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SUNDAY MORNING.
; THE INITIATION
: OF FLORENCE.
! BY ROSE WILLIS JOHNSON.
yr KEEN wind blew from the
7 /A north, with dreary moaning
• through lea lions branches.
The yellow sunset had given
place to steely tints. Twilight wns at
hand, and Dotnley and his hoys turned
their log-teams homeward into the
new-cut road wttli satisfaction.
“I’m hungry enough to ent n mule,”
Tom remarked, avoiding a deep rnt.
**l’H be glad when the logs are In.
Wonder if dad gets tired? He never
lets on.”
Ben. slower .of speech and movement,
scarcely glanced'from his horse’* neck.
"Yes, he gels tired," he answered, pres
e!i-ie. ! iron."
*1 wii.ii iji i cared less for society
and more f-ir us hoys!" Tom grumbled.
"Dinner■ woe übominalilc! I guess she
don’t know bow Imcon and cold boiled
p.'tatoes taste—-from a dinner pail.
Sjflß’B selfish dear through. like all
girls. She thluks she's all right; may
be she is; but home Isn't. IPs not
V’hat it was when ma was hero."
His voice reached farther than l.e
knew. Domley, on the lender, tumed
awd gave a bnfckward, somber look.
Sudden silence fell, broken only by the
creaking a>f chains and rattle of
wheels. W lien they spoke again it was
about the morrow's work. Domley
did not encourage idle conversation.
Tom's grievance was, to him, n real
one. The religion of old days had been
tin religion of comfort. Th passing
of ifts meek disciple wro‘t_'ht inevitable
changes. There was mere lamplight
In the parlor now. n.ri* calling, more
meeting of benevolent societies. Those
things were nil right, but Tom resented
t*'e bacon ami cold potatoes.
Where the road touched the lane
a tlyiug figure evaded the lead team,
c the boys,
ivlnm.'iv tot lev their horses’ feet. It
was thirtcen-y* ir-ohl Florence, the
baby
she < vied, breathlessly, ‘‘do
id mo rbte, won’t you? Tcssle Birch,
P’wßa'Mmw house. They're In the parlor.
!!.*’*• in* Faster mafic. They are
sweet or lilies, ihe songs arc, I’m go
ing to the services Rum!ay, aren't you?
Can’t 1 ride. Hen?”
lien strung her easily.to a place be-’
hind hffti on the horse, and she clasßt-cl
him about tite waist, snuggling her
<-pW nose against his back, tr
til. v ' ■ ..’l'd wear .something on
"It's a
Tfavc they got
rjrlhi.;vg,ebdw'eat at homo?”
■ *'j>fackctWr disdainfully. “nice, po
■ ' biscuit ami coffee. Bread
scorched. Better hurry everything’s
-.acowstiin." "
.
f ingiujtfl’ Tom
kmirlwt "i say, lien, you’re your own
man after to-morrow. I'd light out.
I'd hunt up Uncle Bart. 1 don't intend
to work on "here when my time's up.
A fellow gets neither money nor
thunks."
••‘‘Ten ifpsh up!” Florence’ flashed. \
*'Ben isn't going to I; :■! out; he'x go
ing to stay with me! 1 guess things
nreu't burnt," anxiously. “Is It your
birthday to-morrow, lion?”
“I guess It Is." lie withdrew from
her embrace and slid hastily to the
ground. closing the big gale behind
his wagon. “Hun along to the hoiise
now, Babe. I have to feed the horsesT
It's too mortal cold for you to he out.”
“I’ll go with you,” she volunteered,
stoutly. “Let me—l’ll help. You
nron’t going to light out, Ben, are
you ?”
“Bother!” Ben roughly brushed her
Aside. “You’re the nwfullost kid when
you get a notion! Hun on to the house;
I mean what I say.”
When Hen used that tone Florence
ceased Importunities. She turned dls-
ConteutMxtpwnnl the lighted square
of the kitchen window, sin- wanted
to be With Ben. lie was h.w ;.mi nn
the taeUnrn, In Infancy it was his
Shoulder she " vod best. In dnj s of
mrastoa “4bi croup he was her savior.
