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from Duluth had passed a half-hour earlier, and now waited on a side-track of the Eastern Minnesota, twenty miles down the road. A new engineer was in charge to-day. With his fireman he had come through miles of blazing brush, the headlight of No. 26 showing bloodred at mid-day, through the pall of smoke. Now he looked anxiously to the south, where Hinckley's entire male population strove in vain to protect the town; now he turned his blood-shot eyes to the north watching for the arrival of Passenger No. 4. Dare they hold the freight longer? The heat was becoming unbearable. Down swept a blizzard of cinders from blazing lumber-piles. Then came the roar and leap of the fiery tornado. It licked the varnish from the cab; it blistered the wooden trucks of the empties; the heavy plate window fell in, cracked by the furnace-like heat, and, though Nord was prostrated by the blast, he felt, through all, the vibration of the coming train. In a moment he had run his cars back and coupled them to the rear of the passenger, and together the brave engineers began their memorable retreat. Then panic-stricken citizens began to clamber on the flatcars, imploring Nord to save them. In vain did his aching eyes search the groups of stragglers for a familiar face. All were too dazed to answer his agonized inquiries. After waiting for threequarters of an hour, the last refugees were taken on board, and the long train moved slowly backward across Grindstone Bridge. Here they again waited until forty more stricken people could be taken on; then, as the ties under the train were burning and the coaches blistering from the intense heat, they pulled out. The very rails had begun to warp and twist.

Now open the throttle, Nord, and put on all speed! No need to give your accustomed signal-No. 26 has the rightof-way. The rails stretch before you void of traffic, and scores of lives are hanging on your simple Danish courage. Now they are nearing Kettle River and a watchman cries out, "For God's sake, let her go-the bridge will fall in five minutes." And the train thundered on -warning, rescuing, bearing its despairing freight to a place of safety.

As it slowed up on the wild margin of a forest lake, the stricken passengers crept with parched throats to its cooling waters. Some of the ablest among them sent news of the disaster to Duluth, and relief was even then upon its way.

But Nord, overcome by the heat and his terrible responsibility, his hands and face blistered, lay on the floor of his cab in a dead faint. Hours passed, and after a time he opened his eyes on what had once been his happy homestead. Could he be dreaming, or was this some terrible jest of fate, this vision of smouldering logs where Hilma's head might once have rested. Hilma !where in this solitude of fire was she? Blackened strips of devastated pines surrounded the clearing. Here and there a tree stood charred to its summit, where a green tuft flaunted mockingly in the sun. The swamps were swept bare of their rank summer growth; even the earth seemed combustible as it still smoked and smouldered in ashy desolation. Who shall picture the scene, as the relief-train from Duluth drew near, and strong-hearted, strong-armed men went about like angels of mercy! Hinckley, Sandstone, Partridge-names ever memorable to the dwellers in the Northwest-what tragedies did your ruins unfold! Here, a pit of death; there, a glimpse of living agony; pitiful cries for the lost, despairing search for the missing, hasty burial of tortured humanity-who among those brave men can ever blot the appalling scenes from his memory!

With an instinctive dread, a horror never felt before, Nord joined the group of rescuers, and aided their ghastly search. They were nearing the old rock that formed the roof of his root-cellar, and his heart stood still as he saw in the ashes at the entrance a quaint, silver brooch, his gift to Hilma. One step more, and he beheld in the rude cave two forms clasped close in a last embrace. Ah, Nord, was it for this you have come through the path of torment, to find the face you loved at peace on the breast of another? But death must have relented at sight of Hilma's sweet content, for, as they looked, the two figures

relaxed, and with eager hands the rescuers applied restoratives, until with a shuddering sigh Hilma opened her eyes, and Olin's broad chest began to rise and fall at regular intervals. The fire had evidently spent its fury outside the rough earthen walls, and the lovers had merely been overcome by the breath of the first fiery wave. Had not help arrived soon, they must have passed from the semblance of death to its reality. Tenderly as a mother, Nord bore his rival to the waiting train, and without trusting himself to speak to Hilma, he hurried to his cab. Within a few hours fifteen hundred refugees were being cared for by sympathetic hands at Duluth, and nature, shedding una

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vailing tears at her relentless work, quenched the last embers of the desolated hearthstones. In the days that followed, the survivors began to realize the unspeakable horrors through which they had passed. But "Life is ever lord of Death;" hope returned to the homeless, and the good city missionary heard the story of Hilma and Olin with cheerful courage. The marriage shall be consummated," said he, with decision. And in sweet robes of charity the little bride was given away by the mayor, her wedding guests a motley company of Swedish refugees. Only a bunch of red roses at her breast gave token of the knightly spirit of the giver. Nord was on the range.

