Deora Waldan e te, Pa., November 10, 1911. The Wise Squirrel. A little gray squirrel was scampering ‘round *Neath the boughs of a tall chestnut tree. Playing tag with the leaves as they fell to the ground. For a spry little fellow was he. When right at his feet with a quick little thud, Fell a chestnut so temptingly brown. Escaping at last from its green, prickly nest, As though 'twere in haste to come down. “Oho!” said the squirrel, “Jack Frost has ar rived, In the night he has stolen so sly; ‘The nuts will be falling and I must make haste To gather my winter's supply,” So the wise little fellow went bravely to work, Increasing his store day by day; Nor heeded his comrades that spent all theirtime In foolish, improvident play. Said a pert little chipmunk: “My dear Mr. Gray, You really are working too hard; The burrs have so ruffied your handsome gray coat Your beauty has sadly been marred.” But the other replied with a whisk of his tail And a flash of his saucy black eye: * '"Twere better by far to be plain and well fed Than handsome and starved by and by.” At length when the north wind came blustering down, And all but the snowbirds had fled, The little gray squirrel had nothing to fear All safe in his warm, cozy bed. But the poor, foolish chipmunk, alas and alack! That was erstwhile so saucy and bold, Searched vainly for food ‘neath the fast falling snow, And perished of hunger and cold. Katherine L. Daniher. A STITCH IN TIME. That a dog-fight—a growling squabble in the early summer dust and sunshine | cap. He nodded. “Pop's dead,” said he. | you got this thing up without help. Got’ —should upset the lumber-woods settle- ment of Thirty Drinks and divert her most eminent citizens from their accus- tomed employments was in itself almost a sign manifest of the awakening interest of Providence in that benighted but fer- vently joyous community. The absence of an instant and grateful perception of the impending beneficence, however, is to be condoned: Providence had never before interfered at Thirty Drinks. More- over, the dog-fight was of such an extra. | ordinary t—a contention so singu- lar— and so indecent inissue—that Thirty Drinks was far too happily engrossed in the progress of the affair to discover the hand of Providence in its inception. According to old John Rowl, the scaler from the ttle River camps, who had sardonically cherished the rise of Thirty Drinks from its obscure and struggling beginnings with on shanty saloon to the flourishing prosperity of its thirty-two, Gingerbread Jenkins, the Cant-hook swamper, subsequently remarked in Pale Peter's bar, with the air of a middle-aged owl in liquor: “Gawd moves in a myster-ee-orious way His wonders to per form," and the sentiment was promptly adopted as a succinct expression of the general feeling in respect to the occurrences of the day and the amazing situation of the moment. The agitated bar agreed: Gingerbread Jenkins had dropped a pearl of wisdom from the casket of his memory; and Gingerbread Jenkins, elated by the pro- found impression he had achieved upon the popular bewilderment, would have cast others of the sort with a free, glad hand, in exception of increasing the en- lightenment, had not Charlie the Infidel, Pale Peter's bartender, interrupted with a suggestion which in the gravest par- liamentary fashion was at Thirty Drinks always and sacredly in order. "There's more sense in them old school- books,” said he, from behind the bar,with a large liberality of philosophy, “than you might think. What 'li you have, gents?” he added, coming to the point; “the drinks is on the house.” Plain Tom Hitch stroked his beard, in a muse of anxious deliberation, and gently whispered: “A I'l’ licker, Charlie—fer me.” The echo ran down the frowsy line: “A li'l" licker—fer mine.” They had the liquor, man and boy, in hearty drams; and in this convivial way the arrival of Providence at Thirty Drinks was accepted and celebrated according to the customs. It is to be noted, how- ever, that John Fairmeadow had intro- duced and vouched for Him, as shall presently be told. It was an eventful day—the still and mellow Sunday of Fairmeadow’s first pro- fessional PpPescaiice at Thirty Drinks. The dog-fight importantly served to gather the crowd and to enlist the inter- est of belicose John Fairmeadow in the moral atmosphere of the community; but the dog-fight was not all. In the early hours of the mornimg—a warm, flushed dawn—a tote-wagon, drawn by two stolid black and gravely driven by Plain Tom Hitch, had arrived from the Bottle River camps, bearing the mortal remains of Gray Billy Batch, who had departed this life, much to the annoyance of the foreman of the drive, and doubtless to his own surprise and alarm, in the Rattle Water Rapids below Big Bend of the Bot- tle River. He had been a scurrilous dog when the breath of life was in him, a sour and unloved wastrel of his days, ig kant, ill-mouthed, in a rage w world, save one heart, and least kind of all to a the shadow of the birches, Bottle River drive stood voiceless and quiet in this Presence; | aud, the Strings of memory were touched, | ne Chal a of Sha afternoon it was informally resolved that the only relative of the deceas- ed should Je informed of the deep sense of personal loss under which his associates of the Bottle River camps IE a ve was Palicpceioray Billy Batch’s brown Saughter, a sweet, the world of Thirty Drinks, though fast . der, "your won't be | t"-night. You breath of air, when Gi agitated and heavy with his errand, came | upon her, waiting in the dooryard of the | Bal Ke ee yoray tC) 1 of the clearing in which Thirty 0 age | was squatted. “Patty, my dear,” said he, with a soothing on the "Ith he comin’ t-morrow?"” “Well, ", Gingerbread admitted, | more AR “he'll fetched home t'- morrow mornin'—ina sort of a way.” “Ith he drunk?” | “Drunk? Oh my, So} Gingerbread Jen- ! kins protested; ain't drunk, my | | dear.” i lh Ho Rear diuuk? i / | Gingerbread Jenkins, hard put to it for | | words wherewithal in the presence of a ' lady, ejaculated, "Good ous, no!” aca he gettin’ drunk?” “He ain't gettin’ drunk anywhere,” | | Gingerbread replied. “He won't be | drunk no more.” i ' “Ith he—ith he—dead?”" Gingerbread Jenkins was flustered by | this abrupt question. It bewildered him, | | too, to learn, all in a flash of revelation, that Gray Billy Batch had been loved and | would be mou “Oh, well, now!" he | replied, hurriedly, “1 wouldn't go so far | as t' say that. I'd say,” he explained, ' lamely, "that he—that was engaged.” | “Who'th hith bithneth with?” There was something the matter with | Gingerbread Jenkins’s heart. It troubled | him. And his eyes were all at once flush- ed. “Your pop’s business, my dear,” he | answered, softly, driven to the disclosure | , at last, “is with God.” “Pop'th dead!” the girl gasped. | Gingerbread Jenkins felt his bleared | | eyes overflow, Off came his old cloth | “Pop'th dead!” Pattie repeated, her | | brown eyes round with wonder, which no | | pain had yet disturbed. "Pop’th dead!” | She brooded upon this new thind, and presently, with a start, her fallen | upon her agitated bosom, she turned to the shack, wherein, through the open’ door, she seemed to discover her loneli- | ness in the world, but not yet to be | troubled by it. She looked, then, with- | | out concern, to the flaring sunset clouds, | above the black pines, whence her wist- | ! ful glance fell to the besotted settlement, | huddled in the gathering shadows beyond | the confines of her familiar place. “He'th dead!” she whispered. “Pop’th dead!” | “Sh-h-h!" Gingerbread Jenkins be- | | sought, “Don't cry!” | | e was not crying; she looked up to { him with the light of interest lively in : her dark eyes, for which, perhaps, the . monotony of her days is to be blamed. ! “when'ththe fun'l?’’ she demanded. i | “Eh?” Gingerbread Jenkins ejaculated. | . "When's what?" i | “"When'th the fun’l?” : “Oh!” said Gingerbread Jenkins, en- | lightened, but not advised, and now taken | aback "I See!” i | “Goin’ t’ be a fun'l, ithn't there?” | “Well, you see, he'll be buried,” said | Gingerbread Jenkins; “but I haven't heard ! nobody say nothin’ about a funeral.” “No fun?” she wailed. “No fun'l a- | tall?” | Gingerbread Jenkins deliberated. The | | matter of obsequies had not been in-| ' cluded in his instructions. “Didn't hear nobody say nothin’ much about no fu- ' neerial,” he hedged: “but I'm told the ! boys had it in mind.” : Pattie began to cry. i "You see,” Gingerbread Jenkins made | ‘haste to add, "there was a deal o' talk | | about consultin’ ! tion.” the on’y survivin’ rela- | | on.’ The girl looked up with a wet and glis- | tening smile. ! “An’ there'll be a funeerial,” Ginger- ' bread Jenkins declared, flushed with ten- | | der detetmination, “or there'll be hell t' pay on Bottle River!” | . and shyly ing seventeen years! | gravely emerged from the forest in the pi It was Sa evening, at sunset, with hours of the morning, the reins in ng hands of Plain Tom Hitch. Jenkins, | It Was presehily drawn up at the Red Peter's place, and there ex- Tiger, geditiously but stil gravely, abandoned. unseeml 3 SO mM as an Ai Big hn pl t'- affair in hand, there was layed.” 'no doubt about what was immediately “That'th funny,” Pattie replied. “He desirable and proper in circumstan- motht alwayth comth home from the ces. The movement of Plain Tom Hitch campth on y night.” and Gingerbread J and of the Gingerbread Jenkins sighed. - t"- | prospective mourners, who had sat with night,” he repeated. “You see, he's—hin- | the or were si- ! dered.” | lent, simultaneous, and in the same di bar; the swing-shutters closed them, with a subdued and melancholy creaking, and the high street of Thirty Drinks was once more deserted, except for the tote-wagon and its indifferent oc- C t. t is true that Plain Tom Hitch halted his first midway to inquire concern- ing the disposition and entertainment of the “only survivin’ relation” of the inert heap under the gray blanket; but having been assured by Gingerbread Jenkins that in the event of her failure to appear un- | aided she would be sought by a deputa- tion and escorted with every courtesy to the tail of the tote-wagon, he swallowed his liquor with funeral satisfaction. . “Jus' as you say, Gingerbread,” he assented, “It's your funerial. You got it up. But I wished] knowed,” he added, “where you was a-goin’ t' put your cant- hooks on them Scriptures.” “What Scriptures?” “Holy Scriptures,” said Plain Tom Hitch. “You jus' leave all that t’ me, Tom Hitch,” Gingerbread replied, with a dis- play of resentment to conceal a shock of uneasiness; “if we got t' have the Holy Scriptures for this here funeerial, we'll have 'em."” “Jus’ as you say, Gingerbread,” Tom Hitch assented, again, with a doubtful wag; “but don't you go an’ forget that a parson?” he inquired. “Well, no, Tom,” Gingerbread Jenkins admitted; “not yet. I ain’t picked no par- So hearse?” “Not yet,” said Gingerbread Jenkins. “Got a coffin?” Gingerbread Jenkins shook his head. “Got a grave?” “I ain't a-fended t’ all them things,” Gingerbread Jenkins exploded, impatient- ly. “I ain't got my grave dug. 1 jus’ stopped in here for a little licker. Gimme time, can't you?" “Jus’ as you say, Gingerbread,” said Tom Hitch. “It’s your funerial.’ There wasa vast uncertainty in respect to everything connected with the large- looming event, not only in the flustered mind of poor Gingerbread Jenkins, who was presently appalled by the magnitude | his simple project had begun to assume, but in the expectation of the men whom the Cant-hook and Bottle River tote-roads poured into the clearing, and whom the drowsy street ot Thirty Drinks, imme- diately and without quite waking up, de- livered to the thirty-two saloons. They came with questions: What is itall about anyhow? and who got it up? and when was it to be pulled off? and how was it And it achieved a much more sterling beneficent result: it brought young John Fairmeadow back from the trail to = Rapids. ohn Fairmeadow had gone by—had come and gone in the peaceful street— ‘ had passed the tote-wagon with never a glance of understanding—had thrown a smiling nod to the queer little figure in black—and had passed on to the mouth of the Big Rapids Trail. A moment more—a rough vard or two—a few long strides—and he would have vanished in the shadows and silence of the forest. It was the dog-fight that brought him back—and in time for the indecent issue. Pale Peter's Bruiser yielded the bone to Billy the Beast’s dog from the Cant-hook cutting and went yelping to cover with a : broken rib; and Billy the Beast's dog staggered out of sight, with lacerated paws, gnawing at the as he went. “Boys,” said John Fairmeadow, laying off his pack, when the joyous excitement had somewhat subsided, “I'm looking for . the worst town this side of hell. Have I got there?” “You're what” Gingerbread Jenkins ejaculated. “I'm looking,” John Fairmeadow re- peated, “for the worst town this side of hell. Is this ir?” “Thirty Drinks, my friend,” said Ginger- bread Jenkins, “is your station.” “Quite sure?” John Fairmeadow in- quired. Jenkins. “When 1 come t’ think ca’'mly about it,” he went on, "I don’t know but that this town beats hell. There's many a man has moved from here t’ hell with the idea of improvin' his situation. An’ a damned sight more young women,” said he, “has packed up in a hurry, let me tell you, an’ done the same thing.” “That's all right, boys,” said John Fairmeadow. "I like thetown. It seems to me that a man in my line might thrive in a live little burg like this. If you've 0 objection, boys, I'll settle.” i “Friend,” Gingerbread Jenkins observ- ed, inimically, “I don't quite place you.” “You see me for the first time,” said John Fairmeadow. “Yes.” drawled Gingerbread Jenkins; “but I can’t jus’ make out what you're | for.” Fairmeadow was puzzled. | “You see, friend,” Gingerbreak Jenkins patiently elucidated, “it ain't quite plain what use you could be put to. You look like a honest an’ self-respectin’ lady-fin- gered bartender,” he added, gently, "but you might be a horse-thief.” I” Fairmeadow bridled a little, but on the , whole took the sally in good part. “I chancs to be neither,” said he. "What is your line o' business?” “Line?" Fairmeadow replied, with a “broad and hearty smile. “I'm a parson.” Fairmeadow perceived but could not ; account for the sudden stir and silence. | Jenkins reproachfully in the eye. “1 guess | made a mistake, parson, an’ I 'pologize,” said Gingerbread Jenkins, | humbly. “Are you lookin’ for a job?" Fairmeadow answered earnestly, “That's just what 1 am!” “You wouldn't mind, would yon, par- son,” Gingerbread pursued, in honest ex- | aggeration of respect, “if 1 was t' ask you what kind of a hand you was on funecrials?” The crowd attended. “1 bury,” Fairmeadow replied, smiling, to be pulled off? How was it to be pulled. all unaware of the proximity of the gray off? at indeed was the problem, in view of the limitations of Thirty Drinks. For example, Thirty Drinks had never known a parson: Thirty Drinks had hitherto had no “call” for the ministra- tions of a parson. Nor had Thirty Drinks ' a coffin to mitigate its indecency, nor a shroud, nor a hearse: the obsequies which it had hitherto fallen to the lot of Thirty Drinks to celebrate had been for the most part performed in the woods, without ostentation, green boughs for coffin, the darkness of the grave shroud enough, the wind in the pines a choir unequalled, the solemnity of the great woods a sufficient sermon. Thirty Drinks, indeed, had no graveyard—nothing but an avoided slope near by a shuttered house on the edge of town, where three nameless women were buried, these sunken mounds, with one blanket, “with neatness and despatch.” “Do it make any difference t' you," ! Gingerbread anxiously inquired, "which landin’ a man makes?” “Not in the least—once a man isdead.” “An’ you're prospectin’ for a job in this section?” *I am." Gingerbread indicated the circie of grave-faced lumber-jacks. “What,” he inquired, “dy,e make out o' them there poor damned lumber-jacks?” “I cunfess,” Fairmeadow grimly, "to a slight attraction.” “Boys,” said Gingerbread, “hold up your right hands.” Aloft went every hand. “Now, parson,” Gingerbread went on, i turning full upon Fairmeadow, “the truth, the whole truth, an’ nothin’ but the answered, gravely, small cherished grave, asserting jealous | truth, so help me God, you're e-lected!” When the uplifted Gingerbread Jenkins ! went away, resolved u his own con- | | cerns, Pattie Batch did not go into the | cabin. She did not so much as look in’ | that ghostly direction; she turned her | back, with a frightened little shudder, | | and strayed off to the twilit woods. She i did not go far at all: she dared not; it ownership of the green and flowery spot. “And no grave dug!” Tom Hitch mar- ve d Gingerbread Jenk “Not yet,” said Gi read Jenkins. “You see, Tom, I ain't had no time t’ choose no grave.” “Jus' as you say, Gingerbread,” Tom Hitch replied. “You started this here | was darkening fast, and she was afraid as ! little thing. But,” he added, as he she had never before known fear. But | she found atthe edge of the clearing a ' companionable patch of wild flowers, | come to their shy and fragrant bloomi | in the sunny weather of that day; and ' ‘she plucked them, while the soft light | | lasted, and adorned herself, according to | her nature—God's jewels, flung broadcast ! Lin love upon the earth, inspiring no ava- | | rice, now peeping from her cloud of dark | ‘ hair, and clasped around her slender |2 wrists, and wreathi her shoulders, an acceptable garland. t was a pleasant | thing to do; she was di by the ! delights of her fairy occupation and her thronging fancies. All the while she sang | very softly some sad expression of her ; mood, in the way she had; and no brood- i ing cadence of the wild-throated woods, ' no armour serenade of the dusk, no nest- ing twitter, was sweeter, none more spon- taneously swelling, than her clear, melan- ! choly notes. It was night: she must go back to her | { known place. € | the shadows of the night, in 3 long sigh, ' and set out, with a resolute shake of her | little head, which showered the flowers | from her hair, and with a step that was not afraid. ig £ § Eg : So she gave her fears to ' W crooked his finger for Charlie the Infidel, “there's a hundred men an’ eighteen hundred dollars a-comin’ t' this here funerial, an’ there didn’t ought t' be no hitch t’ disapp'int the boys.” With the timely assi the Infidel they sought new light upon the situation. Pattie Batch came to the funeral un-'helps me ttended. fact, she was early. A purpose u my love childish little heart. indeed, she was—and | will serve all in a bitterest grief and { woods. So help me, Almighty God! | dread and fluttering expecta » \ bare black and now wore with a modestly a ing little strut. It was a grotesque fashion, no doubt; she resem bled, nothing so as a t 2 { : § i ] seid TH I Hl ass Fed 7 : 5 FEF g i i 3 assistance of Charlie 83D! | | Fairmeadow asked no questions. The sincerity of his call, indeed, was beyond “Dead certain,” declared Gingerbread Plain Tom Hitch looked Gingerbread ' would presently be added to the number. “Jutht thome girlth,” said Pattie Batch. Fairmeadow was not Reehding; he heard, but did not comprehend. He was engaged in a tenderly sympathetic con- sideration of the odd little re trotting beside him with awkwardly lifted skirt. “You know,” Pattie Batch continued, in the way of the wise to the wise. It occurred to John Fairmeadow that the child was complaining of the grave- yard. “Perhaps,” said he, gently, "you had rather have your father buried else- where?” “No, no!” she cried. Fairmeadow wondered at her vehe- mence. “No, no!” she repeated, in a passion of determination. "I want pop buried there!” “Of course!” Fairmeadow soothed her. : “Near—me,” she whispered. “Ah!” said Fairmeadow, ‘To be sure!” informed. The graveyard lay in sunshine, a little | breeze playing softly with the long grass —the whole freshly green and eager, after the warm rains, and brilliantly spread with flowers. It was at the edge of the clearing; the forest came close. Fairmeadow could peer into its dim tang- led reaches, and could hear the chirp and twitter and rustle of its busy little living things. Gray Billy Batch had been pre ceded in the eternal occupancy of this serene field: there were four graves— three unkempt and unloved, fallen in, overgrown, and one small mound, newly trimmed, whereon wreaths of fresh-pluck- ed wild blooms lay smiling to the blue’ sky. While Fairmeadow labored—and until the last spading of cool red earth was cast up—Pattie Batch, cross-legged i1 the grass, and much pleased with her companion, chattered amiably, between periods of gentle weeping. The little mound, it seemed, was the grave of Mag's baby, which had come, long ago, to sur- prise her, and Mag, it appeared, lived in the shuttered red house at the foot of the slope, and was Pattie Batch's friend. Pattie Batch didn't know just what she would do, now that her father was dead; she knew what she could do, youbet! but she hadn't quite made up her mind, She was not afraid. Oh my. no! And, any- how—Mag was her friend. “I know,” said she, shrewdly, her great brown eyes wide in innocent regard of John Fairmeadow, "what 1 can do.” The grave was dug. "Come, child,” said Fairmeadow, so pressed; “there is no more to be done here.” “I ain't a child,” she replied, in a co- quettish little pout. “No?” said he, absently. She looked up shyly through her long lashes. "I'm almotht nearly theventeen,” said she. Fairmeadow had not attended to the chatter of Pattie Batch: he had been pre- occupied in melancholy musing upon the | aspect of Thirty Drinks from a pastoral point of view; and he had brooded sadly upon this death, and had considered the | forsaken little chatte , whose words, ! inconsequent to his ear, had yet been | question. It amazed him; he could not | at all account for it. He feltit, however; 1 advantage. great and solemn with the news he did not heed. “There'th jutht one thing,” Pattie de- clared, with emphasis, when they came abreast of the first wretched shack of the town. Fairmeadow yielded the attention de- manded. “Don’t you have Big Butcher Long for no Fall: bearer, said she; "he Qs pop'th ear off.” It was a distinguished success-—the fun- eral of Gray Billy Batch—sedately pro- gressing from Pale Peter's curb, after some pardonable and quickly resolved confusion, to the accustomed rites, per- formed, according to the forms, in the grassy field behind the shuttered red hous: at the edge of the woods. Little Pattie Batch had nothing left to desire in respect to it: the hundred mourners from Bottle River and the Cant-hook camps were abundantly content with their grave share in the proceeding, and the eighteen hundred dollars were presently in a fair way of being spent in the thirty-two sa- loons. It is true that the long procession, going two and two behind the lumbering tote-wagon, and immediately preceded by the Rev. John Fairmeadow, with a black- clad little woman on his arm, was pre- ternaturally solemn and indulgent of grief: it is true that the selfsame proces- | sion stumbled in rough places and was and he promptly took hold onthe strange | e situation passed into his | | control in a way to make the hearts of | ' these simple men jump. quickly to the centre of the circle—a He stepped ' occasion may discover | clean, stalwart young fellow, a man, in | bearing, of the great proud and powerful | . world —and lifted his hand. was | an instant silence. For a moment he | looked roundabout upon the grave and i ing faces. Then he said accepted. In so far as God gives me Amen. This was the call of the Rev. John Fairmeadow. Presently informed of his first minis- terial office and presented to the object relieved whoop. John Fairmeadow was pitately abandoned; there remained the gray blanket, there remained Dennie Hump—Pale Peter's sweeper—and there remained the quaint, shy little fe ure in black, now blushing and dry hand with a air 3e2 jt came in a growling, roaring, “There ithn't no them-a-tary,” Pattie Bitepheming aah rom Peter’s bar. Batch explained, with a © John ‘The calm of day fled in shocked | F: d ; “there’th on’y a plathe for alarm before it. It startled the stolid black horses; it shook the tote-wagon's| Fairmeadow his pick and unheeding passenger. It flooded theside- | shovel. “The very 1” said he. walk and overflowed on the dusty street; | They set out , it drew a hurrying contribution fromeach | “There ithn’t many graveth, neither,” of the thirty-two saloons to complete a | she went on. “Jutht a few.” crowding, brawling circle of spectators. | Fairmeadow reflected sadly that one forever staggering; true that it paused, now and again, to refresh its strength and De re: i this yofid the woods, its practices upon condemnation. God knows! But the world of Thirty Drinks, accustomed, and untutored, knew its own sincenty, and was not perturbed, | nor found fault with itself, but continued | { over the world, and the | in happy satisfaction with its behavior, And there was a parson, with a copy of and wisdom—in so far as He the Holy Scriptures—and there was a | to keep my heart pure, my coffin, exalted on the tote-wagon—and plifted, undivided—I | upon the coffin were masses of wild flow | you and Him in these His | ers, of wondrous fragrance and Slory. | gathered by Dennie the Hump—and the birds twittered, and the sky was blue, and and sunshine chased each other grasses waved and the flowers n all un- interrupted by the passing tragedy, un- of his consoling services, John Fairmead- heeding of it, as though it had no mean- ow said, “All right, boys,” and his par- | ing, and grief no substance, just as they . | ishioners returned to the saloons with a always do, in spring time, when the dead are laid away. And the litted voice was i “I am the resurrection and the ie. saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, 1 he were dead, vel shall he live: and . . . Man thatis born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of mis- Twas rap gud is al ee a . asi a s h neger Conlinueiis 4 one toy. : God asmuch as pleased Almighty in His wise providence, to take out of this z | § i “w 3 in the polite world be- 4 were not alone. It was lonely at home; the cabin was isolated, and still, and des- olately vacant. She si and wished she were a man. Presently, having gath- ered some clothing into a bundle, and having possessed herself of a few simple keepsakes—a rag doll and her father’s pipe among them—she took the for irty Drinks. She did not turn to look upon all that she had left behind: she fancied that she would come again, soon --not knowing at all that there was no for her : she fashioned a pendant of white for her bosom; she circled her wrists. The dusk fell—warm and brood- ing. She sighed a little—she sang a little —she cried a little; and then all at once she jumped up, and wiped the tears away with resolute little rubs—and she turned ' toward the grim, bedraggled, shameless red house, her eyes shining through tears in expectation of dehght—and she went forward with kindling courage, her head high, like one going into the world, in the shining hope of youth, for the first time, to taste of life. She knocked. “My child!” John Fairmeadow called from the twilight. She turned in doubt. “Child!” Fairmeadow called, again, his voice rising in quick alarm. The door opened “Quick!’’ Fairmeadow besought her. “I have come for you. Don’t go in!” She took his hand. “Come?” said Fairmeadow. “I'm tho pleathed you come, thir,” poor little Pattie Batch sobbed. “I wath thimp- ly tho lonely I couldn't thtand it." The door was softly closed upon her departure. Pattie's friend, Mag. came as near to sighing “Thank God!” as she very well dared.—By Norman Duncan, in Harper's Monthly Magazine. Saving Animals from Extermination. The East Kootenay district of British Columbia is to become a huge game-pre- serve during the next ten years, accord- ing to a proclamation from the Lieuten- ant-Governor and Executive Council of British Columbia. This region is located sixty-three miles north of the United States boundary line, and its eastern limit is the Elk river, which lies fifteen miles west of Alberta. It includes that section of territory which has been sug- gested as the Goat Mountain Park, and the total area is approximately four hun- dred and fifty square miles. In this great tract of country there is to be an abso- lutely closed season for ten years on mountain-sheep, mountain-goats, mule deer, elk, and the other important wild : animals found in that locality. At the present time the district under preservation contains an abundance of game of many varieties, although the elk and mule deer have been greatly thinned out by visiting sportsmen. A conservative estimate by guides, who are familiar with the country, places the number of white mountain-goats at about one thousand and mountain-sheep at two hundred head. Along the upper ranges of the mountsins grizly bears may be found, and very probably there are fifty or more in the East Kootenay preserve. A closed season of ten years should pro- duce wonderful resuits in this region, and make oi it a veritable breeding-spot for all wild things, and prove a valuable source 10r stocking the surrounding coun- try with the overflow, ——— Real Estate Transfers. Mary K. Gray et ai to R. J. P. Gray, April 11th, 1910, tract of Jand in Half Moon township; $1. | Thos. Foster ei al to Luther D. Fye, October 13th, 1911, tract of land in State College; $2100. Mary R. Harris et bar to Agnes Shi ley, October 25th, 1911, tract of | p- | Unionville; $1400. ract of land in | Marilla Dawson to Sarah E, Satterfiel | August 5th, 1910, tract of land in Belle: | fonte $1300 | Jona Noll ax 21 Ere to Marilla Daw- son, Augus! h , tract of | Bellefonte; $1300. acto awl in I niet, While to Clara M. Conrad, | August 15th, , tract of land i f 1 in Taylor Frederick W. Remy to John Polochk: October 7th, 1911, tract of land in Rush | township; $115. John Yosue et ux to Andrew Be i , “I thank ' content, it may be, with the spirit of its | October 26 : you for the call, boys. It is gratefully sympathy. i # 26i8, 1911, tract of land in Rush township; $975. Marriage Licenses. John Rushnack and Mary Korkas, of Snow Shoe. { Harry Craft and Madeline Stine, Phil- and installation the wind flowed over the pines,and clouds, | ipshurg. shadow i Don. S. Devor, Milwaukee, Wis., and Esther N. Campbell, State College. Wm. R. Hazel, Zion, and Margaret Im- mel, Woodward. Harry M. Van Gorter, Toronto, Cana- | da, and Margaret G. Krebs, State College. Joseph A. Resides and Cora Hoover, | Fleming. James Bannon and Elizabeth Eggleson, Philipsburg. John L. Murphy, New York city, N. Y., and Sarah Hartsock, Stormstown. Sydney A Keefer and Grace M. Black- ord, Bellefonte. : : f g ;
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers