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RE eer Sabor HAS OA
New Every Morning.
fvery day a fresh beginning,
Every morn is the world made new,
You who are weary of sorrow and sinning,
Hero 18 a beautiful hope for you,
A hope for me and a hope for you.
Al! the past things are past and over,
The task are done and the tears are shed,
Yesterday's errors let yesterday cover ;
Yesterday's wonnds, whieh amarted and
bled,
Aro healad with the healing which night
has shed.
Yesterday is n part of forever ;
Bound up in » sheaf, which God holds
tight,
With glad days, and sad days, and bad
days which nsver
Snail visit us more with thelr bloom and
their blight,
‘Their fulness of sunshine or sorrowful
night,
[Lat them go, siuce we cannot relieve them,
Cannot undue and cannot atone ;
God in his mercy recelve, forgive them !
Only the new days are our own,
To-lay is ours, and to-day alone.
Hero are tho skies all burnished brightly,
Hero is the spent earth all reborn,
Here are the tired limbs springlog lightly
To face the sun. and to share with the
morn
dawn,
the ten pounds, frowning as Le did
80.
“11 send that fsllow packin’ soon,
whether I find him stealin’ or not,” he
muttered. *‘It ain’t none too comfor-
table a feelin’ to know you've got to
lock up every shilling you got, an’ not
tell auybody where you put it.”
He ate his supper that evening In
silence: Jenne and Dick chattering in.
cessantly, and Mrs, Jameson told about
every ache and pain that r cked the
woman she had been to visit,
But the miller could only wonder
whether or not that frank, manly face
and those cheery tones of his employe
belonged to a knave and a scoundrel,
“ An’ Jennie and him seem to under-
stand ope another far too well,” he
soliloquized; **1 used to like the lad, but
now L'd as lief see my girl care for old
blind Jack, the fiddler, as this fine gen-
tleman, As Greene says, he’s too fancy
about himself to be honest, I've often
heard *‘the greater the rascal the more
genteel,” an’ 1 guess I'll load the
rifle.”’
He did load the mnifle, and placed it
near his bed, telling his wife that he
s‘warn't goin’ to lose any more money,
but the first one that came for dishon-
est purposes would lose his life.”
Mrs, Jameson was very nervous coun-
Bvary day is a fresh beginning ; ,
Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain,
And spite of old sorrow and older sinning,
And puzzle forecasted, and possible
UNDER SESPICION.
something very unusual
Talmley had
it,
ful place, where each neighbor was a
friend, each friend a brother; and what
the village folk knew was this—the
robbed.
said the miller,
solemnly, and telling the circumstance
and youug Levoe, and I can’t suspecta
box, and put that among a lot of other
boxes in the cupboard, waitin’ gill 1
could go to the bank with it, an’ lo an’
behold! when I went to get it oul yes-
terday, there warn't a single sign of
box or money. I can’t understand
in.”
Neither do I, neighbor?’ sald
(Greene, running a brawny hand over
his shock of untidy hair; “neither can
I. But I do think ye set too much
store by that young Inan ye've took
into your house, an’ mebbe ve're mis-
took to him. He's a deal too fine about {
his clothes an’ his hands, an’ his hair, |
to be any too honeat; but,” cautiously,
as he saw the flush that stole over
Jameson's face, ‘‘but mebbe I'm
talkin’ too fast; but it’s mighty curl- |
ous. an’ one don’t know what lo]
think.” i
“One might try to think nothin’ that
weren't charitable.” sald tbe miller
gravely; ‘an’ [ don’t suspect the lad.
It 18 more’n 1'd like to lose, for it takes
a time to earn it. But young Levoe
didn’t have nothin’ to do with the
stealin’—no more than you or me—an’
1'd ruther people wouldn't kinder hint
he had.”
“Pain’t in nature not to think it,
seein’ he’s a stranger, an’ nobody knows
what or who he 1s; an’ he has fine ways
with him, an’ talks like a schoolmas-
ter '? gaid Greene stubbornly. “I don’t
itke to ses you look in, neighbor, an’
I’m mighty much afraid ye are by that
milihand of yourn.”
Then Greene bade the miller good-
day, apd betook himself to his duties
on the farm hard-by the mill
tat that grizzled old man left a seed
of doubt behind him; and when has
«hy a seed not found soil to nurture |
it. unt:l its frait hung heavy on the |
giant tree which shadowed a {1 jendship,
or darkened forever a soul immortal?
It was not without many a struggle
against the suspicion that at last Har-
vey Jameson admitted it with a sigh,
Who would have robbed him of his
hard earnings save some stranger? for
iis neighbors were his friends, and
onest, as he knew,
In Talmley there was but one who |
had not been born kere, and that one |
was Dick Levoe, the stranger who had |
srossed his threshold six months before |
to ask for employment, !
Jameson wanted a hand in the mill, |
«nd hired Dick, taking him as a boar- |
fer. ‘The young man had *‘fine ways,”
as Greene eaid,
Ie was not especially handsome, but
hie was cheerful, courteous, willing to |
work, and yet, for all that, showed un-
mistakable signs of having had no oc-
casion to perform any labor, at some
time not far pest. Ie was educated
sven Jennie, who had spent a year at
boazdag aghovl, could be instructed by
im
“171 just keep my eyes open an’ not
let on for a while,”” thought the miller:
“but, as Greene said, who else could
have stole the money?’
He perceived no change in Dick, no
confusion, no sign of guilt; but, greatly
to the good man’s consternation, he
discovered something else. The young
man was in love with pretty Jennie,
and she was fully conscious of the
fact.
Here was a new difficulty and one
which the miller did not care to meet,
He was pondering on it one day,
threo weeks after the robbery, when
Glavin of the Hollow called and paid
him ten pounds which has been due
some time,
“1 hear your house isn’t very secure
place for money,” sald Glavin with a
smile; but I hope will walk off
with this while you're oe?!
“I'll take care of that,’ answered
the miller, consclous that Dick could
boat, WE ngihirnibi bein’ robbed
we same person: an’ I've ge
over thinkin’ e I phi A
honest, Good-day, sir. obliged.”
Glavin departed, and the miller went
into the honse,
sleep, **an’ meke the thing go off,” and
probably kill her.
«| never move in my sleep, 80 you
1 sleep like an honest man, I do.”
So hie went to bed, and thought more
of his daughter than of the money
However, he did
think of bis money sometimes, and, in
fact, his thoughts ran from that to Jen-
pleasant ones they were. Vision after
vision came and faded, and hls wife
unconscious hauds go out again and
again, perilously near, sometimes, to
the loaded nifle.
It was midnight before she slept at
all, but then her sleep was profound.
It was broken at last by the strangest
and most thnliing of sounds, no less
startling than a heavy fall and loud,
reverberaticg report, as though a can-
non had beea fired almost at her ear.
scream, and Mrs. Jameson's shrieks
were loud and shrill, as she cowered
among the bedclothes; and a scrambe-
in the darkness, and muttered
did pot tend to calm her.
There was a rush of feet in the hall
without; a stout shoulder sent the door
inward with a crash, and Dick Levoe,
who had made this unceremonious en-
trance stood there, with a light high
above his head, his keen eyes scanning
the apartment swiftly.
It took him a moment to comprehend,
and then he laughed with immeasurable
amusement.
The miller, clad but lightly, was
sprawling on the floor, a dazed wonder
in his face, the old rifle, which he had
struck as he fell, lying harmiess beside
open, aud through it came a fine sheet
of rain: the old man was soaking wet,
and rain drops glistened on his hair
and scanty garments; his bare feet were
muddy, and altogether he presented
anything but an agreeable or present
able appearance.
“What has happened?” asked Dick,
as soon a8 his mirth couid be sup-
pressed, as he aided the miller to his
feet.
“I don't know,” stammered Jame-
gon.
His wife, hesring voices cautiously
peeped out from under the coverlet,
vRobbers!" she cried shrilly. ‘‘They
have been here again. Have they shot
you, Harvey?”
“No, wife, I’m not shot,” sald Har-
vey; ‘an’ I don't think there's been any
robbers round. Faet 18, I've been
“What!”
+*]'ve been walkin’ in my sleep, sure
as you livel” groaned the miller, “I'm
all wet, so [ must bave been gone out
of doors, an’ the Lord only knows
where I have been or what I've been
or what I've been doin.’ 1 was drea-
min’ of that ten pounds.”
He broke off, and hurried to the spot
in which he had hidden the money. It
was not there.
ssyou're rather old for such capers,
Harvey,” his wife was saying.
But he didn’t hear her. Very blankly
he turped to Dick, who had now re-
treated to the threshold where Jennie
was standing, white and started, but
ravishingly pretty.
“Lad,” the miller said solemnly “]
believe I've robbed myself, I've heard
of such things, an’ now I believe I've
done just that, an’ I haln’t got a notion
where I put the money."
“Is it gone?”
“Yes "
“Then you had best put on dry
clothes, sir, while I got out and try to
follow the tracks you have probably
left in the garden, Your feet are so
muddy, I'm sure you must have been
thers. I'll report in a few momenta.”
A whispered sentence to Jennie at
the door, and Dick was off to don his
boots, and laugh at the remembrance
of the miller’s plight,
With a lantern he went out into the
rain, and his gravity departed again as.
ploye, ‘I’ve been thinkin, lll cf you for
the last few days, an’ 1 ask your par-
don. If I ever can do you a good turn,
call on me."
“I take you at your word, sir,” said
Dick cheerfully, going straight to Jen-
nie and taking her hand. *'I want your
consent to my marrying Jeunie some
day, when I have proved myself alle to
take care of her. We love each other,
and 1 hope, sir, you'll not forget what
love was to yourself once.”
“No, I don’t, lad,” said the raililer,
with a tender glance toward his wife.
“But a millhand geta but poor wages,
an’ you'll have to wait a while.”
“As for that,” said Dick, *'I think
vou'll have to look up another mills
hand. Mr. Jameson, for 1 have another
| offer, and intead taking it. 1 wasn’t
brought up to labor, and was at college
| stead of the thousands I expecled,
I left the college, and fate led me hith-
er. If I have shown no talent as a
miller, 1 have won the sweetest girl in
the world to love me.
my father offers me the post of book-
keeper in his bank, at a salary on
you give me Jennie.”
the old man wistfully,
both,” said the muller.
| for Jennle was his only child.
sty SI pcs
Persian Soldiers.
| paper.
| and mostly of a deep, blue color.
warm country.
of all
The hair dis-
placed by substitutes
| shapes, colors and sizes,
| account of his habitually using it as a
pillow,
of no two men in the regiment are
| alike, and the whole crew present a
melancholy appearance,
best he can, Previous lo a review or
{estal parade he may be seen carefully
preparing & plume of white feathers,
procured from the nearest
fowl, and binding them to a piece of
stick.
attained the siza a lamp brush he
triumphantly affixes it to a shako, On
the occasion of official illuminations
of
local Governor at the rate of one to
each man. The colonel has, of course,
a greater number of men on his list
than ever make an appearance; he keeps
the difference, The other oflicers ap-
propriate half the remaining candles,
| The non-commissioned officers eat (1.
e., steal) a certain proportion: and at
| length one candle is served out to every
| five men. This is divided into five por-
tions, a new wick is inserted, and,
when the regiment is paraded, at a
given signal a box of malches is passed
round. and the regiment triumphantly
presents arms with a lighted candle in
each man’s musket as per general
order. The pay of the Persian soldier
is nominally seven tomans (£2 15s) per
annum and rations, He is lucky if he
gets half his pay, which dosas not reach
him till 1t has passed through the hands
of many persons, his superiors. But
his rations of 3} pounds of bread a day
are quite apother matter. if his rations
are tampered with the soldier mulinies
at once: and there is no atrocity of
which the Persian soldier, robbed of
his rations, is incapable,
—————————
Mr. Gassaway's Correspondence
Jan, 24.
Dear Tep-—Lend me your dress
ault for to-night, old man. Nelly and
I are going over to the Fessenden's
| kick-up, and of courss ils a case of war
paint, 1 may mention that my war
| paint is at this moment up the spout
| and hikely to remain there until my wid
man unbends., Yours,
(JASRAWA XN.
Jan, 25.
| Pras TED —Wuas a thunder made
| coat you lent me? During an interval
in one of the dances a fellow leaned
over and whispered sarcastically:
“Don't forget to send it back the first
thing in the morning!” and then a lot
more born idiots grunted, “And don’t
sit on the talls and crumple them!”
Then I found out they were reading
that-—--noke you had stack onto the
fist, too. I think I shall take some
prussic acid. Yours,
GARSAWAY,
Deir Boy,—I put the mole there
because I thought you would be bound
to see it. I’m awfully sorry. ne,
ED.
a .a
A Navel earl Pin.
—
One of the latest novelties is a mina-
tare windmill to be worn ass scarf pin,
It has Little fans of silver which fly
around with a pleasant buzzing sound
whenever a current ef alr is thrown
against them. The current of air is
produced by a rubber bulb or pump
held in the wearer's hand when in his
pocket, a little tube leading therefrom
to the wind-mill on the scarf. The
windmill is not onl tal but
usefui, It fills the ace ®
——
THE WILY COUNTRY EDITOR.
——————
He Finally is Given a Railroad Pass
by the Superintendent,
The editor ot the Swampvilie Cy-
press Knee called on the superintend-
ent of a railroad, “I have coms,’ said
he, “tc ask a favor of you. I do
considerable traveling over your road
—have always pald my fare, and now
I want you to give me a pass.”
“You say that you have dons con.
siderable traveling?”
“Yes, sir.”
+s And have always paid your fare?’’
“1 have.”
“My dear sir,” sald the superintend-
ent, ‘we cannot give you a pass,”
“Why?”
“Because you are too valuable to
lose. You are the only man along
| our line who hasn’t a pass, and upon
you we mainly depend for our revenue.
If you were never to ride I might give
you a pass, but as it is I must refuse
oun.
The editor, after a moment's reflec-
i tion, replied:
| “To tell the truth I have never been
over your road bul once, When |
spoke | was thinking of another road,”
“Did you pay your fare?”
| “Since | have come to think about it
I don’t think I dud.”
“Well, now, yon can’t expect us lo
give you a pass when you have never
done anything for us.”
“All right, sir, keep your pass, bul
| don’t warm you up I'll be willing to go
| without eating for a week,”
‘What's your circulation?”
“Fifteen hundred.’
«] mean your sworn circulation?”
“Well about 1,000. I send at least
| one copy to every post-ofiice in the
| State.”
“Got a gooh *irculation, too?"
“Splendid.”
“Will you swear tLat you send one
| to each post-office in the Erate?"”
“Yes
only have a circulation of £,000, you
certainly haven’t above a halt a copy
for your town.”
That's all right,
| to give me that pass?”’
“Not immediately.”
“Then I'll warm you up.”
“YWilllam,” called the guperintend-
“go down and send an cfficer up
here. I want to have Lhis man ar-
rested for perjury.”
“(lve me A pass
I'll call it square.”
“William ——-"’
“All right, we'll let it drop. 1
was in town and thought I'd come
around and ses you. The people down
| our way say you are the best superin-
tendent the road ever had, and 1
wanted. to see you, The road is in
better condition now than iL ever Was
before, and the other day when there
was some talk of your removal the
people along the line—-"
“Sit down,” said the superintend-
ent,
“People along the line.” continued
the editor, seating himself, *‘said there
| ould be no trath in the rumor, They
held a meeting in our town and got up
a petition asking the owners of the
road to"
“You seem to be warm,’ said the
superintendent. “Willlam, hand the
gentleman a fan.’
“Asking the owners of the road to
| retain you," continued the editor, as he
| accepted the fan, “They also drew up
a memorial which they requested me
to publish, It was unfortunately
crowded out of my last issue, 1 knew
that it was pot of much Importance Lo
you, as you are in demand &nd can, of
course, secure another position al a
much better salary. Well, I must be
going, as I've got considerable Enock-
ing round to do.”
“let me see,’ sald the railroad
man. “What is your name?”
“i Andrew J. Beckleton.”
“Thanks, Wait a moment, Mr,
Beckleton. I always hike to meet a
man who can
partner
|
ens,
down home and
| as he began to write on a cand, “Some
men haven't sense enough to take a
joke, 1 have read your paper. Had
one here this morning’ looking
dround—*"but my wife sent for it
| Great favorite with her. Here's an
annual, Mr. Beckieton. On, no, you
needn’t thank me, for 1 assure you that
| you are perfectly welcome to it.”
i i A AI IO U0 -
i The Charm of Wearing Gems.
—
| Oneof the charms of wearing a gem
|is a consciousness of jis Indestructi-
| bility, its permanency, and, if. one may
| say 80, of its personality —the mystery
| of nature's methods in its slow crystal
lization in dark telluric depths, of the
| glance of imprisoned powers shut up
| within its walls, a remembrance of the
| vague old idea of their potency-—all
much force as the inherent beauty of
the thing itself, Who knows what
spirit, what ons of the genii, what
cabalistically commanded sprite is shut
up in the flery depths of the raby, with
its purple blue corners, of the pigeon
blood tinge, in the heavenly eolor and
briliancy of the sapphire, in the sea
green water depths of emerald or beryl?
There is always a fascination in Its
sparkle, both when we wear it and see
another wear it, or when we Iift it
its dark Bing place in
the casket where we keep it, as it looks
up to us with its lidless, death less
of beauty. Buta bit of glass,
ily colored 3
a
1
§
£
i
5
il
i
scsi
FASHION NOTES.
ssa
—Clreular cloaks are revived in Lon-
don, They are made of materials of
Boyted} tints, lined with some bright
color.
—{olored linings are in high vogue,
striped and figured silks in wright eolors
being largely employed for that pur-
pose,
Many of the handsome hats and
bonnets are trimmed with loops of
ribbon only; no feathers nor metal or-
naments.
—Parisians are wearing tartan plaids
for the entire dress, or in combination
with plain colors. The plaids, however,
are small.
gant, Parls-made stresl Wraps and
mantles, even to those formed of the
most expensive sealskin.
The favorite colors for evening
dresses are pink, mauve, maize, cream,
| sulphur, heliotrope, pale-biue and an
exquisite tint of green,
~Peculiar gowns for in-door wear
are called “*Carmelite’” dresses, They
are of brown woolen goods, open down
the front over a plastron apron of
white veiling. The veiling is gathered
|in the neck. Around the waist is a
| brown and white braided cording with
large pompons on the ends, The large
gallor collar opens in shawl-shape in
| front, and the cuffs are very deep,
Both collar and cuffs are of white vell-
i ing.
—Small amazon cuirasses are cut up
and a postilion in the back. The sleeves
| are tight-fitting, and the collar is very
| high, Sometimes the sleeves are
| slightly puffed and bave deep, tight-
| fitting cuffs of velvet or fancy embroid-
{ory on worsted or silk fabrics, tound
{skirts are becoming very colnmon.
They are, however, pretty for young
| girls, Skirts are again draped, and
they usually have a pane: either in the
| gentre of the skirt or on one side.
—Ons of the newest woolen suils
made in Paris is of a soft article with
a shaggy surface, The color is dark
closely the ground is of a reddish Linge.
The whole suit is of this material. The
skirt forms wide, hollow and very flat
plaits, There are over these plaits of
the same width, inch
srter, which are cut in deep x aliops
vd bordered with droop!
in the color of the dress,
iraped bias, and forms an
ered
but about an
front. The goods
in tt
wk in graceful and irr
fold ich terminates on
a} of a loose bow with
a sash The short jackel is
cut round, Jike a Spanish waist. The
back and two side pieces are long and
form three small rounded basques
trimmed withjlrooping ornaments. The
front of the jacket also has this trim-
| ming. The lower part of the sleeve 18
cut in small scallops. The jacket opens
in front over a “guimpe,’” gathered
bias, The collar is straght,
~Pelerines have not lost favor. This
| is owing to their being gmall and warm
{and to their not detracting from the
general effect of a toilet, They have,
| however, one disadvantage; they do
| pot suit all figures, and are often too
| long or too short, as a happy medium
| ts difficult to hit. The following new
model is without this drawback: The
back is oointed. Starting from the
| point is a broad band of jet galloon in
| open work which is taken up the sides
| in bretelle style, This forms two grace-
ful lines that take off the effect of the
garment’s being too wide for its
length, and give the pack the proper
bend into the figure, as without this
the pelenine cannot be stylish. On the
| point in the back are drooping Jet
naments, The same trimming on
| shoulders falls gracefully over
| arms, All waists that are not joined
to a polonaise skirt are short, with a
point m front, and are rounded in the
back, where there are small basque
ends or loops. Walsts adapted to very
slight figures have two rows of tiny
| loops around the borders. The small
| mantles that are so much worn at pres
{ent are very stylish—made of India
| cashmere, lined with satin merveilleux.
| They are taken well into the figure,
| and have a piece of goods like a peler-
{ine drawn back over the garment to
| form sleeves. The front of this maatie
| may be trimmed, but the lower border
| is always plain.
| Walking Dresses. The costumes
| that are most generally adopted for
| walking purposes are of rough fabrics
| trimmed with galloon applique in Mus-
covite style. The galloon is very pretty,
| and 18 used as fancy directs. There are
| sometimes three, four or five rows of
|this trimming on the lower part of
skirts. The tunics are draped, and the
small waists have Breton plas-
trons made of gallon goods, for this
galloon forms part of the material for
which the sult 1s made. The trimming
is to be seen in all widths and designs,
Bands of eight and ten. inches have
Egyptian or Byzantine Bfures, ara
besque desigrs and all kinds of effects
in relief, including the fashionable as-
trakhan trimming, which is used on
The last-named article is
ost stylish of these trim-
Sometimes suits will have small
of astrakban, There are also
Is in imitation of rich Hunga-
embroidery, composed of t
lacing and small dots In soutache work.
goods require the closet inspec
that they aré not em-
band of this same
fabric is very on the lower
with the waist and
Toilets
Or
the
$
the
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fis
prem
HORSE NOTES.
—(ne hundred and forty trotben
lowered thelr records in 1886, agains
115 in 1885.
~The purses to be given at the car
nival trotting races at Hamilton wil
aggregate $1150.
—~W. H. McCariy’s brown mars
Anniversary—record 2.54-dled at Lex
ington, Ky., from pneumonia.
—Uonnemara 18 now apparently all
right. The reports of her sickness were
exaggerated, Mr, O'Reilly says.
A 92-year-old brother to Ormouds
will make his appearance this year ic
| the Duke of Westminster's colors,
~Fifty-one of Longfellow’s get ic
1886 started in 413 races, winning 62
| and $77,116, The Bard leading with
| $41.805
{| ~The Bochester (N. Y.)} Driving
| Park Association at its recent meeting
| elected George W., Archer President
in place of Hon. Frederick Cook, whe
declined re-election. James M., Whit
| ney was elected Vice President, anc
Mr. Henry Collins Secretary and
| Treasurer,
~John Porter, the English trainer,
has forty-eight horses in training, in-
| cluding two belonging to the Prince of
| Wales, fifteen to the Duke of West
minster, thirteen to Lord Alington and
Sir ¥. Johnstone, and the remainder
the property of the Earl of Portsmouth
| Colonel Williams, John Gretton, Cap
tain C. Bowling, W. low and J. T
| Mackenzie,
| ~Foxhill’s double victory in the
| Cesarewitch and Cambridgeshire is still
| fresh in the memory, and yet calamity
| seems to have atiended all who were
{ mixed up with the horse. One of his
| jockeys broke his neck, and another
| committed suicide, The owner 18 no
longer a millionaire. The principal
| winner 1n the race is heavily in default,
| both for siakes and to the ring, and
| the commissioner who did the buik of
| the business died in a lunatic asylum,
| Nor did any substantial benefit accrue
ito the trainer, who did his work so
| well,
~The English brood mare Vex was
recently the wiclim of a singular Accs
dent. While in the stable a large elm
| on her box, and @ [DATE Was
Vex was a wo sister to Galo-
Derby w she
in a number of races, the print
one in which she was successfal elng
She was the dam, among olhers, O8
Tantrum, the dam of The Baron, Lhe
favorite for this year’s Derby. bilrangs
to say, the brood mare Flower of Dor
set was In the same box, and La Trapp
stood in the next one, but these es
caped.
Charity and Florence Fonso joined
James McCormick’s string at Brighton
the other day, and it is said thal Ww.
L. Scott will continue to send some of
his best to be handled by this able
young trainer. Mr. Scot will alow
Wanderer to remain in Kentucky, and
has taken him to the Kenny Farm, near
Lex'ngton, Ky., where he already has
eighty-eight head of stock. Toe stal-
lion Kantaka (imp, ), by Seotlishi Chief,
dam Seclusion (Hermit's dam), by
Tadmor. has also been sent to ihe
Kenny Farm to serve.
~The following stringent rule has
bn made law by the Queensland
(Australia) Turf Club: “If aay horse
be scratched within four clear days of
the running of any race in which be is
engaged the stewards or comimities
may call upon the owner for an expia-
nation of or reasons for such scraich-
;
Lak SR
ing; and if such explanatior ons
ory
i ICA
SLAW
wer
ave
fit and to fine the Jer 10
exceeding the value
of which his bh
$8
Ow
not of
oun’
struck.
rie
~The California State Agricultural
Ssclety opened a stake for foals of
1886, to be trotted for as yearlings, and
| has up to date tweniy-one entries, The
society has not established a precedent,
but 1s following an experiment which,
in the East, has invariably proved a
| failure. Here the very few yearling
| stakes were for half-mile heals, while
| the Sacramento event is to be a mile
| dash, a still harder task upon the ten-
| der baby trotters. We cannot congral-
| ulate the California State Agricultural
| Society upon the number of entries for
|its yearling stakes. The prevalling
| sentiment among breeders and practical
| horseman east of the Rocky Mountains
is against trotting colts at so early an
age. It is an imposition upon nature,
sure to result in impairment of vital
ity. There 1s nothing whatever to be
gained by trotting yearlings. No gain
to the reputation of the sire, and no
gain to the owner or breeder, as intel-
ligent buyers will not invest in young-
sters that took their first practical
Joss ns on the track in their yearling
orm.
—Mr. Pierre Lorillard is endeavoring
to sell Rancocas. It seems incredible to
those who remember his former love
for the place; but it is true, peverthe
less. Mr. Withers told us last autumn
that Mr. Lorillard had offered him the
f
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