Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 193, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 August 1915 — Page 3

LINDA MAXES PIES

By CECIL THOMAS.

In the farmhouse kitchen Linda Barnard rolled out pie crust and 3ang like a bird at the top of her sweet soprano voice. “Can she make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?” and so on through several verses in which were rehearsed the domestic ■virtues of Billy’s fiancee. And Linda was making cherry pies herself, but her blithe song was not addressed to any especial auditor. She sang because she was happy. Upstairs in the largest front chamber sat the first boarder of the season. He was sitting at a table drawn up to the window, and he was frowning over the pile of papers before him. He was not bothered over the work—that was an everrecurring Joy—but it was Linda’s frequently, reiterated vocal query that irritated him.

“For heaven’s sake, can’t a fellow get away from a racket?” he peeved. “Here I am isolated in Green Center because my apartment was made hideous with undesirable noises—a mechanical piano overhead, a phonograph on one side and a comet on the other —and here the maid of all work chirps like a canary all day lonfe! But her voice isn’t half bad,” he admitted grudgingly. “Can she make a cherry pie, Billy Boy?” Billy Wainright put his hsad out of the open window. “Take it from me she can make a cherry pie, Melissa!” he called down at the gingham-clad figure working the pump handle. “Ring off!” He gasped as the sunbonnet dropped back and a bewitching face was upturned to his.

"My name is not Melissa,” she said sweetly. “Who is Melissa?" Billy’s face was crimson, but his chagrin added to his temper. “I thought it was the cook,” he said snappishly. “Isn’t that funny?” gurgled Linda. “Why, I’m the cook.” “You?” he gasped. She nodded. “I’m sorry you don’t like cherry pie,” she added dolefully. “But —but I do like it,” he stammered. “It’s my favorite pie—that and lemon meringue." “You like lemon meringue pie, too? I’ll remember that —and rice pudding?”

“I loath it!” “Prune pie?” “Beastly.” . “I’m so glad to know what you like,” Linda smiled wickedly as she went into the house with a great pitcher of water. “Funny I never saw her before — certainly she wasn’t around last night when I came,” mused Billy as he went back to his work. But the papers had lost their charm. Linda’s charming face intervened and he found himself listening for the sound of her voice. But the Billy song was silent; presently there fluted up through the window the rich strains of a bird song—a mellow, throaty warble that one associated with southern fields and the call of the mocking bird. “I wonder—” gasped Billy, going inquisitively to the window that overlooked the side porch where the pump stood.

He recognized old Mr. Barnard before the kitchen door with a basket of new-laid eggs from the barn. The whistling stopped abruptly. “Whistling gals. and crowing hens never come to any good ends!” laughed the old man through the screen door.

“You haven’t any crowing hens on the farm, Uncle Ben,” said the girl merrily, "or you wouldn’t be bringing in that evidence of their industry.” “Three dozen and three,” counted Uncle Ben, now inside the kitchen. “I hope you’re giving Mr. Wainright all the eggs he wants.” “Certainly, dear,” Billy heard her answer. “Isn’t it odd, Uncle Benf, he doesn’t like cherry or lemon meringue pie and he adores rice pudding?” She laughed gleefully. Billy shook his fist. “Well,” yawned Uncle Ben “if milk puddings satisfy him, all right—there’s plenty of milk and eggs on the place—but, for goodness sake, keep the pies a-going, Linda. Um-um! Do I smell cherry pie?” “You surely do!”-she cried gayly. Hurry up, Uncle Ben, dinner’s most ready.” Billy went back to his table frowning. “If there’s cherry pie in the place, I’ll have some!” he muttered darkly. Presently came the resonant clang, of the dinner bell wielded by Linda’s strong, young arm.

Billy, scrubbed and brushed to healthy, wholesome perfection, in his gray flannels, found a small round table set for one in the middle of the big dining room. It was an oasis in the midst of a desert waste of ragcarpeted floor. It is very lonely, indeed, to be the first boarder. But Billy admitted to himself that he had yearned for solitude when he chose Green Center in which to complete his story. Linda waited upon the table, demure in white frilled apron, with her bonny brown hair breaking rebellious waves over her cars. It was a well-cooked meal, and it was daintily served. Bill enjoyed •very crumb of it until Linda’s voice

