St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 22, Number 44, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 22 May 1897 — Page 2

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? ■' J? CHAPTER XI —(Continued.) Earth, sky, the very stars ami moon are whirling madly about me. With a last effort at self-command I seize Darby. “Go in, child,” I cry, hurriedly; “go in and wait. I will be there in a moment.” I forget Sir Ralph. I forget everything. I only remember that I am here face to face with my fnlse and perjured lover, and that I will have the truth from him at any cost. lOarby obeys. I go close to the little stone bar that separates the two balconies. “Now," I say’, looking at the face that is as white as my own, “tell me why you have deceived me so." His eyes meet mine. Oh, the sweetness and the misery of that remembered look! The hands of time go back. We are boy and girl once more —lovers, loving and beloved. We are in the school room at home. My heart leaps in mad and tierce defiance of the present and the future, claiming once again the old rapture and the old belief. Then I hear his voice, and grow calm, as with the icy chill of death. “I never deceived you,” he says, and his face does not blanch nor his eyes sink. There is no guilt or shame in tin* eyes that meet my own, but they’ are stormy with sudden anger, and that very anger seems to claim kinship with all my memories of him. “A woman has always the right ;to insult a man if she chooses," he says; “I thought the right to reproach lay on my side. Heaven knows I have raged at you, stormed at you. hated you at times; ibut ” “But she?” I persist. “Where is she—that woman who stole you from me—that woman who stands between us?” “Be silent!” he cries in a sullen, stormy ;way. “Don’t take her mime on your lips. How you have heard of her at all passes my comprehension. It* is a short story enough if you care to hear. You know iwhere I lodged. There were only I and ^another fellow in the house, and the .lady—who kept it represented herself as a widow. I told you that long ago, when 'I first went there—did I not?” M Y x -x

Yes, I say stonily. “She—she was only an adventuress,” he goes on, a sudden streak of crimson showing itself on his cheek, ‘‘and she •took a—a sort of fancy to me. It became a nuisance at last, and I left. Then she (followed me to Boulogne. That is all ‘the plain facts as they stand. Os course you'll say I’m not blameless; a fellow ■ever is blameless when a woman throws •herself at his head; but I give you my word of honor I never encouraged her—in fact, I disliked her rather than otherwise.” “And have you—married her?" I ask abruptly. “Married her! Great heavens—no! Do ! you take me for a fool. Joan?” Then I turn sick and dizzy; I see before me shipwreck, sorrow, desolationonly these; and a few moments before life had looked so fair and full of peace. A few moments! Why, it seemed as ;f years had passed since 1 had stepped out on ♦hat balcony, and gazed with raptured vision on the white snows and gleaming waters. “So that is—all,” I say brokenly, finding voice at last. “Then she must hat e stopped your letters and mine. She took you from me, whether with your will or not. Absence is a hard test. I thought it too hard for you. I—oh. Yorke—Yorke, I what you have cost me!” “Do not say that!” he cries with the ©ld passicn in his voice. “Remember I, too, have suffered thinking you changed, 'for —oh, Joan, how can I explain to you? ( A folly like that does not change a man’s heart—nay. rather it sickens ami disgusts jhim. and makes him turn with deeper 'longing to the pure love of a pure woman. ■And so I turned to you and prayed to you, iand you gave me only silence. But now Fate has been kind—kinder than I deserve. For you look at me with remembering eyes, and I —l think I never loved you so well as now. Dear, look at me as you used to look—say you forgive me — say ” “Oh, hush-hush!” I cry bitterly. “Is it possible you don’t know —that you have aot heard ” “Heard what?” he says, and his lips I grow white, his face changes back to the wrathful, storm-lit face I know so well. “That I am—married.” He does not speak. He docs not even move. He simply stands there and looks at me with a look I cannot bear—a look ' ’that makes me shudder and cower back in .very terror, and long to hide myself from 'sight of men -from every sound and sign of human life.

