Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 212, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 September 1915 — Page 2

HIS LOVE STORY

by MAR IE VAN VORST

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CHAPTER XXVlll—Continued. Later, when the others had left them to themselves in the music room, Sabron sat in a big chair by the open window and Julia Redmond played to him. The day was warm. There was a smell of spring fldwers in the air and the vases were filled with girofles and sweet peas. But Sabron smelled only the violets in Julia's girdle. Her hands gently wandered over the keys, finding the tune that Sabron longed to hear. She played the air through, and it seemed as though she were about to sing the first verse. She could not do so, nor could she speak. Sabron rose and came over to where she sat There was a low chair near the piano and he took it leaning forward, his hands clasped about his knees. It had been the life-long dream of this simple-hearted officer that one day he would speak out his soul to the woman he loved. The time had come. She sat before him in her unpretentious dress. He was not worldly enough to know it cost a great price, nor to appreciate that she wore no jewels—nothing except the flowers he had sent. Her dark hair was clustered about her ears and her beautiful eyes lost their fire in tenderness. “When a man has been very close to death, Mademoiselle, he looks about for the reason of his resurrection. When he returns to the world, he looks to see what there is in this life to make it worth living. lam young —at the beginning of my career. I may have before me a long life in which, with health and friends, I may find much happiness. These things certainly have their worth to a normal man —but I cannot make them real before my eyes just yet. As I look upon the world to which I have returned, I see nothing but a woman and her love. If I cannot win her for my wife, if I cannot have her love —” He made an expressive gesture which more impressively than words implied how completely he laid down everything else to her love and his. He said, root without a certain dignity: “I am quite poor; I have only my soldier's pay. In Normandy I own a little property. It is upon a hill and looks over the sea. with apple orchards and wheat fields. There is a house. These are my landed estates. My manhood and my love are my fortune. If you cannot return my love I shall not thank Tremont for bringing me back from Africa.” The American girl listened to him with profound emotion. She discovered every second how’ well she understood him, and he had much to say, because it was the first time he had ever spoken to her of his love. She had put out both her hands and, looking at him fully, said simply: “Why it seems to me you must know how I feel—how can you help knowing how I feel?” • • • • • • •

After a little he told her of Normandy, and how he had spent his childhood and boyhood in the chateau overlooking the wide sea, told her how he had watched the ships and used to dream of the countries beyond the horizon, and how the apple blossoms filled the orchards in the spring. He told her how he longed to go back, and that his wandering life had made it Impossible for years. Julia whispered: “We shall go there in the spring, my friend.” He was charming as he sat there holding her hands closely, his fine eyes bent upon her. Sabron told her things that had been deep in his heart and mind, waiting for her here so many months. Finally, everything merged into his present life, and the beauty of what he said dazed her like an enchanted sea. He was a soldi :r, a man of action, yet a dreamer. The fact that his hopes were about to be realized made him tremble, and as he talked, everything took light from this victory. Even his house in Normandy began to seem a fitting setting for the beautiful American. ‘lt is only a Louis XIII chateau; it stands very high, surrounded by orchards, which in the spring are white as snow.” “We shall go there in the spring,” she whispered. Sabron stopped speaking, his reverie was done, and he was silent as the intensity of his love for'“her surged over him. He lifted her delicate hands to his lips. “It is April now,” he said, and his voice shook, “ft is spring now, my love." *• At Julia’s side was a slight touch. She cried: “Pitchoune!" He put his paws on her knees and looked up into her face. “Brunet has brought him here ” said Sabron, “and that means the good chap Is attending to his own lovemaking.” Julia laid her hand on Pitchoune’s head. “He will love the Normandy beach, Charles.” “He will love the forests,” said Sabron; “there are rabbits there." the little dog’s head the two

hands met and clasped. "Pitchoune is the only one in the world who is not de trap,” said Julia gently. Sabron, lifting her hand again to his lips, kissed it long, looking into her eyes. Between that great mystery of the awakening to be fulfilled, they drew near to each other —hearer. Pitchoune sat before them, waiting. He wagged his tall and waited. No one noticed him. He gave a short bark that apparently disturbed no one. Pitchoune had become de trop. He was discreet With sympathetic eyes he gazed on his beloved master and new mistress, then turned and quietly trotted across the room to the hearth-rug, sitting there meditatively for a few minutes blinking at the empty grate, where on the warm spring day there was no fire. Pitchoune lay down before the fireless hearth, his head forward on his paws, his beautiful eyes still discreetly turned away from the lovers. He drew a long contented breath as dogs do before settling into repose. His

“My Manhood and My Love Are My Fortune.”

thrilling adventures had come to an end. Before fires on the friendly hearth of the Louis XIII chateau, where hunting dogs were carved in the stone above the chimney, Pitchoune might continue to dream in the days to come. He would hunt rabbits in the still forests above the wheat fields, and live again in the firelight his great adventures on the desert, the long runs across the sands on his journey back to France. Now he closed his eyes. As a faithful friend he rested in the atmosphere of happiness about him. He had been the sole companion of a lonely man, now he had become part of a family. THE END.

Explaining His One Little Lapse.

“Bruddren and sistahs,” in triumphant tones announced Brother Bogus, during the recent revival in Ebenezer chapel, “since I was converted and washed whiter dan snow, two mont’s ago, I has been widout sin, bless de Lawd! I’s sanctified, and couldn’t commit sin if I wanted to! I —” “Hold on a minute, muh brudder!” interrupted good old Parson Bagster. “Yo’ mought uh-been washed tollable white, but I’s ’bleeged to say dat dar ’pears to be a spot or two dat wasn’t touched wid de soap o’ salvation. How ’bout dat time Cuhnel White filled yo* pussonality full o’ shot in his henhouse?” “W*y—w’y, sah, lemme tell yo’! Dis is how ’twuz: Yo’ knows how absent minded de Cuhnei alius was. Well, sah, dat was one o* dem times —he was studyin’ ’bout suppin or nudder, and dess ’magined I was dar!" —Kansas City Star.

Woman Destroys Bomb.

What might have been a disastrous explosion was prevented when Mrs. Pauline Siegel picked a bomb, with a lighted fuse attached, from the doorstep of the house of her neighbor, Mrs. Salvatore Corso, 1621 South Franklin, street, Philadelphia. Mrs Siegel hurled it into the street This broke the crudely constructed bomb, and only a section exploded. Mrs. Siegel saw two men place a queer-looking package on the step, apply a match, and run away. She grasped the package and hurled it into the street. It contained six sticks of dynamite and a large quantity of gunpowder. The copper wires, which had been wrapped around the package, broke. The contents of the powerful bomb were scattered in all directions. Mrs. Corso said her family has no enemies. _ _ • . ;j - ■- -.

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, IND,

DO YOU HAVE HAY FEVER?

Then Doubtless You Suffer Also From the Solicitous Friend—Cures by Hearsay. I affect hay fever on the eighteenth day of every August, beginning at a quarter past three in the afternoon. Robert C. Benchley writes in Vanity Fair. From then until September 20, along about ten o’clock at night, my friends are never at a loss for a merry laugh or a jocund remark about my appearance. I am not a proud man, but I have sensibilities. I therefore have a personal interest in all alleged hay fever reliefs. But hay fever cures always come secondhand —by hearsay. Someone snuggles up to you and says: “Oh, do you have hay fever?” (to which the Goldbergian answer would be, “No, I paint my nose and eyes red every day to frighten the gypsy moths away") and then, with an air of purveying diplomatic secrets they confide that they have" “a friend who used to have hay fever, oh, terribly; couldn’t breathe, and all that sort of thing, you know; and someone told him of this kind of powder arrangement which you snuff up your nose and then nold your head under water for a minute or two, and, do you know, he's never had a touch of hay fever since he tried it” And if you’d like, they’ll ask their friend where to send for it, and they take your telephone number go that they can let you know all about it. Only if you are hardened to the type, you give them the number of the zoo, or the aquarium, or something impersonal like that, for the chances are that when they do call you up it will be to suggest an addition to your life insurance policy. It’s mighty funny that you never run across the original friend in the first place. No one ever steps right up to you like a man says in so many words, “This has cured me of hay fever,” pointing the while at a clearly labeled bottle. • _

Curious Indian Game Traps.

The discovery of the manner in which the prehistoric Indians of the southwest obtained their meat supply was made recently by Washington scientists during an investigation around the plateau of the Pajarlka park, near Santa Fe, where a number of game traps were found. It is believed that the discovery of these traps indicates that the southwestern Indian of prehistoric times was far more Intelligent than his brother of the North. The traps are holes cut in lava rock at places where the poisonous gases make their way through to the surface. They are Ingeniously arranged to suggest a cavern In which an animal may hide. Animals running from their foes see one of these traps and dive into It. Almost instantly they are suffocated by the gas. This manner of death does not destroy their value as food.

Peeling Onions for Living.

The profession of onion peeling is not one that obtains much notice, yet there are at least five hundred women in the East end of London earning their living by removing the skins of onions. With practice, they can make eighty cents to a dollar a day. Very often they have been peeling since childhood, daughters succeeding mothers. It is not a profession you can learn in one lesson, for the skin must be removed by hand, or the onion “juices” and is no use for pickling. The onions are always peeled in water. This is not done to save the eyes of the peeler, but is done to keep the onion white.

Honest Grief.

At the funeral of Baron Lionel de Rothschild, father of the recently deceased Lord Rothschild, a poor old man wept loudly and bitterly. “Why are you crying?” inquired a by-stander. “You are no relation .of Rothschild.” “No,” howled the mourner; “that’s just why I’m crying.”—London TitBits.

Making George Happy.

“George, dear, you remember just a few weeks before we were married you said that anything you could do to make me happy would make you very, very happy.” “Yes. darling. What is it?” “George, I really must have another new gown. I hope you won’t deny yourself that happiness.” Detroit Free Press.

Agreed.

“Don’t you think Mrs. Gadders a charming woman?" “Indeed, I do.” “She has a great deal of tact” “Undoubtedly. What did she compliment you for?” “My wit And you?" “For the same thing.” _ t . “Shake. She flattered us both.”

As Indicated.

Diggs—lt ought to be dead easy to succeed in the real estate business. Biggs—Why do you think so? Diggs—Why, nearly every man you meet wants the earth.

Stops at Nothing.

“A shrewd politician will take pains to keep his fences in repair.” “Not only that but he’ll take a week or two off, just when he’s needed most in Washington.”

British Tea.

According to English figures, the world’s consumption of tea ls steadily increasing and the demand for British tea far exceeds the supply. .

LUMINOSITY IN NATURE

MANY INSECTS AND PLANTS HAVE LIGHT-GIVING POWER. Lightning Meet Popular Among Pyrotechnic Insects —Australian Poppy la the Most Remarkable of Lumlnoue Plants. The lightning bug’s mystery of light without heat Is now alleged to be solved. A member of that earnestheaded colony of scientists at Woods Hole, Mass, has recently declared that the bug does its interior and exterior illumination by eating certain substances which supply it with phosphorus. It is to be hoped that this is true so we may quit worrying about why -the ligthning bug is lit up. Although the lightning bug is our most popular and common pyrotechnic insect, there are many other insects and many forms of vegetable life which share in light-giving power of high and low degree. Under certain conditions nasturtiums, dahlias, tuberoses and yellow lilies may be seen to glow with a bright radiance, varying in color and intensity. Only those flowers that have an abundance of yellow or orange shades exhibit this phosphorescence. The best time to see the light is after dark, when the atmosphere is clear and dry. The light is sometimes steady, but often Intermittent and flashing. Often, in the early fall, the ground will be Illuminated by the glow from the dead leaves. The Australian poppy is the most remarkable of all the luminous plants, for it has been found to send out a light of its own of quite notable brilliancy. Mushrooms growing on decayed wood often have a degree of brilliancy that, when they are placed on a newspaper, will enable one to read the words in their vicinity with no other light. One species of mushroom in Australia, 16 inches in diameter, was of such brilliancy that, when seen from a distance, its light frightened the natives. Crabs are notable light givers, and the salpa of California is the most wonderful of all. Bodies of water 20 miles square have been seen glowing with them, and in Santa Catalina channel one naturalist reported that as far as the eye could see the creatures lay gleaming like gems In the sunlight. Many luminous frogs have been discovered from time to time, and any frog may be made luminous by inoculating it with certain bacteria which produce this phenomenon. Many theories have been brought forward to explain the phenomenon of luminosity, but as yet little is known about it.

Boy Is Shock Absorber.

Howard Davis, a fourteen-year-old Upland (Pa.) boy, performed a remarkable tumbling act while picking cherries in a high tree. That his neck was not broken was probably due to the fact that in his flight from the upper branches he struck and knocked from a ladder Charles Esslinger, another lad, who really suffered most from an Injury to his back. After striking young Esslinger Davis turned a somersault in the air and fell at full length on the ground. The shock stunned him temporarily, but he soon regained his feet, while his companion required assistance to get home.

Maeterlinck's Failures.

M. Maurice Maeterlinck began bls literary career with three apparent failures. The first was the founding of a literary review, which quickly went under; the second the publication of a volume of poems, which failed to attract attention, and the third the issue of a play, “La Princess Maleine,” of which he printed just 25 copies. with his own hands and gave them away. A year later, says the London Chronicle, chance brought a copy of the play into the hands of M. Octave Mirbeau, who wrote a glowing eulogy of it in the Figaro, and Maeterlinck awoke one morning to find himself famous.

Where Do Comets Come From?

Prof. Elis Stromgren, director of the Copenhagen observatory, has carried out, with the aid of Mr. J. Braae, an investigation to determine whether comets come originally from Interstellar space, as has been commonly supposed, or originate within the solar system. His method of research involves the backward computation of planetary perturbations for eight comets. The conclusion reached is ♦hat all comets heretofore observed have originated within the solar system.

A Lasting One.

“So our little suburban home impressed you. Now, may I ask what particular part of it made the strongest impression on you?” “Your freshly painted doorsteps when I sat down on them.”

Open to Conviction.

“I understand,” said Mr. Dolan, “that you said there should be no more fightin'. * “I said that,” replied Mr. Rafferty. “But I never was obstinate an* mebbe a few words of argument from you can make me change my mind.”

Must Have Had a Title.

“He hadn't been in this country more than a month before he made a fortune." “Remarkable! What did he go into F '•Matrimony. ’

Trebizond the Ancient

YEARS! Years! What are years? Only 365 days! What are 365 days, or any combinations of 365 days, compared with the unutterable past, whose dust is being stirred by Europe’s war, says Walter H. Main, in the Utica Globe. It was a mere pebble in a mill pond —that a Hna.iudna.tion of a petty ruler last summer —but the ripples it started have not yet begun to lap the shores of the sea of time along which shades of the past hover, nodding to one another that humanity is ever the same, always seeking, always avaricious, always as ready to kill as was Genghis Khan, who slew his 5,000,000 or 6,000,000 and wept for more. Take that single city of Trebizond there on the Black sea, of which we have hardly heard, of whose past we know nothing, and for whose trade, Turkey and Russia are struggling. What is the commerce of New York for a single century compared with the commerce of Trebizond for countless ages? We look with veneration on a building a century old; the Magna Charts we look upon with its 700 years as of iinspeakable antiquity; but here is a city whose past trails off into the dim realm of myth, to the tombs of Pharaohs, to antiquity that ends in fancy. It was 1492 when Columbus stumbled on San Salvador and marked the beginning of our four centuries of continental history, four centuries that seem an interminable past to us, but which are as a dream which passeth in the night for Trebizond and its hinterland. In fact America would not have been disclosed for many years had it not been for the trade of Trebizond. For Trebizond has been the outlet to the western world of the wonderful treasures of the inscrutable East. Was Great Trade Center. To Trebizond old Genoa turned when it wrested the sea power of the

world from old Venice. Many nations traded with Trebizond in its eventful past and everyone in turn waxed fat and prosperous and fell, until the Turk came to control the Dardanelles in 1453, and now Russia seeks to own the Black sea. It was because the Ottoman choked other traders that Columbus, the soil of proud, rich Genoa, Sought an allwater route to the East. When the first prow from Europe grated on the shore of the China sea and found the coral reefs of India, then began to dwindle that caravan trade which for ages beyond number had brought all the Orient, all Cathay westward in the shortest way. Then was doomed the camel traffic. It still persists; long strings of camels from the Orient still tread the streets of Trebizond, but there is a railway that brings goods to Batum, in Russian territory, faster than camels can travel and Batum has the trade. But Trebizond is still a metropolis, and the dust of Trebizond which is disturbed by the war strife carries with it the romance of the race and brings up a mirage to the fancy that includes the brave figures of a past as old as humanity. Better fifty years of Europe Than a cycle of Cathay. So sang Tennyson; but the cycles of Cathay, for all that, have tremendous human interest, could we but fathom them and read their story. It is the dust of the desert that settled about Trebizond, dust that Russian and Turk are stirring up in the final struggle of Jhe Ottoman to stem the invasion that would wrest from him the last remnant of-his once powerful sway. Mysticism of Far Cathay. When you feel that dust of ages rising and smell the sandalwood and spicery of the East and the same pungent odor of the camels that you may have noticed in new America on circus day, you lose all sense of time; you lose view of the land beyond the western sea, the land America, so new and fresh and inexperienced with a mere two or three centuries behind it; you lose all tangible things; you become infected with the mysticism of the East. For the nonce you forget time; you are transported to the Bagdad of the Arabian Nights; you remember Harun al Rashid, Genghis Khan and the rest of the half real, half mythical beings that peopled the fonrtfnl days of your childhood when

you lived within the pages of romance and the tales of wonder from the East captivated you. But the trail does not stop there with the heroes of the tales that came to barbarian Europe just‘before modern life dawned, when the Marco Polos boldly penetrated past the gates to the East. The dust of the city of Trebizond, which lies thick, dates back beyond the Crusaders. The bridles of their horses jingled, the armor of the warriors of the Cross rattled within this same city of Trebizond there on the Black sea. Romance in Its Spicery. Try to read its story as a history and you are hopelessly lost in a list of meaningless names. Absorb it as a romance, as ydu absorb India in Kip l ling’s “Kim," and the city of Trebizond' is of Entrancing interest When mankind began to fare thither to barter no man knows. The beginnings of time find him there. Jason and his argonauts there got the myth of the golden fleece, and the golden fleece was so old in Greece that it faded out of history and dissolved into the mythology of the gods. The earliest navigators, the Phoenicians, plied the Black sea and did carrying trade for the caravans from the East. Then Britain was but a wild place, inhabited by savages, where the low, black ships of the Phoenicians got tin from the mines to trade at Trebizond for the jewels of India and China. Britain we consider old, with its ruins, about which cling the story of the Roman soldiers. But this was even before Rome entered the world stage. It was when Hiram of Tyre was bringing cedar for Solomon to build his temple. It was when Joseph was the wheat king of Egypt and before then, even. It was —heaven knows when it was. Trebizond was a metropolis when the earliest man in the West and his womankind began to covet the silk and gold and jade and perfumes of the East. Even Egypt, the Egypt of 5,000

years ago, was a flippant youth when the Orient was hoary with age—not hoary with years, years are not a measurable standard to use —hoary with age, eons and eons of time. , So,' as the Turk crouches in his little remaining corner of Asia Minor, the Turk of the third Turkish invasion' of the region about Trebizond — as the Turk tries to stand off the Russtan glacier which is grinding its inexorable way down from the frozen North, we may well wonder at the haze of mystery that appears in the dust that the warring hosts raise in that venerable section. Bound the West to the East. The dust of Trebizond was tracked there by countless caravans of patient camels through countless centuries. The route they followed was the slender thread of a trail that for centuries bound together the East and West—-the West vigorous in its crude barbarity, ornamenting itself with the jewels and silks of the East? Between the avarice of the West' and the riches of the East nature had put a barrier of mountain and desert which could be penetrated at only a few places. Unerringly, with the experience of ages, the caravan leaders picked the trail. It ran south 600 miles from Trebizond to Bagdad, the Bagdad of the Arabian Nights and Harun al Rashid; it broke over into Persia on the east and ran 350 miles to Ispahan; then among the mountains and plains east, always east, 750 miles to Kandahar in Afghanistan; then up to Kabul 400 miles farther and to Jelalabad and through old Khyber pass into India—a full 2,000 miles as the camel trails. At Khyber pass the caravans divided, going into far Cathay, into Cashmere’s lovely vales, sung by Lalla Rookfi’s minstrel prince, to mysterious Mongolia, to all the oldest tribes on earth, who made the luxuries for the rest of the worldThis is the storied city, whose dust is being stirred by the warriors of this the twentieth century. Perhaps ths very gunpowder that may yet awaken the echoes in the* bld camel-trod streets is now being made in a factory in that crude, upstart land, America, which Columbus stumbled on when he was hunting around for a way to circumvent the Ottoman, to beat ths camel drivers by getting there with a ship.