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SILK HAT HARRY'S DIVORCE SUIT-
Well, That's Different
Copyright. 1911 National News Ass'n.
Drawn for The Bee by Tad
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1m I 1
mesrtduch Mtrg- stage Struck at Forty
III I " Ju w I - I "
Married Life the Third Year
Helen is Taken 111 in London and Warren Leaves Her
in the Hotel Alone.
.J
By MABEL HERBERT URXER.
i
mi
tBy MABEL HERBERT URNER.
Helen- opened the door, gave a ' quick
shuddering glance around the hotel room,
the hrew herself across the foot of the
bed., ; .... ......
. She wet 111 tremblingly, qulvcringly 111.
Hot and cold
flashes were sweep
ing, over her.
'rlt had come upon
her suddenly while
she was going
through the British
museum. How she
got back to the
hotel she did not
know. There, .was.
a dazed recollec
tion 'of askfng a
policeman what bus
to take, and of the
rifle back, which
seemed ' endless
but nothing was
clear.
And now she lay
there too weak to
even take off her
, thingsf What was it?' Was she going to
H ill-- ' " v ,
' '-JT'oHljr sTiecoufd ' reach' Werrenf She'
was terrified at' the thought of behig
there alone until S-the time they had
arranged to meet. But there was no way
ehe could get him by 'phone. v ;
-Wlta determined effort 'she 1 arose, 'got
out of her clothes and Into a loose dress
ing ifown, but she was so diszy she could
hardly stand.
..Oh, how good It. felt to slip. in between
the cool, fresh sheets, for now she was
burning with fever. In a moment her hot
face had warmed the pillow and she
moved her head for a cooler spot.
She, had intended -to Tlag Tor the. maid
yfhlle" she was. up, and now she lay looking
at the hell, dreading the effort it. would
tike 'to reach it. r Her whoW body seenied
to ,' shink'. from motion; she .wanted oiiily
to-lie jStUL ' V ;' !k ?:' .; . ;'
When once more she finallyf arced her
self, out of bed and -over to. .the bell, she
cfept'back again with a wave of nausea
surging through her, while the .whole
room seemed to sway.
The maid came, a typical English nald
with white cap' and" rosy complexion.
With quick sympathy she asked if
madame was. 111.
Helen sent .her for , some Ice water
"with, ice in It." For the lukewarm water
the English drank' always sickened her.
Never .haj .the clinjiiing of ice against'
a pitcher sounded so grateful. The maid
put the water on 'a stand by the bed and
Helen drank eagerly a large glassful.
'Perhaps madam's has had a chill,'' she
suggested, when'. Helen told her of the
hot and cold flashes and the cold per-
spiratlon. . ..
A chill. Strange that she had not
thought of that. Unquestionably it had
been a chill. But it was more than that
now, for she was conscious of a sore
throat and of a curious ache In every
Umb.
"Would madame like to see a doctor?"
Helen hesitated. She knew nothing
of the Kngllsh doctors ,and ill as she
was. she hc.I visions of enormous bills.
;"No, I think I'll wait till my husband
comes he'll be here at 6."
"If you'll take a little brandy, ma'am,"
ventured the maid. "That's always good
for a chill."
"There's a flask of brandy in Mr. Cur
tis' satchel the one over there on the
chair. I don't think it's locked."
When the niald had gone she lay back
with closed eyes. The brandy was ting
ling through her, bringing a delicious
sense of drowning. Her thoughts grew
confused. ' In a few moments she "was
asleep.
"Hello there! What s all this?"
She awoke with a stari to And Warren
standing beside the bed. For a moment
she was too dazed to speak. Then s'he
murmured a vague:
"Oh, dear. I'm so sick"
"Sick?. What's the trouble?"
",t'h. afraid I've bad a chill."
"Chill? Nonsense!, Something you've
eaten has upset you." ,
"But, Warren, I've a fever now. Just
feel how hot my face is."
; Helen was not one of the many women
who exaggerated and take advantage of
every slight Illness that they may receive
more sympathy and attention from their
husbands. Yet she was now conscious of
a thrill of something like satisfaction
when Warren felt her forehead and found
Jt so feverish that the curt indifference of
his manner was somewhat modified.
"Yes, you ara a Httle feverish," he
admitted. "You've taken cold, that's all.
It's this confounded climate. Upsets any.
body. Don't feel well today myself."
It was one of Warren's characteristics
that whenever Helen felt badly he would
always make some remark about not be
ln. well himself. ......
He had not kissed her since he entered,
and now she put up a tremulous hand to
draw down his. head. Y ,
"Oh, , I'm ' all - dusty," - drawing back.
"This London, grime'cuts into your skin.
Let me get washed up." y
"Guess you' don't feel like going out to
dinner?;' :i ;--' r .
y'Oh.iWarrenJ''BhejCouid not "keep the
reproach out of her tone. ,' ; ' :" ,' . .
'"Well". I'm not asking you to. "Needn't
put 'on such an Injured ' air. . What do
you want send up heVef' V
'.':irt '.i"a rush'jit" cameXto Helen that she
was. to be le'ft alone -again that 'he was
to send .wp her -dinner' and go out for his.
WASTAKiNfr ATSO-paFtC
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GAteO AT (S eAUi OOlvie
F A Rich oto iAOv rATTO
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TiuT Me SMOTTHS CAUQU t-ATTTt
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FQA. An Hour
4 t
Little Bobbie's Pa
. , : By WILLIAM F. KIRK
Pa. was telling Ma last ntte all about to read -. his
a grate poem which he has Jest finished.
As soon as we have finished our dinner,
'he Bed, I am going to read it all to you.
It isent vary long
Pa sed, about three
hundred words, &
It la all in blank
verse. You dldent
know I was- grate
at - riteing blank
verse, did you? sed
Fai" Mo, sed Ma, to
tell-you the truth
I dldent Of course,
she- sed to Pa.
moast of the verse
you have rote
seemed kind of
blank to me, as I
toald yod beef oar,
but as soon as din
ner is oaver me & llttel Bobble will fold
our hands kind of pashunt like & hear
you read your poem.
I know you will enjoy It. sed Pa. "The
scene is laid in Anshunt Rome,' & the
hero Is a man named Claudius. . He luvs
a girl named Alba. Alba means whits
In Latin, Pa sed.
Pass the potatoes to Bobble, sed Ma,
& fix that dressing for the salad. Thare
is time enuff for llssenlng to your poem
after we have had our food.'
I , wish you , wuddent use that ' word
"food" said Pa. It isent a poetic word. !
,It Isent poetic to talk with yure month
full, eether. sed Ma. but newer mind,
deer hart, we will hear your poem after
the coffee. ,
After dinner Pa was in such a hurry
poem .thatT even helped
Ma to-wash the dishes. Wen everything
was ail fixed up, "& wi was .sitting in
the parlor. Pa began to read. The
nalm of the poem was Claudius A Alba.
Fair Alba leaned out from the :porlo
Watching the turgli Tiber slip away
And dreaming of her lover Claudius.
Her darkling eyes were like a hidden
pool
That leafy trees conceal & yet reveal.
And then he came, the grate Centurion,
With shining armor and with clanking
sword. ,
For one breef moment thare thay stood
& then
He swept her to his brest & sed My
Alba!
If tie had armor on. Red Ma, I shud
think it wud have hurt Alba's face to
have it slammed up aggenat a iron cor
set. Peets newer think of them things.
sed Ma. I was reeding in the paiper the
other day about a poet that always took
two hours to dress, beekaus he cuddent
git down to erth long enough to think
whare he had left his socks, etc., the
nlte beefoar. Go on, sed Ma. '
I will not go on. sed Pa. You doant
know enuff to appreciate good poetry.
Then Pa went Into the library ft sat
neer the llttel walnu; closet ware he
keeps round bottels & square bottels.
some chap named Viereck or something
like that, and Mister Viereck said that
being a poet, he knew that poets was
all either insane or on the road to the
bug home. He said that nearly all great
poets had been kind of balmy in the
block, thinking that they was being pur
sued by goldfish or seeing their own
doubles, or some such nonsense. He told
about one French poet that died think
ing he was surrounded by a flock of
black butterflies."
"I don't see how that should worry
your brother," said the Head Barber.
"He isn't enough of a poet to ever let
that make him crazy."
"But he thinks he Is, just the same,"
said the Manicure Lady, "and that Is
enough. When he wanted to throw
the page away I took it out of his
hands and kept on reading stuff about
i "vta i.o.ns crnsy until he flared up
and left the room. Mo and Sister May me
was laying tor him when he got back,
and we kept talking about Matteawan
and Mister Thaw and Ward's Island,
until I guess poor Wilfred was ready
to let himself get tied Into a straiUacket."
"You oughtn't to do that," said the
Head Barbsr. "Lots of folks has been
made nutty by what them scientists
call mental digestion or something of
that sort."
"Wilfred ought to know better than
to believe them stories, anyway," said
the Manicure Lady. "I don't believe
them Sunday articles in the papers about
the bones of mastodons being found on
the site where Mark Antony made love to
Juliet and how the first king of Egypt
has just been found, a mummy, in one
of the pyramids. I always think of what
Ueorge Ade wrote once about a Janitor
whose name was Ernest. Mister Ade
wrote about Ernest that he had been
kicked In the head by a mule when he
was young and believed . everything he
read in the Sunday papers. When I go
home tonight I am going to soothe tbt
poor boy's feelings,, most likly by slip
ping him. half a dollar and telling him
that poets Isn't any crasler than any
Other people."
"I only knew one poet." said the Head
Barber. "He wrote lyrics for shows. I
guess he is writing them yet. His name
is Billy Jerome."
"Is he crasy?" asked the Manicure
Lady.
"Like a fox,' said the Head Barber.
By WINIFRED BLACK.
on the stage, my friend
ft '"'" '
! )
"Gee, It's Great to Meet a Friend from Your
Home Town."
By HAL COFFMAN.
He'd Got Religion.
'Parson." exclaimed F.nhr.i !.. .
ligion-'ltgton. I tell you!" "ul
"That's fine, brother! You are going
to lay aside all sin?" "
'. eah."
"You're going to church?"
"Yes, sah-ree." -
'.'.T?u ar soing t0 Cftr for the widows?"
"Ah, yes. sah."
;,'J0U.r!L oln Pay your debts?"
"Sah? Dat ain't 'Ugton; " dat's , busl.
nesa' Judge.
VCsE&jrrsy - -r. .it- ft i
Site's going
of .
She has a pretty town house, a rather
Stunning country place ,a good husband,
two grown children,
a circle of friends,
a good cook, five
new gowns every
season, a fair auto
mobile, two pet
dogs, a thumb ring,
five sets of dang
ling earrings, a
rather decent fig
ure,, good eyes, a
voice tike a pea
cock, well mani
cured hands, a fad
for actors and
about as much abil
ity to act as as,
oh, as to ' conk a
good dinner, and If
her cook should leave her you'd starve to
death rather than dine at her house.
But for all that, she's going on the stage.
"I have the temperament, the physique,
the face and the ambition," she said when
she told me about It. "I'm tired of thlp
empty life of teas and bridges and auto
trips; I want to live, to breathe the
higher air; I want to express my soul."
"What piece have you selected for your
debut?" I ventured to ask.
"The Vampire,' she replied promptly.
"They are dramatising It for me. It's a
glorious part;" and the woman of 40
looked at herself In the mirror, settled
her hair, nipped In her waist, made eyes
at the looking glass and laughed "lightly,"
like her favorite heroine in her favorite
book.
I couldn't stand It a minute longer; I
really couldn't; so I went home.
On the way home I met the actor, I
know. I told him about the woman of
40. He threw up his hands.
"Save us," he said, "what Is the stage
coming to. They are all there at the
stage door, the women of 40. The girls
have all got some other fad these days.
It's the women who drive us mud now.
What, Is she going to play-'The Vam
pire'?" "How did you know?" I asked. "Have
you met her?"
The actor laughed. "Not this one,"
he gurgled hysterically. ' "I didn't have
to, they are all going to play that. 'The
Vsmplre.' or 'Zeis,' or Camllle.' They
all fancy themselves sirens, the poor
things of 40, who are going on the stage.
One pursues me night and day trying
to get me to put her on In 'something
rather 'sensational, don't you know, where
my face and figure would be the thing,'
and If I had my way I'd put her In an
old ladles' homo and get her to knit
tidies for the parlor chairs.
What on earth has got hold of them?
Who Is It that Is telling them they can
act, and why, oh, why, do they want to
be vampires, and sirens, and ladies who
lure? Scarlet frock In the first act, black
and spangles In the Isst act, cigarettes
all through. That's the way good old ma
laid It all out for me the other day. and
the only place In the world that good kind
woman would look like herself is out in
the kitchen making jam.
"Crasy, every one of them, craxy as
bats. Think they can go on the stage and
fnsclnsto the public sfter they've brought
up all their children and got father com
fortable at the club. It's really too bad."
And, really, do you know, I believe
It Is too bad. I wonder what on earth'
It all means?
What has become of all the good
comfy women we used to know, women
who were forty and glad of It. women
who let out their corsets and put on
loose shoes, and tied their hats on with
a rubber, and let It go at that?
All gone, disappeared, vanished Into
the beauty parlors to be made over
Into twenty. I wonder why?
Forty Is the fine age, the most comfy
sge In the world, if we'd only live it.
No more weepy hours because "he
danced oftener with the creature than
with me," no more miserable night try
ing to figure out just how to manage
to make over the old frock so your
dearest friend wouldn't know It.
You had a struggle of It that first
year or so, but the business Is settled
now, and - things are going pretty well.
Fat? Of course you're fat You ought
to be at forty. You know what to at
and how to eat It; you know when to
rest and how to enjoy It; you can pick
out the kind of book you like at one
glance; you can tell the summer bore
with one look, arid you understand just
exactly how to get rid of htm..
Tanned? Pooh, what do you care?
