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BEK.104ITO WINNSBORO,, S, C., AUGUST 21, 180iOLsE~N.11
On the old gray mill with its gambrel roof,
And the mos on its rotting eaves.
I hear the olatter that jare Its walls,
. And the rush4ng"aterca.soundt"
And I see the black floats rise and fall
As the whool goes slowly round.
I role there often when I was young,
With my grist on the horse before.
Ai dtalke wit Nel - th guitler's 8rl,
jI w d U04 at Pdo k.
Aal& whil 'she seohhor- lo brown,.
And flirted and chatted ho free,
The wheel might stop, or the wheel might go
It was all the same to me.
'i. 6eiityl 6ark adoeo ast I st6od
On the spot where I stasd tjq-day,,
Ahd N'elly isswed,Andhi nmiif<r is de'ad,
And the. mill and I are gray.
But both, till we fall Into ruin and wreck,
To our fortune of toil are bound ;
And the men goe and the stream flows,
And the wheel moves slowly round.
Who Was to Blame.
A hot September morning. All day thi
earth had lain Danting under the' fierc
rays of the Southern sun, and now tha
evening had come she was eagerly drink
ing up the heavily falling dew-dew evec
moe4aUI. '$o ).g hg4~t. The
d b 1 a d corcUed
looking more desolate than when war wai
devastating the land, for more cruel, mor
relentless than the or sword, was the foe
''he doors Iand windows of tjie Hal
weretopened wite to admittha' c6ol unight
air. Florence Manse leaned her white, sa<
face far out the open window; the heavy
dew fell softly, coolingly, upon her hol
brow. From... the, --negro -quarters .wer(
borne on the still night air.cries and groan
that told the old, dreary tale of death and
desolation worse than death. Now ant
thein she. heard. the roll, of cart - wheeli
along the dusty road; they were only bear
Ing away another yletin-of the (eyerl
Mrs. Manse'gave a moan of pal:i. A roN
of graves under the sycamores told th(
story of her woe. , All the loved onei
there-all that loved.her-save one. Wouh
the cruel fever take her little Floy-tht
only one on earth to love her.
With a piercing cry Mrs. Manse sptan$
up and snatched.her child from: the sofa,
where she lay sweetly sleeping, uncon
scious of her mother's anguish. All night
Floy was clasped to her mother's hearl:
but at last, when day began to break, 'Mrs.
Manse placed her sleeping child in her lit
tle bed, and then sought her own couch t<
take the much-needed repose.
Poor Florencel a bittere' grief than sor.
row for the dead filled her lonely, aphing
heart. On,the plea of.s urgent business
George Manse, a few weeks after the death
of his little boy, had suddenly deoarted
for New York, leaving his young wife, an<
surviving child in Dr. Irving's care. Flor
ence knew-Di. Irving knew-not busi
ness, but his own cowardly fears, his uttei
selfishness, drove qeorge from his home i
that hour of danger and death. Young
Dr. Irving was true to his charge. Ever)
day the lonel,y 11klk,Nas mwdg. brighter fo
a little timo by, :iis chcery. 'presence. an<
the sad, neglected wife had come to watcl
and long for these brief visits.
"Do you exppct.. George. honto soon It
was Dr. Irving!s oft as4ed -question
watching her ekpres$ivb facethe while.
Her reply was always the same, with a
scornful light darting in the dark eyes.
"He will be home when he can leave hi
- 'But one day she flashed out, passion
- "You kcn6w, and I knowv, Dr. If vinig
that my husband 'will never return lf ther<
remains the least personal danger. Georg<
Manse Isa too- great a coward to fao
After that, George Manse's. nam,
seldom pased their -lips. Dr. Irving fell
--though it would be the bitterest of losse
to his pitying, loving heart-that it wortig
be better, far better, if mother and chili
could both be laid by the 81(de of the deat
under the sycamnores.
When Mrs. Manse awolfe, it 'was lonj
past noon, little Ploy wvas patiently watch
ing by the bedside.
"Mamma, wake up now,'' lisped thi~
sweet voice; "late Foy; Foy's very tired,'
and the curly head' lay* pillowed on th
Aunt Cleo-the only house servant thi
fever had passed-served thien a tempt
"It am good as I kin cook, Miss Florle,'
oneased. ier skill,nd, dfor he F os
time in many weeks, ate heartily of th
daintily prep~ared food; "Ie's mighty gla
you kin eat like dat, honey. Der docto
sez dar,is nutin', like eatin' to keep. th(
But Floy would not eat, pushing awa
the tempting food with "lo tan't eat
Later, when Dr. Irving caime to niak
his usual call, Baby IFloy lay on hle
"You should have come before," salt
the mother's (lark, mournful eyes; but th
- white lips remain tightly closed.
His orders were.given in quick, sharp
.itones. The words "You should have son
ifor me immihately ' and the black vis
,he hold in hiq.hg~A ,' "ent like a'shieri
,knife's tlfiust to lierlieart, she, read in li
*anxious'face only - too quickly' of a nos
woo, sadly k,e6w that the balefp ~lm, r
~the dear'eyds and the red g&6
irounded1 cheek meant that Fio1 Itih
en with the fever.
Florence suffered thieim to take her chili
Bud lay her in the little bed; then, molqpi
loss and inute, 'ahe knelt by the bedside
keopiag her ill during the long hourl
while Dr. Irving and( Aunt Cleo ministere
to little Floy.
"Best to leave her alone; we canne
help her," as Cleo motioned toward thi
"Mammal Mamma!" whispered tli
faint, sweet voice, and ihe loving eye
rested a moment on lie prostrate form
"Foy deed; don't try;" then she relapse
in to the tinconsciousness of fever.
Florence lifted her anguished face, shud
*-Save'my baby! Oh, save her, doctorl
*lhe cried, int agony.
'am do all I can, Florenee, HEa
we not better telegraph to George as soon
as possible? Floy ls very ill."
"l 11 :nothipg to-'im; do not trou
1'(1ithf ofs'i05fiW eoty proved how
keenly she felt his cruel desertion,. how,
surely alienated was her heart from hum,
who by his selfishness had forfeited all
right'to respect and love.
"Very well. Perhaps it isbetter to wait
for Floy to improve," kindly i4teepreting
the reply in a gentler form. .Both knew
full well what thr reply meant-George
mut take his owl ( thue to roturn, un
,"Dr. tvn FInyust not die!" 'read.
ibg in bi sorrowing eyes what his lips re
frained froni speaking.
le passed his hand lightly over her dark
"Oom, Forbice,'i raising ti slender
form tenderly, "no sd rest awhile-for
10,s-'ake ah '6:fAbly rslsted.
Aunt Cleo led her from the , ';e
watching her pityingly, his greatj . -
heart shining forth in his moisteied beb.
When the door closed, he turned again to
the fever-stricken child.
Terrible indeed was the clutch of the
fever's burning lingers, so strong the grasp
on the baby life that the physician felt his
skill was powerless to save her; death
would soon free the little sufferer.
Aunt 0leo stole quietly Into the room.
"Is she any better?" she - whispered,
leaning over the little one.
She stroked the clustering curls caress
Ingly, starting back with t cry of dismay
and terror as el marked the fearful ravages
of the tever.
"I cannot save her, Cleo." And Dr.
Irving's eyes grew dim.
".No, no; she can't be a4ved. I knowed
it; but oli, my babyl My pdbr Mis 116fic,.
You can't save her, for the Lord hab
nared de b t and' loveliest in do land.
Do fludders re wepmn' for dey chil'ren,
but dey can't go nbhow; only dem we want
ter stay. Oh, my poor Miss Floriel"
The old woman swayed to .A9Ia
.wrlngwg her hands in deep distress.
They did not hear the door open, did
not see the white face. Every word of
Aunt Cleo's bitter cry Florence Manse had
"All alone, alone!" the vfiite lips whis
pored, Tlhen, "all gone. The last oneiion
earth wl.o loves met Oh, doctor, I shall
be all alone!" flinging out her white hinds
with a despairing gesture.
He caught them to his breast with "No,
poor dove, never alonel" Then lie drew
back. She was George Manse's wifel Dr.
Irving's face became strangely ,white and
huggard. Florence was his friend's
In the clear, true eyes shone a look of
entire renunciation. Gently lie released
her hands, and with a briken ,"God help
you, Florence," without one backward
glance, he turned and left the room.
That night Ploy died. Dr. Irving stood
by Florence's side at the dying bed, sup
po;ted the frail form as they knelt by the
grave; then brought her back to the deso
late Hall-ana, though the noble heart
ached for its darling, he, knowing that it
was best, said, calnly:
Egbert Irving never came to the Hall.
Often, in the dreary days that followed,
Florence met Dr. Irving in. fever stricken
homes, at dying bedsides. Kind and grave
had he ever been to her, kind and grave
would he remain; only he and she would
i ever know of his love and her sorrow.
Late in the fall George came home. His
heart smote him when lie saw the pale,
thifface o.l4ii,wife, the lines of suffering
lndbr the sad eyes.
"We wilt go away, Floy. Indeed, you
must have a change," said George, ,one
day, watching the hands toying listlessly
with a piece of fancy work.
She smiled faintly. Itc seqmed strange
Sthat of late ie shohud begin to manifest
consideration for her whom he had' neg
lected. The lever of a great sorrow or
trouble is oft.en requisite to move such
men from their lethargic selfishness.
"Yes, we will go-a-some time-when I
can be sp)ared."
Thus it happened that Florence weit
about making farewell visits. One bright
iautumn day she mawla her last visit. Poor
Floyl . The faint siles were chased from
I the pale lIps forever, and that day the
I bruised heart broke..,
The cruel fever snatched one more vic
tim, breathed on him with Its deadly
b)reath, and then exultingly hurried on its
desolating way. In that hour, when death
called Dr. irving, lie asked for Florence,
and she camne.
SIt was better thus. Neither murmured;
they rathier rejoiced that the end hadl come
I so noon.
"lBe brave and true, Florence; true t.o
your husband," lie whIspered with (lying
- She kied14 a.lps, lisa brow, lisa hands;
btbt' her' lef a*% too deep for words, too
bitter for tears. }lutely, tearlessly she
I fold'ed his hands; and withb a last lingering
look on the dear face, went to kneel alQne
and battle with her great sorrow.
George found her kiieeling by the win
dow. When It was all over, he led her
ayway; even then she could riot weep,' did
not look bick up.oh the face grown so
strangely dark and disfigured. In her own
' oggthe dllalthy gave way.
1lam ready o6o away;' 2 Oh, George,
take me away!" she bitterly cried.
Then:~)there~ camie to George Manse the
bitter knowledge that Florence had loved'
the dead-ay, bettet, than she loved the
living-her husb'and. But In lisa heart
t,hJere was no anger towards the dlead,'and
1 with his krlowledge cam le an awakening
love fo'r hib beaWbrolke' wife.
m Trhe following day-a golden da34 ghep
r earth and sky were brighit' with the grory
that aiit unin brings they-l id Dr. Irving
Si 1m hij gave. J~rhe. lb ed paler and
- inore frgile thfiii tielles he 'carrIed to
place upon the grave. George felt that
I she was only lingering a little while, for
-a te(shadow?ofd6li1has already In the
dark dyes, on the white check.
,Thiat was the end. George wat.chedl the
I white fpg~e nairrowly as they tdt 6d from
the now made grave; the colorle,ss lips ut
t. tered no cry, her eyes shone tearless and
b.right; for the sake of theo noble dead she
w~ould atti e (0.be bravo, and true to him
who only should claim her life-hong allegi
"Dr. Irvifug WAs noble man; ho has
I been very kind to nme and mine, Florence,"
said George gravely, as they slowly walkced
- up the shaded lawai.
"It is better that lie could die before ho
had known terrible suffering; yet lisa place
will never be filled,"
1 Trho dreary honnleannnan of he reja
"Perhaps Florence, his place can b(
,flled," thinking, sadly enough now, of thc
double mcauing In those words, she
thought of the now-wade grave.
'George took his wife atway from the
scene of her lbse; but only for a season. In
the spring he returned-came to make
another grave under tho sycamores-to
dig a grave in his own heart.
. The story of his wedded. life was read to
him in simple language. There had been
gl#ii into his care a tender flowor--a flower
in the summer of its life; but love and care
had he denied it. The sunshine of love
nd& sihphthly 'was given by another, kin
der than he, with tender hands lifting the
drooping flower till the hand was chilled
death-a cruel rost, chilling
e. e$ at othe o hearti Then h<
iy, toQ 1so;,care could not
avail; sui love could not save.
T}e sycanorca sighed on. A marbh
siaft under their sade said that Florence
Muie in the Backwoods.
I had been sent to --, a Wisconsir
settlement, on business, and my stay wai
prolonged to such an extent that I foresaw
that I should not be able to get away be
foi Tianksgiving. Brown had bought a
melodeon. It was the first one in the
.ptce1 thQ fir4 one, in fact, thitt - many of
the residents had ever seen, and it was the
(ause of much neighborhood gossip. Som
thought the Browns )vere iputting on quite
.'too muchstyle.. .'Gettin',airy,' my land
lady expressed It. "1 guess of he'd pay
his honest debts he wouldn't have mucli
money left to buy melodeons with." "His
Sarah'll-iammer out music - rght and left,
Wont'i she?" chickled Mrs. W- whc
called In.to discuss the matter with Mrs.
B-. 'She don't know one tune from
another, I should jedge, from the way she
sings in meetin'. But I s'pose they think
a.girl vyith red hair an' freckles, to say
U,othifi41frsqulhik" has got to hev some
thin' to attrack the young men."
"You see of they don't git up a party,"
sal Mre. B- , nodding ner head wisely
at Mrs. WV-. "They alhis do, when
they git something new. They did last
year when they got their parlor cheers, an'
the sofy you know. They will now, see
of they don't!"
A4-s. B---proved to be a wise prophet.
Tw6,1 days before Thaiksgiving, Mr.
Brown "drooped In," and before lie went
away he informed us that the "old woman
was goin' to have some doin's Thursday
evenin', she wanted us to come 'round.'
"I want you to come, too, young man."
said Mr. Brown to me. "'The old woman
and Sary's makin' great calellation on hay
in' you there, 'cause they've heard say you
could rattle some purty good music out o'
sich a thing as that we've got up there, and
they want you to show off, you see. We
can't, you know, though Sary, she's picked
out 'Come thou fovut,' an' otne or two
other hynins, but they ain't very lively,
an' wouldn't be anyways likely to enter
tam cowp'uy a whole evenin'." And Mr.
Brown chuckled, as lie lit his pipe, and
took his departure.
-"I knew 'twould be so," remarked Mrs.
W-, when he wai gone. "That's alius
their way o' showiu' off new things. I
should know when they giv a party, that
they'd got 'omethin' new, of I hadn't heerd
o' their buyin' anything."
Thihsday.evenug came, and we repair
ed to Mr. Brown's. I heard the m6lodeon
before we got to the door, and as -we passed
a window, I looked in and saw DeaDl-,
who led the singing at meetins'," seated
before the instrument in a much-doubled
up position, "picking out" a tune with the
first fingor of his right hand, while the rest
of his lingers were clenched.in his palm as
if lie wanted to keep them entirely out of
the way, One or two old ladies sat near,
listening, and I heard one of them say, as
we Wvent in, that she thought "Brother
D--'d learn to play in iio time, of lie had
an instrument." To wich Brother D
responded, as he straightened tup, and re
leased his cramped fin'gers, that "lie guess
ed he cotild git the hang o' the thing,, but
it was kinder hard work, lie jcdgcd, till a
person got used to it," andi thereupon lie
took a long breath and wiped his fatigued
hand on the leg of his trousers.
Mr. Brown, bluff and hearty, advanced
to mecet and welconie us. He had his
trousers tucked into his boots, and was in
his shirt-sleeves, and wore his hat. Indeed,
lie, with soveial others, wore their hats
the entire evening, with the exception of
the tine we were at supper.
"Ilow'd ye (10, young man ?" ho said,
slhaking hands with me. "Glad to see ye,
Miss Brown, she was afeard you'd giv' us
the slip. Take a dhicer."
.took the "cheer." As nobody offered
ttake my lint, Iatand held it. I was
tenmpted to wear it, and be in fashion.
Mr. Brown sat dlown and tilled his pipe,
Jtist as be was proceeding to light it, a red
hatired, freckled girl of about sixteen sudlet
up to him and gave him a nudge in th<
"WYall, what's wanted ?" lie demanded,
"supper ready ?"
Bary, for she it Was, I know at once, by3
the description I had been given of her,
whispered something in an undertone.
"Oh, you Want the young feller to play,
do ye, an' don't dare to ask hhni ? Thait's
it? is it ?" and-Mr. Brown winked at me,
in a very jovial way. I wasn't at all suir
prised that Sary hadn't asked me, as nc
one had iintrodutced us. We were cot In.
t:?odtced at, all, I may as .well say right
h le,To tell the truth, giving mntreauotionm
Waslooked upon as a -kind of weakness
peculhiar to'"air-y" 'people, by the good
people of B--. In a six weeks' stay
flhere,I was a itroghtrel to any one.
'$ird trf&dt lidolo not father's playful
remark by looking unconscious of it. The
.result was that she looked so comical that
I had hard work to keep from laughing,
for her eyes were so "crossed" that one
seemed to be looking southeast, whIle the
othier looked directly up, and I supp3se she
was looking at mue all the while, for heoi
fac.e got red, and she fidgeted abdut In e
bash~ful manner, and made no answer tc
"I say, s'posen you do play us some
thin," said Mr. Brown. , "We'di like tc
hear the thing squall right out."
I went to thme melodeon. A "solems
hush" fell upon the party.' The old ladie
drew down their faces, and ceased knit.
ting; the young folks suspended giggling;
the only sound I could hear was the puff,
puff, of the.smiokere, and there were sc
many' of them that the room was blue
with simoke. - 'I looked my audience over,
and concluded that "something' with a
tune to it" would 7"fill the bilm' ket 01
anything. My repertoire was exceedingly
Iflnited, so I began with a march "exten
porized" from the theme of "John Brown's
Body," etc. Bofore I had played a dozen
ineasures through, about every foot in the
rooi was boating time. Befort I finished
it, I was forcibly reminded of the gallery
boys stamping out their impatience for a
thta ro poiformance to begin.
"Wall, I swau,"declared Brown, "but
you can just make ite critter talk, now.
low's that for music, Jones? 'Hey ?"
Mr. Jones said that "was music, an' no
mistake," and I was fairly overwhelmed
with complhments from all sides.
"Giv' us another," said, Mr. Brown.
"An' Bary, you jest watch how he makes
his han's go. Mobby 't'il -give you some
I played Yankee Doodle with variations.
I carried the house by storm. I never ex
pect to play to another audience as appre
clative as that one was. I was encored on
that piece. I played It again, and the en
"By the powers, but that just everlast
n'ly beats all I over heerd," declared
Mr. Brown. "1 say, young man, pla) it
And I played it again. I may au well
say here that I was called on to "play it
ag'in" three times during the evening.
Then I played Fisher's Hlornpipe. goie
of the young men wanted to dance; . but,
as there wasn't room, they had to be con
tented with a shuffling accompaniment,
which they performed with their feet. I
'followed the hornpipe up with the
Wrecker's Daughter Quickstep, and the
Tempest. As D-happened to know an
old song set to that tune, lie struck up and
sung It. As I was playing it in pretty
lively time, and his song was religious in
sentinent, the effect can be imagined. I
tried hard not to laugh, but I felt the tears
start. is singing turned the music into a
. "Le's have some singin'," proposed
Brown. "Soiethin' we all know. Play
us 'Lay up closter, brother, closter.' That's
the song that takes me right in my weak
spot ev'ry time. You start it, deacon."
The song Mr. Brown meant, I inferred,
was the "Dying Californian," as I heard it
sang several times in 8-. L was right.
Deacon A-cougned, cleared his throat,
and began. Everybody joined in. Some
of them couldn't sing a tune to save them,
but they sang all the same. Several of the
old ladles were affected to tears.
"Jerk out the wobbler," whispered
Brown to me, between the last verses.
"'That'll make it solem'er." I didn't know
what the "wobbler" meant, but lie helped
me out of the dilemma by pulling out the
tremolo stop. So the last verse was sung
to a "wobbling" accompaniment, which, I
suppose, satisled his longing or an addi
tional solemnity to the plece that "allus
took him in his weak spot."
"Wa'n't that sweett" said Mrs. Brown
to birs. N --. "I wish Sary could play
that, her father likes it so. Myl but can't
lie jest beat ev'rythiig? ~1 don't see how
he knows where to put his fingers, but it
seems real easy to him."
"You sing Barb'ry Allen, Mis' Brown,"
suggested Mrs. W-. 1 allus liked
So Mrs. Brown sung Barbara Allen, and
the guests came In strong on the chorus.
When that song was concluded, I was
called on for Yankee Doodle again. After
which, I was requested by Deacon D
to play something of a religious character,
and they sung "Am I a Soldier of the
Cross," "There is a Fountain filled with
Blood," and other old favorite hymns.
After supper, I was immediately taken
back to the melodeon, where I played,
"by particular request," the Yankee Doo
die variations. Greater enthusiasm, much
applause, and much wishing on the part of
Mr. and Mrs. Brown, that Bary could play
Then more singing. Sentimental and
religions songs followed each other rap)idly,
with a sprinkling of jigs aand other lively
"morceaus." Of all musical evenings,
that was the most sociable of any I have
(One Hlorse Lawyers.
A case of assault and battery, in which
farmers' sons were plaintiff and defenidant
respectively, was on trial in Justice Alley,
Detroit, recently ana the plaintIffs lawyer
was very anxious to make out that the de
fendant's family must have seen the fight
which took place just outside the kitchen
door. The defendant's mother being on
the stand the lawyer began :
"Well, wvhere were you when the first,
blow was struck ?"
"Down celiar skimming milk and tying
cloths over my preserve jars," she re
"'Where was your husband?"
"Hie was In the barn. mending the har
ness and greasing the wvagon." ,
"Where was your daughter Sarah?''
"Sarah was in the north bedroom chang
ing the pillow cases on the spare bed."
"And where was Janet"
"Jane? She had run over to a neigh
bor's to borrow soine coffee and a nut
"Let's see I IHaven't you a sist.er living
with you ?"
"Yes, sir. She was sewing carpet rags
"Am! She was! You have a younger
son named C~harles, haven't you?f"
."Yes, sir, and lie was salting the sheep
across time road."
"Just so, You are a very busy family,
I see. I suppose even the dog was very
busy just at this particular moment.''
"Yes, sir, lie was. Old Biose was down
at tihe gate looking towardhs D)etrolt for
Jj;anese Witer Sports.
he most of our young readers think of
Asiatlo countries as warm, because India,
with whmich we are best acquainted, has n'o
winter like ours. But Japan has a genuine
winter, with snow and ice. And the
Japanese children indulge In time same
kimid of winter sports as are commion In
this country. A recent yisitor from Eng
hanad saw many a fine snow-image made by
tihe boy, with pieces of charcoal for eyes,
and a charcoal streak for the month, ie
also looked on at many a boys' battle with
snow-balls,' and concluded that they had
better tempers than the boys in England
and none of them seemed to get angry
though hit often and hard. 'hcir shoes
don't get wet like ours, as they are madle
of wood, three inches high, but when the
snow is deep their feet are wet and c)ld,
as there is no upper covering. TIhe Eng
lish vIsitor thought the Jap boys the
happiest.and merriest obl!dren he hiall over
Hunting Wolves In Texas. th
One Bell, of Fort Griflin, is credited oil
with killing more wolves than any other di
one man on the plalussou-.h of the Arkansas: m,
In one season lie poisened over 500. From an
three to four good hunters used to club to- th,
gethcr and hunt the season through. They he
started out with a wagein well loaded with fu
flour, bacon, sugar, salt, and coffee. An fr(
extra pony or tw: camte handy to ride fol
around, keep the balls In order, and bring thi
in the hides. Tihe trappers corred plenty by
of ammun ilon, andl when using breech-load- on
ing rifles filled their own shells. As the lej
Coianches were troublesome, the rifles tl
were~kept loaded and the horses etrictly w<
guarded. At night they were hobbled in goi
the brush near tihe caip, so as they could he
not go astr.)y. If the "sign" wits good, su
camp was usually made in a sechided spot -1o
near a running stream, tribntary to one of go;
the large rivers. As the wolves followed po
the buffalo, and the buffalo cropped the on
juicy grass along the streams, the "sign" It l
was always good in a wild and well- to
watered section of the ccuntry. y the Bni
"sign"- -the tjAcks and half-catt. dead an
buffalo-the trTppers estimated the nuni- tl
ber of wolves, and prepared their baits,. wi
Buffalo, antelope, or deer were killed in an hai
open place, and strychnine placed i those the
portions of the carcasses first tern ty the exi
wolves. But tile trappers as a rule, did in
not plant the poison before sunset, for the the
wolves of the air, the Inunmerable raven4 ab(
that shadow the plains and feed upon dead an
animals, displaced the baits if the traps the
were set before they went to roost. The grc
ground near the carcasses was sometines
sprinkled with dead ravens. Small flocks hot
staggered around the dead bulls under the ski
influence of ti poison, and gyrated def
through the air like tumbler pigeons. prc
The colder the weather, the more wolves. his
A niniping, frosty air seemed to sharpen of I
their appetites, and give them a keen sceit. wih
While Uraham was on the Brazos, five tic,
winters ago, eight bison were killed on din
the side of a hill. and their bodies skinned uni
and poisoned, During.the night tile wind der
veered to tile north, and the weather be- aml
came intensely cold. A storii of sleet pot
made the camp firu hiss, and the howls . of In1
the wolves rang above the ravine in which sur
the hunters slept. With the first streak of Spi
daylight they visited their baits, fearful wo
that the ravens might tear the fur of the bru
dead wolves and damage tie hides. With
in three hours they found the bodies of fif
ty-six large gray wolves frozen so hard
tlaut they dragged them Into the ravine and I
thawed them out. All agreed that if the dia
night had been mild the animals would bor
have kept under cover. 01H
A wolf begins to feel the effect of the wi
poison within ten minutes. lie stops tl
eating. His ears and eyebrows twitch, cal:
and his linbs are cramped. Frequently In
lie whirls around like a dancing dervish, per
sweeping the ground with his tail aid pil
throwingipthe(lirtwithoneof hisforepaws. (at
His comrades cock their heads to one side i"i
and watch his spasns with curious eyes , Cd
but resume their feast when the victim to
stiffens or starts for the scrub. Few of to
the poisoned aninals die at the side of the un,
poisened buffalo. Old hunters assert that in
tile strychnine produces a burning tidrst, to 1
,md the wolf imakes for the nearest water., bla
This keeps the band of trappers bisy nll an
the morning. While two of them skins the of
wolves nearest the baits, the other noutints alit
a mustang and scours the ciapparel ami wit
banks of the river in a further search for we
bodies. The ravens assist himi, filling tile bill
air with wild cries, and fluttering sayt
over the gasping animals in the'brush. im1
Many of tie wolves arc not dead when dis. tir
covered. They are scattered about in all tle
stages of paralysis, and aro put out of their cry
misery by tlie hunter. Occasionally a dy- 11
ing wolf is found stretched on the spnda of C01
the river lopping the water; but lie does ani
not rush it.to the stream, and his body it Img
never found floating upon its surface. me
Even in (lentil he seems to have a horror of aile'
Th'ie only adepts at skinning are the pro- (ds
fessional hunters. Tlhe body is turned upi. wv
oil its back, and work begins at thei fore- cie
quarters. Tile trfipper grips a leg betwveen hig
his knees, 01)ens up the hide to the brisket, wvi
and rips diown to tile talil. The taillis the .pe0
most valuable part of tile wolf. If in
jured, it 81)0i1s the beauty of the robe. It,
is therefore taken oft withl the greatest care. ]
The ,skinner then plants his foot firmly up- anc
on his neck, and by main strength p)eeIs of
thle hide up to the head. IIere miore care ma
is required. The ears and nose are tern ilhe
away, with tile skin, so that spread upon for
tile prairie it, presentedl a perfect picture- pil
The ide is then folded fleshl side in, giv
thrnownl across tile back of a pony and in
borne to camip. Thie fur is thleni turnedi to tie
tile grass anld thle skins stretchedc b)y pegs prc
driven into tile groundl. It dries according dy'
to tihe weather. ~No salt is used, If th.e~ ly
atmosphere is dIry it is taken up in three i
days, and turned over and sunnedcc until iia'
ready for market. g
While the trappier is thus picking up eat
the skins of the big gray wolf lie does nbot ity
neglect tile coyote. This is much smaller wil
than his gray brother. The latter is nlearly tie
as large 1as a Newfoundland dog; the for- gre
imer about twice the size of a cat. Tile est;
coyote fancIes a camp fire, and sits on hiii- me
locks witiiin sight of its blaze barking for anm
hlours. .Tile gray wolf bays the moon lhke ham
a dlog. Graham says lie has seen them sitting wit
on the hlighlest rocks gazing at its b)righit wva
orb with their heads thrnown back uttering pei
uneartihly howls. Tbis Ivolf scorns the its
coyoate. Whlen the large wolves drag down of
an old buffalo bull the Coyotes huddle in ed
the vicinity, licking tiheir chops and bark- biu
lag, as though begging a share of the prey. hot
Shioulid they venture too nealr the the big snm
fellows utter oiminious growls and the co- am
yotes slink away, tais between their legs bia
and heads turned over their sholde(lrS. The anc
coyote quickly determines the status of a ate:
hunter. If lie fli<ls lhim killing wolves he 'cea
keeps at a respectful distance; b)ut if lie is it,
only hunting bear, antelope or buffalo, the ani
little fellow becomes quite social, While
a bear hunter was butchering game coyotes
patiently watchled his operations, and a of
gray wolf loped hungrily onl an outer cir- P
cie. The trapper threw a piece of ineat to,s
the small fellows, who ran off and were gra
waylaid by the blig wolf, They dropped am
the meat and returned, but seemed to learnu bil
nothing by experience, for they 'fed tile oa
robber as long as thle hunter chucked them for
tho meat. thai
Many coyotes pick up their supplies in in
the prairie'dog-colonies. i one is Ilurking to
in the stre9ts and sees a dog away from ho:
hisa hole, lie steals upon him with the ut- poi
most secrecy, striving to cut of his retreat. un
AD old dog, however, is rarely caught me
napping. Some of the fraternity are auro '5
to espy the wolf- and a warning bark sanda hh
3 dog into lis hole with a tantalizing
ske of the tall. The coyotes despond
tly peers into the hole, rakes away the
t with a paw, and sniffs at the lost
al. IIe gets his eye on another dog,
dI crawls toward the hole like a cat upon
mouse. The warning bark is again
ard, and a second meal disappears. In
riated by lisa disappointment, the wolf
,quently turns upon the little sentry, and
a few seconds makes the qand fly from
entrance of his residence. Worn out
lils futile efforts, he flattens himself up
the sand behInd the hole, and motion
s as a statue, watches it for hours. if
dog pops out his head lie Is gone. The
If springs upon him, the jaws come to
her like the snap. of a trap, and the
pless canine Is turned Into a succulent
)per. One Metley, a well-known buffa
hunter, was riding across a dog town
no years, ago when he saw what he sup.
ied to be a dead coyote stretched out at
3 of the holes. le d1sinunted and lifted
>y the tall, intending to take the body
camp and skin it. The coyote made a
11i for his leg, wriggled from his grasp,
I sped over the prairie more surprised
.n the trapper. He was in a sound sleep
en caught. But the coyotes' greatest
vest is In the spring of the year, when
y fatten themselves at the expense of in
)erlenced young dogs caught wander
from home. Whole families enjoying
cool evening breeze on the mounds
ive the burrows are taken unawares,
I the tender young snapped up before
Ir parents can force them under the
he Indians say that the wolf has no
ne. Ile follows the buffalo, and is ever
rmishing onl the edge of the herd. In
atigable in the chase, he pursues his
y for days without sleep ie catches
nap in the sunlight, and does the bulk
its work at ilght. Like the Indian,
om lid resembles in many characteris
, lie never declines an invitation to
tier. A great glutton lie stuffs himself
11 his paunch. I distended like a bind
and In this cond ition iP often run down
lassoed by the cow-boys on ordinary
ies. Sone of the Southern tribes of
ins never slay a wolf. They have a
erstition that when they die their
rita roam the prairies in the guise of
Ives. "Who slays a wolf may slay his
ther," Is an Indian proverb.
L tube twenty iniches long by four inches
meter, of coiled Lowinoor iron, was
ed so as to have an internal diameter ot
-half an inch. Thus the central bore
surrounded by walls of Iron one and
-e-quarter inches thick, and, of course,
able of resisting an enormous pressure.
the tubes was placed a mixture of ninety
cent. of bone-oil and ten per cent. ot
aflAi-spirit, together with four grammes
out sixty-two grains) of the metal lith
i. The open end of the tube was weld
air-tigat and the whole was thQn heated
redness for fourteen hours and allowed
:ool slowly. On opening it a grcat vol
e of gas rushed from the tube, and with
xras found a hard, smoth mass adhering
,he sides of the tube. "it was quite
ck, and was removed with a chisel, and
t appeared to be coinposed principally
iron and lithium it was laid aside for
lysis. I was pulverizing It In a mortar,
en I felt that some parts of the material
re extremely hard--:not resisting a blow,
hard otherwise. On looking closer I
that these were most transparent pieces
jedded in the hard matrix, and on tri
sting them I obtained some free from
black matter. They turned out to be
stalline carbon, exactly like diamond."
At is Air. l1annay's account of his (is
'cry. Subsequent chemical and optical
lysis has proved that these hard, shin.
crystals are in every respect true dia
ads. The cost Is obviously great ; so,
, is the danger to life and property ; and
great difficulties to be overcome render
ippomntments common. What we now
ait Is to get vessels of a material sulli
utly strong and non-porous to resist the
h1 pressures and temperatures upon
ich the success of the experIment de0
lave you ever thought what imdigo is,
I where it comes from?i Near the city
Allahiabad, In India, our missionarie's
y see the little indigo plant growing, and
lactory where our indigo is prepared
use. The following account of the pro
ation of the Indigo from the plant was
en by the proprietor to one who traveled
hthat country: It is the young shoots of
humble plant you see before you wIch
vide us9 with the precious materials for
SIng, and not the flowers, as is common .
mllpposed. TFhe gathei-ing of theseshoots
Svery delicate operation. When they
te arrivedl at a proper degree of matur
they mtust be speedily removed, and
h cutting must be executed with rapId
and (luring the night, for the sun would
her the branches, and deprive them of
ir p)roperties. We therefore require a
at many bands; all the villagers on my
ute are places ha requisition. The work
n are dispersed In the fields at midnight;
I in the morning the produce of the
'Vest is deposited in these stone trough's,
ich have been previously filled with
her. Th'Ien is the time for the sun to
form its part. Under the influence Qf
rays the substances undergo a species
Fermentation; the water becomes color
with variegated tinges, and rapidly turns
e. Af ter a space of about forty-eight
ire, the liquid is dIrawn off from the
illest troughs. 1t now emits a slightly
nionlacal smOll, and the color is almost
ik. it Is allowed to evaporate again,
iis then placed In metal vats, heated by
cm, In which, when the evaporation has
sod, a deposit of pure indigo is formed.
uty remains to dry this deposit, pack it,
send it to the market at Calcuttd.
n a recent lecture on the possibility
foretellinug earthquakes, Professor
tinier expressed lhe belef t/hat by
ans of seismographic stations, teie
phicaily connected, for registering
I reporting prelimary earth trem
ugs, it would be possible to foretell
thquakes just as tempests are now
etold, and to issue warnings to
'eatened districts about three days
ad vance. iIe did not expect to live
Bee such asystem in operstibbu, but, he
ped and in a moasure expected .that
iterity (would be benilited by its
Iversal and permanent .ostabiah
['zun wel-whipped bay suffers from
The Modern Canoe.
. "A canoe," according to a recent official
and technical defluition, .Is a boat sharp
at both ends, not more than 86 inches beam,
and. which can be efrectively propelled by
a double-bladed paddle; lit a canoe may
be propelled either by a double or single
bladed paddle, or by one or more sails. No
other means of propulsion shall be used."
This Is the single modern cruising canoe.
She is a unique- craft, a boat unlike and
yet having the distinctive qualties of all
the others. The best of her qualities is
that she Is manageable. In calms she is
easily propelled by the single or double
bladed paddle, and in a favoring breeze she
ills away under one or more sails, and logs
from three to eight miles an hour. Properly
constructed, she weighs no more than 75
pounds, and may therefore be carried on
the canoceist's head and shoulders from
stream to stream, and around dams and
rapids. The paddle, although it affords
somewhat less speed for short distances, is
much more serviceable than oars, as it
admits of- quicker' action, enables the
canoeist to face in the direction of his
progress, and to keep an easy lookout for
dangers. The canoe ia sufficiently capa
cious to carry a month's supply of luggage
and provisions without trespassing upon
the space amidships, that may, if need be,
be converted into sleeping quarters. She
is a craft in which a man of nautical tastes
may comfortably cruise In inland waters at
a per diem expense of less than one dollar.
This light, staunch and roomy little ci aft is
as unlike the Indian birch-the typical
canoe of the United States- as she can
well be. Canoes are always cruising craft,
although they may be built as ships are
with reference to the work tiey are to per
form. The canoe that Is to run down a
river that is frequently broken by rapids
and dams must be light, that she may be
easily portaged. If the camping outfit is
dispensed with, the beam may be greatly
diminished, and greater speed attained.
Technically there are but two classes of
canoes, the sailing and the paddling, the
former being the canoe for general cruising.
Lightness in a canoe that Is always to cruise
upon deep water may be sacrificed to sail
ing qualities, but it is indispensable to the
canoe that is to be used Ior general crule
ing. Americans as well as English build
ers. however, too often sacrifice lightness
to strength-a grievous fault, the canoeist
flds, after he has tugged the heavy craft
over a few portages.' The canoes built by
Rushton (Canton, N. Y.) are models in
this respect, their average weight being
about 55 pounds, and that without sacrifice
of the esstntiat element-strength. The
carvel-built or smooth-side canoe is lighter
as well as speedier thlin the clinker-built,
but both British and American builders,
wihtlithe conservAtve pig-headedness of their
craft, give preference to the latter. The
Rice lake canoes built by Herald of Gore's
Landing, Ont., and by English of Peter
boro, Ont., are of the former class, and are
not only light and immensely strong, but,
under certain conditions, very speedy.
The Racine boat company of Racine,
Wis., has produced a canoe that is a revela
tion in the art of boat-building. The sides
are composed of three sheets of birch,
cherry or cedar, cemented together, the
grain of the inner sheet crossing the outer.
This veneer, while the wood is green, Is
pressed into the desired form. The sides
are one-eighth of an inch thick, perfectly
smooth, without a scam except at the ends,
which are neatly sheathed with brass.
There are no brad, screws, or rivet holes
that are not covered by the keel or wale
along the edge of the deck. This canoe
with the paddle, apron ona rigging, weighs
85 pounds. The streaks of the clinker
built canoe rarely check, the wood being
generally well seasoned; but unless the
ribs are very close to each other-not more
than three inches apart-and snugly fitted,
they will warp intomost tantalizing shapes.
Canoeing embraces not eonly the hour's
sailing and padlding after business, and the
long and short cruises, but also amateur
manchanmics. 'The canoeist, very early in
his career, learns that lie must rely upon
himself in everything relating to lis boat.
iIe must be captain, rigger, carpenter,
cook and cabin-boy. A rudder eye snaps
off-as they will If lie Is verdant enough
to allow lisa builder to use them--and he
must drill out and put in another, or submit
to a tedious delay. The canoe dashes
against a snag or sunken rock in a rapid,
and gets ashore, miles from any builder's
shop, with an ugly hole at the bow. The
conoelst mnust have the strip of cedar, the
marine glue, and the nails at hand, and
repair the danmage, or tow his water-logged
craft to the builder. There are scores of
odd jobs that he must attend to, to time
pleasures of which the unhappy mortal
iho navigates only a shell is a stranger.
The canoeist begins with a jack-knife, and
works up to Jack plane, square and com
passes, and ultimately to the carpenter's
whole kit. iIe drafts a model, and turns
ouit, a fair canoe, to say nothing of supply
ing from his own shop many of huis camp
fittings. 'The speediest sailing canoe in
Eingland, and paddling canoe in the United
Stateg, is of amateur build. Amateur
builders have constructed very creditable
wooden canoes, but as yet few have
attempted anything but the canvas craft
a pretty and most serviceable boat, time
frame of which consistsa of stein and stern
posts, keel, keelson, lateral strips, ribs,
bulk-heads nd deck timbers. The coracle,
one of the earliest craft of Great Britain,
the Esquimeau kayak, and the Indian
birch embody the idea-a frame covered
with a tough skin. A very ordinary degree
of mechanical skill suffices for the produc
tion of a fair canvas canoe. The practiced
hand, however, may work out the subtle
tics of the boat builder's art in canvas sad
spruce strips as deftly as in white and
F~or the Unmam ried Men.
There can't too much guardin' against
the wiles of the firt; she's a naughty-oul
The way for a desolate old -bachelor to
secure better quarters Is to take a "bettor
When the young man begins to be called
a blade, there Is always mote or less steal
Life is but a span; marriage is a double
team; youth wedded to old age Is 'a tAn
demi; an old bachelor is a sulky.
- In some respecta the gentler sex fai' sur
pass us. No man, for instance can deliver
a lecture with a dozen pins in bus month.
Olean your last yes 's atraw hat with~ a
lemon, and yu zp esuo'o through
summer wlt I Tk th hiu di