Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 May 1895 — Page 4

Silence

By Miss Mulock

CHAPTER XTT—Continued. “Poor «M Black!” he said one day—or rather night—when, after toiling, soaked through, cp the steep brae, he sat down a few minutes after, dry and warm, by e.a bright fire, holding the little hands hich. hadiaerved him so lovingly. “Poor Black, whom I left in his large, handsome, empty house. I am quite sorry for all old'bachefors.” “Thank you, dear." “Thaugh he told me once, in a confidential momrsat, that his life had been so hard he was often glad there had been no one to ehare ft” “Ha was mistaken.” “I think he was mistaken," Roderick said, pressing his lips on the smooth brow and bright grave eyes, that looked on life utterly without fear, so long as it was a life with Wve In it “I cannot believe that any man is the weaker, but the stronger, for having a woman to help him. Only he must choose a woman who can help him —as I did.” “You are very conceited," she said, gayly, and then clung to him passionately. “Two together; I can bear anything if we are two together. But if you had ieft y me to go through my life alone ■” A kind of shiver passed through her. “Some have to bear it and do. Cousin Silence did. And I would have borne It too—l toM you so once. I would have lived a bogy, useful life. I would not have died. But, ohl—the difference, the difference!” “And u oh! the difference to me!" he said, as he clasped her to his heart, and felt the peace and felt the strength she gave him. And then, coming back to common things, he added, “Poor old Black! He has been just a trifle ‘difficult* of late; he is not the best temper in the world, and he likes you so much, you perhaps might smooth him down. If I bring him home with me to-morrow, can you give us some supper, Mrs. Jardine?” So, in fheduSk of the next evening, the tall young ffeUew, handsome and strong, and the bent old figure with the brown wig and yellow gaiters, appeared at the •front door, which the mistress always herself opened for her husband. “I was going to introduce the visitor,” said he, “for we never have any other; but look here! I feel like Robinson Crusoe when be saw the footmarks on the shore. Wfoeete! horses’ feet! Mrs. Jardine, you must hive been entertaining a carriage and pair?” “Two Carriages and pairs! They have only just gone. And they were so very nice.” “The carriages?”

“No, the people. Such ‘nice* people; Is not that your English word —gentil, agreable, charmant?” “She is going back to her French again —the renegade!’’ “No, I am thoroughly Scotch now. Mr. Black known ft,” said she, as with gentle, almost filial hands, she took off the old man's plaid and bonnet, and sat him in the arm-chnir, he submitting with astonishing meekness; but all old people, just as all children, loved and submitted to Sileace. “How bright your eyes look! Did your visitors talk French with you, my darling?” “A little, for they had been a great deal abroad. But they were so simple and kindly, not grand or overdressed likp ” She stopped. “Like after friends of ours, whom being friends we will not criticise,” said Roderick, with a kind of sad dignity. It had been a sore vexation to him that, except the Griersons, nearly all the Scotch women h« wife had met were of the doss of Mrs. Maclagan, that, exaggeration as national qualities which people of one country constantly make the type of .another. "But, my dear, who are your visitqrtf? Mr. Black will be sure to know them.” “tju, ay; but they would never condescend! th’know me,” said the old man, fingering with a half-comical awe the cards an the table. “Sir John and Lady fiynringtnn, of Symington; Mr. and Mrs. MkcAffeber, of Castle Torre. I told you, sir”—he always addressed Roderick out of ’busteSß hours as “sir,” and Silence as “madams^*—*the gentry of the neighborhood wMSS soon be finding out that there •were again Jardlues at Blackball. Besides, Sr John and your father were lads thegifber, and Mac Alister of Torre—he w« a bit bairn then.” V "_Yes,” Bftid Silence, after a puzzled pauke a£ the Scotch words, which when he forgot himself the old man continually brought m. “Yes, they told me so. They Spoke of too—Roderick, you would have fiked to beer how they spoke of your father. And they said they hoped we ahould be good neighbors and meet very «ften.** -Roderick looked pleased—it is but huvuun nature to enjoy being “respeckit like the tartf*—but suddenly he clouded over. “Don’t let us talk of this; it is impossible." Silence was so astonished at the tone as weH as the words that the natural, innocent “"Why?’ died on her lips. She turned away and began talking to Mr. Black as something else, asking no more (questions, nor referring again to the visitors, who, Roderick saw with pain, had evidently charmed her and been a little brightness in the long empty day. H<» told her so. when the old man departed—after a rather dull two hours; for the master cf the house was very silent, and wteh he did speak, there Was once or twice the faintest shade of discontent in Ms tone. a sort of half apology for their eimple menage and frugal fare, of which Silence took no outward notice. She had given hey guest the best she had—given it with a warm heart, too, and a grateful —for Mr. Black had been very kind, and ■•-any a bnce of grouse and bunch of grapes had found their way from the Mill-house to Blackball. “And I think he knows our ways, and does not expect ns to requite him with turtle and venison,” said the young hostess. “Perhaps not; he knows the barrenness of the landT answered Roderick, sharply —very sharply for him. “But other folks do Mot know and need not. Your magnffiddnt visitors, for instance. I hope you did liot let them penetrate beyond the dritwihg-room, or invite them to stay to tea, lest they might quote the famous lines, ‘Dove in a. hut with water and crust, t*—Love, forgive us!—-cinders, ashes, dttet’” "I think you may well ask Love to for<ive you, dear,” Silence answered, not •dtetaff the laugh, which was scarcely •Men* “Ye*, I offered them tea, •» X them, and I wanted them to

stay till you came home, thinking you would like them, too. They did stay, as I long as they possibly could, and we had i a pleasant iJk, and Janet was baking, ‘ so I gave them some hot scones, and—” “What charming hospitality! It must ! have reminded them of Caleb Balder- ! stone’a Why, my dear wife, we'strrrll ' soon have to set up a Caleb since Blackball has grown into a wrt of ’ Wolf’s Hope. Silence, my darling"—taking her face between his hands and trying hard to curb his excessive irritation—“you are the sweetest and simplest of women; but—you must not invite people here again. Not people such as these. They wsSild only go home and laugh at ns. I don’t care for myself; I ean dine off porridge and salt—it would not harm me —but I chn not bear the world to know it. We must put the best on the outside.” She looked up, more than surprised—startled. Evidently there was something in the woman’s nature —larger or smaller, who shall decide?—which could not understand the man at all. “Never mind, however, for this once. We’ll hire a fly—a carriage and pair perhaps, in noble emulation —return these visits, and any others with which the ‘gentry of the neighborhood,' as old Black called them, may condescend to honor us —and so end it all. To keep up acquaintance with them is, as I said, simply impossible.” “Why impossible 7* “Can you not see? Birds of a feather must flock together—it is natural law. These people are the *magnates of the county,’ and we the impoverished Jardines of Blackball. Besides, did you tell them—it was just like you, my innocent one, to do it—that I am also foreman of the cotton mill?” Again she looked at him in quiet surprise. He seemed so very unlike himself. “If I had told them, would it have mattered very much?” "Certainly not—to me. But I think it would to them. Dear, a man is always despised for being poor; and—l will not be despised. I can live upon bread and water, dress tn fustian —or rags, if necessary; but my wife will prevent that,” added he, tenderly. “Only our poverty must not betray itself. If we appear in the world at ail, it must be as Mr. and Mrs. Jardine of Blackball. Whatever we suffer, let us ‘die and make no sign.’ Or, even to go a little further, let us imitate that very reserved gentleman of whom Ms valet said, ‘Master’s dead, sir— but ho doesn’t wish it to be generally known.’ ” Silence did not laugh at the stale joke, which indicated a long undercurrent of bitter thought now welling up to the surface; but she attempted no remonstrance. “My friend”—the old tender “mon ami” —“do not be angry with me. I liked these people because I thought you would like them, too, and that a little society , would be good for you; but since it cannot be ” “Since it cannot be," he repeated, decisively, “we will not trouble ourselves about it, or them. Doubtless our neighbors will trouble themselves very little about us— at least, as soon ns they know al! the facts conceraing u ,wh ca or couise they very soon will. Nover mind, my wife. Kiss me and be happy! We are happy, are we not? Let the world go its way—who cares?”

