The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on July 1, 1891 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

Algona, Iowa
Issue Date:
Wednesday, July 1, 1891
Page 3
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THIS UPJPE& DES MOINES, ALGONA, IOWA WEDNESDAY, JULY 1, ]M 1 FARM AND HOME. A GBKYJ'OUT v I \J BRET HARTE. They rat through the L-treets, of the senport town: The* peered from the decks of the ships that : lay! The cold sea-fog that comes whitening down Was never so cold or white ns they, "Ho, Starbuck, and Pinekney, and Tenterden, Run for yonr scollops, gather your men, Scatter your boats on the lower bay I" Good canse for fenr I In the thick midday The hulk that lay by the rolling pier, Filled with children In happy play. Parted its mooring and (fritted clear; Drifted beyond the reach or call,— Thirteen children there were in all,— All adrift In the lower bay 1 Bald a hard-faced skipper, "God help ns all! She will not (loaf till the turning tldel" Said hie wifs, "My darling will hear my call, Whether in sea or heaven she hide I" And sne lifted a quavering voica and high, Wild and strange ns a sea-blrd'a cry, Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. The fog drove down on each labrrlngcrew, Veiled each from ench nnd tho sky and shore; There was not n sounu but the breath they drew, And the lap of water nnd creak of onr And they felt the breath of tho down freeh blow O'er leagues of clover nnd cold grey stone, Bnt not from tho lips that had gone before. They come no more. Bnt they tell the tale That, when fogs are thick ou the harbor reef, The mackerel-Ushers shorten snll; For the signal they know will bring relief, For tho voices of children, still at play In a phantom-hulk lhat drilled away Through channels whose waters nover fall. It IB but a foolish shipmnn's tale, A theme fora poet's idle page; But still, when Ihe mists of doubt prevail .And we lie becalmed, by the shores of nge, Wo li/Mir from the misty troubled shore The voice of tho children gone ashore, Drawiug the BOII! to its anchorage! Old Uoim Uii]>r<illtublt>. Lots of old hens are kept over a^ter they become unprofitable. A hen has about so many eggs to lay in her lifetime and after two years the annual count usually diminishes and a pullet is worth more to winter. Let her feed and be sold to be consumed by summer visitors, but don't call her a chicken or let the next man do so. • . .' . .' 1 ' Food 'lor Shoe]). Turnips and sheaf oats make an excellent combination for the winter feeding of sheerj. A young "man with small capital, starting vinto the business n of farming, could hardly do ^.better than to get some cheap'land, stock it with 200 or 300 good mutton sheep, and put in these two crops for leeding. With his own labor he could grow and store enough of this forage to carry such a flock, and would get better pay for his labor and better interest upon .his capital than in almost any other way. Full Tip Corn. An Indiana corn grower is making an effort to breed the tip off the ears of his corn, or rather to make the grains as plentiful and as large clear to the tip as they are anywhere else on the ear. His plan is |p select for seed_ as perfect etirs as possible and as a variety nearly suited to the locality as can be obtained; then after putting tha soil in the best condition he plants four bills and skips tyvo, then fp,t;;- I; skipping two and so on. Wh§H (jkis 1 ] ' planting cpnie through, tha ij-ouna,- he plants one of tutJ'sklt/ped hills, and when 1 :jjhi8 cpmep up he" plants _ the other. The luea is to secure a continuous supply of pollen to fertilize the latter developed • -^threads of silk vvhich are on the tips of i ear. ,• : • ; ; /,'.•' ' , Feed and Treatment of Cows. . Much of the value of a cow depends upon her feed and treatment while she is a heifer bearing her first calf, says the Dixie Farmer. She must be gently handled, partly to make her gentle* and partly by rubbing her bag and teats to develop the milk gfands and make the teats larger. If this be done much before she calves it may start a milk flow which is not desirable at this time. But two or three months te- fore calving the teats ,may be put in the way of developing without incurring this risk. The heifer should be liberally fed in order to supply the extra demand^ her calf will make, but fattening feed should be avoided. It is fattening feed that causes most cases of milk fever, for if the fat is on the heifer when she begins to give milk most of it will go into the pail. Oaod Farming PUJH. Last year the farmer that paid attention to business made money. It was a bad crop year, and it is in such years that good farmers prosper. It will pay to farm well this year. Even with bountiful crops, such as we had two years ago, there is not much probability of the prices for farm prdductsjgoing below the point ot jprofita- able producUpn. The surplus is too. nearly exhausted, but from present indications