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Not Abel

A PHILOMETAPHYSIOLOGICAL PROBLEM POME

WITH THE NEW SPELLING

BY REGINALD BIRCH

BEL loved Mabel,
And wanted to cabel.

But the price

Of a cabel

Made him not

Abel.

How cood he cabel

If he was not

Abel?

But when he was Abel

And wanted to cabel,

Wy was he not abel
To cabel

To Mabel?

THE above drawing does not illustrate
one of the new dances, but represents Rea-
son tottering on her throne.

[graphic][subsumed][merged small][merged small]

"Now, Mr. Dobbs, as we have the whole afternoon before us, I want you to tell me all about yourself!"

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[graphic][subsumed][subsumed]

THE CENTURY MAGAZINE

VOL. 88

AUGUST, 1914

No. 4

UNDER SILKEN SKINS

BY MARIA THOMPSON DAVIESS

Author of "Love by Lightning," "The Tinder-Box,” “Digging Up Sam," etc.

PICTURE BY MARTIN JUSTICE

wo

YES, under the surface of every way to the curly tail of the last of the six sleek

man's nature smolders the primal power which is apt to give off radiant electric currents that may make or unmake history, generate a poet, or flame a path direct to the highest heaven. I partly understand now; but I am still in awe of what I found in myself when the first spark was struck out of me less than a week ago.

I was aware of the first volt tingling along my nerves down at the cow-sheds at the fair on Monday when I raised my eyes and saw Helm Robards watching our aristocratic Bluefields brilliantly produce. one quart less milk for the three days' record than his Mrs. Butter. It was one of a succession of such electrifying humiliations that failed to make me rage as they should have done; and that night the harvest moonlight, the cool autumn wind across the Bluegrass meadows, the croon of the doves in the vines up under the eaves, and I all seemed for the first time to vibrate in a queer new kind of harmony, which I felt was making me do my sleeping wide awake.

Tuesday I had to ride sadly and faithfully home to Uplands behind huge old Mrs. Rooter, our sow, who waddled calmly along, a red ribbon facetiously tied

little squealers who followed her; and still I danced with the greatest graciousness at the governor's ball that night with the Pennerile owner of her successful competitor.

"You can have those two blue ribbons for your long and useless trip up into the Bluegrass," I said as he swung me out on the floor, after Judge Cavendish had introduced us.

"Just wait," he answered, laughing down into my eyes.

Helm Robards's eyes are not like any other man's eyes I ever looked into. They are calm and young, but so deep that you feel that they could tell you eternal secrets, if you have the strength to look long enough, which I had n't-then.

Wednesday saw his Southdown's blue above the Uplands' red, and I spent two hours of twilight showing him the sunset beyond our giant elms. Thursday he scored everywhere, and he and I arrived half an hour late at Mrs. Cavendish's dinner because the moon rose over the ridge so early. By Friday the feud, that since history began has existed between the arrogant Bluegrass region and the poorer lands to the south of the Dark and Bloody Ground, said to nourish only pennyroyal

Copyright, 1914, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.

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