Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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THE SUN. NEWBERRY. S. C- FRIDAY. AUGUST 11, 1939 Dress Your Chair and Davenport Alike Pattern 6391. Now you can make your chair and davenport sets to match. And they’re all in this simple crochet that works up so quickly. The davenport head rest is made of two chair backs joined with the border crocheted around the three sides. You’ll be proud of these matched sets! Pattern 6391 con tains directions for making the set; illustrations of it and of stitches; materials needed. To obtain this pattern, send 15 cents in coins to The Sewing Circle, Household Arts Dept., 259 W. 14th St., New York. Please write your name, ad dress and pattern number plainly. GOOD FOR MALARIA! —And Malaria Chills and Feoer! Here’s what you want for Malaria, folks! Here’s what you want for the awful chills and fever. It’s Grove’s Tasteless Chill Tonic! A real Malaria medicine. Made especially for the purpose. Con tains tasteless quinidine and iron. Grove’s Tasteless Chill Tonic ac tually combats the Malaria infec tion in the blood. It relieves the freezing chills, the burning fever. It helps you feel better fast. Thousands take Grove’s Tasteless Chill Tonic for Malaria and swear by it. Pleasant to take, too. Even children take it without a whimper. Don’t suffer! At first sign of Ma laria. take Grove’s Tasteless Chill Tonic. At all drugstores. Buy the large size as it gives you much more for your money. Man’s Birthright Freedom is the birthright o! man; it belongs to him by right of his humanity, in so far as this consists with every other person’s freedom.—Kant. Unforgiving He who cannot forgive others breaks the bridge over which he must pass himself, for we all need to be forgiven.—Lord Herbert. MEDICATED PROTECTION A6AINST CHAFE IRRITATIOHS Relieves bq soothing-cools pricklq heat rashes MEXICAN HI” POWDER Censure of Friend Take the advice of a faithful friend and submit your inventions to his censure.—Fuller. BAmi^^BCessedReliel RHEUMATISMS'^ iVNU—7 32—39 Watch Youk Kidneys/ Help Them Cleanse the Blood of Harmful Body Waste Your kidneys are constantly filtering waste matter from the blood stream. But kidneys sometimes lag in their work—do not act as Nature intended—fail to re move impurities that, if retained, may K ison the system and upset the whole dy machinery. Symptoms may be nagging backache, persistent headache, attacks of dizziness, getting up nights, swelling, puffiness under the eyes—a feeling of nervous anxiety and loss of pep and strength. Other signs of kidney or bladder dis order may be burning, scanty or too frequent urination. There should be no doubt that prompt treatment is wiser than neglect. Use Voarit Pills. Doan’s have been winning new friends for more than forty years. They have a nation-wide reputation. Are recommended by grateful people the country over. Ask your neighbor] Doans Pills CHILD OF EVIL By OCTAVUS ROT COHEN - • OCTAVUS ROY COHEN- -WNU SERVICE CHAPTER I —1— The morning was pleasantly cool end the bed was comfortable so that when the first knock sounded on the oak panels of the door Kay Forrest burrowed more deeply into the pil lows, pressed her young body closer against the mattress and sleepily tried to ignore the summons. For a brief ecstatic moment the girl dropped off again into a deep sleep, but this time the knock at the door was more insistent and a woman’s voice came to her, de termined but carefully subdued so that the other members of the household would not be disturbed. It was Miss Maynard’s voice, and somehow, perfectly modulated as it was, one could not hear that voice and believe that Miss Maynard ever failed of having her way. This time she said, “Five o’clock, Kay.” Kay Forrest threw off the sheet which covered her. She called to the unseen person, "All right, Miss Maynard, I’ll be right down.” She walked across the room in her bare feet, poured water from an ancient china pitcher into an equally an cient wash-bowl, dipped her hands in the crystal fluid, splashed water plentifully on her face, laved slender throat and soft, white shoulders; shivered, and finally succeeded in opening wide her sleep-laden eyes. She sat on a chair—a dignified old chair upholstered in red—and drew silk stockings over firm young legs. She slipped her feet into shoes ridic ulously small. Then she walked to the window and for just a few mo ments stood looking down upon the haze which hung over the Gardens. Cathedral Gardens at dawn! Gray shot through with crimson and yel low and the delicate white of young blossoms. Cypress trees with brown ish gray trunks rising from lagoons of onyx. Overhead a canopy of gray Spanish moss casting deep shadows. It was very black there under the cypress trees; black as midnight, save where here and there the girl’s keen young eyes could discern a splash of brilliance; the brilliance of sub-tropical flowers. Beyond the Gardens lay the grim waste which was called Little Moc casin Swamp; ugly and forbidding. Yet from that waste these Gardens had been claimed—Gardens of such exquisite beauty that the girl at the upstairs window forgot that she had been sleepy, forgot that her whole nineteen years of life had been spent within six miles of this spot, forgot everything save that here Nature and man had collaborated to pro duce a place of such exquisite beau ty that it was always new and al ways overwhelming. Reluctantly, Kay moved away from the window. A minute later, clad in a simple dress of light blue, she tiptoed into the hallway and down the steps. Miss Christine Maynard was waiting in the dining room. Miss Maynard said, “The coffee’s ready, Kay. And we’ll have to hurry.” Kay glanced at her companion over the rim of her coffee-cup. Miss Maynard now . . . well, she wasn’t pretty. Somehow, you had to think of her as efficient. Just that. Thirty- eight—and Miss Maynard admitted it honestly and somewhat defiantly —immaculately tailored even at this absurdly young hour; black hair meticulously arranged, light tweed suit seeming as though just to have escaped from the pressing iron, brown eyes cool and observing, voice sharp but kindly. That was Christine! Maynard of New York: Christine Maynard, spinster, who was by profession an art photogra pher and by nature a thwarted mother. Christine Maynard who was spending weeks at Cathedral Gar dens making photographic studies. They were utterly different these two: Kay, just half Miss Maynard’s age, possessing a buoyancy and freshness and vivid beauty which Miss Maynard lacked and envied. But then Kay envied the older wom an her poise, her certainty, her as sured sophistication. And between them there was this in common: that beauty, such beauty as lay just beyond the door, overpowered them; that they could look at each other with the certain knowledge that another pair of eyes was seeing what theirs was seeing, that another brain was translating it into the same emotional reaction. They walked from the house to the edge of what had once been part of the swamp; Kay Forrest helping Miss Maynard with her bulky photographic equipment. This was stowed in half of the middle seat of a dun-colored bateau which was hitched informally to an oak post with a bit of thin rope. Miss Maynard sat with her camera on this seat and relaxed, after a fash ion, against the high back. Dating back before Kay’s birth, the South had been blessed with spots of beauty so outstanding as to place them on a plane above mere loveliness. There was the famous Azalea Trail of Mobile, and certain places in the coastal country of South Carolina and Georgia where Nature had concentrated its gen erosity. And these spots came to be known as Gardens, though some of them extended for miles and some were reckoned in acres. In most instances, Nature had be gun the work by providing a luxury of bloom and color more intense than average. Then man had de veloped and organized this beauty. Where hundreds of bushel blazed with a riot of color, thousands more had been planted. The work had been done artistically, so that there were breath-taking vistas of blos soms. There were gardens which were formal and some which were informal. All were astonishingly, un believably, beautiful. And years ago the first tourists, returning from winter vacations in Florida, had discovered these places which southerners had taken for granted. The fame of the various Gardens spread and became na tional, then international. Good roads were built so that the Gardens could be visited comfortably, rail roads inaugurated excursions dur ing the season of greatest floral per fection. Old families responded to the sudden popularity of their places by cultivating them with greater care and expertness, and by charging admission fees to stran gers. And it was this custom which had given one woman a vision beyond any other vision which the South had known. To Ruth Hamilton had come the idea of snatching from the gray waste of the swamp a few hundred acres, and of creating beauty where there had been only grim ugliness. The work had been long and arduous, but this spring Cathedral Gardens had become a new shrine. Today, as on every other day, Kay Forrest could not believe that this had recently been like the rest of Little Moccasin Swamp: dreary and menacing. The underbrush had been