Newspaper Page Text
fe: iW. "h 1 ..! VOLUME 51. TK jh Mmmmm •y. .... CHAPTER I. SHADOWS ITEOM CHTLD LTFE. The full African moon poured down Its light from the blue sky Into, the wide, lonely plain. The dry, sandy earth, with Its coating of stunted "kar roo" bushes a few Inches high, the low ihllls that, skirted the plain, the milk .busies with their long, fingerlike leaves, all were touched by a weird and almost oppressive beauty as they ljiy In the white light. In ^ope spot only was the solemn "'monotphy of the plain broken. Near the center a small solitary "kopje" rose. Alone it lay there, a heap of round lrpnstones plied one upon an other, as over some giant's grave. Here and there a few tufts of grass or email succulent,plants had sprung up among its stones, and on the very sum mit a clamp of prickly pears lifted their thorny arms and reflected, as from mirrors, the moonlight on their .ibroncl, fleshy leaves. At the foot of ithe "kopje" lay the homestead, first the stone walled sheep kraals and Kaf fir huts, beyond them the dwelling house, a square red brick building •with thatched roof. Even on Its bare :ied walls and the wooden ladder OUVZ BCBBElmtB C'BALPH IBON"). led up to the loft the moonlight cast kind of dreamy beauty and quite ethe reallzed the low brick wall that ran before the house and which inclosed a bare patch of eand and two straggling •unflo^rers. On thei zlqc roof of the fereat open wagon house, on the roofs "of the outbuildings that jutted from its sld$, the moonlight glinted with a .quite peculiar brightness till it seemed that every, rib In the metal .was of burnished silver. -. Sleep ruled everywhere, and the homestead'was not less quiet than the Solitary plain. 31 In the farmhouse, on her great wood en bedstead, Tanf Sannie, the Boer »oman, rolled heavily in her sleep. She had gone to bed, as she always Hid, in her clothes, and the night was ..,. warm and the room close, and she dreamed bad dreams—not of the ghosts and devils that so haunted her waking thoughts, not of her second husband, the consumptive Bnglisbman, whose grave lay away beyond the ostrich camps, nor of her first, the young Boer, but only of the sheep's trotters «he had eaten for supper that night She dreamed that one stuck fast in her |V throat, and slfe rolled her huge form i'"-' bom side to side and snorted horribly. In the next room, where the maid tad forgotten to close the shutter, the wfete moonlight fell In in a flood and 'made It light as day. There were two small beds against the wall. In one lay a yellow haired child/with a low forehead- and a face of freckles, but the loving moonlight hid defects here, a as elsewhere, and showed only the in nocent face of a child in its flrst sweet sleep. 1^! The figure In the companion bed be fferlonged of right to the irfoonlight, for It was of qult^ clfinlike beauty. The child had dropped Tier cover on the Ifloor, and the moonlight looked in at (the naked little limbs. Presently she ^opened her eyes aiid -looked at the 'moonlight that was bathing her. iV' '.'Km!" she called to the sleeper In the other bed, but received no answer. Then ehe drew the cover from the floor, turned her pillow and, pulling the sheet over her head, went to sleep .again. Only In one'df the outbuildings vhni j.-^Jntted from the wagon house there was J, ifaome one who was not sleep. The room {fSt.was dark. Door and shutter were elos ed. Not a ray of light entered any where. The German overseer to whom the room belonged lay sleeping sound ly on his bed In the corner, his great arms folded nnd his bushy gray and black beard rising and falling on bis breast. But one in the room was not asleep. Two large eyes looked about "v. in the darkness,-and two small hands .'were smoothing the patchwork quilt. The boy. who slept on a box under the .window, had Just awhkeqed from his 5 'first sleep. He drew the quilt up to jpjsbls ehin. so that little peered above it '»''inS *JrT S"ky BY OLIVE SCIERJEnSTER. A TALE OF LIFE IN THE BOER REPUBLIC. «KSr ni wil is SsfciiritsiH about In the darkness. Nothing was visible, not even the outline of one worm eaten rafter, nor of the deal ta ble, on which lay the Bible fr'om which his father had read before they went to bed. No one could tell where the tool box was and where the fireplace. There was sometUng very Impressive to the child in the complete darkness. At the bead of his father's bed hung a great sliver hunting watch. It ticked loudly. The boy listened to It and be gan mechanically to count. Tick, tick, tick—one, two, three, four! He lost count presently and only listened. Tick, tick, tick, tick! It never waited. It went on inexora bly, and every time it ticked a man died! He raised himself a little on his elbow nnd listened. He wished it would leave off. How many times had it ticked since he came to lie down? A' thousand times, a million times, perhaps. He tried to count again and sat up to listen better. "Dying, dying, dying," said the watch, "dying, dying, dying!" He beard it distinctly. Where were they going to, all those people? He lay down quickly and pulled the cover up over his head, but presently the silky curls reappeared. "Dying, dying, dying,"' said the watch, "dying, dying, dying!" He thought of the words his father had read that evening, "For wide Is the gate and broad Is the way that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat" "Many, many, many!" eald the watch. "Because straight Is the gate, and narrow is tho way that leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it" "Pew, few, few!" said.the watch. The boy lay wlth hlB eyes wide open. He saw before him a long stream of people, a great dark multitude, that moved in one direction. Then they came to the dark edge of the .EWorld and went over. He saw them passing on before him, and there was nothing that could stop them. He thought of how that stream had rolled on through all the long ages of the past, bow the old Greeks and Romans had gone over. The countless millions, of China and India—they were going, over now. Since lie had come to bed .how many had gone? And the watch said, "Eternity, eter nity, eternity!" "Stop them! Stop them!" cried the child. And all the while the watch .kept ticking ou, just like God's will, that never changes or alters, you may' do what you please. Great beads of perspiration stood on the boy's forehead. He climbed out of bed and lay with his face turned to the mud floor. "O God, God, save them,", he cried In agony, "only some, only a few, only for each moment I am praying here—one!" He folded his little hands upon his head. "God, God, save them!" He groveled on the floor. Oh, the long, long ages of the past. In which they had gone over! Oh, the long, long future, in which they would piissaway! O God, the long, loug, long, eternity, which lias no cad! The child wept and crept closer to the ground. uw" rfow-, THE SACRIFICE. The farm by daylight was not as tho farm by moonlight The plain was a weary flat of loose red sand, sparsely covered by dry "karroo" bushes, that, cracked beneath the tread like tinder and showed the red earth everywhere. Here and there a milk bush lifted its pale colored rods, and In every direc tion the ants' and beetles ran about in the blazing sand. The red walls of the farmhouse, the zinc roofs of the outbuildings, the stone walls of the kraals, all reflected the fierce sunlight till the eye ached atid blenched. No tree or shrub was to be seen far or near. The two sunflowers that stood before the door, outstared by tho sun, drooped their brazen faces to the sand, and the little cleadallke insects cried aloud among the stones of the "kopje." The Boer woman, Been by daylight, was even less lovely than when In bed she rolled nnd dreamed. She sat on a cliair In the great front room, with her feet on a wooden stove, and wiped her flat face witli the corner of her apron and drank coffee and In Cape Dutch swore that the beloved weather was damned. Less lovely, too, by day light was the dead Englishman's child, her little Btepdaughter, upon whose freckles and low, wrinkled forehead the sunlight had no mercy. "Lyndall," the child said to her little orphan cousin, who sat with her on the floor threading beads, "how is it your beads never fall off your needle?" "I try," said the little one gravely, moistening her tiny linger. "That is why." Ck a »nd Jhe two black ores. go stared The overseer, seen by daylight, was huge German, wearing a shabby suit afld a chjlfli.sk habjt of. rabftlny MMHMHHI his hands nnd nodding his head pro digiously when pleased at anything. He stood out at the kraals In tho blaz ing sun, explaining to two Kaffir boys the approaching end of the world. Tho boys as they cut the cakes of dung winked at each other and .worked as slowly as they possibly could, but the German never saw it Away beyond the "kopje" Waldo, his son, herded the ewes and lambs, a small and dusty herd, powdered all over from head to foot with red sand, wearing a ragged coat and shoes of un dressed leather, through whose holes the toes looked out His hat was too large nnd bad sunk down to his eyes, concealing completely the silky black curls. It was a curious small figure. His flock gave him little trouble. It waB too hot for them to move far. They gathered round every little milk bush as though they hoped to find shade and stood there motionless in clumps. He bimself crept under a shelving rock that lay at the foot of the "kopje," stretched himself on hia stomach and waved his dilapidated lit tle shoes in the