Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 5, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 January 1913 — Page 3

SOUGHT A CAREER

It Was a Rough Road, but a Check for SSO Came at ( Right Time.

By LOUISE HOWARD.

Mavis had not a trace of temperament—her name to the contrary notwithstanding. Necessity, hard and grinding, combined with half-opportu-nity, had put her in the way of scribbling for profit. That is to say, her Sunday school teacher had been a wife to the editor of a rather important provincial newspaper. She it was who had got Mavis’.early efforts into print. She it was likewise, who, when the girl was sweet and twenty, and had sold one short story to a ten cent magazine, had counselled her to go cityward. “I feel sure you have a career. Go to meet It,” the dear woman had said. Mavis had obeyed. How after three years she smiled recalling the speech, then sighed thankfully, to know her monltress had gone to the Great Beyond, and would never know how futile had been her prophecy. If a career did really lie in wait for her, it had, so far, successfully eluded her. Unknown, sensitively proud, conscious of her provincialism, it was rather woderful that the girl had not starved. She still wrote, desperately, in intervals of sewing, substituting for * friend casually met who worked at the ribbon counter, and exercising pet dogs.

Naturally the things she sent out were crude —but with some vital touch in them that now and then appealed, and won acceptance. This was unfortunate —acceptances were just frequent enough to keep alive hope, pay postage, and buy good yellow paper. Mavis hated the yellow paper. She promised herself that in the good time ahead, she would use nothing but the most spotless linen.

This''fall, she had been more than ever beset by the writing impulse. Consequently the drain on postage had even scanted her daily bread. Where she had devoured two loaves, she now made ons do, supplemented by crackers for lunch. She had found a place to' get the most wonderful crackerbargains—five pounds of broken ones in a stout bag, for twenty-one cents. It was rather appalling to eat through such a bag—but. there were sundry ways of helping. Steamed crackers, for example, tasted wholly unlike dry ones. The steaming was managed over the gas jet, in the little stewpan that cooked everything. When she had sewing, which meant pay at the end of the job, she had hot milk. At other'times, hot water, barely dashed with syrup, warmed her for her work, if it did not greatly nourish her. December had been wonderful —Indian summer balmier than May. She had been extravagant enough to go out and revel In the balm, through hours that ought to have been given to work, even though she had no dogs to lead Her patrons in that line lingered in the country. But one or two had glven her sewing—making over, mending, beading. Altogether, Mavis felt reasonably sure of a Christmas dinner. Debt she would have none of —her rent was paid always to the day. Summing up her resources, she calculated that she could pay everything, and have ten dollars over. And she meant to spend one of the dollars upon a dinner. Dinner at the restaurant where all was appetizing and savory, was only seventyfive cents. But she meant to buy a flower for her rusty coat, also to tip the waitress, and wish hy luck—also being very extravagantly minded, to take cognac with her black coffee. She lived over the dinner in anticipation, almost every night. It helped with the sewing, and also with the milk and cracker diet. Two days before the holiday she had* everything finished. Since she couhted carfares religiously, she set out then to deliver her various parcels in one round. The round would run through almost a hundred blocks, to say nothing of zig zags crosstbwn. But“by contrivance, and transfers, she could make it cost only fifteen cents. Beckoning cash in hand, she found that after paying it she would have left little more than her rent.

The day made her almost forget that sact —it was so softly bright, so filled with heay distances. Dreamily she let it soak in. as she went down a hand* some street, with tall houses either side, and motors standing at ease in front of every other one. But coming back her steps lagged sensibly—the maid had taken her parcel eagerly, but had said: “Mrs. Gray is in the country—she’ll send yer money whin she comes In.” What if the others —Mavis stopped there, with something like a chill. As she came to the "car line, a sudden apprehension held her so strongly she resolved to walk to the next place, in spite of the parcels. Only twenty blocks np town and two across. She would ride then —of course if she got money. She d’d not ride thence —nor from any of the other places. It was the same everywhere—she would have to wait. Sh« walked home, getting there spent and white-faced at dusk. Stuck under the door was a long thin envelope—s’ght of It was the blow of all. It brought back the thlruj of -wh’ch she had liveliest hope—a bit of hufnorous verse, eent out a month before. Commonly that special editor sent bark things within a week. Cheques from him came In smaller envelopes of a cheerful pink ■color. i * '

Before her hat was off, there came a knock—outside was the landlady saying, ,‘Tm going away over Christmas —if you could —* She got no further —Mavis was crowding into her hands the only bill in her purse. WheflSshe had her receipt carefully signed, she sat down weakly—too depressed to think even how tired she was.

Next day, after a supperless sleep, she took stock of things. She had seventy cents in hand r-to last she could not tell how long. Moreover breakfast took the last four crackers — the bakery was a mile off, but she walked to and from it for her new supply- thus saving car fare, she dared to buy milk —once she even thought of venturing upon an egg, and a cent’s worth of butter. Second thought forbade. But on the way home she loitered in front of bake shops sniffing hungrily their savory smells. They made her wolfish. But once home hunger left her —and she sat down dully to darn stockings, and mend rents. She had been so busy making luckier folk shipshape, she had let her own garments go. Christmas dawned murky, but a bitter, raw wind rove the clouds away like frightened sheep. Mavis dressed herself carefully and went out facing it. Somehow she could not work. She had- gnawed her food dry, not even drinking water with it. She had not meant to go -to church, but the wind drove her inside. The service mocked her —there were flowers, special music, words of hope and good will —but to empty pews for the most part. Mavis sat/ alone, in a vast dimness, wondering dully if a God who noted falling sparrows, had not forgotten her.

Back in her room—her’s for a week longer—she fell furfousiy to writing. What she wrote was neither great nor eloquent—hardly even coherent, not a beggar’s whine, but the outpouring of a brave heart, driven to the wall. It was not bitter. ’ “They did not think,” was the burden of it. She hoped if people read it, it might save some other girl in extremity. She had a stamp left—that would take It to the Comet —if they sent to inquire after the writer, she would be —gone. Mavis smiled almost dreamily, thinking of the cool handy river. She would not go into it hungry.

A fancy came to her—to pretend as she had done when a, child. Rummaging in the cracker bag brought forth treasures —animal crackers, either scorched or lacking a leg, sweet biscuit, half crumbled, fruit wafers more than a bit dilapidated, even cheese wafers, half disintegrated. With all these she would serve herself a course dinner naming water, wine, and finishing with a hot draught for the coffee. She began bravely—desperate hunger is a sauce for even broken crackers. But half way through she broke down—her throat constricted —she could neither eat nor drink. Pretending brought back everything—the old life, which ls -colorless had been safe and full-fed. If the village had been narrowly provincial and gossipy, gossip would save in such a strait as this.

She got up blindly, put on her hat. sealed the letter already stamped and folded,and was reaching for her coat when she heard an apologetic knock outside. Without waiting, the door opened. The landlady’s husband stood there, in slippers and untidy smoking jacket. He faltered something about forgetting—postman’s being late—and thrust a letter upon her. Then he fled precipitately. His wife had charged him specially not to neglect a lodger who made no trouble —and always had the money waiting. For at least a minute Mavis could not open the letter—still she did not faint nor scream when out of it came a checque for fifty dollars. Another story had hit the mark. Then all occasion for tears being past, she indulged in a hearty cry—and ate the last courses of her Christmas dinner with a relish truly Incredible. (Copyright, 1912. by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.)

Jerrold’s Quick Wit.

Douglas Jerrold was one of the bestknown Victorian wits—one of the men who said instanter the things which others think of an hour later. In the book produced by his grandson are some speclments of the quick wit of other times. At a club supper, when sheep’s heads had provided the chief dish, one enthusiast exclaimed: “Well, sheep’s beads for ever, say I!" “There’s egotjsm!" quietly remarked Jerrold. Dining with a friend, he was asked how he liked the port. “Not much,” he replied. “Not much!" echoed the host. “Why, my deny fellow, it’s Hedges and Butler’s best." “Possibly," said Jerrold; “but to my taste It partakes mora. of the hedges than the butler."

Polite Witness.

