The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on May 4, 1892 · Page 5
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 5

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TJFPM DEIS MOINES, . - - . IOWA, WEDKESDAY^ MAY 4. 1892. . ............. T - - ......... . ' . ** '! PKlDE'SOONFLfOT. ; A &TORY OF CASTE. CHAPTER Vil. «Wliat do 1 think'of Florence? Is she not pretty? But is it pride or- sorrow that slie is filled with?" were questions that •were poured eagerly into Philip Carrington's ear on the d:iy after his arrival. . «\Vlmt do I think of .hor, JCthel? Why, His eurly for me to think anything; ami surely it cannot be my province to speculate about our high-born lady-cousin." «01i, but it is!" Mu'tid declared, her brother's opinion always being the cue for her own; and on this occasion she hoped so earnestly that 1'hilip's would be what she desired. .. »\V'ell, if I must tell you something, Maud, I will tell you that I think the yonng lady very charming, though a little cold perhaps, very proud and self-contained! of her -bounty there cannot be two opinions." "Do you think that it is pride that is her besetting fault, Phil?" Kthei asked: she Imd her own misgivings oil the point. "Yes 1 think it is," Philip answered slowly) "but it matters little, child; we shall soon cure her of it when she has been with .us a little longer." Days and weeks passed in Flsrentre Worthington's new home. Sumnwr was fading iiito'uiitiiiiin: the long lingering evenings ill the old fashioned garden were gradually subsiding into others scarcely less pleasant, but spent within doors, over billiards, music, needlework, and reading. There were evenings when Florence would decline to take part in any of the fiimily pleasures—when she would sit with Hushed face bent down persistently over fancy work, repelling all her cousins' advances, and when the chief culprit, Philip, would appear perfectly blind to her changed manner, and would meet her always on ner own ground, ready in a moment id be ei- tlier friend or foe as siie chose. JMit Florence often found that, when they were foes it was she who had to make the first concession to bo .friends—worse still, she felt'herself utterly miserable until they were so. There were times when she was often stung to the quick because Philip's laugh was so constant and mirthful, and his ulue eyes so bright and mocking. Then she would sit apart in stately silence until he had provoked her Into quarreling with him again. In spite of all wrangliiigs she f«und herself anxiously awaiting the even, ing meal, which nearly always brought with it the society of her hated cousin er—miiei—every one out me. i own inat, but tor your own sake. Florence, I care lit- tie. If people will be so Hliniinilt,' I always think it best, to let tlntu follow their own sweet inclinations until they tind out their mistake which they nearly alwavs do late » 6 ' though P cr '"»PS not ""til too Florence's eyes were Hashing lire. "I am grieved to be such a trouble in the house" she said steadily. "You are ail too kind. You should leave mo alone, way." my C ° Inillg ° r gol " s iH lllly "You are saying now what you do not really mean or think, Miss Woi-thington," her cousin answered. "Oome, Florence," he said more lightly, after a moment's silence, «do not be unyielding now. Make them all happy below by joining them. My dear mother, bless her!—is so tender-heart! ed.that she-keeps tormenting herself about you incessantly—bless her!—Maud too.— kthel just now has a counter-attraction," he added, laughing. «You are coming— Ah, 1 lorenec, I see I have prevailed!" But he spoke too quickly. "Indeed you have not! I was not thinking of such a thing." "Shall I tell you why you will not come down-stairs to-night, Florence—thou-h perhaps you will never forgive me if 1 «I have no idea what you mean, Mr. Oar- rington. What reason can you .impute to me, except the one I have already given my deep mourning?" • "No Florence; that is not quite the reason," Philip said. "It is Shall 1 tell you the real truth, Miss Worth! iigton? It is always best. It is that you do not con. aider our visitors—hay, ourselves—quite on the same footing with yourself. You feel your pride a little hurt by the contact, Doubtless you have always been accustomed to a different sphere; but in some unaccountable way we are all fond of you, and that should make you overlook our ninny shortcomings. We are all tradespeople, indisputably; but still you are related to us by blood-ties; and surely we do not overwhelm you with our business concerns, he added quietly and—for him—ner- Philip. Her letters to her aunt, who was now in Nice, were anything but frequent; still in some of them she must have betrayed a secret happiness; for L,ady Haven wrote buck rather fully to her niece, congratulating her upon her good sense in being able to conform so cheerfully to Ijor present life while it should last, but ur. gently advising her in no way to entangle horselflrritrlci'ably with b«*r nevy relatives go that she could not OJISI'A withdraw from • close intimacy, should «*lic be called upon to do so upon any future time. They were most estimable people, Lady Raven wrote, and worthy of all consideration and gratitude; but still under her guidance, a little time hence, there eoultl bo no reason why Florence should not make a match suitable to her position—a position which might exclude relatives who were engaged in trade. Above all things she warned her against any sort of entanglement with her step-cousin Philip, though she felt sure such advice must be quite superfluous, as Florence's good taste and breeding must preclude such a possibility. With a curling lip Florence read the letter. "They are sentiments worthy my most estimable aunt," she said to herself, while slio tore the letter into a thousand fragments. It had arrived at a time when Florence and Philip were not good friends, lie had olt'ended her by reading her heart too clearly, and more by informing her that he knew perfectly well that the arrival of Air. Arncs, brewer, or John Hastings, tea- broker, both passable Knglish gentlemen, or their sisters, girls quite her own equals in relinemcnt or education,- was always the signal for her to keep herself in close seclusion in her own room. She had pleaded her heavy mourning, but her haughty and silent greetings to her cousins' friends Imd betrayed her to Philip, and he had taxed her with coldness and unsociability on the previous evening, even presuming to enter her own sitting-room for the purpose. They wore all below in the full enjoy- mont of the piano and the billiard-table, while Florence was sitting in solemn grandeur in her room, an open book on her knee, but her ears listening to the happy voices in the apartment beneath her. "Florence, 1 have come to fetch you— we all insist you shall not remain up-stairs so long by yourself; it is not good 'for you, child," Philip Uarrington declared, standing close to his cousin—he had run upstairs BO lightly that she had not heard his step, and was a littto flurried at his entrance. «<Jomo Floronco," he said, taking loldiirmly of one of her hands; "wo are longing for the pleasure of your society, porno, dear," he pleaded, still clasping her hand. "You know I never see any one in my mourning. It would not be right even if I wished it; and Heaven-knows I do not!" she said excitedly. I'hilip droppiul her hand, but drew a wir uioso lo ncr side. "Florence tliu time for that excuse Is past, or wo should respect your wisM; you know we should oven now if it cor.ccrncd u »y but old friends like John and Amy •Hustings—almost our own family. That cannot hold good; and, it' you persist in it, you will give them a nervous lading about coming so often, and pain •ktliel not a little, which 1 am sure you would not wish to do." I certainly do not wish that, Flor. e 'ico admitted. "Vet you must inevitably do so, if you persist in your present determination. You should remember too that in a few weeks "'oy will almost bo your own cousins, as Wo arc." ' hist bit of information was not agreeable news for Florence; she told her*«" she had no wish to increase the num. er ol her low-born relatives." 'ale. Uarrington, please do not ask mo to wmo town sUiirs; with my mourning, I only a cloud upon your timusc- iuunt_m u [ liuietid L am happier huro." "Xour mourning is scarcely heavier tb:i Amy s (or hor mother," i'hllip said. ... ,, °' m! PHI-SOUS feul their losses dlllcreut- »}> I'loruiico answered coldly. ''.No 0110 could huvo taken the loss of a "1'Kintr to i, eui .t mo ,. 0 than poor Amv did, I turn;," 1'iiilip lo m lu ; r . (<( ; omt . i.'ioroime, 1 «t asjdu tins uiisooialiloness. Lot me [.'. >' ul1 ""own. Uumo to plc-aso mo, and v, j ls ? l «wk you," he pleaded in a low clos t i ^' IVS tliu '° 01 ' uusl >' sweet, bending | « CO JJtil', ,,.,' ll! J ol Wd to yield; but tho barrier now L,,;i i l " lp " Hsul;lQ to hoi>> She" shook her «e«.l without speaking. •hut perhaps might l»i too great a to expect," ho Mild, laughing vously Florence listened with ii vi flu.shing face, and eyes so full of tears thai she dared not raise them lest some should fall and betray her indignation at his reproaches That he had dared to read her heart so plainly filled her with a burning pain: and yet blent with it was a latent feeling-of pleasure at the unmistakable interest he had betrayed. "You have no right to say such things to me, Mr. Currlngton I I Inn o never said or done anything to make you accuse me in this way I It would be impossible forme ever to feel grateful enough for the kindness I have received in this house, from the first day I came until now." Florence said quickly, in a low passionate voice. "If I am wrong in what*I have said, Florence, forgive me, I pray you," Philip Carrington entreated, again putting his hand on hers; "if I am right, then lay it to heart, and try to make the. best of us to like us a little, as we like you." "I think you are very unjust and disagreeable, Mr. Uarrington," Florence rejoined taking refuge in anger, the only thing left for her. "Do you? I am sorry, and must try in some way to retrieve my character," Philip said laughing his ordinary light laugh and rising. Then, as if something suddenly struck him, he sat down again. "Florence, why is it that you never call me by my Christian name? Do you dislike it or me? No, I do not really think the latter," he added, seeing quick alarm or denial in her face. I sec no reason why you should do so; but it seems to me as if it must be easier for you to call mo 'Philip' than <Mr. Oarrington,' which confounds me with my father. Will you try once?" her tormentor asked. "You are not really my cousin, Mr C'ar- rlngton," Florence answered perversely. "Am I not? Well, that never occurred to me before, Florence. My mother and sisters have been real mother and sisters to me; I could not for a moment look upon them as aught else; and, without your enlightening me, I must have looked upon their rolatives.as my own. For their sakes, Florence, give me a little bit of consulship —the least little bit," he asked pleadingly, his gray eyes bent mercilessly upon hor face. "Yes, you will, I see. Ah, I had nearly forgotten!" ho said suddenly, drawing from his breast-pocket a long parcel.— "See here, Florences; 1 heard you admire the white-rose perfume that Kthel makes use of so extensively, and I have brought you somo, I am afraid I must confess to you," he added slowly, "that I have manufactured it myself expressly for you; yet who know* but that I have-taken especial pains with it on that account? See—I have spared your feelings by discarding the business label and not availing myself of tho ordinary essence-bottle; I have even put the perfume in a passable ornamental one; and I hope you will use it and forgot where it came from." Mr. Carrington con. eluded laughing. Florence felt that her cheeks would never cool again. Pride urged her to reject his present, and yet she yearned for it— perhaps for another reason than its own sake—as it lay on the little table close to her hands; but he did not wait for hoi answer. '•Well, good night, Miss Worthington. I have been encroaching unwarrantably upon your solitude; but I am go thoughtless," And in another moment he was gone. "She has had a lesson, mother," he said on his return to the room below. "Poor girl, she will not come down-stairs to. night; but I think she will another time." Florence remained alone; she was heart- sore, and angry with herself for things she had said, but perhaps more angry with Philip. Had ho asked her only once again, she knew she would have yielded. As it was, tho happy voices below, and Philip's mellow laugh and voice, which she heard stf plainly amid tho rest, gave her many heart-burnings. ,tUe«, my UIIAFTKU VIII. Days passed in quick succession, with few events to break their monotony; nevertheless they were all fraught with pleas, lire to Florence; and in after-years sho could have counted each one separately, each one as a bright drop in the fiillost oup of happiness she had ever known. Letters which now arrived from tho South of France began to till Jliss \\'orthington's mind with vugue alarm rather than pleas- uro. They unmmnccd the possible return to England of Lady Haven some months before she was expected, and fhoy also hinted that on her return Lady Haven expected her niece to be enchanted to share her home. "After nil, she is poor Arthur's only child," Lady Haven justly remarked to her married daughter. >*I must try to do something for tho girl which may enable her to make a decent mutch. At the worst, if w.o do not agree, she can but return to her mother's relatives. Her popr father's shortcomings will bo forgotten t,on, and, with hor beauty and birth, should, under my chaperouago, achieve something-" trol her overbearing tpjiipr-r," Lady Aled- dovves told her mother clasping her little son and heir to her breast. Arid no it was that Lady Itaven wrote rather more warmly on the subject to her niece than she had hitherto done. # „ . * * * * • "Will she come with us or not, Phil?" Ethel asked her brother eagerly. "Am I to answer you as you wish, Kthel. or as I think?" Philip replied. "Let us have the trutb of course, you, silly boy] Do you think Florence will comd with us?. It will be so much nicer if she does. l>o ask her!" "No, Ethel, I cannot do that; she snubbed mo n little too plainly the last time.— My feelings will not stand it again." "Just take it for granted that she Is coming, and don't ask her at all," commonsense Maud suggested. . "Maud is always right," said her brother- "It will I)B by far the best plan." "And we have dined earlier on purpose," Ethel remarked. Tho matter lit question was not very important; nevertheless the pciiec of mind of several persons scorned rather deeply Involved In it. Miss Worthington, with a Hushed face and wildly beating heart, was pacing her own room; and Philip Carrington was earing very much more than lie chose to show. Periodically at his chain- born he gave an entertainment to his sis- tors and their friends, the chief pleasures of which must have been the novelty of the scene and the amusements, for the guests were allowed to dabble in a few slightly dangerous experiments in chemistry, under tlie watvhI'uI supervision of their entertainer. On tlits occasion unusually elaborate preparations had been made for the reception (il'I'Mori'iiuc. Philip had given her the invitation himself, and h'nd been but little .umoycd by her u't«t!mito refusal. Hur temper hud 'been .silently rullli'd beforehand, which 'was fatal to'liur iir • tance, In spite of her yearning wildly In Moreover, Florence ' had unluckily received a lo'ng letter from Lady Haven that morning, full of most aristocratic arrange, inents for the future—plans that should disentangle Florence courteously from hor objectionable relatives. Miss Worthington was trying hard, though rather vainly, to force herself to believe that, low as her fate had lately dragged her, she had not yet fallen so irretrievably iis to condescend to accept any hospitality or amusement at her cousin's hated shop; but she knew too well that in her heart she would have given anything that she possessed to see Philip's chambers and private rooms, to receive pleasures from hands she was learning to love too well, whose lightest touch would sometimes thrill dangerously through her whole frame. The way to yield, now however to please herself,"was not made sufficiently easy to her. Had Philip himself asked her again, urged her enough, she would have gratified her burning desire by graciously yielding; but he had done so oil the previous occasion, when she cared less and would not be prevailed upon, and now his invitation was not repeated. In vain Maud took it for granted that she was coming with them that bright afternoon—nay, she even urged her—while pretty Ethel pleaded—pleading which few could have resisted. Florence waited like, a spoilt child for words that did not come, for a sweet voice that was dumb; and her persistent refusal became almost tearful with vexation, the girls thought at their persistence, and they ceased to urge. The time was at hand, and they were all on the point of starting for Oxford Street and the dreadful shop, their pleasure not a little spoilt by their cousin's unsociable- ness. Florence tried to settle down to answer her aunt's letters, but was almost in tears as she saw the girls pass her door, nodding their good-bye on the way and promising not to be late. Then there was » moment's lingering in the hall, and Philip ran up stairs for something he had forgotten. An irrepressible impulse brought Florence to her door as he was hurrying past, and he stopped. Her eyes were tearful and her voice was tremulous; she was little used to self-denial, and it tried her sorely. "Philip, may I come?" In another moment she had broken down, and was turning away. "AYonders will never cease," thought Philip, following Florence at once into her room. Again his hand lightly touched her waist, and this time it did not seem to degrade her as it had done before. "May you come, Florence? Do I hear rightly? My dear child, 'Yes' a thousand times. You had nearly spoilt all my pleasure—mine, dear—do you hear?" he asked, bending close to her. "Why did you leave it to the last? It is the merest chance we had not started." "You never asked me," Florence said like a spoilt child, as she was. "Not this time, Florence—your refusal was a little too decided the last. But I shall know now. Your 'No' always means <Yes' for the future," he said laughing "I will never take your <No' again, remember that," lie added earnestly. "Now get ready quickly, or the Hastings party will arrive before' us. They are coming—you know that?" he said half fearfully. '•Oh, yes, I know that!" Florence answered nervously; and Philip Carrington turned away, his pulses throbbing, his eyes seemingly opened to such a sudden Hush of sunlight us nearly dazed him. No longer need he repress all his yearnings, all his feelings, as he had hitherto done. AVlmt if he hud mistaken his cousin from the first, if her pride had only been reticence—a spoilt girl's coquetry? "Girls, wait!" ho shouted. "Florence is coming?" in their surprise Kthel and Maud ran up stairs to know the truth', and found .Aliss AVorthington nearly dressed, her crape veil drawn tightly over her face. "Why Florence, what made you change your mind so quickly," Maud a'sked, with some reason, •'Uecausc she knew we wished it," Philip answered with unusual shortness. A few minuto. later they wort! all out in the fresh uuliimn air, l<'lori!iicc'.s hand held tightly under her cousin'* arm, a little shame, a little nurvousms.--, and a groat deal of happiness in her heart: but she soon found herself talking animatedly with tho others, though sometimes wondering curiously what hur'cousin's chambers could be like. In her heart she knew, let them be what they might or whore they might, they wore Philip Ourrington's and that fact alone must make them endurable They walked on until they were tired, or rather fancied Florence might be, and ^lien took a cab to Oxford Street, within a stone's throw of the park; and presently Florence found herself deposited in front of some imposing-looking premises not a shop. She followed her cousins up to the third floor, where Philip producing his latch-key gave entrance to a room which astonished Miss Worthiugtoji not a little. It was a large handsome sitting room, furnished as luxuriously a« any bachelor's bittiug-room could be, with a deep crimson carpet, oak and Utrecht velvet chairs, rich rep our- Mns that draped, thveo large windows, and numerous ea,sy cfeaA)'f. PJiUJ '" ' "' ' therein, bade her amuse hcrsolf with a sight she had never senn before from such an elevation—the busy street below; and Florence was as pleased as :i child. "I had ho Idea your rooms could be like these," she said, amazed. "Had you not?" her cousin asked, stooping close to her. "Xo, Florence, I can well imagine that. You thought I lived, when in my own home, in some little dark shop—is not that the case?" he asked laughing. Florence was recovering her spirits and answered bravely: "Shall I tell you the truth? I did think so." "And were properly disgusted, cousin. I shall not wonder if you have a few more favorable discoveries to make yet—if you care to do so." "I am afraid yo« will not like papa's place so well Florence," Kthel said-"—"it Is much loss grand; but tlien you know he hardly ever lives there, which makes all the difference, while Philip is often here for n week at a time. When we arc out of town, papa has only one little parlor behind his shop; you must pay him a visit there one day, just to see it." "We must let her down by degrees, Ethel, and not frighten her too much at once," Philip said, his eyes all brightness and fixed mercilessly upon Florence. "You are not very generous, Mr. Carring! on,"she answered nervously, find, rising as she spoke, followed the girls into their brother's other room, which somewhat resembled the llrst. Them the Hastings party arrived, and soon afterwards tea was served, at which flowers were not lacking, for Miss Worthington's gratification and the time passed away quickly. "Let. us walk home," was the petition of all some hours later, when a splendid moon was discovered to be shining, the air being somewhat frosty. Kthel had good reasons for wishing to walk with John Hastings, and Maud desired the companionship of her friend Amy; there remained only Miss Worthington, whose aristocratic habits had unfitted her for such exercise, Philip looking dubiously ut her when the proposition was made. "It will be impossible for Florence," he urged; "she would be half dead before we got n quarter of the way." And then he saw unnlistakiible signs of disappointment in her eyes. " You would like to walk with the rest, Florence—is it so?" Her face brightened like a child's. "Well, you shall try, at any rate; we can easily find a cab when you have had enough—you and I cer- tainlv. if the rest like to walk best." TO BE CONTINUED. FARM AND HOME. IN 01, j) AGK. Written on my Eighty-in vanth Birthday. BT DAVID DODJ.BT FIKLD. What Is it now to live? It le to bteathe The air of heaven, behoM the pleasant earth, The Phinlng rivers, the inconstant sea, Sublimity of mountains, wealth of clouds, And radiance o'er all of count leu* stars. It i» to sit before the cheerfin hearth With groups of friends and kindred, store of books, Rich heritage from ages past, Hold sweet communion soul -with BOU), On things now passed, or present or to come, Or iniise alone upon my early dayi, Unbind the scroll whereon'is writ The itory ot my busy life, Mistakes too often, but successes more, And consciousness of duty done. It li to see with laughing eyes the play Of children sporting on the lawn, Or mark the eager strifes of men And nations, seeking each and all, Belike Advantage to obtain Above their fellows; such it manl It Is to feel the pulses quicken as I hear Of great events near or afai, W hereon my turn perchance The fate of generation!*, ages hence It ie to rest with folded arms botlmeo, And so snrrouided, so (sustained Ponder on what may yet befall In that unknown mysterious realm which lie* beyond the range of mort«l ken, Where souls Immortal do forever dwell: Think of the loved ones who await mo there, And without mourning or Inward grief, With mind unbroken and no fear,Calmly await the coming of the Lord. —The Independent. 3TARM NOTBS. Cooked Food for Hogg. It may be an open question whether it will pay all farmers to feed cooked food to their hogs, but there is 110 doubt but what cooked food will make more flesh than uncooked, because a Jartrer proportion will be digested and assimilated. Conutrj Roads. The expense of the maintenance of THEY PLAYED DIXIE. AH Incident of tho La»t Day of Freak- dent Uncoln'8 Life. Although, a quarter of a century has elapsed since tho death of Abraham Lincoln, every incident in regard to the character and life of the martyr president is still read with great interest I first saw him when I was a clerk in the bureau of military justice, in the summer of 1864, says a writer in the National Tribune. He came in •to see Judge Holt in regard to the case of a private soldier who had been sentenced to death for desertion, and whose sister had coma in to plead with Mr. Lincoln for her brother's life. The judge sent for me and told me to get out the record, and for an hour he and the president discussed that case, Mr. Lincoln exercising more the ingenuity of a counsel for the defense. When they had finished and Mr. Lincoln came out of the judge's room he said: "I think, Mr. Holt -you can now make recommendation upon which I can safely act and I will have some good news for that poor girl" The next day the judge made a report recommending that the sentence be disapproved and that the man be restored to duty. This was approved by the president^ and the soldier was saved from an ignominious death. I remember how forcibly it struck ma at the time that the president of the United States should personally interest himself in behalf of a private •oldier whom he certainly never knew, and who was but one of hundreds of thousands of those who war* in the field, but his great and sympathetic nature had been touched by the appeal of the man's sister, and he determined to look into the matter himself. I remember tha day on which ha was shot very distinctly, and I sup. pose that I heard the last speech that be ever made, that is, in public. I had been over to the treasury department! and in going back I went through the white house grounds. Some procession or other, I don't know what now—for in the days just following the fall of Richmond and tha surrender of Appomattox processions were constantly going up and down the avenua in Washington—had gone up to the white house, and Mr. Lincoln was on the porch making a speech. Just as I reached the crowd I heard him say: "Now I want to say • word to the band. There is a tuna that I have always liked that is called •Dixie.' Ithasu't been played raufh on our aids of the line, but I think we have fairly conquered the right to play it and J want tha band to play •Dixie,'" * The band played "Dixje," tha crowd cheered, the procession marched away, and I went back to »y office in the Winder Building, horses and mulei in America during the periods of enforced idleness on account of impassable roads is estimated at eighty millions of dollars a rear, and with hard, smooth coun'.ry roads not half the present power would oe required to draw loads. Value of the Breed. _ The real value of a breed ia the production of eggs or meat, and the greater the reputation of a breed as a laj er or market fowl the greater the demand for it by the people. The measure of weight or production rests with the breeder who builds year by year to improve. ITeedlne Whole Corn. No kind of farm stock 'excepting sheep and poultry will degest whole corn without greater loss than the miller would take as toll for grinding. Where cattle are fed whole corn it is the practice of western farmers to turn in store hogs, which get a good living, and will sometimes fatten on the undigested corn voided in the droppings. Even the hogs, if they get much of this hulf digested corn, will void pieces of corn that have gone through them without affording any nutriment. The Old Cow. Corn betf does not sell well in the markets, but if the fattening has been rapid, its quality is often much better than its nnme. An old cow, so long as her teeth are good, has generally good digestion, andean be fattened, with proper feeding into beef that will be good- for home use if not to sell. work they cause a marked decrease in weight. Snlpbur, or salt, sprinkled in hufked corn, will tend to drive the insects away. , The best remedy for grain insects is bi- sulphide of carbon. For this "quarantine" bin should be built and the grain treated in it as gathered. The amount of bi-sulpbide needed varies with the tight* ness of the bin, but, as a rule, one ounce of bi-sulphide to 100 pounds of grain is sufficient. As the bi-sulphide is explosive, all lights from matches, cigars and the like sheuld be kept away until all odor from the fumes has passed off. Insects in mills should be treated with bi-sulphide, beginning in the basement and going upward. To destroy all insects in tb» spring with bi-sulphide in or near the etapty granary will tend to decrease any damage done tee next fall and winter. Spring Feeding, It would be poor policy to feed a horse through the winter, and then let him starve to death just ns the working season commences in the spring. It would be just as bad policy to winter a colony of bees through the winter, and then let them starve to death in the spring, and while the loss of the bees would not be BO great the principle is the same. Feeding bees in the spring requires great care. If fed carelessly, or any gets spilled by accident, robbing will be very apt to result, and if robbing once gets started, there is no telling where it will end. The best way to feed bees is to take out a comb that is empty; or which has no brood in it, and fill with syrup of sugar, two-thirds sugar and one-third water; put thecomb in a pan sufficiently largo to hold it and pour the syrup in. When one side is filled as full as it is possible to fill it, turn it over and fill the other side in a similar manner, then insert the comb in the center of the hive, and if it has been well filled that hive is provisioned for a week. Some make a practice of feeding a small quantity each day,to stimulate brood rearing. This is too much trouble unless there is some special object in view, such as the rearing of drones by some one who wishes to rear queens early. THE HOTTSBHOliD. Speak Nae 111. Bones for Trees and Grapes. If bones are pounded in'o small pieces deposited round the trees and grape vines, and chopped in witL a hoe, they will show good renults for years, as they slowly give up their particles. This is better than having them dry up and decay upon the surface of the ground, where they are useless. • Save and utilize all the dried bones. Rotating Crop*. Rotation of crops assists in preventing insects. By depriving insects of their natural food they are lessened in numbers. Potatoes should not succeed potatoes on the same land, and the rule holds good with many othT crops, some crops being omitted from the list altogether, and their places supplied with crops entirely Jdis- tinct, should occasion require. Rotation also prevents loss of fertility of the soil to a certain extent. Other people haye their funits, Andoo have you as well; But all ye chance to sea er hear Ye have no right to tell. If ye cannot epeak o' good, Take care, and eeo nnd feel Earth has too mucli o 1 woe, And not enough o' weal. Be careful that ye make nae strife, Wl' medllng tongue and brain; For ye will find enough to do If ye but look at Imrno. If yo cannot speak o' good, Oh I dlnna epenk at all; For there IB grief and woe enough On this terrestrial ball. If ye should feel like picking flaws, Ye better go, I weou, And read tho Book that tell ye all About the moat and beam, Dlnna lend a ready ear To gossip or to strife, Or perhaps 'twill make for ye Ma sunny thing of life. Oh I dlnna add toothers 1 woe, Nor mock it with your mirth; But eive ye kindly sympathy To suffering ones of earth. The C«rr»ut Worm, When the currant worm first began its ravages, the price of this fruit, went suddenly so high that those who learned the knack of saving it by using hellebore made enormous profits. Tie price of late years has not been go high, but high enough to give a good prof f aa compared with ordinary farm crops. The currant is more easily propagated than any other fruit. A cutting planted now will bf a Merit wins at last, but it may take years of patient waiting. The measure of our success is in proportion as we satisfy God. If you loolc at the top side of a cloud you will always see something bright. Loolc straight up and you will always see sunshine. It is never dark in Heaven. He who prays for a blessing should be careful to keep himself where it can fall on him. "He that followeth after righteousness' and mercy findeth life, righteousness and honor." Be courageous and noble minded; our own heart, and not other men's opinions of us form our true honor. — -'chiller. comes, The Joy of Early Spring. Happiness in this world, when " said Hawtlnrne. it cornea inci- Mrs. Verger—Uo you know, Mrs. PoU't-by. that your himbiuid tells everybody that you mo a dreadful scold. Mrs. Peterby—I know all about it> but he don't really mean it. He calls me a Xantippe, hoping that somebody will pall" him Socrates, but nobody DM done it yet. ~ Texas Sift- will bear liberally thereafter. The work of saving the currants with hellebore is a trifle if attended to in time. But as the fruifc depends on the leaves, the hellebore mu«t be applied ns ioon as the worms appear. It is best used when the leaves are wet with dew, but a solution of hellebore used when ths leaves are dry is equally effective. dentally. Malte it the object of pursuit, and it leads a wild-goose chase, and is never attained." The simplest joys are the truest:—the most abiding. The joy of early spring days must reside partly, perhaps mostly, in tho heart of the beholder himself. He sees what he brings to the scene; and it requires but a few gleams , or reflections of his own soul on the great mirror of the outward world to awaken and glorify the picture there.—Hartford Time*. Oaring Bamiand Bacon, expert in the important branch of Tlie Bucred JPlunu of the Druids. The Druids held many plants •acred, as for instance, vervain, selago. mistletoe, and. among trees, the oak and the rowan. There is, I think, no serious doubt as to tha Identity of any of these except the »econ,d (selago), which is generally thought to be the, olttb TOOSB. <)a| serially'rare, a.ad th|t domestic economy of curing hums and bacon, advises to pack the meat in s sweet, clean cask, and cover with brine made as. follows: Take half an much water as will cover the meat, and put in al! the salt it will dissolve; add the other half of the water required, with two quarts of molasses and a quarter of a pound of saltpeter for each hundred pounds of meat. In six weeks the meat will be ready for smoking. It should be bung in the smoke-house for a day or two before the smoking begins, in order to dry off. In warm weather a dark p moke-house is necessary, to guard against flies. As soon as the meat is sufficiently nmoked, which is largely a matter of taste, each piece should ba enveloped in a strong paper bag, fastened securely, so that no insect can get- through where it is tied, and hung in a dry place. lusecte In Stored Grain. What Makes us Wine, 'Tis not the food we swallow that does us pood, but. that which we digest and assimilate. Just so it is not what we see and hear, what we read and recite that which we retain and incorporate in mind, heart, life. Work Its Own Reward. All noble work is consecrated work. It involves sacrifice, self denial, pain; it r< quires endurance. It may be wrought in obscurity, and over its victories no of triumph may be raised. But if . thn worker love it and his toiling is hallowed by si»cerity, by generous impulse bv unselfish devotion to others' wellfare^ the work will be its own reward. — Ha> per's Bazar. In a bulletin from the Misgispipyi station tha three jnsec's most injurious to gram the south receive consideration. Ihese are the Angumis grain moth, the black weevil and the red grain bet tie. , . The tranBfflrm,etio;n gnfl babjt* of these popr Kate! you. won't get a,ny money, the same .The epg* are Jt'e n'l gone." 'in hftfma aviH 'PVlfli t.wn ffl.1l* tinada nArldarl In aunt. An Odd Superstition. Two girls sat drinking coffee in a ladies' restaurant One of them had just put the cream in her coffee and was about to stir it with a spoon when the other suddenly cried out: ••Don't touch it Kate! Don't dis» turb it for the world! Try and take it up without breaking it" •What is itP" asked the other, starting back in alarm. "Why, don't you see? Thera'a money in it. Look at the piece of (silver floating on your coffee!" The other looked and saw a round white spot about the gisse of a quarter floating on her coffee. • tilip your spoon under it und take It out without breaking it und you will get mouey that you don't expect But if you disturb it in taking it out the charm will be broken. On. The 1 two f§ir heads *« .«rw»,

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