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GOING HOME.: Kiss me when my spirit flies Let the beauty of your eyes Beam along the waves of death While I draw my parting breatb, And am borne to yonder shore Where the billows beat no more, And the notes of endless spring Through the groves immortal ring. I am going home to-night, Out of blindness into sisjht, Out of weakness, war and pain Inco power, peace and gain Out of winter, gale and gloom Into summer breath and bloom From the wand'nngs ef the past I am going home at last. Kiss my lips and let me go Nearer swells the solemn flow Of the wond'rous stream that rolls By the border-land of souls I can catch sweet strains of songs Floating down from distant throngs And can feel the touch of hands Reaching out from angel bands. Anger's frown and envy's thrust, Friendship chilled by cold distrust,, Sleepless night and weary morn, Toil in fruitless land forlorn. Aching head and breaking heart, Love destroyed by slander'B dart, Drifting ship and darkened sea, Over there will righted be. Sing in numbers low and sweet, Let the songs of two worlds meet We shall not be sundered long Like the fragment of a song, Like the branches of a rill Parted by the rock or hill, We shall blend in tune and time, Loving on in perfect rhyme. When the noon-tide of your days Yields to twilight's silver haze, Ere the world recedes in space, Heavenward lift your tender face, Let your dear eyes homeward shine, Let your spirit call for mine, And my own will answer you From the deep and boundless blue. Swifter than the sunbeam's flight I will cleave the gloom of night, And will guide you to the land Where our loved ones waiting stand, And the legions of the blest, They shall welcome you to rest They will know you when your eyes On the isles of glory rise. When the parted streams of life Join beyond all jarring strife. And the flowers that withered lay Blossom in immortal May When the voices hushed and dear Thrill once more the raptured ear, We shall feel and know and see God knows better far than we. James Q. Clark, in Home Journal. A PLUCKY GIRL. "So you won't go to church this even ing, Malchen?" said Otto Von Polheim to his eldest daughter one Sunday in De cember, as he and the rest of the family were setting out for the market town to hear Parson Knopps preach an advent sermon. "No, father, Dorothea can go in my stead, and I will keep the house." "Keep the house alone? No, I will leave Hans to protect thee and the manse, too." "I would rather not have Hans," said Malchen,with a little pout, as she glanced at an ugly gawk who was her father's head servant. "Then thou shalt not have Karl," grum bled old Polheim, speaking rather to himaelf than to the girl and, wrapping his ancient blue cloak tightly around him he struck his iron-tipped staff two or three times on the flags of the hall to in timate to the members of his household that it was time to be oft. They came clattering down-stairs and trudged out of different doorsa large and rather noisy troop. Otto Von Pol heim was a landowner on a small scale what would be called in England a gen tleman farmerand he had a family of ten sons and daughters, without counting two servant wenches and a couple of la borers whom he treated as his children. The eldest of these two laborers, a tall, rosy-cheeked, fair-haired, blue-eyed fel low, named Karl, had shown signs of late of being "a bit soft" about Preulein Malchen, and this displeased her father, for though he was a kind master he had a 'Squire's pride, and wauld have kicked Karl straightway out of bis house if he had suspected Malchen of cherishing any regard tor him. At least this is what he had once said to Kail with more blunt ness than prudence, for worldly wisdom would perhaps, have suggested that he should begin by turning off Karl before Malchen's sentiments toward him had pened into affection "Now, come, come, let's be off," re peated old Polheim, impatiently "come wife, and you Bertha, Frida and Gretch en you Hans, take one of the lanterns, and you, Karl, lead the way with the other." Karl slunk out, looking very sheepish, but scarcely had he got into the open air before the candle in his lantern was blown out, and he ran back to get anoth er. Malchen was standing in the hall and struck a match for him. She struck a second and third, for somehow the phos phorous would not act, and the operation of lighting was delayed a little. When Karl took the lantern his hand touched Malehen's hand and the girl blushed. "It's a cruelly cold night to go in,'' fal tered she. "And I dont like leaving you alone," whispered Karl. "I think I shall steal out of church and come back to see if you are safe." "Oh, no, the door will be barred," ex claimed Malchen, in a flutter. "Then I'll climb the orchaid wall," an swerd Karl, nothing daunted, and he ex ecuted a wink as he went forth into the cold. "How very audacious he is becoming," muttered Malchen to herself but she ap parently thought that it was of no use to bar the door if Karl meant to get over the garden wall, so she simply shut it, and turned back to spend her evening in the kitchen. Herr Von Polheim's farm stood in a lonely part of the