The watchman and southron. (Sumter, S.C.) 1881-1930, November 08, 1913, Image 2
I
I
FRAN
John
Lr*CKENJUt>GE
IHustrstkma by
O. Irwin Myers
(v>p.
CHAPTER XIV.
Fighting for Her Lifo.
The next day found Fran the blueit
of the blue. No laughing now, aa she
eat alone, half-way up the ladder lead?
ing to Gregory'! barn-loft. She meant
to be Juat at miserable at the pleated,
tlnee there wat no obeenrer to be de?
ceived by towing cheat-teed of merri?
ment.
"The battle's on now, to a finish,"
muttered Fran detpondently, "yet here
I alt, and here I tcrooch." Fran's
thoughta were at the abysmal stage of
discouragement For a time, there
?earned in her heart not the Ualest
taper alight, and in this blachuess,
both hope and failure were alike Indis?
tinguishable.
' But well see," the cried, at last
coming down the lsdder, "we'll tee!"
end the clenched her flstt, flung open
the barn door and marched upon the
house with battle in her eyes. Gird?
ing up hsr loins?that It, smoothing
her hstr?and tharpenlng her weap?
ons for instant use, the opened the
library door.
She knew Grace Noir had gone
to the city with Robert Clinton, and
yet her feeling on teeing Hamilton 1
Gregory alone, was akin to surprise.
How qoeerly lonesome he looked, with?
out his secretary! She found the phil?
anthropist Immersed In day dreams
The thought of the gool hit money
and influence were accomplishing
thrilled his soul, while through the re
**l Want to Be Your Secretary."
fined ether of this pious joy appeared
the loveliness of Grace Noir, lending
something like spiritual santuoutness
to bin vision of duty.
He did sot want the applause of
the general public any more than he
wanted bis past unearthed. It waa
enough If his philanthropy was known
to God and Grace Noir. She ttood. to
hit mind, as a symbol of religion?
there'can be no barm In reverencing
symbols.
Fran's eyes drew blm abruptly from
hie reverie.
"Fran." be said, at If the had ap?
peared In answer to a tummont, "1
unhappy sbout you. Your deter
mlnatlon to have nothing to do with
the church not only distresses but em
barrasset me. You have Intltted on
oomlng Into my life. Then why do
you dlsgrsce It? You pretend that you
*aai to be liked by ut, yet you play
cardt with ttrsngers st night?it's out
rsgeout. You even threw a card in
mr ysrd where a card ?vae never seen
before."
"Do you think cards are so very
wicked" stked Fran, looking at him
curiously.
' You know what I think. I look on
gambling at Immoral. But it ought to
be enough for me limply to forbid It."
She closed the door, and placed
hsr back sgainst It. She looked him
la the eyes, snd tsld abruptly?
"I want to be your aecretary."
Hamilton gripped his cbslr. "I have
a secretsry.'' be retorted. looking st
her resentfully. He checked words he
would have liked to utter, on reflecting
that his secret was in Fran's keeping.
How Grace would shrink from him, if
the knew the truth?bow that mag
nlflcent flrur.? would turn Its back
upon him?and those scornful, Imperi?
ous, ner^r .'altering eyea. . . .
Fran drew nearer Hhe seated her?
self upon ths srm of a chair, one foot
on the floor, snd spoke with restrained
1nteu.Mty "I'm w.?il enough educated.
I can take dictation aud mako good
copy '
He allowed his tone to sound defi?
ance? 1 already have a secretary."
Fran continued with an effort,
' Motfur didn't like ttr'dying. very well,
but she vat determined to get me out
of the condition I was born In, she
taught get all the knew. Wasn't the
ipw?n i!.r Ho patient-" Fran fanned
at.d star ad s'rnlgh' bifOfl her, straight
|B|g list gftsasjaffl <?f bof mother's tyee
Gregory reS* ted?"M this child h id
not co r. -. Bad ii ?t Intruded herself
aeon ray Hfe1 Haven't 1 su?eied
enoufh Tor gjj tot line?"
? V\h?-u tootbsi dud." rtjtyms^
"she thought maybe Uncle Ephraim
had mellowed, so 1 went to him, be?
cause I thought I couldn't get alorg
without love." She shook her head,
with a pathetic little smile. "But I
could! Uncle Ephraim didn't mellow, j
he dried up. He blamed me for being j
born?I think, myself, it was a mis?
take. He turned me out, but I was
so tough I just couldn't be winter?
killed. After that I went back to tbe
show and stocked up In experience
I mention It to point out that a mild
job like being your private secretary
wouldn't strain a muscle." |
Gregory's voice cut across hers. "My
secretary must be in sympathy with
my work. To exercise such talents as
I have, Is my religion, and I need a
helper whose eyes are fixed upon the
higher life. This is final, and the sub?
ject must never be reopened. I find
it very painful." I
Fran's discovery that he had not
heard her plea, crimsoned her face.
