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THE WE8T WIND.
Blow, freely 'jlow
Over the snow, O wind ;
Ab merrliy blow o’er the hills o1 snow
As If never a man had sinned.
As If never a woman had wept,
Or a delicate child grown pale.
Or a maiden’s warm tears crept
To hallow a faithless tale.
Blow, stoutly blow,
Strong in thy heathen Joy;
Sorrow thou surely caust not know,
For thine Is the heart ol a boy—
For thine Is the freedom and strength
Or a rover careless and gay,
Over the lair land’s length,
Joylully wandering away.
Blow, bravely blow
Out of the fields of air,
Till we see thy garments' slry flow
And the gleam ol thy flying hair—
Till t he light ol thy broad bright wing
And thy glad eyes set us Iree,
And we feel In our hearts the spring
Ol a ]oi that was wont to be.
An Autobiography.
Tomorrow I am going to be married,
I who have been 3et down an old maid
for an Indt finite number of years.
This expected evrnt creates quite a
commotion i a our hitherto quiet house
hold. My mother says : “What can I
do without you?” And my dear
father, whose dark hair begins to be
sprinkled with silver, says mournfully,
“I cannot spare my Caroline,” though
I think he is secretly pleased that his
pet ‘C*ro’ is to have such a noble hus
band after all. My rouglsh brother
Tom goes about the house sinking:
There Is no goose so gra n , but soon or late.
She’ll find some honest gander for a mate.
And I— all this seems strange to me.
I caunot realize it that the bridal dress
of snowy satin, with the gossamer veil
and wreath of orange blossoms, cati oe
for plain Caroline Hudson. But the
strangest of all is, that I am to marry
John Grant—John Grant, whom I
learned to love years ago, but all
thoughts of whom I strove to put far
from me.
It is six years now since that morn
ing in early Bummer, when we walked
together through the green wood, the
leaves stirred by a gentle wind, and
the birds singing their morning songs.
We were a little apart from tne rest of
our party, and when we had gathered
our hands full of wild flowers that
were scattered in profusion at our feet,
we sat down upon a felled oak to wait
for them. I was happy on that June
morning, as I sat on that old tree by
the side of John Grant, while he
wreathed the buds and blossoms and
the green leaves of the trailing con
volvulus in the braids of my brown
hair.
We did not talk much that morning,
and we had sat in silence several mo
ments, when John said:
“Caroline I want to tell you some
thing.”
It was not the words that made my
heart beat so and the hot blood to rush
to my cheeks and forehead, for we had
know£ each other a long time and he
had often made a confidante of me—
but it was the low tone full of new and
strange tenderness that thrilled my
whole being. I do not know, but per
haps my voice trembled a little, as I
■aid:
“Well, what is it, John ?”
“Carrie dear,” but the sentence was
not finished—ju9t then the rest of the
party made their appearance, %nd
effectually put an end to all conflden
tial conversation.
The next day John Grant left Tun
bridge on business, whlbh required his
presence for stveral weeks. I did not
see him for some time after his return,
and when he called at last, there was
a something undeflnable in his man
ner, but yet a change, a restraint,
which told me that those words once
on the lips would not be spoken.
Months came and went, and again
he left home ostensibly for business,
but It was rumored that a beautiful
young girl at Ferny Coombes, whose
acquaintance he had made, was the
real cause of his frequent visits to
Devonshire.
In a little while It was said, and
upon good authority, that John Grant
was engaged to be married to Mary
Keating; and it was also said that she
was very young and beautiful. Never
till then, was the seoret of my own
heart revealed to me; but then I knew
how I had loved him—how all hope,
all Joy, all earthly happiness was cen
tered in him—even now I shudder
when I think of that time, when life
seemed such a heavy burden, and I
longed for a time to lay it down in the
grave, but I could not; a tLorny path
opened before me, and I was to walk
Into it.
*******
John Grant returned to Tunbridge
soon after his engagement, and in a
few weeks Mary Keating came to'.
Elmwood, on a visit to his sister.
Boon after her arrival I was invited # to
a party to be given during her stay.
I dreaded to go, and yet I could not
stay away; how plain I looked as I
stood before my dressing glass that
night, in a plain silk with a few scar
let verbena* in my hail! Did I wear
them because he had said once they
contrasted well with my daik hail ?
I was early, and of all the girls in the
room Mary Keating was the mopt
lovely. I do not wonder he loved you,
Mary; you were beautiful, as you
came floating into the room, in a dress
of light muslin, your golden curls
falling over your sweet childish face,
and your blue eyes running over with
happiness, and he—but I dared not
look at him long, for I was not very
strong.
In the course of the evening I was in
troduced to her; and strange as it was,
from that moment she Seemed to cling
to me. She was a child in artlessness,
and soon began talking of “John,”
asking if I Knew him, etc.
“How strange he never mentioned
you—he told me of wo many of hia
friends. ‘John—John,’ ” she called, as
he passed us, “why didn’tyou tell me
about Miss Hudson ?—you spoke of so
many others.”
Our eyes met for an instant, and
then I said, pitying his embarrass
ment
“He has so many frieuds it isn’t at
all singular that he should have for
gotten one.”
But t knew then, as I do now, that
he had not forgotten rue.
Just then, looking up, I saw in a
mirror opposite the reflection of our
little group, and—John Grant! When
I saw the contrast between Maty
Keating and myself, l forgave him,
if I did not before. Not that I was so
very plain—I do not think I was—but
she was so beautiful, so cod tiding and
loving, no one could help being
charmed with her; and I could not
blame him, for he had always been a
great admirer of the beautiful.
Mary Keating came to see me fre
quently while she stayed at his sis
ter’s ; sometimes, not often, accompa
nied by John. It was an autumn af
ternoon, full of clouds and sunshine,
when she came to make her farewtll
call. He was with her, watching her
every movement with loving pride,
and yet it seemed to me that he re
garded her somewhat as a beautiful
plaything, winding her yellow curls
around his fingers and calling her pet
names. We went out into the garden
to gather some flowers, and as sh j
ran about, laughin r, talking and pick
ing flowers and wreathing them in
her hair she seemed a lovely and be
witching caild, John had gradually
lost his constrained and embarrassed
manner when with me, and < xcepling
that we never approached personali
ties in our conversation, our inter
course was getting to be something as
it once was.
Our tastes in many things were sim
ilar. We had read and admired the
same authors and upon most of the
important subjects connected with hu
man life, our thoughts were --lil^e.
We w<-re speaking of some work we
had lately read, and were quite inter
ested in discussing its merits, when
Mary suddenly checked her happy
pL y, and with a grave face walked
silently to John’s side. At last she
said:
“You never talk that way to me,
John, but it’s because I don’t know
enough.”
“You know enough for me, dear.”
he answered ; but she went on :
“I shall be but a ‘child wife.’ Caio-
line would suit you much better.”
“Allowing you to be judge.” I said,
laughingly, for I saw John could not
answer readily. We said no more on
the subject, but I think John asked
himself more than once that day :
“Is Mary right?”
When Mary bade me good bye, that
afternoon,, she wound her white arms
around my ntek and kissed me, say
ing, In her gentle voice: “Write to
me ofien, Caroline, and teach me to
p,e worthy of bio..” And the weut
out the gate, through the hop garoeu
leaning on his arm, the warm sun
light falling on her golden hair, mak
ing her look very beautiful.
Soon after this John Grant left Elm
wood, and took a farm ou his own
account In the west of England, ad
joining that of old Mr. Keating. I
seldom beard and never mentioned bis
name. Mary wrote Irequently to me
during the winter; her letters were
like beiself, graceful and oharmlng,
full of lov« and confidence. She spoke
much of John—how proud she was of
him, what letters he wrote, so muoh
better than hers, and wasn’t it strange
that he should love such a child as
she was! She went on writing In
this way for several months; but at
length there was a change in her man
ner of speaking of John ; it seemed as
though she were not quite as happy
as she had been ; she said she began to
be discouraged about ever knowing
any more, and binttd that John was
getting dissatisfied with her—gener
ally ending her letters with some an
ecdote about her favorite cat or canary.
It was not long after this, when she
began to speak of her cousin “Harry
Smith,” who was so agreeable, and yet
he didn’t know a bit more than she
did. A month or two after this, I
was not much surprised when she
wrote that her engagement with John
Grant was broken by mutual consent
—“They were not at all suited to each
other and no doubt would both be
happier,” she said, “for he knew so
much and she so little.”
S lie concluded with a long account
of her new black kitten Topsy, which
seemed then to be the one object
which engrossed all her attention.
*******
Two years passed, and I seldom
heard JohnGraub’s name mentioned,
and if [ thought of him at all, I be
lieved I had conquered my old attach
ment—my life flowed on quietly and
serenely. I tried to be useful to others
and in regular employment and recre
ation I was content. Was there a ca
pacity for higher happiness unemploy
ed ?—a craving in my woman’s nature
unsupplied ?
One year ago—how well I remem
ber the day!—I was sitting quietly
reading in the fading ligbtof an Ooto
her sky, when, hearing a rustle among
the leaves that lay thick upon the
gravel walk, I looked up and saw
John Grant approaching the house.
When he was last there, she was
with him, but he was alone now, and
my heart’s quick throbbing told me
of his errand.
Was 1 weak and wanting in self-re
spect, when after he had told me all-
told me that although he was fascinated
with a beautiiul aod loving child,
deep down in his heart had always
laid a love for me; though in the first
glow of his passion for Mary he was
hardly conscious of it. How he had
thought from the calm indifference of
my manner, that I had never cared
for him ; how since he had been again
free, he had been afraid to make
known his love, feeling that he had
acted dishonorably in the past.
Was I weak-minded and lacking in
womanly pride, when after he told me
this, and asked in trembling tones:
“Could I forget the past, and be his
o*vn Caroline ?”—all my old love came
back to me, and with more confidence
than I had felt for years before, I
laid my hands in his and said : “John
Grant, I will be yours?”
And so, as I have said before, to
morrow is fixed for my wedding day.
We do not give each other the wild,
unthinking passion of early youth,
but a deep and strong affection, puri
fied and made strong by the experi
ence of years—a love that we can ask
the blessing of Heaven upon; and
when my lips at the altar utter the
solemn words, “I, Caroline Hudson,
take thee, John Grant, to love, cheiish
and obey,” in my inmost soul they
wi.l be joylully repeated—“to love
cherish and to obey.”
John has sold his farm at Ferny
Coombes, and our new home is near
Ashford—the old house of Elmwood
was taken down to make room for
the railway. We neither of us ex
pect to pass over our path of life with
out meeting with occasional storms;
but we place our trust in Oue who is
both willing and able to assist those
who put their hand cheerfully to the
work, and with us it will be both a
work of trust and love.
Contradiction vs. Proof.
Few parents and terchers real’ze
thatoontradiction, without pro* for rear
soulug, will never convinoe. As soon
as a child begins to thluK, he begins,,
uuconsolously, to form opinions, and
to exercise the rights of private judg
ment, which are entitled to respeot
from all who reuie tiber the I ime when
the* “spake as a child, understood as
a child, thought as a child.” To con
tradict is not ouly useless, but almost
sure to confirm the convictions, by
"rou-lng (he natural combativenesss or
tenacity of opinion possessed by all In
greater or less degree. The true way
would be a kind leading of the
thought* whereby the child himself
might arrive at proper conclusions.
Agricultural,
Farm and Workshop Notes.
A Sanford, Maine, paper says a pair
of twin lambs owned by Hollis G.
Ham, at the exact age of two months
weighed 125 pounds.
The capital intended for the pur
chase of pure bred stocn for improve
ment should be invested in a single
first-class animal rather than in an urn
ber of inferior ones.
A pa l of miik standing ten minutes
where it is exposed to the sceut of a
strong smelling stable, or any other
offensive odor, % will imbibe a taint
that will never leave it.
The Texas Wool Grower <x presses
the opinion that a ram shearing thir
ty-five poundB in Veruyont would
probably shrink to twenty-five pounds
in Texas In three years.
Four hundred pounds of muriate of
potash, say 82 per cent, in strength,
and the same amount of superphos
phate, will equal fifteen tons of barn
yard manure for potatoes.
Prime English store lambs have
brought in recent sales in the United
Kingdom the good round price of
$11 25 per head. Sixty years ago tha
ruling price was $1.75 per head.
The polled Angus and Galloway
cattle are not the same as the former
come from the north of Scotland and
the latter from the south, and there is
much rivalry between the breeders of
the two breeds.
A farmer who writes to the National
Farmer says more and better sugar
can be made from watermelons thaD
from beets, and he claims to have
made sugar from them by boiling
down the juice and treating it as if it
were maple sap.
Over $8,000,000 worth of cotton seed
meal is imported into Great Britain
annually to feed cattle, and the Lon
don Agricultural Gazette styles it “the
very best food imported, and by its
use Eoglish grazers can compete with
the American.”
Large yields of potatoes depend on
the methods of cultivation. The rocky
soil of New Hampshire produces tour
times as much per acre as that of Mis
souri. The average for New Hamp
shire is 150 bushels per acre, while
Missouri averages only 38.
Orchard grass can be sown about the
first of September, and it grows well
on any soil that is not wet, but damp
ness is not Injurious to it. Two bushels
of seed are rtquired for an acre. It
springs up quickly in the sprit g, is
highly relished, and Is permanent if
properly treated.
A correspondent of the Germantown
Telegraph says that the main failure
in raising strawberries is in setting
poor plants. Old plants are good for
nothing; new plants from an old bed
are not worth setting. We should set
plants that are grown from those that
have never fruited.
After several experiments with oats
as to “thin and generous seeding,” a
gentleman in New York says he finds
the oats gr wn from thin seeding
more liable to rust, the straw le^s
valuable, and adds that the best crop
he ever grew was raised from three
and a half bushels of seed to the acre.
Spruce butter tubs are the best;
white hemlock makes a s.weet tub;
acids from the oak color the butter
and injure its appearance ; white ash
gives the butter a strong flavor if kept
long, and increases the liability to
mould ; maple smells and cracks bad
ly. Soak all tubs four to six days in
brine before using.
* *»»**VV|
the proportion of nitrogen and phe
phoric acid Increases in wheat fro
time of blossoming to maturity; bi
lime, on the contrary, decreases, at
does not seem to play a very impoi
ant part in the production of the gral
but along with potash serves chit fly
develop the straw.
Aack teeth in pigs do not produ<
disease, but are the symptoms ot i
This is an important distinctio
Dusty pens are likely to produ
thumps, and vermin Induoes mang
The pig wallows In the mire to cles
himself, and as he is cleaner in habi
than may be supposed, there is a n
cesslty for providing him clean qua
ters.
To prevent the torment inflicted l
the flies on horses, apply to the iatt
b efore harnessing, of a mixture of oi
part crude car hollo acid with six <
more parts of olive oil. This shou
be rubbed lightly all over the anim
with a rag and applied more thick!
to the interior of the ears and oth
parts most likely to be attaoke
Great care should be taken not to pi
on the carbolic acid too Btrong.
Feed Good Corn.
On the 8uh of February last I had
26 shoats, 19 months old, weight 6,
lbs. I bought two loads of corn—fl
class—paying (he same prios per
for each load; one load was
corn than the other. I fed the
grade first, 39 bushels in 10
making a gain of 300 lbs. I the
the better grade, 44 bushels in 12
making a gain of 485 lbs. Whu
wish to prove is that it pays to
the very best grade of corn. The
hogs made an average gain of but
lbs. per bushel from the poorer oo
and an average gain of 11 lbs. per bus
el from he best oorn. Bold 1st of Mar
at 7 cents.
To-day the gait of the trotter is aa
smooth and regular as the play of &
piston-rod ; as rhythmical as the most
harmonious symphonies of musinal
composition. Why is it so? Because
fashion dictated. Mr. Bonner bought
only such, and gentlemen of wealth
everywhere followed his example. As
soon as it became known that pure
trotting gait was the salable thing
trotters began to make rapid improve
ment in the quality of gait not only,
but in quautity as well. The modern
trotter is, therefore, a model trotter.
This was manifestly true of tlhe
horses that participated at Chicago
this year, and are now engaged in the
various circuits over the country. The
change is n it due to any particular
improvement in the trotting families
themselves so much as to the new
methods In use for their education.
There are few horses on the tuif now
adays that pull a tou by the bit a* was
customary at one time. To trot fast
the horse should not be hampered by
any more harness than is necessary
for bis complete safety. Indeed, we
look for the horse to trot be-t with no
more harness than bridle, reins, back-
strap, saddle, and girth at an early
day.
\
Improvement in the Gait of Trotting Hones.
The improvement in the quality of
of gait of the trotting horse within the
last few years is one of the marvels in
trotting. Ouly a few years ago the
jumping-jack kiud of trotter was com-
mon In the very best localities. In
deed, the skipjack gait was cultiva
ted, and thought to be indispensable
to fast speed in harness. The large
majority of trainers argued that ihe
horse must learn to break and oatoh
before he could be relied upon in A
race. For, said they, If he is not'a
good catci er, a break would put him
behind the flag. Therefore, the horse
must be sj oiled before he is good for
anything for a harness turf horse. A
break rested him, they said. “Give
him his head, let him jump a few rods
then set him down, and he can fairly
fly.” Buch were the erroneous teach
ings of former years.
Tonsorial Agony.
You can always tell a boy whose
mother outs his hair. Not because the
edge of it looks as if it had been
chawed off by an absent minded horse
or by mice, but you tell it by the way
he stops on the street and wiggles his
shoulders. When a fond mother has
to cut her boy’s hair, she is careful to
guard against any annoyance or muss
by la ying a s beet on the carpet. It has
never occurred to her to sit him over a
bare floor and put the sheet around his
neck. Then she draws the front hair
over his eyes and leaves it there while
she cuts that which is at the back; the
hair which lies over his eyes appears
to be surcharged with electric needles,
and that which is silently dropping
down under his shirt band appears to
be on fire. When the boy is under
going this ordeal she uncomoiously
continues to push his head until hia
nose presses hi* breast, and he is too
sound that is becoming alarming
frequent. In the meantime he
seized with an irresistible desire
blow bis nose, but remembers that 1
handkerchief Is in the other rooi
Then a fly lights on his nose, and dc
so so unexpectedly that he involu
tarlly dodges and catches the point
the shears on bis left ear. At tl
time he commences to cry and wish
was a man. Bhe merely hits him <
the other ear to inspire conflden ie, ai
goes to work. Then she holds t
jacket collar back from his neck ai
with her mouth blows the short bits
hair from the top of his head down 1
back, and tells him he’s all right. I
ot>lls her attention to the fact, but a!
looks aud asks him why he didn’t u
his handkerchief. Then ne takes l
awfully disfigured head to the mirr
aiict looks at it, and young as he
shudders as he thinks of what the bo
on the street will say when they s
it.