we will not be blessed with a superabundance. The rains in the early spring delayed plowing. Much of the ground was plowed wet and became very cloddy before planting time.. Early planted corn has been slow in coming up, and in many parts of the state the late planting has not made much growth. It will pay to take care of it when it does get fairly started. Harrow well,> kill the weeds, cultivate often. Gopd fanning will pay this year. Fibrin In Milk. Dr. Babcock, of the Wisconsin station, has announced the discovery of fibrin in milk analogous to the fibrin of blood. Fibrin is formed in largo quantities in blopd is drawn from the veins and makes the cjot. The clot consists of a dense network of minute threads or fibers in .which the blood corpuscles are entangled. A similar clot occurs in milk, though in far smaller quantities. It may be that its formation is due to a ferment, like the fibrin of blood. The fib in begins to form in the vnilk as soon as it is drawn frorq the cow, and the net work of fibers entangles the fat globules and hinders their rising to the surface.' Mbrin is therefore an important thing in the dairy, since it tends to hinder the separation of the cream. The creaming of milk is helped by anything which retards or prevents the formation of fibrin, and churning is aided by whatever breaks it up. Investigations indicate that milk, as ordinarily handled, the coagulation of fibrin begins at the surface and in contact with the sides of the vessel. Proverbs of u Colt Driver. f"-tease your colt to make it fight you, for colts grow fast and do not forget. Never get mad and fight it out on your colt, for a righteous man regardeth the life of his beast. Your colt should fear you, for fear is the beginning of wisdom. Your colt should love you, for love worketh no ill. Teach your colts to stop immediately when told; it may save your life some U«e. Hitch your * colt by the side of a poid, sensible horse, for he that walketh with the wise shall be wise. Be not hasty to use the whip, for the rod is for tbfi back of fools. Do not overload your colt and then whip him to make him pull it, for by so doing you may make a backslider out of him, and it may be a hard matter to renew him again. Train up a colt in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it. Washing Sheep. We had supposed that there were no more sheep subjected to the old time prac tice of being washed. It was but the other day that we heard -t sneep man say that it was too early to sheur his sheep as it was too cold to" wash them. It does seem to us that it i* a waste of time and of ink to spend words over the policy of this practice. We have been engaged in the new order of things so long that we have becoue somewhat inured to the practice of shearing "in the dirt," and we look upon washing as one of the semi- barbaric modes. We know that it is very hard for people to give up the practice of their fathers, and this is one of them. We are glad that there was another condition of things that compelled the shepherd of the west t« give up this practice of washing sheep; 'it is a fact that the streams are too muddy. Were one to wash his sheep in the average western stream they would come out iuu dirtier condition than they went in. I'runi ncr Fruit, Trees. No time of the .year is more suitable for the pruning of fruit trees than directly after the fall of the leaf. Where summer pruning has been judiciously performed very little will be required to be removed. The summer pruning of apples and pears is intended to obviate the barbarous system of mutilating the trees once a year—viz., in the winter. There ara very few gardeners who leave the pruning of fruit trees until late in the winter, because besides being a very uncomfortable operation then, late pruning has a detrimental effect upon both trees _and crops. The pruning of fruit trees, principally apples and pears, consists in removing all portions of the shoots that are not wanted, so that the tree may throw its strength into developing the shoots you wish to remain. If the spurs of the tree have been duly pinched in during summer 'another growth from each portion that was left has been formed, and it will therefore be necessary to cut the portion left in the summer to within one or two eyes of the preceding year's growth, according to fancy or strength of the respective buds. Gooseberry and black currant shoots should be thinned out when required, and red currants should be spurred. Some cherries require spur-pruning, but the Morello does better on walls if the young shoots are laid oa annually and some of the older branches cut short. THE HOUSEHOLD. THE RIVJSR. "1'is night; the moon sails like a ship on high; Thy glassy wave reflects the trembling sky, Thy bosom spreads beneath tho summer sky, While o'er it playful ripples liglitly jur: There breathes along t e margin from afar A pleaalnc odor like the musk of rose, As sweet ana fracraut as swoet spices are; Enraptured with tho scene my spirit glows, My trembled soul is drawn, lulled softly to ce^ pose'.- ' Flow on, tiiOii ever nioviiig i'ivpr, flow'— The.same deep vault of blue in arched o'er thee As when full many years,-long, long ago, Thou dost roll from the mountains to the sea; The old mossed rock, the overhang-ing tree, Are mirrored in thy dark green as before; AH Is as it of old was wont to bo Save that the men who wandered on thy shore Lie hidden in the cold, damp grave forovor- more. There is for man a hope, a joy, a loya— Thorp is a life beyond the moldorim; erave I I read it on the twinkling stars above, I hear it ou the murmur of thy wave; And where thy silver waters softly lave, There sounds like music from another shore, An echo sweet as if the angels gave It voice, and then did gently waft it o'er, A golden promise of u life forevermoro. We cannot always oblige, but we can always speak obligingly. The happiness of your life depends upon the character of ycur thoughts. Learn how to differ with others without giving them just cause to be angry' with you. ; Kindness and envy are insistent; they can no more abide together than light and darkness. Do well the littlo things now, so shall great things come to thee by-and-by asking to be done. True glory consists in doing what deserves to be written, in writing what deserves to be read, and in so living ns to make the world happier and better for our living in it.' There are certain ignobble facts in life which we can best combat by ignoring them. A slight of almost any sort ceases to be when you cease to consider I it. Xjscupe Valvea. Children need "escape valves." This is especially true if they are strong and healthy. It is unsafe to tie them down to the labors and quit pleasures in which their 1'elders find enjoyment. And yet anxious parents often regard with decided disfavor the innocent paativnes in which the young take delight. They condemn bicycling, photography, sketching, the care of pet animals, the collection of curiosities, and'every similar hobby, as a useless expense and an interference with necessary study. If the pursuit is a harmless and healthy one, and if it is followed with moderation, it will not only keep their minds fresh and vigorous for study, but it will be a vent for the impulses and passions which might otherwise get the mastery over them. Knowledge 'und Culture. It is a question after all as to what def ree knowledge and culture are identical, urely there can be no culture without a certain range pf acquirements, and still an individual may possess 'extended acquirements without being cultivated. That is to say, culture cannot exist without knowledge, but knowledge may exist without culture. : Watch the Givte of Your Heart. The gate of your .heart is a very busy gate. It keeps opening and shutting every minute. There is a constant troop going in and out all the time—or would if you did not watch the gate and shut ifc when a thief cornea along. For some of those who want to get in and out are thieves, who are only trying to steal what belongs to your absent Master. These are bad words, actions, thoughts, companions, habits.' Whenever you see any of the bad company coining, you must shut the gate right away, and not let them in if they are out, nor let them out if they are in. But many of the great crowd going in and out of your heart are friends and messengers of your absent Master. These are good words, actions, thoughts, companions, habits. Whenever yon see any of these comingyou mn«t, open the <r<*te right away and bid them Gjd-speed—yea, and you ought to lake off your hat to them, too— like a good old nmn [ have heard of, who always tonk off his hat when he heard the name of God, wherever he was nnd now- ever it wu< said. Unselfish Moments. It is only in moments of unselfishness that I am free. The iron chain that binds me is th% thought of myself and my OMU calamities; if I could be but liberated from that, my captivity would be turned in an hour. If under the shadow of the cloud, 1 could but remember that the shadow of the same clould hovers over my brother man, the vision of his shadow would destroy mine. In the moment of tu-ayer for^ him my burden would fall from me. I would seek it, and lo! it would not be found ; it would be as if it had not been. 0, jthou Divine spirit of self- forgetfulness, spirit of Christ, spirit of the cross, it is in thee alone that I can find this freedom! Liberate me from myself, and instead of this iron chain give me a chain of gold. It is not the chain that lowers me, it is the material of which it is made; it is not the sorrow that in- closes me a captive, it is the centering of the sorrow around my own life. Help me to take up the burdens of others, help me to know whut it is to have rest in bearing an additional yoke, thy yoke, tho yoke of humanity. Hel p me to feel what it is to have peace in carrying a now cure, the cnre of universal love. Help mo to learn