IN THE TWILIGHT,
Over the dusky verge
Of thn quiet son.
fc'lowly 1 watoji emerge
The silver rim
Of the crescent noon; pale, dim
The soft stars, one' by oue,
With holy gleen.
Steal out and light thoir lamps?
For day ia done.
The tempests are asleep;
Only the balmj
Of some cool evening wind
Ruffles the calm;
The listening ear of night
Can catch no sound.
Save when, in slumber bound.
Earth turns and sighs;
Feaco rules the deep.
Aye, peace! ncross the dark
Star-paven sky,
The Night Queen’s silver bark
Goes gliding by;
With murmuring faint, the streams
Drowse as they flow
In their hid channels; slow
Down-dropping dews
Slide from the heavens like gleams
Of love-born dreams.
Frail breaths of violet,
Of roses fair,
8hy hints of mignonettes,
Rise through the air
From unseen gardens, there —
Beneath my feet.
Ah. me! how at their spell
Swift fancies rise!
Wbat touching sympathies,
What gilden momories.
And thoughts, how sweet!
—Good Words.
GRIS LAPIN.
4 •Itn\ /I tf,, f. WAS wandering,
® - Jp/
/M gun in hand, in
■
, the forest, when
3^" I saw I a had stone been
cross.
60 long away
from the country
that this cross
was new to me.
The gossip of the little hamlet, on the
skirt of the woods, wan Taupet, who
had once kept the village cafe, and
was the barber of the country, but he
was too old now to exercise either
calling. I knew Taupet could tell me
all about that cross. Meeting him
next day, he gave me with much de
tail the story of Gris Lapin :
They called the man Gris Lapin be
cause of his beard, which was thick
and gray, and he had prominent teeth
—and did Monsieur notice the promi
nent teeth of M. :le Bienville, the mas
ter of the hounds? He was not of this
country, this Gris Lapin, but from
Brittany, and was once valet de chieus
to the Comte de Bienville—with his
hounds and his other distinctions.
The Count had to sell his estate, and
he went in hiding, nobody knew
where. As for Gris Lapin, he would
not take another place ; he loved his
freedom and to live after his own
pleasure, and he set up as a woodcut
ter, a business at which he was very
expert—too expert, perhaps, for the
forest keepers, who suspected him of
felling more wood than he paid for,
but for a long time they could prove
nothing against him.
He would often come to my little
cafe, and we became great friends. He
told me he had a wife in Brittany and
a son there named Eustase, and that in
the neighborhood lived Mile. Agnes,
the Count de Bienville’s daughter,
who was being cared for by her aunt.
Sometimes Gris Lapin would quit the
forest and go to Brittany.
It was Gris Lapin who brought us
the news of all this, and soon we
heard how the chateau was to be new
ly furnished and furbished up, and
the Count’s old debts uaid off, and
presently we hear of nothing but M.
de Bienville and Mine, la Comtesse.
And the new housekeeper at the
chateau was no other than the wife of
Gris Lapin; and their sou. the little
Eustase, was running about the place,
a fine playfellow for Mile. Agnes, who
had now come back to her father’s
house. The Count had married a rich
wife, but it turned out that the new
Countess had no love for her eten
daughter. All the lady thought was
to get rid of Mile. Agnes—bv marry
ing her off to some rich man. Eustase,
that was Gris Lapin’s bo.v, was going
to school, aud was to be brought up to
be a priest. He studied Latin and all
that kind of thing. Gris Lapin did
not like the idea of the boy becoming
a priest. “Make him a soldier,” said
he. But Gris Lapin’s wife and her
mistress insisted that Eustase showed
a disposition to be a cure, a Oi it was
arranged, so that he was si ' ^ ed to
the seminary The fact is c! t Gris
Lapin absorb d a great deal of brandy,
and was not exactly a reputable sort
of a father.
Now, as ill luck would have it, when
Eustase came home for his vacation,
Madame had gone to Per own estate
in Brittany, and the Couut had taken
the opportunity to bring home his
daughter from the convent to give her
pleasure, and our young Monsieur
m ist needs become enamored of this
Mile. Agnes; you see, Eustase Had
taken no vows, and so, when it Mas
foun ! out that the boy and the girl
cared for oue another, there was a
precious row, and Mademoiselle was
packed off to a convent, and the lad
to the seminary-
Then the wet with the Prussians
took place, and M. le Comte went into
service, and after « while the Germans
were hero in force, and a Prussian
Goneral hud his headquarters at the
chateau.
