The following text may have been generated by Optical Character Recognition, with varying degrees of accuracy. Reader beware!

1.3 .. . n - m A-.. ...â€" .... . .e_..... __ _.._.___..._ A. DEAD BECKUNING. ___’_â€"â€"â€"â€"â€"_ CHAPTER IV. ' Worden. I hope I do not intrude?" said M. Karovsky. addressing himself to Mrs. Brooke with the suave aesur- snce of a thorough man of the world. "I saw through the window that Mr. Brooke had returned, and as my time here is limitedâ€"me voici." Then ad- vancing a few steps and holding out his hand to Gerald, he added: "It is five years. mon ami. since we last met. Confess now, I am one of the last men in the world whom you! thought to see here 3" "You are indeed. Karovsky.” re- sponded Gerald as he shook: his visitor's proffered hand, but with no great show of cordiality.â€"-“Have you been long in England 8” . “Not long. I am a. bird of passage. I come and go. and obey the orders that are given me. That is all." "My wife. Mrs. Brooke. But you have seen her already.â€"Clara. Mon- sieur Karovsky is a gentleman whose acquaintance I had the honor of mak- ing during the time I was living abroad." "May we hope to have the pleasure of Monsieur KarOVsky's company to dinner?" asked Clara in hen most grac- ious manner. while at the same time hoping in her heart that the invita- tion would not be accepted. "Merci. madame." responded the Bus- rlan. for such he was. “1' should be deâ€" lighted, if the occasion admitted of it; but, as I said before. my time is limited. I must leave London by the nightâ€"mail. I am duo in Earls at ten o’clock toâ€"morrow." “For the present, then, I must ask you to excuse me," said Clara. Karovsky hastened to open the door for her, and bowed low as she swept out of the room. . . a “That man is the bearer of ill news. and Gerald knows it." was the young wife’s unspoken thought as she left the two together. i M. Karovsky was a tall, well-built man. to all appearance some few years over thirty in point of: age. His short black hair was parted carefully down the middle; his black eyes) were at once piercing and brilliant; he had a long and rather thin face. a longish nose. a mobile and flexible mouth. and apar- tlcularly- fine arrangement of teeth. He wore neither beard nor moustache. and his complexion had the faint yel- low tint of antique ivory. He was not especially handsome; but there was something striking and out of the com- mon in his appearance. so that people who were introduced to him casually in society wanted to know more about An enigma is not without its attractions for many people. and Kar- him. ovsky had the air of being one whether he was so in reality or not. trymen are, and spoke the chief Europ- ean languages with almost equal flu- ency and equal purity of accent. “Fortune has been kind to you. my friend. in finding for you so charming a' wife." he said, as he lounged across the room with his hands in his pockets. after closing Brooke. "But Fortune has been kind to yOu in more ways than one." "Karovsky, you have something to tell me." said Brooke a little grimly. "You did not come here to pay comâ€" pliinents, nor without a motive. But Will you not be seated f" - Karovsky drew up a chair. "As you sayâ€"I am not here without a motive,". he remarked. Then, with a quick ex- pressive gesture. which was altogethâ€" er tin-English. he added: "Ah, bah! I feel like a. bird of ill-omen that has winged its way into Paradise with a message from the nether world." "Whatever your message 'may he. pray no not hesitate to deliver it.” But a parently the linssian did; hesi- tate. 0 got up. crossed the room to one. of the windows. looked out for halii a. minute. then went back! and resumed his seat. "Eight years have come and gone, Gerald rlrooke," he began in an Impressive tone. “since you allied your- self oy some of the most solemn oaths ssible for a. man to take that Sacred ‘ause to which I also have the honor of being affiliated." » you think I have forgotten! At that time i was an impetuous and en- thusiastic bo of eighteen. with no knowlefe o the world. save what I had gatiered from books. and with a. head that Ivan full of wild,_vague‘ dreams of. Liberty and Universal Brotherhood." ' "l‘he fact of your becoming one of Us is the best of all proofs that the cause of Liberty at that: time was dean to our heart" . “ ut when as a boy I jomed the Cause. I was ignorant of much I have learned since that time." "The world does not stand still. Ono naturall knows more to-day than one did sigh years ago." ‘ "Karovsky. I know thisâ€"that the Cause. which, when Ijoined it. I be. [loved tube so pure in its aims. so. lofty in its ideasrso all-embracing in its hilsnthrop . has. since that time. on stain by crimes which make me shudder when I think of themâ€"has drag ed its colon: through shambles reekl with the blood of those who ve 'llen victims to its blind and ocious .notions of revenge." "Pardon. But can it be poaibic that I am listening to one who, only eight ort years ago. was saturated wrth iianthropic ideas w ich seemed ex~ naive 0 coal) to inc ode the whole a rgoâ€"one whose rent longing was that every man sh d‘. be (roe and :srpyjâ€"Ah. yes. you are the same-- 5 y tune and the world have contrived spoil o as they spoil so many more. [Ii tugs days you. were poor; now you are rich. Then you had no He was a born linguist. as so many of his coun~ the door behind Mrs fixed home; you from city to city; your future was clouded and uncertain. Now, you are the wealthy )Ir. Brookeâ€"a pillar_of your country; this grand old manSion and all the broad acres. for I know not how for around it. are yours. You are married to one whom you love. and who loves you in return. Away. then. With the wild notions of our hot youth i” "Karovsky, you wrong me. My love of my fellows is as ardent as ever it was. Myâ€"â€"â€"â€" But why prolong a discussion that could serve no good end? You have a niesage for me l‘" "I have." The, man was evidently ill at case. B: rose, crossed to the chimney-piece, took up one or two curios. and examined them through his eyeglass, then went back and resum- ed his seat. "Gerald Brooke." he con- tinued. "eight years ago. on a cer- tain winter evening. in a certain un- derground room in Warsaw. and be- fore some half-dozen men whose faces you were not permitted to see. you. of your own free-will. took the solemn oath which affiliated you tol that great Cause for the [ortherance of which thousands of others have given their fortunes. their lives, their all. From that day till this you have been a pas- sive brother of the Society ; nothing has been demanded at your hands : and you might almost be excused if the events of that winter night had come at length to seem to you little more than a half- remembered dream. That you have not been called before now is no proof that you have been overlooked or for- gotten. but simply that your servrces have not been required. Other in- struments were at hand to do the work that was needed to, be done. But at length the day has come to you. Gerald Brooke. as it comes to most men who live and wait.” I. , - Gerald had changed color more than once during the foregoing speech.- "W'hat is it that I am called upon to do?" he asked in a voice that was scarcely raised above a whisper. "You are aware that when an indi- vidunl is needed to carry out any of- the secret decrees of the Supreme Tri- pugigal. that individual is drawn for by 0 " i "And my name"-â€"â€" i '. “Has been so drawn.” The light faded out of Gerald Brooke's e es; s death-like pallor crept over is face; he could scarcely command his voice as for the second time he asked: "\Vhat is it that Iam called upon to do i" : “The b‘upreme Tribunal have decreed that a certain individual shall Suffer the penalty of death. You: are the person drawn by lot to carry out the sentence." - "They would make an assassin of me? â€"Never l" | "You are bound by your oath to carry out the they what they may." a murderer." umquestioning obedience." “Karovsky. this is monstrous." “I am sorr of a common assassin? Never 1" “Pardon. in such emphatic )0 left a widow." ' "This is hoxribleâ€"mcst horrible 1" "Obedience. blind and unquestioning, the utter abuegation of your individu- Ivhich you and I have the honor to be- ong. to have known, long ago." murder is obedience no longerâ€"it be- comes ll. crime. i%.l:lissassination remains assassrnation SI ." "Pardon. !We recognize no such term in our vocabulary." “Karoveky. had you been called upon to do this deed”â€"-â€" ‘ ' "I should have done it For if there I have. cause to hate more than another. that man is Baron Otto von Rasen- berg " . “Von Rosenberg!" “Pardon. Did I not mention the name before? But he is the man.” For a moment or two Gerald could not speak. "it is but half an hour since I parted from him.” he contriv- ed to say at iast.-â€"“Karovsky, I feel as if I were entangled in some horri- ble nightmareâ€"as if I were being suf- fo-ated in the folds of some monstrous Python." "it is a feeling that will wear itself out in the course of a little while. I rememberâ€"â€"- But that matters not." "But Von Rosenberg is not a Rus~ sian; he is aGerman ex-di lomatist. What can such a man as he ave done to incur so terrible a Vengeance?" "Listen. Four years ago. when at- tached to the Embassy at St. Peters- him. after he had pledged his sacred word of honor that no use whatever should be made of the information :0 acquired. \i'i‘etch that he was! Von Rosenberg turned traitor. and revealed everything to those in “or. In the dead of night, a certain ouse in which a secret printing press was at work was surrounded by the police. Two of the inmates were shot down while at- tempting to escape. The rest were made prisoners. among them Icing three women and a boy of seventeen -â€"my brother. Two of those arrested died in prison. or were never heard of more; the rest were condemned to the mines. 