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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (June 3, 1915)
&r GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON ILLUSTRATIONS &■ RAY WALTERS COPYO/GrtT. fSW. DY 0003, OfOAD AW COPJPAttY CHAPTER XIX—Continued. —13 Brood stopped him with an impa tient gesture. "I must ask you not to discuss Mrs. Brood, Joe—or you, Dan." “1 was just going to say, Jim, that if I was you I'd thank the Lord that she's going to do it,” substituted Mr. Riggs, somewhat hastily. “She's a wonder ful nurse. She told me a bit ago that she was going to save his life in spite of the doctor.” ’ "What does Doctor Hodder say?” de manded Brood, pausing in his restless pacing of the floor. “He says the poor boy is as good as dead,” said Mr. Riggs. "Ain’t got a chance in a million,” said Mr. Dawes. They were surprised to see Brood wince. He hadn’t been so thin-skinned in the olden days. His nerve was go ing back on him, that's what it was, poor Jim'- Twenty years ago he would have stiffened his back and taken it like a man. It did not occur to them that they might have broken the news to him with tact and consideration. "But you can depend on us, Jim, to pull him through," said Mr. Riggs quickly. “Remember how we saved you back there in Calcutta when all the fool doctors said you hadn’t a chance? Well, sir, we’ll still—” "If any feller can get well with a bullet through his—" began Mr. Dawes encouragingly., but stopped abruptly when he saw Brood put his hands over his eyes and sink dejectedly into a chair, a deep groan on his lips. “I guess we'd better go,” whispered Mr. Riggs, after a moment of inde cision and then, inspired by a certain fear for his friend, struck the gong re soundingly. Silently they made their way out of the room, encountering Ranjab just outside the door. “You must stick to it, Ranjab," said Mr. Riggs sternly. “With your dying breath.” added Mr. Dawes, and the Hindu, understanding, gravely nodded his head. “Well?” said Brood, long afterward, raising his haggard face to meet the gaze of the motionless brown man who had been standing in his presence for many minutes. Miss Lydia ask permission of sahib to be near him until the end,” said the Hindu. "She will not go away. I have heard the words she say to the sa hibah. and the sahibah as silent as the tomb. She say no word for herself, just sit and look at the floor and never move. Then she accuse the sahibah of being the cause of the young master's death, and the sahibah only nod her head to that, and go out of the room, and up to the place where the young master is, and they cannot keep her from going in. She just look at the woman in the white cap and the wom an step aside. The sahibah is now with the young master and the doctors. She is not of this world, sahib, but of another.” "And Miss Desmond? Where is she?” "She wait in the 11811 outside his door. Ranjab have speech with her She does not believe Ranjab. She look into his eye and his eye is not honest —she see it all. She say the young master shoot himself and—” “I shall tell her the truth. Ranjab.” said Brood stolidly. “She must know —she and her mother. Tonight I shall see them, but not now. Suicide! Poor, poor Lydia!” “Miss Lydia say she blame herself for everything. She is a coward, she say. and Ranjab he understand. She came yesterday and went away. Ran jab tell her the sahib no can see her.” “Yesterday! I know. She came to piead writh me. I know,” groaned Brood, bitterly. “She will not speak her thoughts to the world, sahib.” asserted Ranjab “Thy servant have spoken his words and she will not deny him. It is for the young master’s sake. But she say she know he shoot himself because he no can bear the disgrace—” "Enough, Ranjab.” interrupted the master. "Tonight I shall tell her every thing. Go now and fetch me the latest word.” The Hindu remained motionless just Inside the door. His eyes were closed “Ranjab talk to the winds, sahib The winds speak to him. The young master is alive. The great doctor he search for the bullet. It is bad. But the sabihah stand between him and death. She hold back death. She laugh at death. She say it no can be. Ranjab know her now. Here in this room he see the two woman in her. and he no more will be blind. She Stand there before Ranjab. who would kill, and out of the air came a new spirit to shield her. Her eyes are tjie eyes of another who does not live in the flesh, and Ranjab bends the knee He see the inside. It is not black. It Is full of light—a great big light, sahib. Thy servant would