But it was evident that foe did care: and when after a week or two he found he had been mistaken, and people did “trouble themselves” about the young Jardines, inasmuch that by and by, either from friendliness, respect, or curiosity, they had called at Blackball—whether pleased or vexed, Roderick was certainly interested. “Well, and who has been here to-day?” was always his first question on coming up from the mill; sometimes adding, with a bitter earnest underlying the jest, that he hoped that she had told all her grand neighbors that her husband was “out at work,” his work as foreman of the mill. “Yes. I thought you wished everybody to know? It could not matter, you being a gentleman and a Jardine. You once said so.” “And I say so still, in my best moments; but in my worst— Well, I suppose we men are great cowards—moral cowards. No matter, I am glad the murder’s out You did It,for the best, my wife; and it is the best, for they will never come again, depend upon it.” But strange to say, they did; and at last it became absolutely necessary to return these friendly visits. “I will beg a holiday from my master” —poor Roderick! he sometimes took a savage pleasure in the word—“we will hire the village fly and go in state; appearing for once as respectable people—, Mr. and Mrs. Jardine, of Blackball.” “I think we are respectable people,” the wife answered; she had learned not to be hurt at these accidental bitternesses. “We are well-born, well-bred; we live in our own pretty house; we pay our debts; and we stint nobody— except ourselves, perhaps.” Herself she might have said, for her husband, simple as he was in his ways, wonderfuly so, considering his up-bring-ing, never suspected how many domestic and personal sacrifices were necessary, that she might in a sense, though not in the sense he had meant it, really “put the best on the outside” for him when he came home.

He was at home so little now that the whole day’s holiday—they two was quite a treat to look forward to. But when, instead of the village fly, which Mr. Black had offered to order for them, there came up his own well-appointed but rarely used carriage, with his compliments, and the horses had not been out for a week, would Mrs. Jardine oblige him by using them? Then Roderick’s pride rose up at once. “Take Mrs. Jardine’s compliments to Mr. Black, and she regrets extremely that ” A hand laid on his arm—a whisper which always fell on his jarring nerves like a soft finger-touch on a quivering harp-string. “Dear, yesterday when I was thanking Mr. Black for all his kindness, he said—you know his quick, husky way of speaking—‘Madame, you may have a hard life—l rather think you will—but I hope you will never know one hardship: to find yourself In your old age without one single human being whom yon have a right to be kind to.’ ” “Poor old fellow!” said Roderick, much moved. “My little Conscience! you are right. John, tel! your master he is exceedingly kind, ns he always is; and Mrs. Jardine will enjoy her drive exceedingly." So she did—to an almost pathetic degree—for it wns weeks since she had been outside the garden gate. And the whole world was so lovely that still November day—November, but bright as June; it often is so in Scotland—all the fading landscape looked as beautiful as an old face sometimes looks to eyes that loved it when it was young. These two, sitting side by side and hand in hand, though they hid the latter fact under a kindly plaid from John the coachman, were young still; to them the dying year brought only a charm of sadness. They were very happy, and all the happier, Roderick declared, because in their circuit of nearly twenty miles.

owing to the rarely fine day, they romra everybody “out” except one family— the Symingtons. Sir John—a “fine old Scottish gentleman” of the last generation—with his old wife beside him, still keeping the remains of that delicate English beauty which had captured him fifty years ago, werg, even Roderick owned, quite a picture. And they remembered his father; and they had known Cousin Silence. Their greeting was more than courteousfriendly; and their house, upon which, being childless, they had expended all they had to spend, was full of art treasures collected abroad, each with a history and an interest. The old couple seemed still te have the utmost enjoySpent in life, and to have the faculty of making others epjoy life too. “I knew you would like them,” said Silence, when, having sent the carriage away, they walked home through the wood-path, which, Sir John carefnly pointed out to them, made Symington only a quarter of an hour's distance from Blackball. “Yes, I like them. That is just the sort of house I should care to go to, if I could go. Lucky folk those Symingtons. They seem to have had everything heart can desire.” "Not quite. Did you see a miniature over Lady Symington's arm-chair? She saw me looking at it, and said—you should have heard the tone, quiet as she is—‘That was our only son—my one child! He died at seven years old.’ I think,” Silence continued, softly, “if you do not mind, I should like now aud then to go and see Lady Symington.” Her husband pressed her arm, and then said, suddenly, “My innocent wife, what a happy way you have of taking everything.” “It is because I am so happy.” “And I—yes, I ought to be happy, too, God knows! But ” She put her hand upon his lips. “God does know. And I know, too. Many things are very hard for you to bear—ranch harder for you than for me. We will not speak of them; we will just bear them. We can bear them, I think, together.” “Yes, my darling.” And after that he made no more "misanthropic” speeches for the whole evening.

(To be continued.)

Rather a Damper.

A newly-married pair who arrived on their honeymoon trip at a certain celebrated watering place, at a time when accommodation was at a premium, had a mattress spread for them by a compassionate Innkeeper in one of his baths. In the middle of the night the house was alarmed by loud shrieks proceeding from the nuptial chamber. What was th matter? Well, this—the young bride, wishing to ring the bell for her maid, had caught hold of what she supposed to be a bell rope, and pulled it smartly. Unhappily for her and her spouse, It was the cord of the shower bath above their heads, and forthwith down plumped such a deluge of cold water as would throw' a damper upon the most devoted of honeymoon couples. Her husband, in his dismay, caught frantically at another cord on his side of the extemporized couch, but tho only response was an equally liberal deluge of water, this time pearly boiling hot The unhappy pair screamed In unison. The bride, in the excitement of the moment uttered sentiments anything but complimentary to her spouse. When tho servants came they were just in time to rescue the unhappy pair from drowning, for the room was already full of water, and the wife was perched like a monkey on her husband’s nock, uttering lamentable cries, while her good man was fumbling in tho dark trying to find the door. Let us hope that the subsequent wedded life of this unfortunate couple may be happier than its commencement

Conveyed a Wrong Impression.

Justice Gaynor of the Supreme Court addressed the student# of the law department of the University of the City of New York at their last commence, ment In Carnegie Hall. He read big address from manuscript. It was a long address, and when he got well into it he had occasion to make this statement: “The first thing I did when I became a lawyer was ”

Here he paused, took up a glass of water and swallowed a mouthful. Tho effect was electrical. The audience roared with laughter and applauded for a full five minutes. Justice Gaynor was stunned for a few minutes at the outburst. Then he found voice to say: “Well, better that than something else.” He then went on with bis address, and It appeared that he really intended to say that he attributed a great deal of bls success to the fact that he was especially prompt in turning over some money which he had collected to the man to whom It belonged.—New York Sun.

Which?

That the average negro is inclined to be lazy, and that he also has a keen sense of the ludicrous, is shown by the following story received directly from the Ups of an old “uncle,” who vouches far its truth: “Unc’ Toby,” a man for whom Bartlett’s Creek has more attractions than the hot and grassy cotton field, not long ago took a “day off” in pursuit of his favorite amusement He baited his hook, and long and patiently sat upon the bank of the stream, vainly waiting for a bite. At last under the combined influence of the warmth of the day and the sluggish movements of the stream, Une’ Toby fell asleep. Eternal vigilance is the price of trout and while our weary angler slept an enormous fish took the bait and puUed him Into the creek. Of course this awakened the old man, and he was overheard to inquire, as he floundered about in the water: “For de Lord’s sake, Toby, am dis nlggah a-fishin’, or am dis fish a-nig-gerin’?”

Untrod, by Human Foot

The Devil's Tower is a geological wonder on the Belle Fouchre River in the Black Hills region, of which a geologist of International reputation said: "It is a remarkable freak of nature and appears not to have been repeated elsewhere on the earth’s surface, but stands alone, unique and mysterious.” It is believed to be the cone of a cooled down volcano. At a distance it looks like a huge cask or barrel made of gigantic timbers, the sides being roughly furrowed with crystals of trachyte. Its height is 625 feet and the walls on all sides are so nearly smooth and perpendicular that no human being has ever been able to climb to the top. Its diameter at the base is 796 feet and at the summit (estimated) 350 feet—fit Louis Republic.

SPIDER FARM.

A QUEER INDUSTRY IN PENNSYLVANIA. An Old Frenchman Sells the Spiders to Wine Merchants-- Making Now Bottles Look Like Old. There is but one s ider farm in the United States. As far as a writer for the Philadelphia Press can learn there are only two in the world. One has only to go four miles from Philadelphia on the old Lancaster pike and ask for the farm of Pierre Grantaire to see what can be foupd nowhere else in tliis country, and abroad only in a little French village in the department of the Loire. Pierre Grantaire furnishes spiders at so much per hundred for distribution in the wine vaults of the merchant and the nouveaux riche. His trade is chiefly with the wholesale merchant, who is able to stock a cellar with new, shining, freshly labelled bottles, and in three months see them veiled In filmy cobwebs, so that the effect of twenty years of storage is secured at a small cost. The Lancaster pike is an old, old highway that trembled to the tramp of marching columns in the Revolution. In one of the low, stone farmhouses, huge as to chimney, lives Pierre Cifantaire, a veteran of the French army, who was conscripted as a middle aged man from his father’s farm in ’7O to fight the Prussians. For ten years he has lived here, a rather unique figure among the matter of fact farmers around him.

