The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on April 20, 1892 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

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Algona, Iowa
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Wednesday, April 20, 1892
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THE TJPEEE t>ES MQINB& ALGQNA; 1C>WA 4 WEDNESDAY, AP&IL 20,1892. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^mm*immm*^—**ii^~~~*i-^~--~*^-^*~~>^~^-~^**^^^ ...... . jj _^ ^._ ^ . ^ _ . ,,_,___. , „.. __;__._ , . . s - U 7 . . . ~ OONFLtGlV A STORY 6F CASTE. : He was honor .itself, and to him now Miss IVorthhigton was almost another man's wife. Uut had she been free for himself ft would have availed liim llittle^- Tlie younger son of u .noble house,may not marry where his heart or fancy leads him, and' Hugh. Carletqn knew this'i 'but he yearned to help Florence if he could in her. grief and trouble; flis attempts at eonso- lation were well meant, though they were clumsy enough—but at least they came from his heart. He reminded her of the hundreds dally in the same predicament as her father had been, and of.the faot'-that she would soon be extricated from'her present dependence—this last hurt her pride, and so eased her grief—mid lio^de- clured earnestly and .ceaselessly that she might count upon his friendship at all times. Poor fellow, liis will WHS good, but his power weak; and Ills., father—a poor pecr-^-was also a suflerer : by Sji- Arthur's defalcations, and hence not too.kindly disposed towards the dethroned heiress." Nearly a month Miss \Vortlilngtoif. waited for some sign of faithfulness from her noble lover; but none came. Lady Bay en persisted silently in hoping against hope; but Florence would not hear his nnine from her aunt's lips. She resolved what to do, and she did it quickly and decisively. She wrote, herself, to his lordship, informing him that his absence and silence told her plainly enough that his feeling towards her were like her own for him; that their engagement had been unduly hurried by her clear father, and that while thanking him for the great honor he had done her, sho gave him back his freedom fully and freely. .The missive written and went, she waited calmly for his reply, little doubting what it would be. And she judged rightly, livery lino, in his lordship's rather elaborate answer betrayed the satisfaction that "tinder-the circumstances" his free[ dom had been restored. The amount of gratitude that he expressed-proved only what his fears had been; he declared that Ills admiration was .•boundless for Hiss • Woi-tliington's generosity, ami remarked gracefully that, though, her previous un' niistakablo coldness had pained him,' he could not under all the existing and pain' fill conditions, but acquiesce in her decision that their engagement had pei-lmps I hcen unduly hastened. He also reminded I her that the rupture had come from herself or, as :i man of honor, lie would have held himself In readiness to fullil his promise, | had sho insisted upon his doing so. He concluded by hoping she would always look upon him as her friend, whenever it might be in his power to- aid her in any way; that he should always consider her j wishes as commands; and he subscribed [himself as liors "very faithfully." I Lord llarcourt kept a copy of this letter, I and rode with, for him, extraordinary liaste I to his Dowager mother—his face radiant, I his heart, if he possessed one, plainly un- j touched; and his mother's sympathy uii- linistakublc. "You have had an escape, A r ernon. Of • course under UK; circumstances, your niar- Iriage with Miss Worthingtoii would have I been Impossible; but sho might have been Idilliciilt to manage, mutters might have I boon painfully complicated. Jmaglne the • future Countess of llarcourt having been I the daughter of a fraudulent gambler! It lis too horrible to contemplate her ladyship • declared. -'.Still 1 must say she has enii- Ibled you to withdraw graceful ly, and Ishown herself to be a girl of spirt—poor •thing!" she added magnanimously. 1 "She is wonderfully handsome, mother," •Lord llarcourt said reflectively, not re- Jgrctfully. I shall have to seek far to lind Bone us irreproachably beautiful and well- Im-ed." "Beauty Is a great advantage, Ycrnon," •his mother told him, "but it is not ovcry- |tliing. She certainly was handsome, and 'seemed to me to have pride befitting her .supposed station; but we could not endure |the shame my son." • «*••• AVith curling lip and flashing face Flor- jcncc read Lord llarcourt's letter slowly land calmly to the end, and then placed it Jin silence before her aunt. She knew well •the storm it would bring down upon her Ilicad. "Good Heaven, Florence, do you mean •to tell mo that you have voluntarily re- llcased Lord Harcourt, that you have act- Jed so blindly, so wickedly, so » Words •failed her ladyship. "Uirl you must be "-iiad!" Hut Florence was at least outwardly ap- •athetie. I "Possibly, aunt; nevertheless it Is too •evident to me that, luul I withheld his [lordship's release, ho would have soon •sent me mine. I preferred