JL
DLACK and white yarn—a cro
chet hook—presto—a life-like
panda cuddle toy. Single crochet
forms the exterior of this cute ani
mal; cotton stuffing the interior;
buttons do excellent service as
eyes.
• • •
Easy directions for this cuddly panda
•re Z90.18. 15c. He is about 14 inches tall
when finished, and will be a nursery fa
vorite. It takes but litUe effort to crochet
him. Send order to:
AUNT MARTHA
Box 166-W Kansas City, Mo.
Enclose IS cents for each pattern
desired. Pattern No
Nam*
Address
Streets of Gold
Digging for gold in the street
With penknives is not a sign of lu
nacy in Kalgoorlie, western Aus
tralia. Prospectors while walking
through the main thoroughfare of
Hannan street sometimes notice
gleaming patches of gold in the
pavements and stoop to chip out
pieces with their knives.
The explanation given is that
when, in 1899, the municipal coun
cil sought a suitable mixture of
metal and concrete, they bought
ore from the Golden Zone mine
at one shilling a ton. While the
ore carried four pennyweights of
gold to the ton, it was unprofita
ble to recover it, but now the
tread of thousands of feet has
worn the pavements till bits of
gold in the ore have begun to
show.
INDIGESTION
| nay affect Ihe Heart
1 Ou tripped In Lho atotnarh or fullet BAjr act like •
heir-trigger on lint HlarL At Urn first aim of diitxesa
•man mm an J women depend on HaU-ani Tablet* to
Ml iaa free. No luatlv* but mad* of tbe faiteet
aetlui medicine* known for arid Indigestion. If the
FIBBT DOHK doesn't prove Htdl-ena battar. return
boUle to ua 4uU receive IMJUULU lioDuy fie ck. jUe.
Finds Opportunity
No great man ever complains of
lack of opportunity.—Emerson.
K'CHIUREirS
CRIMPY COUGHS
■ Due to Chest Coldt
I Rub clirst and throat with Mild Mus-
H tcrolo (made especially for children)
■ to quickly relieve distress of bron
■ chial and spasmodic croupy coughs.
a
Secret With One
A secret is seldom safe in more
than one breast.—Swift.
HIT THAT RHEUMATIC PAIN
RIGHT WHERE IT HURTS
And look at the Silver Lining
in those Clouds of Pain
The big Idea is that you want to feel
better. When pain eases, your mind
eases. You get rest that means deliv
erance. So use something that gets at
the pain. Good old Prescription C-222J
brings you pain-relieving help. Sold
with money-hack guarantee, you have
to feel as Rood as others who enjoyed
its help. No if's or hut's. You have to
be satisfied. Oct Prescription C-213J
today, £oc and si. Sold everywhere.
Cowardly Falsehood
Falsehood is cowardice —truth is
courage.
COLDS
quickCy
*** LIQUID
t sauvV
W. JB TJ m. M Nost P«OM
COUCH DROPS
111 BEACONS of
—SAFETY—
• Like a beacon light oa
the height—the advertise
ments in newspapers direct
you to newer, better and
easier ways of providing
the things needed or
desired. It shines, this
beacon of newspaper
advertising—and it will be
to your advantage to fol
low it whenever 70a
make a purchase.
r XI Hawk-Wind
W& mm n/uriru TADDikJf uinrn ©O. APPUTOM-CENTUIY CO.
W BY HELEN TOPPING MILLER w N-u service
THE STORY
When Virgle Morgan, widow, and owner
of the Morgan paper mill In the Carolina
mountain dtitrlct, turna down a marriage
proposal from Wallace Wltheri, he leaves
ner house In a rage. Virgle turns him down
because she believes he Is more Interested
In possession o( her mil] than In obtaining
a wife. After he has gone. Branford Wills, a
young stranger, who has been lost on the
mountain-aide for three days, flnds his way
to the Morgan home. Taken In, he la fed and
warmed and allowed to remain overnight.
