SYNOPSIS.
FRAN
BY
JOHN BKECKENMDGE E1J.TS
ILLtJSTK ATION S BY"
.O-IRWIN-MYERS
»
f
(COPY&GHT 1912 '
Fran arrive*? at Hamilton. Gregory's
home in L»ittleburg. but finds him absent
conducting the choir at a camp meeting.
She repairs thither in search of him.
laughs during the service and is asked to
leave. Abbott Ashton, superintendent of
schools, escorts Fran from the tent. He
tells her Gregory Is a wealthy man.
\ deeply interested In charity work, and a
pillar of the church. Ashton becomes
greatly Interested in Fran and while tak
ing leave of her. holds her hand and is
seen by Sapphira Clinton, sister of Rob
ert Clinton, chairman of the school board.
Fran tells Gregory she wants a home
with him. Grace Noir, Gregory> private
secretary, takes a violent dislike to Fran
and advises her to go away at once.
Fran hints at a twenty-year-old secret,
and Gregory in agitation asks Grace to
leave the room. Fran relates the story
of how Gregory married a young girl at
Ppringfield white attending college and
then deserted her. Fran is the child of
that marriage. Gregory had married his
present wife three years before the death
of Fran’s mother. Fran takes a liking to
Mrs. Gregory. Gregory explains that
Fran is the daughter of a very dear friend
who is dead. Fran agrees to the story.
Mrs. Gregorv insists on her making her
home with them and takes her to her
arms. It is decided that Fran must go to
•chool. Grace show*? persistent interest
in Gregory’s story of his dead friend and
hints that Fran may be an imposter.
Fran declares that the secretary must go.
Grace betrins nagging tactics in an effort
to drive Fran from the Gregory home, but
Mrs. Gregorv remains stanch in her
friendship. Fran is ordered before Super
intendent Ashton to be punished for in
subordination in school. Chairman Clin
ton is present. The affair ends in Fran
leaving the school in company of the two
men to the amazement of the scandal
monger-? of the town. Abbott, while tak
ing a walk alone at midnight, finds Fran
on a bridge telling her fortune by cards.
She tells Abbott that she is the famous
lion tamer. Fran Nonpareil. She tired of
circus life and sought a home.
CHAPTER XI.—Continued.
As he looked fnto her eyes, all rense
0/ the abnormal disappeared. * "1 have
the imagination. Fran.” he exclaimed
impulsively, “if it is your life.”
"In spite of the lions?” she asked,
almost sternly.
"You needn't tell me ^ word.” Ab
bott said. “I know all that one need
know; It's written in your face, a story
of sweet innocence and brave pa
tience.”
“But I want you to know.”
“Good!” he replied writh a sudden
smile. “Tell the story, then; if you
were an Odyssey, you couldn't be too
long.”
•'The first thing I remember is wak
ing up to feel the car jerked, or
stopped, or started and seeing lights
flash past the windows—lanterns of
the brakemen, or lamps of some town,
dancing along the track. The sleeping
car was home—the* only home I knew.
All night long there was the groaning
of the wheels, the letting off of steam,
the calls of the men. Bounder Broth
ers had th«nr private train, and moth
er and I lived in our Pullman car. Aft
er a while I knew that folks stared at
us because we were different from oth
“Poor Little Nonpareil!" Murmured
Abbott Wistfully.
ers. We were show-people. JThen the
thing was to look like you didn’t know,
or didn't care, how much people
stared. After that, I found out that I
had no father; he’d deserted mother,
and her uncle had turned her out of
doors for marrying against his wishes,
and she’d have starved if it hadn’t
been for the show-people.”
“Dear Fran!” whispered Abbott ten
derly.
"Mother had gone to Chicago, hoping
for a position in some respectable of
fice, but they didn’t want a typewriter
who wasn't a stenographer. It was
winter—and mother had me—I,was so
little and bad! ... In a cheap
lodging house, mother got to know La
MW lit' V\vV##»U 'l l 1 *
Gonizetti. and she persuaded mother
to wait with her for the season to open
up, then go with Bounder Brothers;
they were wintering in Chicago. It
was such a kind oMife as mother had
never dreamed of, but it was more
convenient than starving, and she
thought it would give her a chance to
find father—that traveling, all over the
country. La Gonizetti was a lion
tamer. and that's what mother learned,
and those two were the ones who
could go inside Samson's cage. The
life was awfully hard, but she got to
like it, and everybody was kind to us,
and money came pouring in. ana she
was always hoping to run across a clue
to my father—and never did.”
She paused, but at the pressure of
Abbott’s sympathetic hand, she went
on with renewed courage;
"When I was big enough, I wore a
tiny black skirt, and a red coat with
shiny buttons, and I beat the drum
in the carnival band. You ought to
have seen me—so little. . . . Ab
bott, you can’t imagine how little I
was! We had about a dozen small ]
shows in our company, fortune-tellers, j
minstrels, magic wonders, and all that
—and the band had to march from one
tent to the next, and stand out in front
and play, to get the crowd in a bunch,
so the free exhibition could work on
fheir nerves. And I’d beat away, in
my red coat . . . and there were
always the strange faces, staring, star
ing—but I w-as so little! Sometimes
they would smile at me, but mother
had taught me never to speak to any
one, but to wear a glazed look like
this—”
How frightfully cold! Abbott
shivered. Then he laughed, and so did
Fran. They had entered Littleburg.
He added wickedly: “And how dread
fully near we are getting to your
home.”
Fran gurgled. “Wouldn’t Tlrace Noir
just die if she could see us!”
That sobered Abbott; considering
his official position, it seemed high
time for reflection.
Fran resumed abruptly. "But I nev
er really liked it because what I want
ed was a home—to belong to some
body. Then I got to hating the bold
stare of people’s eyes, and their fool
ish gaping mouths, I hated being al
ways on exhibition with every gesture
watched, as if I'd been one of the
trained dogs. I hated the public. I
wanted to get away from the world—
clear away from everybody . . .
like I am now . . . with you. Isn’t
it great!”
“Mammoth!” Abbott declared, wa
tering her words with liberal imagina
tion.
“I must talk fast, or the Gregory
house will be looming up at us.
Mother taught me all she knew, though
she hated books; she made herself
think she was only in the show life
till she could make a little more—al
ways just a little more—she really
loved it, you see. But I loved the
books—study—anything that Wasn't
the show. It was kind of friendly
when I began feeding Samson.”
“Poor little Nonpareil!” murmured
Abbott wistfully.
“And often when the show was be
ing unloaded, I’d be stretched out in
our sleeper, with a school book pressed
close to the cinder-specked window,
catching the first light. When the
mauls were pounding away at the tent
pins, maybe I’d hunt a seat on some
cage, if it had been drawn up under a
tree, or maybe it’d be the ticket wag
on, or even the stake pile—there you'd
see me studying away for dear life,
dressed in a plain little dress, trying
to look like ordinary folks. Such a
queer little chap. I was—and always
trying to pretend that I wasn't!
You’d have laughed to see me.”
s “Laughed at you!” cried Abbott in
dignantly. "Indeed I shouldn’t”
"No?” exclaimed Fran, patting his
arm impulsively.
“Dear little wonder!” he returned
conclusively.
“I must tell you about one time,” she
continued gaily. “We were in New
Orleans at the Mardi Gras, and I was
expected to come into the ring riding
Samson—not the vicious old lion, but
cub—that was long after my davs of
the drum and the red coat, bless you!
I was a lion-tamer, now, nearly thlr
teen- years old, if you'll believe me.
Well! And what was I saying—you
keep looking so friendly, you make me
forget myself. Goodness. Abbott, it’s
so much fun talking to you . . .
I’ve never mentioned all this to one
soul in this town . . . Well—oh.
yes; I was to have come into the ring,
riding Samson. Everybody was wait
ing for me. The band nearly blew it
self black in the face. And what do
you think was the matter?” ,_
"Did Samson balk?’’
“No. it wasn’t that. I was lying on
the cage floor, with my head on Sam
son—Samson the Second made such a
gorgeous and animated pillow!—and 1
was learning geology. I'd just found
out that the world wasn't made in sev
en United States days, and it was
such surprising news that I'd forgot
ten all about cages and lions and tents
—if you could have seen me lying
there—if you just could!”
“But I can!” Abbott declared.
