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VOL. 58. WHOLE No- 2236
glißcelXaneonjs. Muller & Yearley, 343 N. 6AT STREET, SSHumI! Baltimore, Md. Blankets & Robes Our line this season surpasses all previous ef forts. It comprises all tbe Newest and Best Features In HORSE CLOTHING. We have everything in BLANKETS, from a CHEAP BURLAP to the FINEST ALL WOOL. Chase Lap Robes Are here in Great Variety of Color and Pleasing Patterns. —OUR PRICES — Just the same pleasing low tone that always prevails at The Baltimore. COCKEYSVILLE Milling & Supply Co. COCKEYSVILLE, Md., Oan Save You Money Upon HORSE AND CATTLE FEEDS. CORR, OATS, HAY and POULTRY PEED . . Sold in QUANTITIES TO SUIT and at Very Lowest Possible Prices for a First-Class Article. ...... swSend your Grain and have it ground'll WHILE YOU WAIT. Chesapeake A Potomac Phone—Cockeysville 40. Jy.BtNov.l7 PIANISTS:: Three Reasons why you should have a Copy of “JAMESTOWN.” It’s the talk of everybody, every where. It’s the latest song hit of the season. It's the kind that you can whistle. Hailed on receipt of 25 cents in stamps. PARR BROS., GOVANBTOWN, Md. Oct-fitMayll , '■ A KEMPEL&AEHICER - 14 N. Charles Street, Next to new B. AO. Building, BALTIMORE. SUITS FROM 520.00 UP. Nov. IT—ly ESTABLISHED 1870. MAIER’S PREPARED PAINTS ABB STRICTLY PURE LEAD AND ZINC PAINTS. Guaranteed Equal to the Best. -MANUFACTURED BY JOHN G. MAIER’S SONS, IBS-188 N. GAV STREET, Cor Frederick Street, BALTIMORE, Md. Both Phonea. I July 6—ly CHILDREN & WAGE EARNERS SAVE YOUR * * * DIMES and NICKELS. THE TOWSON NATIONAL BANK IS CONDUCTING A REGULAR SAVINGS DEPARTMENT AT ITB BANKING HOUSE, Where small sums are received on deposit and Interest allowed at the rate of 3 per cent, per annum. asy-Paß books containing full Instructions furnished depositors free of cost. W. CLARENCE CRAUMER, Aug. 24—8 m | Cashibb. Foe “Th* Union.” AS I THINK OF YOUR FAIR FACE. BY ARTHUR M. EASTER. Sweetheart, we are kept apart by a Providence divine, God knows that I love you, dear, but not yet can you be mine. For you are so beautiful, and so good and wise and sweet. That I may not ask your love, while I am so incomplete: All I have to offer you, (listen please, dear, to my soog.) Ia a love that’s kind and true, honeat, faithful. fure and strong: 've neither wealth nor fame, and I am not great nor wise. Yet who would not win a name, with your praises for the prize ? Once your eyes smiled In my own, with a won drous, radient glow. Such as I have always thought, only those wbo love oould know. And though it was a mistake, I can never more forget. How your bright eyea looked in mine, when, dear sweetheart, we first met: Nor can I forget your voice, for it is so sweet a sound. And your face has every grace that a woman ever crowned; Yet so little can I give in return for all your worth, Unto you who are most dear of all women on this earth. Doubtless, it. la beat ao now. else flnd’a PramU dence had given Unto me those things that would, with your love, have brought me heaven: If it pleases Him, sometime. It shall surely yet be so. But until God says, sweetheart, you must always answer, no! For although It may seem hard. Providence haa rightly done, I am in the shadow now, you are in the glori ous sun; Sometime, by the grace of God, I shall leave thia lonely way. And by your dear side shall walk. In the light of love’s bright day. But I cannot aak your love, and the joy none else oan give. Save your own dear self, sweetheart, till I can help you to live Even still a happier life, because I shall bring to you. More than any other man ever here may hope to do; For I would not that one day of your life should know distress, I would rather be forgot, if your life I may not bless, I would sooner every hour of my life here should be sad. Than that any of your own, should not with content be glad. Sountill can lay down, at yourfeet, sweetheart’ much more Than just loyal, honest love, from afar I must adore; Oh! how much I wish I could give unto you everything That a lover ever hopes, to his dear sweetheart to bring; Biches, honor, wealth and fame, gladly at your feet I’d lay. Ay I for your dear love, sweetheart, all these things I’d throw away. For no thing existing is, that In my eyea oan compare. With your lovellneaa and worth; for you death itaelf I’d dare. Just a smile from your clear eyes, just a warm clasp of your hand, Just a word from your sweet lips—all of my life can command; All that I shall ever be, all that I can ever give, Is your’s for the taking, love, ’tls alone for you I live; And I think, oould you now know, how my soul adores you, dear. You would be glad it la so, you would always want me near. Ah! If you oould realize, how your presence thrills my heart With an ecstacy of joy, ’gainst yourself you’d take my part. Dear, sometime I shall succeed, and our hearts shall understand, All that now Is not made plain, all the good that God haa planned, I shall achieve fame enough, and enough of wealth beside, So that you will love me, dear, and