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TWO CLASSES.
There are two kinds of people on earth
today.
Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.
Not the sinner and saint, for ’tis well un
derstood
The good art half had, and the had are half
good.
Not the rich and the poor, for to count a
man's wealth
You must iirst. know the state of his con
science and health.
Not the humble and proud, for in life’s
little span.
Who puts on vain airs is not counted a
man.
Not the happy ar.d sad, for the swift-flying
yea rs
Bring each man his laughter and each man
his tears.
i * %
| Ufye New " Bullocky.” |
4.
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| A Tasmania Story. |
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‘‘l dinna want a wood-cutter,” said
Moffat. "An I dinna want a shoe
inan. An’ I dinna want a cook —”
“You want a bullocky?”
“Aye. But I hire men tae drive
ma bullocks, an’ no’ half-baked boy.
I dinnnh give such-like tibets tae new
chums.”
“Never asked you to,” said Tony,
hotly.
“I’ve driven a twenty-team on the
Murrumbidgee heaps of times ’
“Harnessed tae a go-cart wi you
tied intae it?”
“Harnessed to a threshing-plant
with three rivers to ford, anti the fire
box alight all the time,” said Tony.
Moffat looked straight at him. Tony
was the slim-run, light-built Austral
ian breed that grows pluck first and
last and in between, and muscle wv.cn
it has time. Tony had not much mus
cle as yet.
Moffat rubbed hi:; nose slowly. “I'll
tak ye,’ he said. “Ma men air gey
rough oot at the camp; hut 1 jalouse
ye hae a tongue tae hauld ye safe. Y'e 11
need it. Weel; 11l send oopward by
ye tae Robinson. D’ye Ken the way?
!!Up to Tregelian’s Gap, round the
ironstone shoulder, and follow your
nose till you strike the tramline.”
Moffat grinned. “Ye has came wi’
ye’re lessen weel conned. Y’e’ll dae * *
Aye; I’ll send Robinson a screed, an’
ye’ll git oop theer afore the nicht.
Tony had tramped eight miles along
the Western Tiers tand these hold
some of the roughest country in las
•. - He. tr.' ; i; : y£.d , : l*u
more before he sighted the logging
camp, sunk deep in great green shad
ows of heavy bush, and flooded with
scarlet of the after-glow that sifted
through the half-cleared gun-*crub.
Twenty men loafed, smoking, about
the Jong hut made of unsqnared tree
trunks. Tony walked straight into the
midst of them, and handed over his
letter to a red-bearded, hawk-eyed
man who carried himself as one in
authority. Robinson tore open the
envelope, grinning.
“What yer wantin’, sonny?” he said. j
He read the note through. Then he
sat down on the chopping-block.
“Well, I am blest,” he said. “Is old ;
Moffat gone off his chump?” Tony’s j
neck and ears burnt, but he stood the j
volley of stares unflinchingly. “1 had j
a look at the bullocks as I came
through the clearing,” he said.
“They’re not a bad lot; but you ought
to have more sense than to keep that
aged brute with the twisted horn and
the swelled nearfore. He’s got a tem
per, I’ll bet.”
A low-browed, bull-necked man
looked up. “Where did Moffat pick
up that kid?” he demanded. “It tuk
us all o’ ten months ter find out what
Buster cud do when he liked.”
“The kid’s a bullocky like yerself,”
said Robinson, dryly. “Moffat sent
him up ter take Cobham’s place. He’ll
run on the lines with you, Jake.” Jake
heaved his huge bulk upright. But
the blare of a great cow-bell in the
cook’s two hands broke Jake’s words,
and the men poured headlong into the
hut.
Under the rattle of tin plates and
pannikins, the shouts for tea and milk, j
and the rough chaff that flew broad- j
cast down the length of the unplaned ;
table, Tony found a place on a form, j
and stared round. The smell of the |
clean peppermint wood and the wat
tle was in the very breath of the room,
and the gum of uleeding trees was oa
the hair of the men’s necks and arms.
Tony hugged himself and his eyes
shone. By the movements hazy
through the steam from pannikins and
hot meats; by the great ripping mus
cles, and the great roars of laughter,
he knew that he had come to hold his
own amongst men.
Bullock driving is done by the
swing of a twenty-foot whip, and the
tones of the voice. There are no reins
and just a little more harness. A bul
lock team can tangle itself more- ef
ficiently than a kitten with a skein of
wool when it likes; and it is not so
easily picked up and straightened.
