.
Mi
THE GIRL IN A CALICO DRESS.
Though queens of society try as they will
To dazzle and charm us by dressing to kill.
They can not look ever, we nave ta confess.
As sweet as the girl ia a calico dress.
No framework of satis, silk. Jewels and lace
Can set off ber picture of beauty and grace
IJke a calico dress of seat pattern and shade
That her own willing hands hare so tastefully
made.
There's something so wholesome, so homelike,
so clean,
So honest and useful, so medest of mien
In a calico dress that its wearer, we know.
Partakes of its virtues and In them will grow.
No tailor-made girl, be she ever so smart.
And decked in the fashion of dressmaking art,
Can hold up a candle with any success
To the sensible girl la a calico dress.
And none, when J t comes to tho duties of life.
Can make for a man such a helpmate and wire
And build him a home that he proudly will
bless
Like the bravo little girl in a calico dress.
All praise to the girl in a calico dress;
A marriage with her Is a certain success.
A kitchen or parlor each one ia its place
She, like Cinderella, will equally grace.
IL C Dodge, In Detroit Free Press.
MIRIAM.
TSeRracfiofHeatttiibHal
By Manda L. Crocker,
COPTBIGRT, 1869.
CHAPTER J.
OWN at my feet she
is sitting, this pale,
sweet woman, clad
in the suggestive
black crape. The
dark folds lie softly
against tho slender
throat in a caressing
manner, and tbey
remind me, as I look
at her, of a pair of
dimpled, baby arms,
that never more will
cling to the proud
neck.
Oh! yes: and more than that memory is
hidden within the folds of that black gown.
There is a triple story of bereavement and
of anguish of soul keener than that felt for
the dead, but, as yet, I do not know it quite
all.
She is a mystery to me, and I fail to com
prehend her many times, although I know
her history to be crowded with incidents
sad and tragical.
The afternoon sun comes through the lat
tice in bright golden bars, and falls lovingly
on her dark hair, revealing to me that it is
not really black, as I had thought, but of a
deep brown color, but she is not conscious
of the sunshine.
The scent of the fragrant roses comes up
from the little garden below, with the
breath of carnations and violets growing
plentiful there, but her soul is shut against
all that is beautiful in nature to-day.
She is so strange and lives within her
self, in such an atmosphere of deep sorrow,
that I have never been able to penetrate it
and understand the heart throbbing out its
existence to the music of its dirges.
I would love to talk freely to ber this
afternoon, but am at a loss to know how to
begin. 1 am, at best, a poor comforter; my
heart is sympathetic enough, but its emo
tions fail me in words. In this, as in many
other things, I am very unfortunate, and
the good that I would do is never realized.
But linally 1 venture : "Miriam, would you
enjoy a drive on tho beach, or shall it be a
stroll in the woods to fill up this remaining
piece of a day?'
Out there beyond the trees, and swell
ing shoreward, lie the blue waters of the
bay, and beyond booms the broad Atlantic.
There is a lovely drive along the sands, and
the weather is glorious, and this is why I
offer myself and pony phaeton to her, as ac
cessories of a pleasant afternoon by the
sea. But I have missed it again, and my
suggestion grates on her optional pleasure.
Slowly the great dark eyes arc lifted to
mine in sorrowful negative, and I know I
have swept an irresponsive chord.
I am answered further by a doleful shake
of the head; but she essays no word. Small
need; I understand her.
She crunches a letter in her hand savage
lya letter addressed to mc, yet more hers
than mine as if to remind mc that its con
tents are all she has room for in her
thoughts, and that a drive on the sunny
sands would only mock the shores of noth
ing to which ber soul drifts this after
noon. Then she gctsyip as if 1 have annoyed or
disturbed her by my question, which I pre
sume I have, and goes down the walk to the
little wicket opening out to the clustering
trees in front of my cottage. The great
iSIt"
1g&3Uv
so ruASAXT as PEAcrrcL.
white lilies that droop cither side the way
are hardly paler than she, or more inno
.cent. The wind coming up freshly from tho
water catches at her gown, and tosses her
long loose curls until sho shivers. Per
haps it whispers to her of her far away
desolate English home which stretches out
its arms, figuratively, and begs for her
presence; entreats the proud, beautiful
face to shine onco more within its great
manorial balls, ir that is what the winds
and waves are saying, their petition is met,
doubtless, with a cruel rebuff.