air. Soon, from the blue bag where he kept his dinner, he produced a frag ment of slate, an arithmetic and a pen cil. Proceeding to put down a sum with solemn and earnest demeanor, he began to add It up aloud, "Six-and 2 is 8, and 4 is 12, and 2 is 14, and 4 Is 18." Here he paused. "And 4 Is IS, and—4 is—18." The last was very much drawled. Slowly the pencil slipped from his fingers, and the slate follow edit into the sand. For awhile he lay motionless, then began muttering to himself, folded his little arms, lalfl his head down upon them and might have been asleep but for a muttering sound that from time to time proceeded from him. A curious old ewe came to snlfl at him, but It waB He sat up then. Slowly the dullness and heaviness melted from bis face. It became radiant Midday had come now, and the sun's rays were poured down vertically. The earth throbbed before the eye. The boy stood up quickly and cleared a small space from the bushes which covered It Looking carefully, he found 12 small stones of somewhat the same size. Kneeling (lown, he arranged them carefully on the cleared space In a square pile, In- shape like an altar. Then he walked to the bag where his dinner was kept In it were a mutton chop and a large slice, of brown bread. (The boy took them out add turned 'the bread over in his hand, deeply consid ering it Finally h^ threw It away and walked to the altar with the meat and laid it down on the stones. Close by In tho red sand he knelt down. Sure, never since the beginning of the world was there so ragged and so small a priest. He took off his great hat and placed it solemnly on the ground, then closed his eyes and folded, his hands. He prayed aloud: "O God, my Father, I have made thee a sacrifice. I have only twopence, so 1 cannot buy a Iamb. If the lambs were mine, I would give thee one. But now 1 have only this meat It is my dinner mcnt Please, my Father, send fire down from heaven to burn It Thou hast said, 'Whosoever shall say unto this mountain. Be thou cast into the sc«. nothing doubting. It shall be done.' I ask for the sake of Jesus Christ. Amen." He knelt down with his face upon the ground, and he folded his hands upon his qirls. The fierce sun poured down Its heat upon Ills head and upon h!s altar. When he looked up, he know wliat he should see—the glory of God! For fear his very heart stood still his breath came heavily he was half suf focated. He dared not look up. Then at last ho raised himself. Above him was the quiet-blue sky, about him the red earth. 'There were the clumps of silent-ewes and his nltar that was all. Ho looked up. Nothing broke the Intense stillness of the blue overhead. He looked around In astonishment Then he betred again and this time longer than before. When he raised himself the second time, all was unaltered,. Only the sun had melted the fat of the little mut ton chop, and it ran down upou tho stones. Then the third time be bowed him self. When at last he looked up, some ants had come t9 the moat on tho altar. He stood up and drove them away. Then he put his hat on his hot curls and sat In the shade. He clasped his hands about hi Aiees. He sat to watch what would come to pass. The glory of the Lord (Sod Almighty—he knew he should see It! "My dear God Is trying me," he said, and he sat there through tho fierce heat of the afternoon. Still he watched and. waited when the sun began to slope, and when it neared the horizon and the sheep began to cost long shad ows across the "karroo" he still sat there. He hoped when the flrst rays touched the hills till the sun dipped be hind them and was gone. Then he called his ewes together and broke down 'tlie nltar and threw the meat far, far away into the field. He walked home behind his flock. His heart wns heavy. He reasoned so: "God cannot lie. 1 had faith. No fire came. I am like Cain—1 am hot his. He will not hear my prayer. God hates me." The boy's heart was heavy. When he reached the kraal gate, the two girls met him. "Come," said the yellow haired Em. *|Let us_ play coop. There is still. tim« E 7 I OTTUMWA, WAPELLO COUNTY, IOWA, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 16. 