- MISS aladdinI
'•'«’' . t s *
By CHRISTINE WHITING PARMENTER
OopriicM by CJhrlitfn* Whiting ParmMtar WVTT flarrlo*
■ ■
SYNOPSIS
Ruined, financially, by the stock
market crash, James Nelson, Boston
merchant, breaks the news to his
household. Nance, his daughter,
nineteen, Is on the verge of her In
troduction to society- A short time
before, an elderly cousin of Nel
son’s, Columbine, had written sug
gesting that Nance come to her at
Pine Ridge, Colo., as a paid com
panion. The offer had been regarded
as a joke. Jack, Nancy's seventeen
year-old brother, urges her to ac
cept Cousle Columbine's proposition,
thus relieving their father of a cer
tain financial burden, and offering
to go with her so that she will not
feel too lonely. The girl does not
like the Idea, out agrees that Jack
-write to Cousin Columbine, and they
will await her answer.
CHAPTER II—Continued
-- -m- -- -
Nance held It out, watching him
read it The boy drew a deep breath
of relief.
“Good I That*a settled then."
"It’s not If Dad objects, or—or
. Mother.”
She couldn’t keep the shamed
hope out of her voice, and catching
Its meaning Jack said scornfully:
“Don’t be a slacker, Sis. Come down
and see how they all react Every
ones’s there, even the kiddle We’ll
take a vote. Buck up, Nance. It’a
a pity If you can't help out while
all the rest of us are trying to."
That hurt. Nance turned away to
hide the tears which sprang into her
eyes. A slacker! Well, she’d show
him I If only she wasn't so beastly
scared at the Idea. . . .
“Be down In a second,” she said
as her brother made an Impatient
gesture; and then added angrily:
“And don’t you call me any names
before the others!'
“Oh, see here!” He followed her
Into the room, closing the dooi\ “I
didn't mean anything, Sis, honest I
was only afraid they'd see how
much you hate to go, and put their
feet down. Come on, now. Let’s get
It over before dinner."
The family rebellion was very
nearly unanimous.
Said Dad: “If you must have jobs,
both of you, surely we can And
something nearer home.”
Said Aunt Louise: "You’re too
young and Impressionable, Jack, to
spend six months or so In rough sur
roundings; and Nancy would die of
boredom If nothing worse. Whnt put
the wild Idea Into your head?" - ,
Phil, the ten-year-old, exclaimed
excitedly:
“Gee! folk?, I’d like to be a cow
boy! Just think of quitting school
and staying outdoors all day!”
And strangely, this Innocent re
/ mark of her younger son was what
■topped the protest on Margaret’s
lips. In a flash she remembered
that not mhny months ago the fam
ily doctor had said of Jack: “If that
boy were mine I’d let him forget
school for a year or two and live
outdoors. A job on a farm would
—, be worth considerably more to him
than a diploma.”
Looking up at the flve-feet-eleven
Inches of too-thln boyhood, those
warning words came back, and to
the complete surprise of everybody,
Mother said: “It would be a splen
did thing for Jack—an outdoor win
ter In a milder climate; but—"
"You’re not Implying,” broke In
her husband, “that you’d let those
children go off there all by them
selves 7"
LlllllUICU i 11UO UlCU CA
clamatlon came from Jack. "I’ll say
If Nance la old enough to be
launched In society with a big
splurge, she’s old enough to be away
from home tar a few months—with
a relative, too. As for me, Dad, you
bet I’ll have to do a man’s work or
lose the Job. Why, I’ll be eighteen
In—well, on my next birthday.’’
Since his previous birthday was
only six weeks back, this brought a
laugh. Then Aunt Judy said: "And
what does Nancy think of all tt
plans?"
The girl hesitated. All eyes naa
turned upon her; but glancing up
she saw only her brother's, and re
sponded gamely: “It would be some
thing new, wouldn’t It? And It
couldn’t be very much duller than
' Edgemere.” v
"But Nancy 1" protested her fa
ther In distress, "you'd be living
with an old lady, one you’ve never
seen and who we’ve reason to be
lieve eccentric. And If she paid your
fare you’d be In duty bound to stick
it out for a while, no matter what
you found.’’