Questioned by counsel at Middlesex sessions as to what he found on going to a house, a jobbing gardener, with a polite bow, replied, “I’m very much afraid, sir, It had been disarranged b£ thieves.” (Laughter.) Counsel —"Disarranged!” You peed not be so polite when referring to burglars. I understand the place was ran sacked from top to bottom? “I believe It was, sir.” “Can’t you say what happened?” “Well, sir. / think somebody must have been to the house.” (Laughter.) Counsel—Speak out. There Is not much chance of shocking a coprt of 'justice. Yow mean that the house was turned upside down by burglars?' The witness replied that he was afraid that was so. —London Mall

ON THE BACKBONE OF AMERICA

HOW soon shall we see the mountains?” said I to the conductor after our train had crawled over the Colorado prairies quite long enough, as I thought. “You are looking at them now!” he replied, with a patronizing grin reserved for the all too frequent tenderfoot, “What!” I exclaimed. "I thought those were clouds!" Thereupon my eyes gradually separated the mountains, more transparent deep blue from that of the more opaque clouds, and to distinguish the dim white markings of snow fields lying off there in the July sun. A little more gradually the configuration of the face of the distant range became visible, and. Io! ,1 beheld the veritable backbone of America —the peak of the gable! What absurdly Inadequate ideas of the “Rockies” we easterners do have before we see them! We are wont to register them as adult Alleghenies, but the sight of them makes us disavow any registry at all, writes B. A. Konkle in the Philadelphia Record. I count my first experience in the “Rockies” along with my first appreciation of a real poem, my first visit to a real play (it was old “Joe” as “Rip”), the first time on water out of sight of land, my first view of Niagara, my descent into Mammoth Cave, and my future trip in a biplane! The “Rockies” are not a sight; they are an experience. Even as we crawled across the prairies to Denver it began with the peculiarly stimulating air, so invigorating as to make one forget the weary journey and loss of sleep and rev6l in lung-filling inspirations. Then, too, the air became so clear as to seem to magnify, while one realized a certain distinctness of out-line-in-everything that gave -ar wholly new sense of brilliancy. This, in turn, perpetrates most baffling descriptions upon one’s judgment of distances. The foothills west of Denver are 14 miles away, but the granite walls of the old Front Range itself looks less than a mile distant.

Domination of the Mountains. The domination of the mountains is an experience, too. An elderly country woman was once visiting in a suburb for the first time and complained that she "could feel that great city athreatening all the time.” The mountains control the clouds, which play about them continually like Insects about a lamp until their life is burned out. They dress themselves in clouds and necklaces of gleaming snow, and change their dress 40 times a day. A part will clothe itself one way, the next another, and then all will draw a curtain before them, and in the morning cast it all off and almost reveal the very freckles of forest on their faces until you almost feel the breath of the snow fields. Those mountains seem alive, and yet what eternal poise, so to speak. They control the people and the cities. Being treasuries, a row of cities have been built in front of them across the state, with railway spurs out and up into their boxes df silver and gold. Men live up in the high altitudes, if they can stand it; for not all men can. Georgetown is one of the oldest places up there, and the railroad has lo do some lalTcfffiE.' ing and wriggling along a shelf in the sides of Clear Creek gorge or canyon for over thirty miles of track before it lifts itself up to above 9,000 feet to this picturesque little valley. The rapid ascent makes one’s breathing machinery feel unequal to the task. One’s lungs are suddenly not big enough. It Is well enough to istop off at Georgetown before the train begins climbing on the corkscrew plan, as It does just above there, for you to practice on that word "altitude" for a few days. It Is used nearly as much as “the,” “Is” and “was," and completely displaces “north,”' “south," •east" and "west.” • Be it remembered, at this point, up here one never sees a mountain! Colorado "has her back up,” and what, you see of a great mountain Is merely a slight Irregularity In the vertebral line, for even while you are In a canyon you are on a mountain top over 9,000 feet high. So, as you are on a 30-story sky-scraper (very real scrapers of the sky these), a 40-story ohe only looks Hke a ten-story. And you have to be told that here within sight are a half-dozen monarchs of the Rockies two and a half miles high. Bo