Presently she comes back to mc, but, in
stead of sitting down on the ottoman at my
feet, as I half expected ber to do, she drops
-the letter into my lap, kisses me hungrily,
-whispers brokenly: "I can never do it
never!" and goes up-stairs. I make no an
swer; there arc no words left me adequate,
.neither docs she look for a reply.
I take up the letter, and although I know
it y hoart I must needs run over it again.
It has come all the way from Hastings, that
beautiful city by the sea, m merrie old
England, and is a call from desolated
Heatherleigh Manor. "Do I know aught of
.Miriam Percival Fairfax? If so, tidings of
iter will be thankfully received, The .grand
- M "
. mi
old hall is waiting at her disposal, M the
death of Sir Rupert Percival and his writ
ten request leaves her the sole legatee." 1
am not allowed to answer the letter; Miri
am will not have it so, aad Heatherleigh is
nothing to Be. Of course I have told her
she had better go, but with a look of horror
in those haunting eyes of hers, she has re
fused emphatically, as whispering with
white lips she tells me that she "hate her
ancestral halls," and "that I have no idea
what I ask of her."
Perhaps I don't, and the deep aversion
ranking in her soul toward her birthplace
comes hissing through the white teeth, and
effectually silences me in protesting further.
She came to me two years ago, sad and
sorrowing, from the newly-made graves of
husband and child. "Remember," she said
to me once, "that my husband and son sleep
where the shadows of Heatherleigh fall not
on them. My poor, brave Arthur could not
rest well if they did, and my little one has
forgotten, on his dreamless pillow, the
curse that turned him away from its male
dictive doors."
I have not questioned her, regarding her
sorrows and grievances as too sacredly her
own for my intrusive inquiries, aud sho has
only revealed that which she chooses to telL
But she is the daughter of my dead
friend, and therefore I open my arms, and
receive tho desolate, heart-broken woman
inte my home and heart. I flatter myself,
too, that her sorrows have been somewhat
mitigated through my efforts. She is
cheerful, even, sometimes as we stroll in
the fields, or wander off among the ragged
hills where the wild heatherbell and bar
berry grow.
One time in particular I remember, as I
sit holding the crumpled letter, a scene
that with her face comes back to me, as
beautiful dreams come sometimes across
our days of care.
We had wandered up the hills, and were
sitting at the foot of a tree, resting. Our
baskets beside us were filled with the red
fruit of the barberry, and wreathed with
ferns and gayly-colorcd leaves. lathe dis
tance shone the blue waters of the bay,
and above ns beamed the cloudless sky,
while the breeze dallied here and there,
hinting of a sterner season.
Miriam leaned her sunny head against the
mossy trunk, and sat looking far off over
the shimmering waters in tho quiet dis
tance, and a look of almost happiness
came into the perfect face. I sat watching
her, wrapt in admiration, and hoping that
the dawning of brighter hours had come.
8he turned to me with animation, saying:
"This is pleasant ;so pleasant and peaceful !"
and I was glad to answer: "Yes."
That was last year, and since then the
fluctuating tides of peace and disquietude
have run so often into a sea of counter cur
rents, ebbing and flowing over that first
great hope, that I am not certain of any
thing permanent.
I hesitated a great deal before giving her
tho missive, thinking that perhaps it might
not be conducive of any good, but after all
I have done so, and regretted it immediately
afterward. I fold up the letter now, wish
ing something had happened to it be
fore it reached its destination, or that I had
had discretion enough to have foreseen the
consequonces, and bad comadtted it to the
grate, as I might have done, seeing it was
addressed to me.
While I am Indulging thus in self-condemnation
she comes down stairs, calm
enough outwardly, the glossy hair freshly
brushed, and I doubt nqt the tear-stains
bathed carefully off the placid face, so as
not to grieve me. She comes forward and
takes my hands in her two hot ones, looks
pleadingly into my face, and makes a
strange request, a request that sends the
blood surging back to my heart, leaving my
cheeks blanched, I am aware, for she
pauses, looks troubled and doabtive, and
hesitates. But finally she has finished, and
I have promised to grant her desire, al
though in tea minutes after she has kisscp
me thankfully and settled down on the
shadow-flecked steps with a great sigh of
relief I regret having done so.
She knows it is my intent to visit a rela
tive living in the suburbs of Hastings,
shortly, and she has asked me "while there,
take a little run over beyond Fairlight, and
visit Heatherleigh." But that isn't the
strange part of her request, though it is all
surprising. She looked me calmly in the
eyes and asked me to "bring ber portrait
away from the fated gallery with me."
How on earth am I to accomplish this!
At first it seems easy enough to me, but
on reflection the undertaking grows stu
pendous, and borders on the impossible. I
sit very still, revolving the request in my
mind, and every moment its magnitude is
intensified. But I mado no sign, and she
sits with clasped hands, gazing out at the
water, fully confident that I will be able to
fulfill my promise, and I haven't the courage
to undeceive her.
So wo sit out the piece of a day talking
some but thinking more until the sun goes
down behind the hills, and tho shadows
grow longer and denser over the carna
tions and roses, and reach out darkly for
the gleaming satin of the lilies which they
envelop later.
Maggie, my little maid of all work, rings
the tea-bell merrily, then peeps through the
blinds to see where we are. Having seen
us, her bright eyes disappear, and I know
she has flown to her kingdom to keep "tho
tay proper hot" until we put in an appear
ance, which we do shortly.
Miriam I always say simply Miriam
looks satisfied once more. 1 divine the rea
son; she has settled the letter question
positively in the negative, or rather I have
determined it for her by my rash promise.
Bat how I am to beard "the Douglas in
his hall" is .aoro than I knew, and obtain
the elegant portrait of the daughter of the
bouse, because I am not to reveal her where
abouts it is her request.
Miriam thinks, however, that I am the
one all-powerful equation of her life, and
sits over there sipping her tea in full con
fidence, while I choke down my dessert,
measure my powers with a broken reed and
transform my digits to ciphers.
The day of my departure arrives. Over
against its fair, promising skies falls a
shadow. I dread to leave Miriam. I would
so love to take her with me, but the laws of
the Medes and Persians are not more irrev
ocable than Miriam's nay. She is to stay
herein the cottage at Bay view, and see
after my affairs, while I am to go and en
joy myself. As if I could enjoy my visit
with that gigantic undertaking supple
mented on like a thing of eviL
If Heatherleigh was still in its halcyon
days, as when I once visited within its
doors, how "differently I should feel about
this matter; but J. understand evil influ
ences lurk in its long, dark halls, and
march through itsdesolato corridor since
Sir Rupert's demise.
This is one reason why my little tour
comes to me. in tho prospective, like a
nightmare, and I feel a terrorof it all creep
ing into my bravest moments.
These reports coming to mo by letter oc
casionally 1 have never revealed to Miriam,
which now is one thing I am thankful for,
as I have not frightened her by any thing
said to me and kept her away thereby.
1 am positive, too, that sho knows noth
ing of these things, as sho gets no news
from merrie old England. This, to me, is
one ray of relief.
But I am ready, so is my luggage, and I
most bid good-bye to Bayview and Miriam
SkeeUags to me, pale aad sorrowfuL but
there is a wild, eager questioning in ber
eyes as she lays her tear-wet cheek against
mine. Instinctively. I know she is thinking
of my promise, and I say, impulsively: "I
will bring your portrait, dear." I don't
add "if I can," which, perhaps, I ought to
do, but leave the declarative promise in
tact, trusting Heaven for the fulfillment.
She lugs her arms around my neck at this,
and sobs oat. her gratitude, releases me,
and I am gone. i
The friends with whom I intended to sail
meet me at the pier, and all is well so far.
Thereto aa eager tread of passengers, a
business air in the movements of the crew,
a rattling of chains, a settling here aad
there, aad the good ship Lady Clare weighs
anchor and we are en our voyage.
The starting gives me a feeling of cour
age that I never dreamed of, and I stoutly
resolve that, come what may, Heatber
leigh's mysteries will not intimidate me.
No; I will walk undaunted in its uncanny
shadows, and bold converse, if- necessarv,
with its spiritual occupants. And, more
than all else, I should doubtless -find
some who would and could be only too
glad to give me the history of the hall and
recount to me in detail the sad, tragic story
of Miriam.
To be sure, I have already an abbreviated
account, a synopsis of the leading events of
both, through Miriam and others, but this,
my intended visit, should round up the
whole.
This is why, I tell mvself, I have under
taken this journey, although the sunny face
of my cousin Gladys, in her far-away En
glish home, pops up to mental vision, and
claims its share in the visit to be.
Ah! yes, dainty little Cousin Gladys,
whose fair blue eyes first saw the day in
the dreamy light of the poetical Cotswold
hills lathe very hoart of merrie old En
gland, and who fought my "going to
Hamerica" to live, was expecting me.
She was to-day, doubtless, sitting in her
Tine-covered porch overlooking suburban
Hastings, and gazing seaward, wondering
the while when "'Attie, who lived in
Hamerica, would harrive." With this
thought I gather myself together and seek
my cabin.
CHAPTER n.
I am in the suburbs of Hastings, where
the delicious and invigorating sea breezes
wander over the hills and whisper down the
green lanes.
Cousin Gladys' little cottage is a verita
ble paradise to my quiet-loving soul.
Perched away up here on a height and
nestling in its wealth of blossoming creep
ers, itseems a very sweet haven of all 1 de
sire. In the distance I can get a glimpse
HP 11
WCA5rf 12X
v-Jj7 ..iras:
OOUSXX OLADYS JOISS KB fOK A CHIT.
of the sea, aad West Cliff and a bird's-eye
view of High Wickham, but it is the pict
uresque beauty and blessed content of the
bright fieldsand green hedgerows that
please me most
Above the distant downs a few fleecy
clouds hover, then drift lazily out over the
sea and fade into the infinitesimal. I sit
down on the porch, over which the ivy runs
in profusion, with a sigh of satisfaction,
and presently cousin Gladys joins me for
achat.
We talk of many things, over which falls
the glamour of Auld Lang Syne, and by the
time she excuses herself to see after the
late dinner, I have had a goodly number of
pleasant, and not af ow unpleasant, reminis
cences of suburban Hastings.
My friends of the voyage are staying with
relatives near Ecclesbourne, and are
pleased to notify me by post that they are
going farther into the country, and desire
my company.
This I can not do, as I am "bound for the
hall," in the language, but not the spirit, of
Tennyson. While thinking of my friends,
however,Ilaugh alittle.but end with a sigh,
as bright Miss Stanley comes to view. I
presume she has entirely forgotten her
tribulation on board the Lady Clare, and
her habit of being "addicted to the bowL"
Luckily, I am not a victim of sea-sickness,
and while Miss Stanley lay prone in her
state-room, I was on deck enjoying the fine
weather which we were fortunate enough
to have nearly all the way over.
My cousin keeps her open carriage and
drives a great deal, and as driving happens
to be my penchant also, a goodly share of
our visiting is done on wheels. We drove
down to the beach several times and whiled
away the hours of the long, dreamy after
noons amid the sea breezes and sunbeams.
The ships, "white-winged and free;" the
cliffs, seamed and scarred, and above them
the Downs, never grow old or common
place. But Heatherleigh! Tho very name makes
me forget the rose-hue for the rue and the
shadows, and my superabundance of cour
age, coming as if by inspiration on board
the Lady Clare, I find has diminished con
siderably. Nevertheless, 1 vow to the trcllised vines
at my elbow that I am not afraid of any
thing in all England, which wild affirma
tion, I am persuaded, sounds more like
bragadock) than bravorv.
There are several fine old places between
Hastings proper and the country aide flank
ing Heatherleigh Chace. Borne of these
stately residences have quite imposing
facades, and others, high ivy-wreathed ga
bles, while a number, in their elegance, put
you in mind of the days of King Arthur.
But there are bits of sorrowful tradition
and legendary lore connected with an occa
sional grand old structure calculated to
make one stand in awe of their environs.
Strange fatality marks many aa old hall,
and Heatherleigh, as I hear, boasts of one
of the most tragical.
