Democratic Press, Volume 1, Number 28, Decatur, Adams County, 25 April 1895 — Page 7

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CHAPTER I

The timp was the close of a bright, warm day in June; the place a little parlor in the most picturesque cottage to be found on the estate of Brynmar; the scene a strange one. the first that lived in the memory of Lady Hutton’* ward, and the one that influenced her whole life. It was a strange scene. The parlor was bare and poorly furnished; no carpet, no pictures, no books, nothing that toid of comfort; stern, dread poverty was shown in the few articles of furniture; in a small chair near tfy« center of the room sat a lady magnificently dressed, costly velvets and rich silks swept the cottage floor. She was in the very prime of life, a tall, •tateiy, well-formed figure, a clear-cut, calm, patrician face, bearing the impress of many troubles. No one ever called Lady Hutton beautiful, but in the exquisite refinement of every feature, in the expression of the clear eyes, and the smiles that at rare intervals lighted her face, there was a charm deeper than that of vivid coloring or perfect form. Her dark-brown hair was plainly braided, h*‘r dress, in its simple elegance, was perfection. She looked what she was, a thorough English gentlewoman, calm, elegant and refined. If any storms of passion bad ever crossed her quiet face, there was no trace of it now; if scorn, or hate, or love had ever dwelt in that quiet heart, they were all dead. She seemed as one who looks out upon the world, yet takes little interest in it. Far different from the calm, passionless lady, was the beautiful woman who half knelt, half crouched upon the floor, and covered with hot, bitter tears, the white soft fingers of a little child. A waving mass of rich golden brown hair fell over her shoulders in splendid confusion and disorder; the face, though deathly pale and stained with tears, was a most beautiful one. There was a supple grace in every line of her figure, a dignity even in her self-abasement, yet Magdalen Hurst was but a simple villager, owing none of her rare beauty to noble birth or high descent. She had no thought of her beauty. If ever woman’s face looked as though her heart were broken, Magdalen Hurst’s looked so now\ Passionately, wistfully, she kissed the child’s hands and buried her face on the little head —kissed her as though she hungered and craved for love —kissed her with all the warmth of affection and the passion of despair. ”My little Hilda,” she cried, “look at me; let me carry your sweet face in my heart; look at me, darling.” The little one raised her wondering eyes to the white wistful face, and there was a strong resemblance between mother and child. Both had the same beautiful violet eyes, the mother’s hair was golden brown, but the child’s pretty curls were of pure pale gold; the same delicate, charming features, the same white brown and arched red lips. The two gazed at each other, the mother with difficulty refraining from tears, the child wondering w hut nil this sorrow meant. “I am half sorry I came,” said Lady Hutton. “You will unfit yourself for your journey, Magdalen.” “I could not have left without seeing her,” said the woman, pleadingly. “Oh, Lady Hutton, can you not tell what it is to have your heart torn in two, as mine is? I must give up my husband or my child. He is in sorrow, in exile, and in want. She will have a home and a mother. I must go to him; he needs me most; yet death itself would be less bitter than leaving my child.” “Still,” said Lady Hutton, “as you cannot have both, 1 think you are acting wisely. Hilda will have everything to make her happy with me.” “I know that, my lady.” sobbed the woman. “I know it, or I would not leave her. Ido not fear for her, but my heart aches for my little child. I shall feel the clasp of her arms round my neck, I sh ill feel her warm, soft lips on my face, I shall hear her voice and listen for her footsteps. My life will be empty and dark without her.” “Choose for yourself,” said Lady Hutton, quietly. “If you wish to alter our arrangements, there is time to do so.” “Do not torture me, my lady,” cried the poor mother. “You know I must go to him. In lives such as yours there comes no sorrow such as mine. Can you not understand what it is to look your last, perhaps, in life upon your own child?’ A quiver, as of sharp pain, crossed the lady’s calm face for one instant. “I can understand it,” she replied, gently; “and that is why I have brought Hilda here. Believe me, Magdalen, I shall act by her as though she were my own.” The woman made no reply. With every moment that passed her face seemed to grow whiter and her sorrow deeper; she clasped the child in her arms as though nothing but death could part them. “My own child!” she murmured; “my own little child! 1 nursed her, loved her, cared for her. I would have shielded her with my life, and I am looking at her for the last time. Oh, my lady, change your plan. Say if I return I may claim her. How can 1 live without her? How can I die? What answer can I make the Great Judge when He asks me for my child?” “You are only doing what you decided yourself was for the best,” said Lady Hutton. “I cannot change my plans; they are founded on common sense, if for fifteen or twenty years I educate your daughter, and she becomes a refined and delicate lady, you would not surely wish to drag her down again to yoor level, re membering what that level is?” “No,” replied the woman, shuddering as with deadly fear, “anything rather than that.” “You are not the first.” continued Lady Hutton, in her cold, passionless voice, “whose life has been wrecked at its outset; others have had the same trouble, perhaps even greater. Life is ended fir you. 'The cloud that has fallen over it is so dark that no light can penetrate it. Let your child live and be happy, as she never could be with you. Do you think, after fifteen rears snent as my daughter

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that it would be fair to ask her to return to such a home as yours? Would it not be cruel and unjust? Be brave for her sake. Magdalen! You have yourself decided where your duty lies.** “I know,” said the poor mother, plaintively; “one way or another, my heart must break." “You fancy so,” said Lady Hutton; “one can bear much, yet live on. Hilda will be happy and well cared for; if she lives she will grow up a beautiful, accomplished lady: she will marry well, and live honored and esteemed. Yet you would have her exchange all this for poverty and shame.” “But. my lady,” said the woman, “he may alter, he may repent, and then ” “Hush," said Lady Hutton; “I believe it is easier to change the leopard's spots than to reform a really bad man. See. I have brought the money, Magdalen; now, tell me. is there anything more I can do for you? Do not ask me to alter my conditions. I cannot do so. If I take Hilda now. it is for life; and I exact from yon a solemn promise that you will never seek her again, never ask for her, but remember always, that for your own good you have parted with her until you meet in another world.” Magdalen Hurst clasped the little child still more tightly in her arms. Her lips lingered lovingly on the fair little face, the golden curls, and the sweet lips. "My darling will be a lady,” she said, “a grand lady; she will have dresses and rare jewels; she will be rich and honored; but my heart will be empty, and she will have no mother; she will never know' me, never love me.*’ Lady Hutton took from her purse gold and bank notes, and laid them upon the table. “The sum we agreed upon is there. Magdalen," said Lady Huttnn. “It is growing late; you had better say good-by to Hilda: we must leave you now; write to me when you reach your journey's end. I can only hope your future may be happier than your past has been.” A low moan came from the white lips still touching the child's face. Then Magdalen Hurst rose and took from her finger a thick plain gold ring. “Lady Hutton,” she said, gently, “may I give this to Hilda? Will you let her wear it?” W ith her own hands Lady Hutton fastened the ring to a little chain the child wore. “I promise you,” she said. “Hilda shall always wear it. I will put it on her finger when she is old enough.” It was a plain ring, made in a peculiar way; the single word "Fidelity” was engraved upon it. “Good-by, Magdalen," said Lady Hutton. “I trust you will have a prosperous voyage. Never let a fear of Hilda’s welfare cross your mind; she will be to me as my own child. Bid her farewell. See, the sun is setting; we must go.” She turned aside while the unhappy’ mother held her child in that last close embrace. In that minute Magdalen Hurst died as loving, suffering women die. Death, when it camo, held no pang half so bitter as that which rent her heart now. She covered the little wondering face with passionate kisses; she pillowed the golden head on her breast and bent in untold agony over it. "Hilda,” she whispered, “my own little child, I shall never see you again. Say ‘good-by,’ and ‘God bless you, mother.’ ” The child repeated the words, then clasped her arms round her mother’s neck. “Let me stay with you,” she cried; “I love you best.” In one moment it seemed as though the mother’s soul must leave her. Then she clasped the child, murmuring words that Lady Hutton never forgot. To the last her mournful eyes followed the little figure, drinking in, as it were, every movement, every action The child passed for ever from its mother’s home. She gazed after it, watched the sunbeams shining on the sweet face and golden hair, watched the stately lady take the little one in her arms and dry her tears, watched the child as it smiled, and then knew herself forgotten. With a cry that rang out in the clear summer air, startling and shrill. Magdalen Hurst fell to the ground, and the sunbeams played upon her white, unconscious face; while the child from whom she had parted slept softly and sweetly in Lady Hutton s arms. CHAPTER IL Five years before the opening of our story there was not a happier or more beautiful girl in Scotland than Magdalen Burns. Iler father was head gamekeeper to Sir Ralph Erskine; her mother had been Lady Erskine’s maid. They married, and lived in a pretty cottage close to the woods of Brynmar: they had one lit- i tie daughter, called Magdalen, to suit some fancy of her mother’s. On the same day that little Magdalen was born at the cottage, a daughter and heiress was born at the Hall. Lady Erskine was. however, dangerously ill. and her babe was nursed by Mrs. Burns. As the heiress of Brynmar grew up she retained a great affection for her foster-sister. Miss Erskine had made lovers, but she cared only for one, that was the young I careless debonair Lord Hutton, the prodigal son of a prodigal race. He liked Miss Erskine, and his friends advised him to marry her; she would be rich, and he needed money. Lord Huttou did not decide all at once; he went frequently to the Hall, andon one occasion took his favorite boon companion, Stephen Hurst, with him. Stephen found his visit a very dull one; he did not care for the pomposities of Sir Ralph, or the inanity of Lady Erskine. Both bored him alike; and besides, there was no billard-table at the Hall. Lady Erskine disapproved of gambling in even its innocent branches; a game at billiards was something very terrible in her eyes. Miss Erskine never appeared to see or notice any one except Lord Hutton, and the other guests were summed up by Mr. Hurst in his amiable way, as “a mixture of bores and nobodies.” Having no mischief ready made to his hand, Stephen went out to seek it for himself; he sought and found it in the woods of Brynmar; he sauntered down a broad path to enjoy a cigar. The day was fine, and the cigar a good one. Stephen sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, in order to enand as he sat there a girl, beautiful as a fairy vision, came tripping down the path.

1 Stephen Hurst saw her with a thrill of delight; he had been idle and listless; here : was something to do; here was a beauti- ■ ful young face, pure, sweet, and happy; 1 he could teach it to blush and to glow. Here was a pure, innocent young heart; he could teach it to love. All that he said to himself as the girl drew near. She did not perceive him until he, to attract her attention, spoke, then Magdalen Burna raised her eyes to his face, and in that one look met her fate. He asked some idle question as to the nearest way to the I Hall, and she replied; then gradually he i drew from her her name and her simple little history. Nothing could be better, . he said to himself. There was no one to interfere while he remained at this dull place; it would be a magnificent resource to be able to meet this beautiful, simple girl, out in the bonny woods of Brynmar. He never calculated on Donald Burns* i strength of arm or strength of will Lord Hutton could not imagine how it ; happened that Stephen Hurst, who used I to complain the whole day long of the dullness of the place and every one in it, suddenly grew attached to it, and absolutely tried to persuade him to prolong his stay. Brynmar Woods could have told him why. There was no day passed that Stephen Hurst did not meet Magdalen unI der the shade of their tall trees. What need to tell the story? He wooed, as idle men do woo when they have no other occupation, and she learned to love, as the young and happy love when they are so wooed. How it would have ended no one can tell; but one morning, while the dew still lay upon flower and leaf. Magdalen went out to meet her lover. They walked for some long time up and down the broad path, forgetting everything save themselves and their own happiness, when all at once the keeper, white with rage, stood before them. “So,” said he, slowly, “this is it! I have ■ always said that fatal beauty would prove a curse. Go home, Magdalen; leave your lover with me. Stay—do not let me be rash. Is he your lover? Does he profess to love yon?” “He does love me,” said Magdalen, proudly; “and I—oh, father, do not be angry—l love him.” She spoke bravely, although trembling, with fear. “I am not angry, child," said the keeper, gently. “Go home—l will settle this.” “You will not hurt him, father?” pleaded Magdalen. “I will not disturb even one of his wellarranged curls.” said the keeper, grimly. “Leave him to me.” Magdalen hastened away, and the two men gazed fixedly at each other. Stephen Hurst did not quite like the strong hands that trembled with eagerness. He was a coward at heart, but thought in this case there was nothing much to fear. “Well, my friend," he said, insolently, “don’t act the virtuous peasant. I have seen that kind of thing so often on the, | stage that I am tired of it." “I tell you what you never saw upon j the stage,” said the keeper. “You never saw a father who meant to lash his daughter's lover like a whipped hound unless he did justice to her.” •There was something in the hot, angry eyes that glowed upon him, and in the low hissing voice, that shook Stephen Hurst's craven heart. “Do not let us make any error,” he said,; hastily; “your daughter is a beautiful girl, and pure as an angel. I would not utter I one word derogatory to her to save my life.” Donald Burns' face softened at these I words. “Hava you taught my child to love you?” he asked; “tell me in one word. I will know the truth.” “She does love me,” replied Stephen, quietly. “Then listen to me,” said the keeper. “You are a fine gentleman, I suppose—one from the Hall; she is poor and almost , friendless, but you have taught her to . love you; and if you do not marry her and ' make her happy, I will follow you—even ; to the world’s end—and slay you—you ' hear me; I say it—l, who never broke my I word. Now please yourself.” He turned away without one word more, ; leaving Stephen Hurst looking vacantly after him. “A very pretty price certainly to pay I for a summer’s wanderings in these stupid i woods,” he muttered. “That all comes from having nothing to do. I must either marry the girl or run the risk of being beaten to death by that energetic and active keeper. Well, 1 have nothing to keep her upon; I cannot keep myself; but she is a beautiful girl, and I really like her better than any one else in the world. Let me toss up for it; head, 1 marry her; the reverse, I run away.” Then be carelessly ' threw up a few small silver coins. “Heads i win,” said he, with a smile. “I will wait upon the keeper to-morrow.” And that was the man Magdalen Hurst idealized and loved. What passed when Stephen Hurst call- ! ed at the cottage, no one ever knew. When Lord Hutton heard that his random friend was to marry the loveliest girl in Scotland, he advised Miss Erskine to use her influence to prevent the sacrifice, “Let the girl marry some steady, honest young man in her own station,” he said; "she will have a chance of happiness then. If she marries Stephen Hurst, she will be wretched for life.” Miss Erskine tried her influence, and Sir Ralph and Lady Erskine tried theirs, but all iu vain; when did love ever listen to reason? Before the summer ended, beautiful, simple Magdalen Burns became Stephen Hurst's wife. (To be continued.) Chinese Boats Propelled by Treadmills. The stern-wheeled paddle-boats puzzled me greatly. I could see no funnel, no smoke, nor any of the usual accessories of a steamer, yet the wheels revolved as in a steamer. When one of came close to me. however, the mystery was made clear. Under the deck of the boat—indeed, there were usually two or three decks, and a vast number of passengers—near the stern were three or four wooden drums running the whole width of the boat. The drums had cams, or steps, attached to them, and a row of men at each drum, holding on to a handle above, stepped from cam to cam as their weight brought them round, just as If they were working a treadmill; the faster they stepped the faster the ship went. The gearing from the drums to the paddle-wheel was es the most primitive description. Occasionally, when the wind was fair large sails were hoisted and sideboards to prevent leeway were put down; but even then the men on the treadmill did not cease working.—“ Scenes in Canton” in the Century.

