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NEW CHURCH CHOIR.
FLOBEXCE JOSEPHINE BOTCE. Bister TJU, I must confeBB 'iat 011 this Sabbath day 'loud has rolled aoross my bro&st That ne'er '11 be cleared away. jYr attar flvo an' twenty year That I've that choir blest, An' raised uiy voice in helptal cheer An' strove t6r da my best An* arter all my darter's done, „_The orgin for ter p(ay, They've brorght in youngsters, one by one, I And cro vled us away. An', whut is wuss, the ohoriiter, TerRetherwith-hiawife, Are slickin' ter the yellln' gang An' holdin' up ther strife. An' tbar'a my darter Mary's bean, Whose bass has often rang Through tha'. ar' church, as aaft and low As bass was ever sung. But now they've got ernuther ono, in all ther chang erbout, Who yells uuiil y«'d realy think He'd yell his palate eout. An'Georgia Brown, the or^Iutat, 1 coulden't help but sneeze Ter bee ther way alio got up thar An'thumped upon ther keys. •An' ther sopranoes yelled a piece, In which ihar tenors jiued, An' them two parts jest squeaked an1 squalled Ernougti ter set one blind. AN' of ther altos, sister IJU, I will not apeak ouo word. For they du as ths others du, An' that is too absurd. But ouce for all, I wish ter say, B( fore tbe hours grow late, An' iny pure soul has passed away Beyond the golden gate: When I am taken ter that churoh, Ter ne'er come bask agin, I do 1100 want that new church choir Ter squeal the final hymn. WAIToFIlSLD, Vt. DOROTHEA INGHAM. A Story of Early Colo nial Days. BY CHARLES C. HAHN. CHAPTEB VI. A PURITAN MAIDEN. BE hardly knew 6ho was a woman, so Sweetly she grew, was the experience of Dorothea Hillary. 'J he most delicately tiLteil flowers are Ifound in colder [climes, md the vio I let of the forest is sweeter than the rich golden-rod 0 August sun and t-Js fertile prairie lauds.' So Dorothea grew in the forests of the new worl.i, not very warm, not with filming colors, or a luxuriance of pam nion, but in her face and in her soul were the tints, of heaven. Her even were a olear brown, innocent and trusting, nnd on her lips hovere 1 a perpetual summer •salm. Ki^ht as to heart and brain, she "won her way among the sterii Puritans with an extreme gentleness, and yet e-trly she Itained to endure and (o obev. Even while gir'.one could see that she would 'be a queieu in mnrria^e nnd a most per f«ct wife. Unconsciously, in her e.ves were depths cleiir and full of love for her 'parents and for her lover. And yoi she nad ever one black shndow at her feet the memory of her father and the sus picion that she herself was following in nis footsteps. And as the years passed, the shndow not onlv lay at ber feet, but irose and doted over her. In these days she sometimes murmured to herself a passage from an old book which she had found in her father's chest: "Mother Mary, her me and give me grace to bear my heavy load." She meant it as a cry to her own moth er, an did not know that the words were a prayer to the mother of God. Nevertheless, perhaps the Blessed Virgin heard her. Traces of her early life with her father were never effaced. In fact there were tinges in her character which were ever appearing like the recurring colors of the evening, twilight, and Dr. Lennox never •trore to blot them ont. When mingling with the pioneers or their staid, young old ohildren,she could be as dignified and proSaic us they. But when they were gone and she was alone, or with her adopted father, all the influences and les sons of her early life appeared. She looked upon the trees of the forest and the flowers growing at their feet, at the running brook and the stars and the rolcuds overhead as the real things of the world, and hence nearer and dearer to iher than men. So ofttimes she content to sit for hours beneath some tall oak tree, which, thick-leaved, sighed over her little head with an ancient melody as old as trees or the hi.is or nature. At such times there appeared in her soul those characteristics \sviaich were like polden tints in the sky, coming at the close of the day, as the bustle and worry of tb.3 world were dying away and the peace of the evening twi light reigne'-i I A glorious child, dreaming alone Xn silken folds, on yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees, Into drcastul slumbers I'Ul'd. Some warm summer days she would wander knee deep through the meadow igras.s, along the little brook which cir cled half around the town. No bird woall sing on these ys, nor would any cloud pass across the sky, and the day would increase from he it to heat. Those were dreamy days, which a poet or a painter would love, and at such times all of Dorothea's early lessons in nature would come back to her. She would bend •over a little struggling flower, hidden by 4he tall gr.iss, and speak to it ns if it were a friend. Even the coarse weedp, in which none e'se. unless it may have been the Doctor, could see aught but ugliness and Adam's curse, nppealed to ber. The broad meadow wus a great bed, .and she drew the tops of the crass ten derly between her lingers nnd dreamed— oh! who knows of what a child dreams at such a time? On days when there were clouds in the sky and a breeze was iblowing the shadow of the former fell upon and flo .ted over the bending igrass and she imagined the field to be a •miniature sea. And to sit there, half bidden by tho (grass, and look out at the tall treetops which surrounded the village, nnd out dnto the sky beyond an I overhead. Ah! •what a quiet happiness that brought, nnd what fancies, quiet and dreamful, tilled -Che child's mind. There was lonesome ness in it, too. that was not altogether unpleasant. For somewhere bovond those woods sbe belie ed her father lived, and the wme sky was over them both. There was a little poem, or rather the fragment cf a poem, which her father bad once taught her, and although she did not at first probably under tand it, the rhythm was pleasing and she often re peated it to heisalf: The shndows ou the Western elopes, The sky tints at the set of snn, May thrill us all alike with joy, But he who alnts them wiil be one Among a thousand, it ho catch And mirror back the beauties shown In glowing sky and shadowing hillu. And His, the master hand alone. Sometimes come floating thro' the mind Or.surgitig thro' the human breast A thought, a feeling rich aud rare, A gift to man, if but expressed. And when ono cau, with rhythmic words, Movein our brpasta asnsations deep. And strike the ohord our own soul wept, for him tho poet's name we keep. The verses always recalled her father and made her sad, yet she clang to them with childish persistence and chose to be sad in memory with him, than light hearted without. And yet, this loneli ness never came to her. But sometimes in the falling day Animate seemed to pass aud say, "But thou snalt be alone no inoie." The ima seemed to be that of the mother whom she did not remember, but whose portr lit.she wore upon her roast, and in her heart came a nameless feeling of peace. For a pioneer, Dr. Lennox possessed a 4iite library, nnd many of the books were so quaint t.nd old that it was a wonder he •was allowed by the church to keep them. To these books Dorothea had tree ac cess, and no doubt the natural bent of -her mind was fostered by them. Stories of the Crusades ind of kn:ghtly deeds covered many a puge, nnd tho stories were woven into her dreams. At an early dar also she came upon a botany, end with help of her foster-father became skilled in anal.v/.ing the iiowers which grew iu the meadows and the forests. There was a Bchool in Sagnanck, kept in a small cabin, one of the first erected and the first deserted by its owner when he became wealthy enough to build a more pretentious home. Here the Puritan children were gathered diy by day to memorize the alphabet nnd struggle with the mysterious orthography of the En glish 1 ngu ige. It is disagreeablo work for the majority of the children, but Dorothea's dreaminess made it a ro mance to her. Each simple tale which she found in her reader had its interest, and she supplied the clouds and the flowers to make it beautiful. In after years these days were among the most pleasant in her memory. CHAPTER VII. IN THG MINISTEB'S STUDY, Mr. Granville's study was in a corner of the hoiis^ and looked out upon the street. It was a verv cozy room, furnished with a moderate library and writing desk nnd a snug fireplace, in which the various nds of wood snapped and blazfd in their season. An arm-ohair made out of twisted boughs of hiokory stood by the fireplace. In this room the minister spent moBt of his time, for the years had added to his load until be was glad to retire from his family, and so lose sight of their strange and painful condition So, after having finished his sermon lor the com-, ing Sunday and read for the hundredth time his favorite volumes, he was wont to move -his great arm chair from the table to the side of the fireplace, and, leaning back in its capacious depths, give himself np to thought. Here, sur rounded by the cheerfulness which every work-room fines, the minister could at times forget his sad.affliction and grow, for a few minutes, comparatively happy. But generally intbese half-hoars in the dusk he sat brooding over bis triuls and disappointments and the calamity which had fallen^'upon hi&family. ThOdim suspic.ons entertained ten years ago had been increased and rendered more vivid by the perusal of fuch works as Cotton Mather, and frequently after his sermons were fini-hed he indulged in long sittings by his fire pouiing over thoie stories of witches and witchcraft which so stirred New England and spread fear over her at the beginning of her life. It was a cool evening in early autumn —in fact, the anniversary of the trial with which our story opens, although Mr. Granville did not lemembev it. The trial itself, however, was very distinct in his mind, as was every point in his ene my's life. The man had spent long hours meditating upon this one absorbing theme, and recalling every event or word in Murk Hilary's life, until he had be come a monomaniac, and the thought of this rough wood-chopper was scarcely ever absent from his mind. Every scrap of intelligence concerning him had been carefully preserved and studied. Every word the man had ever uttered in the minister's hearing, or in' the hearing of any who would communicate it to the minister, hod been noted and dwelt upon during these after-sermon mtdititions. He bad made a study of the man's life, and had even gone to the trouble of in quiring into his antecedents minutely. But all this was nothing compared with the awful anxiety bis disappearance gave. Long hours the minister sat in study speculating upon it. Sometimes he paused at the end of a paragraph in his sermon to gaze abstractedly out of the window and recall that last act in Mark Hilla'-y's life. Then, again, this was a favorite theme for his evening reveries, and often ex tend© 1 them far into the night, until his family, and, indeed, all Sagnanck, were wrapt in sleep. So the poor man wearily wore his life away. On this particular evening be had been even more troubled by his gloomy thoughts. In his imagination he could feel an unseen presence in the very room, and in h.s heart hope died, as he taid to himself: "The man or his spirit is near." This feeling was so strong that he arosa and did what at no time before had he courage to do, or whieh his sense of honor would allow. He went to his desk and took out a little ack»ge which had been intercepted on its way to Dorothea two years before. This evening he tore off the wrapper, and in his hand lava piece of birch bark, suoh as was often used by the Indians and by some set tlers for wiitiag paper. Upon this bit of birch was this sentence: "Dorothea: Obey the one who keeps yon a,nd the one who watches over you, but whom you cannot see, will always provide for you." 'Obey tli- one who keeps you.' That is damning," murmured the minister, and his lips turned pale. "It is a message from the evil one. and I have had it con cealed in my desk. No wonder we have been afflicted. But, is it not necessary," he continued, after a pause during which he.was plunged in deep thought, "is it not necessary that I keep it for' »sti mony?" but while he was yet undecided wheth er to cast th? evil bark into the fire, or lav it away and brave the danger in the work of convicting a w.tch, the case was settled by a rap at the door, and, hastily opening*it, he admitted the pioneer Squire. "Come in, Squire, come in," the min ister said "yon have come just as I wanted ou. I have for eoin.i months •wished to spe ik to yon upon a subject that is aiding me. Sit down, pray vox "You rememVer Mark Hillary, who disappeared teu years ago." he continued, after his guest was seated in lroat of the blazing fireplace "and you are also well aware of the strange manner in which my child has been afflicted." "Does she grow no better as she be comes older?" "Not at all. In I odily health she is some stronger, but her attacks have taken a more violent form. At ono time I might have considered her frail health as the cause, but as she grows stronger her whole soul shows il self to be in an abnormal^ condition. If I could have doubted it at fiist, when she was ill, I cannot now, whtn she is well. My poor child, I fear, is the victim of the Evil One." "And who do you suspect?" "His daughter!" The proaoun may seem very indefinite, but it was not to the Squire. "Just before you entered I was reading a note which I want to show you. I have kept my eve on this daughter, and have disooverjd, among other things, that she is in communio tion with some one, we know not whom, unless it is as I suspect. This note, which I wish to show you, was intercepted. I have kept it in my desk for some time, but to-night opened it. See what a convicting docu ment it is," and the minister banded the birch bark to the Squire. "'Obey!' It it is written by one who has authority. 'Obey the one who keeps you.' Who is it that keeps her? Evidently it refers to the Evil One, to whom she belong*. 'And the friend you lnow but canuot see.' Who wonld that bo but the author of all evil? 'Will always provide for you.' Is not that full testimony to her lengue with the devil? He WLom she cannot see will provide." While the minister was miking these running comments the Squire read the note through, holding it at arm's length. "Wh:t shall you do with it?" he asked when the inin ster hnd finished. "That is just wh 11 wished to consult you about. Shall I preserve it as evi dence against this—person, or shall I burn it? I must confess th it I was strongly tempted to do the latter, think ing only of the safety of my family. But perchance I had better keep it," con cluded the minister, with a sign. "By no me»ns, I beg of you, my dear sir," responded the Squire, earnestly. "He who holds the devil's writing will soon have the writer in his house. It is by God's grace that be has not come to claim his own ere tow." But jutt as the minister was about to drop the piece of bark into the fire, the fctuuy door opened, his eldest daughter entered, una the minister, instead, dropped it upon.the tainu hear him. Achsah was clad in white from head to foot, and to the two men, whose imagina tion was esoited with thoughts of witch cralt, she appeared like a specter. And, indeed, the appearance of the girl at such a moment and in such a. manner was startling. She was now tall and slender, and her height was greatly increased by the long robe of white her faoe was pale and would have appeared deathlike had it not been for the piercing black eyes, which seemed to gleam with an unholy light, as she stood in silence and gazed imo the fire. A log upon the hearth broke in two and fell between the and irons and blazed up afresh. As tho'flames sprang up and illnmin ted her face with their rosy light, the imagination of the Squire saw plainly the traces of some strange power which was working upon her, and he felt as if he weio indeed in the presence of an unfortunite one over whom the evil one was hovering. He shivered and involuntarily passed his hand over his eye". "Achsah, what do you want?" asked the minister, anxiously. .... ,«*• "I came in for*.that," said the gin, pointing to the birch bark. The two men looked at each other in silence. Achsah reached out her hand and took the note, walked stiffly across the room and laid it upon the open desk by the window. This done, she returned, sat down upon a stool at her father's feet and became ab sorbed in watching the flames in the lire place as they leaped up Xrom the burn ing wood. Horror-stricken, the minister and the Squire sat in silence also, watching her. Soon the door opened and Ashubah, the younger child, came quietly in. !nd, with out heeding the group by the fire, walked directly to the desk and took up the birch bark, which she gazed at as if charmed and unable to turn her eyes away. Achsah arose from her seat, went over to hers ster and without uttering a word, took the note from her and laid it b.aok upon the desk. Ashubah made no- pretest but returned with hei'sister and sat down on the Op posite side of the fire. Neither uttered a word or appeared con scious of the Squire's presence. Both seemed to ba in a tianee, so still were they, nnd so supsrnatural wae their still ness for ones so young. The Squire watched Ache ah, who was seated in the shadow of the fireplace ne ir him, the more closely. For about five minutes-, but which to the ezeited man seemed like an hour, she- »at perfectly motionless. Her fir-t emotion was a shudder, and then the Squire saw a look of fenr pass over her face and transform her features. Her eyes turned to the window, la looking around to follow her gaze, he saw that- her sister was af fected in the same way, and that the minister was pale and trembling. "Our enemy is near!" he- gasped, as he met the Squire's eye. Looking Mien towards the window, to see what h»l so teriiiied the girls, he saw a black fantastic face oermg into the room from fthe outer darkness. The light from the fire fell upon the window and made the sight most ghastly. It watt a large hea I, surmounted with a fantastic cap, from which the Squire could sea two small horns protruding. The face was rk, except in places where touches of paint illuminated it, and woe" a malig nant pneer as its sharp black eyes watch ed the cowering minister and his daugh ters. "Did you see that face?" asxed tbo Sqiuire in a low voice which trembled with fear. "No, but I knew it was nea*. You see the effect. O, God have mersyt" And the minister bowed down and hid his face in his hands. The girls, however, never took their eyes from the particular pane of glass at which the face had appeared. And it was curious to note the different effect this apparition had apon the two. Ashubah, after the first shudder, recovered her calm manner and placid faco, while Achsah, from trembling pnssed into an exulting state and sat smiling end re turning grimace for grimace with the head outside. If the Squire fox a moment supected this face to be that of some boy bent upon a frolic, the suspicion was soon spelled, when, after the minister had hid his face in his hands, he saw his eyes bent intently upon nn object lying upon the desk. It was waluhing the hole wh.oh Achsah had plaoed there. She also, it seemed, had observed the look, for she arose and started toward it. Bnt before 1 she could reaeii tho desk a pane of class I was dashed in. a i.I ick, hairy arm thrust quickly through the aperture, cud a hand. grasped the note. Achsah uttered a ory. The whole was done so quickly that when tho minisier looked up, startled by the sound of breaking glass undAchsah's cry, the arm had been withdrawn and the piece of rk had disappeared. The cry of the (iirl was answered by a ha'sh, grating laugh, which was echoed from the woods around, and for half an hotir peals of diabolical merriment were heard about the bouse until they died away in the distance. tUAPl'KK VIII. AFTER FIVE YEARS. Five move years passed in the history of Sagnauck since Mark Hillary's disap pearance, and Dorothea, the girl-witcn, was seventeen years old. She had grown up in these woods of New England free and untrammeled by the affectations of fash'on. Like a sturdy plant which needed only sun and air, she grew. It need hardly be said thnt her face was fair. Indeed, from it she de-ervei.l the name of tch, for truly it wos one molded to bewitch the hearts of men, and many of the young pioneers there were who also felt its power. She was of medium he:ght, with a body well built. Her bands were finely shaped her hair and eyes were brown. It was of the Litter a poet has wr.tten: "Brown eyes seem some rich, tempting winei That might lead one to love th.m all too well." And again: "I know lull well two deep dark eyes. If brown or black, 'twero someLimeshard to tell. Right black in anger, brown in tenderness But wheu the loni,' dark laches I If disguise Their light, tho usual fearless frankness Hies, And then there lurks in dim. secret mistiness Agleam so subtle in its shadowyness 1 tear to glance, lest Ihere should sudden rise A Hood of passionate tenderness, so deep, So strong, tLa'j it were all in vain to tight Its mighty tide to brave it were unwise, lieBb I sbould be, if o'er me it Ehould sweep, Soul-blinded by the glorious dark light, Till all the world seems naught but two dark eyes." Many were the lovers who enme to her, although each parent warned his own son against the wiles of the maiden, tor now the suspicion of the minister had grown to be so positive that the girl really boro the reputation of a witch. This was augmented by the detection of several mysterious vi-its Dorothea re ceived from some unknown person. Ono evening, about a year nfter the was left alone' in Sagnauck, the minister was walking through the wor's north of .the village, when he heard two person* con versing, and, approaching, discovered Dorothea. Her companion disappeared as soon as the ministers footsteps were heard and the latter could not identify him. But the visitor wore the garb of And his labors were not without result. Twice during that year he came upon her in the forest holding secret converse with some unknown person, and ns these meetings were always at night they con firmed the susp cioas about the girl. It was also learned that after these inter views Dorothea always had a supply of money about her, and that once she brought in from the forest a bundle of furs, which were made into a cloak for hi.r protection in winter. One night in October, as the minister was prowling about in the woods, go n^t where his diseased fancy led him, he suddenly foand himself in the little opening in front of Hillary's deserted cabiir.: At' the: lama moment' a' ni"h dressed as an Indian came out of the cabin door and hastily disappeared in the woods. Mr. Grxnville, on the scent for anything wheh might convict the girl, entered the deserted place and be gan a minute search. He was rew rded by finding a small package—a piece of folded birch bark. "No doubt it was a message from her mnster to Dorothea," and he carried it home with him. An enmity, too, had arisen between Dorothea and Achsah Granville. The latter could not meet the former without her little weazened face drawing up into a scowl, and ence she cried out that Dorothea had hurt ber, although the two girls were- Severn 1 yards apart. This had occurred in front of the meeting house one Sunday morning as the people were coming outi from preaching. "You child of the- devil!" the father cried. "Will nothing satisfy you? Why do you so persecute that poorgirl?" "Child o£ the devil! Dorothea an swered, "Metihinks tnaA is rough'speech for a holy man of God. But how oan I be Dorothea, 'God's giftv' and come from Satan?" "You need* not play upon words with me, for I know you. T»ll me, if you are God's gift and not the devil's child, who it is you go into the woods to meet?" "That I may not tell, reverend sir." "No the truth you say now. It would be to your shame to mention him whom yon meet." "Nay, sir," Dorothea answered, blush ing "there is no shatoo about it. But whom I meot does not concern you, and I shall not tell you." "Perhaps yon will not deny, then, th-it you received fi om him money and furs?" the persecutor said, in a inry. "Have you been a spy upon me? Was it not enough for you to-drive my father from his home? Have you nosayrcy that you follow and perseonte a helpless child? Whether I receive-aught from any one does not concent) you. And now let me go on. my way, for it is not seeml for you to ho'd such converse in front of the meeting-house on the Lord's day." And without waiting lor a reply, Doro thea made her way to her adopted homo. [TO BE CONXINUED.1 Josh Killings'" VlillMapliy. It iz a good sign when praize makes a man behave better*. "When I see a poor and! proud aristo krat purtiklar about punktillio, he al •wus puis me in mind ov a drunken man trieing tew walk a ciaok. Our wants, after awl, make most ov our happiness. When we liav got awl we wast, then eums fear lest we loze what we liav got, and thus possession fails tew be happiness. Domgers aro like akold bath—very dangerous while you stand stripped on the bank, but oftea not only harmless but invigorating, ii you pitch into them. Take awl the propheoys that hay cam tew pass, and awl thathav caught on the center and failed tew cum tew time, and make them up into an aver age, and you will find that baying stock on the Codfish Bankov Nufwind land, at 50 per cent., for a rise, £z, in comparison, a good spekulating bizzi ness. It iz awl important that fashion should ho perfumed with, az mutch XBorality az possible, for. it controls sikore people than law ct piety duz.— Xieui York Weakly. HANNAH'S JERSEY. BT CLARA M. HOWARD. "A fine Jersey!" Wal, yes, sir She's made o' tho right kind o* stuff. "Bjyh3r!» Ah, no, sir. You haven't, money enuff. "Gentle?" To me she's alius bin so, But she hatJS men like plzon, An' to show it she's never bin s'.ow, "Wouldn't own slch a critter." Wal, no, sir: To milk her you never would try, Fer jest let Jabez come nigh her An' see how she'll let her heels fly. •How does she know the dlfrenC9?" Wal, sir, she knows mcra'n you think Von see Jabez abused her While tryin' to lern her ta drink. "How wus that?" Wal, sir, I'll tell youi It happened in this way: Yer see, 'Twas in springtime—Ibe men wer all blzzy, So the mllkin' fell on Jabez an' me. Now he hatos farmln', docs Jabez, An' work alius makes lilni feel sore, Per he was raised up In tha city— Wus clerk in a dry-goods stjre. ,. .. But father's broad acres wur temptln', An', as I wus the only child, He proposed. Of course I accepted, Though I think now I must hev bin wild. Father wus sore disappointel "CauFe I ch'oze a husband from town: tils fclks thot he'd married beneath him— Per him 'twas a mi ey cum down To change his s( ore close fer blue drilltn', An' knuckle right down to hard work, Though I'll say this much for Jabez: He's n^ver bin known to shirk. But l.e likens hlmsolf to the eagle, T.ed do .vn to the ba nvard fowl. fall to see the resemblance— He's more like a great stupid owl. He boasts of his great Dedication, But sez 'tis all wasted down here, Where we're only a set of clodhoipsrs He feels quite above us—that's clear. Yet, with all of his top-story knowledge. un IncHf-Hi Doiother's reticence with re gard to the vsit added to the minister's belief in ilSf gUllf. After this first visit, Mr. Granville 7 on the aleit to detect Dorothea in other delinquencies. He made excuses to be much fiom home, and seldom failed to. fo.low her when t-be was sent upon any errand which would take her into the forest. So the man of God became a spy upon th@ poor girl. "OBNTLB? TOMB SHE'S AI.C8 BIN SO." He's lettln* the farm run down His heart's not in his work, sir, An' he's alius lcnjjin' fer town. When father was livla' 'twas dlfernt, Fer he alius looked after the farm, But hs wus allin' all winter— Thot he'd git well when 'twas warm— But he died. An'then Jabez feed the farm didn't ray an' we'd sell: But I thot different 'tis my home, sir, An' I'll not leave it, at least fer a spell. I tell him his brains an' his Ia?nln' .. Are just as much needed here As they ever were up in the city, Fer the farm needs a good financier To make things come out even, An'balance the profit nil* loss— To know what crops pay the test, sir, An' not get cheated buyln' a hoss. The farmer needs somethtn' of science, Likewise a bit o' the law, To understand efTects an' their causes, An' tj make all his trades 'thout a flaw. Of medicine, too, he needs knowledge— How to give lotions an' pills, In order to care for his stock, sir, An' cure their numerous Ills. An' then he must be a good fishtor, Fer tell of a gineral you know. Who fought such a numberless army, As the persistent potato-bug foe, To say nothin' of 'hoppers an' chinch bogs, Of tramps an' lfgbtnln'-rod men, too— An' to vote for the right man at 'lection— Is there aught he don't meed to know? But Jabez, like all city-bred people, Looks down OB us plain country folk. Guess they'd find 'thout us farmers That livin'd soon be a stale joke! WhVd furnish their bread an' their butteu? Where'd be their pork an' their beef? Who'd-keep all their big mills a runnln? Yes, without UB-they'dsoou come to grief t' Without us where'd be your railroads, With all their rush* an' their noise? An' where'd your great men all cum from. If the fiirmer quit raisin' boys? When I talk all this to Jabez he scorns it, An' ses I'm not uvwlth the times Thinks he can live without) farmln'— From Ms- brain- coin dollars an' dimes. He thanks God ha-was not feorn a farmer, 'Tls such a low calling but then 'Tls the noblest aji! first occupation God ever gave unto, men, Fer wasn't Father Adam a ffarmer? An' the garden of Eden a farm? Then why scorn tho brown-handed toiler. Who from the earth gains a livln' iiy the aid of bis strong right arm? Let me see! Where was I? Out to the barn, I think, Uoin' a part o' the mllkin' An' learnln' the calf to drlnA. Wal, the heifer—her motheif—was restive At bein' deprived of her calf:, An' Jabez got riled putty easy— He's got too muchitempsr by half— But he managed by some loud takln', An' several sound blows from his fist. To frighten her into submission— On beatin' he'd alius insist. Wal, wllen we'd finished ttuk mllk!n', There WFL» the calf to be fed, So he backed it updn the comer. And Into the pall jammed Its head. The calf choked an* struggled— I sed "Jabez, that's not th? best way. Father alius "You ahet up, Hanac*!" An' yd not a word more to say. '•Ther's no use in her sucfidn' my finger. That's a reg'lar old fogy plan I believe in new ways to.do things— I'm not that kind of a man!" A1S this time the calf wus a strugglinT— She didn't suem to like '*o "new way'*— An' landed Jabez plump In the gut.er, Whic'i hadn't been clean that da$. Some way as he was a fall n\ His head got. anmed Itt the pail— Ho tarew his hands ublindly, An' caugbt the old ccm by tae talk ,. Of course at all this commotion, a Though a staid an' dignified beast, She khsked, and hilt poor Jabez A dozen mes at least— 'Thout hurtin' him much tho.'— An' he ro e. very black in the face, Sw»r» at farmcrstaind farmis'. An* cursed the whole bovine race. Xfcen he knocked the calf down with the milk-stool, An* kicked it watil I crtod, And though I kr ow it wus wicked, 1 wus glad his four boys hed died Fer if he'd atw-e a poor helpless creetur, Why wouldn't he abuse his own child An' I thot how different was father— So gentle, so kind, an' so mild. iI looked at the calf, 'twas a gaspfn". An' I took her po- 1 oad ou wy kn.ee» Raised hor up gently an' fad lioi An' that's why ilia's gentle with She hates .Tabo», an' fears hlrn. An' scm- way I lost my respect Then an' t'lar. in apltj of his Jam1 His brains an' bis great intellect. Fer a man o'his boasted knowledge^ "CAUGHT THE OLD COW BIT THE TAIL," To be so easy upset! Somehow I felt sort o' dlsgustod, An' I hain't rot ovor it yet! I wouldn't giv a mill on the dollar Fer a man, tho' he's smarter by half Than all the wise mn In Croat ion, If he'd abu to a poor llfctlo calf. HABVEY, Wis. A BOY MURDERER. Tho Youngest Convict In the United States. Wonderfully innocent-looking is pris oner No. 1900 in the Iowa State Pris on, a slim boy eleven years oldl /JHe is rather a handsome boy, with forehead and a thoughtful fac^ photograph shows. He is 4 hey prisoner ever received at the pr| it is believed, at any other prison. Ion or, State Prisoner 1900 is sentenced to the Iowa State Penitentiary for life. His crime was the brutal and premeditated murder of his father and stepmother near Edgewood, Clayton County, iu July, 1889. Early one morning Wesley drove the old farm team furiously up to a neigh bor's house. He had the babv in the wagon with him. He had an awful story to tell. When he arose that morning and went to his parents' room a terrible sight met his eye3. Lying stretched out on the bed was the body of his father with a bullet hole through his head. Half on the bed and half on the floor was the body of his stepmother. Her head was beaten to a jelly. On the.floor lay a heavy club, smeared with blood, and his father's old muzzle-loading rifle, with which the ghastly work had done. The community was many people were throw: picion. The eldest son prov alibi. Yesley, the ten-year-old boy, main- WE8IJBY ELKING. tained his story. He showed no sign of grief. No tear oame to his eve. Coolly and in a matter of fact wsV*he related again and again the del his horrid discovery. It was the same. He wae finally arrested, hoii and locked up in jail at Elkoder.^One day this 10-year old child called the offi cials into- his cell and confessed that the work was his. There was no breaking down, no tears. Coolly and calmly again he detailed the story. His father and hi's stepmother whipped him and he would not stand it. He waited until his brother was gone away and he was alone in the house with his parents. At 3 o'clock in the morning he got up, stole down stairs and! loaded his father's old muz zle-loading rifle, which hung on the wall in the bed-room. He put the muz zle to his father's forehead and fired. As he had expected, his step-mother was awakened by the report and leaped out of bed to strike a light. Wesley knocked her down with a club which he had ready. Then, to make the matter sure, he beat her head to a jelly. Belore the HHe. Bull—It's my drink first. Dog—No, 'tain't, it's mine. Bull—Let's toss up for it.—Judge* A Muddy Day ia Blaekville. Mr. Bloomfield (continuing a fath erly lecture)—Alius foller in yo* fader's footsteps, Clemmy, an' you'll be pritty sure t' kim t' no hahm."—Judge*