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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (March 8, 1925)
r Can Poverty Kill the Power to Give? By Zona Gale V... .. LIZ FRED and Lli Hsnry were finally to go to tbs poorhouse. For IS years, sines Fred and Henry Fort had died leaving their wires pennlleas, Katytown had watched tha struggles of ths two women to hold the tiny mortgaged whits house In which all four had lived. Katytown had helped all that It could—had given work and sent In food and paid taxes and even mads a Naneflt—hut now ths two aging wo *ien iWAtd bear the burden no longer, and the first of the new year the house was to he sold for debt. "And darling," said Foxhall Phelps, "It'a exactly what we'll want—that little house. Knock out a partition or two, throw up a chimney outside, build in come bookcases and swing In a few casement windows—can t you see It? With period paper on the hall?’* "Yes,',* said Marcia, "I pan "e* It-" They went together to see the house the week before It was to be sold and two months before they were to be married. Four small rooms and a passage, a good doorway and two sloping chambers filled them with de light. But this was all th# delight that they had. 1,1s Henry received them. In a vil lage sufficiently sophisticated to have Indignations, and yet rarely to ennui. Id* Henry was a bore. For 30 years ahe had bored Katytown to tears. She always told It. shout her relatives and her maladies—the* were■ all that the had.-so this was natural, but It was tiring. 0P "Evenin'. Marcia; evenin’, Foxhall,", T.l* Henry, aald. "Pretty good, I guess, only m’ feet been troublin’ me some. M' feet—” She was off. Ids Fred cams In. She was younger —hardly more than fiO. She was really younger because she was more detaejied—could hear herself speak ing. could laugh at herself. "Do shut up about your feet," she said kindly to her slster-ln-law. "They'd rather hear about my back— I know they would.” She had ft gentle, twisted smile. They told her that they had come to look at tha house. Instantly over both women there settled something like a fine white ash, dimming expression, even fea tures. , "I'll show you over,” said Id* Fred. Id* Henry began to talk. "W# both com* here brides." *he said. “We each had and lost two little children here. Don't It. seem funny—If thgse four little thing# had been spared, we might hot be going—where ws're going.” ■'Shucks. They might all have been In Jail,” aald Id* Fred. "Two pf them were girls.** Id* Henry reminded her with dignity, as If Jails were for gentlemen. "Well, they might hav# Inherited your feet,** said Td* Fred, "and my bark,” she added. "I wouldn’t be sacrilegious,” aald Td* Henry sharply. "I would,” said Id* Fred, "that miieh.” "This room Is blue and that on# Is yellow.” Marcia said softly. *•* ’ "Wl*h Aunt Julia's old mahogany,” Foxhall added In deep content. "And this adorable stairway hung with the Japanese prints—" Ashamed, she turned to the women to admire a fuchsia. "We'll give you' that when w# go," Id* Fred said graciously. There was a knocking as they reached the lower floor, and In the doorway bulked Luther Falk, the Katytown drayman. 'Tome for the stuff,” said he. Td* Henry cried, "<Oh—oil—” long and quavering, like an owl's cry. LI* Fred said sharply: "Tonight?” "I thought—you wasn't to com# for that till after New Year’s," Id* Henry, faltered. "I’m goln' up-state for Noo Year's." said Luther Falk stolidly, "so they ■aid to take 'em now. I’m to cart 'em to a rummage sale in town. The itnvea and beds I can get when T come back, after you’re—” he paused deli cately. Id* Henry continued to cry Ilk# an owl and clung to Marcia. "The fare well night was going to b# bad enough." LI* Henry eald. "Now It'll last the week." From thst room Luther Falk took the teble, the three cane seated chairs, the plush couch, the braided ruffs and the rocker with the strata of shawl*. "Anythin* more?” said he. “I'll take the dinin' room duffel out th# back door." "Sure you ran,” said Td* Fred, and closed th# door upon him. "Shut up, LI*,’’ she observed. "I'm glad to see the old truck go.” "But what will you do,” Marcia demanded, "all the reat of the week?” "Eat on the