HomeMy WebLinkAboutExeter Times, 1907-06-13, Page 604-0+0+040+0+iit+0100:1140+0+044)+0+t,+45+o+o+o+o+ol
A Loveless Marriage ;
A !'LATTER OF EXCHANGE.
+43-+0+0+0+04-0+04-0+0+0+0+0+0+0+0+0+0+0+0+0+0+
CIIAI'TER XXXVI.
Mrs. Vereker stirred slightly, and
opened her eyes. i)or..thy dismissed the
women by n glare, went and knelt
down beside her.
The dawn vas already beginning to
eteal through the curtains, dulling and
deadening the of the one lowered
lamp that was shedding a rather de-
pressing gleam over the lower end of
the wont. The first sweet, vague warble
cf blydi oats* to them from outside,
and caught the attention of Mrs. \ere -
kers still but half -unconscious brain.
"It ie morning," she said, as 1f sur-
prised, and uncertain. Sho sighed hea-
vily. As yet she did not retuenrber,
but the late anguish she had endured
weighed on her, and crushed her spirit.
neer pulled
rose from her k
Dorothy
back the curtains, and lest a flood of
pale, shadowy light illumine the dark-
ness. A star or two still lingered `n
the heavens, whilst up from the east
rose a pink flush, cold and tremulous,
that each moment grew more decidedly
into a steady grey. Through this came
flashes and bars of a pearly shade that
shone exceeding bright, and gave pro-
mise of a glorious day.
To Francis Vereker, however, no
other day had been vouchsafed. He
had been done to death with all his
imperfections on his head. Time — to
reform, to sink still lower, to repent—
was his no longer. Such a very few
hours had gone by since last he stood
alive upon the earth, and now he had
become mere earth himself, and his
place would know him no morel
Such thoughts flitted through Doro-
thy's mind, as she stood at the window
gazing on the solemn dawn. A rapid
n:ovensitIlt on the part of Mrs. Vereker
loosed her from her reverie, and sent
her quickly back to the couch. Cecil
bad risen and was looking at her a little
wildly. Ttiat swift tnrushing of the
daylight had brought everything back
to her.
"1t Ls true, Dorothy? It all happen-
ed?" she cried, clinging to Dorothy
nervously. "Oh! poor Francis!"
"Yes, yes, dearest. But try to con-
trol yourself. It is terrible for you, and
you must only remember now that you
gave friends that love you, and that
all that has happened was by the or-
dering of God."
"1 knot•, " said she. She threw her-
self upon Dorothy's breast, and as the
girl's gentle, loving arms closed round
leer, she Hirst into a passion of tears.
They were the first she had shed since
the fatal events of yesterday, and they
brought rest and comfort to her over-
burdening soul.
'There was something else, Dorothy
—you know what I mean. I feel now
that I should have thought of nothing
but poor Francis, but i couldn't control
the (ear. It was horrible, It seemed to
burn me like fire. i," she looked at
Dorothy strangely, "1 would rather be
dead than endure it agmtin."
"But how was it? 1 can't think how
you cane to believe that Ililary could
have had anything to do with it. Ile
has a temper, of course—no man worth
a farthing is without one—but to --to--"
"1 know. D shall never forgive myself
for it. But that day some things had
happened that, when I remembered
them afterwards, terrified ase. It was
in the afternoon—what day was it?? —
yesterday—the day beforti!"--site grew
bewildered—"i can't tell when it was,
al' seems so confused, but we were to
the garden together. Francis, Mr. St.
John and 1, and poor Francis was not
In a good temper I think. Ile said
some !hinge. that annoyed your cousin
and 1 -I etas stupid and could think of
nothing that night smooth matters. It
was sumeUtiug in your cousin's face that
frightened rue. He looked so dark, so
angry. 'There Was a sort of suppres-
sion about seine that st•u'k cold to my
heart, and that afterwar,ls seemed Io
me full of significance. At much n time
I should not have left them alone to-
gether. Thank God nothing came of it
--but—"
She paused and wiped the moisture
from tier brow.
"Hew was f1 you did go?"
"Francis grew violent and ordered eie
indoors. lie ---he said some dreadful
things, and though shocked and crushed
le uveal 1 telt as if I dared not stir. un•
tr pilary spoke. Ile too told me to go
as ay. 1 Obeyed htni. senselessly. 1
was frightened and ashamed of tshat
poor Francis had said, and D was glad
to gg i. 1 went, any way. It was cow-
ardly of one, and I blamed myseif the
Instant I found myself alone."
"Well, I think 1 should have gone,
too." said Dorothy. "And I shouldn't
have blamed myself either."
"You don't know. 1 (tall a sort of
presentiment full on me That something
was going to happen Ihnt ought to
have kept me by his side. Poor Frnn-
ds' side I mean. Oh! Dorothy. is he
deal? Really dead?" she clung sudden-
ly to D rothy as if m•eraome by nerv-
ous horror. "Yea, yes. Don't mind roe,
but it was such n shock. Where was
1•'
"You went lielors."
"i did, and then I ran to the window
and looked out to see whether they were
still in the lower garden, and it they
were quarrelling. But they had moved,
ycur cousin was walking rather in
front, towards the laurels,--yo.0-know.
Francis was somewhat behind, but 1
cited see he was talking still, jibing
in a way he bead, but 1 fancied Hilary
did not care. Ile showed no sign of
anger that 1 couhl discern. 'Then they
turned the corner; almost as they turned
1 saw Ililary lift Isis head, stop short,
and say something to Francis. His
manner was vehement, fierce 1 think i1
was. 1 grew terrified again, but I
hcrdly knew what to do, and then in a
moment it was all over. They had both
gone beyond my sight. One 1 never
saw again In life."
She shuddered and grew so pale that
Dorothy feared to let her continue.
"Not another word now. Don't go
any farther. Some other day you—
"Let me tell you all. You cannot im-
agine what a comfort It is to me to be
able to think it all out loud."
"Well, don't linger over it," Bald
Dorothy nervously.
"There 1.s little more to add, but I
want you quite to understand. i am
sure my manner when first you came
on me as I stood looking down on --on
that awful sight,"—with a strong shud-
der,—"rnust have struck you us being
strange, but I hardly knew what 1 was
doing. I told myself there could be but
one meaning for it all, that.there could
be but one person in the world who
had done that deed. They had disap-
peared together into that unfrequented
shrubbery, and Francis had never come
out again. He was dead! 1 telt posi-
tive that something further had occur-
red between those two, and that jlllary
who was already in a white heat el
rage, had dealt him, Francis, a fatal
blow."
"But surely it must have suggested
Itself to you that Ililary had no knife
with him that could have inflicted
such a wound, and that besides—"
"I though of nothing. 1 was half
mad, i tell you. Only one thing seemed
Clear, positive, beyond dispute, and that
was, that Hilary had killed Francis.
and that It was all because of mel 1
have suffered ever since the tortures of
the losL Even now, what ditm 1, but
the most unhappy creature alive?"
She sighed heavily, and regarded
Dorothy with eyes full of anguish.
"1 can't•seo that you have anything
to reproach yourself with," said that
sympathetic friend, taking one of her
hands and beginning to stroke it
fondly.
"c'.,. Dorothy) is that Ingenuous? Can
you say that with a clear conscience?
Now, when 1 have time to look back
on everything, what must 1 think, but
that i wronged poor Francis grossly.
Outwardly i was loyal to him, lnward-
ly—I was a married woman, 1 had
-and—I loved Ililary. It is a sin it will
shorn to be true to him, and him cnly,
take all my life to wipe out."
"You should go abroad," said Dorothy
briskly. "Quite abroad, ever so far
away from thls. Change Ls what you
want. You are growing morbid, un-
sound. Your nerves are overtaxed, and
they . will lead you a pretty dance if
you don't get the better of them. You
must leave this directly after the funer-
al."
"Yes, 1 should like to go," with a 'it-
t'e gasp of relief. 'To get away from
here is the one thing 1 really crave. I
can be ready very soon, and can start
almost in a fortnight."
"Start sooner. Why stay on hero a
day longer Than you need?"
"There is iny mourning." said she
slowly, shrieking a little as she did
so.
"Go up to town and order it theres
You will be on the spot; and the sooner
you are out of this the better. 'Then
cross to France, and from that travel,
travel, travel at your own street will
anywrere but towards Brent for at least
ft good twelve nnonlhs. Gonne, there Is
se,ge advice, take it!"
"Will you come with me?" asked she,
anxiously. "1 have never gone any-
where by myself, and to begin now
seem: impossible to roc. You will come,
Dorothy?"
"Well, you see," began Miss Aylmer.
She hesitated, and grew a charming
pink. "I don't see, if I go with you,
how 1 ant to manage about Arthur."
"Captain Farquhar!" Cecil seemed
puzzled for a moment, and then said
tcry gently, "You are engaged to him?
1 am glad of that. He is a good man.
He will make you happy."
"Well, 1 daresay he is mere likely lo
do it than anyone else," said Dorothy.
rather shyly.
"Could he not meet us somewhere in
Germany or Switzerland?" snid Mrs.
Vereker, "lo try and arrange 11.
dearest."
"i could go so far with you, of
cxurse; and when 1 had settled you
s•.mewhere, could oorne back again with
Arthur."
"Or be married there," said Mrs.
Vereker. "Anyhow, 1 may rely upon
you to come with me? ties, I shall
•
Convalescents need a large amount of nourish-
jnent in easily digested form.
Scott's Emulsion is powerful nourish-
ment—highly concentrated.
it makes bone, blood and muscle without
putting any tax on the digestion.
ALL DRUGGISTS; Bob. ANO 11.00.
speak to Captain Farquhar. I am sure
he will space you for a month or so,
nr *Ise he will Dome with us. Ohl how
1 pine to get away from this."
You will see Hilary before you go "
laid Dorothy abruptly; why, she hardly
knew.
"Not" shortly.
"I think if you don't, Cecil, you will
!ay yourself open to a churge of un-
graeleusncss. What has he done that
you should sn s!lght hies?"
"Nettling. 1, it is, wow have done
every Ili.ng."
"\\ teat nuusen.set You had a nn•,•
n,enfs idle suspicion, and you aro pre-
paring to make a life-long worry out
of it."
"1 could not look hien in the face,"
said \lis. Vereker vehemently. "And
it isn't only what you allude to, my un-
pardonable suspicion of him, but the
fact that I once held hire in loo kindly
n regard. Oh! that though; now—now
when poor Francis is for ever gone,
seems to lower ono to the very earth."
"Still, 1 think you should see him,'
persisted Dorothy. "It is treating Win
very harshly. At all events, he Is a
friend of yours, and the very fact of
your believing you have wronged hien
should make you more considerate to-
wards him. Ilesides, other people will
call. There are some you will have to
see, and if you openly refuse to receive
him, what will the world say?"
"You forget that I shall leave this be -
fere anyone can call? If, however"—
coldly—"you think 1 should see your
cousin, 1 will do so."
"No, nol If it will make you so very
unhappy, do not think of it. After all,
there is no real reason why you should
ever see Hint again.'
"That is what I think," said Mrs.
Vereker. "Ohl I hope 1 shall never see
hila again!"
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Sho did see hien, nevertheless. The
day after the funeral, which was quite
a, largely and respectably attended as
though the dead Vereker had been a
modern saint, St. John went down to
The Court. It had not occurred to Cecil
that anyone would be likely to call so
s.on, and as she intended leaving home
next day for an indefinite time, she Itaa
not thought it necessary to tell the ser-
vants to admit no visitors. SI. John
was, therefore, ushered into the library,'
where she sat, without any warning be-
ing given her.
She rose pale and disturbed, and gave
her hand to him in a mechanical way,
that bespoke thoughts far distant. She
seemed confused rather than distressed,
but beyond this betrayed no emotion
whatsoever. It was a little shock to
him to see that she was not in mourn-
ing, and he could not help noticing
that she looked shockingly i11. Ile could
not help feeling, too, that Isis presence
there was undesired by her.
"Perhaps 1 have come too soon," 1.0
said. gravely. "But 1 was axtous to see
for myself how you were, and besides
there was something I wished to say
to you." He pnuscd, but she said no-
thing that might lead him to hope he
was mistaken in his first suggestion.
"You are not looking well," he said,
gently.
"No? That is hardly to be wondered
at. 1 have suffered," said she.
"It has been a terrible time. i need
hardly say how i—how we all at The
Chase have telt for you." (ler own
tone was so oold, so unfriendly, that 'le
felt it impossible not to Dopy it in part.
"it has been a great trial—a grief," said
he, speaking with some difficulty, and
almost haling himself that he felt hy-
lx•crilical as ho said it.
She made an effort as if to say some-
thing conventional, correct, but after n
vague murmur that did not reach him,
gave up the attempt. A quick flush
born of deep distress dyed her white
face for a moment, and at last she
burst out.
"Do not mistake me. i have not
grieved for hint. 1 feel no sorrow of
that sort. 1 feel -no grief; none. 1 must
be made of stone, 1 think. Surely it
was denth to stake any woman weep,
but nay tears have refused to come. 1
know nothing, only a sense of horror)
That clings to me, lives with use, night
and day."
"You should leave this place. Entire
change is what you want."
"1 am going," returned she, indiffer-
ently.
"Yes?" ile was, and looked a little
startle(. "You have arranged about i3?
1 am glad of that—for your sake. It
will he a wise move. You—will pro -
testily leave before Christmas."
"1 shall go to -morrow."
Ile was silent. Just at the moment
he knew he could not have spoken. So
she had made all her plans, and was
leaving—deliberately—and without one
thought of bidding kin' farewell. Ile
had had no part in her arrangements.
She hnd treated him as though he were
the veriest stranger. A keen sense of
lose—of disappointment filled hon.
"You go abroad?" he said, at length,
at
my. •
"Anywhere, everywhere. 1 dent care
v 'here i go. so long as it is far from
this."
,And tomorrow?" he said. "You cer-
tainly lost no time." IlLL tone was
biller.
"Time! Yon think my haste indecor-
ous," she said, icily. "13ut do you Im-
agine that ever since—that—that 1 have
counted days and hours as you do? 1
1. 11 you it has been n century lo me.
I could not live if 1 stayed here longer.
1 feel as if td breathe is difficult." She
nose es she spoke and pressed her hand
against her bosom. Something of the
unnatural calm Ihnt had possessed her
since his entrance, melted away-. She
looked all at once like the old Cecil,
the --women he mored.
11e, too, nose. A passion of reproach
and pain dimmed his eyes.
"You would have gone without seeing
me." he said. "You would have left
me, without a wood, What has hap-
pened that you should treat me so?
Ilnve we not been friends? What has
ie -me between us?"
"elle past!" said she. faintly. "I
never knew -1 never felt the sin, until
—110 WWI dead. 1 cannot hear to look
at you," cried she, with n miserable
trembling of her volae. "When I think
of all—when 1 remember how 1 wronged
—him. And he is gone. I feel Ila
thought I myself had been the one to
sweep him out of my path."
To her each word qvuttered Was s
sword. that pierced nnhurt—lo him
each word gave hope and comfort. She
loved hint stint That terrible eoldnees
with which she had met him was a
thing of naught, a niers outcome of a
sharp attack of horror and remorse; a
remorse naturally exaggerated at such
a time as this. Fresh courage filled
his breast. He took a step forward, and
caught her hand in his.
"Who is going abroad with you?" he
asked.
"Dorothy."
"You could not find any better cern-
punion. I am glad from my soul you
are going away (loin this. though---"
Ile checked himself. "Why were you
L, :ng without a word to Inc?" he asked
tlrruptly.
"1 hardly know. And vet." --with a
sudden flash of her large mournful eyes
into his- -"I do know, and you know,
too. Oh!'
She drew away her hands from his
impatiently. and covered her fare with
tficin. "1 wish I had never seen you,"
she said.
A sob broke her voie, and he could
see the tears stealing through her lin-
gers. Iler slender frame trembled with
agitation that overfilled it.
"Do not say that, Cecil," said he un-
steadily. lie did not attempt to go
hearer to her, or try in any way in
check her grief. Ho walked over to the
window, and stood there for a little
while, gazing out on, but not seeing,
she cold, dull autumn landscape. Pre-
sently he went back to her. "Grant me
n Ile favor," he said. "You are going
away for a long time, i imagine. Be -
fere we part melte Ilse a promise."
"What promise?" asked she nervous-
ly.
"A simple one," said he, with a sigh.
"Not to think of me, if possible, and
1 daresay it will be very possible, un -
t'1 alt this late melancholy matter is
many months older. Do not let your
troughts dwell on me whilst they are
still sand and depressed. 1 entreat you,`
cried he earnestly, "not to lel yourself
associate time with this tragedy that has
fallen into your life."
"You ask me to forget you?"
"For the present --yes."
"To forget! Oh, if I could! And
you?" She spoke with a sudden sharp -
Less, and turned her gaze upon him,
as though eager to read his answer in
his eyes.
(To -be Continued.)
SENTENCE SERMONS.
No trial, no triumph.
Obstacles are opportunities.
Cold feet often get into hot water.
He gives nothing who gives only
gold.
Many a sin is overcome best by ignor-
ing it.
Things sublime always are simple tit
heart.
Tho glorious life never seeks -its own
fory.
g Worship never can bo made perfect
by silting still.
Your religion is worth to others what
it crests you.
Sin always is in sympathy with the
saints who are sore.
1f religion is 'not for all of a man it
is not for aught In man.
Heart health never Domes so long as
the hand Is on the pulse.
Feed on garbage and you soon lose
your faith in good things.
The beauty of life conies from God's
sun shining on our sorrow.
Don't be loo surd that the honeymoon
will sweeten a sour dicpnsition.
The religion that Is put on at certain
lanes is sure to fall off at the trying
time.
The man tvho never has been nsham-
ed of hi/itself has nothing of which to
be proud.
You must give the world full p esses-
slnn of some old Ideals before you can
have a new earth.
It Is easy to think you are ronvieting
Fan when you only are telling the things
you do nal like to do.
\inns mnke the mistake of underes-
Ilmating their pxosslbilities and overes-
timnline their dlmeuillies.
Gime folks think they are lls;tnt
benriet beenuse they find it so easy to
snake light of the troubles of °there.
The fanalle is be who would rather
see the rnce go down In perdltinn than
that it should climb up unlabeled with
his pe' fad.
/
For
i The
Church
And
The
Steeple
i•
for homes, inside and out, for barns
and fences—Ramsay** Pointe aro the
right paints to paint right.
Heat and cold—dryneos and moisture—can't
affect them. They hold their color and fresh
lustre in spite of the elements.
65 years and more making the right paints prove
that we make them right.
Write for Post Card Series "C," showing how
some houses are painted.
A. RA1MSAY A SON CO., (hint makers slate 1 14t. MONTREAL. sr
01110.1■114444411411.011144411
iThe Frm
SILOS AND SILO FILLING.
With machinery to do the work from
start to finish, it Is possible to pul up
succulent feed at a cost of Iron' 96 cents
to 81.25 a ton, no matter what the sea-
son. 'l'he necessary thing to do if you
would make the cost low is to plant a
corn that grows tall, with abundant
k•dder, a sweet stalk, good ears and
will ripen In your own locality. As
soon as 1t l,s planted, I go over it with
the drag to remove the furrows the
planter has mudo, writes Mr. D. C.
Dean. As soon as the corn appears
above the surface, I again put on the
drag, and the next week the planter.
If the weather has been warm 1 can
use the sulky cultivator the next time,
or if not, the weeder. I keep up a con-
stant cultivating just as long as I am
able to get into the corn. if the sea-
son Is dry, f cultivate more often to
bring up the moisture. As soon as the
corn begins to dent and glaze I prepare
to put it in. A harvester 1.s put Into
the field for a half day's work before
beginning to draw, in order to keep
ahead of Ilse teams. i use a cutter with
a blower attachment, as the blower
saves the cost of two men. Two men
are put into the silos to Throw the in-
coming corn to the sides and tramp 11
down firmly. so it will not spoil.
On the outside. two men stand al the
machine to feed il. One cuts the hands
and one shoves it to the knives. Three
teams draw from the fields, and two
sten are in the fields to help load. Hav-
ing three silos to fill, i usually have
Igen' filled Friday and Saturday, let it
stand over Sunday to settle, and finish
Monday morning. 1 aim to cut the sil-
age Three-fourths of an inch long, as
the finer it Ls cat the closer it packs;
more corn can be put in the silo, and it
will keep better. I succeeded—in put-
ting 8 acres of this corn into my silos,
holding altogether 110 tons, and this,
combined with alfalfa hay and a pound
of cotton -seed meal sprinkled over the
silage each day. forms a perfectly bal-
anced ration for tiny Jersey cows, as
their record will show.
i consider this method of storing corn
as the cheapest and most profitable
tray of handling the crop. My expense
kr pulling up 140 tons of silage the
past season was as follows:
Plowing eight acres. .. ....
Plowing eight acres, .. .. .. ..
Planting .... ....
Cultivating and dragging ...
Harvester, 81.50 per acre ..
Engine and cutter ,.., .
Three teams .... ...
Three hien at 82 per day ..
.. 814.50
.. 814.00
.. 8.00
.. 20.($t
.. 12.00
25.00
... 16.25
.. 18.00
1'OINTI:D AItf:1:NE�T.
Angry Scoot—"Lank hire. Mr. O'Brien. i've the vcrra grottiest respect for ye
r.eunlry. but ye mnuna forget this: Ye can MI on a mese, an' ye can ail on n
sh:,mruck, but, 0 man, ye canna sit on a hustle."
r
Three men at 81.50 per day ....
Three balls of twine .... .... .. 1 t.'
Feeding amen and teams .. .. .. l0.eu
Total cost of filling .. .. ...8130.1:
For years 1 have been engaged in put -
ling up silage. and have learned a tett
things as well, and reduced iny ex
penses in the tvnrk. I insist the mos
shall cone with his engine the day be-
fore and get it in working order beton
the men come to fill, for the reaso►.
that with nine men waiting, time '-
money.
My silos are of wood and square, aLses
set in the barns. If I were building e
silo to -day 1 .would build outside and
of steel, convenient to ray barn, and 1
know it would he easier to fill. These
three silos furnish feed for 15 cows ul
less than Si a ton, and with the pres-
ent prices of food sluff, 1 ask where you
can get so cheep a feed and one so
ensily handled? With the corn cut tine
there are no cornstalks to draw out its
the spring and plow under. No dairy-
man should be w ilhout a silo, not only
foe winter, but should have a sn'all one
when the pastures are dry, for sum►ner.
I feed green alfalfa at night and silage
in the morning during July and Aug-
ust, and find it keeps up the milk sup-
WY -
One of my neighbors, a young man
who Ls Just starling 1n the dairy busi-
ness, built a silo last sunmter, and
when it was filled it had cost him 84
a ton for his feed. This, you under-
stand, Included the oost of the silo. 1
t.ave nevbr known but ono' man to give
ur using a silo after trying it. ilis rea-
son was, it cost too much to (111 it and
he could not see that his feed cost only
81 a ton, even then. As the world
moves we must progress, • and if under
present conditions we would succeed
financially we must do intensive farm-
ing and keep up with the age. A silo
today is a necessity as well as a con-
venience.
iii1.1. VS. DRILL PLANTING FOR CORN
Farmers differ greatly in their method
of planting corn. writes Mr. S. 11. Hart-
man. Practice is about equally divided
between the hill and the drill methods.
and many arguments are advanced on
both sides. The chief advantages
claimed by the drill advocates are labor
saved in marketing and planting.
greater ease in culling with binder, and
ley some. a greater yield. The hill ad-
vocates urge greater ease and better
work In cultivation, less hand Inhore
greater facility in hand cutting, and as
good yields.
I ani inclined to side with the Intler
class, basing my reasons on observation
and experience with loth methods. If
the field Ls fairly level and of gond size.
the farmer can row his worn both ways
tvitlt Ito check rower with but Mlle
more labor than in rowing it one way
with the drill. If he cannot nfford to
even 'hie machine, Ire can get the work
done by someone who has one - and
makes a businees of operating it. If
thee is not pralical he can use the
stinker and hand planterltvilh but lit-
tle more lime consumed and less mutlny
for tools. 1 will adroit that the binder
works a Mlle tetter in drilled corn,
res the culling is more even, but Ilse dif-
ference is not great. As for a greater
yield, I do not believe that with equally
good culture there is any perceptible
difference. for the roots permeate all
Ilse soil with either method.
In regard to hill advantages, there
, nn be no question but that corn can
les cultivated more easily both ways.
and a better job done. It can also be
kepi clean without hand labor, which
is not the case with drilled corn. This
,s the chief advantage of the hill sys-
tem, end is worth considering by those
who have worked their corn ono way
unlit it is so ridged that the teeth
.imply follow Itte old marks and will
not throw the soil in to cover up the
weeds. 1 tried it until discouraged and
trembled with n lame back from hoeing
and then sold my third interest in n
drill.
AUTOMOIBILES IN AFIttCA.
There aro few places where the au-
I.en otele is more indi, x'nsable for
every -day business than In South Afrien.
The number In use le eonslantly im
crensing. They are particularly velu-
eble In the ruining dietric's. where en-
gineers end officers of thecoTnpanter.
employ them in running long dislnnees.
It Is said to Fe a daily o-currence f -.r
n mintng engineer to visit. In his onto.
•!• ,Fite, a mine 40 or 50 mikes from his
:Mee. and return the carne day. The
cors lints to 1,e str'eng red milted fel
t,ard knocks. as well ns for steep hill -
climbing. Tine dry climnte prevents the
ase of wood for veneering. Meow -irk
and (Wines. and aluminum 1' used in.
Mead. No'ty tkstanding ant -hills, bnul-
drrs snit gntiiess the trackless wns'ee
are often preferred to the roads.
tett• ehn'n.«•nnher' t-oo,lr) eerie !n take
r,.;•.;•. r • .. •..s they no, worth.
. .. ,. . tone'. Tani t•e Tkeeri't
, , , !• .e'•e• h:s tv.lc
FISH THAT FIGHT FEVER
IIUW TUE l OV kat CREATURE
SLAKE MANS UM F:I WElt.
Ilan Oases a Rig Debi of Gratitude to
Many Birds, Beasts and
Insects.
Hot as is the climate ot Barbadocs, it
very healthy. Peter is far Ices com-
mon than in nicest tropical islands.
Malarial fever, as we all know nova-
.lays, is carried by urosquiloee, and
.nosquiloes are delightfully rare in 13ar-
..adoes. The natives say that the reason
-e that these unpleasant insects cannot
:,reed in the islands, because all the
fresh water is full of the little lists polite
tarty known as "millions." The fish de-
t•cur the wiggly grubs which hatch out
'rolls mosquito eggs, and so very few
...one to maturity.
'Not many people remember what a
i� debt man owes to bines, beasts and
eisecls. To birth in particular. That re-
eulsiye, bald -necked bird, the turkey
nuzzard. for inslauoe. Yuu find hint or
alar relatives of his in every tropical
•Dually, and where he lives no scaven-
er: are needed. Dead carcasses or offal
..: any kind wind',would otherwise breed
,.estilence is cleaeed up in no lime, and•
1:uihing left but bleached bones.
Then there is the secretary bird. But
a lees arts
o•Sr► k
't i
• liar appetite e f
for his patio pp , p
of India would be uninhabitable. l'oi-
sonous or otherwise, they all disappear
down his lengthy throat. Both buzzard
:and secretary bird are protected by law
e' their own countries.
Speaking of snakes, there are two or
three sorts of those reptiles which ought
t•► be protected. One is the king snake,
common in tropical and semi -tropical
America. The king snake is non -poison.
ous, and has a peculiar antipathy for
the rattlesnake. Ile always tackles him
on sight, and is so strong and bravo
that "crotalus horridus" generally comes
off second best.
MORE WAGTAILS, MORE MUTTON.
The rat -snake Ls another reptile who
deserves well of mankind. He has an
insatiable appetite for rats and small
animals of that kind, and he can get
down their holes after thein as nothing
else living is able to.
\Ve have heard a good deal lately of
good and bad British birds, and it has
become an open question whether some
such as rooks, sparrows, starlings,
gulls, and woodpigeons ought not to be
thinned out. But some of our home
birds benefit is in ways which we never
dream of, says Pearson's Weekly.
Take, for instance, lite water wagtail,
that pretty little long-tailed chap that
runs with such a quer jerky motion.
The wagtail is the shepherd's friend, and
indirectly save' for human consurnp-
lion much good wool and mutton.
In this way. The wagtail's particular
pet dainty is a sort of s►nall ennui, of
which he consumes large quantities.
Now, this snail is the "host" or the har-
borer of the liver fluke, a parasite dread•
ere by all flock -masters. The sheep, in
cropping the herbage, swallow the snail,
and with it the fluke, and the parasite
finds its way to the poor animal's liver
or brain with fatal results. Thus, the
more wagtails, the fewer snails and the
snore sheep.
Besides the enormous member of in-
sects noxious to man or to his crops
which birds destroy (a pair of titmice,
foe instance, will devour 120,000 lased*
during their breeding season), our fea-
thered friends have another useful office.
They are great tree -planters.
MR. SQUIRREL--TREE-PL.ANTi:R.
Rooks are very fond of acorns. When
n rook has gorged himself upon acorns
he generally carries away a few and
buries them, with an eye to future hard
times. It is about nn equal chance that
he forgets all afoul his store, and next
year the seeds germinate and we get a
1i111e grove of oak trees. Blackbirds aro
equally keen on ivy berries. The undi-
gested seeds are strewn broadcast, and
holly, hawthorn, mistletoe, and many
other trees and plants are similarly
sown by birds.
in this connection the good work dune
lr Mester Reeitnil must not be forgotten.
The squirrel is the greatest tree -planter
of all our native creatures. Every
autumn he makes scores of little hoards
of nuts and acorns before he begins his
winter nap. But he is a forgetful fellow,
and it is about nn even chance whether
he remembers the location of his store or
not. If he does not, why, the seeds,
well buried down in Ilse good, rich earth,
are sure to germinate. •
To come to insects. Most of us lake'
great credit to ourselves for slaying a
queen wasp in spring, or taking a
wasp's nest in summer. Well, wasps
are n vile nuisance when one has ripe
fruit about. But most of us either for-
t;. r or are not aware that the common
wasp is the very worst enemy of Ilse in-
trusive, buzzing. gena-spremling house
fly. A worker wasp will destroy a score
or more flies daily. and n single hasp's
ne-t may number 2,000 workers!
SULTANS IL'tGGED Alt\Ir.
'rhe Sultan's army suggests a regular
country circus. Every Friday one may
see sample of those monkey -like enl-
diers at the parade of the Selamlik,
which likes pince on Ilse Knsba Square
at 11 n.m. A battalion rnnrrhes past in
double column and salutes Use Governor,
w ho goes from hi= piece to the mosque.
'rheir uniforms IMP lost their color, and
their Iruuscrs are too shod. eliewing
their legs, whieh shine as If they hail
leen covered with shoe-polisti. However,
it would be a mi=take to think that this
gang of ragged mittens could not stand
a fight. Fanaticism will make heroes ot
them. for their contempt of death is ab-
solute.
EI.KPII:\NTS A� I,l:EP,
People who really know nothing atom
it used to say that elephants never lie
down to sleep. This is rot Ince at all.
They have been known to stand for
twelve month' witho'.t Tette lying down
to sleep; this is' regarded as want of
ee.nfldenen in their keepe1I3. and of k,ng•
ing to regain their Iilte?IJ'. For when
they are pert"'fly at lassold reconciled
In their fate, they ."ll Be ik-wn ou their
Sides and steep ps..e •fully.
•- - --��.i;_'.dr.a..:..=tic •- z_