Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 185, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 August 1915 — Page 3

HIS LOVE STORY

By MARIE VAN VORST

SYNOPSIS. Le Comte de Sabron, captain of French cavalry, takes to his quarters to raise by hand a motherless Irish terrier pup, and names it Pltchoune. He dines with the Marquise d’Esclignac and meets Miss Julia Redmond, American heiress, who sings for him an English ballad that Ungers tn his memory. Sabron is ordered to Algiers, but is not allowed to take ■ervants or dogs. Miss Redmond offers to take care of the dog during his master's absence, but Pltchoune, homesick for his master, runs away from her. The Marquise plans to marry Julia to the Due de Tremont Unknown to Sabron, Pltchoune follows him to Algiers. Dog and master meet and" Sabron gets permission from the war minister to keep his dog with him. Julia writes him that Pltchoune has run. away from her. He writes Julia of Pit-| choune. The Due de Tremont finds the American heiress capricious. CHAPTER Xll—Continued. "My dear Julia,” she said to the beautiful girl, looking at her through her lorgnon; "I don’t understand you. Every one of your family has married a title. We have not thought that we could do better with our money than build up fortunes already started; than in preserving noble races and noble names. There has never been a divorce in our family. lam a ma» iqulse, your cousin is a countess, your aunt is one of the peeresses of England, and as for you, my dear . . .” Miss Redmond was standing by the piano. She had lifted the cover and •was about to sit down to play. She smiled slightly at her aunt, and seemed In the moment to be the older woman. , “There are titles and titles, ma tante: the only question is what kind do you value the most?" “The highest!” said her aunt without hesitation, “and the Due de Tremont is undoubtedly one of the most famous partis in Europe.” “He will then find no difficulty in marrying," said the young girt, “and I do not wish to marry a man I do not love.” She sat down at the piano and her hands touched the keys. Her aunt, who was doing some dainty tapestry, whobe fingers were creating silken flowers and whose mind was busy with fancies and ambitions very like the work she created, shrugged her shoulders. “That seems to be,” she said keenly, "the only tune you know, Julia.” , “It’s a pretty song, ma tante.” “1 remember that you played and sang it the first night Sabron came to dinner.” The girl continued to finger among the chords. “And since then never a day passes that sometime or other you do not play it through.” “It has become a sort of oraison, ma tante.” “Sabron,” said the giarquise, "is a fine young man, my child, but he has nothing but his officer’s pay. Moreover, a soldier’s life is a precarious one." Julia Redmond played the song softly through. The old butler came in with the evening mail and the papers. The Marquise d’Esclignac, with her embroidery scissors, opened Le Temps from Paris and began to read with her usual interest She approached the little lamp on the table near her, unfolded the paper and looked over at her niece, and after a few moments, said with a slightly softened voice: “Julia!" Miss Redmond stopped playing. “Julia!” The girl rose from the piano stool and stood with her hand on the instrument “My dear Julia!” Madame d’Esclignac spread Le Temps out and put her hand on it. “As I said to you, my child, the life of a soldier is a precarious one.” “Ma tante," breathed Miss Redmond from where she stood. “Tell me what the news is from Africa. I think I know what you mean." She could not trust herself to walk across the floor, for Julia Redmond in that moment of suspense found the room swimming. "There has been an engagement,” said the marquise gently, for in spite of her ambitions she loved her niece. “There has been an engagement, Julia, at Dirbal.” She lifted the newspaper and held it before her face and read: There has been some hard fighting In the desert, around about JDlrbal. The troops commanded by Captain de Sabron were routed by the natives at noon on Thursday. They did not rally and were forced to retreat. There was a great loss of life among the natives and several of the regiment were also killed. There has been no late or authenic news from Dirbal, but the last dispatches give' the department of war to understand that Sabron himself is among the missing. The Marquise d’Esclignac slowly put down the paper, and rose quickly. She went to the young girl’s side and put her arm around her. Miss Redmond, covered her face with her hands: “Ma tante, ma tante!" she murmured. “My dear Julia,” said the old lady, "there is nothing more uncertain than newspaper reports, especially those that come from the African seat of war. Sit down here, my child." The two women sat together on the long piano stool. The marquise said: “I followed the fortunes, my dear, es my husband’s cousin through the engagement in Tonkin. I know a little what it was.” The girl was isunov-

able. Her aunt felt her rigid by her side. "I told you,” she murmured, "that a soldier’s life was a precarious one.”

