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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (May 27, 1909)
The House of the Black By F. L. Pattee Ring Copyright, 1905 I I—.— — CHAPTER X—Continued. Then he heard a low growl over the ridge and sat up with a start. Another Bhower was coming up. The lightning, at first mere spurts of light across the west gleamed red and sin ister through the smoke. The wind Slunged over the ridges In wild panic. ellowlng and shtreking. It fell upon the rickety old mill and wrenched it with violence till It groaned and rattled and roared. The thunder grow louder with every peal; the lightning flickered and streamed balefully. Young Jim aeemed oblivious of It. He heaped the wood ever and anon upon his fire, and continued his steady contemplation of the flames. Then some subtle magne tism drew up his glance and there sho was In the doorway, looking him full In the eyes. "I'm not just sure that the mill's •afe In all this wind." She eame up to the fire, so near to him that he could have touched her. There seemed to be a wistful note in her voice. "Oh. It’s stood worse blows than this. In the winter, when the leaves are off, the winds sweep down these valleys fearfully.” "It ’ll put out our fire, won't It?” "Shouldn’t wonder; but we can have one Inside. Let It go. Believe I’ll get In some slabs while I have a chance." Ha fell to the work with energy. "Aren't you afraid of thunder?" ho called out cheerily. "I hope not, for this Is going to be an old rattler, 10 times worse than the other." “No-o, I'm not afraid." There was the slightest note of doubt In the tone. No wonder; the surroundings were In deed strange and fearsome—the shud dering old mill; the Intense darkness; the fire, lighting everything weirdly; •nd the nearing crash and bellow of the storm. "This will cool off the Run, won't It?” she asked almost eagerly. "Sure. We’ll get out In the morn ing all right." Ho was flying back and forth between the slab pile and the tntll. "I hope we can," she echoed with a suspicion of wistfulness. “But can’t I help?” “Oh, no; I’ve got enough. Better come In now. Hear the rain come down the valley there! Glorious, ain't It? I Just love a night gust like this.” The storm was Indeed breaking upon them In full force. The thunder, with crash after crash, broke over their very heads; then It bellowed and roared and tumbled from ridge to ridge. The continuous volley with Its rip and roar was deafening. The lightning, al most blood red from the smoke, shook Its fingers In their very faces. The rain came, not in drops but In sheets. It roared on the mill roof as If hurled from a steamer hose. It hurtled down the wind In watery wrath, dashing wild flood* as from buckets. There seemed nothing In the whole landscape save water and blinding gleams and crash ing noises. The fire by the brook struggled fitfully for a time and then tiissed out. The stream began to rise by leaps and bounds until it wus al most by the door. The mill roof had been well made; dt leaked only here and there, and they kept dry. Jim had a roaring fire In the stove, which made the little room Tenlly cozy and homelike. He chopped at the slabs and fed them Into the flames, while she sat on a bench and watched him. His confidence and cheery good fellowship were contag ious. What a glorious, self reliant fel low he was! The thunder and light ning were nothing to be nervous about; he laughed at them. And, somehow, despite the wildness and the crash without, sho did not feel frightened or even 111 at ease. At length the storm began to sub aide. The thunder rolled off Into the east; the lightning eame In •heets rather than In blinding bolts; the rain began to slacken. In an hour It was all over. "Did you sleep any?” he asked sud denly. "1 had Just got to sleep when it be Ban to thunder.” "Well, It's all over now. You must «et some more sleep; It's a long time before morning. Say, I'ni going Inside the mill there. If you want anything, pound on the boards. Good night." Before she could answer he was gone. flBhe lay down again In the bunk, drew iup the lap robe and the next thing •he was conscious of was the sound of voices outside. It was broad day light. ”So, you’re at the bottom of this, beigh? Where Is Rose?” It was her father’s voice, angry and threatening. "She’s In the mill." Rose sprang out Instantly. "I’m all right, pap,” she cried. “This Is a pretty trick.” Sho could •ee at a glance that he was angry, through and through. "Here Amos and Ab and I’ve been hunting these moun tains all night long, and your mother’s almost wild, and you up here with that •camp.” "Why, father he-” "I don't want to hear a word aboul it—not a word. If he's up here, then it's on account of you. I know that. He's aneaked up here after you, and goi you tn ahead of that fire on purpost to show ofT. I hain't a doubt he sot li ilimself. I’m going to look Into this pret-t-t-ty close, young man. Now. yoi atart. Clear out of here this minute I can take my daughter home alone.’ Mis anger almost choked him. Yount Jim shouldered his ax without a won and turned to start. “Walt Mr. Farthing. Here, father—' "Not another word. I-’’ "Father, I’m going to speak.” Then was a flash In her eyes and a rtni In her voice that silenced the mar “Mr. Farthing was here In the moun tains to look after his wood lot. H met me wholly by accident In the val ley down here. If he hadn't I thin I would have been burned; for wouldn’t have left Pomp until It wa too late. He knew the way Into thl valley, and we came just In time. An there was no way out last night. Yo know that. You’ve got no right t •peak as you did.” ■’We'll go home,” he said gruffl; "Come along with me.” "Not till I thank Mr. Farthing." Sh ■went impulsively to where the youn man was standing and took his ham “I want to thank you for what yo have done. Mr. Farthing. I owe yo ^everything.” "Oh, It’s nothing,” he said with al fected carelessness, but there was look on his face that even the squii noticed. “Come along, Rose,” he said with a angry snap. "Good bye, Mr. Farthing." SI turned and waved her hand at hi girlishly. "Goodbye,” he echoed, then I Cunged over the ridge toward the Wl! eadows. The two strode on In silence till .the reached the entrance of the valle Suddenly a cry of horror burst fro; her lips. She baited Instantly ar rubbed her eyes. The valley, whlc 1 yesterday lay a great mass of vegeta I tion through which one could see for I only a few rods In any direction, lay swept as clean almost as a room. A I few scattered snags, still smoking feebly, a blackened log here and there, ' hut aside from these nothing but fire ] cracked rocks and bare earth. They could see the whole length of the val ley to the Wack Isig road, and It was a mere blackened trough in which the j flooded stream was visible Its entire length. "It made clean work, didn't it?” she said at length. "Yes,” he mumbled. "Ah, there's the buggy." She stopped again near a heap of tw isted red iron. "Yes. Imagine how we felt when we found that. We looked every Inch of this valley over for what was left of you and Pomp. There’s Amos and Ab. Hello-o-o-o! Found her! Now get In.” They drove In silence down the val ley and out through the gaps. Rose knew her father, and she realized that the less she said In his present mood tho better It would be. Only once did the old man speak, and that was when they were almost home. "Remember, Rose, what you prom ised me.” He turned and looked her full In the eyes. "You can’t break that, not If you are my daughter.” She did not answer. She was look ing with far eyes out over the range which luy veiled and dim cm the hori zon. CHAPTER XI. LOMA HELLER. Even in the remotest mountain cabin one may find comeliness—roundness of figure, and lustre of eyes, and even perfection of color and mould of fea ture. Rut beauty is quite another thing. It Is an atmosphere rather than a contour and a color; It Is a subtle blending of all things together; and it is more. There is heredity in it—the cumulative charm of a long line of fair mothers and fairer daughters. The es sence of It eludes analysis; It Is the boquet of rare wine. Indescribable and indefinable. When one finds it In the wilderness It whispers of old tragedy. It Is the full blown Jacqueminot among the Jungle thorns. There has been a rude transplanting; there is a romance to tell, though perchance It has been forgotten. No one could deny that Lona Heller possessed beuuty—a wild, barbaric type of beauty, perhaps, yet one that at tracted attention instantly and held it by a force that was little short of un canny. A single glance marked her as an exotic, a child of the South, of the Latin lands—with cheeks of pale olive, with eyes such as only the daughters of the Mediterranean ever possess, and with hair abundant and soft and glis tening In Its perfect blackness. With the sun full upon It It was still an ab solute black. The supple figure, lithe and cat-quick, the arms rounded for the dance, for the fling of the taipbou rlne or the castanets, the feet and limbs light as the daughter of Herodlas, the neck and head for toss and coquettish pose—every line and feature was of this earth, a Joy to see, but of the mo ment alone. A curious type for old Poppy Miller's cabin in the Run, a type clearly not evolved amid the Seven Mountains. No wonder that the valley folk, who had caught only glimpses of this girl, whispered among themselves, and no wonder that Tom Farthing, alive and 21, went home from tho Run In a flut ter. He spent a day in searching for a pretext for seeing her again, and he found one. It would require tact, he mused, to conquer her shyness. Doubtless he would find difficulty in seeing her at all: for she was wild as a forest crea ture and as timid. But the evening changed the face of things. She had not avoided him at all; she had been self possessed and at her ease; and there hud been in her every attitude and intonation the stateliness of one who is condescending graciously. He was the menial and she the daughter of the house. It mystified him and haunted him. As he walked home through the twilight he could think of nothing else. How could a woman like that live at Poppy Miller’s, In that squalid cabin? That was the beginning of visits. He went almost every night. He carried her water from the creek; he sawed her wood; he walked with her In the twilight. Then all In a moment she changed like an April day. As by an impulse she dropped her aloofness and reserve and made a comrade of him. It took his breath away. It sent him home power less to banish her from his thoughts. Ho was as wax In her hands; he changed wlh her every mood, and her moods were Infinite. Now he was Joy ous and confident—he could win her yet, for she loved him. It must be; then swiftly ho would despair, for she was infinitely far away* and he was but an Episode: then for a tense moment he would feel like one who awakes In a grip that holds him rigid, fight as he may—but It was only for the moment. Once he found her dressed in a strange, clinging costume of yellow, brilliant and glittering, her arms bare to the shoulders, and her feet In curious sandals. Her hair was knotted In wild, gipsy fashion. A dash of color at the crown, a sparkle of beads at the throat —he could only stare at her. "Don't you like the dress?” she [ called. "But what Is It?" . "Tout n .Iraea CJ,-w-v * '» Cl.n ' just a ureas, see: sue sprang up and spun around tilt the short skirt , stood out like a bell. "You never saw me dunce. Look!" She caught up a tambourlno-llke thing with Muttering streamers, Hung up her arms in Joyous abandon, and glided and Hashed and spun. Her eyes were full upon him. c They seemed unnaturally large and I brilliant, and always looking straight 3 into his. A moment and she sank upon s the rock. 1 "Wonderful! wonderful!" ho burst j out, strangely exhilarated. He could j not take his eyes from her. “But what kind of a dance Is It?" he . asked eagerly. “What Is it?" "It’s Just a dance." e "But where could you have learned g ** •*” j “I never learned It." u “Ah, but you must." u “It's In the blood. It's like breath ing." "The blood?—what do you mean" a What blood?” He leaned forward in e tensely. "See; here’s another." Again he n watched the Hash and weave of her bare arms, the twinkle of her feet, the e cling and swing of her garments. The n rythmic thump, thump and clatter seemed beating In his throat. The e streamers floating and circling about d her head and throat and breast, or leaping In exultation above her, dazed y him. He began to feel strange and unreal. Infinitely far off, and ever thosr n eyes were full upon him. They seemed d to be growing larger and more black h -When she stopped he drew a long breath, hut he dirt not move or speak. "We call that ‘The Fling,' " she vol unteered. We? But who—?" " The witches' fling-' Did you like It?" It was beautiful, beautiful!” he half whispered, still looking full at her. There seemed to him no past nor fu ture. no here nor there, only now and her—and It was enough Just to look. “Ah, see!" With her are flung about her head, and the ribbons flashing and twisting, she was dancing swiftly back ward down the path. He tried to follow her, but he seemed to have no power to move. Her eyes were still full upon him. "Lona,” he called. “Goodby.” She waved the streamers gaily, then disappeared Into the house. Would she come back? He watched the door eagerly until the twilight had deepened Into the darkness, but he saw her no more. The next day was Saturday. He went down earlier than usual; the sun was still in sight over the ridge, though dimmed by the smoke to a mere plate of brass. The old cabin lay dead and deserted. The blinds were drawn close; there was not even a smoke. He hesi tated a moment, then rapped at the back door, and after a long wait he rapped again. No one there. He turned and scanned the path to the creek. Ah! as ho turned again, there she was, not two steps away. She had opened the door without noise. He Jumped almost guiltily. "Why—why—you here?" he almost gasped. ‘"Come In," she said gravely. “Why, no. Perhaps we can-” "Come in." He followed her without a word. The kitchen tvas quite dark when she closed the door. A few coals glowed In the stone fireplace, but they fur nished no light. Without a word she threw on a handful of something that rustled softly; then he heard no sound. The silence was awkward. "That's been a fine day," he observed at random. “Yes." "Had the spring fever?" "No." I have. Had to drive myself to work. ■Jim's had it, and it makes him blue. It makes father work. I never saw him work so." There was no reply. Then the flame leaped up about the twigs; It climbed rapidly; and lighted up the whoe apart ment. He saw only the girl. She was sitting on a stool at the side of the hearth, and the fire brought out every detail. Then a great cat appeared from the shadows and began to rub against her. She fondled it absently, and began talking to it the artless nonsense that girls talk to cats. He was awakened by a rattling in the shed room adjoin ing. Some one was coming. "Say.” he spoke up quickly. "Hava you brought up the water yet?” "No.” "All right then, come on.” "No, no; sit here. We won’t get any water tonight." “Of course we will." He arose Im petuously and started for the door. "No—don’t." There was a note of command in her voice, but he did not notice it. Come on. It won’t be dark outside for an hour yet. Come on.” He swung out through the door, and after a wa vering moment she followed him. From the porch they went through the back yard with its litter of old wood and farming tools and decaying odds and ends. Suddenly, before they had come to the path of the rail fence, she stopped. "Let's sit awhile,” she proposed, sinking upon a limestone frag ment. He turned with a puzzled look, then arranged one of the buckets for a seat. A fringe of ragged cedars gave them almost the seclusion of a room. For a time neither spoke. A strange new mood was upon her, and it awed him. The sun disappeared, snuffed out even before, it reached the horizon. The' dull bellow of the Run, swelled high with its spring flood, came up steadily from below. The twilight, vague and unreal amid the half seen smoke, was deepening fast. A chorus of frog voices spattered shrilly from along the stream: robins and black birds were in full swing with their evening songs. “What’s the matter. Lona?" he asked, after a while. "You’re not like your self." "Ah?" "No: you're not.” "How am I different?" "I don’t know. It seems almost as if something was troubling you." "What could?" "I don’t know; but don't you get lonesome here? Say. why don’t you get out more? Why don’t you?" “Oh, bah The valley people! They’re cattle!" "But, Lona. you forget; I’m one of them, and so are you.” "I'm not!” She turned and faced him defiantly. "What do you mean?” "And you’re not; you’re different." "Different ?” "You’re like me—and we hate ’em. We just hate ’em!” “Lona!” There was a look in the girl’s eyes that frightened him. (Continued Next Week.) The Queen s Jewels. When the queen opened the English par liament she wore, for the first time, the handsome necalace that has been manu factured fer her out of the cuttings of the Culllnan diamond. Exactly how many necklaces of one kind and another she possesses she would herself be puzzled to say. Indeed, only those who have charge of her Jewel cases could say with any de gree of certainty. It was stated a few years ago that she possessed 32 tiaras, and since that time she has Inherited a large portion of the magnificent collection of Jewels possessed by her mother, the late queen of Denmark. She has, how ever, from time to time made considerable presents of her private Jewelry to several members of the royal family, including her daughters, the Princess of Wales and Princess Alexandra of Teck. She still, however, possesses one of the largest col lections of precious stones in the world and probably only the tsarina and the queen of Spain can surpass her In this respect. AU her jewels are contained In large, burglar-proof cases so arranged In sets that the queen can make up her mind almost at a glance what she will wear on any particular occasion. These cases, of course, are all carefully num bered and their contents cataloged; the Hon. Charlotte Knollys alone possesses the master key to them, and this never leaves her for an instant. Woman. Woman! thou loveliest gift that here be low Man can receive, or Providence bestow! To thee the earliest offerings belong Of opening eloquence, or youthful song. Lovely partaker of our dearest Joys! Thvself a gift whose pleasure never eloys Whose wlshed-for presence gently can ap pease The wounds of penury, or slow disease— Whose loss Is such, as through life's ted lous way No rank can compensate, no wealth re pay; Thy figure beams a ray of heavenly ligh To cheer the darkness of our earthl; night; Hall, fair Enslaver! at thy changini glance Boldness recedes, and timid hearts ad vance, Monarchs forget their scepter and the! sway. And sages melt in tenderness away. Cher first memorial da y. | t By Amy Merrils. 1 When Luclle Morgan reached her new 1 home In southern Ohio just before the clvl war broke out. her young heart was | a very storm center of rebellion. The 1 Imperious southern beauty walled : against her fate, which In the form of yellow fever had devastated the dear old plantation home and sent her, an heiress, but parentless, to her only liv ing relatives, an uncle and aunt. She shivered at their undemonstrative re I ceptlon, at the severtly of the substan ; tlal farmhouse and the simple service ] of the househld. And most of all was 1 she disgusted with the undemocratic customs of the north. On the plantation the overseer was an evil to be endured and utilized, but not to be received on terms of equality. Yet here Henry Willis, the strapping, I square shouldered, clear eyed young man who managed Uncle Johnson's I great farm, ate at the same table with ! the family and drove with them to church on Sundays. And when the garrulous aunt told her that Henry had been a waif, taken from the county poorhouse, Lucille's proud little head was held more aggressively high than ever. Yet It was Henry Willis who shed the first rays of sunshine In Lucille's saddened life. He broke the best horses on the farm for her to ride. He Initiated her Into the beauties of north ern woodlands. When she spoke hungrily of the open fireplaces at the plantation, Henry banished the cheer less box stove from her room and built a tiny fireplace In Its stead. She longed for the flowers and the birds and the sunshine, and Henry built a great flower box In her south window and bought a bird when he went to Cincinnati on business for Uncle John son. And he knew she was grateful, for when he rode up to the house from the frosty fields he could see her dark brown head among the blooming plants. When the war clouds gathered, Lu cille was the most miserable girl In Ohio. She hated those cold blooded northerners who could not understand the right of the white race to exact service from the black. She wished she was a man and could don the gray uniform. She even thought she might write to President Davis and offer her small fortune and her services as nurse to the cause. And, oh, how she despised the stolid young fellows, drill ing dally and calmly waiting orders to join the federal forces. Probably she Incorrectly measured the grim strength and determination of these northern lads, so different from the dashing, Impetuous chivalry of her southern friends. Then came the most dreadful days of all. when Henry walked Into the farm house clad In the fateful blue uniform. He had never told them of his inten tion, and he had always refrained from discussing the vexed question. Perhaps that Is one reason the girl had learned to care for him. Under her breath she had sung a tender re frain: "Tfrt Invoe rr.n nr.,? ho nrlll nof tol-o ‘"He loves me and he will not take arms against my dear south.” He followed her up the stairs, straight Into the room where every thing spoke of hls tender thoughtful ness. She walked to the window where the flowers bloomed riotously and the bird caroled madly. Then he stood beside her. She turned on him passionately: “How dare you come to me in that uniform?" He never flinched, but took both of her hands in hls. “That was the hardest part of all, Lucille, dear—to face you with that look in your eyes. This is harder than the thought of battles and wounds and prisons. But I could do nothing else—and be a man—not even for your love, the dearest thing in the world to me.” Tlie girl seemed turned to stone, and to the man at her side this was worse than an outburst of passionate re proach. “I'm not fighting against your people and your principles, Lucille, but for my flag and my president. They both need me, and Lucille, Lucille, can’t you understand? Can’t you say some thing?” Then the girl turned and looked at him with cold, pitiless eyes. "Yes, I can say just this— I hate you and I hope I may never look on your face again.” Then she turned back to the window, but the bird had stoped singing and the flowers seemed to bow their heads in sympathy. Henry walked down the narrow stairway: then came the murmur of voices, a long, shivering sob. and she knew that Aunt Johnson had parted with the boy who was as dear to her as if he had been her firstborn. The weeks dragged drearily into months, brightened at the Johnson farm only by rare letters from south ern camps. The kindly farmer and his wife had dreams of promotion for their boy, who had started in as a pri vate. They talked bravely of the day when he should come home with straps on his shoulder. Then came a message from Libby prison and—silence. The war was over, the wounded and the well came home, and there came also silent soldiers who were laid to rest in the village cemetery. But Henry was among neither the well nor the wound ed nor yet the voiceless soldiers. But from the Johnson farm house went forth many a prayer, many a heart broken sigh, for those who lay in the trenches to the south—the unknown dead. After a fashion the farm was work ed and the crops were garnered, but the old couple seemed never to rally from their loss. And then came the bitter winter, which brought pneumo nia and peace to them both. Lucille was alone. The villagers and neighboring farmers whispered that now the haughty beauty would prob ably sell out the old place and go back to her beloved south, but her lawyers knew better. A strange whim seized the girl to keep the place Just as it had always stood. She hired a competent man and wife to assist her and went at the work in a fashion that made the critical neighbors open their eyes: not that she cared what they said or thought. She had made no friends among the village women. Yet one rare day in May as she drove back to the farm from a trip to the vil lage she made the first overtures of friendship. A young woman was walk ing toward the cemetery, a mass of spring flowers clasped against her black dress. Lucille knew the story of that girl—how she had married a village lad, then followed him to the ■ depot, waved her hand at him bravely and had never seen him again until a few of his old comrades had brought back the flag draped coffin. Lucille drew up her horse sharply. . “Good afternoon, Mrs. Davis. Are you going far? May I take you in the 1 buggy?" , The young widow raised her eyes in surprise at the gentle tones. The vll 1 lage girls had never understood nor . cared to know the little rebel. ”1 am Just going to the cemetery to r put some flowers and a fresh flag on my husband's grave.” Ah, the thrill of pride, strong, yet pitiful, In that word husband. Lucille’s lips quivered, then set firmly. . "Let me drive you over. I—I shall be very glad. Without a word the other woman ac- | cepted the unexpected offer. Side by i side they rode to the city of the dead, and Lucille, with white face and dim eyes, watched while the widow decked the grass grown mound. "Why do you cry?" she asked sud denly, as she saw Lucille's tears. "You have no grave to mourn over." "Perhaps that Is the reason,” whis pered Lucile. so softly that the other woman hardly caught the words. When she reached the farm the aft ernoon shadows fell aslant the cheery living room, b*t she passed swiftly tq the stairs. In the south window thq flowers bent their heads toward the sweet spring air. She stripped every blossom and with eager, trembling fin. gers twined them with soft green, Then she went back to the sitting room. Over the revered haircloth sofa I hung Henry's -dcture, an oil painting done from the only photograph Aunt Johnson had owned. Softly Lucille crossed the room and hung the picture Next she drew from her pocket a tiny flag—the flag he had loved—and fas tened it In the wreath. With that act the last vestige of pride seemed to die out, and she fell sobbing on the great soft. If only I had told him that I loved him. But he thought—oh, what must he have thought, when he was dying?" she moaned. A step sounded In the hall without1 and the sitting room door swung open, j Lucille sprang to her feet, terrified and ; humiliated that any stranger should j look upon her grief. She faced the in- j truder with much of her old Imperi ousness, but at the first glance her j arms dropped limply to her side, a > hand seemed to press upon her throat, her heart, and she could not speak. i Instantly he was at her side. His ! eyes glanced from her face, white and startled, to the wreath and flag under > the picture. "It was wrong, I know, Lucille, but I when I heard the dear old folks were dead I did not see the use in coming back. You had said—’’ Her hand was on his lips, but he took it gravely In his own and went on: "I tried to lose myself way out In Kansas, but you seemed to call me, and I had to come. Is It all right?" "Oh, Henry, Henry, my heart was ! calling for you all the time, only I would not admit it until today." And Henry Willis, looking up at the tiny flag nestling under his picture, ] understood. The bitter question was | buried forever between them. The Sentry’s Lucky Song. The power of a song Is something won derful at times. This Is well Illustrated by a story, and a true one, told not long ago: Two Americans who were crossing the Atlantic met In the cabin on Sunday night to sing hymns. As they sang the last hymn, “Jesus, Lover of My Soul,” one of them heard an exceedingly rich and beau tiful voice behind him. He looked around, and, although he did not know the face, ho thought that he knew the voice. So when the music ceased he turned and asked the man if he had been in the civil I war. The man replied that he had been a confederate soldier. “Were you at such a place on such a night?” asked the first. “Yes,” he replied, “and a curious thing happened that night which this hymn has recalled to jny mind. I was posted on sentry duty near the edge of a wood. It 1 was a dark night and very cold, and T was a little frightened because the enemy . was supposed to be very near. About midnight, when everything was very still and I was feeling homesick and miserable and weary. I thought that I would com fort myself by praying and singing a hymn. I remember singing this hymn: “All my trust on Thee Is stayed. All my help from Thee I bring. Cover my defenseless head With the shadow of Thy wing. “After singing that a strange peace came down upon me, and through the long night I felt no more tear.'' “Now,” said the other, "listen to my story. I wras a federal soldier and was in the wood that night with a party of scouts. I saw you standing, although I did not see you face. My men had their rifles focused upon you, waiting the word , to fire, but when you sang out, “Cover my defenseless head With the shadow of Thy wing, I said, “boys, lower your rifles; we will go homo.’ Pittsburg Gazette. For Our Dead—May 30. Flowers for our dead! The delicate wild roses faintly red. The valley Illy bells as purely white i As shines their honor In the vernal light, All blooms that be As fragrant as their fadeless memory: | By tender hands entwined arid garlanded. Flowers for our dead: I Praise for our dead! For those that followed and for those that led, i Whether they felt death's burning acco- ‘ lade When brothers drew the fratricidal blade Or closed undaunted eyes Beneath the Cuban or Philippine skies! 1 While waves our brave bright banner overhead Praise for our dead: Love for our dead! O hearts that droop and mourn, he com forted ! The darksome path through the abyss of pain, I The Anal hour of travail not in vain. For freedom's morning smile Broadens across the seas from Isle to Isle. By reverent lips let this fond word b«f said— j Love for our dead! —Clinton Scollard in Collier's Weekly Last Shots of the Old Sixth Corps. From the Washington Post. The last shots of the famous old Sixth corps were fired by the Second Vermont Infantry’- At least that Is the claim made by Us men. This regiment participated in all the battles of this unit, whose insignia was a Greek cross, serving from first to last In the Second brigade of the Second division. Its final fighting was during the skirmishing with the rear guard of the vanishing Johnnies at Sailor's creek. The regiment had TOO men engaged at the bat tle of the Wilderness, where Colonel New ton Stone fell dead from his horse