cooed in his ear, “Will you have rice pudding or prune pie, Mr. Wainright?” Billy looked up defiantly. "If you please,” be said decidedly, ‘Til take a piece of cherry pie!” “Pie?” repeated Linda. "Yes, sir,” and she tripped away. Billy’s eyes were dreaming over the roses in the garden when suddenly he dropped his glance to his plate. Before him were a cup of coffee and a piece of prune pie! It was a rather delectable looking piece of pie and the top was piled with whipped cream. Billy’s face went red; his eyes flashed angrily. Then a smile appeared at the corners of his well-cut lips. He tasted the pie. It was good —served in this fashion prune pie became a toothsome feast. Billy ate it all and then waited for Linda to reappear. There was no bell on the table and he must perforce wait patiently until she came again. When she came and saw Billy’s empty plate he surprised a puzzled gleam in her eyes. ’ "Please, may I have another piece of pie?” he pleaded. "I never tasted prune pie before. It’s simply great!" “I’m like it,” fibbed Linda, as she sped away to bring him a second piece. After that, as she flew about the kitchen, her pretty eyes flashed dangerously. “I wonder if he really liked that pie or if he ate it to tease me,” she thought. “Well, he won’t get one crumb of cherry pie while I’m here. How cross he was this morning when I sang! How surprised he was when I didn’t prove to be a servant! He called me Melissa. I suppose he thinks it’s clever to call all country girls ‘Melissa’ or ‘Hannah.’ ” After dinner, Billy tried to go on with his work, but he found it difficult. Try as he would that tantalizing, “Can she make a cherry pie?” kept obtruding itself and he could not banish it. Finally, he brushed his papers into a drawer and went out into the open. Half an hour later he had startled a blue heron from'the rushes down at the brook and was watching its awkward flight into the blue. “Green Center isn’t half bad," he admitted, “but I wish its presiding divinity were a trifle more agreeable to a lone chap like myself. Wasn’t she hateful about the cherry pie, though? I’ll bet it was good stuff if it was anything like-the prune pie. Ah! That was a dream!”

Later he strolled slowly toward the house. Nightfall was at hand, but the insistent “Can efce make a cherry pie?” was still ringing mockingly in his ears. Billy passed the kitchen, but saw nothing of Linda. He saw something else, however, that interested him not a little. The pantry window was open —there was a sliding shelf and on that shelf in plain relief was three-quar-ters of a luscious cherry pie! Beside the pie was a silver knife, as if to make the temptation complete. One brief moment he paused, and then—he fell. With a swift movement he captured the pie and the knife and bore his booty In triumph to a rustio bench under a nearby apple tree. Uncle Ben, on his homeward way, saw him thus engaged paused and eyed him humorously: “Can she make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?” he quavered in a cracked voice.

"She sure can,” returned Billy unblushingly, but never for a moment halting in his work of demolition. Uncle Ben trudged on laughing, into the house, and presently Linda appeared in the kitchen door, the supper bell jingling in her hand. Billy was disposing of the last segment of the pie when she discovered him and stood motionless regarding him with an expression which was far from hostile.

Billy, his lips stained cherry red, his face perceptibly flushed, returned her gaze defiantly. Little half-re-pressed smiles crinkled her face, but presently she broke into a cascade of laughter. “I don’t suppose you will want any supper after this,” she choked at last.

“Never better prepared for a square meal in my life, he declared with amazing bravado. “But I don’t want to eat it in solitary grandeur. If someone doesn’t come in and eat at the table with me I’ll go out into that lit tie dining room with you and Uncle Ben.”

“Really!” she returned. “You seem to have what our old teacher used to call the gregarious Instinct rather largely developed.” “I’m lonely,” he confessed, “and I’m fond of cherry pie.” "I see,” said Linda, contritely. “Uncle Ben and Aunt Hannah and I usually take our meals in the little dining room when there are boarders in the house. Perhaps you will join us tonight?”

“Thank you, If I may,” he said sumbly. After supper, as they sat on the veranda, Wainright spoke again of the pie.

“I’m afraid, Miss Barnard,” he said, that it will be a hard job for me to convince you of my respectability after that pie-eating episode.” Linda flushed charmingly. • **•*•*

It was not until a year or so after her marriage that Mrs. Linda Wainright confessed to her husband that she had put that fateful cherry pie in the window of the farmhouse pantry with the hope that the new summer boarder would help himself to it.

(Copyright, 1915, by the McClure Newipa--1 per Syndicate.)

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, IND.

San Juan De Ulua

THE ancient fortress of San Juan de Ulua, which General Carranza kept for a time as his official residence and which he has decreed shall no longer be used as a military prison, stands well out in the harbor of Vera Cruz and is joined to the main land only by a narrow breakwater. The fortress was built by the Spanish conquerors of Mexico and for many years has been used by the Mexican authorities to imprison military and political offenders.

When the American forces occupied Vera Cruz a correspondent explored the prison from the topmost ramparts to the deepest, darkest dungeon beneath the sea, and this is the story he wrote: Grim, gaunt and forbidding, rising sheer from the blue inner harbor of Vera Cruz, there lies the castle of San Juan de Ulua, a name which is whispered in terror throughout Mexico. There are tales of its dungeons and labyrinth of secret passages; there are tales of a quiet and secluded opening along the sea wall, where, in the shadow of night, straining forms have plipped shapeless bulks in sacks over the sill to the tongues of the lapping waves—sacks which struggled 'and screamed in terror —and the black waters have been cut by the lightning rush of triangular fins as the sharks claimed their human prey; and more tales, of firing squads at break of day facing a bullet-pocked wall; and still other tales of men immured within the walls in their youth—and their names forgotten when the burial squad carried the remains from out the reeking dungeons. A launch carried the visitors across the harbor to the castle. The way winds about to the northward. Entrance was gained into the shallow moat, where a landing was effected on the counterscarp steps which lead to the outer defenses of the bridgehead.

Fortress Is Ancient. The fortress is an ancient one, of the Vauban type, yet every twist and turn, every ramification and addition of art of defense, portcullis and drawbridge, caponniers, machicolation, bastion and keep, all are there. An arching bridge leads across the moat to the main part of the castle. The waters of the moat are of a peculiar green clearness, yet with the impression of sliminess. In places the walls of the fortress are crumbling with age, white and ghastly, the color of long-imprisoned faces, and two-inch slits in the masonry’s ponderousness tell of the only glimmer of light which finds its way into dungeons. A suggestion of modernness is added by the larger ports which are barred with imbedded iron rails, yet even they are flaking away with the rust caused by the salt air and the salt sea.

Within the irregular-shaped walls lies the parade ground, of sunken and fallen granite and flag, worn deep in places by the tread of a host of forgotten feet, and in crevices, as though in an effort to lend a gleam of cheer to oppressiveness, nature has made grass to struggle for an existence. In the Musty Cells. The officers in charge directed that the main cell gate be opened, and the prison proper was entered. Under an archway the light of day became a gloom, and within the first gate there lay another entrance, within the bars of which an evil-looking prisoner remained as trusty. . At the rear of this reception chamber there rose the barred and crossbarred grille of the great cellroom, at whose rounds there clung a hundred whitened hands, while half as many pallid faces pressed against the iron and peered wonderingly at the strangers in khaki.

A musty, damp odor emerged from the entrance and struck the visitors full in the face. Then, as the interior was gained, the mustiness became an odor, the odor a stench, and the stench overwhelmingly repulsive—nauseating. The only light came from far above, through grilled openings in the vaulted ceiling; and the light

VIEW OC THE FORTRESS

struck only upon a tiny spot directly beneath, while the rest of the cavern was plunged in a deep darkness, through which shadowy forms seemed to slink. From the main cell, which is practically four long vaults connected by archways, some of the lesser cells were entered, and then the dungeons. There is a small cell reached by a ladder, neither high enough for a small man to stand erect in nor stretch out full length. It was vacant at the time, but there was a crust of bread in the corner. The dungeons are long, low cells, with barred gate at one end and blank wall at the other. Through the gloom, straining eyes could dimly make out drawings and writings on the walls. Here and there a roughly drawn cross told of a release from suffering—a release which came not by the hand of man.

Dungeons Under Sea. The old trusty, careful to explain that he had been there but nine asked other prisoners about the entrance to the subterranean passages to dungeons under the sea—then pointed it out. More rusty keys were called into trial, and, finally, a grim passageway was unbarred and we looked in. The darkness was so dense that the faint light of a modern oil lantern seemed unable to penetrate, and a slimy, sloping footway led onward and disappeared into blackness. The stench was there, too, more horrible than above, and the dampness and the mustiness. A step within, close to the dripping wall, and a metallic jangle sounded; the lantern flashed to the left showed a dangling chain, handcuff on end, which had been brushed against. No one seemed to know where the passageway led, the mud was deepening, the light dim and the place ghostly. A further advance, with growing chills running adown the ,spine, revealed cells, cells —chains, chains —and a freshly mortared block of stone at the end of the wall. And here exploration necessarily ended.

“Love?” he repeated again, relaxing his huge body slowly and flinging one leg over the other. “I’ve seen as much of love as the next man, in more places than most. I’ve never been mixed up with it myself—not with the real thing. But most things are mixed up with it. You’ll believe that I don’t read poetry. If you people could ever get the beat of life you’d get it with prose. Imagine fitting human beings —black or white —into a stanzaic form! I realized that young. I’ve seen people, make love all over the shop. I’m not denying it’s effective. But the one thing I’ve never-seen it do is really change a person. That’s why I don’t believe all the things they tell me the poets say about it. Time and again I’ve seen the trick tried; and time and again I’ve seen the woman or the man slump back into the shape God made ’em in.”— From a story by Katharine F. Gerould, in Scribner.

