HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Advocate, 1896-3-5, Page 6being shunned lay innocent women and
LI7 good. men, the feeling that, one is not fit
to kiss a child." H said more but I
could not follow him for thinking
of the
men • I had left to die in the Mariner's
Joy,whom I had murdered for this -to
be shunned forever by Taras, A sick-
ness overcame me. I must have stum-
bled or reeled, for Taras' stopped sudden-
ly. and held me up.
"You are faint. Let us sit down on
this step, he said. •
"Nd, We evill go on. I shan't be
silly again."
OeY, now the Wharf Waif
Became a Princess.
QUiyLlsneo BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.
"Get out of my way," shouted Putty.
"We shall be burnt alive if we stay
here. We must get back through the
hole," •
I heard them cursing each other as
they struggled together, each trying to
'get first into the run. Then when the
struggle ceased Drigo, gasping for breath,
cried:
"We can't go back. The water's up to
the top."
The pool of fire kept spreading. I
could hold the stone no longer. It fell
with a thud, cutting off the sound of
mingled execrations from below. I ran
np the steps into the bar, and having
drawn them up after me, so that if the
men got out of the shaft they could not
escape from the cellar; I let down the
flap. The place was thick with suffo-
cating smoke. Scarcely able to breathe,
I groped my way down the passage,
drew the bolts of the door and got out
onto the balcony.
M.1 WW1. w:113 uratti nit for me at the. end.
of the stairs. Hie figure was just dis.
cernible by the faint light that came
from the gas up Ferryboat alley. In a
couple of minutes I was by his side,
panting for breath.
"I've kep' you a-waitin," I gasped.
"Not long," said he.
Indeed all that I have narrated in this
chapter may have taken place in less
than 20 minutes.
"Have you been running?"
"Yes, one way and another I've had a
pretty good run for it."
"What's the matter, little friend?
Your teeth are chattering. Why, your
shoulders are wet."
"Never mind, you're all right. There
ain't no danger now. I've done for
'Sm."
"Done for them," he replied in a low
tone of perplexity. "Whom?"
"Why, the foreigner and Putty. I've
done for 'em both," said I, expecting
him to share my feeling of exultation.
"What do you mean?" he asked in a
tone of sharp severity.
He had never before spoken to me like
that. His harshness frightened me and
changed my feeling of triumph to one
of mortification. If I had done wrong,
it was for his sake, not my own. I hung
my head and made no reply.
"What do you mean?" he repeated,
with increased sternness, turning me
almost roughly by the shoulder that
the light might fall on my face.
"Speak
"What do you think I mean?" I asked
morosely. "We've bested 'em, ain't we?
I've got you right away from 'em, ain't
I? Isn't it me what's done 'em for you'?"
He drew a deep breath of relief, and
then in a tone of wonderful tenderness
said:
"Forgive me, little friend. I thought
you meant something very different
from that. I do not understand English
well. But how did you get so wet?"
"I couldn't drop out of the hole into
the water down there without getting
wet, could I?" said I, still with an air of
resentment, though I had forgiven him
in my heart the moment he spoke again
with kindness.
"Come, you need dry clothes—
rest. I will take you to your friends."
"I ain't got no friends. You leave me
here. I'm all right. Go quick past the
house."
"Not without you. If you have no
friends, I will take you to mine."
I stopped—he had drawn me onward
as he spoke—and shook my head. The
rank smell of burning seemed to fill the
air. He might see the flames bursting
up in the bar of the Joy and learn what
I had done. I would rather separate
now than risk meeting his angry re-
proach.
"Don't be afraid," said he, mistaking•
the cause of my reluctance to pass the
Joy. "No one shall hurt you nor me
either now my hands are free. Come."
His strong hand was on my arm. I
could not resist. his command. But as if
I were in terror of Putty I ran that we
might pass the Joy,quickly, giving him
no time to find out that 1 had set the
place on fire over the heads of his
enemies. • •
"Stay." said he. checking me when we
were some distance down Sweet Apple
lane, "you have rim far enough, There
is now danger now, and we have still a
good way to walk. There are no cabs
in this part of London."
We walked on toward the Minories.
The streets were quite empty, We
, passed but one policeman, and he said
nothing, seeing Taras with me. He eyed
us curiously though, thinking perhaps
that Taras had saved me from drown-
ing, his clothes also being wet and caked
with black mud. We walked in silence
for some time, but Taras spoke at length
in a low, soft voice:.
"I' owe my life to you, little friend;
more than my life," he added, "my
liberty."
"How did you let 'ern come over you?"
I asked.
"I was deceived. I thought the dark
man was a friend. He was an enemy=
an agent of police."
"And. the three others—was they slops
too?"
"Slops—what is that?"
"Policemans."`
"Yes, they were police."
"Was they goin to kill you"
"No, worse than that. The were go-
ing to take me back to my country."
"You ain't doneanything wrong, are.
you?"
"Not wrong as we understand the
word -you acid I,"
"I thought it was only parties like me
as was hunted about for being s'picions
carricters."
"No class is free from suspicion in my
country; It is not like yours.
"It must be pretty bad if it's wus."
"It is pretty bad."
"What are you. gain to do with the
Clark man with the round shoulders?"
"Xeep hint at arm's length."
``But s'posiii,"'I'persisted tentative)
"s'posin you'd got ,him in a earner or in
a 'ole, vrouldn'tyob drop something on
him and smash him,?''
"That would be murder-"
"Gain aw y I It ain't murder it's
justice. ; You, only> does for him what.
he'd do for you if hegot • r' `
�. a chance.
"That,' Fis- the law of brutes, not of
men. •It , would be murder, and we
should pray for strength to i esist'tl the
lust ofvengeance that leads' to it: . For
think, little friend; of the misery that
follows, the degradation , and Shame of
He drew my arm through his and bade
me lean on him, telling me that'we"had
now but a little way to go. Leaning on
his'arni, I wished that we might go on
forever, and ever and never reach -our
journey's end, ..`:Talk to me," I said.
' He proposed a brighter subject, but I
would ;not hear of that and bade him
tell me more about the dark man and
the police. -•
"He is nothing but an instrument,"
said Taras. "I bear him no ill will. He
does what he is paid to do, like a soldier
who lowers his rifle and kills another
soldier at the command of his officer.
It isn't the unreasoning man who exe-
cutes an unjust law, but the thinking
man who makes the law who should
die," And then he went on to speak of
many things beyond the reach of my
reason, but tha; made no difference to me.
I heard his voice like a flowing strain of
music that softened my heart and light-
ed up my soul with an exquisite emotion
such as I had never before felt. And I
knew not why. It seems strange, ano-
malous, unaccountable to me, as I look
back now, that these feelings should
suddenly spring up in my being, which
had hitherto been dull to all the influ-
ences of nature. But surely it was not
more exceptional than the revelation of
a new world to the blind whose eyes
after years of darkness are opened.
We stopped before a small house in a
by street of the Minories, and Taras
rang a bell, The door was opened in-
stantly by a fair hated young woman
and her husband. They were friends
who expected the arrival of Taras with
the three men whom he had been led to
believe were friends. They looked at
me in mute astonishment when we en-
tered the shop—a tobacconist's—as Taras
in his own tongue briefly explain ed what
had occurred. But when he had spoken
the man took my hands in his, and
pressing them told me in his broken
English that I should never want a
friend while he and his wife lived. She
could speak no English except "yes"
and "no," but she understood what her
husband said, I think, for she nodded a
smiling agreement with his promise and
kissed me heartily upon both cheeks, de-
spite the dirt upon them.
Then she led me quickly to a room up
stairs where a bright fire was burning,
and chatting merrily all the while,
sometimes to me. sometimes to her hus-
band who followed, bringing a big bath
and a can of hot water. She laid out a
complete change of clothes for me, and
when they had made me understand that
supper was waiting for me below they
left me with more cheerful smiles and
expressions of kindness.