I shall be satisfied; Yes, there shall be joy for you, and there ahall be joy for me, Through His gracious Providence, in the days that are to be ; Listen to His promised word, “I’ll give thee thy heart’s desires,” And Is it not thine own self, that my soul the most requires ? Feeble are the words I’ve said, naught I’ve done love to command. Little, indeed, can I give, yet I know that God baa planned Borne day I shall bring to you, all the love my heart can hold. And you will be glad ’tls ao, and not think me overbold; Almost I can see the glow, of love’s dawning in As I think of your fair face, and it tells me day is nigh; Soon, dear, (will It not be soon ?) yonr bright Bmile my life shall bless, And the sun of bliss shall rise, when you softly answer, yes! AN OLD WOMAN’S ROMANCE. BY HERO STRONG. I am an old woman now, widowed and alone. All my children have gone before me, and it is not long before I shall follow, and the thought gives me great comfort. On this side of the river I have nothing; on the other side everything ! Why should I fear to cross to those who love me and whom I love ? I am going to unfold for you a leaf of my early life. Perhaps the skep tical among you will not believe what I am about to write, but if so, pray ascribe whatever is improbable and unreal about it to the wandering vagaries of a poor old woman, and think no more of it. I was the daughter of an English country curate. Of course my father was poor —curates always are. I had one brother, older than myself, a wild, reckless, unprincipled fellow, whose conduct broke my father’s heart at last. Gerald, that was my brother’s name, was continually getting him self into trouble, from which only money could extricate him, and there was no one to help him but my poor father, and the consequence was that the family purse was always at the lowest ebb, and my mother and my self were put to all sorts of shifts to keep the family wardrobe in a state of shabby decency. Until my mother died, I don’t think I ever had a new dress. All my dresses were made out of hers, for she bad been the child of a wealthy father, and at the time of her marriage her outfit had been lav ish and costly. When she died —I was sixteen then —I had a suit of mourning. They were my very first new clothes, and dating from that time onward there has always been to me a sort of funeral significance about new clothes. 1 always shudder when I put them on, so vividly do I remember the dismal stiffness and coldness of that mourn ing bombazine, with its heavy folds of charnel-house smelling crape. A year after my mother’s death, Richard Earle came to the rectory to board for a few weeks. He had come down from London for his health, and meeting my father in the village, had asked for rooms in our little house. He made no trouble, and old Bess, our one servant, declared it was a pleasure to wait on him—he was such a handsome and sweet-spoken young gentleman. It is not hard for you to guess how it terminated. I was a young, sim ple-natured country girl, with a lone ly, desolate heart, and he was a new revelation of love and life. I loved him—there was no other way for me, and he loved me in return. It will not seem vain for me to speak of it, now that I am gray and wrinkled, but in my youth I was very beautiful, and almost every young man I met told me so with his eyes, if not with his lips. TOWSON, MD., SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1907. In all my life I had never known what happiness was until, looking into my eyes, Richard Earle told me that he loved me. Ah, then for me rose the new heaven and the new earth created, and all the hours ran in golden sands; for, no matter how tenderly she may have been shielded and cared for, a woman never knows what joy is till she loves and is be loved ; neither does she know the meaning of pain until love has made her heart soft enough to feel it. There was some mystery about Richard which he could not then make clear to me. He trusted the time would soon come when he could claim me as his own, and until then he asked me would I wait ? Would I ? I would have waited for him until the grave covered me, and never have thought it long if I had con stantly the assurance of his love. fio he went aw ay, and for uiauy weeks his letters came —oh, so ten der, so gentle, and loving I Then they ceased. A month of anguish, and my father brought me a London paper. In it I read a notice of the marriage of Robert Earle and Lady Arethusa Cleares. After that I felt like a stone —cold, passionless and apathetic. It was at this time that Lord New bury pressed his suit. He had long loved and admired me, and my poor father was very earnestly bent on the marriage; for Lord Newbury was very rich and generous, and my poor father had faced poverty all his life, and no wonder, now that old age was approaching, he coveted a little rest, and a home where privation was not a constant guest. Lord Newberry was three times my age, but he was a true, loyal hearted English