Richmond Palladium (Daily), Volume 39, Number 60, 20 January 1914 — Page 6

PAGE SIX

THE RICHMOND PALLADIUM AND SUN -TELE GRAM, TUESDAY, JAN. 20. 1914

He Never Takes a Dare

By Nell Brinkley

Cupid may be a tiny little Imp, but he knows no fear, and nothing "feazet" him.

Did you ever do this sit up and swell your little chest out and smile sort of offhand and dare Danny to take a shot at you? He never does, you know, take a dare. You sit back on

your heels, and you think it is a game just fun. The little chap's got such a playful smile, and he fools around and fools around and sends his arrow quivering into the walls

but you are dead certain that he'd never loose it into your even-pulsed heart. And so in the midst of this mild play and gentle camaraderie, you put your two fists on your hips and

Married Life the Third Year

BY MABEL HERBERT URNER. It was a typical "stage-set." studio a studio of the artist who poses more than he works. There were hangings, screens, rugs, armor, and the countless curios and

useless things that are supposed to j make up the atmosphere of a studio, j The usual careful, careless disorder!

prevailed, and. the place was dim and dusty and stifling with the odor of cigarets, burning incense and candles. Helen was seated on a couch covered with an Indian blanket. The springs were broken and sagged in the middle, and she kept sliding down

against the anaemic young man who ! sat beside her. He had been talking j with much fervor about a volume of poems love sonnets that were in the j hands of his publishers." ,

He was just starting to repeat some lines that he had "tossed off the night before when there was a hush in tho buzz of conversation. And some one announced that Professor Purcaro would play one of his selections a nocturne in A Minor. Professor Purcaro, with bushy hair, rumpled coat, low collar, a broad tie, sat down at the piano. He first ran his lingers through his hair in the most approved manner, and then with an impressive pause, made a sudden and wild onslaught at the keys. For a moment he banged with terrible vigor and hon as sudenly dropped to a faint twiddle-de-de. Once more the infuriated banging and still again the caressing, whispering twiddle-de-de. HELEN NEARLY LAUGHS.

Kvpryone seemed profoundly lm-1 pressed. But Helen thought of how j Warren had once imitated just such a performance, and there came over her a hysterical desire to laugh. Quickly she took a gulp of tea from the cup in her hand and then almost strangled. Now the music had settled down Into a steady thunderous stampede. The professor, with his head thrown Lack and the shaggy locks awry was working hard. When finally he ended with a last crashing chord, every one applauded with murmurs of "How exquisite. What perfect technique! What wonderful expression!" Then as though impatient from the enforced silence the buzz of conversation began again. "Won't you have another sandwich? asked the poet, who hod helped himself liberally several times. "Try one of these with the nuts." Ever since Helen had entered there had been a crowd around the refreshment table, and the paper-thin sandwiches and wer.k claret punch rapidly disappeared. She had heard that there was a certain class of artists and poets who lived mostly on what they jrot at teas, and now as she saw several of them hungrily bolting the sandwiches and macaroons, she wondered if it could be true. Some one announced that Mrs. Kathleen Burk-Reed would give some child impersonations. Mrs. Burk-Reed, in spite of her rouge and her girlish coquetry, looked fully thirty-five The chairs were crowded back and small space cleared by the piano for her to stand. With an effectation that would have fifen pathetic had it not. been so ridiculous, she began lisping "little Or-

fen Annie." with her head held shyly on one side, her finger in her mouth, and holding out her skirt in front, she swayed back and forth in the way children are always Impersonated, but no child ever acts. When she had lisped through this she favored them with, "The Goblins'll

get 'oo if 'oo don't watch out." After this Helen expected "Little Boy Blue," but the applause was somewhat weak and they were spared that. And now there was another rush on the punch bowl. One needed a glass of something after Mrs. Kathleen Burk?Reed's performance. Then the poet who sat beside Helen was easily persuaded to read one of his own poems. And he always read it at some stage for the tea. Possibly he thought it payment for the enormous amount of sandwiches and macaroons that ne devoured. He "struck a Byronic attitude and in a resonant .voice read : Art thou alone, loved one? Art thou alone? Am I no more, the sphere thy rapture cherishes? Oh, why from thine own soul hast thou drawn apart? Thou knowest where the joy thou hast betrayed. Oh, cold and tender eyes! Oh, cruel lips Drinking thy tears. Am I the wine thou holdest? Hast thou forgot the ecstacies that seemed To flow about us when our souls expired? When he had finished the lines there was the same murmurous applause that had been given the musi- ! cian. "How soulful! What exquisite thought! What delicacy of feeling! How truly poetical!"

Then he read another sonnet even more fervent and impressive, and to Helen more meaningless. It was plain

that he expected to read still another, but some one rose to go and, to his disappointment the attention was diverted from him. "Oh, don't you think it must be wonderful to write poetry like that? suggested a young girl who had taken the poet's seat on the saggy couch beside Helen. Helen murmured some embarrassed reply. "And isn't this an attractive studio? I do think studios are the most fascinating places." But here the poet came over and leaned familiarly against the wall and she turned to him with efTusive admiration. "What's become of Broskford," ask

ed a man in a shabby velveteen coat, who was standing with a group just in front of Helen. "Brockford! Ohm he's doing some advertisement stuff drawing pretty girls for a soap company." "Too bad," remarked the man in the velveteen coat. "Didn't thing he'd come to that. NOT SO BAD. And Helen could not help wondering as she glanced at the shabby bored looking artist, if it would not be better to draw soap advertisements and get a decent salary than to hang around studio teas and prate about "color," "atmosphere," and "soul." Above everything else Helen was a practical little person, and she had a wholesome horror of men who did not

work. From the few studio gatherings she had been to, she was getting the impression that most artists were "Shabby idlers" an impression for which she could hardly be blamed. For the successful artist in any line, the one who really works, has no time to twaddle arouns teas. It is only the "poseur" and the "hanger-on" who do that. And yet, curiously enough, it is these very idlers who are always criticising the work of others, particularly if the work is of a commercial nature. It was growing late and Helen was anxious to get home. But she had come with Mrs. Stevens, who was now in the midst of an animated group at the other side of the studio. Several times Helen tried vainly to catch her

dare young Dan to wing you! And he braces his small legs and rounds out his tumy and draws the singing string to his pink ear (and still he looks like play, for his mouth beyond

attention, but she hesitated to cross over and interrupt her. At length the group broke up and Mrs. Stevens came over with a smiling, "Ready dear?" "Oh, yes," and Helen rose eagerly; "quite ready." But by the time they had told their host what a "charming tea" it has been, and what a "very delightful studio he had, and then made their way down three flights of stairs, it was after six. When Helen reached home Warren was already there. He was reading, his feet propped up on their favorite

j resting place the window sill.

"Hello, kitten," lighting a fresh cigar. "Been galivanting around tho shops?" "Oh, no no, and I'm sorry to be late! But I went with Mrs. Stevens to a studio tea. Oh, dear, nestling down beside him on the arm of the chair. "I'm so thankful that you don't wear long hair and a flowing tie. And, oh, Warren," smoothing proudly his closely cropped brown hair. "I am so glad that you're not an artist or a musician, or poet!"

the bow is smiling just the same) and he shuts one bright eye; and you 6mlle on also and one tiny vicious twang time enough to see behind

HAWK IS ELECTED COUNTYCHAIRMAH Newspaper Man Chosen As Head of Delaware County Progressives. George J. Hawk, a former Richmond newspaper man, has been elected chairman of the Delaware County Progressive organization. Mr. Hawk,

although a young man, is managing edj itor of the Muncie Star. Three years ago he attended Earlham College as a

.special student in journalism. During'

: his stay in Richmond Mr. Hawk was ; a special writer for the Palladium.

Love's smile an icy cruelty and orer you topple clean gone in love the deadly bittersweet stuck deep in your heart! Did you ever dare lore to wins

you and he never take a dare? Donl do it, even If you are the lastingest old bachelor ever was! Nell Brink-ley.

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