Decatur Democrat, Volume 38, Number 2, Decatur, Adams County, 30 March 1894 — Page 3

■She democrat 1 DECATUR, IND. - Prauamnu Bl> Professional sluggers and prize BBtghters had better keep away from Hlowa In the future. The anti-prize ■ fight bill passed by the Legislature a maximum penalty of a SB year’s imprisonment or a tine of SI,OOO ■ for the principals, and a fine of 1500 ■ for the accessories. H ft: Vienna is having its girl Anarch■ists of the Emilia Goldman type, ■ just as New York had. Fraulein BK&lass, a pretty girl still in her teens, ®With dark and windblown hair, has ■ just led a successful strike there, and 9 Amelia Riba, whose pretty head holds 9 *ll the wisdom of 17 years, is talking 9‘anarchy two ours a day to immense 9*udiences. 9’ The World’s Fair attracted to it 9 the best people of the world, but unBa fortunately it also attracted the very 9 Worst elements that live. Multitudes ■of these remained, and this fact acBB counts for the crowded condition of 9| the Chicago Jail to-day with its 600 9 prisoners awaiting trials for their ■ crimes. Fifty-two of the number K' are charged with murder. The B courts of justice will for some time B be taxed by such echoes from the ■ great fair. B Judge Edgar Aldrich of LittleB ton, N. H., made a strong argument B In favor of the present jury system at B th® recent annual reunion of the B Grafton and Coos Counties Bar AsIL Bociation, urging that it is the fairest l|' trial for the accused and the safest ■E’ for the public. He did not favor the ■l?abolition of the unanimity requireI ment, saying that he had tried nea.ly I ' JOO cases, civil and criminal, since he Bwftthe bar, and could recall but ■" three disagreements. B The Suez Canal last year paid a I dividend of 18 per cent, on its cost B This vindicates the judgment of De | Lesseps, who always claimed that the Ift enterprise would pay. Its cost was II ninety million dollars. The ManI I Chester Ship Canal cost seventy-five I | million dollars, and the revenue from I tit ’will pay dividends of 3to 5 per cent This for European investI i ments is considered a good return. | There is a growing interest in various B American ship canals. One of these K* is through Cape Cod, to shorten the BrF line for the growing coast trade along I the New England seatoard. RailI road construction is declining. PerI haps now the time for more ship I canals has coma

A bill has been introduced into * the Massachusetts Legislature provid ng for free employment offices for such cities as shall accept the plan. This has been done in Ohio, where a free employment bureau is attached to the department of labor. There are five cities which have bureaus of employment where books are kept for registering the names and addresses of those seeking employment, and also of those desiring help. The first office went into effect June 26, 1890. Since that time 81,507 persons registered seeking.employment and 63,564 calls for help were made by employers. The number who secured work was 38,538. k * The five offices in Ohio have cost the r Stateless than 910,000. > The Los Angeles Express recently contained an exhaustive statement of the fruit product of California our- ' ing the last year. Riverside now is claimed to be the most famous orange-producing locality in the world. Last year the shipments amounted to over 2,700 car loads, and this year it is estimated there will be over 3,000 car loads. There are now 8,500 acres of bearing orange and lemon orchards in Riverside, with an L assessed valuation of 86,000,000 and an actual valuation of $18,000,000. The raisin crop of last year is estimated at 225 car loads. The last year also has been a notable one for Riverside in another direction, as the s new County of Riverside has been K formed, with the county seat at that city, by a division of San Bernardino County. The new county is forty miles in extent' from north to south and 180 miles east and west—an area as large as that of Massachusetts. Everything grows big in California. Staid old Connecticut, which has > so long been content to furnish the L7" nation with nothing more startling than wooden nutmegs and cheap alarm-clocks, has turned out a “strong man." Not one of the paltry, everyday strong men, who support pianos ' with their sub-maxillary ligaments, but one wbu can smite a wild, dashI ing horse with his good right arm and send it to grass without visible I effort Middletown claims the man of might and brawn. At that hisft toric spot a runaway horse attached ft to a sleigh dashed down a bill to a k xerry- boat loaded with people As fl

the animal ruahed upon the boat, scattering the passengers in all directions, the hero stepped forward with easy grace, swung his right, and landed on the forehead of the surprised horse. ’'The blow was dealt with such force that the animal fell to the deck as if struck with a sledgehammer,” says the report There is a great future before the man with the sledge-hammer arm and flat Efforts should be made to Induce him to enter the prize-ring and the governors would have no need of the militia to suppress prize-fights, as there would be no more “mills.” Connecticut has a treasure which it should make the most of. An invention has been made In France by M. Hermite which promises to revolutionize the methods of disinfecting sewage water and flushing streets and sewers. The new disinfectant is simply electrolyzed sea water—sea water decomposed by the direct action of electricity. The worst and most malodorous portion of Paris was the St. Francis quarter. The quarter was “the hotbed of infectious disease.” Its streets and seweis were flushed with the electrolyzed sea water. In some case* tanks were built upon the roofs of the worst tenement houses, and the new disinfectant was poured down through all the pipes and closets of the filthy dens. The effect was like magic Every poisonous microbe was slain, and the locality became as sweet smelling as any in Paris. Undoubtedly this marvelous new fluid will soon be in common use in every seaboard city in Europe and in this country. Great mains pass from the harbor or sea adjacent to the central portions of a town where the electrolyzing plant is. It has been found that by passing the fluid through sewer pipe discharges they are thoroughly disinfected and made innocuous. By its means it is thought to be quite possible for sewerage pines to discharge into rivers near a city without polluting the water. The chlorine still remaining in the sea water performs the office of disinfecting. ■ I

Here are a few plain Considerations for the minds of plain people; In case of an individual who fails in business, he fails when he becomes so deeply involved in debt that he can no longer stave off payment. He was not obliged to go in debt in the first place. But he wanted to enlarge his business. He put a mortgage on his farm because if be had larger barns he could store more grain and feed more stock and thus get more money. Perhaps the family needed a larger, handsomer house to live in or clothing that there was not money to pay for. At any rate, all of the people who fail—manufacturer, farmer, merchant, or business man— go in debt trusting to future gains to be able not only to wipe off the indebtedness, but even to make them richer. The farmer owes the merchant, the merchant owes the manufacturer, the manufacturer owes the capitalist who lent him money to enlarge his plant In times which seem prosperous there is almost a fatal temptation to glide down hill into debt It seems so easy to pay up By and by somebody wants his money. All have run into debt together, and somehow nobody quite understands how all must pay about the same time. They cannot do it Then there is a panic. All the world must wait till it can pay its debt* When that is done, off it goes, headlong, pellmell, and repeats the process over again. Now, if nobody went into debt but used only the actual capital that he has in hand, no matter what the temptation, how often would there be panics? It Was the Wrong Family. The weary wanderer’s eyes gleamed with confidence as he stepped up to the back door and knocked.» “I see there’s horseshoes over this doorand the barn door, mum,” he said to the hard-featured woman who came to the door. “Well, jshe said, ;with a strong stare. ‘Tve noticed that where there’s horseshoes nailed up you always find warm hearts and a generous welcome,” said the traveler, with a winning smile. “You don’t say?" “Yes. mum, you people may be a little superstitious, but you are very kind to the poor. ” “Well,” we didn’t putthem hossshoes up," said the woman, drily. “The folks that did lives about ten miles from here now. It’s a straight road—you can’t miss it/’ and bang went the door. The weary wanderer felt an electric chill down his spine as he started up the road.“Say, you!” he heard her call. He t turned to go back—she must have relented. “You might rip them shoes down an' Lake ’em along with yer, if you think them loik’ll want ’em,” and bang went the door again.—Boston Journal F.ome men are extravagant at their own expense, and others are extravagant. at the expense of their employ- > er* ••

•AT ff AB IM HERSELF. The Story of a Woman’s Atonement, by Charlotte M. Braeme. CHAPTER XLIV. Captain Flemyng had very pretty rooms in Castle street, Weildon. He was not often here, but he retained them for himself. He was very popular with his landlady—rather a severe maiden lady, who was accustomed to ■peak of him as “quite the gentleman." On this June morning, when so great a change was to take place in his circumstances, he had risen late. Miss Danvers had sent twice to say that breakfast was ready, and yet he did not appear. A third time the little page Knocked at his door—this time the message was of a more startling description. “A lady is waiting to see you, Capt Flemyng, and she says her business is important” “A lady," repeated Paul; “who can it be?" He never even dreamed of Leonie; his only impression was it might be some one soliciting charity—some one about a fancy fair, or a bazar, or something of that kind. How little he thought that waiting for him were the title of Earl, and the inheritance of Crown Leighton! “A lady," the little page had said; so Capt. Flemyng hurriedly completed his toilet and then went down to the drawing-room, where the visitor awaited him. He saw a lady closely veiled and wearing a large traveling-cloak. He bowed, inwardly wondering who she was and what she wanted. Then the veiled figure came up. to him and a faint voice murmured his name. He started back in surprise. “Leonie!” he cried. “Great heavens! what has happened, what has brought you here?" He saw then that she held in her hands a paper packet. She placed it in his. “Take this, Paul,” she said, simply; “it is yours.” He took it, wonderingly, and then she threw back her veil and gave a great gasping sigh as of one who is relieved of a deadly burden. Ho looked at the beautiful, colorless face, with its strange expression of peace skffAT* a Rtorm “What does it mean, Leonie?" he asked. “You astonish me-ystay, you shall not speak one word until you have taken something. You look so 111, my darling.” Still holding the packet in his hand, never looking to see what it was, he led her to the little couch and made her sit down, and then he poured out a glass of wine. She would nave refused it, but he told her he would not listen to her until she had drunk it The generous wine brought back a tinge of color to the sweet face. It was all sweet now; that torrents of tears seemed to have washed away the former pride, hardness, and coldness forever. He was struck by the softened beauty, and bent down to touch the w hite brow with his lips, but she shrank from him as she had never done before.

“Do not do that, Paul, until you have heard what lam here to say. Look at what is written on the document I have given to you.” He looked and saw—- .“ The last will and testament of Ulric, Earl of Charnleigh.” “Leonie," he cried, “what does this mean?” had risen from the little couch and was kneeling at his feet. He cried out again when he saw that; he tried to raise her, but she bent her head in lowliest humility. “Listen, Paul—listen to me. I am. worthy only to kneel here, not to stand by your side, dear; for I have willfully robbed you, knowing that all I had was yours.” “Robbed me!” he exclaimed. “What can you mean, Leonie?” “Read that will, and you will understand.” He opened the document, and as heread a murmur of wonder that sounded almost like regret came from his lips. “Mine,” he said—“it is not possible! Mine, Leonie, and not yours!” “Yes; I have robbed you, Paul. I found this will long months ago, and hid it. I came down to Crown Leighton this morning purposely to destroy it, never intending to give to you what is your own; but I could not do it; Heaven was merciful tome —I could not do it.” He seemed quite bewildered. “I do not understand, Leonie. What is it you say? Explain to me clearly—you have startled me." Kneeling there, she told him the whole history of her sin—from the first moment when she found the will on the eventful night of the charades to this, when, humbled and repentant, she came to confess the truth to him. She did not spare herself; she told him how, one by one, she had discarded her own self-respect, her love, her honor, her hopes of Heaven. She did not spare herself; she did not hide from him one single incident of her wrongbit* was e terrible temptation, Paul, she said, “and I yielded to it. I have not one excuse to offer. I repent of my sin now, but that will make it none the less heinous.” . . Paul sat like a man suddenly bereft of his senses, unable to speak, unable even to think clearly. “I Am dazed, Leonie, he said, at last, "I understand your words even ye “l have robbed you,” she said—“l have deceived you in every way. I have kept this will back from you, trying to compromise with my conscience, trying to make myself believe that if I married you it would be the would not matter which had the inheritance, you or I.” __ He tried to speak, but she went on hU “i ri did y not love you. Paul. I.loved Bertram Gordon; and the K®»twt wrong I could have done would have been to marry you, for I love Bertram with all my heart’s love. “Was it only to be Countess of Charnleigh that you promised to marry me. he asked, sadly. . • “That was all. I love you just as though you were my elder brother. 1 have never had a lover’s love for you, Paul; perhaps that was the worst part ° f H^ y let‘the will fall, and with a low moan buried bis face in his hands. She tried to draw them feway. “Do forgive, me, dearest. friend-Paul, my brother, do pardon me! lam so sorry—eo sorry tor my sin!”

He looked at her. “Leonie, I do not value Crown Leigh • ton or the title that goes with it; but I do value you and your love above all earthly things. You have made me an. earl, yet I am poorer than the poorest pauper. You are worth a thousand earldoms to ma." , „ “I am a truer woman, dear, kneeling here and giving you up, than I should be if I married you. I cannot ™ ar fy you, Paul Heaven helping me, I will not speak falsely or act falsely again while I live.” “You are a noble woman," he repeated: “the world holds none nobler. She smiled sadly. “I am going now,” she said. Let me be the first to call you Lord Charnleigh. Ah, you will forgive me, Paul, because I have suffered so much. You will forgive me before I go?” “My darling.” he said, with a deep sob, fc l cannot part with you. I love you so dearly. Leonie. Do promise to be my wife-forget all this, and renew your promise to be my wife.” “I cannot," she returned. “Please Heaven ho other false words shall pass my lips to you while I live. I cannot marry you because Ido not love you; and Ido with all mv heart love some one else. Say you forgive me, Paul. “I forgive you, Leonie,” he said; and then before he could interfere to prevent it, she had quitted the room.

CHAPTER XLV. When Leonie Rayner left Paul she gave no thought as to whither she was going. She never thought of Florette waiting for her at Crown Leighton; she had made the great sacrifice for which she had strained every nerve, and the reaction was fast setting in. She told the coachman to drive her to the railway-station; she had some vague idea of going to London and losing herself in the crowds of that vast city. One thing she knew was impossible, and that was for her to meet just at present those belonging to the old brilliant life now passing from her forever. She woula go to London and find some employment there; but first she must have rest —rest. She said the word over and over again to herself; it was all she could hope so A sweet peace seemed to float around her; she was aroused only when the carriage stopped at the station. The coachman came up to her, and touched his hak “Have I any message, my lady, to take back to Crown Leighton?” She started as the familiar words fell on her ear. “No, none. You gave me a title that does not belong to me, Simmons. lam no longer Lady Charnleigh. The will has been found that makes Captain Flemyng Lord Charnleigh—the heir to Crown Leighton. He will be your masternow." ’* ? Het voice was low and clear, every syllable distinct The man* looked at her in astonishment too great for words. “It is no secret," she continued. “You can tell all the servants when you return. ” “I am very sorry, my lady," and Leonie was touched at seeing tears in the man's eyes. He did not leave her until he had seen her comfortably placed in the London train. Then she was alone for the first time since she had trampled on her temptation and put away her sin—alone, with a strange feeling of weariness and peace-alone with strangely mingled thoughts. The brilljant life was over forever. Leonie, Countess of Charnleigh, was dead—no such person existed. How would they speak of her in that world she had loved so well? They would say that it was a short, brilliant reign, and that she had been much admired; and they say also that she died a queen. There had been nothing paltry—nothing mean in her abdication. She had given up entirely —she had not reserved to herself jewels or purses of gold, as some women might have done. She was proud as on that June day when, amidst light and shade, the lawyer had announced to her the fable of her wealth. A strange weariness was creeping over her; she laid her head back and closed her eyes; she removed the thick veil from her beautiful, colorless face, that the air might refresh her. Strange fancies crowding on her mind —strange fancies floated before her—then a calm, deep brooding darkness fell, and the tired senses seemed to sleep. Nature must have its reaction. After a great storm comes a calm. Such a calm came over Leonie Rayner as she closed her eyes—darkness and silence seemed to enfold her, and she knew no more. The strain upon her nerves had been terrible; for long months past she had known no peace; night and day she had been at war with herself. Now the war was over —the evil spirit vanquished—and she fell as a warrior might fall who had fought a hard battle and, wearied out, dropped by the wayside , x . She remembered no more. The train was one not much used —there were few passengers; nor did it stop until Euston square had been reached. There a porter, opening the door, was startled to find a lady with a white, beautiful face, lying like one dead. He gave an alarm, and there was a rush of people to the spot. It happened most providentially that in the booking office, sending a messenger to Crown Leighton, was Ethel Dacre. There had been great alarm when Leonie’s sudden journey was discovered. Lady Fanshawe was amazed, annoyed and disconcerted. “Such a thing to do in the very midst of the season—to rush off to Crown Leighton in that eccentric fashion! What would the world say?” But what the world was to say or think mattered little now to Leonie Rayner. Lady Fanshawe could not be pacified until Ethel had promised to go herself to Euston square and send a messenger to Crown Leighton. “Send a letter to Lady Charnleigh begging her to let us know what she is doing pnd when she intends to return. ” . So Miss Dacre, who began to have some faint glimmer Os the truth, went at once and while she was engagedin dispatching a messenger she heard the people saying that a lady had been found in a railway carriage either Sudden conviction seized her that it was Leonie. She found her instinct had not deceived her—Leonie, cold, silent and motionless, but with • look of peace on her white face which Etnei had not seen for months, was lying in the ladies’ waiting room. She guessed at once what Leonie had done. “She has been to Paul Flemyng and has told him all." Ethal knew that that calm, serous

expresston'could come only from a soul I that was at peace. Even while she stood at Leonie’s side she formed het I resolution; she decided that the girl I should not be carried to that mar with cent mansion where she had been queen. Westfield, her father’s home, I was but a few miles from London; she would take her thither. She dispatched a messenger to Lady Fanshawe, telling her what had hap> pened and what she had done, and then I ordered a carriage and took Leonia home to Westfield. The doctors pronounced it to be a case of brain fever, I from which there did not seem any chance for the patient’s recovery. • ***»♦• It was a June day on which Leonie Rayner had turned from her sin and I fled from further temptation—fled, resolving to be loyal and true for the rest of her life, come what might. The wheat was standing in huge golden sheaves, and the fruit was hanging ripe on the trees, when she opened her eyes to reason and light—such feeble reason, such dim light. At first she I was conscious of no other sensation but I that of lying at rest, and then, when I that became familiar to her, she began I to understand that she was more help-1 less and feeble than a child. She tried I to raise her hand, but could not; she I tried to speak, but the trembling lips could form no words; then she looked I round, but the place was all strange tc her. Near the window she saw the outline of a woman's figure; Leonie raised one of her hands, and it seemed to her that it must belong to some one else, it was so white, so thin, so frail. And then, slowly, gradually, the once active brain began to work again: memory and reason, the power of I thought, began to return to her. She sighed deeply, and the figure at the window hastily turned round. “Ethel!” she whispered, faintly. “My darling! Thank heaven, you are yourself once more!” and the next moment Ethel Dacre was kneeling by the bedside holding the frail, trembling* figure in her arms. . “Tell me where I am, Ethel,” she said. I “You are in my home —Westfield; you have been here ever since you were taken ill.” “How long is that?" asked the faint voice. , . “More than six weeks, Leonie. But you must not talk—you must rest." “Rest!” The word fell like a chime of half-forgotten bells—like the faint, sweet music of a dream. “Rest!" The poor, halt-dazed mind dwelt on the word—it opened the whole past to her. “Does every one know, Ethel?" she asked. "Yes, my darling; everyone knows, and everyone says you are the noblest woman in the world. ” . Her fair name had been saved from all stain or reproach. She turned her face away, and fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep, every moment of which was full of healing to her. It was some weeks longer before she was able to leave her room. Once or twice she thought to talk to Ethel about that terrible past, but Miss Dacre would not hear a word. “When you are stronger, Leonie,, you shall say what you like, but not now. Make haste and grow strong. Papa wants to take us both to France. Would you like to visit Reims, where your mother’s family live? We will go there and stay until you are quite weH” The idea of visiting Reims delighted her, and then, by degrees, as Leonie grew stronger, Ethel told her how Lady Fanshawe was still at the London house, superintending affairs, and how Paul had taken possession of his estates, and now was installed as Lord Charnleigh. “How is he, Ethel? Did you ever see him?” she asked. “Yes —I see him every day, Leonie. He drives over to see how you are.” Then, noticing that the sweet face grew pale, she added, “You will not see him, Leonie. Dr. Markham has forbidden me to allow anyone to see you until we return from France. Half fashionable London has sent to ask about you." “Then people do not like me less because lam no longer a countess?” she said. “I think all sensible people like you better than ever,” replied Ethel. “When you are stronger I will show you what all the papers have said about you —I have carefully preserved them —and then you will understand how you are appreciated.” Leonie did not grow strong as soon as Miss Dacre had hoped. When she was able to travel, Sir Huntley took them both to Reims. The brave old general had grown very fond of the girl who had acted in what he called a truly brave and loyal fashion. He would have done anything for her. Loonie begged hard that she might see Lady Fanshawe before she went, but Ethel was firm. “Lady Fanshawe was grieved very much about you,” she remarked; “indeed, for a long time she persisted in saying that there must be a mistake about the will. If you were to see her it would only bring about a rush of painful memories, You must wait'until you return. ” . “Ethel,” said Leonie, “you evaded my question the other day. How is Paul? 11 Miss Dacre’s face flushed. “Leonie," said she, “Paul loves you too well to be happy; he would give back his earldom, dear, to win you.” But Leonie Rayner looked with frank, clear eyes into her friend’s face. “I shall never act falsely again, Ethel, while I live; and I cannot marrj Paul, because with all my heart I love Bertram Gordon.” |IO BB CONTIWUKD. |

.... a . — A Stuttering Wit and a Chaplain. “In our company during the civi war," said an old soldier the other day “was a stuttering sergeant namec Thomas and a chaplain named Che nautt, who was exceedingly untidy ir personal appearance. The sergeant was a wit ana gave the chaplain no enc of trouble. One cold day the parsoi had preached for over an hour, and at the close of his discourse asked am one who felt serious to ocme forward The sergeant went at once. ‘Do yoi really feel serious?’ asked the chaplain rather doubtful of bls convert. ‘Se-se serious. I sh-sh-should say I-I dl-did Any m-man w-would feel s-se-serioui to frs-sit on a c-ca-cake of ice t-t-tw< hours and h-he-hear y-you p-preaoh, was the reply. On another occasion at mess, the sergeant began to eat be fore the chaplain had asked the accus tomed blessing. Extending his hand over the table the chaplain said. ‘Pause sergeant, peuse.’ ‘Y-yes, I s-s-see 'em IW-d-d-d-d dirty ones, toa’" *

TRAVELING IN TENNESSEE. j The Judge Wm Guarded ©arefulljy Through the Mountains. •'lt was a good many yeara ago,’* ■aid the Judge, to the New York) Tribune interviewer; “1 was in Tennessee then, practicing law. 1 had ai case in which I wanted very badly a mountaineer. I wrote to him, but he would not come. Finally he senti word that I might come up and sea him. He specified particularly tha day I was to arrive, and the exact, time I was to begin the ascent of tha > mountain* On the afternoon named; my horse was tugging bravely up theI rough road along the mountain side-. when a boy not over 17 years old! slouched down Into the road. A rifle ■ I was slung over his shoulder In such a. way that It could be swung Into inI stant use. He made no attempt to. get out of my way, and 1 was obliged!» to pull up my horse. “ ’Are you JudgeN—?’ be drawled.. •• ‘lm the man,’ I said. " ’All right, I’ll go along with, you,’ he repljed. “•Thank you,’l answered, ‘bulk who are you?’ “ 'l’m Bill Johnson's boy.’ •• ‘Did he send you down to meek, me?’ “ ‘Yes. •‘ ‘Why?’ , “ ‘So you’d get there alive,’ he said,, I sententious!/. ‘You’re a stranger.’ ’ “ ‘Won’t you get in?’ I asked. ' ••‘No/he said dryly, ‘l’ll wait! It’s safer for you.’ “A mile or so further on another ] man about 21 dropped suddenly into the road. He, too, had a rifle slung on his shoulder. “ 'Hallo, Jim,’ he said, is this the Judge?’ “ ‘Yes,’ said Jim. “ ‘All right,’ said the other, and he swung along on the other side of my wagon “ ‘iVho is that?' I asked Jim when I got a chance. “ ‘My brother,’ said Jim. ‘You’re a stranger, you knew. He’s come to help take care of you. ’ “Soon another young man apI peared in the same mysterious way, and Joined tuy bodyguard. He was another of Bill Johnson’s boys , “At a later turn in the road an oldl man, stoop-shouldered, grav-haired, wrinkled, and bent, but keen-eyed! and alert, stepped silently before usJ He, like the rest, was armed. “ ‘ls this the Judge?” be asked hla boys. “It was the Judge, and he climbed into my wagon. Protected in this I way, I drove to his home. My business finished, I drove back in the! same way, my guard melting away, until I finally said good-by to tha youngest boy. Strangers in thel 1 moonshine regions of Tennessee go 1 that way; or they go in a coffin.”

On Keeping Bread. One hears a great deal of talk about moist bread, and a large number of housekeepers shut their bread in airtight boxes to keep it moist. Such barbarous treatment of bread may be efficacious in keeping it moist, but bread from which fresh air is excluded always has a disagreeable, clayey flavor, and is unpalatable to’ people of cultured tastes, who appreciate the nutty sweetness that is aj prominent characteristic of all good bread. * The foolish notion of keeping] bread moist had origin in bad cookery. Most of the stuff made by] bakers has to be eaten fresh and moist, or not eaten at ail. It is so] light and woolly that, if exposed to* the air a few hours, it grows dry andl husky, and is almost as unsavory and innutritlous as chips. A large pro] portion of home-made bread is similar in character, and is affected in a 1 similar manner by exposure to the air. But properly-made bread—such bread as ought to be in every intelligent home and on every Christian table three times a day—grows sweeter by exposure to the air, and is not at its best until two for three days old. Bread should be kept in a| well-covered box or jar, but it should not be wrapped in cloths, and the box or jar in which it is kept should have small holes in the top or sides, through which the fresh air can have accesa As soon as loaves of bread are taken from the oven they should be exposed freely to. pure air, and at no time afterward should they be excluded from it Make good bread, put it in a well-ventilated box after it is perfectly cool, and it will keep sufficiently moist at least a week.— Jenness-Mlller Monthly. Gowns and the Heart. A doctor has made an experiment to determine the influence on woman, of tight clothing as regards the acw tion of the heart. The test was then, running of 440 yards in loose gymJ nasium garments and covering the same distance with the corsets on.i The running timp was 2:30 for each, trial, and in order that there should’ be no cardiac excitement or depression following the test the trial was made the next day. Before beginning the running the average heart impulse was eighty-four beats, to the, minute. After running the. above-named distance the heart pulse was 152 beats to the minute,' the average natural waist girth being, twenty-five inches. The next day corsets were worn during the exerJ else and the average girth of waist; j was reduced to twenty-four inches. The same distance was run in the same time by all, and immediately afterward the average heart impulse was found to be 168 beats per minute A gray fox on the farm of Thomae Finnegap, near on good terms beagle dogs, whic’tjft . 51 raising. The an is dogs and sleeps in I them. fl