Garber Sentinel. (Garber, Okla.), Vol. 14, No. 45, Ed. 1 Thursday, August 14, 1913 Page: 6 of 8
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THE SENTINEL, GARBER. OKLAHOMA.
FX? AN
BY
JOHN BKECKENF3DGE ELLIS
ILLXJSTEATIONS BY"
O-IHWINr - MYERS
Pr** mrrivm at Hamilton rr*«
home la Littleburg. but Hilda him ataant
">n<lijctlr,r tbe ctiolr *< a ramp meeting.
Mh. repairs thither !n anarch of him,
laugtia during the hitM arid la aak*4 to
lean* Abbott Aahton. aupertntendent of
mrhoola eacorta Krar from the tent.
CHAPTER III,—Continued.
The young man *a astonished.
"Didn't you see htm io the tent, lead-
ing the choir?"
"He has a hou e Id town." Fran
eald timidly. "I don't want to bother
him while be is In his religion. I
want to wait for him at his house.
"Jb," sbe added earnestly, "if you
would only show me the way."
Just as If she did not know the
way!
Abbott Ashton was now completely
at her mercy. "So you know Brother
Oregory, do you?" he asked, as he
led her over tbe stiles and down the
wagon-road.
"Never saw him In my life," Fran
replied casually. She knew how to
may It prohibitively, but she purposely
left the bars down, to find out if the
young man was what she hoped
And be was. He did not ask a
question. They sought the grass-
Krowri path bordering the dusty road;
a* they ascended the hill that shut
out a view of the Tillage, to their ears
name the sprightly Twentieth Century
hymn. What change had come over
Ashton that the song now seemed as
strangely out of keeping as had tbe
peacefulness of the April night, when
he flret left the tent? He felt the
prick of remorse because In the midst
irf nature, he bad so soon forgotten
about souls
fl'ran caught the air and softjy sang
—"We reap what we sow—"
"Don't!" he reproved her. "Child,
that means nothing to you."
"Yes, It does, too." she returned,
rather Impudently. She continued to
sing and hum until the last note was
smothered In her little nose. Then he
Hpoke: "However—It means a differ-
ent thing to me from what It means
to the choir."
He looked at her curiously, "How
different?" he smiled.
"To me, It means that we really do
reap what we sow, and that If you've
done something very wrong In the
l>ast—ogh! Better look out—trouble's
coming. Thiil's what the song means
to roe."
"And will you kindly tell me what It
Viefcns to the choir?"
"Yes, I tell you what it means to
the chotr. It means sitting on benches
«tr,1 singing, after a sermon; and It
tniians a tent, and a great evangelist
Mud a celebrated soloist—and then go
Ing home to act as If it wasn't so."
Abbott was not only astonished, but
pained. Suddenly he had lost "No-
body's little girl," to be confronted by
an elfish spirit of mischief. He atiked
with constraint. "Did this critical at-
titude make you laugh out, In the
tent?"
"I wouldn't tell you why I laughed,"
PVan declared, "for a thousand dol-
lars. And I've seen more than that
In my day."
They walked on. He was silent, she
Impenetrable. At last she said, In a
changed voice, "My name's Fran.
What's yours?"
He laughed boyUhly. "Mine's Ab
bott."
His manner mnde her laugh sympa
thetlcally. It was Just the manner she
liked best—gay, frank, and a little
inlBchlevous. "Abbott?" she repeated;
''well—is that all?"
"Ashton Is the balance; Abbott
Ashton. And yours?"
"The reBt of mine Is Nonpareil—
funny name, Isn't it!—Fran Nonpa-
reil. It means Fran, the small type;
or Frnn who's unlike everybody elBe;
or—Oh, there are lots of meanings to
mo. Some find one, some another,
►ome never understand."
It was because Abbott Ashton was
touched that he spoke lightly:
"What a very young Nonpareil to
he wandering about the world, all by
yourself!"
She wan grateful for IiIh raillery,
"How yorfng do you think?"
"Del me sen. Hum! You are only—
about—" She laughed mirthfully at
his air of preposterous wisdom.
"About thirteen—fourteen, yes, you
are more than fl-l-lfteen, more than
. . . But take off that enormous hat,
JUttla NonyayuU There's no use guess |
ing In tbe dark when tbe moon's
shining."
Fran was gleeful. "All right," she
cried In one of ber childish tones,
shrill, fresh, vibratory with the mu-
sic of Innocence.
By this time they had reached the
foot-bridge that spanned the deep ra-
vine. Here the wagon-road made its
crossing of a tiny stream, by slipping
under the foot-bridge, some fifteen
feet below On the left lay straggling
Littleburg with Its four or five hun-
dred bouses, faintly twinkling, and be-
yond the meadows on the right, a
fringe of woods started up as If It did
not belong there, but had come to be
Been, while above the woods swung
the big moon with Fran on the foot-
bridge to shine for.
Fran's hat dangled Idly In her hand
as she drew herself with backward
movement upon the railing The moon-
light was full upon her face; so was
the young man's gaze. One of her
feet found, after leisurely exploration,
a down-slanting board upon the edge
of which she pressed her heel for sup-
port. The other foot swayed to and
fro above the flooring, while a little
hand on either Bide of her gripped the
top rail.
"Here I am," she said, shaking back
rebellious hair.
Abbott Ashton studied her with
grave deliberation—It is doubtful if he
had ever before so thoroughly en-
Joyed hiB duties as usher. He pro-
nounced Judicially, "You are older
than you look."
"Yes," Fran explained, "my expe-
rience accounts for that. I've had
lots."
Abbott's lingering here beneath the
moon when he should have been hur-
rying back to the tent, showed how
unequally the good things of life—ex-
perience, for instance—are divided
"You are sixteen," he hazarded, con-
scious of a strange exhilaration.
Fran dodged the issue behind a
smile—"And I don't think you are so
awfully old."
Abbott was brought to himself with
a Jolt that threw him hard upon self-
consclousnesB. "I am superintendent
of the public school." The very sound
"Goodness!" Cried Fran, "Does It Hurt
That Bad?"
of the words rang as a warning, and
he became preternaturally solemn.
"Goodness!" cried Fran, consider
ing his grave mouth and thoughful
eyea, "does It hurt that bad?"
Abbott smiled. All the same, tbe
position of superintendent must not
be bartered away for the transitory
pleasures of a boot-bridge. "We had
better hurry, If you please," he said
gravely.
"I am so afraid of you." murmured
Fran. "But I know the meeting will
last a long time yet. I'd hate to have
to wait long at Mr. Gregory's with
that disagreeable lady who isn't Mrs
Gregory."
Abbott was startled. Why did she
thus designate Mr. Gregory's secre-
tary? He looked keenly at Fran, but
she only said plaintively:
"Can't we stay here?"
He was disturbed and perplexed It
was as If a fitting shadow from some
unformed cloud of thought-mist had
(alien upon tbe every day world out of
bis subconsciousness. Why did this
stranger speak of Miss Grace Noir as
the "lady who isn't Mrs. Gregory?"
The young man at times had caught
himself thinking of her in Just that
way.
School superintendents do not enjoy
being mystified. "Really," Abbott de-
clared abruptly, "I must go back to
the meeting."
Fran had heard enough about his
leaving her. She decided to stop that
once and for all. "If you go back.
I go, too!" she said conclusively She
gave him a look to show that Bhe
meant it, then became all humility
"Please don't be cross with little
Nonpareil," she coaxed. "Please don't
want to go back to that meeting
Please don't want to leave me. You
are so learned and old and so strong—
you don't care why a little girl
laughs."
Fran tilted her head sldewise. and
the glance of her eyes proved irresist-
ible. "But tell me about Mr. Greg-
ory," she pleaded, "and don't mind my
ways. Ever since mother died I've
found nothing In this world but love
that was for somebody else, and
trouble that was for me."
The pathetic cadence of the Blender-
throated tones moved Abbott more
than he cared to show.
"If you're in trouble," he exclaimed,
"you've sought the right helper in Mr.
Gregory. He's the richest man in the
county, yet lives so simply, so fru-
gally—they keep few servants—and
all because he wants to do good with
his msney. I think Mr. Gregory is one
of the best men that ever lived."
Fran asked with simplicity, "Great
church worker?"
"He's as good as he is rich. He
never misses a service. I can't give
the time to It that he does—to the
church, I mean; I have the ambition
to hold, one day, a chair at Yale or
Harvard—that means to teach in a
university—" he broke off, in explana-
tion.
"You see," with a deprecatory
smile, "I want to make myself felt in
the world."
Fran's eyes shone with an unspoken
"Hurrah!" and aB he met her gaze, he
felt a thrill of pleasure from the Im-
pression that he was what she want-
ed him to be.
Fran allowed his bouI to bathe a
while In divine eye-beams of flattering
approval, then gave him a little Bttng
to bring him to life. "You are pretty
old, not to be married," she remarked.
"I hope you won't find some woman to
put an end to your high intentions,
but men generally do. Men fall In
love, and when they finally pull them-
selves out, they've lost sight of the
shore they were headed for."
A Blight color stole to Abbott's face.
In fact, he was rather hard hit This
wandering child was no doubt a witch.
He looked in the direction of the tent,
as if to escape the weaving of her
magic. But he only said, "That sounds
—er—practical."
"Yes." said Fran, wondering who
"the woman" was, "if you can't be
practical, there's no use to be. Well,
I can see you now, at the head of
some university—you'll make it, be-
cause you're bo much like me. Why.
when they first began teaching me to
feed— Good gracious! What am I
talking about?" She hurried on, as
if to cover her confusion. "But I
haven't got as far in books as you
have, so I'm not religious."
"BookB aren't religion," he remon-
strated, then added with unnecessary
gentleness, "Little Non'parell! What
an Idea!"
"Yes, books are," retorted Fran,
shaking back her hair, swinging her
foot, and twisting her body impatient-
ly. "That's the only kind of religion
I know anything about—just books.
Just doctrines; what you ought to be-
lieve and how you ought to act—all
nicely printed and bound between cov-
ers. Did you ever meet any religion
outside of a book, moving up aud
down, going about In the open?"
He answered In perfect confidence,
"Mr. Gregory lives his religion daily—
the kind that helps people, that makes
the unfortunate happy."
Fran was not hopeful. "Well, I've
come all the way from New York to
Bee blin. I hope be can make me
A
(COPy&GHT I9I2
BOBBS-hEPPllL CO.)
happy. I'm certainly unfortunate
enough. I've got all the elements he
needs to work on."
"From New York!" He considered
the delicate form, the youthful face,
and whistled. "Will you please tell
me where your home is. Nonpareil?"
She waved her arm Inclusively.
"America. I wish it were concentrat-
ed in some spot, but it's just spread
out thin under the Stars and Stripes.
My country's about all 1 have." She
broke off with a catch in her Toice—
she tried to faugh. but it was no use.
Suddenly It came to Abbott Ashton
that he understood the language of
moon, watching woods, meadow-lands,
even the gathering rain-clouds; all
spoke of the universal brotherhood of
i man with nature; a brotherhood in-
cluding the most ambitious superin-
| tendent of schools and a homeless
Nonpareil; a brotherhood to be con-
firmed by the clasping of sincere
hands. There was danger in such a
confirmation, for it carried Abbott be-
yond the limits that mark a superin-
tendent's confines.
As he stood on the bridge, holding
Fran's hand in a warm and sympa-
thetic pressure, he was not unlike one
on picket-service who slips over the
trenches to hold friendly parley with
the enemy. Abbott did not know there
was any danger in this brotherly
handclasp; but that was because he
could not see a fleshy and elderly lady
slowly coming down the hill. As su-
perintendent. he should doubtless have
considered his responsibilities to the
public; he did consider them when the
lady, breathless and severe, ap-
proached the bridge, while every
pound of her ample form cast its
weight upon the seal of her disapprov-
ing, low-voiced and significant, "Good
evening, Professor Ashton."
Fran whiBtled.
The lady heard, but she swept on
without once glancing back. There
was In her none of that saline ten-
dency that made of Lot a widower;
the lady desired to see no more.
Fran opened her eyes at Abbott to
their widest extent, as she demurely
Hennery's Love Token.
A young colored woman, tall and
(lender, was standing at the northeast
corner of Washington and Illinois
street «rhen two women acquaintance*
stopped and addressed her.
"My, my, "Liza, who done black y&
poo' eye dat-a-way?"
"Who done black my eye?" said th*
tall, slim one. "You want to know
who done black my eye? My Hen-
nery done black my eye. dat's who!"
"I wouldn't let any man black my
eye," aald one of the aequalntr
ances
"Ah. yo' don' know my Hennery.
Dii black eye Jes' ahowa how he
loves me. an' dat a de kinder man 1
likea "—Indianapolis News.
Evidence.
Tom—I don't know whether
I sings or not.
Jack—She doesn't I've heard h<
! —Puck.
she
"Ah!" murmured Fran comprehend-
lngly. At Gregory's gate, ahe said,
Now you run back to the tent and
IT! beard the lion by myself. I know
it has sharp teeth, but I guess it won't
bite me. Do you try to get back to
the tent before the meeting's over.
Show yourself there. Parade up and
down the aisles."
He laughed heartily, all the sorrier
for her because he found himself in
..rouble.
"It was fun while It lasted, wasn't
it!" Fran exclaimed, with a sudden
gurgle.
"Part of It was," he admitted
"Good-by, then, little Nonpareil."
He held out his hand.
"No, sir!" cried Fran, clasping her
hands behind her. "That's what got
you into trouble. Good-by. Run for
it!"
Horrible Possibility.
"Beauty la in the eye of the be-
holder."
"Even if the beholder squints?"
r—
BLUE AND
DISCOURAGED
Mrs. Hamilton Telia How She
Finally Found Health in
Lydia EL Pinkham's Veg- ,
etable Compound.
"Good Evening, Professor Ashton."
asked, "How cold Is it? My ther-
mometer Is frozen."
The young- man did not betray un-
easiness, though he was really
alarmed, for his knowledge of the
fleshy lady enabled him to foresee
gathering clouds more sinister than
those overhead. The obvious thing
to be done was to release the slender
hand; he did so rather hastily.
"Have I got you into trouble?" Fran
asked, with her elfish laugh. "If so,
we'll be neighbors, for that's where I
live. Who was she?"
"Miss Sappbtra Clinton," he an-
swered as, by a common impulse, they
began walking toward Hamilton Greg-
ory's house. "Bob Clinton's sister,
and my landlady." The more Abbott
thought of his adventure, the darker
It grew; before they reached their des-
tination it had become a deep gray.
"Do you mean the 'Brother Clinton'
that couldn't get 'through'?"
"Yes . . . He's the chalrmao of
the School B/v>r«i."
CHAPTER IV.
The Womin Who Was Not Mrs, Gre®.
ory.
Hardly had Abbott Ashton disap-
peared down the village vista of moon-
light and shadow-patches, before
Fran's mood changed. Instead of
seeking to carry out her threat of
bearding the Hon In the den, she sank
down on the porch-steps, gathered her
knees in her arms, and stared straight
before ber.
Though of skillful resources, of Im-
pregnable resolution, Fran could be
despondent to the bluest degree; and
though competent at the clash, Bhe
often found herself purpling on the
eve of the crisis. The moment had
come to test ber fighting qualities, yet
she drooped despondently.
HaiOllton Gregory was coming
through the gate. As he halted In sur-
prise, a black shadow rose slowly,
wearily. He. little dreaming that he
was confronted by a shadow from the
past, saw In her only the girl who
had been publicly expelled from the
tent.
The choir-leader had expected hit
home-coming to be crowned by a
vision very different. He came up
the walk slowly, not knowing what to
say. She waited, outwardly calm, In-
wardly gathering power. White-hot
action from Fran, when the iron was
to be welded. Out of the deepening
shadows ber will leaped keen as a
blade.
She addressed him, "Good evening,
Mr, Gregory."
He halted. When he spoke, his tone
expressed not only a general disap-
proval of all girls who wander away
from their homes In the night, but an
especial repugnance to one who could
laugh during religious services. "Do
you want to speak to me, child?"
"Yes." The word was almost a
whisper. The sound of his voice had
weakened her.
"What do you want?" He stepped
up on the porch. The moon had van-
ished behind the rising masses of
storm-clouds, not to appear again, but
the light through the glass door re-
vealed his poetic features. Flashes of
lightning as yet faint but rapid in re-
currence, showed his beauty as that
of a young man. Fran remained si-
lent, moved more than she could have
thought possible. He stared intently,
but under that preposterous hat she
was practically invisible, save as a
black shadow. He added, again, with
growing impatience, "What do you
want?"
His unfriendliness gave her the spur
she needed. "1 want a home," she
said decidedly.
Hamilton Gregory was seriously dis-
turbed. However evil-disposed, the
waif should not be left to wander aim-
lessly about the streets. Of the three
hotels in Littleburg, the cheapest was
not overly particular. He would take
her there. "Do you mean to tell me,"
he temporized, "that you are abso-
lutely alone?"
Fran's tone was a little hard, not
because she felt bitter, but lest she
betray too great feeling, "Absolutely
aloN. in the world."
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Warren. Ind. —"I was bothered ter-
ribly with female weakness. I had paina
and was not regular,
my head ached all
the time, I had bear-
ing down pains and
my back burt ma the
biggest part of th*
time, I was dizzy
and bad weak feel-
ings when I would
stoop over, It burt
me to walk any dis-
tance and I felt bin*
and discouraged.
"I began taking Lydia E. Pinkham'a
Vegetable Compound and am now la
good health. If it had not been for
that medicine I would have been in my
grave along time ago."—Mrs. ArTIB E.
Hamilton, R.F.D. No. 6. Warren, Ind.
Another Case.
Esmond, R.I. —"I write to teD yoa
1 how much good your medicine has dona
me and to let other women know that
there is help for them. I suffered with
bearing down pains, headache, was ir-
regular and felt blue and depressed all
the time. I took Lydia E Pinkham'a
Vegetable Compound and commenced to
gain in a short time and I am a well wo-
man today.. I am on my feet from early
morning until late at night running a
boarding house and do all my own work.
I hope that many suffering women will
try your medicine. It makes happier
wives and mothers."—Mrs. Anna Han-
ben, Esmond, Rhode Island.
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Peters, Kay. Garber Sentinel. (Garber, Okla.), Vol. 14, No. 45, Ed. 1 Thursday, August 14, 1913, newspaper, August 14, 1913; (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc144752/m1/6/: accessed April 25, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.