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sV.'DAY MORNING.
'SONNETS.
jC Of al! th* obaourtty surrounding WlllUm Bhakijr, ht* sonsots lira or h• baen
made tbn moat myacarloua. It will probably ne*r on dacided whether la tboao aonnataj
fihaksspeara was writing of his personal experience*, whether be was suing as a loser or
whether they were Impassioned creations of his boundless and fertile brain, but It will
ever be recognized that he wrote with as marked Individuality and dlstlnctlvenetf in,
these early effusions as In bis dramas, and stamped the whole with a genius unexoelled.
But one scholar In three bundrod years has questioned their beauty and eicelUaea as a
whole.
When forty Winters shall besiege thy brow,
” And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's
Held,
; Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will he a tattered weed, of small worth
held;
Then, being asked where all thy beauty
lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an nll-eattng shame, and thriftless
praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beau*
ty's use,
If thou couldat answer,—"This fair child
of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old ex
cuse- ,r
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new-made when thou
art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou
feel'Bt It cold.
When I do count the clock that tells the
time,
And see the brave day sunk In hideous
night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silvered o’er with
white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves.
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd.
And Summer's greeu all girdled up In
sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly
beard;
Then, of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must
go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves
forsake,
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'against Time's scythe
can make defense,
Save bread, to bravo him, when he takes
Ihee hence.
AUNT JANE.
By JOHN WORNE.
"Anything exciting in your letters
this morning, dear?"
“Well, I don't know,” said Lucy;
here's a letter from Aunt Jane.”
"Aunt Jane? Did I ever meet Aunt
Jane before she married?”
Lucy got up and went around the
breakfast table, looking troubled.
"Tom dear, you remember that day
you asked me to be your wife?”
“Yea," he replied. "Why, what'*
the matter?”
"You remember I said I had an aw
ful sin to confess —a past, a present.,
and a future; something you might
never be able to forgive?”
"Yes. I wouldn't listen.” He put
bis arm around her.
“Well, it was-—it was Aunt Jane.”
“Great Scott!" he replied.
• • • •
Aunt Jane arrived as threatened,
punctually a quarter of an hour late.
SW was always a quarter of an hour
kite, on principle. It arose out of a
jßislike for being kept waiting when
asjied out to dinner, for instance, and
rapidly spread over the whole of her
movements, owing to her morbid pas
*for regularity. To be late for
kfast and in time for lunch upset
hi yw tm tiho.was scrunnlous
ly late for everything. This was an
noying. unless you knew her and al
lowed for it; but so were most of the
things Aunt Jane did. She was small,
but enjoyed a deep bass voice.
“Ah, my poor child,” was her greet
ing, "how ill you are looking."
"1 didn't know it,” said Lucy meek
ly.
“You think you're happy, but 1 know
better, poor tiling. 1 see from your
looks, from your manner, that you
are utterly miserable. Now, confess,
haven't I guessed right?"
‘‘l'm—l'm perfectly happy," groaned
Lucy, dismally. "I mean, 1 was till—
till—"
"Till you enme,” was what she
wanted to say, but her courage failed.
"Till you married!” said Aunt Jane,
triumphantly. "Didn't I say so?”
The manner of Aunt Jane had a cu
riously quelling effect upon all who
allowed themselves to be brought un
der its spell. Having extracted this
admission, she followed up her suc
cess by a skilful cross-examination,
which reduced the poor girl to tears,
and almost persuaded her that her
husband was the most brutal scoun
drel on earth. Every little instance
of Ms Irritability, every lift In protest,
however gentle, about lateness of
brenkfsst or toughness of beef, was
dragged out of her by tortuous means,
carefully exaggerated and embellished
with details supplied from Aunt Jane's
own instinct, and lilted into its place
in an elaborate and highly colored
mosaic of perfect villainy. And when
it was done, so difficult was It to dis
tingulrb fact from fancy that Lucy
was wondering how on earth she could
have married (he man at all.
"And now, my dear,” said Aunt
Jane, "to follow up your suggestion
that he is concealing something far
worse than all this” —Lucy had never
suggested anything of the kind, hut
rite saw now how probable It was—
",lc.t tell me fully anything he may
have confided to you and any suspi
cions you may have that he is keep
ing anything back. There should be
no se. rets between a man and his
wife's aunt."
"No, Aunt." said Lucy, struggling
with her tears; "I quite agree.”
