The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on January 6, 1892 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

Algona, Iowa
Issue Date:
Wednesday, January 6, 1892
Page 3
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A ? i 1^ -,-•% ^ "And yott think,'" tie said. n"is race paie toith passion, ''that you may do as you like— TOat your contempt for all proper laws, your willful caprice, yoiir unendurable pride, are TO rule every one? You nre mistaken, Miss Baft-ell, If you had consented to marry Aubrey Langtoiij I would have matte yon my heiress, because I should have known • that jrOU were in safe hands, Under proper guid- Ahce; as it is—as you have refused in every Instance to obey me, ns you have persisted In ignoring every wish of mine—it Is time we came to a proper understanding. 1 beg to announce to you the fact that I am engaged to be married—that 1 have offercrl my hand and heart to a lady who Is as gentle as you are the reverse.". A dread silencd followed the words; Pau- t line bore the blow like a true Darrell, never fllftching, never showing tho least dismay. After a time she raised her dark, proud eyes -to his face. "If your marriage is for your happiness, 1 wish you joy;" slfe said, simply. 'There is no doubt but that it will add greatly to my happiness," he put in, shortly. "At the same time," resumed Pauline, "J. must tell you frankly that I do not think you have used me well. You told me when I came here that I was to'be 'heiress o'£ D.arrell J3ourt. I have grown to love it, I have shap- ,'ed my life in accordance with what you said- tto me, and I do not think it is fair that you should change your intentions." "You have persistently defied me," rcturn- •edthe baronet; ."you have preferred your least caprice to my wish; and now you must '•reap. your, re ward. Had you been dutiful, obedient,,submissive, you might have made yourself.-v.ery dear to me. Pray, listen." Ho raised his fine while hand with a gesture that demanded silence. "My marriage need not make any difference as regards your residence here. As you say, you are a Darren, and my niece, so your homo is here; and, unless you make yourself intolerable, you shall always have a home suitable to your position. But, as I can never hopo that you willproveanngrceablecompanion to tin; lady •who honors me by becoming my wife, I should be grateful to Miss Hastings if she would remain with you." Miss Hastings bowed her head; she was too deeply grieved for wprds. "It is my wish that you retain your present suite of rooms," continued Sir Oswald; "and Lady .Dan-ell, when she comes, will, I am sure,'try to make everything pleasant for you, I have no more to say. As for expressing any regret for the part you have acted toward my young friend, Aubrey Langlon, it is useless—we will let the matter drop." All the Darrell pride and passion had been .slowly gathering in Pauline's heart; a torrent of burning words rose to her lips. "If you wisli to marry, Sir Oswald," she said, "you have n perfect right to do so—no one can gainsay that; but I say you have acted neither justly nor fairly to'me. As for the stranger you would bring tu rule over me, I shall hate her, andj will be revenged on her. I shall tell her that she is taking my place;.! shall speak my mind openly to her; and, if she chooses to marry you," to help you to punish me, she shall take the consequence's." Sir Oswald laughed. "I might be alarmed by such'a melodramatic outburst," he said, "but that I know jouare quite powerless;" and with a pro- lound how to Miss Hastings, Sir Oswald quitted the library. Then Pauline's anger burst forth; she grew white with rage. "I have not been fairly used," she cried. ' He told me Darrell Court was to be mine. My heart has grown to love it; I love it better than I love anything living." Miss Hastings, like a sensible woman, re- liained from saying anything on the subject :—tiom reminding her that she had been 'warned time after time, and had only laugh- Kd at the warning. She tried to offer some iKoothing words, but tin; girl would not listen '*t them. Her heart and soul were in angry svolt. "I might have been a useful woman," she said, suddenly, "if I had had this chance in .life,'I might have been happy myself, and lluiye made others happy. As it is, I swear .that I will live only for vengeance." :. She raised her beautiful white arm and jeweled hand. ''Listen to me," she said; "I will live for vengeance—not on Sir Oswald—if lie chooses to marry, let him—but I will first warn the , woman lie marries, and then, if sho likes to '. comujiere as Lady Darrell, despite my warn, f ing, let her. . I will take such vengeance on •-. her as suits a Darrell—nothing commonplace —nothing in the way of poisoning—but such revenge as shall satisfy even me." In vain Miss Hastings tried to soothe her, to calm hot-, the torrent of angry words had jvth'eir way. £',f?JWfli she came over-to Miss Hastings, and, "•""fieing her hand on her shoulder, asked: "Tell me, whom do you think Sir Oswald p<«j?|£pj!lg to marry?" E»"r'cahnon.magine—unless it is Miss Roche- have been highly dangerous. He was desperate. Sir Oswald had hinted to Win, since the failure of their plan, that he should not be forgotten in his will. He would have, borrowed money from him but for that hint; but he did not care to risk the <.t,^*"», , : '^?Elirior Rocheford—that mere child. Let her beware!" : . CHAPTER XIX. CAPTAIN I,ANC!TON DESPERATE. A short period of culm fell upon Darrell Court. Miss Darrell's passion seemed to [have exhausted itself. "I will ue^r believe," she said one day to iss Hasting.*; "that Sir Oswald meant what lie said. 1 am beginning to think it was merely a throat—the Darrellsaroall hot-tern- pered." I .But Miss Hastings had heard more than 'he liked to tell her pupil, and she knew that [hat the baronet had said was not only quite ^w, but that preparations for tho marriage d actually commenced, am afraid it was no threat, Pauline," said, sadly. hen let the new-comer beware," said the j, her face darkening. "Whoever she may 'let her beware. I might have boon a [)d woman, but this will make me a wick- one. I shall live only for revenge." change came over her. The improve- mt that Miss Hastings had so fondly no- ad, and of which she had been so promt, fed away. Paulino seemed no longer to ike any interest in reading or study. She •otild sit for hours in gloomy, sullen silence, 'itli an abstracted look on her face. What . r as passing in her mind no one know. Miss Hastings would goto her, a:id try to rouse lier; but Pauline- grew impaUent. "Do leave mo in peace," she would say. 'Leave me to my own thoughts. I am framing my plans." And tho smile that.came with the words filled poor Miss Hastings with terrible apprehensions as to the future of her strange, willful pupil. The captain was still at the Court. He liiul had wjrno vaguo idea of rushing off to London; but a letter from one of his most intiumtu frlunds warned him to keep out of the way until some arrangement could bo 'made about his affairs. More than ou,e aiwy creditor \yas waiting for him; indeed, 'the gallant captain had brought his affairs to such a pass that his appearance in London loss of many thousand pounds for the sake of fifteen hundred. Fifteen hundred—(lint wns nil he wanted. If he could have gone back to London the betrothed husband of Pauline Darrell, he could have borrowed as many thousands; but that chance was gone'; and he could have cursed the girlish caprice that deprived him of so splendid a fortune. In his heart fierce love and fierce hate warred together; there were times when he felt that lie loved Pauline with a passion words could not describe; and at other times lie hntcd her with something passing common hate. They spoke but little; Miss Darrell spent as much time n3 possible in her own room. Altogether the domestic atmosphere at Darrell Court had in it no sunshine; it wns rather the brooding, sullen calm that comes before a storm. The day cnme when the Court wns invaded by an army of workmen, when a suite of rooms was fitted up in the most superb stylo, and people began to talk of the cominc; change. Pauline Darrell kept so entirely aloof from-all gossip, from all friends and visitors, that she was the last to hear on whom Sir Oswald's choice had fallen. But one day the baronet gave n dinner-party at which the ladies of tho house -were present, nnd there was no mistaking the nllusions ninde. Pauline Dnrrell's face grow dark as she •listened. So, then, the threat was to bo carried out, and the grand old place that she hnd learned to love with the deepest love of her heart was never to be hers I Sho gnve no sigh; the proud face was very pale, and tho dark eyes had in them a scornful gleam, but no word passed her lips. Sir Oswnld was radiant, he had never open seen In such high spirits; his friends had congratulated him, every one seemed to approve so highly of his resolution; a fair and gentle wife was ready for him—one so fair and gentle tlmt it seemed to the old man as though the lost love of his youth had returned to him. Who remembered the bitter, gnawing disappointment of the girl who had cared so little about making herself friends'/ The baronet was so delighted, nnd everything seemed so bright and smiling, that ho resolved upon an act of unusual generosity. His guests went away early,and he retired to tho library for a few minutes. The captain followed the ladies to the drawing-room, and, while pretending to read, sat watching Pauline's face, and wondering how he was to pay his debts. To ask for tho loan of fifteen hundred pounds would be to expose his affairs to Sir Oswald. He must confess then that he had gambled on the turf and at play. If once the stately old baronet even suspected such a thing, there was no further hope of a legacy —the captain was quite sure of that. His anxiety was terrible, and it was all occasioned by that proud, willful girl whose beautiful face was turned resolutely from him. Sir Oswald entered the room with a smile on his face, and, going up to Aubrey Langton, slipped a folded paper into his hands. "Not a word of thanks," he said; "if you thank me, I shall be offended." And Aubrey, opening the paper, found that it was a check for five hundred pounds. "I know what life in London costs," said Sir Oswald; "and you nre my friend's son." Five hundred pounds.' II e was compelled to look exceedingly grateful, hut it was diili- cult. The gift was very welcome, but there was this great drawback attending it—it was not half sufficient to relieve him from his embarrassments, and it would quite prevent his asking Sir Oswald for a loan. He sighed deeply in his diro perplexity. Still smiling, the baronet went to the table where Pauline and Miss Hastings sat. He stood for some minutes looking at them. "I must not let you hear the news of my good fortune from strangers," lie said; "it is only duo to you that I should inform you that in one month from to-day I hope to have (ho honor and happiness of making Miss .Elinor Ilocheford my wii'e." Miss Hastings in a few cautious words wished him joy; Pauline's white lips opened, but no sound escaped them. Sir Oswald remained for some minutes talking to Miss Hastings, anil then he crossed the room and raiiir the bell. "Pauline, my dearest child!" whispered the anxious governess. Miss Darrell looked at her with a terrible smile. "It would have boon better for her," she said, slowly, "that she had never been born." "Pauline!" cried the governess. But she said no more. A footman entered tlia room, to whom Sir Oswald spoke. "Go to my study," he said, "and bring me a black ebony box that you will find locked in my writing-table. Here are the keys." The man returned in a few minutes, bearing tho box in his hands. Sir Oswald took it to the table where tho lamps Shone brightly. "Aubrey," he said, "will you come here? I have a commission for you." Captain Langtou followed him to the table, and some remark about the fashion of tho box drew the attention of all present to it. Sir Oswald/raised the lid, and produced a diamond ring. "You are going over to Audleigh Itoyal tomorrow, Aubrey," ho said; "will you leave this with Stamford, tho jeweler? I have chosen a new setting for the stone. I wish to present it to Miss Hastings as a mark of my deep gratitude to her." Miss Hastings looked up in grateful wonder. Sir Oswald went on talking about the contents of tho ebony box. He showed them many quaint treasures that it contained; among other things ho took out a iffll of bank-notes. "That is not a very safe method of keeping money, Sir Oswald," said Miss Hastings. Au, you are right," he agreed. "Simpson's clerk paid it to me, the other day; i was busy, and I put it there until I had time to take (he numbers o!' the notes." "Do you keep notes without preserving a mo-norandum of their numbers, Sir Oswald?" inquired Aubrey Langton. "That seems to me a great risk." "i know it is not prudent; but there is no fear. I have none but honest and faithful servants about me. I will take the numbers and send the notes to tho bank to-morrow." "Yes," said Miss Hastings, quietly, "it is better to keep temptation from servants." "There is no fear," he returned. "I always put the box away, and I sleep with my keys under my pillow." Sir Oswald gave Captain Langtona few directions about the diamond, and then the ladies withdrew. "Sir Oswald," said Captain Langton, "let me have a cigar with you to-night. 1 must not thank you, but if you knew how gratef tu" I feel " "I will put away the box first, and then we will have a glass of wine, Aubrey." The baronet wont to his study, and the captain to his room; but in a few minutes they met again, and Sir Oswald ordered a bottle of his choicest Madeira. Tlioy sat talking for some time, and Sir Oswald told Aubrey all his plans-all that ho intended to • do. The yoling man listened, with envy and, I dissatisfaction burning in ills heart All these plans, these, hopes, these prospects; They talked for more than an hour; and then Sir Oswald complained of feeling sleepy. "The wine does not seem to have its usual .flavor to-night," he said there is somelhina wrong with this bottle." "I thought the same thing,".observed Aubrey Langton; "bull did not like to snyso. I will bid you good-night, as you nre tired. I shall ride over to Audleigh Hoy a I early in the morning, so I may not be hero for breakfast." . . They shook hands and parted, Sir Oswald murmuring something 1 about his Madeira, and the captain feeling more desperate than ever. CHAPTER. XX. MYSTrcmotrs nonmsii. The sun shone on Darrell Court; the warmth nnd brightness of the day were more than pleasant. The sunbeams fell on the stately trees, the brilliant flowers. There was deep silence in the mansion. Captain Langton had been gone some hours. Sir Oswald was in his study. Paulino sat with MisS Hastings under the shade of the cedar on the lawn. Sho hnd n book in her hands, but she had not turned a page. Miss Hastings would fain have said something to her about inattention, but there was a look in the girl's face that frightened her— a proud, hard, cold look that she had never seen there before. Pauline Darrell was not herself that morning. Miss Hastings had told her so several times. She had asked her again and again if she was ill— if she was tired— and she had answered drearily, "No." Partly to cheer her the governess had suggested that they should take their books under tho shade of the cedar tree. She had assented wearily, without one gleam of animation. Out there in the .sunlight Miss Hastings noticed how cold and white Pauline's face was, with its hard, sot look— there was a shadow in the dark eyes, and, unlike herself, sho started at every sound. Miss Hastings watched her keenly. She evinced no displeasure at being so watched; but when the elder lady went up to her and said, gently: "Pauline, you are surely either ill or unhappy '/iL, "I am neither— 1 am only thinking," she returned, Impatiently. "Then your thoughts must be very unpleasant ones— tell them to me. Nothing sends away unpleasant ideas so soon as communicating them to others." But Miss Darrell had evidently not heard the words; shb had relapsed' into deep meditation, and Miss Hastings thought it better to leave her alone. Suddenly Paulino looked up. "Miss Hastings," she said, "1 suppose a solemn promise, solemnly given, can never be broken?"' "It never should be broken," replied the governess. "Instances have been known where people have preferred death to breaking such a promise." "Yes, such deatiis have been known. I should imagine," commented Pauline, with a gleam of light on her face, "that no Darrell ever broke his or her word when it had been solemnly given." "I should imagine not," said Miss Hastings. But she had no clew to her pupil's musings or to the reason of her question. So the noon-day shadows crept on. Purple-winged butterflies coquetted with the flowers, resting on the golden breasts of the white lilies, and on the crimson leaves of tho rose ; busy bees murmured over the rich clove carnations; the birds sang sweet, jubilant songs, and a gentle breeze stirred faintly tho leaves on tho trees. For once Pauline Darrell seemed blind to the warm sweet summer beauty; it lay unheeded before her. Miss Hastings saw Sir Oswald coming toward them ; a murmur of surprise came from her lips. "Pauline," she said, "look at Sir Oswald- how ill he seems, i am 'afraid something is wrong." Ho drew near to them, evidently deeply ngitated. "1 am glad to find you here, Miss Hastings," lie said; "I am in trouble. Nay, Pauline, do not go; my trouble should be yours." For the girl had risen with an air of proud weariness, intending to leave them together. At his words— the kindest he had spoken to her for some time— 'she took her seat again; but the haughty, listless manner did not change. "i am nearly sixty years of age," said Sir Oswald, "and this is the first time such a trouble has come to me. Miss Hastings, do you remember that conversation of ours last night, over that roll of notes in the ebony box?" ' "I remember it perfectly, Sir Oswald.' "I went this morning to take them from the box, to take their numbers and send them to the bank, and I could not find them — they were gone." "Gone!" repeated Miss Hastings. "It is Impossible! You must be mistaken; you must have overlooked them. What did they amount to?" "Exactly one thousand pounds," he replied. "I cannot understand it. You saw mo replace the notes in the box?" "I did; r watched you. You placed them in one corner. I could put my finger on the place," said Miss Hastings. "I looked tho box and carried it with my own hands to my study. 1 placed it in the drawer of my writing-table, and locked that. I never parted with my keys to any one; ns is my invariable rule, 1 placed them under my pillow. I slept soundly all night, and when I woke I found them there. As I tell you I have been to the box, and the notes are gone. 1 cannot understand it, for I do not see any indication of a theft, and yet J have been robbed. Miss Hastings looked very thoughtful. "You have certainly been robbed," she' said. "Are you sure the keys have never left your possession?" "Never for one single moment," ho replied, "Has any one in the house duplicate keys?" she asked. "No. 1 bought the box years ago In Venice: it has a peculiar lock— there is not one in England like it." "It is very slrange," said Miss Hastings. "A thousand pounds is no trifle to lose." P.iulinc Darrell, her face turned to the (lowers, uttered no word. "You might show some little Interest, Pauline," said her uncle, sharply; "you might have the grace to ail'ect it, even if you do not feel it." "i am very sorry indeed," she returned, coldly, "i ;un grieved that you have had such a loss." Sir Oswald looked pacified. "It is not HO iimcli tho actual loss of the motiey that has grieved mo," ho said; "i shall not fee! it 15ut 1 am distressed to think that tluire .should be a thief among tho people I have loved ami trusted." "Wluit a solemn c-ouncil !" inlernipled the clk'< ry voii-o of Aubrey Lnii^ton. ' "What ttlouniv rtiiiypiiMtiir.-!." S f Oswald looked up with an air of great ' leigh Royal and place tho affnir in the hand of the chief inspector of police. "You said you hnd not taken tho numbers of tho notes; 1 fear it will be difficult to trace them," he said, regretfully. "What a strange mysterious robbery. Is there nny one you suspect, Sir Oswald?" No; in all the wide world there wns no one that tho loyal old man suspected of robbing him. "My servants have always been to me like faithful old friends," he said, sadly; "there is not one among them who would hold ou his hand to steal from me." •Captain Langton suggested that, before going to Audleigh Royal, they should search the library. "You may have made some mistske, sir,' : he said. "You were tired last night, and it Is just possible that you may have put the money somewhere else, nnd do not remember it." "Wo will go at once," decided Sir Oswald. Miss Hastings wished them success; bul the proud face directed toward the flowers was never turned to them. The pale lips were never unclosed to utter one word. After the gentlemen had left them, when Miss Hastings began to speak eagerly of the loss, Pauline raised her hand witli a proud gesture. '•I have heard enough," she said. "I do not wish to hear one word more." The robbery created a great sensation; Inspectors came from Audleigh Royal, and a detective from Scotland Yard, but no one could throw the least light upon tho subject. Tho notes could not bo traced; they had been paid in from different sources, and no one had kept a list of the numbers. Even the detective seemed puzzled. Sir Oswald had locked up the notes in the box at night, he had kept tho keys in his own possession, and he had found in the morning that the box. was still locked and the notes were gone. Jt was a nine days' wonder. Captain Langton gave all the help ho could, but as all search seemed useless and hopeless, it was abandoned after a time, and at tho end of the week Captain Langion was summoned to London, and all hopo of solving tho mystery was relinquished. (To be continued.) Is It Unmanly 1 . Is it unmanly for a man to lend some of his surplus strength to help his wife, whose strength ia sadly deficient? Some people seem to think so; but I don't, It is unmanly though for him to sit around reading the newspapers, or smoke on a dry goods box, while she carries water, washes his clothes and then gold his dinner for him. ' The kind, thoughtful, helpful boy at home, who is proud to "help mother," is the one who will grow up nnd develop in'oa.kind husoand. It seems to me mothers ought to keep this thught in mind all through the training days; they are molding some of the husbands and fathers of the future, determining the happiness or misery of innocent, confiding girls and pronouncing weal or woe on individuals yet unborn. .it at home boys were taught to be careful and tidy, taught to pick up after themselves; taught that mother and sister are not servants whose especial mission it is to wait on them; taught courtesy to these same women; taught that Sod intends the stronger to protect the weaker; taught that the man dignifies the labor, not the labor demean? the man, there would be fewer unhappy homes and faded women who are ready to declare marriage a failure. Boys should be taught house work too, it is a knowledge liable to come in handy any time and almost sure to be badly vanted sometime. Help is hard to find in almost every locality, even if one has plenty of money to pay for it; and many a young wife's health is wrecked because she is obliged to work when utterly unable; or of times the housewife rises too quickly from a bed of sickness "because the need is HO great," overdoes, there is a relapae and a funeral. In all such cases as these if the husband hod been taught to do housework and how to do it, the sequel might be so different. Again, men from improper home training, very often add to their wives burdens instead of detracting from them. They •were waited on at home and it has become second , nature to them; they unwittingly demand it. No, boys, it is never unmanly to do a manly thing; and true courtesy and helpfulness toward woman is always manly. And this brings me to another thought. Don't think it is only necessary to be courteous to women outside the house. Of course it is the thing for a boy to early learn to touch his hat when he meets a female friend; to politely open doors and gates, to pick up gloves, handkerchiefs, etc., that have accidentally fallen from a fair hand and practice mumberless other little acts of courtesy, but I take no stock in the boy or man who keeps such manners for out in the world. Now 1 confess to having seen young men who could not be polite enough to;a rosy.'cheeked damsel, but who could sit oy with perfect indif- fernce while their poor old mother carried in wood, drew water and fed 'the pigs; but of course such courtesy was nothing but veneering, and would soon wear through. I have seen other youths who glorified themselves and their mother by their manly attentions to her. I believe it has became a truism, that a good^son makes a good husband, and I am sure that a mania boy will make the same kind of a man. FARM AND HOME. GLAD TIDINGS. ANNA ROBINSON WATSON. Has a tiny epeechlcSe pilgrim Strnyed within yonr open door- Mate and womlor-struek—n stranger- Asking gifts from out your store? . Have yon eeou the mystic message In the watchful, azure eyes, Have you paused to guess the meaning Of their sn-eet, yet dumb surprise? Did you catch the faint, low echoes Wafted from the land afnr— When the easer little pilgrim Left the gates of lienron ajar— In the hush of orient, midnight When the shepherds lay asleep And the cool and slanting shadows Wrapped the silent, drowsy sheep. When the angels with their chanting Housed tho startled shophord throng T'wna the message of the Christ-child Lent the gladness to their soup. "Love," they sang—"Divine-compelling— Self surrendered—heaven nusealed— All the mystery celestial By the Christ-child now revealed." Not a mortal babe more lowly ' Neither robe nor diitdom— Only heralded by seraphs Came the llnbe of Bethlehem, Since that night each .tiny pilgrim Welcomed 10 tho homes of earth Brings anew the precious tidings Which proclaimed the Christ-child's birth. Every little one is sacred Since the Lord of light.and life Could descend an Infant stranger Helpless on a world of strife. Every little one brings tidings > In a speech beyond our ken, But his love, the sweet translation, Must make clear to hearts of men. . "1 iim so gliid you an. 1 come, Aubrey; you can uilviso mo what to do." The baron told the story of his loss. C.iptiln Lungton was shocked, nm-ized; ho aslmi a hmulio.l questions, and then sug- »• •!»'.! t!..,f t!:«v .h^'-'I'l «Mv« in Aud- The True Home. Almost every person looks back to a homestead — some country place where you ijrew up. You sat on the door sill. You heard the splash of the rain on the garret roof. You swung on the gate. You ransacked the barn. You waded into the brook. You threshed the orchard for apples, and the neighboring woods for nuts; md every thing around the old homestead is of interest to you. Heaven is an old aomestead. In my Father's house are many mansions. When we tajfr of mansions we think of Chatsworth, and its park, nine miles in circumference, and its xmservatpry, that astonishes the world; .ts galleries of art, that contain the tii- \uuphs of Chantrey, Oauova, and Thor- yaldeon; of the kings and queens who have walked its stately halls, or, flying over the heather, have hunted the grouse. But all the dwelling places of dukes, and princes, and queens, are as nothing to that family mansion that is already awaiting our arrival. The hand of our Lord Jesus lifted the pillars and swung the doors, and planted the parks. Angels walk there, and the good "?of all ages. The poorest mna in that houee is a millionaire; and JFAllM NOTES. Milk for the calf should not be colder hnn 96 degrees. From its dam the calf eceives warm milk, and this fact should .each those who raise calves by hand the importance of avoiding cold milk for hem. Apples that are packed in buckwheat baff for winter use keep longer, do not oso their flavor, are less inclined to rot, nd if a few are affected the chaff absorbs he juices, which prevents them from af- ecting the rest, More stock and belter stock are what arniers need. A farm well stocked with no animals is tin almost certain sign f good farming, and a big farm with a ian animal is usually owned by a discon- inted farmer. The Poultry House. In Biting the _ poultry house, one great reason ipr exercising care and providing warmth is, that any chill which disturbs the normal condition of the hens, will surely retard the egg supply. Thus frozen combs and wattles are a positive injury to the bird until the vjound has fully healed. Winter Work. Leave nothing to be done in the spring that cun be done before that time. When spring opens work will crowd upon the farmer, and h« may find that time is too valuable to give attention to m \ny matters that are important. Much of this delay and annoyance may be avoided by keep- all work done up to time, and having everything ready when the hurry begins. The Cair» First Win tor. The first winter of a calf's life is in every northern climate, a hard time for the poor animal. It is usually then placed suddenly on dry feed, often of poor quality, and starved into eating it. The animal is not only stunted in size, but what is worse, its digestive powers are impaired for life. We do not believe in fattening calves intended for cows. But if they are not kept growing by liberal supplies of nutritious food it is impossible for other treatment to make them as good milkers as they should naturally have become. The Intelligent Fanner. The farmer of this period must be a well-informed man. Not specially as a farmer, but as a man of business. To know one thing only, however well it may be known, makes a narrow mind. The current history of the period in all ways is indispensable, for to know what all kinds of men are doing, what is happening in other countries, what new im- provemsnts are being made, what public persons are saying, and generally how the world is progressing has an important bearing on the business of a farmer. And one who knows nothing of these things not only falls behind the rest of the world, but is himself unable te make his own affairs prosperous. When to Stap Chnrnlng. _ An old-fashioned way of churning which is still very generally practiced is to continue the use of the dash, .not only until the butter has "come," but also until the butter particlt'S are gathered and beaten into a compact rnnss ft is then taken out or the churn and worked to get out the buttermilk, with as little care as would be used in the mixing of mortar. This method destroys the grain of the butter, so that its spreads like grease. 'Good butter will not stick to the blade when cut with a knife, and spreads with a smooth, waxy appearance. By the improved process, as soon as the butter granulates nnd the particles are about the size of shot, nold water is poured in and the churning continued very slowlr, and for a sbort time only. The churning ceases before tho -butter has been churned into lumps. Then draw off tho buttermilk through a fine hair sieve, letting the butter remain in the churn. While in this condition wash repeatedly with clear, cold water until the buttermilk is all out. If to be brine-salted, pour the brine on the butter and let it remain n few inmates after it has been washed in the churn. Then pour off the brine and with a wooden scoop place the butter on a slight inclined slab for working. The working consists in abstracting all the moisture possible, either by the gentle use of a roller or by other pressure, advoidinff as far ns possible any grinding or drawing motion that will break the grain of the butter. If not previously brine-salted, about an ounce to the pound of fine, dry salt should be used during the working. Havlne Good Layers. It is hard for some people to understand that some hens will not lay, no matter how well they are cared for. while others will with indifferent treatment almost lay their heads off. It is likewise a fact that go«d laying strains of any breed can be made. We know of a strain or light Urahnias that laid more eggs in a year than a pen of brown Leghorns, under tho same core. And yet the Leghorns did their work well. The way laying strains are made might bo explained in a tew words: Each year the best layers are picked out and bred and tho young marked so that there can bo no mistake in knowing them. And so each year tho best birds nre selected until a strain is perfected. J. here is more sense in devoting one's time :? makl . n ,B toying strains than to crippling the health in tho endeavor to secure uniformity of feather. If wo had more laying strains and less fancy stock there > would be more profit derived from poul- « ..L^ng strains can be made without affecting the purity of the breed, but there can be no improvement on the table qualities without introducing foreign blood and of course that will effect the purity of the birds.—Ex. THE HOUSEHOLD. A Turkish Legend. THOMAS BAILEY ALUIUOII. A certain Pasha, dead live thousand years, Once from his harem fled In sudden tears. And had this sentence on tho city's aato Deeply engraven, "Only God is great." ?rJ,n 18 ni. £( i 1 i lr wor(ls nl)ove the clt y' 8 ' lole <> Uung like the accents of an angel's voice, And over more, from the high barbican, oamteu each returning caravan. Lost in that city's glory, every .gust Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown Pasha's And all is ruln.-save one wrinkled gate, Whereon la written, "Only Clod is great." Break up your fallow ground and sow not among thorns. Love is always rich for it can always hope for something better. Who is fr«e? The man that masters hia own will. Love always look on tho bright side, and always finds a bright side to look on. The most delicate, the most sensible of all pleasures, consists in prompting the pleasures of others. Nothing reveals a man's character more fully than the spirit in which he boars his limitations.—H. W. Mabie. The serene, silent beauty of a holy [life is the most powerful influence in the world, next to the might of God.— Pascal. In counteracting our defects, we should bo cautious not to blunder by imitation of others. We should search until we find where our character fails, and then amend it—not attempt to become another man. —Cecil. Corn ami Clover. the lowliest hymn is an anthem, and the shortest lite an eternity. — Talumge. to Wheie there's a will there's a way contest it. Wh«;u the clergyman remarked that th<?ro would be a nave in the new ejiurpti, an old lady whispered that she ' party to whom he referred," °' No two crops grown by northern farmers so well supplement each other as corn and clover. The first furnishes more fodder_per acre than any other croj) grown as easily. But it is deficient in nitrogenous and mineral matter. Corn leaves get their carbon from the air, which is their principal substance. Clover also gets some nitrogen from the same source. Corn roots run shallow, while clover roots run deeper. There is no better preparation for corn than a clover sod turned under. If the sorn is kept clear it makes an excellent preparation for clover sown the following spring. If the land is rich, reasonably • free from -weeds and well drained, clover seed sown among the corn in JuU, after the last cultivation, will get growth enough before winter to stand and give a large crop the following season. The Cheapest Feeding Materials. Linseed cake is the staple food with many farmers. It is not improbable that this article will advance beyond a reasonable price, and the farmer should cast about to see if there is not some food which can be bought so as to pay him better, A good linsped cake is the best food for general purposes, because it contains a fair proportion of the different forms of feeding matter that animus require; and one of its greut features is the oil, a substance not strongly represented in grain and pulse. It is only because the feeding constituents are well balanced that it is preferred to other foods, and if other foods are mixed BO as to possess the qame properties equally good results are obtained. The oil is the chief difficulty, but that may bo easily arranged by buying the linseed instead of linneed cate, wr then the whole of the oil is obtained* Linseed contains about four times as much oil as linsjed cake, so if in making a. mixture we bear this ppint in mind, the most difficult portion, of the problem will be solved. Of course the Unseed. must be crashed or boiled, To SupB»fe.e albuminoid matter whjioh js, |ovmd ^Pwj<? cake we have to IU!BO crops, bean's, Look on the Bright Side. Don't dwell unnecessarily upon your "losses_during the past year." If you have life and health and home and dear ones left, roll up your sleeves and begin this new year courageously. Million's of men have thus met misfortunes and mastered them. Dwell on the dark side only long enough to learn its lessonj then turn and close the book. Nothing is more unprofitable to the mind than brooding over past defeats. iilake Much of Home Life. How much we might make of our family life, of our friendships, if every secret thought of love blossomed into a deed. We are not now speaking merely of personal caresses. These may or may not be the best language of affection. Many are endowed with a delicacy, or fastidiousness of physical organization, which shrinks away from too much of these, repelled and overpowered. But there are words and looks and little observances, thoughtfulness, watchful little attentions, which apeak of love, which make it manifest; and there is saaj-ce not a family which might not be richer in heart-wealth for more of them. — Harriet Beecher Stowe. HuhlJunds and Wives. A good husband makes n good wife. Some men can neither do witnout wives nor with them; they are wretched alone in what is called single blessedness, and they make their homes miserable when they get married; they are like Tompkins' log, which could not bear to be loose and bowled when he .was tied up. Happy bachelors are likely to make happy husbands, and a happy husband is the hapiest of men. A well-aiatohed couple carry a joyful life between them as the two spies Carried the cluster of Eschol. They are ft jrace of birds of Paradise. They multiply 'heir joys by sharing them, and. lessen .heir troubles by dividing, This is fine iriihmetic? The wagon of ightty along as tUt when it drags % littio

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