tho more dig- •iiified course of tho two, and acted upon lit." "Hut we hud a hold upon his lordship, [Florence. We could have forcnd him to [fulfil liis voluntary engagement." Here Miss Worthington laughed for the first time—and it was not a pleasant laugh ito hear. •'And you can imagine mo a Willing bride to a bridegroom forced to marry me I pood heaven, surely I have not sunk so Row aa that!" she said bitterly. I "I repeat you are mud, Florence I You, [Without a penny in the world or a homo to Burn to—how dare you tako the law into D'our own hands and dismiss Lord Har- fcourt?" Lady Ituvon demanded furiously. f'We, hud, 1 tell you, a hold upon him—ut Beast, he might have given you compensation iu some way. You don't know what Pn-uiigeiuents might have been possible |Ue might have offered some sort of compromise. You have acted like u wilful Booiisli child, and thrown away vour last Chance." Miss Worthington's cheeks were ablaze. "And I—at least yet—cannot realise BOiir right to insult me so grossly, aunt PUVOII. 1 would beg my bread from door ) door before I would touch a penny of Mrd llarcourt's money!" she said ex. litcclly. 1 "I am not accustomed to deal with girls P' your headstrong temperament, Florence, hl "l own they do not please me. Uirls in '"''"n may well assert their indepen- _ , if they uhoo.su; but those- bound •'ami and foot by poverty and disgrace—uy, Disgrace," her ladyship repeated coarsely— ['would do well to loam submission to their •ate—to abide by tho advice given them by flicir friends." "-Such a little time, and howl have fal- C1 '!" poor Flureneo thought, with bitter . but she sat motionless, not show- >'g that sho felt in the least her aunt's buse. Hor silence only increased her aunt's fu- "Pray what urn 1 to do with you, Flornce? Perhaps you can so.lvu that dillicul- }' lor mo." . "1 clid not know that there was a qucs- iou of your doing anything with me. I "pposu my misfortunes will scarcely liavo '"" 1 me of tho right of free action?" -i answered calmly; but sho felt Htlc calmness. Wliat was sho to do? What should sho °' plie asked hmolf fheso questions cou- " "• and tljoy wei-e ypt unsettled of any kind, she said truly enough, was utterly, intolerable to her,. The home she wos.in novy she occupied simply oh sufferance, and must leave in it few weeks at most. Her'first thought had 'been that her aunt would-offer her a/home with her for a time; and, with her father's only 'sfster, Who had spent half her life in their house* she had felt that the obligation would not Be too overwhelming—it would soften her dependence.. Had she beeii a little more submissive and' tractable, a shade :more humble, she inigiit have discovered" a little softness In her ladyship's granite, heart; but it required more patient seeking for than Florence's proud nature \vus likely to stoop, to, so.she.slifferetl. . • Lady Hiivoh.hu'J not thought of leaving her niece unprotected.in the woi-id;'but she hud a strong Idea of making' her' feel her dependence until she had become quite submissive. The time however happened, to be most inconvenient for her .ladyship. She was engaged to:.pay.a month's visit to an old friend at-the sea-sideband, this change, she felt, was absolutely 'necessary to her after the fatigues of a London ..season, and still more after all -the' trials she had just passed through.' ; Her nle.ee, of course, had not been, included in'this invitation. Lady Haven, never too 'plentifully supplied with money, felt but little inclined to resign her pleasant visit to Scarborough and sacrifice-her .-pleasures—her health, she told herself—in order to chaperon her intractable niece. In'her present mourning and seclusion, which at the best could only bury them both in some dull watering place. .To do her ladyship jus-, ticc, this plan had entered her head as a possibility; but Miss Worthingon's last misdemeanor had entirely removed from her aunt's mind the idea .of making such a sacrifice. Lady Haven's own Lr ndon house in Olargcs street, was let for some months, and her ladyship was further engaged to winter in Nice with her married daughter, with whom Miss Worthington had never thought ilt to be on friendly terms. They had been rival beauties for one or two London seasons, and-Florence "\Vorthingtoii had, perhaps with too insolent, a triumph, carried off the palm; so it seemed impossible thut.she could be her cousin's guest.