lamp shelf,” said LI* Fred. "Bad on the feet Snd on the beck—but grand for the digestion.” "We like It very much—the house,” Marcia *akl hurriedly. "We've talked with Ben Tllson—we'll let him know what we decide. "And If we do take It," Marcia went on, "I hop# you’ll both com# end spend Sunday with us sometimes—” Her words dwindled before the trjgedy In Id* Fred's eyea. "I couldn’t bear remembering," she ■aid. And abruptly she, too, began to cry—cruel, choking gobs. Without a word sfie opened the door for them, one work-worn hand covering her eyes. But when Id* Henry heighten ed her owl llke walling Id* Fred's *ol>s wer# cut off as If they had been turned off. "For mercy sakea, shut up, Id* Henry!” they heard her say as she dosed ths door. Out In th# whits street, silent save for a brush of Icy brsnehea In a algh Ing wind, Marcia had Foxhall's arm In both her own. "I can’t do It," she esld; "I can't live In that houae. Thoae two poor old ghoats would face us every day, Foxhall." "Mighty tough,” Foxhall mutteVed. "Mighty blamed tough!! But I don’t know whether we ought to give up "the houas—somebody's going to live In It,1" he argued. "Dearest, I can’t bear It," she Said. p* ®**Ths waste- and the cruelty. Those two hav# worked hard all their lives. They've done the best ihey could with their equipment—snd the handicap of the mortgage. They’ve had children gnd lost them. What kind of a conn try do w# live tn that can 1st Its old people end their dev# Ilk* that?" "I,kJJITCi'.' aald Foxhall. *U alwajg i think lt'» a rotten deal. But we can’t do anything, can we?" "Can't we?" laid Marcia tensely. "Can't we? I've got two thousand from Aunt Julia I was going to put Into furniture. Suppose I put it Into the house and you pay the rest, and we let them live In It as long as they live." "But what’ll they live on!” cried Foxhall aghast. "I could give a few muslo lessons a month and never notice It, and turn the money over to them. Think, dear, It's their lives—all the rest of all the life they've got." "And what'll we do?" he demanded. "Rent—for a, little while. Or even —wait, for a little while?" "Oh, let's rent.” said Foxhall. • He khsed her. "Ill do It," he said, "but it's your deal. I’ll own up I'm doing It mostly for you." Foxhall cam* fiack and the bottle was set to cool, with him to watch it. When th* baby nestled and grunted Marcia stooped to it. rocked it, crooned. Watching her, Koxhali thought how restfully she was un like the girls he had seen who, In the presence of a baby, became self-con scious and absurd, extravagant in adulation. Marcia was, he decided, unlike other girls. "Seems like if it clicked every time it kicked.” Ben said, "there'd he quite a rattlin’.” And when the baby cried a little: "Do you reckon it'd care to hear 'Angel’s Serenade’?” he asked earnestly. "Yes, Ben, I think she would,” Marcia told him. Ben Was playing with terrible In tentness. flame-colored in the face, his sir wholly unrecognizable, when Bart Robey came back up the stairs. other area of sensation In tha two who footed there. The house of Idr. Pred and Idz Henry was forgotten, and so were their Ineffectual tears. When they reached Marcia's home. Poxhall Insisted on coming in and watching. "Marcia, you know," he said, "I’ve seen you drive a car and lead a woman's bill meeting and make an omelet—but I never did see you care for a baby. I hope,” he added simply, "that this isn't the only one I'll see you care for.” "So do I,” said Marcia quite as simply. Marcia's mother was little and fus sy, after the manner of—1 890, per haps it was; later than hoop skirts but before short skirts. She had no gift for the casual. Kvery occurrence of life she regarded with italics and else. By noon of the day following I,ill her Falk's onslaught, the silting room and dining room of the old house were again habitable. ■'It’* only for the week," everybody said. "I.et's make 'em as comfortable as we ran for their last week. And let's carry them in all the food we can." So not only the plain, nourishing food with which Katytown had been wont to sustain these two now' found Its way to their doors, but cakes and pastry and odorous casseroles. The little pantry overflowed and the deal