country, about two miles from Bavaria. It had once been a castle, and all the rooms on the ground floor were large, windv apartments, with wainscoted walls, and old oaken furniture. The kitchen whicn served as the ordinary sitting-room to the family of an evening, was made com fortable by some screens which shut out the drafts, and by the large fires which roared in the immense chimneys all day long. There were two arm-chairs under the bulging mantel of the chimney on either side of the andirons, and in one of these Malchen took her seat. She began to knit but soon her work subsided into ner lap, and she begrn to stare at the fire an a seft reverie. There were faces, of course, in the red embers of the crumbling pine-logs, and Karl's was chief among them. Malchen, who was a pretty, sentimental young lady of eighteen, but somewhat cautious, as becomes the daughter of a gentleman who can prefix a Von to Ms name, asked herself it she liked Karl. Did she truly feel for him more than she did tor any other man Would she grieve for him if he met with an accident? If he left her father's service? II he were taken away for military service, and forced to risk his life in the wars? After fenc ing a little with her conscience, the dam sel decided that she did not quite know what she ought to think about Karl but that he was a very bold, and not-te-be- easily-put-down young man, she admit ted to herself frankly enough in her quaint German phraseelog. Malchen. from being romantic, was a bold girl and felt no fear at being alone in the big house on a winter's evening. The soughing of the wind through the bare trees outside the noise of draughts shaking doors that was loose on their hinges the monotonous tick-tack of the kitchen clock, did not disturb her com posure. She sat listening for footsteps, and conned over in her mind what sharp thing she should say to dismiss Karl if he had the impertinence to present himself before her. The worst of it was that Karl was just such a young man as might be indifferent to sharp things. His boldness really exceeded his belief. Why. that very evening in touching ber ringers he had actually squeezed but here Malchen gave a slight start,for she heard footsteps, and fancied that it was never-to-be- sufB ciently-blamed Karl, wh had played truant from church, faithful to his impu dent promise. She rose and stood coyly in the mid dle of the kitchen, her cheeks pink and her bosom heaving. She thought she would take to flight as soon as Karl's heavy tread was heard in the passage but she waited two or three minutes with out hearrng the door open, yet there were steps outside, and, now that her ears were strained, she heard voices. Her relatives had not gone an hour, so it was not like ly they could have returned so soon. Whose,fhen, could these steps and voices be? The kitchen had a high window seven feet above the floor, and it was closed with shutters. But in the shutters loz enge apertures were cut. Malchen climbed on to the dresser, under the window, and looked out what she saw would have made most timid girls jump down,squeal ing, and run away, half dead with terror. Nine men- not one lesswith black masks on their faces and house-breaking implements in hand, had entered the farm-yard, and were evidently holding a council as how they should commence their attack on the house. They stood in a group, and some of them pointed to the apertures in the kitchen shutters, where light was visible, as if they were taking note of the fact that the farm was not quite abandoned. Malchen remembered having heard that brigands had been infesting some of the districts in an adjoining Province, and she saw that if she hesitated to act she would be lost. There hung over the mantleshelf two-double-barreled fowling pieces and a horse pistol, which were al ways Kept a protection of the farm against wolves winter, and for the intimida tion of poachers and tramps at other sea sons of the year. Malchen had the same horror of fire-arms as most other gills but at this moment her blood volted at the idea of leaving the farm to be plun dered without striking a blow for it. Herr Von Polheim owned a good deal of silver plate and was accustomed to keep pretty large sums of money within the oaken chest in his bedroom. Among other reflections which rushed through Malchen's mind was this, that if her fa ther were robbed of all his cash he would get into a vile humor, which would make its effects felt at the farm for weeks, and render the place uninhabitable. Now Malchen stood in great terror of her fa ther when he was angry. She ran to the chimney and unhooked the arms, then swiftly climbed on the ta ble again. The little lattices outside the apertures in the shutters were open, so Malchen could thrust out the barrels of her weapons and fire at the malefactors. Before doing so, however, she put a coin into her mouth to alter tne ring of her voice, and making a horn of both hands, shouted in a tone which sounded like a man's "Who goes there?" No answer. The burglars stared at each other in astonishment, and were fair ly dismayed when they heard the next exslamation, which conveyed the idea that the person who had first spoken was not alone, but had several men under his orders, "Now, then, when I give the word, fire sharp, and aim straight. Fire!" Two reports instantly followed .this command, and then came two others. When the report cleared away, Malchen, who looked out with haggard eyes, her heart thumping awfully the while, saw four men stretched out on the snow, and saw nothing else. The other five mem bers of the band had taken flight. "The guns were loaded with slugs perhaps I have killed them all'" ejaculated Mal chen, in terror, for her combative ardor abated of a sudden, now that so easy a victory had been won. "Oh, dear, what shall I do?" She had taken up the horse-pistol and glanced out to see if there was another shot to be fired. There was a choking sensation at her throat, and she began to whimper. It \as all too dreadful. She could not bear the sight of those dead men, all killed by her hand. But one ot them suddenly moved, and tried to rise to his knees. Immediately the sentimen tal Malchen aimed her pistol to give him his quietus but luckily for himself, the man roared out: "Oh, Malchen! Mal chen help! 'Tis IKarl!" "Karl!" exclaimed the girl, as her voice seemed to expire in her throat, while her heart turned to ice. "Karl, is it thou?" "Yes, and I am wounded I am dying," sobbed the luckless fellow "and it's all for thee." Malchen tottered and might have fal len off the table had there been any one present to catch her in his arms. As it was, she scrambled down somehow and made for the door, still holding her pis tol. One moment's hesitation as she touched the door-handle but she sur mounted it and went out. In another moment she could judge with her own eyes of the murderous effects oi her vol ley. Three men lay on the snow stone $0%**% dead as tor Karl, a slug had clean sliced off a part of his right ear and cheek, so that he bled like a pig, but he wasother wise unhurt. J^& "Oh, Karl, Karl, how earnest thou hither in such company!" exclaimed Malchen, as she tore off her apron to staunch his wound. rK "Mein Gott, it was for thee!" sniveled the unhappy Karl. "These men are my friends we had all come for a lark, and meant to carry thee off for I hoped that thy too-obstinate father would consent of neccessity to our marriage. Oh, oh, my ear "Peace, Karl but oh, how foolish ot thee!" sighed Malchen. "How could'st thou think that nine men were required to carry me oft?" "Mein Gott. I thought thou wast romantic, was all that Karl ceuld say be tween two squeaks caused by the anguish in his ear. One is sorry to say that the tribunals of Bavaria took a one-eyd view of the affair and wanted to sentence Karl for burglary, but the attitude of poor Mal chen had been so heroical that King Lou is 11, sent for her to Munich, and having decoratedjher with the cross ot Civil Mer it, asked her what he could do to please her. "Pardon my Karl, aad give him a dower to marry me," prayed the faithful maiden, sobbing. His Majesty pulled a slightly wry face at mention of dower, but courtiers were present, so he gave his royal promise, "Thou wouldst marry a man with one ear, then?" added he, laughing. "Sire, he lost his other for me," re sponded Malchen, drying her eyes. "Well this is a queer story," said the King, amused. "We will have it made into a libretto, and my friend Wagner here shall set it to music." The composor of the future bent his head, as if the happy thought had already occurred to him.New York Star. EDMUND KEAN. How the Great Tragedian Played "Shylock [All the Year Round The theatre was great straits the managers were as drowning men clutch ing at straws otherwise they would not have ventured upon the desperate ex pedient of suffering Mr. Kean to appear For weeks he had hung about the thea tre, almost begging that he might have a trial. He was known to the scoffing stage-door keepers as the "man with the capes," because of the heavy coachman's cape he woreit was bitter wintry weather, the snow two feet deep upon the ground. He was allowed his chance at last. But one rehearsal was thought necessary this was on the morning ot the memorable January 26, 1814, the day fixed for his first performance. He le peated his speeches with some intima tion of the manner he proposed to adopt in delivering them before the footlignts. His play-tellows predicted failure the stage manager boldly denounced the in novations of the provincial actor. "If I am wrong, the public will see me right," said the tragedian of the Theatre Royal Exeter. The stage manager shrugged bis shoulders. The actor dined liberally, for the first time in many days, upon steak and porter than ttelked through the snow from his lodging in Cecil sheet to the theatre, carrying his properties, an old pair of black silk stockings, a collar, and a black wig,for contrary to all precedent, his ShyloeJ&^wore a black wigtied up a handkerchief, and thrust into the pocket oi the great coat with the capes. The house was only quarter full. The play began drearily enough. Yet Shylock's early speeches as Kean rendered them" they were "like a chapter of Genesis," Douglas Jerrold was wont to saygrsatly impressed the audience, stiried to extraordinary en thusiasm afterward when the time