"But I’d be earning my living,” she
retorted, wondering why she was ar
guing on the wrong side, gnd what
had got Into her. Why, In fact,
didn’t she tell them the whole truth
—that she was frightened stiff at
the prospect—would almost rather
die than spend a winter with
Cousin Columbine, but was ashamed
lo admit It before Jack?
Aa I said before, what put such an
- Idea Into your heads?”
"Circumstances, of course," spoke
up Aunt Judy. "They want to help
through the hard sledding; and I
think they're splendid. But how
could we let you go so far from
home, dears? You might be sick."
There followed a silence before
Mother said: 'Tm hot In favor of
this move—yet; but I’ll have to ad
mit that according to Doctor Strong
Jack’s more likely to be sick If he
stays Id school.” She went on to
tell them of the doctor’s chance re
mark, and added: “I thought at the
time that he was overcautious
Jack seemed so well; but that boy
has grown appallingly, and I dare
say life In the open air would build
him up If he didn't have to work
too hard.”
Aunt Judith sank back and stared
at her sister.
“I'd never have expected that—
from you, Margaret But If you ask
me, Nancy will expire of loneliness
In about one month. What will she
do wjth no young friends to run
around with, and Jack three miles
off on a ranch?”
The boy laughed.
“You talk ^s If the population of
Pine Ridge was made up of Inhab
itants over seventy, Aunt Judy!
Dldnt Oousln Columbine mention a
postmaster’s daughter? And of
course there are others Who knows
but Nancy will find her—her affinity
or whatever they call It, out In the
big wild west 1”
“Affinity!" sniffed Aunt Louise.
“Where did you pick up that non
sense? And It's far more probable
that what she'll find Is a devastat
ing attack of homesickness young
man.”
“Well, Jack retorted, “that’a
nothing fatal."
"It might as well be," observed
his father. "I remember spending a
summer at my grandmother's farm
when I was twelve. I expected a
real lark — but homesick! Well,
I warn you kids that homesickness
Is no Mght matter. Where's Cousin
Columbine's letter, Margaret? Let’s
make sure what Is expected of our
Nance.”
There ensued a fruitless search
for the long epistle; but Mother
said: "I remember those duties pret
ty well, Jim. Nance was to dust
the ‘mansion' every morning, get
supper Thursdays, sew, read the pa
per aloud, get to bed by nine
thirty—"
i "And abstain from the boy
friend," chuckled Jack. "I admit
that last Is a big order—for Nance.”
“A lot you know If you think
I'd run around with those coun
try bumpkins," replied his sister.
"Would any fellows who could help
themselves stay In a back-woods
place like that? And I’Ve no Inter
est In the other sort, so Cousin
Columbine needn’t worry about those
young men callers she mentioned.
And you needn't, either,” Nance told
her mother wltlh a smile.
“I s'pose you’ll see Pikes Peak,"
observed the small boy thoughtfully.
"It rises fourteen thousand feet
above the plains, and was sighted
by Zebulon Pike In November, 1800,
when with fifteen soldiers he
climbed to the summit of Cheyenne
mountain and—’
“You see,” broke In Jack, grin
ning, “that’s the boy who ought to
go to Harvard! Imagine me recit
ing whole pages out of history. Dad!
Why In—"
He stopped abruptly, because the
curtains at the door had parted and
a maid announced: “Dinner Is
served, Mrs. Nelson. "And," (she
came forward, extending a silver
tray on which was lying a yellow
envelope) “here Is another telegram
for Mr. Jack.”
Jack took the telegram, staring at
it for a surprised moment. Then
Phil cried out Imaptiently: "Why
don’t you read It? I bet you any
thing that Cousin Woodbine has
changed her mind.”