CHAPTER I—Continued
2
"Not even when they're on the
opposite side of the feud?" Wills
asked, whimsically.
"Well, I don't dignify any argu
ment I get into with the title of feud,"
said Virgie. "Though the Govern
ment is hen-fussy—sticking its bill
into every little mess that the rain
would cover up charitably in a cou
ple of days! But I'm like this—if
I've got a spoonful of meal, I'll
share it. You get some rest tonight.
It's a wonder you aren't half dead.
You must be as tough as a bal
sam knot. Tomorrow I'll put chains
on a car and send you wherever you
want to go."
"You're very generous." He stood
up, wavering a little and grinning
sadly at his weakness. She saw his
well-knit, lean young body, the un
conscious grace of youth, with silken
muscles and leaping blood—youth
that knows exactly where it is go
ing and has not learned yet the
grudging welcome of the world. "I
was fortunate," he went on, "in hav
ing tumbled on your door-step."
"You can pay me back some time.
I'm merely circulating some propa
ganda to the effect that there are
one or two decent pulp people in
the world. You can carry that word
back to Washington."
"I'll do it gladly. I'll add some
personal indorsements. In fact, I
think I'll launch a campaign—"
He stopped. A tinny horn blared.
The dogs set up an excited yelping
outside and a car door smacked
shut. Then the front door crashed
open, letting in a blast of wind, a
swish of icy rain, and a girl in a
green rubber coat and beret.
A slim, small girl, with reddish
chestnut hair tumbled damply on
her collar, with a small, tanned face
and very big brown eyes.
"Oh—" she stopped, surprised,
seeing him.
"Shut the door," directed Virgie
calmly. "This is my daughter, Mari
an Morgan. This is Mr. Branford
Wills—from Washington. He's stay
ing with us tonight. He's been lost."
"Oh—l—" Wills was confused. A
slow, unhappy red crept over his
haggard face.
"We've met before," announced
Marian, coolly.
"Good gracious," her mother ex
claimed.
"He"—Marian's pansy-warm eyes
had turned flat and unfriendly, her
small red mouth hardened—"he
doesn't like pulp people!"
"So I've heard," said Virgie, un
perturbed, thinking how like her fa
ther Marian was. Shrewd and small
and implacable, like David Morgan,
hanging in his gold frame above the
mantel fire. "But we've declared a
truce on that. It's too darned cold
tonight to keep up any kind of a
fight."
But Marian was scarcely listen
ing. She was looking at Branford
Wills with hostile eyes.
"So you got lost?"
"So it appears. Your mother was
charitable enough to take me in and
feed me."
"Nothing much happens to moth
er. He thinks"—Marian turned to
her mother, her voice crackling a
little—"that all pulp people should
be burned at the stake—slowly—he
told me so. At the dance the other
night."
"That's unfair," declared young
Mr. Wills. "I didn't know you. I
was spouting to hear my own voice.
I apologize."
"Don't bother. It doesn't matter
to me in the least." Marian pulled
oft the damp beret, shook rain from
it. "The road is dreadful, Mother—
you'll need chains in the morning.
I'll go up, I think. Did Lossie make
a fire in my room?"
"Andrew did."
"Please," interposed young Mr.
Wills, anxiously, "don't go away
without letting me explain—l'll eat
any amount of crow—l'll even pick
the bones if you wish—"
Marian's head went up. She
pushed back her damp, fruit-tinted
hair with a palm, regarded him
aloofly.
"I see no reason to discuss it,
thank you. This is mother's house.
She is free to entertain whomever
she likes in it. Good night."
She walked past them, her head
held rigidly. Virgie Morgan's mouth
drew in at one corner.
"Don't worry about her, son," she
advised. "Srte'll be all over it in
the morning. She's a loyal little
trick—and all the Morgans are fight
ers. What did you say to her at
that dance?"
He shook his head ruefully. "I
can't even remember!" he admitted.
