Pred
Bellefonte, Pa., Jan. 10, 1§96.
WHEN THE MASTER COMES.
BY FANNY ALRICKS SHUGERT.
Slowly the dusky curtains of night
Are silently lifted—softly the light
Is glimmering over the eastern sky,
Brightening dark places where shadows lie;
While the dawn is creeping over the hills,
And the new-born day with rapture thrills
The waking earth, tolife and joy serene,
Comes with noiseless footfall, a guest unseen,
Whispering to man, who fain would flee :
“The Master is come and calleth for thee.”
The reapers sing with a glad refrain,
As they bind the sheaves of ripened grain ;
In the rumble aad stir of the city’s din
The toilers are striving fresh laurels to win;
Each weaving a woof in the noontide hours
Of fancies bright, where no storm-cloud lowers
Ere the brilliaut pictures have faded and flown,
Comes into each circle a guest unknown,
And to one of its numbers sayeth he :
“The Master is come and calleth for thee.”
Twilight is trailing her mantle of gray,
O’er land and sea at the close of day,
For the day is spent, and its burdens of care,
With all by-gone things, oblivion share,
There's a hush in the air that betokens rest
The tired bird seeks his downy nest ;
And man craves repose, for his labe: -is done,
In the tranquil eve comes, unbidden,.one
Who tenderly says: “Weary child, list to me—
“The Master is come and calleth for thee.”
Not with trumpet’s blast, nor with roll of drum,
But unheraled doth the Master come.
From the lowly vale and the mountain tall,
From the humble cot and the stately hall,
From the busy loom and the workshop's glare
From the giddy dance and the house of prayer,
From the battle’s smoke and the ocean’s foam,
From the haunts of vice and the happy home,
From the ice-bound poles and the torrid line,
From the broad plain’s sheen and the gloomy
mine,
From the Bedouin’s tent and the purpled
throne,
From the jungle wild and the desert lone,
From the infant's cradle, the couch of age,
From the peasant’s plow and the desk of
sage— ;
Each answers the summons, and then, alone
He crosses over to realms unknown,
And that voice floats on through eternity ;
“The Master 18 come and calleth for thee.”
FOR CONSCIENCE SAKE.
BY MARTHA MCCULLOCH WILLIAMS.
Mrs. Southall sat upon her back
porch shelling black-eyed pease into a
bright new tin pan upon her lap.
Whenever the bottom of it became well
covered she emptied the shelled pease
into a big wooden tray that sat upon
the floor back of her left hand. At
the right was a big splint basket full
of the long yellow-rod pods, with just
beyond it another in which she cast
handfuls of the snaky bulls. A mat of
honeysuckle curtained the porch so
thickly that only a stray sunbeam got
through it here or there to make a
round yellow blur upon the clean ce-
dar floor. Though it was August, and
all the yard dry as powder, a foot-mat
of plaited cornshucks lay at the porch
-eteps, 80 well worn as to show that use
of it was imperative. The sun full
upon it ; the porch faced south. At
one side a big tawny setter lay lax and
panting, now and again rolling upon
his back, but evidently without energy
tosnap at the flies which tormented
-ayes and nose. .
The house wall was of hewn logs,
with cracks neatly pointed, and white-
washed. The door and windows had
casings of emooth unpainted poplar,
clean as soap, sand, and scouring could
make them. There were two equare
frontirooms, with a passage between.
Tbe porch started at the back door of
it, and ran down the side of the kitch-
en, which was lower than the rest of
the house, and set on to it L fash-
ion.
Mirs.:Southall could look into the
kitchen windows without stirring from
her seat. Just now she had little in-
tention of stirring, despite a strong in-
clination. She was a dumpy, round-
ish women, with no lightnesss of mo-
tion, to whom her filty years bad
brought a greater weight of flesh than
ber frame could graciously bear. Be-
sides, ene foot, swathed in flannels, lay
at ease upon the cricket in front of her.
-A gevere sprain had left her for three
weeks past prisoned within her owa
yard, when she especially wished to be
up and doing.
