Ligonier Banner., Volume 23, Number 12, Ligonier, Noble County, 5 July 1888 — Page 3

The Ligonier Banuer, xaeeﬁii«:n. : ¢ “INDIANA.

- THAT VICIOUS OLD BUCKET. How fresh in my mind are the seenes of my ' childhood, G | __As fond recollection presents them to view! T’e‘ cow-stall; the pig-pen, the ten 'cords of fireA OOk s : . And all the tough cheg'es that I bad to go ‘ through. The weeds in the garden, the stones in- Ithe ~ . .Stubble, - : fiets . The errands to run and the white beans to shell ; ! ; And (when I'd already a surplus of trouble) The bucket that viciously dropped in the well. The rotten-roped bueket, the iron-bound bucket, The confounded bucket that dropped in the well! “ 4 L After trudging all day in the wake of a harrow, The team I must water ere getting my grub; Cross, font-sore and tired clear into'the marTrow, I'd seize on the windlass to fill up their tub. So downward the bucket demurely meandered; . And then. with hard lugging, it ‘‘rose from the well;” : * But ere I could dump it the rope had dishanded, And, spang! to the bottom the ’tarnal thing fell! : : ) : The fiendish old bucket! the rottén-roped bucket! e The hundred-ton bucket that dropped in the well! | . § ‘Thep, with grapples tnd ‘‘creepers,” and like bothemtion'g. I bent o'er the well like a capital A And minﬁling my tears with devout invocations, I sprinkled them down as I angled away. How it raught—-and slipped off--and at. last +caught securely! ! I pulled with a joy that my words can not tell; And I hugged, not from love, but to hold it more ! surely, . ; The mud-covered bucket that nose from the > well. - The slippery old buokét, the rotten-roped bucket! ; : The mud-covered bucket that rose -from the welll - e : —N. Y. Mail and Express.

MIRIAM. Courage and Faithfulness of a Moonshiner’s Daughter. a e ? . y The girl closed the door of the crumbling spring-house. Her expression was alert and expectant—her movements sluggish, almost dilatory; and yet a chilling wind whistled ‘down the holes of the rotten roof, through long gaps and chinks between the wormeaten logs; it tossed her brown hair, crimsoned her pretty cheelly all unheeded. . Miriam Sagsby did not feel the northerly gale. - Her gaze fastened itself upon the thickets of laurel, sassafras 'v_and creeping | bramble, where a narrow path, only a few 1 vards away, abruptly disappeared. Thé spring bubbled out from under a huge rock, behind which ran a deep ravine where sunlight never penetrated the great pines, even at midday. The spot could not have been more widely sombre, but there was a safety | in that black abyss, serviceable more than once within Miriam’s memory. Her smile broadened into a pleased laugh as the lapping bushes were pushed aside and a man looked warily about him before quitting their shelter—a man in the rough homespun i of a mountaineer, but with the handsome face, soft hands and indescribable aspect of one used to ease and luxury. , | *lt’s you, Dr. Heathe!” she exclaimed in well-feigned surprise. ! “Who did you .think it was, Miriam?” inquired Dr. Heathe, his keen, rapid glance darting with lightning rapidity into every dingy nook and remote shadow. There was something painfully apprehensive in the watchful scrutiny continually in those restless, suspicious eyes, as well as the firm, half-menacing hold upon the rifle always carried or at hand for instant use. ‘“‘Have you seen any strangers?” he questioned. “Strangers? How should I? Strangers don’t come this a-way, onliest they’re arfter the moonshiners,” she laughed. Copeaey - “Don’t they?” he said, without echoing the laugh. “There are worse’things than frec stills.” Sl G ; i . “Last winter when I weat down the ridge ~to Odds Corner to school, the Guv’ment men: were arfter the moonshiners, en’ they met me one evenin,’ whenst I’se a crossin’ Diffikil Branch, en’ offered me a new dress to show the way to ole Tim Skinner's.” ; “Did you do it?! and again that sharp ' glance went off on its perpetual search for secret danger. ‘ : “Do it?’ she retorted scornfully. “Do You think I'd tell of any body?”? ¢ Perhaps you didn’t know?” ; ! “Butldid know,” she triumphantly asserted. “I knew jes’ where the ‘still’ was, en’ I knew. they were a goin’ off that night -with a load, but I'd die befo’ I’d tell of ’em.” ' “Are you so brave as that, Miriam?” 7The modulated tone became earnestand anxious; his gaze rested on her fine, glowing face a full minute before it traveled away upon its tireless hunt of somsthing or some one ' mever absent an linstant from | his mind. *Could you, at the peril of your life, save . ‘men tracked like wild beasts?? ' “If 'twur father, now, I’d like to see ’em’ <atch him while I'm about,. onliest father don’t have no mo’ to-do with the free stills. ‘When he did. I kep’ him safe, en’ give him ‘the signal if ever a stranger prowled the \ ridge,”’ returned Miram; “but you ain’t no moonshiner?”’ iy ; G . “No, Miriam, nota moonshiner ; butwould" you stand by me in that way, my girl, and «care what became of a stranger——'’ - : . “You have been on the ridge six months -or better—you are not a stranger,” she interrupted. ! $ ; : . “No; not asfranger as these people seeft,’”’ ~was the half-ironical reply. “But, Miriam, would you care enough to marry me? I ‘mean to stay here in the mountains all my life—spend my days in these pines where no. one will ever see me. Does it matter to you . ‘that I don’t want any one to see or know of mel” A more vigilant apprehension gathered ‘under the intensified suspense. She had | “hesitated and averted her face. The crystal ~surface of the water at her feet ;(bﬂected ‘the superb grace and manly beautyf of this “stranger, so unspeakably different from the mmmnmmwb;bmuot rldge and ‘hollow. The girl turned slowly toward him, At i e “she said, quietly; “but for all that, Dr. ﬂfggh‘;“,}mﬁgﬁﬁﬂ’m e i s i m;wml i b Sycim Iv/“’ RN 5‘ i Aot e B SR RUSET Miriam’s_countenance, as she lifted her AR e q*fr%*4‘*‘?rﬁwﬂﬂ%wmf SN 4 ) 1 £ - ARGANA RO D) LUis SialCosy Wi, oot ptymioeomnig oty Sl piml sl R R yttand r vou en’ 1 vou—~true en’ _yowre true e’ faithful by me.”

