THE TILLMAN
By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
CHAPTER III.
—2—
awoke the next morning
titled with a curious sense of buoyant
e<|«ertau<-y. The sunshine was pouring
:nt<> the room. brightening up its most
•anther corners. !t lay across the quilt
•f her bed. a’nl seemed to briug out the
;e-rfnuie of lavender from the pillow
on who'h her bead reposed.
Aline. (caring her mistress stir.
b. sieiosl at once to her bedside.
"It is half past nine, madam, and
y <r breakfast is here. The old im
*nsii,* from the kitchen has just
brought it up."
Louise looked approvingly at the
breakfast tray, with the home-made
‘•rend ard deejejrellow liutter, the
irown eggs aud clear honey. The
sio.-ll ..r he coffee was aromatic. She
breathed n little sigh of content.
"How leiiciutis everything looks!”
she etdiimnl.
The homemade tilings are well
•nough iu their way, madam," Aiiue
•greed. ' but I have never known a
household s,i strange and disagreeable.
Thai M Jennings, who calls himself
the butler—he is u IHTson unspeak
able a savage!"
Louise s eyes twinkled.
"I don ' think they are fond of wotn
in ft.- household. Aline." she re- i
marked. "Tell me. have you seen
l "buries T’
"STiar *— has gone to the nearest
•iaeksoi *h « forge To get something
atade fo the <tir. madam," Aline re
plied. "Me u*ked me to say that he
Was afrml he would not be ready to
Mart l*ef re midday.”
Ilia: :•*«•» not matter. Louise de
clared. . tug eagerly out of the ease
ment wit low. Immediately below was
a era— g-owu orchard w hich stretched
Upward. *' a pr.sipitous angle, toward
a shly |*h»weil field; beyond, a
, little . .hi of rocky hills, sheer over
head. Tie trees were pink and white
with t.l i s.mi; the petals lay al»>ut
upon ft-- ground like drifted snow
dr kes. l.-re and there yellow jon
>|i its we.-.- crowing among the long
CfTss. A «aft of perfume Stole into
:b- room through the window which
-Ir had CJwtied.
1 ill my bath quickly. Aline," Louise
•r l.-r-sl. - I . i- _• . out. I w ant to see
w*< her i l- really as beautiful as it
to *k*." {
Aline 1 her iiiistre-s in si-,
leaee. Th Hi. suddenly, a little excla
■i au<-o e-t ![ cd her. She sw ung round ;
toward I. * -ires., mal for ouce there
was auiias* iu her face.
■ 1. "i '
have r. i temVr.-.i The name StmiiRe
wey. Yeste.ilay luorniug you read it '
• •tit while ; • u t<Nik your coffee. You i
s|M>ke <»f th- good fortune of some
fanner iu it-e north of Lugiaud to ■
whom route “tdativc in Australia had
left a great fortune—hundreds and
thousand- of ->>itnds. The name was
Wrung* • u Hut I re
UP-tuber It now *
Sip- pointed cue more to the family
tree. Louis.- ^ f*»r a moment with
parted lips.
"Y.*u are quit - right. Aliue. I re
member It all l*effeet|y now. I wonder
whether i < *uid possibly lie either of
these tao men?”
till*** 'll *»k her head doubtfully.
‘It would l»- m. leib-vablc. madam." !
»l*e deriikd, "Court any sane human
creature* live here, with no company
t-ui the sheep and the cuws. if they
had money—wooer to live in the
M ’o |„. happy?
Un eiievatde. tumP-m t”
1 ut.se rctwiined standing liefore the
window She »j* watching the lilos
usu Mi-u Imuithr of one of the apple
trees bending au<* swaying in the fresh
morning breeze—-watching the restless
Mhadous which came and went upon
Che grass bene*, h.
"Thi.; s juc* your jmint of view.
Aline " she murmured: “but happiness
—well you would not understand.
They are strange men. these two."
Louis*- found her way without diffi
culty acr es « eobhlcd yard, through a
postern gate set in a red-brick wall,
into the e- hard. At the farther end
»he *-aaie to a gate, against which she
r»cte«t for M.-i ent. leaning her arms
ii|«iu tii- t i -t l*ar. Before her was
he little Ii t of plowed earth, the
fresh, pungent odor of which was n
hew thing to I r: a little way to the
eight, tie* rolb’ig moorland, starn*<J
• itb Humps of g-.r»e; in front, across
•In field i-li the other side of the gray
-tone wall, tile r. . ■ strewn hills. The
sky—uuusu idy'li! ■ n se. tncil to her.
md doited all over with little masses
>f WiUte «•;«. i-seetnisi smup
„,w lower s' 1 in ar : or was she. per
uitie. higher up?