The mill of the Morgan Pulp Com
pany had never been an imposing
structure.
David Morgan had built .it ea*ly in
the century, and David Morgan had
inherited from a Highland root of his
family a preponderant caution, a
carefulness that erected slowly, with
Uue regard for foundations and a'
keen eye rut for credit, but no par
THE DANBURY REPORTER. THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1940
ticular anxiety as to appearances.
No artist had ever etched the
steaming ugliness of the plant, dome
and stack, snatching cable and roar
ing chute. There was no chilled,
modern music of steel and glass,
no men in white, no ranked battery
of shining stacks and retorts. But
there was good pulp. Through the
defeating lag of the depression, since
David's death, Virgie's market had
held. When a finishing mill got an
order for extra quality paper they
wired for Morgan pulp to mill it
from. There had been half-time
work, half-week lay-offs, but always
the pay-roll ready on the fifth and
the twentieth, whether Virgie's
rusty old leather handbag had a
nickel of spending money in it or
not.
Tom Pruitt knew how it had run
on. And Virgie Morgan knew.
Tom Pruitt had been David Mor
gan's friend. Once Tom Pruitt's tim
ber land had covered three coun
ties. Little rivers that he owned
had shuttled with trout; coves and
ridges to which he held title had
sheltered pronged buck and snuffling
bear, and the frantic industry of
beavers slowed mountain creeks
that began and ended on Tom's do
main.
Then had come the incredible hys
teria of '25.
Men, their blood carbonated by a
virus bred of the madnesses of Flor
ida, came prowling into the moun
tains, a wild, acquisitive light in
their eyes. They bought land, op
tioned it, leased and contracted for
it.
Men came—gray men with the air
of affairs, who spoke slowly and lit
tle. Men to inspire confidence. They
wanted to buy Tom Pruitt's land.
Tom thought things out slowly. He
was a meditative, heavy, slow-mov
ing man. His great body was slow,
but terrible with strength.
Tom sold his land finally. There
was considerable pressure before
they got him up to the point, two
concerns bidding for it, and when he
at last gave in, there was a tre
mendous down payment made
more money than Tom Pruitt had
ever seen in his life. Too much mon
ey. Not a check—Tom was suspi
cious of checks—but cash in green
sheafs, with heavy paper bands
around it. Fifty thousand dollars.
And more in five, seven, and ten
years, according to the contract.
Tom was dazed. The sum total of
his former possession diminished in
his mind, became subordinate to the
cash. He forgot the great stand of
virgin poplar up the Hazel Fork,
forgot the mellow bottom land with
orchards on it, where his mother's
turkeys had fed. All he thought
about was this money. Enough mon
ey to last as long as he lived, if
he spent it. But he would not spend
it. He would hold onto it. It numbed
and thrilled and frightened him.
He took it to David Morgan, his
friend. "You keep it for me," he
begged. "Put it some place."
"I'll put it in the bank for you,"
David, the cautious, said.
But Tom Pruitt had little faith in
banks. They got robbed every now
and then. You read in the paper
where a bank had busted and some
fellow gone off to South America
with all the money belonging to oth
er people.
"No, you keep it, Dave," Tom
begged. "Then if I want it I can
get it back again. If a banker gets
it he'll lend it to some of these real
estate fellers over to Asheville, and
then when the concern goes bust
my money will be sunk in one of
them subdivisions with fancy gates
and red-white-and-blue flags stuck
in the ground. And I don't want
none of them."
Morgan argued. "I can't put fifty
thousand dollars in this old safe,
Tom."
"You put it somewheres, Dave.
Put it in something so I'll know
you've got it. Anywhere's is all
right—just so I know you got it."
"I can sell you a share of the
mill," Morgan said abruptly.
"Would you want that? I can use
your money to buy that spruce up
Cheota and to put in a new drier.
And you'll own part of the mill."
Old and taciturn as he was, Tom
Pruitt trembled, with sudden exalta
tion. To own even a fragment of a
thing as splendid to his eyes as the
Morgan mill—to touch a brick of it
or a pet-cock from an acid tank and
think, "Mine!" He wanted nothing
more from life.
He surrendered the sheaf of lush
green bills to David Morgan.
Tom was glad of his heartening
part of Morgan's work. The fifth
and the seventh year saw the pay
ments on his land defaulted. The
title was almost inextricably tan
gled in a snarl of holding compa
nies, stock companies, second and
third mortgages, judgments, and
suits.
"Foreclose," David Morgan told
Tom, just before David lay down at
night to wake in the morning with
a crooked, drooling mouth, a help
less arm and leg, and a fogged
brain that would never clear again.
But Tom, lost in the frantic trou
ble of helping Virgie to keep the
mill running while David lay help
less in the white house on the moun
tain, had no time to think of himself
or. his problems.
Stocks had crashed, orders were
few, men were frightened, restive,
: alert for bad news from any quar
ter. Tom held his peace and kept
pulp wood coming into the mill. At
night he rode the rusty old truck
up the mountain road to Morgan's
house, where he shaved helpless Da
vid, cut his toe-nails, trimmed the
white dry locks of hair, rubbed his
weary, wasting back.
In the meantime Tom's land on
Little Fork and Hazel Fork became
one of a hundred tracts lost in a
fog of indefinite involvement; owned
and not owned.
Tom waited, worried, dubious,
and unhappy. Then David Morgan
died. And after that there was no
chance of selling Morgan pulp
stock enough to finance a suit tou
foreclose and clear title, even if
Tom had known how to begin it
Tom locked the old safe on his
beautiful yellow papers, with the gilt
seals upon them, pulled his belt
tighter, hunched his shoulders, and
set to work to help Virgie Morgan
save the mill.
It was still partly his and the
stacks were still scrawling their
bleared autograph of hopefulness
upon the Carolina sky.
Afterwards Virgie Morgan looked
back on those three years, trying to
separate phases, distinguish definite
epochs of despair, as a person who
has emerged alive from an inun
dation or a frightful wreck tries to
recall incidents of that catastrophe,
decide what came first and what
Morgan argued, "I can't put fifty
thousand dollars in this old
safe, Tom."
after. But only one thing stood out
clear—Tom Pruitt's unvarying loy
alty, his quiet and unfailing support.
There was ice on every branch
and dead leaf, every blade of grass
and jointed weed, when Tom came
through the gate of the mill in that
raw November dawn. The wind was
still frigid with little promise of a
thaw. Smoke was snatched from
the stack, torn to pieces, strung
along the ground in rags. The steel
padlock, with which for twenty
years the plank door of the office
building had been locked, was like
something dipped in melted glass.
Tom beat it against the door frame,
twisted the key, pushed the door in
ward on a musty cuddy smelling
of mildewed paper and raw chemi
cals.
The stove was still faintly warm
and Tom raked out the ashes into a
bucket and kindled a new fire, fan
ning it encouragingly with his hat.
Then with two buckets he plodded
toward the engine room, head down,
big hat flapping. He had carefully
drained both trucks at sunset last
night; hot water would make them
start quicker. He took care of all
the equipment, he liked to do it.
No alcohol in radiators. That made
the cars heat on the mountain
grades. And today things had to
be entirely right because Virgie
Morgan was going up to look over
her reforestation project.
Tom's old watch, hitched to a
braided strip of snakeskin, showed
seven o'clock when he went back to
the office. Steam was hissing from
the boiler-room cocks, two oilers
were getting their equipment out of
the tool shed. In thirty minutes the
whistle would bellow. In twenty-five
minutes Virgie's old coupe should
enter the mill gate. Tom took an
old rag and dabbed dust from Vir
gie's desk. There was a votive air
about what he did, but this devotion
was not for Virgie Morgan, the
woman. To Tom, Virgie was part
of David, part of the mill. She was
the mill.
Then the telephone rang. Tom
shouted into it.
"Hello!"
"Hello, Tom." It was Virgie's
voice. "I won't be going up to the
hill with the boys today. Send them
out as soon as they are ready."
"Hey!" Tom whooped his argu
ments, always dubious of the effi
ciency of the instrument. "Hey—
this ice ain't going to last. It'll be
gone by nine o'clock. I'll put chains
on. You needn't worry."
"I'm not worried, Tom." Virgie's
voice came evenly. "Not about any
thing down there. Ice wouldn't scare
me. The trouble's up here, at the
house. Something's come up. I
can't leave right away."
Tom hung up, grunting, went out
to drain the radiator of the second
truck.
[XI
CHAPTER D
Meanwhile in her kitchen Virgie
Morgan held a hot-water bottle over
the sink, filled it gingerly, ducking
her head as the kettle steamed.
Lossie spooned coffee into a per
colator. Her brassy waves were
cushioned in a heavy net.
"Think it's pneumonia?" she
asked, taking the kettle from her
mistress' hand.
"A chill doesn't have to be pneu
monia," Virgie said, "but his voice
sounds funny and I heard him
coughing a lot in the night. That
bed was damp probably. Nobody
has slept up there in a time. He
should have had a fire—worn out
the way he was."
"If this house just had a furnace
in it—"
"Now, don't go harping on that,
Lossie Wilson," Virgie snapped.
"Carry up some coal before the
doctor comes."
Lossie picked up the coal bucket,
stepped into the back hall to re
move her hairnet and dab some
grayish-lavender powder on her
nose. The young man coughing in
the bed upstairs had romantic dark
eyes and a mouth cut wide for
laughter.
But all these devoted pains were
wasted after all. Branford Wills was
asleep. Red-hot coins of color
burned in his cheeks, his hair was
disordered and dry looking, his
hands twitched, thrusting out of the
blue sleeves of a pair of David Mor
gan's old pajamas.
"He's sure enough got some
thing," Lossie decided, as she laid
coal softly on the fire.
Virgie came up presently, tucked
the hot-water bottle under the young
stranger's feet, looked at him with
troubled eyes.
"He's sick, ai« right," she said.
"And I feel responsible. Putting him
in this cold tomb of a room—after
two nights out on that mountain."
"Well, you took hir.t in," Lossie
comforted her in a whisper. "A lot
of people would have set the dog on
a trampy looking thing like him."
"I can let his people know—and
we can take good care of him, any
way," Virgie said.
Something appealing about this
dark young head on the pillow. She
had wanted three sons of her own—
three beys, tall, dark, and auda
cious. And Heaven had given her
only Marian who was small and slim
and peppery—but audacious enough,
goodness knew!
Wills stirred as the hot bottle
warmed him, lifted his head, looked
startled.
"Oh, sorry—l'm getting up right
away." He licked his dry lips.
"Someone should have called me—"
"You're not getting up just yet,"
Virgie interposed. "You've got a
temperature."
"That's odd." He groped confused
ly with his long, facile hands. "I'm
never sick. I'll be all right in an
hour or two. I was pretty tired—
and wet, too."
"Lie down," ordered Virgie, terse
ly, "and don't talk too much. I'll
let your outfit know where you are.
But for the present you stay here."
"Please, Mrs. Morgan—l can't be
a nuisance to you—" He broke off
with a racking cough and pain
snatched at him. He looked per
plexed and in anguish. He wiped
his lips with a corner of the sheet.
"I—guess—l am sick!" he muttered,
lying back again.
Virgie shifted the counterpane,
straightened the shades, poked the
fire, went downstairs again. In the
breakfast-room Marian was sugar
ing her fruit. Her hair was brushed
flat, the sleeves of her orange pa
jamas flapped, she looked reproach
ful.
"Lossie says that hobo is sick,"
she said. "Have we got him on our
hands?"
