The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on September 23, 1891 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

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Wednesday, September 23, 1891
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THE UPPER DES MQtKES, ALGONA, tO^ A, WJSDN£SDAY, SEPTEMBER 23,1891. MONICA, > A STOEY OF THESE TIMES. As he conies to ttie last verse, Ronnyne's •voice ferows lower} it rtoesn't tremble, yet there is in it something suggestive of the Idea that he Is putting a terrible constraint hpon himself: "If i egret pome times nspails tlu-o For the days when first tvo mpf ( And tliy \\enry spirit, mil lime, And thinL' eyes prnw dim nnd wet Or, 'tis 1, love, A: tliy lieurt, lore, Humming-, 'How couldst them forf?etf" The muptclingers still for a moment, ebbs, and then dies awrfy. Konayne s;cps back, and all seems over. How Olga lias proved so utterly unmoved by the passionate protest is exercising more minds than one, When suddenly she rises, and with a swift movement bends over the fountain. Another moment, and she lias dropped the guitar into tlie water. Some little silver ornament upon its neck flashes for an instant in the moonli.sltt, and then it is gone. "Oil, Olga I" says Herniia, making an Involuntary step toward her. "I shall never play on it again," says Olga, with a gesture that is almost impassioned. An instant, and it is all over,—her little burst of passion, the thought that led to it, —everything! "I hale it!" she says, wltli a petulant laugh. "I am glad to bo rid of it. Smne- body made me a present of it whom I learned to detest afterward. • No, Owen, do not try to bring it to life again;,let It lie down there out of sight, where I mny learn to forget it." :• ' ' ; - : ' "As you will, madanie/'siiys Owen Kelly, who lias been fruitlessly fishing for the drowned yiittar. "It is curious how hateful anything, how• ever pretty, can become to tis if wo dislike I, the giver of it," says Mary Browne, pleasantly. "Yes," says Ilcrwia, quickly glancing at her with a sudden gleam in her eyes,—of gratitude, perhaps. A moment ago there had been a certain awkwardness following on Olga's capricious action; now these few careless, kindly words from this ugly stranger have dispelled it. And is she so plain, after all? Tho fastidious Hermia, gazinfeat her intently, asks herself this question. Surely before that bright and generous glenm in her eyes her freckles sink into In- signi 1'icance. "I knew you would like her," says Mr. Kelly, at this moment, speaking low iuHer- mia's ear. When a woman is startled sho is generally angry. Mrs. Herrick is angry now, whether because of his words, or the fact that she did not know he was so close to heri let who will decide. "You are very, very clever,'' sho says, glancing at him from under drooping lids, and then turning away. "So they all tell me," returns lie, modestly. Rossmoyne, crossing tho brilliant moonlit path that divides him from the group round Hermia, seats himsr-lf beside her, thereby leaving Olga amlUJic lionayne virtually alone. "You will regret that guitar to-morrow," says Eonayne,—"at least not the thing itself (I can replace that), but " "I regret nothing," says Mrs. Boliun, carelessly,—"unless I regret that you have taken an absurdly ill-tempered action so • much to heart. 1 am ill-tempered, you know. 5 ' "I don't, 1 ' says Ronayne. "So courteous a liar must needs obtain •pardon. But let us forget everything but this lovely night. Was there ever so serene a sky? see how the stars shine and glimmer through the dark interstices of the blue-gray clouds!" . "They remind me of something,—of some worfls," says lionayne, in a low voice. "They come to me now, I hardly know why, perhaps because of tho night itself, and perhaps because—" lie hesitates. ,. Oiga is staring dreamily at' the studded vault above her. "About the stars?" she asks, without look- Ing at him. "Yes." 'A poet lovod 11 star, Ami to it wliiepoi-od niR-litly, Being; so I'nir, why urt tliou, love, sofnr, Or why so coldly shine wlio eliin'st so brightly? 1 The poet was presumptuous, it seems to me." "Was he? I don't know. All things come •to him who knows how to wait." "Who's waiting?" says Kelly's voice from the other side of the fountain; "and for what?" "avujoura Owen," says Mrs. Bolum, with ft shrug of her pretty shoulders. "Well, no one even in this life is altogether without a tnste of purgatory; mine (this is a delicate compliment to you, Owen, so listen toil) might have been worse. Do you know I have sometimes thought " "She lias really!" interrupts Mr. Kelly, turning with cheerful encouragement to the others. "You wouldn't think it to look at her, would you? but 1 know her intimately, nnd can vouch for the truth of her words. Go on, my drar Oljra." But "my clcnr Olga" has turned, nsidf, «md declines to take any notice of his remark -beyond a faint grimace. "&ho's very shy," says Mr. Kelly, in an