She had strong homely features un-
der thick shiny ekin. A thatch of stiff
hair barely threaded with gray was
strained back from her narrow bulging
forehead. Her eyes were gray, so
deep-set and intense as to redeem her
face from commongplaceness, while they
accented its lack of charm. She wore
a clean stiff-starched, purple calico
gown, girt about the waist with a
leather belt, over which a scant check
apron was held in place by very nar-
row strings. |
Presently she called through to a
slim girl at work inside. “Ma'y
France, are you ready ter make them
pies?” '
“ "Most, Aunt "Cin ; the dough jus’
needs a little more workin’, a young
woice replied.
At once Mrs. Southall eat more up-
right eaying : “Ma’y Frances how
often must I tell you my name is Lu-
cindy ? Heaven knows 1 wish it
wa'o’t! Ido think my mother might
uv give me a Scripcher name. But
Lueindy Bascom I wus christened in
ter the Methodis’ Church, an’ ter
change hit is sacrilege ; 80 let me hear
no more of yo’ Aunt 'Cins. We've all
got enough original sin about ue, with
out bevin’ any more tacked on to save
yo, breath, - ’
“Yes'm, I'll try. I forgot,” Mary
Frances said, meekly. “But about the
pies ; yo waot apple and grape and
plum, don’t you ? and a peach-cobbler
too 2’ %
“Yes, [ reckon you had better make
a peach-cobbler ; thar ain't nothin’ yo’
uncle Dan’l likes better hot fer dinner.
Av’, Ma'y Frances, in makin’ the oth-
ers, don’t forgit ter make one 0’ each
sort extry deep an’ extry sweet—yo’
uncle Dan’l does hate er po’ pie—an’
mark the crust different, so I can tell
where ter cut him a piece.”
“I'll pinch the others round the
edges and mark his with the fork,”
Mary Frances said, obediently, though
'| a laugh lurked in her eyes. She was
too young, too unformed, to see any-
thing but the humor ot Aunt Lucindy’s
affection for the sulky fellow, at least
fifteen years younger thao herself;
whom she had married in the second
giddinees that is said to visit on single
ladies at forty-five.
Mrs. Southall dropped her eyes a
minute, then raised them to say:
“No, come to think uv it, you’d better
make ’'em all alike—all good; it
won't break us, I reckon, ef sugar is
80 high. You Uncle Dan’l be morti-
fied ter death ef any-body was ter come
ter-morrow an’ he found out thar was
difference in whut wus set befo’ him
an’ them. H’ its mighty high-toned,
you’ uncle Dan’l is. I never fergit how
he set an’ cried—yes, actually tried,
him er man—the first Christmus after
we got married, when every nigger on
the place wus off festivalin,’ an’ I had
ter feed the stock an’ milk an’ keep up
fires—said it hurt 'im so ter gee
his wife doin’ sech. He, poor dear,
tried his best ter help; but Sook cow
kicked him over when he wus
pullin’ the calf erway ; an’ the devil—
yes, the very devil—got in them mules
an' horses ; the’d bat their ears an’
kick the minute he stuck his head in-
side the stable do’. You, uv all
folks, Ma'y Frances, oughter know
how high his feelin’s is ; fer when yo’
par died an’ let’ nothin’ the wide world
but you an’ er passel er debts, you re-
member how he said: ‘Lucindy, I see
the Lord’s hand in this; He don't
mean that you shall be by yo’se’f no
mo’ when business keeps me late in
town, ner that thar sha’n’t be some er
yo’ name ter sing ribble in Ashbury
meetin’-house when bit pleases Him
ter take away yo’ voice.’
“Yes, I remember,” the girl said,
very low, with a sort of catch in the
words. ‘She was a pretty fair creature,
wholesome as the spring, with blue
eyes now dim and wet, hair yellow and
olive looking ag the silk ot young corn
and cheeks as delicately pink as a
fresh-opened wild-rose. She did re-
member only too well the day of des-
olate misery ; back of it the merry,
kindly, easy-going life with the father
who was so unlike his sister. If they
had had but a dinner of herbs, love
and mirth gave sauceand savor to it.
By contrast, she fairly hated the stolid
prosperity, the grinding plenty about
her. She would run away from it out
of hand, only there was Alan—and
hope.
Agifin answer to the feeling that
was not yet conscious thought, a
knock fell on the front door which
stood wide. At once the red setter
gave a sharp sonorous bark that
changed to a howl of welcome as a tall
young fellow came through the pas-
sage with a covered earthen dish in his
out-stretched hand.
“Howdy, howdy—bless my life!
Ma'y Frances, come out yere; here's
Alan Keith come ter see us! Seta
chair fer im, an’ give 'im er fan—that
new turkey-tail one thar by the man-
tel-shelf, an’ er drink er water too. I
know he's hot an’ thirsty. Who's
this fer, Alan—me? Oh, thanky!
It's the beautifulest white honeycomb
that ever I did see,” Mrs. Southall
eaid, volubly, affecting not to notice
how the young folks had reddened at
the touch of hands, nor the tremor in
Alan’s throat as he greeted Ma'y
Frances. Finding the pair speechless,
she went on :
“Take off yo’ apron, Ma'y Frances,
an’ set an’ rest erwhile. Yincey can
tend ter the rest o’ the cookin’.”” Then
to Alan : “I jes had this girl a-mak-
in’ pies. I don’t want ye ter think
I’m ever goin’ ter put drudgery on my
own flesh an’ blood. Ma’y Frances
ain’t all the niece I've get, but I'm
bound ter say she’s the best. Thar
ain’t no sort er work that she can’t do,
an’ aio’t more’n willin’ ter turn ‘er
band to.”
“Do hush, Aunt C—Lucindy, I
mean,” Mary Frances eaid, imploring-
ly. It revolted her unutterably, this
parade of her excellencies to one
whose judgment of her meant all the
world.
He looked over at her with a little
embarrassed smile ; then, seeming to
take courage from her distress, said,
with half a twinkle of the eye :
“I'm mighty glad to near it, Mrs.
Southall. I'm such a lazy fellow my-
self I want to know all the industrious
girls who could take care of me, if I
could persuade them to have me.”
“Oh, so vou are going to turn Mor-
man |” Mary Frances said, laughing.
“Well, if you get about six real smart
wives, maybe you'll live in clover.”
“No; I'll try it with just one,”
Alan retorted.
Mrs. Southall laughed indulgently.
Mary Frances had fetched a spoon, a
china saucer, and a crisp flaky biscuit.
Her aunt was eating bread and honey
with the satisfaction of a child. Be:
tween morsels her eyes went from one
to the other of the young pair in a way
which made it plain that the course of
their true love would run smooth as
she could contrive it. Fidgeting with
ber bit of honeycomb, she said :
“Well, [ ain’t afraid er missin’ my
dinner when I come ter see you, Alan,
vot even ef yo’ wife ain't a great work-
er. With the start you've got—house
an’ land an’ stock—I don't believe you
could fergit how ter work ef you tried
ever 8o hard.”
“You jus’ wait an’ see. I'm gettin’
go triflin I'm a fair field fer missionary
enterprise.” Alan said, with another
laugh. “An’ that reginds me,” he
went on, heedless of the shadow on
Mrs. Southall’s face, “that I came
partly to ask if I mightn’t come back
to-morrow an’ help get you over to
chareh ; it's going to be a great day—
this first Sunday—an’ you know we
can’t possibly do without you in the
choir.”
“Why, I didn’t know I wus seech a
stake in the fence,” Mrs. Southall said |
“I ain’t never done '
her face beaming.
nothin’—only my duty, You know
my grandpaw wus one er the first
stewards when the meetin-house wus |
built, an’ the bishop hisself told me,
when I went up ter Conference last
year, that, that he’d never seen ernoth-
«er class-leader with the power in pr'ar
of Brother Bascom—that’s my father.
An’ ef my poor brother did fall away
from the Methodis' way he staid an
Episcople ter the last. Ma’y Frances
thar wus baptized an infant, the same
as me. Though I know our righteoue-
ness is filthy rags, that works won't
save none uv us no more’n they did
the thief on the cross, I do feel sorter
proud ter think how I an’ my folks
has tried ter do the will er God, not
with eye service as men-pleasers, but
because it wus all done in His sight.”
“You came next to the presidin’
elder ; 'way ahead of the circuit rider ;
we all know that.” Alan eaid, gayly,
“That's why you must be there when
we try the new organ.” :
“The what ?"”
Mrs. Southall sat so npright that the
pan fell out of her lap, sending a fusil-
lade of shelled pease all over the floor.
Her fingers clutched the spoon so hard
the handle beat visibly, the saucer
tilted, to drop honey on her purple
calico front. Her face grew almost as
deeply purple as she reiterated, “The
what ? say that over, Alan, unless
you're jes jokin’.
“There's no joke that I know of;
the church has got an organ; that's
all there is to it.” ~ Alan said, respect:
fully.
“How did it come by it; tell me
that, please ? Thar wasn’t no money
raised, no talk uv it that I ever heard
when I got laid up three weeks back.
Do you mean ter tell me that Asbury
stewards an’ preachers and all have
done this thing underhand without
tellin’ me, that is the mother er the
church ?”
“No, ma’am ; no, indeed ! You see
it's this way ; Somebody gave the or-
gan, All they did was to take it and
be thankful—it was all they could do,”
Alan said, eagerly, intent to explain
away the hurt to sister Southall’s
churchly dignity.
“Who was that ‘somebody ?"’ she
demanded, fiercely.
“What makes you want to know ?”
asked Alan.
=< “Because I'd like ter wring-his neck
ao’ make organ bellows out er him,”
Mre. Southall said, her square jaws
setting hard. “Young man,” she went
on, “I hope you've epoke the truth ;
that you, my church brethren an’ sis
tren, have not been colloguin to trick
me. Twenty years ago they tried--the
same thing, 1fit them, tooth an’ toe-
nail, ag’inst the desecretion er the sanc-
tuary. You don’t remember it. You
warn’t much more’n four then ; but [
beat the organ crowd that I've stood
flat-footed ag’inst ever sence, an’ shall
stand till I die.”
“Why’ Aunt Lucindy, what differ
ence can it make ?"” Mary Frances
broke in. “I'm sure the music will be
better, an’ certainly you believe God
ought to have the very best of every
thing for His house and worship.”
“Don’t talk yo' 'Piecople ways fer
me,” Mrs. Southall said, angrily.
“Child, it ain’t the sound, but the
sperit that is pleasin’ ter our Lord.
You must sing with the soul when you
come up ter the holy place, an’ what
soul, 1'd like ter know, is thar in er
box er wind an’ brass? To my mind
it's a heathen sound, worse'n the
abomination of desolation. I've sung
tribblein Asbury meetin’-house thirty-
five years, but jes as shore as they
keep that thing thar—try ter praise
God by machinery ’stid er the humble
an’ contrite heart, I'll never set foot
thar agin alive, an’ ef they carry me
me in my coffin I'll do my best ter rise
an’ confound ’em,” Mrs. Southall said,
gettin unateadily to her feet and lean-
ing heavily upon the back of her chair.
Mary Frances ran to her side, but was
waved off. For a minute the elderly
woman stood a statue of tremulous
fury, then she bent her gaze full upon
Alan Keith, saying, slowly.
“Alan—I don’t know as you know
anything more’n you've told—but this
I say—it you do know whar that—or-
gan” [gulp over the word] ‘came
trom, 1 want you ter tell them that
sent it never ter come about me no
more. I've no fellowship fer ’em—no
Christain feelin’. Dan’l shall take
our letters at once—we’ll go ter some
little church whar the members don’t
wanter mix fachion with thar religion.
IL comes hard ter leave the place whar
my fathers an’ mothers have set under
the gospel droppin’s—bBut I'll do it
ruther'n ter hear that squakin’ an’
boomin’—ter see the place I love
made er theayter, with the little
preacher fer play-actor. I mistrusted
bim when I found that poetry book in
his saddle-bags ; now he’s showed the
cloven buff‘ an’ all I can do is ter say,
him an’ his organ crowd keep fur
away from me.” :
Young Keith stood up very straight.
“Mrs. Southall,” he said, respectfully,
“I never meant ter tell anybody—it
seemed too like boastin’—I bought the
organ all by myself. I love the sound
ofit; it helps ter take my soul from
earth. Last fall I sowed extra wheat-
a-purpose to make the money, and
from the way it vielded I can’t think
God saw anything wrong in the pur-
pose. g
one—wishin’ I could buy better, the
very best. Now. you say I sha'n't
come here no more. Then I must say
som ethin’ else before I go—"’
“Needn't take the trouble. I know
it ; you want Ma’y Frances; you'll
never git her with my consent. You'd
better go on home an’ quit thinkin’
about her.” Mrs. Southall said, frigid
ly, though curious small tremors ran
through her voice.
Keith turned to Mary Frances and
held out his arms. With a little
shamed cry she slipped within their
clasp, then sprang away, hiding her
face in ber hande. Keith drew them
down tenderly, saying :
“Little girl, you'’il marry me, what-
ever happens?”
“Then she'd better do right off ; she
can't stay here no longer ef that's her
I bought it—it's only a little elbow.
‘all might hear:
purpose,” Mrs. Southall said, her |
lips narrowing to a line.
“The sooner the better for me.”
Keith said. “Get your bonnet, sweet-
heart. My mother is ready and wait-
in’ to welcome her daughter.”
Mary Frances went close to her
aunt put out a timid hand, and said,
softly : “Aunt Lucindy, please— please
—don’t be 80 mad. - Alan didn't know.
He wouldn’t—he couldn’t bave done it
—if—if he had dreamed how you felt
about it. I—I can’t bear to—leave
you—this wav—after you have been
go kind.” ”
“You can stay; but ef you do,
you'll never speak ter him ag'in,”
Mrs. Southall said, nodding her head.
Then, as Mary Frances began to sob,
she broke out wildly :
“Lord God! Father almighty !
What has Thy po’ servant done that
this thing should come upon her?
Haven't I been faithful in season an’
out, goin’ Sundays, rain er shines, ter
Thy po’ temple ter sing Thy praises
an’ raise the tunes? An it seemed
You had give this child ter me that
wus childless. Have I made an idol
of her ? Are vou jealous that I must
lay her on the altar ?*’
“Come away ; we make her worse
by staying,” Alan said, again taking
Mary Frances's hand. The girl made
as if to renew her appeal, but shrank
from the get face and tense gaze that
fronted her. Bending, she laid her
lips lightly to one flaccid hand, then
went alter her lover, who whispered,
exultingly : “We'll have music for
our wedding, dear—an’ ever after, I
hope.”
Mrs. Southall kept her word. No-
body, indeed, who kvew her could
have a doubt that she would. Though
Asbury meeting-house crowned the
hill opposite her home, was in plain
sight of her front gate—she ignored it
utterly. Upon the two Sundays when
there was service there she shut her-
self in-doors to read the Bible and
sing her father's favorite hymns. Up-
on the other two, with her meek hus-
band beside her, she trailed painfully
off to Big1 Rock chapel, a good ten
miles away, where another itinerant
brother dispensed what she esteemed
the sincere milk of the word. The
road ran past the Keith farm, where
Alan and Mary Frances lived and were
happy as the day was long. If by
chance Mrs. Southall encountered
them, she gave them a severely courte-
ous greeting and passed on. She had
hardened at all points; even to Dan-
iel she was now sometimes a pitiless
judge, although he weakened visibly
as the months went by.
He was a gentle easy-natured fellow,
the exact moral complement of his
wife's stern fibre. He had for her an
odd clinging dependent affection,
which she returned with the worship
that is both dower and curse of a nar-
row intense soul. So when, three years
after Mary Frances married, he fell
into a low state, over which the doctor
looked grave and shook his head, it is
not surprising that his wife felt the
solid earth slipping from under her
feet. With all her strength she fought
the thought of loss. Day and night
she watched, tended, soothed him,
bumored sick facies, and sought to
coax him into the expression of his
lightest whim, feeling the while a
hand of lead gripping the heart in her
bosom, Lill not even a suppliant song
could come from her throat.
One Sucday morning early he grew
very restless. ‘You must go to yo’
meetin’ ter-day,” he said. “You've
‘missed three Sundavs runnin’ on’ count
o' me, I tell you I ain’t wath it.
You oughter ter go—you must go. I
sha’n’t bave er minit’s peace unless
you do,"
“But what's ter become of you while
I'm gore ? Dan’l dear, don’t ask it.
It's sinful ter let anything come be-
tween us an’ our-God, an’ I couldn’t
worshp rightly fer thinkin’ of you,”
the wife said, so gently that few who
knew her would have recognized the
tone. The sick man patted her hand
and smiled.
“Oh! Dll do first rate,” he said.
“Jug’ you try it, an’ see ef you doa’t
find me better when you come home.
I'm partly worried over yo' stayin’ in
80 close. Git ready an’ go now, right
off.”
Demur was vain, refusal out of the
question against his weak persistence.
With ber heart in her throat the wife
left him, actually went half-way before
her breaking courage drew her back
to him.
The house stood wide. Within
there was only emptiness. After one
wild look at the vacant bed and chair,
Mrs. Southall turned and ran toward
the church. What instinct guided her
she never knew. At the door she
stopped short, partly that the hated
organ was filling the low building
with throbbing waves of sound, partly
that well in front of the pulpit she saw
her husband propped snug between
Alao and Mary Frances, with a gold-
en-haired toddler upon his knee, who
played decorously with the old man’s
open-faced watch,
As the voluntary ceased, the sing-
ers, the minister even, were constrain- |
ed tosilence. For Mrs. Southall glid-
ed up the aisle to her husband’s side,
knelt a halt-minute in silent prayer,
then dropped into her old seat at his
er face was white, and work-
ing tedfs’ were washing out the hard
brilliance of her eyes. Her husband
drew a little contented sigh, then laid
a hand on hers, saying, weakly, yet so
“So you caught me, Lucindy!
Well, you see, 'twas this way. I've.
been meanin’ all along ter ask you ter
bury me here, an’ let the music play.
I've come ter hear the practisin’ heap
o' times on the sly, Me an’ Danny
here's had good times lis'enin’, I
wanted ter hear it of a Sund’y, so the
golden harps in Parydise wouldn't |
sound 80 strange.” |
“Dan’i Dan’l, you needn't go 'way
ter hear em,” Mrs. Southall sobbed,
clinging fast to his hand. “Stay.
we'll come ev'ry’ Sunday,” she pleaded.
Daniel smiled faintly. For a min-
| ute his eyes closed convulsively, Then
he looked straight into hers and said :
“Lucindy, I’ve been er coward—the
worst sort—but jest erbout this one
thing. 'Twas me put Alan in mind
ter git the machine. Now ye
know the truth. Maybe I can live er
die in peace. I never lied ter ye about
nothin’ else. Ma'y Frances knew it
all the time ; but she give her boy my
name.”
“It’s the best name in the world,”
Mre. Southall said, brokenly gathering
the baby to her breast. Holding him
fast, she turned to face the congrega-
tion, saying : “Brethren an’ sisters,
let me speak truth too. In this time
of trouble I've searched my heart an’
found that what I called zeal fer pure
worship wus mostly mean low-down
jealousy. I'd sung down everybody
fer thirty years, but I knew I couldn't
sing down the organ. I've asked God
ter fergive me. Now I ask you, and
pray that you may do it.”
Everybody said, ‘“Amen."’— Harper's
Weekly. \
An Interesting Letter From the Far
North West.
Deviv's Lake, N. D., Dec. 17, 1895.
. Dear Watchman : 1 thought per-
baps a letter from this part of the great
West would be of interest to some of
your many readers, especially io those
who would like to obtain homes and
farms of their own.
The past year has been a very pros-
perous one, all kinds of erops did very
well. Wheat yielded from twenty to
thirty bushels to the acre, oats from
forty to ninety, barley from forty to
fifty and potatoes from two hundred to
three hundred bushels to the acre. All
other crops in proportion.
There was a large amount of garden-
ing done, and finer crops of onions and
cabbage I never saw. .
Very many settlers have come into
this county in the last year, and next
spring we expect a heavy immigration.
Land has nearly doubled in price since
spring, and is still going upward.
There is still some unimproved farms
for sale, but no improved farms for rent.
We have had a nice winter so far,
ona cold snap in November, no storms,
only about three inches of snow, and
that melted yesterday. All our cattle
are pasturing on the prairie, and the
hogs living fat in the stubble fields.
1 have been asked if the soil here is
as good as it is in Nittany Valley.
