Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, September 29, 1900, Page 8

~ CTCSET TS TE CES CSCS TE STS A SIREN'S VICTIMS By Frances Warner Walker. Ce IBESESESSSOSEMESSESE SE S| CHAPTER XIII. (Continned.) “His plans!” she echoed, with a low, bitter laugh. fong as his money. fortune continues to turn its tide “His plans last only as, If that fails him, if Grace Hawthorne should become his bear no obstacle in the path which was to lead him on to victory. In his own soul he had decreed that wife, but this knowledge was locked against him, how long am I. safe? in his soul’s inmost recesses. How can I describe te you the ineffa- ble torture of the moment Let Helen help him on the first stage in the of his journey, and he could attain the @quare, when I lifted my eyes and met; goal without her further aid. his, fixed in wondering, triumphant re- And, as for Grace. a worse fate might cognition, upon my face? I wake now H await ker than.to become his wife. Af- in the night and start with horror, ex-, ter all, with money in his possession, pecting to see him staring at me out of the darkness. I fear to go out lest I may meet him. lest he may force himself upon me, and yet, I must lock the horrid secret of his existence in my breast, and smile, and laugh, and let no one suspect the bur- gen that I bear. Ah, when I remem- ber that that man is alive, and that the shadow of the old life hovers over me, I can’t bear it—I can’t bear ith” ‘All this time he had made no effort to stop her hurried utterances. Not ence had her voice risen above its low monotone, but it sounded like a wail ef agony. The long repression she had been forced to sustain now revenged itself. When she paused, he spoke: “Courage, Helen!” he whispered; and then he lifted the hands he so tightly held to his lips. “Look at me, my girl! ‘We both are saved! Money will buy ‘Tom Windom’s soul, if he has one. It certainly will buy his body. If he re turns, we will purchase his silence, as we bought it now. He is too wise to kill the goose that lays the golden egg. What has to gain by exposing you?” “You don’t know him as I do, Har- wey. He'll do it, when the devil gets in him, just to see me cuff r, to watch me writhe under the torture! Besides, where is more money to come from? You used the signature, Harvey?” Her pallor deepened as she put ths question. The man drorpyd his hold “Yes, I used it,” he said, dozgedly, “and—and I had to indeorse my own mame, Helen, on the back. I hored to et it through without that. It will be an ugly witness against me wien the three months are up, unless—un!ess—" “Unless what?” she asked. ‘And, intuitively, she braced herself for some new confession of infamy. “Unless, between us,” he answered, “we'can get Grace Hawthorne in our power.” CHAPTER XIV. Silence followed his last speech—si- lence which the woman broke; there was a new tone, and a new pain 4 her voice as she spoke. “What do you mean?” she said. “Speak plainly. My brain is not clear enough to guess at riddles.” “I mean what I have said.” he retort- ed. “Perhaps in my own brain the way to the end is not quite clear; but the end is plain enough. Grace Hawthorne refused me. You know that. Well, she must be made to accept me.” “And to make her your wife, wish my help? Sooner than that—” “Hush, Helen!” he interrupted. “You might say what we would both regret. I-said to accept me. I did not gay to ratify that acceptance. Do you, indeed, love me so well, Helen. that. possessing all my heart, you will not Jet me give an empty shell to any oth- er?” “I love you so well, Harvey,” she whispered, “that there are moments ‘when I hate you. Can you understand @uch.love as that?” *Perhans,” he answered, with a smil>. “But don’t put stumbling blocks in my way, Helen, through a jealousy which may prove fatal to us both. I am not a candidate for matrimony, be- lieve me; but not every one takes or- ers who prepares himself to do so. I ‘want control of Grace Hawthorne's money, not Grace Hawthorne's self. If I can gain for a few weeks the privi- leges of an affianced husband, I'll take care not to ratify the bond; but it will Yeave our future free, Helen; and, if the worst comes to the worst, why, we'll be our own agents. What's to gain by thwarting me? Won't. you trust my love?” “I dare not, Harvey—I dare not!” she answered, in low, tremulous tones. “How do I know but, whispering love, you would feel love? That lips once cold would turn to warmth? That from the ashes of the past a ‘new flame ‘would spring? No, Harvey—no! .Rather than know you false to me, I would find strength to kill you! Ah, you fhave been playing too long with fire. Fiercer and brighter has the hot flame kindled. Take care that it does not grow impatient of control, and leap in- to the master’s place!” fi His face had grown pale as her own, and his eyes shone luridly, while hers, beautiful and defiant in their golden light, met his. “You are excited and overwrought,” he said, gently. “Poor child! It is lit- tle wonder. But listen, Helen. I do not propose winning this girl lthrough Yove, but fear—fear for the man she loves! Ah, I a looker-on, have guessed her secret, while she has not betrayed herself to you. She loves your hus- band! You doubt it? It is true! Then, on that love we must build. Let me approach and win her confidence. ‘Then I will tell her that I am his debt- or to the amount of the note. I will tell her, later, that he has paid me. when she receives it, my signature on its back will be explained. But I shall hhave gained her confidence, and she will be ready to make me further ad- p saa? to save his honor. You see, , this does not savor much of love- aaking. Ah, Helen, what could any ‘woman hope to be to me while you live? Let me work out the means for eur future, dear—a future when we may defy Tom Windom to wreak his -worst, Inasmuch as we have no secrets ‘from each other.” She lilfted her eyes to his, and he ‘knew that he had conquered—that through her love she had put into his thand a new weapon for future treach- ery. She pleased his serses, it was true, but she fettered his feet, and he could you but | I I fear to stay at home. | Helen, he continued. he could turn out an honest man. “Your husband has never liked me, “Latterly, I think he begins to distrust me. You see how necessary it is to win Grace to our side?” “Yes, I see,” she answered, dully, passing her hand mechanically over her brow. “I can’t think, Harvey; my brain is turning.” “Don't try to think. Leave that part of it to me: Come—let me take you you back to your husband.” “My husband! Oh, Harvey, the mock- ery that name may hold! My husband! Ha, ha!” And she laughed = shrilly—a t laugh which fell that instant on Harry Rey- nolds ear, as he passed in front of her retreat in Search of her. “My husband!” she again repeated. And then lifted her eyes, to find him of whom she spoke standing before her. “You called me, Helen?” he asked. And kis voice was stern and sad. “I was about to ask Mr. Barciay to | help me to s¢ek you,” she replied. “He | is engaged for the next dance with Grace, and the first strains of the waltz I already hear. Au revoir, Harvey! We shail expect you to-morrow at the house. Come, Harry—it is cool and quiet here. Sit down—will you not?— in the piace Mr. Barclay leaves va- cant?” They were idle words, but they jarred on the listener's ear. The place Mr. Barclay left vacant! Was that, indeed, the place he occu- pied? “Our dance, Miss Hawthorne!” said | Harvey Barclay, as he offered his arm to Grace, who stood surrounded by a little group, whose dissatisfaction at having her taken from them was plainly written on their faces. Dancing was one of Harvey Bar- clay’s versatile accomplishments, and as he made with his partner the cir- cuit of the ball room, many eyes rested admiringly upon the perfect grace which characterized the movement of | the waltz; but, unlilke his wont, while yet the enticing strains rang out, he paused, and led Grace into the large | hall beyond. “T want a word with you,” he said, | gently. ‘Do not fear that I am about again to press my suit. Miss Haw- thorne,” he added, quickly, in answer to an unconscious shadow which swept over her face. “Your decision was too | firm to leave me any room for hope; | but I have feared. in my ardent desire to win your love, I may have forfeited what is the next highest gift you can bestow upon me. I want to be your friend. It mey seem strange to you— young, beautiful, an heiress, and home and protection yours—to look into the future and see a moment possible when I, a poor, penniless subaltern, could be of service to you; yet I feel that mo- ment will arrive—the moment when your confidence in asking my aid. the | service of my strongiarm or loyal heart, | will, in some measure, wipe out the | bitterness of the disappointment’ I have | already suffered in relinquishing the dearest hope of my life. Miss Haw- thorne, because I faile1 to win. the prize I so madly cove'ed, ‘will You forbid my strugste to attain that, perhaps, with- jin my reach?” There was a frank humility in his avowal and apreal which could not fail to awaken the chord he struck. Moreover, in her new dread as to Harry, and her belief in his terrible fault, sho fancied she divined the hid- den meaning of his speech. “You are more than generous, Mr. Barclay,” she answered, after a little pause, “and though I hope sunshine rather than storm may prove your words, I never can be so ungrateful as to forget them.” “Then you will seal our compact?” holding out his hand. “Henceforth we are frienés?” i She laid her own, in silent assent, a moment within his grasp; but, as its firm pressure closed upon it a sudden shiver passed over her spirit and struck the chill of a terrible premoni- tion within her soul. CHAPTER XV. March had announced, in name at least, and in name alone, spring’s ad- vent, ere Helen Reynolds’ fears con- cerning the man who held such terrible power over her, were realized. As the slow weeks had dragged themselves along, she felt that each snapped asunder a thread which held | her suspended over an awful abyss. She was growing hard and desperate under the cruel strain. She sometimes wondered if her mind would not give way beneath it. Day by day her wicked love was kindled: day by day, as she watched Harvey Barclay's attentions in the guise of friendship toward Grace, she fanned the fire of hate toward its inno- cent cause, It was the 10th of the month, and as she sat- before the fire, hugging its warmth and the misery of her own thoughts, while without the cold winds blew and the cold rains fell, the butler entered, bearing on the salver in his hand a note. She had not seen the inscription, she had not touched the paper,*but she knew that the sword had fallen. She knew that this was a message from her past; she knew that it- was the silent voice of her master; she knew that what it commanded she must obey. “A note for you, Mrs. Reynolds,” sala Andrew, in low, resrectful tones. Every drop of bloed had left her face as she stretched forth her hand to lift the envelope from the tray; but she bent her head that the servant might not see her sudden pa!lor. “No answer, Andrew,” she said. She had not the strength to break the seal with any eve upon her. As the man withdrew she cast one quick, covert glance at the inscription, and then a strong shudder, almost a convulsion, shook her frame, She held the-paper as if it were a snake and possessed of fangs or sting. Tom Windom had returned, and, like the leech, only her heart-blood could satisfy him. She forced herself to un- fold the sheet and master its contents. “T have returned, my lady,” were its opening words, ‘and I want a few words with you. face to face. I need not tell you, luck has been against me. Perhaps you've guessed that. But, do you know, I wasn’t more than half-sor- ry, for I've a sort of hankering to see you again; to look into your eyes and hear your voice. It reads like a love- letter, don’t it? Well, I'd rather make love than write it. I'll be in the square where I met you first, this evening at $ o'clock; but if the night’s too stormy, and you're too fine a lady to venture out alone, don’t disturb yourself. T’l wait for you half an hour, and then I'll call on you in your fine house, and you car. introduce me to your husband. Remember, I wait for you just one half: hour.” x The paper dropped from her nerveless hands. It had no signature. It needed none. It was signed and stamned with the seal of the past, and from its dread message there was no appeal. The foe to her peace had returned. The money she had given to buy his silence already was exhausted; or, at least, he made it the pretense to come back and torture her. Ah, he loved it well! He had seen her writhe ere this on the wheel of agony to which he had bound her, and to-night—to-night he again would have his triumph. She cast his message from her into the very heart of the glowing fire. It seemed to her the flames laughed as they consumed it—laughed as though they, too, mocked her—wondering if she fancied, because she had the poor power to destroy the message, she could, any the less, refuse to remember and obey it. Mechanically, she glanced at her watch—a pretty toy hanging at her side, another gift from her husband. “TI can’t go—I can’t!” she said aloud. And, burying her face in her hands, she swayed to and fro in the blindness of her fear, and passion and misery. The momentary distrust did her good. She rose, and, standing before the mirror, pushed her hair back from her temples, and forced her eyes and lips to smile at her reflection. Still, it was a very white and haggard face that met her husband’s eyes as he entered the room a mcment later, closely followea by Grace, leaning fondly on her guard- fan’s arm. My head aches,” she said, in answer to his tender inquiry. “I need rest, perhaps, after all our gayety. Good- night!” she called gayly, as dinner end- ed. They had all returned to the library, and drew their chairs before the fire. “I do not think I shall be missed. and I am going to my own room. No. Har- ry,” as he rose from his chair to fol¥ low her, “you are not to come. At 10 o’clock you may knock, very faintly, at | my door, and if I do not answer, you | may know that I am sleeping off this wretched pain. Good-night!” And she was gone. The clock was striking 8 as she hast- | There was, indeed, If she and Tom what ened up the stairs. no time to be lost. Windom should fail to meet, would be the result? With trembling hands she threw her cloak about her and fastened her hat under her chin; then she tied a thick veil over her face, and, drawing on her gloves, hurriedly descended a back stairway, first taking the precaution to lock her chamber door and drop the key into her pocket. By a side door, opening into the garden, she gained the outer air. What excuse to make if her absence was discovered she had not thought.. The dread. of .the present strained every faculty to its utmost tension. She raised her umbrella, but the wind forbade its use. She was compelled to lower it and brave the wind and rain, debarred even of its poor protection. The latter beat upon her; the wind blew so fiercely in her face that sho seemed to make no headway against | it. Every minute was so precious, since it might-mark the limit to the pa- tience of the man who awaited her coming. At last the square was reached. She entered and hastened to th2 appointed spot. For the moment she fancied it deserted. Merciful heaven! was she, indeed, too late? Had she and Tom Windom passed each other in the dark- ness? Was he, even now, hurrying to the house, whose doors, after his story should be told, would forever be barred against her? She sank in utter exhaustion, upon a seat, when a coarse laugh close at hand dissipated the last awful fear which had tortured her. A form strode out from the shadow of a tree, whose bare branches soughed in the blast; but for once, her torment- or was almost a welcome sight. “Five minutes more, my lady, and you'd have been too late. Five min- utes more, and I’d have been on my way to call on you. Ah, Tom Windom doesn’t give many idle threats. Per- haps you've learned that much—"” “Never mind what you would have done if I hadn’t come,” “she answered, interrupting him. ‘““What did you wont, that you sent for me like this? Has the money all gone?” “I wrote you that much, didn’t I? Yes, it’s gone, and I want more; and I’m not going away when I get it, either. I fancy the climate of Wash- ington would suit me, and I fancy I'd like you a little more under my eye. Five years or mere I’ve been deprived of that blessing, and I’ve all that time to make up for.” “I've no more money to give you. You'll have to do your worst,” she an- swered. “Oh, Tom!” she went on, in quick, appealing tones, “what have you to gain by torturing me? Go away and leave me in peace!” “Never!” ’ And as he hissed the word close to her ear, it revealed a devth of passion. and intensity of suppressed feeling in strange contrast to the light almost frivolous manner which had character- ized his former speech. ‘ She shivered and shrank as if he had struck her a blow. “Never! You hear me? I owe you a debt, my lady: and, as there's a heav- en above us, I'll pay it, too. You and I have a long account to settle. I'll pay my score! See to it that you do the same. And now answer me one ques- tion—where’s Henry George?” “I don’t know, Tom,” she answered. “And T told you, the other day, your suspicions concerning him were all! wrong. He had nothing to do with mv flight. I’ve never seen him since I left you!” “I believe you lie!" he answered, bru- tally; “but it’s no surprise to me if you do; you come of a lyihg race. We'l. T can be my own sleuth-hound. I don't ask your help, except that I want my pockets filled. A thousand dollars to: morrow, my lady. Not a cent more nor less. You needn’t take the trouble to bring it to me. I'll give you an address that will reach me, or I'll call at the house and ask your husband for his checque. Perhaps you'd prefer to send beg “Where am I to get it?” she an- swered. “Tell me that. What good will you do by forcing me to the wall? Give me time, and I'll help you if I can; but don’t ask me to wring water from a stone!”’ “Spare your platitudes,” he answered, “and remember that if I don’t have this money by day after to-morrow, your game is up. By Jove! you play it well. Luck never turned against me until you took it into your head to play me false. Perhaps, now that I have got you again, it will return to me; but. whether or nd, you and I are fellow- travelers after this, on the same road. If you forget the fact, I'll be close at hand to jog your memory. But I don’t fancy you'll forget. Well, is your de- cision made? Am I to have the mon- ey?" “You'll leave me asked. “Till I want more—yes! why should’nt | I have it?” he added, fiercely. “It isn’t | every day a man stands by while his—” “Hush!” she interrupted, springing to her feet. “Don't torture me any more. Make your excuses for your dev- iltry to yourself; but tak: care, Tom Windom, lest you try me too far. Wo- men have been known to murder—" He laughed cruelly. “{ don’t fear you, my beautiful ti- gress. I learned long ago how to tame you, so long as I was within your reach. Here is the address,” and he held a slip of paper toward her. She took it from his hand, and in in peace?” she he drew her toward him. ‘Then, powerless to resist him, he bent and kissed her lips. “I told you I'd rather make love!” he | said. “You have until day after to- morrow to make up your mind—day after to-morrow, at noon!” She stood a moment as he turned and walked away in the darkness—stood si- lent and motionless, until the echo of his retreating footsteps had died away. The night hid the expression of utter malignity and hate which crept over the otherwise beautiful face. His kiss seemed to have branded and scorched the last lingerirg remnant of goodliness and womanhood. | “Take care, Tom Windom—take care! You have gone too far this night!” she muttered. But even as she listened to the sound of her own voice she knew that it was for him to command—for her. rebel as she would, to struggle and—obey. CHAPTER XVI. The clock had not struck 10 when once more the wretched woman had made her way, undiscovered, to the safety and protection of her own room. Here she hurriedly threw off her wet things, and strove, before the blazing fire, to restore some warmth to her frozen limbs. She was drenched to the skin. Her | face was, deathly white, and her, eyes gleamed with a fierce, unnatural luster. | “You look like night, Helen Windom,;’, she mental-y | articulated, as she caught sight of her- self in the mirror. A gentle knock sounded on her door | but she made no movement that she | heard. Crouching befcre the fire, and holding out her white, jeweled hands to the | warmth of its blaze, she tried to be- | lieve herself the victim only of some | hideous nighmare. Could it be that | that poor wretch who stood, an hour | ago, unsheltered in the storm and | darkness, shrinking at the sound of a | coarse voice and brutal threat, with the rain beating on her head and the wind whistling about her, was one with the woman hugging the warmth of the bright fire, whose red’ giow spread it- | self through the luxurious room, and | revealed it a fitting nest for bird of bright-hued plumage? Well, if the latter were the dream— the former, reality—at least the dream should last a little longer. She let the warmth penetrate every | nerve, and then she rose, and taking | from a case within one of the bureau drawers, a tiny vial filled with some | dark liquid, she carefully dropped a small measure of the contents into a glass, and lifted it to her lips. ‘Then she, threw herself upon the bed, and in fifteen minutes she was steeping the quiet sleep of a weary child. entered the breakfast room next morn- ing. Her husband sprang up to greet her. “T would not disturb you, dear,” he said, “You are better?” “T am quite well,” she answered, with a smile, and took her accustomed place. ‘As they rose from the table, Edgar Reynolds. paused an instant beside Grace. “Tt want to see you a moment in the library, dear.” he said. “Are you aware, Miss Puss, that you have been very extravagant of late? You see, I am going to call you to account.”” Grace felt herself grow suddenly pale. A force stronger than her will forced her to lift her eyes to Harry’s face. He must have overheard his father’s words. Would he suspect that it was her money which his wife had given him for payment of his debts? She found his eyes fixed almost in- quiringly upon her. He had noted the strange and sudden pallor, and won- dered what had caused it. A singular trouble and unrest took possession of him. Why should his father, in any way, call her to account concerning it? Could it the act his fingers closed on hers, and | your own self to- |. The family had assembled when she | Surely, Grace’s money was her own. | be that he had been tempted into the further involving of any portion of her fortune? He put the idea from him, almost as it. was conceived, but its shadow, nev- ertheless, darkened his face, as, when Grace rose from her seat, he followed her to the door. “Grace,” he said, detaining her for a moment as she was passing out, ‘“T don’t know what father meant just now, but I hope you will not find it necessary to economize in any of your expenditures, or to account for your extravagances. I know no one more entitled to them.” Did he fear, she wondered, that she would betray to his father to what use she had put the money? He must know, then, that it had come from her. Did he believe she would not keep his secret to the death? Yet the fact that this ignoble secret was hers to keep, and her belief that in his words she read a silent prayer for its preservation, brought an uncon- scious scorn into her eyes, and its thrill into her voice, as she answered him: “I will render your father no ac- count,” she said, proudly, “nor will he ask for one. Your anxiety is needless.” Something like a knife cut into Harry Reynolds’ heart, as the girl passed on. He slowly closed the door behind her, and went back to his seat. What had happened? What had changed Grace, his little child-sweet- heart, into the cold, scornfu! woman, who so plainly had reserted his inter- ference in her affairs. He felt at once angry and ill at ease. He little dreamed of the hot tears of disappointment which welled into the cirl’s eyes at the fancied change in him. She brushed them away as she entered the library, and, coming behind her guardian, twined her arms about his neck. 2 He raised his hand and drew her down beside him. (To Be Continued.) Didn't Knew It in Italian, Dr. Henry J. Bigelow. the eminent Boston surgeon, was very fond of mu- sic, and krew something of it thecret- ically—enough, at least. to carry in his head the tunes he liked. Street musi- cians were used to his requests for re- peating a melody, but in one case he had some difficulty in tracing a song, which he wished to procure for him- self. His quick ear had caught a new air upon a hand organ, and he at once asked the Italian grinder its name. The man could not speak a word of English, and it was only with difficulty that Dr. Bigelow learned the title -of the tune and wrote it down—Silva tredi mon digo. Then he went to a music shop and st the clerk upon its trail. Nobody could guess what it might be, and one Italian collection after anoth- | er was overhauled, until at last all the clerks in the shop were brought into requisition. Finally, one of them had a bright thought. ‘ “Tl tell you what you want,” said he. “It’s ‘Silver Threads Among the Gold.’ "—Youth’s Companion. Care of Children’s Teeth. That children should be taught to take care of their teeth has frequently been maintained by the physicians of this country, and that such advice is salutary is evident from an investiga- tion which has recently been held in Schleswig-Holstein in regard to the condition of the teeth of the children attending the schools of that country. The number of children examined was 19,725, of whom 9,145 were girls and 10,- 580 boys. Of this number, 95 per cent were found to have teeth which were more or less diseased. Only 218 of thes> children had ever been treated by dent- ists, and only 10 per cent of them had been taught to use tooth brushes. The dentists of Schleswig-Holstein have published these startling facts, and have petitioned the government to pass an ordinance requiring the school authorities to give some attention to the teeth of the chiJdren under their care. The Woman and the Editor. The Raltimore American traces this bit of local color: She wept. “On, you editors are horrid!” she sobbed. “What is the trouble, madam?" in- quired the editor, as he blue-penciled two paragraphs that had come as an inspiration to the young man who was “taking up journalism.” “Why, I—boo—boo—I sent in an obit- uary of my husband, and—boo—hoo— and said in it that he had been married for twenty years, and you—oo—90—boo —hoo—your printers set it up ‘worried for twenty years.’”” She wept. Rut the editor grinned. Perhaps it was all right, all ’round. Who knows? A Sermon in a Mining Camp. “Brothers and sisters, I come to say good-bye. I don’t believe God loves this church, because none of you ever die. I don’t think you love each other, because I never marry any of you. I don’t think you love me, because you have not paid me my salary. Your do- nations are moldy fruit and wormy ap- ples, and ‘by their fruit ye shall know them.’ Brothers, Iam going to.a better ‘place. I-haye becn called to. be chap- Where I go’ lain of the penitentiary. ye cannot now-come. I go to prepare a place for you, and ‘may the Lord have mercy on your souls.’ ’’—Jim Warérer, of Wardner, Idaho. Candor. “How much will your opinion in this case be worth?” asked the prospective client. “I can’t tell how much it will be worth,” answered the lawyer, who is accustomed to make fine distinctions, “but I can tell how much I am going to charge for it.”—Washington Star. The Real Essential. “It takes courage and ability to suc- ceed in literature, doesn’t it?” “I don’t know about courage and ability, but it takes postage stamps.”— Baltimore Herald. . Re: Entirely True. * Hicks—‘‘What a romancer you are! You say you slept like a baby last night, and we heard you half the night bellowing like all possessed.” Wicks—Yes, that’s the way my baby sleeps, you know.”—Boston methods. 7 Dairy Notes. That even the work of milking is not without danger is evidenced by the case of a milker in New Zealand. who had his right eye put out by a switch from the cow's tail. Probably if the truth were known it would be found that a great many accidents of this kind, more or less serious have Oc- curred. It would be well to have the cow’s tail fastened during milking, aS is now practiced by some. This is also in the interest of cleanliness. see The Dairy and Food Department of Minnesota is having anything but an easy time enforcing the anti-oleo laws in the iron-producing regions of that state. The employers of. labor in the mines find it very profitable to use oleomargarine in the boarding-houses where their men are taken care of. Nevertheless, the inspectors have taken hold of the work in earnest and last year over. $5,000 was collected in fines for selling and using butterine other- wise than in the way the law provides. We believe that pasteurization of skimmilk should be generally prac- ticed, not only by the creameries and cheese factories but on farms where any considerable number of cows are kept for the production of milk, un- less, in the last case, where the cows are all tested and are known to be free from tuberculosis. In the creameries and cheese factories especially the pas- teurization is advisable. It will not only keep disease germs from being carried to all the farms but will have a tendency to keep the cows of the patrons from getting in an unsanitary condition. “If the pasteurized milk is given back to the farmers when it stands at a temperature of 185 degrees it will destroy the germs of the fer- ments that may be accumulating in the seams of the cans. If this is repeated every other day, or every time the patron brings milk to the factory, it will aid very materially in keeping the cans of the more careless patrons in a good condition and will therefore as- sure a better supply of milk for the use of the man that is to turn it into butter or cheese. se 8 Only men with cleanly instincts should be permitted to have a part in drawing the milk from the cow or handling it at any time. If dirty men are to be retained on the farm they should be put to some work other than that that directly affects the milk. We hear about men that dip their fingers into the milk when they want to moist- en the teats of the cow they are milk- ing. It has never seemed to the writer that the facts as reported could be pos- sible, but the preponderance of testi- mony seems to be that there are such dirty milkers. That being the case, the dirty man must be recognized as existing and he should be prevented from contaminating the milk supply. But he is not always easy to find. His dirty tricks are kept by him in the background as much as possible. He must be run down. Perhaps the best way to find him is for the cow owner to give his milkers general instructions against such methods. When the dirty man is the proprietor himself the case becomes more difficult to handle, and until something like the curd test for airt is adopted by the creameries and cheese factories there is little chance of finding him out. It should not be forgotten that the dirty man stands in the way of the maker of both butter and cheese. The dirty man can bring to naught the finest skill in the world. If we would build up from the founda- tion we must eliminate dirt in men and Cleanliness in. al things is the first step in our upward progress. Sheep Items. Sheep feeders are profiting by the large supply and low prices and are buying liberally at the Chicago yards. The drouth in the Northwest has caused a large influx of sheep into Idaho, which has overcrowéed the ranges and compelled a large unload- ing of stock on the markets. Sheep and cattle interests threaten to con- flict, and efforts will be made to devise some method of dividing the public range. A new sheep dip, int%aded for per- manent use, is being constructed at the Chicago stock yards. Three years ago a wooden dip was constructed as an experiment. It will now be dis- carded, The new one is of brick and is 100 feet in length without curves. The old one had two bends, and these proved to be its chief defect. Montana ranges are said to be short of aged cattle on account of the large numbers of young cattle marketed ‘luring the last two or three years. Owing to this depletion of"stock some cattlemen have resorted to sheep rais- ing in order to utilize their ranges. Montana feeding lambs are quoted at $1.50 to $1.75 by ranchmen. Western exchanges claim that West- ern-lambs are becoming great favor- ites with feeders who are buying heav- ily at Denver at $4.50, freight paid to the river. Sheep raisers in the neigh- borhood of Las Vegas are offering lambs at $1.70 per head, and Pecos Valley lambs are quoted at $1.60 to $1.75. In the San Luis valley the choicest lambs are being offered at $3.75 per hundred weight. A great many of the Western lambs, it is ex- ‘pected, will be shippe@ by feeders to the Arkansas Valley. ae Every farmer’s family should the Toxury ot a.celet? bath eater farmers are not likely to buy vo