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a. sup-J... . understood. ..‘________â€"____________â€".â€"â€"â€"â€"â€"â€"â€"â€"- -_ mwymw++mvi~i~+rm~+ think I will have to be packing up 0" Libby Anderson hung the dislicloth on its accustomed nail. and stood there surveying it. It was plain, from the way she looked, that she Vin/Al determined to speak. “Ma.” she asked of the woman who Wad sitting before the little round stove, “what were those papers Dave put in his Docket as I came in?” “Some things he was showin’ me.” “Ma,” she asked quiveringly, “you didn’t sign anything, did you?” "I didn‘t sign your name to any- thing." And the needles clashed again. " She knew her mother too Well to press further. _ “I just couldn't understand Dave coming here this time of year,” she ventured; “and I thought he acted queer.” H I The old woman was folding her knitting. , “I’m going to bed, and you’d better come along, too.” Was h'er reâ€" ply- A week Libby had twice went by, and although forgotten to feed the chickens, and had several times let the kettle burn dry, she was beâ€" ginning to feel more settled in her mind. She did up the work one morning, and went to town. Her first call was at the solicitor, and there she heard the worst. Ma bad assigned their home to Dave. She did not make any fuss; she was t00 oldâ€"fashioned for hysterics. It was not. until the old place came in sight that she broke down. “It’s not fair,” she cried out, “when I‘ve stayed here and worked-â€" it’s not fair!” And, forthe first time in many years, she was crying-â€" passionately crying. It was a feeling of outraged jus- tice that made her speak, for she was just a womanâ€"the daughter of pa. “Ma,” she said, “do you think pa would like to think of your assigning the place to Dave, when I've stayed here and kept it up the best I could for twenty years?” Theold woman put down her knitâ€" ting. ’ "La, now, Libby,” she said, not umkindly, “don’t take on. You’ll never Want for nothin’l” Izibby stood there looking at her. "I think you (‘can’t realize what you've done," she said: and turned . to the bedroom to take off her things. It was not until the next month, the blustering month' of March, that all Was made clear. It was early in the afternoon when Libby looked from the window and saw a man coming in at the big gate. "That friend of Dave’s from the city is coming ma,” she said. “Gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Anderâ€" SOD, “and such a day as ’i'isl” The stranger warmed his hands, and disbursed a number of pleasantries. "Well, Mrs. Anderson,” he said finâ€" ally, "your son wants me to make a little proposition to you.” Mrs. Anderson looked pleasantly expectant. ' ‘ Dave’ s always mal: in‘ tions,” she chuckled. "He’s been a good deal worried about you this winterâ€"afraid you were not just comfortable out hereâ€"â€" you two, all alone.” "Dave’s always thinkin’ of his mother’s comfort,” she asserted; and looked triumphantly over to Libby. “Well,” he resumed, turning back to the older woman, "it Worries Dave to think of your being out here alone now that you’re getting along in years, so he’s rented a. nice little place in town, and he feels sure it would be. better all round if you’d just go in and take it.” "if that ain’t for all the World like Pavelâ€"always some new idea in his head. But you just tell him, Mr. Murray, not to be bothering. We don’t want to move to townâ€"do we Libby?” “Not if plied. “'Dave’s been away from the place so long that he don’t see just how ’tis,” ma. explained. “Libby and mo wouldn’t feel at liome no place else.” ‘ "It‘s too bad you, feel that my,” he went on persuasively, “for Dave was so sure you’d like the idea that he’s gone ahead and made all ar- rangements, and I‘m afraid there might be. a little trouble about. un- making them.” illo turned to Libby. “How soon do you think you could move? By the 11st of ll‘fay‘?” “I suupose so,” she answered, in a dull voice. pro posiâ€" we can help it,” she re- .._...â€". II, April came. and for the fiftietih time the old woman watched the white give way to the green on the hills that curved in and oul, around her old home. As long as slie could. Libby let her have her (ll-emu. llcr heart was not hard towards ma now. Ma. had not And Libby was glad she could have those few spring days be- fore she ‘V-‘IKS homo. "Mn." she began one 113 ll‘lllllg, torn from the old (have it, and the best she could do “IIAnd the 011] this week.” “Packing up what?” “Why, don't you remember, ma, we’re going to town the 1st of May?” “011', la, Libby, I’ve give that up long ago! I’m going to die on the old place.” “But you know, ma, the arrangeâ€" ments have all been made. I’m afraid we‘ll have to go.” She turned to her crossly. "There’s no use to argue wi’ me, Libby Anderson. I ain’t goin’!” “But what about Dave?" "You can jest write Dave, and say his mother don’t. want to leave the place. Dave won’t have nothin’ fur- ther to say." She looked off as if it Were all would have to tell her. “Ma,” she said, “it’s no use to Write to Dave." “Why not?” she demanded, in a half-frightened, halfâ€"aggressive voice.) at the meadowland settled. Libby "He’s sold the place, ma!” “What’s that you say? Something about Dave selling my place? .Are you gone crazy, Libby?" "You know you deeded it to him, ma. It was his after you did that. And he’s sold it, and we’ll have to move out.” ' Hearing no answer, she turned around, and it was then she coveted Dave’s gift of saying things smoothâ€" ly. The old woman was crouche‘nI low in her chair, aod her face was' quivering, and looked sunken until gFeY- _ “I didn’t think he’d do that,” she} faltered. ; “Never mind, ma," 'Libby Sillfll '7’ ‘ awkwardly.‘ "Poor ma It was the nearest to a caress that ; had passed between them since Libby l Was a little girl. : Nothing more was said until after; me had gone to bed. Libby supposed she was asleep, when she called ' quaveringly to her. “Libby,” she said, “you mustn't be ‘ thinldn’ hard of Ilaxe. He mustf have thought it for the best.” , Libby was used to caring for ma,§ and she needed care now. { “Yes, ma,” she answered; “I’m. sure he must.” It was not until the morning ofg the fourth day that the silence be- tween them was broken. Libby got up to take doxvn the clock, when she heard a. strange noise behind her, and turning, she. saw that ma's head Was down low in her hands, and she was rocking passionately back and forward, and crying as though her‘ old heart had bro‘ en. She put down the clock, and again she wished for a. little of Dave’s silk-. iness of speech. But she did not: was to pull ma’s chair out from thei barren room into the sunshine of thef porch. The bills, she thought, would‘l still look like home. , Ma did not get up at all next day. 9 Perhaps she was ill, or perhaps it: was only that she did not want to go out in the sittingâ€"room and see how unlike home it looked. But the; next day she ’ did not get up either, 1 and then Lib’by went to town for the} doctor. He said the excitement had; waa‘ened her, and did not seem very certain slie would ever get up again. That night Libby wrote a letter to Dave, as‘ing him again to let his mother die on the old place. A week passed, and an answer had not come, l and sti‘l ma had not left her bed; The pacl-ing was all done, it was theg lst of May, and she Was just wait- ingâ€"she did not know for what. Her Whole soul rose up against mm ing ma from the old place now, when her days were so surely numâ€" bered; and so she sent a telegram to llave, telling him his mother was ill, and asking leave to stay a little longer. There came a reply from! his partner, saying that Dave was: away, and Would not be home [01 two \vcel-‘s. That night the old woman raised herself and sobbed out the truth. “It's Dave that's lrillin’ me! It's to think Dave sold the place, and turned me out to die!” And then the way opened before Libby, and she saw her path. The (lisin'herited child wrote a letâ€" ter that night, and to it she signed her brother’s name. Out in the world they might have applied to it an ugly Word, but Libby was only caring for mu. She was a long time about it, for it was hard to put things in Dave‘s round, bold 'hanrl,‘ and it was hard to say them in his Sil‘ky way. The doctor said next morning that; it was a matter of but a few days at ' most, for ma Was much worse "It ain’t that I’m. goin’ to die,” she said, when Libby came in and found her crying; "but I was think- in’ of Dave. I keep thian’ and thinkin’ 0f him when lie was a little boy, and how he used to run about the place, and how pretty be used tol look; and 111011, just as I bc'I‘n to take a liltle Comfort in remembmin’ some of the smart things he said, I have to think of wliat he has done, and it doc-s seem like lie misrbt have waited fill ‘ ” llut the words WereI too bitter to be spoken, and, with a hard, scrapin sound in her throat, 'sho turned her face to the wall. somel hing last " Libe put her hand to in her pocket, and thought of ,niglit's work with tlmul'fulners. I About clm'cn o'clock she entered the room witli the sheets of a letter in her band. “Mu.” she said tremulously, “'hcre's a, lettcr just (some from Dave.” “1 know it'd comeâ€"I know it!” \‘oiro filled the rezom imess you’ve made of it! 5 on ea: Ih ,jisf ah0'e the elbow. ‘low them to .len, glJOlllll'd, he advances towards lard wilh' a rapid movement performs with its triumphant ring. Then there crEpt' into her face an anxious look. “What does ‘9 say?” “He’s Sorry about selling the place, ma. He really thought you’d like it better in town. But he’s fixed it up for us to stay. He says you'll never have to leave the place." “I knowed itâ€"I knowed it well enough! You don’t know Dave like I do. But. read me the letter." She did read it. and the old wo- man listened with tearsâ€"glad tears nowâ€"falling over her withered cheeks. “You can just unpack our things,” she cried, when it. was finished, "and get this place straightened out. The idea of your packin’ up, and thin’ we was goin' to move to town! Nice Jest as if Dave would hear of us leavin’ the place. I always knowcd you’d never 'precintcd Dave.” Before morning broke me was dead. Iâ€"Iappv, because she had back her old faith in Daveâ€"the blind, bemlti- ‘ful faith of the mother in the son, And l..ibbyâ€"â€"l.he homeless and unloved L-ibbvâ€"was happy too, for she had finished well her work. of caring for ma. . JAPANESE JUGGLER. A Wizard’s Wonderful Feats of Legerdemain. Witn thumbs tightly bound together Tcn lcl‘u performs a wonderful trick, sa;,s a writer in the London Mail. ’l we members of the audience, chosen at random, are summoned on to the platf'oxm, where thry superintend the task of binding the wizard's thumbs as tightly togethcl‘. as they possibly can with strong cord. Some I'luifl hoogrs are the'only other implements usel in this trick. Litanuing four yards from 'l‘on .icbi, a Japanese lad to:.ses the hoops in the air, and as he does so the “‘l\lii.a.do juggler,” as 'l‘.,n ‘chi is called, catches them one , arm, so that they pass through his bound thumbs and full With thumbs :tJl S.‘l'l”'(‘l./ bound, 'he stretches out his arms to the audience, and at a glu 00 if. is seen that the cord has not been tampcrul with. in order to prove that no under- han-zl methods are made use of in tl-is tri-l‘, the mystifying little wiz- ard :cqtcsts the members of the auâ€" dience who are on the platform to elem-.11 tl'eir fists together as tightly as po:~s'iblo, and on no account to al- beco-mo unfastened. Ihfunrbs still tightly them, w i th' with liz; bound hands what the 'l:oo;s pe; formed on him; that is to :say, lie apparently passes his arms ii ht tln‘c-ugli the clenched fists until they rest on the arms of the wonderâ€" ing novices, Another feat is performed with a bowl of flowers, a sword, a fan and two Japanese boys, from which are produced four readyâ€"made fountains. For, with a wave of his hand, from the blade of the sword spurts- forth a leapingr flood of water, another mysâ€" tic wave, and from the top of the head of ore there springs another fO‘Tntnlll, and so on. While on being Handed a cup and saucer, the wizard puts those homely articles to novel use, for no sooner does he wave his hon-l again over the cup than there lrvrsts forth still another fountain. Then two lighted torches are handed to him. but they too, from the midst. of the flames, send forth another "waterspout." .._..._.+_____. CONAN DOYLE’S FIRST CASE. Sir Conan Doyle, on bcing asked Why be game up the practice of mediâ€" cine. replied that it,was too hard work, and related the following story. ’llie doctor’s first call took place on a cold January midnight. 'l‘l‘ve jangle of the door-bell woke me from a sound sleep, and shiverâ€" ing: nn~l yawning, I put my head out of the window and said: “\‘xh'o’s there?” “Doctor,” said a voice, “can you come to Peter Smith’s house at one? Illis youngest girl has took a dose of laudanmn by mistake for paregoric, and we’re afraid she’ll die.” "A‘l right; I‘ll come,” I said. I d'essed and tramped three miles through the cold and the wet to Smith’s. 'l‘wice on the way I fell on the icy pai ement, and once my hat blew off, and I was half an hour find- ing it. Finally I reached The ho"se was (lurkâ€"shutters all closedâ€"not a light. I rane: the 130]]. No answer. At last a head stuck itâ€" self gingerly out of the Window in the t"ird story. “Be you Doctor Doyle?” it said. “Yes, let me in.” “011', no need to come in, doctor, said the head. "Child's all right. Slce"'iug quiet." "But how you give it?” “Only two drops, enough to hurt a cat. Guess I better take my head in now. Night air is cold. Fâ€"‘orry to have troubled you.” I buttoned up my coat and turned homeward, trying to stifle my anâ€" ger. Suddenly the window was roi<orl again and the. same voice cri'd: ' “Doctor! I hurried back. had taken a turn for the worse. 7’ mu cli lauldanlum did doctor. Not I say, doctor!” “Well. what do you want?” I slid. ,the lwiben he found that 'his plan had full- 'c(,l, he admitted that he had resorted lto this dodge in the. hope of The voice bride answer: “"0. wo-i’t charge nothing for this visit, will ye?” Smith’s.‘ Perhaps the child the other crime. CONFESSIONS ARE BOGUS MEN MAZKE THEM TO GAIN NOTORIETY. And. in. the; Hope of Escaping Severe Punishment for Crime. It sometimes pays a man to confess to a crime which he could not posâ€" sibly have committed. So well has this fact been recognized, that Scotâ€" land Yard receives scores of bogus confessions immediately following any mystery which may attract public atâ€" tention. It is not generally known that after the acquittal of Henry Buckley, who was Charged with the shooting of two gamekeepers on Mars-den Moor last year, the authoriâ€" tic-s received no fewer than five con- fessions, of which two were made by soldiers, says London Answers. It is a curious fact that the ma- jority of bogus confessions come from men in the Army with bad records. Among these it is recognized as a sure way of escaping the more severe punishment of the military authoriâ€" ties, and is often accompanied with no little monetary adwantagc. THE PEASENHALL STORY. Within one month‘ three soldiers at Dover have confessed to crimes which have either never been committed, or with which they could have had no connection. The most remarkable is the confession of Artilleryfnan Taylor made. a few weeks ago. The soldier was at the time undergoing imprison- ment in the military prison, and be- came a victim to melancholia. One day he sent for Major Daniels, and, declaring that the murder had preyâ€" ed on his mind so that he could not keep silent no longer, be volunâ€" teered the confession of being guilty of the Pcasenhall murder, for which the local preacher, Gardiner, had been twice tried and acouitted. Supâ€" erintendent Staunton, who has been throughout connected with the case, was sent for, an‘d then it was, in the caurse of a, searching crossrcxaminaâ€" tion, that Taylor’s confession was proved to be utterly false. Another Dover soldier, a few weeks before, confessed himself guilty of a crime in Yorkshire. (His was sucâ€" cessful, for he was taken from the prison and sent to the place, where he stayed whilst the matter was inâ€" vestigatcd. Of course, nothing was known of the crime, nor was there an atom of fact in the soldie1"s story. OUTWI’I‘TED TILE POLICE. One hundred pounds was netted by a couple of men who “faked” a conâ€" fession to a murder committed in Melbourne, just five years ago. That was the amount offered for the disâ€" covery of the criminal, and full par- ticulars of the crime Were sent to England, whither it Was believed the murderer had fled. These two men, Gordon and lIemmings, arranged .a cute plan for getting the money. Gui-«don took what purported to be a dying confession by lrlemmings to the police, but refused to hand it over until the reward was paid. There- upon I-[emmings was visited by an officer, was found in bed with every symptom of illness, and bore exam»- inat'ion astonishingly well. The Melâ€" bourne authorities were wired for instructions, and a return cable ap- proved, among other things, the pay- ment of the reward. lordon got the money, and an officer stayed by Hemâ€" mings in the hope of his recovery. Then one morning the dying man had '(‘lisamiearmL and nothing has since been heard of the pair. A bogus confession is frequently made as a dodge to draw the detecâ€" tive investigation a case off the real trail. This was so in the notorious Brixton coining raid. Mellor got an inkling that his premises- were be- ing closely watched, and that a, raid was contemplated. lle’Went boldly to the police, and confessed that he was coining, but at quite another address, giving a house at Dalston. Of co‘u,-rse, he was arrested, and the house, which proved to be his private residence, searched, but nothing of importance was found. Meanwhile, the Brixton promises were cleared by the gang of which lie was leader. At the next hearing of the case, when the result of the inquiries was reâ€" ported, ‘Mellor admitted he had made a bogus confession through the nervâ€" ousness and worry he had endured by the watchiugs of the police. It is highly probable that he would have been released, if one of the gang had not had the misfortune to be caught on another charge while the case Was in hand, and turned King’s evidence. A “RIPPER” INCIDENT. There were two confess-ions sent to Scotland Yard at the time of the “Ripper” crimes in the East End of London. One of them came from a seamen awaiting trial on another Serious offence of which lie was ac- tually guilty. His confession was made following the [llll'fl of the Whitechapel murders. It ocwupicd three pages of foolscap, written in a rough scrawling hand, and related with surprising consistency to moveâ€" ments of the author on the night of the crime. lut this very consistency was his pitfall. The ol‘l‘ent‘e for which he was awaiting trial was committed at the same time as he gave for the murder, so that if his confession was true he could not have been guilty of So the police igâ€" nored his papers, and proceeded with original charge against him. being [discharged on the real count, and then, confident that he could free himself later of the murder charge, entirely escape. .THE ARTFUL EMIGRANT. It will be remembered that during the South African war a Manchester on named Pcrris won considerable notoriety by surrendering himself to the police, and confessing to having killed a man in Johannesburg two years previously. The story of the crime, as related by him, was very' dramatic, and bore every appearance of being genuine. The Johannesburg authorities were cabled to, and such a crime was found to have been acâ€" tually coimnitted. They knew no- thing of the man who had confessed, nor had they any clue to the murder- er. After a. fortnight the self-accused man was sent to Africa, accompanied by 'a detective. This was just what he had desired, and though he dis-- creetly kept to his story for a few days after his arrival at Johannes- burg, he ultimately admitted that he had only read of the crime in the papers, and made the confession in order to get to the Colony. _____+_L._.___ WHY SPINKS LEFT. It was dark and the road was unâ€" certain, so, when my horse balked at something in the middle of the road, I dismounted anidprocceded to inâ€" vestigate. At the first glance I took the object to be a woman, but as I untangled the sheet in which thebody was wrapped, a weak, masculine voice whined:â€"- ' “Don’t hit a man when he's down.”- “IIerc, get up,” said I, shaking him, thinking it was simply a case of drunk. He sat up and glanced around nervoufflj. “Has the widcer gone?" he whisâ€" pert-d. “There was no one here when I ar- riv’ed,” I answored, "What is the trouble?” ~ "I wuz playing a joke on the widâ€" der. Ye see, ’bout two years ago. Ole Bill Spin'ks turned up his toes, leastwise he never came back after leavin’ home one day; an’ ycre’s his. widder a refusin’ ter git spliced agin’ ’caus-e she’s afraid thet he might come back agin, seein’ how thet she is not sure whether he is dead or not. An’ this yere widder has got fifteen acres an’ a dawg. So I jes thought tliet I would play a joke on the widder, an’ make her believe that. Bill wuz dead all right enough, an’ then she'd be reddy ter get spliced, an’ I Would be the happy man. “Wul, I put on this Vere sliced and waited for the widder ter come along; wul, when she did, I stepped out in the road an’ commenced groanin’. “ ‘Wâ€"hoâ€"o-o bevo tered. “ ‘I’m yer ole man,’ says I, in a hollow voice. "’ ‘Humph! slie. " ‘I’m the critter,’ Says I. “Then she fell on me like a ton 0f bricks! " ‘Come back, h'ev ye?’ she yelled, as she swatted me. 'Can’t stay where they planth ye, wharever thet may be!’ "In jes five seconds I wuz a licked man, and the widder wuz settin’ on me. - ” ’You, Bill,’ said she, ‘wliar’s thet' dollar and aâ€"half thet I~ give ye ter buy bacon with'?’ ' “ ‘I ain’t got no dollar and aâ€"iialf,’ says I. “ 'Don’t ye lie ter me, llill,’ says she, ‘or I’ll swat ye agin! When ye left home ye had a dollar and aâ€"half t‘het I had given ye ter buy bacon with. Now ye hand over th'et dollar and aâ€"hnlf or somethin’ is gwine ter happenl’ “An’ I lied ter give it to lier to save my life. An’ then she told me tar get back inter the grave thet I had come from, an' if she ever caught me tryin’ tcr bant her agln thet she would tie me inter knots an’ fling me ter the dawgs! "But I’ve. found out one thing. I know wliy Ole Bill Spinks left, 1111* why he ain't never Comin’ back agin!” â€"â€"â€"â€"+ PRACTICING- MEDICINE AT.90. Longevity of Irisbnien is pro- verbial, but even in that country for a doctor to be in practiCe at the age of Sr) is unique. Dr. Woods of ililirr has the distinction, and at the last meeting of the district board of guardians it was decided to grant him a full superannuation allowance. Popular with his parents, whom he visited on a bicycle, the venerable practituuor strenuously objected to retiring when the proposal was first brought: forward. He urged that he was willing and able to earn his salary, and did not wish to take money from the public that he did not earn. yâ€"eâ€"c‘P' she chat}â€" Ole Bill Spinks?’ says Ll'li‘TlNG AN OPERA HOUSE. Thirty men have accomplished in. Pittsburg 11m feat of moving a weight; of 4,902,000 11)., a distance of 22 feet. They have lifted the Grand Opera House of the city off its foundation, moved it forward 2‘). feet, and planted it on a new base. 'It required less than thirty-six hours to accomplish the job, and one could not see the structure moving. In this colossal building were the largâ€" est theatre in ‘l’itfsburg, the largest billiard and pool room in the Unit- (:(l States, a bowling alley, a harbors ‘shop, and various other establishâ€"- moms, yet the whole massive fabric ‘has been transplanted without ac- cident, without jar, and without even the slightest injury to any part. of it. 1‘ v’x-A‘Q‘: If 0 5 ‘ sf'wwv.‘ . aquarJHQAâ€"vawLâ€"Lw -‘ Ju one; no W~nghsyfi a h '5 .5 . Q. il‘ ,, a w ll ' l 9. ls l3 a 3 ll . 7!, A. l -. :3 ’3 l. " fwd; v A...,..,... .,.. .,r~ ,7 ,..â€"_. ‘ :i‘rf. , l. ‘A '3 ‘I is .j ‘) ' ‘1