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“The Wind’s Way.”
I whisper all day to the rushes,
I ruffle the smooth-flowing stream,
And borrow from cloud-land and sunlight
Their shadow and beam.
I hurry through grain field and forest,
O’er valley and high mountain chain;
Their saltness and sweetness I gather
From meadow and main.
The secrets I murmur are many,
As sadly or blithely I blow,
Yet what I reveal to the river
No mortal may know.
—[William H. Havne, in Harper’s Weekly.
A DIAMOND RING.
“Oh, Miss Bilbo,” chirped the city
boarder, “I’m so sorry to trouble
you!”
“My name is Betsy Bilbo.” said the
tall young woman in the blue domes¬
tic gingham gown and the hat of home
braided straw, who stood leaning
against the pasture bars, with a brim¬
ming pail of ripe huckleberries ou her
arm. “And you needn’t trouble to put
any ‘Miss’ in front of it.”
It would be impossible to imagine
any stronger contrast than existed be¬
tween Betsy Bilbo, with the corn-col¬
ored hail-, the ridge of sunburn across
her nose, and the red, shapeless hands,
and the city boarder.
The city boarder looked with pretty
curiosity at this country specimen who
“did’’ for six cows, a hundred young
turkeys, a bed-ridden father and a pair
of oxen. Betsy, in her turn, stared
back at Tillie Paterson, with her pink-
and-whitc complexion, dainty cambric
gown and white tennis shoes.
“Wears a diamond ring that cost a
hundred dollars, as 1 am told,”
thought Betsy, “and goes to bed every
night in a complexion inask! Oh,
Lord!”
“You see,” explained Miss Paterson,
“we're all going up the mountain to
see a fortune-teller,” and she giggled,
gracefully.
“Humph!” commented Betsy. “The
fools ain’t all dead yell”
“And,” Tillie added, I i we shall stop
to pick flowers and huckleberries on
the way down, and I’ve been such an
awfully silly goose as to wear my
ring. And if you’ll allow me to leave
it with you until I come back, it wifi
be such a favor!”
She drew the glittering stone from
her finger and held it toward Betsy
Bilbo.
An oblique ray of sunshine scintil¬
lated through its facets.
Betsy winked hard. It dazzled her.
v' -•“I have no patent safes nor lock-
cupboards,” said she, “but I’ll take
the best care I can of it.”
She fished in the depths of her gown
pocket and brought up a rusty leather
purse, in which she deposited the ring.
“There!” said she. “It’ll be all
right.”
“So much obliged,” cooed the city
bo :rdcr.
“Kindly welcome,” retorted Betsy,
making a lunge at a recalcitrant calf
who was contemplating an inroad into
the vegetable garden.
‘‘Such an outlandish-looking crea¬
ture! ’ whispered Tillie to her friend,
Miss Bates. “But all the same, I’m
glad I left the ring wiih her. It’s
very valuable, and it fits my finger
rather loosely, and in these gipsy
camps there’s no telling what might
happen.”
“Such a scarecrow!” Betsy Bilbo
told her father, as she carried up the
pail of huckleberries to show him.
“A hat like a black saucer turned up¬
side down, and white shoos, and a
waistcoat for all the world like a
man's!”
Old Aaron Bilbo viewed the huckle¬
berries with delight.
“Seems a powerful long lime since 1
l ad a huckleberry pie,” said he. “ join’
to bake one, Betsy?”
Betsy nodded.
“A real old-fashioned one,” said she.
“Such as mother used to make.”
Old Aaron chuckled.
“How’s the red calf?” said he, so¬
licitously. •
“Growin’ like all possessed, father.”
“And the last brood of Muscovy
ducklings ?’’
“ They couldn’t be doin’ better.”
“And the b.'anket cow that was ail-
in’?”
“Oh, she’s all right again, father.”
“Has Milo Dickson been here to 6ee
about bayin’ them oxen, Betsy?” anx¬
iously inquired the oid man, after a
brief silence.
Betsy nodded.
“Yes,” said she; “but be ain’t will-
in’ to give, but $60 for ’em. I told him
up and down I wouldn’t sell at that
price. We can do better to hire ’em
out by the day.”
Once more Aaron Bilbo chuckled.
“I always said you’d ought to been
a man,” said he. “Yes, yes, Betsy,
you’re right. You always was right,
Betsy.”
“Oh, look here, father!” said Betsy,
.suddenly bethinking herself of a new
way to amuse the invalid. “Wouldn’t
you like to see a diamond?”
“A—which, Betsy?”
“A diamond,” explained the daugh¬
ter— “a diamond ring!”
I % I’ve read about ’em iu the papers,”
slowly uttered the old man. “But I
dun know as 1 ever seen one, eh?
W here on earth did you get it, Betsy?
Land o’ Goshen! how it sparkles, for
all the world like a drop o’ dew with
the sun on it!”
And Betsey related to him the tale
of hov^ she was temporarily officiating
as a 8afe Deposit Company.
A troubled wrinkle came between
the old man’s grizzled brows.
i t But hadn’t you orter to lock it up
in the kitchen cupboard, Betsy?” said
j, e>
“Can’t,” Betsy answered. “Lock’s
brokeli.”
“Put it in the cracked teapot on the
top dresser shelf,” said Aaron, “where
vour mother used to keep her silver
money.”
“Oh, 1 guess it's safe enough here!”
returned Betsy, once more fastening
her leather purse with a snapping
sound,
“There was a tramp stole Jeliiel
Hall’s jack-knife oflT the kitchen win¬
der-sill last week,” said Aaron.
“I shan’t leave this on the window¬
sill,” observed Betsy, drily.
“And that there fortunc-tellin’ gang
o’ gipsies up the mountain don’t bear
no very good name.”
“I guess they’ll lot me alone, if I let
them alone,” shrewdly remarked
Betsy. Now, father, I’m goin’ down
stairs to make the huckleberry-pie,
and then I’ll dig some new beets and
catch a chicken for tomorrow’s din-
ner. And—’’
“But about that diamond ring,
Betsy,” feebly quavered the old man.
“I shan't take no comfort if I’m a-
fancyin’ all the while that it’s lost.”
With a quick, though not unkindly
hand, Betsy raised the feather pillow
under her father’s head, and slipped
the discolored leather purse beneath
il.
“There it is, father,” said she.
“You can look after it yourself now.”
“That's a deal better place for it,
Betsy,” said old Aaron, contentedly.
And he dozed off into a slumber,
while Betsy went to roll out pie-paste
and pull young beets for dinner.
“Eh!” It seemed as if he had been
sleeping for hours and hours, when a
loose board creaked on the floor, and
a shadow fell across the noon bright¬
ness of the room. “Eh! What!
Who’s that?”
“It’s me, Neighbor Bilbo!” a plaus¬
ible voice made reply.
I i Who’s me?”
“John Jones.”
“I dunno who you be,” stammered
the old man. “I dou’t know no John
Joneses.”
Instinctively his wrinkled fingers
fumbled for the precious gem beneath
his pillow; a cold sweat broke out
upon his forehead, while his heart
seemed to stand still.
“I’m Obadiah Joneses' nephew. Up
to Lark Farm!” explained the stran¬
ger.
“You may be, and you mayn’t,”
said the old man, resolved to sell his
treasure only with his fife, and se¬
cretly wondering how he could best
summon Betsy to the rescue. “Didn’t
you see my darter nowheres round the
place?”
“No, sir, I didn’t,” said John Jones,
drawing nearer to the bedside, “I
kind o’ knocked and hollered, bu* no¬
body didn’t answer, and so I made
bold to step upstairs.”
Aaran looked hard at his visitor.
He was a tall, slouchv young man,
with profusely-pomatumed hair, a
gaudy neck-scarf, and cuffs much too
large for his freckled paws of bands.
