The Post. (Buffalo, Okla.), Vol. 3, No. 34, Ed. 1 Friday, January 31, 1908 Page: 1 of 12
twelve pages : ill. ; page 16 x 11 in. Digitized from 35 mm. microfilm.View a full description of this newspaper.
Extracted Text
The following text was automatically extracted from the image on this page using optical character recognition software:
THE
/
POST.
VOL. III. BUFFALO, HARPER CO. OKLA. (SEE DATE INSIDE. NO 34.
Three Red
Crosses
By Mrs. B. M. Croker
(Copyright, by Joseph H. Howies.)
My brother and 1 had come to spend
the winter in southern France. At our
hotel there were also a Prof. Baines
who had come for a “rest cure,” a
Mrs. Wynne, a tall, fair young woman,
whose husband was in India, and her
curly-headed son Bobby, brimming
over with high spirits and energy.
Finally, Colonel and Mrs. Lille, an
Anglo-Indian couple, friends of Mrs.
Wynne, made up a most agreeable
party.
Occasionally we combined and
made a party to visit some old village
o: monastery in the neighborhood;
and in order fitly to celebrate Bobby’s
seventh birthday we arranged an ex-
pedition to Vidarry, a venerable town
near the Spanish frontier. This was
an excursion of a more ambitious
type, for we traveled by rail. Having
exhausted the sights of Vidarry we
made our way to an inn where we
speedily disposed of coffee, bread and
butter, preserves and cake. Then we
examined the apartment, and discov-
ered photographs of relations of the
little proprietress (Madame was a
brisk, dark-eyed, charming little
Basque). There were a few tawdry
vases, some old calendars, a venerable
copy of “Le Petit Gironde”—that was
all. Our train was not due to start
for two mortal hours. What could we
do to kill time?
“Wait!” exclaimed Madame, sud-
denly, “I have it; there is the
Chateau. The family are in Paris, but
a friend of mine has the keys. She
will do much for me. I will send. ’
“Yes; by all means,’' urged Mrs.
Wynne, who spoke fluent French. “I
do enjoy seeing old places."
“But what is there to see?” inquired
Hubert, my brother in a grumbling
voice. He was rather querulous, for
it had been a long and disappointing
day.
“It is very old, and there are beau-
tiful gardens and parterres, and, be-
side, pictures,” raising her little
plump hands.
The interior was oppressively
gloomy, until the bustling caretaker
flung open the shutters, and proudly
displayed the grand saloon, the stair-
case, the long gallery, all lined with
pictures.
Little Bobby, who was in the wild
est spirits, had at first declared
against coming into the funny old
ugly house. He desired to remain
outside and chase butterflies; but his
mother, knowimr his volatile charac-
ter, would not trust him out of her
sight, and drove him indoors, a light-
hearted skipping figure, with a sailor
hat on the back of his sunny curls.
As he began to caper about the
echoing rooms, which were # really
most interesting, I noticed that he
had gradually become curiously quiet
and silent. The gloomy old Chateau
seemed to have cast a spell upon the
child. I watched him as he went and
stood for a long time gazing out of a
window which overlooked the town
and river, and when at last he turned
his face towards me it had a strange,
haggard, almost scared expression.
At the far end of the gallery,
.Madame Colbert drew our attention to
a half-leugth picture of a knight in
armour; It was called “Saint George.”
and was an undoubtedly admirable
painting. There was much character
in the bold, distinguished, absorbing
face- th» seemed to «hlnn out of
me canvas, anu lo noiu tne spectator
in a manner curiously lifelike.
“Voila* It is worth a fortune,"
boasted Madame Colbert. “People
come from far to look at this alone—
and y°t *to one can say who painted
it.”
"Yes,” muttered the professor, “like
that wonderful wooden figure of the
Virgin at Nuremburg—the inspired
artist is unknown.”
Little Bobby, who had pushed his
way among us. and stood riveted be-
fore the portrait, seemed fascinated,
and unable to take his eyes from the
face.
“You like it, sonny, don’t you?” said
his mother. “It is the portrait of a
great soldier. No one can tell who
painted it, but that does not matter;
it is beautiful, is it not?”
“Yes,” he assented, gravely; then,
after a moment’s silence, he added the
startling announcement; “1 know
who painted it.”
“What?”
“I Know Who Painted It.”
“Yes. j did every single bit of It
myself! ’’
“Oh, my dear silly child,” expostu-
lated Mrs. Wynne, how can you talk
such utter nonsense?”
“It is not nonsense,” he rejoined,
with blazing eyes, and giving his lit-
tle foot a stamp; "it is true—true
true. Do 1 ever tell lies?” His eyes
were dilated, and his round, rosy face
seemed suddenly to have become thin
and wan.
“But, dearest boy, you have only
seen it for the first time five minutes
ago, and you know you, cannot even
draw a straight line. Such talk is not
at all funny.
“But it is true, true,” he stammered,
and his eyes were full of tears. "I
did paint that in a big c»ld room—the
floor was of stone;” here he shivered
visibly. “Yes; I can remember it all
right.” And he gazed up at his
mother with tragic face.
Mrs. Wynne returned his look with
an expression of pained amazement,
not unmingled with anxiety. Was the
child’s brain affected? She went up
to him, removed his straw hat, and
ran her hand through his curls.
“Have you a headache, darling?"
“No,” and he pushed her away, half
crying. “You think I am a story-teller,
and won’t believe me.” And his lip
trembled.
“What is it all about, my little
man?” said the professor. “Why
won’t they believe you?”
1 did.” here be pointed to the pic-
ture with his small, childish hand—a
hand not large enough to wield a
brush.
“You did,” assented the professor,
“but when?”
“Oh, how can I tell you?" imp*
tientiy. “It’s all ever so long ago;
1 forget. I cannot Bee anything but
the picture, and the river. One da?-
—a man was drowned by the bridge,
his name was Roco—I remember that
—and—and—if you will look at the
picture at the back, I know there are
three red crosses on the canvas—
my mark—yes, my mark.”
“I’m afraid the poor child has had
a touch of the sun,” said Ids mother,
turning to us. “He will run about
without his hat.” Then to Him: “Very
well, darling, of course; don’t I al
ways believe you? Now come away
with me into the pretty garden, and
we will get out of this gloomy castle
as fast as we can. I don’t like it.”
Without the smallest reluctance, or
another glance at the picture, the
child put his hand in hers, and obedi-
ently trotted off down the gallery.
“Strange!” exclaimed the profes-
sor. "One never quite knows—what
a child forgets—or remembers! 1
must confess I’d like to have the pic-
ture turned about—I suppose it can be
done?” and he nodded to me, put his
hand in his pocket, and produced a
ten-franc piece.
In a remote place like Vidarry a ten-
franc piece can do great things. With
but little trouble, and a considerable
amount of talk, and dusting, the cele-
brated picture of “St. George” was
removed from the wall, and there, in-
deed, on the back of the canvas, were
three large blurred crosses in faded
red paint!
“You and I understand it, colonel,”
said the professor. “We have been in
the east, where people believe, as an
everyday fact, in reincarnation.”
The colonel nodded emphatically,
and added: “Yes; but here—”
“Here the child has had a glimpse, a
flash, of one of his former lives. He
will forget it; it will never return.”
“Surely you don’t think there’s any-
thing in it?” protested Hubert. “Re
incarnation is rubbish.”
The professor merely smiled; he
and the colonel looked at one another
significantly, and the professor re-
plied: “I believe in the evolution of j
the body, and the evolution of the I
soul. There! I think I hear Mrs. j
mr uui i Kept my fcaztTsieadlly fixed
on the most prominent object in the
landscape, until it was lost to sight.
What a curious scene had taken
place in the gallery of that venerable
gray Chateau! and the principal actor
had already forgotten the part he had
played. A cautious question elicited
the reply: “Oh, I didn’t like those
bothering old pictures. I hate ugly
black men "•
On the journey homeward, during a
low-voiced but animated discussion, I
overheard the professor mutter to
his neighbor, the colonel:
“Oh, yes, it was ajar for a few mo-
ments—a most rare occurrence—but
aow the door is closed for ever.”
Window Shade Holder.
