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TRUE TREASURE.
Isbm tired, m tired to-night.
Tie busy day was fan of care:
Tie last begun with fishers light
Is done: that taslc was duty's share;
.Bus this, the hour tor solemn thought
This cay's weakness or strength to prove.
Js come, and I am here with naught
Bat with weakness to repay Thy lore.
"With esrpty hands that through the hours
Have striven with laithtul work to pray
Tor greater strength, lor nobler powers,
Somethtnz that wonld not pass away;
Something to grasp that I can hold.
That in dark hours will never change;
A source of strength my life may fold
ITithia itself, nor years estranga
Nothing bring I this night to Thee,
So tired the cmjjty hands I raise;
Scarce can I lift mine eyes to see
If Thou art near; yet, as I gaze,
I catch the shining of Thy face.
Father! "Wer: Then indeed beside
"V7i:h me to-day In every place.
Sly faltering, faithless steps to guide?
And I have turned away frcmThee!
Have sought what could no blessing prove,
From Thee apart no good can be.
Eternal life, eternal love!
O strength, all earthly strength above.
O hope, so priceless pure and free!
Jatro-g la the thoujhtof Thy great love
Sir soul rests satisfied in Toee.
F. ZS. Chapln. la Indianapolis Journal.
MIRIAM.
ftBoiMceofHeaiiierlelHalL
By Manda L. Crocker.
CorrniGHT, 1SS3.
CHAPTER v. CoimsrrD.
Eat when the housekeeper put her with
ered hand, trembling with increased agita
tion, oa the ric: of the last reversed portrait,
I felt tnatl was to look on the face of Miriam.
A deft movement of the trembling hand.
a lowering of the crimson cord and the
proud, beautiful features of my friend's un
happy child swung over to the dim, dreamy
light of the Ions, silent gallery.
'An this wan is the puir, proud-hearted
childer of xne Leddy Parcival," sobbed
Clarkson.
iliriam.' I said, nervously.
'The same, ma'am," replied Peggy, chok
ing back a sob. while her vrarm Irish heart
Ached for the vision of the proud face which
had nestled on her bosom in years agone.
Should I tell her of Miriam ! I looked into
the smoldering fire of the eyes on the can
vas, and caught the answer as if by intui
tion. No !
The picture fascinated me strangely.
There was something about it so inexpress
ibly sweet, yet so proudly sorrowful withal,
that my whole soul went out to the sad, im
perious woman, buried, as it were, at Bay
view, with more fervency than ever before.
"What a tale those firmly-shut lips might
unfold could they speak. What a dearth of
paternal affection, what loneliness of life
could the Miriam beyond the sea reveal if
she chose to tell it all!
And this was the portrait, then, I was to
carry home with rue, and I. as yet, had no
plan to assist me in keeping my rash
promise.
Poor girl!' I said softly, as Clarkson
turned the face to the wail once more.
Daughter of my friend, and come to this:
her proud face turned to the wall in the hall
of her ancestors!
1 could not trust myself to say more, and
Clarkson led the way to a corner, where the
shadows were fittingly the thickest, and
startled me by saying in a curious tone:
"An' here is the masthur. ma'am, a hangin'
all alone: all alone! The Leddy Parcival
niver had her portait painted. She would
niver sit for it, ma'am, and she was per
fectly roight in it, too. afthur knowin' ov
thelhroubles coomin' down oahercaugh
ther from the long loine of mistheries. She
didn't -want her face to appear in theflay
thurleigh gallery, at all, at all!''
Clarkson's last sentence gave me an idea,
and I could almost have shouted for joy at
the promising proposition, but controlling
.myself with an effort, remembering in time
that it must be matured. I gave my atten
tion to the lace of Sir Rupert.
Clarkson drew back the crape covering,
and put aside the window curtains in order
to let in more light. A gletm of sunhcht
flickered for a moment across the painting.
"Truly he must have been gruff and obsti
nate, judjring from the heavy frowning
brows and sinister-looking eyes beneath;
yet under the uncompromising exterior I
fancied I could see a deep, corroding grief,
that, bliirhtinir his life in its prime, had mixed
for his remaining days "the wormwood and
the calL"
And this is he who roams about the
Hall."' I questioned, taking my eyes from
the stem countenance on canvas and turn
ing to Pegcy.
Sae nodaed in the affirmative, and drew
thecra;e back over the portrait of the
"rnastbur of Havthurleigh,' as she would
say, and together we left the gallery.
We had now been over the HalL with the
exception of a few apartments of "no in
therest at alL," and the library. To this last
Tiamed room we turned our attention. It
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"MIKLLM." I SAID. XEUVOCSLV.
-was on the first floor, just across the cen
tral hail from the fateful drawins-room.
Nearly one whole side of the apartment
was taken up with books. I looked
p.t the hundreds of richly-bound volumes en
he oaken shelves, after Clarkson pulled a
heavy tasseled cord and drew back a long
silken hanging of green, which bid the ma
jority of the bocks from view, and won
dered wfeo next would aspire to the owner-
ship of such a collection of elegantly-bound
volumes. v.
-They're as the masthur left 'em," re
marked Peggy, breaking in on my specu
lative reverie, an' he was a great mon for
the books, too, ma'am."
"Tell me the story of Miriam now," I
said, crossing the room to a great deep
-chair, with its inviting cushions, that stood
vy the elaborately-carved secretary a the
kAoorner. -"""-.
J
"Nirer a bit or it will Oi be afthur tellin
ye's in this part o' the ball, ma'am. Oi'd
be afthur gettin' into me own soide or the
house af ore Oi've a wurrud to say about it
atalL"
"Agreed, Peggy." 1 answered, glad to
humor her by going anywhere, if I only
might hear the story of the daughter of my
friend.
Once more in her "own soide ov the
house," Clarkson lighted her pipe and sat
1 down where the bright sunshine streamed
in through the white dimity-curtained win
dows. I could not blame her for wanting to
get back into her own cheerful rooms again,
for I felt happily relieved of the shadows
myself.
CILUTEK VL
And now comes the story of Miriam as I
heard it from the lips of Peggy Clarkson
and her husband during my stay at the
Hall After it, the sad, tragical ecd of Sir
iiupert, supplemented by a strange experi
ence of my own while beneath the ancestral
roof.
Twenty years before the utter desolation
of the Hall a little tidbit of mortality was
laid tenderly in Lady Percivai's arms, and
great tears fell silently on the lac-e fabric of
its dress, while her white lips murmured:
"Sorrow's child." While the baby face
nestled unconsciously on the fair mother's
bosom the mother heart made agonized
moan over her first-born.
This was the welcome Miriam received as
she lay wondering at the pray October
dawning heralding her advent into this
curious world of ours.
LadyPercival remembered the terrified
look of the attendants' faces when it was
announced that a daughter was born "to
me Leddy."
It was then that the legend of the house
of the Percivals came up before her with
menacing power.
Down the ancestral lines had come the
tradition, fulfilled to a fault, they said, in
the generations preceding this last ill-fated
child.
When Lady Percival was yet a happy
bride Clarkson had communicated to her
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PEGGT'S STOBT OF SHEIAH.
the story of the hereditary curse, coloring
her narration vividly as she went on in de
tail to prove its correctness. And this is
the maledictive tradition : The eldest child
of each generation, if a daughter, and the
youngest, if a son, would live to incur the
lasting hatred of their paternal parent.
The curse entailed on the hapless offspring
dated away back to some wicked old ances
tor who had, by some evil power, handed
down his wrath to the innocent, because of
the wretched life he bad led. This ante
cessor, so raa the legend, was a youngest
child'' and had wedded the "eldest daugh
ter" of a house which bad become alien
ated from him because of his dissipated
life. The wife had gone back to her fam
ily hearth and forsaken him entirely, and
he had hated her with bitter hatred for her
desertion.
Perhaps Clarkson would have never
dared to tell the fair young wife of this
terrible tradition, but it happened to the
wife of Sir Rupert as it had to the other
unfortunate and sorrowing mothers. It
was a part of their destiny to unravel the
legend in spite of imposed secrecy.
Lady Percival, on her first visit to
the Heatherleigh gallery, had been strange
ly impressed with the trio of portraits
whose bright faces, reversed, gave to them
an air of mystery.
She had asked her husband why they
were hung so strangely, and he had grown
pale and agitated, and had answered eva
sively, at the same time -leading her away
with some remark entirely foreign to the
question.
Being cunous concerning the portraits,
and mystified by ner husband's unsatis
factory reply, she sought an interview with
Clarkson, telling her of Sir Rupert's un
explainable demeanor during her visit to the
gallery. Thus it happened that she heard
the legend of her husband's ancestors re
lated. And the housekeeper had, with all the
superstitious influence of her Irish nature,
impressed on the susceptible mind of her
mistress tne weight of the withering sor
row of this woeful legend.
Tet it had never come to her, after all, as
forcibly as when the innocent, upturned
face on her agonized bosom proclaimed her
the mother of "the eldest child a daugh
ter." Then Lady Percival had shuddered and
wept over the sleeping infant, gathering
her closer to her aching heart and wailing:
"Oh! my darling! my precious child; my
ill-fated one! May the kind Father, in His
mercy, spare thee from this awful thing a
father s hatred."
With her tear-wet cheek pressed to that
of her child Lady Percival could hear the
pitying tones of the housekeeper once more
as she ended the recital. "Ah! me Leddy,
an' Oi'm sorry for ye's that's niver hear'n
tell o' the loikes ov this therible thing, that
cooms to all ov "em that's bom under the
curse. Thim faces what's turned away
from ye, ma'am, is ov thim ez has bin ban
ished from the house. They her to bear it.
me Leddy, for there's not ony thing to
sthand fominst, an' many's the prayer for
marcy an' forgiveness ez has coom from
broken hearts within these walls, an' niver
been listened to, naythur."
Now, with the birth of her daughter it all
came back so painfully and vividly, that to
her supersensitive soul it seemed that the
trio of reversed faces on the wall of the
gallery gazed down in pitying sorrow on
the little form so dear to her mother's
heart.
And Sir Rupert walked the corridors si
lent and glum, little thinking that the del
icate flower of a wife knew of the trouble
entailed by the birth of tne daughter. His
only comfort lay in the thought that she
was blissfully ignorant of it all as he paced
up and down in an aimless march. But the
bitterness of the wormwood he had hoped
to keep from her cup had been put to her
lips through his reticence in the rudest and
most thoughtless manner.
The season of gloom ushered in by Miri
am's advent gradually became dispelled,
and the sunlight of happy content shone
from Lady Percivai's sweet eyes and illu
mined the visage of Sir Rupert as the child
grew, beautiful, bright, and above all else,
affectionate.
It was then that hope sprang up in the
bosom of toe saother.
She would watch as the child grew;
watch and palliate any dislikes, smooth down
any differences which might spring up be
tween the two she loved.
She, with he great wealth of affection,
would avert, or at least mollify, any trouble
threatening an estrangement
To this hope Lady Percival clung as Miri
am developed into beautiful childhood.
Sir Rupert seemed very fond of his
bright little daughter, and spent many
hours with her after she was old enough to
prattle her childish witticisms to his
paternal ear. He seemed to have forgotten
the ancestral anathema, as he amused the
child by the hour, driving or strolling about
for her pleasure. Perhaps he was trying,
in ceaseless endeavor, to foil the evil in
fluence ho'ering over the name, and with a
father's love break its spell in this genera
tion. Thus the fond mother argued, not
dreaming that deep in the heart of her hus
band there lurked a terrible dread of the
day when the happy days should have an
ending, darker and more sorrowful than
death. He was certain the evil days would
fall, and ho was right.
The clouds of fate were already in the
t horizon of the fair heavens, although the
fair mother, trusting and ever hopeful, per
ceived not their baleful gathering.
And so it happened that the day arrived
when the black cloud of vengeful darkness
came between the sun and the dial, and all
their lives were henceforth shadowed by
the storm-cloud without a silver lining.
They were walkin gin the park, all three,
in the lovely weather and Miriam, running
on before her parents, w-s to all appear
ances the very emoodimeatof beauty and
affection. Her bright curls flying in the
soft sweet air, and her tiny red boots twink
ling over the close-cut sward as she sported
among the trees, delighted the eyes of the
mother. She looked up with a word of af
fectionate admiration on her lips, only to
see such a strange, yearning look on the face
of her husband that she forgot her remark
in the chill of apprehensive terror which
seized her. Such an expression of deep
emotion on the countenance of Sir Rupert
could never be forgotten. Ah! what could
it meant Wbv should she, of all others,
ask!
Her heart refused its usual beating, and
the trees seemed as if in a mist, while her
husband's face she saw as one sees faces in
a troubled dream.
Then she put her trembling hand on his
arm and looked the wretched question she
did not dare to put into words.
Sir Rupert started as if from a terrible
dream, and looked down into the face of
pale, frightened inquiry a moment, as if try
ing to read her thoughts. "She is older in
heart than in years," he replied, slowly,
with a dash of keenest pain in his voice, as
is troubled vision turned toward the child.
She is getting old enough to hateme, and
it will fall, how or when I know not, but of
une thing I am certain, and that is the com
ing estrangement. I have felt a strange
oresentiment present with me for weeks,
and"
He stopped short, as if alarmed at having
made this confession, and had not Lady Per
cival understood, through previous infor
mation, his words would have been a mean
ingless riddle. As it was, too well she
knew to what he referred.
Miriam at this moment came rushing
back to them, shouting in childish glee,
and Sir Rupert caught her in ais arms,
kissed her fondly and then strode off across
the park, leaving his wife and daughter to
return to the hall without him.
How the coming evil goaded him no one
ever knew, but the pain and haunting
dread, visible on his white, drawn face, in
dexed a struggle against decree.
Miriam looked after her father in a be
wildered manner, then turning to her moth
er asked, with a strange, impetuous air:
"What ails my father i"
Oh ! how the heart of Lady Percival went
down in the depths of agonized sorrow at
the question she dare not answer. She
sank helplessly on the sward and drew the
surprised child into her arms with a prayer
such as she never yet had uttered.
And a curious inquisitiveness had taken
possession of Miriam. Pointing after the
retreating figure of her father, who had
gone off to fight his battle with fate alone,
and of whom she caught glimpses through
the intervening oaks, she asked with more
than usual imperativeness : "What does ail
myfather? I say, is he angryi"
Then Lady Percival took the two little
impatient hands m her own, and said
brokenly: ''Miriam, dear, look up to me,"
and. the child obeying instantly, she con
tinued: "Father is not angry, my child; some
thing troubles him very much, and mother
is sorry for him sorry for us alL Is not
daughter feeling sorry for father, too J"
And then came the reply, quick and im
petuous, while the beautiful eyes flashed
with an uncertain light, and the pink, taper
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fingers withdrew from Lady Percivai's de
taining clasp.
"I am quite soliy for you, mother, but not
solly for my father not a bit,"
"Oh, whv not, my darling" the stricken
mother made moan, as she burst into tears.
''Cause I do not love him velly we'd,"
Miriam replied in a tone of apology. She
put her arms around her mother's neck,
and kissed her tear-wet cheek fondly
"But I love you velly much," she supple
mented, while her sweet childish voice
trembled with tearful emotion.
Lady Percival took her daughter's hand,
then, without further words, led her
back to the stately roof-tree which one day
refused even sheltering care. The agony of
soul Lady Percival endured in that hour
had broken her heart. She was conscious
of It as she leaned azarast the balustrade
for support belore going to her rooms.
"Mother so velly tired!' Miriam said, as
the twain entered the apartments, and
forthwith she bezan arranging the cush
ions of Lady Percivai's chair. It seemed
that the child wanted to do something to
alleviate the sorrow she felt had fallen,
somewhere and somehow, en the idolized
mother.
The nurse came for her charge, but for
the first time the child stoutly refused to
leave the room.
"Leave her to xne awhile, Hewitt,"
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arse lefttkem together alone, wondering
much what troubled Lady Percival as she
closed the door softly and went back to the
nursery.
Having arranged the cushions to her sat
isfaction, Miriam went over to the window
whose narrow panes gleamed in the after
noon sun, and stood gazing far away over the
environs of her palatial home, awed into
silence by something she could not under
stand.
How the mellow light fell through the tall
lissome elms, and glowed in its sifting rays
through panes, falling at last on the long
sunny curls, and forming a halo of glory
around "the eldest child a daughter,"
as she stood nuzzling her inexperien'ced
heart over the Jark title-page of her life.
Lady Percival watched her with a sense
of utter helpless misery. The child's sen
tence of an hour ago fell like a verdict of
lite sentence, dooming them all to woe:
" 'Cause I do not love him velly well."
The legend of Heatherleigh Had was be
ginning to unfold its menacing power, and
the tide of doom had begun to set toward
shores of estrangement, heartache and
tears!
LadyPercival gazed long on the heiress
of the proud and aristocratic manorial pos
sessions in dumb anguish. But her heart
was making moan against a dreary barren
shore, and the burden of its language was:
Oh! Miriam, my own lovely child, why
must it be ; why, oh ! why J"
And an unseen influence made answer:
'The eldest child, if it be a daughter."
Sir Rupert never referred to the scene in
the park, and, to all appearances, had for
gotten the unpleasant occurrence. But
there was a change in him that rendered
him at times uncompanionable and reticent.
The servants noticed the change and
speculated accordingly John, the coach
man, remarked to his tellows that ''the
dreary days were a-settlin' him. and that
hafter 'while hit would be war to the 'ilt be
tween the master and the young mistress."
But long to be rememoered was the day
of the first real disagreement between fa
ther and daughter.
Miriam had rushed into her mother's
apartments and had thrown herself into
Lady Percivai's arms, crying and trembling
in a very much excited manner. Upon
being interrogated in reference to her un
usual behavior she replied, amid sobs oi
painful excitement, while she clung to
Lady Percivai's gown : "I do not love him
one bit, now, and he doesn'tlove me, either;
and I do not care."
Ciarkson, who was passing her mistress'
rooms on duties intent, heard and saw
Miriam in her paroxysm of grief and anger.
'Oh, Oi've known it iver so long that it
wud coom to this dicliration ov war. Ocb
hone! an' that's the ginuine Parcival tim-
per," muttered she to herself And the
old housekeeper communicated the affair to
the cook with a doleful shake of the head
that set the broad white ruffles on the cap
she wore to trembling over her whitened
locks.
Subsequently Sir Rupert had come into
bis wife's apartment in search of his daugh
ter, yet, after all, dreading to meet her.
Finding her sobbing on her mother's knee,
he gave her such a strange look of deep,
angry sorrow as perhaps few see in a life
time, and said, in a voice as strance as his
look: "I have tried, God is my witness,
to love the child and break the power of
the decree which will estrange us, and I
find it is useless. I can not love my child !"
He covered bis face with his trembling
hands, as if entirely overcome by the
baleful intent of his own words, and leaned
against the doorway screen. "I cannot,"
he moaned, '"avert mightier decrees than
my own .
Miriam seemed to understand, in part,
her father's great grief, for she shuddered
visibly and ceased her violent weeping, hid
her face in Lady Percivai's gown and re
mained silent.
Seeing this demonstration of fear. Sir
Rupert went over and, bending down, with
white lips pressed the last kiss he ever be
stowed on his child on her sunny ringlets,
while the tears rolled down the face of
heart-broken Lady Percival.
Tto be cojrrijrrED.J
THE "ARABIAN NIGHTS."
The Probable Ongln of the Fuuobi Book
of Stories.
It seems clear that the body of the stories
in their present form are Moslem and Ara
bian. The language is pure Arabic not,
indeed, of the classic type, not that of the
koran, nor even of the great historians;
rather comparatively modem and popular,
but still genuine Arabic. It contains a num
ber of Persian words, but not more than it
would naturally appropriate from its Persian-speaking
neighbors, not more in num
ber than the French words which many an
English book of to-day contains. The style
also is Arabian, sharply contrasted for the
most part with the Persian; possibly some
what affected by Persian influence, yet far
from that deliberate and persistent system
of balanced short phrases which to the
Western mind becomes sometimes positive
ly irritating. The manners andcustoms of
the Nights may, many of them, be found in
the Arabic-speaking world of to-day. Lane's
notes to his translation are a treasure
of sociological information, and a large part I
of his illustrations are derived from his own
observation of life in Egypt. All domestic i
details, such as the construction of houses.
customs of eating, sleeping, education oi ;
children, marriages, social intercourse, I
methods of commerce, the forms of shops
and khans, habits of commercial travel, the I
organization of bazars, modes of attracting '
customers, the political organization, califs. J
sultans, kings, wazirs, judges, courts, off!
cers of police, prisoners, Taws of debtors J
and creditors, regulations of religion. !
mosques, imams, prayers, ablutions, koran '
recitations, funerais--all these are Moslem '
and Arabian". There is an accurate knowl-'
edge of the topography and life of Bagdad.
uamascus, ana uairo. nen the scene is
laid in Cairo, one may now trace the lort-
gates mentioned in the story. Even
when the history deals with remote lands, I
as China and India, the narrator transfers
thither his own Moslem costumes; for ex-,
ample, in the long and dramatic story of j
Kamaral-Zaman, which moves almost over
the face of the globe, one is not conscious j
of change of social and religious conditions,
and so everywhere, unless indeed there be "
specially introduced a city of the fire-wor- j
shipers, which the writer's historical sense j
forces him, of course, to represent as non-1
Moslem. The attitude cf the Nights toward
the Persian zoroastrianism or fire-worship,
is noteworthy. The Magiaas are reprej
sented as fiends in human shape, mostly '
clever adventurers, adepts in diabolical arts
nd inspire d by afiendish hatred of Moslems '
a representation that we should refer
more naturally to Arabian Moslems than to
converted Persians; it points to the period
when the "conflict between Islam and Zoro
astrianism was still raging and religious
differences were magnified and distorted by
political hate. Atlantic Monthly.
The Cellular Clothing Company, limited,
ires just been established in London. It
proposes to make underclothes of the new
ceiiuioid cloth in sue, wool, cotton and
BO.
FACTS ABOUT VERTIGO.
la Persons of Fall Habit It sy
an Attack of ApoplcBy,
act disturbance oi the tjroa circu
lation in the internal ear. :lally in
that portion known as the semicircular
canals, will give rise to & feeling of
dizziness or vertigo. This symptom is
by no means uncommon, and is no often
felt by persons who are otherwise in
perfect health that little attention is
irenerally paid to it. It i3 true that in
many cases one may be perfectly safe
in not heeding' it, yet recurring or pro
longed attacks of dizziness should
never pass unnoticed.
In what is known as Meniere's Dis
ease, which is associated with a chronic
affection of the internal ear. the patient
suffers paroxysms of iu tense dizziness,
accompanied with loud ringing in the
ears, the attacks becoming more and
more severe and prolonged a the dis
ease progresses.
In the great majority of cases, how
ever, the explanation of the vertigo is
to be found in some local departure
from the normal condition, the real
source of the trouble being; perhaps,
at some distance from the parts affected.
In the ear itself we may have a
foreign body pressing on the drum
membrane, or an increased pressure in
the drum cavity, such as happens when
the passage to the ears is stopped and
an excess of fluid accumulates. The
same condition may arise also from an
error of vision, in which case it can be
explained only by the intimate nervous
connection between the two organs, an
over-straining at one portion of the
nerve-circuit show-fag- its effects at the
other.
Most interesting of all. however, is
the connection between this symptom
and certain disturbances of the stom
ach. Vertigo and nausea often go to
gether, as in the case of persons who
swing violently, or in those who are
sea-sick. By means of the intimate
nervous connection, any irritation or
disturbance of the functions of the
stomach will react on the blood supply
of the ears, and vertigo may thus be an
indication of indigestion or an over
loaded stomach.
The heart is still another organ con
nected with this same nervous chain,
and this fact explains how it is that
palpitaion is sometimes met with un
der similar circumstances. This fact
may serve as an additional warning
against the use of alcohol and certain
drugs which cause dizziness when
taken into the stomach.
In persons of full habit, with large
excess of blood, vertigo may precede
an attack of apoplexy. In any case,
the wise course is to avoid all effort
and remain in a reclining position
while the attack lasts. Youth's Com
panion. GRADED MOURNING.
Tho Klad or Grief That Inspires Very
LltUo srsoaatbr.
Two columns of a fashion letter are
devoted to "fashionable mourning," to
the minutiae of texture, cut and finish
imperatively demanded of those who
mourn by milliner's chart. If this
sort of mourning were rare, such let
ters of description and advice would
never be written as a business or paid
for by newspapers. To go into mourn
ing, to wear black clothes when some
one dies that we love, is as natunH as
the tears we would hide behind thick
veils, but the grief that expends itself
in the niceties of mourning, in style
and etiquette, is grief that is com
forted by the advertisement that it
makes for itself. Grief that is con
cerned with the depth of a hem, width
of a handkerchief border and the length
of time it must be adopted, is of that
quality which win3 the envy of other
mourners and little sympathy from
amused observers.
Dress-makers, when interviewed,
claim that mourners are their most
fastidious customers, as the sombre
ness and unbecomingness of dead
black must be overcome by artistic
arrangements and ingenious adorn
ment. The length of time that deep,
half and light mourning shall be worn
is nicely graded by conventional rule.
The husband heading the list, and the
time exquisitely adjusted down to the
mother-in-law and the mother-in-law's
relatives: when mourning by the cal
ender is fully understood, how to do it,
and in what, is explained by card eti
quette and fashion plates. At certain
stages of sorrow we may admit certain
friends alone, with cut-jet and patent
leather slips. Later on mere acquaint
ances may visit us, in the stage of
"pale lavenders" and soft dove
shades." While all mourners receive ,
due attention, the widow is the pivotal j
strength of the mourning business.
The sanctity of her grief meets the
most obsequious deference from silk t
worm to the shopkeeper. She is even '
told the width of her cap border, and ,
whether it is black, edged with white, I
or pure white this season." i
In this progressive age, marked par- '
ticularly by the emancipation of wo- "
men into larger lives and higher am-
bitions. it is singular that "fashionable
mourning," with its pretense and affec
tations of grief, mourning as a pastime. '
a diversion and fashion can be toler- '
ated. That deadly fear of convention, '
in which women have so long been I
iraiaeu, is me prooaoie reason; a fear
which puts thousands of women into
mourning who feel no grief or in
wardly rebel at the parade and show
ing over a breaking heart. Washing
ton Post.
There are five girls in one of the
Humphries families of Fleming County,
Ky., and their names are Arkansas.
Louisiana, Tenaeueo, Florida aad Virginia,
ND FIRESlJL
Burdocks and thistles are
harvested before they-bloom.
There must be a good deal of study
on the farm these days to make a suc
cess of the business.
The summer is the time to put the
barn in condition for winter. Painting'
should be done now. and the roof
should be made tight and close.
If you are on a farm and are sure
you can never like nor succeed in your
work, the sooner you get out of it the
better off you will be; but if the
trouble comes from not putting your
head as well as your hands to the
work, try that awhile before you give
up that you can not succeed at farm
ing. Spiced Peaches: When there are
more peaches on hand than can be
used to advantage while still fresh,
peal and slice them, or simply brush,
them, removing the stones. Put them
over the tire in the preserving kettle)
with enough water to cover them, al
lowing a tablespoonful of vinegar to
each pint; spice them highly with any
mixed ground spice preferred, and .
stew them gently to a pulp. When.
cold, put in air tight jars like other
preserves.
