or buy them, and drive them to it without their consent. Having proceeded so far, it is naturally concluded that all laborers are either hired laborers, or what we call slaves. And, further, it is assumed that whoever is once a hired laborer, is fixed in that condition of life. Now there is no such relation between capital and labor as assumed, nor is there any such thing as a free man being fixed for life in the condition of a hired laborer. Both these assumptions are false, and all inferences from them are groundless.

'Labor is prior to, and independent of, capital. Capital is only the fruit of labor, and could never have existed if labor had not first existed. Labor is the superior of capital, and deserves much the higher consideration. Capital has its rights, which are as worthy of protection as any other rights. Nor is it denied that there is, and probably always will be, a relation between capital and labor, producing mutual benefits. The error is in assuming that the whole labor of a community exists within that relation. A few men own capital, and that few avoid labor themselves, and, with their capital, hire or buy another few to labor for them. A large majority belong to neither class-neither work for others, nor have others working for them. In most of the Southern States, a majority of the whole people, of all colors, are neither slaves nor masters; while in the Northern, a large majority are neither hirers nor hired.

"Men with their families-wives, sons, and daughters-work for themselves, on their farms, in their homes, and in their shops, taking the whole product to themselves, and asking no favors of capital on the one hand, nor of hired laborers or slaves on the other. It is not forgotten that a considerable number of persons mingle their own labor with capital; that is, they labor with their own hands and also buy or hire others to labor for them, but this is only a mixed and not a distinct class. No principle stated is disturbed by the existence of that mixed class.

"Again, as has already been said, there is not, of necessity, any such thing as the free hired laborer being fixed to

that condition for life. Many independent men everywhere in these States, a few years back in their lives, were hired laborers. The prudent penniless beginner in the world labors for wages a while, saves a surplus with which to buy tools or land for himself, then labors in his own account another while, and at length hires another new beginner to help him. This is the just and generous and prosperous system which opens the way to all-gives hope to all, and consequent energy and progress, and improvement of condition to all. No men living are more worthy to be trusted than those who toil up from poverty-none less inclined to touch or take aught which they have not honestly earned. Let them beware of surrendering a political power they already possess, and which, if surrendered, will surely be used to close the door of advancement against such as they, and to fix new disabilities and burdens upon them, till all of liberty shall be lost.'

"The views thus expressed remain unchanged, nor have I much to add. None are so deeply interested to resist the present rebellion as the working people. Let them beware of prejudices, working division and hostility among themselves. The most notable feature of a disturbance in your city last summer was the hanging of some working people by other working people. It should never be. The strongest bond of human sympathy, outside of the family relation, should be one uniting all working people, of all nations, and tongues, and kindreds. Nor should this lead to a war upon property, or the owners of property. Property is the fruit of labor; property is desirable; is a positive good in the world. That some should be rich shows that others may become rich, and, hence, is just encouragement to industry and enterprise. Let not him who is houseless pull down the house of another, but let him labor diligently and build one for himself, thus by example assuring that his own shall be safe from violence when built."

We publish the above matter pertaining to Washington and Lincoln as purely historic, and without the slighest bias, believing as a Union soldier, that the day will come when the name of Lincoln will

"I had a dream thing from Juddie. A fluffy satin thing, with a painted scene. Juddie is a nice boy."

Bobby leaned back in his chair. "And Donnie," continued Betty, "a cute little heart book of real vellum, and-lovely inscriptions. Donnie's been ordered West-leaves Friday- to take charge of a picket or a pillar, or what do they call it, Bobby?"

"A post," replied Bobby, gravely.

"And I got such a silly one from George-really, it's too ridiculous to describe. And Oh! I mustn't forget Mr. Barry's-the delicious tenor. We met at the Welcher reception to that German musician; you know, Bobby. I've known him only-let's see, yes, it's three weeks. Do you like him, Bobby?" "When he sings," replied the latter without emotion.

"He's to sing in the French opera at the Temple next season," replied Betty, victoriously.

"He has nice pink cheeks," remarked Bobby abstractedly.

"So had you before you went with Kent on the Mediterranean in his horrid steam yacht," retorted Betty; "pinker than his."

Bobby was silent.