explanatory aside, "and so retiring. Can't bear to hear herself publicly praised, or feel herself the center of attraction. Let tu haste to change the subject." ' This with nmny "becks, nnd norts, nnd wreathed smiles," meant to explain the delicacy of the feeling that prompts htm to this course. By tho bye, Desmond, doesn't this falrylike spot, and the moonlight, and the pathos of the silent nl.'ht, anil every- thim?, remind you forcibly of old O'Connor?" "But I always heard " begins Monica, In a voice of much amazement; then she stops confusedly and presently goes on again, but in a different lu-y. "Was The O'Connor, then, restlietic?" she says. At this Lord Itossmoyne, who is In the lowest depths of despair, gives way to open mirtli. "Well, no, not exactly," says Ulic Ro- •nayne. "There was a fatal healthiness about Ills appearance that disagreed with •that idea. But he certainly was fond of this little place; lie put up the fountain himself, had it brought all the way from Florence for the purpose; and had a trick of lying here on his face ami hands for hours together, grubbing for worms,—or studying the insect world I think lie used to call it," "I have always thought," says Mr. .Kelly, In n tone of reflective sadness, "what an uncomfortable position that must be," "What must be?" "Lying on one's face and hands. What beconies-of the rest of one? Does one keep one's heels in the air whilst doing it? To me it sounds awful I Yet onlj' last week 1 read in the papers ot a fellow who was found 011 a rpad oa Ws face «nd hauUs, and 'the doctors said he must have been in that position for haws! -Fancy-—yotir nose, for Instance, Ro.^moyuc, in mud, and your heels In the air, for h-ws!" Lord Kossmoyiie, having vainly tried to Imagine his dignified body in such a position, looks dist nctiy offended. "Nis nvbody woidd like it," says Kelty, pathetically, answering his dissusted look exactly fts K it hftvt been fnit Into words. "There is a shameful frivolity about it not to be countenanced for a ttuflnent.' Ye"t good and wise men have been said to (16 it Fancy the Archbishop of Canterbury, now. balancing himself on his nose and his jialms I Oil 1 it can't be true I" His voice by this time is positively piteous, and lie looks earnestly around, as though longing for some one to support his disbilief. "You are really excelling yourself tonight," says, Mrs. Herrick, in a delicately disdainful tone. "Ami?Inm glad," humbly, "that you have had an opportunity of seeing me at my poor best." "I wonder," says Desmond, suddenly, "if, when old O'Connor revisits the earth nt tha witehiiiif hour, he comes in the attitude so graphically described by Kelly? In acrobat fashion, 1 mean." At this Monica breaks info latiehter so tnerry, s6 full 6C utterly childish abandon and enjoyment, that nil the others perforce join in it, "Oh! fancy a ghost standing oil his head I" she says, when she can spook. "1 shouldn't fancy it nil," says Mr. Ki-lly, gloomily, "i won't. Ami I should advise you, Miss Berestord, to treat with less frivolity a subject so fravisht with terror,—especially at this time of night. If that 'grand old man' were to appear now," with a shuddering glance behind him, "what would become of us all?" "An unpleasant idea 1" says Miss Browne, —"so unpleasant, indeed, Unit I think I should like to go for a littli: walk somewhere,—an jy where, away from the soeno of the late Mr. O'Connor's nightly visitations." "Coma to the cml of the shrubbery, ihnn," says Desmond', "and look at the sea. It should be worth the tronMe on such a night as this. Come you too, Olga." "I should like it, but my head aches so," says Mrs. Bohun, plaintively. And, indeed, she is very pale. "It is cither the moonlight which oppresses me, or—I don't know what. No 1 I shall go indoors, I think." "Then Islmll go with you," says Mrs. Herrick, regnriling her with a certain anxiety. "But you," turning to Mary Browne, "must not miss a glimpse of tho coast by moonlight. Mr. Kelly will show it to you." She slips iior arm through Olga's, and turns toward the house; Ulic Eoiiiiyno. accompanies them; but Lord Kossmoynq and Owen Kelly move in the contrary direction with Miss Browne. Monica and Desmond have gone on before; and even when the others arrive at tho point in the shrubbery from which a glimpse of th» ocean can be most distinctly seen, these last two people are not to be discovered anywhere. Yet they are not so distant ns they seem. Desmond has led Monica to a rather higher spot, where tho desired scene can be more vividly beheld, and where too they can bo- oh, blessed thought I— alnnc. Through a belt of dark-green llr-tre.es, whose iinle tips are touched with silver by the moon, can be. seen the limitless oc.an, lying in restless waiting in tho bay below. A sort of enforced tranqullity has fallen upon it,—a- troubled .'calm—belied by tho hoarse, sullen roar tlmt rise*now and again from its depths, as when some larger death- wave breaks its bounds, ana, rushing inland, rolls with angry violence up the beach. Soft white cro.4.s lie upon the grout sea's bosom, tossing hither and thither, glinting and trembling beneath the moon's rays, as though reluctantly subdued by its cold -hill Hence. Across the whole expanse of the water a bright path is (lung, tlmt has its birth in heaven, yet deigns to-nccopt a resting-place on earlh,—a transitory rest, for thoru iu the far distance on the horizon, where thU'- 1 -'! grays of sea and sky have mingled, it lias Joined them,.and seems again to have laid hold of its earliest home. Tho birds are asleep in their sea-bound nests; the wind lias died away. Thero is nothing- to break tlie exquisite stillness o£ the night, save tliu monotonous beating of the vvaves against the rocks, and tho faint rippling murmur of a streamlet in tlie ash- grove. The whole scene is so rich with a beauty mystical and idealistic that Monica draws instinctively nearer to Desmond, with that desire for sympathy common to the satisfied soul, nnd.stirs her hand in his. Here, perhaps, it will be as well to mention, once for all, that whenever I give you to understand that Desmond is alone with Monica you are also to understand, without tho telling, that he has her hand in his. What pleasure there can be for two people in standing, or sitting, or driving, as tho case may be, for hours, palm to palm (this is how the poetical one expresses it), I leave all true lovers to declare. 1 only know for certain that it is a trick common to evory-one of them, rich and poor, high and low. I suppose there is consolation in the touch,—a sensation of nearness. I knew, indeed, one young woman who assured me her principal reason for marrying I'red in a hurry (Fred was her husband) lay in the fact that sho feared if she didn't she would grow left-handed, as he vyas always in possession of tlie right during their engagement. "Ah! you like it," says Desmond, looking down upon her tenderly,—alluding to the charming view spread out before them,—the dark lirs, the floating moon, tho tranquil stars, the illimitable ocean, "of Almightl- uess itself tho immense and glorious mirror." Monica makes no verbal answer, but a sigli of Intensest satisfaction escapes her, and she turns up to his a lovely face, full of yonlli ami heavon and content, Her eyes are shining, her lips parted by a glad, tremulous smile. Sho i.-i altogether so unconsciously sweet that it would bo beyond tho power of even a Sir JVrelvalc to resist her. "My heart of heart;" says Desmond, in a low, impassioned tone. Her smile changes. Without losing beauty, it loses something ethereal and gains a touch of earth. It is more pronounced; it is, in fast, amused. "I wonder where you learned all your terms of endearment," she says, tilowly, looking at him from under her curling lashes. "I learned them when I saw you. They had their birth then and there." * An eloquent slieneo follows tliia earnest speech. Tho smile dies from Monica's lips, and a sudden thought-fulness replaces H. "You never called any one your 'heart of hearts' before, then?" she asks, somewhat wistfully. "Never—newer. You believe me?" "Yes," Her lids drop. Some inward thought possesses her, and then—with a sudden accession ot tenderness very rare with her—she lifts her head, and lays her soft, cool cheek fondly against his. "My beloved!" says the young man, In a tone broken by emotion. For a moment lie does not take her in his arms; some fear lest she may change her mind and withdraw her expression of affection deters him; and when at last ho does press her to his heart, it is. gently and with a careful suppression pf all yehemeuce. Perhaps ho man in all the world is so calculated to woo and win this girl as Desmond, Perhaps thero is no woman so formed to gain and keep him as Monica. Holding lur now in a light but warm clasp, he knows lie has his heaven in ills arms; and she, though hardly yet awake to the fill I sweetness of "Love's young dream," understands at least the sense of perfect rest ana ginn content thftt overmis tier wnen with him. "What are you thinking of?" sho says, presently. "Myn alderlevest Indye donre," quotes he, softly. "And what of her?" "That to the deth myn herte Is to her holde,— yes, for ever and ever," says Desmond, solemnly. "I am very glnd of thnt," says Monica, simply; nnd then she raises hrrself from his embrace nnd looks straight down to tiie sea again. At tliis moment voices, not approaching but passing near them, reach their ears. "They are going in," says Monica hurriedly, and with n regret that is very grateful to him. "We must go too." "Must we?" 'reluctantly. "Perhaps," brightening, "they nre only going to try the effect higher up." "No. They arc crossing tho gravel to tho hnll door." "They are devoid of souls, to be able to quit so divine a view in such hot hnsto. Besides, it is absurdly early to think of going in-doors yet. By Jove, though 1" looking nt his watch, "I'm wrong; it is well after eleven. Now, who would have thovuht it?" "Aro you suns yon mean elcocnf" with flattering incredulity. "Only too sure. Hasn't the time gone by quickly? Well, I suppose I must take you in, which moans candles and bod for you, nnd n dreary drive home for Kelly and me, and not a chance of seeing you alone again." "This time last week you couldn't have seen me nt all," says Miss Beresford. "True. I am ungrateful. And altogether this has been sucli a delightful evening,—to mo nt least; were," doubtfully, "]/on happy?" "Very, very happy," with earnest, uplifted eyes. "Darling love!—lam afraid I must give you up to Mrs. O'Connor now," ho goes on, presently, when nn ecstatic thought or two has..lnul time to como anil go. "But, before going, say good-nitfht to me hero." "Good-night, Brian." He has never attempted to kiss her since that first time (nnd last so far) in tho orchard; and even now, though her pretty head is pressed against him, and her face Is dangerously close to his, lie still refrains. He has given her his word and will not break it; bnt perhaps lie cannot altogether repress the desire to expostulate with her on lier cruelty, because lie gives voice to the gentle protest thnt rises to his lips. "That is n very cold good-night," lie says. "You would say quite us much as that to Kelly or any of tho others." "I shouldn't call Mr. Kelly by his Christian namo." "No; but you would Ronayne." ".Well, I sha'n't again, if you don't like it." "That lias nothing nt all to do with what I mean. I only think you might show mo a little more favor than the rest." "Good-night, then, 'dear Brian. Now, I certainly shouldn't dream of calling Mr. Ro- naync dear Ulic." '•Of course not. I should hope not, indeed I But still—thero is something else that you might do for mo." Miss Beresford draws herself a little—a wry littlo—away from him, and, raiding her head, bestows upon him a glance that is a charming combination of mischief ami coquetry. A badly suppressed Miiilo is curving the corner of her delicate lips, "What a long time it takes you to say it I" she says, wickedly. At this they both break into low, soft laughter,— delicious laughter 1—that must not be overheard, and is Riursrosf ivo of a little .secret existing between them, that no one else may share. "That is an invitation," says Desmond, witli decision. "I consider yon have now restored to me tlmt paltry promise I made to you tlie other day in tho orchard. And here I distinctly decline ever to renew it again. No, there,is no uso in appealing to me; I am not to be either softened or coerced." "Well," says Miss B jrosford, "listen to me." She stands well back from him this time, nnd, catching up tho tail of her white gown throws it negligently over her arm, "If yon must havo—you know whnt I—at least you shall earn H. I will race you for it, but you must give mo long odiis, and then, if you catch me before I roach that laurel down there,'you shall have it. Is that fair?" Plainly, from her exultant look, sho thinks she can win. "A bargain I" says Desmond. "And were you Atalanta herself, I feel I shall outrun you." "So presumptuous! Take care. 'Pride goetli before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,' and you may trip." "I may not, too." "Well," moving cautiously away from him, "when 1 como to that branch there, and say one, two, three, you—will Nuwt" At this, before hois half prepared, she cries, "one, two, three,"-with a- scandalous haste, ami rushes away from him down tho moonlit path. Swift and straight as a deer she Hies, but, alas I just as the goal is all but reached, sho finds tho race is not to her, and that she is a prisoner in two strong arms! "Now, who was presumptuous?" says Desmond, gazing into her lovely face. Her head, with n touch of exhaustion about it, ia thrown back against his chest; through her parted lips her breath is coming with a panting haste, bom of excitement and her fruit- loss Uight. lie bends over her, lower, and lower still. She feels herself altogether in his power. "As you are strong, be merciful," she whispers, faintly. A warm Hood of erim--on hastlyeither cheeks; her smilu hiw faded, siie struggles slightly, and then all in ono moment Desmond becomes aware that tears have sprung into her eyes. Instantly lie ri'deases her, '•'Darling, forgivo mo," he says, anxiously. "See how your heart is beating now, and all for nothing! Of course-I shall let you off your bargaip. What do you tako me for? Do you think 1 should make you unhappy for all tho world could offer? Tako those tears out of your eyes this instant, or I shall be—seriously angry with yon." Monica laughs, but in a rather nervous fashion, and lets her lover dry her eyes with his own handkerchief. Then she sits down with him upon a rustic seat close by, wishing to be quite mistress of herself again before encountering tho glare of tlie draw ing- room lamps and tho still more searching light of her friends' eyes. For a full minute not a word is spoken by either of them. Sho is inwardly troubled; ho is downcast Presently sho rises with a littlo restless movement. "No, do not Kt:rjust yet," she says. "I only want to pick some of that syringa behind you; it is so sweet." Disinclined for action of any sort, ho obeys her. She slips away behind him, and he sits there waiting llstlessiy for her return, and thinking somewhat sadly, how hiiv.tll a way lie has made witli her, and that sho is almost as shy with him now as on that day by tlie river when lir.-t they met. And then something marvelous happens that puts all his theories and regrets and fears to Uight forever. Two soft arms,— surely th-j softest in this wide glad world— stual round his neck; a gold brown head is lakl against his; a whisper reaches him. "You were very good to mo about Uuitl" says somebody, tremulously; and then two tv:mn ehltUNh lips i;iv inut on his, unit .>um- ica is in hi- nvms. "I wrviilet what it was tlmt friirlit -nciI you?'' says IH'sinoiul, In n toniler w hispor, (Irawiiiiit; her down on his knees anil in- folding .HT closely us though she wore in lorm the i liild tlmt verily nt lienrt she still is. "'IVII mi'.*' "I don't know." Slit 1 has twined her bare benntilnl arms around him, nml is rubbing hrr cheek softly up nnd down ngalnst his in n fivsh aoci'ss of suynoss. "1 think yon ilo, my tler.rest." "It was only this: Hint when I found I couldn't pet nwny from yon, I was frigliten- ivI. It WHS vory foolish of mo, but whenever 1 rend those storii's nbout prisoners of war, mid people bi'iuirconliticil indungcons, nml tlmt. 1 nlwnys know tlmt if I weremndo a cnptive I stmuiil die." "Hut surely your lover's nnns cannot be counted n prison, my life I 1 ' "Yes, If they hold mo when I wanted to pot nwsiy." * '•Bnt," reproachfully, "would you want to pi't nwnyV Sin; liesitnti's. and, liftinarono nrm, runs her lingers coixituly lhruut;h the hair fashion Imi left him. "1 ilon't \vant to CD away now, at all events" she temporizes swi-otly. Then a moment Inter. "Hut 1 must, nevertheless, Come,' 1 nervously, "we hnvo been here a Ions time, nml .Mnilamo O'Connor will bo iingry with ma; and besides," pityingly, "you have till thnt long ilrlvo homo still bo- foro you." "1 forirot nil about, tho time," says .Desmond, truthfully. "You arc right ;'\vo must go in. (iiioti-ui^lit nirnin, my own." Without waiting for permission this time, ho stoops nutl pr.s«es his lips to here. An instant Inter ho knows with n thrill of rapture that Ills kiss has been returned. To bo continued. TUK UOUSKllOI,!). A Little WltoocUer. OKOUOB COOPISIl. "There never wns ft crumlnm Unit eo Koodl" llo whispered, wlilln W)»Me her clinlr lie stood, And lulil his rosy cheek With iminner very ino«k, Against her dent 1 old fuco, In loving mood. "There never wits n nicer grnmlms horn I I know some littlo boys must bo forlorn Because they've none like you; I wonder whnt I'll do Without grnndmn's ktseos night and morn? "There never wns a donror grnmlma—llierot" lie kissed her and ho einootliod her enow-white linir; Than flxod her rn filed cap Ann noblled In liur lap, While grandma, nulling, rocked her old armchair. "Whon I'm a man, what lots to you I'll bring I— A horse and carriage and a watcli and ring. All m-amlmas aro so nice (Just hen 1 1m hinged hortivlcn.) All grandmas give ix Uoy most anything!" Before his dear old grnndmn coulil reply, This boy looked up, and with roguish uye, Then wlilfiioreil In her ear, That nobody might hour: "Say, grandma, have you got any inoro mince pie?" A Successful Iilfo. "We touch one another in all life's associations. We impress, morn or less, all with whom we come in contact. In the home, in society, in business and in church we leave our murk. It becomes us all, then, to inquire what kind of an impression we are making upon childhood and manhood in our several spheres of influence. Is it for good or all ill? If for ffopc), then our life is worth living; if for evil, then it is a failure. A true and successful life is one whose touch upon others is quickening, wholesome, purifying and beneficent."—From the Presbyterian, What Keeps Woman Young. A woman is happy just in proportion as she in content, writes Edward VV. Bok in the Ladies' Home Journal. The sun has a way of changing the spots upon which it shines. Especially in this true of our land, where one is up today and down tomorrow, nnd vice versa. The wisest woman is sho who trusts in tomorrow, butnsver looks for it. To sit down and wish that this niiglit be, that that would be different, does u, woman no good. It does not harm in that it makes her disntifified with herself, unpleasant to her friends, and makes her old before her time. Happiness is not always increased in proportion to enlarged success. This may sound like an old saw, and I think, it is, but there is a world of wisdom in many an old proverb just the same. Contentment is a wonderful thins? to cultivate. Thero would bt fewer premature old women in the world if it was given more of a trial, but it became a more universal quality in womanhood. Young tiidlen »nd Realism. The younj? women of to-day should not be deceived into the notion of a preferable realistic development because the ^novelist of today puts her to sit to him as his niodpl. This may be no certain indication that she is either good art or good natue. Indeed she may be quite drifting away from the ideal that a woman ought to aim at if we are to have a society that is not always tending into a realistic vnl- gariety anil commonplace. It is perfectly true that a woman is her own excuse for being, and in a way she is doing enough for the world by simply being a woman. It is difficult to rouse her to any sense of her duty as a standard of aspiration. And it is difficult to explain exactly what it is (hat she is to do. If she asks if she is expected to be a model womun, tho rwply must be that the the world does not much hanker after what is called the "model wpnirtii." It teems to be more a matter of tendency than anything elfe. IH »he sagging towards re lism or rising towards idealism? Tssbe content to be tbo woman thut some of tho novelists, and some of the painters also, Bay she is, or would she prefer to npproacn that ideal which all the world loves? It ia a question of standards. It is natural that in these days, when the_approved gospel is that it is better to be dead than not to be real, society should try to approach nature by the way of the materialistically ignoble, and even go such a pace of realism as literature finds it difficult to keep up with; but it is doubtful if tbe young wnrmm will get around to any desirable state of nature by this route. We may not be able to explain why servile imitation of nature degrades art and do- grades women, hut deteriorate without an ideal so high that there is no earthly model for it. Would you like to marry, perhaps, a Greek statue? says a justly contemptuous critic. Not at all, at least not a Roman copy of one. But it wQuld be bftier to marry a woman who would rather be like a Greek statue than like some of these figures, without even an idea for clothing, which aro Ijinjr about on green bunks in our spring exhibitions.—Charba Dudley Warner, in Harper's Magazine for Septernper. Coffee cake shoujd be wrappe<j[ while warm, in a napkin anil cutt FARM AND HOME. THE OAni)EN OF tKARS. JSRSEST-W. T entered the hosntlfiil Onrden of Years In ft »prlnjr(lnifiof long ago, Tlirough nenVenthe breezes, line charioteers, Drove In pageants of cloud whit* ftssnaw, The sunlight fell soft as themoonllRhtat eve, And the night was as fnlr as the dny, Anal thought there WHS nothing on e»rth that omilrt grieve, But tlmt all tho sweet world mn»» ho guy, I vent only a child In the Oarflpn of Yearn, And my hopes were In bloom with tho rose, And the music of life rang In clvlmes In my earn From the dawn of each day to Ifa clos*; So 1 played with the butterflies, caroled with the birds, And dreamed of the stars while I slept. Tho language of life was my mother's kind words, And Into Uod's bosom 1 crept. But I learned, as I grow In the Harden of Years, A lesson of mournful surprise— I learned with the hopo of th« world thero were fears, Anil 1 found thero wero sorrowful eyes; I found |ho heart wenry In many a breast, . *'"• ' >•»«• "'at to ninny n homo Where love hud Invited some rmllant guest Tho AiiRol of Sorrow had come. 1 found, In the beautiful (larilen of Years, 1. too, hud H cross 1 must hour: Hut whmiHVor I looked for Uod'a smlla through my tears I found my life's rainbow was Ihoro, And one day I chanced tho Wise Uimtouer to meet, Who taught me, what love should havo known, Thai ho who from narrow lends odors' worn feet Shall llml pathD of pence for his own. And now urander still Is the Uarden of Yearn Twin In (lint old springtime sublime, Whose memories full like, a curfew that cheers 1'rom the far away towers of Time j For hlnssml Is he who llfn's sorrow abates, forgiving as ho Is forglvnn; For him slinll life's angol, through death, one' the pates Of thai Golden Eternal called Heaven. —Tim Congregational 1st. VAUMMOTKS. Look well to your poultry now and commence to got it roudy for tho Tlninksgiv ing uinrkut. " . A little more attention to raising Htiiall fruits would help wonderfully on tho right side of tho farmer's account. A man who saves tho dry manure, but lota tho liquid inunuro run to waste, saves at the spigot and wastes nt the bunir- hole. A little salt in tho food will always bo useful and healthful for pips. A small handful of Halt thrown into the food of six or eight pigs every day will improve it. It is very important if full seeding of grans is to bn done to iirrangc to do (ho work early, so that tbo plants can get well started to growing. While seeking to improve your other stock do not forget that tho swino aro worthy of an effort n^ improvement too. KndeuvoHo make steady progress toward higher perfection. Plan the work uhoiul so that as fast as the crops are ready to harvest they can bo taken care of. Harvesting in good soason is an important item in securing the best quulity of product. Kicking cows and horses will always bo scarce on a farm whorotho owner and his men are always kind to dumb animals. Animals never kicked, whipped or frightened by the men or boys about them don't know much about kicking. Comfort must bo tho rule for live stock and poultry if they aro expected to do well. Good food and plenty of it, good treatment and a mild temperature, would work a revolution in llio product-books of many complaining fanners. Tho OuuriiHuy Hull. A farmer of 70 years' experience and a breeder of no kind of pure stock and having no cattle to Hell, lately said that he thought the best uso the D.urymen's association could make of their appropriation would bo in tho purchase of good Guernsey bulls. This shows how tho breed was appreciated by sharp, disinterested men. Hoys on the Farm. To keep the boys on tho farm is a problem under discussion. Ono method is to make tho farm interesting to them. Start I he little ones by giving them a few bantam chicks to rai.so, and as they become ad vanced allow a pig or Jamb, or even n colt. But always allow them the proceeds of their labor. Children appreciate ownership of stock, and the early lessons load to a deeper interest later on. Tools for JJoyfl. There is nothing on the farm that helps or hinders so much" U,H the. tools used. To load a light slip of a boy with a heavy, clumsy, unhandy tool, is to muko a shirk of him at the start. Give him a tool that is just right, and ho will take a prido in its uie; use it with vim; dobetter work, quicker, and feel that he is doing a good job. All bad influence are done away with, and the boy grows up with good habits because he feels good wljile at work. In those raped;* men tiro but boys of an older growth. Choose every tool on ,vour farm not only to suit the work, but the one who is to handle it. Hogg, It is a common practice to keep hogn barely through spring and summer and then begin to feed high, often on concentrated food. Such abrupt change is apt to produce bad result. A sudden change from all grass to all grain overtaxes the digestive organs, and loads to more serious result" than the loss of food, for the iitiinuil Mihtains a loss of vital force, which it is slow to regain. Let the hog have the run of a wide pasture, if possible, where he can supply himself to a great extent with his natural foods, a.i grass, herbage, roots, etc., but daily feed him a liberal dllowunce of the best food of the kind adopted to hia wants, and then he will be kept in a thrifty, growing condition. Quulity of Milk. It IH pretty well settled that the quality of milk, or its value for making butter, cannot be truly e.-timated by the looks, as color is not a certain sign of a large amount of fat. The churn test and the chemical test, oft reoeated, mean something, and popular opinion seems to say lhat cows must be judi/ed and milk paid for on tuis basis. This idea alone will raise the standard of our dairy cows very rapidly by selection. not Always Went. It is well for n farmer to test the capacity of an acre and find out how much of jhig or that can be nidde to produce, but it is not aUays the best system of egri* culture. The *i?e of a crop ii oftathintr, ttn4 tbf mpfit ot it anptber, , Th.e soil pa,« be overstock.*! with fertilisers, and the ylantfl thereby overfed. The crop majr have cost many times more than the average. The man who is striving to get thd greatest income for the least outlay, or, in other words, the greatest profit from his acres, rnust^ count his investments in money and time, and apply only enough of manure, seed, labor and attention to give the best returns for energy expended. Each must, by succfissive trials, decide whnt this amount mint be. It will pay one man in one locality to enricn his soil and tend his crop of corn that it will yield IOC bushek, but another farmer on another soil in a different locality from market may lose money if he tries to grow more than 50. Farming is a business, and not n srame of "get the biggest crop," no matter by whnt means. Tlie (Inrrtou In the Fall. Whon the crops in the garden have al matured and aro harvested a thorough cleaning up should bo given. Tho weeds, stalks and grass should tvll be raked together and burned, while in tho fields, especially in the fall, it is nearly always beat tj plow under everything tlmt will add to the fertility of the soil, bnt in the garden, as n rule, (lie better plan in to clean up ana burn. In this way not only will a conflict* eraliloamount of wend scarfs bo destroyed, but also more or loss of the insect posts. Ninny of these posts that injure both tho Blunts and their products in tho garden find a hut-boring pjaee during tho winter under trash of various kindn,"nnd by gathering it up and burning it and afterwards plowing thoroughly theso will bo destroy ed. It always pays to plow deeply u-nd thoroughly in the garden, whether tin work is dono in tho spring or full, and on« advantage with fall plowing is tlmttha soil will dry out and warm up earlier in tho spring and thus afford u better opportunity for getting tho early crops to growing in good season. After plowing, whatever manure is wanted can bo hauled out and applied. The munuro used in tlm garden should always bo well rotted imd lined, and then bo worked as thoroughly as possible into tho soil. Thin can ho dono with the harrow or cultivator, and by doing it in the fall tho work in the miring will bo materially lessened.—N. J. Shepherd, Eldon, Mo. Fooil for nillovmil, Krcoils. Experiments conducted in the poultry department of the Dominion experiment Farms, Otlown, according to Manager Gilbert's report, make it appear that tho Ji Iterant breeds require different winter ireatmont, esuecially as regards tho feed Manager Gilbert says: During tho winter— r 1. Briihmas, Cochins, Tiangshans. Ply mnui.h Rnckft, etc., require more oats, less wheat, little or no Indian corn, soft or stimulating food to moderation and u uenorious supply of vegetables. Loan meat twice or three times a week and ; )lonty of exercise. 2. Lighorns, Minorcas, Andalusians, Itiimbiirgs, etc.. will tako more soft or stimulating food, more wheat, Indian corn, with meal and vegetables in liberal supply. .{. It is essential to success that lime, grit, gravel, etc.. should be before tho layers at all time*, and Unit the hens bo kept in activity by throwing the grain fed to them in clniff, straw or dry loaves scattered on the door. Soft or stimulating food is generally fed in tho morning and is composed as follows: A warm morning moss for tho hoavv breeds may bo made of shorts, ground oats, bran and loan meats scraps mixed with boiling water. This can bo varied by giving cooked vegetables instead of tho ground oats or bran. Clover hay cu', in small pieces, steamed and mixed with tin morning feed, is one of the best groew foods urid cannot bo given tou often. For the Spanish family a more stimulating morning mess may bo made of shorts, cornmeal. ground oats or barley with ground meat or meat scraps in judicious quantity every morning, with a modieutn of black or red poppor. Vary by mixing boiled potatoes or other vegetable** in lieu of the ground o its or barley. Steamed clover hay at any Mine. In cold weather Indian corn may bo fad to the fowls for tbe last meal. Dltis taken for granted that the fowls have comparatively comfortable quarters, with pure water to drink in regular supi ply; the chill taken ott the water; tho grai» warmed in eo'd periods and other directions, as given in detail in report oflul year, carried out. Should tho foregoing treatment be found too forcing, the soft food uiay b<> curtailed and more green stuff and oats fed. It is quite lilnly thin shell eggs may bo laid and it is a sign that the hens aro getting too fat. As a preventive mix fine ground oyster shells or sand, or both, in the morning soft feed. The Ktonml Word. _ St John, the evangelist, speaks majestically, with very simple words, as wuen he says: "In the beginning was the Word." See with what simple w"-ds he describes Uod the Creator and u,ll tho creatures, as with u Hash of lightning, If a philosopher and a man of learning had attempted to write of such things how would ho have gone around about wich wondrous, swelling, high sounding words, magnificent but obscure, do ent e.t, esswitia, of self-existence and diviao' heavenly powers, so that otw could have understood nothing. Never wore simpler words, yet under such simplicity he say? all,—-.Martin Luther, ; \VorMllnos8, "To live for this world under Satan ana for sensuous things mu.itre.sult in despair, Wo shrink in year alter year until our hold on eartnly joys and pleasures is as- feeble as it was wuen wo entered into this life. We know nothing, ste nothing, to console us. Around us men are fading and falling just as we are. To perish ia to lose all, and Buffer many a death in anticipation. No philosophy can reconcile us to this. If all men wero as worldly as ourselves no one would care to smooth the way for usj we are but in their road, keeping what they are eager to posses'*. "—From the Lutln ran. 8omu Little . "Did they give you anything at tho farmhouse?" asked Pole the tramp. "Yes—pair of boots." " Whatcher yer done with 'emV" "I left them where they were—on the farmer's feet." JflUUT AT A DANCE. Ileui-y Nje Kill* J»aao Jvyrick With 4 Flut Iron. KEOKCJK, la., Sept. 17.—Henry Ny? and Isaac Nvrick got int a row at Marysvillc, Mo, during -a dance on Tuesday uight, N>e striking Nyrick ip the temple with a iUt iron, fnm tho effects or which be died this Nye escaped.

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