and where Lieutenant Colonel John S. Tyler, who succeeded him, received a mortal, wound. Out of a total enrollment of 1.811 the regiment lost 224 men in killed and mortally wounded. Memorial Day as a Holiday. New York state made Memorial day a legal holiday In 18T3, and Connecticut took similar action In 18T5. Many other states followed suit. This action on the part of the Btate legislatures was a concession to the public demand and enabled the barg^ and public offices to close and give employes an opportunity to observe the On© on the Giant. "Cy” Sulloway la the biggest man If* congress; that is, if one takes count physi cally. Morris Shepard, of Texas, is one of the smallest; that is, if he is measured on the same lines. They were sitting to gether at one of the Pennsylvania ave nue hotels the other night. ‘■Morris,’* said the New Hampshire giant, “why don’t you grow? You talk to me about the whales the South produce* in avoirdupois. Pity you don’t send some of them up here. Look at you. Why, I could slather a dime’s worth of butter over you and swallow you.” ‘‘And should you.” replied Shepard, “like Alexander Stephens once replied to the same suggestion from Butler, you would have more brains in your stomach than you have in your head.” '^^5^Guara||J^ir Rose Tint Overdone. From the New York Sun. "Tou know, I have often wondered; b oy the New York women wea so conspicuous an amount of rogue.” Enid a mao as the subway went up into the light of day; the face of the wom an • nosPe had cha-ged from delicate pink to a hideous cerise, “and I thlnlt now I have hit upon a solution. That, won »n opposite lives in a dark upart men' and put her makeup on either ln> artificial light ut the semi-darkness, which shades the crude color. Now, If they were all wise like ore friend of mlu», they v/miid take their hand mir ror and go up to tne roof and examine their complexions in the broad light of day and avoid looking like a newly tinted pastel.” A Domestic Eye Remedy Compounded by Experienced Physician* Conforms to Pure Food and Drugs Law* Wins Friends Wherever Used. Asl; Drug gists for Murine Eye Remedy. Try Murine In Your Eyes. You Will Uke Murine. To help finance the 1912 world’s fair nt Winnipeg the government of Can ada is asked to contribute 150,000 acres of land. Hamburg street signs have arrows showing which way the numbers run. AFTER SUFFERING ONE YEAR Cured by Lydia E. Pink ham’sVegetableCompound Milwaukee, Wis. — “Lydia E. Pink, ham’s Vegetable Compound has made me a well woman, and I would like to tell the whole world of it. I suffered f romfemale trouble and fearful pains in my back. I had the best doctors and they all decided that I had a tumor in addition to my female trouble, ana advised an opera _ tion. Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound made me a well woman and I have no more backache.' I hope I can help others by telling them what Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound has done for me.”—Mrs. EmmaLmse, 8S3EirstSt., Milwaukee, Wis. The above is only one of the thou sands of grateful letters which are constantly being received bv the Pinkham Medicine Company of Lynn. Mass., which prove beyond a doubt that Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Com pound, made from roots and herbs, actually doe3 cure these obstinate dis eases of women after all other means have failed, and that every such suf-, erlng woman owes it to herself to at least give Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegeta ble Gompound a trial before submit ting to an operation, or giving up hope of recovery. Mrs. Pinkham, of Lynn, Mass.* invites all sick women to write her for advice. She has raided thousands to health ana her advice is free, SICK HEADACHE Poeltltylr cured V> these Little Pills. Thor also where Die treaB from Dyspepsia, hs digestion and Too Hearty Bern* A perfect teak edy for Itaaness. Nauae% Drowsiness. Bad Tasty la the Month. Coated Tongue, Pain hi the -TORPID LIVER, tk— regulate the Bowels. Purely Vegetable SMALL PILL SMALL DOSE. SMALL PftlfiF. Gambia Must Bear Facsimile Signature _tlFUBE SUBSTITUTES, DAISY FLY KILLER —— nioa. Neat, r.iean. or namental. conveni ent. cheap l.aala all aeaaoa. Cannotapll) or Up over, will not ■oil or injure any thing Guaranteed effective. Of all deal er. or aent prepaid far 20 eta. HA ROM* SOM Kll Ml iOD. Kalb At*., Brooklyn,R. Y. SIOUX CITY P'T’G CO., 1,296—22, 1909 Dll PC -AY IF °uppT* r*LLO vniiT ’iHTc JSSk ~Ai ■« co. o.yt. a 3. Nu^