THE UPPER DBS MOINES, ALGONA. IOWA. WEDNESDAY. AtTGUST 3,1892. ADCAP; — on- STORY OF A SIN, BY HKlEiT B. MATHERS. "Have you hot heard?" said the Uoio- ntA who thought himself the pivot on Srlilch the world turned; "it's thememo- & the Home Secretary." •'Of course," said Prank, apparently wakidtt up, "it's about a cowslip— I Jnean a man— no, a woman - " »A woman," said Colonel Bushy, in a tone of stern rebuke, "who now lies under sentence of death. A woman," he ">uented. ' W h 0 must be saved." "This won't do," thought Prank, and mpelled himself to thrust the thought fiompee mse e oug of Madcap aside, and take the memorial in his hands. The first few lines carried little meaning to Ids mind, but as he read on a change passed over his face. "A stranger to the place," he said, still looking at the paper, "and she came here in search of some unknown person?" "Yes," said Colonel Busby,, nodding, "the father probably — there have been •uspicions, he went on, "but it's odd that none have pointed in what I'd swear is the right direction," and he ronde a significant gesture toward the "Wliatl" cried Frank, his bright face suddenly growing pale as death. Colonel Busby nodded. "To be plain with you," he said, "and it's more than I dare to he with any other soul, for Eyre leads the whole country by the nose, you're suspected of what I lirinly believe he is euifty of. You see, it happened five and a half years ago, and we all know what his life was before his marriage— and there's not a doubtthe woman came in search of the father." Frank's hand suddenly closed on the parchment— for a moment sight failed, nnd he felt as if the life were going out of him in agonizing convulsive throbs; then, as the necessity for self-control smote him, he drew himself erect, and appeared to be reading what was in reality a blank to him. "If the murder was committed five and a half years ago " he said, "how comes it that the mother is only now convicted?" "It is not the mother," said Colonel Busby, stagcrered in his previous convictions by Frank's manner; "it's supposed that this was her servant, and that the crime was committed unknown to the parents." "Is she a small sandy-haired woman, bordering on middle ace?" said Frank, the words escaping him involuntarily. "To bo sure," said Colonel Busby, more and more depressed by his conviction of Frank's guilt; "a mean-looking creature." "Thank Godl" cried Frank, in a more natural voice, his mind relieved of at least one terrible fear. "And her mistress, has she boon here? Js she in the place?" "We don't know that she has a mis- stress," sai:! Colonel Busby, staring at the young man; "it's a mere guess, but she seems in mortal dread of some unknown person coming before she dies, and it looks suspicious." "Then she has confessed nothing?" said Frank easterly. "Nothing, publicly. What she said to Mr. Ky re in. private we don't know. She asked for him directly after the trial was over, and they were closeted together some time. It was he who committed her to prison on mere suspicion of the deed, and, in fact, from lirst to last lias shown an extraordinary interest in the case and the woman." An exclamation burst from Frank's lips; but calming himself by a great effort, he said, "Air. Eyre is absent from home?" "Yes; but before leaving he wrote to town. You know his influence in high quarters, and this influence he is using ayuinxl her." "What!" cried Frank, recoiling a step. "He could save this woman's life and Will not?" Colonel Busby nodded. "You know what he is,' 'he said; ".im- mpvahle when ho lias onco made his mind up. 'Guilty she is, and hanged she shall be,' that's the way ho talks. But you'll sign, of course?" Mechanically the young man took the pen thrust upon him, and signed his name; but, having done so, his eye was arrested by tho signature immediately above his own— "II. Clarke." "Hester Clarkel" he almost shouted. and path. At about the time Madcap was sitting down to write Mr. Eyre a letter, he was entering the courtyard of a private hotel in the Rue Rivoli, a quick glance at the windows assuring him that he had not arrived too late. "My master is very ill, sir," said the old servant, who had hastened down to meet him; "but he has just rallied in a wonderful way, and is talking quite like "Is that you?" said old Mr. Eyre, whose voice and eyes seemed the only hying things about him, as he lay on his bed a ghastly, stricken shape, incapable of movement. li l did not expect you. Does the Izaak Walton business, combined with matrimony, grow atrifle wearisome, after all?" "We will discuss tny private affairs when wo are alone," said his son, with a glance toward the be-ribboned, bejeweled person, who boldly kept her place by his father's side. "You can go, my dear," said the old man. turning his eyes on her sarcastically, "and amuse yourself by putting on a few more gewgaws. You will cut a line figure in 'em when I atn gone, and, if you play your cards well, may even marry—my courier!" The door closed with a bang on a petticoat, that on the way to it had contrived to overturn a table laden with bottles and other paraphernalia of sickness. "A sweet creature!" said Air. Eyre, dryly; "her playful spirit ha.s kept me alive these live years. There's no 'damned iteration' about her; but, on the contrary, a never-finding variety— and she nurses me devotedly. There's time yet to put a codicil to my will." lie smiled sardonically at his son's back; but that gentleman had moved awav, and was looking out of the open window. "And i really am not difficult to please." he went on. "I think it was Bvron's servant. Fletcher, who remarked that he never knew a lady who could not govern his master, except his wife; but I have omittvd to inquire for the health of my daughter-in-law, whose acquaintance, by the way, I have never made," "She is well." said Mr. Eyre, briefly. "She musb be be u wonderful creature," said the old man, a sneer lifting his hard mouth; ''in short the whole race of women—epitomized. I am told she is handsome." Mr. Eyre half smiled in scorn of such a description of Madcap—Madcap of whom, with Sir Thomas Overbnry's milkmaid, might be said. "all her excellencies xtnnd in her silently as-ifllify hud stolen on her without licr know!/dye." "But so were the others," continued old Mr. Eyre; "and though I could understand your remaining so long in a coin dnfeu to which you were not legally tied—a great charm that, and OIK; that lias kept many a man in it for life out of pure contradiction—this married business of yours is beyond me. 'Ol mirth and innocence! 0! milk and water!'" "Did you summon mo hero solely to discuss such topics as these?" said his son. pausing a moment in his walk. "I didn't send for you to preach to me," said the old man, with a snarl; "keep your damned moral airs for Arcadia; and as to dying, what's lite— what's death? The one breeds a worm, that other feeds it; and, like Byron, I hope it is no sin to laugh at all things; As he left the room by one door, the abigail entered it by the other. "'More gewgaws," said his father, "and more ribbons! Are you in hopes of making an impression on my sonr My sweet creature, you ain't half handsome enough; he Was always more particular in the matter of women's looks than I." CHATTER VI. "Who signed that namoV Yon said that she was not hero; that—that " "I see no Hester Ularko tlu-re," said Colonel Utisbv, looking ovorhis shoulder; "that's the .signature of Clarke, the butcher, Christian name, Henry. Is that the natno of the mother?" he added sharply, and with bitter disappointment in his heart that tho public uillory was not for Mr. Jiyre alter all—but i'nmk, pule to the lips, did not reply, riie question ho had never dared to ask throutfh all those years of absence hail answered itself almost in the hour ot his return, and the matchless beauty ot his words smote him with a cruel sense of pain as lie looked out upon them. '•Well, well," said Colonel Busby, "don't take it to heart; it may blow over, and it might have happened to anybody, you know; but, of course, it will make you anxious to pull the woman through." , "What!" said Prank, with so much haughtiness, that Colonel Busby took an involuntary skip to the door, and with a hurried good morning, closed it behind him. "And 1 could have sworn," he muttered, venomously, as he seized his hat, "that the father was to ho found at the Red Hall!" . "I'm sure of it, sir," said Job, appearing, and handing tho angry gentleman his stick; "anil what's more, we'll prove I*. It ain't in a, Lovel to do a mean action." . "So you've been listening at the keyhole, hey?" said Colonel Busby, unconscious o'f missing an opportunity, . "I have the honor of my master's confidence, sir," said Job, dryly; and Goto- nel Busby, reflecting too late that this ffi an might have been valuable to him, found the door gently but firmly closed in his face. „, yiiless you for an old bumble-beer faid Job fervently from the other side. .Seems as ii' fools like you was born J»st to teach wise folks like us patience; and when God A'raighty thinks you've taught us enough, He just lets you cvuck your own empty head astainst a window-pane; but you went bumbling and busramg intotherightjam-potwhen you will tho lather was up at the lied *iau, and not here." hours or three weeks to the end." "No," said Mr. Eyre; "lean remain here but three days." "Be sure I'll not