table In the kitchen was laden. Those who dropped In to call were carried off to the kitchen to admire. Kvery dish was known to LI* Fred and Liif^He nry by the name of the giver and was told off In the display. "It's almost like having wedding “It’s not nearly so reckless *s buy ing a car would be—and anybody would do that," said Marcia thought fully. "Bet's go and tell Tilson now before we change our minds." Ben Tilson had two little rooms over the calaboose—which was the Katytown term for police station. He lived there alone, with a cornet. They could hear his cornet all up and down Main street on summer evenings, and stragglers In the calaboose woke and clirsed or were charmed by Its wav ering strains. ‘"Nvo thousand down, - balance In payments at stated times," said he. ‘•‘Have the papers for you tomorrow. Drop In my offlre. Ooln’ to live In It yourselves, are you?" "Not—not right away," Foxball owned. Heavy boots were on the etalrs leading to his rooms. A voice waa calling: "Ben Tilson! Ben Tilson!" He flung open the door end Bart Robey, the Katytown chief of police, stood there. Bart was vast snd gen tle—all hut his boots and his voice. "Say," he said, “have you got any skim’ milk?" In his arms was a baby. "Sa^, no," Ben said Imperturbably, ’’hut I got some coffee hot on the back of the stove. I'll get a cup.” "Peach of a father you’d he,” said the chief. “You might pass ’im the root beer. Evenin’ Miss Marcia. Eve nln’, Mr. Phelps. Book at this ex hibit, will you?" It was a baby, hardly six months old. She was quite silent yive for groping breaths, but they were con tented breaths. She stared fixedly at the light of Ben’s tlpev central burner and with an air of Intense abstraction chewed a blanket corner. She wee quite clean and dainty and owned a fuzz of black hair. ‘‘Have you arrested—It, Bart?" Fog hall asked. t "Run In its ma," said the chief. “She come to town on the ’through’— got off the train drunk and mussed up. I happened to be up there and I eecorted her down to headquarters. She’s pretty sick—got the dortor with her now. Say, ain't It a cute little bundle?" "Give her to me," said Mnrola per emptorily. Hen'f room had one rocker, end there Marcia sat with the baby In her arms, "Open the draft, Ben,” she said. "It's cold here. Bart, pull down thl.i shade, please, and give rne that box for a footstool. Eoxhall, you run over to the hotel and ask Madge to boll a little water and fill a deaf bottle—a boiled bottle, Foxhall; y#u help her. .Vhat are you going to do with her?" she asked Bari. "Reave It. with Its ma, I a'pose." "But If she’s sick?” ".Tacks, I dunno." "Would you mind seeing what the doctor says about her?" The rhlef took hie orde'-s and re treated. Ban waa building up a roar lnj| fire "Hare you arrested—It. Bart?” FnThaTl asked. ; "(•It* it to me,” Raid Marrla peremptorily. Bart's round eyes had grown triang ular and his eyebrows were half moons of'concern. “They’re goLn' to take her up to the hospital," he said. “Says bring the kid and the nurses'll have to take care of It. So If you'll give It to me—" "I'll do nothing of the sort,' 'said Marcia decidedly. “I'll take her home. A hospital s no place for a well baby," she added firmly. "That's princely. Miss Marcia.” said Bart In relief. "I feel responsible because I run In Its ma. And I own up I kihd o' dread askin’ my wife to do it—she's a rigj^positiva woman. And, of course, the calaboose la no place to entertain a kid." received with an embrace et de clined with a thud. The arrival of the baby elicited the thud. • "I can't he bothered with It," ahe affirmed with declalon. "In the morn ing, Marcia, we'll take It back." "There lan’t any back," Marcia ex plained, "and I'll take care ef It, mama." Foxhall hardly heard the plaint? of Mra. Banka which went on for ?ome time. And Marcia didn't forget him—ahe vaaa too deeply in love ever to be unconacloua of him for a mo ment—but ahe waa excludlngly ab aorbed In the baby. She had found “To Hi** poor-farm—ar* you yuln'?*’ mlml 1.1* Itrnry. “Didn't 1 »«■<• you km brnt on Ilf” rrlrd I .lx Fred luiruhly. ‘‘I could keep her,” aald Ben modestly. Bart laughed hut Foxhnll aald: "Ton and I don't seem to he of much use, do we, Ben?” "Oh, yes, you do,” aald Marcia to Fox hall; "you're t# carry her. And Brii'a been the most useful of any body.” "If It wants anything In the night,” anld Ben, “and the calaboose Ig asleep—which It mill be- gimme a ting “And you'll make It some hot cof fee.” said Bart from the stairs. They parted In the Qtiler street, the chief almost violent In his thanks. The same Icy crackle was In the branches, the same protesting squeak was In the anow—but there was an some small night garment* of the younger children and aha overrode her mother with a lovely conscious nee* of being In the simple right Mr*, flank* might have some good sense but *he had not always a deeper wisdom. Th* new* that 1.1* Fred and Id* Henry had been loft In a bar* house for their final week, In Katytown mads Katytown Indignant. Bart, the drayman, claimed to act on Instructions from fieri Ttlnon, who was local poor c ommissioner. Tbs situation seized on lbs Imaglna lion of ths Katvtnwn woman, and Ihsv hurriedly arranged mailer*. A chair rvas spaced front heie. a rn* from tlisre, a Uhl* from somewhere i presents," Els Fred Mid with her twisted smile. E'nder this unaccustomed sun I.lx Fred and Elx Henry themselves took an a wintry bloom. Every morning, having now no work to do and not knowing who might drop In to bring an offering, the two put on their de cent beat—merlnoa with white lace fronte. "BecatiM we wo«'{ have no place to wear them when we get—where we're goln'," aald El* Fred sagely, “so we might as well flam out In them now." Bitting thus one evening, In their black merlnoa. upon all the borrowed furniture. It was Els Henry who brought forth first a groan and then an Idea. "Four days left." she Mid. "I keep thlnkln' of the things I meant to do for folks." I.lx Fred said nothing. Bh# was moving her shoulders In a IIM1# rook ing motion as If she was hurt all over. "I i'poae.” Elx Henry continued. "It's some like (lying—you're never quit# ready. I waa thinking about the poppyseed I promised Mis' Spate. Now I can't take It to her." "There's Mia' Walker I promised to go In and set with end read to a while," IJ* Fred said. "I ain't done It " “An' I never showed Mle' Plant that new lace stitch. Nor helped Eyddv with her sewing for the little girl ah# took In.” "What’s the us# now?" eeld Elx Fred harshly. "No us# rsktng up all that now." • I.lx Henry began to cry. "I feel like I d died and been burled." she said, “with all my sensations In me." Suddenly Elx Fred said, "Say!" El* Henry looked up, el art led and sniffling. • "We got our four days left. Why not get such tiling* don* anyway?" aald her slater. Elx Henry continued to cry forlorn ly. "We couldn't," ah# eatd, "Not with the snow so deep and all.” "They ain't got our galoshes," said Elx Fred. "Not yet they ain't. Come along let'* do some of 'em anyway. I,*r* make a list and atart out now." Elx Henry was apathetic, but aa the list began to grow under IJ* Fred s finger, ah# Joined In: "We promised Marcia Banks our fuchsia, hut aim could get that after we re gone.” "Why not have the fun of taklng«it to her ourselves?" said Elx Fred. The snow was falling gently and beautifully when the two eel out the next day. They were passably well ilresaeil a stranger seeing them would have taken them to be two motherly villager*, carrying a well wrapped plant in a friend. When they opened 1 he gale to Marcia * comfort* hie home, lliev looked like any of her niother's visitors. Indeed, until n month ago, when the poor farm had been decided on, that \\n* what they were, It was s* If ihsf decision, at on# blow, had robbed them of ala tlon and consideration. Now they seemed to have no Identity aside from that dayg four dave hence. When LI* Henry and Lt* Fred ar rived Marcia was sitting by the fire with the bahy. "Say, that's (he baby, ain’t lt?" said Id* Henry.- "We heard all about it.” Id* Fred said nothing, but with her thumb and fingers she tourhed the baby's arm. She looked at Marcia sly ly: "Kitt,en,” she aald, "ain't it?" “We brought you our fuchsia,” said Id* Henry, and unwrapped it. "We had It five years—we raised It. Ain’t it a handsome thing?" Ami when Mar cia demurred St taking it now, Ll* Fred criedj "Shucks! We wanted the fun of giving it away." “We ain't never had much of that sort of fun,” said Li* Henry, apd. if she had any stray tendency to tears, they dried under the mandatory look of Ll* Fred, who cried: "Oh, Miss Marcia, we been having the best afternoon! Te*. sir—and we're going to have three day* more just like lt.” They poured it all out, the story of the done and the undone. "And tonight," said Liz Henry. "I’m going to leach Mis’ Plant to make 'Ihree-and five.’ And tomorrow all day we re going to help Lyddy sew." "And tlext day I'm goin’ to read to old blind Mis' Walker. There's some more. too—if the commissioners would let us stay over," Li* Fred laughed. "We've gf>t time to go to old Mia' Weber's yet tonight," said Liz Henry. “We been putting it off ever since she took sick In the fall." Marcia had never aeen them ao human, so alive. She realized that she waa on their list, to he glvsn the fuchsia—It gsve her a curious and salutary feeling to he visited, on s list, instead of visiting. Marcia w-as conscious of a dignity and a presence In both these women which she had never seen—perhaps she thought, be cause eh# had always unconsciously held these two to be negligible, or at best merely to he ministered to. She thought: "Oh, I'm going to tell them now. If Foxhall has the papers, he must come up and we ll tell them now." She left the baby with them and ran to telephone to him. Then she Insisted on their staying for tea. ' Foxhall came in and Marcia turned to him with a restful sense of shar ing, which was one of the happi nesses of her love. "Foxhall's voice Is so deep and furry," she had once aald, “you Just hava to love him." The deep and furry voice had never been gentler than when he told Liz Fred and Li* Henry what he and Marcia proposed doing—and spread the deed before their eyes. Never afterward could Marcia and Foxhall think of that hour without a kind of shame that any human being ahould be so abjectly grateful for food and shelter—"For the rudiment* of food and shelter," as Foxhall put lt. It was only now that there became evident the depth of desolation which th* poor old beings had auffered. "Raised from the dead—that's what It ia." said Ll* Henry. "I ain't much —and I.i* Fred, she ain't much either —but w* thank you and God.'’ "We can't thank anybody to'i lt sound* like anything." said Ll* Fred. "Tou gottg know!" sh* cried fiercely, as they were leaving. Sh* stopped again, laid her brown thumb and finger on the little sleeve and muttered thickly: "Kitten!" Half an hour later Bart Robey called Marcia over th# telephone. “It's an awful shame. Mis* Banks.” he said. "I'm sure they done th# heat they could—but th# baby's nia—she died." To Marcia's startled question he had no satisfactory reply. No. not a word. Never really right In her head alnce they took her In. Hied without sens ing anything save that her hands kept groping around for Ihe hahy. No, no idea what her name was; no papers, no card*, hardly any money in her purse-—nothing. Sh# went hack to the library and told Foihall. She had left the baby In th* depths of a great chair, but when sh* retnmed h# had her in his arms. "Weil, then, darling." he aald when Marcia told him, "what are we going to do about th# hahy?" "Hnw exactly like you not to say ’What. *r# you going to do?’" she told him. "I'm In on thla," he said. "Shall w# keep her?" "Oh. Foxhall! We can't keep Id* Fred and Li* Henry going. In that houae, and take the hahy, too." "Oh, thunder!" aald Foxhall. "So w» couldn't." The hahy awoke and Joined in the talk with almleas gesture* and em phatic kicking. Mis. Rank* came In and, because it seemed to be her due, they told her everything. And Mrs. Banks was like the greal adamant vole# of certain "nan#” public opinion: Nonsense The child must b# turned over to the society. 