.

Mi

THE GIRL IN A CALICO DRESS.Though queens of society try as they willTo dazzle and charm us by dressing to kill.They can not look ever, we nave ta confess.As sweet as the girl ia a calico dress.No framework ofsatis, silk. Jewels and laceCan set off ber picture of beauty and graceIJke a calico dress of seat pattern and shadeThat her own willing hands hare so tastefully

made.

There's something so wholesome, so homelike,so clean,

So honest and useful, so medest of mienIn a calico dress that its wearer, we know.Partakes of its virtues and In them will grow.

No tailor-mad- e girl, be she ever so smart.And decked in the fashion of dressmaking art,Can hold up a candle with any successTo the sensible girl la a calico dress.

And none, when Jt comes to tho duties of life.Can make for a man such a helpmate and wireAnd build him a home that he proudly will

blessLike the bravo little girl in a calico dress.

All praise to the girl in a calico dress;A marriage with her Is a certain success.A kitchen or parlor each one ia its place-S- he,

like Cinderella, will equally grace.IL C Dodge, In Detroit Free Press.

MIRIAM.TSeRracfiofHeatttiibHal

By Manda L. Crocker,COPTBIGRT, 1869.

CHAPTER J."- M OWN at my feet she

is sitting, this pale,sweet woman, cladin the suggestiveblack crape. Thedark folds lie softlyagainst tho slenderthroat in a caressingmanner, and tbeyremind me, as I lookat her, of a pair ofdimpled, baby arms,that never more willcling to the proudneck.

Oh! yes: and more than that memory ishidden within the folds of that black gown.There is a triple story of bereavement andof anguish of soul keener than that felt forthe dead, but, as yet, I do not know it quiteall.

She is a mystery to me, and I fail to com-prehend her many times, although I knowher history to be crowded with incidentssad and tragical.

The afternoon sun comes through the lat-tice in bright golden bars, and falls lovinglyon her dark hair, revealing to me that it isnot really black, as I had thought, but of adeep brown color, but she is not consciousof the sunshine.

The scent of the fragrant roses comes upfrom the little garden below, with thebreath of carnations and violets growingplentiful there, but her soul is shut againstall that is beautiful in nature to-da- y.

She is so strange and lives within her-self, in such an atmosphere of deep sorrow,that I have never been able to penetrate itand understand the heart throbbing out itsexistence to the music of its dirges.

I would love to talk freely to ber thisafternoon, but am at a loss to know how tobegin. 1 am, at best, a poor comforter; myheart is sympathetic enough, but its emo-tions fail me in words. In this, as in manyother things, I am very unfortunate, andthe good that I would do is never realized.But linally 1 venture : "Miriam, would youenjoy a drive on tho beach, or shall it be astroll in the woods to fill up this remainingpiece of a day?'

Out there beyond the trees, and swell-ing shoreward, lie the blue waters of thebay, and beyond booms the broad Atlantic.There is a lovely drive along the sands, andthe weather is glorious, and this is why Ioffer myself and pony phaeton to her, as ac-

cessories of a pleasant afternoon by thesea. But I have missed it again, and mysuggestion grates on her optional pleasure.

Slowly the great dark eyes arc lifted tomine in sorrowful negative, and I know Ihave swept an irresponsive chord.

I am answered further by a doleful shakeof the head; but she essays no word. Smallneed; I understand her.

She crunches a letter in her hand savag-elya letter addressed to mc, yet more hersthan mine as if to remind mc that its con-

tents are all she has room for in herthoughts, and that a drive on the sunnysands would only mock the shores of noth-ing to which ber soul drifts this after-noon.

Then she gctsyip as if 1 have annoyed ordisturbed her by my question, which I pre-sume I have, and goes down the walk to thelittle wicket opening out to the clusteringtrees in front of my cottage. The great

. mi

iSIt"1g&3Uvso ruASAXT as PEAcrrcL.

white lilies that droop cither side the wayare hardly paler than she, or more inno-.cen- t.