"I like your color, though, Bobby," said Betty conciliatorily; "you carry it well."

"But, why," insisted Bobby, "do you hate valentines as a class and dote on them individually?"

"Oh, those valentines!" cried Betty, in feigned distress. "That tenth one made me despise them all-as a class. Such wretched taste!"

Bobby twisted in his seat uncomfortably. "Perhaps," he suggested uncertainly, "perhaps you did not see it all." "I don't want to see more of it," replied Betty, promptly. "I threw it in the fire."

Bobby started and stirred so in his chair that he moved it out of place. "W-why did you do such a thing?" he asked, looking foolishly into Betty's critical eyes.

"You seem to have a stirring sym

Bobby smiled-just a little. "It's cruel to destroy a valentine," he said feebly.

"Perhaps," replied Betty lightly. Then suddenly, "But you must see the pretty ones. Let me show them to you. Isn't this a bit of beautiful Colonial sentiment in miniature oil? I mean to thank Juddie personally."

"Did Juddie paint that himself?” asked Bobby gravely.

"The idea!" ejaculated Betty in scorn; "he doesn't know oil from pastel." Bobby gathered a gleam of hope. "But this heart book," continued Betty, "isn't it lovely? Such beautiful satin-"

"I gave a heart book like that to a girl two years ago," put in Bobby, seriously.

"To Clara Ellwood, I suppose," replied Betty disparagingly, toying carelessly with the heart book.

Bobby nodded silently.

"Here's the one George sent me-isn't it just too preposterous-and just like George! And let me show you Mr. Barry's, just characteristic heavy German sentiment all over-. And-Oh, my! where is-?" Betty stopped suddenly with a face full of distress, and then suddenly stamped her foot in provocation. "Why I must have-yes, I did! Isn't it too bad?"

Bobby stared.

"I've thrown Mr. Semple's valentine into the fire instead of that nasty cheap one!" cried Betty.

Bobbie's face looked actually eager. "Where is it?" he asked.

"Oh, it's all burnt up now, foolish!" said Betty with exasperation.

"I mean the-the cheap thing," corrected Bobby solemnly.

"Oh, that?” replied Betty, in disdain; "it's in my room, and I'm going to fetch it now, and burn the nasty thing.

Bobby changed his seat and went before the fireplace apprehensively.

"Now I must see it before you consign it to the flames," pleaded Bobby, when Betty came with it.

"See!" said Betty, holding it at arms' length; "isn't it ugly?”

But suddenly something seemed to have given way at the despised valentine and a rapid transition took place. The cheap valentine had suddenly disappeared, and from its interior there seemed to have come, like a chrysalis, a pretty and tasteful design.

"Gracious!" cried Betty, in amazement, "what has happened?"

Bobby sighed with relief.

"Isn't that lovely?" continued Betty with enthusiasm. "If I had burnt it!"

"I would have been sorry," said Bobby sincerely.

"And I know who it's from," said Betty, with sudden conclusion.

Bobby came closer, ostensibly to admire the valentine, but obviously, when he took the hand that held it, too, to admire its recipient.

"Will you stop hating cheap valentines now?" he asked.

"You always did incline to cheap melodrama, Bobby," replied Betty disapprovingly, gazing absently at the valentine. "Why, here is a ring!" she exclaimed suddenly.

"Yes," replied Bobby. "I hope it fits you," and he put it on without resistance.

"What a cheap valentine!" murmured Betty.

Ireland's Place in History.

peculiar charm. In its primal days Druid worship held the hearts of its people and the cult of sylvan deities formed its religion. The beauty and richness of legend, in whose lap Ireland then slept, are rivaled by none, perhaps, save those of classic Greece herself.

Tradition supplies an endless number of crags, hillsides and valleys, which were

On St. Patrick's day, with tender heart and moist eye, we set before ourselves the far form of Ireland, garlanded with the deeds of the past, and bedecked with the colors of bygone days. The pages of Irish history are, without doubt, familiar to all. The brilliant lights and deep shadows, the intense joys and keen sorrows, the failures and triumphs which mark the annals of Erin are an old and familiar story.