"For instance, does he receive let
ters which he doesn't allow you to
look at?"
”1 —I—don't know; I never asked
him." she sobbed.
"Poor thlld— poor, simple child! As
If he would confess It! The very fact
that ho rays nothing about those let
ters ought to have put you on your
guard. He always gets down to break
fast before you. I'll be bound, and
gloats over them In secret, eh?”
“Y—yes. he does, usually; but—but
—f don’t knew anything about the
gloating." She dried her eyes be
tween each word.
“No; the housemaid would see that.”
“I sup—suppose she would.”
“And doesn't It strike you as suspi
cious that the housemaid hasn’t told
you about It? Looks like a conspira
cy. doesn't It. eh?”
Lucy clinched her hands and said
she ought to have suspected It, it was
so obvious.
"Ah, my poor child, the obvious is
ao seldom visible! I And that people
My glass shall not persuade mo I am old,
So tong aa youth and thou are of one data;
But whou In thee Time's furrows I bobtdd,
Then look I death my days should oxidate.
For all that beauty that doth covor then
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart.
Which in thy breast doth Ihve, as thlne< in
mo;
How can I then bo older than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thysalf so wary,
As I not for myself hut for thee will;
Boaring thy heart, which I will keep so
chary
As tendar nurse her babe from faring I/11.
Presume not on thy heart when mtmo Is
slain;
Thou glv'st me tbtne, not to glvej back
again.
Shall I eompmre thee to a Bummer’;day?
Thou art more lovely and more temper
ate;
Bough winds do stako the darling buds of
Mny,
And Rummer's lease hath all too short a
dato;
Sometime too hot the eye of heave® shines,
Anil often Is bis gold complexion, dimmed;
Andeveryfalr from fair sometimes declines.
By chatioe, or nature's changing course,
untrlmmod;
But thy eternal Hummer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou
oweet;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in hts
shade,
When In eternal lines to time thou grow
eet;
So long as men can breathe, or eye can
see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to
thee.
—William Shakespeare.
very often miss what to me ia aa clear
aa daylight.”
Aunt Jane had never been on a
acent bo hot.
"And have you acceaa to all cup
boards, drawers, aafes?”
"[ —I—think1—think go,” waa the faltering
reply.
“Think ao!” Bald Annt Jane. "That's
a pretty state of mind for a wife.
Take me to his study at once! Am I
not his wife's aunt?"
This was said because Lucy seemed
to hesitate. Together they went to
the study. Aunt Jane sniffed con
temptuously.
“Smoke!” she snorted. , “He
smokos?"
Lucy admitted it.
“And drinks, I’ve no doubt?’’
"Y—yes, I’m afraid so."
"And plays cardß?”
"I—l—think so, a little.”
"Poor dear, t>oor dear! What more
do you want? Now, show me this se
cret drawer you were complaining of.
Khe hadn't complained of any. but
pulled the handles of several and at
last found one that wouldn't open.
"There you are!” came the trium
phant cry. "Have you ever seen in
side this?"
Lucy couldn't YemfcHrtnSf TlThi sue
had or had ever wanted to.
"Doesn’t It fit In wonderfully?” said
Aunt Jane. "In there lie the letters
over which he and the housemaid
gloat In the early morning.”
Lucy saw It all clearly,
"And I have no doubt there have
been times when he has told you,
with a pretence of sympathy, not to
be tn a hurry to get up?”
Lucy did remember one or two in
stances, when she had a slight, cold.
Aunt Jane chuckled.
"I never met a married couple yet
who oughtn't to be divorced at once,”
she said. "This must he finally set
tled this evening, and 1 will stay by
your side till he gives a satisfactory
explanation, He never will; it won't
hear explanation.”
"I am very grateful to you, Aunt,”
said Lucy.
"Show me my room, poor thing. I
always take a rest before dinner.”
"I am sure you must require It,”
said Lucy, leading the way up stairs.
"And mind," said Annt Jane at
the door, "not a word to him about
this till 1 tackle him; you would only
put him on his guard and give him an
opportunity of destroying the only ev
idence we have."
"I will not mention It,” soid Lucy,
humbly.
When Tom came in, he was met at
tlie door, ns usual, by his wife, lie
thought it strange, hut supposed elm
was looking after her guest. When
he came down to the drawing room
punctually. Lucy was alone there,
looking gloomily into the fire. She
did not turn on his entrance.
“Well, my dear,” he said cheerily,
“has our sin come home to us?"
