Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 November 1898 — Page 7

By The Duchess.

CHAPTER I. “A letter from my father,” says Mr. Monkton, flinging the letter in question •cross the breakfast table to his wife. “A letter from Sir George!” Her dark, pretty face flushes crimson. “And such a letter after eight years of obstinate silence. There! read it,” says her husband, contemptuously. The contempt is all for the writer of the letter. Mrs. Monkton taking it up, with a most honest curiosity, thnt .might almost be termed anxiety, reads it through, and, In turn, flings it from her, as though it had been a scorpion. “Never mind, Jack!” says she, with a great assumption of indifference that does not hide from her husband the fact that her eyes are full of tears. “Butter that bit of toast for me before it is quite cold, »nd give Joyce some ham.” “Have you two been married eight whole years V” asked Joyce, laying her elbows on the table, and staring at her sister with an astonished gaze. “Ft seems Hke yesterday! To look at Barbara, one would not believe she could have beeD born eight yenrs ago.” “Nonsense!” says Mrs. Monkton, laughing! and looking as pleased as married women, even the happiest, always do when they are told they look unmarried. “Why, Tommy is seven years old, and there’s Mabel, too!” “Oh! That’s nothing!” says Joyce, airily, turning her dark eyes, that are lovelier, if possible, than her sister’s, upon the sturdy child who is sitting at his father’s right hand. “Tommy, we all know, is much older than his mother. Much more learned in the wisdom of this world.” “Thomas!” says his father, with a rueful shake of the head: “It is a pity that I am not like my father!” "Like him! Oh, no,” says Mrs. Monkton, emphatically, impulsively; the latent dislike to the family who had refused to recognize her on her marriage with their •on, taking fire at this speech. Her voice sounds almost hard—the gentle voice, that in truth was only meant by her Mother Nature to give expression to all things kind and loving. - “But why not, my dear?” says Mr. Monkton, magisterially. "Surely, considering all things, you have reason to be deeply grateful to Sir George. Why, then, abuse him? Why, he ” “Grateful! To Sir George! To yonr father!” cries his wife, hotly and quick. “Freddy!” from his sister-in-law brings him to a full stop for a moment. “Do you mean to tell me,” says he. brought to bay, “that you have nothing to thank Sir George for?” He is addressing his wife. "Nothing, nothing!” declares she, vehemently, the remembrance of thnt last letter from her husband’s father that still lies, within reach of her view, lending a •uspieion of passion to her voice. “Oh, .my dear girl, consider!” says Mr. Monkton, lively reproach in his tone. “Has he not given you me, the best husband in Europe?” “Ah, what it is to be modest,” says Joyce, with her little quick; brilliant laugh. “Well, it’s not true,” says Mrs. Monkton. who has laughed also, in spite of herself and the soreness at her heart. “He did not give you to me. You made me thnt gift of your own free will. I have, as I said before, nothing to thank him for.” 1 “I always think* he must be a silly old man,” says Joyce, which seems to put a fitting termination to the conversation. Mr. Monkton rises from the table, and his wife rises, too, “You are going to your study?” asks •he, a little anxiously. lie is about to •ay “no” to this, but a glance at her face checks him.

"Yes, come with me,” says ho, instead, answering the lovely silent appeal in her eyes. That letter hns no doubt distressed her. She will be happier when she has talked it over with him —they two alone. “He will always have it in his power to annoy me,” says she, quickly. “That, perhaps," with a little burst of feeling, “is why I can't forgive him. If I could forget or grow iudifferent to it all. I should not have this hurt feeling in my heart. But be is your father, and though he is the most unjust, the crudest man on earth, I still hate to think he should regard me as he docs.” .t/ .. “There is one thing, however, you forget,” says Mr. Monkton, gravely. “I don’t want to apologize for him, but I would' remind ydu that he has never seen you.” “I shall never go to England to see him. I shall stay in Ireland always. My own land; the land he despises, the land whose people he detests because he knows nothing about* them. It was one of his chief objections to your marriage with me that I was an Irish girl!” “Barbara,” says Monkton, very gently but with a certain reproach, “you almost make me think that you regret our marriage^’ “No, I don’t," quickly. “If I talked forever, I shouldn’t be able to make you think that. But ” She turns to Ipm and gazes at him through large eyes that are heavy with tears. “I shall always be aorry for one thing, and that is-rthat you first met me where you did.” “At your aunt’s? Mrs. Burke’s?” ‘•‘She is not my aunt,” with a little frowq of distaste; “she is nothing to me ao far as blood is concerned. Oh! Freddy!” She stops close to him and gives him a grief-stricken -glance. “I wish my poor father had been alive when fifst you saw me. That we could have met for the first time in the old home. It was shabbyfaded”—her face paling now with intense emotion —“but you would have known at once that it had been a fine old place, and

