St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 18, Number 20, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 3 December 1892 — Page 2

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/^j:' 4^^ ' ' ^7^^ CHAPTER ll—Continued. One hour went by—two. The supper Sell rang, but Beatrice never left her task. She was writing now. A singular feature of chirography, hers, it teems, for she wrote with a coarse pen, in a bold, masculine hand, and then with a fine one in delicate Italian characters. She manipulated the two letters, so dissimilar in appearance, folded them, placed them in an envelope, carefully added the superscriptions, and then, stamping the envelopes, put on her cloak and hat and stole from her room. Down the dark hall, through the front portals, out into the road, and townwards she sped. At the village postoffice she paused to drop the letter into the box there, and a fa nt gleam of a lamp near by showed Iho address plainly—“ Mr. Haymond Marshall." “Done!” she murmured, breathlessly, as she hurried homewards. “Circumstances, accident, all are in my favor. I could not have endured the confidences that broke my heart, much longer. Edna will never write, her father’s letter tells me why. She will never see her old friends again. Haymond Marshall will forget her in time—l will be his friend, h.s consoler, and then •" The dark eyes glistened, the fair face was sentient with vivid emotion. Then! Ah! balm for the hungry heart, love for tne starved soul, peace for the self-tor-ture, for word and feature betrayed the secret of a woman who could suffer, conceal, and plot as well, to consummate the hopes dictated by hatred, jealousy ami love! CHAPTER 111. TWO LETTERS. “Two letters, Mr. Marshall." Haymond Marshall took the tendered missives from the hands of ifoe amiqua'ed postmaster of Hopedale, thrust one, ordinary business missive, into hts pocket care'essJy, but the other—tis eye brightened and his pulses came quicker. “From Edna,” he murmured, recognizing the handwriting on the envelope. “Someth : ng about the reception tonight. I hope that tiresome Mr. Brinsley is not to be her escort. It is t<K> precious, too sacred to read here. ” He reached home and went to his room with a gay song on his lips. The memory of the girl ne loved was always with him. the possession of a shy, dainty epistle from her enhanced its sweetness. IWißfchEr.bulky,” he commented, as^h& every touchettwa^j^eplgus. "Mr. Marshryߣ / why! what is this? Oh, Edna! a j* xll „ Aruel hoax, surely.” The words died in a gasp. With ing eyes Marshall surveyed the letter before him. Then staggering to a seat, he sat glaring at it with colorless face and chilled heart. A formal dismissal*, a cold, precise disavowal of all the past, the cruel words seemed icy fingers reaching for his heart, to blight all the faith and love of his nature with a single touch. Edna had written it—her slanting, Ita'ian style showed in the chirography. There could be no doubt of that, but the language!—oh! what did it mean? Briefly it addressed him as might one a stranger. Circumstances, the latter said, had in an hour changed her destiny. All was over between them. It was better so, since fate ordained it. Remember her as a friend, their brief “flirtation” as a wayward caprice for passing th. summer months away! “False! Deceitful! I will never believe it,” ui ad the petrified Marshall. “Why! vest-, lay—the ring I gave her, the pledges v made—oh! this is some farce, some Idden dream! What this? ’ Mechanically turning the wretched missive over and over in h s nerveless hands, Raymond Marshall observed for the first time that it was comprised of two sheets of paper. And striving to separate them, he ascertained that stray patches of mucilage held the lower page to the other. In a few minutes he discerned that it could not have been the intention of the sender to inclose the second sheet. That was accidental. It had stuck to the top sheet and had been folded in wilh it by a hasty, careless hand. It tore writing—not Edna’s writing. A dagger seemed driven to Hay Marshall’s heart as he tore it free, and the bold, masculine chirography danced before his vision. If he had been startled before, every pulse stirred with fierce fire now* The letter had evidently been received by Edna the day previous, and was s’gned with the name of the only rival in her affection to whom he had ever given a thought, Miss Chandler's cousin, Edna’s announced escort of that evening— Barton Brinsley.