Miss Redmond threw away all disguise.. “Ma tante,” she said in a hard voice. “I love him! You must have known it and seen it I love him! He is becoming my life.” As the marquise looked at the girl’s face and saw her trembling lips and her wide eyes, she renounced her ambitions for Julia Redmond. She renounced them with a sigh, but she was a woman of the world, and more than that, a true woman. She remained for a moment in silence, holding Julia’S hands.

She had followed the campaign of her husband’s cousin, a young man with an title whom she had not married. In this moment she relived again the arrival of the evening papers; the dispatches, her husband’s news of his cousin. As she kissed Julia’s cheeks a moisture passed over her own eyes, which for many years had shed no tears. “Courage, my dear,” she implored. “We will telegraph at once to the minister of war for news." The girl drew a convulsive breath and turned, and leaning both elbows on the piano keys—perhaps in the very notes whose music in the little song had charmed Sabron —she burst into tears. The marquise rose and passed out of the room to send a man with a dispatch to Tarascon. CHAPTER XIII. One Dog's Day. There must be a real philosophy in all proverbs. “Every dog has his day" is a significant one. It surely was for Pltchoune. He had his day. It was a glorious one, a terrible one, a memorable one, and he played his little part in it. He awoke at the gray dawn, springing like a flash from the foot of Sabron’s bed, where he lay asleep, in response to the sound of the reveille, and Sabron sprang up after him. Pltchoune in a few moments was in the center of real disorder. All he knew was that he followed his master

Pitchoune Smelled Him From Head to Foot.

all day long. The dqg*s knowledge did not comprehend the fact that not only had the native village, of which his master spoke in his letter to Miss Redmond, been destroyed, but that Sabron’s regiment itself was menaced by a concerted and concentrated attack from an entire tribe, led by a fanatic as hotminded and as fierce as the Mahdi of Sudanese history.

Pitchoun? followed at the heels of his master’s horse. No one paid any attention to him. Heaven knows why he was not trampled to death, but he was not. No one trod on him; no horse’s hoof hit his little wiry torm that managed in the midst of carnage and death to keep itself secure and his hide whole. He smelt the gunpowder, he smelt the smoke, sniffed at it, threw up his pretty head and barked, puffed and panted, yelped and tore about and followed. He was not conscious of anything but that Sabron was in motion; that Sabron, his beloved master, was in action of some kind or other and he, a soldier's dog, was in action, too. He howled at fierce dark faces, when he saw them. He snarled at the bullets that whistled around his ears and, laying his little ears back, he shook his black muzzle in the very grin of death. Sabron’s horse was shot under him, and then Pltchoune saw his master, sprang upon him, and his feelings were not hurt that no attention was paid him, that not even his name was called, and as Sabron struggled on, Pltchoune followed. - It was his day; he was fighting the natives; he was part of a battle; he was a soldier’s dog! Little by little the creatures and things around him grew fewer, the smoke cleared and rolled away, there were a few feet of freedom around him in which he stood and

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, IND.

barked; then ha was off again close to his master’s heels and mot too soon. He did not know the blow that struck Sabron, but he saw him fall, and then and there came into his canine heart some knowledge of the importance of his day. He had raced himself weary. Every bone in his little body ached with fatigue. Sabron lay his length on the bed of a dried-up river, one of those phantomlike channels of a desert stream whose course runs watery only certain times of the year. Sabron, wounded in the abdomen, lay on his side. Pltchoune smelled him from head to foot, addressed himself to his restoration in his own way. He licked his fate and hands and ears, sat sentinel at the beloved head where the forehead was covered with sweat and blood. He barked feverishly and to his attentive ears there came no answer whatsoever, either from the wounded man in the bed of the African river or from, the silent plains.

