Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 1, 1903, Page 6

i } , nso vane cee ‘Barbara Bret-ton’s «- Ambition~ ~ CHAPTER XIil. The Last Guest. With the’ morning’s dawn, Travis’ conflict with self was ended. If, in- deed, he bad read aright the blush upon Florence St. John's cheeks, the smile of welcome upon her lip, the light within her eyes, she loved him. Why, then, should he unveil to her a past which would but sadden and de- press her? In his veins flowed the, true Meredith blood, which would at last wed its equal; and so, with flushed and expectant face he stood, a few hours later, in Miss St. John’s own drawing room, awaiting her entrance. The love-freighted words were not fhard to utter when she came forward, with that glad light in her eyes he had not read wrongly, and when he had finished’ he had won from her the promise to become his wife. She stood alone, this girl, an! orphaned heiress, living with the aunt whom she had asked to share her hhome and give her the protection she needed. Therefore Travis pleaded that there might be no delay, that in two short months the marriage cere- mony might be solemnized. Avice’s marriage was fixed for the following winter; therefore their own should take place with as little delay | as possible, that she might have a sis- ter’s aid in her preparations. When did a lover’s arguments not prove unanswerable? Yet Travis was not satisfied. The intervening days seemed to creep; a feverish unrest thad taken possession of him he could mot define. Then, too, another mat- ter rested heavily upon him—the se- -eret of Avice’s birth. The paper of her adoption, whose ‘hiding place his father’s dying breath failed to discover to him, he had searched for in vain. Was it not due to Lennox to know the truth? Only a few nights before he had heard Lenox say, holding Avice’s hand: “It is well, little girl, fate did not throw you in my path in some walk of life below me. How clearly the blue blood shows in these veins! I could tear out my heart, but I could never give the Lennox name to one who would not bear it worthily, and whose blood might not equally mingle in that line as yet unstained.” For the first time, then, the decep- | rtion to be practiced upon, her husband ~was revealed; but Avice’s happiness May in the balance of the scale. Travis -dared not lay the feather-weight with- ‘40 to turn it. All this; however, made the weeks ~preceding his marriage very long. Per- ‘haps, when Florence was his wife, he might find courage to leave to her, the »solution of this problem. The wedding was to be a very bril- ‘Mant one. Not only the American residents of the city had been bidden ‘to the feast, but many of the French ymoblesse, whom his father’s wealth sand long residence there had num- vbered among their intimate friends. ‘The ceremony was to be performed ‘in Florence’s own home. Strange to say, it had been the bridegroom’s own wish. Had he feared some unbidden ghost eof a past would meet him at the sehureh’s door? Once she was his wife, he felt he might defy the past. He grew pale and worn with the . “@auspense. His betrothed chided him ‘upon his sad looks. “Wait till you are mine. You need ‘then no longer complain,” he an- ~sewered, striving to shake off the op- wression he could not fathom. At last Time granted his prayer. Bright and beautiful the day dawned, and all presentment, all empty sad- mess, fled. Fired with wine, intoxi- eated by a woman’s peerless beauty, he had in a moment of madness, with this own hand, guided his youthful ‘barque among the rocks. Almost it ‘had been shipwrecked, yet had es- -eaped destruction. The future was before him—a new, glorious future. He could have cried | aloud in the fullness of his joy, as in the early morn Lennox, unannounced, entered his apartments with a radiant “This is shabby, my boy!” said Len- mox. “The idea of your distancing me fm the race after all. It was my accusing conscience. life.” Silently the two men grasped hands, 4m a clasp which said more than any words. “{ wish that ours had been a double ‘wedding to-day,” Lennox continued; “but Avice, I suppose, feels as yet she chardly knows me, and I dare not urge Oh, Travis, how gloriously she ‘her. thas fulfilled her childhood promise!” “Yes, she is very lovely,” the broth- -er answered, “and, after all, Milton, it to wait. You must thave patience with her shrinking from -will be but a little while Avice is but a child yet. But, Travis,” ‘this voice growing serious, “the goal would have been Dead Sea fruit to me thad I felt you had fallen by the way. For years your face, as it stood that day on the ship’s deck, haunted me. To- day I feel you have redeemed your my darling a moment alone before I claim her as my own forever.” It was a picture on which a lover’s eyes might well dwell with rapture, that Miss St. John surveyed in her mirror, as she stood in the midst of the blooming girls who were to act as her bridesmaids. The long satin train swept far be- hind her on the velvet carpet; over the dusky tresses fell the veil, thrown back for the moment from her clear, olive-tinted skin of the oval cheeks, and held in place by a diamond star. The ruby lips were parted in a bright smile as she listened to the gay, repartee of her companions, Avice first among them; but the smile grew and softened, lending to her face new beauty, as some one whispered in her ear that Mr. Meredith was waiting, and begged to see her for one little minute alone, Would he ever forget that look, that smile, as, in obedience to his request, she came into the room where he was waiting for her? In that moment he loved her as he had never loved her before. Standing before him in her bridal robes, her eyes lustrous with happiness, she seemed to his love-eyes too fair a thing to be no myth, but living flesh and blood reality. Already the guests had assembled below. The rustle of silks and satins, the murmur of many voices, the gleam of jewels, the perfume of flowers, min- gled with a general air of expectancy as the clock upon the mantel chimed the hour appointed for the ceremony. But for a little time all these were forgotten. The world was lost to both. as he bowed his young, handsome head, and drank in the full sweetness from the red, upturned lips. For weeks presentments had haunt- | ed him. What had it to do with such a moment as this? He could have laughed aloud as he held his bride to | | his heart, and challenged the world to snatch her from him. But one moment only she could spare him now—one moment she daz- zled him with her loveliness, then left him to meet in the room below. But even as the bridal party left the room a slight stir at the door an- nounced the arrival of another guest. | The crowd of lackeys at the door turned to look at her as she swept past them. Had the queen, they thought, been bidden to the feast? Every eye which fell upon her rest- ed transfixed. She wore a robe of purple velvet, and the exquisitely pro- portioned figure seemed molded to its lines. The dazzling whiteness of her neck and arms vied with the flashing jew- els glittering upon them. The violet eyes swept the assemblage with a strange look of mingled scorn and amusement in their depths; the small head was proudly erect; the red lips wreathed themselves in a smile; men made way for her to pass. Her beauty was transcendent. Be- side her perfect womanhood, all lesser lights paled. She seemed born to wear a coronet. The bridal party had ranged themselves before the bishop, ' who was to perform the sacred rite. His solemn, earnest tones broke the silence, as the young couple, rising from their knees, stood before him. “If any man can show just cause why they may not be lawfully joined } together, let him now speak ,or else | hereafter hold his peace.” How empty! how meaningless! how mere a matter of form seemed the words! Yet, as he listened, again the heavy shadow of that dull premonition closed over Travis Meredith’s soul. The bishop paused but a moment. Already he had lowered his eyes to his book to proceed with the service, when from the farthest end of the room came a Slight rustle. The glori- | ous noon sunlight fell full upon the un- moved serenity of the exquisite face and form of that latest guest, as, glid- ing slowly from among the awe-strick- en group surrounding her, in a voice like silver bells in its clear, musical utterance, she said, raising one beau- tiful arm above her “head as she spoke: “] forbid this marriage!” CHAPTER XIV . Barbara Insistent. For a moment—an awful moment— a silence as of death followed the ut- terance of words so full of dreadful import. Then, beside his bride, Travis Meredith turned slowly, slowly, while from the blanched whiteness of his face his eyes blazed defiance into the beautiful violet ones which met his so calmly. “I forbid the marriage,” she said again, very quietly—“forbid it in the name of justice and humanity—forbid it to save this girl g bitter shame, since 1 am already Travis Meredith’s lawful wedded wife!” “Tt is false! it is false!” rang out a | lear young voice in answer, as Avice sprang to her brother’s side. Travis, where has this woman come from? Who is she, that she should dare as- ithe new, strange life you would force | sert so monstrous a charge?” upon her. When she sees how happy Florence and I are. together she will But come, the | groom’s arms, and bending over the morning is growing, an¢ I must see | death-like pallor of her face, awhile no longer hesitate. But, in her bridal robes, Florence St. John had fainted in her bride- ago so charming in its loveliness, a groan in answer burst from his lips. -It was, instead, Milton Lennox who drew Avice's arm.through his, -as he. whispered: “My dear, it is all'true. Yet Travis meant to dono wrong; he thought this woman dead. “Madam,” he continued, while Avice still clung to his side, “we do not wish to dispute your claim, but was there no quieter way to assert it?” “None!” she answered defiantly— “none!” Yes, you and he thought me dead. I arrived in Paris only yester- day; only this morning learned of this intended marriage. I came hither at once, hoping to see my husband alone.” One by one the guests withdrew. It was evident, at such a scene, it were best there should be no witnesses. Travis had borne Miss St. John to her room; but, when Milton begged Avice to follow, she haughtily refused, standing bravely forward as champion of her brother’s right. A’ strange likeness was apparent in the two beautiful faces as their glances met. The same violet-tinted eyes blazed from beneath the same jetty fringe of lash and the curved brow above, but the figure of the elder held a peerless majesty that that of the younger had not yet gained. Barbara’s voice softened as went on: “You are his sister, therefore you love him. You are a woman, there- fore you. hate me. But I—I love him! You should pity rather than hate.” Through the armor in which Avice had wrapped herself, the gentle dig- nity of these words pierced. A mo- ment before, in each glance had been the challenge of a deadly foe; but now Barbara’s had fallen, and over Avice’s crept the mist of tears. “Tell me,” she said, turning to Len- nox, “how did this dreadful thing hap- pen? Who is she?” Then Barbara’s lids lifted them- selves, and the quick glance into his face said, more plainly than words: “Keep my secret. It were better for all.” “This lady your brother marricd three years ago,’ ‘replied Milton. “When she says she loved him, she says falsely. She intrigued him into the marriage and now, for some pur- pose known only to herself, makes public her claim.” “Why, then, did I marry him?” said Barbara, addressing the girl. I knew nothing of his wealth, his prospects. I loved him—aye, and he ,too, loved me, but that’ this false friend came between us. But I shall yet win him to my side, and prove my claim not only to his name, but to his heart. I wish to see my husband alone. It is my right—a right which for three long years has been denied me.” “Milton, it is true. It is her right! she If this is, indeed, my brother’s wife, | she is my sister. Travis will surely see her, as she desires.” “Your sister? Merciful heaven! that your pure lips should breathe that name, and her ears catch the sound! Avice, for the first time in my life I claim your obedience. Leave me with this woman.” His voice, though full of gentleness, had in it a new tone of firmness and meaning which the girl, as he led her to the door, could not withstand. “Wait for me in the ii- brary,” he said. “I will come to you in half an hour.” Then the portals swung to behind her, and Barbara and Lennox were alone. In a moment the whole attitude of | the woman changed. She was a lion- ess at bay. Her eyes darkened till they matched the purple of her dress —the diamonds sparkling on the ex- quisite bareness of her neck and arms were not more radiantly scintillant; | through the red lips gleamed the white ,even teeth, as she stood motion- less, as though turned to stone, yet with her very stillness suggestive of | the tigress crouching for the last fatal | spring. “What is your price?” These were the words which broke, at last, the silence, as Milton, with arms folded across his chest, stood facing her. She laughed aloud in answer. Who eould dream that, only a moment be- fore, her voice had in it the sound of unshed tears? The little, low, musical laugh trilled through the room. It hurt the man’s listening ears more than any blow— it told more potently than any words the hopelessness of his friend’s cause. “My price?” she said at last. “Had those words been uttered by any other lips I would fitly rebuke the insult. With you it would be lost. I have no price save the public acknowledge- ment of my right and title to the Mer- edith name. Aye, not all the Mere- dith possessions would buy it from me. I married him—this boy, this stripling, whom I saw just now bend in such anguish over the unconscious form of his would-be bride—you say, for his money; it was my ambition, my greed. Ido not dispute your asser- tion, but pile his gold at my feet— strew the ground on which I tread with evidences of his rent rolls—and I would give them to the winds rather than forego one short minute my right to call that girl, who now awaits you, sister.” His face showed that her last words had struck home. The threat of long ago, that through the girl he loved she would strike at his heart as he had struck at hers, swept over his memory. “Hush!” he said, sternly. “Dare to repeat her name and all Paris shall ring with your infamy.” “What can you prove?” she retort- ed. “Tell your story and I will re- turn to the stage and in one week’s time nave this wonderful Paris at my feet. Tell my story—the story of the woman the law has made the sister of your wife? Who will suffer most, she or 12 And what would you tell—the ial ie history of my early shame? Was I not the victim only to man’s perjury? You would say, perhaps, I murdered ‘my little dead child. All Paris’ knows that story. What verdict could any jury bring in other jan the old Scotch verdict, ‘Not proven?’ God is my only judge. Lay what crimes at my door you will, of that my soul is innocent. My baby died, it is true, but my hand is guiltless of its blood. Barbara Bretton’s very memory is for- gotten here. It remains for you to re- vive it at your cost!” “What do you propose to do?” he questioned. “To force Travis Meredith into ac- knowledging me as his wife,” she re- plied—‘if that girl with the gipsy face has not made the task an impossible one to lure him back to my feet. Let me do this, Milton Lennox—aid me in becoming mistress of his heart and home—and I will consider the debt be- tween us canceled. Refuse, and you, not I, will be the sufferer!” “Though all the wrath of all the fu- ries were to be visited upon me, it would make me hesitate no more than I do now. No—a thousand times no! It was my hand which brought this thing upon my friend. By God’s help it shall be my hand to assist him to carry his burden, if I cannot lift it from his shoulders. It is war between us, madam, to the knife.” “Oh, no!” she answered, again laughing lightly. “Women do not deal in such arms. They have weapons at their command more keen, more cut- ting, more incisive than any steel, however tempered by the refiner’s fire. I am the challenged party, therefore it is for me to choose the mode of war- fare. There was a time—ah, I have not forgotten—when you would have bared your breast to any blow my hand might have dealt, when the lips hurling denunciations at me spoke only in low and honeyed words. They sank, every one of them (smile if you will) in my heart. Even I had a heart then; it was for you to discover, to resurrect it from the ashes of the Dead Sea fruit in which it was buried. It is for you to realize that each word so spoken now rises a Nemesis to over- take you and any thought of your fu- ture happiness. You refused awhile ago the proffer I made you of a mutual stand on neutral ground. So be it; we but waste time in further parley, and time is very precious, since Miss Meredith awaits you. Leave me, I beg | you, and send my husband here.” She spoke with imperious dignity, but at that moment the door opened and Travis entered, his face haggard and wora white with an awful pallor, and lined with seams of suffering. In a moment every line in his face was again transformed. She went toward him with both hands outstretched, her eyes shining through a mist of tears. “Travis!” she said gently, the old subtle perfume of violets filling the room, “is it thus we meet again? Oh, forgive me if I returned to mar your happiness! I did it to save bitterer | wrong. Have you no single word of welcome for me?” His face softened into a look of pity, remembering how and when he had last seen the beautiful vision now almost kneeling before him; but Len- nox’s voice broke the spell. “Barbara, the actress!” he said scornfully. “Madam, you have left the boards. Can you not now drop the mask?” “Leave us!” she commanded, turn- ing toward him. “I would see my husband alone .It is my right—I de- mand it!” “Yes—go, Milton!” Travis entreat- ed. You need have no fear. I am no longer the boy to be made a dupe, a woman’s plaything. © Go, and send Avice to—Florence!” The last word came with a choking, gasping sob. He saw his friend pass out from the room, in obedience to his wish, in what seemed to be a cloud of darkness. The whole room seemed to fill with blackness, save one cen- ter spot of radiance, lighted by the al- most unearthly beauty of a woman’s pleading face. CHAPTER XV. Pleading. “Travis!” Almost like a blow the low, mu- sical utterance of his name smote his ear; but somehow it penetrated the cloud of darkness and he once more saw clearly. The small, gloved hands were now clinging to his. He stood silent, her judge and her accuser in one. “Travis, they wronged me—wronged me cruelly,” she went on. “It is true I deceived you in that far-off time, but only because I feared to lose you. I thought no one knew my story—that it would never reach your ears—that it had been forgotten by the hungry pub- lic, which once so eagerly had de- youred the details thrown to satisfy their curiosity. They thought they had learned it all. Travis, they stood put on the threshold of the knowledge they so yearned for. Was I to bare my heart and toss it among that pitti- less herd? But I deceived you—that is the sum of my offending. I had been a wife, a mother. What else did they tell you? Ah, you saw the news- paper which brought up that last dreadful charge! Look into my eyes, dear! Do they gleam with a murderer’s light? When I saw this man who has just left us, and he told me the last message you had sent me, I refused to give him credence. Then he forced the truth upon me. “My first impulse was to find you, seek you out, implore, entreat your forgiveness. At that time I read in the newspapers the notice of your father’s death. Thinking of me as you | did, to force myself upon you would be to lay myself open to the charge of motive for gain of which I was most ‘innocent. My pride, too, had had time 0 3) You could not continue to at doubt me. You would forgive my ception, born of my sudden passion for you, and come back to at, least’ seek some explanation from me. ‘ passed, You did not come and my heart hardened. Then followed the railroad accident, when I was picked up as dead, and so reported. “A long and dangerous illness en- sued as the result of my injufies. When I recovered, in the little humble cottage to whose hospitable shelter I had been carried, I learned from my physician in attendance of my report- ed death. I begged him to keep the fact of my recovery a secret. The good people with whom I lodged khew nothing of*my identity. Life had lost for me all its allurements, and I de- termined to restore to you some of the happiness my‘hand had so ruthlessly destroyed. 5 “My faithful maid still accompa- nied me. She assisted me in carrying out my plans. I do not know why the thought of you marry- ing again never occurred to me. 1 suppose because, although unacknowl- edged, the hope still lived in my heart that we might again be reunited. The yearning to, look again upon your face grew upon me day by day, until it re- fused longer to be conquered—until in turn it conquered me. “I came to Paris. During the long days and “nights of the sea voyage your face haunted my sleeping and my waking dreams. I cried aloud your name in my slumbers, I deter- mined to see you, to tell you of the punishment I had already suffered, to beg you to let me win back the heart I had already lost, when—oh, my God! —I learned you had already given that heart to another.” Low, choking sobs -seemed to im- pede her utterance; but the one glance she gave at the face above her showed it still of rigid stone, of marble calm- ness. (To Be Continued.) Poor Harold. “I don’t know what to say, Harold,” replied the lovely girl after a long pause. “There are so many things to be considered. Did you ever care for anybody before you met me?” “Never, Lucy,” fervently responded the young man. “You are the first and only.” “Would you want me to go and live with your people?” “No, we will have a little cottage of our own.””* : “You will be tired of me in less than a year.” “J wouldn’t tire of you in a thousand years.” “Would you be willing to spend your evenings at home?” “Every one.” “Men are such tyrants. I’ve al- ways been used to having my own way.” “You shall have your own way still.” “You will never tell me I must or mustn’t do anything?” “Neyer.” “Always let me do just as I please?” “Absolutely.” “Then I shall have to say no, Har- old,” the maiden said tearfully. “I never could trust myself with such a husband as that.”—Chicago Tribune. Higher Education in India. India is covered with great universi- ties and colleges of excellent rank. All instruction is in English, but the more ambitious youth must break through caste and actually cross the Kalapani, the “black-water,” which an- cient Hindus were prohibited from venturing upon. This one returns an Indo-Gothique, emancipated from spiritual law and tradition. But there is no place for him either in Hindu or English soci- ety. He cares no longer to live in the most composite family of his réla- tions; he shakes hands and slaps the back of the “old man” whose lotus feet he used to fall and kiss. He thought the “higher education” would make him a great man—an “illustrious fellow-citizen.” But the English who received him so warmly in London withdraw their cordiality in India. He has offended his own, and even though he may through expensive penances return to his caste, the sacred thread of family and spiritual relation is broken: His,acute attack of English education has resulted in chronic gloom and disappointment—Edmund Russell in Everybody’s Magazine. Four Years in Congress. To sum it all up, I received $20,000 in salary, $4,800 in clerk hire, $400 for mileage and $500 for stationery, or $25,700. I am now referred to in the newspapers as the Hon. Blank, ex- member of congress. I lost the great- er part of my law practice, but I can get that back, and some more with it, for my reputation in the district has been increased, as a whole, by my service at Washington. Financially I am several thousand dollars worse off than I was before I was elected. I can get that back, too. The feature that bothers most is that both my wife and myself, after our experiences at Washington, are dissatisfied with the humdrum life in our country town. We had things and saw things in Washington that are beyond our reach here. It is hard to settle down.—Ey- erybody’s Magazine. a His Only Show. Spartacus—I suppose when you were little your father took you to see the circus? Smartacus—Yes; he always said he’ went to take me, but if he hadn’t been bowlegged I never would have got a squint at the parade.—Baltimore American. Gathering Them In. “I don’t see why a well dressed man like you should have to walk the rail- road track. “Well, you see, I am a theatrical manager and I am getting together a company.”—Town and Country. pee HAD NO THOUGHT OF SUICIDE. Clerk at-Gun Counter Had Sized His’ Customer Up. A seedy looking customer, with an Arkansas mustache, a Wild West’ beard of three days’ growth and an Indian Territory look in his eye was: buying a six-shooter, in an uptown firearm store, says the New York Press. “This one is $4.75,” said the clers, “and it’s a good gun for the money.” “Can’t you come down a little on that?” queried the buyer, looking up under his shaggy eyebrows and rusty sombrero. Being answered in the neg- ative, he paid the price, thrust the gun loosely, into trousers pocket, got: a supply of cartridges and went out. “I don’t care what he does with that gun,” carelessly remarked the clerk, “put I know very well he has no in- tention of suicide. He wouldn’t have cared anything about the price, if he had. He says he boards on the Bow- ery; place is tough looking, but the best he can afford, and he wants the gun to protect himself. I’m quite sure anyway, there's no idea of suicide run- ning through his head. Folk of that sort are easy to pick out. They have an eager, excited manner that gives them away, and they are mostly wo- men, too. I refused to sell a gun to one only the other day. Oh, there’s not so very many of them, but it’s dead easy to know them when one has a little experience.” VALUE OF NEW YORK REALTY. Immense Sums Paid for Tracts in De- sirable Localities. Leaving aside the vast valuations added to it by consolidation, the accu- mulations of property on Manhattan Island alone have been astounding. Once sold in bulk for $24, the island now has a tax valuation, real and per- sonal, of $2,908,755,146. Its real estate values have risen prodigiously from, the initial market quotaticn. Im- mense sums have now to be paid for tracts in desirable localities, as high as $400 per square foot having been asked for sites in business sections, making a price of $1,000,000 for a lot 25 by 100. Enormous fortunes have been built up by the increment of real estate values, the most striking ex- ample of these being the Astor es- tate founded on extensive purchases of land when the latter could be had for trifling sums. Like attracts like, and so Manhattan is attracting to it makers of fortunes from all parts of the country. No other city possesses so many millionaires as does New York, and their presence here is no slight factor in the running up of property rights.—Leslie’s Weekly. His Explanation. “T find you are an attractive fellow, Dickie, you know,” she had just re- marked, brushing his hair with the lace of her sunshade, “but, really, such a splendidly built young man ought to be ashamed to lie abed till all hours instead of being out taking exercise.” “Oh, I say,” he answered, “don’t be hard on a chap. Fact is, it’s the gov- ernor who’s responsible for my lazi- ~ ness.” “How’s that?” queried she. “Why, you see, it’s this way. Theold boy got an idea into his ndddle some time ago that I was drinking too much, and wanted me to swear off. Couldn’t do that, you know, so we compromised on the basis of my not drinking till dinner time.” “Really, Dickie,” she laughed, “I don’t see what that has to do with it.” “You don’t?” he asked, sitting bolt ~ upright. “If a man can’t drink until dinner, what’s the use of getting up until dinner time?” Repartee in Church. The friendly and familiar atmos- phere of the average small rural West- ern church some times gives rise to embarrassments. Dr. David is'‘a prom- inent man in a little far Western church, and he generally takes a quiet little doze during the sermon. Sister Sarah is an elderly, long-winded wo- man, who likes to “exhort” after the preacher has concluded his remarks. Not long ago, at a night service, Sis- ter Sarah arose and discoursed at great length. The listeners became visibly restive. Dr. David also arose and said, bluntly: “Sister Sarah, it would be an im- position to detain this congregation any longer.” With flashing eyes Sister Sarah re- torted: “Taint no impersition on you, doc- tor; you’ve tuck your nap.” Then the clergyman, with uplifted hands, said benignly: “Let us be dis- missed.”—Indianapolis Journal. A Song of the Weeds. Here's a cheer to the weeds up-spri ‘And a song for deeds they dor ee With their flags to the world out-flinging, ‘They stand ready to fight it through: % And their dare is as pert and stinging ' As their courage is proven true. They are builded for war and tr And will neither lead nor arene Mow them down to a field or stubble, And it makes them but more alive: Cut in twain, and their numbers double, And double, and double, and thrive. ” ‘They laugh at plowshare gleamin; And they tauntingly smile at tho hoe; They le down, it seems, past redeeming, But in truth so both ends may grow; It_takes doing of deeds, nc? dreaming” Not to win, but keep up with this foe. Yes, a foe are the weeds wi And a foe for the mronmeet eee And for hearts whereto hope is clinging. And for love that cheers on and charms. So a song to the weeds up-springing. On a thousand battle farms, 2 —John P. Sjolander in Galvestoh News. Those Loving Girls. Annette—How do you like the fit of my new jacket, dear? . Cardelia—You can call it a fit if you want to, but it strikes me as be- ing more like a convulsion. Mesaraebhate sh sbvewsckei. Millions in Fish, Newfoundland exports over $7,000,- 000 a year of fish—nearly all cod. ,