detain you a moment longer than I am obliged," said the old man. dryly. "Why didn't you bring her?" he added, sharply; "tnere's no knowing what Bluebeard's closet she mayn't be peeping into in your absence, —so much innocence requires a deal or watching over." "Oh, I'm not afraid," said Mr. Eyre, indifferently. "You are fortunate," said the old man; "I never tried so risky an experiment. My idea of happiness has been independence of everything and everybody,—and that you can't be, when you see the direct effect of your every deed, good or evil, upon those you love. Pshaw!" he added, as though ashamed of the momentary touch of feeling; "what do I know of love? Love with old men, as a great authority takes care to inform us, costs trente milk francs a year." , ., ., Mr. Eyre turned away, and the old man's eyes followed him, as with firm step he walked to and fro. "The life suits you," he said sudden- Jv "you look years younger than when I saw you last—clearly respectability has its gains. I don't know why it should not, if it pulls with your inclination- besides, you sacrifice nothing to it, and there you show sense. After all, can appearances and the world's good opinion give you a single thing worth having? Health, sleep, appetite, freedom friendship-it's curious how little all these are affected by what people Sil "hood name in man or woman," said Mr. Eyre absently, his soul and thoughts with Madcap. "Pooh!" said the old man, "that's if their name is their living, not ™her- wise. You iike your present lite because your wife suits you; it she didn't v u would think twice before settling a mil- those dullards and make yourself one of them. And to be sure, wlien you die," he went on, reverting to us us a tone, "there will be much, lip- survico, Consequences nro At about the time Mr. Eyre was entering his father's hotel, a woman rang with trembling hand the great bell at the jail gates of Marmiton; and the chaplain, who was coming out, paused to look at her with a sudden quick suspicion of the truth. "Sir. will you let me into the prison, for God's sake I" He looked at her more attentively. Yes; this must be the mother—voice— attitude—eyes—all betrayed an agony of impatience rarely shown by a woman save where the life of her child is concerned. "You wish to see the woman, Mistake?" "The woman who lies under sentence of death for the murder of a child," she said; "they told me I should not be able to gain admission to-night; but you will let me in. if but for one moment?" "It is against the rules," he said, as he retraced his steps; "but in this case " and ho rang, and gained admission. Having taken her to his room, he went in search of the governor of the jail, and the two returned together. She sprung up at the sound of their steps, and hurried toward them. "Your name?" said the governor. "Hester Clarice—take me to tier," she added imploringly; and without a word or question, impelled by that terrible force of motherhood to do her will, the governor, calling a jailer, himself conducted her to the cell where the condemned woman lay. Outside the threshold she paused. "I must go in alone," she said; and as the jailer drew the door to with a clang, he saw her standing just within, looking toward a hnddled- up heap, scarcely visible by the light of the evening sky. For a moment the man without 'lingered, holding his breath; but all was still; then through the prison wall pierced an awful cry and condemnation, all in one. The prisoner hail crouched away at tho approach of footsteps; her hands pressed against Ivri'iirs, her face buried m her knees; but at the sound of that voice, a convulsr,';; movement shook her from head to foot. "It was my child!" cried the newcomer, advancing step, and then, with both arms lifted and held before her eyes, the condemned woman fell on her knees, and dr.i'.';:;i:d herself painfully along the flagged stones, reached the feet of her visitur. and lay huddled, there. "Mistress!" she said, in a voice that was nothing like human, "mistress!" For a moment the mother stood motionless, looking down on the sordid outline at her feet; then a swift, ungovernable impulse of hatred seized and tossed her on its waves. This, —this poor contemptible thing had found power to rob her of that treasure more dear to her than life, for which her heart pained night and day like a sobbing sick child in its deserted cradle. "Kill me. mistress," said Janet, half looking up, and seeing that terrible face above her, those uplifted hands clinched as in act to strike. "Kill you!" cried the mother,—"one She shivered, then, half cowering away, tri-'d to pierce the gloom that was gradually shutting out from her the motionless lisrure by her side. "It was but a bit of a pool—I'd never have guvssed 'twere deep enough to hide anything—and more than one passed by while 'I sat beside it—an' all at once the thought camp, to me that I'd lay the Iniby down beside it. and leave it them- some one 'ud find it. and care for it, an' I'd go back an' toll you it had died; an' you'd be happy, an' pr'aps your life 'ud not bo spoiled after all. "I kissed the little thing, an'laid it down beside the pool, an' I hid behind the trees to watch; but no one came, and 1 were just battling it out if I'd wait till 'twas found, e 'wi' the chance of my being caught and put in prison, or beg my way b-ick to you, when I heard a little cry ar,' splash, an' when I ran to the pool the baby was gone; but there was a great rdtly on the face of the pool, an'I were j.ist frozen, an'not able to dash in al'tc': it, every moment thinking to see ii come to the surface; but he were so wrapped up he must ha' sunk like a stone. "I'd forgot how strong he was for his age, an' how he could roll himself along the ground"—tho old woman went on— "and when the pool was still,! satdowu beside it, wi' no more power to move from it than if I'd been dead. "A laborer that had gone by before passed by again, an' looked at me hard, just as if he knew what was in the pool; but he didn't speak, and I bided there all that night wi' the sound of thn'j splash and'cry in my ears. But when daylight broke, something seemed to set me on my feet, and drew mo away, an' I went wi'out ever looking back; an' so by days and nights begged my way back to you." There was too little light in the cell now for the two women to.discern each other by; but that silent, invisible figure beside Janet was more terrible to her than the wildest reproaches of tongue and eye could have been. "Mistress." she whispered, not daring to touch her —"mistress, you hear—you know now. When I got back you ran to me an' tore the shawl from my breast, 'My child— where's my child?' you said. It was the mother's heart crying out at last, an' mine just dropped like a stone, an' Iliad no words to tell you but that 'twas dead. 'Take me to it,' you cried; and then I remembered how that morning I'd passed a little new-made grave in a ciuiet churchyard, an' it came to me, like a voice, that I'd take you there; 'twas a foundling's that none was like to visit, an' you laid there all that night in the rain, and I beside you; an' then the brain-iever took you, an' when you came to yourself again, you never asked to see this grave, only you was always looking for such a child as yours might ha' been had he lived to grow up. An' so we went about lookin'—always look- in' for what: we never found. "I used td lie awake at nights fixin'it in my mind what I told you of the baby's dyin'. U'st I'd forget, an' tell you somethin' diluent—how itsmiled when I said 'mamma,' for all he was so little; an' how his lingers took hold on mine when the pain iii his throat got worse, ami last of all took him. To be Continued. ROSE TERRY COOKE. The Two Villages and Other Poems of Tliis Pathetic and Versatile Writer. Brief History of Her Karly Experiences as a Delineator of Yankee Life. Miss Terry Furnished the First Issue of th« Atlantic With its Leading Story. IJS STKAWBBKUYTIME. Bow to "vlio"l'ollow Tou-ymSu^T'ma^e m^decoroti^butitwo.^^hal^as st fail in life 'from their 'point"of_y_iew, and well attended as mine. To be to% by your Heighten, you niuBt 111 lllU AlUlil Lii^ii f"*" ' a -i •tliev must pity you; to be aware of the secret dill cullies and backslulings ot vour friends is to love them, while to l,e r i' -rpetiially of their virtues and SIR cess is to avoid their very mention. b - i the country you will always be : quotation that nobody under•i standing reminder to loiks of their ignorance, and detested accord• but in town there's a groat held to you; in Parliament you will have v. ot yputU— (i tree with a vougU b«>*. it before," said ut U °"An?so the life contents you?"'said «'"'«3«CHS? ' IS * 5 BensuttUB «" flulKin ot the S1X " i teenth to be actually haPPX r „ -n, vrfi .; *,.*.&?&!