What was Gris Lapin doing? Cut
ting wood for the Prussians and earn
ing a good bit of money. The fact is,
my own little place of entertainment
was doing a deal of business. Some
times I said to Gris Lapin: “Take
care, the Count may hold you respon
sible some day for all the wood you
are cutting. Watch out, the Count
may havo somebody looking to his in
terests.”
Well, one day a man came into my
place—there were ever so many Prus
sian soldiers there—and he was dressed
like a peasant, with his bill hook hang
ing at his girdle, an honest woodman,
as it would seem. Some of the soldiers
laughed and made faces at him and
called him Herr Crapaud. But he did
not seem to mind. A quiet, middle
aged man, his resemblanee to Gris
Lapid struck me at once, only he was
younger in the face, though his hair
looked grayish. Then suddenly he
said: “Monsieur Taupet, will you cut
my hair?” “Walk into my back room,”
said I. You see, these Prussians
dreaded spies and were very suspi
cious. No sooner was he seated in
my barber's chair than I noticed that
his hair was powdered, so as to give
him an older look. Says he at once :
“I am Eustase. Find me some way of
getting into the chateau. I cannot
ask my father to help me. He must
not know I am here. I saw him as I
came here. My father was drunk and
was fraternizing with our enemies.”
Then I was sure the Germans were
watching us. Now, a sudden inspira
tion seized me, and I said aloud:
“Yes, they buy chickens at the
chateau, and if you had any pigeons
you could sell them. Any kind of
poultry is in demand.” Then I noticed
that Eustase started. “Pore Taupet,”
said he, in a low voice, “that guess
about pigeons was a dangerously good
one. Look 1” and, opening the bosom
of his blouse, he showed me a white
carrier pigeen there, one of the true
Antwerp breed.
“But tell me about the chateau and
Mademoiselle Agnes?” he asked.
I gave him the last news. “They
are all well,” 1 said. Then he told me
that he was no longer a seminarist,
but had taken up arms in defense of
France. That he had been promised
his epaulets if he would undertake a
dangerous service, and it was to find
out the exact force of Prussians in
this province, That he had three
pigeons, and that two of them had
been loosed, and the third, with the
final news, the most important, was to
be sent to the French headquarters.
I managed somehow that Eustase
had entrance to the chateau, and you
may fancy what joy there was when la
mere and the pretty Agnes found out
who was the elderly pigeon merchant
who had brought the birds for the
kitchen. Such information as Eustase
obtained he wrote and put in a quill
and attached it to the pigeon, and I
think Mademoiselle herself carried it
to the upper window of the chateau
and- let it fly; and the bird winged
her way right over the forest. And
now Eustase said to Agnes: “You
have won for me the cross and my
epaulets.” But just then they heard
a shot.
That evening Gris Lapin came to my
place, and I told him about his son,
atJ d 110 could hardly believe it. And
as were talking together in a low
voice we heard the sound of a military
party, tramp, tramp, tramp; and be
bold, there camo along at the double
an armed guard of Prussians, with a
prisoner in the middle of them, his
hands tied behind him, as pale as death,
with a strauge glazed looked in his
eyes. “That is a poor fellow whom
they havo caught sending messages to
onr army by a carrier pigeon, heaven
bless him,” somebody said. And at
that Gris Lapin staggered forward aud
threw himself among the soldiers with
a loud cry, while the prisoner turned
bis head. “Mon pore,” ho cried,
springing toward him as well as he
could, but the soldiers urged him
along with their bayonets, and drove
away Gris Lapin ■with blows, and he
fell backward among us more dead
than alive.
It wai terrible! The young man was
to be shot. The Countess and Milo.
Agues were to be sent out of France.
The pigeon, which had been shot, had
told the whole story. That evening
Gris Lapin came to see me. I tried to
comfort him, but he bade me hold my
tongue, for that I knew nothing about
the matter. “That might be,” I said,
“but I knew this much ; »■*» vr
j would the traitor do who best had strangle b him —j ■ with I
my to
these two hands of mine.” At this
Gris Lapin dashed at me, tearing the
wrapper from his brawny throat. “Do
you say so? Then strangle me, for I
urn the traitor!”
j He had shot the pigeon and had
taken it to the Prussians and sold it
j it for carried. fifty francs, “Yes; with I have the sold littie burden son’s
j life,” he groaned. “Well, I my
nra going
away—I am going to take charge of
mad"emoiselle and my wife. They need
j never know,” looking at me fiercely,
“No,” I said, “they need never know
—nor anybody else, for that matter,
I should not betray you. ” “You will
not betray me,” repented Gris Lapin ;
“but you will not touch hands upon
SCHLEY COUNTY NEWS.
that.” “No,”I said, drawing back, “I
wdl not.” At that his mood changed,
aud he flung himself into the operating
chair, and bade mo light my lamp and
shavo his beard. In a new country he
would he a new man.
And indeed he looked a new man
with his gray beard taken off and his
hair shortened. A much younger
man, for his hair was still black, or
only spreckled with gray. When I
had finished he muffled up his face,
saying with a bitter laugh, that it
would not do to take a chill. “And
now,” he said, “I am promised will ten
minutes with my son. It be a
pleasant interview, don’t you think?”
with a hollow laugh that made my
blood run cold; “aud before daylight
to-morrow,” he continued, “I shall be
far away from here, and wo shall never
meet again. Will you not touch
hands?” “My friend,” I said, .“may
Heaven forgive you, but I cannot take
your hand,” and Gris Lapin turned
away and was lost to sight in the dark
ness.
I Blept soundly enough that night,
for whatever people’s troubles may be
one must work, and work brings the
need of repose; but just before day
break I was aroused by the soldiers
who were billeted upon me turning
out. I got up to see what was the
matter, when a Sergeant, catching
sight of me, made signs to me in a
rough, authoritative way to take up a
spade and follow him. I turned sick
at what was going to happen, but
these were people not to be trifled
with, and I marched away to the for
est with the rest.
It was in this little clearing, mon
sieur, where the firing purty was
drawn up, with one solitary figure
stripped to his shirt standing before
them. I flung myself down on the
ground and buried my face in the
moss, and then the volley rang out
loud and clear. And then the firing
party marched off, and I was left with
the Sergeant, who was carelessly pac
ing up and down, and who motioned
lo me to dig the grave. But first I
went up to the body to close the eyes
that were staring wildly, with, I
fancy, some little consciousness still
left in them. But the face was quite
different from what I expected. With
the marks of my razor upon it, and a
gash that I made in my agitation the
night before 1 It was the face of Gris
Lapin. Ah, how I pressed his hands
and I fancied that the numbed fingers
feebly returned the pressure! His
crime was expiated, he might rest in
peace. And, ma foi, I should like to
lie here myself, with the sound of the
axe in the distance and the wood
pigeons cooing. But that is all folly,
for when we are dead, what matters?
Mind, I do not believe for a mo
ment that the young man thought
that he had left his father to die. He
could net think it possible that they
should shoot ono man for another.
Nor would they have done so but for
the ruse of Gris Lapin in having his
well-known beard taken off. But,
anyhow, the young man escaped, and
the guard did not recognize the
change. ADd perhaps he does not
know to this day, for when the war
was over none could tell what had be
come of Gris Lapin. And I also held
my peace, for I thought that such
would be the wish of my old comrade.
But M. Eustase got his epaulets after
all, and in the end the Comte gave
his permission that he should marry
Mile. jAgnes. And madnme, who was
at first very angry, was afterward re
conciled, and when she died—both
she aud the Comte are now dead—she
left tho bulk of her fortune to the
youug couple. And so the little Eus
tase is now M. de Bienville, aud hunts
the forest like a grand seigneur, but
some of us remember that, after all, he
is the son of Gris Lapin.—All the
Year Bound.
American Rubbers.
There is a big field in Germany for
American rubbers, says United States
Consul Monoghan, at Chemnitz, in n
report to the State Department. At
present Russia is supplying most of
the rubbersjworn in Germany, selling
through agencies all over the empire,
but neither the Russian nor the Ger
man-made article is as good as the
American product, being clumsy and
lacking in durability, although it
commands the market just now by
reason of its lower price. The Consul
also submits some statistics to show
how Germany is building up a large
trade at England’s expense with New
South Wales. He gives a list of the
principal German exports to that col
ony, and says they are not nearly as
good as our own wares, and with the
advantage of cheaper and quicker
freights across the Pacific the United
States should certainly have this trade.
The Germans, however, keep their
goods up to or above sample, pack
them with great care and employ com
petent salesmen speaking several lan
guages, and thus continue to extend
their trade in all quarters. Circulars
are, in Mr. Monoghan’s opinion, not
worth the paper they are printed on
as a means of introducing goods.—
Washington Star.
Force of Habit in a Mule.
Force of habit strong in life is illus
trated in the trappings of a dray mule
iu New Orleans, which used to haul a
bob-tail car and refuses now to draw
the wagon an inch unless the old car
bell dangles from its collar.—New
York Sun.
A ter/a
£
•<y $ 3)
5 MW PBH
as
COOKED FOOD.
No one disputes the fact that birds
of all species in their wild state take
their food, be it grain, animal or veg
etable in a raw state—in a wild state
for that matter ; but our poultry has
been bred so far from their natural
condition, and so much more is re
quired of them in egg production,
weight of carcass or early maturity,
that they are called upon to live aud
work at high pressure, and must have
their wants, abnormal though they be,
supplied in keeping with the require
ments.
One way to do this is to cook part
of their food ; this alone adds variety
if we use but one grain and feed part
of it raw and part of it cooked.
Fowls prefer some foods cooked rather
than raw ; others raw to cooked, and
their preference should be consulted.
Care must be used in feeding cooked
food to laying or breeding stock, as it
is more fattening than raw food. In
cold weather cooked food may be fed
warm and is greatly relished. As
cooked food is more easily digested
than raw, it is best to feed raw grain
at night, as the time till the morning
feed is longer than between the other
feedings. Corn is an excellent evening
meal, and in winter it is well to
warm it before feeding.
The simplest way to cook poultry
feed is to boil it. The grams—corn,
wheat, buckwheat, rice—may be
boiled or steamed. If boiled they
should be kept from the bottom of the
vessel by means of a perforated plate
of sheet iron. Mush may be made
from any of the grains ground and fed
when fresh made or cold. If fed fresh
be sure it is not too hot. Fowls have
died from being fed food that was too
hot.
Beets, turnips, potatoes, pumpkiDS,
may be boiled, mashed and a fine pud
ding made by thickening them with
meal of any kind, bran or middlings,
or a mixture of these. The pudding
will be more civilized if the vegetables
are cleaned before being cooked.—
Farm, Field and Fireside.
SOME OPINION ABOUT HORSES.
The Rational Stockman and Farmer
publishes the following opinions about
raising horses. They are given by
farmers: It is well to raise colts
enough for our own use and besides
have some more coming. It takes
more potatoes or oats to buy a horse
than it did a few years ago, and it
costs about as much to raise them now
as then, So it is very essential that
we should have colts coming on each
year, so that we may have a horse or
two to sell when they are five or six
years old, as then they are able 1o do
any kind of work. 1 think it pays
better to raise colts that will weigh
from twelve to fifteen hundred. I
buy and sell a good many horses dur
ing a year, and find when I have
horses of that weight that I do not
have to look for a market for them ; as
for driving horses, I should not want
them to weigh less than twelve hun
dred. There are plenty of good dri
vers of that weight. Horses should be
kept in the very best condition into
which you can get them; you can keep
them cheaper than by keeping them
thin in flesh, and they will bring
more in the market. I think that 1
can sell my hay and oats at a better
price to feed them to a young, sound
horse until he gets in first rate condi
tion, and then sell him, than to sell
them to the market for what they will
bring, besides keeping the farm in
good condition.—George W. Auber.
The raising of trotting stock by
farmers is a question of the past.
Percherons and that class of stallipns
should be used with our best mares,
producing colts that will bring for* paving
prices when properly cared and
trained. Five years is about the best
age for marketing colts. At that age,
if brought up properly, they ha ve re
fumed their own part of their cost in
work performed, and should he prop
erly trained, developed, and fitted for
their life work. A horse for general
farm work should weigh between
twelve and fourteen hundred. Horses
of that weight cost less for keeping,
in proportion to those lighle r or
heavier. The feeding of farm horses
is a question worthy of much consid
eration. The majority feed too much
bulky food. Less hay and more con
centrated feed will Keep the horse in
better form, better health, and better
condition to do heavy work, and be
less expensive. Regularity in feeding,
watering, grooming and bedding
horses is essential to their comfort,
and reduces the cost of maintenance
more than a little, Care bestowed
upon our horses, even if they are only
farm and lessens horses, adds danger much to their value*,
the of accident,
disease and lost vitality.—W. E. Le
land.
'.'HE RETTING OF MILK.
There are two common methods of
setting milk in this country, one in
cans about eighteen inches deep and
eight inches in diameter, and the
other in shallow tin pans or crocks,
writes C. S. Plumb, of the Indiana
Experiment Station. In the less pro
gressive dairy regions the latter is the
most common form, and to the writer
the most objectionable. The large,
shallow vessels expose a great surface
of milk or cream to the air, ollering >
good field lor catching dust or absorb
ing odors. Milk rapidly absorbs
odors, which fact sometimes accounts
for the disagreeable taste of milk that
has stood in tho barn for a few min
utes after milking, subject to tho
smell, etc. In view of this fact per
sons who set their milk in musty
cellars, or in pautries having a smell of
provisions, usually produce butter of
poor grade. The large-mouthed pan
offers tho largest surface of milk to
catch these smells. Another objection
to this form of pan is the influence of
change of air-temperature on the milk.
After being drawn from tho cow, if it
be set, milk should be rapidly reduced
in temperature to as near forty de
grees as possible, and the temperature
kept as constant as possible thereafter.
If set on shelves, however, in cellar or
pantry, or even in milk room, the
temperature of the milk will be sub
ject to wide changes. On extremely
cold days in winter it will bo very
likely to freeze, aud frozen cream
never ought to bo used for making
butter that is to be sold, as it is in
ferior in quality. In very hot weather
it is almost impossible to prevent milk
so set from souring before the cream
is fully risen, so that thereby a loss
ensues. Should the milk sour to kip
pering, then it is impossible to skim
the' cream from the surface without
gathering in some curds, more or less
of which are frequently left in the
churn nmoDg the imtter, from which
they cannot be entirely separated, thus
injuring the quality.
The deep can offers a better oppor
tunity for keeping the milk under con
ditions favorable to maintaining its
good quality until skimmed. The can
may be set in cold spriug water, where
available, and the temperature of the
milk kept quite constant. Or the can
may be placed in a creamer in cold
well water or in ice water, and so sot
in a cold bath, as it were at a low tem
perature, with the milk exposed to no
undesirable atmospheric odors. The
surface of milk exposed in such a can,
is comparatively small, as compared
with the larger pans, and there is a
thicker layor of cream in consequence.
Usually the cream is skimmed from
the pans by means of a common hand
skimmer or a lame flat scoop, while
the commonest form of deep can is
creamed with a conical skimmer or
dipper. Many deep cans, however,
have faucets or valves in tho side at
the bottom, or in the bottom, through
which the skim milk is drawn off leav
ing the cream in the can. This is a
better way of skimming than by re
moving from the top with a skimmer,
as the cream is left undistmbed in the
can, aud not mixed more or less with
the milk below, during tho process of
skimming. There is always some loss
of cream in skimming by any hand
process, but more by tho old fashioned
surface ’ methods than by the more
modern withdrawing of the skim milk
from below without disturbing tho
operation. At the Indiana Experi
ment Station very careful experiments
were conducted comparing the skim
ming from ihe surface of cans, and
drawing off the milk from below. Dur
ing fifteen days in February, the aver
age loss from surface skimming was
0.3d per cent., while that skimmed
from below showed a loss of but 0.17
per cent. This makes a very impor
tant difference, where one is setting
largo quantities of milk. milk
As has already been indicated,
should be set in some place where
smells are reduced to a minimum, and
where the temperature is constant and
low. For this reason a creamer or
Cabl , • ° et . , to * 3ettlDg ... “ llk ... m . J3 . de , '
sirablc, where a good spring house is
lacking. In fact, if a constant cur
rent of cold spring water could be con
veyed through a creamer, the milk
would be set under better conditions
than where simply placed in open
spring water. As a rule it would be
better protected from external agen
cies that might otherwise injure it.
Although much butter of pansand a fine
quality is made of milk set in
cans, the writer feels that if oue is
making a specialty of fine dairy but
ter, it will be bettor and more profit
able, where six or more cows are kept,
to use a hand separator.
Lazy Multan.
The extreme of luxury has perhaps
been reached by the Sultan of MoroC*
co. He has a narrow gauge railway
running through all the rooms of his
palace, and travels about on' a sort of
sleigh propelled by a little motor.
The “line” ends at his bedroom.—
Chicago Inter-Ocean.