arfter me in a minute!” and Miriam harried off up the path. Heathe followed, easily lreeping apace with her rapid steps. “Miriam, shall I inform Ab and your grandmother?”’ he asked. ‘‘Youwll marry me when there’s a preacher comes to—Odds Corner, don’t you call it?’ . % “Yes; the 'preacher can come here. Father don’t talk, en’ grandmother don’t go ‘nowhere,” Miriam replied, intuitively divining a reservation of doubt and caution under the phrasing of his question. | ~ “Ab can hold his tongue, and there is ‘no one here who cares to hear of me,” he remarked reflectively. *Ab is shy of strangers.” P i The girl laughed. e ’ ; ‘ “You need never fault father for talkin’ to strangers. = You haven’t promised, though, to do good en’ faithful by me—"’ But her lover had opened the door, and both w%@t in, ' i cathe slung his gun upon ‘two gharled roots, nailed to a log not over an arm’slength from the scat in the chimney-corner which he invariably occupied. Not once in the six -months since he had stopped at the cabin, one dark, rainy night, and asked for shelter, Had Dr] Heathe forgotten to hang his firearms within reach, and ‘never, had the restless vigilance of his eyes ceased or rested. His evident desire to shun observation, especially. of the “Guv’ment men,” commended him to the mountaineer who, in the past, for reasons of his own, had thought best to steer clear of any one who might be a revenue collector in disguise. Ab Sagsby had prefixed ‘‘doctor’”’ to the: stranger’s name. “Dunno but he has the look of a gpctor," he had said, and perhaps some infiate respect which forbade the familiarity of *John,” or even of simple *‘Heathe,” had S induced him to adopt ‘“doctor’’ as an easy way out of a perplexity. Heathe himselfi made no revelations, only staid on from week to month—abroad all day, but at night a welcome inmate of thecabin. There is no ‘ curiosity among the denizens of the mountain ridges in g%uthwest Virginia. Nobody ‘ asked %po he was, or why a man like Heathe buried limself in the unknown remoteness of the mountains. The fact of his being’ under the roof of the wary old moonshiner, Ab Sagsby, wassufficient warranty forabsolute oblivion 'of what might be going on around him, if indeed any thing ever did go 1 on.

“Mirry kin tie ter whomst she pleases,”’ her father said when Heathe, taking advantage of Miriam’s absence in the shed, told him of his hopes. “H’it’s a good leetle gal es you'll git, en she’s a smart gal, Mirry is —h’ain’t afreed o’ nothin’. She’ll stick ter you, spite o’ ole Nick hisself, less'n you go back on her; 'twouldn’t be overly safe fur you then,”’ and Ab chuckled, while ‘the great quid of tobacco oscillated in his cheek. ‘‘She says that she will, and I suppose there‘are people who are true and can be trusted, though I have never had the good fortune to meet them,’’ replied the stranger, a bitter smile flitting over his countenance. “Jes’ g 0; they be skurce, en’ pow’ful good ter come across w’en a shurfen’ packo’ Guv’menters kem at yo’ heels. The gal knows h’it—Mirry knows, she do.”’ The escapes of memory perhaps amused Ab, now that time had shorn them of:danger. The allusion, however, seemed to have something terribly realistic’in-the picture it limned to the man sitting in the shadow of the chimney-corner, with his gun slung on the rests, in ‘convenient reach. The alert eyes involuntarily swept every corner and crevice of the apartment and the visible portion of the shed-room beyond. The inte% look of one straining his hearing to catch faintest stir deepened’ into a pained anxiety. ; ‘“You hev’ mo’ larnin’ than we’uns, doctor,” resumed Ab, with an abrupt change ‘of manner. ‘‘You mebbe wa'n’t fotched up like we-uns, en’ I'm a-gwine ter say es you mought think yo’sef better'n me en’ Mirry

“Miriam is better than I am—that is what I think—and you have been my best friend,” interrupted Heathe, speaking hurriedly, a ot impatience, almost desperation in his manner. Old Ab looked pleased. - : ' ~ “Then you won’t be ’shamed o’ Mirry ur me, whenst you’ luck tuns, en’ you h'an’t’ ‘bleeged ter hug ter the mountings?”? ’ “You are my only friends. ‘There is no" turn of luck can help me, no chance whatever that I mfay wish to quit the mountains,”” was t ie deliberate assurance. » “Hit’s all right, then. I h’ain’t muvch tried in my mind long o’ wher you be foolin’ ur no. Mirry’s ekil to that ar; h’it’s her lookout.” i

~ Abner relapsedinto his moody-enjoyment of the huge crackling blaze. Grandmother Sagsby cams in, and soon dozed over her knitting. Miriam sat on the hearth opposite Heathe. The firelight glowed over her beautiful face, and.the strong, shapely figure. Utter r&pose and the .delightful | warmth conduced to that half-d¥owsy haziness and abandon of perfect rgst. The one exception was the stranger. ﬁparently he never rested. The watchful, lissening, wideawake look seemed never beguiléd away by ary charm whatsoever. Two or threedogs. that slept on the floor near Ab, beca.n-fé; somewhat restless. An old Wﬂﬁened his eyes, and pushed himself fiearer the door. The movement was slight and noiseless, but Miriam satup and noted the animal for an instant, then left ker seat and stepped slowly past him to the shed-room. The dog followed her into the chilly starlight beyond. Then she stopped short and observed the hound.’ Lifting his nose high, he sniffed suspiciously and gave a low growl. “What is it, Miriam?” = e The girl started. Heathe was beside her, an agony of apprehension in his countenance even a 3 he grasped his gun and held it ready to fire. ; : t oy “Sommutstrange is around. Leader never mistakes,’”””’she whispered, creeping closer to him. ‘Do youthink they are hunting for you?”? : : “Yes, I know it. Thsy are on my track at - last. They are hunting for me if they are hunting foranybody, but I'll never be taken, Miriam—never !” : S “Taken? no. It’s not many get taken in the mountings,” was the scornful reply. ‘Leader’ll give tongue time enough; and remember the big hollow tree back o’ the clearing—the ropeis always there to let you down in it,” she directed, in guick, low tone. +Miriam,”” he whispered, ‘“‘don’t believe their black story of me—don’t bslieveit. I was there—l saw it—but I didn’t do it. I never intended the worst.’ I can’t prove my innocence; but I'solemnly tell you, I am innocent of the worst—the very worst you will hear.” e R AL g i Miriani laid her hand gently on his arm—her face grew tender—her voice soft and tremulous.. - i G e

" “f'care foryou, John, whether it were true or not. Go-—now; Leader sniffs lower—quiet there, Leader—sommit’s closer!” . The girl’s startled, suppressed voice be-: came suddenly shrill in its terror. Heathe sprang forward with an agile, chamois-like bound and vanished in the pines. Thedogs ‘inside the cabin as well as out, set up a simultaneous howl. There was no doubt of an alien presence near at hand. Miriam } rushed into’the house and fastened the door behind her: < * - e “We know he’sinthere!” shouted a rough yoice,. ‘ Pk j ““He's there! Giveé him up!* We're a-goint’ ' to have him !’ choriised rougher voices. “H'it's better ter let 'em come, Mirry. -He’s done swung hisse’f in ’gainst now,” - Ab unbarrad the door, and, oponing it stepped on the threshold in cool contemplation of the scons. Instantly reyolver was. »“m’“ﬁgg %{*" Farid, o G S e rushed rudely pasthim. = = L g T e VB T S R ~ “You might as ng‘:‘%’% out here, en’ it's 'gainst the law ter shulter: R athenal DARIT et r Sagt s nalglitol e Tollin Stk by ok ks s of Foaatun ', _: ‘ﬁ,‘“v,;’** o 'm 4 s xfﬁu‘g&,ﬁqy »«*‘e“"kz’é’*’%}’,‘;ﬁ!‘é‘