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THE MOUNTAIN OF HEARTS: A FABLE
By Anne Spicer

MAN dwelt with his wife in such peace and comfort, that, when the day came for him to stand beside her dead body, he made no lamentation and shed no tears.

In his heart he said: "I have nothing to regret. I have made her very happy in life-she has told me so-she has not found me wanting. Remembering our joy together, let me bear the loss of her with patience until the day comes for me to join her." His friends, looking at him, marvelled at his fortitude.

Some time later this man died, and his soul journeyed to a strange land; and in that land was a great mountain.

At first the mountain seemed to be of stones, but when the man looked closely he saw that it was a heap of human hearts.

He turned to one who was guiding him and asked whence came these many hearts.

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some great terrible gash, partly hidden. None were perfect.

Among them he saw a heart which had many old scars; and these old scars were torn and lacerated again and again with new wounds in the same places.

Because it was such a pitiful heart, he asked an explanation of his guide.

"That heart belonged to a woman whom the world counted happy," said the guide. "She was always smiling and joyous and was beloved by her husband; but her heart was very tender and he often hurt it, though he knew it not. She smiled and hid it bravely, for she knew he loved her; and again and again he hurt her in the same places, but she only smiled and hid the wounds. Often they ached and burned until it seemed in the night sometimes as though she must waken her husband and tell him of her pain; but he slept soundly, and she thought, "Why grieve him? He will not understand."

The man wept as he listened, and said to his guide:

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HE chrysanthemum should undoubtedly be placed near the top of any list of endof-the-century fads. It appeals not only to the flower-lovers, the collectors, and the great growers, but to the popular heart as well. Long before it became known to fame, the little button chrysanthemum of our grandmother's garden was as great a favorite as is now its descend

ent of to-day, which, resembling a dishevelled cabbage, graces my lady's boudoir, as highly prized as her miniatures, fans, and laces. Surely it should be a matter of pride that the American people have taken the chrysanthemum to their heart, that the national appreciation of æsthetic beauty is so prevalent; for does not Ruskin tell us that "wherever men are noble they love bright color?"

One can scarcely have a realization of all that color may mean until, on a misty, sobbing November day, he enters a chrysanthemum house. The warmth of the slightly humid atmosphere, the cool tones of the glass roof, the restful screen of palms and delicate vines are there, and, beyond, there breaks upon his sight the glow of the massed chrysanthemums.

It cannot fail to arouse in him an emotion as keen as the sense of the mystery of the sea or the inspiration of the mountains. The sight of that wealth of pure color in countless tones -living color, the supreme expression of the life of a plant-is an exhilaration to the spirits and a stimulus to the imagination.

Over November's courts at dusk

The chill, pale moon and the clouds hang There is no breath of the blossom's musk high. Here where the gardens of autumn lie.

Masses of snow or flowers ablow,

Flame that veers not from a stem; Wine on the lees aglow thro' these, With sunshine deep in the heart of them! Leaves adrift on a falling wind!

Hills enwrapt in a faint gray haze! I cry to you that the year is kind-

I have found my summer of splendid days.

Masses of snow, or flowers ablow!
Flame that veers not from a stem;
Wine on the lees aglow thro' these,
With sunshine deep in the heart of them!

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If Indian summer is the crown of the year, the chrysanthemum is assuredly the crown of Indian summer, and its somewhat hackneyed name Queen of Autumn "-is an expression of admiration at once spontaneous and deserved. The chrysanthemum is a floral climax. Grant it that personality which all flower-lovers claim for every blossom that blows, and it is a flower with a dramatic appreciation of the situation and a superb and aggressive insolence. "Follow me, you roses, orchids, and violets, but for myself I stand alonethe Queen of Autumn." This grande dame of the flower-house is heaped with orders and honors; for is not the chrysanthemum one of the royal seals of the Mikado of Japan, and has not one upon whom is bestowed the order of the chrysanthemum received one of the highest gifts in his power? In November the royal gardens are thrown open, the emperor appears in his gorgeous robes, and under silken canopies, fanned by balmy breezes, tended by

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