Crawfordsville Review, Crawfordsville, Montgomery County, 21 August 1897 — Page 6

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BONO OF THE THRUSH.

When greenly blooms the bending wheat, And tiger-lilies dot the vale, And faintly soents the meadow sweet, And kine do brim the flowing pail What time the pewee leaves his perch

1

And on'the stonefly tests his wings Where whitely gleams the silver birch, Then in dark woods the wood-thrash sings.

When past the hay the mendow3 brown, And stands the wheat in banded shooks. And slow the streamlet trickles down, And sunbeams bake the rlitod rocks What time the dog-days 'gin to wane, And skies ore dun, and .Tune is o'er, And snlks the high-poised weather -vane, The wood-thrush sings in woods no more. When astors fringe the woodland ways, And wild grapes hang on fenoe and tree, And hills are hid iu ripening haze. And down the guloh the streamlets flee What time the ilrst soft maple turns, And a red shade the sumach flings, And on stone walls the ivy burns, Once more in woods the wood-thrash sings. —William Higgs, in Youth's Companion.

STUMPY.

BY FIIORENCE HAI1I1OWEI HOTT. E was only the boy who attended to the chores about the hotel, and so be wns never invited to play or lawn tennis, or to substitute in the baseball nine, and he was laughed at a gcod deal because he had re hair, and wore clothes a great deal too small for him. His name was Ephraim, but everyone called him 'Stumpy," for he was short and rather stout—everyone except Carrie Mowbray, that is Carrie never nsed his nickname. She said she didn't consider it kind. "He'd like to be tall, I dare say. So would a great many other people," she said to her cousin Belle Towers, one day on the porch. "But he is hideous, actually hideous, said Belle. "Oh, no you exaggerate. If he didn't have freckles he would hardly be called even plain and the freckles will wear off in time." "I doubt it and then his hair—so »edI and he is awkward, too." "He'll outgrow his awkwardness, and he can't help having red hair. I've heard you say you'd like to have dark eyes—but you'll never have them. We're obliged to be contented with nature's decrees usuallj* and you can't deny that Ephraim looks honest. He is amiable, too, and very obliging." "To hear you talk, Carrie, one would imagine him a paragon. I suppose you found out all these virtues when you were talking to him on the beach yesterday." "I was simply asking him about the tides." "You could have asked some one else. You'll make him familiar if you talk to him, Carrie. I've seen that sort of thing happen before. 1 only hope he'll never have the assurance to speak to me." "Oh, he has enough good sense to see where he is wanted. He never thrusts himself forward in the least—

I've noticed that." "Well, don't encourage him to talk to you. People of that class are very apt to presume upon any attention, however trivial," and Belle strolled down the steps in the directiou of the beacb, feeling that Carrie had justly deserved the rebuke she had given her.

Belle did not intend to be either unkind or ungeneious but, like many other girls, she had an exaggerated idea of her own importance and the aristocracy of wealth. Ephraim found it pretty hard to be at the beck and call of everybody at the Beach House, and he had to grind his teeth sometimes to keep from "answering back" when his orders came in peremptory tones from some young fellow no older than himself. "J3ut I mean to see it through," he said to his sister, as he sat talking to her one evening in the doorway of their cottage after the labors of the day were over. "You know I have always said that a fellow was a coward •who'd give a thing uji just because it proved hard. By next snmmer I can liud something else to do, and all I'm going through now won't matter." "I'm well l.-roud of yon, Ephraim," said his sister, as sbe looked at him with tender eyes. "You're so brave."

Ephraim laughed. "Don't be proud until you've got something to bo proud about," he eaid.

Ephraim made it a point to take a plunge in the sea every morning on his way to the hotel. He was a fine swimmer, and thoroughly enjoyed his ten minutes in the water. It seemed to tone him up for all day. He had always had the sea to himself at that hour, for he was an early riser from necessity as well as inclination, but on the morning after his talk with Barbara, he had just entered the water, and was only a few yards from Bhore, when he heard a shout, and, turning around, saw half a dozen oi the boys lrom the hotel on the beach. "Here, you fellow," called out Percival Peyton, a young man who boast ed of his blue blood. "Come out of that."

His tone, more than the command, irritated Ephraim. He turned about ugain and struck out for deep wat^r without making any reply. "You iusoleut young hound, don't you hear me?" called Peyton, the angry blood mounting to hi6 face. "Come out oi that. The fellows Avaufc to go in."

"Well, you can come in," answered Ephraim. "I'm not in your way. There'6 plenty of room." "Yes: what's the use of making a row?" drawled Frank Chfepin. "I'm not making a row," said Peyton, "bat I never have gone into the •water with the hotel servants, and I don't propose to do it now. This follow might as well learn his place now as at any time." "Oh, let him alone Stumpy is a good sort," said Charles Colwell. "He can outswim yon any day, Peyton." "Not much," said Peyton, who considered himself the best swimmer on the beach. "Take a pull together and decide it," said Colwell. "Thank you for the snggestion.but I don't enter any swimming match with a fellow not my Eooial equal," answered Peyton, snobbishly.

Ephraim by this time was an eighth of a mile from the beach. He remained in the water his usual length of time then came out to find Peyton waiting for hiip, a very dark frown on his handsome face. The other boys had all gone into the water. "J'll see that you are properly dealt with for this impertinence," he said, as Ephraim started toward one of the bath houses. "You will hear from this, and very shortly, too."

Ephraim made no rejoiner, but he couldn't help feeling a little uneasy, and almost wished he had obeyed Peyton's order, insulting as it was. Tho Peytons occupied the best rooms at the hotel, and had the cream of everything. "If it weren't for Aunt Martha and Barbara. I wouldn't care," the boy fleeted. "But if I lose my place it'll come hard on them."

By the time he was dressed Ephraim had decided on the hardest task he had ever set himself. He would apologize to Percival Peyton.

He gave himself no time to hesitate, but went straight to the point. "Mr. Peyton,"he said, "perhaps I was wrong not to come out of the water when you told me to. I hope you'll overlook it and not report me to Mr. Springer. I can't afford to lose my place." "You should have thought of that before," rejoined Peyton, haughtily. "One of the first duties of a servant is to learn his place," and he turned on his heel and walked away.

Ephraim went to his duties at the hotel feeling as if he hated the coldblooded young aristocrat, and it didn't improve his temper to hear Peyton relating the incident to Belle Towers when they were on the porch together after breakfast, and Ephraim was holding a horse as the block. Belle's rejoiner reached his ears with cruel distinctness. "The impudence of it," she said. "It all came of Carrie's talking to him. I told her he'd be getting familiar. The next thing we'll know he'll consider himself privileged to go into the water when we girls are in. I hope Mr. Springer will discharge him.":^.fC§

Ephraim's heart swelled with indignation and pain. How these wealthy people despised him! His father had been the captain of the Life Saving Station, and they had lived in comfort as long as he had been spared to them but he had lost hio life one bitter night in the performance of his arduous duties, and dark days had come to the little family. Epliraim, who had been attending school regularly, had been obliged to put his young shoulder to the wheel at once, and had taken any sort of work he could find. As he heard the conclusion of Belle's speech he wondered what he was going to do in case Mr. Springer acted on Percival Peyton's request. There was Ben Todd who would be only too glad to jump into his place if the chance ottered. And the chance did offer. Just before noon Mr. Springer sent for Ephraim, and as soon as the boy saw his face he got ready for the blow that ho knew was about to fall. "Complaint of impudence and disobedience has been lodged against you, Warner," said Mr. Springer, as he turned over the leaves of a ledger on his desk. "I cau't have any one here who is obnoxious to my guests. So I won't need you after to-dav. I have ongag--',l Tocld to take your place."

Ephraim was too much stunned to utter a word in response. He simply nodded atd left the office.

Going outside he walked slowly toward the rear of the building, trying to think how he could break the news to his aunt and Barbara.

Suddenly he heard a cry, and, looking toward the beach, saw the' people running excitedly to and fro. He understood at once that some person must be in danger of drowning, and without hesitating a moment he dashed down the board walk, throwing off his coat and shoos as ha went. As he reached the beach he saw Mr. Towers, a man of middle age, spring into the water and far out beyond tho breakers saw the objects of his solicitude—two girls, who had ventured two far out and were unable to return against the strong current. Another instant and Ephraim had dashed into the sea, almost throwing over Percival Peyton in his impetuous eagerness to lose no time, and, being a strong swimmer, he soon overtook and distanced Mr. Towers, and in a few minutes more succeeded in reaching the girl nearest him. It was Belle Towers, and she clung to him desperately. What cared she now that he was freckled, that his hair was red, and his gait awkward? He was the one plank between her and a watery grave, and she held to him with wild despair. With great difficulty Ephraim persuaded her to loosen her grasp, and gave her into the care of her father, who had now reached them. "Take her in—I'll get tho other," bo said, and struck out to where

Carrie Mowbray was struggling in the water 200 yards from shore. She was just about giving up, her strength having almost failed. "Courage," he cried, "keep up till I get there I'll save you."

His words gave her afresh strength. By a great eSort she kept herself from sinking, and the next moment Ephriam had reached her and extended one arm so that she could grasp it. "Cling to my shoulder," he said.

Carrie obeyed him, and the gallant fellow turned about for shore. He made fair headway for a time, and then, finding the great exertion he was putting forth was overtaxing his strength, and that the girl's weight was burying him deeper and deeper, so that every wave broke ovei their heads, he spoke again: "You've got to help me or we'll both drown," he said. "If you think we can't reach the shore I'll take my hands off, "answered the noble girl. "There is no need that we should both go dowji. Save yourself, and never mind me."

But plain, poor and awkward as he was, Ephraim Warner was not one to desert a woman in deadly peril. He had gone out to save her and he proposed to do it or die in the attempt. "I •won't leave you," he said and then, with ready resource, told her to grasp one of his shoulders with one hand, and use the other as in swimming. "If you can do this we'll get to the shore all right," he added. "We mustn't drown if we can help it. Do your best now."

Thus encouraged, Carrie was able to follow his directions implicitly, and under the changed conditions the intrepid swimmer put forth all his remaining strength, and within a few minutes they were within reach of the assistance of those from the shore.

As they all rose from the water and Mrs. Mowbray staggered forward to fold her daughter in her arms, a great shout went up from the excited crowd. "Three cheers for Ephraim Warner, cried a voice. Instantly it was taken up, and cheer after cheer rang, out, while Ephraim, too weak to utter a word, gazed around him for a moment in bewildered astonishment, and than, for the first time in his life, qaietly fainted away.

That evening, as Ephraim lay on the old couch in his aunt's little sittingroom, feeling still the effects of his desperate battle with the waves, a shadow darkened the doorway, and, looking up, he saw Percival Peyton standing there. "I've come down to apologize to you, Warner, for what happened between us this morning," began Peyton. "I thought I ought to do it, you see. I'm not given much to apologies, but, I hope I'm not a cad. You're a brave fellow, and I'm proud to know you. Shake hands, and let's call it square."

Ephraim's hand went out at once, and ten minutes later he found himself promising to take a place in the iron works of Peyton & Co., if room could be made for him. "And I imagine I can fix that all right," young Peyton said, and went away feeling that he had shown himself a gentleman.

This was not all that came to Ephraim through his courageous act. The United States Government, in recognition of his bravery, sent him a gold medal, the highest award that can be made, and when he pat it on for Barbara to admire, she almost cried. "You certainly can't say I haven't a right to De proud of you now, Ephraim, she said. "Oh, almost any one would have have done what I did if he'd known how to swim as well," rejoined honest Ephraim modestly.

But his eyes shone, nevertheless, as he looked at that gold medal which bore testimony to his bravery.—New York Examiner.

The Most Beautiful Bird. The quezal, of Gautemala, is considered the most beautiful bird in the world. Its plumage vies with tho rainbow and shines with a metallio luster. Until within the last few years it was unknown to science, mainly owing to the fact that it is a hermit among the feathered creatures, delighting in the silence of deserts. It dwells on mountain heights above seven thousand feet in elevation.

The quezal was the royal bird of the Aztecs, and its plumes were used to decorate the head-dresses and cloaks of the kings of that race. Its breast is a brilliant scarlet, while iti green tail attains a length of three feet. It is about the size of the common pigeon. Itfnests in holes in rotten trees, which it enlarges with its bill so as to make a roomy and comfortable residence. The young are hatched totally naked.

It is the hardest of all birds to prepare for mounting, for its skin is n$ tender as HO much tissue-paper, an.l the feathers are implanted to such a slight depth that they readily fall out. A specimen is very apt to be spoiled by falling against a branch of a tree on being shot. Up to 1860 naturalists did not know where the quezal was to be found. The few speoiindns which had fallen into their hands had been obtained from Indians, who kept th, secret. About that time, however, a collector visiting that country got on the track of the birds and went up into the mountains, where he shot A number of them. In ancient times the Bkins of all birds of this species belonged to the king, and none but members of the royal family were allowed to wear the feather s.

The quezal belongs to the family of trogons, the genus including fortysix species, thiity-three of wnich are American. All are very beautiful anil extremely rare.—New York Dispatch.

A WIN I BR FANCY.

Against the pane the snow drifts fast The cold night wind goes sobbing past, Alone I sit, and close my eyes, And think and long for summer'skiesI have a vision—strangely sweet— Afield of waving summer wheat Hills clothed in green from top to baseo A silver lake, across whose face The breeze make smiles, while to and fro The white swans slow and stately go. An orchard all flush with bloom A •'arlc wood, and within its gloom A thrush that sings once and again His madly sweet and ecstatlo strain 'Pis answered by notes clear and strong, And all the air is filled with song. How the birds sing! And well they maj^ Who would not stag on such a day? j, 0 world so fair, O life so dear, Just now God's heaven itself'saems near I

The dream is past I wake alone 1 hear the cold wind's angry moan, And sob aloud, "Be swift to bring, Most gracious Lord, our life's sweet spring.' —Virginia Franklyn.

THE HOUSE ON THE HILL.

BY MAY M'HENBY.

HE two women shut the door carefully and looked it as they went out.

They did not say anythinguntil they had climbed the rickety fence and were out in the road. Thoughts of what they had left,

shut up alone there in the bare, silent cabin, silenced even their loquacious tongues. When they were halfway down the hill Mrs. Sutton drew a long breath and pushed back her sunbonnet. "There, thank goodness, that's over! It was a task, but some one had so do it and l'n glad I'm not one of them that's afraid to take aholt. Not that I minded layin' out the poor thing, even if she was a foreigner. I like to do what's my duty to do but when it comes to takin' pauper children to raise, why I don't believe it's required of me. What Ide Bowman wanted of them I can't see, poor as they 'are. But I wasn't going to tell her no't to take them, for then they would come on the rest of us somehow and the poor tax is high enough already, goodness knows." "It's awful foolish of her," said Mrs. Burt, severely. "Ide always was a soft thing, and it's just like her, taking a couple of little scareorows like that that haven't any claim at all on her, just because she pities them. And, land sakes, just think how poor they are, and Steve a cripple!" "Oh, it takes your real poor folks to afford the luxury of being charitable, and they're the sort that are likely to end up on the township, too," said Mrs. Sutton, tossing her head. "That sort think them that work and manage and have a little money ought to give it all away. Ide had the audacity to say that since Sutton and me had no family and had the farm and tho store both to fall back on, it would be nice for us to take the little dagos to raise. But I soon give her to understand that I hadn't been workin' all these years to throw away what I've got on noaccount paupers." "Steve is going to have a steady job this winter on Mr. Plunkin's mill. I suppose she is counting on that. She told me about it when she came to tell about the Italian woman being dead," observed Mr3. Burt.

While the two matrons from down in the valley walked leisurely toward their comfortable homes, the subject of their discourse was hurrying through the woods in an opposite direction. She carried a burden much too heavy for her slender frame, and a little boy, scarcely able to toddle, clung to her skirts and weighed her down. She hurried, panting, along the rough path and kept looking back over her shoulder in a frightened way, as though she was carrying off, concealed under her shawl there, a treasure from the dead woman's cabin. Her head was bare she had taken her faded hood to tie about the little boy's fchivering shoulders, and you could see that her face had the waxy pallor of extreme ill-health. The skin was drawn so tightly over her high, narrow forehead it was a wonder the bones did not push through. Her prominent light eyes had a weary, helpless stare, and the heavy masses of her lustreless brown hair made her head seem too big and heavy for the pitiful little pipestcm of a neck that supported it.

The small one-story house at the end of the path up the hill was homely and unpretentious enough, but after the wretchedness and squalor of the place where the poor stranger had lived with her children, it looked comfortable and inviting.* "We have lots to be thankful for. There are so many that are poorer," said Ide Bowman to herself, as she pushed open tho door of her home. There were but two rooms in -the house, both as bare and empty as they well could be to contain all the furniture of a household. Ide passed through the kitchen into the bedroom, where she placed her burden, a sleeping girl baby, upon the bed. and set the boy on the faded coverlet beside her. Without stopping to takeoffher shawl, she drew a box from under the bed and began to take out the little garments with which it was paoked. With what bitterness and rebellion she had thrust those patched and darned baby dresses out of sight in the hour of her great desolation. She Could not bear the sight of them then. Now she lifted them out with lingering care and passed her hands caressingly over the folds and creases that spoke so eloquently of the plump baby limbs that hud worn them.

ir^vv

"They will fit exactly," said Ide, looking.up at the waifs on the bed. She washed and dressed the motherless little strangers and fed them the scraps she could find in the bare cupboard. Then she sang them to sleep in the long disused trundle-bed. They were not particularly pretty children, they had never been well enough fed and cared for for that but Ide hung over the trundle-bed and feasted her hungry eyes. An empty place in her heart seemed to be filled at last.

The poor little peaked-faced things! She would take suoh good care of them she could keep them BO muoh cleaner and warmer than even their own mother had kept them. She was almost glad the poor woman hid died. "I will keep them for my own—my very own!" she whispered exultingly.

Night came on, but Ide was absorbed in her day dreams, and failed to notice the gathering darkness and the howling wind. Ringing footsteps along the path roused her at last. She hurried out into the kitchen, shutting the bedroom door carefully.

Steve was coming! Steve—what would he say? The man let in a great gust of wind and rain as he entered. The long drought was ended at last. "What a night—what a night!" said Steve, in his loud, cheery tones and Ide's hands shook as she lighted the lamp, for fear he would waken the children.

He was a big fellow, tall and broad and well knit, with a suggestion of strength in every line of his sinewy body. His good-natured faoe was half covered by a bushy black beard, and his crisp, black hair curled from the very stiength of it.

But this strong man had been partially shorn of his strength. The right sleeve of his blue cotton blouse was pinned across his chest, limp and empty. An accident on a sawmill three years before had robbed Steve Bowman of his strong right arm, and since then things had not been going so well in the little weather-beaten house on the hill. "I'm wet to the skin," he said. "The fire is out! Why, Ide, woman, what are you doing without a fire suoh a night? There is plenty of wood. No wonder you're sick if you sit in the oold."

Ide commenced to put wood in the stove with nervous haste. "In a minute, Steve I'll have fire in just a minute," she said. 'And supper isn't ready. How does it come you haven't supper ready?" "I forgot it," stammered Ide.

Steve did not say anything, but he pushed away and proceeded to kindle the fire himself. He was hungry and cold he had worked all day with nothing to eat but a couple of apples and piece of hard bread for dinner.

Ide spread the cloth and put a plate and a knife and fork on the table then she stood still and wrung her hands in silent dismay. She had nothing to give him she had fed everything to the children. He worked so hard he was so good to her, and she took the bread from his mouth to throw it to strangers. "Just some of the bread and potatoes left from breakfast, Ide. Whatever you can get quickest," said Steve, drawing up his chair to the table.

Two red spots burned on Ide's thin cheeks. The little boy had eaten the last of the bread—the very last morsel,' and she had smiled to see him devour it so greedily. "There's some boiled potatoes, that is all," sbe said. "I'll warm them up for you. You like potatoes so, Steve." "Is that all there is to eat in the house?" "Potatoes—that's all," said Ide, faintly. "Well, let me have them. That way—it doesn't matter if they are cold. I could eat them raw. That's the advantage of going hungry a while. It cures one of squeamishness. I never thought we would get down this low did you, Ide?" Steve said, with a pitiful attempt at a smile, as he finished the potatoes.

He sat down with his back to the stove, and leaned his head on his one hand. Ide looked at his broad, steaming shoulders in dull wretchedness she could not find courage to tell him what she had done. Perh^prj he would be angry. No one could blame him even if he were to beat her. Other men sometimes beat their wives for much less. He had so much to bear, and she had added another burden. Two more hungry mouths to fill, when they could not get enough for themselves. "Are you hungry too, Ide?" Steve asked, turning suddenly to look at her.

Ide shook her head she could not speak. The man laid his head on the back of the chair and groaned aloud. "I tell you it's hard. It's too nard when things go against a man this way," he said, between shut teeth. "But I. won't knock under so easy. There's fight in me yet, if I am lopsided." "You got the job on the mill, didn't you?" Ide asked, huskily. It meant so much, that job on the mill. "No they gave the place to Jake Mortz. Plunkins said he did not think a cripple would do. It was his carelessness made me a cripple. What's that orymg, Ide?" "I hadn't told you yet. It's the Italian woman's children," Ide

quickly and nervously. "The poor foreigner whose husband worked on the railroad and got killed, you know. To-day, nor yesterday nor the day before I didn't see any smoke coming from her shanty, and something moved me to go down and see what was the matter. Steve, she was dead. There she laid, stiff and cold, and the two little children huddled up in the same bed, half starved and half froze, a waitin' for her to wake up. Suoh a wretched sight it made me siok to see —and the woman dead with only a few rags over her and her glassy eyes

ing. I run for Mrs. Burt, and her and Mrs. Sutton come and helped me

lay her out. I hud —51 best shimmy, my wedding ?l always saved to put on her Vv,1 going to send word to the

Doo7*

had to bring the little on^ w1 me-]ust for to-night. Th«? *lt] will take them to-morrow says there's where tteybelonor'tii afraid in there in ihe dafk what makes them cry mother, could I, Steve? So TTV, just for cue night-"

tho'

them'"

Baid

St«ve

The children stopped crying Steve and Ide entered the bed»nwnef and leaned over the tmnfl They blinked at the he tittle

e„l

reached Ml J**

toward it and laughed. "Chirp-looking little kids A xJ and a girl, about the age of our 1 "JV »W Ste„,V«Ca on his knees so he could see themT

"The boy's just the same size on Tommy was when he died, and thl baby, she younger than little H, but not much," Ide answered.

Sh(

stood behind Steve and her face *u drawn and gray. She had been happy in her dream of keeping thl little waifs. The awakening was bitl ter it was like a second bereavement! But they were so poor, and onll Steve one arm to keep starvatioj from the door, and now.he had failed to get work on the mill. "It's going to make it pretty lad for you, Ide. They'll make eoml work but maybe they'll be some com] pany for you," said Steve. "wJ can't do as well by them as nonij could, but they haven't been broughi up in the lap of luxury, I reckon! They won't need much for a while, B! I guess we'll manage to get along.' 1 got a job to-day husking corn over a9 Squire York's. I can do that pretj well by usin' my teeth, even if I havi only one hand. There's always some] thing, if a man's willing to take whd he can get. Yes, we'll manage ill somehow." "What do you mean, Steve?" crie Ide, shaking all over. "We can't keep them we're too poor. They'll have to go on the township—we're poor." "We're poor, but they are poorer," said Steve. "There aren't many iolkil in the world poor enough forustol help much, I guess but here's oarl chance. Poor folks must help escbl other. If these were rich people's! kids the rich would be ready to take! care of them. And the township! makes a cold mother. I was left oal the township myself, and I'd ratheil have a child of mine dead—and theyl are dead, aren't they There, don'tl cry, Ide. I didn't mean to make youl cry, my poor girl. I thought when II saw you had dressed them up in ourl little one's clothes, of course yon I would want to keep them in place oil your own. You do want them, too,! don't you! There, there, don't cry I so! If you wanted them so bad, Ide, why didn't you say so?"

But Ide could only try to put her arms around him and the little girl on I his breast and the boy on his knee alll at once, and cry: "Oh, Steve—oh, Steve!"

The storm raged outside the wind and the rain joined hands, and th* I roar of the tempest filled the darkness, The forest creaked and groaned, and great trees were twisted out like flower stalks. The house rocked and I trembled, and the driving rain beat in 1 and lay on the floor in creeks and puddles. But the fury of the storm passed unheeded. Peace nnd happiness reigned undisturbed under the leaky roof of the house on the bilLIndependent.

Yawning as a Remedy.

Yawning, though contrary

to

the

canons of good society, is undoubtedly very beneficial to the individual. Muscles are brought into play during a good yawn which otherwise would never obtain any exercise at all, its value as a sort of natural massago is considerable. The muscles which move the lower jaw and the breathing muscles of the chest are the first ones used during the process of gaping, then the tongue is rounded and

arched,

thb palate tightly stretched, and the uvula raised. The eyes generally closs tightly towards the termination of the yawn, the ears are raised slightly and the nostrils dilated. The crack sometimes heard in the ear proves that the aural membranes are also

stretched

and exercised, something

impossibe

by any process but a yawn. It hM recently been

reoommended

by SOIBB

doctors that sufferers from nasw catarrh should make a practice vawning six or seven times a day an good results will follow. It i® ®.s" considered valuable in

inflammation

of the palate, sore throat and earac e. New York Herald.

In Cases of Croup.

A standard medical authority that the first thing to do for the is to put his feet into as hot mus water as he can bear, and be

flure

the room is very warm. If P°B put him into a hot bath, an quiokly drying him, put him between blankets. Even befor ting him in bed give him sirup cac in teaspoonful doses un vomits. For external app take two tableapoonfuls of turpe and four tablespoonfuls of g°°® or aweet oil, or lard oil,

Baid,

we

*jj9

rub thoroughly on the outside throat. Saturate a

flannel

an

over tho chest and throat. Ho or bottles filled with hot water, be plaoed at the child's fee the sides of his body to

in^u.. coT.

spiration. Keep them care 7 ored. After the vomiting thei

us

Blar­

squills. The Best

q(

drink

for

0[

is alippery-elm water. Gi«

th.

nourishment to keep up the

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