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THE tTPPEtt DBS MOlNJSS* ALGONA, IOWA, WEDNESDAY, MAY 25. 1892. A STORt OP CASTE. He stood in front of net- witn 1119- arms heldttownrda hei» and she looked eagerly Into his face. In 'another moment Iris urin was round her—her pride* her pain, her resolves, all scattered to the winds—and she was Jl.ving around the ball-room with Philip Cuiringtotij revelling at last in her old pleasure, which was enhanced by the encirlihg arm, the close contact with the ma.it she knew now she loved dearly, hopelessly* she thought. He danced admirably t-^nore lightly more sympathetically with the music; with more support to herself, «o she discovered—than Lord Hareourt Vernon hud over done. It was the most delightful* most estutic, dance she hud ever Iciiowii, as the music censed, he guided her, breathless, hut with sparkling eyes and flushed face, back to her easy chair, mur- iiitiring, as he did so, a few low words of thanks in her ear. allow well you dance 1" she said. "I bad no idea you could." <(I dare say not," ho answered. "But why should I not? I love music I have health and strength, and am not very old you give me credit for nothing, Florence. And yet I don't know—you granted my petition, thinking that I might disgrace you witli ii failure. • Well, I am thankful that I have not done so." AVhy did he always humiliate her so with with his irony, with so contemptuously reading her inner thoughts, and, worse still, declaring them aloud? Hut the re was no perversity troubling her to.night. The remaining dancers were making Hie most of their quickly-passing evening; Florence and Philip were almost alone. "Shall I tell you of the last time that I waltzed to the same music!'" she asked, with scarlet cheeks. ••If it will not pain you; but, if it does, try to forget it—for .to-night at least," lie said gently. But she went on unheeding, as if following her own thoughts. "It was the week before poor papa died, ntonr own house—it was with Lord lliir- court ••Vernon." And then she hesitated witli a strange mingling of pride and. sincerity, her face (lushing deeply. "That dayhe was my alllanced lover." Her voice trembled but not with the feeling he suspected ; and IMiilip Uarrington's face turned pule as marble. ''You never told me this before," he said quickly; "surelyyou might have had sufll- cient eonlidence in some of us to trust your secret to my mother or to my sisters. It scarcely seems right that the fiancee of a peer, Miss AVorthington, (should have come amongst us inick'r false colors, to be treated us one of ourselves." She could' detect unmistakable signs of anger in his voice, which he strove faintly to hide. She saw the .same signs in his blanched face. Though his words might he lightly construed, they were very sweet to her. She looked up at him with irrepressible triumph in her face; and this lie was <[iiiek to discover. "Ah, Florence; I see you pride yourself upon being a heart-slayer! But some victims may have strength to escape your wiles; they may not all be Vanquished— some may seek something better than a pretty face." lie was standining close to her, his arms folded on his broad chest, his face vety set and cold, and the sunny light had faded from his gray eyes. "1'ou are always so hasty with me—always trying to put the worst construction upon all I say or do," she said, in quick low tones. "1 have not the smallest right to put any construction, good or bad, upon what you may do or say," be answered. "You are your own mistress; but it seems to me if my thoughts are anything to you, that you might have favored some of us with the knowledge of your true position when you honored my father's house by accepting it for your home; you have placed but little confidence in us." His voice lacked all the tenderness of tone she had always hitherto heard. •'What if I have told you my true position! 1 " she. asked. "You cannot have done so." "Nevertheless I have," she answered calmly, "You have just told mo for the lirst time that you wore alllanced. I suppose that is the orthodox term for young ladies in your position?" he said coldly. "I told you that I was—I certainly am not now." "Have you jilted him then?" Her eyes Hashed at her questioner. "You are certainly pitiless in your questions. I did not jilt his lordship, but he jilled me—there is just that dillcrence, if yon see any," she said; and her voice trembled as siie confessed to her humiliation. It was as if sunlight suddenly Hooded the face before her; there was now only wistful tenderness hovering over it. "Florence, will you ever forgit'O me?" Philip Oarrington asked bending down over her. "I do not know that I ever can," she answered coldly. "You have forced my secret from mo only to condemn me in every way." "And arc you sure you cannot tell my reason, Florence? Or is it that you wilfully ignore it? But forgive me," he pleaded again. "You have given me so much pleasure to-night;—do not undo it all. I was wrong in all I thought of you just now; but you cannot reali/.e what 1 fell at stake, Forgive me," he said for the third time. "His submissivcucss was very sweet to her, his pleading very dUlicult to resist; but pride and the pleasure she felt in torturing the man she loved were all-powerful. "I will do bettor than forgive—1 will try to forget to-night, and all the follies it has brought," .shu answered coldly. lithel was coming near her on Air. Hasting's arm. Florence rose quickly to meet her, followed by a glance ol keen reproach from her cousin. 'UJtliol, I am tired after my folly in dancing—did you sec me? But it was all your brother's fault. Will you forgive me if I steal away to bed? It must bo very lute." "As you like, dear," her cousin answered; -'but your face looks too bright for nuieh fatigue, does it not, John?" she said, •turning to her companion; but be hail glanced towards Philip and had discovered H hidden meaning or trouble in his face, "lid lie drew lOtbel gently from them. Florence gathered her bouquet and fan from the little table by her side, and, with her trailing velvet skirt falling round her, passed her cousin I'hilip without a glance or a word, and proceeded up-stnlrs toiler worn. She heard him sigh heavily, but heiuudc no effort to restrain her; and, us «h« turned on the stairs, and gave another look back, she saw him pass his hand wea- nly over his face and then re-enter the nearly empty ball-room, where she soon learil his voice In lively conversation with some one still there. And she, although the aggressor, felt aggrieved. Her pride was not subdued, though her love burned brightly. ' b 8h# stood now before her glass in her comfortable flre-Ught room. Was her love <>w>n »Dnnerh »„,! sU-ppw.erfUl enough, she wondered, to compensate her for the Snc- riflcc she must make, or thought she'must make, were she to yield to it, or did the world promise her more? Would she not find her happiness more fully in the admi. ration her beauty might win'for her in the splendid home .which might be hers once again, on Lady Haven's return? She could not tell, but she doubted; and the doubt made her very sick at heart and weary with her indccfson. There was as least the charm of rest in the home-life which she knew now was Within her grasp, anil she felt a glow of rapture when she pictured' herself always cheered by the tender tones of a voice so sweet to her, the presence she loved so well, and the heart anticipating, she knew well, her every thought and wish. But then she knew she would be for ever excluded from her old sphere, and costly dress and jewels would be at her command no more. She hesitated, was. lost Her baneful tempter was even now by her side. Wearily she opened her dressing case to' return the few trinkets she had worn that evening, when her eyes fell upon her aunt's last letter, unopened and, Until that moment, forgotten. It had arrived late that day, and determined that her pleasure should not be tindimmed, at least for the evening, she had left it unread; but now she threw herself into the easy olinlr and perused it. All the tide of tenderness that had been rising within her was now turned aside. The letter was worthy of the writer.— When once the Countess Haven desired to accomplish any object she had in view, she left but few means untried to attain success. Her love for her niece, small though it might be, had •wonderfully reviv- ved of late; and her ladyship's pride too was hurt that her dead brother's only child •—the reigning beauty of two seasons, who had let a coronet slip through her hands— should be allowed to throw herself away in a sphere far below her. Her conscience too was touched, for she knew the real blame must lie at her own door. But there might yet be time to retrieve her fault, and experience had taught her that Miss Worthington might be led or tempted but not coerced; so. she would now try earnestly, with all the tact she possessed, to fulfil her own wishes and provide a brilliant future for her niece. She would hold out the most tempting lures her brajn suggested, and Florence found herself apparently, and for the first time, of great importance in her aunt's estimation. Lady Haven would return to London with Sir John iteddowes in a month's time, when she earnestly desired her niece to be in readiness to join her in Clttrgcs Street for an unlimited visit at least—• vhieli was a saving clause for her ladyship, n case that visit proved irksome; nor need ;he arrangement preclude 11 return to Flor- jnco's present home if she proved intracta- j|e or diillcult to manage. Lady Haven was counting the days, she ;old her niece, to see her again. Her cous- n, Lady Margaret, would be in England AVO months later, when the weather would jo more settled; and Lady Hav.cn looked brward to a brilliant season for them all— icr own importance enhanced by her niece's beauty. The last piece of news in icr aunt's letter made Florence's lip curl, and an old delimit light gleam in her eyes. It was that Lady Margaret had lately met Lord Hareourt Vernon at Nice, at the Duchess Martori's reception, and that his ordship had asked with great empres.se- ment, for news of his ex-liancec, Florence. <Who knows, my dearest girl, what the fu- ure may bring forth, and especially now that you have gained so much sad experience and are older and wiser?" her ladyship wrote playfully, in conclusion. The postscript added that Lord Vcrnon would uo almost immediately in town again for the whole season, and had declared his intention of making a speedy appearance iu Olarges Street. This was the gist of the whole letter, Florence knew perfectly well; but a breath from her old world always unsettled her fatally in her present home. In the midst ol her weary, wandering thoughts, a step passed her door, lingering a moment on Its threshold. It brought a sudden flush to her face, but little change in her heart. Her resolve was nearly taken; Lady Haven's wishes should prevail, and seemed already far on the way to success. »*«*•*• Two days passed before Philip Carrington and Florence met again. He had sought her once or twice indirectly during the time; but she had always avoided him— She dreaded what she know must come, and she dreaded to renounce all her happiness. She resented her cousin's absence, and yet Hew away breathlessly when she hoard his step; but this was not always possible. The time passed wearily enough, she yearned for the sight of one she was voluntarily putting away from her forever, for the sound of a voice which had power to thrill every nerve in her frame; yet, in spite of all, her decision was made. She had written to Lady Haven, saying she would bo ready to come to her at once on her return to Kngland; but as yet she had withheld her decision from her uncle and aunt Oarrington. She had deferred it from day to day, dreading their solicitations for her to remain with them. She sat wearily enough alone in her morning room. Her aunt was busy below, real-ringing china and plate, and the girls had gone for a long winter walk, from which Florence had shrunk. Hoping for what she dreaded, .she told herself there could be no chance of her cousin Philip's arrival at home for two hours at least—and yet she listened with painful intentness for his step. It came at last; and in a moment she no. ticed how his face had changed since she last saw him, how worn and pale he was; and it made her heart ache, though she strove all the time to nerve herself for what might come. Ho seemed prepared to lind her where she was. Whether she had fallen into a trap carefully laid for her she could not tell; a few things only were clear to her, and at the same time impossible— She wished to stay in her present home, and yet not resign the future splendors possible to her, She wished her cousin Philip always to bo near her, while sue herself planted an impassable barrier between them. These were her thoughts and wishes. CllAl'TlSU XI The wintry light had faded into dusk; but Philip Harrington saw Florence in a moment, and crossed quickly to her side. ..For three days nearly, Florence," he said "you Have shunned me—has the interval been long enough? Have you tor. mentcd mo sulliciently to satisfy yourselt ? Or is it the truth, as they tell me, that you have been ringing the changes of fatigue and illness? You do not look ill however." And she did not then; her cheeks were Hushed to the hue of a rose. <<1 am not ill," she answered mislead- 11 v leaving her hand in his burning grasp. •'All, I thought not I 1 guessed your motive in Hying from mo; but I have caught you at last. However, you shall not complain of my persecution, Florence, bend me from you to-day, and I will leave you iu peace till you summon be back again.— I3ut do nuituer lifc'1'tly, * be Sy°«" Hu spoke with almost tremulous eageiv new, ttuU toU low tender voice seemed lull of pathos. Sue toOK reiuge in evasion. . , <«L nave never shunned you; on the eon* tmry, I have continually wondered at your aosencc." "And longed for my presence? That is good to hear, Florence. Give me a little' patient attention then, now that I have come; that is all that! ask.. I cannot beat about the bush; it is my nature to always go straight to the point; and you have made me suffer suspense, during the lust three days, beyond my powers of ontlu* ranee. You tell me in words, Florence, that you do not like me, and yet confess— rarely, I grunt, bill sometimes—that I have powe!" over you. You put me from you, and you tempt me to your side. 1 know well that 1 am often outwardly harsh and brusque to you; but you have tried me sorely. Between such tempting sweetness and such bitter disregard lor Ull uiy feelings! am puzzled. Miss Wortnington's face was bent down; one hand covered her. eyes, the other was in his grasp. Instinctively he guessed,his fate; but lie meant to know it now beyond all daunting. "Florence, I alone of all this household read your pride; did I not 1 would approach you very dill'erently. It is probable you will deem it presumption that I, a tradesman—yes, I know"—lie felt her start at his words, dare to raise my eyes to one so far above mo; but there is .something in real, true, tinselfisli love that is worth, a gecond thought before It is cast aside," "Oh, pray stop I Uo not say more to me now—speak a little time hence, not now," she pleaded in low broken tones. She could not send him from her, she dared not bid him stay; she prayed him to be silent, and yet clung convulsively to his hand. "I must speak now, Florence. Let me know my fate. 1 cannot bear this uncertainty Florence, I love you with all my heiirt and soul—as never man loved before, I'tlo believe," he said in low passionate tones. "Let my love bridge over the great gulf of pride, of caste, between us, if, as I suspect, thove Is such a gulf." He felt her trembling and shrinking, and tried to draw her nearer to him. "Florence, dearest, listen to me; do not lightly refuse my prayer." "But I cannot grant it—indeed I cannot," she said, crying softly. "What you ask is impossible." "I ask you first of all for truth, Florence"—his hopes sinking fast. "Is it that you cannot love me?" "Yes—no—think what you will; it comes always to the same thing—I cannot marry you," she said more firmly. "It must be 'Yes' or <NV distinctly, Florence. Kither you do love me, as I have sometimes dared to hope, and your pride bars the way, or you do not love me, and have lured mo on from a caprice to please yourself, little caring how you might spoil my life. If it were not for your pride, Florence, and your station, I should be a far humbler svooer; but if I abased myself to you, I should be worthless in your eyes —1 know that. Florence dearest, listen to me; grant my prayer, and the one thought of my life shall be to give you happiness, to encompass you with a love deeper than you can imagine. I would not risk your happiness by tempting you to share a fate devoid of a single comfort that I know is essential to you; I can give you all, besides my great love and my life-long devotion," he pleaded. "I cannot—1 cannot!" she cried; but she was sorely tempted. Pride was her bane. She could not relinquish the birthright she thought her own; she could not then realize the worth of what she then so recklessly trampled on. Her decision was formed; but she betrayed his power over her. She was cry. ing bitterly. "Must the decision bo now? Why have you spoilt all my remaining time with you by forcing it upon ine now?" "Yes, it must be now, Florence. You must either accept or reject me. I must know my fato. Tell me truthfully—truthfully, mind—with your hand in mine, j-our eyes meeting mine—that you bid mo liope ) that you put off the decision only to give yourself time to ascertain the real state of your feelings towards me, and I will wait your pleasure thankfully. But you cannot say that—your love is powerless in the presence of your pride. Am 1 not right?" She knew that he was. He dropped hoi hand and paced up and down the room. "You are very hard with mo; you press me cruelly," she said, and then he stopped suddenly before her. "Florence, do you love me? Have you any love for me?" ho demanded vehemently. She could not tell him that she had not She dared not tell him that she had. She kept her head bent down in silence, "Ah, I know—I know!" ho said sadly "It is your' irrevocable decision that you will not marry me. You give mo no hope cither now or iu the future." How her heart ached to see the brightness all gone from his face! How she longed to grant his prayer I But she darco not break down the barrier between her caste and his. "You utterly reject my love now and forever," he said; "you banish me from you. Is it so?" "I don't wish to banish you; I like you too well," she admitted. "But I cannot marry you," she added sorrowfully. "Thank >'o«; but your presence will now be unendurable to me. I do not think I could suffer to be played with, in the way you think possible even by you, Florence. But wo must talk a little of the future," he went on calmly. "Have you fully decided to leave us." • •Yes, I have promised to go to Lady Haven directly she returns." "And does my mother know this?" he asked, "She does not know the date of my aunt's return or of my departure." "And may I ask when you expect to join Lady Ha\'en? "The 20th of February. "And this is the 18th of January. A little more than four weeks you will remain with us then." Her heart sank when she heard the certain limit put to her stay. She had hitherto left It unsettled even to herself; she could not bear to know that the decision was Irrevocable; but she knew it was BO now. "I think you will grant me this request, Florence; it Is to keep my dismissal at present from my mother. A little later she may know It; but, whilst you remain with us, it will be more pleasant for us all that she should not be aware of the truth. You need not fear because of my presence. Of course I cannot utterly desert my home; but 'the next mouth will not see much of me here. For a week I can employ myself nearly night and day at business ; after that I shall be at Hugby for a fortnight, which may be extended to three weeks. Work will be the best thing to make me forget the siren who lured me on in'snite of my better sense," he said sadly. "I suppose you will not be inclined to forgive me when I tell you that I wish I had never seen you. You have not spoilt all jny life, but you have dimmed and saddened my future for me." «l.pt u» be us we were aud forset all this wretched conversation,'' Miss Worthington interposed. "Thank you 1 No; your visit over, you would certainly forget me, while I should perhaps be hoping that you might think of me. It is bettor as it is; suspense is the nost intolerable pain that wo mortals have o bear. You will do what I wish, Florence, by saying nothing for the present to rouse my^mother's suspicions; it will be ess embarrassing for you, and will save hose I hold dear all pain too." He took nit his watch. "Half-past five," he said. 'My father will soon ue home, and I must say good-bye. I shall have to be at busi- icss all this evening, and will just run lown stairs to my mother lirst. Let s shake hands for what may be the last ,ime, Florence." He took her hand [carelessly and coldly "or a moment. She clasped his eagerly, but :olild feel no answering pressure. "You have my most earnest wishes., Florence," lie said, "that the future may jring you all the happiness you expect to lind in it." In another moment he was gone and Miss Worthington was left alone, with every nerve in her frame throbbing. For a second it was in her mind to recall him, to confess her love, to subdue her pride; the last however was too deeply planted lii her nature. She might bear her pain, she thought, though she could hardly realize t yet; but she could not cast away her birth-right of high caste. With her beauty und high breeding, she could not wed a Tradesman. The winter twilight looked very dreary and cheerless to Florence as she glanced without, and the morrow, even now, appeared hopeless and dismal; but she had decided. A certain limit was put to her stay iu the home which had been so pleasant to her. The sooner the interval was over now the better. She began to long for the weeks to pass. She looked round the pretty room in which she was standing, and her eyes could not rest upon a spot which did not remind her of her cousin Philip. "How can I bear it?" she thought; but she had chosen, and could not now go back. As she mused the door below was shut ently, and her listening ears could catch iic sounds of hurrying footsteps on the gravel, and the click of the garden gate.— She knew that all hope was now shut out from her. With aching brain and heart, she wondered whether she should see Philip again. Her pride might be very dear to her, but might not a steadfast happy love, shorn of all position, all useless splendor, be far sweeter? Who could tell? she thought; the tears ran quickly down her face, and dropped upon her clasped hands. "Where is Philip?" "Whore are they all?" Maud and lithel Uarringtou asked, their fresh voices bringing with them a breath of frosty winter air. Florence had been too absorbed in her own thoughts to escape unseen to her room, and Ethel soon discovered her crouched in a low chair in a dark corner. TO BE CONTINUED. FARM AND HOME. THE FARMER FEEDS The klnc may rnle o'er land find sea, The lord way live right royally, The soldier ride In pomp and pride, The sailor roam o'ar ncean wide; But this or that, whate'er befall. The farmer he must feed them all. The writer thinks, the poet singe, The craftsmen fashion wondrous things; The doctor hesls, the lawyer pleads. The miner follows the precious lends; Bnt this or that, whate'er befall, The farmer he mast feed them all. The merchant he may buy and sell, The teacher do his duty well; But men may toll through busy days, Or men may stroll through pleasant ways; From king to beggar, whate'er befall, The farmer he must feet them all. The farmer's trade is one of worth; He's partner with the sky and earth, He's partner with the sun and rain, And no man loses for his train; And men may rise and men may fall, But the farmer he must feed them all. God bloBB the man who sows the wheat, Who finds us milk and fraltand meat; May Ills pulse be beavyfhis heart be light, Ills cattle and corn and all go right; God Woes the seeda his nnnda let fall, for the farmer he must feed us all. mice, which tun through the bills and eafc tie seed before it comes up. One farmed n this section has found the old cu»tom of oatine, the corn with pine tar an effectual emedy. To apply the tar* pour boiling water on the corn, letting it remain but a moment, then pour off aiid mix in the tar. V teaspoonful will be sufficient for about our quarts. After tho corn has been tioroughly covered with tar, roll it in, •ood ashes or Jnnd plaster, and it is i-eady or use. Care should be taken in apply- ng the tar tnat too thick a coating be not ut on, as it might prevent eefmihatio n in old iron kettle has been found useful o stir the corn in while applying tho tar* ""his same remedy will prevent cows, lackbirde, etc., from pulling; the com fter it has sprouted.—American Agri- ulturist. FARM NOTE8. . Feed well but waste no fodder. Currants need a rich, strong soils the roots run deep. It pays farmers lo co-operate in buying and selling. Cold water mixed with buttermilk increases the gravity so that the butter floats better, and there is less fat lost in drawing out the buttermilk. It is I he opinion of the Western Live Stock Journal that the American dr ft horse is coming to the front and creating a new interest among our farmers. Remember that if you must have open ditches, those made with a road grader will.not wash out like plowed ditches; but they are still dangerous to stock if they are made coo deep. To get around and do all the work with the least amount of labor, -it is necessary to have the farm barn so simply arranged that one thing about it follows another in consecutive order. Some one asked us the other day if wo ever saw a good farmer who was a poor man ? and we have been looking- and thinking ever ' since, and ;cannot yet put our hand upon one. We wonder if mere is not a moral in this somewhere?—Ex. The corn crop is almost always a paying one when its simplest demands in the way of cultivation and fertilizing are complied with. On poor ground, without manure, and not well worked, it cannot be expected to fcive a generous return. Setting Plants. Cabbages and cauliflowers, tomato and epper plant?, may be set before the end f the month if the land is well prepared, nd is so situated as to be sheltered from old winds, &nd not especially liable to late rosts. They all need warm land and lib- ra! manuring, but each one will do well pon an artificial fertilizer made after the ormulas, or in the proportions \teed by rincipal manufacturers of fertilizers, but or some soils additions might be inade of itrate of soda or potash that would make ; still better adapted to the crop desired, everal of the experiment stations report- d very good results upon tomatoes by us- ng nitrate of soda us an extra fertilizer, rhile in Massachusetts, at Ainherst, and t other points, they found muriate of pot- sh was the extra fertilizer that gave the estresults upon nearly all crops. Almost ny good fertilizer or none may be used hen the plants tire set, butjtho time when tie application seems to do tho most good to put it around the plants and work it well into the soil just as the tomatoes and eppers are beginning to Jblosaom, aud when the cabbages and cauliflowers are eading up. And this may be taken as a lint in regard to their use _upon many ther plants.—American Cultivator, THJS HOME. OBEYING MILITARY ORDERS. The Soldier Who Executed His Superior's Commands to Destroy His Own House. The ttory is told in a French newspaper of Pierre Barlat, a poor laborer who lived at Sevres, near Paris, with his wife Jeanne, and their three children. ludus-' trious, frugal, knowing nothing of the way to the wine shop, Pierre saved all his spare money, working harder and harder, and at last bought the tiny cottage in which they lived. It was a tiny cottage, indeed—built of stones, with tiled roof, standing amid shrubs and covered with clematis. It always attracted the eye of the traveler, on the left, as he crossed the Sevres bridge. Pierre and Jeanne worked and scraped and saved until the little cottage was paid for, and made a feast when it was done to celebrate their ownership. A landed proprietor, to be sure, does not mind an occasional expenditure to entertain his friends. All this Pierre and Jeanne had accom- plikhed just before the war of 1870, with Germany, broke out. The conscription fell upon Pierre, who, moreover, was an old soldier and belonged to the reserves. A gunner he had been, famous for his skill in hitting a mark with a shell. Sevres had fallen into the hands of the Germans, but the French guns kept pounding away at them from the fort on Mount Valerien. Pierre Barlat was a gunner at the fort, and, one winter day, wisstandidg by his gun, when Gen. Noel, the commander, came and levelled his field glass at the Sevres baidge. "Gunner, he said sharply, without looking at Pierre. "General," answered Pierre, respectfully saluting. "Do you. see that Sevres bridge over there?" "I see it very well, sir." "And that little eottage there, at the left, in a thicket of shrubs?" Pierre turned pale. "I see it, sir. "It's a nest of Prussians. Try it with a shell, my man." Pierre turned paler still, and in rpite of the cold wind that made the officers shiver in their great coats, one might have seen great drops of sweat starting out on his forehead, but nobody noticed the gunner's emotion, He sighted his piece carefully, deliberately, then fired. The officers, with their glasses, marked the efftct of the shot after the smoke had cleared. "Well hit, my man! well hit!" ex claimed the general, looking at Pierre, with a smile, "The cottage couldn't have been very solid, it is completely smashed. 1 ' He was surprised to see great tears running down the gunnery cheeks, "What's the matter, man?" the general asked rather roughly. "Pardonme, general,"said Pierre, recovering himself, "It was my house— everything I had in the world."—Tid Bits. ODDITIES. Some pussons takes er pride in raisin' up dar chilluu ter be sharp, an' many times arter da is grown da'puts de sheriff ter great 'eal o' (rouble. Mr. Gurley: "Are your family related to th- Scaddses, of Philadelphia?" Miss Scadds (haughtily); "No; thay are related to us." The father of a f ve- year-old boy didn't know there were so many questions in the English language until he took his boy to see a wax-works exhibition. Young Attorney: What did your father i ay when he eaw my picture in your watch? Miss Worth: That it was the only case you ever appeared 4n.—Jewelers' Weekly, "I see you have written your poetry in gas meter, Mr. Rimer." "Gfts meter, sir?" "Yes, there are (09 many feet," JCnrly .Lambg. Early lambs for the spring market sometimes prove exceedingly profitable, but only when given extra care and feed and intelligently handled. Not only must the dams be well fed, given comfortable quarters and rich, but not heating, food, but the lambs must early be taught to eat a little ckop feed mixed with ground oil cake, and thus put on much more flesh as ;hey growinsizs. Only the plump, thick leshed lambs command the top prices. A thin lamb is not wanted, no matter how arge the frame is. The Cow. A writer in American Cultivator says he has succeeded in preventing abortion in cows that were particularly liable to it, having anorted more than once before, by giving a tablespoonful of pulverized asa- ICBtida in the cut feed twice a day for a month, about the usual time of abortion, and then continuing once a day. We should not caie to partake of the milk while she was taking such doses, but it might serve to save the calf of a valuable cow for breeding purposes. All others had better be sent to the butcher as soor as they can be made fat after the firs! abortion , The Farmer'tt Tools. A farmer owes it to himself to work with the best tools attainable. If his capl tal is not large enough to buy all he wants or his farm large enough to employ them all the season, it is better to own them in partnership, taking turns in their use This kind of co-operation among farmers was once more common than it has been of late years. It was one of the advantages of early settlement of new countries that farmers could work together. Tbi more than offset many of the disadvant ages the early settlers labored under Many labor-saving implements are now so expensive that co-operation in their use is as necessary as it was in the house or barn raising that brought together all farmers in a neighborhood in olden times Clover and Timothy. Clover hay contains from eight to ten per cent, ot albumenoids. The proper tion varies considerably with tho season the clover is out, the very early havinj less than that cut later, and the secom crop oflen more than ten per cent. Timo thy also varies, but less than clover, and i fair average of albumenoids is five to fiv and one-half per cent. After timothy i dead ripe its substance changes to woody fibre, and has little feeding villue. Clove hay is the best to feed for giving strength and growth. It is also mush the best fo farmers to grow, as the clover plant de rives part of its ulbumenoids from the air probably by the action of its roots in de composing air under ground. Henc whife timothy exhausts, the clover ha crop can be grown leaving the land riche than before. Double the Karrn Production. If we farmed our lands in the right wa we could almost double their productio and without increasing the amount of Ian under cultivation we could get 50 per cent more off of it than we now do. For ex ample if we were to bring our whea, lands by means of cultivation and ferti ization up to the standard of those c Belgium or England • our annual whea crop on exactly the same area would b double the psesent production. The earn facts are true in relation to other crop and as the United States grows older an the population increases farming will " reduced to a science. The farmers ai putting in more study and are bette posted to-day than ever Wore astbeir ai vantages for study are bettar, und they have the advantages of first-class agricultural news-papers which their ancestors "Not of This Fold," DY ADA IDDINQBOALE. Not of tills fold," the master shepherd Bald, "But mine, nil mine, and 1 shall call them salt iVlien ehadows deepen, and ncrouB the wold Blows the fierce wind, with its chill weight of frost, shall po out into the gathering gloom \ncl I eluill call and they will follow home." Not of this fold but, mine no lean" he Bald, "They wander far portentous glooms among, Yhlle rocks of ("tumbling mar their onward way, But to my bosom 1 ahull lift the young, Vnd lead the foot-worn o'er the stormy wold, Vlth me they'll (lock into the sheltered fold." 'Not 0f this fold hut yet I love them so That they in nut follow wh«n 1 say the word, Out In the night and through the glooms I go— They will not stay—when my voice they have heard; When soft I call they will follow me 'or they are mine—are mine, as well as yo," , —Inter Ocean. Love was tho first missionary. Inspiration is the spring of lofty deeds, Never sleep with enmity in your heart against anybody. Consider the man who is always punctual — how much time he wastes waiting for ither people. No one man is ever off duty. In all places and at all times he is to be armed, watchful, ready for his work. There are many wrong ways of doing a. right thing, but there is no right way of doing a wrong thing. JLaiigunge of Colors. In the language of colors green is om- jlematie of hope, for the vernal regenera- lon of nature is typical of life after death; blue denotes faith, for it is the hue of heaven; white is_ the the color of innocence, and red is chosen to represent love, because the heart's blood is of ;hat color. The Good Things are the Cheapest. Remember, my boy, the good things iu :he world are always tbe cheapest. Spring water cosls less than whisky; a box of cigars will buy t • o or three Bibles; a state election costs more than a revival of religion; you can sleep in church every Sabbath morning for nothing, but a nap in a pullman car cost you two dollars every time; the circus filty cents, the theater one dollar, but the missionary box is grateful for a penny; the race horse scoops in twenty thousand the first day, while the church bazar lasts a week, works twenty-five or thirty of the best women in America to death, und comes out forty dollars in debt.— R. J. Burdette. It Afati eg a Difference. "I don't know that I ever quite estimated tha value of my clothes until one day last weeks, " says a New T^rk womxn, and a wife of a well known ciiin n, "We have been moving, and my husband has been taking his meals at a neighboring: restaurant — a first class one, by the way.- I had not been with him ; but on the day of our worst confusion I went there for luncheon. I suppose I aci what may be termed an elderly little body, and on this day, with an old, long clotk thrown over my 'moving' attire, I can fancy I was not impressive. I was, however, civilly received and well served to the very slight lunch I craved, and when I arose to go I left, as is my habit, a coin on I he tray of the rather stately waiter who b ought me my change. 'Excuse me, mem,' he remarked, returning it; we d^n't take pny- thing- from any poor person." More^ amused that indignant, I faced him. "'Why do you think I am too poor to give you some money?' I askpd. ' "The fellow was'iionpluhed at2 this directness. ..•••. " 'Well,' he said, stammering and hesitating, 'I may Lw mistaken, but, mem, you have that appearance, mem.' "I said no more, but left the place and I did not take up the coin. "That night 1 dressed myself wilh care and went with my husband and a friend who bad come up with him to the re^tau- rant for dinner.. The same waiter mel UB, looked at me, thon a my husband, whom he knew by si^bt and name, puckered hia lips in a quickly repressed whintle, and —sent another man to serve us.' 1 — New York Times. _ t Mre. Bruski— Has the hanging committee decided about your p'C'ure yet? Brush— Yes. Mrs. Biu-ih— Are tbeygo« ing to hang it? Brus'i (dubiou-)— 1 n?ar<J the chairman say he fhrnifcrrit h tiding was did not en joy, Corn From Field Wl«e on bwg Island fijjd,it Ol too jrood lor it.— Bro 'blyn Cubtomer: ¥ p u *<ty tbif ooth will like iron. I've only worn these two WnUM>i Wd «0?f look at thif.