SC'#:'
K&
'V?/
> JU»T
is
. v v ■
S'
YOU AND I ALONE.
If jrou and I wero young main,
Juat you and I Mono,
Woi ‘'
vould wo rhoooe the sntnn old paths, doar,
That we so Ion • havo known!
Would we be so fur apart to-day
While all these years havo down,
If you and I woro'voung again,
•din
dust you and I alone?
What would it matter if tho world
Reeled on Its Kiddy way? j
What if all men and woman, too,
Were wrinkled, old and srayH
Would It not be uu Ec>n. dear, •
As hrivlit. ns over shone, ^
It you and J ware young again!
I wonder If you over think
Of days so long gone by,
I wonder If one vain vogret
H er dims your loving eyo.
1 only know I no'or shall taste
The bliss I might have known.
When you and 1 wore young, dour,
Just you and I alone.
Geralda’s Delusion.
UY MARION I.KUUY.
CHAPTER II—CONTINUKP.
••Do not tako that tono with mo,
Arthur,” sho nays plaintively, just
brushing her tlry and angor-hright
ened eyes suggostivoly with a hand
• V kerchief. “Of course, I have no
f v , right to intorforo; but. as your near
; :\ relation and an old ma'rriod woman,
„ I thought I might speak a word . in
soason. And, my dear boy, you
know that I havo only your interest
And—and that of propriety at heart.”
“And you think propriety is out*
raged here?” Arthur Macdonald asks
*' aternly.
iElsie clasps her hands with a little
■ft' . fluttering cry and a quick look ol ap
■> |*eal at her mother. Goralda smiles
*f| : a curious painful smile that tells
. of a hurt endurod, though the proud
oyos novor droop, and tho Arm hands,
ff.. lightly linkod before her, do not
v; V tremble.
*' ( Lady Conway wipes her oyes again
and answers quiokly:
; ‘ “No, t no—Heaven forbid that I
should say or think thoro was any.
thing really wrong! I should not
i . liave used tho word ‘propriety’; it
•qtf. does not do justlco to my moan
tng. •Conventionalities’ is better.
. You will admit, my dear Arthur.that
like most men, you aro disposed to
' pay but small rospoet to them.
Now, that is a mistake and a danger
ous one, as I moan, with your per
« mission, to show you. ”
"S ( She pauses, with a coaxing, oaross
tng smile, whioh seems to ontroat tho
; - nan to whom her appeal is made to
■ Agree with and spare hor tho troublo
, Cf further explanation. Hut no mask
f could bo more repulsive than Arthur
, Macdonald’s faco. She turns away
l:, And vents her growing irritation on
if her daughter, whoso eager disapprove
log glance ohanoea just then to en
? ? counter hers.
iw '*Lo, Elsie,” sho exclaims grandly,
\ With full consciousness that hero at
loast she can command and, at tho
; warao tune, deal a sharp stab in tho
breast o! her 6llent and statuesque
; :i —‘ff° to y6ur own room, child!
,, There is something I have to say to
i your cousin whioh it is as well you
;; should not hear. ”
. Elsie raises hor brows and shrugs
- her pretty shoulders in vain protest
' against a decision so little to hor
taste, but nevertheless steps back
demurely into the house, when her
* cousin's clear voice recalls hor.
••Come hero. Elsio,” he says, meot
- tng the glance of the troubled blue
‘ i-., eyes with a reassuring smile, and
holding out his hand, which the girl
eagerly clasps. “As your .mother
proposes to lecture me in Miss
, Blake's presonce, I am sure she will
< ■ aay nothing unlit for you to hear.”
This is a deliberate challenge—a
{" ■ declaration of war, as Lady Conway
f r feels, and she accepts it at once.
' # Conciliation has failed hor; sho will
y! ’■ atrlke withoutjmorcy now.
v - “Miss Blake!” sho echoes, with a
•cornful little laugh. “If Miss Blake
iffer:, only knew it, 1 am speaking as much
fi’ in her interest as in your own. You
V *et a seal upon my lips when you
keejl Elsie here, Arthur. In her
" presence I can hardly use my plain
est words of gwarnlnff-"
4V “Say nothing to Miss Blake that
> , you would not say to her!" Arthur
interrupts with savage sternness;
„ -*nd Lady Conway's black eyes flash.
