The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on May 20, 1891 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

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Wednesday, May 20, 1891
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THE tJPWitt DES MOINES, ALGONA IOWA WEDNESDAY, MAY .20,. 1891. 'MONICA, }VE STORlT OF MODERN DAYS. the Author of "Mann Scully," "Accused' 1 Ac., <tc. I . • CHAPTER I. The old-fashioned clock is ticking loudly, ponderously, as though determined to betray the flight of fickle time and impress upon the happy, careless ones that the end of all things is at hand. The roses knock their fragrant buds against the window-panes, Bailing attention to their dainty sweetness. The 'pigeons coo amorously upon the sills outside, and even 'thrust their pretty heads Into the breakfast-room, demanding plaintively their daily crumbs, but no one heeds. A deadly silence has fallen upon this room It Moyne, albeit life is fully represented here, and two eyes, in which the light of youth is quenched, are looking anxiously into two other eyes that have also seen the best anil the sweetest of their days. Hopelessly the golden roses scattered their petals. In vain the white and tawny birds entreat backsheesh. To no purpose does the elderly clock count out its numbers. , The urn is hissing angrily, the two cups of tea 60 carefully prepared arc growing cold. So are the crisp little hot cakes, so is the No! by the bye, it isn't! Honey can't, What a chance I was near giving the re- Viewers I One bird, growing annoyed at; the. prolong* ed quiet, flies from the ope;i window to tho back of Miss Penelope's chair, and settles there with an indignant flutter ami a suppressed but angry note. This small suggestion of a living world destroys the spell that for the last few minutes has been connecting the brain with a dead one. ». Miss Penelope, raising her head, gives words to her thoughts, ... J'Poor, poor Katherine!" she says, gently .Smoothing out the letter that lies upon her, knee. "How her happiness was wrecked! and what a sad ending there has been to everything! Her children coming home to US, fatherless—motherless! Dear child I what tflifehers has been! It is quit: 1 twenty years ago now, and yet it all seems io me as fresh as yesterday." "She shouldn't have, taken things so easily; she should have asserted herself at the time," says Miss Priscilla, whose voice is always a note sharper than her sister's. "It requires a great deal of thought and— and a great deal of moral cournge to assort one's self when a man has behaved abomin- nably to one,—has, in fact, jilted one!" says M.iss Penelope, bringing out the awful word » with a little shudder and a shake of Inn- gentle head, that sots two pale lavender ribbons in her cap swaying mildly to anil fro. "Why was she so fatally silent about everything, except the one bare fact of his refusal, at the last moment, to marry her, without assigning any cause for his base desertion? Why didn't she open her whole heart to me? I wasn't afraid of the man !" says Miss Priscilla, with such terrible energy and such a warlike front as might well have daunted "the man," or indeed any man, could he have se.en her. "She should have unburdened her poor bruised spirit to me, wlio—if my mother was not hers, and if I was many years her senior—had at least a sister's love for her." ."A true love," says Miss Penelope, with another sigh. "Instead of which," regretfully, "she hid all her sorrows in her own bosom, and no doubt wept and pined for the miscreant in secret." "Poor soul!" says Miss Penelope, profoundly affected by :his dismal picture. Tears born of tenderness spring to her eyes. . "Do you remember, Priscilla, how she refused to show his letter, wishing, I suppose, even then to spare him?" "I forget nothing!" with some acerbity, "Often, when saying my prayers, I have •wished I could forget him, but I can't, so I have to go on being uncharitable and in sin, —if indeed sin it be to harden one's heart against a bail man." "Do you remember, too, my dear Priscilla, how she refused to go to church the Sunday after she received his coldblooded missive telling her he wished his engagement at an end? I often wonder in what language he could have couched such a scandalous de- Biro; but she tore the letter up. Dear! dear it might have happened to-day, it is all so clear to me." ,. "Too clear," says Miss Priscilla. . ' "I recollect, too," says Miss Penelope, leaning her elbows on the table, pushing her nntasteiV' ia from her, and warming to the dismal memory, "how she would not come down to dinner on that eventful evening, . though we had red-currant tart she was so fond of, and how 1 took her up some myself and knocked at her door and entreated her to open to me anil to eat some of it. There was whipped cream on it; she was very fond of cream, too." "And she refused to open the door?" asked Miss Priscilla, .with the satisfied air of one who has often lieard the thrilling recital before, yet was never tired of it. "Absolutely! so I laid the plate on a little table outside her door. Some hours after... ward, going up to bed, I saw the plate was gone her door slightly ajar. Stealing into her room on tiptoe, I saw she was sleeping • peacefully, and that she had eaten the rod"""currant tart. I felt so happy then. Poor : dear child! how fond she was of that tart!" "She liked everything that hail sugar in 'v it," says Miss Priscilla, mournfully. "It was only natural. 