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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