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* Forest Firea. Forest fires in Michigan, Wiscon sin and Minnesota occur, and are the results mostly of carelessness on the part of explorers, or timber hunters, haymakers, and others having either business or pleasure in the woods, who leave their camp-fires burning, when they have cooked a meal or spent the night. This is generally in the months of July and August, when the pine haves and branches from the last wit ter’s cutting are dry and like tinder, liable to burn from the dropping of a match or a stroke of lightning. There is no necessity for this criminal negligence. Proper laws and their enforcement a few times will set the careless ones to thinking, and they will put out their camp-fires and be careful where they drop a match. It may seem hard to detect the offender, but it is not. Most men can be traced even in the pineries, and if fires result from their acts they should be punished by imprisonment or fines. Each state should enact special laws on this subject, then circulate full in formation aDd cautions, so that igno rance cannot be pleaded. The practice of lumbermen cutting pine in the winter is this : A tree is felled, the branches are lopped of! and lie scattered over the ground; the summer following these become very dry and are like powder. A match thrown away, an emptied pipe—aDy thing with even a spark of fire at tached, will start the burning. Being scattered so evenly over the ground, fire spreads and gathers force, and does not stop at the end of the old choppings, but runs on into the green forest; so where perhaps eighty acres were cut, double that or more may be burned or killed. A remedy for this would be a la’# requiring the lumbermen to employ an extra man in the woods, and care fully pile these green pine branches and refuse in open spaces, where they may be burned at the right time, or should they take fire by accident, the fire may not spread. The txtra expense is very little, and a large proportion of forest fires can be traced to these scattered dry pine leaves, ready to catch. After the first season, there is but little danger of fires in these old chop pings, as the pine leaves drop off and green hard woods, maples, poplars, etc., spring up and the danger is over in a great measure. We have not been able to trace any forest fires to So-called “Indian” work. The Indian builds a very small fire and hovers over it for warmth. He says, “White man build heap big fire and no can come near him.” Th^Aian always caret} tot [ich fesota differ in Ties from the Eastern most of the forests were i; fewer small streams are round ; rain-fall is less ; more danger from forest fires. Witness the horri ble scenes of Peshtigo and vicinity in eastern Wisconsin, in 1871, and later In eastern Michigan, occurring on this dry sandy soil. There are large areas of a still virgin forest, aside from the small amount of pine therein, or which has been cut and removed in these three states that can be saved. The practice has been, until within a year or two, by lumbermen, to cut the pine timber, and then abandon the land to the country. There would be an average of five pine trees to an acre cut and removed. The remainder of the tim ber would be small pine, cedar, tarna- rac, spruce, and the varieties of hard woods, and unless the fire had run through, one would hardly notice that the land had been out over. Now, however, owners are paying up taxes and carrying these cut lands. On this remaining forest, covering Borne 60,000,000 acres, as before stated, there is some white pine, perhaps 7o,- 000,000,0) 0 feet, that will be cut in the next ten years. After this is gone, and which at present seems to be the only timber of any commercial value, there will be left the same original forest acres, full of all kinds of hard woods, the cedars, tamarao and spruces, and the young white pines, all of which will become valuable, so that the forest that is left has really more value iu its variety of useful trees that are now, or soon will be, in Remand for the vast prairie oountry id west of ub. There should be foresters appointed and paid good salaries; men of intelli gence and knowledge, and of integ rity and honesty of purpose; their duties being to inform themselves of every part of their district, its wants and capabilities; to collect informa tion ; go among the people ; to settle in the wooded parts thereof; to in struct them in the use and care of tim ber, and how to save and utilize it; to have meetings in the country school-houses ; to teach people who do not realize the value of our forests how to care for them, etc. Not one person in ten has any idea of the necessity of care as to forest-fires, and it all comes from iguorance. Foresters should col lect and distribute information, and advise as to the manner of cutting timber. Probably as much timber, or as many trees in number, are destroy ed each year through ignorance and carelessness in cutting the pine timber for sawlogs, as there is that are cut and really used or taken