There comes a step on the bare waxed ^oor of the inner room—a stop, and a cheery voice that rings out in frank and : kindly accents: “Why, Joan —Joan, my dear—where are you? Star-gazing still? Don't you know dinner is waiting?” My hands drop; I look up at Yorke's face; I see the lurid flash that leaps into this eyes, and a worse terror seizes me I than ever thrilled my heart in all the pangs i and fears of its beating life. “So it is my uncle'.” he says in a voice J jlow ami deep as thunder. ‘'Curse him’.” Thon stars and moon faded suddenly from my sight, and amidst an awful dark(ness I felt myself falling -falling- falling ’ —whither, I neither knew nor eared. CHAPTER XII. , When I wake up I find myself lying dressed in bed. Only my bodice has been (removed and rests in a chair. It is evenling, and through the open window I catch la glimpse of waving trees in the bright moonlight. i As soon as my maid sees that I am

awake she conies to my bedside, and in answer to my questions tells me that I had fainted, that I was alone when Sir Ralph, sasribly frightened, appeared on the scene, and had me brought into the room. He had remained with me until I had come out of my swoon only to fall into a deep sleep, and then had gone into the garden for a smoke. At this moment I catch sounds of familiar voices from the garden below, and springing out of bed, I rush to the window. Yes, they are the voices of Sir Ralph and Yorke. They are talking in quiet, friendly fashion, there is no faintest trace of anger or resentment in either voice, and I tremble, and draw back and ask myself, “What can it mean?” In spite of my maid’s remonstrance, I order ‘ her to help me put on my bodice, and snatching up a shawl, rush down into the garden. My appearance causes my husband great alarm; but I tell him that I feel better now, although my ghastly face belies the fact. Ho asks mo why I fainted, amt I answer that 1 was fatigued and giddy, lie then turns to Yorke and introduces tin* to him ns the hitter’s new aunt. Yorke ticknowledges the introduction, meant only for my ear. He has. then, not told his uncle that ho had met mo before. I tremble as 1 think what his purpose may be by this concealment, and his assumed friendliness for the man whom, only a tew hours ago. he had told me he hated. Sir Ralph tells me that Yorke had informed him that he did not get my husband's letter announcing our marriage, and that his meeting us here in Salzburg was purely accidental. I can bear it no longer. I falter out that I am tired—that 1 would like to go indoors, and Sir Ralph turns his back on the garden, and tfie starlight, and the attractions of the nocturnal cigar, and accompanies me. At the portal we pause for a moment. He turns to his nephew. "Are you coming in also?” he asks. “I!” and Yorke laughs a short, mirthless laugh. “Oh. no. 1 am not so fond of my pillow as all that. I’m going for a walk; it’s a glorious night. 1 mean to get to the toji of the Gaisberg,” pointing to the great peak with its cap of snow. He lifts his hat with all courtesy, but, oh! the mocking smile, the look of hate and fury in the brief glance that meets my own. Then he is gone. He has not offered to take Sir Ralph's hand or mini’, and we go into the hotel and up to our rooms in silence. “Yorke is very much changed." says Sir Ralph, as he moves to and fro in the room in restless man-fashion; "very much changed; but 1 think he seems inclined to be better friends with me than of old. and he certainly took the news of my marriage in very good part.”

, “In very good part!” 1 echo the words in a vague, frightened way echo them. 1 and hear them multiplied and repeated ' by voices of fear and shame, till they lose 'l sense .and meaning in the baflh d fori of '| a curse that has struck to tile very roots I of my life. ! The next morning I woke up refreshed j by sleep—for. strange to say. I did sleep I —and nerved by resolution. I knew what ! , lay before me. There could be no question lof divided duty, of right or wrong. Hard i ns was the task, it must be performed at the cost of everything, even life itself. Sir Ralph came in to announce that j breakfast was ready, and that after that meal he had arranged for a trip to <’onigssee, a wonderful inland lake in ihe vicinity. Yorke and a German friend of his was to be of the party. I would rather only Darby and 1 went with my husband, but I could offer no reasonable objection. After breakfast was over the i carriage came around anil we were off for our trip. On our arrival at the lake, which we reached about noon, we had luncheon, and then some of our party, 1 believe it was the German friend, proposed a row on the waters. We were ’ bundled into two boats, our party being ■! too largo for one 1. Darby and Yorke in , the first and larger. Sir Ralph and the | German in the other. A stalwart peasant I girl takes her seat in the bow, an equally ‘ stalwart peasant youth takes his seat in the stern. “Are the others coming?” I cry out. paling with sudden terror, for a few rapid strokes carry us right away into a solitude, vast, gloomy, awe-inspiring, tlie like of which I had never imagined or beheld. “Y’es,” Yorke answers curtly. “Oh, I don't like it. It is horrible!” I cry, and cover my face with my hands. “Tell them to turn back! I can't bear it —it makes me ill; it is like the Styx, or whatever that awful place was. Do—do tell them to turn back!” “Unfortunately,” says Yorke, with what looks like grim enjoymeht of my terror, ' "I can’t speak a word of Gorman.” "Then call the others!” I cry frantically. "Tell your friend I want to go back! I must go back! 1 shall die of fear! I never saw such an awful place in my life!” "It is as good a place as any other to die in,” says Yorke, coolly, "if—as you [ saiil just now —you are inclined 1o do that. I I am sorry 1 can't assist you. The other I boat isn't even in sight; 1 fancy they ■ can't get a rower."

I drop my hands. I look at him with a sort of horror. He faces the shore; I have my back to it. "Is it true?” I cry. “Are we the only people on the lake? Isn't Sir Ralph behind us?” "No,” he says with a sneer. “We are quite alone.” My eyes turn from his face to the deep, I still water. Oh. the awful silence and I gloom of this place! 1 feel as if I were j in a new world. The waving branches of > the trees below seem like beckoning arms that would fain draw me down, down to those unfathomable depths. I seem to know, even without looking, that Yorke is drawing nearer to me. Mirrored in that glassy surface I see his face, bending closer, closer to my own. "Do you know.” he whispers, in a nusk>. stifled voice "do you know that ! here the lake is six hundred loot deep? bix hundred feet! What is there to pre, vent my taking you in mv arms and plunging into this Styx as you railed It." ■ I’would be an easy d ath, .loan, and a sure one. and life lias done its worst for both of us to-day!"

As Yorke uttered these words if suddenly very culm. I looked up 11 '1 his eyes, but all fear had left me. YR eyes burned with fierce, unholy Haro I looked back to them cold, still, ing. Then a flash of sunlight shot |*®«- our path. The lake waters shit , ’ ® tinier its golden touch; the drop! the lifted oars fell like jewel-flames^ its still and rippleless surface, , denly, without word or warning, Lt reverberating echo shook the sib J ’ with thunder. Darby’s cry of ed my own. Yorke half sprain feet, but the rowing girl pushed to his place. ■; "Pistol!” she said, with a . “Only pistol. People shoot liiriW>» straightway from under the searL * - . - _ ■ iv I ■ LJ 1 IJ * duced an old rusty looking ““’aVrbuss and began to jabber away in herr^ dialect with the greatest fluencjlTj UQ deratood afterwards that it wasia cUB tom to let off a pistol at this spot!- * The child was trembling in mJ * R Her fears helped to subdue m yCw n j soothed her, and held her closi^ * * side while still the boat glidei JHl j finally shot up to a little prom lin the east shore, ami there stopped”^^’ t h e delight of touching land again! iClprang out and gazed around, but I still. Then I turned to York*,^ 1 face and eyes one blaze of indignatip&C. * “How dared you speak so t U <.?'* I cried, passionately. "It was cw.. cW’ arlly. brutal!” “Vqh.” he wai d. "itw as. 1 d# 1 t th ink yon won id 'h“e"lK! 1 W?■ • FJMlrd carried out my threat.” % “You must not be cruel to said Darby, lifting up that pure, ealtifnce of hers rebukmgly. "Jo is very lira, and you are not. And you made ht^w last night, and she was very ill. J not like her to cry. and I will teLj®- Ralph if you vex her." Yorke's brow grew very blnc&a “Leave the child here for ament,” he said, “and walk on with mH^’e are bo md to have it out sooner orMfr. The present time is ns good as any.EE not be alarmed. I shall not hurt yp^The—the murder mood has passed.'” “1 am not afraid of you tfH^thing yon can do," I answered, <i fJv as I unlinked the child’s hands from km* and led her to a seat beneath the tr« "But y<> i are right; 1 must know why Ju have behaved like this why you ha? forced nir into such a position. Yons iresence here is an insult to your mule, nd your pretended friendliness a disgra< Ito Imth. It is unmanly and cowardly tlfrevimge yourself on me by acting ns jpu have chosen to act." WL We moved on. just near enou I to keep the chil<l in sight, but far enougblo bo out of hearing. "It you had only waited." beun Yorke —“if you had only trusted. o|if I had not let my brutal tem|H«r get better of me! Joan, why did you starry my uncle?" "He was so good." I cried fgntty; "so unselfish, and lie helped us in^uch sore strnits. He saved Darby's iiV he has rescued father from ruin, al Wand he loved mo." "Yes," answered Yorke gloo w: “I always told you that, and 1 alw^J knew I should have no chance .ava imr.wo in the long run. You women warftw touch • an ideal so s]>otless. a phyaic2F’ !l " wjth the soul and nature of an *'*'• you only know our trials, temptations! W e fail 1 *«• mvnt. and then ion are r» J’” Joan, would you fiiave married Sb you Uot ceased to believe in me?" Es "No." 1 -aid brokenly; "ympiilow that." "VS ell,” said Yorke. "I noHer who has been mos’ to blame you or 1? Not that it matters much now. The mischief s done irreparably done. Joan, 1 wonder if you Iwlieved 1 loved you?” "Yes." 1 answered unsteadily; "I did. Ti nt made it all the worse." "And now?" he -aid. ami that old hateful sneer was on his lips. "Now, of course, we are to be virtuous tud good — to go away, to turn our backs on each other, and on all that makes life worth living. Is that to be rhe progrrtn? Play at friendship and decorum in a|propriate fashion; lock up merit tv and it^ treasures like an emptied box that one losses into a lumber room. Do you think that's an adequate description. J »an?” "It will <1 I -aid. trembling like a lea f. 1 turned back: I went down the rough path; i took the child's hand in mine, and stumbled like a blind thing down to the w iter's edge. " Take me home!" I cried wildly to Sir Ralph as we met face to face. "Oh, take me home! This place is horrible. It terrifies me. 1 can't bear any more of it—--1 can't indeed!" Ami he humored me. H-aid no word, asked no questions, but I heard his calm and cheery voice t .king to Darby, and its tones insensibly soothed my jarred and trembling nerves, and the wild, hyster;. -a! terror Subsided. Sw'ftly and surely the boat elided on a nidst the golden warmth a.H >-ob r of the day, but I—l sat there w^ h-i ; n face and trembling limbs, dea* 1 b 1,1 to the beauty, and the stillnedw ! peace, only praying over in some drear, hope!-'-- wav. ? ... “Help mo to boa- :• <» Ho.mW Help me oh, help me to bear it.'" | t'lu be continued.) | The Secret of Slack-wire Walking. "The secret of slack-wire walking.” remarked t’aieedo. the clmmpion wirewalker, now tippearing at the Alhambra. while in conversation with an "Answers” contributor one day recently. "lies in the padding. The wire used is only a quarter of an inch in thickness, and, if it were not that I take good ctire to have my breeches well I added, it would cut me in two when I come down upon it in the manner you saw me do just now. "These breeches." continued the ‘ king of Hie wire.” producing an article that looked like a cross between the pantaloons of a Spanish toreador and the peculiar bell-bottomed and pipe-seamed variety of "trousis aflect- | <<l by the Whitechapel coster, "are made from the skin of tlv Eolith Airi<an grysbok. one of the toughest, and, : t the same tilin', one ot the most pliable 'dress materials' known. It is practically imb structilde. ou cannot tear is, am] q> wear it ‘m’ * s next door to an impossibility. fewer than 1 w«>niy-five complete skins were used for that one garment, ami in places it is over three inches thick Expensive? wouldn't take a twen’y-pound note or Hint old pair of breeches.”—Lon•lon Answers.

