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about gone. That same night his light went out. "But before he went he gave me his papers and told me his name. It was Ensley. He had a daughter in the state university named Jean, For three years he had been helping her with money. Dry pannin', Garry! Think of it—dry pannin'! For three years he had been puttin' up a big front, writin' to her in every letter that he was doin' well and that pretty soon they'd both be on velvet! Tellin' her what a whale he was—healthy as a houn' pup! Think of him writin' like that—livin' on flapjacks and beans, dyin' by inches—and dry pannin' in the hot sun! "YF7ELL, just before he cashed he roused and told me *» he wouldn't mind goin', only what was to become of Jean? It was goin' to be mighty lonesome for that li'l girl without a father. And she hadn't no money. Not none at all. But she was studyin' to be a school teacher. It kept worryin' him, and it worried me to see him worryin'. " 'It's shorely tough, old-timer,' he says to me, 'slippin' out of the game this-a-way—just when my li'l girl needs me worst! For three years she's been slavin' away in the university, lookin' ahead to the time when we'd both be together for good. And now, when she needs her father—' "Well, he kept gettin' sorrier and sorrier, and finally I says to him: 'Here, old-timer, you go ahead and pass out nice and peaceful and leave this here worry to me! I'll be a father to your li'l girl if it'll brighten up things any. I reckon I'll make a poor shift of a father, but out here in the Cholla Hills you ain't got much of a crowd to pick and choose from. "Say, Garry, that seemed to make a big hit with him. I felt glad I done it, and everything seemed as fine as silk—while I was away out there in the Pedrocito. But after I left that place and began to get closer to home I got to realizin' what I'd done. Garry, you're my friend. I've come to you for help. Whatever am I goin' to do?" GARRY was silent for some moments, for the old man's story had affected him deeply. However, he tried then to liven Topango's spirits. "Do?" he said. "You promised to be a father to her, didn't you? That's all you have to do. Just go ahead and be a father to her!" "But how?" demanded old Jake. "I didn't know how! That's what I've come to see you about!" "D'you think I'm more experienced than you are?" retorted Garry. "But if you put it up to me, why, I'd suggest that you write her a nice, fatherly letter—say once a month; inclose a nice, fatherly check in each letter—" "She wouldn't take charity," objected Topango positively. "Her dad wasn't that kind—" "Of course she wouldn't!" said Garry. "But couldn't you say that her father found a rich pocket the day before he died ? That he had turned over three or four thousand dollars to you, to be given to her in the shape of a regular monthly allowance? Sure! It's easy, see? Easy as pie! You did right to come to me, Jake. You're lucky to have such a bright young fellow for a friend!" "But hold on!" Topango's face had brightened only to cloud again, for the idea of writing a monthly letter appalled him. He thought a while and then briehtened once more. I'll tell you , Garry," he said hopefully, "we'll divide this responsibility fifty-fifty—" "We will not," said Garry, beginning to be uneasy. "I'm out—and I'll stay out! Besides, it's your party—" "Fifty-fifty," went on Topango Jake firmly. "You 'll write the letters and I'll write the checks!" "No, sir!" Garry was frightened badly now, for he was not used to girls. "Haven't I told you it's your party?" "Ain't we friends?" wheedled Topango, but Garry saw through him. "Layoff now!" he said. "I won't! You get into a fight with a he-man and you'll find me there with loud cheers. But—but this .is different. I tell you I won't!" Old Topango recognized the finality in the young man's voice. Dejectedly he lapsed into silence and worried on. Presently, in rummaging through his pockets for a match , he brought out a small package. He was about to return the package to his pocket when Garry saw it. "What you got there, Jake?" he asked. "Letters," said Topango. "From Ensley's li'l girl. Her picture too. Ensley turned 'em all over to me before —before—" He handed the package to the young man. For a long time Garry gazed at the fearless young face that looked back at him so trustfully and with such a fine, unspoiled belief in this big, wonderful world where she had lived for so short a time. Her wavy brown hair fell about her face in clusters as though the girl had a moment before run in out of a mischievous, tangling wind. The picture seemed very real ... Old Topango Jake slid from the table after a while and started for the door. "Well," he sighed, "I reckon it was a fool thing to do, after all—promisin' a dyin' man such an outrageous thing as that. I told him right—I shorely would make a poor shift of a father! Yes, best thing to do is to tell her the truth , I reckon—" Garry McEwan turned upon his ancient crony a glance that was terrible in its majestic scorn and amazement. "Would you do a thing of that kind?" he demanded. "Jake, I had a higher opinion of you than that!" "But—" Old Topango was bewildered. "Just now you said-" "I never said any such thing," said Garry firmly. That Little Girl of Mine By PHILIP KANE SOFTLY the organ played and as the minister intoned solemn questions and the solemn answers came, my eyes misted so that 1 could not see. That pal of mine, who had been part of my very heart, no longer could hold the same relationship. The foundation of another home was laid and she was pal to another man. The mists cleared but it was not the bride I saw at the altar. It was a wee child, whose clinging fingers entwined themselves in mine, whose soft lips fell like rose petals on mine. Then I saw my Margery of little girlhood, sweet as a wild flower, my little confi - dant, a girlish pal. Again the picture changed and it wasmy girl of high school and college, vibrant with health and happiness, reaching out for the joy-cup of life which brimmed so full. Yes, that little girl of mine has gone to a new home. I feel bereft and though there is laughter upon my lips my heart is sad. She was my pal. All the days of her life she was a joy to me as your girl, fellow father who reads this, is a joy to you. What magic pearls upon the strand of life our daughters are and how we should thank God for them. My heart is sad because no w many miles separate us and Margery never can be dad's pal again. But I would not have it otherwise. It is God's immutable plan that homes must be torn asunder that new homes may be built. Hearts must bleed in parting that hearth fires of new homes may be made holy because of sacrifice. So it was when with Margery's mother I established a new home. So shall it ever be. Yet you brides of yesterday and brides to be, I pray you, give thought to Dad. His is no romantic figure like that of the knight who came riding into your life, but deep in his heart is an undying fealty, an undying gratitude that the AlhFather gave him you . Daughter of mine, something grips hard at my heart, again my eyes mist as I think of you. My Pal! "Well , I—I thought from the way you talked a minute ago—Now, where for the love of Jasper is that picture?" "Didn't you put it in your pocket?" "Who, me? Did I?" The old man explored every part of his regalia, but found no picture of a little girl with fearless eyes that looked at you frankly from a face framed in a maze of wind-blown hair. Garry joined in the search, and they hunted all over the shop. They found the package of letters, but the picture had mysteriously disappeared . Later on it was discovered in a warm pocket just over Garry McEwan's heart ; but when this happened old Topango had gone home and Garry was quite alone. /ÂRRY McEWA N had an excellent command of ^* English. Moreover, he possessed a warm, sympathetic nature and a wonderful imagination. He was able to write eloquently about things that would have paralyzed his shrinking tongue or made it stutter hopelessly, for Garry was but twenty-one and he never had had much experience with girls. Garry reread his first letter and pronounced it good. It told of a deep friendship that had existed between the writer and little Jean Ensley's father. It told of the sum of money that was to be paid to her regularly in the form of a monthly allowance. It ended with warm, paternal expressions of sympathy and the hope that she would consider him—the writer—her real father. The letter was signed "Jacob Shinn." The effort finally admitted by its writer to be absolutely perfect, Garry took it and hunted up old Topango Jake, Topango, however, would have none of it. "I never did like letter writin'," he said, "and it hurts my eyes to read." "But I've signed your name to it," insisted Garry. "You ought to read it before it's sent!" "No, sir! "remonstrated Topango earnestly, defending his plain rights with anxious vehemence. "I wrote you a check, didn't I ? The rest of it was to be your job. So you take your durned letter and go away from me. If you're goin' to be one-half of a foster father, why you better start right in from the first and don't go imposin' on somebody else. Me, I got plenty of trouble bein' my own half." GARRY continued to protest, but feebly, very feebly. After a while he took his letter to the post office. Then he climbed up on the grim breast of old Tabic Butte, where he sat. upon a rock and looked at his precious picture a long, long time. The sun went down and Garry returned the picture tc that warm pocket just over his heart. Somewhere up among the rocks and brush a Mexican whippoorwill began reiterating plaintively its three sad notes. To Garry the bird seemed the voice of a little girl, crying in her sleep and calling to her father. The boy sighed , for it was the first time that he had ever written to a girl. The spell of the moon was upon him, and he was twenty-one years of age. It is a strange fact that if you pretend a thing long enough you will begin to believe it yourself. For two years Garry McEwan had been writing letters to Jean Ensley, letters carrying always the warmest expressions of fatherly affection. They were his letters. He had written them. But whenever he reached the bottom of one of these loving masterpieces he felt a positive pain of disappointment, for he was compelled to sign every one of them, " Your loving father, Jacob Shinn." As time went by Garry felt more and more that he was the sole foster father. Gradually old Topango fell more and more into the background as the boy constructed his letters. He no longer felt that he was writing for Topango Jake Shinn. The personal note had superseded everything, and now Garry was writing from his own heart. The answering letters, of course, came to Topango, but the old man invariably passed them on to Garry unopened. The old man's checks appeared as regularly as the first of the month came round, but the aged prospector never mentioned Jean Ensley, save to ask once in a while how she was getting along. Garry always answered cheerily, and Topango was happy. The little picture was much worn ; it had been much worn when it came into Garry's possession. Besides, it was an old picture. Garry often wondered what the little girl was like today. JUST before the second Christmas following the J inauguration of the foster-father partnership, Garry received a thick letter from Jean. It was addressed, as usual, to Jacob Shinn , and it made Garry vaguely resentful. He seemed unable to get over his unreasonable resentment because his old friend owned half the foster-father rights. It always made him unhappy. He hurried away to his room and opened this thick letter. A picture fell out—a picture of Jea n as she was at the present. As he contemplated it, Garry felt himself a lost soul. He had won this tremendous bit of cardboard dishonestly! For would she have sent it to him—a young man whom she had never met? Of course, Garry reasoned desperately, he was half a foster father. But the little girl didn 't know it. He had rights—certainly. But who gave 'em to him? He had assumed them! Of course old Topango knew he was all right and that he meant well, but—and there Garry always became demoralized. Accompanying this wonderful new picture of little Jean was a letter. It was affectionate, humorous, serious, elusive, giving one a kaleidoscopic glance into a young mind, well-balanced and full of possibilities. It closed this way : "You have never asked me for my picture, and I wonder why. It doesn't seem natural, somehow, for a father— and such a dear of a father—to be indifferent regarding such a vital matter ! I have decided that it is scandalous that you don't know what I look like. So I am sending you with this letter a picture of Jean Ensley, your frightened daughter, costumed for the Junior Prom. I say frightened because I'm scared to death you won't think I look well. Besides, maybe you don't have Junior Proms where you live. But I know you will believe me when I tell you that the Junior Prom is the chief excuse for the existence of any (CONTINUED ON PAGE 306)
"HELLO SAM ", SAID 'OLD PARRAKEET' AS 8II E DRAGGED TAD BEFORE BARRY . "WE'RE BACK FOR A NEW TRIAL" Four Duck.s on a pond A green ban\ beyond What d very small thing To remember for years To remember with tears SPITE of her poor home, "Tad" Mason determines IN to get an education and make something of herself. At State College she meets a young man with a North Ireland burr in his voice, Daniel O'Brien Herron, who strengthens her courage to climb up. Tad wins her share of recognition and gains a good measure of happiness, her joy heightened by Danny's affection for her. Then her hopes are destroyed by a letter from home, telling her that her mother has been sudden ly stricken and asking her to give up all and come back home. After the death of her mother, Tad tries to make a real home for her smaller brothers and sisters, when unexpectedly her father marries a crude, loud-voiced woman and Tad decides quickl y to put the children in good homes and return to college. Her industry and ability bring her continued success, but she wearies of the struggle and her spirit seems to change. She and Danny spend the vacation in work at the same summer resort hotel, where he urges her to go with him down life's pathway, but she determines to refuse him because to go with him would only mean more struggle. Part VI ar\LD Parrakeet" was sunning herself in the gardens ^-' before breakfast. Color flashed about her like an earthbound rainbow: peonies, roses, foxgloves, canterbury bells. She worshipped color much as the pagans worshipped fire. "Old Parrakeet" was something Tad and Danny could not agree upon. Tad thought of her only as a horrible old creature—one of the rich old women who came to Barrys to show off their fine clothes and jewels and stuff themselves with the famous food. She was the wife of the oil magnate and she sat at one of Tad's tables. This rich woman had clothed her old , shrunken body in greens and purples, rose and pale yellow until she looked like some hideous, old, mummied bird of the tropics. Her head twisted this way and that like a bird's; like a bird she fluttered among the flowers, poised over this one and that as if she expected to draw sustenance from them. Her sharp, jetty little eyes moved alertly on their wide orbit. Like a bird 's they saw everything;—the guests walking by, serene and stately, casting half mocking, half amused glances at her as they went; the childre n , darting furtively from cover to cover as if hiding from a hobgoblin. "Old Parrakeet" knew that she scared the children. She hadn't a doubt but that their nurses put them to bed at night with the warning, "Go to sleep quick or 'Old Parrakeet' will get you." She laughed sardonically at the thought. Money couldn't buy good manners—so often they did not go together. If she could scare rich children into behaving better, it wouldn't be so bad. She stopped in front of a great bed of salmon colored peonies. Of all the flowers at Barrys she liked these best. Unconsciously as a bird she began to preen herself. Her thin, nervous, clawlike fingers loosened the skin on forehead and cheek, ran furtivel y over her neck and then over each eye, as if in a vague hope of bringing back a tinge of wtfiMP^ r^r |jf ^ ^/our Z/ucks on a JLonA By RUTH SAWTER color to the yellow, wrinkled surface. On they raced over silk and lace and jewels, as if eager for contrast. She twisted the heavy rings on her fingers ; she straightened the chain of pearls about her neck. Of all the women at Barrys she was the only one who wore jewels at breakfast. Looking up from the salmon peonies she found the gardens empty; it was time she went in. But she hated breakfast , or any other mea l for that matter, without T. H. T. H. always acted as a buffer or a bulwark against those mocking, jeering glances; without him they seemed to bore straight through her. She stiffened her chin , shriveled as a dried fig, and resolutely set her face towards the great hotel. THE sunny breakfast room at Barrys was as perfect as ¦*• everything else. Through it moved the grey uniformed waitresses without noise. A waitress was dismissed at the end of her first week if she rattled dishes at Barrys. Between the great French windows hung willow cages with birds in them , English linnets, mocking birds and canaries. They sang from time to time, adding their notes of harmony to the rest of the scheme. No signs of discord were ever allowed to manifest themselves where they could be seen and observed by guests. The excellence of Barrys' table was famous the country over; farther in fact, for there were many who crossed the Atlantic to spend a season here. The golf course was perfect; the drives around the neighboring country as' lovely as one would find anywhere. The rich were as comfortable , many of them more so, than they be could made in their own homes,—no annoyances, no worries. All this wasoffered to offset one inconvenience, absurdity if you like. Barrys had one impregnable rule—no card playing was allowed at the hotel and guests who broke that rule were never allowed to come back. Tad Mason moved between the tables she was serving as expertly as the older waitresses, only her eyes showed that fear which underbuilt her whole nature. She hated the groups at both her tables. The VanDuyns kept her in a constant state of trembling,—a large thick-necked overweight man , a nervous, overbearing, intolerant woman who carried herself like a royal dowager. They were of the sort that invariably fail to find the world adjusted to their liking. They ordered melons and changed to prunes as more healthful; French rolls were more than likely to give way to bran muffins; eggs were either boiled too little or too much. No matter what her original choice, the dowager cast on Tad a perpetually accusing eye as if she were responsible for their unsettled states of mind. "Old Parrakeet" and the oil magnate sat at the other table and ate like horses. They liked everything and apparently had the digestions to take care of it all. This morning "Old Parrakeet" sat alone and ordered item after item straight through the bill of fare ; melons, cereal , ham and eggs, waffles. It was really quite horrible, the amount of food she managed to put away, and the open relish she had for it. The VanDuyns never failed to mark these perpetual banquets; the dowager did not hesitate to sniff audibly her disapproval. /ÛT of her small beady little eyes "Old Parrakeet" saw ^-' everything. She caught sight of a departing egg from the next table and wagged her head sympathetically as Tad brought her an extra helping of butter for her waffles. "Must hurt them considerable to watch me take care of a real breakfast ," she said confidentially. "It certainly hurts me to watch them sparring with food. Might as well be dead as act dead." There was nothing shrill or birdlike about "Old Parrakeet's" voice, it vibrated like a C-string on an old 'cello. Every time Tad heard it it moved her in spite of her disgust for the old creature. There must be something wellseasoned and mellow about her to give out a tone like that. Tad set down a finger-bowl and she splashed her ringed fingers in and out of the floating rose leaves then jerked them back to her napkin and wiped them dry. Darting a look at Tad she caught her look and marked in it all her disgust. The twisted sardonic smile came back to her lips, "Hah! I'll wager I could scare you about as bad as I do the children. What would you do if I said 'Boo!' " Tad said nothing and "Old Parrakeet" went striding out of the room, the eyes of the guests turned contemptuously upon her. (CONTINUED ON l'AGH JIGS)
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