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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Advocate, 1895-5-31, Page 2COMIN' THRO THE RYE EL B. lifATDERS. NOSITINTJEID„,, ".A.nd you were out in the storm that day, .you two?" "I went to look for Silvia', she was out in it." "Did she not come in after I left?" :IN au "Good Heavens!" be ories, striking Ms head withhis oliuoheUfist. "What a brute I was! Where is she now?" "At liembueg,'' "I wonder what she is doing?" he says, hale to himself. "Flirting!" I answer, almost before I • know what I am saying; I have an un- happy knack of blueting out the thought that is uppermost in my mind. "What makes you think so child?" he asks, turning quickly to me. • "I did not mean to say that, Mr. Posher. I was any thinking." "And your opinion GY her?" he says, looking at me. " I always like to have a very young persons opinion about another —it is aleva,ys true; what is it?" 'She is young, " 1 say, thoughtfully, "and well born and rich, and beautiful, and—I am sorry for her." "Sorry I" he says, looking at me keenly, "and. why are you sorry? What more does she want?" "She is not happy," I say, tuenino my head away that he may not see how emy face is. If he only knew that 1 know the whole story, that I have been an eaves- dropper! "You have not told me what you think of her," he says; "I want an answer." "1 am not fond of her," I say slowly. '1 would not trust her; she is rather cruel, but she could love well—' • "And never be faithful," says Paul. 'Well! you will be a little woman some day, little one; shall I give you some ad- vice? But no, you would not take It; you will fall in love like the rest, some day!" "And why should I not?" I ask; "everybody does!" "Love ," ho says, "is made up of vanity and vexation, folly and bitterness; it turns to dust bewteen the teeth." "Your creed is a .hard one," I say. "Nove I have some lovers" (I think of Alice and Charles) who never have any of that; they are fair in. eaoh other's eyes, and, though they squabble sometimes, they never think of using any of these long words you do; they positively would not understand them." "Perhaps they are worthy of each other, he says. 'When two people trust one an- other, then their lose is a pleasant thing, a jewel. But if a man loves a woman, and she proves unworthy, and he loves her still, cannot you guess something of the battle that is fought in that man's soul— the higher nature, crying, 'Desist!' the lover, 'Yield!' The indomitable will and self-respect of the man fighting against the quenchless passionate longing after the beauty of the woman he renounces— the integrity of the mind warring against the heart that rises in fierce revolt against such sacrifices—the lily of renunciation against the crimson blossom of love—and the crowning sin and shame of it all must be that, while he knows her worthlessness, he cannot forget her—her sweet -words and ways—her veil of rippling hair, her cling- ing lips—in these memories must lie that man's chief tortures—" He passs his hand impatiently over his forehead. and. starts up. "Forgive me, child," he says, "I have been thinking aloud. Does my psychological study in- terest you! Poor devil! I hope he may reach the shore, don't you? .A. past error thoroughly repented. of is the best basis for future good conduct! Can I take any message to Silverbridge for you to -mor- row, little one?" "Yon are going there?" I say, clasping my hands. "Oh! can you not put me in your pocket? -Shall you stay long?" "Only a couple of days. I am ening abroad afterward, and when comeback you will be a grown up lady." "Worse luck!" I say, dolefully. "I shoulddike to put off 'tails' for another San years l" "Tell me, he says, leaning 'forward and taking my face in his ha,nds, 'how old are you?" "Fourteen!" "So much? You look about twelve; you have a dear little face, and a. sweet— But I won't say I hope you willbe pretty when I come back! If ever you pray heartily for anything, child, pray that you will never grow up beautiful." "There is not much feat!" I say, rue- fully. "I don't think any amount of pray- ing would mond matters!" • If you are good," he says, "that is all you want, and I think you will he." "People like one so anuoh better when one is pretty than when one is plain, " I say, meditatively. "Plain people get all the leavings. blight not one be good and pretty too?" "They might, but they very seldom are! No; when I come back, child, I hope I shall find you just as you are now." "May I not grow, sir?" "Grow as much as you please, child; bat don't grow out of honesty!" • CHAPTER XXI. Christmas bas come with his garment of snow and,crown of holly and with his jolly red face and lavishly -filled hands, and he has abode with us a little space, wielding his scepter royally at feast and wassail; but now that the poor old year, the friend out of which he grew, is dying, and the new one in all its pride and pomp is dawning,he sweeps away from as sorrowfully, and we see his face no more. Jack and I home for the holidays, have been very literally obeying the golden raandate that bids mankind "gather ye roses while ye may," aid we have eaten plum -pudding and Christmas cakes galore, reaping the punishment of our unholy gluttony in a 'Chas and pains that we have had to take upon our backs and bear in silence, venturing on no complaint; for in the sornevehat unique rules of our family there is a, stringent oue---" Thou shalt not be sick. Ill or well, faint, pain -stricken, or bil- ious, in our places a ttable we must ap- pear; Med if unIsind Nature, refusing to be tutored, makes our faces pale and anxious, by angry looks and words are we made to feel, the shamelessness and in- iquity of our corkluct If either of us has about of real illness that refuses to be knooked on the head in deference to the governor's will,the culprit is placed under She ban of an awful and crushing displea- gum below -stairs; that person's name is never mentioned, and whoa the convale- scent makes his appearance . in pablio, white and • attenuated, his presence ia • ignored; lie le considered. to have disgrac- ed himself paet all foegiveneas. To call in Aesculapins is a dangerous and most tieldish, proceeding, and only ventured. on it ease of extreme emergency; he knows bis peril, and conies with reluctance end departs with alaeriter. All things consid- ered, we have heel rather a, stormy time of it lately, Over and above the perpetual little disasters 'that will scour in eo tightly managed, a household (for every one knows that human nature if squeezed in at one Place will burst out in another), the long- expe,otecl difficulty about Alice's and Charles' matrimonial affairs has appeared upon the scene. The six months of pro- bation having expired, Captain Lovelace has pressed for a formal enga•gement, and hinted at a wedding -day, only to he met with contumely, and dismissed. with in- sult and mookery. He does not come here now—his place knows him no more, ancl the rebellious look on nay sister's lovely face brings her many a word and hard sneer; but outwardly, at lease she ac- quiesces in her lot, ancl says no word on the subject, good, had or indifferent. She is growing very thin, our pretty Alice. It might move any man'sheart to see how her face pales day by day, how slender her little wrists and waist are. But papa toyer heeds, never looks; he lays hard burdens upon his children, and does not remit them with so musk as the tip of his finger. 1 think we would deal him out greater mom than he deals us. Although I was so faithful a gooseberry to Alice, she' never asked of Charles Lovelace to me. Often I come upon her and Mille" inclose confabulation, and feel unreasonably vexed; fonafter all, is not Milly sixteen, and old enough to tuaderatand, while I am but fourteen, and supposed to know nothing whatever on the subject of love and courtship? Ah 1 they don't know I have got a sweetheart too. • That is a secret. I am a good deal puzzled by Miss Alice; I thought her so plucky, (mei, good for any amount of fight- ing. Can she be going to "lay her down and dee" without a protest? On this point I am speedily disabused, inaking,in fact, a discovery so astounding tool petri- fying, that for a while I feel as though some one had rapped nee on the head smartly and then run away,leaving me to recover as best as I might. It is in this wise. Diving under Alice and Milly's bed one day, after a slippery vagrant orange,I discover the ample space beneath the huge old four-poster to be filled with packed and corded trunks—Alice's all,from the imperial down to the bonnet - box. Is she going away? She has nowhere to go to. An awful thought strikes me, and I sit down on the floor, valance in hand, to follow it up. Can she be going to run away? She has no money. Ah! but Charles Lovelace has, and I read of a couple the other day who, after wasting away apart for six months, ran away and got married, and became fat directly. But Shen their governors weren't a patchimon ours! Alice never can be meditating any- thing so desperate as that. As I sit raminating, she herself comes in and sits down opposite to ine—a Mann- ing figure in her winter gown of dark blue, with the snowy, Quakerish kerchief, and apron of muslin. "Alice," I say, lifting the valance and pointing at the assemblage of boxes, "are you going away?" She locals at me considering. "I did not want you to know, Nell," she says "bat as you have found it out it can't be helped. I am going to be married." "Married!" I repeated; "0 Alice!" She looks such a child., as she sits yon- der, to wear a wedding -ring on her finger and to be °ailed Mrs., and order the din- ner. "It is all his fault," she sayseaodding:to- ward a distant field where we can see the governor hurrying his work:people; "There is nothing else to be done!" "Charles says it would. have gone on like this forever, and that we ana,y as well get it over now as ha a year's time. If I stayed. here ranch longer, Nell, I should diel" "Dear love!" I say, jumping up and running to her. "Well, it will be wretch- ed. without you, disgusting" (the tears trickle down my cheeks); "but I am not sorry, for you will be happy, clear! But, Alice, Alice—papa!" "His capers, you mean?' "He will kill us all!" I say, with con- viction. "Do not ever expect to receive any account of what happens after you leave, for there will not be one man left to tell the tale! You may look in the Times for the following announcement: 'At Silverbridge, the wife and. eleven chil- dren of Colonel Adair, the sad result of domestic circumstances over which he had no control.' " "Indeed, I do think of you all very much, "says Alice; "ft makes me very miserable." "Don't fret dear; we have weathered storms enough, and why not_that? When are you goftg?" "To -morrow." "0 Alice. And are you going to Mr. Skipworth's to -night?" "yes, that was why we fixed to -mor- row. Charles's Dean is going to get all the boxes out of the house, and r.rabitha is going to help him." "And would you. have gone without telling e me?" I ask, putting my arms around her neck, an I raining down a steady drip of tears on. her pretty head. "I should have bid you good-bye, dear, but I did not mean to tell you, for fear he shduld ask yoa all round afterward, if you knew anything." ‘‘Milly knows?" eyeeee "And naother?" "Good heavens, no I How shall I ever say good-bye to her? She will see you have been crying, Nell." "Do you think you will ever come back?" I ask, piteously. "Do you thinls you will go away forever?" "No, no," she says; "we will come and sec) you at school, Charles and I, next half, and we will stay somewhere near here, so as to sea mother. Besides, sooner or later, , it will be made up," "'Never!" I say, shaking my miserable head; "he will nevor forgive you for get- ting out of his clutches." "Alice'!" calls mother in the distance, and with a warm hug and kiss she goet away. "You do look a beauty 1" says Jack, meeting mo half au hour later. "Have you torn your last remaining frock to ribbons?'' "Preserved. gooseberries," I say, deter- nainod to put as bold a face upon matters as I can; "they were very sour, you know, and they made my stomach ache, and I howled. "Well, I never knew you to cry about such a trifle as that before," he says loft- ily. I should like to tell him, hot I must not Eight o'clock has etruek. The gov- ernor and mother,Alice and Miller, set oat for the parsonage an hourago.'scarcely within our memory has he beenknown to spend an evening out, but to -night he hae really gone. It is to bo hoped. Charles's man and Tabitha will do their spiriting gently, and not be caught, 1 wonder if Charles Lovelme is wandering about among the flower -beds, keeping watch!' We have supper Antherley, ;Tack, Dolly, Alen, and 1. I . ;net thleilleng ot 'hag to my coueleet Ore to indulge 1 • a good, comfortable tr, when Dolly p - pears bearing a small ani elaborate' js 1d - ed note which she ha Is ft me; lenge you to a bolsterig match. ,T Now, if there Is one th g en earth ove more thanamother, i a aeartF, no- quarter.glvou bolsterins »uteh to the house with Jet*, and 15 a *ate ery seldom get, thanks to the Oar or' barnacle -like habit of 8 ing n Te -night is a eplondid op tenity, never likely to get Such a her Witto, to-anorrow's event lumen( in. n and. with my heavy heart e ding me down, I doubt if I should be able to give jaole these vigorous whacks which he is accustomed to, I take a. sheet of paper, write on it, "Can't, I'm ill. Nell," and fold. it as elaborately as his. Dolly goes away with it, but quickly returns with another. "You are afraid; yen ate enough supper for six. Jack;" to which I make answer, "I ain't! I didn't! Come on and then prepare for the conflict. I take off my dress, and upper pettcieats, and shoos, put on my nightgown, tuck the sleeves well up over my emus; thou selecting my stoutest and strongest pillow, I sling it oevr my back awl sally forth. The dimly- lit passage is empty, but I creep warily along, keeping e keen eye to the right and 1 eft, for behind yonder chest the foe may lurk, or from out yonder half -shut door he may suddenly spring: and, if I am not prepared with my weapon, whaok! upon my defenseless head will come a blow, heavy in proportion to the skill of the hand that aims it. Gingerly then I go, breathless with expectation., every nerve strong to its highest pitch; but the foe does not appear, and I am just wondernig whether he is lazy or meditating a dishon- orable attack from the rear, when, whir from the oriel window comes a swift, well -directed blow that would smite me to earth did I not catch it midway with my pillow, which meets the other with , astounding crack that reverberates through the house. Now the engagement is opened, the exchange of compliments is brisk,and ducking, dodging, slashing, backing, re- treating, advancing, we have a hand-to- hand encounter, until Amberley appears at the top of the stairs, candlestick in hand, meek, scandalized, open-mouthed. Down the =alder I flee, Jack in hot pur- suit, showering liberal blows on my van- ishing tail; past Amberley, who, being in the line of battle,reeeives a blow intended for my worthless back which smites the candlestick from her hand, and flattens her, a heap of ruins, against the wall; down the stairs like a flash of lightning; through the nurseries like a clap of thun- der where the nurse cries "Shame!" and the youngsters, "Go itl" out on the other side, down the lower staircase, across the hall into the dining-rooln— But where is Jack? He was at my heels a anoment ago; now he is neither to he heard or seen — Is he listening at the door, or creeping up behind me? The room is in total dark- ness, save for a tiny stream that shows under the half -opened door from the hall lamp. 1 wonder what all that commotion in the hall is about? Can Jack have run against Simpkins in his pursuit, and up- set the old thing? He is suro to he hero in a minute. I—I mount a chair behind She door— I grasp any bolster convulsive- ly the door opens, and, bang! with all the strength of my body and soul, I bring it down on th.e head of—Jack? Scarcely. Does Jaoic swear like a trooper, And dance like a dervish! Does Jack rush madly hither and thither, vowing when he catches me to "break every bone in my skin?" My heart sinks like lead, the bolster drops from any limp fingers, my feet are glued to the chair, as the awful conviction strikes me that I have been bolstering the gov- ernor! Some instinct of self preservation, as he comes nene rne in his furious search, makes me leave my perch and dodge him swiftly and noiselessly round and round. Finally, watching my opportunity, I bolt out of the door just as William appears with candles,shoot past him like a meteor, and am up the stales before you. could say "jack Robinson." Papa, dashing out in hot pursuit, butts head foremost into the outstretched arms of the footman, and they roll over and over, master, man, candles and all. A confused sound as of Wombwell's menagerie ascends to iny ears, as I fly past the maids and fry who are hanging over the stairs anxiously watching the march of events, and, hav- ing locked myself into my chamber, I sit down on the side of my bed svith eny eyes fixed upon the door, expecting it every moment to fly asunder and admit my ex- ecutioner. • But though I hear terrible) sounds of devastation and fury in. the clis- tance,the mintues pass, and still he comes not. After a while, therefore, I am able to draw a deep breath, and. contemplate the fact of my being still alive without any particular amazement. By and by a gentle knock coanes to the door. Who is it?" I ask, trembling. Perahps it is only a trick of my outraged parent? "Me," says Jack's voice. Why wilrpeo- ple persist in believing that "me' is known to everybody, and requires no bush? I open the door and let him in, lock it again, and turn round and face him. Yell sneak!" I say, slowly; "you took good care to hide yourself, didn't you? And took good care not to warn me,didn't you? I'm ashamed of you!" "That's just like a girl," says Jack, sit- ting down. "Stow your heroics a bit, and listen to me. I followed you as far as the hall, and half way across I caught my foot in a mat, and went head foremost. When I picked myself up you had vanish- ed,and I was just wondering whether you had gone into the library or the dining - room, when a ring came at the front -door bell; and I had hardly got behind Venus, when in walked the governor! Quarreled with Skippy, I suppose, or yearned for his family; at any rate, there he as. He went into the dining-roorn, and. the next Shing I heard was a fearful whack! then noise enough to lift the hair from one's head. Then out you rushed, the governor at your heels, and bang he went into arms, and over they went. Ohl shall I ever forget it?" He stuffs a cornea of the sheet into his mouth and rolls. "The candles were squashed as flat as pan- cakes, and the governor, only too glad to vent his rage on somebody, pummeled William like mad, Who was underneath and offered no resistence, merely saying, 'Don't sir1' without stopping for a single moment. I was behind Venus all the time, and I shook so that I nearly knocked the poor soul carer. By the time the governor had finsihed off 'William, Amberley ap- peared, bleating, The governoe soon squashed her into a jelly; atid, after data nig his fist at your door, and muttering darkly about to -morrow, he stormed him - elf into the library." "Jack," I say, in a voice that Itry hard to make "don't-carish," "do yon—do you think he will kill Inn?" "No," says .lack, judicially, "because he knows he Would be hong if lua elide bait if he was sure he wotildn't he, he'd do it like a 8110fil It's going rather far with him,. you know, t� bojster him1" 1 shod - or, Has this wretelted hend of Mine really doalt hini a smashing blow on the head? Perhaps it will 'wither up. "What a mercy it is there le a Palmas In this country!' I say, with a Sigh "It is such a protectionl" • "Hard words break no bones," says Jack, theerfully, and he won't whip you, yoo're too big! Don't bother, Nell," he • s,putting his arm round my shoulders; u shall come and live with me some , and we'll be as jolly as sand -boys." 'Dear old fellow!" I say, rubbing my Sauserable face against his cool red and hito one. "You'll sit next to 3110 at breakfast to -morrow, won't you?" "All right" he says, and preskitly gives me a hug, and goes away. Oh, if only to -morrow would never come! If I might go to sleep now this minute, and not wake up again for live yet= 1 Papa would surely have forgotten then. If time would, only stop over break- fast, even, I should be safe.; for, by dinner time Alias's elopement will be known, and the one overpowering fact will haye oast all other misdemeanors into the shade. Bat, despite prayers and longing, the cold gray dawn comes at last. Groan- ing, I rise and attire myself for the slaughter. As in a cleeem, I go down -stairs and listen to prayers, and then—I will not write down the details of that breakfast. I must be a hardened sinner, indeed, for when 15 18 over my spirit is not broken, nor my hair gray. I am oven able to re- float with oomplacency on the feet that I still possess my full complement of arms, logs and teeth, eta ; for at one thin) I trembled for each and 1l of these valu- ables. And now lam 'watching Alice put on her cloak and hat She is very pale, very trembling, but sho does not cry; and when she is dressed, she goes into auother's room and kisses her, saying she is going to church. Ay, she is going "to church," wheme she will come out Alice Lovelace and not Alioe Adair—never our own pretty Alice any more. As this thought strikes me X give a loud sob outside the door, which makes her turn apprehensively; so I cram my handkerchief into my mouth, and ohoke inwardly. And now we are walk- ing with her across the sodden grass of the dismal, bare garden, toward the postern gate, where Charles LOvelace waits with a travelin,g-carriesee and grays. "Good-bye," she says, looking into our faces and weeping passionately. Tears do not matter now; there are no more appear- ances to be kept up. "Good -hyo," say Milly and I, weeping, too, but with a difference. Through her present sorrow the gay bright fatteee looks; we know what we are going back to. "Good-bye," says Charles Lovelace, kissing our dripping countenances. "Good-bye good-lyel" cries Alice, cling- ing about our necks in turn. And news she is in the carriage, the valet jumps into the rumble and they an off, Alice's lovely face looking out of the winodw to the very last moment, away, through the cold winter morning. A couple of hundred yards away, papa is walking about, happy in the comfortable belief that he holds all our lives in his hand, and that he Call mete us out happi- ness or misery, according to his sovereign will. Well, one at least of his white slaves has turned a rebel; he will know it by twelve of the cloak, and then— "Dilly, Dilly, Dilly, come and bo kill- ed," I say to Milly, as we go heavily back to the house. "After all we can only be killed once I" (TO BE corrifitnain.1 Why Men Should Marry. It was clearly meant that all men, as well as all women should marry; and those who, for whatever reason, miss this obvious destiny are, from natures' point of view, failures. It is not a question of personal felicity (which in eight oases out of ten may bo problematic), but of race responsibility. The unmarried man is a skutaer, who, in order to secure his own ease, dooms some women, who has a right- ful claim upon him, to celibacy. And in so doing he defrauds himself 'of the oppor- tunities for anental and moral develop- ment which only the normal experience can provide. He deliberately stunts the stature of his manhood, ianpoverishes his heart and brainand chokes up all the sweetest potentialities of his soul. To himself he is apt to appear like the wise fox that detects the trap, thoogh it be ever so cunningly baited.; that refuses to surrender his liberty, for the sake of an appetizing chicken or rabbit, which may after all a decoy, stuffed with sawdust; while as a matter of fact hie case is that of the cow- ardly servant in the parable, wile, for fear of losing his talent, hid it in. his napkin, and in the end was deelned unworthy of his stewardship. The Minister, the Friend. of the People As the minister of Christ is pro -eminent- ly the friend and father of the people, he cannot be indifferent to any of the social, political and economic questions affecting the interests and happiness of the nation. The relations of Church and State, the duties and prerogatives of the citizen, the evils of political corruption and ustirpa- ton, the purification of the ballot-box,the relative privileges and obligations of labor and capital, the ethics of trade and com- merce, the public desecration of the