“If you mean," replied Lucy, with
hauteur, "has my dear Aunt Jane ar
rived, she has.”
"That’s what 1 meant.” he said, a
little surprised. "And am I to be a
model or an awful example?”
"It is not necessary for me to teach
you to wear the cloak of hypocrisy.”
she replied, with tears coming to her
eyes.
He raised his eyebrows. "Why, what
on earth—what’s the matter, dear?”
He tried to kiss her, but she drew
away from him. She was sobbing bit
terly.
"You ask me.” she said, “you, with
all those—with all that —"
She nearly flung the guilty letters
In his teeth, hut remembered her
aunt’s warning just in time.
"With all those what?” he asked,
bewildered. But not another word
could he get from her, and he was
standing looking at her with an ex
pression of utter amazement when
Aunt Jane sailed In. a quarter of an
hour late. She required no introduc
tion.
“You are the man. I suppose?" she
said, with a snap of the teeth. He
bowed.
“How do you do. Aunt Jane?” he
said. “1 hope you had a pleasant
journey.”
"So-so. No thanks to you!”
"Dear Aunt Jane." he said softly.
“I wired to the porters to be polite.”
It was clear that he did not take her
seriously, and Lucy was indignant.
"I hear,” said Aunt Jane, as they
settled the dinner table, “that
3u aret* lawyer?"
“I nmrjtßLik Tom.
"Never eoild stand lawyers," she
went on; “a nasty, deceitful lot of ser
pents."
“Indeed they are,” said Tom,
“loathly, crawling creatures.” He
she'yk his head solemnly.
unable to put the case more
s/Tongly, Aunt Jane found herself un
expectedly with nothing more to say.
So she turned, with pity in her voice,
to, Lucy.
“My dear, I wonder you allow your
cook to stay In the house."
"Do you suggest a shed at the bot
tom of the garden for her?” said Tom,
gently interrupting. He had decided
to assume the offensive.
She ignored him. “This soup,” she
said, "is disgraceful.”
Lucy apologized humbly. So did
Tom.
"Take away Miss Wilkins’ soup,”
he said to the servant, and it went be
fore Aunt Jane hail time to clutch
(he plate. It was long before any
thing else was said by anybody, but
Tom seemed to be enjoying his din
ner. Indeed, the two ladles were dis
gusted at the brazen Impudence of the
fellow. Lucy longed for the end of
this ghastly meal and yet feared what
was to follow. At last, the servants
left, and Aunt Jane coughed signifi
cantly. Tom looked up. Lucy said,
timidly: “Let us go.”
“No,” Bald Aunt Jane; “the time
has come.”
“Has it?" asked Tom, cracking a
nut.
“Your conscience,” said Aunt Jane,
“must tell you that you owe an ex
planation to your wife.”
"Must it?” asked Tam, checking a
smile.
“Don’t lose yoir temper, sir," said
Annt Jane. She always began an ar
gument like thtt-—it seldom failed.
"Lucy, tell him what you want to
know.”
“I—l—-hadn’t \<e better go Into the
drawing room?” stammered Lucy.
“No! I will protect you.” She
turned fiercely upon Tom. "You have
letters In a drawer tn your study
which is locked. Don’t deny it!”
“I won't,” said Tom. “It's probably
quite true.”
“By your brutal conduct you thought
you had cowed tills poor child’s spirit
so that she would make no inquiries.”
“How did you guess?" said Tom.
“But I have come, sir!"
“I can’t deny It,” he said.
“And I shall remain and protect my
helpless niece forever, if necessary.”
“She warned me that something of
the kind might happen," lie said, help
ing himself to a banana.
“Are you going to show me those
letters?”
“Certainly not; they are private.”
Aunt Jane tried to wither him with
contempt, but wns so unsuccessful that
she felt that, unless she retreated in
haste, she would lose her temper her
self.
"Come!” she said. “Leave him to
his conscience.”
As they went out Tom said to his
wife: "Are you a party to this silly
nonsense?” but ahe did not deign to
answer. It. was all beyond doubt,
now, oti hta own confession.
Tom smoked a cigarette. He hadn’t
a notion what the row was about, but
there would obviously he no peace till
Aunt Jane went. So he changed his
plan of attack and strolled into the
drawing room. The two were on the
EIGHT —BLACK hrdlupu
sofa. Aunt Jane's arm was round
Lucy’s waist. They looked ferociously
at him. turned away, shuddered, and
were silent. He sat down on an easy
chair and took up a book. For five
minutes nothing was heard hut indig
nant breathing. Suddenly lie re
marked, “I saw the doctor again to
day.” There was no reply. Aunt
Jane clasped Lucy tightly. He went
on, "I asked him what he thought.”
Still a silence. You could hear their
shoulders shrugged. •
"He said.it was a little hard to ex
plain the green spots, hut the pink
and yellow ones were either scarlet
fever or something in-itis and were
quite well known in the profession.”
Annt Jane had released her hold on
Lucy ami was looking at him with
open mouth, lie want on casually,
“1 asked, was tt infectious? He said
you can't tell until somebody has
caught it from you."
Aunt Jane was standing up.
“But, he says, in case there should
bo any danger. I had hotter avoid the
company <f all the near relatives of
myself or my wife.”
Lucy hurried up to him with alarm
on her face. Aunt Jane backed tow
ards the door.
"Dear Aunt," ho said advancing with
outstretched hand, “you’re not going
yet, surely?”
She gave a little scream and jumped
away. In a moment she was out of
the room.
Lucy turned to him with concern.
“Is it serious, dear?” she asked.
“Just you see that Aunt Jane gets
comfortably out of the house.”
Lucy understood, and the spelt van
ished. Aunt Jane was up stairs, hur
riedly putting ou her hat and coat and
muttering aloud.
“I’ll take a room at the hotel till
tomorrow. Send on my box. No. I
am afraid I can't wait —I shall be late
as it is. Write and tell me how he
is getting on. and don't forget to dis
infect the letter—why didn't you tell
me this before you invited me? The
incompetence of some doctors!—and
sprinkle it all over the carpets. Good
by." She scurried down the stairs.
Tom was In the halt to say good-by.
She dodged round him and cut at the
door as If 20 microbes were snapping
at her heels.
The deserted couple sighed with re
lief. Lucy put her head on Tom’s
shoulder.
“I am so glad she’s gone. dear. I
think she's a witch; she seemed to get
hold of my mind, somehow."
'“Let’s go and look at the guilty let
ters,” he said.
“No, I don’t want to see.”
“Well, they are only what you
wrote to me before we were married.”
So she brought what he wrote to
her. and he brought what she wrote
to him. and they exchanged bundles
and sat at opposite sides of the table,
and he knocked on the table and shot
across to her the first In date and she
shot across to him her reply to it;
THE BRUNSWICK DAILY NEWS.
and he read It and ehot across th
next, and so on all through the list,
and when they came to the things
which meant kisses • • •
There is a good parlor game for two.
—Philadelphia Telegraph.
FISHING WITH HANDS.
Daring Hawaiian Swimmers Need
Neither Pole Nor Line.
It Is hard to believe that human be
ings can become expert enough at
swimming and diving to be able to
catch fish In their watery home, yet
It is so.
The native Hawaiians are the ones
who do it, and It is a common sight In
the districts that are not densely pop
ulated to see men, women and chil
dren engaged in thus catching fish,
shrimp and crabs.
Sometimes they crouch in shallow
water and feel around the coral and
lava bottom for the creatures. So
skilful have they become by practice
that even the swiftest fish rarely es
cape. They can seize a crab and perk
him out of his rocky lair before he can
irse hfs claws.
The Hawaiians are assisted in this
mode of fishing by the fact that many
species of Pacific Ocean fish hide
themselves in clefts in the rocks and
lie there when danger threatens.
This habit is utilized by the men
and boys to catch those fish which
live in deep water. They tie a bag
around their waists and dive straight
down to the bottom. There they hold
fast to a rock with one hand, to keep
themselves on bottom, and with the
other they feel and grope on the cre
vices or under the overhanging rock
ledges till they get their hands around
a fish. Then they puPßiim into the
bag and grope for another one until
they have to ascend for air.
A daring kind of fishing Is that for
the octopus. The Hawaiian dives to
the bottom and pokes a stick into cre
vices and holes In which the octopus
loves to hide. When the stick touch
es one of the ugly things it invariably
takes hold so tightly with its tentacles
that it can be dragged forth. The mo
ment the fisherman has thus hauled it
out, he lets himself ascend. He goes
up so fast that he reaches the surface
before the angry and stubborn devil
fish has made tip his mind to let go
it's hold on the stick. When he reach
es the surface, the Hawaiian grabs
the octopus and instantly bites deep
into its head, thus killing the brute
at once.
Another rather daring form of fish
ing Is that for the ula, a species of
lobster. When the fisherman Is ready
to go down for this creature, he wraps
his right hand in a long piece of cloth.
Then lie dives and feel's around with
his bandaged hand until he finds the
ula. Frequently he will work so fast
that he will bring up two or three
ulas from one dive.
Now and then the fisherman finds a
puhi in a hole instead of an ula. Then
the bandage does not save him from
being badly bitten, for the puhl is a
great sea eel of immense strength
and with jaws set with immensely
sharp tefjh. —Philadelphia Public
Ledger. Mi
QU^B" r 'AND CWRIOUB.
Tests In Bioment houses show that
in five minjutes after sweeping 2500
germs settled, on a saucer three inches
across. In tlie same length of time
before sweeping 75 germs settled on
the saucer.
Anew speed record of 27 seconds
for tho kilometer was made by the
Hon. C. S. Rolls tn Nottinghamshire,
England. A 72-liyn;epnwer Mors racer
was used and the rate at which it
traveled was equal to 83 miles an
hour.
The amount of water within the
crust of the earth is enormous,
amounting to 565,000,000,000,000 cubic
yards. This vast accumulation, If
placed upon the earth, would cover its
entire surface to a uniform depth of
from 3000 to 2500 feet.
A writer in Charities places the
number of crippled children who ap
plied for relief at the New York hos
pitals during the visit of Dr. Lorenz
at 8000, nearly all of whom were sent
away because of the inadequacy of the
hospital for their care.
In the course of a lecture in London
Sir Harry Johnston reproduced , by
means of the phonograph, records of
many of the native songs of Uganda
utilized in their war dances, festivals
and orgies, ns well as many of the
dialects of the variou^tribes.
In Germany electricity, among other
curious results, has rehabilitated the
discarded windmill. At Nereshelm
a windmill supplies power for 36 inc
candescent lamps that light a large
paint factory. Another In Schleswig-
Holstein keeps up a steady current
of 30 volts. At Dusseldorf a windmill
winds up a heavy weight of which the
descent works a powerful dynamo.
The impression that British North
America is covered with valuable
timber ts fallacious. Black walnut,
red cedar and white oak are not found
north of Toropto. A line drawn from
the city of Quebec to Sault Ste. Marie
will designate the northern limit of
beech, elm and birch. The north
shore of Lake Superior will mark the
northern boundary of sugar hard ma
ple.
Certain substances which are deadly
in their effects upon men can be tak
en by the brute creation with impun
ity. dorses can take large doses of
antimony, dogs of mercury, goats of
tobacco, mtce of hemlock and rabbits
of belladonna without Injury-. On the
other hand, dogs and cats are much
more susceptible to the influence of
chloroform than man and are much
sooner killed by It.
Grateful to the Government.
"Mike," said Plodding Pete, "gre you
ever tempted to be an anarchist?”
“Not a bit of it.” apswered Meander
ing Mike. "If dere wern't no gover
mint Here would be nobody to keep
de jails warm in winter and collect
taxes to repair de roads in summer.”
—Washington Star.
SETTLINGS!
By"c33
HE bleak stretched of
i( Jf browning grass gave a
O I O tinge of sadness to the
H JR landscape, and the hum of
I W<W innumerable insects which
had prolonged the summer months well
into the fall were growing fainter and
less rhythmic with the advancing sea
son. The crops had been garnered and
the approach of frost brought no terror
to the farmers, hut in some Indescriba
ble way It affected the nerves of the
lonely woman standing before her rude
shack gazing toward the setting sun.
Somehow the autumn had always
brought a shade of sadness into her
life. Even back In the old New Eng
land days—before this horrible night
mare had transformed her life—she had
experienced the same feeling of de
pression.
“I guess It’s because I hate to see
things dying,” she explained to her
self to stifle back a rising rebellion of
sorrow. “The summer was short
enough hack home, but out here It’s
all too short.”
There was a dreary, homesick ex
pression In the eyes, and through the
straggling hair the bronzed forehead
showed little marks of premature
wrinkling. Dorothy Wellington In her
girlhood days had been termed “come
ly,” a word which just fell short of
calling her good looking or handsome.
But with time nnd experience her fea
tures had grown harsher and yet with
out blotting out a certain sweet ex
pression of resignation. Eternal long
ing for the impossible, however, eats
out the heart and ambition of the
strongest, and Dorothy was daily find
ing her burden more unendurable.
