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Job for Photographer.
“1 want yer to take n picture of oui
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Joseph was requested to stand In n
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Breaking It Gently.
After the dynamite fatality, Casey
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phy.
‘‘Have you got Pat’s life insured?”
be asked.
‘‘Indeed I have, and for a long
while,” was the reply.
“Well, then," blurted out the tactful
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■trouble collecting It that the boys wll’
In collecting Put.”
Position of Immunity.
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THE LONE
STAR RANGER
A ROMANCE OF TILE BORDER
BY
ZANE GREY
Author of "The Light of Western Stare,” "Riders of the Purple Sage,” eto.
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
NICMXV
CHAPTER IX (Continued).
Duane shot him. He fell forward, his
pun exploding as it hit' the floor, and
dropped loose from stretching fingers.
Duane stood over him, stooped to turn
him on Ills back. Bland looked up with
clouded gaze, then gasped his last.
"Duane, you’ve killed him!” cried
Kate Bland, huskily. “I knew you’d
have to!”
Sho staggered against the wall, her
eyes dilating, her strong hands clinch
ing, her face slowly whitening. She ap
peared shocked, half stunned, but
showed no grief.
"Jennie!” called Duane, sharply.
“Oh—Duane!” came a halting reply.
"Yes. Come out. Hurry!”
Sho came out with uneven steps,
seeing only him, and she stumbled over
Bland's body. Duane caught her arm,
swung her behind him. tie feared the
woman when she realized hpw she had
been duped. His action was protective,
and his movement toward the door
equally as significant.
I "Duane!” sried Mrs. Bland.
It was no time for talk. Duane edged
on, keeping Jennie behind him. At that
moment there was a pounding of iron
shod hoofs out in the lane. Kate Bland
bounded to the door. When she turned
back her amazement was changing to
realization.
“Where 're von takine- .Ten?" she
cried, her voice like a man's.
"Get out of my way," replied Duane,
His look perhaps, without speech, was
enough for her. In an instant she was
transformed into a fury.
“You hound' All the time you were
fooling me! You made love to me! You
let me believe—you swore you loved
me! Now I see what was queer about
you. All for that girl! But you can’t
have her. You’ll never leave here alive
Give me that girl! Bet me—get at her'
Sh^Jll never win any more men in this
camp!"
She was a powerful woman, and it
took all Duane’s strength to ward off
her onslaughts. She clawed at Jennie
over his uphold arm. Every second her
fury increased.
"Help! help! help!" slid shrieked, in
a voice that must have penetrated to
the remotest cab'n in the valley.
"I-iCt go! Bet go!" cride Duane, low
and sharp. He still held his gun in his
right hand, and it began to be hard for
him to ward the woman off. His cool
ness had gone with her shriek for help.
"Get go!" he repeated, and he shoved
her fiercely.
Suddenly she snatched a rifle off the
wall and backed away, her strong
hands fumbling at the lever. As she
Jerked it down, throwng a shell into
the chamber and cocking the weapon,
Duane leaped upon her. He struck up
the rifle us it went off, the powder
burning his face.
"Jennie, run out. Get on a horse!”
he said. >
Jennie flashed nut of the door.
With an iron grasp, Duane held to
the rifle barrel. He had grasped it witli
his left hand, and he gave such a puli
thut he swung the crazed woman off
the floor. But he could not loose her
(rip. She was as strong as he.
“Kate! Get go!"
He tried to intimidate her. She did
not see his gun thrust in her face, or
reason had given way to such an ex
tent to passion that she did not care.
She cursed. Her husband had used the
same curses, and from her lips they
seemed strange, unsexed, more deadly.
Bike a tigress she fought him; her face
no longer resembled a woman's. The
evil of that outluw life, the wildness
and rage, the meaning to kill, were
even in such a moment terribly Im
pressed upon Duane.
He heard a ery from outside—a man’s
cry, hoarse and alarming.
It made him think of loss of time.
This demon of a woman might yet
block his plun.
"Get go!” he whispered, and felt his
lips stiff. In the grimness of that in
stant he relaxed his hold on the rifle
barrel.
With sudden, redoubled, irresistible
strength she wrenched the rifle down
and discharged It. Duane felt a blow—
a shock—a burning agony tearing
through his breast. Then in a frenzy
ho Jerked so powerfully upon the rifle
that he threw the woman against the
wail. She fell and seemed stunned.
Duane leaped hack, whirled, flew out
of the door to the porch. The sharp
cracking of a gun halted him. He saw
Jennie holding to the bridle of his bay
horse. Euchre was astride the other,
and he had a Colt leveled, and he was
firing down the lane. Then came a
single shot, heavier, and Euchre's
ceased. He fell from the horse.
A swift glance back showed to Duane
a man comint- down the lane. Chess
Alloway! His gun was smoking. He
broke into a run. Then in an instant
he saw Dunne, and tried to check his
pace as he swung up his arm. But that
slight pause was fatal. Dunne shot,
and Alloway was falling when his gun
went off. His bullet whistled close to
Duane ar.d thudded into the cabin.
Duane bounded down to the horses.
Jennie wtvs trying to hold the plunging
bay. Euchre lay flat on his back, dead,
a bullet hole in his shirt, his face set
bard, and his hands twisted around gun
and bridle.
" ’ .'uu nn vC) Jin ,
cried Duane, as he dragged down the
horse she was holding. “Up with you
now! There! Never mind—long stir
runs! Hang on somehow!”
He caught the bridle out of Ku
chre's clutching grip and leaped astride.
The frightened horses jumped into a
run and thundered down tho lane into
the road. Duane saw men running from
cabins. He heard shouts. But there
were no shots fired. Jennie seemed able
to stay on her horse, but without stir
rups she was thrown about so much
that Duane rode closer and reached out
to grasp her arm.
Thus they rode through the valley
to the trail that led up over the steep
and broken Rim Rock. As thev began
to elimb, Duane looked back. No pur
suers were in sight.
"Jennie, we’re going to get awav!"
he erled. exultation for her in bis voice.
She was gazing borroT stricken at
bis breast, ns in turning to look back
ho faced her.
“Oh. Duane, your shirt’s all bloodv!”
shp filtered, pointing with trembling
tinkers.
With her words Duane became aware
of two tl'ir\.gs—the hand he tnstlnotivo
Iv tdpeed to his breast still held his
gun. end he had sustained a terrible
wound.
Dunne had been shot through the
breast far enough down to give him
*
7
grave apprehension of his life. The
clean cut hole made by the bullet bled
freely both at its entrance and where
It had come out, but with no signs of
hemorrhage. He did not bleed at the
mouth; however, he began to cough up
a reddish tinged foam.
As they rode on, Jennie, with pale
face and mute lips, looked at him.
"I’m badly hurt, Jennie," he said, "but
l guess I’ll stick it out.”
"The woman—did she shoot you?”
‘‘Yes. She was a devil. Euchre told
me to look out for her. I wasn’t quick
enough."
"You didn't have to—to—” shivered
the girl.
"No! no!” he replied.
They did not stop climbing while Du
ane tore a scarf and made compresses,
which he bound tightly over his
wounds. The fresh horses made fast
time up the rough trail. From open
places Duane looked down. When they
surmounted the steep ascent and stood
on top of the Itim Rock, with no signs
of pursuit down in the valley and with
the wild, broken fastnesses before them,
Duane turned to the girl and assured
her that they now had every chance
of escape.
"But—your—wound!" she faltered,
with dark, troubled eyes. “I*see—the
blood—dripping from your back!”
"Jennie, I'll take a lot of killing,” he
said.
men no oecame snent ami atcenueu
to the uneven trail. He was aware
presently that he had not come into
Bland’s camp by this route. But that
did not matter; any trail leading out
beyond the Rim Rock was safe enough.
What he wanted was to get far away
into some wild retreat where he could
hide until he recovered from his wound.
He seemed to feel a fire inside his
breast, and his throat burned so that
it was necessary for him to take a
swallow of water every little while. He
began to suffer considerable pain, which
increased ns the hours went by and
then gave way to a numbness. From
that time on he had need of his great
strength and endurance. Gradually he
lost his steadiness and his keen sight;
and he realized that if he were to meet
foes, or if pursuing outlaws should
come up with him, he could make only
a poor stand. So he turned off on a
trail that appeared seldom traveled.
Soon after this move he became con
scious of a further thickening of his
sense. He felt able to hold on to his
saddle for a while longer, but he was
failing. Then he thought he ought to
advise Jennie, so in case she was left
alone she would have some idea of
what to do.
’’Jennie, I'll give out soon," he said.
"No—1 don't mean—what you think.
But I’ll drop soon. My strength's going.
If I die—you ride back to the main
trail. Hide and rest by day. Ride .a^
night. That trail goes to water. I be
lieve you could get across the Nueces,
where some rancher will trike you in."
Duane could not .get the meaning of
her incoherent reply. He rode on, and
soon he could not see the trail or hear
his horse. He did not know whether
they traveled a mile or many times
that far. But he was conscious when
the horse stopped, and had a vague
sense of falling and feeling Jennie’s
arms before all became durk to him.
When consciousness returned he
found himself lying in a little hut of
mesquite blanches. It was well built
and evidently some years old. There
were two doors or openings, one in
front and the other at the back. Duane
imagined it had been built by a fugitive
—one who meant to keep an eye both
ways and not to be surprised. Duane
felt weak and had no desire to move.
Where was he, anyway? A strange, In
tangible sense of time, distance, of
something fur behind weighed upon
him. Sight of the two packs Euchre had
made brought his thpught to Jennie.
What hacl become of her? There was
evidence of her work in a smoldering
fire and a little blackened coffee pot.
Probably she was outside looking after
the horses or getting water. He tnought
he heard a step and listened, but he
felt tired, and presently his eyes closed
and he fell into a doze.
Awakening from this, he saw Jennie
sitting beside him. In some way she
seemed to have changed. When he
spoke she gave a start and turned
eagerly to him.
"Duane!” she cried.
“Hello. How 're you, Jennie, and
how am 1?” he said, finding it a little
difficult to talk.
"Oh, I'm all right," she replied. "And
you've come to—your wound’s healed;
but you’ve been sick. Fever, I guess. I
did all I could.
Duane saw now that the difference
In her was a whiteness and tightness of
skin, a huilowness of eye, a look of
strain.
"Fever? How long have we been
here?" he asked.
She took some pebbles from the
crown of his sombrero and counted
them.
"Nine. Nine days," she answered.
"Nine days!” he exclaimed, incredul
ously. But another look at her assured
him that she meant what she said. "I've
been sick all the time? You nursed
me?"
"Yes.”
"Bland's men didn’t come along
here?”
"Mo "
"Where are the horses?"
“I keep them grazing down in a gorge
back of here. There's good grass and
water."
“Have you slept any?”
"A little. Lately I couldn't keep
awake."
"Good Lord! I should think not.
You've had a time of it sitting here day
and night nursing me, watching for the
outlaws. Come, tell me all about It."
"There’s nothing much to tell.”
"I want to know, anyway, just what
you did—how you felt-"
"I can’t remember very well," she re
plied, simply. "We must have ridden
40 miles that day we got away. You
bled all the time. Toward evening you
lay on your horse's neck. When we
came to this place you fell out of the
saddle. I dragged you in here and
stopped your bleeding. I thought you'd
die that night. Rut in the morning I
had a little hope. I had forgotten the
horses. But luckily they didn't stray
far. I caught them and kept them down
in the gorge. When your wounds closed
and you began to breathe stronger X
thought you'd get well quick. It was
fever that put you back. You raved a
lot, an^ that worried me, because I
couldn't stop you. Anybody trailing us
could have heard you a good ways. I
[don’t know whether I was scared most
then or when you were quiet, and it
; was so dark and lonely and still all
i around. Every day I put a stone in
your hat.”