cleared away; the water was unblemished by drift. And here and there through the vaulted arches she could see islands, ablaze with Indian azalea. Each tiny island was a living flame of color; rich i cd and pink and magenta. There were no leaves to be seen; merely a welter of color splotching the gray-and- black of cypress and moss and wa ter. In this hushed hour the place was unearthly, and '.o have con versed would have seemed sacri lege. So Miss Maynard did not speak until they approached an is land near the edge of the Gardens, an island larger than the rest, an island rising from the water and rioting with color. Then Miss May nard said, "We’ll stop here.” The bateau nosed into the bank, and Miss Maynard stepped out, car rying her photographic equipment. The older woman was quietly effi cient. She critically surveyed the spot she had chosen, scrutinized the light sifting through the gray moss; expertly appraising camera angles and backgrounds; observing the rich magnificence of azalea bushes, and noting with approval a great live oak rising majestically from the middle of the island. She said, “This will do, Kay. Come along.” Kay Forrest helped. She offered no comment, but watched Miss May nard as the camera was set up at a proper vantage spot. And while Miss Maynard was experimenting with camera and tripod and lens, Kay Forrest walked to the water’s edge and stared into the infinite beauty. She didn’t hear Miss Maynard ap proach, and she was startled by the touch of Miss Maynard’s hand on her shoulder. Miss Maynard said, “It gets you, doesn’t it, Kay?” The girl smiled. “Always.” “You’re a peculiar little thing .. “Because I love this?” “Perhaps. You were raised in Beauregard County. You’ve known these swamps all your life—” “But not as they are now. Oh I I reckon it seems crazy, but I’ve al ways wondered why somebody else didn’t understand how lovely the swamp could be.” “And now someone has.” Miss Maynard's eyes twinkled. “I don’t suppose Barney Hamilton has any thing to do with this joy of yours, has he?” Kay’s eyes crinkled at the cor ners. “Barney’s pretty swell. I like being teased about him.” “You should. He’s rather gone off the deep end about you.” “Really?” “What do you think?” “I’m scared to say.” Kay touched the hand of the older woman. “What ever it is. Miss Maynard, I can’t nelo being na^y. I suppose . well, I suppose I’ve just discovered what fun it is to be alive. And I enjoy posing for you, too.” “I see.” Dryly. “You merely re sponded to the summons of Art, You left your home in Beverly to uplift the rotogravure sections of newspa pers.” Miss Maynard’s eyes had a gentle, faraway look. “Listen, Child, keep what you’ve got. Make the most of it. Of this natural beauty, of your youth, of Barney . . . There I go, talking like a silly, sentimental old maid ...” Miss Maynard turned away. Her voice was impersonal again, profes sional. "I’m going to take two or three shots by that live oak yon der. Better get your clothes off.” Easily, naturally—without embar rassment or false modesty—the girl removed dress and slip and shoes and stockings. She stood forth in the dawn, firm and young and beau tiful; her youthful figure touched by the first rays of the sun. She said, “You’re sure my face will never show in these pictures^ Miss May nard?” “Don’t be absurd. I’m using you as part of the background. Silhou ettes.” She walked with the girl to the ancient oak. She posed Kay and “Don't yon git np we ain’t goin’ to see nothin’.” draped her with chiffon. She said, “I’d like to be young again, Kay— and have your figure.” She peered through the lens of her camera and said, “Perfect. I’ll get two or three good shots here. Then we’ll try some near that big azalea bush. Over yonder by the black gum.” Suddenly, she smiled: “You’re an interesting person, Kay Forrest. You’re as free and nat ural . . .” And the young girl answered, “I don’t feel embarrassed. Miss May nard. Out here—this way ...” She groped for words. “It sort of seems the right thing.” “It is,” said Miss Maynard. And then, almost curtly, “Take your pose now. That’s right. Hold it . . .” • • • Mr. Jefferson Butler was sleeping, his bony, elongated figure covered informally by a patchwork quilt which made no pretensions to clean liness. Jeff’s bed had been a thing of beauty in the days of its youth—or so Jeff considered. It had been white then: white enamel, and there were curlicues of iron at the head and foot, and four brass balls mark ing the corners. Three of these brass decorations had long since dis appeared, and the white enamel had been chipped so that the iron bed stead now was a mass of ugly black scabs. Jeff