A LIVING LIE

that the owner of it——” She breaks down, very slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Monkton understands that even one more word is beyond her. “That the owner of it, like St. Patrick, came of decent people,” quotes he, with an assumption of gayety he is far from feeling. “My poor child, I don’t want to see any one to know that of you. You carry the sign manual. It is written in large characters all over you.” # “Yet I wish you had known me before my father' died,” says she, her grief and pride still unassuaged. “He was so jinlike everybody else. His manners were ho lovely. He was offered a baronetcy at the end of that Whiteboy business, on account of his loyalty, that nearly cost him his life, but he refused it’, thinking the old name good enough without a handle to it.” “Kavauaghf we all know, is a good name.” “If he had,accepted that title he would have been as —the same —as your father!” There is defiance in this sentence. “Quite the same.” “No. no, he could not,” her defiance now changes into a sorrowful honesty. “Your father has been a baronet for centuries; my father would have only been a baronet for a few years.” “Well, never mind that. I’ve got you. Without any gross flattery, I consider you worth a dozen dads.” “And yet your father ” “I know,” rising to his feet, his brow darkening. “Do you think I don’t suffer doubly on your account? That I don’t feel the insolence of his behavior toward you fourfold? There is but one excuse for him and my mother, and that lies in their terrible disappointment about my brother —their eldest son.” “I know; you have told me,” begins she, quickly, but he interrupts her. “Yes, I have been more open with you than you with me. I feel no pride where you are concerned. Of course my brother’s conduct toward them is no excuse for their conduct toward you, but when one has a sore heart one is apt to be unjust, and many other things. You know what a heart-break he has been to the old people, and is. A gambler, a dishonorable gambler!” He turns away from her, and his nostrils dilate a little; his right hand grows clinched. “Every spare penny they possess had been paid over to him or his creditors, and they are not overburdened with riches. They had set their hearts on him and all their hopes, and when he failed them they fell back on me. The name is an old one; money was-wanted. They had arranged a marriage for me that would have been worldly wise. I, too, disappointed them.” “Oh!” she has sprung to her feet, and is staring at him with horrified eyes. "A marriage! There was some one else! Did yon ever mention this before?” “Now, Barbara, don’t be the baby your name implies,” says he, placing her firmly back in her seat. “I didn’t marry that heiress, you know, which is proof that I loved you, not her.” “But she—-she ” she stammers and ceases suddenly, looking at him with a glance full of question. Woman-like, everything has given way to the awful thought that this unknown had not been unknown to him—and that perhaps he had admired —loved — “Couldn’t hold a candle to yon,” says he, laughing in spite of himself at her expression, which, indeed, is nearly tragic. “You needn't smother yourself with charcoal because of her. She had made her pile, or rather her father had, at Birmingham or elsewhere. I never took the trouble to Inquire, and she was undoubtedly solid in every way, but I don’t care for the female giant; and so I—you know the rest—l met you; I tell you this only to soften your heart, if possible, toward these lonely, imbittered old people of mine.” “Do you mean that when your brother disheartened them that they ” s he pauses. “No. They enuldn’t make me their heir. The property is strictly entailed. You need not make yourself miserable imagining you have done me out of anything more than their good will. George will inherit ’whatever he has left them to leave.” “It is sad,” says she, with downcast eyes. “Yes. He has been a constant source of annoyance to them ever since he left Eton.” “Where is he now’?” “Abroad, I believe. In Italy, somewhere, or France—not far from a gaming table, you may be sure. But I know nothing very exactly, as he does not correspond with me, and that letter of this morning is the first I have received from my father for four years.” “He must, indeed, hate me,” says she, in a low tone. “His elder son such a failure, and you—he considers you a failure, too.” “Well, I don’t consider myself so,” says he, gayly. “They were in want of money, and you —you married a girl without a penny.” “I married a girl who was in herself a mine of gold,” returns he, laying his hands on her shoulders arid giving her a little shake. “Come, never mind that letter, darling; what does it matter, when all is said and done? What a heart is yours!” says he, drawing her to him. “Barbara, surely I shall shall not die until they have met you and learned why I loved you.” CHAPTER 11. Joyce is running through the garden, all the sweet, wild winds oif heaven playing round her. They are a little wild still. It is the end of lovely May, but, though languid summer is almost with us, a suspicion of her more sparkling sister, spring, fills the air. Miss Ivavnnagh has caught up the tail of her gown and is flying as if for dear life. Behind her comes the foe, fast and furious. Tommy, indeed, is now dangerously close at her heels, armed with a ferocious looking garderi fork, his face crimson, his eyes glowing with the ardor of the chase; Mabel, much in the background, making a bad third.

Miss Kavanagh is growing distinctly) ont of breath. In another moment Tommy; will have her. By this time ne nas fully worked himself into the belief that she is a red Indian, and his lawful frey, and ig prepared to make a tomahawk of his fork, and, having felled her, to scalp her some] how, when Providence shows her a corner round a rhododendron bush that may her for the moment. Shp makes for it, gains it, dashes round it, and all but pre-i cipitates herself into the arms of a young man who has t>een walking leisurely toward her. He is a tall young man, decidedly good to look at, with honest hazel eyes and a shapely head, and altogether very well set up. As a rule he is one of the most cheer] ful people alive, and a tremendous favor] ite in liis regiment, the Hussars, though just now it might suggest itself to the in] telligent observer that he considers he ha* been hardly used. A very little more haste, and that precipitation must have taken place. He had made an instinctive movement toward her with protective arms outstretched; but, though a little cry had escaped her, she had maintained her balance, and now stands looking at him with laughing eyes and panting breath, and two pretty hands pressed against her bosom. '• Mr. Dysart lets his disappointed arms fall to his sides and assumes the aggrieved ! air of one who has been done out of a good thing. “You!” says she, when at last she can speak. “I suppose,” returns he, discontentedly. He might just as well have been any one else, or anywhere else —such a chance — and gone! “Never were you so welcome!” cries she, dodging behind him, as Tommy, fully armed, and all alive, comes tearing round the corner. “Mr. Dysart will protect me—won’t you, Mr. Dysart?” to the young man, who says “Yes,” without stirring a muscle. He would have died at his present post willingly, because she has laid her dainty fingers on his shoulders, standing behind him, from which safe position she mocks at Tommy with security. Were the owner of the shoulders to stir, the owner of the fingers might remove those delightful members. Need it be said that, with this awful possibility before him, Mr. Dysart is prepared to die at his post rather than budge an inch? The fingers have been removed from his shoulders, and he is now free to turn and look at the charming face behind him. “I’ve been rude, I suppose; but it is such a wonderful thing to see you here so soon again,” she says. “I have only been to town and back again.” “What town?” “Eh? What town?” says he, astonished. "London, you know.” “No, I don’t know,” says Miss Kavanagh, a little petulantly. “One would think there was only one town in the world, and that all you English people had the monopoly of it. There are other towns, I suppose. Even the poor Irish insignificants have a town or two. Dublin comes under that head, I suppose?” "“Undoubtedly. Of course,” making great haste to abase himself. “It is mere snobbery our making so much of London. A kind of despicable cant, you know.” “Well, after all, I expect it is a big place in every way,” says Miss Kavanagh, so far mollified by his admission as to be able to allow him something. “It’s a desert,” says Tommy, turning to his aunt, with all the air of one who is ! about to impart to her useful information. “It’s raging with wild beasts. They roam to and fro and are at their wits’ ends ” Here Tommy, who is great on Bible history, but occasionally gets mixed, stops short. “Father says they're there,” he ( winds up, defiantly. | “Wild beasts!” echoes Mr. Dysart, be- i wildered. “Is this the teaching about ; their Saxon neighbors that the Irish ehil- j dren receive at the hands of their parents and guardians? Oh, well, come now, Tommy, really, you know ” “Yes; they are there,” says Tommy, rebelliously. “Frightful creatures! Bears! 1 They’d tear you in bits if they could get j at you. They'-have no reason in them, i father says. And they climb up posts and roar at people.” “Oh! nonsense!” says Mr. Dysart “There isn’t a word of truth in it, Tommy.” “There is!” says Monkton, Jr., wagging his head indignantly. “Father told me.” “Father told us,” repeats the small Mabel, who has just come up. “And father says, too, that the reason they are so wicked is because they want their freedom!” says Tommy, as though this is an unanswerable argument. “Oh, I see! The Socialists!” says Mr. Dysart. "Yes; a troublesome pack! But still, to call them wild beasts ” “They are wild beasts,” says Tommy, prepared to defend his position to the last. “They’ve got manes and horns and tails!” “He’s romancing,” says Mr. Dysart, looking at Joyce. (To be continued.)