came for the actor's superb outbursts of pas sion. Oxberry was surprised that so small an audience could "kick up so great a rowl" The success of Edmund Kean's Shylock could no longer be ques tioned. The triumphant actor huiried home, crying exultingly to his wife "Mary, you shall ride in your carriage, and Charley, my boy,'" and he lifted the three-year-old baby from his cot, "you shall go to Eton!' On the actor's sec ond night the receipts were just double those of the firstthat is to say,the house was half full. The committee of man agement began to doubt whether a gen uine success had been achieved they had suffered so much from quasi-successes they even contemplated the removal of Kean's name from the bills, and the trial of another candidate. Lord Byron sensi bly expostulated: "You have got a great genius among you and you don't know it. But he'will fall through like many others unless we lift him, and force the town to come and see him. There is enough in Kean to bear out any extent of panegyric, and it will not do to trust an opporaunity like this to the mere rou tine of ordinary chances. We must go in a body, call upon the proprietors and editors of the leading papers, and ask them to attend in person, and write the articles themselves. This advice was followed with the happiest results for Keane's fame and fortune. He appeared in Shylock fifteen times during hia first beason at Druiy Lane, and the part re mained to the last one of the most ad mired in his repertory. A Editor's Dream. The editor of the Stamford Advocate dreamed that he was dead and in anoth er world. He approached a city before him and knocked, for admittance, but no one answered the summons. The gate remained closed against him. Then he cried aloud for an entrance, but the only response was scores of heads appearing above the wall on the other side of the gate. At sight of him the owners of the heads set up a dismal howl, and one of them cried. 'Why didn't you notice that big egg that I gave you?" At this hor rid and most unexpected interrogation, the poor 'local' turned in the direction of the voice tp learn the owner, when an other voice shrieked 'Where's that piece you were going to write about that soda fountain of mine?' and cloce upon this was the awful demand: 'Why did you wiite about old Tomlinson's hens, and never speak of my new gate?' What answer he was going to frame to this ap peal was cut short by the astonishing query: 'Why did you spell my name wrong in the programme?' The miser able man turned to flee, when he was rooted to the ground by this terrible de- #f*$z 4Sf JM mand: 'Why did you put my marriage among the deaths?' He was on the point of saying the foreman did it, when a shrill voice madly cried: 'You spoiled the sale of my horse by publishing that runaway.' And another: 'If I catch you alone I will lick you for what you said about me when I was before, the po lice court.' Another: 'Why didn't you show up the school question when I told you to?' And this was followed by the voice of a female hysterically exclaiming: 'This is the brute that botched my poet ry and made me ridiculous Whereup on hundreths of voices screamed: 'Where is my article? Give me back my article!' And in the midst of tbe horrid din the poor wretch awoke, perspiring at every pore and screaming for help. A NONSENSE STORY. Do you think all your youngsters know about a game called "Telling a Story?" One person begins a story, and goes on till the company are interested, and then suddenly stops at an exciting point, and one sitting next must take it up and go on. It is a capital game for long evenings. Here is one that grew up in our sitting-room the other night. We were sitting around the fire, be tween day-light and candle-light, young folks and kittens, when somebody said, "Let us tell a nonsense story." "All right," said papa, "and mamma shall begin." So mamma began: "There was once a cobbler who had his shop in the market-place ot Bagdad It was a very small shop and over the door was this sign: "Old shoes made as good as new.'? A great many shoes went in at the shop door, and if they did not come out quite as good as new, the owners never made any complaints, for the cobbler always did his best, and nev er refused to undertake a job, no matter how bad it was. One day a stranger came into the markat-place and walked slowly about, looking in at all the shop windows. He was very small man, with a little shrivelled face and keen black eyes like a weasel. His hair was long and he had hands like claws. He was wrapped in a long black cloak from tip to toe, and his shoes had high heels and narrow, pointed toes, like no other shoes that had ever been seen in Bagdad. When the cobbler saw him looking in through his window, he felt the very flesh creep on his bones, ana when the stranger walked in at the shop door, the cobbler was so startled that he swallowed the pegs he had in his mouth. The stranger only nodded, and drew from under his cloak a very ragged shoe. In fact, you could hardly call it a shoe, but a lot of holes held together by strings of leather. "'I have read your sign,' said the stranger, 'and I want you to mend this shoe.' "The cobbler looked at it and his teeth clattered. 'It is very old,' he said. 'Mend i-,' said the stranger, 'I will wait tor it.' And he sat right clown be tween the cobbler and the door. "The poor man went to work, and, wonderful to tell, the patches grew in to I lace as fast as he fitted them on, so that in half an hour there was as fine a shoe as ever came from the last. 'Here is the money,' said the strang er, offering him a curious silver coin. "You are quite welcome,' said the cobbler, putting his hands under hi leather apron for he said to himself, 'I'll not take the fiend's money.' But while his hands were still under his apron, he felt the money slip into his pocket. 'Good-day,' said the stranger. 'So long as you spend the shilling wisely, it will come back into your own pocket but when you put it to a bad use, you will never see it again.' "He stepped out of the doorway, and though the cobbler ran to the window he was nowheie in sight. It seemed as if he must have sunk right down through the pavement. The cobler said" Mamma stopped suddenly, and papa, who sat next, was obliged to finish the sentence and go on with the story. 'Bejabers, but the ould chap must had pressin' business, to be after laving in such haste. Wherever he would be gone, I don't know', and he shut up his shop and started out to find the strang er. He sailed five times around the world and at last he was shipwrecked on a des ert island, a mile and a half east of the North Pole. The people were very glad to see him. because the last shoe maker had just frozen to death, and they made him king. One day be went to a Sunday-school picnic, on the top of one the highest mountains, and while he waB looking for a good place to mflke the chowder, he saw a small door in a ledge of rock, with as'gnovei it,which read 'No admittance except on busines,' began Harry, instantly taking up the story. "So the man went in, and found himself at the entrance of a long vaulted chamber. The walls with strange inscrip tions, and on a table at one end was a feast of all manner of dainties, spread for one person. He sat down and ate until he was satisfied, and then turned to go out. But the door was locked, and he could not find the smallest opening in the rock. So he took up his lantern and went down a long flight of stairs, and then through a narrow passage until he came to an immense court. On the stones in one corner, a man was lying who ap peared to be dead. He went up to him, and it was his brother. In his pocket he had a card, saying" 'Good for one drink of old rye whis- ky,' "The cobbler called the police, and in half an hour they came rushing up and arrested him for assault and battery. The judge asked him if he owned anv real estate in Patagonia, and paid the old-clothes man in barrel staves and jujube paste. And no one had ever heard of the old woman, so they spoke it in three different languages, and had fried eels for dinner. And afterwards the cobb ler went back to Bagdad and wrote the history of his life in seven volumes, and every one who read it said:" "Nonsense*" added mamma, and that was the end ot the story. If you don't think this is tunny, just try it some night when everybody is glum and needs a good rousing laugh. O LD age and gray hairs creep along together, and the widewer with snow white beard immediately reduces it to dark brown, by means of dye. This looks beautiful, after three weeks' growth leaves a rim of white next bis face. THE PAST. I fling my past behind me, like a robe Worn threadbare in the seams and out of date. I have outgrown it. Wherefore should weep And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes Of Oriental splendor, or complain That I must needs discard it? I can weave Upon the shuttles of the future years A fabric more durable. It Subdued, may be in the blending of its hues, When sombre shades commgle, yet the gleam Of golden warp shall Bhoot it through and through, While over all a faded lustre lies, And starred with gems made out of crystal tears. My new robe shall be richer than the old. ELLA WHEELER. A STRANGE DREAM-STORY. There is an inexplicable storywhich I believe, has never been published among the traditions of the fat, fertile hill country of Western Pennsylvania,the most unlikely quarter in the world to serve as a breeding-place of mystery. It was settled most wholly by well-to-do farmers from the north ot Ireland, eco nomical, hard-working folkGod-fearing too, after the exact manner described by John Knox, and having little patience with any other mannei. Not a likeiy people, assuredly, to give credence to any fanciful superstitions, and still less to originate tnem. This story, indeed has a bold, matter-of-fact character in every detail which quite sets it apart from re lations of the supernatural. I have nev er heard it explained, and it is the best authentical mystery in my knowledge. Here it is in brief: Among the Scotch Irish settlers in Washington County in 1812 was a family named Plymire, who occupied a comfortable farm and house. Rachel, the daughter, was engaged to a young araier in the neighborhood. On a Saturday evening in July, having finish ed her week's work, she dressed herself tidily