St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 21, Number 10, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 28 September 1895 — Page 3

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CHAPTER IV. The sun shone down through the delijeate rounded green leaves of the great lindens, and lay in golden patches on the ■gravel and velvet lawn, just as the moon scattered its light in silver in the soft summer nights. Beyond the trees, hidden by laurel and dense thickets of lilac and may thorn, was the tall old brick wall, with quiet street and lane, ami beyond them gay, brilliant, noisy Paris, whose voices only came within that garden in a faint, soft murmur. AH within „4here was a grave, quiet calm, amid vh^ch the flowers bloomed to perfection, ■ferf the great dark green leaves of the lilies seemed to sleep on the surface of the broad grass-margined pond, where the carp and gold fish sailed here and there, and came up for a moment to form a ring as they sucked down a scrap of white bread or well-sonked biscuit. Half hidden by the treds was the old picturesque chateau, with its fastened back louvres to every window—blinds so seldom used that the creepers and vines had wreathed themselves in and out, holding them back, and hanging over the windows to form natural sunshades, which waved here and there in the summer breeze. At one time the courtly beauties and gay cavaliers may have paced that garden, but for a hundred years it had been held by the Sisters of St. Cecile, forming their convent now, where the Superior and her daughters in the faith received on pension a few young ladies to educate and share the peaceful calm of the dreamy old place. There were some half-dozen of the Sisters about the grounds that soft summer morning, tending flowers, reading,, working, or seated here and there in dreamy thought, their quaint garb forming a picturesque addition to the general picture of calm and peace. But all was not silence, for from an open window, pleasantly subdued, came the sparkling notes of a fine-toned piano, evidently touched by a brilliant player, whose performance had taken the attention of a fair, prettily-featured girl of about eighteen, who sat with a drawing upon which she had been engaged, being a sketch of a couple of Sisters in a nook between two great tufts of lilac, ono reading to the other, whose fingers were busy over a piece of needlework. As the girl sat in the shade of one of the lindens listening dreamily to tho grand old sonata, whose notes floated to her ear. a quiet, grave-looking lady, pleas- I antly plump and smooth of face, though there were marks suggesting sixty years at the corners of her eyes and lips, and one tiny streak of gray hair just peeping beneath the pure white headdress, which covered her brow, came silently up behind the chair, and stood looking down at the sketch. She nodded her head as if satisfied, and then bent down and lightly touched the girl’s arm. “Oh!” she cried, starting. “I did not hear you come.” “Well, have you finished?” “Not yet,” said tho girl, quickly. “I was listening to Aube. I wish I could play as well.” “Try,” said the Sister, smiling. As sho spoke the music ceased, and directly after a tall, graceful figure in white appeared at the open door, held one hand over two dark eyes for a moment, to screen them from the sun. and then catching sight of the group beneath the lindens, she came quickly over the grass to join them. There was a sad and pensive smile on the old Sister’s face as the pianist approached; and as she came up. her hand was taken and held for a few moments and her face scanned. “Excellent, my child, excellent. We have been listening to your playing.” “Oh. no,” said the girl, with her soft, dreamy-looking face lighting up; “I made so many mistakes. Ah, Luce, how is the drawing?” she continued, as the old Sister nodded, smiled, and walked gravely on toward the open door. “Screaming out for the india-rubber," , was the reply. “Oh, Aube, dear, I shall i never draw. Brother Paul will roar with laughter at my work again.” “But Mr. Durham would not,” said Aube, smiling, and showing her regular white teeth. “Hush! Don’t!” said Luce, with a look of mock alarm, as she gave a quick glance around. "You shouldn’t. Aube. It’s too ' t.. nai.T, 77V 7e~nHom<vn »n place. What would Sister Elise think, ,

and the Sisters generally." > “What nonsense!” “Isn't it. dear? Since I've been able to 1 think for myself about such things, I’ve felt sure that the word man or gentleman ‘ ought not to be mentioned in the hearing ’ of any of the Sisters.” “Luce, what trivial things you do say'.” “Trivial in some eases, perhaps, but 1 what is all very well for us who at any 1 time may be called upon to give up the ' school-girl life, would be very serious for Sister Elizabeth and Sister Marie, and i the rest. They are not so very old yet. But I say: sit down, dear; I’ve had another letter from Paul.” Aube was silent, but there was a slight tinge of color in her cheeks which was duly noted by her companion, as she walked slowly to the edge of the pond, took out a biscuit, and began to throw tiny crumbs to feed the fish. Luce Lowther, with a mischievous smile on her lips, rose too, and went silently behind her companion. “Poor Paul!” she said, with mock sorrow in her tones, “he will be so grieved.” “Why, said Aube quickly, and her soft dreamy ejes flashed a little. “I shall have to tell him that as soon as I mentioned his name you got up and walked away.” There was a faint splash as a fish rose tt a crumb and took it under the clear water. “It does seem hard on the poor fellow,”

continued Lucio. “Now, how can it be! I suppose it must be caused by you, a girl of French parents, being born in the West Indies.” “I don’t understand you," said Aube, gravely. “No! Well, I mean this inherent coquetry of your nature. Poor Paul! I know he loves you very much.” "Lucie, dear, you hurt me,” said Aube, sadly. “Why will you be so frivolous about so serious a matter? Your brother has hardly seen me, and then it was only for a few moments." “Quite long enough to make a hole in his heart, Aube, dear,” whispered Luce. “He does nothing but rave about you in his letters, and he has painted your portrait again and again." “Luce!” “From memory and your photograph.” “What? Oh, how could he get one?” “I told him the name of the photographer who took you when those two were obtained on purpose to send to Madame Dulau as she wished, and he pursuaded the man to let him have one." “Luce!” cried Aube, and her soft, creamy complexion began to glow with the rich warm color beneath. "It was very shocking of course; but Aube, darling, we are not going to be ; nuns. We shall soon have finished all this life, and then of course I shall be Mrs. Doctor Durham and you will be “Luce, dear, you hurt me.” said Aube, excitedly. "Don’t talk like that, dear." “Very well, then, 1 will not; but I do hope some day, Aube, that you and 1 will be really sisters. No, no; don’t slop me. Paul is the dearest and best of brothers.” "I’m sure lie is," said Aube. “And some day when your mamma leaves that terrible hot island, and comes to live in Paris, I am sure she will like the dear old boy and love him as 1 do, though we do seem to have seen so little of each other with my being shut up | hero.” "Where you have boon very happy, I dear.” “Happy? Yes, of course. Why. the dear old Sisters have petted us as if we had been their dolls." "They have always been most kind. ” said Aube. "1 shall be very sorry to leave them." "Os course; and so shall I; but it must come some day. Madame Dulau is sure to fetch you before long, and then oh, Aube, dear, it’s very sad to be like mr no one to fetch me home." | "You must come ami make jour Home with me,” said Aube, passing her arm about the slight merry-looking little thing. “Yes,” said Luce with a mischievous : look. “1 do hope you and Paul will often ‘ want me.” “Luce!" “Oh. 1 beg your pardon. My thoughts do pop out so. Well, then, I am not like you; I will speak plainly. Some day • when 1 am Mrs. Doctor Durham you will ■ come and stay with me." "I hope we shall never be parted, i Luce,” said Aube gravely, and her beautiful eyes grew dreamy with a far oft look. "But is it not idle to make al! these ] plans? As Sister Elise says, our future : will be planned for us. But come what i may. no future can be more happy and ■ ; peticeful than our life has been here." “N o," said Luce; "but haven’t yon j ! felt it very dull sometimes?” “I think not. No.” "Now c^me, confess; haven’t you ever ; I longed to go out and see Faris?" “Never.” “Never thought how nice it would be to : ; go to parties and balls?" “No.” said Aube, smiling. “The only ' j longing I have had has Imen to see mamma again." “Again. You do recollect her, then?” “As one recalls a dream,” said Aube । thoughtfully. “It is all misty and indis- ; ' tinct. I was so very young.” “I wonder you remember anything," I i said Luce, looking wonderingly at the I j beautiful, thoughtful face before her. “But I do remember just faintly a face ; I bent over me, and long dark hair brush- ; j ing against my cheeks as I was kissed. It was a face as beautiful as the face of St. Agnes in the large room.” “Yes, your mother," said Luce, resting her hand upon her friend's arm. "She must be very beautiful.” “I suppose so,” continued Aube, dreamily. Then, with her face growing sud- ' denly animated, “I can recollect a black ' I . —. . ■ . •

ber the air she sang." “That must have been your black nurse,” said Luce. “Yes, and there were flowers, great scarlet and yellow flowers, with which I used to play. Ah, Luce, dear, when I talk to you like this how it all seems to come back; but somehow I can’t recall coming here. There seems to be something black like a dark curtain coming down, and I can see nothing more." “That must have been when you were ill,” cried Luce. “I remember Sister Elise telling me that you nearly died on the voyage over, and that you were quite a year growing strong.” “Yes,” said Aube, thoughtfully, once more; “ that must have been when I was ill, for the next thing I recollect is playing about here, and being led up and down, holding Sister Elise’s hand, or standing watching her feeding the fish.” “The Superior wishes to speak to you,” said a quiet, subdued voice, and the two girls faced round to see one of the Sisters standing behind them, with her hands crossed and her eyes red as if with weeping. “Sister Martha,” cried Aube quickly; “is anything wrong?” “Yes, yes, dear; very, very wrong,” cried the sister, covering her face with her hands and bursting into a passionate fit of sobbing. “Don’t—don’t speak to me. She is in her room. Go quickly. 1— I ’’

She turned and ran across the lawn to where tho others were seated, and as . Aube hurried up to the door, followed by Luce, their minds conjuring up some sudden seizure and illness of one who had played the part of mother to the-v ever since they were little children, they glanced back, and could see that the ba^ news was being communicated to the other occupants of the garden, who were gathering excitedly, in a little group. “Sister Elsie is waiting for you,” said another of the sisters, meeting them in the great hall. “Is she very ill?” cried Aube. A sweet, pensive face was turned to her wonderingly; then there was a quick shake of the head, Aube was warmly clasped to tho nun's breast, and tears were left upon her cheek as the sister hurried away. "Luce, what is the matter?’ whispered Aube, with her heart sinking. All this was so strange in that peaceful home. | Lucie did not reply, but looked at her wildly, and the next minute they were i in a somber-looking room, with its j dued green lights, the windows being screened by the trees which grew close up to the panes. The old lady was seated by a table, on which lay a letter; and. dim as the room appeared to those who had just come out of the bright sunshine, both Luce and Aube could see that the Superior had been weeping. Sho drew herself up. though, with n display of calm dignity, as the door was closed, and signed to Aube to approach, motioiang Luce to stay; but before Aube had half crossed the intervening apace, the old lady hud risen, advanced hurriedly to meet her. clasped the girl to her breast, and sobbed aloud. "Oh, my child, my child. It has come at hist.” A sensation of giddiness assailed Aube ; for the moment, but recovering herself j by an effort she clung to the old Superior. "Mamma! My mother! Sister Elise; 1 she is dead?” "No, no, no. my child," cried tho old lady, excitedly. “No. no: don’t think that. Thore is her letter. She is alive and well. But do you not seo, my child? It is what I have been dreading so long.” "She Ims sent for me to come?" cried Aube, joyously. "Yes.” said the old lady, gazing nt her sadly; and there was a suggestion of pain ami reproach in tho tone. “Yes. and you ! are glad to see her mire again after all , these years after all these years." The tears were coursing down Aube’s cheeks, ami tin* eagerness had gone out I of her voice as her arms stole round the I old lady’s ne« k. and her warm soft lips | were pressed passionately to her brow, her eyes, her cheeks. "No. no. you have been my mother so ' long," she cried. "Don’t think me tin- I grateful and glad to leave yon yon all 5 here. Sister Elsie, 1 have been so happy, j It will break my heart." She burst in'o a passion of sobbing now. ! and clung wildly to the old lady, growing I moment by moment more hysterical till j tho Superior half drew, half carried her • to the couch, where they sat down. Aube ■ sinking on her knees beside her. to cling to I hi r still, and hide her convulsed face in the old laily’s breast. Then silen e once more reigned in the dim. peaceful room, and Luce stood near tho door. the tears stealing silently down her cheeks ns she watched the group ; where Aube's bos an still heaved and fell. 1 and a sob escaped from time to time as, —aci ij t'-ss agitated. Sister Elsie held , tlie weeping girl lightly to her. and rested her pale old cheek upon her rich, dark ■ : clustering hair.

