a .
Bellefonte, Pa., February 14, 1908.
“OH, WHO Am 11
“Only the singer of a little song" —
But what a singer! What a song she sings!
Yea, heaven to earth her music nearer
brings,
With subtle powers, that to her gift belong.
And Jovely thoughts her rippling verses
throng,
Their inspiration drawn from secret springs ;
We rise and soar with her on angel wings,
As she io flights of fancy glides along.
She teaches us our dearest friend in pain,
Aud not, as we had deemed him once, our
foe ;
And using things in nature, mean and low,
The highest truths her metaphors contain.
Cease not thy strain, thy melody prolong,
Sing on sweet singer, for we love thy song !
— Henry B. Blunt,
WILKINS WIFE.
Nobody ever understood why be warried
her.
You expected calamity to pursoe Wilkin-
son, —it always bad pursued him,—bos
that Wilkinson should have gone ous of his
way to pursue calamity (as if be could
never have enough of it) really seemed a
most apvecessary thing.
For there had been no pursait on the
part of the lady. Wilkinson's wife had
the quality of her defects, and revealed
herself chiefly in a formidable reluctance.
It was nnderstood thas Wilkinson had pre-
vailed only after an austere stroggle. Her
appearance sulliciently refuted any theory
of nnholy fascination or disastrons charm.
Wilkinson's wile was not at all nice to
look at. She had an insignificant figare,
a small, square face, colorless hair scraped
with difficulty to the top of her head, eyes
with no lasbes to protect you from their
store, a wouth that pulled at an invisible
ourb, a sallow skin stretched so tight over
her cheek-bones that the red veirs stood
stagoant there; and with is all, poor lady,
a dull, straived expression hostile to fur-
ther intimacy.
Even in ber youth she never conld bave
looked young, and she was years older than
Wilkinson. Not that the difference showed,
for his marriage had made Wilkinson look
years older than he was; at least, 80 it was
eaid by people who had known bim before
that nuforsunate event,
It was not even as if she bad been intel-
ligent. Wilkinson had a gentle passion for
the things of intellect; his wile seemed to
exist on parpose to frustrate it. In no de-
partment of his life was her influence so
Puostiativg and malign, At forty he no
longer counted; he bad lost all his bril-
liance, and had replaced it by ashy, un-
worldly charm. There was something in
Wilkinson that dreamed or slept, with one
eye, fixed upon his wife. Of course, he bad
his blessed hours of deliverance from the
woman. Sometimes he would fly in her
face and ask people to dine at his house in
Hampstead, to disous« Roman remains, or
the Troubadour, or Nietz«che. He never
could understand why his wile conldn’s
‘‘enter,’”” as be expeoted it, into these sub-
jeote. He #miled at youn in she dimmess,
saddest way when he referred to it. “It's
extraordinary,’’ he would say, “the little
interest che takes in Nietzsche.”
Mrs. Norman found him once wandering
in the High Street, with his passion fall
on him. He was a little absens, a listle
flushed ; his eyes shone behind his specta-
oles; and there were pleasant creases in his
queer, clean-shaven face.
She inquired the cause of his delight.
“I’ve got a mao coming to dine this even-
ing, to have a little talk with me. He
knows all about the Troubadours.”’
And Wilkinson would try and make you
believe that they had threshed out the
Troubadours hetween them. Bat when
Mrs. Norman, who was a little carious
about Wilkinson, asked the Tronbadour
man what they had talked about, he smiled
and said it was something—some extraor-
dinary adventure—shat had happened to
Wilkinson's wile.
People always smiled when they spoke
of her. Then, one by ove, they lefs off din-
ing with Wilkinson. The man who read
Nietzsche was yuite rade about it. He
eaid be wasn’t going there to be gagged by
that woman. He would have beer glad
enough to ask Wilkinson to dine with bim,
if be would go withous his wife.
If it bad not been for Mrs. Norman the
Wilkinsons would have vanished from the
social scene. Mrs. Norman had taken
Wilkinson up, and it was evident that she
did not mean to let him go. That, she
would bave told you with engaging em-
phasis, was not her way. She bad seen
how things were going, socially, with
Wilkinson, and she was bent on his deliv-
erance.
Itanybody could have carried it through,
it would have been Mis. Norman. She
was olever; she was charming; she had a
house in Fitzjohns's Avenue, where she
entertained intimately. As forty, she bad
preserved the best part of her youth and
prettiness, and an income insufficient for
Mr. Norman, bat enough for her. As she
said in her rather dubious pathos, she had
nobody hut herself to please now.
You gathered that if Mr. Norman bad
been living he would not have been pleas-
ed with her cnltivation of the Wilkiusons.
She was always asking them to dinver.
They turned up punctually at her delight-
ful Friday evenings (her listle evenings)
trom nine to eleven. They dropped in to
tea on Sunday afternoons. Mrs. Norman
had a wonderful way of drawing Wilkin-
son out; while Evey, her nnmarried sister,
made prodigious efforts to draw Wilkin-
son's wife in. “If you could only make
her,”’ said Mrs. Norman, ‘‘take an interest
in something.”
Bat Evey counldn’s make her take an in-
terest in anything. Evey had no sympathy
with her sister's missionary adventure.
She saw what Mrs. Norman wonldn’t see—
that, if they forced Mrs. Wilkinson on peo-
ple who were trying to keep away from
her, people would simply keep away from
them. Their Fridays were not.so well at-
tended, so delightful, as they had been. A
heavy cloud of dulluess seemed to come
into the room, with Mrs. Wilkinson, at
vine o’elock. It bang aboat her chair, and
Sead slowly, till everybody was wrapped
n it.
Then Evey protested. She wanted to
know why Cornelia allowed their evenings
to be blighted thus. *“Why ask Mrs. Wilk-
inson?”’
“I wouldn't,” said Cornelia, *‘if there was
any other way of gesting him.”
*‘Well,” said Evey, ‘‘he’s nice enough,
but iv's rather a large price to have to
pay.’
“And is he,” cried Cornelia passionately,
‘‘to be out off from everything becanse of
that one terrible mistake?’
Evey said nothing. If Cornelia was going
to take him that way, there was nothing
to be said!
'
| So Mm. Norman went on drawing Wilk-
| inson out more and more, till one Sanday
afternoon, sitting beside her on the sofa,
he emerged positively splendid. There
were moments when he forgot about his
wife.
They had been talking together about
his blessed Troubadours. (It was wonder-
fal, the interest Mis. Norman took in
them!) Saddenly his gentleness and sad-
ness fell from him, a flame sprang up be-
hind his spectacles, and the something that
slept or dreamed in Wilkinson awoke. He
was away with Mrs. Norman in a lovely
land, in Provence of the thirteenth cen-
tury. A strange chant broke from him; it
startled Evey, where she sas at the other
end of the room. He was reciting his own
translation of a love-song of Provence.
At the first words of the refrain, his
wife, who had never ceased staring at him,
got up and came across the room. She
touched his shoulder just as be was going
to say ‘‘ Ma mie.”
“Come, Peter,” she said, “‘it's time to
he going home.”
Wilkinson rose on his long legs ‘Ma
mie,” he said, looking down at her; and
the flaming dream was still in his eyes be-
hind his spectacles.
He took the little cloak she held out to
him, a pitifal and rather vulgar thing. He
raised it with the air of a courtier handling
a roval robe; then he put it on her,amooth-
ing it tenderly about her shoulders,
Mrs. Forman Iallowed them to the porch.
As he turned to her on the step, she saw
that his eyes were sad, and that his face,
as she pat is, bad gone 10 sleep again.
When she came hack to her sister, her
own eyes shone and her face was rosy.
“Oh, Evey,” she said, ‘isn’t it beauti-
ful?”
“Isn’t what beantiful?"’
“Mr. Wilkinson's behavior to his wife.”
II
It was not an easy problem that Mm.
Norman faced. She wished to save Wil-
kinson ; she also wished to save the charao-
ter of her Fridays, which Wilkinson's wife
had already done her best to destroy. Mrs,
Norman could not think why the woman
came, #inoe she didn’t enjoy herself, since
she was impenetrable to the intimate, pe-
ouliar charm. You could only suppose
that her ohjeot was to prevent its penetrat—
ing Wilkinson, to keep she other women
off. Her eyes never left him.
It was all very well for Evey to talk. She
might, of course, have heen wiser in the he
ginning. She might have confined the
creatore to their big monthly crushes,
where, as Evey bad suggested, she would
easily have been mislaid and lost. Bus so,
unfortunately, would Wilkinson; and the
whole point was how not to lose him.
Evey said she was tired of being told off
to entertain Mis. Wilkinson, She was be-
ginning to be rather disagreeable about it.
She said Cornelia was getting to care too
wuch aboat that Wilkineon man. She
wouldn’t have minded playing op to her if
she bad approved of the game; bus Mrs.
Wilkinson was, after all, you know, Mr.
Wilkinson's wife.
Mis. Norman cried a little. She told
Evey she ought to have known it was his
spirit that she cared about. But she owned
that it wasn't nght to sacrifice poor Evey.
Neither, since he had a wife, was it al-
together right for her to care about Wil-
kinson’s spirit to the exclusion of her
other friends.
Then, one Friday, Mis. Normao, reliev-
ing her sister for once, made a discovery
while Evey, who was a fine masioian, play
ed. Mm. Wilkinson did, after all, take
interest in something: she was accessible to
the throbbing of Kvey’s bow across the
strings.
She had started; her eyes bad torned
fromm Wilkinson and fastened on the play-
er. There wee a light in them, beautiful
and piercing, as if her sole had suddenly
heen released from some bidivg-place in its
anlovely house. Her face softened, her
mouth relaxed, her eyes closed. She lay
hack in her chair, at peace, withdrawn
from them, positively lost.
Mrs. Norman slipped across the room to
the corner where Wilkinson sat alone. His
face lightened as she came.
“It’s extraordivary,”’ he said, “her love
of music.”
Mrs. Norman assented. It was extraordi-
nary, if you cawe to think of is. Mrs. Wil-
kinsen bad no understanding of the ars.
What did it mean to her? You could see
she wae transported, presnmably to some
place of charactered stupidity, of condoned
oblivion, where nobody could challenge
her right to enter and remain.
**So =oothing,”’ said Wilkinson, ‘‘to the
nerves,’’
Mrs. Norman smiled at him. She felt
that, onder cover of the music, his spirit
was seeking communion with hers.
He thanked her at parting; the slight
hush and mystery of his manner intimated
thas she bad found a way.
“I hope,” she said, ‘‘you’ll come often
—often.”’
“May we? May we?’ He seemed to leap
at is—as if they badu’s come often enough
before!
~ Certainly she had found the way—the
way to deliver him, the way to pacify his
wife, to remove her gently to place and
keep her there.
The dreadful lady thus creditably dis-
posed of, Wilkinson was no longer back-
ward io she courting of his opportunity.
He proved punctual to the first minute of
the golden hour.
Hampstead was immensely interested in
bis blossoming forth. It found a touching
simplicity in the way he lent himself so the
sympathetic eye. All the world was at
liberty to observe his intimacy with Mrs.
Norman.
It endured for nine weeks. Then sud-
denly, to Mrs. Norman's bewilderment, 1t
ceased. The Wilkinsons left off coming to
her Friday evenings. They refused her in-
vitasions. Their vior was so abro
and so mysterions that Mrs. Norman felt
that something must have bappened to ac-
count for it. Somebody, she had no dou
bad been talking. She was much anno;
with Wilkinson in uence, and, w
she met him accidentally in the High
Street, her manner conveyed to him ber
just resentment.
He called in Fi n’s Avenue the next
Sunday. For the first time, be was with-
out his wile,
He was so downcast, and so penitent,and
80 ashamed of himself that Mre. Norman
met him balf-way with a little rush of af-
fection.
“Why have you not been to see us all
this time?’ she said.
He looked at her unsteadily; his whole
manner betrayed an extreme einbarrass-
ment.
“I’ve come,’”’ he said, ‘on purpose to
explain. You mustn’t thivk I dean's ap-
preciate your kindness, but, the fact is, my
poor wife—'' (She knew that woman was
at the bottom of it!) ‘‘—is no longer—up
to is.”
‘What ie the wretch up to, I should
like to know?"’ thought Mrs. Norman.
steady eyes. He seemed to be endeavoring
He held her with his melancholy, an- | her
to approach a subject intimately and yet
abstrasely painfol.
“She fi the music—jast at present—a
little too much fer her; the vibrations, vou
know. It's exsraordinary how they affect
her. She [eels them-—most unpleasaotly
—just here.” Wilkinson laid two deli-
cate fingers on the middle buttons of his
waistooat.
Mrs. Norman was very kind to him. He
was not expect, poor fellow, in the fabrica-
tion of excuses. His look seemed to im-
plore her pardon for the shifts he bad heen
driven to; is appealed to her to belp him
out, tostand by him iv bis uuvspeakable
situation.
“I see,” she said.
He smiled, in charming gratitade to her
for seeing it.
That smile raised the devil in her. Why,
after all, should she help him out?
“And are you susceptible to music—in
the same unpleasant way ?"’
“Me ? Oh, no—no. I like it ; it gives
me the very greatest pleasure” He
stared at ber in bewilderment and distress.
“Then why,’ said Mr«. Norman sweet-
ly, “il it gives you pleasure, should you
cut youself off from is?"
“My dear Mrs. Norman, we have to cat
ourselves off from a great many things—
that give ns pleasure. It can’t be helped.”
She meditated. **Would it do any good”
she #aid, if [ were to call on Mrs. Wilkin-
son?’
Wilkinson looked grave ‘‘It is most
kind of you, but—jast as present—|[ think
it might be wiser not. She really, yon
koow, isn't very fis.”
Mrs. Norman's silence neither accepted
nor rejected the preposterous pretext. Wil-
kinson went on belping himself out as best
be conid.
“‘I can’t talk about it ; but I thoaght I
ought to let yon know, We've just got to
give everything np ”’
She held heiself in. A terrible impulse
was upou her to tell him straight ont that
she did not see it; that it was too bad; that
there wae no reason why she should be cali-
ed upon to give everything.
“So, if we don't come,’’ he said, ‘‘yon’ll
understand? It’s better—it really is better
not."
His voice moved her, and her heart cried
to him *‘Poor Peter!”
“Yes’' she said; *'I understand.”
Of course she understood. Poor Peter!
#0 it had come to that?
“*Can’t you stay for tea?"’ she said.
‘No; I must be going back so her.”
He rose. His hand found hers. Its
slight pressure told her that he gave and
took the sadness of renunciation.
That winter Mrs. Wilkinson fell ill in
good earnest, and Wilkinson became the
prey of a pitiful remorse that kept bim a
prisouer by his wife's bedxide.
He had alwaya been a good man; it was
now understood that he avoided Mrs. Nor-
man heocause he desired to remain what he
had always been,
III
There was also au understanding, conse.
orated by the piety of thei. renunciation,
that Wilkinson was only waiting for his
wife's death to marry Mrs. Norman.
Aud Wilkinsou's wife was a long time ic
dying. It was uot to be supposed that she
would die quickly, as long as she could
interfere with his happiness by living.
With her genius for frustrating and tor-
menting, she kept the poor man on tender-
hooks with perpetual relapses and 1ecov-
eries. She jerked bim on the chain. He
was always a prisoner on the verge of his
release. She was at degth’s door in Mareh.
In April she was to be seen, convalescent,
in a bath-chair, being wheeled slowly up
and down the Spaniard’s Road. And
Wilkinson walked by the chair, his shoul-
ders bent, his eyes fixed on the ground,
his face set in an expression of illimitable
patience.
Iu the summer she gave up and died ;
and io the following spring Wilkinson re-
sumed his converse with Mrs. Norman. All
things considered, he bad left a decent it-
terval.
By antumn Mrs. Norman's friends were
all on tiptoe and oraning their vecks with
expectation. It was assumed among them
that Wilkinson would propose to her the
following eammer, when the firsts year of
his widowhood should be ended.
When summer came, there was nothing
between them, that anybody could see,
but it by no means followed shat there
was nothing to be seen. Mrs. Norman
seemed perfectly sure of him. In her in-
tense sympathy for Wilkinson, she knew
how to account for all his hesitations and
delays. She could not look for any pas-
sionate, decisive step from the broken crea
tare be had become ; she was prepared t-
accept him as he was, with all bis humilia-
ting fears and waverings. The tragio
shings his wife bad done to him could not
be undone in a day.
Another year divided Wilkinson from his
tragedy, and still be stood trembling weak-
ly on the verge. Mrs. Norman began to
grow thin. She lost her bright air of de-
fiance, and showed hersell vuinerable by ey
the band of time. And nothing, positive.
r nothing, stood between them, exoeps
ilkinson’s morbid diffidence. So abasurd-
ly mavifess was their case that somebody
the (Troubadour man, in fact )inserposed
discreetly. In the most delicate manner
possible, he gave Wilkinson to understand
that he would not necessarily make bim-
self obnoxious to Mrs. Norman were he to
approach her with—well, witha view to
securing their joint bappiness—happiness
which they had both earned by their admir-
able behavior.
That was all that was needed ; a tactful
friend of both parties to put it to Wilkin.
son simply and io the right . Wilkin-
eon rose from his abasement, ere was a
light in his eye that rejoiced the tactful
friend ; hie face had a look of sudden,
virile determination.
‘I will go to ker,” he said, ‘‘now.”’
It was a dark, unpleasant evening, full
of cold and sleet.
Wilkinson thrust his arms into an over-
coat, jammed a cap down on his forehead,
and strode into the weather. He strode
into Mrs. Norman's room.
When Mrs. Norman saw that look on
his face, she knew that is was all righe.
Her youth rose in her again to meet it.
ha ve me,” said Wilkinson ; *'I bad
to come.”
“Why oot ?'’ she said.
“It's so inte.”
‘Not too late for me.”
He sat down, still with his air of deter-
mination, in the chair she indicated. He
waved away, with unconcealed impatience,
the trivialities she used to soften the vio-
lence of his invasion.
“I've come,” he said, because I've had
something on my mind. It strikes me
that I've never really thanked you.”
“Thanked me ?"*
“For your great kinduess to my wile.”
Mrs. Norman looked away.
“I shall always he grateful to you,”
*aid Wilkinsoo. “You were very good to
“Oh, vo, no," she moaned.
“I assure you,’ he insisted, ‘‘she felt it
very much. I thought you would like to
know that.”’
“Oh, yes.”” Mrs. Norman's voice went
very low with the sinking of ber heart.
“She used to say you did more for her—
you and your sister, with ber beautiful
music—than all the doctors. You found
the thing that eased her. I suppose you
kuew how ill she was—all the time? I
mean before her last illness.”
“I don’t think"’ said she, ‘I did know.”
His face, which bad grown grave, bright-
ened.
“No ? Well, you see, she was so plucky.
Nobody conld have known ; I didu’s al-
ways realize it myself.”
Then be told her that for five years his
wife bad suffered from a nervous malady
that made her subject tostrange exocite-
ments and depressions.
“We fought it,”” he said, ‘‘together.
Through it all, even on her worst days,
she was always the same to me.”
H» sank deeper into memory.
“Nobody knows what she was to me.
She wasn’t one much for society. She went
into it’ his(his manner implied that she
had adorned it) ‘‘to please me, because |
thought it might do her good. It was one
of the things we tried.”
Mrs. Norman stared at him. She stared
throngh him and hevond him, and saw a
strange man. She had listened to a strange
voice that sounded far off, from somewhere
beyond forgetfulness,
“There were times.’ she heard him say-
ing, ‘when we could not go out and see
any one. All we wanted was to he alone
together. We conld «it, she and I, a whole
evening withoat sayvinga word, We each
knew what the other wanted to say with-
out saving it. [| was always sare of her;
she understood me as nohodv else ever
can '’ He pansed. ‘All that's gone.”
“Oh, no." Mrs, Norman said, ‘‘is isn’s.”’
“Te is.’" He illominated himself with
a faint flame of passion,
“Don’t say that, when you have friends
who nnderstand.”
*“They don’t. They can’t. And.” said
Wilkineon, “I don’t want them to.”
Mrs. Norman sat silent. as in the pres.
ence of something sacred and supreme,
She confessed afterward that what had
attracted her to Peter Wilkinson was his
tremendons capacity for devotion. Ounly
(this she did not confess) she never dream-
ed that it had been given to his wile.—By
May Sinclair, in MeClures Magazine.
Snow-Bilindness,
Soow-blindoess is an affliction little
kuown through description, though not
very difficult to describe, for here the
strongest adjectives need few qualifications,
writes V. Stefaneson in Harper's Magazine.
The pain does not follow immediately upon
the strainiog whioh seems to be its cause,
After a long day of haze the traveler finds
when he gets into camp that his eyes are a
listle itchy.and thas they water if he comes
too near a fire or any source of heats. Later
they feel as if there were a trace of smoke
in the tent, then asif a grain or two of
sand had gotten ander the eyelids, and
finally as if the eye sockets were lined
with savdpaper. Every movement of the
eye canses pain, and then the pains hegin
to come without a provoking roll of the
eyeball. At first there is a dull ache, grow-
ing gradually sharper, until toward morn-
ing of a sleepless night it throbs throogh
the eyes every few seconds, with twioges
comparable to, but not equaled by, the
shooting pains of toothache.
It is the only affliction with the pain of
which the ordinary E<kimo cries out. The
severity of the attack diminishes toward
the end of the first 24 hours; for the larger
part of that time the sufferer usua'ly keeps
his tent, moaning and occasionally crying
ont sharply, lying on his face, with both
hand= covering his closed eves to keep out
the faintest possible light; on the second or
perhaps third day he is able to travel, hat
is very near sighted and sees everything
double. In a week orwo, if the weather is
hazy or he has no goggles, the same indi-
vidual may have another attack—but the
first attack of the year is the moat severe,
apparently. Every attack weakens the
eyes and predisposes to fursher attaoks,
which (so, at least, the Eskimos believe)
finally lead to total blindness, an affliction
rather common among the Eskimos. Keep-
ing the eyes from strain and, if possible,
focussing them continually on some dark
ohject (such as a black dog in one’s seam),
is helieved by the natives to he the chief
safeguard. The same view is held by many
of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police,
whose daties within she Arctioand on the
plains of the nortiiwest [requently expose
them to anow- blindness.
Nothing, perhaps, could more clearly
bring out the trying vature of the afilio-
tion than the fact that one or more suicides
among the policemen on spring duty in the
northwest are attributed to inability to
bear the pain of enow-blindness. Ocea-
sionally the police employ the amusing but
apparently rather effective device of paint.
ing the nose black and trying to focus the
es upon is. The type of nose may have
sométhing to do with the effectiveness of
this scheme.
Palms in California,
Investigations by the Southern Pacific
company have gone [ar enough to show
that the date palm can be grown suooess-
fally in California soil. At the Govern-
ment’s experimental farm near Meooa, in
the Colorado Desert,several acres have been
set out and the trees are thriving. They
have not reached the fall bearing stage, but
several branches bave produced as high as
20 pounds each already. Mr. Fee, Pas-
senger Traffic Mavager of the Southern
Pacifio, has received samples of both the
soft and dried dates produced at these
farms, and pronounces them of excellent
quality.
The successful growing of the date tree
of the desert in California is almost as great
a triumph as the successful introduction in
the past yearsof the Smyrna fig. Some
packing and shipping of both soft and dry
dates may be done this year. Ultimately it
is expected that the date will form an im-
portant addition to California’s fruit pro-
duct. So confident of commercial suo-
cess are those who have been watohing the
date experiments, shat considerable plant.
ing bas been done by private growers.
The region selected for the ments
is the Coachella valley, west of Salton and
vorth of the Imperial valley. There is no
reason, ex say, why it should not be
covered with thriving date plantations that
will produce the larger part of the fruit all
of which is now imported.
— Mrs. Muggins—Yocar husband seems
like a man of rare good taste and excellent
pent
Buggine—Of course. Otherwise he
wouldn't have wanted to marry me.
eM. J never interrupts one,
and Pg ed I ever met.”
‘No wonder; he's been married three
times,
I
Portugal's New King.
Manuel, proclaimed by the council of
state as the new king of Portugal, is the
second sou of the assassivated monarch.
He is but little more shan 18 years oid,
having been horn in the roval palace at
Lishou on November 15h, 1889
While not in the direet line of succession
to the throne, as long as his elder brother,
who was also assassinated, was alive, never.
theless Manuel received an extremely care-
ful aud painstaking education. In study
be proved he has braivs, and he is deserib-
ed as being distinetly a young man of parts,
promise of developing into av able mon-
arch.
Is is probable that be will have oppor-
tanity to prove bis abilities as a raoler if
the alliance between Portcgal and England
means —as many observers declare is does—
that British power will be ready to keep
the young man on his throne.
Eoglaud, according to those familiar
with the treaty with Portugal made in
1898, is hound, not merely so protect Por-
sugal from foreign invasion, bat also to
safeguard the throne from any danger aris
ing from internal revolution. Not ouly is
Eogland declared bound to sastain the
new king hy this treaty, but is is farther
pointed out that is wonld be against her
policy to leave Portugal to ber own devices
should it appear that a state of anarchy is
to result or that the coantry is to be tarown
into chaos by shree parties fighting for the
power.
The reason for England’ desire to main-
tain the Portuguese throne on a firm basis
lies in the scattered land~ of Portagal in
many parts of the world, in which Eogland
is anxious to retain her coaling stations.
It is pointed out that were a chaotic cou:
dition to arise in Portugal, the conuntry be-
ing left by Eaglaud to do whas she likes,
Germany or another power might well seize
the Portugnese islands, should it become
necessary to make reprisals for injuries
done by the Portuguese mob to German
property in Portugal.
Prophets familiar with international af
fairs, therefore, argue that England will
sustain the new king that he will bave full
opportunity to show what kind of a roler
he has the ability to make. Thus far
Manuel has been best known as a yachts.
man, yachting being a sport of which he is
exceedingly fond. He bas been a prom-
ivent figure iu many of the regattas held
on the Mediterranean, in frequent instances
bandling his yacht himself. Last vear he
won the king's cup, offered by King Edward
of England, in oue of the regatias held off
Marseilles.
One of the strong points about the new
king, a= far as his sudden elevation to
sovereignity is concerned. is that he is in
extremely olose touch with court matters
and has a good knowledge of affairs in Lis-
bon.
He was the favorite son of the dead
raler, being much closer to King Carlos
than was the crown prince, aud being often
confided in by the kiog.
The new king bas bad something of a
naval edocation, in addition to the usual
schoeling and tutoring of a prince. Iv his
early teens he was sens to the naval school
at Lisbon, where he showed great aptitude
for a naval career. In personal appearance
he is described ae being fair, well formed
and handsome.
The title held by the new king, while
merely the second son of Carlos, was that
of the Duke of Beja. He bears 14 Christian
names in addition so his title, his full name
heing Manuel Marie Philippe Charles
Amelio Louis Mioha«l Raishael Gabriel Gon-
zague Xavier Francois D’Assise Eugene.
— Pitsburg 8
The Making of Milk Bottles.
The story of the milk bottle and its
equipment reveals an interesting situation,
says the Review of Reviews. Its oonstruo-
tion for one company that ases 5.000000
bottles annually keeps eight glass fao-
tories busy, most of them the year throogh.
The paper cap that is part of the milk
hottle’s equipment is made by machinery,
each machine turning ous from 400.000 10
600,000 a pay. Ooe man manages five ma-
ohines,
Each milk hottle is filled on an average
once in four days. Thus each one of the
100,000,000 bottles in nse receives a fresh
oap every time it is used, whioh will aver-
age seven times a month.
Sixsy per cent. of the milk bottles in use
are equipped with a tin cap or clamp, as
ii ” paper cap. A dozen [actories
are busy each year producing them.
Completely furnished, the wholesale cost
of the milk bottle is five cents. Is furnish-
es employment to thousands of workmen
in the three trades inte which it enters,
The wooden cases in which milk bottles
are transported are so widely used that
their construction is almost an industry in
iteell. Thousands of freight cars are need-
ed in the daily transportation of the milk,
for the milk trade knows no day of rest.
In New York City, where the trade is
highly organized, she rail receipts in 1908
exceeded 10 000,000 forty quart cans. These
were brought by fifteen different railroads
from five states, many traveling 300 miles
in transis.— Pittshurg Dispatch.
“The Bible of the Body."
Thas title has been aptly given to Dr.
Pierce's Common Sense Medical Adviser,
hecause to the physical nature it is a ‘‘lighs
unto the {path and a lamp unto the feet.”
In this book the physical life and its mys-
teries are dealt with in the plainest Eng-
lish. From life's Genesis, wandering
humanity is followed through desert and
wilderness, and before it is always set the
Promised of perfect health and hap-
piness. This great work is sent free by the
author on receipt of stamps to defray the
expense of mailing only. 21 one-cent
stamps for the paper-covered book, or 31
stamps for oloth binding. Address Dr. R.
V. Pierce, Buffalo, N. Y.
His First Wish of Three.
“Now,"’ said the good fairy, ‘I am go-
ing to grant you three wishes.”
“Anything I mention I can have ?’’ said
the boy, who bas been reared in 8 modern
business atmosphere.
“Anything.’
“Well, to start with, I'd like to have
you guarantee several encores to
wish.”
—“What is the matter with my
poem ?”’ asked the amateur contributor.
*‘Isn’s the meter all right?"
“Oh, yes,” replied the editor ; “‘the
meter is excellent I"
—*'] want to get rid of some bonds.”
“Ons of my line,’ replied the lawyer.
“But these are matrimonial bonds,” re-
joined the caller, putting a different face
on she matter.
When we are happy we seek those
we love. Inscriow we turn to those who
love us.
sleeping in a low temperature.
sary to sleep in a light blanket.
far more comfortable than a flannel bed-
gown, and if of a soft Syaliy the woolen
sheet, as it ,
and w
a ele tire) Wi
e are en warm. Were
this done A y
cases of ill health.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
Be noble ! And the nobleness that lies
In other men, sleeping but never dead,
Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.
—James Russell Lowelk.,
The question of eyestrain, which is re-
ceiving a good deal of attention at the pres-
ent moment, isa matter which cannot be
too strongly considered where children are
concerued. If the fatigue which is due to
straining the nerve of sight is the cause of
irritability in the case of adults, it must
also he doubly true of the nursery folk.
Nothing is worse for a tiny baby than to
allow it to lie on its back ina perambu-
lator, staring at a bright lighs, and if the
day is clear or sunny a covering of some
kind should always be interposed to modi-
fy the glare.
In the nursery the greatest care should
be exercised in determining the reiative
positions of the children’s beds and oribs.
They should pever uonderany conditiors
he allowed to face the window, bus if this
is difficult to avoid a movable rail shoold
be affixed to the bedstead, which can be
adjusted #0 as to screen light from the
window, the lamp, gas or fire, as the case
may be.
The wewest touch on the early spring
frocks is the attractive girdles and scarfs
that adorn many of them.
The making of these girdles or scarfs is
comparatively a simple matter, No great
amount of sewing experience is required
aod the making of one is an excellent in-
vestment of time and money.
They areso very new and smart that
they work wonders for thessyie of the
gown, be it new or old.
Pink is the favorite shade of separate
girdles for white frooks, with yellow or
tints of yellow following a close second.
One of the niost attractive girdles shown
was made of softest liberty satin ribbon six
inches wide.
Three widths were required to cover the
broad fisted and boned foundation thas
forms the hele part. This will be found
much more satisfactory than covering with
a single baud of wide ribbon.
If desired, the boned foundation may be
purchased already made, and then there
remaing only the work of tacking the rib-
bon on the foundation.
Most of the girdles fasten on the left side
of the front under a huge rosette or flat
how.
Very often two long ends fall from ths,
almost reaching the knees, where they are
finished with large silk tassels,
The effect is most graceful and artistio.
The girdles attached to the spring gowns
are as varied in their nature as the sands
of the sea ; wide, orushed, fitted affairs
made of the material of the gown are the
standard thing, and the most elegant with
a handsome cloth, owing to their absolute
simplicity.
Most of these girdles fasten in the back
under a little heading which folds over to
one side; sometimes three flat huttons made
of the cioth, havd embroidered, are tacked
on, forming a pretty littie deception.
The lace girdles are extremely new, as
well as are the lace scarfs. Both are ex-
quisitely pretty.
They are made of the lace stretched
tightly over a boned bls fashioved from
the lining.
Openwork embroidery and trimmings,
passementeries and braids are used in the
same way.
In lingerie gowns narrow bande of tucks
alternate with the lace inserting, and make
up moss efflcotively.
These belts are worn straight around the
waist, a8 shown in the seated figure, and
they givea neat, trig office that is very
much songht after at present, although
lacing or any pulled-in appeprance is re-
ligionsly avoided, rather straight lines be.
ing the thing.
To have a clear complexion and bright
eyes is impossible unless one sleeps ina
well-ventilated room, for impure air acts
injuriously upon the system—it ologs the
lungs, prevents the blood from being prop-
erly purified and finally staine the skin and
colors the eyes.
Too often ventilation is confounded with
draughtiness, though the two are decided-
ly differents. For instance, to sleep in a
draught is quite as bad, though in a dil-
ferent way, as to bave no fresh air. The
happy medium can geadl]y lease lish-
ed by placing a bed so that air will not
strike directly upon it when window and
door are open.
When ible, door as well a8 window
should open, admitting and carrying
off air, or else there should be two win-
dows to do this. Every one is not so situ-
ated, however, and some substitute mast
be arranged.
This is best done by opening the win-
dow at the hottom as well as at the
when there is but one from which to venti-
late. When there are two, both may be
done from the top, or one from the upper
part and the other from the lower. Toa
who nnderstands the action of heat
and cold the reason for this is quite ob-
vious. Hot air, which is as a rule that
which bas been used, and is visiated or
impure, rises. Cold air descends. If a
window is _ at the bottom the fresh
cold air coming in will hasten the ascen-
sion of the old warm atmosphere, and the
sash should he down from the top to per-
mit of the stale being expelled.
Ventilation for a bedroom. Such an ar-
rangement is ideal for a bedroom, no was-
ter how many windows there may be. Is
is practically impossible to have a room too
cold to sieep iu, if there is sufficient bed-
ding, and she danger of contracting lung
trouble ie greatly decreased. Should the
temperature be such as to make the bead
feel cold, the hair will not be harmed by
wearing a worsted or flanvel cap.
Unless, however, the bedding is warm
enongh, serious cold may he contracted by
be lacki i tal pre
person ng in vitality so the
natural condition ix cold, is will be, Doss
is
be call is not rough.
Usaally with this warmth against the
body the temperature will be normal. All
each | blankets and comforters should be as light
in weight as one can afford to buy,
when heavy they area load oo the body.
ilts stuffed with cotton batting are
rable to a cheap quality of blankets,
rir Sn mes
y ng.
To air such bedding thoroughly every
is most necessary to hygiene
Should one dislike the feeling of woolen
next to the body sufficient warmth is some-
times given by wearing soit shoes, or more
strietly speaking, worsted sooks.
In the temperature that is ideal for
health one is conscious of breathing cold
the nostrils, while all
there would be fewer
h