~~ THE BUTLER CITIZEN. VOL- xxxvii HUSELTON'S Spring Footwear The Very Finest Shoes Ever Shown in Butler for Men Women and Children. Every New Idea r Women's Fine Shoes, That has merit in it as to style, | Lace or button at 85c, $i,51.25 comfort and service in footwear; and $1.50 —uo to the minute develops In this store. j in style. Women's Shoes Business Shoes. made especially to our order; Stylish footwear for business dainty in appearance, of sub- men; tan box and Russia calf, stantial service and full of style fine vici kids, velour calf, pat as to shape of heel and toe, $2, ent calf that have ease and $2.50, $3.00 and $3.50 in Tan, comfort as well as wear in them kid and Russia calf, black kid at $2, $2.50, $3 and $3.50. skin and patent leather. Men's Patent Leather. Our Girls Shoes Full dress affairs at $2.50, in tan and biack, iace or but- $3 50, $4 and ss,that you must ton kid shoes, sizes ii£ to 2, at have to be well dressed; shoes 75c, sl, $1.25 and $1.50; B.J that go into the very best soci to 11, at 50c, 75, $1 and $1.25; ety and feel at home there. 6 to 8 at 40c, 50c, 75c and sl. Men's Working Shoes Shoes for Boys, in oil grain and heavy veal, Including patent leather, vici two sole and tap bellus tongue, kid, tan and- Russia calf, sizes at sl, $125 and $1.50; Box 2\ to SJ, at 90c, SI.OO, $1.25, toe at $1 50, $2 and $2.50; it. $1.50 and $2.00. fine satins for dress at SI.OO, $1.25 and $1.50. We are sole agents for the famous "Queen Quality" Shoes for Women, of this city, B. C. HUSELTON'S, Butter's Leading Shoe House. Opposite Hotel I.wry. BICKEL'S / ♦SPRING AND SUMMER STYLES. # The time of the year is here when yoj want a nice pair of dress shoes for summer wear. Our stock is extrcmly Targe, showing all the latest styles in fine shoes and oxfords in all leathers. We are offering some big values in footwear and it will pay you to see us before buying your summer shoes. A FEW OF OUR PRICES Men's Fine Tan Shoes — j (j Light shade, Lace or Congress at.. Boy's Fine Dress Shoes— 1 |uj Box, Calf or Fine Vici Kid, light or heavy soles. . * * Youth's Fine Calf or Vici Kid Shoes— q/1 Either Russett or Black at.. Ladies' Fine Dongola and Russett Shoes — & 1 i/ j Lace or Congress, latest styles lasts at.. ™ ' ' ' Misses' Fine Dongola and Russett Shoes — (j Spring heels at.. Children's Fine Shoes— Patent Tipped, sizes five to eight at.. Men's and Boy's Lawn Tennis Shoes— _1 And Slippers at.. Your Choice of Men's Working Shoes— & 1 (if k Lace, Buckle or Congress, heavy soles and good uppers at Men's Fine Calf Dress Shoes — 41. 1 () () Round toe, tipped at.. Ladies' Fine Dongola Three Point Slippers 3»*)C We invite you to call and see our stock of SOROSIS SHOES and Oxfords,the latest styles for summer wear. They are very hand some You will like them. All sizes— 2\ to 8. All widths—AAA to I£. JOHN BICKEL, 128 SOUTH MAIN STREET, - BUTLER, PA Spring STYLES r, f y*> f %4'." Men don't buy clothing for the pur-_•»' I /i/[ / I /$-• / ~ic.p<>se or spending money. They clesireJAf, /I .I' )§\\ get the l>est possible results for thefTY A I. 1 Cy ■jJCmoney expended. Not cheap goods'®" / Jfl J*; fbut goods as cheip as they can sold for nd made up properly. IfIJZ A? you want the correct thing at the cor-'jfe XrJfX JPr i'| i' rect price, call and examine our;J|C, " \ jl, j stjck of SPRING WRIGHTS—jTT \ r y i'P'7 v 11! ' *LATEST STYLES, SHADES S \! X % " I • ; j ||lp< Fits and WorkmanshiD JJ > t- V : , Guaranteed. 1/ ' G F. K€CK, 42 North Main Street, Butler, Pa Out of Style. Out of the World! f .'TV r Our garments have a style that is Q' ■ !| I easily distinguished from the ordin ftr af y- They are the result of careful * study and practical application of the ideas gathered by frequent visits to . .'J $ the fashion centres, and by personal ' Sfj— contact with the leading tailors and ,• / fashion authorities of the county. , aj They are made in our own work '4JW shop by the highest paid journey— ii' men tailors in Butler, yet it is pos sible to (and we do) give our patrons these first-class clothes at the price you would pay for the other sort. We believe we have given good reasons why our tailoring is the best and cheapest and would be grateful for the opportunity to show you our handsome spring stock and give you prices to prove them. Zilflnrl MAKEROF .f1.1Q.1 MEN'S Clothes, When You Paint. If you very best re the least expense you iHpHt sm Eß w£Vuams- Govern Mo«t, Looks IVst, Wears longest REDICE & GROHMAN, lo:4"> p.m . stopping at all intermediate j stations i Thousand mile tickets good for pas sage between all stations on the B. K. & PR'y and >T. Y. C. R Ft. Penn'a. division ! at 2 cents per mile. For tickets, time tables and furthei information call on or addres- W. R. TURNER, Agt. Butler, Pa., or EDWARD C. LAPEY. Gen'l Pass. Agent, Rochester, N. Y. P., IJossenuT & I. K. Trains depart: No 14, at 9:15 A. M; So. 2, at 4 "><) P. M. Butler time. Trains arrive :No. 1. 9:50 A. M; No. 11, 2:55 P. M. Butler time No. 14 runs through to Erie and con nects with W. N. Y. ic P. at Huston Junction for Franklin and Gil City, and with Erie Railroad at Shenan go for all points east. No. 2 runs through to Greenville and connects with W N. Y. & P. for Franklin and Oil City, and at Shenango with Erie R. R. for points east and west. W. R. TURNER, Ticket Agent. 1 )ITTSBURG & WESTERN * Railway. Schedule of Pas finger Trains in effect Nov. 19, 1899. BUTLER TIME. I»<-|«art. 1 Arrive. Allegheny Accommodation A.im U ft 7 A.m Allegheny 8 n • P.M 9 10 A M Cleveland and Chicago Kxpreai... fi 26 »rn SUNDAY TRAINS. Allegheny Kxpren 8 05 A.M 9 3oa.M Allegheny AccomiiKxlalion 550 p.m 5 rM j New Ca«tle Aooommfidatkiii 8 05 A.M 703 44 j Chicago ExufNW 3 40 P.M 5 o'S am Allegheny Accommodation. 