Queer Story of Two Lakes.

The Wetternsee in Sweden, like so many other lakes, has long enjoyed the local reputation of being a bottomless pit The Swedish scientists have now destroyed the venerable legend, for In the measurements taken a few days ago they have successfully demonstrated that the greatest depth of the lake is only 119 meters. There still remains, however, a series of mysteries whrcli seience must be content to leave unsolved—at least for a time. It is not only a legendary belief, but there is a quasi-scientifle ground for the queer supposition that living creatures, animal and vegetable, can and do make journeys to and fro between the high northern Lake of Wettern and the South German Lake of Constance. This bold conclusion has been partly Justified by the appearance of exactly the same fauna, and even of the same animal life, in the Swedish and the Swabian seas. It is even asserted that whenever there is a storm on the Lake of Constance the Lake of Wettern begins sympathetically to roll and swell, and that the southern lake is similarly moved by any agitation In the distant northern lake. The Kleine Zeitung soberly declares this sympathetic phenomenon to be a known fact, but considerately adds that we have to wait some time for the rational explanation of it.—London News.

A Russian Custom.

A Russian family, when moving to a new home, kindles the fire on the hearth with coal* brought from the old residence.

FOR THE CHILDREN.

Description of a Remarkable Room in a Buddhist Temple. In Osaka is the famous temple Tennpjl, the most remarkable part of which, to Western eyes, Is Its bell-tow-er, a two-story, Cliinese-looking structure, where there is a bell called the Indo-no-Kane, or Guiding Bell, because its sound Is supposed to guide the ghosts of children through the dark. Says Lafcadio Hearn: The lower chamber of the bell-tower Is fitted up as a eliapel, and as I stopped before the entrance to observe the image in the shrine I suddenly became aware of the unfamiliar, the astonishing. On shelves and stands at either side of the shrine, and above it and below it and beyond it, were ranged hundreds of children’s mortuary tablets, and with them thousands of toys—little horses and dogs and cows, and warriors and drums and trumpets and pasteboard armor and wooden swords, and dolls and kites, and masks, and monkeys. and models of boats, and baby tea-sets and baby furniture—toys modern and toys of a forgotten fashion, toys accumulated through centuries, toys of whole generations of dead children.

From the ceiling and close to the entrance hung a heavy bell-rope, nearly four inches in diameter apd of many colors—the rope of the Indo-no-Kane. Anil that rope was made of the bibs of dead children—yellow, blue, scarlet, purple bibs, and bibs of all intermediate shades. The ceiling itself was invisible, hidden by hundreds of tiny dresses suspended there-the dresses of dead children.

Little boys and girls, kneeling or playing on the matting beside the priest, had brought toys with them to be deposited in the chapel before the tablet of some lost brother or sister. Every monient some bereaved father or mother would come to the door, pull the bell-rope, throw some copper money on the matting and make a prayer. Each time the bell sounds some little ghost is believed to hear, perhaps even to find its way back for one more look at loved toys and faces. The clanging of the bell, the deep humming of the priest's voice reciting the service, the tinkle of falling coin, the sweet, heavy smell of incense, the passionless, golden beauty of the Buddha in his shrine, tlie colored radiance of the toys, the shadowing of the baby dresses, the tariegated wonder of that bell-rope of bibs, the happy laughter of the little folks at play on the floor—all made for me an experience of weird pathos never to be for gotten.

Old New Bulls.

Some of the English papers are exhibiting a revived interest in Irish “bulls.” The London Telegraph seems to have opened its columns to correspondents, who send tp it the achievements of various Hibernian minds. A great many of those printed are older than any Irishman now living, but some of them are—to us, at least-new. Perhaps the best of them is merely a variation of an old bull* but it is amusing. “I saw some funny things in England when I was over there,” said a Cork man. “The tops of some of the houses were copper - bottomed * will lead.” A gentleman talking of seasickness remarked that ’’nothing on this earth would make him seasick.” This must be a very old bull, for tlie confusion is suggested by the fact that car-sickness is the same malady under a different name. Here is another bull which is an old friend with a new face: The foreman of a grand jury in the West had been presented for some public service with a gold watch, of which he was very proud; and as he displayed it at a dinner of the grand jury; bets were made by members as to whose watch was most accurate. At last some one suggested that it was impossible to decide. “Oh,” said the foreman, "there’s no difficulty about that. There’s a sundial in the garden, and we’ll take a lantern and decide the bets that way.” There were no gold watches in Athens in the age of the literary glory of Greece; but an extremely ancient joke reports the„same suggestion of inspecting a, sun-dial at night to—if we may ,be pardoned a bull of our own—learn the time of day.

The Climate of the Philippines.

Prof. Dean C. Worcester, of the University of Michigan, has written an article on “Knotty Problems ol’ the Philippines.” for the Century. Prof. Worcester says: The first serious obstacle that will be encountered is that presented by the climate. The islands lie wholly within the tropics, and extend on the south to within four and a half degrees of the equator. The heat is trying at the best. Personally I have found the burning sun of the dry season less hard to bear than the “muggy” weather, when bright sunshine alternates with heavy showers, or the rain falls day after day without interruption. One often reads of delightful days and cool nights in the fall and winter months. After spending three and a half years in almost constant travel through tlie archipelago, and visiting every one of the larger islands except Leyte, I can say that I have never yet seen a day when a man could endure hard physical labor without suffering from the heat I have experienced the hot season, the dry season, the wet season, but never yet have I l»een so fortunate as to strike tlie cool seasou.

Remarkable Dogs.

/ In Alaska the breed of dogs is red-disb-brown and the animals arfe as much like wolves as dogs; they are voracious and hardy and a team will dr&w 500 pounds. Forty frozen herring or one salmon will support a dog

for a day. They are not at all affetN tlonate and such a thing as saving a man’s life Is unheard of among them. There is a powerful breed of dogs along Smith’s sound that does not hesitate to attack the most ferocious wild animals. These dogs hunt in pairs and a big bear is a joke to them. One dog can bring down a reindeer and kill It in a few minutes. Their thick coat is tawny in hue and in winter a thick fleece of wool covers them. They look so much like wolves it Is hard to tell what they are at a little distance.

Labrador has dogs so fierce that a log of wood is tied to their necks tc render them less dangerous to men and weaker dogs. In Kamchatka the dogs are severely trained to haul heavy loads across the ice and their tempers get soured, consequently they are sur ly brutes and their drivers manage them by stunning them with blows over the bead, which is not very good for their intellects.

Lapp dogs are about the size of a Scotch terrier and look very much like the lynx, with long shaggy hair ol varied tints. They will fight off the wolves from reindeer. The dogs of Lapland, Iceland and Greenland have long hair, curled tails, pointed noses and ears and remarkably irritable tem pers.