ONE VIEW OF THE BACKBONE

I say'-the Rockies are hot a sight; they are an experience. You climb a six-story mountain, thinking it is the top, and, behold, when you arrive, there stands a 15-story one that deceives in the same way, until one exclaims at sight of a 25-story one beyond it. With accumulated astonishment your next climb reveals a 40story one beyond that, and —but I anticipate. Accompanying these experiences are the foaming, roaring torrents of purest marbly water, tumbling over gray and pink granite, quartz of white with its loads of silver, lead and gold, gre&rish cliffs of pprphery of all imaginable shapes a.nd sizes; beautiful cedars growing out of the rocks, and mosts of mountain flowers like great rugs; wondrous, changing scenes, indeed, until it seems as though one might be overcome by such a flood of new experiences. At 7 o’clock one morning—it was the last day of July—a party of three ladies and escorts mounted horses for a trip to the highest wagon road in the world, the one that crosses the roof gable of America at Argentine pass. I was one of the party. Caught In Storm. It was about twelve miles up the left gulch of the canyon and nearly 5,000 feet above Georgetown, 13,200 feet, to be exact. Winding slowly up the road along the base of mountains on either side, we crossed and recrossed the roaring waters. A pocket barometer registered our ascent in feet. Mines and concentrating works were passed, and glorious patches of mountain flowers, wonderful in their purity of color and va.st variety—a very fur of flowers, often growing right on the rocks from little cups of soil. Now and then we got a dwarf mountain strawberry which exceeded -the.ordinary.Qne dn. as the dwarf gooseberry exceeded the lowland puckerer in sourness —which is saying much. Up and on we go, until 12,000 feet is registered. Off there is Pike’s peak, half way across the state, with a storm on one side, the upper half of which is plainly snow and the lower half rain. Off back of us, beyond many a mountain, lie the plains of eastern Colorado in the sunshine, while up the valley come rain clouds, shedding their brush-like rain below—far back just above Georgetown. Off to our left, as we look back, the “rain” is snowing on the top of the range miles away. It is wonderful! But, hark! H thunders above us just over the range! It is so cold we add a raincoat to our overcoat, for plainly we are in for a snowstorm; for be it remembered a thunderstorm up here is always a snowstorm.

Up, up, only a little farther. More thunder. “Look!” cries one, “the storm is coming this way!” Up, up, 13,000 feet —only 800 feet more. “Oooo! but it Is cold!” exclaims another tenderfoot. The electricity begins to snap on the ears of our horses and my horse distinctly doesn’t like it. The first to reach the “pass” and behold the view beyond was Mr. L . and hia cry of "Wonderful!” spurred us on. The horses gathered about him, showed great fear, and shook their heads vigorously, and their hair actually stood oh end —a funny sight. Look at Mr. L 's Read!" some onp called out, and to our amazement his hair was on end, too! Miss J—i l —’s bair raised her hat fully an Inch In its efforts to stand up! From the point of every horse’s ears came a sound like a singing flame. As the rest of us came up we all had the same experiences amid gales of laughter that was suddenly stilled by the marvelous sight that we beheld beyond the range.

On the Witness Stand.

"Let’s see, what is your name?” “Mrs. Jennie Brown-Gray.” ’How many times have you been married?” "Twice." • “Any children?” • “Five." “All living?” “Yes, but not with me.”

As an Offset.

"That girl has been promoted twice to my once. She has all the luck in the office.” • ' .1 “Well, I notice th pt she also has most of the work on her shoulders. So 1 guess she's entitled to the luck.”

