The Bamberg herald. (Bamberg, S.C.) 1891-1972, April 27, 1922, Page 4, Image 4
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SYNOPSIS
PREFACE.?'Mary Marie" explain* her
apparent "double personality" and just
why she is a "cross-current and a contradiction;"
she also tells her reasons for
writing the diary?later to be a noveL The
diary is commenced at Andersonville.
CHAPTER L?Mary begins with Nurse
Sarah's account of her (Mary's) birth,
which seemingly interested her father,
who is a famous astronomer, less than a
new star which was discovered the same
night Her name is a compromise, her
mother wanted to call her viola and her
? * ' * Vir~.ll T,n. ?Ph,
. rmi-nur msiDUUg vu Auifeou ?mi?.
child quickly learned that her home was
In some way different from those of her
small friends, and was puzzled thereat
Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's arrival
at Andersonville as a bride and how
astonished they all were at the sight of
the dainty eighteen-year old girl whom
the sedate professor had chosen for a
wife.
CHAPTER II.?Continuing her story,
Nurse Sarah makes it plain why the
household seemed a strange one to the
child and howher father and mother
drifted apart through misunderstanding,
each too proud to In any way attempt to
smooth over the situation.
? CHAPTER IIL?Mary tells of the time
spent "out west" where the "perfectly
ail right and genteel and respectable
divorce was being arranged for, and her
mother's (to her) unacountable behavior.
By the court's decree the child is to spend
six months of the year with her mother
and six months with her father. Boston
is Mother's home, and she and Mary
leave Andersonville for that city to spend
the first six months.
CHAPTER IV.?At Boston Mary becomes
"Marie." She is delighted with her
new home, so different from the gloomy
m house at Andersonville. The number o?
gentlemen who call* on her mother leads
her to speculate on the possibility of a
new father. She classes the callers as
"prospective suitors," finally deciding the
choice is to be between "the violinist"
and a Mr. Harlow. A conversation she
overhears between her mother and Mr.
Harlow convinces her that it will not be
that gentleman, and "to violinist" seems
to be the likely man. Mrs. Anderson receives
a letter from "Aunt Abigail Anderson,
her former husband's sister, whi is
keeping house for him, reminding her that
"Mary7? is expected at Andersonville for
the six months she is to spend with her
father. Her mother is distressed, but
has no alternative, and "Marie" departs
? for Andersonville.
'
I was pretty sure she didn't like
my clothes, either. I've since found
out she didn't?but more of that anon.
/T Hnot lm-o that mrnrd "nnnn "1 And
\f* *VfV / ?
I just knew she disapproved of my
hat But she didn't say anything?
not in words?and after we'd attended
to my trunk, we went along to the car*
X riage and got in. My stars!,' I didn't
suppose horses could go so slow. Why.
we were ages just going a block. You
see Td forgotten; and without thinking
I spoke right out.
"My! Horses are slow, aren't they?'
I cried. "You see, Grandpa has an
auto, and?"
"Mary!"?just like that she interrupted?Aunt
jane did. (Funny how
old folks can do what they won't let
you do. Now if I'd interrupted anybody
like that!) "You may as well
! , understand at once,' went on Aunr
Jane, "that we are not interested in
yonr grandfather's auto, or his house,
or anything that* is his." (I felt as if
I was hearing the catechism in
; church!) "And that the less reference
you make to your life in Boston the
better we shall be pleased. As I said
before, we are not interested. Besides,
while under your father's roof, it
would seen) to me very poor ta?te, indeed,
for you to make constant reference
to things you may have beeu doing
while not under his roof. The
situation is deplorable enough, however
you take it, without making it
positively unbearable. Ycu will remember,
Mary?"
Mary said, "lea, Aunt Jane," very
polite and proper; but I can tell you
v * thaft inside of Mary, Marie was just
boiling.
Unbearable, indeed!
We didn't say anything more all the
way home. Naturally, I was not going
to, after that speech; and Aunt Jane
sal<h nothing. So silence reigned supreme.
Then we got home. Things looked i
quite natural, only there was a new |
maid In the kitchen, and Nurse Sarah
wasn't there. Father wasn't - there, j
either. And, just as I suspected, 'twas
a star that was to blame, only this
time the star was the moon?an
eclipse; and he'd gone somewnere out
"west so he eould see it better.
He isn't coming back till next week;
and when I think how he made me
come on the first day, so as to get in
the whole six months, when all the
time he did not care enough about it
to be here himself, I'm just mad?I
mean, the righteously Indignant kind
of mad?for I can't help thinking how
poor Mother would have loved those
exCra days with her.
Aunt Jane said I was to have my
old room, and so, as soon as I got here,
I wen* right up and took off my hat
and coat, and pretty quick they
brought up my trunk, and I unpacked
it; and I didn't hurry about it, either.
I wasn't a bit anxious to get downstairs
again to Aunt Jane. Besides,
I may as well own up, I was crying?
a little. Mother's room was right
across the hall, and It looked so lonesome,
and I couldn't help remember'
In? how different this homecoming
was .Jrom the one in Boston, six
RlHI
K PORTER
HONS BY
NGSTONE.
f V 1 I
ANOR H. PORTER)
I months ago.
Well, at last I had to go down to
j dinner?I mean supper?and, by the
way, I made another break on that. I j
called it dinner right out loud, and
never thought?till I saw Aunt Jane's
face.
"Supper will be ready directly," she
said, with cold and icy emphasis. "And
may I ask you to remember, Mary,
please, that Andersonville has dinner
at noon, not at six o'clock."
"Yes, Aunt Jane," said Mary, polite
and proper again. (I shan't say
what Marie said inside.)
We didn't do anything in the eve?
* 3 (y/v frt Bar? of nfnp
UUlg UUL ICttU BUU ftv IV VV.U ?.
o'clock. I wanted to run over to Oarrle
Hey wood's;r but Aunt Jane said
no, not till morning. (I wonder why
young folks never can do things when
they want to do them, but must always
wait till morning or night or
noon, or some other time!)
In the morning I went up to the
schoolhouse. I planned it so as to get
there at recess, and I saw all the girls
except one that was sick, and one that
was away. We had a perfectly lovely
time, only everybody was talking all
at once so that I don't know now what
was said. But they seemed glad to see
me. I know that. Maybe I'll go to
school next week. Aunt Jane says
she thinks I ought to, when it's only
the first of May. She's going to speak
to Father when he comes next week.
She was going to speak to him
about my clothes; then she decided to
attend to those herself, and not bother
him. She doesn't like my dresses. She
came into my room and asked to see
my-things. My! But didn't I hate to
show them to her? ]?larie said she
wouldn't; but Mary obediently trotted
to the closet and brought them out
one by one.
Aunt Jane turned them around with
the tiDS of her fingers, all the time
sighing and shaking her head. When
Td brought them all out, she shook
her head again and said they would
not do at all?not in AncTSrsonville;
that they were extravagant, and much
too elaborate for a young girl; that
she would see the dressmaker and arrange
that I had some serviceable
blue and brown serges at once.
Blue and brown serge, indeed ! But,
there, what's the use? I'm Mary now.
I keep forgetting that; though I don't
see how I can forget it?with Aunt |
Jane around.
But, listen. A funny thing happened
this morning. Something came up
about Boston, and Aunt Jane asked
me a question. Then she asked another
and another, and she kept me
talking till I guess I talked 'most a
whole half-hour about Grandpa Desmond,
Aunt Hattie, Mother, and the
house, and what we did, and, oh, a
whole lot of things. And here, just
two days ago, she was telling me that
she wasn't interested in Grandpa Desmond,
his home, or his daughter, or
anything tnat was nis:
There's something funny about
Aunt Jane.
ONE WEEK LATER.
Father's come. He cagie yesterday.
But I didn't know itt and I came .running
downstairs; ending with a little
bounce for the last step. And there,
right in front of me in the hall was?