7 03 pm Train arriving at SJOB p.m. leave* B. A O. -lep«4 PltUburg at 3.25 p.m and P. A W. t Allegheny at 3.35 ; p. m. On Satrudays a train, known a« the the.ttre train, I will leave Ihitler at 5.50 p. m., arriving at Allegheny j at 7.£•; returning leave Allegheny at 11.30 p. m. Pullman sleeping earn on Chicago Kxpre** between Pittoburg and (-*hi« ngo. For through ticket* to all |M>intM in the west, north weat or and information regarding route*, time of traina, etc. apply to W. It. TT ttSKK, Ticket Agent, K. li. BKTNOLIJO, Sup't, N. !»., ilutler k Pa. Butler, Pa. C. VV. DASMETT, G. P. A.. Allegheny, Pa ! IL 0 Dt'NKLE, Sup't. WA \. I>iv.. Allegheny Pa. PENNSYLVANIA K t, WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA DIVISION. B Tarentum 7 41 907 12 08 3 42 (> 07 j Hpririgdale 7 52 9 12 19 3 52 ... Claremont (9 12 3A 4 06 Allegl.euy 8 24 9 48 1 02 4 26 6 4 ; A. y\. A. M. P. M. P. M P. M. SUNDAY THAlNß.—Leave Butler for Allegheny City and prin' i|ul intcrmedi.ite NtatioiiM at a m., I and 5:00 p. m. NORTH. WEEK DAYS I A M A. M A. >!. P. M P. M Allegheny City. Sliarpalfurg. 71J 907 10 67 ... I Ciaremont II 04 Hpriugdale II In fi :i 7 Tarentum 7 :;7 9 .'l4 11 2* 3 4 724 | BUTLER arrive 8 4<» 10 32 1 P» r> 06 7 A.M.'A.M. I'. M P. ri. I'. M j SPNDAY TRAINS.—Leave Allegheny City for But ler HIM) principal intermediate ntutioiiH at 7:16 a m. and 9-30 p. m. FOR THE EAST. Week* Dav*. Sunday H ! A M A. M IV M. A. M. I' M BITLKR lv r, 25'10 Hi 235 7 'Mi 500 I Butler Jet ar 7 27! II 4<» 326 820 660 | Butler Jet lv 748 11 4.1 358 821 8 ft", j Kreeport ar 761 11 4»J 4 tri 825 807 Kiakiminetafl J't ,4 *7 56 11 60 4 (»7 829 8 11 Paultoii (Apollo) " 8 2'.112 'JLI 4 40 868 8 \L SalUl urg 44 8 61112 49 508 9Zi 9 (K» Blairevllle ~ 922 1 20 6 11 962 940 Blairnville Int '' 9 iJO I :«'» 560 10 00 Altifona. " 11 36j r » 4"» 850 545 llariiMhurg •' 310 10 I ay Exprem, ** 7:.'io M Main Lino Exproag, " 8;00 ** Harrifhurg Mail, ** 12:46 P.M Philadelphia Cxpreoa, ' 4:50 " Mail and Kxprew «laily. For New York only. Through buff«-t HleepMr; uo coached 7:00 44 Kanter ll Kxpress, • 7:10 14 Flint Li tie, 1 8 !K) " Pittaburg Limited, dally, with through coacheii to New York, aiel nleeping earn to New York, Baltimore and Wuahiugiou only. No extra lareou thin train 10*10 M I'hi la-la Mail, Sonda.tf ouiy 8:40 A.M For Atlantic City (via Delaware River Bridge, all rail route), 8:00 A. M, and p.M, daily. Foi detailed information, ad drew Thou. K. Watt, Pass. Agt. Western District, (7omer Fifth Avenue and Smith* field Street, Pittnburg, Pa. J B. HUTCHISON, J. It WOOD. General Manitaer. " ' - i-* • • - • =-=jU;p p li| U ~ L U Tjt by |ri .* Ft (I OLIVE v,u ..JU 1 A SCHBiaiNER. v<. II mim fmd 1 1 A TALE OF LIFE IN THE 0 I fg ★ BOER REPUBLIC. 7' ;. ;hi ..«;•>£; . »e; <«.»«: . <•«. ;»»; ■«. . <>:.»;. «•£ ..•_?. •;?. »:. sj ." £• iSirt a'.r ?>■ •Si r •.v • ?<< • • ;"<> •:« • J.: s'i; i.; CHAPTER XIII. HE MAKES I.OVE. "ITore," said Tnnt' Sannie to her Ilottentot maid, "I have been in this house four years and never been up in the loft. Fatter women than I go up ladders. 1 will go up today and see what it Is like and put it to rights up there. You bring the little ladder and stand at the bottom." "There's one would l>e sorry if you were to fall," said the Ilottentot maid, • leering at Bonaparte's pipe, that lay on the table. "Hold your tongue, jade," said her ! mistress, trying to conceal a pleased i smile, "and go and fetch the ladder." There was a never used trapdoor at | one end of the sitting room. This the Hottentot maid pushed open. and. set ting the ladder against it, the Boer woman with some danger and diffi j cully climbed into the loft. Then th* Hottentot maid took tlie ladder away, as her husband was mending the wagon house and needed it. but t lie j trapdoor was left open. For a little while Tant' Sannie poked about among the empty bottles and j skins and looked at the bag of peaches i that Waldo was supposed to have liked i so. Then she sat down near the trap door beside a barrel of salt mutton. She found that the pieces of meat were much too large and took out her clasp knife to divide them. This was always the way when one left things to servants, she grumbled to herself, but when once she was mar ried to her husband Bonaparte it would not matter whether a sheep spoiled or no—when once his rieli aunt with the dropsy was dead. She smiled a-! she dived tier hand into the pickle water. At that instant her niece entered the room below. < loselv followed by Boua parte. with his head on one side, smil ing mawkishly. Had Tant' Sannie spoken at that moment the life of Bonaparte Blenkins would have run a wholly different course. As it was. she remained silent, and neither noticed the open trapdoor above their heads. "Sit there, my love," said Bona parte. motioning Trnua into her aunt's elbow chair and drawing another close up in front of it. in which lie seated himself. "There; put your feet upon the stove too. Your aunt has gone out somewhere, Ixmg have 1 waited for this auspicious event!" Trauu, who understood not one word of English, at down in the chair and wondered if this was one of tin- strange customs of other lands—that an old gentleman may bring his chair up to yours and sit with his knees touching you. She had been live days in Bona parte's company and feared the old man and disliked his nose. "llow long have 1 desired this mo ment:" Miid Bonaimrte. "But that aged relative of thine is always casting her unhallowed shadow upon