In tho gladsomo days when she and I
were young, I knew the fair bride of the
Percival house. She was a high-born En
glish girL whose sweet eyes first saw the
light in a beautiful villa near Birmingham.
I can imagine her fine face radiant with
happy existence as the welcome of Heather
leigb's grand old doors floated around her.
Ah! yes; I can see her, vivacious, regal
and glao.
After she became Lady Percival our
paths diverged, of course, but I often won
der to myself why her refined soul went
out to me so unreservedly in those days,
when I was but a cottagers daughter.
ABaity of soul," Gladys says. Perhaps
shefs right, for it is said that sublime re-
lationsbip recognizes ao barrier of circum-
Stance.
Lady Percival was supremely happy dar-
uigmyvuHatinenaiatieasoutuieau
was meant year oi nerniamef me, aaa
everyone is supposed to find the rnatri-
monial alliance pleasant enough' for that
length of time. But I never had the pleas-
ure of seeing my friend after I parted from
her at the end of the long avenue of elms,
where she put her jeweled arms about sny
aeck and bade me "come again. "
It was this side of that affectionate leave
taking that all tho beauty and sweetness
faded from Lady Perdval's life and the
curses fell. I shudder involuntarily as I
call to mind the story of the estrange
ment, broken hearts, crape, tears and male
diction. There comes a sense of suffocation and
dimness of vision as 1 go back across the
intervening years, calling up the memories
binding mo to the dead.
Lady Percival has been dead several
years, and the proud Miriam was orphaned
a decade later by the deceaso of the austere
father, and last male descendant of the
Percival house. After his tragical end the
spiritual manifestations began, which have
been a source of mysterious speculation ever
since to those acquainted with the detailed
disclosures.
To-morrow I shall set out for the Hall,
which I only remember for its elegance as a
fit setting for the almost divine beauty of
my dear dead friend, as I call her to miad.
Yes. I shall know for myself if these un
canny tales be true. One bright gleam of
hope in regard to my visit of commission
is that the old housekeeper, Peggy Clark
son and her husband, are yet occupying the
servants' quarters at the Hall. I remember
her odd but honest visage, and if she re
members me as kindly as I do her, I shall
be well taken care of, at any rate. She was
once very fond of me as "mo Leddy's guest,"
and 1 am in hope concerning Miriam's por
trait. Poor Miriam, in the far-away cottage at
Bayview! I fancy she is promenading sor
rowfully and alone, among the late lilies,
and thinking of me.
I am back again in Cousin Glady's bright
little cottage home. I have been several
miles into the country since I sat in this
vine-covered porch and listened to the re
cital of country-side episodes. And I have
met with such strange experiences, and
listened to such a blood-curdling story, that
I am half persuaded I have lost my Iden
tity. Some way I feel like crying out with
the old dame who took a nap in the King's
highway: "Lauk a mercy, 'tis none of L"
We do sometimes have adventures that
leave us in doubt as to our individuality,
and to say that I am just waking up from
the nightmare of the Heatherleigh visit
would be, perhaps, the correct statement to
make.
Yes, I have been there; the fine portrait
of Miriam hanging in the little drawing
room yonder, and which Gladys admires
very much, is a silent but magnificent
sponsor, not to be gainsayed by any means.
And now, as my domestic cousin is elbow
deep in the brewing business this fine morn
ing, let me sit here, where the roses have
all fallen off and been swept away by the
autumn winds, and tell you the story ef
Heatherleigh. I will, however, preface the
story proper by a description of my visit and
the appearance of the Hall as it now stands,
knowing, as I do, that my friend's tradition,
history and experiences would be unsatis
factorily given without it.
It is fitting that the roses have fallen, aad
that the scurrying breeze tosses the dry al
der leaves into my lap It all murmurs with
the tone of the legend, voicing a volume ef
bitterness. And the old housekeeper told
me, too, that was why my sorrowing friend
over the sea was called Miriam. Because
her lot was one of destined woe the chris
tening was Miriam bitterness. I confess
that such things rising before us bring the
question of Hamlet out in vivid coloring, as
we watch the merciless wheel ef fortune
crush out the beauty and joy of life for
some, when the fault lies generations back.
to bb continued.)
PRIMITIVE INTERCOURSE.
Significance ef Fire, Smoke
aad Oram
Beating.
R. Andree has lately been collecting in
formation as to the use of signals by prim
itive peoples, aad the facts he has brought
together are summarized in Science. It
appears that American Indians use rising
smoke to give signals to distant friends.
A small fire is started and as soon as it
burns fairly well grass and leaves are
heaped on the top of it. Thus a large col
umn of steam and smoke rises. By cover
ing the fire with a blanket the Indians in
terrupt the rising of the smoke at regular
intervals and the successive clouds are used
for conveying messages.
Recently attention has been called to the
elaborate system of drum signals used by
the Cameroon negroes, by means of which
long messages are sent from village to vil
lage. Explorations in the Congo basin
have shown that this system prevails
throughout Central Africa. The Baknba
use large wooden drums, on which different
tones are produced by two drumsticks.
Sometimes the natives "converse" in this
way for hours, and from the energy dis
played by the drummers and the rapidity of
the successive blows it seemed that the con
versation was very animated.
The Galla, south of Abyssinia, have
drums stationed at certain points of the
roads leading to the neighboring states.
Special watchmen are appointed, who have
to beat the drum on the approach ef ene
mies. Ceochi, who observed this custom,
designated it as a "system of telegraphs."
The same use of drums is found in New
Guinea. From the rhythm and rapidity of
the blows the natives know at onco whether
aa attack, a death or a festival is announced.
The same tribes use columns of smoke or
(at night) fires to convey messages to
distant friends. The latter are also used
in Australia. Columns of smoke of dif
ferent forms are used for signals by the in
habitants of Cape Yorkand the neighboring
island.
In Victoria hollow trees are filled with
fresh leaves, which are lighted. The sig
nals thus made are understood by friends.
In Eastern Australia the movements of a
traveler were made known by columns, of
smoke, and so was the discovery of a whale
in Portland bay.
m m
Threads from Beck Crystal.
Fibers of unequaled fineness, useful for
scientific purposes, can now be made by
melting rock crystal in an oxy-hydregea Jet
and drawing it into threads, then drawing
these threads into the finest fibers by at
taching them to the tail of an arrow, which
is shot from a crossbow. Threads of leu
than 1-10,000 of aa inch are produced, and
they are stronger than steel. Their ends
can not be traced with a microscope, and are
certainly less than a millionth of aa inch la
diameter. i
Ix this country 1,043 men produce 4,500
tons of Bessemer steel in a week, or 49
tons per man. In England 00 workmen
produce 100 tons in a week, or only SL5 tof a
per man. The average wages in this coun
try are thirty-five' per cent, higher than In
Great Britain, accordiag to good Engusl
author". j
SvVIFT ON THE WING.
The raatMt ruiiroad Train slow
pared with at Wild Deck.
"The gad wale but there; it
Cem
i8n'
likely at all that you know what
:, ;d observant wild
PTv !? ooservant wild,
fowl nunter ae gadwale Is a duck,
i It is a wild duck that doesn't get East
very often, but it is a familiar fowl
i h vt r waa i.,at k, t ,m.!.
that the gadwale is a bird that caa
travel nearly a hundred miles while
the fastest railroad train is going fifty,
and yet it is slow on the wing com
pared with a canvasback duck, the
broadbill, or even the wild goose. I
have held my wateh on about every
inu mi uu iuwi more ia, nou Know m
a dot just how much space any of them
can get over in an hour. The canvas
back can distance the whole wild fowl
family if it lays itself out to do it.
When the canvasback is out taking
things easy he jogs along through tho
air at the rate of eighty miles an hour.
If he has business somewhero, though,
and has to got there, he can put two
miles behind him every minute, and do
it easy. If you don't believo that, just
fire square at the leader in a string of
canvasbacks that are out on a business
trip some time when you have the;
"iuwitft xsuuik buuvi uruuoucu UV IUU
proper quantity of powder, travels
pretty quick itself, but if your charge
brings down any member of that string
of ducks at all it will be the fifth or
sixth one back from the leader, and
I'll bet any thing thero is on it. If you
have the faintest idea in the world of
dropping the leader you must aim at
space not less than ten feet ahead of
him. Then the chances are that he
will run plumb against your shot.
When he drops you will find him a
quarter of a mile or so on, because
even after he is dead he can't stop
short of that distance.
"The mallard duck is lazy. He sel
dom cares to cover more than a mile a
minute, but he can if he wants to. His
ordinary every-day style of getting
along over the country takes him from
place to place at about a forty-five-mile
an hour rate. The black duck can fly
neck-and-neck with the mallard, and
neither one can give tho other odds.
If the pin-tail widgeon and wood-duck
should start in to race either a mallard
or a black duck it would be safe to bet
on either oue. But if a redhead duck
should enter the race you can give big
odds on him, for he can spin off his
ninety miles an hour as easy as you
can walk around the block, and can de
it all day. He would bo left far behind,
though, by the blue-winged or the
green-winged teal. These two fowl
can fly side by side for one hundred
miles and close the race in a dead heat
in an hour, and appear to make no
hard task of it. The broadbill duck is
the only fowl that flies that can push
the canvasback on the wing. Let a
broadbill and a canvasback each do his
best for an hour, and the broadbill will
only come out about ten miles behind.
One hundred and ten miles an hour can
be done by the broadbill, and he con
sequently makes a mark for a shotgun
that a pretty good gunner wouldn't bo
apt to hit once in a lifetime.
"The wild goose is an astonisher on
the fly. It has a big heavy body to
carry, and to see it waddling on the
ground you wouldn't suppose it could
get away from you very fast on the
wing. But it manages to glide from
one feeding place to another with a
suddenness that is aggravating to the
best of wing shots. To see a flock of
honkers' moving along, so high up
that they seem to be sweeping the cob
webs off of the sky, you probably
wouldn't dare to bet that they were
traveling at the rate of ninety miles an
hour, but that is just what they are
doing, any hour in the day. The wild
goose never fools any time away. His
gait is always a business one.1' N. Y.
Sun.
HISTORICAL WIRE.
Shert
Piece Which Is Worth
Mere
Thaa Its Weight la Gold.
A bit of wire was introduced into our
conversation at the club. It was a
silent, uncommunicative bit of copper,
about a sixteenth of an inch thick and
four inches long. Most any hardware
merchant would give you a similar bit
of wire, because its value- would bo so
little he could not reckon a price for it.
But this particular piece Mr. Vail
(whose father co-operated with Morse
in inventing the telegraph) carries'in
his pocket-book as carefully as if jit
were gold many times more weighty.
It is a passive, pliant substance an in
animate bit of copper but it gave the
first electric thrill that has brought the
inhabitants of the world closer to
gether, conquered time and annihilated
distance. It is a bit of - the first thrjee
miles of wire ever used for telegraphy. I
It is a piece from the experimental
line constructed by Morse and Vail,
Sr., when they were testing their In
ventions. Only a little of the wire,
Mr. Vail. Jr., informed me, has been
preserved. After it was taken down
from the experimental line his fathjbr
used part of it as a trellis for vines on
his front porch. Fart of it may have
been used in the construction of the
line between the capital and Baltimore,
but if so it was lost track of. It w
from the trellis that the mementoes
were recovered. "I think I got less
than six feet of it." said Mr. Vail.
"After telegraphy became a wonder of
the world we began to appreciate the
value of such a memento, and we savid
what we couid of the original three
mile wire. I have given pieces tola
few persons who have been especially
interested in it, and some was arranged
on a card, with a photograph of toe
original instrument, now at the Na
tional Museum, that was sent to thp
Paris exposition." Washington Let
ter. j
FARM AND FIRESIDE.
Farm horses kept in well-ventilate
stables when not at work will fars
better, usually, than at pasture fighting-
flies. i
Beet Salad: Slice, and cut into
dice, 'sufficient cold, boiled beets to
make one pint: heap them in the center
of a salad dish and cover with a half
pint of sauce Tartar. Garnish with
parsley, aud serve very cold. Table
Talk.
Milk may be canned jusfas you
would fruit Bring the millc to the
boiling point and till your jars to the
brim with it, then shut air tight. This
wlu keep any lenffth of time a be
. .-, annA wvfin nTM,nfta , when it
was put up.
For green gage jam skin and stem
ripe green gages. Make a sirup, using1
three-fourths of a pound ef sugar to a
pound of fruit and just enough water to
keep the fruit from burning- at first.