Father. /
I guess he was as much surprised
!>as I was. Anyhow, he acted so. He
I just stood stock-still and stared, his
| face turning all kinds of colors.
"You?" he gasped, just above his
breath. Then suddenly he seemed to
remember. "Why, yes, yes, to be sure.
You are here, aren't you? How do
you do, Mary?"
He came up then and held out his
hand, and I thought that was all he
was going to do. But, after a funny
little hesitation, he stooped and kissed
my forehead. Then he turned and
went into the library with very quick
?nh t Hirin't sefc him azain till
M<UV> A - -w ? ? ? w
at the supper-table.
At the supper-table he said again,
"How do you do, Mary?" Then he
seemed to forget all about me. At
least he didn't say anything more to
! me;'for three or four times, when I
| glanced up, I found him looking at me.
! But just ns soon as I looked back a*
! him h% turned his eyes away ana
cleared his throat, arid began to ea<
or to talk to Aunt Jane.
Arter dinner?I mean supper?he
went out to the observatory, just as
he always used to. Aunt Jane said
| her head ached and she was' going to
1 becL [ said I guessed I would step
over to Carrie Hey wood's; but Aunt
Jane said, certainly not; that I \rtis
much too young to be running around
nights in the dark. Nights! And it was
j only seven o'clock, and not dark at
, all I But of course I couldn't go.
Aunt Jane went upstairs, and I was
left alone. I didn't feel a bit like
reading; besides, there wasn't a book
or a magazine anywhere asking you
to reach They just shrieked, "Touch
me not I" behind'the glass doors In the
library. I hate sewing. I mean Marie
hates It. Aunt Jane says Mary's got
to learn.
For a time I just walked around the
different rooms downstairs, looking at
the chairs and tables and rugs all Just
so, as if they'd been measured with a
yardstick. Marie jerked up a shade
and pushed a chair crooked and kicked
a rug up at one corner; but Mary put
them all back properly?so there
wasn't any fun in that for long.
After a while I opened the parlor
door and peeked in. They used to
keep it often when Mother was here;
but Aunt Jane doesn't use it. I knew
where the electric push button was,
though, and I turned on the light.
Before I got the light on, the chairs
and sofas loomed up like ghosts in
their linen covers. And when the
light did come on, I saw that all the
old shiver places were there. Not one
was missing. Great Grandfather Anderson's
coffin piate on black velvet,
<-V?? nrov Ar/wa onH flrttpore thot hoH
UlC naA \,i vgo auu nv?? VA O iuuv uuu
been used at three Anderson funerals,
the hair wreath made of all the hair
of seventeen dead Andersons and five
live ones?no, no, I don't mean all the
hair, but hair from all seventeen and
five. Nurse Sarah used to tell me
about It.
Well^ as I said, all the shiver places
were there, and I shivered again as I
looked at them; then I crossed over to
Mother's old piano, opened it, and
touched the keys. I love to play, i
There wasn't any music there, but I
don't need music for lots of my pieces. |
I know them by heart?only they're all
gay and lively, and twinkly-toe dancy.
Marie music. I don't know a one that
would be proper for Mary to play.
But I was just tingling to play something,
and I remembered that Father
j was In the observatory, and Aunt Jane
upstairs In the other part of the house j
| where she couldn't possibly hear. So
I began to play. I played the very
slowest piece I had, and I played
softly at first; but I know I forgot,
and I know I hadn't played two ni^eefl
JHHWilk
, II ^
I Was Having the Best Time Ever,
and Making Ail the Noise I Wanted
To.
before I was having the best time
ever, and making all the noise I wanted
to.
