————i Bellefonte, Pa., March 13, 1903. HIS STEPMA. I knowed a little codger once, As ornery as could be ; He'd chaw and swear, ran off from school, And pester beast and tree ; Kept all the neighbors’ dogs afeared And half their windows broke ; There couldn't for that Tommy Tuff One praisin’ work be spoke. Bat by and by—his ma was dead— His pa met Widder Green And courted her ; she parleyed some, ‘Cause Tommy was so mean. But last she said she'd give consent If neighbors, friends, and kin Would promise to let meddlin’ out While she broke Tommy in. These mentioned, knowin’ things was bad, Saw somethin’ must be done, So ail agreed to keep hands off And let his stepma run The youngster ; well, she used the twig A little but not much; But, gracious! How she used the ax And 'tater hoe and such. She kept that boy a choppin’ wood And doin’ turns and chores, And hein’ corn and garden sass And scrubin’ steps an’ floors Till he was glad to go to school To get a little rest ; Yet she was monstrous kind and good Soon as he'd done his best. His busy hands stirred up his wits, And soon that boy at school Was leadin’ all his classes ; him They used to call a fool! He studied doctorin’, got to be A most uncommon man, All cause his stepma worked the vim That once to meanness ran. The nerve that playin’ hookey takes Might turn a whole school down, And that which breaks a winder light Might sometimes build a town. There's lots of ornery little tykes A loafin’ 'round the streets Need only work to make em men, Instead of triflin’ beats. — Emma Ghent Curtis in the Denver News. THE CONVERSION OF ELVINY. A Story of the New Mennonites. ‘*Amaziah, you dare read off your com- position now,’’ said Eli Darmstetter, ad- dressing the largest pupil of the class that sat before him in his school-room,one warm afternoon in April. Eli taught the free school of Canaan, a small country district in southeastern Penn sylvania, and though he was a graduate of the ‘‘Millersville Normal,”’ he had not lost his native provincial tongue, a unique dia- lect grown oust of the free translation into English of what is known as ‘‘Pennsylva- nia Dutch.” familiar designation of ‘‘Eli,’’ not only be- cause he had all his life lived in the neigh- borhood, but also because most of his pu- pils’ parents professed the ascetic New Mennonite faith, and the custom of that sect in addressing all men by their Chris- tian names (based on the Scriptural in- junction, ‘‘Call no man master’’) had be- come the conventionally polite form of the district. . Amaziah cleared his throat, stole a hasty side glance at Elviny on his right, and col- oring deeply rose to ‘‘read-off’’ his compo- sition. Amaziah was a stalwart young man of twenty; his sun-browned face and hands bore evidence that he was a son of the soil, and his countenance, heavy, was so open and honest, his eyes and mouth go kindly, that the heart of that comely Elviny warmed to him. This youth of twenty and damsel of sev- enteen were by no means exceptionally old pupils in the Canaan district school, the short winter term of six months giving so little opportunity for an education that many of the sons and daughters of the dis- trict farmers availed themselves thereof till even a later age. Amaziah in a lond though embarrassed voice announced his subject and read his production. “THE STUDY OF GEOGRAPHY. The study of Geography which so many peo- ple delight in studying. Is studied in all most all parts of the Earth and has been stud- ied since the beginning of the World already. Without Geography we could not get along Just so very well still, for if we wanted ta goto We might go to Harrisburg in a mistake not knowing what direction Phila- When Columbus sailed Jrom Spain in search of the new World. He aight of went in the opposite direction if He had not of studied Geography before he under- Geography is off great importance to travelers that have to travel all Philadelphia. delphia was from us. took the expedition. over the World for if they did not know where the places they wanted to travel was They might of never found the places they wanted to trav- el.” Amaziah bad often said that he would rather plow for a week than write one com- position. of poetry as good as her.” He looked vastly relieved as he sat down and he listened and watched with closest attention as Elviny in her turn gracefully rose, and, placing the tips of her fingers on her lips, coughed genteelly before com- mencing to read : “SINGLE LIFE. ‘* Single life is the happiest life that ever was spent when you are single you can go where you please and stay as long as you please. When you are single you have nothing on your mind still to bother you. Single life is the ¢ When you are single you can do as you please and have sweetest life that ever was spent. nothing to bother your mind at all.” Without so much as glancing toward Amaziah to note the full effect of these rad- ical sentiments, Elviny complacently re- sumed her seat. As for him, he found him- self so painfully surprised at learning that such were the views of thegirl with whom he *‘kep’ steady comp’ny,’’ that he had no attention to give to the remaining compo- sitions of the class. On their way home from school, in the April afternoon sunshine, he expostulated with her. ““Elviny,” he said reproachfully, as side by side they walked on the high, wide pike ‘‘the way you spoke in that there compo- sition, it was something shameful I’ I didn’t think to hear you read off such shoughts as them. ‘Och, don’t be so dumb, Amaziah,’’ El- viny said, poking him impatiently with her elbow. “‘A body don’s have to mean every- i Neither had he lost, in the dignity of being the district teacher, the though somewhat The above had heen an especial- ly strenuous effort. made in the hope that Elviny ‘‘wouldn’s think he was so wonder- ful dumb, for all he couldn’t speak off pieces thing that person writes off in a composi- tion. I bad to write off somepin then, and it was so warm I conldn’t think what for thonghts to write, There forawhile I bad a mind to put down how solemn it was to get married. But then it come to me,’’ she said seriously, “how it would be a good deal more solemn not to get married. So 1 just wrote off them thoughts about sin- gle life, to get through once. Amaziah’s face lighted up with reliel. “I'd have thought you meant it, and I was bothered iE wonderful already. There had been a tacit engagement of marriage between these two ever since four years before, when Elviny was thirteen and Amaziah sixteen. It had happened one summer evening while they had been swinging together in a hammock by the front gate of Elviny’s home. She had sud- denly and unexpectedly said to Amaziah : “Say, will you be mad if I tell you some pin, Amaziah ?"’ “N-aw !" in a tone of affectionate scorn at the suggestions. ‘‘Let it out!” “‘Say—TI love you !”’ ““Aw—I knowed that already. Say ! will you be mad if I tell you somepin, Elvi- ny 2?” ‘‘No; go on; tell me oncet.”’ “I love you.”’ The understanding thus established had grown clearer every day and hour of the past four years. ‘If them books is heavy for you, you'd better leave me carry ’em,’’ Amaziah rath- er bashfully proposed, as Elviny, to relieve her right arm, transferred her pile of school-books to the left. Amaziah always felt embarrassed when he tried to be gal- lant. “Well,” she conceded, letting him take them, ‘‘if you want. It ain’t particular to me.’’ : “What for hook is this here that you’re got covered ? Oh, ’rithmetic. Do you know, Elviny,’’ confidentially, ‘‘that’s the only book I’m handy at? All the other books I’m dumb in.” “I'm different to what you are, she said: “I always thought ’rithmetic was an awful hard book. When it ain’t so warm I'd sooner write off compositions than anything else in school ; I’m most always got so many thoughts that way it comes eady to me still. But say, Amaziah, ain’t you glad school’s goin’ to he done next week? And me and you’ll never go to school any more. Och, but I’m glad !"’ ‘“Then we'll keep comp’ny reg’lar,ain’t ? Amaziah affectionately demanded. coloring and looking self-conscious. ‘‘Soon’s we're done school ? You’ll leave me set up with you Saturday nights, still, ain’t yon will, Elviny 2”? This privilege had not yet been granted Amaziah, as, in the etiquette of Canaan, it ‘‘set up Saturday nights,”’ with Elviny un. til both of them had finished their school- ing. “Who else would be settin’ up with me but you?’ Elviny answered, with an em- barassed little laugh. ‘‘Don’t be so dumb,”’ Amaziah laughed too and blushed again, and glancing behind him on the pike, to make sure he was unobserved, he pressed his sweetheart’s hand as it hung by her side. She returned the pressure, then of a sudden she drew away from him bashfully and for a moment they walked on in a rather strained silence. “It’s warm, ain’t?’’ he presently haz- arded. Elviny started at a something nnusual in his tone; something which betrayed the fact that for some reason he was not at his ease with her. She knew in a flash whas had come into his mind, and, instinctively she tried to fight off the dangerous subject which she felt he was taking courage to broach. ‘“Whether it’s warm ?’’ she repeated in- quiringly. ‘Yes, I believe it’s warmer than what it was right away this morn- ing.” “It looks some for rain,” he remarked. ‘‘You think,’’ she said, a slight surprise in her voice as she examined the sky. “Does the noospaper call for rain ?”’ “I didn’t see the noospaper this morning then, but the sky looks for showers. I'm afraid. 1 wisht it didn’t for I got to help Pop through—he’s plantin’ in the garden this evening, and if it rains we’ll have to come in and leave it rain—and then we won’t get done already. “I wisht, too, it won’t rain, so you’ll get done once.’ ‘‘Yes, anyhow,”” nodded Amaziab. “Ain’t this a hilly road ?’’ Elviny quick- ly asked, to stave off the disagreeable theme she knew was impending. ‘It makes me some tired to walk from William Penn home.” ‘‘William Penn was the name of the school-house. ‘‘Yes,”” answered Amaziah, °‘‘there’s hills a-plenty all along this here road. Why there’s hills on the pike already when you’re only at Noo Danville. Say, Elvi- n Mm He turned upon her with decision. and she winced as from a lash. “There’s just only but one thing, El- viny, that I wisht —"’ 4 ‘‘Now, Amaziah, I know what you're at —you needn’t say nothin’ about that !’’ El viny tried to check him. ‘‘I don’t want to hear toit!”’ Amaziah set his jaw obstinately. ‘‘It’s time me and you had this thing here ont and done with it,”’ he affirmed. “I like you better’n any girl in Canaan District, but I ain’t goin’ to waste ny time settin’ up Saturday evenings with” a girl that’s likely any day to give herself up and put on them darned Noo Mennonite little white caps and gray dresses with them fool ish-lookin’ caps ! I know them Noo Men- nonites !”’ he defiantly exclaimed, his res- olution to speak his mind at the highest. Elviny turned pale at his look and tone of determination. ‘‘You folks is Noo Menno- nites from way back to your great grand- father already, and when it’s in a body’s blood that there way,they’re bound to give themselves up sooner or later—unless they Piymise they won’t never! I'm afraid of t for you, Elviny.”’ ‘*A hody to hear you talk, Amaziah, would think it was the small-pox, anyhow ’stid of religion I” Elviny almost sobbed. ‘Yes, and I’d anyhow as soon it was the small-pox ! Elviny, I'd as soon see you dead as see your pretty face in one of them darped—"’ ‘‘Amaziah ! Tain’t goin’ to listen to sich talk ! You speak something shameful !’’ ‘‘Well, I like you ’cause your pretty,and if you went and made yourself ugly by wearin’ them caps and capes and dull col- ors, and if you went and turned plain and wouldn’t never no more go to town with me to see a circus or a county fair or have our photographs took or whatever, where’d be any comfort for a feller in bein’ married Elviny, I tell you now, straightforward, I don’t want to be married to no Noo Men- nonite. And if I ain’t to marry you, I don’t want to waste any time settin up with you Saturday’s.”’ “Then you needn’t. I guess I canfind a Plenty others that wants to set up with me.”’ ‘ Amaziah’s determined jaw slightly relax ed. Bat he held out. ‘*‘And I guessI can would have been irregular for him to have with ‘em, Elviny, so far forth as that goes’’ he retaliated. “You'll be keepin’ comp’ny, I guess, with Sallie Haverstick then !" crossly said Elviny. “10s ver, probably,” he relentlessly ac- knowl , ‘unless vou pass me your prom ise you won't never, as long as you live, put on one of them little white caps with ties.’ *‘But, Amaziah, how can a hody tell whether or no she’ll ever come under con- viction and be led to give herself up?” El- viny reasoned with him. ‘‘I might never, mebbe. Then again, I might anyday. You might mebbe sometime come under convic- tion yourself. A body can’t tell of them things. I can’t choose you instead of Christ can I? I think youn are now, onreason- able.” ‘You pass me your promise, you won’t never put on them little white caps with strings—that’s all I got to say. Anything you want me to promise back again, I'll say yes to. If you'll pass me that promise Elviny, I’ll marry you and be the best hus- band to you that anybody kin.” Elviny knew full well the force of these words, for Amaziah always meant just what be said, and always stuck to it. Moreover, he would be fully able to carry eut his promise to be a good husband to her, for he was the only son of a farmer, who owned three large, rich farms, and was therefore, in the language of the neighbor- hood, very ‘‘well fixed.” “If it weren’t in gall you folks to turn plain, Elviny,”” Amaziah firmly continued “I’d never have no fears of such a giddy- headed girl like what you are turnin’ plain for it’s your nature to be wonderful fash- ionable, and you're much for pleasureseek- in’ that way. ‘‘But,’”’ he continued with stern emphasis, ‘‘I never knowed a son or daughter of a Noo Mennonite that didn’t some time or ’nother in their life give their selves up then. And I ain’t runnin’ no such risks. You pass me your promise you'll never wear a white cap with ties, or I'll go and keep comp’ny with Sallie Hav- erstick or whoever.” “I tell you, Amaziah,”’ Elviny said brokenly. ‘‘How can a hody make such a promise like what that is? If I ever came under conviction—"7 *“Then join the Methodists or the Bap- tists. I pass itas my opinion that there’s good in all religions. You can have re- ligion witheut turnin’ plain. The Metho- dists stays fashionable after they are con- visted of their sins.’ “But if ever I wasto come under convic- tion, Amaziah, Icouldn’t never hold to the things of the World no more. It wouldn’t be accordin’ to Scriptures, deed’n it would- n't,” she pleaded with quivering lips. ‘‘O, Amaziah !”’ They bad turned from the pike into the lane leading to Elviny’s home, and the girl suddenly stopped short, leaned against the fence, bent her arm over her eyes like a ohild, and sobbed. Amaziah’s kindly face twitched with sympathy for her trouble as he awkwardly stood before her. “I guess you think I’m usin’ you mean, Elviny,”’ he said tenderly. hut with no re- laxation of his firmness. ‘‘But it’s for the happiness of both of us in the coming fu- ture before us, Elviny. I couldn’t be con- tented married to no Noo Mennonite. I counldn’t like yon if you didn’t act and dress fashionable like me.”’ ‘‘But mebbe I'll never be called to turn plain,”’ Elviny pleaded. ‘‘Mebbe,’”’” she said hopefully, ‘‘the Spirit won’t never lead me to see the light.” ‘‘But then again mebbe It will. I ain’t takin’ no sich risks. You pass me your— here comes your Mom.”’ The sudden appearance at the fence of a stout woman holding a dish-pan full of let- tace was the occasion of Amaziah’s sudden digression. The woman was dressed in the ‘‘plain’’ garb of the New Mennonites—a straight gathered skir,an untrimmed waist extending below the beit (to distinguish them from the Old Mennonites, whose bas- ques end at the belt) a three-cornered cape of the same material as the gown, and a lit tle white cap with flying ties. At a first glance Mrs. Dinkleberger’s face appeared to be common-place enough, stolid, heavy, uninteresting; but a closer examination re- vealed in her otherwise dull eyes a look that only a deep experience of life can give to any countenance; that look which shows that through some channel the soul has sounded its own nether foundations and has laid hold upon a Reality which only those who lose themselves in the larger life of the Divine can ever find. ‘Well,’ she said in a mild voice, ‘‘are yous home a’ready? It’s only a quarter till four 2’ “We come right away out then,” said Elviny, speaking cheerfully to hide the signs of her weeping. ‘‘Ain’t we did, Am- aziah? Are yon pickin’ the lettuce for market, Mom ?”’ *‘Yes, I thought I'd do it for Pop: then it would be done.” “Why didn’t you wait till I come to help you through oncet? She does too much still,”” she added explanatorily to Amaziah. ‘Ever since she had the pee- noo-mony, it makes her so tired ’till she gets the work through.” ‘‘Yes, I'll be glad when Elviny’s done rchool oncet, so she’s can help me still. We got such big washin’s—’till each has their pile, the wash is big already.” “That’s what Mom says still,”’ said Ama ziah sociably. ‘‘And she ain’t no dangh- ter to help her—only a dopplig(awkward) hired girl.” ‘Is your hired girl now a doppel, Ama- ziah 2°’ Mrs. Dinkleberger asked with in- terest. ‘‘Wonderful.’’ Amaziah ruefully answer- ed. ‘‘Why, here one day last week she put buttermilk in Pop’s tea, and fast as Mom gets things redd up still, she gets them all through-other. Mom wishes she’d leave ‘oncet. But she won’t send her off ‘cause it gives you such a name with the neigh- bors, you know. that way, for not bein’ able to keep your hired girl. So Mom leaves her stay right on, for all it gives her so much extra work to have ber, and makes her tied down so close.” ‘‘Don’t she never get away still ?”’ Mis. Dinkleberger asked sympathetically. “Oh, now and again she gets to go some. But she never was one of them to go much that way. But you come to see her once, ain’t? Don’t look on turns.” “I don’t know but what I will, for all I don’t go much neither, since I turned plain —it’s now four years back. And I have to wait still for Pop to drive the horse, ‘cause our horse he can’t be drove by no women, he still makes so ugly for me at the railroad orossin’. Why one muddy day he made so awful for me when he seen the cars that the buggy was all over dirt.”’ ‘‘Now, think!’ said Amaziah in surprise ‘‘Well,”’ he added, ‘‘mebhe some day when I’m drivin’ over here, Mon’ll come along, with me over.”’ ‘Yes, anyhow,’’ answered Mrs. Dinkle- berger hospitably. ‘But I don’t know just when it’l] suit for the horse,”” Amaziah said, glancing at Elviny with a meaning look, as who should say “‘It’ll suit for the horse to haul me over here when you pass me that promise, mebbe find others that want me to set up Elviny cast down her eyes and looked unhappy. Amaziah’s face manifested no less m » but he remained firm. “Well,” said Mrs. Dinkleberger, ‘I got to go in now and make supper. Won't yon come in, Amaziah, and set awhile?’ “Saddy (thank you), but I can’t just so very convenient to-day. Good-bye.” ‘Good-bye, Amaziah, then.” She turned to go, but Elviny checked her. ‘‘Wait for me, Mom, and I'll carry the lettuce in for you.” Hurrying through the gate she held out her hands for the dish-pan. She did not want to be left alone with Amaziab. She knew him of old—he would stick to his point—and she was afraid to trust herself with him lest she should yield. ‘‘You’ll have enough to docarryin’ them school-books Amaziah’s holdin’ for you,” eaid her mother. ‘“Take ’em from him and come along then in. You can make the fried potatoes for me for supper.’’ Without looking at her lover, Elviny took the hooks from his hands over the fence. ‘Promise, Elviny,’’ he whispered, as he gave them to her. ‘‘Go on, dear! That you won’t never wear one of them-—7’ Elviny shook her head, the tears rising again to her eyes. ‘You think it out and write me off a note then,” was his parting admonition. And Elviny left him and hastened after her mother. Elviny bad known from the first that when Amaziah took that tone of firmness with her she would, in the end, do what he demanded of her. So she was not surpris- ed at herself when that night, sorely against her conscience, she despatched a note to him, giving the promise that he had required,namely, that she would ‘never wear one of them little white caps with ties,”’ this particular feature of the Menno- nite garb evidently standing to him for a symbol of all the asceticism and narrowness of that New Mennonites’ life. But Amaziah’s joy in his conquest was short-lived. When two evenings later, be- ing Sunday, he betook himself, clad in the ‘‘fashionable’’ apparel his soul loved, to the home of his sweetheart, he found her so pale, so silent, so woebegone, that he was stricken with remorse and sorrow for her. They did not discuss, or even mention, the painful subject of the promise; but Amaziah felt convinced, after a two hours’ fruitless endeavor to make her ‘‘act sociable and pleasant,’ that poor Elviny would never be ‘‘contented’’ again with such a load of sin on her conscience as that promise seem- ed to be. ‘It’s most nearly as worse as if she’d turned plain,’”’ he thought, in great trouble of mind, as he wended his way homeward in the moonlight. ‘‘What’s a body to do?” He realized, as time went on, how great a proof of her love she had given him, and this increased tenfold his already strong de- votion to her. But as week after week he saw ber, under the effect of her burden of guilt, grow thinner and paler and sadder, his own conscience began to trouble him. *‘She thinks she’s choosed me before Christ,’”’ he mused. ‘‘And it’s near mak- in’ her sick ! Poor thing, she won’t never be contented no more, I'm afraid, ’till she’s took back her word to me.”’ Tugging at his own heart strings was the longing to release her from her promise— just for the joy of seeing her look happy once more. But he could net bring him- self to that point of self sacrifice. Her re- lief would be so great that she might be led, in her thankfulness to the Lord, to give herself up at once. And then where would he be? No; he must hold out in his determination to make her forswear the faith of her fathers. In time, perhaps, she would get used to it and cease to fret. He would wait. “But { wisht I could see her lookin’ con- tented once again,’’ he said to himself one Saturday evening, as, with little pleasure in his visit, he walked up the lane to her home. ‘‘Blamed if I wouldn’t most be willin’ to do anything to see her lookin’ contented again.”’ He was destined to have this generous wish of his put to the test sooner than he had counted on. When, ten minutes later, Elviny walked into the parlor to receive him, he knew, in aflash such as seldom came to his monotonous, slow moving mental life, that never had he seen her more beautiful than she appeared to his eyes this night. She was robed as she had pever been before. A light gray skirt hung straight from her waist, and a plain, un- trimmed, close fitting basque brought out the beautiful womanly development of her bust and shoulders, and was not concealed by the little three cornered cape that lay over the basque. The letter of her promis ; to Amaziah had been that she would ‘‘never wear one of them white caps with ties’”’—but O, the subtlety of the daughters of Eve and the fatuity of the sons of Adam !—an Indian mull cap, not white, but of the faintest shade of gray and having no ties, covered her head. However, her ‘‘plain’’ clothes were not the greatest change he found in her. What was this new light in her eyes that looked np at him with such deep bappiness shin- ing in their clear beauty? A feeling of awe fell upon Amaziah. Had Elviny in- deed got religion ? ‘‘You see, Amaziah’’—he heard her soft voice speak as though coming from a dis- tance, for there was a loud singing in his head that kept him from hearing her clear- ly—I’m keepin’ my promise. T ain’t wear- in’ one of them little white caps with ties. This here’s a tinted gray cap and ain’t got po ties. The Scriptures haven’t got nothin- about the color nor the ties, only that a woman’s head shall be covered because her hair’s a pride to her and pleasing to the eye.” Vere vou turned plain, Elviny ?”’ Ama- ziah managed to ask in a half whisper. “I’ve give myself up, Amaziah,’’ she re- plied with pale faced, clear eyed resolution. “I ain’t broke my promise to you, and never will. I’ll always wear these here tinted caps without ties to ’em. Now you have the dare to take me, or leave me be.” ‘“Are you contented again, Elviny ?”’ “I never knowed before what happiness it was to be had in this here life. It’s all in servin’ the Lord, Amaziah. I had such a troubled conscience—it was a wonderful troubled conscience I had this here while back already. And my fashionable clothes they condemned me something turrible. But it’s all over now, Amaziah. I've give myself up and I’m dressin’ plain, and I'll never walk no more in the paths of this world.”’ Thus bad Elviny followed out the invin- cible law of her being ; for the offspring of New Mennonite stock inherit, from an an- cestry whose loyalty to conviction made them victims of the persecutions of the Thirty Years’ War, a persistency in ‘‘re- verting to the original type’’ that is in their very life blood, and needs only some stress of circumstance to bring it out in force. “Turn your back around behind you and leave me see how the plain dress becomes you,”' was Amaziah’s stolid comment upon Elviny's sublime renunciation. Elviny slowly revolved herself for in- spection. When her back was towards him, Amaziah measured her shapely form with his masculine eye, then suddenly put his arms about her and held her close to his breast. *“It becomes you something surprising, Elviny !"’ he whispered ecstatically. ‘‘You never looked as pretty before. And I nev- er liked yon as good as what I do to- night!’ She turned in his arms and laid her head on his shoulder, with a long, happy sigh of relief. He pressed his lips to her soft neck and downy cheek. ‘“‘But we’ll have to be married soon, Ama- ziah—belore I join Meeting, you know. For after I’m once joined, I can’t marry in the World, no more. And you're in the World, you know. So we’ll have to be married soon.”’ ‘“All right, Elviny,’”’ Amaziah heartily responded. ‘‘Iil make it suit just as soon as I otherwise can! We'll be married till the back end of August already !"’—By H. R. Martin in McClure’s Magazine. Ireland’s Patron Saint. Lite Story of the Great Apostle of Erin. A Youth Passed in Slavery. Remains of the Churches Built by the Saint are 8till to be Found in the Emerald Isle. If you will go on a careful journey through Ireland youn will find at divers places, particulariy in the counties of Meath and Munster, the traces of many very ancient buildings. These remains do not approach the dignity of ruins. You will find parts of a giant wall hidden deep in the overgrowing earth and ivy, or a great heap of crumbling stones marking the edge of a clearing in the woods. Now and theo odd discoveries have been made in these localities; remnants of brass work and exquisitely wrought vessels of gold. Such places are regarded by the people with the utmost reverence, for on these sites fifteen centuries ago stood the build- ings in which the first words of Christianity were spoken to the inhabitants of Ireland. In still another part of the island, ata place called Downpatrick, you will find a place where they say the grass grows greener and the clover is more luxurious than at any other spot in all that green country. Here lies buried the man who made the buildings and who, with- in them, taught the lessons of Christianity to the populace. This is the grave of Saint Patrick. THE GREATEST MISSIONARY. It is cheering to know that the mark of authenticity has been placed on all this even by that body of men whose mission in life appears to be the scientific destruction of our best delusions. That Saint Patrick was in reality Apostle of Ireland is estab- lished beyond a doubt; that he was one of thegreatest missionarythat the world knows has long been recognized. In nis day the march of Christianity was almost invariably accomplished with war and bloodshed. It is a matter of historical knowledge that Ireland was completely and rapidly evan- gelized in the fifth century. The conver- sion of the nation was effected absolutely without war or the horrors of martyrdom. The manner and means of this accom- plishment are somewhat obscure. What we do know is that St. Patrick displayed to the natives an imposing physique and laudable examples and that he was elo- quent and courageous. His detractors have almost always shown some narrow-minded- ness and extremely bad taste in basing their dissensions amid the almost unex- plored beauties of Irish folklore. Many of the miracles attributed to Saint Patrick— notably that of the serpents—are not men- tioned in works or records of authority nor are they credited or considered by Irishmen who have at heart the fullest appreciation of the work of the great apostle. Perhaps the hgst elogium on his life and services might be written after a study of the manners of his well defined mission and the lasting impression it lias produced on sncceeding generations during fifteen centuries. Whether we look for his story amid Irish folklore, or whether we find it in authentic scientific records, we cannot be but impressed with the details of a life whose surpassing romance is overshadowed only by its dignity and nobility. Ireland, Scotland and France each claims to he the birth place of St. Patrick, but it is most probable that he was born some- where in the south of Scotland. His fath- er was well-to-do and filled an office some- what similar to that of the provincial Roman magistrate of the time. When he was 16 he, with his sister, was stolen by a wandering band of Irish brigands and sold into slavery in Ireland. In his ‘‘Confes- sion,’’ a personal narrative which is one of the two remaining records from his hand, he says: ‘‘I, Patrick, a sinner, rudest and least of all the faithful * * * when 16 years of age * * * knew not the true God and was brought captive te Ireland with many thousand men.” He escaped from bondage when he was 23. In the mean- time, while tending his master’s flocks on the hill sides he developed a strong reli- gious feeling. His life after his escape is somewhat ob- soure. On the word of some authorities he went to Rome and was commissioned by Pope Celestine to return to Ireland. Oth- ers say he went to Britain, where he was tutored by Celtic bishops. In either case, he returned to Ireland and began his mis- sionary work when he was 42 years of age, landing in Ireland about 432 A. D. He was tall and spare and wore a white tunic with a cowl. His early hardships must have fitted him well for his snbsequent works of exploration, and he visited every part of the island, making converts and building churches. i The seriousness of this work is evident when we consider the nature of the people with whom he bad to deal. The Gaels were not unlike the ancient Greeks. A fierce and war-like people, confined within narrow limits, they found pastime in war- fare, and devoted the repose following strife to martial poetry, music and oratory. The people as a whole were characterized by the unthinking recklessness of rude soldiers combined with a high appreciation of all the arts that excite the imagination. The success of his mission was complete and within a century the island bad turn- ed to Christianity. In the numberless stories told of his career as a missionary it is often hard to distinguish fact from fancy. There is one, however, that has every semblance of truth in its relation to the spirit and ways of the time and the character of St. Patrick him- self. Shortly after his arrival in Ireland he camped with his followers at the mouth of the Boyne. It was the eve of Easter, and he lit fires on the banks of the river. Not far away was the seat of Laeghaire,the Federal King. It happened also that Laeg- haire was celebrating a day on which all fires were extinguished in honor of some now urknown diety. Communication passed between the King’s seat and the camp, and after refos- ing to extinguish his fires 8%. Patrick went toward the King’s abode. He strode toa point facing the King, and deliberately de- nounced that despotic monarch while he exhorted the court. His attitude must have excited the admiration of the grim warriors who surrounded him, while his eloquent exposition of the beauties of the faith and the glories of the Christian's heaven must have toucbed the hearts and fired the imaginations of the bards and Druids. His first converts were a distinguished warrior and the chief poet of the island. They arouse when he entered. ‘“The others,’ say contemporary accounts, ‘‘remain- ed seated with their chins on theirshields.’’ St. Patrick’s age at his death is estimated variously at 85 to 110 years. It is proba- ble that he lived to be a very old age. STORY OF THE SERPENTS. The 12markable absence of snakes from Ireland has been attributed to Saint Pat- rick. Distinguished Irish scholarsand pre- lates refuse to consider the question seri- ously, maintaining that the name of Saint Patrick should live on grander and more practical gronnds. From time immemorial, however, the fact has attracted attention. In old records it is stated that a handful of Irish dust if placed on the head of a snake would prove fatal. There is a story of how frogs. brought to Ireland for ex- perimental purposes, were no sooner lind- ed than they turned over on their backs, burst and died. In 1835 the learned Thomas Bell, of Scot- land, representing a philosophical society of the time, endeavored to disprove the assertion that snakes cannot live in Ire- land. He brought into the country six healthy reptiles, which he liberated amid congenial surroundings. For a long time the experiment received a great deal of at- tention, and it was said the reptiles were multiplying rapidly. In bis own account, however, the learn- ed gentleman tells us that the snakes were no sooner set free than four of them were killed by persons unknown, having been found with battered heads along the road- way. The other two were never heard from afterward. ’ In the Irish language, with its wealth of forgotten and unappreciated music, there is to be found no word for serpent. ‘‘Crook- ed terror’’ or ‘‘Crooked poison’’ is the lit- eral translation of the usual term for snake. As Saint Patrick went about and fearless- ly destioyed the idols of the snake wor- shippers, it is quite possible that the idea became prevalent in this manner, or was the result of figurative forms of speech. No matter what form the discussion may assume it takes little from our reverence or appreciation of the great apostle. His expedition to Ireland was vastly greater in purpose and achievement than the expe- dition of Caesar and Alexander. He ac- complished the orderly and magnificent conquest of a nation which, in centuries unlimited, was to spread his name over continents then upknown. As To The Shamrock. All Erin's Son’s are in Clover on the Seventeenth. Thrill as you will over the ‘‘dear little shamrock,’’ you are in all probability a bit shady on the subject. Most of us are content to know that it is the emblem of Ireland,asmall trefoil plant, and that it is in some mysterious way con- nected with the Saint who freed theabused island of at least one plague—snakes— the real ones, that is; it has been whisper- ed that an occasional son of the sod still sees imaginary ones, which really would not seem to contradiot their poet who wax- ed warm about their love of honorand vir- tue. At any rate, good St. Patrick himself, while making constant allusion to the Tri- partite life, or Trinity, never so much as mentions the shamrock or seamorogue (young trefoil, in Gaelic). ‘We do, however, draw the line at the pedantically learned ones who tell us that any trefoil will do! : Those of us who love the little emblem even the least bit will have the real thing or nothing at all. And the real thing, so far as we can learn, is vix trifolium mimus, which, when it deigns to blossom at all, shows delicate bits of yellow bloom. We settle upon this because it is the variety upon which Ire- land’s peasantry hangs its faith. Now, many an unsuspecting believer has trifolium repens palmed off upon her—or him. It is a white flowering Dutch clover, and in its extreme youth looks like the real thing. And, curiously enough, it often serves when its leaves are even pur- ple or brown, and in its four or five-leafed form, too. There is said to be a connection between the shamrock and the strawberry leaf of the heralds, but for the present we are con- tent to be assured by Mr. Britten, of the British Museum, that the dainty little tri- folinm mimus is the bit of greenery to which to pin our faith just now. There’s a dear little plant that grows in our isle, ‘T'was St. Patrick himself sure that set it ; And the sun on his labor with a pleasure did smile, And the dews from his eyes oft did wet it. It thrives through the bog, through brake, through the mireland, And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland. The sweet little shamrock, the dear little sham- rock, . The sweet little, dear little shamrock of Ireland. . Rather Droll. Some Real Remarks by Real Boys and Girls. When my little brother was 5 years old ‘he had the misfortune to fall from the sec- oud-story porch of a flat in which we were living. ; Our aunt, who is a minister’s wife, was calling a few days afterward, and in speak- ing of the accident, said: **Well, Orr, if you had died when you fell the other day you wonld have gone to Heaven, wouldn’t you ?”’ Without hesitating he replied : but I didn’t fail that way.”’ *Oh! Reciprocity. The simple principle that one man’s opinion is as valuable as thas of his neighbor did not meet the approval of the profes- *| sional man in this story from the Chicago “Tribune.” “These shoes, doctor,’’ said the cobbler, after a brief examination, ‘‘ain’t worth mending.’ ‘“Then, of course,’ said the doctor, turn- ing away, ‘‘I don’t want anything done to them.”’ ‘‘But I charge you fifty cents just the same.”’ ‘What for ?’’ “Well, sir, you charged me five dollars the other day for telling me there wasn’t anything the matter with me.’ ——Fresh paint stains will almost al- ways yield to a brisk rubbing with a soft cloth dipped in vinegar.
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