— She must be safely housed somewhere, for u time at least, until her mourning should be passed through and the double scandal attached to her mime forgotten. But 'where? To Lady Haven the question was the most'difficult to answer. Poor Florence had indeed fallen from her high pedestal. The girl scarcely real- ised or cared what was before her; sho only told herself that she was utterly wretched. Hut her aunt was trying her best to enlighten her as to her position and its difficulties. Florence's defiance bad aroused her ladyship's temper, which was none of the best, and for the time she was tolerably unscrupulous as 'to sparing her niece's feelings. "I suppose there is something saved for mo out of all the wreck?" Florence asked a few days later. "If there is anything ut all, Florence, it must be a.pitiful trifle, duo only to your cousin Edward's generosity." But Miss Worth! ngton still possessed youth and health, and no inconsiderable share of beauty, so that her future prospects need not have seemed so utterly hopeless to her; they did however, and Lady Haven's last shaft had to be discharged. "I see but one place open for you at present, Florence—of course eventually we may arrange differently; but there are too many difficulties, too much scandal, in the way to do so yet." Full well Florcncelcuew what was coming now. "Your aunt Carrington has written, as you know,most kindly," Lady Eaven said; "she has written more than once, and has really shown great delicacy and kindness; and, with her husband, the chemist's full wish and consent, she oilers you a home for an unlimited time in their house, and promises to study your happiness in all ways. Heally, for the present at least, Florence, I do not see that you can do better than accept her proposal. You have chosen to refuse the high position offered to you; you may possibly like to try the lower one, and be able to appreciate it," her ladyship said sarcastically—"at any rate it will afl'ord a few months' shelter In such deep mourning—for the present at least—you cannot think of going into society. A year hence I may be able to make different arrangements for you to live with me when 1 am again in Clunres Street." All the color faded from Miss Worthing, ton's face; her bitterest fears were about to be realised, her pride was to be cruelly hurt. Her haughty spirit however still supported her; she would meet her aunt on her own ground. Poor Florence! Sho had been reared carefully in the belief that tradesmen, high or low, could only be like useful machinery in tho way of life—that they, wore people indispensable certainly to keep the world in action, to supply one's wants mid creature-comforts, but that they were never to be associated with—persons to be treated civilly if one came in contact with them, but otherwise to be ignored utterly, and one of the bitterest thorns .in Florence Worthington's pride hud been the knowledge that her dead mother was u trades, man's child. But her mot her was dead. Often, in her better and softer moments, she had yearned for u mother's tenderness, for a sound from the sweet lips, or n smile from the soft eyes which she so constantly worshipped in the 'large oil-painting hang ing always in her own room—tho picture hud been painted by a celebrated artist when her mother was in all the first flush of youth, health, and happiness—but the yearning, craving feelings were stilled by the remembrance of hor mother's low origin, of the blot it was upon the family escutcheon. There seemed to be only endurance for her now, for the hands she so scorned were the only ones outstretched to give her help or shelter. "You are right, aunt Margaret; It will bo best to accept my aunt Carrington's offer. It is a most kind and disinterested one, for they have scarcely soon me, and I do not think they ever had a civil word or thought from any of us; but I suppose they have some pity for me—they can see that I have no other friends to turn to, and they feel some compassion. Perhaps i may find my mother's sister, my mother's relatives, my best and truest friends after nil." "Yoiuiecd'not be ungrateful, Florence, I think," said her aunt. "You know quite well that I have offered you a homo witli me eventually, if you choose to accept it. It may bo in 'your'nature—it seems almost as if it must bo—to lean to lower friends; but you cannot with justice deny that I have always tried to do my best for you," •'1 deny nothing," Florence answered. "But you try to imply a great deal.— How can 1 take you with mo to Mrs. Yore's? How can I remain with you here, or even in London? You know that i have rented my house in Glurges Street for some months." All that her ladyship said was undeniably true. "And how could 1 tako you with me toNice, wlum you know that my daughter and lier husband have only u suit of 'room? there, and that it is with dittlfculty they etui accommodate «JH>? Added to, wU.ich, Florence, yqu woujd *""" seeing that you hare always treated net .with the barest civility." ' «I certainly should not like It at all, aunt Margaret. I cannot imagine anything that .would be more distasteful to me; -• iu our happiest time Margaret and' I were never go.6li>friends; in. my present misery 1 can pretty well picture what it would be were I ft guest on sufferance in Lady Meddowes' house. I should rank'somewhere between the 1 governess and the. lady's-maid. No, tli'ank you!" : : .'"It is a pity foryour own sake, Florence, that you do not try to keep a little more control over your temper; It will ruin your Happiness wherever you may be.-T- Ai ntty rate, now you make your own deck '•''•' ' Miss Worthihgton laughed scornfully, as she: thotiglit how much choice she had in the matter.''- •' • '• ' ' ... * "Vcs, I made my own decision; and I will ansVve'r (unit Carririgton's letter today, and - ; tell her that ••! accept her very, kind offer only.too thankfully, and that I am ready to come to her this moment—tomorrow—whenever she will have me/' she said excitedly, "f6r I long to be away from this wretched house, where, every thing reminds mo so unceasingly of my misery—of my dear, .father," Florence'added. And now, for the first time there were" tears iii her eyes. "Let me give you some parting advice, child—tlie utility of it must bo for you to decide. Do not place yourself in too dependent a position in this new aunt's house. Let them think that you are penniless, and choose to look upon yqu as •& most..inconveniently poor relation and dependent, and 'they will treat you accordingly. Let : them know and feel however that you arc a Baronet's daughter, the niece of the Countess of Haven, witli them only for'.a time, and it must inspire people'in their position' with a eertain'ainount of respect that will- be beneficial to yourself. Let them think —which will probably be the truth—that you avail yourself of their invitation only temporarily, and that on my return from Italy, your home/will be.with me, and they will from this; Jlrst plucd'you in your-right "position, and probably think you are condescending in paying them a visit. This, with a little cure on your part, to conciliate them, may render your stay not unpleasant. You may make use of my advice or not,-us you thiiiK lit.. A little time hVnco you .will probably see the wisdom, of it; but you can never endure to live out of your station, Florence—of that I am sure." And with these parting words Lady Haven, in her trailing black silk, left the room. Miss Wortliington buried hor face in her hands, and underwent an agony of pain greater than sho thought she could bear; but she kept up bravely, and hid her feel, lags in the depths of her own heart. CHAPTKK V. An old-fashioned house in Fulham, near the river, and hidden from the high-road by a shady garden, was the private residence of John Carrington—not Esquire, for the owner was a chemist, possessing a thriving business somewhere in the neighborhood of Old Bond Street, where he spent the greater part of his time busily enough, not always compounding pjlls or making up prescriptions, but overlooking two or three assistants, and experimenting a little on his own acccount, keeping a master's eye on the old-established and prosperous business. JIo was a mild earnest-looking man, a little past middle age, with thick gray hair and clear bright blue eyes—one with a gentle honest face that inspired confidence.— He was a man who liked to SRC his own home well ordered and trim, his wife a lady in every sense of the word. His daughters gentle and .relincd. Such was Florence Worthington's uncle, or rather the husband of her aunt, her mother's only sister, to whose home she had been warmly invited. "What is she like, mother?" was asked repeutdly by Muud and Ethel Carrington, as they waited in great excitement for the arrival of their new cousin; but the answer was always the same, and to them never satisfying— "I cannot tell you Ethel. It is impossible to say, since I have seen so little of your cousin." "But when you did see her, mother— what was she like then?" Ethel persisted. "'Iho first time, a baby a month old, overburdened with silk and lace; the second, a dear little fairy of three years, whom I saw in midwinter, and whom I longed to tako and wrap in warm soft clothing, like yours used to be, but who was wonderfully dressed in the height of fashion then, with little bare neck and arms; the third, which was the other day, u slight pule girl in deep mourning, who seemed broken down with grief, and made my heart ache as I looked at her." "But why have you seen so little of her, mother?" Maud Carrington asked wonderingly. "She is our own cousin." "Because, my dear, I could see that my visits were intrusive; because, although she is my own niece, I am a chemist's'wifo and she a Baronet's daughter' and niece of a Countess. The gulf between us is a wide one; and your father did not care that I should be an unwelcome visitor. .Your cousin could not possibly have wanted for anything but a mother's cure, and that they would not allow rue to give her." "I do hope she will be nice, mother," Maud said anxiously. "I hope so too, my dear; but we must be content with her as she is," Mrs. Car. riiiton answered, as if with a lingering doubt on the subject. "Poor girl, she ia desolate enough, and, if she knows anything at all, must feel terribly distressed about her father's affairs; but"! hope they have kept the worst from her. At any rate, wo will try to do the best we can for hor. She will be pleased with her rooms, and she must like you both my dears." "I hope sho will like Philip," Maud suggested, .