Iha letter of an accepted lover lo the „oman he loved, it betrayed decided en ouragement from Edna. It even bore a slight ridicule of Marshall’s pretensions. Edna had endured this! Edna had played him false, and while her shy lips were responding to his ardent expressions of devotion her hypocritical heart was thinking of Barton Brinsley. The complication was maddening. With eyes da-he I with the insanity of despair the tortured artist looked up. tie clenched the tell-tale sheets in his hand as if they were the false heart of the girl who had jilted him, and that of ; the man who had stolen away her love. I “I —I will k.ll him!” he choked out, his soul ablaze. And then, realizing the folly of such a sentiment, the right of any man to honorably strive for a woman’s preference, with the bitterness of death comprehending that the woman was the deceiver, remembering Lis mother’s taunt once made thaj; he bad better marry some one besides “a nameless, homeless, nobody,” he calmed down, put on his hat, and walked fr >m the pouse like one in a dream, his lips Irmly set, but sick at heart.

He went straight to the seminary. There was that in his heart so manly, so straightforward, so inclined to doubt the falsity of the woman he had so blindly trusted, despite the terrible evidence in his hands, that, though the meeting killed him, he was determined to have the matter settled now and finally. He would demand to see Edna—he would show her the letters. His philanthropic friends had more than once told him that all womankind were changing butterflies of sentiment. If sho had indeed only played with his heart ho would leave her presence an t the place forever; w.thout a word accept the bitter lesson as a warning against trusting all humanity, and in silence and distance wait for the end of a life blighted, profitless, unendurable. A servant admitted him and took his card to the lady principal. Miss Chandler looker, serious as she entered the room, tut greeted him with the geniality she always bestowed on Edna’s friends. She started at the sight of his wretched face, however. “Miss Chandler,” he spoke, in his misery and agitation neglecting to take her proffered hand, “I wish to see Edna— Miss Deane.” “Edna?” ejaculated the lady principal, vunderingly. "Why! did you not know ” “Know what?” he oemanded, sharply, his heart taking a new alarm. “That she is gone?” “Gone!” he repeared,blankly. “Gone? When, were, with whom?” "She left us last evening. Toor, dear’ Edna; her happy Sihcoi life is over, i and—why, Mr. Marshall!" He had arisen to his feet at her first startling words. Ho felt his senses reeling now, and swayed where he stood. J The sight of su h vi id emotion in a, stiong man alarmed ti e gentle lady. “Go on!" he choked out, waving his hand agitatedly. “It is nothing. The I sho k, the suddenness ” "Surely she wrote you that she was going?” “No. That is You say she went last evening?” “Yes.” “Alone? Why did she leave so abruptly?" His heart hung on the reply. Miss Chandler’s face fell. “Mr. Marshall,” she said, in a low, subdued tone, “you must not ask me. I have pledged myself to make no explanations. In fact, I know very lilt o. She left in safe hands, of that I am assured, and she will never return to Hopedale. It has depressed us all; tut surely she will soon write to you and explain.” “Miss Chandler. I must know where | Edna Deane has gone. You must tell ■ me more!” His voice was husky, but it bore a I ring of sharp, lacerating ang ilsh. “I cannot. I never break a promise I once made, Mr. Marshall,” spoke the ! ^w^^^Ml^lignity. “You may see Miss “Allow me to speak with her, pleas How strain d and unnatural w, re his tones! How .like a man marching to his doom he followed Miss Chandler down the broad hall and to the door of tha office of the seminal y. “Mica Mercer is in there alone, I j think,” spoke Miss Chandler. “ Yes. ■ Beatrice, Mr. Marshall.” And the principal opened the door and closed it upon Raymond Marshall and the woman he so disliked and distrusted. CHAPTER IV. IRE TRUTH REVEALED Beatrice Mercer was seated at a desk correcting some exercises of thi pupils, her own portfolio spread out before her. The color died fro n h r fa *e as she recognized her visitor, then it turned deep-red with