gentleman, and I re spected him highly. When Richard was lost tome, what mattered it what became of me ? As well one thing as another! ' To hurry matters on, Gerald be came involved in a daring forgery, and the prison stared him in the face. Then my father pleaded with me to save him. If his son was sent to prison he could never hold up his head again. If I valued my father’s life, I would become Lady Newbury, and then my husband would take care of his wife’s family honor ! So I suffered my lord to marry me, and Gerald, for the time, was saved. Three years went by and I bad drank my fill of the world’s admira tion. I was a great favorite in society, and my husband was very proud of me. He was one of the noblest and best of men, and Heaven knows I was never anything else to him than a faithful wife, though I never loved him. In the third year of my married life I became acquainted with the Cotmtess of Huntly. She was a gay, beautiful woman, about my own age, and her husband —an easy going sort of man —owned a house in London, a manor house down in Dorsetshire, quite near the coast. I had been there on two occasions with the countess for a week’s rusticating, and a most delightfully weird and mys terious old house was Huntly Manor. When I was invited there to wit ness the nuptials of my lady’s only brother. Lord Albert Trevelyan, of course I was immensely delighted with the idea. About Itord Albert there had always seemed to me some thing very strange and interesting, not that I had ever seen him, but I heard his sister tell so much about him. An only son, born to a peer age, haudsome and accomplished as Apollo himself, he had preferred the wilds of Asia to civilized England, for the past three years and more; but now be had come home, and was going to marry and settle down like a Chris tian. The bride elect was the woman his father, now dead, had selected for him —the Lady Christine McDougal, a Scottish beauty of immense wealth and surpassing beauty, but Lady Huntly whispered to me that she had a dreadful temper. Lady Christine’s parents being dead Lady Huntly had proffered her own house for the nuptial festivities, and the offer had been accepted. Lord Albert was now in Ireland, with a party of gentlemen friends, hunting and fishing, for it was hard for him to give up his adventurous habits. It was very early in June that we went down to Hnntly Manor. My husband was of the party, and Lord Huntly came down in a day or two. A week before the wedding day Lady Christine arrived. A very handsome, stately woman she was indeed ; but if Lord Albert had been a friend of mine I should have shuddered for bis life with her for a companion. I think she hated me from the first, though she could not probably have given a reason for it. But there are some very strange and mysterious things in this world ; and when all was made clear by time, I understood why it was that Lady Christine and I were so strongly antagonistic. Lord Albert delayed his coming to the last moment. His sister was an noyed with him for being so dilatory, and Lady Christine’s steel blue eyes took on an ominous glitter as day after day passed and still be lingered. Two days before the wedding, just before sunset, I was sitting in my chamber, which fronted the English Channel, looking ont on the glitter ing waste of water. The day had been calm and bright, and the sun was going down in a wilderness of golden and crimson clouds. Suddenly, as I gazed, a mist seem ed to come before my eyes. I felt cold and numb, an icy wind blew full in my face, and the placid waters grew white with foam and spray! Clearly out against the red sunset line I saw the outline of a yacht, toss ing helplessly on the crest of the bil lows ; at her helm was the figure of a tall man. Nearer and nearer came the frail craft. I saw distinctly the face of the helmsman —and it was Richard Earle ! Only a moment I saw it, and then a thundering roll of foamy water shut it from my view, and crashing on the rocky shore came the lost yacht, and up from her crew rose one wild, last wail of agony! And high above it all I heard his voice calling : “Elizabeth! Eliza beth ! My love ! my love !” I shrieked out in my wild affright, and my Lord Newbury rushed in from the adjoining room in alarmed haste. And when I looked out upon the sea again it was calm as glass, and not a sail in sight. I excused myself to my husband as best I might—for I would not tell him what I had seen —what I knew I had seen —for he would have deem ed me insane. But all night long I lay awake, trying to reason out the strange vision ; and morning found me no nearer a solution than before. All the forenoon I was restless and ■ uneasy. The bright morning changed to a day of drizzle and rain—the wind blew sullenly and Howled plieuusly through the long, lonesome corridors of the manor, and shrieked like a dis tressed human being down the black throated chimneys. Toward night it increased to a gale, and the rain ceased falling, though great inky thunder clouds rolled in from the sea and enveloped every thing in midnight blackness. Morn ing broke at last, wild and stormy. Never bad I seen the channel in such a swirl of foam. Fascinated, yet full of dreary and foreboding horror, I wrapped myself in a cloak and went out on the rocks. Many others were there before me, among them Lady Christine McDou gal ! Her face was white with some suppressed feeling, and her great blue eyes were turned seaward, watching a tiny white sail far out on the hori zon —a mere speck of light in the darkness. Then I remember that her prom ised husband was to come from over the water, and I knew why her cheek was so pale. After all her haughty coldness she loved him, I thought, and my wo man’s heart softened toward her ; for this was her wedding day, and maybe her plighted husband was in deadly peril. The sail came nearer and nearer. Great heaven ! it was a yacht, of the same size and build I had seen once before. I shuddered with something that was not the cold and wet, and clung to a ragged shaft of rock for support, for I knew what I was to see. The people on the shore shouted to the yacht to keep off, and hurled im precations at the reckless voyagers for their temerity in venturing so near the hazardous coast; but all un mindful, the yacht stood on, making for Little Good Harbor, just below. Suddenly a great wave came thun dering along and enveloped the wretched vessel from keel to mast head. She careened, shivered, went over, and the next moment her broken timbers were hurled on the shore at our feet. And through the blinding spray, and the death-cold foam of the waves, as scattered by the sharp rocks, it pierced my garments through and through, I saw Richard Earle’s set face, and heard his voice calling my name: “Elizabeth ! Eliza beth ! my love ! my love !” The first body which came on shore was his. I had it in ray arms ere yet the wave had left it dry upon the sand. Dead! but he had loved me in dying. Could ever a woman ask for more than this? As I lifted my face from his pale lips I met the basilisk eyes of Lady Christine glancing down upon me. She fixed an iron hand upon my shoulder. “What was he to you ?” she hissed. “My life’s one love I” I answered her. “And my plighted husband. Well, I understand now why I have hated you !” He * * * * I do not remember anything more of that dismal time. When I was fully myself again, I was with my husband at our beauti ful country place in Middlesex, far away from the cruel, glittering ocean. My husband was kind and gentle to me as my mother might have been. He had learned everything from my wild ravings during my long illness, and to his cautious and well-directed inquiries I owe my knowledge of Richard Earle’s history alter he left the rectory. For Lord Newbury— ever the most generous of men —had solved all the mystery, and when I was well enough he told me gently what he knew. Richard Earle and Lord Albert Richard Trevelyn was one and the same. At the time of his visit to our vil lage, he had taken the name of his cousin, Richard Earle, simply to es cape notice. He wanted rest, and if he traveled as Lord Albert Trevelyn he would be obliged to receive a great many civilities from the gentry, which he wished to avoid. He was not of age, and consequent ly to some degree subject to his father, and bis father had selected Lady Christine McDougal for his wife. In consequence, it was necessary for him to keep his love for me secret until he should reach his majority. By some means his father had discovered his entanglement with the daughter of a poor country curate, and our letters were intercepted. The Richard Earle whose marriage notice I had seen was Lora Albert’s cousin. My marriage with Lord Newbury had followed immediately after, and Albert had left the country, rich and disgusted with life. He had never ceased to love me, but he would have married Lady Christine. This was what Lord New bury had learned, and what he told me. And if I had never loved him be fore I loved him then,for his noble and thoughtful forbearance toward me. But through every dark hour of my life, one sweet thought has ever been present to comfort and sustain me. In dying my only love loved me. And so alone, and yet not sad or weary, because hope gleams so bright ly in be distance, I am waiting to go to my better and truer life when the Master calls. —Good Literature. WXAND FOB BASKET WILLOWS. Ninety-nine per cent, of the best grade basket willow used in this coun try is imported from Europe, accord ing toa Massachusetts manufacturer of high grade furniture and basket ware, who has just submitted a state ment ti the Forest Service. This firm uses the best stock only, and is sup plied hitirely from France. Thefact is emphasized that the de mand for high grade willow rods is constantly increasing and the supply is falling short. European manufac turers compete keenly for the best produds in their countries, and until only the inferior rods were to America, where they have been bought at three times the prices quoted or similar stock a few years ago. Uncle S*tn is encouraging the grow ing of high grade basket willow rods in this country and has successfully experimented with holts near Wash ington. Select cuttings have been distributed among farmers, with direc tions for planting and preparing for market. Particular attention is given to selecting the varieties and strains best suited to the soil where the plant ings will be made. At the present state of increase in the consumption of basket willows an over-production under normal devel opment is hardly possible during the period of a man’s life, or at any rate, not during the life of a well regulated willow holt, which may be from 20 to 30 years. The demand for basket willows is so great and the production so quick and easy that hardly any other farm crop can compete with it. The wil low basket industry is far from having reached its highest point of develop ment and the list of articles which are now made and eventually will be made out of willow rods is practically without limit. The Forest Service is prepared to furnish information to those who de sire to plant and will also furnish free cuttings for experimental planting.— Washington Cor. N. Y. Sun. THE “KEROSENE BUGGY” IB THE COUBTBY TOWH. Old Gransir Boswell came to town drivin’ his old flea-bit gray that hadn’t moved out’n a walk in more’n twelve year. But when Bill’s snort in’ sulky hove in sight, the old hoss sot flat in the middle of the road for to take a good look at it. He didn’t wait to say what he seed ; he raised head an’ tail an’ got away from thar like he was trainin’ for a fake race in New Orleans. Gransir Boswell had sense enough for to roll out whar he could hit in a mud hole, but the old gray never did stop ontill he run spang through the barndoor at home, which was some miles away. Our home editor had a piece about it the next week, an’ said that a hamestring an’ a hoss-collar had been found in the county, but the body an’ frame of the buggy, relics of a bygone time, had teetotally disappeared. An ’he wound up by sayin’ that in these times it be hove ever’body for to have the’rhoss es an’ mules broke to civilization an’ circus waggins. Bill had smooth sailin’ for awhile, an’ his machine was the wonder of the hour. Why, when hesquozethe hot-water bag that blows his horn, it sounded for all the world like he had a Florridy bull-yearling tied to the runnin’-gear. Folks had been stand in’ out on the streets watchin’ the an tics of his machine, but when they heern this fuss, they scooted an’ run to cover like rabbits when they hear a dog bark. The wimmen watched Bill through the blinds, an’ the chil dren peeped at him from behind the corners of the houses. His kerosene buggy was better than forty policemen for keepin’ the streets clear of loafers an’ runnin’ the cows an’ hogs off’n the public squar.’ —Joel Chandler Harris in Uncle Remus's Magazine. A LUCKY XISTAKE. Mr. Bergamot had his life insured in an organization that collected its premiums in the form of monthly as sessments. His assesment was three or four dollars, and to make it "come easier,” as he said, he bought a small "family savings bank” and presented it to his wife. "Now Belinda,” he said, "as my insurance is for your benefit, I want you to see that there is always money enough in this thing to pay my as sessment when the time comes round. I’ll drop a dime in it occasionally in stead of buying a cigar, and you can do the same with any loose change that’s left in the house pocketbook at the close of each day. "Just you take the responsibility in your own hands, and perhaps you won’t buy something from every ped ler that comes to the house. To show you that I trust you with it, here’s the key to the bank.” Mrs. Bergamot accepted the charge. The scheme appeared to work admir ably. In fact, as the end of the month drew near it became apparent that there was more in the bank than would be needed to pay the assessment. One evening, however, she turned sud denly to him and said : "Henry, there was a man here to day with the loveliest little machine for grinding up meat, so you can make your own sausage ; and all he asked for it was —by the way, Henry, you didn’t give me the right key to that savings bank.” Mr. Bergamot took out his bunch of keys and looked them over. "You’re right, Belinda,” he said. "I thought I did —but perhaps it is just as well. I guess we’ll stick to this arrangement: you keep the cash, and I’ll carry the key.”— Youth's Companion. The trouble with the average bread-winner is that he wants cake. “UZB”—A STORY OF A CRIPPLE. The very heart of the hospital was Aunt ’Lize. At the tap, tap of her crutches and the sound of her merry laugh even the peevish millionaire’s wife in the west suite brightened up for a few minutes. “It’s only ‘good morning’ I can say to you to-day, dearie,” Aunt ’Liz would call out to her. “I must hur ry downstairs to those precious chil dren !” Even the lordly elevator boy waited for her and helped her out at the next floor. Into the children’s ward she would turn, inquiring anxiously whether the babies had been bathed yet. She was happy indeed when she arrived in time to assist in bathing them. "Oh, the pink skins of them, and the solemn eyes of them, like bits of heaven shining through ! Do you know,” she would confide to the nurse, "I’m thinking they’re know ing more than we do. And why not ? It’s only a little while ago that they left the place above and I think the good God lets them remember it all for a while.” As anxious as any mother was she at the weekly weighing of each babe. “You can’t stop the young rogues,” she would cry. "They’ll grow in spite of you ?’ ’ Then she would hobble off to make the rest of her rounds, for she was as faithful as any house doctor with her morning calls. A carnation would bloom from beneath her knit shawl for the old deaf man in the end bed. An orange would go to another old woman. "Tut, tut,” she would say to stop their thanks. "I am giving all these things because people know that I know how to distribute them better than they do.” To a homesick girl she would whis per: "I’ve a fine love story upstairs that I’ll bring down to you. It’ll make you forget yourself for a few hours. “Poor young thing I” she would murmur to herself. “So young to have the bloom of youth squeezed out of her I” None could give richer sympathy to the suffering young than Aunt ’Lize, fcr, indeed, her own j’outh had been squeezed out with an injury that had bent her back and made her limbs shriveled and useless. "But haven’t I two eyes of me left and my two hands?” she would remonstrate with those who attempted to condole with her. "Fiddlesticks, child! Give your sympathy to the unfortunates who need it!” Her visits must all be made by 10 o’clock, for then an orderly would come to wheel her into au operating room where for an hour she would bear torments that are given few to know. For the rest of the day she would have to lie motionless in her bed, the blood gone from her wrinkled cheeks and her eyes closed with pain. However, by late afternoon the in domitable spirit would conquer and Aunt ’Lize would be at work, propped up in bed. She mended socks for the young internes. "Poor young things !” she confided to a visitor. " ’Twas a pity to see them all run down at the heels and their mothers miles away. These laundries do wear holes in things and you wouldn’t have to throw their clothes away for the sake of a few small holes —not when Aunt ’Lize can mend them!” Surreptitiously she was embroider ing a pair of cuffs for the probation nurse on that floor. It was a char acteristic of Aunt ’ Lize that she should spend her spare moments preparing a surprise gift for the one individual in the hospital whoever said sharp things to her. So she went through the days, cheer ing, encouraging, loving, mothering the whole institution. Even the am-' bulance horses had neat straw hats that she had made for hot summer days. Finally the time came when the surgeons said they had done all they could for her and that she might go home. “Home meant to her only the one room in which she lived among strangers —beloved, no doubt, but alone. Only then did her courage fail. She had filled her place so com pletely in the hospital, she had been so appreciated, that the thought of leaving it all and going back to her former colorless existence was too much for her. "Oh, the little ones,” she moaned. "I could leave all but them! I al ways longed for one of my own, though I knew it wasn’t for such as I! Sometimes I’ve thought if I only had a little more money—only a little more—l’d take some motherless baby. But there’s just enough for one and and I couldn’t bring poverty on a helpless child.” A nurse repeated Aunt ’Lize’s words to her surgeon. Whether he carried them to the west suite or or whether they remained with him no one knows. The next day a legal looking envelope came for Miss Eliza Brown —our Aunt ’ Lize. It announc ed that a sum of money had been de posited with the law firm whose name headed the paper, to be kept in trust and the income to be paid monthly to her or her heirs "forever.” The name of the donor was not given, but the paper said that this was done as a small return for the sunshine scatter ed by a heroine, not of an hour, but of every day, too genuine to be con scious of her heroism. Aunt ’Lize did not question the document for a moment. She imme diately reached for her crutches and hobbled to the elevator. With shin ing eyes she entered the children’s ward. "Help me pick out my baby !” she cried. But between the waifs she could not decide —she wanted them all. Each was lovely in her eyes. At last she reached the end crib. "Here’s mine,” she whispered. The nurse lifted up a nameless, new born girl, with a crippled arm. ESTABLISHED 1850. “That’s why I’ll take her—she was sent just for me!” said Aunt ’Lize. "The others might grow up to de spise me but this little one will under stand.” —Chicago News. THE MODOCS. Placidily smoking the pipe of peace, apparently