VOL xxxvii HUSELTON'S Spring Footwear The Very Finest Shoes Ever Shown in Butler for Men. Women and Children. Every New Idea That has merit in it as to style, comfort and service in footwear develops in this store. Women's Shoes made especially t-> our order; dainty in appearance, of sub stantia' service and full of style as to shape of heel and toe, $2, $2.50, $3.00 and $3.50 in Tan, kid and Russia calf, black kid skin and patent leather. Our Girls Shoes in tan and black, iace or but ton kid shoes, sizes 1 1 to 2, at 75c, sl, $1.25 and $1.50; 8.3 to 1 1, at 50c, 75, $1 and $1.25; C to 8 at 40c, Shoes for Boys, Including patent leather, vici kid, tan and Russia calf, sizes 2\ to at 90c, SI.OO, $1.25, $1.50 and $2.00. Wc are sole agents for the famous "Queen Quality" Shoes for Women, of this city, B. C. HUSELTON S. Butler's Loading Shoe House. Opposite Hotel Lwry. BICKEL'S ♦SPRING AND SUMMER STYLES. The time of the year is here when you want a nice pair of dress shoes for summer wear. Our stock is extremly large, showing all the latest styles in fine shoes and oxfords in all leathers. We are ofilcring 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— 1 /) Light shade, Lace or Congress at.. * — Boy's Fine Dress Shoes— 41-1 (}(} liox, Calf or Fine Vici Kid, light or heavy soles. . ™' • Youth's Fine Calf or Vici Kid Shoes— j Either Russett or Black at.. Ladies' Fine Dongola and Russett Shoes— Jj> 1 |/) Lace or Congress, latest styles lasts at.. " ' Misses' Fine Dongola and Russett Shoes— (» v „ Spring heels at.. . Children's Fine Shoes — 'Vlr- 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 /in Lace, Hucklc or Congiess, heavy soles and good uppers at ™ Men's Fine Calf Dress Shoes — 4b 1 ()j) Round toe, tipped at.. ™ * Ladies' Fine Dongola Three Point Slippers - 35c We invite you to call and see our stock ul 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 E. JOHN BICKEL, 128 SOUTH MAIN STREET, - - BUTLER, PA Spring STYLES § iypf § Men don't buy clothing for the pur-79? I IjOf I Vfll pose or spending money. They to get the best possible results for theTfT A L j j money expended. Not cheap goods'WC / < l"\ / gfrK • goods as cheap as they can bejvgi. ki i' Qrsold for , nd made up properly. ' "M'you want the correct thing at the cor-Wv 1A ;j ,%£.rect price, call and examine ouogd. \ \£jfr\ W' I S X large stack of SPRING WEIGHTS— X \ WllwMr V7l if STYLES, SHADES AND® \ j Fits and Workmanshio * 1 ' // Guaranteed. (j / G F. K^CK, 42 North Main Street, Butler, Pa Out of Style, Out of the World! T/ ■"^ S I-"*'' ur £ arments have a style that is jJ\* II easily distinguished from the ordin — ar >'* They are the result of careful i study and practical application of the *'ideas gathered by frequent visits to fashion centres, and by personal Ujm'icontact with the leading tailors and ■■ff !'■( fashion authorities of the county. ]i*asj k ~ .n 1 They arc n ade in our own woik t shop by the highest paid journey— •l men tailors in Butler, yet it is pos sible to (and we do) give our patrons these first class 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. AI n «—» 4 MAKER OF /*~Y ICI 1 ILI, MEN'S Clothes When You Paint. If you desire the very bc>t re suits a the least expense you Covers Moat. Looks Wears Longest REDICE & GROHMAN. WSSf 109 N. Main St., Hutler, Pa. ■» Women's Fine Shoes, Lace or button at 85c, si,si.2s and $1.50 —up to the mityte in style. Business Shoes. Stylish fooiuear for business men; tan box and Russia calt, fine vici kids, velour calf, pat ent calf that have ease and comfort as well a> wear in them at $2. $2.50, $3 and $3.50. Men's Patent Leather. Full dress affairs at $2.50, $3.50. $4 and ss,that vou must have to be well dressed; shoes that go into the very best soci - ety and feel at home there. Men's Working Shoe 3 in oil grain and heavy veal, two sole and tap bellus tongue, at sl, $1.25 and $1.50; Hox toe at $1 50, $2 and $2.50; in fine satins for dress at SI.OO, $1.25 and $1.50. THE BUTLER CITIZEN. ■*, V C rised at how easily J • 5 they will do their work, cure your# ' w headache and biliousness, rouse the 0 £ ain. £ 0 25 cents. Sold by all medicine dealers. 4 TliU I* Your Opportunity. Ou receipt of ten cents, cash or stamps, a generous sample will he mailed of ♦lie most popular Cut:, rh aml Hay Fever Cure (Elv's Cream Ba!;oi sufficient to doiuon strato the grc at merits of tiio remedy. ELY BROTHERS, 56 Warren St. New lork City. Rev. Jolin fteid, Jr.. of Great Falls, Mont., recommended Ely's Cream Balm to me. I can emphasize his statement. '-It is a posi tive cure for catarrh if usad as directed. Rev. Francis W. Poole, Pastor Central Pres. Church, Helena : Mont. Ely's Cream Balm is the acknowledged cure for catarrh nnd contains no mercury nor any injjrious A. M; No. 2, at 4-."io P. M. Butler time. Trains arrive :No. 1 9:50 A. M; No. 11, 2:55 P. M. Btir'er time. No. 1-t runs through to Erie and con nects with W. N. V. & P. at Huston Junction for Franklin and Oil City, and with Erie Railroad at Shenau go for all points east. No. 2 runs through to Greenville and connects with W N. Y. & P. for Frank!.u and Oil City, and at Shenair.ro with E;' e It. R. for points east and west. W. R. TURNER. Ticket Agent. pITTSBUKG & WESTERN Railway. Schedule of Pas ?-tiger Trains in efteet JMov. 19, 1899. BUTLER TIME. Depart. A ivp. Acrommoili&tioD t> A.M 1) 07 \..\i AllogheiiV Kxi'ivsa 805 " U :?»» •• Sou i •W* \< uimodatiou i* 05 •• u' »7 " Akron >1 ' 8 o:» A.M 7 (W p m Allegln t v f Express '■> 5R IS •• Alleg j I «f :•» 00 rj I I pm < JMcag Express 340 pm I 18 m Allegh*Miv Mail •"•«» 7 4 » pm Allegheny •< Sew Cfestle Accom 650 " 709 ** Chieagc i.iii: • 6 :» 07 a.m Kane and f» i Musi 1» • • A.i. - r.M (* » .« !i A -inni<».i;c nr 453 p.> 940 A M .mo . , i Express... ti 25 am M N DAY 'I H A l Na. Allegheny Expre— 8 0.» A.M 9 A!!••_ut-ny AccomuioUaticu 5 .»o PM 6 1 P.M New • »-t!e Accommotla n 8i "» * M 7«• '. " C.; • Express 3 40 p.s» 5 « . am A)i"f;U<'ny Accomuiodatiou 7 0 ' pm Train arriving at 5.0:; p.m. leavt-t B. & 0. dep.»t PttMargatSJnfjiaßdr.l W. H p. m. On Satiniluv.s a train, known as tlm tlieat «• ,r;i, will leiivw Butler at 5.50 p. m., arriving at 7.20; retlii ti L' leave A leg!u»ny at I!.» j> m. Pullman Me.'tig cars on Chicago £xpies<« L« :wc»« i Pittsburg ami < nit .igo. For through Ji«*kei?« r » all points in the no rh nrfst or south and inf. ►: nit tion »e_ ». «I : u ion««-s t time of trains, etc. apply \<> V. R. TL KNKi:, Ticket Agent, V. IJ. REYNOLDS, Mip t, N I)., U. .i. Pa. Uuiter, l a. C. W. BA>-ETT, G. P. A. A -lit 5 05 Saxouburg Anfve <5 54 8 ii" 111 3im Butler JuMsflon.. " 727 o li i SBS 5 : Butler Junction. ..Leave 7 :il 8 s:t U 5j :j 25 5 53 Natrona Arrive 7 4" 9 01 12 01 3 34 6 02 Tarentum 7 41 907 12 OS 3 4- 07 Spriugdale 7 52 9 10 11 19 :i b'i Claremont t9 :J0 12 3» 4 0t; .... Sharpsburg /ill 93612 48 4 12 li '.'l Allegheny 824 9 48 1 02 4 25 ti • \. M A. M. P. M P. M P. M. BUNDAT TWAINs. -Leave Bstl< r fbi City aud pi in« ipal iutermediate slatious at 7:30 a m., aud 5:00 ]•. m. NORTH. WEEK DAYS A. M A. M \. M P. M P. >1 Allegheny City. ..leave 7 oo ,s m 4:, 3 Jo »; ](j Sharpsbuig 7 12 9 07 10 57! GLnremont 11 « • 1 Springdale 11 18 ... ti M Tarentum 7 :;7 9 '1 11 2b 1 3 4r. r» 4t; Natrona 7 41 'J 11 34 no ti 61 Butler Junction. ..arrive 7 4* 0 47 11 43 ;; 5> 7 00 Butler Junction leave 74" 94712 1 4 0t- 700 Sux mbtirg .si 10 09 12 A 135 7 _'4 BI T LEU arrive 8 4' 10 1 lo 5 a". 7 50 A. M. A M. P. M. !'. M. P. M >l - ler and principal intermediate stations at 7:15 a m. and 30 p. m. FOR THE EAST. Weeks Days. Sunday* A. M A.M. P >1 \ M. P~>l BI TI.ER It 625 10 [At 235 730 500 Butler J'ct ar 7 27)11 40 i 25 820 550 Butler J'ct lv 748 11 4.t :i 5« 821 H ofi Freeport ai 7 "1 11 4»; 4 02 825 hO7 KiskimiiH-t.'is J't 14 755 11 50| 107 8 2*» h 11 Leechhurg 41 807 12 «)2i 4 19' 841 823 Paulton (Apol' •) '• 82012 22 440 85> 42 Baltaburg • 8 "-1 l_ tt fl 06 123 909 Biairarille. .. 922 I 20 641 968 B 1 1 Blairsville iut 4> 930 1 :i.'i 550 10 00 .... Altoona 44 il :v, 545 854 > 545 . .. Harrinburg '* :i lOilO in- 1 00 10 0<» Philadelphia 44 G 425 125 125 "... I*. M.|A. M. V. M. i* M. Through Irsiius for the east leave Pitteburg (Uuiun Station), sts follows:- Atlantic Express, daily 2:50 A n Pennsylvania Limit.-1 " 7:15 " Day Exprewa, 44 " Main Line Express, 44 8:00 44 tlarrisburg Mail, 44 .12:46 P.M Phila ielphia Express, ' 4:50 " Mail and Express daily. For New York only. Tbruii. h buflß-r r; nocoa hat 7.00 44 Intern Exjpreee, 4 .7 10 M Fsu=t Line, * 8.30 M Pittsburg Liniit< 1. daily, with through coaches to Nsw York, and aleeydng < in to new forte, Baltimore and Wa«biiigtoii only. No c-xtrsi tare on this train 10:00 44 FhilaiTa Mail, Suuda\s oiiiy 8.40 A.M For Atlantic Tity (via Delaware River Bridge, all rail route), 8:is» A M, and P.M, daily. FOl detailed information, address Thos. E. Watt, Pa—. Agt. Western District, tVrner Fifth Avenue and Smith* fi.-M Street, Pittsburg, I'U. J B. HUTCHISON, J.R.WOOD, •a'-ncral Mauaser. Qen' 1 ®Mir. Anetg Buff Plymouth Rock Eggs From Prize Winning Stock. Stock as Good as the Best. J. W. BARCROFT. YORK CO- DELROY PA. BUTLER, THURSDAY, v>:: 4K . i£. Ipi mm KY I P IFF n) OLIVE -* x /\ SCHRELEfEB. v'': \ 1 mErn ifmi 1 I : I A TALE OF LIFE IN THE i »| ★ BOER REPUBLIC. .. . g;ji:■»*.; . - v.•_ * ?.'• • ?•< • S'fS-it • X' • • .v • ?,< • Si • Hi * f.i • •««; SirtS'z< CH APT Kit XV. WALDO'S STRANGER. Waldo lay on his stomach on the red sand. The small ostriches he herded wandered about him, pecking at the food he had cut or at pebbles and dry sticks. On his right lay the graves, ou his left the dam. In his hand was a large wooden post covered with carv ings. at which he worked. Doss lay before him basking in the winter sun shine and now and again casting an ex pectant glance at the corner of the nearest ostrich camp. The scrubby thorn trees under which tiiey lay yield ed no shade, hut none was needed in that glorious June weather, when iu the hottest part of the afternoon the sun was but pleasantly warm. And the boy carved ou, not looking up, yet conscious of the brown serene earth about him and the blue sky above. Presently, at the corner of the camp, Elll appeared, bearing a covered saucer in one hand and in tlie other a Jug with a cup oil the top. She was grown iuto a premature little old woman of U>, ridiculously fat. The jug and saucer she put down on the ground before the dog and his master and dropped down beside them herself, panting and out of breath. "Waldo, as 1 came up the camps I met some one on horseback, and 1 do believe it must be the new man that is coming." The new man was an Englishman to whom the P.oer woman had hired half tiie farm. "Hum!" said Waldo. "He is quite young." said Em. holding her side, "and he lias 1)row 11 hair and beard curling close to his face and such dark blue eyes. And. Waldo. 1 was so ashamed! I was just looking back to see. you know, and he hap pened just to he looking back, too, and we looked right into each other's face, and he got red. and I got so red. I be lieve he is the new man." "Yes," said Waldo. "I must go now. Perhaps he has brought us letters from the post from Lyndall. You know, she can't stay at school much longer. She must come back soon. And the new man will have to stay with us till his house is built. I must get his room ready. Goodby!" Siie tripped off again, and Waldo carved 011 at his post. Doss lay with his nose close to the covered saucer and smelled that some one had made nice little fat cakes that afternoon. Both were so intent ou their occupa tion that uot till a horse's hoofs beat beside them in the sand did they look up to see a rider drawing in lus steed. He was certainly not the stranger whom Em had described, a dark, some what French looking little man of eight and twenty, rather stout, with heavy, cloudy eyes aud pointed mus taches. His horse was a fiery crea ture, well caparisoned. A highly fin ished saddlebag hung from the saddle. The man's hands were gloved, and he presented the appearance—an appear ance rare on that farm—of a well dressed gentleman. Iu an uncommonly melodious voice he inquired whether he might be al lowed to remain there for au hour. Waldo directed him to the farmhouse, but the stranger declined. >,IIe would merely rest under the trees and give his liorse water. He removed the sad dle, and Waldo led the animal away to the dam. When he returned, the stranger had settled himself under the trees, with his back agaiust Uie sad dle. The boy offered him of yie cakes. He declined, but took a draft from the jug, and Waldo lay down not far off and fell to work again. It mat tered nothing if cold eyes saw it. It was not his sheep shearing machine. With material loves, as with human, we go mad once, love out and have done. We never get up the true en thusiasm a second time. This was but a thing he had made, labored over, lov ed and liked, nothing more—not his machine. The stranger forced himself lower down in the saddle and yawned. It was a drowsy afternoon, and he object ed to travel in these out of the world parts. He liked better civilized life, where at every hour of the day a man may look for his glass of wine and his easy chair and paper; where at night he may lock himself into his room with his books and a bottle of brandy and taste joys mental and physical. The world said to him—the all knowing, omnipotent world, whom no locks can bar, who has the catlike propensity of seeing best in the dark—the world said that better tliau the books he loved the brandy and better than books or brandy that which it had been better had lie loved less. But for the world he cared nothing. He smiled blandly in its teeth. All life is a dream. If wine and philosophy and women keep the dream from becoming a nightmare, so much the better. It is all they are fit for, all they can be used for. There was another side to his life and thought, but of that the world knew nothing and said nothing, as the way of the wise worfd Is. The stranger looked from beneath his sleepy eyelids at the brow"® earth that stretched away, beautiful in spite of itself, in that June sunshine; looked at the graves, the gables of the farm house showing over the stone walls of the camps, at the clownish fellow at his feet, and yawned. But he had drunk of the liiud's tea aud must say something. "Your father's place, I presume?" he inquired sleepily. "No; I am only a servant." "Dutch people?" "Yes." "And you like the life?" The boy hesitated. "On days like these." "And why on these?" The boy waited. "They are very beautiful." The stranger looked at him. It seem ed that as the fellow's dark eyes look ed across the brown earth they kin dled with an Intense satisfaction. Then they 'ooked back at the carving. What had that creature, so coarse clad and clownish, to do with the sub tle joys of the weather? Himself, white handed and delicate, he might hear the music which shimmering sun shine and solitude play on the finely strung chords of nature, but that fel low! Was not the ear in that great body too gross for such delicate mut terings? Presently he said: "May I see what you work at?" The fellow handed his wooden post. It was by no means lovely. The men and birds were almost grotesque iu their labored resemblance to nature and bore signs of patient thought. The stranger turned the tiling over on his kuee. "Where did you learn this work?" "I taught myself." "Aud these zigzag lines represent" "A mountain." The stranger looked. "It has some meaning, lias it not?" The boy muttered confusedly: "Only things." The questioner looked down at him— the huge, unwieldy figure, in size a man's, in right of its childlike fea tures and curling hair a child's—and it hurt him. It attracted him, and it hurt him. It was something between pity and sympathy. "How long have you worked at this?" "Nine months." From his pocket the stranger drew his pocketbook and took something from it. He could fasten the post to his horse in some way aud throw it away in the saud when at a safe dis tance. "Will you take this for your carv ing?" The boy glanced at the £5 note and shook his head. "No; I cannot." "You think it is worth more?" asked the stranger, with a little sneer. lie pointed with his thumb to a grave. "No; it is for him." "And who is there?" asked the stran ger. "My father." The man silently returned the note to his pocketbook aud gave the carv ing to the boy and, drawing his hat over iiis eyes, composed himself to sleej). Not being able to do so, after awhile he glanced over the fellow's shoulder to watch him work. The boy carved letters into the back. "If," said the stranger, with his melodious voice, rich with a sweetness that never showed itself in the clouded eyes, for sweetness will linger 011 in the voice after it has died out in the eyes—"if for such a purpose, why write that upon it?" The boy glanced at him, but made no answer. He had almost forgotten his presence. "You surely believe," said the stran ger, "that some day, sooner or later, these graves will open aud those Boer uncles with their wives walk about here in the red sand with the very fleshly legs with which they went to sleep? Then why say, 'He sleeps for ever?' You believe he will stand up again?" "Do you?" asked the boy, lifting for an instant his heavy eyes to the stran ger's face. Half taken aback, the stranger laugh ed. It was as though a curious little tadpole which he held under his glass should suddenly lift its tail and begin to question him. "I? No." He laughed his short, thick laugh. "I am a man who be lieves nothing, hopes nothing, fears nothing, feels nothing. I am beyond the pale of humanity, no criterion of what you should be who live here among your ostriches and bushes." The next moment the stranger was surprised by a sudden movement ou the part of the fellow, which brought him close to the stranger's feet. Soon after he raised his carving and laid it neross the man's knee. "Y'es, I will tell you," he muttered; •I will tell you all about It." He put his linger on the grotesque little manikin at the bottom (ah, that man who believed nothing, hoped noth ing, felt nothing—how he loved him!), and with eager linger the fellow moved upward, explaining over fantastic fig ures and mountains, to the crowning bird from whose wing dropped a feath er. At the end he spoke with broken breath—short -words, like one who ut ters things ofi mighty import The stranger watched more the face than the carving, and there was now and then a show of white teeth be neath the mustaches as he listened. "I think," he said blandly when the boy had done, "that I partly under stand yon. It is something after this fashion, is it not?" He smiled. "In certain valleys there was a hunter." He touched the grotesque little flgure at the bottom. "Day by day he went to hunt for wild fowl in the woods, and it chanced that once lie stood on the shores of a large; lake. While he stood waiting in the rushes for the coming of the birds a great shadow fell on him, and in the water he saw a re flection. He looked up to the sky, but the thing was gone. Theu a burning desire.came over him to see once again that reflection in the water, and all day he watched and waited, but night tame, and it had not returned. Then he went home with his empty bag, moody and silent. Ilis comrades'came questioning about him to knowHhe rea son, but he answered them nothing, lie sat alone and brooded. Then his friend caiue to him, aud to him he spoke. " 'I have seen today,* he said, 'that which 1 never saw before—a vast white bird, with silver wings outstretched, sailing in the everlasting blue. And now it is as though a.frreat fire burned within my breast. It was but a sheen, a shimmer, a reflection in the water, but now I desire nothing more on earth than to hold her.' "His friend laughed. '"lt was but a beam playing on the water or the shadow of your own head. Tomorrow you will forget her,' he said. "But tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow the hunter walked nJone. ne sought in the fotrest and in the iwoods, by the lakes and among the rushes, but he could not trnd her. lle«shot no more wild fowl. What'were they to him? " 'What ails him?' saidlhls comrades. " 'He is mad,' sakl one. " 'No; but he is worse,' said another. 'He would see that which none of us have seen nnd make himselfia wonder.' " 'Come, let us forswear this compa ny,' said all. "So the hunter walked alone. "One night, as he wandered in the shade, very iieartsone and weeping, an old man stood before him, grander and taller than the sons of men. " 'Who are/you?* askx-d the hunter. "'I am Wisdom,' answered the old man, 'but some meujcalied me Knowl edge. All my life I have growu in these valleys, but no man sees me till he lias sorrowed much. The eyes must be washed with tears that are to be hold me, and, according 1 as a man has suffered, 1, speak.' "And the hunter cried: " 'Oh. you who have lived here so long, tell me, what is that great wild bird 1 have seen sailing in the blue? They would have me believe she is a dream, the shadow of my own head.' "The old man smiled. "'Her name is Truth. He who has once seen her never rests again. Till death he desires her.' "And the hunter cried: •' 'Oh, tell me where I may find her!' "But the man said: " 'You have uot suffered enough,' and went. "Then the hunter took from his breast the shuttle of Imagination aud wound on it the thread of his Wishes, and all night he sat and wove a net. "Iu the morning he spread the golden net open 0:1 the ground, and iuto it he threw a few grains of credulity, which his father had left him and which he kept in his breast pocket. They were like white puffballs, and when you trod on them a brown dust flew out. Then he sat by to see what would happen. The flrst that came into the net was a snow white bird, with dove's eyes, aud he sang a beautiful song. 'A human God, a human God, a human God!' it sang. The second that came was black aud mystical, with dark, lovely eyes, that looked iuto the depths of your soul, aud he sang only this—'lmmor tality!' "And the hunter took them both in his arms, for he said: " 'They are surely of the beautiful family of Truth.' "Then came another, green and gold, who sang in a shrill voice, like one cry ing in the market-place, 'Reward after death, reward after death!' "And he said: " 'You are uot so fair, but you are fair, too,' and he took it. "And others came, brightly colored, singing pleasant songs till all the grains were finished, and the hunter gathered all his birds together and built a strong iron cage, called a new creed, aud put all his birds in it. "Then the people came about, danc ing and singiug. " 'Oh. happy hunter!' they cried. 'Oh, wonderful umu! Oh. delightful birds! Oh, lovely songs!' "No one asked where the birds had come from uor how they had been caught, but they dauced and sang be fore them. And the hunter, too, was glad, for he said: " 'Surely Truth Is among them. In time she will molt her feathers, and I shall see her snow white form.' "But the time passed, and the people sang and danced, but the hunter's heart grew heavy. He crept alone, as of old, to weep. The terrible desire had awakened again in his breast. One day, as he sat alone weeping, It chanc ed that Wisdom met him. lie told the old man what he had done. "And Wisdom smiled sadly. " 'Many men,' he said, 'have spread lhat net for Truth, but they have never found her. On the grains of credulity she will not feed; in the net of wishes her feet cannot be held; ia the air of these valleys she will not breathe. The birds you have caught are of the brood of Lies —lovely and beautiful, but still lies. Truth kuows them not.' "And the hunter cried out in bitter ness: " 'And must I, then, sit still, to be devoured of this great burning?' "And the old man said: " 'Listen, and in that you have suf fered much and wept much I will toll |ou what I know. He who sets out to learch for Truth must leave these val leys of superstition forever, taking with him not one shred that has be longed to them. Alone hi must wan der down Into the Land of Absolute Negation and Denial. He must abide there. He must resist temptation. When the light breaks, he must arise and follow It Into the country of dry sunshine. The mountains of stern reality will rise before him. He must climb them. Beyond them lies Truth.' " 'And he will hold her fast! He will hold her in his hands!' the hunter cried. "Wisdom shook his head. " 'He will never see her, never hold Uer. The time Is not yet' " 'Then there is no hope?' cried the hunter. " 'There is this,' said Wisdom. 