"Your long black hair is mingled with
his tawny mane, and your cheeks are
blooming—”
"And my feet are crossed,*' cried
Fran.
Ana your ieet are erossea; ana
those little hands hold up the hook.”
Abbott swiftly sketched in the details;
“and your bosom is rising and falling,
and your lips are parted—like now
showing perfect teeth—”
"Dressed in my tights and fluffy lace
and jewels,” Fran helped, "with bare
arms and stars all In my hair . .
But the end came to everything when
—when mother died. Her last words
were about my father—how she hoped
some day I’d meet him. and tell him
she had forgiven. Mother sent me to
her half-uncle. My! but that was
mighty unpleasant!” Fran shook her
head vigorously. "He began telling
me about how mother had done wrong
in marrying secretly, and he threw it
up to me and I just told him . , .
But he’s dead, now. I had to go back
to the show—there wasn't any other
place. But a few months ago I w as of
age, and I came into Uncle Ephraim's
property, because I was the only liv
ing relation he had, so he couldn t help
my getting it. I’ll bet lie's mad, now,
that he didn’t make a will! When he
said that mother—it don't matter what
he said—I just walked out of his door,
that time, with my head up high like
this . . 1. Oh, goodness, we’re here.”
They stood before Hamilton Greg
ory's silent house.
"Good night,” Fran said "hastily. "It's
a mistake to begin a long story on a
short road My! But wasn't that a
short road, though!”
“Sometime, you shall finish that
story, Fran. I know of a road,much
longer than the one we’ve taken—we
might try it some day, if you say so.”
"I do say so. What road is it?”
Abbott had spoken of a long road
without definite purpose, yet there was
a glimmering perception of the reality,
as he showed by saying tremulously;
“This is the beginning of it—”
He bent down, as if to take her in
his arms.
But Fran drew back, perhaps with a
blush that the darkness concealed, cer
tainly with a little laugh. “I’m afraid
I’d get lost on that road,” she mup»
mured, “for I don’t believe you know
the way very well, yourself.”
She sped lightly to the house, un
locked the door, and vanished.
~r
CHAPTER XII.
Grace Captures the Outposts.
The next evening there was choir
practice at the Walnut Street church.
Abbott Ashton, hesitating to make his
nightly plunge into the dust-clouds of
learning, paused in the vestibule to
take a peep at Grace. He knew she
never missed a choir practice, for
though she could neither sing nor play
the organ, she thought k her duty to
set an example of regular attendance
that might be the means of bringing
those who could do one or the other.
Abbott was not disappointed; but he
was surprised to see Mrs. Jefferson in
her wheel-chair at the end of the pew
occupied by rhe secretary, whi.e be
tween them sat Mrs. Gregory. His sur
prise became astonishment on discov
ering Fran and Simon Jefferson in the
choir loft, slyly whispering and nib
bling candy, with the air of soldiers off *
duty—for the choir was in the throes i
of a solo. j
Abbott, as if hypnotized by what he |
had seen, slowly entered the auduori- |
urn. Fran's keen eyes discovered him, |
and her face showed elfish mischief ;
Grace, following Fran’s eyes, found
the cause of the odd smile, ar.d beck
oned to Abbott. Hamilton Gregory,
following Grace's glance—for he saw(
no one but her at the practices, since
she inspired him with deepest fervor
felt suddenly as if he had lost some- !
thing; he had often experienced the j
same sensation on seeing Grace ap- j
proached by some unattached gentle
man.
Grace motioned to Abbott to sit be
side her, with a concentration of at- !
tention that showed her purpose of
reaching a definite goal unsuEjiected
by the other.
“I'm so gla#'F ran has taken a place
in the choir.” Abbott whispered to
Grace. "And look at Simon Jeffi r6on
—who'd have thought it!”
Grace looked at Simon Jefferson;
she also looked at Fran, but her com
pressed lips and reproving eye ex
pressed none of Abbott's gladness.
However, she responded with—"1 am
so glad yon are here. Professor Ash
ton, for I'm in trouble, and I can’t de
cide which way it is my duty to turn.
Will you help me? I am going to
trust you—it is a matter relating to Mr.
Gregory."
