——————— ee ————— Bem A PRAYER. rn — 1 do not crave, my Lord, freedom from care (This cannot be), I only seek my burden well to bear— And follow Thee, Ido not seek, my Lord, freedom from toil (This should not be,) I only ask my labors not to spoil— And tollow Thee, 1 do not wish, my Lord, release from pain (This may not be,) 1 only crave my soul's health to maintain— And follow Thee. 1 do ask, blessed Lord, when life-tale’s told (This soon may be), My sin-freed feet tread nightless streets of gold— And follow Thee, = [Seth Russell Downie, in The Examiner, ROMANCE. The Volunteer Nurse sighed and spread out her slevder, iodine-stained fingess vn both knees, looking down at them reflect- ively. “It is different now,”’ she said; ‘‘senti- mens dies ander the scalpel. In the filth and squalor of reality neither the belief in romauce vor the capacity for desiring it en- dure long . . Even pity becomes atrophied —or at least a reflex habit; sym- patby, sorrow, remain as mechanical ieac- tions, not spontaneous emotions You can understand that, dea?" *‘Partly,”” said the Special Messenger, raising her pretty dark eyes to her old schoolmate. “In the beginning,”” said the Narse dreamily, ‘‘the men in their uniforms, the drums and borses and glitter, and the flags passing, aud youth—youth—not that you and I are yet old in years; do you know what I wean?” “I know,” said the Special Messenger, smoothing oat her riding gloves. ‘‘Do you remember the cadets at Oxley? You loved one of them.” “Yee; you know how it was in the cities; and even afterward in Washington—I mean the hospitals after Bull Ran. Young bravery—the Zouaves—the multicolored oe regiments—and a romance in every eath!'” She laid one stained band over thejother, fingers still wide. ‘‘But here in this blackened horror they call the ‘seat of war’—this festering hull-pen, choked with dreary regiments, all alike, all in filthy blae—here inlividaals vanish, men vanish. The schoolgirl dream of man dies here for- ever. Only unwashed, naked daty re- maivs: and its inspiration, man—bloody, dirty, vermin covered, terrible--some times; and sometimes whimpering, terri fied, flinching, base, bereft of all his sex’s glamour, all his mystery, shorn of authori- ty, devoid of pride, pitiable, screaming un- der the knife It is different now,” said the pretty Volunteer Nurse “The war kills more than haman life.” The Special Messenger drew her buck- skin gloves carefally throngh her belt and buttoned the holster of her revolver. “I have seen war, too,” she said; ‘“‘and the men who dealt death and the men who received it. Their mystery remains—the glamour of a man remains for me—hecanse he is a man.” : ‘I have heard them eorying like children in the stretchers.” ‘So have I. That solves nothing.’ But the Nurse went on: “Aud in the wards they are sometimes something betwixt devils and children. All the weakness and failings they attribute to women cnimne out in them, too—fear, tim- idity, iuconsequence, greed, malice, gos- sip! I tell you, women hear pain better,” “Yes, I have learned that It ie not difficult to beguile them either; to lead them, to read them. That is part of my work. Idoit. I know they are alraid in battle—the iutelligent ones. Yet they fight. 1 know they are really obildren— impulsive, passionate, selfish, often cruel —but, alter all, they are here fighting this war—here encamped all around us as far a8 the eye can see, throughout these hills and “forests. They have lost none of their zlamonr for me. Their mys- tery remains.”’ The Volunteer Nurse looked up with a sired smile: “You always were emotional, dear.” “I am stiil.”” “You don’t bave to drain wounds, dry out sores and do the thousand unspeaka- ble offices that we do.” “Why do you do it?” “I bave to.” You dido’t have to enlist. Why did “Why do the men enlist?'’ asked the Nurse. ‘‘That’s why you and I did—what- ever the motive may have been, God knows And is’s killed part of me. You don’t cleanse ulcers,” “No; I am not fitted. I tried; and lost noue of the romance in me. Only it hap. pens that I can do—what I am doivg-- better.’ The Nurse looked at her a trifle awed. “To think, dear, that you should turn out to be the celebrated Special Messenger. You were timid in school.” “I am now. You don’t know how afraid a woman can be. Suppose in school —suppose that for one moment we could bave foreseen our destiny —here together, you and I, as we are now.” The Nurse looked into the stained hol. low of her right hand. “I bad the linee read once,’’ she said drearily, “but nobody ever said I'd be here, or that there'd be any war.” And she continued to examine her palm with a burt expression in her blue eyes. The Special Messenger laughed, and her lovely pale face lighted up with color. “Don’t vou really think you are ever going to he capable of caring for a man | in?’ *'No, I don’t. I know how they're fash- ioned, how they think—how—how revolt. ing they can be. . . No, no! It's al} gone—all the ideals, all the dreams. . Good Heavens, bow romantio—how sense less we were in school!’ “Iam still, I think,” said the Special Messenger thoaghtlally, ‘I like men. A man—the right one—could easily % aake me love him. And I am afraid there ~ re more than one ‘right one.’ I have ten been on the sentimental horder. . But they died, or wens away—or I did. % The trouble with me is, as yon say, I am emotional, and very, very tonder- hearted, It is sometimes difficult to be loyal-—to care for duty—the Union more thao for a wan. Not that there is any danger of my proving nntrne—'’ *No,”” murmured the Nurse; “lovalty is your inheritance.” ‘Yes, we—'’ she named her family un- der her breath—‘‘are traditionally trust worthy. It is part of us—our race was al- | ways, will always be. . . Bat—toseea | man near death—and to care for him a lit tle- even a rebel—and to know that one word might save him—only one little dis- loyal word!" “No man wonld save yoo at that ex- pense,” said the Nurse disdainfully. “I know men.” “Do you? I don’t—io that way. There | was once an officer—a non-combatants. I could have cared for him, there was a Confederate cavalryman. T struck him senseless with my revolver buts —and I could bave—loved him. He was very young. I never can forget him. It is hard, dear, the business I am engaged lin. But it has never spoiled my in- | terest in men—or my capacity for loving one of them. I am afraid [ am easily moved." She rose and stood erect, to adjust her soft riding hat, every line and contour of her youthfally slender figure in charming relief against the window. “*Won's yeu I2t me brew a little tea for you?" asked the Nurse. “‘Don’t leave me 80 soon.” **When do you go on duty?" ‘‘In about ten minutes. It will be easier tomorrow, when we #end onr sick North. Will you come in tomorrow!” The Special Messeuger shook her head dreamily. “I don't know—I dou’t know. Good-by **Are you going on duty?" “Yes.” “When?” “Now.” The Nurse rose and pat both arms around her. ‘I am so afraid for you,’ she said; “and it has been wo good to see you. . 1 don’t know whesher we'll ever meet again Her voice was drowned in the noisy ont- ig of bugles sounding the noon sick- eall. They went out together, where the Mes- senger’s horse was tied under the trees. Beyond, through the pines, glimmered the tents of an emergency hospital. And now, in the open air not very far away, they could hear picket firing. “Do be careful,” said the blue-eyed Nurse. ‘‘They say yon do such audacious things; and every day somebody says you have been taken or hanged or shot. Dear, you are 80 young and so pretty—'’ ‘So are you. Don’t take fever or small- pox or die from a soratch from a poisoned knife. Good-by once more. They kissed each other. A hospital or- derly, passing hurriedly, stopped to bold her stirrup; «he mounted, thanked the or- derly, waved a smiling adien to her old schoolmate, and, swinging her powerful horse westward, trotted off throogh the woods, passing the camp sentinels with a nod and a low spoken word. Farther out in the woods she encounter- ed the first line of pickets; showed her cre- dentialy, then urged her horse forward at a gallop. “Nout that way!” shouted an officer, starting to run after her; “the Johnnies are ont there!” Sbe tarned in her saddle and nod led re- assuringly, then spurred on again, expeot ing to jump the Union advance guard every moment. There seemed to he no fighting any where in the vicinity; nothing to be seen but daos- ky pine woods; and after she had advanced almost to the edge of a little clearing, and aot enconutering the outer line of Union pickets, she drew bridle and sas stock still in her saddle, searching in every direction with alert dark eyes, Nothing moved ; the heated scent of the Southern pines huog heavy in the forest; in the long dry swale-grass of the clearing, yellow butterflies were flying lazily; on a dead branch above ber a hoge woodpecker, pointed, silky cap, uttered a quernlons, louely ery from moment to moment. She strained her dainty, close set ears uo sound of man stirred in this wilderness —ounly the strange bird-cry from above ; only the ceaseless monotone of the pine. crests stirred by some high sky breeze un- felt below, A forest path, apparently leading west, attracted her attention ; into this she steer ed her horse and continued, even after her compass had warned her that the path was now running directly south. The tree-growth was younger here; thick- ets of laurel and holly grew in the nuoder- growth, and, attempting ashort cut out, she became entangled. For afew mivutes her horse,stung by the holly, thrashed and floundered about in the maze of tongh stems and when at last she got him free, she was on the edge of another clearing—a burnt one, lying like a path of black velvet in the sun. A cabin stood at the farther edge. Three forest bridle-paths ran west, east, and south from this blackened clearing. She unbuttoned her waist,drew ous a map, and, flatteniog it on her pommel, bent above it in eager silence. And, as she sat studying her map, she became aware of a faint tremor of feet. Is grew toadull jarring vibration—.nearer—-nearer—-nearer—-and she hastily backed her horse into the depths of the laurel, sprang to the ground, and placed both gauntieted hands over her horse's nostrils, A moment later the Confederate cavalry awept through the clearing at a trot—a jaunty, gray column, riding two abieast, then falling into single file as they entered the bridle-path at a canter. Breathless, she watched them as they flashed by among the pines, sitting their horses beautifully, the wind lifting the broad brims of their soft bats, the sun a bar of gold across each sunburnt face. There were only a hundred of them— probably some of Stuart’s riders, lor they seemed strangely familiar—but it was not long before they had passed on their gay | course, and the last tremor in the forest | soil—the last distant rattle of saber and | carbine—died away in the forest silence. | What were they doing here? She did | not know. There seemed no logical rea- | son for their presence. For a while, awaiting their possible colli- { sion with the Union outposts, she listened, | expecting the far rattle of rifles. No sound | came. They must have sheered off east. | So very calmly she addressed herself to the | task in band. i This must be the burnt clearing; her ma; aud the cabin corroborated her belief. | Then it was here that she was to meet this | anknown man in Confederate uniform and | Union pay—a spy like hersel!—and give | him certain information and receive oer- { tain information in return. | Her instructions bad heen unusually | rigid; she was to take every precaution ; use native disguire whether or not it mighs appear necessary, carry no papers, and let auy man she might encounter make the advances until she was absolutely certain of him. For there was an ugly rumor afloat that he bad been caught and hanged, and that a Confederate might attempt to impersonate him. So she looked very care- fully at ber map, then ont of the thicket at the burnt clearing. There was the wretoh- | ed cabin pamed as rendezvous, the little - ! garden patch with standing corn aed beans, and here and there a yellowing squash, W hy had the passing rebel cavalry left all that good food undisturbed ? Fear,which within her wa« always latens, always too ready to influence ber by mas. querading as caution, stined vow. For almost an bour she stood, balancing her field-glasses across her saddle, eyes focused ou the open cabin door. Nothing stirred there. At last, with a slight shiver, she opened her saddle bags and drew ont the dress she meant to wear—a dingy, earth colored thing of gingham. Deep in the thicket she undressed, folded her fine linen and silken stockings, laid them away in the saddle bags together with waist and skirt, tield glasses, gaunt- lets, and whip, and the map and papers, which latter, while affmiding no informa- tion to the enemy, wonld certainly serve to convict her. Dressed now in the scanty, colorless woods, limbs and body tanned with wal- nut, her slender feet ruhbed in dost and then thrust stockingless into shapeless shoes, she let down the dark, lustrous mass of her bair, braided it, tied it with faded ribbon, rubbed ber hands in wood-mold and crushed green leaves over them till they seemed all stained aod marred with toil. Then she gathered an armfal of splinter-wood. Now ready, she tethered her horse, leav- ing him bisted and saddled ; spread out his sack of feed, turned and looked once more as the cabin, then walked noiselessly to the clearing’s edge, carrying her aromatic splia- ters. Underfoot, as she crossed it, the charred grass crumbled to powder; three wild doves flickered np into flight, making a soft clat- ter and displaying the four white feathers. A quail called from the bean-patch. he heat was intense in the sun ; perspi- ration streaked ber features; her tender feet barned; the cabin seemed a long way off, a wavering blot through the dancing heat devils playing ahove the fire-scorched open. Head bens, she moved on in the shift- less, hopeless fashion of the sort of human- ity she was representing, fartively taking her hearings and making such sidelong ob- servations as she dared. To know the shortest way back to her horse might mean life to her. She understood that. Also she fully realized that she might at that very instant be nnder hostile observation. In her easily excited imagination, all around ber the forest seemed to conceal a hondred malevolent eyes. She shivered slightly, wiped the perspiration from her brow with one small hare fist, and plodded on, clatching her light-wood to her sof, rounded breast, And now at last she was nearing the open cabin door; and she must not hesitate, must show no suspicion. So she went in, dragging her clumsily shed feet. A very young man in the uniform of a Confederate cavalry officer was seated in- side before the empty fire-place of baked clay. He had a bad scar on his temple. She looked at him, simulating dull sur- prise; he rose and greeted her gracefully. ‘‘Howdy,’’ she murmured in response, still staring. ‘‘Is this your house ?’ be asked. “Sub ?’ blankly. ‘‘Is this your house ?"’ “I reckon,” she nodded. you all in my house 2?” He replied with another question : ‘What were you doing iu the woods?” ‘‘Light-wood,’”’ she answered briefly, stacking the fragrant splinters on the table. “‘Do you live here all alone 2" ‘““Reckon I'm alone when I live heah,” sullenly. “What is your name ?"’ of coloring easily. ‘What may be yoh name, sah 7" she re- torted with a little flash of Southern spirit, never entirely quenched even in such as she seemed to be. Genuine surprise brought the red back into his face and made it, worn asit was, seem almost handsome. The curious idea came to her that she had seen him before somewhere. At she same moment speech seemed to tremble on his lips; be hesitated, looked at her with a new and sudden keen- ness, and stood looking. ‘I expected to meet somebody here,’ he eaid at length. She did not seem to comprehend. “‘I expected to meets a woman here.”’ “Who? Me?” inoredulounsly. He looked her over for a while carefully; looked at her dusty hare ankles, at her walnut-smeared face and throat. She seem- ed so small, so ronnd-shonldered—so dif ferent from what he had expected. They had said that the woman he must find was pretty. “Was yuh-all fixin’ to meet up with me ?’’ she repeated with a bold langh. “I—don’t know,” he said. ‘‘By the Eternal, I don’t know, wa’am. Bat I'm going to find out iu right smart time. Did you ever hear anybody speak Latin?’ ‘Sub ?"’ blankly ; and the audacity faded. ‘‘Latin,’’ he repeated a trifle discomfited. “For instance, ‘sic itur.’ Do yon know what ‘sic itur’' means ?"’ *'Sick-—what, suh ?"’ ‘Sie itur I’ Ob, Lord, she is what she looks like !"’ he exclaimed iu frank despair. He walked to she door, wheeled suddenly, came back, and confronted her. “Either, ma’am, you are the most con- summate actress in this war drama, or you don’t know what I'm saying, and you think me orazy. . . . And now I'll ask you once for all : Is this the road?” The Special Messenger looked him fall in the eyes ; then, as by magic, the love- liest of smiles transfigured the dull blank features ; her round shoulders, pendulons arms, slouching Jone, melted into superb symmetry, quickening with’ grace and youth as she straightened up and faced him, erect, supple, laughing, adorable. ‘Sie itar—ad Astra, she said demurely, and offered him her hand. ‘‘Continue,” she added. He neither stirred nor spoke; a deep flush mounted to the roots of his short, curly bair. She smiled encouragement, thinking him young and embarrassed, and a trifle obagrived. “Continue the Latin formula,” she nod- ded, laughing ; ‘‘what follows, if you please—"’ “Good God!" he broke out hoarsely. And suddenly she knew there was noth- ing to follow except death—his or hers— realized she made an awful mistake— divined in one dreadful instant the unsus- counter-mine beneath her very feet —oried out as she struck him full in the face with clenched fiss, sprang back, whip- ping the revolver from her ragged bodice, dark eyes abaze. ‘‘Now,’’ she panted, ‘bands high—and tarn your back ! Quickly "’ He stood still, very pale, one sun-burnt hand covering the cheek which she had struck. There was blood on it. He heard her breathless voice, warning him to obey, but he only took his hand frodi his face, looked at the blood on palm aod finger, “How come He had a trick then turned his hopeless eyes on her. clothing of a “poor white’ of the pine- | | 1 i to h-hang a—woman—helore—men—"' | ward, and, resting inert upon the table, ' ‘Too late,” he said beavily. ‘‘But— | I'd rather be youn shan I. . . . Look ou: of that window, >fessenger !”’ i “Pas ap your bands !"’ | No.” “Will you hold up your hands!" : “No, Messenger. And [—didn’s ~—kunow it was you when [ came here. It's | —it's a dirty business —for an officer.” He | sank down on the wooden chair, resting his head hetween hosh bands. A single | drop of blood fell brightly from bis cut cheek. The Special Messenger stole a swift, side- | long glance tows:d the window, hesitated, and, always watching him warily, «lid along the wall toward the door, menacing | him at every atep with leveled revolver. Then, at the door,she cast one rapid glance | at the open field behind her and around. A thrill of hotror stiffens? her. The entire circle of the burnt clearing was ringed with the gray piokets of rebel cavalry. The distant wen sat motionless on their horses, carbine on thigh. Here and there a distant horse tossed bis heautifal bead, or perbaps some hat-hrim flottered. There was no other movement, nos one sonud. Crouching to pass the windows heneath the sills she crept, heedless of her prisoner, to the rear door. That avenae to the near clustering woods was closed, too ; she saw the glitter of carbines above the laurel. **Special Messenger 2°’ She turned, pale as a ghost. “I reckon we've got you.” “Yes,” she said. There was another chair by the table— the only other one. She seated herself, shaking all over, laid her revolver on the table, stared as the weapon, pushed it from her with a nervons shadder, and, ashy | of lip and cheek, looked at the man she had struck. “Will they—bang me?’ ! “I reckon, ma’am. They hang the other | one—the man you took we for,” Will there be a—trial #7 i “Dromhead. . . . They've been after | you a loug, long while.” | “Then—what are yon waiting for ?"’ i He was silent. She found it hard to control the nervous ! tremor of her limbs and lips. The dryness | in her throat made speech difficult. “*“Theu—if there is no chance—"’ | He bent forward swiftly and snatched her | revolver from the table as her small hand fell heavily npon the spot where the weapon bad rested. ‘Would you do that ?’’ he said in a low voice. The desperate young eyes answered him. Aud, after a throbbing silence : ‘Won't you let me?" whe asked. ‘Is is indecent He did vot answer. ‘‘Please—please—'' she whispered, *‘give it back to me—il yon are a—soldier. . . You can go to the door aud call thew. Nobody will know. . . . You can turn your back. . . . It will only takea second 1" A big blue-hottle fly came blundering into the room and filled the silence with its noise. Years ago she big blue flies sometimes came into the quiet schoolroom; and how everyhody giggled when the taller Miss Poucher, bristling from her pranella shoes to her stiff side-curls, charged indig- nantly upon the buzzing intruder. Dry-eyed, dreyv-lipped, the Messenger straightened up quivering, and drew a quick, sharp breath; then ber head fell for- she buried her face in her arms. The most dangerous spy in the Union service—the seoret agent who bad worked more evil to the Confederacy than any single Union army corps—the coolest, most resourceful, most trusted messenger on either side as long as the struggle lasted—caught at last. The man, young, Southern, and a gen- tlemwan’s son, sat staring at her. He had driven his finger-pails deep into his palms, bitten bis under-lip till it was raw. ‘Messenger !" She made no response. ‘‘Are you afraid ?" Her head, proue in her arms, motioned dull. It wasa lie and be knew it... He looked at the slender column of the neck — stained to a delicate amber—at the nape ; and he thought of the rope and the knot under the left ear. ‘‘Messenger,’”’ he said once more. “I did not know it was you I was to meet. Look at me, in God's name !”’ She opened ber eyes on him, theo raised her head. “Do you know me now ?"’ No.” “Look !" He touched the scar on his forehead ; but there was no recognition in her eyes. “Look, I tell you!" he repeated almost fiercely. She said wearily : ‘‘I bave seen 80 many men—so many men. . . . [can’t remem- her youn." “And I have seen many women, Mes. senger; but I have never forgotten you-— or what yon did—or what you did—"' “y ~” “You, .. . have lived only to find yon again. Apnd— oh, God! To find you here! My Mes- senger ! My little Messenger 1" “Who are you ?"’ she whispered, lean- ing forward on the table, dark eyes dilat- ing with hope. He sat heavily for a while, head bowed as though stunned to silence ; then slowly the white misery returned to his face and he looked up. ‘‘So—alter all—youn have forgotten. And my romauce is dead.” She did not answer, intent now on every word, every shade of his expression. And, as she looked, through the numbness of her desperation, hope stirred again stealth. ily. “Are you a friend?” sounded at all. | “Friends die for each other,”’ he said. “Do you expect that of me ?”’ The silence between them became terri ble; and at last he broke it with a bitter langh: **You once turned a boy’s life to romance —riding through it—ont of it—leaving scars on his brow and heart —and on his lips the touch of your own. And on his face your tears. Look at me once more!" Her breath same quicker; far within ber somewhere memory awoke, groping blind- ly for light. “For three days we followed you,” he said. “‘On the Pennsylvania line we cor- nered yon; but you changed garb and shape and speech, almost under onr eyes—as a chameleon changes color, matching the leaf it hides on. I halted at that squat- ter's whose daughter cooked forns while we hunted you in the hills—and when I re- turned she gave me her bed to sleep on—"’ Her hand caught at her throat and she half rose, staring at bim. “Her own bed to sleep on."’ he repeated. “And I bad been three days in the saddle; and I ate what she set before me, and slept on her bed —feil asleep—only a sired boy, not a soldier any longer. . . And awoke to meet your startled eves—to meet the blow from your revolver butt that made he asked. And from that night 1 Her voice soarcely | shat, ment—balf stooped —Messenger! Do you know me now?’ “Yes,” she said. They locked hreathiessiy at one another; suddenly a hot blush covered bes neck and face; and his eyes flashed trinmph. “You have not forgotten!”’ he cried. And there, on the very edge of death it- sell. the bright shame glowed and glowed in her cheeks, and her distressed eyes fell before his, “Yon kissed me,” he said, looking ai her. “I--I thought I bad—kilied you—"' she stammered. ‘‘And you kissed me on the lips. . In that moment of peril yon waited to do Your sears fell on my face. 1 felt them. And I tell yon that, even had I been lying there dead instead of partly stunned, 1 wonld have known what you did 10 me alter you struck we down.” Her head sank lower; the color ran riot from throat to hrow. He spoke again, quietly, yet a strange undertone of exhaltation thrilled his voice and transfigured the thin, war worn fea- tures she had forgotten, =o that, a« she lifted her eyes to him again, the same boy looked back at her from the mist of the loug dead years. “Messenger,” he «aid, *‘I have never for- gotten. And now it ix too late to forget yonr tears on mv fage—the touch of vour lips on mine. I would not if I conld. It is worth living for—dying for. . Once—I hoped —some day-—alter this—all this trouble euded—my romance might come—true—"' The boy choked, then: “I came bere under orders to take a woman «py whose password was the key to a Latin phrase. But nntil yon stood straight in yonr rags and smiled at me, | did not know it was yon—I did not know I was to take the Special Messenger! Do you helieve me?’ Yen.” The hoy colored pamltally. Then a queer pallid change came over his face; he rose, bent over ber where she rested heavily on the table. “Little Messenger,’ he aid, “‘I am in ' your debt lor two blows and a kiss,” She lifted a dazed face to meet his gaze; he trembled, leaned down, and kissed her on the mouth. Then in one bound he was a: the door, sigualing his troopers with drawn saber— as once, long ago, she had seen him signal them in the Northern woods. And, through the window, she saw the scattered cavabry forming colomn at a gal lop, obeying every saber sigoal, trotting forward, wheeling, foars right—and then —and then! the gray column swung inte the western forest at a canter, and were gone! The boy leaving in the doorway looked back at her over his sho ulder and sheathed his saber. There was not a vestige of volor left in his face. “Go!” he said hoarsely. “What? she faltered. “Go--go, in God's name! door there! Can't you see it?" She had gone for a full hour when at last he tarned again. A bit of faded rib- bon from ber hair lay on the table. He went over to it, curiously. It was tied in u true lover’s knot. He drew it through his buttonhole and walked slowly back to the door again. For a long while he stood there, vague-eyed, silent. It was nearly sunset when once more he drew his saber, examined it care- fully. bens it over one knee, and snapped the blade in éwo. Then, with a last look at the sky. and standing very erect, he closed the door, set his back firmly against it, drew his revol- ver, and looked curionsly into the wmuozzle. A moment later the racket of the shot echoed throngh the deserted house. —Ry Robert W, Chambers, in Collier's. There's a College Farm Managers, Persons seem to expect more of grada- ates of colleges of agriculture than of those of other kinds of colleges, writes Prof. L. H. Bailey in the November Century. They seem to expect that these men will be able at once to do all kinds of farm work, tell just what the soil ‘‘needs,” know what to do with animals in health and disease, and in particular to be able quickly to restore a run-down farm to protitableness and to be willing to do it ‘‘on shares.”’ Persons do not realize the fact that agriculture is a name not for one occupation, but for a se- ries of many occupations, and every one of these occupations should require special training. The average college graduate is not yet a mature wan; he may not have bad much practical experience with more than one kind of farming, and of course this experience cannot he gained at college; his jndgment must be developed and prov- ed The graduate of a college of law reads law for a time before he enters practice; the graduate in architecture enters an arch- itect’s office; the graduate in wedicine en- gages in hospital service; the gradnate in mechanics enters a shop to learn the busi: ness; yet it is expeoted that the graduate in agricultare will be able at once to as- same fall responsibility of a big business, and he is censured if he makes a mistake. The trouble is that there are yet no ade- quate opportunities in this country for the graduate in agrioulture to learn the busi- ness or to test himself, if he needs soch a test, as there are for other students. Farm- ers do not take students on such a basis. Most farmers do not properly instruct the boys hefore sending them to college. Farm practice should be learned at home, not at college. The net resalt is that while much is expected of the student in agriculture, little opportunity is afforded him io the way of any training that fitly supplements his college course. The agricultural col- leges cannot do their best work for the farms until the farms come to their aid. Of no college is so much demanded as of the agricultural colleges, hecause they are called on not only to educate young men and women, but also to find the ways of making profitable the occupation on which they rest. They are not on'y educational, but economic and social agencies. To Mothers, Most women suffer both in mind and body during the periods of gestation and confinement. Such suffering can almost invariably be avoided by the use of Dr. Pierce's Favorite Prescription. It makes weak women strong and sick women well, *‘I will take the opportunity,” writes Mrs. Sarah Keeler, of Johnstown, Somer- set Co., Pa., ‘‘to write to yon of the benefit I derived from your good medicives. I took two bottles of Dr. Pierce's Favorite Pre- scription, and I am well again. I took some medicine of our home doctor, but it did not help me. When I was confined I was not sick in any way; I did vot suffer apy pain.” ——“Yonr daughter has a wonderfal ear for music.” “Yes,” answered Mr. Camrox wearily, this scar—to fall back bewildered for a mo- “‘seems like it can stand most anything.’ i They talk about a woman's sphere i Ax though it had a limit; There's not a place in earth o7 heaven, There's not a task to mankind given, | There's not a blessing or a woe, | There's not a whisper, yes or no, There's not a life, or birth, That has a feather’'s weight of worth Without a woraan in it, 1 re — Plea for the Bat as a Per. A bat ina woman's bedroom can cause more excitement than can ooe lone buiglar {or even a dozen mice. As the strange creature of the night comes flipping and flapping against the walls and ceilings such shrieks are elicited from the terrified female as to rouse the whole family and bring them to the rescue with brooms and canes, All of which is sheer foolishness, says The Technical World Magazive, for if she would bat give him a chance the bat could prove to her entire satisfaction that he is an intelligent and amiable creatare and not unworthy of a permanent place in the household. Yee; the detested bat makes a west agreeable household pet. He is a most affectionate creature and will attach himself to a person as does a kindly and intelligent dog. A college professor says: “When I was a student as the university I bad two hats, which came and went freely of their own accord. In the evening they were wont to rush through the window into the neighboring garden, huut insects, and when their hunger was appeased they would return to my room. They slept on a bookshelf, where they sus- pended themselves from a dictionary. As the present time I possess a bat that shows a touching attachment to my person and follows me about through the rooms of my house, if I called is.’’ This last statement seems to be ungues- tionahle testimony in favor of the sheory that the ear of the bat is not only suscep tible to high and shrill sounds, bas also for the lower sounds of the human voice. Recognizing that it is called, the creature evidently is able to distinguish different shades and accents. This advocate of bats as pets farther states that when he talks pleasantly to it his present favorite raises and lowers its ears, much after the manner of a horse, blinks its eyes in a contented fashion, licks its nozzle with its tongue, and, in geveral, disports itsell in a mauner that indicates it is pleased and contented. When harshly spoken to, it Jays back its ears, shrinks away and seeks to escape by climbing up the curtain. The proprietor of this bat adds: *‘When I sit by lampligbt in the morning at my desk I can hardly get rid of it. It comes and goes, rambling about the desk or climbiog up my legs, or else it sits on the curtain and endeavors by violent shakings of the bead and shrill twittering to excite my attention and to obtain worms—its | usoal food — thereby. Its appetite is, | indeed, something uncanny. Thirty fas worms are readily taken st one meal.” The Cost of a Panama Hae, Paoama hats are made in Columbia, Pern, and Ecuador, but never in Panama. The value of a Panama bat is chiefly the cost of the labor expended in making is, for the valne of raw material never exceeds 35 cents, uverages less than 13 cents. The labor is exceedingly chenp. bat a deal of is goes to the making of a hat. It takes a workman six hours a day,six or seven days to make a common nat, worth a dollar. Two weeks are rniquired to make a hat of better grade, worth $1.25 to $3.00, and six weeks to make a fine hat, worth $20. In making a fine Panama hat the straw is never dampened, and conzequently the work can he done only when the air is very moist, that is to say, early in the morning, and in the evening. The straw used for cheap hats is kept wet, «0 that the work can be carried on during a greater number of hours per day. Birthplace of Jefforson Davis, Dr. W. D. Powell says in the Western Recorder thas ‘‘a Baptist church stands on the place where ex-President Jeflerson Davis was born. Mr. Davis presented Bethel Church, in 1886, with his old home- stead, iocluding nine acres of ground. The Baptists built a fine parsonage, a splen- did house of worship, house for sexton, etc. They bave the finest plant of any county church that I know. Mr. Davis wae present at the dedication and made a talk. He said that many asked him why he, being a Methodist, gave bis birthplace on which to build a Baptist charch. He said it was because his father was a Bap- tist and a better man than ever he had seen. The church is sustained in part by endowments, as many of the wealthier families are moving to Hopkinsville, Pem- broke and Elkton.” . There are some forms of animal life which are nothing buta stomach. All other parts and organs are dwarfed or radimentary ; the stomach is the center of being. As a master of fact the stomach plays a vastly more important part in the life of the highest type of animal life, man, | thao is generally recognized. The stomach to him is the center of existence, for man is primarily a stomach. Starve him and he weakens in brain and body. Feed him with innutritions food, and blood, and muscle, nerve and bone must suffer. For this reason the stomach ought to be the first care. When disease shows its ¢ymp- toms in bead or heart, blood or liver, the stomach should be first examined for the cause of the disease. Dr. Pierce's Golden Medical Dsscovery was made to match the discovery that many diseases, remote from the stomach begin in the stomach, and that when diseases begin in the stomach they must be cared through the stomach. ‘‘Discovery’’ is a specific for diseases of the organs of digestion and nutrition. It strengthens the stomach, heals weak lungs, purfies the blood. —— “Millie,” said the young man, as he slipped the engagement ring on her finger, “‘have you told your mosher about this 2° “Oh, you innocent !”’ exclaimed Miss Millie. ‘Why, Clarenor, mamma knew it six months before you did.” ——Gyer—I dropped my watch in the river and didn’t recover it for three days. I+ kept on running, though. Myers—Pshaw! A watch won't ran for three days. Gyer—Of course not. the river. ——*'Lady,’’ said Meandering Mike, ‘I dou’t blame dat dog of yours for trying to bite me.” “Why not?" ‘“‘Becanse it shows his intelligence. De last time | came dis way I banded hima piece of pie you gave me.’’ I was speaking of —— Subscribe for the WATCHMAN.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers