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Home My WebLink AboutThe Brussels Post, 1896-3-27, Page 2rhr THE VICAR'S GOVERNESS CIIAPTEIt i�' I ,- Cgtitinued, 33 it Leorgie either can't or won't sty it; and Dorian's heart hes within hint, "Aur 1 to understand Icy your silence, that you fair to paid fined" he says, at length, in a low voice. "Is it MMus - inti Bible to you to love ine? r Well, flu not speak. 1 can see by your .face that tite I'I hope I have been cherishing for so many weeks has poen a vain one. I nt give 'no for troubling you; and believe I snail never forget low tenderly you shrank from telling fine you could never return my love." Again he presses her hand to lits lips; and she, turning her face slowly to his, looks up at lam. 1Im' late tears Were but a summer shower, turd have faded away, leaving no traces as thug passed. "But I didn't mean one word of all. that," she says, naively, lotting her long lashes fall once more over her eyes. „Then what did you mean?" demands 110, with some pardonable impatience. "Quito the contrary, all through?" "N—ot quite,"—with hesitation. "At least, that some day you will be my wife?" "N—ot altogether." "Well, you can't be half my wife," says Aft•. Branscombe, promptly. "Dar- ling, darling, put me out of my misery, and say what I want you to say." "Well, then, yes." She gives the promise softly, shyly, ?nut without the faintest touch of any deeper, tenderer emotion. Had Dorian been one degree less in love with her, he could have hardly failed to notice this fact. As it is, he is radiant,! in a very seventh heaven of content. "But you must promise me faithful- ly never to be unkind to me again," says Georgie, impressively, laying a , finger on his lips. "Unkind?" "Yes, dreadfully unkind; just think of alt the terrible things you said, and the way you said them. Your eyes were as big as half-crowns, and you looked exactly as if you would like 10 eat me. Do you know, you reminded me of Aunt Elizabeth!" "011, Georgie!" says Branscomhe., re- proachfully. Ile has grown rather in- tonate with Aunt Elizabeth and her in- iquities by this time, and fullyunder- stands that to be compared with her hardly tends to raise him in his belov- ed's estimation. There is silence between thein after this, that lasts a full minute,—a long time for lovers freshly made. "What are you thinking of?" asks Dorian, presently, bonding to look ten- derly into her downcast eye,. Perhaps he is hoping eagerly that she has been wasting a thought upon him. "I shall never have to teach those horrid lessons again," she says, with a quick sigh ofrelief. If he is disappointed, he carefully conceals it. He laughs, and, lifting her exquisite face, kisses her very gently. "Never," he says, emphatically, "When you go home, tell Mr. Redmond all about it; and to -morrow Clarissa, will go down to the vicarage and bring you up to Gowran, where you must stay until we are married." I shall like that," says Georgie, with a sweet smile. "But Air. Brans - combs—" "Who on earth is Mr. Branscombel" asked Dorian. "Don't • you know my name yet?" "I do. I think it is almost the pret- tiest name I ever heard,—Dorian." Darling! I never thought it a nice name before; but now that you have called me by it, I can feel its beauty. But 1 dare say if I had been christeu- ed Jeheshaphab 1 should, under these circumstances, Chink just the same. Well, you were going to say—?" "Perhaps Clarissa will not care to have me for so tong." "So long? Ilow long? By the bye, perhaps she wouldn't; so I suppose we had better be married as soon as ever we can. I haven't got any clothes," .says Miss 13rougghtox; at which they both laugh gayly, as though it were the merriest jest in the world. "You terrify me," says Branscombe, "Let me beg you will rectify such a mistake as soon as possible." "We bave been here a long time," says Georgie, suddenly, glancing at the sun, that is almost sinking out of sight behind the solemn firs. "It hasn't been ten minutes," says Mr. Branscombe, conviction making his tone brilliant, "Oh, nonsense!" says Georgie, "I am sure it must be quite two hours since you came." As it has been barely one, this is rath- er difficult to endure with equanim- ity. flow long you have found it!" he says, with some regret. He is hon- estly pained, and his eyes grow dark- er. Looking at him,she sem what she has done, and, though ignorant of the very meaning of the word "love," knows that she bus hurt him more than he cares to confess. I have been happy,—quite happy," she says, sweetly, coloring warmly as she says it. "You must not think I have found the time you have been with me dull or dreary. Only, I um afraid Clarissa will miss me." "I should think anyone would miss you," says Dorian impulsively. IIe smiles at her as he speaks; but there is a, curious mingling of sadness and longing and uncertainty in his face. Laying one arm around her., with his other hand he draws her head down upon his beast. "At least, before we go, you will kiss me once," he says, entreatingly, All the gayety—the gladness —has gone from his voice.; only the deep and last- ing love remains. He says this, too, hesitatingly, as though half afraid to demand so great a Amon. Yes; I think I should like to kiss you," raised herself Georgie,s ttrakindly; she standing on tiptoe, places loth hands upon his shoulders, and with the ut- most calmness lays her lips on his, "Do you know," she says, a moment later, in no wise disconcerted because of the warmth of the caress he has given her in excbange for hers,—"do you know, I never romereb er kissing any one in all my lite before, except poor papa and Clarissa, and you." Even at: this avowal, she does not blush. Were ha her brother, or an aged nurse, she could scarcely think less about the favor she had just conferred upon the man who is standing silently regarding her, puzzled and disappoint- ed truly, but earnestly reggisi:ering a vow tbat sooner or later, if fail.hful love can accomplish it, be will make her all his own, in heart and soul. Not that he has ever gone so deep- ly into the matter as to tell himself the love is all on his own side. In- stinetively he shrinks from such in- ward eonfesstan. It is eat?, when, he has parted from het', apil is ridhmig gtuct- ly hoipow s'd through the wistful gl0aniing that ha rentembei's, wtlb a "Bang, Rowe, of all the thousand end ono things asked axd 'answered, one alone bus been forgotten, Ile has never de- sired oL 1i0r whether site loves him, CHAPTER, IIXY. "Love set fine up on high; when 1 area, vain Of that my height, love brought 1110 down ag#tin. * ' "The .heart of lbvo is with a thousand woes . Pierced, which seoure indifference never knows. "Tho rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart, And never y'et might pain for love de- part," —Trench, • When Airs. Redmond, next morning, is made aware of Georgia's engagement to Dorian ]lranscombe, her curiosity and etement knows no lieunds, liar Uxcinca she is literally struck dumb with amazement, That Dorian who Is heir to an earidom, should bave fixed his affections upon her governess, seems to Mrs. Redmond like a gay continuation of the "Arabian Nights' Entertain- ments." When she recovers her breath, atter the first great shock to her ner- vous system, site lays down the inev- itable souk she is mending, and says as fol lows : "My dear Georgina,�are you quite. sure bo meant it? Young men, nowadays, say so many things without exactly knowing why,—enor'e especially after a dance, us I have been told. L am quite sure," says_ Georgie, flushing hotly. She has sufficient sett love to render this doubt very .unpal- atable, Something that is not altoggether re- mote from. envy creeps into i\Irs. Red- mond's heart. Being a mother, she can hardly help contrasting her Cissy's future with the brilliant one carved out for her governess. Presently, how- ever, being a thoroughly good soul, she conquers these unworthy thoughts, and when next she speaks her tune 18 full of heartiness and honest congratulation. Indeed, she is sincerely pleased.The fact that the future Lady Sartoris is at presentan inmate of her house is a thought full of joy to her. You are a very happy and a very fortunate girl," she say's, gravely. . "indeed yes, 1 think so," returns Georgie, in a low tone, but with perfect Calmness. There is none of the blushing ]sappiness about her that should of right belong to a young girl betrothed freshly, to the lover of her heart. "Of course you do," says Mrs. Red- mond, missing something in her voice, though she hardly knows what. "And what we are to do without you, I can't conceive, no one to sing to us in the evening, and we have got so accustomed to that." "1 can still come and sing to you sometimes," says Georgie, with tears in her eyes and voice. "Ah, yes, sometimes. That is just the bad part of it, when one has known an 'always,, one does not take kindly to a 'sometimes.' And now here comes all my governess troubles back upon my shoulders once more. Dont think me selfish, my dear, to think of that just now in the very morning of your neve happiness, but really I can't help it. 1: have been so content with you, it never occurred to me others might want you too." .1 will ask Clarissa to get you some one else nicer than me," says Georgie, soothingly. "Witt you? Yes, do, my dear; she will do anything for you. And, Georg- ina,"—from the beginning she bad call- ed her thus, nothing on earth would induce Mrs. Redmond to call her any- thing more frivolous, — "tell her I should prefer somebody old and ugly, if at ail bearable, because then she may stay with me. Dear, dear! hew Cissy will miss you! And what will the vicar say?" And so on. She spends the greater part of the morning rambling on in this style, and then towards the evening dispatches Georgie to Golvran to tell Clarissa, too, the great news. But Clarissa knows all about it before her coming, and meets her in the ball, and kisses her theft and there, and tells her she is so glad, and it is the very sweetest thing that could possibly have happened. he came down this morning very early and told me all about it," she says, looking as pleased as though it is her own happiness and not another's she is discussing. "Now, what a pity!" says Georgie: "and I did so want to tell you myself, after the disgraceful way in which you tried to wed me to Mr, Hastinsg. "He could not sleep; he confessed that to me. And you had forbidden him to go to the vicarage to see you to -day. What else then could be do but come over and put in a good time here? And ha did. We bad quite a splendid time," says Miss Peyton, laughing: at really don't know which of us was t o most delighted about it. We both kept on saying pretty things about you all the time,—mora than you deserved, I think." Now, don't spoil it," says Georgie; "I am certain 1 deserved it all and more. Well, if he didn't sleep, I did, and dreamed, and dreamed, and dream- ed all sorts of lovely things until the ady broke. Oh,. Clarissa,"— throwing out her arms with a sudden swift gest- ure of passionate relief,—"1 am freel Am 1 not lucky, fortunate, to have de- liverance sent so soon?" • "Lucky, fortunate;" where has the word "happy" gone, that she has for- gotten to use rte Clarissa makes no re- ply. Something in the girl's manner checks her. Sha is standing there be- fore her, gay, exultant, with all a child's pleasure in some new possession: "her oyes as stars of twilight fair," flashing warmly, her whole manner in- tense and glad;but there are no blushes, no shy, half -suppressed smiles, there is no word of love; Dorian's namehas net once been mentioned, except as a sec- ondary part of her story, and then with the extremest unconcern. Yet there is nothing in her manner that can jar upon one's finer feelings; there is no undue exultation at the coming great change in her position, —no visible triumph at the fresh fut- ure opening laefore her; it is only that in place of the romantic tenderness that should accompany such a revela- tion as she has been making, there has been nothing but a wild passionate thankfulness for freedom gamed. "When are you coming to stay with me altogether? -1 mean until the mar- riage?" asks Clarissa, presently. "L cannot leave Mrs. Redmond like that, says Georgie, who is always de- lightfully indefinite, "She will be in a regular mess now until she gets somebody to take my place. I can't leave her yet, "Dorian will not like that," "He must try to like it. Mrs. Red- mond hes been very good to me, and 1 couldn't bear to make tier uncomfort- vi £ I U 3$BAL: able. I shall stay With her until she. gets eowebod' else, I don't think, when I .explain IL to him, that Det'iali wilt mind my dolegg tits," Ile will t fink 11 very sweet of yell," Sats Clerisse, "eonsnlermg how Yea de- test; i teaelting, and that," \1 hile. they are' at tea, Dorian drops in, and seeing the little yellow-Mimed fairy sitting in the huge loon ing�obatr, pen looks so oly- glad and contented that Olurlssa laughs whet iiovousiy, , Beor Benediokl" she says,mocking- ly; ee i`t bus Meme to this, that ,you know no life but in your .13eetriee'0 presoneel "Well, that's hardly fair I think " says Branscombo;''you, a;t least, should net, be the one to say it, as you are in a position to deolai'e I was alive and hearty at half -past twelve this ntoi'n- ing." Why, so you wore," says Clarissa, "terribly alive,—but only on one sub - jest. By the bye, has any one soon ?(rata' lately? He had some new books tont town to-day,—soma painfully old books, I' moan,—and has not been found 51000. 1 am curtain he will Ifs discov- ered some day buried beneath ancient tomes; perbaps, indeed, it will be this day, Will you two forgive me if I go to'sec of it'is yet time to dig hitnouti themse They flves orgiveale•eher; iced presently find , • "Is it all true, I wonder?" says Dor- ian, after a little pause. Fie is hold- ing bee hand', and is looking down at her with a deep fond smile that be- trays the deep love of his heart, 'tome true; at least, I hope so," with an answering smile. Then, "I am so glad you aro going to marry me," she says, without the faintest idea of shy- ness; "more glad than I can toll you. liver since—since I was left alone, 1 have had no one belonging tomo,—that is, no one quite Inv own; and now I have you. You will always bo fonder am than of anybody else in the world, won't you?" She seems really anxious as she aska Lbis, ivIy darling, 01 course I shall. How could you ask me-suoh a question? And you, Georgie, do you love mo?" "Love you? Yes, I suppose so; I don't know,"—with decided hesitation. "I am certain f like you very, very much. I am quite happy when with you, and you don't born me a bit. Is that it?" The definition of what love may be, hardly comes up to the mark in Mr. Br'anscomIxes estimation. She has risen, and is now looking up at him inquiringly, with oyes earnest and beaubifut and deep, but so cold. They chill him in spite of his efforts to disbelieve in their fatal truthful- ness. hardly, I think," he says, with an attempt at gayety, "Something else is wanting, surely, Georgie, when 1 ask- ed you to marry me yesterday, and when you gave the promise that has made ine so unutterably happy ever since, what was it you thought of?" "\Nell, I'll telly ou," says MissBrough- ton, cheerfully. "First, I said to my- self, 'Now I shall never again have to teach Murray's Grammar.'" "Was that your first thought?" Ha is both surprised and pained. 'Yes, my very first. You look as if you didn't believe me," says Miss Broughton, with a little laugh. "But if you laud gone through as many moods and tenses as I have during the past week, you would quite understand. - Well, then I thought how good it would be to have nothing to do but amuse my- self all day long. And then 1. looked at you, and felt so glad you had no crooked eyes, or red hair, or anything that way. And then, above all things, I felt how sweet it was to know I had found somebody who would have to look after me and take care of me, so that I mneedonever trouble about myself any re." Did you never once think of me?" asks he, in a curious tone. "01 you? 011, nn! You are ,ttiite happy," says Georgie, with a sigh, "\ mill Lav' nothing to trouble you." "Nothing! Of °ours enot." Going up to Ler, he takes her dear little face be- tween Will his hands, and looks Ling and earnestly into her clear uneonscirrs eyes. Et a gladly would he cave seen Lhe,•, 17 7cp and soften benarh hie gaz•+: 'New let me tell you lbw 1 fiel t.owure you," ho says, smooth' i,r Lei soft hair back from her fort/Went. "I don't think Iain a bit ira'.i,'iwe•ith my ,hair Imbed back," she says nr0v ing away from the caressing lama , and, with a touch restoring her ouster locks" to their original position. She smiles es she says Pus,—indeed, in A, rn- per, in any form, does not lx,lo.=g to her,-ot.d, when her hair is once more restored tt order, she again slips her Lingers inl.o his confidingly, and glanc- es up at him. "Now tell me all about it," she says. "What am I to tell you?—that when lam away from you I am restless, mis- erable; when with you, more than satis- fied. I know that I could sit for hours contentedly with this little hand in mine" (raising it to his lips), "and I also know that, if fate so willed it, I should gladly follow you through the length and breadth of the lana. It you were to die, or—or forsake me, It would break my heart. And all this is because I love you, " fs it?"—in a very low tone. "Does all that mean being in love? Then"— in a still lower tone—"I know 1 am not one bit in love with you." Than why are you marrying me?" demands he, a little roughly, stung to pained anger by her words. 'Because I promised papa, when when he was leaving me, that I would marry the very first rich man that asked me," replies she again lifting her serious eyes to his, I thought it would make him happier. And it did. I am keeping my promise now.,' with a sigh that may mean regret for her dead; or, indeed, anything. Ane you not afraid to gotoo far?" demands he, very pale, moving back from her, and. regarding her with moody eyes. "Do you quite know what you are saying? --what you are com- pelling me against my will, to under- stand?" She is plainly not listening to him. She s i lost in a mournful reverie, and, leaning back in her °hair, is staring at her little white fingers in an absent fashion, and is twisting round and. round upon her third finger an old worn-out gold ring, Poor little ring, so full of sweet and moving memories! "A was fortunate," she says, sud- denly, with a smile, and without look- ing up at him, being still engrossed m her occupation of twisting the ring round her slender finger, — it wee more than fortunate that the first rich man shculd be you." (To Be Continued.). DESIRE VS, CAPACITY. Mr, Callipers—What kind of a boy is Willie \Niggles? Little Clarence—IIe is n liar, pc. Mr. Callipers—You should not Calk so about one of your playmates, Clarence. Little Clarence—Well, p0 i Why, at the church supper the other night, when one of the ladies asked him if he had eaten all he wanted to, he told her "Yes, ma'am," instead of saying that he'd had all he could bold, POST, PRACTICAL FARMING TROUBLE/ WITII CREAM, We hear Many complaints' in Cold weather of butter not "Melling," Seat the cruain froths and ante so they earl do nettling with it, wr1Lee Jennie M. Wilson, 11'or the benefit of ally of the reader's of this paper who are troubled thin w'ay, let rue stay that several years ago 1 saw publiaheg a short article con- cerning the Devonshit'o system of cream raising and butter -making which inter- este" me so much that I determined to give it a trial, The "nodus operan- di" was simply 'scalding the milk, and immediately reducing the temperature, In the system referred to the milk is set in shallow leans for twelve hours, The pan is then sat in a hot water or steam bath for twenty minutes, until the milk is' hot and the cream "crink- les," but is not suffered to boil. The temperature should not exceed 190 do- grees, The pan is then returned to the dairy and remains twenty-four hours for the cream to rise completely. T ebange the programme somewhat, as 11 sults lie better, In extreme cold weather I give two beatings; one when the milk is first strained, and one after it ]las stood twelve hours. After both beatings I place it where the tempera- ture is as low as 1Ir,0501010 without freez- ing, and I have had no difficulty with churnings since adopting this method. The lime saved in churning is not the only benefit derived. It makes butter with much better keeping qual- ities, gives more of it and less butter- milk. Another thing greatly in its favor is,thc low temperature in which itis kept keeps the milk sweet so that when skimmed one takes nothing but the clear cream and thus avoids having a quantity of sour milk to cause the white specks or flakes which are so annoying to the butter maker. A writer in oe of our farm papers, in an article on "Best use for skim -milk" said, "In feeding it to calves have it slightly warm, but be careful not to scald it." Now I wish the writer of that advice could take a peek into Lake View stables and see our little "Lady Milton" who has had scalded milk every day since she was two weeks old, and she is now three months old. About a pint 01 middlings is added now,. though commencing with less; the milk being fed sweet, the result is we have one of the nicest little Jersey pets in the country. This is another -thing greatly in favor or of the heating process. We certainly have raised much nicer calves since adopting the method. I was reading a little article a few days since, in which the writer claim- ed that if on straining the milk the vessel was filled only half full and then filled the remaining half with ice cold water to immediately reduce the tem- perature, the cream would rise in two hours' time, so that milk strained hi the morning could be skimmed and the pans be ready to strain the night's milk. got to studying on is through the day and resolved to experiment a little with the milk that night; so when the milk came in 1 took two crocks and strained each one half full se as to have a fair trial. One, I scalded as usual immediately refacing the temperature, the other I filled with toe cold water and 'awaited results. At nine o'clock I went to examine as to what the out- come was. The milk had then been set three hours instead of two, but 1 fail- ed to find any milk waiting to be skim- med, so resolved to let it stand until morning and see how it would be then. Of course the first thing thought of on rising was my experiment. Examina- tion proved that the scalded milk had a nice thick cream, while the other had only a slight show of cream on the watery mass, and dis 'ted with the operation I emptied it .oto a Mail and sent it to "Lady Milton," meantime resolving not to try raising cream with ice -water in future. But it made me more than ever an advocate of the Devonshire system, MIXTURES FOR CLAY SOILS. In sowing grass mixtures two or three points are to be considered. What the grasses are to be used for and the kind of soil on which they are to be sown. Orchard, bluegrass and redtop are the most reliable and successful. While with these, as best for pasture and meadow Timothy comes in for the highest place. It is seldom that a farmer has a field that he wishes to sow for pasture in which the soil is the same over the entire field. This makes it advisable to sow a mixture. White each kind may grow an all parts of the field, there will be places where scene kind will do better than the others. Bluegrass thrives best on clay lime- stone soils. Orchard grass adapts it- self to rich clay soils, and both of these thrive well in the shade. Redtop does well on clay soils but does best in wet places. Timothy makes its lest growth an clay soils that are of a damp nature. 'We have, grown Timothy most success- fully on clay soils and black soils with Way subsoil which were so wet natural- ly that clovers were a failure, For short rotations it will hardly pay the farmer to sow either bluegrass orchard grass or redtop as it takes them too long to occupy the land. Orchard grass comes on quicicl •,but the seeding costs too much for the farm- er to sow 11 for a soca of two or three Years. Btaegross, orchard grass and Timothy may be sown together, The Timothy and orchard grass will come on first, The Timothy will fail first. and eventually the bluegrass will crowd out the orchard grass. Orchard grass sown alone to secure a thick sward should be sown at the rate of two bushels per acre. The same is true of bluegrass and redtop, The bluegrass seed sold on the market is usually of such poor quality that it makes it ne- cessary to sow this large quantity, if sown with Timothy aless quantity of seed maybe used, but it is shiest to use the maximum amount. To these mix- tures, probably excepting the bluegrass may be added a light seeding of Alsiko clover. 11 it will not smother the bluegrass, then it can be sown when the bluegrass is a part of the mixture, The Alsike will hold for a number of years, and act as a nitrogenous feeder for the grasses. Where bluegrass is not indigenous an effort should be made to establish it. Orchard grass should also find greater favor with farmers, but the cost of seeding is against both of these. 501111 FEET IN A COW. The soreness between the claws of the hoof is to ba treated In this way: Wash well with hot water and carbolic soap, and if there are scales in the sores, break these by rubbing with something rough when they are softened by hot water, 1� uwii 7, iR Tilcn y this mixture; 'Yuko of onto vaseline, four ounces, acetate of copper appl G0(11:0 ROADS IN FRANCE.. halt all 001100, Venice turpentine one ounce, and common turpentine one ounce. Melt together ,all but the cop• per, then make an intimate mixture of all by rubbing them on a board with a dinner knife, After the washingop ly his ointment to the sores and bnd the foot, between the otawvs, and all around it, with a bandage, TETE SOURCE QF MALARIA. Aa in resfiKallan That Shows In in Oltelier In the }Yater than In the .lir, The investigation on the source of ma - 'aria has had the writer"s attention for over two years, and in that Limo a large amount of clinical testimony has been collected from all known malaria dis- tricts in North America; the final re- port, however, will hardly be ready for publication fol' som0 months, but from the work already completed certain facts have been obtained yvltich will be em- bodied in this short notice,' The introduction of artesian wells,firet by the railroad companies who desire a larger supply of water than had hith- erto been available, and the accidental use of that water by the people, in the immediate vicinity, soon produced a marked diminution of malarial trouble in those localities. The artesian enp- plies were, on the whole, so satisfactory to the railroads that their introduction became very rapid, and in a few years most of the South Atlantic lines depend- ed upon this seam of water supply. The evidence that in the exclusive use of the deep-seated waters there was ENTIRE IMMUNITY. from malarial trouble was apparent? so incontestible that 1 determined upon a critical examination of all waters known to produce malaria and those that in malarial districts were proof against it; this examination is not only chemical, but biological and pathologic- al. In the present stats of our knowledge we do not expect to be able to draw a sharp line between waters ttiat produmo malaria and those proof against it by purely chemical analysis, n.or, on the other hand, can eve hope to Identify by biological examination the protozoa pro- ducing that trouble; but we may, by the former succeed in isolating certain toxic products peculiar to those waters only, and by the latter a certain line of testi- mony that, in conjunction with the chemical investigation, will yield very valuable results. The work thus far has proved satisfactory beyond expectation, and, from the work already done, and the character and amount of evidence before me, I am justified in stating that the long current belief that the source of malaria is in the air is in error. The germ, which is of soil origin, is strictly a protozoa, and reaches its high- est development in low, moist ground, with a favorable temperature. Sur- rounded by the proper soil conditions, this protozoa passes from one stage of life into another with considerable rap- idity; so that in the present state of our experimental knowledge it is ]m - possible to identify it,nor is it probable that by culture we shall be able to pro- duce the accepted Laveran germ out- side of the human system. As a rule the potable water from the malarial districts is derived from driven wells not over twenty-two feet deep, in soil with clayor some other impervious substrata, which water is generally cool and palatable often sparkling cloar,but more frequently A LITTLE TURBID. This water is filled with an .incalcul- able number of these germs in ail stages of development, and if used as a pot- able water they naturally find their way into Lite system through the aliment- ary channel. This protozoa passes through so many forms or stages of life that in some stages it is light enough to float and be transported by the moist au' of low grounds,. but do this state it is comparatively harmless ex- cept under most extraordinary condi- tions; it is not until the surface water is used that the mischief begins, when, by reason of higher development, it has become much more virulent than that floating in the air. A very short peri- od of incubation is sufficient to devel- op a severe case of malarial fever in the newcomer who uses the surface water. from personal observations I know that the exclusive use of pure, deep- seated water affords entire immunity against malaria in sections or esuntry where no white man dared live using the surface water. Nor must it be understood that the exclusive use of pure water simply fortifies and strengthens the system against the at- tack of the germ. The water is the primary cause of infection, which acts ns the direct carrier of the germ into the system through the intestinal tract. The impression that malaria is caused by purely atmospheric influences has be- come so fixed in our minds that, unless we coin in actual contact in the evid- ence produced in the use of pure water as against that heretofore used, the physr.•ien will, in all probability, be very slow to allow himself to be convinced that the word malaria (mal, bad; aria, air) is n misnomer, and that malaqua (mal, ;tad; aqua, water) is the word that should be used to convey the pernicious effects known under the name of mal- arial fever. THE HORSE IS CAREFUL. An old cavalryman says that a horse will never step on a, man intentionally. It is a standing order with cavalry that, should a man beceme dismounted, he must lie down and keep perfectly still. 11 he does so the entire troop will pass over hila without his being injured. A horse notices where he is going, and is on the lookout for a firm foundation to put his Loot on. It is an instinct with liim, therefore, to step over a pros - trete man. The injuries caused to hu-, man beings by a runaway horse area nearly always inflicted by the animal knocking down, and not by stepping on them. A LITTLE HOUSI1IIOLD, Perhaps the most complete and sat- isfactory nursery that could be imagin- ed IS that which a Pittsburg physician has provided for his children. 13y its apeman/nada 11 is possi!.le to carry on housekeeping in all its details in minia- Luro. In one corner of the room there is a well-equipped kitchen with every- thing that a wee cook could wish for, net in the shape of toys, but practical utensils (hat, can be used as ordinary kitchen ware. The children ran and oft- en do prepare meals to which they, in- vite. their parents, They have. every- thing that can be found in a /louse re- produced in miniature for that play- rooru, ?'lie N1sleln 'flntl lfas Made Jfle Ur•eneh Hulc!nvaty's O'aaunu. i(l'odei'n Crawl has lcmned frofn its anofelit conqueror, the Roman,. the great lesson of (ho fniporianoe of gcol roads, learned it so thoroughly that there is 00 outer -Ration flow 00 earth which might not well take lessons el her, TJIe German roads have, indeed, malty admirable points, but there isho more ductility or adaptableness in them Ulan in the German ohareeter. TJia German road builder shows a haughty disdain for natural obstacles. If a hi11 gets h his way, so moll the worse' for the hili; it must expect to ho tramp- 1ed ou, Ile follows soionco so rigorouaK- ly that he sometimes forgets that it is ntt'uc in 'aetieal fars .as ins mathematiotcs thatptthe straafighit lino i the shortest: It is to :trance, thou, that• 5.451;:g.'most confidently look for Prue" uggestions for the great road movement, and all wvho are nterested in the subject will find much tost]mulate and to guide their thought in the small manual of "Roads end Pavements fn I'rane0," by Alfred Per- kins Rockwell, just published. Mr. Rockwell was formerly professor of mining at the Sheffield Scientific School and the Massachusetts Institute of'T,ach- niolog'y; and his professional equipment• is well known, 5o that bis commentswitl. he i'ead with quite as much interest as his careful notes of facts. Like all scientific students of the subject, Mr, Rockwell believes in per- manent work, as opposed to cheap make- shifts which are the dearest as well as the worst. He shows how far Eu- rope isesummer aheandad of us in this matter and that the counterpart of our wretched "dirt" roads, which are deserts in IMPASSABLE MORASSES in the spring and autumn, can be found onl • in the more backward prov- inces of Russia. In France highly edu- cated engineers have been working out the probrem oL the best road for prac- tical use for over 100 years, and we may well study what they have to teach us. It is commonly held by people who consider themselves "practical" that the road systems of Europe are well enough for small and thickly populated countries, but that the initial expense of a'faney" roadbed is too heavy for our sparsely settled districts to under- take. It is interesting, therefore, to notice that according to Prof. Reek - well's report the tendency in France in record: years has been toward less expensive roadbeds, the development of road -making science making it possible to reduce the quantity of material without impairing the efficiency of the road. The amount saved is put into annual repairs, and so skilfully and so thoroughly are these repairs made that the road, instead of deteriorating, ' as is almost universally the case wtOO us, grows better and hotter year after year. No suspicion of a rut is allowed, and when one begins to form, instead of filling it, with the result of immedi- ately starting a new rut, the material is carefully scraped off, so as to leave a smooth surface, It is in repairing roads that we are perhaps weakest, and Prot. Rockwell's studies are specially suggestive in this direction. It is hardly worth while to build a good road if it is to be ne- glected or spoiled by badly managed repairs. Two general systems are In use in France, patchwork repair, which consists in restoring annually to the road in worn patcbes quantity of brok- en stone equal to that lost by;wear, and general recharging, with immediate slighter repairs as they are needed. The latter has bean found, after extended trial, to be the more satisfactory and economical, and is now used almost al- together on national roads. The stress lard upon keeping the roads from de- teriorating is shown by the minute method of inspection adopted. Every few years the whole system of Montes Nationales is thoroughly tested, trans- verse trenches being dug every 656 feet to permit of accurate examination of the condition and quantity of the material. In this way deterioration is mode impossible, and at the same time no material is wasted by being put where it is not needed. There are 21.- 000 1:0011 miles of national roads, and they are in this way kept in almost PERFECT CONDITION. One result of this elaborate research Itas been to show that a great thick- ness of broken stone is not necessary for good results if it is properly laid. The tendency is also to do away with the stone foundations which were formerly thought necessary, substitut- ing for what we know as the Telford system, but which was really invented by a French engineer, Tresaguel, about 1h14, the system which we name Mac- adam, although it had already been used in France. Of the 22,000 mites of national roads only 9,000 now Irayo a foundation. The early experiments In macadamizing demanded eight or ten inches of broken stone, but where the soil is firm it has been found possible to reduce this amount until the gen- eral examination of 1891 showed en average thickness of only 5 1-8 inches without deterioration. Pour inches is the limit below which it is deemed un- safe to go, and only one-eighth of the road surface has over eight inches. As will be seen from these detailed instances the book is thorough and prarttical, and no roadmakcr can afford L0 do without it. The closing chapters are devoted to the pavement of Paris, and bring out the not generally knc0vil fact that wood is coming to be the fav- orite paving material in that capital instead of asphalt, 'The tendency to- day is to substitute asphalt and wood, maltthe latter, for block stone and renew iam, especially for macadam. 1* certain outlying parts of the city maca- dam will still he, retained, and in others, from the nature of the traffic, block stone will still be preferred, but the use of wood is decidedly on the, in- crease." A detailed account is given of the organization and method of ilii* sysLnm of paving, and there s also suggestive chapter on the sidewalks of Paris, which are generally admitted to be the best ]n the world. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. Little Girl (al; school)—What dirt the teacher send you here for? Little Buy—She said I was bad, and must come over and sit with the girls. 1 like you. Can you stay long? Guess not. .1 wasn't very bad, Well, you be badder next time. MOLASSES FOR CATTLE FOOD. Molasses is coming into prominence as rattle food in Germany. Cows parttau- latly devour their sweetened provender with the greatest relish. The food• is claimed to be both healthful and econ- omical,