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About The Maupin times. (Maupin, Or.) 1914-1930 | View Entire Issue (June 23, 1916)
A Story of the French Legion .
in Algiers '
By I. A. R.WYLIE
(All rijhti reserved. The Bobbs-MerriU Co.)
Sylvia Omney, her lover, Rlclmrrl Far
quhar, finds, lias fallen In love with Cap
tain Arnaud of the Forelun Lesion. In
Captain Sower's room Farquhar forces
Sower to have Preston's I O. U's re
turned to Mm, Farquhar is helped to his
rooms by Gubrielle Smith. Sower demands
an apology. Refused, he forces Faniuliai
to resign his commission In return for
possession of Farquhar's father's writ
ten confession that he had murdered Sow
er's father. Gabrlelle saves l-'urquhar
from suicide. To shield Arnaud, Sylvia's
fiance, Farquhar professes to have stolen
war plans and tells the real culprit why
he did so. As Klclmrd Nameless he Joins
the Foreign Lesion and sees Sylvia, now
Mme. Arnaud, meet Colonel Destinn.
Farquhar meets Sylvia and (Jubrlelle, and
learns from Corporal Goetz of the col
onel's cruelty. Arnaud becomes a drunk
ard and opium smoker. Sylvia becomes
friendly with Colonel Destinn. Arnaud
becomes jealous of Farquhar. Farquhar,
on guard at a villa where a dance is In
progress, Is shot down by Arnaud. Ar
naud Justifies his insanely jealous action
to Colonel Destinn. Arnaud goes to a danc
ing girl who loves him for comfort. Ga
brlelle meets I-owe, for whom she had
sacrificed position and reputation, and
tolls him she is free from him. Sylvia
mets Destinn behind the mosque.
Col. Destinn understands what
a mean little soul Sylvia has
and she knows he does. As a
result of his power over her,
do you believe she will surren
her herself to him a man with
out honor or mercy?
CHAPTER XI Continued.
She tried to wrench her hands free,
the while her eyes remained In help
less attendance on his.
"Colonel Destinn you are insult
ing you have no right"
"I am not Insulting. And if I were
you would have to listen to me. The
power I have over you is yours over
me. We belong together, Madame Ar
naud, by virtue of our vice. We are
both corrupt, worthless you In your
way, I iu mine. Hear me out, please!
I am a brutal man, and I am tearing
down the veil with brutal hands. But
no matter you will have It mended
by tomorrow. For an hour I choose
that you should see clearly. You have
hounded two men to their ruin in all
innocence. You set yourself on a false
pedestal which they could not reach
you set them a task which they could
not accomplish without using your own
methods. They had not your powers
of assuming virtue nor my powers of
valuing your peculiar worth. The one
man virtually committed suicide at the
altar of your perfection, the other
He stopped entirely. It was as
though his own thoughts had engulfed
his knowledge of her existence. She
drew her hands away, and he made no
effort to retain them.
"Colonel Destinn," she said gently,
"I think you must be mad. Even if
the dreadful things you have said were
true, why should you sny them to me?
I gave you my friendship because you
seemed to need it a little, as you sny,
because I myself was lonely and un-
have done wrong you have thrown a
shadow on a friendship that I treas
ured. Whatever we have to bear we
must bear bravely and with honor."
"What do I ask of you?" lie took
her hands betw'eeu his own and hold
thorn caressingly. "Only what you sny
you have given me friendship, but
friendship freed from false convention
and hypocrisy, friendship that dure be
itself and its own law. I'need you. A
man's fate lies in your hands."
He broke off, and she too was silent.
In his silence there was covered irony.
In hers fear. Her eyes no longer met
Ills. She was gazing fixedly across the
plateau to where a chirk stream flowed
out from between the banks of olive
and came ou swiftly, Its surface.
caught by the evening sun, glitteriu
In long lines of silver.
"Look," she said under her breath.
He glanced over his shoulder. A
har3h bugle note rang through the
peaceful evening stillness, and as
though the sound had held enchant
ment the stream recoiled, rolled buck
on Itself in waves of light, and then
amid muffled thunder came to rest,
Colonel Destinn nodded.
"It is their last camp-out before we
go south," he said. "We are going
south, Did you know that?'