--.viid I think it is of much importance that Philip should like her," Ethel answered with implied indignation in her voice. But ho is sure to do that; dear old Phil always likes everybody!" sho added; and her dark eyes grew brighter still as sho uttered tho name of one she evidently loved so well. And this was to be Florence Worthing, ton's now homo—tho homo sho pictured with such sickening dread, such loathing thoughts! To do her justice, she really know nothing of her aunt and cousins; nevertheless to hor they wore hideously, fatally distasteful, biting made so by' tho stamp of trade. They were u tradesman's wii'o and daughters, lot thorn be ever so porl'ec.t in all elso. To Florence thoy could never coinu within her own clmniie-d circle, or the circle hor own imagination had markod out, as impassable. In muto adieu Miss Florence Wprth- ington, with a white-, worn face and an ttcliiug heart, had swept through ull the de"soi-led rooms in'Porlnian Square, lingering longest 'in hor father's study, and adding to hor pain us she did so, loaning iov- ingly over his arm-chair, where sho could tra«e the impress of his weary head,—rshe little ({now how weary it had been—where slio had talked to liinj so hopefully on yja$ Ypry Itvst occasion, antj there 8eota,e4 qygfy net- position such a proud one. She passed on to the conservatory, Staying ft" mo-i mental'the spot where Lord'llarcourt's vows had been offered to her, his coronet held out for her acceptance. She lingered Iqnger at the orange-tree, given to her in such happy times by Hugh Cnrlc'tqn, and from which something prompted her to break off a spray with bud and leaf—a .souvenir of happiest times, she thought- Then all was over, and she had to leave the home where her spoilt, though rather lonely childhood and her bright thoughtless girlhood had been passed—dearer How toherin remembrance a thousand times than it hud ever been in reality—and .she .Vowed that in her lifetime she would never again pass its threshold.. ' '• • The iiouse^iad been taken just as it was by her cousin, tho heir, who, with a show of generosity, had begged her to select and retain anything and everything it might give her the slightest pleasure to keep"or' "possess for her own use. But it was Florence's present nature to scorn all such generosity; and she hated her father's heir with a jealoiiH hate, as almost a usurper. She looked up'on his offer as presumptuous, and'Intended only to humiliate her; she even took a martyr's pleasure in depriving herself of many birthday gifts and splendid presents—hers almost by right—which had adorned her own rooms, which she might have still kept with little loss of dignity. She left thi-m all, retaining only the few trinkets her mother hurl possessed, and others of small value that had been given to her personally, or that in her'lav- ish extravagance sho hud purchased for her own adornment. Her splendid wardrobe —fit almost for a princess—wiis<lcft to her, and now, puekod In large cases, was standing ready in the hull to go with her to Fill- ham. Lady Haven's carriage was ut the door, and a cab to convey the luggage. In a few minutes Florence would have left forever her old happy home, und tho in- tcrvul was a very bitter one to-her. Lady Haven had decided to tako her niece to Fulham, thinking—perhaps wisely —that with some people it might give Florence more-prestige in her new'homc. The aniiouiicomont of "The Countess of Haven and Miss Worthington" did make a little commotion at the Laurels, -Fuihum; the inmates had boon expecting Florence alone all the morning, and with no little •-excitement; consequently, instead of being received in the ..pretty morning-room that looked upon the bright 'garden, the visitors were ushered more formally into the drawing-room. •' "I do not sec much to lind fault with here, Florence," was Lady Haven's gracious whisper, while her quick eyes noted the contents of the pretty room—the vases laden with fresh flowers, the turquoise damask furniture, the spotless luce curtains; there might be no splendor, but in- linitc taste and refinement were displayed iu all the appointments. "They are evidently musical," hor ladyship said, noticing the handsome grand piano, which was open, and had been evidently lately used. Even Miss Worthington began to breathe a little more freely; she had been haunted by the impression that her new home might be over a shop, and that it must reek with the vile odors of a chemist's establishment. On the contrary, the air seemed laden with the scent of flowers; the place too was fur from her own world; she might live here unknown, and at all events suffer undisturbed all the miseries of her humiliation. Lady Haven was graciousness itself, and was even profuse in her expressions of gratitude to the Carringtons and her admiration of the girls. Florence could only listen womleringly, trying, with little success, to believe there was an atom of truth in all hor aunt said. A TREE. MJCT tABCOit. He who plants a tree Plants a hope. Rootlets up through fibers blindly crop*; Leaves nnfold Into horizons free. • So man's life mnst climb From the clods of time Unto heavens snbllme. Canst thon prophesy, thon little tree, What the glory of thy boughs shall be? Ue who plants a tree Plants a joy; «~ . Plants a comfort that will never cloy— Every dny a fresh reality. ' Beantlfnl and strong, To whose Shelter throng Creatures blithe with song. If thou conldst bnt know, them happy tree Of the bliss that shall inhabit thee. lle.who plants a tree, He plnnts peace. Under its green curtains jargons cease, Leaf and zephyr murmur soothingly: Shadows soft with sleep Down tired eyelids creep; Balm of slumber deep, Neverbastthon dreamed, thon blessed tree, Of the benediction thou shall be. VI He who plants a tree, He plants youth; *-m |finuLci J'UUkll, Vigor won for centuries In sooth; Life of time that hints eternity? Boughs their strength uproar, New shoots every year On old growths appear. Thou shall teach the ages, etrudy tree, Youth of soul Is immortality. He who plants a tree, He plants love; Tents of coolness spreading out above Wayfarers he may not live to see. Gifts that grow are best! Hands that bless are blest: Plant; Life does tho restl Hoaven and. earth help him who plants a tree And his work Its own reward shall be. Spring 1 lowers. 0. H. SYLVESTER, TVHITEWATBB. whole fields scarlet or yellofr, fiat to spite the botanists this wild Indian warrior, a« we used to call it persists' in some localities in being totally and irrevocably yellow. This last plant is apt to favor swampy places or low meadows though it is not particular if it has plenty of sun. With it, can usually be found one or more verieties of the lady's slipper, tod well- known to need praise. One could without difficulty make 0 list of fifty species of attract iye flowering plants that are available in almost any locality before the middle of June. But there "is little ad< vantage in that. It is not so much what we use to bring about the thing we wish as that we use something. We ought to refuse nothing however insignificant; some of the most interesting of early p ants are the least attractive at first glance. Moreover if the plant, weed though it be, is brought by a pupil it shows that we are accomplishing the very thing for which we strive, the inculcation of the habit of observation. A person can purcWe at a nominal cost plenty of books that will help him to demolish every specimen and destroy all its beauty in the most scientific manner and will tell him all essential facts in the most apt and pertinent way. It is well to buy a Bottiny for one's own improvement, but let him remember that a textbook has a passion for getting in between the teacher and bis pupils. Science is not wanted, facts are not wanted in the lower classes; it is love of nature and an appreciation of its beauties that come only from contact with it that we must teach, so that when the child is grown and the years press upon him he will know how and where to go to the fountainhead of rest and recreation. TO BE CONTINUED. STUDENTS IJS KEBKLLIOSr. Clash Between "Antl-fratg" and Secret Society Men in an Iowa College. OTTUMWA, Iowa, April 14.—The students of the Iowa Wesleyan university have risen in mutiny against the faculty and Lieutenant McAlerander, of the regular army, in command of the battalion at that place. The trouble is the outgrowth of the appointment of Frank D. Burhans, a sophomore, as lieutenant of Company B, when it was asserted that older classmen outranked him in point of military service.. Three lieutenants and three sergeants have resigned, and the students propose to bolt the college if the shoulder-straps are not taken from Burnans. The fact of the matter is that Burhans is the leader of the "anti-frat" society and as such has incurred the hatred of all secret society men, and they can not stand it- to see him advanced over them. Burhans is a brilliant leader, and his enemies intend to teach him a lesson. The faculty are undetermined in the matter as yet. Late today the matter was made even more serious by the. resignation of the captains along with the adjutant of the batalion. There is hardly a child under twelve who f IB not an embryo flower-worshipper, and if the teacher allows tho spring to pass without stimulating this passion into activity he is mafvelously negligent. Pupils like to watch for the first blossom, keep a record of the appearance of the species and see who can discover the largest number of kinds. But one 'need not wait for the flowers out of doors. _ As soon as the snow is gone he can walk into the woods and chop from the frozen ground a lew Hepatica (liverwort) roots whose large persistent, three-lobed leaves will show where the bud is hiding. These he can plant in a box in the window and soon little woolly heads will appear and open their lovely eepals, pale lavendar, pink or white. These give place to small heads of fruit each in its three-leaved cup, and lastly the hairy new leaves will come into sight. There is something fascinating in this cycle of life. One should not throw away the plant but should set it out in a damp and shady place where it will live and be pretty for many a sprint? to come. If. one cannot get Hepaticas, willow branches will develop their pussies, poplar? .will wave their tassels and hazels will soften their hard pendants which have withstood the cold of winter, and will shower their pollen on the minute scarlet pistils that come from remote buds to receive is. It is a luxury to watch the life coming into the apparently dead twiga under