you, darling, and it seemed most natural to come here, where we loved each other first."

"No, thank God! I don't think I ever seriously believed that. But one day, before I came here, I saw Tom Moore; he came up to me, and said he wanted to say something to me in private. So we walked across the park, and pretty soon I found that he was talking about you. From that moment I remember every word he uttered. Mr. Lancaster,' he said, 'you'll do me the credit to believe that I'm a man of honor and a gentleman, and the good name of a lady is sacred to me. I have admired and reverenced Mrs. Lancaster since first I had the honor to be in her presence; and though, to be sure, 'twas mighty small notice she ever took of me, my nature is not so petty that a slight to my vanity can obscure my judgment or dim my perception.' Then he went on to tell me all about meeting you at Vauxhall, and what a state of excitement you were in, and how he hurried you out of sight, and put you into a carriage, and then went and got Sir Francis; and how you all drove to the inn in Pimlico, and afterwards how he saw you safe home with your maid. Then he said that tortures would never have unsealed his lips on the subject but he had learned that, in some way, a rumor had got abroad that you were seen there. Whereupon he had deemed it due to his honor as a gentleman, as well as to his consciousness of integrity and innocence, to come to me at once, in a frank and manly way, and give me to know at first hand all there was to be known of the matter. It was very eloquent and chivalrous," added Philip, "and at any other time I might have laughed as it was, I just thanked him, and we bowed to each other and parted; and I came here."

"It seems like coming up out of the grave," said

money; and Lady Flanders says she's afraid the law may give it to her."

"Will the Marquise do that?" said Philip, arching his eyebrows.

"So Merton Fillmore says: and he is to conduct her case."

'Well," said Philip, beginning to sinile, "she could not have done anything that pleases me better; for I have gained much wisdom since I saw you last, and am as anxious to be rid of that burden as ever you were. So, if you agree, my darling, we 'll give her the twenty thousand pounds, without putting her to the trouble to sue for it for there's only one kind of wealth worth having, and that is what I have been enjoying ever since I caught sight of you on the doorsteps."

"But, Philip, you know we have spent ever so much money on that miserable house in town. What are we to do about that? for the money from Iduna' will not be enough to pay it."

"Why, that is all right, too," said Philip, laughing: "for, though I had forgotten it till this moment, Lord Seabridge, who is not expected to live more than a week, said when I saw him the other day that he put five thousand pounds in his will for me, 'just to buy my wife a present.' We can pay our debts with that, and still have a few hundreds left to begin life again in this old house." He put his arm round her waist, and added, looking down at her, "You won't object to my receiving that legacy, will you ?”

Oh, Philip!" said Marion, with a long sigh, hiding her face on his shoulder; "I wish . . . I think I hear my mother and Lady Flanders coming down stairs!" [TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE

IN a garden sweet with roses,
Mused a maid one summer day,
Dreaming 'mid the bloom and fragrance
Of the years long passed away.

"In this very garden olden,

I have heard my mother say,

Did my grandsire, proud and stately,
Woo a maiden fair and gay.
Gay and fair, my girlish grand-dame
(I have seen her pictured face),
Pure and sweet as any lily,

With a dainty, old-time grace.
He, so tall and grand and stately,
Powdered hair and quaint attire ;—
Yet beneath the garb of manhood
Beat a heart of youthful fire.
And he wooed in courtly phrases,
Murmured low on bended knee,
Like a true and loving subject-
Like a royal princess she.
Scarce he dared, with humble fervor,

Press her dainty finger-tips;
Lower bent his head, and lower,

When he raised them to his lips.
Ah, so grand that old-time wooing,
Timid glance and bended knee !"
"Thus" (so ran her gentle musings)
"Must my lover kneel to me."
In the garden as she lingered,
Dreaming dreams as maidens will.

Down the leafy walks there sounded
Steps that made her pulses thrill.

And a youth of modern aspect,

With a manner debonnair,

Came with words of careless greeting,

Sought the nearest garden chair.

And he chatted of the weather,

Praised the garden, plucked a rose ; Likened it to her in beauty

Fairest, sweetest flower that grows.

Not a trace of awe or homage
On his frank and happy face;
Yet the maiden read his purpose

'Neath his mien of careless grace.
"Oh, his heart is true and tender!
Sweet the tale he has to tell!
And" (so ran her happy musing)
"Sure am I he loves me well."

Does he kneel, this modern lover?
Press her dainty finger-tips?
Ah! instead he clasps her closely,
Boldly kisses willing lips;

Eagerly, with eyes love-lighted,
Gazes on her blushing face;
Calls her dearest, best and fairest,
Praises every tender grace.

"Stately was my grandsire's wooing,
On that olden summer day!
Yet" (thus runs her guileless musing)
"Sweeter far the modern way."

ADA E. ROCKWELL.

CHAPTER XXVII.

NOT WITHOUT HONOR

DAWSON Fox was about to return to Skendoah. It was a long time since he had gone forth, a sturdy child of poverty, to do a man's work and win a name for himself that he might come back and woo pretty Mattie Ermendorf to share his labor and his fame. It was twenty-five years and more since he had learned that the dream of his youth was not to be fulfilled. The little hamlet had never missed the barefoot boy who went away; and it listened with something of wonder and a little self-gratulation to the sermon of the high-browed earnest-eyed young man who had returned. And now again the thriving town that had grown up where had been only the "Drovers' Wayside Home" and the few straggling houses of the old-time corners was about to honor itself by reclaiming an interest in a long-lost son. The town was full of it. The dead walls were placarded with it, and the village newspaper, edited by a man who had come to the village hardly a year before, teemed with glowing accounts of the "gifted and eloquent son of Skendoah," who was said to be "remembered with peculiar pride and affection by all our old citizens." The "old citizens were very numerous, too, considering what the town had been before Harrison Kortright had restored the lost lake Memnona, and turned its prisoned powers upon the dripping wheels below. Dawson Fox was in everybody's mouth. Almost every man and woman in whose hair there showed a thread of silver, was sure to have some memory of the returning celebrity, or at least some tradition derived from the specially intimate associates of his youth. Men stopped each other on the street to tell tales of his boyhood. Laborers in the factories allowed their machines to run idly on while they talked of the returning prodigy. This is what the handbills said of him:

BLEEDING KANSAS!

A MEETING OF THE CITIZENS OF SKENDOAH WILL BE HELD AT

KORTRIGHT HALL

NEXT WEDNESDAY NIGHT,

TO TESTIFY OUR SYMPATHY

AND

DEVISE MEANS FOR SENDING AID
TO THE

SETTLERS IN KANSAS, WHO ARE SUFFERING FROM THE
RAVAGES OF BORDER-RUFFIAN HORDES,

WHO SEEK TO

DRIVE EVERY FREEMAN FROM HER BORDERS. Hon. Harrison Kortright will preside. Rev. Dawson Fox, the (Copyright 1882 by Albion W. Tourgée as author.)

celebrated Orator and Missionary, who is known as the "Apostle of Freedom" in Kansas, where he has labored unceasingly for three years, will address the meeting. The distinguished orator is a native of Skendoah, and will be warmly welcomed in his former home, where he has never been forgotten.

The company of emigrants who have been fitted out from Skendoah and vicinity will leave on Thursday. They will be accompanied to the station by a grand procession of all the citizens who favor Free Speech, Free Labor, Free Soil and Free Kansas. Their outfit is not quite as complete as is desirable, but every man has his Sharpe's rifle and plenty of ammunition. The water will be shut off at 12 o'clock on Thursday, so that all may take part in this demonstration.

By order of the Committe.

Dawson Fox had been a missionary, and had labored faithfully among the people to whom he had been sent, but not with any notable success. All those who knew the man, and how he toiled in his distant field, wondered at this fact. His associates and superiors in the foreign mission work said, after a while, that he was a most brilliant and devoted man, but not suited to that work. It was suggested that he should marry, but it only excited a strange petulancy when he was urged to do so. At length labor and loneliness and the terrible climate brought him a release. His health was broken, and it was decided that only the homeward voyage and home scenes could effect a cure. He had not spent all these years pining for a lost and hopeless love. So he told himself, and he spoke truly when he said so. He was not the man to destroy himself with regret. Few men had ever studied as he had in the position he had occupied, but he had not forgotten. The long years of self-sacrifice and unceasing application, in which he had dreamed only of Mattie Ermendorf, had burned her image into his heart beyond all power of eradication. If he had won her he would have become a part of the world, for she would have led him into it. Without her, however, he was fitted only to be a hermit. His studies were a cell where only he and his love came in those years, and when his hope had died he hid there with his dead, which was more precious than all the living. He wrought in the learning of the land he was sent to enlighten, but came not near the hearts of its people, because his own heart was the sealed sepulchre of love.

When he returned he had half hoped that during his absence time might have wrought some miracle in his behalf; but when he sat at Jared Clarkson's hospitable board and heard from his lips of the prosperity that had fallen on Skendoah through the man who had married the woman he had loved, and learned that Paradise

Begun in Vol. II. No. 1.

Bay, now in the outskirts of a thrifty town, had been transformed into an elegant mansion, whose mistress was the good angel of every sorrowing heart within its busy limit, he simply said to himself, "It is well." He felt that the life he would have bound to his own had been made richer in blessing to them that needed, perhaps, and had no doubt been fuller of joy than if he had had his will. So he did not venture near to witness her joy, lest even then he should mar its completeness, but tinding a work ready to his hand which ran with his inclination, he gave himself to it, as soon as restored health would permit, and for many years he had been one of the most noted of that class of peripatetic missionaries who were known as Abolition orators.

Of these there were two classes-men who had nothing else to do, and men who did little else. The former class too often became mere ranters, spouters for a single idea. Their sense of fitness and proportion was destroyed, and to their minds the world seemed swinging round a single thought. Dawson Fox was not only too large a man to be thus bounded and absorbed, and life had also brought to him too wide an outlook to permit such subjugation. He felt that the world was not all bounded by the nation whose travail had just begun, though he sincerely believed that here the question of individual liberty was to be fought out for all times and for all peoples. It was that portion of the great worldconflict that filled the present. It was to him also a part of that religion to the promotion of which he had been dedicated-the one element of Christianity which it was given unto our day and times to illustrate and construe for the edification of the ages. To him this idea was a part of a far greater whole. Liberty was a foundation-stone, but the edifice built above was far more worthy and beautiful than that on which it rested. Man was greater, in his eyes, than any of his attributes; God infinitely above the laws by Him ordained. To him the work of establishing freedom was only another form of missionary labor. In his view, religion was made for man, and not man for religion. He had been unable to do a laborer's part in one portion of the Lord's vineyard, but in that which he had now entered his powers had full play, and he found himself strengthened by knowledge and experience for the work. So, it was no wonder that the disappointed foreign missionary became famous as an advocate of liberty and a home missionary on the plains of Kansas. He had crossed its border almost with the first settlers, drawn thither by that fine instinct of its strategic importance in the great conflict, that so often seems more like prophecy than forecast in natures that are strung to a higher pitch of observation than the common herd. Regardless of sect, he had constituted himself at once a pastor of the scattered people, keeping alive, at the same time, the spirit of religion and of liberty in their hearts. He had shared their dangers and sufferings, and had more than once been their emissary to the rich and populous East, whose outpost they defended.

More than once had Mr. Kortright, meeting him at various assemblies of this character, sought to induce him to revisit the home of his boyhood; but it had been in vain. The large-hearted, busy-brained manufacturer had no suspicion of the reason why. He had something more than mere regard for this man of a double life. They had been boys together-not exactly playmates in any familiar sense, but they had known each other-and he fully realized the disadvantages under which Dawson Fox had labored, and honored the success he had achieved. Strangely enough, he did not stop to measure it by any material standard. Perhaps strong natures

rarely do. The fact of success is of more weight with the man who has wrought his own way upward than the mere accident of wealth. Dawson Fox had succeeded; so had Harrison Kortright, and they two, in a sense, towered alone above those with whom they had played and fought and with whom they had been wont to compare themselves in the old days. It mattered not that one was rich and the other poor. Both had honored the native soil, and each was willing to accord to the other the meed of credit for his exertion and success. The magnate of Skendoah was no aristocrat. No man had ever accused him of that; but he must have been more or less than human not to have been proud of himself and his work. In a single decade he had transformed the silent hamlet into a busy city. Lake Memnona was

his monument-his appeal to the ages-the attestation of his manhood. His life before that had been nothing. So he said, and so every one else believed, forgetful that it is in silence and repose that Nature ripens her best fruits. The years of silence had been years of growth with him. He did not know it; yet he regarded with peculiar pleasure whatever there was of worth and value in those years. The friends of that time were of especia! delight to him now. One by one he had found a place for several of them in connection with his various enterprises, and all regarded him still as "the Squire." They said of him-everybody who knew him-that old Kortright had not forgotten what he had come up from. It was a mistake. He was simply unconscious that he had come up. He felt his later life to be no better or worthier than his early manhood. It was only broader and stronger-that was all. The people who wrought with him were not beneath him. They were not his workpeople, but his neighbors. The little church had grown in size but not in magnificence. Kortright's Hall, as the people had insisted that it should be called, was the property of the citizens and for their use. All sorts of gatherings were held here in which the citizens or any considerable number of them were interested. Its platform was free. Its seats were free, unless the people by a free ballot put a price thereon for any specific purpose.

It was here that he desired to welcome Dawson Fox, and with that purpose, in order both to gratify the expected guest and his old friends, he had procured the committee to be made up of men whose names he believed the orator would still remember. Among these were our old friend Shields, still the positive, independent, keenminded farmer, whose estate had felt the impetus of Skendoah's growth until he was now, in his later years, a man of affluence; and Van Wormer, the stirring head of a valuable business that the waters of Lake Memnona had brought into life.

"It's a pity," said Shields, running his hand over the thin, gray hairs that framed his sharp features on either side, when they had met to draft the letter of invitation-"it's a pity old 'Squire Ritner ain't here to take a part in this. It's my notion that he's about the only one that had any special liking for Dawson when he was a ragged boy round here. He did take to him, and I guess he helped him arter he left here.”

"I'm sure I don't know," said Kortright, "but there never was a man more likely to do another a good turn than Ritner. We lost a man when we buried him."

"That we did," said Shields. "I've heard him talk about Dawson more 'n once since he began to make a figger in the world, and it was easy to see he'd always had a high opinion of him.”

"He was always ahead of all the rest of us in finding

out good things to be done," said Kortright, with a sigh.

Except in finding water-power," laughed Van Wormer, with his old propensity to tease.

"Well," said Kortright, "Josiah Ritner wasn't the sharpest man in findin' pennies or dollars that's ever been within a hundred miles of Skendoah, but I've never met a man that knew quite so well how to use 'em. The time was, gentlemen, when that man took me out of about the worst rut I ever got into."

"How was that ?" asked Van Wormer.

"Well, you know, I wasn't exactly used to handling as much money as I had to use in starting these things, and I was pretty nervous about the outcome for a time. I worked mighty hard for a year or two, and didn't think of much else day in and day out, till the factories were up and everything running as smooth and easy as water through a pine trunk.' Then the habit had got so fastened onto me that I never thought of giving attention to anything else. One day 'Squire Ritner came into the office, and as I was too busy to talk he just sat and watched me for an hour or so. We'd always been fast friends, but I should think it had been two years since we'd said much more 'n 'How d'ye do?' in passing. After a while we were alone a minute and the 'Squire came up and put his hand on my shoulder in that sort of petting way he had with everybody, you know, and said:

"Seems to me, Kortright, you're a' forgittin' that you ain't nothing but a trustee.'

"I never was so scared in my life, for I thought he 'd got hold of something I didn't care about being known; but when I looked up I saw his meaning at once. I got up and took his hand and shook it as if he'd been my brother, as he surely was, and said, 'So I had, 'Squire, but I promise you I won't any more.'”

"Oh, ho!" said Shields, with a twinkle in his eye, "that's what Mis Kortright laughs about yet as your 'second conversion,'—eh ?"

Exactly. I bought a new span of horses and a new carriage, and went home at four o'clock and took her out riding. It was about the first time I'd done such a thing since our courting days, too."

Kortright laughed at the recollection, and it was evident that his friends understood what his "second conversion" meant.

"And, by the way," said Shields, "that reminds me that Ritner once told me that Fox took it very much to heart, your marryin' Mattie Ermendorf."

"Crossed in love, eh?" said Van Wormer gleefully. Well, well, Squire, I had no idea you were bringing an old rival back here to exult over his misfortune.

"Sho, sho," said Kortright, with a little impatience, but with the hint of a blush on his fine, honest face. "That is just one of Shields' jokes."

"Not a bit on 't," said Shields, combing his thin locks with his hand; "it's what Ritner told me-and told it in dead earnest, too."

"Why, man," said Kortright, with an amused smile. "Dawson Fox hadn't been in Skendoah for years before we were married. I don't 'spose he 'd seen Mattie since she was a little girl."

"That's jest what Ritner said," persisted Shields. "He said they were great cronies as boy and gal, and he 'd sot his heart on marryin' her before he went away to school, an' he was mightily broke down when he come back arterwards an' found matters all arranged for her to marry you.”

"He did come back just before we were married,” said Kortright musingly.

