$I.OO a Year, In Advance. " FOR GOD, FOR COUNTRY AND FOR TRUTH. " Single Copy s
VOL. XVII. PLYMOUTH, ' N, C FRIDAY, JUNE 22, i906 NO.j
until
8
W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM.
HERE were times when
$ m t'l'arlic Bartle could take
O I o his- straitened circtun
$ stances with a light heart.
TWS3f When the sky was blue
and the ;iir of Paris keen yet balmy,
.was more exhilarating than wine, his
studio in the Rue Breda lost its shabbi
ness. On such days as these he went
down into the street and watched gay
women make their purchases for lun
cheon. The disarray of llieir costume
in the morning contrasted with the
splendor with which he had .seen them
tn"!ei'2f flTim tllfMl- linnoilu tlin nln-l, 1,,. !
lllv, uv-,
lore, iney lingered at the door of
rcen grocers bargaining for their veg
etables with the strenuousness of mod
Pi housewives. Several had sat for
him, and with these ho exchanged the
gossip of the quarters. Then, his eyes
ailed with the vivacity of that scene,
he returned to his studio, and sought
10 place on canvas the dancing sunlight
f the Parisian street, lie felt in him
the courage to paint masterpieces. But
when gray clouds and rain made the
olors on his palette scarcely distin
guishable from one another, his mood
hanged. lie could scarcely bear the
dingy shabbiness of his studio. lie
looked with distaste at the picture on
which he had been working for a
month and saw that ic was bad. His
poverty appalled hiin.
It was on such a:i occasion that
Charles T-S.utle sat. pipe in mouth, con
templating with deep discouragement
The work of his hands. He smoked
gloomily. Presently, with a sigh, he
took si palette knife aud prepared to
iscrapc ('own ail that he had done.
There was i knock at the door.
"Ciiii'.o in." cried Charlie, looking
round.
It was siowiy opened by a little old
man. with u bald head, a hooked nose
of immense size, and a gray beard.
He ": shabbily dre-sed, but the rings
on his linger, the diamond iu his tie.
and his massive watch chain, suggest
ed that it was v.nc from poverty.
"Monsieur Leir:" said Charlie, with a
smile. "Clone-hi. I'm delighted to sea
you." .
"I knew .vol i couldn't paint iu this
won Mm:-, so I thought I shouldn't be in
ihe way.-'
He can!-' into the room and looked
nt Batiie'.s unfinished canvas. The
painter w.i relied iiim anxiouslj, but no
change ui the Frenchman's expression
t elrayed bis ojinio!.
"Do yo!i think it's utterly rotten?"
asked Charlie.
"My (!eir fellow, you young men are
so impatient. You buy a canvas, and
you buy paints, and you think you can
produce marvels immediately. You
.won't give time to it. aud you won't
idve pa'huu.e. The old. masters weren't
in such a hurry. Read Yasari and
you'll see how they worked."
diaries Bar lie impatiently threw
aside his palette knife.
"I wish I'd ..een a crossing sweeper
rather than a painter. It's a dog's life
that I lead. I do without everything
that gives happiness, and 1 don't even
tio work that'.-, fit to look at."
Mousieur Leir sat down, took from
his waistcoat pocket the stump of an
unfinished cigar, rubbed the charred end
with his finger and lit it. He smoked
this wilb. apparent satisfaction. In
his day he had known mauy painters.
Some had succeeded, but. most had
failed, and he knew that the profes
sion, even for the fortunate, was very
liard. Genius itself starved at times,
aud recognition ofteu did not arrive till
a man was too embittered to enjoy it.
But he liked artists, and found a pecu
liar satisfaction in their society. Mon
sieur Leir was a dealer. He had early
reen the merit of the impressionists,
had bought their pictures systemati
cally, thus saving mauy of them from
disaster and at the same time, benefit
ing himself, and finally sold them
when tfie world discovered that Ma
net. Monet ami Sisloy were great
painters. His only daughter had mar
ried Rudolf Kuhn, a dealer in New
York, so Monsieur Leir felt justified
iu upending the years lhat remained to
him in a condition of opulent idleness.
But he (l ittered himself that the paint
ers whose works he nad bought for a
gong weiv his friends- iis well as his
customers, ami it pleased him still to
potter about the studios of those who
vet lived. When Charlie Bartle settled
in the lnu:.,e in which lie himself had
an apartment, Monsieur Leir gladly
made his acquaintance. The young
man was delighted to hear stories of
the wild life they led in Montmarte in
the seventies, aud he was taken, too,
by the kindliness of the retired dealer.
There was an unaffected amiability in
Monsieur Leir's mauiier, which led the
foreigner quickly to pour into his sym
pathetic ear his troubles and his ainbi-t!cn.-i
,The dealer was a lonely man,
juiijJWsoon began to feel a certain. (X
ecUo? for the young painter. KOjf
wmmm
E3 V-
that ho was no longer in the trade he
could afford to put. charms of manner
before talent, and the mediocrity of
his friend's work touched his gentle
old heart.
"It's one of your bad days, mon
vieux," said the dealer.
"I wish to goodness I was a dealer,
like you," laughed Charlie. "At least,
I shouldn't be worried to death by the
approach of quarter day."
"The picture trade is no place for an
honest man now," returned Monsieur
Leir, reflectively. "It was all very well
!.. i ji , . '
JU olu uaySi -vvnen we nad it in our
own Hands. We drove hard bargains,
but it was all above board. But now
the Christians have taken to it there's
a good deal . too much hocus-pocus."
"I simply can't go on this way. I
have to pay 300 francs for my rent to
morrow, and I shan't have a penny left
to buy myself bread and butter for the
next month. No .;o will buy a pic
ture." Monsieur Leir looked at him with
good-natured eyes, but he said nothing.
Charlie glanced at the portrait of a
very pretty girl which stood in soli
tary splendor, magnificently framed on
the chimney piece.
"I had a letter from Rosie this morn
ing. Her people want her to give me
up. They say there's not the least
chance of my ever earning any money."
"But will she do that?" asked the
dealer.
"No. of course not." answered Char
lie, with decision. "She's a good girl.
But it means waiting, waiting, wait
ing: and our youth- is going, and we
shall grow sore with hope deferred.
When at last Ave marry we shall bo
disillusioned and bitter."
He sighed deeply. He brooded with
despair on the future, and the old man
did not venture to disturb him. He
watched the painter with compassion.
At last, however, ha spoke.
"What are the exact conditions on
which the father of your fiancee will
allow you to marry her?"
"They're insane. You see. she has
five thousand pounds of her own. He
refuses to consent to our marriage un
less I can produce the same sum or
show that I am earning two hundred
and fifty a year. And the worst of it
is that I can't help acknowledging he's
right. I don't want Rosie to endure
hardship."
"You know that my daughter's hus
band is a dealer in New Y.ork," re
turned Monsieur Leir. presently. "I
vowed when L sold off my stock that
I would never deal in pictures again,
but I'm fond of you, my friend, and 1
should like to help you. Show me
your stuff, and I'll send it to Rudolf:
he may be able (o sell it in America."
"That wculd be awfully good of
you." cried Char'ie.
The dealer sat down, while B.irtle
placed on his easel one after the other
his finished pictures. There were, per
haps, a dozen, and Monsieur Leir
looked at them without a word. For
the moment he had gone back to his
old state, and he allowed no expres
sion to betray his feelings. No one
could have told from that inscrutable
gaze whether he thought the paiutiug
good or bad.
"Thai's the lot." said Charlie, at
length. "D'you think the American
public will seize their opportunity, and
allow us to marry V"
"What is ttij.t?" asked the dealer,
quietly, pointing to the last canvas, it's
face against the wall, which Bartle
had not shown him.
Without a word the painter pro
duced it and fixed it on tue easel. Mon
sieur Leir gave a slight star;, and the
indifference of his exn-essiou vanished.
"Watteau."' he cried. "But, my dear
fellow, how did you get that? You
talk of poverty and you have a Wat
teau. Why. I can sell that for you in
America for double the sum you
want."
"Look at it carefully," smiled Char
lie. The dealer went up to the picture
and peered into it. His eyes glittered
with delight. It represented a group
of charming persons by the side of a
lake. It was plain that the ladies,
so decadent and dainty, discussed pre
ciously with swains, all gallant in multi-colored
satins, the verses of Racine
or the letters of Mine, de Sevigne. The
placid water reflected white clouds,
and the trees were russet already with
.'approaching autumn. It was state
ly scene, with iti gtecu woodland dis
tance, and the sober opideneo of oak
and elm, and it suggested ease and
loug tending. Those yellows and
greens and reds glowed with mellow
light.
"It's one of the few Y'atteaus I've
ever seen wiH a sigii.iture," said the
dealer.
"You flatter me," sr. id Charlie. "Of
course, it' only a copy. The original
belonged to some old ladies in England
Y,'fctUJ I knew; and last summer .when
It mined. I spent my flays In copy,
ing it. I suppise chance guided my
hand happily;' every one agreed it -was
not badly done."
"A copy?" cried Monsieur Leir. "A
copy? Where is the original? Would
your friends sell it?"
"The ruling instinct is as strong as
ever." laughed the painter. "Unfor
tunately, a month after I finished this
the house was burned down, and every
thing was destroyed."
The dealer drew a deep breath, and
for a moment meditated. He looked
at Charlie sharply.
"Didn't you say you wanted three
hundred francs for your rent?" he
asked very quietly. "I'll buy that copy
off you."
"Nonsense, I'll give it you. You're
taking no end of trouble for me, and
you've been awfully kind."
t "You're a fool, my friend." an
swered Monsieur Leir. "Write me out
a receipt for the money."
He took from his pockerbook three
banknotes and laid them on the table.
Bartle hesitated for an instant, but he
wanted money badly. He shrugged his
shoulders. He sat down and wrote
the receipt. But as he was about to
give it. an idea came to him and he
quickly drew Jt back.
"Look here, you're not going to try
any hanky-panky tricks, are you? I
won't sell you the copy unless you give
me your word that yon won't try and
pass it off as an original."
A quiet smile passed across the deal
er's lips.
"You can easily reassure yourself.
Just paint out the signature and put
your own name on the top of it."
Without a word. Bartle did as the
old man suggested, and presently his
own name was neatly painted in place
of the master's.
"I don't mistrust you." he said, as
he handed the receipt, "but it's well
not to put temptation in the Avay of
wily, dealers."
Monsieur Leir laughed as he pock
eted the document and took the Wat
teau in his hand. He pointed with a
slightly disdained finger at Bartle's
pictures.
"I'm going to take the copy along
with me. and I'll send my femmc de
menage for the others," he said. But
at the door he stopped. "I like your
pictures, my friend, and when Rudolf
knows that I take an interest in you,
I dare say he'll h i able to sell them.
Don't be surprised if in another mon h
I come and tell you that ; oe can marry
your fiancee."
Monsieur Leir packed the Wat tea u
with his own hands, and dispatched it
without delay. He wrotes a discreet
little letter to his son-in-law announc
ing its immediate arrival and suggest
ing that they should share the profits
of its . rale. It was growing late, so
ho went to his cafe and drank the
absinthe with which he invariably pre
pared for the evening meal. Then,
with a chuckle, he wrote the following
note:
To the Chief Officer, U. S. A: Customs,
. New York.
Sir: An attempt will shortly bo made
io pass through the Customs a copy
of a picture by Watter.u. It is signed
Charles Bartle. If, moreover, you scrape
away ta. name, you will find the sig
nature of a French painter. I leave
you to make what inference you
choose. Yours fa.ih fully.
AN HONEST MAX.
Less than this was necessary "io ex
cite the suspicions of the least trust
ing section of mankind. It was scarce
ly to be wondered at, therefore, that
when Rudolf Kuhn went to the Cus
tom House at New York to pass the
picture .hat had ':een rent linn, he was
received with incredulity. He asserted
with conviction that it was only a
copy, and produced tfce receipt which
Monsieur Leir had been so cautious as
to send him. But the official who saw
him merely laughed in his face. lie
was quite accustomed t'v the tricks
whereby atute dealers in works of
art sought t; evade the ;-:uty.
T suppose you'd be surprised If I
told you that the picture was signed by
Antoine Watteau," he said, with a dry
smile."
"More than that. I should be
amazed beyond words," answered Ru
dolf Kuhn confidently.
Silently the customs officer took a
palette knife, scraped away the name
of Charles Bartle. and there, sure
enough, was the French artist's sig
nature. "What have you got to say now?" he
asked in triumph.
A curious light parsed through the
dotier's eyes as he stared at the can
vas, but he made no other sign that
Monsieur Leir's astuteness had sud
denly Hashed across him.
"Nothing." he replied.
With meekness lie paid duty on the
estimated value of an original Wat
teau. aud a very heavy fine into the
bargain for his attempt to defraud the
customs. He took 1hc picture away.
But when he reached home that night
he kissed his wife on both cheeks,
with unusual warmth.
"You father's still the smartest
dealer-iu Europe, Rachel," ho said. But
when she asked for an explanation
of his words, he merely shook his head
and smiled.
In New York the newspapers learn
everything, and pe.-haps it was not
strange taat within twenty-four hours
of these events an important journal
had tut amusing account of how Ru
dolf Kuhn, the well-known dealer, had
been foiled, in hi3 attempt to puss
through the customs, as a copy of some
obscure painter, a very perfect ex
ample of the art of Watteau. It was
a triumph for the officials, and the
newspapers gibed freely, because they
had got the better of a wily Hebrew.
Now Rudolph Kuhn had a client who
chose ii spend much of his vast wealth
in the acquisition of Old Masters, and
no sooner had he read these entertain
ing paragraphs than he hurried to tha
dealer's shop. When he saw the pic
ture he burst out laughing.
"I like your impudence, trying to
pass that off as a copy."
"I showed them the receipt." smiled
Rudolf, with a deprecating shrug of
the shoulder. "I propose to sell it r.s
a copy. It was sold to my representa
tive in Paris as such."
The millionaire looked at the dealer
and chuckled. "Wed, Uncle Sam's
Customs are good enough guarantee
for me. I'll give you fifty thousand
dollars for it."
"I'll take sixty," answered the other,
quietly.
"Not bad for a cony." smiled the
buyer. "Fl hav it at that."
He carried the piciure off, and with
it the various documents which the
Custom House had delivered to Rudolf
Kuhn in proof that he had paid both
duty and fine. In fr.ee o". these it
would have been a skeptic indeed who
doubted the authenticity of so delight
ful a work.
Some weeks later Monsieur Leir
again knocked ft Charlie Bartle's door.
He advanced into the middle of the
studio, and without a wo'd counted
out fifty English banknotes of a hun
dred pounds i.ach.
"What the dickens are you doing'."
cried j-r.rtlo, who thought ho had sud
denly taken leave of hi.-, smses.
"Five thousand poundr,: said the old
man. "I thought you'd like to see the
mon':y actually before you, so I
changed it into these notes.'
"What do you mean""'"
"It's your sh. re of the profit on the
sale of your pictures, aud you marry
yourTiOsie whenever you choose."
Bartle stared at Monsieur Leir, help
lessly. He thought it mttot oe rDiue
heartless jest, but the old man's eyes
gleamed with their usual kindliness. Ho
rubbed his hands joyfully r.s ho g'.oat
ed ove.- the painter's utter consterna
tion. At last he vouchsafed to explain
Bartle understood vaguely that a Cali
fornia millionaire had bought his pic
ture, all the pictures, and this money
was the result. He v -.nted to write
to this amialjio and discerning patron,
but Monsieur Leir hastily told him that
was impossible. The Californian had
bought the pictures and taken them
away without leaving his address. Mon
sieur Leir assured him that the Ameri
can millionaires were not' riously eccen
tric. Bartle drew a long breath and
looked at the pile of notes.
"Take them to the bank, my boy,"
said the old dealer, encnanted with the
young man's pleasure, "and send a
wire to a certain lady."
He made the notes into a bundle,
and put thetn in Barge's pocket, and
led him out of the house. The painter
walked as though he were iu a dream.
But when Monsieur Leir had seen the
young man safely on his way to the
bank he went to his own apartment.
He took out Charlie's pictures, wnich
had remained in the safe obscurity oi
a well locked cupboard. One by one
he ripped them off their stretchers, and
one by one he put them in the fire. Ho
laughed as he saw them crackle in the
flames, 'then he took hatchet and
cut up the stretchers : eatly.
"Here is some excellent firewood,"
he chuckled, as he gave the bundle to
his maid.
He rubbed his bauds when lie
thought that thus he saved several
coppers. It had slipped his memory
completely that he had just made his
friend r present of 5000. New York
Tribune.
The Avernce Age of llird.
The doctrine of vegetarianism ap
pears to be slightly shaken by the re
sult of an investigation that an Eng
lish newspaper has made into the
subject of the longevity of birds. With
one notable exception, the carrion or
meat feeding birds are the longer lived.
The exception is the swan. The aver
ago ages of some of the best known
birds are given in the following: Black
bird lives twelve years; blackcap, fif
teen; canary, twenty-four; crane,
twenty-four; crow, 100; eagle, 100:
fowl, common, ten: goldfinch, fifteen;
goose, fifteen; heron, fifty-nine: lark,
thirteen; linnet, twenty-three; nightin
gale, eighteen; parrot, sixty; partridge,
fifteen; peacock, twenty-four; pelican,
fifty; pheasant, fifteen: pigeon, twenty;
raven, KM); robin, twelve; skylark,
thirty; sparrow hawk, forty; swan,
100; thrush, ten, and wren, three years.
The average age of the boarding house
variety of chicken is still undetermined
New Orleans Times-Democrat.
Japanese .V.olcitin.
U. Iwatani. a Japanese soldier on hH
way home from prison in Russia, com
mitted suicide on receiving a letter
from his father saying that his con
duct in being taken alive would spoil
the reputation of the Japanese army
and cast odium on the names of the
family and the Villagers, and con
cluding by ordering him not to return
lir.me alive.
New York has just been paid by the
National Government for equipment
sullied in the War of 1812
op-
INTEREST
STUDY EACH FIELD.
Each particular field requires special
and careful treatment. One plot of
land may bo better adapted for a cer
tain crop than another, and the farmer
must study the requirements of each
field and crop.
DEHORNING CATTLE.
Dehorning has passed the experi
mental stage and has now become a
necessity. Practically no one now de
nies the benefits derived from having
a herd deprived of the dangerous weap
ons of defense. The question arises
as when and how can it best be done.
The fall, or preferably early spring,
are the best seasons of the year for
doing this work, say the middle of
March. The idea is to get the Avounds
thoroughly healed before the flies come.
Animals dehorned in early spring and
cared for, usually shrink but little and
the wounds very soon heal over. It
is not necessary co put anything on
the wounds.
BURNING CHARCOAL FOR HOGS.
Allow the wood or corn cobs to be
come well ignited after piling in cone
shaped piles, 'then cover lightly with
dry earth. Combustion will then bo
incomplete and a bed of charcoal will
result. Another way is to have ready
a tub of water and as soon as the
wood burns sufficiently to form a live
coal retaiuii. the original shape, re
move with a pair of tongs rud im
merse in the tub of water to extin
guish the fire, then lay aside to dry.
This is a simple r-hin and one that is
practicable whenever it becomes ad
visable to. burn charcoal at home. The
value of charcoal as an aid t- diges
tion is underestimated. C. B. Barret.
DEVELOPING GOOD HOGS.
A really good hog cauuot be pro
duced from scrub stock. It is abso
lutely necessary to choose the breed
for the purpose, that is, some breeds
are better for bacon and hams when
leau meat is preferred and others for
lard or at pork. Have an ideal animal
and work for it. Breed from matured
and well-bred sows. Don't sacrifice
individuality to pedigree. Breed pro
lific bows only. Avoid cross-breeding
and feeding too much corn and ice
water, as this lessens the vitality and
tends to make too light a bone Feed
young stock and the breeding sows
oats, shorts, bran and V.1 meal, with
but little corn. Give plenty of exer
cise. In finishing off a fat hog noth
ing is ahead of corn and pure water.
Give plenty of room iu sleeping quar
ters and teach young pigs to eat early.
March or April litters are best. Keep
salt and charcoal by them at all ttmes.
The growing of frame fcr the first
six mcnths end the keeping of equal
sized pigs together must be looked to.
After the ideal hog is secured it re
quires extra good judgment and care to
keep it and not allow it to degenerate.
E. R. Beach.
TIANO BOX SMOKEHOUSE.
The thirfty farmer prepares his own
pork for home consumption, and if he
is short of cash with which to build an
up-to-date smokehouse he will appre
ciate the following plan, which will
enable him to carry out his ideas at
small cost. Buy an old but good up
right piano box, and after making it
smoke tight with paper, set at in the
desired place and dig a trench so
that the piping will enter at one end
of the box through the bottom. Then
take an old wash boiler with a good
copper bottom and have a tinsmith
make a hole in one side near the bot
tom, and in this fasten a piece of tin
water pipe or four-inch stovepipe. Then
buy additional lengths of pipe aui
make the connections yourself, having
an elbow to go into the box.
Make the smoke tire in the boiler,
the smoke will pass Into the box,
and, on a small scale, one will have a
first-class smokehouse. As little heat
is required to keep up the fire suf
ficient to give the desired amount of
smoke, there is no dapge. of the wash
boiler being too frail for the purpose.
The illustration shows the plan per
fectly, the details of the piping being
shown in the lower part of the cut
Philadelphia. Record.
flit
THIS LITTLE BOY WAS
Said Peter Paul Augustus: "A
grown a man,
I'll help my dearest mother the
I can. , 1
I'll wait upon her kindly she'll
mv arm:
I'll lead her very gently, and kee
from harm.
"But, when I think upon it, the
be so lone."
Said Peter Paul Augustus, "befor
and strong,
I think it would be wiser to be
and iov
By helping her my very best wL
little bov."
The Brown Memorial Mi
FLY FEATHER,
Some games suited to yottn
flren will be given to-day. Fly
is an English play which
of fun. Playera put their ch
gether to form a close circle. J
downy feather with a very sho
Is procured and thrown as h gh
sible in the air. It is then bio
object of each player being no
touched by it. The person it f
on pays a forfeit, and the e
deemed at the end of the game.
It must not be blown too violet
It will fly so high that it will tl
cult to reach, at"', the one who
It outside the circle must also
forfeit.
When children play it they v
prefer to dance around in pursui
but they must not let go each
hands to catch it in lis descent.
player who goes through three i!
without being touched wins the
Philadelphia Record.
THE CUNNING vTW.
Once a chained-up watch-dog
front of his kennel lazily pick
bone. A hungry crow looked on
longing eyes, and hoped that I
verting the attention of the d
might tuceeed in securing the bor
Itself. So it came as choe to tb
mal as it dared, and began to im
In all sorts of ridiculous antics
dog, however, took not the slig
notice.
Then the crow hurrieu1 off
fetched a friend, who seated hit
on the bough of a tree just behin
kennel, while the first crow a
danced before the dog. As the an
continued to remain aDsoiuteiy i
ferent, the crow friend flew into
air, suddenly swoopin.v down.
struck the dog's spine a tremens
blow with its beak.
The dog started with surprise
pain, and dropping the bone, mac
fierce but unsuccess" il grab at
ffssailant. Meanwhile, the first
snatched '.he bone as quick as li
ning, and flew off with it; the two
spirators than shared tne stolen f
erty between them. Baptist Argu
HOW A MALTESE WAS WHirF!
One day while standing at my v
dow watching the shiftiDg clouds
drowsy swaying of the trees, my
tention was called to the peculiar
tions of a large maltese cat in
field beyond our lawn. It would era
along, stop, fumble sotnetring, til
go on a little distance, keepiug t
stopping and rumbling up tor soil
time.
At last the lawn was reached, th
through the fence the something can
followed by the cat. Then I saw wl
rlil
ti
ail
It was. A poor little mouse that
cat had been tormenting.
The cat was too well fed to kill ai
eat its prey, but just indolent enouif
to -torment and worry its poor vi
tim.
On and on they came across tl:
lawn. The cat would catch the poet
little thing in its claw, mouth it, an
then let It go. Poor mousie, thiukin
he was free, would try to make goo
his escape, but the respite was onl
for a few minutes, when he would b
grabbed again.
Across the lawn and up the terrac
thtv came. 1nst below the window
where I was standing. When the toy
of the terrace was reached, the cat
gave his victim one more squeeze,
looking delighted at the poor exhausted!
thing, as much as to say, "I couldj
kill and eat you If I wanted to." 1
You know it was the last straw!
that broke the camel's back, so this!
last squeeze and indignities were too
much. The mouse turned round, faced
the czi, eat on his hind legs like a
squirrel w7hen It eats a nut, and when
the cat made another attempt to mo
lest him the mouse slapped the cat
In the face with its little fist I mean,
paw with a blow equal to Fitzsim
cnons' own.
The cat was taken so completely by
surprise and so thoroughly disgusted
with himself that he turned and fled,
like the coward he was. and the mouse
disappeared in a hole close to the
cellar well.
I was as surprised as the cat, and
thoroughly enjoyed the discomfiture of
poor pussy. I think it was Ux most
imusing thing I ever saw. and if I had
not seen the whole thing I -would
have been tempted to doubt the story
If it had been told me. E. Gray, ia
Philadelphia Ledger.