Put the fruit in and boil quickly three
quarters of an hour, skimming and
stirring often.
Baked cucumbers. Cut tine, large
cucumbers lengthwise, scoop out the
seeds, and stuff them with a dressing
made of cold veal or chicken, bread
crumb8f atXt&nd pepper to .,. and
enough melted butter to make a smooth
paste. Tie the two halves -'of the
cucumber together and bake in a slow
oven. Serve hot as a side dish. Tho
Housekeeper.
To can grapes. Pick them care
fully from the stems, taking care not
I to tear the skins much; put them in a
porcelain kettle, with a little water;
stir them carefully and only enough to
make sure that tbey are well heated
through; then put them in the cans.
The pulp will then be whole, and the
auce not all seeds and skins.
Little red ants, it is said, can not
travel over wool or rag carpet. One
who has tried it covered her floor with
coarse baize, set her sofa on that, and
has not been troubled since. She adds:
"Cover a shelf ia your closet or pantry
with flannel, set whatever you wish to
keep from the ants on It, and they will
at once disappear."
The Northern plan of husking corn,
that of building and putting the stalks
from two shocks together, is a good
one. One needs a rope, having a light
iron ring at one end, with which to
draw the tops of the bundles close
together, previous to binding tightly
so that no rain can enter, and so that
the shocks will not blow over. The
more care, the more good nutritious
fodder will be saved.
Fricassee of chicken with green
corn. Cut the green corn from the cob.
put it in the pot with water enough to
cover it, and let it stew until it is
nearly done; then cut up the chicken,
put it in with the corn and let them
stew together about half an hour; put
in a few whole graias of pepper, with
a teacupful of cream or milk; thicken
with two tablespoonf uls of flour mixed
in a lump of butter; add the salt last.
Send in to the table smoking hot.
MILDEW OF POTATOES.
Its
Symptoms aad Caa
aad Hew to
Freveat It.
The cooler and more moist sections
of the country are where the parasitic
fungus, generally known as potato rot,'
attains its greatest vigor and activity,
and it is only in the dry regions of the
great Western plateaus that the potato
grower can hope to wholly escape its
ravages. The fungus attacks the
stems and leaves as well as the tubers.
On the leaves pale yellowish spots first
indicate the presence of the disease;
these very soon turn brown, and if the
weather be warm and damp rapidly
blacken, indicating the total destruc
tion of the tissues. The yellowing of
the tissues progresses slowly, but as
soon as the fungus has pushed out its
fruiting threads, which appears as a
white, downy coating on the under
surface, the discolorations proceed
rapidly.
The stems may be attacked directly
or the disease may reach them through
the leaves; in either case they become
blackened and soon die. There is no
doubt that the tubers may be and
usually are infected by the rain work
ing the spores down into the soil; hence
potatoes lightly covered with earth are
more likely to be infested than when
deeply planted. In this connection
Profc'-Scribner. in his paper on downy
mildew of the potato, submitted to the
Department at Washington, suggests
that potatoes have a second or pro
tective molding at the first appearance
of that disease upon the leaves, made
in such a manner that the uppermost
tubers shall have at least five inches of
earth over them, the tops being bent
at the same time so that they hang
over the furrows in a half erect posi-
tion.
Prof. Scribner also calls attention to
the fact that at the time of digging the
crop the tubers may become infected
as they 'are taken from the ground by
spores from the decaying tops. If the
digging be delayed for a week or two
after the tops have become thoroughly
dead, and performed when the weather
is sunny and dry, there is little possi
bility of infection at this period.
Potatoes should be entirely free from
surface moisture when stored, and
never, should be placed where it is
damp or "where moisture can collect
about: then. Dustitg the tubers with
ar-slakod lime (one bushel of lime to
twenty-five bushels of potatoes) before
storing is strongly recommended as
doing much, towards preventing the
rot by the authority quoted. If duri ng
the winter the potatoes arefoand to be
rotting tbey should, a pnee be sorted
over and all spotted or unsound ones
treated with lime and stored where the
temperature is low and the atmosphere
dry. N. Y. World.
V
It-
T
!
I
sssarggrj
J-:
