HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Herald, 1914-07-03, Page 2F • ,
' 00 is youn Mau;
Or, the 'I 'e11e+ of the Season.
CHATTER XIV,—(Continued),.
"I 'will tell you everything, at the.
risk of' making you angry, at the risk
foryaumoment,,ras if he werHe
ehoosi g
lits words with a care that sprang from
his fear lest he should, indeed rouse
her auger and lose her. "The first day
Y saw you—you remember?" As if she
could forget] She knew, now, as he ask-
ed the question that no trifling detail Of
that fist meeting was forgotten, that
every word was engravers on her me-
mory. When I saw you riding down
the hill. I thought I had never seen any.
girl so beautiful, so lovely—"
The color rose slowly to her :Face, but
died away again; the least vain of wo-
men is moved when a man tells her she
Is beautiful in his eyes, at any rate.
"And when You spoke to me I thought
I had never heard so sweet a voice; and
if X had, that there had never been one
that I so longed to hear again. You were
not with me long, only e, few- minutes,
but when X left you and tramped over
,,.• the hill to the inn I could not get you
out of my mind. I wondered who you
were, and whether • I should . see you
again."
The horses moved, andinstinctively
she looked over., her shoulder towards
them.
They will not go: they are quite
eyelet," he said. "Wait—ah, wait for a
few minutes. I have a feeling that if
I.let you go I shall not see you again;
and that' would—that would be more
than I could bear; That night at the inn
the landlord told me about nu, Of
.cure he had nothing hut praise and
adm1ratian far 'you—who Would have
any other? But he told me of the lone-
ly life you led, of the care you took of
your father, of your devotion and good-
ness; and the picture of you living at
the great silent house, without friends
or companions—well, it haunted mei I
could see it all so plainly—I, who am
not usually quick at seeing things. As
a rule, I'm not impressed by women—
Howard says I am cold and bored—per-
haps he's right; but I could not get you
out of my mind. I felt that I wanted to
see you again."
He ,paused again as if the state of
mind he was describing was a puzzle
to himself—paused and frowned.
"I left the inn and started up the
road—I suppose I wanted to get a
glimpse of the house in which you lived.
Yes; that must have been it. And then,
all at once, I saw you. I remember the
frock you wore that night—you looked
like an angel, a spirit standing there in
the moonlight, the most beautiful wo-
man I have ever seen. Are you angry
with me for saying so? Don't be: for
I've . got to tell you everything, and—
and—it's difficult."
He was silent a moment. Her -head
was still down -bent. her small white
hand hung at her side; she was stuite
motionless but for the slow, rhythmic
rise and fall of her bosom.
"When you came to me, when you
spoke to me, my beat leapt as if—well,
as if something good had happened to
me—something that had never happen-
ed before. When I went away the Die-
. ture of you standing at the door waving
your hand went with me, ands --stayed
-with me. I could not get you out of my
mind—could think of, nothing else. Even
in the' meeting with my father, whom I
hadn't seen for so long, the thought of
von'keptme. I tried to get rid ,of
ror�ou but it was of. no uses
sleeving and waking, you—you were
with. mei'
voice grew almost 'harsh in its
intensity, and the hand that had hung
40 stilly beside her closed on the skirt
of her dress in her effort to keep the
hot blush from her face.
"When I rode out the next day it
was only with the hope of seeing you.
It seemed to inc there was only one
thing I. wanted: to see you again; to
look into your eyes, to hear you speak.
All that I had heard about you—well, I
dwelt upon it, and I felt that I must
help you. It seemed as If rate—Chance
—oh, I don't know what to call it!—
bad sent me to help you. .And when I
saw you—ah. well, X can't expect you
to understand what I felt!"
He stopped again, as if he himself
were trying to understand it:
The feeling that fate had something
to do with it—you see, it was quite by
chance I started fishing that afternoon,
that T ,saw you at the house --gave, me
courage t0 -ask you to let me help you.
It sounded ridiculous to you—of course
it did—but if you only knew how much
it meant to mei It meant that I should
see you again; perhaps every day for
for along time: ah, well, it meant Just•
life and death to me. And now—!"
His breath came fast, his eyes dwelt
upon her with passionate eagerness;
but he forced himself to speak calmly
that he might not frigb.ten her from his
side, might not lose her.
