WEEKLY?
aA Am
r11E
A.) Aw A AA:
The child stirred in her sleep and
moaned uneasily. Rachel awakened
instantly from her light slumber and
went to the side of her little one. The
baby had been feverish and fretfu"
through the day and she was anxious
ior scarlet fever was in the neighbor
nig village, and though little Marion
had not been in danger, the ever anx~
Liv‘ous mother-heart throbbed uneasily.
There was a terrible storm abroad
«as summer one that was liable to
cease almost as suddenly as it had
come up, but none the less dreadful
{Elle great trees in the yard swayed
and bent, but resumed their upright-
.uess in the very teeth of the wind the
instant its pOWer relaxed. The light-
ning flashed blindingly, followed by
heavy, roaring thunder. as if all the
elements were furiously contending
3m:- supremacy.
Rachel went to the window when
the child had fallen off to sleep, and
peered out into the darkness. A
neighbor, worried over a sick horse,
had come after her husband in the
early part of the evening, and she felt
nervous at his absence after the com-
ing of the storm. As she looked out,
she saw by a sudden blinding flash
her husband coming from the barn,
leading Dandy, the thoroughbred
young colt, upon whom so many hopes
were placed. The horse, high strung
atthe best, was worse during a storm,
and reared and plunged frightfully.
The sight lasted only an instant, but
libng enough to fill Machel Moore with
miserable forebodings. What could
be the reason for removing Dandy to
the other barn in the midst of such a
storm? She resolved to ask Richard
the instant he returned, but she wait-
eda. long half hour for him, and then
he busied himself_ in the kitchen, get«
ting a lunch before ascending the
stairs. Her impatience grew apace;
when he at last came up, she was
just about to inquire about Dandy
when the loud cry of “Fire!" smote
upon their ears, and almost instantly
,they saw that the large barn near
thtmhouse was in flames.
Them Rachel’s lips were silenced. A
tenable: fear of something which sne
did ,not dare voice filled her heart
with terror. She watched apatheti~
rally the heroic efforts of the quickly
gathered neighbors to save the build-
ingfbut after the first five minutes
,it was apparent that it must go, and
"the-house itself was in danger. Rich-
ard worked like a madman trying to
saye his beloved horses. By strenu-
ous efforts four of them were saved,
but the cries of the poor creatures
who could not be reached in time
rang in Rachel’s ears for years after-
ward! whenever a summer storm
arose. .
Rachel did not know—for Marion.
almost franticwith terror, required
her constant attention—that Richard‘s
most desperate efforts were made to
rescue Dandy. and when (.118 roof feli
in amid a great shower of sparks it
was, with difficulty they kept him
from: rushing into the gravest danger.
so intense was his love for the fine
animal which his friends already
thought had cost him dearly.
The barn burned like tinder. In
spite of the rain, which ought to have
extinguished it under ordinary cir-
cumstances. the fire raged With such
intensity that in a brief time only
ruins remained.
Richard Moore sat down, crying like
a child. Afterwards, when sus-
picions were aroused. they said it was
done for effect. but no one was con—
scious of that thought, at the tin)».
Boor Richard! his misfortunes crowd
ed swiftly on him. He had JQCOXLN
greatly involved during the few year:
previous to the fire, and his own bet
ter judgment accused him of investing
too much in horse-flesh.
sion with him. and he had neglected
his farm and devoted himself to horse-
breeding in a very reckless fasnion.
Dandy, the pride of his heart. had
won a race in the fall. and his hopes
had been buoyed up by the occur-
rence; but several valuable mares had
died and among the trotters some
fatality had been present that pre-
vented tlieir being the success their
owner anticipated. He expected the
farm would have to go before long.
The man who held the mortgage had
been kind, but he could not expect
further indulgence.
Then like a flash it came to him
that the insurance on the building
and horses would put him on his feet
again. To be sure there was a mort-
gage on every animal on the place
except Dandy. but the three thousand
on him would go far toward helping
to get a home for Marion and Rachel. ‘
and then and there he resolved to let . .
. though he recognized the great change '
horses alone.
Marion was very sick; there was no
question about that. and. absorbed
and anxious. Richard only half real-
ized the manner in, which his wife
bore everything. To him she was
simply frozen; no other word would
half express it; but he believed Mari-
on‘s critical condition to be the cause
of her changed manner, and was. if
possible, kinder and more thoughtful
than ever for her comfort.
Another dreadful thing had hap-
pened. The suspicions wnich at first
were whispered cautiously. took a
louder tone, and many were ready to .
affirm that the building must have ,
been well saturated with oil or some .
other. inflammable substance, to burn .
with such rapidity in a drenching rain. ‘
In the thorough investigation which
the insurance companies made, it was
learned that no trace of the horse
Dandy could be obtained. This would
not_have been remarkable, ordinarily,
but the peculiar shoes which he al-
ways wore, with the great “D" so cu-
riously engraved, ought to have been
horses known to have perished, but
no trace of Dandy, and almost before
he knew how adverse public opinion
rested for arson.
Moore swore positively tnat he had
evening, just before going to his
neighbor’s, .and asserted that some
enem‘y must have set the fire, if, in-
deed the building had not been struck
by lightning; but when asked if he
knew anyone‘who would do such a
thing, his reply was characteristic:
I didn’t suppose I had an enemy in
the world."
Little Marion grew worse and final-
ly died, and although her death could
make no manner of difference as to
the guilt of the father, a change in
public sentiment ensued, prompted,
probably, by excess of sympathy for
the mother; so no one was displeased
when, after much deliberation, the
jury failed to convict.
Settlement was made for the barn
and its contents, with the exception
of the horse Dandy, which was in-
sured in a different company, and
which absolutely refused payment ex.
cept at the end of a lawsuit. Moore
promptly prosecuted, but with small
hope of recovery, and, broken up and
discouraged, he attempted to gather
together the fragments of his prop-
erty. He settled with the creditors
who held mortgages on the burned an-
imals, and applied the rest of the in-
surance to the mortgage, so that he
might remain in his home, if he wish-
ed. But, with little Marlon gone, and
his wife apparently on the verge of
insanity, for to nothing else could be
attribute her inexplicable conduct. it
seemed to matter little to him where
he should live.
Mrs. Moore had acted strangely
silent and apathetic; at others hys-
terical, almost violent, and always
evincing a strange antipathy to her
husband’s presence. The physician.
having no key to the 'problem, of
course invented one to suit himself.
which fitted about as well as fact and
theory usually fit. He declared that
the excitement of the fire, the conse-
quent arrest of her husband and the
death of little Marion had combined
to produce a state of nervous prostra-
tion bordering on mania, which could
be cared for more successfully in
some sanitarium which made a spec-
ialty of such cases.
Rachel Moore, however, rebelled so
against leaving home .that Richard
would not insist, though she scarcely
gave him a word and shrank from his
presence. He saw that she was care-
fully looked after and prevented from
doing herself harm, had she so wish-
ed, and gave his time and strength to
providing for her comfort.
And Rachel? Well, probably there
was much truth in the physician’s
view of the case, though he. was alto-
gether wrong as to the cause which
produced it. It was not the death of
her child, well as she loved her, nor
the disgrace of the public arrest which
had unbalanced her mind. It was the
fact that she knew the baseness of
her husband’s conduct.
Yet she loved him through it all, and
while despising herself for the fact,
felt the conflicting emotions tearing
her to pieces.
A year passed by—the longest, sad-
[the shadow.
ithe Weldon Woods, a forest not three
I “Moore's
dest year Richard and Rachel had
ever known—and then the light fell
upon themas suddenly as had fallen
Some boys hunting in
miles away, came upon the remains
of a horse and rider pinned to the
ground by the half of a fallen tree
. which the lightning had cleft in twain.
It was a pas- i
Whether the bolt had struck them,
too. or whether they had simply been
crushed beneath the tree, it was too
late to determine.
Dandy. by all that's
great," exclaimed Ned White, as he
rose after examining the shoes. And
they ran with all speed to repor. their
discovery.
1 Investigation was quickly made and
it was decided that the man was a
Canadian who had worked for Moore
the autumn previous to the fire, and
had exhibited an extraordinary fond-
ness for Dandy. Moore ,was fully ex-
‘ culpated and many an old neighbor of-
,fered an apology for his suspicion.
éwhile the insurance company settled
,the suit without delay. But the
greatest joy and sorrow of his life
‘came to Richard when his wife met
- him, trembling and weeping, and beg
ged him to forgive her.
He could not understand for a time,
‘in her, but at last, when she repeat~
éed'over and over, “I saw you, you
lknow—I mean I thought I did when it
; lightened.” he caught a glimmer of her
l,meaning and asked:
“You saw some one take Dandy
’out? Is that what you mean? Why
in heaven’s name didn’t you say so
‘at the time, so we could have searched
_for him?”
“Oh Dick. how could I. when I was
sure it was you? I knew Dandy
iwould never have let a stranger ban-
vdle him. How could I tell others
[what you had done—what was killing
1 me ?”
1 “So you thought I--” he
sternly, but stopped short.
She had called him Dick after a
year’s silence, and he knew that she
{was very weak, with life and reason
trembling in the balance. So he gath-
ered all -the strength of his manhood
to protect her weakness, and taking
'llel‘ in his arms kissed the color back
to her cheeks, though his' own were
pale as death.
i " ""
fl
began
- .-'.-. _-A—_. ______..
not been in the barn since early in the:
“Before God, till this thing came up, ,
It isn’t everyone who can have a fas-
cinating young woman sit upon his
.knee in a street car in broad day-
Ilight without embarrassment on his
was, Richard Moore found himself an I part,
But there is an exception to
every rule—so they say—and your
humble servant poses as a living ex-
ample of that exception, although how
he ever survived the ordeal is more
'than he can account for.
It was my dinner hour, and as I had
been in the city all day, whacking
away at an old ledger at six dollars
a whack and one continuous whack
every week, my appetite was by all
odds the biggest part of me. and I was
in a hurry to get home.
It was half past 4 o'clock and the
3car was crowded. There was just a
seat and a half left unoccupied, and.
iaccording to,the usual generosity of
‘mankind, I hastened to secure the in-
tegral part, leaving the remainder to
the next unfortunate.
My dreams of hot chocolate and boil-
ed ham—a happy combinationl—were
soon disturbed by the entrance of two
fair damsels. One of them, a fair-
haired, blue-eyed maiden, about whom
the spring poets love to gush. cast
her eyes about the car (looking for a
seat, I suspect), until I began to fear
she would break the windows with
them. Finally she spied the small
space by my side, and, accompanied
by her friend, approached and gently
let herself down into it, squeezing an
old woman with a basket up against
the stove. I had a sort of inward
feeling that she wanted me to get up
and let her friend have my seat, but
somehow I became intensely interest—
ed in a newspaper that I happened
to have with’nic—a newspaper is a
nice thing to have in such cases—and
since the fire. At some times she was .
[but I didn’t take it in a humorous
I forgot all about it.
“Never mind, Mayme, you can sit
down on my lap,” I overheard the fair
one say. .
Well, maybe you think it's funny.
light. I simply took it as it came anl
didn't bother about the light. 1 a.-
ways thought a girl could discriminate
between a woman’s lap and a. man's.
but I see that I was led from the pail:
of wisdom in my earlier days.
“Mayme” proceeded to comply with
her friend's invitation, but I wasn’t
looking for what happened. She sat
herself down on one knee of the lady
beside me and on two of mine. I was
sorry that I couldn't accommodate her
with some more knees. But I didn't
have an extra supply with me. Well!
You know those big sleeves that the
women are wearing. of course? I
wouldn’t have minded it so much if
she hadn’t stuck them right into my
fa‘ce. It rather placed a chill upon
my enjoyment of the occasion, but
then, one doesn’t have such a pretty
creature to sit upon his lap every day
in the week,. and on a street car at
that, so I tried to overlook it. In fact
by stretching my neck a trifle, I did
look over it. All that seemed to be
lacking was a nice grate fire of an-
thracite.
If I hadn’t been so tormented hun‘
gry I would have ridden to the ex-
treme end of the line, rather than to
disturb her restful attitude, for
“whereignorance is bliss, ’tis better
to remain ignorant.” But attitude, or
no, I had to get off pretty soon, and
besides, she began to become heavy.
I squirmed around a bit, but she did
not seem to notice it, although the
newspaper artist opposite me did, and
motioned me to keep still until he got
my feet drawn. They were sticking
out from under her flowing skirts. be-
side her own, and I suppose the con-
ductor, who used to be the manager
of a dime museum up in Michigan.
was thinking about long lost opportL-
nities. et cetera. -
I squirmed some more, but with the
same result, or rather, without any
result at all, for she sat as firm as the
tower of Babel. I was growing des-
perate. I never had such a case as
that on my hands before—or on my
knees, more properly speaking. I had
to get off at the next square, and un-
less she voluntarily removed herself
from my lower appendages, I should
certainly have to make her feel. em-
barrassed. I wasn’t embarrassed my-
self, as I said at the beginning. But
the Fates were against me, for on
she sat; or, to be more lucid, she still
sat on inc—and a good hundred and
thirty pounds gets to be quite a load
when you don’t have a chance to
shift about occasionally. “Well, iaere
goes,” thought 1, coming to the last
resort, and the last square on the
avenue.
“Madam.” I said timidlv,
to get off here.
“W'ell,” she replied, over the. top of
her sleeve, rather suspiciously. I
thought, “I’m not hindering you."
“Really. ma‘am, I have enjoyed this
ride with you immensely. but —"
“How dare you. sir!” she xclaimed.
“But you are sitting on my knees,”
“i have
.I said tenderly, as I thought of the
l mutilated creases in my trousers.
Well! If you could have seen the
jump which that lady made.‘ you
would have classed her immediately
as one of those modern feminine ath-
letic enthusiasts. I don’t know what
followed; I didn’t wait to see, but like
a man who suddenly thinks of a for-
gotten engagement, I hustled off the
car and finally reached home, where I
ate a tremendous dinner without
speaking once, math to the wonder-
ment of my good aunt Jane.
All this happened quite a number
of months ago, and the young lady
is now helping me to spend that six
dollars week. Queer coincidence,
isn’t it? But, then. this Would be a
queer world, indr~ed. if it wasn‘t so
queer as it is, with its queer peo-
‘ple and queer c:oincidences.«-Rotier
Monthly.
! s
«.4 . .m_,,-
Luncheon—Welsh Rarebits. Wafers.
Lunch Cakes. Preserves. Tea.
. Dinner.—-Vegetable Soup. Cold Veal.
Mashed Potatoes. Stewed Tomatoes.
Lettuce Salad. Wafers. Cheese.
Baked Custard. Coffee.
TUESDAY.
Breakfast—Oatmeal, Sugar and
Milk. Bacon and Eggs. French
Toast. Coffee.
Luncheon—Veal Cutlets. Fried
Potatoes. Bread. Stewed Rhubarb.
Cocoa. .
Dinner.-—Cream of Parsnlps. Broiled
Porterhouse Steak. Riced Potatoes.
Stewed Carrots. Cucumber Salad.
Crackers. Cheese. Pineapple Salad.
Cake. Coffee.
WEDNESDAY.
Breakfast.—Hominy, Sugar and
Milk. Lamb Chops. Rolls. Coffee.
Luncheon—Cold Sliced Tongue. Ly-
onnaise Potatoes Hominy Cakes.
Baked Bananas. Cookies. Tea.
Dinner.—Vegetable Soup. Chicken
Fricassee, with Dumplings. Mashed
Potatoes. Green Peas. Tomatoes
Sliced. Strawberries and Cream.
Coffee.
THURSDAY.
Breakfast.——Shredded Wheat, Milk
and Cream. Broiled Ham. Coffee
Cake. Coffee.
Luncheon. -— Chicken Croquettes.
Toast. Brown Bread and Butter.
Sliced Oranges. Cake. Chocolate.
Dinner.—-Cream of Onion. Roast
Ham. Spring Cabbage. Potatoes.
String Beans. Water Cress Salad.
Wafers. Cheese. Chocolate Pudding.
Coffee. ‘
——
FRIDAY.
Breakfast. — Oranges. Oatmeal,
Sugar and Milk. Bread Omelet. John-
ny Cake. Coffee.
Luncheon—Corn Fritters. Ginger-
bread. Orange Omelet. Cocoa.
Dinner.—Clam Chowder. Baked Blue
Fish. Mashed Potatoes. Butterbeans.
Green Peas. Strawberry Short Cake.
Coffee.
SATURDAY.
Breakfast—Grape Fruit. Oatmeal
Cakes. Liver and Bacon. Muffins.
Coffee.
Luncheon—Baked Beans. Graham
Muffins. Stewed Rhubarb. Jam.
Tea. _
Dinner.—-Boulllion. Roast Beef.
Mashed Potatoes. Asparagus on Toast.
Canned Corn. Radishes. Wafers.
Cheese. Lemon Meringue Pie. Coffee.
A Pretty Mode of Hair Dressing.
A simple and artistic mode of hair-
dressing and one particularly well
suited to the woman who wears her
hair high is here shown. First the
hair should be loosely waved all round,
then divide a. portion for the front,
combing the remaining hair well up
on the crown and tying there secure»
1y.
Then take the front piece of hair
and comb it back to the crown, arrang-
ing it rather high and roll the ends
round the fingers to form a kind of
pad, which pin to the crown. Divide
the. back hair into three strands, take
the centre portion and make into a
loop, which twist under the end with
the left hand to give it a small knot
at the base of the loop, t-hen pin the
loop rather high'on the top of the
head. With the two remaining strands
of hair make him more loops like the
last one, and pin them more to the
back of the head a trifle lower than
the high loop, then twist the ends of
hair round the fingers to form small
French curls, which pin in position.
The Independent Queen of Holland.
The young Queen of Holland is of a
serious turn of mind, and though de-
lighting in most girl-pleasures, greatly
dislikes any talk about “conquests,”
flirting, or matrimonial intentions. She
never fails to complain to her friends
of the persistency with which rumor
betroths her, now to one person, now
to another, and lately exclaimed: “I
will nev'er marry unless I love, and
love is 'a sacred thing which should
not be gossiped about!"
The wife of a weli~known politician
keeps a, scrap-book, in which she
pastes all the uncomplimentary para-
graphs printed about her husband.
They come in handy for quotation at
times. . 4_ ._
These gowns are, as a rule, made with
the short jacket opening over a vest
or shirt waist. '
Navy blue thque is the material of
the gown pictured. It is trimmed with
black b’raid. The braid on the short
rounded jacket is put on in a novel
manner while the' trimming on the
sleeves has the effect of being a con«
tinuation of the ccrsage decoration. A
pair of graceful 'revers, faced with
white» pique ornament the bodice front,
while the belt is of braided white
pique. The vest of white lawn is worn
with a. standing collar and black satin
four--in-hand tie.
The skirts of summer gowns are
made much longer even in wash goods
than in former years and consequently
have a more graceful appearance. They
are usually gored or are made with the
popular apron effect. The five gored
model is a great favorite and the Span-
ish flounce is also very often seen. The
skirts are made without a lining and
are mounted over a slip of silk ofilne
lawn, the latter being the most sensi-
ble and, girlish.
Rows of insertion or tiny ruffles
make a lovely trimming on wash
dresses, while rows of tucks on a fine
muslin gown is a decidedly effective
way of enhancing its beauty. - These
tucks are of every width, and can be
put on separate or in groups, either
horizontal, vertical or diagonal. A
dress of this description in course of
preparation for a young girl about to
graduate beggars description. The
finest of sheer muslin is the material
used, with trimming of tucks and laser.
tion. Groups of tucks barely a quar-
ter of an inch in width decorate the
skirt from the hem nearly to the waist.
with rows of fine lace insertion separ-
ating each group. The waist, which
is a simple round model. gathered at
the neck and shoulders, is also tucked
in groups, with the insertion employed
in the same manner a: on the skirt.
The sleeves are quite simple with small-
epau‘lets of the material over the
shoulders, edged with lace. This gown
will be worn over a lawn slip and with
stock collar and sash of wide white taf«
feta ribbon will compose a frock which
any girl might well envy. .
Another dainty dress of white dot-
ted swiss has the wide skirt bordered
at the foot with a deep pleated flcunce
of the material, headed with a tiny
ruche. White satin ribbon constitutes
the trimming on the waist, which is
made quite plain. The shirred sleeves
have tiny puffs at the shoulder and are
decorated with rosettes of ribbon to-
wards the front.
A gown which will be somewhat out
of the order of the general run of white
commencement dresses is to be worn
by a girl whose family is in deep
mourning. The material is fine dim-
ity, with a white ground, crossed and
recrossed with black lines. The skirt
is perfectly plain in the front. and is
outlined on each side with three gradu-
ated rows-of white insertion which ex‘
tend around the back of the skirt,
which is made with a deep rufile. The
waist has the blouse effect, opening
over a. vest of pure white mull. The
large collar is of fine lace. A hand—
some black satin sash will encircle the
waist and will are quite an air of
chic to this original frock.
Many people favor thin wool ma.-
crials for graduation gowns and there
are many lovely varieties to choose
from. Nun’s veiling, cashmere, white
barege and crepon make up very ef-
fectively and have the soft clinging ef.
feet which is now so much in vogue.
Taffeta, China and Japanese silks are
always popular, but as these two latter
materials come in such narrow widths
and as good taffeta is very expensive,
they would have to be classed among
the expensive gowns.
Shoes and gloves are important ac‘
cessories in the costuming of a fail
graduate. Black patent leather slip-
pers or ties, with black silk stockings
are the most appropriate, though many
prefer the white slippers and stockings
and these are in thorough good taste,
when the gown is white also. In
gloves white kid or silk should be don-
ned, the latter prrhaps being the most
comfortable for hot weather.
1 o \’
Tie Chinese cultivate an onion that
possesses no odor whatever.
1 I 1 9 'found in the debris; but they were not. A ' ' 1 THE WEEKLY MENU. 1, ' " 1 t -.
RACHEL S TRIAL‘ and when the blacksmith declared he 13‘ A STREET CAR. . 11 MOEY - 3 NEW YORIC F A SHIONb. " ' For the Small Girl. ‘1“:
———--—- had shod him the previous Saturday ~_ - '. ‘ For the small girl there is a. faith? .
, . _ . BY CID CRANE. 4 Breakfast—Strawberries, 51188? and For the summer tailor-made suit , “
BY VICTOR GAG-E kIMBERT. glings looked dark for :3in Moglrel Milk. Boiled Eggs. Baked Potatoes. nothing is so jaunty and comfortable“ $111? ocfoutIi‘ietsignai-grdeggtexd fgwtililso. 3
here were remains o t e 0 er Rolls. Coffee. the charming 80W“ M linen 0" pique. same lines as those intended for eldfiflii
sisters and mothers. "The gored skirt, 1
the blouse and the shirtwaist are all
shown, and vary very little from those~
made on a. larger scale.
.. -___ ‘... -. u-...n
. .
A
117/ 1“,, .
AAA?
'7 . .
Many mothers, however, prefer t-
ciiug to the more youthful styles for
their young daughters and the little
gathered skirts are often seen. A.
pretty model is of red cashmere, made A
with a simple round waist and full:
skirt. A little bolero of darker red;-
velvet is worn, with collar, belt and-2‘
cuffs to match. '7‘
Allowances for Children. .
The question of allowances for the:
youth of the family seems to present
itself in various aspects to mothers-2.
One woman, whose ideas on the bring-f
ing up of children have resulted suc-'
cessfully does not approve of 31101173
ances. “My children," she says, “after;
they are fourteen or fifteen are always
kept supplied with a quarter; this in;
case of emergency. The rest of their;
wants are provided‘for as they have
been during childhood." Other mothers"
have found the allowance idea an ex-=
cellent one. Fifty cents a week given
to a young. girl, out of which to pro-
vide certain small necessities and be
equal to emergencies brought about by
her own carelessness and want of fore.
thought, is a system which has proved
its efficacy. If a girl needs carfare
every day for school, a dollar a week
seems reasonable, and out of this she
will frequently save money. The
weight of opinion is, undoubtedly, in
favor of allowances. The tendency of,
the day is to belittle the habit of pro-
miscuously giving small sums of
money—nickels, dimes and quarters. A
chi-Id with an allowance soon discovers
that even pennies count, and if no
other lesson is taught something has
been gained.
i
l
The Mouse and the Banknote. i
A country vicar tells a curious story:
about a mouse and a bank-note. The
note, which was left on a shelf in 'a.
store-room, always kept locked up,"
suddenly vanished. The servants were
quite above suspicion. The fact that
the note had been laid in that particu-
lar place and had disappeared, admit-_
ted of no doubt whatever. After some” .
search it was noticed that there was a'
mouse-hole in a corner of the floor. A
carpenter was sent for, and a board
taken up. A large quantity of minute,
bits of paper were drawn out, the ac-.
cumulation, probably, of very many:
vears. Strange to say, in one corner of.
. the heap, a nest of young mice was dis-’3
covered lying on the bank-note! It'
was uninjured, no portion had been},
nibbled away, and was the only piece'
of paper left entire in all the heap. It
happened, then, that the mouse had-
carried the note, folded up as it was,
through its hole, and then unfolded and
spread it out as a. lining to its nest;
and had used it as a blanket, evidently}
conscious of its softness and flexibility:
l‘he wonderful part. of the story is the
leaving of this one piece of paper en-
tire, apparently because it was of a'
different texture from the rest. _,
The Learned Queen of Italy. _
While the Queen of Italy is known as,
a. doughty hill-climber and a beautiful
woman, it seems to escape general rec-
ognition that she is also the most
learned Royal woman in Europe. From
her earliest childhood Queen Margaret
has had a passion for books, and early
set herself to master the different lan-
guages in which the best of them are
written. She studied English in order-
to make Shakespeare’s acquaintancefg
and to this day he remains her'favorite‘
author, followed closely by Ruskin and",
Darwin. Among German writers 8110:"
loves Goethe best; among French, Ra-
cine and Chateaubriand. She knows
Spanish well, and Latin and Greek are
familiar tongues. Add to this a wide:
range of “ologies” of which she ‘ihac'-"‘a".‘.
practical knowledge, and the Itali'a”
Queenfs title to the reputation of help,” i
the most learned of Queens is obvious”
to , ,(nn 0
Norwalk Chronicler