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DR.TALMACE -RACHES ON THE OS
ICAT'ONS OF CHILCREN.
2bt~ ~ E~ia~ h.* Old Lo tut
I n: .;aira.ur -d br the Rever
( Smzay. Dr. Tahnage announe
i:, rtx: the v.ords. "A foolish
Li heaviness of hismother."
Pco ;:. K.. 1. He said:
All parents want their children to
u-rn out well. However poorly fath
e- :d mother may have done them
elvt the y want their sons and
daughters to do splendidly. Up to
korty years of age parents may have
amilir~s for themselve"-. after that
ef ambitions are for their
C Jen.11on'. of the old time names 1
e 7s. The name of Abner
-is father's lamp." The name
A igai. meauns -her father's joy." And
what a parental delight was Solomon
o David. and Samuel to Hannah.
and Joseph to Jacob: And the best
eartod, Staff that a father has to lean
On is u go . one, and the strongest
has to help her down
the steep of years is that el agrateful
chil.&But it is not a rare thing to
Aed. mople untilial, and often the
p 'cits- a!-, themLIselves to blame.
sons sometimes become qaer
ulous and snappy. and the children
v thIr hands full with the old
Becaso people are old they have
no to be either ungentlmanly
or uncanni v. There are old people so
Usagre eable that they have nearly
IbrokL un some homes. The young
iarr- man with whom the aged one
lves sia nA ds it because he has been
used to It all his life, but the young
wie, cming from another household
en u da l endure it., and sometimes1
alimest cries her eyes out. And when
litle ehildren gather in the house
they are afraid of the venerable pa
triarch. who has forgotten that he
ever was a child himself and cannot
understand why childr'en should ever
want tolav "hide and seek." or roll
hoop. or fly kite. and he becomes im
iatient at the sound froin tne nursery.
au sh'outs with an expenditure of
voice that keeps him coughing fifteen
afterwards. "Boys! stop
that ckel as though any boy that
"mounted to anything in the
world aid not begin by makng a
v, . there are children who owe
,ohntg to their parents, for those
arents have been profligates. My
1i9hiented frienJ, good and Christian
&d 4ovly Henry Wilson, vice-presi
ni ofthe1nited States, in ear.
k~ie'anged his name. Henry Wil
xon was not his original name. He
dopped his father's name because
that father was a drunkard anda dis
grace. and the son did not feel called
7pon to carry such a carcass all his
Le. While children must always be
dutifuL I sympathize with all young
people who have disagreeable or un
picipled old folks around the house.
Bomo of us, drawing out of our mem
ories, know that it is possible, after
y or seventy or eighty or ninety
years of age, for the old to be kind
'and genial: and the grandest adorn
ment of a home is an aged father and
and an aged mother, if the process of
years hlas mellowed them.
Besides that. if your old parents
ar adto fret along with now, you
mustremember here-sas a tm
when they had hard work to get aloii
with you. 'When you were about five
or seven or ten or twelve years of
age what a time they had with you!
If they had kept a written account of
your early pranks and miisdoings, it
would make a whole volume. That
time when you gave your little sister
a clir: that time when you explored
the diepth of a jar of sweet things for
which you had no permission; that
havoe you one day made with your
jack knie: that plucking f&m the
orchard of unripe fruit; that day
when., instead of being at school, asf
your parents supposed, you went, a-1
*Ashing: and many a time did you un
peril your young life in places where
you had no business to climb or
'swim or venture. To get you through
your first fifteen years with your
life and your good morals was a fear
- .ul draft upon parental fidelity and
Indeed, it may be that much of this
presenit physical and mental weakness
in your parents may have been a re
suit of your early .waywardness. You
-made such large and sudden drafts
upon the bank of their patience that
you broke the bank They were in
jured in being thrown while trying to
break the colt. It is a matter of only3
common honesty that you pay back1
to them some of the long suffering
which they paid to you. A father
said to his son: "Surely no father
ever had as bad a boy as I have."
-Yes," said the son, "my grandfather
had." It is about the same from
eneration to generation. and par
ents need to be patient with children,
wid children dutiful to their parents.
Taking it for granted that those who
hear me to-day have had a gooal par
eniage. I want to urge upon all the
vonng the fact that the happiness
and l.2ngevity of parents much de
-pen d upon the right behavior of their
children, and I can do this no more
efectually than by demonstrating the
iuh f my text, "A foolish son is the
eaviness of his mother."
Perhaps some young man astray
may be brought back by a thought
of how they feel about him at home.
A French soldier lay wounded and
dying in the hospital at Geneva.
Switzerland. His father, at home,
seventy years of age, heard of his
son's suffering. and started, and took
the long journey, and found the hos
it-a, and as he entered the son
ried: "0 father, I am so glad you
etine to see me die." "No," said the
father: "you are not going to die;
voar mother is waiting for you, and I
am going to take you home; I have
briought~' you money adeverything
y ou need." "No," said the soldier
-they- give me here everything that is
nice to eat, but I have no appetite,
andi I must die." Then the father
took fr om his k-napsack a loaf of rye
brtd s.uch as the plain people of his
coun-y- ate, and said: "Here is a loaf
of bread your mother made, and I ami
sur yon eau eat tis: she sent it to1
yo'."Then the soldier brightened
un and took the bread and ate it, and
sid: "It is so good, the bread from
hone. 'he bread that my mother
ma'de: No wonder that in a few
days he had recovered. 0 young
man, wounded in the battle of life.
ad disouraged. given up by your
self, and given up by others, the old
folks at the country fieside have not
gvr"' you up. I bring you bread
:on home. It may be plain bread,
but it is that bread of which if a man
eat he never again shall hunger.
Bread froma home! Bread from
Sib I 'ou wee down with
31l1' a it drow
--Wha"11t is i
t u c. id e
plese. as is usual
. he kept her pa
u .;sas kind as
un aora l and crosS.
Y!!, d'I .iv irly vatch
atot ai .11 tin'wd urn
:oy that hel* soiIuch
11W 01 I i e"' :hiin wicil. .lour
I U 11 1 N .%: u s ask
1 0od :n';Oiy years.
as s old tahomd d had n~o mpexs
.v. Istw ides and I canopy) al of
lain1 wood, but 1here was a re-at
D(mnyahe n pain wre
j'tIe ii a' i:. mlid to11- and fr
L d igt.ost avrk1y Ai In
em~r :at he ock~swichl came
a Ifom und thile cradle wcre on
Lle top an id. very simiooi, so
not thad it they actaly glistened.
' .* mus't ave been worn smooth
a ?oot that long"' c" eeaed its
)uriir. How tied the foot that
ressed it mut :-,ometL have got!
ut it did ot st op for that. It went
1i-it ou and rocled for Phebe the
. o' o e Witt the last. And
was a cradle like thaT. or perhaps
Jmodern make and richly upholster
d. in which your mother rocked you.
an it be that for all that care and
evotion you are p:ying her back
%ih hiarsh word:; or neglect or a
icked life Then. I must tell you
iyou are the --ioolish son who is
he ltav iss of his mother. Better
o homwe :d kiss her.and ask her for
ivene;s. Kiss her on the lips that
ave .;o prayed for you. Kiss
ei on. the ?orehead tit so often
cl ed ior you-.. Kiss her on the eyes
lat hiav so o1en wept over you.
ego right away. ior sh will be
eni fo(r0 long. Aud 1ow. will you
el t r you readi::e it is your
oy w ' reess'- 11it illdher.' Romu
: ao lw aal- .At pat eide
r the i ley-u, o t father: iatricide,
r the su : " m.nother: because
csz sOc*'*e h crilesimpossible.
LIar xhundred years there was
.L a rime of that sort in Rome.
Aut then; eu,: Lucius Ostius and
.ew his father. proving the crime
Ossible. Now Jo you not think that
e chid oby w-rong behavior
ds hiS i:hr ato premature
ralve is a p.aricide. o- who by mis
oduct has-t: -ns a mother to the tomb
The hea':viness-- of parents over a
om's depravitv is all the greater be
use inman- spiritual disaster and
vertirow. That is the worst thing
bout it. In the pen-sion regulations
soldier receis for loss of both
ands o_ feet 1i' For loss of one
and and one foot $36. For loss of
hand er a foot. ;30. For loss of
oth veys %72. But who can ealcu
te th'e value of a whole man ruined
ov. mind and soul? How can pa
ents have any happiness about your
turce destiny, oh youmg man gone
stray! Can such opposite lives as
ou a ther are living come out at the
une lce! Can holiness and dissi
iation enter the same gate? Where
the little praver that was taught
ou at youAr m'other-s krnee! Is the
od th' loved and worshipped your
rod? I't is your soul about which
iy ar mest anxious, your soul that
al'llh~iveafer the earth itself shall be
irdfled in fiamiles, and the tlames dy
ig down, wil leave the planet only
live coal. and the live coal shall
ave become ashes, and then the ashes
hall be scattered by the whirlwinds
If the Almighty.
-But.r isays some young man. "my
oheisgone: my behavior will not
rouble her any more."
lh that thoseo Ups ha~d 1:h gang! Life hias
Vlt me bu' roughly A1.ce I h-ird. the~ !ati.
What: Is she dead? How -yout
ute me! Is she dead? Then per
Laps you have her picture. Hang it
ni'your room in the pilace where
*ou oftenest look. Go and study her
ytures, and while you are looking
le past will comie back, and you may
ar her voice, which is now so still.
peak again, saying: "From my heav
aly liome. my dear boy, I solicit
ouri reformaLution and salvation. Go
> he Christ that pardoned me, and
e will pardon you. My heaven will
iot be complete till I hear of your
anging. But I will hear of it right
wa. for there is joy here when one
Lun'ir repenteth: anid oh. if the next
f that kind that comecs up here might
ome up regarding you, oh my child
fmany. tears and anxieties and
dome. my boy. do you not hear
our mnother's voice? 0 my son, my
on would Godl tha~t I could (he for
ic? () my son. my soni! Young
mn:ii what news o heatven would be
ouri convers iLn SwiLer than tele
rapiei wire elr (-arried congratula
onsl to a wedding o a coronation
ould tiy heavenwarud the news of
ou delvierance: and whether the
n most inter-ested in y-our salvation
-re on river bank. or in the temple.
r OL thle battlements, or in the
rst tower, the message would be
Istaltly received, and before this
rvie is closed angel would cry' to
uizel: -'Have you hieard the news?
ut. onder is a mother who has .iust
ard of her'wayward boys redemp
o1. Aniother prodigal has got
oue. The dead is alive again,! and
e l1:t is found. Hallelujiah!
-The~ Duke of Orleans writes that
Le is oposed to the presentation to
rsident Carnot of a petition for his
-Of the ~f.O0.00 asked for the new
uidingr of the Secondt Ba:ptist Church
f Atnta.:i355.000 has b~een secured.
itd the wvork of building will be
-Governor McKinney, of Virginia.
as aproved a bill passed at the
nit session of the Legislature, pro
ibitingz the saile of tobacco. cigars or
iarettes to boys tunder sixteen years
-Te dwelling lhous- of Mrs. J. 0.
avir, at Newberr~iy, S. C., wsasde
:-oyd by tire Monday afternoon.
>rig thle iiro a littl son' of B. H.
eovelace wvas run over by a hor-se,
nd fatally hurt.
-It is believed that at the next
u'neral cointerenc'e of the Methodist
aygood, of Alabama. will be elected
bisho,. and that he will not again
BY '-TIE DUCHESS." s
.uuwr of -fms "o-na ScuUl' h
Ph C.' etc. h
Florece. after Dora has left her, i
sits :uot imuless at. hr window. She has 1
thrown i.pent the casement, and now- t)
the sleeves of her dressing-gown fall- sl
ing back from her bare rounded arms
leans out so that the descending night- e
dews fall like a benison upon her burn
inr brow. t
3he is wrapped In melancholy; her h
whole soul is burdened with thoughts
and regrets almost too heavy for her to y
support. She is harassef and per- tl
plexed on all sides. and her heart is t]
sore for the loss of the love she once
had deemed her own.
The moonbeams cling like a halo
round her lovely head, her hair falls in a
a luxuriant showrer about her should- h
ers: her plaintive face is raised from
arth her eyes look heavenward, as a
though seeking hope and comfort a
The night is still, almost to oppres
siveness. The birds have long since
ceased their song: the .-.ind hardly t3
stirs the foliage of the stately trees.