“Talk common sense, and bo de
p cently respectful to your cousin,
sf* Arthur Macdonald! It is a wrong to
K to drag her name into this die
4 eusslon. When my daughter calmly
r 1, nettles down in the house of a young
k> ' widower, to whom she is in no way
g related, upon whom she has no pos.
kf' aible claim, plays tho part of mother
to his children and chief companion
kir to himself, rules in his house, and
. rejects with insolent indifference the
•/.- advice of those older and wiser than
herself— then, and not till then, will
' anyone have the right to speak of
?■ . Elsie Conway as 1 now speak of Miss
* | ; Geralda Blake!"
Jf.W
ft-; i
A?:
I
Geralda moves a step or two for
ward. her pale lips apart. But. be
fore a word can pass them, Arthur
has laid a firm and gentle Band upon
Iter wrist
Si
C '
vR;
A*
m
“Geralda!" he exclaims quietly,and
with something like a smile.
Elsie, watching eagerly, sees the
proud eyes soften and droop, a lovely
flush overspread tne white throat
and face, and settles in her own mind
horn the affair will end.
“On Alias Geralda Blake's behalf,
*s my own, 1 will answer you,”
Arthur goes on, turniug with per
fect composure to the angry woman,
who, not possessing her daughter's
philosophy, will not even yet believe
that her cause is lost. “Your
charges are categorical, Lady Con
Way, and I will take them in order,
if you please. You object, on the
.ground that Miss Blake is too young
■and handsome, to her holding the
post of instructress to my children,
though their dead mother loved and
trusted her, and left them in her
charge.”
“1 say that you are too young; that
the cannot hold such a post without
«*
V'- • ■ ■>'. *• -
, . §
•,v K ■
laying herself • open to misconstruc
tion; that malevolent gossips say sho
has held it too long already."
••Though for the past two years I
havo been at the other end of tho
world, and you havo kindly chapor
oned tho party since my return,”
Arthur says, with an odd smile; “but
that, is a detail, I admit Well, Lady
Conwuy, 1 am bound to confess that
there is something of senio and reu
son' In what you say. ”
“My dear boy!" Lady Ccnway
break i In joyously,her eyes brighten
ing with a gleam of tho triumph she
fools, the triumph that is all tho
moro delicious from being so utterly
unoxpocted just then, “1 know you
only wanted a warning word; your
common son,so and high honor would
do tho rest, Miss lllake, I am sure,
will forgivo mo!”—turning with sud
don overpowering graclousness to
lieralda.
But Arthur cuts her explanations
and apologies unceremoniously
short.
j “Miss Blako has nothing to for
! give,” he says, with a mischievous
; twinklo in his doop-bluo eyes; “Miss
Blako entirely agrees with mo that
her present position at tho Larches
is untenable, and has resigned it to
night."
“Bofore—before I spoke?" tho
lady stammers, looking from one to
the other with a curious mixture of
bewilderment and dread. “Oh, I do
not understand!” she adds with a
nervous laugh. "You are joking,
Arthur!"
“Not at all," the young man
answers coolly; “I would not be so
disrespectful to your earnestness; be
sides, in any case, this would be but
a sorry subject for a joko. I am tell
ing you slmplo facts, Lady Conway.
Before I know that you had in any
way interested yourself in tho matter,
Miss Blake had placed her resigna
tion in my hands, guided, I suppose,
by some such reasons as those you
suggost. ”
“She acted with a most creditable
discretion,” Lady Conway says, with
rathor a ghastly smile; then adds,
with irrepressible eagerness—“And
you accepted It—sho is to go?”
Arthur Macdonald’s face brightens
with a Hash of triumph as he crosses
suddenly to Geralda's sido and takes
her unresisting hand in his. The
action is a death-blow even to Lady
Conway's incredulity; she hardly
needs the words that accompany if
to tell her that her hard-fought fight
is lost.
••Yes, I aeeepted it,” he answers,
clearly and proudly; “but, if words
of mine can avail, she will not go,
Lady Conway; she will stay here, as
my wuoi
There is no mistaking' the whole
hearted satisfaction, the pride and
joy with which he utters the last sig
nificant phrase. But, looking curi
ously from him to the beautiful
>woman whose hand he holds, Elsie is
struck and startled by the expression
of the latter’s face. It is not that
Miss Blake looks proud or abashed,
or painod or triumphant., . Any one
of thoso feelings would have suited
the situation equally well, though
Elsie privately thinks the lucky gov
erness ought to bo fit to jump for joy.