You can throw back jour , veil and love
the wind and the sun and glory of all
outdoors, while poor little Sweet-and-Twenty
has to swaddle herself in gause
to keep that complexion that is the
only thing she has.
Friends? Hosts of them all the sort
you want; you've learned how to get rid
of the other sort.
IU
Enemies? Not one in. the world. Yqu
have found out what a nuisance .It la S
stay awake nights and hate anybody on
Moonlight, music, love and flowers
you've had them all,, and have them yet
If you amount to anything; and you cut
wear you're old shoes out into .the mooju
light and be comfy. , ' A'i
Forty Is the glorious age, the comfy
age, the age of reason, the age of de
licious understanding, the time of quiet
friendships and holpful companionships.
Why, you can speak to the lonesome
young fellow in the train at 40 and ss?
something to comfort him. At 9) yds
would have to bridle If he even looked
your way. . w
Life, life, life-full, rich abundant;
friendly, open-eyed, sane, JoyoUs, undeli
standing life that's what 40 means at Its
best. Who would give It up for the
longings, the wondertngs, the uncertain
ties, the anxieties, the sad' hopes of Stt
who but my friend who is "going o'R
the stage?" Poor thing, what a miser
able time she'll have when she Wakes up
from her foolish dream!
Get the chance? Why, of course, shi
will. She has money, end some otve
wants some of It. She'll get the chance;
all rlght-in Peoria, or Metuchen, or any
where where the sad, sad spectators "s(p
some wretched night and gaze at eatfn
other, and wonder what It all meana,
and what she Is trying to do in the red
frock In the first act and the spanglei
In the second, and the cigarettes afj.
through. ' ..
And husband, and the boy in college,
and the girt at home from boardlm)
school? Poor things, they'll all tw!
ashamed of "mamma," and when alt hei
money Is gone, end all the spangles ari
off the black dress, and the scarlet frock
is In the pawnshop, she'll telegraph hom4
to husbsnd, and he'll take the first train
and go after her and bring her honw h
from Podunk, or Saskatchewan, or somej
where home to common sense and com
fort and kindness. And maybe, some day,
she'll see what a goose she's been, and
she'll tell husband all about It, and hell
pat her shoulder and say, "There, there.
It's all right; they didn't appreciate yom
that's all." ' , ' '.
And then maybe my friend will look at
the good man she humiliated and trie
children she deserted, and be a1 ltttlel;
Just a little, ashamed but not' too muchl
tempermental" people ' don't Seem w.
know very much about that sort of thing,
do they? ':''. ' '
Mystified Social Worker;'.
Social workers, like the rest of humarfr'
kind," are liable to mistakes, and. these
sometimes lead to humorous compllcsA
lions. Not long ago a young woman ws&i
sent to ask an old man for the corree
address of his grandchildren. The stretttj
number given as the old man's place ii
residence turned out to be one of tfci
15-cent Bowery lodging houses. Only on?
person was In evidence in the lobby and.
the visitor made known to him her wIsH
to speak to Mr. Blank. The man .dlsalSf
peared through a door In the rear ani
returned with an elderly man at wboM
he waved his hand, saying, "Thla genUe-',
man." which the young woman undeto'
stood to mean that the newcomer wis
Mr. Blank, whereas he was the proprietor
of the establishment '-..
Naming the society from which sh
came, she stated her business without
pause. "I have come to get the address
of your grandchildren." The proprietet'
seemed somewhat puszled and said: "I
lave no grandchildren." It did not dawjj
upon the investigator at once that sh'
had the wrong man. She was trying to
think how she might possibly" ha$.
mixed the Jacts of two cases, and she,
murmured: That is very strange.'! "Not,
strange at all, ma'am," said the jue)
tloned one, .fl am a single, man." New
Tork Tribune. "':'.,
SSSBBBBSSB N ;
M ef a Crnle. , ;..r&
A blasted hope should always be put
out of Its misery. " ,
Dumb luck may be the result of keeplu
one's) mouth shut. ".. . ,-
Is the money that makes tho: mare go
the kind that Is invested in wild cats? :y.
Every man must take a certaf amount
of back talk from hie own conscience .
Wouldn't It be fine If we could onljf
pay board as easily as we can look that
way?- - '',
Many a fellow gets that tlrel feel in?
after he has annexed rich fathetin
law. ..... .
An optimist is a man who not ' only
hopes for the best but actually expects
U get it ., ," .,';',
There Is only one thing worse than
running up against a bore, and that is to
have him run up against you. .v
The great trouble with must young m--n
is that they don't think so-lously abcut
marriage until they are nu.-rwd.
The average woman's .ambition Keenv
to be to look younger than she Is and tu
act younger than sue looks. iv m
Tim :. - --- ,
