The Daily Transcript (Norman, Okla.), Vol. 1, No. 317, Ed. 1 Wednesday, August 19, 1914 Page: 2 of 4
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NORMAN DAILY TRANSCRIPT
LAPSE of
DWflWDNTWOFm
ISABEL GOKDON CURTIS
Author °J" The Woman jrom WoJverfons"
ILLUSTRATIONS 6y ILLSVORTM YOUNG-
copyright; m py f.c.prowne u.co. * ♦ ♦
SYNOPSIS.
Enoch Wentworth, Journalist, rend An-
Sren Merry, actor, pluy a hand at poker,
the Htakes abaolute control of the future
of the loner. Wentworth wing They de-
cide to keep the matter secret. l>orcaa.
knowing from her brother, Enoch, of
Morry'a sborloomlitir*. trlea to arouse his
ambition. Andrew outlines the plot of a
play he has had In mind and she urtf's
him to go to work on It. When the play
la completed Merry reads It to Went-
worth. whose life Hmbltlon Is to write a
successful play He demands Merry's
play as a forfeit of the bond won In the
poker game. Preparations for staKlnK the
play are begun, but Merry, who la to take
the leading part, Is mlaslnK. Porcns
proves a success in the leading female
pari at rehearsals. She .juarrels with her
brother for taking credit for a play she
knows to belong to Merry, Doreaa finds
Merry among the down-and-outs in a
bread line and persuades him to take his
part In the play. The producer suggests
certain changes In the play, which Went-
worth tries to Induce Merry to make. The
actor refuses, but finally consents on con-
dition that Wentworth cease his atten-
tions to Zilla Paget, rhe heavy woman in
the play, who hns a bad reputntion. The
play proves a great success. Porcas ac-
cuses her brother of theft. The blind
child of Zllla Paget appears and Is heart-
lessly repudiated by the mother.
CHAPTER XVII.
The Green Turquol«e .
"Then," continued Dorcas, "Guleesh
lifted the lady to the horse's back and
leaped up before her. She put her
arms about his waist and clung to
him tightly. 'Rise, horBe, rise,' he
cried. The horse and all the hun-
dreds of horses behind him spread out
their wings and roBe in the air. They
went flying swiftly across the sea."
"Miss Dorcas," interrupted Hobln ln-
creduously, "I didn't know that horses
could fly. I thought they trotted on
the streets like this." The boy slipped
down from his chair and kicked with
his heels upon the floor.
"Guleesh's horse had wings—all
fairy horses have wings," Dorcas
laughed.
"Did you ever see a fairy horse?"
"I'm afraid I never did."
"Then how do you know that it's
true?" ^
"Fairy stories tell us so."
"Oh." The chlld'B brown eyes turned
to her eagerly. They were interrupt-
ed by a knock at the library door.
Jason entered.
"1 reckon yo'Be awful busy dis arter-
noon, Missy?"
"Not If there is anything I can do
for you, Jason."
"Emillne's downstairs. You know
who Emlline is?" He paused and
glanced at Robin.
Dorcas nodded.
"If't wan't be inconveniencln' she'd
like to see yo'."
"Why does she want to see me,
Jason?"
"1 can't tell, Missy. She's des kep'
a-pleadin' en a-pleadin' fo' yo' to see
her, so 1 tol' her, I'd ask yo'."
"I'll see her. And, Robin, suppose
you go with Jason for a little while.
He keeps a doughnut jar in the pan-
try. Make Jason tell you a story. Fly-
ing horses are nothing to the wonder-
ful things he has seen."
Emlline entered timidly and stood
■\ alting until Dorcas pointed to a
chair. She was a neat-looking yellow
girl, but there was a worried look on
her good-natured face.
"Anything wrong, Emlline?" asked
Dorcas.
"Wrong! Eberyt'lng's wrong, Mis'
Wentworth. I'se lef Miss Paget W
good en all. Lawd, what a whack sh
hit me when I tol' her Bomet'ings J
thought!"
"She struck you?" Dorcas stared
at the girl in astonishment.
" 'Deed, Mis' Wentworth, she struck
me hard, straight 'cross my mouf wid
her han'. I could take de law to her,
I reckon, en git damages, but I ain't
a-goin' to. I'se scared to death ob
bavin' anyt'lng to do wid her." The
girl's face seemed to whiten, and Bhe
clasped her hands in an agony of ter-
ror. "I wouldn't wuk fo' her nohow—
I'd ruther go on de streets. Mis' Went-
worth, her tuqquoiues am a-turnln'
green!"