CAPTURING AN EAGLE. A Young Bird Canght for a Pet in Ponthern Arizona, In St. Nicholas, Wolcott Le Clear Beard writes of ‘tMoses: A Tame EaRle,” one of his pets while he was engaged In engineering in southern Arizona. Mr. Beard gives the following account of its capture: I saw on the rounded top of wie of the giant cacti with which these deserts are thickly studded an eagle the like of which, though familiar with the fowls of that region, I had never before seen; and I may here add that we never did with any certainty discover the species to which she belonged. I rode near to get a better view, but she desired no closer acquaintance; for, aftei unfolding her wings once or twice iu u hesitating sort of manner as i approached, she finally spread them and flew heavily away, a couple of pistol shots from the wagon having only the effect of increasing her speed. The cactus on which she had been resting was a very fair sample of the largest variety in th<‘ world of that Interesting plant. Os the thickness of a man's body, it rose straight from the ground, a beautiful fluted column of vivid ap-ple-green, to a height of twenty-five feet, where a duster of branches nearly as thick as the parent stem grew out from it and turned upward, while the main trunk, without a bend, rose several feet higher. Between two of these branches and the trunk there was built a nest of good-sized sticks, about twice as large as a bushel basket; and on this my eyes happened to be resting when the noise of the shots brought above its edge a little Imad covered with grayish-yellow fuzz, out of which peeretl two big round eyes with an air of anxious inquiry. In that desert country, far from railways and towns, we led rather dull lives; so the several pets we possessed in the big permanent camp miles away servml in no small measure to amuse us; and to these w e wished to add our young friend of the cactus. But how to get him down was a problem. Somebody suggested that a volunteer climb the cactus, but no one thrust himself forward to do so. The Spanish name by which it is known is Sujuarro, which, put Into English, means "that which scratches;” and as the spines which thickly cover the outer edges of the ridges are from one to four inches long, and ns sharp as needles, it will lie seen that the name gives a good idea of that plant. YVo did not like to cut it down, for fear the fail might Injure the fiedgling but after some debate no Iwtter method presented itself, so the town axmen set to work As the first blows made the grm>n shaft tremble, the head nppeari'd once more, trying, with an expression of concern, to seo what was going on | Inflow; but this the thick sides of the! nest prevented. Tlii n It bw.k.-a nt mo and said, "dark!" This was the first r- ’’ irk ever mndo to ns. and there wn< n<» time for more then; for the axes had eaten through the pulpy mass, which now liegan to bend to Its fall. As the nest tilted We could see the thick bub Iwlongiug to the head, with two big claws clutching wildly, while the weak, featlmrloss wings flapiied madly in an instinctive effort to support their owner. The cactus came down w ith a crash, and running up we looked fur our bird; but only a little gray down was visible, with one leg helplessly extended from under a big branch which, broken by the shock, had fallen across and almost hid him. We fearml he was killed; but w hen, by means of an ax head hooked around the prickly stuff, it was pulled aside, he gathered himself together, quite unhurt, and then, surveying the strange beings who surrounded him, made up his mind to them with that philosophy we later learned to be one of his traits, and opening hi^s great mouth to its fullest extent, hinted that he was hungry and wanted something to eat. He Wanted Little. Representative Ellis, of Oregon, had an amusing visitor at the Capitol the other day. A .voting man from Eastern Ohio called to see the Representative, and after sending in a picturesque little card managed to corner Mr. Ellis in the lobby, says the Washington Star. 'What ran 1 do for yon to-day?" said Mr. Lilis, smilingly . "Mr. Ellis." said lie, "I’ve come a good distance to see you and ask a small favor; my family is well connected in Ohio; we are friends of Maj. McKinley and personally acquainted with Mr. Hanna,” proceeded the young man, with a serious air about him, which aroused Mr. Ellis’ curiosity. “Now. I thought that as I am anxious to go to Oregon to begin building up my own fortunes I would ask for a helping hand.” "I will help you all I can,” said Mr. Ellis. "Well.” said the Ohioan. "I thought perhaps you would recommend me for the postmastership at either Portland or Astoria, which are in your district, as a starter. I think I could make out with such a start.” Mr. Ellis' mouth opened at least two inches, his eyes watered, he put Iris hands across his head in a bridge fashion and looked at the young man for fully five minutes without uttering a syllable, so great was his amazement, and the young man walked off wondering at Mr. Ellis' silence. Mr. Ellis’ district contains but two post masterships of great prominence in the State, and they are Portland ami Astoria, ami the scramble of his constituents after the places is something terrific when there is a vacancy at either; in fact, coupled with the Ohioan's request, was more than he could stand, and he was too dumfounded to talk. Truth may be stranger than fiction, but a lie sells better.

( RISP FORMS OF THOUGHT. SOLOMON AND TUPPER TWISTED TO SUIT A MODERN TRADE. The Wisdom of the Sates and the Wit of the Masses, Even the Work of the Missionaries, Are Grist in the Mill—'Jhejr Are Poached Upon by Authors and Advertisers. Whether Solomon invented all his proverbs, or gathered them from many sources with a nicer sense of permanent worth than Mr. Tupper exercised in his later compendium, is and ever will be an open question. Solomon’s copyright ran out long before Tupper's time, and both are now poached upon witli impunity by all classes, from authors to advertisers. But. laken by themselves, proverbs well repay careful study. Students of ethnology find in the proverbs of the different races the clearest proofs of their real characteristics, for they are the shrewdest and yet most intimate expressions of their daily life. Judged by- the comparison of these homely sayings, it will be found that all nations are of one kindred, possessing common needs, common aspirations, and seeking similar reliefs from toil and labor. (in tlie dustiest shelves of our libraries may be found collections of all the proverbs of the different nations, quite a large proportion of the work having resulted from the interest which missionaries have taken in their earnest studies of the uncivilized peoples whom they seek to instruct. That the shrewd sayings of the Scotch or the bright hits of the Irish should be carefully collected gives little cause for surprise; but a collection of Abyssinian proverbs, of those of the Tamil language, of Icelandic lore, of the Sanscrit, South Sea Islands, Chinese. and Hottentot Solomons does excite curiosity. The missionaries have found it a pleasant as well as a profitable task. It delves deep into the idioms of the language, tells with unerring accuracy the mental tendency of the people, and by introducing the foreigner into the inner thought of ls>th heme and trade shows him the real life of those who adopt them as every-day expressions. It is impossible to read the well-col-lated proverbs of the Chinese without realizing that a home life exists in that flowery kingdom which rivals that of many more civilized countries. No Solomon, no descendant of Abraham, could eclipse tli ’rude proverbs of the Chinese. They touch < n trade with a keenness and thoroughni'ss which proves them to be masters in that school. The baser life of the Hottentot, the loose morals of the fellah, the independent spirit of the Briton, are all crystallized in their national proverbs. In England and many other countries it was formerly very usual for a tradesman to select some proverb as his motto, and thus post his principles plainly over his shop door. It remained, however, for an American house to appropriate the proverbs of the world en masse and use them for their own advancement. New j Yorkers who ride on A* elevated roads. <>r peo|»2e wno in less favored localities i still jog along in the slow street ears, are i fnmiliar with the blue and white proverbs | which proclaim the merits v s SnpoTTrt to the world. Every omnibus in Loudon and almost every "tram ear” in England is similarly adorned. They made their first appearance on the j Broadway omnibuses, were gathered out | of over 4JMM) pages of the world’s eollecj ti ms. and twisted to suit t.ie case. Many | are beyond easy recognition in their new dress, many are entirely original, but ! these are also printed between inverted I commas, which lend a glamour of antij quity to them. To-day we are told that I over 21).(W of these blue cards are dis- | played in public conveyances carrying over G,<MML»XM> passengers daily. Condtmsed thought generally requires padding to make it intelligible to the masses, just as the stomach of the horse must be distended with hay to make the oats digest readily; but with proverbs it is quite otherwise. '1 heir iwpularity is only reached because they have passed muster as being clear to every mind. They tell their story with a directness and brevity which pleases the public, as the dictionary did the old Scotch woman —“They air braw stories," she said, "but unco’ short.” Turned to tell the practical story of Sapolio. they often acquire new interi est. Who reads the advice. “Be patient and you will have patient children,” without an innate respect for the advice which follows, not to fret over house cleaning, but do it easily with Sapolio? And who can repress a smile when the Sapo’ionic artist pictures the patient father and the > —d J ■ y’lrV.’” COPY RIC ITT impatient twins defying the proverb? But the mother will be back sooner if she follow the advice. Our familiar “The pot calls the kettle black” takes a new interest in its Italian form. The pot says to the pan, "Keep off or you’ll smutch me.” The universal toil of the world finds expression in the Catalan phrase, "Where wilt thou go. Ox, that thou wilt not plough?” Almost all nations possess a proverb which declares that "if you forbid a fool a thing, that he will’do,” and with confidence in the good will of the public the advertiser of Sapolio puts it in this form: “Forbid a fool a thing and that he will do.” So we say for variety: "Don’t use Sapolio—but then you’re not a fool.” “A touch of nature which makes all the world akin” springs out of the quaint thought that “A needle, though naked itself, clothes others.” Who can hear it once and over see a needle without recalling it? Who fails to recognize the jecture it suggests of the aid given to the poor by the poor, and of the help which is everywhere gained from the humblest of assistants? What can be more practical than the statement that "a handsaw is a good

thing, but not to shave with,” which naturally suggests the proper use of Sapolio. Slang never can be confounded with proverbial phrases. It seems universal, but it is merely a local form used to express a transient but popular idea. Years ago, when a general rush at hotel keeping w'l resulted in many failures, the slang ran: "He's a very good man. but lie can't keep a hotel." All such phrases are local and temporary. They do not survive—indeed, rarely possess merit enough to reach a second year without evident decline in popularity. We have notice<l that none of the advertisements of Sapolio make use of slang, and probably for this reason. Naturally many of the best lu-ojorhs used in this connection relate to houseboT3 cleanliness, and all the original ones are framed to that end. “Dirt in the house builds the highway to beggary,” deserves recognition, despite its origin. Household sayings, in the sense of four-walled buildings full of furniture, are quite lacking in many Eastern tongues. We believe that no reference to clean housekeeping can be found in the Koran or even in the Bible, except that of the woman who swept the house to find her lost coin. Shakspeare rather slights the subject, but whether because it was not deemed import tant in that intellectual but dirty age or because he soared to grander things, we will not discuss, but the England of today well says of home. “The cleaner ’tis the cosier ’tis,” and our American advertiser improves the opportunity to add that humble homes made bright with Sapolio are better than tawdry palaces? Alas, for the thoughtlessness of the man who forgot to ask whether his bride used Sapolio. The Scotch proverb records his case: “Ye hae tied a knot wi’ your tongue ye winna loose wi’ your teeth.” A PROFIT ON BIG FAMILIES. Mill Operatives Find an Advantage in Many Children. The cable dispatches telling of the proposal of the French government to offer premiums for large families, hoping by this inducement to restore the native population to its size of a quarter of a century ago, merely broach, as something novel, a system which has for reasons not of statecraft, but merely personal, long been in operation in Eastern Connecticut. In the mills, which are to be found wherever in this hilly portion of the State there is a water power, the workers are French Canadians. Big mills, with their hundreds and even thousands of operatives, are numerous, and little mills, each employing from twenty to thirty to 100 to 200 workers of both sexes are tucked down between the hills in all sorts of possible and seemingly impossible spots. In the large mills is to fie found a sprinkling of women of other nationalities, but fully 90 j»er cent, are French. In the smaller mills there are practical'y none but French workmen. What surprises the visitor who has come out of a New England city like Hartford or New Haven to see how cotton and woolen goods are made is the number of children in the factories. Should this visitor ask the superintendent of a small mill to point out the children of one family be will name half a dozen in the room in which he happens to be; indicate another on the stairs and four or five in the various workrooms. The father and mother may or may not be workers in the factory. If the family is large enough the mother is the housekeeper, and the onerous duty of the father is to escort his offspring to and from work. He goes to the mill with them in the morning and knows that they are all inside the gate before the hour for starting the machinery. At neon he conveys them home to dinner and back to the factory. At night he may come to take them home, but this is not an imperative duty. On pay day he comes to the factory and draws the wages of all I This chilli farming is but one act of I tlie drama of French factory life. The । years during which all the children work and the father draws the wages are necessarily few. The fund for a life of ease must be made quickly. The female child, which at 14 is the source of greatest profit, is ready to marry one of her own class at 16. and she does so promptly. The new husband and wife will work on in the mill for the next five years, with occasional interruptions when there are additions to the family, and then they vanish. They have gathered their savings and gone to Canada to raise a family. They make no fuss about the matter. It is the regular thing.. Ten years later, or even sooner, they will be back with a big string of boys and girls to earn money for them; they will gather the profits and retire for life to the Canadian farm, as their fathers and mothers did. It is noticeable of late years that the operatives are more in haste to be rich than formerly. They rush back to the factories with smaller families than were coin mon twenty years ago. Indeed, it is rarely now that families of more than thirteen are found, and few in the factory tenements exceed ten in number. —New Y'ork Times. “Papa," said a boy, “I know what makes people laugh in their sleeve.” “YYell, my .son. what makes them?” " ’Cause that's where their funny bona is.”—Spare Moments.