*,.... *A^I^^vv Jv! Mfe^Mys6s4Srf-,6« short, lierce pang, and all over; and for me—for me God m:iy forgive you," she broke out, with that old, deathless crv of the brokenhearted, "but I never will!" The woman at her feet trembled under the sound o£ that voice, even more terrible in reality than in her dreams- then her band went up to what looked like a string of dull-colored knotted rags round her throat, and clutched them fast. "If you'd come five minutes later," she said slowly, "I'd ha' been past your forgiveness,—they're tired of watching me, and left me alone half an hour—I was tying the ends o' this to the bed when I heard steps. I'd 1m' faced death willing rather than ha' faced you. P'raps if you'd found me dead, you'd ha' found a word o£ pity to say in ears as couldn't hear." "There's no pity in my heart," said her mistress, in a dull, hard tone. "To't had none when you killed it—my little baby." "Alistress!" cried Janet, in anguish, "why wasn't thut in your voice when I put the baby in your arms lirst. You thrust it away, and said you hated it. because it looked at you with its father's eyes; and if you ever took it to your breast in love,"'twas when I was not by to see; an' when I asked you to let me take it to my own people you never said to me nay, but let it go wi'out a kiss or a look; when it was gone you missed it, nn' its little ways came back on you like an old tune, an' you wanted the buby. home ageu—mistress! mistress!" She dared to look up, but the mother's face was hidden; she stretched her hand and touched her robe, but from that light contact the other recoiled—''the hand that killed my child," she muttered, shuddering in every limb. "No,' said Janet, sadly, "I didn't kill the wee thins; but I am as guilty as it' I did, and that's why 1 pleaded guilty— that, and because 'twas easier to die than look you in the faco u^en." "You did not kill it!" repeated the mother, seizing Janet's arm in a grasp of steel, "No," said Janet. Mistress, if you'll sit down beside me, I'll try to tell you." She groped her way to the edge of the pallet, and with uncertain steps the the mother crossed the cell, and sat down beside her. The moment had come when they must look in each other's face, and slowly in the fading light their eyes met. "Tell me," said the mother, scarcely above her breath. '•\V~hon I asked you to let me take the baby away," said Janet, looking on the ground, "I'd a wild thought tu lay it at its father's door—its father that throw- ed you aside to be happy wi' his new love, an' though you'd never told me his name, in tho fever you dropped a word here an' there, an'one day I found something by chance, tin' afterward I took the baby away by your leave, but I didn't go to my own people. I'd got two names in my mind, and one was the Had Hall, and the other was Lovel. When niy money was all gone; I begged my way, but always the child lay warm iven me, and wanted nothing, an' so, at last, I got here; but 'twas a mistake. An old manliv'd up at the Hall, and tlie young lord were away wi' his regiment in foreign partsv so I'd nothing to do but just go back to you wi' that as you hated so bitVer, an' wished dead an' out o' sight—or so I thought then, as I Btit down by the pool to rest, well-nigh tyo^r, au'tff '" Proserrft t)i« Luscious Berry for Winter Use. The season of strawberries is now at its height and housekeepers should be reminded that there is no better preserve than one of strawberries. Preserve-makers in this country have not been as successful with this fruit is the foreigners. The imported German preserves seem to retain the flavor and almost the firmness of the fresh berry. The secret of their process is said to consist in aim pie care. They cook but a few berries at once. Strawberries are not an acid fruit, therefore they do not require more than three-quarters of a pound of sugar to a pound or fruit. They are very much better, however, preserved than canned. The very best way of preserving strawberries is in their own juice. To six quarts of ripe, firm berries allow four and a half pounds of sugar. Put three pints of the berries in a porcelain-lined kettle with three-q'inrters of a pound of sugar. Place them at the back of the stove, where they will simmer and vhere they will on no account get beyond blood-heat. In an hour the j uice will have drawn out of them. Mash them with a potato-masher and •train all the juice out of the berries through a fine strainer. Add this juice to the remainder of the sugar and beat up the wbi'ps of two eggs with their eggshells in the syrup. Let the syrup come to the boiling point rather slowly and boil steadily for about five minutes. Tnen strain it, putting a cloth inside of the colander and setting the colander on tho mouth of an open jar, Return the syrup to the preserving kettle, which should have been first thoroughly washed, Have the cans ready and set in boiling water in a tin pan. As soou as tho sjrup boils, add a few of the berries, j'lot enough to cover the top. When these have cooked for five minutes put them in one of the cans and put more berries in thfl syrup to cook. As soon as you h ive a cnnful of berries, cover them with B,tiup and fill another can. Wiien all the berries are used there may still be some syrup left. Can this by itself as it is richly