—"Now the truth has come upon me.
ttulte suddenly. It. was lust now when
I saw that you cared what had happen-
ed to me. cared if Iwere hurt]--- Oh,
I . know, it was just because you were
frightened, it was just a woman's pity
for a fellow'thtbad come to harm, the
fear lest I had broken any bones; but—
ah, it showed me my heart, It told me
hove much I loved you! Yes, Ilove you!
You are all the world tO me: nothing
else matters, nothing!" id not
Her_ lips quivered, 'but she'd
sllkse.k, and the look of trouble,of doubt,
did not .leave her face. Ile waited, his
eyes seeking hers, seeking 'them for
some sign which might still the passion
of fear and suspense with which he Was
battling, then he said in a low voice
that thrilled with the 'tempest of emo-
tion which raged under his forced cairn:
Will yott not speak to me? Are you
angry?"
She raised her hand and looked at iriin
—a strange look from so young 'a girt.
It was as if she were fighting against
the subtle spell of his words, the de-
mand for her love which shone in his
eyes.
Ivo, I am not angry," she said at last;
and ;her voice, though verylow, was
calmand unshaken.
He made a movement towards her,
but she shrank back, only a little, but
Perceptibly . and he checked the move -
is so-so sudden! No one has,ever .
spoken to Inc as you have dere---
He laughed from. mere excess of joy,
for her pure innocenee, her unlikeness
in her: ignorance of love ana all per-
taining. to it, to the •women -ire knew,
made the'eharne of her well-nigh mad
deniug. To think that he should be the•
first man to speak of love •to her!
"1 am not angry—ought I to be? Yes.
I suppose so, . We are almost strangers
—have seen so little of each other."
"They say that love, all true love,
comes at first sight," he said. 1 used
to laugh,at the idea; but now I know
it is true, I loved you the first time
I met you, Ida!" •
Her lip quivered and her brews
knit.
"It seems so wonderful," she saki;
musingly; I do not understand it. The
first time! We scarcely spoke—and I
was almost angry with you for fishing,
in the' Heron. And I did—did not think
of yon—"
He made a .gesture, repudiating the
mere idea.
Xs it likely? Why should you?" he
said. "I was just an ordinary Mau,
crossing your path for the first and
perhaps the only time. Good heavens!i
there was no reason *by you should
give a thought to Inc. why I should
linger in your mind for half a moment
after I was cut of your sight. But for
me— Haven't I told you how beauti-
ful you are, Ida! You are the loveliest,
the sweetest— But even if you had
not been—I mean It is not because you
era so beautiful that I' love you—"
Shea loollced at him with • a puzzled,
troubled look,
No! I can't explain. See, now,
there's not a look of yours, not a feat-
ure that I don't know by heart as if I'd
learnt it. When I am away from you
I can see you—see the way your hair
clusters in soft little curls at your fore-
head, the long Iashes sweeping your
cheek, the—the trick your eyes have of
turning from grey to violent—oh, I
know your face by heart, and I love it
for its beauty; but if you were to lose
it all, if you were not the loveliest
creature God had ever made, it would
make no difference. You would still be
You: and it is you I want. Ida—give
yourself to me—trust me! Oh, dearest,
you don't know what love it! Let me
teach you!"
Once again he got hold of her hand;
and she let it remain in his grasp; but
her quiescence did not mean yielding,
and he knew^ it.
No," she said, with a deep breath.
"It is true that I. do not know. And
I am—afraid." A wan 1ittIe smile that
was more piteous than tears curved her
lips: for 'afraid" seemed strange com-
ing from her; the fearless child of the
hills and dales. 'If --if I said 'yes'—
Ah, but I do nota" she broke off as he
made to draw hereto him, and she shrank
back. '1 do not! I said if,' it would
not be true; it would not be fair. For
1 do not know. I might be—sorry, af-
ter—after you had gone. And it would
be too late then.'
"You're right" he assented, grimly.
"Once I got you, no power on earth
should make me let you go again."
Her lips quivered and her eyes droop-
ed before his. How strange. a thing
this love was, that it should change a.
man so!"
I don't Want to force you to answer:'
he said, after a 'oa-nee:• "Yes; I dol I'd
give half the remainder of my life to
hear' you say the one word, 'yes,' But
I won't. It's too -too precious. Ab,
don't you understand! I wantarour love,
your love, Ida!"
Yes, X understand," she murmured.
"And—and I would say it If—MI were.
sure. But I—yes. I am all confused: Iia
is like a dream. I want to think, to ask
myself if—if I .can do what you want."
She put up her hand to her. lips, as if.
to keep them from trembling ,� "I want
to be alone to think of all—all you. have.
told Inc."
Her gauntlet slipped froin her hand,
and he knelt on one knee and picked it
up, and still kneeling, took both her
hands in his, It did not occur to him to
rememberthat the woman who hest-
totes is won; something in her girlish
innocence, in her exquisitely sweet can-'
dor, tilled him with awe.
"Dearest!" he said, in so low a. voice
that the note of the lark flying above
them sounded loud and shrill• -by con-
trast. Dearestl—for you are that to
mei—X will not press you. I will be
content to wait. God knows you are
right to hesitate! Your ,love is too
great, to precious a thing to be given
to me without thought. I'm not worthy
to touch you—but I love you! I will
wait.You shall think of all X have said;
and, let your answer be what it may, T
won't complain. But--Ida—you must
n't forget that I love you with an my
heart and soul]"
She looked down at his handsome face,
the face over whieh her lips had hover-
ed only a short time since, and her tips
moved.
You are good to me," she said, in a
faintly troubled voice. "Yes, I know, I
feel that, Perhaps I might to say
"Don't!" Ile. said, almost fiercely.
"Wait! Let ane see you again—you
scarcely know me. Ah. Ida, what can
X. do, how can I win your love?"
She drew her hands from his with a
deep breath,
"X-1 Will go now," she .said. "Will
you let Inc go, -alone?
He rose and went towards the horses.
ilis own raised its head 'and ' seemed
Inclined to start, but stooduncertain
and eventually retrained quiet beside
the chestnut. Stafford brought them
to where Ida stood., her eyes downcast,
her face pale. With his own bridle over
his arm he put her into the saddle,re-
sisting even in that supreme moment
the alteme.t irresistible desire totake
her intis arms,
She murmured a "Thank you,' as
she slowly put on her left gauntlet. Ile
drew the other from her, and. as he
looked at him 'questioningly, he Buts it
to his lips and thrust it under 'his waist-
coat; over his heart. The color flooded
her face. butthe'blush was followed
by the former look of trouble and doubt:'
niertt, the desire to take her in his arms.
She hold out her ungloved right .sand
°•en—Ida T : and he took it and held it for a moment,
i ou are not angry? Th then raised it to his lips; but he did
may call you so?—you don't mind my not ]ass•it
loving you? Dearest, will you love me
just .a little in return? Wait!"for she
had shrunk again, this time more plain-
ly! • T know that. I have startled You.
that. Fought not to have spoken so soon,
while You only know so little of me
you'd naturally say 'no,' and send me=
away. But if you think you can like,
PM—learn to� love :me---'-''
He tock her hand, hanging so temP -'
in"'ly near his owe; but she drew it
t•
awe,
",`Vo; don't touch mei" she said. with
a little catch :in her voice. "I want to
think --to understand," She Passeed On
a moment, her eyes still sectiltig the die -
ant Bills, as if in., .their' inysterieus
mights she might firsa .
seasoning ng
t]
at
shot!id explain this great mystel'y, this
wonderful thing that had happened to
her, : At last, with a singular gesture,
• so git•lish so graceful that it made ]rim
longstill more; intensely to take ,her
in his arms, she said in a low voice:
"! do not know-- No! X do not want
YOU : to touch rue, please! His hand
fell to his side. . 1 can't answer you.:,It
"'bio!" he said, with stern repression.
"I will take nothing---unt!l you give at
me."
She' inclined her head the very slight-
est, as ,she understood, as if she were
grateful then lettieg her eyes rest on
his with en inscrutable look, she spoke
softly to the horse and lode nwalr: with
Donald and Bess clamoring joyously af-
ter huh as if they had found the pro-
ceedings extremely -Lying.
Stafford flung his arm': ?across his.
horse. and leaning against it, looked -ox-
en' her, his Ayes fixed wistfully ;' on the
slight, graceful figure until' it was out
of sight; then he gazed round_ hirn as
he were suddenly relernieg from a, new,
mysterious region to the old familiar
world. I assion s an:•,rvellou:s spell still
held him.' he was still throbbing with
a.halfepainful ecstasy of her nearness;
or the touch 'of her httncl,, the magic of
her voiee, ;Cor the first time .he was ,ip
icee. : To love With the most exquisite,
the moat wonderful : of (loci's olivine
creatures, hie knew, as he had .said,
that her answer meant life or death.' to
iA v"u:i1::z
heeteggenesegiee
geregegatene
eesagegeage
Vie schen
eee
- w .•ti 9�-
The Rubbish' Market Near Penton ille Prison, London.
• A. NEW AMUSEMENT.
English SocietyWolnen Go to u
Rb
bish Market to Secure'Autigt1 s..
One of the most amusing of mod-
ern ,, developments - in the: social
world in England .of late is the
weekly emigration of society but-
terflies to the Caledonian Market,
London, almost beneath the 'grim
walls of ancient Penttonville Prison.
A few years ago this market. was
"discovered" by a few clever Amer-
ican girls eager to .seoure some ven-
erable mementoes of their trip to
Europe. On a certain day in the
week the old 'clothes dealers, rag-
and-bone men, .and others displayed
their wares on the stone flags; of the
market, and in such sordid sur-
roundings it gradually became the
fashion to be found driving as hard
a bargain as was ever driven in the
Hebrew Petticoat Lane. The society
collector is ahard nut to snack.
So is the all -British rag-and-bone
man.
A well-known collector will pass
down an alley with goods ranged on
either side, affecting ignorance. of
some fine red wine -glasses on the
pavement. "Sixteen shillings the
dozen,"a tentative dealer remarks
apparently to 'the air, Ind the col-
lector passes on. Next time he—or
she—passeaby•the offer is "Twelve
shillings the dozen," till by degrees
it is reduced to four shillings.
The collector feels a glow of vir-
tuous pride. "I shall sell these for
two pounds a piece," he declares
to a, friend at the conclusion of •the
deal.
What particular pleasure there
dan be in reducing the profits of the
scantily clad and wretched -looking
vendors is .a mystery Chid in the con-
science of the social leader or 'the
keen collector. But the fact re-
mains that the smart thing is for
London aristocrats to be in Penton -
villa of a Friday morning looking
over the refuse .of the British •capi-
tal.
him, the life of infinite, nameless Joy,
the dee th of life in death.
Was he going to lose her?
The very question set him trembling.
'He held out his quivering hand and:
looked at' it, and set his teeth. Heaven
and earth, how strange it was! This
girl had taken possession of hint body
and soul; every fibre of his being clam-
ored for her. To be near her, just to be
able to see her, hear her, meant happi-
ness; to be torn from her
f
The sweat broke out on his :forehead
and he laughed grimly.
And this is love!' he said,, between.
his teeth. 'Yes—and It's the ;only love ,
of my life. God help me if you say
'no,' dearest! But you must not—you
must not!"
CHAPTER
Quite an hour after i~ tt 4 ',tinct
started to meet Ida, Miss 1'`alee"nes Made
her appearance, Deming slowly,;. down
the stairs in the daintiest of morning
frocks, with her auburn hair shining
like gold in the sunlight, and an ex-
pression of langor in her beautiful face
which would have done credit to a hot:'
house lily.
She had slept the sleep of the .dust--+
the maid who had gone to wake her
With her early cup' of tea had been al-
most startled 'by the statuesqueness of
her beauty, as she lay with her- head
piliowed on her snow-white arm_ and
her wonderful hair streaming aver the
pillow had suffered herself to be dress-
ed with imperial patience, and looked—
as ,Howard, who stood at the bottom, of
the stairs—said to himself, "like a
queen of the, Incas descending to her
throne -room"
Good marling,Miss Falconer;' he
greeted her. "I's a lovely morning
you'll and it nicely aired."
She smiled languidly.
"That means that I am late," she:said,
her eyes resting languidly on hie cyni-•
cally smiling face.
"Good heavens, no!" he respoltded.
"You can't be late or earlyein this ma-
gic 'palace. Whenever you 'arrige you
will find things—`things', in the most
comprehensive sense—ready for you.
Breakfast at Brae Wood is the most
movable of feasts, I'v'e proved that, for
I'm.a late bird myself; and to ray joy I
have learned that this is the only -house
with which . X am acquainted that. You
can get red-hot bacon and kidneys at
any hour from eight to twelve;• that
lunch runs plenteously from one to
three, and that you tan get tee. and
toast—my great and only weakness,
Miss Falconer—whenever you liketo
ring for it, •You will find LadyeClans-
ford presiding at the breakfast -table; I
believe she has been sitting there—ami
dawn."
able martyr as she is—since the early
She smiled at him with languid an -
prorate as if he were some paid jester,
and' went into the breakfast -room. There
were others there beside Lady Clans-
ford—roost of them young people—it is,
alas! only the young people • who can
sleep through the bright hours of ; a
summer's morn—and a discussion on
the programme of the day was being
carried on with a• babel of voices and
much laughter
"You shall decide for us, Miss Pal -
caner!" exclaimed one of the young men,
whose only name appeared to be Berrie,
for he was : always addressed as. and
spoken of by' it. It's a toes -up between
a drive and a turn on the Lake in the
eleeTesd launch. I pt•opdheci'a sail, but
there seemed to be a confirmed and gen
eral scepticism as to my Yachting capa-
citics,'and Lady Plaistow saysishe does -
o' the nt ,to .be 'drowned before the end
season. 4'ihat would you like he
do?"
"Sit sena where in the Shade with a
book, she replied, promptly but slowly.'
There was a shout of laughter.
"That is just what Mr. Howard re-
plied' said Ilertie, complainingly,'
Oh, Mr, Howard! Everyone knows
that he is the laziest titan 1n the whole
world." remarirecl 'Lady Clansford,
plailativ.ely.. 'What is Mr. Orme going
to do? Where is he? Does anyone
know?
There wa.s,a general, shaking of heads
and a chorus of "No's,"
'I had a switn.weth him this morning,
but I'r'e net seen' him, since," Said l3o-
tie,. 'It's no use vatting for Orine; he,
mightn't turn we till dinner time. hilss
Xralconer, if I promise not to drown you,
will you make bee for 'the yacht? flue
man told me it would be: all ready.,
She shook her head as she,helped hcr-
self, to a couple of strawberries'
"No, 'thanks,' she said,:num
with Iter. t
:areal drawl.' "I know what that means,
You drift into tate middle, of the lake
or the river, the wind dro s, and. :you
sit in a .scorching Sun and•get a head-.
ache. Please leave me otitt1, shall;
stick; to my original proposal, ,•P,erbitna,
if you don't drown anyone this time, I
may venture with you another day."
She leant back and smiled at them
under her Lids, as the discussion flowed
t- and ebbed round her, with an air of pla-
cid contempt and wonder at their ex-
citement; and presently. murmuring
something_ to Lady Clansfoed, who, as
chaperone and 'deputy hostess was try-
ing to coax them into some decision,
she. rose and went out to the terrace.
There, lying back in a deck -chair, in a
corner screened from any possible
draught by the glass verandah, was Mr.
Howard with one ef. Sir Stephen% price-
less Havannas between his • lips, a
French novel Inhis hand, and a morning
paper across his knees. He rose as she
approached, and oheoking a sigh of re-
signation,. offered:, 'hen '.is chair.
Oh, neer! she Sada„ with a slut's •a: ich
shored tl at• she knew ]what tOS = sora.
of, politeness- eost'hiia, You'd hate me
if I took .: Your chair, I know; : and
though, of course. I don't_ in the =least
Gare /whether you hate me or not, I
shouldn't like putting you to the trou-
ble' of so exhausting an emotion."
Howard smiled at her with frank
admiration.
"Let's compromise it," he said. I'll
drag that chair up here—it's out of the
sun, you know—so, and arrange these
cushions so, and put up the end for your
feet 'so, and—how is that, Miss Falcon-
er?"
Thanks," she murmured, sinking in-
to the soft nest he had made.
"Do you object to my cigar? Say so,
if you do, and—"
You'll go off tolind•someother nook,'
she put in. "No, I like it,,'
His eye .shone .with keen apprecia-
tion: this girl was not onlya beauty—
which is almost commonplace nowadays
—but witty which is rare.
"Thanks! Would you like the paper?
Don't hesitate if you would; I'm not
reading it; I never do, I keep it there
so ,that I can put it over my face if I
feel like sleeping—which I generally
do."
_ She declined the paper with a gesture
of her white hand.
"No, I'd rather talk; which means
that 'you are to talk -and I'm to listen.
Will it exhaust you too much to te]I
me where the rest Of the people are? I
left a party in ,the breakfast room
squabbling over th.Sproblem how-to kill
time; but where are•the. others? My fa-
ther, for instance?" •
Ile is• in the library with Baron'
Wirech, Mr. Griffenberg, and the other
financiers. They, are doubtless engage
ed in some mystic rites connected with
the worship of the Golden Calf, rites in
which the word 'Shares,' 'Stocks,' 'dia-
monds,' 'concessions,: appear at fre-
quent 'intervals. X suppose your father,
having joined, them, is a member of the
all-powerful, sect of money -worship
pens:"
Slue shrugged her. shoulders.
X suppose so. And Mr. Orme—is he
one of them? she asked, with elabor-
ate indifference.
Howard smiled cynically ""
Stafford! No; all that he knows
about money: is the art of spending it;
and what 'he doesn't know about that
isn't, worth knowing. It -blips through
his fingers like water through a sieve;
and one of thosemysteries which bur-
den my existence is,, how he always
manages to have some for a friend up
a Telze so generous, then?" she asked,
with a. delioate yawn behind her hand.
Howard ,nodded., and was silent for a
moment, then he ,said musingly:
"You've got on my favorite subject—
Stailord—Miss Falconer. And I warn
You that if X go on I shall bore. you."
"Well, I can get up and go away,"
she said, languidly. "He is a friend of
yours, I suppose? By the way, did you
know that he stopped those ridiculous
horses last night and probably saved
my 11fe?"
%'or .goodness' sake don't let him
hear you say that, or even guess that
you think it," he said, with an affecta-
tion of alarm, "Stafford would be in-
expressibly
5
expressibly annoyed. I e hates a fu
overt more than most Englishmen, and
would take it very, unitindly if you did-
n't
id
n t let a little thing like that pass' un-
noticed. Oh, yes, X am his greatest
friend. . I: don't think'—slowly and con-,
templative!y-h"Chat there '15 anything
he wouldn't do for me, or anything I
wouldn't do forhim—excepting to get
up early—g0 out in the rain-- Oh, it
fei,'t true! I'm only.brtgging, lie broke
off, with a' groan, "I've ve done both and
shall dothemwhenever he wauta me
to. T rn a poor creature, 1\Xiss. I'alconet.
`A, mot-tyl°`nn the altar of friendship;"
she said, "Mir,. Orme must be very ir-.
resistible.' •
"He is," he assented, with an air .of
.profound melanohel:=. "Stafford has
the extremely uflpleasent knek of get-
ting, What he watts. Its raty,„disgnst-
ing, but it's true. That is why he is so
general a favorite Why, le you walk-
ed into any drawing room and . asked
who was the most popular man in Lon-
don, the immediate and unauilnous re-
ply would be 'Stafford Orme.' "
She settled the cushions a little more
comfortably.
You mean amongst men?" she said.
Howard smiled and eyed her ques-
tioning•ly.
"Weil—I didn't," he replied drily.
She laughed a little scornfully.
"Oh, I know the sort of man he is,"
she said. "I've read and heard about.
them. The sort of man who falls in
love with every woman he meets. 'A
servant of dames'!"
,•Howard leant back and laughed with
cynical enjoyment. •
(To be continued.)
MSTERDAM'SDIAM 0 ND MEN
Teh Thousand ,Earn From $120 to
.$G Weekly.
The diamond trade of Amsterdam
is in the hands of seventy firms,
employing more than 10,000 •wt,rk-
men. About 1,700 are cleavers and
cutters, and 4,700 polishers; etc.,
the rest being engaged about the
offices and in other work.
These workmen are composed of
five classes, in the following order,
as to the amount of wages receiv-
ed Cleavers, polishers, 'burners,
cutters .and sawyers. Polishers 'and
turners receive about the same
wages. Certain cleavers get as
much as $120 a week. From this
maximum wages grade downwards
through the other classes. to $0 and
8 a week for sowers.
It is the task of the cleaver to
split diamonds. Cutters. take off'
the rough sharp edges and corners'
and determine, the general shape
of the •stone. Polishers relish the
stones and make,their facets. Turn-
ers turn the 'diamonds .around in
the apparatus that ]]olds them so
that the facets inay he made, each
fine diamond having from fifty-eight
to sixty-four which cannot be clov-
en, or which it is more .profitable
to saw. Sometimes a stone is cleft
and the parts then sawed, but very
small 'stones cannot be sawed.
The Amsterdam diamond work-
ers maintain a compact, organiza-
tion for their protection... No onn
can learn the 'trade without the
consent • of this organization, and
only Children of workers or of 'jew-
elers areeligible to become pupils,
The 'waiting list always contains
thousands of names.
As a general thing pupils pay for
instruction, sometimes as much as
$2,000 for cleaving, payable in in-
stalments. .In.'blie case of polish-
ers i and turners there is a special
school, the instruction fee being
fro 1ii0.
fru:1"W° -r''$1�0 to ��.
If .a woman would cub out the
milliner's expensive creations and
win a 10 bill' in her hair she: would..
1 $ ,..g c
attract more 'attention.
"Ande.
n•l phawt 1�a� the ryuaxest
th ng ;e stew in Paris. ab " all at all,
� "The I,: i
Maggie' r111c1i polace-
inen." • "And phawt is there,that's.
a about thian ''T
quare " b & "'They're
,
Frinch"'
On the Far
Excellent Uses . For. Cloy
All clovers aruisown with`.a
clop,. and • opinion,s differ
which. is *the best. Whatever
is used as a, nurse crop, it
be ' sewn Isoinewhat thinner,
when no clover seed is 'so'wn,
thinner seeding. gives tike
clover• and grass ,]plants ' a
chance 'to grow. Placed in t
der in 'which they are genera
ed, which indicates approxi
their relative value ,as nurse'
the common grain crops
come as follows : spring whea
ter rye, winter wheat, flax,
Wherever clover is 'sown it
sparing on winter , grain,
grain is harrowed 'very .'light
ter the clover seed is sowp:
cast, or the clover seed may
in witha double disc or sho'
drill. The •selection of a nur
for cloven must be determine
largely from the crops best
ed, to the soil and needs of th
and, at the same time, on
will materially assist, the el
meeting blue . usual climatic
tion of the locality should b
Young clover - should ne
pastured or cut for hay !bh
of its seeding, unless ft.
show signs of blossoming of
nurse crop has been remove
it is safer to clip o'ff the hea
a mower than to pasture. of
cut for hay. Neither s'hou
pastur l the second spring,
it has a good start and the
well ;settled.
Clover is an excellent
crop fox' all classes of stoc
furnishes a luxuriant growt
highly nutritious food ' fro
spring until late in the fall,
ing it is not pastured too
During the heat of the ,su
should not be pastured ,C to
this .will curtail the faI•l fee
after Drop that comes on . of
ing off the hay crop make
lent fall pasture. The gra
ger from clover pasture i
Where '-stock is turned .on
gradually until they are e
ed to it, and then kept on
tinuously, with access to soi
of dry feed, salt, and waste
is very little, if any, .. clang
bloat.
Clover makes splendid ha
properly cured and stored.
of well cured clover` hay i
for feeding purposes,dear
half as much as a ton of bra
ver hay is especially valua
feeding dairy eows or youn
The quality of clover hay
on its palatability and n
value. Much of the clove
now used is very poor, ow
the fact that many try to c
ver hay in the same way th
timothy hay. Clover hay •
more valuable as a feed ltha
dicated by theamount of
ible nutriments it contains.
is due to the fact that clo
rich in protein or musele-f
food. Such forms ofrough
corn stover, timothy, and
corn, are lacking in protein
if one uses them as the rough
a ration, protein must be su
by feeding such high-priced
asoats, bran or oil meal; w
clover is fed as the roughage
and barley, which are . Cl
grains, . may be used. Clove
hay should be crit as soon a
first blossoms begin totarn
and.the hay should be cured
shade. After the clover ha
cut, it ,should be turned with
der as soon as the leaves i
upper part of the swath are
Wilted. Before the leaves and
become dI'y and stiff, the
should be raked into win
This will shade most of the ha
allow a good 'circulation o
through it. Clover cured i
windrow does not get stiff 1ik
exposed to the sun in the sem,
a day or two. With good w
the hay should be left in the
row over night and turned
or two the next forenoon. It,
then be ready for. the stack th
oncd• afternoon. Cured in thi
the stems are soft and p'liabl
much natural' moisture is re
in the leaves.
, t
The Caalidil Friend.
Miss Supheridge—I shoul
like to see the man that. I'
mise to love, honor and obey
'Miss Partly—I'm sure`yott
deal.
ee—
An i
1! ck wily to get thio
crowd is to go around it, .,
Moat "nen also11 ossess the
of injustice.
Andit iere
lsdelvs tosee t
some people than : it is
through a 'gLnes e. `
e
1'7
to
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othE
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