Then all of a sudden I had a funny
feeling as if somebody somewhere was
watching me; but I just couldn't turn
around. I stopped playing, though, at
the end of that piece, and then I
looked; but there wasn't anybody in
sight. But the wax cross was there,
and the coffin plate, and that awful
hair wreath; and suddenly I felt as if
the room was just full, of folks with
great staring eyes. I fairly shook with
shivers, but I managed to shut the
piano and get over to the door where
the light was. Then, a minute later,
out in the big silent hall, I crept on
tiptoe toward the stairs. I knew then,
all of a sudden, why I'd felt somebody
was listening. There was. Across the
hall in the library in the big chair before
the fire sat?Father! And for
'most a whole half-hour I had been
banging away at that piano on
marches and dance music! My! But
I held my breath and stopped short, I
can tell you. But he didn't move nor
turn, and a minute later I was safely
by the door and halfway up the
stairs.
I stayed in my room the rest of that
> * - -li? ? _?J
evening; ana ior uie seuuuu ume smio
I've been here I cried myself to sleep.
ANOTHER WEEK LAJTER
Well, I've got them?those brown
and blue serge dresses and the calf-1
skin boots. My, but I hope they're
stiff and homely enough?all of them!
And hot, too. Aunt Jane did say today
that she didn't know but what
she'd made a mistake not to get gingham
dresses. But. then, she'd have to
get 'th?> gingham later, anyway, she
said; then I'd have both.
Well, they can't be worse than the
serge. That's sure. I hate the sergcThey're
awfully homely. Still, I don't
know but it's just as well. Certainly
it's lots easier to be Mary in a brown
serge and clumpy boots than it is in
the soft, fluffy things Marie used to
wear. Tou couldn't be Marie in these
things. Honestly, I'm feeling real
Maryish these days.
I wonder if that's why the girls
seem so queer at school. They are
queer. Three times lately I've come
up to a crowd of girls and heard them
stop talking right off short. They colored
_u?,jtoo; and pretty quick they beu
gan to slip away, one Tjy "one, till there
wasn't anybody left but Just me, just
as they used to do in Boston. But of
course It can't be for the same reason
here, for they've known all along
about the divorce and haven't minded
it at all.
I heard this morning that Stella
Mayhew had a party last night. But I
didn't get invited. Of course, you
can't always ask everybody to your
parties, but this was a real big party,
and I haven't found a girl in school,
yet, that wasn't invited?but me. But
I guess it wasn't anything, after all.
Stella is a new girl that has come
here to live since I went away. Her
folks are rich, and she's very popular,
and of course she has loads of friends
she had to invite; and she doesn't
know me very well. Probably that was
It. And maybe I just imagine it about
the other girls, too. Perhaps it's the
brown serge dress. Still, it can't be
that, for this is the first day I've worn
it. But, as I said, I feel Maryish already.
I haven't dared to touch the piano
since that night a week ago, only once
when Aunt Jane was at a missionary
meeting, and I knew Father was over
to the college. But didn't I have a
good time then? I just guess I did!
Aunt Jane doesn't .care for music.
Besides, it's noisy, she says, and would
be likely to disturb Father. So I'm not
to keep on with my music lessons here.
She's going to teach me to sew Instead.
She says sewing is much more
sensible and useful.
Sensible and useful! I wonder how
many times I've heard those words j
since I've been here. And durable,
too. And nourishing. That's another
word. Honestly, Marie is getting awfully
tired of Mary's sensible sewing
and dusting, and her durable clumpy
shoes and stuffy dresses, and her nourishing
oatmeal and whole-wheat
bread. But there, what can you do?
Fm trying to remember that it's different,
anyway, and that I said I liked
something different.
I don't see much of Father. Still,
thqre'k something kind of queer about
it, after all. He only speaks to me
about twice a day?just "Good-morning,
Mary," and "Good-night." And
ho far as most of his actions are con- j
cerned you wouldn't think by them
that he knew I was in the house. Yet,
over and over again at the table, and
at times when I didn't even know he
was 'round, I've found him watching
me, and with such a queer, funny look
in his eyes. Then, very quickly always,
he looks right away. '
But last night he didn't. And that's
j especially what I wanted to write
about today. And this is the way it
hnnnpnort
It was after supper, and I had gone
Into the library. Either had gone out
to the observatory as usual, and Aunt
Jane had gone upstairs to her room as
usual, and as usual I was wandering
'round looking for something to do. I
wanted to play on the piano, but I
didn't daire to?not with all those
dead-hair and wax-flower folks in the
parlor watching me, and the chance of
Father's coming in as he did before.