1.1* Fred and Ll* Henry should have gone to th# poor farm-but that couldn’t he helped now. elnc# "you two have been so headlong. And a mercy, too, ‘if It keep* you from saddling yourselves for life with * waif " ’’Mother, dear." Marcia aald help lessly. "Oh. your mother knows best." said Mr* Banks ’’And tills remind me: I have a ft anh coffee caka for I.I* Henry and Id* Fred. I'll run over with It now." "Oh, Foxhall," said Marcia when sh* had gone. "Isn't there a better Idealism than common sense'" "You het there is.’’ said Foxhall. "nearest." said Marcia aolemnly, "oon’t you aee why It Is that I adore the ground you walk on?" They spent an hour over the figure*. They stretched and squeez ed their little hudget. But thev dare not let It Include the adoption ef two old ladles end a hahy at on# stroke. "It's no use." said Marcia at Inst. I'll telephone Bart tomorrow.'* "But were doing the less useful thing the leaa social thin*!." said Foxhall. “Id* Henry and Ll* Fred aren't so Important as this bahy '• "We're keeping our word." said Marcia. "That’s social." Ids Henry and Ida Fred were in the kitchen, before a savory slice of potroast, freshly heeled, and a dlah of baked maearonl and rheese "Though I dun no I'm aura how w« can expect to rat at all," said LI* Henry. "Oh, ain't It heaven— ain't It heaven!" "It a like having a hill rolled off yotir cheat,’’ said I,l> Fred. "Here we had an afternoon like other folks —and now this." “We haven't much furniture, but It'd Vie paradise to live in the kitch en," sal.d Li* Henry. "And I Just thought of this: That farewell night we dreaded, there won't be none!" Mrs. Banks knocked at the side door. , “Come In and have a taete of something.'' Liz Henry besought her. "Come In and help us celebrate." "We're women folks to home again, said Liz Fred, "all o&in’ to your young folks. Oh, Mis’ Banks-" "Marcia told me," said Mrs. Banks warming her hands at the conking stove. "And I must say, foolish as I think it was, I’m thankful, after all." “Oh, now that's good of you," Liz Fred cried. "Tea.” said Mrs. Banks, her thin lips tightening about her Words, "If It hadn't been for you two and the house, we'd have had a baby saddled on to us." Mrs. Banks told It, with the Katy town manner of savoring the news in her enjoyment of it. In her pleased preoccupation she did not observe that Liz Henry and Liz Fred said nothing: that when, being talked out, she went away, thev still said nothing save to thank her for the coffee cake. "Don't mention it," said Mrs. Banks. "I love doing things for folks." When the door closed behind her the two old women sat staring at each other. In that hour they seemed to have grown very old. “What we goln' to do?" said Liz Henry at last. Liz Fred threw up her head. "Do? Why should we do anything?” But the baby—" "The baby'll find a home somewhere else." "But JDss Marcia—ehe'd like to keep It—" "She'll have one of her own.” "But, Liz Fred—” "Don't 'Liz Fred' me! I got a home I don't have to be on the county. I got a place to stay the rest of my days. Do you think I’m going to be fool enough to give it up?" At this Liz Henry began to cry her terrible owl-like quavers. “N’or me. Oh, I dunno what to do either!" she wailed. "Well. I do," said LI* Fred. "I'm going to stay right straight here.” She hurried upstairs to her room. Liz Henry rose and locked the door and blew out the limip. Then she sat down by the cooking stove. In the room above she could hear her sister's chair rock on a board by the kitchen stovepipe which heated her room. The stovepipe holes showed ho light— Li* Fred, too, was sitting in the dark. Some time after midnight LI* Henry rose and lighted a lamp. She went upstairs to her own room, acrose the passageway from her sister's closed door* For half an hour she worked, gathering up her few belong ings and lavirg them In order. She rftuld hear Liz Fred moving about and thought she was preparing for bed. But when at last she came out of her room Liz Fred's door was wide open and ahe hemelf stood In a litter of the contents of bureau drawers. "Are you—ere you goin'?” asked Liz H»nry breathlessly. "Yes." said Liz Fred listlessly, “I am.” “To the poor farm—are you goln' to the poor farm’" ‘‘Didn't I see you was bent on ft?" cried Liz Fred harshly. Li* Henry crossed her threshold , — i i i They were both Winking, blinking and hentr—atlll more aged since they had last met. "It ain't no such thing," IJ* Henry cried shrilly. "If you're goin', you’re goin’ for your own reasons." "You don't know what I 'm gotn* for!" I.lz Fred blazed furiously. I.lz Henry stood for a moment, rub bing her forehead. "Well," she said at last, "it’a so late now let's lay down with our clothes on. That way there wont be no farewell night." Early the next morning, before the sun rose clear in a white east, the two went three times from the little house carrying light bundles. Casser oles and tins were left hero and there, and a store of food —roasts, macaroni, coffee cake—at old lame Mis' Bard well's and blind Mis’ Walker's and sick Mis' Weber's door. Toward 8 o'clock the two climbed the stairway to Ben Tilson's rooms. "We wanted to know if we could go—whore we’re (goin'—now,” said Liz Fred. "On the eight forty-five." "Now?" said Ben. "This morning?" Quick to sense that this was a mo ment which had better he taken ad vantage of, Ben said that he thought It could he arranged—and arranged it. He did not question them. • "Couldn't—couldn’t our things be sent after us?" Liz Fred said low. "If they're ready, might as well stop for 'em now," said Ben oblivi ously. So the two sat In the ear before the white house while Ben and the driver brought out the shabby old valises. As he turned from the lock ing of the door something in the aspect of the two still figures in the car smote him with unwonted urg- jo ency. "Kind o' tough," he said to them awkwardly. To his amazement they both looked around at him and smiled. "We are going.” said Liz Fred with dignity and distinctness, "entirely from choice." “Our own free choice," echoed Lig Henry” * j: "Of course,” mumbled Ban, not . comprehending. "And. Mr. Tilson." said Liz Henry, "on the way back from the depot wt want the man should leave this note for Miss Marcia Banks. He won't forget, will he?" "Let's leave It now," said Ben. "Plenty time." When the doorbell rang Marcia was bathing the baby and crying quietly. Her mother Vo ught her the note. It waited for her while she dried the baby and rolled her in her blanket. Then she read the ill spelled lines: "Dear Miss Marcia: “We decided on the farm after all. We think it will be an enaey life and we re both getting lazey. Much obliged all the same end love. Love agen. "LIZ HENRY AND LIZ FRED." (Copyright. 1925.) ITALY PLANNING AIRPLANE ROUTES Rome. March 7.—Italian plan* re garding civil aviation »re upon the point of taking definite shape. It noij seems possible that the first civil air line will run from Brindisi, by way of Athens, to Constantinople, touching at Dmno*. This will be Italy's first serial line in the eastern Mediterranean and its total length will be about 1,500 kilometers. The opening date of the ltna prob ably will be next July, and flights at first will be made thre* times weekly and later daily. . I - ; • tc "you just KNOW it’s well Your baby, too, can laugh, and coo and crow in tha best of health, i ' . - * %,* I ry,ou Just know it's NOTweW There is no reason for your baby to look or feel this way. CONSTIPATION means SUFFERING II Poor little thing! It can’t tell when the milk is wrong, or it has a little cold, or any of the hundred things that might happen to one so young! But Nature can—and docs. The baby becomes constipated, it cries, it frets.That is the warn ing to look out. Danger and disease are lurk mg in the body. All the poisons are bottled up m that little frame. Relieve this condition at once or you may have a very sick child. Dr. Caldwell’s SYRUP PEPSIN The Family Laxative —relieves constipation and brines the little one back to health. It restores the bowels tonormal activity and so gent ly that baby joyously laughs. It's Nature s relief for consti pation — F.gyptiansenna, pep sm and pleasing aromatics in a pleasant tasting liquid com hination prescribed by Dr. Caldwell for years m his ex tensive practice and used throughout the country for over jo wars. Gentle .As Saturt— Pkuinffy Swfrt Not ■> babv the oolx ooe w bo needs it At effective tor old tt for young. Your bowYts sb vild act at lecst twice dailv IV thev' It not, assist Nature tt millions ate doing annually. Buy a hot tit ut IV Cald weh t Sy m pIV pun now and use at directed. M,« than io,aew,ooo bott.es ae d ttmuaiiY. Illi loUl f»*f» n hri * mtvlh »n» (• •«'M <nd |uat«n!« i 1 It* II *ur ri*li \«Hir «ii u«itl*i >• lttiurn'BWf if |« fail* to do •« pnwiHd rrrsi\ sviu r o>Mfany Mt'ntU lHl«td*