To all their amiable overtures I made
no response—not once opening my lips
to thank them. Their sympathy and
solicitude bewildered me, being as
strange and incomprehensible to me as
the language they spoke. I had never
had to thank anybody in all my life for
anything, and the sentiment of grati-
tude was as unknown to me as the ex-
perience of gentle treatment. Indeed I
seemed to have stepped suddenly into
another world where all was unreal and
dreamlike.
As dreamlike was the physical sensa-
tion produced by the warmth of the
bath and the comfort of clean, dry cloth-
ing. A delicious languor steeped, my
senses in forgetfulness of misery, and
yielding to the impulse of the moment I
threw myself upon the soft bed and the
next minute lost consciousness of every-
thing.
CHAPTER VI.
THE LAST RESOURCE.
I awoke with a feeling of overpower-
ing heat and suffocation. The bed.
clothes had been drawn over my should-
ers, and my head, sinking from the pil-
low, had buried my face beneath them.
But before this unusual condition was
discovered'another explanation present-
ed itself to my half awakened imagina-
tion. I was at the bottom of a burning
pit. Drigo and Putty were there, strug-
gling with each other and trampling me
beneath them in their frantic efforts
to escape, and Taras was looking down
at me with that stern severity which I
had seen but once in his face. He would
not stretch out his hand to save me, but
with the same unbending expression
turned his head and slowly walked
away.
I started up, looking about me wildly.
The fire had burned down. Only a few
embers glowed in the grate. The lamp
was turned down; its light fell upon
some food spread upon the table. ,
Then I realized my position.
My face and hands were wet and
clammy with heat and terror. That
terrible, warning dream haunted me.
What should I do? The thought of 1y-
ing down again to sleep was repugnant
to me, with the dread of dreaming
again. It must be nearly morning for
the fire to have burned so low. In a
little while that fair haired woman and
her husband would come with friendly
greetings. Re would press my hands
and she kiss my cheeks again. I was
not unconscious of the kindness and
generosity that animated them, and yet
the prospect of meeting them , was, I
knew not why, as repugnant to me as
the idea of sleeping again in their bed.
Walking across the room, my eye fell
upon some children's toys and a doll
upon the shelf. They perplexed me
with a new and unaccountable fear.
Turning to the mantelpiece I saw a
photograph in a frame hanging on the
wall. It was: a child, the owner of tee
doll and playthings on the shelf—per-
haps the fair haired woman's child. At
that supposition the cause of my repug-
nant fear was revealed to me, and re-
membering the events of Taras I said to
myself: "This is the honest woman and
the good man who would shrink from
me. This is the child whose lips I may
not kiss.
What then? Tasked, Let'them shun
me. Who wants their "itindness or
friendships'? Not I. ' The, world is good
enough, without them while Taras
smiles. But how long will he smile?
By this time the firemen have found the
charred bodies; and every one is talking
of the tragedy at the Mariner's Joy.
Soon enough, in a few hours, the news
will retch Tares'
and he will know what
I have done—know that I am a murder-
er., Teenhe, too, like the '.Cares in my'.
prophetic vision, will turn his back on
me without one gleam of ' pity .•ando
away. Should I stay and suffer that?
My spirit rose- in wild protest. That,
cireain should not be realized; that pati.
less look should not forever haunt rny.
life. .
With these thoughts running through
illy fevered imagination, I hunted about
the room for the sodden rags I had ta-
ken off: They were gone, The woman
had removed them with the determina-
tion that I should riot wear them again.
Well, I would take those she had given
me to wear. It mattered little• whether
they were a gift or not, It would not
add. greatiy'to tl,eir',loathing to'know
that the. murderess was a thief as well.
I put on the shoes She had left and took'
a woolen shawl as well to wrap about
my head; then opening the door can-
tiously that no noise might awaken the.
the sleeping household I found my way
down stairs by the glimmer of light that
came from below:
The shop was before me, but on the
right of the stairs was a half open doom.
The light was in that room, and glanc-
ing in I saw Taras stretched on• a
couch asleep, I could go no farther,
Tire thought that I should look upon
his face no more seemed To take away
all power from my mind and body, and
I stood there dazed with that sense of
utter bereavement, until impelled by a
wild desire I passed into the room and
drew quite close to him. '
I sank upon my knees and put my face
so close to his that I felt his breath upon
my cheek, but I could not sec him for
the tears that blinded, me. 1Iy fingers
hung quivering over him, for I yearned
to touch him, yet dared not. My tears
ran down my cheeks and fell upon the
floor. Thera I could see him. The same
sweet kindness was on his face that had
awakened my soul from its lethargy.
"That is what I will remember all my
life." I said to Myself as I rose. His
watch lay on the table, and beside it a
ring I had noticed on hie finger when I
was cutting the cord that bound his
hands. I took it, feeling that he would
not begrudge me this for a keepsake.
The was a fog in the street, but the
coppery background to the line of house
tops and the quick, heavy tread of men
going to work showed that it was morn-
ing. I had no knowledge of the neigh-
borhood, but that did not trouble me.
My only object was to get away from'
Taras and hide myself where he could
never come to kill my happy memories
with a reproachful look.
After awhile I knew by the long lines
of carts and barrows, the voices of port-
ers and costers and the smell of fish that
I must be near Billingsgate market, and.
soon after I saw the monument looming.
in the yellow fog. I crossed the bridge
and went down the steps into Tooley
street, not with any definite object, but
because the thick darkness down there
seemed to offer oblivion. Finding my-
self alone at the foot of the steps, I tore
off a piece of trimming from my dress,
and passing it through Taras' ring I tied
it round my neck, hiding the ring in my
bosom.
I have but the faintest recollection of
what happened during the day, my
ihind being too seared by previous
events to be sensitive to slight impres-
sions. I remember feeling wretched
and hungry and sick with the fatigue of
walking. I wandered on because I
found no place to rest until hazard led
me into Greenwich park about dusk.
There I fell asleep on a bench:
It was raining when I awoke, but it
was too dark to distinguish anything,
even the trees, and I could not sleep
again for shivering with cold and the
aching of my body. So I sat there in
dull resignation, watching the daylight
come and marking one by one the heavy
drops as they plashed en the bench be-
side me, falling from the boughs above,
until goaded by hunger I threw off my
lethargy and went down into the town.
It was still early, but the coffee shops
were open, their windows clouded by
the warmth within. The first one I en
tered was full of customers, and the
man serving them was so'busy that he
scarcely glanced at me in replying to my
humble appeal for food.
"Oh. I ain't got the time to attend to
beggars—out you go!" said he, bustling
along with his hands full of empty
cups.
The next one was less crowded, and a
woman was in the kitchen before the
flaming fire. She turned, round, setting
her hands on her hips, and looked me
down from head to foot as I asked her to
give me something to eat and drink.
"I ain't got no money, but I'll do a
job of work for it," I said.
Had I worn my old rags she would
certainly have given me something, for
these people are never wanting in charity
of that kind, but the dress I wore excited
her mistrust.
"Ain't got no money," said, she "and
you dressed like that with a gown good
enough for me. Why, what have you
done?" and as I made no reply she con-
tinued: "You're run away from ser-
vice and done something wrong. Don't
tell me. You've got it in your face.
You wouldn't look so wild if you hadn't
done a mischief. No, my gal, I don't
employ young women of your sort—
high heeled boots and all—and you can
take 'no' for an answer and go."
The fog which sheltered me from
observation the day before had given
place to a driving rain, and now as I
plodded on through the streets every
one noticed me. Two factory girls,
with the fringe and gaudy ostrich fea-
thers of their • class, stopped, gaping,
right before me.
"Oh, my Lor, look at her, Liz!" said.
one, and then as I passed she broke
forth into a shriek of laughter and de-
rision.
The spectacle was grotesque enough
to excite coarse wit—a girl, with melan-
choly madness in her face, dragging
slowly along the street in the drenching
rain, and respectably dressed. • That did
not occur to me then. I was too deject-
ed to heed ridicule or to ask myself what
there was in my misery that seemed lu-
dicrous.
When I grew dizzy and felt too 'weak
to walk: I turned down a bystreet. hop-
ing to find'another bench where I might
rest a little, But I had walked away
from the park, and the bystreet only led
rue into a desolate waste, broken by a
few squalid houses in scattered blocks,
a gas works end here and there in the
dun horizon a factory shaft. Not a bank
to sit on—not even a railing to rest
el
against —nothing but a levstretch of
mud and refuge thinly patched with
tufts of grimy nettles andwithering
grass, an ocher sky aboveand a distance
gray with the slanting, rain.
I plodded on doggedly -why should I
go back- --with my, head down, like a
jaded beast, sometimes closing my eyes
to shut outthe surroundings which
seemed to add to the sick loathing with.
in me, stumbling in rough places care-
less whether I fell or riot, benumbedi.
dazed, more asleep than awake,
The howl of a tug aroused 'ma, and
lifting• my head drowsily I found that T
was by the side of the river, separated
from it only by a narrow causeway and
a strip of oozy shingle. The factories
on the other side were half hidden in.
their own smoke, beaten down by the
rain; The line of shore upon this side
was unbroken save by a hulk that stood
aground at some distance. I saw the
tug slide away into the murky clouithat
hung over the river and watched the
swell it made flow up the shingle and
recede, flowing again and falling in di.
minishing waves until the last ripple
faded away, leaving the stream as still
as a pond under the steady rain.
1'U sem CON'rbNUED.
SKINS OF FOXES AND OTTERS.'
Most Valuable of the -it'nrs Found in
the Pacific Coast Regions.
The most precious of all Pacific coast
furs is the sea otter. There was a time
when this animal was very plentiful
off the California coast. The Russians
are largely responsible for their de-
struction at the time they founded a
settlement at Fort Ross, at the mouth
of Russian river, in Sonoma county.
Some sea otters are still captured off
the California coast, and there are a
few small vessels specially engaged off
the California coast sea otter hunting;
but Alaskan Waters are the chief source
of supply of this class of fur -bearing
animals. Sea otters are'always found
afloat, and the hunter can capture them
in no other way than by shooting. The
deeper and colder the water they are
found in the better the fur and the
higher the price the hunter secures for
the pelt.
A first-class sea otter skin in the raw
is worth $500 to the hunter, The best
sea otter pelt taken off the California
coast will yield $250 each to the hunter.,
There may be elements, however; in
the pelt which may reduce the value of
the Alaskan pelt to $20 and that of the
California coast to $5. The coast of
Japan has been a good hunting ground
for sea otter, and during the past
twenty-five years several small crafts
have sailed from San Francisco and
San Diego to Japan, outfitted for otter
hunting, Almost all sea otter skins
are marketed in Russia, where the fur
is in demand,
Next in value to, the sea otter is the
fox among the fur bearing animals of
the Pacific coast. Six kinds are hunted
for their pelts, which range from 20
cents to $90 each in the raw.
These are the silver, cross, red, blue,
gray and white. Something very rare
among foxes is a black coated animal,
and the fur of such a fox commands a
fancy price, often running as high as
$150. To supply the demand for black
fox furs, furriers prepare an imitation
by dyeing the fur of the red fox, which
is the cheapest pelt of the fox family,
the best "red" not being worth to the
trapper more than $2.25 per skin. If
we except the natural black fox,, the
highest priced fox pelts are the
"silver" and the . "blue." A trapper
gets for a perfect silver fox pelt as he
strips it from the carcass about $90,
and for the best blue fox pelt about
$22.
An effort is being made on the Aleu-
tian islands to farm the blue fox. Some
of the small islands in the group suit-
able for the purposes of farming have
been leased by some of the old trappers
of the Hudson Bay and Alaska Com-
mercial companies for a nominal rent,.
and these have been stocked with foxes.
The animals are stockaded and regu-
larly fed by the farmer, who is usually
a "squaw" man, that is, one living
with a native woman, who is settled
with his family on the island. In time
the animals become domesticated and
are 'then easily managed. Furriers are
watching the experiment with consider-
able interest.—San Francisco Chron-
icle.
Care of Books.
Even to those who are most careful
and particular with their loved and
treasured libraries accidents will hap-
pen, and the human bookworm is at
his or her wits' end to remove the diffi-
culty, which threatens perhaps to ruin
forever one or more of the choicest vol-
umes. •
An English magazine lately pub-
lished the following items, which will
probably be found useful by any li-
brarian :
To remove ink stains from books—A
small quantity of oxalic acid, diluted
with water, applied with a camel's hair
pencil and blotted with blotting paper,
will, with two applications, remove all
traces of :the ink.
To remove grease spots—Lay pow-
dered pipeclay each side of the spot and
press with an iron as hot as the paper
will bear without scorching.
To remove iron mould—Apply first a
solution of sulphuret of potash and af-
terward one of oxalic acid. The sul-
phuret acts on the iron.
To kill and prevent bookworms—
Take one-half ounce of camphor pow-
dered like salt, one half -ounce bitter
apple, mix well, ana spread on the
book shelves. Renew every six months.
To polish old bindings—Thoroughly
clean the leather by rubbing with a
piece of flannel; if the leather is broken,
fill up the holes with a little paste ;
beat up the yolk of an egg and rub it
well over the ' covers with a piece of
sponge ; polish it by passing a hot iron
over.
'Do not allow books, to be very long in
too warm a place ; gas affects them
very much, Russia leather in partic-
ular. t
Do not let books get dampthey
or
will soon mildew, and it is almost im-
possible to remove it,
Books with clasped or raised sides
damage those near them on the shelves,
—Inland Printer.
If'a man buys on'credit,,he does not
know when be is living within his means.
A Sad Case.
Old gentleman—What are you crying
about, my little manI
Little Willie -All my brothers hez got
a holiday, and I hasn't. got -none.
Old gentleman—What ? Tnat's too
bad. How is that ? •
Willie (between sobs)—I-don't go -to
school yet. —Pittsburg Bulletin.
' MANGER AND FEED BOX.
When -a horse acquires the habit of crib-
bing, its market value and endurance are
somewhat reduced. There are, however,
a few exceptions ` to this, some of the
most persistent cribbers being noted for
their free driving and staying power as
roadsters. The habit of cribbing is
clearly attributable to domestication, as
it is said to be unknown among the wild
horses on the plains. The cause is usually
attributed to indigestion and the im-
pure air of stables. While this may be
the leading cause In many cases, it is not
in all, as colts at pasture often come into
winter quarters inveterate crib bore.
While most veterinarians have given the
subject considerable study, ,,no specific
has yet been discovered for this trouble.
Many suggestions as to food, time of
feeding, watering, ventilation, wearing
certain kinds of bits and other appliances
are offered, but they usually prove of but
little value.
When cribbing, the animal ,;rasps the
top of: post, rail, fence, manger or any
object within reach that can be admitted
between the jaws; hence, if these objects
be removed it is plain that the act of
cribbing cannot take place, and as a
partial preventive while in the stable a
slightly concave manger is erected, being
for a fourteen hand horse three feet from
the floor, Its general position is shown
in the sketch by L. D. Snook. It is as
long as the manger is wide and not lees
than 3ie feet wide. The center is de-
pressed six Inches. At a, on both sides of
tho stall, Is secured a chain or strap with
a snap in one end which is snapped into
each side of the halter. While the horse has
free use of his jaws and can eat freely any
food placed within a certain radius, he is
so confined that he cannot reaoh the front
side of the manger, and if the top of the
manger be covered with sheet iron, no
attempt will be made to grasp this flat
surface. The contrivance may be hinged
to the font of the stall and fold up out of
the way at night or when not in use. If
need be it can' be placed directly above
one of the courmon mangers. Of course
the horse should have more freedom at
night.
Improving Poor PIaces in Meadows and
Pastures.
In most meadows and pasture fields are
patches of greater or less extent that are
not nearly as productive as the remainder
of the field, though the entire surface is
uniformally seeded. These unproductive
places are usually knolls or hillsides, from
which the fertility of the soil has been
exhausted by washing or cropping. Dur-
ing autumn they can easily be located
and brought back to a state of fertility.
First apply a good seeding of timothy, or
other grass seed, and then cover the en-
tire surface half an inch or ' more deep
with well rotted barnyard manure; or a
heavy sowing of commercial fertilizer,
passing over the spots several times with
a spring tooth or other harrow.'I `he
early fall rain will cause the seeds to ger-
minate, and the whole surface should
present a healthy' green appearance before
the winter sets In Frequently a field that
has been into grass for many years is well
set with moss, in which case scatter seed
over the surface, apply some rich manure,
and harrow until the surface looks rag-
ged, thus laying the foundation for in-
creased growth of herbage, and' all at
small expense, without replowing the
field. These bare spots are not at all
pleasant to look at, and do not speak
well for the farmer.
Proper Way to Construct Poultry Reece.
Poultry netting is now so cheap that it
has come to supersede all other kinds of
poultry fencing. Where yards are con-
structed side by side, it is well to have a
couple of feet of boarding at the bottom,
espeoialey if cocks are to run in the yards.
The common plan is to drive posts, nail
on the boards at the bottom and a rail at
the top. The result is that the hens see
exactly where the top of the fence is, and
will thus give trouble by flyingover it.
If the rail is placed a foot below the top,
as shown in the sketch, this trouble will
be obviated, as the hens will be greatly
deceived as to the position of the top—a
hen not having the most remarkable of
discriminating powers. The rail in the
position shown will properly brace the
fence, and give all needful rigidity to it.
Care. of Macadam and Telford Roads.
Improved roads aro becoming so oom-
icon in various parts of our country, that
the following instructions,issued by the
road improvement. Association, of Lon-
don, England, for the guidance oftheir
roadmen, will, be of great service to all
who have to dwith this class of roads;
for one thing is sure, a Telford or Maca-
dam road needs the best of care to be in
good condition, and unless this care is
given them . they soon get out of order,
and the work of repairing them . is ex-
pensive.
11. Never allow a hollow, a rut or a,.
puddle to remain on a road, but fill it up
at once with chips from the road heap,
2. Always use chips for patching and
for all repairs during the summer
months.
'3: Never put fresh stones' on the road,
if by cross -picking and a thorough use of
the rake the sur ace can be' made smooth
and kept at the proper strength and sec-
tion. •
4. Remember that the rake ie the most
useful tool in your collection, and ie
should be kept close at Land the whole
year round.
5. Do not spread large patches of Ston
over the whole width of the road, but
coat the middle or horse track first, and
when this has worn in, coat each of the
sides in turn,
6. In moderately dry weather and on
dry roads always pick up the old surfaoe
into ridges six inches apart, and remove
all large and projecting stones before
'applying p new coating.
7. Never spread stones more than one
stone deep, but add a second layer when
the first has worn in, if one coat be not
enough.
S. Never shoot stones on the road and
crack them where they lie, or a smooth
surface will be out of the question.
9. Never put a stone upon the road
for repairing purposes that will not freely
pass in every direction through a two-inch
ring, and remember that still smaller
stones should be used for patching and
for all slight repairs,
10. Recollect that hard stones should
be broken to finer gauge than soft, but
that the two inch gauge is the largest
that should be used under any circum-
stances where no steam roller is em-
ployed.
11 Never be without your ring gauge;
remember Macadam's advice that any
stone you cannot easily put in your
mouth should be broken smaller.
12. Use chips if possible for binding
newly laid stones together, and remember
that road sweepings, horse droppings, soda
or grass and other rubbish when used for
this purpose will ruin the best road ever
constructed.
13. Remember that water -worn or
rounded stones should never be used upon
steep gradients, or they will fail to bind
together.
14. Never allow dust or mud to lie oa
the surface of the roads, for either of
these will double the Dost of mainten-
ance.
While all of the above rules are import-
ant and embrace the principles of good,
road administration in a small space,
especial • force should be attached to rules
14 and 15, as upon the observance of these
tworulesdepends in a groat measure the
usefulness of all Macadam and Telford
roads, Yet how frequently do we see
the best of roads made offensive by the
neglect of these simple principles. In too
many instances the surface is allowed to
become foul with horse voidings and an
accumulation of dirt and dust, aro seldom
scraped or cleaned, and being constant-
ly sprinkled, the surface, which should be
hard and Olean, becomes foul with a
sticky, nasty mud two or three inches
deep.
HOME-MADE SEED DRILL.
A very simple and effective drill,
which will cost a mere trifle, can be made
at home. Many of those. who would like
such a drill have a Planet Jr. or Fire -fly
single wheel hoe, and those who have not
should have, as they are a groat help
about a farm and cost so little. The drill
to be described can be used as an attaoh-
ment to one of these hoes, and with them
the covering and planting can be done at
one passage. The plans and dimensions
a
given below are for the attachment, but
it can be made separate by simply bolting
on a pair of handles by means of a center
bolt. The wheel on the Planet Jr. and
Fire -fly hoes is ten inches in diameter,
and the run is lee inches chide.
Cut two wheels, 10 inches in diameter,
from a thin firm board (not over 34 inch
thick), and bore a hole the size of the
bolt the wheel on your hoe turns on, ex-
actly in the center of each wheel. Cut a
piece of tin (a) 24 inches long and 3,r of
an inch wide. Mark a line exactly in
the middle of this strip of tin from end.
to end. Commencing a half inch from
the end, make cross marks every snob,
the full length of the strip. Cut a hole in
the tin a half inch square at the 1st, 9th
and 17th cross lines, as shown in cut (a).
Cut boles ee-inch square in the same
position at the 5th. 13th and 21st cross
linos. Cut 14 -inch holes at the 3rd, 7th,
11th, 15th, 19th and 23rd lines, and 3. -
inch holes at all the other lines. Make
the edge of the holes smooth and even.
'Each eight inches of your strip will
appear as b. Have a tinner make the
strip into a band, just lotting the ends
meet and fastening it by soldering a piece
on the inside, being careful not to inter-
fere with any of the holes.
Cut another piece of tin a trifle narrow-
er than the first and 25/ inches long.
Turn up, with a clear square turn, three-
fourths of an inch of each end of this
strip. Draw a cross line N -inch from
the turn on the strip, and cut a half-inch
hole, as shown in the other strip. Drill
a hole through each of the turned up
ands, and then draw your strip around
the outside of your band and put a set
screw in the ends. Tighten it over the
inside band so the half-inch hole conies
over one of the half inch holes in the
band squarely and evenly. Mark on the
outside band through the inside band the
other two half inch holes. Now turn.
your inside baud on the inside band far
enough toward the side the cross lines are
from the holes, to make the hole through
both hands, -inch sc(uare. Mark the
three -eighth holes, ,toad turn until the hole
through both is• % inch sgaure. Mark
the one-fourth inch holes, and turn until
the hole is % inch square. Mark these and
remove the band. Cut out these holes and
make them smooth and nice.
Place the first band between the two
wheels and put three bolts through both
wheels about an inch inside the band, and
draw tightly, but not enough to cause the,
tin to out into the wood. Put the out-
side band around the inside band as you
had it when you marked it, and your
wheel is done, Adjust the bolt from your
wheel hoe so it will work in this, put it
on in place of the regular wheel,, and
your drill is ready for work.: If you wish
you can make a hole in the side of the
wheel to fill it, or you can put the seed in '
through the holes. This drill is easily ad
justed to different -sized seed by simply.
moving the outside one. You can shut off
the finest seed by moving it far enough,
Those who prefer having a band for
each kind of send instead of time adjust-
able double, band,can J
gota single bawd
of tinmade for each kind, and drill holes.
the size and distance apart required.
Round holes drop the seed better and the
bands are inexpensive.A little experi-
menting will tell you what sized holes
you will need and the 'distance apart,
Remember that holes an inch
apartfnthe
run will drop seeds an inch and a quarter
apart.. Try one of these home-made de-
vices, and you will never drop peas, beets,'.
or any such seed by hand again.—.Amari,•
can Agriculturist,
1