“Finely, thanks! Didn't expect me, did |
| you? Be honest, Cobe; did you?” :
$C ay say 4h id; ‘wat sit Gown, Hev |
a bite?” :
= mm “Indeed 1 will Fve sidden Jong way? |
Bellsfoute, Ba, July 20, 19). ho. ye bev. WH Irumce for three]
phe weeks, -shooting, and had a rat- |
MODERN CHILD tling time!” ;
a El pe ve
i ~ him as
Bow scientifically, saw the change in the mountaineer’s face. |
Studied terrifically, Little was said d the meal, but |
Sloe 8 ¥erg cureiany when the old mother gone to bed in’
: the wee attic above, and the two men sat |
Aired systematically, across the fire from each other as of
Bathed most emphatically, the Secret Service man spoke quiet-
Played with quite drearily, J the while on his pipe.
Punished Spencerially, " ‘ve got you this time!”
Swen iantilay, “Got whut?” the other asked, with un-
Steeped in gentility, usual gruffness.
Santa Claus bagished, Wagstaff looked at him through the |
Mother Goose vanished, blue haze of smoke.
Where ate the baits. “I know that you took one hundred |
"The fea hitman and forty gallons to Mitchell, that you |
The olden time knew? got two a gallon for it, and that |
Harnessed scholastically, you have money on you now! Is this
Drilled superdrastically, news to you?" " |
Cultured prodigiously, “Thar’s only one could "a""— i
Leztured religiously, “Told?” W finished sentence |
Classified rigidly. easily. “You're right, Cobe; and that |
Reasoned with frigidly, 3s |
Loved analytically, A whirlwind of shoughts ran rife in
Listened to critically Nelson's simple His mother—
Dosed with the “ologies.,” never! Lee?—impossible! and yet?
Rushed through the colleges, Wagstaff was . Wagstaff was
Crammed pedagogically. shrewd. Wagstaff had a tic per-
“Finished” most logically, sonality. Cobe called him in his |
Where is the childhood, ways," but it answered to the same thing. |
The fresh, happy childhood, And Wagstaff had been three weeks at
The olden time knew? fhe'Lee Plage, All these things he jumb-
Children successively, “Yes, and if | do not mistake, the one
Reared thus aggressively, will be here in an hour! You arenot ex-
Posing eternally, pected to be ia the cabin, neither am I.
Worried infernally, person will wake your mother, and
Planned for initially, warn her that | am after you again. You
‘Formed” artificially, must listen!"
Wal they abut 1g 2 “An’ll be damned 'f—" Cobe leaped to
Never cry “Quits!” to it? his feet and found f staring into
Wile the barrel of a revolver that ‘appeared
Stop from paralysis? mysteriously in Wagstaff's hand.
Till our distraction | “I don't like to do this, Cobe, and you
Ends with . know it; but unless will take my
Brings back the childhood, word that something will occur shortly as |
The bright, careless childhood, 1 have told yon, I shall have to put these |
The olden time knew? on” —clinking handcuffs. “Be reasonable, |
—James F. Morton, Jr. | man: if I am wrong I will never come
| here again! On the other hand, if I am |
| right you must go with me! That's fair." |
LONESOME VALLEY AND COBE. | Silence between the two while the fire
— | crackled merrily, and their shadows were |
Just where the waters of Big Lick Creek | lost in the recesses of the cabin. !
join those of Devil's Run at the foot of | “You-all cain’ be right, so ah reckon
the North Carolina Mountains, Cobe Nel- | ah'll do as you-all say.” f
son his mules at the fora ard | Wagstaff h his weapon. :
block: There
the wheels of the heavy canvas- | was no further conversation.
covered schooner. . | From time to time the officer looked at |
“Heu-u, boys!" he shouted, with South- | liis watch, and the other stared moodily
ern drawl. The animals flopped their at the flames.
ears gratefully. “Time is getting short, Cobe; let's
Cobe's tall, gaunt in high boots, ' hide.” i
corduroy trousers, and gray flannel shirt | The native followed into the wood- |
loomed aggressively in the soft afternoon | closet that was built close to the wall.
sunlight; his quick-moving gray eyes | They squatted on the tumbled mass of
shone with health and the vigor of man- | splittings, and Wagstaff pulled the rickety |
hood in its prime. Z | door almost shut. :
“Lordy, Lordy!” he said. aloud. “Th’' Minutes passed slowly; Nelsons face |
roads be suah 'nough bad!” | was very white in the faint sheen that |
Red clay was plastered high on the | stoie in through the cracks. |
wagon's sideboards and had spattered on | Then light steps sounded outside among |
the white canvas. He filled his pipe while | the shavings. Wagstaff put his hand |
the thrush and the orioles sang their lit- | warningly on the other's knee. They |
tle vesper songs, fluttering gayly among | heard the outer door opened very care-
the huge pines, darting to and fro across | fully; then stillness, save for their own
the murmuring stream. | restrained breathing. |
__ “Ah reckon ma’ll be kind o' anxious-| “Ma Nelecn? Ma?"
like 'f ah don’t git home ter-night, an’ it's | “Lindy!" Cobe muttered.
eight mile! Wall—git Spit up, boys!” | They could see the little girlish figure, |
As one the four lunged ahead, the wa- masses of brown hair tumbling about her |
gon creaking and swaying. Up and up | forehead aid neck, creep to the foot of |
the winding, narrow road that sometimes | the attic ladder.
led along steeps that fell hundreds of | “Ma Nelson?" she called again, gently.
feet, and again through twisting defiles| “Thet Lindy?" the shaky voice answer-
where there was barely room for the | ed, sleepily, from above.
mules. “Ya.as, 'm, an’ listen, quick!” She |
Now and then Cobe’s hand would al- | went up halfway. “Charlie Wagstaff’s |
most unconsciously slip toward a pocket | after Cobe agin! He'll be hyah directly,
that was sewed on the inside of his shirt. | an’ ah throwed th’ ‘worm’ into the crick
It held a round, fat parcel. : *hind the stump at th’ old ford, and roll- |
“Reckon ma'll be tickled heaps this | ed the logs over the openin.’ You-all tell |
hyah trip!” he mused. “A hundred and | him o's he kin find it! Ah guess ah’ll-"
fohty gallons times two dollars makes | She started down in fear as the old!
|
‘
two hundred an’ Sighey doers; an’ Lindy | woman hissed: “Ye dratted fool, ye.
she-all kin hev swell fixin's foh we-ail's | Lindy! Charlie's hyah!” I
weddin,’ suah 'nough!” | “Whar?" The girl's eyes became trou- |
Whistling and humming, he stalked
along beside the team.
“Haul up thar, Sambo! You all's poweh-
bled like those of a hunted animal.
The mother descended.
“He was hyah with Cobe when ah went |
ful lazy, "pears to me!” to bed! yon ye learn t’ shet up?" y
And then the last ridge was crossed. Wagsta saw that nothing more was to :
He applied the cumbersome wooden |be gained. He gave the door a push. :
brakes and started down the long incline e girl cried out, sharply. i
into Lonesome Valley. It was so named | “Oh, Cobe, honey, ah suah didn’ know!" |
because for generations no one had lived | “In course ye , Lindy.” the big|
there save the Nelsons, who made the | man said, softly. “Ah ain't a-blamin’ ye
best Double Shot, Copper-Distilled Apple
Brandy in the whole of the county. Illicit-
ly, yes, but Cobe argued as his father and
grandfather had before him—what was
the use of paying the government $1.10
per gallon tax, anyhow?
Revenue officers had been on the trail
of the “still.” They were always made
welcome to Lonesome Valley and asked
to “kinder look round, an’ hunt 's much
as you-all like!”
and his mother—the only two left
of a famous family—would chuckle as
the Secret Service men pounded and
thumped, prodded and searched walls,
floors, outhouses, even the chicken-coops.
There was one young fellow to whom
Cobe had “cottoned"—Charlie Wagstaff.
He had made four attempts to find the
Nelson “still,” and each time that he
came he was heartily made to feel at
home; after supper he and the big moun-
taineer would smoke together before a
roaring fire; the native secure in the
knowledge that no one save his mother,
Linda Lee—the girl he was to marry
soon—and he knew how to find his
2 mite!” as the 'e eyes filled with |
tears, though no came. i
Be i Bard and set, |
r lips drawn y er.
“An’ whut did ye tell Charlie when he
waz to you-all’s place thet he come hyah |
so quick? Answer!" she snarled.
“She did not say a word!” Wagstaff in- |
terrupted. “I was the one who lied to |
her, and tork my chances of finding out. |
I told her that I knew where the worm |
was hidden, and where the works are; |
that I was going to Mitchell for help first, |
and then coming here. She believed me |
and, as you see, tried to get ahead of me i
to save Cobe.” i
As he finished the girl's figure seemed |
to loom taller and taller; she sp for- |
ward, her face almost touching Wag- |
staff's. i
“You-all frum de No'th call thet fair
tell her thet ye love her. Yes, he did!"
—to Cobe—*“an’ he tried ter kiss me an’|
—an'—My God, Cobe, don't"
Wagstaff jumped, but too late; the
heavy stick of wood struck him on the
“works;"” and the other using all his di- | temple and turned black.
Pomacy and tact in trying to locate| The girl sh gasping . “Ye've |
Ss paraphernalia. . done killed him, Cobe!” she w! i
“Heu—heu-u?" The mules He gazed stupidly at the inert on
“Be that yeou, Cobe?” an voice | the dirty floor. “Ah reckon so," he an-
called from the open door of a log cabin |swered, dully. “An’ ah've broke m
which yellow beams streamed
fhrough ter him. He trusted me, but
into the quiet star-darkness of the val-
couldn’ he’p it when ye said as how
. he'd made love ter ye, mah gal, mah lit-
“Ya-as, back agin’ "—he lowered | tle Lindy!"
his voice—*"safe 'gain!” She tried to speak, then stopped. He
- n be thar when ye onhitch!” | remembered afterward that he had won-
ad he spread his b ated Wh.
y i€| When agstaff over .
hands to the fire while a little shrunken a 5 the at
hate eyes glisiened brigh tly, took
in with avidity ail news, 3 her
head from time to time and ch
“Didn’ all kill him, Lindy; reckon an'd
better git his gun, tie him, an’ light out
o this hyah section
Pr 1 ’ fur a while. e kin
ai od un! A goed run Gobet" | CS YL SE mr
word. None too gently he bound the officer's
“Mmm—Mmm!" (negatively.)
They sat down to eat. Heaps of corn-
pone, a platter of sausage meat, dipners
of coffee, and a jug of milk was the fare.
“Ah suah did feel maighty glad—" he
was saying when there came a rap on the
door. His hand went to the money; it
was there.
Hello, ie) Good evening, Mrs. N
" 'y » Is. el- true,
son!” Charlie Wi entered ¥ 7 God!” orward, .
Ho ae erly (rm Ca) a! Ween Wx
ankles and wrists, then dashed water
over hisface. Still the girl said nothing.
“Now ah'll hide th’ worm in—" he
whispered the place to the old woman,
who eyed the unconscious man vi
Ihe. Te mountaineer went into
ni
a ie Caltie back hi Bg on
—know—Lindy—not: —trusted-—oh
biti
:
|ah’s h
| until
his ears.
ed the revenue officer's hand cordially. “He's a dyin’, Cobe!” she breathed.
My
fit
4
‘88
ns
if
58
25
8
25
ogether
but it flowed steadily.
all, fer ah’d jest’s soon be daid 's livin’.
t’' think that ah did ii! Ah thet kiss-
th’ leaves thet tetched her pretty liatl’
stones outen th’
.
:
ou-all
Wagstaff Jeaned forward, took Nelson's
hand.
“Cobe, I have been the cause of all this
misery: unwitting enough, God knows. I
don’t want you or your still, and I never
want to see these mountains again. I'm
strong enough now, and I'l go” He
t
urned.
The moonshiner caught his wrist.
“Furgive we-uns, je,” he said,
huskily. “You-all jest did yer dooty, an’
—furtively wiping the tears from his
eyes—"this hyah's been our home fur
gen'rations, but ma an’ me. we-all 'll
leave ter-morrer, sun-up. Ah’'s got a
uncle in Kaintuck’ an’ ah reckon ah cain’t
b'ar it here nohow, neither.” .
With few words Wagstaff mounted his
horse and disappeared among the trees
toward civilization, the mountaineer wav-
ing him a last good-by.
»e next day, all their belongings on
the schooner and a rude wagon, Cobe, his
The wounded man to his knees and | old mother, the few chickens, the one
dragged himself owt the
irl: his wits
were hazy from the blow still, and things
danced before his
ger in the bullet-hole.
“That—will—hold—a
He was
As from a t distance she had heard
his words,
“Cobe?"”
*H ) mah Lindy, mah littl’ Lindy,
"—the words were slow in com-
ing—“ah—done—lied to—ye—ah did.
Char-lie didn’—make—no—love—t'—me
t'—git—mad—too—s0's—ye'd— kill —him
—an’ then—ye wouldn'—hev—t' go—t'
| iF pam eenpsy. Ah wuz—sorry—but—
dn'—dass—tell—ye, an’ ah reckon
ah's—got—whut— ah—oughter—oughter
—NOW.
The hard lines of the mother’s face re-
laxed. She had seen many violent deaths
in her long years, but this one seemed
different. Cobe, his great arms holding
the girl shook with sobs.
“Don’—take on—so—Cobe. Think—
on't—when—ah'm gone—putty—soon—
thet—ah—never—loved—nobo-dy but ye
an’ thet—Cbar-lie——wuz—always—kyind
—an'—good ter—me.” Along pause.
ah’'m—daid—ye—kin—take—
take—his— finger—out’'n—th’ hole an’
take--keer—o'—Char-lie—fur mah saik?”
He nodded. “Ah—reckon—thet's—all;
tell—mah—love—t' mammy an’ daddy
an'—an'--an"—" A deep sish passed her
lips. Her hair fell in waves over his long
arms as the delicate head dropped.
He stared, at first unbelieving.
“She's—daid, ma! Lindy's—daid!"
He who had killed often and had been
wounded many times was grief-stricken
when death, grimly personified, took
shape in the one he loved best of all the
world.
Slowly he raised his face to the day.
There was unspeakable agony in his
es.
"Ma, kin ye say anythin’ laik a pray-
They knelt beside the body and, as
mumbled words came from the old wom-
an’s lips, a burst of sunshine penetrated
from beyond the great fleecy clouds and
just one of its shafts fell on the brown
hair, tinting it golden—causing the white
forehead to be as marble in contrast.
The noise of laughing waters from the
creek rose quietly, and the cheerful whis-
' tle of bobolink, the metallic call of the
crested woodpecker, the warble of
threshes—all astir in the morning fresh-
ness—seemed a bitter mockery to the sad-
ness within the four log walls.
He stood up.
"Ah reckon ah'd best go yonder to’ th’
Lees’ an'—an’ tell 'em, ma?”
With a woman's instinct, rough mother
that she was, she realized the ordeal be-
fore him, and she patted his big hands, a
thing she had not done in years. “An?”
whut ‘bout him?”
“She"—he st , blinking hard—
“she said ter take on him; do it.”
He was gone, 3triding up the red-clay
road, head bent forw broad shoulders
Rg laid the girl's body on the
rough bed, folded its hands, and carefully
brushed the long hair, the mother turned
to Wagstaff. She bathed and rubbed
until he opened his eyes and sat up
“Wheru is Cobe?”
“Gone t' Lee's,” she answered, abrupt-
ly. “Have coffee?”
“My heavens! Mrs. Nelson, you—
“Don’ Missus n me! Ye've
miser’bleness ter we-
uns, but she said—"
“She? Who is she?” Wagstaff struggled
to his feet.
“She? Ha-ha-ha!” the old voice split,
in crazy laughter. “Why, ain't
nawthin’ now, but she wuz Lindy Lee!”
“Was—was Linda?” He put both hands
to his head. “Then my dream that Linda
was shot and that I-"
“Look at you-all's finger!” she grunt-
play? T lie to a gal, jest a gal, an’ ter |ed.
The stain had dried fast. He stagger-
ed into the open air.
“It’s true, then; my God! it's true!
And I thought it a dream!”
sunlight
Mutely he sat in the growing
Cobe returned with Linda’s mammy
and daddy.
reall they took their dead away
a, Even the gray mules
r ears
home and
Ses, but he got a fin- |
i
|
|
{
i
forced her brain to action. | was
ig, and two turkeys bade farewell to the
PE of the “Nelsons,” famed of many
years, and at noon took the red-clay road
to the west’ard while the faint thin ten-
few—minutes,” drils of a dying fire curled in wavy
“Make her talk. quick— A plumes from the chimney and the birds
» uncon- | gathered up the last crumbs.
The outfit slowly from sight.
Lonesome Valley remained, but Cobe
golle aby Lawrence Mott, in Har-
per's Weekly.
IN THE WORLD.
The t new terminal of the Pennsyl-
vania Railroad yard, with its wonderful
m of tunnels under the North and
t Rivers, and Manhatten Island hand-
ling hundreds of thousands of passengers
per day is the biggest single railroad ter-
minal in the world, and with a few excep-
tions the biggest building of any sort.
It will be able to handle 144 trains an
hour,and will be, in effect, the first real
connecting link of railroad tra rtation
between New England and the West. It
will attach Long Island to the mainland
on the Jersey side, for the Peansylvania
has acquired control of the long Island
Railroad and trains will be run from the
farthest points on the island under the
East River into the at terminal and
across the Hudson to New Jersey.
The exterior of the great building sug-
gests the monster baths and basilicas of
ancient Rome. The interior shows the
most nearly perfect railroad station in
the world. Its builders say that it epito-
mizes and embodies the highest devslen.
ment of the science of transportation. It
was seven years in the building. A chasm
running from Seventh Avenue to Eighth
Avenue, and from Thirty-first to Thirty-
third Streets, and a dozen feet deeper
than the level of the river bottom, was
blasted in the solid rock.
In style the building is Roman Doric.
It is 800 feet one way and 430 feet the
other, thus allowing for extra sidewalks
on all four sides.
The average height above the street is
sixty-nine feet, and the maximum 153
feet. The main concourse is 340 feet
long and 210 feet wide. Five hundred
electric arc-lights and 20,000 incandes-
cents will be used in illumination.
The area of the station and yard is
twenty-eight acres and in this there are
sixteen miles of track. The storage
tracks alone will hold 386 cars. The
length of the twenty-one standing tracks
at the station is 21,500 feet. There are
eleven passenger platforms, with twenty-
five baggage and express elevators. The
highest point of the tracks in the station
is nine feet below sea level.
More than 150,000 cubic yards of con-
walls, foundations, street bridging, an
supporting the station building, and the
greatest weight on one of these is 1,658
tons.
hour of all of the Pennsylvania tunnels
is 144, though the proposed initial service
will consist of about 600 Long Island
Railroad trains and 400 Pennsylvania
Railroad trains.
The river tunnels leading to the sta-
tion are 6.8 miles long, and the land tun-
nels are the same. From the Bergen hill
portal in New Jersey to the Long Island
entrance of the tunnels it is 5.3 miles. It
is 8.6 miles from Harrison to the station
in New York, while from the latter to Ja-
maica is 11.85 miles.
The stone work of the station, inclos-
ing some eight acres of ground, was com-
pleted on July 31st, 1909. To inclose this
exterior walls
qnired 490,000 cubic feet of pink granite.
In addition there have been utilized in-
side the concourse 60,000 cubic feet of
stone. A total of 550,000 cubic feet of
“Milford pink granite” has thus been
freight cars to transport these 47,000 tons
of stone from Milford, Mass.
In addition to the
tion of this building
of 27,000 tons of steel.
been set in place some 15,000,000 bricks,
weighing a total of 48,000 tons. The first
stone of the masonry work on the build-
ing was laid June 15, 1908; the entire
masonry was thus completed in approxi-
mately thirteen months after the work
was begun
The tunnel extension gi
at Harrison, N. J., a short distance east of
Newark, N. J. Here is located a car yard
for the huge electric locomotives used in
aE
thence,
River at ter Street, to Harrison, where
may transfer to trains for the
vania station uptown, or continue
to Jersey City and lower New York.
The through trains for New York leave
Harrison on rails crossing on a steel and
concrete bridge over the old
vania tracks. A double-track line on an
embankment extends across the Hacken-
eminence which is a continuation of High
rocky cliffs extending along the Hudson
crete were required for the retaining
The maximum capacity in trains per
utilized in the construction and ornamen- | darkness.
tation of this building. It took 1,140 | by disease of the womanly organs, has
been cured by Dr. Pierce's Favorite Pre-
te, the construc- | and other forms of nervous disease.
called for theuse | is a medicine remarkable for its direct
There have also | action upon the delicate female
i and its wonderful healing power. It
! ulceration and inflammation, cures female
River. At this hill are found the en-
trances to the long tunnels which lead
under the North River into the station in
New York city.
The construction of the Pennsylvania
Railroad tunnels under the North and
East Rivers into New York and New
Jersey, attaining a maximum depth of 97
feet below mean high water, and built
for a heavy and high-speed traffic of great
volume, was an undertaking without prec-
edent. i
The tunnels or tub2s themselves con-
sists of a series of iron rings, and the in-
stallation of every ring meant an advance
of two and a half feet. Eleven segments
and a keypiece at the top complete the
circumference, and an entire ring weighs
fi‘te=n tons. The cast iron plates, or sec-
tions of the ring, have flanges at right
angles to the surface, and it is through
thes= that the suc:essive rings are held
together by bolts. The record progress
in one day of eight hour; was five of
these rings, or twelve and one-half feet.
Hydraulic rams, placed against the flanges
every few inches around the tube, were
used to push forward the huge shieids
with which the tunnels were bored. This
tppe of shield weighed 194 tons. It had
nine doors in it, and through these came
the rock, or sand, or silt, or whatever ma-
teriai the tube penetrated.
When the two tracks emerge from the
tubes under the Hudson and reach the
entranc? to the station yards at Tenth
avenue they begin to spread out. From
Ninth avenue, and extending into the sta-
tion, the number grows from two to
twenty-one.
The number of tracks leading out of
the station yard to the east generally de-
creases from twenty-one to a total of four
for the main line. These pass under the
city and East river to the Sunnyside yard
on Long Island.
From the station the Manhattan cross-
town twin tunnels, containing four tracks
in all, traverse a of New York
city second in importance only to the fi-
nancial district, and one that includes the
larger hotels, retail and theatres,
and many residences. ese tunnels end
at the river shaft, situated in the block
between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth
streets, east of First avenue. At this
point the tunnels become four single-
track tubes. These extend under the
East river to Long Island city and Sunny-
side yard—the terminus of the tunnel ex-
tension, and the point of connection with
the Long Island railroad.
Sunnyside yard is to the New York im-
provement what the West Philadelphia
passenger yard is to the Philadelphia ter-
mital, or the Jersey City yard to the Jer-
sey City station. The new yard has many
unique features, such as the provision for
running all trains around a loop—doing
away with the use of turn-tables—pulling
them into the coach-cleaning yard at one
end and departing from the other end,
thus turning the entire train and avoid-
ing the necessity for switching ba
cars and sleeping cars to ae ends of
the trains and the turning of combination
cars separately.
‘The arrangement of tracks on different
levels makes provision for cross-over
movements, without grade crossings, and
eliminates interference with high-speed
traffic.—Selected.
Man’s Strength,
A
Inasmuch as a man’s muscles develop
with use, it would appear logical that the
older he gets the stronger he should be-
come, but such is not the case. Experi-
ments made with thousands of men show
that the muscles of the average man have
their period of increase and decline,wheth-
er he uses them much or little.
The average youth of seventeen has a
lifting power of 280 pounds. By his
twentieth year his power has increased
to such a degree that he should be able
to exert a lifting-power of 320 pounds,
while his maximum power is reached in
his thirtieth or thirty-first year, 365
| pounds then being recorded. At the ex-
: piration of the thirty-first year his power
Ba to decline, very gradually at first,
falling but eight pounds by the time he is
the sub-structure. There are 650 columns ' forty
From forty to fifty the decrease of
power is somewhat more rapid, having
dropped to 330 pounds at the latter age,
| the average lif ng Dower of a man of
fifty, therefore, ng slightly greater
| than that of aman of twenty. After fif
! the decrease in strength is usually rapid,
| but the rate of decrease varies so sur-
| prisingly in individuals that it has been
| impossible to obtain accurate data as to
‘average strength after that age.
| In the Tower of London are yet pre-
! served some of the relics of past,
| when men used “the thumb-screw and
| the rack for the glory of the Lord.” Some
| of these instruments of torture are dyed
- deep with the blood of the unfortunates
| who suffered from them, and many of
' these sufferers were women. We shudder
vast area has necessitated the building of | at the thought, and yet women today,are ' thrives!
aggregating 2458 feet— undergoing a slow torture, incomparably weather is
nearly half a mile—in length, and has re- more severe than the torments of the | his hands get warm!
| torture chamber. When the nerves are
| racked ceaselessly, when the day is joy-
i less and the night is sleepless, many a
| woman sees the gaunt, w deve phan-
' tom of insanity clutching at her in the
Even insanity, when caused
scription. It has cured St. Vitus's Sance
t
s,
eals
weakness, soothes pain and tones up the
nervous It contains no alcohol,
system.
and is altogether free from opium,cocaine
and other narcotics.
The Subtlety of Him.
“John dear,” said Mabel, as her lord
and master entered the house, "I've just
had a jetter from mother, Jd sho is Som
to it us. It a pre expensive
p for little Muddy, as wonder if we
couldn't help her out a little.”
“Of course we can," said John, giving
generous kiss. “Just you write
and tell her that I'll be only too glad to
pay for her railroad ticket back home
again as soon as she decides to go.”
—*“Jim isn't drinking now."
“Honest? Did he swear off?"
“No; he really quit this time.”
Character.
Should one tell you that a mountain
had changed its place you are at lib-
erty to doubt it, but if any one tells
you that a man has changed his char
acter do not believe it.—Mohammaed.
or ——————
What is not good for the swarm is
not good for the bee.~Marcus Aure-
Hus.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
We love to associate with hercic persons since
our receptivity is unlimited; and with the great
thoughts and manners easily become great. We
are all wise in capacity, though so few in energy-
There needs but one wise man in a company and
all are wise.— Emerson.
It has been proved that our belongi
are in danger from moth for six mont
in the year in northern States, and ten
months in southern States. This is be-
cause each section has its particular spe-
cies, that unfortunately does not keep it-
self well within bounds. The northern
or case-making moth gives his southern
friends two generations a year, while the
southern or webbing moth also has two
generations—laying eggs in May and Oc-
tober, and frequently working far north.
If these horrid feeders liked food of
vegetable origin, life would be indeed a
burden, but as they only care for fabrics
of animal ancestry, as furs, woolens,
feathers and carpets, there is some hope
of fighting them.
This can only be done by utmost vigi-
lance and the proper weapons. As t
moth itself does not ruin our clothes,
only the worn or larva it hatches, we
must see to it that hatching is impossi-
ble. No preventive will kill larvae.
There are various weapons for fighting
both species of moths, and many of them
prove disappointing with every precau-
tion,
Light is the best preventative, and if
we could keep all our woolen garments
well brushed and constantly exposed to
sunlight, they would be cally im-
mune. That is out of question in
this climate, where seasons are so mark-
ed and the winter things must be packed
“Fhe swea olen frocks
ters and w f that
you use on cooler days should be given
frequent airings and sunnings, and at
least once a week should be hung on a
line in the sun and air and well brushed.
If this is neglected your house may be
moth-ridden before you know it.
One housekeeper, instead of packing
her garments away, keeps them in a sun-
ny attic on lines, where there is plenty of
light and air. In this room tarballs are
scattered and the lines and woodwork
are washed off once a week with gaso-
ine.
Another always has her furs and wool-
ens unpacked in the middle of summer,
carefully brushed off and sunned for a
day, then put back until cool weather.
e luxurious housekeeper has a room
in her new home where she can cold-stor-
age her own household belongings. The
temperature never rises to a degree that
is livable to the moth.
These things are out of the question
for the average housekeeper. Her win-
ter thinge must be put away. The ques-
tion is, how can it be done most safely?
Everyone has her own special remedy
by which she swears, but for the young
housewife a list of some of the things the
moth hates may prove helpful.
Gasoline is one of them. If carpets
must be left on the floor, wipe them off
at frequent intervals during the summer
with cloths wet in gasoline, putting it
thickly along the baseboard.
Another cure is heat. If there are sus-
picious places in rugs or carpets, sweep
them thoroughly, then pot over the spots
wet cloths and iron dry with a very hot
iron, taking care not to scorch your car-
pet in your zeal to protect it from the in-
. vader.
Camphor is likewise abhorrent to the
moth: but this remedy is costly and is
less used than formerly. It also has a
habit of fading delicate furs and should
not be allowed to touch them.
Moth balls and tar halls are good; so
are various special preparations, but they
should not be depended on too much. Use
them, but first see that the garments are
well cleaned and brushed—dirty spots
left on clothes are great moth feeders.
Then pack them, well encased in newspa-
pers and in air-tight boxes or chests.
Do not pin your faith to the cedar
chest. This may cost you exorbitantly,
but cedar is only effective when f
i and in a few years the most expensive
' chest may surprise you with moth-eaten
| contents if no further precautions be tak-
en.
| Moths of both species seem to hate
printers’ ink, so use all the Dewspapess
‘you can find. Take the big Sunday is-
sues and make of them. They can
be stitched on the machine or pinned
: closely in overlapping folds.
|
| To tell you the whole bitter truth, the
| baby does not mind being made automat-
| ic, says Ellis Parker Butler, in an article
| in Success Magazi The baby that is
| unrocked and uncradled and uncuddled,
and fed patent ready-made foods, and
! sterilized, and scientifically reared, really
He is put out of doors when the
two notches below zero, and
He is plumped in-
, to bed without a pat or a lullaby, and he
| drops off to sleep like a little pink log!
He awakens at uncanny hours of the
| night, and instead of howling, he winks a
| couple of times and goes to sleep again!
| He begins to teeth, and when he wails,
PEE
ing syrups, i supply cu
down to a minimum, and he teeths with
out fevers or stomach riots! He is bathed
as a crocodile would be bathed, and he
loves his bath!
For the children there is possible a de-
lightful alliance of style and a comfort in
some warm-weather frocks just shown.
First, they are collarless, and have short
sleeves. Then they are of batiste, lawn,
cotton voile, open-meshed linen and they
are made on loose lines that give freedom
and coolness.
Many little dresses show the hems of
contrasting color or of different material.
Ball fringe is very much in evidence on
the lower edges of little boleros, the hems
and short sleevzs.
Little guimpes of sheer linen, ‘some-
times tucked, and sometimes trimmed
with colored embroidery, are worn with
some simple one-piece models. These
give change, constant cleanliness and are
Very goad ooking.
kimono frock, cut with the seams
under the arms, from wide material, is
particularly attractive. When trimmed
with a Supe scalloped on sleeves
and fastening it gives the plichy that
is demanded by good style in children’s
dresses.
With these frocks there should be sen-
sible slippers, pumps or sandals and short
Stockings, that speak of comfort. The
bobbed hair, tied up from the face and
relieved of all annoying strands that are
enough to destroy good dispositions, is
the accepted style for warm weather.
is really no excuse for your
child's suffering from the heat. If she
should, look to clothes.