Old Grantaire has a wonderful vegetable farm, and sends in the choicest “green stuff" that is displayed in the Philadelphia markets. His neighbors know that he is a market gardener, and also raises mushrooms, and rather envy him the returns from his squabs, that retail at sixty cents a pair this time of year. But few of them know of the spider raising industry, which makes a substantial part of Pierre’s business. It is not to the old man's interest to have this advertised, and he seldom takes a caller into the two rooms of his dwelling where his multi-legged pets cover the walls and weave their gossamer patterns everywhere. It was a bit shuddering for the visitor, who had been brought up to smash a spider with a slipper or whatever came handiest, to be brought into a room where there were spiders in front of him, spiders to the rear of him, myriads of spiders on even' hand.

The walls were covered by wire squares from six inches to a foot across, like magnified sections of the wire fence used to enclose poultry yards. Behind these wire screens the walls had been covered with rough planking. There were cracks between the boards, apparently left with design, and their weather beaten surfaces were dotted with knotholes and splintered crevices. Long tables running the length of the room were covered with small wire frames, wooden boxes and glass jars. All of these wires in the room were covered over by patterns of lace tracery, in the geometrical outlines fashioned by the spider artists, inspired by the mysterious Instinct which has made them weave their filmy snares in the same fashion since the world began. The sunlight streamed through the open door and the room seemed hung with curtains of elfin woven lacework. The king of the fairy palace rapped his stubby pipe against the door, and the webs were dotted with black spots as the spiders scampered from their retreats in the wall cracks and a score of villainous looking pets as big as half dollars emerged from their crannies on the table and clustered against their glass roofing. “They think I feed them now,’’ said Pierre, “but I fool them for you. They have brains, these little creatures. Ah, they are cunning! After you see them and I tell you of them you will never crush them more; you will say, “The spider can teach me something. I will watch him. He is a diplomat, an architect, a mathematician. His knowledge is worth having. Don’t knock him off. He will not bite you. They are harmless. He wishes to make your acquaintance.’’ “You wish to know of the business first? That is like you people —money first, then the sentiment. There are 2,000 spiders in this room, all raising families and minding their own business. Is not that a teaching to the world and a lesson already? You see, in these frames I breed my pets, and when the infants are big enough to run about I take them into the next room, where they can set up for themselves, as you say. It is from there I sell most. They are great cannibals, my pets; they eat their children and the children each other. So I must get a good price for those that survive their childhood.

“ It is not all kinds of spiders that make webs. There are those that live in holes in the ground, and make for themselves trap doors, and some make soft nests in cracks, while others spin small homes in the grass or in the room corner. No, indeed; I have sought out kinds that weave themselves fine large webs of lines and circles. They only look artistic in the wine cellar or on the bouteille. They are the selected ones. “A customer comes to me. He is a wine merchant from New York or Philadelphia, or perhaps he writes. He says that he has just stocked a cellar with five-year-old port or Burgundy, or something else. The bottles have been brushed clean in shipping. They look new and common. They will not sell for old wine. He has attached to them labels of twenty, thirty or forty years ago, some year of a grand vintage. He tells me so many hundred bottles. I know how many of my pets will soon cover his cellar in cobwebs of the finest old kind. I put them in little small paper boxes, a pair in a box. I ship them in a crate, with many holes for air. Maybe I send two, three, four hundred spiders. For them I ask half a franc each. $lO for every hundred. In two months you would think this cellar was not disturbed for the last fifty years. It has cost him S4O or SSO maybe, but he may sell the wine for sl,ooo—yes, more than that—above what they had

brought without my pets had dressed the bottles in the robes ol long ago. - ’

JOHNSONS INAUGURATION.

The Vice President Was Not Sober When He Took the Oath. Noah Brooks tells the following story in his personal reminiscences of Lincoln in the Century: All eyes were turned to the main entrance, where, precisely on the stroke of 12, appeared Andrew Johnson, Vice President elect, arm in arm with Hannibal Hamlin, whose term of office was now expiring. They took seats together on the dais of the presiding officer, and Hamlin made a brief and sensible speech, and Andrew Johnson, whose face was extraorordinarily red, was presented to take the oath. It is needless to say here that the unfortunate gentleman, who had been very ill, was not altogether sober at this most important moment of his life. In order to strengthen himself for the physical and mental ordeal through which he was about to pass he had taken a stiff drink of whisky in the room of the Vice President, and the warmth of the Senate chamber, together with other physical conditions, had sent the fiery liquor to his brain. He was evidently intoxicated. As he went on with his speech, he turned upon the cabinet officers and addressed them as “Mr. Stanton,” “Mr. Seward,” etc., without the official handles to their hames. Forgetting Mr. Welles’ name, he said, “and you, too, Mr.”—then leaning over to Col. Forney, he said, “What is the name of the Secretary of the Navy?” and then continued as though nothing had happened. Once in a while, from the reporter’s gallery, I could observe Hamlin nudging Johnson from behind, reminding him him that the hour for the inauguration ceremony had passed. The speaker kept on, although President Lincoln sat before him, patiently waiting for his extraordinary harangue to be over.