what it is to be transfigured in the prayer for others, to have the countenance shining as the light, and tho rnimeni white and glistening. MATHIWON. HE AVAS NJiAll SIUMTKll. oyiiiiui) of iiGontleimm AVho Tried Atono fora Hlundor. Youth's Companion. to Many are the social drawbacks attendant on near-sightedness. There is pr>b- ably no person thus afflicted who has not at some time cut his best friends and killed possible acquaintanceship by failing to recognize some one to whom he has been recently introduced. A very nervous and sensitive gentleman, who can literally see little more than "an inch before his nose," says he has far less to regret from his failures to salute acquaintances than from his attempts ac atonement after inevitable mistakes. The history of one morning's blunders may suffice to show the disabilities under which he struggles. On the way down town he met his sister, who at once sloped him exclaiming, "Why, Henry Gilbert, how could you fail to recognize Mrs. Miles? You have just passed her and I supposa she didn't bow because there wasn't even a gleam of recognition on your face." "Dear, dear! have I actually made such a blunder?" said poor Henry. "And I am particularly anxious to be on good terms with her husband. But they're new commers in town, how could I be expected to know her, when I've only seen her twice?" "On the other hand shecan't be expected to make an allowance for you, not knowing you are near sighted," said his sister, eeverely, "Now Henry, do keep a lookout for people, nnd try not to make any more mistakes foj'twenty-fov;^ hours," i Henry wont on ]»» w ,ly with a heavy ueart, ,Lit,wlieu he entered a. hoi'jo cat- that no,,,i, it was with a thrill of elation when he saw Mrs. Miles established in one cor.._ar. To gain a seal, beside her, and begin ingratiating overiu::es, was the •,7orkof an instaiit. "Good morning," said the repentant one, taking off his hat with more than ordinary difference. "What a lovely day! I'm sure you've been shopping." The lady only looked at him, but her silence hardly surprised her companion, so absorbed was he in zelous effort. "Ladies are such priveliged beings,' 1 he went on. "Think how charming it is to go about buying silks and ribbons, instead of sitting all day in a stuffy office like us humdsum men." The lady moved as far from him as convenience would admit, but still she did not speak. "I saw your husband this morning," volunteered Mr. Gilbert. "I have no husband," nhe announced coldly. He looked her full in the face. "Bless me!" gasped he, "Igucssyou are cot Mrs. Miles after all!" •'I certainly am not." Mr. Gilbert apologized and left the car at the next corner. There, face to face, he met a lady who looked so familiar that, in pure dispair, he took off his hat to her, only to be requited by a surprised and distant bow. "That was a iristako too," groaned he. "Evidently I didn't know her, and she thinks 1 meant to be impertinent." He rushed on to seek the shelter of his own walls and as he entered the gate a lady passed by on the ether side of the street. "I declare, Harry, this is too bad!" called his sister, before hp reached the piazza where she was siting, "you have actually cut Mrs. Miles again! There she goes clown the street and you had all the chance in the world to bow, or even run over to her and apologize." i "Susan," said Mr. Gilbert, transfixing her with a desperate glance, "never dare to mention Mrs. Milcj' name to mo again! WHAT A WOMAN CAN'T JJO. The Mun Who Hud Seen All Sorts of Sitrhts Fell IJown Easily. "1 suppose I have seen some of the most wonderful sights in the world," said the gay young man at the club. "I have traveled through the streets of the buried Pompeii, watched the sunset from the peaks of the Alps, witnessed a duel on the gallery of the Loaning Tower of Pisa, carried relief to captive white men in the heart of Africa, and lighted my cigar with a sun-glass as I sat on an iceberg in Franklin Bay. I have seen a man who could lift a thousand pounds and a woman who could run a mile in fourteen minutes. 1 know a child three years old who can plav "Fisher's Hornpipe" on the organ. I liave seen—" "Yes," said the skeptical member, "but did you ever see a woman get off a street car with her face to the front?" And the gay young man had to confess that he never had. A new pianoforte keyboard having six rows of keys has recently been exhibited in Manchester, England. An octave ia formed by six keys in two continuous rows. All the keys are on the same level, and each note is separated from the next by an interval of two sard-tones. THS Findla/, Ohio, flint glass works were burned Sunday. The loss is $70,000 ana <3QO men are thrown out of work. MONICA. \ LOVE STORY OF MODERN DAYS, "N r o, thtink iiomliu'ss, th^r, 1 isn't," says Teivnct', with fervor. "I'll acknowledge it nt owv, without the run. To Imvo frciint'iit repetitions of It \vouldlio more than human nature could eiul;uv. I Imvo known two homis ulro.nlv; I should think a third would IIP my doutli." So saving, lie shoulders the forbidden gun and murclics off. Monica and Kit. p-ltinu: down from thoit elevated position, also pursue their path- whit'li lends in n contrary direction. "Monica." says Kit, presently, slipping her slender brown fingers •thromr!i her sister's arm, "what did Terry mean Just now when he spoke, of some one being 'spoons' mi yon? Docs that mean being In love with von'. 1 '' "I ilim't know,' 1 said Monlen In ntro.iWert loin 1 . ''If 1 ever had a lover before,! should 'iiidic; lint '' "That means he is," says the astute Kit. "And I'm sure," with a little hiving squeeze of her arm, "1 don't wonder at it." "You must, not say that," suys Monlen, earnestly. "Indeed, he said n few thiii(]s to me, luit Hint is nothing; and " "Yon think he M/fiw yon'.'" "Yes," reluetniitly. "I believe he adores tho very ground yon walk on." "Oil, no, indeed." "If yon say that, he'f a real lover. A real one. to my mind, ought to be ready and willing to kiss the impressions your heels may imiki- in thu earth." "That would be Ihe net of a fool, and Mr. Desmond is not, a fool." "Krgo. not, a lover. And yet I think he Is l/oncx, Mniiien," eoaxingly, "did ho say any pretty tilings to you! 1 " "What should he .sayi 1 I only met him t\v:ee." "Yon are prevarient'mg," ga/.ing at her severely. "Why don't yon answer me honestly?"' "I don't know what j/oit call pretty things." "Yes, yon do. Did he toll you your eyos were Jct'i>, Hce-i> wells of love, and that your face was full of sonlV" "No, ho did nut," says Monica, somewhat Indignantly; "certainly not. Tho ideal" ".lie must, have said somctliinu to you," says Kit artlessly, "Darling love, why -won't yon l«II your own Kitten all about it'. 1 " A little smili! quivers round Monica's lips. "Well, 1 will, then," she says. In her heart 1 believe sho is glad to confide in somebody, and why not in Kit, the sympathetic? "First, ho made me feel ho was do- llghted to meet me. again. Then ho asked mo to KO for a walk nlono with him; then he said he was—my lover!" "And then ho asked mo to meet him again to-day with you.'' "With ?)ic.' I think that was very delicate of him." She is evidently Haltered hy this iinfh'o of her existence, i'ln'mly, if not the rose in ills estimation, she is to bo treated with the respect due to the rose's sister. It is all eharmingl sho feels wafted upward, nnd incorporated, as it were, in a real love- affair. Yes, sho will be the guardian angel of these thwarted lovers. "And what did yon say'."' she asks, with a gravity that belits tho occasion, ".I. refus-'d," in a low tone. "Toiivot liimV" • "' r ° s -" "Wilh me;"' says Ihe dragoil of propriety. "'yes." "But why?" ".Because of Aunt Priscilin." And then she lolls her all about Aunt Priscilla's speech in the carriage, -an'd her reply to it. "i never hoard s'ucb 'ii rubbishy request in my life!" says the.yttmngcr Miss Beresl'onl, disdainfully. "Itlft really beneath nulice. And when all is told it means nothing. As J read it, it seems yon have only promised to forget you ever spoke to Mr. Desmond; yon haven't promised never to spcnk to him again." Thus the little Jesuit. "That was not what A mil Prisci I la meant." "Jt she meant, anything, It was folly. And, after all, what, is this dreadful quarrel between ns and the Desmonds all about? It lives in AiintPrisclllu's brain. I'll tell you what 1 think, Monica. I think Aunt Priscilia was once In love with old Mr. Desmond, and mother cut her out; and now, just because she has been disappointed in her own love-affair, she wants to thwart yon in yours." ",Slie doesn't indeed. Any one but Mr. Desmond might show me attention, and she would be pleased. She was quite glad when Mr. liydo—well—when ho made himself agreeable to me." "From all you told me of him, he must have, nuulii himself d/«.igrceable. I'm perfectly certain 1 should hate, Mr. Hyde, and I'm equally sure 1 should like Mr. Desmond. What did lie say to you, darling, when you refused to meet him even with 7110?" She lays great stress on this allusion to herself. "lie said 1 might, dons i chose, but that he would meet me again, whether 1 liked it or not, and noun!'' "Now, that's thu lover for me!" says Kit, onthusinstienlly. "No giving In, no .shilly- shallying, but downright' delenniiintion. He's an lioni'sl man, and we. all know what an honest man is, — 'Mm noblest work of God,' I'm certain ho will keep his word, and 1" do hope J shnll be with yon when next yon meet him, as 1 should like to make friends with him." At this moment it occurs to Monica that she never before knew how very, wry fond she is of Kit. "Oh, well, I don't suppose I can see him again for ever so long," she says. Hut even as HID words pass her lips she knows she, does not mean them, and remembers with a little throb ol' pleasure that he had said ho would see her again Brian. Soon! why, that might, mean this evening,—now,— any moment! Instinctively she lifts her head and looks around her, and there, just a little way off, is a young man coming quickly toward her, bareheaded and in evening dress. "I told you how it would be," says Kit, in a nervous whisner, taking almost a bit out of poor Monlfca'a arm in her excitement. "Oli, when I havo a lover I hope he will bo like/ie." Her grammar has gone after her nerve. Monica is silent; some color has gone from her cheeks, ami her heart is beating faster. It is her very lirst affaire, so we must forgive her. The bareheaded young man has coino up to her by this time, and is holding put his hand; silently she lays her own in it, and colors treacherously as his lingers close on hers in a close, tender, and possessive fashion. . "I found tho river too chilly," ho says, smiling, "so I came on here. Having been unsuccessful all the afternoon and morning, 'I I;new I slmu'dlind you now." "This is your sister?" looking at Kit, who Is regarding him with an eye that is quite u "piercer." "Yes," .says Monica. "Kit, this is Mr. Desmond." "I know that," says this enfant terrible, still fixing him with a glance of calm and searching scrutiny that Is well calculated to disconcert even a bolder man. Then all at once her wind seems made up, and, coming for ward,, she holds out her hancl, and aayg, "How d'ye do?" to him, with a sudden, ya^e sweet smile that convinces t^m, a,$ 9909 o| bw sisterhood to Itfopjca,, " ' Cd to tiie e'niiu for !>i>r own i;rii"e alone, as \vell as for the charm of her re atioiis jp to the )>nlo snow-drop of a girl licsl le her. "Yes. If you provo truo to my Monica." "Oh, Kit 1" says Monic.i, deeply sliucked; but Kit pa\s no bred, her ey s Iving fii-iit-n- ed gravely upon the man before her. lie is quite ns grave as she is. "If our friendship depends upon that, it will be a lasting oiuv'he snys.qiiielly. "My whole life is nt your sister's service." Something in his tone touches Monica; slowly slit 1 lifts her eyes until they reach his. "I wish, I irlsh y<m would not persist in this." she says, sadly. "Hut why? To think of yon Is my chief- cst joy. Do yon for'.iid me to be happy?" "No -mil - " "In Hie morning and I he afternoon I went In tin 1 vlver, to look for yon— in vnln; after dinner I went too, still hoping against hope; and now at last that 1 /Hire found yon, you are unkind lo me!" Hosp.'aks liglitly, but his eyes arc earnest. "Miss K:itlierine," ho says appcaliugly to Kit, "of your grace, 1 pray you to befriend me." "Monica would not go to the river this because sho remembered an absurd promise she made lo Aunt I'rlscllln, and because she feared to mcol you there, ll is lln 1 most absurd promise in tho world: wait till yon hoar il." Whereupon Kit, who is in her element, proeoedslo tell liimall about Miss I'risellln's words lo Monica, and Monica's answer, ami her (Kit's) interpretation. Incroof. "She certainly didn't promise novor to spenU to yon agnin." concludes sho. with n nod that Solomon might have envied. Need il bo said dial Mr. Desmond agrees with her on all points. "Thoro is no us ' in conllnniti'.: this discussion," says Monica, turning aside n lilllo (•oldly. "1 should not have gone to Ihe river, This olillllnu' remark pr.ulnei's a blank indescribable. and conversation hnii'iiishos; Monica he,r.;y.s an Interest In Hie Imrl/.un never beli, re developed: Mr. Desmond regards willi a iiioi d\ glance tho ripening linrvos-l: Kit, looking inward, surveys her menial resources and wonders whnt it isher duty to dn next. "Oh, what lovely dog-roses!" ishe says, effusively, In a time that wouldn't havo deceived a baby: "I really -mil*.' gel, some." "Lot me gcttliem I n 1 yon, ''says Desmond, gloomily, which she at unco doi'Hos is excessively stupid of him. ami she doingall she can for him too! She tries to wither him with a glance, but. be is ton miserable to lie lightly crushed. "No thank you," she says; "I prefer getting them myself. Flowers are like fruit, inn 'h more enjoyable when you pick them with your own bauds." &> saying, this aee.mipli-Oiod gooseberry skips round Hie corner, leaving Monlen and Mr. Desmond ti:lc-n-/i'tc. Thai, they oujoy their sudden isolation just at lirst is questionable: Monica discovers lilols ou the perfect hori/.ou; and Mr. Desmond, after n full minute's pause, says, reproachfully,— "You didn't rm/fj/ menu Hint, did you?" "Mean what?" uncompromisingly, nnd without, changing position. "That, oven if mutters had been quite— quite ciiiufoi'tahle with us. you would not have gone lo meet me at Hie i Ivor?" "i di.n'l know," in a low tone "<Sf.i|/ you didn't; mean It." "1— suppose .1 didn't," even lower. "1 hope your mints were not cross to you last evening on my account?" he say, y , anxiously. "No. Nothing was said, more limn Kit told yon, except that Aunt I'rlscllla totielio.d the point of introduction. Oh, what n frigjit 1 got then! If she had persisted In her Inquiries, what iwiuld have become of tueV" "Couldn't you have — -" begins Mr. Desmond, and then stops abruptly. A glnuco at the face uplifted to his checks his balf-ul,- heicred speech effectually, and renders him, sides, thoroughly ashamed of himself. "If I had had to confess there had been no introduction," goe.s on Monica, laughingly, "I don't know what, would have been tho result." "The deluge, I suppose," returns her companion, thoughtfully. "What a pity yon have an uncle at all I" says Monica, presently. "It would be nil right, only for him." She omits to say what would bo all right, but the translation is simple. "Oh, don't say that," entreats Desmond, who has a wholesome affection for tho old gentleman above at Coolo. "lie Is the kindest old fellow hi the world. I think, If you knew him, you would bo very fond of him; and I know be would adore 7/011. In fact, ho is so kind-liearled thall cannot think how all that unfortunate story about your mother ever cnino about. He looks to mi! ns if lie couldn't say 'Boo, to n goose' where a woman was, and yet his manner to-night confirmed everything 1 heard." "He confessed?" in n deeply inleresled lone. "Well, just the same thing. Ho scorned distressed about his own conduct in tho affair, too. But his manner was odd, I thought; and lie seems as much nt daggers drawn with your aunts as they with him," "That Is because he is ashamed of himself. One is always hardest on those one has injured." "But that is just it," says Mr. Desmond, in n puzzled tone. "1 don't believe, honestly, hit is a bit, ashamed of himself, lid anUl a good deal about his regret, but, I could sou he quite gloried ill bis crime. And, in fact, 1 couldn't discover the smallest trace of ru- inorse about him." "He must really bo a very bad old man," says Monica, severely. "I'm perfectly certain if he were my uncle I should not love him at all." "Don't say that. When he in your undo you will sen that J. am right, and that he, i.s a very lovable old man, in spite of all his faults." At tills Moniua blushes a little, and twirls her rings round her slender linrors in an excess (if shyness, and finally, in spit 1 .' ol a s:orn pressure laid upon herself, gives way to mil-Hi. "Wlnit arc yon laughing at mm?" asks he, laughing too. "At you," casting a swift but charming glance at him from under her long lashes. "You do say such funny things !" "Did you hoar there is to be an afternoon dance at the Barracks next week?" nsks ho. presently. "J was at Cloubree on Thursday, and Cobbett told mo alum! it." "Who is" "The captain there, yon know. He wus at. Aghyoliillbeg yesterday. Didn't you s -o him,— a little, half-starved-looking man, with u skin the color of bis hair, and both gray?" "Oh, of course— now I rein •mber him," gays Monica, this fetching description having ck-aiv.d her memory. "1 thought to myself how odd he and the other man, Mr. Kyde, looked together, onu as big us tho Oilier was little." "i thinii there is more mutter than brains about Kyde," says Desmond, contemptuously. "Do you think your aunt will IOL you go to thi.-i dance ut CJonbree?" "Oh, no; I am suro not. My aunts would be certain to look upon a dance in the Barracks as> bomethiiig loo awfully dissipated." one reason I should J)o glad you M ,Glad?" opening her eyes, s. That fellowto^ fteyer (apk Ijla "In my CNCS. jtrs." "And you \vnnlil wish n:i-to b- kept, it prisoner at liiinii*, jus'. bectiisc o;io man. look il :>t mo'.'" "I don' want any oiio In look :it yon but mo !" Thc'.i lie comes a lit.lo closer to IKT and coiniicls her, by the very s'.ivn.clh of his regard, to Id her eyes moot his. "Do yon like Hyde?" In- asks, soniowbut seriously. "Monica, answer inc." 11 is ilic second time lie IKIS culled her by her Christian mime, nii'l n sturlled cxpros- sion passes nvor her face. "\Voll. ho uas very niiv to me," she says, with a studied lie itatiim (lint It, longs tutlm lirsl It'll ofenqu -ti-y slit' tins ever practiced in her life. She has lasted the sweetness of power, mill fresh »s her > C'stiniiilos the advantage of it to a "I Itelieve a man Ims only to bo six-fo one In havo ovory woman in the world in lino with him," says Desmond, wratbftilly,. who is only live-feet-ol< veil. "I inn not exactly in /"IT with Sr. liyde," says Monioii, sweeily, with averted face ami a coy air, assumed for her companion's dis- I'oinlitnro; "hut '' "lint ir/Hi/;"' "Hnl, 1 was going to say, there Is nothing remarUable In that, as'I am not in hivewitli diij/niir, and hope I novor shall be. I wonder where Kit can have gone to: will yon fret up there, Mr. Desmond, and look'. 1 " Breaking oIT a liny blade of irra-; from Urn hunk near her, she puts II bel ween her prct- ly tooth, mill slowly nibbles it with mi air ol'uller indilTerem'o to all the world Hint drives Mr. Desmond nearly mil of his wits- Disdain I UK I ' lake any heed of her "nolleo to quit," and unite delormmcd to know tln>. worst, be sa\s, dollantly,- "II you tin go In this dance, may 1 consider myself engaged to you for I he first wall/, 1" There is ipiiie a frown upon his faw as ho says this; hnl il liasn'l I ho I'alnlesi effect, upon Monica, .She is not m all impressed, and is, in fact, enjoying herself linincn.