al hosiery works and woollen mills
have closed because of a "tariff agitation" which, if successful, will
give them cheaper raw material! "No matter," says a leading hose
manufacturer in a Chicago paper, "whether the result of the proposed
tariff-tinkering will benefit or injure us ultimately, any sort of
agitation of the question immediately blocks trade. People will not buy
when there is the remotest hope that goods will be cheaper after a
while. The manufacturing industries at this time cannot stand any tariff
agitation." No sane person believes that there is a man, woman, or child
in the United States going without stockings until they see whether the
Mills bill will pass the Senate! No sane man believes that one pair less
of hose is sold in the United States because of tariff agitation. The
underlying fact is, that the protected industries propose to "shut down"
and throw their employes out of work for the purpose of starving them
into voting for a continuation of the present iniquitous tariff
schedules. It is the refined "shot-gun electioneering system" of the
North.

E. S.

_THE BELLS OF CHRISTMAS._

O bells that madly toll to-night,
What is the meaning of your note?
Is disappointment or delight
The burden of each brazen throat?
And what the words my weary brain
Discovers in your vague refrain?

From the high casement of my room
I watch the world below asleep;
While from the belfries clothed in gloom
The clangor rolls from deep to deep,
Repeating, as afar 'tis flung,
A lesson from an unknown tongue.

O music that eludes the soul,--
Like that sweet sea which vexed the thirst
Of Tantalus, but never stole
Across his fevered lips accursed,--
Unfold your mysteries to-night,
Your misty meaning and your might.

It surging sweeps upon the air.
Besides the clamor of the bells
Are echoing strains from everywhere,
Past, present, future. How it swells
Into an endless sea which roars
And moans on lonely rock-bound shores!

Hoarse, hollow echoes from dead years
Of that which I have thought and done--
The discords of past sin and tears
Through e'en your fairest measures run.
Alas! when will those discords cease?
Does sorrow never lead to peace?

Chords of the present clash and jar
As though each note would never end;
Yet as their rhythms die afar,
They slowly unto beauty blend,
And the last cadence fad