The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on May 11, 1892 · Page 7
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 7

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Wednesday, May 11, 1892
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THE .UpMJR t>&S MOINES, ALGOKA , IOWA, MAY 11 r 1892 . A STORY OP CASTE. "Florence, telLJne," ti« snid iiail an nour later, when they wcro on their way in pic«adlllj'. "why were you so persistent jjj your fel'usnl to-day Until just the last." itl don't know," she answered nervously It, was iiervi'rseness, i suppose. I have often been told tiint I am perverse." iiAnd then what made you change your mind?" «A desire to please myself, I suppose.— 1 could scarcely u.ink that yoti wished me to come. It was So your house, and you pressed mo very little," she Said evading bis last question. «Voii think that is quite the truth, Florence?" he asked bending down nearer to her fiiue. "You wore not sure that I cared for you to come?" «How could t be when you scarcely ex- presort a wish for me to do so?" "The gln« urged you constantly, and I coul.'l not forgot my last petition, when yoii were loler;i My /inn In your doulsion from the first. Well, at »ny rate 1 must thank you for coming; you gave me great picas- tire, and have almost effaced the pain ol your last refusal." «Why should you care whether I came or not?" I can only see that you wish to give me pleasure; I must be little to you, I know." "Florence, you are approaching dangerous ground; do not let us venture upon it just now. The present is too pleasant for .juoat least; I do not wish to risk it." HO waited a moment, thinking that she might resent the words; but she did not.— • Could he have seen her face at that moment, could he have heard her heart beat— and she thought he almost must—ho would not have doubted much. But he rarely re- mnined long in the same mood. Sho often felt that lie took pleasure in tormenting licrj he never scorned to tire of doing so. She thought so still more a few minutes later. "Your coming to us must have been a great trial to you, Miss AVorthington; but I hope and think it has proved less painful to you than you first, feared." "Why arc you ahvayw saying that to me, Mr. Carrington? What right have you to Imagine that it was anything but pleasant to me? It is you who are now saying what you do not think 1" Florence answered hotly. "I am only saying what I am sure of." "You cannot be." ••But I can," ho said softly; "and if you nsk me why, I will lull you." "Well, tell me then," she said half fearfully. • 'He laughed his low light laugh, which always so tormented her. Sho withdrew her hand from his arm under the pretence to rc-gatlicr up her dress, hut ho knew that wan not the reason. "Put your hand back again Florence; your dress is all > right. You Know that Ktliol anangcd your aristocratic skirts for a walk bc'orc we .started. I can assure you that they arc safely off the ground," lie said lingering a moment behind her; and then lie held out his arm to her, and sho felt obliged to take it. "Well, Florence, you sec I understood you from the lirst, and I pitied you too. I saw that our people were not your people, and I did not wonder from what I had heard about you; but I know that you must have been faint with shame when, for the lirst time in your life, you had to place yourself upon an equality with tradespeople. You shrank from my dear, kind mother, you shuddered at my father's well-meant embrace. I completed your horror on the lirst day I came. You nee I kiusw it—and I must confess I enjoyed the knowledge. The two girls alone were not distasteful to you—how could they be," ho asked, "except from their surroundings?" He was so'rarely alone with her that he seemed to be nerving himself to tell her all that was on his mind. "I think you are most unkind tome!" Florence answered warmly, with diiliculty keeping back her tears, "ifon say things you-cannot know, and you can only wish to pain mo," "Indeed I do not mean that. But look up Miss Worthinglon, and. tell me, on your honor, that what I have said to you is untrue. J will believe you—nay, more,! will retract every word, and ask you to forgive me. I cannot say more, can 1?" But Miss Worthington, if she had many failings, had at least oue virtue pre-omi- uently—she was truth Itself. She was silent. "There you see I am right," her tormentor persisted. "I do not care what you say or think," she answered at last, "I lovo them all; my new homo is really homu to me. You do not know how grieved 1 shall bo to leave it, if 1 must-—how much I care for all—at least, all but " "Me? Well, you are truthful now, Miss Wortliiiiglon, 1 do believe, or nearly so.— Yon have begun to like your now home, your uncle and aunt, Maud and Ethel.— You like all but your humble servant—and you have little love for me, I can see. You need not toll me that." Sho was right; IIB did line to torment her, ile was hurting her (jruelly now, much more than lie thought. «But then, you see, I have no claim upon you like the rest; I am not really your cousin—you have told mo so so many times, and ha've so utterly repudiated any kind of relationship between us that there can IK; none, of course. Well, there only remains for mo, Florence, to try to earn a little regard for niybolf alone as time goes on—to try to merit your esteem, If you will grant me nothing else—and that must be but cold frieii'ilship, I four. lie hud gone a litllo farther than ho meant—Florence, was in tears. Her hand was suddenly drawn from his arm—and sho strove to join the others; hut her walking powers did not equal theirs—they were utmost out of sight. ' "Forgive mo, Florence: I liavo pressed you too hard," he pleaded gently, trying again to make her take his arm; "but I really wished to know exactly the ground we all stand on with you. You have pained me not a little many times, I must con. fess, and perhaps 1 liavo now retaliated tow-hardly. Can you forglvo me?" Ho pleaded, but Florence was hopelessly "(funded, hopelessly hurt; her happy day was turned into something the vury reverse. Her. feelings woru quite incom. prchensiblo toller. Could' they havo-hoon «loarly analyzed, sho might have known thab she hiul begun to ll'ko her cousin, but wished lain on no account to imagine this, white .exacting the return of a friendship he could in no way rccogni/.e. "You will not way a word, Florence?— How wrong I •must liavo been 1" But sho was still silent, as well as a little tired— "You are too fatigued. Lot us drive the r*st of the way,' her cousin proposed. lint she would not bo conquered by a walk. ' "1 am not a(, all tired," she answered «>ldly. And they ploddt'U on in sllonce. "Only angry then?" . "Yes, 1 am angry," she tried to answer indignantly, but nor voice was broken. "Well, 1 urn really sorry, Florence. You iBt try and forglvo mo." J will uo\er forgive you, Mr. Oarring- you uuvo siM thtustt to mo that I shall never forgot nor forgive, tou are the only one, who tries to spoil all my pleasure." "Iliad no idea what, n culprit 1 was," ho answered gravely. They walked on'in utter silence^ Miss Worthington tortured as she had never been hefore, 1'liilip CarHiiirton's conscience a little Hurt; but. to him t-nere was hidden sweetness in the hurt, lie had discovered his power to pain his cousin; and, had she cured nothing for him—as she tried to niaKc him believe—she would have laughed at all liis accusation*. Instead, she had only betrayed the depth ol her displi-asiu-e; and Philip Uarringtonfell more victor thau vanquished. He was it man who would always thoroughly understand every inch of the ground he occupied or intended to traverse; and he had been a little uncertain regarding tho relative positions of himself and Miss Worthington. Hut sho had that day broken tho ice tiursclf, and felt strange elation as to all that she had said to him. Ho valued he, i-'-proachus at exactly what they Were worth. Nevertheless, man-like, he was grieved when lie saw he. had thoroughly succeeded ii\ paining hor. Bho might place her little foot upon his neck, should she choose to do so; but she must once acknowledge his equality with herself, it '.VMS only that day he had been vainly \\ Ishlnj; to himself that sho had never broken in on their quiet home-circle; now ho was inwardly blessing tho day sho had come. The prize ho had dared to covet he now felt sure in time would bo his own. Sim might torment him as to tho ways, and means of -obtaining it; but in tho end she would be his. Jlis.s Worthington walked straight from tho hall-door to hor own room; the girls lingered for a few moments below, and then followed hor. When Florence raised her veil Aland's quick eyes discovered that she had bcnn crying. KUiol was too full of her u iv n walk, and said that John Hastings and hcriolf had been quarrclln<;. "ilo is so provoking!" >"« declared.— He persists in always wishing Cambridge to win the boat-race. And ho has not forgotten my Oxford bluo bonnet of last year, Which he said was hideous," she said laughing. "Nevertheless 1 told him that I have kept it religiously for the next race. 1 have iiot really; nut i will have another made of exactly the .same color." "What iii>:isense Ethel 1" her sister said. 'As if you cared a straw which won I" "But 1 do care Maud 1 And John decides for Cambridge only out of pure perversity—:i:i;l i *lu .i.'iieve to tease me. Is'ow 1 stand tin for Oxford, because Philip was there; *,j lal least have reason on my bido —you Ui:">\v that." Could Florence believe her oars? "Wai ..uur brother at Oxford/'" she asked quid:!;', turning from the light. "Philip, was at Harrow and Oxford too," said Jlau !. "I fancy papa was unable to atl'ord it; but uncle Kdward insisted upon it. I think Phil would liked best to have gone to the liar afterwards; but papa wished him so much to be with him, and to be an analytical chemist, Unit I'hilip gave up IiN own wishes; and then uncle Edward left him all his own business, which papa .says is a good one. Phil has always been iucky," continued -Maud. "Let u* hope ho will be lucky in his wife then," laughed Etliel. "Florence, you areovor-tlrod. The walk has boon l.oo much for you," said Maud.— "Como d.fivn stairs and have .sonic wine, and then go to bed." Hut Florence refused to go down stairs. "I'hilip was foolish to let you walk so far. Of course it is nothing unusual for us." "Your brother did wish me to ride, and I would not; but I shall be all right tomorrow. Say good night for mo downstairs, Kthel," Florence requested. Vainly Philip watched the drawing-room door for his cousin's reappearance, "Is sho coming?" he asked Ethel softly, as she passed him. "No; 1 think not. She says sho is too tired." A few minutes later Philip was standing before Miss Worthington's closed door. "Only say good night, Florence," 'ho repeated thrice; but no answer came for him. Maud heard him on the landing as she passed, and stopped a moment to listen. "Why, she must be asleep, Phil I She was dead tired." "Sho must have boon pretty quick about it then. It can be only ten minutes since Ethel left her. You say good night, Maud." Florence's voice now responded quickly enough— ••'Uood night. I am so tirod, and hurrying to bed. Don't wait, dear." "Little witch I" Philip thought. "She shall pay me for this." And tho next morning he was up and away before Miss Worthington's lirst appearance was made. Etliel, with an unusual long face enlightened hor as to hor brother's movements, "It is a shame, Florence I Philip declares that he shall not be at homo again for a week or ten days. He says he has some heavy work on hand, which he must attend to closely night and day." Florence, to all outward appearance, was sublimely iudill'eroiit. "It is so odd that he never said a word about it yesterday," Maud intoriiojod. "Yes; it is a sliamo of him," Ethel declared. "And he so seldom stays away— only once or twice iu u way. He told mamma this morning ho could not bu homo for a week at least, tuough he will run in to soo papa. And ho says wo may have tea with him Thursday, if we like, I can't endure the'house waon ho is away." "At any rate you will have to try to do so for a week at least, Ethel I" hor gistcr answered. ****** A burning »un, though it was nearly winter, was shining into tho open windows of u handsome drawing-room Iu tho Ituo (iuiaointa, Nice. .Orange-trees wcro in flower, and tho air was Heavily laden with their swoot perfume j every where was tiie sky clear, and blue with that intense blue- ucss that is seen only in Italy and tho South of Franco. Tuo season was winter only iu name. Tho Countess Haven was eve.i funning herself close to the open window, and her daughter, Lady Jueddowes, was playing with nor son and heir, on account of wnoao supped dolioato health she intended wintering in the South of France. "Jo.inny does look stronger, doi-s ho not, motueri 1 '' Lady Meddowes asked. "Soo what a lovely color ho is getting 1" Tiio child, a fair littlo uoy o( about two years, was romping boisterously, with few si "-us of being ivaliy fragile or delicate, on his young muuiov'-s lap, while two little girls wcro building uiimio houses ou the polished oak Iloor. "1'cs: 1 do.i't. think there is much to worry about with him Margaret; ho seems strong aud well." "l!ut mill it was a wise precaution to come hero for tuo winter, buuauso you know, he never has been quito himself, sinco ho had tho whoopiug-cougu lust Hl)l*l 11< P ," . «jludgo looks and scorns more delicate to ine," suui Litdy ttuvou. «0h, I don't tuink she ail inotaer uuswured gureiossly, ing -whore all her strongest reelings were uonucntratcil. "It is dull hero, tuough— stinsliiin; and blun sky everlasting but no amusement of any kind," Katly Meddowcs «-i;)it 011fretfully; "ariil Joliii never sends me any nows worth having from England. I am sure he could if he would. Nothing but politic", and his own frk-iuls, about, whom lie knows I am never intci-dstod. lie tinnnunuus Ills intention of being with us about Christmas, and lie says too that, lla- vt'ii seems to be spending money rathor recklessly." «T am afraid lie will always do thnt," her niothor iv'turnrd in a hopple** tow.; and then sho added, "T cannot holp feeling^ anxious about your cousin Florence. "£ am sure you (iced not fidget about her, mother," Ijiidy Meddowes said quiukly; she Is ]ierfccty safe for the present, and appears, from her loiters, to bo happy enough." "S|m seems to me to be rather too happy, Margaret; and I cannot forget that she is poor Arthur's child." "I5ut she will do well enough—at any rate, until our return, mother," "I am not so sure about, that, Margaret; there is an objectionable cousin in the case —and girls In hor present state oi' liiourn- ing and seclusion must (1ml excitement of soiiie kind, it would bo disagreeable for us if she made a mesalliance of Unit kind, when, a little hence, she might inilko a good match. I warned her against this cousin before she went to her aunt's. AVith tho feelings she had then, she seemed to scorn them all, and to view with special disgust this chemist's son, who after all, is not her cousin really." "Very amiable on her part towards her mother's only relatives, and towards people who, for the time, at least,.offered her a home!" Lady Meddoives .put, In frostily. "Well, at any rate I forced her to go there very much against her wish, as I did not know what else could bo done with her at the time; but I should be sorry to have her marry into her mother's family—she will be able to do much better. She seems now to bo contented where she is; this cousin's name is for ever being repealed in her letters." Lady Meddowes seemed to be revolving something In her mind. "If you like, mother," she said presently, "you may aslc her over here for our remaining two or three montli.f. Sir John could brink her over about Christmas-time. I will, pay the expenses of her journey, and she can share Marie's room—it is not at all an uncomfortable one." "You arc very kind,Margaret. I should bo glad to get tile girl out of harm's way, and to give her one clear chance during a London season again—she can lighten her mourning by the spring." And Lady Raven framed in her own mind a rather strongly-written letter to her niece, which should urge beyoixl refusal tho necessity of her accepting her cousin's oiler and kindness, as well as hint at the folly of entangling herself too deeply with her low-born relatives. CHAPTKU IX. A whole week passed slowly away, and Miss Worthington had not once seen her cousin, rihe bad mil forgiven him for his lute oM'cnces against her, while I'hilip had given her but little chance of doing so.— She listened eagerly for bis footsteps day after day, but in vain. One evening ho came home, and then she Hew up-stairs to the strong-hold of her own room, fully expecting that a few minutes would bring him after her; but ho never came. She thought she would meet him when she condescended to joiii the others later; but he was gone then, and the girls made uo comment, upon his absence. if he.know her so well, she little knew him. If he had wooed a princess, she must still have acknowledged his superiority; but,could he-have loved beneath him, how gladly would he have stooped to raise the loved one! ' In the meanwhile I'Morenco's love for Philip, which' she hardly dared to acknowledge to herself, was turning—or.shc thought was turning to burning indignation and hatred. Why, it would have been diflloult for her to say; but she told herself many times a day that he was -nothing to hor, that her pride was saved from giving way just in time; and yet in spite of all, her days were very weary ones. "What on earth can Phil be doing?" her uncle asked more than once. "He called upon me to-day, and I questioned him; but his work did not seem to mo very important. However, he is right uoj to neglect it." "Ami I am afraid he will lay himself up again,":Mrs. Carrington said. "You need not fear that," her husband told her. "He looked all right, and uu- kiomnVonly bright, I thought." This was pleasant news to Florence. Shortly afterwards Lady Haven's letter arrived, and once more I'MorenceVs old pride was Ktirred within her, the pleasures of her present life were dimmed, and sho found herself craving for the position that She thought would satisfy her belter. November was passing away, Christmas was near at hand, and she might accept Lady Meddowes 1 invitation, to punish her cousin Philip for his coldness," for trilling with her. Sho began to crave, or think she craved for her old past life and its luxu- ries,'thougli she could not feel the lack iu her present one; but sho never asked herself whether what sho really lacked was not the sunshine of Philip's presence. Her days were now very gloomy ones, she thought as she strained her eyes reading alette by tho firelight, little hooding what she read, and listening for footsteps that did not come—brooding too uot a little over her aunt's letter, with all the urgent advice it contained, and some temptation too, for, although she hated her cousin Margaret, she loved tho Continent. And might uot tho pleasure outweigh tho drawback? Sho was miserable enough, she told herself, though she did not admit the cause; but tho light seemed darkened iu her pleasant home, the long days endless— any change must be preferable. \Vhile sho sat and thought thus until her dark eyes were full of tears, sho heard the well-known click and impatient shaking at tho outer door, and in a moment she had llowu to her own room breathless and trembling. Sho heard Philip's voice calling his sisters above and below, and their quick pleased greeting. She herself had not seen him for ten, long, weary days. Sho was full of indignation against him, simply because sho loved him. Sho sat alone, fretting, waiting, listening breathlessly; but nothing happened.— She heard laughing voices bolow, and longed to go down, but pride would not let her. There, was no one in the world, she thought,' who really cared whether sho lived or died. About ten minutes before tho ordinary teii-tlme, she arranged her toilet and went down stairs. The lamps were lighted, and looked cheerful and bright after her solitude iu hor dark room. She saw her three cousins bending over u table iu the farthest corner of tho room and examining' something so earnestly that they diet not hear her soft foot-full, ox-she thought they did not. l$ut 8i»o woa wrong; I'uilip guddeulv to where sho had vlaoed In Tier usual corner:, "Florence, come and look, and help us to decide this all-important question," his clear voice said. "Why, I never heard you! Come and look here, Kthel observed. -'And you have not seen 1'hil for more than a week." "It is surely only three days, Kthul," lie corrected, with his eyes bout mischievously on Florence. Then he had not even noticed her iibsenee —and this was no small offence in her eye.s. He held out his hand towards her, and she only Intended to touch it; but he drew her linnly towards the table in spite of her determination. "Look here, Florence; and decide this all-important subject. I have had my photograph taken for my mother's birthday.— She really wished to have one,''lie said, laughing; "and we cannot decide whleh is the best of these." Thus appealed to, Miss Wortbingtou glanced down, but. rather disdainfully, and saw the eyes so full of light and sweetness, the firm yet tender mouth, the broad massive brow, depleted before her on the' table. "Only ",-iy which you think is the least objectifinablo," Philip begged. "Uou'l be so foolish, Phil I Let Florence look properly. 1 like this one the best,," Maud said handing it to her. Florence Immediately preferred the other, so the subject still remained an opeu one. "Look, Florence, here is something ple:is. anter," I'hilip said, taking up a large bouquet of splendid roses. "Here is a jieace- oll'orlng which you must accept—nay, 1 will ask you very humbly," he added iu a lower voice, seeing her hesitation; and then their eyes met for the lirst time since their evening walk. sMio was delighted with the floweri. which seemed like old friends of happier times, and the girls were iti eestaeies with them. "Philip would not let us even look at them until vou came down, Klorenee," Kthel said, "tie thought we might wither them with our jealous eyes." "i see. that you have forgiven me by this time," Mr. Carrington remarked. "I have nothing to forgive," Florence answered coldly. • 'Then still less to remember unpleasantly," her cousin told hor. "I am content, Florence, or shall try to be. But you like the roses, do you uot!" lie liulc guessed how much. Aud Miss Wort hlngton's last decision about the South of Franco was again shaken. Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst, of the little home-circle at Fiilbinn, it would have caused scarcely more dismay than did a letter which arrived a few days later for Mrs. Carrington from the Countess Ktiveu —a letter profuse almost to fulsomeness in its ekpressions of irral.ilude, but, nevertheless very linn in its intention. Florence's delay in answering had made her ladyship not a little anxious, and slie now expressed very plainly and Urmly her desire that her niece should avail herself of Sir .loliu Med- dowes' escort, and start with him almost immediately for Nice. Sho had written in almost the same sense to Florence herself TO.BE CONTINUED. THJS HOME. French One (niart of mi!k, 10 tablespoons of flour, eight-, eggs. Boat the eurgw very IJght, add them to the milk with tiie flour. Butter a pan, pour in the mixture and bake it. Serve it hot with eweet sauce. Breakfaot Baoon. Dip slices of the thin part of the middling in bread-crumbs. Put in a frying pan with parsley and pepper, and juat before dishing pour into the gravy a teacup of sweet cream. Cocoaunt, Puddliig. Beat the whites of two eggs, add a pint ot milk, half a teaspoonful of sugar, and one grated cocoanut; flavor with vanilla, mix, pour into a pudding pan and bake half an hour. Serve cold. Orange sherbet. Soak a tablespooafut of gelatin 15 or 20 minutes in half a teacupful of cold water; then add a pint each of-sugar and boiling water. Stir until the supnr is dissolved and then set aside to cool. Press the juice from 2 lemons and five oranges, stir it into the gelatin mixture, and strain it into a freezer and freeze immediately. Potato Snow. Peel and boil six or more good sized potatoes until tender; drain and dry thoroughly, and season with salt and pepper, and a tablecpponful butter. Place them by degrees in a potato strainer and press them into a dish from which they are to be served. Do not disturb them after the straining or the lightness will be taken away. Sarva while hot. Wuffles Quickly Made. One pint of sweet milk, half a teacupful of butter, and sufficient flour to make a soft batter. Beat the whites and yolks of 3 eggs separately, add the yolks first, a teaspoonful of salt, 2 teaspooufula baking powder and lastly the whites beaten at ft. Beat together lightly and bake in well greased waffle irons. If eggs are scarce, 2 will answer. Flannel Cakea. Heat two teacups sweet milk, and 2 tablespoonfuls butter; wnen melted, add a pint of cold milk, the yolks of 4 eggs well beaten, half a cake of compressed yeast, 2 teaspoonfuls salt, and flour to make a stiff batter. Set in a warm place to rise; when light, add the whites beaten stiff: and bake at once fu a hot griddle. After il has risen, more flour may be needed. THE FARM AND HOME TUB FA1JMKK. UI.l IB E. BAKU. The king may rule o'er land and sen. The lorn may live right royally, The soldier ride in pomp and pride, The sailor ronm o'er ocoftn wide; But IhlP or that, whnte'er befall, The farmer he must feed them nil. The writer thinks, the poet sings, The craftsmen fashion wonderous things, The dt ctor heal?, the lawyer pleads, The miner follows the precious leads; But this or that, whate'er befall, The farmer he iniist feed them all. Tha merchant he mny hny nnd sell, The teocner do his duly well; But men mny toll through busy days, Or men stroll through pleasimt ways; From king to beggar, whnte'er befall, The farmer he must feed them all. The farmer's tra9o Is one of worth; He's partner with the sky nnd enrth, He's pn tner with U • sun and rain, And no man loses for his gain; And men mny rl«e, or men may fall, But the farmer must feed them nil. God bleis the mnn who sows the wheat, Who finds us milk nnd fruit nud meat; Mny his purse be heavy, Ills heart be light, Ills entile and corn and all go right; God bless the seed hit) hands let fall, For the farmer he must feed us all. FARMNOTK8. Keep the cattle off the plowed land.' The hens with young eh i eke OB must be kept out of the mud. Grow a few sunflowers; they are good for poultry and for horses. When honey is coming in plentifully is the bett time to rear queens, n Ground oats can be made a good part of 1 hera'ion for the ewes at this time. Growing for lambs and mutton, us well as wool is necessary for the besb proiit. The average price of sheep in the United States is higher than any time since 1875. Thorough tillage IB an important item in securing a vigorou?, thrifty growth with all cultivated crops. No man has such good stock or raises such fine products but that, with a proper effort, they cannot be improved. If you found that it paid well to manure a certain piece ot land heavily lust year, suppose you try the same thing again— only doubling the application. Potatoes for Homes. A few potatoes every day are very beneficial to all kinds of horses. Some of the most successful stallion' keepers in this country feed hundreds of bushels of potatoes every year to their stallions. They are fed raw' along with the grain Food. Electricity In the Garden. The arc electric light is now being made use of by many g.vrdenars in; forwarding tho growth of their plants, with marked advantage. The application, however, requires skill to obtain desirable results. The light • is found to be injurious if placed too near, and its influence is munh bettered by the use of the opal globe, . Treatment of Bars. To be successful, a bee keeper must possess gentleness, patience, .absence of fear, and perfect command ot self. Pear must be overcome or concealed. It may be present at first, but usually gives place to confidence after a little experience. The theory that bees instinctively select some persons as.natural enemies, has no foundation in fact. The Value of its Kenourccs on the United Slates. At a comparatively insignificant expense to the government we have learned more of Alaska's geography and topography, its people and Us resources, in twenty-five years Ihm Russia learned tried to learn in one hundred and twenty-six years of possession. Our people have drawn more money and products out of the country than the Russian people did, and our government has received more revenue from the country than the Czar's treasury ever received from the sama source. P"r the twenty years preceding tiie year 1860 the gross receipts of the Russian American compjinv from nil sources in Alaska were about $11,000,000, put of which dividends were p'liri amounting to $1,500,000, and $2 250,000 to the Impsrial i overnm°nt in the shape of import duties on Chinese teas purchased witn Alaskan furs. Ducing the twenty year?, from 1870 tp 1890. we drew from Alaska products of various kinds to tfap value ot over $60.000 000, while the TJaitwl States government received a cash revenue of over $6,000,000. —Iv m P.ekoff, in North American Review for Straw berries. If you set some strawberries last fall and they show an indication of fruit this season do not- encourage tnem. If you are wise you will pinch off every blossom as soon as it appears and let the strength of the plant go toward making it more vigorous for next year's fruiting. The runners also should be cut off, except where they are needed to make new plants. Testing the Cow. The good cow is seldom bought. The buying of _ a^cow to take the place of one that is dry is simply a chance in a lottery, for she must be tested by milking before her worth can be discovered. There is but one sure way for securing good cows, and that is to breed for them, a method which will not only lead to larger profits, but also greatly tend to lessen contagious diseases. s When one buys a cow he may bring disease in his herd. The great scourge of dairymen—abortion—is due more to the selling off of dry cows and buying fresh ones from all sources thau to any otner. cause, as th'a new cows spread the disease. Niffht Bull. Managed as it should be, night soil may be made an important means of restoring waste land to renewed and increased productiveness. But in any case such fertilizers should not be used for growing plants whose leaf is used for human food, as cabbage, lettuce and celery. It is through the • leaf that offennive matter in the soil is changed and purified. The seed is not affected. Hen CD where raw manures are applied, it should only be on fruit or grain crops, where the plant or the leaves are not used as food. When night soil is thoroughly decomposed, it is no more offensive than the same amount of fertilizing material in any other form. It is rarely, howfvar, that entire decomposition is possible before using it. Hence its appli cation requires thought and care, Young Aulmula. The young animals are the most profitable, To concentrate former years of feeding and ca r e in one-hall; the space means three or four times I he profit. This applies to every animal roared on a farm, and as much to the poultry as to any others. It has been shown that a stter that miy make t'iree pounds of live weight per diy in its first year at a cost of 10 cents will make (nly one pound a day at a cost of 20 cents in its third year: And at the suma jime the steer, bv the best; feeding from biith, will make as much weight in twenty-fuir month* as it o<tn otherwise maka in fifly months. tion, yielding a vastly larger product an acre than our average farms do now. It means progress in the science of agriculture, and a wider and better average of prosperity among those engaged in the calling. It means less manual and more mental labor, and consequently tho oppor« tunity for the farmer to advance to a a higher plane of intelligence and living 1 . The surest wjy to reach this is to become an earnest student, now, of every development that is making in the science and to try and keep abreast with its process* There is no longer any need of clinging to old #ays because they are safe, as many of the new ones have been shown to be safer and more trustworthy.—Exchange. THJK HOUSEHOLD. One Only. One long ro the sad A lid Hie heart Is made glad; One beautiful rose to a friend; One small candy toy For the dear baby boy; One smile—It will count In the end. i One word to the wise; One chance wins a prize; One wave turns the billowy tide; One furl to the pall, It will conquer the gale: One stroke turns me rowbuat aside. One step to the right, It will lead to the light; One vision of joy as you roam; One lift to the load, It will shorten the road; And bring you wilt cheer to your home, One man In tho land, Anil a shake o( the hand, A stranger Is stranger 110 more; One brave, daring friend, And a lov» wlihoutnnd Will guard you on ocean nnd shore. Smalt Kiulta. Intensive agriculture is something more than a phrase; it is the df fioition of the system of farming that is bound to obtain in the near future in all the more closely populated districts of our country. The wile farmers are >.e'ting in line wi h the movement now, It does not mean large tracts ofjaod belonging to a single owner. %»,d poorly cultivated, *" -" • opPfW; teW Though 1 cannot do what I would, I will labor to do what I can. The severest test possible for a man' character is to no good nnd bave some one else get the credit for it. He who has do inclination to learn more will be verv apt to think that he knows enough.—Powell. A sound discretion is not so much indi- dated by never making a mistake as by never repeating it.—Bovee. Cannon JTarrar on Women. If it be true that the "cornerstone ot Ihe Commonwealth is the hearthstone," tiow important is the work of »every woman, even in that sphere of family life which many aro temped to despise as too narrow for their energies. Every woman should, indeed, aim at doing good in wider regions of life, and should endeavor by the irresistible force of sweet and silent Influence, if in no other way, to raiss the whole tone of national thoueht and conduct^ But even if a .woman, whether married or unmarried, be "never heard.of balf a mile from home," the purity and loftiness of her ideal, the devoted unselfishness of her life, may tell with immense and continuous power upon every member of her family. The bright invisible air produces effacls more stupendous when no whisper of a breeze is heard than all the fury of the passing hurricane; and the, influence, con-clous and unconscious, of thousands of women, entirely unknown to fame, may go to the ennoblement of (he moral beings of generations yet unborn. Men are, and ever will be what the jr. wives and sisters, and above all their mothers, teud to make them, by influence which brgins with the cradle and ends only with the grave.—Ladies' Home Journal. Expectancy. Expectancy is oftentimes a prime duty of life, it has so large a part in influencing and regulating our actions that it behooves us to regulate it and to see thi.t it baa due recognition as a facter of conduct. Shakespeare makes the messenger say of Claudio, "He hath better bettered expectations than you musk expect of me to tell you how." _ Bettering expectation is, in this case, going beyond the expectation. But another and even more important way of bettering an expectation is by expecting better, and then living up to the demands of the expectations. "I told him not to do that, 1 ' said a mother of her boy, "but of course, he did it; you couldn't expect any thing better of a child." How much of that child's failure is due.to the, mother's failure to expest better of him? It does not take a child long to read the parent's degree of expectancy that his orders will be carried our. Oa that degree of expectancy the child bases bin degree o£ respect for the ordei s given him. He obeys the spirit of the parent's expectancy, even though that compels his disobeying the letter of the parent's orders, , The child is not altogether right, but he can hardly bs blamed for b(-ing less wrong than bis parent.—Sunday-School Times. The Disagreeable Tank. Among the particular advantages desirable for a boy, Eiward EvarettHale enumerated the daily peiforumnce of some disagreeable task. It need not be essentially disagreeable, but something apt to be distasteful to the boy, euoh as filling the wood-box or hoe-ing for a st tted time in the garden. The nted for such discipline does not disappear with boyhood, , but in later Ufa is generally more rigidly enforced by circumstances than it was in youth by the parental will. And we who laugh at the boy's restiveness under his task, rebel in like manner against the constantly recurring distasteful duties in our own lof, and concentrate our dislike in the term of "drvdaery." The debt we owe to these habit-forming tasks, the momentum gained which gives us the possibility of self-control, has been well set forth in a sharroing series of papers entitled "Blesaid be Drudgery, of which the. f jllowing is the opening paragraph: "Of every tv/6 men probably one thinka he is a drudge, and every second woman at times is bure sho is. Either we arg not doing the thing we wou'd like to do in life, or in what we do and like we find fo much to dislike that the rat tires, even when Ihe road runs on the whole a pleasant way. I am going lo speak of the culture thrit comes through this very drudgery. Our prime eleiiieotals are dua to our dm igery. I mean that litterally. The /undciujoutals that underlie all fineness, and without which no other culture worth the winning ii even possible. Those, for instance—and what names more familiar?—power of attention, power of industry,promtitude in beginning work, method and accuracy and dispatch in dO' iner work, pereerverctnce, courage before difficulties, cheer uuder straining burdens- sell-control and beli-d(niul and temperance. For d ud^ery is the doing of one thing, one thing, one thing, long after |$ ceasoi to be umunny, and it is this one thing I do that Cithers me together fron* cbaos, that cQueentrales we from P?w- bilities to pos^r^ and turns powers info }«PMlMMI|NWiH40Wit JS^./S 1 -"* ' ' - mt.iat<: c-i. t tjffl

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