and started fo visit her married sis ter, who lived on a farm about five miles distant, intending to return on Monday morning. She tied up her Sunday gown and hat in a checkered handkerchief, and carried her shces and stockings in the other hand, meaning to walk in her bare feet ana to put them on when she came in sight of tier destinntion, after the canny Scotch fashion. She left home about seven o'clock, in order to have the cool evening for her walk. The road to the farm was lonely and unfrequented. The girl did not return home on Mon day but no alarm was lelt, as the family thought that her sister would probably wish to detain her for a few days and it was not until the latter part of the week that it was found she had never been at her sister's. The country was scoured, but in vain the alarm spread, and excit ed a degree ol terror in the peaceable do mestic community which would seem in explicable to city people, to whom the newspaper has biought a budget of crime every morning since their childhood. To children raised in the lonely hamlets and hill-farms murder was a far-off, unreal horror usually ail they knew of it was from the doings of Cam and Jael, set oft in the family Bible. The girls get home on Saturday at sev en o'clock. That night, long before ten o'clock (farmers go to bed with the ch ckens), a woman living in Green Coun ty, about forty miles from the Plymire farm, awoke her husband in great terror, declaring that she had just seen a murder done, and went on to describe a place she had never seen before a hill country with a wagon road running thiough and a girl with a bundle tied in a checkered handkerchief, her shoes and white stock ings in the other hand, walking briskly down the ^grassy side of the road. She was met by a young manthe woman judged from their manner the meeting was by appointmentrthey sat down on a log and talked for some time. The man at last rose, stepped behind her, and drawing out a hatchet, struck her twice on the head. She fell back ward m the wet, rotten leaves, dead. Presently the man was joined by another, also young, who asked, "Is it done?" He nodded, and together they lifted the body and carried it away out of her sight After a while they came back, found the bundle of Sundav finery, and the shoes and stockings, all ot which were stained with blood. There was a ruined old mill near the road they went into it, lifted a loose board in the flooring, put the bun dle, shoes etc., with the hatchet, under neath, and replaced the board. Then they separated and went through the woods in different directions. The farmer's wife told her dream to her husband that night the next day (Sunday),going to a little country chuich she remained during the intermission be tweenjthe morning and afternoon services. The neighbors, who had come iroin a cir cuit of twentv miles to church, gatheung according to their homely habit, in the churchyard to eat their lunch and ex change the news. Our dreamer told her story again and again, for she was im pressed by it as if it had been reality. After the afteri oon service the congre gation separated, going to their widely scattered homes. There were thus many witnesses ready to certify to the face that the woman had told her dream the morning after the murder was com mitted at a distance of forty miles, when it was absolutely impossible that the news should have reached her. There were no telegraphs, we must remember, and no railways, in taose daysnot even mail earners in those secluded districts. When the story of the girl's disappear ance was told over the country at the end of the next week, the people to whom the dream had been repeated recalled it. Now-a-days the matter would only serve as good material for the reporters, but the men of those days still believed that God took an oversight even of their dreams. Might not this be a hint from him? The Rev. Charles Wheeler, a Bap tist clergyman ot Washington, well known in Western Pennsylvania and Vir ginia a generation ago, and Ephraim Blaine, Esq., a magistrate, father of the present Senator from Maine, and as popu lar a man in his narrower circle, drove over to see the waman who had told the dream. Without stating their purpose, they took her and her husband, on pre tense of business, to the Plymire farm. It was the first time in her life that she had leit her own county, and she was greatly amused and interested. They drove over the whole of the road down which Rachael Plymire had gone. "Have you ever seen this neighbor- hood?" one of them asked. "Never," was the reply. That ended the matter, and they turned back, taking a little-used cross-road to save time. Presently the woman started &=~ up in great agitation, crying, "This is the place I dreamed of 1" They assured her that Rachel Plymire had not been upon that road at all. "I know nothing about her," she said, "but the girl I saw in my dream cam* along here there is the path through which the man came, and beyond that turning you will find the log on which ho killed her." They did find the log, and on the ground the stains of blood. The woman, walking swiftly, led them to the old mill and to the board under which lay the stained