Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 38, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 October 1905 — Page 2

The Doctor’s Wife

CHAPTER VI. George Gilbert started for Conventleld on a bright March morning, when the pale primroses glimmered a mon 5 the •nderwood, and the odor of early violets mingled faintly with the air. Mr. Gilbert drew rein on the green, which was quiet enough to-day. Should he go to the chemist's in the market Blace8 lace and get his drugs, and thence to [r. Raymond’s house, which was at the ether end of the town; or rather on the •utskirts of the country and beyond the town'; or should he go first to Mr. Raymond’s by quiet back lanes which were free of the bustle and riot of the market people? To go to the chemist first would be the wiser course, perhaps; but then it wouldn’t be very agreeable to have drugs in his pocket, and to smell ®f rhubarb and camomile flowers when he made his appearance before Miss fileaford. If Mr. Raymond had resembled other people he would have been considerably surprised by a young gentleman in the medical profession venturing to make a morning call upon his nursery govern•ss; but u Mr. Charles Raymond was the very opposite of everybody else in the world, he received George as cordially as it was his habit to receive every living creature who had need of his friendliness.and he sent ’ Brown Molly away to his stable and set her master at his ease, before George had quite left off blushing in his first paroxysms of shy■ess. “Come into my room,” cried Mr. Raymond, in a .voice that had more , vibration in it than any other voice that ever rang out upon the air? “come into my room. You’ve had a letter from Sigismund — and he's told you all about Miss fileaford. Very nice girl, but wants to be educated before she can teach; keeps the little ones amused, however, and takes them out in the meadows; a very ■ice, conscientious little thing; cautiousness very large; can’t get anything out «f her past life; turns pale and begins to cry when I ask her questions; has •een a good deal of trouble, I’m afraid. Never mind; we’ll try and make her hapCharles Raymond took George into the drawing room, and from the bay window the young man saw Isabel Sleaford once more, as he had seen her first, in a garden. But the scene had a diffe rent aspect from that other scene, Which still lingered in his mind, like a which still lingered in his mind, like a picture seen briefly in a crowded gallery.

Instead of the pear trees on the low. Wisorderly grass plot, the straggling branches green ..a gainst the yellow sunshine of July, George saw a close cropped lawn and trim flower beds, stiff groups of laurel and bare, bleak fields snsheltered from the chill March winds. Against the cold, blue sky he saw Isabel’s slight figure, not lolling in a garden chair reading a novel, but walking primly with two pale-faced children dressed in black. A chill sense of pain crept through the surgeon’s breast as he looked at the girlish figure, the pale, Joyless face, the sad, dreaming eyes. He felt that some inexplicable change had come to Isabel Sleaford since that July day on which she had talked of her pet authors and glowed and trembled with childish love for the dear books out of whose pages she took the joys and sorrows of her life. The three pale faces, the three black dresses, had a desolate look in the cold sunlight. Mr. Raymond tapped at the glass and beckoned to the nursery governess. “Melancholy looking objects, are they ■ot?” he said to George as the three girls came toward the window. “I’ve told my housekeeper to give them plenty •f roast meat, not too much done. Meat fa the best antidote for melancholy.” He opened the window and admitted Isabel and her two pupilps. “Here’s a friend come to see you. Miss Sleaford,” he said. “A friend of Sigismund.” George held out his hand, but he saw something like terror in the girl's face as ■he recognized him, and he fell straightway into a gulf of confusion and etnbrarrassment. “Sigismund asked me to call,” he stammered. “Sigismund told me to write and Mell him how you were.” Miss Sleaford's eyes filled with tears. The tears came unbidden to her eyes ■ow with the smallest provocation. “You are all very good to me," she ■aid

“There, you children, go into the garden and walk about,” cried Mr. Raymond. “You go with them, Gilbert, amid then come in and tell us all about your Graybridge patients.” It was dusk when George Gilbert ■went to the chemist and recovered his parcel of drugs. He would not stop to dine at the White Lion, but paid for Brown Molly's accommodation „ and ■prung into the saddle. He rode homeward through the solemn avenue, the dusky cathedral aisle, the infinite temfashioned by the great architect. Nature. He rode through the long, ghostly avenue until the twinkling lights es Waverly glimmered on him faintly between the bare branches of the trees. • * * • * • Yes, he loved her; the wondrous flower that never yet “thrived by the calendar” had burst into full bloom. He loved this young woman, and believed In her, and was ready to bring her to bls simple home whenever she pleased to some thither; and had already pictured ker sitting opposite to him in the little parlor, making weak tea for him in a metal teapot, sewing commonplace buttons upon his commonplace shirts, delating as to whether there should be roast beef or boiled mutton for the 2 o'clock dinner, sitting up alone in that most uninteresting little pnrlor when the ■urgeon’s patients were tiresome and insisted upon being ill in the night, waiting to preside over little suppers of cold meat and pickles, bread and cheese, and celery. Yes; George pictured Miss Sleaford the heroine of such a domestic story •s this, and had no power to divine that there was any iucouguity in the fancy,

BY MISS M. E. BRADDON

no fineness of ear to discover the dissonant intervals between the heroine and the story. Alas! poor Izzie! and are all your fancies, all the pretty stories woven out of your novels, all your long day dreams about Marie Antoinette and Charlotte Corday, Edith Dombey and Ernest Maltravers—all your foolish pictures of a modern Byron or a new Napoleon, exiled to St. Helena, and followed, perhaps liberated by you—are they all come to this? Are none of the wonderful things that happen to women ever to happen to you? Are you never to be a Charlotte Corday, and die for your country ? Are you never to wear any ruby velvet, and diamonds in your hair? Are all the pages of the great book of life to be closed upon you—you, who seemed to yourself predestined, by reason of so many dreams and fancies, to such a wonderful existence? Is all the mystic cloudland of your dreams to collapse and shrivel into this —a commopplace, square built cottage at Graybridge, with a commonplace surgeon for your husband? Mr. Raymond was thinking that perhaps the highest fate held for that pale girl with the yellow tinge in her eyes was to share the home of a simple-heart-ed country surgeon, and rear his children to be honest men and virtuous women, “Poor little orphan child! will anybody ever fathom her fancies or understand her dreams? Will she marry that good, sheepish, country surgeon, who has fallen in love with her? He can give her a home and a shelter; and she seems such a poor, friendless little creatture, just the sort of girl to get into some kind of mischief if she were left to herself. Perhaps it’s about the best thing that could happen her. I should like to have fancied a brighter fate for her, a life with more color in it.” And all this time George was pleading with her, and arguing, from her blushes and her silence, that his suit was not hopeless. Emboldened by the girl’s tacit encouragement, he grew more and more eloquent, and went on to tell her how he had loved her from the first; yes, from that first summer’s afternoon when he had seen her sitting under the pear trees in the old-fashioned garden, with the low yellow light behind her. “Of course I didn’t know then that I loved you, Isabel—oh, may I call you Isabel? It is such a pretty name. I have written it over and over and over on the leaves of a blotting book at home, very often without knowing that I was writing it. I only thought at first that I admired you because you are so beautiful, and so different from other beautiful women; and then, when I was always thinking of you, and wondering about you. I wouldn’t believe that it was because I loved you. It is only today, this dear happy day, that has made me understand what I have felt all along; and now I know that I have loved you from the first, Isabel, dear Isabel, from the very first.” All this was quite as it should be. Isabel’s heart fluttered' like the wings of a young bird that, essays its first flight. “This is what it is to be a heroine,” she thought, as she looked down at the colored pebbles, the floating river weeds, under the clear rippling water; and yet knew all the time, by virtue of feminine second sight, that George Gilbert was gazing at her and adoring her. She didn’t like him, but she liked him to be there talking to her. “Dear Isabel, you will marry me, won’t you? You can’t mean to say, no, you would have said it before now. You would not be so cruel as to let me hope, even for a minute, if you meant to disappoint me.” ‘I have known you—you have known me —such a short time,” the girl murmured.. George Gilbert seized upon the words. “Ah, then you will marry me, dearest Isabel? you will marry me, my own darling—my bautiful wife?” He was almost startled by the intensity’ of his own feelings as he bent down and kissed the little ungloved hand lying on the moss-grown stone work of the bridge. “Oh, Isabel, if you could only know’ how happy you have made me! if you could only know ” She looked at him with a startled expression in her face. Was it all settled, then, so suddenly—with so little consideration? Yes, it was all settled; she was beloved with one of those passions that endure for a lifetime. George had said something to that effect. The story Inul begun, and she was a heroine.

CHAPTER VII. Isabel Sleaford was “engaged.” Her life was all settled. She was not to be a great poetess or an actress. She was not to be anything great. She was only to be a country surgeon’s wife. It was very commonplace, perhaps; and yet this lonely girl—this untaught and unfriended creature —felt some little pride in her new position. After all, she had read many novels in which the story was very little more than this—three volumes of simple love making, and a quiet wedding at the end'of the chapter, She was not to be an Edith Dombey or a Jane Eyre. Oh, to have been Jane Eyre, and to roam away on the cold moorland and starve —wouldn't that have been delicious! No, there was to be a very moderate portion of romance in her life; but still some romance. George Gilbert would be very devoted, and would worship her always, of course. But for the pure and perfect love that makes marriage thrice holy—the love which counts so sacrifice too great, no suffering too bitter —the love which knows no change but death, and seems instinct with such divinity that love can be but its apotheosis—such love ns this had no place in Isabel Sleaford's heart. Her books had given her some vague idea of this grand passion, and she began to think that the poets and novelists were all in the wrong, and that there were no heroes or heroines upon thia commonplace earth. She thought this, and she was content

to sacrifice the foolish dreams of her girlhood, which were doubtless as impossible as they were beautiful. She was content to think that her lot in life was fixed, and that she was to be the wife of a good man and the mistress of an oldfashioned house in oner of the dullest of towns. The time had slipped so quietly away since the spring twilight on the bridge, her engagement had been taken so much a matter of course by £very one about her, that no thought of withdrawal therefrom had ever entered her mind. And then again, why should she withdraw from the engagement? George loved her, and there was no one else who loved her. There was no wandering Jamie to come home in the stilt’ gloaming and scare her with the sight of his sad, reproachful face. Ifi- she was not George Gilbert's wife she would be nothing—a nursery governess forever and ever, teaching stupid orphans and earning a hundred dollars a year. When she thought of her desolate position and of another subject which was most painful to her she clung to George Gilbert and was grateful to him, and fancied that she loved him.

The wedding day came at last one bleak January morning, when Conventfbrd wore its barest and ugliest aspect, and Mr. Raymond gave his nursery governess away. He had given her the dress she wore, and the orphans had clubbed their pocket money to buy their preceptress a bonnet as a surprise, which was a failure, after the manner of artfully planned surprises. Isabel Sleaford pronounced the words that made her George Gilbert’s wife, and if she spoke them somewhat lightly it was because there had been no one to teach her their solemn import. There was no taint of falsehood in her heart, no thought of revolt or disobedience in her mind, and when she came out of the vestry leaning on her young husband’s arm there was a smile of quiet contentment on her face.

The life that lay before Isabel was new, and being little more than a child as yet, she thought that novelty must mean happiness. She was to have a house of her own and servants, and an orchard, two horses and a gig. She was to be called Mrs. Gilbert; was not her name so engraved upon the cards Georg< had ordered for her in a morocco card case that smelled like new boots and was difficult to open, as well as those wedding cards which the surgeon had distributed among his friends? There was nothing beautiful in the Gilbert house certainly. There was a narrow mantel-piece, with a few blocks of spar and other mineral productions; and above them there hung an old-fash-ioned engraving of some scriptural subject, in a wooden frame painted black. There was a lumbering old wardrobe — or press, as it was called —of painted wood, with a good deal paint clipped off; there was a painted dressing table, a square loking glass, with brass ornamentation about the stand and frame —a glass in which George Gilbert’s grandfather had looked at himself seventy years before. Isabel stared at the blank white walls, the gaunt shadows of the awkward furniture, with a horrible fas- nation. It was all so ugly, she thought; and her mind revolted against her husband, as she remembered that he could have changed all this, and yet had left it in its bald hideousness. And all this time George was busy withw his surgery, grinding his pestle in so cheerful a spirit that it seemed to fall into a kind of tune, and thinking how happy he was now that Isabel Sleaford was his wife. (To be continued.)

WHERE GEORGE ELIOT WROTE.

Little House in Which She CreSted “Middlemurch” Described. You raise your eyes from the roses and see before you a little old house, almost hidden behind the screen of ivy and of roses on its walls, "says a writer in the Pilgrim. The tiny, dla-mond-paned windows of the second story you do not observe at first—not until a ray of that blinking sun filters between the dark green leaves and glints from them. The path, in which you stand, leads to a door, so low you must stoop to pass within. To either side are long, narrow windows set into the wall horizontally, also diamond-paned and opening outward on their hinges like the others. To the right of the house stands an ancient cider mill and all to the left is garden. Roses there in rank profusion grow, and honeysuckle and great, staring Dutchman’s pansies, with a row of overseeing hollyhocks behind, and again beyond a lattice, blue with morning glories. The hedge of hawthorn breaks and runs around this fairy play-yard, and the house, leaning in its age, is so miniature as to seem, almost, the abiding place of pixies and of elves. To the left of the hallway leading from the fairy door is another opening into a room with lowering celling and a floor but ton feet square. Before you, close against the wall, is a couch with a queer old-fashioned writing board fastened to the pillow at the end nearest the window. Across

one corner of the ’•oom is a low bookcase and desk 200 years old, with a quaint carved buffet on beyond. It is to see this room you’ve tramped the lohg three miles, for here the novel “Middlemarch” was written. Discovered by her on a ramble through historic Surrey one day, George Eliot entered the historic room and fell upon this sofa tired of tramping. She begged the privilege of remaining just a week. That one week lengthened Into many and those who lived thereabouts came to know the sad-eyed woman who lay upon this coach and wrote and wrote, never leaving the task before her, save for one brief hour each day at sunset, when she would go out into the road between the hawthorn hedges and there walk back and forth before the fairy house

Largest Flag in the World.

The largest flag in the world was made in San Francisco for Hawaii. It is 80 feet long and consumed 700 yards of bunting, and floats from a pole 150 feet long.

FARM AND GARDEN

Farming is poor business when the farming is poor. But few plants will thrive in a wet soil. A good drain is sometimes better than manure. A cow unused to linseed meal, it is said, will Increase her milk two quarts a day if fed it In three years the progeny of a pair of rats, under favorable conditions, will number 1,000. Sunflower seed produces oil of an excellent quality, arid is said to be good feed for both poultry ahd sheep. '' “ A-. A hen will often be made to lay a soft-shelled egg by falling from a perch, or by being chased about by a dog. It is the vigor and not the size of the seed potato that determines the size of the product and the amount of the crop.

Good care prevents disease in the case of all animals. The troubles to which they are subject are due in nearly all cases tc improper treatment. A good hen will lay at least a hundred eggs every year that may be sold. There ought to be money in the chicken business, and yet how many have failed at it? Watch currant bushes for San Jose scale. Scrape the bark, if the scale has arrived, and apply sulphur lime mixture. Do not let the scale -winter on the bushes, as it will finish the plants before spring. Don’t force moulting. Nature will provide for it when the time comes. This thing of starving poultry for a long time and then feeding them highly food that they .may -be made to grow a new crop of feathers Is ail nonsense. With regard to hens which regularly and systematically lay softshelled eggs, it Is generally found that they belong to the very prolific varieties, for it is rarely that a hen belonging to the Asiatic breeds suffers from this complaint or habit. The usual practice of cleaning off the droppings boards, and storing the droppings in barrels, is wasteful from the fact that when so put together it heats quickly and gives off its nitrogen, the element which gives it is peculiar value as a fertilizer. Two principal causes may be assigned why some hens lay eggs with soft shells. Internal weakness is generally caused by too rapid production, or something may be wrong with the feeding, by reason of which the bird gets an insufficient supply of lime for shell formation. When it is desired to cut two or more crops of *grass from a field the grass should be cut before the seed heads form, as the grass has performed its mission when it has seeded; hence, if the first cutting is deferred until the seed is ripe, there will be no second crop of importance. Such crops as Hungarian grass or alfalfa may be cut about every five weeks.

What a boon it will be to shiftless farmers if it shall prove true, as recently reported, that a Hungarian chemist has discovered a liquid which will prevent the oxidization of everything that has been Immersed in it. Then the farmer can dip his tools in it and leave them out in the rain as frequently as he chooses without injury. The new liquid is said not only to prevent rust and decay, but to harden wood and brick. Wood, after being properly treated tn it, becomes absolutely waterproof. Fuller details concerningythe qualities of zorene, as the liquid is called, will be awaited with Interest.

The Butter Eye. A yellowish tinge in the skin is considered a point of great Importance in Jersey cattle. How much foundation there may be for it has never been satisfactorily determined, but there is an impression among certain breeders that the presence of an orange circle around the eye is indicative of the ability of the cow possessing it to not only produce a great yield of butter, but give butter of good quality and the highest flavor. The Bquah Beetle. In regard to remedies for the squash beetle, some growers intimately mix a teaspoonful each of kerosene and spirits of turpentine with half a gallon of finely-ground land plaster, scattering a small quantity of the mixture around each plant or over the hill. While this method may cause the bugs to leave for awhile, yet it does not destroy them, simply sending them to other plants. The object should be to destroy as many as possible, as well as to get rid of them by any method. Fattening Hoga. Corn will fatten a hog quickly, but If weight is desired, and a carcass containing both lean and fat Is preferred, the use of foods containing more protein than is usually found in

corn will enable the farmer to produce a certain weight of pork on a variety as cheaply as on corn, though less fat will be the result Bran, linseed meal, steamer clover, whey and cooked roots will make more and better pork than can be obtained by the exclusive use of corn, but high-grade protein materials may be derived from corn. Fattening’ Sheep and Steera. Mutton sheep make a greater gain of flesh than steers, according to experiments made. At the Wisconsin station; the food required to produce 100 pounds of wether lamb was 384 pounds of corn, 290 pounds corn silage, 158 pounds corn fodder and 22 pounds potatoes. To produce 100 pounds steer required 394 pounds corn, 181 pounds bran and 654 pounds silage. The results showed that silage was also an’ excellent food for the sheep as well asforthestcch.-

Garlic-Tainted Milk. A dairyman states that he was troubled with the smell of garlic or wild onions in the milk from his cows. To obvilato this he put the cows in the stable about three o’clock each afternoon, and fed them on hay, giving them their grain as usual. The result was all that he anticipated. A rest of three hours allowed the odor to pass off in the other secretions, though previously it very strongly flavored both the milk and butter. The same course would probably be of advantage when the milk has the odor of other weeds In the pasture. Grass for Stock Feed. Some grasses have harsh herbage, the outer cells of the leaves and stems containing too much silica. This substance is not needed by animals, and when abundant is not acceptable to them. Other grasses have a covering of hairs, either short and sharp, or long and silky. These hairs are not easily digested, and are disagreeable to the animal. Such grasses are to be avoided. A comparatively smooth grass, with no tendency to secrete too much silica, is the best, so far as texture is concerned. An English authority sums up the desirable qualities in a forage grass as follows: The grasses whose leaves exhibit a fine grain, are developed without much woody fiber and are sweet at the nodes (joints) will be of the highest feeding character.

Keeping Honey. When It is intended to keep honey for household use there is no necessity to bottle it off in small bottles, a large stoneware jar being about as good a vessel as any to keep the honey in until wanted. It is popularly supposed that after the hives have been packed and quilted in readiness to meet the winter the bee-keeper must perforce remain idle until the spring again comes round, but if the bee-keeper so wishes he need never be at a loss for something to do. For one thing, all the section erates and holders need to be thoroughly gone over, not only scrubbing, scraping, and cleaning, but also doing any repairs that may be deemed necessary. After this the way to do is to wrap them up in old newspapers, which keeps them clean and free from cobwebs until again wanted for use.

Feed and Bedding for Honea. The litter for horses should be cut In two-inch lengths, as it makes better bedding and manure than long litter. Rake it under the manger in the daytime, so that it may be kept clean. Salt is a great essential for the horse; in fact, he cannot do without it; give him a little twice a week. Do not feed horses much corn in summer, as it is very heating. A mixture of ground oats and corn Is excellent for them. The giving of water to horses is very carelessly attended to; it should always be given before feeding, that it may not wash the feed along with it. A crop of carrots grown and fed to the horses will always make a profitable Investment. It Is poor policy to stint work horses, as they should be In the best of flesh for the spring and summer w’ork, and flesh cannot be put on as easily as It can be kept on. Oats ought to be soaked before feeding them to old horses.

Three Acree and a Cow. The term “three acres and a cow,” which was at one time quite prominent In English farm discussions, was originally suggested as a remedy for the lack of employment among mechanics and laborers. The Idea was that If each workman could secure possession of a small place, he would become, In a measure, Independent during a period of hard times. The actual suggestion was three and onequarter acres, the one-fourth acre be devoted to an orchard in which the cow could graze occasionally. The rest of the land be desired to devote as follows: Potatoes, one-half acre; turnips, one-fourth acre; winter vetch, one-half acre; spring vetch, one fourth acre; barley, wheat or oats, three-fourths acre; clover and grass, three-fourths acre. He estimated that the product of this land .would be worth about ons hundred dollars, and would keep the occupier above actual want

MRS. EMMA FLEISSNER Suffered Over Two Years—Health Was In a Precarious Condition—Caused By Pelvic Catarrh. Mm - ■Mg, ’s

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I The World’s Standard" DE LAVAL CREAM SEPARATORsMaL 600,000 In Use. • Ten Time* _«_JHC flw|U!r LVf* All Othen Combined flcSieW |Hr •ate SlO- per Cow Bl illjE j3p2 Wi Brery Tear of Um MB® Uz2! war *** »wttHAvSft •ratify Setting lyitame aad SB.- per Cow I* • '■ traffwl a rar all x ‘W3BSWS7 Imitating Separator*. *««<r A»r mv onnUaoaTHE DE LAVAL SEPARATOR 00. C«n«U A Randolph Sts . . 7* CortiamM OHM. GHicnao I ncw torr erM Ma muarafls m uwat mmmsm. iSBSBBKBHHEK3BBBBfiBEKSSHESS9S=*^~***^*~*^^ In tlm«k Hold by drugfiata.