But her face tolls of none of these;
it is stamped with a strong look of
ghastly terror; and, when Arthur
turns to her with the two words “my
wife,” she winces visibly, and places
one hand above her heart, with a
quick fierce gesture, as though to
subdue some sudden pang. •
But all this is noticed only by the
acute observer. Lady Conway is too
savagely indignant to notice any
thing, and Arthur is bent only on con
vincing and punishing the woman who
has darod to assail his beautiful love.
So, while Elsie criticizes them all
and Geralda Blake tries to overcome
the momentary faintness that assails
her, these two stare mutely into
each other's eyes, each waiting for
the other to renew the attack.
Lady Conway is the first to tire of
that oppressive silence.
"I beg your pardon. Arthur,” she
says; “the whole matter has been—I
will not say so improper, as that
phrase naturally offends you—but so
altogether unconventional, that I
really could not guess, and easily
fell into the error we must all re
gret. Am I—but of course I am—to
congratulate you ?"
"That is for Miss Blake to say,”
Arthur answers promptly. “I have
pleaded hard, but as yet I can boast !
of no triumph, Lady Conway. Geral- j
da,”—seizing her hands, and speak
ing with an ardent passion that
makes l^ady Conway tingle with in- :
dignation—“I am still waiting for
But Geralda has none ready. She
! is trembling violently, and the mo
mentarily uplifted eyes have an an
guished look that thrills Elsie Con
way’s worldly-wise young heart with
sudden pity. But Elsie's mother
only says, with scornful omphasis
"I think you will not have long to
wait; 1 think I could answer myself.
Miss Blake is not likely to refuse so
generous, so chivalrlc an offer as
yours.”
••Generous, chivalric,” Arthur
echoes, with an angry*flash; then he
checks himself, and says, with a
proud smile and a tender expression
in his dark blue eyes, ••Miss Blake
knows, Lady Conway, that the happi
ness of my life is in her hands, that
it is my own strong and passionate
wish that she should be my wife.
Geralda”—turning to her with an
eager, earnest sincerity that removes
all awkwardness from this very pub
lic declaration of his love, “say that
you at least believe me—say that
you trust my love!”
Geralda Blake looks at him a sec
ond, and seems to hesitate over her
answer—to hesitate strangely. Lady
Conway thinks—then- suddenly she
extends her slim white hand, and
voluntarily places it in hia, saying
with a smile that change* the whole
character of her lace
••Ye*, I believe and truet you, Mr.
Macdonald; I have no choice but to
believe and trust the noblest gentle
man I know, e«d-”
Sh£ pausos there with a look that
m any other than Geralda Blake
would have been coquettish, it dazzles
and bowlldors Arthur Macdonald.
! She has won his heart long since,
I she turns his brain completely now.
“And whatP” ho cries, holding her
hand passionately fast, repeating her
last words. By an odd coincidence
he has forgotten the presepco of
Lady Conway and her daughter, just
when Geralda remembers it, to tho
exclusion of all other things. “Fin
ish tho speech, my darling. You
have learned to believe in and trust
me. Say you have learned to love
me too,”
Tho lovely violet eyos moet Lady
Conway’s, and the elder1 woman
sickons at tho conscious triumph she
reads there.
“And to love you too!” Geralda
echoes clearly and softly.
“My darling! And you will be my
wife!*”
“And I will be your wife.”
To Klsio Conway’s acute and criti
cal ear there seems something oddly
jerky and mechanical in the way the
words are spoken; but, between rap
turo on the one side and rage on the
other, noither Arthur nor Lady Con
way is in a state of mind to form a
dispassionate judgment. It is only
indeed when Geralda lays her hand
gently on Mr. Macdonald’s sleeve
and reminds him in a lowered tone,
which is yet, as Elsie thinks, malici
ously distinct, of Lady Conway’s
presence, that he becomes quito con
scious whero and with whom he is.
Then he blushes in a most boyish
fashion, and drawing Geralda’s hand
within his arm, brings her a little
nearer to the white-faced, hard-eyed
woman who represents his kith and
kin.
“Come, aunt Eliza,” he says, with
much pride and something of appeal
in his voice and eyes, for he wants to
conciliate her now for Geralda’s sake,
“we have had a little difference to
night but you will not let that spoil
your welcoipe to my wife!”
Elsie looks anxiously at her
mother, whose fierce ungovernable
temper sho knows by cruel experi
ence. Will sh» be able, for doceqoy’s
sake to control it now? Something
like a prayer—although the good
natured little worldling is not much
given to praying—flutters to Elsie
Conway's lips; but it is a vain one.
Lady Conway acknowledges her
wuu-j*i* u "ivn u ui unu ataic ui
insolent disdain, and, without a word
of answer sweeps angrily away.
Tears of mortification and wounded
pride rush to Elsie's eyes and blind
her so completely that for the min
ute she cannot see the pair who
stand dumbfounded in the moonlight.
What must they think of her, what
.will they say, for of course they
guess the real reason of her mother’s
rage? Acting for once on impulse
only, she springs out and confronts
them in the path, her blue eyes
sparkling through the mist of tears.
“Arthur,” she cries earnestly, “I
am so sorry, so ashamed! Mother
will be sorry to-morrow, but mean
while she has hurt you both.”
Arthur Macdonald bends and kisses
the pretty little upturned face, a3 he
might kiss that of a child who had
been unexpectedly good. He has
always liked ‘this queer little cousin
of bis, and he is downright grateful
to her now.
“You at least will give my wife a
welcome, Elsie," he observes kindly;
“this is a new cousin, Geralda—no,
something more than that; I hope
you two will be sisters and friends."
“I hope so, too,” Elsie replies
cordially, and then, with her happy
knack of unembarrassed ease, she
lifts her little face and purses up her
rosy lips, as she says with a gay lit
tle laugh, “You must stoop to kiss
me, you ‘daughter of the gods,’ for
I am but a diminutive mortal, and
could not possibly reach your lips. ”
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
Stenography It Nothing New.
Most people probably believe that
stenography is a modern invention.
But it is not. So&te think that the
Egyptians, Phoenicians and Jews
aliko knew it, but it is uncertain.
It is certain that the Romans used it
extensively. The creator of Homan
stenography was Cicero’s freed
inan. Marcus Tullius Tyro. By
means of his “notes” the speech of
the younger Cato against Catiline
was taken down on the fifth day. of
December, 63, B. C. Cicero’s speech
for Milo was preserved by means of
stenograpmc cnaraciers. Maecenas
loved stenography and caused Au
gustus to take a liking to it and to
establish a system of regular in
struction in 300 ltoman schools.
Under Diocletian the teachers of
stenography were paid out of the
public treasury 75 denarii per month
for each pupil After the introduc
tion of Christianity the popes, bish
ops and the fathers used stenography.
In Greece, also, -stenography was
known and employed. Trials and
public speeches were reported in
shorthand.
ilroken Friendship. ,
Mrs. Smith—And how is your neigh
bor? Mrs. Brown—She’s well enough,
I suppose. I haven't seen her to
speak to for six weeks. Mrs. Smith
| —Why. I thought you were on the
l most friendly terms. Mrs. Brown—
I Well, we used to be, but we’ve ex*
1 changed servants.*—Vogue.
I» Fays to lie Liberal.
® Mrs. Slimdiot—Put plenty of but
ter on the table. New Girl, who has
worked in boarding houses before—
Half a pound, mum?. Mrs. Slimdiet
—Two or three pounds. If there isn’t
enough to smell they may take some.
—Now York Weekly.
•,,/ -I ‘ ' ;
FARM AND HOUSEHOLD.
GOOD WOOL AND HOW IT
CAN BB PRODUCED.
Fine Wool 1* Growing In Demand—
About Etfi-No Reflow of Hep—
Tariff on Animal*—Horticultural
Bint* and Honeehold Helps.
To Slake Wool More Profitable.
There has been a steadily increas
ing' demand of late years for fine
; grades of wool, and while foreign
! growths have had a tendency to com
I pete successfully with our home
grown poorer grades of wool, they
have practically had no effect upon
the sale of the finer grades, it is to
this point that farmers should have
their attention drawn frequently,
for very many who go into the sheep
business think that wool is just the
same, no matter how grown. They
secure good blooded stock, and nat
urally expect that these high priced
animals produce good, salable wool.
They are somewhat astonished when
they find that after all more depends
upon the proper care of the sheep
than upon the breed. Poor and com
mon grade wools in this country are
not in great demand. They are not
profitable to the sheep grower, and
it is the class of sheep raisers that
grow this wool whom we always hear
complaints from.
Fine, home made woolen clothes,
are daily growing id popular demand
here, says the American Cultivator,
and the large mills are absorbing
such grades of wool rapidly. People
who wear these clothes are willing
to pay fair prices for them, and the
mills consequently offor a premium
for the fine grades of wool. We can
depend upon this demand a great
deal better than we can on any
short-lived fad for an inferior article.
There are a few points about wool
that even the old experienced flock
master, as well as the beginner might
think about The fine grade of wool
that takes well to-day is the one that
has a good fine staple, but not too
silky in fiber. The wool is graded
often according to the even develop
ment of it.
If developed evenly it will resist
tension equally. This wool can be
woven freely and easily by the mills,
and it makes good cloth that will be
equally strong in all parts. No breed
alone will produce such wool. The
finest breed in this world, unless at
tended to properly will not give an
evenly developed wool fiber. The
strength and development of the
uucr uo[wuuo upuu but} min urm good
health and vigor ot the animals, and
if these are checked in any way the
fiber will be long and strong in some
plaees and weak and short in others;
This production of inferior wool is
caused by every neglect to feed the
animals regularly, by starvation and
by exposure to inclement weather.
They all combine to injure the fiber,
so that it cannot pass muster as a
fine grade. If treated in this way
continually, the patches of poor fiber
will increase in number so that the
wool will degenerate annually, and
finally become so poor that it does
not pay to keep the sheep.
Good staple should also be evenly
lubricated along in its whole length,
and this can only be accomplished by
having the animals in perfect health.
If growers would stop to think of
how much this neglect injures the
fiber of their wool when placed upon
the markets they would give more
attention to their animals. We must
have good stock, but more than that,
we must have the time and patience
to grow good wool by attending to
the sheep.
, Somethlug Abuut
Authorities on scientific cooking
tell us many things that are well
worth remembering. A writer in
Food tells us something about eggs.
Eggs should never be cooked before,
they are twenty-four hours old, and
they are much better if kept forty
eight hours or until their whites are
set The white in a freshly laid egg
cannot be. beaten stiff until it has laid
on ice for some time. - The old way
of testing eggs—that of putting
them in water—is one of the best
If they are fresh enough for cooking
they will sink. On the contrary, if
the eggs rise to the surface air
enough has penetrated the shell to
make the egg unfit for use. although
its yolk may look perfect and no
odor can be detected. Decomposi
tion begins when the consents of the
shell are exposed to the external air,
and the fact of the egg floating in
water‘is proof positive that it has
been lightened by air. The digest!
kUitv tKn kawrf.k/viUA ___
favorite theme. Eggs should never
be actually boiled, as the extremely
high temperature of the water hard
ens and toughens ttye whites at once,
rendering them indigestible. If they
are submerged in water just below
the boiling point and kept at that
temperature for one half hour they
will be almost as digestible as raw
eggs.
▲ good rule to eook eggs for in
valids is to pour boiling water in a
tin pail having a tight cover; put the
eggs in the pail carefully, cover it
tightly and let it stand entirely away
from the fire for five minutea The’
whites of the eggs cooked in this
manner will be perfectly coagulated.
soft, tender and easily assimilated._
Journal of Agriculture.
There Ie Mo lUflow or Sap.
Mr. Charles R. Barnes, professor
of botany in the university of Wis
consin, in ah address to the state
Horticultural society, thus gives the
latest accepted conclusion of science:
“Before passing from this topic of
the movement of water which sup
plies evaporation, I must allude to
a very common and widespread idea
—at least I judge it to be widespread,
because it is so frequently pro
pounded by my students—that the
“flap goes down In winter and up in
spring.” Just where the sap is sup
posed to go in winter is not exactly
clear, since, if the roots are absorb
ing water in the fall when the evapor
ation is diminished, they are likely
to have quite as much water as they
can hold already. The conception,,
apparently, is that all. of the water
lodged in the trunk and spreading
branches goes down into the roots.
It needs, however, only the most
casual examination of trees in winter
to discqver that at this time they
are almost saturated with water.