For two months “Snooky” went adventuring. He saw the other birds out in the free air playing, and so he left home. Mrs. Whitbeck, manager of the Barbara apartments here, was the heartbroken owner of the missing canary. The cage was left open for “Snooky," who was a prize bird. L&te in the afternoon, following his long absence, “Snooky” found his way home. He chirped and pecked at the window pane and then flew back into his cage. His head was cut and scarred from attacks of other birds. Francisco Dispatch to Los Angeles Times.

Mrs. Styles—l want a new dress for the opera, dear. Mr. Style—Well, there’s 1500 for . you. “Why, that wouldn’t pay for half a dress!” “Well, that’s about all you need for the opera, isn’t it?”

Love and Human Nature.

Canary Returns Like Cat.

Half Dressed.

RICH IN ITS HISTORY

IBTRIAN TERRITORY HAS HAD AN IMPORTANT PAST. Battlefield of Europe Throughout the Centuries, It is Again the Center of Discord — Strict Old Communal Regulations. “Many long-slumbering memories have been quickened by the present resistless flood of war that has engulfed in its course nearly all of the historic spots in Europe, recalling to the breathless onlookers in neutral lands, in the light of the tragic significance of these places today, their romantic stories of the centuries past,” begins a bulletin lßsued by the National Geographic society, treating of what life has been in Austria’s Istrian territory, which the Italians are now attempting to invade. The statement continues:

“Istria, the wedge-shaped peninsula at the head of the Adriatic and the surrounding territory back of Trieste, not of great Importance commercially or industrially and with few connections with the world in the West, thus little known and spoken of, unrolls a stream of highly interesting reminiscences of past civilizations when brought to attention as one of today’s great battlefields. The civilisation of the peninsula is ancient, lonians from rich and cultured Miletus settled colonies there in the ninth century B. C., and in 735 B. C. the Corinthians followed them. The sunny culture of the Greeks once blossomed all along these shores, formed its artists here, bullded its temples, and at last gave way before the Celts, who arrived about the fourth century B. C. When the Romans were forced to crush the pirates of the North Adriatic, Istria fell under their domination, about 177 B. C. Following an uprising the Romans thoroughly subdued the land in 128 B. C., and in 127 B. C. 14,000 Roman colonists were settled there. “Through the Dark Ages and well into the Middle Ages Istrian land was in the vortex of the struggle between the empires of the east and west, and then between Byzantium, the German powers of the north and the rising commercial cities of Italy. By 1145 Venice had established privileged connections with most of the Istrian towns. From this time date some very Interesting records of social organizations on the peninsula. The land was organized into communes, with their chief magistrate, a small council or council of assessors, and a council of the people. The commune governments extended their work to an even greater degree than the most governed communities would think of doing today. Their regulations provided for all manner of domestic supervision. They fixed the time oh new vintage, the time'for selling new wine, the amount of bread that could be baked in one town, and administered ‘pure food’ regulations with greatest strictness.

"As today, Judges went through the markets trying the food. These judges went through the taverns and tasted the wine before the innkeepers might put it on sale. The prices of foreign goods were fixed by the authorities and the quality of these goods carefully determined before they could be put on sale. Stone measurements were cut on fountains, on the foundation stones of public buildings and on other conspicuous places. Armed men were not allowed to enter the cities, the regulation against carrying weapons being deemed Just as important then as now. However, a citizensoldier who happened to kill an onlooker during military practice was able to get Immunity from punishment. Militarism had its privileges in Istria.

“In some of the cities the making of false money was punishable with death; the bearing of false witness, where no fine was collected, was punished by the loss of the right nostril •ad publication on the stair of the town hall of the delinquent as a perjurer. The destruction of property was punished by the loss of the right hand, and a long list of illegal words, oaths and objectionable phrases was attached to the section of the code that provided the punishment of the pillory for the blasphemer. Tips were strictly forbidden; the workman was forced to accept no more than the wage prescribed. The activity of those intrusted with looking ovt for the people’s welfare stretched to every little detail of domestic life.”

Novels In Class.

The novel falls Into one of four classes, as It deals with romance, with life, with ideals, or as, lastly, it takes the shape of a work of art pure and simple. Of the great novelists of the last century, Scott, Thackeray and George Eliot stand for the first three types. For the fourth we look in vain in that period. Mr. Hardy, who embodies it as to the manner born, is of our own generation; and here the name which at once occurs to us for romance is that of Robert Louis Stevenson, for life that of George Meredith, and for ideas that of Mrs. Humphrey Ward. The divisions, of course, overlap.

Unduly Influenced.

“Gadson sfeems to have great confidence in his car.” ■ “yes. Still, I think it's a rather questionable sort of confidence.” “Why so?” "He hasn’t had his car long and the . arguments of the man who sold it to him are still ringing in his ears.” >• * *

“GOD, THE FATHER”

Words of Scripture Convey Message of Truth to AU Who Will Read and Heed. Science shows us that all souls are alike. It has studied millions of souls in every part of the earth and it finds them exactly the same in their faculties of knowledge, feeling and willing. Men may differ in color, In language. In size, in ability, but they don’t differ as men. If one of them came from a certain original source, all of them must have come from the same original source, which proves that the Father of souls is the Father of all souls, and therefore the All-Father or the Universal Father. Science also shows that all souls are going through the same discipline. No matter where we travel, we will find sin and sorrow, light and dark' ness, pain and hardship, and all the other things that try men’s souls and turn them out rugged and divine in character. This being so, does it not prove that God takes an interest, and the same kind of an interest, in all men? He is doing for all exactly what he is doing for each, and be is doing for each exactly what he is doing for all. This is another proof of his universal Fatherhood and a display of his partiality and favoritism. Science will allow no religious sect to monopolize * God, any more than it will allow one part of the world to monopolize gravitation. Gravitation is a universal law —everywhere found and everywhere alike. God is a universal Father, everywhere present and everywhere alike. Father of All Mankind. When we take the great-visioned characters of the Bible —Jesus and Paul —we find them united in believing God to be the Father of all mankind. Hear Jesus: “When ye pray say, Our Father.” The “our" is an inclusive and not an exclusive pronoun. Jesus authorized and made it possible for every human being in this world to lift up his voice and say: “Our Father, who art in heaven.” Hear St. Paul. He Is speaking to the Greeks at Athens. They are not yet converted to Christianity, so that it cannot be replied that he is speaking to Christian Greeks. He says: "God that made the world and all things therein. . . . hath made of one blood all nations of men, for to dwell on all the face of the earth. . . - In him we live and move and have our being; as certain of your own poets have said, For we are also his offspring.” There you have the doctrine of the universal Parenthood of God from Christ’s chief apostle and the greatest Christian preacher and missionary the world has ever known. It it hard for some people to come to this. They are as strangely determined not to believe it as was Simon Peter. But he had to come to it and so will they. God sent Peter a dream, a kind of heavenly parable, in., which he told him to eat certain things that Peter, as a Jew, had always thought he had no religious right to eat. He thought that they were unclean and were condemned by God himself. But God told him to eat them. In other words, he commanded him to broaden out and to see that what God had cleansed could not be unclean, and also to see that no one whom God had created could be alien to God and should not be alien to him. Peter opened his eyes and said: “Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons, but in every nation he that feareth him and worketh righteousness is acceptable to him." (Acts 10:34.) You and I and everyone in Christendom and in the rest of the world should wake up and see and know and believe in the universal Fatherhood of God. For this is the latest and highest discovery the soul has made concerning God, the grandest discovery It can possibly make. He is not only a Father, but a world-wide Father. True Christianity. Christianity, as Christ taught it, is the only religion in the world that proclaims the universal Fatherhood of God, and is therefore the only religion that can bring about the universal brotherhood of man. If you do not believe this doctrine, you have stopped short in your search for a Father, and have got a Father who is altogether too small and too provincial in influence to save the multitudinous inhabitants of this globe. He must be an All-Father, to save all. And this is the purpose and program dear to his heart, if I read the Bible aright and science aright. The Bibie says “that in the name of Jesus Chpst every knee should bow, of things, in, heaven, and things on earth, and things under the earth, and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ Is Lord, to the glory of God, the Father.” (PhiL 2:10, 22.) One God. one law. one element And one far-off Divine ®y ent - To which the whole creation moves.

Entering Into Reward.

We have been placed upon the way. We have been taught the truth. Wo have been made partakers of the life., The way must be traversed ; the truth must be pursued; the life must be realized. Then cometh the end Our pilgrimage, long as it may be or short, if we have walked in Christ, will leave ns by the throne of God; our partial knowledge, if we have looked upon all things in Christ, will be lost in open sight; our little lives, perfected,, purified, harmonized in him whom we> have trusted, will become, in due order, parts of the one divine life, when God is all in alL—Weatcott