"What do you mean?"
Emlline spoke in a frightened whis-
per.
"Her tuqquolses am a-turnin' green,
I 'clar' fo' Gawd, dey is!"
Dorcas laughed. The octoroon's
statement was so Irrelevant It was al-
most funny.
"Lawdy, Mis' Wentworth, don' go to
laughin'. 1 reckon yo' don't know what
an awful t'ing dat is to happen. I
nebber heard tell ob hit but once. Hit
don' happen exceptin' when a woman's
ez wicked ez de ol' serplnt herself!"
"Emlline, what on earth are you
talking about?"
"My granny once worked fo' a wick-
ed lady—was back In Blave days. I
'member hearin' her tell 'bout it when
I was a little gal. Her Misses was
an army lady, rich en beautiful ez
could be, but she done hated her hus-
band en der was anodder man she
was sho' sot arter. Her husband, de
line ol' army man, he died sudden one
liight. She had er necklace on, de
bluest tuqquoiBes yo' ebber see, en de
next day dey turned green. Den dey
found out she'd poisoned him, Dey
would have hung her, but she drowned
herself. De tuqquolses was on her
neck when dey pulled her out ob de
xlbber—dey was green as grass."
Dorcas shivered. "Emiline, what
has this to do with Miss Paget?"
The girl's eyes grew round with ter-
ror.
"She had er necklace ob de swellest
tuqquolses gib her a month ago by a
gemman. She's always glttin' pres-
ents fr"m gemmen. Dey was ez pale
blue ez de sky when Bhe got dem. She
wears dem all de time, day and night.
Vou see dem on her when she was
actln'?" •
Dorcas nodded.
"She nebber takes dem oft. One
day I tol' her dey wa'n't near ez blue
ez dey used to be. She took dem to
a Jeweler man en hed dem cleaned. Hit
didn't do dem a mite ob good. Dis
mornin'," Emlline paused as In terror
of repeating it, "dis mornin', Mis'
Wentworth, ez Bho' ez Gawd made me,
dem tuqquoiBes was turned green!"
Dorcas sat staring at her.
"I screamed when I sot my eyes on
dem." The girl's teeth chattered. "She
asked what was de matter, en I tol'
The Girl's Eyes Grew Round With
Terror.
her de story ob de ol' Colonel's Mlssea.
Dat's when she whaled me 'cross de
mouf." •
"But," queried Dorcas with a puz-
zled frown, "what does it all mean?"
"Lawdy, dem tuqquoiBes would have
stayed sky-blue on "o', Mis' Went-
worth, er on any lady dat wa'n't doin'
all dem kind ob wicked t'ings."
"Rubbish!"
"I swar to de Lawd hit's true," cried
Emlline appealingly, "I've heard my
granny tell hit many a time."
Dorcas laughed. Although the story
was absurd, her skin had grown chilly
while Emiline talked.
"I'll tell yo'." The girl's voice grew
intense. "Don' yo' 'member she had
dem tuqquolses on las' night when yo'
come in wid de little blind boy? Laft-d,
I could er choked her dead wid my
own han's! She was de ol' debil his-
self, en der's a judgment a-comin' on
her. When yo' was gone, de t'ings
she done say was curdlin' to de
blood!"
"Miss Paget is not a good woman I
know, but "
"Good!" Interrupted Emlline. "She
didn't murder nobody den, en I reck-
on she ain't since, but dar was murder
in her heart! En den, dis mornin'—
'fore she woun' out 'bout de tuqquoiBes
—somet'lng queer happened, somet'ing
terrible queer!"
"What?"
"She come upstairs wid er bunch ob
letters in her hand, right arter lunch
time. She laid dem down; but befo'
she done took off her t'ings she took
anodder one out er her mulf. 'Fo' she
took her hat off she opened It en
read it. She dropped de envelope on
de floor. I saw it. Hit wa'n't ad-
dressed to her, hit was somebody
else's letter.' The negro girl paused
Irresolutely for a moment.
"Well?" queried Dorcas.
"Hit was fo' 'Mrs. Alice V. Bourne,
Gotham Theater.'"
"'Alice V. Bourne'!" Dorcas Jumped
to her feet.
