I . " 1 " H t
Meadow
BY
MARY J.
. CHATTER XII.
' One bright morning, about tbe middle
cf January, Herbert announced hi in
tention f going to Worcester wilb Anna,
who, he said, wished to visit tbe asylum,
and as a young physician of his acquaint
ance had just commenced practicing
there, it would I a good opportunity for
them to go over the building. To thl ray
aunt made no objection, merely propos
ing that Adu. too, should go. Afterward
I remembered the peculiar look in Her
bert's eye a he replied. "Oh, fy! moth
er, Ada's Den-rt are. not strong enough
to endure it. Bhe can go with me aome
other time."
Accordingly, when breakfast was over,
"Anna went up to her room to make the
necessary preparations for her ride, while
I stood by and pave her whatever assist
ance she needed. I observed that every
article which belonged to her was put m
Its proper place, but I gave it no further
heed, though I did wonder why she kiss
ed me so often, turning back even after
she had reached the dnor to bid me so
other good-bye. Slowly the day passe
away and night came on, dark, cold and
atormv. I listened to the sound of the
sleet 'and hail, which drove part the
window, where I had watched so long
for their return. Seven, eight. nine, ten
had rung from more than one church
dome, and then we gave them up. ior
th shrill whistle of the last trim on
which they would be likely to come had
lung since sounded in our er.rs.
-They muat have stayed somewhere;
don't yon think bo?" said my aunt, nd
dreasing her husband, who, ina-i like,
was not in the least alarmed, but tat
conning hi evening paper, nearer ssleep
than awake."
"Of course they have," said he, look
ing up at his wife's inquiry. "I wouldn't
come in this storm, if I were in their
places."
That night I watered my pillow with
tears, scarcely knowing why 1 wept,
gave that I felt oppressed with a aene
of dpsolation, as if Anna was gone from
me forever. The next day came and
went, hut It brought no tiding of 'lie
missing pair, and half unconscious of
what she was doing, my aunt went from
room to room, sometimes weeping and
again brightening np, as she enumerat
ed the many things which might have
prevented their return. At evening Ada
came in, and my aunt immediately be-
,' t .i u :..!. This
ahe did willingly, seeming very anxious
Concerning the absence of Herbert, uid
feeling, I was sure, a little suspicious
that I might know more of his where
abouts than I chose to tell, for once,
when we were alone, she turned toward
me and very haughtily asked if "I had
ny idea where they were?"
"None whatever," said i, and she con
tinued: "Has it never occurred to you hat
this Anna Lee manifested altogether too
marked a preference for a gentleman
whom she knew to be engaged?'
"The preference was mutual." I re
plied. "Herbert liked Anna, and Anna
liked Herbert."
"And they hav gone off to consum
mate that liking by a marriage," iut;r
rupted Ada.
"1 do not know that they have," I re
turned; "but such a termination of affairs
would not surprise me."
Bhe was very pale, and there were
tears in her eyes; but I thought they
arose more from a sense of mortification
than from any real love which she bore
for Herbert Laugley, and o I did not
pity ber as I should otherwise have done.
Tbe next morning at breakfast both the
and my aunt looked weary ana worn, f reatPr j tie city than in the coun
ts 1 I -1. . m a t i4nrtnir tha J . .
If neither had slept at all during the
tight. My uncle, on the contrary, seem
ed unmoved. He probably had an opin
ion of hia own, but whatever it was he
kept it to himself, merely saying that if
the Kastern mail brought no letter he
Would go in quest of them himself. I
knew I could not study in my present ,
eseitement, and so I asked permission to
YCnialn at home. Stationing myself at
the window, I watched anxiously for the
return of Herod, who," as usual, had been
tent to the office. He came at last,
bringing hia pocket full of letters, two
f which were for me. one postmarked
unny Bank and the other Albany. With
a trembling hand I tore open tbe latter,
which was in my aiater a handwriting.
Glancing at the signature, my fears were
exm&rroed. for there stood the name of
"Anna I.angley" in Herbert's bold, dash
fcsf hand.
The letter contained no apology from
itber for what they had done, but mere
ly informed me of the fact that Instead
af itopping in Worcester, they had gone
Straight to Albany, where in less than
an hour they were husband and wife;
Herbert's old comrade, Tom Wilson, ac
ewmpanying them, and being a witness of
the ceremony. What affected me more
anpleasautiy than all the rest waa tbe
4erisive manner in which Herbert spoke
T Ada.
Oir ber my lor," be said, "and tell
aar aot to feel too badly. I'd like well
Maogh to marry her, too, bat under the
yrcaent laws a man can't hare two wives,
aless be Joins tbe Mormons. Maybe I
hall do that some time, and then I'll re
faember ber."
Of hia mother he wrote differently, and
ffcouh there was no cringing, no ac
knowledgment of wrong, he spoke of her
kindly and respectfully, saying "be boned
sjh would love bis Anna for his sake."
Of course I could not tell Ada what
' ft add of ber, neither waa it necessary,
far guessing the truth from my face,
eka came ap softly behind me, and look
. kag over my shoulder, read every word
tMil aha came to tbe message intended
fr bar. Then stamping ber little foot,
aha sidelined passionately, "The villain,
Tw ssnn Boa mwi a h k(uiis
f v - - MamI nf AaWfll WO 111 ifAdti tft
.'mjm a rival af that low-born country
. S! Mai By tkia act Herbert Langley
a ewa tkat be to all as worthy of me,
I gajaiaa ray eacaaa, while I aire
f irrs Jay with fcla highly rifcnit aad
' :J bre." ,
IrjfU tavaar, wktoh to eoaatd
. . rooaed, mi taratog toward
- I rrtf-iaw: "Mf atottr, Mtoa
via f rM a ftm, ay, or w
f y. C2af, at tta aawa at
i g.i it rU ms nm
mff
Brook
HOLMES
t
,4,lLQ.il"..8".B'.Q.Qiiil
to our home at Sunny Bank, where they
will say she has literally thrown herseif
away."
"Very liktly," returned Ada. sarcas
tically. "It in quite probable that u poor
laborer will object to his daughter's mar
rying into one of the first families in
Boston."
"He isn't a poor laborer," I replied,
"and even if he were, he would objvet to
his daughter's marrying a drunkard, for
such he will be again."
A deep groan came from the white lips
of my aunt, and for the first time since
Ada's outbreak, I remembered that iht
Has there. She did not reprove uie cri
grily. but in trembling tne fcha Mid:
"Kosa, Herbert is my child, my boy, lied
it becomes not a girl of your age to spesk
thus of him iu the presence of his moth
er.
I w a humbled, and winding my arms
about tier neck, I asked forgiveness for
the harsh words I had spoken, and fhe
forgave me, for she meant to do right,
and if sometime shs- erred, it was owing
more to a weakness of the flsh than an
unw illingutss of the spirit, in the midt
o'f our excitement Tom Wilson was ush
ered in. He hnd returned in tbe same
train which brought the letter, and had
come to give us nny further information
which we might be desirous of knowing.
"When will Herbert come home?" was
my aunt's i'rst question, her whole man
ner Indicating how much interest she felt
in the answer.
".Not very soon," returned Tom. "He
is tired of the city, he says, and besides
that he wishes to avoid the unp!e;:.mt
remark.-! his elopement will iieces trily
occasion,"
".More like bo wishes to avoid intro
ducing his bri.ie into society, which he
knows has no w ih to receive her," mut
tered Ada.
Tom paid no attention to this spiteful
speech, but continued, "He has drawn
his money from the Lank, and with it he
intends purchasing a farm in the west
ern part of New York."
"An jidiuimble plan." agnin interrupt
ed Ada. "Tumi. Iee girl just caici
lated for" a farmer's wife."
Taken uiono, there was nothing par
ticularly disagreeable iu the three words
"that Lee girl," but spoken by Ada Mon
trose they Bounded insultingly, uud very
time she uttered them 1 felt my blnmi
boil, for I, too, w:is a I.ee girl, tml I
contemptuous category. As Herbert had
said, I did not think the disappointment
would break her heart. She wns too an
gry for that, and I belifeve now, as I did
then, that most of her feeling arose from
the mortification of knowing that a "poor
country girl," as she called Anna, was
preferred to herself. For half an hour
or more Tom Wilson and my auut con
versed together, she asking him at leat
a dozen times "if he did not think Her
bert could be induced to return." At
last, with quivering lips and flushed
cheeks, as if it cost her pride a great
effort, she said. "Of course I mean Anna,
too, when I speak of Herbert's return.
She Is bis wife, you say, and though I
might perhaps wish it otherwise, it can
not now lie helped, and if he only would
come back to me, I should love her for
his sake."
In my heart I blessed her for these
words, and mentally resolved to leave no
argument untried which might bring the
fugitives back. But it could not be. Her
U'rt was decided, he said. He meant to
be a farmer and live in the country, add
ing what he knew would silence his motn
er sooner than aught else he could say.
"that temptations for him to drink were
try, and it was for this reason partly
that he preferred living iu tbe latter
place."
And so my aunt yielded the point; but
from the day of her son's desertion there
was in her a perceptible change. Far
oftener wns she found in the bouse of
prayer, and less frequently was she wen
iu places of amusement, while more than
once I heard ber in secret asking that her
wayward boy might be shielded from the
great temptation.
"Sunny Bank Station! Stop five min
utes for refreshment!" shouted the con
ductor; and alighting from the noisy.
crowded cars. I stood once more in my
own native town, gazing with a feeling
of delight upon tbe hills, dotted over
with the old-fashioned gable-roofed
houses, and upon the green, grassy mead
ow, through which rolled the blue wat
ers. I bad not stood thus long when a
broad band was laid upon my shoulder,
and the next Instant my arms were
around the neck of my father, who, I
thought, had changed much since I last
saw him. It was the loss of Anna, I
fancied; and when we at last were on
our way home, I hastened to speak of
her,' and to tell him of the favorable re
port we heard of Herbert. But naught
which I aaid seemed to rouse him; and at
last I, too, fell into the same thoughtful
mood in which even old Sorrel shared,
for be moved with bis bead down. When,
at last, we reached the hill top, from
which could be seen a long row of apple
trees, now In full bloom, 1 started up, ex
claiming, "Home, sweet home! It never
looked half so beautiful to tne before."
They all had an air of melancholy
which puzzled me, and when I wns alone
with Lizzie, I asked her the cause why
they looked so bad7 Bursting into tears,
she replied, 'This I not our home any
longer. We must leave it and go, we
don't know where. Fa hss signed notes
for I'ncle Thomas, who has failed, pud
now the homestead must be sold to pay
his debts."
It wa n Lizzie had said. Uncle
Thomas Harding was my mother's broth
er, who lived In Providence, In fsr great
er style. It was aaid, than he waa able
to aiiDuort. Several times had Annt
Harding visited ns, together with ber
two dsiie-hters. Ellen and Theodoaia,
Tbey were prond, haughty girls, and evi
dently looked upon na, their country
eoasins, with contempt, only tolerating aa
because It wta pleasant to bare soma
place In the country where td wblle away
few weeks, which, la tbe heated, dusty
city, would otherwise bang heavily apon
(Mr baada. la return for all this, they
(art aa aa aid collar, a silk
apt, a soiled fit boa, w strokes peraasj
tad ooca, when m parents visited
them, they aeat na a trnnkful of row
blah. Mr father, who waa warnaiy a
tached to my Uncle Thomas, lent htm
' money from tine to time, and signs
notes to the amount of several thousand
dollars, never once dreaming that in the
end he would be ruined, while my uncle,
'influeuced by bis more crsftT wife, nan
aged in looit unaccountable way to main
tain nearly the same style of living a
formerly, and if his proud daughters
ever felt the ills of poverty, it was cer
tainly not apparent in the rich silks and
costly furs which they continued to sport;
It was a terrible blow to us all, but
uion no one did It fall so heavily as upon
my father, crushing him to the earth, aa-i
rendering him nearly as powerless as is
the giant oak when torn from it par-!
ent bed fcv the wrathful storm, the old
torni. The old
to Liu, by
itioiis. It was
Hid around tha
ago were kin-
hermit hi had '
homestead was endeared
thousand hallowed associations.
the home of his boyhood, and
cheerful fires, which years
died on its tpacious hearthstone, hs had
played with those who long since bad
passed from his side, some to mingle in
the great drama of life, and others to
that world where they number not by
years. There, too, In his early manhood
hail be brouirht hi bride, my gentle
iu lie mouRoi 1.,,., ..... j
other, and on the rough bark of tbr; .
weroig maplm, by the side of bis own:
id bis brothers' names, were carved;
lose of bis cbildreu. all save little J-
mother,
tow
and
those
mie. who died ere his tiny linger had
learned the use of knife or hammer. No
wonder, then, that his head grew dizzy
and his heart sick as he thought of leav
ing it forevfr; and when at last the try
ing moment came, whin with tremb'ilig
hand be signed tbe deed which made him
homeless, he laid his weasy head upon
the lap of bis aged mother and wept like
a little child.
A small house in the village was hird.
and after a few weeks' preparation, one
bright June morning, when tile flower
we had watched over and tended with t
care were In bloom, when the robins 1
were singing their sweetest songs, and .
when the blue sky bent gently over us, j
we bid &dieu to the spot, looking back
with wistful eyes until every trace of
our borne had disappeared. Farewell for
ever to thee, ilea- old homestead, W hern
now otheT footsteps tread and othee chil
dren play than those of "auid lung syne.
The lights and shadows of years nnve
fallen noon thee since that summer morn,
arid with them have come changes to thee
as well as to us. "The moss covered
bucket which hung in the well" has been
removed; the curb, whose edgs were
worn by childish hands, is gone; while
in place of the violets and daisies which
once blossomed on the grassy lawn, the
thistle and the burdock now are grow
ing, and the w hite rose bush by !a door.
1 ....... ..!,...,.... l,r ,.i,,.Vu,l 1 IK tl!l'J. W lie H
IlWltl T 111 7 . ....... .
strewed be coffin bed of our baby broth
er, is dead. Weeds choke the gatdeu
walks, and tie moss grows green iin.J
, . , o i.. t.
UMlup ou iue oiu fifjue ". .-u
brook which ran a merrily patt our door
has been stop;M-d in iis course, and its
sparkling waters, bereft of freedom. How
turn the wheel of a huge sawmill with a
low and sullen roar. All Is changed, i.nd
though memory still turns fondly to the
spot which gave rne birth, I have learn, d
to love another home, for where uiy
blessed mother dwells 'tis surely home to
me. By ber side there is, I know, a
vacant chair, and in her heart a lonely
void; but while she lives can I not feel
that 1 have indeed a home, though it be
not the spot where first she blessed me
as her child?
CHAPTER XIII.
Many fears were expressed lest Ann
would miss the society to which she had
been accustomed; and when after tbe
sale of the homestead, she wrote, asking
me to come and live with her, 1 hesitat
ed, for to me it seemed much like bury
ing myselt irom tne worm, particularly
as she chanced to mention that the school
house was a log one. and that there wera
in the neighborhood several buildings cf
the same material. At last, after mauy
consultations with my parents. I conclud
ed to go, and about the middle of No
vember I again bid adieu to Sunny Bank.
I had never before been west, and when
about sunset I looked out upon the de
iigbtfu! prospect around Albany, I felt
a thrill of delight. In front of us was
an unoccupied seat, which I turned to
ward me for the better accommodation
of mv bandbox, and 1 was about settling
myself for s uap. when a gentleman and
lady came in. the latter of whom stop
ping near na. said, "Here, Kichard, is a
vacant seat. These folks can t or course
expect to monopolize two;" at the same
time she commenced turning the sea'
back, to the great peril of my bonnet.
I was sitting with my hand over my
eyes, but at the sound of that voice I
started, and. looking up, saw before me
Ada Montrose, and with ber the "dark
gentleman" who had so much interested
me at the theater. Instantly throwing
my veil over my face, I watched him
with a feeling akin to jealousy, wtiil.)
he attended to the comfort of his com
panion, who demeaned berself toward
him much aa she bad done toward Her
bert Langley. As tbe hours sped on, he
said to her s few low-spoken words.
whereupon she laid her besd upon his
shoulder, as If that were its natural rest
ing place, while he threw his arm around
her. bidding ber "sleep if she could." Of
course she wss his wife, I ssid, and with
much of bitterness at my heart, I turn
ed away and watched the alowly moving
lights of the csnalboats. Whether Ada
liked her pillow or not, h clung to it
pertinaciously until it seemed to me tnat
her neck muat anan asunder, while with
a martyr's patience he supported ber,
dozing occasionally himself.
"Bride and groom," I heard a rough
looking man mutter, as h passed them in
ouest of a seat; and as this confirmed my
fears, I sgsln turned Mwsrd the win:
dow, which I opened, so thst the night
air might cool my burning cheeks.
(To be continued.)
Reasonable Inrereac-e.
"I have been everywhere," aaid Ding-
pnf, aa lie wearily set his lantern
down, "and I haven't been able to And
an boneat man. ht do you tblnk of
thatr
"It merely Indicate," answered tha
plain, every-day cltlien, "tUtt yon hava
an undesirable circle of acquaintances."
Washington Star.
la DapArtasaat Mora.
Coatomer I want aomethliLg la oil
for my dining-room.
rioorwalker Do yon maai a paint
ing or a box of aar4toaa ntafaod
BlMttaT.
f(ifMW
ML
n
BYITI
fcMSj
m iisEiPEeiED Gam
By, Candice A. Bramble.
ACK r.ad Nellie
tliree young iieig
Foster and
bors, tne 11
their
akes,
re ho oni? a consultation oeiieiiiu
th- great elm tree which stood just upon
V- , . . .. ..., . ... i -I-
i lit line uou "'- . v. ,...t j.
I t!l you, 1 cull it a shame that we
eai 't go in to the city, as we always hive
before!" said Jack Foster, discontent
ed:. "Weil, you know we can't, so what's
the use of scolding all the time about it,
Jack:" replied his sister Nellie.
"Of court- father isn't to blame for
being sick, and I suppose your father is
.Umost as sorry as we that his business
calls him away just now," said Gladys
Blake in her gentle vok-e.
"But on the Fourth of July," inter
rupted her brother Tom, impetuously.
"It's too bad for anything, it wouldn't
be quite so mean if we bad a few fire
works to let oiT at night; but here we
are, almost desd broke, with hardly
enough money between us to buy a de
cent supply of firecrackers, let alone any
thing else."
"Well, never mind." answered Jack,
good nature.Hy. "Firecrackers will make
a dreadful lot of. noise if they're prop
erly handled, and what fun to be had
from noise is bound to be ours next
Thursday. Kh, Tom!" and he gave his
friend a poke which tumbled him over
upon his back in the grass, where be
chuckled a delighted "You bet it is, old
chap!"
Oh. but we ve forgotten all about poor
old Mr. Norris. cried Gladys, remorse
fully. "We can't go to shooting off crack
ers and making a whole lot of notso, be
cause, you know, it will hurt his head
and make uuu ever so ujucu ofse. V e
can't, indeed."
"Well, I like that!" shouted Tom. at
he glared wrathfully at the big brick
house just across the way. "What is
Fourth of July for if people are not to
make any noise? and, besides, what do
we care if we do hurt his old head? I'm
sure be was never so carc-ful about hurt
ing our feelings."
"Yes," chimed In Nellie. "he' a dread
ful mean, cross-patchy old thing, Gladys
you know yourself be Is and I don't
care if bis besd does ache a little, and
I don't think you ought to, either, a
many times he hss set his horrid dog on
our cat, and you know he never will
let us step inside hi yard, even to look
for a ball or anything."
"Ye." chimed in little 3 year old Rob
bie, gravely, "an" be said if I peeked
through tbe fence any more to see the
peacocks he'd turn out sn' spank me; au'
I don't like him, too."
"Oh, Robbie!" returned Gladys, with
a reproachful look. "It's a shame for
you to aay so. Only just think, poor Mr.
Norris hasn't any little boy and giris
to be good to bim, or any one to love
him, and be'a old and lame and sick,
and it's no wonder he's croas. I'm sure
we would be if we bsd hslf his troubles
to fret us."
"Well, then, Miss," Tom said, his tone
a little less wrathful than before, for he,
aa well as little Robbie, bad been Im
pressed by his sister's remonstrance, "if
we're not to fire off cracker, and are to
go walking around on our tiptoe all day
long, so's not to make any nole, per
haps you'll tell u what we can do next
Thursday, If it wouldn't trouble you too
much."
"Yea, I will," returned Olsdy bright
ly, quite unruffled by Torn' sarcasm,
"let's tske our dinner and go over on
the island and stay all diy long. Then
we'll be so fsr away that our noise
won't trouble Mr. Norri, and I'm sure
we'll have lots more fun than we could
at home."
Tbe children all realised the truth of
Ibis statement, but Tom felt that he
must not yield the point too easily, and
so objected. "But how , do you know
mother will let us go?"
"Oh, nonsense, Tom!" ent In Jack,
briskly. "Of course aha will, and what's
more, Oladys Is right, and you know It
so don't raise any mora objection."
Ho It waa settled, and from that mo
ment preparations for a rsry delightful
day upon tha Island went steadily en. Tha
hoyi erected fort and fortUkaUoaa for
ml mm ;r fi? I
' ScC mm PSPI omm
S VMmimmW THH UNIfKOSTATES UM
-.vll -HVXtJ iii:latios.-s.oo,ooo
. ' 'S .. - .
Qljjjjl - :
VoaiT lo7 V'1""''1' 4u44H Vl jt i of " -iil,lKrV Vtir-XHrUir frav-rt-C! V'''7
w W Wj W W lW w w w w
!
1 f
the bloodless battles which were to be
waged with firetrnckera and popguns
4 i and the girl busied thems'ilfes making
' ready the mniqu.-t, which was to be an
i.i." ,i.:i i:.,!.v li.a.i.w.
i eiHooi aie aim.r, wuoe wiwe iv-.-,,,, ...
! . .,1-iu. ... . i ; i i ,.,- h. 'ie
! ' ' ''. .V. i' L ... ..uJ.msMi
Jiui: ,11)11 iiioo'.ioik tin ',1.1 uu .v
, ...
At 'last the morning dawned, bright
,.i i. i i,',...., ,.f li.lv tlionld
i ne. mm eery one was so nti-j ui.u
one noticed when Hobbie stole "lit into
he yard and stood looking wistiuiij
across the road.
I "I... .r o!( t. ''" to
j , , T "
1,1, softly, "I'm
sorry lie jurt got any m"e ioys no
giris !o lo-.e him, an' I link I'll take) him
Home H sies an' two boofu! firecrackers
to make him a good Forf o' July. I don't
link he'll he cross to me."
A few uioi.ienu later Mr. Xnrria, fret
ting upon his softly cushioned couch in
the dim library of his great, lonely home,
was surprised to hear tbe tap, tap of tiny
"EAGEBLT 0T1IEUS-D ABOUT TIIE LIT
TLE FEAST."
boot heels in the hall, and then to see
Bobbie's face smiling upon him from
the doorway.
"I bringed yon some flowers," he said,
softly, "and two uice firecracker, too.
I couldn't spare any more, 'cause wc
hasn't got very many. I'm awful sorry
you' ick, an' we're all going away off
to shoot our firecrackers, so the bangs
won't make your head tie worse. Good
by." So strangely and silently had Robbie
come, and so .abruptly had he departed,
that Mr. Norris would have thought it
II a dream bad be not bad tangible evi
dence of iu truth in the bunch of gaudy
flower and the two brilliant firecrackers
BOY'S DREAM OF
J-'V- O' . lVSI '111 IV - - - X
' r
left upon the Hand
at his siii".
liy 12 o'clock the merry little company
oti the island was ready for something
t'i ent. and irmthTe.i e it" rly about the
. .
I little feast s;.r.id out upon tne ground.
"Oh. Uobbie!" cried Claiijs in a dis-
, . , ,
ir.ayed tone, in tbe very midst of the
anquet. "what have yon done? You
' carele's boy to step in our beautiful
l.-mon pie!"
Sure enough, to their gret dimy the
children discovered thai Bobbie had uc
ceeded in planting one dusty little foot
right in the very center of the tempting
pic which was considered the crowning
dainty of the jpread.
"Never mind." answered Robbie,
gravely, inspecting his foot with inter
est. "I don't fink it will hurt my shoe
very much. I guess it will all wipe off."
Bobbie was o solemn and so utterly
unconscious of the mischief be had done
that the children all burst into laughter,
and iu the midst of the merriment .Mr.
Norris' good-natured coachman appear
ed bcforn them with an immense bnket
upon hia arm,
"There," he said, setting it down with
a thump in their midst, "Mr. Norris
sends this, with bis compliment, to Mas
ter Robbie, and he hopes you'll enjoy it;
and I'm to tell you that If you'll come
over on th lawn to-night there's lie a
few firewoiks which perhaps you'll like
to see," and with a Kindly nod at hia
delighted and astounded hearers, Hiram
was gone.
"What does it mean? Somebody pinch
me, so I'll bo quite sure It' not all a
dream!" gasped Nellie, after a moment of
breathless silence.
"No, it isn't a dream, because here's
the basket, and do let's see what is in
it," returned Jack, seizing tbe heavy bas
ket and eagerly tearing away tbe paper
covering.
If I should try, I could not tell you
all the goodie which that baskirt contain
ed. Nor could I describe the beauty and
brilliancy of the fireworks upon the lawn
het evening. But r n of the chil
dren declared, when tired and happy they
separated for the night, that Mr. Norri
wa a mot delightful person and that
this Fourth of July had been by far the
best they ever yet bad known. Detroit
Free I'resa.
Tbe eating of snakes, lizards, scor
pions, centipedes, tarantulas and other
reptiles U now prohibited by statute In
Kansas.
AN IDEAL FOIRTH.
w hich