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Hope. I lay In ifrkrf And hope drew war to wtare I Umw.l alow Without relief. And pavMai a ut>«u<nt wt»>n oho Ixxard that mour Tbr« rata*! h*r glowing eym and mot mine I own. N't ver a won! ab** mid, Yr* atill I gaand and atill waa romfortod Thru l> Kling low with wood'rou* graca Hta laid tar hand «pon my ry«w, Her ooul hand on my taming fa/ «, Ami at tar Um< h bright viaionw riw*. Fnwh wtHnla and utroaina and uniinagincd UlH< Tn feofUwt tonn Bta Mang the *ong that ha* no rl«aw*. That <taitbh mm wmg whk b Do on« Kava uta alone, Tta wing that loavaa no rwmory. Th' aong of rudkwi victory And future love; Am! m J IhtrvMwl to tta vol on above, 1 f« ls a*ona returning from tta dead; •lowly 1 row? and ruuad my drooping ta-ad. —Miftinyi THE DOWN-HILL ROAD. "I gu<«s I never told ye ’tamt Josiah’* •rrident that )><• had a few yearn ago, did J, when he and J waa goin’ to Murry *ll le, tradin'? Wai, if I Didn't, then I will, that ia, if you won't tell him that I •told on’t, ’cauae he't allaa rayin’ a worn «n can't k<w-p nothin' to h. rwlf, and I *llow there i* some things I can’t keep, and this Is one on 'em. “As J was goin' to say, Josiah had got to go and git a lot of stuff, some paint, a few rails to fit the feme with, some ■zeal an' bran, an' one thing an’ another, Tdon't refnemtar jest what now, only I j ha l oeeaslon to remember th< •■ few. I'd ' got to have some cotton cloth, caliker, tnolnsses, sugar, etc., so I told him I guessed J'd go along too. So I packed •onic eggs into n peek measure of oats, an' J had pretty near a pound of feathers ■tied up iu a pajsT bag that I had been anvin' along, so 1 thought I'd take 'cm an’ turn 'em towards my cloth an’ 'things. “We loaded up an' got started early one Saturday inornin.’ We took the old gray nitre an' the lumber-wagin. Ye 'Dee, Josiah thought ho could bring the Tails better in a long wagin. The dash •board was split off pretty low down, but die said he guessed 'twould hold all we talmuld want to bring without spillin’ suit. So we drove along an' got to town 'about ten o'clock. “I went round to Jacobs's and sold my icggs, an' to Hyde A Taylor's with my .feathers, but they wouldn't give me my price,’ so 1 jest put 'em back into the wagin, an’ went to Loomis’s and bought my cloth and things, an' got back to Williams's stable where Josiah alias 'keeps his horse - nt jest two o'clock, an’ he wa’n’t there, so I went to the milliner's •hop to git my bunnit fixed, an' so told <he stable feller to toll Josiah where I was, an' to come after me with the team. Win n I got there the bunnit hadn't been touched, an' in a few mmntes up drove Josiah. Now, if you ever went any where with a man that's alias in a hurry, why, then, it's no use for me to under take to tell ye what I went through with a tryin* to keep that man from goin’ off without inc or siusin' that milliner. But we got started at last, and Josiah says, •ays he: “ 'We've got sich a load, ami its so kinder hot, I'm goin’ to take the down hill mail; it's a good deal nigher that way than 'lit t'other, an’ a better road, too, except that pesky hill.’ “‘Yes,’ says I, “[s'sky hill" is jest wlieiv I shan't go. I've rid down that LSI mice, a-lioldin’ on with nil my might, *n* like ter pitched out the wagin head fUst. No, sir, if you go that road you'll have to stop an’ let me git out.' “Now you know Josiah as well as I do; he'll do anything to save a cent o' money ora minute's time, ami he's alias sayin' "time is money.” “Wai, I let him have his way Hither than to have any more words about it, but when we got to the hill I got out, an’ after Josiah had took a good cud o' tnbaeker into his mouth, he and the old mare jogged along; but 1 see a few bram ble tarries 'longs.de the mad, and stop ped to pick a few on 'em, when I he. rd •oim thin’ go kerslam, ami there the old man- was, flat down, the wagin kinder atamiin' ou eml, an' Josiah u-sprawlin' around on the hot-e's back, an’ the jug o' molasses, jx»t o' paint, an' measure o’ oats on top of him, an' somethin' o’ rulher had wet my bag of feathers an' made a big hole in't, ami things was kinder squeezed onto 'em, so that they was aqiuffin' out in all directions. The cork got out o’ the jug. an’ the fence rads wa» stan'in' iu the air, some on 'em eroniways an' I don't know what not. If that didn't belt all the sights I evi r •ec. 1 never was so tickled in my life, an' if it had killed him I don’t believe 1 could have helped latlin', for there he Uy. covered with paint, molasses, fcath ers oats, bran an' dirt, an' a madder man you never ><< than he was. "Now. Josiah don't very often an. ar in my bearin', but 1 tell ye then* was a blue streak . n't down that hill that after aiwn, what w.i'n't already streaked with paint and molass.