“It Isn’t natural,”, she confessed to
herself many times. "I’d rather give
up all nnd go hack without a cent. I
could work and make a living. Not in
Dunbary, but somewhere else—any
where except here.”
It was a strained and unnatural po
sition for a young girl to find herself
in, and nothing but a strong, stern
sense of duty could hold her to the
bargain another day. It was not home
on the bleak Oklahoma plain. The
very quarter section on which they
lived was In dispute. The shack which
they had built for temporary quarters
might not be their own. Across the
“dead line” there was another shack—
a second blot on the landscape. To one
or the other the quarter section be
longed, but to which none could say.
The slow-moving courts would In time
decide, but for the present there was
only an armed truce, and neither side
dared venture on the property of the
other.
Jared Wellington had left Dunbary
In the East to cast his lot with the
early settlers of Oklahoma, and when
the rush began he had been the first
to settle on a desirable quarter section.
But while he had been busy staking
out the section another had filed a
claim to the same piece of land. There
was a dispute which threatened to
end in murder, but Dorothy had been
the means of quieting the two combat
ants. They agreed to let the courts
settle the claim, and meanwhile the
two owners built on opposite sides of
the “dead line.” which they drew ex
actly through the centre of the quarter
section.
That was three months ago, anti In
the meantime Jared Wellington and
Henry Egerton had nursed their wrath
in silence while they planted and gath
ered their first season’s crops. Each
bitterly envied the other the crops
which by right should belong to him.
With alert eyes and gun loaded for
active service, each watched the other,
determined to exact the full pound
of flesh demanded in the agreement.
Had accident or sickness forced either
over the “dead line,” the other would
unquestionably have shot his enemy
in his tracks the moment he set foot on
his property.
Such were the bitter conditions under
which Dorothy had lived for three
months, hoping and praying that the
court’s decision would shortly settle the
controversy, but never did the law
seem to lag more exasperatingly.
Autumn was changing the whole face
of the landscape and winter was ap
proaching with its long period of
gloomy weather, but the “dead line”
and the Egerton shack in the distance,
continued to make life for Dorothy and
her father bitter and disagreeable.
Jared Wellington was as hard and
fet in his ways as the New England
granite hills among which he had been
reared, and Dorothy knew his nature
too well to attempt to induce him to
compromise with his lonely neighbor.
Eonely Henry Egerton appeared to be
in his shack, for neither wife, mother,
nor child appeared around his home.
Daily he had toiled In the fields all
summer, returning to his rude home at
night time to prepare his own supper,
and smoke quietly and solitarily near
the door of his shack until the moon
was darkened by the blood-red horizon.
Dorothy had watched these orderly
proceedings from her quiet retreat,
often wondering at the man's lonely
life, and in her tender heart half pity
ing him.
He was young and not hard-looking,
as she remembered him on that event
ful day when she had interposed to
save both from a possible tragedy.
But after all It had been a fleeting
glimpse of the flushed face and eyes
burning with auger and determination.
Those were exciting days when man
forgot his thin veneer of civilization
and displayed his savage origin. The
wild rush across the promised line, the
fights and struggles to gain possession
of the best quarter sections, the fear
and lamentations of those who had
failed, and the awful intensity of the
calm which had prevailed days and
weeks before the final word was given
to throw open the land to the eager
public—all these pictures were burned
on Dorothy’s brain so that they seemed
like some horrible nightmare. How
different it all had been from the quiet
New England village where she had
been reared.
“Why could she not have lived there
forever? What right had he.r father
to teav her from her home, root and
branch, and plunge Into this wild,
lawless cauldron of unrest and bitter
strivjpgs?”
Dorothy brushed back a rebellious
* ■ Vi '*a pj
ji
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undertone:
tat her! He
him eld. Why diil that ntBaPuSHH
come here?”
She looked bitterly across tire
line.” Henry Egerton had just emergM
from dlls shack and stood, with hanfl
shading his eyes, watching her. Nearer
she could see his gun leaning against
the side of the shack.
“He must be bad, or he would offer
to compromise,” Dorothy continued.
“He is young and able and father
is old and feeble. He might move on,
and—”
She suddenly dropped her Toice to
an Indistinct murmur, for an apparition
appeared In the doorway of the shack
which made her excited. She shaded
her eyes and looked more keenly. It
was a small, toddling child, scarcely
two summers old, holding uncertainly
to the side of the doorway, and cooing
at the big ball of fire slowly disap
pearing below the horizon. The man
raised his hands and the child ran
to him and jumped into his arms.
“He Is married, then, nnd has a fam
ily,” Dorothy breathed. “Maybe I
have misjudged him. Has the child a
mother, or ”
Again her sentence died out In an
Indistinct murmur, but the sun had set
and twilight was rapidly spreading
over the landscape. Dorothy saw an
other form, bent of figure and white of
hair, walking across the field, and
after waving a hand of welcome to him
she turned to her work inside.
There was seldom any mention of
their neighbor’s affairs between father
and daughter, and to-night Dorothy
merely told of the presence of the baby
on the opposite side of the “dead line”
and then subsided. Jared Wellington
raised his shaggy eyebrows and
grunted:
“Then he's married? He’ll bring his
wife next, I suppose. Maybe he has
heard that, the courts ”
A horrible suspicion entered the
minds of both. Had the courts decided
respecting their claims, and had Henry
Egerton heard that he was the sole and
legal possessor of the quarter section?
Otherwise why had he brought his
family out to his lonely home when he
had lived without them for three
months?
Jared Wellington felt the heavy op
pression of disappointment, and his
white head drooped lower nnd lower as
the evening advanced. Dorothy tried
to cheer him, but in vain. Finally she
decided to present the matter clearly
to her aged parent and show him
that all would not be lost even If the
courts decided against them.
“What of it, father?” she said, cheer
fully. “We can go back East and live.
I can work and support you. I will
enjoy life more than out here. I
stand this much longer. I must ,*SO ce
companions and neighbors.” rw .
“No, no. Dorothy, it can never b<% Fa
murmured. I shall never live to
the East again. If it is true that—that
—he owns it”—pointing dramatically
toward his enemy’s shack—“it will kill
me. I canuot survive it.”
The tears blinded the blue eyes' of
the woman, and she turned away to
hide them. “It may not be. father,”
she murmured In a thick voire.
But whether true or not, Jared Wel
lington took to liis bed, nnd on the mor
row he was unable to raise his head
from the pillow. Dorothy nursed him
with all the skill she possesed. but he
needed more than she could give.
Slumbering fitfully, the patient would
awaken occasionally, and murmur in
distinct sentences. The fever of age
and anxiety had unsettled his mind,
and he raved like a child of ten.
Dorothy turned away in despair.
Impending death in the dreary shack
made even her stout heart quail. It
was ten miles to the nearest physician,
hut it was necessary to go. Would the
feeble patient awaken, and finding
himself deserted, commit some wild
act?
She held the door half open, debat
ing whether to go or .stay, when sud
denly a slight pressure from without
made her turn hastily. There, almost
at her feet, was a bundle of red cloth
ing. surmounted by a shock of light
brown hair. The pair of innocent eyes
looking up at her suddenly gleamed
with a new-born happiness.
“Muzzer! Muzzer! I’se found you
at last. Where's you been so long?
Baby’s been cryin' an’ cryin' fur you.
Hug baby, an’ tell him you'll nebber,
nebber leave him again.”
A pair of warm arms were raised be
seechingly upward. Dorothy picked
the litle child up in her arms and
hugged and kissed it. The longing in
her heart for someone to love and
speak to was almost too much, and she
broke Into a violent sobbing. The child
cuddled close to her and said softly:
“Don’t cry, muzzer, fur I won't leave
you ag’in. I'se goin’ to stay forebber
an’ ebber with you.”
The hands, chubby and warm, stroked
the hair of the weeping woman. Dor
othy raised her eyes to look at the little
face pressed to hers, and then she
started. A dozen feet away stood Henry
Egerton, an expression of confusion
and uncertainty on his face.
He raised his hat and said:
“rardon me, I’ve come for Virginia.
She ran away, and I could not catch
her until she crossed—crossed over
here.”
Dorothy still held the child In her
arms, and Virginia suddenly ex
claimed:
“I’se found mnzzer! I'se found muz
zer, Enel’ Hen'y. Here she is.”
The face of the man worked strange
ly. A softening of the firm outlines
made him look tender and sympa
thetic.
“Poor Virginia lost her mother a
week ago,” he murmured, “and she has
come to live with me. I could not
licar to tell her the truth. But I sup
pose I was wrong. Come, Virginia,
come with Enc-le Henry.”
“Not unless muzzer comes, too,”
pleaded the child.
The embarrassment of the man In
creased. Dorothy, understanding the
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fa j, %, *ada * '1
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' 11! i: vy**
Imi fn mili'is 111’ Sifi-h'
shack behind the ’ j
while that individual examln^H
tient he waited patiently at ti^p* l!y *
of the rude bed, furtively watSP
two faces which seemed Inseparably
associated together.
Jared Wellington was a long time
In bed and the fever wasted him to
a skeleton. Nature had robbed him
of the power and strength to protect his
shack from the approach of the enemy.
But before his complete recovery the
“dead line” had been obliterated. The
little footsteps of Virginia had worn a
smooth path across it from shack to
shack, and often Henry Egerton fol
lowed after his tiny niece “to go and
see mtizzcr.” Somehow there was as
much attraction for him as for the
innnocent child, who had found in
Its bereavement another who had
quickly healed the wound.
Then one day Henry Egerton walked
to the old shack with lines drawn
tighter around his mouth, and with
eyes hardened to bear a, new burden.
The decision of the courts in their re
spective claims had been handed down.
The ownership of the valuable quarter
section was decided forever. Beyond
the hearing of the convalescent man,
who sat in the sun of the doorway,
Egerton told the news to Dorothy.
Under the blunt announcement she
paled and flushed by turns. Then pity
for the drawn face before her made her
exclaim:
“Oh, I’m sorry for you, Mr. Egerton.
I think you should own half.”
“No, it was all or none. Now the
courts have decided it air belongs to
your father. I’m an interloper, and
must leave at once. You have
right to order me off before night.”
“But I won’t do it, Mr. Egerton.”
Dorothy replied, with a bright smile.
“You can stay as long as you like.
“No man could do that unless"—he
hesitated—“unless you could let me
place for
as \n!nr hii'' 1 ' 1 '
was ” -;
ill?
? d/i j§n
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%> 1 an:f -“ Q Sobrbthy did not have
from the shadow of the shack a small
figure toddled forth and a baby’s voice
exclaimed: “Muzzer, make Duel*
Hen’y stay an’ play bear with me. I
wants him.”
Dorothy, with a happy smile and
gleaming eyes, picked the child up iii
her arms and replied between her
caresses: “He will stay. Virginia, and
he shall play bear with you all the
morning.”—New York Times.
Philosophy of a Cheerful Mind.
To be cheerful when the world is
going well with you is no great virtue.
The thing is to he cheerful under die
advantageous circumstances. If one
has lost money, if business prospects
fail, if enemies appear triumphant, if
there is sickness of self or those dear
to one. then is it indeed a virtue to be
cheerful. When poverty pinches day
after day. month after month of
through the years as they- pass, and
one has ever to deny self of every
little longed-for luxury, and the puz
zle of how to make one dollar do the
work for two has to be solved, then
the man who can still he cheerful is a
hero. He is a greater hero than the
soldier who faces the cannon’s mouth.
Such cheerfulness is the kind that we
need to cultivate.
To acquire this self-command, we
need to think of many things. We
need to guard against giving way to
irritation about little things. If we
can maintain self-control in small mat
ters, we shall have less difficulty in
maintaining it when great matters are
to be met. If we meet irrepairable
losses we must readjust our lives to
fit the new conditions. There is no
great evil so bad but that it might
have been worse. I.et us congratu
late ourselves that the worst is not
yet! There is truth in the saying that
“every cloud has a silver lining.”
Though it may for a time look so dark
we can see no glint, of the silver, yet
we know it is there.—Milwaukee Jour
nal. i
Just a Few Bir Words.
Some etymologists at tbeir luncheon
of sandwiches and sarsaparilla were
laughing over the question- of long
words. The first one said that Ihe
longest word in bis experience was to
be found in Eliot’s Indian Bible. He
pronounced the word, aud it was as
though he were delivering an oration
in an unknown tongue. Then be wrote
it down. It was:
W u t teppessittukgussunoowebtunk
quoh.
The man explained that this word
meant “the act of kneeling before the
Lord in prayer.”
A second etymologist, smiling, said:
"There was a book printed In the sev
enteenth century that was full of long
words. A scientific work it was, and
its very title was unwieldly.” He wrote
the title as follows:
Panzoologicomineralogia.
The third etymologist then, recalled
that there was a seventeenth century
tragedy of the name of “Crononhotont
hologofe,” the opening words of vAdch \
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