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CHAPTER XVII.—Continued.
—10—
“Groat God. how did that Injun gel
In lure, Hr. Larrence?” ejaeulatei
Conrod. as the candles showed him tin
huddled form of the dying savage.
•jhm'i ask me, Captain Conrod.” re
turned the other cheerfully. “Yotti
door was open when l got here and In
jumped on me when I came in; ant
he'd have got tne if it had not been fbi
this man.”
And lie laid his hand gently on the
shoulder of the hysterical liguri
■crouched on the door.
“Holy rattlesnakes!” hurst from tin
astonished Conrod. “It’s Doe Elliott!’
David Larrence lifted his rescuer tc
his feet. “Here, let’s see your face
my friend.”
The man looked up slowly.
“Ndd Scull!” said Lnrremj^ in n
ghastly whisper, and staggered back
ward.
*
The man bowed his head again.
Larrence *poke like a man in :i
dream:
"Scull! I have found you at last!’
•'I am innocent, I swear it!” cried
■Scull. “I never betrayed you!”
The others looked from one to the
other of the two men iu amazement.
Where had they known each other be
fore? By what name did Latxenee call
Elliott? What was their secret? Tin
moment was tense with waiting.
David turned to the little group.
"Gentlemen,” he said, “may I talk tc
this man alone for a moment?”
“Sure as shoutin’,” said Conrod aftoi
si pause, “hut let’s get this Injun out ol
here first.”
He bent above the filthy body and
turned the limp shoulders over.
“Why, it’s that wuthless Piankeshaw
come in last week to sell his skins;
been drunk ever since. He'll be sobet
a while, now.”
With scant ceremony they dragged
the heavy body with the dark red stain
between the shoulder blades into the
raiu. One Indian less on the wilder
ness border was better luck than bad
The half-shut eyes stared blankly up
ward in the beating rain.
“Bury him in the moruiu’.” directed
-Conrod; and Scull—whom the village
had known only as “Elliott”—and Da
vlil Larrence were left alone together
“Now,” said Larrence with deadlj
calm, “tell me how you got here!”
The man Scull clasped his hands 1e
ruu ruij.
“I left Nottingham because I heard
you hail sworn to kill me. I swear tc
you before God I was not responsible
for your father's—”
Larrenee checked the word on Scull'*
lips.
, “How came you here?" he repeated
“I heard you had gone to America
and I curae across the Atlantic to find
you; I thought I might show you i
was innocent. I swear I am innocent.'
“l'ou lie,” returned David calmly
“you lie in every word. You informed
falsely on my father, and he died od
the gallows because of you. You be
came a British spy. You fled from
Mugland to escape me; you nevei
thought to find me here. Nor did i
think to find you here, under an as
sumed name, pretending to be a phy
sician.''
I Scull looked at him in terror.
t, “God!” he whispered, his lips dry
with fear.
A door that led to an inner room sud
denly swung open and a woman
stepped quickly out.
* A cry of fear escaped her as she saw
David towering menacingly above
Scull's bowed head. She was face to
face with David aud he looked at her
in astonishment.
“Lydia Cranmer!”
The girl flung herself between the
•two inen and clasping Scull iu her
arms she turned defiantly toward
David.
“No. not Lydia Cranmer,” she cried,
“but Mistress Scr.il!”
“Hush. Lydia,” commanded Scull
dully. “Go buck, let us end our busi
ness." He swallowed convulsively and
♦stroked her hair as though soothing a
child. "Go buck, dear.”
“Not I. Ned t” she answered. “What
does this man want? Oh, Ned, there
. Is no danger, is there? Tell me, what
Is wrong?”
As David looked at .the two he felt
the wild anger dying down in his
breast, and instead there arose a feel
fug of self-pity. Ah, If only a woman
had thrown her arms about liis neck
and faced the world for him, believing
in him! An unbearable pang shot
through him. His eyes were hot with
llio hitter envy of one who looks into
the windows of a house where love
and light and warmth stand firm
against the desolate world without, and
■who knows himself a homeless wan
derer on the earth. When he spoke, it
was in a changed voice:
"Arc you this woman’s husband?”
“We were married a month ago,”
said Scull. He seemed almost to have
forgotten David's presence and his
hand caressed the girl's cheek with a
strange gc-utleuess.
David looked at them for a moment
iu silence, thou drew a deep breath.
He had made up _his mind. He was
glad that he could lie merciful, to an
other. though life might he never mer
ciful to him. lie thrust the pistol back
into tile bosom of his hunting shirt
and his hand fell upon the knot of
ribbon Toinette had given him.
“Do you see this?” he asked, as he
drew it out.
Scull turned paler. He had freed
himself from the girl's clasp, and sud
denly his knees loosened beneath him
-and he souk at David’s feet. Lydia
threw her arms around liis shoulders.
“The mark 1” cried Scull, raising
trembling hands.
David looked at the ribbon with n
^tart. “Why, yes, it is purple. But I
do not show it to you as a sign that I
am keeping my oath of the Brother
hood. No.” As he continued his voice
Crew tender; he seemed to be speaking
to himself or t0 some v,slon which the
Wretched figure kneeling at his feet
could not see.
I “You saved my life just now,” he
! went on. “I would have thanked you
for ending it, as you ended the love
[ of the one I loved most in the world.
For the sake of that dead love I prom
ise you that uo one shall know front me
what you have been, what you are. I
break my oath of the Brotherhood."
The groveling creature at David’s
feet raised a face of incredulity.
"You give up the Brothers’ ven
I geance?”
j “Absolutely.”
“You will not hold to your oath?”
“I have said no.”
Scull looked up at him, a radiance
transfiguring his face.
“God bless you. Larreuce,” he said
chokingly. “You do not know what
death means. You have only your own
life; I have—-God help me!—two lives
to live for!”
Lydia stooped quickly and lifted Da
vid’s hand \o her lips.
She went hastily from the room. The
i two men stood facing each other and
! for a while there was silence. Then
I David spoke slowly:
“Are you going to remain here?”
Scull straightened himself up.
“No! we shall go buck to England.
I 1 have robbed you of everything, and
you have given me everything. You
do not wish to see my face again. But
before I go I will tell Toinette the
truth. I—”
David nodded wearily and went out.
A cold and dreary rain was still fall
ing, but a ray of light shone from the
tavern door on the upturned face of the
dead Indian. David stopped and
looked down upon the sightless visage
for a moment and then laughed. The
dreadful features were twisted into a
smile as to ultimate victory, and a
little rivulet of rain trickled unceas
ingly from the corner of the mouth.
No more of wretched life; no more of
firewater!
David's hand stole unconsciously to
the pistol that hung heavily within the
folds of his own blouse. His fingers,
tightened on it and his lips drew to*
gether in a harder line. . . . Why
not? . . . The thing so easily, so
quickly done. . . . Why not?
Was there anything remaining to
make him hold to life any longer?
What though Blackford did believe in
him? What though a hundred friends
believed in him? What mattered all
their friendships, their stupid greet
ings, the little kindnesses of daily in
tercourse? What did his dreams of
great things to be done in this new
land amount to? Petty dreams, petty
tasks, buying and selling, squabblings
over pennies, wranglings over little
gains—a sordid prospect, the heritage
of fools!
The rain fell steadily, chilling him
to the very bones. Through its gray
unceasing torrent he plodded, unchal
lenged in his loneliness, to his own
rooms in the village. Sodden with the
cold flood, sodden with quenched hopes,
he sank heavily upon a chair and
bowed his head upon his hands, there
to sit for hours in a numb wrestling
with bitterness that were beyond his
power to shake off.
After a long while, he rose and drew
the pistol from its place—wiped the
dampness from its shining barrel and
gazed at it with unseeing eyes.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Uttermost Instant.
It was the (lay following Scull’s de
parture. . David walked swiftly, deep
into the leafless forest, and strode
along Little Indian Creek, gurgling
under its ice, to the spot where Toin
ette O’Bannon had first smiled at hitn
in the April noon. It was there his
new life had begun. And there, kneel
ing by the rocky ledge, he prayed, as
at a shrine.
An end of all things had come to
David. His long quest was over and
the surf of his passion had spent itself
in foam. Had it been worth while to
forgive? All that he had lived for was
torn from him. Toinette would know
that she had judged him unjustly; but
would that knowledge bring back what
Scull Looked at Him in Terror.
he hud lost of her? He had been a
liot-tempered fool, he had insulted her
beyond forgiving. The breach had
widened beyond bridging. He looked
across the gulf that lay between him
and Toinette and felt the bitterness of
ruined hopes. He thrust his hand in
to his hunting shirt and drew forth
the dueling pistol he had taken from
Blackford's room. For a long while he
stood looking at it in silence.
A light step rustled the dead leaves
underfoot and he turned quickly. Toin
ette stood beside him, a joyous smile
on her face.
“I was sent to find you,” she greet
ed him astonishingly.
He stared at her as though at a mes
senger from the skids. Her silver
laughter rang out as it had in days
gone by.
“Do not deceive yourself,” she'
smiled. “I am no angel—I’m
Toinette!”
David did not believe her denial;
never believed it.
“Father sent me for you. He’s go
ing to give a great dinner at the tav
ern and you’re to sit in the place of
honor. Come, you mustn't keep your
cook waiting.”
And she held out her hand.
But David did not stir.
The look of haggard suffering had
returned to his face. Her loveliness
was an arrow that sent all the poison
of his despair once more burning
through his veins. For the first time
he found a voice, a voice trembling
with emotion.
“I cannot ... I cannot . . .
please go!”
She opened her eyes wide and shot
a blue radiance of hurt surprise at
him. Then she went swift and straight
to the point, a woman uot to be put
aside l*y evasions:
“Indeed, I will not. You mustn't
stay here alone.”
He had regained control of himself,
but the struggle left him deadly pale.
He could not bear to face her as he
spoke.
“I am going away. I cannot live
without you.” The words were hard
ly more than a whisper.
She took two quick* steps forward.
Her hand fell upon his shoulder, light
as a floating strand of gossamer. But
he felt it and thrilled through all his
being. Slowly, slowly, he raised his
head and she saw his face, that he had
gone into the valley of the shadow of
death. In the hush of the wilderness
his scarcely audible words seemed to
fall on their hearts with the mWsured
beating of an inexorable judgment.
What did she see in the wilderness?
A dry reed, shaken in the wind of de
spair? But her voice rang like a song
in the morning:
“It is not brave to turn back from
the plowing. I have heard my father
say that courage should be lifted to
such a height as to maintain its great
ness even in the midst of miseries,
holding all things under itself.”
uavm snnieo.
"I call the immortal truth to witness
that no fear, either of life or death,
eau appall me, having long learned to
set bodily pain in the second form of
my being. And I do now think it the
act of a coward to die.”
The girl had grown paler as she read
his determination in his face, white
and rigid as a mask.
David was siteifr In the morning
sunlight that dappled the little giade,
♦lie frozen branches of the trees stood
motionless. A white snowflake danced
across the space before David's eyes
and his vision followed it up. up, into
the cloudless blue beyond. In the quiet,
it seemed to Toinette as if she could
hear her own heart beating. David
spoke again, slowly;
“And if we be lieutenants of Ood in
this troubled world, do you not think
then that we have right to choose a new
station when he leaves us unprovided
of good reason to stay in the old?”
“No, certainly I do not,” she said,
with a rebuke lovelier because it lay
in her sweetly troubled voice, “since
it is not for us to appoint that mighty
majesty what time he will help us;
tin- uttermost instant is scope enough
for him to revoke all tilings to one's
own desire.”
And she sealed her lips with the^
moistness of her tears, which followed
still one another like a precious robe
of pearls. David suddenly realized
how ineffably sweet life was; wonder
ful. tragic, joyous worthy of music,
worthy of tears.
The pistol fell to the grouud unheed
ed. David took a step forward.
Hut she checked him.
“No,” she said, “do not tell me. Doc
tor Kiiiott lias told me all. He and
Lydia have gone. Forgive me, forgive
me. David.' Let the dreadful past go
with them: See. you have made me
<'r.v—aren’t you sorry? And by this
time there's no dinner for either of
us.”