Abbott was pleased that she should
think him competent to advise her re
specting her duty; at the same time
he regretted that her confidence re
lated to Mr Gregory.
"Professor Ashton.” she said softly,
“does my position as hired secretary
to -Mr. Gregory carry with it the obli
gation to warn him of any misconduct
in his household?”
The solo was dying away, and, sweet
and low, it fell from heaven like man
na upon his soul, blending divinely
with the secretary's voice. Her ex
pression “hired” sounded like a tragic
pote—to think of one so beautiful, so
meek, so surrounded by mellow hymn
notes, being hired!
"You hesitate to advise me, before
you know all.” she said, “and you are
right. In a moment the choir will be
singing louder, and we can all talk to
gether. Mrs. Gregory should be con
sulted, too.”
Grace, conscious of doing ail that
one could in consulting Mrs. Gregory,
| "too,” looked toward the choir loft,
and smiled into Hamilton Gregory's
eyes. How his baton, inspired by that
smile, cut magic runes in the air!
''Mrs. Gregory." Grace said in a low
voice, U suppose Professor Ashton is
so surprised at seeing you in church—
it has been more than five mouths,
hasn’t it? . . . that I’m afraid he
isn’t thinking about what I’m saying.”
Mrs. Gregory could not help feeling
in the way, because her husband
seemed to share Grace’s feeling. In
stinctively she turned to her mother
and laid her hand on the invalid's
arm.
"They ain’t bothering me. Lucy,”
said the old lady, alertly. ”1 can't
hear their noise, and when I shut my
eyes I can't see their motions.”
“I have something to tell you both."
Grace said solemnly. "Last night, I
couldn't sleep, and that made me sen
sitive to noises. I thought I heard
some one slipping Irom the house just
as the clock struck half-past eleven. It
seemed incredible, for I knew if it
were anyone, it was that Fran, and I
didn’t think even she would do that.”
It was as if Abbott had suddenly
raised a window in a raw wind. His
temperature descended. The other's
manner of saying “That Fran!” ob
scured his glass of the future.
Mrs. Gregory said quickly, "Fran
leave the house at half-past eleven?
Impossible.” „
"How- do you know,” Abbott asked,
| "that Fran left the bouse at such a
| time of the night?” The question was
| unfair since it suggested denial, but
his feeling for Fran seemed to call for
unfairness to Grace.
“I will tell you,” Grace responded,
with the distinctness of one in power.
“At the time, 1 told myself that even
Fran would not do that. But. a long
time afterward, I heard another sound.
irom me yara. i went 10 my w.uuuw.
1 looked out. The moon was bright,
but there was a very' dark shadow
about the front gate. I heard voices.
One was that of Fran. TJte other was
the voice cf—” her tone vibrated in its
intensity—"the voice of a man!"
“It was not Fran's voice,” Mrs.
Gregory declared earnestly.
"What man was it?” Abbott in
quired, rather resentfully.
■‘1 do not know. 1 wish now, that I
had called out.” responded Grace, pay
ing no heed to Mrs. Gregory. N.’That is
where I made my mistake. Tho man
got away. Fran came running into
the house, and closed the door as soft
ly as she could—after she’d unlocked
it from the outside! 1 concluded it
would be best to wait till morning, be
fore I said a word. So this morning,
before breakfast, I strolled in the yard,
trying to decide what I bad better do.
1 went to the gate, and there on tho
grass—what do you suppose I found?”
Abbott was bewildered. Mrs. Greg
ory listened, pale with apprehension.
"It was a card,” Grace said, with
awful significance, "a gambling card! j
As long as I have lived in the bouse, i
nobody ever dared to bring a card
there. Mrs. Gregory will tell you the
same. But that Fran. .* . . She
had been playing cards out there at
midnight—and with a man!"
"I cannot think so,” said Mrs. Greg
ofy firmly.
“After making up my mind what to
do,” continued Grace evenly, “I took
her aside. I told her what I had seen
and heard. I gave her back her card.
But how can we be sure she will not
do it again? That is what troubles me.
Oughtn’t I to tell Mr. Gregory, so a
scandal can be avoided?”
Abbott looked blankly at Fran, who
was singing with all her might. She
caught his look, and closed her eyes.
Abbot asked weakly: "What did she
say ?”