REARED BY THE WOLVES. An Infant Stolen and Raised to Maturity. Mrs. Colonel Tyler, of India, wife of an English officer during the mutiny of the Sepoys, and who herself passed through ail the perils of the mutiny, talked in San Francisco to an interested audience in regard to the strange, inhabitants and customs of India. She told of queer mesmeric feats, of strange deeds of the jugglers, and of conflicts with snakes, tigers and other wild animals. Every story she narrated was full of interest, says the Examiner. ‘‘l saw in a little village near Seconds,” she said, -‘a boy about fifteen years old who had been stolen in his infancy by a wolf and reared by it. He had been retaken by missionaries, and was half wild. He seemed to be afraid all the time, cowered and sprang away the moment he was not watched. “The boy did not walk as we do, but went on all fours, and he ran like a wolf, and would look back and skulk along after the manner of a wolf. The missionaries tried to teach him to eat with a knife and fork, but he could not do it. He would tear the meat with his hands and teeth. "He acquired a little speech, but he never learned to converse much. He seemed always in a state of fright. His mind seemed more than half gone, and he had all the ways of the wolf. “I have known many children to be stolen by wolves, and oftentimes they were killed and eaten, but in others they were reared. The explanation of it is this: The wolves never steal a child that is over 2 years old. The wolves also go in pairs. In this case, as in others I have known, one of the wolves carried it to its young ones. The old wolves and young ones had already eaten and were not hungry. The child was dropped, therefore, and in a little while was permeated with the odor of the wolves. Then the wolves will not eat it. “To prevent the wolves from getting into the houses the doors and windows are formed of lattice work. But oftentimes the native women get tired and lie down to sleep outdoors, with the child nestling by them. A wolf comes along, picks it up, and that is the last of it. “There is a people called the Cunjas who know exactly where these wolves live in the mountains, but j they won’t tell, for on the ankle or wrist of every child in India is put a silver band. When a child is gone they go looking for the bones to find the silver band. That’s the way they I live.” Women Indebted to Edison. “Very few persons are aware,” says Mrs. Emeline D. Wells in the Chicago Times-Herald, "of the great fields of remunerative employment ; which have opened to women through I the wonderful creative genius of I Thomas A. Edison, the inventor. His ' simplification of telegraphy has, as we all know, given employment to thousands of operators ail over the United States. In the telephone business a larger field than in telegraphy has been created. 1 have not the exact figures, but 1 believe the number is now about 80,000. Latest and oddest of all is the natural skill displayed by women in using the two newest of his ideas, the graphophone and phonograph. Thousands of these are in use in this country, Canada, Mexico, Cuba and in Europe, where they are employed in commercial houses and in official bureaus instead of the slower and less accurate shorthand writer. The operator is almost always a young woman, and generally one who can use the typewriting machine. Further than this, in the manufacture of electrical goods, there are processes, such as the insulating cf wires, the putting together of delicate mechaniism and a dozen other operations which require delicacy of touch, keen vision, and a clear head, where women are employed in large numbers. It is probably under rather than over the truth to state that 100,000 women are gaining a livelihood to-day ; from the inventions which Edison l has put upon the markets in the past twenty years. The future is even brighter than the present. All of these things are spreading much j more rapidly than the population, so that there is bound to be a constant demand for skilled female labor for the next twenty years at least. Much of this will be drawn from occupations which are now overcrowded. and. of course, underpaid, and will in this manner relieve and benefit the labor market in both directions. When—-and it now looks as though it would be very soon—power will be transmitted through all the cities, just as gas and the illuminating current are to-day, there will be another field of great importance opened in which women will have better qualifications for success than men, and will undoubtedly be in greater demand than ever before.” Big Headed Women Not Beautiful. A woman with a big head can never be handsome, much less beautiful. The “big bead” that is sometimes acquired is not the sort referred to. but that actual largeness of skull and features which savors of disproportion and can never be symmetrical when combined with female shoulders. Websterian massiveness may please the Willards and the Somersets, though never the admirers of beauty and womanly grace, and to whom size means nothing intellectually, provided the gray matter has room enough to exercise its precise

functions. There is an antediluvian notion that the small head of the antelope or the deer signifies a type well followed by nature in the construction of fair women, and even if the present development of brains does physically affect the race, this standard must remain the truest and best while the Venus of Milo continues to exist. ABOUT POSTAL CARDS. There are Eight Thousand Varieties in the World. It seems almost incredible that there should be eight thousand varieties of postal cards, and that is the extent claimed for a collection. These, however, include various issues of the same nation and denomination, and also cards issued for ; special occasions. • • Postal cards have been in circulation a little less than twenty-five j years. The idea orignated with Dr. [ Emanuel Harmann, a professor of i national economy at the Imperial Academy of Wiener, in Neustadt, j Lower Austria. His ideas, under the head of “New Means of Correspondence by Post,” were published and attracted the attention of the government officials. The director general of posts took up the idea and succeeded in having an issue of postal cards put in circulation in 1869. The original name given to them was the “correspondenz karte, ” and this has been retained ever since. This new move on the part of Austria quickly excited other countries to adopt a similar method of correspondence, and before the close of 1870 nearly all the European countries were using cards 1 Germany was really the second country to employ them, and a special series was issued to the soldiers engaged in the Franco-German war. These were called the field-post correspondence cards, and were sold unI stamped to the soldiers at the rate of about five for a half-penny. The soldiers had the privilege of using them without paying postage. Another series was issued for civilians. These had a place left for a stamp, and the writer had to affix a German postage stamp to the card before posting. The field post cards are now rare, the used ones being I scarcer than the unused ones. | Another card of equal rarity, and i I also a reminder of the same war. is ' I the balloon post card, issued by : I Erance during the siege of Paris. | The cards were sent up from Paris I in balloons, and the mail bags were i thrown off into the surrounding country, where there was the least possible opportunity of their capture by the enemy. They were smaller than the post card now in use, and were covered with war like expressions as “Paris defies the enemy!” “Glory and conquest signify’ crimes, defeat signifies hate and a desire for revenge.” i “ Only one war is just and right—- ; that for independence.” Crepons and Crepons. The designers of crepon manufacturers have let their imaginations run riot, and so varied and bewildering | is the variety of weaves displayed ; that they defy description. The black crepons remain the most distinguished and are the first choice, but seekers of novelties can I find many beautiful weaves in solid colors, bluet, drab, gray, brown, etc., and also inquaintodd mixtures. The chiffon crepons show black or white chiffon woven in crushed, irregular puffs over a wool or mohair ground of pale blue, violet, or terracotta, a blue-gray silk crepon is quilted, to a wool background with gold colored silk in a flower and a leaf pattern that must have been copied from a great grandmother quilt. An excellent choice for a smart gown which can do duty on a multi- | tude of occasions and serve as an all season frock is a black mohair crepon ; this is light in weight, very silky in appearance, just wiry enough to repel dust and much more durable than those of silk and wool. Many of these crepons have no right or wrong side and they are in every conceivable crimped effect; tbo very’ newest have deep diagonal ruts, while some of the modistes cut so they form chevron effects around the skirts and j others are in irregular, deep honey- , combs, like the finger prints of children’s mud pies. Some of silks and wool have plisse tucks or puffs of silk held in vertical or bayadere ■ stripes, or in cheeks by crimpy ; bands of wool. A Story of Ex-Senator Ingalls. Representative Curtis, of Kansas, the other day toid a joke on ex-Seiia-tor Ingalls that should be preserved in print. The lank and lean statesman from Kansas, who resides at Atchison, is now the father in law of a young physician of the town named Blair. One day before the marriage of Dr. Blair and Miss Ingalls the father of the young lady happened to be in the office of his prospective son in law, occupying i himself for the time being in an inner room. A newsboy who had j been regularly every afternoon pushing his head in at the door and asking Dr. Blair if he wanted to buy a paper, came in and repeated his tereotyped inquiry. "No,” said Blair, “but there’s a gentleman in the next room will probably buy one.” He pointed to a door of a closet in which hung a large skeleton. The newsboj’ turned the knob, opened the door, gave one look at the ghastly object and dashed out of the office to the sidewalk below with a yell that raised the ex-Senator three feet out of his seat. When he inquired what

the rumpus was about Dr. Blair laughingly explained the joke he had played on the “newsy” in order to cure him of coming there in future •to sell papers. Ingalls thought it a mean trick to play on the boy, and opening a window called to the lad to come back and he would buy a paper. Gazing at the thin, cadaverous form of the brilliant ex-Senator leaning out of the casement above him the boy instantly called out: “No you don’t. You can’t fool i me because you’ve got your clothes I on.” Centers of Association. Prof Flechsig. the great Leipsic specialist for diseases of the mind, has made an important discovery about the anatomy of the brain. He finds that within the brain there are four “intellectual centers,” as he calls them. These centers are all connected with one another by numerous systems of fibers. They are entirely undeveloped in the lower animals and do not begin to appear in children until they are some months old—that is to say, until ths i child begins to reason and to assimilate what his senses perceive. The centers of sense—of sight, of smell, taste, hearing and touch —are fullj’ developed in the lower animals, often more highly developed than in man. But it is the possession of these “centers of association” that places man above the other animals and gives him the power to think Mental diseases, according to Dr Flechsig, are caused by the derangement of ; these centers of association. The I senses remain intact; even the powor j of thought is preserved, but the con- ; ceptions are mixed and tangled What is called “softening of the brain” is simply the atrophy or shriveling of the nerve fibers connecting the four centers of association. The Burmese. The Burman is slow going, indeed one may say generally quite lazy, and when he does earn a few rupees he suspends work until he can gamble away or spend his earnings. It is | impossible to hurry him to or at his work. The Burmese women and girls are quite the contrary. They work, some very hard. Many of the elderly women keep a bazar or small stand, selling a few paltry articles or fruit at a small gain. Like the Kachin and Shans of China and Burma, they pierce a large hole in each ear, into which they press glass, gold or brass short tubes. They are fond of bright colored silk clothes. They wrap their cloth about their waist, letting it extend to the ground with a fold in the front. The well to do wear beside a little coat covering their breast. Some of the girls look quite handsome promenading the streets, lighthearted and happy. They certainly deserve, on the score of neatness, beauty and cheerfulness, the praise which Rudyard Kipling makes “Tommy Atkins" bestow upon them, and they exemplify, to some extent, Tommy’s judgment that “There ain’t no ten commandments” in Mandalay; certainly one or two of them sit lightly on the Burmese. Life is very promiscuous between the Burmese, Hindoos, Chinese, Madrasses. Euresians and Europeans. In fact before many years the full blooded Burman will be a race of the past, in cities and along the navigable rivers. A Smart Blacksmith. “Ordinance experts all over the world will be very much interested in the experiments being conducted by Francois Allard, a Quebec blacksmith, who appears to have succeeded in hardening aluminum so as to permit of its use in the manufacture of cannon,” said Col. E. F. Bateman, a retired English officer, at the Ebbitt yesterday. “Allard is the same genius who rediscovered some years ago the lost art of hardening copper, but it is too expensive a process to admit of such metal being practically used. Recently he made a small cannon of tempered aluminum about thirty inches long and with a bore five inches in diameter. From this he repeatedly fired a charge of a pound of powder without injuring the piece. The most remarkable part of these tests was that the metal of the barrel was only a quarter of an inch thick. There is no telling what a revolution will be brought about in the manufacture of big guns if Allard’s future experiments in this line turn out as well as those already made.” What Prostrates Women. It is almost impossible to name an age at which every woman is at her best, writes Rebecca Harding Davis in reply to the question, “At What Age is a Woman at Her Best?” If you examine indeed, into the effect of a forced mental growth upon her body, you may write tomes. A witty French woman, who was here last winter, saw one side of that subject: “Ah. no!” she sighed. “We women in Paris do not grapple with such grave studies as you in America. Wo do not co-operate; we have no public virtues. But,” with a shrug, “neither have we nerve prostration!” The only general assertion which one can safely makeis that every woman is at her best in body and mind at the age when she is most fully occupied with her true work in the world, whether that be art, cookery, lecturing or child bearing, provided that she goes to it simple and humbly. It is not their work that prostrates the nerves of women or vulgarizes their natures. It is the incessant squabbling and posing and boasting about their work.