"Jest so, jest so," said Shields. "I thought Ritner wa'n't likely to be very far out of the way on 't. He wasn't given to talking what he didn't know about."

Kortright's head dropped thoughtfully upon his breast. A new light had come into his mind. The cryptomerias that still flanked the pathway to his door; his wife's tender care of them; the fact that she had scarcely spoken of Dawson Fox, notwithstanding his own eulogies, all confirmed this story of an early attachment between them.

'Tain't possible," said Shields in surprise, for the first time realizing that it was possible.

"Poor fellow," said Kortright, looking up and smiling gravely at their banter; "poor fellow! I know what he lost, gentlemen, and can't but think how lonesome the years would have been if I had been in his place and he in mine."

There was a tender light in his eye as he spoke, and his lips trembled even as he smiled. The knowledge of this romantic episode in her life clothed the wife of his bosom only with a tenderer reverence. How had he been blessed in her love, while this other better man, this brilliant orator, who had sought it, had been left empty-hearted in the world! The man was too brave and self-forgetful to feel a twinge of pain or have a hint of jealousy.

“We must do all the more," he continued, “to make him feel that we haven't forgotten him. That is, if he will come. I'm afraid he won't; but if he does we 'll give him such a welcome as a man don't often get when he comes back to a place he hasn't been in three days since be was a boy.

“Well,” said Shields sententiously, "you know there ain't many such men as he."

"Nor many such as 'Squire Kortright," said Van Wormer with a peculiar warmth.

"Oh, of course, " said Shields, with a reproachful earnestness that brought a laugh from both the others. "Thank you, gentlemen," said Kortright; "but we are not getting on with our business. You just write the letter, Van Wormer, and we will sign it-if it suits us."

The letter was written more than once, and finally sent on its way. When Harrison Kortright met his wife, an hour afterwards, there was a soft light in his eyes and a tenderness that astonished the good woman as he put his arm about her waist and kissed her still fair lips. It was a most lover-like scene that followed, when he told her all that he had heard, and listened to its confirmation from her lips. They were old lovers, and married lovers, too, whom our modern analysts of the human heart count only worthy of sneers and jests; but it was really beautiful to the angel eyes that looked down on Paradise Bay that afternoon and saw the wife, in whom the romantic girl had never died, who had hungered all the years of her married life for the blandishments and caresses of love, cast herself into her husband's arms, kiss the pale, worn face, fondle the gray whiskers tenderly, and declare how she had been blessed above all other women in his fervent devotion. She was a silly old woman, he a weak, feeble old man, whose step still betrayed the touch of disease; yet methinks it were a prettier picture and better to look upon than if love had not been there. It certainly cannot be counted artistic in our modern sense, because there was nothing vile or degrading in it. However, that night

there went out from Skendoah another missive to Dawson Fox, full of the fragrance of the girl-love of long ago, which, though it had never ripened into womanlove in the heart of Mattie Ermendorf, had never faded from the memory of Martha Kortright.

In answer to both missives Dawson Fox had said "Yes," and on the morrow he was to come, to be for two days a guest at Paradise Bay, and then to speak at the great meeting to be held in aid of "Bleeding Kansas. [TO BE CONTINUED.]

It is easy to make statements which are tacitly admitted by all, and as tacitly denied whenever practice and theory are compared. Weakened vitality we know as the immediate consequence of defective or vitiated air supply, but there is another consequence far more serious. Scrofula is likely to become fixed upon such constitutions-in milder cases as consumption, in severer ones as actual decay and destruction of bone and tissue. Even the good realized by living for hours in the open air is undone, or at least neutralized by sleeping in unventilated rooms at night. The greatest living authorities on lung diseases pronounce want of ventilation the chief cause of consumption, and more fatal than all other causes put together; and even when food, clothing and general habits are all unwholesome, free fresh air has been proved able and sufficient to counteract in great degree their evil effects.

In the country a compensating power is found in the balance ordained by Nature. The poison thrown off by us from lungs and body as carbonic acid gas is the food of all vegetation, which, absorbing it, returns us instead from every waving leaf or blade of vegetation the oxygen we must have. This same carbonic acid gas we are always told, being heavier than oxygen, sinks to the bottom of the room, and thus makes sleeping on the floor or in a very low bed-as for instance a trundle-bed-unhealthful.

And as any

The fact is, that heat lightens and expands it, and thus, being warmed in the body, it rises into the common air, and there is really more at the top than at the bottom of a room. But this gas is by no means the only cause of disease. From both lungs and skin matter is constantly thrown off and floats as germs in all foul air. one long confined to close rooms shivers and shudders at any sudden current of air, taking cold at a breath, the question becomes: How shall we admit pure air yet avoid draughts? Night air is considered noxious, but what air is there to breathe at night if not night air? And as at night gas-jets or lamps are burning, their food the oxygen they love, it follows that instead of less we require a double supply.

There is but one mode of ventilation that will work always and without fail, and that is a warm-air flue, the upward heated current of which draws off all foul gases from the room. This, with an opening on the opposite side of the room for the admission of pure air, will secure the desired end. An even simpler way is to have ample openings, say from eight to twelve inches square, at the top and bottom of each room, opening into the chimney-flue. Then, even if there be only a stove in use, and not set-range or furnace, the flue can be heated by extending the stove-pipe some distance up inside the chimney, and the rising current of hot air will draw with it into the flue all the foul air in the room. This arrangement must, as has already been said, be completed by some opening for fresh air on the opposite side, a window lowered slightly from the top being better than nothing. If the stove-pipe be extended into the chimney, such extension had better be of cast-iron, as not only more durable but holding heat better than sheetiron. If there is no fire in sleeping-rooms, then the chimney must be heated by pipes from some other fire.

"Fussy and expensive," you say. Perhaps so, but less fussy than the time and attention your sudden illness from bad air may call for, and certainly less expensive than doctors' bills. Cease to fear that night air holds some subtle poison. It is only colder and moister than day air, and an extra bed-covering does away with all danger. Once learn to sleep with open windows and it will be found that taking cold is impossible.

There are cases where long custom or extreme and most unfortunate delicacy of organization occasions great sensitiveness to cold. For such the best course is to have a board made the precise width of the window and five or six inches high. Raise the lower sash and slip this board under. An upward current of air will then pass between the two sashes and, at least in part, purify the room. Remember also that no cause for impure air must be allowed to exist. A vase of withered and forgotten flowers will poison a whole room. In cellar or closet a pile of refuse vegetables, a decaying head of cabbage, a bone tossed aside, or a neglected garbage-box or pail, are all premiums on disease. Air and sunlight must search every corner and spotless cleanliness rule before the second essential in house and home is secured.

We have all heard the complaint from delicate women that "it takes till noon to get their strength up," and the statement holds tolerably convincing evidence that they slept in a hot and unventilated room. And we have found, too, that the child who went to bed content and rosy after a long day out of doors, often wakes up a little demon, bristling with naughtiness and determined not to be good. And for this state of things the anxious mother, who closed every crack from which air could come, is solely responsible. If life is shut out, death enters and rules, and daily habits mean life or death, both for body and soul.

OUR CORRESPONDENTS.

**Can the Household editor tell us what should be the standard weight and yield of eggs for the different varieties of fowls? We have just begun keeping them.-B. F. E., Orange, N.J.

Ans.-The Country Gentleman, a paper on which one may always depend, has lately done this, and we give their figures : Light Brahmas and partridge Cochins, eggs 7 to the pound; they lay, according to treatment and keeping, from 80 to 100 per annum, oftentimes more if kept well. Dark Brahmas, 8 to the pound, and about 70 per annum. Black, white and buff Cochins, 8 to the pound; 100 is a large yield per annum. Plymouth Rocks, 8 to the pound; lay 100 per annum. Houdans, 8 to the pound; lay 150 per annum ; non-sitters. La Fleche, 7 to the pound; lay 130 per annum; non-sitters. Black Spanish, 7 to the pound; lay 150 per annum. Dominiques, 9 to the pound; lay 130 per annum. Games, 9 to the pound; lay 130 per annum. Crevecœurs, 7 to the pound; lay 150 per annum. Leghorns, 9 to the pound; lav from 150 to 200 per annum. Hamburgs, 9 to the pound; lay 170 per annum. Polish, 9 to the pound; lay 150 per annum. Bantams, 16 to the pound; lay 60 per annum. Turkeys, eggs 5 to the pound; lay from 30 to 60 per annum. Ducks, eggs vary greatly with different species, but from 5 to 6 to the pound, and from 14 to 28 per annum, according to age and keeping. Geese, 4 to the pound; lay 20 per annum. Guineas, 11 to the pound; lay 60 per annum.

HELEN CAMPBELL.