-s. Says 1 “ ‘Judah, what's happened? Don't ye like the down-hill roadt’ “'Contain it! that's woman all over. Ain't satisfied with seein’ a man stove round in this way, without twinin' on its bein' his own fault; an' that aint all; ye won't sleep a wink to-night 'til ye've told cv’ry man, woman an' child in the neigh, tarhood.' “I jest stood there and hild on to my sides 'til I thought I should go off. an’ when 1 got so I could iq>eak, says I: ‘Jo siah Jones, you're a picture fer a Comick Almanack, if ever there was one, entitled ‘A hcnpicked husband, tarred an' feath ered an’ tidin' on a rail.' As mad oc he wax, he couldn't help luffin', but he didn't lass long, for when he got kinder gcthcrcil up, an' began to pick off the feathers, an' look at himself, and take kinder of nn inventory o’ things, his countenance fell a rod, It 11 ye. But if you’d tan there, as I was, an' seen the molasses and oats drippin' off his trow sers-legs into the tops of his shoes, bis hands all paint an’ sand, an' his stove pipe hat all stove In on one side, with a big gaub o’ putty, you’d 'a thought the s|>ceirnen o’ humanity was the wust you ever see. He went 'round an* begun to pick up things, an’ says I: ‘Josiah, what's become o' that cud o' tobacker ye put in yer mouth jest as ye started oar “(loth! Samantha, I must Lev swal lered it.’ “Ye oughter seen his eyes when he said it. Es it had a pizem-d him then and there, I should have laughed to seen that scart and melancholy look on his face as soon ns I reminded him on’t. “ ‘Swallcrcd it?' ” says I. “ ‘Yes, awailcred it. I guess if you had la' ll jounced out of that er wngin the way I was, you'll a-swallcrcd yer tongue, an’ I declare 'twould u been a good thing for me es ye had.’ “Jost as he said that, I looked down th<' road. What should I see n-comin’ but Ham Pease’s team, an’ if yon had seen Josiah Jones and them feathers a-streakin’ it through that cornfield yon der, you’d a thought the Evil One was at his heels. “As Hum come along up, says he: “ ‘Why, Mis' Jones, what's the mat ter? Did ye git spilt out?'" “‘No,’ says I, */h'aint, but ev’rything else has.’ ‘“I should think so,’ says he. ‘Hus everything gone?’ ” “ ‘Yes, even to Josiah.’ “ 'Was Mr. Jones with ye?"’ “‘Ho wai, but he ain't now;’ an’ I laughed agin, as I thought how thatoorn must be feathered out by that time.’ “Can’t I help ye to right up things a little?’ " “‘No,’ says I; ‘I guess Josiah'll ta back pretty quick.’ “‘Then he didn’t git-hurt, did he?’” “‘Oh, no! I guess he’ll kern out on’t nil right,’ says I, but I kep’ up a terrible thinkin’ all the time, wonderin’ how he was gittin' out on’t without me there to help him find his shirt an' things; for tho’ I've lived with that man goin’ on twenty-five years, an' alias put his shirt in tho siime place, yit he alias come to mo saying: “ 'Hamnutha, where's my shirt?" “Wai, Ham ho histed the wagin 'round a little so’t ho could git by, an’ he picked up some o’ tho things, an’ he drove along. By-an'-by I heerd the bushes a kinder crackin’ behind me, an’ 1 looked 'round, an’ there was Josiah u menchin’ along, peekin' through the bushes, an' whisperin'; " ‘Samantha, is anybody'round there?’ “ ‘No,’ says I. “ ‘What ye 'fraid on? h'aint ye got rigged up yet!’ “ ‘Yes, the best I could. I can't git it all off my hands, nor out o’ my hair, an' I don,t want to see nobody till wo get out o' this scrape. For goodness' sake, Hamantha, I wish you’d scratch some dirt over that paint an’ stuff there, -<> 'twon’t look quite so destructive. Sich eonsariied luck, anyway! ’nother time, Samantha, I wish you'd stay to hum!' "‘Goal land o’ livin! what hev 1 done? Didn't 1 tell ye not to take this road!’ “ 'Wai, 'nother time, set in the wagin, then, an' 'not be a-piliu’out jest fer a lit tle hill.' "■Jest fer a little hill! I should say so! You’d jest like ter had me a-wal leriu’ 'round in that mess, too, wouldn't ye? 1 tell ye what 'tis, old man. I don't care to feather my nest in that way.’ “ 'Wai, feather yer nest or not, we shall have to work mighty hard to make up this ere loss; an' that ain't all. I'm thinkin’ nuther. That jouncin’ I got an' the run through the cornfield has shook my dinner down, an' I shall be mighty glad to git hum an’ git somethin’ t’eat.’ "Tilin' he was, ben through what he had, an' mournin' over all he’d lost, air yit the fust thing he thought on when he really come to his senses, was catin.’ Wai, we got hum afore dark, an’ sich keepin' Sata.lay night you never see; an' to save our gizzards we couldn't git that hoss cleaned off so we could drive him to meetin' Sunday; an'Josiah had to stay to hum for the same reason the hoss did. “Somehow I felt so tickled all the time a thinkin' s' the scrape that I wa’u't in a very gv-to-mectin’ mood myself; but I thought mebta twould sober me down an' I guess 'twould if it hadn't a tan for the sermon. Yes -e, our minister preach ed to young men that Suu.lay, an' when he says, says he: 'Young men. taware of the down-hill road; it leads to destruc tion," I thought o' Josiah an' his de struction on that road, an' 1 snickered right out—l couldn't help it. An’ t« this day I can't hoar them few words without foolin' jcn' an."— lltna Jiirertvn. Rain Fighting in the Orient. The Persians have their own peculiat pastimes, and that some of them corro apond very nearly with our own. Stroll ing down towards the Shah Abbas bazaar in Teheran the Mime evening after talking with Mr. B , my attention b attracted by a small crowd of Tehcraina of the lower and commercial clmw con gregated in an alley-way, write* Thomaa Stevens in Outing. From the excitement and the dull thud of objects atriking against each other, it i» apparent that rival owners of fighting ranu are jiermit ting their < hampions to struggle for ths mastery. These little contests around quiet cor ners arc of almost hourly occurrence, and a stroll of fifteen minutes abont the streets of the Persian capitalJa impossi ble without encountering mild-eyed “sports" leading their pet rams tenderly along by a string. Tho necks of the rams are encased in broad leathern col lars, gaily ornamented with beads and cowries, and from which arc suspended amulets to ward off the evil eye, and a clear-toned tall. This bell, dangling from the collar and jingling merrily as he walks along, announces the approach of a fighting ram and his owner or atten dant. Sometimes one meets a proces sion of several, each one in charge of a Separate attendant; these engage in a regular tournament for the entertainment of his guests. The fighting rams of Teheran are of the big-tailed variety. The breed is gentleness impersonated, and their con tests arc comparatively tame perform ances. The owners bet freely on the prowess of their respective champions, wagering anything from a dinner of ba zaar-kabobs to a stake of several tomans; • and plenty of Teherani sports depend entirely upon their ram fora living. Har assed with no hair-splitting niceties nor worrying definitions between amateurism and professionalism, he sallies forth and fights his ram for the wager of a break, fast for himself and a feed of barley for his pet. Like knight-errants of old, the Per sian sport and his fighting ram wander the streets, seeking battle everywhere, winning n few kerans to-day and losing them again to-morrow; true soldiers of fortune these, often to battle for their breakfast before eating it. Many of the smaller merchants own fighting rams, keeping them tied up in front of their shop. When business gets dull, I they send challenges to rival merchants, and fights take place daily, sometimes purely for amusement and sometimes for a wager. Ruse Balls. A fair estimate of the number of balls made for the present season is said to be 5,000,000, or one for every ten of the pop ulation of the entire country. The hard unyielding base balls that are now used by professional ballplayers are very dif ferent articles from those which were in vogue a quarter of a century ago. In fact they differ as greatly as'the present game of base ball does from that which was played in thbse days. “Dead” or professional base balls are made entirely by hand. According to rules laid down by tho league they must, weigh within five and a quarter ounces. A little rub ber ball, weighing two ounces, is used as the foundation for two ounces of woolen ‘ yarn that is wound around the ball, and permits of it coming within the regula- ! tion size, weight mid shape. The limit in size is nine inches in circumference. , The yarn used makes the circumference i of the ball considerably more than this, but it is corrected by undergoing a ■ hammering process, after which the little spheres are turned over to tho coverers, who invest them with a casing of horse j hide, sewn with linen thread. Non-pro fessional balls are made by machinery. To show the difference in the sj>ced, care and cost of manufacture of base balls it may be stated that a certain factory near New York can turn out 43,000 machine made balls in a day, while the limit of manufacture for "dead” balls in the same time is eighteen."— New Yorklfail and N-rpren. Small Arts. It is quite wonderful to think how strangely forgotten and lost the small arts an l in England. In some countries the very children can carve in wood, in others they can make artistic pottery; in Egypt they embroider, inlay, and work in jewelry; but in this country our peo ple can do nothing, and have learned nothing outside their trade. The agri cultural laborer, it is true, possesses a very considerable and varied amoaut of knowledge—he is skilled in many wavs; but the mechanic, the factory hand, the | shopman, knows nothing and can do nothing outside his trade, and, which is worse, he considers every kind of handi work as a trade in itself, to learn which would ta learning another craft, after taking all the trouble in the world to ac quire one. Shall he who has learned to make -hoes also learn to make cabinets? And .'hall the goldsmith also become a stone cutter? And is the evening as well as the solid day to be given up to labor? And is it right to invade another man's trade territoryf— Art Journal. THE WILY MUSKRAT. How the Little Animal in Trapped by Night. The Muskrats Haunts and Habits, and Use to Which Hu Skin is Put. Many a young lady who moves around the pround possession of a presumed sealskin cap or muff is very grievously mistaken. The articles in question, in nine cases out of ten, never saw Alaska in any form. New Jersey or Maryland furnished the material to make them, for the hide of the despised and humble muskrat, when dressed by skillful hands, makes the best imitation of sealskins, an imitation so close, that the true is only separated from the false after the most careful examination. It is an equally egregious error to imagine that the New Jersey fisherman becomes dormant in winter time. On the contrary, he is wideawake and occupies his time trap ping muskrats. The salt marshes on the line of the Jersey coast are full of musk rats, and the supply seems to be inex haustable. Muskrats are naturally herb ivorous. They feed on land and water plants alike, in some instances using roots, stems and fruit. They are noted enemies of tho “bottom ground” farmer, for it is in his fields that corn grows most plentiful, and on that cereal muskrats love to feed. They eat corn at any time after it is planted, taking the seed from the ground or the young plant from the furrow. The greatest damage is done after the ear is well formed. Their food is not entirely vegetable, for in winter and early spring they subsist to a great extent on the flesh of river mussels. The muskrat does not come out of his lair in the daytime, save on rare occasions. Sometimes on very dark cloudy days he may be seen swimming across the pond or down the stream with his head just above water. It is an ugly vicious look ing animal with white claws and long white teeth. He is a fair swimmer and his capacity for staying under water is extraordinary. His home, if the stream or pond has a high bank, is a little hol low place underground, five or six feet from the water’s edge, and the entrance is under water. The hallway, after it has penetrated the bank, curves gradual ly upward, and at its end, in his snug little subterranean chamber, the muskrat spends his day sleeping or in stonngaway food for winter. It makes the trapper happy when he finds the entrances to these houses. When he finds one he places his trap just in the entrance. If the rat is caught -he will probably drown, as the weight of the trap and his efforts to escape will tire him, and he will sink below water. A favorite method of catching the muskrat in his own house is to cut off the top of his domicile and bury the trap in the centre of his mossv bed. The box trap is the favorite one for streams, as it is easily made, and sev eral rats are often captured in a single night. It consists of a long straight box, made with entrances at both ends large enough to admit a muskrat easily. In the ends are fixed gates made of stout wire, slanting toward the inside of the box which can be lifted up easily by the rat going in but cannot be opened out wardly. The box is sunk in the middle cf a stream and securely anchored by big stones being placed on its top. Then stakes are driven from the box to each side cf the stream. The muskrat finds his way barred by the stakes, swims into the trap, discovers he cannot get out, and drowns. The muskrat is no coward. If he is taken on dry ground and the jaws of the trap have caught his leg pret ty well down near the toe, the rat not being able to pull away will gnaw off his •eg just above where the trap holds it. When found alive he fights desperately and requires many a blow on the head to silence him. When there is no other way of escape, he makes n dash at the trapper’s leg, mid if he once catches hold, his sharp white teeth sink into the bone and his strong jaws cling to the unfortu nate hunter with the tenacity of a bull dog. The great trapping grounds for the muskrat, however, are along the low lands of Dorchester county, Maryland, bordering Fishing Bay and its numerous tributaries, especially the Blackwater and Nausquakin rivers. These marshes em brace portions of Lakes, Straits, Draw bridge and Bucktown districts, and in area cover thousands of acres. The fur of the muskrat, which is of two kinds, brown and black, the black being the most valuable, is sold to traveling deal ers lor twelve to eighteen cents per skin. About 75,000 skins have been sold in Dorchester county this season, and the trappers are still busy. But no stripling can hope to embark in the muskrat-trap ping business for it is one of hardship Mid exposure, and the returns are small iadeed.— New York Af.ri! and Erprett. He Wanted a Remnant. “I understand you are offering some remnants for sale,” said an Arkansaw man to a dry goods clerk. “Y’es, sir, we have some choice rem nants, which we are offering very cheap.” "Wai, I want a remnant for my dog.” “For your dog?” “Y is, you see, some feller's cut my dog’s tail off, an’ I thought eff yer had a remnant of a yallcr bull dog I mout find • piece 'at’d fit.”— (roodalTe San. tattle Stampedes. "It la surprising,” says Mr. John Tv. Sullivan, “what a trifling thing will start n stampede that may cost many lives aud the loss of hundreds of cattle tafore it can ta controlled. I was com ing up the Texas trail once with a party of other cowboys. We had 4,000 cattle , in the bunch. Ono of the boys opened his tobacco-jiouch to get a chew. The wind blew a shred or two of the fine cut out of his finger*. The tobacco floated away and lodged in a steer’s eye. In a moment the eye began to smart, and the steer got wild. Its antics started others, and in ten seconds the whole herd was surging and dashing about, out of all control. It was two days before we got the herd working quietly again. Two of our best boys were trampled to death, and 4,000 cattle were lost. “Hail-storms are greatly dreaded by cowboys on the trail, especially if they come at night when the cattle are sleep ing. If a hailstone happens to strike a steer in the eye a stampede