Virgie sat down, poured her cof
fee, fingered the toast, raised her
voice. "Lossie! I can't eat this cold
stuff* Make some hot. Yes, he's
sick—it looks like pneumonia. And
he's no hobo. I've telephoned for
the doctor and you'll have to stay
here till he comes. I've got to get
down to the mill."
"But I don't know a thing about
pneumonia!"
"You aren't expected to know.
That's what we have the doctor for.
You see that Lossie keeps the fire
up. I'll send Ada Clark out if I
can get hold of her."
"Oh, my heavens, Mother! She
snuffles and her nose is always red,
and she thinks that she's going to be
kidnaped or something every time
she sticks her silly head outside."
"Well, you don't have to look at
her. She can take care of this boy
till he's well enough to be moved
somewhere—home, if he has any
home."
"I wouldn't call him a boy. He's
over twenty-five, if he's a minute!"
"Well, I'm over fifty and that en
titles me to call most any man a
boy!"
.Virgie went out through the kitch
en, collecting a hot kettle on the
way. Every year winter came to
the mountains with a' wretched,
freezing storm like this. Her littl*
car would be hard to start.
She drove slowly ..down the icy
road, gripping the steering-wheel,
hating Uta'tfeioMrous* going. Her
hat felt Insecure on her head. Her
gray hair WaY thick and strong and
these cocky little hats had no crowns
anyway.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
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HOUSEHOLD
OUESTIONS^Jgfr/
Painting the top and bottom cel
lar steps white may save many
falls.
• • •
Apples peeled, cored and baked
in pineapple juice make a new
and tempting dish.
• • •
Mud stains leather and there
fore should be removed from
shoes as promptly as possible.
• • •
Protect the mattress from tear
ing and from dust by a muslin
mattress cover, and by placing a
mattress pad between the spring
and the mattress.
• • •
To brighten aluminum utensils
that have been darkened by water,
fill with water containing one or
two teaspoons of cream of tartar
for each quart of water used, and
boil until pan is brightened.
• • •
Baking soda is one of the best
known agents for cleaning glass
ware.
• • •
If cream is too thin to whip, try
adding the unbeaten white of an
egg.
• • •
Use a clean sheet of wrapping
paper to roll pies and pastry on.
It saves a lot of cleaning up later.
• • •
To clean a coapstone sink wash
with ammonia and let stand for 12
hours. Then rub over with linseed
oil and your sink will be lovely
acd bright. If grease accumulates
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monia solution.
How To Relieve
Bronchitis
Creomulslon relieves promptly be
cause it goes right to the seat of the
trouble to help loosen and expel
germ laden phlegm, and aid nature
to soothe and heal raw, tender, In
flamed bronchial mucous mem
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a bottle of Creomulslon with the un
derstanding you must like the way It
quickly allays the cough or you are
to have your money back.
CREOMULSION
for Coughs, Chest Colds, Bronchitis
Beauty and Sadness
Beauty and sadness always go
together. Nature thought Beauty
too rich to go forth upon the earth
without a meet alloy.—George
Mac Donald.
RrOmlO/Now
mm
jfi is?
fcaaaesJy a don
WNU—7 47—40
Being Contented
To the contented, even poverty
and obscurity bring happiness,
while to the ambitious, wealth and
honors are productive of misery.
Help Them Cleanse the Blood
of Harmful Body Waste
Tour kidney* are constantly filtering
wast* matter from tb* blood stream. But
kidneys sometime* lag in their work—do
aot act a* Natur* intended—fail to r»-
meve imparities that, U retained, may
poison the aystsm and up**t tb* whoi*
body machinery.
Symptoms may be nagging backache,
persistent headache, attack* of di names*,
getting up Bights, (welling, puffin***
under tb* *y*a—a feeling of nervous
anxiety and lon of pap and strength.
Other signs of kidney or bladder dis
order are sometime* burning, scanty or
too traquant urination.
Thereshould be no doubt that prompt
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They hav* a nation-wide reputation.
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