"No," she said In that same low
"There is the road to be completed
my road. Until you came It was my
life the thing I deadened my brain
with a kind of narcotic. It is the
finest military road in Algiers, and in
three months it will be finished." He
looked her deep into the eyes. "There
are limits to human patience. I had
not meant to outlive my ambition. It
was the term I had set myself. Shall
I come back, Sylvia?"
She made no answer. She seemed
only in part to understand him. But
Instinctively she recognized that the
pleasant intermezzo of romance which
she had played to her own boredom
had ended abruptly, leaving her at the
mercy of an Incalculable force. This
man, as he had said, held the reins.
Colonel Destinn laid his hands on
her shoulders. "Poor child!" he said
almost pityingly. "You canno choose
the straight path even to the devil.
Who am I to blame? Come, I will
make an end for you. You need not
choose; leave it to destiny to me.
There is only one thing I ask. Before
I go south I must say good-by to you.
You will come? It is the only answer
I shall need."
A Jewish woman laden with flow
ers came Tound the corner of the
mosque, singing a monotonous AraD
song. Colonel Destinn bowed.
"Au revoir, Madame Arnaud."
She turned from him with a little
strained smile about her white Hps.
"Au revoir, Colonel Destinn."
The flower-seller came up to her, of
fering her a sprig of Jasmine, and she
accepted and paid for it with a me
chanical self-possession. Convention
had lent her the strength to appear in
different. Yet her hand trembled. The
woman looked up into her face with a
Let madame keep the flower ever
with her," she said. "It carries a bless
ing to a pure heart."
Sylvia Arnaud nodded and passed
task, were also In thefllght, and their
extraordinary whiteness and beauty
caught Sylvia's wandering attention.
What wonderful hands you have!"
she said, with a delightful spontaneous
enthusiasm. "One would think you
spent half your days looking after
them which, of course, you can't do.''
"They are heaven's customary com
pensation to ugly women," Miss Smith
Sylvia turned away impatiently, and
the old pucker of nervous restlessness
crept back between her brows. For i
few minutes neither woman spoke
Then suddenly Sylvia broke the silenci
with a rush, as though a deep re
Instance had been swept aside by i
deeper need of speech.
Oo you believe the dead see us
Miss Smith?" she asked. '
Miss Smith looked up then, her eye-
full of shadowy thought.
"I don't know," she answered,
to herself. "But there is one thing o;
which we can he sure our instinct
our conscience. If we feel that t:u
dead see us, then we know that wi
a:-e standing at the crossroads be-
$ al A f ) $ V " f 1 i
1 1 f1?
CORN FOR GREEN FEED
Grow in Drills Wide Enough Apart
for Sulky Cultivator.
Working Crops Four Times Will Has
ten Growth of Plants, Clean Land
of Weeds and Put It In Order
for Fall Seeding.
Corn for feeding green to cows In
midsummer or to cure for winter feed
should be grown In drills wide enough
apart to be worked by the sulky culti
vator. Drill the corn in with about
400 pounds of some good bone phos
phate to the acre. The corn Biiould be
put in. for winter feed not later than
HARVESTING ON ACM1LL ISLAND
"Colonel Destinn," She Said Gently,
"I Think You Must Be Mad."
happy. But does that merit so much
brutality in return?"
"Forcive me. madame. I m a ruf
fian. I have forgotten the language,
See, I am pleading with you for my
life, my sanity. A soul In hell a soul
that you could save cries out to yon as
to the last hope of its salvation. Are
yon a woman and have not the cour
age to hold out a hand from your own
grief to a deeper grief, a deeper de
spair? Will yon turn away from me,
"Colonel Destinn, we shall neither of
as find peace in evil," she said. "Yon
The Choice. '
Sylvia Arnaud sat at her small writ
ing table beneath the lamp, and before
putting her signature to the completed
letter before her reread Mrs. Farqu-
har's concluding sentences. "You will
be pleased to hear that Richard has
settled down at last," Mrs. Farquhar
had written in her sprawling, reckless
hand. "He has taken a ranch In Aus
tralia and is doing very well. I have
even hopes that some day soon I shall
have news from him of the sort dear to
every woman's heartthough heaven
knows why. He asked me in his last
letter to be remembered to you."
Sylvia Arnaud sighed and picked up
T am glad to hear such good things
of Richard," she wrote, and then added
"Sylvia Arnaud" in prim neat letters,
When the envelope had been addressed
and closed she sat back with a little
exclamation of relief.
"How I hate letters," she said Irrita
bly. "They are the worst form of so
cial hypocrisy without even a cup of
tea or nice frocks to make them bear
able. You never write letters, do you,
Miss Smith, intent on mending a
beautiful bertha collar of brussels lace,
did not look np.
"I have no one to whom It is worth
while pretending," she said In her di
rect way. "And even if they were
worth while, I doubt if I should think
"Yon have really no friends no re
The light from the tall rose-colored
lamp behind her fell softly on her
bent head and drew warm golden col
ors from tne tnlcK colls of hair as
usually neatly plaited Into obedience.
Her hands, bus; with the delicate
Moment, I Have Something
to Say to You."
tween good ana evil and that we
must choose." She got up quickly, for
Sylvia Arnaud had dropped forward
with her face buried in her hands and
the white, beautiful shoulders were
quivering. "Madame Arnaud, what is
it? Have I hurt you?"
"No, not you. But I am unhappy
terribly unhappy. I never felt it be
fore, but I feel tonight that my brother
is dead. Until now I always had hope
and now I have none." She lifted
her tear-stained, twisted young face to
the woman beside her. "I think I
loved my brother," she said. "You
won't believe me you think I am vain
and shallow and heartless, and you
may be right I I am not sure of
anything except my brother. I have
been trying to go right down into my
self, but I can only find darkness and
confusion. I want to stop thinking
to be like I was but I can't. Even
my love for my brother doesn't seem
so certain. What is it what has hap
pened to me?"
Gabrlelle Smith did not answer for a
moment. She touched the lightly-
clasped hands with a gentle compas
sion, but her eyes were fixed absently
In front of her.
"I don't know," she said. "I expect
we all feel like that sometimes when
we stop taking ourselves for granted.
Or perhaps unknown to you the
crisis is there.v
"The crisis?" Outside In the court
yard Sylvia Arnaud's ear had caught
the sound of heavy footsteps. She rose
with a painful change of expression,
then, as she saw her companion's face,
became calm, gently indifferent, with
out trace of the sudden outburst save
for the heightened color, the feverish
brightness of her eyes.
Desire Arnaud glanced at her as he
entered. She had resumed her corre
spondence and did not turn, but the
quiet disparagement of her attitude
seemed too usual to affect him. He
crossed the room and, tossing his kepi
on the table, sank wearily in the chait
which Gabrlelle had Just vacated. Hie
uniform was soiled and dust-stained,
and the fine yellow sand of the desert
seemed to have crept into the deep fur
rows of his face, marking them out
as with a merciless pencil.
Gabrlelle Smith turned from him,
and went quietly to the tea table and
began to pour out But he did not
seem to see her. The whole man had
sunk Into a heavy stupor, beyond the
reach of sound apparently, without
knowledge of bis surroundings. Yet at
his wife rose from her place he
stirred, his eyes followed under the
heavy whlte-lashed lids.
"Wait a moment I have something
to say to you."
She stopped. Her fair head was
thrown back slightly; her features
would have been expressionless but foi
the faint suggestion of contempt about
Has Arnaud learned of Syl-
0. vla't meeting with Col. Deitlnn, $
: and In his madness, Is he about
to shoot her and then commit :j
T LAST we came where the
road ended and stood opposite
the seldom visited Island of
Achill Beg. There was only
one thing for us to do that was to
shout and shout until someone on the
island heard us and launched a boat
to ferry us across, writes a traveler to
the Emerald Isle, In Ireland. We
talked while we waited about the ultra-nationalism
of the friend we were
going to visit. There had been a
project to build a causeway from this
peninsula of the mainland to the is
land of his sojourn. Our friend ob
jected because he did not want the 25
families he lived amongst to be cor
rupted by an alien culture. We shout
Then we saw a stir on the island
and knew that a boat was being
launched. Another wayfarer had
come up and was waiting to cross over
with us. This was a young woman
who thought little of nursing her baby
while she waited. She had taken
the child to some far-away dispensary
upon the peninsula and had received
a pronouncement upon its sickness.
