M'O
t
rt': V‘
m- -
fRK
WV‘
y
Ao
k LITTLE IRISH GIRL
■r “The Dnrhtn."
CHAPTER XI—CONTINUED.
••Nonsense! lie hat evidently onl,
Just come-”
'‘1 won't go home with him." say
Dulrtnca in u. choking tone; "I won't!1
••Don't be a fool!” tayt her comin
angrily. "You shall gowlth him! 1
will kill nil talk. You must bo mai
torefuNe uoh a chance of doing »w»;
with yottr folly.” He taken a stop for
ward.
••Andy!"—frantically. But he liai
escaped from hor now. and hai
reached Anketei. There It a word 01
two, and then hnth men return t<
where she it standing, feeling i»or<
dead than alive.
"Here is Sir Ralph, Dulcle," sayi
Andy, in a rather nervous fashion.
"By the way, you are driving, Anko.
tell—-ehP Could you give my cousin i
liftP”
"With pleasure"—gravely.
••You pass our gates, you soe, and -
cr—we —we’d no idea when we started
for our walk, that er—er—wo should
bn so late. Found ourselves, you
know"—tbo falsehood sticking horri
bly in his throat--"ut the station be
fore wo knew whore we were.”
"f understand"~qulekly. It cuts
Anketei! to the heart to hear the lad
lying thus; and such fruitless lies—
and delivered so haltingly, so lovingly!
"Eyre left to-night by tho train,”
say# Andy, with a highly nervous,
miserable laugh. "She—wo-”
‘•I see," says Anketoll, hurriedly.
“You ja.u.e to soe him olfP—-very nut
i-.ral
“It’s a long walk home for Dulete,”
nays her cousin, more haltingly than
ever. ••But if-”
‘•Of course I can give your cousin a
seat. ' ssys Anketell. lie addresses
:C himself entirely to Mr. McUormot.
altogether ignoring Dulctnoa. This,
and something iu his tone strikes a
chill to. Andy's heart! but he oompets
himself to: go through with the sorry
, farce. As fur Dulcinoft. a kind of cold
recklessness has eoiue to her that does
duty for courage. Her late teurs lie
frozen ir, her eyes. Her glance Is
fixed immovably on the ground be
k ueuth her; yal, in Spite ol that, shg
knows that Anketell has never once
deigned to glanue In her direction.
t %' "Thank you," Bays Andy diffidently.
•■And—"—pausing—-if, whou you
came to our back gate—if you were to
drop her there, It would be better.
• Will you? You see, if the governor
' knew that—er—I- had kept hor out
4|r> to late, he—he’d be down on mo. It’s
all my fault, d’yo see—every bit of it."
"I quite see.” says Anketell grave
I.v, laconically. as beforo. "By the
f 3 bye J can give you a seat, too."
"No, thanks! Td rather not—really.
,,j, I shall enjoy the walk.” The poor
boy is choking with shame, and feels
that to accept even so trilling a favor
as a seat home from the man he is
trying so deliberately to deceive
would be more than he is equal to.
"Its a lovely evening, and nothing of
a walk."
He waves au adieu, and turns aside;
3 but seeing him go, Duloloea wake*
from her stupor.
‘•AndyT cries ahe wildly, a fever of
entreaty In her whole air; "Andy,
come with me. Come!”
But he is deaf to her entreaties. He
Shakes his head, and hurries out into
the darkness of the night beyond.
“I’ll bet I’ll be home before you!”
he calls out from somewhere—they
onn no longer see him. "it’s a mile
to walk, but three to drive; that gives
me a good chance."
It is three miles Indeed!—three of
the longest miles Duieinea has ever
driven. There are moments when she
tells herself that it cannot take all
these hours to oome this short, short
way, and wonders If Anketell has not
made a mistake and turned into some
unknown road. It is so dark by this
time that to s«e where she is Is irapos
*§**■., iftlhlrt. r
And yet it is a floe n if lit, too—no
■ign of rain or storm. Certainly the
moon is lying hidden, and the stars are
apparently forgetful of their duty; but
the wind that flies past Duloiuea’s
cheek is singularly mild and kindly
o> the time or year. Everything
t seems hushed; no sound arises to
break the monotony of the silence
that has fallen on her and her oom
Si panion. Now and again a rustling in
the wuyside branches, a fluttering of
wings, a sleepy ‘'Cheep-cheep," betray
the presence of those “amale foule.** *:
"Teat siepen alto night with open oye,’>
according to Geoffrey Chancer; but
other noises are there none.
tjhnme. fear, fatigue, are all keeping
Dulcic dumb. Oh, to be home in her own
chamber, safe from prying eves, sale
in any place wliei-e she may weep out
her very soul in oomfort. Oh, this
Wf terrible, terrible drive! will it never
come to an en i? And he—why is He
iff-, so silent? Can he know? She starts
ii with n herself as this thought occurs
" to her,, but quickly flings it off with
I? Mone as grim. No, a thousand times
r no. If he knew, he would not be hero
, with her now. He would not condo
s'end to sit beside Her; he would cast
,-f V". her off. Oh, If he ever does hear of It
—what then? But if he knows noth
»IV ing, why docs he not say something to
her? Agaio the flrst torturing doubt
’•:* * sets in.
i
5
Si---1
P
it'
A* for Anketell. he has even forgot
ten be is silent, so busy are hie
thoughts with all the past miserable
hour. Again he seems to be standing
in the dusky corner of the station
again he .aces hey come slowly forward.
The qtylck advance of Eyre, her recep
tion of him so devoid of surprise o
any kind, her giving up of the smal
bag to him: how plainly it Is all writ
ten ou his brain in type that will stanc
out dear to the day of his death! X<
fear of it fading.
And then—the agonized watching
for the train to come in: the horrid
fascination that compelled him to wai
and see her go-go with that otherl
that was the worst part of it. He hai
thought that at the last moment, th
very last, as her foot wan bn the ate
of the compartment, he would sprln
forward and draw her back, an I in
plore her to return homo and—marr
his rival later in a more orthodo
form.
' But she had not given him that o|
portaaity. Hie baa watebod her in
passioned change of decision—her n
2- 3hAs."
fusal to carry out her design—her ve
■ heraent relief when the saw her oous
Id. But her abandonment of Eyre a
the last moment did her no good witl
him; rather it Increased his passionate
grieving anger that is tearing bis hear
, in two. False she was to hnr verj
core. And weak as false. False h
, both.
i A heavy sigh breathing from hit
companion’s white lips at this moment
t wakes him from his stormy reverie.
I He turns to her.
, A star or two huve pierced the
. heavens, dusk by this time, and there,
on the left, a pale, still orescent it
i stealing to its throne. Diana, a very
, young Diana, is awake at last:
“Wide the pole deluge Hosts.”
i Slowly up from behind the hill beyond
i she comes, shedding glory ou the
earth with each slow, trailing step,
i | “How like a queen conies forth the lovely
moon,
From the slow opening curtains of the
Walking In beaut; to her midnight Mi rone."
She fives Anketell the cluince of see
inf how his companion looks.
Cold, shivering, chilled to her
heart’s core. Her pretty face is not
only sad, but blue; her little hands,
lying gloveless (what hud she done
with her glovosP) on the rug. look
shrunken to even smaller dimensions
than usual, and are trembling. A
sharppnug contructs Auketcll’s throat
"You are cold!” says he. in a tons so
icy that no wonder she shivers afresh.
"No, no!" says she hastily, through
chntterlng teeth.
•‘You must be!” says he angri'y,
“with only that Htt'e thin jacket on
you. Here!" (pulling up with decided
violence a warm plaid from under the
seat) “put this on you.”
"1 would rather lot,” said she,
making an effort to repulse him.
"Put it on directly!" says he, so
fiercely that she gives in without
another word, in twining it around
her his hand comes in contact with
hors. "Your hands aro like ice!”
says he. his vo ce once again breath
ing fury. "What do you mean by it?
Was there no rug, that you shou d
thus be dy ng of cold?”
"I don’t mind the cold; I don’t think
of it,” says site wear ly.
"Then think of it now! put your
hands under the rug instantly!”
His manner is really almost unbear
able; but Miss MoDormot has got to
such a low ebb that she has not the
courage to resent it. He pulls up the
rug.
"Cover them at once!” rays he, and
she meekly obeys him. Whut does it
matter?--it is all oyer between him
and her. It is quite plain to her that,
even if ignorant of this eroniug’s work,
he still detests her. His toue.maRner,
entire air, convince her of that. Well,
she will givt him an opportunity of
honorably getting rid of her. She
will tell him of her intension of run
ning away with Kyre. That will do
it! He Is just the sort of a man to
stick to his wo d through thi k and
thin, however hsteful the task may be.
But wtaea he hears that she deliberat -
ly meant to run a* ay with some one
else? Oh, was it deliberate? She
will toll him. but n <t now. To-mor
row, perhaps. No (sternly)—to-mor
row, oerta nly. Ho is coming to dine
with them, and after dinner, i t tli <
drawing room, she can then g've him
the opportunity of releasing himself
from this unfortunate engagement.
How glad he w ill ho! how—
Anketell moves uneasily in bis seat
What is that little soft, sad, broken
heart d sound that l as fallen on his
ears? Dulcinea is crying—so much is
plain. Not noisily, n t obtrusively—
it is, ir deed, a stifled, a desperately
stifled sob, that betrays.
”1 am afrai 1 you are unhappy about
something,” says he, unrelentingly.
Ho is frowning. Fretting for that
damned fellow, he tells himself, and
the thought does not throw oil upon
the waters. He seems to pause for a
reply, but cone coming he goes on:
"To fret about anything is folly,” sa.s
he hardlv. "There is a way out o
most difficulties, I dare s*y you wi-1
find une out of yours.”
This lost lover she is crying for —
this lover lost by her own fear of sac
rificing too niucn for him—may bo re
| gained. No donbt. enchained bv bar
lovely face, he will be glad to be re
I called. She can write to him, and h<
will respond warmly. And he is a
man of means. Once The McDermot
had been told that he, Anketell, de
clines to carry out the engagement
with his daughter, the old man will be
pleas d enough to gi>e her to Eyre
vfho has undeniably good pros peats.
As for Dulcinea, i er sobs h ve now
ceag d entirely. Anketell’s last wor Is
have struck a chill t • her heart Ho
is nnt in touch with her. He feels
nothing for her. Her distress causes
hint i o pain. It is impossible he
should know of her unfortunate uffa r
with Kyre; and yet once again her
• oart dies within iicr. That terrible
doubt returns. It was a otched, n t
killed. Her tears dry upon her hot
cheeks. This is no tiiiid for tears. If
—If he w> s at the stu ion when she ar
rived, and bad seen her meeting witn
Eyre—without Andy! O. no, no! Any
thing hut t jat!
CHAPTER XII.
“Fortune’s wings are made or Time’s
feathers, which stay not whilst one may
measure them.”
* * * « • * -
“The consciousness of being loved softens
the keenest pang.”
It has uotne to an end at last—this
interminable rrtve. He has driven bei
up to the back gate, baa lifted bet
carefully out, has bidden her a mosi
. distant good-night. Miserable, fright
' ened, leaving hopo behind her ande.v
L peeling a storm before her, she runs
down the sh r. road, through the
farmyard, and into the house. Hei
i father—what will he say? She shiven
in every limb as she dwells upon hii
wrath. It would be serious enough I
i it bad only to do with her being ou
l of tho house at this hour. But wltei
he hears eft e sequence, the breakinj
l off of her engagement with Ankctell
I how will it he then?
i Racing upstairs a the top of he
f speed, she rushes into her own root!
- and into Ihe arms of Mrs. Driscoll.
The old woman, worn out with fen
i (or the fate of her darling, has speu
the last two hours wandering fret
k room to room, and pra.ing loudly t
p nil her taints. Players un e ird e>
p cept in heaven, as the gaunt old ho us
. u virtu illy empty. Notv, teeing hei
• nursling return to the nest she for
l gets all the distress, the absolute tor
i ture she has been endurliw and, beinj
Irish, lets the past go In tne joy of t.i
b glad present All is forgotten, save
■ that her child ha* returned to her.
i “Oh, Bridget!” says Dulolnea, cling,
ing to her; “oh, Bridget!”
“There now! There me darlint
, Take yer breath now. 'Tls home y<
are, and safe wid yor ould Biddy.
Hush now, alanna!’ —squeezing hei
to her ample bosom. “Arruh! who’d
be able to .harm ye wid me at hand:
But”—anx ously—“where were ye at
all at all?”
“Oh, Bridget, how I love you!”
cries the poor child gratefullv, clinging
to her with ull her might “I thought
you, too, would be against me.’’
“Is it me, asthore?—me who nussed
ye?”
"Well, he said you had it 'in for
me,’ or something like that.”
“Who, darlin'P Tell me the name
o’ the scamp who’d say inch words o’
me!”
“It was Andy.”
“MastUer Andy?” You’ve seen him,
then?” says the old woman eagerly.
“He was wid yo, Mi-s Dulcie,” draw
ing her to the fire. “Sit down here,
agru! an’ tell mo all about it.”
She 1' ads the girl to the roaring
wood fire that is blazing up the chim
ney—a fire so careful y tended iu
hopes oi her darling’s return, that it
is now indeed a noble spectacle—and
Euslies b r into a big arm-chui'-. And
ulele.worn out with conflicting pas
sions, 'doubts that have grown to cer
taintlos.and certainties that have once
again resolved themselves into doubts,
sinks into tho welcome chair, and
drawing down tho old nurse to the
hearthrug beside her, pours into her
eurs the tale of ttie evening. With
many sighs and many sobs she makes
her humiliating confession; but in
spite of Andy’s dire threat, tho faith
ful old nurse refrains from censure of
any kind.
“It’s all over now. honey, all at an
end,” soothing her. “There, there,
fie, now, to spoil your purty eyes!
Sure, what were ye but a bit mistaken!
Bad Scran to Masther Andy for fright
enin’ yer like this! ‘Twill be all over
In no time. Sorra one w 11 know of
it—”
“He knows of it—part of it—he—”
“Misther Eyre? He’s a gintieman,”
says Mrs. Driscoll, who has in her
pocket at this moment the very hand
some douceur be had bestowed on her
at parting.
[to be continued.]
THE INDIAN’S RELIGION.
An! Interesting Statement of His Bellei
on That Subject.
The Indian’s religion is a curious
study and the more curious because
his ideas concerning the theory nnd
practice of medicine are so interwoven
with his religion that it is hard to say
where the one ends and the other
begins.
He seems to believe that everything
has a spirit—that ail animals and even
trees and stonea have within them
spirits. When he slays a dangerous
animal, therefore, he offers tobacco or
apologies to it and explains the neces
sity his family was under for food; or
else he lays the blame of its destruc
tion upon somebody else.
When he catches the first salmon of
the spring run he propitiates it by
offerings and ceremonials, so as to
appease the displeasure of its kind
and to insure that the run will not fall
the next season. He also takes care
that the bones of slain beaver and
doer shall not be gnawed by the dogs
and the spirits of the slain enraged as
a consequence.
The most of his religious efforts are
directed to the propitiation of these
innumerable spirits, on the one hand,
that they may not do him harm and
on the other, that they may be won
over to help him. He hopes they will
make him a successful warrior and
hunter, give him rain when he wants
it keep him well and strong, or cure
him when sick.
Good spirits, however, the Indian
cares very little for; it is the bad,
malevolent spirits that concern him
most Hence the Indian ■ shaman.”
or medicine man, is also his priest so
far as he has any. For it is the sha
man that pretends an ability to con
trol bad spirits and ooa.'£ them out of
a person when they have entered and
taken possession.
That the Indian believes in some
sort of future existence is truck but
that this belief has crystallized into
the form of a •Happy Hunting
Ground.’’ of which we have heai-d go
much, is much to be doubted.
To the Indian mind the future is
vague and uncertain. He seems to be
much more concerned in propitiating
tbe spirits of the friends that have
gone before^ of which he is much
afraid, than of preparing himself for
a future state of any sort The idea
of eternal punishment he nevet
dreams ot
The idea of a Great Spirit or Su
preme Deity, says the Youth’s Com
panion. who watches oyer the des
tinies of mankind, was brought to the
Indian by his white brother, and is s
conception to which the Indian had
not reached.
All On Ae«MM of Sanday.
’ t Two lone lorn Buffalo women
when they reached home after a lec
ture one night, aavs the Courier,
found that they bad forgotten theii
latch-key. So they rang the bell.
They waited and waited, and rani
’ again. After fifteen minutes or wait
1 ing and .bell-ringing, the girl openet
' the dcor. * -Katie why on earth hav<
; you kept us waiting «of Didn’t yoi
1 hear me ring?" cried 'one of thi
‘ women. ‘ Yea , ma'am" cried Katie
> with air of come confusion; "but
t'ought It was me young man. ma’am
. an’ me an' him' had a failin’ out las
i Soondah. an' i t’ought I’d learn him i
lesson ma’am."
L A enito HUM.
i He—What do you regard as moi
) essential—beauty or wealth?
She—Well—er—Td marry wealtl
k tf lwere you.—Life.
THE AGRICULTURAL WORLD
INTERESTING MATTERS PER
TAINING TO THE FARM.
Yarding and Shedding Sheep—Tile
Drains—Device for ' Lifting
Beeves—Triumphs of Science
—Winter Poultry Keeping
—Short Notes.
Yarding and Shedding Sheep.
Dr. Henry S. Randall mentions in
his valuable work, “The Practical
Shepherd,” that in the year 1862 an
unusually large percentage of the
lambs produced in some counties in
New York were imperfectly formed,
and the mortality among them was
unprecedentedly heavy. In attempt
ing to account for this loss, which
amounted in some instances to 33 per
cent, he says that an extraordinar
ily deep snow fell in the early part of
the winter, and was replenished about
as fast as it wasted away until the
opening of spring.
It was remarked that most of the
breeding ewes clung closely to their
stables—doing little more than rising
to eat and then lying down again.
The flocks most accustomed to yard
ing in many instances did not tread
down the snow a dozen yards from
their stables during the winter. But
the weather was steady and cold, so
that they continued to eat well,
and thus their inactivity increased
their fleshiness, and their fleshiness re
acted and increased their inactivity.
On the opening of spring they seemed
to be in uncommonly good order but
while they appeared to be well, there
were nevertheless, unmistakable sym
toms of a plethoric habit in the best
fed flocks—and it was in the best fed
flocks that the loss of lambs was, as
a general thing, the most severe.
This unusual mortality among
lambs he thus attributed to the un
favorable condition of the mothers,
due to their close confinement—a con
dition aided by an epizootic influence.
He does not say, though it may per
haps be properly inferred, that the
epizootic influence was itself an effect
from the close confinement. He urged
as a preventive of such disasters, the
letting out of breeding ewes on the
fields for a limited time each day to
dig in the snow for green food, and
thus secure the daily exercise which
every sheep needs to keep it in healthy
condition.
An Iowa sheep owner, writing to the
Prairie Farmer, goes far beyond this
conservative view. He oelieves in
tearing down all elieep sheds and
leaving the flock out of doors night
and day the year round. And for
this opinion, which has naturally
aroused much opposition among
sheep men, he preggnts some pretty
strong grounds.
- His farms are composed of fine blue
grass lands, and he keeps his sheep
on the sod and not too long in the
same place. They are all Shropshir
es, and he has four flocks of 1,500 to
1,800 each, all either full blood
or grades. These sheep are all fed
out of doors on the blue grass sod,
and never haye seen muddy lots or
sheds.
In answer to an objector, who said
that the beautieB of the no-shed sys
tem were demonstrated in Missouri a
short time ago, when one man who
had no sheds lost out of a flock of 200
ewes twenty-five lambs in as many
hours, he Baid, the same destructive
storm swept over Iowa, and the open
air advocate had between three and
four thousand lambs out in it, of
which he did not lose one-third as
many as the Missouri man lost, while
a neighbor, whose flock was housed in
one of the finest sheep barns in the
country lost 25 per cent, of his
lambs.
"I can demonstrate the fact,” he
saye, ‘‘that ewes running on good
pastures in open fields in summer and
in winter, and never shedded or
yarded, will grow strong, fat and
healthy, and their progeny will be
'stronger, healthier and better
than the progeny of any sheep
that are compelled to spend half of
their time in a close shed or yard.
Their offspring will stand thirty-five
degrees more cold than the puny thing
that comes from the housed-up ewe.”
If, he adds, the money that is today
spent for sheds was spent for barbed
wire and high posts and used to build
fences with twelve wires on them,
strung so close together that dogs
could not get through them, it would
save millions of dollars’ worth of
'sheep that are killed by dogs or lost
by shedding them, which is equally
bad.
The ground of this contention is
that nature has given the sheep a
warmer coat than any other domestic
animal, and that if the sheep are kept
clean and healthy their wool will be
rich and oily, and will turn any
storms, keeping the body perfectly
dry. These views, though novel, are
certainly worthy of careful considera
tion. Their promulgator has had
twenty years’ experience, and has
tried both systems, so that he is no
mere theorist. It would be a great
gain indeed if sheep sheds could be dis
pensed with.
Tile Drains.
All land that has no sand or gravel
■ subsoil should be under-drained.
The first thing in drainage is a good
“ outlet, whether open ditch or tile;
t large enough to carry the water from
, the smaller drains.
It the ground is rather fiat, with
t little fall, cut the ditches from fifty to
seventy-five feet apart, with not less
| than one inch of fall to one hundred
feet of length, not less than twenty
inches deep in the most shallow place,
nor more than three feet deep, unless
• to get the grade or level. Cut ditch
in bottom perfectly level, so then
' will be no riffles in it, lay the tile clou
against each other, fit the joints well
together, put fins earth around tile
about six inches desp, then fill the
remainder in with the plow or shovel,
but do not allow horses or cattle to
tramp in it when fresh filled in, or
ground is wet.
On rolling land tile drains need not
be so close together, but it is necessary
to put them where the surface water
mostly stands, but do not put them
more than three feet under ground for
quick service, unless in places through
high ground, where it is unavoidable.
The size of tile should vary with the
amount of water and the distance of
drains apart. For flat ground, fifty
feet apart and forty rods long, with
one inch fall to one hundred feet
length; the outlet should have three
and a half or four inch tile for thirty
or thirty-five rods, and the remainder
with three or three and a half inch.
In ditches of shorter distance three
or three and ahalf inch is large enough,
according to the water they have to
carry; for branches from ten to twen
ty rods a three inch tile makes a good
ditch with the above fall.
xue aoes good service wnere tne
drains are one hundred feet apart if
put in lowest places. Drains from
sixty toeighty rods long should have
five or six inch tile for an outlet. A
six inch tile will carry all water on
flat land from forty acres without in
jury Jo crops from wet weather.
The advantages of tile draining are
many. Plowing may be done from a
week to ten days earlier in the spring;
tile-drained land is half manured. Al
though open ditches do good service
where tile. ditches can not be made,
their disadvantages ' are great;
with tile drains the water will
soon disappear from the surface
after a rain, while with an open ditch
it will stand outside of bank for sever
al days; you can farm and raise the
best crops over tile drains, while an
open ditch is waste land for weeds to
grow on; you never need to clean a
tile drain, u properly put in; you must
clean out an open ditch every two or
three years; your open ditches harbor
vermin, such as muskrats and tbe
mink, who dig holes along the bank
for horns. and cattle to step in and
break their legs; your tile ditch will
not harbor anything and gives you no
trouble if you have a screen over the
outlet.—C.Ij. Meinzer, in Farm, Field
and Fireside. '
Device for Lifting Beeves.
Our Illustration represents an ap
paratus which makes the skinning aud
dressing of beef on the farm a compar
atively easy matter. In the crotch
or fork of a good sized tree place
one end of a stout pole. Rest the
other end of a fork formed by fasten
ing together two 4x4 inch scantlings
or other similar timbers by means of
a rope or stay chain and spreading
apart the bottom. To the pole or
cross piece attach two strong ropes
long enough to reach the ground. Tie
to the ends of these ropes a 3x3 inch
oak or other hard wood scantling 4
feet long with two pins inserted- in
either end at right angles to each oth
er. About eight inches from each end
of this square timber round off a
space about three inches long on which
LIFTING BEEVES.
place two iron rings. To. the rings
attach iron hooks or stay chains.
Alter the animal is' killed
killed and hind legs are skinned, in
sert the hooks in the large tendon
above hock joint.
Two men, one at each end of the
gamble, can easily lift the carcass,
either raising it off the ground at a
short distance at a time. It can be
secured at any height by means of the
rope A, which is arranged with a ser
ies of loops. These are slipped over
the turning pins or handles and thus
prevent unwinding. As the skinning
proceeds the men will have to stand
on barrels or some other elevation to
enable them to swing the .carcass
clear of the ground. This apparatus
can be used for lifting bogs, sheep, etc.,
but need not be maae so strong nor
so tall. The whole thing is entirely
home made and easily constructed.
If no tree is convenient to support
one end of the pole, a post can be set
in its place or three rails, fastened
near the top and set up like a tripod,
will do very well.
Short Notes.
Do not set up a breeding establish
ment unless vou intend to work con
stantly toward improvement. Breed
ers who are in for revenue only are
a detriment to the business.
Good horses always pay for the
cost of growing them. This can be
proven any day by visiting a large
horse market. It will also show that
there is no money in smalll common
horses.
A record for registering black-faced
mutton sheep is now being establish
Thenew record will be known as
“American Black Faced sheep
ed.
the _ __ouctj
Record.” The Secretary ofthe
ciatiod is L. W. Strong. Seville, Ohio
It is a poor sort of feeding that doe
not make note of the different quali
ties of the different foods. 4 mai
SB &SEJ? & «
NOW IS THEM
W*w A SAMPLB »Att »
KKOHDiliUoilEJii
own make
ask won
1 dealu n>
goods manufactured b»
take no others. It
to investigate by a trial. **
KIRKIMBALL, JOHEStQ
OMAHA. ltE>ai^|
fosg TOtfP
SUCRE
“ilOTHER'
*. FRIEND”
is a scientifically prepared Link
mnd harmless; every lngredietik*
recognized value and in constat i
t>T the medical profession. It iti
ens labor, Lessens Pain, Dimiju
Danger to life of Mother andS
Book “To Mothers” mailed
taining valuable information
voluntary testimonials.
' MUFIELB REGULATOR C0.,JUUlI
_ 8old by all drncEiita.
H.R.6
—2MA!|
wants ^
RELIANJ
MAN
IN EVJH
to mi
KKBKtf
TOSHA
un
mm
WILLRJl
mm
fOSTtf
WRITE I!
kSPRAYj
"Wormy Fruit ^
And L**f BU*ht
i&ssfisasJ
I a — J . aIia l^rABI
pnraotal; <*"*• ’
|M_ .UA*OW*-W ,
iprajinA with St*hj •
BS*®!®.!
BprAyiny "Ti. j
(nth* market. Tbcwaoj* J
in dm. C*talo*OB; d**"*,W
WM.STAHL.QiiiCf,Ml
Cum CoDramptloii, Congto*,
Tkroat. Sold by all Druffito oa • iwjjj
Fora Lama Sido, Back or Chest Shfloh’»
Plaatar viUgiro great satisfacuoa.-iS«^
BLOOD POISON |
A SPECIALTY.
If any ow do®1®
w® can cure tbe*1
■tinate ctM >■ *
days. Jet hi»
patliculurs and
yate our relUb IV
financial btc^L
♦:,00.000. When"*
Hnt SDrinp i*
Iodide potueiom, aarsap Till* or Ho* SprioP^
gu.rantae » core—end our M»^ic ^j^nrni
thinir that will eur® permanently. “'s
positire pi
sealed, free. Coo* Rbmedt Co., Chicago^
EABJrX.
Iha Vomnni T.lttla Pilll ffl
b^wTtf.utti.1 ^®*'*J*
• Famoo* Little Pill* for Con.ti
bo, Dr»popalo.ifo Noaeeo.>oP»ia_,
[■■ported Prrcberoo ""f ^‘"ai
rouio. MSB
oodaltnatlotts. Writ® Jo P» —
isrststs
OMAHA BDSIMKSS HOJ
i^stMdyewj
I>t*ing and Cleaning
1321 FarnamS^.,Omaha- CorAM-"
Council Bluffs. Send for circuw^
WILLPIPED .
he*rt lchras. °J“E£ii.5
>fcl. ow <w «*•«■«
*sr?
Munpl* Book*, ot*t I
Farrell *oo.. Ea*ia in" “**53»*
Pmrm^ Jhe Apnla M
Caa " aifniTag Ti "— mMdl
MASKS,
f
■arblaa, J! »hoW**J
ing to our line r*rn*» * *
-, CITY B. T. CO.. nX*JzZ^<m
’HOI.ESALR HARNESS and SW®)’/'?CM
WARE. C. D. WOODWORK' J
Varnam Street, Omaha. Nebr»»»*. ^
iwi
soup OMAHA
WOODBROS.I
■an. WALTER E. WOOD. ««"• «»■ “lTi
Wa.111. n«ee.t reparW fart'l«A»‘l-,~r
