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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (April 2, 1914)
1 IVNAfOk True, .ev |a«uprr a peasant t*ah* of i Ci-f . - . r* tf r w u..»x:c .xm*u1- ru In *U-* H.I*I *. N- ■ tte'.r** .» mode a • inaiM «f Fr*» •* l»> U Kjwptmr Na te- * vh« p. J t x! a* hoy a : b« • ‘ France «m-» «; t’ ■ - '.>iari V- aae "f a«* Fraa.uk* 1*1* «i**a-r*l Baruxi «**» , teaxtj oniasuf who with All**. Lis • a***a-year-old dnugtx*x lx-** al ti* CBotnnu. * *oM*rr «f th* Kr..r>r* under j wyar-f- t he nr*o li* buy'* Imagxwattnw vuk aim of tit* rmwpotgn* “* gen e-ax «•*** Praaxsw a I one al lb* O.a b*< TU hay refua*-* to le»' * 1*1* te» MbU. SB tr u* ead krxuMM a *«*•• !»' t--* rh- r- -ra! «al W*rr4 d iti* xrk-id tea# kd*<*t. The r-tafml aad Btamut* y .p>. mtm . vnxea'.gn-d with « * «- n*ral WhS*- Kapateoe Marqui* *app and ht* a ■ r-Mi* ami - at iv 0-.at*au The **■-■*»• xjrr-a to -ar* for th* MarrJl*’ >u a • « - 'umirt «-■*• to Aww* TV- M .M-a* Before leak la* foe Am*rt*a tnuas ti- h* a fr-.nd «* W* •»" T»- u-r a- >i**»«n tr |0«»» *• r». •- the Town to live “•'A"* hte oe-* t*» in* Pkarro a* a ward the cne-ral Atet* PV-tro and ! te*a* a aursaw- tear who pt«*» to h* j Ptrnxe U*ut* XtteteHi Frawwda aavea Bla hf* Th* general .hr - .**• »ranrot* Mae# <ti- end Miartk a t*™->4e flWJB hit* that he will not nstertte# *•-tween the gir1 and Pwt*" Fcnnot** W* '*J<2 #* ee retOO l* P*'* Mu'** " r ■kaee l'X*r re-al* . ,f he- aofl L" 4 *a' leieaai to da# -n* '» and tlarquie tap* aa her U — »» Frnti •*» «■*£• kteto .^MI * O'wce whe W in, *-1^ teraik 1 fl.etena* and l««» I r»a#*a a> lev.!#* brother Frmo rda Hir*« the 4uer.ua (run th* b***t all-•win*'h* nrtna. and fete neither to **• -’!• Frmr.- ! ran* b a prisoner rf th* Austrian* for h. years »r *h* raatl* owned be Flelr. f» ]Uit !!«• 4ur- Ifl SW*fa ***** ° rv-trr>» <44 f»-lf mt-rxmntt Irtr Md* mi* t* Ms frr-«d» of JJhi •fcgftt The *• xeill. A!iv» A**1 fho"® < C»«1 *f-dt Kranruta and plan tits rescue , France* aa a gu*UI -f Ifr A Hainan ff**< * an>r f the -aa»V pnaaeti Inspects til* tnierho eg th* win* ret'.ar «f •*** Zaprt* teraoeuaa mu. *• a no*.- fmxn p.-tro ** pUv-xng la detail hew t eorap* fro*" " pel-,'* atae await* h-m on Ivors*nor* and -nda ban to Bla fnend* on _ hoard Che tntdtai anlthkg ■ i msL the Tetrlv Kr*V'i.p a* • '»f Harr1' f*.e tgnr • Lott - co**» to I., nar.tf. Ihetro'e .-rtat* tn VpVm«>m» wnrt» the »n<1 r .? im-'-'TtU* •*■ :fVxe*m- i CHAPTER XXI. Hero Worship ft Bad coate about that Lacy Matrp j tM was a achoUr of Fraarma Th* eolnaol. lit.-r.i i t oe a day that there ( were ao capaBi# trarhMi of French in j Us* neteBBorhuod that U»cy » school I g ri roanaan-d of the language wan fas’ fBtpiacflH and an accomplish- | went aa mal to a tad> was likely soon to B* kwt —this saga of regret being sang By Ute rakarl at tBe dinner-table. | Francois had offered ’o teach madt m •is*!le hit mother tongue And the cotuaei had accepted the offer. 'If you are not too busy. Chevalier And I suppose yonr—ah—accent—is entirely good' On* can not be too carefwi. vow know. At least we shall ■M qaarrei about the terms, for what ever tnooey yon think right to ask I •Ball be ready to pay." and the colonel felt lumsetf a mac of the world and extremal) generous Father•" Lacy cried quickly Francois' eyes were on his plate but they swept up with i heir wide brown gam full oe the colonel's face. "1 mm not too Busy. Monsieur tbe Colonel As for my accewt -I am a p-asan'. as Monsiewr knows, but yet I to in structed I was for years at Saint Cyr the greuu military school of France i believe my accent Is right As for money"— a quick motion, all French spoke a whole sentence. "If Monsieur insists on that—that must ffatak A To me it would be impos j tebU to take money for tbe pleasure of teaching mademoiselle ~ He | Bashed at Later a smile all gentleness, and Lacy's eyes, wwitieg for that •mile, met km shyly. Ti e colon*i blustered a bit, but the F reams were arranged as Francois wished, twice a week throughout the - winter be rode over from Carnifax to give them And little by little he came to know the small mistress of the mi nur as few had known her People thought Lakey Hampton too serious and Lucy Stood in the Doorway. staid for a young girl; no one realized that, her mother being dead and her father such as he was. tbe clear-head ed little person bad “begun at tea or twelve years old to know that she SB oat make her own decisions, and many of her father's also. At four teen she bad taken tbe keys and the r»» possibilities of tbe borne, ynd now. gt sixteen, she was tn reality tbe head Of tbe whole great plantation. The eoionet. who would hare been most In dignant to be tcid so. leaned on her tn every detail, and It was she who planned and decided and often execut ed tbe government of tbe little king A1I thin lay on tbe slender shoulders of Lucy Hampton, and besides all this abe bad begun In very childhood to bald up tbe hands and do the thinking of an incompetent father. It was not wonderful that she was graver and •loser to frolic than other girls of sixteen. Her conscientious young brain was full of care, and light-heart i itnnsr of youth had never had a chance to grow tn that crowded place, ■or coos in bad some to live with them i nly the year before, when his mother bad died, his father being dead long igo, and Lucy knew quite well that tier father had planned that the two Hiopid marry and unite the broad teres of the Hamptons. But the young longing for romance which was in her in spite of the chok ing sober business of her life, re belled at this. She would not give herself as well as all her thought and '•fTort for Roanoke. She wanted to love somebody, and be loved for her self as other girls were; she would not marry Harry because he and her lather considered It a good arrange ment. %<> strongly had this determi nation eeit«-d her that, looking entire ly down that way of thought, she Failed to see that Harry might not be l i&sst-d with the colonel in his view [>f the plan. She failed to see that if she had not been heiress to Roanoke House, or to anything at all. Harry Hampton would still have been in love with his cousin Lucy. For Harry saw how the young life had been pressed into a service too hard for it almost from babyhood; Harry saw how un selfish she was and trustworthy; how broadminded and warm-hearted; how she would like to be care free and ir res’xinsibie like other girls of her age. n:y that the colonel and the estate were always there, always demanding her time and her attention. He could do little to help her as yet, but he longed to lift the weight and carry It with h.-r, not away from her. for the :airy of a person was not the sort to :»‘Hn on others or to be happy without r share of the burden. Yet, Harry ib -ught. "If I might only help her. and make it all a delight instead of a labor t ” But Lucy, going about her busy ia\s r.ever guessed this. She thought it Harry as the boy whom she had grown up with, to be cared for ten lerly always because of his misfor -ne. to be helped and planned for md loved indeed, because he was lame »nd her cousin, and because he was i dear boy and her best friend. But i* the hero of her own romance to ••me, she refused to think of him at - ■•- More firmly sl’e refused such an dea. of course, because her father . id hinted that it would complete both Harry's and his happiness. Francois, with quick insight, saw as 'Mich as this, and was anxious for the boy who had been his warm and steady friend. What he did not see »as that Luck was fitting his own personality into that empty notch of t er imagination where an altar stood and a candle burned, ready for the mage that was to come above them, hat never entered his mind, for in bis mind Alixe was the only woman living to be considered in such a re lation. And. in spite of the seigneur, :n spite of Pietro, in spite of his whole hearted giving up of her, there was a happy obstinate corner in the depths of his soul which yet whispered against all reason that it might be that Alixe loved him, that It might be. lor unheard-of things happened every day. it might be yet that—with all honor, with all happiness to those others whom he loved—he might some day bo free to love her. So that as lie grew to care for and understand Lucy Hampton more and more, no faintest dream of caring, for her as he did for Alixe came ever into his mind. On an evening when winter was wearing away to cold spring. Francois waited in the dining-room of Roanoke House for his scholar. The room had a sweet and stately beauty, a graceful stiffness like the manners of the women who first lived in it, a hundred years before. The carved white wood work over the doors was yellowed to ivory; the mantelpiece, brought from France in 1732. framed in