"Jennie, you saved my life,” said
] Duane.
| ”1 don’t know. Maybe. I did all I
know how to do,” she replied. "You
saved mine—more than my life.”
i Their eyes met in a long gaze, and
then their hands in a close clasp.
| "Jennie, we’re going to get away,” he
| said, with gladness. "I'll be well in a
few days. You don’t know how strong
I am. We’ll hide bv day and travel
by night. I can get you across the
river.”
"And then?" she asked.
“We’ll find some honest rancher.”
"And then?” she persisted.
"Why,” he began, slowly, "that's as
far as my thoughts ever got. It was
pretty hard, I tell you, to assure my
self of so much. It means your safety.
| You’ll tell your story. You’ll be sent to
| some village or towi\ and taken care of
until a relative or friend is notified.”
“And you?" she inquired, in a strange
voice.
Duane kept silent.
"What will you do?” she went on.
"Jennie, I’ll go back to the brakes. I
daren’t show my face among respect
able people. I’m an outlaw.”
"You’re no criminal!” she declared,
with deep passion.
"Jennie, on this border the little dif
ference between an outlaw and a crim
inal doesn’t count for much."
"You won’t go back among those ter
rible men? You, with your gentleness
and sweetness—all that’s good about
you? Oh, Duane, don’t—don’t go!”
"I can’t go back to the outlaws, al
least not Blande’s band. No, I’ll gj
alone. I’ll lone-wolf it, as they say on
the border. What else can I do,
Jennie?”
“Oh, I don't know. Couldn’t you hide?
Couldn’t you slip out of Texas—go far
away?”
"I could never get out of Texas with
out being arrested. I could hide, but
a man must live. Never mind about
me, Jennie.”
In three days Duane was able with
great difficulty to mount his horse.
During daylight, by short relays, he
and Jennie rode back to the main trail,
where they hid again till he had rested.
Then in the dark they rode out of the
canons and gullies of the Rim Rock,
and early in the morning halted at the
first water to camp.
r rum mat point tney traveled alter
nightfall and went into hiding during
the day. Once across the Neuces river,
Daune was assured of safety for her
and great danger for himself. They had
crossed into a country he did not know.
Somewhere east of the river there were
scattered ranches. But he was as liable
to find the rancher in touch with the
outlaws as he was likely to find him
honest. Duane hoped his good fortune
would not desert him in this last serv
ice to Jennie. Next to the worry of
that was realization of his condition.
He had gotten up too soon; he had rid
den too far and hard, and now he felt
that any moment he might fall from
his saddle, At last, far ahead over a
barren mesquite dotted stretch of dusty
ground, he espied a patch of green and
a little flat, red ranch-house. He headed
his horse for it and turned a face he
tried to make cheerful for Jennie’s
sake. She seemed both happy and
sorry.
When near at hand he saw that the
rancher was a thrifty farmer. And
thrift spoke for honesty. There were
fields of alfalfa, fruit-trees, corrals,
windmill pumps, irrigation ditches, all
surrounding a neat little adobe house.
Some children were playing in the yard.
The way they ran at sight of Duane
hinted of both the loneliness and the
fear of their isolated lives. Duane saw
a woman come to the door, then a man.
The latter looked keenly, then stepped
outside. He was a sandy-haired,
freckled Texan.
"Howdy, stranger." he called, as
Duane halted. "Get down, you an’ your
woman. Say, now, air you sick or shot
or what? Let me—”
Duane, reeling in his saddle, bent
searching eyes upon the rancher. He
thought he saw good will, kindness,
honesty. He risked all on that one sharp
glance. Then he almost plunged from
the saddle.
The rancher caught him, helped him
to a bench.
"Martha, come out here!" he called.
"This man’s sick. No; he's shot, or 1
don’t know blood stains."
Jennie had slipped off her horse and
to Duan's side. Duane appeared about
to faint.
"Air you his wife?” asked the
rancher.
"No. I’m only a girl he saved from
outlaws. Oh, he's so pale! Duane,
Duane! ”
"Buck Duane!" exclaimed the ranch
er, excitedly. "The man who killed
Bland an’ Alloway? S^y, I owe him a
good turn, an’ I’ll pay it, young wom
an.”
The rancher's wife came out, and
with a manner at once kind and prac
tical essayed to make Duane drink from
a flask. He was not so far gone that
he could not recognize its contents,
which he refused, and weakly asked fpr
water. When that was given him he
found his voice.
“Yes, I’m Duane. I've only overdone
myself—Just all in. The wounds I got
at Bland's are healing. Will you take
this girl in—hide her awhile till the
excitement's over among the outlaws?”
"I shore will." replied the Texan.
"Thanks. I’ll remember you—I’ll
square it."
"What 're you goln’ to do?"
"I’ll rest a bit—then go back to the
brakes."
"Young man, you ain't In any shape
to travel. See here—any hustlers on
your trail?"
"I think we gave Bland’s gang the
slip.”
"Good. I’ll tell you what. I’ll take
you in along with the girl, an' hide
both of you till you get well. It ’ll be
safe. My nearest neighbor is five miles
off. We don't have much company.”
"You risk a great deal. Both outlaws
and rangers are hunting me," said
Duane.
oevei seen a ranger yet In tnese
parts. An- have always got along with
outlaws, mebbe exceptin’ Bland. I tell
you I owe you a good turn."
"My horses might betray you," added
Duane.
“I’ll hide them in a place where
there’s water an’ grass. Nobody goes
to it. Come now, let me help you in
doors.”
Duane’? last fading sensations of that
bard day were the strange feel of a bed.
a relief at the removal of his heavy
boots, and of Jennie’s soft, cool hands
on his hot face.
He lay ill for three weeks before he
began to mend, and it was another
week then before he could walk out a
little in the dusk of the evenings. After
that his strength returned rapidly. And
it was only at the end of this long siege
that he recovered hia spirits. During
most of his illness he had been silent,
moody.
"Jennie, I’ll be riding off soon,” he
said, one evening. "I can’t impose on
this good man Andrews much longer.
I'll never forget his kindness. His wife,
too—she's been so good to us. Yes,
Jennie, you and I will have to say
goodby very soon."
“Don’t hurry away,” she replied.
Lately Jennie had appeared strange
to him. She had changed from the girl
he used to see at Mrs. Bland's house.
He took her reluctance to say goodby
as another Indication of her regret thnt'
he must go back to the brakes. Yetj
somenow it made him observe her more
closely. She wore a plain, white dress
made from material Mrs. Andrews had
given her. Sleep and good food had im
proved hrr. If she had been pretty •
out there in the outlaw den, now she
was more than that. But she had the
same paleness, the same strained look,
the same dark eyes full of haunting
shadows. After Duane's realization of
the change in her he watched her more,
with a growing certainty that he wtiuld
be sorry not to see her again.
"It's likely we won't ever see each
other again," he said. "That’s strange
to think of. We've been through some
hard days, and 1 seem to have known
you a long time."
Jennie appeared shy, almost sad, so
Duane changed the subject to some
thing less personal.
Andrews returned one evening from
a several days' trip to Huntsville.
"Duane, everybody’s talkin’ about
how you cleaned up the Bland outfit,"
he said, important and full of news.
"It's some exaggerated, accordin’
to what you told me; but you’ve shore
made friends on this side of the Nu
eces. I reckon ther ain't a town where
you wouldn't lind people to welcome
you. Huntsville, you know, is some
divided in its ideas. Half the people
are crooked. Likely enough, all them
who was so loud in praise of you are
the crookedest. For instance, met King
Fisher, the boss outlaw of these parts.
Well, King thinks he’s a decent citi
zen. He was fellin' me what a grand
job yours was for the border an’ hon
est cattlemen. Now that Bland and
Alloway are doue for, King Fisher will
find rustlin' easier. There’s talk of
Hardin movin' his camp over to
Bland's. But I don't know how true it
is. I reckon ther ain't much to it. In
the past when a big outlaw chief went
under, his band almost always broke
up an’ scattered. There’> no one left
who could run thet outfit '
“Did you hear of any outlaws hunt
ing me?” asked Duane.
"Nobody from Bland's outfit is hunt
in' you, thet’s shore," replied Andrews.
"Fisher said there never was a boss
straddled to go on your trail. Nobody
had any use for Bland. Anyhow, his
men would be afraid to trail you. An'
yuu could go right in to Huntsville,
where you'd be some popular. Reckon
you’d be safe, too, except when some
of them fool saloon loafers or bad cow
punchers would try to shoot you for
the glory in it. Them kind of men will
bob up everywhere you go, Duane.”
“I’ll be able to ride and take care of
myself in a day or two," went on Du
ane. "Then Til go—I’d like to talk to
you about Jennie.”
"Shp.’s wf»lrnrrm tn t» horrid h^r** with
US.”
"Thank you, Andrews. You're a kind
man. But I want Jennie to get farther
away from the Rio Grande. She’d
never be safe here. Besides, she may
be able to find relatives. She has some,
though she doesn’t know where they
are.” /
"All right, Duane. Whatever you
think best. I reckon now you’d better
take her to some town. Go north an'
strike for Shelbyviile or Crockett.
Them’s both good towns. I’ll tell Jen
nie the names of men who'll help her.
Y'ou needn't ride into town at all.”
"Which place is nearer, and how far
is it?”
“Shelbyviile. I reckon about two
days' ride. Poor stock country, so you
ain't liable to meet rustlers. All the
same, better hit the train at night an’
go careful.”
At sunset two days later Duane and
Jennie mounted their horses and said
goodby to the rancher and his wife.
Andrews would not listen to Duane’s
thanks.
"I tell you I’m beholden to you yet,”
he declared.
"Well, what can I do for you?” asked
Duane. "I may come along here again
some day.”
"Get down an' come in, then, or
you’re no friend of mine. I reckon
there ain’t nothin' I can think of—
I just happen to remember—Here
he led Duane out of earshot of the
women and went on in a whisper.
"Buck, I used to be w'ell to do. Got
skinned by a man named Brown—Rod
ney Brown. He lives in Huntsville, an’!
he's my enemy. I never was much oi\
fightin', or I’d fixed him. Brown ruined5
me—stole all I had. He’s a hoss an’
cattle thief, an' he has pull enough at
home to protect him. I reckon I needn’t
say any more."
"Is this Brown a man who shot an
outlaw named Stevens?” queried Du
ane, curiously.
“Shore, he’s the same. I heard thet
story. Brown swears he plugged Ste
vens through the middle. But the out
law rode off, an' nobody ever knew
for shore.”
"Luke Stevens died of that shot. I
buried him," said Duane.
Andrews made no further comment,
and the two men returned to the
women,
"The main road for about three miles,
then where it forks take the left hand
road and keep on straight. That what
you said, Andrews?"
“Shore. An' good luck to you both!”
Duane and Jennie trotted away into
the gathering twilight. At the moment
an insistent thought bothered Duane.
Both Luke Stevens and the rancher
Andrews had hinted to Duane to kill a
man named Brown. Duane wished with
all his heart they had not mentioned
it, let alone taken for granted the ex
ecution of the deed. What a bloody
place Texas was! Men who robbed
and men who were robbed both wanted
murder. It was in the spirit of the
country. Duane certainly meant to
avoid ever meeting this Rodney Brotvn.
And that very determination showed
Duane how dangerous he really was—
to men and to himself. Sometimes he
had a feeling of how little stood be
tween his sane and better self and a
self utterly wild and terrible. He rea
soned that only intelligence could save
hi^S—only a thoughtful understanding
of his danger and a hold upon some
ideal.
Then he fell into low conversation
with Jennie, holding out. hopeful views
of her future, and presently darkness
set in. The sky was overcast with
heavy clouds; there was no air mov
ing; the heat and oppression threat
ened storm. By and by Duane could
not see a rod in front of him, though
his horse had no difficulty in keeping
to the road. Duane was bothered by
the blackness of the night. Traveling
fast was impossible, and any moment
he might miss the road that led off to
the left. So he was compelled to give
all his attention, to peering into the
thick shadows ahead. As good luck
would have it he, came to higher
ground where these was less mesquite,
and therefore not such impenetrable
dorkness; and at this point he came
to where the road split.
Once headed in the right direction,
he felt easier in mind. To his. annoy
ance. however, a fine, misty rain set in.
Jennie was not well dressed for wet
weather; and, for that matter, neither
was he. His coat, which in .that dry
climate he seldom needed, was tied be
hind his saddle, and he put it on Jen
nie.
They traveled on. The rain fell
steadily; if anything, growing thicker.
Duane grew uncomfortably wet and
chilly. Jennie, however, fared some
what better by reason of the heavy
coat. The night passed quickly de
spite the discomfort, and soon a gras
dismal, riiny dawn greeted the travel
ers.___
(Continued next week.*
444444444-»-t-444444444444444
4 4
4 A LITTLE SLEEP. 4
4 4
4 By Walt Mason. 4
4 I like to sleep, some after din- 4
4 ner; post-mealtime slumber is a 4
4 winner, it makes a hit with me; 4
4 but when I'd do some fancy 4
4 snoring, all kinds of pounding, 4
4 rapping, roaring, start up im- 4
4 mediately. About 1,000 dogu as- 4
4 semble, close by, and make the 4
4 welkin tremble, with barks and 4
4 yips and yowls; the cattle all get 4
4 busy lowing, and I can hear the 4
4 bughouse crowing of countless 4
4 nutty fowls. Out in the kitchen 4
4 the domestic, a damsel haughty 4
4 and majestic, drops dishes on the 4
4 floor, and grocers' boys and ♦
4 cranks and peddlers, and 50 4
4 other kinds of meddlers, are 4
4 thumping at the door. I can’t de- 4
4 scribe a fourth or third of the 4
4 blamedest din you ever heard of 4
4 -—a Dante it demands—when I of 4
4 snores would have a humber, a 4
♦ little sleep, a little slumber, some 4
4 folding of the hands. I rise, all 4
4 sore and katzenjammering, do- 4
* nouncing all the frantic olam- 4
v ming, the rumpus and the rush; 4
v and now that noise would be no 4
4 matter, there is an end to fuss 4
♦ and clatter, there comes a 4
4 solemn hush. 4
4 4
RAW SAUSAGE.
Perhaps you have noticed some per
son whose eyeballs were constantly
rolling. If the habit was very marked
the person had nystagmus. In nystag
mus the eyes roll back and forth from
one to 200 times each minute. On most
cases tlie movement is rotary. Some
times it is from side to side. Occasion
ally they are up and down.
The movements affect both eyeballs,
though the two eyeballs may not movo
together, and sometimes the movement
in one is much more rapid than the
other.
Perhaps the first sympton that the
patient notices is that objects seem to
3ance before his eyes. This causes him
:o be dizzy. Headache develops. If the
[•yea are examined, and they should be,
die probability is that it will be found
that glasses are needed.
If these earlier symptoms are ne
glected presently it will be noticed that
he eyeballs are dancing. Nystagmus
Is well developed.
There are two groups of causes for *
nystagmus and it is important that one
ihould find out to which group his case,
nelongs. In one group the cause is some
mganic disease of brain or nerves, espe
cially of the optic nerve. Careful exam
ination of the back of the eye when the
trouble is due to disease of the optic
nerve will show the cause. When the
Sisease is due to organic disease of the
brain a careful examination of the ner- ,
rous system will show it. In the other
itroup the train of symptoms—dancing.
Df eyeballs, giddiness, headache, nausea,
M'Pmnr-nrp the roc nit nf fntio’no n nrl
especially of great fatigue of the eyes.
In Europe, miners’ nystagmus is very
important. In a certain coal mine union
ibout four miners out of each 1,000 have
miners’ nystagmus. No such condition
prevails in this country. In 1910 no nys
tagmus was found among coal miners
In Illinois. Probably there is practically
pone in this country. The reason Is that
:oal miners in this country work by
jood light. The galleries are large, A
rreat deal of the work is done by raa
thinery. There is almost none of the
picking while lying on the back, work
ing in narrow quarters, and by poor
ight so prevelent in European coal
mines. The American miner very much
In need of glasses is very apt to wear a
pair of properly fitting spectacles.
This form of nystagmus being th®
result of exhaustion, great fatigue, pro
longed eye strain, can be cured if
taken in time by extended rest. It la
necessary to rest the body and espe
cially to rest the eyes.
Different Salutations.
From the Philadelphia Inquirer.
The parting salutations of various
rations are strikingly alike.
The Greek word, perhaps, has a high
er significance than the Latin; for it
was not a mere complimentary salu
tation. St. John forbids it to be given
to heretical teachers.
The French, on taking leave, say.
“Adieu,” thus distinctly recognizing th®
providential power of the Creator; and
*he same meaning is indeed conveyed
in our own word "pood by,14 which is a
corruption of "God ffe with you.”
The Irish, in their warmth of manner
and love of words, often extend the ex
pression.
.1 wvll-known guide, upon one of our
friends leaving oue of the loveliest
spots in Wicklow, shook hands with
him heartily and said, In a voice some
what more tremulous through age than
it was when Tom Moore loved to lis
ten to it;
“God Almighty bless you, be with
you, and guide you safely to your
Journey's end.”
This salutation, when used thought
fully and aright, has not only a pleas
ant sound, but deep meaning.
Needed No Help.
From the Blair, (Neb.) Democrat.
“After this,” warns .Judge Blowup,
“when a man who has had a mishap with
his car wants us to stop and help him,
he must have a red light or some? other
stopping signal.” For one night recently,
while the judge was coming in from south
of town he noticed a car stopped by the
side' of the road. Thinking the driver
was in distress, the judge stopped and
asked if they needed any assistance. The
driver of the car by the side of the road
took his arms from around a young lady
sitting beside him and said to her, “Do
you need any help, dear?” She replied,
“No, you seem to he doing all that can
be done." Hence the ultiraatium.
Many of the war zone children wear
gas masks on their way to and from
school.
The Peasant War Mother.
I used to be a-dreamin’ of my little
youngest son—
(The number of my other sons is three).
Of the length of limb he’d have—U, he'd
be the tallest one
And the strongest of them all this one
would be.
I used to be a-dreamin’ of him grown to
be a man
And impatient for the happy time to be.
All my other sons was bonny, but 1
dreamed as mothers can
That not one of them would be as fine
as he.
The time seemed slow in goin’ for my lit
tle, youngest son,
So long ’twixt two foot six and six foot
two.
Though in fancy I could see him grown
to be the tallest one
In the silly, prideful way that mothers
do.
Hut now I’ve stopped my drcamln’ of my
little, youngest child.
And I hug him to my lonely heart that’s
sore,
And I want to keep him little with a
wantin’ that is wild.
And l wish he’d never, never grow no
more!
For I used to dream the same things of
my other sons, as well
(The number of my other sons is three)
• * • •
rt‘s the tall ones mal e good soldiers (and
good targets for the shell),
%, 1 would to God they all was wee
as he!
—Mary Woodson Shlppey.