6
THE HAVtN OF DREAMS.
Vnu-n the weary day with Its toll Is o'er
Aod darkness broods over earth onec
more,
We gij-dly slip through the pates of night,
And kail for & mystical shore.
tlk the soft-winged shallop of sleep we
glide
O'er a. silent sea with a rhythmic tide.
That lulls to rest each throbbing woa
<2uc aching hearts may hide.
And though from afar no beacon gleams,
Iwv mariner's star sheds Its guiding
(warns,
Vet owe the unseen ships go by.
Seekir.sr the haven of dreams.
And when we've entered that haven fair.
The wonders untold that await us there!
Xfcurk fn the meadows of childhood we
roam.
Basking again in the lovelight of home.
The dear ones we've lost are with us once
more,
Jtu&t AS we knew them and loved them of
yore;
{And nor<f ever doubts all Is not as it seems
While we linger entranced in the haven of
dreams.
So It seemeth to me that some shadowy
night
When death draws the curtain we'll slip
out of sight,
And eail In a shallop like chat we call sleep,
To a wonderful land where no eyes ever
weep.
And the haven of dreams lieth white.
—Mary IC. Buck. In Chicago Inter Ocean.
Copyright, 1599, by J. 3. Lippincott Com
pany. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER X.—CONTINUED.
As Frances hurried homeward,
choking and sick with her sorrow,
she found herself caught in the whirls
artd eddies of a great crowd and borne
aSonir helplessly past her street. Men
carried torches and were cheering
themselves hoarse, while horns added
their din to the confusion. Upon
every hat were the red letters "M.M."
It was a dumonstration by the fa
mous "Minute Men," who rose in
every southern city as they had risen
nearly 100 years before when the
drums beat. Suddenly she was
Jammed against a carriage, the prog
ress of which had been stayed by the
-crowd. Us sole occupant was a pale,
silent man. In the glare of the
torches his face exactly filled lines
laaelibly fixed in her memory by the
brief flame of a match; it was the
face 1 of Richard Somers, cold and im
ruabile. Upon the seat by his side
was a traveling-bag; his eyes looked
out calmly, almost coldly, over her
head. He was not southern, he was
not a Virginian, and the hour awoke
no response within his heart. Impul
sively. and forgetting, she stretched
her hands upward, but memory re
turned and checked the words that
rose to her lips. Only an inarticulate
cry burst from them, a cry low and
half smothered in the roar of voices.
Yet low as it was, it reached the oc
cupant of the carriage. Something
sa that voice, a tone, a vibration,
touched a memory-cell. He turned
quickly and looked back; a girl hold
lag' desperately to the arm of an old
degress was being borne along by the
tumultuous human wave. For an in
stant only he saw her white face up
turned to his—the loveliest, saddest
face his eyes had ever gazed on, and
from her lips he heard come back one
word—
"Farewell!" Forgetting all but that
he was leaving his life somewhere in
the fierce passions surging behind him,
he made a desperate effort to alight
from (be vehicle, but so dense was the
crowd the door would not open. And
then angry men seized the rearing
•horses and forced them out of the
way. When he was free again only a
*ea of flame, in whose depths human
figures seemed to march, met his gaze.
It had swallowed up the woman's
white face. A great transparency,
swaying- and wavering like a drunken
■sao. thrust itself before his vision and
blotted out the scene. Upon it was
the legend: "Down with the Yan
&ees! r *
CHAPTER XI.