1899. before It gets quite dark. You, Waldo, ro and hide on the 'kopje.' Lyndall and I will shut eyes here, and we will not look." The girls hid their faces In the stone wall of the sheep kraal, and the boy clambered half way up the "kopje." He crouched down between two stones and gave the call. Just then the milk herd came walking out of the cow kraal with two pails. He was an 111 looking Kaffir. ""Ah," thought the boy, "perhaps he will die tonight and go to hell! 1 must pray for him! 1 must pray!" Then be thought "Where am I going to?" and he prayed desperately. "Ah, tills Is not right nt all." little Em said, peeping between the stones nnd finding bini in a very curious pos ture. "What are you doing. Waldo? It is not the play, you know. You should run out when we come to the white stone. Ah, el long before he rais ed his head. When he did, he looked at the faroff hills with his heavy eyes. "Ye shall receive—ye shall receive— shall, shall, shall," be muttered. you do. not play "I—I w|ll play .nicely now," said the boy, coming out and-standing sheepish ly before them. "I—I only forgot I will play now." "He has been to sleep," said freckled Em. "No," said beautiful little Lyndall, looking curiously,at him "he has been crying." She never made a mistake. THE CONFESSION. One night- two, years after the boy sat alone on the "kopje." He had crept softly from his lather's room and come there. He often did, because when he prayed or cried aloud liis fa ther might awake and bear him, and none knew his great sorrow and none knew lilSi.grief but himself, and he buried them deep In Ills heart He turned up the brlpi of bis great hat and looked at the moon, but most at the leaves of the prickly pear that grew just .befere him. They glinted and glinted-and-glinted, Just like his own heart —cold, so hard and very wicked. His physical heart had pain also. It seemed full of little .bits of glass that hurt. He bad sat there for half an hour, and he dnred not go back to the close' house. He felt horribly lonely. There was not one thing so wicked as he in all the world, and h&knew it. He folded his arms and began' to cry—not aloud. He sobbed without making any sound, and bis tears left scorched marks where tbey. fell.. He could not pray. He had prayed night'and day for so •many mouths, and'tonight he could cot pray. When bit.left oflraytbg. he held Uls aching head, with his brown bands. If one might have gone up to'him and' touched him kindly, poor, ugly Uttie thing!' Perhaps his heart was almost broken. l' With bis swollen eyes be sat there on a fiat stone at the very top of the "kopje." and the tree, with every one of its -wicked leaves, blinked and blink ed at him. Presently he began to cry again and then stopped his crying to look at It He was quiet for a long while. Then he knelt up slowly and bent forward. There was a secret he had carried In his heart for a year. He had not dared to look at It, he had not whispered It to himself, but for a year be had carried it "I hate God!" he said. The wind took the words nnd ran away with them among the stones and throttgh the leaves of tho prickly pear. He thought it died awav half down the "kopje." He had told it nowl "I love Jesus Christ, but I hate God!" The wind carried away that sound as it had done the first .Then he got up and buttoned his old coat about him. He knew he was certainly lost now. He did not care. If haif the world were to be lost, why not he too? He would not pray for mercy any more. Better so—better to know cer tainly. It was ended now. Better so. He began scrambling down the sides of the "kopJS" to go home. Better so! But, oh, the Isneliness, the agonlged pain, for that ulght and for nights on nights to come, the an guish that sleeps all day on the heart like a heavy worm and wakes up at night to feed! There are some of us who In after years say to Fate, "Now deal us your hardest blow, give lis what you will, but let us never again suffer as wo suffered when we were children." The barb In the arrow of childhood's suffering is this—Its Intense loneliness. Its intense ignornuce. CHAPTER PLAXS AND BUSHMAN PAINTINGS, At. last came the year of the great drought, the year 18112. From end to end of the laud the earth cried for wa ter. Man nnd lieast turned their eyes to the pitiless sky that, like the roof of some brazen, oven, arched overhead. On the (arm, day after day, month after month, the water lu the dams fell lower and lower tlie sheep died In the fields the cattle, scarcely able to crawl, tottered as tliey moved from spot to spot in search of food. Week after week, month after month, the sun looked down from the cloudless sky till the "karroo" bushes were leaf less sticks broken into, the earth, and tho earth Itself wns naked and bare, and only the milk bushes, like old hags, pointed their shriveled fingers heaven ward, praying for the rain tba,t never came. It was on an afternoon of a long day In that thirsty* summer tlint on the side of the "kopje" farthest from the home stead the two girls sat. They were somewhat grown since the days when they played hide' and seek there, but tbey were.mere cUUlren still. «v*. ^T\^, SISfflS Their dress was of dark coarse stuff. Their common blue pinafores reached to their ankles, and, on their feet they wore homemade "vel-schoen." They sat under a shelving rock, on the surface of which were still visible some old Bushman paintings, their red and black pigments having been pre served through long years from wind and rain by the overhanging ledge grotesque oxen, elephants, rhinoceroses and a one horned beast such as no man ever has seen or ever shall see. The girls sat with their backs to the paintings. In their laps were a few fern and ice plant leaves, which by dint of much searching they bad gath ered under'the rocks. Em took off her big brown kappje and began vigorously to fan her red face with it but her companion bent low over the leaves In her lap and at last took up an Ice plant leaf and fas tened it on to the front of her blue pina fore with a pin. "Diamonds must look as these drops do," she said, carefully bending over the leaf nnd crushing one crystal drop with her delicate little nail. "When I." she said, "am grown up. 1 shall wear real diamonds cxactly like these in my hair." Her companion opened her eyes and wrinkled her low forebend. "Where will you find them, Lyndall? The stones are only crystals that we picked up yesterday. Old Otto says so." "And you think that I am going to stay here always?" The lip trembled scornfully. "Ah, no!" said her companion. "I suppose some day we shall go some where, but now we are only 12, and we cannot marry till we are 17. Four years, five—that Is a long time to wait. And we might not have diamonds If we did marry." "And you think that I am going to stay here till then?" "Well, where are you going?" asked her companion. The girl crushed an ice plant leaf be tween her fingers. "Tant' Sannie is a miserable old wo man," she said. "Your father married her when he was dying because he thought she would take better care of the farm and of us than an English woman. He said we should be taught and sent to school. Now she saves ev ery farthing for herself, buys us not even one old book. She does not ill use us. Why? Because she Is afraid of your father's ghost. Only this morn ing she. told her. Hottentot. that she .w&uid .tiaVe-beaten you .for breaking the plate but that three nights ago she heard' a rustling and a grunting behind the pantry door and knew It was your father coming to 'spcok* her. She'ls a miserable old woman," said the girl, throwing the leaf from her. "But I in tend to go to school." "And If she won't let you?" "I shall make her." "How?" The child took not the.slightest"no tice of the last question and folded her small arms across her knees. "But why do you want to go, Lyn dall?" "There is nothing helps In this world," said the child slowly, "but to be very wise and to know everything— to be clever." "But I should not like to go to school!" persisted the small freckled face. "And you do not need to. When you are 17, thi| Boer woman will go. You will have this farm' and everything thnt is upon it for your own. "But I," said Lyndall, "will have nothing. I must learn." "Oh, Lyndall! I will give you some of my sheep," said Em, with a sudden burst of pitying generosity. "1 do not want your sheep," said the girl slowly. "1 want things of my own. When I am grown up," she added, the flush on her'delicate features deepen ing at every Word,' 'there will'be noth ing that I do not know. I shall be rich, very rich, and I shall wear not only for best, but every day, a pure white silk and little rosebuds, like the lady In Taut* Sannie's bedroom, and my petticoats will be embroidered, not only at the bottom, but all through." The lady in Tant' Sannie's bedroom was a gorgeous creature from a fash ion sheet which tlie Boer woman, some where obtaining, had pasted up at the foot of her bed to be profoundly ad mired by the children. "It would be very nice," said Em, but It seemed a dream of quite too tran scendent a glory ever to be realized. At this Instant there appeared at the foot of tlie "kopje" two figures—the one. a dog, white and sleek, one yellow ear hanging down over his left eye the other, his master, a lad of 14 and no other than the boy Waldo, grown into a heavy, slouching youth. The dog mounted the "kopje" quickly. His master followed slowly. lie wore an aged Jacket, much too large -for him and rolled up at the wrists, and, as of .old, a pair of dilapidated "vel-schoens" and a felt bat. He stood before the two girls at last. "Wlint have you been doing today?" asked Lyndall, lifting her eyes to his face. "Looking after ewes and lambs be low the dam. Here!" he said, holding out his band. "I brought them for you." There were a few green blades of tender grass. "Where did you find them?"-,' "On the dam wall." She fastened them beside the leaf on her blue pinafore. "They look nice there," said the boy, awkwardly rubbing his great hands and watching her. -v- *®K£tr& W\ x**n.fF .^li. "Yes but tho pinafore spoils It all. It Is not pretty." He looked at It closely. "Yes the squares are ngly, but It looks nice upon you—beautiful." He now stood silent before them, his great hands banging loosely at either side. "Some one has come today." he mum bled out suddenly -when the Idea struck him. "Who?" asked both girls "An Englishman on foot" "What does he look like?" asked Fm "I did not notice, but he has a very large nose," said the ho? slowly. "He asked the way to the house." "Didn't he tell you his uame?" "Yes—Bonaparte Blenkius." "Bonaparte. Conaparto, my wife is sick In the middlt* cf the week, but Sundays not. I five her rice and beans for soup.. "It is a funny name." "There was a living man called Bon aparte once," said she of the great eyes. "Ah, yes, I know," said Em-"the poor prophet whom the lions eat. I am always so sorry for him." "He was tlie greatest man who ever lived," she said, "the man I like best." "And what did be do?" asked Em. conscious that she had made a mistake and that lier prophet was not the ninn. "He was one man, only one." snid her little companion slowly, "yet all the people in the world feared lilm. He was not born great. He was com mon. as we are. Yet he was master of the world at last. Oncfc he 'was only a little child, then he was a lieutenant then he was a general, then he was an emperor. When he said a thing to him self, he never forgot it He waited aud waited and waited, and it catne at last." "He must have been very happy," •aid Em. "I do not know," said Lyndall, "but" he had what he said he would have, and that Is better than being -happy. He was their master, and all the people were white with fear of him He -was one, and they were many, and -tliey got him down at last. They were like the wildcats when their teeth are fast in a great dog, like cowardly wildcats." said the child—"tliey would not let liiin go. They were many. He was only one. They sent hliu to an island In the sen, a lonely island, and kept him there fast. He was one jnan. n:id they were mnny, and tliey AverelierTrtlyd' at hiui. It was glorious!" said the child. "And what then?" said Km. "Then he wns alone there in that Is land, with men to watcli liiin always," said her companion slowly aud quietly, "and in the long lonely uigbts lie used to lie awake and think of the things he had done In the old days and the tilings he would do If they let lilm go again. In the day, when lie walked uear the shore, it seemed to him that the sea all around him was a cold chain about his body pressing bim to death." "And then?" said Em, much inter ested. "He died there In that Island. He never got away." "It Is rather a nice story," said Em, "but the end is sad." "It is a terrible, hateful ending." said the littie teller of the Rtory, leaning forward on her folded arms, "and the worst Is It is true. 1 have noticed." added the child very deliberately, "that it is only the made up stories that end nicely. The true ones all end so." As she spoke the boy's dork, heavy eyes rested on her face. "You have read It. have you not?" He nodded. "Yes but tile brown history tells only what be did. uot what he thought." "It was in tlie brown history that 1 read of him." said the gill, "but I know what he thought. Books do uot tell everything." "No." said tlie boy. slowly drawing nearer to her and sitting down at Iter feet. "What you want to know tliey never tell." Then the children fell into silence till Doss, the dog. growing uneasy at Its long continuance, snifl'ed at one and the other, and his master broke forth suddenly. "It they could talk, if they could tell us now." he said, moving his hand out over the surrounding objects, "then we would know something: Tills 'kop je.' if It could tell us how It came here! The Physical Geography says." he went on. most rapidly and confusedly, "that what are dry lands now were once lakes. And what I think Is this: These low hills were once the shores of a lnko. This 'kopje' is some of the stoues thnt were at the bottom, rolled together by the water. But there- Is tills: How did the water come to make one heap here alone in the center of the plnin?" It was a ponderous question. No one volunteered an answer. "When I was little." said the l.oy. "I always looked at it and wondered, anil I thought a great giant was buried tiu der It. Now I know the water must have done it, but how? It is very won derful. Did one little stone come tirst and stop the othei-s as tliey rolled?" said the boy. with earnestness, in a low voice, more as If speaking to iiimi self than to them. "Ob. Waldo. God put the little 'kopje' here." said Em. with solemnity. "But how did lie put it here?" "By wantln ." "But how did the wanting bring It here?" "Because it did." The last words wore uttered with the air of one who produces a clinching argument What effect it had on the A 1 4 ^^w.^f'v4,' 'J *5- *. *¥?t J":" "Bonaparte!" said Em. "Why, that is like the reel Hottentot Hans plays on the violin: NUMBER 68 questioner was not evident, for hei made no reply and turned away from her. Drawing closer to Lyndall's feet h« euid after awhile In a low voice: "Lyndall, has It evfer seemed to you that the stones were talking of you? Sometimes," he added in a yet lower tone, "I lie under there with my sheep, 'i and it seems that the stones are really Bpeaklng—speaking of the old things, of the time when the strange fisbea and animals lived that are tnrned Into stone now and the lakes were here* and then of the time when the little Bushmen lived here, so small and ugly, and used to sleep In the wild dog holes and in the 'sloots' and eat snakes and shoot the bucks with thelrf poisoned arrows. It was one of them, one of those old wild Bushmen, thai painted those," said tbe boy. nodding toward the pictures, "one who was different from the rest He did not know why, but he wanted to make something beautiful he wanted tot make something, so lie made these. He worked hard, very hard, to tind the juice to make tlie paint, and then ha found this place where the rocks liaug over, and lie painted them. To us tliey are only strange tilings that make us laugh, but to him tliey were very beau^ tiful." '.v.:. 3 Tlie children bad turned round and look»d at tbe pictures. "He used to kneel here naked, paint ing, painting, painting, nud lie wonder* ert &t the tilings lie made himseil said the boy, rising ami moving his hand In deep excitement. "Now tho I'.oers have shot them all. so thnt we never see a i" little yellow face peeping out among the stones-"—lie paused, a dreamy look coming over his face—"and Hie wild bucks have gone and those days, nnd we are here. But we will lie gone soon, and only the stones will He ou here, looking nt everything as they look now. I know that it is 1 who am thinking.",, the fellow added slowly, "but It seems as though it were th# who are talking. Has it never seemed so to you, Lyndall?" "No It never seems so to me," sha answered. The sun had dipped now below the hills, and tbe boy, suddenly remember ing tbe ewes and lambs, started to ills feet. '""Let" us alsq go to tlio house nnd see who basycome,", iwi^ -Em' as the boy gfaflert awaytp p?Jotn hl« flock, wkilo lfons ran at liifThoeiSi snapping at tbe ends'' of the, torn trousers as they flutr 1 -V Tt. bp-Continued. 7-_ V (Jrnunds for Action, Scftleurli—7T aw—had mo mind wend oy a pwofesBiQtjal mind reudcr wecent ly» donclier know? Miss Cutting —Indeed! And wliat did he charge you? ,.V uFoah 20. This is done A clolhirs." W/w "Wlir.t an outrage?1 Why don't you have him arrested for obtaiumg money under false pretenses?'*—ChicagoEven-j ing News. What Wa* Killing HJm. JBeggar—Will ycu please give me six«* pence, sir? I'm on my way home t» die? Gentleman (handing him the money) —I don't mind giving- you sixpence for so worthy a prrpese as that, but your" breath smells horribly of rvhiSuy. •t4I know it deep. s:r: whisky's what'®' killing me."-—IjOiidcn Tcpieui Tirtea. W 8: Toiucfcca ly Weight. I In the canning factories inmsiocs are bought by weight, not measure. Tliey are washed nnd *caldcri bv lunchkicr^v peeled and ooreil tit sit by hand. Then they are sorted, paoked in cans by maehins ery, sealed and sten-r^d aboi»t Bgl: an.1 hour. The ca::s next soldered,' cooled, labeled nntked in case's.— Philadelphia »i/ iM A Sinn pa Dojra. The. bpard qf .cjricil ure of Eng« land has promulgated an order forbid* ding the landing of dogs from lrefancl in (ireat 3!rit::in. under a penalty of' to prevent the spread! of rabies, which is common in Ireland just now.—Albany Argus. IVliat D!» Sic MeanT Mrs. Van Piper—What! you 70, mate* jor? Vou don't lool it. The Major—AmVl don't feel it, ma-» dam. When I look at those daughters^ of yours I feel ten years younger.-^ Town Topics. HI* Opposite. He—I shall never marry until I mo a woman whp is my direct opposite, She (encouragingly)—Well, Mr. Duf-i for, there are numbers of bright intel«f ligent girls in this neighborhood.—Syd-I ney Journal. Like I(m Xaoiccakc. .v' Landlady—l*d have you know', *JMr.j Highball, that this is tenderloin beef, Mr. Highball—Well that's a fact II did notice that it was a rather tough' section.—Chicago Tribune. lie Swiped TUcni. Admirer—Isn't it mvfull.v difficult tol find melodies for your sor.fjs? Song Writer—Xo. the hardest port' is to disguise the melodies liind.—N. Y. Journal. No Cabinet SXectlegf Record*. At meetings of the British cabinet no official record of any kind is kept of the proceedings.—N. Y. Sun, Jnmes Gardner, of Chariton, Went on a protracted spree, winding up with taking twelve bottles of lemon *»\tract« He died w|thin a short 1 time. LV