The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on August 5, 1891 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

Algona, Iowa
Issue Date:
Wednesday, August 5, 1891
Page 3
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THEttPPER i)ES MOUSES, ALGONA, IOWA, WEDNESDAY, AUGUSTS, 1891. FARM AD GARDEN. >t A NEW FARM BALLARD. r—i • OHIO STATE JOURNAL. When I'starl my plow * rnhhin' In the black an< meller ground And the lend is growin' smaller that my horse; tramp found: And the white-oak buds areoponln* and the grasi a-gVbwin' green, Makes a feller think of summer as he gazes on the scene; When the chipmunk runs and chatters, 'cause thi plow his den 'as torn. An' the croWs are loudly scoldln' *bout the plant in' of the corn: When the bluebird hollers out a rail and starts t build a nest, Then I think that that's the time o' year I kind o like the best, But It's mighty nice, I tell yon, when the sumrae time is here. With the wheat a-growln' yeller and the harves drawin' near; With the timothy In blossom ah' the hayin' Jus at hand, An' the mother quail a-callln' to her peepin' littli band, Oh, I like to watch the wolly clouds a-floatin' fa: away As I'm riding on the mower or rakln' up the hay. Then I sometimes seem acquainted with each bird or bumblebee, An' I think the golden summer IB the time of yeai for me. •tlfet t *? I-ABM NOTES. Stake the tomato vines if they fall over and the fruit will have a better opportunity to ripen. String beans are a summer crop ant may be had. in succession by making several plantings. Breeding too young is a hading cause of both hogs and sheep deteriorating, The offsprings are weak and often sickly V Feed regularly, and so cultivate habits v di regularity with the broods and flocks ) Make yourself acquainted with your hens and better result will be secured. • Sheep properly pastured on land anc fed when necessary will gradually • builc K7 up the fertility much better and at a less -cost than with almost any other class ol stock. When the chickens are large enough to roost shut them in a house and teach them to stay there every night. They •should never learn to roost in boxes or on fences. Thin is the proper time to cut out olc canes of the raspberries; also cut off the lips as soon as the canes have grown as high as desired, to encourage the growth of side branches. Pine tar is harmless and costs but little. Apply it to the troughs from which sheep drink. A small quantity of it on the noses of sheep svill defend them agains the glad fly. A poor soil well worked will ordinarily produce better crops than a good soi poorly worked, but for wholly satisfactory results there should be good land andgooc work. Early Pigs. If you have some early pigs and wont to push them right along give them, as soon •as they will eat from the trough, a daily feed of shorts mixed with water, about the consistency of molasses. As they grow older give in addition crushed mangle- wurzels or refuse apples. When four months old one pound of corn meal per pig should be added to the daily ration. Giv< all the time a variety of easily digested flesh forming and bone producing foods, and save the corn for feeding off at the ' last. TrunsplauUug Celery. In order to have good celery there oughi to oe no serious check to the growth of the plants from the time they are pricked oul till their full size is reached. Where many err is in deferring 1 transplanting too long. Plants lifted with a good ball oi soil and roots, the former being thoroughly moist at the time, will rarely flag, even when the work is clone in the hottest weather. Thsy will stand up stifly, and with a little assistance from the watering pot will scarcely cease growing. WitE very little further trouble they will form large, sturdy plants with solid leaf stalks and the best of hearts, contrasting in all respects most favorably with those less well treated. CultiviitiuK Huckleberries. Many people have failed in their attempts to cultivate huckleberries. The California Fruit Grower says there is but one way to grow this fruit successfully. The bushes will not grow satisfactorily, if at all, when given clean cultivation. The roots require shade nnd the plants should be set close together and cut down low at first, so that tne branches will spread out and shade the roots. In addition to this a mulching of leaves, such as they are accustomed to in the woods, should be given. They will always grow better in partially shaded places than in the open field. Care uf the Cattle. We should now turn to the cattle, for at •this time of the year is when the farmer's knowledge as a care-taker is most valuable. The more he knows concerning diseases peculiar to animals and a judicious method of treating them, the better will be his chances of raising good stock. Experience teaches that to cultivate and maintain cattle in good health is cheaper than doctoring them for diseases, many of which might be prevented. Yes, as a care-taker bis policy must be to prevent as well as to cure. Yet it is not easy for every farmer to know and determine just what is to be done for a sick animal. It might be difficult even for an experienced veterinary Burgeon to give prompt relief in some instances. Hence tne farmer should be ever watchful apainat unhealthy conditions or symptoms of ill health, isolating the affected animal ar.d calling in the veterinary as soon as possible, If the disease prove contagious, the owner thus reduces the risks to a minimum. Live at Home. Germontown Telegraph: For nine months in the year gardener ought to live on the produce of his garden, and live better than those who buy his truck. Poultry and eggs, with milk, are first cousins to cabbage and potatoes, and pork raised mainly on refuse garden stuff will fill all the gaps and the last three months besides. This would leave the garden stuff to clothe, school and keep the family in books, music or any pastime they might " incline to, Kvery fanily ought to have a relaxation from daily toil. First, food and clothing for health and decency, next, toil for health; next, play for the mind, and finally to save up for a rainy day. Ten acres in garden will do all this in hand- aome style, as I w«H know. No provision made for whisky, you see. This makes heavenly home lor all. •ProVetb* fo* Hone O wners. fron't breed that old broken-down mate It won't pay, btit will be an injury to Ih breeding industry. Don't feed corn or cornmeal to th> horses during hot weather. Corn is too heating. Don't spare the oats. The well-fee horse stand up under constant work when the under-fed ^falters. Don't imagine that when you water your horses three times a day you have done all that nature demands. Don't let the horses eat too much green grass. A little while in the pasture after a day's work will do them good, but too much green food will work injury ant cause the horses to sweat easily at work. Don't run down your neighbor's horsos Praise them when you can and when you cannot, say_ nothing. Don't think because your neighbor has bought a stallion that fie has been necessarily cheated, and has bought a failure Give the horse a chance to show by his progeny what he is. Don't get off into the next town or county to breed your mare if an equaljy gooc stallion of the same breed and style is owned on the next farm. You may own a stallion some day, and then you will need the patronage of your neighbors. Don't let the stallion stand idle in the barn. Make him work, for it will add to the potency and help pay for his food. Don't throw away the currycomb now that farm work is rushing. It is needec more now than it was lost winter. Don't forget that a boxstall is much better than a narrow one for the horses, especially when they are worked hare all day. You like a wide bed, so does your horse. When To Sell.' Having occasion lately to ascertain a whatpr.ces various farm products have sold in each month for the last two years, we were convinced that there was a lessor therein by which many farmers mighl profit. There is no lessor here for the slip-shod, and none for those confined in the ruts, but we could not help considering the value of brains as a farm commodity more than ever before. Not that we consider high prices wholly^ product of good planning, as such things are regulated largely by supply anc demand, and large prices usually prevail when there is, for any reason, a scarcity of product. There is, of course, some dif ficulty to be overcome and often additiona expense in {bringing products to rnarke' when high prices prevail. If all these difficulties were to be overcome by the masses these prices could no longer be pos sible. It is a settled fact that the masses do not overcome these difficulties and the prices are still paid—not to the lucky, usu ally, but to those who have > bestowed care in Carrying out tbe details of a settlec policy of production agreeable to a well concocted plan, the result of a wise use oi brains. When this farm sent butter to market, contracted to customers for a yearly price more than we are now getting for tne besl month at tbe creamery, we had little thought as to summer and winter prices. While we were doing this, and a few others the same thing, the majority were setting 20 cents in June and July, and 2£ cents in November, December, and January, if they had any to sell. We are aware that cows must be_ fed at more expense to produce butter in winter than in summer, yet the farmer intends to feed his hay, gram and ensilage to something, then why not let the cows go dry at pasture when butter is cheap, and get the other eight cents. In eggs we found still more variation in prices. The price paid pet dozen in May being 12 cents and in January 33 cents, i We are aware that hens are not as easily regulated, as cows, but somebody's hens laid when eggs were 33 cents a dozen, and there was a reason for it. It was either in the breed, feed, quarters, age of chicks, all of^bese conditions, or several in combination. We have no doubt somebody's