The twigs of the hickory tree, for
example, will be frozen on a cold day
in winter so that they are brittle
almost as glass, and one can snap off
a twig half an inch in diameter as
though it were an icicle. The same
twig, when not frozen, on a mild day
will be so tough that there will be
no possibility of breaking it
“Again, !f one cuts off a branch
from a tree in winter and brings it
into a warm room, he will quickly
discover that water is oozing from
the cut end, showing that the twigs
aro almost saturated with it. As a
matter of fact, the water in trees in
creases from midsummer or early fall
to the beginning of growth in early
spring. There is thus no necessity
for any “going up” of the sap in
spring until the leaves are expanded
and the water with which the tree is
already saturated begins to be
ovaporated from the foliage.”—Flor
ida Despatch.
Decrease In Bumble Bees.
There are, at least m the older
sections of the country, not nearly so
many bumble bees as there were soon
after its settlement. We grow as
much clover as ever, but it is cut
earlier, and the men and boys en
gaged in haying have more time to
fight bumble bees than they did
when all grass was cut with the
scythe. There are not so many good
places for the female bumble bees to
lay their eggs in spring as there
used to be. The soil is firmer from
longer cultivation, and there are
fewer rotten stumps. In our boy
hood, pretty much all the fun we
found in haying and harvesting
time was in fighting bumble bees
whose nests were in danger when
ever we cut near where they were.—
American Cultivator.
Horticultural Hlntl.
Rubbish around trees harbors mice.
Plums naturally grow in clumps,
and the seed will therefore bear thick'
planting.
oAjroiiouuou gnruuer bays iiiab
tile drainage must precede the ma
pure for successin gardening or.
fruit growing.
Some one has said that when the
farm breaks out into smiles of fruits
and flowers it becomes the most
oharming spot on earth.
It is not worth while to have an
orchard unless it is given proper
care. The orchard cannot prune
itself or defend itself against insects.
The director of the Oklahoma ex
periment station recommends as a
remedy for various squash bugs,
spraying the vines with soap suds in
which is enough Paris green to give
a decided tinge of color.
It pays to sort fruits before offer
ing for sale. Frequently the second
class by being uniform, will bring as
much or more than the mixed lot,
while' the first-class will bring much
better prices than when mixed with
inferior fruit.
An orchardist says that he plants
his vegetables in the young orchard
so that one cultivation will do for
both. He says his rows of trees are
thirty-three feet apart which admits
seven rows of strawberries, nine rows
of corn, or eleven rows of potatoes.
At a meeting in New York a horti
culturist said he had always made a
sheep pasture of, his orchard, and
that they were the best insecticides
he ever tried. He advised keeping
100 sheep on every ten acres of
orchard. Give them plenty of lin
seed meal and bran which will make
them ravenous for apples.
Household Helps.
Thinnest and clearest of “clear
soups” are now very much in order.
A new name at the clubs for Welsh
rabbit, or rarebit, is “Cardiff hare.”
Lettuce as a cure for insomnia is
more and more favored by the doc
tors.
Those who eat inordinately of
radishes soon take a gloomy view of
life. •
The introduction of grated pine
apple into cake is voted a great sue
cuss.
Modern codfish balls leave that
particular kind of fish to the imagin*
ation.
To be “intensely fashionable” eat
your strawberries with a fork—never
with a knife.
No city baker can make cake to
compare with the “gentlewoman
housekeeper. ”
The number of courageous people
who eat oysters out of season is said
by dealers to be increasing every
year.
Scotch toast is the best dish ever
invented for the pleasant and satis
factory utilization of “old. stale
bread.”
Flatirons should be kept as far re
moved from the steam of cooking as
possible, as this is what causes them
to rust.
Tile that can be purchased for a
few pennies each are at once neat
and convenient to place between the
kitchen table and hut cooking ves
sela
A towel rack made with several
arms fastened to a half-circular cen
ter, which in turn fastens to the wall,
it a convenient place for drying i»«t^
towels.
A THOROUGH^'
- Ml..ourl.„ Who ««<».!
The moon looked to **v]
perfect tlje other ‘M
ike an egg with one ful
ly rounded out, eal . ® Bo‘ Pn.
Kansas Cltv Star^ st Wri*«i«l
and insignificant ‘^l
the early evening. L *1 ‘J* Ua
aimlessly and slow?, 8o«
heavens could have iL Wro*»
for a lighted
along in her somewhat *1
want of symmetry n ,Hdlcl
climjwd higher and me? t?
mutinous-looking clou?. ‘ vtt*1
in glory and seemed to h. ?®1
rkhs-ra-.:ir£»,
taartrs-Ssl
assajsSiss
no more light? Hav9 ??® **
thrown our queen?" And ot?
stars seemed to hum? ?‘?®r
blue space as if charged w?
sages of encouragement . .
w* °ih?lp,to^So3,
ty. And she, behind the bl»„k
tranquilly pursued her heaven
sending before her a radian?.
the white clouds caught wV
ness and were illuminated .
tho &lory she herself
step from behind the shadow v
victor ous, not pale and fright
hut full of confidence in her ril
her. kingdom and her power tot
it. There was no trace of tn« i
perfect about her then, the
clouds like a veil covering the i
lines, made her seem again a per
golden globe. As another black*
same hurrying up and obscured*
brightness, perhaps a little Midi
light would flicker through, mark!
where she took her undaunted
or a narrow golden rim would i
fora minuto like a scimeter M|
she were trying to cut her w,»0
or sometimes one would see fc
mayed, what looked like her tM
ghost flying from the all-surroua
blackness.
There was one steady pa?e»J
where the clear blue way cut t!
clouds apart, and down this path h>
imperial brightness stopped sereoelj
disdaining the discordant glo,
above and below her. And even |
the darkest times, when the blid
nesB spread all around, up in the i
nf.tlv the clouds were white and cl«
showing behind the darkness h.
light reached out to bless tbs lop
parts of her kingdom. Once i
OQOIUCU HU
Of
kiuau uiuug me very u
a murderous-looking mas* i
clouds as if she knew not what la
meant. As the blackness wasnl
dued the white clouds ranged then
selves into little mackereled wan
patines of silver turning to
where she smiled upon them,
times her path seemed lost as it d
had been driven out of her court
but the illusion vanished Tith tl
falsifying1 cloud and the moon stun
down again from her appointed pirn
The scientists say she is old u
wrinkled; that she has lost allj
brightness that once was hers,
dauntless must her spirit be thi
even after nature has told her I
her work is done, she yet refuses I
be a useless part of the univen
but still clothes herself in light u
beauty and holds her regal mjb
the deep blue heavens, and even ire
black clouds seems to draw an add*
glory of victory, which makes
still more radiant.
Beautiful queen! Beaching (
to the far away sun she stores 1
heart full of his light and, in
to pour out all the splendor of it (
mankind she does continual battl
unwearied and undismayed, wi
those wandering hosts that in
wanton sportiveness 'seek to
prison her in the heavens belli
them, leaving her earthly worship#
in darkness.
Street Ball ways.
One of the principal sources
iconomy in street car traction is
maintenance in perfect condition
the rails. Dirty rails are a drag
the car that represents so mud
dollars and cents, and many mow
less efficient methods have been
posed whereby this source of *
;an be stopped. The newest of
.8 one in which the principle o
ticity is introduced for the first
ind in which also a greater deg
ightness of construction is atwi
rhe cleaner is attached to tM
tud reduces the cost of cleaning
rails to twelve cents per day.
sxpense of the various methods oi
sleaning usually adopted is *s U
AJjr uouu » - - ...Hi,
per mile of single line in fine
and fifty cents a mile in tM*
watering by cart twice 9 !'hofl
cents per mile It has ^ ^
that the tractional resistance
with by a car running on rai
by the previous car was fro
five pounds to thirty pounds les
when runninsr on dirty rai s.
Innocent!®. y
The Husband—Will you go^si?
theater with me to-night* ^
The Wife-With Pleasukre0,
there is a favor I wish to ,nf
The Husband—Name ll> n0f
The Wife—It is only ml“°*yyo«
you have all the after #1
you. Won’t you kindly #
that man now instead of 8
to see him to-night?
The Music LeMO* ffeIt
••Your little daughter. 98 piff.
,t awhifeago, seemed the very i
re of misery.” «.taai»usie’
••She was going to t»9D
ison." . (.for, who i*
••And your eldest daug tb»»
iw going out, looks ev
iserable.” ' . a musicler
••She is going to g‘ve
n.”—New York Press.