- “P've followed this Heathefor a year, and Iwon’t be beat now. There’s a reward out. for him—dead or alive—so you may as well _tel'll';lwhereméis.”{ T ’ly feSs The man Paxton turned sharply upon Milamasfaospoka. . ‘‘Heathe -is not his name, neither, miss; and I'll make it worth your while to tell of him.” S e Miriam heard him in silenge, a set, resolute expression upon her face. hrc . “You shall have part of the reward—-" <4“I don’t touch blood money!” she interrupted, fiercly. - o i “It dont matter. I'll catch him yet. He’s a cold-blooded villain—wanted for murder.” © “Murder?? ! ol The girl shivered. Her face paled into a whiteness: Ab had never seen blanch its deep, healthy hues. e e “Murdered an old man for his money. They’re sure to lynch him if they get their hands on him. Murder and robbery. I'm certain to nab him sooner or later,’”’ added the detective, with -the professional ‘gusto of a man who had bagged human game. Miriam listened wearily while they told ‘the terrible tals to Ab. She watched her father narrowl;. The gquasi moonshiner might condone offenses against the revenue, but murder !—she knew that he had a superstitious horror of a man with blood on his hands. R s ‘“He h’aint fitten ter git off, Mirry,” he whispered, while the search went on in the angry thoroughness of threatened discomfiture. *“He’ll fotch us turrible luck, efihe’s done h’it, en’, Mirry, he sha’n’t hev you, noways. We’ll git inter trouble long o’ him ef we don’t tell.” : & “Father, I've’ helped en’ stood by you,. ‘hev'n’t"l?” asked the girl, a passionate pleading in every lineament and accent. “True ’nuff, Mirry; you've holped me pow’ful; but ’twur never murder,”’ he rejoined, uneasily. ‘‘H’it’s no good a-holpin’ murder.? el “No, no! Iwouldn’t do it, either; but he says he is innocent, father,” “Innercent? Mayhap he is, en’ likely he h'ain’t; likely he’s jes' a-foolin’ wid you, Kase he’s sartin you’ll holp him out’n his trouble,” shrewdly interposed Ab. “Father, he say he didn’t murder—he says 80,”” she repeated; ‘‘en’ don’t you tun against us.” . e ‘Us? He sha'n’t hev you.” _ The girl clung fo him in desperate, terrorstricken violence. ! . “No, I won’t never go with him till you give the say 80, father,” she promised, recklessly. ‘‘But he didn’t do it—he is innocent, en’ I'll hold to him till it comes all right.” - _ Ab ‘turned away—his wrinkled countenance had grown hard and stern in aspect. He wished he had heard it all before they told Miriam, or before they had come into/ the house and the girl had reminded him of the time when her vigilance and devetion had stood him in such good stead while! “Guv'menters’’” hunted for the. free distillery. Angry and disappointed of the gains for which they served justice, the detectives came in from their futile search. They had found the two or three brush-thatched outhouses an infinitesimal shred of the ‘‘premises,”” compared with the black ravine, the dense thickets, the great pine forest stretchaway into untold labyrinths, ' “See here,” old man, threatened the ferretfaced detective, ‘‘you’d do well to tell the truth. We're sure the fellow is here, and we're a-goin’ to stay till we catch him, so you might as well own up at once.”’ ; “Dunno but I might,” acknowledged Ab. ‘‘Heathe was here to-day, wasn’t he?”? questioned the man, in boilingiexasperatiop. “Jes’ so, capting; he wur here ter-day.” “Thought so. Gim’me the truth, now. He’s here now, ain’t he?”’ Ab tore off a long leaf of tobacco from a home-grown twist, and held it in tempting proximity to his mouth. i “Nat’ral ’nuff, capting, ef he h’ain’t guv you the slip, he be heah yit.” : *‘Confound the fellow, we might a-known by their takin’ it so cool that he had vamoosed; curse the whole business!” angrily retorted Paxton; but Ab had stowed the tobacco-leaf safely into his mouth, and lazily dropped into a chair before the fire. His talk wasover for the time. The lukewarm sheriff and enraged’ detectives had taken themselves off, down the ridge, some time before Ab said, with a satisfied chuckle: g

“Twa’n’t no lie es I tole ’em, Mirry. I knowed them pow’ful sharp fellers wouldn’t ‘believe h'it; but mind you, gal, you h’ain’t got my say so ter tek’ no man es commits murder, en’ you'll never git h’it, kase he don’t mean you right, en’ h’it’s onlucky.” * 'The girl knew her father too well to remonstrate. She knew, too, that Heathe was only safe while she adhered to her { promise not to marry him without Ab’s permission. The cold winter tightened its grip, and still an uneasy sense of surveil= lance and danger hung over them. The old i moonshiner’s family had once beén full of ‘expedient for deluding doubtful visitors. They seemed to come back to Miriam, along with thousands of ingenious devices for the comfort and safety of her lover.: All the winter long he was neither seeun or heard of at Ab’s cabin, but all the winter long neither rain, nor snow, nor raging tempest—the tempest of the mountains—prevented the girl’s daily pilgrimage to the hut in the black ravine. Ab would watch her go out in the whirling snow-wreaths, with the basket on her arm, but 'he never questioned the errand. ' So the winter dragged its icecold lengths away. The fine frosty flakes of snow betokened a flerce storm coming over the ridge—already it had sifted like white powder into crack and crevice, shutting out the frigid wind roaring savagely among the pines outside, but passing almost contempt\%usly the warm, substantial cabin crouching beneath them. The snow deadened all sounds'without, the dogs gavemno. howl nor warning, when suddenly the door was thrown open, and with a- sweeping gust and snow two men cams in. They were the sheriff and a stranger. . el e - “Don’t make no stir, Ab!” shouted the sheriff, “It’s all right—t’other feller’s confessed. Heathe didn’t do it. This here’s his brother—t’other feller. pwned up when he’sa-@yi-n;’.i” e S i i (oAb siledgrimly. . on s “I wouldn’t hev tuk nobody’s wu’d for h'it bul yonetd, eRrL. 0 L b “Yes; we've kem a-plippose -ter git him, tho’ it’s cold es blazes,” added the satisfied sheriff. “You see Heathe kem in onem, en’ folks k!lme@\sthaw ‘blood Jbwixt ’em, 80 they pitched on him, en’ wouldn’t believe nothin’ else. 'Twur 4 -clear case againstd himj; but he’s innocent, and me’n his brother have kem for him. He’s all right now.” : Lr“l?&wlt.‘ » Mirry—h'it's my soy.-sO. ¢, . “You &m??%@%m?gm;wg ‘hey hanged you sure, if they’d caught you,” m&ﬁmiﬁd an hour later, when expla. - nations had been made, and Heathe stood Rdeeßt e e L T must have had wn fnevicablé and sl | call this terrible winter but for. this true | And Joving woman? susweted Beathe 4 e nd besutify | L anat TR S ;@g;@w erness. “And *@fﬂgﬂ*ﬁa‘*’g Wwﬁ And Wﬁ%’%‘ﬁ"‘"'ﬁ”@;ﬁg’%ﬁ | L& popltiyman 6dvises that ez L o RO L e e S TN PRI e Y R

i‘ PUNGENT PARAGRAPHS., : jeThe‘ Phrenological Journal says: “In choosing a wife, be governed by her chin.”” A man is apt to be governed by the same thing after he gets a ‘wife.—lndiana Farmer. ] —*Are there too,_ many doctors?" asks an exchangé. ' No, there are not half engugh, but there are tOO many men pretending to be doctors who are ngt.—Philadelphia Inquirer. e .~-Judge—*You say you want a divorce from your wife?” *Yes, if your honor please.” ‘‘But reflect for a moment that you have lived together nearly half a century.” ‘Well, haven't I suffered long enough?’—Texas Siftings. it 4 S

© —Smithers —“Miss Parker sings much better than she used to. Her courge at the Conservatoire has improved her considerably.” Wilkins—“lmproved? We%l, .1 should say so! She knows wken to stop now.”—Harper's Bagntsi . i w 6 S —A popular poetbegins a verse with -“Softer than silence, stiller than still air;” and yet, as might be supposed, this does not deseribe aman whose wife has talked at him for four hours steady. —~Rochester Post-Express. ‘ : —*Young man,” he said, ‘““why don’} you give -up this life of idleness and luxury and try to make a name for yourself?” ¢Twy and make a name for myself? Why, m» deah sir, my little English foxhound ‘took the first pwizeat the dog show, B’jove!”—N. Y. Sun. : e . - —*Have youseen Mrs. H.’s new diamonds?”’ queried a female caller of her friend. ‘Yes, indeed, and I should think she would-be ashamed of, them. “They are not larger than peas, and did ‘you notice the flaws in both of them as big as hickorynuts?"—Eimira Gazette. . —Clara (exhibiting photograph)— ‘“How do you like it?” Hattie—*lt's perfectly lovely.” ¢You think it a good likeness?’ ¢O, no; it’ doesn't look a particle like you, you Naow; but I wouldn’t mind :that, Clara; you are not likely to have. such luck again if you sat a thousand times.”—Boston Transcrvpl. = ' v -—An American tramp fell from a . ferry boat the other day, and by the time he was rescued he was washed sc clean he was ashamed of himself .and slunk away to a lumber-yard to wait for pitying night to hide him. If he will just go to some. mountain resort that advertises ‘“no dust” he will soon look like his old self.—Burdette. = —“No,” said the housemaid, ¢l] don’t apologize to a man when I throw a bucket of water down the front steps to wash 'em and he comes along and gets drenched. I've tried apologizing, but I’ve found there’s nothing you can say .to a man in that case that will satisfy him.”— Scranion Truth. . ;

—Mamma (to daughter)—‘Did he propose?”’ Daughter—¢“No, but“he did the next best thing to it.” Mamma—‘““What do you mean?”’ Daughter—‘‘He kissed me and squeezed my waist, and Mary and Tommy saw him. Mamma—*‘Get your things on at once, my darling. We can get down to Mr. Brief's before the courts close if we hurry.”—7Town Topiés. : —Reporter (to statesman) — “Will you be a candidate for——"" Statesman—*‘‘Excuse me, young man, but 1 have nothing to say, lam ‘entirely in the hands of my friends.” 'Reporter—“Do you think that your health is sufficiently robust to under——" Statesman—*‘Nothing to say, young man, nothing to say. My health is alse in the hands of my friends.”—Epoch. —“Tommy,” said the old gentleman, sternly, “‘1 understand that you were hanging about the polo grounds this afternoon, instead of being at school. I wan’t have you wasting your time in that way. What on earth could you see or hear by (})eekig_g through'a knothole in the fence?”” ‘I could see you, pa,” responded Tommy, “‘settin’ on the gran' stand, an’ shoutin’ *‘Good boy, Danny!”— 7%d-Bits. o

. PERILS OF OUR AGE. If We Would Enjo;'_;ong Life We Must Put .On the Brakes. . The strain upon a man engaged in active business to-day is five, yes, ten- - fold more than it was forty or even twenty-five years ago. We live in an age of electricity, and it is not only along the wires that the fluid is passing, but it touches so many currents of thought and affects so many’business interests that a keen, bright man is sensitive to the news of the whole world.' In former times it was the arrival of the packet ship with thirty days’ later news from Europe; then it was the arrival of the steamship with six days' later -intelligence; but now the morning paper brings the news which, according to time, is being made in all parts of the world. It is impossible for an active, energetic man to cut ‘his connection with this ever-pulsating agent. A flash and he opens a dispatch from a friend in Bombay, and the tinkling bell calls him to the telephone to hear from a business agent in a neighboring city. He is kept at high pressure, he is at market pitch from January Ito December 81. It is no wonder that men who do not offset this high tension by judicious repose break down and are forced to quit work. The ‘workers of 1888 do more work which s wearing in one week than their grand. fathers did in a six-month. Thereisno Aangee Hing B piIUL R NG has eyes and ears; ¥he builotin bogsds of the newspapers furnish enough sugggﬁ LS e cobwebs from the brain of the most invﬁ*«%pww odbuian ot Trediit hacn G i ﬁ*w‘?’@*‘w«%&%ww ‘when the; ngﬁ““ﬂm“&» s kißl T R e - et g G i b , PR

| TARMANp ERESIDE. . . =-If the boiled potatoes are done a little too soon lay a towel over the ket~ tle or dish, but do not put a tight cover over them. ey : s ~ —When stung by a bee or a wasp, make a paste of common earth and water, put on the place at once and cover with a cloth. ; ' —Hayseed swept from the barn floor is a good thing to throw into c¢hicken yards. The birds. scratch it in, and when it grows up it is good for the stock. —The black walnut tree will cut a figure on our farms in the future. It can be made as profitable as the apple tree in localities where it will thrive at all. : & 3 —To set delicate colors in embroidered handkerchiefs, soak them ten minutes prev®ous to washing in a pail of tepid water, in which a dessertspoonful of tuspentine has been well stirred. : —The best method of destroying moss on lawns is an occasional dressing of freshly slaked: lime, which may be mixed with a small quantity of soot to make its whiteness lees conspicuous. Both should be sifted through-a fine gleve. : '

—Tomatoes trained to stakes give the sweetest fruit and remain in bearing longest, though many cultivators who grow for size and quantity only ‘believe they have the best results when growing them on the level ground. «—Lime may be made from shells, and such lime is the purest kind. The shells may be put up in round heaps upon a quantity of fine wood, which may also be mixed in layers through the heap. No covering is,needed except some earth around the sides to moderate and lengthen out the heat, which should be kept up for three days. - =—The general belief is to the effect that hard woods should be cut in June, July or August and left untrimmed until the leaves have drawn the sap from the trees. If cutin June, the newlyformed wood is arrested in its growth and the bark becomes separated from the solid timber and loosened so that it is easily removed. The wood hardens and dries, so that the* wood-eating beetles will not attack it and the timber is thus freed from this injury, which is known as ‘powder ,pest.” Timber thus treated seasons with great rapidity and is most durable. 3

—Rice Cream: Boil two ounces of fine rice in water for five minutes, strain (it in a quart of new milk © and boil until tender. Rub the rice through a sieve to a pulp, and add -to it 'any milk not absorbed in the boiling.: Add one-half ounce of gelatine soaked in milk or water, to a pint of the rice and milk. Stir over a fire until mixed. Sweeten and flavor to taste. Stir the cream occasionally until cold, then lightly mix in the whites of two eggs beaten to a stiff froth. When on the point of setting put it into a mold. : i Cae e S G MAKING RAIL FENCES. Some of the Wooﬁhlch Have. Good .+ Lasting Qualities. To make a good fenee, good materials and good workmanship are required. This is well illustrated in the making of Virginia rail fence,’which I believe is the most exjravagant’ fence ever made, and yet there is now, and is likely to be for some time, as much of this as of any other kind of fence. It is a pity, that the man who discovered (not invented) Virginia rail fence and bars, did not. die when he was an infant. ' s

Some woods last befter on or in the ground than others, and .in. building rail fence this should be kept in mind. Thus, the hickory, cut when the bark peels off, makes a very durable rail off the ground, while it soon rots on the ground. For the ground rails, we in this locality find nothing so good as the white oak. Red, or ‘“‘slippery elm,”’ is like hickory. A fence, the ground rails of white oak, the rest of hickory and red elm, all cut when the bark will peel off and the rails set up to season, will, when . well built, require scarcely any repa,ir. for fifteen years, White elm, wild cherry and dead pinoak, make such poor rails that it does not pay to cut them for this purpose But if pin-oak is cut while yet alive and while the bark will peel off, it males a very durable rail if kept off the ground. i A good rail fence can not be built unless the rails are laid directly over each’other, making upright corners. Split raiis should bé laid, a 3 much as possible, with the heart wood up. A rail so laid will last almost twice as long as when laid with the sap wood up. The weakest rails, or those likely to rot soonest, should be reserved for the upper courses, as in those courses a broken rail. can be replaced more easily than in the lower part of the fence. It pays to put down good, durable ground-chunks; and a man careless about setting the stakes will not make a good fence. = The stakes should be set deep (n mattock is much bettef than a spade for digging the holes), and at such an angle with the fence that the rider will: lock them down on the rail beneath them.—Jon 1. Stahl, in Country Gentleman.

_ Dainty Cotton ;Fabrics. ~ The market is crowded this season with the prettiest of low-priced dainty ‘cotton fabrics, which willenable women with moderate purses tc dress charmingly a% little expense, provided they ‘make suitable selections: and make the ‘fabrics upin simple styles. There are | Kearlawns imported in lovely tints in _monochrome, India and French muslins, sprigged with bunches of shaded _violets, sweet peas, or pink and white ‘ournations, cto. Chambety fabrics are. very fine Bnd. dellcate, and those in ‘boxes are beautifully embroidered.. e G n e trimmed on the bodice with loaps and vt oy il s ot it Ffé“éﬂ* et with jaunty bodice ?‘&% ; *“Q"»’a'x‘éw"?‘&;é'“*&_v F Tirlnsn by ot adni Wt dmiian. ol Lo nalabsibe il

PO s e e R e A LOST BABY. = She Took Her Brothers for a Walk, and the Exciting Adventure That Followed. Have you a baby at home—not a tiny baby, but a baby about three years old? If you have, read this story; but if not, stop at once, for you won't understand it. 7 e ‘ - You know them, if you have a baby, what a tyrant that baby can be, and you also know that the easiest thing where that baby is concerned is to look up to it as captain, and obey ordeus. = : Now there was a baby in the Drake family, and it was just the biggest and Jolliest baby you can imagine; but it was also the mfost.energetic and willful baby that ever existed.

- It was not able to say very much, but whatever it did say it said several times over, so that no one should forget it. S o It did not think very much either; but all the same /it held very decided opinions upon one or two peints. A ~ For instance, the Drake baby was absolutely certain that her brothers Christopher and Matthew (or ‘Mattie,” as he was generally called) werq sent into the world to ‘do nothing but amuse her. : : .

There was one very good thing, and that was that both the boys were so fond of the baby that they were very willing to spend their time with her. Well, one afternoon the baby offered to take her brothers for a walk. I say she ¢‘‘offered to take them,” because you can not say they took her when she was the captain—or,. rather, the captainess—of' the party. It wasa beautiful afternoon, and the little party wandered on and on, without noticing ‘how far they were getting from home. The baby, of course, didn’t trouble herself abont it, and she kept her brothers 30 busily occupied that they forgot all about the time and the distance, until she suddenly announced that she was hungry. - Then the boys remembered that they were getting hungry, too, and that it must be near tea-time. ‘

~ Then Christopher neticed for the first | time how late it was getting, and how far they had wandered. § He turned his face homeward at once. - ‘That was an easy thing to do; but it was by no means so easy to get the baby to do the same. Christopher persuaded and ‘oaxed, but the baby pursued her way undisturbed. Then Mattie proposed to carry her. This, of course, suited the young lady, and the boys took her in turn until their arms ached and they were obliged to rest. By this time they were nearly, half-way home. They all sat down on the trunk of a tree.. Baby for once was still, for she was beginning to feel rather sleepy. Presently Mattie picked up a big branch, and pntting his small legs one on each side, pretended that ‘he was riding a horse. | : “Baby ride! baby ride!” shouted his small sister. : , ¢ “You shall ride,” said Christopher. Mattie, do you see that big bough? Let us fetch that, sit baby on the end and drag it along.” =~ ' - “Hurrah!” cried Mattie, ‘now we shall get on famously.” - = " It was no sooner said than. done. Baby was seated on the leaves and branthes, and told to hold tight, and the boys pulled in front. ; - “Gee-up,” cried baby, very pleased—: ‘‘gee-up.” : Lgonf “Now pull hard, Mattie,” said Christopher, and the party startcd off. " But baby was getting tired, and very goon she began to ery. - * “Let us sing to her,” said Mattie. Christopher agreed, and the two boys started a sc¢hool song. : bif = Very soon after the sobs ceased, and the baby was quiet. The boys sang vigorously. . . B e * “Keep on, Mattie, and don’t look round at her, or she will begin to cry again,” said Christopher. S “This bough seems to get lighter as we go along, instead_of heavier,” said Mattie, when they were very nearly home. ¢The s’inginf must help us to forget the weight.” ¢ = ! ' So, happy and cheerful, the party arrived at the cottage. When they reached the gate Christopher ran to open it. telling Mattie to bring: the baby in. It was by this time quite dark. e b s ;

“Come along, baby,” said Mattie. There was no answer. ¢‘Why, she must be asleep—no, she isn’t. Why, Christopher,.she’s not here at alll” “What nonsense!” said Christopher; *she must be there.” A But Mattie was right, the baby was not there. They fetched a light, and looked about. Surely it was not possible to loose a baby; but it seemed so, for this baby could not be found. ° Mattie began to cry, and Christopher fetched his father and mother, and told them the trouble. S The father stared. ‘Yon've lost the ‘baby!” he said; and he really seemed to think that Christopher must be joking. But when he realized the truth he quickly fetched lanterns, and set out with Christopher and his mother to hunt for the baby. Mattie was left behind. He was too tired to set out again, but he could not rest indoors, so he stood in the dark, sobbing and orying at the gate. . He ‘was all alone, but he was not frightened for himself, onlyJerthebßby &0 e e e Time passed very slowly. - It seemed t Maitlo as if he had boen waiting five hours, when he, really had not [been more than fifteen minutes. . . P non e A ROtk b EUb Rl gPt e g s S sRetU e B e gabe and walked slowly across the | R 0 Ha it sl gt e Moy etk e SRR R e e e R L

knees to.it, and very nearly rolled om to—what do you think?—why, the ' balylorc -0 sl g Mattie shouted for joy, and his shouts were answered by his father and mother, ‘who were returning for morehelp, = - e an . You may be sure they very soom picked both Mattie and the baby outof thediteh, @ - o g b How did the baby get there? Itwas easy to guess. She must have fallem asleep, rolled off the bough, and them. rolled into the ditch. : 4 ~ The wonderful part of it was that the fall. did not wake her; b,u_?‘s then the ditch was not at all deep, and, as Christopher said: ‘lt took a good deal tor wake that baby, once she was off ta sleep.: i She wasn’t a bit hurt, but she was about the blackest, dirtiest baby yow ever saw. But if you think that stopped them from nearly eating herup with kisses, you but of course yow won’t think sv, for we settled at first that you had a baby at home, and youw will know what you would “have done } yourself under the same circumstances. —Maggie Browne. in Litile Folks.

WHAT IS DONE WITH THEM. Useful and Besutiful Things Made froms .the Contents of the Ash Barrel. What does the rag-picker want fromx: the ash-barrel? Have you never wondered why-a-ragged, miserable-looking creature should go .about sticking & long hook into ash-barrels and draging out horrid rags? - : You'll be surprised to know what comes, out -of that dreadful-looking place. Let me tell you a few of: the things the picker finds, and you'll see that the fairies of the story-books never performed ' any greater marvels than every day come from the hands of common - workmen. Beautiful ecloth worth several dollars ‘a yard, comes out of the ash-barrel, the most exquis~ ite of papers, balls and buttons of ivory, the daintiest of toilet-soap and the nicest of jelly, the phosphorus that we want for ourfatches, coal to burm and furs to keep warm, solder, boneblack" and leather, and—dear me! I couldn’t tell 'you in an hour all the strange things’the ashman carriesoff in that dismal-looking bag of his. - But you needn’t peep into and expect to see all these objects. You would find only dirty rubbish—bits of rag that you wouldn’t touch, worn-out gloves, discarded shoes, tin cans, dead -cats, broken disbes, and bones. They all have to go through the hands of the different workmen I spoke of before they ecome out in their new forms.

.The old kid gloves, for instance. The choice part of these is the thumb, made of skin that grew on the .back of a rat, {as perhaps you have heard. Now, I don’t know why rat skin is‘bet—ter than any other, bu# it is true that, after . washing and soaking in lye, and purifying with sulphur, and boiling and steaming, and so forth and so forth, these despised thumbs come out white and delicate gelatine, ready to make into delicious jelly. ! : : | Old-shoes, again, are’prizes to the rag-picker. If not good enough to be cobbled up and sold again, they are made—l'm sure you'll be glad you don’t drink it—into Jamaica rum of so superior ‘a.,g}glity that it is kept only by druggists which pride themselves -on dealing in the purest articles for medicine. . €

- Bones thrown out by the cook or discarded bythe dogs go to the dvory worker, who turns them ‘ifito a thousand and one pretty things we like to buy. 'Or, if not good enough for his use, they are burned into boneblack, to help make your candy. An unfortunate dead pussy is another trefsure. ‘The skin—if good énough—is used for fur, her flesh for soap, her intestines for violin and gnitar strings, and her bones also go to the ivory mani ¢ - AR SR 3

- Woolen rags are washed and scoured and ground up to make felt, or mixed with frésh wool to make heavy beaver cloth. Bits of metal, brass and copper, go to the metal workers, who melt them to use again. Tin cans, after being induced by a hot fire te part with the solder that holds them. together, go to the iron-workers, and are made into new things. Brokenm dishes, oyster shells and glass are pounded fine and used in several ways.. Bits of coal and cinders are carefully sorted and sold to burn.

In fact, there is not one thing that goes into the ash-barrel but’ goes through changes so wonderful that we are glad to pay a great price to gét it back into the house in its new shape. In London ash-barrels are not put out in a hideous row on the sidewalks; they are called dust-binds, and kept out of sight in the house. No rag'picker goes about pulling them over, but when taken away they are emptied ‘into a vacant lot. out of the city, and there men, women and children: spend their_lives sifting the ashes and sortAng refuse. You. will see how valua~ ble these are when I tell you that one large dust heap has been sold for twa hundred thousand dollars. ¥ ' Sometimes the rag-picker finds & silver spoon that was carelessly throwm. ‘away; or. & bit of money or jewelery: that went out in the sweepings, but wusually he makes his living' by selling the things you see him drag out on his ‘hook, and he probably doesn’t know now any better 'than he did yesterday what becomes of things he catries oft and' sells.—Olive - Thorne Miller, im (Ohrisom Ui e —%@Mﬂﬁwwmw cent. of inseots have rno. legs at all, ‘cleven per cent. have one, fourteen per Fwwwsw per cent. four Lﬂ x\,w Ri e **,g >k §>{ f‘%“;‘g’ﬂ; e S B e e L