■ bow (ring),will never have oc- | casion to use this time-honored u cry. It is the only bow that 1 | cannot be twisted off the case, |j I and is found only on Jas. I Boss Filled and other v/atch fi I cases stamped with B this trade mark. 8 Ask your jeweler for a namphlet.or || | send to the manul^-turcrs. > I Keystone Watch Case Co., 3 S PHILADELPHIA. 3 SURROUNDED BY MYSTERY! A Great Mistake. A recent discovery is that headache, dizziness, dullness, confusion of the mind, etc., are due to derangement of the nerve centers 'which supply the brain with nerve force; that indigestion, dyspepsia, neuralgia, wind in stomach, etc., arise from the derange ment of the nerve centers supplying these or gans with nerve fluid or force. This is likewise true of many diseases of the heart and lungs. The nerve system is like a telegraph system, as will be seen by the accompanying cut. The little wnite lines are the nerves which convey the nerve force from the nerve centers to every part of the body, just as the electric current Is conveyed along the telegraph wires to every station, large or small. Ordinary , physicians fail to / regard this fact; i Instead of treat ing the nerve cen ters for thecause of the disorders arising therefrom they treat the part affected. Franklin Miles, M. D., LL. B., the highly celebrated specialist and ». siuueni or nervous diseases, and autnor of many noted treatises on the latter subject, long since realized the truth of the first statement, and his Restorative Nervine is prepared on that principle. Its success in curing all diseases arising from derange ment of the nervous system is wonder ful, as the thousands of unsolicited testimo nials in possession of the company manufac turing the remedy amply prove. Dr. Miles' Restorative Nervine is a reliable remedy for all nervous diseases, such as headache, nervous debility, prostration, sleeplessness, dizziness hysteria, sexual de bility, St. Vitus dance, epilepsy, etc. It is sold by all druggists on a positive guarantee, or sent direct by the Dr. Miles Medical Co., Elkhart, Ind„ on receipt of price, $1 per bot tle, six bottles for So, express prepaid. Restorative Nervine positively contains no opiates or dangerous drugs. TALES FROM TOWN TOPICS. Or] year of the most successful Quarterly U ever published. j More than 3,000 LEADING NEWS, i PAPERS in North America have complimented this publication during its first year, and uni- | versally concede that its numbers afford the ! brightest and most entert-iining reading that can be had. Published ist day of September, December. March and Iune. Ask Newsdealer for it, or send the price, 50 cents, ic stamps or postal note to TOWN TOPICS, 21 West 23J St., New York. This brilliant Quarterly is not made up frc.n the current year s issuesof Town Tones, but contains the best stories, sketches, bur lesques, poems, witticisms, etc., from the cock numbers of that unique journal, admittedly toe crispest, raciest, most complete, and to ad dS31 \ AND IVOMfifi the most interest* mg weekly ever issued. Subscription Price: T:ts Topics, per year, - - S1.C3 Tiles Frcs Toto Topics, per year, £.00 The tiro cluhsei, ... 5.53 l oo" Toi''cs 5601 3 months on trial fui X. B- Previous Nos. of “ T-.lss” will hi; promptly forwarded, postpaid, on receipt oi 50 cents each. WONDERFUL! The cures which are being effected i by Drs. Starkey & Palen, 152'.*^Arch : St., Philadelphia, Pa., in Consumption, Catarrh, Neuralgia, Bronchitis, Rheu matism, and all chronic diseases by their compound Oxygen Treatment is indeed marvelous. If you area sufferer from any disease which your physician has failed to cure, write for information about thu treat-! ment, and their book of two hundred pages, giving a history of Compound : Oxygen, its nature and effects with nu merous testimonials from patients, to whom you may refer for still further information, will be promptly sent, i without charge. This book aside from its great merit; as a medical work, giving as it does, j the result of years of study and experi ence, you will find a very interesting one. , Drs. STARKEY & PALEN, 5129 Arch St., Philadelphia. Pa. 120 Sutter St., San Francisco, Cal. Please mention this paper. Bucklen’t Arnica Salta. The best salve in the world for cats, lores, ulcers, salt rheum, tetter, chap ped hands, chilblains, corns and all skin eruptions, and positively cures piles or no pay required. It is guaranteed to give perfeot satisfaction or money re funded. Price 25 cents a box. For sale by A. McMillen. J 23-lyr. * _GEMS IN VERSE. Discontent. The landsman through a stormy street And shades of night was going; The ground was paved with shifting sleet. The wintry wind was blowing. “Heaven pity grant, and help,” said he, “To those who live upon .he sea!” The sailor clinched a trembling mast ’Mid mountains round him flowing. While ihroughthe darkness, thick and fast. The wintry winds were blowing. “Heaven save the landsman now,” he said, “With chimneys toppling round his head!” But when the world grew mild once more This tar, despondent growing, Said, “If I could but walk the shore. Though all the winds were blowing!” The landsman t bought, “Though storms there be, I would that I could sail the sea!” —Will Carleton. Uncle Ted and Doston. Ol* Boston sits there by the sea an hez a thou sand arms That reaches nut through all the lan*, through all the liif s an farms; Strong arms they be thet never rest, but pull by night au day An feel new strength w’en they hev drawn our boys an gals away. An fingers on those mighty arms through every valley dart. An us ol’ fellers feel ’em alius pullin at our heart. For w’en the arms of Boston once are drawn aroun’ a lad They pull him from his mother’s arms an pull him from his dad. For there is sights in Boston, so they tol’ me, that are gran’. For there is centered all the brains an money of the lan*. Houses that start down undergroun’ an reach up to tho sky. An men almost too rich an gran’ an good an wise to die. An men there jest know everything an lug it in their heads. For in Boston wisdom’s ketcliin, an like the mumps it spreads. So my boys went down to Boston—I couldn’t keep ’em here— An I went down to visit ’em an see the sights last year. But everybody laughed at me an called me an ol’ duff Because I didn’t talk like them an wear their kin’ er stuff. For them wise men In Boston they ain’t wise enough to know A biled shirt doesn’t make a man who has no heart below. She may hev poet fellers whose songs fill earth an skies. An flosserfers an things like that—but I can flosserfize. My flosserfy is this: A man may live an awful while An keep his clo’es in fashion an his soul be outer style. An I’m jest ez good ez Boston—let her throw her arms aroun’— There’s one ol’ chap clings to the hills, an she can’t puli him down. An I will wear my ol’ plain duds no sun or rain can spile. Nor worry ’bout the fashion plate—but keep my soul in style. _ —S. W. Foss. To tlie World’s Unknown. Our land abounds with monuments of art. Memorial halls, fine statues, bronze and stone; To heroes, sages, let the world impart Her praise; I sing one song to the unknown. The unknown heroes who have lived and died. In silence suffering, scorning all complaint. The buried hopes, their ideals and their pride. And burdens bore when weary, worn and faint. The recluse soul to all the world unknown. Save to one faithful heart powerless to save, Whose cloistered cell the world misnamed a home. The path of life around an open grave. I sing to poets whose pale lips are dumb. Whose ears are heavy with the din of toil. Who to their full estate could never come Slaves to hard circumstances and life’s tur moil. I sing to artists whose souls caught the beam Of light refulgent from the perfect day. Whose hearts’ recesses with rare pictures gleam. That hands grown hard with toil fail to por tray. m » I sing to all the good, the wise, the true. Who walk with bleeding feet life's dreary years; I sing because I catch a heavenly view Of their grand souls in more congenial spheres. —Eliza Lamb Martyn. What Dewdrops Are. One autumn evening when the stars were bright I paused to contemplate their host untold. All glittering with refulgence of pure gold. Like gilt eyed daisies in a field of night! And as I watched them with a deep delight I saw one quiver and then lose its hold And drop to nowhere. Soon another rolled Adown the sky and filtered out of sight. So, one by one, full many slipped from view; And wondering where they fell, my couch 1 sought. When I awoke, the Dawn, behind its bars. Was flushing pink, while sparkling drops of dew Lay on the grass, and then there came this thought— That dewdrops are the ghosts of falling stars: —A. L. Donaldson. Friendship. Friendship is not like love. It cannot say: “Now is fruition given me, and now The crown of me is set on mine own brow. This is the minute, the hour and the day.” It cannot find a moment which it may Call that for which it