The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on April 27, 1892 · Page 6
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 6

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Algona, Iowa
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Wednesday, April 27, 1892
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THE TTPPER DBS MQINES. ALGONA. IOWA WEDNESDAY. APRIL 27,1892. fftlOE'S COKl-'LIOT. A STORY OF CASTE. • It is so kind of you, airs, ourringtoii, to • take wire of the naughty child in my al>• gence. You have relieved mo, of my ^rrcit- • est difficulty, and I cannot cxpross my in• debtedncss to you," the (Jountc.i* of Haven • declared. "You see I could not jKxsibly • tnico her with me to my sick friend at, Scar. • borough; and my London house; is let, • and in tho autumn 1 pay my long-i'irom- • iscd visit to my married daughter at • NicR." ' • Mrs. Carrington politely expressed her • pleasure at having her niece with Imr, and • a hope that, her visit might ho prolonged • indefinitely. • '-You must hriilgsome roses hnck to lier • cliccks," said her ladyship. "And you • must write often to me, Florence'.—con• stiuitly," she added turning to her niecn. • (iAnd on my return Mrs. Carrington, 1 • shall hope to see a great deal of you and of • your dear girls. No doubt by that time • Florence and her cousins will be inse,para- • rnble. You have a-son too?" her ladyship • Interrogated hesitatingly. • The existence of this son had at times • given her a few qualms of uneasiness.—. • What if he should bo presentable and at• tractive in some way, and, from living ul- • ways in the liouse with him, Florence I should fall into the error common to al' • girls, and fancy herself in love with him • or, any rate got into some kind of ciitiin. • glement? There was not much chance of • this; but still there was the bare possibili. B ty, against w(jieh she had thought it bcttoi H not to warn Florence, for fear of putting • it into her head. But, after all, Mrs. Cur• rington relieved lier mind entirely on this • point. • "He is not my own son, Lady Haven, • though I believe he is dearer to me than • any son of my own could be," Mrs. Ciir- • rington said with sudden feeling as she • thought of him. "He is my husband's on. • ly son by his iirst wife; but I have had the • care of him since ho was eight, years old, • and lie is just the same to me in one of my • own girls. He does not always live with Bus; he has rooms close to his business, ant • comes home when he is able." • A thrill of dread passed through Miss • "Worthlngton's mind as she thought of this • unknown cousin—a thousand times worse • than a girl—who was probably a baker, • butcher, or candlcstick-maUcr—she little • knew or cared; all.she did know was that • he was a tradesman—probably with large, • dirty hands, a coarse loud voice, and vulgai • ideas. He would be the last drop In iici • cup of humiliation and di.sgti.st in her new • home she thought. But Lady Haven took • everything in good part. m "How very nice it must bo for you, Mrs. • Carrington! You see both of my chit • clren are away from me, and I am nearly • always alone. Florence will have to • make up for them when I return. I • should liked to have .seen your husband," •her ladyship shamelessly declared. "Pray • give my kindest compliments to him •Florence, dear, I must, say good-bye to you Biiow. Good-byes are always so painful;" Band her ladyship made a show, real or •feigned, of some feeling, with which Flor- McncG did not seem to sympathize. • Miss "Worthington suffered her aunt's Blips to touch her cheek, and listened with •complete apathy to her adieux. In a lew •moments more she was alone with her aunt •and cousins—simple, warm-hearted people, •quite prepared to receive her as one of •themselves, to show her all their care.and Hlove, as well as not a little admiration for •her beauty, and with a duo regard for what Btlu'.y wore pleased to think her high po«i- Btion and her condescension in coming to Hthem. H "JMy dear," said Mrs. Carrington, "you •look tired and fagged to death. Go' to Byonr rooms with the girls, and let tlic'in Rielp you take oil' your tilings—do not scru- Hpli! to ask for anything you would like or •would wish to have clone—and then come Bdowu stairs to our sitting room." M Florence followed her cousins up stairs lito two pretty rooms whiu.lt had been set Bnpart for her use; and her heart would Di'ive been a harder one than it WMS Kind she not softened a little to the two Birutty rolined girls so uniiifeutcd and eager RJ-o give her help or comfort, both as yel a •little shy with her, but evidently trying •their best to make her eoMil'ortable. B Florence could not help expressing her •admiration as she entered the rooms pre- Bpared for her; she even said a little gra- Hciously— • "It is so kind of you to have me." H -'Wo think it