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1A LITTLE BISMUTH. A Story of Artist Life in Munich. An artists procession inMunich has caused a «napension of business for the day. Toward -dusk an elderly appearing woman, black -cloaked and veiled, enters a drag shop in a -atreet a little removed from the business por Potion ofthe town, WfM- The clerks of the establishment are among be thousands viewing the pageant then pass E^^-fn a few streets away. When the heels of S he woman's boots rattle upon the marble 'Coring the proprietor of the shop comes for %^r~ "'Ward from the back of the long room, where t, «%e has been brooding under the single gas jet ,'„"*" ^-lighted in the place. He is a yonng man, white of face, and wild of eye, looking as **U S a were undergoing a severe mental Hp $"' -strain. 'if-* "What is your wish?" he asks in a voice that has an English ring in it. The woman was fumbling at her pocket as though in search of her purse. "I should like a small quantity of bismuth," «he answered, when he had addressed her a second time. The druggist picked up a horn spatula, went to the back of the shop, returned with the spatula filled with a white powder, put «ome ofit in the silver scaleupon the polished «ounter, wrapped it in a bit of fine paper amd handed it to his customer. She did not immediately take it from his hand which caused him to look at her and mote her appaiel thus he was able to de •acnbeher appearance to the police a little -later on. He also noted that the eyes back of *heveil were fixed upon him. This, in his then •frame of mind, irritated him. "Here is your bismuth," he said almost harshly. Then she caught up the little package, toss ed down a piece of money and walked rapidly t-othedoor. Theknobm her hand, she paused. "Is there anything else?" he asked. She opened the door and was gone. A tjand in the procession was playing the live liest of tunes wisps of the melody entered the ahop. The druggist groaned, and picking «p the spatula went to put it in the drawer from which he had taken the powder left over from the quantity he had weighed out for the woman. When he came to the place he Started back with an exclamation. He had neglected the shop for several days «nd during his absence a clerk had taken the bismuth from the •drawer where it had always been kept and «nbntituted for it a newly discovered drug, one of the deadliest and most subtle poisons in the pharmacopoeia. He had properly marked the drawer with the name of the poison, but the druggist had automatically gone to the usual receptical of the bismuth *nd had not noticed the change. He had •given the unknown woman enough of the poison to kill her. He flew to the door. The woman was no where to be seen. He ran to the corner and looked up and down in the gathering gloom, but no one was in sight. He retraced his steps to the shop and found on the threshold "the label marked "Bismuth," which he had placed upon the woman's purchase and which •he must have torn off as she agitatedly put the package in her pocket. This label bore his name. His first sensation was al most of relief. The mistake might not now betraced to him if the poor creature swal lowed the drug he had given hor. Where was the happiness of life? Here was a&relderly bowed woman whose mourn ing weeds bespoke sadness and loss. Might Ite n6t have placed within her reach relief from care and memory? Then he revolted from this morbid reasoning and the enormi of his responsibility flashed across him. He went to the parlor back of the shop, Here 'he found his mother reading—a stern, cold woman, in whose eye was a power of will un possessed by her son. "Let me tell you what I have done," he «aid in English. She slowly closed her book. "What do you mean?" she asked leisurely, as though she expected some extravagant story of an escapade. He told her what had occured Her brow contracted. "Blame your own weak self,' she said. "No, I blame you," he retorted. "How me?" she demanded rising to her *eet. "Explain yourself." "Have you not made me as I am?" he said, unfit for business, unfit for anything whatsoever?" "I have not," she auswered, "but the act ingwoman has." With a stride he was beside her, his hand iipon her arm. "Do not touch me," she said, shaking him v, £jff "and listen to me." "Well?" "You have not for days allowed me to speak. I shall speak now." "Well?" His insolence of manner cast a glow in her face and made her harsher than she meant to be. "I say that you should blame Lilli, the victress, if aught of harm comes from your -leprehensible carelessness," she said. "I have -told you that she maddened you—you knew that no good could come of your" intimacy with her." J'I know that I love her." ""A woman barely knowing he^/name woman acting upon the^jtag-e -j irreproachable descen^y a a re 0f 0tl a a a a gentleman^youx^Tother is a lady. Could I brook q~ 'aiHSEnce which should bring into SSfranuly a player whose face has turned the heads of half the youth in Munich? Let her nnarry one of her own fraternity, one who "views her trade from the art standpoint. A marriage with you was simply impossible. From the first I told you how it would be Did you take warning? You but allowed yomself to be all the more carried away by youi infatuation, and were on the point of declaring yourself to her when I came to the rescue." "And how did you come to the rescue?" he asked. "Tell me that." "By appealing to the woman herself," she ^answered, "as you J* Ifaiow." "Yes, by goinr Tback door of a thea ter, asking for ^ft-ebs and laying before her your puritj. .eal ideas, to such a degree showing her your distaste for her that she needs must see in me the weakest of men be ••eause of your presumption, and so she gives me up And this is the woman you say is not fit to enter our poor family that sends its sons to foreign^countries trying to eke out an existence on a beggarly income which at home would not keep us according to tradi tion and in the "set" we call our own. In go ing to Lilli as you did you showed that she as equal to the highest womanhood, a woman less than a lady would never have re lented your visit as she has done—would never have given up the man who loved her." She was putting on her bonnet. "You are scarcely accountable for what you are paying," she«aid. "I did that for yea Tor which you will yet thank me. Lilli—" "Is as true a woman as you are." t*Bhe raised her chin. "As though I should fiavegone to her had she not been," she said: *'as though a Clark would harbor a feeling of admiration for a woman who is not as ir reproachable in every respect as the ladies of Jus own family. She is a good womnn, but -so are there manj' good women of unfortun *ate parentage, and with miserable ways of «arning living. A ballet dancer, a waitress 4n a cafe may possess all that the Fraulein Xiln has nscribed to hen but would you mar ry the dansuese or the waitress? It is all 'Over, and happily over to-morrow night is ,her last in Munich. In Berlin she will renew •her early triumphs, while you will have .grown calm enough to recognize the force of any reasoning—especially when the fraulein marries a title." She had not mean tto say that. "What is that*'" he cried quickly. "Your violence has prevented my telling jon all. Your love, as you persist in terming j'our insane infatuation, has made me somewhat fearful of theconsequences were to tell you all that the fraulein told me but .your mistake in the selling of poison proves that nothing you might know could make you more recklees. Ialli informed me when I last saw her, two days ago, that she had been asked in marriage by the Baron Yol rath. "And her answer to him?" "She had not given him an answer yet.*' "Then she shall not," he cried. "I will force her to see what my Jove is worth to her." He made for the door. "Stop!" his mother said, ringingly. She took off her bonnet and reseated her self. Her son looked at her. "You have something else to do before that," she said with an effort. "I was about to try to assistyou in its performance now I remain here. Yon have yet to rectify tie mistake you have made in your shop. Neg lect for a minute what devolves upon you to do in this matter and see if the Fraulein Lilli will listen to the suit of the most effectually ruined man in Munich." She picked up her book.Y At that moment her son realized to the fullest his own weakness and her strength. She had always governed him with her love until she had destroyed him in the will to op pose her. And now the strongest feeling of his life swayed him—his love for Lilli. He knew the actress other than his mother knew her deli cate sensitiveness which contact with the world had not blunted. It was this delicate sensitiveness which gained for her the chival ric respect of gentlemen, which often made her impersonations on the stage too refined for the general taste. His mother's last blow was the hardest— Lilli would blame him for an instant's delay in the adjustment of the terrible mistake he had made she would blame herself for it! No, he must not go to her until he had done what he could to find the woman he waited on in the shop. He hastened to the station. Here he noti fied the police as to what had occurred. There came to him an awakening from the low morbid condition into which he had been plunged these last few days, a horror of the outcome ofit. Allthatnight therewerevain attempts to discover the elderly woman in a black cloak and vail who had asked for a small quantity of bismuth. Every minute Clark became more anxious. The finding of the woman seemedto be the pivot upon which hung his future happiness or unhappiness—it seemed almost as though Lilli said: "Find her, and I am yours find her not, and take my blame." Criers were sent out who ran about the streets, proclaiming the incident. All night long Clark did what he could to rectify his mistake. At day break, haggard and worn, he left the station and went home. His mother met him. She had heard of all that he had done. With a shock she realized that his task was undertaken for love of the actress—ithad not been mereinfatuation with him. She knew thatBhe herself was placed aside forever, that henceforth hewas removed from her control And she had loved him as the only thing left her to love she had come from her native land for his sake. If she had only thought that more than infatuation for the actress had been the source of his admiration! But no, she could not bring herself to say that her son's wife should be as Lilli was—and Lilli had spoken coldly to her, had smil with an ennuied air and mentioned the Baron Yolrathl 0, her poor boy! When he came in she dared not sympathize with him, she dared not say a word to him. She could only question him with stricken eyes. "I am doing what I can," he said to her, and passed on to his own chamber where he locked himself in and where she feared to go to him. That day red placards were placed on the bill boards "Extras" were thrown about the city with sensational headings—"A Life En dangered," "a case of poisoning," "Wanted all women who bought bismuth last evening," and the like, until the whole city was excited and everybody was hunting for the elderly woman in a black cloak who had purchased a small quantity of bismuth. The station was crowded with people who wished to have their medicines examined women became hysterical and declared themselves poisoned, and were dissatisfied when it was proven that they Avere mistaken. It would have taken a barrel of bismuth to have given even the smallest quantity to each of those who claimed that he or she might be the unfor tunate victim. The day went on to noon, evening came and the elderly woman in the black cloak remained undiscovered. The Fraulein Lilli naturally heard of the commotion. Her maid spoke much of it when she carried the chocolate to her bed side in the morning. Greta thought that her mistress looked poorly these two or three days, and that her acting last night showed a perceptible falling off. So with the chocolate she carried fresh news of the strange excitement in the city and hoped that it might provoke a smile. Instead, the fraulein asked her to be silent and read the items in the morning pa per, Greta set the tray and the chocolate jugon the stand IU reach of her mistrsg-and plcked up the paper. She had l\£tle more than un folded the sheet when stye"uttered an exclam ation. "Fraulein," crigffshe, "what do you think? The nustakjgr^yok place in the shop of your Amensj^S-friend, Heir Clark." LvfK gazed blankly at her. Greta went on i-'pajd che paper's account of the affair in all its minutia. The Fraulein Lilli arose and slipped on a peignor of rosy silk. She crossed the room to a box on the table at the further end she raised the lid of the box, only to let it fall. "Where is the letter I wrote to the Baron Volrath?" she asked. "I posted it while you were at the theatre last night—w hen I came home after taking you there," answered Greta. "Did you not tell me, fraulein, always to post the letter I found in that box?" The actress turned her back to the maid. Her acceptance of the baron, then, had gone to him and she had meant to recall it. Why? The story which convulsed the town told her more than it told the tow n, and she owned to herself that she loved but one man, and that was not the one whom she aad accepted as her husband, but he who had made a deadly mistake through thought of her. If that letter she had placed in the box was posted there was another to be posted at once, she fumbled at the pocket of her peignor. •'Greta," she said, "the letter that was here?" "I found it when I hung up the dress last evening," answered Greta. "It was stamped, so I posted it along with the other." Lilli laughed. The second letter went to Clark in it she told him she had accepted the Baron Volrath. Well, it was right that it should go after thp other letter and yet she would have given the world to have had them both in her hand at this moment. "Greta," she said, "Why do sit there reading nonsense? Do you not know that we leave Munich after the performance to night?" !*%•$$• Greta threw down the pnper^^i'feot'ii "But, Fraulein," she ened, "I thought we should wait until to-morrow, when the Baron Volrath would come to Munich and go to Berlin with us." |,%Sr*%? f'W "We leave Munich to-night.M»*Tl£-«"KSfc "Yet they say the baron will not be here till to-morrow." ', *. fp-p,m I /«p? "We leave to-night." '-& "Greta could not understand her mistress that day she was tyrannical, nothing pleased her,and she sttrted at the slightest noise, re fused to see any callers. nd grew more un bearable each moinent. She was glad enough when it was time to go to the theater. Even here her mistress brought that day's mood with her nothing was right, hor costume was complained of, she wa3 curt to the manager and delayed the rising of the curtain much beyond the usual time The house was packed from pit to dome on the occasion of her faiewell to Munich. Moreover it was an especiallyjollyhouse for the affairs ofthe drug gist had assumed ludicrous proportions and people were accusing one another of wishing to purchase a small quantity of bismuth. The gamins of the city were already using the name of the drug as a catch word. Many wise heads declared that it was all a clever American mode of advertising the drag shop. In the theater there ^were small jokes bandied from one to another, and all touch ing upon the topic that absorbed that days' attention in the town. Therefore when the curtain arose and the favorite actress came forward, she faced a good humored audience. Yes, they were merry and happy even saying farewell to her: a tragic incident made them cheerful as need be. Had they known of the tragedy in her own breast would they have been as cheerful? She enacted the role of a merry maiden with a puzzling number of lovers from which to se lect a husband, coquetry'in her smile and on her lips and all the time she was thinking that she had made herself vile in the eyes of the man she loved and whom she had let see that she loved. And yet his mother had proved toherthatshewasnothingtohim,had begged that she would set him free from her "toils." Her toils? She had told the anxious mother that her son was free, had promised that she would write to him and tell him of her engagement to the baron. And she had done so. and by this time he must be thinking her the basest woman in the world. And here ehe was making peoplelight hearted with her piquant acting as a worldy maiden with more happi ness than she knew how to dispose of. She got through her part and made a tableau of joy and beauty as the green cloth rolled down at the end of the performance, When she was called before the curtain, over her gorgeous gown she had slipped on a long black cloak. For she had tried to escape from the theater without responding to the recall. As she smilinglybowed heracknowledgment of the plaudits, a boy. referring to her cloak, sepulchrally murmured, "Bismuth!" and the people roared. She hastened from the stage, brushed past admirers who waited to give her a last greeting, and reached her carriage with Greta it. She was silent all the way home. She sought her room at once, and bade Greta to leave her alone. She sat before her mirror and regarded the reflection of her face therein. It was a beautiful face, a pure woman face, And that other woman had as much as said she was not fit to be the wife of her son! The man she loved did not care for her, and she had promised another man to be his wife! She had been used to depict grief and agony on the stage now she called the suf ferings of art trivial, when she thought of those of nature. She felt thoroughly alone, a homeless, friendless creature, whose will had raised her to where she was, and whose love told her that bhe had toiled in vain. She contemplated her life, its privations, its struggles, until there had come into it a great light and warmth—her love for the Ameri can. And the light and warmth had been as false to her as any represented on the stage. And she must be as worthless, as far beyond the pale of worthy society as that woman has let her feel that she was, when Bhe could accept the good and true Baron Volrath for her unloved husband. Pride, wounded ten derness, had urged her to make a victim of a guiltless man. What had her life done for her when it had all ended in this dismal failure? She had befriended many, the poor blessed her, she was a rising artist, a woman with ripening intellect and yet at this hour she was the meanest, most humiliated crea ture she could imagine. Humiliated! She started and turned ghastly she had been selfish—there was a further humiliation for her—she must set at rest the troubled mind of the man who loved her not. Yet why should she?—why should she not let him have his share of suffering? "0, God!" she thought, "but I love him. Dare I tell him that I hungered for a sight of him? that I passed by his place of business in last evening's dusk and saw him in there? that, insane as I am at this moment, I en tered the shop just for a parting near look at him? that once inside I reahzed my posi tion, and calling my art into requisition I be came an old woman before him and asked for a drug that it was to me he gave the poi son which Has caused him so much anxiety? I might tell him this to-night I shall be away before he knows it the glamour I have thrown over him will have paled, and he will know that I am nothing to him. But he must not say I caused a possible death." She fiercely rang the bell on her dressing table. "Greta," she said, "the carriage?" "It is waiting, fraulein, to take us to the station." "First I must write a letter. You shall post it while I put on my hat. She sat down and wrote the note to Clark which should relieve his mind of all anxiety over his mistake of the evening before. But she did not tell him of the feeling which actu ated her going into his shop, she could not, tell him that she loved the man ^v-ho was^o'n ly infatuated with hje* as an'artiste, the man whom she hadjirher "toils." She stamped the letter and gave it to her maid to Viost. ^Txfen Fraulein Lilli put on the gown she had worn last evening when she had gone out the dusk. Slipping her hand in the pocket ehe came upon the small package Clark had given her when she asked for the bismuth. She went over to the fireplace, and unfolding the paper looked down on the little heap of white dust, preparatory to throwing it into the flame. Ah! the tender days when she had thought that she was loved as she loved!—the days when she deemed she had found a heart that throbbed responsive to hers, and looked into aman's eyes seeing more there than flattery and misknowledge of the cravings of her hungry soul. She was called a coquette the flattery of the world forced her to assume the character it assigned to her. But had she coquetted with this man? No, no, a thou sand times no. And yet his mother as much as told her that he regarded her only as the rest did. There arosp before her possibilities of a future with him, of a future without him, till she felt that she grew wild. How long shebtood thus she did not know. Suddenly she heard a man's voice in the adjoining drawing room. Almost with a shriek she recognized it—the Baron Volrath's he must have started to find her as soon as he had received her letter. And—what! An other voice in the drawing room—a second man's voice—the voice of the man she loved! For Clark had bepn overwhelmed by her letter, telling him of her acceptance of the baron all that his mother had said concern ing her was proved true. And he had seen in her love for himself if ever a woman let a man see her love for him! It had all been simula tion, urt, then. He took the letter to his mother. "Forgive me," he said. "You will understand when yon have read this." She could say not a word she could only carry the letter into the privacy of her own room and have her agony beyond the sight of humanity. Clark was well nigh crazed that day, he was jeered at for the excitement he had raised in the city, and people were doubtful if there had been an elderly woman who wanted a small quantity of bismuth and who, instead, received a deadly poison. He got through the day. busy with the author ities and the crowds around his shop. And all the day there was but one absorbing thought—Lilli. When the night came he thought of her in the theater, her last ap pearance a triumph. When it was about time for the performance to be over he left for the house. False as she might be, he loved her—he must look upon her just once more before she left him forever. But the theater was dark when he got there he could not see her go to her carnage burrounded by the youth of Munich. Then a rage seized him: he would go to her house, upbraid her for all her falsity to him. He tore along the street in which was her bijou residence. Greta was coming down the steps. "Herr Clark," she cried, "I was about to post this letter for you." A letter! He snatched it from the girhtore it open and read it in the light from the hall. Lilli had not written why she had not come to his shop, but he was a lover, and he read between the hnes^—he read all that she had thought and had not put down in her com munication to him. She loved him! He rushed up the stairs to the drawing room. ''Lilli, Lilli," he cried, rapturously, "Lilli.a Lilli." .a. gentleman confronted him. "Yon are speaking of my betrothed wife, sir," he said. Clark with clenched fist looked at him. "Yon lie!" he thundered. The baron strode up to him. At this moment the door of the dressing room opened and the actress with a face like marble stood on the threshhold. "Lilli, my loved one," *aid the baron, and wentto her and saluted her. For a moment Clark gazed stupidly at the pair, and then without having said a word to her went from the Toom, from the house, reeling like a drunken man. "Come!" said LUU "We Bhall be late for the train. Come!" "But that man?" queried the baron. "The American druggist who has made Munich laugh to-day," answered she. "I have frequently met him he came presum ably to bid me adieu!" "I am glad," soberly returned the baron, "that public life will soon be over for you." "Come she said. In the train she shivered as though from cold. The baron wrapped a rug around her. Then she was drowsy. "Lean thy head upon my shoulder," he said. She would have refused to do so, but he drew her pretty head down to his arm. "You have worked to hard," he said lean ing tenderly over her. "But now you will soon be at home and at rest." "Yes," she returned, and closed her eves. "Yes," He drew her closely to him and she did not resist. He held his arm around her. After a while he thought her sleep was very peaceful and looked smilingly down upon her upturned face. Then he cried out. He tried to wake her and could not. The powder she had taken in her dressing room had given her a sleep from which she would never awake this world. )i Thrift And Waste in Married Life. "Writing in the Quiver, the author of "How to Be Happy Though Mar ried" says: I quite believe in marry ing for gold and working for silver but there should be a reasonable chance of getting work to do, for it is nothing less than criminal folly to marry on nothing a week, and that uncertain—very! On the other hand, there is some truth in the saying that what willkeep one will keep two. Show me one couple unhappy merely on account of their limited circum stances, and I will show you ten who are wretched from other circumstanc es. There are bachelors who are so ultra-prudent, and who hold such absurd opinions as to the expense of matrimony, that, although they have enough money, they have not enough courage to "enter the state. Pitt used to say ihathe could not afford to marry, yet his butcher's bill was so enormous that some one has calculated it as affording his servants about fourteen pounds of meat a day each man and woman! For the more economical regulation of his household, if for no other reason, he should have taken to him self a wife. Of course a young man with a small income cannot afford to marry if he smokes big cigars and gives expensive drinks to every fool who claps him on the back and calls him "old man." He must be particular, too, in choosing a wife to select one who is economical and who can keep house with the least amount of waste. Swift's saying about nets and cages is well known. He thought that one reason why many marriages are unhappy is be cause women spend their time in mak ing nets to catch husbands rather than in making cages to keep them in when caught. Tune, a bird in the taild is WQrth two in the bush, and we see no reason why a girl should not do all that is consistent with self-respect and modesty to obtain a husband. She should remember, that conquests have to be kept as well as made, and that for a woman to fail to make and keep her home happy is to be a "failure" in a more real sense than to have failed in get ting a husband. "Why don't the men propose, mamma?" One reason is because they are afraid that the girls of the period will make extrava gant wives. The other day a girl was talking -with a middle-aged bachelor the girl was of a by no means shy disposition, so she began to "chaff' him about his wretchedly unmarried condition. "Why don't you marry? Can't you afford to keep a wife?" "My innocent young friend," was the reply, "I can afford to support half a dozen wives, but I can't afford to pay the milliner's bills of one." And you mothers think not always about getting good husbands for your daughters, but think some times how to make your daughters, fit to be good wives. A Point of Etiquette. ^The "point of etiquette," in regard to not sealing letters sent by the hand of a friend, is to be considered, undoubtedly, as settled by the usage of polite society, And yet there are two sides to the question. To in trust to a Mend an ^unsealed letter to a third person is a compliment to a friend but why should it be thought necessarily uncomplimentary if the letter be sealed? On the other hand, the sealing of a letter may be deemed always advisable, for one good reason at least. The contents of an unsealed letter are never safe. They are safe so far as the honorable friend is concerned, but not safe in any other sense. They may be lost from the envelope easilv and inno cently. They may beabstracted and read bythe servant to whom the note is delivered at the door, or by any prying individual who may find the missive lying on the hall table await ing the owner's arrival. Especially unsafe it is to placean unsealed pack age articles of money value. Would any sane man send a $50 bill in an unsealed envelope by the hand of a friend or anybody whomsoever? The friend himself if he knew the nature of the inclosure, would be very apt to protest against this sacrifice of common sense at the shrine of eti quette, ADINNER OF NETTLES. Joe Bunker,with his familyjoined a wagon train going overland to California in 1852. He had a canvas-covered wagon^and a span of the wickedest, most forlorn looking mules that you could weE imagine* In the wagon was packed all his earthly possessions, in cluding wife and four children.^|^ There was also of his party an Irish lad named Kelly, who had been but a short tame in this country, and who left a life of misery in Ireland, in hopes oi bettering himself here. Bunker's load had been too heavy at the start for the mules to draw, and keep up with the rest, so at the first stoppage he auctioned off what could be pest spared, for any sum he could get. After that alL went well for many days. Then one morning when they were prepar ing for a start, one of the mules gave an ex hibition of temper that was apalling. He kicked and plunged about, biting and kick ing at everyone who tried to approach him, ending the matter by throwing himself in such a way as to put one shoulder out of joint. Then he was meek as a lamb while the men put it in place.but when the harness was put on him, and he was hitched to the wagon he absolutely refused to pull a pound, and after bothering for several honrs, Bunker was forced to stand and see the rest of the train disappear in the distance without him The children cried loudly, Mrs. Bunker quietly wiped her eyes, while Tom Kelley, who had emphatically refused to go on with the rest, muttered, "Bad cess till the bother in' creature. Av we lave our bones between this an' the big rocks, it's him as will be till blame!" Bunker himself looked glum, and blamed the trainsmen for leaving him. But provi visions were getting scarce, and the Indians had driven pretty much all the game from their route. Grave fears were entertained of suffering from hunger ere their destination was reached, even at the best rate of speed they could make. As soon as the train disappeared. Tim and Bunker fixed their camp for a comfortable stay. There was a scant growth of timber, and a clear stream of water ran merrily by. It was July, and the weather was fine. Four days passed quietly and uneventfully, and by constant application of cold water, the beast's shoulder was so far improved, that, though doubtful of the wisdom of the move, Bunker hitched up, and slowly started along the trail. For two days they journeyed on, then the folly of starting so soon be came apparent. The mule's shoulder be came badly swollen, and the third morning he laid down when Tim aud Bunker tried to harness him, and all their efforts were of no avail to induce him to rise. They had camped for the night, a long ways from water, and our travelers were about discouraged. What they used that day was brought by Tim from a little lake nearly a mile away. Next morning they managed to remove to the vicinity of the lake, made themselves aa comfortable as was possible, and waited with as much patience as they could for the time when they could make another start. More than a week went by. Bain fell heavily for two days, and you can well an derstand how uncomfortable our friends \»ere. Provisions became scarce, and there was no game about. They had reached a region where there was timber, not heavy, but con tinuous, and when one day the children asked for fodd and there was none to give them, Bunker put the harness upon the mules and started on. The day was overcast and cloudy, and without much thought, he started upon a course he was sure would intersect the trail followed by the train. But after traveling all day, and not finding it, he became alarmed. A solitary jack rabbit furnished them with a meal, and next morning he undertook to retrace his way. His wagon was lightly loaded, and the ground very hard in places, so no impression was made, visible to inexperienced eyes, and after a few hours Bunker was forced to ac knowledge himself hopelessly lost. He knew he had gone south of the trail to encamp near the lake, so when the sun came out, he took his bearings, and turning due north, journeyed on. So for days. A few birds, shot now and then, kept life in their bodies, but at last it seemed they must starve. "If no food is found by noon to-day," de clared Bunker on the morning of the tenth day of their wanderings, ''I shall kill one of the muleB." His heart was wrung by the sight of his children's sufferings, and although he knew upon the mules depended their ever getting to a place of safety, he determined to sacri fice them, rather than to see the little ones starve. All the forenoon, he and Tom tramped the woods on each side of the route pursued by the wagon, on the alert for any thing which would do for food. Ten o'clock. Bunker looked at his watch and a look of stern determination came over his face, but he continued on, gun in hand, his watchful eye searching every grove and thicket as he passed them. They were just entering a small clearing, and Bunker was assuring the poor children that they should soon have food, when a great shouting was heard in advance, which caused the mules to quicken their pace, and aroused the attention of all. "Och,( iisther Bunky! but here's the foine atein' in^irely! Faithen we'll not be stharvm' now! Make haste wid a foire, an' get the pot forninst it, en we'll have a faste fit for a king!" He was capering and shouting so excitedly that all peered eagerly about for a sight of the promised food, but there was apparently nothing visible near him but an immense bed of nettles. Close by was the ruins of a log cabin, its blackened condition showing plainly by what agency it had been destroyed. A beau tiful spring of water bubbled from among the roots of a towering pine, and danced away across the clearing. It was a lonely but beautiful place, and had been a happy home perhaps, one day. When the children could see no food they began to cry in a disappointed wav. "Arrah now hush up wid ye! We'll soon have ye filled to your mouth wid good ate in'." Then while they all looked on in bewildered surprise, he quickly built a fire, and hung a kettle over it. Then he put in some water from the spring, a handful of salt, and pro ceeded to crowd the kettle full of the tender est shoots of the nettleB, poked the fire until it blazed right merrily, then leaving his "greens" to cook, sat down beside the fret ting children and began telling them wonder ful stories of life in "Oireland," until in laughing at his droll speeches, they almost forgot their hunger. This he kept up for half an hour, peeping occasionally into the kettle, whose contents steamed right merrily, and keeping the fire roaring. At the end of that time, he dished out a quantity of well-cooked greens, and in vited them to partake. All did so, and found the queer food very satisfying, if not very pal atable. When asked by Mrs. Bunker how he knew nettles were good to eat. Tim replied, mournfully: "Dear lady, yenever stharved in 0irland,or ye wud never ask!" Camp was made, and in the afternoon Tim electrified all by bringing in a hatful of pota toes, which he had found in what had once been a garden, and Bunker shot a jack rab bit. Poor children! How greedily they watched thefood as it cooked, andhow eager ly the little thin hands were outstretched to cluteh a share when offered. Next day refreshed and re-invigorated they started their way, and half-day's travel brough.on them t«, the camp of a long 1 a-t _a perature and other devices may wagontrain, which was stopping for a day to, 1 i^^triss*31--••--—.Iran that staggered hnndreomSep ironr the trail he ad long before. Thfc train Tras en ronteffor©$i egon, andTatfcer than ran the risk ofg lost a second time in searching for the trail,he cast his lot amongthem, and a a happy, and time, a prosperous ms that state.—Daughters of America. Without the Middleman's Aid. ggEvery morning there comes to ifiSl house in which I live a fine hale, old* man, with the fresh scent of country lanes about him, who brings vgood The Flight of a Cannon Ball. 1 To untutored hearers a formula set down in algebra would convey less idea of a hindered though not van quished cannon ball than would the simple speech of a savage who, after tracing its course (as only savages can), has called it "a demon let loose." For not only doesit seem to be aimed with a mighty will, but somehow to govern its action with ever-ready in telligence, and evento have a"policy." The demon is cruel and firm not stupidly,, obstinate. Against things that are hard and directly confront ing him he indeed frankly tries his strength, and does his utmost to shatter them and sendthem in splint ers and fragments to widen the havoc he brings but with objects that are smooth and face him obliquely he al ways compounds, being ready on evena slight challengeto come, as men say, to "fair terms" by varying his line of advance, and even, if need be^ resorting^ to crooked, to sinuous, paths. By dint of simple friction with metal, with earth, with even the soft, yielding air, he adds varied rota- L^, tory movements to those first enjoin ed by his mission he improves his fell skill as he goes: he acquires a strange nimbleness can do more than simply strike—can wrench, canlift, can toss, can almost grasp can gather from each conquered hindrance a new and baneful power, can be rushing, for in stance, straight on in a horizontal direction, and then, because of some contact, spring up all at once like a* tiger intent on the throat of a camel, —Kinglake's "Crimea."- A Black Hills Dramatic Critiqued From the Custer City Chronicle. Her voice was a cross between the hum of a cyclone and the screech of a locomotive under full steam. It trembled away in cat-like cadences and rose again like the wail of a hound in distress. Again it rose in mellow tones not unlike the wind dallying over the mouth of an empty jug. Stopping only long enough to take wind, she rose slowly to her tip toes, and with gyrating arms* and heavy chest gave a fair imitation of the road that fortells a Dakota bliz zard. Old Jim Baker's pet panther, chained to a post in the lot back of the opera house, heard some of her high notes and they skeered the poor beast out of ayear's growth. It was the first time our town was ever visited by a genuine female calliope and we hope she,ll come again." The Treatment of Wine. There is probably no greater de lusion in the modern gastronomie art than the notion that age enriches wine illimitably. If a three or fire year wine is better than the crude juice, the process must go on forever and the wine of 500 yeass must be the veritable nectar of the gods It is a myth of the poets. Wine is an organic product, and to everything organic there is the immutable law of growth and decay, life and death. Inere is no exemption. Dosing with foreign substances, fortification with brandies and alcohol, care of tern 8 a rest and recruit their stock. I only a little.—Home Journal. sa^&i abundant supply ofvegetables, «faf.'3 quality one can only find in the most expensive green groceries and fruity stores. He makes a business of serving the products of his Jrttte market garden across the North river to a choice list of customers certain apartment houses of the bet-1 ter order. He sells all that he can deliver, and the prices he gets, while reasonable enough to satisfy his patrons, are sufficiently liberal to compensate him handsomely There are other men, I notice, who make a specialty of milk, eggsand other fresh W table eommodities,which they deliver^ after the same fashion, directly from their farms or poultry yards. They pay no tribute to a middleman, nor are they under any expense for a city shop. They begin by drumming up custom in houses, and, as they serve the best of material, are not long in establishing a profitable connection. After this it is^lai sailing with them- fe The business of putting up pre serves and jellies seems also to be ex-^^w tensively followed byrural housewives who seek their industry in much the same way. Some of them advertise in the family papers. The majority employ a drummer to beat up custom in town. Thefact that they can afford the expense of advertisement or the salary of an agent, and still make a. greater profit than if they sold their products to the shops, may serve as a slight hint of the proportions of gain that fall to the middleman or retailer. A man in Fordham who has quite an extensive fruit farm which, thanks to his passion for im proving varities, produces some of the finest fruit in the country, in forms me that he now gets nearly, three times as much for the product of his orchard, which he retails him self, than he did when he sold it to a fruiterer. And stillhis customers get it cheaper than they did from the fruit shop.—Alfred Trumble in New York News- 4 1 Off the fatal decline, but for