a
Bellefonte, Pa., January 24, 1908.
sm——
THE TOWN OF NOGOOD.
My friend, have you heard of the town of Ne-
good,
On the banks of the River Slow,
Where blooms the Waitawhile flower, fair,
Where the Sometimeorother scents the air,
And the soft Goeasies grow?
It lies in the Valley of Whatstheuse,
In the Province of Lettersiide.
That Tiredfeeiing is native there,
It's the home of the reckless Idonteare,
Where the Giveitups abide,
It stands at the bottom of Lazyhill,
And is easy to reach, | declare.
You've only to told up your hands and glide
Down the slope of Weakwiil's toboggan slide
To be landed quickly there,
The town is as old as the human race,
And it grows with the flight of years,
It is wrapped in the fog of idlers dreams,
Its streets are paved with discarded schemes,
And sprinkled with useless tears.
The Collegebred fool and the Richman's heir
Are plentiful there, no doubt,
The rest of its crowd are a motley crew,
With every class except one in view—
The Foolkiller is barred out.
The town of Nogood is all hedged about
By the mountains of Despair.
No sentinel stands on its gloomy walls,
No trumpet to battle and triumph calls,
For cowards alone are there,
My friend, from the dead-alive town Nogood
If you would keep fur away,
Just follow your duty through good and ill,
Take this for your motto. “I can, I will.”
And live up to it each day.
THE LITTLE SISTER.
Donald was a butler. He was also a man
who all bis fifty years bad known and keps
hie exact place as he saw it out of Scottish
Presbyterian eyes. The unobtrusive dignity
of his bearing showed that he felt and
knew that others felt, that he was pars of
his family. Service of this sort molds a
wan rarely. It gives him a livery that
cannot be made to order, and any one who
bas eyes for it incieases in self-respect
through recognizing what long and per-
sonal service can make us all if we are will-
ing.
Just now he was glancing with disap:
pointment at the table apon which he had
ses the parlor lamp and carefally turved
down the flame under its red shade. The
table except for an ornament or two was
empty. He went to one of the bookoases,
and, kneeling hefore it, scanned in the
haif-light the titles of the books. As he
came upon the one he sought he gave a lit-
tle grunt of expectation confirmed, snd
taking out a volume of Tennyson he he.
gan to tarp over the leaves, The book,
however, opened natarally of itself at the
page be wanted. Placing it so, upon the
table, be gazed on it with reverent sender-
ness. “Ei! wy dearmistress,’’ he mused
aloud; ‘“‘an’ ye lefs it lyin’ open there when
ye were called 10 the Palace o’ the King.”
Sighing, he tarved, and with a far-away
mind ran an habitual eye over the room.
“Na, na,” be muttered, ‘‘there’s na troe
came here since the mistress died. There's
one thing ye cauna touch, McKenna.” His
glauce wade the cirenit and came back
agaiv to she open book on the table. * It's
a sad hoose,” he muttered, ‘‘that bas no
heid.”” He roased himself from his reverie
and going to the closet took from it a
bright-colored smoking jacket and placed
it upon the back of the armchair drawn ap
in front of the open fire. In doing so, bis
foot touched an ohjecs under the chair and,
stooping, he drew forth a child's knit
worsted slipper. He pioked it ap tender-
ly. “It’s a wee thing—"" he said—'‘a wee
thing to be toddlin’ all alane I"
Sighing again, he put the slipper into hie
pocket and satisfying hiwself ouce more
that the room was all in order, he was about
to go. A suppressed snicker stopped him.
It came from the direction of she ohair.
- His mouth relaxed its seriousness as he
crept toward it and looked over the back.
There in its capacious leather depths hud-
dled a little girl in her nightgown; her
bair tambled about a face =o pink with
merriment that it threatened disaster if it
were kept in another moment. She was
shaking with mirth,
‘“‘Aba! I catched ye,” he cried and
ponuced upon her.
Her laughter spouted ont in a breathy
gurgle, seemingiy not a moment too soon.
*“You are so fanny, Donald,” she bubbled,
‘‘when you matter to yourself ! I laughed
inside till I almost burst my bead.”
He eyed her with transparent sternness,
‘Miss Evelyn, what are ye doin’ there? I
left ye in bed. Have ye no’ heen asleep
yet?’
Evelyn shook her tumbled curls gleefully.
Then soberiug her face, she spoke with
plaintive pride :
‘*Not one single tiny bit. I just can’s go
tosleep, Donald. And my room is so hig
and dark.” She doubled her feet up under
her, tailor-wise, and put more importance
into her tove in anticipation of his protest.
“I’m going to sit here and watch the fire.”
‘A pretty time o’ night, indeed, to be
watchin’ the fire! We'll no’ have that.
Come, dearie, let me carry ye up-stairs and
tuck ye in.”
Evelyn increased ber impressive air.
‘‘Bat I am nachaly wake ful. And when
I'm wake-ful I can’t go tosleep without
any one to sing to me. Mama always bad
to sing me to sleep when I was wake-ful.”
“I'd sing ye to sleep myself’, ’ said
Donald grimly; “but Heaven knows ye’d
be a log time awake. It wad be like an
old corbie on the fenoce-rail croakin’ to a
wee lambkin in the meadow.” He held
out his arms. “‘Cuddle doon noo, and I'll
give ye a free ride to Noddie Land.”
**Ob, Douald,’’ coaxed the little girl ;
‘‘please let me stay here till Kenneth
comes. I won't go to sleep. I'm really
very, very wake-fol to night. And I want
tosee him so much. And it's so awful
late now, he’ll be home soon, won't he?"
‘‘I cavna say, dearie,” he said gently.
““There’s no tellin’ that. He doesna’ come
in sae—"’ he moved asiep away uncom-
fortably—‘‘sae regular.”
Evelyn felt that she was gaining her
olay by the mention of her brother's name.
e bad bad her doubts about it before, but
now she strategetically pursued she topio.
‘And I don’t see Kenneth at all any more,
because I’m always in bed—or he is when
I'm not as school. when I come
home he’s gone. And to-night I know I
sha’n’t go to sieep for hours and hours ! So
Ishall jostsit here and see him when he
comes in.’ She settled back pleasantly,
aware that av assumption of careless cone
fidence is often balf the battle. “Won't
he be surprised ?'’
**To see you curled up sound asleep and
'
! eatehin’ your death o’ cold ! Bat it’s a sur-
| prise he'll no’ get this night. Come now,
my wee lassie I"’ He scooped her up sud-
denly.
"Please, please, Donald !"" she cried.
“I'm pot sleepy a bit. I—"
““Tabe, ye wee beggar! The sandman
"Il be snatchin’ ye in twenty winks. There
ye go!” He hoisted her lightly to his
shoulder in spite of her wriggling protes-
tatione. ‘“‘And I'll sell ve all about the
brownies and the gunidwife’s charn.””
“Oh, will you ?"’ cried Evelyn delighted.
She made one trial more however, relapsing
into plaintiveness. ‘‘But, I'm so wake
“And how they ohurned the butter,
Chug ! Chug ! Chug !"" went on Donald in
a pleading tone. At each chug he took an
artful step toward the door. ‘“To pay for
the wee oakes she left on the hearth for
them. Every time one took a nibble, the
ithers pushed the churn handle doon, and
then pulled is up again. Nibble chuggely !
Nibble chuggety ! And one o’' the brownies
on the churu wad jump doon and the one
at the cake wad clamber up And then it
would hegin again. Nibble chuggety !
Nibble-chuggety !"’ and they wens out into
the ball and up the stairs.
A live coal dropped from the grate and
soon afterwards the waotel clock struck
ten. Left to itsell the room took on the
well kept air of a hotel apartmentkeps ready
for transient occupation. The batler was
right. It was a room from which the per-
ronality had departed. It was no longer a
center of household life. There lay about
it the subtle melancholy of a place which,
created lovingly to be lived in,is now com-
wisted to the orderly care of servants,
A short while only was it left alove,
however. For a young man, letting him-
self iv at the street door and taking off hus
overcoat in the ball, entered briskly. He
was a good-looking, oleau-bhuilt fellow,
wearing youth in a buoyant fashion, though
with a suggestion of overdrawing upon his
vitality. His fine-grained face bad begun
to harden somewhet defiantly to diseipa-
tion, and although the hardening was as
yet but superficial, it marred a sensitive
mouth and gleamed a little uneasily from
a frank eye.
He rubbed his hands together before the
cheerful fire. ‘“‘Brrh I” he said aloud,
“I'm nearly frozen.” Then as he tarned
his back comfortably to it, he saw the
smoking jacket spread out upon the arm-
chair. “Good old Donald I" he thought
as he took off his Tuxedo and pat it on. Is
was really cozy in the pleasant room and
he was glad he badn’t gone—after all, it
was better than the other places. He
shrugged his shoulders impatiently. How
fiat all these things got after the first taste!
the same old round, night afrer night;
everything like everything else, —every-
thing tiresome !
The butler came noiselessly into the
room. Seeing the young man he gave an
unconscious movement of surprise. ‘‘Ah,
master Kenneth, you're home I" he said.
Keuneth was quick to dicoern and resent
its slight note of censure. ‘‘Well.”' said
he with a touchiness only partially con-
trolled, ‘don’t stand there as if 1t petrified
you "”
‘Pardon me, sir,”’ answered the butler
quietly, ‘I didoa look for ye so soon.”
The hoy was a little ashamed of his irri-
tability and the tone he found himself tak-
ing, but the man's conciliatory respectful-
ness anvoyed him. *‘I know well enongh,”
be said shortly, ‘‘that I'm back earlier
than uvsoal. Now that I am here, how-
ever, let us hoth try to make the hest of is.”
*‘Ye have no reason, Maister Kenneth,”
said the butler withous raising his voice,
‘‘to speak to me io that way. I'm real
glad to «ee you home again —at so guid an
hoor.”
“I shall come home when and as late as
I please.” retorted Kenneth aggressively.
Then, feeling that the man deserved to
know his place, ‘‘Please to understand
that. And make no comments on it in the
fature.”’
‘“Verra weel, verra weel,”” the other an-
swered. ‘If onybody conld have prevent-
ed ye, it wad hae heen done lang since.”
‘See here, Donald,’ hioke in the young
man catching fire. ‘I'm no child. And
I'm sick of this everlasting astitnde of
yours. Don’t take it on yourself to con
trol my behavior.”
Donald’* mouth had settled grimly.
‘‘Maister Kenneth !I"’ he interposed with
dignity. ;
‘Now listen to what I have to say,”
Kenneth stopped him sharply. *'I don't
forget yoar long service in this house or
the position you hold here; but remember I
am my own master, and you’ —— he broke
off abashed at the crude end of his sentence.
Then he added grofily, ‘Kindly bold your
tongue in the future.” He torued ab:
raptly to the fireplace and began to warm
his hands.
The butler did not move. He stood
quietly facing his young master whove
black forehead he could see in the mirror
hefore him. Nor, when he spoke, was his
voice lifted ahove its customary minor level,
but the words came with a tremulous in-
cisiveness that showed how much he was
stirred. ‘*Maister Kenneth! I have held
my tongne ower lang already. Ye forget
your ain place when ye tell me I have for-
got mine. Did I forget it night alter night
when I was sitsin’ up to the peep o’ day,
waitin’ for ye to come hame ? Did I forget
it when I was doin’ my best to he the heid
0’ the hoose, an’ the real beid was carons-
in’, forgetfu’ o’ his duties? Did I forges it
when I bad to lie to the wee mistress, hush-
in’ her innocent prattle for fear 0’ distur-
bin’ your noonday sleep, because she manna
guess her brither's shame and disgrace ?
It’s me, when it should have been you, who
tried to comfort the bairn’s eair he'rt,
breakin’ already wi’ loneliness for her
mither, Ah, Maister Kenneth, that I
should live toeay it! It’s you who have
forgot your ain place I"
Kenneth whirled upon him furiously,
smarting at the tone of conscious authority
which for all its quietness vibrated in the
old man’s voice. ‘‘How dare you speak to
me in this way ! Nothing but the remem-
brance of your faithfulness to my mother
keeps me from dismissing you on the spot.”’
‘Ye do well to mind thas, Maister Ken-
neth,”” returned Donald gazing firmly into
his angry eyes, ‘‘faithfa’ to your mither, I
will be fnisblo’ 30 bet bairns, : Dive for-
get that, when ye forget yourse
*'Oh, you're going to keep it up, are
you?" cried the young man defiantly, He
clamped his jaws stubbornly and strode
out into the room. ‘‘Well, you can ocon-
sider yourself dismissed. You can go!’
‘‘Verra weel, verra weel,” returned she
other calmly. *‘Ye can bid me to go if you
like. But the goin’ is na’ sae easy.” He
turned as quietly to leave.
Kenneth waved bis hands impotently,
feeling he could no longer trast himsel! to
speak. Kenneth’s glance fell upon the
book lying on the e. “Isit you,” he
oried, his wSasperatich enddenly ehooti
out again, ‘‘who keeps putting this og
here and leaving it open as if—as if some
one had just been reading it?"
Don hesitated. He felt the subject
bad come up at an unfortunate moment.
Then after a brief silence he decided to
make the best of it. **Ay, it was me pas
it there,’’ he said gravely.
“In Spite of the fact.” said Kenneth,
“‘that I have repeatedly put it back on the
shelf again, yon would take it ont 2’
“I wad take it out,” repeated the butler
slowly.
“Is this my house or yours?” eried
Keoneth passionately. “What do you
mean hy doing snch a thing ?"’
The butler paused again. “I'd rather
na’ tell ve,’’ he said at last, ‘when you're
in this mood.”
“What did you do it for?’ thundered
the hoy.
*‘I thought you would see is and —"’
“Well, I have reen it,”” Kenneth broke
in. “I've ween it many times. Could any-
vody miss it? What did you do it for?’
he persisted imperiously,although he knew
the answer he wounld ges.
Donald went on simply. *‘It was one o’
the books she loved —aud the last time—
she left it there.”
Now that the answer had come, Kenneth
did not know how to meet is. He felt that
he had been casting a sorry figure, yet once
in it, be bad been at a loss how to ges ont
ol is otherwise, without seeming to ecoun-
tenance the hotler's presnmption. ‘And
what then ?*’ he went on irritably. ‘‘Do
yon suppose I want to he reminded of it ?
Do you think I would be likely to forges 2°’
Donald measnred him with a gentle,
direct gaze. ‘‘Yes,” said he. ‘I thooght
it likely yon were forgetting.”
“Ob I"" The boy thrust his hands into
his pockets and took a helpless plunge
down the room. He came back and began
with a restraint he was unaile to keep up.
‘‘Donaid, you are intolerable. How dare
you go—blundering round thie way ? I'm
sick of ie. If you want to know, that's
what drove me away—that i» as much as
anything. [don’t want any of your mis-
sionary business, I tell you I am sick of is
—you and your everlasting meddling. It
makes me worse ! It makes we feel like—
like—that I" He snatched up the hook
and threw it violently upon the floor.
“There, do you understaud now?" he
oried as he caught the old man’s look of
horror. “Go !"
Donald's lifelong habit of deference bas
already come to his assistance. He ssood
in respective silence while the young man
glared at bim ferionsly. Bat his return-
ing gaze seemed to the boy to search his
very soul and he hardened himself to meet
it. For a moment they faced each other,
the hook lying between them still open on
the floor. Then silently still, bat with an
effect of curtness, the butler left the room.
Kenneth did not take his eyes from him
until he had gone. He shrugged his should-
ers with angry reliel. ‘The meddlesome old
fool I" he mustered. Against his will his
glance sought the book and he felt a pang
of remorse for the turn his outburst had
taken ; but be stifled it and went to the
piano instead and dashed into a gay and
flashy waltz. After a bar or two, however,
he broke it abropsly and leaned his head
apon the music rack, his face flushed
with shame. He felt that he had acted
like a child, that every trivial move he had
made bat confirmed bis pettiness. Worse
than all, he had not behaved like a gentle.
man ; Donald. for all his presumption, had
shown far better breeding than he had.
“What a contemptible cad Iaw I" he
thought. ‘‘He was insolent, of course, but
bie devotion to—all of us, gave him some
right to talk as he did. Heaven koows
it's true ennogh. I have forgotten my
place. I baven’t meant to—but every-
thing has gone wrong somehow.” He rose
from the piano in a moments, and after
wavering a little, he went to the book.
Stoopivg suddenly, he picked it up. The
quick action released the sob at his beart,
and as, still kneeling, he caught the hook
to his breast, his face broke in response to
the gasp of his mounting breath. “Oh,
mother, mother!" he spoke her name softly.
“I've thrown everything of yours down—
everything that you loved. Can’t you see
how it all is ? And how ashamed I am 9?”
He rose with the book in his hand and
without meaning or knowing it went to
the piano and placed it, open still, on the
musio-rack. He sat down upon the stool
again and gave himself up to sharp, biting
wemories of all that had happened since
his mother had beld it in her hand and
read to her children her favorite tale of Ar-
thur and the Round Table. Soddenly be
leaned and put his lips to the page on the
lines where she had unexpectedly lefs off,
and his boyish shonlders shook with dry,
strangling sobs. When be straightened up
he began to play gently, staring before him
at the lines and through them to some
thing beyond. It was an old tune he play-
, a8 simple and as sweet as his boyhood
had been.
Sing me the songs that to me were so dear
Long, long ago ; long ago.
Playing so, the harduess went out of his
heart, and with it the recklessness out of
his young face
Into the doorway, creeping warily past
the davger- point, came Evelyn, again ee-
caped from bed. Her face was roguish
and she had ber finger on her lip as if so
impress upon herself the idea of silence.
She stood there until he had finished the
familiar strain. Then she tiptoed cantions-
ly toward him, with the careful concensra-
tion with which children always perform
this hazardous act, balancing herself with
ber arma as if she were walking a tight.
rope. But suddenly she darted and sprang
upon him as be wheeled on the stool. He
seized her in his arms and swept her far
above his head. She caught her breath
with delight and as he let her down to a
level with his face, she wound her arms
about his neck, half-laughing, balf-orying.
He bugged her to him passionately, him-
self between tears and laughter, and oarry-
ing ber to the armchair, plumped her with
a playta) threat of violence down into its
“Why aren’t you in bed ?’ he said.
‘‘Aud in your bare feet, too I"
Evelyn raised her nightgown daintily
and disclosed her other foot in its knit
worsted slipper. ‘‘I couldn't find bus one,’
she explained. She wriggled her bare pink
toes gleefully. ‘‘How do, my son John I"
ay son John ?'’ asked Kenneth myste-
*“ ‘One shoe off, one shoe on,
Diddle, diddle, dumpkin, my son John!"®
she quoted and doubled the whole pink
row roguishly.
‘But why aren’t you and your son John
sound asleep by thie time ?"’ said Kenneth
austerely. ‘‘And your other son Peter"
he added, quite spoiling the effeot of his
paternal ai
I.
*‘Peter ?'’ oried Evelyn joyously.
“Certainly,” glibly resurued Kenneth.
“ “The one that has the shoe looks neater,
And so you call him my son Peter.’
Now — dido’s Jou tuck ket and Jobn
to ong ago? They’ll never grow nu
i? jou don’t give them their sleep. ?
‘Well,” eaid Evelyn speculatively,
vihe¥ can’t sleep unlese their mother does,
and I was just so wakeful. When I'm that
way I can’t go to sleep unless some one
tells me stories or sings to me, that is I
Pr ———— —
can’t most always. Donald tells lovely
stories, bus his singiug —'"she langhed gai-
ly in recollection. “It’s all oreaky and
breaky. His singing is just so funny I
laugh myself awake again.”
She suddenly dived np as him in the
chair.
come in. Tell me all about where yon've
been all this time, and everyshiog.”’
Kenneth looked into her guestioning
eyes : the warm, flushed face with its tum-
bled bair was very near his own. ‘‘No,
deary,”” he answered ; ‘youn must go to
ved again. It’s very late far little girlies
to be up.”
‘But Kenneth,”’ she coaxed, *‘'I don’t
want to go to bed.
not ween you for years and years, I'm not
a bis sleepy, not the littlest hit. Besides,
I've just had a nap and I conldn’s have one
again for ever so long.” She opened her
eves very wide and stared at him convine-
ingly. Bot the sustained effort this re-
quired was too much for her, and she
yawned in spite of herself Kenneth laugh-
ed pravokingly. ‘Oh, that was just ‘cause
—'eaure I ought to be sleepy and I'm
not,” she explained in triamph. “Aud I
just can’t nnless vou tell mea story or sing
tome!" Thix idea, dashed off in the hnr-
ry of extennation, appealed to her. ‘Yes,
just like mama need to fio, in this very
chair.”’ She reached ous her arms. put
them about hi« neck and drew him gently
toward her.
she snoggled her warm wooth just above
his collar, ‘I miss mama #0 much.”
He smoothed her hair, comforting her
awkwardly. ““And so do I, dearie,” he
said with an effort, for he was one of those
whom emotion hefore others always shames,
Well, girlie, if I tell you a story will yon
promise to go straight to bed ?"’
She leaped with delight. “Yes. really
and truly !"’ she declared. ‘It it's a good
story it will pnt me to sleep anvhow. And
thes,” she added joyfully,‘ ‘vou’ll carrv me
there.”
from under her and wprioging down from
was hall kneeling by its arm. “‘Oh, Ken.
neth ! I'm =o glad youn came. I just prayed
and prayed to God von would.”
“And I am too. dear,” he said, gazing
over her shoulder into the dving fire.
“It’s awful lonesome with just Dovald,"”’
she said wistfully
“Yes, dearie, I know it,” her brother
said hurriedly. ‘*Now about the story.
‘‘But you must tell is right in the big
chair I’ she cried. ‘‘Just as mama used
to."
He lifted her and sat down with her on
his lap. ‘‘All right. Now which shall it
he "
Evelyn wriggled to him ecosily, ““Twil
me about ‘The Palace o’ the King.’ Her
little voce lowered itself gravely, *'I
haven’t heard that since mama died.’
“ ‘The Palace o’ the King’ #'’ he repeat-
ed a if to himeell. “D'm—I'm afraid I've
forgotten all about that, dearie.”’
“Why Kenneth?’ protested Evelyn
earnestly; ‘‘of course you haven't. Yon
just think yon have, bunt you haven't.
Abont how grand and fine is is and every
thing? Now just wait until I'm comforta
ble,—and cover np my son Jobo with your
hand #0 he wont take cold.”
He held ber foot in bis hand, while in
the carve of his other arm she hollowed a
place to her liking, and rooted with her
head on his shoulder until she fitted it in
snugly. “Now begin,” she commanded.
Slowly, partly because he was trying to
recall the words, and partly in the effort wo
steady a voice that would tremble in spite
of himeelf, Kenneth began :
“It's a bonnie, bonnie warl’ that we're livin' in
the noo,
And sunny is the lan’ that now we aften traivel
throo ;
But in vain we look for somethin' here to which
oor hesrts may eliing,’
For—
She prompted him—* ‘Its beanty is as
paethin’ so—' Go on!”
“For its beauty ix as nacthtn’ to"
He stopped, and Evelvn finished for
bim, ** ‘the Palace 0’ the King.” There! I
knew it would all come back to you if yon
jost tried!” ° She yawned pleasurably.
*‘Now go on with the second verse.”
Kenneth went on:
“We like the gilded Simmer wi’ its merry,
merry tread,
An' we sigh when hoary Winter lays its bean
ties wi’ the dead ;
For tho’ bonnie are the snaw-flakes an’ the
down on Winter's wing,
It's fine to ken it daurna touch the Palace o
the King."
“The Palace o’ the King," repeated
Evelyn sleepily. She snuggled up closer
to bim, drawing ““my son John’' out from
under his band and doubling her knees up
under her nightgown. Kenveth was look-
iog fixedly into the fire. She roused her-
self drowsily at the silence, and clutching
bis finger closed her fist around it.
‘Go on,” she marmured.
More and more falteringly he continued:
‘Nae nicht shall be in heaven as’ nae desola-
tin’ sea,
An’ nae tyrant hoofs shall trample i* the city o'
the free;
There's wan everlastin’ daylight—an’ a~never-
fadin' spring
Where our God—is a the’ glory in the Palace—
o' the King."
Hie voice had broken into hushed sohs,
and the words came out in little groups of
threes and fours.
The tears flowed down his cheeks and
dropped on the tonsled head on his breast.
Finally, his eyes blinded, be tried to brush
them away; but Evelyn held his fingers
fast aud, as he raised ber arm in doing so,
she murmured and nestled closer to him.
The trivial, confiding movement of the
child, so helpless in her sleep, lifted him
suddenly out of his own emotion to a feel-
ing which he bad never bad before—that
be bad a obarge to keep, that he was re.
sponsible for her BaPpintas, and that she
was a part of himself. A passion of fond-
ness, of proteotingness, swept him like a
calminal wave. He leaned bis wes
cheek upon her tumbled hair.
‘‘Ab !" he cried in a yearning whisper.
‘Keep tight hold, little band, and don’t
let me wander away again.”
Donald had entered quietly while Ken-
veth was repeating the last verse, and,
much stirred by memories and hopes of his
own, had come up with his noiseless step
behind the chair.
Now, feeling that he was in the presence
of something too sacred to be spied upon,
aud fearing also lest the detection of his
presence might spoil everything he turned
to steal away as softly as he bad come.
But Kenoeth bh him, and rising care-
fally with Evelyn in his arms, saw him
just before he left the room. He called so
bim in a low voice : : '
‘‘Donald I"
The man paused, his worst fears allayed
by the boy’s tone ; but, still apprehensive,
be went toward him hesitatingly.
“Forgive me, Donald. I was very rude
—and i He stopped ohok-
ingly but still looked firmly into the man’s
answering eyes. Then forgetting Evelyn,
be held out his band to the butler.
**Oh, Kenneth, I just prayed you'd | shat
The child, disturbed and finding the
comfortable hollow of her nestling place
anaccountably chauged, cuddled and twiss-
ed uot she bad made herself a new one.
Both men regarded the movement anxe
iously, fearing she would wake. Satisfied
she was asl Kenneth tarned to-
ward Donald . But the batler’s
glance bad fallen on the little bare foot,
and taking the missing slipper from bis
pocket he put it on senderly.
When shis operation was finished, Ken-
neth stretohed ont hi« hand again.
“Apd—1'"m sorry, Donald,” he said.
And pow when [ have |
“Oh, Kenneth,” she said, as |
She untwisted Peter and John |
the chair hurled herself upon him where he
The butler took it in a firm, movelesa
grip. *“‘Whist, mon!” he whispered,
‘‘dinna wavken the bairn.”’—By Algernon
| Tassin, in the Delineator.
| The Impending Timber Famine.
After careful investigation the Forest
Service allows us twenty years, with a
possible extension of five more, for the ex-
baustion of our timber supp y. It holds
out no hope that any measures the Govern-
ment can now take can avert this calami-
ty. We can guard she trees on the exiss-
ing forest reserves, and we can plant new
ones, bat hefore the new crop reaches ma-
turity the famine will he at hand. Foor-
fifths of the timber lands of the country,
including practically all those east of the
Mississippi, are in private hands. Noth.
ing the Government can do, short of pur.
chasing on an enormous scale, can check
the devastation of shose areas.
Of course the predicted timber famine
need not be permanent. If we go at the
work of reforestation in earnest we can
have growing crops of trees at the end of a
| quarter of a century that will hold out the
| promise of an early satisfaction of all our
| legitimate needs. And the prediotion of
| any shortage at all is based upon the as-
| sumption that we shall continue our pres.
| ent criminal waste as long as we bave any
forests left to devastate. But there is no
| reason why we should do that. Our frighs-
ful waste from fire is almost entirely pre-
| ventahle. We are using between six and
seven times as much timber per head of our
| population as is used in Europe, aud if the
people of Europe can ges along on their
moderate supply we could do the same if
| we had to. In the twenty years from 1880
to 1900 the amount of lumber cat from our
forests increased nearly twice as fast as the
pepalation ; that 1s to say, each American
| was using nearly twice as much in 1900 as
{he bad need twenty years earlier. The
| change should have been in the other di-
rection. As the country became sestled
| and stone, brick, tiles, and steel took the
| place of wood in building construction,
| while coal and gas replaced it for fuel, we
| ought to have heen able to get along with
| less wood than before. The manulacture
| of paper is a (rightful devastator of the for-
| ests, but it onght to be possible to find sab
| stitutes tor full-grown trees in thas indus.
| try. Pulp material might conceivably he
| grown in annual orops.
| Owe thing our governments, national and
State. certainly can do is to stop their pres-
ent offerings of premiums on forest destiue-
tion. They might even reverse their poli-
| oy and offer bonuties for forest cultivation.
| At present, in most of the States, the owners
of woodlands are heavily taxed every year
not only in the valae of their land, but on
the valoe of the standing trees upon it.
Many of them who would like to save the
trees, at least notil they grow larger, are
compelled to cat them before their prime
to relieve themselves of an unbearable bur-
den of taxation.
The National Government pours out
money for the preservation of our forests
with one band and with the other offers
prizes through the tariff for their destroe-
tion. Tt fines every citizen who brings a
hoard from abroad instead of cutting it
from a tree at home. Finally it sells as ag:
ricultural land tracts on which nothing bat
trees will grow to advantage, allowing the
second growth of timber to be destroyed in
ite infancy and securing impoverished
farms instead of flourishing forests. These
perversities bave heen vigorously deals
with by Mr. C. H. Goets, of the Michigan
Agricultural College, in a recent number
of “Forestry and Irrigation.”
If we are to have a timber famine in
twenty-five years it will not be because it
is inevitable even now, bunt because, after
all the campaigns of education that have
been waged, our people are still too indif-
ferent to take the steps the emergeney de-
mands. — Colliers.
Millions of Siute Pencils.
To supply the school children of this
country with slate pencils a great many
millions of those little writing instruments
are made annuaily. In fact, iu addition to
the domestic output no fewer than twenty
million imported ones are nwed up in a
twelvemonth, nearly all of them from Ger-
many.
The slate used for pencils is a kind of
schiss, of so fine a grain that its particles
are not visible to the naked eye. Occasion
al impurities are accountable for *‘soratchy’’
slate pencils, which, instead of making a
soft, delible mark, are liable to score the
smooth snrface to which they are applied.
This kind of stone is largely silica, and 1ts
black color is due to the carbon it contains,
Germany supplies all the world with
slate pencils, producing nearly three hun-
dred million of them anvuaiiy. They are
obtained from quarties in the veighbor-
hood of Steinach, in Meiningen. Nearly
all the work is done by hand, and is so
poorly paid tbat fifteen morks ($357)
weekly is considered fair wages for a man,
who, in order to earn this amount, must
wall upon his wife and children to help
im.
Though wages are so much higher in the
United States, slate peucils are manufac.
sured here to compete with the imported
article by the help of machinery. The
rough stone is sawn into pieces of a certain
size, emoki of which, when run through a
machine, yields six pencils of standard
length—five and a half ivches. They come
out in cylindrical shape, and are pointed by
boys ou emery wheels. Finally, they are
ked in cases of ten thousand, selling for
.75, or about one-fifteenth of a cent each.
Most of the domestic slate pencils come
from a quarry in Pennsylvania. From the
same deposits which yield pencils are ob-
tained slahs for slates avd school blaok-
boards. Efforts have been made to find
some composition suitable for blackboards
and sohool slates, but nothing is equal to
the haturdl : uot. There are a good
many so-called slate pencils soapstone,
which is a kind of talo with a ot res
hat they are inferior in quality.—Saturday
Evening Post.
— ‘Queer the way time flies, isn’t it?"
*“Yep. There’s only one thing that can
beat it.”
‘What's that?"
‘“The way money gets away.”
~— ‘Bilger says no woman could make
a fool of him.”
“Well, shen, he’s right.”
“Right?”
““Yes;she'd be too late.”
The Ideal Height,
Reernits who are moch over six feet tall
are not desired for the United States Army.
There are exceptions, of course; but, asa
rule, men who run mach over six feet lack
depth of chest, and, by reason of inade-
quate lung capacity. fall below the average
iu power of endurance.
The ideal height for a man, according to
ohservations from a military standpoint, is
av inch and a balf ander six feet. It does
not seem to be intended hy Nature that
the male human animal shall exceed this
statare, if due, regard is to be had
for development at all points. Om the
other band, it is an obvious disadvantage,
for physical effectiveness, to be under she
average number of inches. At five feet ten
and a half a mao attains hie hest develop-
ment of muscle and bone, with highest
vital efficiency.
Just what is the average height fora
man seems to be not satisfactorily settled.
Obviously, it differs largely with race, our-
selves aud the Japanese representing among
civilized peoples the two extremes. On
the other baud, the American Indians are
taller than we are, aud she aborigines of
Patagonia must be considered the loftiest
folk in the world, inasmoch as the men
commonly run over six feet in height.
When the early Spanish explorers deserib-
ed them as a race of giants they were not
far from the fact.
Even in the United States stature seems
to vary considerably with locality. Daring
the Civil War, from the beginning to the
end of which our Government put into the
field and on board of fighting ships more
than two millions and a half of men, the
tallest recruits came from Kentucky, aver-
aging over five fees eight and a balf inches.
Kansas, Minnesota, Missouri, California
and Nevada came nexs, in the order given
—all of them over five fees eight. Maine,
Illinois and Michigan averaged five feet
seven and four fifths inches, and Ohio and
Pennsylvania a trifle less. Reoruits from
Massachusetts and Connections stood at the
foot of the list, measuring five feet six and
a half inches,
Alter fifty years of age the human hody
heging to undergo a progressive shrinkage.
Not only do the muscular tissues lose bulk,
hut even the hones become smaller. Mean-
while there is a contraction of the cartil-
aginous tissue between the vertehie of the
hackhoue, which cases a loss of height,
a man originally six feet tall frequently
losing as much as an inch and a half of bis
stature by the time he is sevensy years
old. —Sasurday Evening Post.
Sen Coyotes,
As the best wethod of encouraging the
distroction of dogfishes, which do four
hundred thonsand dollars’ worth of dam-
age annually in Massachusetts waters alone,
it has been serionsly suggested shat induce-
ments be offered to fishermen to capture
them. The Canadian Government is mak-
ing au effort in this direction by trying to
vnoourage the canning of dog,” which, it is
averted, bas a “*distinotly obviovs lobster
flavor, with a »uggestion of salmon.”
The dogfishes are the smallest of the
sharks. They are voracious and predatory,
booting io packs like wolves. It is their
habit to follow schools of herring or mack-
erel, as land wolves hang upon the flanks
of herds of antelopes; and so vumerous are
they that, in occasional instances, they
have been seen actually to «uvolop a
*‘shoal”’ of food fishes, not only surround-
ing the latter, but closing in npon them
beneath, 0 as to make i+ impossible for
any to escape.
There are two species of dogfish—the
‘‘smooth dog'’ and the ‘‘sping dug.” The
former breeds, one wight say. more like a
hird than a fich, laying eges which, when
fresh and divested of their shells, heara
close resemblance to the yolks of hen's eggs.
The shell, however, has the form of a reo-
tangunlar parse, from the four corners of
which extend long, tendril-like projections,
utilized to anchor the egy among the sea-
weeds at the bottom.
When the baby dogfish are ready
to be hatched they foroe sheir way ous of
these curious receptacles throngh one end,
leaving behind them the empty shells,
which, driven ashore by storms and picked
up on she beaches, are popularly kuown
as * sailors’ purses,’’ or ‘mermaids’ pocket-
books.’ ey are 8o tough in texture as
to be torn with difficulty, and look and
feel as if they were made of thin sheet
rubber. .
Far more numerous than the ‘‘smooth
dog,” however, is the ‘spiny dog,” which
is wo oalied because of the sharp, stont spine
in front of the back fin. This little shark
does not usually exceed eight pounds in
weight, though sometimes it attains a
length of five feet. It is the epeoies thas
does the serions damage to the fisheries,
sometimes actually blockading a fishing
port iv such a way as to put a stop to the
husiness of the fishermen.—Saturday Even-
ing Post.
Health and Activity,
Health is always active. The healthy
woman mast have an outlet for the vigor
she feels, aod ehe will find it in work or
play, in dancing, in the chase or at the
churn. Even work does not satisfy her, so
as she works, she sings, her busy fingers
keeping time to the tune she carols. Di-
rectly the duties of the house become a
burden, when the song dies on the lips,
and the limbs move eluggishly, when
amusements bave no more attraction and
sports fail to interest, the health is deolin-
ing, vitality is being lowered, and it is
time for the woman to look around for the
cause of her weakuess. She will find is
usually in disease of the delicate organs ;
in debilitating drains, nerve racking in-
flammation and ulceration, or female weak-
ness. For this condition a perfect and per-
manent care is contaiazed in Dr. Pierce's
Favorite Prescription. It makes weak
women strong, sick women well. Itisa
temperance medicine, absolutely non-aleo-
holio and non-narcotic.
———A North Philadelphia woman, who
is famous for ber cooking, bad some of her
neighbors and friends at ber home one
evening last week to a supper given in
bonor of ber daughter. Everything on the
table was admired by her guests. Among
the things that was admired moss of all
was a beautiful cake.
“It isso soft,” exclaimed one of the
guests,
‘‘And so light,” praised another.
“Pray tell us where you got the recipe,’
from another,
“I am very glad you think it isso sols
and light,’ replied the hostess ‘‘I made is
out of my own head.”
——Customer (as cheap lunch counter)
—May Jaalas aver ob you)
Waiter Girl—Certainly, sir.
Customer —Then please take these
doughnute back and crack them for me.
~‘‘My wife’s very economical.’
“In what way?’
“Well, she wears laced instead of but-
toned shoes on account of the saving it
effeots in hairpins.”