Let me reply that every acre in this
township is as rich, deep, black and fer-
tile as the best fields on the Humes’ and
Reynolds’ farms. The land is a rolling
prairie, very easy to cultivate ; one man
and team doing as much work as two
«0ams can do in the East.
I often think of the many men who
are toiling all their lives on rented
farms for a mere living, in Pennsylva-
nia, when the same amount of labor for
ten years in Dakota would make them
independent for life. The man of small
means has a better chance to start here
than in any State I bave ever been in.
Land can be bought on the crop pay-
ment plan ; that is half the crop is paid
in on the purchase price each year, un-
til fully paid. Many men pay for their
farms in two or three year's time, be-
sides having a good living.
This is a splendid cattle, sjog and
chicken country, our thirteen head of
stock have not eaten a ton of hay this
wiater ; butter is twenty cents a pound,
eggs twenty-five cents a dozen, we
have plenty of both to sell. Hogs get
their own living nine months in the
year, sheep aiso do well. I would like
to come back to the valley for a short
visit, but do not expect to get there this
winter, but will very likely be down
next summer or fall, and will try to
persuade some of my old friends to
come to *‘God’s country.”
I shall be pleased to reply to any and
all questions concerning the country
and its advantages to prospective set-
tlers, and would gladly welcome them
here and do all in my power to help
them locate. Yours truly,
WiLL TRUCKENMILLER.
Irrigation for a Big Farm.
The largest irrigated farm in South
Dakota next season will be the Carpen-
ter farm at Pukwana, Brule county.
W. O. Carpenter, owner of the farm, is
a Chicago capitalist. His farm con-
tains 1620 acres. Between 500 and 600
acres will be irrigated next season. All
of the mammoth farm will be irriga-
ted. A reservoir covering seven acres
has just been completed. Its average
depth is nine and and one-half feet.
The reservoir has three openings of 24-
inch tiling. Elm and hard maple trees
will be planted along the banks of the
reservoir to strengthen and adorn them.
Work will soon begin on an’ artesian
well, which will be eight inches in di-
ameter. There will be a total of 11
miles of irrigating ditches on the farm,
the work of constructing them being
now in progress. Mr. Carpenter will
expend $25,000 on the farm, which he
intends shall be the model irrigated
farm in the Northwest. There is little
doubt the success of this and similar
ventures will result in farmers being
enabled to procure sufficient money on
easy terms to sink artesian wells for ir-
rigating purposes.
Found Dead.
Thursday afternoon while Levi Mil-
ler and his son Grant, of Mill Hall,
were hunting for foxes in “Axe Factory
Hollow,” about three miles west of Mill
Hall, they heard their dog barking a
short distance away and concluding he
had run a fox into its hole they proceed-
ed at once towards the spot where they
heard the dog. They were horror
stricken on reaching the spot to find ly-
ing there the dead body of 8 man in a
greatly decomposed condition. It is
supposed to be the body of Daniel Wor-
ner who mysteriously disappeared from
Lock Haven July last. How he came
to his death could only be conjectured,
except that by a gun shot wound as
there was a bullet holein his head.
| The place where the. body was found is
a lonely spot far from any habitation.—
Ez.
——Honey is sweet, but the bee
stings,
“Only don’t leave mie——dont’t Dan’l,
don't !"
clown.
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For and About Women.
The smaller the child the larger the
bonnet.
The bigger the buttons the smaller
the garment.
A green velvet bolero smartens up an
old black frock. .
‘Wide, gaunted cuffs, deeply slashed
and beavily buttoned, are -common.
They have a military aspect wholly at
variance with puff sleeves and feather
boas.
The short cape is the universal fa-
vorite, on account of the ease with which
it goes on over big sleeves.
A fluffy fur collar makes the outlines
of the face look softer.
“Tailor gown’ no longer spells sim-
plicity. One of the prettiestis a rough,
hairy blue cloth, made up with novelty
velvet in the bodice front, in gay colors
of the rain bow sort ; and rows of little
yellow buttons, set in groups of three,
shine like gold up and down the blue
front to either side of the velvet and on
the sleeves.
Big buttons and enormous plaids
make a little woman look smaller.
