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a game. Lady Blanche, reclining in a. Iowfautruil, is conversing earnestly wnh Sir Mai-k Gore, who stands beside her. Seeing me, she smiles softly at him and motions him to a chair near her. Asl move past her trailing skirtsa sudden thought of Mons. iiinmel comes to niceâ€"the delicatest. faintest, per- fume reaches me. She runs the fingers of one white hand cm‘essingly across her white Aul‘horof “Llolly Baum." “Tim Baby, "Airy Fairy Lilian,” can. do. ODom, in her favorite white muslin and sweet demure smile, is holdingr Mr, Powell and Sir George Ashurst in thrull. She is bestowing the greater part of her attention upon the former, to the disgust and bewild- erment of honest George, who looks with moody dislike upon his rival. Both men are intent upon taking her down to dinner. There is little need for you to torture your- self with jealous fears, Eir George. When the time comes it is withoutdoubbupon your arm she will lay that little white pink-tinng hand. Bebe is sitting upon a. sofa, with the in- htnated Chips beside her; and IS no longer pale: two crimson spots adorn her cheeks and add brilliancy to her eyes. As I watch her wonderineg she slowly raises her head, and, meeting my gaze, bestows upon me a glance so full of the liveliest reproach, not unmixed with indignation, that I am filled with consternation. \Vhat Inn-e I done to deserve so withering a 100k ? [I turn to find Sir Mark is regarding me earnestly. Instinctiver I glance at the va-~ cant chair beside Lady Blanche, and in do- ing so encounter her dark eyes bent on mine. Verily, I am not in good odor with my guests to-night. .. v. . .. .“wa “I would give something to knowof whom you are thmkmg just now,” says a voice a my elbow. “Not of me, I trust?” ~ ,V ‘. Alf through dinner I try to attract Bcbc's attention, but cannot. 1 add ress her, only to receive the coldest of replies. Even after- wards, when we get back once more to the drawing-room, I cannot manage an explanaâ€" tion, as she escapes to her own room, and does not again appear until the gentlemen hafie joined us. Neither she nor Lord Chandos exchange one word with eachothor throughout the en- tire evenin". With a. sort of feverish gay- ety she chattch to young: Thornton, to Gap- tam Jenkins, to any one who may chance to be near hul‘, as though she foam some sil- ence. Nevertheless the minutes drag. It is the stupiflest night we have known, and I begm to wish I had learned wliist or chess orsomc- thing of that sort. I am out of spirits, and though innocent of what it may be, feel myâ€" self guilty of some hideous blunder. pi‘ “Perhaps 1'. 'onmton will kindly ft;- \‘or us with 3- song 1" he says, \nthout a, smile. Throw open wide the throttlu valve, Your train seems but to stand; 00 swifter, swurthy engineer, Down to the Southern land. Piescutly the dreaded quiet falls. The \vhist-playcz's are happy, the rest of us are not. Sir Mark, with grave politonosg, comes to the rescue. The fnircst girl abidcth there That Nature ever planned; You cannot go too fast, for mu Down to the Southern land. And My. 'l‘lmm m, with {L face own more thunusuully hen.‘ x. willineg consents, and gives us, "What wi‘xl you do, love, when 1 am goin;;'.‘"â€"u propos of his approaching dc» parture 1'01- lndiuuâ€"with much sentimental fervor, and many tender glances directad 01)enlyut".\'iiss Eufioun‘ II. I held her to my heart awhile, I pressed her dainty hand, Then turned my moistened eyes agai n Back to the Nothern land. How slowly does the glass 0:? mm: Four out its grosser sund‘. Oh, engineer, too fast you go, Back to the Northern laud ! "Oh, come, now. That is more than any fellow would believe, you know,” and grins 1L pleased and radiant grin. Bebe, being asked to sing, refuses, gently but firmlv; and when I have delighted my audience with one or two old English bal- lads, we give in, and think with animation of our beds. "'l‘hzmk you," murmurs that young lady, when the duh-i111 ditty is finished, havingr listened to it all through with an air of smi- dcncrl admiration imposuibic to llCBCi‘ibC,£Lll1l unmistakany flattering. “I know no 50119“ that touches me so deeply as that.” “I know you are lung mg at me,” says Chips, frankly, seaming himself ag“lil beside her, and sinking his voice ton Whisper that he fondly but erroneously believes to he in- audible: “but 1 don’t care. 1 would rather have you to make fun of melanin any other girl to love me!" Could infatuation further go‘: “Perhaps one might find it possible to do both," insinuates Miss Beutoun, wickedly ; but, this piece of flagrant hypocrisy proving too much even for her, she raises her fan to a level with her lips and subsides with an ir- repressible smile behind it, while poor little Chips murmurs: I confess to an overpowering feeling of cm- riosity. I dismiss my maid with more haste than usual, and, sitting in my dressing-gown and slippers, long for Bebe’s coming. 1 am convinced I shall not; sleep one win]; if she fails to keep this appointment In the corridor above I 80in hold of Bebe. So that is it ! But surely she must have seen his coming so unexpectedly was a great surprise. And is there a romance connected with her and Lord Chandos ‘2 “Very good. I will come,” quietly disen- gaging my hand, Then, before closing the door, “Indeed, Phyllis, I think you might have told me,” she says, in a tone of deep re- provach‘. “What has vexed you?” I ask, armiounlv. “\Vhy are you not: frlends with me ? You must come to my room before ynu go to bed. Promise.” CHAPTER. XX. nox’rmuxn A LOVER'S FAN GEES. TWO TRAINS. or every movement is an csscucc~~~ BY THE DUCK [£531. PHYLLIS- |”40V- Ni I am not doomed to a sleepless night how ever, as presentlv she comes in-â€"-all her bear utiful lmir loose about her shoulders. “Now, Bebe,” I exclaim, jumping up to give her a. good shake, “liowcould youbo so cross all about nothing? I did not know my- seif he was coming so soon. You made me miserable the entire evening, and spoiled cvcrythin g. ” “I forgot all about him. I knew no reason why I should attach importance to his pres- ence here. I don’t know now, either. 1 was quite ignorant of yourprevious acquaintance with him. Probably hail he waited in Lon- don until next week, as he originally intemL ed, it might have occurred to me to mention his coming, and so 1 would have spared my- self all the cruelty and neglect and wicked looks so lavishly bestowed upon me this evening.” ~ u \r' 1‘ “But ydu knew he was coming; some time; why did you not say so?” r1 , ,,, 7 “Yo: have yet to lem‘n,’ says Miss Bea- oun, who 7's, 1 think, a little ashamed of her pettishness, “that of all things I n10 st (létest being taken by surprise. it puts me out dreadfully; I don’t recover myself for ever so long, and to see Lord Chamlos here, of all people, when I l‘elieved him safe Italy, took away my breath. Phyllis, I don’t know how it is, but I feel I must tell you all about it.” “Yes, (10. l aux so anxious half guess he is, or was, a 1‘ 15 it not so? And smmth wrong ‘1” “View much wrong, indeed," with a nth- 01‘ bitter laugh. “It will be a slight come- down tomy pride to tell you this storv; but I can trust you, can I not? I am not fond of women friends as a ruleâ€"indeed, Harriet is my only oneâ€"but you, Phyllis, have ex- erciaecd upon me some charm7 I do believe, as when 1 am near you I forget to be reserv- ed.” “Is it ‘3 Perhaps sol \Yell, about Lord Chandos. My story is a. short one, you will say, and to the point. 1 met him first two years ago. He foil in love with me, and last year asked me to marry him. That is all ; but you W111 understand by it how little mnâ€" l)itious I was of meetng him again.” “And youâ€"~â€"” “Refused him, dear. How couhl lth 0th- Ci'wise ‘3 He was only Captain Everett then, without a prospect: on earth: and I am no heiress. It would have meant povertyâ€"scar- cely even .what is called ‘gentcel poverty’» had I consented to be his wife; and”â€"with a. quick shudder of disgust‘” I would raâ€" ther he deal, 1 think, thuncn‘ilurc such a life as that." “Lllll you love him, Robe?" “l liked him well enough to marry him, certainl) ,” she admits, slowly, “had circumâ€" stances been diflcrent.” ‘ ‘Tlmt like_y0_u. “'0 are silent for a little time; than Bebe says, in a low tone : “He was so good about it, aml I deserved so little mercy at his hands. I don’t deny 1 had flirted with him horribly, with cruel heartlessncss, considering I knew all along when it came to the final move, I would say ‘No.’ I liked him so well that I could not make up my mind to be brave in time and let him go, never counting the pain 1 would afterwards have to inflict-and bu- ' "’ afterwards have toinmct-und b; Her voice sinks to a. whisper. \Vithout turning my head I lay my hand on hers. “It all happened one morning," she goes on, presently, making a faint {muse between each silence, “quite early. T xere was no- thing poetic or sentimental about it in the way of conservatories or flowers or music. Hehad come to pay me his usual visit. It was July, and mamma and 1 were leaving town the next day. “'0 were nut to see each otheragain far a long time. Perhaps that hastened it. It was a wet day, I remember MI can hear the and drip, drip of the rain- drops nowâ€"~aml we felt silent and (lo ress- ml. Somehow than I hardlyknow howâ€"it was saidâ€"and over.” “How sad it was I" I mm‘mur, atrolrfing the ‘mmd [ hold with (punt Sympathy. ‘And L a: uheuaâ€" “'l‘lienl lob him see: how utterly false and \VOX'thlCSS wasihe woman lie loved. I let him know that even if Indorml him his want of money would be an insurmountable bar- rier between 115%. I think I told him so. I am, not quite sure. of that. I d not recollect (lis~ tinctly (me v. «ml I said that day. I only know that he went away impressed with the belief that l was a mum contemptible money-worshipper.” “Did he say any hing wi'cprc>a<,-liful, mean ‘3” “That was the hardest part of it. He would not reproach me. Hail he been bitter or hard or cold I could have home it; better; but he was silent on the hczul of his wrongs. lie on- ly sat there, looking dis. inctly nnsmnlilc, without an unkind \\'Ol'(l on his lips.” “What? Did he say nutliing?” “Very little. Unless to tell me I hznl treated him (lisgrncefnl’ly, Iilon’t know that, there was anything to be said. lle declared that he had expected just such an answer that he felt he hail no right to hope Ior a happier one. Hedid not blame Incâ€"~0f course I was acting wisely-~4unl so'on. He never nee asked me to reconsider my words, ’ .‘hen he got up and said he must hid me n. longr farewell. He knew a man who would glad- ly exchange With him and give him a chance of seeing a. little Indian life: he was tired of England. You can innigine the kind of thing.” “Poor fellow I How did he lool . “He was very white, and his lips were tightly compressed. And I think there were. â€"t( 17‘s in his eyes. Oh, l’hyllis!’7 cries Dohe passionately, rising to push her chair back sharply, and beginning to pace the room. “when 1 saw the tears in his eycsl alums: gave in. Almost, mark you, not. quite. I am too well trained for that.” “I think I would have relented." “I am sure you would; but your education has been so different. Upon this earth,” says Bebe, slowly, “there’s nothing so mean or so despicable as a women horn and bred as I an}, Taught from our cradles to look on mo- ney and money’s worth as the principal good to be obtained in life: with them'atchwords, ‘nn excellent match,’ ‘a rich marriage} ‘an eligible parti,’ drummed into our ears from the tinn- we put on sashes and short frock-i. There is something desperately nnwhnlcsome about the whole fling.” “Never until‘ tonight. Yum may fancy What a shock it was.” “And he didn’t even I." "s you before going “Did you never see him sinr‘c {’7’ {wk , deeply impressed by hm- mamle‘c and Lin: love-affair generally. 9:) ‘8 because you l-‘now how well I mmimmnm1 so anxious to hear, Yet I was, a lover of yours. M1 3-.)Inething has gone away, as he thought, forever?" I exclaim, unwisely. “Kiss me,” severely. “Haw do you mean, Phyllis? Of course he did not kiss me : why should he?” “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it would have been unusual,” I return, overwhelmed with confusion. “ Only it seemed to mewI mean itis so good to he kissed by one we love.” “Is it?” coldly. “ I am not fond of kiss ing.” C I hasten to change the subject. “W‘hcn he was gone how wretched you must have felt ! “I snppnse I did. But- T shed no tears ; I was too unhappy, .[ think, for more crying. However,”â€"with sudden recklessnessâ€"“it is all over now, and we have lived through it. Let us forget it. Amonth after the scene I have just described, the old lord and his sons were drowned, and Travers Everett came in for everything. You see what I lost by being mercenary.” “I wonder, when he became so rich, he (11d not come back directly, and ask you all over agam.” “He knew mthcrbettcr than that, 1 take it,” says Bebe, with a. slight accession of hat-(tour ; and for the second time I feel ashamed of myself and my ignoble senti- ments. “Hg went abroad and staid there until now. He don’t look as though he had pinml over-much, does he ?” with a laugh. “A broken heart is the most curable thing I know. ] thought Ihad never seen him look so well.” “A mancannot pine forever,” I say, in detCuse of the absent. Then, rather nerv- ously, “I wonder when you will marry now, Babe ‘1” “I have 7101! been crying?” she says, with williul vchcmence; “you must think I have. If you do, I will never be your friend again. HOW dare you say I shed tears for any man?” She puts her bare arms around my neck and lays her head upon my shoulder in such a. position that 1 cannot see her face, and so remains, starl 1g thoughtfully into the fire. “Never, most probably,” kneeling down on the hearth-rug. “You see Ithrew away my good luck. Fortune will scarcely be so complaisant usecond time,” says Bebe, with a. gay laugh, laying her head down upon my lap; and then in another moment I become aware that she is sobbing passionately. The tears rise thickly Vté my eyes, yet I find 110 words to comfort her. I keep silence and suffer my fingers to wander caressing- ly through her dark trosscs as they lie scat- tered across my knees. Perhaps the great- est eloquence would not have been so accept~ able as that silent touch. In a uhort time the sterm passes, and Bebe, raising hcrface, covers it \Vlth her hands. “I did not say it, Bebe. I will never L 1t,"rl return, earnestly. “I know you will bf: very angry with me,_ I say, presently, “but. I must say it. Per- haps you will marry him some time.” “No, never, nev Do not: think it. refused him when he was poor; 1 would not accept him now he is rich. How could you ever imagine it “.7 Even were he to ask me again (which, believe me, is the most unlik- cly thing that could llachn), I would give him the same answer. {6 may think me heartless; he shall not think me so mean a thing as that.” “You do well to say ‘if.’ I don’t sup- pose he does love me now. He did once. Her arms tighten round me, although I think for the moment she has forgotten me and every- thing and is looking back upon the past. After a little while she says, again, “Yes, he did love me once." “ if he loves you he will think no bad of you: “And does still. I am sure of it. His whole face changed when he saw you this evening. I remarked it, tho‘ugh 1 am not generally famous for keen observation. it is impzmsiblc he can have forgotten you, Bebe. ” “Of course. There are so few pretty peo- ple in the world,” with a smile. The change you saw in him to-night, Phyllis, was prob- ably surprise, or perhaps disgust, at finding himself so unexpectedly thrown again into my society. He did not; once address me (luring the CV ' “l‘low could he, when you devoted your- self in such uprovokingly open manner to that ridiculous boy, and afterwards allowed Captain Jenkins to monopolize you exclusive- ly “I I wish, Bebe, you would not.” “Indeed I shall,” says Miss Beatouu, pet- ulantly. “I tlmll flirt as hard as over I can with every one I meet. He shall not think 1 am dying of chagrin and disappoint- “Andwill you not even speak to Lord Chandos ‘1” “Not if I can help it. So you neednot say another word. If you do, 1 will report you to Marmaduke as a dangerous little match- maker, and perhaps marry Captain Jenkins. 1 have really met more disagreeable men. And as for Chips, says Bebe, who has seem- ingly recovered alllier wanted gayety, “that boy is the most amusing thing I know. He is perfectly adorable. And so handsome as lie is too! it is quite a pleuure alone to sit and look at him.” C}:lkl’]jlfll{a XXI. “Bil y is coming to-day,” is the first thought that occurs to Inc, as 1 spring from mum. ” “Yes; it 15 all hours, or rather, small hours, and. 3» armadqu will be here in a mo- ment to scold me {or keeping you from your beauty-sleep. (Joell-night, dearest, and for- get what a goose I made 01' myself. Promise me.” “I cannot promise to fumet what 1 never thought,” I reply, giving her a good hug, and so we part 101‘ some hours Still, I do not go to bed. llltr StOI'V has ufl'euvul me deeply, and sets mt: pondering. I have seen so little real bona fhlrcu'entiment in my homeJife that probably it interests me in a greater degree than is would moat girls 01' my own age differently reared. I Bil; before my lire, my hands clmpczi round my knees, for half an hour, cogitating as to way and means of reuniting my friend to her be- lovedâ€"for that Lord Uhaudos hm; cv'iserl to regard her with feelings (\f. :n'ilent all“: ‘ticm isi a thing I neither an: nor will believe I am still vaguely planning, when )lm‘~ mmlulm, coining in, oi'ilug‘s me of? to my plumbers. (lecturing my roses \z'illtlvgmici‘ale into liliur if 1 puraist in km ‘ing such (listi- PJLtCAl lU)lE“‘4. 'Arc you going away now?” my bed on the morning of the nineteenth and run to the window. It is aglorious day outside, sunny and warm and bright, full of that air of subdued summer that always be- longs to September. The flowers heloware waving gently in the soft breeze; the trees have a. musical rustle they surely lacked on yesterday; the very birds in the air and am- ong the branches are crying, “Coming, c0m~ ing, coming!” Soon I shall see him; soon I shall welcome him to my own home. Alas, alas ! that so many lxoursgnust pass before he will enter my expectant arms! That detestable “Brad- shaw” has decreed that no train but, thelmlf past; five shall bring him. ‘ Babe, who is imu’xcnsely amused at my im- patience, dcclares heraeli prepared to fall in love with Billy on the spot, the very moment she sees him. “I am pa‘ssxonately attached to boys,” she guys, meeting me in the corridor about half- paSt three (am in such a rambling, unsettled, condition as compels me to walk from pillar to post all day); “I like their societyâ€"witâ€" ness my devotion to Chipswand they like mine. But for all that, 1 shall be nowhere with your Billy; you have another guest in your house who will take his heart by storm.” “Whom do you mean?” “Lady Blanche Going. I never yet saw the boy who could resist her. Is not that odd? ls she not the last person one would select as a. favorite with youth?” “1 hope he will not like her,” I cry, im- pulsively; then, feeling myself, without cause, ungracious, “that; is-wof course I do not mean thatr~only --â€"” 3 “Oh, yes, you do,’ says Miss Beatoun, coolly; “you would be very sorry if llilly were to waste his affection on her. So would I. You detest her; so do I. \Vhy mince matters? lut for all that your boy will be her sworn slave, or I am much mistaken. If only to spite you. she will make him her friend.” “ But Why 2’ \‘Chat have I ever done to her 2" “Marmaduke,” say I, svizing my husband by the arm as the (log-cart comes round to the door for final orders, preparatory to starting for the station (it is now almost five o’clock), “is \Villiam going for Billy ? 1 wish I could go. You don’t think he will expectmfi” I hesitate. Marmaduke reads my face attentively for a minute, then ponders a. little. “Nothing; only it is intolerable somebody should admire you so much.” And with a Imschievous glance, hissBeaâ€" toun dlsappears round the corner. “You think he may be disappointed if welcomed only by n groom! ’ he says, with a smile. “Take that little puckor on your forehead, Phyllis: I will bring your Billy to you myself,” and mounting tlxe'dog~cax‘t, drives oil to the stallion without another word. As i lgn'u already said, it is now five. As i Inn'u already said, it is now five o'clock. It will take him just half an hour to reach Carston andmeet the train. Ten minutes at least must be wasted finding Bil- ly, getting his traps together. and settling things generally; then half an hour more to drive home; so that altogether one hour and ten minutes go by beforel can hope to see them. This appears an interminable age; all the day has not seemed so long as. this last; hour and ten minutes. At a. quarter to six Irun upstairs and get myself dressed for dinner ailtliough we do not (line until half-past, sevenâ€"~liurrying through my toilet with the most exaggerat- ed haste, as if fearing they may arrive be- fore is is finished; and I would not miss be- ing the first to greet my boy for all the world contains. \Vhen I once more reach the d rawing-I'oom it still wants five minutes to the promised time. Lady Blanche Going and one or two of the men are lounging here. She 'aises her head as I enter, and scans me languid- ly. I v N “ Do we dine earlier than usual, to-night, Mrs. Curz'mgton ‘i” she aska, with curiosv ty. “No; not earlier than usual. It 2'18 .;1 more wlgm or mmc getting my dressing over so soon. “Oh, I quiic forgot your brother cmn‘ ing,” she says, uith a faint smile, bending over her work again. She looks as though she were l‘vitying‘ my youthful enthusiasm. I make no reply. Taking up a, book, I scat myself near a front window. as far as pussi~ Me from the other occupants of the room, and pret and to read. A quarter past 5 Surely they ought to be here by fins. Twentyfivo minutes past six! I rise, regardless of comment», and gaze up the avenue. Oh, if anything should have prevented his coming!_Arc not masters always tyrants? Jul; even in such a. case ought not Marma- duke to be back by this to tell me of it? Or, yet more sickening thought, can any accident have happened to the train, and is: Marmaduke afraid to bring me home the evil tidings? y I utter an exclamation, and, flinging my book from meâ€"blind to the smiles my guests cannot restrain-â€"I rush headlong from the room, and in another instant have Billy fold- ed in my arms. Surely a year has gone by since last I saw him. I fin just picturing to myself Billy’schcs‘c- nut locks bedabbied with his gore, when something smites upon mine emu Surer it is the sound of wheels. I flatten my nose a2:- inst the window-panes and strain my nyos into the gathering twil'wht. Yea, fiwt as the good horse can Ming them they come. A moment later, and the dog»c:wt in full swing rounds the corner, while in it, coated to the chin, un'l in full possession of the reins, sets my brothcrnvith Marmadukey-quito a secondary pcx‘son~- smiling beside him. “Oh, Billy, Billy ”’ I cry, clinging to him the tears in my eyes, while glad smiles fight {or “mat-cry upon my lips. "Is it reallv you? It seems years and years since last we were together. Oh how tall you have grown, and how good-looking!” ( {'0 m: CONTINUED.) 7 A - -â€"~â€"-I-~o<o0> «bâ€"v - ,t is l'Up’M‘l'Cd that the Turks are greatly «litsutizlicd with the new constitution. They have telegraphed to the Earl of Kimberley, the British Colonial Secretary, stating that they will not. participate in the new Legis- lative Council. ieports state that the Queen of Holland will give llel' sister, the Princess Helen, for a marriage present a splendid sleigh in the form of a swan, and painted in the style of Vfatteau. It is lined with quilted blue sat- Feeding Poultry; Raising C BY D. x. IZVAh'S, an. . ks. One of the secrets of successful poultry ralsing in the art of 180(1ng properly, not merely at regular intervals, but on the most suitable food, and l£(;cpi1‘g the chicks grow- ing as rapidly as'possiblc from the very start“ It is very poor economy to stint the poiiltxy, especially young growing stock, for, when once stunted, it takesa long while to 1':- covcr, if it does 0"Clll‘ at all. For the first twenty-fourhonrs after the chicks emerge from the :hell, they should remain under the hen unmolostml, both to dry and gain strength and hardiness. ’lfhey do not re- quire any food, as the More nature provides will last over this time. As the chides hatch sometimes irregularly, the older ones. can he cared for in the house until the others are ready to be taken away, when the hen and her brood can be removed to a. roomy coop, with a, tightâ€"board bottom and n. rain-proof roof, They should be fed five. times daily, but only just what they will out up clean. The first {nod should consist of stale bread moistened in water or intrcsh milk â€"â€"thc milk is decidedly preferable. Do not quit the food, as very moist or sloppy food will cause sickness and a high rate of mor- tality among young, tender birds. Keep the water (for drinking) away from them un- til they are six to eight wcclis old, but if milk can be spared give them occasional drinks of it. The too lavish use of com meal has caused more death among young; chicks than has cholera among grown i’owla. Until the chicks are half~grown, corn meal. should be put sparingly fed, but after that time, when judiciously used, is one of the very best and cheapest foods for fowls and chicks. Nine-tenths of the young tnrkies and guiiiewfowls, which die when in the “ downy ” state, get their death blow from corn meal, as it is a very common practice (because it is so “handy,” and suits lazy people so well) to merely moisten, with cold water, some raw corn meal and then feed it in that way. Young chicks relish occasional feeds of cracked wheat and wheat sereenin while rice, well boiled, is not only greedily eaten by the chicks, but is one of the very best things that can be glven. lt frequent- ly happens that damaged lots of rice, or low grades of it, can he bought, at low figures, in the cities. As it increases so much in bull; in cooking, it is not an expensive food for young chicks, even at the regular retail price, though it would not, ordinarily, pay to feed 11: to full~grown fowls very liberally or Very frequently. In the absence 0." worms, bugs, etc., during eerily 8 ring. cheap parts of fresh beef can he well oiled and shreded up for the little chicks, but earemust be taken not to feed more fre- quently than once in two days, and only then in moderation. This feeding on meat shreds is very beneficial to young turkey and guinea chicks when they are “ shooting" their first quill feathers, as then they reâ€" quire extru nourishment to repair the drain on immature and weakly bodies. unwind-om. Ag" wilfizzrisf. Sleeping Families Caught by an Avamneh': ~L1ves and Propchr Destroyed. The recent snow slide at lenoa occurred at half past 5 a.ni., and made a terrible noise. The Long building, which stood neur- est the mountain, was occupied by Indians. driven from their wigwams by the severity of the storm. As near as can he ascer- tained, but seven were in the house at the time of the catastrophe. No trace of the buildingcnnberecognized,andnsyetnosearch has been made for its occupants. Next came the residence and burn of Mineer Bowers. which “‘21:, completely crushed to pieeee and carried into the adjoining lot of l). “7. Vir- gin. .\‘l.ll}\l‘0(lflll!'i wife were {emuJ still in their lied, and itllllOat on top of the snow and (luhris, both dead. 'l‘wo Gerinin 1 intâ€" ives of E‘xir. and Mrs. llon'eis had arrived, the M axing previous from the East. and were . “spine 131 the home. that night. One of them escaped nnhurt, and the other who dug hi“ way (mi: from hei iii the trunk nidn broken 3h .. .er and some urieS. filmy, and l[. Boerlin were on the next street below that of Bon'ers. lioerlin'a hourge \ms completely demolished. The occupanis were M r. and Mrs. Boeilin, th 51' two child~ ron, and Mr. Chisholm and wife. All were buried in the ruins but Mr. Boerlin, and M r. and Mrs. Chisholm made their escape unâ€" hnrt. After considerable search Mrs. Boer lin was fonndsome distant-e from the original locality of the hed,nearly snifowted and still holding the dead body of the little girl, Poâ€" line, in her arms. The boy was found in The residenvvs of D. \Y. Virgin, V] l“ still a! nuhuz‘t The slideczunc down Hm gorge iummdi~ atdy south of Genoa Canon, : I swept everythiuiz before it as far as Main gtrcet. N0 obstaclcseemcd to check this moving mountain ofésxmw until it spread out and lost its force on the nearly level piece 0: land 017 “hi 11 (k‘cnca is built, fully a quar- ter of .‘L mile from the base of the mountain. At this time it is imposaible to estimate the loss of property. Everything is chaos. Broken lumber, splinters of furniture, pine and fruit trees, hay, clothing, kitchen ware, and bedding are distributed through a. body of snow and ice from ten to fifty fact in depth and several 301' s in c tent. 1f :1 share of the pains taken to catch m‘w and mice after they are in a. house or apart ment were employed in keeping them out, it would save much trouble. Even an old house, where there are many cracks and crevices, may soon be made Vermin proof. Scraps of sheet tin of the thinnest kind may he had of the tinsmith ; this may be out up with a strong pair of sheets, and so fitted as to close up the entrance holes. Holes may he punched in the tin with it common am, or a. nail filed to a point, through which to put tacks to hold the tin in place. Some holes and cracks may be more easily closed by means of plaster of Paris. A sufficient quantity of this is mixed with water, to be about as thick as mortar; then, before it hardens, fill with it the holes and passages of the creatures; in a few minutes it will be solid. \Vhen all such entrances have been stopped the animals must either come in by the doors, or gnaw a. new opening, ,an opera- tion in which they may be detected. . HBO A TOWN UVERWHELMED. ‘thm‘ part of the wreck, alive and Rats and Mice. mn<4wwuu~â€"~r #0 ‘6‘ P 0..