I was standing in the window staring
out at nothing?it wasn't quite
dark yet?when again I had that queer
feeling that somebody was looking at
me. I turned?and there was Father.
He had come in and was sitting In the
big chair by the table. But this time
he didn't look right away as usual and
give me a chance to slip quietly out
of the room, as I always had before.
Instead he said: < *
"What are you doing there, Mary?"
"N-nothing!" Father frowned and
hitched in his chair. Father always
hitches in his chair when he's irritated
and nervous. "You can't be doing
nothing. Nobody but a dead man does
nothing?and we aren't so sure about
him What are vou doing. Mary?"
"Just l-looking out the window."
"Come here. I want to talk , to you."
"Yes, Father."
I went, of course, at once, and sat
down in the chair near him. He
hitched again in his seat.
"Why don't you do something?read,
sew, knit?" he demanded. "Why do I
always find you moping around, doing
nothing?"
Just like that he said it; and when
he had just told me?
"Why, Father!" I cried; and I know
that I showed how surprised I was.:
"I thought you just said I couldn't do
nothing?that nobody could!"
"Eh? What! Tut, tut!" He seemed
very angry at first; then suddenly he
looked sharply into my face. Next, If
you'll believe it, he laughed?the
queer little chuckle under his breath
that I've heard him give two or three
times when there was something he
thought was funny. "Humph!" he
grunted. Then he gave me another
sharp look out of his eyes, and said:
"I donlt think you meant that to be
so imnertinent as it sounded,
"1~-" ? ??
Mary, so we'll let it pass?this time.
I'll put my question this way: Don't
you ever knit or read or sew?"
"I do sew every day in Aunt Jane's
room, ten minutes hemming, ten minutes
seaming, and ten minutes basting
patchwork squares together. I don't
know how to knit."
"E??v about reading# Don't you
car^or reading?"
"Why, of course I do. I lov# it!" I
cried. "And I do read lots?at
home."
"At?home?"
I knew, then, of course, that I'd
made another awful break. There
wasn't any smile around Father's eyes
now, and his lips came together hard
and thin over that last word.
(To be continued next week.)
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Druggists refund money if PAZO OINTMENT fails
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"SI RE INSURANCE"
Life, Fire, Health and Accident, and
Bonds of All Kinds
Office in Herald Building
BAMBERG, S. C,
No Worms In a Healthy Child
Ail children troabled with Worms have an unhealthy
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GROVE'S TASTELESS CHILL TONIC given regularly
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I Best material and workman- I
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IRON WORKS &
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DR.G.M.TRULUCK
SPECIALIST
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Don't neglect & constant backache,
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The danger of dropsy or
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have your friends and neighbors* A
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Mrs. J. A. Miller, Main St., says:
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60c, at all dealers. Foster-Milburn
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\ _
Colds Cause Grip and Influenza
LAXATIVE BROMO QUININE Tablets remove
the cause. There is only one 'Bromo Quinine."
E. W. GROVE'S signature on box. 30c.
DR. THOMAS BLACK
DENTAL SURGEON
1 Graduate Dental Department University
of Maryland. Member S. C.,
State Dental Association.
Office opposite postoffice.
Office hours, 9:00 a. m. to 5:30 p. m.
The Quinine That Does Not Affect the Head
Because of its tonic and laxative effect, LAXATIVE
BROMO QUININE is better than ordinary
Quinine and does not cause nervousness nor
ringing: in head. Remember the full name and
look for the signature of E- W. GROVE* 30c
Funeral Directors and
Embalemrs
MOTOR HEARSE
I ? t* ft n/Nirn
J.UUUJNiSlt 05 SUIMS
BAMBERG, S. C.
B9DDBBDSBDBB9
DO 00
g Indigestion g
S Many persons, otherwise 0
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Q Hen ^ important "The only {Q
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9 tlon and clean the lirer," B
B writes Mr. Fred Ashby, a' g
McKinney, Texas, farmer. JJ
B "My medicine is a3
5 Thedford's "
m aporaiicht
ULflUll~2JlinUUII I
H for indigestion and stomach Q
zjS trouble of any kind. I hare 5E
H never found anything that B
gg touches the spot, like Black- g*3
B Draught. I take it in broken
doses after meals. For a long B
time I tried pills, which gripBed
and didn't give the good
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SB to keep, inexpensive." pa
^ Get a package from your __
druggist today?Ask for and j|?
?3 insist upon Thedford's?the 83
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Both remedies are packed in one carton and the
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NOTICE OF ELECTION. 1
Notice is%iven that an election has
been ordered, and will be held in the *
Health and Drainage District of Ehrhardt,
S. C., and Immediate Vicinity,
on the 2nd day of May, 1922, to determine
whether or not the said District,
thorugh its Commissioners,
shall issue bonds in the sum of Thirty-two
Hundred ($3,200) Dollars,
bearing interest at a rate not to i
exceed seven per cent, per annum,
for a term of five years, for the purpose
of the completion and maintenance
of the said District. The ballot
box will be placed in front of the
Post Office at Ehrhardt, S. C. The
Board of Commissioners has appointed
the following as Managers of the
said election: J. C. Kinard, H. W.
Chitty and L. M. Hiers.
GEO. W. MORINGSTAR,
I. D. COPELAND, v
O. E. KEARSE,
Board of Commissioners of the Health
and Drainage District of Ehrhardt,
S. C., and the Immediate Vicinity.
4-2 7-n
Dated, this 4th day of April, 1922.
S. G. MAYFIELD
ATTORNEY-AT-IiAW
Practice in all courts, State and
Federal.
Office Opposite Southern Depot.
BAMBERG, S. C.
NOTICE CONCERNING PLOWING
IX PUBLIC ROOADS.
i
Pursuant to recommendation of
the Bamberg County Grand Jury, the
landowners of the county cultivating
lands adjacent and adjoining public
roads are hereby urgently requested
not to plow into or allow their hands
to plow into the roads. Landowners
are requested to plant two or three
rows of crops adjacent to roads parallel
jgith the road, so that there may
be proper turning space without the
necessity of turning plows in the
roads. It is against the law to allow
plows to damage the roads,
and it is an unnecessary practice.
The county spends large sums
of money in road building, and the
roads belong to the people. I have
no desire to prosecute anybody, bu*
I must insist that this practice be
stopped immediately. The farmers
and tenants can cooperate in this respect,
and there should be no necessity
to bring action against anybody.
Full notice is being given before I
take such action.
W. B. SMOAK,
Supervisor. !
January 31, 1922. tf
A. TONIC
drove's Tasteless chill Tonic restores
Energy and Vitality by Purifying and
Enriching the Blood. When you feel its.
strengthening, invigorating effect, see how v
it brings color to the cheeks and how
it improves the appetite, you will then
appreciate its true tonic value.
(Move's Tasteless chill Tonic is simply
Iron and Quinine suspended in syrup. So
pleasant even children like it The blood
needs QUININE to Purify it and IRON to
Enrich it Destroys Malarial germs and -i
Grip germs by its Strengthening, Invigorating
Effect 60c.
i i'fresh 1
hjpaint[
vPure Paint
it will retain its I brilliancy
and save the
|| surface longer. Good
painters use and recommend
Kurfees because
it contains more
pure lead per gallon.
i i
ILret us snow you now
little it takes to paint
your home right.
Kur fees Makes a Paint
for Every Purpose
? We Have Them.
I G.O.SIMMONS ' j
BAMBERG, S. C.
J.ZJROOKER ~ j
DENMARK, S. C. |
f j