Bewarraif atc Bellefonte, Pa., May 22, 1903. AA ATEN. ROUNDING OFF A SCENE. A soft rain was falling. Umbrellas sway- ed and gleamed in the light of the street lamps. The brightness of the shop win- dows reflected itself in the mnddy mirror of the wet pavements. A miserable night, a dreary night, a night to tempt the wretch- ed to the glimmering Embankment, and thence to the river, bardly wetter or clean- er than the gutters of the London streets. Yet the sight of these same streets was like wine in the veins to a man who drove through them in a hansom piled with Glad- stone bags and P. & O. trunks. He leaned over the apron of the hansom and looked eagerly, longingly, lovingly at every sor- did detail—the crowd on the pavement, its haste as intelligible to him as the rush of ants when their hill is disturbed by the spade; the glory and glow of corner public houses; the shifting dance of the gleaming wet umbrellas. It was England, it was London, it was home—and his heart swell- ed till he felt it in his throat. After ten years—the dream realized, the longing ap- peased. London, London, London ! His cab, delayed by a red newspaper cart jammed in altercative contact with a dray full of brown barrels, paused in Cannon strees. The eyes that drank in the scene perceived a familiar face watching on the edge of the pavement for a chance to cross the street under the horses’ heads—the face of one who ten years ago had been the slightest of acquaintances. Now time and home longing juggled with memory sill the face seemed that of a friend. To meet a swriend—this did, indeed, round off the scene of the home coming. The man in the cab threw back the doors and leapt out. He crossed under the very nose-bag of a stationed dray horse. He wrang the friend—last seen as an acquaintance—by the hand. The friend caught fire at the contact. Any passerby who should have been spared a moment for observation by the cares of umbrellas and top hat had surely said “Damon and Pythias,”” and gone onward, smiling in sympathy with friends long severed and at last reunited. The little scene ended in a cordial invi- tation from the impromptu Damon—on the pavement—to Pythias—of the cab—to a little dance that evening at Damon’s house, out Sydenham way. Pythias accepted with enthusiasm, though, at his normal temperature, he was no dancing man. The address was noted, hands clasped again, with strenuous cordiality, and Pythias re- gained his cab. It set him down at the hotel from which, ten years before, he had taken a cab to Fenchurch street station. The menu of his dinner had been running in his head like a poem all through the wet, shining streets. He ordered, there- fore, without hesitation : Ox-tail soup. Fried sole. : Roast beef and horseradish. Boiled potatoes. Brussels sprouts. Cabinet pudding. Stilton. Celery. The cabinet pudding was the waiter’s suggestion. Anything that called itself pudding would have pleased as well. He dressed hurriedly, and when the soup and the wine card appeared together before him he ordered draught bitter—a pint. ‘‘And bring it in a tankard.”’ he said. The drive to Sydenham was, if possible, a happier dream than had been the drive from Fenchurch street to Charing Cross. There were many definite reasons why he should have been glad to be in England, glad to leave behind him the hard work of his Indian life, and to settle down as a landed proprietor. But he did nos think of anything definite. The whole soul and body of the man were filled and suffused by the glow that transfuses the blood of the schoolboy at the end of term. The lights, the striped awning, the red carpet of the Sydenham house thrilled and charmed him. Park Lane could have lent them no farther grace, Belgrave Square no more subtle witchery. This was England, England, England. _ He went in. The house was pretty with lights and flowers. The soft carpeted stair seemed air as he trod it. He met his host; was led up to girls in blue and girls in pink, girls in satin and girls in silk, mus- lin; wrote brief precis of their toilettes on his program. Then he was brought face to face with a tall dark haired woman in white. His host’s voice huzzed in his ears, and he caught only the last words—*‘‘old friends.” Then he was left staring straight into the eyes of the woman who ten years ago had been the light of his—the woman who had jilted him—his vain longing for | whom had been the spur to drive him ous of England. ‘May I have another ?’’ was all he found to say after the bow, the conventional re- quest, and the scrawling of two programs. “Yes,” she said. And he took two more. The girls in pink and blue and silk and satin found him a good bus silent dancer. On the opening bars of the eighth waltz he stood before her. Their steps went togeth- er like song and tune, just as they had al- ways done. And the touch of her band on his arm thrilled through him in just the old way. He bad, indeed, come home. There were definite reasons why he should have pleaded a headache or influen- za, or any lie, and have gone away before his second dance with her. But the charm of the situation was too great. The whole thing was 80 complete. On his very first evening in England—to meet her! He did not go, and half way through their second dance he led her into the little room, soft- curtained, soft-cushioned, soft-lighted, at the bend of the stair case. Here they sat silent, and he fanned her, and he assured himself that she was more beautiful than ever. Her hair, which he had known, in short fluffy curls, lay in so- herly waved masses, but it was still bright and dark like a chestnut fresh from the husk. Her eyes were the same, and her hands. was asad mouth now, had known it so merry. but see that its in repose—and he Yet he could not s its sadness added to its beauty. The lower lip had been, perhaps, too full, too flexible. It was set now ; not in stern- ness, bus in a dignified self control. He bad left a Grenze girl. He had found a Madonna of Bellini’s, Yet those were the lips he bad kissed—the eyes that— ! The silence had grown to a point of em- barrasinent, She broke it with his eyes on er. ‘Well ?’? she said. yourself,’’ ‘‘There’s nothing much to tell. My cous- in’s dead, and I’m a full fledged baronet, with estates and things. I've done with the gorgeous East, thank God ! But you— tell me about yourself.’’ ‘What shall Itell you?’ She had taken the fan from him and was furling and un- farling it. “Tell me?’ He repeated the words slowly. ‘Tell methe truth! It’s all over ‘“Tell me all about ‘est breath between us. Her mouth only had changed. It | —nothing matters now. But I've always been—well—curious. Tell me why you threw me over !”’ He yielded without even the form of a struggle, to the impulse which he only half understood. What he said was true—he had been—well—ourions. But it was long since anything alive, save vanity, which is immortal, had felt the sting of that curiosi- ty. But now, sitting beside this beautiful woman who had been so much to him, the desire to bridge over the years—to be once more in relations with her outside the con- ventionalities of a ballroom—to take part with her in some scene, discreet, yet flavored by the past with a delicate poign- ancy—came upon him like a strong man armed. It held him, but through a veil, and he did not see its face. If he had seen it it would have shocked him very much. *“Tell me,’ he said, softly—‘‘tell me now —at last—’"? Still she was silent. ‘Tell me,”’ he said again, “why did you do it?’ How was it you found out so very suddenly and surely that we weren’t suit- ed to each other?—that was the phrase, wasn’t it?’ ‘‘Do you really want to know ? It’s nos very amusing, is it—raking out dead fires?’’ “Yes, I do want to know. I’ve wanted it every day since,”’ he said earnestly. ‘As you say—it’s all ancient history. But you used not to be stupid. Are you sure the real reason never occurred to you ?”? “Never! What was it? Yes, I know the next waltz is beginning. Don’t go. Cut him, whoever he is, and stay here and tell me. I think I have a right to ask that of you.” : *‘Oh—rights !’’ she said. ‘‘But it’s gnite simple. I threw you over, as you call if, because I found out you didu’t care for me.’’ ‘*‘I— not care for you ?’’ ‘“Exactly.”’ ‘‘But even so—if you believed it—but how could you ?—how could you? Even 80—why not have told me—why not have given me a chance ?”’ His voice trembled. Hers was firm. ‘I was giving you a chance, and I want- ed to make sure that you would take it. If I'd just said, ‘You don’t care for me,’ you’d have said, ‘Oh yes, I do,’ and we would have heen just where we were he- fore.’’ “Then it wasn’t that you were tired of me ?”? *‘Oh, no,” she said, sedately; ‘‘it wasn’t that.”’ “Then yon—did you really care for me still, even when you sent me back the ring, and wouldn’t see me, and went to Ger- many, and wouldn’t open my letters, and all the rest of it 2”? ‘Oh. yes,” she laughed lightly; ‘‘I loved you frightfully all the time. It does seem odd now, to look back on, doesn’t it. But I nearly broke my heart over you.” ‘‘Then why the devil—-?’ ‘You mustn’t swear,”” she interrupted. “I never heard you do that before. Is it the Indian climate ?”’ “Then why did you send me away 2’ he repeated. “Don’t I keep telling you?’ Her tone was impatient. ‘‘I found out you didn’t care, and—and I always despised people who kept other people when they wanted to go. And I knew you were too—honora- ble—generous—soft-hearted—what shall I say ?—-t0 go for your own sake,so I thought, for your sake, I would make you believe you were to go for mine.’’ ‘So you lied to me.” ‘Not exactly. We weren’t suited—since you didn’t love me.” “I didn’t love you?’ he echoed again. ‘And somehow I'd always wanted to do something really noble—and I'd never had the chance. So I thought if I'd set you free from a girl you didn’t love, and bore the blame myself, it would be rather noble. And so I did it.” ‘And did the consciousness of your own nobility sustain you comfortably 2’ The sneer was well sneered. ‘‘Well—not for long,” she admitted. ‘‘You see. I began to doubt after a while whether it was really my nobleness, after all. It began to seem like some part in a play that I'd learned and played—don’t you know those sorts of dreams where you seem to be reading a book and acting the story in the book at the same time ? It was a little like that now and then, and I got rather tired of myself and my nobleness, and I wished that I'd just told you and had it all out with youn, and both of us spoken the truth and parted friends. That was what I thought of doing at first. But then it wouldn’t have been noble. And I real- ly did want to be noble—just as some peo- ple want to paint picture or write poems or climb Alps. Come—take me back to the ballroom. It’s cold here in the past.” But how could he let the curtain be rang down on a scene half finished, and so good a scene? “Ah no; tell me,’”’ he said, laying his band on hers, ‘‘why did you think I didn’t love yon 277 “I knew it. Do yon remember the last time you came to see me ? We quarrelled —we were always quarrelling--but we al- ways made it up. That day we made it up as usual, but you were still a little bit an- gry when you went away. And then I cried like a fool. And then you came back, and—you remember—’’ ‘Go on,” he said. He had bridged the ten years, and the scene was going splen- didly. ‘‘Goon. You must go on,” ‘You came and knelt down by me,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘‘It was asgood as a play. You took me in yourarms and told me you couldn’t bear to leave me with the slight- You called me your heart’s dearest. Iremember—a phrase you'd never used before—and you said such heaps of pretty things to me. And at last, when you had to go, you swore we should never quarrel again—and that came true, didn’t it ?'? “Ah, but why ?"’ ““Well, as you went out I saw you piok up the gloves off the table, and I knew—?’ “Knew what ?"’ “Why, that it was the gloves you had come back for, and not me—only, when you saw me crying you were sorry for mse, and determined to do your duty, whatever it cost you. Don’t! What's the matter 1” He had caught her hands in his, and was scowling angrily at her. “Qood God! Was that all? I did come back for you. I never thought of the damned gloves. I don’t remember them. It I did pick them up it must have been mechanically, and without noticing. And you rained my life for that !’’ He was genuinely angry. He was back in the past, where he had a right to be an- gry with her. Her eyes grew soft. “Do you mean to say that I was wrong— it was all my fault—yon did love me ?’ ‘‘Love you ?’’ he said, roughly, throwing ber hands from him; ‘‘of course, I loved you—I shall always love you. I've never left off loving you. It was you who didn’t love me. It was all your fault.” He leaned his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands. He was breathing quickly. The scene had swept him along in its quickening flow. He shut his eyes, and tried to catch at something to steady himself, some rope by which he conld puil himself to land again. Suddenly an arm was laid on his neck, a face laid against his face. Lips touched his hand—and her voice, incredibly softened and tuned to the key of their love’s overture, spoke : ‘Oh, forgive me ! Dear, forgive me. If you love me still—it’s too good to be true —hut if you do—ah, you do !—forgive me and we can forget it all. Dear, forgive me, I love you so!” He was quite still, quite silent. “‘Can’t you forgive me?’’ she began again. He suddenly stood up. “I’m married,’’ he said. He drew a long breath, and went on hurriedly, standing be- fore her, but not looking at her. ‘‘I can’t ask you to forgive me—I shall never forgive myself.”’ ‘It doesn’t matter,”’ she said, and she laughed. ‘‘I--I wasn’t serious. I saw you were trying to play the old comedy, and I thought I bad better play up to you. If I'd known you were married—but it was only your glove, and we're such old ac- quaintances! I've no doubt my partner will find me.” He bowed, gave her one glance, and went. Half way down the stairs he turu- ed and came back. She was still sitting as he had left her. The angry eyes she raised to him were full of tears. She looked as she had looked ten years before, when he had come back to her and the accursed gloves had spoiled everything. He hated himself. Why had he played with fire and raised this ghost to vex her? It had been such a pretty fire, and such a beautiful ghost! But she had been hurt—he had hurt her. She would blame herself now for the old past. As for the new past, so lately the present; that would not bear thinking of. The scene must be rounded off, somehow. He bad let her wound her pride, her self- respect. He must heal them. The light touch would be best. ‘Look here,’’ he said. ‘‘I just wanted to tell youn that I knew yon weren’t serious just now. As you say, it was nothing be- tween two such old friends. And, and—?"’ He sought about for some further consola- tion. Ill inspired, with the touch of her lips still on bis band, he said : ‘‘And about the gloves. Don’t blame yourself ahout that. It was not your fault. You were perfectly right. It was the gloves I came back for.”’ He left her then, and next day journeyed to Scotland to rejoin his wife, of whom he was, by habit, moderately fond. He still keeps the glove with her kiss on it, and at firs reproached himself whenever he look- ed at it. But now he only sentimentalizes over it now and then, if he happens to be a little under the weather. He feels that his foolish behavior at that Sydenham dance was almost atoned for by the nobility with which he lied to spare her, the light, deli- cate touch with which he rounded off the scene. He certainly did round it off. By a few short, easy words he accomplished three things. He destroyed an ideal of himself which she had cherished for years. He killed a pale bud of hope which she had loved to nurse—the Lope that perhaps in that old past it had been she who was to blame, and not he whom she loved. He bad tramp’ed in the mud the living rose which would have bloomed her life long— the beliel that he had loved her, did love her—the living rose that would have bad magic to quench the fire of shame kindled by that unasked kiss, a fire that fres for- ever like hell fire, burning, but not con- suming, her self respect. He did, without doubt, round off the scene.—By E. Nesbit in Harper's Bazar for April. We Need Fewer Doctors, The other day at the convention of the American Medical Association in New Or- leans, where some 4,000 or 5,000 physi- cians and attendants were gathered, Dr. Billings drew attention to the decided ov- ersupply of medical men in the United States. He attributed the surplus to the fact that the medical colleges are gradunat- ing annually from 10,000 to 12,000 physi- cians, when the actual needs of the conntry call for only about 2,500. is correct, and there is no reason to doubt his figures, from 7,000 to 10,000 young men are entering a profession in which they have bus the slimmest hopes of making even the proverbial ‘‘comfortable living.” Of course, it goes without saying that most of the professions are more or less overcrowd- ed, but we doubt if any of them, except the Law, could afford a parallel to the con- dition of things brought to light at the New Orleans convention. What this dis- parity between the demand and supply means to this army of young men can only be surmised; but certain it is that in the matority of cases it will involve the loss of much money, that can iil be spared, and much time thas can be spared still less. It does really seem a pity that some of these graduates have not entered other profes- sions that are not so crowded, and can offer better prospects of remuneration. Sani- tary engineering, naval architecture, and the comparatively new profession of forest- ry. for instance, are not overcrowded, and there will soon be a great demand for real- ly competent automobile engineers, men who combine with mechanical ability a thorough knowledge of gas and other en- gines that are competing for the control of the field. Then there is the sphere of journalism, which, while abundantly sup- plied as to numbers, is pitiable supplied as to quality. There must be among those thousands of graduates not afew young men who have a natuial gift for good writ- ing—in these days an all-too-rare accom- plishment that threatens to become a lost art.—Scientific American. To Whiten the Hands, Melt a pound of white castile soap over the fire with a little water. When melted, perfume slightly with any one of the ex- tracts and stir in half a cupfal of common oatmeal. Use this preparation when wash- ing your hands and you will be surprised at the improvement in their appearance, A Reminder. ‘‘My boy,’’ said the parent, ‘it shomld be your ambition to carve your name some- day upon the temple of fame.’ ‘Say, Pop,’” replied the boy, ‘‘that re- minds me; you ain’t never gave me that jack-knife you promised me.’ Million Dollars in Salt. A very large salt plant in South Chicago was completely consumed by fire recently. With it were destroyed about 75 salt laden box cars and three grain laden boats. The resulting loss amounts to over $1,000,000. The Three Causes. ‘Congratulate me, old chap; I’m the happiest man on the earth to-day.” ‘Engaged, married or divorced ?"’