Grace answered: "She denied it, of
course—said she hadn't been playing
cards with anybody, hadn’t dropped
the card 1 found, and wouldn’t even ad
mit that she'd been with a man. If I
tell Mr. Gregory about her playing
cards with a man at that hour, I don’t
believe he will think he ot^ht to keep
her longer, even !f she does claim to
be his friend's daughter.”
“But you tell us,” Mrs. Gregory in
terposed swiftly, “that she said she
hadn’t been playing cards.”
“She said!” Grace echoed unpleas
antly. "she satd!”
"That card you found,” began Ab
It Was as If Abbott Had Suddenly
Raised a Window in a Raw Wind.
bott guiltily, was it the king of
hearts.?” Possibly he had dropped it
from his pocket when leaning over the
gate to— But why had he \ganed over
the gate?
Grjce coldly answered, ”1 do not
K-jnw one card from another.”
■'L.et me try to describe it.”
"1 hope you cannot describe the card
I found " said Grace, the presentiment
that stc was on the eve of discoveries
giving hej jyes a starlike directness.
“] suspect 1 dropped that card over
the fence.' he confessed, "for T had
the king of hearts, and last night,
about that lime t z as standing at the
gate—”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
PETRIFIED FALLS IN ALGERIA
Remarkable Mineral Formation Which
Puzzles Scientists Called “The
Bath of the Damned."
With all the beauty of a cataract of
living water, there is in Algeria a re
markable petrified waterfall which re
cently has been engaging the attention
of scientists.
This is the Hammam-Meskhutin,
■which means “The Bath ,of the
.Damneu.’’ and is located 62 miles from
■Constantine, on the site of the ancient
town of Cirta. This solidified cascade
is the production of calcareous de
posits from sulphurous and ferrugin
ous mineral springs, issuing from the
■depths of the earth at a temperature
of 95 degrees Centigrade.
“The Bath of the Damned,” even from
ia near viewpoint, looks for all the
'world like a great wall of water dash
'ing into a swirling pool at its foot, yet
its gleaming, graceful curves and the
i&pparently swirling eddie6 at its base
are as fixed and immovable as ~~if
carved from the face of a granite
* cliff.
Many centuries have, of course, gone
to the making of the deposits, and the
springs were ^ell known to the an
cient Romans. The name Hammam
Meskhutin was given to the stone
cataract in an allusion to a legend
that the waterfall was petrified by
Allah, punishing the impiety of unbe
lievers by turning all the members of
a tribe into stone. At night, so the
j story runs, its stone dwellers of the
; remote past are freed from their
strange fetters, come to life and re
sume their normal shapes.
More Treasures Leave England.
One of the best preserved master
pieces of Elizabethan interior decora
tion in England is doomed to be dis
mantled in order to adorn the man
sion of some American magnate. A
West End firm has acquired, lock,
stock and barrel, the Elizabethan
building, with its Queen Anne addi
tions, known as Rotherwas, the seat
of the Bodenham family, situated
about two and a half miles from
'Hereford* The mansion had descend
ed in unbroken line from George
Bodenham, who lived in the reign of
Henry I. to Count Lubienski Boden
ham, who died last year. The superb
paneling—Elizabethan, Jacobean and
Queen Anne—of thirteen of the apart
ments is now to be taken to New
York. Rotberwas is mentioned in
Domesday Book.—London Globe.
Age and Celebrity.
“In a few days,” says a letter in a
Vienna paper, “Adelina Patti, born in
Madrid of Italian parents, will reach
the age of seventy. Since her seventh
years, when she made her first appear
ance on the concert state, she has
been known the world over, and al
though she is now the Baroness Ceder
strom we know her still as Patti. She
was only a little girl when, in 1S59,
she appeared in ‘Lucia di Lammer
moor,' and as Rosina in ‘The Barber,’
but she never, in the course of her
long stage career, received greater
applause than she did on those occa
sions. I heard her when she came to
Vienna for the first time, in 1863. I
remember it so well, and also my en
thusiasm, that it seems difllcult to
think of the singer as seventy years
old—except when 1 look in the mirror.
HAD NO DELUSIONS AT ALL!
__ i
Sweet Angelina Did Not tiive the
Sweet Response Henry So Ar
dently Expected.