'Sweets to the sweet,'" says Miss Penelope, letting ono'lit- tle white jeweled hand fall slowly, sailly upon tho other. There is a lengthened pause. Presently, stooping slightly toward her sister, Miss Penelope says, in a mysterious whisjier,— "1 wonder, my clear Priscilla, why she married James Beresford a month afterward." "Who can read the human heart? Perhaps it was pride drove her into that mar- riage,—ti desire to show George Desmond how lightly she treated his desertion of her. And James was a handsome young fellow, whereas George was " "Ugly," says Miss Penelope, with quite an amazing amount of vicious satisfaction, for her. "Strikingly so," says Miss Priscilla, acquiescing most agreeably. "But then the Desmond estates mean half the county; and we used to think ho was the soul of honor." "It was 'our father's expressed desire upon his death-bed that Kalherine should marry him." "Yes, yes; a desire to beheld sacred." Anil Katherine gave her promise to our dying parent. Nothing," says Miss Priscilla, in a solemn tone, "should induce any one to break such an oath. I have often said so to the dear child. But she appeared not only willing, but anxious to marry George Desmond. His was the traitorous mind." "I dare say ho has had his own punishment," says Miss Penelope, mildly. "I hope so," says Miss Priscilla, sternly. Then, with a return to sadness, "Twenty years ago it is, and now she has been twelve-month dead null in her quiet grave." v "Oh, don't, my dear Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, in a broken voice, burying her face in her pocket-handkerchief. "Ah! well, well, we had better look to the Cast has no cliarnig for us," gays. Miss Priscilla. with a ghastly attempt nt cheerfulness. "Let me see," referring through a pair of goldrimmeit spectacles to the letter in her hand: "That the dear children have landed we know, and—h'm—yes, this very—yes, plainly, very respectable person, the captain, writes to say they will be with us to-morrow." "•To-mmrmol and that was written yesterday," says Miss Penelope, putting down her handkerchief and starting once more into life. "Why, at that rate, my dear Priscilla, they will be here <o-c7o[/." "Bless me! you don't mean it!" exclaims Miss Priscilla, again applying her glasses to the letter. "Monday, and this is Tuesday; yes, sure enough you are right. "I wonder how we shall get on with children," says Miss Penelope. She is evidently growing extremely nervous. "It seems so strange they should be coming here to the old house." "Monica cannot be a child now. She must be at least eighteen," says Miss Priscilla, thoughtfully. "It was in 1803, that " "1804,1 think," interrupts Miss Penelope. "1803," persists Miss Priscilla. "You may be right, my dear," says Miss Penelope, mildly but firmly, "you often are, —but I know it was in '04 that " "What?'' asks Miss Priscilla, sharply. "Tlio Desmond jilted our Katherine." "You are wrong, Penelope, utterly wrong. It was in '03." "I am nearly always wrong," says Miss Penelope, meekly, yet, with a latent sense of suppressed power. "But .1 cannot forget that in the year George Desmond behaved so shamefully to our sweet Katherine, Madam O'Connors cow had two calves, and tiiat," triumphantly, "was in '04." "You are right,—quite right," says Miss Priscilla, vanquished, but not cast down. "So it was. AVIiat a memory you have, my dear Penelope 1" "Nothing- when compared with your*" says Miss Penelope, smiling. At this moment tlie door opens and an old man enters the room. Ho is clad in the garb of a servant, though such wonderful habiliments as those in which he has arrayed himself would be difficult to purchase nowadays; whether there are more wrinkles in his forehead or in his trousers is a nice question that coulil not readily be decided at a moment's notice. "Well, Timothy," says Miss Prisuilla, looking up aii he approaches the table, "we have had news of Miss Katherine's—I mean Mrs. Bcrcsforil's—children." "Rest her sowl!" says Timothy, in a reverential tone, alluding to that part of tho late Mrs. Beresford. "It seems they have landed and will be with us to-day." "Sure an' a grand change it will be for us all, miss; 'twill indeed,ma'am," says Timothy, cheerfully, though his mind misgives him. "There's nothing like children, when all's told; SUITS there's music in the very sound of their footsteps." "I hope they will be good," says Miss Penelope, with a doubtful sigh. "Faix, what else would they be, miss?" says the old man, with assumed reproach. '"Tis well I mind of poor Miss Katherine herself,—the soft tongue she had in hothead, an' never a cross word out of her, save to Nelly Doolin—an' she was the divil himself, savin' your presence, miss, and enough to provoke all the saints—glory be " "I trust they will be happy here," goes on Miss Penelope, still wistful. "An" why not, miss? Sure the counthry is the finest place at all for tlio young; and Where's a finer counthry than ould Ireland?" "Much can't be said for it of late, Timothy," says Miss Priscilla, sadly; "all it can boast of now is rebellion, sedition, and bloodshed." "Sure every one must have a kick up sometimes, miss," says Timothy, witli youthful lightness; "an' afther all, isn't the ould place only doin' what she can for herself, more power to her?" "Ryan," says Miss Priscilla, sternly, addressing her butler by his surname,—a tiling that is never clone except in dire cases,—and fixing upon him an icy glance beneath which he quails, "I regret you should so far forget yourself as to utter such treasonable sentiments in our presence. You ought to be ashamed of yourself," "So I am, miss. I humbly ask yer pardon, ma'am," says Mr. Ryan, promptly. "But all the different opinions one hears addles the brain. 'Twas only last night the Murphys had a meeting, and they do say, miss," lowering his voice confidentially, "that the Squire down there," pointing apparently through the breakfast-room wall, "is in a bad way with the League boys." ' "The Desmond?" "Yes, miss. He's been evictin' again, ma'am, an' there's queer talk about him. But," witli a relapse into former thought, "if he's a bad landlord, what can he expect?" "No, no, Timothy. He is not a bad landlord," says Miss Priscilla, hastily, though this allowance of grace to her enemy causes her a bitter pang. "He has been most patient for years, That I know." "Well, niaybe so, miss," says Ryan, deferentially, but with a reservation in his manner that speaks volumes. "It isn't for the likes of me, ma'am, to contradict the likes of you. But did ye hear, miss, that Misther Desmond's nephew has come to stay with him?" "At Coole?" "At the Castle. Yes, miss. Faix 'twas inesulf was surprised to hear it. But there he is, safe enough, an' another gentleman with him; an' they do say that the onld masther is as proud as Punch of him. But his blood's bad, I'll no doubt. "No doubt," says Miss Priscilla, severely. Miss Penelope sighs. CHAPTBH II. Already we have reached the afternoon. In these warm June days, when all tho earth is languorous and glad with its own beauty, time slips from us unannounced, and the minutes from morn to eventide, and from the gloaming to nightfall, melt into one another, until all seem but ono sweet, lengthened hour. Certain stray little sunbeams, half wild with glee, rushing hither and thither through the roses, discover Miss Penelope Blake sitting in the drawing-room at Moyne. She is dressed in her very best lavender silk, thai would stand alone, and be glad to do it if it was let,' but unabashed by her splcucloi Apollo's saucy babies dance down upon her, and, seixing on her knitting-needles, play hide-and-seek among them, until the poor liuly's eyes are fairly dazzled. Fortunately, at this instant Miss Priscilla, entering the room, draws down the blind and restores order; after which she seats. herself almost directly opposite her sister. The Misses Blake are not pretty old ladies at all. I don't want to deceive you in this matter, They are, in fact, quite ugly old ladies. Their noses arc all wrong, their cheeks are as wrinkled as Timothy's forehead, and their mouths are out of ail drawing. Miss Priscilla's eyes are brown,—a deep startling brown, that seem to look you through anil through and compel the truth. Her hair is brown, too, and soft, and silky, and pretty, though thickly sprinkled with gray. She has a great deal of this hair, and is secretly very proud of it. Miss Penelope's eyes are pale blue,—with very little blue,—anil but for her long lashes (sole remnants of goodlier days) would be oppressive,. Her hair is pale, too, and sandy, and Is braided bnck fro'm her fon-lieait Tn severe lines. "All is ready now," says Miss Prisoilla,— who is the Martha at Moyne, while we may regard Miss Penelope ns the Mary. "The rooms are prepared, nothing is wanting, and the flowers smell so sweet. I have sent the carriage to meet them, though I know (be train cannot be here for quite nn hour yet; but I think it wise, always to be in time." "There is nothing like it," says Miss Penelope, placidly. "Now I shall rest here with you a little while," goes on the elder maiden, complacently, "and think of all that is likely to happen." "Really." says Miss Penelope, lowering her work and glancing restlessly at her sister, "I feel more nervous than I can say, when I think of their coming. What on earth should we do, my dear Priscilln, if they took a tlislike to us?" "I have thought of that myself," says Miss Prispillo, in an awestruck tone. "We are not attractive, Penelope; beyond a few —a vcru few—insignificant touches," with an inward glance at her fine hair, "we are absolutely outside, the pale of beauty. I wonder if Monica will bo like her mother; or if " Here something happens that puts a final stop to all conversation. The door is opened, quickly, impetuously; (.here is a sound as of many footstopson the threshold without. The old lailies start in their seats, and sit; upright, trembling excessively. What can have happened? Has the sedate Hyancomo to loggerheads witli Mrs. Reilly tho cook? (a state of tilings often threatened); and are they now standing on the mat outside meditating further bloodshed? A moment surcharged witli thrilling suspense goes by, and then, not Ryan or the cook, but a much more perplexing vision comes slowly into the room. It is a very radiant vision, though it, is clothed In mourning garments, full of grace and beauty. Very shy, with parted lips, and brilliant, frightened eyes, but perfect as an opening llower. Is it a child or a woman? is tho tirst question that strikes Miss Penelope. As for Miss Priscilla, she is too .surprised for thought of any kind, too lost in admiration of the little, gracious, uncertain figure, with its deep blue, eyes glancing tip at her with a half-terrified yet trusting expression, to give away to speccli of any kind. She is slight, and slim as a Im/el wand. Her hair is nut-brown, with a red gold tinge running through it. Her nose, is adorable, if slightly tilted; her mouth is a red, reel rose, sail but sweet; and full <H' purpose. Her eyes are largo and expressive, but touched, like her lips, witli a suspicion of melancholy that renders them only a degree more sweet and earnest. There is a spirituality about her, a calm, a peace that shines out of these dark Irish eyes, and rests upon her perfect lips, as it were a lingering breath of the heaven from whence she came. She stands now, hesitating a little, witli her hands loosely clasped—brown little hands, but beautifully shaped. Indeed, all her skin owes more of its coloring to Plio;- btis Apollo than nature intended. Shodraws her breath somewhat quickly, and then, as though anxious to get through the troublnu task assigned her, says, nervously, in a low, sweet voice,— "I am Monica." As she says this, she glances entreatingly from one old lady to tho other, with some trouble in her groat eyes, and some tears. Then all at once her lips tremble to a smile, and a soft light breaks upon her face. "You are Aunt Priscilla," she says, turning to Miss Blake; "I know you by your dark eyes, and by your pretty liair!" At the sound of her voice the two old ladies wake from their abstraction. "Yes, yes, it is your aunt Priscilla," stvys Miss Penelope, eagerly, witli a sudden pleased smile. Had the compliment been made to herself she could not possibly havo appeared more delighted, and certainly would not have betrayed her satisfaction so openly. "Her hair," she says, "was always beautiful." As for Miss Priscilla, she is smiling too, but in a shamefaced fashion, anil is blushing a warm pretty crimson, such as a girl of seventeen might be guilty of, listening to a first word of love. She takes Monica's right hand in hers and pats it softly; and Miss Penelope takes her left; and then the two old ladies stoop forward, and, one after the other, kiss the pale, girlish cheek, and with the kiss take her nt once and forever into their very hearts. "But surely, dear child, you did come alone?" says Miss Priscilla, presently, calling to remembrance the fact that there ought to be two other Bercsfords somewhere. "No; Terence and. Katherine are with me." "But where, my dear?" "Well, I think they are standing on the mat, just outsido the door," says Monica, blushing and laughing; and then she says, rather louder, "Terry and Kit, you may come in now. It is all right." As to what was evidently supposed not to be "all right" up to this, the Misses Blake have no time to decide upon before a fresh nephew and niece present themselves to their view. They come in quite gayly,— reassured, no doubt, by Monica's tone; Terence, a tall slim lad of about sixteen, and a little girl somewhat like Monica, but more restless in features, and oven a degree more pallid. "My dear children, why didn't you come in before?" says Miss Priscilla, aghast at the, inhospitable thought that they had been shivering with needless nervousness in the hall for the last five minutes. "They said they wouldn't come in until I paved tho way for them,"says Monica, with a slight shrug of her shoulders that is a trick of hers. "They always put every thing upon my shoulders; a little shabby of them I call it." "I am afraid you must have pictured us as ogres," says Miss Priscilla, which idea strikes the old ladies as such a delicious flight of fancy that they laugh outright, and look at each other with intense enjoyment of their little joke. "Well, of course we couldn't tell what you would be like," says Monica, gravely. "You might have been people likely to impress one with awe; but, as It is This is Terry," laying her hand upon her brother's arm; "and this is Kit. She is really Katherine, you know, but no one ever calls her by so long a name. She isn't worth it." At this the throe Beresfords laugh among themselves, as children will, at time-worn fun, knowing no fatigue; after which Katherine and IVrcneo arc embraced and made much of by their now-found relatives, and freely commented upon. But ever and anon the eyes of both old ladies wander thoughtfully, admiringly, to where the lissome Monica stands, like a hs pensive lily, •x- -x- * * # # "But how have you managed to be hero so soon?" asks i Miss Priscilla, when tlio impromptu luncheon, improvised by tho startled Timothy, has come to an end. The children were all hungry, and havo oaten a groat deal, and have talked more. Indeed, though Miss Priscilla has been dying to ask this question for a long time, it has been impossible for her to do so, as thero ha.s not been so much as a comma in the conversation for the last hour. The Beresfords are like so many clocks wo_untl. ujij ajii bound to. .go foj- a cejtajy time whether they like it or not: ami, apparently, they do like it. NovMhey have run down a little. Terence being exhausted after his hist laughing attack, and Kit \vra|>- peil in contemplation of an old-fashioned hair brooch that is fastening nn equally old- fashioned piece of priceless laee thai adorns Miss Priscilla's throat. "We came by the wrong train,' 1 says Terry. "We generally'do. Kver sinco we left the South of France—where we were stay- in!; with the Hohnns, you know, on our wny here—\ve have been missing our trains right and left, and turning up at all sorts of unexpected places. Haven't we, Kit?'' "3"di( have," says Kit,with suspicious emphasis. "You have such a pretty trick of rushing into the first train you see, without ever asking any one where it is going. No wonder \ve always turned up at the wrong end," 11 TIM*re a pretty trlek of putting everything down on other people's shoulders," says Terence, with open illsgust. "Whoso fault, was it, we were always so late at Iho stations that we hadn't time to make inquiries, 1M like to know? Could you," with fine iroi-y, "tell us?" "Certainly; It was nurse," replies Kit, with dignity. ''Dear me! and where is your nursendw?' 1 asks Miss Prlscllla, anxiously. The query is a fortunate one, in (hut it turns the conversation into a different channel, and cheeks the eloquence of Kit anil Terry, who are plainly on the brink of an open war. "When last 1 saw her." says Terence, "she was sitting on (lie top of our hlggest box, with everythititrelso strewnnrouml her, and her feet resting on two brown-paper parcels. 1 wonder," says Mr. Bcresl'onl, addressing Monica, "what on earth she had in those brown-] in per parcels. Shi; has been hugging them night and tiny ever since slio left Jerusalem." "Dynamite," suggests Monica, lightly; whereupon the two Misses lllnke turn pale. "At that rate. Aunt 'Prlselllti, we nwiln't trouble about her," snys Terence, pleasantly, "ns she nntnl, bo blown up by this. None oC those clock-work affairs could bo arranged to go on much longer. Poor thing! when in the llesh she wasn't half bad. 1 forgive her everything—even her undying lintreil to myself." "If s'.io is in fragments, so are onr things," says Kit. "1 think she needn't have elected to sit on tliL'm nt tlio .supreme moment." "You don't really think," snys Miss Ponei. ope, in a somewhat troubled tone, remembering how an innocent baker in Rossmoyno hail had some, of the explosive matter in question thrown into his kitchen the night before lust,—"you don't really think that these parcels you speak of contain infernal machines?—Yes, that is what they call them, my dear Priscilla," turning to hex sister, as though anxious to apologl/.o for having used a word calculated to lead tho mind to the lower regions. By this time both Kit and Terence arc convulsed with delight, at tho sensation they havo created, anil would probably hnvogono on to ileclnre tho innocent Mrs. Mite.holl an advanced Nihilist of tho most dangerous type, but for Monica's coming to tho rescue and explaining matters satisfactorily. "Still, I cannot unilerstnnil how you got ui> here so quickly," says Miss Penelope. "You know Moyne—home 1 hope you will call it for tho future, my ilenrs,"—with a little fond pat on Monica's hand, "is quite three miles from the, station." "Wo should have thought nothing of that," says Terence, "but'for Kit; she has had a fever, you know," pointing to the child's closely-cropped, dark little head; "so wo said we would just stroll on a little and see what tho country was like." "And lovely it is," puts in Kit, enthusiastically. "We got up on a high hill, and saw the sea lying like, a great quiet lake beneath us. Thero was scarcely a ripple on it, anil only a soft sonnil like a sob." Her eyes, that are almost too big for her small face, glow brilliantly. "And then there came by a man with a cart filled with hay, and ho nodded to us and said, 'Good-morrow, sir;' ami so I nod- doil back, nnd said, 'How d'ye do?' to him, anil asked him was it far to Moyno House. 'A good step,' he said; 'throe miles at the very least.'" (To be continued.) Good Advice. Be generous, be cultured, be positive, be polite, be sincere, be just, be honest, be loyal to right, be guarded in words, be sincere in all you dp and say, be temperate, be zealous, be industrious, be economical but not stingy, be a worthy man or woman, and>ou will have a hold on humanity that no enemy can destroy and no foe but death undermine; and even when called from earth your friends will be left to class you with the blessed—aye, an honest man and a pure and spotless woman, are jewels in any sphere. Be one; you can if you so will.—Farmers' Friend. A Good LCBHOII. An exchange tells the following: Watch makers years ago discovered that if the balance-wheel of a watch was made of metal, it would expand and contract with the heat and cold, thus changing its diameter, and consequently altering its motion. To provide against this loss and gain of time, theyjconstructed the compensation balance-wheel, made of two or more metals of such opposite quality, that when one contracted the other expanded, and thus regulated the motion to a constant quantity. Here is a lesson to learn: Construct the life upon the principle compensation. Annoyances and disappointments are sure to come, contracting the diameter of your joys and pleasures, balance these by) other resources and happiness. FARM AND GARDEN, OI.D-AOE Kl'IIOKS. Sterilized Water. Dr. C. G. Currier says, in the Medical Record, that water is easily sterilized by keeping it at or near the boiling point for fifteen minutes. Five minutes heat is sufficient to destroy all harmful microorganisms. Still less time suffices to destroy disease producing varieties which are recognized as liable to occur in water. Thus merely raising to the boiling point a clear water containing the micro-organisms of malaria disorders and typhoid, cholera, diphtheria, or of suppurative processes, and allowing it to gradually cool, insures the destruction of these germs. Prof, Moller of Carlsruhe has made a series of observations on the heights of clouds, and finds that cirrus and cirrostratus clouds have an average height of 30,000 feet, while cumulus clouds range. From 4,000 or 5,000 feet afc. their lower surfaces to 16,00 feet at their upper surfaces. SOf.NUS OFjTHK W Sounds of tho winter, too. Sunshine upon the mountain?, 'ninny n distant Mrnin From cheery ritilrond train, from nean-r llohl, barn.housip. Tho whispering nir, oven tho'mnlc crop?, gnrtior etl apples, corn, Children's and women's tone?, rti.vnm ofinanra farmer and of llnll, An old man's gnrrnluiift lips amoii); the rc«t: Think not veglve out yet, Forth from those snowy Imirs we, too, keep up the lilt, Tin: How dare one pay It f After the cycles,' poems, sinpors, plays, Vaunted Ionia's Homers, Slmke«phere, the long, lone times' thick dotteil roads, areas, Tho shlnlne gutters and the milky ways of stars, nature's pulses reaped, All retrospective passions, heroes, war, love, adoration. All [aces' plummets Jdropped to Ihelr .utmost depths, All human lives, throats, wishes, hralns, all experiences' utterances; After Iho countless son^s, or|loii|»or short, all tongues, all lands. Still something not yet told in poesy's voice or print, somelhlnjr lacking. Who knows V The best yet uuexpii'ssed and hick- ing. KAll. OI'T Pdll HOOD, Kl.DOI, ON VAl'MTl Heave the anchor slant, Halse the mainsail and jib, steer forth, Oh, Hide while-hulled sloop, now speed on really deep waters. (I will not call It our concluding voyage, Jlut outset and sure entrance lo the truest, hem, matures! >: Depart, depart from solid earlh, no more return lug (o these slum's, Ts'ow on for aye our infinite free venture wending, bpnrningall yel Irleil ports, sens, hawsers, des- Milieu, gravllatlon. AKTKIITIIK AlllirjIKXT. Agrouiiof little children with their ways and chatter How in, Like welcome rippling water o'er my heated nerves and flesh. —Walt Whitman, In Upplucott's .Magazine. 1'AHM NOTKS. Buckwheat bran is inofe nourishing tlinn wheat bran. Make water furrows from tho low places in your fields. Grub out the sick tree and plant a healthy one in its place. The boat butter in tho world naturally can be sadly injured by tho use of very poor salt. With poultry, as with everything else on tho farm, there is always an opportunity to sell at good prices, fowls or ogirs that are of little better quality than others tire offering. Tho pigs that are kept in pens should have a mess of grass or clover at least once ft day if they are expected to grow and keep in a thrifty condition. Strawberries need an abundance of moisture as they begin to ripen. An abundance then, with sufficient warmth makes them grow to an enormous size. Success hinges upon the man and his surroundings. Find your market before your crop is ready and send tho produce in tho neatest and most attractive condition. Hens should be graded according to size and general qualities. Yard Leghorns and Brahmas in tho same enclosure and the food necessary to keep the Log- horns just right would over-fatten tho Brahraas. Paper tough as wood is said now to bo made by mixing chloride of zinc with the pulp in eours of manujacture. It has jeen found that the greater the degree of concentration of the zinc solution the greater will be the toughness of the paper. .t can be ubed for making gag pipes, boxes, combs, for roofing, aad even, it is added, for making boats, I'roflt iii Slump. An example in tho profit of sheep raising is found in tho experience of a North Dakota farmer. Tie started tivo years ago with a, capital of $000. Since then he has sold $700 worth of wool and $300 worth of sheep, and has 400 sheep now, for which he haa received $4.50 each. Injured Treed. Whenever a tree is injured apply a covering of rosin and tallow over the wound. Insects will seek such injured places and do more damage than a weakly tree can sustain. If an application be made soon after tho injury the wound will readily heal. The Live Stock Need Cure. The live stock on the farm neeil earnest thought. The pigs and lambs, though four weeks old and older, claim a dry, sheltered sleeping place for the night and as a refuge from the dewy grass and the spring rains. Constant access to a good drinking place should be furnished—on high, dry ground, if possible, and unattended by a "wallow." A good box-tank filled with clea.n water, in which the hogs are given a brief bath, on a warm bright day, may prove an advantage; but the attendant should see that the hogs go from the water into the grass until dry. If allowed a dust bath, at this juncture, the water's effect is neutralized, Some rock- salt, wood ashes, etc. are always of value to hogs—when they can have ready access to them continually. Variety of grain and grasses is desirable. Uf course, tho sheep should have a separate pasture from other stock in warm weather. Tho oil 'from the wool fives out an odor which is too offensive to other animals, as a general rule. Notes on ftitrdenlng. There is ono point about a garden that is well known, but which seems to fail in imparting a lesson in general farm cultivation, and that is the fact that'an enor mous production can be secured from a small space. This is due to the use of plenty of manure and imparting good cultivation. The garden plot is kept always rich and in good condition, and much more is expected from it than from an equal area devoted toother crops on the farm; yet there is nothing to prevent the whole farm j'rom being a garden, provided fewer acres aie cultivated. Tho garden is really a miniature farm, and indicates plainly what can be done on a larger scalo, and the experience gained in growing garden crops, assists in managing a farm. Give Hops a JCieh Soil. Hops require u rich loamy soil. They are grown from root cuttings which are purchased of growers who thin out their vines in tho spring, or of seedsmen who deal in them. The roots are planted in hills seven or eight feet apart each way, three or four cuttings being put in each hill, and a pole driven into the ground for tho plants to climb upon. The land should be well manured and kept cultivated and free from weeds; If any fertilizer is used it should be rich in nitrogen and potash with a less amount of phosphoric acid. For an average yield of 800 pounds of hops the usual allowance of these various elements is 1SJ5 pounds of nitrogen, 85 pounds of potash, and 50 pounds ol phosphoric avid, ytocb w»ll be frisked, by SQQ jiounjj oj nitrate of soda, 200 pounds of chloride of potash, and JtQp pounds of superphosphate of lime, allowing for the natural fertility of a fairly goo I soil. Ibis quantity should .be given every year. Food SIJ nfc e Corn. (food silage corn is not raised without special study nrnl attention. The importance of it makes the question worthy of study and experiment, The main object is to raise a large crop wi'h all of the nutritive qualities intact, Knch one must- select the corn for his particular locality, but it maybe said in passing, that a great deal depends upon the variety of corn used, riiin planting is essential for obtaining plenty of air and sunshine, and and not more t'-nn eight qmirts to the acre should ever be planted, even on the best soil«, Silnge corn does well on freshly turned clover or rye ground, and very good results will always be obtained on such land when he soil is mellowed and plowed thoroughly. Deep cultivation so ns to mutilate tho roots is injurious to the silage corn after it bus attained any growth, and to avoid the necessity i<( deep plowing it is always well to mellow the soil at least live inches below the siirfiiu> when planting, and no fur her disturbance will then bo necessary. A deep, mellow seed-bed is one of the great essentials in obtaining n luxuriant growth. If this is obtained at that, cultivation after that can simply be shallow, and with the ehinf purpose of tU'stroying weeds. This shallow cultivation also serves as a mulch to prevent the escaping of moisture too rapidly. The best distance apart to plant, drills of silage corn is three feet eiurlt inches, dropping out. kernel every six or seven inches in the I nils. After the corn is planted it should be drugged once as soon n» it, shows itself to exterminate the weeds and to give Ihe corn a chance to u«t tho start of them. I he corn will soon get such u start of tho weeds that its luxuriant growth will overshadow them ,ind givo thorn a sickly growth. In cultivating the corn great care should be taken to make it only shallow, for if the roots nro cut off it will keep the plants back by Hovonil days' growth. The second or third cultiviition is far more destructive to the corn if the. roots arc disturbed than the earliest ones. Tho corn is then in a nlago when it needs all of its vitality to make a luxuriant growth. At the last working of the corn it is a splendid time to HOW rye among the plants at tho rate of two bushels to tho acre. This will grow and keep tho soil free from weeds. As soon as the corn is cut the rye springs into rapid growth, and crowds out every other plant. The following spring the rye outstrips the weeds, and is reaily for cutting in May and Juno. Clover seed can be sown with it, and the two make a good feeding crop. Out if it is desii able to enrich the crop of clover and ryo it should bo plowed under. The decaying plants will supply the corn with a food that is very essential to its growth. Silago corn especially improves from such a treatment of tho soil. This work may require more labor and time from the farmer, but in the end it will pay by an increased quantity of winter fodder, which will not only fatten tho catMe, but bo greatly relished by them. vV~. E. FAKMEU. 1MCUMANANCY. IllflUllll K. 1IUIITON, A lovor carved upon a bed of stone Ills laely'H namn, and sut thereto a rhymo: And on tho rock worn marten bosldoH his. own. Scratched by a K lacler In prlmovul time. And yot tho passion that hlx spirit atlrrnd, I h« wlulu ho cut, nor fond and fleeting iminti, Mntliinks was. moreetornal than tho world lhelcoagiis|)oko—tlino'H HIIOW nunfnHt love's (lame I —Jlarper'B Weekly. Life without industry is guilt.—Ruskin. Industry pays debts, while despair in- creaseth tliem. To a man of pluck defeat is always a stop to something better. If-you want to live long, don't try to live moro than ono day at a time. The man who controls himself will also control a great many other people. Only a breath of suspicion has blighted many a life. It is said that a small bird can so peck tho head of tho caglo as to cause its death. "Patience strengthens the spirit, sweetens the temper, stifles anger, extinguishes envy, subdues pride; it bridles Uio tongue, restrains the hand, and tramples upon temptations." "If the sun ba eclipsed one day, it draws more attention than if it shown tho whole year. So if you commit one sin, it will cost you fmany sorrows and the world many triumphs." "Tongue cannot describe, tho love of Christ; finite minds cannot conceive of it and those who know most of it can only say with inspiration that it "passeth knowledge.''— Puyson, <lolnrd for Life. What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life—to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other for sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories, at the moment of tho last parting? iijj; Influence, When the sun goes below tho horizon he is not set; the heavens glow for a full hour after his departure. And when a great and good man sets, the sky of this world is luminous Jong after he is out of sight. Such a man cannot die out of this world. When he goes he leaves behind much of himself. Being dead he speaks. JHuKjyolent. Kven the kindest hearted of us sometimes say things that without explanation sound rather queer. It was oue of the best women who said to her husband: "What a pity that none of our neighbors are sick now! "because if they were I could send them some of this nice jelly," was the complacent answer. The Good lit the \Vorlti. There is, if wo would or could but dis- cov .-r it, something notable, something worthy of observation, of sympathy, of wonder and amusement in every fellow mortal. Consider, though, how many a good fellow you may shut out and sneer upon. What au immense deal of pleasure, frwkaess, good-t'eUowsliip. yra forego for tfce sate Q { our coniojmdjij ^

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