St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 21, Number 16, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 9 November 1895 — Page 7

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CHAPTER IX.—(Continued.) Saintone had time to catch and kiss Aube's hand before he was led away. “Oh, but mother!” ho cried. "I’m not going far,” she whispered. "Leave it to me, my boy. We will stand here and see the meeting. Well, am I right ?” “Mother.” he whispered, in a voice which told how he had been moved, "why, she is the most beautiful girl I ever saw a goddess.” She laughed at him mockingly. “And she is rich, Etienne, and in every act n finished lady. In a case like that what does it matter about birth. There, no foolish impatience to spoil all. Wait, my son. leave it to me. She is a goddess as you say, and you shall be her god.” Saintone listened to her words, but his eyes were fixed upon the watching figure that was now scanning eagerly every i boat which put off from the wharf, and trying to guess which among the figures there was the mother waiting to pronounee the welcome home. At that moment Saintone made an impatient gesture, for his arm was pressed; but he allowed himself to be led aside to where the gangway and the spot where Aube had taken her stand could bo seen, and they could watch her unobserved. “Why are you doing this?” said Saintone, roughly. “The poor girl is alone. We ought to help her, and see her ashore.’ “Did 1 not say, ‘Leave it to me?' ” whispered Madame Saintone. “Wait a few minutes. 1 want to see the meeting between them.” She smiled with satisfaction as she cast a quick glance at her son's flushed face, and then drew him a little more behind a stack of luggage which hail been i piled on the deck, not realizing how bis- ; Tory was repeating itself, and the old proverb, “Like father, like son,” berng ; once more exemplified. Madame Saintone need not have troubled herself to draw back, for, during the next few minutes, she and her son i might have placed themselves by Aube's I elbow. She had her eyes for nothing but the boats from the shore, which arrived rapidly, as the great steamer slowed and then stopped, giving them an opportunity to come alongside, and their occupants to hurry on board, till the deck began to grow crowded. The tears rose to the lonely girl’s eyes as she listened to the eager words of welcome and saw the embraces of rela- I fives and friends; but though sho scanned j group after group, and gazed wondering- , ly at the many well-dressed ladies who j mounted the gangway ladder, each soon found the object she sought, and the j girl’s heart sank again and again, til! at last she said to herself despairingly. “Sinhas not come.” It was chilling in spite of the beauty of the scene, and the eager animation of the group on deck, where all was ehatting and excitement, the giving and hearing of news, and the preparations for going ashore. Only a few hours back, and Aube's every look had been watched, and her wish anticipated by willing courtiers. Now every one was engaged upon his own business; and the feel : ’>g that she w.u alone ami forgotten made the tears flood her eyes, so that the, crowded deck grew misty and those about her indistinct. Then, just at her most despondent time, the dimness of sight passed away, for close at hand the familiar voice of one of the officers said: “Oh. here she is. Mademoiselle Dulau; some one for you.” Aube turned eagerly, to see uppr wh ing her a stout, eager-looking woman, flushed of face, and looking the more florid for the bright scarlet and yellow kerchief bound about her dark grizzled hair. The dress she wore, too, was of gay colors, and her neck, arms and hands were gay with showy, common jewelry. Aube saw all this at a glance, and felt ! repelled by the vulgar aspect of the breathless, panting woman, who was suffering from the exertion of mounting the side. At the same moment Aube became consciovj of the presence of Madame Saintone and her daughter, both refined and graceful as they seemed to be approach ing her. A peculiar feeling of annoyance made itself felt; but it was only momentary, and Aube said sweetly: "You wore asking for me? Mamma ; has sent you ” There was a sob. a strange cry. and Aube was snatched to the new arrival's breast, as, in a low husky, panting voice she whispered: “I am your mother. My darling. Oh, at last! At last!" CHAPTER X. For a few moments after the encounter Aube felt as if she had received some i sudden shock. Sho could neither speak nor return the embrace, but stood there ' inert, as Madame Dulau—familiarly known to all in the town as Mahme : Nousie. the keeper of the cabaret and | store frequented by the blacks of the district —sobbed over her and kiss'd her again and again. It was to Aube like some strange be- । wildering dream, and it was some min- ' utes before the paralyzed feeling began to i give place to a poignant sensation of agony. She had pictured to herself that ■ her mother would boa beautiful, sash ionable-looking, middle-aged woman, and I in keeping with the letters she had writ- ; ten to the Superior, and to her child -a j lady such as she had seen visit other i people at the convent—while here she stood upon the deck of the packet in the embrace of a woman whose appearance begat a horrible sensation of shame in her; and in spite or herself she gave a hasty glance round and flushed hotly, as she saw that Madame Saintone was close at hand with Antoinette and her son. “What will they think?” It was impossible to keep back the thought, but the next moment Nousie’s

words recalled the loving letter over ’ which she had wept, tor her mother ’ strained her more tightly to her breast, and murmured again: “At last—at last. Ah, my child, it has been so long.” There was such an intensity of pathos and suffering in the way in which these words were uttered, that the mist cleared a little from Aube's brain, and ns she ■ gazed in Nousie’s face the love which beamed from her eyes touched her to the heart. The surprise was forgotten, and in the homeliness of her mother there seemed to be a something beyond which she could not. have explained. For the sympathetic chord had been touched, which made her raise her arms and kiss Nousie’s lips, drawing from the half hysterical woman a faint cry of joy, and making her draw Aube more tightly to her side, nnd face round with a fierce | look of jealousy at the intruder upon her long looked-for hour of love. It was Madame Saintone who had approached. smiling. "There, Madame Dulau," she said. "I have brought you back your HWeet daughter, you see.” “You, madnmo you?” said Nousie, in a low, tierce whisper, nnd her arm tight ened round Aube's waist. "les; the Consul was seeking for a chaperon, and as Fate had arranged that 1 should be returning here direct, he asked me to take charge of the dear child, and I have him to thank for the delightful voyage I have had. There, you two must have so much to say, so 1 will not intrude. Good-by, Aube, my darling; don’t forget. We must sec a great deal of one another, so mice more good-by." She took Aube's hand, Nousie holding ; I the other tightly, nnd breathing hard as she looked wildly on. her brou lowering nnd her dark eyes seeming to flash as Madtime Saintone k <ed her child on the brow. "Adieu, Madame Dulau. But one nio j . meat; the carriage is nt the wharf; can I I take you two home?" “No, no," said Nousie, hoarsely. "Adieu, then Aube, my child, nu revoir.” Nousie stood glaring after the fashi >n-ably-dressed woman, who formed m I strong a contrast to her, and watched i her till she had landed, holding Aube's i hand so tightly that she gave lo r pain. "Aube, my child." muttered Non*)-, i “how dure she call you that?" she cri.sl ' I Hereely. "That Woman with you all the j i way home?” “Yes.” said Aube, shrinking nnd gaz ! ing with a strange ftsding of drend at the ’ I lowering countenance before her. "Mud ame Saintone took charge of me 1 was ; placed in her hands by the Superior." "How dare she. how dare she! Oh. d is an infamy! She! To have charge ~f : you!" The feeling of repulJon was fast r turning to Aube, and with it tie ■ *■ ' sation of despair, and longing t • b I n k with those in whose society the vs:- ha I passed so peacefully away. "Are are you angry be< a e I like this?" she faltered nt last, for the eyes fixed Upon her Seemed to !>, dr' . ging forth some answer some excuse. "Angry ?" eri'd Nousie, with her (; • . flashing; “it makes me mud!" "I I did not kn w." aid \nb . ami her eyes tilled with tears ns she I looked appealingly in her motiu r’> The change was instantam .e ■ A yearning look of ter.dei . e-s ■ ■: : I • Nousie’s face, her old girl’sh beamy , seemed to return and Soften down the i coarseness begotten by year* - f ba: I struggling, sorrow and toil in r.m-oiige nial surroundings, and, raising Aube's hand to her cheek, she pressed it there, fondled it and kissed it as her voice be came soft and e. oing as that of a young : inotlnT with her babe. "You. my sweet one," she whispered “You? II 'W could you know ? But • ••lib-. Let us get homo quickly. I have so much to say. No. no; let me have this little hand in mine." "Yes." said Aube, smiling sadly, for the tender tones of her mother's