more kind of you to come Hto us—it will give us all so much pleasure," •Maud, tho eldest rejoined kindly. "And •you will of course t'eul a little shy with us Hat first—.strangers as we are—but you must •try to get over it as soon as you can, and Rmuke yourself one of ourselves." • Shyness was about the last discomfort Bliss Worthington suffered from, but her •coldness and reserve- might easily be taken •for it. B "And you are sure to like papa, and •Philip, oh, so much!" Mtliel declared eiu Bgcrly, "it is so provoking that Philip is Haway now for three weeks; but one is over, Bund the other two will soon pass. Tho Biouse is quite different when he is at Buomu." B Long may he stay away, this bugbear •cousin!" thought Florence, "lie cannot •really bo my cousin," were the words which •nearly rose to her lips, but politeness re. fcritssr'd I'ir.ni, though the wish to utter Htli.'in remained. B ClIAPTKR V. • [CONVINUKD.] B Already the girls were winni'ig tholi •Way a little with Florence—she had been wo unused to girl-friends, and novelty al- Bwnys lias attraction for the young. Maud, •the eldest, was within a few months of her »wn age, just tweiity-ono, 131hoi tsvo years •younger. Had her cousins boon unrclined, •ordinary-looking middle-class girls, she •would have turned from them with irre. •prossililf! disgust; but oven in so short a •time she could not help admitting to her- B S(: 11', that, as far us outward appearance ijimi refined manners went, they in no way •loll short of her own standard. Their po- •sition of course was their misfortune, •though a misfortune which appeared to sit guilt very lightly upon them she discovered BBS their intimacy progressed, f Her uncle, tho chemist was a necessary, Buougli dreaded evil, she admitted to hcr- pclf; still ho was her uncle, and had thrown •ppcn his doors to her when all others wore Blosed, and she must treat him with at Beast some outward deference and consider- Btion. But her step-cousin—detested ill- Rivvored specimen of humanity—ho had no •U'll "Poti her for the slightest regard, and •pr manner should at once, from the Iirst BBoniunt they mot, show him what thoir re- Bfitlons towards each other must bo; at any lyiitc, .sh u W ould have a fortnight's breath. Bii'-'-timo and that was no little relief to her. mA t present he was the only grievance shit •was able to .discover. I Tho girls had left her to prepare for an levelling meal they called tea, and Florence Itunicd wearily towards her toilet table, so Iliberully fiirnishod for her pleasure; rs- Isc'iices,perfumes, puiwuli>,«H '" tiiLirpret- Itlust forms, wuro there, but on them all iwns stamped tuo huted badge, "John Our. rington, Chemist," ana rtorence-s ihce flushed crimson to the temples while she read it. John Carrington, chemist, generally arrived at the Laurels i,i time to partake of a meal with his family which they all called "high-tea," and which they all'seemed especially to delight in. About a quarter before six o'clock his wife and daii"hti-rs stationed themselves at various windows, or garden-gate, ready to hail his descent Irom the omnibus at the corner of the lane. Had he seen no welcome awaiting him, his disappointment would have been very great; but the welcome had never failed him yet. When his appearance was announced, I'lorencc buried herself nervously in the depths of an easy-chair, and tried to prepare herself for the reception and embrace she considered inevitable. That he arrive in a shopman's apron and sleeve she thought possible; it mi£ht be the ii variable habit of his class—she did no know, being utterly ignorant of its ordino- ry manners and customs. But, after all the introduction was less disagreeable Ilia she had feared. Mr. Carrington-was .hat ited in the ordinary costume of an Un;, lisa gentleman. He hurried past his wif and daughters, and greeted Florence Mm ply and kindly as one of them, only tell ing her how glad ho was she had come t< them; but all Was said so simply, and wa so evidently sincere, that it took away anj unpleasantness. The evening meal over, they all wont in to the old-fashioned garden, so full of fol! age and flowers, and roses red and white and creamy that filled the evening air witl delicious perfume. It was almost Flor enoo's first breath of country air, since her father had sacrificed their country liouse London, Paris, and the seaside had bcei their routine for many years. To see rose growing in such profusion and perfee.tioi gave her inexpressible pleasure, whicl she could not help half admitting to the girls. "You have never seen roses growing ii such luxuriance, Florence! 1 " Kthcl quos tioned incredulously. "Why, I tltoughi girls in your position always dwelt in u paradise of flowers 1" "Oh, yes, 1 have' had many flowers, and always in the greatest perfection; but tho.i have been in splendid bouquets, or in pot") for our conservatory, to be changed wher they began to droop. Iteally, 1 doubt if I have ever seen roses growing freely like these before," Florence said thoiigiiU'ully and while she spoke she bent over a large creamy Gloire de Dijon Then some voices were heard, and*two gentlemen appeared in the garden'; tint Florence noticed quickly that one had power to bring rosy blushes into Ethel's luce. In u moment Miss Worthington'.- .-ocia- bility had vanished; and a little later slit had escaped to the welcome solitude of her own room. For her the bright evening had darkened quickly. As far as tho means lay in her power, she intended to avoid u breath of contamination from any lower order of her fellow-mortals. Still, the llrst day in lier now home over, she could uot deny to herself, when her somewhat weary head reposed on her pillow, that it had been more endurable than she had deemed possible. There remained however the hated and much-dreaded stop-cousin. If it were not for him, she begun to think a year's seclusion with the two girl's, her auiit, and even her tradesman uncle—the latter absent all day—might not be passed so badly. One little scene she recalled when they parted for the night, which somewhat stir. red the depths of her better nature. The girls and lier aunt had kissed her, and her uncle had turned to do tho same, and, as he did so, he held her hand a moment in his own, and told her that once for all he Wished her to consider his homo hers for as long as she chose to remain in it. "There has been a great fault somewhere, my dear," Mr. Carrington told her, "that you have been so long u stranger to your mother's sister. 'Whoso fault it has been, I scarcely know or care, but there is plenty of time to retrieve it. Try to be happy with the girls, my dear, and to become one of them." Then he released her, and, for the first time in her life, Florence felt her face suffused with nervous blushes—felt herself on the verge of tears CHAPTER VI. one hears a mime frequently on the lips of each person in a household, al ways in praise, always coupled witli anxious thought for its owner's presence, one may know pretty well that he or she is pretty well worth tho love lavished, that the love is beyond all partisanship, and that it is not excited by selfishness or self- Interest. ' "How many days shall wo have to wait for Philip!"' was tho daily question put by Mr. Carrington. "Surely we ought to hear from him today; it seems so long since ho lias written," was tho never failing suggestion of liis stop-mother, if the news from him was in tne least scanty. : <Oh, I do want Philip back," was Maud's childish wish. "When Philip conies, wo can take Florence to Kow, to sec the, flowers, and to Hampton Court to sec the old pictures," pretty 13thcl s.-iid u hundred times. One pair of lips alone '%'oro silent, or urlcd contemptuously; one pair of bright eyes downcast,, that they might yield no uiswering sympathy. At last Puillp came. Florence in the proud solitude of her own room, which she seemed especially to 'iivor for tho first time for many days,hoard he rapturous greeting in the hall below, the soft glad voices of the girls, tho tri- imphant welcome of their mother, the Jlea.sant tones of tho maid.*; mid her hor- •or deepened and was intensified. In her eyes Philip Carrington had nothing to fain-him; he must of necessity bo an out- Mgeoiisly objectionable person, whoso portion in his father's house, would give him ,ho right to treat her with ill-bred and in- .olerablu familiarity. But she could only endure! co, coino down! Philip has just arrived!. Conic down to see him!" Ethel laid, rushing excitedly into her cousin's •ooin. "Do, Florence dear; he wants so nuch to sec you !" And the answer cruel- y repelled her. "1 think tho anxiety to see an utter itrangor maybe endured,don't you Kthcl? teniomhor, 'ho is not really my cousin, as 'on arc." Ethel's bright look vanished instantane. uisly. "Oh, Florence, don't say that; it will hurt us all so much! You don't know what icar Phil is to us. J)o come, and see for oursclf. Or may I," she asked with sud- len brightness, "tell him to come up lore?" "Net for tho world, lOtliol!" Florence ,akV haughtily., "Since you wish it so much, will come \Unvn presently to see your brother." And with this ungracious prom- so Ethel left her. Miss Worthington "came down," but oo late. Maud and Ethel had carried otf heir brother to tho hated shop to see his tithur, just throe hours sooner thun ho vould have .soon him had he remained quU tlv tit home. Flon-iico had hoard them Se:tmpen,.g past nor uuur t ana men UoWU Stairs agaiu Miss Worthington came nearer; and Ji her aunt's kind homely face began to thinl that she could trace a likeness to her moth er's picture, now hanging in her room up stairs. "You are beginning to yet used to us and our homely ways,'' her aunt said. "" noticed that they tried you a little at Iirst —Florence th'iu.'.jlit that she had carefull hidden her feelings—"but yon see, Flor iMice, your mother married out. of her sta tion, Whether or not she was happier fa it, Heaven knows," Mrs. Curriujrliwaddci Ihii'.rshH'iilly. '-Of course you must have li\i-,i a dili'ijivnt kind of a iil'e always lYuli mil's, and must I'eel (he diUerem-e i.nw; hil yon are young enough: I hope, dear, ti ,.•,.( i-eco'iciled to the change." "Indeed, aunt, I am as happy as 1 can be anywhere,- 1 ' Hoi-encc put in. "Yes, dear, [ know; and ut present o. necessity mii--.( sillier very mne.li." Mrs CaiTinglon xaid, sti-etchni^ nut her ham uii'.i touching the girl's heavy crape. "Hill you must try, dear, to he resigned to tin will of Heaven. I wauled lo .-;iy this to voiij Florence—not unkindly, dear," Mr,- Oarrlugton went on, takin«; the girl's hunt in hers—you must try tu identify youi'.-e.ll more with our life, us a nccossitv for voui healtli." ... Florence was crying softly; lilled witl sorrow for her fiit.her, sho was eonscieneo- strickon too, because lier distaste had been seen through. Hut she did not withdraw her hand. "1 won't weary you with many words, dear; but for your health's sake you must make somu littfe ell'ort, Florence. You have be.cn with us three weeks, and you have never onco left the house, not even to go to church." It was the llrst motherly spnech Florence luul heard in all her life, and it went straight to her heart in spite of herself, "It pains your unelo too. He is always saying that ho wants you to bo more like the girls, and ho always asks 1'or you when you sit ulonu. .Now my little lecture is over," her aunt finished. Miss Worthington volunteered the Iirst concession that she hud ever made. "You are very good to me, aunt—too good; 1 Will try to do what you wish." "That is a good child. Sow tell me if you often hear from your aunt. Of course you must feel parting with her even for a time. 1 suppose she has always been your nearest and dearest friend?" "Oh, no, aunt .Alary—never!" Florence answered <|iiiekly. "There is but little love between u.-, I think. Shi; has not ,il- ways been with us. As 1 was, 1 suppose 1 suited her; Out I am sur« it would Ije dill'e,rent now." The word's gave Mrs. (Jarrington strange pleasure. Shu had lurratiii-r her dead sister's child hail not inalienable love and sympathy for the. worldly-minded woman she had quickly seen through. The afternoon was closing in, and Mrs. CarringUm wanted fresh Howers for the table, probably in honor of her son's return. For the Iirst time Miss Worthington proffered her services to gather some; and, as the pyramid of bright ruses grew higher under her slender lingers, her eyes seemed to brighten, and her cheeks to kindle more softly. The heavy mourning also heightened her delicate beauty, saddening and softening it. I hope 1'hilip will not fail us. I don't think he will; hut he sometimes does—and he has gone dangerously near his laboratory. Hu will scarcely like to send the girls home alone though," Mrs. Carrington, so liloqulsed. May I have a few more 'Team-colored roses, aunt Mary—only n few?" 'Yes, my dear, as many (is you like."— And Florence, scissors in hand, left the room by the French window. When she came back she could hear tho girl's voices. Her hands were filled with roses—red and white. For a moment she meditated llightup-stairs; but there was no time. "More is Florence, Phil 1 Florence, Flor. enco!" cried Maud eagerly; and Miss Worthington knew that her new cousin was close to her. She kept her eyes bent obstinately over the roses, or she would have seen a gentle, lair, pale, clearly-cut faco, with a broad low brow, sweet and soft gray eyes, and a mouth which smiled even in repose. Tall, too, the new-comer must bo, she knew; for she felt that he stooped in greeting her. "Tlii.s is Florence is it?" he asked. Pride, shyness, curiosity, were all struggling in Florence's breast. Her hands were still lilled with roses, held with obstinate tightness. Could there ever have been such presumption? Philip Carrington's hand light, y touched her waist—worse still a hundred times, his lips were put to her brow I Florence's faco was aflame. "How dare you?" she nearly exclaimed. "Do not blame me, cousin," Philip Carrington said, laughing softly. "It is Eth- 1's fault, not mine. She told me that I mist do so, or you would not think I was pleased to welcome you in our home,which ndeed I am," the marvellously sweet voice added. Florence's head raised a little higher. "You are very kind," she said coldly 'You are very rude," she meant; and then with a stately step und movement she laid ler roses upon the table. Ethel's bright faco fell u little. Maud urncd quickly towards the garden, and Mrs. Carringtou began nervously to re-ur- 'unge tho table. Miss Worthiugton had ucceeded in making three of her low born •elalives feel their position; but tho fourth ind the chief culprit seemed not one whit ibashed. He turned lightly to Mrs. Oar- 'ington. "Mother mine, I have scarcely seen you r ot. Dare I embrace you:'" ho asked do. ng it as ho spoke. "You do not tell me hat I look wonderfully better for my holi- lay." 'Indeed you do, my boy," Mrs. Carring- on said, half clinging to him. «I only visli it had been a longer one." "Miss 'Worthingtou let me lift that vase or you," Philip requested. "It is too luiivy for you, now that it is tilled with vatur." And for tho first time their eyes let, and sho let him take the vaso from or hands. "How well you have arranged hem? This is generally Maud's province; nit sho will have to resign it into your lands, I see." Florence laughed nervously; but the loud had left her face. "When did you linish your journey?— ml where have you been?" she asked raoiously." lie told her that ho hud "crossed" in the ight from Culuis to Dover, und that he ad been'for u short tour in Normandy, iriofly describing his travels; uud the ice eemed broken between them u little—at oust for tho time, until it should aguin uthor. It wus a blow to all Florence's expectations that Philip Currington should bo all that ho wus. She hud bucu so certain of finding him u low-bred obtrusive trudes- inun, that she wus somewhut mortilied to be almost obliged to confess to herself tliut ho appeared to be u gentleman in every sense, und of uo ordinary culibre. So ha seemed, she thought; but In Italf an huur 't v»'«>i '-i>"Uv impossible to bo s,ure. Hn would li» on his bust behavior too in her presence, of course, though he had certainly committed himself in ills greeting—she little knew how much warm-hearted Ethel had inlluenced him. As 11 ilower sends forth its fragrance with the morning suii and refreshing dew, so did .Miss Wurtniniilon's nature, ir, the home :ilino<phi.Tc which surrounded her for the Iirst time, soften and improve; she grew moiv yielding, li^s self-uoniident— Uft.cn in spite of herself, she found herself lingering in th'. 1 garden in the cool fivsii evi-iihi.,vs I'.lhel oslensibly her companion, lull 1'nilipalso in close 1:1 .tendance. t-lu 1 found In.'ivelf listening to the young man's M'i'i \nire and often joining in his light laugh, but always under secret pro. test—oniv lor the time, she told herself— only i'or ,i]«ii.l and Etlici's Mike, wiio she mu-I iul.ni;. wci-u very kind lo nor. On the evening 1 of Philip's return she was initiated info tin'mysteries of billiards —with Philip for h':r 'teacher. And the pastime was not, so distasteful to her as it inijjit have been—;is she had fell, so sure it would be. Not tor mom us could she rc- uiemlii-r so bri.'iil an evening. Her pride was aroused :i little when I'hllip Carrington laughed at her blunders and triad to set Iliem right. He had been spoilt, she told Ici-velf. She tried not to let her slen. dor 'infers touch his, oven by chance, whila In 1 w is patiently leaching her the game. Hut Klhol's objei-tionable friends of a few previous evening" did not appear, and the time scented endurable to Miss Worthington. The game was over, and they were all lingering over their "good night." "My boy, come and have a smoke with me down-stairs," proposed Mr. Carrington to his son. "Why not here father?" Philip asked with apparent amazement. "Oh, I never smoke here now 1" his father answered with a nervous glance at Florence. "Y'our mother has given me her work-room below; it docs better, and is cooler now. . In winter we can have it warmed. Come it is getting late," Florence knew that she had boon the cause of tho smoking-room being changed; It was another piece of self-denial on the part of her shopkeeper kinsfolk. Kisses seemed as plentiful as "blackberries" in tho Carrington menage. Miss Worthington withdrew into herself, dreading a possible repetition of her cousin's greeting; but the offence was not repeated —their hands only met very coldly. She kissed her aunt and the girls, even her uncle, and in a few moments found herself alone in her own room, thinking, not unpleasantly, over her past day. TO BK CONTINUED. FARM AME HOME. THE SINGING HIHDS. ECOENK F1BLD. Out yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's-Acro lies. Go nngelB walking to and^fro, sJng/ng their lulJa- Their rndlent wings are folded and their eyes nro bended low, As they Blng among the beds whereon the flowers deliglu to Rrow: ''Sleep, oh, flefpl The Shepherd pimrdeth his sheep? Fust speedetli the night awny, Soon cometli the glen-ions day; Sleep weary ones while ye may— Sleep, oh, sleep I" The flowers within tlod'B-Acrn eeo that fair ntid wondrous sight. And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night; And, lo I- throughout the hours of day thoso gentle. flowers prolong The miieic of the angels in that tender slumber song: "Sleep, oh, sleep I Tho Shepherd loveth Ills sheep I He that guurdeth hie Hock the best Ifath folded them to his loving breast^ So, eleep ye now and take your rest- Sleep, oh, sleep I" From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothlug song, And with its heavenly music sped the days and nights along; 80, through all time, whose (light the Shepherd's vigils glorify. God's-Acre slumbereth in tho graceol that eweet lullaby: "Sleep, oh, sleep 1 The Shepherd loveth his sheep I Fast epeedeth the night away, Soon comcth the glorious day; Sleep weary ones, while ye may- Bleep, oh, sleep I" —Ladle's Homo Journal. FARM NOTES. Fruit Culture. If you want to go into (he fruit culture do not take the trouble to go to n fruit sountry. Start righb -where you are with fruits tuited to your climate, and you wiil develop a good enough fruit country as you go along. Motber and Children. There appears to be a curious tendency )n the part of many men. to lavish upon ho Jittle ones the affection once exclusive- y the wife's. A division of demonslra- ion would be both natural and gratifying o 11 vrottfii), but too often she is ignored n this respect entirely. The boys and jirls are joyfully greeted by the lelurning lather, while the wife is carelessly nodded at over their sunny heads. A wise observer nice said, "trouble comes with the first laby if it is coming at aU." Different deas of government are often the euter- ng wedge of dissension. The little one ometinies separates the father and mother, and at its cradle the husbanrl goes way from the wife in thought and deed ust when she needs him most. While he rocks that cradle she thinks deeply, d in the readjustment of her ideas wife- lood. is merged in. the stiongor force of notherhood. She demands more of her msband mentally and morally than ever )efore, because he is baby's father, and is ometinies disappointed. In the matter of expenses paterfamilias s apt to be rntfre generous in his allow- metis for the needs of the childen than for he less tangible wants of their mother, le admits that clothes can be outgo wn, ut is scepical about their going out of ushion. We are told that a mother bo- fis unselfish. For herself, yes; but is he not tempted to overlook the claims of tiers in seeking all good things for her hilclren? • I doubt if the mother, burJeied with be care of her child's living and tiie fear f its doping, can half enjoy the beauty per e of childhood. The oulsider oan rejoice n all the loveliness, oftener with more ap- reciative eyes because they are not blind d by dread. Heredity, to a conscientious roman, is simply appalling. How can he punish a child for faults inherited roin herself? Can she be happy as she otes the growth of a disposition which bould, for the good of the race, end with er husband's life? Can she help beine fraid when she looks at the little ennj ho is a pocket edition of the father-in- aw in a drunkard's grave? It is poEsi- le, too, for her to discover bhat her child- en, though gazing at her with her moth- r's eyes and speaking to her in the tones f a voice that has made the music of her fe, are aliens in thought ami deed. But, some one says, I know all that; lere are years of patient care and toil— ears, perhaps, when the husband and ife go their seperate ways, one rearing le children, the other going on alone, bsorbad in business interests, forgetful of le woman left behind; but when the sons nd daughters are grown, matters adjust lemsolves. Not always. The fair girl raduate becomes the faded little mother's ival, and in the devotion of father and anghter the wife is still left out. It is enerally the rough boy, with that warm iving heart which makes boys so dear the •odd over, who dimly divines the situa- 011, and with bearish hugs and mammoth its cheers and sustains the lonely heart. While it lasts it is the sweetest thing, this oinance between the mother and her son; ut, alas, it is brief! Some dainty little maiden takes the lad captive, and then the jealousy, the acute suffering of that mother's heart, who can fathom ?—Helen Jay, in Harper's Bazar. THE HOUSEHOX,!*. Stock and Food, A variety of stock calls for a variety of food. Feeding corn exclusively to all classes of stock is _extravugant, even when corn is cheap, us it may not satisfy the requirements of the animals. The best results are obtained from a variety of food, as it supplies all necessities and, as a consequence, cheapens the cost. Our ]Tiirin. We like to hear a boy say "our farm," "our stock," "pur home." We like to seo a father who gives the boy a good reason to say it. The way to make a boy take an interest in the farm is to give him an interest in the proceeds, howuver small. It does not; take a large interest to give a boy it great deal of interest in the form. The Pn fcHsioiml Garden. During a portion of the summer, say through June and July, private garden's generally are at the height of their productiveness—to the detriment of the pro-' fessioual market-gnrdener, but the private garden does not often begin to yield very eaily nor continue very late. It usually runs out by the 1st of August. The professional should then be in shape to supply all demands. Seed Oats. None but oats of full standard weight sholcl be used for seed. Light oats produce a week plant which does nob mature early enough to escape summer heats and droughts. Our climate is not so well adapted to oat growing as is that of moisier Europe. Hence our new varie- ciet:ies are always of foreign origin. Some of. them are nearly as heavy as barley when first introduced. that by this means we tnay keep up a careful system of cultivation and be get* ting some returns for our labor wh'Ie doing it, without waiting for the orchard to come to full maturity. It may do well enough for two or three or four years, but by even that time most of the small fruits, except the strawberry, are just getting where they will pay best. By this time the orchard will hnve made such growth that the trees will be giving considerable shade and this is not a desirable condition for the small fruits. The goosebei ryJis almost the only thing thft will do well when heavily abided, althought the currant and raspberry will stand shade if it is not very dense. We prefer to cultivate the young orchard in hoed vegetable crops, which may be slopped any yoar, without losing the labur already performed upon them, but when this is done there must be heavy manuring to make up for the double drain in which we have subjected the soil. It will be found a good practice to sow rye as EOOU as the vegetables are gathered, and then turn it under in the spring. Milk. The caro of the milch cow in summer is apparently a simple thing—so simple 'thai; some farmers appear to think the only thing to do is turn her out on a pasture and milk her twice a cluy, but there nre one or two things more that it prill pay to observe. Unless the pasture is ample it wiil add to^ho profit to continue feeding a small ration of grain. Some dairymen even seem to find this advisable of full summer grass, and the grass is not the only thing that determines whether the pasture is good or bad, there should be provisions for a permanent supply of good pure, drinking water. When the cows are left to drink from small streams and ponds they are apt to getstagnant water in the summer, and this will not only make the milk impure, but will endanger the health of thoso who drink it, and breed disease in the cows as well. Another thing that is often neglected with cows out at pasture is the regular supply of salt. In the summer this is more needed than in the winter as so much tucclent food calls for a greater portion of salt than dry fodder. Common salt, however, is one of the constituents of milk and cows require it at all times, If the salt is given to them regularly, or is kept at all times within their reach, they will never eat too much, but if deprived of it for a time and then allow access to a supply they may take enough to injure them seriously. TH3S HOUSEHOLD. Llfe'n Iieason. AMES \vurroo»B IULEY. There, Itttle girl don't cry; They've broken your doll I know, And yoar tta-set blue And your doll houee too, Are thingsof long ago. But childish troubles will soon pass by, Theie, there, little KM don't cry. There, little girl don't cry; They've broken your slate I know, And the glad wild ways Of your school girl days Are things oflong aero. But life and love will eoori come by, There, there, little girl don't cry. There, lillle girl don't cry; lie's broken your heart I know, And tho rainbow gleams Or your school girl dream Are things of long ago. Heaven holds all for which you sigh, There, there, little girl don't cry. A pretty Potato Breakfuit Dish. Take cold, well seasoned mash ed potato press it through the potato strainer into a baking dish, strew bits of butter over the surface and set in a quick oven to heat, and hake the top to a delicate brown. Coffee Custard. Onefpint of milk and one pint of strong doffee boiled toget her, then add five eggs beaten with one and a half cupfuls ot sugar and a grain of salt. Stir until as thick as soft custard, then remove from the fire, let it partly cool, and pour into glasses. One cup bread crainbs, two cups miljc three eggs, one tablespoon butter, melted one halt teaspoon sail, one-half §alt8pop ( j pepiper, pne-half poynd ch< l Soak the crumbs in ^ other ingredients, coyer The Pasture Even the best of pastures cannot be de • pended upon to carry the stock well all through the season, and some provision should be made for possible droughts or exhaustion of the grass toward the close of the season. This may be accomplished by sowing a field of millet or Hungarian in June, rye in July or August, or, better still, a field of sweet corn at such time that it may be used for green fodder in September and October. It pays to carry the stock well on groen fodder close up to the beginning of winter, but this oanuot be done unless some forethought is given to the matter in the spring and summer. The Gooseberry. The cultivation of the gooseberry has been almost impossible on account of the mildew that attacks the leaves and thus weakens the growth of the bushes so that no fruit can be produced. The use of the copper 'solution, however has been found to destroy the fungus, and thus makes tho culture of this fine fruit possible. Few persons in America, know what the gooseberry really is. Hitherto we have been able to grow a few berries of the hardest kinds, but none that approach in quality the excellent varieties that are grown to perfection by the English gardeners. Selecting a Breeding Sow. When six or seven weeks old is a good time to select a breeding sow from a jitter. None should be selected that are not wide in the forehead and thick in the back of the neck, long in the' back and of quiet and peaceable disposition, and, of all things, don't select a squealer. In cross bred pigs those that have a little color of skin in large patches have always done well with us-, but we prefer no color of bristles in cr< si bx'fld pigp. A good Berkshire boar, bied 10 a well bred Chester county sow, will give some pigs wilhe the colored scurf under the bristles. Tbese are always good. A New and Dangerous Potato Peat, Insect Life, the periodical publication of the division of entomology of the United States department of Agriculture, contains among the editorial articles-of its April number an account of a dangerous pest which has recently found its way into this country. It is known as the potato- tuber moth (Lita sonanella Boisd.), and was firsl noticed in 1885 in Tasmania. It has been very destructive to potatoes in Australia, Tasmania, New Zealand and Algeria, but in this country did not at- troct attention until November, 1891. when it appeared in California^ Th edy advised is the immediate The man who picks out his own cross never has a light load. "Whenever God gives us a burden to carry, it is to make us stronger. The prayers that we are proud of never receive any attention in heaven. "Share with me your beliefs; I have doubts enough of my own." So said Goethe. Homo is the placo of all others where ifc is niost desirable that piotv should be ex- hibitel You are very far away from God, if you have no love for anybody but jourseif. It is unconscious Christian excellence which makes one's character beautiful and ' attractive. Nature is like a perfect housekeeper; she knows hotter what is wanting in her house than anybody can tell her. If we must yive account; for every idle word, may it not be possible that we will also have to account for our idle silence . It is as bad to cover up the blind eye in a horse trado as it is to rob a man after you have knocked him down with a sandbag. This is my commandment, That ye love, one another as I have loved you, Greater love hath no man than this.— Bible. Always Ilnppy. If the boy developes undesirable traits it is well to aak, before dealing with him tho severely, whether he did not come by them honestly. If so, he is to be pitied rather than censured. How to help ''him to overcome inherited vie s can never be learned by being aiigry with him, Help the Boy. The man who lives under a habitual sense of the divine presence keeps up a perpetual cheerfulness of temper, and enjoys every moment the satisfaction of thinking himself in company with his dearest and best friends. The time never lies heavy upon lam. It is impossible for Jhim to be alone; but his heart burns with de- votiou, swells with hope, apd triumphs in the consciousness of that presence which everywhere surrounds him.—Spectator. "I Never .Forgive," John Wesley, in the course of his voyage to America, hearing an unusual noise in the cabin of General Gglethrope, the govenor of Georgia, with whom he sailed, stepped in to inquire the casa of it. Tho general addressed him, "Mr. W., you must excuse me, I have met with a provocation too great for a man to bear. You know the only wine I drink is Cyorus wine.; I therefore provide myself with several dozens 'of it, and this villian, Grimaldi (his foreign servant, who was present, and almost dead with fear) nas drunk up the whole of it; but I will be revenged on him. I have ordered him io be tied hand and foot, and carried to the maft-of-war which sails with us. The rascal should have taken caro bow he used Hie BO, for I never forgive" ''Then I hope, bir," said fif, Wesley, Jqoking calmly at, him, "you n.eve.r f in," Tfee general was quiet subdued' by the reprpof. Putting his hand into' his out a bunch of keys, uj'' .UTII.,;_« ' \\

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