There is undoubtedly a need ia
poultry culture for education and skilL
Many failures are the direct result of
the lack of knowledge. The trouble
generally is that the beginner haa
given no particular study to the cul
ture of poultry, and often times does
not even take a farm paper that has
instructive correspondence upon the
subject, by which they could Ieara
about the subject they are attempting
to handle.
Cream Nectar: One ounce of tar
taric acid, one pound of white sugar,
juice of one lemon, three pints of
water. Boil five minutes; when nearly
cold, add white of one egg. well beaten,
with one heaping tablespoon of flour
and two teaspoons of wintergreea
essence. Bottle and keep in a cool
place. Take one tablespoon of this
sirup, and half a tumbler of water,
fresh from the well; add quarter of
teaspoonful of soda, stir quickly, and
drink as soon as it commences to foam.
This is a delightful drink for fcofc
weather. Western Plowman.
A member of the Maine pomolog
ical society said at a public meeting:
that he could tell what kind of a farmer
a man is "by his fruits," if about
apple-marketing time. If his apples
were large, smooth, handsome, free
from worms and bruises, he is put
down as a good farmer. But if. oa
the contrary, his apples are small,
pale in color, with scabby surface, poor
in quality and covered with dents and
bruises from careless handling, he is
at once classed with poor farmers.
The first-mentioned man has found
orcharding to pay; the other will in
form you that there is no money in the
business.
PLOWS AND PLOWING.
CobhmbU That Should Keealvo Taoaft-ht-fal
Consideration.
Plowing is something more thaa
stirring or heaving the soiL If proper
ly done it turns completely under the
surface with the weeds, stubble, grass,
stalks and other trash that may be upoa
it, and brings to the surface the under
soil to be acted upon by the different
elements that will aid materially to
make available a portion, at least, of
the plant food it may contain.
There is certainly a great variety of
plows adapted to a large variety of soil
and kinds of work. But there is con
siderable in the handling of the plow
as well as in the way it is constructed.
And what would under ordinary cir
cumstances be considered a second or
third rate plow, can, in the hands of s
thorough plowman, with a good team,
be made to do really better work, thaa
a much better plow in the hands of s
man who is incapable of properly man
aging it. Some plows if properly ad
justed will turn the soil completely
over, others seem to set it on edge,
while others put the soil in almost any
position between these two. Of course
some plows do better work in one
kind of soil, and some in other kinds.
It is quite an item in doing good
work to secure a plow that is adapted
to the kind of soil and work that is
wanted to be done, adjust properbr and
handle right. A plow if madeJright
ought to do the best work when it is
running level; if it won't, or is made
to run on the point or heel, it will not
do the work that it is adapted for as
well as if it could be run leveL It is
thorefore not always the fault of the
plow that good work is not done, al
though a poor plowman is very willing
to lay the fault to the plow let the
quality be what it may.
One of the objections to a number of
sulky plows is that instead of carrying;
the plow, as a properly constructed
sulky should do, the plow is made to
carry the sulky, and instead of a Ucht
running plow the draft is increased to
the amount of the weight of the sulky
and driver. A good judge of a plow
can tell by its construction whether or
not it will, do good work in the soil ho '
wants to plow. Yet it is not always
good evidence that because a plow
does not do good work in one kind of
soil that it will not be best in another.
It ,is certainly not good economy to
purchase a poor plow to save a small
amount in the purchase price.
Whether it is a walking, breaking
plow, a riding sulky or gang, make
quality of the plow and of the work it
will do, as well as the draft, the first
considerations, and then secure it at
as low a price as possible, but do not
overlook these points simply to save ia
the cost.
Better acknowledge your ignorance
and get a good man to select a plow for
you than to risk your own judgment
aad fet a plow that will sot answer
FARM AND
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