Sabron was deserted. He had fallen and not been missed and his regiment, routed by the Arabs, had been driven into retreat. Finally the little dog, whp knew by instinct that life remained in his master’s body, set himself at work vigorously to awaken a sign of life. He attacked Sabron’s shouldpr as though it were a prey; he worried him, barked in his ear, struck him lightly with his paw, and finally, awakening to dreadful pain, to fever and to isolation, awakening perhaps to the battle for life, to the attentions of his friend, the spahi opened his eyes. Sabron’s wound was serious, but his body was vigorous, strong and healthy, and his mind more so. There was a film over it just now. He raised himself with great effort, and in a moment realized where he was and that to linger there was a horrible death. On each side of the river rose an inclined bank, not very high and thickly grown with mimosa bush. This meant to him that beyond it and probably within easy reach, there would be shade from the Intense and dreadful glare beating down upon him, with death in every ray. He groaned and Pitchoune’s voice answered him. Sabron paid no attention to his dog, did not even call his name. His mind, accustomed to quick decisions and to a matter-of-fact consideration of life, instantly took its proper course. He must get out of the river bed or die there, rot there. What there was before him to do was so stupendous an undertaking that it made him almost unconscious of the pain in his loins. He could not stand, could not thoroughly raise himself: but by great and painful effort, bleeding at every move, he could crawl; he did so, and the sun beat down upoa him. Pitchoune walked by his side, whining, talking to him, encouraging him, and the spahi, ashen pals, bis bright gray uniform ripped and"stained, all alone in the desert, with death above him and death on every hand, crawled, dragged, hitched along out of the river to the bank, cheered, encouraged by his little dog. • For a drop of water he would have given—oh, what had he to give? For a little shade he would have given—about all he had to give had been given to his duty in this engagement which could never bring him glory, or distinction or any renown. The work of a spahi with a native regiment is not a very glorious affair. He was simply an officer who fell doing his daily work. Pitchoune barked and cried out to him: “Courage!” "I shall die here at the foot of the mimosa,” Sabron thought; and his hands hardly had the courage or strength to grasp the first bushes by which he meant to pull himself up on the bank. The little dog was close to him, leaping, springing near him, and Sabron did not know how tired and thirsty and exhausted his brave little companion was, or that perhaps in that heroic little body there was as much of a soldier’s soul as in his own human form. The sun was so hot that it seemed to sing in the bushes. Its torrid fever struck on his brown, struck on his chest; why did it not kill him? He was not even delirious, and yet the bushes sang dry and crackling. What was their melody ? He knew it. Just one melody haunted him always,* and now he knew the words: they were • prayer for safety. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

Civilization's Peril.

America is closer to the heart of Europe than at any time since England’s. colonies became independent states. To the most isolated farmhouse it has been known for a half year that we are not remote from the portentous events beyond the sea; that the fate of our brothers over there, in some way which we do not well discern, involves ua also. We are, whether we like it or not, full shareholders in the civilization which is imperiled. Our commerce and Industry, our prosperity and well-being, our culture and religion, the foundations of our common humanity, and the ideals of our common aspirations, are all at stake. —Edward T. Devine in the Survey.

Child Research Work.

Miss Elizabeth Moore of St Louis, who is a member of the children’s bureau department of the government, has returned to Saginaw, Mich., to continue her investigations in regard to the women of the lumber camps and health of the'children. Miss Julia Lathrop, head of the children’s bureau, ordered Miss Moore to Indianapolis shortly after the holidays to assist in making preparations for a child welfare exhibition to be given in that city. Miss Moore was there ten days before returning to her regular work.

SEEING LIFE with JOHN HENRY

HEP HARDY’S goat belongs to the chamois branch of that famous faifcily.

When it gets out it wants to leap from crag to crag. “ Hep’s chamois got loose recently and, believe me, I never saw a goat perform to better advantage. For a long time Hep has been in love with Clarissa Goober, the daughter of Pop Goober, who made millions out of the Flowerpot Trust. Of late, however, Hep’s course of true love has been running for Sweeney, and my old pal has been staring at the furniture and conversing with himself a great deal.

On our way home night before last Hep and I dropped into the Saint Astormore for a cocktail, and at a table near us sat Pop Goober and something else, which afterward turned out to be a Prussian nobleman the Count Cheese von Cheese. When Hep got a flash of these two., his goat kicked down the door of its box stall and began cavorting all over the Weeftern Hemisphere. .“Pipe!” he whispered hoarsely, "pipe Pop Goober and the human germ with him! It’s a titled foreigner honest it is! It can walk and say 'papa!' And it is trained to pick out a millionaire father-in-law at fifty paces! ” * . “Why, what’s the mater, Hep?” I inquired after the waiter had vamped. “Oh, I’m wise to these guys with the Gorgonzola titles all wrapped up in pink tissue paper and only |8 in the jeans,” Hep rumbled, with a glare in the direction of the Count Cheese von Cheese “Pop Goober certainly does make both ends meet in the lemon industry,” he continued. “That old gink is the original Onion collector and he spends his waking hours falling for dead ones.” Hep paused to bite the froth off a Bronx. His goat was at the post. “That driblet is over here to pick out' an heiress and fall in love with her because he needs the money,” Hep growled as his goat got away in the lead. “Every steamer brings them over, John, some incognito, some in dress suits, and some in hoc slgno vinces, but all of them able to pick out< lady with a bank account as far as the naked eye can see.