lived. There is no vow. Nor pledge thereof, nor first fruits of its bough. Nor harvest, and no myrtle crown nor bay. Love lives for what it may win or has won, But friendship has no guerdon save to be. Itself is its own goal, and in the past Or future can no dearer dreams be done Or hoped for, save its own dear self to see The same, and evermore unchanged to the last. —Edward Lucas White. The Higher Law. From like, like springs; not corn from weeds. But corn from corn: from weeds, weeds spring; And so the law of human deeds— From like, like springs. Exact the eternal balance swings Above all laws of changing creeds In morals or of changing things— From like, like springs. Good unto good, evil to evil leads, Each soul itself the goojl or evil brings. Naught else can harm the soul that hapiy reads— From like, like springs. —Bennett Bellman. Humble Philosophy. Two laborers talked on their homeward way Of the evils that poverty bore. One cried as some haughty millionaire Drove by with his coaeh and four, “See, the dust from the rich man’s carriage wheels Falls on the tolling poor!*’ But his mate replied with a cheery laugh As they trudged on that dusty road, “ *Twould be just the same tf our carts went by. And you’d get morp dust from the load.” And they passed—nor dreamed of the helpful words On a listening heart bestowed. —Edith Perry Estes. TWILIGHT. Sing, sweet; it is the twilight hourj Thy voice brings rest and peace. And unto thee is given the power To bid all discord cease. Let day fade with its load of sorrow*; Now is enough for me; I oare not for the coming morrows. For they may banish thee. Oh, that this eve could last forever. Ambition’s sun be set. For with thee near my heart would never The busy world regret. Only count us as Love’s immortals; Let each be one in soul; Bid Night halt at the western portals And Death collect no toll. Then twilight would be fraught with splendor. Bathed in Faith’s golden stream. And each to each all love would render— Sing, sweet, and let me dream. —Flavel S. Mines in Harper’s Weekly. THE STUFFED CAT. I was all alone ■ one evening in my study. Do you not know this stud}-? That is natural because I never have introduced you to it. Perhaps you would not like it. I like it very much—first of all be cause it is mine, and then because I have arranged it according to my tastes. There ism little of everything in it—a colossal writing desk with an infinity of drawers and pigeonholes, a bookcase, some shelves for books, two tables, one large and one small; a divan, an arm chair, on the floor rugs and cushions thrown down-everywhere, pictures on the walls, a gas lamp in the center. In one corner on top of a column of black wood is a stuffed cat—a magnificent tiger striped cat with sparkling green eyes that seems ready to spring down from its pillar, tired probably of acting Simeon Stylites. In this den or study, as you please to call it, I pass beautiful hours, day or evening, writing, reading, meditating, smoking and doing nothing. It is here that I retire in hours of the blues, in those hours of unconscious, in stinctive ill humor which one cannot ex plain or justify and which exactly on that account one translates into an ex traordinary nervous irritation. This den is the despair of my wife and the rest of the household because they are positively forbidden to touch, to even move a book or a paper under that pretext of putting into order which re solves itself into real disorder. I will wager that if my wife, my sister-in-law, my nieces, could arrange my den accord ing to their tastes, turning it upside down, they would be happy. But they do not venture for fear of me. Only when I speak of my study all those feminino lips curl with smiles, disdain ful, ironical or compassionate. It is especially the stuffed cat that jars upon their nerves. My wife absolutely wished to throw him away, give him away, destroy him. I was obliged to de clare to her that such an outrage would immediately provoke on my part a de mand for legal separation pending the approval of divorce by vote of the Italian chamber of deputies. Now that I have presented, so to say, the surroundings, I will go on to relate the fact, the terrible, frightful fact that has taken place in my delicious den and to which I am indebted for the gray hairs that embellish my 3G-year-old locks. One evening in the autumn all my family was in the country. I only had staid in town to attend to some urgent work. I was all alone in the house. A wom an came every morning to clean, to sweep and air the rooms and went away after noon. I dined at a restaurant. Now, for some days I thought that I noticed in my study something strange, odd, unaccustomed. It had the same effect upon me as if something were not in its place. I would h%ve taken my oath that certain books had been moved, certain papers had been rummaged. I questioned the domestic, who sworo and perjured herself to the effect that, faithful to her trust, she had touched nothing, but had limited herself to sweeping the floor and dusting the furni ture. And no one else ever entered the room. One morning it seemed to me that the stuffed cat, my good cat with the green eyes that I called Tic when he was alive, had been touched. Certainly his attitude was not the same or I was dreaming. Yes, yes, his head was turned another way, and the expression of his face, that of an honest feline, was different from that which I was accustomed to have before my eyes. How in the world had such a strange phenomenon happened? But this was nothing. For two or three evenings, shut up in my study, writing—alone in the large apartment— I thought I heard singular noises here and there. I arose from the desk, went out of the study and all through the house, carefully examining every room, stopping now in this one, now in that, to listen. Nothing. The rooms were de serted; the silence was complete, pro found. Then I rettfmed to my study and set to work again. But the noises persisted and became more decided and frequent. I would have sworn that some mys terious and invisible being was scratch ing in the walls or forcing some lock. One evening indeed it seemed to me that the noise was just behind me, and I turned mechanically. Well, I would have taken my oath that I saw the cat Tic move almost im perceptibly, and his eyes gleam brighter, and his hack arch, and his bold, majestic tail stretch itself in an act of defiance. But surely it was an hallucination, be cause the cat was still in his place, im passible, and gave no sign of moving from his column. 411 these small things, insignificant and extraordinary at the same time, had im pressed and disturbed me. By instinct, by nature, I don’t fancy what I cannot explain. I am a foe to the supernatural, the marvelous, the mysterious. I like to see clearly within and around myself. I, you see, am of a well balanced and ljund temperament. Nervousness, mor bidness and each nonsense annoy me and are repugnant to me. And as I think I know myself pretty well, I was surprised and bored by a state of mind so contrary to my habits and nature. Evidently my physio-psy chological system was in a moment of crisis. How could 1 get out of it—be cured? Must 1, too, take the first train and 'go Into the country? Perhaps that would be the best way. But unfortunately I could not. I had an important engage ment to supply some work, and I could not run away and leave it for whims of a dreamer fit for a hysterical woman. “Per bacco!” I told myself, “Pay no attention to the thing! Let us be a man, what, the deuce!” And 1 returned home that evening as usual, after having dined and visited the cafe. I had planned to work hard that even ing, in order to make haste to finish. Having entered the house I made aa usual an inspection of the apartment and found everything as before. Not even a chair out of place. Then I went into my study and lighted the gas, to be gin work. But as soon as 1 seated myself at the desk and cast a glance upon the manu script where I had left off writing, a marvelous, amazing surprise awaited me. You must know that I was writing a novel—oh, what a novel! Something fine, exceptionally fine! A romance like that surely no one ever wrote. The real and the fanciful, the romantic, the classic, the naturalistic, were skillfully mingled in it. Now that day when I went out I had interrupted the story at a very interest ing point, and the period ended thus: “He burst into a sonorous laugh of scorn; he was very sure that the time of phantoms and specters was long past! That apparition then gave him no fear. It must be a trick.” j. nau ieit 11 mere. Taking np the pen in order to con tinue, with my good cigar lighted in my mouth, I cast my eyes on the paper, and what did I see? Just heavens! What indeed! Directly below the last line written by me had been written one word only: Fool! There it ,was, ironical and men acing, in Gothic letters, which showed the handwriting of