its fluted pillars, its garlands and chiseled nymphs and shepherds, as if under protest, the rollicking orange of the fire. Over a mahogany sofa, covered with slippery horsehair, hung a por trait of the first lady of the manor and Francois, sitting soldierly erect in a straight chair, smiled as his gaze fell on it—it was so like yet so unlike a face which he knew. There was the delicate oval chin and straight nose, and fa r loose hair. But the portrait was staid and serious, while Lucy’s face, as this man had seen it, had kindly eyes and a mouth smiling al ways. He shook his head in gentle amusement at the grave dignity of the picture. "But no. Madame—you are not so charming as your granddaughter,” he said, addressing it aloud. And then he stepped across the room to the fire, and held his bands to It and stared into it The clock ticked firmly, the logs fell apart with soft sliding sounds, and he stared down at them—his thoughts far away—a look came into his eyes as if they concen trated on something beyond the range of sight, the characteristic look of Francois, the old look of a dreamer, of a seer -of visions. 1 hen Lucy stood in the doorway, «tentle, charming from the slippered feet, locked over the instep to the shadowy locks of light hair on her forehead. •Good evening. Monsieur. 1 am sorry I kept you waiting. Hannibal hurt bis foot and I must find plaster and bandage for him. But you will have enough of my talking even now. Father says I talk a great deal. Do I, Monsieur?” Francois stood regarding her, with frank admiration in every muscle of his face. He smiled, the same gentle amused smile with which he had ad dressed the portrait "You never talk too much for me. Mademoiselle. It is a pleasure to me always to hear your voice,” he answered in the deep tone of a Frenchman, the tone that has ever a half note of tragedy, as of ; some race-memory which centuries do not wipe out. “Only,” he went on speaking in French, "one must not talk English. That is breaking the law, you remember, Mademoiselle.” She answered very prettily in his own tongue, in words that halted a little. “Very well. Monsieur. 1 will do my best." He still gazed at her smiling, without speaking. One could understand that, to a girl of more self-contained people, this open hom age of manner, this affectionate gen tleness, might seem to mean more than a brotherly loyalty. The girl's pulse was beating fast as she made an effort for conversation. "What were you thinking.vof as you looked at the lire when I came in, Monsieur? It had an air of being something pleas ant. Did 1 not say all that beauti fully?” she finished in English. He corrected a lame verb with seri ous accuracy and she repeated the word, and laughed happily. "But you haven't said yet what you were thinking about." The large brown eyes turned on i hers. “It was of my old home in France, Mademoiselle, when I was | Stretched Out His Arm as If to Hold a Sword. very little," he said 6imply. “A large lire of logs makes me think of that” “Tell me about it,” she begged with quick interest. “Will you? Was there always a fire at your house?" "But no. Mademoiselle—not of course, in the summer. It was of the winter time I thought, when the neigh bors came, in the evening, and we sat about the hearth, sometimes twenty people, each at his different duty, and my brothers and sisters were there, and the dear grandmere, was there and—” he stopped. "Does Mademoi selle really wish to hear how it was in that old farm-house of ours. In the shadow of the Jura Mountains?” “Indeed, Mademoiselle wishes It," she assured him. "It will be a trip to Europe. I am sure I shall speak better French for going to France for ten minutes, and being among the French people, your friends. Wait now, till I am comfortable.” She turned a deep chair so that it faced him, and dropped into it. "Put a foot stool for me,” she ordered, as south ern women order the men they care for—and the men they do not And she settled back with her little feet on it and smiled at him. For a mo ment the man’s brilliant gaze rested on her and the girl saw it, and thrilled to it. “Now, Monsieur, racontez-moi une histoire,” she spoke softly. Francois Beaupre’s look turned from her to the tire, and the air of gazing at something far away came again. “It is a picture 1 see as 1 think of that time of my childhood," he began, as if speaking to himself. “A picture many times painted in homelike col ors on my brain. Many a night in the winter I have sat, a little boy, by the side of my grandmother, at that great hearth, and have looked and have seen all the faces, have heard all the voiceB and the fire crackling, and the spin ning-wheel whirring, even as I see them and hear them tonight. “And from time to time one of the men, as he talked, rose up and strode across the room to the great oak table where lay always on a wooden plate a long loaf of black bread, with a knife, and always a glass and a bottle of eau-de-vie—brandy. And I remem ber how manly it looked to me, watch ing, when I saw him take the loaf under his arm and hold it. and slice off boldly a great piece of the fresh rye bread, and pour out a glass of brandy and toss it off as he ate the bread. The stories seemed to grow better after the teller had done that. “And always I waited, even through the tale of the ghost and the fire breathing hound, till the talk should swing round, as it did ever toward the end, to the stories of Napoleon that were fresh in men’s minds in those days. It was as if I sat on needles before my bedtime came, yet 1 did not dare to be restless and move about for fear that my mother might send me suddenly to bed. But I always gave a sigh of content and always the grand-mere patted my head softly to hear it, when my father cleared his throat and began—” “‘There is a small thing that hap pened when the Emperor was march ing’—and then he was launched on his tale.” A great hickory log fell, rolled out toward the hearth. The carved nymphs and shepherds seemed to frown in disapproval at this irregularity, and the girl in the deep chair smiled, but the man sprang up and put the log back in place with quick efficiency. He stood silent by the tall mantel piece. deep yet in his reverie, as the flames caught the wood again and sparkled and spluttered. “Did any of them ever see Napo leon—those men who talked about him?” the girl asked. .-.-., ' The Frenchman turned a queer look on her, and did not answer. “Did any of your family ever see him, Monsieur?" 6he asked again. The alert figure stepped backward, sat down again on the gilded chair and leaned forward consideringly. Francois nodded as if to the fire. “But yee. Mademoiselle,” he said, in a whis per. “Oh, tell me!” the girl cried, all in terest. “Who was it? How was it? It couldn’t be”—she hesitated—“your self! If you, whom I know so well, should have seen the Emperor!” She caught a deep breath of excitement. This was another Lucy Hampton from the serious young mistress of Roanoke House whom the country people knew. “Quickly, Monsieur, tell me if it was yourself!” Francois turned his eyes on her. “Yes. Madamoiselle,” he answered. “You have seen Napoleon!" she said, and then, impetuously, “Tell me about it!" But. though he smiled at her with that affectionate amusement which she seemed, of all sentiments, oftenest to inspire in him, he did not answer. “Monsieur! you will not refuse to tell me when I want to know so much!” she pleaded, and went on. “How old were you? Did he speak to you? What did he s^y to you?” And the Frenchman laughed as If at a dear child who was absurd. “Mademoiselle asks many questions— which shall 1 answer?" he demanded, and the tone to her ear was the tone of love, and she trembled to hear it. “Answer”—she began, and stam mered and flushed, and stopped. Francois went on, little thinking what damage he was doing with that unconscious charm of voice and look. “It is as Mademoiselle wishes, most certainly. I will even answer Ma demoiselle's two questions at once to please her. It was when I was not quite three years old. Mademoiselle, at home in the farm-house in the val ley of the Jura.” “And he spoke to you, to your own self? Are you sure?" “But yes, he spoke to me, Mademoi selle.” “What did he say?” The smile on Francois' face went out and into its place swept an intensity of feeling; he answered solemnly: "There were but few words. Mademoiselle, but they have been much to my life. They shall lead my life, if God pleases, those words shall lead it to the fate which they foretold.” “What were the words?" whispered the girl, impressed with awe. Francois suddenly stood erect and stretched out his arm as if to hold a sword. “ ‘Rise Chevalier Francois Beaupre, one day a Marshal of France under another Napoleon,’ ” he repeat ed dramatically. "Those were the words the Emperor eaitf' CHAPTER XXII. The Story Again. The girl, her face lifted to him. looked bewildered. “I don’t under stand.” The visionary eyes stared at her un certainly. "I have never told this thing,” he said in a low tone. "Ah—but It’s only me,” begged the girl. "Only you, Mademoiselle!” His voice went on as if reflecting aloud. “It is the guiding star of my life—that story; yet I may tell it”—he paused— “to ’only you.’ ” Again the girl quivered, feeling the intensity, mistaking its meaning. ‘T should be glad if you would tell it,” 6he spoke almost In a whisper, but Francois, floating backward on a strong tide to those old beloved days, did not notice. “It may seem a simple affair to you. Mademoiselle—1 can not tell that. It has affected my life. The way of it was this: Napoleon marched to Ger many in the year 1813, and passed with his staff through our villaga. The house of my father was the largest in the village, and it was chosen to be, for an hour, the Emperor’s head quarters, and the Emperor held a council of war. he and bis generals, there. I, a child of three, was sleep ing In a room which opened from th6 great room, and 1 wakened w-ith the sound of voices, and ran in, un noticed, for they were all bent over the table, looking at the maps and lists of the mayor—and I pulled at the sword of Marshal Ney. And the mar shal. turning quickly, knocked me over. 1 cried out, and my grand mother ran to me, and 1 have often heard her tell how she peeped from the door under the shoulder of the big sentry who would not let her pass, and how she saw a young general pick me up and set me on my feet, and how all the great officers laughed when he said that the sword was in contest between Marsha! Ney and me. And how, then, the young general sug gested that, to settle the point amic ably, the marshal should draw his sword and give me the accolade—the j blow of knighting. And so. Mademoi selle, to shorten the tale, it was not the marshal, but the Emperor himself j who chose to do it. He made me j kneel before him. I— a baby—and he struck my shoulder the blow of the accolade, and said the words which I have told you." Francois sprang to his feet and stood as he repeated once more the Emperor’s words. His voice shook. ”‘Rise Chevalier Francois Beaupre, one day a Marshal of France under another Bonaparte,’ ” he cried, thrilled through with the words which he re peated. The girl leaning forward, watched him; with a gasp 6he spoke. “Then that Is why you are really Chevalier Beaupre? Did the Emperor have the right to—to knight you?” “But yes. Mademoiselle.” Francois | answered with decision. “1 have stud led the question, and I believe that tbe accolade—the knighting—was always a right ef tbe monarchs of France, disused, perhaps at times, hut yet held in abeyance, a right." The glance of the brilliant eyes met hers with a Jrank calmness which showed that he claimed nothing which he did not feel; that this haphazard nobility had lived in his soul and grown with his growth, and come to be part of him. With a gentle humil ity, very winning as it sprang from bis gentle pride, he went on. "I know. Mademoiselle, that I am a j peasant and that I must be content with a small plaoe in life at the pres ent. I know this. And even that; position which I have is more than ; my brothers. For you must know, Mademoiselle, that tbe others grew up j to be farmers or tradesmen.” He hes- i itated, and then In a few words told her of General Gourgaud, tbe seigneur of Vieques, and how he had given the peasant boy all the opportunities which his own son could have had. And as he talked he remembered how. after his father’s ruin, he had stood inside the bare, little, new cottage and watched through the window his mother standing at the gate and talk ing to the seigneur, who held Lisette's bridle. It seemed to him he could see the dark braided hair of La Claire, coiled around her bead, and the deep j point of her white neck-handkerchief | as she stood with her back to him, and the big bow of the apron tied about her waist. The picture came vividly. And it opened his heart so that he talked on, and told this strang er in a strange land many things that had lain close and silent In his heart. He told her about the general’s gruff ness, which could not hide his good ness; and how he had come to be the child of the castle as well as of the cottage; something of Pietro also he told her; but he did not mention Alize. “You spoke of three children. Mon sieur; who was the third?” asked : Lucy. j Francois went on as if he had not i heard the question. “It was a happy i life. Mademoiselle,” he said. “And it has been so #ver since—even, for the i most part, in prison. I have wondered i at times if the world is all filled with such kind people as I have met, or if | it is just my good luck.” Lucy Hampton had been reading aloud to her sick black mammy that day. and some of the words of the book she had read came to her, and seemed to fit. “The kingdom of God and was tried for it—and all that—fa ther talked about It so much I could not help knowing a little about It, but I don’t remember distinctly." “But certainly. Mademoiselle. It was *the prince.” “Then, haven't they just done some thing to him? Isn't there something people are interested in just now about that Prince Louis?” The grave bright smile flashed out at her. “In truth. Mademoiselle, there is. The prince was shipped by his jailers on the frigate Andromede more than four months ago, for what port is unknown. One has not heard of him lately, and there are fears that he may have suffered shipwreck. But I do not fear. It is the hope of France, it is France's destiny which the An- j dromede carries. It will carry that great cargo safely. The young prince ' will yet come to his own, and I—and I perhaps you. Mademoiselle—who knows?—will cry for him ‘Vive l’Em j pereur’!” The tone full of feeling thrilled through the girl. She flushed and stammered as she went on, but Fran cois, carried away bv his enthusiasm, did not think of it. “If you will let me ask just one question more, Mon sieur, I will promise not to ask any | after." The flicker of amusement lighted his face. “Ask me a thousand. Mad } emoiselle." “No, only one. Did that seigneur— ; that General Gourgaud—did he have ! any—any daughter?" The Frenchman rose in a business ! like way, the way of a teacher of lan guage at the end of a lesson. “One,” he answered briefly in a mat ter-of-fact tone. And then, “Made- j molselle has talked enchantingly well this evening, but I have perhaps talk ed too much. I may have tired Mad emoiselle. I have the honor to wish you a good evening." His heels together, he stood in the doorway and made his bow. “Au plaisir de vous revoir," be said, and was gone. CHAPTER XXIII. The Prince Comes. The glittering morning sunlight of late March flooded the eastern dining room of Roanoke hcuse. A Are blar ed on the hearth; hot dishes steam>-d on the table; the gin s face, the crack ling fire, the polished silver reflected from polished mahogany; the soft shod, solicitons service of a white aproned negro; all this made the room fragrant with homeliness in spite of the fact that one could see one's breath in the air. But they were used to it—the iiardy Virginians of those days of open fires and no fur naces, of many luxuVies and few com forts, and in happy ignorance of world progress, they suffered cheerfully and were strong. Colonel Henry Hampton faced a por trait of the first Hampton of Roaiyoke, stately with brass buttons and silver lace, set in the panels seventy-five years before. Lucy had concluded her broiled chicken and bacon and hot bread, and now as he, late for break fast always, followed in her wake, he read the Norfolk and Portsmouth Herald with which a colored boy had that morning rjdden out from Norfolk, eight miles away. It was before the time of daily papers, except in a large city or two, and this of once a week was an event; a boy was sent to Nor folk the day before its publication that the colonel might have it at the earliest moment. “How wonld you like to see a live prince, Lucy?" he inquired. “The Her eld states that we have one with us, not ten miles from Roanoke. Prince Louis Napoleon was laqded from the Andromede, in Norfolk, only yester day. Poor young man," he went on condescendingly, “he has no money, I understand, and here he is stranded in a strange country with his fortune to make, and no assets but a title. It's little that will help him in the states!" Colonel Hampton glanced over to see if she were listening to his words of wisdom; he liked an attentive au dience. He was enchanted with her expression. She had dropped knife and fork and. with her blue eyes stretched wide, her white teeth shin ing, was drinking in his sentences. "Father! Is Prince Louis in Nor folk? How can it be? Monsieur Beaupre was talking to me about him last night, and he did not dream of his coming here. Surely he would have known if the prince were, expected." Colonel Hampton smiled sarcastical ly. “You will find that your father occasionally knows more than even Monsieur Beaupre, and even on I'Tench questions, 1 may add," he an nounced, from a mountain height. “But in one point you are right, my dear. The prince was not expected by any one, not even by the great Chevalier Beaupre. He was exiled from France, as you may or may not know, some four and a half months ago, on account of his attempt on Stra» burg, and was sent out on the Andro mede, with sealed orders. No one knew his destination until he landed, on the twenty-eighth, in Norfolk. There”—the colonel got up and walk ed to the fireplace and stood with his back to the blaze, and hip legs far apart, masterfully. “There, my dear. ' I have given you a dose of history for a female mind. How are you going to amuse your little self today?" (TO BE CONTINUED.) Dreadful. “Mercy, child!” exclaimed Mrs. Harlem. “I never would have be lieved my little boy could use such language. Been playing with bad children again, haven’t you?” “No’m.” j replied her little boy. “Teddy Bacon and 1 have been playing with a par rot his uncle sent him from Chicago.” WAY FOR THE YOUNG MEN! I Condition That Must Be Recognized Is Pointed Out by Writer in Magazine Clear the way for the young men. They are entering “the strong, fiour : ishing. and beautiful age of man's life.” They decree the changes. The map of the world may be rolled up— every acre tramped upon and inhab- j ' ited But still they come, claiming all the rights of the adventurer and pio neer. Domains must be found for i them if the old earth has gone stale. I If the life of danger and discovery is • ended, then they will turn their hand '■ against our secure world and refash ' ion the pleasant places. They will uproot tradition and shatter the insti tutions. We should like them better 1 if thdv fitted into our scheme, if they j were ruddy and cheery and ended ; there. But they come earnest and critical. They jeer at our failures, ieject our compromises. It isn't our j idea of youth ,our peaceful picture of waht youth should be. Poets sing it j ■ as if it were a pretty thing, the gentle j possession of a golden race of beings. I But it is lusty with power and disas- | trous to comfort. Men sigh for it as if it had vanished with old Japan at the hour when it is romping in their courtyard and challenging their dear beliefs. They are wistful for it in their transfigured memory, and they curse it in their councils, for youth i never is what the elders would have It It does unacceptable things, while age stands blinking and sorrowful. It is unruly, turbulhnt power on its end less track.—Collier's Weekly. Thing Never Paid For. Anyone who does his work well or gets satisfaction out of it, puts him self Into It. Moreover he does things that he cannot be given credit for, finishes parts that no one else will notice. Even a mediocre amateur mu sician knows that the best parts of; liis playing, his personal tributes to the genius of the composer whom be plays, are heard by no one but him self and "the God of things as they are.*' There might be bitterness in the thought that in ous work we get paid or praised only fOr what Is not particularly ours, while the work that we put our hearts into is not recog nized or rewarded. But in the strug gle for spiritual existence we adapt ourselves to the unappreciative fea tures of our environment and learn to look elsewhere for re.-ognition. We do not expect people to pay us for our best We look to the approval of I conscience, to the ligtr of our ideal seen more clearly whe.u our work is 1 good, or to the judgment of God. Our terms differ more tha.i our tenden cies. The essential point is that for appreciation of our besf work we lock | to a judge more just r.od keen-sight ed than our paymaster.