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lewis m. grist, proprietor. | % Jitbejreitbtnf Jfantilji ^cfosjjapcr: Jfor % |)roniotioit of % political, Social, ^jrinilfural anb Commtrrial Interests of % Soitl|. jterms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 31. YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, APBIL 3Q, 1885. ISTO. 18. Ibe $tttJg ?cUer. ; THREE PEOPLE. "And so she is coming at last, Dulce?" ' "Oh, yes," excitedly. "She is coming to- ( day, and I have fixed up her room so pret- | tily, and we?you and I, Harold?will try and make her contented and not let her miss < * v her gayeties. And we will take her to all ] the pretty places, and get up little parties for ^ her, and?and?everything?" says Dulce } vaguely, as she pauses for breath and pats } in a friendly way, the brown hand resting < beside her whiter one. ? "And probably get snubbed for our pains," i says theyeung man, gloomily. "I don't ' likeanyof it, Dulce! I shall not like this city j ladv who is coming to spoil with her high < ana mighty ways, all our cosy little walks . and talks. She will take you from me, Dulce. j She will tell you I am too big and brown i and rough for a tender little girl like you. ] She will talk to you about her lily-fingered | i city beaux, with their perfumes, their ac-1 j tresses, and their divine taste in carpets and wall-papers?and what do I know of such j * things, dear. I know every inch of the old i Craigmair Wood by heart. I can row a < boat with the best of them. I can shoot, i ride, and catch more speckled trout in one < day than they ever saw in all their dainty, I perfumed lives; and I have loved you so | dearly, Dulce, that you have grown not to < dislike my rough and homely ways, and j you have found the little good that there ,? was in me, dear. And now," still more 1 gloomily, "Miss Helen Mars, who is a crit- j ic and a woman of the world to her fingertips, is coming, and when you see her slyly ] smile and hear her murmur somethingabout < a 'rustic swain', you will be ashamed you 1 ever said you loved me; and when I see 1 that?for you were never good at hiding 1 things, Dulce?then I shall say that you 1 knew from the very first how it would be." j The girl in the swaying hammock laughs lightly, but nestles near the dejected figure < on the camp stool, and says: 1 "Nonsense, Harold; how can you paint j such wretched pictures? Now, if I were ] easily frightened I should just put my fin- 1 gers into my ears and take to the woods at j the first sign of Miss Mars' approach?there to remain and eat berries, if there were 1 any, and be covered at night by the tradi- 1 tional birds with the legendary leaves. Why should she poke fun at you? She 1 won't and if she should, do you suppose I'd j ^ listen? A rustic swain, indeed," indignantly. "More likely she will fall head: j over ears in love with you. I am sure < she never saw any one so handsome, so u strong, and so altogether to be desired." 1 "Stop, Dulce, stop!" cries the young man, < holding up both nands. "It is not likely that j Miss Mars will even notice that I am pres- 1 ent. She will quite overlook me. How 1 cheap I shall feel! Indeed, I begin to feel < so already. One might have me for almost ] nothing?such a bargain!" "I don't think you'd be cheap at any < Erice," says Dulce, at which they both iugh, and Harold says: "Come my sweetheart, and walk to the gate with me. I must be out of sight before the dragon who is to spoil our summer, comes. She would not fancy even such a nonentity as I to see her descend from the carriage, travel . stained and dusty. I will come to-night and make my best bow and utter a few polite lies to the effect that I am glad to see her here and hope her health may be imf>roved by a country residence. And she will ook me over and smile at my elephantine iattempts at society nothings?ana then? and then?I shall take my hat and say: 'Good-night, Miss Mars; good night Miss Rodney,' and touch the tips of your fingers before I go alone here, Dulce, where you always go with me." They are walking together now, Qver the soft green grass, under the great oak trees whose rustling branches seemed to whisper to each other and laugh at the lovers' vows, breathed beneath, to a little side gate half hidden in the shrubberry that divides Dulce Roddey's home from the larger, more extensive Craigmair, the property of this tall, stalwart young fellow, who strides along, cutting at the tall grass with his walking stick, and looking as thoroughly out of humor as a handsome, care-free bit of masculinity can look. "It seems to me, Harold, you are making yourself odious for no reason at all," says Dulce decidedly. "Miss Mars is sure to be nice and pleasant, and it is unkind and selfish, Harold, to make such a fidget, when you might," insinuatingly, "make it so nice for us." "I dare say you are right, Dulce?you always are. I w ill go to the utmost limits of hospitable possibilities to take that little wrinkle out of your forehead." He took her in his arms as he speaks, and Dulce's nose sinks contentedly into his coat-collar. "How is it 1-hat a mite like you can so take possession of a great person, as I am, and make him do so gladly what he most hates? I shali be very glad to see Miss ? ?* ?\nt? nr?A Kai nr? c luars now , auu juu oiian pu > mc iui i .glad?how??in kisses, Dulce, my darling." ! 1 lie raises her head and presses his lips to j her soft, warm mouth. j j When Dulce is at last in undisputed pos-! t session of herself she says, with a little up- j i ward glance: "Don't fall in love with her, i Harold. She is very lovely, papa says." j 1 They have reached the gate now, and j i he stands, with his arms folded upon the I s top, looking down upon her with a half-1 teasing, half-tender smile. Some how a j ] little pang goes through Rulee's heart as 1 she looks up at the.fond face, with dark, 1 laughing eyes meeting hers. The mouth I is weak and irresolute?the only fault to be found in the handsome manly face. j "And are you afraid of that horrible pos- j sibility, Dulce, my own?" he asks gayly, < drawing her closer to him. * i She laughs brightly. "If I could not trust r you I should be in agonies of despair at the 1 Eresent moment, instead of sending you ' I ome so that 1 may go back ?and dress. You must go now or I shall be late. Good- I by, and come early to-night," and Dulce s goes happily across the lawn, looking back i once, just.in time to catch and blush at a < caress thrown from the tips of Harold's 1 fingers as he lingers, looking after her. ] Very fair is Dulce Rodney's home, with s the soft moonlight over it. The low stone 1 house with the wide verandas, upon which j the long windows open and show within a ! 1 - vista of bright lights and velvet hangings j of dark and glowing tints. Outside, the I ; wide, low steps running down to the smooth i i lawn, dotted here and there with beds of I < scarlet flowers, and beyond all the glint of 1 the great ocean perfectly quiet but for the ! soft lapping of the waves on the pebbly 1 shore. ! Very quietly and lovely it looks to the I 1 At 1- ^ 1 I young man coming inrougn uie.iuue gaie i and into the shadow of the shrubbery. He looks toward the house, "Can they be so lost to the beauties of this night as to be there? Probably," with growing disgust, "Miss Mars has a lively fear of the touch of i God's dew upon her dainty feet." i But, as he looks toward the group of trees j < where swings the many-colored-hammock,! i a white gleam catches his eye. He comes ] quietly nearer. Yes, some one is sitting ] there, and that some one has on a white ; dress. He peers into the surrounding shad-1; ows. Yes, it is Dulce, and alone. Where! is the charming guest? O happy thought! She did not come, and Dulce is waiting in < her favorite place to tell him so. He approaches confidently. "She has not come, Dulce?" in a loud tone of unmistakable : pleasure and self congratulation. "Yes," said Dulce, rising and coming to ; meet him. i "No! Is she really here ?" in a voice expressive of the deepest disappointment. "And is she all your fancy painted her, Dulce? I'll swear not! These beauties are i always overrated, and?" Here he becomes conscious that Dulce is endeavoring to con- i vey some information, and at the same moment a slender, dark figure comes out of : ??????^?? ? the shadows and says, in a voice the like of which Harcld never heard before, it is so low, and soft, and musical, "Am I the unhappy person who has disappointed Dulce ?" Dulce is laughing, with a keen appreciation of Harold's mental condition, and says, brightly: u0h, that is so like you Harold. Yes, this is Miss Mars?Helen, this is Harold. He hasanother name, and it Desmond, but no one calls him anything but Harold." "Then of course I shall do the same as every one else," says Miss Mars, decidedly, ind lays a slim, soft hand in Harold's. Then they all sit down quite cozily and laugh at Harold's blunder, and Dulce plans til sorts of festivities in Miss Mars' honor, md Harold finds himself listening for that soft, strange voice, and wishing she would *peak oftener. How many times after his thoughts went back to that first evening, rhe silvery moonlight over the house and grounds, Dulce's merry chatter, but, more listinct than all else, that low, clear voice. A.t last Dulce says, "Let us go into the house, ind you will sing us one song, Helen ; you ire tired, but you will sing just one?" and, Miss Mars assenting, they go up the steps md across the wide veranda, into the draw ng room. As yet Harold has had but the most shadowy view of Miss Mars' figure, and as :hey enter the lighted room he looks at her with pardonable curiosity as to what manner of woman this may be. She was exquisitely lovely both in face and form. She had a transparent, colorless skin, like the petals of a narcissus. She had oriental eyes nf blue-black, which looked immensely large (l in her delicate face. She had slender feet and tiny ears and a perfect self-possession, which gave her almost an air of distinction and made her seem out of place among Dulce's bric-a-brac, canary birds, and house plants. She was like a picture, with her soft, pale-gold hair coiled low down on her neck in high art fashion. Like a soft harmony in black and gold she was, with her fllmly robes clinging closely round her and the old gold, like tarnished yellow, touching her here and there. She goes to the piano and sings. The song was all about a soldier and a knot of ribbon, and there was a little wail of "adieu" and heartache through it which Harold knew she did feel, but still he felt unreasonably sorry for her. She gives him her hand again as he is going, and ne carries the thrill which the touch of her fingers brings long after Dulce's tender kiss in a dark corner of the veranda is forgotten. "Is she not lovely?" says I)ulce, and very" is the concise answer she receives, at which she wonders mightily, and thinks Harold strangely blind. ; The long, sweet summer days go by and ?ach one finds Harold Desmond with Dulce and her guest. Oftenest with Miss Mars now, for Dulce has gradually dropped out af their excursious. "My household cares are many," she would say<and sometimes nr?w fhpv fnrcrpf. to nsk her. hut would set off, Harold laden with Miss Mars' easel, camp chair, color box, and all the artist's paraphernalia she affected. This afternoon they are all together unJer the great trees trying to believe that they are cool and comfortable. Miss Mars, in a wicker chair, with her long primrose satin and soft muslin drapery about her, is looking more than usually lovely. "I am really getting fat; absolutely, downright fat," she says, attentively regarding one perfect hand and arm and holding it up for inspection. "There is something so repulsive about that word 'fat,' something so ?ross and commonplace and so disgustingly suggestive of the butcher and the grocer's Doy," she continues as she slowly waves a arge fan back and forth to coax some refreshing breeze to her fair face. "But a judicious quantity of the real article is immensely becoming," says l)ulce, vho is sitting on the grass with a broad expanse of lavendar muslin and lace about her; "just look at Helen and see what our country air has done for her. Why, upon ny word, her cheeks are as pink as mineire they not, Harold ??and it is vastly becoming." "Yes, I shall resemble a dairy-maid in no ;ime whatever," says Miss Mars, with a low augh and a glance at Harold. "It is your close and impolite scrutiny, Dulce, that has orought the tardy blushes to my cheeks." Harold is lying full length on the grass and lasnot taken his eyes from Miss Mars' flow?r-like face for a longer time than perhaps le knows. She is perfectly conscious of his i jaze, and lets her eyes meethis occasionally ! or an instant before her white lids fall. "Miss Mars will never look like a dairy-1 naid," says Harold, slowly. "She will lever be anything but white and delicate- I ooking; not fit to meet the hard, rough xlgesof life." "Bless me!" cried Dulce. "If I eat pickles tnd slate-pencils and get nice, and sallow, ind bony, will you say those.pretty things :o me, Harold? But," with a profound >igh, "I am always so offensively well, there ;eems to be no chance of my having a nice ingering illness. Dulce is not looking like her happy self. Her eyes are heavy and have dark rings beleath them, suggestive of tears and wakeul nights; but she is always in the gayest ipirits, and Harold and Helen are strangely jlind. Miss Mars rises from her rocker with languid grace and draws on her long, loose, tan:olored gloves, cheerfully.. "I am going nto Craigmair Wood," she announces. "It sannot well be wanner there, and I have a "ancy that the shade is deeper. Come, Dulce, md we will stay until evening and Harold shall have our tea sent out to us there." Obedient to her mandate they rise, and Harold unfurls Miss Mars' lace parasol and lolds it carefully over her, while Dulce folows with laughter on her lips, but some-; :hing very like tears in her eyes. The long, hot day is over at last, and the daring, burning sun has sunk out of sight. Hut with the deepening shadows come no . ooling breezes; the air is hot and close, and i feeling of oppression is over everything. There is a dull bank of clouds against the horizon, but overhead the stars are shining aright and clear. By the side of a little stream that flows through Cragmair, Harold and Dulce are standing together. She has no pink cheeks md rosy lips now. Pier face is all a lead?n white, and there is a drawn look about :he mouth that has taken away all the pretty curves and dimples. She seems somehow much older, and thinner, and weaker than the Dulce of an hour ago. tie is holding both her hands against his areast and speaking rapidly. "Dulce! Dulce!" he is saying, "what can you think of one who is so false its I ? I did not mean to love her. I fought against it jnough, Cod knows, but from the first it was no use. Many and many times have I vowed to go away and break my own heart rather than hurt you, dear. But I am >uch a pitiable coward I could not leave her! I am bound heart and soul to that :>ne woman! 1 cannot make you understand how I love her! I would give worlds to hate her and be back again with only your kind little face in my heart. But when 1 see her?when I even hear her voice?I could fall down and worship the very earth her dainty feet have pressed ! I ;lon't know why I tell you all this, only that you have always been the only true friend I have ever bad." His voice breaks here but he goes on: "I am not hurting you, Dulce? Oh, my true little girl! Can you not forgive and, what is better, forget me, who is so unworthy of you?" She draws her hands gently away and says, with a wan little smile: You do not want me to forget you. You want me al-1 ways to remember you and be fond of you ! and?and your wife." She says it bravely and smiles in so friendly a way that the clouds almost disappear from his face. "And you do not care after all, Dulce ?" Not care?with that gray pallor and those white, set lips?with those hunted, hopeless eyes, with those small hands clinched so tightly that the nails leave purple crescents on the soft palms. He asks her if she cares, and she, looking at him, knows that all the brightness has gone out of her life forever; she feels numb ana cold, and dead, but she stands erect with her little head thrown back, and her brave voice says steadily: "I never cared much for anything, did I ? I was never one to go into heroics, though, I dare say, it is the proper thing. Helen is in the gnrden ; go to her, and if you let me be your friend I shall be happy." Shegi ves him one of her hands and smiles, and he kisses it and says: "You have made me a njew man, Dulce. I was miserable in the thought that in gaining my happiness I would wreck yours." "Well," she says evenly, "you need not have been afraid, you see?now go;" and, with a last pressure of the hand he holds, he goes from her. And then Dulce lies down on the soft grass, with her head on the knotted roots of a.great oak. How still and calm it is there?how tired she is. She will not go home, but stay there always in the soft, cool grass?and Harold does not love her? does not love her?strange, she cannot cry? now Uini me sittrs art; growing?anu sue was to have been his wife?Harold's wife? she can almost laugh?Helen will be that now?and what was that?a drop of rain? another?and still another?and faster they come. How nice and cool they are, thinks Dulce. The grass is getting wet, and she pressed her hot face and hotter hands into it. She is not afraid, but she cannot think for the noise the thunder makes. She is tired? sotired. The lightning blinds her eyes. Always without Harold now. Can that be for her to bear. Never again to watch for him. Never to hear his dear voice. "Ah, God," cries the tortured girl heart, "I cannot bear it!" She raises herself in her drenched clothes to her knees, and clasps the rugged treetrunk with both arms. "I cannot bear it! Let me die! Let me die!" And as if in answer to that prayer there comes a flash that seems to rend the heavens, and the old oak is shattered to its roots. The clinging arms loose their hold, tne aching heart is forever at rest, and the sunny head falls forward; Dulce has gone "through the straight and dreadful pass of death." ******** Only one scene more: A quiet country churchyard and a little new-made grave. The fresh earth, heaped above the stilled form, is almost covered with white, scented flowers, placed there by loving hands. 'All is still, peaceful and lovely, and surely Dulce is content, resting so quietly among the flowers she loved, with the soft summer breezes blowing over her. But across the grass come3 a man with a white, haggard face, and he falls with outstretched arm prone upon the ground by the little mound. O! Dulce, your heart never ached as his does now! He went from Dulce.that night, now a week ago, with quick, eager steps to her. And she laughed at him. "My dear Harold, I shall- not marry you. How absurd you are! Did I say I loved you. Well, you should not have believed me. I am going home to-morrow to be married. What! Have I not told you that before? You love me? Well, that is not my fault. Love you ? Not the least bit in the world, my friend," and she smiled into his face, serene, affable, nonchalant. And now he has brought his broken, remorseful heart to Dulce, and lies there, in the still, evening twilight, without hope in life or beyond it; with his changed face in the damp earth and his outflung arms crushing the white flowers. LOUIS KILL. Louis Kiel, the instigator of the present rebellion of the Indians and half-breeds of Manitoba against the Canadian Government is a man who has had a remarkable career. He was born in Manitoba, in 1844?all that portion of British America being then under the regime of the Hudson Bay Company. He is of French ancestry, but has ? ? ? -1 ? 1- - - IT. !. IT some inaian diooci in nis veins, ne is wen educated, bold, and insinuating in his manners, in fact just the man to place himself at the head of the French half breeds when they resolved to resist the intrusion of the Canadian people when their goverment purchased the territorial rights from the Hudson Bay Company in 1809. It was thought by many that some of that company's officials were inciters of the revolt, owing to their discontent at a new Government being set up where they had so long held undisputed sway. However that may have been, Kiel commanded the half-breeds and took possession of Fort Garry. He established a provincial government, seized all the property at the Fort, the value of which amounted to hundreds of thousands of dollars, and when a number of loyal civilians attempted to resist him, they were put down and one of their number was shot. When Colonel Wolseley now General Lord Wolseley, and the Canadian militia 1,000, strong appeared in front of Fort Garry, lliel fled and the provincial government was dissolved. At that time some concessions were made to the half-breeds of Manitoba?each of them getting 240 acres of land. This was satisfactory to the insurrectionists. The present outbreak is owing to the fact that the half-breeds of the remaining portion of the Northwest were not similarly treated. What Kiel, now wants is to get for the other half-breeds what the insurrection of 18(39 got for the people of Fort Garry. The outbreak of 188") is chargable to the Dominion Government, as it is claimed that they knew of the trouble brewing as early as the fall of 1884, but took no measures to settle the claims of the Indians. Ax okaxdk Gradkk.?There is no standard orange grader. The grader in use at Kiverside consists of a stand thirty-eight inches by nine and a half feet in surface dimension's. It is inclined from one end to the other, the higher end standing thirtysix inches from the ground and the lower eighteen inches. At the upper end there is a table inclined somewhat, but not as much as the rest of the apparatus; dimensions, thirty-eight by thirty-three inches. Below this there are two series of slats running lengthwise, each forty inches long. These slats perform the office of a riddle for the oranges in process of sorting. The slats in the upper series are two and a half inches apart. The fruit is first placed upon the table and allowed to roll down the incline. The smallest fruit drops betwen the slats of the first series. The oranges that are too large for the last slats (i. e., more than three inches in diameter) run off the end of the table. Thus three grades are accomplished. Beneath each of the riddles is fastened a burlap, bagging to the middle, where there is a hole allowing the oranges to roll into the receptacle provided for them. By this appliance the work of grading is accomplished very quickly and accurately. ^isccUauecus gteading. EARTH VIBRATIONS. HOW MOST ANIMALS ARE AFFECTED BY EARTH TREMORS. Very probably not only fish but animals and some birds hear as much by the vibration of the earth as by the sound traveling in the atmosphere, and depend as much upon their immediate perception of the slightest tremor of the earth as upon recognition by the ear in the manner familiar to ourselv.es. When rabbits, for instance, are out feeding in the the grass, it is often possible to get quite close to them by walking in this way, extremely slow, and carefully placing the foot by slow degrees upon the 1 mi.^ glllUIKI. xuu rniiiiain men iiicici^ [jicsjcu, and not stepped upon at all, so that there is ( no jar. By doing this I have often moved ] up within gunshot of rabbits without the ! least aid from cover. Once now and then I have walked across a field straight at them. 1 Something, however, depends on the direc- tion of the wind, for then the question of 5 scent comes in. TJp some degree it is the same with hares. "'It is certainly the case with birds, as wood pigeons, a flock of them, will remain feeding only just the other side 1 of the hedge; but if you stamp the earth, 5 will rise instantly. So will rooks, though 1 they will not fly far if you are not armed. 1 Partridges certainly secure themselves by : attention to the faint tremor of the ground. < Pheasants do so too, and make off, running ' through the underwood long before any ' one isin sight. The most sensitive are land- i rails, and it is difficult to get near them, for ' thisreason. Though the moving grass must 1 conceal an approaching person from them '? as it conceals them from him, these birds 1 change their positions, no matter how qui- < etly he walks. Let him be as cunning as 1 he will, and think to cut off corners and < cross the landrail's retreat, the bird baffles 1 him nine times in ten. That it is advised 1 of the direction the pursuer takes by the i vibration of the surface is at least probable. 1 Other birds sit and hope to escape by re- < maiuing still till they detect the tremor coming directtoward them, when they rise. 1 Bain and dry weather change the suscepti- < bility of the surface to vibrate, and may 1 sometimes in part account for the wildness ! or apparent tameness of birds and animals. ' Should any one doubt the existence of such < I tremors he has only to lie on the ground 1 with his ear near the surface; but, being j unused to the experiment, he will at first only notice the heavier sounds, as of a wagon ' or a carthorse. In recent experiments with 1 j most delicate instruments devised to show j the cosmic vibration of the earth, the movements communicated to it by the tides, or by the "pull" of the sun and moon, it has been found almost impossible as yet to carry out the object, so greatly are these move- ments obstructed by ceaseless and inexpli- 1 cable vibrations of the solid earth. There is nothing unreasonable in the supposition that, if an instrument can be constructed to show these, the ears of animals and birdsliving organisms, and not iron and steel? ; should be able to discover the tremors of 1 the surface.?Life of the. Field. AFGHANISTAN. Afghanistan, the Asiatic country which is now attracting attention through Eng- ( land and Russia's belligerent attitude over it, occupies an extensive area between Persia on the west and British India on the east, Beloochistan on the south and the i ! Hindoo Koosh mountains on the north. Ij j It lies between north latitudes 28 degrees i and 86 degrees, and-embraces a great va- j i riety of climate, the heat in the eastern ] | part being intense in summer, the ther- i | mometer rising as high as 120 degrees | in the shade, while in the mountain regions ] the snow lies all the year. The difference < ! in the elevation of different regions is so < great that it has been said of Cabool, its cap- 1 ital, that at a day's journey from it the < snow never falls; and at two hours journey i from it snow never melts. At Kandahar < and Girihsk, the summer heats and the si- i moons render life almost intolerable. Its I agricultural resources are naturally fine, but! the people being more given to war than I 1 to the peaceful pursuits of agriculture, j < have failed to develop all its resources in j that line. Though a large part of the coun- j try is mountainous and rocky, with large < areas of arid deserts, there are well-watered, ; fertile valleys, dotted with violets, thyme ] and clover, and remarkable for picturesque ] beauty. In the arable regions, grain grows I in abundance, and fruits of all kinds. ' The most extensive of these valleys and < plains are Cabool and Peshawer, besides a < rich plain in the vicinity of Herat. A large . portion of the southern and south-western I part of the country for a space of 800 by 100 ] miles is a desert waste. The winds are . generally from the west, and cold, and the east winds are hot, but the climate, on an average, is cooler than that of India. There are not a great many diseases, the chief be- j ] ing opninaimia ana iever anu ague, wun an < occasional invasion of small pox. The conn- i try is about GOO miles long, from east to ! west, and 400 broad, from north to south, i The plateau averages 4,000 feet in height, i and there are many mountain ranges of i great height. Herat, in west Afghanistan, j is one of the chief cities, is strongly fortified i and is the key to the present situation. It I lis nearly 400 miles west of Cabool, and be| fore the Persian siege, in 1838, its popula- i i tion was estimated at 45,000, but it is now < < j supposed to be about 30,000. Herat has been i i j a grand central mart for the products of In- j ' dia, China, Tartary, Afghanistan and Per-1 < sia. It manufactures carpets, caps, cloaks, shoes, etc. For a long time it was the capi-1 tal of the Empire founded by Tamerlane i in the fourteenth century. In the southern j < part of the country the sugar-cane and cotton are grown ; and in the oases of the san- ? I dy regions the date palm grows abundantly, ; j and forms an important part of the food of 1 the people. Wheat is the staple, and rice, corn, barley, millet, lentils and tobacco are ? ; grown for home consumption. The mul! berry tree grows in the cool valleys. The i j sides of the mountains are covered with ; great forests which lumbermen have not i j disturbed yet. Wild animals?bears, leopj ards, wolves, tigers, lions?are foupd in the i j warmer parts of the country. The great: chain of the Hindoo Koosh Mountains, on : j j the north, rises from the lower regions of j four distinct ranges. Thick forests of pine I i ; and wild olive, with a profusion of dowers, j; cover the lowest range. The second range ' is still more densely wooded, nearly to the ! i top. The third is almost bare. The fourth ! j 1 lorms a range of the stupendous Himalaya ; i system, and rises in bold, spire-like peaks, j ; i which are crowned with perpetual snow, i The clearness of the atmosphere is remarka- \ \ ble, and it is claimed that the ridges and 1 , hollows of these mountains may be seen at1 ; a distance of 250 miles. . The Government is a monarchy. The j kingdom is divided into provinces, in each 1 of which is an officer who collects taxes. ? The tribes are ruled by sirdas (chiefs); and i in the towns, justice is administered by the * cadis, when the Afghan does not take the j j law into his own hands, which he generally j ( does. Estimates of the population vary 11 ! frnm two onrl n.hnlf millions to five mil- i I iions, the most recent estimates placing it i at a little over four millions. Of these, nearly two-thirds are Afghans and Pathans, who are Mohammedans. They arq idle, 5 vicious, violent, and have a deplorable tendency to commit robbery. The Afghans are very ancient, and believe themselves descended from the Ancient Hebrews. In , Persian history they are said to date their | name to Afghan, son of Eremis, son of Saul, King of Israel, whose posterity, carried j away at the time of the captivity, was settled by the conqueror in the mountains of Ghori, C'abool, Candahar and Ghizni the country was successively a part of the Per! sian and Greek Empires. The name "Afghan" is not recognized by the natives, but is applied to them by their Persian neighbors. Their proper name is Pooshtana, plural Pashtanneh. The Hindoos call them 1 Paitans, Patans, or Paetans. They are gen orally thought to bo of Arabian parentage, [n the ninth century the Afghans became subjects of the Persians, and up to 1708, ^ svith intervals of independence, the country las been an appendage to some neighborng empire, it was long divided between a ;he monarchs of Persia and Hindostan. ; fhe history of Afghan independence dates j Tom 1708, but wars and insurrections, and c :he downfall of one power and the uprising \ ;f another mark its history from the be- j finning. In 18:38 Dost Mohammed, the c einging sovereign, became involved in ^ lostilities with a Hindoo prince of the Pun- j ah, then in alliance with Persia, and this x led to the invasion and conquest of the coun- j try by the British, who left garrisons in j some of the larger towns. But a few years ^ later the Afghans rose in insurrection and s irove our the British troops with terrible < daughter. In 1842 the British invaded the j country a second time, committed great ? ravages, and destroyed the greater part of j the city of Cabool, with many other towns, r Rut thev were driven out acain. haviner , jained nothing except the release of some j British prisoners who had been retained , since their last defeat. ( THEODORA. J Theodora was the daughter of a bear- i keeper attached to the hippodrome at Con- t dantinople, and was one of three sisters j whom tneir mother sent on the stage when ^ they were still children seven or eight t pears old. With talent either for music or j iancing, her fortune was in her face and j tier tongue. Her pretty features, her nim- i ble movements, her audacious smartness in j repartee, made her the most popular and ( notorious in the pantomimes (to use the t nearest modern equivalent) which delighted t i people whose taste had fallen below the \ regular drama. Needless to say what was j the morality of the Byzantic stage, or what ( the life which the young actress led. Her f enemies of later years declared it to have j been more than usually shameless and dis- j justing, but the question, if delicately bal- t meed less or more, besides being now insol- ^ nble, need make little difference to our view ? nf her character. i After some years she accompanied a j wealthy Tyrian as his mistress, to the gov- ( ernorship of Tripoli; quarreled with him, \ [eft him, and after being reduced to sad j straits in Egypt, found her way back to i Constantinople, where, according to a story ( current long afterward in the city, she sought to support herself by spinning wool in a house near the edge of the Golden Horn. This looks like trying to turn over a new leaf. However, she did not conceal her charms. Encouraged by the words of an Oriental fortune teller, who had promised her wealth and power, she threw herself in the way of Justinian, who yielded at once to her fascinations. He was then about forty years of age?probably some twenty years her senior?nephew of the regular emperor, and gathering into his hands the reinsoi guverniu'jui> which were uegiuuiu^ to slip from the grasp of his aged and ignorant uncle. He was an able and well-educated man, already remarkable for his fondness of theology and his assiduous attention to public business. His passion led him to promise to marry the wnilom actress, but a law dating (in substance) from the time of Augustus, and re-enacted by later emperors, forbade the union of senators and other persons of exalted rank to women who had been on the stage. Nothing was left but to repeal the law, which the emperor was compelled, by the urgency of his nephew, to do, and the statute may still be read in that corpus juris, which so long held sway over continental Europe, a monument of Theodora's ! arts ahd Justinian's susceptibility. There i < had been, however, a more serious obstacle to the nuptials of the eager pair. The Empress Euphemia was an ignorant and rustic I person, who had risen in life too late to ac- i juire the polish of the capital. Eut she i was pious, and she was respectable to the backbone. She had probably heard of Theo- < iora's earlier fame, for the court was like 1 most courts; anyhow she knew what Theo- < lora had been, and the idea of her nephew < marrying such a person was too shocking to 1 ae considered. < While she lived she held out and kept j ber husband to his resistance ; but when she i lied he gave way, the law was repealed, 1 ind the marriage was solemnized, and when j in a few years the old emperor.died, Theo- < Jora was crowned along with her husband, I and received the homage of the Senate, the < priesthood, and the people. A rise like this < bad never been seen before, not even in 1 Constantinople, and was never seen again. < That such a person should have married an < emperor was wonderful enough. But that < A' all emperors such should have married i Justinian, the studious and pious Justinian, < the industrious and abstemious Justinian? s here was, indeed, matter for a hymn to j Aphrodite, had there been a poet to sing it. 1 The Contemporary Review. i A Woman's Work.?She must always ' have the masculine buttons of the family < sewed on so they will never come off while < in use, and she must keep the family ho- i siery so that nobody would ever mistrust J that there were toes in the stockings while < they were on. She must hold herself in constant readiness to find everything her i husband has lost?and a man never knows < where to find anything. He will put his 1 boots carefully away on the parlor sofa, and < when he has hunted for them half an hour i he will suddenly appeal to his wife with a i countenance like an avenging angel and < demand "What in thunder sne has done < with his boots?" She must shut all the ' doors after her lord and master, and like- ' wise the bureau drawers, for a married man I was never known to shut a drawer. It 1 would be as unnatural for a hen to go in I swimming for recreation. She must go to bed first in cold weather, ] so as to get the bed warm. Her husband, i if he be a wise man, never asks her to do i this. Oh, no; but he sits to "just finish this piece in the paper," and waits till she has ?ot the sheets to a comfortable temperature, i Ah, there are a great many tricks in the I trade of living together. A woman is ex- 1 pected to take care of the baby, even after ] the first infantile wonder has multiplied i into a round half dozen. And if he doubles < up wiui me tone or iuhis ui euuuig teem ui i tlie necessary evils of mumps and measles : and whooping cough and scarlet fever and : rash and throat distemper and short sleeves 1 and bare legs and pins sticking into him i and too much candy and a had temper, her ' husband tells her that he "does wish she ] would try and quiet her baby," and he says it, too, as if he thought she alone was responsible for its being in existence, and as if she was considerably to blame, too. And when she has the headache nobody thinks of minding it?a woman's always having the headache. And if she is "nervous enough to fly," nobody shuts the door my quieter, and nobody tucks her on the lounge with a shawl over her, or coddles her to death as man has to be coddled under such circumstances. We might go on infinitely with the troubles of being a woman, ind if'there is a man who thinks a woman has an easy time of it, why, just let him pin on a pound of false hair and get inside a pair of corsets, and on a pull-back overskirt, \nd be a woman himself, and see how he likes it. Wiiat is Life??"What is life?" asked i reflective friend of the philosophic MuntFord. The answer constitutes one of the most charming utterances ever expressed by mortal. Study it: "The present life is sleeping and waking, it is night on going to bed and morning on jetting up. It is to wonder what the day tvill bring forth ; it is rain on the window as one sits by the fire; it is to walk in the garlen, and see the flowers and hear the birds iing; it is to hear the news from the east, < ivest, north and south ; it is to read old and lew books; it is to see pictures and hear music; it is to have breakfast, dinner and c t is tea; to have friends, and love; it is to s icnow ourselves thought of many times a c lay, in many places, by children and grand- 1 . hildren and many friends." i HOW A MAN WALKS. I REMARKABLE THIXG ABOUT PEDESTRIAN ISM. One of the most remarkable things about i man's walk is the diagonal movement vhich characterizes it. The reader may' magine the hands and feet to form the four :orners of a paralelogram, and the diagonal imbsare, of course, the right arm and left eg, and the left arm and right leg. By diag>nal we, therefore, intend to convey the fact hat the diagonal limbs during the locomoion always swing in the same direction, j \ soldier on parade keeps his arms motioness by his side, and on no account must hey be allowed to vibrate. This is not ,vhat he would naturally do if left to himlelf. Watch any one person out of the hunlreds walking along the streets, and it will )e seen that lie invariably swings his arms is he goes, perhaps to an extreme degree f he be a rustic and less so if bred in town, i rhp arms mvinn1 hv the hnrlv like a counle )f pendulums, and with a speed which en;irely depends upon the rate at which lie nay he walking. The athlete, anxious to complete the given number of "laps" in a nile or couple of miles, and outstrip his competitors, swings his arms to and fro, ivith a (juickness whicli corresponds with :he motion of his swift feet; tne business nan also swings his arms with a motion vhich if not so quick, exactly times with ;he motion of his legs; and even the idle nan about town, lounging along some fashonable quarter, unconsciously gives a slow notion to his arms which corresponds to lis tardy legs. Now, if the motion be even carelessly observed, it will be found that ;he right arm swings forward the same j ;ime as the left leg, and when the right leg s advancing it is the left arm that accomjanies it. This is the natural gait, and, to I convince one's self that it is so, it is only reluisite to get a friend to walk across the room n the opposite fashion, i. e., to swing the ightarm forward when stepping out with | he right leg, and then in the same manner, : vhen bringing forward the left to accom-; 3any it with the left arm. Such a gait is j joth unnatural and uncomfortable to the aerson who tries it and also ludicrous to the jbserver who watches a first attempt of the find. The diagonal movement of the limbs s the natural method adopted by man vhen walking, and is a most apparent fact. Oof ton, Wool and Iron. GEN. JUSTO KUFINO BARRIOS. Gen. Justo Rutino Barrios, late President r>f the Central American State of Guatemala, was born in thatState, July 17th, 1835, at San Lorenzo. He spent the early years of his life amongst the farming class and was subsequently sent to the capital (Guatemala) to receive his education and to study law. In 1862 he returned home after the completion Df his studies, but previously made a tour of his native country and Mexico. In 1867, an the 3rd pf August, he, with the assistance 3f his sympathizers, who were antagonistic to the ruling power, stormed the barracks Df San Marcos and routed the garrison. The movement gained strength gradually until Barrios became quite a power in the country. He successfully eluaed attempts of the government to capture him. In 18G9 General Leraphis Cruz rebelled against the government and his forces and those of General Barrios were united. In the attack m Huehuetenago the latter was severely wounded and was forced to hide from the ?nemy until his recovery. The forces of 3en. Cruz, .who continued the war, were iefeated by the government troops and many of the rebels were shot after their . apture. By this time Barrios, who was supposed to have died, had recovered, and gathering remnants of his former army continued his operations against the government. Gen. Grenados, who had been exiled, had, in the meantime, raised a force in Mexico and entering Guatemala joined the command of Barrios, giving to the last the control of the united forces. In 1871 the revolutionists took Tancana and then issued \ proclamation promising to reform the existing evils of the government. On the 10th of May they took ,San Marcos, and on the loth Petalhulen. On the 20th they gained a victory at Chiche, entirely defeating the government forces. In the early part DfJune Barrios took the towns of Antigna, ind Patzical?at which place the Constitution of the reformers was issued and Gen. GJranados was made Provisional President. On the 2Gth of June Gen. Cerna, the actual President, attacked the revolutionists, but was defeated, and Barrios placed himself between Cerna and the capital, causing the latter to flee for safety to Salvador, a neighboring Republic. On the.30th ot June the victors entered the Capital. Barrios was put in command of the West Department ind expelled all the Jesuits therefrom two months utter accepting tne trust, ana me President, Gen. Garcia Granados, did likewise for the whole country. This caused \ forming of a new party, hut Barrios defeated them on the 24th of September and then returned to his work in the West Department. In the meantime the government found itself unable to meet the exigencies of the situation and Barrios was called upon to take the reins, which he did in May, 1872, and immediately suppressed all Jesuit societies and gave the press unexampled liberty besides introducing other reform measures. Onthe4th of June, 1873, Barrios was chosen President of the Republic in the place of Granados, who was considered incompetent. The new President organized railroad and.agricultaral schemes, establish?d a regular postal service, granted concessions to railroads, steamship lines and tele I crraph companies, reorganized the Treasury Department and did everything for the! welfare of his country. He is the framer I M its constitution. In 188o he assumed the ; military control of the whole of Central ; America, although his sister Republics did : not sanction the scheme. Mexico, who was I appealed to by the lesser States, has promised them assistance and the next few I months may show an active state of affairs | :here. The latest advices give an account j tf the battle of Chalchuapa in which the I iuatemalian forces under Barrios were de-1 eated by the Salvadorians. The Guatemalans 'were routed with great slaughter j ind Barrios was killed. His sword was found >n the field after the battle. In consequence )f the defeat of the dictator, hostilities between the allied States and Guatemala lave been suspended and an armistice of >ne month's duration has been announced, fhe Legislative Assembly of Guatemala has mnulled the decree promulgated on Feb uary 28th, 1885, by Barrios, in which a wion of the Central American Republics vas proclaimed and Barrios made dictator ind supreme military chieftain of Central \meriea. ? ? - Petroleum ix Russia.?The Russian I )il region covers an area of over 14,000, :quare miles, with forty-two oil wells in one | listrict, over one hundred in another, four j lundred in a third, and richer regions waitng to be developed to produce still greater 1 results. One spouting well produces, it is said, two millions of gallons a day. The oil is found in places at a depth of a hundred feet, and no well has gone below eight hundred and twenty-five feet. Three Swedish brothers, and a few others, Americans and Englishmen, as well as Russians, who have been in America, have introduced method and system, pipe lines, oilcarrying barges and steamers, tank cars, refineries, joint stock companies, railroads, and now produce 800,000 tons of crpde and 200,000 tons of refined petroleum, and are rapidly finding new markets. In America thereare over 25,000 drilled petroleum wells; in Baku, the Russian oil region of most activity, there are 400, but a single one of these, it is claimed, has thrown up as much oil in a day as nearly the whole of the 25,000 in America put together. Spouting wells in Russia are bofti freouent and constant, arid the overflow is sometimes a serious difficulty, and in some cases run into the sea or low land, and burned to get rid of it.?Scientific American. Deforming the Feet.?The process of deforming the foot of an American child is usually as follows: As soon as the victim is able to walk, a pair of straight-soled shoes, rather narrower than the feet, is provided for it. In the course of a few weeks the shoes, being worn the one habitually on the right and the other on the left foot, begin to take the shape of the respective feet. This is no sooner observed by the careful mother than she exclaims: "Why, Johnny, you're wearing your new shoes all out of shape ; you must change and wear them on the other feet." And if Johnny lorgets, finding the change as no means conducive to comfort, he is whipped to aid his memory. It will be readily understood how well adapted these shoes, now conformed to the natural curves of the feet, are to straighten out the curves of the opposite feet. By this simple means, repeated as often as the feet begin to assert their independence, and persistently carried out, it often happens that by the time a child is six years ola its great toe will be seriously deflected from the rectilliner position which it ought to occupy, and the curve of the sole partially straightened. Fortunately, both lasts and r^gdymade shoes can now be obtained which approximate quite closely to the natural shape of the foot; and not only can the foot of the child be preserved perfect as it grows up by using such lasts ana shoes, but a foot which is already somewhat distorted may even be coaxed back, more or less, nearly to its original shape. 4-^.^. Combination' in Colors.?To dress well nowadays, it is essential to thoroughly understand the combination of colors. There are many new ones this season ; for example, mouse and brown. The brown is just the tint of brown paper. Red and brown blend well. There is a great deal to study with regard to color. Fabric exercises a most powerful influence on certain shades. Brown paper is hardly a thing of beauty, but the same shade in velvet or plush is really beautiful. A good blue in velvet may be hideous in cotton or woolen stuff. No material displays beauty of color better than plush. It reflects the light, as it were, and you see the color in a thousand tones. It is being much used for tea gowns, plainly made, just en Princesse, with a robing in front. I will more minutely describe one. It was made a brilliant mouse tint of plush. The back was cut en Princesse and bordered with hlack fur, carried up either side of the front. This was of white satin, veiled in lace, with looped bows of white ribbon. The lace used is generally machine made Mechlin or Valenciennes. The worsted lace is to be recommended to those who desire durability without much outlay. It ran be had in almost any color. Woolen velvet is a new material to which I would call your attention. It is good looking and good wearing; so also is the silk velvet made on the principle of corduroy, which has found special favor with the best dressmakers. Have A Home.?There area multitude every year who are commencing home life. W'ith hands and hearts linked together, they enter upon their new stage of existence. To such the voice of experience says, have a home. Do not hang about hotels and boarding-houses; keep house, if there is only one room in it, provided there is wit ! enough in the firm to do it. It is wretched ! policy to live a nomadic, boarding house life, in trunks and band-boxes, in the midst of idleness and flirtation, and finally, after i years of wretchedness, have a divorce suit, ; pack two trunks, and then go different l ways to the ends of the earth. Let there be a home where household I treasures can be gathered, household pleas. nroc onirworl thoonfl mnvonionnflfl ; of life preserved, and where God can give | prosperity and fruilfulness, and peace and gladness. Let the home be not a godless home; let it be a place of prayer, of worship, of praise. Let there be a church in the house, and the Lord who loves "the tents of Jacob" ! will deign to bless the abodes of his people, i and crown them with his grace, his mercy, 1 and his peace. From such homes go forth men strong to fight the battles of life, women wise and 1 gentle for all gracious ministries, and children that are like corner-stones, polished 1 after the similitude of a palace.?The Cam\ moil People. Don't Use Big Words.?In promulgat; ing your escoterie cognitions, or articulating ! your superficial sentimentalities and amicaj ble, philosophical or psychological observaj tions beware of platitudinous ponderosity. I Let all conversational communications pos[ sess a clarified conciseness, a compacted com' prehensibleness, eoalescent consistency, and I a concatenated cogency. Eschew conglomI erations of flatulent garrulity, jejune babblement and asinine affections. Lefyour extemperaneous descantings unpremeditat; ed expatiations have intelligibility and ve; racious vivacity, without rhodomontade or thrasonical bombast. Sedulously avoid all ! polysyllabic profundity, pompous prolixity, | psittaceous vacuity, ventriloquial verbosity, and vaniloquent vapidity. Shun double entendres, prurient jocosity, and pestiferous profanity, obscurant or apparent. In other words, talk plainly, briefly, naturally, sensibly, truthfully, purely. Keep from "slang;" don't put on airs; say what you mean; mean what you say. And don't use big words [?Journal of Education. EST Professor Sargeant, of Harvard college, estimates that at the present rate of cutting and consumption of timber the whole ()l Hie grtai luicsia ui mc uiaicn will be cleared in little more than a quarter of a century. Xo less than 10,000,000,000 cubic feet of white pine are required for present needs per annum, and the total annual value of timber consumed for fuel, constructive purposes, etc., is $200,000,000. ? ? ? j?* When it was suggested to Bonaparte that he attempt the conquest of the Chinese he declined, saying "there are too many of them. Once teach them the art of modern warfare and they will overcome Europe and crush out our civilization." Had the French Republic kept this warning in view it would not suffer the ignominy of inventing stories to cover up its frequent defeats at the hands of the Celestials. Joking at Death.?When Dumas was on his death-bed and his end rapidly approaching, his faithful servant, who adored his master, was sobbing audibly in a corner of the chamber. Turning toward the spot, his eyes dimmed in the death struggle, Dumas faintly uttered, "Don't weep, my friend; if I want anything up there, I'll ring for you." + fiSTThe highest railroad viaduct in the world is claimed to be that of Garabit Bridge in France. That remarkable structure is 1,800 feet long, and near the middle of the great central arch thedistance from the bed of the river to the rail is 413 feet.