grumbled, grunted, tossed— and finally opened weak gray eyes upon a world of gray. Framed in the window was the mustached counte nance of Mr. Clem Ross, a man diminutive of stature and of intelli gence. Beyond Clem’s face was a brief vista of Big Moccasin Swamp: a miasmatic blanket hovering over it, chilling the air and rendering Jeff’s patchwork quilt more than usually seductive. Clem spoke again, his beady eyes eager, “It’s ’most daylight, Jeff. Don’t you git up we ain’t goin’ to see nothin’.” Remembrance came to Mr. But< ler and he eased his long figure out of the bed. Jeff’s home > in Big Moccasin Swamp was considerably more than ever so humble. It contained five rooms and was weatherproof save when the weather was inclement. On the dogtrot stood a rickety table and five chairs. In the corner was a washtub which was used by a vis iting colored woman on such rare occasions as Mr. Butler decided that his wardrobe needed cleansing. Two pigs snored happily near the back steps and chickens roosted on the chairs. An underfed and mourn ful hound dog slouched forward to greet his master, tail wagging warily. In the dim light of early morning, Mr. Butler could see the borders of his estate. He could see the scrag- gly cotton patch, as yet not planted; and the brief field which would—if ha happened to get around to it— produce corn during the coming summer. There was the truck patch, too, wherein Jeff was inclined to raise greens and turnips and pota toes, and beyond the truck patch, through an opening in the pines, he could see Willow Creek which was an undignified tributary to the aL most-as-undignified Catbill River. Clem Ross said again, “We sho’ better hurry, Jeff,” and Mr. Butler swung off in a southerly direction, his long strides compelling the smaller man to drop into a half trot in order to keep pace, so that Clem said complainingly, "Well, there ain’t that much hurry.” “You reckon Kay Forrest will be there?” he inquired anxiously. Jeff cast a weatherwise eye sky ward. “She’s sho’ to be.” “How come you know?” “ ’Cause the sun’ll be out in a few minutes. Kay an’ that female pitcher-taker always go out right after sun-up. I found out about them accidental one mawnin’ when I got to work too early.” Clem’s weak eyes blinked. “But Kay—she don’t really take off all her clothes, does she?” “You’ll see.” “S’posin’ the folks in Beverly was to know about it?” Jeff whistled. “They’d be hell to pay, sho’ naff.” “Ain’t you truthin’,” endorsed Clem. Jeff Butler could not long remain silent. He said, “Beauregard County was a quiet, God-fearin’ place be fore Ruth Hamilton come down from New Yawk an’ had them Gardena builded.” “Sho’ was.” “I never figured out what got into her . . . doin’ a lot of work pretty- in’ up a swamp.” “Money!” sneered Jeff. “She craved to make money.” Then his eyes lighted with interest. “It cost her a whole slew of cash to git things goin’, but she’s makin’ plenty now.” “Mmm-hmm! Must be th’ee hun- d’ed tourists in Beverly.” Then he added virtuously, “Tha’s what’s ru inin’ the town an’ sendin’ our young folks straight, to hell.” Jeff was in thorough agreement. He even elaborated upon the theme. He said, “I knowed Ruth Hamilton when she was knee-high to a drop of rain. Purty kid, and it never s’prised me when she married that ricH feller from New Yawk.” “He died, didn’t he?” “Sho’ did. Left her with them two children. Folks tell that they was rich but the depression mint them. So she come back to Beverly an’ put her money into fixin’ up them Gardens. That was all the propM’ty her oT man left her.” Clem said, “Tchk! Tchk!” “They’re kind of nice,” Jeff ad mitted grudgingly, “but folks here abouts ain’t aimin’ to stand ’em for long. You know . . .” He dropped his voice confidentially: “There’s some awful hell-raisin’ goin’ on in Beverly ev’y night. Dancin’ an’ all such as that.” “It’s the work of the Devil," con fided Clem. Then, somewhat anx iously, “You reckon Kay Forres* really is goin’ to take off ev’y stitch of clothes?” Jeff said, “Sssssssh! Yonder sha is ... on that island.” They threw themselves flat ana crawled under and between azalea bushes. And they peered out at the little island where Miss Maynard was posing Kay and rearranging her chiffon drapes. Clem inhaled sharply. “She sho is purty.” (TO BE CONTINUED) CHILD of EVIL by OCTAVUS ROY COHEN Octavus Roy Cohen, author of this unusual serial, has written several novels of contemporary Southern life, notable among which are “Scarlet Woman,” “Transient Lady,” and “With Benefit of Clergy.” Best of all, in the opinion of outstanding critics, is “Child of Evil,” an intensely human document of the warm Southland. Romance, mystery, suspense, action—all make up the exciting serial that is “Child of Evil.” Known throughout the nation for his stories in leading periodicals, including Red Book, Collier’s, Cosmopolitan and Saturday Evening Post, Octavus Roy Cohen is one of America’s best known and most popular writers. His “Child of Evil” demonstrates why that popularity is so well deserved. BEGINS TODAY- - - SERIALLY IN THIS PAPER HCW.