Now she held It and talked to It as
if it was a treasure as If it was won
derful she had got the child back so
far. This young woman took our
phrases in Gaelic as good conversa
tional coin. Most native speakers talk
to learners either scornfully or
patronizingly, but she talked trusting
ly, as if we had the Gaelic "like the
flowing sea," aB they say. It was evi
dently that our friend on the island
had brought no hint of paucity In
He lived with one of the Island
families In the utmost discomfort
Meat the people seldom saw, and they
burnt It when they undertook to cook
it. They boiled potatoes well enough
But no amount of repetition could get
them to make drinkable tea. Our
friend had a room that had no catch
on its door and he was waited upon by
a barefooted girl. His mental nour
ishment seemed as zestless as his
physical fare. There were bookB on
his shelf, but they were dictionaries,
grammars, textbooks, handbooks, ex
ercises in translation, volumes of
propagandist journals. There was
one thing In the room that promised
some delight our friend's fiddle. We
knew how well he could play the
music of fishers and shepherds of Gae
lic Scotland and Ireland.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
New Use for Hopvlnes.
One of the latest results of the et
forts of Germany's scientists to aid
the fatherland is the discovery thai
hopvlnes make an excellent materia;
for paper, Jute and charcoal.
A Stronghold of Gaelic.
He held this remote island as
lonely post In a battle that seemed
long lost a battle of languages and
civilization. Gaelic might be surren
dered or sold on the mainland or in
the big Islands, but here 25 families
would be drilled to hold and keep It.
Actually he had made this island the
one spot In the British islands where
English is a decaying language. He
had found It flourishing here and Gae
lic weak and ready to give out. He
had restored Gaelic. The young men
and young women who would spend
six months of the year in the fields
of England and East Scotland spoke
no English here. We saw him fling
the door open and dart out like a
weasel when he heard an English
phrase used by someone in the main
room. But the harvester was speak
ing of "The Midland Great Western
Railway" and how could a name like
that be put into Gaelic?
He was giving a. lecture that night,
and we followed him as he went, lan
tern In hand, to the schoolhouse. We
passed closed houses before which
geese seemed to sleep standing. We
walked amongst ducks that gave one
the impression that they were truants
from school they slipped Into pools of
water and pushed out. "They'll say
nothing about it; they'll say nothing
about It," they told each other In
quacking undertones. We crossed the
stepping stones and came to the
schoolhouse. Inside we lighted lamps
Have you teen a herd of mountain
ponies break down a road? So they
rushed In, the Island glrio who came to
our rriena s lecture. No one e!r,e i
came. They (lung themselves about '
the room until they were winded.
Then they became less disorderly. At
ture. When he was three-quarters
through they showed some disposition
to break away. But the power of the
human eye held them for a space long
er. Then It became necessary to ap
ply the voice threateningly: "Now
Brighid," "Now Oona," "Now Slav."
At last, by opening wide the door, he
signified that the lecture was over.
Brighid, Oona, Slav, Cauth and the
others bolted out.
Comfort of Peat Fires.
The peat fires make it possible to
live In houses that are drenched with
constant rain. On the outside walls
where the thatch drips down you see
the green of the damp. But Inside,
with the pile of burning peat on the
hearth, everything is dry and warm.
Naturally, the people do not keep their
good friends the horse or the cow
from the kindly warmth. The family
sits about the fire, and at the end of
the room the horse stands as quiet
and as well-behaved as a guest could
be. From Infancy the children are in
timate with the animals; at three one
can drive the cow where it should go,
at five one rides on a pony behind
hampers of sea weed. The people
have a fuller life than those who have
no friendliness with horses or cattle.
And yet we have heard H. O. Wells
speak of such people as parasites liv
ing upon animals. We suppose it
would be impossible for the great pro
phet of machinery to understand that
people may live with animals, and be
better human beings for the experi
ence. In the house where my friend stays,
around the fire In the living room, a
few young men are seated. They are
not dressed In the flannels of the Is
land, nor in the ready mades one might
buy In a town on the mainland, but In
ragged clothes that suggest Lanca
shire. They are returned harvesters.
From April until October the young
men and women of the Island work
for the farmers of England and East
Scotland, crossing over with the gangs
that go from the west of Ireland. For
the rest of the year the young men
stay on the island, putting in their
time working on fields on which the
plow cannot be put or fishing In boats
that do not go miles out to sea. The
main Income of the island is earned
abroad. The young men and women
come back with from 12 to 20
In their pockets. This goes to pay
the rent, the shop debts, or buys tea
and the hag of flour or meal. The
English that the young men can speak
Is scanty and Is eked out with a good
many oaths. Abroad they have the
name of being good workers.
Music of Crickets and Sea.
In our friend's room the peat fire is
lighted also. He takes up his fiddle
and sits down on his bed until the
barefooted girl comes into the room
with an apron full of peat. The fire Is
renewed, and It is time to go to bed.
A mattress Is laid on the floor, and
our friend shows us how to make a
sailor's bed, folding the blanket into a
sleeping bag, into which we insert
ourselves. Then we lie down at the
fire. The visitors have left the room
above and the people of the house
have gono to bed.
It is now the hour of the crickets.
They riot about the firo In the living
room, making a continuous noise. And
the noise of the crickets has for a
background the noise of the sea a
score of yards from the house it
dashes upon the island. But at last
comes sleep, and we hear no more un
til a sea bird cries in the silence of the
morning. Then a young harvester
comes into the room with another arm
ful of peat, and the Arc, which was
slumbering down in the ashes, breaks
up again. Bread and tea and eggs
soon come our way, and our friend
talks of taking us to shoot wild goats
on the high places of the peninsula.
Root Development of Corn In Poorly
latter part of May, says a writer In the
Baltimore American, Drill one bushel
of largo, sound, selected corn to the
acre; this will allow ten to twelve
grains tq the running foot In the 42
The ground should be in good order.
After drilling roll the field, the corn
can then bo worked with the double
section smoothing harrow before the
grain germinates. Work the crop four
times; this will hasten the growth ot
corn and clean the weeds and put it
in nice order for fall seeding.
It the ground is mellow and rich,
nearly every stalk will grow a single
ear of corn. The time to cut the fod
der is when the grain Is in the dough
and the lower loaves commonce to
turn yellow. Cut with the self-rake
reaper, make small bundles, let the
fodder wilt for a day or so, then set
up, putting six to eight bundles to
the Bhock. Make the Bhock as fol
lows: Take three armfuls for the
horse, tie securely in the middle, then
set the other five armfuls evenly all
around, make an even shock, tie se
curely with tarred twine. Make
straight, even-shock rows. ' After the
fodder settles they should be tied
tighter. We do not bind the bundles,
the fodder keeps better when the fod
der is put into the shock and pressed
close with the hands. Drilled corn
fodder, set up by this method, will
keep dry and sweet and better In the
shock than when packed in the barn.
Corn grown by this method for fod
der will average four to five tons ot
cured dry fodder to the acre, by actu-
Eighteen of One Family Killed In War.
Court Chamberluln Count Carl von
Wedel-Plcsdorf, the head cf ono of the
most distinguiHhed aristocratic fam
ilies In Germany, reports that Blnce
the beginning of the war five counts
and thirteen barons Von Wedel have
given their lives for their country.
Seventeen other members of the fam-
last, having trepanned them between ' i'y have been bai'Jy wounded and five
school desks, our friend began his lec- slightly wounded.
In Well-Drained Soli Roots Go Deep
and Are Not So Affected by Drought.
al weight, and makes, next to first
crop clover hay, a most substantial
winter forage for all stock. By drill
ing early in wide rows and giving
thorough culture, the corn gets an
abundance ot sunshine and air, and
has the full benefit of all plant food.
The stalks have plenty of silica and
are not easily blown down by heavy
wind and'rain storms, and there is no
difficulty In harvesting and curing the
Corn for fodder should never be
sown broadcast or too thick in the
row, as such stalks contain nothing
but water and are worthless for feed.
Fodder contains the most sugar and
is In the best condition to feed green,
or to cure, when the milk Is Just out
ot the grain and the grain is In the
CLEAN STALLS AND BEDDING
Milk Is Tainted With Foul Odors Very
Quickly After It Is Poured
The cow should have a clean bed
ding every night, and all filth should
be removed from the stall early In the
morning. The milk is tainted with
foul odors very quickly after It goes
Into the bucket. The stall must then
be kept scrupulously clean.' It Is a
good plan to keep walls whitewashed
and all dust should be well brushed