0n the read. my brother and one of the women sunk and died. kill- ed by the dreadful hardships they had to undergo; the nest. are now rotting away their lives in the silver mines. forgotten by all but the dear ones they left hehind.-You now know the reason were a wanderer, behests of the Tribunal, be “No oath can bind a man to become “One of the chief conditions attach- ed to your oath is that of blind and that things have fallen oult as they ave, morn ami; but such being the case, there is no help for it."- "Iâ€"Gerald Brookeâ€"whose ancestors fought at Cressy, to sink to the level wMight it not be as well. before you express your determination terms, to consider what would be the consequence of a refusal oh your part to comply with the instructions of which I have the misfortune to be the bearer‘lâ€"Mrs. Brooke is very youlng to be left a widow." I "Karovsky i" "Pardon. But that is what it means. Any affiliated member who may be so ill-advised as to refuse to carry out the decrees of the 'Iribunal renders himself‘ liable to the extreme penalty; and so surely as you. Gerald Brooke, are now a livin'v man, so sure- ly, in a few short wee 5, should you )ersist in your refusal, will your wife ality to the will of your superiors, is the first rule of the Propaganda to But all this you; knew, or ought "Obedience carried to the verge of However you may- put why the lhron Otto von- Rosenberg has been sentenced to death. The ven- ggance of the Supreme Tribunal may slow. but it is very sure." There was silence for a few moments. then Gerald said: “All this pin be as you: say; but I tell you again. arov- sky. that mine shall not be the hand to strike the blow.". "Then you seal your own death-war- rant." “So be it. Life at such‘a price would not be worth having. “Death before Dishonor‘ is the motto of our house. Dishonor shall never come to it through me." Gerald rose and walked to the win- dow. His face was paleJ his eyes were foill of trouble; what he had said had been lacking neither in dignity nor pathos. The Russian's cold lance followed him. not without adm1ration. “Eng- lish to the backbone." he muttered under his breath. “It was a blunder ever to allow surh a man to become one of Us." 'Then he looked at his watch. and started to find it was so late. "I can stay no longerâ€"I must go." he said aloud. "But remember my last warning words." He took up his hat and moved slowly towards the Window. “Karovsky, for the last time I sol- emnly declare that this man’s death shall not lie at my door!" Gerald sank into a chair. let his elbows rest on the table. and buried his face he- tWeen his hands. '. " “I have nothing more to say." re- marked the Russran. . Hie step e_d through the window. his hat in is hand. and then turned. At that moment the door 0 nod. and Mrs.,Brooke, on the rate entering the room, paused sud only as her eyes took in the s:enc Lefore her. "Gerald 1" she exclaimed in a frightened vows. and then her gaze travelled from her husband to Karovsky. The latter, with his eyes still resting. on the bowed figure at the table. pronounced in low clear accents the one word. “Remem- berl" Then he bowed low to Mrs. Brooke. and next moment was gone. â€"â€"â€"â€"â€" OHlAP'IEBi V. Ten weeks had come and gone since the memorable visit of M. Karovsky to the master of Beechly Towers. It was a pleasant evening towards the end of June. There had been a. heavy showi- er a Little while ago; but Since then the clouds had broken; and the sun was now drawing westward in a blaze of glory. In llhe same pleasant mornâ€" iingu‘loom. in which. we first made their acquaintance, Mm. Brooke and jher aunt, Miss Primby. were now sitting. Tlhe latter was dozing in an easy-chair with a novel on her lap. the former was seated at the piano playing some plaintive air in a minor key. ’Ilhe glad light. the light of happmess that 'knew no cloud, w Vch shone from her eyes when we Saw her first. dwelt there no longer. She looked pale, anxious, and distraite. like one who is spray to some hidden trouble. She had spok- en no more than the truth when she said that her happiness was too perâ€" fect to last. ’ 'As the last s‘ad note died away un- der her fingers she turned from the instrument. not wonkâ€"I cannot do anything." she murmured under her breath. -A.t this juncture Miss Primby awoke. "My dear Clara. what a pity you did not keep on playing," slhe said. in the midst of a most lovely dream. I thought I was about to be married; my wreath and veil had been sent home and I was just about to try “If I were to go on playing. aunt. dream ‘I" “No. my dear, it’s gone. and the chances are that it will never return." said the spinster with a sigh. on a low chair near the windownvhence she could catch the first glimpse of her race. " I wish you would not mope so much. and would try not to look quite so miserable," said lher aunt presently. happy secret on his mind. of which he tells me nothing? He has been achang- ed. man ever since the visit of M. Karâ€" ovsky‘. He cannot eat, he cannot rest; night and day he wanders about the house and grounds like a man walking in‘ his sleep." “Bad signs, very. my dear. Married their wives.” " If he would but confide in mel If hie would but tell me what the secret trouble is that is slowly eating away his life!" "I remember that when the Dean of Rathdrum leaned over the back of 31!)“ chiair, and whispered " My darling l ’I-._' . “ Here comma Gerald i” cried Mrs. be one man in the world, Brooke, whom BmOke' She StaTted t0 her feat. “mm 3 feeding hay or grain any more. a glad light leapt into her eyes. and ran out on the terrace to meet him. “W hat a time you have been away !" she said. as he stooped and kissed her. " And your hair and clothes are quite wet.” " It is nothing," he answered. "I was . caught in a shower in the wood." ” Pour fellow! He certainly does look “ haggard and dejected," remarked Miss Priniby to herself. "Have you been far?" asked Clara.i " Only as fair as Beaulieu." " You called on the boron. of course." " No. I changed my mind at the last moment." ' j' The first bell will ring in a few minutes.” " l have olne important letter to write before I dress." "Then aunt and I will leave you. You “fill not be long? I am so afraid of your taking cold. Come, aunt." ” Noih'ng brings on rheumatbm soon- burg. certain secrets were divulged to 01‘ lilmfl damp Clothes." remarked Miss‘ Primby seniontiously, as she folded down a leaf of her novel. and tucked the volume under her arm. (To Be Continued.) AN ACHIEVEMENT. Put a penny between yer teeth) mum. rui' me little hrudder will climb up yer k an t’row his legs aroun' yer nook an’ take de penny from 'tiveen yer lips wid his feet. an' yer won't know that it's didl A‘ NEW DANGER. First Trampâ€"I hear dere‘s a new drug whut kin be put in a cup 03 cof- fee an' it'll take away yer desire fer liquor widmit yer knowin' it. Second Trampâ€"Great lievingsl Some of dem women temperance cranks‘ll b.- tryin' dat game on us! \the milk is very rich in nitrogenous ma- husband as he came round the clump of evergreens at. the corner of the ter- * "How can 1 help feeling miserable, ‘ when I know that Gerald has some un- ' men have no right to have secrets from , PRACTICAL FARMING. MN“\ \\ \\ ‘ \\ \\\ \\\\\~\~\w FOOD FOR. LAMBS. A contributor in ;odds, the most importanhthe most in- ; dispensable part of his food. She di- ggests the crude. raw feud stuffs in her i large stomach and prepares the concen~ i traied, easily digested and perfect moth- er's milk. In the abundance and regu- larity of this supply of milk depends your hopes of good lambs. You must feed the mother generously; yet. the food Inust be of the right sort to be turned readily into milk, and this brings us to consider what milk is made of and why. Not to go Specifically into details, terials, in what we call protein. This protein is the stuff that muscle and brain-stuff and nerve-stuff and blood is made of. It is exactly what the young animal needs to make his frame grow. and build up his young tiseues. Now to produce this milk in abundance the ewe must be fed foods that have in them the elements of milk. A .'I‘hey must be foods that are somewhat rich in protein. Of course, there is fat in milk, and the animal system burnsagood deal ofcar- bon, so we don’t want a food free from the starchy principles that are made of carbon yet. for milk production. you do need a greater proportion of protein to starchy food or fatâ€"forming foods than if you were fattening . the mother. This bars out the large use of corn in the diet. Corn will not make milk sat- I l isfactorily, no matter in what amounts it be fed. I have tried it iby keeping ewes on full diet of corn, wrth clover hay, too, but the lambs did not generally thrive. I did not expect them to thrive. I was fattening their mothers for sale. Now there are any number of combina- tions of foods that will be good for the ; ewe, but :we will consider what is easi- ; eat and cheapest to you. Mix up the lot- i-lowmg mixture, by weight; 100 lbs. ; cornmeal, lUUlbs. wheat bran, 25 lbs. oil- ; meal; shovel it over until well mixed, ; then-give the ewes a little of it. Each ; day increase the amount that you give ‘ them until they have all that they will I, eat; then I would make a self-feeder, if Iwere you. and let them run to it all the ‘ time; they like to out little and often; 3 they will not eat too much while suck- ing their lambs al'ter once accustomed to _lt.- It is true that they will rapidly ‘gain in flesh sometimes when fed this ; ration. Well, if not too valuable, keep : up the food for a felwtweeks or less, utter , the lambs are sold and sell the mothers, l too. Now the lambs will [be getting what lmilk their mothers are crumble of pro- ducing, yet they will soon want to 'be , eating themselves. I know of no better “ I cannot playâ€"I can‘ i food for them than this same mixture ‘; that I have advised for the ewes. Let I them have all that they will eat of it, land they and their mothers will want ;clover nay of the best, and in abund- "1 was once, too. Have it so that they can all i get it, but not get on it with their dirty : little feet. A lamb is more dainty about ibis eating than a baby. To have the . , (lb-em 03,; ; lambs do their best they must be alâ€" W-h-e'fl you StOPPEd Playing and I aWOkB- l low el (0 eat at their table, in a so} arate 'pen from the ewes, so that whenever‘ do you think that you could finish your : they feel hungry there will be nothing Ito |prevent their eatingin ease. There Lought to be plenty of sunlight, too, in ' which they can lie and sleep. b‘onie way or other you must see that they zuroper- Ola-1‘3 crossed the room: and sa-t down ' fectly happyâ€"no fl‘al', no disturbance, no awakening from sleep, no dog running through them, no hunger unsatisfied, no . thirst unassuaged. It is the happy lamb . to grow. I think that lambs that are to spend their lives on the farm rather .than coming to an early death at the : butcher's block will need quite a differ- ent treatment from the one outlined ;ahove. I would not feed nearly so strong; would like the ewe to do her .best in milkâ€"giving. but the lamb had i better have but little corn, if any. i i FEEDING COWS ON PAS’I‘URE. l Very soon, now, warm Weather will 3 come, and, the soil being well filled with moisture, the grass in the pasture will start up and make rapid growth. When : it gets up so as to provide a good bite, the farmer will turn out his'cows. He ‘will think, says Board's Dairyman, beâ€" x cause the cows. can get grass, enough to g“fill themselves," and because the flow 1of milk increases, there is no need of The truth is that this fresh and succulent ' grass stimulates the production of milk beyond what the nutriment it contains .will warrant. it is juicy and watery and lzvsks substance to such a degree that this large production of milk will rapidly reduce the strength. vitality and carcass of the cow, so that she can- ! not long continue this extra flow. of milk. unless she has some more sub- stantial food to go with this fresh grass. l to keep her up in condition. The farmer. 5 makes a great mistake when he abrupt- ly drops off his hay and grain feed as ‘1 soon as the cows go out to grass in the e Spring. He would probably see very lit- Itle difference in the amount of milk given for awhile, whether be fed grain and bay with the grass or not, and for that reason may have come to the hon- clusion that when they did feed grain on early pasture, it was thrown away. and they received no benefit from it. But the one who does so feed .will find that his cows will ken) up their strength and condition much better than those not fed, and later in the summer and fall and even the next winter will be giving a much better flow of milk. so that when he comes to foot! up his account at the end of the year. he will find that for every dollar's } worth of extra feed his cows had while on fresh grass he has received back at least two dollars. .It has been our practice for years to feed to all cows giving milk a small rain ration all summer. The advisabil- ity of feeding grain on gusture, after the grass has come to have plenty of sul.s:an.:c in it. may. with some shawl American Sheep, iBreeder says Let us first consider the: when the grass is ~ ; mother. From her the lamb gets, by alll “"11 Ferns" 1° ‘3‘“ W that grows and causes your bank accountl f a. ‘_. of reason be questioned, but not - g In the spring. At that time it is fully not to feed. We have enverimentod to some exient to try to determine what“ grain food was best to feed on imture. We have tried whens. bran. but many cows do not. seem to care for it much. plenty, and some They seem to crave something more concentrated. Corn and oais they liked much better than bran. and elixir corn meal bettol yet; but, best of all. gluten feed. Now. what we think is the very best feed for cows on pasture. is five pounds of corn meal and gluten feedâ€"half and halfâ€"â€" daily, to each cdw giving a fair flow of milk. Besides this, they should have before them. every time they are put in the stable to milk, some good early cut clover hay. They will eat: some ev- ery time. no matter how good the peso ture is. A- CHEAP PAiIN'I‘. While whitewashed buildings look very nice when first done, they soon become gray looking and often discol- ored from the trees that grow near. lied-wash looks just as well. if not bet.- ter, as it does not show- all the spots. and it is just as durable. After doing the buildings twice. once in two years is sufficient to keep the buildings look. In; well How mu ii i adds to the lo kg or a farm to have the buildings nicely painted up. and it costs but littleâ€"only| time and labor. - ' .Take skim-milk that has just begun to thicken; add to one gallon of milk flaunts of coarse prime salt; also add iron brown or Venetian red in the dry form, enough to make the color you wish. ’Ihe dry paint. can be boughtfon three or four cents .per pound. licep the mixture iwell stirred all the time; put it on the buildings when there is no danger of rain; after it is once dry it Will not wash off. Be sure to use this amount of salt. and keep well stirred. as it is the salt well mixed that keeps \it from rubbing off. .___._.,_____ TRACKING A CHILD. .__, An Incident of the Remarkable Iiitclll gcncc of the llloodhoumls. So many terrible stories of the fer- ocity of blood-hounds “have been told. that it is refreshing to read of a true story of achase by a bloodhound in which the hunter and the hunted were equally satisfied. It is vouched for; by a writer in Good \Nords, who had it from an' eye-witness. The bloodhound was enjoying a stroll with his master on the sands of \Vcib tonfliuper-Mare, quietly followinglths horse his owner rode. Neither was thinking of a chase. In fact nothing seemed further from the character of the dog than a desire to interfere with any human being. 'Iihe groups of plea- sureâ€"seekers scattered! over uhe sands saw nothing unusual in him. Nor did lthe poor distracted woman who ran from one. group to anoiiher frantically asking for: tidings of a lost child. No. body knew anything of the missing boy, and when in her desyxtration she approwiied the gentleman on the horse. he also shook his ihcad. But though he knew nothing of her boy. he was not so sure that he could not help her find him. lie alighted through! the bridle, bent over the 'liounu, [putting both- hands caressingly' 'round nine dog‘s head. Then he Loom Ifrom bhe woman something that look-1 .ed like a child's 'hat, and Ilt'ld it to. i ward the doglalking to him the while. I Jillc hound sniffed and whined mourn- i fully. as if unwilling to leave his inas- lter. Soon, however, he. lifted ili‘i bond :11] the air. uttered a short, :.harp bark: lor bay, and bigan sniffing about who ‘saniiis. ' - For a minute or two «he followed the iscent in a zigzag 'l'miizrion. and then. lwilh a loud. loud bay, turned off at an amazing on a, run In a straight line across the sands. crossed the parade. and buying a, we went, turned down Ia. Side street. I I'I‘dlflt was an exciting chaseâ€"the 'field the streets of a populous water- ing~place, and the game a lost child. The loud voiw of the dog could be thcard in the distance, guiding those who followed. The mother's feet were swift, but Ishe could not keep up with the dog. ,On his went till he had run his prcy‘ ' to ground; thicn lie stopped. and fawn- ed upon. the little lad, who was oven- .joyed to find so friendly a pliiyuiiate. I When the moi liar came up. hunter and hunted were this best of friends, so 'much- so that neither was willing to lpurt with thin, other. l "he gentleman had more than when He summon Ulric dog before he would :consent to leave the child. A‘s for the iboy, (1- could not be led away while it'll»: dog remained, and after Ilia hound had disappeared: he “as still lit-ard'lu murmur. ‘1 would like tint dear iii-g- gie for my own." ....â€"â€"â€"â€"â€" SHERIDAN 'S G ItA'l‘I'I' U DE. Sheridan once had occasion to call at a 'hnirdrefiuiscr’s to order a wig. On {being measured ih ebarber. who was is. liberal soul. invited the orator to itake some refreshment in an inner groom. Ilere be ri-galed him with a bottle of port and shoch so much {hospitality that Sheridan’s heart was fioucbed. When Hit-y rose from the liable. and were about separating the Hatter. looking the barber full in the liner». said: 'Un reflecting, idon't_in- {tend that you shall make my wig." 'Asion'iated and With a blank Vll-‘ilge, l'iifl other exclaimed: '\\_'hy, Mr. Shier- idani How can i have displeawd you?" "Why. look you." said Sheridan. "you are an honest fellow, and I repeat it, on s’hnri't in:ch niy.wig. for never inii-ndi-d to guy for it. Hi go to an- other lese worthy son of the craft." 1 AN AMATEUR SNL‘BBED. Darling, he cried. in tender lont‘e, I never loved but then. .Tlien we must, part, the. maid replied; no amateurs for rm- from his horse. and. thrusiing his arm. -fi<:A»-m¢-«v‘“ <