Elia Peattie

A HOCHE-POTE OF GOSSIP

Chatter About Souvenir Spoons as an Incentive to Travel.

The Frenchman's Tea-Drinking Aunt-How Thebes Was Recalled - A Remarkable Family on Sunday Island.

The passion for collecting spoons from every city which one visits continues-as one would, say of a diphtheria epidemic-unabated. And every lady who really prides herself on having the daintest novelty in household godlets, now shows her full set of silver spoons, procured in cities as diverse as the patterns of the handles. San Francisco and Florence St. Petersburg and St. Augustine, Havana and Munich rattle together in metallic merriment, and display their roval designs, and Omaha is now represented in these collections by a most appropriate design. It is the head of an Omaha Indian-an actual portrait, and therefore, a really impressive face. The feathers of the head dress form the end of the handle, and the slope of the shoulders makes the outline of the spoon. Beneath, an open gate betrays the name of Omaha. This is the work of a very well known dealer a deal of good designing, but who has never confessed to his workmanship until recently. This maia for collecting spoons as souvenirs of one's journeyings is a harmless enough one, and does quite as well as any other device for getting rid of surplus money. But it emphasizes the fact which is undeniably true, that a good many travel, not because they want to see and know the world, but merely because they do not want to stay at home. It is somewhat irritating to know the benefits of life so frequently come to those who have not the ability to appreciate them. There are hundreds of girls in Europe today who remember very little about the cities they visit, except that they got a spoon of a certain design there on a particular street. And meantime, at home there are girls throbbing with the fine curiosity of the student or the adventurer, who would use such opportunities of travel in the largest and best ways. I remember once talking with a friend of mine who had just come back from Egypt. "Tell me something about Thobes." I said to her, stretching myself on the grass in expectation of a treat. "Tell me everything about it that you can remember." "Thebes," she said dreamily, taking a beautiful hat from her head and looking at it reflectively," is really the most surprising place. The shops are as good as those in Paris. You will hardly believe it, but I got this hat there." I was telling this story one night to a friendly little Frenchman up in the harbor of Lake, in Alaska. "Your friend was young," he cried charitably, "and you say she was also pretty." One forgives everything to such-even to be filled by one- that is also not past forgiveness. But consider my case. I have an aunt who is horribly old, but who never dies. When she does, what she has will be mine. She adores me, principally because when I go to see her I tell her very wild stories. All the time I am telling them she holds up her fan and emits little shrieks of horror. But all the same, she has cut off all her nephews, who are good young men, and do not amuse her. Fancy, then, my feeling when six months out of every year this dear aunt of mine exhausts her strength and consumes her fortune by traveling over the globe. And for what purpose? My dear madam, only to see in how many latitudes she can drink tea! Even if it were coffee the thought would not be so revoiting. But tea! She learned to drink it from an English lover whom she once had. He died, and I suppose her enternal tea drinking is a sort of votive offering-as one burns a lamp before the Virgin for the repose of a friend's soul. This aunt of mine has steeped tea in the shadow of the pyramids and never once looked up at the monuments. She has set her pot in the geyser water of New Zealand, and returned with poor reports of the country because her tea tasted of sulphur, she has roasted in Algiers and drunk tea with the notables of the English colony, and last year, if you can believe me, she actually went to South Africa and drank tea with a Dutch woman who whips her slaves with her own hands. She can show you a dent that her tea pot got in the Indian ocean, and another that it got on the steppnes of Russia, and I don't distinctly remember, but I think she told me she once dropped it off the matterhorn and walked down herself and picked it up off the ledge of a precipice." He was a nice little Frenchman, and I highly valued him and his lies, but I found out that with all his cleverness he made mistakes. There was an English woman on board our boat who divided her stateroom with me. She got on at a port somewhere in British Columbia, and at the close of a day in harbor. I had been ashore all day engaged in the pleasing occupation of wrecking buggies. That is to say, I had a good horse, who had a mouth of cast iron and a will as an unbending as the British lion's . And this brute instead, whenever we met a horse and vehicle on the road of turning out to the left. I resisted I swore by the American eagle that I would not be conquored by a bloody British quadruped. And I wasn't. I had my way. But to my astonishment I ran into nearly every team I encountered. it was not till the day was nearly ended that I found out that the horse was right and I was wrong, and that it was the custom of the country in driving to turn to the left. "Well, I came back from this day's exciting experience to find a most astonishing pile of bags and bandboxes and paceils before my stareroom door, and our them was sitting a quiet looking woman whom I immediately took for a lady's maid. "I am sorry you were kept waiting without," I said, "why didn't you ask the stewards to let you in?" "I wished to wait and see if you would be willing that I should share the stateroom with you." she said sweetly. She had a lovely voice and a fine enunciation and a second later I thought that what she was really waiting for was to see if she wanted to stay with me. And then I knew she was not a lady's maid at all, but a middle aged gentlewoman, who was seeing the world I found. In fact, that she was making a journey around the world, and that she had given herself four years to do it in. "She also," cried the little Frenchman when I told him about her, "is trying to see how many elimates she can drink or tea, or perhaps she is knitting an afghan, and wishes to add each row in the territory of a different monarch." But he was wrong. She was a great traveler. She had the spirit of those old Englishmen in her who conquered the unknown continent of America, who penetrated the orient and Africa and the wild islands of the Pacific. She would sit in a frail boat that was being forced up the rapids and never open her thin lips; she would not even shut her eyes when a frightened shoal of salmon swerved the boat from its course, and then in their frenzy dashed against the stones and incarnadined the shallows with their blood, she would plod all day through the ranking chaperal drenched and without food, and never complain; she would wade a creek or climb a mountain or go down in a mine or ruin with the miners from a dynamite binast, or slide down an incline in a quartz mill, and all with an unassuming. spinster-like air that was the very acme of modesty and feminity to be sure she usually had her knitting along, but she took that for the same reason that the gentlemen took their tobacco. The needles used to protrude from her pocket when she stood on the glorified ice of a glacier lit by the sunset. Crevasses of ultra in arine, terribly beautiful, yawned at her feet and beneath goined the ice in its never ending struggle sounding like a world a making back of her the uprising wall of crystal flushed into red. transparent and mystic But this English gentlewoman was undismaved. She knew that her boots were water tight, that her purse was in the ship's safe and that her knitting needles were in her pocket. Fate could not harm her. Folk with hysterical sensibilities are usually called eloquent. My friend, because her digestion was so good and the action of her heart perfectly normal, was not eloquent, but she used to tell in lucid and accurate language about the places she had visited and the people she had seen. The temperance of her language made her relations positively classical. I have never met man or woman who was so unaffectedly truthful and realistic. This accuracy was of course much more valuable than eloquence. Here is one of the stories she told me: "A number of gentlemen of New Zealand engaged a steamer for three months for the purpose of taking them among the islands of the Pacific. With them were their wives and children; and every comfort was provided which would make the surroundings home-like and ease-giving. One day when we were cruising around in the midst of the Tabiti group it was discovered that our supply of water was unexpectedly low, and the captain said we would be obliged to land at the first island we came in the way of. It was not long before land was sighted, and in a few hours we anchored off a rocky coast. The boats were lowered, and the day being beautiful and calm, the passengers were told that it was safe for them to go ashore if they wished to explore the island. But so very uninviting was the aspect of the black rocks that few availled themselves of this opportunity, and among the women only I went with my little piece. There was a tissue in the black rock, and we had some difficulty in getting our boat safely through, because a strong sea surged in and out, but once beyond this cleft we entered upon a very small horbor, almost as round as a sancer, and beautifully calm, with green clear water in it and a shelving beach on which we could see the white pebbles. We had never one of us a doubt that we were visiting an uninhabited island, and you can therefore fancy our surprise when we saw a very pretty skiff, well painted-though most curiously-anchored where the tides would not injure it by dashing it out the beach. "A moment later three girls full grown or almost so, appeared upon the sands and upon seeing us stood perfectly still, something in the way a bear does after it has leaped out of the brush and first catches sight of a hunter. After a few seconds, survey of us, one of them started to run, but the others caught and held her. Then the three walked together toward the water. Their feet were bare, and so were their arms to the shoulders. Their skirts were of faded blue jean, and they wore bodices of untanned leather, laced in front with little thongs. After their first fear had been quieted they waited for us with dignity, standing squarely on their feet, with their arms hanging down at the sides. I said to one of the gentlemen that they looked like women who could run a long way without tiring, and he replied that I was right, and that it was only persons with developed and educated muscles who knew the value of letting them rest supinely when they were not in active use. We had much curiosity to know what language they would speak, and the men called out to them: "Ahoy there, and they answered: "Ship ahoy." They had fine strong voices, which were sweet, but not in the way that a woman's voice usually is- They were more like masculine voices which were very musical in their quality. When we were landed Iran to them and held out my hand, to which they each gave a hearty grasp, and in ten minutes I learned that they had been born on the island and had never set foot on any other land. The oldest of them was 18. The youngest was 13, but she was almost as large as the others. They spoke elegent English, but with a little burr on the r, which was explained by the fact that their name was Campbell. I asked them to take me to their mother, which they did, after inviting the gentlemen and sailers to follow. Some of the ground had a barren look, as if it were composed of lava or slag; but these were the higher portions of the island, and in the lower lands were very fruitful fields. These were in a high state of cultivation, and wheat was growing there and what you Americans call corn, and many kinds of vegetables. There were besides rows of bushes bearing small fruits, and some orchards composed of wild trees, which had been set out in an orderly fashion and cultivated. The house was part of stone and part of logs, all cemeted together so that no storm could penetrate it. It had no noticeable deliciency expecting the lack of glass. For, though small panes were set in the large wooden shutters, they were not great enough either as to size or as to numbers to furnish sufficient light. But they told me that it was seldom indeed that they had occasion to close these shutters. The interior of the house was wonderful. You cannot imagine the simplicity of it, or how much better and less material that simplicity seemed than all the wasteful and hampering elaboration we burden our homes with. A large, strong table, well shaped chairs, in which one might rest, but not lounge, a fine clock, a fire place, lamps without chimneys, but with large, round wicks, and a shelf of books-these were the furnishings of the apartment. An alcove showed shelves containing dishes, most of which were of baked earth. In the rear was a shed containing household and farming tools. A the side was a long room divided into several parts with rustic screens made of crooked twigs nailed on frames, and on the sides of these rooms were bunks for sleeping, filled up with sweet hay, and having stout elegant blankets of Scottish material, folded across the foot. They were blankets which would stand fifty years of use. The mother received us with some excitement, but with courtesy of manner, and confirmed my opinion that these were gentlefolk. Soon, the father came in with his four sons. One of these sons was about 17 years of age, but the rest were younger than the girls, and it was explained to me that the girls had been obliged to do a large part of the farm work, which accounted for their fine physical development. The father had been off the island on two occasions since he landed on it eighteen years ago. Both times he had been for supplies, and had ventured in a small boat, but had been brought back by a steamer. We could not learn from his conversation why he had chosen to isolate himself in such an extraordinary manner. He was a gentleman of education and of originality, and had a peculiar way of expressing himself, which made one remember everything he said. He was not without firtune, for he told us that he thought of sending his children to England to finish their education He had taught them Latin and even the higher mathematics, and he had also instructed them on the violin. All of the family also spoke French and Mr. Campbell said he had passed several years in Paris. When he and his wife were set off the steamer on this lonely island with their implements for farming and housekeeping they had no children. They said, indeed, that it had not occured to them that they would have children, and that they never dreamed of such happiness and peace as had come to them. It was, of course, apparent that they had some vital reason for leaving the world, but the person does not live, I suppose, who would have the tomerity to ask what it was. Both Mr. and Mrs. Cambell were persons of such dignity that I was almost temped to call their behavior majestic. I never saw royal personages behave with more statellness. They would have us all eay with them, and they gave us coarse bread from flour of their own making and plum sauce, potatoes, a sort of shade and tea of excellent flavor. Mr. Cambell had brought cattle to the island five years before, and we had butter, cheese and cream. We afterward saw his cattle, of which he now had five, two of them being young heifers which he had taught to wear a yoke and which were of great service in farming. You might have expected such people to be heavy in conversation, but they were the very contrary. Their manners of joking was quaint and strange. It reminded me of the jokes that were in fashion in Shakespeare's day, and as Shakespeare was one of their few books it is not impossible that they got the fashion from him. They laughed much and very musically. None of them wore hats. They had very few clothes on, but they did not give one the impression that they were unclothed. There was nothing about them that suggested the savage. None of them apologized for their manner of living. On the contrary, I felt impelled to apologize for mine so ignoble did it seem when compared with theirs We were taken over the island, which was a curious, volcanic formation, rising by a succession of grotesque hills to a considerable mountain, at the apex of which was a crater. But it was silent and cold, and we were told that we might go down into it with safety. Near the apex a sort of observatory had been built, and here. when any of the family had been to the far side of the island, they sometimes slept. As they had first landed on the island on the seventh day of the week, they called it a Sunday island, but it is not that Sunday island which is designated on the maps. In fact, I do not think the island we visited appears on the map at all. "When we had bade them farewell and got back to our vessel, the other members of our party were most incredulous. And it was only when we loaded a boat with delicacies to send ashore, that they would believe us. We also put in two books, one was Ben Hur and the other Bryce's American Commonwealth We would willingly have added many more, but we feared to disturb the serenity of those finely balanced minds. Caesar's Commentaries, the Illiad, Shakespeare, Burns, Cornelle, Fenelon, Milton, Racine, Rousseau and Wordsworth were not books easily companioned. There were of course, a number of modern books that I would gladly have sent them had I had copies with me, but it would have been sacrillege to have given them any of the novels with which we amused ourselves on shipboard. In return for our gifts we received a quaint and elegant note from Mr. Campbell. I suppose I shall never hear of this strange family again, but they impressed me more than any. Family that ever I met: and I like to remember and talk of them. For they were a little commonwealth to themselves They had no laws and were therefore perfectly moral-" "Dear me," I cried, "what an anarchistical sentiment!" The good lady looked suprised at herself, and to hide her confusion worked in a row of lilac on her canvas toilet bag. Elia W. Peattie.

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ALL FOR HUMANITY'S SAKE

A Story Told to Show the Good Which Comes of Good Action.

The Cruelty Practiced Against Dumb Animals -- Mrs. Peattie Writes of Something of Keen Interest.

Fanny was a gay little dog. She knew her tawny fur curled in ringlets all over her fat little body, and was quite aware of the fact that when she looked up at you quizzically from under her yellowish-brown bangs that you were sure to laugh.

In short, Fanny realized perfectly that she had in her the elements of popularity. She liked life, and her only grief was that she had not seen enough of it.

To be sure, wherever her Boy could take her he did. Fanny had noticed that almost every dog has a Boy, made, most obviously, to take the dog around and make fun for it. The trouble about Fanny's Boy was that he was away so much at school, and that after school, when any dog might expect that she would be taken out for a play, this Boy sat with his nose in a book. He managed, now and then, to stop long enough to scratch Fanny's ear, or feed her a lump of sugar. But this was but a trifling sop to a gay spirited little dog who wanted to see life.

It never occurred to Fanny that it was just as hard for her Boy to stay in as it was for her, or she might not have been so foolish as to lose her temper. Perhaps none of us would ever find it worth while to lose our temper if we knew all the pros and cons of the things that vox us. However that may be, Fannie got in a passion over her Boy because he was so slow; and because he seemed to prefer books to dogs -- although there was not a book in the whole library that could wag its tale, and stand on its hind legs and bark -- and so it came about that Fanny deliberately turned her back on the house where the Boy lived, and started off down the street.

The Boy's house was on one of those quiet streets in South Omaha, which look away over the river, and the groves of willows on the bottom lands, and, higher up, the groves of puny oaks upon the Nebraska hills.

Fanny cared nothing for this. She ran as hard as she could for the busy streets where the motors were, and where men and woman walked about in an excited way, and all sorts of delightful noises were going on. Fanny was so angry with her Boy that she made up her mind to look out for a new Boy, and when she saw a tall fellow, with a swagger and a cigar, come along, she decided at once that he was the sort of person who was likely to see life and that she would follow him. She had no sooner made up her mind to this than she saw him run and jump on one of those fascinating motor cars and a second later the car was whizzing away down the track, and Fanny was running after in a perfect gale of excitement.

On and on she went, like a puff ball of fur. How delightful to have got rid of that stupid Boy! At last she came to a sort of bridge. The cars made a hollow sound as they went rolling over, and Fanny could feel the bridge shaking under her. It frightened her a little, and she ran over onto the other track in her alarm, and then! -- Then for Fanny the heavens and earth came together, and a hell of pain tore at her tender body, and she heard the noise of the cars stop.

"What is it?" said a voice.

"Run over somethin''?"

"Nothin' but a dog."

"Throw it over the viaduct."

A man with a black face took Fanny by one of her torn legs and threw her down, down, till her crushed, cut body fell on the paving.

It was dusk already,, and the night soon fell. Men and women passed the little dog. Children came and looked at it.

Fanny screamed and screamed with the awful torment. She writhed back and forth like a worm in the dust. The night came. 'The trains thundered by. The little dog in her torment of thirst licked at the dew on her shaggy coat, Ah, the hours of torture! With morning a young man stooped over her, touching the broken limbs with tender hands. Then he left and returned with the water of which Fanny had been dreaming through those miserable hours. But now she was too weak to drink it. She could only look at it with agonized eyes. The young man understood. He lifted up the fainting head and poured water down the swollen throat. He put water on the little dog's forehead.

"Poor little wretch," he said, "I wish I had something to shoot you with."

Then he went away and the horrible torment went on. And at last, after hours of waiting there came a sudden sharp, terrible noise and shock, and the pain was over for gay little Fanny.

* * * * * * *

When the young man left the dog, which had been thrown from the viaduct, he telephoned to the police station:

"A dog was run over on the Sixteenth street viaduct last night. Some one threw it over the viaduct, and it has been lying there all night. It is suffering terribly. Can't you send a policeman down to kill it?"

The answer from the police station was:

"There is a policeman on that beat. It's his business to attend to it."

"But he isn't there," the young man answered. "I can't look all over for a policeman. I should think it was your business to --"

Whirr, whirr, whirr! The connection was rung off at the station, and the young man had to give up his attempt to relieve the little creature's sufferings, for he had to go to work. How much longer the groaning little dog laid there is not known.

* * * * * * *

But this much is known. If we had an operative society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, such suffering could be avoided.

* * * * * * *

The other day two drunken men drove a fine horse in front of a motor on Farnam street. The men were not injured. The big body of the faithful animal was almost cut in two. But with its splendid vitality it could not easily die. For hours it laid on that traveled thoroughfare, rocking its head back and forth in speechless agony, and now and then giving a sudden, awful scream of agony.

Why was it not shot?

Because a policeman is not allowed to use his judgment about shooting valuable animals, but must see the proper authorities to obtain permission first. And where "only an animal" is concerned a policeman is not apt to keep dinner waiting till he relieves such torture.

* * * * * * *

But if we had a society for the

[NEW COLUMN]

prevention of cruelty to animals the members would be possessed of both authority and gumption enough to shoot a horse, a part of whose entrails lay out upon the pavement.

* * * * * * *

Week before last a sweet young wife, who lives on a certain hill in this city, looking from her window, saw a cruel sight. A worn old horse was trying to drag up the steep incline of the hill a wagon laden with sacks containing some heavy material -- cement, possibly. The weight was too great for the horse, and it could make no headway up the hill. The foam about the bit, where it cut the mouth, began to be tinctured with red. Suddenly the man's irritation broke into ungovernable passion. He swore in a frenzied manner, and lashed the horse with a broken whip. Not content with that, he seized a board from under the seat and beat the struggling animal with that. The great pathetic eyes of the horse rolled in agony. The young lady could stand no more. She rushed out into the street.

"Please, please do not hit the horse again," she cried. He is doing the best he can! Do not hit him."

The man turned and looked at her.

"You -- -- -- -- !" he yelled, "this is my horse! And that is your house. Get in it and mind your own business!"

The lady fled before his obscene oaths, and endured the pain of hearing the blows fall harder than ever on the back of the silent animal.

* * * * * * *

The lady was helpless because she did not have a society back of her.

Now a society stands for a crystalization of public opinion. There is public opinion enough in Omaha to justify the forming of a society for the prevention of cruelty to animals.

The Woman's club realizes this, and is about to undertake the formation of such a society. But it feels that it cannot make a success of such an undertaking unless the men will give it their support; unless the lawyers will be willing to assist; unless the policemen are cordial to it, and unless men and women will assist in giving evidence and assisting in prosecutions against the brutes who abuse the dumb animals. Miss Carrie Millard has been elected by the philanthropic department of the club as the president of this proposed society, and any inquiries addressed to 1818 Capitol avenue will be gladly answered by her. She would also be grateful for any expressions of sympathy, that she may know where to look for assistance when it is needed.

* * * * * * *

It will be remembered that there used to be such a society in Omaha. But it has long been inoperative.

* * * * * * *

A little girl who lives not far from the High school has started a little society among her friends called "The Black Beauty Society," named, of course, after Anna Sewell's famous story of a horse.

The code as written out by this little girl, for the treatment of horses, is interesting. Horses, she says, do not like their reins cheeked high; nor do they like a load too heavy for their strength. They do not like to be driven too fast; nor to be made to go with loads up the hillside on the slippery pavements. Neither do they like to have their tails cut up into the flesh; nor to be driven when they are in a sweat. This little girl gives it as her opinion that a person who will clip a horses tail up into the flesh, thus cutting off the ends of the nerves, has no more sense than a snail, and ought to be put in jail -- an opinion in which she will have many supporters.

The idea of encouraging such societies of children has already occurred to the Woman's club, and it contemplates distributing pledges among the children of the public schools, by signing which, the children promise to abuse no dumb animal.

* * * * * * *

There must be many women in the city, who do not belong to the club, who feel deeply upon the neglect and abuse of animals which exist in this city. It is the earnest desire of the club members that such women should either join the club, or make themselves known as sympathizers of the movement.

This may be a good place to acquaint those interested in the work with the law upon the subject.

* * * * * * *

The state statute provides that the mayor and city council of municipalities shall legislate covering this evil. However, in a general way, under the head of domestic animals, it provides that the altering of ear marks or brands is punishable by a fine of not to exceed $50, and treble the damage of the party injured. Under the caption of killing or injuring animals of the value of $35, it provides that any person wilfully or maliciously killing or destroying any domesticated animal, the property of another, of the value of $35, or upwards, or shall wilfully and maliciously injure any of such animals, the property of another, to the above amount, the person or persons so offending shall be imprisoned in the penitentiary not more than three years, nor less than one year. For animals valued at less than $35, the punishment is a fine not to exceed $100, nor less than $5, or imprisonment in the county jail not more than three months, or both, at the discretion of the court. For poisoning, the penalty is a fine of $100, or imprisonment not to exceed thirty days.

The abuse most common -- abandonment -- is covered by section 67, which is as follows:

"Injuring Animals; Abandonment in Stormy Weather -- Any person or persons who shall wilfully or inhumanly beat, strike, kick, wound, kill or mutilate any horse, mule, cow, sheep, ox or swine, or any other domesticated animal not enumerated, or any person or persons, whether offender be owner, agent or servant, who allows his team, whether horse, mule or ox, to stand tied upon the street for a time longer than four hours in cold or stormy weather, to the injury of the said team, shall upon conviction thereof be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor and be punished by a fine for each offense, in a sum not less than $5 or more than $50. And it is made the duty of any sheriff, constable, or marshal of any city or village, or any policeman to immediately arrest any person or persons violating any provisions of the act without a warrant or any process, and to call upon bystanders or others for assistance when same may be necessary to consummate the arrest. Overwork and tormenting is also deemed a misdemeanor and is punishable the same as injuring or abandoning.

* * * * * * *

The city ordinance is:

Inhuman treatment of Dumb Animals -- Section 11. It shall be unlawful for any person to cruelly, inhumanly or unnecessarily beat, injure, overload or overwork, or to insufficiently shelter or feed any horse, mule or dumb animal, or to drive, ride or work, or cause to be ridden, driven or worked, any horse, mule or dumb animal, which, by reason of any deformity, injury or disease, or other cause whatsoever, shall be incapable of being ridden, driven or worked without suffering pain or great annoyance from such deformity, injury, disease or other cause, or to otherwise abuse any dumb animal within the

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[Drawing] II. So with an empty stomach, the Turk, In the early morning started hard at work.

[Drawing] III. He earns the mighty dollar acting rash, He assumes a Gould-like cute away his cash.

[Drawing] IV. But, like many worldly mon hard to keep, For it seems to want to leave sudden leap.

M

It is better to e by the investment Reliable House than life trial of Slavish vain attempt to sav sary to pay cash do a single advantage vations.

Terms T

On a bill of $10 one dollar cash and one dollar each week.

Special

[article continues here]

limits of the city of Omaha, or to encourage or urge any dogs or other animals to fight in said city, and every person violating any provision of this section shall, on conviction thereof, be fined not exceeding $50 or be imprisoned not to exceed thirty days.

* * * * * * *

It is probable that the subject of the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals will come up before the club tomorrow. ELIA W. PEATTIE.

ELINOR'S DILEMMA.

"We will not discuss this unfortunate subject any more today, Elinor, but I am certain if my daughter will consult common sense she will very soon see the wisdom of my choice."

Elinor looked out of the open window straight into the heart of a bed of nasturtlums growing beneath, without seeing any of their glowing beauty. Her eyes were misty with unshed tears. She made no effort to answer her mother's words.

For fully five minutes there was silence in the room. The soft rustle of a pencil drawn over paper, in the hands of a young girl who was drawing in the clear light of an east window, was distinctly audible. Dab, dab, went the broad pencil point on the soft paper. Mrs. Scott added at least three rows to the silk mitten growing in her supple fingers. Suddenly the gleaming needles were still, and of her own accord she again approached the subject she had herself dismissed five minutes before. She was evidently determined, womanlike, to have it out with her daughter.

Mrs. Scott was, in most respects, a sensible woman; and as the most sensible people will sometimes err in doing what they consider, under existing circumstances, to be their duty, let us not judge her harshly for insisting that her eldest daughter should encourage the attentions of a man so eligible as Lawrence Aldrich.

"You must tell me, Elinor, just what

THE MOCKERY OF MOURNING

Thoughts Upon Outward Signs of Inward Grief Prescribed by Convention.

They Will Disappear Only When Superstition Disappears and We Have More Culture

Why do women wear mourning?

They will reply, without a doubt, in order to make some outward evidence of their inner grief.

But the question arises, if this is so, why do not men also wear it? No one will maintain that they suffer less than women. Their hearts wear black much oftener than their hat bands do. They used, it is true, to wear it much more in former years than they do now. But at present, mourning is almost exclusively a feminine demonstration, and it is rather interesting, psychologically speaking, to inquire why women should still cling to this ancient custom, while men have almost abjured it.

Anyone who stops to think on the subject for a moment or two, will perceive that men have been the ones always to make progress toward greater spirituality in matters concerning death and burial. For example, it is the men, almost without exception, who are in favor of cremation, that hygienic and economical method of disposing of the dead. But women will have no crematories. They want a grave to weep over. They want a palpable, cold, long, grass-grown grave to put wreaths on, and at which they may sit and remember the virtues of the deceased.

It may be that this is not materialism, but it looks very much like it. Men seldom visit graves, except in the novels of Mrs Augusta Evans.

They had no solace for their woe in the purchasing of cheap flowers -- for women are very apt to exercise economy in these melancholy purchases and generally choose white carnations in preference to roses It is difficult, always, for a woman to be so prodigal that she will forget the limitations of her purse, and even when she purchases the flowery emblem of a broken life, she will pause to inquire the price, and to calculate whether or not she will have enough left over to buy the week's groceries. Of such details must the life of woman be compounded.

Mourning is a hard thing to reconcile with the sense of fitness of a woman who has really loved the person whose death she celebrates in wearing of her solemn garments Supposing, for example, that you had loved one man all your life -- loved him for the first time that you saw him and that you had married him, and that he was the father of your children and your constant companion, and, withal, your heart s dearest possession. And suppose that suddenly some day he should die And that you would have to face the fact that henceforth your soul must remain silent -- that it was stricken dumb -- that you must simply wait, through the rest of life, for the day of death, which might -- just possibly, might -- reunite you. And supposing, then, that you swathe yourself in black. You drape your garments in folds suggestive of woe, yards of black hang from the bonnet on your head, you see that every letter you write bears its silent evidence to your life's disaster, and even the pocket handkerchief with which you wipe your nose proclaims the fact that your condition is a sorrowful one. You regulate all these signs with a fine nicety. The width of the hem of your veil is regulated by inexorable fashion ; so is the size of the border of black on your handkerchief and your stationery.

The days drag on. Six months pass -- six little months. And what happens? You buy new writing paper with a border of black but half the width of that on which you wrote in the first dread days of your sorrow, you let out the hem of your veil, and divide its width, and you hasten to wear out the handkerchiefs with the wide border, and to get some with a smaller edging of black. For it is unnecessary to say that no woman, however rich, would think of setting aside or throwing away her handkerchiefs, even to oblige the tradition which has set its limit upon the sharpest hours of her grief, and told her when she ought to begin to appreciate the law of compensations No, no woman, in any transport, would throw away good handkerchiefs.

Very well; six more months pass And by Niobe! but gray and lavender take the place of blackest black! There is a flower in the button hole. One even wears a diamond or two. And a little later, and the costume of delicate or rich tints tells the world that your heart is mended and that you are ready once more to take part in the world's gayeties, and to laugh when others laugh. It would be very well, if your heart had really grown light in the same ratio that your garments have. But it's all a ghastly lie. The heart awakes at night to cry for the love it has lost Through all the world it goes, alone, and the cancer of loneliness eats at it always

Or, on the other hand, suppose that one nearly related to you -- perhaps, even your husband -- dies, and that you did not care in the least for him, and were secretly much relieved, though, of course, shocked, as we all must be at the fact of death. You were relieved to know that you were to be spared from possible shame, or from a life of lowering discontent, or from wranglings and deceits Such things happen, it is said. Then what a horrid, revolting, contemptible sort of a lie, to pull your mouth down to the proper angle of regret and hang yards of nun's yelling around you !

Whichever way you take it, it seems to be artificial, foolish, insincere and repellant. I don't say that everyone of us might not do it. But I insist that it is a bad thing to do.

Along with this wearing of weeds goes the tradition that the person thus afflicted absolutely must not enjoy herself. She cannot go to hear beautiful music. She must not attend any sort of a public gathering She cannot meet only a certain number of her friends at one time In short, she must apply no balm to her wounds She must steadfastly refuse to drink of the waters of Lethe.

It's all nonsense If there is ever a time when music has a message for one it is when the house has been made dreadful by that awful Absence -- it is when the yearning imagination hears in fancy the familiar foot on the stair, and shudderingly discovers the lie, and then recurs, with maddening mechanical repetition, to the same fantasy.

If ever the mimic life of the stage is really calculated to help one, it is when one is most anxious to forget the real life in which one is forced to live. If ever human companionship would be stimulating, it would be at a time when solitude was haunted with its newly made ghost, and when, in the persistent laughter of the rest of mankind, could be found life a grim, but wholesome philosophy.

I do not suppose that it is very surprising that women, even the most original and independent of them, come under the thrall of this imperative fashion and yield to it, when I consider that their failure to do so would lay them open to be suspected by other members of their sex of lack of affection for their dead. And that would be the one thing that no woman could endure patiently. A woman likes to be thought to be crushed by grief, even when she is not. She cannot bear to be thought disloyal, and she seems to think it a form of disloyalty not to love everyone that she might be expected to love, because of the accident of their connection with her. Woman insists upon having the world believe in her affections She would rather be suspected of wantonness than of hardheartedness And the world itself always receives with reluctance the idea of a coldblooded woman. Indeed, the world consents to be rather interested in her when she weeps It considers her very feminine when she is bathed in tears.

No one, I hope, is so dull as to inveigh against the sentimental. But there is a good deal of sentiment that is really of a very low and commonplace order, and that we would all be disgusted with if it were not so familiar.

But some day I really hope to meet a

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woman, who, when she loses her best beloved, will say:

"He is dead. And he is immortal. Burn that putrifying mass of flesh. It was dear to me once, for it held his soul. It is repulsive now, for it it vacant, and it is changing. I cannot weep over that vacant and repulsive tenement. What I remember is his soul, and that is not beneath the ground If I shed tears of loneliness it will be when I am looking at the stars -- beyond which I prefer to imagine that he is As for my dress -- black or scarlet -- what is it to me? I have not thought of dress. How could I pause to think of my bonnet when my love was making his way through space and the silence up to God! No, I shall tell the world n thing about my sorrow. It could not understand. It did not share my sacred joy while he lived. It shall not share my sacred grief now he is dead."

Some day, perhaps. I will know such a woman. But I never have yet.

As for funerals!

But the subject sickens one!

Carbolic acid and tuberoses, lachrymose hymes, and insincere clerical [?] A ghastly room round which the live things sit, looking with [?] eyes at the dead thing! Whispers going on in the room beyond, the house chilly for want of fire, nothing much to eat, everyone as faint with hunger as with grief, all sorts of people daring to try to console you with commonplace words, all sorts of lies circulating, amiable and otherwise -- Oh, most desolate, repulsive, wretched, material time, in which one has no pause to stop to hear the song of the liberated spirit who sings his song of victory above the bowed heads of those who weep!

I think going down to hang over the coffin of your dead before the curious eyes of casual neighbors, to whom you may lend your flatirons, but to whom you certainly would not lend your soul a secrets! Think of having them talk over, afterward, all your [?], incoherent utterances, and to know that they enjoyed your misery in proportion as it was demonstrative Not that they are cruel -- far, from it. But some persons cannot help their morbidity They like superlative conditions If they hear of a cyclone they want it to blow down all the houses in town; if they hear of a fire in a mine they want 200 miners imprisoned just where the sounds of their voices can reach those who are making futile efforts to liberate them; and if you lose a friend, they want it to wreck your life absolutely, and want you to let them see that it does!

No, no! It is all hideous, this public show of grief, this cant of the preacher who has to praise a man for qualities of which he knows nothing; this deliberate laceration of the tortured heart by the singing of mournful songs!

But when will we outgrow it? When will we go alone with our dead to some place where their perishing mortality may most quickly be made [?], refusing to make a spectacle of our grief for the inquisitive and the vulgar! When will we wear our grief in our hearts instead of ou our bonnets? When will we take the money we spend on wreaths for the dead, to buy bread for the living? When will we forget the material part of death to remember the spiritual part of it?

Truly, only when we have fewer superstitions and more culture than we have now. ELIA W. PEATTIE.

CHRISTIAN ENDEAVORERS.

The McCook District Societies Meet and Transact Business.

McCook, Neb , April 29 -- The district convention of the Young People's Society of Christian Endeavor opened here last night by a song service and address by Rev. D. L. McBride. The meeting this forenoon was chiefly a business meeting for the purpose of electing officers. Mr. A B. Colvm of Cambridge was elected president, C. J. Watson, McCook, vice president, Miss Maude Bodine of Orleans treasurer. The name of the convention was changed from 'Republican and Beaver Valley union" to "The Light McCook district convention" The address of welcome was delivered by C T. Watson and responded to by Miss Mayo Beaver of this city. This afternoon was occupied by committee conferences and reports The delegates here now number about thirty, from Holdrege, Cambridge, Alma, Beaver City, Indianols, Orleans, Loomis, Bertrand and many other neighboring towns

The hours of the convention were spent tonight in speechmaking by C. A. Burch, president of the Young People's Society of Christian Endeavor of Lincoln, and L. P. Ludden Mr. Ludden gave an elaborate description of the accommodations at Montreal in July at the National Young People's Society of Christian Endeavor. Tomorrow the convention intends spending the entire day in suggestions and fixing plans for the next convention.

CORN BELT EDITORS

They Will Meet in LeMars, and Will Have a Big Feast.

LeMARS, la, April 20 -- The Corn Belt editorial convention has been called to meet at LeMars, May 25 and 26. Newspaper men of the adjacent parts of Iowa, South Dakota and Nebraska will form the association, which it is expected will be organized at this meeting. A large number of those present were active newspaper men of the section, and are active in working up this first meeting.

The LeMars Polo club, the champions of the Missouri valley, will entertain the editors with a [?] game of polo, and the program will close with an address by Ignatius Donnelly and a banquet.'

A CANE TO VAN HORN

The clerks in the employ of Max Meyer and Bre company, as well as the head of the firm took occasion last evening to show their appreciation of M. M. Van Horn's services by presenting him with a goldheaded cane. Mr. Van Horn has been with the company for the last ten years, and his withdrawal from active work is a source of much regret.

A. Mandelberg, head clerk of the jewelry department, made the presentation speech, and Mr. Van Horn was taken entirely by surprise and expressed his thanks in reply.

The can was beautifully carved and bore the following lettering, "Presented to M M Van horn by His Associate Employes and Max Meyer and Bre Company, April 30, 1895." On the cap was also engraved the initials "M. M. V."

PENSIONS

WASHINGTON, D. C., April 29. -- Nebraska: Original, Henry Lewis, Albert Watrous, Greer Hair, Alanson Palmer, increase John Wier; original widows, etc, Sarah Meeds, minors of George W Howe, minors of Reuben H. Hurd, Sarah Watts Iowa: Original, Joel E. King, David [lrotter?]: additional, T. M. Bancroft, John Rasier, increase, [Evl?] Fuller, Augustus L. Moore, J. D. Denison: reissue, William P. Peterman, Milton Grabain, original widows, etc., Charles C. Hunting (brother), Kmiline King, Mary E. Keller, Rosalia Weyer, Polly Cartwright, Amy A T. Silcott, Laura E. Ellsworth, Melvins Randall.

RESISTED ARREST.

INDIANOLA, Neb , April 29 -- A tough named McKeever was shot here today while resisting arrest by City Marshal Crabtree. McKeever got into an altercation with a man named Green over reported indecent proposals from McKeever to Green's little 13-year-old girl. Green swore out a complaint and Marshal Crabtree, armed with a warrant, attempted to arrest McKeever and was resisted McKeever was shot in the leg, causing only a painful flesh wound, but he did not resist any long after the shot.

THE CIRCUS [?]

NORFOLK, Neb , April 29 -- The Hurlburt and Leftwich combined circus, which has made this [?] winter headquarters for two years gave this season's initial performance today to a crowded tent, not withstanding the cold weather The show has been greatly enlarged since last season.

A LITTLE FIGHT.

CHEYENNE, Wyo , April 29 -- A fight occurred among sheep herders in a Fort Steel saloon this morning John Calhoun, as American, was killed by a Mexican, who was badly wounded by Calhoun before he died

AMID ANCIENT VOLUMES

Down in a Cool Cellar Surrounded by Many Ancient and Interesting Books.

Who Some of the Omaha Buyers of Rare Books Are -- What lodge Savage's Taste Runs to -- Other Collectors.

Let Omaha hurry and fret as much as she chooses, the thermometer get as outrageous as possible, and stock go up till it intoxicates or down till it plunges in despair, there is one man who does not mind.

His name is Henry Schonfeld.

When it is cold Mr. Schonfeld has a fire in his stove. When it is hot he takes off his coat and alts in the shade just without his door. Past him the crowds hurry. All around him men are fretting and planning, and wondering when rest will come from the pressure and the fever. Now and then some of these hurrying mortals stop before Mr. Schonfeld's door, linger a moment, get a damp and soothing smell from within and descend his steps.

Then for half an hour they, too, find rest.

And the secret of it is that Henry Schonfeld is a dealer in old books. He deals with an interesting past. He is surrounded by that dim and pacifying title "Antiquarian." It is ten years now since his [?] first bore that legend, and the first man lured into Mr. Schunfeld's little hole-in-the-ground by its allurements was Mr. James Ross who, was everyone knows, is a writer of charming light verse, a bohemian, a book collector and a newspaper man.

Ten years ago Mr. Ross came into the store, which had already been in existence for eleven years, but not as a concern of its present nature, and bought a copy of "Melanchton's Commentary."

"I remember quite well how it looked," says Mr. Schonfeld. "It was in a stamped vellum [?] and printed in 1530. Mr. Ross paid $15 for it." From that time to this Ross has been an almost daily visitor to the shop. He likes the coolness of it, and the dull roar from the street and the dimness of the light, and the faint but unmistakable odor of old paper, dear to the nostrils of the collector.

Poetry is usually Ross' choice -- and Mr. Schonfeld has had some rare old volumes in the course of the years.

Mr. Charles Offutt, the well-known attorney, likes to pick up women of rich exterior and classical interior, and does not object if it is a wanderer from some famous library, which, having gone the way of all libraries and suffered wreck, floats over to this country as the flotsam and jetsam of literature. There is the same delight in securing a book which has drifted about on the seas of vicissitudes that there must be in pulling in a cask of Spanish gold out of the surf to one engaged in the polite occupation of wrecking.

The writer has never had any experience with the Spanish gold exploits, and the reference is purely imaginative, but as to hauling in a book which has rested on the shelves of a great man and been touched by distinguished hands, and taking it home with a pleasure almost guilty to place it on meagre and common shelves, amid exceedingly unpretentious surroundings, she knows all about that. In the first place there is the pleasure of exulting over the book for its down fall.

"Oh, Book!" you say to yourself in the quie of your midnight hour. "to think that Wadsworth has read out of you, written in you, thought about you, and that you have sailed the high seas of his approbation to end at last on such a dull lagoon as this. Here you are, the possession of a born foo, who never had an extraordinary thought, who never did any good to anybody, who cannot even understand the best in you, although dimly she knows that there is in you some way and some where a virtue, if only she had the wit to find it! Book! Isn't it humorous? Do you not wish you were dead, like the majority of books?"

Then you open the pages and imagine you smell mould, and you are delighted at a few brown and sinuous worm holes, which are to a book what the Indian trade mark is to an oriental shawl, and you are happy.

Then too, you have another reprehensible pleasure, -- even more malicious than the one of exulting over the fallen Book. It is a sensation such as the thief must have over his stolen goods. You never feel quite honest about your Book. You know that if all had gone well you would not have had that Book. In a way it does not belong to you. It was another man's brain that first perceived its excellence. It was another man's hand that proudly wore his name -- as like as not a name with a creat above it -- and you have stolen the fruits of his discrimination, and appropriated his intellectual delight, while he poor soul lies rotting -- at least [?] grey matter does. And you laugh a sardonic, contemptible laugh, that you, plain and stupid John Smith have that book, with its crest, its number, its many evidences of having belonged to a man of great worldly and intellectual estate, and that the earl who owned it can be dust while John Smith --, is a living, breathing man -- in the flower of his meanness. Under some circumstances it is better to be John Smith than to be an earl. And one of them obviously is when John Smith is eating and the earl is being eaten -- to borrow a phrase that Judge Cooley will recognize as having been invented by his friend Hamlet.

The judge buys books, by the way. They are mostly political works. He does not confine himself to American politics in his selections. Of course Mr. Byron Reed buys works on American numismatics. If Mr. Reed were in the heart of darkest Africa, he would still be hunting for works on numismatics. Few men living have the right to plume themselves over Mr. Reed on their possession of a library on this subject in particular.

Mr. Arthur II. Bishop, the manager of the Consolidated tank line company, buys works on art, and he is not satisfied with an artistic interior, but must have a binding which will gratify the eye. No man in the city is a better up in the intricacies of dentile edges. Illumination, the treatment of tree calf and the use and history of the tall piece. He likes the elaborate illustrations of the second empire, the microscopical colored plates of the directory and the fine old margins of the careful publications of the English presses in the last century.

Brad Slaughter, the United States marshal, prefers works on art to works of art. R. W Breckenridge, the attorney, is a general reader and does not object to having the dust of a hundred years on the books he buys. He is fond of works of travel, and takes journeys by land and sea, with many great and brave men without the necessity of leaving his library. Mr. F. I. Haller likes a saunter on the cool basement where Mr. Schonfeld smiles upon Philistine and philosopher and buys extensively of works on art, particularly those relating to the old [?].

Judge Savage used to haunt the place. He was buying Shakespeareans. His collection in this direction is most exceptional. Lately he has not visited the place. His collection is doubltess complete.

Judge Bartholomew looks in almost every day. He is a fastidious reader and is not willing to insult his shelves with any but first rate books. He calls that nothing good may get away from him. But he knows what he wants, and is not to be deluded by any cheap pretense at peculiarity or excellence that any impudent book may make. The judge used to buy American biographies, but he has doubtless got his fill of American worthies -- that is, of those who are dead. It is an odd fact, by the way, that one is apt to be indifferent to contemporaneous biography. The life of Grant was an exception -- but that was an autobiography. But as a general thing one wishes his heroes to be dead at least fifty years before one reads about them. There is no objection to appreciating a recently dead hero, or even one who labors under the disadvantage of being alive, but when it comes to reading about him itis quite a different matter. A hero, like wine, is best laid away for a century. At the end of that time he acquires a fine flavor. Judge Bartholomew has no doubt got down to the last part of the nineteenth century, and is now buying the spick and span volumes that come from the eastern presses. But he probably finds his pleasure in biography diminished when he purchases the lives of the men whom he has known -- or all but known.

Charles Brown, the attorney, likes elegant light literature. "The Rev. John Williams, priest at St. Barnabas, turns a scholarly and critical eye on Mr. Schonfeld's book shelves, and sorts ou such works on philosophic and theologic subjects as he inclines toward. No doubt Mr. Williams looks remarkably well in an old book shop with that ascetic and fine face of his, and and those piercing blue eyes in which burn the fires of intellectual activity, never ceasing. His long linen duster no doubt slips back from the shoulders, his broad rimmed pannama gets pushed to the back of his head, and the good gentleman turns upon the books that magnificent concentration of his which makes him a marked man in this community -- a striking figure standing out from the commonplaceness of the clergy in particular and humanity in general, "like a good deed in a naughty world" or a panel of Correglo among the chromos of a hideously inventive ge. Father Williams doesn't like nonsense, and he will, of course, consider all this horrible nonsense. But he may allow the indulgence of it, simply for the pleasure it gives the writer, who is never better pleased than to see his long figure, graceful, severe, scholastic, whether leaning over the azure cloth on the altar of his quaint little church, speaking with his simple and beautiful positiveness, or strolling with long strides down the street with his fishing rod over his shoulder, and on his lips the general smile which includes all mankind -- even his enemies. There is one thing certain, if Mr. Williams resents these remarks, then he was only himself to blame, for he permitted himself to be bore remarkable.

It is a far cry from Father Williams, the most profound churchman of this city, to Fred Nye, the bohemian, but they both like books and know books -- which, perhaps, is their only bond -- unless the controversial babit, so well developed in both of them, can be called a bond. Mr. Nye likes humorous books, and he knows a quaint thing in old-time wit when he sees it, and has a fellow feeling, no doubt, for the man who used to jest before he was born. Perhaps these old wits have taught Mr. Nye something of that felicitous style of his. No inclination to go on the stage has ever been observed in young Mr. Henry Estabrook. None of his friends have been anxious to run him as Hamlet. But he has undeniably a fondness for dramatic literature. He likes historical and philosophical works also. Frank Irvine, the attorney, is a great book worm. He has no specialty. He buys for the pleasure of reading something entertaining. His book shelves are liberal, and so long as the company is good, he cares not what country his book guests come from, what they preach or what age they reflect. He only insists that they shall belong to the elite of literature, though he is not above taking in some one who has previously been unrecognized, and would take a distinct delight in reading a delicious book which the rest of mankind had not had the discernment to discover to be delicious.

R. S. Erwin likes biographies of statesmen and of celebrated lawyers. He wants to see how the great jurists have risen.

James B. Maikle likes works on oratory and he still finds the best wisdom in the ancient classics. The eloquence and the wisdom of the present are a little too flip for him.

Mr. C. W. Stockton, who is the chief of clerk of Wells-Fargo express company, is a man with a terrible appetite -- not for drink, but for something far more inexhaustible -- books. He reads and he buys -- no doubt he also borrows and reads -- but whatever comes he reads. He is not a specialist. His trained intellectual organs, accustomed to feats of endurance, can digest anything. No doubt he has gone from Kant to E. P. Ros and from Virgil to Will Carleton.

Mr. Homer P. Lewis, the principal of the high school, takes nothing warmer than philosophical works. Mr. Cavanaugh, the attorney, selects with critical taste such belle lettres as represents the most delicate expression of the age in which it is written. And there are many others -- chance visitors, who go out of the glare of our white streets and our relentless sun and hide a wee in the pleasant dimness of the shop of Henry Schonfeld.

Mr. Sconfeld has some funny experiences now and then. The other day a mild looking old gentleman came in. His voice was very insinuating. His smile was propitiating.

"How much do you pay," he asked in a confidential manner, "for books half an inch thick and six inches long?" He looked grieved when he learned that books were not ordinarily estimated in that manner, and could see no reason why they should not be. IT is not infrequent for a person to come into the shop and say: "I have a lot of books to sell. What are they worth to you?"

Several times in the course of his experiences Mr. Schonfield has had persons come in and say in a disgusted tone: "I've got some books up at the house and I want to know what to do with them." Mr. Schonfeld has some times suggested that it would not be a bad plan to read them. Boks are considered a very embarrassing possession by a large number of persons. They are not sufficiently marketable to recommend themselves.

One of the many amusing incidents of the old book trade here is connected in a way with Judge Savage. An old woman brought a quantity of school books in Mr. Schonfeld's in a market basket. She took them out to display them, and made a bargain with Mr. Schonfeld. One book she did not take out of the basket.

"What's that you have there," Mr. Schonfeld asked.

"Well," said she in rather a shamefaced manner, "I guess I won't take that out. It's so old I'm ashamed to show it to you." The book dealer helped himself to it It was printed in Latin, and was printed fifty

A Beautiful Ha

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This elegant whee grade of the machine m

A "SAFE

It is equally suita machine of the day.

years after printing was invented. Mr. Schonfeld preserved an impassive face.

"I will pay you $2 for it," said he. The old creature was delighted. She had not dreamed of such a windfall. Mr. Schonfeld kept it for a long time. No one seemed to want it. He concluded that he had not stuck the right market for it, and was glad finally to offer it to Judge Savage for the same price that he paid for it. The judge showed it to a number of his friends.

"It's worth $500 if it is worth a cent," they cried. There was a unanimity of sentiment on this point that rivaled a Greek chorus.

The judge went abroad in course of time and took the book with him. All of his friends over there said:

"You ought to get $300 for it."

"All right," said the judge, after the subject had become osmething of a bore. "I am willing. Give me [$500?] for it." But his friends cools at the proposition, and it is said that the judge still has the book on his hands -- and that it is still indubitably worth $500. ELIA W. PEATTIE.

A WARNING TO HOUSEWIVES.

Washington Star: A lump of ice will be mist very soon these warm mornings.

THOUGHTS IN SORROW.

These light afflicational must I then resign The name of mighty woe for grief like mine? I paused a moment, for my anxious hoart Seemed from its long-worn burden both to part. Then I remembered days and nights for [?]. Whose secret bitterness no friend might know I thought of my fond affections vainly [burst?]. Of [?] [?] that rose and glittered but to burst; Of secret struggles with unconquered sin; Of all the mighty warfare yet within! "But for a moment" sorrow seemed to stay, Through many a weary hour and live-long day;

Each opening month renewed the secret tear, And memory claimed it each revolving year. "But for a moment," could I read it right? And must I reckon these afflictions light? I looked again, and [?] before my sight There lay, in vision stretched, the land of light! There were the living streams, I heard them roll. And softest gladness rushed across my soul; I heard the ransomed wake their golden lyres. And living music breathed from all their wires. I would have learned their praise, but 'tis not given To [?] car to catch the notes of heaven. High on those hills I saw the rainbow zone That guards with circling light the golden thrones.

I gaze intently, but my beable sight was dimmed and dazzled by such cloudless light: For I am weak, and may not vainly dare That far exceeding weight of joy to share. O, 'twas not floating [?] -- no changeful day Marked how those blissful moments stole away.

The love, the joy, the praise could never cease;

Where every echo hymed sternal peace! Then I returned to weigh my grief again With that unbounded glory. O, 'twere vain, I might compare a bubble with a sphere, A heaving ocean with a trembling tear. Yes, I can reckon earthly things like this. But not my fleeting woe with endless bliss! Yet, "crushed before the moth," I seek relief

Beneath the present load of pressage grief.

* * * * * * * *

My pitying Savior, sympathy like thine Distille its healing balm with power divine; The depths of human woe to Thee are known, And Thou canst pity -- tears were once thine own.

O, leave me not to sink in faithless fear -- Let me thy gentle voice in whispers hear; THose hills of light are now thine own abode, They faithful band has marked the onward road.

Lead Thou are, and when my thankful voice shall raise

Its first glad anthem of unfaltering praise, I'll own the love that could such plane employ And work from "light afflictions" endless joy.

W. DOUGLASS CLAYPOOL.

A THANKSGIVING STORY

(Copyrighted 1904 Dally Story Publishing Company)

Dick Halliday and [?] criteria for the Port was a visitor for natural exits. They used to say of him that he cared less about how en actor deported himself on the stage than the manner in which he quitted it. It had read his stuff--we offices-with admiration and envy. I had aspiration in the way of dramatic criticism myself, and felt I would sacrifice almost anything if by doing so I could enjoy such opportunities as Halliday's. Imagine, then, with what a confusion of feelings I learned from the managing editor of the piper that Dick Halliday had himself made an Unexpected and involuntary Exit-as natural as life or death- and that I was invited to take his position.

Under the circumstances I thought it only decent to restrain my eagerness. I waited an interminable half day, you put on a suit of black and presented myself at the Post. I was installed in the office of the dead man I hung my coat upon his nail. I patin his chair before his desk. I pick up his pen and dipped it in his inkstand. Then I started at it and wondered if it would ever drove as trenchant, as discriminating as devoted to the ideals of art as it had been in hand which were now insert. I had not know Halliday personally, but I has admired him and sympathized with him for years. I had a right to feel regret at the quenching of his mind-or, at least. the destruction of the body which served as a medium for that reckless spirit, that peculiar imagination! I leaned back in Lick Halliday's chair, musing so, and stared at DicK Halliday's desk.

It was the desk of an orderly man. There were labels on the pigeonholes to a the effect that 'live matter' could be found here and "advance matter" there, "biography" in one place and "obituary" in another. I found a cataiogue of photographs and the photographs in a cabinet. Then I openrd the drawers of the desk. Here was a quantity of stationery some smoking tobacco, a meerschaum pipe, somewhat burned in the coloring, a clean collar and two folded handkerchiefs, half a dozen packages of letters and a memorandum book. The personal articles I took at the maraging editor.

NOT FINISHED

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

A ROMANCE OF THE SUPERNATURAL.

By Mrs. Elia W. Peattie.

CHAPTER IX.

"Good God man, I cried when we were really on the outside and beyond the hearing of the council chamber, "they permit you to depart! They think you will be fool enough to return to be murdered for the crime of exercising your own personal liberty'

De Vega turned on me with a look of pride and reproach

'Brother, we of Bimini obey the law

'You mean that you will tamely go to be murdered'

'Worse would follow than that which threatens, if I did not obey my fate For, understand, it is the decrees of fate which I bow to One of your race cannot understand this as can an Indian My death was designed when the plan of the ages was unrolled Were I to try to mar this plan I would bring disaster to all connected with me I would have no happiness if I should live, knowing that like a coward I had run form death Broth try to understand Not only would I be an outcast from society, but a haunted man as well surrounded by the spirits of the infernal regions who could consort with me and call me their companion For they also have thwarted the will of the great spirit This is the greatest crime an Indian can commit No brother I will be courageous and true Then there can be no punishment and as for the pain of a few moments -- that is nothing It cannot compare with the pain that I have suffered in my heart for months. Death you see has no terrors for me'

We found Bryan and Bridges waiting under the shade of a tree They read in our faces all they cared to know and sadly followed behind us Bryan leaning heavily on his friends arm

As we neared the house, there sprang suddenly from behind a huge cactus plant a little brown body that sped toward us with the speed of some wild animal It was Sin De Vegas face lighted up when he saw him he ran forward to meet him and the two spoke together for a moment

You will not fail me" De vega called back twice as we walked on

By the sign of my fathers,' cried Sin in his pure Seminole, 'I will be there A tiger" -- and he drew up his beautiful little body proudly 'A tiger never forgets what he was promised'

De Vegas hospitality was in no way relaxed when we returned to his lodge. Those elaborate formulas of welcome which the etiquette of his race required were repeated in tones of the most convincing sincerity Dinner was served for us in the long cool dining hall -- fowl fruit the wild potato and koonti -- made into pudding with the aid of strong but savory eggs of some wild bird

From the time we left the state house, we had been the object of curiosity A great crowd of people were waiting for us without the door of the council chamber but so deep in grief was I at the position of my friend that I saw them with undiscerning eyes and only gathered confused visions of stately, slow-moving figures, wrapped in bright colored garments redolent with strong and spics perfumes Many of these followed us as we returned along the avenue of palms, but their curiosity was not of that morbit sort which a crowd of my own countrymen would have displayed It was evident that the people of Bimini did not rejoice in the sorrows of others Their commiseration made itself felt somehow As we sat at dinner a low murmur that came in through the window informed us that many of the people had gathered in the garden Indeed we had not finished our meal before word was brought De Vega that his miners hearing of his return had come down from the mountain to consult with him De Vega sent word that all in the garden were to be served with fruits and wine, and then resume dhis quiet and courtly attention to us

'Brothers, he said, 'I shall this afternoon prepare my testament and make a written disposal of all of which I am possessed as is the law My kinsfolk are few and they have more than their needs Therefore I shall only leave them reminders of my regard I have also a few faithful servitors who deserve something from my hand But you my sworn friends, who have entered my country and my home under circumstances so peculiar, shall have that which will give you a place in the commonwealth The Adelantado himself will not dare disregard you when you stand possessed of the only mine containing gold in the country and control a body of men who know no fear At the same time it will be a great pleasure to me to know that the tasks which I have undertaken will be worthily carried on and that the men who have so long worked for and with me will continue to have masters who will consider their good

At this moment the servant whom we had first seen when we approached De Vegas house entered the room His manner in spite of that stately [?] which it was always his ambition to maintain betrayed excitement

Father said he there awaits without the Lady Opaka and her train

I know not how it was but at this information each of us sprang to his feet De Vega turned white under his swarthiness Bryan still weak from his illness trembled in sympathy with De Vega I felt as if a hand were at my throat This woman whom the governor of the land thought it worth his while to denounce for political reasons -- this woman who had such a fatal influence over my poor friend and who seemed to contain in herself the knowledge of letters of which her race was ignorant who was in fact the disturbing element of this placid land -- it well to meet and know her' There thoughts poured hotly through my brain and yet I knew and I admitted to myself that I would not for anything the world had to offer have left that roof knowing she was under it without seeing her

Come with me, I dare not meet her alone, said De Vega in a strained voice He paused to drain another glass of the mulberry wine and then, after two or three laboring breaths drew himself up flung apart the curtains at the door and entered the other room

In the white lights of noon backed by the gray panels of the apartment stood a group of women Their dark and innocent eyes were turned on us Their [?] bodies obtruded themselves through the white [?] of their garments As we entered on of them parted from the group and glided toward De Vega with hands outstretched I saw a terrible look shoot into the Indians yes -- such a look as a spirit might wear, which though the murky gloom of an inferno beholds heaven Then he roused himself and accepted the hands which the lady extended toward him

"Opaka" [?] athed

'My brother sobbed the lady I have come in ask for pardon I have committed a crime It is I who am responsible for all this evil which has fallen on you'

"Lady' said De Vega sternly, you were the servant of fate Such words as you speak do not accord with all that you have taught me It is your teachings which have fortified me You will surely not be the one to disprove those lessons which I learned so well, and which are now my only consolation

But she did not heed his words

I will go before the council she protested, they shall reconsider They shall place the blame where it belongs

My dear lady cried De Vega in anxiety make yourself no more enemies than you already have Interfere not in this matter Already I have heard that Padre Anton whispers Hes among those who will lend ear to [?] Dear lady, beware! Thnk only of yourself My death is nothing Have you not yourself taught me that death is better than life when life has ceased to be beautiful?

But what a death, my brother [?]'

Hush hush!'

'Oh let me plead for you Do not deny me this one little thing! It will quiet my spirit, which is torn with remorse'

'Lady, if I lived, could you love me?"

The imploring eyes which had been lifted to his dropped suddenly A flush spread over the face and the stately [?]

But -- but she protested falteringly, there is life poetry, philosophy, friendship'

Beautiful teacher interrupted De Vega you have many pupils who think that they learn from you the principles of truth But I am your best pupil for I have learned from you the great truth which is love and beside which all else is nothing -- or rather but a part of this great whole of love Do you understand me? I separate this guava into fifty parts and I call these parts by splendid names -- duty philosophy sacrifice, poetry beauty life health but when I join them all then Ic all them love Love is the perfect thing my teacher Your pupil has outgrown you You who once instructed now need instruction You are as one who walks in the twilight in a strange land But the morning will dawn for you! Yes, by the great spirit I seem to know, by some power which I cannot explain to you, that it will soon dawn

'And then' grasped the lady drawing her white wrappings about her as if she shrank from something terrible

Then went on De Vega, 'you will no longer teach You will no longer write You will merely live And you will read what you have written of this mystical five with amazement and your own words will mean to you what have never meant before And in place of a wealth of things to say your tongue will stammer And your pain will be sweeter than your joy is today, and your joy will ever be seasoned with pain"

The lady drew an end of her floating vesture up over her face with a gesture such as mourners use

'No more, my friend I whispered 'no more for mercy's sake The lady heard my words She dropped her velling and looked at us courteously

These are my friends and brothers" said De Vega, and he told her our names She bowed low to each of us Bryan, supporting himself by the back of a seat, had not once removed his eyes from her

You are ill," she said, extending one hand compassionately Bryan lifted the hand to his lips for answer I involuntarily started De Vega turned away, but not before I had seen a vein in his forehead suddenly swell out as if it had been struck a blow

"Tomorrow" she said "while the sun and moon still look at each other in heaven, you shall be healed There is no need of bodily suffering here for him who chooses to live as the Adelantado dictates' -- Here her voice took on a tone of bitterness 'It is only diseases of the mind that we find it hard to cure' she added

"And the lady Opaka said De Vega is the great physician

God is the great physician He and his chosen priests" cried a fierce voice The band of white-robed maiden attendants started with little screams of terror Opaka turned with a lock of superb indifference and faced the speaker

'Padre,' said she, coldly, 'Truth is the physician, come to us how it may It is the guide to heaven Truth which is afraid of nothing, which, instead of denying finds the uses of created things, even the uses of death and sin

There is no use for sin returned that harsh and melancholy voice intensified now by the hatred which its owner could not disguise 'Nor for death Nor yet for false teachings

At this remark, which was intended to be a direct challenge to Opaka De Vega started forward, but the priest fixed the Indian with a look from his piercing and repellant eyes and advanced toward him holding on high an ebony crucifix

'This is truth, cried he and as he passed Opaka he gathered up his skirts with one hand

Aye, so it is, padre said Opaka but not as you understand it, for the truth which it teaches is as a precious stone hidden deep within the mountain, and you are not the man to find it"

She bowed in token of farewell to each of us

"I will see you whenever you choose' she said to De Vega, "and I trust you will tell your friends that they are welcome at my lectures"

She smiled serenely on the muttering and frowning priest and beckoned her band of maidens to follow her But at the door she turned once more

Padre," she cried, significantly "why do you not come out in the sunshine?"

The visage of the priest grew blacker, and he crossed himself as the maidens wended their way beyond the scarlet-leaved plants on the veranda

'Brother,' whispered De Vega, seizing me by the hand, "by our oath of friendship see that no harm comes to her'

(To Be Continued)

IN THE HOTEL LOBBY

Mr. B F Smith is stopping at the Paxton Mr Smith is one of those who saw the possibilities of Omaha property and invested in it years ago and has wisely held on to it in spite of the cry of hard times and the yells of the calamity howlers Although living in New York at present he gives it out cold that his belief in Omahas future is as yet unshaken and that he intends to hold on to the property which he owns here In talking of what he considered necessary to the highest advancement and development of Omaha and what she needs more than anything else he said.

What Omaha needs more than anything else just now is this During the boom she branched out into an extended city government in all its branches and departments, enlarging her forces sufficiently to conduct the government of a city of 300 000 population The city has all that machinery in working order today, costing a large sum of money to meet the current expenses During all this, while as every one knows there has been an [?] increase in the value of real estate and a consequent decrease in the revenue from rentals taxes have been kept up to the maximum to support such machinery If this state of things continues the inevitable result will be as every sane person must know disastrous The city government should reduce its expenses and reduce its working force in every department just as any round business house

WAS NOT A PARTISAN FIGHT

Mrs. Peattie Explains Wherein the Women Voters Were Misled.

Suggests That THree of the Gentle Sex Enter the Next Race by Petition.

Reasons Advanced Why a Woman Should figure on the Board of Education -- False Accusations.

The election is over, and the republicans have won. There's nothing disastrous in that. it is to be hoped that it will always be safe for any party of Americans to win. No one can possibly believe that more than half of the nation -- or less than half of it -- is in league against good government. The parties in America represent different points of view, but it is to be hoped that they do not represent different degrees of patriotism.

The women in this city have had a peculiar interest in the last election, owing to the fact that they had a candidate of their own. That candidate has been defeated, along with the rest of those who were upon the democratic and populist tickets. And I am so fearful that the women will therefore feel discouraged, and lose their interest in the office for which this candidate was nominated -- that, however much I may be accused of bad taste, I must publicly write a few words to reassure them.

In no one branch of civic work is woman so much needed as in that which supervises the Schools. It is [?] and appropriate that she should be there. Her duties will not be of the same sort as those which the men assume. The men may attend to the finances in a general way, and dole out the janitorships to their political henchmen. But the women can make it their business to become acquainted with the life of the school room; they can look after the comfort of the children, the welfare of the teachers, and the moral and intellectual instruction. The task will be large, but noble. And certainly patriotic women should not be debarred from performing a public service now and then. It is a service, to be sure, which must be performed without any reward. It lays the performer open to much criticism. Where a woman is concerned success on the school board does not mean the opening of wider opportunities. Nothing but disinterestedness can prompt her to assume such responsibilities. It will therefore be seen that for many reasons she will be a valuable acquisition.

The present defeat has been the result of the partisan feeling among the women. More than half of the women who voted cast their ballot for the republican ticket, preferring a republican rather than one of their own sex upon the board. This was probably unexpected to those who first conceived the idea of securing the nomination of a woman candidate. There was nothing partisan in the attitude of that candidate. Nor could she conceive what partisanship had to do with the duties which are to be performed upon the school board. A democrat or a republican ought to be able equally well to look after good morals, fine instruction good ventilation and thorough system. Opinions on the tariff do not affect ones interest in childhood, nor do differences concerning the ratio of silver and gold currency affect one's ability to judge of text books. But the women seem to have thought otherwise, and to have been indifferent to representation upon the school board, so far as representation lay in sex. And they have defeated their own candidate.

They did not pause to consider, or did not know, that that candidate was nominated by independent petition, and was at first associated with no partisan ticket, and that her indorsement, first by the populists, and then by the democrats, was a matter of courtesy on the part of the respective conventions, and that she would have as cheerfully been indorsed by any party at all. She could not, infact, see that party affiliations had anything to do with the matter.

But to consider further the causes of defeat; The candidate of the women was a writer -- and for six years has written daily for the World-Herald. During those six years she has written one long signed article a week, and these articles have been each of them upon a different subject. If to write a book is to oblige one's enemies, what can be said of the obligingness of a woman who tells what she thinks upon every subject that arises during six busy years? Could any person do that without arousing much personal antagonism? Or, indeed, could any person do that without making many close and true friends?

As I said before, it may be bad taste to refer to this. But I do it only because I wish to speak upon the successes that we shall have in the future. Supposing that at the next election of members for the school board three women instead of one are nominated, and that they are women older, more conservative, and of better education than myself. Supposing, for example, that those women were Mrs. Hanchett, the wife of the physician; Mrs. Keyso, the wife of the juudge, and Mrs. F. F. Ford, president of the Woman's club. The first is distinguished for her learning, and her conduct of private classes of students of women. She has a love for all related to pedagogy which nothing can destroy. The second has been a teacher in the High school, and has also conducted private classes, and is now one of the most esteemed and intellectual members of the Women's club. The third is a brilliant woman and one of the most public spirited in the city. There are many other women who might be mentioned, but I have spoken of these three, almost by accident. If they were to be nominated together by petition, and not attached to any party, but run simply as the women's candidates, and the women were to vote -- which only about a third entitled to a vote, did, at the past election -- they would get in with the help of the men who believe that women should be represented on the school board.

The disagreeable personal features which have arisen in my case would not arise in theirs. They would not, in one breath, be accused of being atheistic and Roman Catholics. Nor would any of the other absurdities which have gained credence concerning me be said about them. For I have been a woman of radical thought and life, and it has not met with the approval of many women, who are, by nature, conformists in every sense of the word.

Some of these misrepresentations have been very amusing. It has been said, for example, that I was the candidate of the World-Herald, because the World-Herald wished to have a member of a particular church -- a church of which, by the way, I am not a member on the board. It seems as if it would take an intellect of low order to believe that, yet many persons of presumable intelligence did so. What benefit would the World-Herald derive from any communicant of any church on the school board? No one can imagine any benefit that would arise. Besides, I was the candidate of the women, and not of the World-Herald, though that paper has been kind enough to support my candidacy, for which I thank it. It has also been said that I was an atheist. It is impossible to understand how anyone could think that, for I have never written a line, nor lived an hour, nor performed an action, when I was not conscious of the fact of God.

It was commonly said, too, that I was eager for election that I might increase my income. As no salary was attached to the office, and as the duties attendant would consume valuable time, may I ask how it would be possible that my income should be increased?

It was alleged that I was spending money for my election. The women supporting me spent $15 for cards such as all the candidates had. They gave their time and they loaned their carriages. That is the extent of the outlay.

These denials seem superfluous -- even amusing. But if people are so unfair or so stupid as to make them, perhaps I may be excused for being tedious enough to deny them. There were other tales -- fairy lore, perhaps, they might be called -- which I will not deny. It would be an insult to the intelligence of Omaha and a reflection upon the good sense of those who nominated me to do so.

But there is strength in numbers, there is strength in continued and persistent effort. Moreover, this fact is to be taken into consideration, that since I have the good fortune to have freer access to the columns of the daily paper than any other woman, I could exercise some influence with women were any other than myself the candidate for office. In a way, our cause has been handicapped this election by the fact that our efforts were voiced by no woman in the daily papers, although the efforts made in the Woman's Weekly by Miss Mary Fairbrother undoubtedly brought very palpable results.

No, there is no cause whatever to be discouraged. Next year must see us with women on the school board. We have learned several things this year, and will profit by the knowledge. We have learned among other things that the foreign vote will always be largely against us, particularly the German vote. Germans cannot divorce themselves from their old prejudices. They think that women should be in the home and nowhere else. We will have to wait till their sons grow up before we can hope for a change there. We will also have to allow for the reluctance of many women to cast their ballot. They seem to fear there is some pollution in the little red voting booth. We will have to allow for the fact that men, reading the character of women, and knowing how quick they are to be influenced by any sort of an uncomplimentary story, will invent such stories for the purpose of influencing the women.

But is not anything that is worth doing also worth suffering for? Surely? Opposition should make us firm. it should not discourage. We must develop courage, determination and indifference to small and contemptible methods, if we are to succeed. A man riding to battle cannot turn back because he encounters a cloud of mosquitoes.

And, all other matters aside, we have scored one success. It lies in the following, which I have clipped from the columns of the daily paper:

"Chief of Police Seavey says that this was the most orderly election ever held in Omaha. The absence of the bummer element about the polls was the chief feature of the day. Not a single disturbance was reported by any of his men. Another thing was the absence of carriages and wagons generally need in hauling voters to and from the polls. One of the reasons for the orderly condition of affairs may be attributed to the presence of women. Some of the men were so polite as to stand back and allow the women to take their places in the line. Others removed their [?] in the stalls while preparing their ballots if a woman was present."

Next year I shall not write an article on "Why We Failed." I shall have a much more satisfying topic. It will be "Why We Succeeded."

And, by the way, this a good opportunity for me to express the gratitude which I sincerely feel for those who have warmly fought for the cause of women's representation and who, incidentally, have shown themselves my advocates.

To those who have misrepresented my words, who have distorted my actions and who have repaid favors received at my hands with treachery, I also return thanks. My knowledge of human nature has been enlarged -- and that is an invaluable thing to a person who turns a penny by the writing of fiction. ELIA W. PEATTIE.

LAST DESCENDANT.

The Romantic Fortune That Befel a Bohemian.

The sad fate of the last descendant of Hans Holbein, the famous painter, has aroused the pity and interest of the daughter of a landed proprietor of Prussia to an unusual extent. Fridolin von Holbein, the only bearer of the great name, inherited a considerable fortune In the course of an adventurous life, however, he met many mishaps, made bad investments, and lost all his money. After trying to make a living in various ways, unsuccessfully, he returned to his native town. Assig, in Bohemia, a penniless man. Old and weak, he was obliged to accept quarters in the city poor house, to keep from starving. But a bright ray of hope now shines on his gray head. Fraulein Charlotte, the daughter of the landed proprietor whose large estates are near Charlottenburg, heard the story of Holbein's life and immediately announced to her parents that she intended to marry the unfortunate man and rescue him from his miserable condition. She is 23 years old, has considerable property in her own name -- and natural and necessary in one so romantic -- is a beautiful woman. Her parents saw no objection to her plan, and a few days ago she sent her brother to Aussig as her matrimonial ambassador. calling on the mayor of the town and explaining the nature of his errand, he was sent to Mme Marie Wrusz, a relative of Holbein. The two then went to the poor house to visit the painter's descendant. The bearer of the brilliant name was, as might be expected, pleased at the interest taken in his fate by the young woman, and quickly gave his consent. He was supplied with money, and arrangements have been made for the marriage, to be celebrated in Dresden in a short time.

VELVET CAKE.

Philadelphia Record: One pound of sugar, one pound of flour, one-half pound of butter, four eggs, one teacup of cold water, one teaspoonful of soda. Put yolks and white of eggs in separate vessels. Dissolve soda in the water, sift cream of tartar in the four. Beat the sugar and butter to a white cream; add the flour and water, stirring well. Next add the whites and lastly the yolks, both well beaten. Flavor with lemon and beat altogether for three minutes. Bake an hour. Excellent for layer cake with any filling.

DAILY BULLETIN.

Tid-Bits: "Quericus -- How did such a place ever get the reputation of being a great health resort?

Cynicus -- Two or three prominent men died there.

THE PASTELLETTE.

Here is a bit of humor from "The Satirist," which is not at all bad -- behold "The Pastellette:"

The pastellette is too strong, said he. [?] I will make it fainter yet! And be wrought with [?] ecstasy A pastellette.

A touch -- a word -- a tone half caught -- He softly felt and handled them Flavor of feeling -- scent of thought - Shimmer of gem - That we may read and feel as he What vague, pale pleasure we can get, From this [?], witless mystery - The pastellette.

GREAT HARM IS INFLIGTED ------------- Christian Science as Practiced Results in Very Serious Things. -------------- Mrs. Peattie Writes of a Belief and Practice Which is Obsrading it-self Upon Notice. ---------------- She Says Despite its Evil Results There is a Germ of Immoral Truth in the " Science." ------------------ There has come into the religious life of Christendom, during the last few years, the peculiar demonstration known as Christian science. It is a philosophy which claim a unity for mind and matter, and for mind and spirt, and for spirit and God Sickness of the body is the indication of the sin of the spirt. By cleansing one the other is cured. Heat, cold--all external affections--matter not to him whose spirit is fixed in its [dr?] unrecognizance of matter---who looks always of God. Metaphysics are quite difficult enough to make comperhensible even when they deal with the simple and understood phenomena of the mind ; but when they deal with that. Whcih for convenience, may be termed supernatural, it is dfficult indeed, to understand them. The involutions and complexities of the Christain science metaphysics may well dismay even the most studious mind But briefly, as the simple understand the laws of this teaching, spirit and matter are one--aprit is God---all is God. The Christian scientists refuss to recognize matter. As the philosphy reads, It is pleasant, serene and pure. Whatever its points of differenatiation may be from the orthordox Christain teaching, it seems to be in general harmony, and to be rather an attempt to make practical the most absturse teaching of Christ. It also attempts to modernize the miracles. It believes in the casting out of devis, figuratively speaking and the making whole of the dissased body. That is the theory. As to the practice----but what religion would like to be ludged by the practice of those who profess it? Making, then, all allowance for human weakness. and for the inability of common mortals to attain to their own ideals, the fact remains that by the insitence of believers in this Christ healing, upon those who do not believe, great harm is inflicted. A few weeks ago a little girl in this city was stricken with diphtbera. Her mother was a Christain scientist and would call no physician. The poor little one grew worse. She begged to be allowed to remain in bed. She wanted care. She wept and said she was not able to play. The mother, infaturated with these amazing metaphysics, would listen to no reason. She told the child not to metion her illness, and assured her that pain was a delusion. She drive the little one out of the house to play in the yard It was not that she was hard-hearted or that she did not love her little girl It was merely that she compelted her-self to have the faith which would more mountains. But no mountain, so far as known, has ever been moved by faith. And the little girl, who might have been saved if the mother had called medical assiatance, died, because that mother insited on persevering to the end in her belief. The poor child is dead. No faith of the mother's can restore her to life. And one wonders if she " refused to recognize" that pathetic bit of matter, the little cold body that had held the spirit of her child. No one knows where that spirit has gone. No one can be sure that there ever was a sprit. We may believe it---most of us affirm it. But it is certain, The only thing about the child that as certain was the body, with its delicate functions--its movement, thought and beauty. As one thinks of that helpless little thing, bound body and soul to obedience to its parent, in the pathctic way that childern are, depending on that parent's judgment for its very life, being denied what common humanity would have accorded to it, one is almost impelled to pronounce the whole belief as fraudulent, frantic and insane. Yet, within all the folly and frenzy of this belief dwells a germ of immortal truth. It is the simple truth that body reacts upon mind and mind upon body. It is the fact that aliments are frequently imaginary, and that a return of health to the mind means the recovery of the body. Whole nations have been afflicted with hysteria before now. Committees are the prey of a mental disturbance. Individuals frequently imaginary, and that a return of health to the mind means the recovery of the body. Whole nations have been afflicted with hysteria before now. Committes are occasionally the prey pf a mental distrubance. Indivduals frequently suffer from imaginay maladiest. The regular practing physicians are not a little to blame for this. Certain physicains, especially specialists, are given to the encouragement of disceases. Take, for example, the gynecologists. They, undoubtedly, encourage many a woman in the belief that she is alling. and so impregnnte her mind with the idea, that she subjects to the most distressing local treatment year i and year out. Whereas, all that she really need is to keep free from the irritation of local treatment, stop thinking about herself and go to work. There are whole neighborhoods of women who give themselves up to discussions of their complants, and whose weaknesses acquire a similarity from being much talked of. The state, unfortunately, cannot afford an asylum for all such feeble-minded persona. But these imainary diseases have nothing to do whatever with the bonafide disease. Is it not folly to supose that the perfectly healthy, happy person, going about his work, with no thought of self, who is suddenly stricken dow with a virulent germ disease, is to balne for the suffering, or that he imagines it? I never but once had any personal experience with Christain science, I had been suddenly afficted with a contageous disease in the midest of perfect health. Indeed, so good was my general health that I laid my illness to fatigue, rather than to the real cause, and not until I could no longer sit up would I believe that I was really to be ill, and even then I refused to credit the seriousness of it till I saw the tranformation taking place in my flash. It was rating late at night when I made this discovery, and not wishing to disturb any physician I decided to wait till morning. It happened that there wass a social gathering of some sort in the house next door, and among the guests was a practing Christain scentist of wide reputaion. She heard of my illness, and in a spirit of kindness. begged to be allowed to cure me. She said she would sit up for the night and concentrate herself on me. I appreciated the kindness, and while I deprecated the inconverniece she would put herself to, I was assured that I need feel no concern, for she did not need sleep. I honorably promised to subject my mind as far as possible to hers. I did so. I offered not the slightest opposition to her wishes I said to myself that I would awake in the morning, cured. I determined to believe this, and I think I did, unreservedly. My kind neigbor sat up till morning, and I feel sure she used all the power she had to cure me. But morning found me unrecongizble as to face, almost delrious, and in the very excess of disease. I sent for an alopatic physician and recovered quickly. I am oblged to confess that if I had continued my experiment with my kindly Christain scientis I believe I should have been where the wicked cease from troubling I don't know just waht flaw the enthusiatic Christain scientists will point out in this ex-perience They willl probably say I did not believe. But I think I can assure them that I did---at least. I did not disbelieve Why should I, when I did not know? There is nothing like trying things before you make up your mind about them I have tried a good many supernatural things. I have always been credsious U have not known but I might touch the skirts of the intinaite at any moment. But I have found, thus far, only disappointment, fraud, delusion and insanity. These are, in very truth, the repliant forms that I have found lurking behind the fair masks of suernaturalism. For supernaturalism, in itself, is a comforting conception. If only God would speak straghit to us now, in visitble acts, showing direct correspondence with us, life's miseries would be greatly mitigated. It is no arugment, of course, for any of these things, to say that amny people are happy in believing them. I have been a man perfectly triumphant in the idea that he was Christ of Nazerth, and that he was riding into Jerusalem, amid the warning palms of the multutude But he wasn't. He was only a thin little old man with a wisp of straw in his hair, sitting cross-legged on a stool in an insane asylum. Becouse a person sincerely believes a thing is no evidence that such a thing is true. A person may be perfecly sane, and yet be absolutely misken. A belief may make a man or woman better, purer, happeir and braver, and yet not be based on truth. The beatiful is not always the true, nor the true always the beautiful. Even an empiracle belief may easily be erroneous, because the cause of an effect may be mistken. Indeed, the theorshpisis, the Christain scientists, the spriitualists and the materialists differ as to the cause of certain phenomena, which all agree as to the existence of. The Countess Wachmeister, the talented and graceful theosophist who was in Omaha two months ago, had an entirely differnt hypothesis by which to account for rapid cures by mental agency, from that which the Christian scientists employ. There are a great many things in this world which we are not able to account for. And we have not right to dissaprove of some one, who inspired by " divine curiosty," endeavors to find a reason for their existence. We should rather respect him. The power of mind over mind is a vast and wonderful subject, but those who have looked deepest into it, are apt to discredit the very things that most arouse the respect of the sincere novice. For example. Charcot, the great French physican, who has interested the whole world in hypnotism, protests now that he considers it almost useless as an aid to science, and more than dangerous in the hands of most men. Elliot Coues, who stood at the head of theospophy in America, confessed in the end that it was only a mental diversion with him, and that it wisdom seemed to him to be greatly overshowed by its non-sense. Some of the most ardent spirituslists I have ever known have suffered broken hearts because of the disppoinments, the chicanery and the in-adequacy of their faith. We ar not impelled to rush into new beliefs because we see things which we cannot understand. It will do us no hurt to remain in ignorance as to their real cause. For example, when I was a little girl I used to make mud pies with a small freckled boy who had warts on his hands. They were hideous warts, at which I never look if I could help it. One day a Baptist precher came to visit this boy's father He was from the back woods of Michigan, and in appearance was something like the tough while oaks that grew there. He talked as if he were addressing the farm hands at the far end of a forty acre lot. Well, he came out where we two young ones were making mud pies with our usual enibusisam. He looked at the warty hands And the he spat in the clay, robbed the dampended earth on the warts, ropeated a little verse of mysterious syllables three times and said. " Tomorow your warts will be gone!" We looked at him awe. We believed. Next day the warts were gone ! In the back districts of Maryland is a class of people who profese, among their other supersitions. to be able to cure burns by blowing on them. Let any one suffer a severe burn. and these fire-blowers are summoned They blow on the burn in a rapt sort of way, and the sting ceases It is even said that in some cases the flesh heals immediately. But it is noticed that when they blow on the burns of an inteligent and educated person the burns do not improve. The reason is obvious. One could go on filling coloums with stories of this sort. But, what need of that, with Emile Zola's ' Lourdes" fresh one the book shelves ? There one may read of the process of the modern mirale to his heart's content. But shall these things impel us to an extravagance of action, in which we invoive those dependant upon us ? Let the truth be what it may, and the false what it may, this much is sure ; anything is wrong which inficts suffering on another. Anything which endangers the life of another, or indirectly deprives another of life is next in deherate murder in wrongfulness. There have been in this city, on several occasions deaths resulting from inatention, and the inattention was the result of a belief in the faith known as Christain science. Ought not these people, who profess to be so conscientious, and, who, no doubt, are so, to consider well before they involve the helpless in their belief? Let them "refuse to recognize matter" all they like. They may even forego food and drink, if they please, neglect to put coal in their bins or ice in their refrigerstors---go without sleep, and incur any danger. But let them, in fairness and humanity, conflct these experiments to themselves. Let them not imperil the lives of others. For each living creature has a right to his own life, and none should take it from him. He has a right to provide himself, or to be provided with, every means possible for pre serving that life. To withhold it from him is a crime--not one punshiable by law--but certainly a moral crime. I am not among those who think poorly of people who do not agree with me, Indeed, it has been an accident in my life to be most profoundly attached to those who disagree with me most. The people whose ideas have coincided with mine, have often not been among my acquainatnces. I have longed to meet them but have not done so I do not understand it I have never been able to thorougly understand any religion. I have never met anyone who could thoroughly explin a religion. But I maintain that the Christain scientist do wrong---a terrible wrong--to be involve others in the penalties that may attach to their belief. Their aim is high---no doubt about that. But their works must be in keeping. And the dead, whose sufferings were not aleviated, who were forbidden even to ask for sympathy, make a sorry showing--- a shameful and sorry showing for this faith. ELLA W. PEATTLE ------------------------------------------ GOVERNOR POINDEX AND LIMIT. An Intereasting Ganie of Poker which Beated three Gamblers Indlanapolis Journal : A game long talked about on the river was that played by Governor George Poindexter of Mississipi. At one time he as fund commissioner, or someting of that : kind, for Mississpi. He had business in New York to negotiate money on bonds, ostensibly for internal improvemnts in Mississppi. He was returning from that city, and had a large aum of money with him. He left Louisville on a small stern hen boat and three gamblers took passge on the same boat. They knew Polinderie's foundness' for cards, that he would play high, and they made up a plot to clean him put. In those days they played poker with twenty cards. the ace, king, queen , jack and ten of each suit. The boat the several days in getting from Lousiville to Cario, and Poindezter and three sharks were busy at play. Then they usaully played without limit, and the result as the gamblers, having played their fish long enough, were about to take him in. They had all their money on the table. Two of the gambelers dropped out. and the other, making a heavy bet, pilled up his last dollar The governor said he didn't have money enough there to call him, but he thought he might be able to borrow. ' Very well, " said the gambler, " I'll give you just ten mintes to raise the money" Poindexter went to his state room. where he had an old carpet sack, with a trusty servant guarding it, and returned to the gaming table, followed by the darkey with the carpet sack on his shoulder. " Now," thundered Poindexter, as he threw open the sack, which was stuffed full of bank notes, " I will see you and go you $ 3000,000 better ! And I'll give you an hour instead of ten minutes to raise it!" The faces of those gamblers would have been a picture for a painter. They got off the boat at the first landing place wiser and much sadder men. There was about $10,000 on the table. ----------------------------------- AN UNLUCKY SWORD. It Brought Mashal Ney to Grief and Traitor's Death.

When Napoleon the First entered Cario, on the 22d of July, 1793, he was presnted ith three swords of honor. richhly inlaid with precious stones. He brought them back to Europe, and in 1802 he gave one to Marshal Ney and another to Murat, Keeping the third for himself. Ney recived his at an imperial reception ; the sword passed from one to another of those present. among whom was a young subalern of the Auvergne regiment. When Napoleon escaped from Elba, Ney left the king and took sides with his former chief. After the allies entered Paris the place become too hot for him and he made preparation to get out of the counrty with a pass procured for him under a false name, but his wife and a friend persuaded him that there was really no danger, and he decieded to stay in France

A RECONCILIATION.

A Comedy in One Act by Elia W. Peattie.

CHARACTERS.

FRANZ [?]. } KARL SCHULTZ. } Musicians.

Mercy Woods -- Her daughter.

(Scene: Two very small lodging rooms in a large city. The partition between the two rooms divides the stage in halves. Each room contains a single bed, a table, and some chairs. One room has a piano. The other [?] a violin case conspicuously placed.

Mrs. Woods and Mercy enter the room of Franz [?] -- the one which contains the piano. "Mercy" carries a bunch of roses. Mrs. Woods has a tea tray.)

MRS WOODS -- It's fifteen minutes past his time. When he does come he'll be in such a rush to get away again to that dreadful society, where the men drink beer and sing bass choruses. It's raining worse than ever outside, and if he gets wet it will make his cough a great deal worse.

(Mercy puts in it the roses in a Flemish jug on the trouble and carries the rest of the roses [?] the adjoining room and puts them in a vase on the table beside the violin. There is a slight noise without us of the elevator stopping. The women look up expectantly. And Mueller enters his room. Throughout he speaks with a slight German accent not necessary to indicate in the spelling, and more a matter of ludiction than anything else. The same applies to Heri Schultze.)

MUELLER Good evening, Mrs. Woods. I see you have not forgotten to bring up [?]. You are very kind, I assure you.

MRS. WOODS -- I knew you would be wet to the skin. You see, I have a fire started. What a shame it is you have to go out tonight! Come over here and dry yourself Why is it, I should like to know, that you never carry an umbrella?

[MURILLER?] -- My dear Mrs. Woods, you so exaggerate. I do sometimes carry an umbrella. But the truth is, Mr. Schultze until I have only one between us, and he has it.

MRS. WOODS -- Now you see the inconveniences of falling out! Here are you with a tire, and [?] without any. And him with an umbrella, and you without any, and all because of a quarrel over goodness known what. When are you going to make up? You promised me last night -

MUELLER -- Pardon me, Mrs. Woods. I promised you nothing. You tried to make me apologize to a man to whom I owe no apology -- to [?], madam, who, under the preleuse of friendliness, has wounded my feelings -- a man who had the impertinence to say that I did not know how to phrase Ratt's andanto in A major. A composition, [?], that I know as well as you know your alphabet! The truth is, he is not willing to give the piano a chance in it. He has got too used to relegating the piano to a secondary place. He wants to play a continual solo. He is not fit for a composer -- who knows how to balance the [?] And it is impossible to discuss with him -- he can no more keep his temper -- its a disgrace to a man of his age -

MRS. WOODS -- There you go again. Herr Mueller. Now don't talk to me about that Ann Dante! I don't know her from Eve, and I don't want to But what I do wish is that I could hear you playing that serenade together again. That's just like heaven, Herr Mueller.

MUELLER -- The serenade will never be played by me again, Mrs. Woods. I have never played it without -

MRS. WOODS -- Without Herr Shultze. Of course not. And nobody wants you to play it alone. I want to hear the piano moaning and moaning away underneath, and the violin sighing and sighing above, and the whole making you forget that you are in a dusty down-town lodging house, and imagine you are out in the woods at night, with the moonlight shining through the leaves, and the nightingale singing, and you singing too, as hard as you can, to your sweetheart. That's what Mercy and me like. And we don't see why two old friends, who can't get along without each other a minute and be happy, should fall out and get like a couple of school boys.

MUELLER - Madaurl

MRS. WOODS -- Now Herr Mueller, don't be [?[ with me. it isn't worth while to be dignified with a plain sort of woman who makes her living taking lodgers. It isn't indeed. Did you see the roses Mercy brought you?

MUELLER -- Dear me, no! That's just like me -- just like me. They are as sweet as she is? She is a good daughter, Mrs. Woods. She is a comfort! The older I grow -- and I'm getting an old man, Mrs. Woods, an old and lonely man -- the more I love youth, and freshness, and beauty, like your daughter or the 40 roses.

MRS. WOODS -- You ought to have had a daughter yourself, Herr Mueller.

MUELLER (sighs) -- Perhaps so. I might have had, maybe, only -- but what's the use? I have had no one but a friend, and now I have lost him.

MRS. WOODS -- Noncsense! You haven't lost him any such thing. All you have to do --

MUELLER -- Say no more. Mrs. Woods! Not another word, I beg. Do you mean to repeat your request to me to apologize to a man who said I did not know the [?] -

(Mrs. Woods puts her hands over her ears and runs from the room. Mueller smiles grimly and sits down before the fire. He pulls off his shoes, puts on his slippers, draws the tea table up and pours out his tea. Now and then he smells of his roses, in the meantime Mercy has been tyding the adjoining room. It is left and returned with a tea tray, and placed the slippers in front of the big chair. As she is finishing, Karl Schultze cuters. He shakes out his umbrella, and hangs up his hat and coat.)

SCHULTZE -- [?] that you Mignon? And did you bring me those wonderful roses? Ah, the wonder of the good God is in the roses -- and in the kindness of heart that made you bring them to a lonely man. Where did you get them, my dear?

MERCY (hanging her head a trifle) -- Oh, they were given to me by a friend. And I had so many -- four dozen -- only thing! So I brought you some, and I gave some to Herr Mueller. He has such a pleasant fire in his room. I do wish you would go in there and sit with him by his fire, the way you used to do. I can't take any comfort thinking of you sitting up here alone. it is just the same with mother. When we are down in the sitting room together, and it is so cheerful and bright, she says: "There's those two [?] men sitting up there smoking their pipes all alone!" And we're just dying to hear you play together again. If I could just hear you play the serenade -

SCHULTZE -- There, Mignon, there! Don't mention the serenade again. I shall not play the serenade ay more, at all, forever. You are a sweet maiden, and know nothing of sorrow, or the disappointments that one [?] in friends. There's that man I've lived with, traveled with, worked with, feasted with and starved with, and for [?] miserable criticism he leaves me! His temper is worse than his phrasing -- and I must say the way he phrased to that [?] in A major would have disgraced a beginner. He can't keep his instrument down. He wants to be spectacular all the time. I tried to show him that it was the violin that had to bring out the climax. But what is the use of talking to him? Serenade, Mignon? No, it will be a long, long time before you will hear us play the serenade together again -- a long, long time.

MERCY -- Well good night, Herr Schultze. You are going to stay in tonight, I suppose.

SCHULTZE -- Yes, I'm glad to say I am Why?

MERCY -- Oh, nothing. Only Herr Mueller has to go out.

SCHULTZE -- Yes, that's so. This is the night he rehearses the Lelderkrutz.

MERCY -- It's raining dreadfully.

SCHULTZE -- What of this, Mignon?

MERCY -- Nothing at all. Good night (Exit).

(Herr Mueller to his room, looks at his [water?], puts down his cup of tea, gently folds up his paper, combs his long, straight gray hair by running his hands through it two or three times, gets into his out-door garments, takes an arm full of music, which he carefully selects from his music cabinet and prepares to leave. Then he look s at his blazing [?], and toward the door which communicates with the room which Schultze occupies.)

MUELLER -- It's [?] a fire to go to waste. It wouldn't be speaking to him to knock on the door to let him know I am going out. (Hesitates a moment.) But I won't do it. A man who doesn't appreciate not any more than to say -- (exit, muttering to himself)

(Schultze hears him close his door behind him, and instinctively jumps up, seizes the umbrella, as if he would rush after him. Stops and looks at the umbrella a moment, and then sits down, scowling very much, lights his pipe, and begins [?] up his violin)

There is a sudden knock at the door, Schultze calls: 'Come in." Enter Mrs. Woods.)

MRS. WOODS -- Mercy would make me come up, Herr Schultze, to ask if you wouldn't come down and sit by our fire. We made up our minds that if Herr Mueller was so hard-hearted and stingy that he wouldn't ask you to, that we would.

SCHULTZE -- Hard-hearted, Mrs. Woods? I am bound to say that whatever the faults of Herr Mueller. I have never observed that he was hard-hearted.

MRS. WOODS -- I don't know, of course, how you Germans look at such things. But we Americans would call him manner than dirt. The way he went back on the alter all you had done for him makes me boiling mad.

SCHULTZE -- My dear madam, you must permit we to explain that he has done everything for me, and I have done nothing for him. Why are we together in Germany in '48. That was when we were young. He was with me at the university. We belonged to the same society. He was a hot socialist, and so was I. We made our minds to incur together the dangers attending a blow struck for Germany -- and for liberty, madam. Those were days worth talking about -- days to remember. Mueller was magnificent. He was a hero. I was his slave. I did whatever he told me. As well, nothing came of our struggle. We were banished. I was a poor [?]. He had money. he brought me to this country, and we have lived and studied together ever since.

MRS. WOODS -- lie may have done that, but that is no reason why he should go back on you now, and leave you sitting here alone. For the old men like you to fall out over a woman -

SCHULTZE -- A woman, Mrs. Woods?

MRS. WOODS -- Yes. Didn't he even mention her name to me -- Ann somebody, I have forgotten who.

SCHULTZE -- We fell out over an andante, Mrs. Woods.

MRS. WOODS -- Yes, that's it. Ann Dante! Now the idea! Of course I don't know her, and she may be a very nice woman. But is she worth having two old men get mad about? You don't mind me calling you old? I'm old myself.

SCHULTZE (sighing) -- Yes, Mrs. Woods, we're all getting old together. Old, and very lonely.

MRS. WOODS -- Well, you may be lonely, but I can't say that I am. No one could be lonely and have Mercy around.

(The voice of Mercy is heard without)

MERCY -- Oh, Herr Mueller! You back already? What was the matter? (They appear.)

MUELLER (in an irritable tone) -- That Liederkranz has no more enthusiasm! A little rain [?] them [?] off -- not a soprano there and only two tenors. I said to them: "Go to your homes. What you do is an insult to music. I will not teach such indifferent ones. Go to your homes."

SCHULTZE (sympathetically, to Mrs. Woods) -- The pigs! They appreciate nothing!

MUELLER (to Mercy) -- When a man has nothing left but his art, and that brings him only disappointment, he has had about enough of life. (Enters his room. He is dripping wet, and sits down to dry himself before the fire. Mercy brings him dry slippers and dressing gown.)

MERCY -- It is dreadful for you to get so wet. You must get your an umbrella tomorrow.

MUELLER -- Oh, yes, Miss Mercy, that is very well to say. But we musicians never have enough money to buy an umbrella when it [?]. When we have money we spend it, and then there is nothing left for a rainy day -- not even enough money to buy an umbrella wish.

MERCY -- Oh, yes, I know how you spend your money. That poor little Fraulein Paula told me how you paid her doctor's bills.

MUELLER (grossly) -- You must not talk too much, madchen. It is not proper for a young girl.

MERCY -- Will you take some cough syrup if I get it?

MUELLER -- Cough syrup? No! What do I want with cough syrup? My heart is broken with that perverse generation, and you offer me cough syrup. Go down to your mother, like a good girl. I am very sad tonight. I want to be alone.

(Mercy goes out. Schultze, who has listened to all of this, walks back and forth through the room, stopping every now to look at the door that divides the rooms. He motions Mrs. Woods to leave. She goes out. Once he picks up the umbrella and looks at it Then he sets it down and resumes his walking up and down the room. Mueller, meantime, has become dry and warm by his bright fire).

MUELLER -- it must be very dull in a room without a fire. There's nothing like the creature comforts. A man may think there is nothing worth living for, but when he is warm and has had he [?], it is hard to keep from enjoying life, even if one is friendless. Friendless!

(He gets up and also begins [?] the floor. Finally he sits down at the piano and runs his fingers over the keys. Little by little he falls into the melody of Schubert's serenade. Schultze listens, starts, listens again, and rushes for his violin, which he takes from the case, and begins playing the serenade in harmony with Mueller. Mercy softly enters Mueller's room and opens the door between the two apartments. Mrs. Woods, wiping her eyes with her apron, appears to Schultze's room, and as she does so the two men leave their instruments, and, meeting in Mueller's room before the fire, throw themselves in each other's arms.)

[?]

SCIENTIFIC MISCELLANY.

The New Lake in India -- A robort on the great Himalayan landslip of September, 1803, has been prepared by Mr. T. H. Holland of the Indian geological survey. The slip occurred at Gohna, British Garhwal This village is on the river Birah Gauga, which flows northward into the Alaknanda one of the principal tributaries of the Ganzes. The bed of the British Gauga, sloping about 24 degrees, is at Gohan 4 600 feet above the sea level, and is the bottom of a narrow gorge, with steep, and sometimes precipitous sides. The river basin, twenty miles long and nine miles wide is bounded on the north and cast by a snow-clad ridge rising to 21,286 feet from whose snow much of the water of the river is derived The area of the basin east of Gohna, and now draining into the new lake, is ninety square miles. On the north side of the river the mountain spur called Maithana by the villagers rose almost vertically to over 11,000 feet high, and near the close of the rainy season, on September 6 and the two following days, this was projected across the river gorge in a series of falls, accompanied with deafening noise and clouds of dust that whitened the ground and trees for miles around. The mass of broken material that fell stretches two miles along the river valley and rests against the cliff of similar rocks on the opposite side, a mile away. In March 42d acres of this dam was still exposed, but the water was rapidly rising over it on the eastern side and had already formed a lake covering 370 acres. Mr. Holland concluded that this lake would overflow the dam, at a height of 5850 feet above sea level, about the middle of August and that, if the channel then cut through the mud should not exceed 100 feet in depth, an ordinarily permanent lake three and one-fourth miles long and one and one-fourth wide would be preserved. At several places in the Himalayas lakes have been similarly formed in recent times.

The experiments made in France and other European countries with tree leaves as food for cattle seem to have resulted very satisfactorily. The leaves of the hazel, aspen, ash, elm and willow are found to be suitable, and are collected, dried, and stored like hay. Each

IT IS OF EVERYDAY SERVICE

Mrs. Peattie Speaks of the Use of Beauty in Ordinary Life.

A Paper on the Subject Which Was Read Before the Young Women's Christian Association.

There is no life, however hard and harrased, which has not in it beauty in one form or another. The more beauty a life has, the happier it is. And it is therefore clear that as we surround ourselves with beauty we will be happy. And happiness, I need not tell you, for you have made the discovery a long time ago, is the one thing that makes life worth living.

But to be surrounded with beauty and not to know it, would be, as you will all agree, a mere waste of beauty. It would be as if you were in a strange land, on an island, rich with fruits you did not know were edible. You might stare to death in the midst of plenty for the want of knowing that the fruits were good to eat. Therefore, to know how to discover the beauty about you is quite as necessary as that the beauty should be there. And I wish to help you, if I can, to learn how to find out that beauty and make much of it. I know you must already have found out a great deal about this your-self. Some of you have perhaps found out a great deal more about it than I have. To such, I can only give my ideas, not that [Ibey?] may learn from them, but that they may compare them with their own.

Nothing crushes the life out of a woman like ugly surroundings. The farmer's wife, living out on the prairie, is a sad example of this. She lives in a cabin made of pine or of sod or logs. A manure heap is in her yard. No flowers grow in the coarse, unwatered soil of the prairie. The grass is irodden out of sight. There may be a few wind torn poplars toward the stormy northwest to serve as a wind-break, but no shade about her door mitigates the glare of sun or the harsh rains of the plains. Within her house are bare walls, undecorated buds, a fire for warmth, a table at which to feed. Just the materials for satisfying the necessities of life, nothing more. And day after day comes the ceaseless drudgery. Cooking, washing, ironing cleaning, husking, sewing, endlessly, endlessly, over and over, the tedious labor. And to what end! To keep longer in the weary body the spirit which sickens with disgust at the barrenness and poverty of life.

Not long ago I was the Insane asylum at Norfolk. More than one-half of the women there were farmers' wives.

"I like to be here," one of them said to me, looking down sadly at her hard hands, "it's easier than work on the farm. Only sometimes I wonder who puts the children is bed at night, and who braids Besale's hair."

And there was a young girl there, too, who came from a farm. She had lived back in Ohio, amid trees and hills, and beautiful rivers, and the friends who loved her. When her mother died her father was taken with the idea of coming, to a new country where he could earn more money. So he took up a claim out on the [?] prairie. His daughter came with him. She worked patiently for him in his home. She tried to study. But she could not get the hills, and the trees, and the friends of Ohio out of her head.

"Let me go home," she said to plead with her father, "please let me go home." Her father was a solemn Scandinavian. He had no sentiment. And he didn't see why she should have any.

"Home," he said, impatiently. "Why this is home. What are you fretting about? Haven't you get everything you want?"

The girl said nothing more. But in her eyes there came the look of one who always strains the gaze after something she may not see. And one day when the father came home he found no meal ready. His daughter was sitting there in the chair, looking at him. But when he spoke to her she did not answer. And she has never spoken since. " Acute melancholy mania," the doctors call it. And it is incurable. Day after day she sits in the asylum, head bowed over her young hands, speechless always, dreaming, no doubt of how the autumn woods back in dear old Ohio, drop their red leaves into the river which goes singing on its way, and how the friends she used to call to her at night after school, as they all went home together, before she knew the awful solitude and silence of the prairies.

Do you see what I mean? [?ller] mind perished for want of beauty. And the tragedy is happening around us every day. And it is more terrible than death--oh, far more terrible than death!

But this is not the worst of it. That women should die or go mad for lack of that which seems to them beautiful is not so bad after all as that they should commit sin for lack of beauty. And I maintain that the person who loves the beautiful as she should will not do a great wrong. She is not willing to so destroy the loveliness of her life. If she loves beauty she will want to make her life a fair thing to look upon. She will not [mar?] her voice with impatient tones, nor her face with mean expressions, not her friendships with petty actions, more her work with bad performance, nor her love with small coquetries.

All this unsatisfied hunger for the beautiful is necessary. The beautiful is right here with us. It abounds, free as the air. It is to be had just by reaching out our hands for it. Believe me, it is [?].

If the poor little [Scandlian?] girl I told you of, had known, and if her father had known, and if her father had known, how grave was the danger that threatened them; and if they had known, how grave was the danger that threatened them; and if they had also known that their lives out there on the Nebraska prairie could be made as beautiful as they were back in the Ohio woods, the awful fate would never have overtaken her if, when they arose in the morning instead of thinking only about cooking the porridge, or hitching up the horses, they had together stood for a moment at the door, and noticed the sky of tender able that hung above the plains, I think perhaps such despair would not have settled down on her. If she had kissed her father at morning and at night, and if they had not concealed their love for each other, but had spoken of it and shown it openly, I think she might not now be sleeping on that narrow white bed in the asylum cell. If they had gone out together for a [?] day now and then, and had got well acquainted with the other farmers, and tried to do something for them, and had shown them some hospitality, the poor girl would not have reached her [?] state. The beauty of love, of friendship, of gaiety and of nature would have driven away the black furies of melancholy.

Truly, if you will believe me, you can be happy if you can only learn to recognize the beautiful when you see it.