She jumped from the arm-chair,
breathing rapidly. "Then," she cried,
"If you won't have me, get another.
The one you have must go."
"She shall do nothing of the sort,"
he coldly responded.
"Yes," Fran retorted violently, "I
tell you she must go!"
He struck the table with his palm.
"Never!"
"Shall I use my last resource?"
Fran's eyes gleamed ominously.
The hand upon the table became a
flat That was his only reply.
"I would entreat you," said Fran,
faltering, "and with tears?but what
good would It do? None. There's no
use for one woman to weep if another
woman is smiling. Dismiss your sec?
retary."
He leaned toward her from over the
table, and spoke in a low, level tone:
"I am going to appeal to your better
nature. Think of the girls of the
street who need rescue, and the wom?
en of the cities who are dying from
neglect and vice. If you hinder my
work, let the souls of these outcasts
be upon your soul! You can ruin me,
but not without ruining my good
works. I don't ask you to keep silent
on my account?what am 1 but an in?
strument in the hands of Providence?
?but for the sake of the homeless
thousands. I have atoned for my past,
but the world, always ready to crucify
the divine, would rejoice to rolrt the
Anger of acorn at me, as if I >ro still
the fool of twenty years ago."
"but your secretary?"
"She <s a vital factor in my work.
It would bft impossible to replace her."
Fran mad?i a step toward him?"My
mother was replaced."
He started up. "You shall not speak
of that. She lived hor life, and 1
demand the right to live mine. I tell
you, the past is ended."
"But I am here," returned Fran.
"1 have not ended. Can't you look
into my face and see my mother liv?
ing? She paid for her secret mar*
riage, wandering over the face of the
earth with her baby, trying to find
you. I don't deny that you've paid for
all?y?s, even for your desertion and
your living a hidden life In this town.
Maybe you've suffered enough. But
that isn't the question. Look at me.
1 am here. 1 have come as truly out
of your past as out of the past of my
darling, uncomplaining?what did you
call her??'friend.' And being here i
ask. 'What will you do with me?' All
I want is?just a little love."
The long loneliness of her life found
expression In the eager voice, in the
yearning eyes, as he atarod at her,
half-stupefied, he Imagined she was
holding out her arms to him in plead?
ing
Fran thought his covered face a to?
ken of weakening. "You must have
loved my mother once. Is it all bo ;
dead and forgotten that there is none
left for your child?"
But she was seeking to play upon
strings that had long since ceased to
vibrate. He could not bring back,
nven la retrospect, the emotions in?
spired by Josephine Derry. Those
Mf Am Going to Appesl to Your Better
Nature."
strings had been tnned to Other love
harmonies. To remember Fran's moth
er was to bring back not the rapture
of a first passion but the, garish days
of disillusionment. He could not tell
Fran that he had never loved hnr
mother. The dead must not. be re?
proached; the living could net be de
niei- so he was silent.
His silence Inspired Fran with hope.
"! am so lonely, so lonely!" she mur?
mured plaintively, "so very lonely!
There seems a reation for everybody
but me-~I can't be explained 'I bat's
why I am disliked. If there could he
one heart for me In claim?whose
heart should It he? Does no sort of
feeling; tell you whose heart It should
be 1 '
Of course you are lonely, child, but
tjksj Is >ouj iuuU. -uu in -j iu Iki*
house on a rooting or equality, and all
seem to like you, except Miss Grace?
and I must say, her disapproval dis?
turbs you very little. But you won't
adopt our ways. You make everybody
talk by your indiscreet behavior?then
wonder that the town shuns your so?
ciety, and complain because you feel
lonesome!"
Fran's eyes filled with tears. "If you
' believe in me?if you try to like me?
that's all I ask. The whole town can
talk, if I have you. I don't care for
the world and its street corners?there
, are no street corners in my world."
"But, child?"
"You never call me Fran if you can
help it," she interposed passionately.
"Even the dogs have names. Call me
by mine; it's Fran. Say it, say it
Call me?oh, father, father. I want
your love."
"Hush!" he gasped, ashen pale.
"You will be overheard."
She extended her arms wildly:
"What do you know about God, except
that He's Father. That's all?Father
?and you worship Him as His son.
Yet you want me to care for your re?
ligion. Then why don't you show me
the way to God? Can you love Him
( and deny your own child? Am I to
pray to him as my Father in Heaven,
but not dare acknowledge my father
on earth? No! I don't know how oth?
ers feel, but I'll have to reach heav?
enly things through human things.
And I tell you that you are standing
between me and God."
"Hush, hush!" cried Gregory.
"Child! this la sacrilege!"
"No, it is not I tell yon, I can't
see God, because you're In the way.
You pray 'Our Father who art in
Heaven . . . give us thin day oar
daily bread.' And I pray to you, and
I say. My father here on earth, give
give me?your love. That'll what I
want?nothing else?I want It so bad.
. . . I'm dying for it, fattier, can't
you understand? Look?I'm praying!
for it?" She threw herself wildly at
his feet.
Deeply moved, he tried to lift her
from the ground. I
"No," cried Fran, scarcely knowing
what she said, "I will not gst up till
you grant my prayer. I'm not asking
for the full, rich love a child has the
right to expect?but give m? a crust, i
to keep me alive?father, give me my
daily bread. You needn't think God in
going to answer your prayers, if you
refuse mine."
Hamilton Gregory took her In his
armr and held her to hiti breast
"Fran," he said brokenly, "my unfor?
tunate child . . . my daugiter?oh,
why were you born?"
"Yes," aobbed Fran, resting her
head upon his bosom, "yes, why was
I born r
"You break my heart," he sobbed
with bcr. "Fran, say the word, and
I will tell everything; I will acknowl?
edge you as my daughter, and if my
wife?" ?
Fran shook her head. "You owe no
more to my mother than to her," she |
said, catching her breath. ' No, the
secret must be kept?always. Father ;
?I must never call you that, e'xcept I
when we are alone?I must always
whisper It, like a prayer?father, let
me be your secretary."
It was strenge that this request
should surround Fran with the chill
atmosphere of a tomb. Hia embrace
relaxed insensibly. He looked at hla
daughter in frightened bewilderment,
as if afraid she had drawn bim too
far fron hia security for further hid- i
lng. During the silence, Ehe iwaited
hla decision.
It wae because of her tumultuous
emotions that she failed to hear ad- 1
vanclng footsteps. i
"Some one 1b coming," he f.Tclalmed,
with ill-concealed relief. "We mustn't
be aeen thus?we would oe misunder?
stood." He strode to the window, and
pretended to look out His faco
cleared momentarily.
The door opened, and Grace Nolr
started in, then paused significantly.
"Am I interrupting?" Bho asked, In
quiescent accent.
"Certainly not," Gregory breathed
freedom. His surprise was so joyfui
that he was carried beyond himself.
"Grace! It's Grace! Then you didn't
I go to the city with Bob. There wasn't
i any train?"
"I am here?-" began Grace easily?
"Yes, of con ran, that's the main
thing," his delight could not be held
in check. "You are here, indeed! And
you are looking?I mean you look
well?I mean you are not 111?your re?
turn is bo unexpected."
"I am here," she steadily persisted,
"becauBa I learned something that
affects my Interests. I went part of
the way with Mr. Clinton, but after
thinking over what had been told me,
I decided to leave the train at the next
station. I have been driven back in a
carriage. I may as well tell you, Mr.
Gregory, that I am urged to accf pt a
responsible position in Chicago."
He understood that she referred to
marriage with Robert Clinton. "But?"
ho began, very pale.
She repeated, "A responsible posi?
tion in Chicago. And I was told, this
morning, that while I wa?. away. Fran
meant to apply for the secretaryship,
thus taking advantage of my absence."
Fran's face looked oddly white and
old, in its oval of black hair. "Who
told you thin truth?" she demanded,
with a menacing gleam of teeth.
"Who knew of your Intentions?" the
other gracefully said. "But this Is no
matter. The point is that I have this
Chicago opportunity. So If Mr. flreg
ory wants to employ you, I must know
It at once, to make my arrangements
accordingly."
"Can you Imagine," Hamilton cried
repioachfully, "that without any earn?
ing, i would make a change? Certain*
ly not I have no intention of employ?
ing Krau. The Idea is Impossible.
More than that, it is -er it is abso?
lute^- pruuvaieiuuM. Would 1 cttluuv
tear down what you and I have been
building up bo carefully?"
"Then you had already refused Fran
before I came?"
"I bad?hadn't I, Fran?"
Fran gave her father a look such
as had never before come Into her
dark eyes?a look of reproach, a look
that said, "I cannot fight back because
of the agony in my heart." She went
away silent and with downcast head.
CHAPTER XV.
In Sure-Enough Country.
One morning, more than a month
after the closing days of school, Ab?
bott Ashton chanced to look from his
bedroom window as Hamilton Greg?
ory's buggy, with Fran in it, passed.
Long fishing-poles projected from the
back of the buggy.
By Fran's side, Abbott discovered a
man. True it was "only" Simon Jef?
ferson; still, for all his fifty years
and his weak heart, it was not as if
It were some pleasant, respectable
woman?say Simon's mother. How?
ever, old ladies do not sit upon creek- i
banks.
The thought of sitting upon the bank
of a stream suggested to Abbott that
it would be agreeable to pursue Ills
studies in the open air. He snatched
up some books and went below.
On the green veranda he paused to
Inhale the fragrance of the roses. "I'm
glad you've left your room," said Miss
Sapphira, all innocence, all kindness.
"You'll study yourself to death. It
won't make any more of life to take it
hard?there's just so much for every
man."
Huge and serious, Miss Sapphira sat
In the shadow of the bay-window. \
Against the wall were arranged
sturdy round-backed wooden chairs,
each of which could have received the
landlady's person without a quiver of
a spindle. Everything about Abbott
seemed too carefully ordered?be
pined for the woods?some mossy
bank sloping to a purling stream.
Suddenly Miss Sapphira grew pon?
derously significant. Her massive head
trembled from a weight of meaning
not to be lifted lightly in mere words,
her double chins consolidated, and her
mouth Kecame as the granite door of a
** re sealed against the too-curious.
.bbott paused uneasily before his
meditated flight?"Have you heard any
news?"
She answered almost tragically,
"Board meeting, tonight."
Ordinarily, teachers for the next
year were selected before the close of
the spring term; only those "on the
inside" knew that the fateful board
meeting had been delayed week after
week because of disagreement over
the superintendency. There was so
much dissatisfaction over Abbott Ash?
ton?because of "so much talk"?that
even Robert Clinton had thought it
best to wait, that the you. g man
might virtually be put upon good be?
havior.
"Ton ght," the young man repeated
with a thrill. He realized how impor?
tant this meeting would prove in shap?
ing his future.
"Yes," she said warnlngly. "And
Bob is determined to do his duty. He
never went very far in his own educa?
tion because he didn't expect to be a
school-teacher?but ever since he's
been chairman of the school-board,
he's aimed to have the best teachers,
so the children can be taught right;
most of 'em are poor and may want
to teach, too, when they're grown. I
think all the board'U be for you to?
night, Abbott, and I've been glad to
notice that for the last month, there's
been less talk. And by the way," she
' added, "that Fran-girl went by with
Simon Jefferson Just now, the two of
them In Brother Gregory's buggy.
They're going to Blubb's Riffle?he
with his weak heart, and her with that
sly smile of hers, and it's a full three
mile!"
Abbott did not volunteer that he had
1 seen them pass, but his face showed
the ostensible Integrity of a jam-thlef,
j who for once finds himself innocent
when missing Jam is mentioned.
She was not convinced by his look
of gullelessness. "You seem to be
carrying away your books."
"I want to breathe In this June;
morning without taking it strained
through window-screens," he ex
j plained.
I Miss Sapphira gave something like
a choked cough, and compressed her
Hps. "Abbott," she said, looking at
him sidewise, "please step to the tele-1
phone, and call up Bob?he's at the!
store. Tell him to leave the clerk in
charge and hitch up and take me for
a little drive. I want some of this
I June morning myself."
j Abbott obeyed with alacrity. On his ,
return, Miss Sapphira said, "Bob's go?
ing to fight for you at the board meet?
ing, Abbott. We'll do what we can,
I and I hope you'll help yourself."
As Abbott went down the fragrant
street with its cool hose-refreshed
pavements, its languorous shadows
athwart roae-bush and picket fence, its
hopeful weeds already peering through
crevices where plank sidewalks main?
tained their worm-eaten right of way,
he was in no dewy-morning mood. Ho
understood what those wise nods had
meant, and he was in no frame of
mind for such wisdom. He meant to
go far, far away from the boarding
house, from the environment of
schools and school-hoards, from Little
burg with its atmosphere cf ridiculous
gossip.
Of course be could have gone Just
as far, if he had not chosen the direc?
tion of Blubb's Riffle?but he had to
tako some direction He halted before
he came In sight of the stream; if
Fran had a mind to fish with Simon
Jefferson, he would uot spoil her sport.
lie found a comfortable log whero
he might study under the gracious
sky. He did uot learn much?there
neeme.? faJHiAJtt tv.nry.i Uns? jm\?
When he closed his books, scarcely >
knowing why, and decided to ramble, j
It was with no intention of seeking
Fran. Miss Sapphira might have
guessed what would happen, but in
perfect innocence, the young man
strolled, seeking a grassy by-road, sei
dorn used, redolent of brush, tree, vine,
dusMaden weed. It was a road where
the sun seemed almost a stranger; a
road gone to sleep and dreaming of
the feet of stealthy Indians, of noisy
settlers, and skillful trappers. All
such fretful bits of life had the old
road drained into oblivion, and now it
seemed to call on Abbott to share
their fate, the fate of the forgotten.
But the road lost its mystic mean?
ing when Abbott discovered Fran.!
Suddenly it became only a road!?nay,
it became nothing. It seemed that the
sight of Fran always made wreckage
of the world about her.
She was sitting in the Gregory bug?
gy, but, most surprising of all, there
was no horse between the shafts?no
horse was to be seen, anywhere. Best
of all, no Simon Jefferson was visible.
Fran in the buggy?that was all. Slow
traveling, indeed, even for this sleepy
old road!
"Not in a hurry, aro you?"
"I've arrived," Fran said, in un?
friendly tone.
"Are you tired of fishing, Fran?"
"Yes, and of being fished."
She had closed the door in his face,
but he said?as through the keyhole? j
"Does that mean for me to &o away?'*
"You are a pretty good friend, Mr.1
Ashton," she said with a curl of her
Hp, "I mean?when we are alone."
"'While we're together, md after
we part,'" he quoted. "Fran, surely
you don't feel toward me the way you
are looking."
"Exactl y as I'm looking at you, that's
the way I feel. Stand there as long
as you pleaae?"
"I don't want to stand a moment
longer. t want to sit with you in the
buggy. Please don't be so?so old!"
Fran lav?hed out musically, but im*
"My Unfortunate Child?My Daughter
?Oh, Why Were You Born."
mediately declared: "I laughed be?
cause you are unexpected; It doesnt
mean I like you any better. I bate
friendship that shows Itself only in
private. Mr. Chameleon, I like people
to show their true colors."
"I am not Mr. Chameleon, and I
want to sit in your buggy."
"Well, then get in the very farthest
corner. Now look me in the eyes."
"And, oh, Fran, you have auch eyes!
They sre so marvsiously?er?oa
friendly."
"I'm glad you ended up that way.
Now look me in the eyes. Suppose
you should see the school-board sail?
ing down the road, Miss Sapphira
thrown in. What would you do?"
"What should I do?"
"Hide, I suppose." said Fran, sud?
denly rippling.
"Then you look me in the eyes aud
listen to me." he said Impressively.
"Weigh my words?have you scales
strong enough?"
"Put 'em on slow and careful."
"I am nor. Mr. Chameleon for I show
my true col Dr. And I am a real friend,
no matter what kind of tree I am?"
He paused, groping for a word.
"Up?" 8h<3 suggested, with a sudden
chuckle. "All right?let the school
board come. But you don't seem sur?
prised to see me here in the buggy
without Mr Simon."
"When Nr. Simon comes he'll find
me right here," Abbott declared.
"Fran, pleaiie don't be always showing
your worst side to the town; when
you laugh it people's standards, they
think you queer?and you can't Imag?
ine just how much you are to me."
"Hull!" Bran sniffed. "I'd hate to
be anybody's friend and have my
friendship as little use aa yours has
been to me."
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
schedules
Southern Hallway?Premier Oarrtee
< f The South.
N. B.?Schedule figures published
as information only and are not guar?
anteed. Effective Nov. 2, 1*11.
Departure from Humter: (Except
Sunday):
No. 140?5.20 A. If. for Columbia
Charleston and way stations.
x?. i42?;:.'.?:, p. m . for Columbia,
Charleston a ad way Btatlons.
Arrival: (Except Sunday ):
No, 141?10.20 A. M. f?om Char?
leston, Columbia and way statlona.
No. 14:t?I 4T? P. ai. from Charles
ton, Columbia and \mi.V stations,
w. h. Caffey, d. p. a.
Charleston.
W. W. McCee, A. m. P. A.
Coluiublu, C?
Lloyd-George or Wales.
Lloyd-George is a Welshman
through and through, with all the
candor, sympathetic vitality, direct?
ness, and tenacity that characterize
his people. His father failed as a
schoolmaster and died an unsuccess?
ful farmer. His mother was left per,^
niless; but an uncle made a legal
career possible for little Pavid. At
sixteen he was "duly articled to a firm
of solicitors." At twenty-one he was
admitted to the bar. Before he was
twenty-eight he had built up one of
the largest practices in Wales. But
he loved politics and public debate.
He stumped the country on behalf of
land reform and temperance, and was
elected to the Council of Carriarvon
shire. He typified Wales and the
Welsh question, advocated Welsh
patriotism and the common people of
Wales and, in 1890, was elected to the
House of Commons.
For ten years little was known of
him except as an adroit parliamentary
strategist and a clever speaker. Ho
incurred a good deal of b.tter enmity
from many Englishmen because of
his opposition to the Boer War, but
all the while he was mastering de?
tails of administration and embody?
ing to the Empire the qualities of
his native Wales. Never since the
days of Owen Glendower has Wales
found a leader more absolutely after
her own b?art. "You ought to know
Lloyd-George," a British statesman la
said to have remarked to the pres?
ent King, while he was still Prince of
Wales; "if there were such a thing
as the presidency of Wales, he would
poll more votes than you would."
The fighting quality, the brilliant
?'rulent sarcasm, the unsparing rid?
icule, and the lack of reverence of
tradition that have always marked
Lloyd-George's public speeches have
i made him many enemies. But no
j scandal has touched him. "Polities'*
tried to smirch him in the "Marcon ?
I?8" affair, yet it left him unscathed.
Democracy is the note ot his per?
sonality as well as of his career. He
la cherry and approachable, hearty
genuine, and frank, typical, indeed, of
the rather wholesome revolution that
is now passing over English life and
politics, and opening careers to men
who are judged by what they are and
by what they do, and not by their
rank or wealth. Whatever his faults,
it cannot be denied that David Lloyd
George has rehabilitated British liber?
alism by making a new application of
j Liberal principles, and by enlarging
the sphere of the state to cove areas
and questions heretofore secluded
and dominated by the rights of prop ?
erty against manhood.
Lloyd-George is a boyish, human
man of fifty. He is preeminently
what is known aa a family man.. He
loves to retire for a vacation rest to
the Welsh mountains. The Lloyd
! George camp is on the slopes of the
i Moel Hebog in the Snowdon range
in North Wales. In the neighborhood
is the beautiful Lake Cwmatrallyn, fa?
mous for its trout fishing. The IJoyd
Georges, father, mother, and children,
live out of doors for **eks In the
beautiful Welsh autumn.?American
Review of Reviews.
Boys to Pigs.
Secretary Houston has inaugurated
a new activity of his department in
the organizaton of "Boys* Pig Clubs,"
the purpose, of course, being the in?
crease oi rork.
Econrmically sound, but hereditar?
ily questionable. -
"Pigs is Pigs," but so is boys. Ought
the government to lend artificial
stimulus to a natural perversity of
being?
It may be argued that the boy,
having the viewpoint of the pig, can
do more with swine than anyone else.
Here we have the saturate solution of
the conservation of natural forces.
Jut do we not follow the line of least
resistance? Do we not "take the
easiest way " Whatever his breeding,
his antecdents, his hope, the average
healthy boy has much in common
with the pig. He has his appetite,
and his impartiality. He has his
greediness, and his laziness. He has
his ability to grow and his power to
assimilate anything and everything.
If it were not for the little girl that,
about such ar.d such a time, gives the
average boy a case of spiritual IndjL
geetion, the difference between beys
and pigs would not get very far awky
from the fundamental variance be?
tween bfpeda and quadrupeds.
We admit heartily the necessity of
pork culture. We indorse spareriba
for breakfast, Dr. Wiley and all his
cult to the contrary ntowithstandint;.
We realise the importance of the cry
of no miscegenation in the sausage.
But, look at the matter from the
point of view of youth as our most
important product, would it not be
si>cially better to vary education fron*
inclination? Why not form Bovu*
Clung in Parma Violet Culture? Or
establish prize competitions in enamel?
ing bathtubs? Or even associations In
that business necessity, the manner
of the "approach?" The boy hae so
much farther to go than the pig, and
he la so easily a pig to start with, tbftt
a little poetry in government would
pot he nmtsn in endowing his philoso?
phy.