THE ALAMANCE GLEANER
VOL. LII.
fo lhe A
May v
J J3ani|iincj' jgM|
KOBABLY no one In the world
had more friends than Sally
Snow. Friends of all kinds,
from the boy who shouted his news-
Papers in front of her apartment to
policeman on the beat,. High
Wends and low friends had Sally—
tot Christmas Eve found her alone.
e left the office early. There was
?° particular reason to, however. All
m gifts wero tied up and mailed. No
jjjk was waiting for her at home.
hil re Wasnt tlle slightest pressure or
• p y about anything. And Christmas
J e ' thought Sally, without bustle and
„ ss an 'l Jostling and merry confusion,
asn 't Christmas Eve at aIL
She walked up Fifth avenue. She
Wely hoped that some of the holi
y.ylrlt of the crowds of New York
J. enter her veins and thrill her
tn» She * elt sorry for herself, and
tl S ' an(l utterly out of sorts. Her
one „ ant , ?' uns had gone awry. No
llm t Bpare time from their faml
lived °t cele,,rate w, th her. And Sally
from h°° many thousand miles away
She h,°,T to get there for Christmas,
ftnerrn, . n to ° P ro «l to accept the
other ff | S pi v ' tat,ons ot some ot the
8 r,s in the office. They asked
her to go home
with them. But
she knew she
PTntfißS would feel out of
hM9T£| thln K8» tr y as she
might to be Jolly.
o* l ' well she
might scrape some
one up to go to a
? 1 play or concert
V She walked until
jW Bhe was tired and
r^. ; |TWn then took a bus.
g* I P Once in the crush
of people at a
.! I street corner she
B caught her breath,
f There was a sud
jl, den hint of broad
shoulders she used
' to know. A cer-
I* . tain high carriage
Burner eal, 8 qnlck decisiveness of
' then the man was lost to
Bht tbi 0 * herself for a silly fooL
" 1 s he had crowded "Ml that
° ut of her mind long ago.
Besides, Reddy had gone on one of
those Idiotic expeditions to Mongolia,
to hunt up ridiculous bones of prehis
toric Accounts of his expedi
tion had been in the papers off and
on for three years.
Sally found her apartment warm
and cozy. She was more tired than
she realized. A slow languor spread
over her. She decided to stay at home,
not even going out for dinner. She
had a good book or two, and there was
always the radio.
After a nap she chirked up amaz
ingly. She decided she wouldn't
grouch any longer. A little tingle of
excitement wriggled up her neck. No
reason at all —but she felt it and
laughed. She supped gayly on a home
made salad, bread and butter and a
piece of left-over cake. Doing up the
few dishes she felt positively merry.
The old-time, childish excitement
about everything concerning Christ
mas began singing in her heart. She
laughed aloud.
"I won't even look up the concerts
tonight over the radio," she an
nounced. "I'll Just tune in -at random
and see "what happens." ft • '
With a little flutter of happiness she
manipulated the dials on her small set.
A harsh rasping—the clapping of
many hands—continued applause!
She listened, keyed up to a high
pitch of suspense. Probably some or
dinary singer walling out sentimental
tunes. Then —silence. Quite a long
silence—then a voice.
Sally stiffened in her chair. Color
drained out of her face. She scarcely
breathed.
"You are kind," said the voice, "to
give a weary-worn traveler such a wel
come home. I have been in far
places —"
There was an Interval when Sally's
clear brain blurred. She lost the next
few sentences. Then she regained her
poise and sat intent on every word.
Back of what she heard with her ears
was the unfolding book of memory.
Page after page fluttered through her
consciousness. That terrific row she
and Reddy had over nothing at all
how he had left in a white fury—how
he had said he would go tb the end
of the world and never come back.
They were young and Impetuous.
She had not seen him for seven
years. In the meantime he had made
name for himself in science. And
three years ago he went on this fa
mous expedition. There had been a
formal letter or two between them.
That was all.
Now he was back— back In New
York on Christmas Eve, addressing a
large audience!
Sally took off the earphones. She
sat a minute longer. Then in a whirl
of impulse she threw on her coat and
hat and went flyihg out the door. Like
a hammering pul» these words bat
tered against her brain—l must see
him! I must see him!
Somehow she squeezed into the big
hall. Somehow she stayed still and
listened until it was all over. Some
how afterward she moved to the front
of the room near the platform. She
walked as In a dream. She must! She
must A power
other than her
own sent her feet
/VL. steadily to the
VIP P ,ace wh ®ro Re d-
J|r dy stood.
Thinner he was,
/film*flfllfc ' ean a °d brown.
«M)' > Heavy lines in his
jESH most grim. But
his eyes Just the
same quizzical
and laughing.
—— Sally was next
■ Bxv: now 111 the walt *
I I MiWrN J Ing group who
were congratulat
*3 ing the successful
" 3 1 ' explorer. Her
throat quivered.
She could scarcely lift her eyes. Then
suddenly her voice came, clear, con
trolled and natural. "Merry Christ
mas, Daddy!"
*»•••••
They went out to dinner somewhere.
Reddy tucked Sally under his arm.
They talked and laughed and chatted
both at once. They made abject apol
ogies for their stupid behavior to each
other seven years ago. They tried to
cram a thousand questions and an
swers into every minute. Never had
.the head waiter seen a happier couple.
They were unashamed of their Joy.
They didn't care. Which is the way
the world over when you really care
and your heart is humming like a ce
lestial harp in heaven.
"I knew your voice Instantly," said
Sally at least a dozen times.
"Do you think you could marry me
by New Year's?" persisted Reddy.
"Don't be ridiculous, you absurd
boy!"
"Then I'll scoot off for another
seven years!"
The threat brought her down. "Cone
to my apartment for a moment and
say 'Merry Christmas!' to the radio,"
she begged.
And Reddy did.
(©, 1926. Weatern Nawspapcr Union.)
Flowers for Christmas
. When flowers are at a premium,
why not give a few bulbs or a potted
plant as a Christmas present to th«
woman who likes flowers?
RECKLESS.
Willie: Hi'l
going to buy you
a couple of ueck
tlea for Christ
mas.
Pop: That's
reckless and
hard times, too,
she usually only
gives me one.
lit
GRAHAM, N, C„ THURSDAY lAUMIUIbII 1926.
ANSWERING
HER LOVE
LETTERS
By ALBERT REEVES
(Copyright by W. O. Chapman.)
//■*—YOU know why I
I J you, Miss Gray?" Inquired
1 J Doris Dlnsmere, seating
herself In her friend's com
fortable chair. "It's because you're
so sensible."
"That's a mixed sort of compli
ment," answered Elizabeth Gray,
laughing. "I think I know what you
mean, though."
"I mean you're the sort of person to
come to for advice," said Doris, pat
ting her friend's hand coaxlngly.
Elizabeth Gray and Doris Dinsmere
had been school friends. Five years
afterward they had met in New York,
where Doris was studying art, at the
expense of her well-to-do parents,
while Elizabeth lived in a tiny flat
and worked as a stenographer.
Miss Gray was the sort of a woman
who would never be quite beautiful,
as Doris was, but there was more in
her head than had passed through
Doris' flighty one In all her life.
"You are in love again," said Miss
Gray calmly.
Doris nodded. "To Charlie Ross,"
she answered." "We're engaged."
Elizabeth was unable to repress a
little sense of pain. It Was she who
had introduced Charlie to Doris.
Charlie had been quickly Infatuated
with the empty-headed little girl, who
represented all that was sacred In his
eyes. She thought with a pang how
much he had begun to mean to her
before he met Doris and ceased com
ing to her apartment. They had dis
cussed things together; he had told
her everything that was in his life, all
his Ideals. And he had been thrown
off his balance by Doris, who had
nothing but beauty and vivacity. She
knew Doris would never make a good
wife .for Charlie. And the pity was
that she could do nothing. Time must
teach them.
"This Is what I want you to do."
said Doris. "He writes me the most
beautiful love letters. And I—l don't
know how to answer them."
"Just be natural, dear," said the
older woman. "Don't try to say what
you don't mean. Charlie will come to
understand."
"But you don't understand," said
Doris plaintively. "He thinks I am
all sorts of things I am not He thinks
I am clevjer and—and all that. Eliza
beth" —she used the word when she
wanted to coax—"won't you write me
a love letter to Charlie?"
"My dear child!" faltered Miss
Gray.
"Oh, you must," pleailed Doris. "Or
else I shall lose him. You don't know
how much he means to me, and all
he thinks me which I am not. Please,
please, Elizabeth."
"But he will know It Is not you
speaking In the letter, my dear," pro
tested Elizabeth Gray.
"Please," repeated Doris, sobbing.
Doris was very winning when she
meant to fee. And so her friend capit
ulated and, conscience-stricken, sat
down to Indite a letter to Charlie
Ross that should sound like Doris and
yet be what Doris was not.
She wrote It from her own heart.
She spoke of %hat love means to a
woman, of all thff things that she
knew and Doris could never know.
She poured out her heart In that let
ter, and In many others.
For the first letter brought back a
reply that touched her vividly. It
showed something In the man's na
ture, something Idealistic which even
Elizabeth Gray had never known ex-
Isted In the man, something to which
her heart responded as the steel to
the magnet. And after that the de
scent was easy.
Letter after letter came to him from
her pen. "You must not wonder." she
, wrote once, "that I seem so different
to you when we meet from what I
seem to be in my letters. It Is very
difficult for me to express myself
face to face."
"Charlie fs devoted," said Doris
happily one day. "He thinks I write
all those letters, and you know. Eliz
abeth. that they are Incomprehensible
to me."
Yes, there were many things that
were Incomprehensible to Doris. Eliz
abeth Gray began to see that more
and more clearly as the weeks went
by. But she was too far In the
slough of deception now to be able
to extricate herself. Passionate let
ters passed between them, anrf she
poured out all her longing and ail her
love to this lover who, unknowing
whence the letters came, could never
be hers.
"He Is so serious," pouted Doris one
day. "And he talks of such heavy
things! They make my head ache.
And I have to pretend to understand
—because of this silly plot Why did
yon ever let me Into It Elizabeth?"
This was Elizabeth's thanks. She
smiled ; she could afford to smile, for
she knew from Charlie's letters jtbat
she held his heart absolutely, al
though he never dreamed of It But
that night she prayed for his sake that
he might not marry Doris.
The prayer seemed to be strangely
answered. For the next week Doris
came to her, after a longer interval
than usual. She sat down at her feet
and began patting her hand.
"What is it Doris?" asked Eliza
beth.
"I don't love Charlie," Doris burst
out "It was all a mistake. I have
found the man I love, and he loves
me. So you will not have any more
of those horrid letters to write. He
Isn't the sort of man who is above
me. He is Frank Bewlett."
The actor?"
"Yes," answered Doris meekly.
"What will Charlie say?"
"I want you to write and tell him,"
answered Doris. "Promise me. You
know, you got me into this trouble,
Elizabeth, and ypu must get me out —
you must!"
Elizabeth sat down that night with
a heavy heart and wrote to Charlie.
Doris was going home; she loved an
other; he must forget her and never
write to her nor try to see her again.
She did not sleep that night, and
went to work with a heavy heart next
day.
That evening Charlie called, and
she was totally unprepared for It
He came In with a white face.
"I haven't been to sea you since I
met Doris," he said. "I can't forgive
myself for neglecting an old friend In
•my happiness, as I supposed It to be.
Do you know—know—?"
Elizabeth nodded. She could not
-manage to utter the trivial sympathy
In her heart.
"Why did she do it?" he demanded.
"We love each other. If you could
have seen the letters she wrote me!
They were not the letters of a foolish
girl. There Is something I can't un
derstand in this. The man she thinks
she loves now Is—well, not the sort of
man that girl would love."
He forgot himself In his despair. He
paced the room. Suddenly he stopped
before Elizabeth's desk. Elizabeth
sprang up. He-was looking at a half
flnlshed letter she had been writing
when he came In.
He turned and faced her. "What
does this mean?" he asked, looking at
the handwriting. "Doris has been
here this evening. See, the Ink Is
scarcely dry! She has been here, and
she Is here now."
"No, Charlie," said Elizabeth help
lessly. v "You don't understand. Our
writing Is very much alike."
"I have never seen her writing," he
answered, with slow suspicion. "But
I know that the writing of that letter
Is hers."
"It isn't, Charlie. I—"
"Then you wrote those letter* at
her dictation! She showed you my
letters and dictated her answers to
you. So they filtered through two
persons—all those fine professions of
love and eternal loyalty!" lie said bit
terly.
Elizabeth did not Know what to
say. And she solved her problem In
a woman's privileged way by sinking
down Into her chair and bursting Into
bitter tears.
She looked up at him. "Go, now,
please!" she sobbed. "Yes, think any
thing you please. I wrote them'for
Doris, If you like. What does It mat
ter, now that your trust has been
betrayed by a heartless girl?"
He stood irresolutely In the door
way; then he came forward to where
she sat. her head bowed on her arms,
striving to still the sobs that rent her
as she thought of the bitterness that
had overtaken their two lives.
"It means a good deal," he said.
"Did you—did you help her to com
pose those letters? And were srttne
of those thoughts yours? Ik-lleve me,
I see her In her true light now. and
It seems to me Incredible that slie
could ever have written to me as she
did. .The woman who wrote those let
ters was a woman of a soul far above
Doris'—"
"Hush t Do not think unkindly of
her," said Elizabeth softly, raising her
streaming face. "It Is all over now.'
She would never have understood
what love means."
"You Inspired them," he persisted,
doggedly.
"I wrote them all, Charlie," said
Elbuibeth. rising and facing him. "She
was afraid you would look down on
her. She loved you In her way— re
member that She Is only a child.
She asked me to help her keep your
love, and I wrote them."
He held her hands. "I thank God,"
he answered gravely, "that at least I
can keep my faith In women."
And he was gone. But Elizabeth
Gray's heart was singing. For she
knew that he would come back, and
that her love for him would find its
reward—Some day.
We Are
If life la what we make It some of
as ought to be ashamed of our handi
work.—Boston Transcript
■i a
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A Road in New Zealand.
(Prepared by the National Oeoirrapblc
Boclety. Washington. D. C.)
NEW ZEALAND, more than 6,-
00Q miles from America, comes
spiritually closer as a result
of a recent speech of Its pre-1
mler in London. He declared that to
New Zealanders the American Revolu
tion seems a beneficent thing from
which New Zealand's present freedom
flowed.
One needs hut to see the two princi
pal cities of the far-away Island com
monwealth to realize that America
and New Zealand have very much In
common.
"As hilly as San Francisco or Rio
de Janeiro," "as land-locked as Seat
tle," "as windy as Chicago" are
phrases used by travelers to describe
Wellington. They will help Americans
to construct a picture of the capital
city of New Zealand.
Wellington has the best situation
geographically of all New Zealand
cities for its harbor opens on Cook
Btralt, the natural water roadway that
splits New Zealand's land roughly Into
two parts. on the southern
tip of North Island, the city is almost
exactly at the geographical center of
the dominion, and In a position from
which steamers can reach the ports of
both islands by the- shortest
Because of this strategic central situa
tion Wellington took from Auckland
in 1804 the capital of the dominion.
Although Wellington undoubtedly
has the best location with regard to
New Zealand, It has not yet overcome
Auckland's advantageous position for
the South sea trade and the fact that
both the big New Zealand porta can
fee reached with about equal ease from
Sydney. Wellington's population Is
short of 120.000, but It Is growing with
great rapidity and may yet overtake
that of Its larger sister city to the
north.
As Is the case with Sydney, Auck
land, Hobart and Melbourne, Welling
ton owes much of Its prosperity to Its
excellent harbor. Shipping enters
through a relatively narrow bottle
neck to find n great, broad lakelike
body of water opening out beyond.
Spreading Over the Hills.
The city of Wellington lies on the
southwestern side of the harbor. Only
a narrow strip along the coast Is level
and a considerable part of this has
been reclaimed by filling in a part of
the harbor. On this level plot near the
water Is the business section of the
city and the government buildings.
Wellington obviously has been
cramped by Its hills; but Just as obvi
ously It has struck out to conquer
them. Few cities have had to go In
so deeply for engineering enterprises
in order to expand. The hills rise
steeply to heights of 700 feet and
more. For years the city builders of
Wellington have been carving and ter
racing their slopes, filling in gullies,
tearing awoy ridges and building In
numerable retaining walls and bridges
end the work still goes on. Streets
outside the level plot wind snaklly
along slopes, working ever higher snd
higher. As In Rio de Janeiro one
man's house looks down upon the roof
of his neighbor's below, and In turn
Is looked down upon by his neighbor's
above. On some of the hills houses
have been built all the way to the
crest, and each year sees on other
hills a revision upward of the "high
bouse mark."
The city of Wellington is deeply In
NO. 37.
business for its citizen* It owns its
water works, electric power and Ilgkt
plant. Ice factory, street railway lines,
cemeteries, public baths, (laughter
houses, snd has a municipal monopoly
for the dlstribntion of milk.
Auckland "Lonely- but Lively.
Auckland, which was called "Last,
loneliest, loveliest," by Kipling, may
still seem lonely to those who never
visit it; but with Its 100.000 inhabit
tants and all the trappings of a mod
ern American or English city ft has
Interests and activities of its owa
which make the average Auckiander
give scant thoagbt to his geographic
Isolation.
There are other factors that work
to banish thoughts of loneliness from
the minds of Aacklanders. The port
has become the busy center of trad*
with the South sea islands; and the
ships of some of the chief Pacific
steamer lines from San Francisco and
Vancouver put In at Auckland on their
voyages to and from Sydney. As a re
sult of this service Auckland theaters
and concert halls are supplied with
the theatrical talent and musical ar
tists who are Interesting the rest of
the world.
Auckland gives another example of
the lavish way In which nature has
dealt out wonderful harbors to Aus
tralasia. The main Auckland harbor,
opening to the east —Waltemata har
bor —furnishes about six square miles
of deep, land-locked water; and this
opens upon Haurakl gulf with an ares
of hundreds of square miles. A ship
mast steam 30 or 40 miles north from
Auckland before It meets the swell of
the Pacific.
Auckland's business section lies
along the water front on the south
side of the harbor, and along Queen
street, whose well-paved, level surface
hides a creek bed of early days. Sub
stantial business blocks, some six and
seven stories high, give the streets an
aspect of an American city of a dec
ade or so ago.
Old Volcanic Cones.
The residence sections of Auckland
ramble up the slopes of hills that rise
a short distance from the harbor. The
entire isthmus is covered with old vol
canic cones of various sizes, the high
est. Mt. Eden, reaching an altitude of
640 feet. Tills eminence Is a favorite
objective for sighteers, dividing popu
larity with One Tree hill, which Is In
cluded in a. magnificent 300-acre park.
From either height one gets a magnifi
cent view of slopes covered with cot
tages and gardens, the business sec
tion, the busy water front, the great
harbor dotted with forest-covered
isles, and beyond the Inner water gate
to the Pacific. To the west one may
see entirely across the Island and
make out the blue waters of the sea
that stretches off to Australia.
Auckland Is almost the exact antip
odal point of Gibraltar, and has a cli
mate not unlike that of Sunny Spain
at its best The temperature seldom
rises higher than 82 degrees Fahren
heit in summer (December. January
and February) or falls much below 40
degrees Fahrenheit in winter (June,
July and August). The maximum tem
perature In Auckland in August Is
about 00 degrees. Palms grow In the
parks beside the trees common to
more northern climes. Grass remains
green the year ronnd, and Auckland
era carry on their Outdoor life through
winter and summer alike.