The wind coming up freshly from thowater catches at her gown, and tosses herlong loose curls until sho shivers. Per-haps it whispers to her of her far awaydesolate English home which stretches outits arms, figuratively, and begs for herpresence; entreats the proud, beautifulface to shine onco more within its greatmanorial balls, ir that is what the windsand waves are saying, their petition is met,doubtless, with a cruel rebuff.

Presently she comes back to mc, but, in-

stead of sitting down on the ottoman at myfeet, as I half expected ber to do, she drops

--the letter into my lap, kisses me hungrily,--whispers brokenly: "I can never do itnever!" and goes up-stair- s. I make no an-

swer; there arc no words left me adequate,.neither docs she look for a reply.

I take up the letter, and although I knowit y hoart I must needs run over it again.It has come all the way from Hastings, thatbeautiful city by the sea, m merrie oldEngland, and is a call from desolatedHeatherleigh Manor. "Do I know aught of.Miriam Percival Fairfax? If so, tidings ofiter will be thankfully received, The .grand

old hall is waiting at her disposal, M thedeath of Sir Rupert Percival and his written request leaves her the sole legatee." 1am not allowed to answer the letter; Miri-am will not have it so, aad Heatherleigh isnothing to Be. Of course I have told hershe had better go, but with a look of horrorin those haunting eyes of hers, she has re-fused emphatically, as whispering withwhite lips she tells me that she "hate herancestral halls," and "that I have no ideawhat I ask of her."

Perhaps I don't, and the deep aversionranking in her soul toward her birthplacecomes hissing through the white teeth, andeffectually silences me in protesting further.

She came to me two years ago, sad andsorrowing, from the newly-mad- e graves ofhusband and child. "Remember," she saidto me once, "that my husband and son sleepwhere the shadows of Heatherleigh fall noton them. My poor, brave Arthur could notrest well if they did, and my little one hasforgotten, on his dreamless pillow, thecurse that turned him away from its male-dicti- ve

doors."I have not questioned her, regarding her

sorrows and grievances as too sacredly herown for my intrusive inquiries, aud sho hasonly revealed that which she chooses to telL

But she is the daughter of my deadfriend, and therefore I open my arms, andreceive tho desolate, heart-broke- n womaninte my home and heart. I flatter myself,too, that her sorrows have been somewhatmitigated through my efforts. She ischeerful, even, sometimes as we stroll inthe fields, or wander off among the raggedhills where the wild heatherbell and bar-berry grow.

One time in particular I remember, as Isit holding the crumpled letter, a scenethat with her face comes back to me, asbeautiful dreams come sometimes acrossour days of care.

We had wandered up the hills, and weresitting at the foot of a tree, resting. Ourbaskets beside us were filled with the redfruit of the barberry, and wreathed withferns and gayly-colorc- d leaves. lathe dis-tance shone the blue waters of the bay,and above ns beamed the cloudless sky,while the breeze dallied here and there,hinting of a sterner season.

Miriam leaned her sunny head against themossy trunk, and sat looking far off overthe shimmering waters in tho quiet dis-tance, and a look of almost happinesscame into the perfect face. I sat watchingher, wrapt in admiration, and hoping thatthe dawning of brighter hours had come.

8he turned to me with animation, saying:"This is pleasant ;so pleasant and peaceful !"and I was glad to answer: "Yes."

That was last year, and since then thefluctuating tides of peace and disquietudehave run so often into a sea of counter cur-rents, ebbing and flowing over that firstgreat hope, that I am not certain of anything permanent.

I hesitated a great deal before giving hertho missive, thinking that perhaps it mightnot be conducive of any good, but after allI have done so, and regretted it immediatelyafterward. I fold up the letter now, wish-ing something had happened to it before it reached its destination, or that I hadhad discretion enough to have foreseen theconsequonces, and bad comadtted it to thegrate, as I might have done, seeing it wasaddressed to me.

While I am Indulging thus inshe comes down stairs, calm

enough outwardly, the glossy hair freshlybrushed, and I doubt nqt the tear-stai- ns

bathed carefully off the placid face, so asnot to grieve me. She comes forward andtakes my hands in her two hot ones, lookspleadingly into my face, and makes astrange request, a request that sends theblood surging back to my heart, leaving mycheeks blanched, I am aware, for shepauses, looks troubled and doabtive, andhesitates. But finally she has finished, andI have promised to grant her desire, al-

though in tea minutes after she has kisscpme thankfully and settled down on theshadow-flecke- d steps with a great sigh ofrelief I regret having done so.

She knows it is my intent to visit a rela-tive living in the suburbs of Hastings,shortly, and she has asked me "while there,take a little run over beyond Fairlight, and

visit Heatherleigh." But that isn't thestrange part of her request, though it is allsurprising. She looked me calmly in theeyes and asked me to "bring ber portraitaway from the fated gallery with me."How on earth am I to accomplish this!

At first it seems easy enough to me, buton reflection the undertaking grows stupendous, and borders on the impossible. Isit very still, revolving the request in mymind, and every moment its magnitude isintensified. But I mado no sign, and shesits with clasped hands, gazing out at thewater, fully confident that I will be able tofulfill my promise, and I haven't the courageto undeceive her.

So wo sit out the piece of a day talkingsome but thinking more until the sun goesdown behind the hills, and tho shadowsgrow longer and denser over the carnations and roses, and reach out darkly forthe gleaming satin of the lilies which theyenvelop later.

Maggie, my little maid of all work, ringsthe tea-be- ll merrily, then peeps through theblinds to see where we are. Having seenus, her bright eyes disappear, and I knowshe has flown to her kingdom to keep "thotay proper hot" until we put in an appear-ance, which we do shortly.

Miriam I always say simply Miriam-lo- oks

satisfied once more. 1 divine the rea-son; she has settled the letter questionpositively in the negative, or rather I havedetermined it for her by my rash promise.

Bat how I am to beard "the Douglas inhis hall" is .aoro than I knew, and obtainthe elegant portrait of the daughter of thebouse, because I am not to reveal herwhere-abouts it is her request.

Miriam thinks, however, that I am theone equation of her life, andsits over there sipping her tea in full con-fidence, while I choke down my dessert,measure my powers with a broken reed andtransform my digits to ciphers.

The day of my departure arrives. Overagainst its fair, promising skies falls ashadow. I dread to leave Miriam. I wouldso love to take her with me, but the laws ofthe Medes and Persians are not more irrev-ocable than Miriam's nay. She is to stayherein the cottage at Bay view, and seeafter my affairs, while I am to go and en-

joy myself. As if I could enjoy my visitwith that gigantic undertaking supple-mented on like a thing of eviL

If Heatherleigh was still in its halcyondays, as when I once visited within itsdoors, how "differently I should feel aboutthis matter; but J. understand evil influ-ences lurk in its long, dark halls, andmarch through itsdesolato corridor sinceSir Rupert's demise.

This is one reason why my little tourcomes to me. in tho prospective, like anightmare, and I feel a terrorof it all creep-ing into my bravest moments.

These reports coming to mo by letter oc-

casionally 1 have never revealed to Miriam,which now is one thing I am thankful for,as I have not frightened her by any thingsaid to me and kept her away thereby.

1 am positive, too, that sho knows noth-ing of these things, as sho gets no newsfrom merrie old England. This, to me, isone ray of relief.

But I am ready, so is my luggage, and Imost bid good-by- e to Bayview and Miriam

SkeeUags to me, pale aad sorrowfuL butthere is a wild, eager questioning in bereyes as she lays her tear-w-et cheek againstmine. Instinctively. I know she is thinkingof my promise, and I say, impulsively: "Iwill bring your portrait, dear." I don'tadd "if I can," which, perhaps, I ought todo, but leave the declarative promise intact, trusting Heaven for the fulfillment.She lugs her arms around my neck at this,and sobs oat. her gratitude, releases me,and I am gone. i

The friends with whom I intended to sailmeet me at the pier, and all is well so far.Thereto aa eager tread of passengers, abusiness air in the movements of the crew,a rattling of chains, a settling here aadthere, aad the good ship Lady Clare weighsanchor and we are en our voyage.

The starting gives me a feeling of cour-age that I never dreamed of, and I stoutlyresolve that, come what may, Heatber-leigh- 's

mysteries will not intimidate me.No; I will walk undaunted in its uncannyshadows, and bold converse, if- - necessarv,with its spiritual occupants. And, morethan all else, I should doubtless --findsome who would and could be only tooglad to give me the history of the hall andrecount to me in detail the sad, tragic storyof Miriam.

To be sure, I have already an abbreviatedaccount, a synopsis of the leading events ofboth, through Miriam and others, but this,my intended visit, should round up thewhole.

This is why, I tell mvself, I have under-taken this journey, although the sunny faceof my cousin Gladys, in her far-awa- y En-glish home, pops up to mental vision, andclaims its share in the visit to be.

Ah! yes, dainty little Cousin Gladys,whose fair blue eyes first saw the day inthe dreamy light of the poetical Cotswoldhills lathe very hoart of merrie old En-gland, and who fought my "going toHamerica" to live, was expecting me.

She was to-da- doubtless, sitting in herTine-covere- d porch overlooking suburbanHastings, and gazing seaward, wonderingthe while when "'Attie, who lived inHamerica, would harrive." With thisthought I gather myself together and seekmy cabin.

CHAPTER n.I am in the suburbs of Hastings, where

the delicious and invigorating sea breezeswander over the hills and whisper down thegreen lanes.

Cousin Gladys' little cottage is a verita-ble paradise to my quiet-lovin- g soul.Perched away up here on a height andnestling in its wealth of blossoming creepers, itseems a very sweet haven of all 1 desire. In the distance I can get a glimpse

HP 11

OOUSXX OLADYS JOISS KB fOK A CHIT.

of the sea, aad West Cliff and a bird's-ey- e

view of High Wickham, but it is the pict-uresque beauty and blessed content of thebright fieldsand green hedgerows thatplease me most

Above the distant downs a few fleecyclouds hover, then drift lazily out over thesea and fade into the infinitesimal. I sitdown on the porch, over which the ivy runsin profusion, with a sigh of satisfaction,and presently cousin Gladys joins me forachat.

We talk of many things, over which fallsthe glamour of Auld Lang Syne, and by thetime she excuses herself to see after thelate dinner, I have had a goodly number ofpleasant, and not afow unpleasant, reminis-cences of suburban Hastings.

My friends of the voyage are staying withrelatives near Ecclesbourne, and arepleased to notify me by post that they aregoing farther into the country, and desiremy company.

This I can not do, as I am "bound for thehall," in the language, but not the spirit, ofTennyson. While thinking of my friends,however,Ilaugh alittle.but end with a sigh,as bright Miss Stanley comes to view. Ipresume she has entirely forgotten hertribulation on board the Lady Clare, andher habit of being "addicted to the bowL"Luckily, I am not a victim of s,

and while Miss Stanley lay prone in herstate-roo- I was on deck enjoying the fineweather which we were fortunate enoughto have nearly all the way over.

My cousin keeps her open carriage anddrives a great deal, and as driving happensto be my penchant also, a goodly share ofour visiting is done on wheels. We drovedown to the beach several times and whiledaway the hours of the long, dreamy after-noons amid the sea breezes and sunbeams.The ships, "white-winge- d and free;" thecliffs, seamed and scarred, and above themthe Downs, never grow old or common-place.

But Heatherleigh! Tho very name makesme forget the rose-hu- e for the rue and theshadows, and my superabundance of cour-age, coming as if by inspiration on boardthe Lady Clare, I find has diminished con-siderably.

Nevertheless, 1 vow to the trcllised vinesat my elbow that I am not afraid of anything in all England, which wild affirma-tion, I am persuaded, sounds more likebragadock) than bravorv.

There are several fine old places betweenHastings proper and the country aide flank-ing Heatherleigh Chace. Borne of thesestately residences have quite imposingfacades, and others, high ed ga-bles, while a number, in their elegance, putyou in mind of the days of King Arthur.

But there are bits of sorrowful traditionand legendary lore connected with an occa-sional grand old structure calculated tomake one stand in awe of their environs.Strange fatality marks many aa old hall,and Heatherleigh, as I hear, boasts of oneof the most tragical.

