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REMEMBRANCE. 4 wind-swept moor, and fair pale skies, Sheep on the hills’ soft breast, A thatch-roofed house beyond (he trees, Home that my heart loved best. A boy who pulled the yellow furze, Wanton with sheer delight, Itoaming the heath till dewy eve, From lark's awakening flight. 'Tis half a century ago ! Would gold such peace could buy. The little lad upon the moor, The lark that sang on high. —Pall Mall Gazette. The Fulchritudonium. I suppose you do not know what a pulchritudonium is. Nor did I until quite recently; but I am better in formed now, and, indeed, am quite an authority on the instrument —or imple ment? It was Delia’s inquisitive mind that effected my instruction. Delia reads the newspapers, after a fashion —I should say, after the fashions. And the part of the paper on which her at tention and interest are concentrated contains suitable advertisements to catch the unwary eye. Here it was that she came upon this pulchritudon ium. The pulchritudonium beautifies you; it renders you (according to ad vertisement) proof against increasing years. It keeps the figure fine and the complexion fresh; and it only needs using for ten minutes every day. Al so it only costs—but that is of no con sequence, save that it started the pul chritudonium between Delia and my self. “I suppose you couldn’t let me have a small sum on my week’s check?” in quired Delia affably. I said I thought it might be man aged, and thinking a certain interest edness might be expected of me, asked why. . “Oh, I don’t know,” said Delia cas ually. ‘‘l thought perhaps I might buy—Edward, how do you pronounce pulchritudonium?” She spelled it out from her paper with pains, but I had forgotten what the first part was be fore we reached the end. However, at last we got at it. “It seems a wonderful thing,” she remarked, in a disinterested tone of voice. “What, may I ask, is this wonderful thing?” I inquired, seeing that I was expected to do so. At that, Delia, having achieved her introduction, began to talk glibly and with enthusiasm. , “You" see, dear, it’s on scientific principles, just discovered, and it de velops you all over just properly, and no more. It gets riA of all super fluous fat, you know and makes you a perfect figure, besides sending the blood through the body and maintain ing a perfect complexion by means of circulation. Oh, here it is. This is what it says.” She had been hastily turning over the paper in search of the advertisement, and she now be gan to read impressively. “ ‘Beauty and symmetry are dependent upon the proper adjustment of the internal and external forces in an organism. If this adjustment he obtained, beauty naturally follows. In the case of the human being, nature has so arranged it that a nice balance between the muscles, nerves and ligaments’ ”—De lia stumbled over that —“ ‘of the body secures the desired effect. This is obtained by suitable exercise, and this is the purpose for which the pulchri tudonium was designed. No woman need despair of acquiring grace and lissomeness if she will systemmatie ally use the pulchritudonium.’ ” Delia ceased, and looked at me eag erly. Perhaps it was not a case for frankness, but I distrusted that show of false science. “I do not think it would be any use at all,” I said. Delia put down the paper suddenly, and rose. “I see,” she said coldly. “You don’t mind my growing fat. You would like me Jo grow stout and lose my figure.” I explained that I was only question ing the adequacy of the pulchritudon ium to permit such a thing; at which she relaxed. “But ever so many people have used it, and testify to its advantages,” she protested. “There’s a whole list of names here.” “There always will be geese for quacks,” I said, adding “I mean ducks, of course.” “I haven’t the faintest idea what you do mean,” said Delia loftily, “and I think that that cynical way you’ve got into is simply beastly. I suppose you think it’s becoming, but it isn’t. It’s only vulgar.” “All right,” said I, cheerfully. “If ynu think the pulch?what’s-it’s-name will make you more becoming, by all means have it.” Now I had conceded the point, and Delia had got what she wanted; and she ought to have been satisfied. But she was not. She did not even thank mg. * “You used to admire me once,” she said, after a pause. “I know I did, my dear,” I said lightly. “Why shouldn’t I?” “Os course,” she said rather warm- ly, “if you think I’m not becoming, and that I’m getting too stout, please say so at once, and let me know. I al ways like to know the truth, however unpleasant.” “Great Scot!” I protested at this re markable instance of feminine perver sity. “You wanted the thing for that very reason, and I said you could have it.” “I didn’t like your tone,” said Delia, face to face with her own inconsis tency, and somewhat primly she left the room, still without a word of thanks. However, she bought the pulchritu donium, and it began at once to figura in our lives. It was for use before breakfast, and it had to be nailed to a wall. Delia had it nailed to her bedroom door, where she was using it, it resisted the efforts of any of her family to enter. It consisted of cords and pieces of wood to hold by, and when Delia was at work in her airy morning costume she looked like a dangerous Amazon. She stood upright with a set expression on her face, then suddenly plunged out at you with fe rocity, stopped, made a sally in an other direction, recovered herself, and then dived for her toes. It was an in teresting but alarming performance. The first time she went through it in strict privacy, but after one or two trials she got confidence, and invited me to witness it. It was unfortunate that the nails should have given on that particular occasion, because it was, as I have said, interesting, and I should like to have seen more of it. But Delia was so strenuous and fierce that they aid give, and she went into the cold tub which she had already used some time before. As I picked her out I comforted her with the thought that it was a good thing she had not been fully dressed, but she was very cross, and seemed to think it w’as my fault. “You ought to have tested them,” she told me, as she wrung out her gar ments; and when I asked if she were going to resume she called me horrid, and told me to go. Nothing daunted, Delia went on with her exercises next morning, (the nails having been replaced), but I was not admitted. From time to time all that week I heard the door of her room going, as it creaked and rattled and groaned behind her exertions. Once in passing on the landing I gathered that our rattu*- deaf cook, mistaking the groaning, no doubt for a permissable answer to her knock, had opened the door and caused a mishap. I heard Delia’s voice crossly. “The door —my leg,” and on that cook’s “Yes’m, the leg has just come.” On another occasion the shrill screams of our pug summoned me in hot haste and soma anxiety to the up per regions, when I found he had been indistreetly curious enough to venture too close to his mistress in the abandon of her exercitations. The result was a severe blow on what ought to have been his nose. But the work was kept up with ruthless conscientiousness, and at the end of a fortnight I was once more called in, not this time to watch, but to report on results. It was at once obvious to me that reports were ex pected to be favorable. “Do you know, Edward, that my waist is distinctly smaller?” I was told triumphantly. “My dress is quite loose.” I did not see the object of having a loose dress, but I didn’t dare to say so. “Feel my muscles,” she urged. I felt her beautifully rounded arm, but frankly I did not feel for muscles. 'Don't you think they’ve improved?” she asked, observing them critically. “Much,” said I, in a cowardly man ner. She cast a glance of suspicion at me, but my face was very serious. “Much!” she repeated coldly, “I sup pose you thought me skinny before.” “Oh, dear no,” said I hastily. “I thought you were perfection.” She looked mollified. “Then I could not have improved much,” she re marked. “Well, a little is a lot in the case of beauty,” I explained. She was still contemplating herself in the glass. “I can distinctly see signs of improvement,” she said. “You see, as they say in the advertisement, it fills you out where you ought to be filled, and it takes you down where you oughtn’t to be filled out.” “Yes, it’s a wonderful thing,” I agreed. “Where do you think it’s affected me most?” she inquired. “Well, from the necessarily limited nature of my inspection, I am hardly in a position to judge,” I said hesitat ingly. “But I should hazard a guess that your complexion had improved most.” “I always had a good complexion, as* you ought to know,” she remarked de cidedly. “I know,” I explained with acidity. “But it’s the exercise that gives you color, perhaps.” Delia was silent, thoughtfully. “Do you mean I’m getting blowzy?” she asked anxiously. “I should just hate to be like a bouncing milkmaid.” “There is no danger of that,” I as sured her; hut I left her peering into the glass. The next morning Delia sought me in my study with a determined expres sion on her face. “Edward,” said she, “I want your honest opinion. “Is the pulchritudonium making my nosa red?” I was tired of the pulchritudonium; but I was very gentle. “Well —er —no,” I said hesitatingly. Delia’s chin stiffened. “Please don’t stammer like that,” she said sharply. “I want a plain answer.”' “No,” I said firmly. She looked at me. “I think I’ll give it up,’ she said next, rather abruptly. “Do,” said I, eagerly. “Frankly. I don’t think it has improved you, be cause it couldn’t improve you.” A charming smile started on Delia’s face. “I’m so glad,” she said eagerly. “I’ll give it up. I never did believe in it. Besides, I never needed it, did it?”—H. B. Mariott Watson in the Sketch. MOTHER TONGUE. Comparison of English Spoken in England and in America. The shafts launched at Henry James during a meeting of the Mod ern Language association of America, at Haverford college, were barbed with wit and not a little justice. They do not, nevertheless, destroy the un fortunate vitality of the contention that the speech of Americans is in ferior to that of Englishmen. It is not a matter cf the compara tive merits of the different English and American standards. In the par ticularities of usuage our own rule is as frequently as not to be preferred. “Different from” is as good as “differ ent to;” “in accord with” as “in ac cord to;” “under the circumstances” as “in the circumstances;” “as soon as he came” as “directly he came.” The Englishman’s failure to distin guish in pronunciation between the verb and the noun “prophecy” is la mentable; his hard “genesis” and his soft “schedule” are, to our ear, an in version of propriety, and his enmity toward the Italian u in “figure” is a national horror. We may say “vanil ler,” but we couldn’t possibly he guil ty of “figger.” But the speech of England is im measurably superior to that of Amer ican gentlemen of the Modern Lan guage association will not deny it —in this—namely, that whereas Ameri cans, even educated Americans, are careless in both grammar and pro nunciation, slip-shod, easy going, and prone to every colloquial short cut, the vast majority of Englishmen speak with precision, according to a well-established national standard. The meat of the matter is in the fact that we of America have no pride in or care for correctness of speech. We never dream of judging a mauls education or culture from the manner in which he speaks. We are not surprised to find the same verbal faults upon the lips of college presi dents, men of letters or of affairs, that we have heard from the un taught. There even lingers among us a suspicion of too great elegance of speech, as if heartiness and vigor should not comport with refinement. And so we go on torturing all for eign ears and wronging our own souls with the drawl, the slur, the clipped syllable, the flattened vowel, the stri dent voice and slovenly enunciation. We snub our labials, we torture our mid-syllables and we massacre our vowels, until in our homes, streets and even lecture halls, churches and theatres, the stately tongue of Shakespeare and Milton is become in glorious, shabby, well-nigh infamous. In England how different is the case. There his manner of speech is an index of a man’s education. Os the unlettered little may be expected, but in the graduate or in the man or woman of respectable breeding a ver bal fault is a social crime. Careless ness is not excused. Vigor is not held to be a thing opposed to accuracy, or power to be necessarily uncouth; on the contrary, a clear head is expected to express itself in correct sentences, cleanly enunicated. It is expected to do so, and it does so —to the pleasure of the listening ear, the delight of the answering mind and the promotion of social understanding, amiability and efficiency. To establish the same happy condi tions in America, it would be neces sary only for the educated to persuade themselves of the desirability of cor rect utterance, and in particular for all such organizations as the Modern Language association to rebuke at every opportunity such pointless pet tifogging pleas as that which formed the climax of one delegate’s address yesterday. “Power is more (sic) to be preferred than (sic) more breed ing.”—Philadelphia Ledger. Shifting the Blame. It is the custom of the Khonds in the Madras Presidency to offer a buf falo in sacrifice in substitution far the human victim, but in doing so they make long apologies to the Deity, explaining that they them selves would willingly make the cus tomary sacrifice, but are prevented by the British government, on whose head they pray that any anger at their neglect of duty may be visited. —Cal- cutta Englishman. The total number of letters, papers, etc., forwarded by post in the German Empire last year was 6,986.000,00 ft. Heredity Sp And Environment 5 ■ { f Acquired Characteristics Only the Heritage | A Previous Environment. A By F. Loco us h, M. D. S MAINTAIN that of all the questions of the present day wait ing to be solved, none is of greater importance to civilization than that of the relative importance of heredity or environ ment in human progress. The theory held by most scien ists —the outcome of Darwin’s theory of natural selection — is that we are it, the grip of heredity from which we cannot escape. It is this aspect of the question which led Prof. Karl Pearson, in his Huxley lecture a short time ago, tq take such a gloomy view of the British race, and it is this which induces so many laymen, as well as physicians, to predict the gradual deterioration of the human race. Believers in the all-powerful influence of heredity fail to see that we have in our own hands the power, through improved environment, to mold for the better our race. They fail to see That acquired characters are inherited, i. e„ that the effects of improved training of the young are in varying degree in herited by the offspring, so that they start in life with better conditions through improved heredity. In considering the question of heredity and environment we should un derstand that there are two and only two factors at work, viz., the organism and the environment. Now, the organism has no inherent power to change it self. It is wholly and solely plastic in the power of environment. As to the part played by the two in organic life, none has ever put the fact more clearly and tersely than Luther Burbank, when he says, “Heredity is the sum of all past environment.” So important is the question that I hold that the man of wealth who devotes a part of his means to a settlement of the question will ever live in memory as one of the greatest benefactors of the human race, when all men and women come to believe that the proper and best training of their children will be for the best, not only for their children, but for the race. When, I say, this fact takes possession of and influences them, then shall we begin to see true progress. Much, I grant, is now being done by other means for race improvement, but these means are only indirect ones; tha working out of progress through improved environment and training will ha the direct means, being based on a fundamental law of nature. P-"'*— ** Give the Farm Boy a Chance t * By W. D. Neale. • IVE the boy on the farm a chance. Don’t make him a slave, Gbut make him your partner. It will pay any father in the long run, and save the boy. Remember, a boy is human and must have incentives to work. He desires to gather some - fruit of his own labor. If he is not permitted to do so the ._ _ work will be obnoxious, because it yields him nothing but what he eats and wears. Give the boy an interest in a calf, pig, horse or crop of corn, and life for him will take on new color, and he will take on new energy. He may not realize a large sum of money in the end, but the pleasure and interest will come in the pursuit rather than the possession. Otherwise, the boy begins to think he’s nothing but a slave to drudge for his parents, and when he is half grown —the very time he heeds the care of a loving mother and the admonition of a wise father —he drifts away from the farm. Then, too, put responsibility on the farm boy and he will not shirk it. He needs to be taught self-reliance. Lot him strike out for himse’f at times by putting in a patch of potatoes or a few acres of corn. This will teach him to depend on his own resources. If his ideas are crude, suggest to him the best plans and methods. He will learn by experience that your opinion is worth more than his. Let him bump up against the business world. He will like it. If he does get cheated in a calf trade or the sale of his crop it will put him on his guard for the next time. Take him to market when you sell your stock. The boy has helped you to fatten them and it is natural that he should want to know what they will weigh and how much they will bring. Give him a chance to figure out the profit. Let your boy go with you when you purchase the farming implements. Ask his advice about them whether you take it or not. If he sees you knock up against the business men he will soon learn how to do the same. Above all, broaden the farm boy intellectually. Don’t starve his mind, es pecially if he is eager for knowledge. Give him all the schooling you can. if that isn’t much, then put good books and papers in his way. Encourage him to read your farm journals, weekly and religious papers. If he’s got anything behind him, he’ll make a man. I Should Short Stories j k Have Introductions? By Henry M. JHden. **J\r~***J\r~*s Mmmmmm* AKING due allowance for the delightful relaxations of prose, and conceding that the imaginative appeal of the artist is M through indirection rather than by the straight and narrow way, it yet remains true that all circumlocuton is a mistake and is abhorrent to genius. Hence it usually happens that the poorer the story is, the longer and more irrelevant the introduction, which at its best is a senseless traditional rite handed down to us from a cruder period of the art. Good writers dispense with the rite altogether. We all remember the old conventional formula: “We were sitting around the camp-fire,” or perhaps it was “by the fireside.” In either case, the circum stance, which had no relation whatever to the story, was irresistibly seductive to the feeble imagination of the narrator, and we were treated to all the ac cessories—what kind of a night it was, the individual characteristics of each of the group of listeners, as fondly and elaboraetly described as if they were the actors in the indefinitely postponed drama; then, perhaps, a little conver sation, and, more than likely, a few stories leading up—if they so happened to —to the one almost hopelessly-deferred. We use the past tense, but the ed itor comes upon this sort of thing every day, though his readers are spared the infliction. —Harper’s Magazine. The Fault of the Clock. Pat and Mike were playing a game j of cards in a saloon, and Pat kept [ looking at the clock. Mike said, “And faith ,what are you looking at the clock for?” “Every time that clock ticks,” Pat replied, “J. D. Rockefel ler makes ?10.” Mike dropped his cards and jumped on the table. “What in faith are you going to do?” asked Pat. “I am going to stop the clock,” answered Mike. —Daily Tele graph. The clock at the entrance to Lord j Ellesmere’s estate at Worsley strikes thirteen at one o’clock. The Shrewd Son. “Here!” roared the old lawyer to | his son, studying law with him, “you told me you had read this work on Evidence, and yet the leaves are not cut.” “Used X-rays,” yawned the versa tile son; and the father chuckled with delight as he thought what a lawyer the boy would make. —Punch. Fearing that he would be punished for spending 7 pence on sweets instead jof buying fruit for his mother, a | schoolboy at Adorf. Saxony, threw himself in front of a train and was killed.