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I'IKSJUDOCD By W. HEIMBURG. Continued. Was she going, after all? Then — well, then, she would be responsible lor whatever might happen. No, she was coming back again. She was only wandering about in her ex aggerated anxiety; there was some thing, then, that could shake her out of that intolerable calmness! CHAPTER XIV. Hilda was sitting writing in her costly room —that is, she had been writing, and now was reading her letter over. Jt was addressed to her eldest sister, of whom she had lately made a confidante. The young artist was greatly changed; her face had grown smaller, and her month constantly wore that half-scornful, half-condescending smile peculiar to people who feel them selves immensely superior to all the follies and pettiness of their fellow- Bjen, and are only constrained to keep heir opinions to themselves by the force of circumstances. There was an air of watching and waiting for something in her whole manner; her had grown supple and cac lllio; in short, she was scarcely recog nizable for the same person she had been before. If Antje was quietly patient, she was absolutely apathetic in her manner. If Leo asked her if alto would go to walk, she replied curtly; “Oh, certainly,” and marched VJff beside him, Her manner to him fell Just short of rudeness. But this leserve, this coolness, suited her admirably, for a fire blazed out of her dark eyes which formed a strange contrast to her calm manner. She was perfectly well aware that this tortured Leo, and delighted and vexed him at the same time, but she wore an air of such indifference that no one would have thought she had any idea of the storm she had raised. And she hardly confessed even to her self the delight which this occasioned her. When la-o writhed and twisted like a worm trodden under foot, she felt that even then all his sufferings did wot outweigh what she had endured on that evening when she learned that he was married. And all this time she had not the slightest thought for Antje. What was this woman to her? She was quite satisfied if sh ■ only had the key to the cup-boards and the linen-press at her girdle, and ber baby on her arm. She caught up her letter and read it over f ncc more: “Dearest Tony: ■'Do not torture me with questions, tor I cannot tell you when I shall < onie home —Jussuitz has not yet finished my picture. And >ou know that I am in good hands here, “I am delighted to hear that papa has effectually stopped Aunt Polly’s slanderous tongue. Tony, you know mo —as if 1 would remain here if only one atom of all she says were true! There are some people who cannot look an inch beyond the wall which rheir own narrow-mindedness and common-place natures have built up around them. I do not. love Jnssnitz; I write it down once more. How should I, Hilda von Zweidorf, come to such a pass as to be interested in a married man? Good Heavens, it is too utterly absurd! ‘Perhaps I may come home some day quite unexpectedly—for a short time. I think I shall try Munich by and by. And so 1 may appear sud denly in your old attic room, between Ihe clattering sewing-machine and the work basket. Good Heavens, how can you stand that horrible monotony, children? “There is little enough variety here. Heaven knows, except the caprices of my host. Now he thinks he will paint; I fling on my costume and pose myself—though, really, what remains to bo done to the picture I do not know myself; it might have been in Berlin long ago. so far as I can see — ami in a quarter of an hour he finds himself too ‘nervous.’ not in the mood for it, and he wishes to talk instead. The next minute he says he will take a walk. If that ‘everlasting night lamp’ were not in the house with her faint but steady glimmer, which keeps the balance against all these whims, everything would be turned topsy turvey* Lot as u u-—good Heavens, now can any one be so intolerably stupid as that woman? “Do you remember that poem of Annette von Droste-Hulshoff. ‘The Silly Woman’? I tell you, Tony, that the Hulshoff woman was a perfect model of sense and intelligence com pared with Frau Antje. She had sense enough, at least, not to make her husband’s pecuniary situation more difficult. But this one’ And always with the same cool, friendly manner! If she would only storm and scold once in a while by way of variety’, as Durer s amiable spouse used to and no; that never han pens. But what nonsense I am writ ing! Good-by. Love to my father and mother and my sisters. “Your “Hilda.” When Hilda wrote the words: “How could I, Hilda von Zweidorf. ever come to such a pass as to be come interested in a married man?” she had only spoken the truth. The love that she felt for him had been destroyed by the great dis appointment she had endured, but in the place of that love something else had come to her, of a nature not less passionate—hatred, the longing to prove to him that she had never loved him This longing made her blind and deaf to all other considerations, the more she became conscious that she had once betrayed to him the real nature of her feelings. At such times she clenched her j hands and tears of wrath streamed ! from her eyes. There were days in ! which her caprices were many and un | accountable, on which she longed to : have him speak to her of his love, on which she tortured him and enraptur ed him only in the hope that the moment would come at length when she could proudly toss back her head and say: “Sir, what do you mean? I do not understand you.” This very day had been such a one. Tony’s letter had aroused all the evil passions in her; there had been some thing in it about a letter from Aunt Polly, who swore by all that was sacred that Hilda had not been in different to Herr Jussnitz. She had walked beside him in their excursions with fluttering breath, she had played with him as a cat plays with a mouse; but lie had not found the courage to what Hilda would so gladly have trapped him into saying. Hilda was conscious only that he was having a struggle with himself. But some day h° would speak, and she would leave the house that very hour, with the hope in her heart that he might only suffer half so much as she had done. Where she went was a matter of in difference to her, but she would go with her pride unbent, with smiling lips, and in the consciousness that he would search for her and not find her, that he would be sick with longing after her. While indulging in these reflections she had addressed the letter to her sister and begun to make her toilet. She knew that he was waiting for her downstairs in the yellow drawing room. She rlrooacd very slowly—this “waiting” was one of her ways of tormenting him. She spent a quarter of an hour in curling the hair on her forehead and ten miutes more in fastening a bunch of snow-drops in her dress. She could see him in im agination walking up and down, up and down, and her steps as she turno 1 toward the door grew slower at the thought. She found him as she had expected, only looking very pale. Was it be cause of the question she had put to him in the course of the day: “When will the picture be finished?” He had not answered lur. Now she was standing before him in her best dress, a simple but perfectly fitting costume of garnet cloth, a few white flowers at her breast, and with the beautiful, apathetic face, which looked beyond him with an air of such utter indifference. "Shall we begin to read?” she said, wearily. He assented, and they took their seats in the chairs which were drawn up so cosily opposite each other be side the open fire which cast its re flections on the carpet. “Where did we leave off?” she in quired, suppressing a slight yawn. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. Hilda, don’t ask me. Heaven knows I do not hear "’hat you read —I ” “What? Yon do not hear what I read ?” He shook his head. “No,” he said in a low tone. “I hear nothing, I only see you. And then I ask myself how long I shall see you. And yon ask me when the picture will be finished? Good Heav ens. Hilaa, do you never suspect that I cannot bear the thought that the picture must he finished some day, of some day seeing that place vacant where you have always stood?” And he grasped her hands im pulsively and pressed them to his lips and to his eyes. Hilda started up. deeply shocked What she had so ardently longed for now gave her a horrible feeling of shame. She could not utter a word, only a slight cry escaped her lips, and her eyes were fixed on Antje, who was standing in the middle of the room. spell-bound, with a pale, haggard face, and with her hair, damp with the night-dews, falling over her forehead. Her great eyes were fixed o i Hilda for a moment with a piteous, grieved expression, and the young girl drooped her head beneath this look. She could not pass Antje, so she loft the room by an opposite door which opened into the tea-room She felt as if she had been gazing into an abyss of grief and pain. Leo. however, went up to his wife. | “What is it, Antje?” he said, more! gently than he had ever spoken to her! b fore. “Do you wish to go? If you j nre so very anxious, then go, go, for I Heaven’s sake.” He caught at her hand, but Antje \ kept it hidden in the folds of her 5 dress; she did not move, but only looked at him with the same expres sion with which she had gazed at, Hilda. “Antje,’ he said, “calm yourself: it cannot be so very bad with—” “With what?” she gasped out with, difficulty. "With your mother. Go, child; we must get on here as best we can wit li nt you—go ” “No,’ she replied: “I will not go, T see that I —can —not go—now. God will surely have pity on me!” She tried to say more, but her voice broke in a sob. “Antje, for pity’s sake, do not be so horribly tragic, don’t fancy the worst! ” “No. no!” she murmured. “I shall get over it!” And she put out her hand to w’ari him off, as if to say: “Do not speak of it again; have pity!” She went upstairs to her room and stood before her mother’s picture, j “You will forgive me.” she whispered, i pressing her clasped hands against | her lips—“you will forgive me if I do i not come. I cannot suffer three | people’s lives to be ruined for the 1 sake of one. You loved your hus band. and your child, too. more than | anything in the world; you will under stand that I must stay at my post.” Then she got out her pen and paper and wrote two telegrams, one to old Kortiner and the other to Dr. Maiberg | in Berlin, which latter ran thus; j “My mother very ill; cannot go to I her; if you could go—very grateful “Anna Jussnitz.” CHAPTER XV. Autje did not come to tea that I night, and Hilda did not appear again, j but stayed in her room, i Sc Leo had the table to himself, but i the food lasted bitter in his mouth. At length he gave up trying to eat and devoted himself to the wine. His thoughts were in a mad whirl —about his pecuniary affairs, the stock specu lations in which he had risked Antje’s tortuno without her knowledge, the mother-in-law who was by no means fond of him and would have been glad to put him on an allowance. He had no luck! Weeks ago he had sent off a picture to the dealer, and had since sent him a water-color sketch, but neither bad been sold, though never had he been in more pressing need of a few thousand marks than now. He could send Hilda s portrait, but the thought of parting with it, of giving it up to some idiot, who would adorn his room with it, and would rub i his hands and chuckle at the sight of i her beauty, put him into such a i jealous rage as nearly robbed him of j his reason; and added to this there! was the agreeable prospect of his I mother-in-law’s dying unreconciled to I him. She had already sent for her | lawyer, probably to bind the hands of j her “extravagant son-in-law,” so he could not waste the principal. That scene with Antje—if he ha-1 only let her go! Now she would go about like a poor, betrayed wife, would jealously spy upon all his movements, would be cold as ice to that poor girl, and would sit op posite him at the table with that martyr-like air, and —it is enough to drive a man mad! “The best thing I could do would be to drive into Dres den this very night—if it were only not for that sick mother-in-law!” And now Antje wouldn’t go, out of sheer jealousy! There would be a scene this evening, he knew that very well, and there should be one, too; he would not go out of the way of it. Better end it all with a crash than have this sort of thing going on forever. And Hilda? She had left him with out a word, looking every inch of Inr like an insulted queen. He gave a bitter laugh, took a cigar, and went upstairs to make a scene with las wife. He expected to find her with the air of a martyr, with tearful eyes, answering “yes” and "no” to all his questions. That would be excellent for a beginning, for then he could say: “Listen to me, my dear. I have had about enough of this sort of thing! If I cannot do anything to suit you, if you take offence at every thing I do, we had better put an end to it. No man could stand such a life ” At this moment he reached the door of her room and opened it. She was sitting at her desk, writing so eagerly that she did not look up. She •id not see him until he came close up to her, and then taking her pen in her left hand, she put out her right. ’ Excuse me for a moment, Leo; only the signature, and then I can attend to you.” She had looked up at him. Yes; her eyes, her unfathomable eyes were still full of tears, but there was such a grieved, questioning look in them, under their dark lashes, that he could not begin his contemplated attack. He threw himself into a chair and began to stroke his beard. “Won’t you keep on smoking. Leo?” she inqrffred, turning round as she perceived that he had laid down his cigar. “You are always more com fortable when you have your cigar.” “No. thanks,” he replied, shortly. “You always—you know I like to have you smoke, Deo.” * To be Continued. A STAMP CANE. Curious Material Used to Make a Walking-Stick. Postmaster Coyne possesses a cane made of postage stamps. Its color is a reddish white. It is about thirty inches long, surmounted by a neat horn head. It is estimated that there are about 5,000 stamps in the cane. The maker of the rare curiosity is a convict in the penitentiary at Canon ! city, Col. Through its sale he hopes I to help himself in winning his liberty. ! A letter from the prisoner to the post | master reads: “I send you a cane today, prepaid by express, subject to your examina tion. The cane is made from postage stamps cut from letters received in here. It has taken me two years to collect enough postage stamps to make this cane. It is made in the follow ing manner: A hole is punched through the center of each stamp. Three or four inches of these at a time are then put upon a three-sixth-inch square spring steel rod, being subject to a heavy’ pressure to secure solidity’. It is then rounded, polished and tipped off with a horn head.” Many of the postmaster's friends have examined the cane with interest and curiosity’, and Mr. Coyne probably will keep it in his office permanently Much speculation was indulged in by those who saw the cane as to the length of time it required for the pris oner to complete the work. The task of cutting out 5,000 stamps was in It self held to be a task to cause men to hesitate before undertaking it, but to take these a few at a time, as the con vict said was his method, and prepare them for use, makes the work assume monumental proportions.— Chicago Tribune. Our anual shipments of horses to Cteat Britain have a cash value of over $5,000,000, not counting recent sales to the war office for use In the south African campaign. TO THE NEW TEAR. Cf* V, . ■ 1 \ - p\~ /ftffct' tiSmSm C / %fc‘ 111 Ilife „Ux 'g.sA/9| nM|5% / \ CJ 2.5? ,'- < vj v, ';■ (■■ J ( / '_, h . v . ■ 3b^ ■/ "W| ||*S r Hes & ;/ i 1 )- SSill -. /,/ - _ X^T^Sy 'N - i. Sci ‘•L * v , Wf\VF - N t U a ~. . .\ sh;v • ./rx. ; ■rH V \ ,^..:- •' \ v f tf V' \ a Jx W H. . • ■> - yf THE TWENTIETH-CENTURY GIRL. Nineteenth-Century Sisters Drink a Merry Toast to Her. TO THE NEW YEAR. Come, little boy, so fresh and new’! Till you are sere and yellow’. I’ll be your chum and go with you. And there’s my hand, young fellow ! For just one year let us be friends In every kind of w’eather, And like two w'ell-assorted ends May we meet well together. ’Tis yours, my lad, to make me laugh. Or cry—be sad or fearful. May you preponderate with chaff. And keep me always cheerful. Inflict on me no useless pain, Nor let me be long blue, sir. And when we part may 1 remain To say good-by to you, sir. —Tom Masson in Life. i i S Old time Ikw Vear’s ( S I New Year’s day in former times w r as was one of the three important holi days of the Christmas festival, and up to the close of the eighteenth century was the occasion of many ancient and popular observances. The holiday season in England, and throughout Christendom as w r ell, ex tended from Christmas eve until Twelfth day, according to the decree of good King Alfred, who ordained that “for 12 days after the Savior’s nativity festival should be made.” The Ist of January was also marked on the calendar as the feast of the circumcision, but the leligious aspect of the day was lost sight of in the abandonment of all classes to mirth and revelry. The genial wassail bowl reached the zenith of good fellowship on New Year’s eve. In castle, hall and cottage the jovial companies of assembled guests and relatives never failed to pledge each right heartily in deep potations of the steaming, savory compound passed along from lip tv lip. As its prime ingredient was hon est home-brew'ed ale, the sturdy Eng lish stomach could stand an enormous quantity of it no doubt. This is also one of the most ancient of English customs and dates back to the remote period of the Saxons. The history of its origin has been duly re corded by Geoffrey of Monmouth. The Saxon Hengist gave a grand banquet in honor of the British King Volti gern. When the wine was brought in, Hengist commanded his daughter, the beautiful Rowena. to pledge their august guest. The maiden blushingly assented, and raising the flagon to her rosy lips cried, “Wass-heil. a health to thee!” Whereupon Voltigern arose and. taking the vessel from Rowena’s hands, responded, “Drinc-heil,” and “kissed her hale lips and placed her by his side.” Wassail is often spoken of as "lamb's wool" by the old poets. Bands of maidens would go from door to door on New Year’s eve bearing the empty bowl and singing songs in suppliance of the wherewithal to make it full. In Scotland, at the sound of 12. each member of the family party would quaff a full bumper of “hot pint” and wish the others a happy New Year and many of them. Then it was cus tomary for the elders to sally out with a hot kettle, bread and cheese, etc., and pay visits of greeting to the neigh bors. The first party to enter a house v ere called the “first foot” and were warmly welcomed, as their arrrival in that capacity presaged good hick. Much generous rivalry ensued, and from midnight to 1 o’clock streets were fairly swarming with would be ‘first footers. ’ The costom was still prevalent in Scott’s day The wassail bowl was an important feature of the abbot’s feast in the monasteries on New Year’s day, being known as the poculum caritatis. The “loving cup” of the London corpora tion banquets seems to have been sug gested by the wassail custom. Ages before the Christmas tree idea had been borrowed from Germany during Victoria’s reign the custom of exchanging presents was peculiar to | New Year’s day, as it is now in France j and many other parts of Europe. The Romans were in the habit of inter changing gifts at the time of the Sat urnalia, and here again Christianity has to thank paganism for one of the most delightful observances of the holiday season. After January and February were added to the ten months of the Roman calendar it was especially decreed by Tiberius that no exchange of gifts should rake place in the calends of January. Senators were expected to bring handsome pres ents to the palace. As early as the reign of Henry 111. we read of the handsome purses of i gold annually given by the courtiers, | etc., to their royal master. Queen Elizabeth was accustomed to receiv ing gifts of fabulous value besides money. Nobles and ladies of high de gree, bishops and officers of state, not tc mention the menials of the house hold. all contributed the best they could afford to their luxurious and ex acting mistress. It is recorded on the annual roll that in 1571-72 the Earl of Leicester gave an exquisite brace let of gold richly incrusied with dia monds, rubies and pearls, and the archbishops of Canterbury and York purse of gold of the value of £4O and £3O respectively. The master cook’s offering consisted of confectionery; that of the cutler was a meat knife with a conceit in the haft, -while Smyth, the dustman, presented two bolts of cambric. Dr. Drake says that Elizabeth made some return, usually of gilt plate, but the balance was al ways in her favor. This “tipping” of royalty continued until the time of Charles I. In the “Banquet of Jests” (j. 034) oc curs the pathetic tale of Archee, the king’s jester: Meeting a certain wealthy nobleman on New Year’s morning, the privileged person bade him a most elaborate “good morrow” and soon had the pleasure of seeing 20 gold pieces jingling in his palm. The avaricious Archee, however, wanted more, saying that the 20 pieces were lacking in weight. The noble man remarked: “Prithee, let me see them again, for there is one I would be loath to part with, methinks.” Ar | chee, confidently expecting an in ! crease, gave the coins back. His lord ; ship proceeded quietly on his way, re j marking: “I once gave money into a I fool’s hands who had not the wit to keep it.” Families exchanged gifts among themselves, and masters always re membered servants. The Eton boys usually’ gave purses of money to the i provost and masters. An old writer of nearly two centu ries ago expressed the New Year’s ; sentiment of his tim6 in the follow ;ing amiable manner: “If I send a New Year’s gift to my friend, it shall be a token of my friendship; if to my I benefactor, a token of my gratitude: if to the poor, which at this season must never be forgot, it shall be to make their hearts sing for joy and give praise and adoration to the giver of all good gifts..’’ Among the ancient and curious New Year’s customs was one observed in Westmoreland and Cumberland. ; Crowds would assemble in marke: places in the morning provided with j “slangs” (long staffs) and baskets. Whoever refused to join the throng was haled to the public house without ceremony. The men were forced to straddle the stangs, and the women were placed in baskets. Nothing less than a sixpence served to liberate the prisoners finally. A “stang,” or cowl staff was pressed into service after Falstaff was bundled into the clothes basket by Mistress Ford. HE SAW ALL THE SIGHTS. The Man From the Interior Visits Atlanta With Disastrous Results. “Yon were drunk last night, Reuben,” said the Recorder to a countryman who looked as if he had been through a cotton gin. “You uns can have it all your own way, Mister Briles,” replied the prisoner. “I drapped into town tu see the sights, and I've seed ’em. Jest when I landed in Atlanta I slipped down in the mud in the car shed and wrinched my leg. Ez I stepped out iutu the street a hundred niggers with whups ketched me and yanked me about tu git me tu go tu a hash house. I took in Decatuy street, an’ every feller I meets was my friend. 1 didn’t know' ’em all. but 1 reckon I muster met ’em somewhars er nuther. A barber man ketched me and dragged me intn his shop and he cut my hair, shaved my whiskers off. washed my head with soap suds and dyed my mustache till it looked as black ez er h’iling kittle. He charged me $2 for the job. Er nigger hey grabbed holt uv me on the street and blackened up one shoe and let tother one stay red and muddy because I wouldn’t pay him er quarter. Then er feller got me intu er dram shop, and after the fuss drink I felt like I didn’t care what the price uv corn wus, and I sit up the drinks tu erbout forty fellers. I got intu er path behind er store and er nigger robbed me uv all the money I had left. Er policeman carried me tu to the calabose and took my watch. He said he would give me er bed and charge me $5 fer it. I reckon when yer get through with me I will be ready for the grave diggers.” “You’ve had tough luck,” the Re corder told him. “Your getting through the old car shed alive was a narrow escape of itself.” “I hain’t er going back that er way, Mister Briles,” said Reuben, “fer I low's tu walk back tu home.” “On account of your tough time in Atlanta,” said the Recorder, “I am going to dismiss the case against you and will make that policeman give you back your watch. The next time you come to town hire a guardian and put your money in your socks.” —Atlanta Constitution. UTILIZING LEAVES Product Too Commonly Allowed to Go to Waste. The great winrows of dead leaves swept together by the winds of fall, along the highw r ayc or on our lawms, make a strong appeal to our Yankee ! thriftiness. They are so light and ; easily handled, and withal so clean, that they seduce us into gathering j them while dry and storing them I protected from the weather. For use as bedding for our domestic animals, to make a warm floor for the poultry !or to protect plants and vegetables from a temperature too severe for them, the leaves are excellent, for the ; slight investment in time and trouble will pay. There is another value i claimed for them, which I believe to be founded more on mere sentiment than on real knowledge, and that is that they make a good manure. As ab sorbers of the urine of animals, when used as bedding they certainly have a degree of value of the minor sort; but I believe that a little close observa tion, enlightened by knowledge, will soon satisfy any one that the manorial value of the leaves them selves is so small that it will not pay for the labor of gathering them, how ever little that may be. Take the ■leaves of our shade trees —the elm, the ash. the maple; I think it is s.-fe to say that a cartload of these gather ed dry. when trodden fine would not much more than fill a bushel-basket, and that all the plant food thev '‘wit tain would be found in no greater quantity of muck than could be cou veinently taken upon a common dung fork. Chemical analysis would show but little difference between the clcv ments, in kind and quantity, that enter into each, for muck itself is but de composed vegetable matter, a large proportion of which is loaf growth, and wherein the leaves do differ is. for the most part, in their possessing more silica, an element in plant structure which is so generally dis tributed as to have no market value. The leaves of the oaks would make a better showing as to bulky substance: yet my twenty years of experience in utilizing some 60 or 70 cords annually, in protecting my seed cabbage from excessive cold, still leaves me in won der at to what has become of the great mass when I uncover the Ik and in the spring and cart it away in such a ifew loads. ” _ ;j FACTS ABOUT IMMIGRANTS. Interesting Ones Revealed by the Census Report. During the year ending June JO, 1900. the total number of immigrants New York, Dec. 21,—“My hair, my was 448,572. Of this number 2,392 belonged to the professional class, 61,44?. were skilled laborers, 163,508 were laborers, while 134,941, including women and children, had specified occupation. The distribution of our immigrants from a religious point of view cannot be stated with statistical accuracy, be cause the census asks no questions rel ative to the theological beliefs of the people; but taking the source® from which immigrants come as a basis for rough estimate, it is quite safe to say that our immigrants have been equally divided between the Catholic and Protestant faiths. If there is any preponderance over one-half, it is on the side of the Protestants. From a political point of view, it is generally supposed that the majority of immigrants join the democratic party, but when we study more close ly into the matter we find that the. re verse is true. It may be that the con centration of one class of immigrants in particular localities gives the bal ance of power to the immigrants join ing any particular party, but if we look at the general influence of im migration throughout the country the conclusions as to the political bearing of immigrants are somewhat confus ing. For instance, at the last presi dential election the statistics of the vote show very clearly that in most uf the states having a large proportion of foreign born, say from 32 per cent, upward, the republican ticket pre vailed. There are a few exceptions to this, as notably Colorado, with 16.9 per cent, foreign, and Montana, with 27.6 per cent, foreign. The state having the largest per centage of foreign born in 1900 was North Dakota, that element constitu* ing 35.4 per cent, the next large being Rhode Island, with 31.4 per coin. The other extreme is found in the southern states, where the lowest per centage is in North Carolina, her for eign born constituting but 2 per cent, of her total population. Nearly ail the states in the southern section come below 5 per cent. The number of foreigners in some states seems m> be decreasing;’in fact, the percentage in the whole country has decreased ) per cent. The migration of immigrants states is a very interesting subject.. South Carolina, with a very small per cent, of her whole population foreign born, lost 31.8 per cent, of it during the last decade; Nebraska 12.4, Kan sas 14, Kentucky 15.3, Tennessee 11.4 and Nevada 31.4 per cent. This shows that the foreign horn element is adopt ing the ways of the native element in changing its habitat as industrial interests demand. —Carroll D. Wright in Boston Transcript. UNLUCKY THIRTEEN. The Superstition Has Existence Even in Royal Circles. A curious incident occurred in con nection with the royal journey from Balmoral to the south. The duke of Athol traveled from Dunkeld to Perth with the intention of awaiting the arrival of the royal train. In con sequence cf a delay on the Highland railway the train by which his grace traveled was detained, and the duke did not reach Perth until a few minutes after the royal party. Their majesties had by this tirn<- sat down to dinner in the Station hotel, and the Marquis of Breadaf banes had been asked to dine. As scon as the Marquis was made aware of the Duke’s arrival he informed his majesty, and suggested that his grace should also join them. Some of the ladies, however, pointed out the fa‘ t that the duke would make the parfy one of thirteen. The Marquis ef Breadalbaae promptly offered to saei i fice himself, and with his majesty's permission retired, the duke of Athol taking his place.—London Express. Stabbed His Rival. Bridgeton. N. J., Dec. 21. —Stirred by jealousy because Edward Moore was talking to a girl named Lewis. Sherman Pierce him in the neck, inflicting a probably fatal wound. Pierce was arrested. All the parties are negroes. His Way of Putting It. “It is true,” said the person of high ideajs, “that you have attained pros perity by your writings. But you have produced nothing that will Itve,” “Well,” answered the comfortable literateur, “when it comes to a ques tion of which shall live, myself u* my writings, I didn’t hesitate to sacrifice my writings.”—Washington Star. A Long List. Parke—“ Have you decided what to give your wife for Christmas?” Lane —“Not yet. There are sr many things I can’t afford.” —Judge.