Walkerton Independent, Volume 51, Number 27, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 3 December 1925 — Page 2

AILMENTS OF YOUNG GIRLS Relieved by Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound School Teacher’s Experience Evanston, Wyoming.—“A few years ago I had troubles every month such as

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Prudence’s Daughter By ETHEL HUESTON Copyright by the Bobbs-MerrlU Co. WNU Service

JERRY QUITS .SYNOPSIS —PART ONE—At a i merry party in the studio apartment of Carter Blake, New York, Jerry (Geraldine) Harmer, Prudence’s daughter, meets Duane Allerton, wealthy idler. He admires her tremendously, and she likes him. But Allerton gets a bit exhilarated, with unfortunate | results. Jerry, resenting his assumption of familiarity, leaves the party abruptly, the story turns to Jerry's childhood and I youth at her home in Des Moines. Only child of a wealthy father, i when she is twenty she feels j the call of Art and asks her parents to let hes- go to New York for study. With some misgiving, they agree to her going. In New York Jerry makes her home with a Mrs. Delaney ("Mimi”), an actress, who, with Theresa, a painter, occupies the house. Jerry takes an immediate liking to Theresa, who is talented and eccentric and the two become fast friends. ______ CHAPTER lll—Continued “Now wear your very fluffy-niffllest ! parry clothes, so they’ll all fall in love ; with you,” admonished Rhoda. “He’s | sure to have some awfully amusing j folks, and you’ll be crazy about it. j You get dressed and come by for me. I We’ll be rather late. I have to finish a drawing before we go. You come along about ten, and we'll start as soon as I get the darned old lamp in the right i : place.” “The lamp? What lamp?” “In my drawing. It’s a background thing. There has to be a floor lamp, I and the lady villain falls under it. There's only nne place in the picture I it can possibly go, and when I put it > there, it throws a shadow where there should be a light. On the lady’s face—- ' see? I’ve been having the devil's own time with it all day. My lamp isn’t i tall enough, so I’m going to borrow ! one of Mimi’s to take along home, and : perhaps it will go better.” “Why don't you let It go until toj morrow?” asked Jerry. “Then you’ll । be nice and fresh for it. If you work tonight you’ll be all tired out. Wait [ till tomorrow.” “Oh, but I can’t work tomorrow. We’re going to a party!” “Another party tomorrow?’’ “No, no, this one. tonight. But I | can’t work tomorrow. 1 never can work the day after a party.” Jerry dismissed the subject with a shrug of her pretty shoulder. She had long since ceased trying to understand the ways of eager Rhoda and tired Theresa. She was going to the party, too, as well as Rhoda. Jerry was sure she would be at her class as usual the I following day. At ten o’clock that evening, radiantly lovely in a stunning little flame-col- . ored gown of chiffon velvet, with pearls at her throat and swinging beneath | the cluster of curls over her ears, snugly bundled in a great soft cape of finest kolinsky, she took- a taxi to Rhoda's studio. And opening the door, i in response to a muffled, strangled. “Cm' on in.” she stood aghast, staring, ! eyes wide, lips parted. “Mimi’s tallest, handsomest, rosiest floor lamp stood conspicuously in the center of the room, and on a rug dlI rectly beneath it, lay Rhoda herself, in a shimmering evening gown of gold and green, writhing, twisting, squirniing, studying herself frowningly in a small hand mirror to get the effect of her contortions. “Oh, Rhoda, you can’t Imagine how ridiculous you look,” she cried. Rhoda got up. She took Jerry’s handsome kolinsky wrap and tossed It across a chair. “You do it.” She waved a light hand , toward the picture on her easel. “See, it’s like this. There's the lady. The lamp has to be there. It throws her face Into shadow, see? And it's got to be clear and In a bright light. Now how the dickens —” Under her Insistence, Jerry was obliged, flame-colored chiffon velvet and all, to sprawl out on the rug on the floor—turning this way, twisting that, head thrown backward, tilted higher, while Rhoda stood over her, scowling, criticising, swearing softly beneath her breath, moving the lamp, now here, now there. And after some ten minutes of painful effort on the part of good-natured Jerry, she suddenly found that a bright shaft of light fell directly across the lovely face on the rug. She cried out, joyously, clasping her hands. “Hold it. hold it. Jerry!” she ordered. And caught up her brush to catch the light. For thirty minutes the room was hushed with a great silence, while Rhoda worked feverishly at the picture. and Jerry, on the floor, almost held her breath in her fear of spoiling the effect. . Presently Rhoda clicked out the 1 brilliant light beside the easel, sighing ‘ loudly In relief, and laughed. “Done! - That’s fine! Much obliged, Jerry. You’re the nicest little sport I ever saw.” At eleven o’clock, muffled in heavy wraps, they were in a taxi on their way to Brooklyn. That was the night of Jerry's first studio party, the night of Carter Blake’s “contract souse,” as it was affectionately recorded in the memories of his friends forever after. And that । was the night when Jerry, basking warmly In the Intoxicating Intimacy of Dnane Allerton’s friendly smile, lost ! the glamorous Illusion of her girlhood's tenderest dream. CHAPTER IV When Jerry Gave Up It was four o'clock in the morning when Jerry reached her little studio

' apartment on Reilly’s alley after Carter Blake’s hilarious “contract souse" in Brooklyn. She went in very slowly, very quietly, and placed her great fur cloak carefully on its hanger in the small closet. And then she set to | work, with the minutest care and or- ■ derliness, piling together every penj ciled sketch, every laboriously painted i tree and flower, every anxiously out- ! lined face and figure that was even I remotely connected with the pursuit of I Art. When she had it all in one heap, she wrapped it in heavy paper and tied ! it with a stout cord. Then she cleaned ; her brushes with painful, painstaking I intentness, closing every bottle and tube and jar of paint and i.il, wiping ; them neatly and packing them all in : their boxes. These she put away on I the top shelf of her closet. Last of all. she released the supports of her easel and let It down, and then, with a : great effort, managed to shove it into her bath closet behind the ridiculously ' small tub. Jerry did not know why she did these things. She did not even wonder why. She only knew that she must banish every reminder of a dead passion—though really Art had never been i a passion with her, but only a pleasant, luke-warm interest. When easel, sketches and paints were gone from her sight, she sighed a little wearily. She removed the flame-colored gown and went to bed. At ten o’clock the next morning she I went up to Theresa, carrying a gaudy tray, on which she had arranged a charming little breakfast with that daintiness which characterized everything she did. Theresa, who kept her door forbiddingly barred to Mimi, and to all the world besides, after the first j few days of their acquaintance, had given Jerry a duplicate key. “Come in whenever you like," she said. “You have an easy way about you that doesn’t drive me wild, like everybody else. But don’t knock! Just use the key and come right in! There's never any love-making to interrupt here.” Theresa’s abhorrence to knocking was a frenzy with her. A state of nerves. Jerry called it. but Theresa, who never acknowledged nerves In any shape or form, denied it. although the slightest tapping startled her to such a degree that it was a physical pain "Oh, I’m off in the clouds, and it jerks me down to earth so fast it i makes my teeth chatter,” was the way she described the sensation. There was a huge black and white sign on her door which road: “For God's sake, don’t knock. : Cough, and I’ll let you in, if i want to ; see you." Jerry, with that delicate reserve ncj quired in twenty years with Prudence. ' would not for the world have intruded so bruskly even when invited to do so. and was always careful to approach slowly, with a slight clearing of her throat, fumbling a bit with the key. and then pausing a long moment beI fore opening the door, to give Theresa time to adjust herself to company. ' whether she wished for time or not. Theresa looked tip at her entrance and nodded briskly in greeting. Theresa never said “good morning.” She I held that a nod meant welcome, and a , frown requested your absence. “Come and eat.” Jerry said, without preamble. “You’ve got on my conscience so I can’t sleep nights, thinking of you up here wasting away to a shadow, and for no good reason either, i I’m expecting tiny time to find you’ve devoured your easel.” Theresa was thinner, wanner, the dark circles shadowing her brilliant I eyes deeper and wider than before. She took the tray gratefully and balanced it on her knee. “You are the nicest kid. Jerry,” she I said. “I am hungry. I wish I could mess about with a grill the way Rhoda does, but everything conies out burned, or raw, or too much salt. 1 haven’t the knack for it. and it makes me peevish anyhow. The sight of a pan arouses ail my evil instincts. I wish 1 had been born a cave man. and then I could eat my food raw —just [ catch a bird, and gobble him up.” "You’re cave man enough,” Jerry warned her. “Don’t wish for any more of it. Do you notice an improvement in my cooking? Rhoda lias been showing me. and it’s really rather fun. Thej resa. I’m glad that you don't mind my practicing on you.” They sat for a while in silence, Theresa drinking the hot coffee, nibbling the crisp toast, with warm appreciation. The silence was not unusual. Sometimes they sat for an hour saying not one word, Theresa working steadily at h?r easel. Jerry curled up comfortably on the tumbled couch.

How Missouri Became the “Show Me” State

There have been many explanations as to the origin of the expression. ‘Tin i from Missouri, you’ve got to show me." One often advanced is that the marriage laws of Missouri in the early days were so loose that anyone could get married without answering many questions. In 1881 a law was passed making it a misdemeanor for a minister or a 1 justice to marry persons not having a state license. It also set the age of : I marriageable women at eighteen. If ’ I the applicant for the license did not I know the age of his bride-elect he ’ was obliged to show her to the license , clerk and let him Judge her age. When the applicant went after the ■ girl she naturally asked why she had ito go along to get the license. When i told that the law required her exhlbl- : tion, she remarked: “Oh, you’ve got > ( to show me, have you?”

“I’m glad your eyes are blue,” Theresa said suddenly, with one of her rare smiles. "I don’t mind your staring about. Brown eyes give me the willies.” “Was I staring? I’m sorry.” Theresa looked at her curiously. In Jerry’s abstraction, she found food for conversation. “Oh, I don’t mind. I wonder if it is because your eyes are so blue that your lashes seem so cloudy, or because your lashes are so dark that your eyes seem so blue?” “I don’t know.” Again Theresa swept her a quiet look. “Or perhaps it is the midnight blackness of your hair, and the olive cream of your skin, that effects the subtle combination." Jerry said nothing. “Have a good time at the party?" "Oh. yes. lovely.” “You’re late for your class. I’m going to report you to the Amalgamated Middle West. You’re supposed to be prompt.” “I’m not going to the class.” “Why not? Too much party?” “I'm not going to study Art any more.” “Why not?” “Because I can’t paint. You knew it all the time, didn't you?” “Yes. How did you find out?" “I don’t know. It just came to me. all of a sudden. Why didn’t you tell me, Theresa ?” “Y ou do very nicely, Jerry—for j amusement —sor—for passing away !' Kl* I' i' 2 ■ W * y There Was a Huge Black Sign on Her Door. the time, and all that. You just haven’t the spark, that’s all.” •‘I wish you had told me, Theresa.” I Jerry was w retchedly abject in her : despondency. hy should I? It amused you, and yon have money to pay for any amn.'e- ■ ment that pleases you. If you hud । cone in professionally, expecting to i ; make a career of it. a living—McDow- I I ell would have told you. But you were ■ never really one of us. you know.” “You mean I—l1 —I am a misfit.” “Yes, a misfit.” Theresa smiled upon ; ■ her. “You—you don’t like me very well, i do yon. Theresa?” Jerry’s voice was ■ i pathetic. Theresa’s answer surprised her, “I think you are the sweetest, the most ■ ; lovable girl I ever saw in my life. In fact, you’re the only one I ever did Jerry flushed deeply with surprise j I and pleasure. “You may not be tin artist, b-t j you’re a heavenl.v tine kid. You’re not : I going lioinc. are you?” “N-nb. I'pi not. I think not. 1 don’t know what I am going to do.” Theresa put the tray on the floor, | and Jerry went downstairs. ******* . Jerry expected quite confidently to hear from Rhoda, by telephone at least, to make inquiry as to her safe arrival alone at that ghastly hour. But > she neither telephoned not came. And ; so, lute in Ihe afternoon. Jerry walked > the six intervening blocks to her ; studio. The maid assured her that Miss La Faye was in, and sent her directly up, but although Jerry knocked twice, very smartly, there : was no answer. She started down, but i as the maid insisted that her friend was certainlj’ in. she returned once

— It was thus, according to some authorities, that Missouri became known as the “show me" state. —Detroit News. Tire ’Em Out Someone told us once the story of an old mammy who, having taken her charges up to the nursery at sundown and tucked them in for the night, would then rock noisily, stamping with her great feet, slapping her knees and singing to them at the top of her considerable lungs. A puzzled passer by once pointed out that whereas her methods might serve admirably to wake the young ones in the morning, it seemed an odd way to select for putting them to sleep. "It's de best way,’’ the old woman roared cheerfully. “You gotta tire ’em out. Dat's wat I say. Tire ’em out. —New York Herald

more, ano use*i the heavy knocker t»> such good effect that after a time there came a muffled groan, a flinging about of covers, and presently the shuffling of soft-soled slippers toward the door. It w as a flushed and disheveled Rhoda who confronted iter, her usually bright eyes swollen, inflamed and dull. Two grotesque kid curlers, protruded stiffly over her left eye, while the rest of her bobbed hair dangled about h r face in free disorder. “Why didn’t you do it all?” demanded Jerry quickly, her eyes on the bristling curlers. “Why such partiality?” Following the direction of Jerry’s eyes, Rhoda lifted a languid hand and felt vaguely about her forehead, coming to a sudden, electrical alertness as she felt the two curlers. She ran t > flic mirror for a minute inspection. “For heaven’s sake,” she wailed, “did I go likt that to the party?” Jerry assured her she did not, and Rhoda sighed in great relief. “Well, I don't know how it happened,” she said, “and I don’t care. Bertrande brought me home. Perhaps he did it for a joke. As long as I did not disgrace myself at the party. I i don't care.” She tumbled upon the bed again. I and Jerry sat down beside her. "Oh, such a head,” moaned Rhoda, lifting her hands to her throbbing i temples. "I swear every time I’ll never do it again, and then I do." Jerry took off her gloves, removed i her t at. folded her coat nicely over ! the back of a chair, and went to work. | She got out cups and saucers, meas- j ured coffee and water info the electric i percolator, and connected the switch. I “You'd better have it black,” she said, “but I’ll take cream as usual.” Encouraged by her gentle activity, Rhoda pulled a dressing-gown about her shoulders, bathed her flushed face. ; brushed out her tousled locks, and then drooped wearily upon the turn- ■ bled couch once more. “We didn’t come home until six J o’clock,” she said. “We hnd breakfast before we left —ham and eggs and । everything. I made the toast. Burned myself, too.” “Six o’clock ! But. Rhoda, how can , you work—" “Who's going to work? I told you yesterday 1 couldn’t work today. . That's why I finished the picture. Oh, I such a head!" “Well, of all the silly things.” Jerry said, in her most pompously Prudence • voice. “Work all night, or dance all night, or— It Is plain intemperance, ! Rhoda. You ought to use a little judg- > i ment about things! No wonder you’re I a wreck.” i Rhoda laughed feebly. "Now, lowa.” ' she protested teasingly. “There speaks i i the corn-fed baby I" Then she added ' [soberly: ‘Did you enjoy it, Jerry? Every one liked you so much. They i ' thought yon were perfectly lovely. ■ I- ■ i though discreet. Korzky sa d you were quite annoyed be< ause he kissed you : - at least he thought it was you. And ; I )uane—” "I had a lovely time, thanks," Jerry interrupted. "It was the most amus- ' ing thing 1 ex er saw in my life. No | wonder we hear these little stories about Greenwich!" "That isn’t Greenwich, that’s Brooklyn." objected Rhoda. "But anyhow we admit it. We do nothing by fractions. When we jazz, we jazz. But remember this, O’d Mississippi. When we work, we work. I've slaved away every night but three in the last three ■ months. The theater twice, the party i once. If 1 want to jazz until morning’—” "It’s nobody’s business but your ! own," Jerry put in, laughing, as ; । Rhoda In sitated. "Righto! Rush along the coffee. I An cel-face. My inerry-go-rounds are | back-tirin on me." Jerry hastened to pour the coffee, and tl y imnk a cup in silence, th<n another Willi the third serving Jerry 1 broke the silence. “Rhoda, who is Francy? I haven’t ! met her. have I?" “Francy? < >h, you mean Francy England. Well, she is Duane Aller- | ton’s new flame, since Kitty Karson : got married. What did be say about ; her?” “11. didn't mention her. It was • Aimee. She didn’t say anything—just • spoke of tier.” j "She’s not really in our crowd, you know. She's one of the Batik Trail- | ers.” "The Batik —” "I'm. yon know. Batik Trailers— I the idle rich those who can't paint [ can’t sing, can’t write—but like the ati mospbere and move In to get the air i We have to provide entertainment sot them. Sometimes it’s china painting, sometimes weaving, or beadwork; right now it's batik. Heaven knows what next! It’s the raison d’etre for the Art Trailers.” Now that Jerry realizes that she is no genius, what is she going to do? And is Allerton nut of it? (TO BE CONTINUED I Chance Acquaintance Nearly every season I make the acquaintance of one or more new flowers. It takes years to exhaust the botanical treasures of any one considerable neighborhood, unless one makes a dead set at it, like an herbalist, one likes to have his floral acquaintances come to him easily and naturally, like his other friends. Some pleasant occasion should bring you together. You meet in a walk, or touch elbows on a picnic under a tree, or get acquainted on a fishing or camping-out expedition. What comes to you in the way of birds or flowers, while wooing only the large spirit of open-air nature, seems like special good fortune. At any rate, one does not like to bolt his botany, but rather to prolong the course.—John Burroughs. The Modern Flat “That fellow must live in a verj small flat 1” "What makes you think that?” “His dog wags Its tail up and down Instead of sideways.”—Answers Russia continues to be Europe’ greatest oil-producing country, with Rumania second.

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The Change “Everything is advancing, out yur In the hills.” stated Gap Johnson of Rumpus Ridge. “How about dentistry?” asked a facetious tourist “Same as all the rest It used to be that the blacksmith done our dentistry. He’d hook onto your aching tooth and drag you all over the surrounding scenery if the fang didn’t come out before. The same blacksmith Is still pulling teeth, but he don’t hurt as much as he used to. Now he simply stuns you with a club and pulls the tooth before you come to. Aw, I tell you; times have changed yurabouts.” —Kansas City Star. Spoiled children always belong to the neighbors.

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