— “Life.” If Dr. Billings | The Trade in Wild Animals Hamburg is by far the principal depot for the shipment of wild beasts. Nearly the whole of the trade here is in the hands of one man, Mr. Carl Hagenheck. Some idea of the immense amount of business done by this well-known dealer is evidenced when it is stated that in the course of a single twelve- month he dispatched from Hamburg some 76 lions, tigers and panthers, 42 different sorts of bears, 52 elephants, 64 camels and dromedaries and some 730 monkeys besides a large number of other animals and birds. The greater portion of this vast collection is sent to America to the various towns and is purchased by directors of zoological gar- dens and by circuses. During the week the writer was in Ham- hurg Mr. Hagenbeck shipped $2,500 worth of animals to Cincinnati and $3,500 worth to Philadelphia. He was also busy prepar- ing a large consignment for the New York Zoological Society. When Prof. Hornaday the Director of Bronx Park, visited Europe in the autumn of 1902 he spent $17;000 among the European dealers in the purchase of animals. He bought 6 lions, 2 tigers, a leopard, jaguar, cheetah, 2 black leopards, modntain goats and sheep, a chimpanzee, an ibex, a wild hog, a number of snakes, and a lot of large and small birds. When I mentioned this to Mr. Hagenbeck he ad- mitted the fact that there is a growing in- terest in zoos and that in a few years’ time the United States will boast of some mag- nificient gardens. He also told me that his thirty-six years’ experience as an animal dealer bad tanght him that the three great nations that possess a natural inborn love for animals and desire to know all about them are the Americans, the English, and the Germans. The great worry of the big dealers is to keep their stock up-to-date. At the time of my visit to Hamburg Mr. Hagenheck told me he was daily expecting some of his travelers from Siberia with a herd of 30 roedeer, 15 ibex, wild sheep and several smaller animals and birds. One man was also bringing home 3 giraffes from Soudan, as well as some Kudu and other antelopes. In a week’s time he was expecting a ship- ment from German East Africa, which in- cluded 20 zebras, 2 African rhinoceroses, some white-bearded gnus, water buck, and other antelopes and a number of smaller animals and birds. From West Africa he was expecting several chimpanzees and also some young gorillas, while a boat due the following day from Australia was bringing in a consignment of 60 kangaroos, several big red ‘‘boomas’’ and a number of rare birds. There were also other travelers on their way to Hamburg from different parts of the world with more or less valnable col lections of wild animals. As to his present stock one has ouly to add that it is more valuable than the animals found in any one zoological garden the world over, to give some idea of its immensity and variety, Altogether, Mr. Hagenbeck employes a staff of 60 European hunters. Many years ago he recognized the need of establishing depots in various parts of the world, from which he could replenish his stock as occa- sion required. He has five depots in Asia, Shree in Africa, several in Europe and one in America. These men employ the natives to catch the animals for them. Much could be written about the manner in which the various animals are captured. In Nubia, where most of the animals are now obtained the natives, by careful watching, know ex- actly when a lioness is about to have cubs. They then go to the den and kill the mother and carefully remove the young cubs to the camp where there they are brought up on tame goats’ milk. When about two months old they are conveyed to the coast on the backs to camels and shipped to Hamburg. Lions are also obtained from Abyssinia and Senegal. The finest lion was that obtained from the Atlas Mountains of North Africa. The spe- cies now no longer exist, and there are on- ly a few in captivity. Adult Nubian lions fetch $1,000 apiece; Senegal lions range in price from $500 to $750. Tigers vary in price from $375 to $1,500 apiece and more, according to variety and rarity of the ani- mal. Siberian tigers, for instance, sell at the latter figure. They are large, beauti- fully striped creatures. In the winter they grow a long woolly coat. A very singular variety of the tiger trihe comes from Rus- sian Turkestan. Its characteristic is that its hind quarters have brown stripes instead of black on a yellow ground. Mr. Hagen- beck imported one three years ago and sold it to the Berlin zoo. In Bengal Mr. Hag- enbeck’s agent employs a number of na- tives who catch adult tigers in pitfalls, while if they come across a mother with young she is at once shot and the cubs tak- en away and brought upon goats’ milk. It is the rarer animals, such as the hippo potamus, the rhinoceros and the giraffe that are diffiult to secure. In the first place it is practically impossible to secure an a- dul beast, and the young ones, when final- ly secured, are by nomeans easy to rear. The feeding of them is no light task. A baby hippo will drink thirty pints of milk a day, and a rhinoceros almost as much. To arrange for such a supply in a desert, hun- dreds and probably a thousand miles or more away from any civilized center means that a large number of goat have to be kept with « the expedition party. African ele- phants are also very scarce; indeed, only five have been imported into Europe since 1880. Mr. Hagenbeck puts this down to the recent wars in the Egyptian Soudan. A hippopotamus is worth from $2,500 to $3,- 500,a rhinoceros slightly more, while giraffes sell at $2,500, according to size, age and condition of the animal. Up to 1880 giraffes were very cheap, and were imported from the Egyptian Soudan in large quantities. Between the years 1880 and 1900, however only three were brought to Europe, two from South Africa and one from Senegal. They are caught by African hunters who search for them on their quiet Abyssinian horses. When they come to a herd of giraffes they drive them forward as fast as they can at such a pace that it is impossible for the young ones to keep up with the mothers. They are then easily caught and supplied with little balters and finally brought into the camp, where they are fed on goats’ milk, also on corn, and various kinds of plants. Zebras, unlikegi- raffes, are fairly plentiful. Mr. Hagenbeck showed me a letter from one of her travelers informing him that at a recent drivew hich be had organized in German East Africa fully 400 zebras were surrounded, besides a number of antelopes, some of the latter being entirely a new variety. As the corral was not large enough the larger portion of these animals were allowed to escape. Fi- nally, however, 85 zebras and 15 antelopes were captured. : Curiously enough, Mr. Hagenbeock does not insure his animals after dispatch from Hamburg. He prefers to take the risk. The insurance rates are much too heavy, for if proper care is exercised the mortality is very slight. In the case of large consign ments Mr. Hagenbeok sends one of his own men to attend and feed the animals on the voyage. In a recent shipment to the Ma- kado of Japan, which included lions, Polar bears, panthers, kangaroos, antelopes, mon- keys, as well as a collection of larger birds, such as eagles, vultures, etc. the whole col- lection arrived safely after a journey of nine weeks with the exception of one monkey. In another recent shipment of $17,500 worth of animals to the Sultan of Morocco, the mortality was very small, one tiger dy- ing of sunstroke while crossing the desert, while one crane succumbed to seasickness on the voyage. The shipments to America have been particularly successful, the losses sustained through accident or death being very trivial. In conclusion, attention may he called to Mr. Hagenbeck’s recent experiment in the acclimation of all kinds of tropical animals and birds. He is firmly convinced that al- most any tropical animal can be acclimated to stand a northern climate. During the winter of 1901-02 he kept out in the open at his park at Stelligen, a suburb of Ham- burg, a pair of South African zebras, an African eland antelope, several Indian an- telopes, large and small Brahma cattle, Indian deer, a pair of South African os- triches, a cassowary from New Guinea, sev- eral Indian and West African cranes, as well as other tropical waterfowl and birds. All these animals were placed in unheated stables and were allowed to go out’ in the open whenever they pleased. What Mr. Hagenbeck did was this : He left the dung in the stables from the middle of November until spring. When it got too high a part of it was taken away and new straw placed on top. This dung gives off a natural heat and makes a warm bed for the animals to lie down upon. During the winter refer- red to the thermometer in Hamburg regis- tered a temperature as low as 10 deg. F., yet the animals kept exceedingly well. In- deed, Hagenheck lost a number of tropical animals at hie other depot which were kept in heated stables. The Duke of Bed- ford is evidently a believer in this simple method of acclimating animals, for he is keeping three very fine giraffes, which he purchased last summer from the great deal- er, during the past winter in unheated sta- bles. Their bed consisted of 9 inches of peat upon which the dung was allowed to remain. Up to the time of writing the an- imals are quite healthy and doing well.— Scientific American. The Irish Land Question. Conditions of the Emerald Isle Is Altogether Abnor- mal. We must always remember that the con- dition of Ireland, owing to political causes, is altogether abnormal and unnatural; and that but for these causes Ireland would probably have a population at least three times as great as at present. Some 50 years ago the population of Ireland was double what it is today, while the population of England was then about half what it is now. At present England has abous seven times as many inhabitants as Ireland ; hus there is no such difference in the size of the two countries. Ireland bas, indeed, al- most exactly two thirds the cultivable area of England—that is, 20,000,000 acres, as against England’s 32,000,000. This at once suggests a most important consideration. We have all recently read of the deputation to Premier Balfour, to inquire into the sources of food supply which England could command in time of war. Mr. Bal- four did not seriously consider the ques- tion; but had he done so, he might have perceived that England had close at band, within four hours from her nearest port, a source of food supply in Ireland