forgetful of the eventful past, about fifty Indians, relatives and survivors of the renowned Modocs, who took part in the most interesting Indian rebellion in American history, are living on allotments near Miami, I. T. These fifty are perhaps the only survivors or relatives of the once powerful tribe. The Modocs, it will be remembered, were an Indian tribe of northern Cal ifornia and southern Oregon. In 1872 they became turbulent and re fused to remain on their reservations General E. R. S. Canby, a veteran of llic Mcxicau aud civil wbis, was sent against them, but they, after fir ing on the United States forces, re treated to the lava beds. The advance of the United States troops was great ly impeded by the peculiar topography of the country, and a good many of them were picked off by Indian sharp shooters concealed behind the rocks and crags of the lava beds. Efforts were then made to negotiate with them and a conference was held between General Canby and two peace commis sioners on the one hand aud a number of Modocs, including their chief, Cap tain Jack, on the other. While Gen eral Canby and his aids were seated on stones around a small fire two In dians who were concealed in the bushes rushed from their hiding place with guns and shot to death the gen eral and one of his companions. A vigorous campaign was then begun against the treacherous Indians, and in the following summer General Jef ferson C. Davis, who succeeded Gen eral Canby, captured the Modoc band. Captain Jack and three other leaders were tried by a military commission and hanged, while two others were imprisoned for life. About 100 who had not followed Captain Jack were pemitted to remain in California. The remainder, about 145, of whom the fifty are either survivors or descend ants, were transferred to the Indian Territory. Altogether the war cost $500,000. Sixty odd soldiers and Indian allies were killed and nearly as many wounded. Little Man, who is said to be a neph ew of Captain Jack, is the only known relative of the famous warrior. Chief Scarecrow, now bent with age and in firmity, is one of the survivors of the rebellion. Besides him are two or three others who were transported from California. The others now in the Territory are all descendants of the old warriors. If the tribe continues ■ to dwindle as rapidly during the next few years as it has in the past another decade will mark the death of the last Modoc Indian in America. —Kansas City Star. THE BIBGEB SKYSCRAPER. The new Singer building in lower New York will be the tallest building in the world—forty-seven stories in height, rising 612 feet above the street. When completed this office will have a floor space equivalent to a one story building covering twenty city blocks. To concentrate such an immense space upon a total area of but 26,000 square feet presents at once the serious question of sufficient light and air. Usually a high building is designed to cover as much area of the lot as possible, thereby cutting off the light of surrounding buildings. For this reason dark offices are multiply ing in the largest American cities, and many buildings that are now well lighted must soon depend wholly or in part upon artificial light as ad jacent buildings are extended upward. All the offices of the Singer building will be well lighted, but the building adjoining it will not suffer. The part of the building that will be car ried up forty-seven stories will occu py but one-sixth of the lot. The re mainder will be only fourteen stories in height. This high portion will also be in approximately the center of the new building. Thus every of fice will be well lighted without a sacrifice of real estate values that would be commercially impracticable. The location of the high tower near the center of the lot also makes it possible for nearby offices to share the sunlight. It is claimed that the safest part of this building in time of earthquake will be the highest stories. The les son of the San Francisco earthquake is that "the steel frame structure is the best earthquake resister.” The steel frame building is constructed very much like a bird cage, while an ordinary building of brick is a house of cards in comparison. The only possibility of danger to the tenants in this high building will be thedislodg ment of masonry. This, of course, would only affect the lower floors. The danger of fire has been elimina ted, for inflammable material has been entirely omitted. Even so called “fireproof’ wood has been barred. Nothing but metal, stone and baked clay enters into its construction. Even the small plugs of wood usually inserted into the wall to receive nails used in hanging pictures have been excluded. The fires in Baltimore and San Francisco proved that the alleged "fireproof” building is not fireproof, for wooden floors, window frames and trimmings of such a build ingtamount to millions of feet of lum ber. —Charles M. Ripley in Worlds U'ork. "I’VE been thinkin’ ’bout gittin’ married,” said a member of bis flock to Brother Williams. "You reckon I could get a marriage license for a dozen watermelons?” "I reckon you could,” replied Brother Williams. “But my whole some advice ter you is ter eat de wa termelons ! ’ ’ It’s only the mud we throw that soils our hands. A BUSINESS LESSON. Peter Cooper was one of the most successful, careful and prudent busi ness men of his time. He was strong ly opposed to the methods of many merchants who launched out into ex travagant enterprises on borrowed money, for which they paid exhorbi tant rates of interest. The following anecdote illustrates this point very forcibly: Once, while talking about a pro ject with an acquaintance, the latter said he would have to borrow the money for six months, paying inter est at the rate of 3 per cent, per month. "Why do you borrow for so short a time?” Mr. Cooper asked. "Because the brokers will not nego tiate bills for longer.” "Well, if you wish,” said Mr. Cooper. “I will discount your nntp at tnat rate tor three years.” "Are you in earnest ?” asked the would-be borrower. "Certainly I am. I will discount your note for SIO,OOO for three years at that rate. Will you do it ?” "Of course I will,” said the mer chant. "Very well,” said Mr. Cooper. "Just sign this note for SIO,OOO, payable in three years, and give your check for SBOO, and the transaction will be complete.” "But where is the money for me ?” asked the astonished merchant. "You don’t get any money,” was the reply. ‘‘Your interest for thirty six months at 3 per cent, per month amounts to 108 per cent, or SIO,BOO. Therefore your check for £BOO just makes us even.” The force of this practical illustra tion of the folly of paying such an exorbitant price for the use of money was such that the merchant deter mined never to borrow at such ruin ous rates, and he frequently used to say that nothing could have so fully convinced him as this rather humor ous proposal by Mr. Cooper. XABY JANE’S REASON. One Monday morning some time ago two colored women happened to be sitting next each other in a U street car, when one of them turned in surprise and, looking her compan ion up and down, said : "Law! Ma’y Jane, is dat you? What in the name er gracious is you all dressed up so fine fur dis soon in de tnornin’ ?” "I’s gwineter co’t,” she proudly replied. "Gwineter co’t? Is you been en got inter a fight?” “No, indeed. I don’t neber git in no ’sputes en quar’ls.” "Den is you been coth’ takin’ any thing ?” “Me coth’ takin’ anythin’! No, indeed. I don’t neber lay my han’s on nothin’ don’t b’long ter me.” c~. —-r-w "Den what you gwine ter co’t fer?” “I’s gwine ter git a divo’ce fum Jim.” "Git a divo’ce from Jim! Why, what is Jim done ? Is he beat you ?’ ’ "Jim beat me! No, indeed! Dat he ain’t. Jim ain’t neber spuck a cross word ter me in his whole life.” "Den don’t he s’po’t you?” "Jim s’po’t me I I reckon Jim do. He comes home de minute he gits his wagius en lays ’em all ret in my lap. S’po’t me ! Why, ’Liza, Jim would tek his shirt off’n his back ter gib ter me.” "Den in de name er goodness, Ma’y Jane, what is you gwine git a divo’ce fum Jim fer?” "Well, ’Liza, I tell you de trufe— I jes’ natcherly los’ my tas’e fer Jim.” LINCOLN’S REASON. One afternoon when Lincoln was President word came to the war de partment from the provost marshal at Portland, Me., that Henry Jame son, the Confederate secret service agent, was on his way to New York, where he had engaged passage for England. The war department was at once all astir. Charles A. Dana, then assistant secretary of war, received the mes sage and hastened at once to consult with Secretary of War Stanton, says the Ladies' Home Journal. "How do you advise me to act in this matter?” queried Dana. "Arrest the man at once,” was Stanton’s reply; "but you had bet ter see the President before you pro ceed further.” Dana went immediately to the White House. As he was a frequent visitor he was readily admitted to Lincoln’s private room. "What is it, Dana?” asked the President as the secretary came in. Dana told about the incident and asked the President what ought to be done. "Well,” was the quiet reply, "you say Jameson will soon leave the country?” “Yes, sir; he will escape within a few hours if nothing is done to stop 1 him. My purpose is to arrest him.” "Well,” was the President’s re ply, "when you have a white ele phant on your hands and he’s doing his level best to get away, why not 1 leave him alone, Dana?” And Jameson was let alone. ; Old Lawyer—Yes, sir; I’m in • favor of women jurors. If we had r women to fix up the verdicts there would be no more disagreements or deadlocks. ' Young Attorney—How do you fig ure that out ? Old Lawyer—All that would be necessary to get a quick verdict would : be to send a newspaper to the jury 1 room containing a bargain advertise -1 ment good for that day only. \ "ANold subscriber writes us to know ’ what a married couple can live com fortably on,” said the stenographer. "Tell her a thousand a year more t than they have,” answered the cor respondence editor wistly.