“It’s getting so now, John, that an open-face, stem-winding American has to kick four Dukes, eight Earls, seven Counts and a couple of Princes off the front steps every time he goes to call on his sweetheart —if she has money. “When I go down into Wall street, John, I And rich men with the tears

Turned Out to Be a Prussian Nobleman, the Count Cheese von Cheese.

streaming down their faces while they are calling up on the telephone to see if their daughter, Gladys, is still safe at home, where they left her before they came down to business. “Walk through a peachy palace of the rich on Fifth avenue, and what will you find? “Answer: You will find, a proud mother bowed with a great grief, and holding on to a rope which is tied to her daughter’s ankle to prevent the latter from running out on the front piazza and throwing kisses at the titled foreigners “You will find these cheap skates everywhere, John, rushing hither and thither, and sniffing the air for the odor of burning money.”

Hep’s goat at the quarter and going strong. “They’re all over the place, John," fie rushed on. “The street cars are full of Earls and Baronets, traveling on transfers. There they are, John, sitting in the best seats and reading the newspapers until an heiress jumps aboard and hands them her address, with a memorandum of her papa’s bank account. "Then they arise with the true nobility of motion and ask that a day be set for the wedding. "Why should it be thus, John? We have laws in this country to protect the birds and the trees, the squirrels and all animals except those that can be reached by an automobile, but why don’t we have a law to protect the heiresses? “Why are these titled zimboes permitted to borrow car fare, and come over here and give this fair land a fit of indigestion? “Why are they permitted to set their proud and large feet on the soil for which our forefathers fought and bled foe their country and for which

by George V.Hobart

John Henry on Goat Getting

some of us are still fighting and bleeding the country? Why? Why do these fatheads come over here with a silver cigarette case and a society directory and make every rich man in the country fasten a burglar alarm to his checkbook?”

Hep’s goat at the half by a length. "A few days ago, John, one of these mutts with an Edam title jumped off an ocean liner, and immediately the price of padlocks rose to the highest point ever known on the Stock Ex; change. “All over the country rich men with romantic daughters rushed to and fro and then rushed back again. They were up against a crisis. If you could get near enough to the long distance telephone, John, you could hear one

“Every Timo He Goes to Cail on His Sweetheart.”

rich old American guy shrieking the battle cry to another captain of industry out in Indianapolis: ‘To arms! The foe! The foe! He comes with nothing but his full dress suit and a blank marriage license! To arms! To arms!”’ Hep’s goat at the three-quarters by two lengths. “Why, John,” he exploded again, "every telegraph wire in the country is sizzling with excitement. Dispatches which would make your blood curdle with anguish and sorrow for the rich are flying all over the country. Something like this: “ ‘Boston, Today.

“ ‘At ten thirty this morning Rudolph Oscar Grabbitall, the millionaire stonebreaker, read the startling news that a foreign Count had just landed in New York. His suffering was pathetic. His daughter, Gasolene Panatelia, who

will Inherit $19,000,000, mostly in bonds, stocks and newspaper talk, was in the dental parlor five blocks away from home when the blow fell. Calling his household about him, Mr. Grabbitall rushed into the dental parlor, beat the dentist down with his bill, dragged Gasolene Panatelia home and locked her up in the rear cupboard of the spare room on the second floor of the mansion. Her teeth suffered somewhat, but, thank Heaven! her money will remain in this country. The community breathes easier, but all the incoming trains are being watched.’ “Are you wise, John, to what the panhandling nobility of Europe are doing to our dear United States? “They are putting all our millionaires on the fritz, that’s what they’re doing." Hep’s goat in the stretch, under wraps. “Le’me tell you something, John: It will soon come to pass that the heiress will have to be locked up in the safe deposit vaults with papa’s bank book. Here is an item from one of the most prominent newspapers. Get this, John: ‘"Long Island City, Now. “‘Pinchem Shortface, the millionaire who made a fortune by inventing a way to open clams by steam, has determined that no foreign count will marry his daughter, Sudsetta. She will Inherit about $193,000,000, about $lB of which is loose enough to spend. The unhappy father Is building a spite fence around his mansion which will be twenty-two feet high, and all the unmarried millionaires without daughters, to speak of, will contribute broken champagne bottles to put on the top of the fence. If the count gets Sudsetta he is more ot a sparrow than her father thinks he is.* “It’s pitiful, John, that’s what it is,

pitiful! An over the country rich tto* 1 are dropping their beloved daughter* in the cyclone*cellars and hiding mamma’s stocking with the money in it out in the hay loft "I am glad, John, that I am not * rich man with a daughter who is eating her heart out for a moth-covered title and a castle on the Rhinewtne. “You can bet John, that no daughter of mine can ever marry a tall gent with a nose like the rear end of an observation car and a knowledge of the English language which doesn’t get beyond I O U—do you get me?” Hep’s goat wins in a walk. "Are you all through, Hept’ I inquired feebly. “I’m not through—but I’ll take a recess,” he snapped back at me. “By the way,” I said, offhand like, “Is Miss Clarissa Goober in town?” “Yes, but she sails for Europe tomorrow on the Imperator," he answered, sullenly. “Oh,” I said. "Who’s going with her?” "The Count Cheese von Cheese.” “Oh!” Long pause. "Let’s have another Bronx,” I suggested. Hep took six—cne for himself and five for the goat. Can you blame him?

DID HIS DUTY AS GUARDIAN

Adviser to Youthful King of Sweden Proved Himself the. Right Man for the Position.

King Charles XII of Sweden, who came to the throne at the early age of fifteen, went out riding one time in company with his cousin, the duke of Holstein, and a few other gentlemen of the court. On the way they came upon a pile of timber standing by the roadside. The duke of Holstein suggested to the king that the company try their skill riding over the pile on their horses. Charles assented, and insisted upon being the first to go over. But just as he was about to dig his spurs into his horse, tells Das Buch suer Alle, Count Wachtmeister seized the bridle and said to the king: "Don’t try to ride over that!” The duke of Holstein became angry. “How dare you cross the wishes of the king?” he exclaimed. Calmly Wachtmeister answered: "Say what you will, my king shall not do it.” Holstein then reined up to him and replied wrathfully: "You do not seem to know to whom you are speaking.” “Oh, yes,” said the other, laughing scornfully, *1 am speaking with the duke of Holstein. But will you kindly recall that you are addressing Count Wachtmeister, the royal adviser? And as I said before, my king shall not break his neck by such a wild and dangerous jump. Perhaps you were thinking of becoming king of Sweden in that event. But you won’t so long as Hans Wachtmeister lives.”

Jusfc then the young king, who was standing by listening to the discussion, rode up to his adviser, and tapping him on the shoulder approvingly, said to the company: “No, gentlemen,. I guess we won’t jump that pile. It Is a bit dangerous.” And with that they continued on their way in silence—Youth’s Companion.

Narrow-Minded.

The teachers of a Chicago school in the university quarter, looking out at recess, discovered, to their horror, what seemed to be a general fight in progress among the children—boys and girls together. When drder was restored it was found that one flushed and disheveled faction gathered round the extremely fat little daughter of a university professor, and the other round the small son of a famous pianist. “Now what does this disgraceful thing mean?” asked a teacher, sternly. “He slapped Natalie!" shrieked the little girls. “Did you?" questioned the teacher. “Yes,” said the boy, sturdily, "I did.” “And why did you do such a bad, rude thing?” “I don’t like her,” he answered, scornfully; “she’s too wide!”—Harper’s Magazine.

Heart Balm Suit Likely.

“George," said the beautiful girl a* she nestled close to him, "the last time you called you proposed.” "I did, sweet one.” “And I accepted you.” “You did, love.” *1 presume, George,” she went on, in her most fascinating maimer, "that you look upon me merely as a foolish, thoughtless girl, but—but —” "How can you think so, pet?” he interrupted. “But,” she went on, in a more businesslike way, “I have something of the business instinct of the new woman In me, and—and—l shall have to ask you to repeat the proposal again tonight. The last time you called it was Sunday, and contracts made on that day* I learn, are not legally binding.”

Life's Evening.

The most beautiful picture of the eventide of life is the old man with the sound brain, who works steadily on until the end, radiating optimism, sunshine and wisdom to all about him. proving himself the valued counselor of his younger associates and effectually demonstrating that the evening of life is the most beautiful period of exi st ence when one’s energies are employed in an appropriate manner and when one’s unselfish interests are kept in action to the very end.—Exchange, j