The perfume wafted upward from the q
sleepng garden floats past her and
mingles with her scented tresses. No t
sound comes to mar the serenity of the a
night, all is calm and silent as the
Yet, hark, what Is this? A footstep b
en the gravel pakh below arouses her t)
attention. For the first time since Do- a
ra's departure sho moves, and, turning c
her head, glances in the direction of
the sound. t]
Bareheaded and walking with his sl
bands claspea behind him as though h
absorbed in deep thought. Sir Adrian I
comes slowly over the award until he b
stands beneath her window. Here he
pauses, as though almost unconscious- t
ly his spirit had led him thither, and e
brought him to a standstill where he t]
wouli most desire to be. d
The moon. spre;idiu its brilliance d
all around. permits Florence to see s
that his face is grave and thoughtful, 3
and-yes, as she gazes even closer, she c
can sie that it is full of pain and vain
M at is rendering him unhappy on q
this night of all others. when the wo- a
man she believes he loves has been his I
willing companion for so many hours, r
when doubtless she has given him o
proofs of her preference for him above c
Suddenly lifting his head, Sir Adrian g
becomes conscious of the face in the S
window above, and a thrill rushes t
through him as he recognizes the form a
of the woman he loves.
The scene is so calm, so hallowed, so a
full of romance, that both their hearts s
beat madly for awhile. They are alone; y
any one still awake within the house is
far distant. (
Never has she appeared so spiritual t
so true and tender; so full of sweetness t
that is almost unearthly. All ride ,
seems to have gone from ker, and i tsa
place Oly a gfttle welatchol7 rein a
she 1MV removed from slt
ting t he purity ofher
robes thA a$ he has tte
e asv' =angel ' resin _VWn
to the realms above. 9
At }as%. however, his heart ompeu- I
him, he speaks aloud. r
lorence, you still awake, when all
the world is sleeping?" l;
His name falling from his lips touch- s
es a chord in her breast, and wakes her
to passionate life.
"You tao," she says in a whisper that I
reaches his strained ears. There seems t
to her a subtle jov in the thought that Q
they two of afl the . household are
awake, are here talking together alone I
in the pale light of the moon.
Yet she is wrong in Imagining that 1
no others are up in the houise, as his 1
next words tell her.
"It is not a matter of wonder in my t
case," he respondis: "a few fellows are
still in the smoking-room. It is early,
you know--not yet three. But you
why are you keeping a lonely vigil like
"The moon tempted me to the win
dow," answers Florence. "See how
calm she looks riding majestically up I
there. See"-stretching out her b~are ,
white arm untijl the beams fall full up-c
on it, and seem to change it to puresta
marble-"does it not make one feel as
if all the world were being bathed in
Its subdued glow?"
A pale tremulous smile widens her I
lips. Sir Adrian, plucking a tall pale
lil growing near him, flings it upward
with such an eager aim that it alights t
upon her window-sill. She sees it. Hr t
finens close upon it.
AC~rianL sfynd i s y. I
".De~ you know of what you remind me,
sittin-g therein your white robes? A C
medeval saint cut in stone-a pure ani- I
gel, too good, too far above all earthly
passion to enter into It, or understand 1
it, and the grief that in~nst ever attnd a
He speaks bitterly. It seems to him I
that she is indeed cold not to have r
guessed before this the intensity of his 1
love for her. However much she may I
have given her affection to another, it
still seems to him inexpressibly harda
that she can have no pity for his suffer- I
ing. He gazes at her initently. Do thea
mystic moonbeams deceive him, or are
there tears in her great dark eyes? Hise
heart beats quicklg. Once again he re
members her emotion of the past even-s
ing. He hears again her passionate
sobs. Is she unhapy ?Are there
thorns In her path tha are difficult to
"Florence, once again I entreat you
to confids in me, he says, after a
"I can not," she returns, sadly but
frmly. ."But there is one thing I must
say to you-think of me as you may for
saying it-I am not cold as you seemed
to imply a moment since; I am not
made of stone; and, alas, the grief you
think me incapable of understauding
is mine alreadril You have wronged
me in your thouights. I have here," she
explains with some vehemence, laying
the hand in which she still holds the
droopin lily upon her breast, ''what I
woul~d gldybe without-a heart."
"Nay' says Adrian hastily; "you for
get. Itis no longer yours, you have
gven it away."1
For an instant she glances at him E
keenly while her breath comes and
murmurs at last.
"Ne, o~f course not; I beg you.-e
don," 'he says apologetiea l~. Itis
your own secret.'