which is capable of immense development. There are, in fact, 20,000,000 acres of cultivable land, only a small part of which is at pres- ent cultivated at all, and that by no means as highly oultivated as it might be. To come down to figures, only 22 per cent. of the cultivable land in Ireland is actually cultivated; 52 per cent. is pasture; and 22 per cent. is entirely uncultivated, the re- mainder being woods or wastes. There are, therefore, no less than 15,000,006 acres of uncultivated, hut cultivable land in Ire- land, which might form an admirable source of supply for England; just as, look- ing at the matter from the other side, the dense population of England forms an ad- mirable market for the surplus agricultural produce of Ireland. At the present mo- ment, the exports from Ireland to England are a mere negligible quantity, England purchasing from India, Egypt, Argentina, Russsa and the United States wheat which could perfectly well be grown in Ireland, no part of which is more than 12 or 15 boars from the nearest English port, while most of the central plain is within nine or ten hours of England, Dublin being three and a half hours from Holyhead. To real- ize these possibilities, there is needed, firss, an endurable financial situation for the cultivator, now secuved by the Land Par- chase bill, as the result of generations of agitation; there is needed also a certain amount of free capital, suchas the land purchase scheme will put into the hands of the Irish county families. It would seem therefore, that without in the least intend- ing or foreseeing it, England, by giving Ireland a measure of justice in the new land legislation, will create for herself a very present help in time of trouble.—Har- per's Weekly. Why She Cooked it. The happy-faced man swung onto a Col- lege avenue car, and this is the story he had to tell as an explanation for his good humor : *‘I have a good joke on my wife. We have a new girl, a German, just over from the fatherland. She is a hard and willing wor ker, but is greatly in need of judgment and common sense. Yesterday my wife or- dered fish and instructed the girl to serve it for dinner. As soon as I tasted it I knew there would be something interesting when my wife discovered it was not as fresh as it should be. Her first monthful caused her to ring for the girl. ‘“ ‘Mary, is this the fish that came to- day?’ ‘¢ ¢Yes, ma’am.’ . ‘‘ ‘Didn’t you know it was not good when you cooked it?’ “Yes ma’am.’ 3 “ ‘Then why did you cook it?’ ‘Well, youn bought it and I thought youn kuoew it, $00.’ Willie's Kitten. ‘Now, Willie,” said the teacher, ‘youn may spell kitten.*’ *“K-i-i-t-t-e-n,”’ he slowly spelled. *‘No, no !"’ exclaimed the teacher; ‘‘kit- ten hasn’t got two i’s.”’ ‘“Well, ours has,”’ replied the small ob- server.—Cincinnati Enquirer. Notoriety. ‘‘You don’t mean to say he’s hought a copy of the City Directory for his parlor. What use has he for it there?” ‘‘Why, man alive, his name's in it —in print.” —A physician declares that people who sleep with their mouths shut live longest. To this might be added shat if they keep them shut while awake they will live more comfortably. reserve supply of food which may become a |. Water in Fish Bowls. Not Wise to Cha, / 3 Custodian, t too Often, Says the Aquarium ‘And I changed the water every day !”’ wound up a pretty Brooklyn girl, who had been relating her woeful experiences in keeping an aquarium the other day. “Funny thing, that,” chortled Mr. Spencer, after he had sent the Brooklyn Miss smiling on her way brimful of pisca- torial advice. ‘‘Ahout every woman in New York and the surrounding country who is keeping up a home aquarium, even though it may only be a miniature hang- ing globe, containing a couple of pin sized gold-fish, seems to be weighed down with the idea the sole necessity for fishes’ salva. tion is frequent changes of water. They come in bere almost daily with their tales of woe of how the ‘dear little pets’ have died, and never, no matter what else they may neglect, do they forget to ring in that particular phrase at some stage of their story—‘and I changed the water every day ‘‘Where they ever got the idea from I surely don’t know, for almost any proprie- tor of a bird and animal store who makes a specialty of carrying aquariums and fis- tings in stock could tell them thas this con- tinual daily changing of the water is more of an injury than a benefit. Nothing so annoys fishes as the con- tinual handling necessary in changing the water in their aquarium. The fish are frightened half to death and the reaction often finishes the job. “Now, as an instance of how unneces- sary it is to be always changing the water, here are two aquariums in which the wa- ter bas not been changed for eight years, and during all tbat time they have con- tained healthy, active inmates, and for the last year or 80 one of them has been oc- cupied by that sea anemone you see hidden behind that rock. The only change in those eight years has heen a trifling addi- tion about once a week, to take up the natural evaporation.’ ‘How did you keep the water sufficient- ly charged with oxygen to keep the fish alive ?”’ ‘‘Easiest thing in the world,” replied the custodian. ‘‘It is merely a matter of proper balancing of the vegetable and ani- mal matter in the aquarium. Balanced aquaria is the term by which the process is known to aquarium experts. Do you no- tice the great quantity of aquatic vegeta- tion in these aquariums? Well, that is there for the purpose of aerating the water, or to supply oxygen. *‘No aquarium, no matter how small, should be without some living vegetation. Then you notice a few snails loafing about among the foliage ; they are the scaven- gers. That crayfish, also has his uses in the general system. The shells, and even the choice of species, have much to do with the proper balancing of the whole. ‘‘But,”’ continued Mr. Spencer, with a note of warning, ‘‘don’t let a little knowl- edge work to your ruin. Don’t rush away from here and tell all your agnarium-keep- ing friends that it is foolish ever to change the water. The experience necessary to keep an aquariom in a healthy state under those conditions is only gained by long years of laboratory study. As a general proposition,’’he concluded, ‘with ordinary care while feeding not to allow any of the uneaten food to remain and defile the wa- ter, changing about once a week will fill the hill.””—New York Zimes. Across the Sea to Harvest. Thousands of Italian laborers are able to work every year in the wheat harvest both of Italy and Argentina and make good wages by so doing, says the New York Sun. The fact has often been mentioned that in one or another part of the world the harv- est of wheat is in progress every month in the year. Argentina, being in the South- ern hemisphere, reaps its wheat several months after our crop has been gathered and most of 1t sold. The Italian harvest begins in May, in- cluding not only wheat but other cereals and also hay. So the Italian field hands are busy from May through the summer months. After the bard summer work at home is over thousands of them buy steer- age tickets for Buenos Ayres, which cost only about $10 or $12 in the United States currency. The harvesting and other hard farm work of Argentina begins in November and ends in March. About 15,000 Italians make this journey to Argentina every year, and after the harvest season is over they return home all ready for the harvest on the Lom- hardy plains. The fact that so many Italians go over to Argentina only to remain during the bar- vest season helps to swell the statistics both of Argentina immigration and emigration. In the ten years ending in 1902, 808,175 immigrants were recorded as entering Ar- gentina. These figures, however,are some- what misleading. for they include many thousands of Italians who crossed the ocean merely to work in the harvest fields. In the same ten years there is a record of 382,672 emigrants from Argentina. These figures suggest the idea that the emigrants must have found something undesirable in Argentina, and so returned to their Fath- erland, the fact being, however, that about a third of this emigration is accounted for by the Italian farm hands, who go home to do their usnal summer work in Italy. Most of the immigrants who settle in Ar- gentina are Italians. A recent lecturer be- fore the American Geographical society said that the Italians in Argentina are superior in every way to the Italians who have come to this county. This is true, but at the same time it is no reflection upon the class of Italian la- borers who come here, for they are a very industrious and well meaning people. They come, however, for the most part from the mountainous regions of the Italian penin- sula, where they have been scarcely able to procure bread for their families ; while on the other band practically all the Italian immigrants into Argentina are from the great Lombardy plain of the extreme north of Italy, where work is abundant, wages are better than further south,and the farm- €rs are more prosperous, accustomed to better food, enjoying some educational ad- vantages and living under conditions that have developed, on the whole, more energy and intelligence. : Having worked on well tilled farms all their lives, they follow the same occupa- tion in their new home, while most of the Italians who come to us are laborers in the cities or on the railroads. Takes Pictures 20 Miles Away. John H. Heaton, M. P., who has return- ed from Italy, whither he accompanied Signor Marconi, says he saw at an observa- tory near Rome specimens of a new system of electric photography, by which clear pictures can be obtained of persons and scenes twenty miles distant. He thinks it conceivable that the system can be developed so as to enable the mak- ing of photographs of friends in distant lands while conversing with them by wire- less telegraphy.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers