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a .r » mm- ' - ~r-a.~â€"_... .. , . THE VICAR’S "Were you raking your walks 3" asks Clarissa. idly. leaning on the gate, and gazing down the trim graveled path that leads to the ivy-clad cottage be:- yond. "Nobody's walks are ever as clean as yours. I think. And your roses are something too delicious, far better than our outdoor flowers at Gow- ran. And so late in the season. too!" "May I give you one?" says Ruth. dimpling prettily at her praise. “Thank you. How sweet they are! No. no. Horace. that is altogether too large for your coat. Ruth. will you give Mr. Branscombe a tiny bud? That one over there, for instance." "I don't think I see it," says Ruth quietly. She has grown pale again. and her lips have lost a little of the childish petulant pout that character- lzes them. ” Just over there. Don't you see? Why, you are almost looking at it, you stupid child." " I am stupid. I am afraid."â€"-with a Fied him in SP faint smile. " Come in, Miss Peyton. and gather it yourself." She opens the gate, with a sort of determination in her manner. and Clarissa. going up to the rose-tree. plucks the delicate blossom in dispute. Horace has fol- lowed her inside the gate, but. turning rather more to the left, falls apparent- ly in love with an artless white rose- bud that waves gently to and fro up- on its stem. as though eager to attract and rivet admiration. “I think I‘ prefer this flower, after all.” he says. lightly. “ May I ask you to give it to me. Ruth?" His manner is quite easy. very nearly indifferent, and his back is turned to Clarissa. But his eyes are on Ruth; and the girl, though with open reluctance and ill- repressed defiance. is compelled to pick the white rose and give it to him. " Well, I really don't think you have shown very good taste," says Clarissa, examining the two flowers. “ Mine is the most perfect. Nevertheless, wil- ful man must have his way. Let me settle it in your coat for you." Almost as she speaks the flower drops accidentally from her fingers; and, both she and Horace making a step. forward to recover it. by some awkward chance they tread on it. and crush the poor, frail little thing out of shape. It lies upon the gravel broken and disfigured, yet very sweet in death. " You trod on it.” says Horace, ra- ther quickly. to Clarissa. " No, dear; I really thinkâ€"indeed.I am sureâ€"it was you,” returns she. calmly, but with conviction. " It doesn't matter; it was hardly worth a discussion." says Ruth. with an odd laugh. " See how poor a thing it looks now; and, yet, a moment since it was happy on its tree." "Never mind, Horace: this is really a charming little bud,” says Clarissa, gayly. holding out the rose of her own choosing: “at least you must try to be content with it. Good-by. Ruth; come up to Gowraii some day soon, and take those books you asked for the other day." “ Thank you, Miss Peyton. I shall come soon." "Good-by," says Horace. . . “Good-by." returns she. But it is to Clarissa. not to him, she addresses the word of farewell. \Vheii the mill has been left some distance behind them, and Ruth's slight figure, clad in its white own. had ceased to be a flock of coloring in the landscape, Clarissa says, thoughtfully, " What a. pretty girl that is. and how refined! Quite a little lady in man- ner; so calm. and so collectedâ€"cold. almost. I know many girls. irreproachâ€" ably born. not to be compared with her. in my opinion. You agree With me i” “ Birth is not always to be depended upon nowadays." . _ "She is so quiet. too. and so retiring. She would not even shake hands With you, when we met her, though you wanted her to. Did you remark that ‘3" " Sometimes I am dull about trifles. such as that." _ “ Yes. By the bye. she did not seem surprised at seeing you here today. al- though she thought you safe in town, as we all did,â€"you deceitful boy." "Did she not?" I “ No. But then. of course. it was a matter of indifference to her.” “ Of course." 'l‘hev have reached the entrance to the Vicarage by this time. and are arising to say farewell for a few ours. "I shall come up to_ Gowran to- morrow morning first thing. and speak to your father: is that what you wish me to do?" asks Horace, her hand in his. " Yes. But. Horace." looking at him earnestly. "I think I should like to tell it all to papa myself first. this evening." " Very well. dearest. Do whatever makes you happiest," returns he, so- orelly leased that the ice will be broken or him before he prepares for his mauvais quart d'heure in the li- brary. "And if he should refuse his consent. Clarissa. what then? lou know you might make so much a bet- ter marriage." . “ Might li"-â€"ten«.ierlv. “ I don't I think so; and papa would not make me unhappy." CHAPTER IX. "A generous frien iship no cold medium knows." Pope. Mrs. Redmond is sitting on a center ottoman. darning stockings. This is her favorite instime. and never fails her. When site isn't darning stockings he is always scolding the cook. and as her voice, when raised. is not melliflu- ous. her family. in a body= regard _the work-basket with reverential affection. and present it to her notice when there comes the crash of broken china from the lower regions. or when the cold meat has been unfairly dealt wuh.. GOVERNESS She is of the lean cadaverous order of wamankind, and is bony to the last degree. Ear nose is aquiline, and. as a rule. _ ale blue. As this last color also ldescr her eyes, there is adepresslng want of contrast about her face. Her lips are thin and querulons. and her hair_â€"well. she hasn't any hair. but her w is flaxen. Clarissa enters. she hastily draws the stocking from her hand, and rises to rest her. A faint blush mantles in er cheek. making one at once under- stand that in bygone days she had pro- bably been considered pretty. "So unerpected. my dear Clarissa," she says. wrth as pleased a smile as the poor thing ever con'ures up. and a lit- tle weakness at the ass, meant for a courtesy. "So very glad to see you."â€" as. indeed. she is. In her earlier days she had been call- ed a belle.â€"by her own people,-â€"-and had been e cted. accordingly, to draw a prize in t e marria e-market. But Penelope Proud had alled them, and by so doing. had brought down eternal condemnation on her head. In her second season she had fallen foolishly but honestly in love with a well-born but impecunious curate, and had mar- ite of threats and wither- ing _ sneers. W'ith one consent her family cast her off and consigned her to her fate. declaring themselves incap- able of dealing with a woman who could willfully marry a man possessed of no- thing. They always put a capital N to this last word. and perhaps they were right. as at that time all Charlie Red- mond could call his own was seven younger brothers and a tenor voice of the very purest. As years rolled on, though Mrs. Redâ€" mond never, perhaps. regretted her marriage, she nevertheless secretly ac- knowledge to herself a hankering after the old. life, a longing for the grandeur and riches that accrued to it (the Proudes for enerations had been born and bred an had thriven in the soft goods line). and hugged the demoral- izmg thought to her bosom that a lit- tle more trade and a little less blue blood would have made her husbands degree more perfect. I l means of reducing her to a pliant mood is to permit her to maunder on uninter- ruptedly about past lories and dead hours rendered bright y . To have her .m her kindest humor, fore men- tioning the real ob' t of her visit. must be managed at a risks. “ Yours .was a love-match, wasn't it?" she says. coaxmgly. ."Do tell me all about it." She had listened gatientl to every word of it about a unde times be- fore. " I _do so like a real love-affair." “ here isn't much to tell," says Mrs. uite delighted. and charm of darn- Redmond. who is actually foregoes t ing. that she may the more correctly remember each interestln detail in her own "old story ;" “ bu it was all very _sudden,â€"very; like a tornado. or a whirlwind, or those things in the desert that cover one up in a moment. First we met at two croquet parties.â€" yes. two.â€"-and then at dinner at Ram- seys'. and it was at the dinner at the Ramseys’ that he first pressed my hand. I thought. my dear, I should have drop- d,-it was such a downright. notrto- ot-over sort of squeeze. Dear me, I can almost feel it now." says Mrs. Redmond. who is blushing like a girl. _ " Yes, do_ go on,f' says Clarissa. who in reality. is enjoying herself intensely. “\Vell, then. two days afterward. to my surprise. he called with some tick- ets for a concert. to which my mamma. who suspected nothing, took me. There we met again. and it was there. right. as one might say. under mamma's nose. he proposed to me. He was very elo- quent, though he was obliged to speak rather disconnectedly, owing to the musw stopping now and then and my momma being of a suspicious turn: but he was young in those days, my dear, and well favored. no doubt. So we got married.” "That is. the %roper ending to all pretty stories. ut is it true," says Clarissa, with a wiliness reall horrible in one so young, " that ‘us at that time you refused a splendid offer. all for the vicar's sake?" ‘ " Splendid isa long word." says Mrs. Redmond, trying to speak carelessly. but unmistakably elated, "yetI must confess there 'is some truth in the re- port to which you allude. Sir Hubert Fitz-Hubert was a baronet of very an- cient lineage. came over with: the Con- queror, or King Alfred, I quite forget which. but it 'was whichever was the oldest: that I know. He was, in fact, _ It pleased her when the county fami- l a._ trifle old for me, perhaps, and not so lies inVited the youthful Cissy to their ' rich as others I have known. but still balls; and it warmed her heart and caused her to forget the daily shifts and worries of life when the duchess sentlhenfruit and game, accompanied by kind little notes. It above all things reconciled her to her lot. when the heir we of Gowran Grange pulled up ~her pretty ponies at her door. and running in made much of her and her children and listened attentively to her griev- ances. as only a sympathetic nature can. 'l‘oâ€"day;- Clarissa’s visit, being early, and therefore unconventional, and for that reason the more friendly, sweet- ens all her surroundings. Miss Peyton might have put in an appearance thrice in the day later on. yet her viSits would not have been viewed with such favor as is this matutinal call. " Cissy is out; she has gone to the vilâ€" lage]: says Mrs. Redmond. scarcely thinking Clarissa has come all the way frcrm Gowran to spend an hour alone with her. " I am sorry; but it is you I moat ar- ticularly wanted to see. What a eli- cious day it isl I walked all the way from Gowran, and the sun was rather too much for me; but how cool it al- ways is here! This room never seems situffy or overheated, as other rooms 0... “It is a. wretched place. quite wretch- ed." says Mrs. Redmond, with a depre- cating glance directed at a distant sofa that might indeed be termed pat- riarchal. " What are you doing f” asks Clarissa, promptly. feeling she cannot with any dignity defend the sofa. "Darning? Why can't I help you’lâ€"I am sure I could darn. Oh, what a quantity of socks! Are they all broken f” looking with awe upon the overflowing basket that lies close to Mrs. Redmond's feet. “Every one of them," replies that matron, with unction. “I can't think how they do it. but I assure you they never come out of the wash without in- numerable tears." \Vhether she is al- luding, in her graceful fashion, to her children or their socks. seems at present doubtful. “ I sometimes fancy they must take their boots off and dance on the shar pebbles to bring them to such a pass; ut they say they don't. Yet how to account for this i" She holds up one bony hand, decorated with a faded sock. in a somewhat triumphal fashion. and lets three emaciated fingers start to life through the toe of it. " Do let me help you,” says Clarissa. with entreaty. and. steeping to the has- ket, she rummaged there until she pro- duces a needle. and thimble, and some thread. "I dare say I shall get on splendidly, if you will just give me a hint now and then and tell me when I am stitching them up too tightly." This hardly sounds promising. but Mrs. Redmond heeds her not. " My dear, do not trouble yourself with such uninteresting work." she says. hastily. “It really makes me un- happy to see you so employed; and that sock of all others.â€"it is Bobby’s. and I’m sure there must be something wrong with his heels. If you inSist on helping me, do try another." . " No. I shall stitch up Bobby. or die in the attempt." says Miss Peyton, valiantly. “It is quite nice work, I should think, and so easy. I dare say after a time I should love it.” "Should you i" says Mrs. Redmond. “Well, perhaps; but for myself” I as- sure you, though no one Will believe it, I abhore the occupation. There are moments when it almost overcomes me. â€"the perpetual in and out of the needle. on will understand,â€"â€"it seems so end- 858. Dear. dear, there was a lime when l was never obliged to do such menial service, when I had numerous depend- ents to wait on me to do my bidding. But then"â€"with a deep sigh that sounds like a blast from Boreasâ€"“I married the vicar." . _ "And quite right," says Clarissa thh a cheerful little nod seeing Mrs. Redmond has mounted her high horse and intends riding him to death. .”I myself shouldn't hesitate about i_t~.’-"if I only got the chance. And indeed where could any one get a more charm- ing husband than the dear vicar?" “\Yell, well, it was a foolish match notwithstanding." says Mrs. Redmond, with a smile and wan sort‘of blush: “ though certainly at that _timeI don't deny he was very fascinating. Such a voice. in ' dear! and then his eyes were remarks ily fine.” “ ' were, 'â€"are. you_ mean." says the crafty Clarissa. kuowmg that praise (ii her husband is sweet to the soul of rho faded Penelope. and that the surest a baronet. He rejected him upon the spot with scorn. though he went on his knees to me, and swore, in an anguished frenzy. that he would cut his throat with his razor if I refused to listen to his suit! I did refuse. but I heard nothing more about the razor. I am willing to believe he put-some restraint upon his maddened feelings and refrained from inflicting any injury upon himself." "Poor fellow!" says Clarissa. in a suspiCiously choky tone. “ Then I espoused the vicar." sa 3 Mrs. Redmond, with a sentimental sigh. " One does foolish things sometimes.” "That. now. was a. wise one. 'I would not marry a, king if I loved a beggar. Altogether, you have behaved beautifully, and 'ust like a. novel." Feeling that t e moment for action has arrived, as Mrs. Redmond is now in a glow of pride and vanity well mixed, Clarissa goes on sweetly: “I have some news for you" " For me?" “ Yes. for you. I know how delicate you are, and how unable to mana those two strong children you have at home. And I know, too, you have been looking out for a suitable governess for some time, but you have found a diffi- culty in choosing one, ‘have you not?" “ Indeed I have." "\Vell. I think I know one who will just suit you. She was at school with me, and, though poor now, having lost both father and mother, is of very good family. and well connected." “But the salary?" says Mrs. Red- mond, with some hesitation. " The salary is the thing. I hear of no one now who will come for less than sixty or seventy pounds a year at the lowest; and with Henry at school, and Rupert's college expenses, forty pounds is as much as we can afford to give.” "Miss Broughton will, I think. be quite content with that: she only wants to be happy. and at rest. and she will be all that with you and Cissy and Mr. Redmond. She is young, and it is her first trial, but she is very clever; she has a really lovely voice. and paints excessively well. Ethel has rather a taste for painting, has she not?” “A decided talent for it. All my family were remarkable for their ar- tistic tendencies. so she, doubtless, in- herits it; andâ€"yes. of course, it would be a great thing for her to have some one on the spot to develo this talent. and train it. Your frien . you say, is well connected?" " Very highly connected on her mo- ther's side. Her father was a lieuten- ant in the navy. and very respectable too, I believe; though I know nothing of him." " That she should be a lady is. of course. indispensable." says Mrs. Red- mond. with all the pride that ought to belong to soft-goods people. ."I need hardly say that. I think. But why does she not appeal for help to her mother's rela- trons?" " Because she refers honest work to begging from t ose who up to this have taken no notice of her.” “ I admire her.?' says Mrs. Redmond, warmly. If 'ou think she will be sa- tisfied with to try what children." "I am very glad you have so de- cided. I know of no place in which I \g'ould rather see a friend of mine than ere." “ Thank you. my dear. Then will you write to her, or shall I?" " Let me write to her first, if you don't mind: I think I can settle every- thing." _ “Mindfâ€"no. indeed: it is only too good of you to take so much trouble about me." . To which Clarissa says, rettily,â€" " Do not put it in that lig t; there is no pleasure So keen_ as that of being able to help one’s friends". Then she rises. and. having left be- hind her three socks that no earthly power can ever a sin draw upon a child's foot. so opelessly has she brought heel and sole together, she says good-by to Mrs. Redmond, and leaves the room. Outside on the “avenue she encounters the vicar, hurrying home. _ "Turn with me." she says. putting her hand through his arm. “I have a sineihing to say to you." "Going to be married?" asks hc. ;f,‘.'i;-'l . ~ . . , "housensel"â€"-blushing. in that hi- has so closely hit the mark. “It is proposed'to me, but I orty pounds, I should like she could do with the Inot of anything so paltry I would un~ burden my mind." "Then you have nothing of import- ance to tell me." says the vicar; "and I must go. Your story will keep: my work w not. I am in a. great hurry: old Betty Martinâ€"" . " Must wait. I insist upon it. Dy- ing! nonsense! she has been dying every week for three years. and you believe her every time. Come as far as the gate with me.” ."lour command. I obey," says the yicar. Wlth_ a sigh of resignation. walk- ing on beside his pet parishioner. “But if you_could only understand the trouble I am in Withihose Batesons you would know some pity for me." . “ \Vhatl again i " says Clarissa. show- ing. and feeling. deep compassion. ” Even so. This time about the bread. You know what unpleasant bread they bake. and how Mrs. Red- mond objects to it; and really it is bad for the_ children." "It is poison." says Clarissa. who never does anything by halves. and who is nothing if not sympathetic. "\Vell. so I said; and when I had expostulated with them. mildly but firmly, and suggested that better flour might make better dough. and they had declined to take any notice of my pro- test,â€"why. I just ordered my bread from the Burtons opposite, andâ€"â€"-" The vicar pauses. ." And you have since?” "\Vell, yes. my dear. I suppose in a way I have; that is, I have ceased to miss the inevitable breakfast lecture on the darkness and coarseness of , the bread; but I have hardly gained on other points, and the Batesons are a. rpetual scourge._ They have de- ci ed on never again ‘darkening the church door' (their own words, my dear Clarissa). because I have taken the Vicarage custom from them. They prefer imperiling their souls to giving up the chance of punishing me. And now the question is, whether I should not consent to the slow poisoning of iny_ children, rather than drive my par- ishioners into the arms of the Metho- dists. who keep 0 en house for all comers below the ill." ‘I don’t think I should poison the children.” says Clarissa. " But what is to become of my choir? Charlotte Bateson has the sweetest voice in it, and now she will not come to church. I am at my wits' end when I think of it all." “I am going to supply Charlotte's lace for you," says Clarissa. slyly. ” Thank you, my dear. But. you see, you would never be in time. And. unfortunately. the services must begin always at a regular hour. Punctual- ity was the one thing I never could teach you.-â€"-that, and the Catechism." "\Vhat a libell” says Clarissa. ‘:I shouldn’t malign my own teaching if I were you. I am perfectly certain I could say it all now, this very moment. from start to finish, uestions and all. without a mistake. hall I?" ' “ No, no._ I’ll take your word for it," says the Vicar, hastily. " The fact is, I have just been listening to it at the morning school in the village. and when one has heard a thing repeated fourteen times with variations, one nat- urally is not ambitions of hearing it gain, no matter how profitable it may “ \Vhen I spoke of filling Charlotte's place," says Clarissa, “ I did not allude in an way to myself. but toâ€"â€" And now am coming to the news." ” So gladl" says the vicar: "I may overtake old Betty yet." " I have secured a overness for Mrs. Redmond. Such a ear little gover- ness! And I want you to promise me to be more than unusally kind to her. been happy ever says the vicar, with a deepâ€"if careful- ly suppressedâ€"sight of relief. “I am rejoiced, if only for my wife's sake. who has been worrying herself for weeks past. trying to replace the inestimable --if somewhat depressingâ€"Miss Prood.” " Has she?" says Clarissa, kindly. " Worry is a bad thing. But toâ€"day Mrs. Redmond seems much better than she has been for a long time. Indeed. she said so.” “ Did she?” says the vicar. with a comical. transient smile. Mrs. Red- mond’s maladies being of a purely im~ aginary order. "that are you laughing at now i" asks Clarissa, who has marked this pass- ing gleam of amusement. ” At you, my dear. you are so quaint- ly humorous." replies he. . 'f But go on: tell me of this new acqumition to our household. Is she a friend of yours?" “ Yes, a rest friend." " Then 0 course we shall like her." “ Thank you." says Clarissa. " She is very pretty. and very charmin . Perhaps, after all, I am doing a foo - ish thing for myself. How shall I" feel whegn she has cut me out at the Vicar- ll “ Not much fear of that, were she Aphrodite herself. You are much too good a child to be liked lightly or by halves. Well. good-by; you won't for- get about the flannel for the Batley twins?" "I have it ready,â€"â€"at least, half of it. How could I tell she was going to have twins?" says Clarissa. apolo- getically. “ It certainly was very inconsiderate of her." says the vicar. with a Sigh. as he thinks of the poverty that clings to the Batley manage from year’s end to year's end. "\V'ell, never mind; she shall have it all next week," promises Clarissa, soothingly. marking his regretful tone' and then she bids him farewell, an goes up the road again in the direction of her home. She is glad to be alone at last. Her mission successfully accomplished, she has now time to let her heart rest con- tentedly upon her own happiness. All the events of the morningâ€"the small- est word. the l' htest intonation. the membrance. and regcats to herself how he looked and spa e at such-and-such moments. . She is happy. quite happy. A sort of wonder. too, mixes wit her delight. Only a few short hours ago she had left her home, free. unbetrothed. with only hope to sustain her. and now she is returning to it with her ho a cer. tainty,â€"-bound heart and sou , to the dearest. truest man on earth. as she be- lieves. How well he loves herl She had noâ€" ticed his sudden paling when she had begged for some delay before actually naming her “brydsle day." Sh chad hardly believed his love for her was so strong. so earnest: even she (how could she f with tender self-reproach) had mis- judged birdâ€"had deemed him somewhat cold indifferent; unknowing of the because she is so young and friendless _ and it is her first effort at teaching." ‘ " So that question is settled at last.” . most passing smi e, that claimed Horace 4 as their fatherâ€"are remembered by her. 3 She dwells fondly on each separate re- _ ldeep stratum of feeling Multan/le- gneath the outward calm of his (lullll‘dll- ‘ or. 5 Dear.‘ dearest Horace! She will never disbelieve in him again: he is her own now. her very own, and she loves him with all her been. and he loves Just the same. andâ€"â€"0h. if every ivo- f man m _the World Could only be as happy ias she is to-duy. what a glorious place it would bel Not that. it is such a bad place. by any means. Ins some people would lend 'cne to imagine. Surely these are dis- iagreeable pee le. misaiithropists. mis- ‘ogamists. an such like heretics; or ’else._ poor souls! they are in a bad strait, without present hope and with- out any one to love them! This last seems. indeed. ii misfortune. .101. why abuse a lovely world? How 5 bright the dav is. how sweet and fresh ' the air, though evening is nigh at handl She hardly ever remembers :1 Se itcnibor so fine. so free from damp: t e very : birdsâ€"â€" 3 Had he thought her unloving or ca- gpricious when she pleaded for a longer engagement? (Here the tears rise un- lliidden in her eyes.) Oh, surely not; ihe understood her thoroughly; for bad he not smiled upon her afterward? So he Will always smile. There shall inever be any _cross words or angry frowns to chill their perfect luvel Their lives “’1” be a summer dream. a golden legend, a pure. fond idyl. ‘hus beguilin' time with beliefs too ,sweet for earth y power to grant, she .hasteiis home, with each step buildiii :? up another story in her airy house, llnll int length slie carries a castle, tall and lstately, into her father’s house (To Be Continued} FEAT IN HORSEBACK RIDING. From St. l’elersburg in Siberia. a Distance of 5.000 Miles. The Russian Kogak officer, Kcnike. who in June last undertook to ride on I horseback from Krashoe Solo, a suburb of St. Petersliurg, to Chittu. in Eastern Siberia, a distance of about. 5,000 miles. has, according to the " Novoe \‘rcmyufl’ accomplished a third of his journey, having arrived at Uffa. Kenikc‘s cii- terprise is interesting not only on ac- count of the great distance to be cov- ered and the speed at which he is rid- ing, but also because of the simplicity | with which he is accomplishing his self- imposed task. The motives which eprompted him to undertake the ride :are as follows: Having exchanged his lregiment for one quartered in Chitin. iKenike was for a long time exercised iin his mind as to the means by which he should reach his new and remote lheadquarters. To travel by sea to xYladivostock, on the eastern coast of ,Siberia. appeared to him inconvenient, gas.the distance from Vladivostock to Chitta would have to be covered by post horses. and his six months' fur- ! lough would not have sufficed for such :a journey. The ordinary direct route Iby rail and afterwards by post horses 'was too costly an undertaking for his purse. An; opportunity presented it- self of acquiring a horse, on which he at once determined to undertake the 1 long and difficuly journey. The horse 113 an Anglo-Arab, a descendant of the famous Count Rostopchin’s stud. He iis not_a young horse, but has all the iqualities necessary to accomilish the ' task laid upon him. The sad is which ‘he carrieSis of the ordinary rough‘type of the Cossack. _The kit consists only of absolute necessities for rider and horse and .an extra set of horseshoes. ‘Wlth shoeing implements. His mas- ter grooms him and shoes him himself when necessary. Kenike excels to complete the entire distance in 50 days. thirty of which he reserves for halts. I The horse and rider are reported to be in capital condition. ON THE CATTLE RANCHES. â€"-â€"- Raislng of Cattle a Very Profitable Bush Hello The fact that nearly 20,000 fat cat- ltle averaging 340 a head have been shipped from the western ranges this season establishes cattle raising for the old country markets as the leading in- dustry of the Territories. says the Cal- gary Herald. Compared with grain- growing or any other branch of farm- ing. cattle ranching stands out proâ€"em- inently as the safest, easiest and most profitable thing that a man can turn his hand to. There is in fact no occupa tion or industry in Canada that to the industrious man of small capital offers such advantages. The 4.000 head of stookers that have been shipped in from the east this sea- son furnish an indication of the possi- bilities open to the rancher. Two year old stockers were laid down in Calgary this fall at 823 to 82.5 a head. Many of these were sold in small lots to men with bands of twenty-five, fifty, or a hundred or two head. These eastern cattle being unaccustomed to wintering out will have to be fed during a part of the winter at a cost of a few dollars a head, but next season they will be in shape to be sold as three-year-olds at 840 each. Yearlings can be bought for 816 to 817 now, and after running on the range for a couple of years can be cashed at 840 each; and all this. be it noted is done by the grass of Southern Alberta. which for its remarkable fat- tening properties in both winter and summer is peculiar to this section of the North-West. Punishmenis in Early Days. The following extracts from early re- cords give us a glimpse of some of the singular iunishiuents in vogue in old New Eng and: " In 1039 Dorothy Ilrown. for best. ing her husband, is ordered to be bound and chained to a post." “ In 1613 the assistants ordered three Stoneth men to sit in the stocks on lecture day for traveling on the Saba bath." . ‘ _ "in 1051 Anna, wife of George 121113. was sentenced to be publicly whipped for rupruncliing the magistrates." “ in 10:38. for salndering the elders. she: had a cleft stick put on her tongue for half an hour." 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