text: 4G sFA 0 ST 4 &7, & ‘é’ 2] vty e ; 877 SRR se ez n %A o : *—‘&?Lg Mc Pt ot fa & D> _-:«:!-“""’:mﬂ a A. RO G"0 ¥ > ’ 2 .gf%?i‘*:g" ";‘ Tf/ 2 < \—/,r—::‘- %?:;t(" .:". “' /7 ) :\' = ' g '_.“"‘v; e v_.' “’- ] & ,’)v,:‘/"' 7 '\. L ;__/,_/ 5 " ;"‘ v >,‘ < ‘“’ _,J‘ B =TT B 2 = ; “',»") h‘i\x\: ""‘ / ilor . b i 8 & X §>4lQ§“’ :‘li‘f' \\f“ Ga A o ;A; y’g‘? ?.;(' \»' eOAy Ls B ity ) W™ AP ToA oaeyr (o 85 X L ORENCE=TARYAT] 8 -~ CHAPTER XlX.—(Continued.) | “But for a child like you, Rosie, to live alone and work for yourself! It is in-l eomprehensible, and it is very dangerous.” “Dear Wilfrid, I will never return to Lambscote Hall.” “All right, Rosie! I will not ask you again. I have made a great mistake in Yife, and I must bear the consequences of it by myself. But, at all events, you will not deny me the occasional pleasure and comfort of yvour society. You have gound friends in London. Who are they? MWhere are you living, and with whom?” At this question, which Rosie had fore gecn that sconer or later she must an gwer, she colored painfully. “Surely, Rosie, you are not ashamed to tell me?”’ “Ashamed! I should think not. I am only too proud of my friends, and all that they have done for me. Fancy, Wilfrid, | people so poor as to have to work for their own bread, taking me in when I threw myself on tht:ir protection, without ‘ a word of remonstrance, without a ques 4ion as to whether I should ever be able {0 contribute my share toward the family expenses. laney their sheltering me }hen and there, receiving me into the house as | a sister or a daughter, supporting me until ¥ was able to support myself, nursing me #n sickness, comforting me in sorrow, and askine nothing, positively nothing, in re turn?”’ “1 ean hardly fancy it, Rosie. Suchi open handedness is beyond the imagina tion of the nineteenth century.” ‘ “But it is true—every word of it is true. | She has been the dearest friend and sister 10 we that ever an unhappy girl was for funate enough to light upon. She has 4aucsht me how to bear my trouble, and where to look for comfort. She has borne with my fits of impatience, with my—" “She—she—who is she?’ demanded Sir Wilrrid, with a smile. I thought I owed my debt of gratitude to a whole family, Rosie, but they seem to have dwindled down into one.” “They are a family,” replied the girl, more composedly. “There is her mother, and Miss Prosser, and little Nellie. But the friend I spoke of, the one who has been all the world to me, Wilfrid, since you saw me last, is the daughter of your old landlady, Jane Warner.” For a moment Rosie Idwell was almost frightened at the effect which this name gseemed to have upon her brother. As ghe pronounced it he rese suddenly from the chair on which he pvas sitting, and stood gazing at her witﬁ a fixed counte aance, as it he could not believe that he Bad heard aright. Then the dark blood eame pouring over his handsome face in a forrent of shame, until his very eyeballs were suffused with it. e was suffering an agony of suspense. ‘Aud she has been so good to me—l can aot tell you all her goodness. She is an angel, if ever there was one.” “And you have been living all this time with Jane Warner, at Chelsea?” he said, passing his hand over his brow, like a man in a dream. *ltis incredible! Does Jane ever mention me?”’ “Never! unless it is to warn me.” “How to warn you?” “Agninst doing anything that may dis please you, Wilfrid. Sometimes she says, *Your brother might not like it ‘Your ®drother might disapprove,” but that is all. SBhe made me take the name of ‘Fraser, in order to save you from annoyance. Jane & always thinking of others instead of Qerself.” “Rosie,” said hér brother, after a pause, “1 suppose I can come and see you at Wolsey Cottage?” “You ought to be able to answer that question yourself, dear. 1 know of no ghjection, if you don't. But perhaps it would be better to ask Jane's leave first.” “Will you ask her for me?” “What am 1 to say?”’ “That 1 want to visit you sometimes. That will be sufficient.” “Very well,” said Rosie, rising; “I will ask her, and tell you what she says.” CHAPTER XX. Wilfrid Bwell of Somerset House trem dled when his cab drew up at the gate of Wolsey Cottage and he believed that in snother moment he should stand face to face with Jane Warner. But his emotion was premature. No one opened the door 40 him but Caroline. She stared at him when he gave her his name as if she had sever scen a gentleman before, and usher ed him into the dining rcem, where his sister was waiting to receive him. She sose fuil of delight at his appearance, and they greeted each other with the geame effusiveness they had displayed be fore. “Let us go and have a turn around the garden!” he exclaimed. “I used to love the old garden in my ‘green sallet” days. Many a day’'s work have I done in it, fraining the creepers and potting the slips. Come, Rosie, this room is too hot for eomtfort. Come and have a look at the filtes!” But the old garden was deserted, bleak and bare. The snowdreps and crocuses in the borders were the only flowers vis ible, and they were not worth looking at 3n the gray veil of dusk. Sir Wilfrid seon 2ad enongh of the garden. And while these events had been pass sng below, Jave Warner had been in her ewn room, with the deor locked against all intruders, weeping passionately over the bed of the sleeping child. After the lapse of a few hours Sir Wil #rid’s vanity was quite ready to make him believe that the fact of his not having seen Jane on the occasion of his first visit to Chelsea was merely attributable to accident. But when weeks elapsed with out Lis encountering her—when he had paid three and four visits to the cottage and Jane had never once appeared in the sitting room, he couid no longer lay that flattering unction to his soul. He saw that her avoidance of him was intentional, and he grew moody and restless in conse quence. At last Sir Wilfrid confided his trouble to Rosie, and enlisted her aid. “It is nonsense. Jane Warner and I playing at hide-and-seek in this manner,” he said. “Can’t you think of some plan to bring us together without compromis ing yourself, Rosie? If I could only sce her and speak to her, I am sure it would be al]l right. DBut it will be impossible for me to go on visiting here as an in truder, whom the mistress of the house re fuses to recognize. It must be one or the other, Rosie. lither I must be friends with Jane, or T must give up coming to see_you.” And XRosie. who would have gone through fire and water rather than lose the pleasure of her brother’s society, promised to keep her ears and eyes open, and effect a meeting between him and Jane Warner if possible. In compliance with which, about a week afterward, he received the following epistle: “Dearest Wilfrid—Do you know the place they call the Old Dairy Farm, about a couple of miles from this on the Middlebridge Road? She is going there to-morrow afternoon, if fine, to get butter and eggs. She will take the child and perambulator with her. She will start about two or half-past, and be returning about four. “Kver your affectionate “‘ROSIE.” This intelligence threw Sir Wilfrid into a state of greatest excitement. Had he been obliged to parade for hours up and down the Middlebridge Road, he would have dene so in order to get speech of Jane Warner. He could not imagine how he could have waited for two years for news of her. Supposing she had died in the interim, what a lifelong reproach it would have been to him! All he wanted to know regarding her was, if she was happy and at peace. Assured of this, he would be ready to follow her wishes in everything. That is what he persuaded himseclf. It was a beautiful spring day now, in the middle of April. The limetrees that shaded the paths on the Middlebridge Read had put forth their tender leaves of green, the quickest hedges were full of shoots; above his head the birds were wheeling in their giddy courtships. Ev erything smelled so fresh and sweet, and looked so rural, that it was difficult to be lieve cne was within a mile of one of the busiest suburbs of Lendon. Sir Wilfrid sauntered along, casting a look over his shoulder every minute to see if The person of whom he was in search were yvet in sight. At last he saw her coming. He was sure he could not be mis taken in the tall, graceful figure pushing the perambulator in front of her. A little less distance between them, and he was certain it was Jane. He could recognize the swan-like elegance of her neck and head—could even catch the tones of her soft, rich voice as she addressed some words to the child in the perambulator. CHAPTER XXI. Jane looking up, encountered, to her consternation, Sir Wilfrid ISwell. He was gazing at her fixedly, with a look of the utmost melancholy, and as his eyes met hers they seemed to take her breath away. She stopped short in the pathway and bent her head over the perambula tor. “Jane,” he began, in a low voice, “are we never to be friends again?” “I have always been your friend,” she answered, with a trembling lip. “But you refuse to see me or speak to me. You absent yourself whenever I en ter the ccttage. You have no hesitation in showing that my presence is distaste ful to you.' “What is the use of speaking or seeing?” she said, in a tone sharp with pain. “What good can it do? It can only make the past more bitter to remember, the present more difficult to bear?” “Then you have felt it, dear? you do feel it still? Regret is as keen with you as with myself.” “It can never be that, Will, for I never injured you."” “I know. Forgive me. DBut let me still remain your friend.” “To what end? It cannot undo the past. It cannot even ameliorate it. We are separated by your own free will. let me go on my way for the future unmo lested.” “I cannot. You do not know what this separation has cost me, how bitterly I have repented it. Oh, Jane! I am so miserable! I have not a friend—worthy the name—to look to but yourself.” At last she raised her eyes with aston ishment and stared him in the face. Pity —the loveliest virtue in the composition of woman—thrilled her through, and ef faced for a moment the memory of her owWn Wrongs. - “Not a friend!” she ejaculated, “with your mother and sisters, and—and—the person you call Lady Ewell? Why, what lh:is become, then, of all the friends for whom you deserted me?” “They were not deserving of the name, Jane. Has not Rosie told you of the un fortunate relations between my—l mean, between Lady Ewell and myself? We are not living together. It is very prob able we shall never live together again. I was blinded, Jane, by an insane passien for her beauty, and my Nemesis has come upon me soener than I thought.” “It comes to most of us,” she answered, quictly. “What a pretty child!” remarked Sir Wilfrid, for the first time observing the occupant of the perambulator. ‘“Whose is she?” “Whose is she?’ repeated Jane in a startled voice—*“whose is she? Why, she's an adopted child of mother's, We never heard the name of her parents. We found her.” ' “Found her! What an extraordinary thing to do!” said Sir Wilfrid. : “Is it? 1 thought it happened ewery day in London. Some one put her over the garden wall, and we kept her. We couldn’t have done anything else, could we?” : | “A very pretty child!” repeated Sir Wilfrid, .contemplatively. He was right. The little foundling had developed into a lovely specimen of in fancy. She was now about two years, and had just learned to talk and run. “You seem to have a faculty for taking burdens on yourself, Jane,” remarked Sir Wilfrid. “First, your poor mother, then my truant sister, and now this little or phan. You must have enough to do with them all.” : “I did not take them; they were sent me,” she answered, and she folded Nellie's wrappings closer round her, and went on her homeward journey. They had by this time reached the streets, and the time for confidence and emotion was over. Jane breathed more freely as she trod the pavement. The walk along the country rcad had been a fearful. trial to her. “Jane,” said Sir Wilfrid, as they neared the cottage, “what do you intend to do?” “I do not understand you.” “What plans have you made for the future?”’ “None. I have my daily work to per form, and I leave the future to God.” “T have not quite spoiled your life, have I?” he whispered. : “It is not in the power of a mortal to spoil the life of another, Will,”” she said. “I am content that mine should be as it is. You must be content with the knowl edge.” “That is just what I have been longing to hear you tell me,” he exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction, “that you are happy and contented. You have indeed lifted a load from my mind, Jane. I shall go home and sleep as I have not slept for weeks past.”. Still selfishly thinking of himself and his own comfort—still selfishly unmindful of her and the sea of tears through which she had waded in her present state of calm. Still unsuspicious that the calm was all assumed, and that in granting him leave to meet her as a friend, Jane War ner had only added one more to the many sacrifices of self which should shine as jewels in her spiritual crown. When they reached the garden gate of Wolsey Cottage, Sir Wilfrid murmured, “May I come in?” and she answered, “Not to-day,” with a hurried manner that seem ed almost unkind. He felt it, but he did not remonstrate with her. He wanted to prove, if possi ble, on this first occasion of their reunion, how ready he was tt give in to all her wishes. Still with the idea of pleasing Jane, he took a sovereign from his pocket, and held it toward the child. ; “Will baby buy a dolly?” he said. Little Nellie made a grab at the glit tering coin, but Jane Warner intercepted the offered gift, and turncd upon the denor with a dignity of manner that made her almost majestic. “I will not allow her to take it,”” she said firmly; “and please to understand, Sir Wilfrid Ewell, that if you wish to visit at this house you must never again make the mistake of offering any sort of present to me, or to—to the child.” Jane Warner was very silent and de pressed that evening. She could not make up her mind whether she had acted wisely or not. And yet, since she was the only one likely to suffer from their renewed intercourse, was it not her duty to do all in her power to help and succor this man, so much more unhappy, because so much more guilty, than herself? (To be continued.) DECORATED FOR BRAVERY. Field Marshal Lord Roberts’ Charger and His Noble Record. Shortly after the jubilee, the writer asked a colonial what he though of the gorgeous procession. His reply was brief and to the point. ‘“The pro cession? I think it may be summed up in a nutshell—the Queen and Lord Roberts.” In that there was doubt less some exaggeration, but there is no question that, after her majesty, Lord Robents, mounted upon his beau tifully diminutive Arab Volonel, made the greatest appeal to the popular fan e¢y. Both man and his horse were fa miliar to military eyes, but the gen eral public do not often get a chance of seeing “Bobs,” and the sight of the sturdy, in spite of his years, still elas tie, lithe figure, seated upon a charger which seemed positively made for him, naturally aroused all their latent hero worship to fever piteh. The late Val - ontine Baker used to be known as “the man on the old white horse;” probably it will be as “the man on the ‘li»ttl-e gray Arab” that Lord Robernts will be enshrined in the hearts of many of our country and colonial cousins— aye, and of Londoners as well. Volone], like his master, is a veteran. Lord Roberts bought him in March, 1877, from Abdul Rahman, an Arab horse dealer in Bombay. Volonel is of pure Nejdi breed, and certainly he is a strik ing example of the longevity and pow ers of enduring the ups and dowas of life ascribed to the ‘pure Arab. He went through the Afghan campaign with his master. Out of that campaign Lord Roberts came with undying fame, but Volonel was also rewarded for his distinguished service, receiving the medal for the campaign and the Kan dahar Star. Both decorations were, I believe, specially struck by order of her Majesty. Certainly the stout-hearted little animal had earned these badges of honor, for who knows, if he had fal tered or gone wrong at some critical moment, that the whole course of the campaign might not have been altered? Volonel most assuredly seems to be made of wondrous stuff even for an Arab, for, after having traveled with Lord Roberts some »ﬁ\fty thousand miles. Everywhere and always a man'‘s worth must be gauged to some extest, though only in part, by his domes ticity. : : A QUARTET OF BOYS # ® R YOUNG MEN WHO EARLY BE CAME GENERALS. Generals Merritt, Custer, MacKenzie and Upton Won Promotion by Con spicuous Gallantry in the Service of Their Country—Their After Life. Brave Cavalry Officers. —— 4 lIE transfer and /,};; } p r(.)motiog of %?: ; Maj. Gen.. Wes- R ley Merritt to ) Vg2 / the command of ’ = 7 the Department >/ " A of the East, with Ooz 2 , § 7 headquarters at ,/,?/‘f /? 3@ Govemful‘"s Isl ’//,'17“% /’/ “ o and, \'l\'l(ll3'«' re &7 % e, calls that histor ) 7GI icquartet of .‘ /'q 35 Drilliant young di SIS cavalry officers, { € Merritt, Custer, MacKenzie and Upton, which beeame famous the last two years of the war. I* was a group that found its analogue in the same number of equally gallant young generals, West Pointers all, in many instances classmates of their an tagonists—Stuart, I'itz Lee, Rosser and Young, in the army of Northern Vir ginia. It is the Union quartet that will be considered here, because their ca reers were similar, as they were pro moted together, and the history of one is a part of the history of them all. Merritt was the senior of the “quad rilateral” of young Union generals in graduation. He was a member of the first and only “five years’ class” that ever left West Point. While Mr. Davis was Secretary of War he caused the course at the United States Military Academy to be increased to five years. In the class of ’6O graduated Joseph Wheeler, a member of Coungress for e Tl v""’%f\ 2@ A aga 8 ' 5 7= WWA«ENNEZ,[/( ; &g i y 'Q‘) ISR TN . D (= ’% J i ¥ tlﬁ§ /”’/// / 'f%a '@ {‘:‘ e’ o ey ”" W\ _‘ { "/// 7y yTW J\ = » \ kil ',.al;;fo: iva T e 7 {{“, i “"s‘é‘% i 3 TR ss [/ i, s Re Ry B 7 ” e " .}\zft Mg AN GRS, I [\ i &5 Re s =L Y sO} X e | S 8 ey N\, oF ; T 77”“" b, E ‘ o o/K 22 |I2o "4% A : %gé’ & ST tw R B i = & o AR AW " E"’%\ Q o \‘;\\ REa b f:' N [ *\‘.\Q’;. o eV (/AR R PST : R. 4 b ST S 7 8 o : J SR v A L v~ 7 ,'v X L’“‘ AR N W o R g 7Y, !0 /-",;Q__." \-‘,g %6 2: : : 3 .VS //// : s o s B L ;«’ ! 1 A 9 “\ ¢ ‘s(:’ s /:%}’//f PRI Ty c“‘ {4 SEZES e :§:~/«& = R ‘f\ E Meary. IS/ ei“ ﬂr ( \ 4 R T SBl W, ok e S ! \ / X & y 4 - Coo T A QUARTETTE O BOY BRIGADIERS. several terms, and a Confederate gen eral officer; Gen. Wilson, chief of engi neers, and Col. Whittemore of the Ord nance Department. After serving as adjutant of the Sec ond Dragoons under Col. Philip St. George Cooke, Merritt became aid-de camp to that gallant Virginian, when he was made brigadier general in 1861, then major general and given command of all the cavalry of McCielland’s army. Two days before Gettysburg, Capt. Merritt, who had attracted the atten tion of his superiors of the highest rank by reason of his quick military percep tions and thorough knowledge of the availabilities of the cavalry arm, was nominated brigadier general and for warded his acceptance, ande mounted the star on the very day, July 1, 1863, when Buford’'s columns, suddenly push ing out westward from Gettysburg, un expectedly ran up against the advance brigades of Gen. A. P. Hill. Merritt was given the reserve cavalry com mand. Irom that day his fortune was assured. He fought a division under the eye and command of Gen. Sheri dan, the cavalry officer of the Union army, at Winchester and lisher’s Hill. Sheridan showed what he thought of his young subordinate’s ability and conduct when he named Merritt for the brevet of major general, which was given him. « Gen. Merritt has six bre vets, all for *‘gallant and meritorious service.” Irom I‘isher's Hill to the close of the war Gen. Merritt com manded a division of Sheridan’s cav alry corps. Second of the gallant four comes Custer. He was old for a cadet when he entered the United States Military Academy. Two classes were graduated in 1861; the first was that which would have been the second five years’ class; the other, June 24. Tle latter was Custer’'s. After serving as cavalry aid-de-camp to General McClellan, June 29 he was made Brigadier Gener al. His name and Merritt’s went to the Senate together. Custer's vim and dash at Brandy Station and Aldie, while aid-de-camp to General Pleasan ton, had been so conspicuous as to at tract general atteation, and won for him his Brigadier General’'s commis sion. I'rom Gettysburg, in 1863, to the end, Custer was the typical hard rider, the ideal light-horseman and dashing fighter of the cavalry corps of the Army of the Potomae. At Fisher’s Hall Cus ter won his brevet of Major General, the same day Merritt gained his and in the same battles. Sheridan gave Custer, the second of his “boy Gener als,” a division of his superb cavalry, which he commanded until hostilities ceased. Third in the list of this group of young heroes comes Upton. He was a ’6l man, of the almost five years’ class, that received its diplomas May 6. Like most of those high up In class stand ing, Upton was commissioned in the artillery. Bue he wanted a regiment, and that fortune which ever favors the brave stood Upton’s friend. By a lucky chance he was commissioned colonel of the One hundred and Twenty-first New York Volunteers, and made a Brig adier General for distinguished gallan try in an attack that will be famous through all history. Upton was a bri gade commander in that crack corps of Hancock’s veterans which on the morning of May 12, 1864, advanced si lectly upon that faulty “horseshoe” in Lee’s line of works at Spottsylvania, walked over the gray skirmishers, not firing a shot at them for fear of giving the alarm, and just at dawn drove the Federal wedge with terrible, decisive effect full into the horseshoe. History calls it the “bloody angle.” There it was that “Hancock the superb” noted the gallant young Colonel Upton’s bra very and the skill he showed in hand ling his command, and said to General Morgan of his staff: “By this and by that, Upton has won a star, and he shall have it.” Again that 19th of Oc tober, 1864, that had been so lucky for Merritt and Custer, brought good for tune to Upton, for then he received the brevet of Major General. When Gen eral James H. Wilson went to the Western army to command all General Sherman’s cavalry, he took Upton with him, and gave him the fourth division of the cavalry corps, which he com manded until his volunteers were mustered out and the war ended. Last, and in many respects the ablest, of this quartet whose names will live as long as the history of our war survives was MacKenzie. He was the youngest in years and service ot them all, as he did not graduate uuti! 1862, But though he came a year later than any of the ethers, in two years and a little more than six months of active service MacKenzie had won an henor and achieved a distinction never before or since attained by any officer of our always gallant army. He had won seven brevets, everything from I'irst Lieutenant to Major General, each “for gallant and meritorious ser vices”—not in skirmishes, either, if you pleace, blgt such battles as Second Bull Run, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, Petersburg, Winchester, Cedar Creek. That 19th of October, 18G4, so often mentioned, must be noted again, for it was as fortunate for MacKenzie as it -had been for the other three. Ifor the most brilliant, soldiery courage and daring General Sheridan recommend ed MacKenzie’'s promotion to the rank of Brigadier General, and his commis sion was given him “for specific dis tinguished services” at the battle of Opequon, FKisher’'s Hill and Middle town, and the recipient of these hon ors, unequaled in American history, was then but a little over 23 years old. And how fared they after the war ended—this gallant four? Custer died with the Indian war whoop as his death-knell, in a battle that will live in history as the last stand made by the great united tribes of the Northwest against the overwhelming white man, Upton, a full Colonel of artillery—alas, that it should have to be written— died with clouded mind by his own hand, MacKenzie lived for years dead to the world, and to the grief and sor row of those who knew and loved him best. But the star Merritt wore for years so worthily—before he won those he wears to-day—gleamed on the gal lant MacKenzie's shoulder before the ligant of reason went out for him for evermore. And thus it is that Merritt is the only one left of the four gallant young souls whose courage and soldier ly deeds won the chivalric appreciation of their own comrades and the admira tion and respect of those who had wit nessed and felt the might of their valor on twenty stricken fields. And as he who is left recalls the past there must come from his own knightly heart a sigh for their memory and a prayer for the souls of the gallant brave, who have gone across the River of Death.— Globe-Democrat. The Cormorant. The cormorant is largely employed in China for catching fish. The birds are reared and trained with great care and are taken out upon the lakes and rivers in a small boat, one man to ev ery ten or twelve cormorants. The birds stand perched on the sides of the boat, and at a word from the man they scatter on the water and begin to look for fish. They dive for fish, and then rise to the surface with the fish in their bills, when they are called back to the boat by the fishermen. As docile as dogs, they swim to their master and are taken into the boat, when they lay down their prey and again resume their labor. R CUTENESS OF THE COYOTE. Pog Drawn Into Ambush Ty Make Away with a By dge:ks to No cuter animal is found in ty, Weat than the coyote. The coyote i ¢, { plainsman what a fox is to ap E;\Stn:e farmer, only the coyote is more c\? dence. lorest and Stream te]jg 'l‘o3\. L aboug a dog that had its principal sport Sy ing and otherwise worrying (-omt‘: and was led into ambush by one 1:0\'\;{: and then set upon by several othor 0} the pralrie wolves and almost done ¢ death. iy “About 9 o’clock one nignt,” the pa. per says, ‘“‘one of the coyotes (':11110 ;0 the kitchen door and howlay :!I_'.;...]_ vatingly at the dog, which 21“‘1'(“1!:)1;3 set after the coyote full tilt. Ty oy ote fled around the house, down tq I}, corral and around the blacksmit), s?mr;. ty, the dog yelping after, Behing the shanty were other coyetes, six or soyey of them, and all of them made fop thé dog in a way that made it feel Jopey The ranchman heard the fight anq tl‘u; dog’s howls of pain, and, grasping 1 rifle, started that way on the run, yo). ing as he went. The coyotes eacly ionk a farewell nip and fled, leaving a gop, dog behind. Since then the dog lag not been so much interested as on fop. mer occasions in coyotes. It follgwyg single coyotes vigorously, but the ap pearance of another sends it hack gq fast as it can run.” The coyote likes badger flesh vory ‘much, but one coyote is not equal to y badger in a fight; consequently, (}, coyote, when it meets a badger, has t, resort to strategem till aid arrvives, T, manner in which it does this, accordine to the sportsman’s paper, is interest. ing. “A few weeks ago,” the writer says “as I was riding along I Saw a my[m; and a badger. The coyote seemed to be playing with the badger. e woulg prance around it, first as if to bite i, then run off a little ways, the badger following, evidently very angry. Whey the badger saw me it ran into its hole, while the coyote went off forty or fifty vards and lay down, evidently lumwin‘g I had no gun with me. The coyote's device was evidently to tease, and so keep the badger interested till anothey coyote happened along, when the bad ger would have been killed."—New York Sun. How She Became Noted, As every one knows, “Lady Audley's Secret” was the novel which lifted Miss Braddon into fame. It may not be so generally known that the author had o little confidence in her work as to bring it out in an obscure serial, Robin Goodfellow. The story of the story is a romance in itself. Mr. Maxwell had started, in more or less rivalry to Dickens' first periodical, the magazine called Robin Goodfellow. Dr. Mackey was its ed itor and Lascelles Wraxall was his see ond in command. There had been some difficulty in regard to the opening noy el, in consequence of which the new periodical was on the eve of postpone ment, a serious contretemps in the face of its extensively advertised date of publication. The day before a decision was necessary Miss Braddon heard of the difficulty and offered to write the story. “But even if you were strong enough te fill the position,” was the publisher's reply, ‘“there is no time.” “How long could you give me?" ask ed the aspiring authoress. “Until to-morrow morning.” “At what time to-morrow morning?”’ “If the first installment were on my breakfast table to-morrow morning,” he replied, indicating by his tone and manner the utter impossibility of the thing, “it would be in time.” The next morning the publisher found upon his breakfast table the opening chapters of “Lady Audley's Secret” Robin Goodfellow did not hit the pub lic. It did not live to finish “Lady Audley,” which, indeed, would have re mained “forgotten, buried, dead,” had Miss Bratidon not been able to prevail upon a publisher to bring it out in three volume form. It then sprang into an instantaneous popularity. The success of the novel was amazing, and proba bly the crities did no harm to the sale by describing the wgrk as “gensation al.” More than 1,000,000 copies have been sold. A Present from George lIL Here is a picture of the fire-tub that George IIL. presented to his loyal st jects of Shelburne, N. S., in 179. This was in the days when the town wasa populous and thriving place. I?ulf the royalists who left Boston during the —__‘____‘__/4 AL. ; iey s i e v iA= ‘\“«ﬁt \"Q,PA@* S—_— ] - | '.f:?:é,’;,;ft‘;’ gt U e . :;4 Ao~ ey == A = e = T ot ... e : ;5 .‘/_'. - ',4,‘ \/ = (gp g FIRE TUB OVER 190 };xﬂ-::\_{‘-fwfffj"/ revolution built houses in Shelburi® and, of course, the king could not p; such loyal subjects quffer for ]m'lf‘f" proper protection against fir e tub is still in a fair state of preser™¥ tion. s Fill Teeth with Glass / The latest use for glass is inst(‘ndli‘ zold as a material for stum'i‘{:’n' ‘“’(";4 Ing teeth. It answers splendid!y ﬂx‘v is far less conspicuous thall the ."f‘”orv metal. Of course, it is not onlmﬂ; glass, but is prepared by som® nev P 3 ented process which renders it soft 4 mafleable. At threescore and ten 2 man hﬂstouzn ally accumulated enough wisdor a 1 able him to acknowledge bis I 8 o. 