DAYBREAK. diversion, and feeling an unaccountable
interest in this » fellow, I
got up and followed him into the street,
He thrust his hand into the pockets of
Not yet the sable curtain of the night
Hath from the shrouded landscape
away;
t now tis lined w
gold
That tell of coming daybreak.
rolled
Bu ith threads of rose and |
senturie > to-day.
And the breeee, eenuries Ag than y
Uprising softly, ripples through the leaves
With low-toned murmurs; in the still cool |
air
There is a subtle fragrance of the soll,
A rameless essence of the teeming fields,
Clover and vetches, wheat and tasseled oats,
Millet and barley-beards.
of pictures for sale in the shops, and
| short pause, “I don’t like my rooms
| anyway; they're too small, and the
| light's not good.”
Springs | g g
Anon the light
Wit growing power sheds a halo soft
Of radiance o'er the corn-lands,
he lark
the sanfoin, pouring as he
nd higher, a flood ot melody,
har he wayfarer, and fill the air
th strains of natural music.
ascended flight after flight of steps
| until we reach the rooms, a studio and
bed- room, in the top story.
Upli BOATS
Ww
| on easels and against the walls in the
| studio,
| most heterogeneous description. A
| rickety, plebeian-looking chair stood
: | before a delicately-carved writing desk
pon Endymion’s lips, | that might once have graced a palace
er silver $hivhe lof the Medici. On the floor was a
| Tarkish rug, much worn and liberally
| bestrewed with bits of rag and cigarette
| stumps, On the mantel stood an iron
| figure of the crucifixion, flanked by
| cigars, a blacking brush, books, letters,
| I had barely noted this things when the
| landlord, a short, fat, ball of a man
| entered; grew very munch exciled when
informed there was no money for him,
inflating himself, until he looked like a
| toy baloon, at the beginuing of each of
I'his shrill sentences, and then gradually
Gone is night!
It is the early morning, fresh and sweet,
With crystal beadlets of life-giving balm,
W hose sparkling diamonds on the flowers
fall,
Like the soft dew u
By Dian left, when {rot i
Ske stooped to earth, and w aked him wit
a Kiss,
p—
it was odd, the way I first met Hobbs,
1 had been in Forence a year, ostensibly
finishing my education, a phrase always
vague enough when applied to young
wen who perform that important opera-
tiou abroad, but especially vague in my
case. Insepsible absorption doubtless
did something for me, but as 1 locked
back over the year I could see no very
definite acquisitions and was not at all
pleased with the retrospect. My well- |
planned assault on the Italian language
had speedily dwindled into a desultory
skirmish on the borderiands that gave
me nothing but subsistence; for I had
barely learned encugh to order adioner,
while as for art—well, I began at the
wrong end of that, and had been ever
sineo in inextricable confusion. To be
sure, 1 could talk learnedly enough
about it—with those who knew less of
it than 1 did—but 1 did not, and could
not, understand it. I could not bring
my mind to books, a not unnatural re-
sotion, they had been somewhat
forcibly brought to it during my college
days. My [nends were uninteresting,
and music had few charms for me, so 1
found myself spending many hours in |
my rooms, asking myself a great many
times what I was good for, without ever
getting anything like a satisfactory an-
swer, and had about made up my mind
to go home and do something when I
met Hobbs.
1 was sitting one morning over my
breakfast in the cafe where 1 took that
meal, feeling more than usually dissatis-
fied with the world in general and my-
self in particular, and gazing idly out
of the open window at the passers-by,
when my attention was attracted toa
little child that had strayed out into the
middle of the street and was in immi-
nent danger of being run over by a
rapidly-spproachiog carriage, the driver
of which was engaged in conversation
with 1s occupants. I started to my
feet with an involuntary cry, and as I
did so saw a young man dart from the
opposite sidewalk, snatch the child from
under the horse's feet and deposit it at
the cafe door, where it was claimed by
an agitated young woman, who began
a voluble thankoffering. The young
man smiled, nodded, and, entering the
cafe, took a seat at the table next mine.
1 have always found a peculiar pleasure
in trying to assign nationality, charac- | Juseed so much, for he was barely five-
ter, and occupation to people thus fnd-twenty, and rarely read anything,
thrown in my way, and turned eagerly | were equally inexplicable 0 me,
from a coutemplation of the street to 8 | became much attached to him; indeed,
scrutiny of the new-comer. The subject
of my speculations this time was in no
way remarksble, It was a young man
of medium height and slender figure,
with dark, almost sallow complexion
and tolerably regular features, Nothing
in his dress served to distinguish him
from the other occupants of the cafe,
unless it was a certain negligence that
is seldom found in the young men of
Florence. His clothes fitted him well,
yet he seemed not to know it, for he
sprawled out in bis chair as if clothes
were furthest from his thoughts; his
vest was half unbuttoned, his coat
dusty. Altogether he was totally un-
interesting, and I would probably never
have noticed him had it not been for the
incident in the street. I wasdeliberating
whether to class him as Austrian or
Greek, for I felt sure he was no Italian,
when he looked up, caught my eye,
smiled slightly, snd said “(ood morn-
ing.” Then I saw that his eyes were
blue, snd under the influence of that
smile —the pleasantest, frankest smile
I have ever seen—I responded, ‘Good | purse,
morning,” and wondered where I had | Another trait that displeased me in
met him, Trying to decide this ques- | Hobbs was his inconsistency. He was
tion 1 tarned again to the window, and | very clear and positive in his opinions,
only observed from the corners of my | an
eye that he drank his coffze as if he | Christianity, aod of
thoroughly enjoyed it, and when he had | rality, yet he uever went to church,
finished it took = cigarette from his although always intending to, ocoasion-
pocket, lighted it, aud settled back in
is ohsir as if he meant tu enjoy that | for him, and, I regret to add, swore
also. After smoking a few moments he | with great yigor aud fluency when his
got up, and, coming to my table, stood | pictures were rejected. He was very
looking out of the window for a long | irregular in his work, and would pass
time in silence. At length he turned | weeks without touching brush to can-
to me and said, ‘Bored?’ vas, and then for a week paint almost
“What does the fellow mean?” I| incessantly. He always seemed per-
thought, and was about to repiy curtly, | fectly satisfied with his finished produc-
when, looking up, I saw hie was smiling | tions and never saw the loast justice ia
at me. | any eriticisms that nuy one ventured to
“Bored? Why, no. Why do you ask? | make, and yet he was a shrewd eritio
1 asked feebly. of others’ work. He was always Isment-
“Because you look 80,” he answered | ing that he was not famous, A famous
promptly. { painter, he said, could paint as he
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know bat | chose, I suggested that famous painters
that T am a little at a loss for something | chose to paint woll, and that fame was
to do thus morning.”
He looked at me for a moment in
gilence, with a half-wondering, Lialf.
guigsienl look in his eyes, and then
about half his original size, only to re-
have been required.
{ that time well accustomed
can (who grew visibly
deliberately tilled a large meerschaum,
trunk from the
unceremonionsly pitching
it.
The landlord was by this time com-
pletely |exhausted, avd leaned sgaiost
the wall panting for breath, his little
red eyes the only sigus of the fires
within. I inquired of my new acquaint-
ance if he had engaged rooms else-
| where, and being answered in the nega-
tive, asked where he was going. “That's
| more than I know,’ he said; whereupon
I remarked that I had more rooms than
[ needed, aud would be pleased if he
would occupy one of mine until he
succeeded in finding some to suit him,
“All right; much obliged,” he said,
and went on packing as he called it,
And thus it happened that night
found Hobbs sitting luxuriously in my
easy chair, and looked as happy and
contented as if I were his best-beloved
brother, He made severm: ineffectual
attempts to get rooms during the fol-
dowing week, being considerably ham.
pered by his inability to comply with
certain conditions as to pre-payment,
By the time he had been with me a
week I had decided to remain in Flor-
ence six months lounger. Oae of the
| windows of my sitting-room furnished
just the hight he needed for his work, so
| in it he placed his easel. My evenings,
dull and profitiess, were now spent in
| pleasant converse with Hobbs, whom I
bed-room, and began
things into
had traveled much, and seemed to know
when he had traveled or how he had
| flahness, and his bright, eyer-ready wit
| were all-conquering, and yet as I learned
| to know him better 1 saw that he had
| many faults.
| utter thriftlessness,
| whole weeks of almost complete impe-
auy assistance, finishing his dinuer of a
crust and a glass of water with a merry
| dissertation upon the folly of high-liv-
ng, and then, a picture being sold,
would insist upon a supper at the most
| such occasions no game was 100 rare,
| no wines too costly, and no cigars too
| good for us. I always protested against
such extravagance, but argument and
supplication were alike in vain, for he
brushed them both aside with a wave of
| his hand, and would take no refusal
Aod what a treat were those suppers to
| me! Hobbs, always entertaining, be-
| came fairly magical under the triple
methods of great masters,
vehemently declare that the great mas-
ters might be hanged, that no man was
worthy the name of artist unless he had
something to say, and was brave enough
to say it in his own way. [ found ita
pleasant pastime to sit and watch Hobbs
at his work, ile was neyer so absorbed
but that he conld listez sod talk, and
it was on these occasions that I began
to derive my fimt correct ideas on art
for whatever Hobbs was iu practios, i
can see him now prusiog to turn
brandish his brush at me as he lays
down his ideas,
One day, upon returning from my
engaged
walk, I found
J hs t of a young wo-
man, while an one sat In a window
“I am likely to have excitement
euough béfore noon,
“How's that?” I asked.
“Well, my landlord has intimated
somewhat pointedly that if my rent is
g my rooms myst
1 am a painter,
working u some embroidery. I
recognized the latter as a Mrs, Anstein,
the wife of an old American resident,
and the former was introduced as her
niece, Miss Vernon, just out from
America, Miss Vernon was very beaut
ful, with dark complexion, fair
| and dark blue eyes, It was evident
that Hobbs and she had already become
good [riends, and I was not long in
nagar
as he worked,
transferred to something other than
| Bhe sat apparently all unconscious that
there was any other
| business aspeot to the sitting.
talked a great deal, and made himeelf
more so that
excellent listener,
| the least pretense; frankly contessed
| her ignorance of subjects with which
many young women would have feigned
be put in an eye or a lock of hair as if
she had no doubt of his sincerity, but
was a little afraid his judgment was not
good.
Before the
portrait was finished
Miss Vernon.
prised, and congratulated him warmly,
bappen to him. He smd it was Bliss
Vernon's wish that the engagement
should not be made public for a time.
port yourself?” I asked.
“Oh! that'll be all right,” sala he,
‘1 suppose you know she is poor?
observed,
“Yes,” said Hobbs,
1
“What of that?
the arm of his chair, he surveyed the
| room as if to see how it would do for
{ Mrs, Hobbes,
After this he worked steadily and
with good success, and might have laid
by some money had he been endowed
with the least prudence, but he saved
nothing. 1 did not despair, for I knew
that Miss Vernon had never been rich,
and I heard her described as a young
One evening, about a month after his
| engagement, Hobbs came In
than usual, and I saw at once
| something had happened to disturb
him. He was pale and haggard, and
his eye avoided mine, He dropped mito
a chair and seemed plunged in deep
thought. 1 thought him ill and asked
what was the matter, ‘‘Nothing,” he
sald, When I went to bed I left him
siting there, with his legs stretched
out before him and his head on his
the morning he was there still looking
as if he had not moved. He arose, said
“Good morning,” and, going to the
mantel, filled aud lighted his pipe.