reactionary emotion. His thoughts were too full of Edna to allow of his reading aright the tremulous emotion, the 1 a’f-represse 1 fright that his hostess betrayed “Miss Mercer,” l.e spoke, hoarsely, “I have come to ask of jou the information that Miss Chandler refuses. Why did Edna Deane leave the seminary? Where has she gone?” “I cannot tell you.” His eyes flashed excitedly. lie clenched hi) hands in an excess of suffering and suspense. “You must!” he gasped, frantically. “Do you understand what I am enduring? Doubt —anguish—heart-breaking!” From beneath her veiled eyelids the girl studied his working face. Craftiness was there, but wtll masked. A sinister triumph in her heart gave her strength to simulate. I “I pity you,” she said, softly. “I would be glad to tell you al, but it is useless. ” “Useless?” “Yes. She has left the sem'nary, Hopedale, her friends, forever. She has gone to her relatives under a vow never to reveal her true identity. Happy in her new life, with golden promises of wealth, you must not blame her impetuous nature If she finds new friends

who make her 'orget the old.” How well the shait went home! The blank despair, the settled conviction of faithlessness in the man’s face was pitiable to witness. “She left no word for me?” he forced himself to ask. “No. She wrote a letter to Mr. Barton Brinsley, but it is unmanly for you to have me betray my friend.” “Speak!” ordered Marshall, fiercely. “Doyon not see that this suspense is killing me?” “Then know the worst,” answered Beatrice, bulking all her fancied power :on a final venture. “She wrote to Bari ton Brinsley. This morning he le:t Hopedale. Miss Chandler says he has gone away on business. I think it is to see Edna’s new relatives and jress his suit there. Mr. Marshall, oh, why will you force me io tell these bitter truths? Forget her —she is unwo.thy of you. She never knew her own mind. There are truer hearts, hearts longing for a love they would cherish and never betray.” His head had sunk on his breast. He believed now, and his heart was broken. Beatrice had drawn nearer to him. Her eyes aglow', her cheeks throbbing.

her hand upon h's arm, heart and soul breathed forth the secret that had made her life one great void of misery since she had first seen his handsome, earnest face. With a shock he looked up. Wonderment, intelligence in his glance, it drove her back abashed. Her face betrayed her secret, she loved him! His face told unmistakably । that he read that secret aright. “Oh! how could I? But I pity you so! I Think me unwomanly, but if your heart iis breaking so is m ne. Go, Mr. Mar- ' shall—Raymond—go! and leave me to the wretchedness of the secret your ; suffering has wrung from my lips.” । Sho was sobbing, shrinking, now. In consternation her companion regarded । her. She loved him! This had been the secret of her wayward moods. Despite himself a great wave of pity I swept his chivalrous heart. ’ “lam sorry,” he said brokenly. “A 1 true woman’s regard is better than a false friend’s treachery. Miss Mercer when I leave you, it is never to know happiness again, but I may know the peace of having done my lull duty if I trace this affair down to ihe last. I must see Edna—she shall toll me from her own lips what I already know! . Then I am content to cherish my misery i in silence. Speak! Win my gratitude, ! at least, by telling me whither she has gone." i There was no reply. Only the subdued soba broke the waiting silence. * "You know whore Etna is?” persisted ; Marshall. "Yes, I know!” cried Beatrice, lifting i her face, flashing with jealousy and emotion; “but do you thins I will tell you—sen I you to bog ut the feet of a woman unwoithy of you? Leave me! ‘ If you are suffering, I am tortured. । Oh! cruel! cruel! cruel!” Her frantic hands swept the open portfolio across the desk as she shrank i from him, hiding her humiliation, her i jealousy, her love in hot, burning tears, i About to speak reassuriagly to her, to plead with her anew for the knowledge I he so craved, Raymond Marshall started as if dealt a sudden blow. . Ilia eyes happened to fall to the open I perJolio. He rtcoilel, stand closer, and then sprang to his teet with a wild, i intelligent, hopeful cry. Fer upon a sheet of ; aper, written ; there indubitably by the woman who 1 bad just so shame-face Uy confessed her ' love, was the record of hatred and I treachery that had so neariy blighted I his life. There were the first experiments of the clever lorger to simulate Edna Deane’s handwriting. Thore was a copy of the miss.ve he had received that morning. There, too, was the draft of the more masculine epistle that had accompanied it. Beatrice Mercer had looked up at his strange cry. Her eyes met his, following their glance to the porui'olio, and then, shrinking back, her guilty face told the truth. “You wrote that—you wrote those letto s!” fairly sh ute 1 Marshall. “Oh, blind, wicked that I was, to d >ubt my true-hearted darling! It was a cruel forgery—a plot. Speak, Beatrice Mer- । cer! All jou have told me. all those j letters told, was a falsehoo I." Beatrice had matched up ihe port- । folio. De ance in her face, she punted i like a tigress at l ay. “If I dil,” she cried wil I'y, “it was ! only to save you a fruitlo-s chase. I 1 alone know where Edna Deane has | gone. 1 know that sho will nev itdare i write to you or see you again. You ; you dote over, but never with my help.” A gr. at, joyful glow sprang to the face of Marshall. "So be it!” he cried. ‘ Knowingher to : be true, knowing all this forgery to be ‘ a lie, love will laid a waj\ Revealed in ; your tiu > colors at last, I know what to ; expect of you. but, as I live, I vow I never to rest till I fin I the woman I j love, the victim of some dark plot, if I | pursue her half the work! over!” He strode from the r om and the । presence of ihe woman of whom he had made a relentless enemy as bespoke, j strong in the ccnseiuusness of love’s ; mightj’ power. Yes, he would find the woman he loved, though peril, ] rivation, death barred his way, and cruel schemers wrought dangerous pitfalls for his eager feet at every step he took! All these might be evaded. I'estli lence might pass him by, perils graze ' him unscathed, death itself be warded ' back by the 10. e that knew no obstacles, but. more weird, more tortuous than he ■ ever dreamed was the path that was ' leading him to that far day when, once i again, standing lace to face with Edna, : he should shrink before a mystery and ■ a plot that would daunt, appall, and | ba l e even hH bold courage and trj’ his loyal sou a< bj’ an ordeal of fire! ITO BE CONTINUED. | Coiid n;ed Delii iKues. I Condensed jellies are becoming an important commercial artcle. They are made in the shape of little bricks, I each weighing eight ounces, and with an inside wrapper of oiled paper. AccordI ing to the directions, the brick is to be put into one pint of boiling water and ; stirred until it is dissolved. The mix- ' ture is th' n poured into a mold or i other vessel ami put in a cool place. In i a few hours the jelly is “set” and realy I to use, ap nt and a half of it. It never j fa Is to "jell.” wh ch point is the cause of so much anxiety to amateur jellymakers. The bricks are favored with various fruits, currant, raspberry, grape, etc., and some are of pure calves’-loot jelly, to which wine may be added for wine iellv. preferably Sicily madeira.

lilt, JCAIJ , K. Fifteen cents a brick is the retail price. Concentrated ice-cream is put up in tin cans of eight oun cs each. The contents of a can are to De put in three pints of boilin ' milk, stirred well, permitted to cool, and then irozen, producing two quarts of ice < ream. Ct ndensed desserts are prepared and sold in cans similarly, such as blanc-mange. Apologctical. “Wx hope,” said th' leading article apologetically, “that our r adxrs will pardon thx appxarancx of this wxxk’e luixlligxncxr, and thx sxxmingly mystxrious abssn x of a cxrtain Ixttxr. : Shooting Sam BibLxr camx into our offlex yXstxrday, and allowxd that as hx was going shooting and haa no ammunii tion hx would likx to borrow somx of our i typx for shot. Bxforx wx could prx- ; vxnt it hx ha I grabbxd all thx Ixttxrp j out of thx most important box and dis I appxarxd. Our subsciibxrs can hxlp in I rxplxnishing our stock if all thosx who I wxrx shot by Sara will favx thx charge j whxn it is pickxd out of thxm and re I turn it to us. Nxvxr mind if it is bat- . txrxd a littlx.” —New York Sun. Murad I. was stabbed by a soldier । whom he had offended.

[ Physical Training in Schools. > lu cities, more than in smaller ’ towns and in the country, the value b of some regular physical drill is evident. , In respect to wholesome surroundings, the country boy or girl is much > the more fortunate. The greater ’ purity of the air, though valuable, is ( perhaps not so much responsible for • the better aveiage of health found in the country as are the varied occupa- , tions, which give rise to a robust and • symmetrical physical development. Coining from an examination of the crowded conditions of many city schools, one ceases to wonder at the necessity for the city’s recruiting its ranks from a rural population. Boys with imperfectly developed bones resulting in deformed figures, girls with stooping shoulders or curving spine are anything but rare. For such children something must be done. It seems absurd to overburden the brains of children who have so little physical strength. Such a course favors disease of both mind and body. For some of the mental training imposed upon such children physical drill should be substituted. One hour —two hours, if necessary—might be taken from the school hours and devoted to muscle, building exercises. Under a competent trainer and leader such exercises develop the greatest amount of result in the shape of enlarged muscles, and what is equally important, they lessen nervous development, as is evidenced by less craving for excitement. Many schools are already equipped with such arrangements, and the results have been most gratifying. Every public school in every large city should be provided with appointments for regular physical exercises and drills. The time spent in exercises ot this kind shows more musclebuilding result than the same amount of time spent in some laborious occupation demanding the use of certain muscles only; in fact, these exercises correct errors of unsymmetrical development that exclusive occupations induce. For girls especially such exercises are valuable. Girls are as capable of developing muscle as are their brothers, and they are no less womanly for being possessors of muscle or for knowing how to use it—Youth’s Companion. How They Were Married. A reporter for the St. Louis Republic has been talking with the wife of “a popular preacher” alxjut the marriages which have taken place at the parsonage. She has witnessed a good many, some of them attended with highly ludicrous incidents. One day, she says, a tine-lcoking young farmer, roughly dressed, with an oxwhip in his hand, knocked at the door and was shown into the parlor. There he laid his whip upon the mantlepiece and proceeded to make known his errand. •‘I say, pars >n,” he began, with here ’long with a girl an’ git mar- ; ried?” “Certainly,” said the minister, “certainly. What seems to be the trouble?” “Wal,” answered the farmer, “I’ve | got my license —that's all ready; I i I got it more’n a week ago. An’ now i I’ve got a place to git married at. I That’s two things. But I ain’t said i nothing to the girl yet. She’s in j town to-day, though, an I seen her ■ in a store a-buyin’ some things an' i I'm goin’ right down an’ ask her.” I lie took down his whip, flung it. i over his shoulder and went out of the । | door and down the street. The min- j I ister and his wife laughed but the , wife went often to the window and: । peeped out to see whether the ex-! ' pectant couple were in sight. ! More than an hour passed; she had ■ ! nearly given them up; lut at last < I they appeared—the girl, as the par- | son’s wife expressed it, “a perfect little beauty, and as neat as a pin.” “1 had lots ’o trouble a-tlndin’ her,” j said the farmer byway of explana-1 tions, and then they stood up and : were married, while the bride seemed hardly to know whether to smile or to weep. But when the cc. lony was over and the minister's v said something to her about it’s being so sudden, she answered, while tears brimmed her eyes: “But you see, ma’am, I've loved Jim ever since I ■ can remember, and he was just too stupid to find it out.”

Some Biblical Oddities. Misprints and odd sentences make Bibles very valuable. The “Breeches Bible’ ’’ is so called on account of a wrong translation of the word “aprons’ as it appears in Genesis, iii., 7. the translators in this instance having made it read: “And they sewed 11g leaves together, and made themselves breeches!” The English reformers exiled at Geneva are responsible for this very apparent absurdity. During Queen Elizabeth’s reign it was the regular English family Bible. The “Vinegar Biole,” j an edition of Holy Writ which api peared from the Clarendon press in i 1717, is known by th it Jodd title because tl e words “The parable of the I vinevaru.” in the title of Luke, xx., is made to read “The parable of the Vinegar.” Matthew’s Bible, printed in London in 1551. was nicknamed the “Bug Bible,” because Psalms, xci., 5, was translated so as to read: “So that thou shait not nede to bee afraide of any bugges by nighte.” The original idea of the word “terror” is still to be seen in our words “bugbear, “ougaoou, etc. The “Wicked Bible” was printed in London in 1631 and was so called from the fact that the negation was omitted’in certain of the commandments, making them read “thou shait” instead of “thou shait not. ” Archbishop Land ordered tins edition