—Richard C. Cabot in the Atlantic. Hi Failed to Come Up. Hi Larity treated his peg leg to a handsome coat of white paint one day this week, after which he paint<?d inches and half inches on it and baa since been using it as a measuring stick when digging post holes and co ing other work. Our road overseer tame along a few days later and placed s white pole in the creek with inches ind half inches painted on it so team sters can tell when the creek is too high to ford. Link Lollop passed that way shortly after and found Sirup Summers staring at the pole most tn :ently. Link asked him what he was watching. “I've been settin’ here iearly an hour,” Simp replied, “waitin’ :o see what Hi's divin' after, but hit seems like hit takes him a long time o come up."—Kansas City Star. Queer Things. Queer how things even themselves ip. Even when a woman’s love grows mid her temper is apt to remain a* lot as ever.—Philadelphia Recoil ROAD * BUILDING USE BURNED CLAY ON ROADS Sticky or Plastic Qualities Are De stroyed and Bears Traffic in Wettest Kind of Weather. •By QUIVER BENNOCK. Colorado Ag ricultural College.) In some sections of the country the i only material available from which roads can be constructed is clay. In ; such localities traffic is almost en tirely impossible during the wet sea sons. as the wheels of the heavy ve | hides will sink to the hub. In order to correct this condition, the United States office of public roads made the experiment of burning the day. It was found that by burning the ; day, even at a moderate heat. Its Entrance to Ute Pass, Near Mani'tou, Colo.—One of the Best Examples of Mountain Road Building in West. sticky or plastic qualities are de stroyed, so that even in the wettest weather it will bear traffic. This per mits the firing of the clay along the entire length of the road, thus avoid ing the cost of hauling it, and at the same time gaining the advantage of burning the foundation of the roaci as well as the material to be placed upon i It. Good solid wood is laid at intervals along the side of the road, about one cord for eight linear feet of roadbed, twelve feet wide. The road bed i3 first evenly graded and then plowed as deeply as practical. Furrows about ; four feet apart are then dug across the road and extended beyond the part to be burned on either side. The first | course of cord wood is laid longitudi nally, so as to fire a series of flues in which the firing is started. From 15 to 20 of these flues are fired at once. The rest of the cord wood is then placed on this flooring and then the clay is placed over the whole struc ture as evenly as possible, in a layer ^ of not less than six to eight inches. / This is tamped and rounded off. so that the heat will be held within the flues as long as possible. After burning, the road is graded and rolled until the road bed is smooth and hard. GOOD ROADS AID SANITATION % If All Highways Were Improved There Would Be Appreciable Better ment of Public Health. Friends of good roads should add to their usual arguments one which is not so frequently used, but is very im portant—namely, that good roads are direct aids to sanitation. J Weeds and other rank vegetable growths are prolific breeders of flies, mosquitoes and other disease-carrying insects. Sound road building causes the removal of weeds and similar trash. Weed and brash undergrcwths by the roadside invite deposit of gar bage and offal. Good roads do away with these disease-breeding agencies. Good roads also prevent disease by providing good drainage. Many farms have no drainage except by ditches along the side of the road. Open — ditches, clear of brush and debris, of hard surface and proper fall afford farms an opportunity to rid them selves of stagnant pools. Oiling of roads destroys insect lar vae. Dry, hard roads also enable pe destrians, especially the thousands of school children who, in country locali ties, walk quite a distance to and from school, to keep their shoes and stock ings dry, thus preventing colds, and their frequent consequences, pneu monia and tuberculosis. Logical tracing of effects to causes leaves no ground for doubt that if all the roads in the United States were good roads there would be appreciable betterment of the public health. A Difference in Roads. Two farmers living in separate coun ties, but at an equal distance from the cotton market, learned by telephone that cc.ton had advanced In price $t per bale. The farmer living on a bad road, according to Arkansas Home stead, responded by hauling one bale of cotton, which was all he could get over the unimproved road, while the other farmer was able to haul four bales, owing to favorable road condi tions. The rise in price gained a •profit of $4 to one and $1 to his neigh bor.