tne. genial warmth of the schoolroom, and the moisture from tho glass of water into which the broken stems have been placed. When the buds begin to burst and the flowers bloom outside, then the school room should be as full of cheer as all nature is. There is such a world to see and so short a time to see it in. Look and admire, wonder and exclaim, speculate and enquire, but don'fc teach, don't teach the children a thing. When (hey ask, answer by all means, if you can. If they w_ant names for the plants and you can't give them, let the children invent appropriate ones. But I sny again don't try to teach a single fact—let the facts alone, they 11 teach themselves. Converse, show relations, make comparison, describe habitats and uses. But above all, attract the children to the world of beauty in each new flower by allowing it to lighten up your own countenance and excite yourself to admiration. We must all be learners ourselves, watching closely, seeing all we can. The children will notice us examining the plants as though we loved them and then we have begun our success, for interest is contagious. Without speaking a word, I nave caused the roughest, coarsest and least impressionable boy to examine a flower attentively by simply going repeatedly to it and looking at it with interest myself. Material is not lacking. If there is a rocky hill with a south or west slope, almost as soon as the snow is gone, the Basque flower is seen warmly wrapped in hia m»utr Yinn.-innlrAJ- mVi£*vk .„**. ._ 1 • . 1 i Flower Beds for school Grounds. INTKU-OOEANIC Valuable Concession Granted to New York Capitalists. NEW YORK, April 14.— A cablegram received from Honduras today stated that the English syndicate Holding the concession for the building of an inter-oceanic railway across Honduras from Purto Cortez to Amapala, had petitioned for an extension of time, the con tract having lapsed from March 12, and the government refused to grant it. The syndicate has been notified of the revocation of the contract. The government, however, made a definite concession for the same purpose to American parties, headed by W. S. Valentine and B. H. Van Auken, Jr., of this city, to whom _wa,8 ceded the local railroad now existing and an immense amount of land and other valuable grants, A meeting of special envoys from each of the Central American republics, sitting at San Salvador, a telegram says, made treaties of firm friendship, thus assuring, absolute peace in all Central America. in his gray pea-jacket which some bright ill open and disclose its delicate K-EEIVEY CUBE A FBAUD. A Former Patient Sues the Company for Parnageg. PONTIAO, III., April 14.—Henry A. Monroe filed a suit today against the Leahe E. Keeley Co. for $10,000 damages, alleging that the hi-chloride of gold treatment wrought great injury to his health, Not only did it not cure him of the liquor habit, but on the contrary aggravated the malady and weakened the plaintiff in body and mind. He further alleges persecution by the Keeley company in driving him from plight after he was discharged from the institution as his presence there was an obmpt lesson of the truth concerning the fraTdulent pretenses of the alleged efficacy of the Keeley treatment. day he wi r lavender lining lying next his golden heart. Blossom first, leaves next then the big head of long tailed achenia for fruit —is the order of thinga here the same that we saw in the Hepatica? Damp open woods will furnish both wood and rue anemones or wind flowers. The for- mer'is not half appreciated because its modest, blushing little downcast face is nearly hidden in the big spreading in- volcure. The slender root-stock at right angles to the stem is worth seeing as are the fascicled roots of the other plant. If the woods are very damp they may produce false rue anemones (Isopyrum) which strongly resembles the rue anemone but is fur prettier and more grucetul. Its roots are long and matted and covered with queer little nodules. These all belong to the great Crowfoot family that always moves on the first of May. The comparison of the different kinds of violets would make an hour go pleasantly as in many localities it is possible to eret without,difficulty a half-dozen species. Perhaps soms one may be lucky and find dogtooth violets which, of course, are not violets at all but beautiful little lillies, each single blossom hanging gracefully on a stem that rises from between two broad, glpasy green leaves, sometimes blotched with purple. The flower may be bluish- white or yellow; in the former case the leaves ought to be green, in the latter,they may be mottled. As a matter of fact, both species disobey orders and frequently have spotted leaves and the yellow adder's tongue sports those of immaculate green. It is from a deep bulb that this bit of royalty comes and it sadly objects to being torn torn its chosen home. Nothing repays study better than the Dutchman's Breeches. Now we would rebel and call that most pure and de'bate thing the squirrel corn if M.r, Gray had not been so unkind us to restrict the latter uurne to a species we are not BO apt to find. But it U interesting i» j| 8 scaly b<*lbs, its many- divided leaves, its two minute sepals, its peculiar tta|fewj^,,on.e can kejjp child. Flower beds on school grounds give so much pleasure for a little effort, that labor' is almost lost sight of. Even the youngest pupil can aid in their preparation and ca re; litt e fingers are often more deft and ' skillful than larger ones. I have selected a list of six different flowers as most suitable and desirable, because easy of cultivation, and they will give better returns for the labor and care than many others. They are pansies, verbenas, asters (dwarf varieties,) nastur liums (dwarf varieties,) mignonette and sweet peas. If you buy one mixed package of each kind, they will afford all the plants you will have time to prepare beds for and take care of this year, and the six packages will only cost fifty cents. Any reliable dealer will furnish them to you but you will secure better results if you buy them of some one who makes a specialty of growing the flower seeds ho sells. Order the seeds early that you may have them in time. In selecting the place for the beds you will bo governed by the arrangement of your grounds. No flowers will do well with entire shade nor very near trees. You can have them near the school house, but not so near that the rain dripping from the roof will injure the beds by washing out the soil. Make the beds narrow and long rather than ' square, that they may be more easily cared for. You will need something to enclose them or the edges will be worn away by the rain and the care. Pink up the stones you have used for your play-houses and place them close together, side by side, making a bed for each kind you are to sow, about four feet long and eighteen inches wide. If 1 you have no stones you can make very pretty beds by simply cutting out the sod just the eize wanted for the bed. Either is prettier than beds formed with boards and is _more durable. Sod is not good for the sides because the grass will soon ' encroach upon the plants. If you use the ' stones and sod must be carefully cut out. The beds must be filled with good mellow soil. If your school-home is near the woods the older boys can borrow a wheelbarrow and spade and wheel three or four loads of leaf mold to fill them. If you are nob near enough to get the leaf mold you can cut the sod out near the roadside and take the soil from there. It will not be quite as good as the leaf mold and will require a little more work to prepare it for the seeds, because it will have to be ' fine and perfectly free from lumps. This year you will probably have to borrow tools to work with, but, if you are careful of them, and interested in your flowers, I think it will be easy to secure a rake and three or four hand weeders next year. Make the beda smooth and level. It is better to sow the pansy seeds in the bed on the east side of the school-house. They like light, but not too much sun; the seeds must be very lightly covered and never allowed to get dry after sowing, because the tiny germ is so delicate that it will die if the soil gets dry. You will have nicer flowers if yourjplants ' are six or eight inches apart; if they.come up too thickly you can easily transplant them. Keep the soi' well stirred and free from weeds, and, probably before the spring term closes you will be rewarded by seeing the little buds, that look like poke-bonnets, appear, and the queer little faces will look up into yours as though thanking you for giving them a chance to grow. The sweet peas will come up sooner if soaked in a dish of water for a few hours before sowing. Put them in the ground about six inches deep, one row on each side of the bed. They will stand up better if covered deeply. You will need a support for them, and you can make it as soon as they come up, and when they put out their little tendrils (their hands) there will be something for them to cling to. Get four sticks about one inch square and about four feet long; drive one down about four inches in each corner of the bed; get a stout piece of cord and tie to the tops of the sticks, lengthways, then drive down small sticks, five or six inches in length near the plants, tying twine| on the top of the sticks and to the stout cork. This will make a cheap support for the vines, and is something you can make yourselves. Nasturtium seeds ought to be sowed about one inch deep. They will do well on poor rocky soil, The other seeds must be sowed and cared for much the same as the pansies, except that they must he sowed a little deeper. You may not have many flowers before the spring term closes, but if you take good care of them you will have tine, heal-' thy plants that will give you a great many flowers all through the fall term. The pa»« sies will blossom until the ground freezes, and, if cut back, in the spring, will, give you flowers all through the spring term. You will need to appoint a comiwittee to give the plants a Jittle care thresh the summer vacation, There are other varieties of flowers that ty?$ Ml^.Ji.'^.W 5 ^,^ they are •

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