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When pallid Dawn comes up the sky. And Day and Night for moments brief Touch hands and lips, the waking Sea Bethinks her of some ancient grief. Haggard and wrinkled, gray and grim. She moans the burden of her care, The ghost of that wild thing that leapt By day the wind's wild sport to share. Belike the voices of the dead, Tossed in her boundless charnel caves Since man's first ship was drawn to death, Haunt her above her beating waves. Or else there presses on her heart The weight of immemorial age. Before the sun brings back to mind Her youth's eternal heritage. •—New York Tribune. Her Second Self. i. ItS. ST. GEORGE sat alone before her low tire, in her own cozy sitting-room. To-night, for the first time in her two years of w'idowhood, Mrs. St George daid down the widow's cap which had for so long served to ceal the thick auburn braids so artis tically colled about the small head. Eighteen years had passed since she and Leonard Grover had met. They had been lovers in that far-off time; but he was poor then, with no whis per In the air of the rich Inheritance to which he afterward fell heir, just too late for it to bring happiness to either. She had married very young. She Would Leonard find her changed, she wondered—he whose coming she waited here to night Simultaneously with the thought came the sound of carriage wheels and horses' hoofs on the graveled path. She started to her feet; pressing both hands upon her fast-boating heart. She w r as glad—oh, so glad!—that the room was dark, when she heard the quick, firm tread; so glad that he could not see the quick blush, which put her matronhood to shame, when the door was thrown hastily open, and three or four swift strides brought him to her side. "Florence!" Oh, how his voice thrilled hep— half with pleasure, half with pain! "Are you glad to see me?" he ques tioiwd. She strove to answer; but her Ups quivered, and no words cam-». "Florence," he then said again, and he bowed his handsome head lower. Is It too soon to speak?" "Oh, Leonard," she answered, "can I yet atone?" And then the bridge of years was swept away, and she sobbed out her happiness upon his shoulder. "Let me see you," he said at last. "I have not yet seen the face for which I have hungered all these years." He struck a light, then turned and loked at lier. "My darling!" he said. "It Is still my beautiful Florence. What have I done to deserve tills hour?" "Mamma, where are you?" called out a fresh, girlish voice at this in stant. The next moment a girl of scarcely seventeen summers sprang into the room. "This is my daughter, Leonard—my only child. Maude, let me present you to one of your mother's oldest friends." coa was but 35 now. The gentleman indicated looked from one to the other—from the moth er to the daughter—then back again. Now he could realize the lapse of time —now he could appreciate the changes years had wrought The daughter was a fair counter part of the mother's beauty. An uncomfortable sensation rose up In his breast—a dumb warring against the Inevitable—an unacknowledged desire to retrace life's pathway and conquer time. Meanwhile the girl pouted the full red lips, as she thought her mother's friend strangely absent; and when he at last forced himself Into a few words of greeting, they fell upon dull, unheeding ears. Then she had gone. The lovers were alone again; but he no longer opened wide his arms, but Instead drew a chair to her side, that they might discuss more rationally. II. 'You must teach Maude to love she said to him next morning. you, "I want first to reconcile her to my second marriage before startling her with its probability. Tell me—do you think her like me?" "Your second self." "Ah, I am so glad! her, then, for my sake!" To love, and to be loved! O'er easy task set by frail woman In her bllnd It was Mr. Grover who must You will love ness. b« Maude> »mpanlon in her dally OPENING OF THE HINTING SEASON. •T, .r-v m WW/fy, I - ^ *4 ! A» -r ■ 'Jr* r mm" mM Sü mmA 3 SjjîhÇ' ; /•H Wh m 't-i r K "■v WmSsL. * i v . mfi w> m tt' ij a. m I ■ * / » ' ••O fujm i I > v W I Ivr uy ■ V tî' 'y* n • a». ï ; WMS */ Ttl SI f v; Ju« 'X'.< )! ar <cA :%}■■■' I* j.;.: ,$0 •> ( ;c v^fj • ; y. ♦ V SfflRS Ushneil— v ■Q u -Indianapolis Sun. rides—Mr. Grover who must teach her to manage the boat—in these first early splnrg days. Maude looked upon her guest as her property. She had long ago laughing ly told him how unceremonious had been his welcome to her, and he had wooed and won absolution. Sometimes Florence sighed as she watched them together, while she sat alone; but she gave to the sigh no name, and thought the tribute to be vanished years. One day came her awakening. Maude and Mr. Grover had gone for their afternoon ride, but It had ex tended beyond Its wont, and she had grown anxious and ventured forth to meet them, striking into the forest path which was their favorite way. A half-mile from her home she met Maude's hors*, riderless. Pale with terror, she hastened on, when sudden ly she stopped, rooted to the spot. Almost at her feet knelt the man her heart had loved always, and in his arme in© held Maude's unconscious form. "My love! my life!" he word being borne distinctly to "Speak to me once—just once! Maude, are you hurt? My darling! ray darling* Would that I might have given my life for yours!" Then he stopped and pressed his lips to hers. A long, fluttering sigh escaper them. "Leonard!" she whispered! "Leon ard!" • "I am here, dear," he said. And then he laid her down out of his arms, as though, w'lth returning life, he remembered the duty it brought with it. The mother sprang forward. "Do not be alarmed," Mr. Grover said, gently, on seeing her. "Her horse threw her. I think there is no serious injury." When a few hours later they knew that there was no need for anxiety on Maude's account, Florence shut her self up within her own room to fight her battle. "I cannot give him up," she moaned, "He does not know his own mind. He will forget this child, and she— she cannot love him." And, for the first time In her life, there came a feeling of bitter resent ment, even against her daughter. They were sitting together In the library as she entered. "Leonard," she said, "I think It Is time we told Maude the truth." The man's face paled. She could almost see him gird his soul for the conflict, and crush out his heart behind his honor. Even Maude looked up, with a sus picion of coming trouble. "It Is only this, dear," she said, turn ing to hdr daughter. "Has not Mr. Grover told you that he is an engaged man?" Then she saw that the steel had struck home. The girl answered noth ing as she turned two wet, reproach ful eyes to him, who dare not meet their gaze. "I must congratulate Mr. Grover," she said, calling up all her woman's pride to her aid. Then she hastened from the room to hide the burst of tears. The two were left alone. "Does she suspect, do you think?" Florence asked, gloating over his tor ture. said, each her. Oh, "She mus* know," he answered. "I am ready, Florence, to fulfill my bond." "Release me. Leonard. I find I can not marry you." Five minutes ago she would have thought herself incapable of the sac rifice; yet there she stood quiet and calm, giving no outward sign of the in word whirlpool, nor the torture that wrung her as she watched the weight lift from his soul at her words. A little later he came to her, Maude blushing, radiant with happiness, by "Will you give her to me?" he asked. "I loved her, Florence, because she was your second self!"—New York Dally News -—.......... — his side. RUSSIA AT CLOSE RANGE. Canonization of St. Seraphim Called Together Over 100,000. The act of canonization of SL Sera phim on Aug. 1, 1903, was treated by the Russian authorities as a purely do mestic concern. Diplomatic representa tives were not invited. Few foreigners knew of the matter beforehand, and those who asked for permission to at tend were informed that all the accom modations of the monastery had been assigned. Even the leading British ad vocate of union between the Anglican and Orthodox churches fared no better. An Englishman and myself were, as far as I know, the only foreigners that went, and we were made to feel tha our presence was undesired. Notwith standing this, and the discomforts we shared with peasants wearing sheep skin coats and birch bark footgear, we wex-e richly repaid by the opportunity to study Russia at close range, and to witness a marvelous manifestation of the faith that expects and creates mir acles. The function of canonization called together a camp meeting of more than one hundred thousand people, a verita ble nation assembled in faith, a theo cratic witenagemot. Besides at least ten myriads of peasants, artisans and small tradesmen—Russian accounts say 350,000—the ceremonies demanded the presence of the Imperial family, mobilized an army corps and no incon slderable number of police, and at tracted a host of civil and military dig nltaries and clergymen of all grades. The complicated action and Interaction of the autocratic, bureaucratic and hierarchic machinery of church and state were laid bare to an unusual ex tent. The Emperor and the court vis ited the haunts of the hermit, and dtank and laved themselves with wa ter from the miraculous spring beside which his hut was built His uncor rupted remains were placed in a costly casket beneath a massive silver canopy of monumental proportions, both the gifts of his Majesty, and the monastery was proclaimed a seat of miracles, a Russian Lourdes—Century. A Snob,» Grievance. "Young man," said Mr. Dustin Stax, "I had to work for my money." "W r ell, father," was the chilly re ply, "enough people In our set are ? Irreconcilable Difference. Mally—What makes you so haughty when you meet George? Why don't you make up. with him? , Polly—Because I should have to de mand an explanation and I can't re member what It Is I'm supposed to be offended about.—Detroit Free Press. throwing that up to me without your taijiAwg about it."—Washington Star. STRIKES AND THEIR CAUSES. KÈ3 SSË= ] cc: W' Swages i ; ' ■ m I \ I ■/ hours (j '"■"vu In recent rears the growing frequency and persistence of strikes as a means of clarifying the industrial atmosphere have forced themselves upon the attention of those who. although not active participants In such expo all the results of industrial agitation. The magnitude of has done much to emphasize the damage done to busi dients, share in some recent strikes , . ness and the Interest which the general public really has in the sense of In the last few years conciliation and In the United States being a third and impartial party, arbitration have come forward as remedies for strikes. been illegal unless accompanied by violence, but In Europe strikes have never they were until recent years prohibited by law'. Among the great labor upheavals In this country one of the most historic the Pennsylvania Railroad, In which much damage In 1883 the telegraph operators were The Is the strike In 1877 on was done and troops were called out. called out, and the entire American telegraphic system was tied up. Homestead strike at the Carnegie works in 1892 was the most bitter famous_ Industrial conflict in American history and Involved a sanguinary battle be tween private detectives and unionists, in which nmnj were killed and wounded. The memorable Chicago strike of 1894 originated in an effort of the newly-organized American Railway Union to obtain favorable terms for There were street railway the striking employes of the Pullman car works, strikes in several large cities in 1900, and in the following jear a great steel In 1902 the anthracite coal strike came nearer to producing a famine strike. In that commodity than any previous event. The causes of strikes are manifold. The most frequent cause, however, In prosperous times strikes are likely to occur on ne in times of business depression there is the wage question, count of demands for higher wages, has been much industrial trouble on account of attempts to decrease wages. The regulation of working hours has also furnished frequent cause for lalnw upheavals. Many of the recent strikes have had their origin In a determina tion of the members of trades unions to affiliate only with fellow mem Quite as frequently a resolution on the part of the employer to avoid hers. discrimination between union and non-union labor has been productive of In dustrial trouble. Of still later origin is the sympathetic strike. In which the workmen of one trade, convinced of the righteousness of the cause of a body of striking workmen of another trade, decline to labor at their usual avo cation until justice prevails. t over and under the part A, and draw HOW TO TIE KNOTS. First, make a plain overhand knot as in Fig. 1. Take the end B, place it the ends tightly; then it will appear as j n Fig. 2. If you place the ends in the other direction they will make what sailors call a "granny knot," a term of ridicule used of one who ties the knot thus through mistake. The square knot can be easily undone. It you want a knot that will not slip In doing i « A. Tus a. "Fig..? a <] 01 h h 1» A 'j i «M *1 i ; 9 *Eîô. ä hiç -V 1•q.S' A SQUARE OR REES KNOT. A SOWLINE KNOT. up bundles with twine, take another turn, as in Fig. 3. | Lay the parts together as In Fig. 4. Then curl the part A over B, bringing the end up through the loop as In Fig. 5. Now carry B around and under A, passing it down through the loop as In Fig. 6. This knot will not slip. A man can sit ln C and be hoisted to any height in safety. This is the kind of a I knot to make if yon want to lead an j ox or n horse by a halter, as it will not slip and choke the animal. This is really the most important knot that is ■ made. It is handy in making fast a boat's painter and In tying fish lines ' and sinkers, RUSSIA AT PANAMA. How Near that Nation Came to Bnild ing the lethmian Waterway. i The work at Panama which the United States government has Just un dertaken narrowly escaped being fin ished under the auspices of the Czar of Russia, as a sort of complement to «( Trans-Siberian Railway. Philippe Bunau-Varllla, In a history of I the canal project which he contributes to La Nouvelle Revue, narrates the clr cttmatances, which are certainly not gntxe-ully known. iu 1139 K not long after Russia be gan, the Trans-Siberian, he says, it cuvred to me that the Panama canal was in some way a complement to that undertaking, as the Suez had been to the American transcontinental 1 ways. It seemed to me that then a proper time for Russia to manifest her friendship for France in a tangi ble way by helping to re-establish the work at the isthmus. So i applied to Monsieur De Witte with that In view. "What Is the opinion of the French j government In the matter?" he asked. ^ hen, in a way to suggest that he conve y e< l the wishes of Czar Alexan der, he added: "If it «onforms to I , Mons. rall was ' yours, without engaging the word of the Czar, I can say to yon that any solution which will aid the Interests of France in that question will be received In a most favorable manner by the government of his majesty." I then returned to France and con sulted Monsieur Oaslmir-Perier, who was then president of the council and minister of foreign affairs, and Monsieur Burdeau, minister of finance. Monsieur Burdeau soon called me to the ministry of finance. "I have A studied the question with Monsieur Cisunir Perler," he said, "who will call you in a few days to tell you that the French government Is favorable to joint action with Russia, and that con sequently there is a basis on which to re-establish the Panama work. To day It Is the friend who speaks. In a few days you will be officially in formed." Unfortunately for Monsieur Bunau Varilla's plana, however, the ministry fell before Monsieur Casimir-Perier had called him to receive his reply. By a singular fatality, within a year Czar Alexander was dead, President Carnot was dead, Burdeau was dead, and Casimir-Perier was out of politics. The Dreaded Artist. The thought of possible cartoons cannot well be absent from the minds of men whom all the world knows. A. Tollemache, the author of "Talks with Mr. Gladstone," tells— not In the book—a story which pre sents the statesman In an attitude not familiar in ordinary representations of the great man. One stormy day during one of Mr. Gladstone's visits to Biarritz he walked from his hotel to call on Mr. Tollemache, who was amazed to see that Mt. Gladstone came without an umbrella. Mr. Gladstone laughingly explained that If the high wind had happened to turn his umbrella Inside out, a pic ture of him In that forlorn plight would have found its way Into half the comic papers of Europe. At the Concert. Ida—How did your Uncle Hiram en joy the classical program? May—Not at all. Why, I wore out a shoe prompting him whpn to ap' plaud. All the world's a stage—and all the women Insist on having speaking parts L.