His gray-green eyes moved restlessly
to and fro, and his handkerchief
smelled of cheap cologne.
“A confidence man,” said old Bilbo,
to himself, “Folks has somehow
heard of that diamond, and I’m goin’
to be garroted and robbed!”
He musterc l up sufficient courage,
however, to say. boldly:
“Aud what’s your business with me,
sir?”
John Jones sidled still nearer to the
wooden bedstead.
“I’m a-goin’ to ask you, sir,” said
he, rolling his uneasy eyes about, “to
lemme hev the greatest treasure you
possess.” old
A cold dew broke out on the
man’s upper lip; his face reddened.
“You wont git it; that’s flat!” said
he.
“Might I venture, sir—”
“No, you mightn’t!” said Aaron.
And lifting up his voice with the
desperation of a great emergency, lie
bawled aloud:
“Bet—sy! Be-ec-et-sy! Help!
Murder! Thieves! Robbers!”
So loudly did he call that Betsy, in
the deeps of the back cellar, where
she was drawing a jug of cider vinegar
heard the call, and hastened to respond
to it, with the poker in one hand and
a saucepan of boiling hot water in the
other.
“Get out of this, you!” shouted
Betsy, coming like an Amazon to the
fray. “Ain’t you ’shamed o’ yourself,
robbin’ and murderin’ a poor, helpless
old man? Get out, I say, or I’ll scald
you to death!”
Betsy Bilbo’s appearance, as she
screamed out these words, was more
that of an avenging fury than a mod¬
ern maiden, and John Jones fled pre¬
cipitately before her, never pausing
until he stood breathless among the
tender young chives and parsley roots
in the garden patch below, having ig-
nominiously tumbled over the well
curb in liis flight.
“Thank goodness,” said old Aaron,
drawing a long breath, “the diamond
ring is safe! 1 thought one time he’d
hev it sure.”
“Did he try to grab it, father?” said
Betsy. “Well, 1 declare!”
“N-no, I can’t say as he ezackly tried
to grab it,” unwillingly admitted the
old inan, “but I’m ’most sartin he was
going to. I never was so glad to see
nobody in my iife as I was to see you,
Betsy.”
It Why, father,” said Betsy, looking
intently out of the window, “lie’s a-
standing there yet! Why don’t he go?
I’ll clear him ofl’ the premises, or l’U
know the reason why!”
With hurried and determined step,
she took her way down to the spot
where the descendant of Obadiah Jones
of Lark Farm was sorrowfully rubbing
his knee joint.
“Come!” said she. “What are you
standiu’ here for? Why don’t you—
Bless my soul, if it ain’t John Jones!”
“Yes, it’s me,” said John Jones.
I * Took to highway robbery, eh? and
lighlin’ bed-ridden old men?” cried
Betsy. “You!”
“I liain’t robbed no one, and J
hain’t fou’t nobody,” said John Jones.
“I jest asked your pa for permission
to come and see you Sunday nights
and he hollered out like inad and you
come running in with a sa’cepan o’
boilin’ w r afer and the poker.”
“And you run away!” sneered
Betsy.
“I couldn't do nothin’ else!” sighed
the swain—“could I?”
A faint flush rose to Betsy's sun¬
burned checks. She balanced hersell
rst on one foot and then on the
olher.
If she was partial to anybody, it
was to Jolm Jones.
“John,” hazarded she, “it was a
misunderstandin’!”
“It had that look,” said John, still
rubbing his bruised knee.
“Father’s sort o’ deaf, you know,
but he’d a spoke up different if he’d
a-knowed it was you,” said Betsey.
“And I was that skccred I nevci
stopped to recognize you.”
“Humph!” observed John Jones.
“You ain’t goin’, be you, John?”
John Jones came to a dead stand¬
still among the chives and the holly¬
hocks.
“Not if you ask me to stay, Bet
sey.”
So John Jones stayed to dinner,
duly partaking of the huckleberry pit
and the fried chicken, and Betsy
showed him the diamond ring which
had been at the bottom of all hi*
troubles.
“It is a sparklar, ain’t it?” said he.
But, nevertheless, the whole house¬
hold experienced a sensation of relief
when Miss Paterson called for th«
ring, and their ordeal of guardianship
was at an end.—rSaturday Night.
DESERT VICTIMS.
GRUESOME RELICS FROM COL¬
ORADO’S SEA OF LAND.
Daring Fortune-Hunters Who Ferishea^
of Thirst.
IT is not generally known that a
considerable number of men each year
lose their lives while crossing an
American d 'sert, yet such is the case.
On my desk as I write, wearing my
hat rakishly cocked over its polished
forehead, and on its jaws a perpetual
grin, is the skull of some wandering |
fortune-hunter who doubtless died of
the thirst-agony. Like a score of other
skulls and skeletons found in the sands
of the same Colorado desert this year
there is nothing to tell anything of
whoever it was who used this empty
bone as a b raiu casket.
A “desert-man” who recently re¬
turned from a prospecting trip brought
in this skull, which he stumbled over,
as a memento, The coyotes, the sun
and the sand have cleaned and pol¬
ished it until it looks as if prepared for
a doctor’s study, but if the tongueless
mouth could only speak what a story it
could tell of wandering over burning
sands under a merciless, consuming
sun, of a lost road, of cracked throat
and swollen tongue, of delirium, and
at last of merciful death. Colonel D.
K. Allen, a civil engineer ami com¬
mander of a corps of prospectors in
the service of the Mexican Coloniza¬
tion Company, of Baja, Cal., who have
been looking for coal Helds through
the desert country, estimates that last
winter a score of people met their
death from thirst and heat, and men¬
tions a number of ghastly discoveiies.
One of the most striking of these
gruesome finds was made by Colonel
Allen in the lower bend of New
River, lie here came across a buck-
board standing alone in the sands
without a horse or person in sight.
He left the trail and rode over to
where the vehicle stood, and found
that it was loaded with all the articles
necessary for a comfortable camping
trip, except one, the most essential—
that is water. An expensive set of
harness was found on the ground near
by, and a little search resulted in find¬
ing the skeletons of two horses. The
ropes they had been picketed with
still encircled the bones of their necks
and were attached to the stakes.
Two valises full of fine clothes,
plenty of provisions, and other articles
were on the buckboard, but not a scrap
of paper nor a letter was discovered
which could give any clew to the own¬
ers’ identity, or where they came
from, save that most of the coats bore
the names of London tailors. No trace
of the travelers was then found, hut a
few days later George Millard of
Campo, while traveling within a short
distance of the same spot, found two
skeletons cleaned by the elements and
insects, contorted in peculiar positions
indicative of the thirst agony and de¬
lirium previous to death. These were
evidently the remains of the owners of
the buckboard, but no more informa¬
tion was found. So it is with most of
these desert tragedies; seldom is it
that the elements leave anything which
will toll the story save dead men’s
bones.
Cupidity, arising from a peculiar
source, has doubtless been the occasion
of several of these desert tragedies.
The War Department formerly kept
in service a telegraph line extending
across the desert from Yuma to San
Diego, but recently abandoned it evi¬
dently not considering it worth the
labor to remove the wire and poles.
A number of persons living near the
border of the desert, taking advantage
of this flotsam and jetsam on the sea
of sand, have been engag d for some
time in digging up the poles and
using them for lumber and fencing.
As the telegraph line did not follow
the wagon trail, it was necessary for
the pole-hunting parties to wander
from the regular line of travel, and
several of these foragers are believed
so to have lost their lives. — [New
York Tribune.
Says the Robin Can’t Sing.
The robin i; a big humbug, notwith¬
standing his rich plush waistcoat and
his aristocratic airs. Why, no man
with an ear for music can?for the fife
of him d stiuguish the robin’s morning
song from the ululations of a wheel¬
barrow badlv in need of greasii g.—
Hint For Vacation.
If you have not laid out vour
tion for the season, begin Va(
now > i
you will enjoy it in anticipation f n
now until you go, says a writer j a
Boston Herald. I always get a ye
of a
pleasure out my summer vacati,
in anticipation, participation and
trospection. says a writer in jy,
and Stream. Now a word to
who cannot spare the time for a s
mer touting. It is a well-known
generally accepted fact that the arJ
gate results of a years labor vvilii
greater in the case of the man "
works ten months and plays two
the year than in the case of a man a
W0lks tweIve ^vaight ra °nths.
And from an economical poi at
view such outing3 are cheaper J
staying at home; also when looM
from a physiological standpoint recuperaj ) | 1
the grand results. The
of vitality and rest for brain andJ
is worth more than ten times the
of the trip—paid out for medieiu?
doctor’s bills.
I do not mean for you to go to
fashionable summer resort, have
mail come from the city every day,
indulging in dancing, bathing, dio
and all other sorts of social dispositi
This would only be jumping f
the frying pan into the fire. Wl
mean is to go to some quiet fa rmhc
in the mountains, or with your faj
or a few jovial friends go and a
out in the pine woods, on the banb A
a clear spring or lake, where yon
get good fishing and hunting. J
along your rod and reel, gun,
leave behind your mail, and alii
ness matters, What you war
change—a change from the din,j
and worry of city life, to qnlN
and enjoyment. Try it once, on
know you will not miss taking season! a nj
lar summer vacation every
is possible to do so.
Trapping Eels on Dry Land. I
It has always been affirmed b; ft
professional fishermen, and by \ ft
naturalists, that eels have the abilin I
leave the water and travel long I
tances on land. It is said that I I
slippery coating of slime that ena k
eels is for tho purpose of lubrictf |c
when they are squirming their ttl I
overland journeys. Jerry Gormai p
Upper Blocks, a well-known Dele^ a
River fisherman, now come* toiie
front with a story which hesaygprBi:
that eels can get over the grounflg
well as through water. I
Gorman has this spring, afterget^H thlH.
his share of shad nights at the
he is interested in, cleaned two*(
three for his own use at a spHo
about 200 feet from the river
throwing the heads and other inoniin^K n^Bi
on the ground. The first
found that all the refuse of the
had been eaten or carried away
the night, lie noticed tortuous^Bi
ings in the sand between the
the river, and at first thought
fuse had been eaten by water
which made the tracks in the
On the second or third
changed his mind, and concluded
the tracks were made by cels thaw:
up out of the river and ate theBf
beads and entrails. To test histi^Bj
be placed the refuse of his fish
eel pot the other night and set
at least 20 feet farther from the k
than the spring is. The next
lie went to his trap and found DHli
fat eels flopping around in it- “W
lieves that he is the first man latid.—^Bri en^B>c
ord to trap eels ou dry
York Sun. pu
Tlie Wars of Russia. ■
A complete history of the
which Russia lias been engaged
iug written and compiled at S ^W
burg, writes Eugene Field.
volumes are about to be published^^
they will treat of these periods: ih
1 will deal with the campaipB^ together*
1805. 180G-7 and 1812,
an account of the wars with and 1flg a® r
n 1769-74 and 1787-91, nortbct'*^
the campaign of 1799 in w
and Switzerland; vo'. 2 will cm 1
the campaign of 1813-14, the (th
the Caucasus and with camp^th P° rS '*JBth
1801 to 1825, and the
Poland in 1831; vol. 3 will
the campaign in Hungary in Lr
the eastern campaigns of j U
also with expeditions the Central between Asia c°®j Ift Lr
and L
1876. Tiiis pretentious history ’I f
edited Dubrovine by Gen. and other Leer, Russian assisted! |y |
f(
ties on military matters. Mm