Her very early history contains an air of romance, and has, running through it, a depth of color which invests it with a

the subjects of legendary lore, and which captivated the feelings of the Celt with an irresistible spell. The history of those times is obscured by the many myths and fables interwoven with the facts handed down to us. Amid all this vagueness, however, it is plain that, in the early stages of Ireland's career, she left upon the world the impress of a most excellent civilization and that her people possessed much merit and many virtues.

The Ballad of McCarty's Trombone.

Sure, Felix McCarty lived all alone

On the top ay a hill be the town ay Athone.

And the pride av his heart was a batthered trombone

That he played in an iligent style av his own,
And often I've heard me old grandfather say
That long as he lived, on St. Patrick's day,

The minute the dawn showed the first streak av gray,

McCarty would rise, this tune he would play;

"Pertaters and fishes make very good dishes
St. Patrick's day in the mor-rnin"
With tootin and blowin he kept it a goin,
Fer rest was a thing he was scor-rnin.
And thim that were lazy could niver lie aisy,
But jumped out av bed at the warnin,
Fer who could be stayin aslape wid him playin
"St. Patrick's Day in the Mor-rnin?"

And thin whin the b'ys would fall in fer parade
McCarty'd be gay wid his buttons and braid,
And whin he stipped off for ter head the brigade,
Why, this was the beautiful tune that he played:

"By-Killarney-lakes-and-fells!
Toot-tetoot-toot-toot-toot-dells!"

And-the heel av-McCarty's-boot
Mar-rked-the time at-iv-ery-toot,
And-the slide at-aich-bass-note
Seemed-ter slip ha'f-down-his-throat,
Whoile-he caught his-breath-be-spells-
"By-Killarney-lakes-and-fells!"

Now, McCarty, he lived ter be wrinkled and lean,
But he died wan foin day playin "Warin' the
Green,"

And they sould the ould horn ter a British spalpeen,
And it bust whin he tried ter blow "God Save the
Queen!"

But the nights av St. Patrick's day in Athone
Folks dare not go by the ould graveyard alone,
Fer they say that McCarty sits on his tombstone
And plays this sad tune on a phantom trombone.
"The harp that wance through Tara's halls
The sowl av music shed

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that sowl were dead."

And all who've heard the lonesome keens
That that grim ghost has blown
Know well by Tara's harp he means
That battered ould trombone.

-BY JOE LINCOLN.

"Apostle of Joy."

The shamrock, the small white clover of Ireland, is associated with St. Patrick from the day on which he used the trefoil to illustrate the doctrine of the Trinity. It is interesting to know that the Arabic name for the trefoil is "shamrakh," and that it is held sacred in Iran as emblematical of the Persian triads. Pliny comments on the fact

that serpents are never found near the trefoil leaf.

The course of St. Patrick through Ireland, England, Scotland and Wales may be traced by the existence of places named after him. Legends abound without number, each adding to the love and veneration investing this saint, who was in truth an apostle of good works and joy.- Western News Union.

Story of a Wedding on St. Patrick's Day.

BY F. A. MITCHEL.

(Copyright by American Press Association, 1911.) There is a small island called Tory, on the coast of Ireland, about which hangs many a picturesque legend. The islanders are all fishermen. In olden times Tory was a lonely place and a hard place to get to and from. No priest lived there. The islanders were all good Catholics, and not to have a priest handy to baptize them, to marry them and to shrive them subjected them to constant trials.

The only sacred thing they had was the "nun's grave." Long ago during a storm the body of a nun was washed up on the island. That was the first time the people there saw a nun's habit. The leathern girdle and beads made them think that there was something sacred about the body. They prayed to be instructed what to do with it, and a voice told them that it was the body of a holy nun and they must bury it where they had found it. They did so and to this day not a boat ever puts out to fish without a handful of earth from the "nun's grave" to preserve the fishermen from drowning.

Many years ago there lived on Tory island a young fisherman named Fergus Tyrone and a fisher lass named Eileen O'Connor. They were a simple couple, growing up in a small compass and loving each other with that fervor which is to be found in those who live lives close to nature. They were of the same age, having both been born on St. Patrick's day. Fergus, though but 20 years of age at the time the incident I am about to narrate took place, was a hardy young fellow and, however stormy