JOHN BURT
By FREDERICK
UPHAM ADAMS
«• “The Kidnapped Millionaires.” “Colonel Monroe's Doctrine." Etc.
• COPTHIGHT, 1903, BT
FbzDEUXCK UPHJlH Anma
All rlfbts
reserved
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COPTHIGHT, 1903. BT
A. J. Dbiiil Biddle
CHAPTER XXXIII—-Continued.
“You are very good to come at this
hour.” the sufferer said. “I spoke to
you this evening of my dear friend
from California. Miss Carden, allow
me to present him. God bless you
both!”
And thus they met, after the weary
flight of years. Tenderly laying
Blake back on the pillows, John
clasped Jessie’s hands and looked in
her face.
.‘‘John!”
“Jessie!”
“Take her in your arms, John!
Don’t mind me. She loves-”
His voice died with a whisper, and,
with a long-drawn sigh, he closed his
eyes.
“He’s dying! Call the doctor!” ex
claimed Jessie, fear and pity chasing
the love light from her eyes.
“Don’t send for him, I’m all right
now,” pleaded Blake, opening his
eyes. “Let me lie here and talk to
you. The sight of you two is better
thaa all the drugs or instruments. I
have something to tell you—Miss Car
den. I-”
“You promised not to talk,” inter
rupted John Burt, with a look at
Blake which had all the effect of a
command.
“Let me say just a word!" he ex
claimed. “To see you two together,
and to hold your hands in mine af
ter all that ha9 happened, gives me
new courage and renewed ambition.”
The subdued sound of conversation
came from the adjoining room. All
of Blake’s faculties seemed abnor
mally acute.
- “Is not that Edith’s voice?” he
asked.
“She is in the other room,” said
Jessie.
“Let her come in,” pleaded Blake.
John made a gesture of disapproval.
“I should like to see her, but you
know best, I suppose, John,” he said.
Dr. Harkness entered the room and
signaled to John that the interview
must end. Blake gallantly raised
Jessie’s hand to his lips.
“Good-bye, until I’m better,” he said,
almost gaily. “You and John have
saved my life.”
John escorted Jessie to the door,
whispered a few words and returned
to Blake’s side.
“You’re a god, John!” said Blake,
f
he grasped the patriarch’s hand. “You
dropped me off the Segregansett in
the right place and at the right time.
Destiny orders all these things, and
old destiny and I are chums. I’ll tell
you all about it, Captain Burt, when
we have lots of time.”
Linked arm in arm the old captain
and his first mate entered the wide
door of the Burt farmhouse.
Never had the great oaken table up
held such a dinner. Mrs. Jasper was
temporarily supplanted by a chef from
Boston. Rare old plate came, for the
first time in John's recollection, from
mysterious chests stored away in the
attic. Those who surrounded the
board never will forget the invocation
offered by Peter Burt when he blessed
the food. The shadows which dark
ened his life had all been lifted, and
the austere cloud passed from his
features as fog before a quickening
gale.
• • * • •
Glistening in a new coat of paint,
the Standish bobbed at the landing
; when John helped Jessie on board.
They had accepted Sam Round’s in
vitation to a clambake at Churchill’s
Grove, and Sam asked all his old
friends and neighbors. For the first
time in the memory of the living gen
eration Peter Burt attended an out
ing. Under the giant pines he sat
with John Hawkins and told and lis
tened to tales of the sea.
The Standish pointed her bow out
towards Minor's Light, and picked her
way between threatening rocks. Un
der the shadow of Black Reef John
dropped the anchor and watched the
line until it became taut as the incom
ing tide swept them near the rocks.
Above his head he could see the spot
where he had knelt as a boy and
listened to Peter Burt while he prayed
to the God who ruled the storm. For
; some minutes no words were spoken.
“Do you remember the last time we
were here, Jessie?” he asked.
“Yes, John,” without raising her
eyes.
“Do you remember what I said to
I you that day, Jessie?”
“I—I think I do, John.” It may
have been the reflection of the sun,
but a touch of crimson came to her
cheeks. “It was a long time ago,
j John, and perhaps I’ve forgotten just
[ what you said. Can you repeat it?”
"John!" ‘Jeso&r
in a low tone. “You are the only
man in the world worthy the love of
such a woman.”
It is merciful to draw the curtain
over the two hours which followed.
At last a moment come when the |
grave face of Dr. Harkness was
touched with a smile of professional
pride, as he drew from an incision a
flattened, jagged piece of lead. The
patient glanced at it with pain-dis
torted eyes, and then sank into a
sleep, the awakening from which
meant so much in deciding for life
or death.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The End.
Peter Burt stood by the gateway
and shaded his eyes with his hand
as he gazed down the road. Two
weeks before that day he had re
ceiveo his first letter from John. It
briefly and modestly recited the story
of his struggles and of his success,
and ended with an account of the
tragedy which resulted in the death
of Arthur Morris and the wounding
of Blake.
The old-fashioned clock had sound- i
ed the midday hour, and Peter Burt !
looked beyond the turn of the road,
where the yellow-brown of dust had
dulled the green of foliage. Respond
ing to the touch of a whip a spirited
team of horses dashed ahead as they
reached the summit of the hill.
Sam Rounds was driving, and a
stranger to Peter Burt was beside
him. John Burt and Jessie were in
the rear seat
“God is very good to us, John,” said
Peter Burt, as he took his grandson's
hand and looked, through glad tears,
into his face. His stern old face grew
tender as he turned to Jessie Carden.
“An old man’s blessing on your
pretty head,” he said, gently touching
the folds of her hair with his huge
palm. “You are very beautiful, my
daughter, and it is God’s will that you
shall be happy. I am glad to see j
you again, Samuel.”
He looked searchlngly at the silent !
man in the front seat
“I do not know you, sir,” he said,
extending his hand, “but any friend
of my grandson’s is welcome to such
hospitality as a Burt can offer.”
“Aye, aye, sir; Captain Burt! -My
name’s Hawkins—John Hawkins, and
I’m coming ashore,” said the gentle
man, stepping from the carriage.
Peter Burt grasped him by the
shoulders and stared into his face.
“Jack Hawkins! Jack Hawkins, of
the Segregansett! The dead has come
to life, and God is good to his serv
ant! Forgive me, Hawkins, as He
has forgiven me!”
”>Tothing to forgive. Captain Burt!”
exclaimed John Hawkins, heartily, as
An arm reached out and the little
hand was firmly clasped.
“I told you that I loved you. Jessie.”
he said. The imprisoned hand made
no attempt to escape. “I told you
that that love was my inspiration;
that no woman on earth should share
it; that no matter whatever befell
you—sunshine or rain, happiness or
sorrow—that my ambition was to see
you showered with all the blessings
God can grant to a good woman; I
said that if a day came when I had
a right to ask your love in return that
I should do so, making no claim on
our old friendship. And then you
said something, Jessie—do you re
member what you said, darling?”
“I said that 1 wanted you to love
me, but not to speak of it again—
until I said you could,” said Jessie,
lifting her laughing eyes. ‘‘You can
say it again—if you wish to, John.”
Two soft arms were around his
neck and two sweet lips met his.
“You knew I would wait for you,
John, didn’t you?”
• • • « •
John Burt’s modest mansion stands
on the crest of the hill which slopes
down to the old farmhouse. It com
mands a superb view of the crescent
sweep of ocean beach, and also of the
more quiet beauties of Hingbam bay.
Verdant terraces and winding paths
and roads come to the edge of the
yard surrounding the old homestead,
but no gardener’s hand has been per
mitted to touch the quaint surround
ings, sacred to the ancestral founder
of the house of Burt.
In the long summer days Jessie’s
children play about Peter Burt’s
knees. Nearly five score years have
passed over his head. His shoulders
are bent, and the voice falters at
times, but his eyes preserve the spark
of their wonted fires.