'Some men have climbed on those mountains —circle above circle of bare rock they have scaled—and, wandering there in those high regions, some have chanced to pick up on the ground one white, silver feather dropped from the wing of Truth. And it shall come to pass,' said the old man, raising himself prophetically and pointing with his lin ger to the sky—'it shall come to pass, when enough of those silver feathers shall have been gathered by the ffands of men and shall have been woven into a cord, and the cord into a net, rtat in that net Truth may be captured. Noth ing but Truth can hold Truth.' "The hunter arose. 'I will go,' he said. "But Wisdom detained him. " 'Mark you well—who leaves these valleys never/returns to them. Thougli he should weep tears of blood seven days and nights upon the confines, he can never put his foot across them. Left, they are left forever. Upon the road which you would travel there is no reward offered. Who goes, goes freely, for the great love that is in him. The work is his reward.' " 'I go,' said the hunter, 'but upon the mountains, tell me, which path shall I take?' " 'I am the child of the Accumulated Knowledge of Ages,' said the mau. 'I can walk only where many men have trodden. On those mountains few feet have passed. Each man strikes out a path for himself. He goes at liis own peril. My voice he hears no more. I may follow after him, but I canuot go before him.' "Then Knowledge vanished. "And the hunter turned. He went to his cage and with his hands broke down the bars, and the jagged iron tore his flesh. It Is sometimes easier to build than to break. "One by one he took his plumed birds and let them fly. But when he came to his dark plumed bird he held it and looked into its beautiful eyes, and the bird uttered its low, deep cry—'lmmor tality!' "And he said quickly: 'I cannot part with it. It is not heavy. It eats no food. I will liSde It in my breast. I will take It with me.' And he burled it there and covered itlover with ills cloak. "But the thing he had hidden grew heavier, heavier, heavier, till it lay on Lis breast like lead. He could not move It. He could not leave> those val leys with-it. Then again he rtook it out and looked at It. " 'Oh, my beautiful, my heart's own!' he cried. 'May I not "keep you? "He opened his hands sadly. " 'Go,' he said. 'lt may happen that in Truth's song one note is like to yours, but I shall.never hear it.' "Sadly he opened his hand, and' the bird flew from liim forever. "Then from tlie> shuttle of ilmagina tion he took the thread of bin Wishes and threw it on the ground, anil the empty shuttle ho put iuto lids breast, for the thread was made in those val leys, but the shuttle came fr<«n an un known country, lie turned no go, but now the people came about him, howl lug. " 'Fool, hound, demented lunaticT they erie«l. 'How dared you break your cage and let the birds fly?' "The hunter spoke, but they would . not hear him. "'Truth! Who Is she? Can you eat ; her? Can you drink her? Who has : ever seen her? Your birds were real. All could hear them slug. Oh, fool! j Vile reptile! Atheist!'they cried. 'You pollute the air!" '• 'Come; let us take up stones and j stone hiiu!' cried some. " 'What affair is it of ours?' said others. I-et the idiot go,' aud went away. Rut the rest gathered up stones j and mud aud threw at him. At last, j when he was bruised and cut, the i hunter crept away into the woods, aud ! it was evening about him." At every word the stranger spoke the fellow's eyes flashed back on him— I yes. and yes, and yes! The stranger | smiled. It was almost worth tlie trou- i ble of exerting oneself, even on a lazy j nfternoon, to win those passionate flashes, more thirsty and desiring than the love glances of a woman. "lie wandered on and on," said the stranger, "and the shade grew deeper. He was on the borders now of the land where it is always night. Then he stepped into it, and there was no light there. With his hands he groped, but eac4i branch as lie touched it broke off. nnd" the earth was covered with cinders. At every step his foot sank in, and a tine cloud of impalpable ash ps flew up iuto ills face, and it was fiark. So he sat down upon a stone ind buried his face in his hands to wait that Land of Negation and Denial till the light came. "And it was night in his heart also. "Then from the marshes to his right and left cold mists arose and closed about him. A fine, imperceptible rain fell in the dark, and great drops gath ered on his hair and clothes. His heart beat slowly, and a numbness crept through all his limbs. Then, looking up, two merry whisp lights came danc ing. He lifted his head to look at them. Nearer, nearer they came, so warm, so bright, they danced like stars of fire. They stood before him at last From the center of the radiating flauie In one looked out a woman's face, laughing, dimpled, with streaming yel low hair. In the center of the other were merry, laughing ripples, like the bubbles on a glass of wine. They danced before him. " 'Who are you,' asked the hunter, 'who alone come to me in my solitude and darkness?' " 'We are the twins Sensuality!' they cried. 'Our father's name is Human Nature, and our mother's name is Ex cess. We are as old as the hills and rivers, as old as the first man, but we never die,' they laughed. '"Oh, let me wrap my arms about you!' cried the flrst. 'They are soft aud warm. Your heart is frozen now, but I will make it beat. Oh, come to me!" " 'I will pour my hot life into you,' said the second. 'Your bralu is numb, and your limbs are dead now, but they shall live with a fierce free life. Oh, let me pour it in!' " 'Oh, follow us,' they cried, 'and live with us! Nobler hearts than yours have sat here in this darkness to wait, nnd they# have come to us and we to them, aud they have never left us, nev er. All else is a delusion, but we are real, we are real. Truth is a shadow, the valleys of superstition are & farce the earth is of ashes, the trees all rot ten, but we—feel us—we live! You cannot doubt us. Feel us. How warm we are! Oh, come to us! Come to us!' "Nearer and nearer round his head they hovered, and the cold drops melt ed on his forehead. The bright light shot into his eyes, dazzling him, and the frozen blood began to run. And he said: "" 'Yes. Why should I die here in this awful darkness? They are warm; they melt my frozen blood!' And he stretched out his hands to take them. "Then in a moment there arose be fore him the image of the thing he had loved, and his hand dropped to his side. " 'Oh, come to us!' they cried. "But he buried his face. " 'You dazzle my eyes,' he cried, 'you make my heart warm, but you canuot give me M'hat 1 desire. I will wait here —wait till I die. Go!' "He covered his face with his hands and would not listen, and when he looked up again they were two twin kling stars, that vanished in the dis tance. "And the long, long night rolled on. "All who leave the valley of supersti tion pass through that dark land, but some go through It in a few days, some linger there for months, some for years, and some die there." The boy had crept closer. His hot breath almost touched the stranger's hand. A mystic wonder filled his eyes. "At last for the hunter a faint light played along the horizon, and he rose to follow it, and he reached that light at last and stepped into the broad sun shine. Then before him rose the al mighty mountains of Dry Facts and Realities. The clear sunshine played on them, and the tops were lost in the clouds. At the foot many paths ran up. An exultant cry burst from the hunter. lie chose the straiglitest and began to climb, and the rocks and ridges resounded with his song. They had exaggerated. After all, it was not so high, nor was the road so steep. A few days, a few weeks, a few months at most, and then the top! Not one feather only would he pick up. He would gather all that other men had found, weave the net, capture Truth, hold her fast, touch her with his hands, clasp her! "He laughed in the merry sunshine and sang loud. Victory was very near. Nevertheless, after awhile the path grew steeper. lie needed all his breath for climbing, and the singing died away. On the right and left rose huge rocks, devoid of lichen or moss, and in the lavalike earth chasms yawned. Here and there he saw a sheen of white bones. Now, too, the path began to grow less and less marked. Then it became a mere trace, with a footmark here and there; then it ceased altogeth er. He sang no more, but struck forth a path for himself until he reached a mighty wall of rock, smooth and with out break, stretching as far sis the eye could see. 'I will rear a stair against it, and, once this wall climbed, 1 shall be almost there,' he said bravely and worked. With his shuttle of Imagina tion lie dug out stones, but half of them would not fit, and half a month's work would roll down because those below were ill chosen. But the hunter work ed on, saying always to himself, 'Ouce this wall climbed, I shall be almost there, this great work ended!" "At last he came out upon the top, and he looked about him. Far below rolled the white mist over the valleys of Superstition, and above him tower ed the mountains. They had seemed low before. They were of an immeas urable height now, from crown to foun dation surrounded by walls of rock that rose tier above tier in mighty cir cles. Upon them played the eternal sunshine, lie uttered a wild cry. He bowed himself on to the earth, aud when he rose his face was white. In absolute silence >• was very silent now. In those high re glous the rarefied air Is bard to breathe by those In the valleys. Every breath he drew hurt him, and the blood oozed out from the tips ct his fingers. Before the nest wall of rock he began to work. The height OJ." this seemed infinite, aud lie said nothing. The sound of his tool rang night and day upon the Iron rocks Into which he cut steps. Years passed over him, yet he worked on, but the wall towered up always above him to heaven. Some times iie prayed that a little moss or lichen might spring up on those bare walls to be a companion to him, but it never came." The stranger watched the boy's face. "And the years rolled on. He count ed them by the steps he had cut—a few for a year, only a few. He sang no more. He said no more. *1 will do this or that;' he only worked. And at night when the twilight settled down there looked out at him from the holes and crevices in the rocks many strange, wild faces. " "Stop your work, you lonely man, and speak to us.' they cried. ' 'My salvation Is in work. If I should stop but for one moment, you would creep dowu upon me,' he re plied. And they put out their long uecks farther. " 'Look down Into the crevice at your feet,' they said. 'See what lie there white bones! As brave and strong a man as you climbed to these rocks. Aud he looked up. He saw there was no use in striving. He would never hold Truth, never see her, fcever find her. So he lay down here, for he was very tired. He went to sleep forever. He put himself to sleep. Sleep is very tranquil. You are not lonely when you are asleep, neither do your hands ache nor your heart.' % And the hunter laughed between his teeth. " 'Have I torn from my heart all that was dearest? Have 1 wandered alone In the land of night? Have I resisted temptation? Have 1 dwelt where the voice of my kind is never heard and labored alone to lie down and be food for you, ye harpies?* "He laughed fiercely, and the echoes of despair slunk away, for the laugh of a brave, strong heart Is a death blow to them. "Nevertheless they crept out again &pd looked at him. " 'Do you know that your hair Is white,' they said, 'that your hands begin to tremble like a child's? -Do you see that the point of your shuttle Is gone? It Is cracked already. If you should ever climb this stair,' they said, 'it will be your last You will never climb another.' "And he answered, '1 know It!' aud worked on. "The old, thin hands cut the stones ill and jaggedly, for the fingers were stiff and bent. The beauty and the strength of the man were gone. "At last an old, wizened, shrunken face looked out above the rocks. It saw the eternal mountain rise with walls to the white clouds, but its work was done. "The old hunter folded his tired hands and lay down by the precipice where he had worked away his life. It was the sleeping time at last Be low him over the valleys rolled the thick white mist Once it broke, and through the gap the dying eyes looked down on the trees and fields of their childhood. I-'rom afar seemed borne to him the cry of his own wild birds, and he heard the noise of the people singing as they danced, and he thought he heard among them the voices of his old comrades, and he saw afar off the sunlight shine on his early home, and great tears gathered in the hunter's eyes. " 'Ah, they who die there do not die alone!' he cried. "Then the mists rolled together again, and he turned his eyes away. " 'I have sought' he said, 'for long years I have labored, but I have not found her. I have not rested, I have not repined, and I have not seen her. Now my strength Is gone. Where I lie down worn out other men will stand young and fresh. By the steps that I have cut they will climb; by the stairs that I have built they will mount. They will never know the name of the man who made them. At the clumsy work they will laugh; when the stones roll, they will curse me. Btit they will mount and on my work; they will climb, and by my stair! They will find her, and through me! And no man liveth to himself, and no man dletli to himself.' "The tears rolled from beneath the shriveled eyelids. If Truth had ap peared above him In the clouds now, he could not have seen her—the mist of death was In his eyes. " 'My soul hears their glad step com ing In,' lie. said, 'and they shall mount, they shall mount!' He raised his shriv eled hand to his eyes. "Then slowly, from the white sky above, through the still air, came something falling, falling, falling. Softly it fluttered down and dropped on to the breast of the dying man. He felt It with his hands. It was a feath er. He died holding it." The boy had shaded his eyes with his hand. On the wood of the carving great drops fell. The stranger must have laughed at him or remained si lent. He did so. "How did you know it?" the boy whispered at last "It Is not written there, not on that wood. How did you know it?" "Certainly," said his 6tranger, "the whole of the story is not written here, but it Is suggested. And the attribute of all true art, the highest and the low est, is this—that it says more than it says and takes you away from itself. It is a little door that opens into an infi nite hall where you may find what you please. Men, thinking to detract, say, 'People read more In this or that work of genius than was ever written in it,' not perceiving that they pay the high est compliment. If we pick up the lin ger and nail of a real man, we can de cipher a whole story—could almost re construct the creature again from head to foot. But half the body of a Mum boo-Jumbow idol leaves us utterly in the dark as to what the rest was like. We see what we see, but nothing more. There is nothing so universally intelli ble as truth. It has a thousand mean ings and suggests a thousand more." lie turned over the wooden thing. "Though a man should carve it into matter with the least possible manipu lative skill, it will yet find interpreters. It Is the soul that looks out with burn ing eyes through the most gross fleshly filament. Whosoever should portray truly the life and death of a little flower—its birth, sucking In of nourish ment, reproduction of its kind, wither ing and vanishing—would have shaped a symbol of all existence. All true facts of nature or the mind are related. Your little carving represents some mental facts as they really are, there fore 50 different true stories might be ren(3 from it. What your work wants Is not truth, but beauty of external Corm, the other half of art." He leaned almost gently toward the boy. '•Skill may coiie in time, but you will hate to work hard. The love of beauty and the desire for it must be born in a man. The skill to reproduce M 0.20 It he nuiit make. Flo nßlst work hard." "All my life 1 have longed to sew you," the boy said. «- The stranger broke oflf the cud cf 1. ; cigar and lighted It. The boy llf: I the heavy wood from the stran;; . s knee and drew yet nearer him. In t.e dogllke manner of his drawing i;-ar there was something superbly ridicu lous, unless one chanced to view it In another light. Presently the stranger said, whining. "l>o something for me?" The ln>y started up. "No; stay where you are. I don't want you to go anywhere. I want you to talk to me. Tell me what you have been doing ail your life." The boy slunk dowu again. Would that the man had asked him to root up bushes with his hands for his horse to feed on. or to run to the far end of the plain for the fossils that lay there, or to gather the flowers that grew on the hills at the edge of the plain. He would have run aud been back quickly—but now! ••I have never done anything." he said. "Then tell me of that nothing. I like to know what other folks have been doing whose word I can believe. It Is interesting. What was the first thing you ever wanted very much?" The boy waited to remember, then began hesitatingly, but soon the words flowed. In the smallest past we find an inexhaustible mine when once we begin to dig at It. A confused, disordered story, the lit tle made large and the large small, and nothing showing its Inward meaning. It is not till the past has receded many steps that before fte clearest eyes It falls Into co-ordinate pictures. It is not till the I we tell of has ceased to exist that It takes Its place among other objective realities aud finds Its true niche in the picture. The present and the near past are a confusion, whose meaning flashes on us as it slinks away into the distance. The stranger lighted one cigar from the end of another aud puffed and listened with half closed eyes. "1 will remember more to tell you If you like," said the fellow. He spoke with that extreme gravity common to all very young things who feel deeply. It Is not till 20 that we learn to be In deadly earnest and to laugh. The stranger nodded, while the fellow sought for something more to relate. lie would tell all to this man of his—all that he knew, all that he had felt, his most inmost sorest thought. Suddenly the stranger turn ed upon him. "Boy," he said, "you are happy to be here." Waldo looked at him. Was his de lightful one ridiculing him? Here, with his brown earth aud these low hills, while the rare wonderful world lay all beyond. Fortunate to be here I The stranger read his glance. "Yes," he said, "here with the karroo bushes and the red sand. Do you won der what 1 mean? To all wlio have been born In the old faith there comes a of danger, when the old slips from us, and we have not yet planted our feet on the new. We hear the voice from Sinai thundering no more, and the still, small voice of reason Is not yet heard. We have proved the re ligion our mothers fed us on to be a delusion. In our bewilderment we see no rule by which to guide our steps day by day. and yet every day we must etep somewhere." The stranger leaned forward aud spoke more quickly. "We have never once been taught by word or act to distinguish between religion and the moral laws on which It has artfully fastened Itself and from which It has sucked Its vitality. When we have dragged down the weeds and creepers that covered the solid wall and have found them to be rotten wood, we imagine the wall Itself to be rotten wood too. We find It Is solid and standing only when we fall head long against It. We have been taught that all right and wrong originate In the will of an irresponsible being. It Is some time before we see how the In exorable 'Thou shalt and shalt not' are carved into the nature of things. This is the time of danger." Ills dark, misty eyes looked into tho boy's. "In the eml experience will inevita bly teaeli us that the lnws for a wise and noble life have a foundation infi nitely deeper than the fiat of any be ing, God or man, even in the ground work of human nature. She will teach us that whoso sheddeth man's blood, though by man his blood be not shed, though no man avenge and no hell await, yet every drop shall blister on his soul and eat in the name of the dead. She will teach that whoso takes a love not lawfully his own gathers a flower with a poison on its petals; that whoso revenges, strikes with a sword that has two edges—one for his adver sary, one for himself; that who lives to himself Is dead, though the ground Is not yet on liiiu; that who wrongs an other clouds his own sun, and that who sins in secret stands accused and con demned before the one Judge who deals eternal justice—his own all knowing self. "Experience will teach us tills, and reason will show us why it must l>e so, but at first the world swings before our eyes, and no voice cries out: 'This Is the way. Walk ye in it!' You arc happy to be here, boy. When the sus pense fills you with pain, you build stone walls and dig earth for relief. Others have stood where you stand to day and have felt as you feel, and an other relief has been offered them, and they have taken It. "When the day has come when they have seen the path in which thoy might walk, they have not the strength to follow it. nabits have fastened on them from which nothing but death can free them; which cling closer than his sacerdotal sanctimony to a which feed on the Intellect like a worm, slipping energy, hope, creative power, all that makes a man higher than a l>east, leaving only the power to yearn, to regret aud to sink lower lh the abyss. "Boy," he said, and the listener was not more unsmiling now than the speaker, "you are happy to be here. Stay where you are. If you ever pray, let It be only the one old prayer, 'Lead us not into temptation.' Live on here qui etly. The time may yet come when you will be that which other men have hoped to bo and never will be now." The stranger rose, shook the dust from his sleeve and, ashamed at his own earnestness, looked across the bushes for his horse. "We should have been on our way al ready," he said. "We shall have a long ride In the dark tonight." Waldo hastened to fetch the animal, hut he returned leading It slowly. The 6ooner It came the sooner would its rider be gone. The stranger was opening his saddle bag, in which were a bright French novel and an old brown volume. lie took the last and held It out to the boy. "It may he of some help to you," he •aid carelessly. "It was a gospel to me When I tirst fell on it. You must not expect too much, but it may give you a center round which to hang your ideas Instead of letting them lie about In con- Continued 011 4th page.