clothes and the hatchet. The girl's body was found afterward buried by a creek near at hand. Rachel's lover had already been arrested, on suspicion. It was hinted that he had grown tired of the girl, and for many reasons found her hard to shake off. The woman recognized him in a crowd of other men, and star tled her companion still more by point ing out another young fellow from the West as his companion in her dream. The young man was tried in the town of Washington for murder. The dreamer was brought into court, and an effort was actually made to put her on the witness stand but even then men cannot be hung on the evidence of a dream. Without it, there was not enough proof for convic tion, and the jury, unwilling enough, we may be sure, allowed the prisoner to es cape. It was held as positive proof of his guilt that he immediately married the sister of the other accused man, and removed to Ohio, then the wilderness of the West.R. H. D. in Lippincotfs Mag. "Your Night Gown, Jflease." The other night a gentleman boarder in one ot our genteel boarding houses was comfortably reading in his room, the door opened, when from the loot of the stairs, he heard a young lady boarder, with whom he was OH terms of free and playful intimacy, call: 'Mr. S throw me your night gown please?' Suie that he must have understood her, 'Throw you what?' Your night gown, please.' He was startled. There was no mis taking her meaning, and believing that some new joke was on foot among the second floor occupants which would seem to justify such a strange iequest on the part of the lady, he took a fresh night shirt from his bureau and tossed it over the balusters. It was received with an ejeculation that sounded like thanks and all was silent. Next morning on descending, he dis covered his property at the foot f the stairs, where it seemed to be doing duty as an impromptu door mat. For a mo ment he pronounced it very shabby treat ment ot such an immaculate article by the fair borrower, and retmned to his room with it but took his Dlace at the table with his usual good-humor. 'Well, how did it work?' he inquired, looking expectantly at the lady. She had omitted to give him her usual cordial morning salutations, and now her eyes were fixed upon her plate, and her ex pression of face but a shade lighter than a thunder cloud. 'Did the joke pan out well?' he pleas antly persisted. The lady bit her lips with suppressed anger, and his fellow boarders looked at him in sober inquiry. Seeing there was a mistake somewhere, he wisely conclud ed to keep quiet, and let the mystery ex plain itself, and it did. That noon he found upon his dressing-table the follow ing note: 'Mr. when next I ask you to thiow me your knife down, or make any request you whatever, you will know it. I did not expect such an insult from you," sir. I believed you to be a gentleman.' Calmly and in silence the gentleman ate his dinner, and on his return to busi ness dropped a note in the P. O., of which the fallowing is a copy: 'Miss when next you ask me to throw my kaife down, or honor me by any request, I trust I shall be so for tunate as to understand you correctly. You believed me to be a gentleman, and I know you to be a lady On his return that evening she went to him in the hall with cordially outstretch ed hand and frank words ot apology. A hearty laugh followed, and each promised to keep the joke a secret, and up to this writing each has faithfully kept the" promise. What there is in Wheat I Dr. Foot's Health Monthly for March The wheat grain is a fruit consisting of seed and its coverings. All the middle part of the grain is occupied by large, thin cells, full of powdery substance," which contains neaily all the starch ot the wheat. Outside the cential starchy mass is a single row of squarish cells filled with yellowish material, very rich in nitrogenous flesh-forming matter. Be yond this again there are six thin coats or coverings, containing much mineral mat ter, both of potash and phosphates. Th e. outermost coat is of but little value. The mill products of these coverings of the seed are peculiarly rich in nutriment, and fine flour is robbed of a large percentage of valuable and nutritious food. Mid' dlings not only contain more fibrin and mineral matter than fine flour, but also more fat. Tbe fibrous matter, or outer coat, which is indigestible, forms one-"" sixth of the bran, but not one-hundredth of the fine flour. Wheat contains the greatest quantity of gluten and the small est of starch rye a medium proportion of both, while in barley, oats, and corn the largest proportion of staich and the smallest of gluten are to be found. In practice 100 pounds of flour will make from 133 to 137 pounds of bread, a good average being 136 pounds hence a barrel of 196 pounds should yield 266 one-pound loaves. Thoughts. When you bury an old animosity, never mind putting up a tombstone. Worrying will wear the richest life to shreds. A sweet temper is to the household what sunshine is to trees and flowers. Everything we meet with here below is more or less infectious. If we live habitually among good and pleasant people, we inevitably will imbibe some thing of their disposition, i