battles and a
manager of men, a writer, a scien^t
and one of the world’s greatest** en
gined s. he so stamped his personali
ty on the people among whom he
lived that he was feted and cheered
by all South Africa when he retired
last spring and came back to the
United States to build a home for his
leisure years in the land of his birth.
—World's Work.
Reed's Unruly Tenant.
There used to live in Portland Josept
Reed, an uncle of the late Speak*
Reed. He was a very large man, and
was never known to lose his temper
He had an office on Exchange street,
up one flight of stairs.
One day he sent one of his tenants,
who was behind in his rent, a five
days’ notice to move, which made his
tenant very mad. He called on Mr.
Reed boiling over with rage, using
some very profane language.
Mr. Reed was sitting and writing at
a desk. He replied in his quiet, easy
Aotce: Mr. Stevens, you are mad.
and you must not come up here when
you are mad."
Mr. Stevens kept right on, only
worse, if anything, when Mr. Reed
started to get up, saying in the same
easy tone of voice: Mr. Stevens, you
must go right down stairs, or I will
have to cuff you.”
Mr. Stevens went quietly down
stairs.
In After Years.
Father Time had been swinging his
scythe for 20 years when they acci
dentally met again. He was a bache
lor of 4.'., bald and slightly disfigured,
but still in the ting. She a spinster,
fat and 40. but not as fair as she used
to be.
"Do you remember," she gurgled,
I "how you proposed to me the lasc
time we met and 1 refused you?"
“Well, 1 guess yes," he replied. "It
is by long odds the happiest recollec
i tion of my life."
And seeing it was a hopeless case
! she meandered along on her lonely
way.
CARE OF THE FLOOR
USEFUL DIRECTIONS FOR THE
CAREFUL HOUSEWIFE
-:
Expert Tells of Methods He Uses in
Keeping in Condition the Floors
In a Large City Hotel.
Hardwood floors are becoming more
and more of a necessity in the aver
age home.
They are practical, sanitary and in
the end lees expensive than carpets,
besides affording opportunities for
artistic rugs.
In hotels and large houses the floors
are under the supervision of a man
who comes in once a month or so to
refurbish a ad rook them over.
Smaller households can attend to
these details themselves.
The following directions given by a
floor finisher may help some persons
who can not have their flobrs taken
care of by experts.
"The most important part of finish
ing a floor," says this man who at
tends to the large hotels in a city,
‘is to give it a smooth, soft appear
ance.
"It should be well planed, scraped
and sandpapered to give it an 'even
surface before any filling is applied.
"No. 1 sandpaper is best for this
purpose. It is ruinous to a floor to
finish it without properly preparing it
in the beginning.
"Varnish should be seldom used
on a floor. If 1 had my way I should
never use it, but some persons prefer
it for kitchens, bathrooms and floors
that need wiping with water.
"If the floor is old the flTst step is
to scrape it thoroughly, using a cabi
net makers scrapec. This is a round
ed piece of • sheet tin and does not
scratch the floor while it will remove
t .y particle of old dirt and fillings.
"If the varnish sticks badly the
hard places can be soaked with lye
and wafer before using the scraper.
“A new floor will hot have any
holes, but an old floor may have many
that will have to be puttied up .be
fore applying any finish.
“Care must be taken not to use
much oil in doing this, as it spreads
on the wood and when the hole is
filled the surface must be smoothed
with the scraper!
"The next step is to apply the -coal
ing.
’ Its object is to bring out the grain
of the wood and it should be rubbed
in with a rag. Linseed oil is good for
this. ....
"I let it lie about ten minutes be
fore wiping for the last time: ‘ When
the floor is dry i apply a coat of
shellac. I thin this, so it will dry
readily, and apply ”;,h a wide and
pliable brush. Then I wit the floor
with a prepared was which 1 VfTL by
the pounds aad use a white cotton
rag for the purpose.
"After the floor has remained in
this state over night I polish it with
the heaviest polishing iron I can use.
"Sometimes this Iron weighs 50;
pounds and the floor looks so yell
I am repaid for the effort. I always
have success if I am allowed to finish
a floor exactly In this manner.” .
If there are stain* use a little tur
pentine on a rag to remove them un
less they are ink stains, in which case
a little oxalic acid will remove them.
The true secret of good looks in
hardwood floors is never to wash them
in soap and water.
If wax makes them too slippery the
shellac alone can be supplied.
Soft wood floors can be finished tike
hardwood, and though they are more
•asily scratched they are bo be pre
ferred to carpets.
It is a mistake to put coloring mat
ter on a floor.
Natural color is always preferable
either in hard or soft wood.
For Making Good Coffee.
First, scald the coffee pot and bo
sure that it is thoroughly scoured and
no stain i9 on the Inside, then put in
about one cupful more of water than
you will require when it is done. Let
it boil hard for five minutes and.then
put in the coffee -which must be
ground rather fine? Turn the pot
away from a hot fire and let it sim
mer for ten minutes, then set it back
where it will only keep hot and settle
for five minutes. Put cream in the
cups first and pour the coffee into it.
Never attempt to use the coffee a see
ami time nor add to the old grounds.
Throw all out and start fresh with
a clean pot.
Chicken, Family Style.
Cut up a large tender fowl and par
boil briskly. Drain or wipe each
piece dry and place in dripping pan.
Then add six thin slices of bacon,
a lemon cut in thin slices, a pint of
baby olives, a can of small mush
rooms, half a dozen bay leaves, salt
and pepper. Add to the liquor in
which the fowl has been parboiled
| a pint of cream. Then pour the
J mixture over the chicken and cook
i for an hour and a half. Uncover
: the last half hour to permit the
! chicken to brown.
Boiled Beets.
I Old beets require great care in
boiling. Four hours’ slow cooking will.
38 a rule, make them tender. If they
are wilted and tough, soak them in
.'old water over night. Next morn
ing wash, put them into boiling vrater.
i and cook slowly. When done remove
i the skin by rubbing with a towel;
cut into thin slices, dish in a hot dish,
dust with salt and pepper and pour
over a little melted butter. Those
left over may be put in vinegar and
used as a garnish for potato or car
rot salad.
Apple Sherbet.
Cook the pulp of six apples in one
quart of cider, seasoned to taste with
sugar and cinnamon. When tender
rub through a sieve, cool, and freeze;
when partly frozen add the stiffly
beaten whites of two eggs. Serve in
chilled apple shells.
Oates and Cereal.
Cook any preferred cereal until well
done and just moist. Remove pits
from large dates and in their places
put roasted and shelled peanuts. Roll
in granulated sugar; heap on a dish
and surround with hot cereal.