The majority of window-shade hold-
ers are constructed on the same prin-
ciples, the only difference being in
small minor details ‘hat do not ma-
terially affect their operation. In
fact, no matter what kind of shade
is used, a suitable holder can always
be readily purchased An Ohio man
has devised an entirely new idea in
shade holders. His holder has quite
a few advantages in that it can be
changed to fit any ordinary window
frame without destroying future use-
fulness in case of change of residence
with change in size of window frame.
The body of this holder is made of
a bar divided in the center, the two
parts being adjustably attached to a
grooved hinge by means of thumb-
screws passed through slots in the
hinge plates. On one side of the
slots are projecting teeth or a rough-
ened surface to prevent the bar from
slipping by undue pressure. On the
ends of the bars are pivoted metal
heads, having roughened surfaces,
which bear against the window frame
when the holder is in place. Project-
ing from the ends of the bars are ad-
justable journals, to hold the shade
roller and are held in place and reg-
ulated by thumbscrews. To put the
holder in place in the window frame,
the bars are first adjusted so as to
tighten it in the window frame. Then
the heads are placed in the corners
of the frame by holding the bars with
both hands. By pressing upward the
holder is immediately sprung firmly
in place. Next the journal bearings
for the shade roller are adjusted to fit
the roller without having to cut it off
or in any maner marring the roller.
hurried to-
Glass More Costly Than Gold.
The value of glass may far exceed
that of gold when made up into mi-
croscopic objectives. The front lens
of a micro-objective (costing about
£1) does not weigh more than about
0:0017 gramme (which weight of gold
is worth about ^d.), and so the value
of a kilogram of such lenses would bo
about £600,000. The cost of the raw
material for making this weight of
glass is from 2%d. to 4d., and thus,
when worked up into the shape of a
lens, the glass has been increased in
value about 50,000,000 times. Such
disparity betwreen the cost of the raw
material and the manufactured article
is probably a record in industrial tech
Wynne calling,” and he
wards the stairs.
Out in front of the Cliateu we found
Mrs. Wynne, declaiming, with both
arms and a parasol: “We shall be
late for the train; we have only ten
minutes.”
Meanwhile Bobby, hat in hand, was
chasing butterflies; yes, already the
door was closed, and Bobby was him-
self again.
“I say, what a time you have been
looking at those ugly old pictures!”
he cried, running up to the colonel.
“Just look at my beautiful orange but-
terfly! I shall have to keep him in
my pocket till wre get home to the { nics.—London Telegraph
chloroform bottle.”
“Will you do a kind thing, my little
man?” said the professor. “You have
had a nice birthday—eh. haven’t you?”
"Oh, jolly.”
“Then let the poor butterfly go. His
life means much to him, and so little
to you.”
“But it’s such a beauty! Well”—
and the child gazed gravely up at the
professor—“here goes,” and, a second
later, an orange-winged captive had
fluttered away.
Once more we packed ourselves
comfortably into a first-class carriage.
Because.’* raising his voice almost »>>« ««* soon creeping away along
to a eh out “I *aM i r.BJutc.4 that—and the valley> and leavmc vm.tnv m>. -w
While workmen were engaged in
cutting railroad ties in the woods ol
Edward Rhodes, near Willoughby.
Queen Anne's county, they discover
ed a gold ring in the heart of an oak
tree.
The ring was in perfect condition
except that in sawing down the tree
the saw had disfigured the set of the
ring. How the ring became imbedded
.in the tree is a mystery. It is sup-
posed, however, that the ring was
lost in the woods many years ago
and when the tree was the sprout ol
an acorn the ring became encircleo
around it.—Baltimore Sun.
Upcoming Pages
Here’s what’s next.
Search Inside
This issue can be searched. Note: Results may vary based on the legibility of text within the document.
Tools / Downloads
Get a copy of this page or view the extracted text.
Citing and Sharing
Basic information for referencing this web page. We also provide extended guidance on usage rights, references, copying or embedding.
Reference the current page of this Newspaper.
Forster, William. The Post. (Buffalo, Okla.), Vol. 3, No. 34, Ed. 1 Friday, January 31, 1908, newspaper, January 31, 1908; Buffalo, Oklahoma. (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc941495/m1/1/: accessed July 4, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.