to market. As a matter of saving to the state at large, the simple effects of an intelli gent forester, to educate the country peoplp, by going among them, and giving them information, would pay in the end a thousand salaries, to wit: It is not generally known that even a branch brokeD from a hemlock tree kills it. The pine is also a sensitive tree; a broken limb or a slight burn on one side brings on decay; hence care should be taken in cutting. Again, fires should not be allowed to run, fc r no pine comes up again on burned land. Lumbermen sending their men into the woods, exploring or haymaking, should charge them to take extra care of camp-fires. The northern part of Minnesota and Wisconsin, and the upper pines of Michigan, fifty to seventy-five million acres of laud, is well calculated fora forest reserve or park, from which all kinds of timber that grow in the mid dle and Northern stairs may be judi ciously taken, and still the main forest remain intact, if it is intelligently and practically managed. The prairie states do not now perhaps so much feel the need of having such a forest to draw from, but they very soon will. Vast amounts of timber for agricul tural implements, railroad ties, tele graph poles, fence posts, etc., sra wanted each yerr. The demands in crease as the pra'ries settle up. Tnis f< rest is tlie only one left. A thousand things could be said on this subject, but what is wanted is prompt action on the part of those in authority, good laws made and executed, people edu cated up to the point; and this can be done by the right mau < r men in each district of said forest, meeting the peo ple at their town-houses, school-houses and villages, and telling them what jjr must do, showing them how to t, and making the common people undt rdaud that fires must be kept down, and the originators punished.— Ex. Worlds With Double Suns. It has now been ascertained that many planets in the universe are il luminated by two suns. While as tronomers are o’ rlaln of the faot, they are puzzled to account for the orb ti of these planets, which must describe iiregular cour es in their revolutions. The suns sre often very different in the'r appearance, often one is yellow and the oth< r purple. It follows that sunrises and sunsitj on such planers must be fsr mote beautiful than here on this earth. The blending of differ ent solar rays must give rise to many varied phenomena of the natural forces not known t > us. In such solar systems light, heat and electricity must assume new phases. As y t we are ignorant of some of the deeper rnyet ries of the starry heavens, but it is wonderful how much man has found out about the distant stars. Clips. A man’s heart is in hlB pericardium when he is engaged ; but after he has been married about five years it gets around into his pocket bo* k. The grasshopper has 120 times the kicking power of a man, taking size into acoount. What a failure man is, when you come to think it, over. There are any amount of peoplo^in this country who think that art closed Ub books and retired from business witti the making « f their last pair of pants. The man who worships the fortune he has made is no more intelligent than the heathen who prays to the lit tle wooden god he has whittled into shape. ^ The Second Love. “Isn’t she lovely ?” Tom Charlesworth spoke out enthu siastically with a vivid fl »sh of his dark gray eye and a singular softness to his voice. His was a nature not often stirred but very deep and earn est; and Fernand Wallace looked into his face and wondered with a half smile how it would seem to feel things below the mere surface depth. He was very handsome, this Fer nand Wallace, with soft, treacherous eyes, features like the Apollo Bolvidere and a lute sweet voice; and Tom Charlesworth, who read every one according to the keynote of his own ntble nature, lovei him as if they had been brothers. “She is well enough. Nose just a trifle too short and the lips too full, but orherwise what the world calls beautiful. Bo you are hard hit my boy, eh ?” said Wallace debonairely. “I love her dearly, and God willing I will be a good husbaud to her, and you had better remain to be my best man. It is hardly worthwhile to re turn to Exeter for three weeks,” said Tom,iu the quiet unimpassioned voice that meant so much. “Well, perhaps you are right, old fellow,” said Fernand Wallace, but any one a trifle more observant than Tom would have noticed that the handsome, restless eyes evaded his gaze with strange subtlety. “Do you hear, Elise ? Fernand will stay to the wedding. I knew we should persuade him!” said Charles worth exultantly. Elsie Mordaunt looked suddenly up from the fancy work with which she was idling mechanically, and some thing wild and piteous in her gaze at tracted even Tom Charlesworth’s attention. “Elise, darling, are you ill?” He was at her side in an instant with both hands in his. Elsie laughed a little bj ate ically. She was a dark-eyed, brilliant little brunt tte, with blue-black silky hair growing low on her forehead, and a small, sensitive mouth like a crimson woodberry. “No! What nonsense, Tom. I am well enough. Do not get any absurd notions in your head. The night before the wedding was frosty and star sprinkled, with a deli cious air full of the aroma of withered ferns and fallen leaves; and Tom Charlesworth strode over the fields whistling as he went, his heart brim ming with the strange sweet sense of bliss that most lovers have felt once in a lifetime. The little room where Elise was wont to sit of an evening was dark, and tl^e window looking ou a border of gay colored dahlias was opened. Tom leaned his elbow on the casement and looked in. But there was no answer. Elise was not there. He went round to the orthodox en trance feeling a little disappointed, he scarcely knew why. Mrs. Mordaunt met him in the hall with a white, scared face. “Oh! Mr. Charlesworth, we were j*st going to send for you !” she cried. “To send for me? What has hap pened? Is—is Elise ill!” Tom felt himself blanched to the very roots of his hair. Mrs. Mordaunt’s lips trembled but gave forth no sound, as she placed in Charlesworth's hands a note stained with her own tears—a brief note writ ten by Elise: “Do not blame me, mamma, nor let him blame me because I could not help loving Fernand the best. Tell him not to feel bad ; for indeed—in deed I was not worthy of his love, and he will be happier without me—poor Tom!” And it was signed by one word, “Elise.” Charlesworth, the uote, and into the starry] No eyes but tj should witness] his heart. “Mother sir, if— if y and that fa A buit-i voioe as head an gether i tlie sno uietly gave her back parting, walked forth silence of the night. Sse of the All Seeing he Becret anguish of uglit you would come, knew how poor she was er was dead and—” t,ear8 checked the child’s stood with a drooping amis tightly clasped to* r. Charlesworth’s library, melting on her garments, and the crimson touch of the cold winter air glowing feverishly on her cheek. “But, my child, you have not yet toid me who your mother Is nor who you are,” and he looked at her with a puzzlfiiLface, “I am Margaret and mamma is called Elise Wallace.” Mr. Charlesworth rose and took the little child’s hand In his. “ Come, take me to your home, child,” was all that he said. It was Elise—pale, sallow and wan, the ghost of her former self, her voice interrupted by a hacking cough and her hands transparent and ferverlsh— yet, Elise still. “ You have forgiven me, Tom ? Oh! Tom I could not have died without your words of pardon !” “ I forgave you freely long ago, Elise.” “ I have expiated my folly on the most bitter altar of repentance. Oh! Tom, he was a fiend in human shape —but now,” she added shudderingly. Bhe mutely motioned toward the scantily furnished room, the dying fire in the grate and the child who stood shivering in her rags at the foot of the bed. “ It is not for myself. Heaven knows I have not long to suffer, and I am well inured to it, but my poor little Margaret, what is to become of her?” she faltered. “ Shall I take her, Elise?” “ For your own ?” “ For my own. I have neither wife nor child, and for the sake of what you once were to me I will take the child and be kind to her.” Elise drew a long sigh of ineffable relief, as her fevered fingers closed on Charlesworth’s hand. “ I can die in peace now !” When the sods had been laid on poor Elise’s coffin Margaret came to Mr. Charlesworth’s luxurious home, a shy, timid, shrinking child, with big, hare-lise eyes, brown skin and a nervous way of staring when one spoke to her. “ Margaret, what shall I do with you ?” said he, stroking the jetty hair. “I should like to go to school and be like other girls. Papa always spent all the money and mamma could never send me.” “ Well, that is a very sensible idea of yours, do you know, little girl ? To school you shall go,” said Mr. Charles worth. Three years after ward Margaret came back royally beautiful a9 Cleopatra. Mr. Charlesworth had sent a little girl to school, and to his surprise a radiant butterfly floated into his pres ence. “ My little girl, how lovely you are,” he said, fairly confounded and taken by surprise. “Ami? I am so giad!” she said. “ Little vanity J” “No ! I do not think it is altogether vanity ; but you know I wanted you to love me,” said Margaret. “You are a foolish child and you have no idea what you are saying,” said Mr. Charlesworth a little sharply. Margaret wondered wh^, she had said to annoy her guardian but she let the matter drop; and the weeks and months went by, and the young girl became the very light and sunshine of Tom’s eyes. “Margaret I have found a husband for you. What do you say ?” said Mr. Chailesworth one evening. . “That I will take him if he is the right one !” laughed the girl. Tom felt a keen, strange pang at his heart but kept up a brave counte nance. “Well, it is Harry Montague!” he said, striving to speak cheerfully. “Tell him no!” “You do not like him?” “No, Mr. Charlesworth.” “But he is young and handsome.” “And the man I love is not young and particularly handsome.” “Are you in love, Margaret?” “Yes, and so are you, Mr. Charles worth,” Bhe said a little saucily. He winced. “Margaret, you have no right to look into the sanctuary of my heart.” She caftne up to him and putting both hands on his shoulder gazed with half smiling, half tearful eyes into his “Margaret, are you to be my wife?” “If you will have me.” And thus Fernand Wallace’s child gave back to Mr. Charlesworth the gift of love which her father’s hand had so ruthlessly plucked from his grasp twenty years before. “Mr. Charlesworth, but suppose I look into my heart and see yours en throned and enahadowed there?” “What do you mean, Margaret?’ ’ “Ah! you are not so accomplished a dissembler as you might suppose. I have discovered that you love me but you are too modest to fancy until I tell you so that—” “That what, Margaret?” Pale and eager he listened for an answer. “That I love you! Oh ! Mr. Charles worth my mother’s treachery blighted your youth ; let my love and affection atone in the golden prime of your dttyfr* ! n Mr. Charlesworth felt like one In a dream. A German Estimate of Dai win. When, seven months ago, the sad In telligence reached us by telegraph from England that on April 19 Charles Darwin had concluded his life of rich activity, there thrilled with rare una nimity through the whole scientific world the feeling of an irreparable loss. Not only did the innumerable adherents and scholars of the great naturalist lament the decease of the head master who had guided them, but even the most esteemed of his op ponents had to confess that one of the most significant and influential spirits of the century had departed. This universal sentiment found its most eloquent expression iu the fact that immediately after his death the Eng lish newspapers of all parties, and pre eminently his Conservative opponents, demanded that the burial-place of the deceased should be in the Valhalla of Great Britaiu, the national Temple of Fame, Westminster Abbey ; and there, in point of fact, he found his last rest ing place by the side of the kindred- minded Newton. In no country of the world, however, Eagland not ex cepted, has the reforming doctrine of Darwin met with so mueh living in terest or evoked such a storm of writ ings, for and against, as in Germany. It is therefore only a debt of honor we pay if at this year’s assembly of Ger man naturalists and physicians we gratefully call to remembrance the mighty genius who has departed, and bring home to our minds tbe loftiness of the theory of Nature to which he has elevated us. And what place in the world could be more appropriate for rendering this service of thanks than Eisenach, with its Wartburg, this stronghold of free inquiry and free opinion ? As in this sacred spot 360 years ago Martin Luther, by his reform of the Church in its head and members, introduced a new era in the history of civilization, so In our days has Charles Darwin, by his reform of the doctrine of development, con strained the whole perception, thought and volition of mankind into new and higher courses. It is true that person- ally, both in his character and influ ence, Darwin has more affinity to the m< ek and mild Melancthon than to the powerful and inspired Luther. In th j scope and importance, however, of their great work of reformation the two cases were entirely parallel, and in both the success marks a new epoch in the development of the human mind. Consider, first, the irrefragable fact of the unexampled success which Darwin’s reform of science has achiev ed in the short space of twenty-three years! for never before since the be ginning of human science has any new theory penetrated so deeply to the foundation of the whole domain of knowledge or so deeply affected the most cherished personal convictions of individual students; never before has a new theory called forth such vehement opposition and so completely overcome it in such short time. The depicture of the astounding revolution which Darwin has accomplished in the minds of men in tbeir entire view of Nature and conception of the world will form an interesting chapter in tbe futuie history of the doctrine of development.—Professor Hoecktl.. Chinese Traditions. The Chinese preserve a tradition that on a certain night centuries ago one of the time souls of a runowned Mongolian visited the moon and found the inhabitants diverting themselves with theatrical performances. Upon his return to earth he established the teirestrial theatre, an event which is still celebrated on September 25th, the fifteenth day of the Chinese eightl moi th, with various singular cerer mes called “Congratulating moon.” On the appointed night Chinatown of Ban Francisco was u blaze of cheap glory. Shops anl lodging-houses were illumined, (’ngon flag floated everywhere, lan terns bung from windows and balco nies, and a multitude of many colored candleH shed light and grease around. Numberless sheets of mock paper money were burned, firecrackers were surreptitiously set off wherever a pollcempi was not in sight and the air was vocal with the Jabbering thousand glib tongues.