as. Look into my eyes, Trana." Bonaparte knew that she compre hended not a syllable, but he under stood that it is the eye, tiie tone, the action, and not at all the rational word, that touches the love chords. He ,-;aw she changed color. "All night," said Bonaparte, "1 lie awake. I see naught but thy angelic countenance. I open my arms to re ceive thee. Where art thou, where? Thou art not there!" said Bonaparte, suiting the action to the words and spreading out his arms and drawing them to his breast. "Oh. please. I don't understand," said Trana. "I want to go away." "Yes, yes," said Bonaparte, leaning back in his chair, to her great relief, and pressing his hands on his heart, "since first thy amethystine counte nance was impressed here, what have 1 not suffered, what have I not feltV Oil, the pangs unspoken, burning as an nr dent coal in a fiery and uncontnmlnat ed bosom!" said Bonaparte, bending forward again. "Dear Lord," said Trana to herself, 'how foolish 1 have been! The old man has a pain in his stomach, and now, as my aunt is out, he has come to ine to help him." She smiled kindly at Bonaparte and, pushing past him, went to the bedroom, quickly returning with a bottle of red drops in her hand. "They are very good for "benaauwd heit.' My mother always drinks them," she said, holding the bottle out. The face in the trapdoor was a llery red. Like a tiger cat ready to spring, Tant' Sannie crouched, with the shoul der of mutton in her hand. Exactly beneath her stood Bonaparte. She rose and clasped with both arms the barrel of salt meat. "What, rose of the desert, nightin gale of the colony, that with thine amorous lay whllest the lonesome bight!" cried Bonaparte, seizing the hand that held the "vonlieense." "Nay, struggle not! Fly as a stricken fawn Into the arms that would embrace thee, thou"— Here a stream of cold pickle water, heavy with ribs and shoulders, de scending on his head, abruptly ter minated his speech. Half blinded, Bona parte looked up through the drops that hung from his eyelids and saw the red face that looked down at him. With one wild cry he tied. As he passed out at the front door a shoulder of mut ton, well directed, struck the black coat on the small of the back. "Bring the ladder! Bring the ladder! I will go after him!" cried the Boer wo man as Bonaparte Blenkins wildly tied into the tields. ******* Late in the evening of the same day Waldo knelt on the floor of his cabin, lie liatiied tho foot of his dog which had been pierced by a thorn. The bruises on his own back had had five days to heal In, and, except a little stiffness in his movements, tiicte was nothing remarkable about the boy. The troubles of the young are soon over. They leave no external mark. If you wound the tree in its youth, the bark will quickly cover the gash; but when the tree is very old, peeling the bark off and looking carefully, you will see the scar there still. All that I* burled Is not dead. Waldo poured the warm milk over the little swollen foot. Doss lay very quiet, with tears In ids eyes. Then there was a tap at the door. In an in stant I less looked wide awake and winked the tears out from between his little lids. "Come in," said Waldo, intent on ids work, and slowly and cautiously the door opened. "Good evening, Waldo, my boy," said Bonaparte Blenkins in a mild voice, not venturing more than ids nose with in the door. "How are you this even- ing?" Doss growled and showed his little r teeth and tried to rise, but his paw s hurt him so he whined, p "I'm very tired, Waldo, my boy," ~ said Bonaparte, plaintively, j Doss showed his little white teeth s again. His master went on with his r work without looking round. There are some people at whose hands it is u best not to look. At last he said: l ( j "Come in." y i Bonaparte stopiied cautiously a little way into the room and left the door r open behind him. lie looked at the j , boy's supper on the table. "Waldo, I've had nothing to eat ail t 1 day. I'm very hungry," he said. 1 "Eat." said Waldo after a moment, . j bending lower over his dog. r I "Yon won't go and tell her that lam here, will you. Waldo?" said Bona s, parte, most uneasily. "You've heard how she used me, Waldo? I've been c badly treated. You'll know yourself e what it is some day when you can't carry on a little conversation with a i lady without having salt meat and pic i kle water thrown at you. Waldo, look s at me. Do I look as a gentleman ] should?" i- But the boy neither looked up nor an i. swered, and Bonaparte grew more e uneasy. p "You wouldn't go and tell her that I am here, would you?" said Bonaparte e whiningly. "There's no knowing what 1 she would do to ine. I've such trust in you, Waldo. I've always thought you 1 such a promising lad, though you r mayn't have known it, Waldo." e "Eat," said the boy. "I shall say e nothing." Bonaparte, who knew the truth e when another spoke it, closed the door, carefully putting on the button. Then 1 he looked to see that the curtain of the e window was closely pulled down and f seated himself at the table. He was I soon munching the cold meat and e bread. Waldo knelt on the floor, batb ' ing the foot with hands which the dog licked lovingly. Once only be glanced at the table and turned away quickly. s "Ah, yes! I don't wonder that you L " can't look at me, Waldo," said Bona ' parte. "My condition would touch any II heart. You see, the water was fatty, 1 and that has made all the sand stick to r me. And my hair," said Bonaparte, tenderly touching the little fringe at ' the back of his bead, "is all caked over 1 like a little plank. You wouldn't think e it was hair at all," said Bonaparte ' plaintively. "I had to creep all along u the stone walls for fear she'd see me ' and with nothing on my head but a red handkerchief tied under my chin, Wal ' do, and to hide in a 'sloot' the whole day, with not a mouthful of food, Wal do. And she gave me such a blow just here," said Bonaparte. ' He had cleared the plate of the last 4 morsel when Waldo rose anil walked to the door. "Oh, my Waldo, my dear boy, you are not going to call her," said Bona parte, rising anxiously. I "I am going to sleep in the wagon," said the boy, opening the door. "Oh, we can both sleep in this bed. There's plenty of room. Do stay, my boy, please." j But Waldo stepped out. "It was such a little whip, Waldo," said Bonaparte, following him depre ' catiugly. "1 didn't think it would hurt ' you so much. It was such a little whip. I'm sure you didn't take the peaches. You aren't going to call her, Waldo, are you?" ' But the boy walked off. Bonaparte waited till his figure had passed round the front of the wagon I house and then slipped out. He hid himself round the corner, but kept peeping out to see who was coming. He felt sure the boy was gone to call Tant' Sannie. His teeth chattered with iu ' ward cold as lie looked round into the darkness and thought of the snakes _ I that might bite him, and the dreadful tilings that might attack him and the dead that might //rise out of theirgraves if lie slept out iii the field nil light. But more than an hour passed, and no foot* ' step approached. Then Bonaparte made his way back to the cabin. He buttoned the door and put the table against It, and, giving the dog a kick to silence his whining when the foot throbbed, he climiicd into bed. He did not put out the light for fear of the ghost, but, worn out with the sorrows of the day, was soon asleep himself. About 4 o'clock Waldo, lying be tween the seats of the horse wagon, was awakened by u gentle touch on his head. Sitting up, lie espied Bonaparte look ing through one of the windows with a lighted candle in his hand. "I'm about to depart, my dear boy, before my enemies arise, and I could not leave without coming to bid you farewell," said Bonaparte. Waldo looked at him. "I shall always think of you with af fection," said Bonaparte. "And there's that old hat of yours. If you could let me have it for a keepsake"— "Take It," said Waldo. "I thought you would say so, so I brought It with me," said Bonaparte, putting it on. "The Lord biets you, my dear boy. You haven't H few shillings, just a trifle you don't need, have you?" "Take the two shillings that are In the broken vase." "May the blessing of my God rest upon you, my dear child," said Bona parte. "May he and bless you. Give me your hand." Waldo folded ids arms closely and lay down. "Farewell, adieu!" said Bonaparte. "May the blessing of my God and my , father's God rest on you, now and evermore." With these words the head and nose withdrew themselves, and the light vanished from tiie window. After a lew moments the boy, lying in the wagon, heard stealthy footsteps ns they passed the wagon house and made their way down the road. He listened as tliey grew fainter and i fainter and at Inst died away alto -1 gether, and from that night the foot steps of Bonaparte Blenkins were heard no more at the old farm. CHAPTER XIV. TIMES AND SEASONS. Waldo lay on his stomach on the sand. Since lie prayed and howled to his God In the fuel house three years had passed. They say that in the world to come | time Is not measured out by months and years. Neither Is It here. The soul's life has seasons of its own, pe- IV ,1s u< t fonud in any calendar, times that years and months will uot scan, but which are a> deftly and sharply cut off from one another as the smoothly : rranged years which the earth's mo tion yields us. To stranger eyes these divisions are not evident, but each, looking back s.* the little track his consciousness il luminates. sees it cut into distinct por tions, whose boundaries are the termi nation of mental states. As man differs from man, so differ these souls' years. The most material life is not devoid of them: the story of the most spiritual is told in them. And it may chance that some, looking back, see the past cut out after this fashion: I. The year of infancy, where from the shadowy background of forgetfulness start out pictures of startling clear ness, disconnected, but brightly col ored and indelibly printed in the mind. Much that follows fades, but t lie colors of those baby pictures are permanent. There rises, perhaps, a warm sum mer's evening. We are seated on the doorstep; we have yet the taste of the bread and milk in our mouth, and the red sunset is reflected in our basin. Then there is a dark uight, where, waking with a fi-ar that there is some great being in the room, we run from our own bed to another, creep close to some large figure and are comforted. Then there is remembrance of the pride when, on some one's shoulder, with our arms around their head, we ride to see the little pigs, the new little pigs with their curled tails and tiny snouts. Where do they come from? Remembrance of delight in the feel and smell of the first orange we ever see; of sorrow which makes us put up our lip and cry hard when one morning we run out to try to catch the dew drops and they melt and wet our little fingers: of almighty and despairing sorrow when we are lost Iwhind the kraals and cannot, see the house any where. And then one picture starts out more rividly than any. There has been a thunderstorm. The ground as far as the eye can reach is covered with white hail. The clouds are gone, and overhead a deep blue sky is showing. I'ar off a great rain bow rests on the white earth. We, standing in a window to look, feel the cool, unspeakably sweet wind blowing in on us, and a feeling of longing comes over us. unutterable longing, we cannot tell for what. We are so small our head only reaches as high as the first three panes. We look at the white rartli and the rainbow and the blue sky; and. oh, we want it, we want, we do not know what. We cry as though our heart was broken. When one lifts our little body from the window, we cannot tell what alls tis. We run away to play. So looks the first year. n. Now the pictures become continuous and connected. Material things still rule, but the spiritual and Intellectual take their places. In the dark night when we are afraid we pray and shut our eyes. We press our fingers very hard upon the lids and sec dark spots moving round and round, and wo know they are heads and wings of angels sent 11 take care of us, seen dimly in the dark as they move round our bed. It Is very consol ing. In the day we learn our letters and are troubled because we cannot see why k-u-o-w should be know and p-s-a-l-m psaln* They tell us it is so because it is si). We are not satisfied. We hate to learn. We like l>etter to build little stone houses. We can build them as we please and know the rea son for them. Other Joys, too, we have incompara bly greater than even the building of stone houses. We are run through with a shudder of delight when in tlie red sand we come on one of those white wax flow ers that lie between tlieir two green leaves flat on the sand. We hardly dare pick tiiem, but we feel compelled to do so; and we smell and smell till the delight becomes almost pain. Aft erward we pull the green leaves softly Into pieces to see the silk threads run across. Beyond the "kopje" grow some pale green hairy leaved bushes. We are so small they meet over our head, and we sit among them and kiss them, and they love us back. It seems as hough they were alive. One tiny we sit there ami look up at the blue sky and down at our fat lit tle knees, and suddenly It strikes us: Wlio are we? This I—what Is It? We try to look In upon ouraelf, and ourself beats hack upon ourself. Then we K''t up In great fear and run home as hard as we can. We can't tell any one what frightened us. We never <|uite lose that feeling of self again. in. And then a new time rises. We are 7 years old. We can read now, read the Bible. Best of all, we like the story of Elijah in his cave at Horeb and the still small voice. One day, a notable one, we read on the "kopje" and discover the fifth chap ter of Matthew and read it all through. It is a new gold mine. Then we tuck the Bible under our arm and rush home. They didn't know It was wick ed to take your tilings again if some one took them, wicked to go to law, wicked to— We are quite breath less when we get to the bouse. We tell them that we have discovered a chapter they never heard. We tell them what it says. The old wise peo ple tell us they know ail about it. Our discovery is a mare's nest to them, but to us It Is very real. The Ten Com mandments and the old "Thou shalt" we have heard about long enough and don't care, about It, but this new law sets us on lire. We will deny ourself. Our little wagon that we have made we give to the little Kaflirs. We keep quiet when they throw sand at us, feel ing, oil, so happy. We conscientiously put the cracked teacup for ourselves at breakfast and take the burned roaster cake. We save our money and buy threepence of tobacco for the Ilotten tot maid who calls us names. Wo are cxotlcally virtuous. At night we are profoundly religious. Even the tick ing watch says, "Eternity, eternity, heO, hell belli" and the silence talks of (Sod and the things that shall be. Occasionally also unpleasantly shrewd questions begin to be asked by some one, we know not whom, who sits somewhere behind our shoulder. We get to know him better afterward. Now we carry the questions to the grown up people, and they give us an swers. We are more or less satisfied for the time. The grown up people are very wise, and they say It was kind of Ood to make hell and very lov ing of him to send men there, and, be sides, he couldn't help himself, and they are very wise, we think, so we believe them, more or less. iv.. v Then a new time comes, of which the lending feature Is that the shrewd questions are asked louder. We carry them to the grown uu ueople. They answer us. au,l we are not satisfied. And now between us an*t the dear old world of the senses the spirit world begins to i>eep In :ind wholly clouds It over. What are the flowers to us? They are fuel waiting for the great burning. We look at the walls of the farmhouse and the matter of fact sheep kraals, with the merry sunshine playing over all, and do not see it. But we see a great white throne and him that sits on it. Around him stand a Croat multitude that uo man ean sum l>er. harpers harping with their harps, a thousand times ten thousand and thousands of thousands. How white are their robes, washed in the blood of the Ijimb! And the music rises higher and rends the vault of heaven with its unutterable sweetness. And we, as we listeu. ever and anon, as it sinks on the sweetest, lowest note, hear a groan of the damned from be low. We shudder in the sunlight. "The torment," says Jeremy Taylor, whose sermons our father reads aloud in the evening, "comprises as many torments as the body of man has joints, sinews, arteries, etc., being caused by that penetrating and real fire of which this temporal fire is but a painted lire. What comparison will there be between burning for a hun dred years' space and to be burning without intermission as long as God is God';" We remember the sermon there in the sunlight. One comes and asks why we sit there nodding so moodily. Ah, they do not see what we see! A moment's lime, sfnarrow space. Divide me from that heavenly place Or shuts me up in hell. So says Wesley's hymn, which we sing evening by evening. What matter sun shine and walls, men and sheep? "The things which are seen are tem poral. but the things which are not seen are eternal." They are real. The Hible we bear always in our breast. Its pages are our food. We learn to repeat it. We weep much, for in sunshine and in shade, in the early morning or late evening, in the field or In the house, lb* devil walks with us. He comes ,to us a real person, copper colored face, head a little on one side, forehead knit, asking questions. Be lieve me, it were better to be followed by three deadly diseases than by him. He is never silenced —without mercy. Though the drops of blood stand out on your heart, he will put his question. Softly he comes up (we are only a wee bit child): "Is it good of God to make hell? Was it kind of him to let one be forgiven unless Jesus Christ died?" Then he goes off and leaves us writh ing. Presently he comes back. "I>o you love him?" Waits a little. "Do you love him? You will be lost if you don't." Wo say we try to. "But do yon?" Then he goes off. It is nothing to him If we go quite mad with fear at our own wickedness. He asks on, the questioning devil. He cares nothing what he says. We long to tell some one, that they may share our pain. We do not yet know that the cup of affliction Is made with such a narrow mouth that only one lip can drink at a time and that each man's cup is made to match his lip. One day. we try to tell son e one. Then a grave head is shaken solemnly at us. We are wicked, very wicked, they say. We ought not to have such thoughts. God is good, very good. We are wicked, very wicked. That is the comfort we get Wicked? O Lord, do we not know it? Is it not the sense of our own exceeding wickedness that Is drying up our young heart, filling it with sand, making all life a dust bin for us? Wicked? We know it! Too vile to live, too vile to die, too vile to creep over this (God's) earth ami move among his believing men. Hell is the one place for him who hates his mas ter, and there we do not want to go. Tills Is the comfort we get from tho old. And once again we try to seek for comfort. This time great eyes look at us wondering, and lovely little lips say: "If it makes you so unhappy to think of these things, why do you not think of something else and forget?" Forget! We turn away and shrink Into ourself. Forget and think of oth er things! O God, do they not under stand that the material world Is but a film, through every pore of which God's awful spirit world Is shining through on us? We keep as far from others as we can. One uight, a rare, clear moonlight uight, we kneel in the window. Ev ery one else is a Jeep, but we kneel reading by the moonlight. It is a chapter in the prophets telling how the chosen people of God shall be car lied on the gentiles' shoulders. Surely the devil might leave us alone. There is not much handle for him there. But presently he comes. "Is it right there should be a chosen people? To him who is Father to all should not all be dear?" How can we answer him? We were feeling so good till he came. We put our bead down on the Bible and blister It with tears. Then we fold our hands over our head and pray till our teeth grind together. Oh, that from that spirit world, so real and yet so silent, that surrounds us one word would come to guide us! We are left alone with this devil, and God does not whis per to us. Suddenly we seize the Bible, turning it round and round, and say hurriedly: "It will be God's voice speaking to us, his voice as though we heard It." We yearn for a token from the inex orably silent One. We turn the book, put our finger down on a page and bend to read by j the moonlight It Is God's answer. Wo | tremble: "Then 14 years after I went up again to Jerusalem with Barnabas and took Titus with me also." For an instant our imagination seizes It. We are twisting, twirling, trying to make an allegory. The 14 years are 14 months;* we are Paul, anil the devil is Barnabas; Titus Is- Then a sudden loathing comes to us. We are liars and hypocrites. We are trying to de ceive ourselves. What Is Paul to us and Jerusalem? Who are Barnabas and Titus? We know not the men. Before we know we seize the book, swing it round our head and Jllng It with all our might to the farther end of the room. We put down our head again and weep. Youth aud Ignorance - ia there anything else that can weep so? It Is as though the tears were drops of blood congealed beneath the eyelids. Nothing else Is like those tears. After a long time we are weak with crying and lie silent, and by chance we knock against the wood that stops tiie broken pane. It falls. Upon our hot, stllT face a sweet breath of wind blows. We raise our head and with our swollen eyes look out at the beautiful still world, and the sweet night wind blows in upon us. holy and gentle, like a loving breath from the lips of (Jod. Over us n deep peace comes, a calm, still Joy. The tears now flow readily and softly. Oh, the unutterable gladness! At lust, at Inst, we have found It! "The peace with God," "The sense of sins forgiven." All doubt vanished, God's voice In the soul, the Holy Spirit tilling us! We feel him, wo feel him! O Jesus Christ, through you, through you. this Joy! Wo press our hands upon vur breast an.l look upward with adoring gladness. Soft waves of bliss break through us. "Tlic |waoo with God. l'he sense of sins forgiveu." Methodists au«l reviv alists s.iy tin- words. and the mocking world shoots out its lip and walks by smiling—"Hypocrite!" There arc more fools and fewer hypocrites than the wise world dreams of. The hypocrite Is rare as icebergs in the tropics, the fool common as but tercups beside a water furrow. Wheth er you go this way or that you tread on him. You dare not look at your own reflection In the water, but you tsee oue. There Is no cant phrase, rot ten with age. but it was the dress of n living body, none but at heart it sig nifies a real P>odlly or mental condition which some have jvissed through. After hours and nights of frenzied feur of the supernatural desire to ap pease the power above, a tierce quiver ing excitement iu every inch of nerve and blood vessel, there comes a time when nature cannot endure louger, and the spring long bent recoils. We sink down emasculated. Up creeps the deadly delicious calm: "I have blotted out as a cloud thy sins and as a thick cloud thy tres passes and will remember them no more forever." We weep with soft, transporting Joy. A few exj>erience this. Many imag ine they experience It. One here and there lies about It. In the main "the peace with God, a sense of sins for given," stands for a certaiu mental and physical reaction. Its reality those know who have felt it. v , i Ami we on that moonlight night put [ down our head on the window. "O God, we are happy, happy, thy child forever! Oh, thank you, God!" And we drop asleep. Next morning the Bible we UUs. We are God's forever. We go out tc work, and it goes happily all day, happily all night, but hardly so happily, not hap pily at all, the nest day, and the next night the devil asks us, "Where Is your Holy Spirit?" We cannot tell. So month by month, summer and winter, the old life goes on—reading, I praying, weeping, praying. They tell us we become utterly stupid. We know it. Even Jhe multiplication table , we learned with so much care we for get. The physical world recedes far ther and farther from us. Truly we love not the world, neither the things that are in it. Across the bounds of sleep our grief follows us. When we wake in the night, we are sitting up in bed weeping bitterly or find ourself outside In the moonlight dressed and i walking up and down and wringing our hands, and we cannot tell how we came there. So pass two years as men reckon them. | [TO BK cojrmnrxD.] The Similiter Krom "Ueorgy." "Down in Georgy"— said the stran ger with broad brimmed hat. But the stout man with the bobtailed gray overcoat Interrupted him with: "Are you going to tell that story again? Don't things happen elsewhere besides 'down In Georgy?' " "As 1 wuz a-sayln," continued the stranger, not noticing the Interruption, "down in Georgy"— "There you go again!" exclaimed the stout man. "One thing over and over!" "Yes," continued the stranger, "as 1 wuz jest rcinarkin, down In Georgy when we air Interrupted in a confabu lation, like I've been fer the last ten minutes, we takes the Interrupter by the collar, thisaway— "An by the waist o' the britches, thisaway— "An we pitches him— "Clean out the winder, thlsawayl" And the stout man, as he struggled to his feet and groped blindly about for his hat, said: "What was that that fellow was say ing about 'down In Georgy?' 1 didn't quite get the last part of It!" Atlanta Constitution. II on it li on Faynthfnrt. Miss Pechls—No, Mr. Faynthcart, It's a lovely wheel, but 1 really can't ac cept it from you. Mr. Faynthcart—Oh! Why? Your mother wouldn't object, would she? Miss Pechls—lt Isn't that. But, you see, this wheel's a Skimmer, while Mr. Dashaway, with whom 1 should ride most, uses a Whizzer. 1 know we should quarrel about the respective merits of our wheels, and that would be terrible.—Philadelphia Press. Much (he Heller I'lan. "If you would marry me," he plead ed, "I am sure you would make a bet ter man of me." "No," she replied decisively, "I shall never marry a man to reform him; but," she added as she put her hand where he could easily reach It, "1 am not averse to reforming a man to mar ry blm."—Chicago Post No Wonder. "Mary!" yelled the poet. "What Is It, dear?" asked the patient wife. "Why don't you keep that kid quiet? What on earth's the matter with MV" "I don't know, dear. I'm singing one of your lullabies to the poor little dar ling."—Philadelphia Press. A Itroken Itecord. "Well, sir, It's a remarkable thing about my wife. When we were mar ried 25 years ago she weighed only 1)7 pounds." "And now she tips the beam at about 180, eh?" "No; she's as thin as ever."—Chicago Tlmcs-lierald. Satisfaction. "Good thing I made dat rule never ter leave er house without taklu some thin wid me."—Types. Think They I.nok All Itlaht. She —Men are more conceited about their looks than women. He —Prove It. She —Men always put their hats on without looking In the glass.—Chicago Record. Tlioniclil II Willi n Kllpflnp. "Didn't attend the banquet last night, ilid you? (Jlbson gave us a very neat ly turned panegyric." "1 didn't know Gibson was »n acro bat."—Cleveland Plain Dealsr. A Trncfdr of Mont Blanc. The story of the destruction of tb* baths of St Gervais at the foot of Moot Blanc, fn ISO 2, is told In "The Annals of Mont Blanc." This was on» of the calamities that could scarcely have been predicted or averted. Owing to the stoppage of the st:li glacial drainage, in some way never ascertained, a lake was formed under the Tete Kousse glacier, in which an enormous body of water was pent up at a spot 10.000 feet above the sea lev el. Between 1 and 2 o'clock on the night of July 12, ISIG. the ice that had held the lake gave way. The water swept in a torrent of tre \ mendous force over the Desert de j I'lerrc Ronde, gathering up thousands of tons of rock and stones in its course. ' It passed with a terrific roar under the i hamlet of Bionnassay, which It did not injure, destroyed half the village of | Rionnay on the highroad between Con- I famines and St. Gervais and, tearing I tip trees as it went along, Joined the main river of the Bon-Naut. Following the river bed and destroy . ing on its way the old Pont du Dlable, it hurled its seething flood of water, timber, stones and mud upon the solid buildings of the St. Gervais hrirbs and crushed them into fragments. Then, crossing the Chamoulx road, it spread itself out iu the form of a hideous fan over the valley of the Arve, destroying part of the village of Le Fayet in its | way. ISueh was the catastrophe of St. Ger vais which claimed over 150 victims. Utter ruin was everywhere. The once : lovely gardens of the baths were five or six feet deep In mud, fine trees had been snapped like reeds and enormous blocks of stone were strewn over the dreary waste. She Decided to Remain. "1 will." she exclaimed. "1 will not live with you auother day!" "You leave me, will you?" he calmly "Yes, 1 will." "When 7' "Now—right off—this minute." "You'll go away 7" "Yes. sir." "I wouldn't If I were you." "Rut 1 will, and 1 defy you to pre vent me. I have suffered at your hands as long as I can put up with It." "Oh. 1 shan't try to stop you," he quietly replied. "I'll simply report to the police that my wife has mysteri ously disappeared. They'll want your description, and 1 will give It You wear No. 7 shoes; you have an extra large mouth; you walk stiff In your kuees; your nose turns up at the end; eyes rather on the squint; voice like a"— "Wretch! You wouldn't dare do that!" she screamed. "I certainly will, and the descrip tion will go in all the papers." They glared at each other a moment In silence. Then It was plain to be 6een he had the dead wood on her.— Columbus Journal. Ilia Great Work. A Chicago man who has written a book was telling about It the other day to a friend who had once done him a service. "By the way," said the author, "1 would be delighted to give you a copy of my work. If you care for It" "1 should be more than pleased to have It," was the reply, "especially If you will write your name In It." "All right. There Is a bookstore Just arouud the corner. If you will ac company me, we will go there and get It I dou't happen to have a copy in my ofllee Just now." After they had stopped to glance at some of the new things In the book store the author hailed a clerk and, pushing his chest out very far, asked for the novel that he had written. "Yes, sir," the clerk said. "We have It around here somewhere, I believe, but you are the first one who has ever asked for a copy, and It may take me some time to And It Wouldn't some thing else do Just as well? We have a great many better books at the same price."—Chicago Times-Herald. Hon- lie Obtained Quiet, At one of the meetings during Mr. Moody's services in Kansas City hymn sheets were distributed by the ushers Just previous to his address. He was feeling very tired, and speaking was a great exertion; so, fearing the noise that would result should the audience rustle them, he resolved to get rid of tlieni. He called out, "Will everybod/ who has a hymn sheet hold It up?" The sheets were held up all over the hall. Mr. Moody shouted, "Now shake them!" Twelve thousand flimsy sheets of pa per were shaken vigorously. They made an Indescribably musical sound. There Is nothing to compare it with. One can only say It was a vast rustle. "That will do," called Mr. Moody at the top of his voice. The sound ceased. "All right," said Mr. Moody. "Now Bit nn those hymn sheets." The audience »at ou them. Having taken this pre caution ngalnst Interruption, Mr. Moo dy began his sermon. NaniifflDff Mrs. Jones. "Ix>ok here," said Mr. Jones to the Aouse agent, "my wife will be calling today, and I want you to tell her that that house we have been looking at is taken." "But my good sir," protested the agent, "It Isn't taken." "It will be then," answered Mr. Jones. "I am taking It now. Mrs. Jones can't make up her mind, but she'll want it directly she thinks she can't get It"—London Telegraph. A Knlr Unnecessary, Tommy—l know now why you wear only one eyeglass. His Rig Sister's Beau—Why? Tommy—Brother Jack says you ought to see with half an eye that sis ter doesn't care anything about you.— Jewelers' Weekly. A Few Jolt en That Would Male* • Mlnnntliropc Smile. Bill—l've beeu to see a palm reader. Jill—And did you believe what h« told you? "Yes, I did. He told me I was too easy, and then charged me $2." The Doctor—Why have you sent foi me? The Husband—Oh, my wife's mothei Is feeling bad, and she says she doesn't rare whether she lives or not. "I have noticed that men who put up fake butter are arrested nearly every day," remarked the observer of events and things, "but the fellows who are continually putting up fake tights are allowed to go free." Mr. Gotham—There's no city like New York, after all. Mr. Church—No; I guess you're right Most cities have a saloon on every sixth corner; New York has 'em on nearly every corner. Charles—ls your girl opposed to your smoking? Clarence—l think she must be. Ev ery night when I come away from her house I find two or three broken cigars In my vest pocket No.lS