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Entered at the Postoffloe at Frealand. Pa,
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Make all money orders, ohecke. ete. ,pnyable
to (he Tribune J'rinling Company, Limited.
Charles M. Schwab's presentation
to the Austrian monarch is another
Illustration of the Biblical promises
that the diligent man shall stand he
fore kings.
King Edward has pleased the Welsh
people immensely by directing "that
there be added to the ■achievement of
the Prince of Wales the badge of the
Red Dragon." The Red Dragon of
Cadwallader of Wales was quartered
by Henry (Tudor) VII in a banner
.with his other badges in recognition
oi his direct descent from Owen Tu
dor, the Welsh Prince. When the
Stuarts ascended the throne the
dragon was dropped from the coat of
arms, and it has not since reappeared
until now through its restoration to
the achievement of arms of the heir
apparent who takes his title from the
little principality.
The record of deaths in Alpine climb
ing in Switzerland during last year
amounts to 110, which is said to be
more than double that of the previous
year. Probably many of these fatali
ties may be traced to lack of experi
ence or fooliiardiness among tourists.
Mountain climbing is an art, and to
be successful in it demands a clear
head, steady nerves and no small skill
in keeping one's feet in dangerous
places. Nothing is more exhilarating
than mountain climbing when a mis
step may mean swift and sudden
death; but Switzerland ought to pass
some law restricting this pastime to
those who are able to prove that they
have had experience as mountaineers,
thinks the San Francisco Chronicle.
Khaki has been llnally discarded by
the British War Office for service
dress, and in its place has been substi
tuted a rainproof, drab-mixtured cloth
for coats, which is supposed to be
equally suited to summer and winter
wear. Trousers are to he made of a
similar cloth, which, however, instead
of being a solid color, are to be of drab
tartan, and the puttee and boots for
privates and non-commissioned officers
have been discarded in favor of leather
leggins in the mounted service and
canvas in the Infantry. It is notice
able also that the slouch campaign
hat, heretofore peculiar to our own ser
vice, has been with a few modilica
tions, generally adopted iu the English
service, and that the cork helmet has
suffered the same fate as the khaki.
Too l(iky.
During the dinner hour at a certain
factory not long ago there was a some
what heated argument iu progress,
when one individual, who had hitherto
kept silent, was appealed to for au
opinion.
i "Come, Bill," remarked his friend,
"we knows you loves a argyment, an'
can spout wi' the best. Wot's your
opinion o' this Boer war business ?"
"I ain't a-going to discuss it," said
Bill, promptly. "I've threshed the mat
ter oot afore."
"An' what did ye arrive at?" he was
asked.
"Woy," was the cool reply, "me an'
t'other chap didn't agree, nohow. We
took different roads, so to speak. lie
arrived at the 'orspital an' I arrived
at the police station, an' I ain't a-goiu'
to thresh that matter out again in a
hurry 1"
Neither was Bill pressed to do so.—
Tit-Bits.
The Cook wagon works at Prospect
employing 75 men, has been purchases
by the Hubers and will shortly be re
moved to Marion.
Roy Wilson was run down and ins
tantly killed by a passenger train al
East Liverpool.
The farm of Israel Franks, south ol
Wooster. was burned. Loss, $3,500;
no insurance.
The new memorial chapel of tht
University at Wooster, was dedicatee
Wednesday.
Robbers looted the postoffice at Ox
ford of $1,500 in stamps and SIOO it
cash.
J THE CONTRARINESS OF MARY. !
ÜBy Elizal e'.h McCracken. 0
"Have you decided yet, dear, wheth
er you will go to California with us,
or out to the farm with Aunt Rachel?
We won't urge either course, but you
must decide something before Satur
day."
Mary's mother stood in the doorway,
buttoning her gloves. She looked anx
iously at Mary, who sat on the lowest
step, holding three open letters that
she evidently was eager to read.
"Well, mother dear, here is my last
'complete and unconditional' deci
sion."
"Really, Mary? You aren't going to
have another before night?"
"No, mother, I've wavered long
enough."
"You certainly have."
"Don't be 'sarcastical' to your one
and only Mary," said the one and only
Mary, with an embrace that almost
ruined her mother's chiffon ruchings.
"You see, mother, if I go to Aunt
Rachel's, I shall get so bored that
Aunt Rachel will regret she ever
asked me, and forget that she had ever
labeled me a 'sunny presence.' Of
course it would be near enough for
Cousin Burney to come out and stir
us up; but Burney is so absorbed in
his summer hospital that he can talk
of nothing else but slum children with
the measles. Burney is a perfect bore
—at times —since he got his M. D."
"My dear —"
"Now don't he shocked with your
own Mary. I don't mean anything
dreadful, but I'm not interested in
measles and germs. Now if Igo with
you I'll have a lovely time, and Aunt
Rachel will he none the worse in the
end. So I am going with you. Arc
you glad?" she asked, with a wheed
lesome smile.
"Of course I want you myself, dear;
but Aunt Rachel does need the 'sunny
presence'. She is so lonely! If you
should change your mind again, re
member that Aunt Rachel will enjoy
having as many of your friends visit
you as tho house will hold," said her
mother.
"Ye-es, I know; hut I shall not
change my mind now. In fact, I don't
want to go to Aunt Rachel's, mother.
I don't like farms, and —I would rather
go with you."
A little shadow came over her
mother's face; but she merely said:
"Then it is decided that you go with
us."
"Aren't you glad?"
"I am always glad to have you with
me. Your father and I would be quite
desolate indeed without you; but,
dear, I wish you would learn to be
more interested —"
"In uninteresting people? Perhaps*
I shall some time, hut I am so tired of
them now! Burney doesn't know any
other kind; and really, mother, 1
couldn't stand a whole summer filled
with a farm —and —and Burney's in
evitable enthusiasm over dirty little
children —aside from Aunt Rachel,
who is always urging me to help
Burney, No, it's dreadful! But I don't
believe in Burney's giving up his sum
mer to keeping children alive who
have nothing to live for."
"Wo won't discuss that again," her
mother said, gravely. "I must go
now. Good-by, dear."
Mary returned to her seat on the
steps. "Mother doesn't understand,"
she thought, wistfully. "I never want
ed Burney to study medicine; and to
give his time to saving lives that are
better ended, when he might at least
save valuable ones, it is too much. I
simply won't stay near him all sum
mer and listen to him! It will teach
him a lesson," she concluded virtuous
ly.
She had never wholly forgiven her
cousin because he had, against her
advice, studied medicine with the in
tention of devoting himself to the free
wards of the city hospitals for chil
dren.
"Why don't you do something that
will benefit humanity, Burney," she
had repeatedly said, "instead of keep
ing children alive who have no past
no present and no future but misery?"
"You don't understand," Burney as
repeatedly had said, "that I am reliev
ing their misery for the moment. You
don't know what they may have to
live for. They are little human chil
dren and have a right to their lives;
they want them, and I shall help them
keep them."
"You are very foolish and sentimen
tal," Mary said; but possibly slio rc
spected his foolishness and sentimen
tality more than she admitted.
"I think Burney might at least con
sider his family and come to Califor
nia, instead of setting up a summer
Fresh Air Hospital." sho said plain
tively to herself, as she unfolded her
first letter.
It was from Aunt Rachel; and it
said, in part, "I hope that you will
Bpend the summer with me,
dearie. I am getting to bo an old
woman, and won't *.ave many more
summers. You may fill the house
with 'pretty maids all in a row,' if
you like. . . Do he kind to Burney.
He is doing a noble work. Let him
tell you about it."
"As if lie didn't, day and night!"
ejaculated Mary. " 'Do—be —kind to
Burney.' I'm not unkind to him, and
he is chasing a shadow."
She began to read her second letter.
It was from a distant friend, who said
in it: "Father says your cousin, Dr.
Burney Harri3ton, is doing such a fine
piece of work this summer, with his
Fresh Air Hospital for poor children.
Do tell me about it and let me help if
I can. I suppose you are absorbed in
it. What kind of children are they—
Irish or Italian? How much It will
mean to them! And how unselfish of
your cousin! I remember seeing him
once at college. Is he as nice as he
used to be?"
Mary sat, with her chin in her hmds
gazing into space. "'Absorbed in it!'
I've never even seen it. I suppose I
shall have to or, Grace will think I am
a heartless wretch. Perhaps I am;
but —Burney is so exasperating!"
Her third letter had fallen to the
floor. She savagely pulled it from its
envelope. It was, as sha inew, from
her cousin, Dr. Bumey Harris ton-
who was so exasperating.
"My dear Mistress Mary (quite con
trary)." (Burney is getting more hor
rid every day," commented Mistress
Mary.) "Won't you come down and
see my garden grow," before you go
away? I know you will see how val
uable all lives are if you will just see
and know some that are different from
yours. You judge too much in the
light of your own theories." ("The
audacity of the boy!" exclaimed the
theorist.) "You don't realize that the
poorest, smallest human life is a part
of the plan of the world, and can't be
disregarded or forgotten.
"You'll come down on Thursday,
won't you? Please do. When are you
going to California?"
Mary slowly put the letter in the en
velope.
Perhaps I haven't been very nice to
Burney. He is trying to do good, but
he is carried away by enthusiasm. I
don't know much about slum people,
but I do know how they live. They
are just like animals; they have no
higher natures. They don't have any
ideals."
Mary pulled out Burney's letter and
read it for the second time.
"I'll go Thursday. I might as well;
and Grace wants to hear about it."
She went upstairs to her room and
wrote a note to Burney. In the post
script she said, "I am not yet abso
lutely certain that I shall go to Cali
fornia. If I do it will be next week."
Dr. Burney Harriston's Fresh Air
Hospital for children was merely a
large house, very near the sea and not
far from the city, and it had room for
twenty children. Interested and gen
erous friends had provided Burney
with funds for the work, and five or
six nurses, who expected no summer
employment had volunteered their
services.
"Why, Burney!" exclaimed Mary on
Thursday morning, as they approach
ed the hospital. "It looks like an or
dinary house."
It is an ordinary house—only wit!)
more children in it than most houses
have."
"What kind of children are they—
Irish?" asked Mary, mindful of her
friend's questions.
"Some of them. There are all kinds.
They aren't very ill, most of them.
They merely need a little special as
sistance and good food and fresh air.
Some of them would have died without
it."
"O Burney, wouldn't It have been
better for them if they had?" askud
ary.
"Mary, how can you ask that?" satd
the young doctor reproachfully.
"It seems better to me, Burney. But
don't look so shocked. Show me your
hospital. It is very much like a hos
pital inside, except that the rooms
haven't so many beds; and there are
so many windows that its like being
outdoors."
"That's the important part of it."
said Burney, eager to explain. "You
see the children need principally air
and they get a lot this way; and it
does them so much good!" Burney
fell into Mary's habit of italicizing,
and Mary smiled at liim more ap
provingly.
"Now, Mary, I have to go around and
see the patients. Will you come or
will you wander about as you like?"
"I'll wander, thank you," said Mary.
"" will be more interesting."
She felt out of her element with the
nurses; they evidently looked upon
her as superfluous, and Mary was not
accustomed to being viewed in any
such light.
She peeped into the dining-room,
smiled at the queer kitchen, examined
with interest the cots on the broad
piazza, and finally went into one of
the cool rooms, through the door of
which she saw four little white bed 3.
The little children in the beds were
asleep, and Mary would have left the
room had her attention not been at
tracted by a man who sat beside the
bed in the corner, with his heavy eyes
fixed upon the small yellow head rest
ing on the pillow. He was, to all ap
pearances, a commonplace Irish lab
orer, but something in his utter ab
sorption in the child aroused Mary's
curiosity.
She stepped lightly across the room
and looked at the small, white face,
with its pathetic mouth and droll,
little turned up nose.
"What a cunning little girl!" she
said to the man, resolving to scold
Burney for failing to tell her the chil
dren in the hospital were so dear.
"Sure, miss, an' it's thot she is. She's
me only wan, and she's the amidge of
her mother. She's homely, but she's
real cute."
"Why, she's pretty!" said Mary, ar
gumentatively.
"An' do you think so, miss? Well
an' I've seen wuss-lookin' wans." He
carefully smothed the coverlet with
his coarse red hand.
"She isn't very ill, is she?" Mary
asked.
"Where is her mother?" she added
suddenly remembering that the man
had mentioned her.
"Ah, miss, she's dead; an' me little
gur-rl would ha' been dead, too, but
for Docthor Harriston. An' do you
know Docthor Harriston. miss?"
"Oh, yes, he is my cousin. I kno*
him very well," said Mary.
"Sure it's a foine man ye ne
knowin'; and it's proud ye must be
to be havin' him for a cousin." Mary
had never happened to take this view
of Burney, and she made no reply.
After awhile she said, "is your little
girl very ill?" Her theories with re
gard to the value of such a child's life
began to tremble somewhat.
"No, an' she's gettin' well now; but
miss, it was sick she was. Ah, but
Docthor Harriston worked, miss, for
me gur-rl! It was near to dyin' she
was, miss, when he took her in here,
an' now she's gettin' well!"
Mary's eyes were large with wonder
and interest.
"The idea of Burney's never telling
me anything like this!" she thought
fiercely. The man cared for this little
girl exactly as other men cared for
their little girls; and Burney—perhaps
she hadn't encouraged Burney to tell
her.
"And if she hadn't got well," she
said to the man, "would it —It would
have been dreadfully hard,
wouldn't—"
"Hard? Ah, miss, I can see as yo
don't know how a mon feels wid his
gur-rl. She's all the loife of me is
for, miss. If she'd died, it's nothin' I'd
had left to me. It's the most them
that's pore has, their children."
He gently touched the child's yellow
hair, not noticing Mary was silent.
"It's next wake she's to lave here,
miss, and it's hard it'll be for her be
fore she's strong, wid me gone all
day," he said musingly.
Mary no longer hesitated. Let her
come and spend a week with me after
she leaves here. Please do! I'm go
ing to stay all summer on my aunt's
farm, and I'm going next week. It is
only ten miles out to it, and you can
easily come out when Aunt Rachel
sends in for groceries; and I am Dr.
Harriston's cousin," said Mary with a
suspicious break in her voice.
"Oh, it's glad I'd be, miss, and it's
yourself I'll be askin' the saints 10
bless, together with Docthor Harris
ton."
He took Mistress Mary's patrician
little hand in his hard red one, and
pressed it with a fevor that made her
wince.
"Sure, ye have Dr. Harriston's own
way wid ye."
Mary's chin went up slightly; then
she laughed softly at herself, and
asked the little girl's name and ad
dress.
"I must say good-by now and find
Dr. Harriston," she said. "He will
arrange everything with you."
She went swiftly to the hall, where
her cousin stood talking earnestly to
one of the nurses.
"Burney, come here this moment!"
she commanded. "What do you mean
by not telling me the truth about the
people in this hospital?"
"Why, Mary—"
"You never told me the children
were sweet, and that their fathers and
mothers were fond of them."
"Why, I should think you would
have known that," he began, but Maty
interrupted.
"You needn't begin to make ex
cuses, Burney Harriston! I'm going
home now. It doesn't matter whether
you can go now or not; I can go alone
—but you'll hear from me about this,
Burney Harriston!"
Poor Burney was kept in suspense
for three days. Mary had suddenly
gone to spend two days with Aunt
Rachel, and Burney could get no hint
of the revenge that she was contem
plating.
"Mary always has been contrary,"
her mother said, and Burney did not
see the laughter in her eyes.
Finally he did "hear" from Mary,—
on twelve pages of her best monogram
paper,—and these are the words ho
read in the concluding paragraphs:
"Aunt Rachel says the house will
hold ten children at a time. You can
send them for ten days each as soon
as they are well. Grace is coming t:>
stay all summer, and so are two of the
other girls, so we can easily take care
of them. The money father gave me
in place of my tickets to and from
California will be enough to pay for
the things they need. First of all,
though, Burney Harriston, you will
just explain, if you can, why, in the
hours you have talked about your slum
children, you never happened to men
tion that they were sweet, and that
they made as much difference to theli
fathers and mother's as any children.
—Youth's Companion.
Olilnt-.e Honesty.
As for the honesty of these people,
I appeal to every English merchant
or banker, from Peltin to Hongkong,
to answer if he ever heard of a dis
honest Chinese merchant or banker.
So far from that, not only has every
English bank two Chinamen to re
ceive and hand out money, but every
bank in Japan has the same. The
English will tell you, half in jest, that
the Japanese is an Oriental Yankee,
and does not trust his own people;
and they will tell you, half in earnest,
that the English bankers employ
Chinese to handle their money be
cause they never make mistakes.
These people of China have never
had anything like a bankrupt law. If
a man cannot pay his debts, or some
one does not secretly come forward
and pay them, at the end of each
year, he has "lost his face," and so
he dies by his own hand. Yet, with
all their piteous poverty, they have
no such words as 'hard times," for
everything must be settled up at tho
end of the year. There can be no ex
tension of time. Confucius forbade it.
—Joaquin Miller, in the North Ameri
can Review.
Kffective Window Draperies.
Colored madras, or one of the effec
tive Japanese canvas weaves, are
among the most favored thin, colorej
window draperies of artistic decora
tors, yet they, too, are only used un
der protest, as a white or cream is so
much preferable. Colored silk, velour
or tapestry hangings used over thin
white or cream window draperies are
quite comme il faut, but used alone
next a window are not first choice by
any means.
Oiling the Sewing Mncliine.
When a sewing machine is heavy to
work take out the cotton and thor
oughly oil every part of the machine
with parafflne. Work it briskly for a
few minutes that the oil may pene
trate thoroughly, and extract all dirt
and grit, and then wipe every part of
the machine carefully with a soft old
duster. When the parafflne has been
removed, oil the machine again with
the proper lubricating oil. Parafflne
should never be allowed to remain on
the machine, for it heats the bearings
and causes them to wear out.
A Perfumed Hanger.
For dresses the sachets are arranged
In the form of pads for the waist and
skirt hangers of steel wire. Silk of
any desired shade may be used, well
wadded with cotton in the layers of
which is placed the scented powders,
according to the Philadelphia Inquir
er. The hangers hold the waist and
skirt in good shape and the perfume
permeates the gown, giving off an
evanescent, impalpable fragrance
which is fascinating and individual.
The long, flat sachets for the bureau
drawers are made of silk or linen, and
three or four may be used in each
drawer, being placed between layers
of underwear. Smaller ones of fancy
or plain silks, exquisitely embroid
ered, may be fashioned for the glove
and handkerchief case, though in
many instances these boxes are wad
ded with cotton and sachet powder
and are lined with silk to match the
dresser scarf.
Tim Unsightly Storm Door.
Our climate with its extremes of
cold md varying degrees of
humidity, is a hard one on front doors,
writes an architect in Good House
keeping. The veneered door stands
swells less) than the solid, except the
latter be of such a wood as white pine.
If a door is to show a natural finish
of hardwood, the veneered may bo
made lighter than the solid, and there
fore easier to swing and less likely to
sag on its hinges. Elaborately pan
eled doors are less likely to stand well
than simply paneled, but very wide
panels are more likely to warp or split
than narrow ones. The more exposed
the front door, the greater the weight
that should be given to these consid
erations in its design. We must have
a good door before we can hope for a
beautiful. And here let me enter a
protest against that ugly, obtrusive,
makeshift box, hardly fit for a hen
house, if nothing meaner, commonly
called the storm door, planted at so
many front entrances and left there
for live months out of the 12. If a
proper vestibule is impossible and
an exposed situation demands the
protection, put your storm door for
the winter where the screen door
hangs during the summer, but don't in
sult your neighbors and demean your
self by putting up the ordinary storm
door contrivance.
Jtes%pjc(/sg?fe> t>D
Cracker Gruel—Roll some crackers
until very fine and measure two tablo
sponfuls and add one saltspoonful of
salt and one teaspoonful of sugar.
Pour over one cupful of boiling water
and simmer for a few miuute3. Then
add one cupful of milk and serve with
out straining.
Cranberry Shortcake —Make a crust
of one quart of flour, one-fourth cup
of butter and two tablespoonfuls of
baking powder; bake in cakes. Split
open with a hot knife and butter as
soon as they are taken from the oven.
Fill with woll-sweetened cooked cran
berries, and serve with cream and
sugar or sauce.
Potatoes and Chicken—Take three
cupfuls of seasoned mashed potatoes,
one tablespoonful of butter, one-half
cupful of bread crumbs, one teaspoon
ful of finely minced onion and the
well-beaten yolks of two eggs. Mix
thoroughly together, roll into small
cakes, cover rather thickly with
minced cooked chicken to cover with
another layer of the potato mixture.
Fry a light brown in boiling lard.
Cauliflower, Parisian Style—Boil a
good-sized cauliflower until tender,
chop it coarsely and press it hard in
a mould or bowl, so that it will keep
its form when turned out; put the
shape thus made upon a dish that will
stand the heat and pour over it a to
mato sauce. Make this by cooking to
gether a tablespoonful of butter and
flour in a saucepan and pouring upon
them a pint of strained tomato juice,
in which half an onion has been
stewed; stir until smooth and thicken
still more by the addition of three or
foul tablespoonfuls of cracker dust,
salt to taste, turn the sauce over the
moulded cauliflower; set in the oven
for about 10 minutes, and serve in the
[ dish in which it is cooked.
THE SONG OF THE AUTOMOBILE.
Ohnck! Chuck ! I come In a swirl of steam,
Or foul with the reek of oil,
Conoeived in a mad inventor's dream,
And born of his thought and toll;
My heart Is aflame with a hidden fire,
And X rush with a hurtling speed
On, on to the goal of my heart s desire—
Oh, I am the tireless steed!
My voice is the cry of the hunter's horn,
And I orush 'neath my throbbing weight
The sage or the child with a reckless scorn,
Like the wheels of a heedless fate;
My heart is aflame, for my food is Are,
And I burn with insatiate greed,
As I rush to the goal of my heart's desire—
Oh, I am the tireless steed !
—New York Herald.
HUMOROUS.
Nell—What a delightful conversa
tionalist he is. Belle—What did he
talk about? Nell—Me.
Teller—Time is money. Asltln—
Why don't you make money,, then?
Teller —I haven't time.
"In the matter of wedding pres
ents," says the Cynical Bachelor, "it
is better to give than to receive."
"What's the matter with you late
ly? Has she thrown you over?" "No;
that's just what she refuses to do."
Sillicus—Do you believe that clothes
make the woman? Cynicus—More of
tban the woman makes the clothes.
Blobbs—Why do you suppose Hard
uppe is raising whiskers? Slobbs—
Maybe ho can't raise the price of a
shave.
Wigg—Borrowell did me out of 50
cents the other day. Wagg—l never
before knew Borrowell to do things
by halves.
Wife —Oh, doctor, Benjamin seems
to be wandering in his mind. Doctor
(who knows Benjamin)— Don't trouble
about that; ho can't go l'ar.
Tommy—Pop, to prune a tree is to
cut the limbs off, isn't it? Tommy's
Pop—Yes, my son. Tommy—Then
does that make prunes grow on it?
Hook —Where do you suppose the
greatest pleasure comes in to the wom
an who entertains? Nye—ln not send
ing invitations to some other women.
Mrs. Gadabout —She appears to be
pretty well-to-do. They say she's got
quite a collection of old laces. Mrs.
Nocker —From her family's old shoes?
"A woman's favorite weapon is a
tear," remarked the Wise Guy. "Yes,
even the Eskimo women are addicted
to blubber," murmured the Simple
Mug.
Tom—l don't think I'll ever get up
•nough courage to ask you to marry
me. You know "faint heart never won
fair lady." Belle (blushing)—B-but
I'm a brunette.
Cholly—Your father bowed to me
very pleasantly on the street today.
Edith —Indeed? Mamma said he'd
make some awful blunder if he went
without his glasses.
Lovelorn—l've written her two let
ters, proposing to her, but I haven't
got any encouragement yet. Funnicus
—well, what can you expect? One
has to write 13 letters before he gets
"encouragement."
When It's Fun lining Sick.
One of the local girls' boarding
schools includes among its day pupils
a young miss of 17 years who repre
sents the concentrated affection of her
parents, a sister and a number of old
er brothers. She bubbles over with
merriment, is healthful to a degree
that alarms the family physician and
speeds through her lcssonsas thought
fully and regularly as could be ex
pected of a girl who takes music les
sons and must give half an hour a
day to each member of a large family.
The other day she went to school in
good spirits, but succumbed to a tooth
ache at the end of her first study
period. Instantly the whole school
went to work to nurse her—possibly
out of recognition of her father's in
fluence and his interest in the school. ~
She was taken up stairs to the room
ct one of the boarders, blankets were
heaped on her until she almost smoth
ered, the superintendent came in the
room and lowered the blinds, the his
tory teacher came and offered edibles,
and every girl in her class poured in
after each recitation period to inquire
how she was. But no one gave her
any remedy for her toothache. She
lay there two or three hours, suffering
bravely and counting the figures in
me wall paper design, when suddenly
the pain ceased. She accoruiugly arose
put on her wraps and walked home.
Yesterday she vouchsafed to tell her
home folks something about it. "Why
in the world didn't you tell us before?"
they all asked. Then the sly little
school girl's eyes began to twinkle and
she replied demurely: "Well, you see,
I knew if I did you would have my <(
tooth fixed for good and all. And its a
mighty lot of fun being sick in a
boarding school, 'specially when you
don't know your lessons."—Washing
ton Star.
The Quips of Little Ones.
Grandad —What makes you look so
unhappy, Willie?
Willie—JCause nobody never calls
me good unless I'm doing something I
don't want to do.
Some time ago little Walter had oc
casion to differ with his aunt upon
some trifling matter.
"I tell you," said auntie, playfully,
"I know a few tilings."
"And I know as few things as any
body I guess," said Master Walter, in
dignantly.
"Daddy," asked little Jack, "where
does a snake begin when he wants to
wag his tail?"
Mamma (at the breakfast table) —
You always ought to use your napkin, ,
Georgia A
George--1 am usln' it, mamma; I'v.)
got the dog tied to the leg of the table
with it.—Motherhood.