Mrs. Theodore Alice Ruggles Kitson,
wife of H. H. Kitson, the well known
Boston sculptor, has completed, with her
own hands, a number of statues, stat-
uettes and busts, several of which have
heen exhibited in European salons with
great credit. She is under 25 years old
and first exhibited her works in the
Paris salon in 1888.
White linen cases for party slippers
are offered at the art shops finished or to
| be worked. They are long scarfs, wider
than the slippers, which they will sev-
eral times infold. They are usually
embroidered in some small flower design
and bound with white silk braid. After
the dainty slippers are stuffed with cot-
ton to keep their shape and wrapped in
tissue paper they are rolled in linen
cases and thus completely cared for.
In the present mode of hair dressing
little or no false hair is worn, except in
cases where a woman likes a little bunch
of curles at the sides. The undulating
style is the thing, and to produce this
the hair is waved ali through its thick-
ness, gathered up at the back loosely
and made to form a soft knot, some-
what in the shape of a figure 8. It is
drawn out a little at each side to cover
the tip of the ears and to produce a wide
outline. The ¢fringe’’ has been almost
entirely discarded and only a few soft,
loose, rings of hair are allowed to stray,
on the forehead, There is a great deal
of comment on the American fashion of
dressing the hair. Foreigners express
some surprise at the trim, snug way
American wornen brush their hair back.
It will not be a great while until curls
will be in fashion again, and some
dressy coiffures have one to three long
loose curls at the back of the neck. A
simple becoming arrangement is to part
the hair in the middle, brush it over the
temples, wave it from a point about
even with the eyebrows, then roll it
loosely back, twist the hair into a soft
knot, fasten it with jeweled pins and let
a single, very thick wavy tress fall over
the shoulders.
Capes lose none of their favor as the
season advances, in spite of the aggres-
give sway of smart coats and jackets at
cut-rate prices. Capes are so very
‘adaptable to all sorts of gowns, and are
the kindest things in the world to the
big sleeves, whose beauty is entirely
ruined by once crushing into the coat
sleeve. The new plaid velvets are em-
ployed in the making of some of the
smart new capes, and as a result some
strikingly rich garments are turned out.
A charming little affair, scarcely reach-
ing to the waist and as flaring as an
umbrella, is made of plaid velvet in
small checks, showing tints of dull old
blue, gold and tobacco brown. It is
softly lined with a rich brocade, having
an old gold ground, and huge nosegays
of faded flowers scattered over it. A
ripple collar of beaver fur is ledged
with a band of black marabout, while
another band encircles the throat, giv-
ing it a lovely finish.
As cold weather approaches women
try to devise means for preventing
hands and lips from chapping. An ex-
cellent remedy to prevent chapping is
cold cream. The manicure said that it
whitens the skin more than any prepa-
ration, It has taken the place of the
old time remedy—mutton suet. It
should be well rubbed into the skin,
and gloves—preferably white—slipped
on. The palms of the gloves should be
slit in several places to allow the air
and prevent cramp of the muscles, and
the finger tips clipped off.
Vaseline should never be allowed to
touch the hands. It turns the skin yel-
low and leaves a stain on the nails that
is hard to clear away.
In Winter cold water should be used
sparingly. Itsaction roughens the skin
unpleasantly. Tepid water with a very
few drops of household ammonia and a
good lather of castile or borax soap is
advisable. If the hands are inclined to
redness, the trouble lies inthe way of
circulation, and slight gymnastics will
relieve it.
Thin women should dress to conceal
their angles and to keep their bones in
the back-ground. Plain bodices which
permit the collarbones to reveal their
presence, tight sleeves which announce
the existence of sharp elbows and backs
calling attention to conspicuous shoulder
blades are all to be avoided.
In order to give herself the appear-
ance of gracious roundness of figure, the
thin woman should have skirts that flare
as much as fashion will permit. Scant
skirts make her look like an exclama-
tion point. She should wear bodices
shirred at the neck and at the waist, al-
lowing fullness over the bust. The
sleeves should be full to a point below
the elbow in order to avoid a display of
sharpness at that crucial point. If wrist
bones are prominent, long cuffs or frills
of lace should help to conceal the pain-
ful fact. Collars should not be plain,
but they should be gathered or laid in
folds.