suppressed and forced the printer tc pay a tine of £3OO. The “Placeniaker’s Bible” is another sacred oddity for which book collectors pay a high price. It obtained its name from an brror in Matthew, v., 9, where the words “Blessed are the neacemakers” read as “Blessed are the placemakers.” The “Treacle Bi ole” has the passage in Jeremiah, “Is there no balm n Gilead?” rendered as, “Is there no treacle in Gilead?” The Dauay version (Roman Catholic) renders the same passage, “Is there no resin in Gilead?” In the “Printers’ Bible,” David, where he should say “The princes have persecuted me without cause” is made to say “The printers have persecuted me,” etc. He Should Have Known Hetter. The man hail been out of town for a month with his family, and their house had been closed. When he came back the first thing that met him was a gas bill, lie fumed over it until next day and then went to the office. “Here,” he said, shaking the of fending document at the haughty clerk, “you fellows have got me charged with as much gas in October as in September.” “You are in the same house, arn’t you?” inquired the clerk, with dignified formality. “Os course, I am.” “Well, then, it ought to be more; i there are thirty-one days in Octo- j ber. ” “Come off. The house was closed during the entire ni >nth and I was out of lown with my family.” “Are you sure of that Q ” and ihe clerk eved him suspiciously and studied the bill awhile. “Do you wmt me to swear to it?’’, “No, not exactly, but why didn’t you let us know about it at the office before we made out the bill? You must have a very exalted opinion of yourself if you expect us to know if you go_out of town for a month, and to render our bills accordingly.” Then was the poor man abashed greatly and he wont forth in deep humility.—Free Press. Husband and Wife. In the union of husband and wife, which is the most intimate and confidential relationship on earth, there must be something more than superficial admiration, the one for the other. These two have pledged to one another a life-long consecration. Their interests are to be in common. Nothing can affect one without equally affecting the other. For weal or woe, they have joined hands, and to the whole outside world they present a united front. And yet, if testimony could be taken, it would be found that many married people *have not been perfectly happy (Hiring the early years of wedlock. There has been friction. There has been disappointment. The little rift has been suffered tc open the wav for estranaenienL j and satisfactory — “we decided, my wife and I, when we were married, that we would never let the sun gc down on any lack of peace between us. We would ask one another’s pardon if necessary, but we would never j quarrel. One or the other should always give up a point on wh’ch both could not agree, and whatever else came to us, we resolved to have nc discord. ” Horticulture in the Schools. On this side of the Atlantic we justly pride ourselves upon being in 1 advance of European attainments, i We arc very far behind them in the ' matter of horticultural education of : children. In France there are over I tw nty-six thousand primary and elel mentary schools where gardening is practically taught in gardens sur- । rounding the school-houses. Our country is young, but. it is rich and : progressive. The plain old school I buildings are going and elegant build- । ings. with costly appliances, are taki ing their places. But we should not I be content with tine buildings, large i play grounds, and good teachers. In this country more than any we need the proper setting of ample grounds, • filled with shrubs and flowers to bloom from earliest spring t il winter. Instead of books alone we should see , to it that our children have ample opportunities for enjoying a lesson from the book of nature.

Tlie Comparison Fai’etE A Scotch clergyman, remarkable ; for the simplicity and force of his I style, was one day discoursing on the ‘ text, “Except ye repent, ye shall like- : wise perish.” In order to impress upon his hear- • ers the importance of attending to ; the solemn truth contained in the passage, he made use of a figure of a very simple bu-t striking character. ' “Yes, my friend-,” he emphatically urged, “unless ye repent ye shall as sureh perish,” placing one of his fingers on the wing of a blue fly which j alighted on his Bible, and having his right hand uplifted.|“just as sure, mv friends, as I’ll Hatten this blue I fly ’’ Before the blow was struck the t.y got off, upon which the minister, at the topof his voice, exclaimed: “Ah, : woel! There’s a chance for ye yet, . my friends!” Doubtful Benefits, ! , Winged insects have long been ac--1 cuscd of spreading disease; but it is . j asserted now from Havana that mos- • quitoes have a use, for they inoculate any one after biting a yellow-fever i patient, the disease which follows is I so mild that fatal results are rare. We sh add imagine a boy would i be more desirous of going to heaven; ’ ‘ he can blow a horn all day there withi out being told to quit it

Not Wasted. The Widow Jenkins lives in a small house at th? edge of a small forest, in the heart of which lies a beautiful lake, much frequented b> summer tourists. The widow, assist Iby her son Jake, is accustomed to put. un the visitors’ horses, and to supply the visitors themselves with meals before and after the excursion to the lake. : One day she saw a party of four drive I up with the gnide, and noticing that two of them vere ladies, she ex* claimed to Jake quite audibly, “Here’s another lot o’ them eejots!” _/I Mrs. Jenkins was a good cook, but w that day for some reason, she set be- ; fore her guests a plateful of cream of tartar biscuits which were of such a lead-like consistency that nobody could eat them. She surveyed her guests with dark disapproval as the meal progressed, and at last swept ' the plate from the table, and saying, ' “I'm s ;rry ye can’t make out t’ eat what's set before ye,” she lef* the room. A slight gloom pervaded the rest of the meal, and Mrs. Jenkins did not reappear. It was dusk when the tourists reached the house again. “Come right in!” called the owner, cheerfully, from the kitchen door. “Set right down to your supper; it’s all ready an’ waitin’.” Much gratified by this change in the demeanor of their hostess, the , party seated themselves at once. The i principal dish was an enormous Indian i pudding, and being exceedingly hun- ! gry, they ate it with thankful hearts. When Mrs. Jenkins had seen the last morsel of it disappear, she heaved a sigh of relief. “There,” she ejaculated; as the company rose from the table. “I sh’d have give ye more v’riety, but I was.--" bound t’ git that pudd.n’ cat up! I couldn’t bear t’ think of all them biscuit bein’ wasted, an’ it seemed as it you folks had orter be the ones t’ eat ’em, seein’ they was made a puppose for ye. An’ ye have eat ’em: they was worked into that Indian puddin’, ev’ry one of ’em! Air now I ain’t got any hard feelin's toward ye.” To Play Musical Whist. In these nays when it is tb.n fashion to understand and study wnist, it is interesting to know that as a novelty for a bazar the game has been introduced as “Musical Whist with Living i Cards.” Four players are seated upon raised scats; a large, square cloth, on the floor or on a platform or stage, forms the card table. The cards are represented by persons in appropriate costumes, and the gowns for the court cards may be very original. The clubs usually wear gray and white, the emblems being in black velvet, and have crowns of silver-gray and jet. Hearts wear a pretty shade , of green, with white, and the emblems are in red. Spades are in pink i with black velvet emblems: diamonds in yellow with deep red. The parts of the smaller cards may be taken by children in gowns of cream-white and mob caps, the cards being Indian immense card, two feet in lengUu and hung over the shoulders, hanging in shield fashion in front, on j uhich are the spots of the card and . a card should hang at the back also and display the ordinary kind of a card back. The car's enter to the music of a march and are preceded , by two little pages clad in slashed ; satin suits, capes with ostrich tips, and carrying wands of silver. Shuffling. cutting, and dealing are shown by a dance, and the cards then ar- , range themselves in front of their respective players. Each player indicates in turn the card to advance to , the center, with musical accompani- ■ ment. The winning card of each trick leads the others to cne corner of thes inare where they form in file, . and so on closing up when six tricks ' are made on either side. At thecon- . elusion of the game the tricks of the winning side lead off in triumph those of the losing side.—The Ladie? Home Journal. The Natural Gait of Horses. ■ - “Speaking o' gaits,” said a cattle- ; man to the delegate, “did yon know 1 that in its native state the horse has i but two gaits—the walk and gallop? All others, such as the trot, pace, can- > ter, fox-trot, rack, and single-foot are acquired and artificial. True, a colt ? will be born that may pace on the day 5 of its birth, but you will find some of 1 its ancestors have been taught topa-e.

1 JIVi O UH •V- VW-. -• I have chased and captured wild horses in their native wilds and know uh is from observation. 1 never saw a wild horse trot. A queer difference between wild horses and domestic is exhibited in breaking them. Now a wild horse tries to dismount his rider Oy pitching and bnckine and it is the aim of the trainers to make him run. Get a wild horse to running straight ahead and he is conquered and will in a short time become docile. But with domestic stock just the opposite is the case. A tame horse dees not buck as a rule, but wants to run. Let him run and he is ruined. The philosophy of the business is plain. The idea in both cases is to bend the will of the horse to the rider’s desire. The wild horse runs straight ahead because he is cowed and afraid of his rider, and has despaired of throwing him. The tame horse because he has no fear of the rider and imagines he is escaping. He is made to go slow quietly only through fear and respect Thus, you see. the wild h rse runs to slavery, while the tame horse runs to freedom.”—Cincinnati Times-Star. Survival Under Difficulty. The existence of w Ives in the Ardennes, only fifty miles from Brussels, and less than a hundred from Antwerp, is not much stranger than the survival of bears in the Catskills. Three of them were killed this fall in the neighborhood of South Durham, and one near a chapel known as the Bound Top Meeting-house.