After pacing up and down a few mo-
ments in silence, he took the pipe from
his lips, and still walking to and fro,
he began:
“I have a story to tell you. It is
aboat myself, and will explain my con-
wondered some about my past history.
| It has been uneventful,
a city of one of the southern states,
| where my fathe rwas a portrait painter,
his best
er than
and myself to the oare of
friend, a man some years youn
himself, who had been RE ang to him
by his love for art. To this man I owe
everything I have and am. All that is
example, When I was 21 I told him
by my life hus great goodness to me.
I meant it, aud have honestly tried to
keep my word. He told me earnestly
that he had no fears for my future if I
only did my duty as [ saw it. I have
always seen my duty clearly and rightly
enough, but I don’t remember ever
having done it thoroughly.
engagement known,
older than herself, who had loved her
from a ohild, who was in every way
not met me,
informed of our engagement before he
| album from the table she opened it and
i
| said, “This is he; do you not think him
man whose kindness to me I have told
| you of. I was too much overcome to
| say anything, and came away at onoce,
| pleading » sudden indisposition.
| spent last night in
| my duty in this mat
|it. I see it clearly.
| Vernon for the last time to-nigh
| leave Florence to-morrow.”
All the arguments that my ingenuity
nld suggest were vain,
| eo
| Mrs,
| alone,
| or how he explained his conduct, are
things I do not know. I only know
| that he left Florence for London the
Anstein’s he found Miss Vernon
next morning, and that Miss Vernon
was ill for several weeks,
Fifteen yoars had passed before I |
saw Hobbs again last summer. He
lives ina pleasant villa in a London
suburb, with a white-hared lady, who
h wholly devoted hod her son. Hobbs is
AMOous now, ts as he pleases,
He has not chauged much; his dark
hair is well streaked with gray, and he
Liss wrinkles about his and fore-
head that forty years ought not to have
put there, but Su pletaunt ways and
lappy smiles are still hia, only tempered
all
Tne Btraightest Road, gn
few weeks T'as really happy. I have
thought mw of Jue circumstances sine
under which left Florence. 1 have, I $ wa
Y : \ . Although “Old Hickory” was a blunt |
i Shink, HO Of Op Ls | man it mn matters of ysintng and
| thonght thei that I was simply doing | Feached is purpo-cs by the straigitest
nv dntv. Ad yet had Tit all to do | road, still hewas courteous in an em nent
y (dnty. | ’ or the
«oad : U9 1 degree, and had a high respect |
n would let duty go. The | going of social intercourse. While
is re-
consciousne of having done my duty | president of the United States h
| has not baught me one moment's | ceptions of foreign ministers and emi-
happihess, perhaps our standard 8 |,..¢ citizens were distingmshed by a
wrong, or heir's somethiog higher |. rij etiquette and bearing, |
| than duty.” > | On one occasion s foreign minister,
I said nofng. What conld I say? 11 ¢yuet arrived,” had a day and hour ap-
was uncerta whether he knew what 1 | pointed by Mr. M’Lean Then OC ralary
dig—that B friend had been long de- | ,¢ State tobe presented to the Presis
layed in géing vo Florence, and that | g0.¢ and misunderstanding the Pre-
| Miss Verm had rejected him and | iors French, and perfectly a
married antalian gentleman, : : ’
Sei
OVE
noble
i
t
the apparent simplicity of republican
manners, the minister the stated
| time proceeded to the White
| alone and rang the bell.
“The camon conception of Indian | *4¢ suis yet voir
? A | dent,” said the plemipolientiary to the
character wholly at fanlt with its ’
true natur They must be treated as “What the—d
children, fr they are such in 1gno- | puttered Pat, and continued, ‘He says
| rance, tnggh by no means as inno- | President though, and I s’pose he wish.
cent. Bop years ago I placed 6,000 | og to gee the old Gineral.”
| Indians ¢ the Ban Carlos Reserva-| «Oyj oui,” {1
tion, and hey are all there yez, and | ing,
there is # a more peaceable com Without further ceremony the gentie-
munity ithe country. As soOn &8 | man was ushered into the green-room,
the India is tanght how to work, he | where the General sat composedly smok-
immediat¢ becomes conservative. | ine his corn-cob pipe, and on the mstant
Get thermo work for a year or two, | he commenced a ceremonious harange
{ until they got accustomed to it aud | {yy French, of (11d Hickory did
gee the renefits the derive from | not understand a word. :
their lab¢, and they will no longer “What does the man want, Jemmy?’
be hostili After they have secured & ssked the General, without c« ceall
little fam and some stock, they ape | his surprise at what he witnessed.
preciate ie advantages of labor, and “It's the Freach that he's spaking in
| enjoy th fruits of their industry. | and, with your Jave, 1%] sind for the
| There isto truth whatever in all this | cook to find out what the gintleman
bosh abut the irrepressible savage | wants”
| nature o the Indian and bis ineorri- In due time the presiding
| gible laness, When he finds taat the kitchen arrived, the
| he becomes more important by reason | explained, and, to the astonishment
of whathe has scsumulated it stirs | the cook, the servant, and the old Gen-
| hus ambion, and he is jealons of his | eral, an accredited minister from a for
| propertynd remains with it, instead | eign government was devel i For-
of marading around the country fo tunately, at that instant the Secretary
| satisly ny roaming instinets, The | came In, and a ceremonious introduc-
only troble with them ther fond- | tion took place, and all parties were
| ness fortizwin, If it were uot for that | soon atease; but the matter never could
| there wuld be very few hrawls and
| few mufsers on the reservadons, Tiz- {ing the Old General into a towering
win, yo know, is made by fermenting | passion.
corn an barley when ii is sprouting. |
| The drk isn’t as strong a8 whiskey, |
- rt A ——— A——
General ook’s Opinion of indinns, £3
Irish servant,
i
ws that mean?”
Bait Lan
iol
which
¥
W ng
i
f
Li
Was
f
offic
yELeTY
er
i
i 44
iB
A ——
The t Bit.
| but the starve themselves for two or he Tyrant Habit
| three dye in order to make the liguer |
| take hal and make the drunk come,
| From 375, when I left there, to last
2 The Emperor William is man of
a
excesdingly economical habits, and
| fall, who I returned to the reservation, | gtydy-lamp on his work-table isa simple
no lest than fifty Indians whom I|oil lamp of a pattern such as since
knew preonally have been killed m | inrroduction of the petroleum lamps can
these donks. i . hardly be met with on the table of the
“Wht induces you to believe, Geu- | humblest citizen of Berlin. t it was
eral, tht Indian outbreaks are perpetu- | not economy that accounts for the fact,
ally ened? . so much as the difficulty which an old
“Myxnowledge of the Indian char- | pan has in changing a habit. The ex-
acter. Years ago when the frontier was | planation is given in this manner.
only spreely settled, they thought that The emperor has for years been ac-
| they ould whip the whole country; customed to screw down the wick when-
| that there was not force enough to | ever he ceases writing or reading or
| overpover them. Than when 1,000 or | leaves the room, When the petroleum
| 10,000men were sent against them, and | lamps finally came nto general use, the
they wre again Vistetiom, tila belief | emperor’s valet, Krause, brought one
was srengihened. Even after a few | and put it on the work-table
of than began visiting Washington, True to his habit, his imperial master
| and rearned with stories of the number | screwed down the wick on leaving off
of pecple they bad seen, they were not | writing; and. as a matler of course, the
believed, and Were considered as in | room was soon filled with insupportable
lesgue vith their enemies, W henever | smoke, which greatly affected the nose
| a peace was made, they believed that | and eyes of the monarch, and necessita-
| the whites sought or consented to it | ted the opening of doors and windows.
through fear, and there was nething to| Krause finally volunteered the re-
| deter thim from renewing Hoge as | mark: ‘‘No, your majesty that sort of
lgoon = they feit inciin Now, | lamp will not suit.”
however they recognize their power- | “But what are we to do, Krause?
jessnessto hold out, They know that | Had we better gel our oil lamp back
| they are outnumbered and can be easily | again? You know my eyes are weaker,
| extermitated, and have no desire to go | and require a brighter light.”
| into whit they know beforehand will be “Well, your majesty, we can have
a losing fight. Satisfied of this, they | a new lamp made with an extra large
want toto the beat ihey ean, and are | Buel 80 a8 to do away wil
willing 0 work. These last prisoners | a together.”
all askd to be taken where they could | “Quite right, Krause; let us try it.”
| get taras, and said they did not want to And Krause got a lamp of the old
be put along the San Carlos River, | pattern, had the burner enlarged to an
where he land was not fit to be culti- | almost collossal size, a green glass shade
vated aid where they would die of mal- | added to it, and to this day the new
aria. “hey know now that it would be |
nonsendeal for them to revoit again, place of honor on the work-tabie of
as theyhave discovered that they oan | most diligent of all monarchs.
be beden at their own game. The |
| Indian, you know, relies mainly for
| sncoest in a fight on being able to sur- |
prise the enemy. I took them by sur
prise sid it has settled them. " | R
“Hor did you succeed so admirably?” engaged iD Soave OA A II
“Ol very simply, I balas good same in 18 5 that they wale Ahab
and askharp Indians as they were, and | and may be summed up under the two
1 wr a Pots eons] a
we wep upon them before they knew words—surprise and ambuscade,
we wel in the country.” . | Indians never await a charge, and
| never attempt, whatever their supers
| ority in numbers, to meet one by di-
| rect resistance in front. When charged,
the portion of the Indian array im-
mediately in front of the attacking
force melts away into bands or knots,
the
3
wile
4
ss
FIERA EY
the
i ———
indian Fighting.
The tactics of the Red Indians when
AI A
A ‘Kitehen Garden’ Cooking Class.
moni
Forsome time there has been in econ-
miniatire utensils, the children have
been nstructed in table-setting and
dish-washing, bed-making and sweep-
| ing, lsundry work and scrubbing, all
done = the accompaniment of music
and sthgs. Owing to the impetus given
| to all tinds of industrial training by the
| broken and favorable for the purpose.
| Should the attacking force become
scattered and lose eohesion, by pursn.
ing individuals who are visible in front,
its defeat and destruction are foregone
conclusions. The magnificent riding
of the Indian brave gives him an im-
mense advantage in this form of war-
fare. Avoiding by quick turns of his
small and active pony, the direct pur-
suit of his more bulky foe, and circling
round him like a bird of prey, with
his body masked behind the ribs of the
animal he bestrides, he watches his op-
portunity to fall, in company with his
comardes, upon the: flank and rear of
the disciplined soldiers, whom he lays
low with a well-directed musket bullet,
or an arrow sent home with fatal ac-
curacy.
advamred course in domestic economy
has deen established during the past
gratifying results.
Fran the use of these miniature uten-
the ‘Lessons in Do-
a text book prepared
ren as being trained In practical house.
work, A bedroom with all the neces
sary hecessories has been fitted up,
whers chamberwork, bed making,
sweeping, and dusting are actually per-
formed by the children. A dining table
and srvice is arranged and served by
the children, thus practically teaching
them the necessities of skillfal Sette
@
linens, china and silver. Real dish
washing and the care and éleanliness of
Kitchin utensils also form a part of the
Professor Walls, of the Lewisburg
University, received the prize of a thou-
offered by the American
i
)
8
E
E
2
i
iL
The Decadence of Coral,
oo” :
The Pritish Consul at Leghorn,
his report for the past year, makes
some interesting observations on
in the Mediterranean, Some centuries
back the Mediterranean coral fisheries
carried on exclusively by the
Spaniards, snd the principal establish-
ments engaged in the munufacture of
coral ornaments were in the hands of
Jews residing in Bpsia. Toward the
ciose of the sixtecuih century, 10 es-
cape the persecutions to which they
were exposed, a large number of these
merchants removed to Leghorn, in
order to enjoy the secure asylum af-
by the liberal enactments of
Ferdinando di M Crews were
Neapolitan coast,
from the
principally from Terre del Greco; hence
this place at an early period became
most of the boats engaged in it are
still fitted out at that port, although
These ornaments are
the
world, and in many countries, even in
horn and Genoa,
in Asia and Af-
largely used for the adorument of
| empses when prepared for cremation.
But the present situation of the coral
| trade is dissetrons, In 1880, a coral
bank several kilometres in length was
discovered nesr the island of Beiscca,
on the coset of Sicily, and consequently
the yield of raw material bas been far
in excess of the demand, and the reef is
still very far from being exhausted... A
great depreciation in value bas ensued,
and ss a coosequence an extensive
trade has spr up in coral with Af-
risa, where the natives now purchase
coral ornaments in place of glass beads
of Venitian and Gorman manufacture,
The raw coral comes from Naples, and
is worked at Leghorn by women nio
beads, British india and Egypt being
the chief customers for them,
mies AH Es —
ed
Girls 1a the Far West,
In the far West girls have wonderful
yergy snd good hard sense, Oat in
Nebraska and Dakota they take up
homesteads and timber claims from the
| government lands, and in a few years
own & fine farm of 320 acres, II they
plant trees upon a 160.acre clasm and
tend it for a certain length of time it
becomes theirs. A bomestead claim is
also 160 acres, They must build a
“shanty” and cultivate the land, and it
becomes theirs at the end of five years,
Some of the smart Nebraska girls have
built their shanties with their own
hands, Farmers’ daughters out there
often begin Iry teaching for small wages,
They save their money very carefully,
and thus often pay their own way
through college, Then they teach
| again, and, having a higher education,
| can get better wages, Dat they save
| thelr money in any case, take up land
claims and improve them with their
earnings, Thus in a few years they
have both a fine education and a farm.
They are excellent scholars, {excellent
| teachers and firstclass farmers, for
| they work faithfully and do their best
| at everything they undertake. That is
the way to succeed. There is ne suc-
cess without it, Any girl can take up
| a homestead and timber claim who is 21
| years old, But they become teachers
| before that time, so as to have some
| money and be ready. These brave
| girls are not all teachers, however,
| Sometimes when they have finished the
| distriot schools their father let them
have a little money, and they buy cows
and calves and go to stock-raising.
They can begin this very young-—not
| more than 12 or 14 years old, With
| ordinary tuck, by the time they are 21,
| they can really have considerable pro-
| perty of their own,
These sre the girls who are worth
something, They are not weak and
idle drones, One unmarried woman in
| Nebraska, not yet old, is half owner of
| a creamery, has her farm of 320 acres,
is postmistress and has a small siore
| besides, connected with the office, She
| wears a gold watch and drives a fine
| horse and carriage, and is “somebody”
| in that country, Sue has earned it all
| herself, 100.
smim——— >
Henry Clay as a Whis Viayer.
Tuarockmorton was one of Mr, Clay's
most intimate Kentucky friends. In
their latter days the two were almost
| inseparable and they often joined hands
| over the whist table. Turockmorton
| was 8 fine whist player, and nothing
| rritated him more than to have his
| game interrupted or spoiled by talking,
| Throckmorton generally beat Clay, bat
| Ciay got ahead of him at a whist party
| in Louisville, when be and Throckmor-
| ton were partners. The stakes were
| nominal dollar a game, and as soon
| a8 the party sat down at the table Clay
began to tell stories. The resuli wae
that he paid no attention to his hand,
| and througk his blunders trick after
trick was Jost. Throckmorton pro-
tested from time to time, finally saying
“Really, Mr, Clay, for a man of your
ability, education and reputation, you
are the poorest whist player I have ever
known,” The play continued in the
same way, and Throckmorton grew
more and more angry. At last Clay
said, “Yon are making more fuss by
eur objecting than 1 am by my stories,
Now,” and he here pulled outa 810
gold piece, “we will
table,
3
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Bibi
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