Sorrow unmixed with remorse is the
sours education. The soul of the
woman who grieves in silence broadens
sod deepens, sending down into her
own life far-reaching roots and un
folding upward rare auxiliary blos
soms that fill the life about her with
divine breathings. Such was the ex
perience of Frances Brookin. Thrown
hack upon herself, conscious of inno
cence. and feeling always the presence
of sorrow, the sorrow of a great dis
appointment, she saw her girlhood
«tt«jping away faster than time itself;
£<ir it is true that age is the sum of
experience rather than years, ar<d all
of life may be lived between the set
ftiag and the rising of the sun. But
•writh Frances this change was not the
•shrinking of the soul into forgetful
nets; it was an enlargement of view
and perspective in which old headlands
assumed smaller proportions. New —
imperative duties they seemed, arose
and met her; new responsibilities pre
sented themselves; she faced them all
ihravely. hopefully, lovingly. The fine
quality of her soul proved itself in the
easting out of all the bitterness which
had in the first hours of her misfor
tune stormed its citadel and raised
sxwnber banners there. The victory
self won by this frail girl was so
Ottsa.-Ti«lously complete that no cynicism
her innocent faith in the
sternal existence of truth and good
»es« a«d their ultimate triumph over
evil. tier touching acceptance of life
£B its aew aspect was not born in a
day. There were weeks of anguish;
Cfce.re were months of dull heartache
4tud loneliness; there were tear-wet
.pilSowsaud nights of crying out against
Ca£e; for the death of an ideal is the
•sdd est death in all the universe. Since
Jar this there is as resurrection, i'Us
girlish ideal of Prances Brookin was
dead at last, and slept under the petals
of a faded white rose. Richard Somers
was out of her life, out of her heart.
The titan she loved had never existed,
she told herself. He was a dream, a
romance, an immaculate conception of
a virgin mind. The real man was the
unworthy offspring of base, worldly
passions; he was nothing to her but
a name.
Political events hastened the girl
into womanhood and towards that
large tolerance with which the strong
soul at- last invariably encysts the in
explicable and unwelcome facts it can
not avoid. With one leap the fierce
south entered the arena of war, and
Virginia hills echoed the mingled
cheers of contending armies and the
thunder of mighty guns. Richmond
seemed to have become, as in a day,
the center of intrigue and of action.
On every side flashed the gold and sil
ver of war's rich trappings. Plumes
danced in the breezes and the ennfjil
erate gray met the eye, rest wheiTit
would. From the capitol the banner
of i new nation floated proudly, and
beneath it echoed the tramp of march
ing legions, the galloping lioof-beats
of horses, through all hours of day and
night. Men. in this hitherto staid old
southern city, hurried, under the spur
of emotions that seemed born of a con
tagion in the air, and anxious women
went about with willing hands to aid
in every department they might in
vade. Among these, her life adjusting
itself easily and gratefully to the new
demands, was Frances Brookin. the
tenderness of her fine face softened
and deepened into divine womanliness,
the love-ray eloquent in her melting
eyes.
Swiftly the holiday side of the war
had faded out of view. Agonized si
lence swallowed up laughter. For the
drift was coming in from where the
storm of battle raged, wrecks of hu
man forms once freighted with life's
rarest merchandise. Soon every hos
pital. every available spaee in church
and public building and the most spa
cious of private homes were to have
their quota of the wounded, the dying,
The southern woman was
entering upon that field of labor in
which she achieved her noblest dignity,
her fame its immortality. Foremost
among those who first gave their en
ergies, their whole lives to the allevia
tion of suffering, the inspiration of the
hopeless and the despairing, was Fran
ces Brookin. Free to dispose of her
time as she would and with an abun
dant means at her disposal, she made
herself a ministering angel wherever
a soldier suffered. Day and night she
labored, sustained by boundless patri
otism and an elation for which she
could not account, try as she would.
She failed in her self-analysis from
ignorance of the fact that a voise that
has once spoken to the heart is never
quite silent afterwards, and that
youth when it buries its dead tramples
not the sod above it. Fiery hatred of
the invader possessed her, as it did
her sisters; bred in the bone and nour
ished with the mother's milk, it could
not be quelled except by years of gentle
association and a common cause, but
by a strange paradox this bitterness
excluded every stained and bloody
blue uniform or haggard northern face.
Out of the fight, these were ever out of
the sweep of a southern woman's ven
geance. Upon the suffering prisoners
- 1 ]jf
JM &
»
"ASK WHAT YOU WILL,, MY CHILD.'
Frances delighted to lavish the tender
ness of her nature, now broadened and
deepened by its own ministry; and
something touchingly human carried
her among them, although she was not
conscious of it.
For this had come to pass: within
the heart, of Frances Brookin there
lived a fiction, the Richard Somers of
her girlish dreams: Richard Somers as
she had seen him face to face one night
under the burning match, his voice
ringing strong and true and tender
upon her hearing. Before him, shut
ting him into the sanctity of her room,
she had dropped a veil of iridescent
gossamer, and within that room, seen
only through the veil, the man lived
and reigned and had his kingdom.
Through this veil, too, stirred by the
breath of the suffering and the dying
of his own country, he spoke gently,
tenderly to her in the lonely hours of
her vigils. The other Richard had
been dismissed, not harshly or hastily,
not in anger, but sadly—a man un
worthy; a man at war with the truth
and nobleness of her nature and at war
with her people. No one knows how
such fictions come about, but the
hearts of most women carry them.
And time had helped Frances, for
looking back she re-established many
vital facts that lessened the sadness of
memory; the m,an must once have been
noble—his deeds of mercy and gentle
ness proved that; innately noble he
must have been when she met him, for
in the face of a great temptation he
had kept his promise to his friend, even
to the extent of shutting his eyes
against' the girl whose arms had been
about him, whose lip* breathed love for
him. And somewhere, despite *ll the
CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, JUNE 20, 1901.
trickery, there was still nobility, for
silently he had ridden away, faithful
to his friend. He had lain under her
bands wounded by the pistol shot, and
no woman ever hated a helpless, suffer
ing man. As for his deceptions, his
plots, some fearful necessity must have
compelled him. The other woman?
She had been too base for him—she had
been at heart a murderess. She it was
who had dragged him down. And was
he not caring for the child? Frances
would not have admitted it to herself
had she realized it, but in the depths
of that heart she had forgiven Richard
Somers. Her heart was big enough to
hold him and all his weakness. Was
there a loss of something from her na
ture? Or was there a gain?
No message had ever come to her
from Somers, no good or evil report.
None? Yes, just a scrap soon after the
war began. From some one, Brodnar,
probably, since his name was upon it,
she had received a northern paper giv
ing in its war gossip information that
Richard Somers had been reinstated in
the army and promoted to be captain
of artillery.
But one day early in the spring of
ISG2, when the great federal movement
against Richmond was beginning and
when every train was bringing in a
bloody harvest, she leaned above a
wounded enemy. The question so often
a»ked, "To what command do you be
long?" drew forth an answer that
filled her with excitement. She felt
her heart begin to beat madly and her
limbs yielding to a sudden excitement.
"Your captain! What is his name?"
"Iliehard Somers, miss!" How
strangely thrilling sounded the name
that morning! It was the first time
she had heard it spoken since its bear
er had said among the flickering shad
ows of her room: "If to carry in mem
ory the living record of one face will
help you, take mine, and with it. right
or wrong, the love of Richard Somers."
The scene, never dimmed in all the
months that had passed, stood forth
again, illumined like some strong pic
ture under the swift magic of the light
ning. The wounded man saw in her
face the'glow of its reflection. Tri
umph shone in her eloquent eyes, a
sudden agitation locked the soft white
hands.
"Do you know him. miss?"
"I? Yes, yes! Is he well —ishesafe?"
The man read more than she suspected,
and turned his eyes away embarrassed.
He was singularly helpless from his
wounds, and she had his face at her
mercy. Her woman's instinct dis
cerned his thought; her lips moved
without sound, but her soul was in the
appealing look riveted upon him.
"1 think—not," he said, reluctantly,
at last. "In fact, I know that he —is
wounded."
"Dead!—3'ou mean!" she gasped in
the struggle to conceal her anguish.
"No. miss—not exactly that; but bad
ly wounded—very badly, 1 am afraid."
"Where is he?" She made no effort
then to conceal the truth. She was on
her knees, her eyes close to his. "In
God's name, my friend, tell me —tell
me all! Can't you see? can't you see ?"
She covered licr face, unable to con
tinue.
"I can only tell you what I know,
miss. He was not dead when I saw him
last. Our guns were in the line w hen
the charge came. The line was broken
at both flanks, and the yelling confed
erates were swarming about us. Every
horse we h d wa< down, when word
came for us to look out for ourselves,
and back we went to escape capture—
what was left of us. Well. miss, some
body said then that No. 3 had been
left loaded—double-shotted with can
ister; the man at the lanyard had fall
en dead just as he lifted his hand to
pull. And so the gun stood, ready to
be turned upon us. Then Capt. Somers
lulted and looked about for some one
t<> send back; but I think, miss, he
n ust have seen that the chance was
d ;sperate. It was only an instant, and
h? wouldn't order any man togo; he
1* ished forward over the 50 yards,
reached the gun and seized the cord.
He was my captain, and I couldn't leave
him there, you know, so I had followed
him, too. Then up in front an army of
gray seemed to rise as from the ground,
and they fired a volley as he pulled on
the lanyard. I threw myself on my
face When I looked up
the crowd akead was disordered and
torn, but still coming on; and the cap
tain lay by his gun. 1 crawled over
and laid my hand upon him.
" 'Tom,' he said, cool as I am right
now, 'l'm gone, but if you get out take
the papers in my pocket and my watch
to my mother!' I took them as he told
me. H© fainted, I think, and I was
afraid he was dead, but he breathed
again. And then, miss—l hadn't tried
it since I was a boy—he w as lying upon
his face, and rolling over, I lay upon
him, back to back, locking my arms
through his. Turning over suddenly I
had him on me adead weight, and then,
somehow, I got up. The whole thing
was not a minute long. The confed
erates gave me a cheer instead of a vol
ley till the boys rushed back to meet us.
I got it in both legs then and this shoul
der, and down we went. The boys took
him and left me. which was right; for
four men had died there to save him
and I looked like the fifth." Frances
was kneeling by the wounded man
when he finished, stroking his cheek
and brow, her frame trembling.
"Oh, brave! brave!" she cried. "God
bless you and keep you—and keep
you!" she sank her face beside him,
sobbing for joy. "The watch—the pa
pers!" she cried, excitedly, remember
ing his commission. "Oh. sir. lam his
—I am his nearest relative, south,'
Give them to me. give them to me!"
"In my coat." said the stranger
gently, a wan smile upon his pale face.
"Don't worry, miss; I guess the cap
tain'll pull through all right." The
watch was there, and there too were
the letters sealed for his mother ready
for delivery if he were picked up dead
by friend or foe. No line for her, the
woman who loved him once—loved him
as she had known him. Upon the inner
case of his watch was his own name
and address; and still bo line for her,
the woman who held him so dear. But
in the locket dangling from the chain
there were two lines cut into the vir
gin gold:
"Frances, my wife.
"Richmond, April 13th, 1561."
ITow roseate then grew life for the
girl. He remembered! He had kept
her words with him night and day.
He loved her; he had told no false
hood for the value of her father's
wealth. As she stood by the wounded
soldier, his eyes resting in sympathy on
her. her own seeing nothing but the
face in that half-lit room where her
shrine was raised, all that was left
of resentment vanished out of her
heart. When afterward she realized
this she was amazed and troubled.
One federal soldier at least in all the
hosts that fell into confederate hands
had no cause to complain of his nurs
ing. A hospital stretcher bore him to
the home of Frances Brookin and into
her room. It was her whim, and the
stepmother was indulging her whims
in those days. There Frances and
mammy, with William as a helper and
Brodnar as an occasional adviser, lav
ished on hiin suchcare'and attention as
he had never dreamed was possible, for
he was one of those homeless waifs to
whom war had promised nothing but
excitement and change. It was all a
mystery to him, but he questioned not.
He accepted the girl's simple statement
as to Somers, and was content to let
the sun of bis prosperity shine on.
One day when the soldier was able
to limp about the garden upon his
crutches and sit in the shade by the
plashing fountain to read in the Dis
patch of the great battles being fought
around the endangered capital of the
confederacy, Frances, bearing the
highest testimonials from surgeons and
hospital officials as to the conspicuous
and devoted service she had rendered,
went to the executive mansion and se
cured admission to the presence of its
great chief. Mr. Davis courteously
read her papers, and, looking into the
earnest face of the fair girl sitting be
side him, gave graceful expression to
his appreciation of her patriotism.
"Ask what you will, my child." he
said, "and if 1 may consistently grant
it your wishes shall be gratified."
"it is the parole of a private soldier,"
she said, "and a safe-conduct through
our lines. lie is wounded, but has re
covered sufficiently to travel. He will
not enter the service again, sir; his in
juries incapacitate him."
"And is that ail?"
"All!"
[To Be Continued ]
PARDONED INDISCRETION.
MnKnnnlnioiirt Act of the German Su
perior Toward a Gallant
Soldier.
The late Field Marshal Count Von
Blumenthal, of Germany, once com
mitted an Indiscretion that came near
ruining his entire life. In July, 180G,
Blumenthal wrote a letter to his wife
from the seat of war in Bohemia, and
handed it over to the military post of
fice staff. The mail was seized by the
Austrians, and Bluementhal's letter,
which contained severe strictures on
Moltke, Prince Friederich Karl and the
crown prince, was published in the
Viennese newspapers, says a London
exchange. The criticism of the crown
prince, accusing him of unpunctualitj
was particularly grave. The Austri
ans, in thus publishing the letter, were,
of course, acting within their rights.
But the publication fell like a bomb
upon the Prussian headquarters. The
crown prince, however, showed no re
sentment against his chief of the staff,
and Moltke also acted with great mag
nanimity. When the letter was
brought under his notice he remarked
that "a third party had nothing to do
with what a man writes to his wife."
But the third person mentioned in
the letter was not of this opinion.
Prince Friederich Karl found the
newspaper containing the unfor
tunate letter laid on his writing table.
Without saying a word he ordered his
horse to be saddled and rode to the
king's quarters with the newspaper in
his pocket. On his arrival there- he
learned that the king could not see
him immediately, as the crown prince
was with him. Prince Friederich Karl
waited a long time in the ante-room.
At last the door of the king's room
opened and the crown prince stepped
out, flushed and excited, but beaming
with satisfaction. As soon as he saw
Prince Friederich Karl he went to him
and said: "I can give you some infor
mation which you will doubtless hear
as gladly as I give it to you. The king
has pardoned Gen. Blumenthal th§ im
prudent letter which he wrote." To
which Prince Karl made a wry face,
putin his pocket the newspaper he had
held in his hand, and walked off with
the crown prince.
When Dean (iott Korgrot.
Dr. Gott, who has recently an
nounced his intention of resigningthe
bishopric of Truro, was formerly the
dean of Worcester; hi* absent-minded
ness was so notorious that he earned
for himself the sobriquet of "Dean For
get." He himself on one occasion invit
ed a number of friends to dinner, and
a short time before the dinner hour he
suggested that a stroll through the
grounds would be a good appetizer.
After spending a quarter of an hour or
so admiring the greenhouses, etc.,
they suddenly came acros« a small
door in the wall. "Ah," said the dean to
his astonished guests, "this will be a
much shorter way home for you than
going by the front way"—and, all un
conscious of his invitation, he opened
the aoor and bowed them out!
Had Ileen In Training.
First Doctor—A woman applied fox
a position as nurse in the alcoholie
ward to-day.
Second Doctor —Had any experi
ence?
"She said she used to be a snaltr
charmer."—Philadelphia Record.
| Changes In Revenue Law I
8 The Reduced War Taxes as They Go 8
0 Into Effect July / 8
Beginning with July 1 certain changes in the war revenue bill will go
into effect. The original measure, it will be remembered, was enacted by
congress June 13, 1898, just after the breaking out of the Spanish-Ameri
can war. Just prior to adjournment the last congress made certain amend
ments to this act. Perhaps the changes that will be most noticed by the
general public will be the removal of the tax on bank checks and drafts,
eight drafts, money orders, leases, mortgages or conveyances in trust,
promissory notes and telegraph messages. The tax on bankers of SSO for
$25,000 and $2 for each additional SI,OOO is to be retained. So also is the
tax on stock brokers of SSO, on pawnbrokers of S2O, on commercial brokers
of S2O and on custom house brokers oi $lO.
Proprietors of theaters and like places of amusement and proprietors
of circuses are still to be taxed SIOO. The tax of $lO on all other exhibi
tions is also retained. The new law made no change in the tax of $5
levied on each bowung alley or billiard table.
Tobacco and snuff come in for a discount of 20 per cent, on the old
tax. There is a distinction drawn in the case of cigarettes, ihe tax on
those of a certain grade and weight is retained; on others the tax is re
duced. Dealers in tobacco and. leaf tobacco, and manufacturers of tobacco
and of cigars, will be taxed according to the rate now prevailing.
On bonds, debentures, etc., and on certificates of stock of original issue
the tax of 5 cents per SIOO is to be retained. In the provision taxing trans
fers of stock 2 cents per SIOO, the same tax i.s extended to bucket shops.
The tax on sales of products at exchanges i.s cut in half. In the case of
sales of merchandise in actual course of transportation the tax is entirely
removed. The tax on all forms of insurance is repealed.
Proprietary medicines, perfumery and cosmetics and chewing gum are
all to be exempted from taxation. Petroleum and sugar refineries are still
to pay one-fourth per cent, of their gross receipts in excess of $250,000.
Each sleeping and parlor car ticket will continue to pay 1 cent to the gov
ernment.. Legacies of charitable institutions, religious, literary or educa
tional in character, will not be taxed after July 1.
TABULAR SUMMARY OF CHANGES IX WAR REVENUES.
Articles.
Beer
Bankers
Stock brokers
Pawnbrokers
Commercial brokers
Custom house brokers
Proprietors of thentera. etc
Proprietors of circuses
Proprietors 01' other t xhibitior.s
Bowling alleys or billiard rooms
Tobacco ar.J sr.ufT
Cigars owr three pounds, per I.ihh
Cigars not over three pounds. per 1,0)0
Cigarettes over thn - pounds, per 1.000
Cigarettes not over three pounds, pi r 1,000.
Dealers in leaf tobacco
Dealers in tobacco
Manufacturers of tobacco
Manufacturers of cigars
Bonds, debentures, etc
Certificates of stork, original issue
Certificates of stock, transfers
Sales of products at exchanges
Bank checks 1
Bills of exchange, inland j
Certificates of d posit
Promissory notes j:
Money orders
Bills of exchange, foreign
Bills of lading fur export
Express receipts
Freight receipts or domestic bills of lading.
Telephone messages
Bonds of indemnity and bonus not other
wise specified j
Certificates of profits '
Certificates of damage
Certificates not otherwise specified :
Charter party
Brokers' contract
Conveyance
Telegraph messages
Entry of goods at c. h. lor consumption
Entry for withdrawal i
Insurance, life
Marine, inland, fire
Casualty, fidelity and guaranty
Lease
Manifest for custom house entry
Mortgage or conveyance in trust
Passage ticket :
Power of attorney to vote J
Power of attorney to sell |
Protest j'
Warehouse receipts I'
Proprietary medicines j'
Perfumery and cosmetics
Chewing gum •!
Wines
Petroleum and sugar refineries
Sleeping and parlor car tickets
Legacies
Mixed flour
Manufactures of mixed flour
Tea
Epitaph and Pun.
One evening at a small party which
included the two friends, Douglas
Jerrold and Charles Knight, the au
thor-publisher, the talk turned on
epitaphs.
As they were walking home to
gether, Knight, half lightly and half
In earnest, asked the wit to write
his epitaph for him. .Terrold made
no answer, but. when they came to
the parting of their ways, he sudden
ly said:
"I've got your epitaph."
"Well, whatsis it?"
"Good Knight!"—Y'outh's Compan
ion.
Tratlle In Iluaitla.
Early in April there were lying
at the stations of three Russian
railroads, waiting to be forwarded,
27,000 car loads of grain, equal tc
about 12,000,000 bushels, much of
which had been waiting for months.
Complaints that railroads a-e not
able to handle their traffic are com
mon in Russia.
Trout of the Ocean.
The weakfish is revisiting the At
lantic coast, much to the satisfac
tion of epicures, who know that the
fish thus handicapped by its name is
the trout of the ocean.
Out-l)oor Heller in England.
Tn the southwestern counties of
England 37 out of every 1,000 per
sons are in receipt of outdoor re
lief. This number falls to 19 in 'he
northwest counties.
Arxenie for Hardening Shot.
Shot is generally hardened by the
addition of a small quantity of
arsenic to the Irud,
Taxed by Act of June Taxed by Act of Feb.
1", U»S. j 28, 1901.
$2 per DDI., 7'/j per
cent. u:s .'. SI.OO per bbl., dis. re
pealed.
for $25,000, and $2 j
lor each addition
al sl,uw» Retained.
♦SO * Retained.
$lO U. tamed.
♦2O K pt a led.
♦ej Retained.
S'OO Retained.
SIOO Retain. d.
♦lO Retained.
$3 for each alley or
1 table Retained.
12 ci nts p< r 11) jii per cent, discount.
per 1.000 per 1,000.
fl per 1 ■ • is cents per lb.
|s3.»>o per 1.0.10 i Retained.
■51.50 per 1,000 .Valued at not mora
than $2 per 1,000. 13
cents per lb.; val
ued at more than $2
per 1,0i.0, ill! cents
per lb.
$6 to $24 Retained.
sl2 Retained.
$•; to s2l Retained.
$6.50 to s2l Retained.
5 cents for . ach SIOO.. Retained.
5 cents for ■ ach s!"<).. Ret lined.
2 cents- for • ach sli*>.., ]ncludi sbucket shop*
1 cent for each $!(»... il cent for each sl->O.
Sales of merchan
dise In actual course
o 112 transportation
ex. mpted from tax.
|2 cents Repealed.
2 cents for each SIOO.. Retained.
2 cents (Repealed.
2 cents for each $500.. it pealed.
2 cents for each SlfO.. Repealed.
1 cents for each $300.. 2 rer.ts for each s'oo.
10 cents Repealed.
1 cent :Repealed.
I cent [Retained.
It cent [Repealed.
jSO cents ;Ropealed. exe ep t
[ bonds of indemnity.
5 certs for each SIOO.. Retained.
cents Repealed.
10 cents Repealed.
S3 to $lO Repealed.
cents Retained.
30 cents for each SSOO. j Exempted below $?.-
: 500. Above $2 500 05
cents for each SSOO.
I_cent [Repealed.
2-i cents to $1 [Retained.
"0 cents Retalred.
S cents on each ?'OO.. Repealed.
I cent on each ?'.... R, pealed.
cent on *"ich $1 [Repealed.
"" cen*' to $1 Repealed.
*1 to *5 Repealed.
t, rer's for each sl.sf<i Repealed.
$1 to $3 (Exempted below SSO
j in value.
to cents Repealed.
cents Repealed.
cents [Rpnealed.
r5 cents .Repealed.
ItJ cent for each 5 1
cents Repealed.
Vg cent for each 5
rents Renealed.
!t cents for eneh '1 Repealed.
1 nt.. 1 cpnt: iro'c
than 1 nt., ?wrt«.. Retained.
Vt r°r cent, erross r<»-
rntn'c In excess of
tIWVOOO Retained.
1 oent fcfiir-ert.
Various rates . Exclii<l°d from tux—
of cha*"!-
tible irsti's. reli
gious, literary or
educational charac
ter.
I i-pfte n»r barrel detained.
S 1 ? nr"' ,r n Retained.
Custom cf 10
n«itrd Retnined.
Mother and Queen.
Queen Victoria always made it a
point to keep the religious instruc
tion of her children as much as pos
sible in her own hands. Once when
the archdeaco# of London wa-s cate
chizing the young princes, he said:
"Your governess deserves great
credit for instructing you so thor
oughly."
At which the youngsters piped up:
"It is mamma who teaches us our
catechism!"
It is not perhaps generally known
that the queen occasionally taught a
Bible class for the children of thosa
in attendance at Windsor palace.—
London Beacon.
In Honor of an Inventor.
A movement has been started in
Georgia t.o perpetuate the memory
of Eli Whitney by converting into
an elegant country club the scene
of his labors near Augusta, when*
he perfected his cotton gin. An or
ganization has been perfected, and
a charter for the club secured.
Free Medical IIel!».
In England 972,000 people 0 year
receive free medical attendance,
compared with only 230,000 in
France, and the cost of these
French invalids is only £58,000, com
pared with .£ 150,000 spent in medical
relief in Ireland.
A Ili» llattleMhlp,
A battleship of 16,000 tons dis
placement, the largest ever designed,
is to be added to the Un'ted States
navy. If the proposed speed of 21
knots is secured, this ship will lie
the masterpiece in uaval construo
tion. . -