“THE LIG
T- OF
4 RY It
(Continued from ‘last week).
SYNOPSIS,
1 }
T11LE ¥
me
CHAPTER I.—Arriving at the lonely
Httle railroad station of El Cajon, New
ico, ‘Madeline. Hammond, New York
1, finds no one to meet her. While in
e Le a drunken cowboy en-
ters, asks if she is married, and departs,
leaving her terrified, He returns with a
priest, who, goes through some sort of
cerémony, and the cowboy forces her to
#31.” Asking ‘her name amd learning
her ddentity: the cowboy seems dazed. In
a shooting scrape outside the room &
Mexican killed. The cowboy lets a
ten conducts Madeline to Florence
ley,’ friend of her brother.
fer “Bonita,” take his horse and escape, .
CHAPTER II.—Florence welcomes her,
learns her story, and dismisses the cow-
boy, Gene Stewart. Next day Alfred
Hammond, Madeline's brother, takes
tewart to tark. Madeline exonerates
m of any wrong intent.
CHAPTER III.—Alfred, scion of a
wealthy family, had been dismissed from
his home because of his dissipation.
Madeline sees that the West has re-
deemed him. She meets Stillwell, Al's
employer, typical western ranchman.
Madeline learns Stewart has gone over
the border.
CHAPTER IV.—Danny Mains, one of
Stillwell’'s cowboys, has disappeared,
with some of Stillwell’'s money. His
jrisnas link his name with the girl Bo-
a.
CHAPTER. V.—Madeline gets a glimpse
of life on a western ranch,
CHAPTER VI.—Stewart’'s horse comes
to the ranch with a note on the saddle
asking Madeline to accept the beautiful
animal, With her brother’s consent she
does so, naming him ‘‘Majesty,” her own
pet nickname. Madeline, independently
rich, arranges to buy Stillwell’'s ranch
jas that of Don Carlos, a Mexican neigh-
Ek
CHAPTER VII.—Madeline feels she
has found her right place, under the light
of the western stars.
CHAPTER VIIl.—Learning Stewart had
been hurt in a brawl at Chiricahua, and
knowing her brother's fondness for him,
Madeline visits him and persuades him to
come to the ranch as the boss of her
cowboys.
CHAPTER IX.—Jim Nels, Nick Steele,
and ‘“Monty” Price are Madeline's chief
riders. They have a feud with Don Car-
los’ vaqueros, who are really .guerrillas.
Madeline pledges Stewart to see that
peace is kept.
CHA R X.—Madeline and Florence,
returning home from Alfred’s ranch, run
into an ambush of vaqueros. Florence,
knowing the Mexicans are after Made-
line, decoys them away, and Madeline
gets, home safely but alone.
om CHAPTER XI
A Band of Guerrillas,
“Madeline bolted the door, and, flying
into the kitchen, she told the scared
servants to shut themselves in. Then
she ran to her own rooms. It was only
a matter of a few moments for her to
close and Lar the heavy shutters, yet
even as she was fastening the last one
inthe room she used as an office a
clattering roar of hoofs seemed to
swell up to the front of the house. She
caught a glimpse of wild, shaggy
horses and ragged, dusty men. She
had never seen any vaqueros that re-
sembled these horsemen. Vaqueros
had grace and style; they were fond
of lace and glitter and fringe; they
dressed their horses in silvered trap-
pings. But the riders now trampling
into the driveway were uncouth, lean.
savage. They were guerrillas, a band
of the raiders who had been harassing
the border since the beginning of the
revolution. A second glimpse assured
Madeline that they were not all Mex-
fcans.
The presence of outlaws In that
band brought home to Madeline her
The Presence of Outlaws in That Band
Brought Home to Madeline Her Real
Danger.
real danger. She remembered what
Stillwell had told her about recent out-
iaw ralds along the Rio Grande. These
fying bands, operating under the ex-
citement of the revolution, appeared
here and there, everywhere, in remote
places, and were gone as quickly as
they came. Mostly they wanted mon-
ey and arms, but they would steal any-
thing, and unprotected women had sui-
fered at their hands,
Madeline, hurriedly collecting her
securities and the considerable money
she had in her desk, ran out, closed
and locked the door, crossed the patio
ta the opposite side of the house, and,
entering again, went down a long cor-
ridor, trying to decide which of the
many unused rooms would be best to
nide in. And beiore she made up her
mind she came to the last room. Just
then a battering on door or window in
the direction of the kitchen and shriil
screams from the servant women in-
creased Madeline's alarm.
She entered the last room. There
was no lock or bar upon the door. But
the room was large and dark, and it
was half full of bales of alfalfa hay.
Probably it was the safest place in
the house; at least time would be nec-
essary to find any one hidden there.
i She dropped her valuables in a dark
corner and covered them with loose
hay. That done, she felt her way down
a narrow aisle hetween ihe piled-up
bales and presently crouched in a
niche.
With the necessity of action over for
the immediate present, Madeline be-
came conscious that she was quivering
and almost breathless. Her skin felt
tight and cold. There was a weight
on her chest; her mouth was dry, and
she had a strange tendency to swallow.
Dull sounds came from parts of the
house remote from her. In the inter-
vals of silence between these sounds
she heard the squeaking and rustling
of mice in the hay. A mouse ran over
her hand.
She listened, waiting, hoping, yet
dreading to hear the clattering ap-
proach of her cowboys. There would
be fighting—blood—men injured, per-
haps killed. Even the thought of vio-
lence of any kind hurt her. But per
haps the guerrillas would run in time
to avoid a clash with her men. She
hoped for that, prayed for it. Through
her mind flitted what she knew of
Nels. of Monty, of Nick Steele; and
she experienced a sensation that left
her somewhat chilled and sick. Then
she thought of the dark-browed, fire-
eyed Stewart. She felt a thrill drive
away the cold nausea. And her excite-
ment augmented.
Waiting, listening increased all her
emotions. Nothing appeared to be
happening. Yet hours seemed to pass
while she crouched there. Had Flor-
ence been overtaken? Could any of
those lean horses outrun Majesty?
She doubted it; she knew it could not
be true. Nevertheless, the strain of
uncertainty was torturing.
Suddenly the bang of the corridor
door pierced her through and through
with the dread of uncertainty. Some
of the guerrillas had entered the east
wing of the house. She heard a babel
of jabhering voices. the shuffling of
boots and clinking of spurs. the slam-
ming of doors and ransacking of
rooms,
Madeline lost faith in her hiding
place. Moreover, she found it impos-
sible to take the chance. The idea of
being caught in that dark room by
those ruffians filled her with horror.
She must get out into the light. Swift-
ly she rose and went to th: window.
It was rather more of a door than
window, being a large aperture closed
by two wooden doors on hinges. The
fron hook yielded readily to her grasp,
and one door stuck fast, while the
other opened a few inches. She looked
out upon a green slope covered with
flowers and bunches of sage and
bushes. Neither aan nor horse showed
in the narrow field of her vision. She
believed she would be safer hidden
out there in the shrubbery than in
the house. The jump from the win-
dow would be easy for her.
She pulled at the door. It did not
budge. It had caught at the bottom.
Pulling with all her might proved to
be in vain. Pausing, with palms hot
and bruised, she heard a louder, closer
approach of the invaders of her home.
Fear, wrath, and impotence contested
for supremacy over her and drove her
to desperation. She was alone here,
and she must rely on herself, And as
she strained every muscle to move
that obstinate door and heard the
quick, harsh voices of men and the
sounds of a hurried search she sud-
denly felt sure that they were hunting
for her. She knew it. She did not
wonder at it. But she wondered if
she were really Madeline Hammond,
and if it were possible that brutal men
would harm her. Then the tramping
of heavy feet on the floor of the ad-
joining room lent her the last strength
of fear. Pushing with hands and
shoulders, she moved the door far
enough to permit the passage of her
body. Then she stepped upon the
sill and slipped through the aperture.
She saw no one. Lightly she jumped
down and ran in among the bushes.
But these did not afford her the cover
she needed. She stole from one clump
to another, finding too late that she
had chosen with poor judgment. The
position of the bushes had drawn her
closer to the front of the house rather
than away from it, and just before her
were horses, and beyond a group of
excited men. With her heart in her
throat Madeline crouched down.
A shrill yell, followed by running and
mounting guerrillas, roused her hope.
They had sighted the cowboys and were
in flight. Rapid thumping of boots on
the porch told of men hurrying from
the house. Several horses dashed past
her, not ten feet distant. One rider
saw her, for he turned to shout back.
This drove Madeline into a panic,
Hardly knowing what she did, she be-
gan to run away from the house. Her
feet seemed leaden. She felt the same
horrible powerlessness that sometimes
came over her when she dreamed of
being pursued. Horses with shouting
riders streaked past her in the shrub-
bery. There was a thunder of hoofs
behind her. She turned aside, but the
thundering grew nearer. She was be-
ing run down.
As Madeline shut her eyes and, stag-
gering, was about to fall, apparently
right under pounding hoofs, a rude,
powerful hand clapped round her
waist, clutched deep and strong, and
swung her aloft. She felt a heavy
blow when the shoulder of the horse
struck her, and then a wrenching of
her arm as she was dragged up. A
sudden blighting pain made sight and
feeling fade from her.
But she did not become unconscicus
to the extent that she lost the sense
of being rapidly borne away. She
seemed to hold that for a long time.
When her faculties began to return th-
motion of the horse was no longer vio
lent. For a few moments she could
not determine her position. Appareatly
she was upside down. Then she saw
that she was facing the ground. and
must be iying acress a saddle with
her head hanging down. She could
not move a nuand: she could not tell
where her hands were. Then she felt
the touch of soft leather. She saw u
high-topped Mexican boot, wearing a
huge silver spur, and the recking flank
and legs of a horse, and a dusty, nar-
row trail. Soon a kind of red darkness
veiled her eyes, her head swan, and
she felt motion and pain only dully.
After what seemed a thousand weary
hours some one lifted her from the
horse and laid her upon the ground.
where, gradually, as the blood left her
head and she could see, she began to
get the right relation of thirg:s.
She lay in a sparse grove of firs, and
the shadows told of late afternoon.
She smelled wood smoke, and she
heard the sharp crunch of horses’ teeth
nipping grass. Voices caused her to
turn her face. A group of men stood
and sat round a campfire eating like
wolves. The looks of her captors made
Madeline close her eyes, and the fasci-
nation, the fear they roused in her
made her open them again. Mostly
they were thin-bodied, thin-bearded
Mexicans, black and haggard and
starved. Whatever they might be, they
surely were hunger-stricken and
squalid. Not one had a coat. A few
had scarfs. Some wore belts in which
were scattered cartridges. Only a few
patterns, Madeline could see no
packs, no blankets, and only a few
cooking utensils, all battered and
blackened. Her eyes fastened upon
men she believed were white men; but
it was from their features and not their
color that she judged. Once she had
seen a band of nomad robbers in the
Sahara, and somehow was reminded
of them by this motley outlaw troop.
They divided attention between the
satisfying of ravenous appetites and a
vigilant watching down the forest
aisles. They expected some one, Made-
line thought, and, manifestly, if it were
a pursuing posse, they did not show
anxiety. She could not understand
more than a word here and there that
they had uttered. Presently, however,
the name of Don Carlos revived keen
curiosity in her and realization of her
situation, and then once more dread
possessed her breast.
A low exclamation and a sweep of
arm from one of the guerrillas caused
the whole band to wheel and concen-
trate their gttention in the opposite
direction. They heara something. They
Grimy Hands Sought Weapons, and
Then Every Man Stiffened.
saw some one. Grimy hands sought
weapons, and then every man stiffened.
Madeline saw what hunted men looked
like at the moment of discovery, and
the sight was terrible. She closed her
eyes, sick with whet she saw, fearful
of the moment when the guns would
leap out.
There were muttered curses, a short
period of silence followed by whisper-
ings, and then a clear voice rang out,
“El Capitan!”
A strong shock vibrated through
Madeline, and her eyelids swept open.
Instantly she associated the name El
Capitan with Stewart and experienced
had guns, and these were of diverse
1
rh
a sensation of strange regret. It was
pot pursuit or rescue she thought of
then, but death. These men would kill
Stewart. But surely he had not come
alone. She heard the slow, heavy
thump of hoofs. Soon into the wide
aisle between the trees moved the form
of a man, arms flung high over his
head. Then Madeline saw the horse,
and she recognized Majesty, and she
knew it was really Stewart who rode
the roan. When doubt was no longer
possible she felt a suffocating sense of
gladness and fear and wonder.
Many of the guerrillas leaped up
with drawn weapcens. Still Stewart
approached with his hands high, and
he rode right into the campfire circle.
Then a guerrilla, evidently the chief,
waved down the threatening men and
strode up to Stewart. He greeted him.
There was amaze and pleasure and
-espect in the greeting. Madeline could
tell that, though she did not know
what was said. At the moment Stew-
art appeared to ner as copl and care-
less as if he were dismounting at her
porch steps. But when le 2ot down
she saw that his face wus white. He
shook hands with the gmerrilla, and
then bis glittering eyes roved over the
men and around the glade until they
rested upon Madeline, Without mov-
ing from his tracks he seemed to leap,
as if a powerful current had shocked
him. Madeline tried to suiile to assure
him she was alive and well; but the
intent in his eyes, the power of his con-
trolled spirit telling her of her peril
and his, froze the smile on her lips.
With that he faced the chief and
spoke rapidly in the Mexican jargon
Madeline had always found so ditficult
to translate. The chief answered.
spreading wide his hands. one of which
indicated Madeline as she lay there.
Stewart drew the fellow a little aside
and said something for his ear alone.
The chief’s hands swept up in a ges-
ture of surprise and acquiescence.
Again Stewart spoke swiftly. His
hearer then turned to address the band.
Madeline caught the words ‘Don
Carlos” and “pesos.” There was a
brief muttering protest which the chief
thundered down. Madeline guessed
her release had been given by this
guerrilla and bought from the others
of the band.
Stewart strode to her side, leading
the roan. Majesty reared and snorted
when he saw his mistress prostrate.
Stewart knelt, still holding the bridle.
“Are you all right?’ he asked.
“1 think so,” she replied, essaying a
laugh that was rather a failure. “My
feet are tied.”
Dark blood blotted out all the white
from his face, and lightning shot from
his eves. She felt his hands, like steel
tongs. loosening the bonds round her
ankles. Without a word he lifted her
upright and then upon Majesty. Made
line reeled a little in the saddle, held
hard to the pommel with one hand. and
tried to lean on Stewart's shoulder
with the other.
“Don’t give up,” he said.
She saw him gaze furtively into the
forest on all sides. And it surprised
her to see the guerrillas riding away.
Putting the two facts together, Made-
line formed an idea that neither Stew-
art nor the others desired to meet with
some one evidently due shortly in the
glade. Stewart guided the roan off to
| the right and walked beside Madeline.
steadying her in the saddle. At first
Madeline was so weak and dizzy that
she could scarcely retain her seat.
The dizziness left her presently, and
then she made an effort to ride with-
out help. Her weakness, however, and
a pain in her wrenched arm made the
task laborsome.
Stewart had struck off the trail, if
there were one, and was keeping to
denser parts of the forest. Majesty's
hoofs made no sound on the soft
ground, and Stewart strode on without
speaking. Neither his hurry nor vigil-
ance relaxed until at least two miles
had been covered. The soft ground
gave place to bare, rocky soil. The
. horse snorted and tossed his head. A
sound of splashing water broke the si-
lence. The hollow opened into a wider
one through which a little brook mur-
mured its way over the stones. Maj-
esty snorted again and stopped and
bent his head.
“He wants a drink,” said Madeline.
“I'm thirsty, too, and very tired.”
Stewart lifted her out of the sad-
dle, and as their hands parted she
felt something moist and warm. Blood
was running down her arm and into
the palm of her hand.
“I'm—bleeding,” she said, a little
unsteadily. “Oh, I remember. My arm
was hurt.”
She held it out, the blood making
her conscious of her weakness. Stew-
art’s fingers felt so firm and sure.
Swiftly he ripped the wet sleeve. Her
forearm had been cut or scratched.
He washed off the blood.
“Why, Stewart, it’s nothing. 1 was
only a little nervous. I guess that’s
the first time 1 ever saw my own
blood.”
He made no reply as he tore her
handkerchief into strips and bound her
arm. His swift motions and his silence
gave her a hint of how he might meet
a more serious emergency. She felt
safe. And because of that impression,
when he lifted his head and she saw
that he was pale and shaking, she was
surprised. He stood before her folding
his scarf, which was still wet, and
from which he made no effort to re-
move the red stains.
“Miss Hammond,” he said, hoarsely,
“it was a man’s hands—a Greaser’s fin-
gernails—that cut your arm. I know
who he was. I could have killed him,
But I mightn’t have got your freedom.
You understand? I didn't dare.”
Madeline gazed at Stewart, as-
tounded more by his speech than his
excessive emotion.
“My dear boy!” she exclaimed. And
then she paused. She could not find
words.
Ile was making an apology to her
for not killing a man who had laid a
rough hand upon her person. He was
ashamed and seemed to be in a tor-
ture that she would not understand
why he had not kiiled the man. There
seemed to be something of passionate
scorn in him that he had not been able
to avenge her as well as free her.
“Stewart, I understand. You were
being my kind of cowboy. 1 thank
you.”
But she did not understand so much
ax she implied. She had heard many
stories of this man’s cool indifference
to peril and death. He had always
seemed as hard as granite, Why
should the sight of a little blood upon
her arm pale his cheek and shake his
hand and thicken his voice? What
was there in his nature to make him
tinplore her to see the only reason he
conld not kill an outlaw? The answer
to the first question was that he loved
ner. Ii was beyond her to answer the
sacond. But the secret of it lay in
lie same strength from which his love
sprang—an intensity of feeling which
seemed characteristic of these western
men of simple, lonely, elemental lives.
All at once over Madeline rushed a
tide of realization of how greatly fit
was possible for such a man as Stewart
to love her. The thought came to her in
all its singular power, All her eastern
lovers who had the graces that made
them her equals in the sight of the world
were without the only great essential
that a lonely, hard life had given to
Stewart. Nature here struck a just
balance. Something deep and dim in
the future, an unknown voice, called
to Madeline and disturbed her. And
because it was not a voice to her in-
telligence she deadened the ears of
her warm and throbbing life and de-
cided never to listen,
“Is it safe to rest a little?” she
asked. “I am so tired. Perhaps I'll
be stronger if I rest.”
“We're all right now,” he said. *1
can get you home by midnight. They'll
be some worried down there.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing much to any one but you. !
That’s the—the hard luck of it. Flor-
ence caught us out on the slope. We
were returning from the fire. We
were dead beat. But we got to the
ranch before any damage was done.
We sure had trouble in finding a trace
of you. Nick spotted the prints of
your heels under the window. And
then we knew. I had to fight the boys.
If they'd come after you we'd never
have gott~n you without a fight. I
didn’t want that. I had to rope Monty.
Honest, I tied him to the porch. Nels
and Nick promised to stay and hold
him till morning. That was the best
I could do. I was sure lucky to come
up with the band so soon.
He's a bandit in Mexico. It's a busi-
ness with him. But he fought for
Madero, and I was with him a good
deal. He may be a Greaser, but he's
white.”
“How did you effect my release?”
“I offered them money. That's what
the rebels all want. They need money.
They're a lot of poor, hungry devils.”
“] gathered that you offered to pay
ransom. How much?”
“Two thousand dollars Mex. I gave
my word. [I'll have to take the money.
I told them when and where I'd meet
them.”
“Certainly.
money.” Madeline laughed.
I'm glad I've got the
“What a
strange thing to happen to me! I!
wonder what dad would say to that? |
Stewart, I'm afraid he'd say two thou-
sand dollars is more than I'm worth.
But tell me. That rebel chieftain did
not demand money?”
“No. The money is for his men.
We were comrades before Juarez. One
day I dragged him out of a ditch. I
reminded him. Then I—I told him
something I—I thought—"
“Stewart, I know from the way he
looked at me that you spoke of me. I
heard Don Carlos’ name several times.
That interests me. What have Don
Carlos and his vaqueros to do with
this?”
“That Greaser has all to do with it,”
replied Stewart, grimly. “He burned
his ranch and corrals to keep us from
getting them. But he also did it to
draw all the boys away from your
home. They had a deep plot, all right.
1 left orders for some one to stay with
you. But Al and Stillwell, who're both
hot-headed, rode off this morning.
Then the guerrillas came down.”
“Well, what was the idea—the plot
—as you call it?”
“To get you,” he said, bluntly.
“Me! Stewart, you do not mean my
capture—whatever you call it—was
anything more than mere accident?”
“I do mean that. But Stillwell and
your brother think the guerrillas want.
ed money and arms, and they just hap-
pened to make off with you because
you ran under a horse's nose.”
“You do not incline to that point of
view?”
“I don’t. Neither does Nels nor Nick
Steele. And we know Don Carlos and
the Greasers. Look how the vaqueros
chased Flo for you!”
“What do you think, then?”
“I'd rather not say. Once I heard
Nels say he’d seen the Greaser look at
you, and if he ever saw him do it
again he'd shoot him.”
“Why, Stewart, that is ridiculous.
To shoot a man for looking at a wom-
an! This is a civilized country.”
“Well, maybe it would be ridiculous
in a civilized country. There's some
things about civilization I don't care
for.”
“What, for instance?”
“For one thing, I can't stand for the
way men let other men treat women.”
“But, Stewart, this is strange talk
from you, who, that night I came—"
She broke off, sorry that she had
spoken. His shame was not pleasant
to see. Suddenly he lifted his head,
and she felt scorched by flaming eyes.
I had fig-'
ured right. I knew that guerrilla chief. |
“Suppose I was drunk. Suppose I
had met some ordinary girl. Suppose
1 had really made her marry me. Don’t
you think I would have stopped being
a drunkard and have been good to
her?”
“Stewart, I do not know what to
think about you,” replied Madeline.
Then followed a short silence. Made-
line saw the last bright rays of the set-
ting sun glide up over a distant crag.
Stewart rebridled the horse and looked
at the saddle-girths.
“1 got off the trail. About Don Car-
los T'll say right out, not what Nels
and Nick think, but what I know. Don
Carlos hoped to make off with you for
himself, the same as if you had
been a poor peon slave-girl down in
Sonora. Maybe he had a deeper plot
than my rebel friend told me. Maybe
he even went so far as to hope for
American troops to chase him, The
rebels are trying to stir up the United
States. They’d welcome intervention.
But, however that may be, the Greaser
meant evil to you, and has meant it
ever since he saw you first. That's
all.”
“Srewart, vou have done me and my
1amily a service we can never hope te
repay.”
“I've done the service. Only don't
| mention pay to me. But there's one
| thing I'd like you to know, and I find
it hard to say. It's prompted, maybe,
| by what I know you think of me and
| what I {imagine your family and
| friends would think if they knew. It's
| not prompted by pride or conceit. And
it's this: Such a woman as you should
| never have come to this Godforsaken
| country unless she meant to forget
herself. But as you did come, and as
vou were dragged away by those dev-
ils, I want you to know that all your
wealth and position and influence—all
that power behind you—would never
| have saved you from hell tonight. Only
{ such a man as Nels or Nick Steele or
i I could have done that.”
Madeline Hammond felt the great
i leveling force of the truth. Whatever
the difference between her and: Stew-
art, or whatever the imagined differ-
ence set up by false standards of class
and culture, the truth was that here
on this wild mountain-side she was
only a woman and he was simply a
man. It was a man that she needed,
and if her choice could have been con-
sidered in this extremity it would
have fallen upon him who had just
faced her in quiet, bitter speech. Here
was food for thought.
“I reckon we'd better start now,” he
said, and drew the horse to a large
rock. “Come.”
Madeline's will greatly exceeded her
strength. For the first time she ac-
knowledged to herself that she had
been hurt. Still, she did not feel much
pain except when she moved her shoul-
der. Once in the saddle, where Stew-
art lifted her, she drooped weakly.
The way was rough; every step the
horse took hurt her; and the slope of
the ground threw her forward on the
pommel.
“Here is the trail,” said Stewart, at
length.
Not far from that point Madeline
swayed, and but for Stewart's support
i would have fallen from the saddle. She
heard him swear under his breath.
“Here, this won't do,” he said.
“Throw your leg over the pommel.
The other one—there.”
(To be continued).
er ————— eee eee
The Young in Heart.
| The little girl was crossing the ocean
| with her mother. One day she had
been playing merrily at shuffleboard
with a middle-aged gentleman who had
made her acquaintance, and who took
a great deal of pleasure in teaching
her the game.
Her mother, coming in search for
her, found her just as she had stopped
playing. “What have you been doing
my dear?” asked the mother.
“I've been playing with that young
man over. there,” the little girl re-
plied.
The mother looked across at the
middle-aged gentleman and smiled
“How do you know when people are
young?” she asked.
“Qh,” replied the little girl confi:
dently, “young people are those. that
have a good time.”—Youth’s Compan:
ion.
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1
Different Estimates of Pie.
A business man, forced to take many
of his meals downtown and, as a result,
inclined to be favorably impressed with
his wife’s cooking, invited two of his
youngsters to take lunch with him at
the chamber of commerce. This was
a treat to the youngsters who were
in the habit of eating at home all the
time. When the pie was served the
proud father said to the children:
“This pie isn't anything like the kind
that mother makes, is it?’ And to the
father’s horror. and the amusement
of the others at the table one of the
children replied “No, father, it's much
better.”—Indianapolis News.
Aristotle’s Philosophy.
Aristotle has been called a practical
philosopher. A better designation
would be a philosopher of facts. He
sought for facts everywhere in na-
ture. Thus he began, under his fa-
ther, and he continued to be all his
life, a student of nature. When he
mistook her he wrote down wrong
conclusions, but he really mistook her
seldom. In consequence, very many of
the things he wrote four centuries be-
fore Christ are true today. Nature's
laws being unchangeable lead only one
way, and on that way her modern pu-
pil and her classical Aristotle meet.—
New York Herald.
—Tineture of iodine is a good disin-
fectant to place on cankers or any
diseased section of the bird’s body.