She linger s! ther*- absolutely bevvil
• h in Imr brain
n*l sell''— wlmt surely must be
-.•me newly kindled faculty of appre
,j,i,,iu. Th *rc "-is a 1 auty in the
,, <rri,j w hich <tic had not felt liefore.
She turtle her head almost lazily at
W u. iii'l of < man's voice. A tea'u of
...r-u-s, stra • 't-2 at a plow, were coni
ng round lit* !•* «'* ut ,!l*' BHd. and by
to ir «i.le. talking to the ialmrer who
„„t d tl • ‘ ,oliM Strangewey.
she vi atHieC him as he came Into
-Igtit up the deep rise. He walked In
step with the plowman by h!s side, but
without any of the laborer’s mechani
cal plod—with a spring in his foot
steps, indeed, pointing with ills stick
along the furrow, so absorbed in the
instructions he was giving that he was
almost opposite the gate before he was
aware of her presence. He promptly
abandoned his task and approached her.
“Good morning! You have slept
well?" he called out.
“Better. I think, than ever before in
my life," she answered. “Differently,
at any rate. And such an awakening!’’
He lisiked at her. a little puzzled. The
glow upon her face and the sunlight
upon her brown hair kept him silent.
He was content to look at her and won
der.
“Tell me." she demanded impetu
ously, “is this a little corner of fairy
land that you have found? Does the
sun always shine iike this? Does the
earth always smell as sweetly, and are
your trees always in blossom? Does
your wind always taste as if God had
breathed the elixir of life into it?”
He turned around to follow the
sweep of her eyes. Something of the
same glow seemed to rest for a mo
ment upon his face.
"It is good.” he said, “to find what
you love so much appreciated by some- !
one else.”
iiu \ i4>t:»*iner in a silence ai- ;
most curiously protracted. Then the '
plowman i : '>c,i again with tiis team j
"f hors, s and John called out some in- i
smii tiuris to him. She followed him
down to earth.
"Tell m*-. Mr. Strangevvey,” she in
quired. "where are your farm build
ings?”
“feme and I will show you,” he an
swered. opening the gate to let her
through. “Keep close to the hedge un
til we come to the end of the plow;
and then—hut no, I won’t anticipate.
This way 1”
They reached the end of the plowed
field and, passing through a gate,
turned abruptly to the left and began
to climb a narrow path which bordered
the boundary wall, and which became
sleeper every moment. As they as
cended. the orchard and the long, low
house on the other side seemed to lie
almost at their feet. The road and the
open uioorland beyond, stretching to
the encircling hills, came more clearly
into sight with every backward glance.
Louise paused at hist, breathless.
"Is it the home of the fairies you
tire taking me to?” she asked. “If you
have discovered that, no wonder you
find ii"% ordinary women outside your
lives:”
He laughed.
"There are no fairies where vve are
going." he assured her.
They were on a roughly made road
now. which turned abruptly to the
right a few yards ahead, skirting the
side of a deep gorge. They took a few
steps further, and Louise stopped short
with a cry of wonder.
Around the abrupt corner an entirely
new perspective was revealed—-a little
hamlet built on a shoulder of the
mountain; and on the right, below n
steep descent. :i wide and sunny valley.
It was like a tiny world of its own,
hidden in the bosom of the hills. There
was a long line of farm buildings, built
of gray stone and roofed with red tiles;
there were fifteen or twenty stacks; a
quaint, whitewashed house of consid
erable size, almost covered on the
They Stood Together in a Silence Al
most Curiously Protracted.
- • ithward Milo with creepers; a row
of cottages, mid a gray-walled inclo
sure—stretching with its white tomb
stones to tile very brink of the descent
—in the midst of which was an aneletit
church, in ruins at the farther end,
partly rebuilt with the stones of the
hillside.
Louise looked around her, silent with
wonder. “It isn't real, is it?” she
asked, clinging for a moment to John
Strangewey's arm.
“Why not? You asked where tiie land
was that we tilled. Now look down.
Hold my arm if you feel giddy.”
She followed the wave of his ash
stick. The valley sheer below them,
: ami ilie lower hills on both sides, were
parceled out into fields, inclosed within
stone walls, reminding her from the
height at which they stood, of nothing
so much us the quilt upon her bed.
Her eyes swept this strange tract of
country backward and forward. She
saw the men like specks in the fields,
the cows grazing in the pasture like
toy animals. Then she turned and
looked at the neat row of stacks and
the square of farm buildings.
“I am trying hard to realize that
you are n farmer and that this is
your life.” she said.
He swung open the wooden gate of
the churchyard, by which they were
standing. There was a row of graves
on either side of the prim path.
“Suppose,” he suggested, “you tell
me about yourself now—about your
own life.”
“My life, and the world in which I
live, seem far away just now,” she
said quietly. “I think that it is doing
me good to have a rest from them.
Talk to me about yourself, please."
He smiled. He was just a little dis
appointed.
“We shall very soon reach the end
of all that I have to tell you," he re
marked. “Still, if there is anything
you would like to know—”
“Who were these men and women
who have lived and died here?” she
interrupted, with a little wave of her
hand toward the graves.
“All our own people,” he told her.
She studied the names upon the
tombstones, spelling them out slowly.
"The married people,” he went on.
“are burled on the south side; the
single ones and children are nearer
the wall. Tell me," he asked, after a
moment’s hesitation, “are you married
or single?”
She gave a little start. The abrupt
ness of the question, the keen, stead
fast gaze of his compelling eyes,
seemed for a moment to paralyze both
her nerves and her voice. It was as if
someone had suddenly drawn away one
of the stones from the foundation of
her life. She found herself repeating
the words on the tombstone facing
her:
“And of Elizabeth, for sixty-one
years the faithful wife and helpmate
of Ezra Cummings, mother of his chil
dren, and his partner in the life ever
lasting."
Her knees began to shake. There
was a momentary darkness before her
eyes. She felt for the tombstone and
sat down.
CHAPTER IV.
The churchyard gate was opened
and closed noisily. They both glanced
tip. Stephen Strangewey was coming
slowly towurd them along the flinty
path. Louise, suddenly herself again,
rose briskly to her feet. Stephen had
apparently lost none of his dourness
of the previous night. As he looked
toward Louise, there was no mistaking
the slow dislike in his steely eyes.
“Your chauffeur, madam, has just
returned,” he announced. “He sent
word that he will he ready to start at
one o’clock.”
Louise, inspired to battle by the al
most provocative hostility of her elder
host, smiled sweetly upon him.
“You can’t imagine how sorry I am
to hear it.” she said. “I don’t know
when, in the whole course of my life.
I have met with such a delightful ad
venture or spent such a perfect morn
ing !”
Stephen looked at her with level, dis
approving eyes—at her slender form in
its perfectly fitting tailored gown: at
her patent shoes, so obviously unsuit
able for her surroundings, and at the
faint vision of silk stockings.
“If I might say so without appear
ing inhospitable,” he remarked, with
faint sarcasm, “this would seem to be
the fitting moment for your departure.
A closer examination of our rough life
up here might alter your views. If I
do not have the pleasure of seeing you
again, permit me to wish you fare
well."
He turned and walked away. Louise
watched him with very real interest.
“Do you know,” she said to John,
“there is something about your brother
a little like the prophets in the Old
Testament, in the way he sees only
one issue and clings to it. Are you,
too, of his way of thinking?”
“Up to a certain point, I believe I
am,” he confessed.
“Do you never feel cramped—in your
mind. I mean?—feci that you want to
push your way through the clouds
into some other life?”
“I feel nearer the clouds here,” he
answered simply.
They were leaving the churchyard
now. She paused abruptly, pointing
to a single grave in a part of the
churchyard which seemed detached
from the rest.
“Whose grave is that?” he inquired.
He hesitated.
“It is tlie grave of a young girl,” ho
told her quietly. “She was the daugh
ter of one of our shepherds. She went
into service at Carlisle, and returned
here with • a child. They are both
buried here.”
“Because of that her grave is apart
from the others?”
“Yes,” lie answered. “It is very sel
dom, I am glad to say. that anything
of the sort happens among us."
For the second time that morning
Louise was conscious of an unexpected
upheaval of emotion. She felt that the
sunshine had gone, that tlie whole
sweetness of tlie place had suddenly
passed away. The charm of its simple
austerity had perished.
“And I thought I had found para
dise !” she cried.
She moved quickly from John
Strangewey’s side. Before he could
realize her intention she had stopped
over the low dividing wall and was on
her knees by the side of the plain, neg
, lected grave. She tore out the spray
| of apple blossom which she had thrust
into the bosom of her gown, and placed
i it reverently at the head of the little
i mound. For a moment her eyes
' drooped and her lips moved—she her
self scarcely knew whether it was in
j prayer. Then she turned and came
j slowly nack to her companion.
Something had gone, too, front his
| e.inrnl. She saw In him now nothing
i but the coming dottrness of his broth
j er. Her heart was still heavy. She
I shivered a little. It was he at last
who spoke.
“Will you tell me, please, what is the
matter with you, and why you placed
i that sprig of api/le blossom where you
j did?"
His tone woke her from her lethargy,
j She was a little surprised at its
j poignant, almost challenging note.
“Certainly,” she replied. “I placed
j it there as a woman’s protest against
the injustice of that isolation."
“I deny that it is unjust.”
She turned arodnd and waved her
hand toward the little gray building.
“The Savior to whom your church is
dedicated thought otherwise,” she re
I minded him. “I>o you play at being
j lords paramount here over the souls
and bodies of your serfs?"
“You judge without knowledge of the
facts." he assured her calmly.
Louise’s footsteps slackened.
“You men.” she sighed, “are all
alike.' Y'ou judge only by what hap
pens. You never look inside. That is
why your justice is so different from
a woman’s. I do not wish to argue
with you; but what I so passionately
| object to is the sweeping judgment you
make—the sheep on one side and the
goats on the other. That is how man
j judges; God looks further. Every case
j is different. The law by which one
j should be judged may be poor justice
i for another.”
Mie glanced at hint almost appeal
! ingly, but there was no .sign of yield
ing in his face.
“Laws." he reminded her, “are made
for the benefit of the whole human
race. Sometimes an individual may
suffer for the benefit of others. That
is inevitable.”
“And so let the subject pass,” she
concluded; “but it saddens me to think
that one of the great sorrows of the j
world should be there like a monument j
to spoil the wonder of this morning.
Now I am going to ask you a question,
i Are you the John Strangewey who has
recently had a fortune left to him?”
He nodded.
“You read about it in the newspa
pers. I suppose.” he said, “Part of the
story isn’t true. It was stated that I
had never seen my Australian uncle,
but as a matter of fact, he has been
over here three or four times. It was
he who paid for my education at Har
row and Oxford.”
“What did your brother say to that?”
“He opposed it.” John confessed,
“and he hated my uncle. He detests
the thought of any one of us going out
of sight of our own hills. My uncle
had the wander fever."
“And you?" she asked suddenly.
“I have none of it.” lie asserted.
A very faint smile played about her
lips.
“Perhaps not before,” she mur
mured; “hut now?"
“Do you mean because I have in
herited the money? Why should l go
out like a Don Quixote and search for
vague adventures?”
“Because you are a man!” she an
swered swiftly. “You have a brain and
a soul too big for your life here. You
eat and drink, and physically you flour
ish, but part of you sleeps because it
is shut away from the world of real
things. Don’t you sometimes feel it
in your very heart that life, as we were
meant to live it. can only be lived
among your fellow men?”
He looked over his shoulder, at the
little cluster of farm buildings and cot
tages, and the gray stone church.
“It seems to me,” he declared simply,
“that the man who tries to live more
than one life fails In both. There is
n little cycle of life here, among our
thirty or forty souls, which revolves
around my brother and myself. A
passer-by may glance upward from the
road at our little hamlet, and wonder
what can ever happen In such an out
of-the-way corner. I think the answer
Is Just what I have told you. Love and
marriage, birth and death happen.
These things make life.”
Her curiosity now had become
merged in an immense interest. She
laid her fingers lightly upon his arm.
“You speak for your people," she
said. “That is well. But you your
self?"
“I am one of them,” he answered—
“a necessary part of them.”
“How you deceive yourself! The
time will come, before very long, when
you will come out into the world; and
the sooner the better. I think. Mr. John
Strangewey, or you will grow like your
brother here among your granite hills.”
He moved a little uneasily. A!! the
time she was watching him. It seemed
to her that she could read the thoughts
which were stirring in his brain.
“You would like to say, wouldn’t
you.” she went on. “that this is a use
ful and an upright life? So it may be,
but it is not wide enough or great
enough. Some day you will feel the
desire to climb. Promise me, will you,
that when you feel the impulse you
won’t use all that obstinate will power
of yours to crush it? You will destroy
the best part of yourself, if you do.
You will give it a chance? Promise!”
She held out her hand with a little
impulsive gesture. 11c took it in his
own, and held it steadfastly.
"I will remember,” he promised.
Along the narrow streak of road,
from the southward, they both watched
| the rapid approach of a large motor
■ car. There were two servants upon
I the front seat and one passenger—a ■
man—inside. It swung into the level
stretch beneath them, a fantasy of
gray and silver in the reflected sun
shine.
Louise had been leaning forward, her
head supported upon her hands. As
the car slackened speed, she rose very
slowly to her feet.
“The chariot of deliverance!” she
murmured.
“It is the prince of Seyre.” John re
marked, gazing down with a slight
frown upon his forehead.
She nodded. They had started the
descent and she was walking in very
leisurely fashion.
“The prince is a great friend of
mine,” she said. “I had promised to
spend last night, or, at any rate, some
portion of the evening, at Raynham
castle on my way to London.”
He summoned up courage to nsk her
the question which had been on his lips
more than once.
“As your stay with us is so nenrly
over, won’t you abandon your incog
nito?”
“In the absence of your brother,” she
answered. “I will risk it. My name is
Louise Mnurel.”
“Louise Maurel, the actress?” he re
peated wonderingly.
“I am she." Louise confessed. “Would
your brother," she added, with a little
“I Placed It There as a Woman's Pro
test Against the Injustice of That
Isolation.”
grimace, “feel that he hail given me a
night’s lodging tinder false pretenses.”
John made no immediate reply. The
world had turned topsyturvy with him.
Louise Maurel. and a great friend of
the prince of Seyre! lie walked on
mechanically until she turned and
looked at him.
“Well?"
“I am sorry.” he declared bluntly.
“Why?” she asked, a little startled
at his candor.
“I ant sorry, first of all, that you are
a friend of the prince of Seyre."
“And again, why?"
“Because of his reputation in these
parts.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I am not a scandalmonger.” John
replied dryly. “I speak only of what I
know. His estates near here are sys
tematically neglected. He is the worst
landlord in the country, and the most
unscrupulous. His tenants, both here
and in Westmoreland, have to work
themselves to death to provide him
with the means of living a disreputable
life.”
“Are you not forgetting that the
prince of Seyre is a friend of mine?”
she asked stiffly.
“I forget nothing.” he answered.
“You see. up here we have not learned
the art of evading the truth.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“So much for the prince of Seyre.
then. And now, why your dislike of
my profession?”
’“That is another matter.” he con
fessed. “You come from a world of
which I know nothing. All I can say
is that I would rnther think of you—
as something different.”
She laugnea nr ms soinuer race aim
patted his arm lightly.
“Big man of the hills,” she said,
“when you come down from your fro
zen heights to look for the flowers. I
shall try to make you see things differ
ently."
CHAPTER V.
Once more ti'isit Tong, winding stretch
of mountain road lay empty under the
moonlight. Vp the long slope, where
three months before he had ridden to
find himself confronted with the ad
venture of his life, John Strangewey
jogged homeward in his high dogcart.
The mare, scenting her stable, broke
into a quick tret as they topped the
long rise. Suddenly she felt a hand
tighten upon her reins. She looked
inquiringly around, and then stood pa
tiently awaiting her master’s bidding.
It seemed to John as if he had passed
from the partial abstraction of the last
few hours into absolute and entire for
getfulness of the present. He could
s,.0 the motorcar drawn up by the side
of the road, could hear the fretful
voice of the maid, and the soft, pleas
ant words of greeting from the woman
who had seemed from the first as if
she were very far removed indeed
from any of the small annoyances of
their accident.
“I have broken down. Can you help?"
lie set ills teeth. The poignancy of
the recollection was a torture to him.
Word by word he lived again through
that brief interview. He saw her de
seend from the car. felt the touch of
her hand on his arm. saw the flash
of her brown eyes us she drew close to
him with thnt pleasant I H' air of fs
mtliarity, shared by no otlftT woman
he had ever known.
Then the little scene faded away, and
he remembered the tedious present.
He had spent two dull days at the
house of a neighboring land owner,
playing cricket in the daytime, dancing
nr night with women in whom he was
unable to feel the slightest interest,
always with thnt faraway feeling in
his heart, struggling hour by hour with
thnt curious restlessness which seemed
to have taken a permanent place in
his disposition. lie was on his way
home to Peak Hall. He knew exactly
the welcome which was awaiting him.
He knew exactly the news he would
receive. He raised his whip and
cracked it viciously in the air.
Stephen was waiting for him, he
had expected, in the dining room The
elder Strangewey was seated in h!s ac
customed chair, smoking his pipe and
reading the paper. The table was laid
for a meal, which Jennings was pre
paring to serve.
“Back again, John?” his brother re
marked, looking at him fixedly over
his newspaper.
John picked up one or two letters,
glanced them over, and flung them
down upon the table. He had exam
ined every envelope for the last few
months with the same expectancy, and
thrown each one down with the same
throb of disappointment.
“As you see.”
“Had a good time?”
“Not very. Have they finished the
barley fields, Stephen?”
“A1I in at eight o’clock.”
There was a bripf silence. Then
Stephen knocked the ashes from his
pipe and rose to his feet.
“John.” he asked, “why did you pull
up on the road there?”
There was no immediate answer.
The slightest of frowns formed itself
upon the younger man’s face.
“How did you know that I pulled
up?”
“I was sitting with the window open, !
listening for you. I came outside to i
see what had happened, ard I saw your
lights standing still."
“I had a fancy to stop for a mo
ment.” John said : "nothing >uore.”
John Strangewey i* able to
stand this kind of dissatisfac
tion with life for just so long.
Then he takes the bit in his teeth
and goes tearing away
(TO BE CONTENT EU.)
LAST OF THE CARIB INDIANS
Not More Than One Hundred of Race
Which Columbus Found in West
Indies Are Still Alive.
The Carib Indian was the first repre
sentative of Lo, the poor red man, to
meet the tide of European travel. He
1 was the one found by Columbus and
the later Spanish explorers in the West
Indies, and he has given the Caribbean
sea ids name. Thus be is assured a
i monument as long as geography shall
last, and he needs it, because as a liv
ing race he has practically disap
peared.
. How many thousands of Caribs
dwelt in the West Indies in 1492 is
largely a matter of conjecture. They
quickly began to die out under the
hand of the conqueror, who worked
them as slaves and shot them when
they made war. Today it is doubtful
whether there are 100 pure-blooded
Caribs alive. Practically all of them
live on the British isle of Dominica, on
a reservation set apart for them called
Salybia.
The reservation 's very difficult of
access, for tiiere is no sheltered har
bor nr landing place. The only method
of approach is by one of ttte coasting
steamers which circle -^ie island.
Whoa the steamer gets opposite Sa
lybiu with anyone who wants to land
aboard, she stops and whistles. If the
weather is good and the water smooth
enough, a cauoe puts out and takes the
passenger ashore. If the weather is
too rough the passenger must needs
content himself to go on around the
island and try aguin on the next round.
A Model Man.
Adam, the first, was a man of lov
able disposition and u model husband,
i so I am informed by the recorders of
I early events. Never once in the reco
leetiou of his biographers did he speak
ill of his beloved soulmate in the pres
ence of human company, and according
to those who were able to know all
his private affairs he never kicked on
her cooking nor growled at her house
work.
Whether she wore her gowns high
cut or low in the neck was a matter
of little or no concern to him so long
as she was respectably attired in the
fashion of the period. And when she
got fired from the Palm Garden for
nibbling apples without someone's con
sent Adam did not sneak off to Reno,
as husbands do today, to apply for a
divorce. No. He cast aside his over
alls, threw up his job and went out
with the little lady like a little man.
That’s the kind of a sparerib he was!
—Zim, In Cartoons Magazine.
The Essential8 of Gardening.
The essentials for successful gar
dening on a small or large scale are
soil, water and cultivation. Much de
pends also on the grower, the season
and the crops selected.
The soil is the storehouse of plant
food. The garden, therefore, should
contain humus or rotted material in
large quantities. The gardener should
remember that about 50 per cent of
ordinary earth is not soil at all, but
consists of air and water.
Water makes plantfood that is pres
ent freely soluble. Rain and snow
water are soft and contain ammonia.