In tho gladsomo days when she and Iwere young, I knew the fair bride of thePercival house. She was a high-bor- n English girL whose sweet eyes first saw thelight in a beautiful villa near Birmingham.I can imagine her fine face radiant withhappy existence as the welcome of Heather-leigb- 's

grand old doors floated around her.Ah! yes; I can see her, vivacious, regaland glao.

After she became Lady Percival ourpaths diverged, of course, but I often won-der to myself why her refined soul wentout to me so unreservedly in those days,when I was but a cottagers daughter.ABaity of soul," Gladys says. Perhaps

shefs right, for it is said that sublime re--lationsbip recognizes ao barrier of circum- -Stance.

Lady Percival was supremely happy dar--uigmyvuHatinenaiatieasoutuieauwas meant year oi nerniamef me, aaaeveryone is supposed to find the rnatri--monial alliance pleasant enough' for thatlength of time. But I never had the pleas--ure of seeing my friend after I parted fromher at the end of the long avenue of elms,where she put her jeweled arms about snyaeck and bade me "come again. "

It was this side of that affectionate leave-takin- g

that all tho beauty and sweetnessfaded from Lady Perdval's life and thecurses fell. I shudder involuntarily as Icall to mind the story of the estrange-ment, broken hearts, crape, tears and male-diction.

There comes a sense of suffocation anddimness of vision as 1 go back across theintervening years, calling up the memoriesbinding mo to the dead.

Lady Percival has been dead severalyears, and the proud Miriam was orphaneda decade later by the deceaso of the austerefather, and last male descendant of thePercival house. After his tragical end thespiritual manifestations began, which havebeen a source ofmysterious speculation eversince to those acquainted with the detaileddisclosures.

I shall set out for the Hall,which I only remember for its elegance as afit setting for the almost divine beauty ofmy dear dead friend, as I call her to miad.Yes. I shall know for myself if these un-canny tales be true. One bright gleam ofhope in regard to my visit of commissionis that the old housekeeper, Peggy Clark-so- n

and her husband, are yetoccupying theservants' quarters at the Hall. I rememberher odd but honest visage, and if she re-members me as kindly as I do her, I shallbe well taken care of, at any rate. She wasoncevery fond of me as "mo Leddy's guest,"and 1 am in hope concerning Miriam's por-trait.

Poor Miriam, in the far-awa- y cottage atBayview! I fancy she is promenading sor-rowfully and alone, among the late lilies,and thinking of me.

I am back again in Cousin Glady's brightlittle cottage home. I have been severalmiles into the country since I sat in thisvine-covere- d porch and listened to the recital of country-sid- e episodes. And I havemet with such strange experiences, andlistened to such a blood-curdlin- g story, thatI am half persuaded I have lost my Iden-tity. Some way I feel like crying out withthe old dame who took a nap in the King'shighway: "Lauk a mercy, 'tis none of L"

We do sometimes have adventures thatleave us in doubt as to our individuality,and to say that I am just waking up fromthe nightmare of the Heatherleigh visitwould be, perhaps, the correct statement tomake.

Yes, I have been there; the fine portraitof Miriam hanging in the little drawing-roo- m

yonder, and which Gladys admiresvery much, is a silent but magnificentsponsor, not to be gainsayed by any means.

And now, as my domestic cousin is elbow-dee- p

in the brewing business this fine morning, let me sit here, where the roses haveall fallen off and been swept away by theautumn winds, and tell you the story efHeatherleigh. I will, however, preface thestory proper by a description of my visit andthe appearance of the Hall as it now stands,knowing, as I do, that my friend's tradition,history and experiences would be unsatis-factorily given without it.

It is fitting that the roses have fallen, aadthat the scurrying breeze tosses the dry al-

der leaves into my lap It all murmurs withthe tone of the legend, voicing a volume efbitterness. And the old housekeeper toldme, too, that was why my sorrowing friendover the sea was called Miriam. Becauseher lot was one of destined woe the chris-tening was Miriam bitterness. I confessthat such things rising before us bring thequestion of Hamlet out in vivid coloring, aswe watch the merciless wheel ef fortunecrush out the beauty and joy of life forsome, when the fault lies generations back.

to bb continued.)

PRIMITIVE INTERCOURSE.

Significance ef Fire, Smoke aad OramBeating.

R. Andree has lately been collecting in-

formation as to the use of signals by prim-itive peoples, aad the facts he has broughttogether are summarized in Science. Itappears that American Indians use risingsmoke to give signals to distant friends.A small fire is started and as soon as itburns fairly well grass and leaves areheaped on the top of it. Thus a large col-umn of steam and smoke rises. By cover-ing the fire with a blanket the Indians in-terrupt the rising of the smoke at regularintervals and the successive clouds are usedfor conveying messages.

Recently attention has been called to theelaborate system of drum signals used bythe Cameroon negroes, by means of whichlong messages are sent from village to vil-lage. Explorations in the Congo basinhave shown that this system prevailsthroughout Central Africa. The Baknbause large wooden drums, on which differenttones are produced by two drumsticks.Sometimes the natives "converse" in thisway for hours, and from the energy dis-played by the drummers and the rapidity ofthe successive blows it seemed that the con-

versation was very animated.The Galla, south of Abyssinia, have

drums stationed at certain points of theroads leading to the neighboring states.Special watchmen are appointed, who haveto beat the drum on the approach ef ene-mies. Ceochi, who observed this custom,designated it as a "system of telegraphs."The same use of drums is found in NewGuinea. From the rhythm and rapidity ofthe blows the natives know at onco whetheraa attack, a death or a festival is announced.The same tribes use columns of smoke or(at night) fires to convey messages todistant friends. The latter are also usedin Australia. Columns of smoke of dif-ferent forms are used for signals by the in-habitants of Cape Yorkand the neighboringisland.

In Victoria hollow trees are filled withfresh leaves, which are lighted. The sig-nals thus made are understood by friends.In Eastern Australia the movements of atraveler were made known by columns, ofsmoke, and so was the discovery of a whalein Portland bay.

m m

Threads from Beck Crystal.Fibers of unequaled fineness, useful for

scientific purposes, can now be made bymelting rock crystal in an oxy-hydreg- Jetand drawing it into threads, then drawingthese threads into the finest fibers by at-taching them to the tail of an arrow, whichis shot from a crossbow. Threads of leuthan of aa inch are produced, andthey are stronger than steel. Their endscan not be traced with a microscope, and arecertainly less than a millionth of aa inch ladiameter. i

Ix this country 1,043 men produce 4,500tons of Bessemer steel in a week, or 49tons per man. In England 00 workmenproduce 100 tons in a week, or only SL5 tof aper man. The average wages in this coun-try are thirty-fiv- e' per cent, higher than InGreat Britain, accordiag to good Enguslauthor". j

SvVIFT ON THE WING.The raatMt ruiiroad Train slow Cem

pared with at Wild Deck."The gad wale but there; it i8n'

likely at all that you know what:, ;d observant wild,PTv !?

fowl nunter ae gadwale Is a duck,i It is a wild duck that doesn't get East

very often, but it is a familiar fowli h vt r waa i.,at k, t ,m.!.that the gadwale is a bird that caatravel nearly a hundred miles whilethe fastest railroad train is going fifty,and yet it is slow on the wing com-pared with a canvasback duck, thebroadbill, or even the wild goose. Ihave held my wateh on about everyinu mi uu iuwi more ia, nou Know ma dot just how much space any of themcan get over in an hour. The canvas-bac- k

can distance the whole wild fowlfamily if it lays itself out to do it.When the canvasback is out takingthings easy he jogs along through thoair at the rate of eighty miles an hour.If he has business somewhero, though,and has to got there, he can put twomiles behind him every minute, and doit easy. If you don't believo that, justfire square at the leader in a string ofcanvasbacks that are out on a businesstrip some time when you have the;"iuwitft xsuuik buuvi uruuoucu UV IUUproper quantity of powder, travelspretty quick itself, but if your chargebrings down any member of that stringof ducks at all it will be the fifth orsixth one back from the leader, andI'll bet any thing thero is on it. If youhave the faintest idea in the world of

I

dropping the leader you must aim atspace not less than ten feet ahead ofhim. Then the chances are that hewill run plumb against your shot.When he drops you will find him aquarter of a mile or so on, becauseeven after he is dead he can't stopshort of that distance.

"The mallard duck is lazy. He sel-

dom cares to cover more than a mile aminute, but he can if he wants to. Hisordinary every-da- y style of gettingalong over the country takes him fromplace to place at about a forty-five-mi- le

an hour rate. The black duck can flyneck-and-ne- ck with the mallard, andneither one can give tho other odds.If the pin-ta- il widgeon and wood-duc- k

should start in to race either a mallardor a black duck it would be safe to beton either oue. But if a redhead duckshould enter the race you can give bigodds on him, for he can spin off hisninety miles an hour as easy as youcan walk around the block, and can deit all day. He would bo left far behind,though, by the blue-wing- ed or thegreen-winge- d teal. These two fowlcan fly side by side for one hundredmiles and close the race in a dead heatin an hour, and appear to make nohard task of it. The broadbill duck isthe only fowl that flies that can pushthe canvasback on the wing. Let abroadbill and a canvasback each do hisbest for an hour, and the broadbill willonly come out about ten miles behind.One hundred and ten miles an hour canbe done by the broadbill, and he con-sequently makes a mark for a shotgunthat a pretty good gunner wouldn't boapt to hit once in a lifetime.

"The wild goose is an astonisher onthe fly. It has a big heavy body tocarry, and to see it waddling on theground you wouldn't suppose it couldget away from you very fast on thewing. But it manages to glide fromone feeding place to another with asuddenness that is aggravating to thebest of wing shots. To see a flock ofhonkers' moving along, so high up

that they seem to be sweeping the cob-webs off of the sky, you probablywouldn't dare to bet that they weretraveling at the rate of ninety miles anhour, but that is just what they aredoing, any hour in the day. The wildgoose never fools any time away. Hisgait is always a business one.1' N. Y.Sun.

HISTORICAL WIRE.

Shert Piece Which Is Worth MereThaa Its Weight la Gold.

A bit of wire was introduced into ourconversation at the club. It was asilent, uncommunicative bit of copper,about a sixteenth of an inch thick andfour inches long. Most any hardwaremerchant would give you a similar bitof wire, because its value-- would bo solittle he could not reckon a price for it.But this particular piece Mr. Vail(whose father ed with Morsein inventing the telegraph) carries'inhis pocket-boo- k as carefully as ifjitwere gold many times more weighty.It is a passive, pliant substance an in-

animate bit of copper but it gave thefirst electric thrill that has brought theinhabitants of the world closer to-

gether, conquered time and annihilateddistance. It is a bit of - the first thrjeemiles of wire ever used for telegraphy. I

It is a piece from the experimentalline constructed by Morse and Vail,Sr., when they were testing their In-

ventions. Only a little of the wire,Mr. Vail. Jr., informed me, has beenpreserved. After it was taken downfrom the experimental line his fathjbrused part of it as a trellis for vines onhis front porch. Fart of it may havebeen used in the construction of theline between the capital and Baltimore,but if so it was lost track of. It wfrom the trellis that the mementoeswere recovered. "I think I got lessthan six feet of it." said Mr. Vail."After telegraphy became a wonder ofthe world we began to appreciate thevalue of such a memento, and we savidwhat we couid of the original three-mi- le

wire. I have given pieces tolafew persons who have been especiallyinterested in it, and some was arrangedon a card, with a photograph of toeoriginal instrument, now at the Na-tional Museum, that was sent to thpParis exposition." Washington Let-ter. j

FARM AND FIRESIDE.

Farm horses kept in well-ventila- te

stables when not at work will farsbetter, usually, than at pasture fighting- -

flies. iBeet Salad: Slice, and cut into

dice, 'sufficient cold, boiled beets tomake one pint: heap them in the centerof a salad dish and cover with a halfpint of sauce Tartar. Garnish withparsley, aud serve very cold. TableTalk.

Milk may be canned jusfas youwould fruit Bring the millc to theboiling point and till your jars to thebrim with it, then shut air tight. Thiswlu keep any lenffth of time a be

. .--, annA wvfin nTM,nfta , when itwas put up.

For green gage jam skin and stemripe green gages. Make a sirup, using1three-fourth- s of a pound ef sugar to apound of fruit and just enough water tokeep the fruit from burning- - at first.Put the fruit in and boil quickly three-quarte- rs

of an hour, skimming andstirring often.

Baked cucumbers. Cut tine, largecucumbers lengthwise, scoop out theseeds, and stuff them with a dressing-mad-e

of cold veal or chicken, breadcrumb8f atXt&nd pepper to .,. andenough melted butter to make a smoothpaste. Tie the two halves 'of thecucumber together and bake in a slowoven. Serve hot as a side dish. ThoHousekeeper.

To can grapes. Pick them care-fully from the stems, taking care notto tear the skins much; put them in

kettle, with a little water;stir them carefully and only enough tomake sure that tbey are well heatedthrough; then put them in the cans.The pulp will then be whole, and theauce not all seeds and skins.

Little red ants, it is said, can nottravel over wool or rag carpet. Onewho has tried it covered her floor withcoarse baize, set her sofa on that, andhas not been troubled since. She adds:"Cover a shelf ia your closet or pantrywith flannel, set whatever you wish tokeep from the ants on It, and they willat once disappear."

TheNorthern plan of husking corn,that of building and putting the stalksfrom two shocks together, is a goodone. One needs a rope, having a lightiron ring at one end, with which todraw the tops of the bundles closetogether, previous to binding tightlyso that no rain can enter, and so thatthe shocks will not blow over. Themore care, the more good nutritiousfodder will be saved.

Fricassee of chicken with greencorn. Cut the green corn from the cob.put it in the pot with water enough tocover it, and let it stew until it isnearly done; then cut up the chicken,put it in with the corn and let themstew together about half an hour; putin a few whole graias of pepper, witha teacupful of cream or milk; thickenwith two tablespoonf uls of flour mixedin a lump of butter; add the salt last.Send in to the table smoking hot.

MILDEW OF POTATOES.

Its Symptoms aad Caa aad Hew toFreveat It.

The cooler and more moist sectionsof the country are where the parasiticfungus, generally known as potato rot,'attains its greatest vigor and activity,and it is only in the dry regions of thegreat Western plateaus that the potatogrower can hope to wholly escape itsravages. The fungus attacks thestems and leaves as well as the tubers.On the leaves pale yellowish spots firstindicate the presence of the disease;these very soon turn brown, and if theweather be warm and damp rapidlyblacken, indicating the total destruc-tion of the tissues. The yellowing ofthe tissues progresses slowly, but assoon as the fungus has pushed out itsfruiting threads, which appears as awhite, downy coating on the undersurface, the discolorations proceedrapidly.

The stems may be attacked directlyor the disease may reach them throughthe leaves; in either case they becomeblackened and soon die. There is nodoubt that the tubers may be andusually are infected by the rain work-ing the spores down into the soil; hencepotatoes lightly covered with earth aremore likely to be infested than whendeeply planted. In this connectionProfc'-Scribne-

r. in his paper on downymildew of the potato, submitted to theDepartment at Washington, suggeststhat potatoes have a second or pro-tective molding at the first appearanceof that disease upon the leaves, madein such a manner that the uppermosttubers shall have at least five inches ofearth over them, the tops being bentat the same time so that they hangover the furrows in a half erect posi--tion.

Prof. Scribner also calls attention tothe fact that at the time of digging thecrop the tubers may become infectedas they 'are taken from the ground byspores from the decaying tops. If thedigging be delayed for a week or twoafter the tops have become thoroughlydead, and performed when the weatheris sunny and dry, there is little possi-bility of infection at this period.

Potatoes should be entirely free fromsurface moisture when stored, andnever, should be placed where it isdamp or "where moisture can collectabout: then. Dustitg the tubers withar-slak- od lime (one bushel of lime totwenty-fiv- e bushels of potatoes) beforestoring is strongly recommended asdoing much, towards preventing therot by the authority quoted. If duri ngthe winter the potatoes arefoand to berotting tbey should, a pnee be sortedover and all spotted or unsound onestreated with lime and stored where thetemperature is low and the atmospheredry. N. Y. World.

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