is sure to follow. He springs to his feet, and in thrashing around tramps on the *ails of others. They jump in pain. The herd is alarmed, and before anything can be done the whole herd are off like a flash. The bark of a coyote, when everything is still at night, is sufficient to stampede a herd. A blade of grass, blown along by the wind, frequently strikes a steer in the eye. The pain that follows will set him wild, and he can soon have the herd on the run across country at a twenty mile an hour gate. “It is during stampedes the cowboy has work to do. His one great object is to keep the flying herd together. He urges his mustang dead against the ad vancing column of frantic cattle at the constant risk of his life, and works the cattle gradually in a circle. The cow boys all ride to the right around a stam peding herd. If they can get the cattle to running in a circle, the first impor tant step in controlling them is accom plished. I have been with a party iu a stampede when we were obliged to ride around a herd for a distance of over 200 miles before wc got it under control,and then it was only twenty-five miles from where the stampede started. In all that time not one of us took a moment’s rest or a bite to cat. Such things can’t be thought of during a stampede.” Ear-Lore. Cutting off the ears was among the Romans the common punishment of thieves, pillagers of temples, fugitives and slaves, a survival of which was to be traced in the English mode of lopping off the ears of public offenders whilst standing in the pillory down to compara tively recent times. Another Roman practice was the pulling of witnesses’ ears in a court of law as a reminder of the gravity of their situation when vacil lating or hesitating in their evidence. Children’s ears were likewise wont to be pulled or soundly “boxed” by their mas ters. Another custom was the wholesale stuffing up of the cars of offending gen tlewomen in time of war. This was es sentially of Roman origin, first brought, under British notice by the followers of Julius Caiscr; and thenceforth frequently perpetrated by the soldiery, particularly during the English subjugation of Wales, until it in due time gave way to less sportive and infinitely more barbaric practices. Time-honored though these several observances may appear, they must nevertheless be regarded as modern side by side with one that carries us back to the primitive periods of Jewish history. This was the boring of the eai of every slave who, his term of servitude having expired (six years), yet declined to claim his freedom, preferring to re main with his lord and family for an indefinite period. Ip such a case his master was bound to take him to the door-post, and there bore his ear with an awl, as a sign of his voluntary at tachment to that house.—Roston Budget. A Despernte Mure. “John,” she said to the young man who had been courting her for five long years; “John, I sat for my photograph to-day. I suppose yon want one?” “Oh, yes, indeed.” “By the way, John, I had them taken especially for some friends in California, and they want my authograph on the cards. Now, John, I don’t know wheth er to sign my maiden name, or wait a few months until after I am mar ried. I suppose you do intend to get married in a few months; don’t vou John.” It was a desperate move, but she won, and in two months both will be made one.— Philadelphia Herald. Not High Enough for That. “Oh, papa,” exclaimed a little boy pas senger with his face to the window, “what a great high hill that is!” “Yes, my son, said the man, with a weary look in his face and crape on his hat, “it is very high. That is a moun tain, Arthur.” “Shall we get off the cars and go and climb up the high mountain, papa?” “Oh, no; why should we do that Ar thur?” “’Cause, pa, I didn’t know but mavbe ■ we might climb to the top and then look : up and see mamma. Do you think we ( could?”— Chicago Herald. CHILDREN’S COLLM.V Four Funny Fona. Four funny fans Had Maud and May To cool the air One Summer day. A palm-leaf broad, A feather fan. And one that came From far Japan. And for the fourth May took her hat And made a fine Big fan ot that. And then so strong. A breeze had they, played it was inter day 1 •BahyAooct. The Boy who Helped Other*. Tlaby was sick and fretful, the weather was warm and mother was busy, Ned took all this into his thoughtsand 'be*an to consider how he could better things He was pulling peas in the garden, but he left his work and came round to the kitchen door where the baby was. Ned was fond of baby Ben and baby Ben loved Ned, for babies can tell very quickly who loves them. He was alwavs stretching out his chubby arms for Ned to take him. To-day, as soon as the big brother appeared in sight, there was a cry of delight. “Benny, have a ride?” cried Ned, and the baby crowed again. There was no baby carriage. How often Ned wished they had one, so that he could ride Binny into the garden and up aud down the road. But there was no money to buy baby carriages. " “We’ll have to make the old wheel barrow do for a spell,” said Ned, as he lifted the little one gently. Nel was always gentle with the baby. Then the ride! How it pleased Vie baby and pleased mother! She could now attend to her work. And was there a third one that was pleased? Yes, Ned himself; and this third one was the hap piest of them all, Why? Because he was doing a kindness, and there is a re i ward which God gives for every kindness : done, if it is ever so small. How can God give us a reward? Try it and see. Do all the litttle kind acts you ! can, to every person you can, whenever ! you can, and see if you are not happy. Ned is the happiest boy I know, be ! cause he is not always thinking about : how he can please himself. He thinks I of others, how he can help and please them, and the happiness is all the time bubbling up in his heart and working out at his finger-tips.— Philadelphia Call. A l*oa that Could Count. Old Fetch was a shepherd dog and liv ed in the highlands of the Hudson. His master kept nearly a dozen cows, and ; they ranged at will among the hills dur j ing the day. When the sun was low in the west his master would say to his dog, j ‘ ‘bring the cows home”; and it was be : cause the dog did this task so well that i he was called Fetch. One sultry day he departed as usual I upon his evening task. From scattered, ; shady and grassy nooks, he at last gath [ ered all the cattle into the mountain road leading to the distant barnyard. A part of the road ran through a low, moist spot bordered by a thicket of black alder, and into this one of the cows pushed her way and stood quietly. The othera passed on, followed some distance j in the rear by Fetch. .« As the cows approached the barnyard gate, he quickened his pace and hurried forward, as if to say, “I’m here, attend ing to business.” But his complacency was disturbed as the cows filed through the gate. He whined a little, and growl ed a little, attracting his master’s atten tion. Then he went to the high fence surrounding the yard, and standing on his hind feet peered between two of the rails. After looking at the herd careful ly for a time, he started off down the road again on a full run. Ilis master now observed that one of the cows was missing, and he sat down on a rock to see what Fetch was going to do about it. Before very long he heard the furious tinkling of a bell, and soon Fetch ap peared bringing in the perverse cow at a rapid pace,hastening her on by frequent ly leaping up and catching her ear in his teeth. The gate was again thrown open, ■ and the cow, shaking her head from the pain of the dog’s rough reminders, was led through it in away that she did not soon forget. Fetch then lay down quiet ly to cool off in time for supper. — St. Nicholat. Hoped So Too. A certain Austin landlord is a very diffusive sort of a man, much given to speaking before he thinks. He recently met Professor Snore, his new tenant. “Good morning, Professor ; good morning. Glad to see you looking so well. How do you like the house ?” “Very much, indeed.” “Glad to hear it ; very glad to hear i it '” “Yessir; I like it. I hope to die in the house?’ “I hope so, too. Glad to hear you talk that way.”--Ttaas Siftings. New to Pisciculturists. “Did you catch anything?” asked a friend of Jones, who has been fishing. “I should say I did!” “What?” ’ “Malaria.” -Tid-Bitt.