“Woodbine!" Jack shouted, while
even Dad forgot his worries In
amusement at the little boy's mis
take. “The lady’s name Is Colum
bine, you crasy kid, and” (tearing
open the envelope), “she says: ‘Ad
vise bringing plenty of heavy under
wear and flannel nightgowns for
Nancy Stop Nights and early morn
ings apt to be cold. Columbine Nel
son.’ "
“I’d give a lot to see Nancy In a
flannel nightgown," observed Phil
dryly. “Mrs. Grant had one on the
night I slept over at Tim's house,
and she came In to give him some
medicine. It made her look like an
old lady. I bet Nance wouldn’t be
found dea<^ In one, or Mother
either. Come on. Let's eat.”
Dad was still smiling as they
moved toward the dining room; but
once seated, he looked > across at
Mother apd his eyes clouded. Both
were thinking that this would be
the last well-served dinner In the
old home. Two maids were leaving
next day; and only the cook was to
remain until the house was dosed.
RtmcobfcliiC t*1*11 fact. Aunt
Judy had stopped st a florist's on
her way home, and a dozen Jon
quils nodded gaily from the center
of the table. Aunt Louise, eyeing
them with disapproval, started to
gay something about “foolish ex
travagance,’* and then held her
tongue. After all, she thought with
extraordinary tact, If Judith want
ed to spend money for something
perishable In these hard times, it
was her own business.
So Judith Hale’s “extravagance"
(the last she was to Indulge In for
many months), remained uncen
sored, adding a note of cheer to
that dinner table, as she meant It
to; yet as the moments passed
Mother kept thinking sadly of how
soon they would all be scattered—
separated. She, Dad, and the lit
tle boy at Edgemere—Judith in Eu
rope—Louise alone In a city board
ing house—Jack and Nancy. . . .
This last she refused to face just
then, and said when Jack resumed
the subject: "Oh,, let’s forget It,
dear, while we eat dinner.”
“But we've got to decide. Moth
er,” he persisted with Impatience.
“I dare say Cousin Columbine’s ex
pecting a telegram tonight."
"Never mind,” put In his father.
“It won’t hurt the old lady to wait
for a message until tomorrow. But
we’ll decide the question this eve
ning, Jack. I promise you. After
all, it’s as easy to face things now
aa later."
Thus before they slept that night,
the two young people knew that
they were to go “out west.” The
arguments pro and con had waged
for a good two hours, Aunt Louise
protesting vigorously to the very
last that her nephew would return
east with the manners “of a bear.”
"And I warn you, too, young
man,” she asserted grimly, “that
you won’t find life on a ranch the
"Why, That’s —That Must Be
Prairie 1"
romantic dream you’re picturing to
yourself at. present. As for your
sister—”
At this point words failed her
and she ended with a tragic gesture
which caused even Nance to smile
a little. Aunt Judy suggested with
some reluctance that If the boy
must go. It might be wiser for him
to go alone. tx.“
“All right,” he retorted, Impa
tient at what seemed a deadlock,
“If Sis Is too much of a hothouse
flower to stand transplanting. If
she can’t put up with a few hard
ships a time like this, I will go
alone, though possibly—”
He hesitated, and his father end
ed for him: “You’re thinking that
It's Nancy whom Cousin Columbine
really wants to come?”
Jack nodded.
“She might not pay my carfare
If I went alone, Dad.”
“So If you go. It looks as If I’d
have to,” said the girl bitterly. “I
suppose if I get unbearably fed up
with everything I can walk, back.”
"Two thousand miles on the
hoof!” grinned her brother, though
perfectly aware that she spoke with
sarcasm. "That’s where your pio
neer blood shows up, my denrl If
you And our aged relative too Im
possible you can turn hitch-hiker.
See here! I promise solemnly that
If you can't stand the job after a
month or two, we’ll hitch-hike back
together. The experiment won’t
cost Dad a cent; and the chances
are we’ll have a whale of a good
time.”
“Good time I” sputtered his pa
ternal aunt; when Mother Inter
rupted:
“But, Louise, can you see any es
pecially good times for the children
If they stay at home?”
Every one turned to her In sur
prise; while Aunt Louise respond
ed: “Surely, Margaret, you don’t ap
prove of this Idea?”
"Not wholly; but I’ve a feeling
that both Jack and Nancy will be
happier In absolutely new sur
roundings for a time. It’s not easy
for young folks to adjust them
selves to such radical changes as
we’U have to make. Of course I
shall worry about Nance; but if
she’s too unhappy I think we can
manage to bring her back without
the necessity of hitch-hiking I
What do you say, Nance?”
y It~was then that Nancy, glancing
at her father as If for help, saw
something In his face that made her
heart contract For the first time
she realized what this cntastrophe
had done to Pad. Why, he looked
old 1 she thought In consternation.
He looked worried — frightfully
worried; and all this talk was wor
rying him still more. Yet here she
was hesitating to accept a chance
to earn her living Just because the
thought of doing something hard—
going so far away—seemed unen
durable. What had Jack called her
the other night? A parlor orna
ment? Well, he was light, wasn’t
be? That's about all she measured
up to. For one swift. Illuminating
moment the girl saw herself as oth
ers saw her, and was honestly ap
palled. Dad would never admit It,
but her absence and Jack's would
be a help just now. All this and
more went through her mind In a
revealing flash before she answered
with new-born bravery:
“Of course I’m going! I had to
get used to the Idea, that's all. It
may not be very exciting at
Cousin Columbine’s, Mother, but
It’ll be—be Interesting, won’t It—
seeing new things and places?
Let’s not talk any more. It’s set
tled as faf as I am concerned.”
CHAPTER III
WAKING suddenly at a nerve
racking Jolt, Nancy sat up,
wondering In that first stnrtled In
stant, where she could be. Then
her brain cleared and she realized
that she was aboard a train headed
for Colorado, ami wondered if they
had run Into something, and If she
ought to waken Jack or get up and
put on her clothes. Surely there
had been no such jolt the night be
fore. For a moment she listened
tensely In expectation of some con
fusion; then raised the window
shade, peering out Into the dim, gray
light of early morning.
The train had stopped before a sta
tion and her car was directly oppo
site the brightly lighted restaurant.
Nancy could see a girl of about her
own age dressed in a crisp, white
uniform, serving some trainmen at a
lunch counter. She wondered If
the waitress had been up all night
or was Just beginning her day's
work. Probably the latter, for she
looked fresh enough—but what a
ghastly hour to go to work!
There followed another Jolt. Evi
dently the engine had been detached
and was coupling on again. The
wheels turned slowly, and then fast
er. Nance strained her eyes to
catch the name of the station—
Dodge City—and shivering a little,
pulled down the shade and snuggled
under the blankets.
So they were still In Kansas.
Kansas! The Idea that she could
be there was Incredible to Nancy
Nelson. Why, Kansas had always
seemed as far away as the North
pole—and fully as unattractive!
People lived there, of course, but not
.people quite like themselves. At
least, that was how the girl had
thought about It; yet that waitress.
In the lunch room looked—why she
looked every bit as up-to-date as the
girls behind the lunch counters at
Thompson’s Spa on Washington
street, In Iloston!
This comparison brought a wave
of homesickness to the unwilling ex
ile. What a three weeks It had been
since Jack received those telegrams
from Cousin Columbine! Such a
hectic time. Aunt Judy starting off
for Europe with those crazy Spear
girls. Hurried trips to Edgemere
with Mother. Packing. Deciding
what to take and what to leave be
hind. Getting tickets and reserva
tions. And those last awful mo
ments at the South station with Phil
wanting to know how they made the
sections Into beds and asking a
thousand foolish questions—Mother
smiling unnaturally to keep from
crying—Aunt Louise arriving at al
most the last second with a box of
candy; and Dad, his face so terribly
set and stern. .
Nancy slept for a while, but not
for long. It was Jack who wakened
her, slipping down from the upper
berth and snapping up the window
shade.