brain's were at work planning for the eggs at 33 cents a dozen, months before hand. It has often happened that there was two or three cents more a pound to be had for early sheared wool, out this baa not been the case for the last two or three years; as so many farmers are now keeping she ep that do so much better for being sheared that the local markets are early supplied. The price of beef has almost always been a little firmer just before the small cattle get fat at pasture. For this reason farmers who have nice oxen steers, ready to go early have been well paid for tbeir planning and extra feed. While good lambs are often bought for four cents a pound live weight, in the fall, nine and ten cents a pound await, not ths lucky,lbut those who lay plans tor it and feed liberally. We might go on and speak of broiler chickens, late strawberries, early apples, and a variety or strictly farm products, to say nothing of the prices paid for celery and other green vegetables; but we have said enough, we hope, to set some readers to thinking, and there nsed be little fear that all will bring their products to market for highest prices for fear that such thing would defeat the whole plan. WILL TELL. THE HOUSEHOLD. No man's life can be right whose love is wrong. People never become any better than they want to be. People are scarce who do not talk too much about themselves. The man who is ruled by his feelings will always travel in a zig-zag course. Hurt no man's feeling unnecessarily. There are thorns in abundance in thejpath of human life. What some people call prudence is often what their nearest neighbors call meanness. People who can patiently bear all their imall trials will never break down under :heir great ones. Bad men hate sin through fear of punishment. Good men hate sin through very !ove of virtue.—Guneval. Every man has something to do with noking public sentiment, and public sen- iment is the power that gires to government its life, Woman In the Home. When men, weary with the world's bat- le, return to tbe shelter of their home, ,bey need the kindness, the refinement, he high cultivation, the usefulness, the gentle piety which woman as she was meant to be knows how to afford him. The cultivation of a woman's mind can not be carried too high, but it must be a cultivation proper to her—to her constitution, ler marked gifts, her work in tie world. —Selected. MONICA. A LOVE STORY OP MODERN DAYS CHAPTER XlU. Karly next morning Bridget, Monica's maid, enters Kit's room in a somewhat mysterious fashion. Glancing all round tho room furtively, as though expecting at enemy lying in ambush behind every chali and table, she says, in a low, cautinns tone,— "A letter for you, miss.'' As she says this, she draws a note from beneath her apron, where, in her right hand it has been carefully'hidden,—so carefully, indeed, that she could not have failed to create suspicion in thq breast of a babe. "For met" suys Kit, offhor guard for once, "Yes, miss." "Who brought it?" "A bit of a gossoon, miss, out there in the yard beyant. An' he wouldn't give tne his name; but sure! know him well for a boy of the Maddens', an'' one of the Coole people. His father, an'his gran'father before htm, were laborers with the ould Squire." "Ah, indeed 1" says Kit. By this time she has recovered her surprise and her compos ure. "Thank you, Bridget," she says, with quite a grandiloquent air; "put it there, or that table. It is of no consequence, I dare say; you can go.' 1 Bridget—who, like all her countrywomen, dearly likes a love-affair, and is quite aware of young Mr. Desmond's passion for her mistress—is disappointed. "The gossoon said he was to wait for an answer, miss," she says, insinuatingly. "An' faix," waxing confidential, "I think I caught sight of the coat-tails of Mislhcr Desmond's man outside the yard gate." "You should never think on such occasions, Bridget; and coatrtalls are decidedly low," says the younger Miss Beresford, wltl: scathing reproof. "They weren't very low, miss. He wore one o' them cut-away coats," says Bridget, in an injured tone. "Yon fail to grasp my meaning," says Kit, gravely. "However, lot It pass. If this note requires an answer, you can wait in the nexl room until 1 write it." Then she tears open the envelope, ami reads as follows:— K KIT,- Owing you all the love and allegiance in the world for having helped me once, 1 come to you again. How am 1 to pass this long day without a glimpse of her? It is a lovesick swain who doth entreat your mercy. Does any happv thought — " — a\\ your pretty head'/ if so. my man is waiting i'or it somewhere; befriend me a second time. 'Ever yours, "BllIAN." Prompt action is as the breath of her nostrils to Kit.. Drawing pen and Ink toward her, without a moment's hesitation, she scribbles an answer to Desmond:— "We are going toward Ballyvoureen this afternoon, to take n pudding to old Biddy Daly; any one clianclng to walk there also might meet us. Count upon mo always. KIT. This Maccliiavellian epistle, which she fondly believes to be without its equal in the matter of depth, she folds carefully, and, inclosing it in an envelope void address or anything (mark the astuteness of tfwtt/), calls to Bridget to return to her. "You will find the boy you mentioned as being by birth a Madden," she says, austerely, "and give him this; and you will refrain from gossiping and idle talking with him, which is not convenient." It would be impossible to describe the tone in which she says this. Bridget, much disgusted, takes the note silently, and with sufllclcnt'nervousness to make itself known. Indeed, she is so plainly impressed by Kit's eloquence that the latter's heart sings aloud for joy. "Yes, miss," she says, in a very subdued voice, and goes away with indignant haste, to tell coo);, as she passes through the kitchen, that "Faix, Miss Kit might be her own gran'mother,—she is so ould an' qnare in her ways." Kit meantime goes in search of Monica, with a mind stored with crafty arguments for the beguiling of that unconscious maiden. Hearing voices in the morning-room, she turns in there, and finds the whole family in conclave. Miss Priscilla is speaking. "Yes, I certainly think hospitality of some sort should bo shown them," she is saying, with quite an excited flush on her dear old ugly face. "We cannot, of course, do much; but afternoon tea, now, and some pleasant people to meet them,—and strawberries,— and a little stroll round the gardens—eh? And, Penelope, you used to be a great hand at claret-cup in our dear father's time; and then there is tennis. I really think, you know, it might be done." "Is there going to be a. party here, Aunt Priscilla?" asks Kit, with enlarged eyes. "Well, my dear, wo are debating the possibilities of it,—just the pros and cons," says Miss Prisctlla, precisely. "Your aunt Penelope agrees with me that some attention is due to those young men in Cionbree Barracks." "You are going to ask Captain Cobbett and Mr. Ryde here 1 Oh, what fun!" cries Kit, seating herself, minus invitation, on Miss Prisciila's knee, and twining her arms round her neck. "Do you know, when with mother we didn't dare call our souls our own; but with you we are having real good old times! Aren't we, now?" "Oh, Kit!—my dear Kit I—you must not speak so of your lost mother," cry the old ladies in a breath, both greatly distressed. "Well, I sha'u't if you don't wish it; but It is true, for all that. When is it to be. Aunt Pris?" "Next week, I suppose," says Miss Penelope, promptly, seeing that Miss Priscilla Is still too agitated to reply. "And I think, perhaps, it would be rather nice to have tea in the orchard." "Oh! how quite too lovely 1" says Kit, clasping her hands. "Quite too utterly,consummately,preciously intense?" mutters Terence, sotto voce, regarding Kit sideways, who returns his rapturous glance with one full of ineffable disdain. "I hope Michael won't object," says Miss Penelope, nervously. Michael Is the gar? dener, and they are all, without exception, afraid of him. "Nonsense, my dear I why should he?" says Miss Priscilla. "It isn't because he has been here for years that he is to forbid us the use of our grounds, and of late 1 consider there is great fault to be found with him. Long service should not generate neglect, and of lute there has not been a good lettuce or respectable dish of asparagus in the garden." "There wasn't even any thyme last week," says Kit, who maintains an undying feud with Michael. "He had to get some fresh plants from Cahirmore." "Time was made for slaves," says Terence, meditatively. 'Ton aren't a slave, are you?" "I should hope not," says Kit, icily. "Then you can't want time; so don't worry that poor old man in the garden about it, He hasn't a scythe, or a bald head, or a dismal forelock; so he can't know anything about it." "You are so clever," says the younger Miss Beresford, with unmixed scorn, "that I wonder something dreadful doesn't happen to you." "So do I." says Terence. --~ —- "Weil, auntie, and whom shnll we ask to meet these men of war?" says Kit, ignoring him,— publicly, to his great delight.' "I suppose Madame O'Connor and all her party, and the Frenches, nnd Lord ttoss- moyne,—who I hear is still in the country, —arid Penelope, my dear, will yon s'it down and write the invitations now for Friday next, as I must get ready to go to the coast-guard station? That girl of Jlitson's is ill, and wants to see me." • Monica rising at this moment to leave the room, Kit follows her. "It is really Ion amazing," she says when they find themselves In the hall. "To think of their blossoming into a real live party 1 1 feel qnito overcome.'' "So do 1," says Monica, laughing. "There is only one drawback to it," says Kit, softly; "lam so sorry Brian can't be asked." Monica flushes furiously, nnd swerves away from her somewhat impatiently; but reply she makes none. "There are cobwebs In my brain," says Kit, raising her hands languidly to her head, with the oppressed air of one who Is brave* ly struggling with a bad headache. "I think I shall go for u walk to Biddy Daly's to try and rout them. I promised her old mother a pudding the last day 1 was there, and today cook lias it ready for me. Will you come with me, Monica? Do." "Not to-day, I think," says Monica, lazily. "I wish you would 1 I do so hate going anywhere by myself. And, somehow, I am half afraid to go alone to-dny, I feel—so —so faint. However," with a resigned High, "nevermind; I dare say if I do drop in a deadly swoon, somebody will pick mo up." "My dear Kit, if yon feel like that, don't go," says Monica, naturally alarmed. "I have promised old Mrs. Duly; I must go," replies Kit, with the determination of a Brutus. "If I am not back in time for dinner, yon will understand what has happened." Tills is awful 1 Monica turns quite pale. "Of course I shall go with yon," she says, hurriedly. "Is your head so very bud, darling? How In-lively you carried it, off in there!" pointing toward the morning-room they have just left. "However, it would bo only like you to hide your worries from us, lest they should make us unhappy." At this, it must bo allowed to her credit, Kit feels some .strong twinges of remorse,— not enough, however, to compel confession. "It is hardly worth talking about," she says alluding to'the headache; and this, at all events, Is the .strict truth. CHAl'TJSU XIV. The road to Mrs. Daly's is full of beauty. On one side of it runs Cook 1 , its trees rich with leafy branches; upon the other stretches a common, green and .soft, with a grand glimpse of tho ocean far do'wn below it. "Why walk on the dusty road, when those fields are peon in there' 1 " say.s Kit, pointing to Coolo; and, after a faint hesitation, Monica follows her over the wall and into the dark recesses of the woods. The grass is knee-deep in ferns and trailing verdure; great clumps of honeysuckle, railing from giant limbs of elm, make the air sweet. Koine little way to their right—but where they cannot see because of the prodigality of moss and alder and bracken—a little hidden brook.runs merrily, making "Swool. music with th" unnmoi'd stones. Giving n geullo kiss to ovory BcUifO Ho overtakoUi lii his pllftrlnuitfe." Some thought belonging to the past night coming to Kit, she turns to Monica with a little laugh. "How silont you have been about last night's adventure 1" she says. "I watched you from your own window until the shadows caught you. You looked like a (lilting spirit,—u—a bhoot." "A bootl" says. Monica, very justly surprised. "Yes," loftily. Kit's educational course, as directed by herself, lias been of tho er ratio order, and has embraced many topics unknown to Monica, From tho political economy of Faroe Isles, it has reached even to the hidden mysteries of Hindostan. "I must-have struck you then as balng in my liveliest mood," says Monica, still laugh' ing. "Terry told us yesterday ho was as gay as old boots. As I looked like one, I suppose I was at least half as gay as ho was. After all, there is nothing like leather, no matter how ancient." "There's an h in my bhoot," says Kit, with some disgust. "Iteally, tho ignorance of some people—even the nicest—is surprising." "Then why don't you tako it out?" says Monica, frivolously. "Not that I know in the very least what harm a poor innocent letter could do there." "You don't understand," says Kit, pltl fully. "I don't, indeed," says Monica, unabashed. "A bhoot is an Indian ghost." "And so you thought I looked like an In dian ghost! with a turban! and an Afghani and a scimiter! Oh, Kit I Did I really look like the mahogany table beneath the silver moonbeams? and did my eyes glitter?" "What a goose you are 1" says Kit, roaring with laughter. "No, you looked lovely; but I was reading an Indian story yesterday, and it came into my head." ''You read too much," says Monica. 'Much learning will make you mad,' if yon don't take care. Hemember what Lord Bacon says, 'Heading maketh a full nmri.' How would you like- to be a full wonmn,— like Madame O'Connor, for example?' "Francis Bacon never meant it In that sense," says Kit, indignantly. "I really wondvr ut yon, Monica." And, having so scolded her idol, she rolnpeod into silence lor a considerable time. "Oh! what lovely dog-roses I" anys Monica, presently, pointing to ft han&ing spray of pink blossom-), satisfying as a happy dream. "I must get them." She springs up amossybauknsshospeais, regardless of the blackberry branches that cross her path, barring her way, ami catching viciously at her skirts, as though to hinder her progress, "Oh, tako care!" cries Kit, forgetting all about Lord Bacon in her terror lest her pretty sister shall not show to the best advantage in her lover's eyes. "Your gown will bo torn. Wait,—wait, until I sot you free from these dreadful thorns." "Alas 1 how full of briers is this working- day world," quotes Monica, gayly. "There, now I am all right, and I have got my pretty roses into tho bargain. Are they not sweet?— aweetl" holding them right under Kit's nose. "They are, indeed. And, by tho bye, 'here we are, 1 like the clown," says Kit, pointing to a low farm-house in tho distance. Beaching it, and finding the door as usual open, they enter what might be tho hall in another house, but is here the kitchen. There is no leading up to it. From the mo- moment you cross the threshold tho kitchen lies before you. It is a large room, if it may so be called, with a huge fireplace in which a dozen fires might be stowed away and forgotten. Just now there is a flame somewhere in its backmost depths that cannot possibly annoy these June visitors, as one lias to search for it to find it. An old woman, infirm and toothless, yet with all the remains of great beauty, sits cowering over tills hidden turf flre, rnum- ng to herself, it may be of golden days now past and gone, when she had been the fairest colleen at mass or pattern, and had counted her lovers by the score. Yes, those were good old times, when the sky wttteTer blue and all tho world was young. Two younger women, sitting neiUher, but further from the chimney nook, are gossiping idly, but persistently, in the soft, mellifluous brogue that distinguishes the county Cork. As the Berrsford girls cuter, those two latter women rise simultaneously nnd courtesy with deep respect. The youngest of them, who Is so like the "handsome old woman in the corner r>f thn fireplnco rts to be unmistakably of kin to her, comes quickly forward to greet her visitors with the kindly grni'o nnd the absence of consciousness that distinguish the Irish peasantry when doing llu* honors of their own homes. This luck Qtmanvaiachnntc arises perhaps from tho fact that they are so honestly glad to welcome a guest beneath their roof that they forget to 1)0 shy or backward. She makes a'slight effort to pull down her tucked-np sleeves, nnd then desists for which tiny one with a mind artistic should bo devoutly grateful, as her arms, brown as they are from exposure to tho sun, are at least shaped to perfection. She is dressed in a maroon-colored skirt and body, tho skirt so turned up in fishwife fashion (as we wore It some seasons ago) that a dark blue petticoat beneath, of some coarse description, can be distinctly seen. Her throat Is a little bare, her arms, as I have snld, quite so, far up above the elbows. .She Is stout nnd comely, with a beautiful Innghing mouth, nnd eyes of deepest grny, merry as her lips. Outside, lying about, half naked In the warm sunshine, are three or four boys with tho same eyes and mouth, undeniably her children. "Whlsha! 'tis mysclf'sglnd to see ye,"she says, with a beaming smile. "Good luck to yer pnrty faces. Tis a long time now, Miss Beresford, since ye came, or Miss Kit there." "I promised your mother a pudding, and 1 have brought It," says Kit. "Look at that, now I 'TIs a trouble wo are to ye entirely. Mother, wake up a bit, an'thank Miss Kit for what she's brought ye." "Yo're ton kind, nsthorn, too kind," mumbles the old womnn In the corner, turning eyes that are still full of light upon the child, "to think of an ould 'ooinnn now In thegrave ns It might be. Ay, t'nlxl An' the bells n-ringln' too. I can hear 'em some- timos, when the wind's down—eh—-" "Nonsense, mother 1 tho yard [churchyard] will bi> lonely for yo yet, awhile," says Mrs. Daly, junior, cheerfully. "See, now! tnstn this;'twill do yo good. An'you'll sit down, Miss Monica, I hope. Take, care, honey, till .1 dust the chair for ye." This is dexterously done with the corner of her apron. "An* ye'll take a dhrop o'lay too, maybe; oh, ye, will, now, if only to plazo me, al'ther yer long walk, an' all to honor the ould woman." "Ah, there Is Mrs. Moloney 1" says Kit, addressing I be second younger woman, who is n thin little peasant with a somewhat discontented expression. "The sun blinded my v-yos so that i could not sat! you at first. JJftv<! you heard from your boy at sea?" "Yes, miss. Praises be. above i lie's dolu* well, he says; but It's belike I'll never sec u sight of his handsome face again.',' "Oh, nonsense, now, Mrs. Molouoy, mo dear? What are yo lalkln' like that for?" says young Mrs. Daly, who seems to be the parish consoler. "Sure, it's back he'll bo wld yo before the. new year." "Oh, yes, I hujio so," says Monica, softly. " 'Tis hard to hope, miss, wid the rowllug wind o' nights, an' the waves dashln' up on the bench." "Ye'ro an ould croaker," says Mrs. Daly, giving her a good-humored shake. "An 1 now sit down, MUs Monica an' Miss Kit, do, till i get ye tho sup o' lay. Mrs. Moloney, me dear, jistgivo the fire a poke, an' make the kittle sing us a song. 