kill his master's wife—but. Allah defend! He cannot kill the wife who is already dead. His master's wives stand before him—two not one—and his hand is stop.” Brood was regarding him through wide-open, incredulous eyes. “You_ you saw it too?” he gasped. “The serpent is deadly. Many time Ranjab have take the poison from its fangs and it becomes his slave. He would have take the poison from the serpent in his master’s house, but the serpent change before his eye and he become the slave. She speak to him on the voice of the wind and he obey. It is the law. Kismet! His master have of wives two. Two, sahib—the living and the dead. They speak with Ranjab today and he obey.” There was dead silence in the room for many minutes after the remarkable utterances of the mystic. The two men, master and man, looked into each other’s eyes and spoke no more, yet something passed between them. “The sahibah has sent Roberts for a priest,” said the Hindu at last. “A priest? But I am not a Catholic —nor Frederic." "Madam is. The servants are say ing that the priest will be here too late. They are wondering why you have not already killed me, sahib.” “Killed you too?” “They are now saying that the last stroke of the gong, sahib, was the death sentence for Ranjab. It called me here to be slain by you. I have told them all that I fired the—” “Go down at once, my friend,’ said Brood, laying his hand on tho man's shoulder. “I-et them see that 5 do not blame you, even though we permit them to believe this lie of otfrs. Go, my friend!” The man bent his head ac-i turned away. Near the door he stopped stock still and listened intently. “The sahibah comes.” “Ay, she said she would c<nme to me here,” said Brood, and his Jaw hard ened. "Hodder sent for me, Kanjab, an hour ago, but—he was conscious then. His eyes were open. I—I could not look Into them. There Vould have been hatred in them—hatred for me and I—I could not go. I wan a coward. Yes, a coward after all. Bhe would have been there to watc:i me as I cringed. I was afraid of what I might do to her then.” “He is not conscious fow, sahib,” said the Hindu slowly. “Still,” said the other, .\ompressing his lips, "I am afraid—; am afraid. God, Ranjab, you do not 6nowr what it means to be a coward! You—” "And yet, sahib, yon are brave enough to stand on the spot where he fell—where his blood floved—and that is not what a coward wovld do.” The door opened and closed swiftly and he was gone. Brood allowed his dull, wondering gaze sink to his feet. He was standing on the spot where Frederic had fallen. There was no blood there now. The rug had been removed and before his own eyes, the swift-moving Hindu had washed the floor and table and put the room in or der. All this seemed *ges ago. Since Brood Allowed His Dull, Wondering Gaze tr Sink to His Feet. that time h< aad bared his soul to the smirking Buddha and, receiving no consolation from the smug image, had violently cursed the thing. Since then he had waited—he had waited for many things to happen. He knew all that took place below stairs. He knew when Lydia came and he denied him self to her. The coming of the police, the nurses and the anesthetician, and later on, Mrs. John Desmond and the reporters—all this he had known, for he had listened at a crack in the open door. And he had heard his wife’s calm, authoritative voice in the hall be low, giving directions. Now for the first time he looked about him and felt himself attended by ghosts. In that Instant he came to hate this once-loved room, this cherished retreat, and all that it contained. He would never set his foot inside of its four walls again. It was filled with ghosts! On the comer of the table lay a great heap of manuscript—the story of his life up to the escape from Lhasa! The sheets of paper had been scat tered over the floor by the ruthless hand of the surgeon, but now they were back in perfect order, replaced by another hand. He thought of the final chapter that would have to be written if he went on with the journal. It would have to be written, for it was the true story of his life. He strode ^taSTTEe^vorFoTniiiny months wouia have been torn to bits of waste paper. But his hand was stayed. Someone had stopped outside his door. He could not hear a sound and yet he knew that a hand was on the heavy latch. He sud denly recalled his remark to the old men. He would have to write the final chapter after all. He waited. He knew that she was out there, collecting all of her strength for the coming interview. She was fortifying herself against the crisis that was so near at hand. To his own surprise and distress of mind, he found himself trembling and suddenly de prived of the fierce energy that he had stored up for the encounter. He won dered whether he would command the situation after all. notwithstanding his righteous charge against her. She had wantonly sought to entice Frederic— she had planned to dishonor her hus band—she had proved herself unw'hole some and false and her heart was evil! And yet he wondered whether he would be able to stand his ground against her. So far she had ruled. At the outset he had attempted to assert his au thority as the master of the house in this trying, heart-breaking hour, and she had calmly waved him aside. His first thought had been to take his proper place at the bedside of his vic tim and there to remain until the end, but she had said: "You are not to go in. You have done enough for one day. If he must die, let it be in peace and not in fear. You are not to go in," and he had crept away to hide! He re membered her words later on when Hodder sent for him to come down. "Not in fear,” she had said. On the edge of the table, where it had reposed since Doctor Hodder dropped it there, was the small photo graph of Matilde. He had not touched it, but he had bent over it for many minutes at a time, studying the sweet, never-to-be-forgotten, and yet curiously unfamiliar features of that long-ago loved one. He looked at it now as he waited for the door to open, and his thoughts leaped back to the last glimpse he had ever had of that ador able face. Then it was white with de spair and misery—here it looked up at him with smiling eyes and the languor of unbroken tranquillity. He clenched his strong, lean hands to keep them from shaking. A new wonder filled him as he allowed his eyes to measure the distance to the floor and to sweep the strong, powerful frame that trembled and was cold. He was a giant in strength and yet he trembled at the approach of this slen der, frail creature who paused at his gates to gather courage for the attack! He was sorely afraid and he could not understand his fear. With one of his sinewy hands he could crush the life out of her slim, white throat—and yet he was afraid of her—physically afraid of her. Suddenly he realized that the room was quite dark. He dashed to the win dow and threw aside the broad, thick curtains. A stream of afternoon sun shine rushed into the room. He would have light this time: he would not be deceived by the darkness, as he had been once before. This time he would see her face plainly. There should be no sickening illusion. He straightened his tall figure and waited for the door to open. CHAPTER XX. A Sister’s Story. If she hesitated outside the room to summon the courage to face the man who would demand so much of her. there was nothing in her manner now to indicate that such had been the case. She approached him without a symptom of nervousness or irresolu tion. Her dark eyes met his without wavering and there was purpose in them. She devoted a single glance of sur prise to the uncurtained window on en tering the door and an instant later scrutinised the floor with unmistakable interest as if expecting to find some thing there to account for his motive in admitting the glare of light—some thing to confound and accuse her. But there was no fear or apprehensiveness in the look. She was not afraid. Brood remained standing, a little be yond the broad ray of light, expecting her to advance into its full, revealing glare. She stopped, however, in the shadow opposite. It wa3 he who moved forward into the light, and there was a deep searching look in his eyes. In an instant it was gone; he had satisfied himself. The curious experience of the morning had been a phantasm, an il lusion, a mockery. There was noth ing in this woman’s smoldering eyes to suggest the soft, luminous loveli ness of Matilde's. He drew a long, deep breath of relief. She had put on a rather plain white blouse, open at the neck. The cuffs were rolled up nearly to the elbows, evidence that she had been using her hands in some active employment and had either forgotten or neglected to re store the sleeves to their proper posi tion. A chic black walking-skirt lent to her trim, erect figure a suggestion of girlishness. Her arms hung straight down at her sides, limply it would have seemed at first glance, but in reality they were rigid. “I have come, as I said I would," she 1 said, after a long, tense silence. Her voice was low, huskier than ever, but without a tremor of excitement. "You did not say you would wait for me here, but I knew you would do so. The hour of reckoning has come. We must pay, both of us. I am not fright ened by your silence, James, nor am I afraid of what you may say or do. First of all, it is expected that Frederic will die. Doctor Hodder has proclaimed it. He is a great surgeon. He ought to know. But he doesn't know—do you I UVU* Uii A let him die.” ' ‘‘One moment, if you please,” said her husband coldly. “You may spare me the theatrics. Moreover, we will not discuss Frederic. What we have to say to each other has little to do with that poor wretch downstairs. This is your hour of reckoning, not his. Bear that—” “You are very much mistaken,” she interrupted, her gaze growing more fixed than before. "He is a part of our reckoning. He is the one great char acter in this miserable, unlooked-for tragedy. Will you be so kind as to draw those curtains? And do me the honor to allow me to sit in your pres ence.” There was infinite scorn in her voice. “I am very tired. 1 have not been idle. Every minute of my waking hours belongs to your son, James Brood—but I owe this half hour to you. You shall know the truth about me, as I know it about you. 1 did not count on this hour ever being a part of my life, but it has to be, and I shall face it without weeping over what might have been. Will you draw the cur tains?” He hesitated a moment and then jerked the curtains together, shutting out the pitiless glare. “Will you be seated—there?” he said quietly, pointing to a chair at the end of the table. She switched on the light in the big lamp but instead of taking the chair indicated, sank into one on the oppo ‘‘Do You Remember When You First Saw Me, James Brood?” site side of the table, with the mellow light full upon her lovely, serious face. "Sit there,” she said, signifying the chair he had requested her to take. ‘‘Please sit down,” she went on impa tiently, as he continued to regard her forbiddingly from his position near the window. “I shall be better able to say what I have to say standing." he said signifi cantly. “Do you expect me to plead with you for forgiveness?” she inquired, with an unmistakable look of surprise. “You may save yourself the humilia tion of such—” , “But you are very gravely mistaken,” she interrupted. “I shall ask nothing of vou.” "Then we need not prolong the—” “I have come to explain, not to plead," she went on resolutely. "I want to tell you why I married you. You will not find it a pleasant story, nor will you be proud of your conquest. It will not be necessary for you to turn me out of your house. I entered it with the determination to leave it in my own good time. 1 think you would better sit down.” He looked at her fixedly for a mo ment, as if striving to materialize a thought that lay somewhere in the back of his mind. He was vaguely conscious of an impression that he could unravel all this seeming mystery without a suggestion from her if given the time to concentrate his mind on the vague, hazy suggestion that tor mented his memory. He sat down opposite her, and rest ed his arms on the table. The lines about his mouth were rigid, uncompro mising. but there was a look of wonder in his eyes. She leaned forward in her chair, the better to watch the changing expres sion in his eyes as she progressed with her story. Her hands were clenched tightly under the table's edge. "You are looking into my eyes—as you have looked a hundred times," she said after a moment. “There is some thing in them that has puzzled you since the night when you looked into them across that great ballroom in London. You have always felt that they were not new to you, that you have had them constantly in front of you for ages. Do you remember when you first saw me. James Brood?” He stared, and his eyes widened. “I never saw you in my life until that night in London, I—” “Look closely. Isn’t there something more than doubt in your inind as you look into them now?” “I confess that I have always been puzzled by—by something I cannot un derstand in— But all this leads to nothing,” he broke off harshly. “We are not here to mystify each other but to—" “To explain mysteries, that's it, of course. You are looking. What do you see? Are you not sure that you looked into my eyes long, long ago? Are there not moments when my voice is familiar to you, when it speaks to you out of—" He sat up, rigid as a block of stone. “Yes, by heaven, I have felt it all along. Today 1 was convinced that ^uiuwawun v - - sometmng tnat—" He stopped snort, his lips parted. She waved her hand in the direction