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prma ♦ 6 « fl gf is aft liniulcftife. J C. HEARTSELL, Ed. and Pub. VOL XII. MY CHOICE. BY JEiTIE FCKBUSH-nANAFOBD. No baby in the house l How sad the words sound 1 Not a chair out of place, Or a toy lying round. Not a spot on the carpet, So scrupulously neat, No clear. ringing laughter, Or patter of feet. Could I be happy, And live in that house, With things in such order, As still as a mouse? No! Give me my children, With all of their noise— My My darlings, my treasures, two little boys l Chicago, Ill CAM SIDLE!. A Romance of the Civil War. BY MAJ. JAMES F. FITTS. CHAPTER VII—Continued. Before mid-day, forty-seven men were assembled outside the cabin. The story of the new Captain had been carried about with the news of the expected raid, so that when Smedley came out with his sword buckled on. accompanied by Bran¬ don, he was received with attention and respect. There were no cheers, no noisy welcomes; they saw in his face that he was both courageous and earnest, and they gave him the approval of silence. Without preliminaries, he formed them into a company, opened ranks, and in¬ spected arms. The wholo together made a queer lot; but he was glad to find that there was ammunition enough, not a fire¬ arm but was capable of some service, and that the rifles outnumbered the shot¬ guns. off by fours Closing and the ranks, he then counted instructed them in the facings. Some difficulty was caused 1>y the great space occupied by Ithuriel Mau- ey; which the Captain observing, and correctly “sizing-up” this recruit, he transferred him to the left, whore he made a file by himself. The Captain had no time- to devote to the “manual.’' He commanded “atten¬ tion" and spoke a few words. “You know why you are here; you know what is before you. I know something of what kind of men you are; I believe you will not flinch. I am no braver, no better than you; I atn to command you because you think I can direct j ou how to Bght. I believe I can. I ani willing to try. You, for your part, must obey mi' orders. You will tight better ,’f■ i* fttd with Fetter hope of success’. Now we understand each other, and we will march to our position.” A murmur of approval ian along the ranks. The leader was instantly recog¬ nized. The men who had thirsted for Ins blood a few hours before "were now ready to peril life at bis command. “Those arc the sentiments!” a squeaky voice at the left uttered. “Lotus march upon the insolent invader, and assert our constitutional rights, secure tho blood- bought neck-deep heritage that onr fathers waded in the gore of Hessian merce¬ naries to obtain for us, their future an¬ cestors, and-” “Silence!” thundered Captain Smedley. ‘Right—face! Forward—march!” CHAPTER VIII. A NEW THERMOPYLAE. The topography of the Little Blue Pass and its vicinity wo have heard described in a few expressive words by Captain these Smedley. heights Daylight when still prevailed among and the mountaineers their leader marched down the road to this point, climbed the detached rocks that had during centime-; past been fall¬ ing from above, and then tediously scaled the steep face of the thirty-foot rampart, holding on by bushes and vines, and at last gained the summit. issued. Captain Smedley’s orders were quickly leave “Rest yourselves,” he said, “but do not this place without permission. Hankins, go down to the bend of the road and watch for the approach of the enemy. You can see them a mile off ns they come when up. Come back and report at once The they appear.” man obeyed. He was but juBt out of sight when another man appeared com¬ ing up the road, followed by a woman and several childr en. Each carried some article of household furniture or bedding, and a cow was driven at the head of the procession. “It’s Baird," said one of the men. “He’s ooming in with his folks and things they ean bring melancholy along.” As the party passed below the rocks, the Captain leaned over and hailed them. “I’m sorry I can’t send the men down and get everything here and be away ready; for yon. don’t We must stay I dare let the men go.” “All right, Captain. I’m taking them back here half-a-mile, and then I’ll join you.” “I’m too," said Ban. coming, exclaimed “No, no!” the mother. "You’re only fourteen; you’re not old enough for such dreadful work.” “I can load and shoot the gun just as good as father,” the boy sturdily re¬ plied. “It Ban,” tho won’t do, said father. “You’ve got to go long with your mother and the children, and take care of ’em till the fight’s over.” The Captain and Graham Brandon leaned over the natural rampart. As far as they could hear the voices of the fam¬ ily, the hoy protested that it was not fair to* send him away when there was a fight coming on. revelation each “Some comes to me day of the unconquerable remarked. spirit “No of this peo- ple," Smedley bolder, more independent followers souls than animated dwell William Tell and his among these fastnesses. I have learned much ■ince I left the Mississippi and its low- lying lands. The mountain regions are the strongholds of the Union. The cause could survive here if crushed everywhere else.” “True; and you have only begun prepared to learn what these simple people ” are to suffer for that cause. • Wallace Baird presently returned and SPRING PLACE, MURRAY COUNTY, GA. JUNE 2 1892 , . climbed the height: His comrades created ! ; him, but ho drew aside by himself, moody and silent, and carefully examined hie i gun. The men lay at ease, most of them look¬ ing intently down the road, silent and pre¬ pared. Only the thin voice of Ithuriel Mancy broke the silence. “We are perfectly safe here,” he re¬ marked. “O, no,” returned one of the men, will¬ ing to exeite his fears. "Bullets search big out that people anywhere. Besides, you are so none of these rocks will entirely cover you." “Bear, dear—is that so? Perhaps the enemy w< n't advance to-nieht." “Yes, they will. A scout came in a while ago with the report that there were fifteen thousand of them.” Haney was speechless. His great bulk trembled and his fat cheeks hung livid. Hankins was now seen coming in. He tlimbed up and reported that the cavalry were in sight. “A good lot of ’em,” he added. The sun was but now set; there would still be almost au hour's strong twilight, save where the shadows fell. Quietly the Captain the ranged his men along the edge of self rampart, much bidding each one shelter him¬ as as possible. “Whatever happens,” ho said, “let no man fire a shot till I give the word. Then let each tire, and load and fire again as fast ns ho can. But be cool—aim well, and don’t throw away your bullets." Silence again, and suspense, Soon, faint in the distance, but sounding nearer and nearer, the thnmp of hoofs on the hard road was heard. Brandon was strangely excited. Ha turned to the Captain, who lay with his eyes fixed upon the bend of the highway. "Captain Smedley.” he said, “would you »ws??“ object to a flag of truce, to warn them The Captain looked surprised. His lips slightly curled. "Of what use would it be? They are not coming up here for child’s play. “It might be of use.” “i thought you were eager to fight.” “For God's sake, Captain, don’t misun¬ derstand me. If there must be bloodshed here, you'll have no reason to complain of me. But I suppose that in the hostile column we bear coming up there are old acquaintances, I thought J had not realized to say friends, of mine. in its whole length the and breadth what this war means; but truth never came home to mo as at this moment. Is it not worth the ef¬ fort, to save the blood of men I have once taken by the hand?” “Yon may try,” replied the Captain. “Go down with your flag as soon ns they come in sight. ’’ The tramping grow loud and near. By fours the head of the column came round the bend. Graham Brandon, with his white handkerchief tied to a ramrod, clambered over the idge and descended almost to the road. Forty horsemen had now “Halt!” appeared Brandon in view. shouted, his •“’*’•»<~ n " leading filer, pulled waving there r brief conference, then up; was a and a man in the Confederate uniform, with tho wreathed collar and insignia of a field officer, rode forward to within twenty feet of the flag-hearer. Captain Smedley, looking word down upon them, heard every of the colloquy that followed. “Brandon—is that you?" “Yes, Webber, and I’m sorry to see you here.” low! "I reciprocate the sentiment, old fel¬ So it is true, as the report went around Knoxville two days ago, that you’ve come fled out a traitor to tho Confed¬ eracy, and to these mountains to hide?” “We’ve no time for epithets, Jack. I am with my friends, who are the friends of the Union. They aro near by and well armed. Look up there!” The Colonel followed Brandon’s out¬ stretched finger with his oyo anil saw the ledge above lined with heads peering over. “Wo are in a position whore it will bo folly to further attack us. If yon try ive to lead your men on this road, shall fire on you. Be warned and go back. I came down hero to make an effort to save you. Heed my advice and go back.” The Colonel laughed. “Brandon, you’re a fool! I’ve got men enough behind me to swallow you all up alive. I)o you suppose those boors up there are going to stand a charge? Are you in command?” “No." “Who is?” Brandon hesitated au instant, but saw no reason for withholding the truth. “Where “Captain Smedley.” is he from?" “The “Mississippi.” devil! who served with What—Charley Smedley, the volunteers from that State in Mexico?” “Tlie same.” Colonel Webber gave a loud whistle. “This is more serious than I expected. Does he know that I’ve got five hundred men with me?” “Yes; I told him of it.” The Colonel’s tone became more angry. “You’ll see the day you’ll repent of this work, Brandon.” “I think not,” “I’d advise you not to show yourself in Knoxville in a hurry.” “I’m coming back there with the Union army.” Colonel Webber swore a very savage oath. “ We might as well stop this parley, ” he said. “I’ve got the men to clear this road, aud I’m going to do it. Look out for yourselves! I can’t answer for my men when you surrender, if there’s blood shed first.” “Your blood be upon your own heads,” replied Brandon, aB he clambered back to his comrades; and the other wheeled and galloped to the head of the column. Three minutes passed. There was a stir and movement; full an hundred dis¬ mounted men filled the road, scattering like skirmishers as they came, firing their muskets and shouting. The balls whis¬ tled overhead, or glanced against the rocks. Foremost was a slender young officer, wav¬ ing his sword and calling to his men to come on. They were among the rocks at the foot of the ascent when Captain Smed- leygave lar volley the hurst command to fire. An irregu¬ forth all along the natural parapet. Full a dozen dropped dead, as many more fell severely wound¬ ed; others went to the rear with slight wounds. The twilight air was hideously vocal with shouts, yells, and groans. The whole attacking party, save the young officer, fell back iu confusion. “Come .on!” the leader shouted. “ TELL THE TRUTH.” “Charge again. Give them before steel?” they can load them the He was climbing the ascent, with twenty of his men trying to follow, drag¬ ging their muskets after them, when a bullet struck him fair in the breast and tumbled him backward. A scattering fire of ball and buckshot struck down every man who tried to gain that ascent The assailants were brave, but flesh and blood could not stand against this hope¬ less slaughter. The survivors broke and fled. Wallace Baird jumped up in full view, waved his hat, and cheered. A simgle shot was heard from below; the mount, aineer fell dead among his comrades. could They fired down tho road ns fast as they load their guns, expecting another charge. “Cease ed. “Save firing!” tho Captain command¬ your ammunition.” Another horseman now rode forward with a white flag. “Colonel Webber wants a suspension of hostilities for half an hour, to remove his wounded,” he called out. Captain Smedley stood up and an- s we red: “I want those poor fellows cared for," lie said; “but if there is any truce it must be till an hour after sunrise.” “Yes,” said the officer. “I am author¬ ized to consent to that.” A largo party came up to romove th« wounded. The mountaineers, incensed by the fall of Baird, and several slight wounds received, would not, as the Cap¬ tain requested them to do, go below and render assistance. Some of them began to gibe and taunt their enemies; but this was It instantly stopped by Smedley. fitod was quite dark when the disconf- cavalry withdrew. As the relief- and party retired, leaving the dead behind carrying called off tho wounded, one of the party “I abovo out: say, there! The Major is hurt too bad to move. He won’t last long. Will you make him as comfortable as you can?” fulness “Yes,”replied Brandon. The thought- of one of the men had provided and some there pine knots; the east was cloudy, would he no certain moonlight. He lighted one of these, and with the Captain made his way down to the spot where the heroic hut unfortunate young officer lay in the last pangs of death. His breast was crimson with blood, his luce was ghastly pale, his breath was almost gone. With an exclamation of anguish, Bran¬ don was on his knees besido him. I he “Tommy, criod. Tommy—don’t you know me?” The dying youth opened his eyes and smiled. Feebly he pressed the other’s hand—and thus he diod. “Who is it?” the Captain asked. “Alice’s brother,” was tho choked re¬ ply. Brandon went off a little way by himself; he wanted try man to see or hear him then! Above this scene, by the light of another Baling piuc torch, the mountaineers girth- ered sadly about the body of their slain comrade. Few words wore spoken; their faces showed their heavy hearts. “Who’ll be the man to take this news to his wife and babes?” one asked. There was no answer. “Look there!” another cried, pointing off to tho southwest. Bright tongues of flame were ascending, disclosing volumes of smoke. They well knew what it meant; some of the stragglers and ma¬ rauders of tho column had fired poor Wallace Baird’s house and shed. 