voice had toucher the chord of sympathy again. I It was painful this woman, her mother! Could it be the same who had written i those letters, that last which had moved : her to tears? Her heart answered yes, for she felt how she was loved, nnd. resigning herself to the hand which held her with so jealous a grasp, sho hastily pointed out lb r . slight supply of luggage, and then ie companied her to the side, where another I ordeal was in waiting. She was almost the last passenger to i I leave the vessel. Those who had paid her ! court were gone, but the officers w ere : there and many of the crew, forming a group through which she had to pass. I She drew her breath hard, and tried to ' fight down the cruel feeling of shame ! which again attacked her. and clinging - hard to her mother, she drew herself up ; proudly to walk calmly by. | Hut it was not to be. Almost before I she knew it the captain ami the mates ; were there, cap in hand, eager to wish । her good-by; and as her eyes tilled with tears at the kindly, respectful greetings, I she saw that her mother was looking proudly on, and more proudly still as the crew raised a cheer. Then for the next half-hour all seemed j confused, and as if it were part of a I dream of a strange city with its bright j houses and gayly-dressed people loitering about in the hot evening glow. She I had visions, too, of gorgeous clouds, of they were in, driven by a negro, stopped bright green foliage, and then the vehicle they were in, driven by a negro, stopped in front of a veranda about which a crowd of fifty Wacks were gathered shouting and gesticulating, and waving hats I and handkerchiefs. The greeting was so boisterous that Aube felt scared and wondering that it should be in her honor. The thought occurred to her that this must be her mother’s home by her plantation, but she

had no time to think, for the door of the carriage was dragged open by a tall, black woman, who was laughing anJ crying wildly, as she caught at Aube's arms, then seized her by the waist, and lifted her out, ami to the girl’s astonishment and discomposure, carried her into the house, and set her down on a couch. The next moment the woman was on her knees kissing Aube's hands, sobbing and laughing t get her, as she went on talking incoherently. “I'm Cherubine. You don’t recollect Cherub, who carried you and rocked you to sleep? No, you were too little then. Oh, Mahme, Mahme," she sobbed, as Nousie entered the room, “she don’t know me ’gain, but look at her, oh, look at her. My dear, my dear, my dear!” She was passionately kissing Aube's hands again, and as Nousie good-humor-edly tried to stop her, she bent down to the girl's feet, kissing them now, in her wild, hysterical joy. At last she consented to leave the room, and save for the eager hurried buzz and murmur of talking outside, there was silence in the well-furnished parlor whose door Nousie loekeil. It was rapidly growing dusk now, so gloomy in the room that Nousie’s features were indistinct, and she turned and approached the couch, from which Aube rose, trying to find words to say, struggling hard not to give way to the feeling of bewilderment and despair, which robbed her of speech, almost of iwwer to think. But the effort was needless, for as her hands were taken she was pressed back upon the couch, ami she felt in the gathering gloom that Nousie had seated herself ns well. I hen there was a long drawn breath, nnd she felt herself softly, slowly and tenderly drawn nearer and nearer as a voice that sounded inexpressibly low and rich and sweet, murmured at her ear. ' r S ’ '! " :IH I used to touch you for fear you should wake yes, like that. I was so jealous of ('herubiue. She Would keep you so long. Yes, like that "ith your head there upon my shoulder, ami my cheek against your little forehead. Is it real once more, after all lu se years. <>r shall I wake up as I have awakened thousands of times to find it all a dream?” Am! shall I awaken soon nnd find all tids a dream! seemed to be echoed in the girl s bewildered brain. No, it is no drcam. ’ siglnsl Nousie. ns she held her child to her heart nnd rocked her gently to and fro. “It was his wish and I have done it. Aube my child, my own!' As Aube listened to the swi-et, rich tones of the voice uo full of yearning love for her. the misery and tfi spnir grew faint । once more, ami in the darkness it was ns it she must be dreaming, and this could not be the strange, tierce woman she had em ountensl on the dm-k. AH those years long, lonely, weary I years. Aube, I have waited and waited, nnd now I could die of joy the tierce joy I feel t<> have you once again. But no, I must live, for 1 have you, my own my beautiful one. Aube," she cried m>w with wild energy ; “he wan taken from me so cruelly one dny your father whom I loved yes; I was young then he said 1 was beautiful hut I lived ou for you. | nnd it s> enwd like torturing myself td i ilea th when I sent you emt there. Aufl i now you are back once more. <th. ml darling, my darling, try to give me a IldV ' of y»mr ha g Startled t-y the wild oppeoi Aulw rnidV her head, ami f»-|t that Nousie hint from the couch to b< r kticcn, mid j before h« r with her hand* t Mended—(J I ! her as if in prayer. "Do you I> nr me. Aulw, my child? Yon will try nnd hire nv n little. drarT* The chord was struck ngnin now, nnd ! ns Nousie knelt there n the darkness twforv her child, her limm ly nwpoet, het : strange garb, Ie r home lo re amid the I rough looking negr.u «, were nil forgotten. The In art string tom b' d »o passionately by the mother's he id gave forth its true, j sweet sound, find Aube flung her KHM j about |ssir Nousie’s mek, sobbing wildly ns -die cried: "Mother, dearest mother, 1 do low you j with nil my heart." (To b, (smtinm’d i Xenrly Perfection. "<M:r postal system Is the finest In the world." reimirked E, 11. Hamilton, the I well know n writer and Bohemian.while ; i showing a wealthy young Engllshtmtn ; about t!ie city. "It Is ns near perfre- j I tlon as anything can bo. In decipher- ! ■ ing almost Illegible or Inaccurate adi dresses on letters the postal authorities |x>rform some f ats that are shnply , marvelous. Why. sir, I can address a friend in New York by the name of a person who never existed, a name that contains only two of the letters in his name and bears no closer resemblance I to It than Brown to Smith, and It will : be delivered tn Idm. That. too. without putting more than the name on the | envelope.” "I can hardly credit that." deelatvd the Englishman, and it was easy to observe that he gave the statement kio credence whatever. | "Well, I'll wager you a case of wine on it." # ! "It's a go." J Hamilton dashed off a note, enclosed it in a stamped envelope, wrote “Chiin- । mie Faddeti" on it and dropped it in a letter box. Then he wrote his friend's name on another slip of paper, sealed it up and handed it to his guest. "When you get an answer to my letter open this envelope," said he, “and you w ill see that I have won." Saturday the visitor received a letter from E. W. Townsend of the New York Sun inclosing the address ‘Chiminie Frulden" had been written. The postal clerk in this city had added “New York City.” .and a clerk in New York had added “New York Sun." It. had been delivered to the creator of “Chlmmie Eadden” without the loss of a single day, and the Englishman lost. —Sau Francisco Post. •Just Escaped. An English newspaper has an Item about a little Scotch boy, who, while playing on the docks, fell into the water and was with great difficulty rescued by a bystander: “You ought to be very glad I was near by,” said his rescuer. “I am,” replied the boy. “An’ I’m so glad ye got me out. What a lickin’ I wad got from my mither if I’d been drooned.”

! THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. I I , 1 SERIOUS SUBJECTS CAREFULLY . CONSIDERED. A Scholarly Exposition of the Lesson —Thoughts Worthy of Calm Reflec-tion-Half an Hour’s Study of tho Scriptures—Time Well Spent. Lesson for Nov. 10. Golden Text-“ The Lord reigneth; let the earth rejoice.”—Ps. 97; 1. Samuel Chosen King is the subject of 10’ 17 oj ' 1 ’ " h ’ ch is foun<l in 1 Sam. A king for Israel. The desire whs a natural one, distinctly so. Natural and worldly In a regenerate, God-instruct-t, n,o< ? f ‘ they would not have asked it. But mingling with tho nations, wandering away from close contact with God, emrmored of the pomp and glamor of events, which feed popular pride, Israel cried out for n king. Samuel stands out '■ery nobly here. Speaking for the niind ot God he disapproves of a king Yet a» the warden of tho people who make this demand, nnd ns the servant of the Lord who concedes it, how gracefully and graciously Jie acquiesces to the expressed will of file nation! As before, at a great crisis in Israel’s career, he culls the people together unto the Lord to ^Mizpeh! If a king they must have, Samitbl will see that the change is rightly effected and that in this as in all decisions and choices they begin with God. M tes Samuel severe in charging upon Israel that in this demand they were rejecting God? Certainly it was grandly courageous in him thus, in the face of them all, ere he yielded to their clamor, j to express his own demur. But was he I right? Me can only discuss this ques- | tion on philosophical and a priori grounds. ; There is no history to tell us what Israel, as n pure theocracy and on an independent basisj might have accomplished as a nation. There is. however, history enough to disclose the sad truth of Samuel's words regarding the evils they were about to entail upon themselves in a kingly succession. And Inter experiments in the direction of democracy and individual sovereignty raise in devout minds the query, what might not Israel i have become had they remained true and trained themselves to the simple form of government first given them from the ; skies? Was not national destiny reversed and the historic growth stunted? ('er- i tainly Israel here semus to have thrown ■ away the opportunity for founding the j gnat Republic. Hamud. however, laying aside at the ■ command of God (for he hits been upon ; his knees) his chastened judgment of > what is best, nnd also whatever of per- I sonal feeling he might rightly have re- | Carding his own displneemeut. proceeds .igaci.iusly nnd discreetly t» execute the popular behest. “Now. therefore," he sals, "present yonr-ehes before the 1.0r.l by your tribes and by your thouaanda.” In this canvass is brought to light the man whom already he has schvtnl as best fulfilling the expectations of the tilin'*. It is Saul the son of Kish. ; But Saul la not yet king. He has re- ! rrived Samuel's approval ami the first en- j thiislastle m'hffaemcnt of the jHipulut ns- ' setnlihtgc. ||e must (rt S' ' ure the suf ' frage of all the tribes and the strong ! fealty that only follows upon tried and I I proven ability. Thnt < om. s presently at ! I Gilgnl. and Haul enters upon hi* king I ship fully ncecptisl and with everything : In hi* favor Saul hnd in fart a five fold , ordination to ortho, Fw-t. S.imui-l'* cur- I din) selection t 9: iNH; si'cond, God's an- : i minting tin b; third. Saul's own heart : I ponse, nher» by he burst into prophecy ; th; forth w popular ratification; ‘ I aiel fifth anil l» *t of nil. the ne redifraeut I of deed, as narrated in chapter eleven, ! I where Haul, brawl? <iwre.>mmg the nr I mgaut Ammonit''*. wins the hrnrty sup- ! n* hinting tb« *lep* by whi. h all of us i I! t ru t ion**. It was a . nt day for Saul. He was I riming to the throne, and his own < >n- ; I duct, in tie premi'es. wa* most e.>me!y I and exemplary. Teacher* may well out- ; I line the story of Saul’* elevation us an in- ! <‘eutiw to tile young It i* certainly nn i « ntertainiug and instructive narrative. It ' I begin* with the pr< cnant text <d S« ripI tore, "Am! the a**es <>f Kish, Said's I father in lan. were ) >•>!." Tkctt is uu- ; I folded the beautiful providence by which । I Saul is led to Samind’s presence ami to < the anointing "il of kingship. This sug- | gests the divine side of the transaction, i There was also a human side. Saul, in ; previous self culture, wo may believe, ; physical, mental, spiritual, had made ! himself ready fur this high office, and the i prepared man finds nt last the prepared j place. Ami witness also Saul's quiet ’ modesty at the first, and the wise fore- i beamuee with which he "held his place," ! till God in duo time enabled him to strike . the blow by which he was brought to his own. it is all a moving picture of the way eminence and honor arc reached in this world. There is such a thing as Providence, j God has a hand in the affairs of men. I Sutil never appeared to a better advantage than in the humble docility of his early days when he waited patiently upon God. And it was there that he achieved most, when he put his affairs into tho hand of God. Frances Ridley Havergnl sings it: "Just to let thv Father do What he will. Just to know that fie is true And be still: Just to follow hour bv hour. As ho leadeth: Just t" draw the moment's power. As it ueidetli." What does it signifiy to trust God io I the every-daj affairs of life'.-' Just what we mean when we commit ourselves to one of our own kind stronger or more capable than ourselves. Be sure of God. God cures for his own in defense or aggression. and ho sometimes delivers in almost miraculous ways to emphasize his protecting providence. Next Lesson —“Saul Rejected." 1 Sani 15: 10-23. Uncertain. Ethol—So Arthur proposed last night? Maud—Yes. Ethel—And did you accept him? Maud—l was so awfully excited I don't know whether I did or not. If he comes to-night 1 did and If he doesn’t I didn't.—Scribner's Magazine. Tired of Fighting Him Off. Patron—What is that little door down there in the corner? For the cat ? p oe t—No; that’s to accommodate the ' wolf.—New York World.

HIS BAD HORSES. flow a Thief's Crime Became a Berv» ice in Texas. “It’s a well-known fact in Texas," re* marked a gentleman from that State at the Hoffman House, “that ‘Buck' Kilgore, ex-Congressman, now judge, used to own the worst horse In his county, and he never owned but one at a time, simply because two horses of such quality couldn’t be found in the entire State. As an illustration of the case let me tell you a story.” There being no objection the gentleman proceeded. “It seems,” he said, “that a fellow had ‘ been caught with a horse in the county adjoining Judge Kilgore's county which he could not satisfactorily account for. The more he tried to explain matters the deeper Into the hole he went, until the captors concluded the best way to settle the difficulty was to hang the man and await developments. A very few minutes after this determination the funeral cortege approached the nearest tree, with the man on the stolen horse to make It more Impressive. The arrangements for the final scene were completed and tho leader was about to hit the horse with his whip to drive him from beneath the culprit, who was attached to the limb of the tree by a rope, when a couple of men rode by and stopped to see the performance. They knew the leader of the party and he invited them to take a hand. “ ‘Why,’ exclaimed one of them, 'that’s “Buck” Kilgore's horse. Where j did you come across It?’ “'That's the boss the thief stole,’ re- । plied the loader, ’ami we thought we'd Ipt him have his last ride on it.’ And he began to look the animal over. ‘Are you sure it’s Buck’s?' he asked after his investigation. “ ‘Of course. Would anybody else have that kind of a boss?' “ 'Wdl,' admitted the leader, ‘I reckon you're right, since I come to look at it. You see, we was thinking more i about the moral side of the case tliau at tho boss.' "Then he turned to his followers. “ 'Boys.' he said, 'this boss is Buck Kilgore's. You all know what we think of a man in Texas that will steal a hoss, nnd you nil know what we think of the j kind of bosses that Buck Kilgore owns. Now, In the name of justice, 1 ask you If we ought to hang this man?’ ‘‘‘Nn. slree. Bob!' yelled the crowd. “ ‘What ought we to do with him? I say we ought to take up a collection and give the feller money enough and time enough tn ride the hoss clean oul of tho State. Ad In favor of that motion say "A? el" ' and the motion passed with vociferous unanimity." New York Sun. Geogr. phy Lesson*. Almost anybody can learn to answer questions out of a book, but now and then a school boy shows originality. i This !* true even in geography, a field In , which at first sight there might seem to be small opportunity to think for one's seif. A teacher had been speaking of the division of the world Into nationalities, nnd wishing to see how well the class had followed her, she said, pointing to a map of Europe; "Now, suppose I were In France and went into Germany, how should I be likely to know when 1 pa* 'd the boundary ?" A child of seven years answered promptly: “You would heir tho German ’Kinds, Ano;h'-r tem her asked one of her boys where Nl< aragua was. The boy, ns it happened, had a postage stamp alburn by will li he set great store, and to the V'toher's astonishment he answered; “It's on page ninety-eight.” < <>«tly Building Material. The Cincinnati Enquirer reports a curimis occurrence. Early in May Mr. Turpin, a teller in the Sub-treasury at ; Cincinnati, missed a ten-dollar bill, ■ which had been left upon a table. The ! weather was warm and the windows were open. After searching the room, Mr. Turpin hunted over the garden ; lawn. All was in vain; the bill was gone, and after a while forgotten. Some weeks later a high wind blew down a I bird's nest near the house and, as It I chanced. Mr. Turpin picked It up and looked at il curiously. His attention ' was struck by a piece of paper of a pecollar color. He drew it out and It ' proved to be a ten-dollar bill, the very uno, no doubt, that he had lost. It was in pretty bad condition, but was redeemed at the treasury. A Calendar for Business Men. Austin Tyler, the well-known invents or. has arranged a now calendar, chiefly for business men, which has thirteen ; months in tho year Instead of twelve. ■ Each month, except the thirteentD month, he has arranged to have twenty eight days, which ho contends will ■ simplify and expedite the calculation lof interest. The odd day will fall in the thirteenth month, which in the Interest tables can be arranged. He says that several bank presidents have given their approval of his calendar, and his belief is that It will finally be adopted. Ho points to the fact that Russia has two calendars, one for the church and one for business purposes. The odd month, he thinks, should be called Christinas. “Young man,” said the sage, “you know it all now, but when you have reached my age you will find you know almost nothing.” “Yes,” said the youth, “I have often heard that one forgets much in his declining years.”—Cincinnati Tribune. The cravings of the soul are really not for things of a poetical nature, but for something for five dollars that looks as if It cost ten.

LIFE-TASKS. Many Great Men Perform 111-Re-quited Labor. We often speak admiringly of the wonderful patience of the monkish scribes of the Middle Ages, who were willing to devote an entire life to the copying and embellishing of a single book; and the inference is that such patient devotion to a single task is un. known at the present day. This is not a fact. The field of modern science is full of effort which is equally prolonged, equally painstaking, and in many cases equally obscure. We have in our observatories men who are spending their Ilves In entering Into great books, night by night, figures which merely go to make tables from which our descendants, a century hence, shall be able to calculate the procession of the equinoxes. Perhaps the most monumental lifetasks performed in the present century have been In the field ot botany, In which certain indefatigable men have undertaken to make a flora each of bls own country. In those floras, we are to have not merely n list of all the plants In any country, but a full account and description of every plant. What this work may be is shown by one or two special cases. The Italian Flora which Prof. Filippo Parlatore began in the year IS4B, was completed In the year 1894. But it was not completed by Prof. Parlatore. He had long since been gathered to his reward among the flowers of Paradise; and Prof. Teodoro Caruel had completed his work. In this country Prof. Asa Gray, our most distinguished botanist, began the “Flora of North America” at about his twenty-fifth year of age. The first number of it appeared in 1838. Gray died in 1888, and the work was then about half finished. During all that time his work on the flora never was interrupted for more than a brier' period, though i other tasks were performed meantime. Sir Joseph Hooker began the “Flora of British India” about forty years ago. Only one volume of it remains to be completed, and if Sir Joseph's life is spared he maj' hope to accomplish his great task. During all these two score j years the work has constantly engaged : his attention. Martin’s "Flora of Brazil" was begun In 184(5. and is still incomplete, though It is steadily progressing. Coeson, a I'reneh botanist, died before the completion us his "Flora of Algeria.” Practically only two great floras, those of Australia and the Orient, were successfully completed by their original authors the first by Bentham, the second by Boissier. They are splendid monuuments to the learned men who made them. In the field of biological investigation many men, and women too, are engaged In minute and patient researches Into some primitive and apparently injlgnificant form of life which it will take them many years to complete. To the ordlnarj’ mind, these Investigations seem vain and foolish. But the scholars of the future will celebrate these patient deeds of the “monks of science.” Scientists Who See God. Raoul Pictet, the learned Swiss physician, whose researches in low temperature—in the very domain of sympathetic vibratory physics have brought him out of the “impenetrable clouds” in which materialistic science has wrapped the mysteries of nature into lights of religious science, after listening to a “wholesale" condemnation of scientific research from a Roman Catholic bishop, said to him, “Have you ever seen (lod?" “(>f course not." the bishop answered. “Then 1 have this advantage as a researcher of truth over theologians," replied Prof. Pictet, “for the i longer I study the phenomena of nature tlie more distinctly I see God in all of nature's operations.” When Edison was asked, “D > you believe in a personal God?” “Certainly,” he answered. “The existence of God can, to my mind, almost be proved from chemistry.”—Mrs. Bloomfield Moore. Missed Her A rn. Even feminine human nature sometimes loses its patience, as. for instance, In the following trying case: An energetic and muscular matron, who, in company with a friend, was engaged in some holiday shopping, found herself hustled and shoved about till her patience was clean gone. Then she j retaliated with a dig of her elbow, aimj ed at one of her tormentors. “There.” said she, turning to her j friend, “I think I have given one of those wretches a dose.” “I think you have,” answered her companion, when she could recover her breath. “It was me you punched.” — The Life Plant. There is a plant in Jamaica called the life plant, because it is almost impossible to kill it or any portion of it. When a loaf is cut off and ’ mg up b.v a string it sends out Wiilte, thread-like roots, gathers moisture from the air and 1 logins to grow new leaves. Even when pressed and packed away in a botanist's herbarium it has been known to outgrow the leaves of the book in which it xvas placed. The only way to kill it is by the heat of a hot iron or bolting water. Carnegie’s Big Business. A notion of the enormous scale on which some modern work is conducted may be had from the statement that the Carnegie company at the present requires about 1,000.000 tons of structural metal to complete the contracts it has ou hand. Buttermi k for Rheumatism. The drinking of buttermilk is said to be greatly beneficial in rheumatic and kidney troubles. A man's cup of happiness is never full because there is no bottom to it.