Norwalk gazette, Friday, November 13, 1896 · page 11

 

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WEEKLY-N on WA LK~ - GAZETTE. i.

 

4 THE LADY TEATHEZ'i.

 

You can tell her by hex-nae. :'
' 'Whenyou meet her on EL“. ~ :
For she walks as if she n1e.u.r
I Trending squarely on bed: Lea-
If some friends should itm-n iv .. ~ :‘ra
You would know her by Let t, .I_;,
‘Which is fully as decide . '
As the manner of her wal 1;.
She is versed in man?r matters.
- And she always has a view.
Vl'hich she clings to in a m... a
That would shame the strong a. .. I'm.
But she is so sweet and winsome '
( his her anger will alia").
You could talk with her ful'n'v'l‘l‘
Just to let her have her w-ll‘.
~Coltzm’i'. :5 £39123}.

A DEATH alarm-Lie:

As a matter of habit it.) 1““:1‘5l cut
his watch; he did not n he ti- \ I." :1;
time, though he retaine: .. geiryrai in:
pression from the dial ( a few hours
after midnight. lHe dio T10t recollect
ever feeling quite so uncanny before
in his life.

He had been looking over the 'para-
pet of the bridge, and mechanically
counting the flickering reflections of
the- Embankment lights, but turned
quickly at the sound of a woman’s
step. She was a queer sight as she
came steadily up the hill of the bridge
afoot. Her dress was dark and in no
disorder, but, though the rain fell
heavily, she wore not hat or cloak,
and carried no umbrella. Apparently
she was too preoccupied to see him,
for she almost brushed against him as
she passed, and yet made no sign. He
was too astonished at her weird ap-
pearance to stir or speak. What struck
him most forcibly was the brilliant
deep red of her hair, which glowed
purple in the rain-dimmed darkness
when she passed under a lamp. But
he followed her.

Half way across the bridge she wav-
ered a moment as though undecided,
then turned rapidly and peered
down the way she had come. He hung
back in the shadow past the lamp that
lay between them. She seemed satis-
fied that no one was in sight. She
leant upon the parapet and with a
hand behind each ear to support her
head stared up the river.

‘ ‘cring stood still in his bit of
shadow and watched her. It was
borne upon him with some insistence
that if she was not mad she ought
to be; also though she might be mad
as mad could be he had no prescrip-
tive right to interfere nor any privil-
ege to prevent her ventilating her mad-
ness in the particular way she found
most pleasing. He tried to argue him-
self into the state of mind necessary
for interference. He knew that he
ought to persuade her to go home. If
she had no home (which to believe
was to deliberately shut your eyes to
her garments and more especially her
lack of them) he might stretch a point
so far as to present her to the care of
his housekeeper and hope humbly for
forgiveness. So argued Richard Gor-
ing, but in spite of it he felt as though
no power on earth could move him
from his place; he stood as tied to
the spot as a man with the sleep in
his eyes is tied to his bed. He was
half, half out of himself, his head and
eyes thought and saw, but his body
might have been over the bridge for
:all the use he could spontaneous-
ly make of it. -

Presently the woman sank on her
knees in an attitude of prayer. Her
eyes were wide open and her head
thrown forward, but tending upward;
it was an attitude eloquent of one
who prayed in a rushing flood of
thought rather than in any measur-
able words. Her movements seemed
to break the spell of inertia with
which Goring had been contending.
He advanced from the shadow to the
light of the lamp. ‘He stood there
scraping his feet against the wet
pavement; he was impelled by a ner-
vous wish to attract her attention,
After a moment of this he called him-
self a fool, and strode lightly up to
her. When he reached her he felt
more foolish than ever; she did not
move, and he had no manner of right
to touch her. It was a. predicament.

He drew back a step. “Madam!”

v -

 

 

he said, after clearing his throat audi- ,

bly.

She sprang up and faced him.

“The man!” she cried. “The man
has followed me! And I came here
alone to pray alone, here on the bridge
where there are no streets, and no
men, and no women. It was not far
enough.”

Goring put out his hand with a de-
preciatory gesture.

“No, no! You shall not touch me!”
she cried, shrinking back. The horror
in her open eyes sent him sick with
pity.

“Madam,"
1—” I

With a low moan, like the crooning
of a woman troubled in her sleep, she

he began again, “may

swept about, set her hand on the para-

pet, and vaulted it.

Goring,”- while he hung helplessly
over, was conscious of her shriek when
she felt herself failing, the vanishing
purple gleam of'her red hair, the: al-
.most imperceptible sound of the pas-
sage of her clothed body through .the
resisting air, and the dull splash at
last. Each separate stage of the
thing came to and went from 'him
clearly and distinctly. For a second
the place seemed flooded all about
with a flash of staging light.

The body was never found. The ,po-
lice, whom he pestered with inquiries
about it, treated him with the span
due a gentleman supposed to be sane,
but were at length compelled to hint
that be bored them, wasted their
time, in fact. His friends imagined
most amiably that he had suffered
from nightmare. Although outwardly
he was still the Richard Goring of
old, the man who lived, inwardly he
knew it to be true of himself that he
lived less by just so much as his new
thoughts took his life. ‘

 

Gradually the idea grew upon him
that his life was wrapped up in the
life of the dead woman. He beer. to

.sure that in the opaque past of a form-

er state of existence at similar scene
had been enacted between them, with
a similar result. He imagined that in
a dead life, far back in the unthink-
able ages, the result had had a reason
and the effect a cause, itself the germ
of a since repeated history.

He imagined that the effect had
been improperly worked out through
his willfulness of stupidity; the his-
tory, he was certain, would repeat it-

self life after life, till the curse that

linked him with the woman, and‘her
with him, was complete, and he was at
last enabled to save her from her fate,
thus achieving rest for her and for
himself. The worst" was that now he
knew he had one of his best chances
and had let it slip; eventually he al-
most persuaded himself that the sin
of omission was nigh to being mur-
der.

Wherever he went he carried the.

burden of his memory and his theor-
ies, the few minutes of that night
were with him throughout his wak-

ing hours with a merciless persistence;

neither did they leave him when; he
slept. There was always and forever
in his ears the mean she gave as she
turned from him, her shriek, the rush
of her skirts through the air, the sin-
ister splash belOw; there was always
and forever in his eyes the horror
of her stare and the purple gleam of
her wet hair vanishing downward.

People began to say that Richard
Goring looked tired and wanted a
change of air. Some went so far as to
tell him so, and he answered with a
grave smile that it did not matter, he
was only waiting for the death sen-
tence. Thereupon, they would cackle
for mirth in the dread presumption
that he was poking fun at them.

Soon he was called to Bristol again.
At Paddington he secured a corner
seat in a first-class carriage of a cor-
ridor train. No one else got in; he
was alone in the compartment. The
train slowed up and stopped outside
Didcot Junction, an unusual perform-
ance, for it commonly kept to its pro-
gramme of running through to Bris-
tol without let or hindrance. There
was a stifi breeze blowing, but that
did not account to Goring for the
queer sound in the telegraph wires.
He had heard the wires hum, and
knew the sound as well as any other
ordinary individual knew it. It puz-
zled him to find a reason why their
humming should be deadened by
now into a dull moan. He thrust his
head out of the window. There,
threaded and thick among the wires,
hung strand upon strand of human
hair! His mouth grew dry as he
looked, for the hair was red and
shone purple in the sun. The wires
moaned miserably.

The train moved on again; as it did
so, the hair went from the wires, and
they bummed their true tone again.
But Richard Goring could have sworn
the voice of the woman whispered in
his car:

"When my hair twines again on
the wires, there where you are—fol-
low me!”

However, he cursed himself for a
forgotten idiot, and fell to battling
risolutely with the leaders in that
morning‘s paper.

I'Iis business in Bristol town was
speedily done, but he accepted an in-
vitation to stay a few days with an

acquaintancewvho lived out in Clif- _

ton. He was perfectly familiar with
the idiosyncrasies of the Suspension

Bridge, and had been for years, but
he had not "crosed it since his expe-

rience at Westminster, which had
given him a cosmopolitan distaste for
bridges. He dreaded the ordeal of
crossing the thing, should he have to;
it was forever tremulous, and had al-
ways given him an odd feeling in the
knees when he crossed it. He recol-
lected the expanse of view from it
which attracted you uncomfortably
outward. He remembered when you

looked down at the people below what ,

ridiculously long giant legs they had,
with what small bodies poised upon
them, and 'how each huge stride
seemed to lever the little puppets up
in the air rather than along the path.
He had watched this entertaining ef-
fort for a while at a time in the old
days; now he would scarcely dare to
leave the curb side of the foot path.
In the end he was driven over in his
friend’s high dog cart: he sat very
straight with his tongue pulled back
and the muscles of his throat taut.

It had come to the last evening of
his visit. =After dinner the host pro-
posed a game of whist. There were
five of them, so Goring was able to
plead headache and was let off. As
a matter of fact, he had no headache,
but he was consumed with an over-
powering desire to be out and walk-
ing. The house oppressed him.

He went out, leaving a message
with the servant that he would go
nowhere in particular, but would be
back in three-quarters of an hour. His
one conscious intention was born of
an absorbing longing to sit and listen
to the hum of stretched wires in a
wind. He could hardly inform the
servant of this.

It was not long before he was sit-
ting on some wooden logs by the side
of the road at the end of the Suspen-
sion Bridge, and listening to the rush-
ing hum of the telegraph wires over-
head. ‘ -

He sat there for more than an hour
without any noticeable movement.

Suddenly he drew out his pocketbook

and wrote rapidly.

Presently he rose to his feet and
gazed intengdy at the wires. “The
hair again!’ he said. He walked to
where a lamp threw a fitful glare of
light upward. “Yes,” be repeated,
“the woman’s hair again!”

Then he paid the bridge toll and
followed her.——Pick-Me-Up.

“KATHLEEN’s mom-r.

Kathleen's visitor rose to. go. He
shod for a moment looking down at
her. She leaned her head back easily
against her "chair.

“You have not been in the least to
blame,” he said slowly. “Don’t worry
about it. I know you will, bpt don’t.
If I have been a fool it is ‘Inypown
lookout. You have never encouraged
me. Don’t think any more about it,
please.”

Kathleen raised her face from the
lirelight. Her hand dropped on the
arm of the next chair.

"'It is my fault,”
quietly.

“It is not,” he said, sharply. “Don’t
talk like that. You have been good
to me in your otvn kind way, but you
are that to every one. I love you
because you could do nothing un-
worthy, and that is why I shall al-
ways love you. I would never have
told you if things could have gone on;
but I am not content to be merely
your friend. I must be your lover or
nothing; therefore I go away. It is
entirely my own fault. I have known
for month: that this could only end
disastrously for me, and now it has.
I ought t6 have stopped it long ago,
but I could not. I did not want to.
I could not keep away from you, that
was 311.: .

He hesitated, looked away, and then
his eyes rested on her again.

“You wonder I do not ask you to
.marry me? we have been dear
friends. It would hurt you to refuse.
I have grieved you enough. Now—
don’t—you—worry.”

Kathleen rose suddenly and faced
him. “I am going to tell you some-
thing,” she said, hurriedly.

“Don’t tell me it’s Boulton,” he
begged, lightly. “I “could not stand
that. He’s not a fit man to lend books
to. I hope it is not Boulton.”

_ Kathleen smiled a faint protest.

“There is no one else,” she said.
Then she hesitated for a time, looked
away from him and then brought her
eyes back to his face and said ab-
ruptly: -

“You do not know me at all. I am
not what I have made you think me.”

“How do you know what I think
you? I have carefully refrained from
feeding your vanity.” He stuck his
hands in his pockets and regarded
her half-smilingly. “My only hope
was in keeping you from realizing
how much too good you were for me.”

“I am not good. I am not true. I
have deceived, you from the first.
Listen! I have known for a long
time that you were—well, are—in love
with me. You do not blame me for
this result. You will presently. You
have thought me natural and straight-
forward. I have never been myself
with you. I have been whatever I
fancied you would like, From the
day of our meeting I have done my
utmost to attract you, used every
known means, and a. few hitherto un-
known. That is not meant to be flip-
pant. .I do not think I shall make
jokes again. I neglected no opportu-
nity wasted no time, but coolly studied
my own powers of attraction with
reference to your feelings, and laid
my plans accordingly. I made you
fall in love with me.) You don’t be-
lieve that? Let me tell you how.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Kathleen, no!”
' he cried. “Stop! You shall not say
these things. Of course I do not be-
lieve you, but it hurts me to hear
you. You are overwrought, excited.
i Come, sit down.” And taking her
I hand he tried to lead her to a chair.

She drew her hand away, sharply.

“I shall never see you again; I
must tell you now,” she said, harshly.
“At first you admired my beauty—you
will not misunderstand. Idid not make
my face, nor have I lived up to it,
and I made my person as attractive as
possible, studied the effects of shades
and poses; but that was the least of
it. Any girl can do that. You have
done me the honor to say that I am
cleverer than most of the women you
know. If so. I have used my ability
to the utmost. I let you see me often,
and wore what you liked best. It was
a comparatively easy matter to find
that out without asking you-—”

 

she repeated,

 

“I seem to have been an easy sub:

ject all around,” interrupted the man,
with a short laugh.

“But there was more necessary. I
had to amuse you. I think I did so.
for a time; but half the stories I told
you of funny things that had hap-
pened to me were inventions, and all
redounded to my credit—that is. you

 

 

 

thought me free from small vanities '

in that I "could repeat 1111:- ;.plimcn
tary things of myself. More. all that
you considered bright in me, words
and thoughts, I borrowed or stole
from women or books you did not
know. Then I allowed you to amuse
» me.
sider funny; and you got in the habit
of keeping your best stories for me.
That was the period of the affair when
I let you find a book open on my table
with this marked in it: “The pos-
session of a similar sense of humor is
a binding tie between a man and a
woman,’ You were thoughtful for a
time after that; I intended you should
be.”

“Oh, by Jove!" he ejaculated, sud-
denly. Kathleen gazed un ‘védly at
the fire and continued: D%

“I am naturally vigorousl'and- inde-
pendent, and prefer to help myself
over fences; but you like edeminacy,
some one you can protect and take
care of, so I reclined among cushions
and drank tea and let you read poetry
to me. I hate being read aloud to. I
hate poetry. I was sympathetic, but
I never really listened. The day you
read Shelley’s ‘Indian Serenade’ three
times over I went t6 sleep. You
thought I was overcome with emotion
When you got me to memorize the
‘Intimations of Immortality’ because
it was the poem of your inner llfe, I

 

/

nearly gave up the whole affair. I
think I have never been so bored. I
know this is shameless, but I am head
to rything now. There is worse to
follow. .

“I played on your feelings in every
way, fell into your moods, charmed
you with seriousness after gayety,
confided imaginary troubles and head-
aches so that you could console ‘me.
I have never had a headache in my
life, and my real troubles have re-
mained my own; but it aroused ten-
der emotions within you to see me
grieving, and I was base enough to
simulate grief. There was nothing
too low for me to do. I urged you to
go to church, partly that you might
see me as a worshiper, devout and
earnest, partly because I felt that if
I lost that everything would be gone.
That much was natural. I disliked
your theories, but there was no real
desire to influence you for good. There
could not be when I was almost hope-
less'concerning myself. Besides, you
are more religious than I. You have
high ideals, and I only imbibed these
enough to make you think that my
views were as lofty as your own. 011,
it has been awful!”

She hid her face in her hands and
ended abruptly. “That is all.”

A silence crept out of the embers
into the shadows. The library walls
were taking a late afternoon tint. The
man unconsciously took up the book:
he had given it to her a few months

ago. She loved the poem, she had
said. He opened it; the leaves were
uncut. It was all true, then. IVith a

quick shudder he walked to the end of
the room and stood silent a long time.
The girl leaned against the books at
her back and waited. There was an
expression of relief on her face fitting
badly with the desperate look in her
eyes. _

“Why, Kathleen,” he Said, “you love
me!”

There was a sudden gleam of
amusement on the girl’s face.

“I know,” she answered.

He laughed gladly.

“You love me, you! Oh, Kathleen!
It just occurred to. me,” he went on,
gayly; “you love me. ’ Oh, you dear,
dear girl! Are you sure? I never
imagined you cared in the least. Let’s
be married tomorrow.”

Kathleen shook her head.

“You could never .marry me now; I
have made that impossible. There
would always be my deceit between
us, and the marriage would be a mock-
ery. I remember reading somewhere
that the Arabs can burn jewels so that
they retain their color, shape. and all,
but which when touched will fall into
ashes. Don’t you see that is how we
should be? When you begin to think
of the means I have used to make you
care for me you will hate me.”

‘fDou you think I care for that now?
You love me, Kathleen, and I have
just learned that you do. I can’t
think of anything else. I expected to
walk out of this room into outer dark-
ness, and here I am in heaven. I don’t
care how I got here. You must marry
me, you know. You cannot trifle with
my affections that way. You have got
my love, you need not have taken all
the trouble you did, sweetheart. I
loved you the moment I saw you and
ever since—and now what are you go-
ing to do about_it? You cannot go
about winning the affections of guile-
less youths and then casting them
adrift, It’s not proper, Kathleen; it’s
distinctly unchivalrous. What do
you think about day after tomorrow?
on, Kathleen, is it really true? How
can you care for me? “You love me!”
He went close to her, taking her face
in his hands he looked tenderly at her.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she
said, chokingly:

“You do not understand. I have
been false. I have deceived you.”

With a quick movement he took her
in his arms.

“Now listen, Kathleen,” he said, ve-
hemently. “You may keep on deceiv-
ing me that way the rest of your life,
if you like. I like it. Every man likes
it. Hundreds of women are doing the
same thing all the time and will do
so till death releases them. Women
will sacrifice themselves to men while
the world wags; and when so clever
a girl as you condeSCends to efliace
herself to the extent of letting me
regulate her intellectual and moral
refreshment, there is a good lookout
for connubial bliss. You will be a
paragon of a wife. I see myself be-
coming a pampered tyrant. There is
only one thing I ask of you: Don’t let

me behind the scenes; be as charming,

as you like, but keep the process out
of sight. Besides, dear girl, don’t you
think I know you? Why, I love you.
You cannot analyze your own motives
in the exhaustive and cold-blooded
style of your lyemarks to me. People’s

; -—especially feminine people’s—motives

i

I laughed at things I did not con- 3

 

are always complex, and you are not
in a fit state of mind to separate the
good from the bad, or tell which pre-
dominates. Don’t be so hard on your-
self. I love you in spite of your liter
ary solecisms. Moreover, it was only
my own stupidity after all. If I had
been half as clever as you I should
have known better how to win you. I
ought to have fallen into your mood
and consulted your feelings; but I
Was grossly selfish and conceited. I
bored you with p'oetry and forgot to

tell you I read you in every line ofit. '
I was so taken up with loving you ;

pearing in your eyes.
to forgive me.
I can understand what it must have.
cost you to tell me this. I recognize
that y0‘ have suffered, and for me. I
was no. worth all that, dear; but
could I 101 "T-ll less for the truth that
made you speak. Would you lo". me.
less? You are my own, ny .lle, my-
self.”

Kathleen clung to his arm. .

“You will help me,” she said, shame-
facedly. “I must be different :lilei‘
this.”

' that I never thought how I was ap- i
You ought not =
And then, dear heart, ;

 

 

unanimous RISE .

ms MERCHANT PRINCE BEGAN LIFE"
AS A LABORER IN A BRICK YARD.

in: “‘nrliezl for Most Monger Wages and
Hog‘nn IIis Mercantile Career on Credit—-
H e is Devontly Religious, and Teaches a
Sunday School of 1,000 Members.

"That young fellow,” once said A.
'i‘. Stewart, away back in the early
sixties, “has got it into him to be one
.-~.1-' the most successful merchants in
rhis or any other country.”

The young fellow in question, in ad-
dition to owning a store in Philadel-
phia which .does $25,000,000 worth of
business a year, bought for $2,000,000
the bankrupt remnants of the gigantic
business fabric which Stewart himself
reared. Which proves that Mr. Stew-
:1 rt could diagnose symptoms of com-
mercial genius as unerriLgly as he
could estimate the value of silks and
muslins.

The history of John Wanamaker’s-
rise in the. commercial world is an in-
teresting one. It is a good lesson, clean
and healthy and strong. He began
with nothing, a laborer in his father's
brickyard. Then he earned a wretched
salary as a clerk. Then he earned a
better one, and conducted one or two
boyish little commercial adventures
which brought him’ in money. He
saved his money until he and Nathan
Brown had enough between them to
lease and fit up a store in Philadel-
phia. All that was in the way of soil-
ing goods was the lack of goods to sell.
They had the store room, and they
had the shelves and counters, but they
had no stock. They counted on get-
ting their stock on credit, and they
went to New York to do it. For two
days they tramped the streets in vain.

It was in 1861, and war talk with
wild excitement and fear of national
ruin and chaos was at its highest. Mr.
Wanamaker was but a boy then—-
barely turned twenty, beardless,‘ as
he ever since has remained, with long
hair and the stamp of the clergyman
on his face. He had thought he would
be a clergyman at one time, and the
religious fervor which has never left
him was then burning brightly within
him.

There is a story told in this connec-
tion. It is that on the evening of the
second day’s tramping and disheart-
enment, Nathan, who was worldly,
left John in the little cheap room
they w. re occupying together, and
went to console himself with a drink
of whiskey. When he returned he
found John kneeling on the floor.

“What are you doing there?” asked
Nathan.

“Praying,” said John.

“What are you praying for?" asked
Nathan.

“Credit,” said John.

And the next day they got credit.“
Devlin trusted them, and they went
back to Philadelphia and started the
business which now has swallowed
up even the great house of Stewart,
which must have loomed in such co—
lossal proportions before the footsore
and heartsore young Philadelphians
in their weary journeyings among the
great business concerns of the metrop-
olis.

Mr. Wanamaker Was one of those
who did not believe the war would
soon be over. He believed that it
would last a long time and that prices
would double and quadruple and quin-
tuple, and they did. So he sowed ac‘
cordingly and reaped accordingly. He
was a rich man at the end of the war,
but he worked all the harder. He had
not a single expensive habit. From
his boyhood to the present day he has
never drank, never smoked, never at-
tended a theatre. His energies were
directed in two fields only-his busi-
ness and his religious work. When a
mere boy he was a sort. of open-air
preacher in one of Philadelphia’s evil
quarters. He led the work of the
Young Men’s Christian Association~
was its secretary, its president and
one of the most prominent in giving
and raising money towards the erec-
tion of the fine association building in
Philadelphia.

He founded the Bethany Chapel, and
it is there that he still teaches and su-
perintends the Sunday school with 'its
thousand scholars.
day school teacher that he met the
much-esteemed woman who is his
wife. Mary Brown was her name, a
sister of Nathan Brown, the old part-
ner in the first firm of Wanamaker &
Brown. They both were teachers in
the Sunday school, and through all the
many years of their married life have
continued with unabated zeal in their
religious work.

JUST CAUSE FOR A KICK.

 

 

Office Boy—Please, sir, I’ve a oom-
paint to make. The bookkeeper kicked
me. sir. i don’t want no bookkeeper to :

i-Iir'ii 121?.

Buss—42': cam-<0, he kicked you. You
:‘;-m". H.) ct 2m- 4.; attend to everything.
1 can‘t .ook after every little
in. ..l'.:~l.~' myself.

.- «even Chinese fem.
.-.....—..-. 1. ~ L'hiladelphia Press.

I‘) Vol31,

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A Good Word fol" the Pig.

A cynical writer once referred to the
pig as “the animal into which the devil
went and from which he never return-
ed.” But others have spoken of the pig
in more complimentary terms. The
Irish'call him “the little grunter what
pays the rint.” In new England and
_ the western states where the farms are
small, he‘ is “the squealer that pays the
taxes.” In the great corn belt of the
prairies. the pig is relied upon to pay
the interest on the mortgage and even-
tually to lift it. ~ --

Tl. tire is little poetry or romance con-
nect-2d with raising pork. It does not _
appeal to the aesthetic side of our na-
ture. No poet has sung of the pleasures
of swine rearing, as they have of bee
keeping, vino growing and sheep rais-
ing. Most artists have scorned to paint
the pig or to carve it in marble. No one
cherishes affection for a pig as he does
for a dog, or horse. Cattle, sheep and
horses appear to enjoy each other’s
companionship, but none of them enjoy
the society of the pig. He is the Ish-

' maoiite of the pasture and barnyard.

But; for all this, for all that, and for
all the other things, the pig is the most
profitable animal the farmer can keep
in most parts of the country. No costly
buildings are required for his protec;
tion, and he needs no grooming to keep
him clean. He will eat anything and
convert a. larger proportion of any ' ' '
of feed into a marketable commodity -
than any domesticated, or wild animal.
He multiplies faster than any animal
kept on farms, and his young mature
at an early age—Rodney Welch.

Agricultural Co-operation.

At the 28th annual co- operative cone
gress just held at Woolwich, England,
it appeared that there were over 1800
cooperative societiesin England, Scot—
land and Wales with 1, 500,000 members, '
a. capital of over $75,000,000, an annual
business exceeding $250,000,000 and
profits of some $25,000,000. These soci— -
eties buy most of their supplies from
the English wholesale society, which
does a business of nearly $50,000,000 a.
year. France has nearly 1200 similar
co-operative stores, with a membership
of 300,000 and sales of $20,000,000 a
year.

The era of world- wide low prices of
produce has boomed the co- operative
idea among European farmers. The
sooner our American farmers realize its
possibilities the better off they will be.
No matter what. legislation may do,
self-help will ever be the successful
farmer’s standby, but co operation will
greatly assist farmers to help them-‘
selves. Therein lies its strength.

Agricultural .co-operation received
much attention at the recent congress.
It: was shown that the great system of
cooperative stores, the outgrowth of
more than fifty years of development,
afforded a ready market for all produce .»
that could be raised on farms co operae
tively managed. The form of coopera-
tion advised is the joint purchase of
farm supplies, joint ownership of ex-
pensive machinery and of breeding cat-
tle, joint sale of produce, co-operative
working up of produce into some more
profitable form, as butter, cheese, wine,
etc. and mutual insurance of buildings,
stock, etc. American and Canadian
cooperative creameries and insurance
companies have not yet been much
copied in Great Britain, but are widely
employed in other countries.

 

. Lowest Prices Ever Known.

The prices at Chicago on J one 26,
1895, of farm products marked the low-
est general average ever known.

Taking representative country points,
bids sent out to country shippers, based
on the market, by receiving and com-
mission houses, were as follows:

The price on No. 2 corn on- track at
Onawa, 13., was 15 1-2 cents a bushel,
and on No. 2 mixed oats, 9 1-2 cents.
Within territory represented by Belle
Plains, Eastern Iowa, the price of corn
was 18 cents, and oats 11 cents.

Pork was within 10 cents of the low,—
est point ever known, and lard was
about ready to be given away.

Helped His Wife.

"Nathaniel Hawthorne," says his
daughter, Rose Hawthorne Lathrop,
-“did not fear to help his wife in their
early married life, by doing the house-
work when she was not strong enough.
Moreover, he did not do it with early
innuendoes and sudden snarlings, nor
did he abruptly stop and sit down to
niggardly reproach. He washed dishes
and cleaned knives and cooked, like a
prince of fairy-tale reliability and gen-
tleness. No doubt he swore—but no
imp of the" kitchen could make him
swear out loud. This is the princely
nature of the worker who is a true
man.” '

 

 

Art In China.

The Chinese are perfectly satisfied
that their civilization is 30,000 years
old, and that, consequently, their art
flourished and had reached its height
when our ancestors were still compan-
ions of the bears in caverns. This is no
longer discussed; it is a dogma, in which
every self respecting Chinaman believes
with an immovable faith. Moreover.
some historians have taken the pain to
furnish proofs perfectly convincing.

A Ministerial Intelligence Ofllce. ‘

The editors of The Presbyterian J our-
nal, of Philadelphia, have organized a
Ministerial Bureau for the purpose 0!
bringing into communication unem-
ployed Presbyterian ministers and
churches needing pastoral services. A _
fee of 85 will entitle a minister to twelve
applications ‘for a church, and‘every
minister obtfiining a charge through the
Bureau will pay to it in monthly instal-
ments 3per cent. of his first year’s sala-
ry. Churches desiring the aid of the

 

' l Bureau in getting a pastor will pay a '

too of $10.