Evening Star Newspaper, October 16, 1897, Page 23

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY,“ OCTOBER 16, 1897-24 PAGES. WILD HORSES A PEST! The Plains of pea Overrun With Them. THEY ARE HUNTED AS GAME A Herder's Story of an Attempt to Capture a Band. _—— STALLION’S COURAGE A New York Evening Post. AFF, Ariz. September 21.— ot a new kind of game now in Arizona.” said a man at Flagstaff who had just come in from the mesa, “and if you tenderfeet are after some sport, and want to be chased off the top of the earth, I can take you to the place. What is it? Why, horses. Just plain bronchos, and as ornery a lot of k:uses as you ever saw. ‘The fact ts that the whole northern part of Ar:zona is overrun with them, and I'm taking a petition to Attorney General Fraser, signed by every one up in our coun- try. ing that the territory either pay so much for their scaips or give the boys the legal right to cl n them out. “it's my private opinion,” added the herder, “that the wild horses have got the start, and nothing is going to stop them but a company of cavalry. They are just like deer, s vicious as possible, and the them has to look out for ‘They are ordinary horses that aped from bands from time to time. and formed im a herd under the lead stallion. As they have increased they have broken up, so that hundreds of herds have formed, and several thousand wild horses are on the ranges, eating good fod- der, stampeding cattle and sheep, and mak- ing a nu‘sance of themselves. “Last month I went out on a regular horse hunt with a party, and the animals gave us ali we wanted. In the band near our place there were four or five splendid mares, led by a stallion known as Black Hawk, as black as night. We thought we would take them in and break them; so a dozen of us started off with lariats. We were all mounted on the best of stock known in this section, and we thought it would be a mere lark to run them in. The band had been stampeding our stock, and finally got so bold that they would come up near the camp on the run, then stop short and look at us, giving a sort of chal- lenge, as it were, and then wheel off like the wind. Inte the Herd. “We started early in the morning and rode across the mesa for about ten miles without seeing a thing; then one of our party thought he saw some antelopes over by # big butte. They were coming our Way, so we stopped, and in a few minutes it dawned upon us that they were a band of wild bronchos. They were moving along in a bunch, and the wind had lifted a col- umn of dust so that they looked like a tig comet flying along the ground with the tail in the air. They had evidently sighted us, and were going to stainpede our horses. cu know how Indians throw themselves out of sight on their horses? Well, we played the same game, and rode slowly aleng, looking at the fiying bronchoes just under the necks of our animals. On they came—nearly fifty of them—like a whirl- wind, and presently we saw that they were led by the big black stallion that so many persons have tried to capture. It was with the greatest difficulty that we kept our horses quiet, and it easy to see how the wild horses could stampede otner ani- mals. When the drove were within twenty yards of us they separated, as though to surround us. Then we could hold our animals no longer, and at the word from the boss we dashed at the drove. “It was the sight of my life, and I've on the plains for years in all kinds of The will horses stopped instantly, except the black stallion. He came on until he reached us, then threw himself on his haune wing the air. For a mo- ment his he emed to be surrounded with lariats, d have sworn th two went ove dodged them ail and ran at us, striking our horses, and after beating his way directly through ne turned and ran. A Great Run. “The others had deserted him, and it was now a race to the finish. I've seen some riding, but this beat anything in my expe- rience. It was a fairly good country, but cut by washouts, so that one moment we were in the bed of 4 wash and the next fly- ing along the mesa or leaping some creek over the boulders or circling around buttes. ally we ran down into the level country, here big buttes rise up like ruins of houses —a place the men cxlled the Enchanted City. Here the herd gained on us, and after four hours of the hardest riding we suw them climb out of a big arroyo, going nt _up the siope that our horses half an r later chgelutely refused, and so they ared. We were dead beat and ail to ackrcwledge it. I don't~believe $a hors Arizona that can catch t stallion. ‘The governor of the state has been re- ed to take some action, and undoubt- urious exhibition of men trying to srminate horses wil! be seen. Arizona is not the only state where such horses are found. Large herds are to be seen in Cali- fornia, and on the San Joaquin plains a not lion has led the forces for years— a magnificent creature that has aroused the cupidity of many a lover of horseflesh. Ore man Offered $1,000 for him and over fifty men have laid traps to capture him. After various methods had failed they fermed stations and ran him at fuil speed to one or near it, where a new man would start in. In this way he was chased by fresh horses for over 100 miles at what Was supposed to be full speed, but the pur- suers never got nearer than 500 yards to him. NOT CONTEMPT OF COURT. Even Judges on the Bench Are Open toe Reasonable Criticism. From the Albany Law Journal. ‘The ¢ ion of the supreme court of Wis- consin in the row famous Eau Claire con- tempt case, not oaly makes very interest- ing reading, but constitutes one of the most emphatiz vindications of the rights of free speech and free criticism which we have bad from the bench in a long time. it may be well to recall the salient facts ot this remarkable case. Judge Bailey of re, who was a candidate for re- n last spring, objected to certain ed- rials and communications in a local pa- r severely animadverting upon his of- jal conduct and methods. The writer editor having filed affidavits in con- tempt proceedings (instituted against them by the judge) alleging the truth of their charges of unfairness, partiality and in- capacity against Judge Bailey, he angrily Tefused to proceed with the hearing and riade r adjudging his critics guilty of contempt. The offenders were to be ccmmitted to jail, but « writ of prohibition ‘om the supreme court saved them from that punishment. The supreme court, in reviewing the case, points out the fact that the erficisms made upon Judge Bailey had no reference to any action of his in con- nection with the case then pending. Wheth- er just or unjust, they were general in their nature, end referred to past conduct. ‘The court says {t is well persuaded that newspaper comments on cases finally de- e‘ded prior to the publication cannot be considered criminal contempt, and that they do not obstruct the administration of justice, however much they may tend to Prejudice the judge against whom they are irected. While it is of the first importance that judges should perform their grave du- ties unimpeded, it is equally important that the right of citizens and newspapers to riticise what they deem arbitrary, un- worthy and corrupt conduct should be jeal- ously preserved. The court says: “Truly, it must be a grievous and weighty necess- ity which will justify so arbitrary a pro- ceeding whereby a candidate for office be- comes the accuser, judge and jury, and May within a few hours summarily punish his critie by imprisonment. The result of suck doctrine is that all unfavorable criti- cism of a sitting judge's past official con- duct can be at once stopped by the judge himself, or, if not stopped, can be punished by immediate imprisonment. If there can be any more effectual way to gag the press and subvert freedom of speech we do not know where to find it.” This is a stinging rebuke, but justly deserved, ard one need- ed to remind arregant and Cictatorial ju- rists that they are no more above r criticism than are any ordinaty individu- als. To slightly paraphrase the poet: “No divinity doth hedge about a judge,” least of all at a time when he is a candidate for cfice. The law provides adequate remedies for unjustifiable attacks upon their char- acter, but does not permit the summary fining and imprisonment of critics, even when their criticisms go beyond what may be deemed proper limits, provided such animadversions do not clearly tend to ob- struct the administration of justice in a then pending case. “MERCHANT PRINCES” OF LETTERS, Famous Writers Who Have Made and Kept Fortunes. From the Chicago Times-Herald. The “Grub street tradition” was knocked in the head long ago, but the Pall Mall Ga- zette has completely demolished it by show- ing that writers are among the best paid workers. Indeed the “literary aristocracy” is becoming a sort of plutocracy, whose members, instead of lurking through the ! side lanes in fear of creditors or “standing behind the screen” at the publisher’s house, are in high consideration at the banks. Tennyson received $30,000 for “The Holy Grail.” During the last few years of his life Macmillan & Co. paid him $50,000 or 300,000 a year. For “The Revenge” alono the Nineteenth Century gave him $1,000. Dickens left $00,000; Lord Lytton, $400,000; Mrs. Henry Wood, $180,000; Mrs. Dinah Craik, $55,000. Victor Hugo left property in England alone valued at $457,000. But the novelists of the present day en- joy golden harvest unknown to their pre- decessors. For example, Mrs. Humphry Ward, who has been writing for only ten years and has produced very few books, has earned $300,000. She received $40,000 for “Marcella” alone. George du Maurier received $50,000 for “The Martian.” On two beoks—The Bonny Brier Bush” and “Auld Lang Syne’—lan Maclaren’s proiits in Great Britain amounted to $35,000, and so popular is his soft nonsense in this country that he must have earned quite as much again from the American sales. Rudyard Kipling’s profits have been enormous. Their extent may be judged from the fact that the editor of the Pall Mall Gazette acknowledges that he paid Kipling $750 apiece for the “Barrack Room Bailads.” Eleven thousand dollars was paid for “The Seven Seas." For short sto- ries Kipling receives 2 shillings a word. Conan Doyle earned $35,000 by writing “Rodney Stone.” Rider Haggard gets $100 for a column of 1,300 words. In one year Stevenson cleared $35,000 from syndicates. The unfinished “Weir of Hermiston” was purchased for $15,000, Zola received $220,000 for his first four- teen books. The women writers of fiction are well up in the race. Edna Lyall’s in- come from her books is 310,000 a year. Miss Braddon charges 36,900 for a “fairly long story.” But probably the highest price recently paid for a novel was $200,000 for Alphonse Daudet’s “Sappho.” Nor are the essayists forgotten in this distribution of gold. J. Addington Symonds left a fortune of $375,000; Dr. Morrell, the . $200,000, The publishers, for Ruskin pay him $20,000 a year. “Mr. tone used to earn $15,000 a year by his pen.” In short, the “literary calling” is shown of the most remunerative in the ven the hack-writers earn com- fortable wages. Whether the quality of the output is improved by the remunera- tion oc whether modern writers are falling “under the damnation of the checkbook” is another question eee GUESSED IT TOO QUICKLY. Mr. Bixby Will Try No More Puzzles on His Wife. From the San Francisco Post. There was nothing special to take Bixby down town the other night, so he decided to stay at home and give Mrs. Bixby the rare treat of his company for the evening. While glancing over the paper, as she sat sewing, Bixby thought how happy she must be at being allowed to bask in his presence, and later on, in a burst of amiable gener- osity, he decided to even bestow upon her an intellectual treat. He had, after reading the advertisements, cast his eye upon the puzzle column of the paper, and the thought was born in him to spring upon her a puz- zle originated in his own head. After long study he concluded to invent an enigma. He decided upon the word “Poe,” an easy one, suited to Mrs. Bixby’s feminine and therefore feeble perceptions. The enigma was to recite three words in which the letters of the name are found and to wind up with “My whole is a well- known poet.” Clara,” said Mr. Bixby, suddenly and ex- plosively: Mrs. Bixby started out of her dreamy state of mind and almost dropped her sew- ing. What is it, dear?” she asked. ‘I have three letters,” said Bixby, dis- tinetly and impressively. “My first ‘is in ‘pocket,’ but-not in ‘box;’ my: ‘Josiah Bixby,” said Mrs. Bixby, sternly fixing him with her eye, “of all the thoughtless, careless, neglectful, inconsid- erate men I ever saw you are the worst. One of ‘em’s that letter to mamma I gave you to mail last Friday asking her to see Aunt Susan and get that skirt pattera I loaned her last week and a copy of that recipe for cough sirup that did Johnny so much good, and to come up and stay a ‘week or two with us, as I need her a: ance in selecting shades for the sitting room, as they are faded and not fit to be seen, even if you do sneer at her behind her back and make remarks about her that you never would do if you had any love for your wife, and I'll be bound one of them is that letter I wrote that New York agency that offers $10 a day for work in your own home, samples free, though I’m sure you'd never give me any credit for trying to earn money and help you along, and the other one is the letter I wrote to my old schoolmate, Jennie Armstrong, who hinted she was going to come and see us, and I told her that we were undecijed about moving, yet the sly, deceitful minx, she thinks I don’t know you were engaged to her once, pushing herself right in on us, the brazen creature, and the chances are she'll be here any day, and you carrying those letters around in your pocket for weeks after I gave them to you to mail, and you sitting up here and telling me about it, as if it were of no importance in the world, though goodness knows I'm of none myself in this house, slaving and scraping and saving to try and help--" Bixby jumped out of his chair, threw the paper at the Jamp, jammed his hut on and shouted: “Mrs. Bixby, I'm going out to look at the airship. When you recover your senses, madam, I will return.” ——_—_+0+—____ Food Poisoning. From the New York Evening Post. “A saying that is literally true,” re- marked a physician the other day, “is that setting forth the doctrine that one man's meat is another man’s poison. Within a short time I have treated two curious cases of what I may term eruptive indigestion. In the first I chanced to meet the man on the street in the morning. He was appar- ently perfectly well. At 5 o’clock I was summoned to his residence. I should not have recognized him, so distorted were his features from the eruption which cov- ered them. Investigation and the future history of the case settled beyond a doubt that che man had been poisoned by clams which he had eaten at luncheon, yet the disturbance was for him alone, other mem- bers of the family who had partaken of the same dish feeling no ill results. A fort- night later another patient of mine came to ne with a marked eruption on hands and wrists aud between the fingers. A dinner of veal was responsible for the trouble, and again, as in the first instance, the sufferer was the only one affected of the family who had partaken of the meat at the same meal. In each case I found that the tendency to distress from the particular food was known to each sufferer, although never before had the symptoms been so marked or distressing. This is, perhaps, a word of warning to persons who know their po‘son to abstain from it, particularly when their systems may be from some cause in a non-resisting state.” ——+e+___ Considered Himself an Authority. From Puck. Mrs. Porkchops (in Europe)—“They say:| the family used to have hundreds of re- tainers.” Mr. Porkchops—“Spent ‘em all, did they?” Mrs. Porkchops—“Spent them? you don’t know what a retainer ts.’ Mr. Porkchops—“I don’t, don’t I? I guess Toust?? ** much law business as most RUSKIN’'S “SHEPHERDLAND” A Picturesque Region Dear to the Artist's Heart. Soon to Be Invaded by Raflroads—The Housewife, Their Work and Their Home. Herdsman’s From the London Chrenicle. If the long-projected railway from Green- odd, near Coniston, to. Ambleside becomes an accomplished fact, it is to be feared that a district still famed for its primitive virtues will be delivered over to the mercies of the hotel keeper and mining company. At present “Shepherdland,” as Mr. Ruskin christened the fells and dales near Brant- wood, is little known to the ordinary tour- ist, who keeps to the main roads, and its hardy sors, who carn their living either by sheep farming or slate quarrying, still pos- sess those virtues of self-reliance, unceas- ing industry and sturdy independence. char- acteristic of all mountaineers. A reserved race, like all northerners, and by no means inclined to respond promptly to every casual greeting, travelers from the more é£ffusive south who have strayed among them have often gone away complaining of their iudeness and moroseness. And yet by no race is such condemnation less de- served, as all those who have penetrated within those bare, stern-looking, gray stone farm houses, and enjoyed the hospitality and confidence of their owners will agree, and certainly nowhere in England do bet- ter housewives exist than those who bear sway in the fell farms and slaters’ cot- tages of the two Langdales. The farm houses themselves are built of the “waste” of the green slate quarries, ard are straight-walled, unornamented structures set in the most sheltered places at the fell foot, their chief characteristic being the deep porch, built so as to protect the kitchen or “house place,” into which it opens, from the driving wind and heavy winter snow. The cottages, also built of “waste,” are generally plastered, and show as brilliant and pleasing patches of daz- zling white against the dull purple of the fellside heather and whin bushes. Occa- sionally the porch will be gay in summer with the vivid scarlet tropaeolum, that most capricious of plants, which will cover a wayside cottage window with a curtain of glowing color, and absolutely refuse to put forth a single bud in some well-kept garden, to which its kobold-like mind has taken exception. Within both farm house and cottage are alike in two particulars—their spotless cleanliness and the beauty and appropriate- ness of their furniture. That healthy pride in one’s goods and ‘chattels, which the cheap, bad furniture, miserable, jerry-built cottages, and frequent moves necessitated by the exigencies of the labor market, have almost destroyed among the southern la- borers, still exists in all its old strength in the hearts of ‘the shepherds’ wives of the north. Indeed, such is the value set upon furniture and the pride with which it is cherished that within the last thirty years both children and servants stood to their meals lest the treasured chairs should suf- fer from scratches made on their rails by careless feet! The result being that no home in England can show a more pic- turesque interior than that seen through the open porch of a Lakeland farm house. Faciug the doorway is the tall clock made at Penrith or Kendal, and often bearing on its brazen face the names of its original purchasers, from whom it has descended as a precious possession through some hun- dred years. Near it, ranged against the wall, stand fine, high-backed, oaken chairs with rush seats, many of which ‘have never needed reseating since their purchase over forty years ago. Under the window is usually a long, oak table, with a rail con- necting the legs to keep the feet of the diners from the cold flags, and these same slate flags, always stainless, are on Satur- days, after-their weekly scouring, curious- ly decorated with a foot-wide border of criss-crossing in white chalk. In a large kitchen there will be, beside the table, a long, high-backed settle or oak chest, both often very well carved in simple Jacobean rap work. But the chief feature of every houseplac around which the whole ilfe of the house centers, is the great open fire- place, over which hang copper and brass pots and warming pans, on whose brightly polished surfaces the light dances, while across the fire stretches a fine steel or iron crank, from which hangs kettle or cooking pot. By the hearth stand the rocking chairs of both master and mistress, with- out which no house is complete. Near the master’s is a small, round, three-legged ta- ble with a three-cornered shelf below, and beside his wife’s either wocden cradle or spinning wheel. Hours are very long in the north, for work at the quarries begins at 6, and a house must be astir by 5 if its master be either slater or farmer, though the mis- tress will often be found still busy over mending or ironing as late as 11 at night. The children, too, must be started on their walk to school by 7:30 at latest, and many whose homes lle still further from the school house even earlier. When all have been safely set on their way, housework begins in earnest. The mistress and her aids feed the poultry, milk the cows and even look after the wants of such sheep as happen to be folded in the “intake” near the house. Such is the spirit possessed by the whole race, that no woman shirks her burden, and work is done and children bred up in honesty and health, blow the wind never so coldly or Me the winter snow never so long. Such characters haye time for everything, and it is no uncommon thing to see two or three violins hanging against a kitchen walland to hear the mistress or her daugh- ters train the choirs of mission-room or chapel, play the harmonium at the Sunday service, and arrange the practices for the various eoncerts with which they. enliven the dreariness of the long winter evenings. — SMALL SAVINGS. Advantages of the Proposed System of Postal Banks. Frem the Mlustrated American. Postmaster General Gary's plan to es- tablish small branch savings banks in every post office, with a great central de- posit bank In Washington, ought to take hold of the common sense of the people. It settles very simply the troublesome question: ‘“‘What shall be done with small savings?’ Small savings worry both pos- sessors and public. The possessors, who have deposited thelr money, distrust banks. Those who have not deposited it keep awake over their stocking-tip hoards or dream of burglars. In time of plenty bankers do not care to receive small savings. Insignificant de- pore do not pay for the bookkeeping they entail. Moreover, there are large numbers of peopl. who cannot reach banks. In time of panic small savings do not get into the banks. They are hoarded, and the rational circulation of currency be- comes anaemic. The proposed postal savings bank sys- tem will be safe enough to draw forth the most cherished hoard, and will be :ight at hand in the most remote districts. The a credit of the nation will be back of it. Under this plan any man, woman or cl over ten years of age may fill out a slip at any post office, pay the postmaster the deposit and receive a bank book. By appli- cation a few days beforehand, he may with- draw his money at will. While the de- posit is In the hands of the government -it will draw a moderate interest. Thus at small cost the system will ac- complish a great benefit to the people. It will be safe—as long as the govern- ment is safe. Depositors will have an in- terest in seeing that the government Is not imperiled. Thus the system will stimulate patriotism. It will break up hoarding and keep money in circulation. This has been proved in England, where the system began thirty- six years The chief disadvantage of the. measure Proposed is its possible effect upon small savings banks in county seats everywhere about the country. These mMstitutions will probably oppose it. But their weight can hardly balance the weight of the popular advantages of the It is now upon a firm in England, France, Austria, Belgium, Switzerland, Italy, Sweden, Russia, Hungary and even Japan. In Canada it has proved a striking success. Its introduction into America is Itkely to be one of the glories of this administra- tien. ————-o- — —___ “Want” ads. in The Star pay because they bring answers. Di (Copyright, 180% by iy Warman.) “Now a locomotive ig) mext to a marine engine, ‘Of course, the most itive thing man ever made.”—Rudyard Kipligg in the August Scribner. oe. i I am not supersensitive, like Canada that throws A fit and has hysterics when she's called a land of snows— Which snow is half ber glory, e’en as mine bides in my pull, | And push, and speed, and come and go; and yet my heart is full Of grief and indignation. First off, you write me “he, And rate me ‘long with stationary water boilers. We— speak for all my sisters—all who wear the pett!- coat, 2 For we are “ladies” every one, aye, even to the Goat)t is We all are prond to have engaged the pen of one who may At will depict the eagle less imposing than the jay; i. Who only needs to pause, and touch, or breathe upon the striags Of, the mute iyre, and lo, the songless slumberer wakes and sings, And all the glad world Ustens to the songs that rise and swell. Blame not my poor interpreter, for he, too, loves you well. He loves your friend, McAndrews, too, who loved his enemies so; * : The engines Calvin might have made, “enormous,” aye, but “slow.” My driver aiso loves me. He knows the sort of steel Of which my wheels and ribs are wrought, and what it Is to feel My hot breath on his upturned face; to test my speed and power; While holding me against the night at eighty miles an hour. . Tm And you call these more sensitive who flounder in the sea, Or drive the tug—or boil the glue—more sensitive than we, Who show ourselves in half an hour in half a dozen towns, And sound our bells by running brooks and whistle ‘on the downs; I thank you kindly, Kipling, for the kind words you have said, Ta blush to seem ungrateful, yet when my driver read: Next to marine sea! Well, when it all came home to him, he shot one glance at ma, ‘The sunset shimmering o'er my sides and on my burnished bell, And white steam fluttering from my dome as we dropped down the dell. Iv. We passed a ferry coughing low, and sidling cross a stream; 4 The driver pulled my yhigtle valve and made me fairly scream; 2 sot “Wi! Wi! watch the *orlde go by!’ you should have seen his smiley, | 1 hands marking fort mile. a I hope it was not vanity* "The engine in the mill That tolls and runs from ywor to year, tho’ al- engine’—O! Nigger-stoked at The Ways standing still,< . ‘Ti Excites my pity. Likg @ {pttered felon in his chains, 2 She toils on patiently, while E go romping o'er the plains. ord T'm sure the lumbering opging!that rolis'in a twist- ing sea x Would gladly, gladly cime Ashore and roam the earth with me, 1° y, ‘worl!’ somewhere that she sts She knows there is a “ has never seen, She knows she has‘a bdjler,,foo, somewhere below the green 5, v oh alt Line of the ocean. ' Now:the driverchooked my lever back ky = A notch, and, leaning, tistened to the flutter of my stack. w: We passed 2 ttle thresher engine; sweating in a field, And how my heart went out to her, rust-red and halt concealed In smoke and dust. hand on me, And touched my throttle half a hair, 'n I felt the touch. Says he: “Did you read what that rooster writ, "bout senst- tive machines?" “Yes,” sald the fireman; “that's a joke. "Twas writ for the marines."” “Draft, or lifting olpe. +A yard engine. ——+ ee Kinghorn an’ Lunnon. From Punch. The sichts we've seen! ‘The punds my wife Has spent Instead o’ bankit! But eh! we're back in bonny Fife, Sae let the Lord be thankit! An’ Lumon? Well, ye ken, it's gay A busy, nicht an’ morn, man, An’ there's a pickle fonk—but el It's no—it's no Kinghorn, ma The driver Ughtly laid his Yell _wanner on, an’ on, an’ on, Through miles an’ miles o” men, man, An’ yet in a’ the erood like yon. There's a de'fl a face ye'll ken, man. Na! Lunnon’s oot the warl’, ye see, For look ye, I'll be sworn, man, Sic unco things could never be In cecvilized Kingsorn, man, The shops? Ou, aye, there's shops Indeed, But faith, they're rale wahaundy: Ane keeps yer butter, ane yer breld, An’ yet a third yer braundy. Noo here, gin ye be wantin’ oucht, gib00ts, butcher's meat or corn, man, ig, bonnets, breeks, they'll a’ ‘Thegither im Kingbor, tau. °° POUCH The Seabtons? ieel. 30, wheen o' giddy hussh Paradin’ in thelr duddies braw Upon the cars an’ "busses. But dinna think o#re much 0? you, ae are a8 Tam born, ‘man, r style, it’s no a pateh uy Our floo'er show at Kinghorn, man, An’ then sic ignorancet Losh me, Bum feared ye'll no ean oot it, ie kent wi ME nat ‘hg Wiuaur Kinghorn micht be, Bor peety ms oe an ae YY mair » man, Bor tnled ye, "thena glen to" a To live aboot Kinghorn, man. ——_—-+0- Uncle Bill's Letter. From the Chicago Times-Herald. We had a note the other day from uncle way out Been me some twent; ” thrtane biess'a 7 Yet OF more, an’ is by He sent his photergraph along, an’ in his letter He's livin’ on a ranch alone an’ never yet has wad. “I guess, the Maynard girl atill lives,” he wrote, ‘an’s pretty stills, She who was known asiRoxey when I to her was Mis at We showed the photergraph er—she read letter through, eaPe fer ™ = An’ with a little sigh dhe eald, a Uttle nervous, : u “Well, Mr. Smith des MMT. Sulth, deserves good Iuck—a noble An’ then her face turned strangely and wilted Tose. an 10 Pe ue ken, we saw Perhaps the kind words tetched a chord Stralghtway felt ar tarie = ome Saad! wn \Romey when I to her wes Ah, undercurrents of all: lives! * * © © 0 6 ¢ Around her chil 3 She bas a busband who Eisi2an yet who knows, ‘When she remembered ‘that one heart in all the sul Rarnedcteonee in tended an’ thought he ay Re, a Ee dream stil, ders i one wes " eee known as Roxey, an’ one was known A Disappointed Daughter. From St. Nicholas, “Mami the os ae at our school, our quaint old gowns will be the rules bg “You's , 4 .ter* see; You’ bd and hea chi both, you see; Our attic’s as it can be Of gowns worn long ago. “I chose an t— = n armful—just about. stale thas eet— an ase SOUTHERN HIGHLANDERS Their One-Room Cabins Lighted by Door E or Hearth. Progress of Education ard the Civil- izing Influences of the Century Among Them. From the Independent. ‘The strange and queer are typical of the Tennessee mountains. It is the country of the one-roomed log cabin. Archaeologists are continually digging up new and fearful discoveries from the bowels of the moun- tains. It was once the home of the cliff @wellers, and the clay eaters thrive there now. Much of the money given by south- ern churches for home missions goes to the Tennessee mountains. A Baptist mission- ary made the startling statement that there were a half-million people living in the Appalachian belt who had no Bibles. Some of them never saw a Bible. The home mission societies have estab- lished four schools within a short time. These are well-equipped central schools, designed as feeders for denominational col- leges. Small day schools, taught in log cabins, are located in the remote and iso- lated valleys and coves of the mountains. In county after county, extending over great stretches of country, the one-room cabin home, lighted by the open pee and children cook, ea an sleep. is the rule: and such living does not produce the best class of citizens. Six thousand of the children of the south- ern highlanders are in school, while over 400,000 of them have no chance of secur- ing an education. There are 2,600,000 southern highlanders in the mountains of Tennessee, North pea een Georgia and Virginia. They occupy Seance’ Between 1730 and 1750, 240,000 le came from Ulster county, Ireland, to the Carolina shores. ‘They formed the first republican government in America, in 1769, calling it the “Wautauga Associa- tion.” Today the highlanders are poor, ne- glected, outcast. They lost their books in the early wars. They were driven to the mountains, away from educational and business centers, because they protested against slavery. There are no infidels among them, although lawlessness abounds. The lowest forms of civilization in the mountains are the clay-eaters. These peo- ple eat clay with a relish, and the only bad effect seems to be the pale, death- colored skin and stunted growth that re- sult. The children who eat clay grow old prematurely, and the glow of youth leaves them. Tkey are utterly without ambition, listless and indifferent of all conditions, resent or future. Pithe clay is found along the banks of the mountain streams in inexhaustible quanti- ties, and is of a dirty white and yellow color. It has a peculiar, oily appearance, and the oll keeps it from sticking to the hands or mouth. When dry it does not crumble, and a little water softens it until it can be rolled into any shape, The clay is tasteless, but it must possess some nour- ishment, as these people claim they can subsist on it for days without other food. They place a small piece of it in the mouth and keep it there until it dissolves and slowly trickles down their throats. It is eaten in small lumps. The appetite once fully developed for clay means that the victim is a clay-fiend for life, its insidious hold equaling the opium habit. HOW TO “SAIL” A BICYCLE. Mast Rigged on a Wheel. From the New York Times. L. E. Hudson of Ellesburg, N. Y., claims to be the pioneer in running the bicycle with a sail. He confesses that he can’t tack easily or run close to the wind, and so when the wheeling sailor has had a fine run down the wind he must push his craft back. Mr. Hudson says: “I rigged a mast of spruce ten feet high to the frame of the wheel, about four inches back of the handle bars. Rigidity was secured by two bolts and a cleat on the opposite side. The sail was made cf y cotton-cloth, with a light boom a! cord, which was passed through a light pul- ley block attached to tke saddle post, and through another pulley attached to the center of the handle bars. This I found to be an excellent arrangement, as it enabled me to hold the sail without interfering with the steering of the wheel. Of course, it took some little time to figure this all out. In fact, I did not have it all complete the first time I rigged up the sail. The im- provements naturally came with exper- eye was with considerable trepidation that I mounted the wheel. The towering mast and flapping sail disconcerted me a bit, and, in order to accustom myself to their presence on the machine, I furled the sail and rode up and down until I became at home. Then I tried the running gear with one hand while I steered with the cther. As the wind caught the sail the bicycle moved along smoothly, but rapidly developed an inclination to seek a ditch. Happily, I was able to correct this whim of the wheel and convert it into a middle-of- the-roader. I gradually slacked away at the cord, and as the boom swung around to nearly right angles, the speed increased. “As the wind grew stronger I found my- self skimming along faster than I had ever essayed as a mere scorcher. How to stop was a question that I had given but little thougbt to. But now it loomed up as a mcst important factor to the continuance of my career. I thrust my foot on the front tire, as I had often done in going dcwn steep hills, but the only effect was a strong odor of burning rubber and a warm sensation on the bottom of my foot. I had already covered two miles at a hair-raising clip, and the speed seemed to increase as I struck a stretch of open country where the wind had full play. : “I had no desire to jibe or attempt any maneuvers of a fancy order. Of course, the sport was exhilarating and there was jest that dash of danger which I confess intensified the pleasure. But my Waterloo was in waiting. It was an almost abrupt turn in the road. Straight ahead was a deep ditch with a lot of thistles and sharp stones. It was only a fraction of a second later when I discovered my cuticle ning the side of the ditch, but in that moment I had thought of home and all things dear. Finally I picked myself up and trudged home, as sailing against the wind on a twenty-foot road was not my specialiy. “Nearly every breezy day since that ex- perience, which oceurred several months ago, I have gone a-sailing on my wheel, and now find little difficulty in navigating. When the wind gets too strong I take a reef in the sail or apply the brake.” ———-e+_ A WOMAN’S BRAVERY. A Ten-Foot A Child’s Remarkable Rescue From Death. From the Woman's Journal. Away down in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, in the peaceful little island of Prince Ed- ward, aptly called the “Garden of the Gulf,” occurred an incident of thrilling in- terest and self-sacrifice. children loved to wander, Plucking from their stems the nodding golden cups, and stringing the daisies into endless chains. About the door of the cottage the gladsome voices of the children, mingling with the merry chirp of the birds, rejoiced the 23 from the well and was left standing in the bucket. Her child absent longer than was neces- sary, the mother looked out, but saw no sign of her. She paid no attention, how- ever, thinking the tittle one had wandered off to play, and she herself went and brought the water. After a while the other children began to inquire where “Maudie” was, and then the mother’s fears were aroused. Like a flash, a thought came to her, and she dashed wildly to the well. Who can describe her despair when, look- ing down the dark depths, she descried the loved form at the bottom. No father, no neighbor, no help—she alone must act, and that instantly. She snatched off her shoes and stockings, and with the supreme force of a mother’s love impelling her onward, a prayer on her white lips, she made her way, clinging to the rough stones, down the jagged and almost perpendicular sides of the well. As she wildly caught her child in her arms she realized that her work was but begun. Here again her woman's quick wit saved her. Catching up the hem of her skirt in her teeth, she thus made a safe | receptacle for her charge, leaving her atms free to scale the perilous height above her. With infinite labor arid caution this was Gone, but the child neither moved breathed. Still, hope was not yet dead in the mother’s breast. Quickly she wrapped the lifeless form in hot steaming flannels, and began briskly to rub the little stiffened limbs. After more than an hour's despair- ing work she was able, with a handle of a teaspoon, to force open the tightened jaws, and quickly managed to get a little warm milk into the child’s mouth. At last what was the mother’s joy when she saw the re- laxing muscles, the quivering eyelids and the first faint breath of returning life. The little girl, then four years old, grew up to be a blessing to her family and friends, and now lives, a happy wife and mother, to testify to the undying devotion and fortitude of a mother’s love. LIFE IN A ROYAL COURT, Marie Antoinette Describes Her Daily tle daughter was sent with a tin cup to fetch some which had just been drawn Occupations. Miss Anna L. Bicknell, author of “Life in the Tuileries Under the Second Empire,” ccntributes an article to the Century on “Marie Antoinette as Dauphine.” Miss Bicknell has availed herself of new ma- terial from the state papers in Vienna. An interesting document from this source is the fellowing letter written by Marie An- toinette to her mother, Maria Theresa, Em- press of Austria: “CHOISY, 12th July. “Macame my very dear mother: I can- not express how much i am affected by your majesty’s kidness, and I protest that I have not yet received one of your dear letters without tears of regret filling my eyes at being parted from such a kind and tender mother: and although I am very happy here, J should earnestly wish jo re- turn to see my dear, very dear family, if only for a short time. * * * “We have been here since yesterday, and from 1 o'clock in the afternoon, when we dine, til 1 in the morning, we cannot re- turn to our own apartments, which is very disagreeable to me. After dinner we have cards till 6 o'clock; then we go to the play till half-past 9; then supper; then cards again till 1 o'clock, sometimes even hailf- past 1; only yesterday the king, seeing that I was tired out, kindly dismissed me at 11, to my very great satisfaction, and I slept very well tll half-past 10. Your majesty is very kind to show so much interest in me, even to the extent of wishing for an account of how I spend my time habitually. I will say, therefore, that I rise at 10 o'clock, or 9, or half-past 9, and after dressing I say my prayers; then I breakfast, after which I go to my aunts’, where I usually meet the king. This lasts till _half-past 10. At 11 I go to have my hair dressed. At noon the ‘Cambre’ is cali- ed, and any one of sufficient rank may come in. I put on my rouge and wash my hands befere everybod: men go out; the ladies stay, and I dress before them. At 12 is mass; when the king is at Versailles I go to mass with him and my husband and my aunts; if he is not there I go with Monsieur the Dauphin, but always at the same hour. After mass we dine together before everybody, but it is over by haif-past 1, as we both eat quickly. I then go to Monsieur the Dauphin: if he is busy, I return to my own apartments, where I read, I write, or I work: for I am embroidering a vest for the king, which does not get on quickly; but I trust that, with God's help, it will be finished in a few years('). At 3 I go to my aunts’,where the king usually comes at that time. At 4 the abbe usually comes to me; at 5 the master for the harpsichord, or the singing master, till 6. At half-past 6 I generally go te my aunts’ when I do not go out. You must know that my husband almost al- ways comes with me to my aunts’. At 7, card playing till 9; but when the weather is fine I go out, and then the card playing takes place in my aunts’ spartments in- stead of mine. A supper; when the king is absent my aunts come to take supper with us; if the king is there, we go to them after supper, and we wait for the king, who 1 ; then the gentle- comes usually at a quarter before 11; but I lic on a large sofa and sleep till his ar- rival; when he is not expected we go to bed at 11. Such is my day. “I entreat you, my dear mother, to for- give me if my letter is too long; but my greatest pleasure is to be thus in commiu- nication with your majesty. I ask pardon also for the blotted letter, but I have had to write two days running at my toilet, having no other time at my disposal: and if I do not answer all questions, exactly, I trust that your majesty will make allow: ances for my having too obediently burned your letter. I must finish this, as I have to dress and to go to the king’s mass. I have the honor to be your majesty’s most sub- missive daugh ‘MARIE ANTOINETTE.” ai. Making Bread in Camp. John Muir in the San Francisco Examiner. Good bread, on which your climbing and digging depend, may be made direct from the flour sack, with a little salt and water stirred in. After the dough is worked to the required firmness squeeze it into thin cakes about the size of ship biscuits, throw them on hot coals raked from the heart of your camp fire; turn them before they be- gin to burn, and when firm enough set them on edge to be toasted until thorough- ly baked through. Or if the weather is bad, cut a stick about the size of a whip- handle, of birch pine, spruce, cottonwood or willow, according to the flavor desired, and sharpen it; squecze out a handful of dough, coil it in a thin Spiral around the stick and set it upright in the ground at baking distance from the fire, giving it a quarter turn from time to time until the bread spiral is thoroughly baked and browned all around. Wholesome bread may be quickly made in this way in any kind of weather, with the flavor of sunny wheat fields in it, and that of the stick on which it is baked, while the iosses from smearing of pans, and the soggy heart of thick loaves and dampers that must be thrown away. are avolded. If you must have your bread old-fashioned and light— bloated into a fluffy mass full of airholes— then instead of a heavy case of powders take a quarter-ounce cake of baker’s com- pressed yeast to start with, and after each baking put a handful of the fermented dough into the flour sack, and with tnis store you may go on raising cerealine bil- | lows as long as you like. He Sang Everything. From the Troy Times. One of the amusing incidents that figure in a preacher’s experience is related by Rey. Dr. McIntyre of Chicago: “I cannot sing, unfortunately, and so whenever I conducted revival services I used to take along a friend of mine named Vincent, a great, strapping fellow with a voice like the north wind. He never had ha} any musical training. but, oh, he could sing. Whenever he sailed into a hymn the corn- fields would turn thetr ears toward the church. In those days hymn books were searce, and it was customary for the min- ister to read two lines of some familiar { hymn, and the congregation would then sing them, the tune being generally known. On one occasion J reai two lines of a long in singing the text. Too mucn surprised to collect my scattered seases 1 leaned over nor | ITALIAN BAKERIES Men Knead the Bread With Their Knees. |THE NUDE BOY IN THE DOUGH | Macaroni is Made Largely by Ma- chinery. THE HOME-MADE ARTICLE > ' | Venice Letter in Chicago Record. ; “Yes, the breadmakers of Italy are all knock-kneed,” remarked my friend. | “But why ts that?” I asked. | “They knead the bread with their knees, ; you know.’ | ‘This was a new idea to me, and I began to watch a colony of bakers in the neigh- berhood. I fovnd that my friend's ob jServation was true, and that all of them were more or less knock-kneed or bow-leg- ged. Then cone day as I was passing « baker's shop curiosity led me to peer througa a crack leading into the baking reom to see what was beyond. I saw. A small boy was busily working his knees back and forth and sideways In some soft white dough. The boy glanced at the open- ing from which my presence had excluded the light, and then, covered with shame and. confusion, dropped bodily into the yielding mass of dough. The small boy was nude. I had always been so fond of Italian breads! Like Bluebeard’s wife, my curi- esity had ied to my undoing. The bakers of Italy are banded together into groups, those in the country or small towns having different rules governing them frcm those in the cities. The country bakers have added to their wages, which are generally 20 cents a day, two meals— breakfast and dinner. The food, thouch not varied, is sufficient, consisting of veg: etable scup, a pint of wine and plenty of bread. On Sunday there is meat for both. meals, with a pint of wine for breakfast and a quart for dinner. The city receive no food, but their wages a) being from 40° to 80 cents a work together in small groups, each groy using one oven in common. In this way the proprictors of large bak: Ss economize in fires, which is an important item where fuel is so dear. The bakers are provided with everything necessary for making the bread, and each person is paid for every 250 nounds of flour that he The chief of each division is pajd weekly or monthly, according to the amount of ficur each group has baked, and he th pays the unoer bakers according to a pre- arranged plan. The proprietors furnish the apprentices or necessary help. Army Bre ‘There are many soldiers in Italy.and to t daily allowance of wine, meat and pt for each there are added twenty ounces of bread or macaroni. So it takes many bakers to bake for the soldiers alone. Many times I have seen groups of these same soldiers marching out of the city with two of the group wheeling a push cart laden with great loaves of black bread, with no covering of any kind for protection against dust or rain or wind—just tossed carele ly into the wagon and wheeled through the city streets and over dusty highways. When the proper hour came each tired footsore traveler would have his twenty nees weighed out to im. ° Nt as in Venice, I think, that Italian bread reaches its highest state of perfection. Here it ranges from the coarse black bread of the peasarts—which is not really black, but a rich, dark brown—to the flaky, milk- white breads of the aristocracy. Here one «an get a pointed Vienna loaf, a square English loaf or a twisted stick of German bread two yards long. And one can buy half a slice for less than a penny, or one can buy a pound, a half, a quarter or a whole loaf—exactly the amount one wants. And one can nave bread that is mixed with yeast or milk or water or pointe and almost any kind of flour—rye, barle wheat, rice or chestnut. The wlack bread of the peasants may not look as appetizing as the white brea: but it is certainly wholesome and nutritious, and one can eat any quantity of it without suf- fering from dyspepsia or indigestion. Every traveler in urope is familiar with the smull, round biscuit with the hard outer crust and nothing much but vacuum with- in. All true Italians love their hard-crusted and stale breads in preference to that which is soft and fresh baked. With one form of Italian bread few Americans are unfagpiliar,, and that is macaroni. The idea which many Ameri- cans have that macaroni is not pure and clean is false. Their opinions are formed from the idie tales of careless travelers, who tell imaginary stories of ‘ing great, strapping lazzaroni, ha! carrying the moist ropes of macaroni from the pr to the drying room on their bare backs. Making Macaroi In a few rare instances this may be true, but it is also true that all such macaroni is eaten in Italy, for it is only the large manvufactories that export the goods, and they are as scrapulously clean as a New Ergiand housewife. All the utensils used are washed and aned and scraped as often as necessary, and only the best and purest ingredients are used in the manu- facture of the macaroni. Macaroni is made from semola—the fine, hard parts of the wheat, ground by mill- stones after the bran and farina have been extracted. This semola is placed in a kneading trough that ts lined with iron and enough boiling water mixed with it for kneading purposes. The kneading is Gone by machinery, two men being generally re- quired to propel the millstone that does the kneading, while a third man stands near the trough to place the paste properly un- der the millstone back and forth, to the right and left, as cccasion requires, The paste when kneaded to the proper con- sistency 1s then placed in an tron cylinder having holes in the bottom, through which the paste is forced by pressure. A man standing near cuts the macaroni the proper length as it is forced through the hoies. It is then placed on canes or long, thin korizontal poles for drying. It requires about twenty minutes to knead ithe dough and from two to four hours to dry—according to the state of the atmosphere. It is then placed in damp cellars for twenty-four hours to “rest.” or to prevent its drying too rapidly on the out- side, as this would leave it damp within and make it brittle. After being taken frem the cellar it is hung-in the sun for a day and then wrapped in paper and packed in boxes. Many people make their own macaroni at home, and this is made in a slightly different manner. A pound of flour is mixed with four or five eggs and mo's- tened with hot water. This is kneaded thoroughly, then rolled out very thin wit a rolling pin, left to dry for fifteen or twenty minutes and then rolled up very tightly and thin slices cut from the end. As the slices fall apart they form strings of macaroni. Of course this macroni is a little richer than that of commerce, as the four is mixed with eggs, but the majority of Itaiians prefer buying the ready-made article to taking the trouble to prepare it. —+o+—____ Immense Tree in Maine. From the Boston Record. Jay, Me., claims one of the biggest trees in Maine. It stands on the banks of the Androscoggin, on the lawn of the late Dud- ley Bean. The circumference four feet from the ground is 23 feet, diameter 7 fect.