of the Buddha. “Have you never peti tioned your too solid friend over there to unravel the mystery for you? In the quiet of certain lonely, speculative hours have you not wondered where you had seen me before—long, long before the night in London? In all the years that you have been trying to convince yourself that Frederic is not your son, has there not been .the vision of—’’ “What are you saying to me? Are you trying to tell me that you are Ma tilde?” “If not Matilde. then who am I, pray?” she demanded. He sank back, frowning. “It cannot be possible. I would know her a thou sand years from now. You cannot trick me into believing— But, in God’s name, who are you?” He leaned forward again, clutching the edge of the table. “By heaven, I sometimes think you are a ghost come to haunt me, to torture me. What trick, what magic is behind all this? Has her soul, her spirit, her actual being found a lodging place in you, and have you been sent to curse me for—” She rose half-way out of her chair, leaning farther across the table. “Yes, James Brood, I represent the spirit of Matilde Valeska, if you will have it so. Not sent to curse you, but to love you. That’s the pity of it all. I swear to you that it is the spirit of Matilde that urges me to love you and to spare you now. It is the spirit of Matilde that stands between her son and death. But it is not Matilde who confronts you here and now, you may be sure of that. Matilde loved you. She loves you now, even in her grave. You will never be able to escape from that wonderful love of hers. If there have been times —and heaven knows there were many, I know—when I appeared to love you for myself, I swear to you that 1 was moved by the spirit of Matilde. I—I am as much mystified, as greatly puz zled as yourself. I came here to hate you, and I have loved you—yes, there were moments when I actually loved you.” Her voice died away into a whisper. For many seconds they sat looking into each other’s eyes, neither pos sessing the power to break the strange spell of silence that had fallen upon them. "No, it is not Matilde who confronts you now, but one who would not spare you as she did up to the hour of her death. You are quite safe from ghosts from this hour on, my friend. You will never see Matilde again, though you look into my eyes till the end of time. Frederic may see, may feel the spirit of his mother, but you—ah, no! You have seen the last of her. Her blood is in my veins, her wrongs are in my heart. It was she with whom you fell In love and It was she you married six months ago, but now the curtain is lifted. Don’t you know me now. James? Can your memory carry you back twenty-three years and deliver you from doubt and perplexity? Look closely, I say. I was six years old then and—” Brood was glaring at her as one stupefied. Suddenly he cried out in a | loud voice: "Heaven help me, you | are—you are the little sister? The little Therese?” She was standing now, leaning Tar over the table, for he had shrunk down into his chair. The little Therese, yes! Now do you begin to see? Now do you begin to realize what I came here to do? Now do you know why I married you? Isn’t [ it clear to you ? Well, 1 have tried | to do all these things so that I might break your heart as you broke hers I came to make you pay!" She was speaking rapidly, excitedly now. Her voice was high-pitched and unnatural. Her eyes seemed to be driving him deeper and deeper into the chair, forc ing him down as though with a giant’s hand. “The little, timid, heart-broken Therese who would not speak to you, nor kiss you, nor say. good-by to you when you took her darling sister away from the Bristol in the Kartnerring more than twenty years ago. Ah, how I loved her—how I loved her! And how I hated you for taking her away from me. Shall I ever forget that wed ding night? Shall I ever forget the grief, the loneliness, the hatred that dwelt in my poor little heart that night? Everyone was happy—the whole world was happy—but was I? I was crushed with grief. You were taking her away across the awful sea —and you were to make her happy, so they said—ai—e, so said my beloved, joyous sister. You stood before the altar in St. Stephen’s with her and promised—promised—promised every thing. I heard you. I sat with my mother and turned to ice, but I heard you. All Vienna, all Budapest said that you promised naught but happiness to each other. She was twenty-one. She was lovely—ah, far lovelier than that wretched photograph lying there in front of you. It was made when she was eighteen. She did not write those words on the back of the card. I wrote them—not more than a month ago, be fore I gave it to Frederic. To this house she came twenty-three years ago. You brought her here, the happi est girl in all the world. How did you send her away? How?” He stirred in the chair. A spasm of pain crossed his face. "And I was the happiest man in all the world,” he said hoarsely. "You are forgetting one thing. Therese.” He fell into the way of calling her Therese as if he had known her by no other name. “Your sister was not content to preserve the happiness that—” “Stop!” she commanded. "You are not to speak evil of her now. You will never think evil of her after what I am about to tell you. You will curse your- j self. Somehow, I am glad that my i opportunity to see you curse yourbeu. ‘‘Her sister!" uttered the man unbe lievingly. "I have married the child J Therese. I have held her sister in my j arms all these months and never knew. I It is a dream. I—” “Ah. but you have felt even though M He struck the table violently with j his fist. His eyes were blazing. "What i manner of woman are you? What were you planning to do to that un happy boy—her son? Are you a tiend tO—M . "In good time. James, you will know what manner of Woman I am.” she In terrupted quietly. Sinking back in the ! chair she resumed the broken strain, all the time watching him through half-closed eyes. “She died ten years ago. Her boy was twelve years old. She never saw' him after the night you turned her away from this house. On her deathbed, as she was releasing her pure, undetiled soul to God’s keeping, she repeated to the priest who went through the unnecessary form of ab solving her—she repeated her solemn declaration that she had never wronged you by thought or deed. I had always believed her, the holy priest believed her, God believed her. You would have believed her, too. James Brood. She was a good woman. Do you hear? And you put a curse upon her and drove her out into the night. That was not all. Y’ou persecuted her to the end of her unhappy life. You did that to my sister!” “And yet you married me," he mut tered thickly. dui uctauac 1 iu v cu ^uu — uu, liu. She loved you to the day of her death, after all the misery and suffering you had heaped upon her. No woman evei endured the anguish that she suffered throughout those hungry years. You kept her child from her. You denied him to her, even though you denied him to yourself. Why did you keep him from her? She was his mother. She had borne him, he was all hers. But no! It was your revenge to de prive her of the child she had brought into the world. You worked deliberate ly in this plan to crush what little there was left in life for her You kept him with you. though you branded him with a name I cannot utter; you guard ed him as if he were your most precious possession and not a curse to your pride; you did this because you knew that you could drive the barb more deeply into her tortured heart. You allowed her to die, after years of pleading, after years of vain endeavor, wuthout one glimpse of her boy, with out ever having heard the word mother on his lips. That is what you did to my sister. For twelve long years you gloated over her misery. Oh. God. man, how I hated you when I married you!” She paused breathless. “You are creating an excuse for your devilish conduct,” he exclaimed harsh ly. “You are like Matilde, false to the core. You married me for the luxury I could provide, notwithstanding the curse 1 had put upon your sister. I don't believe a word of what you are saying to—" “Don’t you believe that I am her sis ter?” “You—yes, bv heaven, I must believe that. Why have I been so blind? You are the little Therese, and you hated me in those other days. I remember well the—" “A child's despairing hatred because you were taking away the being she loved best of all. Will you believe me j when 1 say that my hatred did not en- ; dure for long.' When her happy, joy ous letters came back to us filled with accounts of your goodness, your devo tion, I—I allowed my hatred to die. I forgot that you had robbed me. 1 came to look upon you as the fairy prince, after all. It was not until she came ail the way across the ocean and began to die before our eyes—she was years in dying—it was not until then that I be gan to hate you with a real, undying hatred." “And yet you gave yourself to me." he cried. "You put yourself in her place. In heaven’s name, what was to be gained by such an act as that?" “I wanted to take Matilde’s boy away from you,” she hurried on. and for the first time her eyes began to waver. "The idea suggested itself to me the night I met you at the comtesse’s din ner. It was a wonderful, a tremendous thought that entered my brain. At first my real self revolted, but as time went on the idea became an obsession. I married you, James Brood, for the sole purpose of hurting you in the worst possible way; by having Ma tilde’s son strike you where the pain would be the greatest. Ah. you are thinking that I would have permitted myself to have become his mistress, but you are mistaken. I am not that bad. I would not have damned his soul in that way. I would not have betrayed my sister in that way. Far more subtle was my design. I confess that it was my plan to make him fall in love with me and in the end to run away with him, leaving you to think that the very worst had happened. But it would not have been as you think. He would have been protected, my friend, amply protected. He—” "But you would have wrecked him don’t you see that you would have wrecked the life you sought to protect? How utterly blind and unfeeling you were. You say that he was my son and Matilde’s, honestly born What was your object, may 1 ioiiuire. in striking me at such cost to him? You would have made a scoundrel of him for the sake of a personal vengeance. Are you forgetting that he regarded himself as my son?” (TO BE CONTINT’ED.) Their Use. “Why do you advocate blanket street-paving bills?” “To cover the beds of the streets, of course.” SOULMUH TALKS OF POPE Man Who Made Bronze Bust of Head of Church Impressed With His Appearance. Raffaelle Romagnoli. the Florentine sculptor, who was summoned from Pe trograd to Rome to make a bust in bronze of Pope Benedict, gives an in teresting account of his work in the Vatican The pope refused to sit more than three tiu.es, and even then the sit tings were short. When the cast was , shown him the pontiff expressed him self well pleased, gave the artist an ' autograph portrait and said: I thank God that I am now done with all painters and sculptors. You are the only one who has had three sittings. Now, go. You have my benediction." Romagnoli describes the pope’s fea tures thus: “His holiness has a most interest ing head—large forehead and cranium characteristic of a serene, well-bal anced mind. The aquiline nose and deep-set eyes show force of character and intelligence; the eyes, though short-sighted, gleam with intelligence. The large, well-shaped mouth shows constancy of purpose. The qhin is prominent, of the classical shape of Julius Caesar’s and Napoleon's." His Intent. ‘See how that dog is licking your hand.” “1 suppose he wants to stamp me with his approval.” IS GREAT PATRIOTIC POEM Deborah's Song of Victory Has Been Put by Many at the Head of the List. Every element of patriotism is in Deborah’s song of victory: “Praise ye the Lord for the avenging of Israel”— the triumphant onset dies down to a beautiful lament for the forsaken high ways, the ruined villages, the coward ice of the past. Then comes the call to arms, the awakening—the gathering together of the loyal princes and governors, yes, and of penmen, scorn for the faint hearted, curses for the treacherous— Asher, Reuben, Meroz. From these the song flames up again into imaginative splendor, with its stars and prancings, narrows its view to the tent of Jael, to the mother of Sisera hearkening in vain at her win dow for the sound of the chariot wheels and tl^ son that will never re turn, and sinks like the peace of eve ning to its close: “So let all thine ene mies perish, O Lord; but let them that love him be as the sun when he goetb forth in his might.” There is no pa triotic poem to compare with it. Restricts Sale of Weapons. A Greek law of July 30, 1914, pro hibits the importation, manufacture and sale of certain weapons, includ ing stilettos, daggers and spring or double-edged pocket knives. The im portation of firearms of all kinds with out government permission is likewise prohibited. _ mitlffl bRNMJfl Wheat and Other Grains Have Had an Excellent Start. The seeding of spring wheat was pretty general this spring about 7th of April or about as early as in Illinois and Iowa. Oats and barley followed. Information is to hand that on first of May all seeding was practically fin ished. Fanners will now be busy at their breaking, and the land for sum mer fallow will be entered upon. Some who did not get their land prepared last fall, will be later than the others, but as the spring in Western Canada has been very open they will be only a few days later. At the time of writing rain would be welcome, but at seeding time, the ground contained a splendid lot of moisture and the lack of rain at the present time will not be serious. The number of farm ers who have gone into the raising of cattle has been considerably in creased, and the preparation lor ex tensive cultivated grass pastures is in evidence everywhere. The culti vation of fodder corn is being largely entered upon in Manitoba there be ing upwards of 25,000 acres in corn. In Saskatchewan there will be a large increase In the area planted, and in Alberta many of the more progres sive farmers are taking hold of it The yield varies according to the cul tivation it receives, and runs from five to nine tons per acre. In some portions of Manitoba where it has been poor for some years, success has been achieved in ripening and it is expected mat a variety will Boon b developed that will provide seed for the entire West, that will at an early date give to Western Canada a tame for the growing of a marketable corn equal to that It has now for the growth of smaller cereals. A trip through Western Canada re veals field after field of alfalfa, the growth of which In any portion of the^ountry is now absolutely assured When these facts are made known to the farmers of the com and alfalfa growing states, where their value as wealth makers Is so well know n, there will be no hesitancy in taking advan tage of the splendid gift of 160 acres of land made by the Government of the Dominion of Canada, where equal opportunities are offered. Besides these free grant lands, there are the lands of some of the railway com panies and large land companies, that may be had at low prices and on reasonable terms. During the month of February a large number of in quiries were received, asking for farm lands. An encouraging feature of the farm land situation in Canada is the large percentage of sales made to settlers in the country who desire to Increase their holdings or to others who will take up farming In place of different occupations previously followed.—Ad vertisement. Her Wise Papa. She—Papa says that when coming to see me you must not come in a street car any more. He—Really! Does he expect me to walk all this distance? She—Of course not. He says all he asks is that you will come in a car riage hired by the hour.—New York Weekly. THE SECRET of good coffee is to get pure, sound coffee If you ask your dealer he will tell you that all coffees are pure, as the law pro hibits the sale of substitutes as coffee. Not all apples are pure although they are apples. Some of them are often rotten. Some coffees are windfalls, and whils: the law allows them to be called coffee they are impure and have a harsh taste Denison's Coffees are picked coffees, the berries picked by hand from the trees consequently they are always pure and sound in every sense of the word, rehab * and delicious. Denison's Coffees are always packed cartons, bags or cans with the name -. every package. All others are lmittf . « If your grocer does not stock Per > n * Coffees, write the Denison Coffee Co . C. cago. 111., who will tell you where the can lie obtained in your vicinity.—Adv. First Aid. An artillery battle was raging. The din was terrific. Suddenly a wear cor respondent, one of the favored few permitted to see a little real fighting, clapped his hands to his ears and cried. "I fear my tympanum is split!" "Too bad!" roared a friendly "Tom my." "I've got a needle and some thread in my kit, If that’ll help you any." CLEAN SWEET SCALP May Be Kept So by Cuticura - Soap and Ointment. Trial Free. To have good hair clear the scalp of dandruff and itching with shampoos of Cuticura Soap and touches of Cuti cura Ointment to dandruff spots and itching. Nothing better than these pure, fragrant, supercreamy emol lients for skin and scalp troubles. Sample each free by mail with Skin Book. Address Cuticura. Dept. XY, Boston. Sold everywhere.—Adv. Recipe. “Jack is such a favorite with the girls.” “Yes: he handles them with gloves —about ten pairs per year.”—Puck. VOIR OWN DRCGOI8T WILL TELL YOU Tit Murine Bye Remedy for Red, Week. Watery By^s and Granulated Hyelids; No Muartica — iust Kye comfort. Write for Book of the *»• 1/ mall tree. Murine Bye Remedy Co. Chicago. The Baltic has the greatest wreck record of all the seas, averaging one a day. A good many prayers are made in private that the devil would like to see answered. Happy is the home where Red Cross Ball Blue is used. Sure to please. All grocers. Adv. Egypt’s cotton crop is being bought up by government agent*. t