'J hey watched the night away, talking but little, wondering what (he morrow would Dnug. smedley and lvrnndon, covered by the same blanket, lay sleep¬ less half the night, revolving plans for the fulure. The Captain had taken the precaution to post pickets well down the road; but the truce was kept, the night passed, and the morning sun looked blandly dead. down alike upon the living and the A strong reconnoitering party was sont out. and returned in two hours with the intelligence that the raiders had disap¬ peared. “We shall hear of them elsewhere in these mountains,” said the Captain. The hostile dead—ah, now no longer hostile—were buried, and tho corpse of Baird was borne on the shoulders of two of his comrades to his widow and or¬ phans. It Let that scene be veiled. was just after tnese occurrences that Ithuriel Mancy, who had not been seen since tho firing began, was discovered furtively battle. returning to the scene of the His assumed appearance of lofty satisfaction exasperated the mountaineers, who were now in no mood for trifling. “Ah, good morning, comrades and gentlemen,” he began. “How we did whip them, to be sure! The dastardly invader could not stand before our col¬ lective and individual prowess. We rolled him back in sanguinary and disgraceful disorder, and-” “You cowardly whelp!” shouted wrath¬ ful Burt Hankins. “Stop your noise, or I’ll-” unkind “Now, really, Mr. Hankins!—it is in you to indulge in such person¬ alities. It pains me to hear such insin¬ uations. If I did exhibit some little the perturbation, it was quite natural, under circumstances. You must know that my sense of hearing is abnormally de¬ veloped, that and I had no reason to suppose all those guns were going off to¬ gether. It would have been kind, at least to caution me-” A shower of indignation and emphatic kicks fell upon Ithuriel’s inviting person. He took his departure in perfect good- humor, repeating, as far as ho could be heard, that he expected to see a great deal more of the war. Captain Smedley was right in his pre¬ diction that this raiding party would be heard of elsewhere in that region. Other strong detachments, both cavalry and in¬ fantry, the appeared;the mountains were over¬ run; scattered Unionists of the Clinch could not cope with the numbers sent against them. In that fall the whole of East Tennessee came under Confederate domination; the Union men with their familes sought safety in the recesses of the great Cumberland Range. Here Charles Smedley recruited au in¬ fantry battalion of four companies among the mountaineers, of wnich he became Lieutenant Colonel and Graham Brandon Major, Their first service in this organization was at the battle of Mill Spring, Kentucky, at the opening of the following year, w'liere they behaved gallantly. again. We may expect to meet them P ro BB CONTINUED.! A Song forH*r. Sing for her, mockingbird, Your warm breast heaving in the aunbright blossoms; Sing sweeter songs than we have ever heard, Until the wild heart of the world M stirred, And love wakes wondering in a thousand bosoms! Sing for her, lark of dawn, When on your breast the lofty light is gleam¬ ing! Sing sweet, and bear the message on and on— Higher and higher, til! the world is gone, And at God’s gates the melody is dreaming 1 Sing for her, whip-poor-will, Tour sweet voice ringing from the twilight covers, Where stars stream splendid over vale and hill; Sing sweet, until your melting notes shall thrill And throng the wide, awakened world with lovers! Sing, mockingbird! Sing, lark! Sing, whip-poor-will-—your songs in concert ringing; Sing in the dewy dawn—sing in the dark; But while ye make your sweetest music, hark I A sweeter song to her my soul is singing 1 ■ - [Frank L.Stanton,in Atlanta Constitution. Miss Vervain's Mistake. BY AMY RANDOLPH. Mavch iu the mountains! Freshets roaring down the ravines; great thickets of pines tossing their green crests to and fro in tho rush of the tempestuous wind; snow shining off on the plateaus, and pink clusters of trailing arbutus breaking into bloom in southern nooks and shollcred places wlioro last winter’s dead leaves had not yet drifted away. And Lucy Ver¬ vain, standing in her russet walking- dress on the porch of the little moun¬ tain inn, wondered if the famous Ber¬ nese Alps wore grander than these same Catskill heights. Lucy Vervain was small and slight and brown-skinned, but slie had large, - 1 . ietful oyos of so dark a hazel that they seemed to melt into black around the iris, and there wore quick roses ready to deopen in her cheeks if any ono spoke to her. She was pretty, in her way, like a wild-flower, or a little brown-winged bird, and she looked around with a troubled air, as tlie sound of an excited femiuiiio voice floated out from ilie one unpretentious little “best parlor” of tho inn. “It's outrageous 1” said Miss Clara Vervain. “I’m very sorry, ma’am,” said Mr. Mixit, who kept the house. “Unendurable!” declared Miss Ver- vain. “It docs happen, sometimes, ma’am, when the streams is high, at the spring of the year,” the landlord pleaded. “You see, there ain’t no bridge that will stand the freshets, if—” “And we have got to stay here, in this horrid hole of a place, until your tumble-down bridge is mended?” “I don’t see any other way for you, ma’am,” said Mr. Mixit, meekly, “It’s the most provoking thing I ever knew in my life,” said Miss Vervain. She stalked about tho room like a second L#dy Macbeth, as she spoke. For Clara was as unlike her blushing, shrinking littie sister as the fall poppy is to the humble corn-flower. She was handsome and stately, and wove long trains to her dresses and bangles on her wrists, and used perfume on her handkerchiefs and “did” her hair afier the latest fashion-plates. “It ain’t my fault, ma’am,” said the landlord, driven to the very con¬ fines of despair. “I can’t stop the freshet, nor yet I can’t build a new bridge.” “Clara, dear, don’t allow yourself to be so annoyed,” soothed Luev, corning like a noiseless little gray shadow into the room. “We shall only be detained a day, after all, and I am sure it is very pleasant here.” “I am not accustomed to delays,” said Mies Vervain, loftily. “I know, dear, but—” “And if I am compelled to remain in such a place as this,” added Clara, glancing superciliously around her, “I must really insist upon privacy,” “Eh?” said Mr. Mixit. “That old person in the snufl-colored ooat,” said Miss Vervain, with a royal motion of liar head toward an old gentleman in a wig and spectacles who was reading the paper by a dis- $1.00 a Year in Advance. tant window, “I dare say he will do ▼erv well in your kitchen or barroom, and I prefer this apartment to my¬ self.” “Oh, Claral” pleaded Lucy, crim¬ soning to the very roots of her hair. The landlord looked puzzled, but tho old mau himself folded his newspaper, returned his spectacles to their ease, and rose slowly to his feet. “Certainly, miss,” said he; “cer¬ tainly. If I’m intruding, I’ll go to the kitchen. There’s always room for me there. Eh, Mixit?” And he trudged with alacrity out of the room, followed by mine host. “I’m afraid you’ve hqrt his feelings, Clara,” said Lucy, piteously. “Who cares for his feelings?” said Miss Vervain, sniffing at her scent bottles. “Mine are much more to the purpose. And I don’t choose to asso¬ ciate with everv farmer in the Cats¬ kills.” “Clara, dear I” “Weil?” “We are only a bookkeeper’s daugh¬ ters ourselves.” “As if that signified,” said Miss Ver¬ vain, scornfully. “We are going to our aristocratic ralations, aren’t we ?” “But perhaps they Won’t care to keep us.” “That is neither here nor there,” said Miss Vervain, “but you never had any proper pride, Lucy.” Little Lucy Vervain was still pon- doring, with a puzzled brow over the distinction between proper pride and pride that was not proper, when the landlord’s wife, a buxom dame in madder-red calico and a frilled white apron, came to summon tho guests to dinner. “We’ve only a roast fowl, witli tire ad sauce and a little cranberry jelly,” said Mrs. Mixit; “but it ain’t often as folks stop here over a meal, and I hope, ladies, as you’ll kindly pardon any shortcomings.” But Miss Vervain stopped short on 1 the very threshold of the dining room, “I should prefer a table to myself,” said she, haughtily. “Ma’am I” said Mrs. Mixit. “Dear Clara,” pleaded Lucy, in an agony of distress, as she saw the red flush rise to tho forehead of tlie old man in a snuff-colored suit, who sat at the head of the well-spread board. “I prefer dining with my sister, only,” insisted Aliss Vervain, delight¬ ed with an opportunity of asserting her exclusiveness. “Really, I cannot imagine how people can obtrude them¬ selves in this sort of way.” The old man rose quietly. “Do I understand, young woman,’’ said he, “that you object to me!” “Yes, sir, I do object to you—if you compel me to put it in that \yay,” said Miss Vervain. “Indeeil!” The old man lifted his grizzled brows. “I may not be one of your fashionable fops— ” “That is easily to be seen,” con¬ temptuously interpolated the young lady. “But I am clean and decent,” added the stranger. “However, I dare say Mrs. Mixit can accommodate ine with a plate and knife and fork in another room, if my presence is really ob¬ noxious to these young women.” “Y'outig ladies, sir, if you please,’’ said Miss Vervain, with a toss of her He smiled a shrewd, sagacious smile. “As to that,” said he, “opinions may perhaps differ.” And he followed Mrs. Mixit into the kitchen. Clara Vervain took her seat com¬ placently at the table. “These people will begin after awhile to comprehend the difference between a lady and a shop-girl,” said she. “It is quite evident that they are not favored witli many travelers.” Half an hour afterward, as the old man in the snuff-colored suit was step¬ ping into his plain, little carriage, a soft hand touched his sleeve, and turning, ho found himself looking into Lucy Vervain’s troubled brown eyes. “Well, my dear,” said he, kindly, “what is it?” “I—I only wanted to beg your ^ pardon, sir,” faltered the little bru¬ nette. “I am sure my sister did not mean to hurt your feelings, aud—” “1 am sure, at all events, that you did not,” said the old man, kindly. “And I dare say that your sister will be wiser one of the=« day*!” NO. 13. And thus spsakhig, he nodded goods bumoredly, and drove away. It was nearly dark, howover, before tlie clnmbsy carryall which was to con. vey the two New York ladies to their destination arrived, and they entered it. “To Cliff I-Iall,” said Miss Vervain, haughtily, as she leaned back in tho seat, and settled her skirts languidly around her. ‘‘Cliff Hall!” said Mr. Mixit staring. “You don’t mean as you’re going to Cliff Hall?” echoed Mrs. Mixit. “I think we have considerably as¬ tonished these good people,” said Miss Vervain, with a smile, as they rattled away from the door, “I only hope our Uncle Cliff will receive us kindly,” sighed poor Lucy. Cliff Hall was a substantial old man¬ sion built of gray stone, with a suc- cession of terraces falling down the mountain’s side, and exquisite groups of statuary half-hidden in the forest trees; and the lights were already be¬ ginning to gleam hospitably along its front as they drove up. Au old man¬ servant opened the outside door just far enough to reveal the cheery glow of a wood fire, and the deep tints-of a crimson Axminster carpet within. “Is my Uncle Cliff at home?” said Miss Vervain, with au air and 4 grace. “Mr. Clift’ is—ay, mem,” answered the servant, with a strong Scotch ac¬ cent. “Tell him his nieces from New York are bore—the Misses Vervain,” said CJara, as sho swept into the ante¬ chamber. As slie entered, an old mau dressed in snuff-brown rose from before the blazing logs. “My nieces from New York, eh?” said Caleb Cliff. “They are wel¬ come.” And to Miss Vervain’s surprise and dismay, she found herself faoe to face with the old man of t side inn. “You are astonished?” said he, slightly arching his brows. “So am 1. It is not always best to judge by ap¬ pearances. Sit down. Sanders,” to the servant, “let dinuer be served.” Miss Clara Vervain left Cliff Hall the next day, with all her bright an- ticipations shattered to the dust. But little brown-faced Lucy stayed to keep house for her uncle. “She’s too genteel for us, isn’t she?” chuckled old Caieb Cliff as the cariage drove away which was to carry Miss Vervaiu to the New York station. Clara went back to her teaching, and if tho bitter tears of repentant mortification can wash out the past that day in the Catskills would have been erased long ago. “If I had only known who be was,” said Miss Vervain. Alas! this world is full of .“ifsl”—> [The Ledger. The Butch Stove. I am a convert to the German sys¬ tem of house heating. The “Dutch stove” has been regarded as an ex¬ pression so contemptous as to be de- risive. It is an institution possessing the largest merits. The usual stove in Berlin is a tower of porcelain, bound in brass, extending nearly to the ceiling, and an article of furniture pleasant to look upon. Stoves are ar¬ tistic and not fantastic, They get the most out of fuel, and aro clean. Within a few inches of the floor is a thin brass door, not larger than a sheet of foolscap paper. It has a light latch, and, open, discloses a solid iron door of the same size, and on a button hangs the key to a aorew. Apply the key aud open the door, and within is a third door with air-holes. Open that and there is a chamber foi fuel. V The Germans liavo kindling in small lumps, that make a fire a sure thing, and little black bricks of com¬ pressed slack, stuck together with a tarry paste. Start the fire and close tlie inner door, and when the bricks are glowmg shut the second door, screw it up tight, swinging the outer door into its place, and you need no more Are for twenty-four hours. The porcelain tower becomes warm, but not blistering hot, and diffuses warmth that is wholesome and com* fortable. It is magical that so much heat can be evolved from so little fuel, and that the process should ha one of absolute cleanliness.