The magic of soft water on the plant
world is one of the miracles of good
gardening, as everyone who has con
trasted the effect of rain with that
produced by sprinkling with a hose
realizes. Plants are succulent and
contain large amounts of water which
they have to draw from the soil.
Beware.
When a fellow doesn’t come through
for the grocer eVery so often, his food
is likely to cause an unsettled condi
tion of the stomach.—Indianapolis
Star.
I .
Money b;«ek without que-tiou
It HUNT’S CUB I
treatment of ITCH. ECZEMA
u IN G WO RM.TETT EH or ot I-. r
Itching «kin diseases. rrice
50c at druggists, or direct from
IB R ihirjj Med sine Co.,Sherman.Tex
daisy fly killer placed -nyw'
attract* and k *
all fiies. s,, ..
QffiMiei.u. i
ch*ap Iuti . ....
Mof Bict.
or tip u»»r. w
or injure *r. •
nutated eft* i .
dealert or * * ,,
prew prep }
HAROLD SOMERS. ISO ot KALd AVE.. BROOK. . <
FOR PERSONAL HI uim£.
Dissolved in water for dooc
pelvic catarrh, ulceration etui n .i-,.
mation. _ Recommended by L . ,
Pir.kham Med. Co. for, ten • -r,
A healing wonder for ttmtri
W. N. U., OMAHA NO
TIMES CHANGED IN KOREA
Government Which Twenty Years Ago
Was Afraid of New Method Now
Welcome American Ideas
Twenty years ago the rean
government was »> afraid ■ ..
that a Korean student in tin '.! .dist
Episcopal School fur Boy. >ul
was arrested and put into pi • ..t
was the henious charge? Si: mt
he had formed a literary s.. . mt
discussed matters of general -t!
But times have changed anil a
now appreciates American id. .
the World Outlook. The iin;
hoy, named Cyan, came to An . ,
study and later became the
principal of his old boys' s.-i, ,
Seoul. And how the boys dis
rent events nowadays! Mr. <V
since then distinguished hints*
general conference by a ... .; *•
for its thought and Its English He -
just one of the many Korean \
who have tested Uncle Sam's tr>-e ■ t
knowledge and found it good.
HAVE SOFT, WHITE HANDS
Ciear Skin and Good Hair by Using
Cuticura—Trial Free.
The Soap to cleanse and purify ■ e
Ointment to soothe and heal. I:. - s
these fragrant, super-creamy • 1
lients prevent little skin trouhi, -
I coming serious by keeping the i s
free from obstruction. Nothing I • ;-r
at any price for all toiiet purp<>>, -
Free sample each by mail with Ii
Address postcard, Cuticura. Pi pr. L,
Boston. Sold everywhere.—Adv.
King Edward’s Little Needs.
Many interesting reminiscent • s of
famous people are given by Mr. F.
Townsend Martin in ‘Things I lie
member.”
Referring to the lute King Edv rd
I the author says:
“Lady Burton once told me an at i~
1 ing incident which occurred when
j late King Edward stayed at (in-si
i quoich.
‘“I hope, sir, that you have :.mi,
1 everything to your liking?’ sin I
to the royal visitor.
“‘Yes,’ answered the king; ■ur. if
I may make a suggestion, one
thing would add greatly to tin- -a
fort of your guests.’
“‘Oh. sir, what can that be?’
“‘Well, Lady Burton,’ said his rnaj
| esty, ‘the one thing needful is a bonk
i on tlie bathroom door.' ”
Promise Easily Kept.
“Your honor, let me off this time
and I’ll never appear before you
! again," pleaded the culprit.
“Am I to take this as a promise to
reform I”
“Yes, your honor. And I might add
that I am on nty way to Australia. If
I should happen to backslide, s.o
other court would attend to my ease.’'
Natural Result.
“Banks looks ull gone to pieces.”
“No wonder. He’s broke."—Batti
more American.
A doctor may give a patient hope.
! but he charges for the time it rakes to
give it.
( ; >
Preparing
for Tomorrow
Many people seem able
to drink coffee for a time
without apparent harm, but
| when health disturbance,
even though slight, follows
coffee’s use, it is wise *o
investigate.
Thousands of homes,
where coffee was found to
disagree, have changed the
family table drink to j
Instant
Postum
With improved health, j
and it usually follows,
the change made becomes
a permanent one. It pays
to prepare for the health
of tomorrow.
“There's a Reason