Barry Herald

GARDEJNTXG GOSSIP. (From Cottage Gardening.") FLOWER GARI)i:N. This and other Pinks which are grown largely for cutting. They form neat edgings or division lines about the garden, where one may cut and come again. Laced Pinks for exhibit ion should have a special bed made for them, a little old cow mnnurc and good loam worked in. ar.d a sprinkling of soot to banish insects. To have perfectly-laced flowers, early planting is necessary. By early planting is meant not later than the middle of Odober; earlier if possible. Beds intended for Carnations should be got ready 80 that the layers may go out early in October, to get well established before winter sets in. Carnations in seme soils fail. Where this is the case, wheel a lot of road scrapings and road siftings. mixed with some old cow-manure, and trench and intermix thoroughly; add a sprinkling of soot at the last. and fork it lightly in. In country districts the materials for improving the beds can generally be obtained without much expense, and in town gardens 1 have used the sweepings from the macadamised roads effectively: the gritty matter seems to open out and sweeten the land. In most gardens there is still propagating to be done, either by striking cuttings or layering. Layering makes the surest work, especially with shrubs and trees. Those who are thinking of planting beds or borders of hardy herbaceous plants should prepare the land by deep digging or trenching and manuring. An amateur friend who has made his mark in the exhibition tent laid out a fresh plot of ground last autumn, about 40 poles in extent, and he had carted on 40 loads of good manure, and the growth of Tea and other Roses, Dahlias, Phloxes. Pentstemons, and other hardy plants has been an object-lesson this dry summer, showing the value of deep culture and liberal manuring. If any gardener, amateur or otherwise, grows good flowers, one may felf quite sure he studies their wants and attends to them. Where things fail it is due either to neglect or errors of culture. What a benefit a mulch of manure has been over the roots this dry season. FRUIT GARDFN. Remove surplus wood from outdoor Vines, and nail in young rods, to get the wood well ripened. Any wall or other trained trees not yet summer- pruned should have all breastwood shortened back to four leaves. Towards the end of the month any trees which are making gross wood may have the roots shortened, but drastic measures should not be taken. Trees have been crippled by cutting the roots in too hard. Later on, when the leaves are ripe and ready to fall, young trees may be lifted and replanted. This is the best treatment for young trees which have been planted four or five years, as it gives an opportunity to lay the roots out straight, from 9in. to 12in. from the sur- face. Fallen Apples which are maggoty should be gathered up daily and destroyed if not usable, so as to get rid of the maggots. Lose no time in getting out the Strawberries. They may follow early Potatoes if the land has been well done, but, unless the land is in good condition, set the young plants out in a nursery bed and prepare the land during the winter, and plant in spring. Drills of Onions may then be sown between the rows of Strawberries to pay for the labour. Clear away all runners and weeds from plantations of Strawberries intended to stand for another year, and top-dress with old manure to encourage the new foliage and plump up the crowns. All strawberries intended for forcing should now be in the fruiting-pots.and stood out thinly on coal-ash beds or boards in the sunshine. Fruit-trees carrying a heavy crop will be benefited by & soak of liquid-manure. VEGETABLE GARDEN. Use the hoe freely among growing crops, such as Spinach, Turnips, Onions, Lettuce. &c. Weeds soon run to seed if left standing. Seeding weeds should be pulled up and burned. If laid among other rubbish, the seeds will ripen and be carried back on the land again with the manure. Plant out Cabbages for spring as soon as the plants are large. The small early kinds may go in thicker than the large sorts. Ellam's Early is a good Cabbage for small gardens, and loin, apart will give space enough. If the old Cabbage stems are left for a second crop, give a mulch of manure between the rows. Cabbages are gross feeders, and if starved and stunted they are sure to be attacked by insects of various kinds, such as aphides and caterpillars. Well- nourished vegetables are not so liable to insect attacks as those starved for want of food or moisture. Plant out plenty of salad plants, especially Lettuce and Endive, Thin Parsley late sown to 6in. apart, and keep the surface stirred to encourage growth. Give Celery a good soak of water before earthing up, with some stimulant in it if possible. Take up early Potatoes, and, in fact, all Potatoes, when the skins are set, as, if we have rain, there may be a second growth after so much dry weather. GREENHOUSE. Give Chrysanthemums liquid-manure, not neces- sarily the same thing continuously. Vary it occasionally. Open the plants out if at all crowded. Pot up Arum Lillies. Let them have enough pot room and a fairly rich soil. Take them into the greenhouse before frost comes. Continue to put in cuttings of bedding and other plants every day's de- lay now will lead to more failures. Put Roman Hyacinths, Freesias. and double Daffodils for early flowering. The double Daffs force well. Early Tulips also may be potted to flower at Christmas for cutting; they may be planted thickly in boxes. Pick off the blossom buds from Zonal Geraniums in- tended for winter flowering. Winter-Howering Begonias, such as insignis. semperflorens, and others of the fibrous-rooted section should now be in theii (lowering pots. Seedlings raised last spring will make nice blooming stuff in 5inch pots. PROPAGATING PIITS ELASTICA. Stock of this useful plant may be easily iNcreased by means of cuttings taken off at any time during the growing season, but the spring months are to be pre- ferred, as they then root in a shorter time, and plants struck early can get well established before winter. In many market places where large numbers are propa- gated annually, the cuttings are generally obtained from large Ti*,nts which are kept solely for supplying them, and Stm which every available shoot is taken once a year. The shoots should be remeved just as Lhey become somewhat woody. Lengths of from I four inches to six inches are suitable sizes For cuttings, and as soon as possible after being taken off they should be potted singly in small, well-drained pots of sandy soil. By well-drained pots I do not mean that they should be half-filled with broken crocks, for, as small pots only are used, it is necessary to get the base of the cutting nearly to the bottom of them, and that could not be done if too many broken crocks were used. A good method is to have some crocks and charcoal broken up to about the size of Peas and well mixed together, so that when the cutting is put in the pot and rests on the drainage material a few of these pieces of crock and charcoal may be put in before the soil is added. Owing to this drainage material clustering round the bottom cf the cutting, perfect drainage is secured, and the action of rooting is thereby assisted. The soil which I use is' peat, loam, and sand in equal parts, the whole being passed through a sieve with a i in. mesh. After the cuttings are inserted each should be secured to a small stick, otherwise from the weight of their foliage it is, if moved, liable to topple over. The cuttings should then have a good watering, and be placed in a propagating-case or plunged in a gentle bottom heat therein, if it can be obtained. The propagating-case must be kept at a stove temperature, whether the plants have been grown in a stove or intermediate-house. Cuttings taken from a plant grown in a stove will root much quicker and with greater certainty than those taken from a plant that has been in a cool tempera- ture. In the case of the latter, the better way to proceed is, if the stock plant is not too large, to place it in the stove house two or three weeks before the cuttings are taken off. Another way of propagating this Fiscus is by means of single eyes, which, with care and attention, root freely. If the shoots are long the upper part can be fashioned into a cutting, and the lower cut up in as many pieces as there are leaves. The stem should be severed immediately above each eye, thus leaving the part below to be inserted in the soil. These eyes are put in exactly in the same way as cuttings, and, like them, are secured to small sticks. When they are put in the stem should be buried up to the base of leaf. In tying up these leaves the matting should be first secured to the Qziek, otherwise it will probably slip down and allow the leaf to sway about. A method which I have seen employed with very satisfactory results is to put new Cocoanut- fibre in the propagating-case, and stick the cuttings therein without pots. By this means the space at command is economiseo, but in potting off care is necessary, as in Cocoanut-fibre refuse the rots are delicate. In any case, the weaker shoots strike more readily than the stouter ones. Therefore, supposing the plant to be in a position where its beauty could ill be spared, it would, perhaps, be possible to take from it a few of the best shoots for propagating without causing any disfigurement. In the. event of there being no propagating-cases available, the cuttings may he kept close by placing them under a bell-glass. Under the most favourable conditions they will take from a month to six weeks to root, and often much longer than that. As in the case of most other subjects, cuttings taken from plants at-own without stimulants, such as soot-water, manure* water. and the varjous substances sold for hastening growth, strike better than those taken from plants that have been liberally fed.

ART AND LITERATU HE. Tkc trustees of the National Portrait Gallery have received from the Hon. John Collier a port rait cf the Into Professor Thomas H. Huxley, i'Ji.S.. a fnll-sTe replica of the well-known portrait p.r.nied bv Mr. Collier in 1883. This portrait lias been painted by Mr. Collier especially for premutation io the nation, and in view of this and el Professor Huxlev's eminence in the scientific worid the trustee? have willingly suspended their usual rule as to the ¡ lapse of 10 years from the date of a person s decease. TIIF.UE seems to be (says the Globe) a vast amount of excitement in France over the arrangements io, announced for housing works of art in the Exhibition. Something like a strike is threatened by the Society of French Artists, who in solemn con- clave have declared that they will not exhibit unless the building now being erected is altered in accordance with their views. The chief expression of dissatisfac- tion seems to be about the amount of space provided, which is asserted to be entirely inadequate; but complaint is also made that the rooms in which the art gallery is to be divided are so small that large pictures cannot be properly shown in them. It will be interesting to see what will come of this ferment. That the artists are right in agitating for the fullest possible consideration of tlieireliiiiisis, of course, indisputable; but it is just possible that they take an exaggerated view of the position of affairs. They may. perhaps, change their minds, as thev did once before when II similar outcry was raised concerning the selection of the Palais des Machines as a temporary home for the two Salons. Certainly the Government in providing space for nearly :uno pictures would appear to have done all that is necessary. It is true that this space has to be divided into sections, one for foreign art of all countries, another for French Art of the 19th century, and the third for works by living French masters but even with these sub-divisions the total display will be quite considerable enough for the comfort, of the average visitor to the show; and there will be no fear that really important can- { vases will have to be excluded for want of space. With more walls to fill the danger lest the jury of selection might descend from a high standard and accept works not entirely representative would always be present: and any lowering in the level of the ex- hibition as a whole would be matter for regret. It is rather signifipant that the French Press is generally opposed to the demands of the artists, and is accusing them of unjustifiable greed. Somo rather pointed suggestions are being made that there will be no difficulty if the painters who are protesting will limit themselves to the exhibition of their best works only and reference is freely made to the example of this country which has asked for comparatively little space, and intends to fill it with very carefully selected pictures. It will be interesting to see what will result from the dispute, and whether the artistic threatenings will come to anything, or mildly die away. BOTII writers and illustrators of early literature for children indulged largely in italics. The writers pressed home their points on the infant mind by what would now be considered needless insistence and the illustrators by over-exaggeration. It is probable that the modern child will be provoked tu laughter by Mr. Andrew Tuer's profusely illustrated Pages and Pictures from Forgotten Children's Books," which is shortly to appear from the Leaden- Press. It is to take us back to the time of the poke bonnet and the earlier time of high waists and of the gauzy drapery which clung so insistently to the outline of the figure. A RUMOUR comes from Paris that a serious disaster Has occurred at the Biblotheque Nationale. A splendid collection of rare etchings and prints is housed there, and many of the finest examples are shown framed under glass. It has just been dis- covered that serious injury has been caused to these by the heat of the sun to which they are exposed, and by the gathering of moisture inside the glass and an attempt to remedy the mischief has led to the de- struction of many unique treasures. For the future :he finest, things, whether engravings, drawings, or manuscripts, will not be hung on the walls, but be carefully protected in portfolios. PROFI.SSOR SAINTSBURY has written a "Short History of English Literature in one volume, which 's expected to appear in the autumn. About two years ago the same author produced a History of Nineteenth Century (English) Literature," which was by no means a model of its kind, either for complete accuracy of facts, manner of presentation, or sense of proportion. It may be hoped that, the Short His- tory," which promises to survey English literature from its dawn, will be a more excellent work than the volume devoted to the writers of a single century. The most attractive quality of Mr. Saintsbury's work on the English literature of our own age was its disregard of conventional appreciations of famous authors, whatever their degree of fame. Kirke While, for instance, he utterly rejected, refusing him even that place among promising minor poets un- timely dead," which has generally been allowed to the struck eagle." White, said Mr. Saintsbury, was a poetaster and nothing more. The genius attri- buted to him in Byron's well-known and noble, though rather rhetorical, lines may be discovered on all average in about half a dozen poets during .any two or three years of any tolerable poetic period." The author of the "noble though rather rhetorical" lines in question was himself severely handled in the same volume. M R. WHITWORTH WALLTS, the director of the Bir- mingham Art Gallery, has arranged for the trans- fere nee there of some of the finest pictures from the Guildhall Exhibition of French Art. Some 40 can- vases altogether will be selected, and will be acces- sible to the Birmingham public on the 14th inst. The number chosen has had to be limited by con- siderations of the space available in the Corporation Gallery, which is now so crowded that anything like a large selection could not conveniently be housed. Among the chief works lent are Meissonier's Fried- land. I Benjamin Constant's "Pastime of the Ka!ife, Jules Breton's "First Communion." and others by Rosa. Bonheur, J. L. Gerome, Corot, Daubignv, Bastien-Lepage. Bouguereau, Delaroche, lea bey, Diaz, Courbet. Courtois, and Harpignies. Tine Hev. John Sinclair, of Kinloch Rannocb, Ferth, who claims the earldom of Sutherland, has written l'everal books and is an enthusiastic, anti- quary. It was his kinsman. Thomas Sinclair, a London journalist with a taste for the study of genealogies, who first discovered the supposed right to the earldom. DURING the present recess the Bernini bust of Cromwell, which Mr. Wertheimer has presented to the Westminster Palace, is to be moved from the position it has temporarily occupied into a more suitable and appropriate place. Mr. WTertheimer, by way of making his gift as complete as possible, has expressed his intention of providing a pedestal which shall be thoroughly in keeping artistically with the bust itself: and this pedestal will pro- bably be available by the time the transference is made. Tin; Autumn Exhibition at the Walker Gallery, Liverpool, includes over 1500 works, many of which are of great importance, and by artists of the first rank. Among the more notable canvases are Mr. T. Austen-Brown's "Benediction of the Sea," Air. F. Bram'ley's "Dalesman's Clipping," Mr. E. A. Water- low's Lonely Church," Mr. Solomon J. Solomon's great Jubilee picture, Mr. Byam Shaw's "Truth." Miss Kemp Welch's "To Arms," Mr. G. (J. Haite's "Bit of Old Chelsea," Sir J.D. Linton's Roses," Mr. > IT. J. Draper's "Lament for Icards," Mr. J. R. j Weguelin's "Piper and the Nymphs." Professor ITerkomer's "The Guards' Cheer," Mr. David Murray's "Old Shorehatn," Mr. G. H. Boughton's I "The Road to Camelot." The Hnppy Valley" by] Mr. William Stott, of Oldham; Mr. F. M. Skip-) worth's "Signal of Death, 'and "Perseus," by the late Sir Edward Burne-Jones. AT Birmingham the number of exhibits is almost exactly half the total at Liverpool. Here the chief contributions are Venus and Adonis by Mr. JI, A. Olivier; "The World's Conquerors" by Mr. Waller Crane; "Homeward" by Mr. G. If. Bougiiton Hop-o'-my Thumb by Mrs. Stanhope 1 Forbes: "The Cloister or the World" by Mr. Arthur Hacker; "The Evening Song" by Mr. Alfred East; "Arcadia" by Mr. Leslie Thomson; In Russet Clad by Mr. J. L. Pickering; Salome by Mr. F. M. Skipworth; "Christdmrch Harbour" by Mr. M. P. Lindner; Daffodils byMr.E. Petry; "Lady Godiva" by the Hon. John Collier: "In I Realms of Fancy" by Mr. S. Melton Fisher; "Through the Wood" by Mr. E. A. Waterlow; "Love Triumphant" by Mr. G. F. Watts; "The Countess, of Warwick by M. Carolus-Duran; and Iseult by Mr. William Stott. of Oldham. QucrK a small display is made at the Manchester Corporation Gallery, where the total of works brought, (ogether is less than 250. One room is occupied by the pictures of the group of ar -ists who ]¡,d the annual landscape exhibition in the, Dudley Gal'jerv. Messrs. J. S. Hill, E. A. Waterlow, A. D. Peppercorn, J. Aumonier, R. W. Allen, and Leslip Thomson: and with their contributions are shown a small series by the late T. Hope M'Laehlan. In the other rooms the chief exhibits are Mr. Coutts M chie's llavtime in the Fens"; Mr. A. G. Gow's The Signal"; Mr. G. H. Boughton's "When the Dead Leaves Fall Mr. David Murray's "A Summer Day Mr. W. L. Wyllie's "The Winding Med way and Mr. E. A. Abbey's "Hamlet."

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] MARY FITZGERALD: A STORY OF A BROKEN HEART. BY ALLEN CARTER. AUTHOR OF A Perfect Demon" Wayside Romances" &c. II Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, Tis woman's whole existence.Byron. CHAPTER VI. THE bells were ringing merrily a wedding peat through the frosty air as Mary made her way with painful, faltering steps to the house of her bene- factor. She was nearly worn out by the time she reached Fitzroy-square. Her timorous ring at the bell was answered by the servant she had seen the previous day, and she was at once shown into the library. I'll see if I can find Mr. Dobbs," said the man, as he closed the door, I-,tnd tell him you are here." lr. Dobbs The name struck upon her weary brain with a certain familiarity, as though she had heard it before and was somehow interested in it. But it was a minute or two before she was able to recall to mind that it was the name of the man her father had seen-the father of her husband. Merciful heaven she exclaimed, in great dis- tress. Can it be possible. What shall I do what shall I do! 0 God, give me strength to think and act!" Mary sank exhausted upon a chair, and fell into a painful reverie. She was roused by the sound of voices proceeding from the adjoining room, the door communicating with which was partly open. The chair she occupied was so close behind the door that she could hear everything above & whisper. At first her brain only received the impression of a confused murmuring. Then she was roused to full consciousness as by a thunderclap, by the sound of a man's voice. And she listened with strained attention and palpitating heart, hoping yet fearing confirmation of her surmise. You do not look very bright this morning, my darling. Are you not well ?" Ah. yes. it was he—her husband. There could be no mistake. How her heart leaped at the thought that after so long an absence she was so near him. But a dull feeling of pain succeeded as the remembrance came upon her of years that had passed without a word or sign. And that woman. What could she be to him that he addressed her in such terms ? But hark! she is speaking. "I do feel a bit out of sorts, Jack," a soft, feminine voice was saying. I had such a pecu- liar dream last night, and it weighs upon my spirits in a most extraordinary manner, making me feel quite nervous, it's such a peculiar thing, for I am no believer in dreams, and am seldom troubled with them." What was it, dear tell it to me. Perhaps that will ease your mind. My pet is far to sensi- ble a woman to pay attention to anything so silly or so superstitious as dreams." "I scarce like telling you. Though it makes me shudder even now when I think of it. Dreams sound so ridiculous when told in the daylight!" Nothing can be ridiculous from those lips," he murmured, little imagining what a pang went through the heart of the trembling woman a few feet distant as he sealed the gallantry with a kiss. We shall be able to enjoy a hearty laugh ogether over it afterwards. I've no doubt," he added lightly, as he seated himself by her side. and put- ting his arm around her waist drew her head down upon his shoulder. -1 Well, dear, I'll tell you. Only promise not to laugh at me. I dreamt that I was in a strange city, and was wandering aimlessly about in a labyrinth of dirty streets having evidently lost my way. Not a soul was to be seen but a poorly clad woman-ah, so thin and pale with a baby clasped in her arms. I was crossing abridge over a dirty river, the water of which looked like so much liquid mud as it swept along when the woman ot whom I had momentarily lost sight, rose up before me and cried, in such pitiful, appealing tones that made my heart ache to hear them. Give me my husband You have stolen my husband from me, give him back. See, this is his child. Oh for- the love of heaven do not keep him from me.' I did not seem to be a bit frightened, but was full of pity for the poor woman. I spoke to her sooth- ingly, told her I could not possibly know anything about her husband, for that I was a stranger in a strange land. But she only moaned, in most agonising tones, I You've got my husband. Give me back my husband At last she seemed to get dreadfully excited, jumped upon the parape of the bridge and before I could put out a hand to save her she leapt over into the water beneath The fearful shriek she uttered as she fell awoke me. I was all in a tremble. and in a great per- spiration. I can hear that fearful shriek now. It all seemed so real. Oh! John, there can be nothing in it. can there ?" My darling said he, soothingly, as he hissed her forehead. No of course not." But certain memories came over him even as he spoke and made his voice quiver. You never have loved anyone but rce, John, ,have you ?" How eagerly was the listening ear of the poor woman on the other side the door strained to catch the reply. Never, dearest, never as I love you. But you know, my darl ng, every young man has foolish fancies, and I had mine. Poor girl," he added tenderly, she's dead now." So he thinks me dead," mused the agonised listener. "Perhaps I have thou ht too hardly of him. He may have been suddenly called away, and on his return been unable to find us." So the trembling heart ventured excuses on behalf of the man it still fo fondly loved. What makes you call her poor girl?' You never told me of her before." asked Bella. What was the use, what good woald it have done," he responded. Who was she, how did it all come about ? Do tell me. I promise not to be a bit jealous." I should scarcely th nk a story like that would interest yon, Bella. It was after I left college She was young and fair a»d 1 thought myself madly in love with her. But I knew what a mistake I had made when I saw you. I knew what love really was then." But what was she like? Was she good and beautiful ? And did she love you ?" The queries were poured forth with true womanly impetu- osity. I am afraid she did love me," was the reply. Why do you say you are afraid ?'' Because my father found it out and threat- ened to disinherit me if I ever saw or spolte to her ngain. And he packed me off to America with- out giving me a chance of seeing or even writing tc the poor girl. J afterwards egretted I gave way to him as easily as I did. and I only oeased re-ret- ting it, my darling when I knew you." 1. And did she really die ? Oh! Jadk, perhaps vour goin-, away like that killed her. It would kill me to lose you in such a manner My dearest!" be exclaimed fondly,-ashe kissed her. You don't suppose I could leave you Besides tile eircumstances are different"' He does not tell her I'm his wife," moaned the unhappy woman in the next room. "Oh! merci- ful Father, guide me in what I should do in thif dark hour of trial." But there." he was «aying. Don't dot that mar our happiness." Their happiness thought Mary. Theit ^happiness Ah me, where s my happiness. And by right his place is at my side; I ought to occupy <he place she has usurped. And he believes 4m dead. Oh cruel fate." "So there you are again, billing and oooiog aE ttsuat like two turtle doves. To see you peopl( ■would imagine you hadn t been married a week let alone a month or more. Ah well, it'll soon weat oil." We were not billing and oooing, Sir," point edlv remarked Bella, edging suddenly away froir Jack as /achary Dobbs entered the room. "An<i it won t wear OJf, will it, lack," flfce added, witt true feminine inconsistency. Wtell. all 1 can say is you looked very muck like it when I opened the door." rejoined the old man. But there, run away a few minutes, there's a dear. Ive some very important busioess to tali over with Jack." You won t keep him long then, will you ? And please don't make iack disagreeable. He looks cross ettougb just now. You can be disagreeable sometimes, etnt you, Jack?" laughed the younu la iy saucily, .as she lightly skipped out of the room. Mv graciow, Jack began Zachary, as sooa as the door had closed. However could you bu,.e been such a villain as to marry that bright happo- pirl, and bring iber over here into the bargain 471towing \ou had a wife already. s. Villaln Wife al, eady This is strange iaBgua e, Sir, and ronui es that I should remember van are my father," e-,claimed the young man. indignantly. "Perhaps you will oblige me with an explanation." "lb.ero. there," said the old man testily, seating biwlf in an al mchair. Don t lose your temper. i <p haps I did put the cart before the horse, and judged you before you were accused. After you hud gone out last night I had • visit from a shabby., half tipsy man who said his name was Foster- Jem Foster. Ah! I see YOU know the name' he added, as his son made a sudden start. v> ell he told me he had seen you leave the house alld recognised you as the man who married bin daughter five or six years ngo under an assumed name and in a few weeks deserted her." '• ] )id he tell you his daughter's name ?" groaned the unhappy man, burying his face in his hand* upon the table. Mary. Cli! John, John, I never thought a son of mine could have done anything so dis- graceful. I had no idea it was so bad as this." My dear father '■ Don't dear father me. I feel as if I ought to go on my knees and beg that poor woman's pardon for the wretchedness I ha%e been the to go on my knees and beg that poor woman's pardon for the wretchedness I hl\\e been the means of bringing upon her through having such a scapegrace son." I- At Heast you will do me the justice to remem ber, Sir, that it was you who forced me away who watched me night and day till 1 was on bU¿'I'rl ship, and forbade my communicating with her in any shape or form.' I know that. You needn't remind me of that. I've thought of nothing else since I learned the iruth. But why," he went on passionately, I- why didn t you tell me the whole truth, not leave me to suppose it was a mere idle flirtation the usual pastime of young men. Do you think I should have acted as I did had 1 known the truth ? You have yet to understand your father if you imagine that.' fairly overcome with the vehemence of his feelings the old man sank b ck in his chair and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. If you please, sir, the young woman what called yesterday wants to see you. She's been hw e some ime. but L thought as you was out, sir.' So spako a servant at the door, which he had opened. l ie :!ould see there was something amiss, and he suggestively added, Shall I tell her to call again, sir •" My gracious, the very woman!" groaned Zachary. 1 11 see her in a minute or two," he baid to the servant. What can I do?' asked Jack, when they wee once more alone 1 swear I believed she was dead. I made every possible inquiry after I reached Boston, but could learn nothing of heror iier father but that they had disappeared." And very ready you seem to have been to oelieve her dead," retorted Zachary. "Do you snow you have as good as murdered the poor woman ? By a strange, rather I should say a providential combination of circumstances. I came across the woman yesterday, little dreaming who she was. What with fretting for you, the want of food, and the brutality of her drunken father she is very near death s door, I can tell you. And to crown it all you must go and marry again. hy, it's my duty as a true citizen to hand you over to justice straight away." But, father," faltered the remorse-stricken man. 1 am ashamed to say it but it is better you should know all. The marriage was not a valid one. Oh!" groaned Zachary. "This is worse and worse. 1 never thought, to possess a son capable of stealing a woman s honour by so despicable a trick." Of course I know it was wrong. But it was done thoughtlessly, and under strong temptation." "Strong temptation Fiddlesticks! I wonder sir, you're not ashamed to sit there and say yon daikened a woman's life for ever and broke up a home 'thoughtlessly.' I'm ashamed of you." I will, of course, make some suitable provision for her." You make provision for her, you jackanapes What have you got to make provision for her with, Id like to know ?" Will you leave her to me, father, and let me see what can be done ?" No! I won't leave her to you. You've wrecked the poor woman's life as it is, and driven her to despair and the verge of the grave. Do you know sir. that this poor woman, who ought to be your wite if she isn't was in this very room only yester- day, be ging me, as the greatest and only favour she could crave, to make provision for her child. so that it might be out of her father's hands when she died!" "Her child!" exclaimed the young man in agitated tones. Had she a child? Heaven forgive me. I didn't think of that." Never thought of that!" exclaimed Zachary, vehement y. 1, No, of course not. Men like you bring eternal misery upon a trusting woman and never think of the consequences. By heaven, sir. were it not for that girl who not long since left us I could find it in my heart to thrust you from the house and never look on your face again. What's to be done I don't know. You heard what William said just now?' "I heard him say a young woman was waiting to see you," replied Jack. "Gracious heaven!" he added, as a light fiashed upon his mind, you don't mean to say that is Mary That is the woman you have so foully wronged. And all she asked was help for her child It she only knew if she only knew Mary had meanwhile been in a condition of almost complete prostration. Only by a great effort was she able to bring her mind to a compre- hension of the importance to herself of what she heard, and to consider the best course for her to pursue. She could not stop there to bring sorrow upon that kind old man, upon the woman who ha so innocently usurped her place, or even upon him who was the cause of all her misery. She had not long to live. She did not wish to live now. he would go away somewhere, and try to find some way of leaving her child to the care of the old mall who had promised when he only knew her as a stranger to befriend her. They would not mind looking after her child, and it was no more than right they should do so. But for the present she would go right away. Rising mechanically from her seat she slowly and painfully made her way to the door and out into the hall. No one was about. and she let he. self out into the street without attracting atten- tion and. as in a dream, retracted her steps to her wretched home. When /'achary and his son a few minutes later made their way to the library into which they were told the young woman had been shown, they found the room empty. The old man no sooner caught sight of the partly-open door com- municating with the study, and which was hidden on the study side by a curtain, than he exclaimed in dismay- She has heard every word we have been say- ing. No wonder she has gone, poor thing." CHAPTER VII. How Mary managed tofind her way to the bed- room in which she had left her child she could not have said. She was as one dazed. and had no sooner reached the bed than she fell across it utterly helpless and unconscious. In this condi- tion she was found b\ the neighbour she had asked to look after little Nelly. The woman, after an attempt to restore consciousness, became alarmed lid sent for the parish doctor, who pro- nouneed Mary in a decideily dangerous state from exhaustion and nervous shock. Presently the child, who had been removed into the adjoin- ing room, began to cry, and this had the effect of restoring sensibility to an extent the doctor's art had been unable to accomplish. Hut she soon sank into a comatose state, from which she only jceasionally rallied for a brief interval. During one of her unconscious periods Jem Foster returned. For a wonder he wa- sober, for tie meant to accompany Mary to Mr. Dobbs to see her righted as he called it. And he hugged him- self with the thought that he should have plenty of opportunity, and money too, to net drink after- wards. lie was told she hi d been out and that oil tier return she had been fo ind in a faint on the oed. V> hile he stood looking at her she opened her eyes and appeared <o recognise him. What's the matter, Mary?" he asked. Nothing, father, only I'm dying," she faintly replied. "Dying! Nonsense! You mustn't die now. It's only a little weakness. Fere, take a sip of this" and he pulled a brandy flask from his pocket and heftl it to her lips. Mary shuddered as the fumes reached her senses. "No thank you, father," she murmured. Please take it away, it makes me feel so bad ell, that's the first time ever heard of the smell of brandy making people bad." Father," presently murmured the dying woman. •' Well ?" The dector says I can't live many hours. T want you to go to that house where you went last night." ■' What, go there without you. W hat ud be the good of that. I should only only get kicked out very iik<e." "No, you won't, father. Ask for that gentleman you saw last night, and tell him I'm dying, and would like to see him t rst." Hut he won't come," ejaculated the man. U Yel; he will Do go, father, its the last request I shall ever make of you." ■■ Of course 1]1 go, my dear. if you wish it, and think it 11 be an*- use. Perhaps, as you're so ill, it'll do as well aus you're going to him. He must do something forVou There's a defcrfother. And- father tell him if Mr it/gera,l¡i c,,vu, d come too—I should be L,1 glad to see lirtQ." Well, blest if ein iinderstand women. could," (to muttered t1.d there was a Klist-eieing in his oyea as he put on iiia hat. 1 wen tbf !;Jtl;; gone, de ar, lil teii lie doii-n t gii-e an eyt? LD )DII. Don't trouble, father, the doctor said he'd be back again piesently And I'm not in pain." Jem Foster was not a great while gone, for he found, on reaching Fit/roy square Mr. Dobbs and his son about to start for the relieving oflicer's house to obtain Mary's address which the old man had forgotten. My gracious was all Zachary could get out, as he caught sight of the white worn face upon the bed. And coughing away the suffocating sensa- tion in his throat the old man mopped his round red face and wiped his eyes as he pretended to gaze from the window upon the narrow dirty street beneath. "My husband!" exclaimed the dying woman. holding out her arms as John Dobbs approached the bedside. "I may call vou husband, mayn't I ?" My poor Mary. Can you ever forgive me for my cruel conduct?" sobbed the young man. For the sicht brought back tender recollections, which, with the remorse which had taken possession of him, quite overcame him. Oh, John. Don't talk about that now. I have forgiven you all along. 1 knew it could not be all your fault. Don t take on so. dear," she went on, in faint, tremulous tones, stroking his hair with one thin white hand as with the other she clasped his ¡Jeck.It's best as it is, much best. You will be happy with her you knew in America, when you thought your poor Mary was dead. But you won't forget Mary, who loved you so, oh so much, will you ?" "Forget you!" exclaimed the young man, his voice broken by sobs. How can I ever forget or forgive myself. Oh. Mary! why were we ever parted ?' "You'll look after my child our child, dear, won't you ? W hv, you haven t seen her yet. She's in the next room with father She s got just your eyes and mouth, John Little Nelly is so good she will be no trouble And I never knew till to-day that T had a child. Oh, Mary, I shall never forgive myself.' Mr. Dobbs called out Mary, feebly. Zachary came towards the bed, still coughing slightly, and still mopping his face with that ever- lasting bandana. You won't be angry with John, will you ? You'll forgive him for my sake," she pleaded, looking wistfully into the old man's face. For your sake, my dear, 1 would do anything." murmured the old man in broken tones. My gracious hat a wicked wretch I must have been to have parted you." And you will see that my Nelly is properly cared for ?" "As I hope for mercy hereafter," responded Zachary, solemnly. May I be so dealt as I)deal with your child." God bless you, sir: Cod bless you. I feel so happy. I haven't felt so happy since that day, John, when you told me you loved me. I think you did love me then, John. just a little. I should like to die thinking that." and she twined her fingers lovingly amidst his hair. Would you mind calling father and Nelly ?" she presently added, turning her face towards Zachary. "We shall have to say farewell, John she went on. as the old man left the room. I t, will be a long goodbye this time, longer even than the last, and at first that nearly broke my heart.' Zachary returned accompanied by Jem Foster and the child, which was p aced on the bed by her mother's side. This is your-our child. John." said the dying woman to the man who was kneeling by the bed- Bide You will cherish her for my sake, won't you? And my father. He has had so much to cause him anxiety, t have always been a trouble to him." "No, no, Mary don't say that," said her father It's I have been the t ouble Ah sir," he. added to John, yoa lost a treasure when ou left her." Your father shall know no want during the remainder of his life m dear," said /achary. "It will be the aim of mv life to strive to make some' amends for the evil we have wrought in the past.' O thank you, sir, thank you! I can die happy now. Y ou could not help loving her, could you, dear?" she murmured after a pause, gazing into Jack's eves. ''I should have gone far far away, so that no one could tind me 1 meant to go. I could not bear to be a blot upon your life, and hers. It would have killed me at once to have thought you wished me dead because I was in the way. I am so glad to be at rest. I am coming, mother, dear mother," she suddenly ex- claimed. with a rapt gaze upward. Wait for me —I'm coming. Kiss me—John—kiss me. Goodbye good-bye." And as John bent over the frail form Mary clasped her arms about his neck, pressed his lips to hers, and with a restful sigh passed away to a land w here trouble and sorrow are unknown. IT-TP END.

AMONG THE DERVISHES. AN EPISODE OF MAIIDI RULE. An excellent current reprint of Father Ohrwalder's narrative of his Ten Years' Captivity in the Mahdi's Camp," at a popular price of six- pence, has the merit of being decidedly opportune. The work presents a singularly vivid picture of life in the Soudan during the troublous period which em- braces the temporary triumph of the Mahdi and his successor, the death of the heroic Gordon, and the destruction of the army of Hicks Pacha. Father Ohrwalder, it will be remembered, was the priest of the Austrian mission station at Delen in Kordovan. It was early in April. 1882, that the quiet life of this little station among the mountains, some 300 miles to the south-west of Khartoum, was disturbed by the first murmurs of the,storm which was to deluge the Soudan with blood. Dolen was besieged and cap- hired by Mek Omar, and Fathers Bonomi and Ohr- walder, together with five nuns and two lay brothers. were by the order of the Mahdi conducted to his camp outside El Obeid. They expected to be murdered, but some curious scruples of the Mahdi regarding the treatment of Christian ministers and women founded on texts in the Koran saved their lives. though all this did not prevent the assignment, of the captives to masters who treated them, with one excep- tion. with brutal cruelty. From that time the reve- rend father remained in the Soudan shut out from all knowledge of the outer world, condemned to servile toil and suffering many hardships and in- dignities which are described in these pages. He gives a striking account of the desolation that met his eyes on all sides in Khartoum after the fall of that place, which he had left not long before a thickly peopled city. Father Gonomi contrived to escape in the summer of 1885. but Ohr- walder was fated to live on in his wearisome cap- tivity for yet seven years, beholding sights which no lapse of time could blot from memory. In Omdur- man, the dervish capital, he was put in chains, and here he was witness of the appalling cruelties of the Mahdi's rule, and of the more revolting horrors of the famine of 1888-9. Even cannibalism was rife among the famished people. Often (says the worthy Father) did I see poor little skeletons of infants try- ing to get nourishment from their dead mothers breasts. The climax of the readers' interest in this terrible but fascinating narrative is, however, not reached till we come to the exciting details of the Father's escape with the nuns, his companions in captivity and in suffering. They were still in Omdurman when a ray of hope suddenly illumined their wretched lives. The surviving nuns, three in num- ber, were then earning a scanty livelihood by needlework, while Ohrwalder was starving rather than living on the proceeds of his handiwork in making hooks out of telegraph wire. One day a young Arab, Ahmed Hassan, hoping, no doubt, to be handsomely rewarded, secretly pro- pounded to them a plan of escape. They dreaded treachery, but clung to the hope that no snare was in- tended, and happily Hassan proved no traitor. Months passed, the winter had come and gone, the Nile had risen to its full height and subsided, and hope deferred had begun to make the heart sick. One of the sisters had during this interval sunk and died. This was on October 4, 1891; but ere the month was over, the drooping spirits of the shrunken little band were raised by the reappearance of Ahmed, bringing with him a letter from the Bishop Sogaro. All was cleverly planned for the escape of Ohrwalder with the two sisters and their little black protSgee Adila at a moment when all the riding camels, which might have been used for pursuit, had been despatched into the provinces by the authorities to quell a disturbance. The story of that long flight, with its many perils, privations, and narrow escapes, must be read in the closing pages of this exciting nar- rative. It was on the night of Monday, October ao, that they slunk away in the darkness to find the spot where the four camels that Ahmed had provided were awaiting them. All night the fugitives rode on, anxiously listening for every sound. So they jour- neyed, following the tracks of the slave dealer and the caravan till they reached Murat, having covered —such was the wonderful staying power of the camels—a distance of 500 miles in seven days. At Assiout they were met by joyful friends, and finally on December 21 they found themselves in Cairo, eager to know what had been happening in the out- side world during all those weary years.

LIEUT. kiALDAMIC, of the 1st Battalion Highland Light Infantry, who was killed in the outbreak at Candia recently, joined the army in 1891 and became a lieutenant in 1894. Mr. Calocherino, the British Vice-Consul, who was burned in his houw during the same disturbance, bad held his post ever JIJWe 1859.

ALLAN'S JUMP: THK STORY OF A TRATN. What, young Mr. Tarrant from Wittersby, are you ?" exclaimed one of the two men, laying the eat- ables in tempting array on the table. Well, I'm glad to have met the son of so notable a personage —very glad. Now, help yourself. Schmidt, hand the buttered muffins to the young gentleman." Ni t great bleesure," replied the bespectacled German smirkingly. Mein gracious, und you vas the son of dat eminent herr who owns the secret of \,h.' vorld-famous black dye Ach, mein young sare, peoples talk about it avay in der Vaterland even-ja, .ndeed!" Do they?" murmured the boy-an athletic speci- men of British youth, just now busied in proving the healthiness of his appetite. Yes, I believe it's made its mark in the world. Black dye would, you know.' But my friend alludes to its excellence," put in A.shwood. the first speaker, with a laugh. I have heard that the fabric-dye discovered by your father is fast, bringing him both reputation and fortune; the depth and permanence of the colouring cannot be matched in all Ah! but this kind of chatter is hardly the thing for a tea-table, eh ? Only I was thinking what a grievous calamity it would be if. through any mishap to Mr. Tarrant, his great secret were lost for ever." "Oh, but it wouldn't be! rejoined Allan Tarrant confidingly. Although father alone knows how the dye-stuff is made, yet he keeps a written account of the whole process locked up in the office safe at the works so that, in case anything happened to him, there need be no fear of losing-" Allan pulled up sharply as he caught the signifi- cant glances that passed between his listeners. These two men were total strangers to him he had never seen them until an hour or so previously, when. casually meeting them on the adjacent moor, he had been courteously invited to shelter in tbeir cottage from the heavy downpour that had set in. According to their statements, they had rented the lonely dwelling for the season because of the shooting to be had in the vicinity. Yet a dread suspicion now flashed across Allan's mind, and he wished he had bitten out his tongue rather than let fall the words he had just spoken. "Ha! vat you say?" queried Schmidt, peering eagerly through his glasses. The safe-in the vorks-house ? It vas there, hey?" Well, I'm not sure," stammered Allan feebly. I don't—you see, the paper may have been taken away since——" Again Allan paused, this time checked by the wary eyes of the Englishman, whose cold, keen gaze seemed to divine his inmost thoughts. The boy felt immeasurably relieved when at length Ashwood removed his baleful glance and turned to his foreign friend with an expressive shrug of the shoulder. For a few minutes-during which Allan's hunger appeared to have utterly vanished-the men con- versed excitedly in German. Now, of this language Allan happened to have a smattering-sufficient, in fact, to follow the drift of the colloquy. Just when we were on the point of giving it up as a bad job," Ashwood remarked to his companion. here the thing's actually thrown into our hands. It's worth thousands of pounds to us if we can only get hold of that recipe. Nothing can prevent us from applying the process to our goods in Chemnitz, and we shall simply rake in the shekels like wildfire. There's no risk, either; for the dye-house is practi- cally unguarded during the night. Schmidt, what's to stop the scheme from being carried out ?" Unable to restrain his indignation on hearing this barefaced proposal to steal his father's secret, Allan sprang hastily from the table. What's to stop you ?" he cried angrily. You'll find out you will be stopped-precious quick, too!" Snatching up his cap, he made a rush for the door but ere he could reach it a fierce clutch had him by the coat-collar and he was slung heavily backwards to the floor. Ashwood, scowling, bent over him. So you understood us, did you ?" sneered the an. I- I'd half a notion you smelt a rat all along. Yi 1* But now I wager you wish you'd kept your slippery tongue between your teeth, eh ? Anyway, I'll see you don't use it for some hours to come, my little turkey-cock ?" In spite of his frantic struggles—and he battled and wriggled to the last—Allan was eventually over- powered by the rascally pair, who forthwith dragged him. gagged and bound, to a darksome cubicle under the stone staircase. Make yourself cosy, young 'un cried Ashwood. ironically, as he secured the door of the cupboard-like recess. It will be some considerable time before anybody thinks of searching for you here. I reckon you're quite safe from intrusion for a good 24 hours at least. And in the meanwhile-after taking a mid- night stroll round your father's dye-works—Schmidt find myself will be out of reach across the Channel, I hope. At the worst, we shall be well repaid for a few months' imprisonment if only we can manage to get a glimpse-the merest squint—at that valuable docu- ment you were so kind as to tell us about." Guffawing loudly, Allan's captors betook them- selves afresh to the kitchen, whence the boy could hear their whisperings and the bustle of their pre- parations until far into the night. "What a chump I was to blab out like that' groaned Allan, in the intervals of his wrestling with the ropes which fettered his limbs. If I'd only pretended not to tumble to their little dodge I should have been back home long ago, and they'd be nabbed in the very act of burgling the warehouse. But as it is, it will be a clear walk over for the confounded skunks while here am I, eight miles from Wittersby, it least two from the railway station at Sareton, and likely to remain cooped up in this beastly lonely hovel for goodness knows how long yet. Perhaps for days! Ugh A jolly ugly fix. no mistake Wonder when those fellows are going to begin—Ha, they're off at last!" The echo of retreating footsteps was followed by the slamming of the outer door and the grating of the key in the lock. At the same moment, too, Allan heard the clock on the mantelpiece strike eleven. "They mean to catch the 11.30 at Sareton," ran the lad's thoughts. That train, the last running to- night, gets into Wittersby a few minutes before twelve. Then there's a quarter of an hour's walk to the works another quarter, say, before they can sneak into the premises half an hour for breaking open the safe, and-yes, by one o'clock they will be in possession of father's secret. And all through my fault—all through me With a frenzied strength born of -sheer despera- tion, the half-demented youth tugged and strained anew at the cords round his wrists-insensible to the orturc of his bruised and bleeding flesh, regardless of everything save an overwhelming craving for liberty. I think—yes—the rope isn't quite so tight now he mumbled, redoubling his efforts. I do believf it's giving a bit! If the loop can only be worked a trifle looser, I shall be able to pull my right hand clear of the- Hurrah It's through V" But even with his hands unshackled, Allan had a difficult and tedious task to accomplish before his numb fingers, fumbling in the pitchy darkness, finally succeeded in casting off the gag and the many- knotted thongs about his legs. At length, however dizzy and panting, he staggered to his feet and groped blindly for the door. Fortunately, this was of old and flimsy construction, its worm-eaten panels and rusty hinges offering little resistance to the pri- soner's vigorous attacks upon it. Bundling out into the passage, with tattered gar- ments and dust-grimed visaga, the exhausted boy halted a while to recover his breath. Yet he could not afford to be long inactive there was no time for dallying. The outside door's fast enough," said he, shaking I it tentatively. "But what about the window? The scamps couldn't lock that as well, anyhow." Eagerly he unlatched the window, threw wide the sash, and dropped down upon the sodden turf out- side. All around him was dank and inpenetrable ,d:irknc-ss-not a glimmer to be seen anywhere, not the faintest trace of moon or stars in the murky sky. I-I fancy the town'lies somewhere over there," Allan murmured in perplexity but this neighbour- hood isn't so well known to me that I can find my way about blindfold; and if I should happen to get lost in crossing the Hark That sounds like a train By George, yes; I can follow up the rail- way-line to Sareton, and from there a telegram to Wittersby will put father on his guard and enable the police to bag the ruffians, after all. Scurrying towards the quarter whence came the dull rumble, slipping and floundering on the rough, boulder-strewn surface of the moorland, Allan pre- sently discerned the twinkling lights which marked the course of the railway-cutting. The last train from Sareton, with those two fellows in it, must have passed long ago," said he, racing along. "By now they will probably be at Wittersby; perhaps at this very minute they're inside f(:e office itself. Will my warning reach father too late to be of any—Hullo Why, that's a goods-train drawn up on the track there, isn't it? Ah, I -,ee--tlie signal's against it I Does that mean tile passenger train has only just gone by? If so, whew, that's a capital notion Here goes Abandoning his original plan, Allan slid cautiously down the slope to the metals, and swung himself up into one of the empty trucks. Barely had he done so when the arm of the semaphore showed "Line lear," and the string of lumbering cars resumed its interrupted journey towards Wittersby. I shall be at Wittersby soon after those rogues tliettigelves," iiitittered the boy, as-the iostling cars moved onward. Directly the engine pulls up in the t,),o(is-gid iog there, I'll just skip out and cut away home to tell father all about- Bv Jove. though. there's one thing I'm forgetting How do I know this train will stop at Wittersby ? Perhtps--lier- haps it's going bang through to Monford. fifty miles further on The truth of Allan's disquieting conjecture forced itself upon him, when-after an interminably long journey, wherein the minutes seemed like hOllrs--he saw that the station at Wittersby was plunged in complete darkness. The last passenger train having come and gone, the porters had evidently lost no time in extinguishing the gas-lamps and betaking them- selves to their homes. Not a light, not a single indi- vidual was visible either on the deserted platform or in the adjacent goodsyard as the luggage-train clat- tered through the desolate station. In a fever of dismay, the boy stood erect in the. truck and yelled aslolldly as his parched i Iii-oit., could give sound. But no one heard, and none saw him. Situated as he was, too—midway in the long proces- sion of waggons and vans, equally remote from engine and guard's brake—neither driver nor gurrJ could possibly espy his diminutive fig\1re. or distin- guish his cries above the clank and rattle of the cars. "But every second I'm being carried further and further away," moaned he helplessly while those hulking brutes will be hard at iI, trying to--Oh. I can't stand this! I must, get off, somehow- I Soon we shall be tearing across the bridge over the -—Ha, the bridge! Yes, that's my only chance. 1'11 jump—yes, I'll jumn for it!" His muscles braced for the ordeal, Allan planted one foot firmly on the verge of the truck's low side I hen, as the sheen of the river met his eye. he sprang reso- lutely forward and outward. By a hairs-breadth lie cleared the parapet of the viaduct, to drop like a plummet through thirty feei of space into the deep, sluggish water beneath. Rising to the surface, blown and cho'uing—but by great good luck scatheless of real bodily hurt—he, struck out. boldly for the river's bank, afterwards tottering to the nearest house, wliff; inmates he quickly roused from their slumbers. To them Allan told his startling story, and by them it was swiftly borne to his father and to the police. Within a quarter of an hour of Allan's daring leap, his two cowardly assailants were pounced upon in the dye-works -surprised in the midst of their nefarious onslaught upon the office safe-and marched off in custody to the town gaol. "We have been driven nearly distracted by your absence. Allan," said Mr. Tarrant, later. Half a dozen search-parties are looking for you at this very moment-- Eh ? Do I know those two men ? Yes, laddie three weeks ago they came to me with ? sug- gestion for acquiring the use of my process at their factory in Germany, but as I had already made terms with another Continental firm I didn't see my way to fall in with their wishes. And the knowledge which they could not get by fair means they clearly meant to gain by foul. Umph! A couple of unscrupulous scoundrels!"

PROPHETS OF WINTER. BIRDS BZTTER GUIDES THAN TUB CALENDAR. In days of old the seasons came up punctually to time, and were fairly true to their traditional character. One knew when to expect them, and what they would be like when they came. Nowadays they have changed all that. It is useless to consult a calendar if you want to find out when autumn begins, for it begins at a different time every year. You must go to the birds, writes the Rev. Theodore Wood, F.E.S., for really accurate informa- tion upon the subject, for they know the time to a day. And the best bird to apply to is the swift, who will give you exactly six weeks' notice of the date you ask. All through the earlier part of the summer this bird will dart and dash through the air, like a streak of brownish lightning, screaming loudly and incessantly as he goes, and finally mounting farout of sight when darkness falls, to spend the night, as some aver, floating on outspread wing in the regions of illimit- able azure. But six weeks before the day fixedfor the beginning of autumn he will disappear. It may he at the end of July, it may not be till the middle of August; but six weeks later autumn will surely follow. The cuckoo sneaks quietly off at about the same time. Nobody ever sees him go. for he shuns ;obser- vation—ashamed, it may be, of his inability to pro- duce even the three kookes to one koo of which an early writer accuses him in June. The nightin- gale goes off quietly, too, possibly for the same reason a husky whistle, followed by a hoarse croak is a poor substitute for the volumes of liquid melody which poured from his throat a little earlier in the year. Then the shrike goes, and the night jar goes. travel- ling, oddly enough, by day; and so the exodus con- tinues until the swallows and martins take counsel together, and decide that, as autumn has really begun, they had better take themselves off too. And only the chiff-chaff is left behind, out of all the summer visitors, to exchange courtesies with the fieldfares and redwings when they arrive, early in October, for the winter. And the odd thing is that all these birds have defi- nite though invisible pathways, which they follow on their long journey through the air. They will cross the Mediterranean, for example, at the straights of Gibraltar, or from the Gulf of Genoa, through Sar- dinia and Corsica, to Cape Spartivento or from Italy to Tripoli, via Sicily and Malta; or from Asia Minor to Egypt, through Cyprus. But between these fly-lines they never appear to travel. And the reason seems to be that in the distant past these were land passages. The Mediter- ranean, then, was not one big sea, but a succession of vast lakes. And the birds of those days always new over the land divisions between them, while their successors never noticed the gradual encroach- ments of the water, and have kept ever since to the same routes. My own pet, private, and particular winter prophet, however, is the caterpillar of the Goat Moth—a huge, evil-smelling creature of reddish-brown hue, with a broad chocolate stripe running down its back. which walks about on palings just as autumn is beginning. Every year three or four are sent in to me by the.r excited captors, generally accompanied by a com- munication informing me that they are locusts— which they resemble just about as closely as they re- semble bluebottle flies or daddy-long-legs. For three long years these odorous creatures inhabit the trunks of willow trees, boring their way backwards and forwards through the solid wood, and making alight but sufficient meal on the ships which they cc away. During that period they increase some 7*2,000 times in bodily weight—a rate of increase which would convert the 101b. human baby into a monster of about 3211 tons. 2 And then, in the first week of autumn, they leave the tree for ever, and wander forth in search of some secluded nook wherein to turn to chrysalids. It doesn't do to take them home and keep them as curiosities, for they can eat their way out of pretty well anything in the shape of a box. One historical specimen, indeed, ate a passage not only through the floor of his prison, but also through the lid of the grand piano on which it stood, and then proceeded to work havoc in the mechanism within. But whenever the insect appears on the fences the observer may know that autumn has begun, quite irrespective of anything that the calendar may have to say upon the subject. And then there are the gossamers spiders, those microscopical creatures which cover great tracts of country with silken threads, so that when beaded with tiny drops dew their lines look like one vast silver sheet in the sunlight. These only appear quite in the early part of the autumn. It is an absolute and literal fact than an F.R.S., in the earlier days of that august and learned body, ex- pressed his conviction that these threads were shreè and fragments of the fleecy clouds which flit over the sky in hot weather. Spenser, more poetic-allv still, describes them as fine nets of scorched dew." But they are simply the lines on which countless families of little spiders have entrusted themselves to the breezes. While they are still young and delicate, the tiny creatures are fed by their mother; but when size and appetite increase to a certain point, the maternal fiat goes forth, and each small spider pours out a yard or two of silken thread, allows it to be caught by an upward current of air, and then, sitting on the end of its line, floats off to parts unknown.

FAXCY being evicted from your last resting-pn^ if your relatives neglected to pay the rent! Yet this « what happens every day in that island we have Seen hearing so much of lately, Porto Rico. In the 3ampo Santo, the consecrated field, which lies on ;he cliff edp near San Juan, it is impossible to buy grave right out, except at a price which puts it out )f the question for poor people. The graves are eased for a term of years, and if at the end of that ;ime the lease is not renewed, the remains are dug up ind the ground re-let. A NEW church at Sparkbrook, Birmingham, is to be built from designs by Mr. W. H. Bidlake. The west front of the building will consist of a lofty tower on the central axis of the church, with deeply- recessed porches each side, forming a symmetrical frontage. Under the tower will be the baptistry, and the porches, with cloak-rooms adjoining, will lead to a nave of six bays. crossed transversely by a series of arches carrying the roof. The chancel of three bays will be terminated by a large traceried window. The building will be of red brick externally with a roof of green slates, and of light bnff brick in. ternally, while the tracery is to be of buff terra-cotta. The nave floor is to be of wood blocks. Accommoda- tion is to be provided for 1000 worshippers, and the cost of the church will be about £ 10,000.