RED HAIR ALWAYS DISLIKED

With the Exception of the. RorngnS) Ancient Peoples Had Strong Aversion to IL Red la .the fashionable color at woman’s ’ hair just now, but in mhny periods add countries to have rd& hair meant to test the depths of misfortune, even of death. Prejudice against red hair runs back even to Egyptian times, for in that land of decided opinions and strong prejudices it was the custom to burn alive some unfortunate Individual cursed with red hair, so it was decidedly uncomfortable to have red hair in Egypt, as no one knew whose turn would come next. That the Chinese shared this prejudice against red hair is proved by their epithet for the English, whom they called "red-haired barbarians" or “red-haired devils.,” - The great exception tor this rule among ancient nations is the Romans, for since the time of Nero they have praised red hair in the highest terms. .They preferred a dark red, almost brown, such as we term auburn, and modern Romans share this liking. It is said that among the patrician families of Rome and Florence there is an abnormally large number of red-haired women. Modern Greeks share this predilection with the Romans and they highten the reddish effect of the hair by wear lug d ull gold ornaments. One of the most frequent causes ol the prejudice against red hair in Christian countries undoubtedly goes back to the tradition that Judas, the betrayer of Jesus, had red hair, and'most of the artists paint him thus. Shakespeare refers to this in “As You Yike it,” when Rosalind says of-Orlando, “His very hair is of the dissembling color,” and Celia answers: “Something browner than Judas.” The Brahmins were forbidden to marry red-haired women and, as has been said: “The populace of most countries, confounding moral with esthetic impressions, accuse red-haired people of various shortcomings.” Besides the old tradition of Judas having been red-haired aiding to create the prejudice existing in many lands the fact of the feeling against red hair in England is set down to the red-hajred Danes, who could not be regarded save as invaders and barbarians.

That Furrowed Brow.

It- seems almost as if we modern folk studied deliberately to appear illtempered in the eyes of our fellow-be-ings, fearing lest a relaxation from our habitual frown should lower us in the esteem of those we meet. Yet surely the opposite should be the case. The sour expression is that of the beaten woman, the failure. The well-to-do, the successful, should, of all people, be the happier. There is nothing undignified in a smile; one should not be ashamed of a light heart and a clear conscience. But the world, has created a tradition that the cares of responsibility must be marked by a furrowed brow. It finds the women with a xnerry laugh, in business hours certainly, a woman to be treated with caution.“ This woman laughs,” says the world, in effect; "she cannot be a sound woman; she is too frivolous.” Dull, dour and unbending, the world, our world, plods on its way, hoarding its smiles for fear of its dignity, until at last it forgets to smile altogether. Generations of scowling faces have taught us to usspect the smiling ones. We fear their owners are endeavoring to ingratiate themselves with us for no good purpose. To regard things cheerfully is to betray a lack of solidarity and worth.

Wife Couldn’t See the Idea.

That few men know how to make the most of their time was the assertion of Governor Deneen. To prove his point the governor told of friends of his who were moving. The wife conceived the notion that she might save time by wearing on each trip to the new home one of her numerous coats and leaving it. It would be easier than packing them. She was surprised, however, to find, on the occasion of one visit to the future dwelling, her hwabond removing his clothes. “Why, John, what on earth are you doing? Are you going to bed?” “Of course I’m going to bed,” said John. “I’m going to get my clothes over here like you are yours. Now, then, you see,-1 will just go over to the house and get on another suit.” Needless to say bis wife soon settled that

Caddy’s Mean Suggestion.

Mrs. R. H. Barlow, the eastern champion, said at the Cape May Golf club, nodding toward a certain man: “Yes, he is a very poor player. Even bis caddy, for all his liberal tips, scorns him. “One afternoon he made a wretched foozle and tore up a sod. Lifting this sod in his band—it was about a foot square—he said to his caddy ruefully: • “’What on earth am I to do with this, John?’ “’lf I was you,’ the boy answered, T’d take It up to the hotel to practice on, sir.’ ” —New Orleans Daily States.

His Car.