Love s young dream ts indeed a
beautiful thing. Sweet Angelina and
Henry thougnt it hardly possible such
bliss could be theirs as they sat on
the river bank in the cool of an Aug
ust evening.
They met only at week-ends, for
he was a toiler in the eity, and he
f jund it cheaper to lodge near his
work.
And now the blessed week-end
spent at home was here, and he could
see nothing but uninterrupted happi
ness till Monday morning. He slipped
his arm round his sweetheart's waist.
“Dearest!” he said.
Her gaze was fixed on the water.
“Darling!" he murmured again,
drawing her, towards him. “Can you
guess why I come home every Satur
day?”
“Yes," was the scarcely whispered
answer.
“What is it, dearest?” he asked.
anxiously waiting for the sweet re
ply that he felt sure must be hovering
on those pretty lips.
"It s—it s for your clean clothes,
isn't it?" she queried softly.
Turkish Slaves.
Abdul Hamid's view that the slave
in a Turkish household ia much better
off than a servant girl is fully support
ed by Mr. Duckett Ferriman in "Tur
key and the Turks.” The chief points
urged are that the owner is responsible
for the slave's maintenance and cannot
turn her adrift, that she is treated as
one of the family, has light duties, and
is taught accomplishments, and that
she has chances of a rich marriage.
An Englishwoman, governess and com
panion in a house on the Bosphorus,
was asked by some English visitors
who were the charmingly dressed girls
they saw. "Servants.” she said, mean
ing to spare the girls' feelings. But
when the visitors had gone the girls
bitterly reproached her for "shaming"
them. “You are a servant. You are
paid, we are not. We are slaves, not
servants. Why did you tell a falsehood
to shame us?”
i
Origin of the Hall Mark.
The name of hall mark derives from
the ancient monopoly of Goldsmith's
Hall in establishing the standard of
gold and silver articles. In the pres
ent time the marks are more common
ly known as plaee marks. These are
in four items, a mark designating
standard or quality, one indicating the
office at which the assay was made,
the mark indicating the year of assay
and the private mark of the manufac
turer. So important are these marks
on old plate that there has arisen a
knavish industry of cutting out old
marks from insignificant old pieces
and embedding them bodily in modem
fabrications. The more recent work
on the subject is Chaffer's "Handbook
to Hall Marks on Gold and Silver
Plate,” which makes it quite easy to
read the record ciphered in these
signs.
Only Three Classes of Cheese
Not lees than 156 distinct kinds of
cheese made in Europe and America i
were described many years ago, but !
the slight variations of these kinds
are almost innumerable. In a new
work. Prof. H. H. Wing of Cornell uni
versity roughly divides the many kinds !
into three general classes. These owe
their leading characteristics to: (1) j
the amount of water removed, giving
hard and soft cheeses; (2) the addi
tion or subtraction of fat in the form
of cream, and (3) the peculiar germs
of fermentation, which give rise to
the multitude of flavors.
All Off.
Jack—So the doctor said you had
tobacco heart. Have you told your
fiancee?
Tom—Yes, and she's given me the
marble one.
Close Shave at That.
Bix—So you are now living in the
suburbs? Do you have to walk to the
train mornings?
Dix—No, run.—Boston Transcript.
Oh, My, Yes!
Griggs—I hate to play poker with a
hard loser.
Driggs—It's a hanged sight better
than playing it with an easy winner.
Defined.
“What's a coquette?”
“The girl you can't get.”
Strange.
Strange things happen. The other
evening vre were kept awake for an
hour or so by two men arguing a cer
tain question and for once the man
with the loud voice was right.
Did Him Injustice.
Old Lady—I heard you swearing Just
now. You have a bad heart.
Traps p—You do me injustice, mum.
U isn’t a bad heart; it’s a bad tooth.
Some Pitcher.
She — My! Isn't the man who
throws the ball for our side Just won
derful! He throws it eo they hit It
every time.—Puck.
Two is company, but three is a mul
tttude when father butts in.
_ •
Don’t Be
“Grouchy”
just because your Stom
ach has “gone back” on
you. There's a splendid
chance for it to “come
back” with the aid of
HOSTETTER’S
STOMACH BITTERS
It soothes and tones the
tired nerves, promotes
bowel regularity, aids di
gestion and will help you
back to health. Try it
DAISY FLY KILLER
nameotal, eon-'enieijt.
•Leap. Last a al l
aaasea Made c*
metal, ean’taplilof wj*
over, will not noil or
1njara anythlog.
Uaaraateed efTeetlv*.
Alld«al«reorCneri
exorees neld for ■< Ou,
■AEOLD SOHEEfl IB® D«£*lb ivi., Bro4klyo N T.
4
+■
Treat Them
to the treat of treats— ^ 'j
always welcomed, by all,
everywhere—
r
At \
{Send Soda
•or ‘Fountains
^ree or Carbon
Booklet ated in Bottka
N THE COCA-COLA COMPANY, Atlanta, Gn.
, "Cinema.”
The protest against the popular pro
nunciation of "Cinema” is just too !
late. Mr. Keble Howard has spelled it j
'Slnnemer,” and he is so farlright by 1
the ear of a London listener. And Mr. j
Fllson Young has worked by the eye
and found that, the correct pronuncia- :
tion should beindicated as "Kyneema,” j
which—if we are able to talk Greek— j
is right. But unfortunately there is
no royal mint for words, and the new j
thing Is generally christened and nur- j
tured and ennobled by the talk of the
street. Any one may throw & new ;
word on the counter and say it as he |
pleases. The street boy has triumphed 1
with his “Sinnemer.’'—London Chron ■
icle.
Had Gone Too Far to Change.
Little Helen and Jack had grown
up together, and when Jack finally
outgrew dresses and donned his first
trousers Helen insisted that she, too,
be allowed to have a pair. But Jack
said: “No, you don't, either, ’cause
you started out to be a girl and you’ve
got to keep it up.”—Chicago Tri
bune.
_
Comforting Companion.
"So you went to the big outing?” i
"Yes,” replied Mr. Growcher, ‘ and
I want to say that there is nothing
like a picnic to make a man realize
what a nice cool place his office is.”
Body That Does the Work.
“Who presents people at court,
pop?’’
-”ln this country, my son, it is gen
erally done by the grand jury.”
Good Reason.
"Does Larkin boast of his family
tree?”
1 "No. It’s too shady.”
Value of Toads.
The common garden toad Is coming
into his own, and the full'measur* of
his worth to the farmer and gardener
is explained in a bulletin recently Is
sued by the Nebraska experiment sta
tion. It says: "Superstition anti Ira
dition have invested the toad with re
pulsive and venomous qualities. As-a
matter of fact, B. F. Swingle, a noted
authority, declares the common toad
has a cash value of $10 to the man
with a garden. Examination of the
stomachs of 149 toads proved that 98
per cent, of their food was of the fol
lowing character: Bugs, beetles
spiders, potato bugs, thousand-legged
worms, weevils, tent caterpillars and
grasshoppers. These were eaten by
thousands. Wire worms, army worms,
crickets, cucumber bugs and rose bugs >
were relished just as well. In uuu
stomach 77 thousand-legged worms
were found. One toad In captivity,
snapped up 86 flies in ten minutes.’'
Water in bluing is adulteration. Glaus and
water makes liquid blue costly. Buv Red
fro*s Ball Blue, makes clothes whiter than
snow. Adv.
Wise Directions.
"When you come to a fork In the
road, take it.”
"1 will, if it is a sliver one.”
Mrs.Winslow's Soortainj* 8yrup for Children
teething, softens the gums, reduces intlauinu*
tica,&;;*Ys pain,cures wind coiic\25ca bottleju*
It was feminine curiosity- that led
to the discovery of Most* in the bull
rushes.
LEWIS' Single Binder, straight 5c—many
smokers prefer them to 10c cigars Ad\.
• Luck may be merely a case of not
being found -out. 1
9
Delicious - Nutritious
_ Plump and nut-like in flavor, thoroughly cooked with
choice pork. Prepared the Libby way, nothing can be mor$
appetizing and satisfying, nor of greater food value. Put '
up with or without tomato sauce. An excellent dish ^
served other hot or cold.
Insist on Libby’s
Libby, McNeill * Libby /
Chicago \
—
