—_—
Beworeaic ald
Bellefonte, Pa., November 20, 1914.
It
A THANKSGIVING FEAST.
We two are the last, my daughter!
To set the table for two
Where once were plates for twenty, *
Is a lonesome thing to do.
But my boys and girls are scattered
To the east and west afar,
And one dearer than even the children
Has passed through the gates ajar.
I’m wanting my bairns for Thanksgiving.
I thought last night as Ilay
Awake in my bed and watching
For the breaking of the day.
How my heart would leap in gladness
If a letter should come this morn
To say that they could not leave us here
To keep the feast forlorn.
Samuel, mv son, in Dakota,
Is a rich man, so I hear,
And he'll never let want approach us,
Save the wanting of him near;
While Jack is in San Francisco,
And Edward overthe sea,
And only little Jessie
Is biding at home with me.
Oh! the happy time for a mother
Is when her bairns are small,
And into the nursery beds at night
She tucks her darlings all.
When the wee ones are about her,
With gleeful noise and cry,
And she hushes the tumult with a smile,
Her brood beneath her eye.
But a mother must bear her burden,
When her babies are bearded men;
On ’Change, or in the army,
Or scratching with a pen
In some banker’s dusty office—
As Martin is no doubt—
A mother must bear her burden
And learn to do without.
I know the Scripture teaching,
To help the halt and the blind,
And keep the homesick and the desolate
At the festal hour in mind.
Of the fat and the sweet a portion
I'll send to the poor man’s door,
But I'm weary for my children
To sit at my board once more.
I tell you, Jessie, my darling,
This living for money and pelf,
It takes the heart from life, dear,
It robs a man: of himself,
This old bleak hillside hamlet,
That sends its boys away,
Has a right to claim them back, dear
On this Thanksgiving Day.
Shame on my foolish frettings!
Here are letters, a perfect sheaf!
Open them quickly, dearest;
Ah, me! 'Tis beyond belief.
By ship and by train they're hasting,
Rushing along on the way.
Tell the neighbors that all my chilnren
Will be here Thanksgiving Day.
—Margaret E. Sangster.
A THANKSGIVING STORY OF ABRA-
HAM LINCOLN.
BY HONORE WILLSIE.
Old Pilgrim kept his ears back and his
eyes on his mistress. He breathed heav-
ily, but otherwise he did not stir. He
was a large horse, a gray, with a small,
intelligent head and a chest and barrel
like an elephant’s. On his right fore
shoulder was a great three-cornered tear,
from which the skin hung in a bloody
fold. Jason was sewing this up. Jason's
mother, who was also Pilgrim’s mistress,
held the candle with one hand while she
stroked the big gray’s nose with the
other.
“Be careful, Jason, do!” she said soft-
ly.
Jason grunted. “You keep him from
biting and kicking and I'll do my share,”
he said.
“Pilgrim bite!” cried Jason’s mother
softly. “Why he knows exactly what you
are doing and why!”
Again Jason grunted, working swiftly,
with the skill of trained and accustomed
fingers. The candle flickered on his cool
young face, on his black hair and on his
long, strong, surgeon’s fingers. It flick-
ered too on his mother’s sweet lips, on
tired brown eyes and iron-gray hair. It
put high-lights on the cameo at her
throat and made a grotesque shadow of
her hoop-skirts on the stable wall.
Finally Jason straightened himself with
a sigh and wiped his hands on a towel.
“That’s a good job,” he said. “Must
be some bad spikes in the pasture fence
to have given him that rip.—Get over
there!”’
This last to Pilgrim, who suddenly had
put his head on Jason’s shoulder with a
soft nuzzling of his nose against the
young doctor’s cheek and a little whinny
that was almost human.
“Why, Jason, he’s thanking you!” cried
his mother.
Jason gave the horse a careless slap
and started out the stable door.
“You’ll be having it that he speaks
Greek next,” he said.
“You don’t know him,” replied Jason’s
mother. “This is the first time you ever
saw him, remember. These last three
years of your father’s life he’s been like"
one of the family.’ She followed Jason
into the cottage. “Often and often be-
fore your .poor father died he said
he’d never have been able to keep on
with the circuit-riding and the preaching
if he’d had to depend on any other horse
than Pilgrim. That horse just knew
father was sick and forgetful. He
wouldn’t budge if father forgot the sad-
dle-bags. When Pilgrim balked, father
always knew he'd forgotten something
and he’d go back for it. I'll have supper
on.by the time you're washed up, Jason.”
The little stove that was set in the
fireplace roared lustily. The kettle was
singing. The old yellow cat slept cozily
in the wooden rocker on the patch-work
cushion. All the furniture was simple
and worn and there was not mutch of it.
A Methodist circuit-rider in Ohio moved
every year. His wife reduced moving
and living to pathetically simple terms.
Jason washed at the bench in the cor-
ner, then sat down while his mother put
the supper before him—fried mush, fried
salt pork, tea and apple sauce.
“Well,” said Jason soberly, “what are
we going to do now, mother? Father's
gone and——"
His mother’s trembling lips warned
him to stop. It doesn't seem possible,”
she said, “that it’s only a week since we
laid him away.”
Jason interrupted gently. “I know,
other; but you and I have got to go on
iving!”
“It’s you I'm worrying about,” said his
mother. “I can get along, with the help
of a little sewing and a little nursing |
here in the village, the cow, and the
chickens, and Old Pilgrim. But you,
Jason, after the doctor’s bills are paid,
how am I going to keep you in Philadel-
phia?”
“Mother, I've got to get the money
somehow. Just a year more with Dr.
Edwards and I can go into partnership
with him. If we can just get énough to-
gether to get me back there, I'll manage
some how.” :
Jason’s mother sighed. “Seems as if
we’d ought to have saved something out
of your father’s salary. Two hundred
and fifty dollars a year besides donation
parties is a good deal of money. But it
went, especially after he was sickly.
Poor father! I've let most everything go
so as to send you the money, Jason. I'm
most at my wits’ end now. But you've
got to be a doctor! Our hearts always
were set on it as much as yours, Jason.
Grandma’s silver teapot, that kept you a
month, and father’s watch nearly six
months.
Jason was very much like his mother,
yet very unlike. Where her face was
sweet and tremulous, his was cool and
still. His brown eyes were careless, hers
were eager. His long, strong hands were
smooth and quiet. Hers were knotted
and work-calloused and a little uncer-
tain. As if something in her words irri-
tated him with the sense of her sacri
fice, Jason said:
“Well, what did you and father start
me on this doctor idea for, if you felt it
was going to cost too much?”
“No! No! It’s not that!” cried his
mother. “There are still some things to
go, Jason. Take the St. Bartholomew
candlestick up to Mr. Inchpin. He al-
ways has wanted it. That will give you
your fare to Philadelphia.”
Jason looked up at the queerly
wrought silver candlestick that was
more like an old oil lamp than a candle-
stick. His mother’s grandmother had
brought it from France with her. The
family legend was that some Huguenot
ancestor had come through the massacre
of St. Bartholomew with this only relic
of his home wrapped in his bosom.
“Good!” said Jason eagerly. “The old
thing is neither fish nor bread anyhow.
Too bigmouthed for a candle, and
folks are going to use coal-oil more and
more anyhow. Ill be off to-morrow!”
“To-morrow’s Thanksgiving, Jason,”
said his mother.
“I'll be glad to forget it,” said the young
doctor. “God knows we've nothing to
be thankful for.”
His mother looked at him a little cur-
iously—for a mother. “Were you ever
thankful to anybody, for afhything,
Jason?” she asked dryly.
“I've seldom had anything to feel
grateful about,” answered Jason coolly.
“All I can remember all my life is mush
and milk, and poverty, and wearing the
pants of the rich boy of the town we
happen to be in. I'll go up to see Inchpin
tonight, mother—then I can get off by
noon to-morrow.”
It was on Thanksgiving Day of 1862
that Jason started back to Philadelphia.
He said good-by to his mother affection-
ately, and promised to write frequently.
Three times a week during the year
that followed Jason’s mother saddled Old
Pilgrim and rode down to the post-office
after the shrieks of the whistle had
warned her ‘that the tri-weekly river
packet had come and gone. Four times
during the year she heard from Jason.
Each time he was doing well and wanted
money. The first time Jason’s mother
sold her mahogany hat box to the store-
keeper's wife. The second time the
cameo pin went to the doctor's wife.
The third time she could send nothing,
she wrote Jason—and she wrote in deep
contrition, for she knew that Jason was
half-starving himself and working hard.
The fourth letter was urgent.
“I’m going into the army. There's a
wonderful chance for surgeons now. I
must have a hundred dollars, though, to
buy into partnership with Dr. Edwards
before I go. That assures me of a good
berth as soon as the war is over. I think
you had better sell Pilgrim. You really
don’t need him, and you can get a hun-
dred for him easily, if you sell him to the
Government. Mr. Inchpin would tend
to it for you.”
Jason’s mother read the letter heavily.
It was November again. The river pack-
ets would not make many more trips.
Drearily the Kentucky hills rolled back
from the river, and drearily the Ohio val-
leys stretched inland. Old Pilgrim plod-
ded patiently toward his stable and his
mistress huddled in the saddle, unheed-
ing until Pilgrim stamped impatiently at
the stable door. Then she dismounted
and the great horse stamped into his
stall.
“I know that I don’t need you, Pil-
grim,” she said. “It’s just that you are
like a living bit of Father—and if Jason
would only seem to understand that, it
wouldn’t be so hard to let you go. I
wonder if all young folks are like Jason?”
Old Pilgrim leaned his head over his
stall and in the November gloaming he
looked long at his mistress with his wise
and gentle eyes. It was as if he would
tell her that he had learned that youth is
always a little hard; that only long years
in harness with always the back-breaking
load to pull, not for oneself, but for oth-
ers, can make thereally grateful heart.
One of the sweet, deep compensations of
the years, the old horse seemed to say, is
that gratitude grows in the soul.
So Jason and Old Pilgrim both went to
war. They did not see each other, but
each one,in his own way, made a brilliant
record. Pilgrim learned the sights and
sounds and smells of war. The fearful
pools of blood ceased to send him plung-
ing and rearing in harness. The screams
of utter fear or of mortal agony no longer
set him to neighing or sweating in sym-
pathy. Pilgrim, superb in strength and
superb in intelligence, plodded efficiently
through a battle just as he had plodded
efficiently over the circuit of Jason’s
Methodist father.
And Jason, coo! and clear-headed, with
his wonderful long, strong hands, sawed
and sewed and probed and purged his
way through field hospital after field hos-
pital, until the men began to hear of his
skill and to ask for him when the fear of
death was on them. His work absorbed
him more and more, until months . went
by, and he neglected to write to his
mother! Just why, who can say? Each
of us, looking into his heart, perhaps can
find some answer. But Jason was young,
and work and world hungry. He did rot
ask himself embarrassing questions. The
months slipped into a year, and the first
year into a second year. Still Jason did
not write to his mother, nor did he longer
hear from her.
In November of the second year Jason
was stationed in the hospital near Rich-
mond. One rainy morning as he made
his way to the cot of a man who was dy-
ing of gangrene, an orderly stopped him.
boy.”
“This is Dr. Jason Wilkins?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, doctor, but I've got to arrest
you and take you to Washington—"
Jason looked the orderly over incredu- |
lously. “You've got the wrong man, |
friend.”
The soldier drew a heavy envelope
carefully from his heart, and handed it '
to Jason. Jason opened it uneasily, and
gasped. This is what he read: “Show |
this to Sugeon Jason Wilkins, —Regiment, |
Richmond, Virginia. Arrest him. Bring!
him to me immediately. A. Lincoln.”
Jason whitened. “What's up?” he
asked the orderly. : |
“I didn’t ask the President,” replied the .
orderly dryly. “We'll start at once, if
you please, doctor.” |
In a daze Jason left for Washington. |
He thought of all the minor offenses he |
had committed. But they were only such '
as any young fellow might be guilty of. i
He could not believe that any of them !
had reached Mr. Lincoln’s ears, or that, |
if they had, the great man in the White
House would have heeded them.
Jason was locked in a room in a Wash. !
ington boarding-house for one night. The '
next day at noon the orderly called for
him. Weak-kneed, Jason followed him |
up the long drive to the door of the |
White House, and into a room where ;
there were more orderlies and a man at |
a desk writing. An hour of dazed wait- |
ing, then a man came out of adoor and!
spoke to the man at the desk— !
“Surgeon Jason Wilkins,” said the!
sentry.
“Here!’’ answered Jason.
“This way,” jerked the orderly, and!
Jason found himself in the inner room,
with the door closed behind him. The
room was empty, yet filled. There was
but one manin it besides Jason, but that
man was Mr. Lincoln, who sat at a desk, |
with his somber eyes on Jason’s face— !
still a cool young face, despite trembling |
knees. i
“You are Jason Wilkins?” said Mr."
Lincoln. £0
“Yes, Mr. President,” replied the young '
surgeon. i
“Where are you from?”
“Green Valley, Ohio.” ei
“Have you any relatives?”
“Only my mother is living.”
“Yes, only a mother! Well, young!
man, how is your mother?” |
Jason stammered, “Why, why—I don't |
know!”
“You don’t know!” thundered Lincoln. |
“And why don’t you know? Is she living ;
or dead?” y
“I don’t know,” said Jason. “To tell
the truth, I've neglected to write and I |
don’t suppose she knows where I am.” |
There was silence in the room. Mr. |
Lincoln clenched a great fist on his desk, |
and his eyes scorched Jason. “I had a |
letter from her. She supposes you dead |
and asked me to trace’your grave. What |
was the matter with her? No good?
Like most mothers, a poor sort? Eh?
Answer me, sir?” :
Jason bristled a little. “The best wom-
an that ever lived, Mr. President.”
“Ah!” breathed Mr. Lincoln. “Still
you have no reason to be grateful to
her! How'd you get your training as a
surgeon? Who paid for it? Your father?”
Jason reddened. “Well, no; father
was a poor Methodist preacher. Mother
raised the money, though 'I worked for
my board mostly.”
“Yes, how'd she raise the money?”
Jason’s lips were stiff. “Selling things,
Mr. President.”
“What did she sell?”
“Father’s watch—the old silver teapot
—the mahogany hat-box—the St. Bar- |
tholomew candlestick. Old things most:
ly; beyond use except in museums.”
Again silence in the room, while a look
of contempt gathered in Abraham Lin-
coln’s eyes that seared Jason’s cool young
soul till it scorched within him. “You
poor fool!” said Lincoln. “You poor
worm! Her household treasures—one by |
one—for you. ‘Useless things—fit for
museums!’ Oh, you fool!”
Jason flushed angrily and bit his lips. !
Suddenly the President rose and pointed
a long, bony finger at his desk. “Come
here and sit down and write a letter to
your mother!”
Jason stalked obediently over and sat
down in the President’s seat. Anger and
mortification were ill inspirations for
letter-writing, but under Lincoln's burn-
ing eyes Jason seized a pen and wrote
his mother a stilted note. Lincoln paced
the floor, pausing now and again to look
over Jason’s shoulder.
“Address it and give it to me,” said the
President. “I'll see that it gets to her.”
Then, his stern voice rising a little:
“And now, Jason Wilkins, as long as you
are in the army, you write to your mother
once a week. If I have reason to correct
you on the matter again, I'll have you
court-martialed.” °
Jason rose and handed the letter to the
President, then stood, angry and silent,
awaiting further orders. Abraham Lin-
coln took another turn or two up and
down the room. Then he paused before
the window and looked from ita long,
long time. Finally he turned to Jason.
“My boy,” he said gently, “there is no
finer quality in the world than gratitude. |
There is nothing a man can have in his
heart so mean, so low as ingratitude.
Even a dog appreciates a kindness, never
forgets a soft word, ora bone. To my
mind, the noblest holiday in the world is
Thanksgiving. And, next the Creator,
there is no one the holiday should be
dedicated to as much as to mothers.”
Again Lincoln paused, and looked from
the boyish face of the young surgeon out
of the window at the bleak Noyember
skies, and Lincoln said to Jason, with God
knows what tragedy of memory in his
lonely heart:
“Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky:
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot.”
Another pause. “You may go, my
And Lincoln shook hands with
Jason, who stumbled from the room, his
mind a chaos of resentment and anger.
He made his way down Pennsylvania
Avenue, pausing as two army officers
rode up to a hotel and dismounted, leav-
ing their horses. Something about the
big gray that one of the officers rode
seemed vaguely familiar to the young
doctor. The gray turned his small, in-
telligent head toward Jason, then with a
sudden soft whinny, laid his head on
Jason's shoulder and nuzzled his cheek
gently. Jason looked at the right fore
shoulder. A three-cornered scar was
there. Jason and Old Pilgrim never had
met but once, and yet—Jason was little
more than a boy. Suddenly he threw his
arms around Old Pilgrim’s neck, and
sobbed into the silky mane. Passers-by
glanced curiously and then went on—
Washington was full of tears those days.
Pilgrim whinnied and waited patiently.
Finally Jason wiped his eves. “Pll buy
you back from Captain Winston, Pil-
grim. I'll get a furlough, if I have to ask
i the President himself. We'll get home
to mother for Thanksgiving,
Pilgrim.
We will, if God will let my unworthy
: hulk live that long.”
And Pilgrim, with a scar on his right
fore shoulder, and Jason with the scar on
' his soul that only remorse imprints there,
started that evening for Green Valley.
— The Delineator for November, 1914.
One Has to Cut One’s Way Through
the Roads of Paraguay.
The roads of Paraguay are about five
' yards wide throughout, and the trees
meet overhead at a height of some
eighteen feet. thus forming a tunnel of
very uniform dimensions. In the clear
parts of the tunnel-that is, where it
is not choked up with the giant net-
tle—it is full from roof to ground of
enormous ~piders’ webs stretching
clear across the road. the big trees
usually being chosen as anchorages |
and the total clear span being thus
. more like eight yards than five.
The main cables or framework of
the nets are composed of five or six
strands of thick yellow web and are
almost as strong as cotton thread. The
rest of the net is made up of single and
double strands of the same stout ma-
terial, which is as sticky as it is strong.
Every yard or so one of these nets es-
tends across one's path, making it nee-
essary to hold a cutlass or a fairly
stout stick at arm's length in front as | 2 on
| of angry, rapid-rushing water held in its
one walks.
The makers of these troublesome but
picturesque obstructions are
. highly colored. gaudy looking spiders
with bodies that look as if they were
about to explode, they are so blown
out and glossy
At intervals in.some more open space |
| where the sky is visible one will no-
tice a different kind of web, far more
irregular in shape, but far larger than
the others.
space available in the tunnel, these
webs are stretched in complicated
: mazes from the ground to the very
tops of the surrounding trees, with
clear spans frequently twenty or thirty
yards from one tree to another.
From these main cables smaller ones
extend to the ground—a drop of fifteen
or twenty yards—and the spaces in be-
tween are filled up with a mass of
webs spun in all directions. — Wide
World Magazine.
The Bishop’s Place.
The bishop of London, speaking at
the annual meeting of the bishop of
London’s fund at Grosvenor House,
said that churches did not drop down
from heaven any more than bishops,
though a little girl in his congregation.
evidently under that delusion, had re-
cently said to her mother during a tir-
ing sermon: **l am tired now. mother.
Can’t the bishop go back to heaven?" —
London Standard.
Like a Mental Moving Picture.
Baker—People who have been near
drowning say that in an instant all
the events of their past lives are pre-
sented to their mental vision. Barker
—I1 don’t believe it. Baker—Why not?
Barker—If it were true they wouldn't
allow themselves to be rescued.— Life.
The Attraction.
“You say you are in love with Miss
Baggs?"
*1 sure am.”
“But | can’t see anything attractive
about her.”
“Neither can | see it. But it’s in the
bank, all right.” —Cleveland Leader.
A Cross Bull.
The late Lord Cross never added
greatly to the humor of the nation. On
one occasion. however, while he was
still in the house of commons he tried
to be sarcastic during a speech.
“I think,” he said, fixing a certain
minister with 2 ferocious eye. *I think
I hear the right honorable gentleman
smile.”
After that remark, if it were any
satisfaction to him, he heard the whole
house laugh.—London Globe.
By Other Ways.
“l am sorry to see you going with
that disreputable young fellow, my
son, even if he has plenty of money
and goes everywhere.”
“But, father, didn’t you tell me to
cultivate society?”
“1 did, my lad. but not with a rake.”
—Baltimore American.
Unexpected Criticism.
A school inspector, examining a clasy
in grammar, wrote a sentence on the
blackboard and asked if any one no
ticed anything peculiar in it.
After a short silence a small boy re
plied. “Yes, sir; the bad writing.”—
London Telegraph.
Extravagance.
“Quick, quick: a doctor!
swallowed a penny?’
“What! Spend $4 to save a penny:
That's the way with you women!”-
Paris Pele Mele.
I have just
There are some forms of animal life
which are nothing but a stomach. All
other parts and organs are dwarfed or
rudimentary; the stomach is the center
of being. As a matter of fact the stomach
plays a vastly more important part in
the life of the highest type of animal
life, man, than is generally recognized.
The stomach to him is the center of ex-
istence, for man is primarily a stomach.
Starve him and he weakens in brain and
body. Feed him with innutritious food,
and blood, and muscle, nerve and bone
must suffer. For this reason the stom-
ach ought to be the first care. When
disease shows its symptoms in head or
heart, blood or liver, the stomach should
be first examine for the cause of the
disease.” Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical
Discovery was made to match the dis-
covery that many diseases, remote from
the stomach begin in the stomach, and
that when diseases begin in the stomach
they must be cured through the stomach
“Discovery” is a specific for diseases of
the organs of digestion and nutrition. It
strengthens the stomach, heals weak
lungs, purifies the blood.
FROM INDIA. :
|
By One on Medical Duty in that rar Eastern ;
Country. A Picturesque Journey. Farming on |
a Steep Mountainside Like Flies on a Wall.
Nearing the Journey's End, Etc,
i
GARHI, Dak:, SEPTEMBER 2lst, 1913. |
Dear Home Folk: :
We are to be off at six o'clock this |
morning and I truly had only one eye |
shut when I pulled it open again and '
striking a match found that my “nasty |
little time-keeper” had run around its!
dial and I was about to reach the stage
that told me I must get about. I wanted
to smash the tiny thing but decided that
wouldn’t help my weary muscles and in- :
stead, dressed and packed my chattels,
ate, paid my bill, gave a last admiring
! horses and the driver told me they were
tired but could do thirty-five miles, and
look at the scenery from that point, and
went to the carriage. I inquired about the |
off we started.
Our first halt is for a bridge —long and
high, stretching itself across the Jhelum
river, for so my silver band has been
named by these people. We pay a tax
of two Rupees, or sixty-four cents, and
1 are allowed to proceed. Our way is now |
large, |
along the snow-fed river, a big volume
way by the two great mountains on
either side of us. It is along the side of
| one that we twist and turn—a road al-
most perfect, of white crushed limestone,
i taken
from the mountains back-bone
and as we go along, here and there one
| sees the result of its most recent effort
to reclaim its own —a land-slide. There
' are many workmen on all parts and new
Not content with the |
piles of earth on the outer edge with
{many loose stones on the inner side
shows what they have but recently re-
moved from our path.
We are greatly entertained by the skill-
ful way in which the Kashmire’s man
farmer succeeds in balancing himself
along the side of2thef3500 foot hill while
he cuts grass, and that long stretch of
3500 feet belowghas scarcely a shrub big
enough to stay him should he suddenly
decide to have a bath in the quick icy
river below. Every least foot is planted
either in corn, rice or wheat and seems
to be in splendid condition. The corn is
much smaller than I know, but other-
wise just the same. His cows, goats and
sheep must all have spikes on their hoofs
else they would surely slip down, for
they ramble along the mountain side like
I mightfialong the big road. Everyone
seems to be working, men, women and
children, and all look happy.
Our entire way was almost at the riv-
er's edge and between mountains. Of
course we came up again but it has been
a gradual rise and the new peaks and
vistas that came in sight saved us from
noticing the hard tugs of the horses.
The scenery is indeed grand (and I
think that expresses best the way it im-
presses me.) We have only done thirty-
seven miles today and came to this
charming little way-house, where the
roar of the river is so loud one
must raise one’s voice if you wish to be:
heard. We go into dinner and find two
women and a man already seated; of
course, there is frozen silence for a space
but soon we are all chatting and finally,
a native gentleman having come for his
dinner, we go to the veranda and then I
am asked “would I like to see a Kashmir
bridge,” and of course I say “yes,” so all
five go to the bazaar, and then on a bit,
and here are two great posts with a reel
between, and a cable fastened on the reel
and two about six feet above on the post °
on either side these two hand-rails are :
fastened to the under cable by a stick
about every six feet, making a figure V,
so you go walking like a slack-wire per-
former, along the bottom cable holding
madly on to the two at the upper angles,
while that mad rushing river makes you
so light-headed you are sure you had
best say your prayers. Our escort, who-
ever he mayfbe, I never learned his name,
was a cool-headed man and seemed to
know all about the place and as he went
first—well, it wasn’t at all bad; yet I was
glad to leave the thing behind. The
moon had appeared while we were fool- :
ing there and we were all loath to leave
the beauty, so we played “pussy-wants-a- i
corner,” tried sailing stones across the |
calmer part of the river, but finally, all
things must stop and off to bed we went,
not to meet again for we are to leave at
4.30 a. m,, going in to Kashmir; and they
are coming out—vacation over—and I
don’t even know their names; merely
chance passers, then—‘“good bye.” j
RAMPUR DAK., Bungalow.
Friday evening—Forty-eight miles fur- |
ther on the road. 4.30 saw us up this !
morning and the moon still held sway;
it seemed scarcely fair to have to start
so early but to get here and not kill the
horses we must do it. We had our tea,
toast and eggs and paying our bill, pick-
ed up the smaller articles and climbed
into thefvehicle again; the whip cracked |
and we were off. :
Nothing new for some time, but soon .
the east became lighter and the moun- |
tains and stream looked darker and then |
the sun came up and the scenery, which |
before looked hazy and unnatural, now |
resolved itself into peak after peak—ma-
jestic in height, almost bare except for
green grass and a few low shrubs. The
smaller places were cultivated and every !
here and there the road widened and the !
valley became broader and truly little |
rice farms were seen. The houses of |
the owners, low, six feet high shacks,
roof perfectly flat, floors, (where we
could see them) of beaten clay, destitute :
A
I ———
of furniture except the “charpoi” which
not only acts as a bed but does duty for
a chair; one can also use it very nicely
for a horse’s rack for food and so it isa
most useful piece of furniture.
The scenery is just a repetition of yes-
terday, but perhaps a little less wild, for
much farming is done along here. The
men are tall and fine looking, dressed in
blue pajamas, a long blue shirt reaching
to their knees, a “pugra” of blue on their
heads and generally a white scarf drawn
about their necks. Their wives are not
small but have tiny feet and hands, are
very fair and very pretty and covered
. with jewelry, while the children are
dears. They are all hospitable and in-
clined to want to be of service, and I am
greatly entertained by their friendly
, stares as we stop in the bazaar, which,
by the way, is different from those on
the plains by having the entire front
carved in a most gorgeous way.
Our horses are nicely rested so we
| drive along right merrily, but it is near-
ly noon and although we almost froze in
, our beds last night, today the sun is al-
most intolerably hot and we ask our
; driver to stop at the first shade tree and
out we get to rest and make our tea and
eat our “tiffin” (dinner) while the men
unhitch the fagged horses and feed them
grass and balls made of coarse molasses,
: bran and water, which they say acts as a
stimulant to them. A Fakir (holy man)
comes along and winds the most peculiar
horn over a “puja” (worship) place near
where we are sitting and on the road below
us camels, at least two dozen, are stripping
all the leaves from any and all the bush-
es their rubber-necks can reach. Yes,
it all is curious and strange, and in the
back-ground, the magnificent moun-
tains which I have come so far to
‘see. Fcould stay and drink it all in for
hours and hours but time is flying and
we must get started.
The scenery becomes milder and more
beautiful and we are making long de-
tours, for the way is steep and the sun
hot. The trees seem to have vacated
this especial spot—even the spruce and
pine, which for the last few miles have
been keeping us company, have entirely
disappeared so that bald, bare, glisteny
white mountains now greet and repulse
you with their heat and glare and we
are indeed glad that only ten more miles
is to be our portion and ere long we will
be resting, having had our bath and
clean clothes. We are whirled about a
mountain end and along its side for a lit-
tle distance and cool, dark, shady groves
of hemlock, pine and spruce, with pop-
lars adding their straightness to the gen-
eral assemblage, while ferns of all kinds,
golden-rod, wild snap-dragon and asters
help rest our eyes after the horrid glare.
We came to a stop before a charming
little gray stone bungalow and out
pop the servants and we are again under
shelter—this time the only ones to be
cared for. But it is late and the roar of
the river and the call of the night wind
make my eyes heavy, so please excuse
me for I must sleep. We will be off at
four o'clock in the morning for our Jast
| forty-eight miles and I shall mail this at
Srinagar, so you will get it next week.
The next time I will tell you about our
house-boat. I wish you could all be en-
joying this gorgeousness with me.
(Continued next week.)
The Trap-door Spider.
How many times can a spider rebuild
its web? This question seems to have
been answered with reference to at least
one species of spider, the trap-door spi-
er.
These spiders are very plentiful in Cal-
ifornia. They construct their nests, con-
sisting of a mammoth tube lined with
silk of their own manufacture, in the
ground in situations protected from the
washing effects of rain. Then they cov-
er the nests with a woven trap-door sup-
plied with a hinge.
The upper surface of the door is made
to resemble the surface of the ground.
If any insect disturbs the door the own-
er instantly opens it, and if the disturber
is not too large and strong, the spider
seizes it and drags it into the den. If,
on the contrary, the stranger is a formid-
_ able enemy, the spider claps the door to
and holds it down with all its strength.
The result of many experiments, as re-
ported by a naturalist of San Diego,
shows that if the trap-door is destroyed
the spider can reconstruct it just five
times and no more; but each time there
is evidence of a greater economy in the
use of silk, and although the spider will
attempt the renewal the sixth time, it
invariably fails because its silk has been
exhausted.
It would appear, however, that after
the lapse of a considerable period, the
spider acquires a fresh supply of the flu-
id from which it spins its web. Then it
is able to resume the construction of
silk-lined dens and trap-doors.
A Fortified Monastery.
The most strongly fortified monastery
in the world is at Solovetsk, in Arch-
angel, Russia. This monastery is en-
closed on every side by a wall of granite
i boulders, which measures nearly a mile
in circumference. The monastery itself
is very strongly fortified, being supported
by round and square towers abput thirty
feet in height, with walls twenty feet in
thickness.
The monastery in reality consists of
six churches, which are the repositories
of many valuable statues and also of pre-
cious stones. Upon the walls are mount-
ed huge guns, which in the time of the
Crimean War were directed against the
British White Sea Squadron. The monks
who inhabited the monastery at that time
marched in procession on the granite
| walls while the shells were flying over
their heads, to indicate what little fear
they had of an attack by the British fleet.
Thousands of pilgrims come annually
to Solovetsk from various parts of Rus-
sia to view the churches and the relics.
They are conveyed in steamers com-
manded and manned solely by the
monks.