The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on November 9, 1892 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

Algona, Iowa
Issue Date:
Wednesday, November 9, 1892
Page 3
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ME UPPER DBS MOTNES. ALGONA, IOWA, WEDNESDAY. NOVEMBER «. 1892. MADCAP -OR- STORY OF A 8Ht, IT fiUJOf B. HATHB3UL •i cave loved him '' i to met" best," shecried 1 • B AUh8t"wild mother-cry, rent from a bleedihg heart. Dody, opened his eyes ! with a start, and saw her. He smiled and stretched out his arms— "Have'oo come back?" he said. "But • Uiilfnmy's been to sleep such a long, long While, me can't wake her," lie added, shaking his head sorrowfully. She dragged herself on her knees to tfhere Prank had moved, and prayed I- him, for the love of God, to let her hold the child in her arms but for one moment; but Dody took the matter out of , his,hands .by struggling down, and I - ; throwing his arms round her neck. "Seep wiz mummy!" he said, as his head fell on that soiled and weary bosom, to which, for the moment, lie he fiad brought back'life and strength. And Frank had not the courage to drag them apart, but stood aside, as she sat down on a low chair and rocked the child in her arms. Only he could not endure the sight, and with head sunk in his hands, threw himself down in a distant part of the nursery, and before long, worn out by the fatigues of the ~ previous day and night, was betrayed * into a profound slumber. Hester held her breath to hearken to his until sure that he slept; then with a wild look around and upward, as one who sees help neither in God nor man, laid her haggard face down on the child's head, and through the chill hours of the night watched him, till with wakening morn the fever and restlessness in him grew; then as daylight looked in at the,unshuttered windows, and on the sill without a bird boldlv shot a ringing note, a shadow darkened the little face on which the watcher's heart hung, and for the last time on earth lie opened his eyes. "Mary Kismus, mummy!" he cried, in a clear, loud voice, ns thinking that it was Yule-tide, and lie had risen early to wish her a happy one; and so. stretching out his arms to Hester, as thougii she were his mother, lie went but one step alone. And Madcap was never lonely any more, for Dody had found her. ****** When Frank awakened out of the dreamless slumber into which he had sunk, it was to hear Hester's voice talking to what she held on her knees; and as he started up, shaking the sleep f ronr his eyes, he thought, angrily, that she must be mad to disturb the child so. Her eyes wern dry, her voice was hard and uneven. She had uncovered his feet, and held them in one hand. "Little i'eet,"she said, "that will never ache, or stumble, or trip on life's rath- little heart that will never suffer, or grow hard and cold—always young, always loving—little hands that might have done great work in the world, but will never fail now, nor succeed—little lips that never said a cruel word, though often and often they've prayed for some little thing and been denied—and .Josephine was unkind to you till I bribed her—as if a tender thing like you had got a chance against a g«own person—and the more cruel we are, the surer you are to come to us sooner or later with the tears running down your little cheeks, saying 'Me good now.' We are so strong "and you are so weak; you can only fight us with your toys." "O God!" she cried, breaking off suddenly in her monotonous talk, "he's dead—he's dead! And I've been talking to him, forgetting that he couldn't hear " Bu'tlong before the half-crazed-woman had ceased to babble, Frank, realizing that his darling had set out on his long, long journey without one word or kiss to him of farewell, had fallen on his knees beside that little lifeless body, moved to a passion of grief for the child, that even the sight of his dead, beloved Madcap had not been able to rouse in his heart, , CHAPTER XVII. i It's I will kins your bonny cheek, i And I will kiss your chin. , And I will kiss your clay-cold lip, But I'll ne'er kiss woman again. The moment that saw the extinction '• of one life at the Bed Hall, saw the awakening of another. Mr. Eyre quietly opened his eyes, sat up and looked about him; his brain was perfectly clear, yet he thought he must be dreaming; for why was he _ sleeping here—and where was Madcap? .,,«.• Hurling the clothes to right and lett of him, he rose, and like a grim, gaunt specter, half clothed, reached the door, just as the terrified attendant, aroused, BHW him disappear through the doorway—a second Lazarus raised from the lie went straight to his wife's bed, but in the dim light did iwt observe the watcher, who sat by the side of it. He paused a moment, as if at rauii, B.UU, "Madcap-wife," then drew the linen aside, as though instinct told him she nmni it-more likely diamonds were the incentive—rp that by incrimlnatinThel vo i d ° ''My sins cannot dim her nuritv m- te^'n^ d »? lr ' E ™*" ll b«"liM «HW™t? i . , And with a fictitious stiength he strode down the gallery and staircase, while Frank followed, Ijoping to; prevent Mr. Eyre seeing while his dead child Hut in the hall a constable was standing with one or two jurymen, together nn tJ 1 . 6 coroner, who had held inquiry upon Madcap's death. They started back at the sight of Mr. Eyre-pale, gaunt, a blood-like tinge in his hollow eyes, his brow and lips firm as quarried marble. "Gentlemen," he said at once, "what arrests have you made?" "The evidence against Digges was very strong," replied the coroner"a tramp also, who was seen hanging about here that night, is being searched for." "You may release Digges," said Mr. Eyre calmly; "the murderess is the woman Hester Clarke, and I command you instantly to commit her to prison on charge of the willful murder of mv wife." • • "It was on that business we came," said the constable nervously; "we have the warrant here," and he produced it. "Certain information came to our knowledge last night that throws grave suspicion upon her." "To your work then!" cried Mr. Eyre impatiently; then, as they looked atone another, a low whisper passing between them, added, "Why are vou here?" The constable scratched his head, and looTc- ed at the coroner, the coroner looking imploringly at a short juryman, who consulted a lean one, but no aid being forthcoming from that quarter, they one and all maintained an absolute silence. "Can't you speak?" cried Mr. Eyre, regarding them with fierce scorn. "Stand out of the way, then; 1 will lind .and arrest this woman myself.' 1 "If you please, sir," said an officious housemaid, who luul overheard the whole colloquy, "Mrs. Clarke is up stairs in the nursery, with poor Master Dody''—:md the girl wiped her eyes with her apron. "Poor Master Dody?" repeated Mr. Eyre, looking at her earnestly, "but come," he added, and they all followed him with fear in their faces, as ha led the way toward the nurseries. "For God's sake. Eyre," cried Frank, overtaking him, "do not goon! She'will not escape. I pledge you my soul she will not escape, only do not see her now" —but Mr. Eyre thrust him aside, threw the nursery door open, and advanced to the middle of the room. "Constable," he said, "do your duty., I give this woman in charge for the murder of my wife." lie had seen only her as she sat crouched together on the low chair with something close huddled unin her arms, bin now his eyes traveled downward, and rested on it. Was death in his own eyes, or all he looked upon? He went a few steps nearer, as he approached, she laid the child across her knees,and looked UD at him. "//«• child!" he said; "murderess! and you dare to touch him!" Their eyes met—a kind of rapt horror and breathless wonder in hers, a deadly hatred and bitter loathing in his "You accuse me of—murder?" she said slowly. . L Fnnk lifted Dody out of her unresisting arms—it seemed a profanation of that little tender body to lie between two who looked as these were looking on each other. "Do your duty," said Mr. Eyre, turning to the constable; "remove her at once. As the man approached, she made a wild gesture as ot struggle—in reality she was fighting for breath—gasping for the reason that seemed to be deserting her; but the constable had expected trouble, and was prepared for it. A click was heard as Hester tossed her clasped hands upward. She seemed hardly to know they were secured, only, as the man would have led her away, she wrested herself free from him and ran to where Frank had laid Dody down in his little bed, in which he looked as though he slept. As she stretched her arms to mm, tne rivets of steel checked her; but the wild stricken look went out of her iace as she stooped and kissed her darling's little hands, his lips, his neck; then with a firm step walked, the constable beside ^Opposite Mr.'Eyre she paused, her lips moved, a look that should have found a response in his sprang from her eves, but she found nothing; and sud- ,*' i ' ; _ „„! ,3 nnrl no f\T\Q \VllATTl to have followed beside him, ha 1 behind nnd taken the hand of Frank, upon whom all eyr-s that day were fixed. Jtet so noble was his fare, so manly his air, so deep and bitter his grief, that women found it in their hearts to speak aloud their thoughts or' him as he passed, the little child clinging to his hand. After him came the Duke, and behind him the head of every family in the county with whom Mr. Eyre had been acquainted; last of all the farmers, and the villagers, all bare-headed, and they made a long and weeping following as they passed on foot through tha village, and up the hill to where the churchyard lay. The air breathed softly—it was one of those days thai, Madcap had loved, when involuntarily one looked around for the violets that must surely be springing, and the scent of the thousand flowers that Frank's love had procured confirmed the idea; but Mr. Eyre, as he crushed a blossom beneath his 1 foot, thought of Madcap's wish, how she might die in spring, "with good store of flowers to cover her." There was not standing-room in the little churchyard for the thousands who had come from far and near to the burying, and the voice of the clergyman was often inaudible for the sobs of those who pressed around him. Mr. Eyre alone made no sign, but stood with folded arms and bent head, as one who heard not a syllable that was uttered, or saw one of the faces out of all those present. As they lowered the coffin into the grave, the sun, that had got behind a cloud, suddenly shone out; at the same moment came a burst of singing from the young girls, that drowned the bitter weeping heard on every side. It ceased. The sobs were not renewed; they had died in the triumphant joy of those drawn-out, lingering notes, and all felt that howso'er it might be with them, with her all was well. And so they left them there, the young mother and her child. -Be very sure that Dody did not feel the coldness of her breast; be sure that he was happy in that long, long sleep with her, that he had so often coveted, and that some other where—ah, God! that we might know where—warm and living, their freed souls dwelled in happiness together. who s:cp:—tno rrinn nnvancing witn a species of blind 1'ury, stubbed it to the heart; then with a gesture of joy. tore the covering from its fa<:«. to uisto tin fruits of his deed. Due what is this? He draws back—he hurls the weapon from him—he kneels by the murdered shape—he clasps its hands—he calls on it with tears and cries to reply to him; but it is silent, it has no power to reply, and he turns, with a terrible gesture of i two years in succession to a sire whose prepotency hfis boon shown to be so strong that his offsprings, as a rule, strongly resemble him in form nnd color; or, -what would be still better, two marcs of as great similarity us possible may be broil the same year to such a sire, and the chances will strong! ly fn\or the securing of a well-mated pair. If one is breeding horses ns part despair and upbraiding, to the spirit, 1 »* his farm operations it is not difficult who looks calmly on, with a smile, then to secure mures that bare a dose re- pointing to his b'lood-stained hand, vanishes. With the sweat on his brow. Mr. Eyre staggered to his feet, and gazed around him. There stood the bed upon which she semblance to each other, while, if person is limited to the use of onljv ay mare, he may, as suggested, brejx^.or two years in succession toJJT "wime sire, or may arrange with a'iu'ighbor, had lain, upon which she might be ly- j having a mare somewhat similar to his *__„__ *_!_ _ *___..*_•** _1 Al ».,.I _ .1 . . . . . • .4 _._ .. A. .- ing now—the beautiful, the ueloved— had not the spirit of murder, that had entered in at the open door of his soul, in some awful inexplicable way, passed Hester by, to return in other shape, to wreak itself upon what lie guarded more jealously than his own life. It was as if a man had resolved to slay his enemy with some instrument over which he had secretly gloated, and that he had often looked for an opportunity of using (sheathed and laid safe away where none could find it), and one day this very enemy had tracked him to his place of hiding, and with that very steel had stabbed his nearest and dearest to the heart. (To be continued.) CHAPTER XIX. ] wish my tfrtive wore growing green, A-winding-sheet drawn oVr my eeu, And I in Helen's urms lyins, Onfair Kii'kconnel lea. At sight of that young lamihai tace, wrapped in an ineffable peace, th ougli which a smile shone, as thong 11 she hearkened to music i»aiulibletogiosbu ears, the unhappy man stood as thougii struck to stone; then, m one, ovoi- whelming wave, the full tide of memo v rushed over him, he remembered*!!, even to the oath he had been m.tlie <»et of swearing by her dead body, wuei tiie finger of God had touched, and btiucK him 1 to earth. ,.,, „„ That half-uttered vow was still unfulfilled; but neither God nor man should hinder him now. He took t .it gentle body in his arms-ot the u u>t time that he hud kissed her living, he now thought, us for the first time lie kissed her dead, and swore aloud an oath that ho would neither sleep noi eat, till lie had found, and delivered up to justice, the hand that had slam hei. He covered her face, and, with him step, walked into the adjoining room. Battling with his weakness, he «•'•« more than half dressed when l'i who had been hastily summoned uy attendant, came in. "What is being done?" said Mr. Lyre at once, as he proceeded rapidly wit u "is dressing. {t ¥"ou have not all° we H her to escape? She is safe in the jau yonder? Curse this weakness,", he add$, as the sweat poured from his brow, tliat has kept her death unavenged so long!" * ."She is not in iail » said Frank, "but room. CHArTEU XVIII. Open thyself, O Earth I anil press not heavily; Ho easy of access and approach to him, As mother with her robe her child, So do thou cover him, 0 Etirlhl A procession wound gently down the hill, the girls'voices sounded sweetly as "lev went, and made a long echo through the winding street, so that a stranger on horseback who met the children going before, dressed in white, w thwhite flowers in their ittle hands, asked t»em if they were bound tor a bridal. To which they, replied, "Master itis a white burying:" while the older ones, who followed after, answer; ed only with tears, "It is the burying of our lady with her child." . He wondered, and He thought that only "'e .-—---- , en or a very youiigchild had been thus, but she must have been whose souls had been— one of those iiropiirod to touch ' The whitest thought, nor soil it much. their six voug girls, who bore upon th ' one od had a silvery sound ir- iu the clear soft air u She is not in jail," aaid not escaped." have been idle-you •" , _ 0 4. have »t its nwvrow bed it's bleopiiwl gSno o» c? a tf joj^ save on ,v a . hflvd-won composure, that Mr. Eyre's indomitable will had enabled him to preserve a calm demeanor that day; but it was characteristic of him that lie did not pause a moment by Madcap's grave, but turning aside, and with no word or look to those who had come from so far to do her honor, walked alone to his house, and ascending to his wife's room, shut himself in, and locked the door. The glance that he threw around, spoke of reason on the very verge of overthrow; yet it was with the fixed resolve to grapple with, and master something in his brain which forever eluded him, that he advanced to a cabinet that stood on one bide of the room. It was remarkable neither for its usefulness nor its beauty, but as Mr. Eyre touched it, a distinct im pression of some recent experience connected with it, fixed liis attention; and as an ordinary weapon may become unique through some especial use to which it has been put, so Mr. Eyre found a curious fascination in a thing that he had seen every day for six years of his life, without once consciously observing it. His fingers wandered over it, and secured to pause without his will at a certain handle. Strange! he could have sworn that not long ago he had opened that very drawer, either to seek something that was there, or to lay it away. Mechanically he drew it toward him, and saw that it was empty. The cabinet stood back from the light; but as he remained, with his eyes fixed on the open drawer, he saw that a dark red stain crossed it obliquely—it was the stain of blood. He pressed one clinched hand to his brow. Surely he had got the clew now that he had lost during the stupor in which he had two days lain—but no; it had escaped him before that, for even as he stanched the blood that flowed from Madcap's side on that fatal night, his mind had been projecting itself backward in a futile effort to remember something similar that had happened previously. Even Madcap herself impressed him with a strong sense of unreality quite distinct from dreaming, or rather it was like being reminded of a dream that he had forgotten, till the actual presentiment of it brought all its details to his mind. Step by step he forced himself to follow the events of that evening, remembered leaving Frank and Madcap in the drawing-room, and sitting down to his writing, over which, though his brain had never been clearer, he must have been overcome by one of those sudden fits of sleep that sometimes followed any severe excitement to which he had been subjected, and from this sleep he had been wakened by the shriek above that had caused him hastily to ascend the spiral staircase that led from his study to the bedroom, where he had found Madcap alone and unconscious, seated in a chair drawn close to the open window. ,, ,. • But beyond and beneath these distinct memories, he was conscious of an abyss whose brink he approached with strong shudderings, yet fiercer will, but from which he found himself, as by some unknown force, dragged back at the very moment when he was on the point of piercing its depths—strange lightnings passed through his mind, revealing hidden places, yet never that one sealed chamber which was locked against him; a moving chaos of half- seen visions and strangled recollections contended in him for recognition, while, driven with fury from opposite points of the compass, a crowd of ideas met and jostled each other in his brain, stunning him with the roar and confusion of a tempest. He had dared to pluck the curtain from the inmost recesses of'his soul, and what did they giv« back to him in auswer'i 1 Confused echoes, uncertain replies, like a face guessed at in troubled waters. As worn out with fasting and agony, he covered his eyes, slowly from the background of a night black as pitch, lie thought an apparition rose; it was tinged with flame, blood dripped from its raiment and its hands. Above its hollow eyes there gleamed a star, and that too was of blood color, and he re- co^nized it for the spirit of murder, and knew that the hand hidden in its breast clutched a weapon; he glanced aside, and there, pale and dimly illumined by the flame that glowed from her, crouched the shape of a man made m his oww image, who seemed to importune her aid; suddenly she drewthe weapon from, its sheath, pointed, and bade him strike, A second flg«re rose wifeto ken, of woman dressed in A Costiy Mistake. In a recent issue of our esteemed contemporary, Hoard's Dairyman, a prominent New York State cow-keeper has the following to say: "I ciuue into possession of the old homestead in 1808. "I began by buying calves from good dark's, one of thorn among the first in the country, of which I know, that, succeeded in making 300 pounds of butter per cow. Tills dairy was owned by Mr. Francis Elliott, of the town of Delhi. And here- let me say, the first time T hoard the statement made of his having procured such an amount, it came from the dc-iilw who bought his butter, saying he had bought from Mr. Elliott »00 pounds per cow. I remember distinctly of repenting the statement, but nmo out of ten did not bellevo a word of it. "ft was a wise move getting these calves, for many of them proved good cows. But right here comes in one of the uroat failures. About this tlmo thoroughbred Jerseys were being introduced into the town of Bovina, ant uuioug others there were some bulls that in after years proved most valuable as stock getters. As the Jersey was com paratively new in this section, bul calves were held at $100, or more. $100 bill was not picked from every bush, us AVO say, in these days, and looked like a great deal of money for i bull c:ilf. I think I was the first one ii neighborhood to own a thorough own, to breed both the same season to such a siro with a view to the Increased profit to both if a well-matched pair be thus obtained. A French Conch, or a Cleveland Bay sire possessing fine style and spirit, is preferable, for there is a strength of breeding in the case of such sires that makes the handing down of their own characteristics to their offspring quite certain, even when the dams are not llogcther similar to them in form and Dior. These two breeds are specially oted ns possessing such form, spirit ml good "action" as to make them articularly desirable as carriage horsos. 5ood results in breeding for matched airs may come when well-built trot- Ing bred stallions arc used, but the iast breeding of such nnlmtils usually inkes the chance of uniformity of form ml color In the offspring decidedly re- note. Attempting to secure such niil- ormlty can certainly result, in no loss, the attempt bo made ns suggested, vhilo it may result in n quick sale and largely increased profit. A CRUSHED CONDUCTOR. Ic Iliul Angered it \Voiniin mill Hud (<> (Cut llumlllr I'll'. our bred Jersey bull, but I made the grea mistake of allowing many years to pasi using scrub bulls. I think I have pre viously made the statement that had :it this time uoue as Mr. A. Devei eaux did—purchased the best Jersej bull I could find, even thougii he ha cost me $500, it would be $10,000 in m;i pocket to-day. Now, I am well awaiting seems like an astonishing state ment, but let us do a little figuring an see if it is really so. We began b keeping fifteen cows—ns many as th place would provide feed for. We now have over fifty head. We will call it forty-live cows at present, and we will call the average for the twenty-four years since 1808 twenty-five cows. "Under the old system of milking afiout eight months in the year, and keeping cows in a cold bam, and feeding more or less at hay bams which w<_ j were obliged to do for eight years before we could build a new bam, the yearly output of butter did not exceed 150 pounds per cow. Suppose the average from these twenty-four years has been 20O pounds per cow. I have not the flugres at hand, but I doubt not this Is a fan? estimate. "If I had paid $500 for a thoroughbred bull, and had been reasonably careful in selecting, I am sure 275 pounds per cow for the twenty-five cows for the twenty-four years, is not too much to calculate upon. "Now, let us compute the loss. At 275 pounds per cow, the whole amount would have been 105,000 pounds. 'At 200 pounds it amounts to 120,000 pounds, a difference of 45,000 pounds, which at twenty-five cents per pound amounts to the snug sum of $11,250. Now, 1 call this a pretty costly mistake." He, was a street car conductor nnd also something of a philosopher. 'You see, it was this way," he said to a Detroit Free Press reporter. "The woman thought she was insulted, but she wnsn't. I had a whole pocketful of pennies and didn't want any more, but she took some nickels mid pennies from ier purse and carefully sorted out the pennies for me. Well, I asked her if she couldn't give me a nickel instead— that was the fare you know—and she got mad. She said she never saw such an Insulting conductor in her life. I told her I intended no offense, nnd she glared at me and said she would report me; she would not stand such insolence. "She did report me, too. She said that I refused to take five pennnies, and had treated her most insultingly. 1 was 'hauled up,' given her letter, nnd told that I must go to her home and apologize." "Humiliating," suggested the listener. "I should say it was humiliating," went on tho conductor. "It's the kind of a thing that just makes a man shrivel up, lie feels so small." "Of course you didn't go?" "Of course I did go." "1 should think a man with any pride—" "Oh, yes, pride's all right. I figured that out, and I couldn't sae that t 'ud hurt my pride any more to go to her and say I was sorry than it would to go chasing 'round town telling people: 'Flense, mister, I'm a poor, unfortunate man who's out of a job. Can't you give me something to do so's I can keep things going at the house?' No, sir. When a man stands on his dignity he wants to sort of look around and see where he is going to light if he topples over. Sometimes a fellow lights right on top of his pride and crashes it so he can't recognize it. Better make it knuckle under a little today than have to smash it in the eye tomorrow." There arc sevrai points to be observed in arranging such a stall if the calves are to be well wintered. First, calves must have plenty of room; not profitable to crowd them. Secon u.oy should be well bedded with sera-,' or somr> equally good material at times. Lack of bm-diug will go ft great 1 way toward neutralizing the good e- fect of good food and warm shelter. They should always have a comfortable plnce to lie; there is nothing so essential, to the comfort and thrift of any aninial.N One can very easily ascertain the ill x effects of a wet, muddy, "uiouury" bed, or a linrd, frozen, lumpy one by just trying such quarters himself for a night or two. Third, the shelter must be warm. By "warm" is not meant a hot, oven sort of a plnce filled with foul air, but there should be no drafts of cold ah* blowing through, the cracks ought to bo battened, and the shed warm enough that tho manure will not freeze. Fourth, there should be windows through which the sunlight can enter freely. Sunlight Is as necessary to the health and growth of animals as food and water. Perhaps that Is a little strong, because 1 suppose that they could live without sunlight while they would certainly die In a very short tune without food and water; still a calf might as well be dead, so far as Its future usefulness Is concerned, if It be compelled to live for any length of time without sunshine. So I say, have the coif shed on the south side, with plenty of windows in it so that the blessed sunlight can come In freely. Fifth, the calf stall must be well ventilated nnd kept clean. Cnlf immure Is very disagreeable, ami gives off foul odors, hence the celling of the stall ought to be high, and the ventilation well arranged to carry out tho impure air quickly and admit freely that fresh and pure. This Is certainly a most important point to be observed. Pure air is as necessary to the health of aiilmnls ns it is to man, and many a costly stable has proved a very unprofitable investment simply because no adequate arrangements were made to permit the escape of foul air, and give entrance to fresh. It is well enough, indeed, a most, decided advantage, to have tho calf stable comfortably warm, but It is better by far to have outdoor temperature and a pure atmosphere to breathe, rather than nn indoor temperature of sixty degrees and nn air laden with sickening odors which cannot escape nnd which carry disen^e into the lungs of every animal that breathes it. When the calves are miming loose in ptnlls it. is important that there be not too many In each one, and that they be divided according to size and strength. If those of aU ages and sizes are sheltered in one stall the larger will, of course, abuse the smaller and keep them away from the mangers mid troughs, •with the result that the latter will be deprived of food that they ought to have the former get more than they need. A good grade calf ought to weigh at six mouths of age at least four hundred nnd seventy-live pounds, nnd one hundred pounds per month for the first six months is not nn unusual weight, nor one difficult to make with calves from the right kind of a pure-bred bull and grade cows. But be the weight what it may, if the calves go into thfl winter in thrifty condition they cnn bo kept moving right along and gain in weight every week until grass comes again, if they are well cared ror and fed. It reeding Mulched Horses. Li,- IN AM. AGRICULTURIST, •WE'!" There are few men, even among those actively engaged in the horse-breeding industry, who fully realize the long an/I expensive searches that are made by horse dealers and by the agents of wealthy men to secure well-matched pairs of horses for carriage driving. It is not essential in a great number of these cases that the horses be fast trotters, but it is of the, first importance that the pail 1 match well, and after this that they move with a stylish, high- stepping and high spirited gait. Such horses, matched, are worth very much nioro than double their price when sold alone, owing to the difficultly that is experienced in attempting to cater to this desire on tho part of wealthy people to indulge their fnncy in an attractive pair of carriage horses. The following of the well recognized Care of the Calf in W Int<r. It is axiomatic tliat the greatest gain in the weight is made in the earliest stages of growth, hence it is evidently the best policy to shove the calves right along from the time they are dropped until re'ady for the block. It is not necessary to profitable feeding of steers that they be kept on full feed all their lives from the moment of birth unril ready to go to the butcher, though we believe such a course would be found to pay best; but they must be well taken care of and no tune allowed to go back in the least or lose a pound of the flesh they have already made. On the subject of caring for calves in winter Henry C. Wallace has an excellent article in the Live Stock lleport, which wo give in full: Upon the treatment the calf receives tho first winter depends to a great extent Its future usefulness mid profit to the owner. To secure a rapid growth mid fix a thrifty habit, both of which are necessary to after profit, two things at least are uecessnry; lirst, good shelter, and second, plenty of nourishing food. As to the lirst, it should be warm and comfortable, and just so it is tills it matters little whether it be in the form of cheap sheds, made of straw m- boards, or nicely painted and more expensive barns. As good calves can be raised hi the one as in the other provided they are equally comfortably aud fed the same. Breeders of purebred stock quite often tie their calves with halters during the time they are As to the food used tho kind must necessarily vary with the locality. This much is imperative, however, the rations must be such as contain a sufficient supply of muscle and flesh producing material. G rowing aiilmnls neett food rich in the material that produces- growth—must have it if they prove profitable. In the com and grass belt corn will, or course, form a gooa pnrt or the ration, but along with it should bo- fed such foods as oats, bran, shorts, oll- miml, etc., to "balance" the com, Where oats are cheap a very good ra-. don is half and half corn and oats; the proportion of corn might be increased somewhat when the weather Is \m- ually cold. Four parts of com, four parts of oats nnd one part oilmeal will give good results; or bran and shorts might be used in plnce of the oats, in which cnse the oilmonl would not be needed. The main thing is to feed somo of these nitrogenous foods with 'the corn. Exclusive feeding with the latter is not only harmful but wasteful. About the best coarse fodder is early cut clover hay, Calves will nibble at the leaves of com fodder nnd coarse hay, but during their first winter they,should have tender, nicely cured, early cut liny. But whatever the coarse fodder, they need a small grain ration every day. Heavy grain feeding is injurious unless tho calves are to be finished for market at an early ago, because the stomach Is not then developed and accustomed to utilizing coarser fodder to good advantage, but profit comes from tho grain made by a moderate, regular supplied feed of grain. X JJ.U XlUlUWllAg Wi. \AL\y 11 *-*» jLv^wo*"" 1 - 1 * " "* , " principles of breeding will go far to- in the bum in tho winter, but not many ward securing well matched pairs. If one could secure breeding mares, of an established standard of form and color, such as has been secured in the breed- nig of the Hackney Coach, French Coach and the Cleveland Bay, and could make use also of stallions that had been thus bred, he could count quite confidently on producing what was desired. But the average breeder has no such facilities at hand. He must use such wares as he hns, or can readily obtain, but evw» under such circumstances ' js .an. to proceed. farmers euro to go to the expense of building mangers nor take the tlmo to tie the calves, and there is no necessity that they should. A largo .roomy sftall in which the calves .can be allowed to run loose, with feed boxes and hay racks and watering trough arranged conveniently, will answer eveiy practical purpose, if, indeed, this be, not better for the calves than when tied up. It gives them freedom, which all animals love, and to lying down they can vapge themselves in the attitude most comfortable, whicli is often, ^possible by g}? fcejwj py necjt, REVENGE OF MINERS. Crowd In T<!iiiu'HK»«) Uurn tlio House of a Soldiers' J!ej;«l':u<lr('HS. Oliver Springs, Tenn., Nov. 3,—A crowd of miners marched into town last night and openly set lire to the house of Mrs. Lewis, who was very kind to the soldiers when they wero here. The house was completely destroyed. Captain Koche called for volunteers and a hundred men are ready to march at a moment's notice if further trouble is threatened. Lieutenant Peary, speaking of his Greenland discoveries, says that the people of Whale sound are the most unique on the globe, and that in the two greatest problems, food and clothing, they arc the most skilled of all

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