flavored with the strawberry and use .it for flavoring desserts in the winter. If you wish to make a strawberry cordial add equal quantities of white cooking brandy to equal quantities of this syrup. It is not strictly necessary to clarify and strain the sjrup for strawberry preserves, though the preserves are much handsomer if this be done. Strawberry preserves should be kept in a cool, dark place or they will be liable to ferment in the heat of the summer. The safest way is to pack the jars in box's of sand and set them in as cool a place as you have, remembering that dampness is as objectionable aa heat. A foreign correspondent of the New York Herald points oat how artificial butter serves as a medium for the conveyance of infectious diseases. He says: "If the substance used in manufacturing butter came from healthy animals we should not have much to say, and there would be very little fear of the transmission of disease; but since in this line of bueines? dishonest dealers often take damaged fat or even coming from animals that have died from infectious diseases, artificial butter may in reality be a dangwous thing *"- daily family use. The germs of The late Hose Terry Cooke's earliest publication was a collection of The Poem* of Il)BeTrtrrv, in Boston in 1860. Other books were Happy Dodd, in 1879, Home body's neighbors in 1881, and Rooh- Bound and The Fphinx's Children, in 1886 Hei contributions, however, were mainly to magazines. OF her poems The Two villages was the best known in New England for its tranquil pa'hos, which found expression in thr placid flow of tho versification . It ran like this: TUB TWO VILIAGES. Over tho river, on the hill, Lletli n vllliu;n white ami still; All urouiulit tlio forest trees Hhlvoreil und whispered In the breeze; Over ItBiitllnst Hhtulowa c;o Ot Hunrlng hnwk nnd screaming crow, And mountain gruiw)", loiv aim sweet, Grow In the middle of the street. Over the river, under the hill, Another village liolh btlll, There I BOO In the cloudy night Twlnkllni! stars of household light, Fires that gleam from the smithy's door; Jllsts Unit curl on the river snore; And in tho road up grasses grow, For the wheels that hasten to and fro. In that village on tho hill Never Is Bound of smithy or mill, The houses nro thatched with grnsa and flowers, Novera c'ock to tell the hours; The marble doors nre alwnys shnt, Yon cannot enter either hall or hut; All the villagers lie asleep; Mever a grnlu to sow or reap; Never in drenms to moan or sigh, Silent and idle and low they lie. In that village under the hill, When tho night is starry and still, Many u weary soul in prayer Looks to the oilier village there, And, weeping and sighing, longs to go Up to that home from this below; longs to slopp In 'ho forest wild, '. Whither have vanished wife nnd child, And liParetli, praying, answer fall: "Patience! that village shall hold yo nil!" A touch of human ixparience was embodied by her in these impressive lines: EN BBPAGNK. T huilt n palace, whitfl and high, With sweeping purple tapestried; No dusty hluhwuy ran thereby, But guarded alleys to il led; And snaven luwns about, w«rn spread, Where bird nnd moth danced dalutlls. So gra'iou" were Its portnls wide; So light and fair the turrets stood, No flaw mine fagor eyes espied, I fashioned it, and ca'lled it good; And lavished on Its solitude All garnlshlngs of pomp nud pride. That wns In crolded summer-time— The winter wind is howling now, My palace has passed out of time— The sward is only shpetod snow. Its hanging with thednnd leaves blow,There comes nn end to mortal prime. And I, who laid it stone by stone, Storionft»r stone do tnke It down. What if a king, whose stale had flown, Should pull apart his regal crown? For kinglv hearts no fate can frown, They rule forever o'or their owu. In a different vein is the following arch effusion, betraying a pubtle humor which sometimes interlaces the graver imaginations of the poetess: ST3S3 ONOE IIEFOHK. Sole she sat beside her window, II"nring only raindrops pour, Looking only on the shore, When, outside the little cnsement, Weeping in n reigned nbusement, Love stood knocking— Knocking nt her bolted door. Slow she swung the little casement Where the uutuinn roses glowed, Sweot und sad her deep eyes glowed, And her voice, in eontlest measure, Said uloml, "Nor Love nor Pleasure Pan come in here any more— Never any morel" "Jjnt T am not LOVB nor Pleasure— I am but nn orphan biby; Lost my my mother is, »r mnyus Dead she lies whl'e I am weeping," Sobhed 'he child, his soft He creeping Softly through the bolted door— Through the maiden's door. Low, she said, In accents lonely: "Once I let him In before, Ouee I opened wide my door, Ever since my life Is drenry, A.H my prayers nre vngue and weary; Once I let him In before, Now I'll double-lock the door!" In the rain he stnnds imploring; Tears and kis"e< storm the door, where she left him in before. Will she never show repenting? Will she «ver, late rel»nt.ing, Let him in as once before? Will «he double-lock the door? for anthrax, glanders and other diseases can stand the action of a temperature of from 80 decrees to, 50 degrees Centigrade for two hours, whether the butter has been fitered or wot, and for twenty-four hours at 80 degrees." . Too free use of the best of real butter in the hot season is often prejudicial to health. And U is therefore all the more important to call attention to the danger of contracting disease from eating oleomargarine. Among- other poenis written by Rose Terry Conlte, which is interesting to those who read them before as well as to new readers, are as follows: IK TUB HOSPITAL. Ho » the wind yells on the Gulf nnd prairie I How It rattles In the windows wldal And the rats squeak like our old ship's rigging; I shall diewith the turn of tide. I've had n rough Ufa on the ocean, And a tough life on tho land: Now I'm like the broken hulk in the dockyard— I can't Btir foot nor hand. There are green trees in the Hulem graveyard; By the meeting-house steps they LTO v; And thPro they put my poor old mother, The third in the leaward row There's th« low red house on the corner, With a slant roof and a wind sweep behind, And yellow-headed fennel in the garden— How I see it when I go blind. I wish I had a mug of cold water From the b--ttnm of old curb-well, I wish my mother's face was here alongside, While I hear that tolling belli Ther's a good crop of corn in the meadow. And the biggest hoy n'n't there to hoe; They'll get in the apples and the pumpkins, But I've done my last chorus below. Don't you hear the norther dsin', doctor? How it yells and hollers, far and wide I And the moon's a-shiniu' on that graveyard— Hold on 1 I'm agoiu' with the tide. VIA KT AKIUS. My soul be strong! confront thv life, Nor feebly moiiu with wenk complaint; Arouse to wage the mortal strife, TUou ihrinking coward, pale »ud faiutl Look up at Truth's unchanging face; That orow. though Btorn,ls yet serene, Anp sometimes, for the heart of grace, On these calm lips a smile hath been. The warrior on the ba'tlo-fleld Lingers no more to look behind, But wises h(eh his bofsy ehle'd. And casts hi» bauuei- to the \v*nd. It will not cave thee to delay, Shall the wide ocean censa to roar Because thy wild and dangerons Vray Lies to its dimly vlsloned shore. Shake off thy dreams; let faith and prayer _ Light the drenr wnys thy path Is straight; Coi.tagion fills the misty nlr; And clustering snares around thee wait. Hope not for onccor from below! . Stars shine from heaven, but china at night Be stout of heart, come weal or woe; Forward-and «od defend the Right! SAMSON AGONISTKS. (John Brown. Dec. 2,1809.) You bound and mndoyonr sport of him, PhlllstlftI Yonsetj-our sons at him to flout nnd jeer; You loaded down his limbs with heavy fatten! Your mildest mercy was a smiling ineer. One man amidst a thousand who defied hirn. On man from whom his awful strength had neal You brought him out to lash him with your ven* goance, Ten thousand curses on one hoary head! You think his eyas nre closed nnd blind forever. Because you seared them to this mortal day; Yo i draw a longer breath of exultation. Because your conqueror's power has passed, away. O, fools I his arms are round your temple pillarij O, blind! hls'strength In wine begins to awake. Ilarkl the groat theatre trembles from its centre: llarkl how the rafters band nnd swerve and shake! Rose Terry Cooke, known as_a poet and a writer of New England stories, died at her lirnne in Pittflbld, Mass., July 18, ia her 66th year. Airs. Cooke was one of tho bjst of the sympathetic delineators o£ Yankee life and character, of whom -Mrs. Sfcowe is chief; writers who hnve presented the peculiarities of old Now England pao- ple, in custom, dialect and ways o£ thought, without caricature, but with full appreciation and portrayal of the humor, . the path's,th« principal and the hardness, the occasional deep sweetness and the narrow conditions of tnoso people, whose types are now growing fewer and farther retired. She began to write when she was a Efirl, and vers..'H of hera appeared in Horace lireeloy's New York Tribune, and tho name of Rose Terry was known to the readers ' of the H.trt- ford Courant and Tho Republisan in years bofore the war. One of her stories of that diiy published ia the columns of The Republican, entitled Three of Ua, lingers in the memory yet as a touching, tragic episode. H^r first writing outsidn of school poems and dramas, and some thina-* contributed to local papers, was The M jruion's Wife, which appeared when she was 18 years old in the celebrated Graham's Magazine, of Philadelphia, in Edgar A. Poe's time; and 8he and Mrs. Stowe wer,e tho notable band of first contributors to the Atlantic Monthly. Mrs. Cjoke furnishing the leading story in the first number of that magazine. Her long stories are of excellent quality, but undoubtedly her strength was shown in the short story, a form quite as voluable and quite as, dooiaive of the stiture of a writer as the three-volume noval. Tho novel Mrs. Cooke could not handle as Mrs. Stowe could, but in the short story she wai, at her be -t, unsurpass-' od andscarcoly equaled in that fiild. The powerful story of Freedom Wheeler's Con- stroverey with Providence may bo cited here, it is a masterpiece of tragic conflict, vvhich ranks in that respect wiWi Hawthorne's Sjarlet Letter. Literary quality Mrs. Cooko possessed in a positive degree, though she has no sure mastery of it. When she felt ir.oat deeply, and wrought her theme ia the;quiet union of her warm heart and earnest head, as in several tales of this type, she rose ti an unusual power of fib expression. Wo have regarded her sketch of The Deacon's Week,—which, appearing in a religious woekly, made such an impression that it was issued as a tract,—as one of tho most suggestive treatises on* applied every-d.T,y Christianity that was ever written. As a poet Mrs. Cooke has. written many lyrics accepted by the public, pnd many that are charm- jig. The Two Villages (those of the living and the dead) is a paem that is wholly familiar. Mis. Cook was the daughter of Henry Wadaworth Terry and Anne Wrioht Hurlburfc. Oa both sides her ancestry was the old New England stock. The Terrys are an old_ Connecticut family, and her father's middle name points to a share in the ancestry of Henrv Wadsworth Longfellow, while her mother's father, John Hulburt, is spoken of a« the first, New England ship-master who sailed around the world—and, whether this were so or not, he and MB fathers before him were sea captains. Mr. Terry was a prominent man in Hartford, ttnd his daughter Rosa was born at West H irtford, F^buary 18. 1827, on a farm whence her father aud mother moved to the city when she was a child. She had a common school and seminary education; and at 16 she was graduated from the seminary. She became a contributor to the Atlantic, Harpers's and other magazines. Steadfast, a novel—her latest work, won wide recognition, and was complimented by Mr. rj'aciUfpne on its appearance in England. Whittior has said of her tbut she was "the b'jst writer of the New England dialect stories" Her tract The Deacon's Week hai been translated into many languages, Miss Terrv was married at New Haven, April 12, 1873, to Rnllin H. Cooke, an iron manufacturer at Winsted, Ot., where her home was for several years thereafter, and un'il hnr husband removed to Pitts- fuld in 1887. Tho next spring they occu- nifld a house on Eist street. Owing to Mrs. Cooke's ill health, following an attack of pneumonia, the pleanaufc home was broken up and she went to Boston, where she spent the winter o_f 1889, and was attacked by the epidemic influenza, which ao undermined her strength thnt, on her return spent two months in the House of Mercv. After this time with her husband sho took rooms with Mrs. G. A. Robt, on the corner of Wendall avenue and East Houeatonio street. She never recovered from a severe broi.cliial cough, and suffered three o f her ntUcks of the grip, each of which left her in a still more critical state of health. A short time before her death she asked to be moved into a chair thit she might die more easily and soon after relapsing into sLupor, her end was as painless as it was unexpected. Twentv-five years ago—or on June 29, 1867—Alaska was ceded to the United States. A'l manner of criticism was made of Secretary Seward, who labored hard to effoct its puichase. He was told that h« was giving away 17.200,000 of the nation's money for a lot of icebergs and a few seals and walruses. But the wisdom of acquiring this new territory was long demonstrated. Not only has Alaska oaid for itself, but it promises to be one of the most valuable national investments that coul'l have beeu made. The seal fieheyifi* are of great value, but it is in its ooal; and various ores, and its timber, that the. real wealth of Alaska is to be found. The Itttle one-story house of Pau, ia which Marshal Bernodotte, the firat king of fiweien, was born, is still standing ftad was recently offered, for sale.
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