They laughed together. They were
young.
"I'll get dinner for you," "promised
David. “I knew a butcher's sou once
upon a time.”
“Once upon a time!” she repeated.
"That sounds like a story. That’s the
way they always begin.”
And so it was the beginning of a
story; but David did not tell it to her
then.
They went home together.
At Toinette's door, little Mr. O’Ban
non hailed David with a shout.
“I sent my dove into the wilderness,”
he said, his eyes twinkling, “but you’re
I he most sizable olive branch I ever
saw 1”
CHAPTER XIX.
The Story Begins.
In the little stone courthouse on that
Sabbath morning a hundred voices
were lifted in the stirring music of
Giardini's triumphal-hymn. Tile peo
ple of the countryside had gathered to
give thanks to God for the victory over
their' savage foes. The vigor of the
chant swelled in a stern strength which
was made beautiful by the rough voices
of the pioneers. In the iittle room the
hymn echoed with the majesty of a
cathedral chant:
Come, thou Almighty King.
Help us thy name to sing.
Help me to praise!
Father! all glorious,
O'er all victorious,
Come ami reign over us.
Ancient of days!
David felt himself thrill in every
nerve; his wife's hand trembled in his
and he knew that, like himself, she
felt the mighty glory of life and love,
of trial undergone, of good triumphant
over ill, of yearnings toward the inef
fable. Tears of happiness stood in his
eyes. The peau of victory ceased.
The minister, a man of God, rose slow
ly "to his feet. He, too, felt tears rising
from the depths. Love had made him
the apostle of the people of the wil
derness and he had knit their hearts to
his with hands of humble ministry. He
had never before addressed so large an
audience as this. Sunday after Sun
day, the ten or twelve who nmde up
his little Calvinistic flock, lacking a
church building, gathered in the homes
of his elders, Henry Itice and James
Armstrong; the foundations of Goshen
chapel had been scarcely planned; but
today lie found a hundred men and
women watching Mm, expectant of
spiritual comfort. No one appreciated
better than he the sufferings, the be
reavements through which they hud
passed. In his meek und heroic spirit
he thanked God for the high honor be
stowed upon him, that to him should
be given the words to address so great
a company. In a voice thut rang
with prophecy, lie rend aloud that
thrilling call which concludes the four
teenth chapter of the Gospel of Luke;
and as he lifted his eyes from the
book, he found resting on him the clear
steady gaze of the threescore back
woodsmen.
“I am going to speak to you about
tenacity of purpose,” lie begun, “the
quality of soul which enables you to
bang on to the thing you have begun
until you have finished It.
“Not one of you men aud women but
despises a man who gives up in the
midst of a fight. This feeling is u part
of your very blood, for you have been
brought up in the midst of dangers
such as no other generation of men
lias known. It is upon resistance up to
the last notch thut your lives them
selves depend. That man among you
who surrenders imperils the lives of
ait or you. iHero is not one of you
whose resolution has not been tried
and fried sorely by the almost insuffer
able burdens of this new land. A hun
dred times you have said, ‘Why did I
not remain in the land which my fa
thers have made safe and pleasant for
me?' And a hundred times you have
fought off that feeling of discourage
ment.
“You are about to be put to a test
more severe than any you have yet un
dergone. You have won the tight at Tip
pecanoe; but do not be mistaken: all
the pitiless warriors of the forest wilt
gather again and crush you out en
tirely if they can; and behind them is
the power of that nation across the
seas, whose tyranny our fathers have
overthrown at such tremendous cost.
“ 'And whosoever doth not bear his
cross, and come after me, cannot be
my disciple!’
“The words are those of the greatest
lighter of all. They are the words of
a man who, without a single follower,
proclaimed his convictions before the
most hostile and unfriendly of all gen
erations. The whole crushing weight
of its hate fell upon him, but he clung
to those beliefs to the very Jast—gave
up his life, rattier than give them up.
He, of all men, knew what it mean to
cling to a purpose in the face of tre
mendous difficulties. Yet lie says that
whoever cannot equally endure the
burdens of the march through life is
not fit to be a man.
“Thirty-two years ago a little baud
of men—settlers like you, and not so
many as nr* now beftjre me—followed
George Rogers Clark through unimag
inable hardships across the wintry
prairies from Kaskaskia to Vincennes.
Last week I passed by the crumbling
timbers of the old fort and found their
bullets sunken in the logs inside the
embrasures. Some of you men iu this
audience were with him in that ter
rible march and daring assault. It is
useless to say that we will never for
get what you have done for us. Gen
eral Clark is now a penniless and pal
sied cripple in his sister's home. Do
not expect that a republic which has
no rewards for the leader will be less
forgetful of tlie mau in the ranks.
“You have not entered on this death
lessly heroic struggle with the wilder
ness with the expectation of material
reward alone: you have come here
from the old quiet places in Virginia,
in Massachusetts, in Connecticut, in
Pennsylvania and New Jersey because
you have the fighting spirit in you;
and you stay here because the fighting
spirit stays in you.
“ ‘For which of you. intending to
build a tower, sitteth not down first,
and counted: the cost, whether he have
sufficient to finish it?’
i-est nupiy, utter he Hath laid the
foundation, and Is not able to finish it,
all that behold it begin to mock him,
“ ‘Saying. “This man began to build,
and was not able to finish.” ’
“The tower that you have begun to
build is an invisible tower: a new and
mighty nation. Today you sit down to
count the cost of the building, to see
whether you have sufficient with which
to finish the vast edifice. What is the
cost? The world watches you, and not
only its generations of today but those
unborn generations who will weigh
your work to see whether it was good
or bad. I know that you have counted
the cost and are willing, ready to pay
it: a treasure of sacrifice, a treasure
of blood and wounds and dreadful
agonies aud bitter tears. But you will
pay it. You will pay it t<i the utter
most, holding yourselves to the grim
account with iron wills, forcing your
selves on with unconquerable resolve.
“Not of you shall it ever be said:
‘After he hatli laid the foundation, and
is not able to finish it, all that behold
it began to mock him.
“‘Saying, “This man began to build,
and was not able to finish.” ’
“For the tower which you build is
not built witli bands, but with souls.
“ ‘So likewise, whosoever he be of
you that forsaketli no* all that he hath,
he cannot be my disciple.
“ ‘Salt ps good: but if the salt have
lost its savor, wherewith shall it be
seasoned?’
“All of you know how hard it is to
get salt in this new country—how we1
have to haul bushels of salty earth
from tlie spots which the red deer of
the forest have discovered, the ‘deer
licks.’ You put this salty earth in an
ash liopper, pour water over It and
catch the water In a trough after it
has leaked through the dirt. And then
you boil the salty water down till
there is left a little of the precious
mineral with which we can preserve
our meats. You all know how labo
rious and tiresome a process it is, and
how much the salt means to the set
tler. How the cattle moo for a taste
of It! What would our children do
without milk!
“We can all understand this manner
of speakiug: ‘Salt is good: but if the
salt have lost Its savor, wherewith
shall It be seasoned?’
"That great soldier, Christ, means to
say that he looks to his followers not
only to begin great tasks, hut to con
tinue in them ; for there are no greater
soldiers than the soldiers who light in
a good cause. The mun who stops mid
way iu his fight Is like salt that loses
its essential quality. There is no
longer any reason for its existence.
Better not be at all, than to cease from
being strong. For then who is left to
give new strength to the salt? There
Is no one for you to fall back on—you
have chosen a certain work in life and
you must stick it out to the end.
“I want you to remember this
through all the great struggles which
are left before you. Today we are
waiting, and waiting for the appear
ance of a terrible foe. They may come
to raise the war-whoop or they may
come in peace. But however they may
come they will find us ready, like the
wise king who hath consulted and
found himself ready to meet tne force
that conieth against him. For you
have learned to fight the greuter strug
gles of the spirit. You have learned to
be cool, temperate and steady, first of
all; and having learned these virtues
of manliness and pluck and mastery
over seif, you will add to them the su
preme virtue of tenacity: to keep, to
hold, to grip as in a vise the purpose
to which you have consecrated your
selves.
“And then, some day, the tower of
this new and beautiful nation will
stand as a dream made visible. The
foundations Washington laid, and
Clark and Harrison have added to; the
tVAt-TcJj
VWCGNT/NC-—*
“I Am Going Away—I Cannot Llvt
Without You."
great timbers of the walls which you ;
are raising Will be strengthened'by '
mighty girders which your sons will !
heave into place and fasten together j
like a welded yoke; and their sons will
rear the roof above, and still anothei !
generation will make it a house shut j
ting out the four winds of the earth; i
and your grandsons' sons will make It '
beautiful within. We shall not see
that day nor reap any of its rewards;
but of us shall the- unseen corner
stones be made. Today is the glory of
victory; tomorrow begins the clamor of
toil. ‘Where is the house that ye build
unto me? Where is the place of my
rest?’ . . .”
THE END.
_
HOW THE KING SIGNS LAWS
Gives Consent to Acts of Parliament
by What Is Called Royal
Commission.
Most people will tell you that th<
king must sign every act of parlia
inent before it becomes law. It will
astonish these people to know thai
acts of parliament are never signed j
by King George. When parliament
passes an act, as, for example, the j
recent military service act, which con- 1
scripted ail the single men, a copy on |
vellum is placed in safe custody ic | '
the house of lords and indorsed by the j
clerk of parliament. If the act is one
concerning money, as, for instance j
the budget, the vellum copy is also in j j
dorsed by the speaker. How does the j
king give Ids consent to an act ot
parliament? Well, he gives it by whal |
is known as a royal commission. All 1
the various acts that are passed at i 1
about the same time are named in this 1
commission, and the king signs this •
The king must actually sign this com '
mission, but should he be, for any rea- 1
son, not able to do so, the royal sig- ‘
nature may be specially stamped upon 1
the paper. But according to the law '
this stamp can only be used “in his '•
majesty's presence and by bis majes
ty’s command given by word of
mouth." A stamp of the king's signa
ture is always kept ready for this i 1
purpose.—I’earson’s Weekly. ; ’
-J <
Courtesies.
Somebody has called courtesies I lie | *
small change of life. Be that as it ' <
may, we all get into the habit of ex- 1
pecting them, and when we do an
obliging thing we hold out our hand [ ’
for our “change.” Most of us keep ac- 1 1
count hooks, into which we should not / 1
like to have others look—kept all the : *
same, though written only- upon the !
pages of an uncommonly sharp mein- !
ory. What we prettily call love is too ,
often only a loan—not indeed to be J
paid in kind, but in degree, with hand- j !
some interest. We are affectionate I
and obliging and friendly, we help <
somebody in a moment of dire etner- 1 s
gency, and then we hold out our hand t
for our “change.” We are n little un- I :
easy lest it should not be generally i s
known how good we have "been, and, t
lest it should be hidden under a bushel, !
we take all the bystanders into our
confidence.—Selected.
Typographical. i
Robert's father had given him a I l
printing press in order to iuterest him 1
in the mysteries of spelling. It was i
Robert’s task to make up a news page 1
for his father to see—and maybe to 1
reward the printer. The world pro- 1
grossed until Roumania entered the i
war. The typographical difficulties of 1
the situation, with Roumania winning
In Transylvania, bothered Robert, as
they have many a copyreader. But
Robert told his story in the top Un«L
it read:
Rummies Win First Round
for those fond of salads
Here Are Six Recipes, Affording Van
cty That Is Needed in These
Preparations.
- /
plain Cauliflower Salad.—Boil a nice
cauliflower and break up into
da; serve very cold with French dress
ing.
Beet Salad—Boil some beets and cut
into dice, add salt, pepper, a little oil
and vinegar, and let them stand an
hour; tJien arrange in piles on plates
and add a tablespoonful of capers and
as many cut-up olives and serve wit
mayonnaise.
Fish Salad—Pick up any cold cooked
fish or use canned salmon, arrange it
in a pile in a dish with, quarters of
hard-boiled qggs, alternating with lem
on quarters around the edge and mask
the fish with mayonnaise.
Orange Salad—Take large, seedless
oranges and cut into slices; arrange
in a circle, the edges overlapping, and
put a walnut half in the middle of each
piece. Watercress may be arranged in
the center of the dish or not, and put
French dressing over all.
Banana Salad—Cut bananas In
halves crorrswise and lay on lettuce or
by themselves on a flat dish. Sprinkle
well with chopped peanuts and serve
with mayonnaise dressing.
Peach Salad—Drain canned peaches
and wipe dry; put a spoonful of may
onnaise made with cream into the mid
dle of eacli one. Apricots may be used
Instead of peaches.
BUILT-IN BOX FOR KITCHEN
Takes Up Little Room, and is Most
Handy Receptacle for Necessary
Wood or Coal.
I am sending a simple plan fur a
wood or coal box in the kitchen—one
that will save many steps, as well as
muddy tracks across a freshly
scrubbed floor.
Leave an opening in the kitchen wall
.'5 feet square. Then make a box inside
3 feet high, 3 feet long, 2 feet wide, <
Six inches from the back make a cov- '
or or door 18 inches wide. Put to- \
gether with hinges.
Now, for the outside: Top, 20
inches wide; length, 3 feet; diagonal I
height, 40 inches, and 6 inches from
the back make a door 14 inches wide, i
Paint or varnish to match the wood- '
work. Paint the outside like the !
house.—Mrs. Ruth Crawford in Farm j
Progress.
Arithmetic of Mixing Bowl.
There are a number of fixed propor- i
ions used in all recipes, and the fol
owing are standard:
One-half as much liquid ns flour for
uutfiu and batter cakes; one-third as
nuch liquid as flour for soft doughs
is for biscuit.
One-fourth as much liquid as flour
or stiff doughs as for bread.
One-third to one-half as much but
er ns sugar for all butter cakes.
One to one and a half teaspoonfuls
>f baking powder to a cupful of flour
'or batter doughs.
One-third ns much shortening as
lour for pastry.
One teaspoonful of soda to one pint
>f sour milk.
Bananas Filled With Cream.
Remove one section of the peel from
is many bananas as you wish to serve,
rake out the pulp with a teaspoon and j
orce through vegetable ricer. For six
•ananas allow one cupful powdered
mgar. one cupful of thick cream, one- j
bird cupful of sweet milk beaten to
;ether, and one teaspoonful of lemon j
uice. Fill the banana skins and put
>» the section that was removed. Set
he stuffed fruit into a lard pail, put
m cover and pack in equal parts salt i
md ice. After being packed one and
•ne-half hours they will be ready to
ierve.
Ginger Puff Pudding.
Cream one-half cupful of butter, add
wo tablespoonfuls of sugar, two eggs
veil beaten, one cupful milk, two and
>ne-half cupfuls of flour mixed and
lifted with three teaspoonfuls of bak
ng powder, one-fourth cupful of gin
;er cut in .small pieces and one table
ipoonful of ginger sirup. Turn into a 1
mttered mold and steam one and
hree-quarters hours. Serve with
vhipped cream sweetened and fla
wed with ginger sirup and a speck of :
alt.
Coconut Pumpkin Pie.
One pint pumpkin pulp,, one pint
;ood milk, three eggs, one-luilf cupful
rrnted coconut, one tablespoonful
'utter, one-fourth teaspoonful salt
ine-lmlf teaspoonful ginger, one toa
poonful mace. Mix the ingredients
ogether thoroughly. The white and
■oiks of the eggs should he beaten
eparately. Pour into pastry-lined
ins and bake.—M. M. Wright, in
father's Magazine.
---—-.
Codfish Croquettes.
Soak one-half pound codfish over
light and in morning drain and cook
intil soft. This is for salt cod. Chop
ine, add a little seasoning, an egg. a
ery little milk and a teaspoonful of
lour; shape, brush with egg, roll with
'read crumbs and fry brown in hot
ard. The same rule may be used with ■
iny cold fresh fish. Separate from
lone and chop fine. Proceed as above.
In Place of Celery.
When celery is scarce, cabbage
hopped fine, with plenty of celerv
nlads'Vni bC found a fine substitute la
MACARONI
36 fyf Recipe Book Free
SKINNER MFG.CO- OMAHA. U.SA
lAioat MACA80HI fAQomr w awbuca.
A Substitute.
“Do you enjoy a problem play?”
“Sometimes,” replied Miss Cayenne.
“It’s tlie only way I know of to talk
scandal without harming somebody
who actually exists.”
Anuric cures Backache. Lumbago.
Bheumatiam. Send 10c. Dr. V. M. Pierce.
Buffalo, N. Y., for large trial package.—
Adv. __
Moth Traps.
An acetylene gaslight, placed in a
large glass globe, attracts thousands
of cutworm moths, which have proved
so destructive to the best ranches of
southern California. A pan of oil is
set below the globe, and into the pan
as many as several thousand moths
will often fall iq a single night.
The Quinine That Doe* Not Affect The Head
Because of it* tonic and laxative effect. Laxative
Bromo Quinine can be taken by anyone without
causing nervousness or ringing in the head 1 here
is only one “Bromo Qulnina. H. W. GBOVBTJ
signature is on each box. 26c.
Confusing.
“What I want to know,*’ said the
puzzled student of politics, “is whether
or not the women voters defeated Mr.
Seeker.
“Don't ask - me,” answered Mr.
Twobble. “My wife is a suffragist and
her analysis of the vote is so compli
cated that I sometimes forget who
really won.”
TORTURING SKIN TROUBLES
That Itch, Burn and Disfigure Healed
by Cuticura. Trial Free.
Bathe with plenty of Cuticura Soap
and hot water to cleanse and purify.
Dry lightly and apply Cuticura Oint
ment to soothe and heal. This stops
itching instantly, clears away pimples,
removes dandruff and scalp irritations,
and heals red, rough, sore hands.
Free sample each by mail with Book.
Address postcard, Cuticura, Dept. L,
Boston. Sold everywhere.—Adv.
WITH CUPID AT THE HELM
.- I
Sample of Conversation When En
amored Couple Set Out on Voy
age Over True Love’s Course.
The enamored couple were sitting
entirely too close together for comfort
and security on the lamp, and the sofa
was turned low.
He kissed her on the very* tip of the
nose, a place he had never kissed her
before.
“Archie,” she reproved him roguish
ly, “don’t be fooUsh-goolish.”
And then, by the frown on his low
but natural forehead she knew that
Archie’s feelings had suffered.
“Oh, my own big bibby-baby!” she
cried. “I have hurt you!”
“No, li’l goldfish," he replied fool
ishly, “the hurt I feel is because I
know It hurts you to feel that you have
hurt me.”
“No, no, ’Archie-starchy. Do not let
that hurt you for a moment. My hurt
is because I know it hurts you to feel
that I have hurt myself by hurting
you.”
“My sugar-coated angel 1 My hurt Is
because you are hurt over feeling that
I am hurt because you feel that you
have hurt me and—Oh. kid, let’s go to
the movies."
Which they did, and acted like a
pair of goops.—Detroit Free Press.
Two Wants to Be Filled.
“Sit down, Mr. Stylo,” said the emi
nent publisher to the tattered scare
crow who had just entered his elabo
rate sanctum. “I have read your man
uscript, and I think I shall publish it.”
“Ah!” cried the starving genius. “Du
you really mean that?”
“Yes. It seems to me a good hook,
and I think it will fill a long-felt want.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. And.
by the way, could you advance me
two dollars and A half on account of
my royalties?”
“Oh, I think so—I think so. But
why do you want two dollars and a
half?”
“I want to begin filling that long-felt
want yon spoke of.”
She Is a poor cook who is unable to
make good.
r " . i
Childish
Craving
“-for something sweet finds
pleasant realization in the
pure, wholesome, wheat and
barley food
Grape-Nuts
No danger of upsetting the
stomach and remember,
Grape-Nuts is a true food,
good for any meal or between
meals
“There's a Reason”