Watched and cared for by those
who love him, he calmly awaits the
coming of the reaper, into whose gar
ner long since have been gathered the
atoms of his generation.
A few miles away another mansion
fronts the ocean. James Blake and
his fair Edith have been blessed with
two children and with each other's
love. A roguish boy bears the name
of John, and a dainty little miss re
sponds to the name of Jessie. James
Blake is now in fact as well as in
name the head of the great firm so
conspicuous in this narrative. In a
thousand ways he has merited the
confidence reposed in him by John
Burt. Generous as yet, almost to a
fault, he has acquired with responsi
bility that breadth of view and poise
of judgment which found its highest
expression in the man who made his
success possible.
Retiring from active business when
most men are making a start, Johj
Burt has devoted his time to the
study of statesmanship in its purest
> sense. Political honors have crowded
upon him. There are thousands who
share the confident faith of his lov
ing wife that the highest place in the
gift of the people shall seme day
crown his career.
There are frequent reunions in the
old farmhouse or on the spacious
lawns surrounding John Burt's resi
dence. Once a year Sam Rounds su
perintends a clambake, and John
Hawkins always manages to be pres
ent. To the latter’s inquiries con
cerning the future Mrs. Rounds, Sam
turns a grinning, untroubled face.
“No man in Rocky Woods is a bach
elor until he is way past sixty,” Sam
declares, “an’ I’m spry yet as a colt
in clover. Sometimes Ma Rounds is
a bit doubtful erbout my matrimonial
chances, but I has hopes; I still has
hopes. Edith, may I help you to some
more of them clams? Jessie, please
pass young Master Burt’s plate; it's
empty already. How that boy grows!
He's coming up like sparrowgrass af
ter a rain.”
Mrs. Rounds bustles around, her
eyes bright with the joy of being
busy.
“You set down, Ma Rounds,” com
mands Sam in a hopeless tone. “You
set right down and let us young folks
wait on the table. I can’t break her
of workin’, John; I swan, I just can’t
do nothin’ with her. Well,” raising
a glass of sparkling cider, “here’s God
bless all good people, an’ happy days
tew all of ye!”
(The End.)
HARD WORK TO KILL BEAR.
North Carolina Men Evidently Not
the Marksmen Their Fathers Were.
Some of the citizens of the Ashland
section had a novel experience in
killing a big black bear recently. He
was discovered passing across the
bottoms of the Bushnell plantation
about noon, by Alfred Jones, a color
ed tenant on the place, who notified
all the farmers in the neighborhood.
A number of men came with their
dogs and their guns and proceeded
to locate the beast.
The dogs 900n struck the track
end several of the hunters got within
close range at 2 o’clock. Five or six
loads were fired into him before he
had apparently noticed any onslaught.
Firing continued for several hours
with slight effect, and several fierce
fights between the dogs and the bear
occurred, but he apparently made no
effort to attack any of the huntsmen.
Late in the afternoon, after consid
erable dodging in a thick swamp, he
climbed a large tree. Several shots
were fired at him from below, and
he went out on a limb which was so
small it broke under his weight.
When he fell to the ground Mr. Ed
Harrill was at very close range and
got a good aim at a point just below’
the heart, which ended the conflict.
Mr. Summers, who sent for his
wagon, carried the bear to the near
est scales and found that he weighed
267 pounds.—Charlotte Observer.
Where Racing Manners Win.
Manners are becoming more and
more important to the success of
harness horses that are expected to
race in good company and make any
sort of a showing. The overanxious
trotter or pacer will take so much
out of himself in scoring that a horse
of less speed than he himself pos
sesses will beat him handily before
the race is ended. The horse that
cannot be placed at the will of his
driver after the word is given will
not win any race worth talking about.
Neither *will the horse of opposite
temperament—the sort that must be
“reefer" and rallied from start to
finish. The winning trotter must have
ambition enough to beat tffe other
horses in the race, speed enough tc
meet them on equal terms in that
particular, and the willingness to let
his driver decide when the brush foi
the front shall be made. That sort
of horse is a rare bird, and when you
find one and expect him to win th^ee
or four races in a row you must add
to his other good qualities those of
being a good shipper, a first-class
feeder and the ability to stand a
change of track and water every
week.—Los Angeles Times.
nuuyu vii
viifliiiwvi mm*
Joseph Chamberlain’s list of jokes
includes this one on himself:
On one occasion he was Invited to
Liverpool to make a speech. It was
to be a great celebration. The mayor,
who was to preside at the meeting,
had arranged a fine dinner for the
guest of honor. A distinguished as
sembly surrounded the table, and at
the right of the host sat Mr. Cham
berlain. For a couple of hours the
company chatted over their food, and
finally the coffee was served. It was
at this juncture that the mayor lean
ed over and whispered to Mr. Cham
berlain :
“Your excellency, shall we let the
crowd enjoy itself a while longer, or
had we better have your speech?"—
New York Times.
World’s Largest Monolith.
London Engineering illustrates and
describes the largest monolith yet
built. Two of these structures form
the foundations for the roundheads at
the entrance of the new Midland Rail
way Company’s harbor at Heysham, in
Morcambe bay. The roundheads are
three hundred feet apart, and only a
short distance removed from the main
channel formed by Heysham lake.
They are built on mQnoliths, which
constituted one of the most interesting
features of the works, for, being fifty
five feet in diameter, they were the
largest constructed in connection with
harbor works.
Scientific Englieh Farming.
At Farlngdon, Berkshire, farming
has been raised to a science. Mr.
George Adams, of the royal prize farm,
Wadley house, farms some 4,000 acres,
of which about half is arable and half
pasture. He employs from 200 to 250
laborers, milks 500 cows daily, keeps
about forty Shire brood mares, a score
of breeding sows, and from 3,000 to
4.000 laying hens, grows about 1,000
acres of grain, besides attending to
other multifarious items in the ordl
nary course of farm practice. About
1.000 acres of meadow hay are har
vested annually. All the work, cut
ting, carrying and ricking, is done by
piecework.—Tid-Blts.
A Wish.
I wish I were my lady’s veil.
Softly to lie against her cheek.
Where dimples piay at hide and seek
And rosy blushes flush and pale.
I’m sure that I should never fail
To feel a charm when she would speak;
I'm sure her glances would prevail
And draw me closer to her cheek.
If wishes were of some avail.
But pshaw, they're only vain and wTcak,
An idle dream—a childish freak—
And vet. and yet, the thoughts assail
I wish I were my lady’s veil.
—Chicago Chronicle.
| “Whatever possessed you,” said
| Miss Cordelia, “to quarrel with her?”
“I didn’t. It was she who quarreled
with me.”
“Don’t be an Adam.”
Bert ignored the case of Adam. “If
I could see her alone.” he said gently
—‘alone accidentally.”
“Accidentally, of course. That’s
where I come in?”
“Why not?”
“Because I am on her side.”
“But so”—radiantly—“am L Al
ways on her side.”
“I see. And I don’t see any hope
for you.”
“Then I’m sorry to be a nuisance,
Miss Cordelia, but,” settling himself
like a rock. “I must stay until she
comes. She comes often, doesn
she?”
Miss Cordelia began to laugh.
“Why,” she asked, “don't you write to
her?”
‘I want to be sure that Bhe cares
before—well, one doesn’t like to be a
hound for nothing.”
“And how will you be made sure?”
"Oh, the minute I see her.”
“And then—?” Miss Cordelia leaned
toward him with her own eyes twink
ling.
“Then I’ll kidnap her,” cried i ert,
and sprang to his feet. “If she cares,
Miss Cordelia, upon my soul—I’ll kid
nap her.”
“Oh, how young and silly,” said
Miss Cordelia, and sighed.
“Listen. It’s quite sensible,” Bert
: explained joyously. “The engagement
was talked about you know; every
one discovered it.”
“Yes,” Miss Cordelia assented and
smiled.
“Now the break is being talked
about. And Nixie, poor little ~irl,
; hates the whole business.”
“It’s quite likely.” Miss Cordel.a
put in drily, “that she especially hates
the talk going on about you an<f tnat
little flirt Nellie Carl.”
“That isn’t my fault. Anyway,”
with conviction, “this plan will make
everything right.”
“Oh, indeed,” repeated Miss Cor
delia.
Bert gave her a nod. “It’s great,”
he cried, and made for the door. “I’ll
see the bishop.”
“Mercy on us!” protested Miss Cor
delia; but he only paused to make
a brief request.
“Miss Cordelia—”
“Oh, you silly boy.”
“Ask her to wear white.”
“I dare say.”
“I’ll tell her the rest myself.”
“And when,” laughed Miss Cordelia,
“is she to wear white?”
“To-night, of course. You wouldn’t
have me live through another day
like this?”
Miss Cordelia surrendered. “Come
to dinner,” she told him. “Come early
—and—we’ll see.”
“It’s great,” said Bert, and was off.
Miss Cordelia began to feel a little
fluttered. She got Nixie on the tele
phone. Would Nixie come to dinner?
Nixie would be delighted to come.
“And I wish,” called Miss Cordelia
next, “that you'd wear white, dear.
I—I like you in white.”
“It’s very fortunate then that I’ve
a new white silk,” said Nixie.
Miss Cordielia chuckled. “Come
early,” she added. “Be sure to come
early, and Nixie—”
“Yes.”
“There’s quite a snow beginning.
Wear that pretty warm cloak of yours,
the long, fur-lined one, with the
hood. We’re all going to a—a little
impromptu at the Bishop’s, and come
back to supper,” and then she fled out
of hearing.
Nixie dressed as desired and came
early.
They went down and found Mr. Jor
"Because I am on her side."
dan waiting. There was a white rose
bud in his coat and he was rather
white himself, but a kind of smolder
ing fire was in his eyes.
“Will you show Nixie my new or
chids*” suggested Miss Cordelia. “I
mnst stay here to receive the ether
guests. And, Bert, tell her about the
impromptu— t? Bishop’s impromptu.”
Mr. Jordan bowed. Nixie led out
with a graceful nonchalance.
They at once forgot the new orchids
though a whole end of the conserva
tory was a cascade with their weird,
rainbow bloom. A light swung over
them—not an aggressive light. In the
darkness outside they could see the
soft fluttering of the snow against
the glass.
After a silent time Nixie pouted.
“You needn't sulk,” she told him.
“You needn't sulk,” she told him.
“I didn’t mean to,” Bert protested
in hurried meekness. “I was only
anxious about—about some roses that
I’ve ordered.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“Yes. 1 was wondering if they’d
get to the bishop's in time.”
‘‘You and Miss Cordelia,” she re
marked sedately, “seem to have the
Bishop’s impromptu quite weighing
on your minds.”
“Oh, it's no great matter to her, ’
said Bert.
“But a great matter to you.”
“Well, they’re bride roses, you
see.”
“A wedding,” cried Nixie alertly.
“Was that what Miss Cordelia meant
—a wedding?”
‘Yes,” he admitted, “that is what
she meant.” And he was as white as
bis rosebud.
She looked at him and suddenly
the battle was again in her eyes.
“How stupid of me,’ she said, and
made a low bow to him. “Of course
only the bridegroom sends the bride
roses. Allow me to congratulate
you. You’ve been breaking it to me
gently—I am so much obliged to you
—that you are the happy man.”
“It is my wedding,” said Bert, and
set. his teeth.
But there came a diversion. The
swish of skirts with chatter and
laughter going down to the ball.
Mr. Jordan gravely offered his arm.
The girl’s lips quivered. She looked
up at him in swift appeal, in the way
of the days before the quarrel.
“They'll all know,” she faltered,
“that you’ve been telling me, and they
will try not to stare, and not to smile,
and it will be horrid, horrid.”
“Don’t go,” said Bert.
She gave a nervous laugh and slip
ped her hand within his arm, but he
stood still.
“I think,” said Bert, astutely bend
ing his head to listen, “that they’re
sending for us.” Truly a step came
down the hall.
“Oh,” gasped Nixie, "so they are!"
“Let’s cut and run,” said Bert.
But in another instant they had
whisked out among the stray flakes
of the piazza. She leaned against one
of the pillars. One hand in a hurried
little flutter of excitement went to her
throat. The other Bert held and feit
it trembling.
“Come on,” he said, joyously facing
the snowy night; “come on!”
“Come where?” The dismay of it
was touching, but Bert laughed.
“To the Bishop,” he explained.
“The impromptu—”
“But I don’t want to go there now.”
“Why not? You always intended,
didn’t you, to be married by the bish
op? Why not now?”
He laughed triumphantly, and,
snatching her up in his arms, ran out
into the street and ready under the
great fur robes of the sleigh was the
hooded cloak.
“How ever did Miss Cordelia
guess?” laughed Bert, as he drew .t
about her, “or did you tell her?”
“You are two wicked plotters,” re
plied Nixie indignantly. “I shall go
back to that dinner."
But the groom had stepped back
from the horse’s head.
“It’s great,” cried Bert as they
dashed down the street with the soft,
coin beat of the snow in their faces.
“And I can’t stop the horse unless—”
“Well, unless?”
"Unless you want him stopped,
Nixie.”
“Do you know,” asked Nixie demure
ly, “if either of us has told the bishop?
Because it would not be respectful ':>
disappoint him.”
“But there’s one thing, Nixie.’
This somewhat later.
“Oh. is there?”
“You haven’t your mind at all on
Neilie Carl, have you?”
“Well,” said Nixie and softly
laughed, “I don’t see why you should
kidnap the wrong girl.”
So they dashed on toward the bish
op.—San Francisco Call.
Excuses the Girts Gave.
“Our outlook for basket ball lsn’1
very bright this year,” remarked the
captain of the senior basket ball team
of a well known woman’s college, as
she held in her hands a number oi
resignations from girls who last yeai
were enthusiastic players.
“Our worst loss is going to be oui
center, who doesn't return to college
this year because she is going to gel
married. Of course, I can forgive her.
but just listen to the excuses the oth
ers offer:
“One girl writes that she can't pla>
this year because the game makes he*
hands large, and her father objects to
that. Another says she can’t play be
cause she always loses her temper
when the umpire calls a foul on her.
and that her mother is afraid she’ll
become a regular ‘cross patch.’ I
did expect something better of our
little goal defender, but here is her
resignation along with others, saying
that she met a girl this summer who
had played in that position at Bryn
Mawr for three years, and she was
such an aggressive, assertive person
that she’s afraid if she play goal de
fender any longer she will become like
the Bryn Mawr woman.”—Philadel
phia Press.
Hoar’s Grim Humor.
An aged Baltimorean, a classmate
of Senator Hoar’s at Harvard, was
talking about the distinguished states
man.
“One day, when Senator Hoar’s
health had just begun to be feeble,”
he said, “he and I fell into a discus
sion of our various aches and weak
nesses.
“The spectacle of two old men com
plaining together in this way had its
humorous side, and Senator Hoar was
always quick to see humor. Interrupt
ing me in a description of a chronic
rheumatic trouble, he said:
“ ‘Howard, you and I, going on like
this, remind me of Lord Chesterfield
and Lord Tyrawley. They both, in
their old age, were feeble, but they
both put the best foot forward^ they
carried themselves as well as we do.
One day, though, meeting somewhere,
they began to recount their ills and in
firmities. While they were talking, a
younger man joined them; thereupon
they changed the subject at once, and
in explanation of the change Lora
Chesterfield said, smiling quietly:
.Tyrawley and I have been dead
these two years, sir, but we don’t
choose to have it known.” ’ ’
Getting the Money’s Worth.
Mrs. Lane was young and inexperi
enced, but certain principles of econ
omy had been instilled into her from
childhood. She knew that since one
could send ten words in a telegram
for 25 cents and any smaller number
cost the same amount, it was an ob
vious waste of money to send less
than the ten.
She had also been taught by her
eminently practical husband that in
sending a telegram one should “keep
to the matter in hand,” and avoid all
confusion of words. On the occasion
of Mr. Lane’s first absence from home,
he seat a telegram from Chicago, say
ing, “Are you all right? Answer.
Blank Hotel, Chicago.”
Mrs. Lane knew* she must be wise,
economical and speedy, for Mr. Lane
was making a flying trip, and had told
her ?.e could not plan on his where
abouts long enough ahead to have a
letter sent. She spent a few moments
in agitated thought, and then proudly
wrote the following message:
“Yes. Yes. Yes. I am very well in
deed, thank you.”—Youth’s Com
panion.
God's Greatest Gift.
God pity those who know not touch of
hands—
Who dwell from all their fellows far
apart.
Who. isolated in unpeopled lands.
Know not a friend's communion, heart
to heart!
But pity these—ah. pity these the more—
Who of the populous town a desert
make.
Pent in a solitude upon whose shore
The tides of sweet compassion never
break!
These are the dread Saharas we inclose
About our lives when love we put
away;
Amid life's roses, not a scent of rose;
Amid fhe blossoming, nothing but de
cay.
But if *tis love we search for, knowledge
comes.
And love that passeth knowledge—God
is there!
Who seek the love of hearts find in their
homes
Peace at the threshold, angels on the
stair.
—Munsey's Magazine.
Had High Opinion of Carleton.
Will Carleton while traveling re
cently in a stagecoach among the
Green mountains is said to have fall
en into a literary conversation with
a prosperous farmer. In the course
of conversation the farmer, who had
no suspicion of the author’s identity,
quoted from Mr. Carleton’s poems to
illustrate some points he was
trying to make. “Oh, that's from
Carleton!” said the poet, “and I never
have been In the habit of believing
half he said.” The farmer eyed him
a moment somewhat contemptuously.
“Well, stranger,” he retorted slowly,
“I don’t know you nor I don’t want to
be uncivil, but if you ever know half
as much as Will Carleton does you’ll
know twice as much as you do now.”
Little Alfred’s Squelcher.
Emma and Alfred, 4 and 5 years
oid, respectively, had been kept in
doors several days because of slight
colds, the boy, who was the more
affected, being in bed. They had been
looking forward to a visit from their
Aunt Judith, a favorite with both.
The door bell rang and a visitor was
announced down stairs. It proved to
be a neighbor. When she had gone,
little Emma, half crying, said:
“I wish ’at had been Aunt Dudith;
I’m just dying to see Aunt Dudith.”
The boy couldn’t brook thi3 Rivalry
in affection, for he quickly broke in
with:
“I’m dylnger than jau, ’cause I’m
bed”
WOMAN LEADER OF REBELS.
Macedonia Insurgents Fight Fiercely
Behind Female Captain.
Although it is by no means uncom
mon to find Bulgarian women fighting
side by side with their husbands in
the fierce Macedonian struggle, up to
the present no organized band has
recognized a woman as its chief. The
last band of fifteen men leaving Pet
ritch, in Bulgaria, was. however, led
by a woman named Doskalitza, whose
fierce fanaticism has made her the ter
ror of the district which she haunts.
She recently attacked the Greek vil
lage of Gumeniza, and set fire to four
houses whose owners had gone over
to the Exarchate. As a Greek woman
in one of these houses rushed forth
and cursed her, Doskalitza stabbed
her to the heart.
A certain halo of romance hang;
over this masculine heroine. She is
said to be a member of a distinguish
ed Dubnitza family, and was forme ly
betrothed to a Bulgarian officer who
fell fighting at the head of his Korn
itadjis, with Turkish soldiers, at Mon
astir. With his dying breath he im
plored his fiancee to avenge nis death.
Upon receiving the message Doska
litza bought weapons, armed fifteen
men of the neighborhood, and de
parted for Macedonia. The authorities
have offered a reward of ten Turkish
pounds for her head.
ouiuci my a uc«g ripe.
Soldering a lead pipe is like a
good many other operations—it is
easy when you know how, but exceed
ingly difficult when you don't. The
reason for this is that unless the sol
dering bolt is of the proper temper
ature, and properly handled, it is very
apt to melt a hole in the lead pipe
and so make matters worse instead
of better. The edges of toe part to
be soldered should be scraped bright
and clean and powdered resin used as
a flux. The bolt must not be too hot,
and great care must be taken not to
allow it to approach too near the pipe
for fear of melting it. The proper
way is to hold it directly above the
place to be soldered and touching it
with the solder allow the latter to
drop on the spot desired. Failure
will probably attend the first attempt,
but practice will make perfect.
Cement for Leather to Metal.
A German authority recommends
the following method of cementing
leather to metal: Digest one part
crushed nutgalls in eight parts dis
tilled water for six hours, and strain;
also macerate glue with its own
weight of water for twenty-four
hours and then melt by heating.
Roughen the surface of the metal by
scratching with a file and then after
wards washing off in hot water.
Warm the infusion of the nutgalls and
spread on the leather, and smear the
glue on the roughened surface of the
metal; apply the surfaces together
and dry gently. If properly done the
leather adheres firmly to the metal.
A simpler method is to melt together
equal parts asphalt and gutta percha.
apply hot to the surfaces of the
leather and mental, and dry under
pressure.
Next weak we com
mence bhe publication
of
NARY DEVEREUX'S
powerful historical
novel
Lafitte of
Louisiana
A story dealing with
the acquisition of the
territory of Louisiana.
HEXT WEEK
American Nurses in Japan.
One of the American volunteer
nurses at Hiroshima says: “Our work
has become interesting, and since we
have understood the men and ways of
the hospital better we can find enough
work to keep us quite busy all day,
and we enjoy it. The men are such
good patients, and we do not have to
depend much on the Japanese nurses
to explain when the men try to make
their wanta known to us, except of
course, with the very sick ones. Their
own nurses understand their wants at
once, but we always want to do what
we can to help. We are beginning to
feel that we are really a part of the
hospital and enjoy working with the
Japanese nurses.”
In Line for European Thrones.
Four of the great-grandchildren of
King Christian of Denmark are in the
direct line of succession to imperial
or royal thrones. These are Prince
Georgios, a son of the crown prince of
Greece; Prince Albert Edward, son of
the Prince of Wales; Prince Freder
ick, son of Prince Christian of Den
mark, and the Czarowitz Alexis, heir
to the Russian throne.
Overdoing It.
Homer—When it comes to cleanli
ness, my wife’s the limit.”
Neighbors—Indeed!
Homer—Yes, she even scrubbed
the coalbin last week before she
would let the man put the coal in.”
Pulling Him In.
Ida —Yes, Ernestine threw her
young man overboard.
May—And then wrote to him the
next day.
Ida—Oh, yes. She said it wa3 her
duty to drop him a line.
Brought Suit for Ten Cents.
Henry Haughey, who runs the mail
wagon between Flemingsburg. Ky.,
and Sharpsburg, sued a merchant
along the route for 10 cents the other
day. After the suit was filed it was
compromised before trial.
Money Left for Good Purpose.
The late Col. William Austine in his
will bequeathed $50,000 to establish
a hospital in Battleboro, Vt., “for the
temporary treatment of strangers and
local invalid* peculiarly situated."