-vly. "If I go, which Is more than improlmblo, 1 shall certainly not daiieo, \v,lh you at till," she says, calmly, "bei.'anso Aunt I'riseilin will be there loo, and she would not hear of my doing evtMl a mild quadrille with a Desmond." "1 see," with n melaui'lioly assumption of composure. "All your dimees, then aro to- be, preserved for Kyde." "If Mr. Kydo asks mo to dnuee, of course I shall not refuse." "Von menu to tell mo."-—oven the poorns- sumpllon Is now gone—-"(hat you are. going, lo give him nil and me none;'" "I shall not give iinyone nil; liowean you talk like thai',' Dill. I oaiiuol. defy Aunt. Prls- eilla. Lt is very iiukiml of yon lo desire, lu 1 suppose yon think 1 should enjoy being tormented from morning Hit night .all about. you' 1 ' 1 "I'orlaiuly not. I don't, want, you loins tormented on any acconn!, and, above all, on mine," very stillly. "To prevent, anything of tho kind, 1 shall not go lo Cobhott's dance." "If you choose lo got into a bad temper I. can't help yon." "I am lint: in a bad temper, and iivnn if I worn 1 have cause. Hut It is mil temper will prevent my going I o the Barracks." "What then'.'" "\Vliy should 1 go there lo IM made, mis- oraldeV 1'nil can go and danei-with ilydo 10 your heart's content, but. 1 shall spiirtv myself I 1 1'.' pain id' 1100.10; yon. Did yo:i nay/ yon want d yon; 1 sis,, r'.' Shall I call iier 11 . w? 1 am sure you mil -I. want. I. > o ho.'i ;." (To bo continued.) • HOIKING IT DOWN. A \VMf of I'OHOJ- Whluli ;.S«i(Ierril in th«\ KdllurV IliuulH. lidilor Mortimer Clugston, formerly of" the Doorlevillo Yelpcr, but late of the • Uooinville Thunilcrbult. sat in his sanctum engaged in a Hovero mental struggle with M poem that lay on the table before him. It was written by a young lady who signed herself "Mary Uolle," and ' was to tile • effect that they cannot choose, but wait at' tho old familiar gate, going home: the' words aro low and sweet, but the old gate* in discreet, going home. Long they linger, long they t-ttuid at tho gateway, hand in hand, going home; what the words BO sweet and low only I hey mid gale, do know, in tho glotun. "Good-night!" "Good- Night!" they say, but all the longer stay, going homo; till darkness hides from sight of gate and all their last good-night,, in the gloam, etc, Editor Clngston did'nt- like to lose that poem, but there wasn't, room for it. J fit went in 1m would have- to cut down the notice of Miss Pboobe- Gay's millinery opening, every lino of which was worth ten cents in solid cash. All tho space bo had left for that week wax just one inch, and it would he time to go toppress in live mimiles. In HUB emergency one of those Hushes of inspiration that mark the man of genius came to his aid. Ho soi'/,ed his pen and wrote; ''Mian 'May Belle' Heiuls us u, beautiful poem which we have not space to insert in full, but \\hich is to good to be lost. We have condensed it as follows: "Must tt'idt, at (jutfl—homo: WoriU HwoisL, K'itu'H'ruut—uloani. bony Htaiul, Hi|in i i)/o Iwnil—lulu. WorilH low, don't ilon'l know—gulo. 'Tu Ta!' 'Ho lung!'—buck; i Hunt dark, lililuH—liurkl— Smuckl' l>u]>opiiluUii£ n Country. Tho census of thu United Kingdom just completed shows the total population of Ireland to be 4,700, decrease of 0,05 per cent, since 1881. This is a greater ratio of decrease than was shown by cither of the two preceding censuses, though the depopulating of Ireland has been going on steadily for the past half century, and with a rapidity unknown in any other- part of the civilized world. The population of Ireland in 1841 was 8,190,597. By 1851 it had Ldlen to 6,547, 271, the loss of near'y one-fifth being largely by emigration to tho United States, In the following decade tiie loss wats 11.50 per cent: from 1861 to 1871 it wan C.05 per cent..and from 1871 to 1881 i it was 4.-10 per cent. In fifty years Ire- hind has lost 4,700,102 from a population of 8,190,597, or 48.59 per cent. The actual loss if, of courtio, greater than this when allowance is made for the'nulural increase by birthf. And still the remnants that are left find it Lard to make a living. These bare figures constitute- in them? selves one of the strongest indictments that could be framed againbt the political conditions to which Ireland bus been subjected—conditions which have made expatriations the only resort of more than one-Lalf the people of the country. Fifty years more of the same policy will depopulate Ireland entire!v, and then the English will doubtless be able to govern it to their satisfaction. "Can you give me credit for this poein?" inquired the writer who had invaded the sanctum. "Hum! 1 don't know aboui that; but if it is printed you'll have to take the blame for it." Pajrots "How many ror legi (who, I

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