The study of the faces below was interesting. Seward was as bland and serene as a summer day; Stanton appeared to be petrified; Welles’ face was usually void of any expression ; Speed sat with his eyes closed; Dennison was red and white by turns. Among the Union Senators Henry Wilson’s face was flushed; Sumner wore a saturnine and sarcastic smile; and most of the others turned and twisted in their senatorial chairs as if in long drawn agony. Of the Supreme Bench, Judge Nelson only was apparently moved, his lower jaw being dropped clean down in blank horror. Chase was marble, adamant, granite in immobility until Johnson turned his back upon the Senate to take the oath, when he exchanged glances with Melson, who then closed up his mouth. When Johnson had repeated inaudibly the oath of office, his hand upon the book, he turned and took the Bible in his hand, and facing the audience, said with a loud, theatrical voice and gesture, “I kiss this book in the face of my nation of the United States.”

Wanted to Die Rich.

Many years ago, according to one of the yarns of the sea told by mariners who claimed to have been present, a little British ship having on board a large consignment of Spanish dollars for a house in Rio Janeiro was wrecked on the Brazilian coast. Hoping to save some of his precious cargo the Captain ordered one of the casks containing the gold brought on deck, but the vessel was so badly wrecked by the continuous pounding on the rocks that it was soon found necessary to take to the boats without any of the treasure. As the last boat was about to leave the illfated craft, one of the officers to make sure that no one was left on board, went back to make a last tour of the ship. To his surprise, sitting beside one of the casks with a hatchet in his hand, he found one of the sailors.

“Hurry up!” cried the officer. “We came within an ace of going off without you.” “I’m not going,” replied the sailor, giving the cask a hearty whack with the hatchet, bursting it open, and laughing with delight as the coin poured out around him. “I’ve always wanted to die rich. I’ve been poor all my life, and this is my first and last chance. Go ahead, I’ll stay here with my fortune. ” Argue as he might, the officer could not persuade the fellow to leave the gold with which he played as a child with marbles, and he finally had to leave him to his fate.

Nickel Steel Frames.

The construction of the yacht Valkyrie 111. is at last definitely known. She is of composite build, with keel, stem, sternpost and deadwoods of teak; frames, stringers and ties of nickel steel and wood planking. 'Rhe keel was cast about March 4; the wood keel has been bolted to the lead, and the stem and sternpost set up, the frames riveted and set up and the ribbands run. In model the new boat is similar to Britannia and Valkyrie, a keel cutter, but with her leading features carried to a greater extreme. The original report that she was to be plated with nickel steel was doubted at the time, and now the wisdom of the doubt is shown. Nickel steel has greater tensile strength than plain steel, and therefore allows the use of a smaller and lighter frame. Ailsa’s frames are also of nickel steel, and it would not be at all surprising to find that the frames of the new Herreshoft cup defender are of the same material. Exact information on the latter point is not obtainable, but the cup defender’s frames are certainly very light in color for plain steel, and come much nearer nickel steel in looks. They are also of unusually small size, and this would seem to further indicate the use of nickel steel.

Lonely Mont Blanc.

The highest peak in Europe, Mont Blanc, has been ascended thirty-nine times in 1894. Fifty-eight persons reached the summit. Among them were eighteen French, fourteen Americans, fourteen English, eight Germans, two Russians, one Austri-

an, and one Swiss. Three ladies braved the cold, the hardships and difficulties, so as to be numbered among the successful tourists. The last ascension in 1894 was made on November 4 by Guide Payot and three carriers, who carried up the scientific instruments for the observatory on the summit. They remained at the building three days to arrange everything in the rooms that are to be turned over to public use next summer.

RODE A DEER.