"Yessum." Emillne's tongue ran on
excitedly. "Miss Paget, she was took
wid de queerest fit yo' ebber see arter
she done read It. She lay back en
screeched en laughed. She got clear
hystericky. Den, ail of er sudden, she
started to fire questions at me 'bout
little Julie Bourne en Mrs. Bourne, en
where dey lived en where dey come
fr'm. I didn't know nuflln' but where
dey lived. 1 went up once to Harlem
wid Mrs. Bourne to help her bring
some stuff ob Miss Julie's to er."
"Where did she get the letter?"
asked Dorcas.
"Yo' kin search me," answered Eml-
line briskly. "Dat oman 'ould steal
er murder er any ol' t'ing."
There was a long silence. Emlline
rose to go.
"Mis' Wentworth," she asked hesi-
tatingly, "ef yo' hear ob er good place,
would yo' send fo' me? Jason, he
knows where to fln' me anytime." She
paused irresolutely. "You don' want
a nurse fo' de little blind boy, I reck-
on. I'se er born nurse. 1 like It!"
"I don't know yet, Emiline, what
plans 1 can make, or what will be done
with Robin; but I'll try to llnd some
work for you."
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Irony of Fate.
Wentworth locked himself in the li-
brary one Saturday morning. Oswald,
with quiet insistence, had continued
the demand thut he break away, go
home, and begin work on another play.
"Business can be carried along with-
out you," was his daily assurance.
" 'The House of Eeterbrook' Is good
for another season, perhaps for more
than one, and we ought to look ahead.
I ain asked every day if you are writ-
ing another play. You ought to strike
while the iron is hot. The luck we
are having should be an Inspiration to
you."
The Waverly Place house was per-
fectly still. Enoch seated himself be-
fore the desk, cleared oft the blotter,
laid out a heap of copy paper, tilled
the ink-well, and adjusted a new pen.
He leaned his head upon his hand
for a few minutes, and his listless
eyes fell upon a calendar. He dis-
covered that it bore the dates of
March instead of April. He tore off
the record of weeks which had passed
and dropped it into the waste basket.
The pen rested listlessly between his
lingers. When he tried to write with
It the ink had dried. He did not dip
it in the bottle again. A trail of sleep-
less days and nights lay behind him
—he felt as if his brain had drowsed
at its post.
He picked s-p a rubber band, twisted
it about his Angers, then pulled it
thin till it suddenly snapped in two.
He shook himself as If a strenuous
effort to wake up. For days he had
been evolving what seemed like a
virile plot for a play. He tramped the
streets to do his thinking and planned
the scenario from beginning to end.
The night before he had locked him-
self in his office at the Gotham and
in a frenzy of haste shaped out each
scene on his typewriter.
The manuscript lay at his elbow.
He read it through. Suddenly he re-
alized that the stuff fell Bhort, of
what he could not decide. It lacked
reality. He compared it with Merry's
drama. The story in that rose up out
of the paper, each character a living,
breathing man or woman. This story
was dead, absolutely dead. He lifted
the sheets and deliberately tore them
across, gritting his teeth while the
paper zipped, as a man does when he
is in pain.
He picked up a letter which lay be-
side him on the desk. It was ad-
dressed in Merry's irregular writing.
There was nothing Inside the envelope
but a check for an amount in five
figures. Wentworth glanced at it, then
tore it across. He had sent the check
to the actor without a word; It repre-
sented the entire royalties on the
"House of Esterbrook." The mail
brought it back to him as It had gone.
A small clock ticked out the time on
top of the desk. He remembered It
was a Christmas gift from Merry. The
ceaseless round of its second-hand fas-
cinated him.
"It would be great if one could work
as that ridiculous needle does," he
thought. "It is such a lifelike thing.
It goes on with a regularity that
feazes a man, never pausing day or
night, never dropping out or balking
as we humans do when the brain goes
numb, I wonder," Enofch loafed back
In his chair, "I wonder if it is too late
to come back. It does not seem pos-
sible that a man could undergo a phy-
sical change in a few months while he
Is still hale and hearty. They say such
a thing does come, though—quick as
scat, when your arteries harden, or
something of that sort happens. I'm
forty-two. A man Isn't old at forty-
two, and yet—I feel old today. I sup-
pose," he stared steadily at the face
of the little clock as if It were a hu-
man countenance, "I suppose this is
part of the scheme they call retribu-
tion."
He uttered the last word in an un-
dertone as if some one were within
hearing. There had been moments—
especially in the dead of night—when
he had longed to lay bare his soul to
a father confessor. The conscience
which had slept for months awoke
and was raging at him like a demon.
He sat silent, going over his life step
by step from the day when he was
confronted by temptation and fell.
Dorcas had branded him as a thief.
Still she had kept her word and never
again questioned the authorship of the
play. Her accusation left a welt in
his soul like a stroke from the thin
end of a whip. It was a welt which
had not healed. He knew she had
spoken the truth. He dropped hl3
head upon his arms. It was years
since he had said a prayer. He had
forgotten the form that prayafr takes.
"God," he murmured, "if there is
any way for me to come back—and
begin again—show me that way."
He did not raise his head; In an
apathy he was listening curiously to
a commotion In the lower part of the
house. From a wrangle of voices in
the hall rose the clear tones of a
woman. 'He Jumped to his feet with
consternation in his eyes and flung
•the door open. While he stood mo-
tionless listening his forehead wrink-
led in perplexity. A cabman was car-
rying a trunk upstairs It was so large
that it blocked the stairway, A few
steps below Jason tried In vain to
pasB.
"Yo' ain't got no right to tote dat
trunk up dar without Marso Went-
worth's say so," cried the old negro.
"I'm gwlne tell him 'bout hit."
When a woman's voice from the low-
er hall answered, Enoch's face went
pallid white.
"You dippy old black fool, I know
my business. Cabby, take up that
trunk as 1 tell you to."
Wentworth coula hear Jason expos-
tulate again. "Marse Enoch don' know
you re comin'. Missy Dorcas am out
en she ain't gib me no orders 'bout
company."
"Missy Dorcas!" repeated the wom-
an with a contemptuous laugh. "Get
this out of your noddle straight away:
I'm not company Miss Dorcas Is ex-
pecting. And here's a bit of advice,—
lose your doddering old jaw, then an-
nounce me to your master."
Enoch, with a few quick steps,
reached the top of the stair and leaned
over the balusters. The cabman
glanced at his stern face, then drop-
ped the trunk from his shoulder and
steadied it on the edge of a step.
"Stay right where you are," ordered
Wentworth abruptly.
He turned to the woman, who stood
on the stair. She lifted her face and
greeted him with a derisive laugh.
"Will you be good enough, Miss
Paget, to tell me what this intrusion
means?"
The Englishwoman laughed again.
It was a peculiar laugh, a sweet, shrill
ripple, without a ghost of merriment
in it. It had a thrill as of something
demoniac. She did not answer his
question, but turned to the cabman.
"Take that trunk up and set It on
the landing. 1 can't pass while you
block the stair. Then go down and
wait until I call you."
The man obeyed. The actress
paused on the top step and looked
down at Jason. "As for you," she
looked at him with a sneering smile,
"mind your own business now. I have
announced myself to your master."
Wentworth stood with his hand
upon the railing of the stair. His face
was Btern and there were hard lines
about his mouth. He held the door
of the library open.
"Come in here," he said. There was
no cordiality in his welcome.
The actress brushed past him with
a short, unpleasant laugh. Her man-
ner was full of self-confidence. Went-
worth realized that he had never seen
her look more beautiful; still his
pulses did not quicken by a beat. She
wore a gown of strangely lurid blue
which few women would have dared
to afreet. The harmony between the
dead gold of her hair and a willowy
blue plume that swept down from her
hat was almost startling. Her atti-
tude was aggressive and a certain
Bense of power lay behind her the-
atrical entrance. Enoch's face settled
into a frown, although his eyes were
full of scowling perplexity. He rapped
the door shut and turned the key In
the lock.
"Now," he demanded sharply, "be
good enough to tell me what this
means."
"Aren't you going to ask me to sit
down?" The woman spoke with an
enticing smile.
"No. 1 have no Intention of asking
you to stay so long."
Zilla Paget laughed and Bank lan-
guidly into a chair beside the fireplace.
"I would suggest that you sit down,"
she said suavely.
Enoch shook his head.
"You may get tired before I am
through talking. It will take some
time to discuss this affair."
"What affair?" Wentworth turned
on her with quiet scorn. "Don't be
ypiy^M-
"Tell Me What This Means," He De-
manded Sharply.
fooliBh enough to try blackmail. Any-
thing like," he paused for a moment
aB If trying to find a suitable word,
"like sentiment for instance—or call
it what you wish—died a natural
death one afternoon when I tried to
explain things to you. The minute a
woman lets herself go and shows the
devil In her makeup at white heat,
sentiment can die—die a very sudden
death. Besides, I have nothing on my
conscience. I treated you as gener-
ously as any man would have done
under the circumstances."
Miss Paget threw back her head and
laughed. "Sit down," she advised.
"This is a different affair entirely.
Do not flatter yourself; there is not
a ghost of sentiment in this."
Enoch walked to the mantel, leaned
his elbow upon it, and stared down
at her. "I'll give you exactly ten min-
utes to explain what you want. If It
1* about your child, 1 am quite as anx-
ious to get him out of my house as
you are."
"My child! I will relieve your mind
on that point immediately. It Is not
my child I want. If your slBter wants
to play foster-mother, she Is quite
welcome to him. When I think of it,"
she began slowly to draw off her
gloves, "Miss Wentworth has really
done me a great favor."
"Oblige me then," Enoch's voice was
full of cold indifference, "by getting
down to buBlne8B as quickly as pos-
sible. You must be gone before my
sister comes In."
"Indeed." The actress looked up into
his face with an Insolent smile. "Why
should we hurry? I want to ask you
a few questions. I understand you are
writing a new play." She turned to
glance at the litter of manuscript on
his desk. "Is there a part in it for
me?"
"I have not begun to place parts
yet."
"Ah!" She watched him with calm
scrutiny. "How is It coming along?
Will it be as big a go as "The House'
has been?"
"Is it any of your business?"
"Probably not; still, I am interested.
I have been wondering," she spoke
Blowly, as if thinking aloud, "If it can
possibly come up to the expectations
of the public. A second play is ofton
such a—rotter."
"What in thunder are you driving
at?" asked Enoch fiercely.
She sprang to her feet and faced
him. There was a malevolent sneer
in her face.
"My opinion is that anything you
could do would be a rotter."
"Why?"
Zilla Paget drew one hand from her
muff and pulled out a few sheets of
crumpled paper. She laid them on
the table, smoothing them carefully
with the blank side up. Suddenly she
turned them over and placed both her
hands firmly on the paper.
Enoch took a few steps forward and
peered down through his glasses. H1b
gait grew unsteady and his fingers
gripped at the edge of the table. A
purplish flush swept over hiB cheeks,
then he became ghastly pale. His very
lips grew white. There were gray
hollows about his eyes like the shad-
ows which creep Into a face after
death. His mouth moved, but he did
not utter a word, because his tongue
touched dry lips.
"I knew you would understand,"
murmured the woman.
Wentworth's bands sprang at her
wrists like the grip of a wild beast
snatching at its prey.
"Don't," entreated the actress. "You
hurt terribly. You do not know how
strong you are. Besides—you are fool-
ish, horribly foolish. If you should
tear this, it is nothing but Exhibit A.
There are hundreds of sheets where
it came from. And let me tell you—
they are where you won't find them."
Wentworth unclasped her wrists,
but his eyes were blazing with mur-
derous fury. He turned with a quiek
gesture to the wall behind him.
Against a rug of Oriental matting
hung a collection of savage weapons.
The woman watched him with coo!
unconcern. He seemed to be search-
ing rapidly with his eyes for some-
thing. He laid his hand upon a long
thin dagger. Here and there its blade
had rusted to blackness, but Its edge
was deadly keen. He jabbed the point
of it into his blotting pad. It curled
over lithely, as a Ferrara does. Then
he glanced at the woman beside the
table. His eyes were glittering with
the bloodthirsty passions of the primi-
tive man.
Zilla Paget lifted a lorgnettfe which
hung at her wrist by a jeweled chain.
She clicked it open, raised it to her
eyes—and laughed.
"I wonder," she murmured, "if you
realize how ridiculous you look. You
are too white-livered to do such a
thing as that. Besides," she glanced
about the sunlit room, "where could
you hide the body?"
Enoch tossed the blade upon his
desk and began to walk up and down
the floor. He rolled his handkerchief
Into a hard ball and dabbed with it
continually at his moist forehead. The
woman sat perfectly still. She turned
to fold the sheets of paper, then she
laid one hand upon them and lay back
gracefully in her chair.
Wentworth turned on her with a
sudden question. "How much do yoy
want for—Exhibit A and the rest of
the evidence?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I have
no intention of selling it."
"Then what's your price?" Enoch's
question snapped like a pistol shot.
She looked up at him with a de-
risive smile.
"My price is ridiculously small,
much less than It is worth. I am
merely coming here—to live."
"You are coming here—to live?
Here—In the house—with my sister?"
"Here—In the house—with your Bis-
ter," she repeated mockingly. "Exact-
ly. I have taken a fancy to this part
of the city. It is rather attractive for
New York. I think I shall enjoy the
society of your—sister. You will not
find me a troublesome guest. I can
fit in happily to your home circle.
Part of my luggage is there in the
hall, you know. The rest is down-
stairs, "
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Some of the Noted School-
houses of Philadelphia.
Franklin D. Edmunds Unearths •
Wealth of Information on the Part
These Structures Took In His-
tory of United States.
Boston.—When careless school chil-
dren go romping iu and out of their
buildings they never stop to think of
the historic memories that lurk around
the place.
The mere fact that they have been
remodeled does not destroy their old-
time charm nor ruin the realization
that many were erected in the eight-
eenth century. William Penn had a
hand In some buildings, and others
equally interesting are to be found.
Franklin D. Edmunds, a school arch-
itect and son of Henry Edmunds,
president of the board of education,
has unearthed a wealth of informa-
tion on local schoolhousea in Ameri-
can history.
Mr. Edmunds, recognizing that thera
was much to be discovered in this
fertile field and that all that had ever
been written about schoolhouses had
been directed at the pedagogical and
political phases of the city's educa-
tional development, went right at tha
study of the buildings themselves.
One building he found to be of spe-
cial Interest because It had been used
In revolutionary days aB both church
and schoolhouse. The Levering;
school at Ridge avenue and Levering;
street, is now used by the youths of
Roxborough. It was erected In 1748
by William L. Levering, who was to
distinguish himself as an officer la
the struggle for American indepen-
dence. It was for many years used
by both churchgoers and pupils. On
Sunday the Baptists worshiped there
and on week days their children
studied on the long, hard benches.
This doubling of purposes was very
common in colonial days. Further-
more, the Levering school was used
as a meeting place for the colonists
during tho strenuous pre-revolutionary
discussions. The Roxborough inhabi-
tants met there to protest against
"taxation without representation,"
and subsequently to organize troops
to register their determination for
freedom.
In 1856 a hurricane took It away,
but the next year It was replaced by
a more modern structure. Roxbor-
ough kept growing, and the children
kept increasing in such numbers that
by 1894 more accommodations wera
necessary, and the present house was
erected. Levering did not have his.
named attached to the school, and it
was only in 1847 that "Roxborough"
was wiped off and "William L. Lever-
ing" placed over the door.
The recent physical growth of Phila-
delphia Is in no way better Illustrated
than by the development of its school
system. One of the best known ele-
mentary schools In the city 1b tha
Seemed Probable.
Henry Cabot Lodge of Massachu-
setts and a fellow senator sat at
lunch In the senate restaurant one
day, and Lodge confided in his asso-
ciate that he hoped to die In office.
The other senator noted that Lodge
was eating green apple pie, with lots
of cream on It, and French sardines—
Lodge'B favorite noonday repast.
"Well," he observed, "If you keep on
eating combinations like that maybe
you'll soon get your wish."
Roxborough School, 1748; Rebuilt
1894.
James L. Claghorn Grammar school,
at Seventeenth street and Susque-
hanna avenue. It provides accommo-
dations for about 1,000 children of
various ages.
Old residents of the northwestern
section of the city remember that
when the site for this school was pur-
chased almost the entire community
protested against the location. Op-
posite the school Bite In 1883 was a
large lake. It was feared that (oma
of the younger pupils in coming to
school would fall into the pond and
that every month would witness a
new disaster.
In spite of the protestations of tha
parents, the school was built at that
spot.
One of the most interesting bits>
of history that Mr. Edmunds has
brought to light is in connection with
the Holme school, In Academy road,
near Frankford. It is still occupied.
Tills school was originally the Lower
Dublin Academy, established under
the terms of the will of Thomas
Holme, surveyor general under Wil-
liam Penn, who designed the original
"lay-out" of Philadelphia,
The academy was Incorporated In
1794, but the structure itself was
erected four years previously. Tha
original name of the school remained
until 1901, when the building was pur-
chased by the board of education and
renamed in honor of its founder.
In one of the rooms Union troop*
were mustered for the Civil war.
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Burke, J. J. The Daily Transcript (Norman, Okla.), Vol. 1, No. 317, Ed. 1 Wednesday, August 19, 1914, newspaper, August 19, 1914; (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc112778/m1/2/: accessed April 19, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.