Lord's day, popular amusements, temperance, the problem of the colored and Indian races, female suffrage, divorce, socialism, and anarchy-1mM are vital, and often burning, questions, on which hinge the peace and seeueity of the Commonwealth. Politics has a moral as well as a civil aspect. The clergyman la a social as well as a religious reformer, a patriot as well as a preacher, and he knows that the per- maneoce of our civic institutions rests on She intelligence and the virtue of the pdople. He has at heart the temporal as well as the spiritual prosperity of those committed!' to his care. They naturally look up to him as to a guide and teacher. His education, experience, and sacred character give weight to his words and ex- ample. There is scarcely a social or mono- mic movement of reform ore foot; no mat- ter how extravagant or Utopian, thatemd not some element of justice to reconamend it to popular favor. If the scheme is aban- doned to the coritrol of fanatics, dome- gogues, or extremists, it will decisive the masses and involve them in greater mis- ery. Sueh living topics nood discriminat- ing judges to separate the svbeat from the chaff, .A.nd who is More fitted to handle these questiaas than God's ambassador, Whose conseryative epirit frowns Upon all intemperate iimovations, and whose Christian sympathies prompt him to ad- vocate for his suffering brethren every just measure fox. the recb:oss of grievances and the mitigation of needless misery? The timely interposition of the minister of •peace might have helped to Meek many a disastrous popular iminclatioo by watch- ing its cottage, and diverting it iota a safe channel before it overspeead the comitey. WAY 'VOW 'PAINT TIMM PAVDS. • reateend which Accounts for the eted Man's Ceremonial Vestetem " 'Why do Whim paint, their feces?' I have esked that queston of hundredsof red nien, and have received bat ouo mswer. Of all the tribes that 1 have visiteel but one bets a legend aceountipg for the bid - mos decorations that ere to be seen on the Ames of Indians muter all eeremonial oir- atunstancee. "I was sitting at 4 camp fire in a village of Taoaeilla Apaches one night listening to the stories and, the legends that were being, told, when 1 propounded the old question a •11, hardly expeeting even the usual ex- pression of ignorance that hides somany o2. tho thoughts of the Indians, To any surprise, however, I received the answer that I least expected, says a writer in the St, Louis Globo-Democart. An old fellow who had sat all the evening listenteg to the stories' without changing his attitude grunted and straightened up as he heard the question. Proceeding with all dile sol- menity, he told the folftwing legend: " 'Long ago, when met were weak and animals were big and strong, „a chief of the red mon who lived in these mountains went out to get a deer, for his people were+ hungry. After walking all day he saw a deer and Eliot at it, bat the 'arrow was -tome aside and Wounded a mountain lion, which was also after deer. When the lion felt the sting of the arrow he jumped up and bounded after the man, who ran for his life. He was almost exhausted, and, when he felt his strength give way, be fell to the ground, calling on the big hoar, who, you know, is the grandfather 0, mon, to save him. The big bear heaixl the call and saw that to save the man he had tcr act quickly, so he scratched his foot and spriatlea his blocid over the man. " Now, you know, no animal will eat o' the bear or taste of his blood. So whet the Um reached the man he smelled. the blood and „turned away, but as be did so hi: - foot scraped the face of the Mau, leasam the marks of his claws on the bloody face, Whon the man fetal& that he was Main jured, he was so thankful that he left the blood to dry en his face and never washet it all, but left it until it peeled off. We're tho claws of the lion scraped it off there wore marks that turned brown in the sun. and where the blood stayed on it wa: lighter You know all men paint their faces, that way with blood and sompe it off in streaks when they hunt or go to wan' " Making Precious Stones. The manufacturer of diamonds an rubies by artificial means was clescribut. by &tweed Dureaat in a lecture &Romet the other evening hetet° the New Yoe., Electrical Society at Columbia. College. The ruby, said the lecturer was fleet made on a commercial scale in 1877 le; fusing a mixture of alumina and reddead in a fire clay cucible and adding 2 or 8 pee cent of bichromate of potash for color , ing matter. Eleven years later in 1888, an improvement on this method producee stones that actually had all the physic% characteristics of natural Tates and even resembled the real gem M crystallint forwas greatly disturbed by the appearance m. Two years prior to this the jewelry trade - of quantities of apparently fine ruble,. from Geneva. Those scones excited SUs. picion, and were supposecl to have bee!: mado by the fusion together of severu. small rabies. Upon closer examination, however, G. F. Kunz, of Tiffany & Co.. mime to the conclusion that they \TOM made by an artificial process similar e. that of 1877. The ingredients of the ruby eo bu manufactured are placed in an iron cru• cible with ate iron lid. This is placed it an electric furnace and brought to a white, heat when the lid becomes fused to the crucible, forming a single shell. The, crucible is then plunged in water, and the Sudden contraction of the shell as it cools, together with the expansion of it, contents as they pass from a liquid to 1. solid state,produces the pressure necessaae to form the ruby. The electric furnace is not essential tit the process,but it is found to be more coo venient than the furnace formerly oboe as the heat can be easily regulated am conveniently controlled. The artificial production of diamond:. was the result of experiments dating from 1694. In that year the Grand Duke Cos- ine III. of Florencediscovered that dia- monds could be volatilized by intense heat. Comparative experiments made at the instance of Emperor Francis I., in 1161 with diamonds and rubies showed that when heated in the air the former disap- peared, while the latter were unchanged. This led to the discovery that diamonds heated in a crucible from which the air was excluded also remained unaltered. In 1772 Lavoissier showed that the dia- mond was coanbustible and that, when burned, it produced carbonic acid gas. It was further shown by Tennant that equal weight of diamond and common charcoal produced equal weights of this gas, and in 1816 the experiments of Davy proved that the diamond was practically pure carbon. During 1892 and 1898 experiments con- ducted by Dr. 0. W. Huntington proved that diamonds existed in meteoric iron– er larger meteor was broken up and speci- mens which seemed to contain diamonds were dissolved. The test showed that minute diamonds were present. This ex- priment led M. Meissen, the French scientist, to try to manufacture the dia- mond by a process similar, to that of the meteorite. He found that the pure ' mond con- tains traces of iron, to tempted to make on y suiaotirs and carhon to an e• . high I perature and an 'en eneotto fosaenee. clyinder of iron was filleiteerith carbonized sugar and heated to ale6ut 600 degrees Fahrenheit. It was then plunged into ico water and the onormotis pressure duo to the sudden cooling otabied some of the sugar to crystallize. These crystals were very sanall—no larger than the head of a pin—but they were real diamonds, SUMMER ISEVERAOISS, 000Dree• Drinks 'Mat Will Prove De- lightful la Wavle 'Weather', LereonSherbet—Talee four lethons, two oranges, six tanlespoonfuls sugar,. three pints water; squeeze the lemon and orange juice upon the sugar; let it steed five minutes, add water and ice, stir well and Navblerysjot ar:er ailloorwban—coroofarsugitetrmeaaans, a be made ftr those wile like sweet drinks. Stxuhalf pint of strawberry juice or a gill .of strawberry syrup, six tablespoonfnle of sugar, one quart of water; let this stand on iota aa hour before using; add to it at the last a handful of small ripe strawber- A Mild. Claret 'Punch—One quart iced, water, one gnart claret two slices pine- apple out into dice, one sifted benuana' an orange) peeled, sifted and seeded, half. pint starwborries, hal flatlet red raspberries, three lemons peeled, elleed and seeded, one cup granulated sugar; put together the lemons, oranges, one slim of pineapple, and half of the barrios and show them with sugar. Let Nunn stand half an hour at least. Express all the juice from them, and put this with the olaret and iced water. Adel the remaindee of the out -up Pin"."plo, the banana and the berries and rye" tawny Cobbler—Half-pint good sherry, four slices pinapple out in dice, one lemon and. one orange, both sliced thin, eight tablespoonfuls suganpounded the and iced water at discretiou. Place the fruit in a bowl, strew with the sugar and a little ice, and in ten minutes add a pint of water, Stir well, put in the wino and. more crush- ed ice and add water with judgment. The cobbler should be poarod inee glasses full of finely cracked ice and imbibed through a straw. Raspberry Vittegae—Mash five qt-tarts.of strawberries, raspberries, black or red, in a large crock and cover them with genuine cider vinegar. Let them stand in the sun twelve horns, ancl keep at night in a cool place. Stir several times during tho day. Strain; put five quarts of fresh boreles in the jar; pour the strained vinegar over these; mash the berries and let them stand twenty-four hours longer. Strain, mea- sure, and to each quart of the liquid allow ono pint of water and three pounds of sugar. 'Cook, stirring steadily until the sugar is dissolved, removing the scum as IS rises. • When it comes to a boil take from the fire, bottle while warm, cork and seal. Blackberry Cordial—One quart of brandy, two quarts blackberry juice, two pounds white sugar, One 011110e each pow- dered allspice and cloves. Boil the juice and brandy and the spices (these tie up in thin muslin bags) for fifteen minutes. Take from the fire, add the brandy and when cold strain, bottle and seal. This is a good cordial for use in sickness. Currant Shrub—Heat red currants until She juice runs freely, squeeze the fruit, and to each quart of the liquid allow three- quarters of a po:md of sugar and one quart of the best brandy or of good Jemalea rum. Stir the juice and sugar until the. latter is dissolved, and when the mixture is cold adcl the liquor. Strain, bottle and seal. A little mixed with iced water is an excellent summer drink. Cherry Shrub—Stem morello or sour red cherries and put them in an earthen- ware orock. Set this in a large pot of boiling water and lex this cook for some hours, stirring ancl breaking the cherries • from thne to time with a 'wooden paddle. None of the water must get into the cher- ries. When the juice flows freely turn the fruit, a small quantity at a time, into a thick jelly bag, and squeeze out the juice. It must be free from pulp. To ettehlaint of the juice add a pound of sugar and let , it stand, stirring constantly until it is thoroughly dissolved. To each pint of • She juice and sugar add a tablespoonful of hest brandy, bottle and seal. This is used like =rapt shrub. Milk Pouch—The following receipt is not, strictly speaking, a summer drink, but it is most usefuCat any season for sick or delicate persons: Half pint milk, one tabespoonf al sugar, two tablepoonfuls brandy; stir well and serve ice cold. The Danger or the Woll-to-do. The well-to-do will no more be able to stay an increase than they have been to stay the imposition of the tax itself. They have already been sepaa'ated from the rest of the community, the dividing line being at tows thousand dollars. They have been constituted a olass apart, especially chosen to bear the burdens of taxation. It is not in human nattua for those who have nothing to resist the temptation of increas- ing the taxes of the well-to-do. This in- crease would probably be arrived. at by the insertion of the progressive feature in the .Sax. You can resist socialism, anarchy, because these would affect the people at large,but a progressive tax on income and inheritance would fall immediately but on few. You cannot declare that it is vision- ary—it is very actual and real—yet it can be anade to go as far as the wildest social- ists dream. Once admit the principle that a small portion of the community oan be penned off for taxation without the rest— a portion that 3311.1St necessarily be. if not unpopulaeat least the subjects of envy on the part of the many—and their saorilice must follow. What Jew, what Catholid, what Protestant, wouldl not recognize that his religion was on the edge of the precip- ice if he were marked off for taxation, however slightbecause he belonged to one of these denominations? Being already / 'fated into a class apart, the well-to-do -so‘opsy to roach, when the time comes to angment their burdens, that it will be imposseble not to increase their burdens. They Will have a continually declining following to resist a progressive tax. They are in a more dangerous posi- tion than the Jew, if he were separated off for taxation, because they aro m much fewer. The areuments that they will be able to urge intlheir own behalf will not be listened to. They are too subtle, too in- tangible, too distant. Looking about them the mass of voters see so naueli wealtb that has been acquired through speculation, through connivance of legis- latures and through lobbying, through improper grants of franchises by boatels of alderman and ammieipalities, that already tlaey lump all wealth in the same cate- gory., When, as 1 have tried to show, their Own struggle for existence will bo keener, an they more clearly perceive that they hold the wealth of the wealthy in the hollow of their hands, 'they will be impell- ed by a species of religious fury- to equal- ize the condition of men,—Feora 'The Mamie Tax; The Spirit of the Tax," by Plain -Speaker, in North Ameeloan Review for May, A GrrOLO Thirst. Sonie years ago while) traveling from '<wises City to St Louis the seat Jo front of me was occupied by a typical cattleman and. a man 'who looked like an eastern clergyman. The svestern mail a whole - smiled, genial sort of follow, after telling his companion all about is western ranch and about the business which called him to. Chicago, reached down in his grip and drove forth a bottle of generous propor- tions. "Pardner," said he, "there's the best liquor west of Xansas City; throw a hook- er into you and give Inc your opinion." The clerical-lootsieg Mari, thoUgh ter- ribly shocked, managed to say: "Friend, 1 have not drank for forty years" The:Neat) jumped from hie seat and exclaimed: "Great gabs! I would give d1,000 for your thirst " One thousand and sixty peesons Were killed hi eoal mines in Great Britain last nat., and sixty-five persons in metallifer- ous mines.