Perilous Adventure of a Hunter in Florida. James L. Harn, of Fort Myers, Fla., took a Mazeppalike ride on the neck of a deer that came near costing him his life. Mr. Harn and Dr. T. E. Langford were out hunting, when they saw a fine buck quietly feeding half a mile away. It was agreed that Harn should stalk the deer, while Langford remained with the horses. Accordingly Harn dismounted and began to approach the deer, which, in the meantime, had moved so that it was no longer visible. After half an hour Langford heard a shot and supposed Harn had killed the deer. A few minutes later he heard a cry for help, and Immediately after saw the deer come tearing through the brush with Harn clinging to its neck. At every bound Harn was being terribly lacerated by the sharp hoofs of the deer and the brush. The direction in which the deer was moving would cause it to pass within fifty yards of Langford, and the latter resolved to attempt to shoot the animal as it came by. The doctor realized that the bullet might hit Harn, but felt it was the only chance to save his friend’s life. Accordingly, as the buck with its human burden came bounding past Langford took careful aim and fired. The shot was successful, and with the next bound the deer fell dead. Langford hastened to Harn’s aid, and found him in a terribly lacerated condition. His clothing had been torn from him and his skin cut to shreds by either the hoofs of the deer or the brush. While suffering much agony from his injuries, Harn will recover. Harn says when he fired the deei fell, and supposing the animal dead he approached to cut its throac. As he reached the buck it sprang to its feet and darted at him. Harn instinctively threw his arms about the deer’s neck and then came the ride through the brush. Harn was afraid to let go, lest the buck should paw him to death. Dr. Langford’s shot was a lucky one, the bullet entering just behind the shoulder of the deer.

Wood Pulp.

More than 50 per cent, of the saw mill owners to-day would make more money to sell their logs to be manufactured into wood pulp and paper than they can possibly expect to secure through sales of the same in the form of manufactured lumber. The wood pulp industry has far outstripped the manufactured lumber industry. One factor in the pulp and paper business is not always recognized by the owners of spruce forests. When a pulp mill grinds up a million feet of logs into paper product, and the same is sold to the great newspaper corporations and printed upon day after day, that paper practically goes out of existence. Few think of saving a newspaper. The individual newspaper reader throws his paper, after reading, into the waste basket or kindles a fire with it, or it becomes the property of the old junk dealer, and practically passes out of existence. On the other hand the piece of lumber which is manufactured goes into a substantial building, which lasts for generations. So that the great consumption of spruce for pnlp and paper really amounts to so much raw material taken out of the market forever, and practically wasted, so far as any subsequent use to which it may be applied is concerned.—Manufacturers Gazette.

The Use of the Hump.

These are some men in this world who can answer any question that is put to them, and sometimes when they do not really know what they are talking about they will give answers that are not at all bad. One of these persons was once a keeper of the London Zoo. He was pestered to death by the questions which people asked, but he always gave an answer. On a recent occasion a countryman strolled in, and after looking curiously at the camel for a few moments he turned to the keeper and said: “I say, mister, what’s he have a hump for?” “What does he have a hump for?” repeated the keeper. “Yes. What’s the good of it?” asked the visitor. “Why—er—it makes a camel of him, of course, ” replied the keeper, after some hesitation. “People wouldn’t travel miles to see him if he didnt have that hump. Fact is, without it he might as well be a cow.” The stranger departed very well satisfied.

A Study in Grammar.

A teacher in one of the lower grades of a city school was endeavoring to impress upon her puplls'the fact that a plural subject takes a verb in the plural. “ Remember this,” she said ;J“girls are, boys are; a girl is, a boy is. Now, do you understand it?” Every hand in the room was raised in assent. “Well, then,” continued the teacher, “who can give me a sentence with girls—plural, remember?’’ This time only one hand was raised, and that belonged to a pretty little miss. “Please, ma’am,” she said, with all the assurance of a primitive reasoning, “I can give a sentence. ‘Girls, are my hat on straight?’ ” A chain of small daisies between two flexible gold bands composes a new bracelet of an admired style.

FOR THE YOUNG FOLKS.

THE FROG’S TALE. A pert little frog, In a green little coat, As tidy as ever was seen, Hopped out of the bog, saying? “Kerchug, kerchug, a bug, a bug, I’m after a good juicy bug.” A bug he soon spied, By the dusty road side; Sipping the sweets from a rose; But he quickly passed by, saying? “Kerehee, kerchee, a bee, a bee, I’ve no taste for a big bumble bee/’ A goose sauntered by, With a loud hissing cry, And swallowed the poor little frog; No more he’ll hop out saying: “Kerchug, kerchug, a bug, a bug,” Nor flee from a big bumble bee.

A CAT THAT WHISTLES.

Little Frank Lawrence is a Brooklyn boy, and next to his toys he loves most his pet Maltese cat Ajax. Brooklyn swarms with cats, but Ajax is unique among felines, for he possesses a marvelous gift. In a word,* Ajax is a whistler. Now’, you must admit that a cat who can whistle is no ordinary tabby, and so there is reason in little Frank Lawrence’s affection for his puss.

Just how Ajax produces the strange whistling noise which has won him so much fame in the neighborhood of the Lawrence household even Mr. Jenks, the taxidermist, who lives next door, cannot explain. Just the same Ajax whistles, and whistles not very loud to be sure, but a clear whistle, none the less. Of course, the remarkable cat has not yet learned to trill a popular melody or even a consecutive bar of music, but little Frink says that some day he hopes to put Ajax on the stage with a complete repertory of music suitable for the pointed lips of a cat.

THE IBEX. The ibex, or steinbok, is an Alpine animal remarkable for the development of its horns, which are sometimes more than three feet in length, and of such extraordinary dimensions that they appear to a casual observer to be peculiarly unsuited for a quadruped w’hich traverses the craggy regions of Alpine precipices. Some writers Jsay that these enormous horns are employed by their owner as “buffers,” by which the force of a fall may be broken; and that the animal, when leaping from a great height, will alight on its horns, and by their elastic strength be guarded from the severity of a shock that would instantly kill any animal not so defended. This statement, however, is but little credited. To hunt the ibex successfully is as hard a matte'r as hunting the chamois, for the ibex is to the full as wary and active an animal, and is sometimes apt to turn the tables on its pursuer and assume the offensive. Should the hunter approach too near the ibex, the animal will, as if suddenly urged by the reckless courage of despair, dash boldly forward at its foe, and strike him from the precipitous rock over which he is forced to pass. The difficulty of the chase is further increased by the fact that the ibex is an animal of remarkable powers of endurance, and is capable of abstaining- from food or water for a considerable time. They live in little bands of five or ten in number, each troop being under command of an old male, and preserving admirable order among themselves. Their sentinel is ever on the watch, and at the slightest suspicious sound, scent, or object, the warning whistle is blown, and the whole troop make instantly for the highest attainable point.

FISHERMEM OF LABRADOR. A Labrador fishing stage usually consists of a long, low frame house, and little one room huts, or “tilts,” as they are called. The house is used as a store and dwelling for the agent of the Newfoundland merchant who has fitted up the stage. All the fishermen who occupy the tilts work for the merchant, and are paid for their fish in provisions from the store. The tilts are like those seen in the Newfoundland fishing and mining outposts (every settlement in Newfoundlanttexcept St. John’s is an outpost). The sides are logs set upright and supporting sod covered roofs—wretched abodes at the best. Along the Straits of Belle Isle the Labrador coast is fringed with a strip of coarse grass land, and here you may see an occasional small vegetable garden surrounded by a fish net for a fence. At Blanc Sablon I saw a desolate little burying ground amid the swaying rushes. Near by lay a couple of worn out boats, bottom up, and nets spread over the ground to dry. Here, too, I saw for the first time the dapper little Labrador gasher— a small fishing craft not much larger than a dory, but with sharp prow and stern, and two masts fitted with reddish brown sails. These are telling bits of color when the gashers skim over the deep blue water, with the foam streaking along their quarters and glittering in their wake. Altogether it was a varied scene; the headland, from a staff on which there fluttered the flag of the merchant who owned the “outfit” ; the gashers dashing in and out among the punts and jacks (stoutly built two stickers larger than the gashers); a fishing schooner with furled sails, but with toil-stained nets streaming from her spars in an endless variety of lights and shadows, according as the meshes twisted or bulged in the breeze; and in the distance the exquisite green and white spires of an iceberg. A note of toil drones through it all, however; for women are sawing fad chopping wood while the men are hauling tlxe nets. A curious implement of fishing in these waters is a spy-glass with plain window-glass in place of a len. A man in the bow of a fishing boat thrusts the glass in the water, and peering through it discovers whether there are- fish enough on the bottom to make it worth while to anchor, for anchoring in deep water is a toilsome matter. Short jacket suits in duck or cotton cheviot will be worn this summer. Very effective capes are made of a bright colored clothj with an applique of black cloth upon it traced with jet beads.