.Mow, us. then, lie was the one heinc
altogether lovely, without spot or idem
!**** bin' )ii houses comfortable,
xfsnt to the home, which locked
luvii >•£ allot the biting outer air.
a blase on the hearth, and
the tabic was daintily spread. Ha
an d Florence took jios*
S.SeK'Sb'n’ of his liuce.
/*.’ going to have pre-terved
, yjMMi'e.*’ she whispered, encouragingly.
’Tit eat a lot if I were yoni"
' At the table her irrcprcsslbllty broke
ut afresh.
' “Do you know to morrow Is Ben's
birtlmay?” she demanded.
Mr. Domley paused a moment, fork
in hand. Rene smiled across at her
brother.
*’Twenty-one: ’ she exclaimed. “Ben
a voter! I’ll give a dinner in honor of
the event. Consider yourselves invit
ed. all of you!"
As Domley left the room that oren
, ing he turned gruffly to his elder son.
“We won’t work to morrow,” he said.
u Vai going to mill. You can knock
V-is k f..r
'• <f a grtf-loin- ohe. Baa fell .i-e com
liHßeft. “All right,” lie Raid. lu ah
' most his father’s wuy, tfLa -Pot
t sorry.”
' Tom was not so reticent. The prom
ise of a day’s rest and an old-tiuie din
ner wanned his blood.
■ “Help lit lie clean, tin,” he whispered
to Florence, ns he lighted his stub of
.- candle at the log. "I'm going to ask
g somo- fellows hfl*n< to dinner. Have
decent to eat.”
With the first light Florence shivered
into her clothes. It was Saturday and
Ben's birthday. There was much to
do which must be dune well.
So well was It clone that by 9 o’clock
the house reflected a wonderful luster.
Rene was at the mirror when Flor
ence came sidling lu.
“Flo," the elder sister called pleas
antly, “if you’ll do something for roe
I’ll give you a dime! There’s plenty
of bread and butter, milk and cheese,
and there are three pumpkin pies.
Father’ll be out late, and no telling
when the boys will get in. When they
come, set out their dinner, and you
shall have the dime.”
Blow dismay usurped 1 the hustling
eheerfnines of the child’s face. “Where
are you going?” she demanded.
"To the church. Tcssle and I ”
“But Ben?” Florence interrupted?
breathlessly.- “It’s Ben’s - birthday!
And you said——”
“O hush!” Rene gave her hair a
vicious twist, and jabbed In a hairpin.
“Ben won’t be la before night. I'll get
him a good diuuyr to-morrow; perhaps
I’ll invite the minister over. I have to
go to-day; I’m on the flower committee.
You'll do all right. If you are lone
soma have Ida Barton come over.”
“I don't want Ida Barton, and you're
100 mean to live!” Florence choked.
“You are! I’m not going to your old
church again—sen If I do! You told
Ben—
I’Now, that will do!" Rene inserted
Cos last pin, and took a critical survey
ot herself. “I'm not Ben's slave, nor
yours. You’H do what I soy. With
Royer here, there’s nothing to be afraid
of.”
“I’m afraid of nothing but mean
ness!’’ Florence stormed. But words
failed. She turned and fled, banging
tlte door in a way to make the toilet
ut’fP'K 9 jump In astonishment.
"Spitfire!” Ren commented, pinning
ou her hat. “She's dreadful! I ilou't
know what" Is to become of her! I
must hurry. I wonder if Mr. Margie
will be there to help ns?”
When the storm was over Florence
came back to the deserted kitchen.
It was nearly ten by the fat Dutch
epid; In the corner. The kettle s!m
very Invitingly, and an expect
,%t air pttvvudod Die place. Florence’s
face tritlfe Sfelook of determination.
'’Bi n is going to have Ids birthday
dinner, ’’ she announced to the clock.
“You needn’t lodic blank and Cross
your hand*. I‘nr going to cook It my
self!”
It was very cold. There was nothing
to save tile Raster promise from the
sword of the frost. Florence’s pets, the
barn-yard fowls, huddled together in
sunny .corners, looking frowsy and
wind blown. She went out among
■them, pan In hand, her ears tingling.
She was a Judas; she meant to betray.
They know no fear of her. She
picked up a young cochin, who merely
reached round In an effort to secure
the corn In her hand.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she whimpered,
feeding him. “I have to have you—for
Ben. It won’t hurt but a minute. I
know the nxe Is sharp—oh!"
She leaned against the fence, white
and sick, and the chicken flopped.
When all was still, she ventured to
peep. The deed was done. Shudder
ing violently, she snatched up her
victim and fled, leaving his heartless
brethren fighting over the pau.
One unconsciously Imbibes informa
tion, How to remove the feathers did
not trouble her now that she had
solved the problem of his head. She
rose with the strength of conviction—
she knew she could cook!
How nice it must bo to be Rene—
to have passed beyond dish-washlug!
It occurred to c hej? to be llene, and she
donned a discarded wrapper and uped
her sister’s ways. Her enthusiasm
grejir. Phe prepared Vegetables and
watched the pot, from which rich
odors began to rise. Then she'turned
her attention to the fruit-wßar. IfPg
lteue was very particular about her
fruit. It was there “for show" Tom
asserted, in spoonful moments. There
were vandal hands upon It now. Two
of the choicest jars and a mold of jelly
went to do honor to Ben’s majority.
Ben, meanwhile, was walking soberly
homeward. His heart was heavy with
the discouragement which falls easily
upon the young. llow many times had
he plowed these fields? How many
times gathered the harvests—for oth
ers? ,
. Tom had given voice to n thought
long dormant in his mind. Why linger
In the rut, why go on as father and
grandfather had done before him?
There was vouth’s natural longing
for change, coupled with silent, soar
ing ambition’. Who knew to what
heights he might not climb? There
were none to care for him here, none
save little Florence.
“O mother!" he whispered with a
sudden sob. “Mother!**
Behind him a merry "Hallo!” from
lusty lungs made him turn quickly.
Tom trod three of his young friends
were coining up from town. One of
theru was the young minister upon
whom—Tom assorted.—Bene was cast
ing gentle glances. _
“Walt, Ben!” Tour edSVd. “Going
homo? So are'we. The boys ami Mr.
Margie are here to do justice to Iteuo’s
cooking. .FJy up, and let’s hear you
craw!’’
Ben colored under the tan of past
summers ns he awkwardly greeted his
frieuds. A sinking of the heart told
him how little reliance he placed upon
upon his sister's promise. What if un
tidy hearth and empty cupboard
awaited them? •
He was sullenly angry at Tom’s
rashness. The moment gave him a
flash of self-revelation. He was sensi
tive to the opinion of others; he was
proud.
“If home is as Rene usually keeps
it,” he thought, “I’ll leave It forever!”
Outwardly lie was shy and quiet.
“I’m glad to see you, boys,” he said.
“I’m not ready to crow yet—not till
after dinner. Cold Easter, Mr. Morgie.
Do you think this snap has killed the
fruit?”
Florence had Just completed the
preparations for her banquet and was
proudly surveying results when there
came a great stamping and laughing
in tire hall. The boys—and tlio
preacher! She peeped and retreated, a
demure, maidenly figure with dancing
eyes.
Tom stored. “Where’s Rene?” he
demanded. “Not gone, has she? Well!
What have you for dinner, Bate?”
Somewhat disconcerted, lie led his
guests into the parlor. Ben stood
where he had paused. He was looking
at the table, invitingly draped In snowy
white, graced by his mother's pretty,
old-fashioned china and silver. Some
thing nnsteadied the hand lie extended.
“Did you fix it for me, Babe?” he
asked, and Florence nodded confused
ly,- hanging her head.
“I did the best I could,” she faltered.
“1 didn't think about company, but
ju , of you.”
“Thapk you. Babe. Bet’s think of
each other from now on; shall we? I’ll
do my part by you and father; I’ll
stand by you. Come, give me a kiss
for my birthday!”
The new cook looked up Into her
brother’s face. She saw there some
thing which made her shiver raptur
ously. Ben was pleased with her; Ben
was happy! With a glad-little gurgle
she went to liiiPeinbracc, pressing rosy
lips to his.
“One for mother,” she whispered.
“Oh, how proud she’d be if she could
see you, a really, truly man, old enough
to vote!”
Ben's birthday dinner was a great
success. Young people are merry over
little things, and after her first con
fusion Florence entered Into the hilar
ity of the occasion, not, however, for
getting her dignity ns mistress of the
boul’d- There were toasts proposed
an.', answered, jests and friendly re
partee.
In the midst of It all the door opened
suddenly, and Rene stood upon the
threshold.
Enjoyment sparkled In Tom’s eyes.
"O Rene!” he called. “Come in, Rene!
Better late than never! You asked
us—or some of us—to Ben’s birthday
dinner, you know, and here wo are!
So glad you've come! Will you have
a bone—there Isn't anything else left?”
The girl made a gesture of dissent,
turning away her crimsoned face.
With an unintelligible murmur of
greeting and apology she withdrew,
carrying with her u confused impres
sion of happy young faces on each of
which was a look which mode her
tingle sensitively.
She had a bad half-hour alone with
herself, the sounds of mirth coming up
from below. Every sound was n stnb,
making her wince and writhe. For she
was not, ns she declared herself to be,
a monument of selfishness. She was
but a thoughtless, pleasure-loving girl,
who had not yet arrived at her moth
er’s moral stature.
The promise of the day before, which
had been given so lightly, lmd been
brushed aside for n task more pleasura
ble. Now it came to her that a prom
ise, though made lu Jest, is sacred.
Ben had trusted her, acted upon her
word. She did not know how results
had been accomplished, how be had
been spared from humiliation, but she
had failed him.
Then she thought of his quiet, un
youthful ways, and her heart burned.
What a good brother ho was, toiling
manfully at his father’s side, year in,
year out, to provide home comforts!
She put her face down on her arms
and wept a little, then turned to a bet
ter penitence, the sorrow for wrong
which, expresses Itself in deeds.
It required some moral courage to go
down to her brothers’ guests, and by
her cheerful, girlish presence brighten
their social hour; but this she did, and
Ben was forgiving. Tom, for once,
magnanimous. Nothing was done to
remind her site had failed in the home
- the place where failures arc hanft’st
to bear. ’ •.' \ 5 '
Aud bo it said, from that day, al
though Florence’s initiation was suc
cessful, she was not forced to accept
life's lessons nil af once, hut took re
maining degrees at'her leisure. For
with Rene as tge home angel, the old
life of love amUcomfort was reestab
lished.—Youth's Companion.
An KxpeuuSve Sheep.
Many people make, It" a rule to retain
any stray dog or
stray animal that may ’Como to them.
In France this is a dangerous thing to
do. Some time ago a fanner Itvlag at
Lozore. near Paris, took In a sheep
that had strayed on to his land, and in
due course branded the sheep with his
initials. Eater on the real owner of
the stray sheep-turned up and demand
ed the animal back. The farmer who
had adopted the sheep as his own
stoutly refused to comply with this re
quest. Then trouble ensued. The
owner r f the lost sheep was a tena
cious and persevering man, and he
went to law over the matter. He
fought the matter out In tjjfec. differ
ent jaw -ourts and eventually won hlS*
ease. ‘He.got. lijs sheep back and the
other farmer hit# ffPpay a Jffll of costs
amounting to s3soo.—The Tatler.
Ancient To ml:* in Rome.
Several months ago In the work of
exploration which has been goiDg on
In the Roman Forum two ancient
tombs of the prehistoric period were
unearthed. Lately two more of prob
ably the same epoch were found, the
epoch being the eighth century before
the founding of the city. One of these
tombs contained what was probably
the remains of a child. In both of them
were urns which contained ashes,
showing that at that period both in
humation and cremation were prao.
Used. These four tombs are among
the most interesting finds that havu
been made In Rome. - .
THE BRUNSWICK DAILY NEWS.
Luxury Does Not
Bring Achievement
By O. S. Marden.
OIIE history of our country Is a record of the successes of poor
boys who seemed to be hopelessly shut oil from books, culfure
and education, except that of the most meagre kind—from al
most every opportunity for mental development. The youth
ful Lincolns, Franklins, Ilamiltons,- Garfields, Grants and
Clays—those who became Presidents, lawyers, statesmen,
soldiers, orators, merchants, educators, journalists, inventors—
giants lu every department of life—how they stand out from
the pages of history, those poor boys, an inspiration for all
lime to those who are born to fight their way up to their own loaf!
The youth who Is reared in a luxurious home, who, from the moment of
his birth, Is waited on by an army of servants, pampered and indulged by over
fond parents, and deprived of every Incentive to develop
physlcally. although commonly regarded as one to be envied,ls morelo DeTfltled
than the poorest, most humbly bom boy or girl In the land. Unless he is gifted
with an unusual mind, he Is lu danger of becoming a degenerate, a parasite,
a creature who lives on the labor of others, whose powers ultimately atrophy
from disuse.—Success.
9 9 9*999
Dependent and Independent*
By A. M. Purdy.
O class of men, as a rule, are more independent than farmers.
They can stand strikes without any great loss. They raise
_ J "TTT'I enough to depend on for their living, and can exchange one
M % I jki with the other. Neighbor Thompson had a lot ef hay out, help
If A wj was short, a storm was brewing. A neighbor stepped In with
gA. 0* le salutation; “Well, neighbor, I though 1 would step in and
-jL see if I and the boys couldn’t help you get that hay in before
the rain conies on. We can put off the cultivating of our
potatoes a day or two, and, besides, we may get caught as you
ore, and a like favor from you will come good.”
"Well, now, if that Isn’t kind in’you. You couldn’t have offered me help at
n more acceptable time. I will certainly pay you back, and, by the way, neigh
bor, I see one of your road horses is lame. There is my roan in the pasture
doing nothing. Send one of the children over when you wish to use him.”
“Thank you! My wife was saying this morning she wanted to get to town
to-day.”
So it went on all through the season, each helping the other, and so It should
be between fanners. The Joint work, the sociability, the kindly feeling make
life more enjoyable.
Where is there a business man more Independent? Ills barns and cellars
are full to overflowing of all necessaries for man aud beast. If there Is a strike
and coal goes up, he can cut his own wood for fuel and supply bis neighbor.
If railroad strikes occur he can remain at home with plenty to keep him, aud
his kind uclghbors to visit back and forth.
9999 9 9 9
Domestic Science For Girls.
By Mary E. Williams,
Professor of Domestic Science, Columbia University.
OUST twcuty-ftvo years ago whatever training girls received In
domestic science was inculcated by their mothers in their
own homes. To-day the demands of the school upon the girls’
time make even’ this absolutely Impossible. The State takes
the child almost from the mother’s arms Into the kindergarten,
and her training is institutional until she is graduated from
high school or college, ready for business. But it is worthy
of not© that she is fitted for almost any business except that
most Important of all businesses to women, the business of
home-making.
I think the increase of “bachelor apartments” and of “bachelor maids’
apartments,” the lament of empty churches, the cry of public corruption, and
the complaint of competition of labor between the sexes are strong evidences
that the number of marriages are constantly derailing.
The consequences to the State of such a condition are fraught with danger.
As the home is, so the State is.
The women of to-day who think they can purify the world at the polls are
making a great .mistake. Nor can they do it by entering Into competition with
men in the commercial werld. Their work is to trnin the coming generation of
men for the affairs of the world. And this work must be commenced in the
nursery and be coetlnucd uijtil habits and character are formed. And if we are
to do away with the evils of to-day we must prepare the future wives aud
mothers for Just Oils work.
Until this fact Is recognized by our school boards, the training of a girl, un
like that of her brother, will be incomplete. For Ills training alms to fit him
for his normal position F Ufe, for his struggle with tho world. The trailing of
a girl, as it is now, M efljs to have the same aim for her; while her normal
lifewurk—the care of the home—is practically Ignored.
What is the remedy?
Nothing less than to make domestic science a part of the regular course for
girls; necessary for promotion from elementary schools to high schools and
from high schools to colleges.
If this can be accomplished we shall have gone a long way toward solving
the problem of the training of our girls. Wo can hope then to turn out n gen
eration of future mothers who will be equipped for that llfewovk so aptly de
scribed by Frances Willard when she declared that “the mission of the ideal
woman Is to make the whole world home-like.”
9999 9 9 9
Self>Assertiveness
The Twin of Courtesy
By George C. Lorimer, D. D.
FEW months ago while traveling in England, the members of
|K TF 7 our party found themselves in a smoking compartment of a
| railway carriage with a stranger, and a stranger who smoked.
.B yP When about halfway between stations, he calmly pulled out
I Lis tobacco, and, lighting up, puffed away, seemingly to Ids
I own enjoyment quite as much as to the discomfort of the Indies
1 ■ under my charge.
Seeing the annoyance bis smoking was causing, I asked
him if he would be good enough to desist until we came to the
next staßr-u, when we would change our seats to another carriage; and I was
not a little astonished at his reply;
“I am distinctly within my rights, sir, and must decline.”
Brutal as tho retort sounded, It was nevertheless a statement of the truth
—he was “within his rights”—and, true Britisher that he was, he proposed to
have them. While recognizing his privileges, I could but feel that we in
America would be willing to waive our rights in little things, preferring to
keep our entire energy for the holding on to those lu the greater events of
life.
The Incident set me to thinking. The Englishman never forgets nor ceases
to demand and to obtain bis due, no matter how trifling the obligation may
be, and permits no one and nothing to interfere with the happy and peaceful
possession of it.
We Americans are the most amiable of individuals. We live in a country
where we arc obliged to give and take, and we should be considered anoma
lous and archaic as soon as we became arbitrary.
We regard as trivial the minor amenities, and indeed submit to many things
that may grow Into positive wrongs because we are so complacently assured
that we have constitutional rights of so magnificent proportions that we can
afford to regard with indifference these lesser infractions of what contributes
to peace and comfort.
But can we? ’
Is it right to allow ourselves to wbapUfdsabout by every one who comes In
our path? Can we afford to have*our toes trodden upon by every,stranger that
crosses in front of us? Would we be better off by being more self
assertive aud less complacent? More mindful of our own “rights,” and less
■trilling to have them trampled upon, even as we trample upon those of others?
Do we not grow careless in our dealings with others from the very fact
of our own indifference? And can we not learn a lesson from our more
exacting brother across the sea?
We are known tis the strenuous race. We work harder, longer and usually
with greater material-results than other peoples. We have what Prince Boris
praises as “the goaheadativeness and feverish activity” of a young nation; but
In our haste, our hurry, we are equally forgetful of ourselves and of otke;s
In little things, while making much ado about the great things for which
we have always striven.
It is the little things that count, after all; and we eau be in no better bus!
ness than to take to heart this lesson of self-assertiveness, for in learning it we
shall come to be less careless in our dealings with others. By demanding more
rights for ourselves we shall necessarily show greater care for those of our
neighbor. We shall learn that self assertiveness is in reality the tV'iu of cour
,4?Sy. —i - ■‘■■ri'i
CHILDREN'S
ElWe Willie ud Whipping*.
Sometimes w’en I’m middlin’ bad.
Same es boys ’ll lie,
Then my ma she gits a stick
Jus’ to punish me.
Make you laugh to see that stick—
Like a wisp o’ hay—
But the minute that it lan’s,
- Then I talk this way:
“Wow! Ouch! Oh! 1 say!”
(Thinks I’m cryin’ then)
“Ouch! Oh, dear! I will obey;
I’ll be good again!’’
Seems to ease my ma, you see,
An’, o’ course, it don’t hurt me.
Tint it’s differen’ with my pa;
W’en he gits a stick
It is longer ’an his arm
An’ erbout es thick.
AV’iie he’s gittin’ it 1 wait,
Thinkin’, thinkin’ bard.
An' the firs’ blow ’at lie tail’s
This is frum me jarred:
“Wow! Ouch!”—Qtteeres’ thing!
Case erpears to be
I can’t ’member w’at I say
W’en lie’s whippin’ me.
Whippin’s on’y fun frum ma—
But it's differen’ with my pa.
THE BEAN~ POLE
. AND
THE POTATO.
Once there was a bean pole placed
In a garden near a potato patch.
The cabbage immediately exclaimed:
"Dear me, what a stiff, poky thing that
la! What use is It standing there, no
benefit to anyone?”
Sjon the scarlet bean came running
about, searching for something to cling
to, and found the bean pole.
“All right.” said the happy little
bean, “you are just what I was look
ing for; now I can begin my summer
work.”
“To be sure,” cried young cabbage.
Everything lias some use. Who would
ever have thought of it?”
The scarlet beau was very spry, ran
■ap the polo very easy. Being very
Jlvtily, she began to make fun of th
potato plant.
MISSING MUSSULMANS’ PUZZLE.
Find two more Mussulmans in this Constantinople scene.
“llow slow yon ore,” said the bean.
■"Why don’t you look brighter and
more blooming?”
The potato plant only showed a few
pale blossoms, although she thought
she was doing her best.
“You do not call those flowers,” said
the lively bean. “Just look at my love
ly scarlet blossoms,” and she held up
a spray of bright blossoms.
The summer passed, the bean filled
her pods aud felt quite proud.of it.
"Only see what I have done,” said the
bean to the potato plant. “There is
summer work for you,” and she filled
U,e pole up and down with her pods.
The cabbage cried out: “Why don't
you do something? Can’t you come to
a head?”
The potato plant still was silent.
f~-x& fc
But when the time came to dig np the
potatoes and the hill was opened, and
the pile of long white potatoes ap
peared they all could hardly believe
their senses.
“You were doing something all the
time,” declared the cabbage, but how
'could I know?”
Then that bean hung her pods so
everyone could see them. “Well, after
this I will say of the plant thag makes
the least show, ’Wait, potatoes iu
•ide.’
There are a great many scarlet beans
among people, and some potatoes also,
aud maybe a few cabbage heads.—Chi
cago Record-Herald.
“A Pleasant Time TV4B IT ad.
ls"3i
\ ", I IP I
“Did you have lots of nice things tc
eat at. the party?”
“Rather! Why, I had to take four
kinds of medicine after it.”—Ally
Sloper.
Clever Bird*.
The brilliantly plumed- birds of the
tropical forests are exposed to many
dangers, and if they were not gifted
with queer yet useful instincts they
would certainly fail ready victims to
their enemies. Chattering monkeys
and big snakes steal and oat their
eggs, while their fledglings are preyed
upon by foes ou every side.
But it takes a sly monkey or snake
to get ahead of the mother tailor bird.
She hides her nest so skillfully that her
enemies cannot find it, no matter how
hard they try. This she does by using
her ions, slender bill as a needle. ’
With the tough fibre of a. parasite
plant abundant In the tropics as,a
thread, she sews a dead leaf taken
from the ground to a living one near
the end of a slender and hanging
branch, and between these leaves she
bttilds her nest, where neither monkey
nor snake can approach, because the
branch will not bear their weight. ,
The Indian sparrow Is equally in
genious. She makes her nest of grass,
which she weaves like cloth, and in
the shape of a bottle. Then she covers
the outside with fireflies to scare away
the bats that prey upon her young ones.
Habit, of Sparrow, in England.
A writer in ti e London Spectator
says that the site of sparrows’ nests
is chosen with great care, and always
with a view to avoid danger from
eats. They shun any proximity ~3 or
dinary roofs of houses where t*St;. are
likely to disturb them, butthe f
of a corrugated iron roof
neighborhood will attract kejs-s oil
from their old nests, as tlii 4ivS|)*t#
underneath furnish *.;n
dreds of them, where
safe, can ''m
. ari.aJP'
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tot:.-!,. ,1. .u.d tic- 1 : 'pffifgSyj&y
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else. It was n■ 1 attaf*'>
was just :•> likely WAX Ip.-M;
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riat.ts ■
DECEMBER 28