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Show THE “Since the printing of that article in the daily papers, it would be for her to earn her own living as adomestic, she may even nov be i homeless “OQ William!” she cried, “strew not bloswanderer this bleak night. I am not soms of spring, here to denounce either of you. I pity For the new apparatus may rust; you both, God knows; but am here to But say that a handful of shavings you'll find and carefor her; and if you know bring. anything that might aid me in my And linger to see me combust. » search, tell me; for while you and I stand by this bright fire, sheltered from | “Oh, promise me, love, by the fire hole “Don’t you stir,” he says. He descends, unhitches the horses, finds twigs, builds a fire, goes to the nearest farm house for water, and comes back with a full kettle, which he suspends over the blaze by a couple of crooked sticks. Soon thesmell of sizzling bacon and boiling coffee be- the storm she may be perishing.” goes to “T supposed she you, as she took you'll watch; | And would go straight to nothing with her but window. “T was just reflecting woman who we follows daughter could learn the “Then promise me, love”—and her voice fainter grew— “While this body of mine ealcifies, You will stand just as near as you can to our men, I, her father, which truth should the flue And gaze while my gases arise.” London Figaro. > MARKS ON THE PRAIRIE. my have told Roving one day over the western prairie I came on a deserted “dugout.” Near it lay a rusty old tea kettle,a horse’s John Smith followed his visitor to the skull and a baby’s shoe. Their story? This: Shah Barly morning, a May morning in night where his horse impatiently pawed the snow. As Col. Grey laid his hand upon the » bridle rein, a form glided from the window and a hand was laid upon his arm. Kansas. He swung himself into his saddle and, stooping, lifted the childish, drooping a seat before him, and Col. : | to the was allnew. Heretofore version that “the King can do no wrong.” as ig experienced when the student is first requested to plunge cold steel into the corpse on the desecting table. His conscience arraigned him and his reason judged him guilty: and come what may of joy or.sorrow, through all the coming years, the wraith of this betrayed coniidence and murdered faith and trust will ‘hover over him. He Harned His Breakfast, A dirty tramp called at the house of a Bethlehem widow, living alone, about seven o’clock in the morning and offered to saw wood in return The woman eyed for him a_ breakfast. suspiciously. “Are ye hungry?” she asked. “Yessum, hungrier nor a bear,” “Well, yecan guess.” have yer meal He was givena bountiful its conclusion the tramp arose up his ugly looking bludgeon. my eyes wide open tight,” h> ning, “and if Ifind a manas saw wood fer his breakfast, I’ll -first mea?. At and took “I’ll keep said,grinwants ter give him yer address.” her eggs The in mist gleam and glow. Behold, the promise is fulfilled! Up rises a golden line which fire, shuddering siezed him, such His Then he lays the wife child gently down; alights. He aotices that she is white. “Air you sick?” he asks, quickly. . “No, no,” she murmurs. But quite suddenly she swaysand falls forward into his arms. The journey, the rough, strange life, the variable weather, the exposure, all have been too much, he de- cides, for one delicately reared as siacWhen she revives he insists they shall proceed no farther for afew days,perhaps not for afew weeks. About fifty yards from the road is a little deserted “dugout.” Some distance from it a new frame house testifies to the prosperity of the former occupants. From them the “campers” obtain permission to take temporary possession of the queer little 3 Then he opened the door and walked out. He had gone but afew steps when he heard the widow’s sharp voice calling a halt. He turned with an oath and saw a gun pointed squarely at him. He came back and sawed not one, but two cords of wood, killed and plucked two chickens, white-washed the hen house and cleaned out the cow stable. It is not expected that ho will repeat the visit in a s hurry.—Albany(Ga.)Press. swells into acurve, a semicircle, a huge, dazzling, blinding ball of flame. Up and up! A thrush from its nest: in a cottonwood lifts its voice in jubilant matins which are chimed in upon by the brisk bravuras of arival robin. Men and horses appear in the fields; plows are hauled out; the work of the day begins. In the phrase of the Kansas farmer, “It is sun-up.” Having lumbered through the tiny it is necessary ars of earth just as when by to descend The walls and floor board dug, or quite plaster. un- The sloping roof is of logs, irregular in shape and length; these covered with sod from the prairie. Here through the changeable weather of May and into warm, beautiful June, live the three, the woman protesting all the time she is strong en u:h to go on, but growing gradually frailer, weaker. A complete contrast she and her husband. He is a tall, brawny handsome young fellow, animated by intense admiration of his wife and gentlest grief is silent, but intense. brand new and stares at the wee waxen thing which woman, crouching on the ground near the dwelling, is the only other mourner. The task done, he goes down into the “dugout,” and comes up again with the little nailed down box in his arms. Tenderly he lowers i"; softly he lets fall upon it each shovelful of earth. He is blind. with tears. Tae fresh brown mound smoothed over, he goes up to his wife. She does not seem to see him. She is looking straight ahead. BOOURVA. 65° “Don’t!” she says savagely. “I’ve I was Hurt. irresolute, he stands goes within and lost dead!” a moment. sits down by The doctor from town speaks hoarsely one word only—her The driver, whose broad back obscures the light of the front arch, turns seat, and glances into gloom of the interior. the in his comparative “How is she, Corry?” The woman solute name. silence for.a he bursts There is ab- little while. within—a young woman with a pretty, pale, sad face—directs his Then out fiercely, passionately: “Why couldn’t you have waited—I did you no wrong! When I left’ you the week before we were to have been married, and went up to the city, I ‘ “Asleep.” write you the was silent till I could tell you all and ask you to forgive me. The recovered, I was discharged. I straight to Vanceton. I heard you married some clod hopping idiot gone away with him.” “He is good!” she says slowly. The other laughs harshly. “And love him, of course!” man went had and “Go!” she cries in weak, womanish fury. “Gol” “Do you love him, Cora?” She is ill, trembling. His brutal insistance forces a reply. She slips down by the “dugout” and cowers there with her face hidden. “Oh, Willie! Oh, Willie!” The tone says all. It is full of love, but love sion, despair. that is only pathos, pasHe turns, walks slowly away across the prairie. He is mechani- cally unhitching his horse when a heavy tread comes toward him. In the clear silverness preceding twilight two men face each other. One speaks calmly: heaven, yes!”’ - Then Dr. Herbert, gentleman and student, drives,back to town, and John Hilton goes to the “dugout”—to his wife. She is still in the same plave, the same position. He gets her hat and. shawl and carefully puts them on her. Then he leaves her awhile and harnesses up the horse. “Come, Corry; I’m agoin’ to drive you into town. ‘There’s goin’ to be a storm. Iseen the clouds to the north tonight. An’ this place leaks dreadful. You must stay at the hotel awhile ef we have to sell the team,” Without a word, stupidly as it seems, she obeys him. Through the délicious June twilight they drive the five miles into town. Once he speaks. trouble. tended I was I was. nosaint. This was got into I never prea drunken Kate An’ I said: “If “Keep and Ted. I dared to do so, ['d lit go uv this baste an’ I’d throw Both arms around your waist, An’ be stalin a taste Uv them lips that are coaxin’ me so.”’ Then she blushed a more illigint red As she said, without raisin’ her head, An’ her eyes lookin’ down ’Neath her lashes so brown, “Would yez like me to drive,Mister Ted?” > you She She is bridge, up a steep bluff worn into deep the bed where the baby has lain. ruts by the daily passage of wagons laden erieving still, then, for the man who with stone to be shipped farther west, failed to come to her the day set for Jilted, deserted, yes! comes slowly and heavily that most their wedding! familiar of western sights, a _ prairie That was why in pique and pride she schooner. Ponderously plod the horses married him, the ignorant gardener of up the ascent; clumsily lurches along the her wealthy uncle and had gone away They had not proslevel attained the great white canvased with him to Iowa. She held no communication wagon. Unlike the ordinary emigrant. pered. This year, after outfit in some respects, this. To be sure with those at home. evidences of habitation lbulge from the their baby came, they deci-ed to seek And now—now interior, and chairs, stove, broom, with fortune further west. various household utensils, are tied on the baby was gone and her new loss had behind. But there are no cows, no dogs, brought back the old one. Hark! A voice speaks without. no scrubby ponies bestridden by bare“Is any one ill here?” There was a legged boys. Of the thousands of wagons which trundle yearly over the [request on my slate—” A cry! Such a queer, wild cry it is western prairies this presents a particularly lonely appearance. Whoever saw that cuts across the stranger’s words. one without children? Children of all The manin the “dugout” leaps to his the woman without. ages, tow headed, brown skinned, healthy, feet, as does the doorway, against the hearty children, including the inevitable Through baby staring solemnly from the clasping patch of sunset sky he can see her standing with arms outflung. mother arms. “Willie!” she cries again; “Willie!” Perhaps you may have seen some day, Roses crowding the selfsame way, Out of a wilding wayside bush. I couldn’t will this!” he says, and gives her the canvas neither eat nor eisep; just sits still as bag containing all their worldly wea‘th. stone in the little “dugout,” and looks At the hotel he procures her a comfor- Then he a months. you marry her?” Quick as a flash comes the reply: “By enter several rough steps. the and tw. truth of the affair. My part in it was too disgraceful. I wouldn’t lie. So I To him—and now it—I wish track quarrel. Ishot aman. I was unknown, and gave a false name. I was held to await the result of his injuries—held “T heard what you said. Answer me this: If she were free tomorrow, would town which lies upon the state line sepaarting Kansas from Nebraska, crossed railway Y. cabin. The whole interior consists of one room, and that room 10 feet by 12. lies therein. So, when her husband rides into town to buy the little coffin, he calls in to‘see the doctor and ask him to come out and visit his wife. At sunset the bluffs. Lighter and brighter it he digs the grave—such a small grave! grows. Fraught with promise is all that All around is isolation, prairie, sky. The he had believed implicitly in the modern A great apparent. wagon. pallid primrose of the eastern sky. And now the vapory veil is quite withdrawn, and all the soft rose fires heralding the king kindle into brilliance behind when he had closed the door behind his visitor, but the fire had lost its warmth. The side of the question which he now contemplated freshness, scent of it being A proud begins to rise. Upward, still higher,ene marvelous scroll it curls, revealing the had found her; and when sh> would have spoken he gently hushed her. In ‘afew minutes the poor, tired child slept, while the powérful horse went on, bearing her backto her childhood’s home. The storm had spent its fury; the black clouds broke and rolled away, and a brilliant moon flashed radiant smiles over the white bejeweled landscape. back cuddling the springing prairie grasses. sufficient to him for the present that he went the devotion to her, but unmistakably her inferior socially and intellectually. She, delicate, dreamy eyed, wrapped up in her baby and her memories to his almost One day the child yest and black cravat pours out a series utter exclusion. Her sf tremulous triple. névés, a roundelay to j sickens, grows violently ill, dies. the little mother head rested onee nidre tipon her father’s breast. He asked no questions; it was Smith appetizingly and prosperous young meadow lark poised upon a fencing post, a ‘spruce young meadow lark in gray coat, yellow He wrapt his great cloak around het and held her ina close embrace. Her John Over all the land asilvery mist a palable dewiness, a delicious the peculiarly rich and subtle freshly turned earth, much of soil “broke” for the first time. “Hather!” she whispered. Grey’s search was over. come concealed door with strange misgivings, and ushered him out into the dark, tempestuous to <<>> —~+ “¢ ¢ about her.” figure some And have a fond eye on the coal. teaching, for we set our heel upon _ her neck, and worse, upon her heart. Good by, and farewell. I suppose it will not be conventional for you and I to be friends, since [ amher father, and you her—injured—husband! I have a great sin to repent of—the sin of meral cowardice. If there was no other way in stokers con- “It would cheer me to know, ere those rude breezes waft My essences far to the pole, That one whom I love will look to the draught, train those delica’»» sensitive beings we call women, and liow sacredly we keep marriage obligations, through gvod aud evil report, till death do us part. Woe to the and And warn them against kerosene. outside the upon how mourners solemn, slow match, younger man, while the older gentleman seemed tc have fallen into a reverie; and for one long minute there was silence, but still they did not hear the stifled sobs of a crouching listener when vene, ‘You will see that they light me - her street wraps and hand bag,” said the > WEEKL attention by a glance to the baby in her lap. He nods—draws up the horses by the side of the road. CREMATION impossible WESTERN Truth An <i> —_ “t in Fiction. Exposition on the Accidents and Essentials of Good Novels. A friend and contributor requests us to answer the following questions on the subject of fiction: “What are the benefits derived from the reading of novels? And what are the distinguishing features, or, in other words, the essentials of good novels?” The questions are put in such a man- ner as to require for a complete answer a somewhat critical exposition. And as asort of limiting topic we will employ a thought of a popular American writer; namely, “The accidents of good novels are fictitious, the essentials are all real.” Everything in the realm of ideas belongs to one or the other of two classes, the true and the false. Truth is of value wherever it may be found. That which is false or unreal is pernicious or at least worthless. Books of every sort, being but the storehouses of ideas, are of value directly which they according contain. to the One’s truth judgment, then, of a book must depend largely ; upon the notion he holds of truth. There exists between all natural things, both of the mental and physical world, an organic relationship, an eternal fitness, Which identifies them with the universe around them. ‘This relationship we shall call truth. It is indeed Nature’s immutable law, and ized in conformity whatever is organtherewith, inherits at once an abiding place among the actable bed, a soothing drink. She falls knowledged realities of life; while that in asleep. Once, twice, thrice, he kisses which it has been ignored must eventher. Then he goes out, climbs up on ually prove itself a counterf eit or a his huge wagon, heads the horses south- phantasm, ward. The storm he prophesied is blowSo far as mind is concerned, the exing up. Lances of lightning stab the pression of a thing is its existence; and darkness. Now and then soundsa faint, if that impression is enduring itis of no distant rumble. A soft, strong wind special moment by what means it was arises. It flaps the loose canvas of the created. Hence, if the mere images of caravan. On theribbed roof the first things are combined in strict accordance heavy drops of rain begin to patter. On. Across the state line, over the railroad track, up the bluff, along the level with Nature’s fitness, the fabri«, for all intellectual purposes is' a fixed reality. —right and the things in fact become cidental accompaniments. stands? along. Is it here the “dugout” The answer. The night lightning wears gives | The on. him storm in- creases in volume. ‘The prairies are rain washed, wind swept. A terrific uproar lasts till dawn. Then the tumult dies down. Peace comes again across the wet, green grass. Warm grows the air. The hum of insects becomes audible and sweet bird songs are everywhere. But what are bird songs to one who sleeps? And surely beis not awake, he who stirless, silent, drenched, lies by the little grave upon the breast of the prairie. Clutched in his hand is something which shines in the sunlight. Come away! Let the thrush and lark and linnet sing never so lowly, sing till their hearts are empty and their full throats voiceless, they cannot waken one quiet sleeper nor change the peaceful current of his dreams! Kare M. Crumary. > Mr. Hankinson The To such novels. An (admirer of Miss linghouse)—How calm and Gar- stately Miss Garlinghouse looks? I think I haye not seen her smile this evening. Miss Kajones (dearest friend of Miss G.)--Yes; Irene has read somewhere that excessive smiling produces wrinkles on the cheeks. Lovely evening, isn’t it, Mr. Hankinson? The Princess Amelia of Bavaria, who house. The duchess is a little, mer- curial woman with a shriveled skin and could never have been at all pretty. She wanted to throw chairs down into the pit of the opera house, and when she was prevented flew into a violent passion. mere ac- fabrications belong good author in collecting his material for a work of fiction may follow manifold parts of his ideal into an or- ganic whole, all discretion on his part is atan end. Of all living things Mother Nature is the architect, and if he would have his product one of these, she must be thesolesupervisor of its construction., His classic allusions and lofty rhetoric’ are but empty words unless she has in- spired them. His heroic men and ad- orable women are as the trappings of the carvers of wood and the hewers of stone, unless she has warmed them with the breath of life. In brief, his contributions are the accidents, hers the essen- tials, his the fiction, hers the reality a living production. of — By way of example, suppose we open random something that people call good; Shakespeare is most available, and tolerably “standard.” The distinguished author might have told us in fulsome phrases that Ferdinand was polite, engaging, an Apollo of grace dnd excellence, of noble birth and honorable distinction, and withala most humane gentleman. He might have said that her went out of her mind the other night in the royal box at the Munich Opera House, is likely to end her days in a mad- become the living things without .estraint th bent of his imagination. But when hecomes to unite the at <a <— relations Miranda race in was all the the ideal _ requisite. of parts of a woman and a queen. When this was said all that the author would have contributed te our conceptions would be mere verbiage. Our impression of thece two famous personages, if indeed we had formed any, would be but the coinage of our own brain instead of the author’s, based upon our individual notions of what constitutes greatness ‘and perfec¢ion in man and woman. It would make |