“ilu.-li, hush. my darling." she seemed t<> coo over Aube. "It will be a bitter ( parting for us all; but we must not tnur- I mur. It is quite right, and I tint glad i now you have sent a sweet feeling of ■ joy through niy heart, for 1 know how dearly you love us nil. There will lie many tears shed today. Aube: but my ; joy w ill be theirs as well. For it is right ; and good ami holy. There have been times when, in spite of the ample funds ; your dearest mother Ims sent so regularly all these long years. 1 have dared to ’ think that she could not love you very much, but now I know. She tells me iu i her letter, in which all a mother’s pas- ■ sionate love stands out. how sho has borne and wept and mourned to be separated so long, but that it was your father’s wish, almost his dying command, that you. Aube, should be sent to his native land to be educated and taught, as you con'd not be in that half savage place. She says, too, something that from her generous payments I could mTver have imagined, that she is comparatively poor, and she has been compelled to work and struggle for the income to make you the lady of whom her dear husband would have been proud.” (To be continued.) Taxing the Bachelor. From early days republics generally have been rather hard on bachelors. The wise Plato condemned the single men to a tine, and in Sparta they were driven at stated times to the Temple of Hercules by the women, who there drilled and castigated them in true military style. The ancient Romans, too, were severe with their bachelors, who were made to pay heavy fines. Again, V time of Augustus, all other thb’he be mon wore preferred empted from personal taxes, which the bachelors had to pay. Coming to more recent times, we have several instances of a like kind recorded. in the French settlement of Canada, for example, ; women were sent over after the men, and rhe single men. that they might be forced to marry, were subjected to heavy taxation and to restrictions on their trade and movements generally. Those who married were dealt with, on the other hand, in a generous spirit Not only were they provided with a good wife and a comfortable home, but they were rewarded according to the numbrr of their offspring. About the close of the seventeenth century, the local authorities at. Eastham, in Massachusetts, voted that every unmarried man in the township should kill six blackbirds or three crows yearly- as long as he remained single, producing the scalps in proof. In Maryland, half a century later, the colonial assembly imposed a tax of live shillings yearly upon all bachelors over 30—as well as widowers without children—who were possessed of $360. Clearly, the fact has always been recognized that the prosperity of a country depends upon its married citizens.

' FACTS FOR FARMERS. HELPFUL suggestions for THE AGRICULTURISTS. A Veterinarian’s Practical Means of Preventing Tuberculosis—Arrangement for Tying Celery for the Market — Wagon for Hauling Corn Fodder To Prevent Tuberculosis. Introduce a consumptive cow into a herd, and the animal on each side of her in the common stanchions, shown Im I lg. 1, will be infected from her breath and spit. Put a board partition on each side of the diseased cow, ex- , tending well out in front, and it will I be ibng before she contaminates her । neighbors, if she ever does. Exhaus- | tiveltests in Denmark, extending over I twolyoars, with 208 head, show that “it is possible to rear a healthy herd on a f:irm where there is an infected herd! if the two are separated by a FIO. UNHEALTHY TIE-UP FOR COWS, j woo< pn partition, and this wilt prove ! Slice 1 ssful. even when the calves from dlsiNUcd cows are raised." G. N. Kinnell ’ a rittstield veterinarian, therefore ‘advocates individual stalls for each cow. by simply running a partition betwivn the stanchions, boarded tip in front, with a ventilating shaft eighteen Inches square over each cow's head, four or six of them to join in a common shaft running through the roof. < Fig. 2 shows such partition not boarded up in front, tho advisability , of which we question.) He mentions I a herd that escaped infection from two । badly diseased cowm because the sick W’FPW ।■ L Bss ■ FIG. 2. STAUI.E ro rilFVlXr M'EI \l>ING CONTAGION. cows were kep’ in stanchions boarded up In front, with a tight partition between each stanchion. Dr. Kinnell wisely considers some such method of ' separating cows the most important, simplest and cheapest means of avold- . big Infection. The germ of tuberculosis i dies liw euuiij.: t, lienee u stable etlllllot j be to’o light and airy. Orange .Judd

Farmer. XV indbreuks. In every long-settled locality where : | the soil is sandy, farmers quickly learn, after the original forest is cleared ' away, to plant windbreaks to protect ' their soil from blowing away. Such ' i windbreaks do good which more than offsets the waste of the land which they occupy. Nt only is soil blown away after being plowed, but during the summer there are frequent violent sand ; storms where the winds have full sweep, which uncover seeds and plants I <>r blow sand against the foliage of | plants, cutting and spoiling it. These I windbreaks serve another important purpose in winter in keeping the snow evenly spread over the fields. They should be of evergreen wherever pos- • Bible, so as to make a protection for winter as well as for the summer season.—American Cultivator. Tying Celery for Market. Novices do not always bunch celery properly. An old grower of celery near Buffalo. N. Y.. bunches his crop as follows: Two bricks are set up edgei r ujg CELERY Bl X< HEU. ,/ X;e ami two strings laid crosswise. neatly trfmTOed stalks are squeez- : wiftn tightly between the bricks, two Tsre squeezed in on those and two m4re on, top. making six heads in the bmneh. All are then tied tightly with -the strings. . - ‘ Timothy vs. Clover. We are not wholly averse to a small amount of timothy sown with clovet. but we are against giving the timothy the preference, for we see object lessons continually averse to the latter practice. Farms are not improved by it. On the other hand, says the NewEngland Farmer, when clover is given the^preference, the farms are growing better. The only pastures with us that show green in quantity to delight the eve of the farmer are those partly or wholly clover, and the clover is nowbest that was not allowed to perfect a growth early in the season. One Acre in Hens. It is a progressive farmer who can succeed in making one acre support a cow, and he is then perfectly satisued with a profit of SSO from her. If an acre of land can be made to yield 1 any kind of crop that will pay a prolit ' of SSO, the success attending such a result will be considered worthy ot notice. Profit means, of course, all that portion of the gross receipts which remains after tho full expends are paid,

and a profit of SSO an acre is very ’ large. It is easy to figure (on paper) the possibilities of an acre of land, but there are facts abundant to demonstrate that SSO is hut a small sum to derive from one acre of land devoted to poultry. It is rare to find a case where a large flock of poultry lias been given the s^ace of one acre that the liens i did not pay well, although due credit is not always allowed for the "home” market, which calls for poultry and eggs, accounts not being kept with the family table. Horse Beef. At present the German butchers pay i from s4.> to SSO for horses; but already ■ the demand is beginning to increase i the price. Mr. Tingle, in Farm News, । advises the American farmer to go into ■ the business of raising horses to supply the German food market. He says they . can be raised cheaper than cattle, and can be more easily shipped across the water. As Americau beef and pork are excluded from the German markets, he recommends that the place of the two products be filled with horse meat. Last fall horses sold at auction in Nebraska at from $5 to $lO each. The short crops had something to do with the low price; but the falling off in the demand for horses, by reason of the in troduction of electricity as a motor, the bicycle anil other causes, had far more to do with fixing the price. It is doubtful if the prejudice against the use of horseflesh as food in this country will ever bo wholly overcome, and the Germans can eat our surjdtis horses while we keep and consume our beef and pork. There is no sanitary reason why horseflesh should not be used for food, as the horse eats the same things that the ox does, and is. if any difference, more dainty about what he eats. It is simply a prejudice, that is largely sentimental. and founded on the belief that tho horse is intended for better things than to become food. Cure of Pigs. Profitable swine breeding depends । upon the time at which the hogs are । । slaughtered in order to secure tho high- | est market prices. Thus, the time of farrowing must almost of necessity be so arranged that a part of them at least be dropped in cold and frosty weather. That one has a moderately warm pen is not enough; the run for the sow must be in a temperature which is evenly ■ warm all of the time, and this, I mean, ! controlled by animal heat enough to Insure no frost. <>ut of the forty pigs which we have ■ had the past winter, twenty of them j were dropped in .January, and all did ' well and to day are the finest lot we ever had. says i '. 11. Whitcomb in ’i'he Stockman. They are on heavy grass » pasture, and will remain so until our peas are ready to turn into. Having pigs farrowed in this way gives us an 1 opportunity to take advantage of both the early markets. Tnen, too, we must let nature have her way in the feeding of young pigs. While growing feed wholly on bone and muscle making foods, and the pigs will have no stop- ' offs.

for Handling Bulky forage. In handling grain, hay or green corn . fodder, a low rack, similar to the one shown in the illustration, is a great saver of time and labor. one man standing <m the ground and simply - — — - — —- ■ —— | drawing the corn toward himself can ; lay it upon the table of th > c tting I machine without stopping. or raising i it up simply to lay it down again. The top of the rack is 7x14 feet with sixfoot standards. The stringers are 4x6 inches, lb to 2<» feet long. They I are hung from the front axle by means ; of a lengthened king bolt provided ; with a nut and washer. From the hind axle they are suspended by ■q-ineh rods with nuts and washers below and hooks above to go over the axle. The stringers should be twenty inches apart in front and tnirty-two inches behind. A short wrench keeps the hound from tipping up. I find this rack very convenient. As short a turn can be made with this as with a six-teen-foot rack.—American Agriculturist. All-Round Cattle. The cry is nowadays: “Give us ths good all-round animal.” The I'ouniry Gentleman thinks there is an element of error in this. Carry out this idea to an extreme, ami you blot out the disi tinciive characteristics of every breed lof animals existing. No one animal can I do everything best. As in the mechani- ■ cal. so in the animal world—there must jbe a division of labor. We owe all the improvement of the present day in all classes of domestic live stock to special breeding for a definite purpose. Let | the breeder of the race horse try to i combine the strength of the Clydesdale or Shin 1 with the speed of his thoroughbred. and the result is an increase of strength, but a reduction of speed. Grapes and Electricity. French scientists are reported to be farming by lightning. I hey found that electricity quickens germination and growth, so they set up poles armed at the top with copper spikes to draw electricity from the air. A wire conveys it to a net-work of galvanized iron wire four to six feet, below the growing crops, and grapes are said to grow bit per cent, larger and contain more of what grapes are raised for. Raw Eggs for Scours. Raw eggs, says the Orange Judd Farmer, are a cure for scours in calves. Prevention is better than cure, and by good judgment and intelligence the disease may be prevented. But if the disease develops give the calf one or two raw eggs, shells and all. Repeat if necessary.

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. THOUGHTS WORTHY Or CALM REFLECTION. A Pleasant, Interesting, and Instructive Lesson, and Where It May Be Found -A Learned and Concise Review of the Same. Lesson for Sept. 29. Golden Text-“ Thanks be unto God for ns unspeakable gift."—2 Cor. 9: 15 i Allow us to say it again: Systematic i beneficence is beneficence worked into the i system. I S o ' vs I’ arin S , . v -reap sparingly; s>w bounI tifully, reap bountifully. It is a matter lof spirit and temper. Have faith in God ; and in God’s fH’ople. I Letrem-hnient; it i s one way to face a straightened situation, the readiest easiwn "n'’ P< ‘ rbi,,,s - Hut ’hire is another waj, the way of faith and courage The people have the money; they simple need t<» be stirred to its proper outlay. Instead of calling a retreat, sound a note of advance, and summon the people to a new effort. They love to be trusted and counted on for something strong and ea rnest. Here is a city mission committee with a great work on its hands. Through fatuous indifference the work lass and the treasury is depleted, or it may be overdrawn and that in the simple, legitimate demands of the hour. Some one says drop the interests we I have been helping; adjust ourselves to the situation. Yes, if you want to continue the situation. It is hy thus yielding to people's indifference that fiopular indolence is strengthened and perpetuated. Strike out boldly. Give the constituency something definite and distinct to work for. Get your future in front of you and not behind you. That is the way to get things accomplished and to surmount obstacles. There is no way to obtain the fruits of righteousness save by planting the seeds of righteousness. Here is a pastor whose salary falls behind. His people are well able to pay it, but well, they have become careless. What shall he do? Move into a smaller ; house? les, if he proposes to humor them ,in their bad thoughtlessness. The pastor ! has marked out a noble course of work for I his church. It is to the saving of souls | in the community and to the glory of God. Human nature being such as it is. he early finds demur and delay. It is a critical point. He can do one of two things. Weakly slide backward or boldly stride forward. Which will honor God the more? Which, indeed, the people? Which will do the work appointed of । heaven? "God is able to make all grace j abound toward you.” Be strong. Broad-hea rtedness. broad-mindedness, broad-handedness this is the more cogent J thought of the lesson. Get a great and ' gracious view of things. See them as God I sees them, and get something done. Give ■ not simply of means, but of faith. Be । . generous, liberal, whole-souled! What . says Paul? "Every man acording as he purposeth in his heart,” so let him give, the King James translators said. Rather, perhaps, so let him expect to receive. 1 “for,” says the word, "God loveth a cheerful giver.” It was what the happy-faced ' mission worker quoted when the king of I tho wheat pit gave her twenty dollars for ’ her work. "The Lord loveth a cheerful giver,” she exclaimed, animatedly. “I don't know much about that,” said the man of the world, "but I'm sure ho must

love a cheerful beggar.” Verily. Give great hope and get great help. The revival that is needed most of all just now is the revival of Christian benevolence or of apostolical giving. In the early days of the church men scattered and thereby increased. They were lavish ' in their giving, and they rejoiced in it. Each gave as the Lord prospered, and prospered yet the more. It was withholdiq^ that tended to poverty, poverty spiritual as well as physical. Men should give with reason and judgment, but a part of that chastened judgment is a sure confidence in God’s promise that as we give he will render into our hands again, good measure. A return io this type of practical piety would mean Pentecostal blessings in all work of the Lord. - Next Lesson —“The Time of the Judges.” Judges 2: 1-I’2. 16. Plenty of Four Things. David M. Stone, the late eminent Christian worker ami journalist, when once asked the secret of his successful and happy life gave the following answer: "1 take plenty of exercise, plenty of hard work, plenty of sleep, plenty of belief in God and the future, and. with an easy conscience, I find that what is the sundown of life with most men is to me as pleasant as the June days of my youth. I have not been absent from my office for one whole day iu twentynine years.” On another occasion he said: “No one can understand the toil I have done and the burdens I have borne. It Is sweet now to sit down and rest, to read the scores of letters that the mail brings me from men who assure me that they have been led to better lives and to religion by reading my editorials.” Duty and Success. The thoroughly successful man is he : whose labor is of real value to the com- < munity, who has formed the habit of ' doing wiiat is before him, unhesitatingly and manfully, quite independently of whether he likes It or not He has chosen his work, and takes it just as it comes: if it chance to be agreeable, so much the better: if not. his energies do not swerve. His question is. not "How much shall I enjoy doing this piece of work, or carrying out this new plan in my business?” but "Is this work necessary? Is this plan wise?” No question of like or dislike comes iu to interfere. God’s Goodness and Mercy. There is dew in one flower and not in another, because one opens its cup and takes it in, while the other closes itself and the drops run off. So God rains goodness and mercy as wide as ftie dew; and if we lack them it is because we will not open our hearts to receive them. Schiller is said by one of his biographers to have finished "The Robbers” In a month.