'TIs tho music wo want most now." It would have boon considered not only a rudeness, but an act of hauteur, to refuse this simple hospitality; so the girls seat themselves, and, indeed, to tell tho truth, are rather glad than otherwise of tills chance of securing their afternoon tea. "An' how are tho old ladies up nbovu?" says Mrs. Daly, meaning tint Misses Blake. "Quito well, thank yon,"says Monica. "It was only yesterday Aunt Priscilla was saying she should come down and soe old Mrs. Daly." "She's as welcome as tho flowers in May whenever slio comes," says the daughter-in- law. "D'ye hoar that, mother? Miss Pris- ciila's coniln* to see yo, some day soon. Ay, 'tis a good friend she always was to the poor, summer an' winter; an' isn't it wondhorful now, Miss Monica, how she's kept her flguro all through? Why," raising her hands with an expressive gesture of astonishment, "'twas Friday week I saw her, an' I said to myself, says I, she's tho figure o' u young girl, I says. Ye'll tako a taste o' tills homo- made cake, alanmv?" She is made happy forever by Kit's unmistakable enjoyment of this last-named luxury. "Ay, she's an iligant flguro even now," says Mrs. Moloney, In her depressing voice. "But time an' throublo Is cruel hard on some of us. I had a flguro meself when I was young," with a heart-reading sigh. "Ye were always slight, me dear, an' ye'ro slight now too," says Mrs. Daly, tenderly, "i nlvor see tho like o' yo for koepln'olTtho flesh. Why, I remember ye well as a slipo 1 u girl, before yer blessed babby was born, an' yo wore a screed, mo dear,—a screed." "Yes, I WHS always ginteol," says Mrs, Mojonoy, openly consoled. Still she sighs, and sips her lea with a mournful air, Mrs. Daly is drinking hers with much appreciation out of her saucer, it being considered discourteous to oiler anything to a guest without partaking of the same ono's self. At this moment a little cooing sound coming from tho other corner of thu fireplace makes itself heard. Instantly the old woman stooping over the turf embers rouses herself, and, turning, puts out her withered Jmnd lovingly toward what looks like a box covered with colored stuff of some sort. Young Mrs. Daly rises, too, precipitately, and, hurrying across tho kitchen, bends over the box. "Ay, she's awako sure enough 1" says the old woman, who has quite brightened into life. "Seo how she looks at ye, Molly I Tho colleen of the world, she was aslliore nmch- roe-sthig." Many another fond name is muttered, such as "pulse o' my heart," and such like, before Mrs. Daly junior emerges from the supposed box, but iwl empty-handed. "Oil, it is the baby!" cry Monica and Kit, in a breath. "Oh! what a darling baby I and what red, red cheeks, just like a Juno rose I" It is the only daughter of tho house, so tho mother 1* of course inordinately proud of it. She places it, with quite a little flourish of triumph, in Monica's arms, to Kit's tcrriblu but unspoken disappointment. "Sho grows prettier every day. She Is really the sweetest baby I over saw In iny lifiiT'saysMojili.'!!, enthusiastically, to whom babies are an endless joy. Tho mother is pleased beyond doubt at these compliments, yet a shade of anxiety crosses her brow. Topralseaehildtoomueh, in the superstition of these simple folks, is to "overlook" it; and when a child is "overlooked" it dies. Tho smile fades froip Mrs. Daly's bonny face, and her mouth grows anxious. «'You should say, 'God bless her,' miss when ye give her the good word," says Mrs. Moloney, timidly, who is also bending over the beloved bundle, and notes the distress in her neighbor's eyes. "fjod bless her I" says Monica, wife pret- ty oolemrmy, nttcr whicn the mother's faot clears, nnd sunshine is ngain restored to It> "I think she knows ye,"she says to Mont> cA. "See how slip blinks at ye! Arrftb! look, now, how she clutches at yerhnndl Will yo come to yer mother now, ditrlln',-« will ye? Sure 'ts starvin' ye must be' by tills." "Oh! don't take her yet," says Montcft, entrentingly. A little figure with linked legs nnd feet» creeping into the doorway nt this momen£ draws near the baby as if fascinated. It U rnmlhoen, the oldest son of the house, and baby's tiurw.—save the mark I "Come nearer, 1'nddy," snysMonica, smiling nt him with sweet encouragement; but Paddy stops short nnd regards her doubtfully. "Come, then, nnd kiss your little sister," continues Monica, gently; hut Paddy is still ohHirate, nnd declines to hearken to tin voice of the chnrmer, charm she never so wisely. There is, indeed, a sad lack both of sweetness nnd light about Paddy. , "An' what d'ye mane bo stnndln' there, an' nlver a word out o' ye in answer to th* indy, yo ill-mnnnered cnnbogue?" cries hU mother, deeply incensed. Tho laughter la all gone from her face, and her eyes ar« aflame. "What brought ye In at all, yeutflf spalpeen, if yo came without a civil tongtw In yor head?" "1 came to see the baby an' to get mo din* ner," says the boy, with hanging liend, his silence arising more from shyness than sul« lenness. The potatoes have just been lifted from the fire by Mrs. Moloney, and ar« steaming in ndistnntcorner. Paml been loo Ja wistfully toward them. "Dickons a sign or taste yo'll get, then, If only to tache ye betthor manners. Bo off, now, nn' don't lot mo see ye agin." "I'm hungry," says the boy, tears coming Into ills eyes. "Oh, Mrs. Dnlyf'snys Monica, In a distressed tone. "A deal o' harm It will do him to bo hungry, thin I" says tho culprit's mother, with »u angry voice, but with visible signs of ro- lentlng in her handsome eyes. "Bo off wld yi>, now, I tell ye." This the last burst of the storm. As the urchin creeps crestfallen toward the door-way her rage dies, its death being as sudden as its birth. "Come book herd" she cries, Inconsistently. "What d'ye mane be takln' mo at mo word Ilka that I Come back, I tell yo, an 1 go an' ato something, yo crathur. How dare yo behave as If 1 was a bad mother to yo?" Tho boy comes back, nnd, raising his bonny head, smiles nt her fondly but audaciously. "Look nt him, now, tho blackguard,"says the mother, returning tho smile in kind, "Was there evertho like of him? Go an'ate yer praties now, and thank yer stars Miss Monica was here to say a good word for ye." Paddy, glad of his rescue, casts a shy glance at Monica, and then, going over to where his grandmother and the pot of potatoes rest side by side, sits down (closo cuddled up to tho old dame) to fill his little empty stomach with as many of those esculent roots as ho can manage, which, In truth, Is the poor child's only dinner from year's end to year's end. And yet it is a remarkable fact that, in spite of this scanty fare, tho Irish peasant, when come, to man's estate, Is ever strong and vigorous and well grown. And who shall say he hasn't done his ijuecu good service too, on many a ImUle-fleldf and even in those latler days, when sad rebellion racks our land, lias not Ills name been worthy of honorable mention on the plains of Tol-ol-Kebir?" "1 don't think he loofr* like a bad boy, Mrs. Daly," snys Monica, reflectively, gazing at thu liberated Paddy. "Bad, miss, is it?" says the" mother, who, having made her oldest born out a villain, is now prepared to maintain ho Is a veritable saint. "You don't know him, faix. Sure thoro nlver was the like of him yet. Hois a raal jewel, that gossoon o' mine, an' the light of his father's eyes. Signs on it, he'd die I'or Daly I Thoro nlver was slch a love betwixt father an' son. He's the Joy o' my life, an' tho greatest help to mo. 'TIs ho minds tho pig, nil" the baby, an' ould granny there, an' everything. I'd bo without my right hand if I lost him." "But I thought you said " begins Monica, mystified by tills change from righteous wrath to unbounded admiration. To bo continued. Avoid Temptation. Charles Lamb, looking back upon^his childhood, wrote thus: "Could thb youth to whom the flavor of his first glass was delicious look into desolation anuTbe made to understand what a dreary thine; it is when a man feels himself going down a precipice with open eyes and a passive will, to see his destruction, and not to have power of will to stop it, and yet to feel it all tho way emanating from himself, to perceive all goodness emptied out upon him, and yot not bo able to forget the time when it was otherwise—how ne would avoid the first temptation to drink!" Do Not lie u Slave. Qon. Gordou. Why will you keep caring for what the world says? Try, on try, to be no longer a'slavo to it! You can have but little idea of the comfort of freedom it—it is bliss. All thia caring for that people will say is from pride. Hoist your flag and abide by- it, in an infinitely short space of time all secrets will bo divulged. Therefore if you ure misjudged, why trouble to put yourself right? You have no idea what a great deal of trouble it will save you. Boll your burdens on him and lie will make straight your mistakes. He will sot you right with those with whom you have set yourself wrong. Hero am I, a lump of clay; thou art the potter. Mold ine as thou in thy wisdom wilt. Never mind iny cries. Cut my life off—so bo it; prolong U—so be it. Just as thou wilt, but I rely on thy unchanging guidance during the trial Oh, the comfort that comes from this! Child re n ut the Table. The mother who compels her children to waib for a second table or to eat with the servant or servants whenever she has company, simply because those children do not know how to behave before company, is not only doing them a grave in- lustice, but is costing a serious reflection on her own knowledge of the amenities and proprieties of life. She denies them the opportunity to learn by observation and convinces her guests if they think about the situation at all that her children are ill behaved. Every-day manner at any table ought always to be company manners. Let the child be fully instructed as the proper way to eat and made to eat that way when the family is alone and there need be no fear of embarrassment when guests are assembled about the board. A Keen observer once remarked: "I cajn tell almost exactly what the home life of a family is if 1 can have the children with me for an afternoon and during a meal, They way try to keep up company manners, but evidences of the real life will slip out the best they can do." Let the parents set a good example every day a; the table and the children will naturally f 0 K low that example.

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