“And whet is that little building over there?” asked the visitor to Tompy's place. “That? Oh, my wife calls that the garage,” said Torapy. “Qh—what is your car?" asked the visitor. i “Oh, that’s a mirage," said Tompy. “-Harper's Weekly, -

CAMP FIRE STORIES

LINCOLN AND DENNIS HANKS Incident of War Daye at Washington; Is Told by Cousin of ldartyred War President As a long-time acquaintance of Den* nls Hanks I wish to recall an incident) that mhy be of interest Hanks was a nephew of Nancy Hanks, the mother of Lincoln. He had acquired a crude education before his cousin Abe had a chance to learn, writes W. AJudson in the Indianapolis News. “Abe was determined to try for something;?* Hanks said to the writer one day in Paris, 111. “I reckoned it would not amount to much but I says ‘go ahead’; and before long he went ahead and knowed more than me.” Dennis Hanks moved from Kentucky with Lincoln, and the other members of the family, to Indiana, and thence to Illinois. They' settled first in Coles County, 111., afterward in Macon /county, where Miss Nancy Hanks, (a daughter of Dennis Hanks) and a woman of fine degree, was born. She married, in Decatur; Hl., P. L. Shoaff, who published and edited the first newspaper in that town. Mr. Shoaff afterward moved to Paris, and founded the Gazette, a newspaper of which his sons are now proprietors and publishers. While doing local editorial work on the Gazette the writer and "old man Hanks,” as we called him, had frequent chats and in one of these chats Dennis told why he went to Washington, D. C., when President Abraham Lincoln occupied the White House. Mind you, Dennis was just as plain and unassuming as his cousin Abe, and just as kind-hearted. A young soldier from Coles county, who, after a series of forced marches had been placed on picket duty in the presence of the enemy, fell asleep. Dennis Hanks was sent on to Washington to Intercede for the young soldier, who had been court-marshaled and sentenced to be shot. Dennis Hanks in relating his experience at the White House, said: "I went up there to see Abe and a porter at the door said: ’What do you want?* I says, ‘I want to see Abe Lincoln.* ‘Have you a card?’ he says to me. I says, ‘No, man, 1 ain’t got no card. I want to see Abe Lincoln on particular business and I want to see him mighty soon.’ That porter says, “Well, you will have to wait.’ Just about then Abe, whom I seen through the open door in a back room writin’ at a desk, looked up and seen me and says, 'Why, hello, Dennis, how are you? Come right in.’ Then you ought to seen that porter git away from that door. I don’t believe he meant no harm, but he did not know that me and Abe was cousins and old friends.” Dennis Hanks received a pardon for the Coles county young soldier 4thQugh..Ahe..lAacQla. bad tbe soldier boy come to Washington for a reprimand) and Dennis was royally entertained and presented with Abe Lincoln’s watch, which he proudly showed when he told this true story.

Put Him Off All Right

A soldier got a furlough at Nashville, and, laboring under a “load” of commissary, took the train for the north. He handed the a dollar, and told him to be sure z and put him off at Ellzabethtowta. “I may 1)1601, but yo’ pu’mme off any’ow, an’ ’fl fight, yo’ hl’ me an* drag me off, shee?” During the night when they arrived there the brakeman, after a terrific fight, put the soldier off at Elizabethtown. As It grew light and the train neared Louisville the brakeman shook the drowsy passengers and shouted: “All out!” “What does this mean?” said an angry soldier, now sober, when he got off and found himself at Louisville. “Didn’t I give you a dollar and tell you -to put me off at Elizabethtown?” The trainman’s jaw dropped, and he stared at him blankly. "Are you the man? Then, who the dickens was the feller I did put off there?”

Rousseau and Clergyman.

Rev. Frederick A. Ross had just been examined on a charge of treason, and convicted upon hie own shewing. Under charge of a guard he was about ■ to leave Gen. Rousseau’s tent. Putting on a particularly sanctimonious expression, he took up his hat, turned to the general, and said: “Well, general, we must each do asi| we think best, and I hope we will both meet in heaven.” “Your getting to heaven, sir, will depend altogether upon your future conduct,” the general replied. “Before we can reasonably hope to meet there you and I must become better men.” The effect of this brief rejoinder was Irresistible.

Has Another Guess.

A stay-at-home, a dried-up little man, with a little voice, weak and effeminate, noticed a soldier, who ha 4 been blinded by the explosion at City Point, asking alms. “There is a dime for you. my bravo soldier.’ - . he said, as ha tossed tho coin into the cap of the fellow. “Thank’e, marm,” was the re, spouse. . . “I'm not a woman,” was the Indig* nant reply. ‘ Thank’s, miss," was the prompt retort.