*> SEW 4-* Ruth Wyeth Spears S O MANY requests for copies of these directions have been re ceived, they are being printed again to accommodate those who neglected to clip and save them when they appeared before. The mat is made of heavy white cotton cable cord such as you buy at the notion counter for seams and trimmings. The design is copied from a luncheon mat made years ago of corset strings! There was a fad at one time for sewing these in braided and scroll designs with fine stitches on the wrong side of the mat. Follow the directions in the sketch, making the circles in pairs, using No. 40 cotton thread to sew them. Braid three cords together and then sew the braided strip around and around to make the center of the mat. Sew a row of the circles to the edge of this center part; then add another braided row, being careful to “ease in” the inside edge just enough to keep the mat flat. Con tinue adding alternate rows of circles and braiding until the mat is s.ze desired. To join the ends of tie braided rows, pull one end through the braiding to the wrong side of the mat; then trim th« ends and sew them flat. NOTICE: Every Homemaker should have copies of the two books containing 96 How to Sew articles. You may secure SEW ING, For the Home Decorator; and Gifts, Novelties and Embroid eries; both for 25 cents; and your choice of the Patchwork Quilt Leaflet showing 36 authentic stitches; or the Rag Rug Leaflet FREE, while the supply lasts. Don’t delay, as the offer of both books at this low price will be withdrawn soon. Send your order at once to Mrs. Spears, 210 ^ Desplaines St., Chicago, 111. Your Masters Hope, cheer, true love, sanity, health, optimism, you know these conduce to your efficiency and content. Despair, self-pity, vanity, fear, pessimism you know the effects of these is invariably morbid. Feelings are the invisible masters of thought: Choose your masters. —Dr. Frank Crane. be miserable with MALARIA and COLDS ~h*n will check MALARIA fast and gives symptomatic cold relief. LIQUID, TABLETS. SALVE, NOSE DROPS Your Gift You may not be able to leave your children a great inheritance, but day by day you may be weav ing coats for them which they will wear through all eternity.—T. L. Cuyler. around y THE HOUSE When Bureau Drawers Stick.— If doors or bureau drawers stick in hot weather, a little wax rubbed on the surface where friction oc curs will end the trouble. * « • Beaten Egg Whites. — Never leave egg whites after they have been beaten still. If let stand they will flatten and will not beat up again. * • • Keeping Mayonnaise. — Mayon naise should be stored in covered jars on the upper shelf of the refrigerator, since it is likely to separate if it is kept in the cold est section. • • • Centerpiece for Child’s Party Table.—A bouquet of lollipops in many colors makes an attractive centerpiece for the children’s par ty table. The lollipops may be fit ted into a flower holder that is placed in a bowl or low basket. * * * Repairing Last Year’s Bathing Suit.—If last year’s, bathing suit is found to have a hole in it, the hole may be repaired and then covered with a small aquatic fig ure, such as a fish, diving girl or duck which may be purchased in expensively. — weak eyes are made strong by Leonardi’a Eye Lotion. Inflammation la relieved In one day. No other LEONARDI’S GOLDEN EYE LOTION MAKES WEAK EYES STRONG New Large Size with Dropper—SO cenig KB.!.—wJirCe.l»fc,MewlMMiH»,II.T. Public’s Desire The public loves fables best, and so fables are given it.—Voltaire. mum IMS 1ST StUH "Si SNOW-WHITE PETROLEUM JEIUT A Day of Strife Better a day of strife than a century of sleep.—A. J. Ryan. A GREAT BARGAIN VESPER TEA PURE ORANGE PEKOE , 50 Cups for lO Cents Ask Your.Croa. i An Appetizer Hunger is the best sauce in the world.—Cervantes. Everybody likes Kel logg’s Com Flakes so well that you never have a half-eaten package remaining-— wastefully—on the' pantry shelf! THE ORIGINAL—AMERICA'S FAVORITE FOR 33 YEARS Copr. 1939 by Kellogg Company MERCHANTS Your Advertising Dollar buys something more than space and circulation in the columns of this newspaper. It buys space and circulation plus the favorable consideration of our readers for this newspaper and its advertising patrons. LET US TELL YOU MORE ABOUT IT