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 <Sr
I One Dose j
i Tells the story. When your head
J Bad yoa mstl- J
Pi.nt ! :m-c1 out ot tune, with vuur#
# stomach sour and r.o appetite, just f
0 buy a package of 0
( He ad's Piiis |
J And take a dose, from 1 to 1 pill?. J
J You will he surj>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 <lru£ Price, 50 cents.
RAILROAD TIME TABLES.
TJUFFALO, ROCHESTER &
■° PITTSBURG RV. The
new trunk line between Pittsburg,
Butler, Bradford, Rochester and
Buff do.
On and after Jan. 1, 1900. passenger
trfiins will leave Butler, P. <te \V. S;a
tion as follows Eastern Standard Time:
10:12 a.m. Vestibnled Limited, daily,
for Dayton, Punxsutawuey, Da-
Bois Ridgwiiy, Bradford, Buffalo
and Rochester.
5:22 p.m. Accommodation, week days
only, Craigsville, Day ton. Punxsu
tawney, Dußios, Falls Creek.
Curwensville, Clearfield and inter
mediate stations
C:-! 5 a.m. Week days only: mixed train
for Craigsville, Davton, Pnnxsn
tawney and intei mediate points.
This train leaves Pnnxsntawnej- at
1:00 p.m. arriving at Butler at 5:43
p.in , stopping at all intermediate
stations
Thousand mile tickets good for pas
sage between all stations on the B. K.
<V PR'y and X Y ('. R 11. Penua,
division) at 2 cents per mile.
For tickets, time tables and furthei
information call on or address,
W. R. TUBNEB, Agt.
Butler, Pa., or
EDWARD C. L
(ien'l Pass. Agent.
Rochester, N. Y.
P., Bessemer Ac L K.
Trains depart: No 14. at 9:1 *> 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 <v, Pi
II O DI'N'KLK,
Snp't. W &L. Div.. Allegheny Pa.
PENNSYLVANIA Ri 4,
WFSTERN PENNSYLVANIA DIVISION.
SOUEDULS IN KiFKcr Nov. 2c», 189'J
SOUTH. , WEKK DAYS .
A. M A. M A. M. P. SI P. M
BUTLER Leave G 25 8 05 10 50 > 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;<j£ i>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.