Tony knew all this. But he had the
love for animals which is really gen
ius, and the cool head which is the
most valuable asset of the man who
would work amongst them. He saw
No, the two kinds of people on earth I
mean,
Are the people who lift and the people who
lean.
Wherever you go, you will find the world's
masses
Are always divided in just these two
classes.
And oddly enough, you will find, too, I
ween.
There is only one lifter to twenty who lean.
In which class are you? Are you easing
the load
Os overtaxed lifters who toil down the
road V
Or are you a leaner who lets others bear
Your portion of labor and worry and care?
-—Ella Wheeler Wilcox, in Harper's Weekly.
just when to strike for present victory.
Three days Tony drove his team
down the ten miles of tram-line to
the mill. By that date he knew each
animal by name, and he knew their
characteristics. And they knew him
as animals do know the human who
loves .them. On the fourth morning
Buster was sulky, fie did not obey
the wall-eyed old leader who rounded
the mob at daybreak, and Tony had to
go cut for him with whip. He c-ame,
dropping saliva from his jaws,
and stood four square and unmoving,
as Tony yoked up. Then lie flung him
self straightway, and it took six men
to bring him up again. Robinson was
angry, fer Jake was grinning. “You
get away, Jake,” he said. “The lad’ll
want room s’posin’ they starts goin'.”
When Jake had .creaked off through
the faint light Robinson said; “Yer
goin’ to leave a pair be'ind terday,
Tony.” “D‘ you think I’m going to
leave my head?” retorted Tony, crisp
ly-
“ Couldn’t say. But—” “Then you
needn’t think I’ll leave Buster.” Tony’s
eyes were burning. “I’m not going to
be bested by any brute that chooses
to play up with me. He’ll have to go;
and I'll make him put his back into it,
or I’ll know why. Stand clear there,
you fellows.”
Tony knew that he was on his trial
before the whole camp, with a thous
and pounds’ worth of bullocks to his
care, and danger waiting at each turn
of the track.
Buster crawled sulkily over the
rough' where"life grfcdfT wi~
level, and the weight of the heavily
laden truck steadied him. Tony
watched, light-lipped, for the steep
downward pinched beyond, grinding
down the brakes as firmly as he dared,
until the screech of the wooden tram
lines under the wooden wheels shut
out all the merry music of the bush.
Tony’s hands were yet stiff on the
whip, and the chains chilled him as he
took the rear ones up two links at
| the foot of the grade. They had come
I down faster than he liked to remem
j ber. and he felt sick somewhere when
he thought of the meaning of a false
| step. “An’ very certainly there'll be
a false step ’fore long. Buster’s mak
| ing pace to blow the lot of ’em.”
With a quick, clumsy “clack-clack”
they rounded the cutting above the
Black Whirlpool, with Tony walking
partly on air and partly on any stray
scrub root available, and holding him
self ever beside Buster, alert-eyed and
quick-tongued. Below the water was
white foam and black ink, and gray as
death. Tony looked down only once.
He had walked between the lines until
this day. Over a frail bridge they
creaked; through a swamp where the
rails were greasy with slime, and
Tony ran, half-bent, sanding the track
to give grip.
At a pool beyond Buster desired to
drink. Tony objected, and then came
the trouble. From sulkiness the brute
grew to stubbornness. Finally he stuck
in his toes, and refused movement -of
any kind. Tony tried art, persuasion,
and the merciful lash of the whip.
Buster stood firm; his great head low,
| his little eyes half shut. Then Tony
| sat down in the narrow gut between
J the line and the chalky cliffs, and
| wiped the sweat off his face and neck.
“You’ll get sick of that presently,
my friend,” he said. “And then I’ll
take it out of you.”
The day was very hot among the
tail trees —hotter than it should ba
for the time of year. There was a new
tang in the air, Tony flung up his head
and sniffed. Then he came to his feet
with horror wide in his eyes. To right
of the line the sky was smeared red,
and red glinted in the top-most gum
leaves.
“Fire!” said Tony in his throat, and
gripped his whip, bringing the but
down on Buster’s quarter. The bul
locks snorted, thrusting their heads
forward with the sudden strange moan
ing that hurts the heart of those that
love them. Tony’s eyes blinded for a
moment. “We’ve got to go through
with it, old boys—if we can. But I’m
not going to leave you. And there’s \
no turning back. Buster—if I get you
started —”
Here Tony did a cruel thing. He
took the sharp-pointed bar used for
levering and other necessities, roused
up the rest of the team, and jabbed
Buster savagely in the tenderest por
tions of his toughened body.
As Euster jumped forward Tony
dropped the bar and swung to the
yoke, thereby saving an upset by the
last inch of his weight. Then the
team thundered down the narrow
track, wailed “in by tangled under
scrub and tall trees with ridden rot
tenness of foothold, and creeks to
make all thought of escape impossible.
A smother of smoke belched suddenly
through the bush, smarting- Tony’s
eyes, and bringing his heart to his
lips. It lifted, and he saw underneath
one pillar of scarlet that seemed to hit
the sky. Then came the cruel noise of
it, and heat that make the bullocks
drip from flank to shoulder.
“This is going to be a close thing,”
said Tony. “Must cast off the track if
we' want to get through.” He let them
peit full speed up the next rise. On
the top even Buster was blown,-and in
the minute’s wait he slung apart the
hooks, and the truck ran back to the
bottom to upset there with a crash.
Buster shook his shaggy head slow
ly. Then he pitched forward with a
grunt, making the pace unweariedly.
Tony’s mouth grinned, though his eyes
were anxious. He knew that Buster
thought he was doing unlawful deeds
by trotting where the rule was a care
ful walk.
On the next siding the windward
bush fell away, and Tony saw some
thing that made him giddy. All the
country that spreads from TregellaVs
Gap far north to the Ironstone Moun
tains was under fire, deep in the ferny
gullies, livid in the sunliglit on the
faces, blood-crimson where it ran
along the half-naked ranges. Fire!
The crudest, grandest thing on earth;
a bush fire in heavy timber. It was
glorious, and powerful, and terrible
beyond words.
Tony’s face was white under the
healthy red that painted everything,
and the corner of his lip bled where
his teeth had met in it. He trotted
beside his team, sweating and breath
less, and with a heartache of pity for
the frightened wild things that passed
him. And still the team slung heav
ily forward, with the dogged Buster
to force them.
The road and the volleys of smoke
filled earth and sky. A spark from
somewhere hit Tony’s hand, and the
breath of flames fluttered in the leaves
close beside. Tony prayed only that
the fire might strike behind first. With
that goad to drive them the team
might get through. A honey-suekle
ahead flushed, quivered, and broke in
to flame. Tony felt the pull-back of
the great. and his heart
Thumped untiTTt snook him. *
“Buster!” he yelled, and swung up
the bar again.
Buster charged in fury, bearing the
team along by his impetus. The
honeysuckle linked hands with a tree |
across the line, and dropped sparks j
on them as they passed under. Tony
beat the sparks out. But others came,
fiercer, nearer; more often. Tony’s
hands blistered; the heated chains
seared the flesh as the bullocks sway
ed and staggered; the hurry of the
fire grew more insistent, and the lick
of the flames strengthened. Tony had
neither speech nor power left. Only
he knew that he must drive his team
forward—forward —until the river
should make the right flank of the
track and told the fire off by its width.
Five times the beasts would have,
stopped. Five times the unbroken
strength of Buster bore them on. Tony
saw by the madness in his eyes that
there would be danger to the man who
tried to stop him, and he grinned with
stiff lips.
“Good for me I took you, you old
savage,” he said.
*******
That evening Jake, his eyes sore
with watching the fury of the fire that
had passed two miles off, said to the
group about him:
“Seems like Moffat’l! hev ter git an
other bullocky an’ another team,” he
said. “There ain’t must as ’ud be like
ly to come alive outer that.”
The slow clank of chains came up
the one street, and the dry clack of
split hoofs. The whole crowd came
out to see eighteen bullocks crawl up
to the door and stand, leaning each on
the other. Jake gasped.
“Tony’s lot,” he said. “My sakes!
Tony’s lot! But where is the kid?”
Something stumbled out of the dark
that smelt of burnt flesh and singed
hair.
“I lost the leading couple,”- said
Tony, in a voice that no man knew.
“The smoke smothered them, I think.
Buster pulled the others through.
Don’t unyoke him, you chaps. He’s
got enough left in him to poke a
hole through you yet. I told you he
was a ‘dinny-aiser.’ ”
Then he pitched forward at Jake's
feet in a dead faint. They picked him
gently up.
“I reckon Buster ain’t the only
dinny-aiser in this lot,” he said.—
Y’oursg England.
High Life.
Knicker —What will become of their
children?
Bocker —They will be taken from the I
servants of the father and brought up j
by the servants of the mother.—New '
York Sun.
The “Rule of Three.”
This “Ilule of Three”—it puzzles me
From morning until night,
And never I exnect to see
A boy who wwks it right!
My teacher told the class today
That I could » ! tand the test
Os ciphering, and he must say
My sums were done the best.
And so it is not at my school,
But here at home, you know.
I find that hard perplexing Rule
Which plagues and frets me so.
For Auntie, Grandpapa and Nurse
Each make a “Rule” for me—
Now tell me, pray, what could be worse
Than this hard ''Rule of Three!”
Zilelia Cocke, in Little Folks.
The Washbear.
“Come, children, time for breakfast,”
called Madam W T ashbear, climbing out
of the hollow tree where she and her
two sons had slept all day. The moon
was just rising as they entered Far
mer Brown’s cornfield. Each helped
himself to a couple of ears, and then
hurried off to the brook. There Moth
er Coon showed the boys how to
shake the corn vigorously in the water
and pat it between their paws. “It
tastes so much nicer,” she said. —Hol-
iday Magazine.
Chickaree.
“Ah, ha!” chuckled Chickaree to
himself as he watched the blue-jay
putting his acorns into storage for the
winter. “I shall know where to go
when I an hungry. Now I’ll just run
up the hickory tree and take soma
supper.” Seating himself where two
I branches met, he plucked a nut, turn
ed it twice, and peeled off the outer
green covering. One more turn and
he knew whether it was good or not.
.What a keen-witted little fellow he
was! He is now filling cupboards with
chestnuts and hickories, but he is j
likely to go to bed supperless many a !
night before the spring buds swell.—
M. W. Leighton, in Holiday Maga
zine.
When to Cry.
There are millions of little boys and J
girls in the world who want to do j
just the right thing and the very best j
thing. But they do not always know i
what just tire right thing is, and some- 1
times they cannot tell the very best
from the very worst thing.
Now 1 have often'thought that there
are little boys and girls who cry, now
and then, at the wrong time; and I
hffve asked many of the older people,
but none of them could tell me the
i best time to cry.
But the other day I met a man older
and wiser than any of the rest. He
was very old and very wise, and he
told me:
“It is bad luck to cry on Monday.
“To cry on Tuesday makes red eyes.
“Crying on Wednesday is bad for
children’s heads and for the heads of
older people.
“It is said that, if a child begins to
cry on Thursday, he will find it hard
to stop.
“It is not best for children to cry
on Friday. It makes them unhappy.
“Never cry on Saturday. It is too
busy a day.
“Tears shed on Sunday are salt and
bitter.
“Children should on no account cry :
at night. The nights are for sleep.
“They may cry whenever else they i
please, but not at any of these times, !
unless it is for something serious.” |
I wrote down the rules just as the
i old man gave them to me. Os course
| they will be of no use to boys and
girls who are past six, for those chil
dren do not cry. The wise man meant
them for the little ones—the millions
of little boys and girls who want to do
the right thing and the very best
thing—Mary Elizabeth Stone, in St.
Nicholas.
Tame Otters.
The otter, says the London Daily
Graphic, requires to be taken young if
it is to be properly domesticated, and
some of the most successful experi
ments have been those wade with
baby otters which had to be brought |
|up with a feeding bottle. The late !
| Captain F. H. Salvin had an otter j
w'hich was trained to fish for his !
amusement, and the late Mr. Duff As- i
sheton Smith had one at Vaynol that !
would follow' him like a dog, and hunt
for trout along a stream as keenly as
any terrier after water rats.
Mr. S. J. Hurley, of Killaloe, has
trained many otters, and has publish
ed a very' interesting account of them.
On one occasion he w r as going out ’
snipe shooting, when, his water span- !
iel being laid up, it occurred to him |
I to take his tame otter to the snipe j
j marsh to see how' it would behave j
No spaniel, he says, could have per- j
formed better. She put up the snipe j
splendidly, and retrieved any birds !
that fell into the big pools or bog !
I holes. This otter possessed an almost
j epicurean sense of taste, and when I
i her master would place before her I -
five fish of different species she used !
invariably to tackle the eel first, then
the salmon fry, next the trout, then
the perch, and last of all the roach,
A few years ago there appeared in
the “Animal World” (March, 1896) a
very pleasing story of a tame otter
called “Mousie,” belonging to Mrs. E.
L. Boucher, whose portrait, with that
of her pet, appeared as an illustration
to the article. This animal had been
brought up from Infancy with a feed
ing bottle, and amply repaid the trou
ble bestowed in taming her. In one
respect she differed from those above
mentioned. In spite of the natural love
of fish, she could not be induced to
fetch a living one out of the water,
even if it were only a foot deep, and
it seemed as if cultivation had de
prived the little creature of the facul
ty of obtaining her food in the nat
ural way.
Mrs. Boucher tells a touching story
of her attempt to overcome this natur
ad antipathy to water.
“In a neighboring wood I had dis
covered a small brook containing no
end of small fishes. I rejoiced before
hand in the pleasure I should give her,
and was full of expectation. From a
plank that crossed the brook I dropped
her gently into the water; but no
sooner did ‘Mousie’ realize her posi
tion than she raised a miserable cry
for help, lifted both her arms toward
me like a drowning child, without
making any attempt to swim toward
the bank, or taking the slightest no
tice of the fishes round her. There
was no choice for me but to help her
out of the water once, and as soon
as I had lifted her up she nestled, wet
as she was, round my neck, and seem
ed to teil me in low wails of the dread
ful danger from which she had es
caped.”
This serves to show how dependent
young animals are on the teaching
of their parents.
Toys.
To tell the whole story of the art
of making toys, it would neces
sary to find some means of exploring
the ages that antedate history. The
love of toys is as instinctive as it is
universal. No barbarous land has
j yet been found which was so unciviiiz
j ed that its children did not have their
playthings, shapeless and clumsy, per
haps, but still capable of fulfilling the
purpose for which they were created;
and there is no record of any time
when little ones have not possessed
some kind of puppets with which
they might divert themselves. Arch
aeologists, in delving among the
tombs of ancient Greece and Egypt,
made the surprising discovery that
the art of toy-making was not only
known, but had attained a high de
gree) of development as far back as
five thousand years ago. In those
| days both Grecian and Egyptian chil-
I dren had their dolls, and they were
| jointed dolls at that. As compared
. with the magnificently attired French
•I conceptions of the year 1905, they
were crude inventions, of course. Their
i bodies were made of wood, of clay, or
; of stone, and their little limbs were
wee laths, fastened to the body by
means of a ware. The carving of the
bodies, however, was not badly done,
and many a child since that time has
been glad to mother a more unsightly
doll.
By the side of the dolls of the chil
dren of ancient Egypt the archaeolo
gists unearthed other playthings which
j children still love to possess,—the
! deli’s furniture, the utensils for cook
j ing, and, w'hat is even more interest
■ ing from an antiquarian’s point of
j view', the articles used in the making
|of sacrifices, cleverly duplicated in
miniature, that the children might be
| able to conduct their dolls through
j the ritual of their religious exercises—
j a circumstance that suggests that the
j word “sacrilege” had not then the
same meaning which it has today.
It is a long step from the year 3000
B. C. to the fifteenth or sixteenth cen
turies, but it was within that time that
the art of toy-making was both
brought to a high state of perfection
and then once more forgotten. Like
other art, it could not survive the ne
glect and vandalism of that period
known as the “Dark Ages.” Just what
j the children used for playthings dur
ing these long centuries of darkness
and ignorance one can only surmise;
but it is safe to say that they found
some things to play with, not only be
cause the making of toys was one of
| the first objects to which man devoted
| his attentions when the Renaissance,
! but aiso for the reason that, as the
i psychologists have recently taught us,
| playthings are, and always have been,
quite as necessary a constituent of
human health and development as
food and medicine. In other words,
children crave toys because it is natur
al for them to want them. They need
then, and to deprive them of these
pleasures would be to retard their
progress in their work of becoming
men and women. —Public Opinion.
Honi Soit.
“There’s no usp talking,” sighed the
young man who had received a note
telling him that it could never be;
there’s no use talking, you can't tell
anything about women.”
“You shouldn’t tell anything about
them,” replied the gray-bearded phil
osopher, wagging his head sagely.—
Judge.