QUEER STORIES

The United States cannot be sued without their consent. Pious Russians do not eat pigeons because of the sanctity conferred on the dove in the Scriptures. Bellows are used as a burglar alarm, the opening of the door closing the bellows and forcing air through a pipe to a whistle. Every soldier knows that a horse will not step on a man Intentionally. It is therefore a standing order in the British cavalry that if a trooper becomes dismounted he must lie perfectly still. If he does this, the whole squadron will pass over him without injuring him. Immense fortunes have been made out of the banana business. Revenues do not accrue alone from the sale of the fruit, for the leaves are used for packing; the juice, being strong In tannin, makes an indelible ink and shoe blacking; the wax found on the under side of the leaves is a valuable article of commerce; manila hemp is made from tlie steins, and of this hemp are made mats, plaited work and lace handkerchiefs of the finest texture; moreover, the banana is ground into banana flour. The fruit to be sold for dessert is ripened by the dry warmth of flaring gas jets in the storage places in which it is kept, and immense care lias to be taken to prevent softening or overripening. A single sniff of highly concentrated prussic acid will kill a man as quickly as a shot through the heart. The odor of a bad egg is due to the presence of sulphurated hydrogen, and the objectionable perfumes of sewers and bone factories are attributable chiefly to the same gas. Chemical laboratories are famous for bad smells. Berzellius, who discovered the element called “selenium,” once tried the experiment of permitting a bubble of pure hydrogen selenide gas to enter his nostrils. For days afterwards he was not able to. smell strong ammonia, the olfactory nerves being temporarily paralyzed. Selenium gas has the odor of putrid horseradish. Tellurium is even worse. There is a story of a physician whose patient, a lady, refused to take an absolute rest because she was ao fond of being always on the go in society. lie gave her a pill containing a small quantity of tellurium, and her breath was affected by it to such an extent that she was not able to appear in public for a mouth. She never guessed what the trouble was.

That Was the Question.

Sandy Me , a Forfarshire farmer, had been spending an hour or two in tlie evening with a friend a couple of miles away. It was a moonlight night, and Sandy, after partaking freely of his friend’s hospitality, was rhling quietly liome across the sheep pastures on his “guid auld mare,” when they came to an open ditch which his mare refused to cross. “Hoot awa’, Maggie,” said the rider, “this winna dae. Ye maun jist gang ower.” He turned lvtck about a hundred yards, wheeled round, and gave the mare a touch of his whip. On she went at a brisk cartter; but just as they reached the edge of the ditch she stopped dead, and shot Sandy clean over to the other side. Gathering himself up, Sandy looked liis mare straight in the face, and said: “Vera weel pitched, indeed, ma lass. But hoo are ye goiu’ to get ower yersel’, eh?”

His Enviable Lot.

Mr. Pitt—Since your friend B 1 inkins married Miss Bonds he Ims been leading the life of * dog. Mr. Penn—l am sorry for him. “I’m not.” “Don’t you sympathize with him?” “Not at all. He has nothing to do but eat, sleep anil amuse himself. It’s the life of a pet pug dog he leads.—Pitts* burg Chronicle-Telegraph.

When He Goes.

“Does your husband ever go to church, Mrs. Badger?” “Qh, yes, he goes quite regularly In the winter tfme.” “Why does he go In the winter time and not at other times?” “Well, you see, he generally has the quinsy when the weather Is raw and thinks he Is going to die.” The man who Is constantly in the public eye is apt to get an occasion*! rub from the public knuckle.

RECORD OF THE WEEK

INDIANA INCIDENTS TERSELY TOLD. ■ fl Kills His Little Girl Friend-Uphold*! the Indeterminate Sentence Act— State's Part in the Sprinish War— J Color Photography at Last. Little Mamie Brown, a child of 2 years, died under most peculiar circumstance*, g Her body was pierced through by a glanc- J ing bullet from a rifle in the hands of a boy friend. Willie Stroud. The aecident,J happened at the home of the parents of the hoy, three miles north of Peru. Wil- X lie, a hoy of 11, went to the yard with hi* ; rifle to shoot a chicken. His mother, lit- : tie Mamie and her mother went out to watch him. He brought the chicken down ; from the tree and Mrs. Brown took it to j the house to dress. Tlie two children and Mrs. Stroud followed. On the way Willie saw a bird on the dinner bell and stopped to try his skill in shooting it. He killed the bird. At the same instant little Mamie, who was a few feet behind, gave a scream. The bullet that killed the bird j struck the bell in such a manner as to be deflected to the child. Indeterminate Law Upheld. The Supreme Court has held that the indeterminate sentence law is not unconstitutional, as an ex-post-fneto law. John F. Davis, a one-armed soldier of Jeffersonville, was convicted of shooting with intent to kill and sentenced by the lower court to from two to fourteen years in prison. He appealed, holding among other. things that the indeterminate sentence law having been passed after the shooting was done could not he made to apply to his case without being an ex-post-facto law, and therefore unconstitutional. The Supreme Court decided against him. Bat the court 'reversed the case because the Circuit Court instructed the jury that a man has no right to defend himself with a deadly weapon against an attack by a person who has no weapon in his hands. Indiana’s War Record. The yearly report of the Adjutant General is a record of Indiana’s part in the war with Spain. It shows that 7,301 men and officers were mustered into the volunteer service from Indiana. There is also included a report of the Surgeon General, which gives the number of men cared for in hospitals in Indianapolis, after the return of the troops, at 378. Of this number 320 have been discharged. Six men died after they came hack to Indianapolis, three deaths being due to typhoid fever. two to malaria and one to pneumonia. New Process in l liotography. Will Free of Madison County has at last discovered a process which all photographers have been working on for years, of photographing on cloth and making colors fast and giving the cloth no discoloration. The Colors are so fast that they will withstand boiling water and are as dear cut as those of any photograph. The discovery will open a new line in fancy pillows. The first displays are made up in pretty pillows, the picture being about life size. Within Oar Border*. Near Peru a new oil field is being opened. Butter from peanuts is the product of a new concern at Kokomo. At Bourbon. Baugher & Lee’s big carriage works burned. The loss is slo,ooo. At Seymour, the livery stable owned by Knox C. Wilson was destroyed by fire; loss $1,500. Charles M. Stewart, prominent in insurance circles in Sullivan, died suddenly of heart failure. While hunting near Evansville, Ed. Gutting accidentally discharged his gun and killed his friend, Harry Minor. While returning from hearing mass said for her husband, Mary Doolan was ground to death by the cars at Shelbyville. Rivalry between two companies has caused a reduction in rates for residence telephone service at 50c a month at Salem. James Hitt, a farm hand at Fritchton, was run over by a Baltimore and Ohio Southwestern train at Vincennes, and w r as instantly killed. Ilis body was cut in two.

A decision of the Circuit Court at Columbus is to the effect that foreign insurance companies doing a loan business in the State must first file their certificate of authority in the county where they purpose doing business. William Green, the oldest man in Indiana and perhaps in the United States, died at the home of his daughter, Mrs. John Hurley, in Jonesboro. He was 111 years old and fought in the war of 1812 and with Harrison at Tippecanoe. Albert S. Higgins, a deaf mute, was assaulted by footpads on East Franklin street, in Shelbyville, and robbed of about Night Watchman John Williams found him unconscious with a bad gash in the back of his head. The thieves had partly disrobed him and dragged his body into an unoccupied lot. liobert McMillen. a widely known and well-to-do farmer of Cass County, shot himself through the neck with a shotgun. His body was found at the rear of the house where he had been living by himself. He left a note which stated he had left his pocketbook with a neighbor and that he wanted “Nannie” to have the ten and a half acres of land on which he lived. He referred to his niece, Nannie Moore of Elwood.

John Watts. ex-City Clerk of Marion, who retired from that ofliee after four years’ incumbency last September, is a fugitive from justice, and an investigation of the records in the office shows that he is short in his accounts $0,750. He was a worker in the Y. M. C. A. and was regarded as a man whose character was 1 above reproach. Mayor W. L. Golding filed an affidavit against Watts charging him with embezzlement, and a warrant was issued for bis arrest. j Charles W. Stapf, a well-known attorney, is dead at his home in Lawrenceburg. Charles Bouglmer, aged 75. is dead at his home near East Germantown. Jesse, aged 22, son of Emslie Burton of Georgia, was shot by John Flora, mistaking him for another man. A fend existed between Flora and Ab Jones of Mitchell, and Flora mistook young Burton for Jones. Flora, after a quarrel with Jones, waited in hiding behind a house with a shotgun. Burton, who resembles Jones in stature and dresa, came in sight and Flora, thirking it waa Jones, fired. Flora is iu tail. ' f • ‘ '