"Wake up, Sis!" he commanded In
an excited whisper. "Look where ws
are 1 Why, that’s—that must be
prairie 1”
It was!
Nance sat up, almost as excited
as her brother. Prairie! Miles and
miles and miles of It, stretching
endlessly Into a far horizon. Nei
ther of them had dimly realized the
vastness of those great plains they
were to cross—plains which lay dap
pled by morning sunlight, softly un
dulating, as far as their astonished
eyes could reach.
(TO B* CONTINUED.)
• Spectacle* Credited te Armati
Tbe tombstone of Salvino Armati,
who died in 1817, credits him wltb
being tbe Inventor of spectacle*.
Howe About:
Education
Lonely Old Men
Shiftless People
C. Boll Syndic*!#.—WNU Sorvlc#.
By ED HOWE
FT IS often said the people must
* become educated before reform
can be expected. This is accepted
as meaning that every man must be
so completely educated In our mod
ern ways as to be able to teach In
college. Education thus becomes
so great a task we are discouraged
In contemplatlug It. . . . Our es
timate of an education Is wrong.
After a man Is thirty, If not nat
urally a dunce, an Intelligent read
ing of Wells' “Outline of History,"
combined with his own experience,
will educate him. Those Intending
to teach should attend technical
schools, as do doctors, lawyers,
painters, engineers, etc. There are
dozens of short summaries of every
thing one needs to know; a new
one was added last fall, and writers
are favoring that style of writing
lately. These summaries not only
educate a reader, but entertain him
better than will detective stories or
novels.
———- a - r ■—'
I know an old fellow whose chil
dren are all married and gone, and
who does not sleep well. He does
well enough during the day, but
anyone passing his house late at
night may see lights burning. Tfce
servants are kind, but he will not
Impose on them, so he Is alone and
wide awake a good deal at night;
and night Is especially lonely. Late
ly he employed a woman of sixty,
to assist him from 11 p. m. until
people are moving on the streets
again. She has a soothing way
about her, and he gets to sleep
oftener during his dangerous hours.
If he awakens, he finds her asleep
In her chair at the foot of his bed.-'
but she awakens easily, and again
she reads to him, or they talk. Dur
Ing these hard times, many good
women are seeking employment,
and the crop of lonely old men Is
large. Why not?
• • •
I regret shiftlessness, but have
admired shiftless people. The man
and wife I hang around most are
the most shiftless people I have
ever known, but are "good fellows,”
and tremendously smart. They have
long had In their employment an
old colored servnnt they now owe
so much they can't pay her, and
thus get rid of her by discharge.
The blkck woman needs an opera
tion, and they are trying to find a
doctor who will perform it on cred
It. They have had her teeth fixed
four times, and still owe for It.
• • •
Americans are Judged abroad by
what American books, magazines
and newspapers say; by speeches
delivered at meetings of various so
cial clubs and political organiza
tions. All these are unnatural, and
foreigners do not know us; our
publicity agents have given us a
character we do not deserve. What
the average American thinks and
believes is not' known even In his
own country; the'’American attends
moving picture plays, not because
he Is much Interested in the vulgar
people who make them, but because
they cost only twenty-five cents, and
occasionally have a good news reel
or comedy. . . . Ij lately attended
a moving picture theater, and only
six others were there. Never before
have I seen a *“show” presented to
an audience of seven, and It was
the best theater in town, showing
the best available picture .plays.
American people are not as crazy
about the disreputable crowd at
Hollywood as Is believed abroad.
• • •
I may be mistaken in what I think
I know in my eightieth year, but 1
am more certain of it than ever be
fore, and I have less time left In
which to change my mind.
* • •
s^At eighty I am not afraid of the
future. I have been treated with
reasonable justice all my conscious
life, and expect as much of the
future. No one can convince me
there Is a devil after death to tor
ture me for eating, drinking, lov
ing, hating, trading, venturing. I
have lived a long time and thought
as clearly and fairly as I could, and
have heard not a word from ^ re
liable source to make me fear a
devil to torture me after I am dead.
A million ghost dancers have howled
dismally at me throughout life
without frightening me. They might
as well cease dancing: the truth Is
not what they say It Is. There Is
more mercy than they claims
* • •
I have a son I think quite wise:
rather able In taking care of him
self. The other day he was at
home, and a suspicious mnn kept
calling him by telephone. I knew
the suspicious man, nnd what he
wanted: a big favor: to “work" my
son. ... I warned him, and the
young man replied: “That's all
right: don’t worry: I’ll ‘work’ him
right back.” . . . There are so
many who try to “work” you I
warn you to acquire the ability of
my son, or you’ll be ruined.
• • •
Nothing disturbs me more pro
foundly than to be annoyed by the
Ill-behaved when I am myself will
ing to behave, having been finally
whipped Into belief In the Impor
tance of good behavior.
Old Whitby
Scotch Lassies Work at Whitby During Fishing 8eason
n**pa.r*d by National Oaographlo Soclaty.
Washington. I>. C.-WSU S»rvtc*.
Mellowed by time, Whitby,
climbing the cliff* of the
North sea coast to which it
has clang for centuries, draws many
visitors who are lured by the at
mosphere of old England.
Most of the old part of the town
remains as It was hundreds of years
tgo, dominated by the parish
Church, St. Mary's—built In 1100—
»nd the famous ruins of Whitby ab-'
bey.
Today Whitby Is a fishing port
only, and Its real splendors belong
to the past; to the days of the old
Saxon monastery of St. Hilda and
Caedmon; to the days of the Great
Synod In 6C4, when Saxon kings and
the leading ecclesiastical lights of
the land met with pomp and cir
cumstance to settle the vexed ques
tion of the date of Easter; to the
days of wooden ships and wooden
■hip-bulldlng, when Whitby was
fifth port In England and her sturdy
oak-built ships were famed across
the seven seas; to the days when
Whitby was one of the chief bases
of the Greenland whaling Industry,
and Cook and Scoresby sailed from
the port on their exciting enter
prises ; to the days when 1,500 men
were regularly employed mining and
carving Jet (a black setnl-preclous
mineral) and twice this number
were engaged In the alum Industry
along the coast.
There Is no shipping now. At the
dawn of the great Iron age some of
the “yards” turned to Iron, and
many fine screw steamers were built
on the stocks which then lined the
upper harbor. But the shallowness
of that harbor and the distance from
foundries and rolling mills were
fatal handicaps, and Whitby found
annihilating rivals In the ports of
the Tees and Tyne.
The alum Industry died with the
discovery of a cheaper method of
production.
Ancient, Crooked Streets.
The old town’s streets are tortu
ous and narrow, the names of the
chief ones, Baxtergate and Flower
gate, suggest that they were built
when there were no traffic problems.
There Is documentary evidence of
their existence In the Fourteenth
century. Flowergate climbs down
the slope of the West Cliff. Baxter
gate runs parallel to the docks. A
steel bridge, originally a wooden
drawbridge, conducts Its bewildered
traffic to the east side of the har
bor, and here Is the equally ancient
and even narrower Church street
again running parallel to the har
bor and leading.to the foot of the
famous 199 steps which the faith
ful must climb to attend worship In
the parish church, St. Mary’s.
Whitby is the shopping center for
a wide rural area. Its shops are
chiefly In the two main streets and
Its market backs off Church street.
The market day Is Saturday.
Early In the morning the farmers
arrive In their neat little traps, with
baskets of butter, eggs, chickens,
curds (filling for the famous York
shire cheesecakes), trussed geese,
rabbits, and the like.
Chiefly In Church street are the
shops of the jet and fossil dealers.
Jet Is fossilized wood converted Into
carbon. It Is found In beds known
as Jet rock, which crop out In sev
eral places along the coast. It does
not occur In seams, like coal, but In
Isolated pockets, which make Its
mining a speculative business. A
man might dig for months, and not
find a handful. A good pocket, how
ever, when the trade was In Its hey
day, might have been worth any
thing up to $250. '"'O
There Is no mining now. What
craftsmen are left depend for their
supplies on the longshoremen, who
collect the bits washed out of the
cliffs, or from submarine explo
sions. __
It* Jet I* Distinctive. .
While there Is diverse opinion re
garding the merits of Jet as a me
dium for the true artist. It has In
spired some very dne and original
carving. It Is easy to work and
takes on a lovely polish, as different
from the glue of glass and Imita
tion Jet a* the polish of cheap fur
niture is from the patina of a gen
uine piece of Queen Anne. More
over, while Jet !a found elsewhere.
notably In Spain, Whitby Jet ii
tlnctlve.
Most of the famous craft
are dead, and there has be>
tendency for their successor
keep the standardised designs,
here and there one of them
show a flash of originality, and
endures that the pendulum of
Ion will swing back.
The fossils which form the
ond bow of the Whitby Jet de
have a more strictly sclentlfl'
terest The commonest Is the
monlte. It Is found In Immense
fusion along the entire coast,
from the geologist’s point of
Its most Interesting aspect Is It
traordlnary variety. The am
Ite, of course, was a marine at
belonging to the family of si
and octopuses. Its nearest •
lng relative Is the nautilus.
The ammonite, which Is pai
larly abundant on the rocks a
foot of the Abbey cliff, has i
rise to an Interesting legend v
still finds credence among W
fisher folk. They believe It t
the petrified remains of a si
Rarely, however, Is a spec
found with Its “head" Intact,
story goes that In the days o
Hilda, the district suffered fr<
plague of adders. The holy
was prevailed upon to use her
ence against them, with the r
that first their heads were pr
off and then their bodies
turned Into stone.
Cottage* of the Fishermen.
From the main streets of
—Baxtergate, Flowergate, Ch
street—and thence from Ski
street, Sandgate, Haggersgate
St. Ann's Staith, narrow lanes
among the old cottages or lea
watery dead ends.
The cottages are built In ami
confusion. One has the lrnpre:
that they must have pushed t
selves up, mushroom fashion,
the ground whenever there
space. They have no gardens. '
have, with few exceptions, no
save Into their neighbor’s parli
down his chimney stack. They
however, all built on one gei
plan, which gives a kitchen, pa
a best room, two bedrooms, an
attic. Their architects and b
era were all men of the sea.
day It Is chiefly the fishermen
live In them.
Even the fishing trade at W1
has suffered more than an ordl
share of economic vicissitude,
residents of the town can rei
her the time when, In summer,
lng the height of the North sea
ring season, the harbor was a
est of masts. And they have i
seen the time when the unloe
of a solitary herring drifter
ated a sensation. The herring I
has .vanished. But that spirit
out which no Industry can thrlvi
remained alive in the breasts o
sturdy Whitby men, and the
has of late years experienced
vlval In the crab and lobster tri
Cobl* a Fin* Surf Boat.
That view to the east, acrosi
harbor, so beloved of painters
photographers, would not be
plete without the fishing <
moored hard up to the
threshold of the cottages; wit
the lobster pots stacked upon
quays, the salmon nets spread
on poles to dry In the sun; wit
the groups of blue-jerseyed,
tanned men, busy with their get
gossiping. Some, of these men
old,, white-bearded, and loquacl
but most fit them are In their pi
tall, square-shouldered; soft, ca
In the way they move about
strained In their speech, watc
The type of craft charactei
of the coast la the coble. No
tograph can show Its superb sa
qualities. Its design la the e
tlonary outcome of conditions
Is pre-eminently a surf boat
The coble’s greatest draft Is
ward, and on an open short
landed stern first. Its slender )
offering no resistance to the
It sails fast and very close tc
wind, because Its long rudder
as a keel But the rudder Is
a source of danger, for it may f<
mass of seaweed or become
tangled In anchored Ashing
when the boat la In a heavy br
The coble, like a spirited horse
mands expert handling.