Leap City Northwestern J. W. BURLEIGH, Publisher. LOUP Cir;, - - NEBRASKA. China Aska for Seeds. Another proof of the awakening going on in cftna is furnished by the statement that the government of the Flowery kingdom has, through repre sentatives at Washington, applied to our authorities for seeds and, samples of every variety of plant of recognized importance raised in our .country. China is on the search for desirable crops, and apparently has learned a lesson by recent experience with famine, due to the failure of products on which the people rely for food. Nor is this all, says Troy Times. China will experiment with the prod ucts of other countries as well, and as she has a wide variety of soil and climate there is no reason to doubt that many new and valuable food arti cles will thus be secured. Further more, in coming to the United States she gets expert advice and friendly and effective cooperation. The de partment of agriculture has labored long and successfully in the same di rection and has done a vast amount of valuable work in developing and Improving crops. The hints borrowed from Washington bid fair to serve most beenficent ends in China. Witches Still Believed In. Neglected by the powers, witches ceased to be so notorious, but the be lief continued to exist, and does exist now, in rural parts of Scotland and England; and in England and France, even in the towns, fortune tellers, whether they charge a guinea or a shilling for their advice, are witches under the terms of the old statutes, and flourish abundantly, but as they are not burned they are supposed by superficial observers to have been ex terminated by school boards and elec tric lighting. The blacker sort of witch who “overlooks” and casts spells on man and beai t may be found in many rural regions north and south. One of them was brought be fore a squire and J. P. of my ac quaintance as a dangerous nuisance. He said to her, solemnly; "You know. Betty, the Bible says ’Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live in the parish,’ ’’ and she migrated, under certain con diions of compensation, to another parish.—Andrew Lang, in the London Post. One way Americans of the present day have of honoring the immigrants of the past was illustrated last month, when a statue of Commodore John Barry, the father of the American navy, was unveiled in Philadelphia. Barry was an Irishman, born in 1745. It was not till 1780 that he reached America as a sailor, coming here from the West Indies. He was em ployed by Philadelphia merchants and owned some ships in 1776, when he was put in command of the Lexing ton, after volunteering to serve the colonies on the sea. He captured the first British warship taken by a rev olutionary cruiser. He had been in America, or, more correctly, in busi ness dealings with Americans, only ten years when he began to fight for them. John Paul Jones, another of the revolutionary naval heroes, was also an immigrant, but he began to fight for us wyhen his connection with America and his interest in it had been much less than those of Barry. The foreigner to whom the land of the "free heart’s hope and home” has appealed has nearly always been reanly to take up arms in its defense; and when he has done heroic things the whole nation has applauded. A little sentiment which Mr. Cleve land put forth on his seventieth birth day, and by vfhich the occasion might well be remembered: “I believe that we must set ourselves against the fal lacy that a city life is the easier and more productive of happiness." Mr. Cleveland has had ample experience of life, both in the city and in the country. An Lvauston, 111., minister is fixing up a marriage ceremony in which the girl will not have to promise to obey. That is a good idea. It will be lots easier for some wives to obey if they have to when they have not promised to do so. A minister in South Dakota was held up by two cow boys, who tried to force him to drink with them. He thrashed both, and muscular Chris tianity is now at the top notch of popular veneration in that section. Consternation was caused all over the English-reading world not long ago by the report that the Valparaiso earthquake had destroyed Juan Fer nandez, Robinson Crusoe’s island. The terrible rumor has been denied au thoritatively by the secretary of the Royal Geographical society. John D. Rockefeller Jr. is to be su perintendent of his father s country estate on the Hudson. It is learned from a reliable source that he will not be compelled to live on his salary. The assertion of the Topeka Jour nal that "honesty is spreading,” re minds t:s that it does seem to be get ting somewhat thin in places. If the automobiles wish to retain •$e their popularity they should be care |p . ful about starting to run over people N so early in the season. A woman stabbed a man in the head with a knitting needle. A little painful, but in future he will be able to knit his brows. 1 CHAPTER I. The Tragedy. My feet touched the narrow ledge. I was safe. But Willoughby? Brave Willoughby? I tried to call to him. No sound came from my lips. 1 was too ex hausted. The last atom of strength was. spent. For the moment I was paralyzed—body and mind. I could only lean helpless against the moun tainside, gasping for breath. And al most immediately Willoughby’s voice came, quite cheerfully, quite steadily: “All right? Bully for you. Look out, here’s the rope. Now if I have decent luck. Be ready to bear a hand.” Again I tried to cry out, to warn him. If he would wait, five minutes, three minutes, one minute, I might be my self again. Still no sound came from my frozen lips. The rope fluttered over the over hang. It struck the icy ledge of the jutting rock to which I clung. Then slowly it fell over until it swayed loosely in the wind, still suspended from my body. I did not attempt to draw it in. I was too exhausted lor an exertion so slight as that. It swayed gently to and fro, and it seemed to me that presently an unseen force would grasp it and pull me headlong to destruction to the glacier below. In the mean while Willoughby was started. Now I dared not cry out. I could only look up and wait, still struggling fiercely for my breath. But if I had been too exhausted to warn him, to un fasten that rope from my waist, how was I to give him the assistance he would surely need presently? A stone fell, and tten another, as he fought for a foothold. I could hear him breathing deeply, though as yet I could not see him. I stood rigid, look ing upward, a prey to such fears, to such terrors as no man can imagine. Now he came slowly into sight, his feet feeling with infinite caution. The difficulties of the descent were appall ing. Even for me, supported by the rope held by Willoughby from above, they Had been all but impossible. Wil loughby was no amateur; but without assistance—no, I could not hope to save him. It must be death for us both. But, and this was the agonizing thought, when the crisis came, would the awful stimulus release my impris oned will? Or would horror still hold me? And still he came. I could almost touch him now. He was actually near me—and then, what I had feared, what I had known must happen, did happen. His feet lost their foothold. He was hanging by his arms over the ragged, blue-green glacier that yawned to re ceive him a thousand feet below. A moment he struggled frantically. Then he hung absolutely still. “Can you reach me?” he panted. “Brace yourself and reach me if you can. But be quick.” I did not move. I was not afraid to die with him, though the world has re fused to believe me. I did not move because I could not. Horror for the moment bereft me of my very reason to think and act. My will was frozen. My brain was numb. Then the nightmare passed. Sud denly I was calm. I took in a deep breath. I braced myself against the grim cliff for the shock as he should fall into my outstretched arms. But at that instant Willoughby quietly loosened his hold—even while I gathered all my poor strength for that last fight; and before he per ished he cried one word, without pas sion, without despair: “Coward!” His body Drusnea my own as it ien. I heard it strike brutally the glacier below. Then there was stillness. He was dead, and I lived. The stillness was awful—and a soli tude still more awful—vast, savage, and frozen, and always the whiteness of the eternal snows. And then dark ness eame. Hours later guides found me still lying there. I saw them scrambling toward me. I gazed at them stupidly, indifferently. When they called I did not answer. They bcre me back to the Alpine village we had left the day before. There were black nights of delirium. And in my delirium I cried: “I might have saved him. 1 am a murderer. He died cursing me as a coward.” And so they judged, me. When I was convalescent and crawled into the sunshine again, it wis too late to make excuses even if I wished. Peo ple had already passed sentence. No one spoke to me I was looked at askance. If any pitied, it was a pity tempered with scorn. iMore than once a kodak was snapped in my face. I was a curiosity. I was a coward. CHAPTER II. The Beacon Light. To return to America, to work; to forget if possible—that was the fever ish impulse that dominated me now. And yet I lingered a week at Grindel wald. It was Quixotic, perhaps, but at least I refused to run away. It was not a pleasant week. If I walked up the village st reet the guides, loafing about at the corners, nudged' each ether and indulged in brutal jests at my expense. 3a their stupid, if honest, eyes I had committed the unpardonable sin. I hud failed a fel low-cr.mber at a moment of peril. They relighted to buttonhole the tour ists—make me still more notorious by reciting to them the story of my disgrace. I was completely ostracized. No one took the trouble of asking if the blame were wholly my own. I was labeled the coward. That was the end of it But when I had lived through the interminable seven days, each marked With an Insult, I packed my things, vaguely hopeful after all. I was going home. I was going to America, and America is a long distance from Grindelwald. It was unlikely, I tried to persuade myself, that the story and the kodaks would follow me there. But If so, at least my fellow-townsmen would give me the benefit of the doubt. For once there had been a fire and a panic in the theater, and I had been lucky enough to help a little. So, if the story reached them, they would listen before they condemned. When my luggage was placed on the roof of the omnibus, and I was already seated inside, ihe proprietor of the hotel, who had hitherto held himself discreetly aloof, deigned to wish me good-by. "Adieu, Mr. Haddon. It will not give you pleasure to remember my hotel. I am afraid,’’ he said with a mournful diflidence. “That would be too much to expect,” I answered, cynically amused at his embarrassment. He hesitated a moment, one foot on the steps of the omnibus. “Mr. Haddon, may I say that I have sympathy for you? Do not let the lit tle accidents spoil your life. None of us are always brave. And certainly there is a courage of the spirit as well as of the body. The world condemns hastily, but it will doubt its verdict if you refuse to accept it. And you go now?" “To America,” I replied grimly, “where at present there is no verdict.” “But not at once?” “Why not?” 1 asked in surprise. i “It is your affair of course, mon-1 of gaudy brilliancy. A procession of floats was passing as I took my seat, each float distinctive of some incident of Swiss life or of Swiss history and glory. I looked out on this stereotyped scene of gavety with a resolute show of interest. I was determined not to let the incident of the photograph rum my digestion, as the littie innkeeper had said. Perhaps it was my morbid fancy, but already I though people were regarding me curiously. And then I was sure I heard my name spoken by a woman. 1 refused to look around. I smoked my cigar deliberate ly, looking out toward the lake. Suddenly from the Rigi mountain, far off on the left, a dot of light pierced the black gloom. Another and another ■ quivered, until there was a double row of them burning some dis tance down the mountainside. Then on the right, on austere giant Pilatus, its shaggy head crowned with stars, other lights blazed. And then, very far off, up in the silence of the snows, one solitary beacon light shone like a star, steadily and alone. This little light comforted me, though ft glowed from the very region of the tragedy. I liked to think it an emblem of hope. Out of the gloom and despair it burned steadily. It gave me a sort of courage. My elbow was jogged, and not with deference. “Pardon, but this seat is reserved." It was a waiter who spoke, and he was insolent. But I answered quietly: "1 was given this place by another waiter. There was no placard on the table nor were the chairs turned up. Why do you say it is reserved’” As I asked this question 1 glanced over my shoulder to see for whom the man was demanding my place. On the steps leading to the terrace from the dining-room stood two ladies. One of them was a handsome, distin guished woman well passed middle age, and saying that of her, one has said everything. Of the other, one might say every thing, and yet feel that one had said nothing. It was not the air of proud distinction that arrested my gaze, for she shared that quality with the other. It was not that she was mere ly young and beautiful. Other women are young and beautiful. It was rather “Coward!” sieur, but at least"—he was seeking a j pretentious expression of sympathy, J but he ended lamely—“but at least do i not let this simple affair spoil your 1 digestion.” “Perhaps I shall linger a day or two at Lucerne,” I said good-naturedly “Ah. yes,” he nodded in approval, "monsieur will retreat slowly.” And so 1 came to Lucerne instead of ! sailing immediately to America as 1 | had intended. It was not exactly [ bravado that sent me there to meet | the scorn and sneers of those who may ! have heard of my disgrace. It was the sympathy of the little innkeeper. When I arrived, Lucerne was en I fete. The Schweizerhof was crowded. ! Rut. in the restaurant I was not recog nized. I began to hope that I might ! not be. In the writing-room, however, a London weekly advertised to the world the story of my disgrace; and one of those cursed kodaks adorned the first page. It was only a question of hours before I should be known. I walked out on the terrace for coffee, profoundly discouraged. The terrace, screened by bay-trees and cedars from the broad road that ran along the lake, swarmed with the people who came to Switzerland, not to see but to be seen. They were chattering in every tongue in Europe. I stood in full view of everyone until a waiter beckoned to me; for there were few tables unoccupied. From the railway station to the Hotel Nationale the quay was ablaze with the flare of multicolored lights. Placed in screenlike receptacles at in tervals against the facades of the great hotels, the white monotony of outline [ was transformed into a fairy fabric of blue and green and red. The black masses of the people at the windows and balconies, eager to see the proces- ■ sion of the lake, were thrown into garish relief. Beneath the double rows of chestnut trees flowed a boisterous stream of Swiss peasants, arm In arm, shouting and singing as they marched, and a more sedate crowd of townsfolk , and cqrious tourists. that there breathed from the quiet presence of this woman a noble seren ity and calm that is as adorable as it is rare. The assured, direct look of her eyes was truth itself. She had not seen me. She looked beyond the laker—at the solitary little beacon light that had comforted me only a moment ago. I gave up my seat at once, of course. I walked slowly to the end of the terrace, and took a less desir able place. I refused to allow myself to be inter ested in these people. And yet I was strangely interested in them. It was as if I were waiting. When my ell >w was again touched; I felt no surprise. It was the waiter who had spoken to me a moment before. “Pardon—the ladies who took your seat—” Limit to Sense of Animals John Burroughs Scouts Theory That j They Commit Suicide. “I do not believe that animals ever commit suicide. I do not believe that they have any notions of death. ! or take any note of time, or ever put ; up any bluff game, or ever deliberate ; together, or form plans or forecast , the seasons. “They may practice deception, as when a bird feigns lameness or par alysis to decoy you away from her nest, but this, of course, is instinct ive and not conscious deception. “There is at times something that suggests cooperation among them, so ! when wolves hunt in relays, as they ; are said to do; or when they hunt in j couples, one engaging the quarry | in front while the other assaults it i from the rear; or when quail roost j upon the ground in a ring, their! tails In the center, their heads out ward; or. us when cattle or horses form a circle when attacked in the open by wild beasts, the cattle with their heads outward and the horses with their heels. “Of course, all of this is instinctive and not the result of deliberation, writes John Burroughs In Outing. The horse always turns his tail to the storm as well, and cows and steers, if I remember rightly, turn their heads." Humane Law of the Desert. One of the oddest humane laws in this country is in force in Nevada. In that section of the American desert which lies in Nevada, traveler? in dis tress may flag the limited passenger trains and compel the train crew to give them water to drink. The law makes it a felony to refuse to comply with the traveler’s request The younger of the two women had risen. She stood at the table, leaning forward slightly, her expression at once startled and eager. To my aston ishment she was smiling at me radi antly, a smile of charming surprise and welcome. Hut as I stared at her stupidly, the smile was succeeded by an expression of dismay. She ad dressed the elder woman in an agi tated whisper. Wonder held me spellbound as well as they. I turned vaguely to the j waiter. He had already left my side, | summoned imperiously, no doubt, by i the ladies who had certainly mistaken j me for another. j I had half risen. Now 1 seated my self again, and every nerve tingled | with excitement. The adventure was ! not yet ended; 1 was sure of it. And I welcomed the diversion, even though pain and humiliation were to be its price. I hatl come to Lucerne on a momentary impulse, so I thought. What if fate had guided that impulse? For the third time the waiter spoke to me. I looked up at him calmly; I had known he would come. “The ladies wish to speak to mon sieur, if monsieur is at liberty." The summons had come, as 1 knew that it would. I drew in a deep breath. My heart was beating fast, though outwardly I was calm enough. I turned; 1 advanced toward them. CHAPTER III. The One Woman. I scanned each face intently as I approached them. There was a high, delicate color on the cheeks of the elder woman. She was frowning slightly. I could not be sure whether curiosity or annoyance was the domi nant note of her bearing. But pres ently I saw that it was rather resent ment and thinly veiled contempt. During the past week scorn and con tempt had flashed from too many eyes that I should misinterpret that look. They knew, then, the story of my dis grace. That fact would explain the expression of contempt; but why this strange resentment, this indignation? The younger woman, the daughter, for the likeness was unmistakable, sat motionless as I approached. The atti tude was significant of a feeling more hostile and deeper than that which agitated the mother. It was the mother who spoke, not without evident reluctance; "Is it true that you are Mr. Haddon —Mr. Ernest Haddon? “It is true,” I replied quietly. ‘Then you were with Mr. Lawrence Willoughby when the tragedy oc curred?” she continued in a deep, even voice. "Yes, madam.” “I am Mrs. Bretf. -This is my daugh ter, Miss Brett.” Again I bowed gravely. The girl made a slight inclination, but her eyes still gazed intently at the little beacon light that still burned on the mountain. j I heard the name at first with an 1 idle curiosity. Then vaguely I re | peated it to myself. I had heard it I before. It awoke startled memories. ! I vainly tried to place these people who were compelling themselves to speak to me with so evident a reluct ! anee and hesitation, i "I am sure I have heard, only late I Perhaps, assented Mrs. Brett bit terly, “it was Mr. Willoughby him self—“ “Mother!" The daughter touched the mother's arm appealingly. “Yes,” I said in a low voice, “I re member now.” “Then, sir," and the question rose to a crescendo of restrained feeling, “when we were informed only a mo ment ago that you were Mr. Haddon, you will understand why we have sent for vou?” i “Yes, madam, 1 understand. You wish to hear from my lips—the lips of the survivor—of the tragedy?” Willoughby had loved the daughter. When death had faced us together, he had spoken of her. At such a time one opens one’s heart, even to a stranger. And he had told me of his heart's desire; he had told me of his despair that she had not returned his love. At least not openly. But now, when it was too late, perhaps she realized that she had loved him after all. If that were so. with what ab horrence must she regard me. And if I were to tell her everything—that he had died reproaching me for cow ardice— Yes. pain and humiliation were indeed to be the price of this meeting. Yet outwardly I maintained a stoic calm. I knew there must be no ex cuses for myself. Whether this wom an had loved him or not, at least his memory must be sacred to her. The man who was dead had paid the last, penalty of presumption and folly. But that must not be hinted at; it was my weakness and cowardice that I must emphasize. "Helena," Mrs. Brett turned to her daughter, “would you prefer that Mr. Haddon speak to you alone?” “Yes, mother, I should prefer that.” “I shall wait for you, Helena, in the writing room. Good evfening, Mr. Haddon.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) TWO BIG QUESTIONS THE “MORAL OBLIGATION” AND “DOES IT PAY?” SHOULD BE CONSIDERED An Honest Answer to These Will Keep the Trade with the Home Merchant Every Time, (Copyrighted. 190<;, by Alfred C. Clark.) When the thrifty person or his wife sits down for the first time—or any time—with the mail order catalogue and its temptations, there are two, and only two, points to be taken into consideration. One of these is moral obligation, and the chances are that that will be dismissed as sentimental nonsense. The other Is—Will it pay? and to that the thrifty person will be in clined to interpret an answer from the prices quoted in black-faced figures in the catalogue. Neither of these tjuestions should be lightly dismissed. Moral obliga tion is not sentimental nonsense, and black-iaced figures sometimes lie. The duty a man owes to his own community and his obligation to trade at home are so often reiterated in the country press that, possibly like some of the preaching, it has a tendency to harden the hearts of the sinners. Nevertheless, the principle is true as gospel. What has your neighboring town given you, Mr. Farmer? A market for jour produce. What has made 25 to 50 per cent, of the present value of tage. And this brings us to the sec ond point in the argument-—the para mount question in this commercial age—' Will it pay?” By most people an affirmative an swer to that question is accepted as the call of duty. As a matter of fact. "Will it pay?” is a good test to apply to any project or proposition. There are commercial, as well as political, demagogues, and the man who is ap pealed to on the score of patriotism or profit, duty or dollars, can scarcely do better than to sit down by himself and submit that question—"Will it pay?”—to his own best judgment. Provided always, that he goes to the very bottom of it. I believe that every mas ought to know why he does so and so. Too many of us travel in ruts. We get the habit of buying certain goods or trad ing at certain places when we might do better by changing. This will ap ply sometimes to people who trade at home as well as to those who buy abroad. It is always well to investi gate!. I have known people to make expensive trips to the city to buy goods that the village merchant would have sold them for less money. They hadn't taken the trouble to investi gate. What are the relative advantages of buying at the local store and ordering from a catalogue house? Advantages, understand, that figure in the ques tion, “Will it pay?” Don’t get e.way from that question. It certainly is very comfortable to sit down by your own fireside and select a dress pattern or a sulky plow from a printed des cription and a picture of the article: much more comfortable, in fact, than hitching up and driving to town on a raw day. A consideration more important, perhaps, is that the printed price in V V /' The fire of publicity is the medium the mail-order houses are using to destroy this community. It is up to you, Mr. Merchant, to fight the devil with fire. By the aid of the local press you can hold him over the scorching flames, and put a stop to his devastating competition ro far as this com munity is concerned. Will you not assist in the good light? your farm? The accessibility of a market. You know what your grand father did on that same farm? Drove his hogs and hauled his grain 30, 50, maybe 75 miles to the nearest market town, and received prices for them that would make you howl about the trusts. And he hauled back the fam ily supplies for which he paid what, you would consider monopolistic prices. Do you happen to know what th.e old farm was worth then? Well, it lacked a good deal of being $75 or $100 an acre. Yes, the home towi», with its handy market, has advanced the value of your property and made you worth several thousand dollars more than your grandfather was worth. The home town affords schooling for your children, and perhaps social and j church privileges which your family I would not otherwise enjoy. The rural j mail routes and telephone systems, j radiating from the home town, as ! spokes from a hub, bring to your home the greatest conveniences of modern times. V\ hsit would your tarm be wortft and how many of these advantages would you be enjoying now. if the city from which that mail order cata logue came were your nearest market, your most accessible trading point, your only post office and social center, the only place to which you could look to connect you with the outside world? Have you ever noticed that the first thing the settlers of a newly-opened ; reservation do is to send for a wagon 1 load of mail order catalogues? Well, I haven’t. They lay out a town site every six or eight miles, start two or , three general stores, build a school house, a church, a blacksmith shop, a ; grain elevator, petition the depart- | ment for a post office, and start a newspaper. They know, from former ( experience that, with these things close by, life will be endurable, what- , ever hardships may come. They know. , also, that without them they must live - lives of isolation and endure an exist- £ ence that is contrary to all natural , human instincts. , On the other hand, it goes without , saying, that the average country town , cannot exist without the support of t its tributary territory. Then, if that ( town affords the advantages for the , rural citizen that have been enumerat- • ed, there exists what we may call an - interdependence and a moral obliga- s tion between the two. Ace. you, Mr. £ Thrifty Farmer, living up to that ob- . ligation when you do your trading , with the mail order house? ( To this line of argument the farmer may answer that his greatest obliga tion, his first duty, is to his immediate household, and that among the duties to his family and to the heirs of his ! estate is that of practicing judicious i economy—buying where he can buy 1 the cheapest anti to the best advan- 1 L Vji ‘l , ; |V, * ■_ the catalogue seems, in some cases at least, to be lower than the price quoted at the local store. Isn't that conclusive? Let's see. The catalogue describes the goods and quotes a price; maybe it gives a picture of the article also, but you don't see the goods. The local merchant shows you the goods; you may examine them critically; he may allow you to test them or to call in an expert to advise you. Is it fair to conclude that the catalogue article is the cheaper just because the price is lower? An element that must enter into the comparison of goods and prices is. that in any attempt to fool the; cus tomer, the local merchant Is decided ly at a disadvantage. He must show the goods, not merely describe them. His business depends wholly upon the limited trading area of his town and tiis ability to inspire confidence within that circle. He cannot afford to make i practice of misrepresenting his ;cods. ine mail order house is not so tied Jown to the maxim that ‘‘Honesty is he best policy.” It has no neighbors, to fellow citizens, no mutual interests with its patrons. Its trade area is wide and always shifting. Naturally :hese conditions do not demand extra ordinary vigilance in supplying hon 3st-niade goods. And where Vigilance is not a needed employe in the busi ness he is generally taken off the pay ■oil, which makes a saving in expense, is well as in the cost of the goods. If o-wer prices are quoted by the cata pgue house, may not this account for t? “Will it pay?” Is it a matter of economy to buy inferior and damaged ;oods when the same money, or even i little more, will pay for goods of the test quality? Which course does a nan s first duty to his own household lictate? But to get at the bottom of that [uestion, we must consider the far eaching general efTect of mail order rading. If single catalogue houses re to be capitalized at $40,000,000. hey must be reckoned with along rith Standard Oil, the beef trust and ailroad mergers. If they are allowed o suck the blod from our country owns, your grandchildren will fln