a former age. Who had traced this scornful and mocking word? You can imagine wheth er I remained amazed. I will say even more—I felt an impression of terror. My servant did not know how to read or write. No one had come into the house during the day. Then by whom had the words been written? I grew livid and felt myself shudder. I sprang to my feet. I felt the hair stand on end upon my head and a cold perspiration trickle down my forehead! Tic, the accursed stuffed cat, looked fixedly at me, and his green eyes seemed to dilate and become variegated with a thousand colors. But was that cat really stuffed? Or was he not rather alive by virtue of some witchcraft? All at once I roused myself. I had a feeling of shame and rage; and furious, striking with a heavy fist on the writing desk, I exclaimed: “But who is the demon who has writ ten this word? I would like to know him to twist his neck?” If I were to live a thousand years, I shall never forget what happened then. I had hardly finished speaking those words when the study resounded with mocking laughter—dry, strident, infer nal. Then the wall opened suddenly, and there came forth a woman wrapped in a great black mantle. And Tic, the ac cursed cat, made a leap from his pillar, and mewing as he had never mewed in his lifetime went to rub himself against that’ mysterious being. I drew back more dead than alive. Still, I had enough presence of mind to stretch a hand behind me, open a drawer of the desk and take out a loaded re volver. As soon as I had seized the weapon I felt safer. I raised my arm and pointed the re volver at that being, with the exclama tion: “Now, we will see who you are!” Alas! Once, twice, thrice I touched the trigger, but the revolver was no longer obedient. The mysterious figure made two steps toward me. The black mantle that en folded her fell to the floor. What a fearful sight! It was not a man nor a woman. It was a skeleton—a skeleton with two lights flaming in its empty, cavernous eye sockets—a skeleton that laughed satanically, while the cat Tic made fantastic and wild leaps. It was—it was Death! ****** In the morning they found me insensi ble in my den. The servant ran to call a physician, who found me in a high fever. My family hastened from the country. I was taken care of, treated and cured. But the fact remains, my hair had turned gray. When I was able to return to my den, the cat Tic was no longer there. My wife had made a coup d’etat and sent it to he thrown into the river. The column had also disappeared. It had been given away, I do not know to whom. My manuscript was, however, still in its place. Only the word “Fool!” was no longer there. Then it had not been written? Still I was very sure of having read it. Who knows? If the cat Tic had still been there, perhaps he could have told me. But poor Tic was there no more. Then, what am I to think? What shall I believe?—Translated From the Italian For Short Stories. Cnrioas Offer of Marriage. A piece of evidence some time back in a Quebec breach of promise case was a cuff with an offer of marriage written on it. One night, while the defendant was holding the plaintiff’s hand and whispering fervid words, he popped the question on the smooth linen at her wrist. She was sentimental or shrewd enough to keep that article out of “the wash." Championed by a Gamin. A ragged, barefooted boy, a crossing sweeper, had doffed his cap to the Duch ess of Sutherland in the hope of recog nition, when he observed a well dressed but rakish looking man following her across the street, as if trying to force upon her attentions that were evidently obnoxious to her. There was a look of distress on the duchess’ face. “Scuse me, lady,” said a boy’s voice beside her, “shall I punch ’is ’ead?” She turned, looked down angrily upon the little sweeper, and then said, smiling: “Why, it’s Jemmie!” She had remembered his name after all, and at that moment the boy was hers, body and soul. Without waiting for another word he dashed off and turned a sort of violent “cartwheel” so adroitly calculated that he landed with two very muddy feet in the middle of the offensive man’s waistcoat. Then, before the man could recover from the shock, the boy bad slapped him with one muddy hand across the mouth and with the other had deposited a hand ful of the filthy compound on the back of his neck. The next moment the boy was in the grasp of a policeman, who dragged him away to the nearest police station. He was just being charged by the constable with having committed an assault when the duchess entered. She spoke kindly to the gamin and then explained the af fair to the iflspector on duty. At her request the boy was set at liberty, and he staid only long enough to say to the inspector: “It’s the lady what nursed me when the cab run over me leg.”—London Cor. New York Tribune. Hints About Driving. When driving, you must watch the road. Turn out for stones, so that tixe horse shall not stumble nor the wheels jolt over them; avoid the mudholes and places where the going is bad; let the horse slacken speed when the road becomes heavy, and if you want to make up time do it where the ground slightly descends. It is a common mistake to think that a horse can haul a carriage easily on the level. On such a road he has to bo pull ing every moment; there is no rest. Whereas when the road now rises and now falls the weight is taken off him at times, and he has a chance to recover his wind and to rest his muscles. As between a level road in a valley and an up and down road over the hills, the lat ter is by far the easier for a horse to travel. When you come to a long level stretch, let your horse walk a bit in the middle of it. Almost everybody knows that for the first few miles'after coming out of the stable a horse should be driven slowly, and especially if he has just been fed. On a journey it is of the utmost impor tance to observe this rule. Be careful, however, not to check a young nag too quickly when he comes fresh out of the stable. Give him his head, talk to him soothingly, and presently he will come down to a moderate pace. If you pull him up at once, you vex him extremely, so much so that he is not unlikely to kick.—Harper’s Young People. When Booth Saved Young Lincoln’s Life. It was at Bowling Green, Ky., during the summer of 1877. Edwin Booth stood upon a platform waiting for a train; so, too, did a man unknown to the actor. Buried in thought, this stranger left the platform to walk upon the track, not noticing an approaching engine. One moment more and there would have been an indistinguishable corpse. Silently, suddenly, Edwin Booth seized thi3 stranger and lifted him almost bodily upon the platform. So close came the engine that it struck the stranger’s heels as they left the track. “Do you know who that man is?” asked Mr. Ford, the well known manager of Baltimore, who witnessed the thrilling scene. “No,” replied Booth. “Robert Lincoln, President Lincoln’s son.” This was the most satisfactory inci dent in Edwin Booth’s life. Sensitive as a woman, ho suffered untold tortures for the mad deed of his brother. He had voted for Abraham Lincoln as president and never voted before or after.—Kate Field’s Washington. _ .LTAaieriausm against it. Some things of course in the French display—especially of pottery and bronzes—are purely decorative, and some of the visitors of course are destitute of taste. The consequence is that occasion ally a person will come along who will gaze at objects of transcendent artistic merit with no feeling but one of mystery and curiosity. So it happened the other day, when a simple minded woman stopped for awhile in front of one of a pair of vases 5 feet high, the price of which is $5,000. She gazed at it attentively for a few moments and then said dryly to M. Me laile, who stood by, “Pray, what is that for?” The Frenchman took her measure at a glance and replied with elaborate polite ness, “That is intended to boil eggs in, madam.”—Chicago Tribune. Making the Ztlost of His Cliaxiocs. The family tutor was invited to a [ grand dinner party by his employers and surveyed with intense satisfaction ; the half dozen wineglasses arranged in ! front of his plate. The footman came round with the wine. The young man presented the smallest of the glasses. “It is vin ordinaire,” observed the waiter. “Ah, precisely,” replied our ascetic philosopher. “I am reserving the larger glasses for the finer sorts.”—Chronique Bourgeoise. A Modern Nimrod. Jimson—Where are you going? Billson—Only off for a day’s shooting. Jimson—Great snakes! With that car load of freight? Billson—Those boxes contain books, the latest and most complete compen diums of the game laws of the state. I don’t want to shoot anything out of sea son.—New York Weekly. AN AIR CYCLE NEXT. THAT IS WHAT’S WANTED BEFORE THE FLYING MACHINE. The lllcyde No Longer SulUIU'i the Long ing of Mankind l or i'rvv Movement. IVe Want to Travel un the lllrda I>o, but Must Learn Lnveutlul LevvoiiM I-'Intt. The Frenchman who covered tho dead walls of Paris with calls for subscriptions to a Society of Aviation, to start with a capital of 500,(XX) francs, may have been lacking in tho highest qualities of public spirit. Ho was placed in jail for taking money for his little private flying ma chines, costing from $500 to $3,000, which he failed to deliver. But liis merit lies in discovering the want that fills the breasts of a large number of men today. It is only the somewhat headlong method of gratifying that yearning which has interfered for a time with his loco motion. Had he but had the forethought to invent, to beg or to borrow a fairly efficient flying machine, nothing short of a cage would now prevent him from tak ing a leave as French as himself. Though ho should languish for tho rest of his days in prison, M. Delprat will have the glory of the discovery that tho bicycle no longer satisfies the longing of mankind toward a freer movement over the face of land and water. If we aro to believo tho evolutionists, man is tho result of gradual aspiration, from the worm that walloweth on a portion of its anatomy unsuited to ears polite, through the many footed, the four footed and four handed beasts, up to tho natural lord of creation who runs perpendicular on two feet. Tho present century has seen man become wliat the old legends would have termed the “whirling one foot.” Why should not this progress continue and the next century find man rising from that single pied a terro into more or less sustained aviation? j-ne nymg macrnne still Holding to earth by one wheel has already appeared sporadically in England, according to Engineering. Mr. Philipps published the results of liis trial of a machine rest ing on a light car and claims that ho flew, but the front wheel of tho car nev er left the ground. This is quite as it should be. We creep before we walk, we graduate from tricyclo to bicycle, and now we are at the unicyclo age. Who is the man to lift us finally clear of the earth? The principle of the balloon, useful as it is in overcoming gravity, has carried generations of inventors into a fool’s paradise. Birds are lighter than beasts, but they are not soap bubbles. And to tho bird we have to return indirectly or directly for lessons in the navigation of the air. The aeroplane, in which our able aviat ors are now reposing so much confi dence, but upon winch they take care not to repose their own brittlo bodies, is the result of a study of the soaring of birds. Latterly it lias been reasoned out that individual featliers have a powerful influence in supporting the bird in air. So the aeroplanes are made not solid, but with slats, and in some cases jointed in sections, so that while one portion is in one piano another may be tilted up or down to get tho lifting power of a change of angle. This power is so great that our leading aviators, like Hiram Maxim and Professor Lang ley, expect to obtain great velocities if they can once get their airships under way and under control. The money spent by these inventors and investigators is mounting to a great sum, but who shall say it is wasted, con sidering the benefits to accrue? The re mark attributed to GiSard when dying, that ho would not reveal the secret of his airship because “he thought ho saw the air ensanguined by war as the seas have been, and the earth,” need not disturb us. If he did say that, he was tempora rily in a state of weakness, for the fly ing machine will do more than anything yet invented to break down the preju dices of one nation for another. Wars are the result of such prejudices care fully inflamed by ambitious men, and while the aviation is not going to stop all wars it will surely reduce them to a minimum. More important than such machines as Lieutenants Renard and Krebs success fully- steered from Meudon to the walls of Paris and back again are the small flying machines developed from the bi cycle, which seem now about to make their appearance. The bicycle with elec tric motor is invented. Now comes the turn of a combination of bicycle and aviator which shall permit the rider to leave earth and skim along for 100 yards or so without detriment to himself or his machine. By way of these inven tions will come the discovery, step by step, of means and methods of sustain ing flight for longer periods and also the actual training in motion through the air which is now wanting to man kind. auu mvcuiuia vuw