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 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. 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