'There is no secret," she declares
"I hav'e offended you. I should not
have sa that. You will foigive me?"
he entreats, with agitation.i
"You are quite forgiven;" and, as a
token leans a little further out of the
wmIw anid 1ooks diown at flm witn a a
face pale indeed, but full of an unutter- E
Her beauty conquers all his resolu.. t
"Oh, Florence," he whispers In an
Impassioned tone, "if I only dared tell t
She starts and Iays a finger on her b
lips, as though to en force silence.
"Hush!" she savs, in trembling ac- i
cents. "You forfget! The hour, the t
surroundings, have- momentarily' led t
you astray. I ought not to have spo- f
ken with you. Go! There is nothmn
ou dare to tell me-.there is nothing I t
vould wish to hear. Remember pour ~
duty to another-and-good-night.' f
"Stay, I implore you. for one mo-b
ment,'' he crii's; but shie is firm, and a
presently the curtains are drawn closec
and he is alone.d
Slowly he walks back toward the
smoking-room, her last words ringing
in his ears-"Rememnber your duty to 1
another." What other? He is puzzled,
but. reachig the window of the room,
he dismisses these thoughts froxm his1
mind, and determines to get rid of hSf
guests without delay, so as to be able
to enjoy a little quiet and calm for re-k
They are all noisily discussing a sni
cde that has recently taken p lace in a
neighboring county,' and which had,
from its peculiar circumstances, caused
more than usual interest, a
.W.U.rk '"11Zt a rocklMs or
;1uznllakvs~ a '3m:''
~:nno t hurt. yorT~
,eorge or HInry o' Mary orr.
r Rachel. because there a.ve *
:housands of people. go0d nz b
laving those nailues. and yu a
miprove or depreciate th rth
bility of those given naue.- Buz
s your last 1am. yoLr family ne,
hat is at your mercy. All whobear
that name arebound. befor :a
Man, not to damgits hap q ii
aance Tou are charged, by :l
fenelrations of the past and I the
renerationsto come. to do your shar <t
or the protection and the honor :-ta <
,he integrity o that name. Yu
lave no right, myl yolung fiedIl by
ad life to blot the old famili <
'ontai'J.1t the story of the mamages
mI births and deaths ) th yea
fone by. or to cast a blot uioi th t
amily Bibles whose rccor ae 2
:o be opened.
There are in our Aerie::n yny di
ectories names that alway .u
'mmercial dishonesty or hbertnism i
r cruelty or meanness, jus; becauset
ne man or-womanbearig that namle
yursed it forever by misereancy. Look 1
)ut how you stab the family n ame: 1
[t is especially dear to your iotu r.
She was not born under that n::me.
he was born under another name, j
ut the yearspassed on anud she caie
o young womanhood, and s-he saw j
some one with whom she could trust r
er happiness. her life a:i1 her im- .i
mortal destiny: and she took his name i
:ook it while the orange blossoms c
ere filling the air with fragrance, c
took it with joined hands, Itok it. (
hile the heavens witnessed. She i
!hose it out of all the family nmeiais
since the world stood. chose it for v
better or worse, through sickness and i
Ihrough health, by cradles and by t
Yes, she pat on' her old family name.
0 take the family name you now I
ear, and she has done her part to 1
nake it an honorable name. How
teavy a trouble you put upon her t
vhen, by misdeeds, you wrench that j
1ame from its high significaucc! To I
1aul it down fromyour mother's fore- 1
lead and trampleit in the (lust would
)e criminal. Your father's n:ana may 1
ot be a distingushed name. but 1
lope it stands for something good. 0
[t may not be famous. like that of 1
omer. the father of epic poetry. or
[zaak Walton, the father of angling.
)r Eschylus, the father of trtagedy. I
>r Ethelwold, the father of monks, s
)r Herodotus. the father of history. P
)r Thomas Aquinas, the father of t
noral philosophy, or Abrahan. the s
,ather of the faithful, but your father 6
as a name in a small circle as pre- c
ious to him as theirs in a largz er
iircle. Look out how you tarnish it:
Further. the recklessness and di.s
ipation of a young man are a cause
>f parental distress at a time when 0
:he parent is less able to bear it.
The vicissitudes of life have left their
mpression upon those parents. Th e
ye is not as clear as once. nor the
earing as acute.nor the nerves as
steady, nor the step as strong. and L
with the tide of incoming years
lmes the weight of unfTil behavior.
Lou take your parents at a great (Us
idvantage, for they cannot stand as
nuch as they once could. They have
iot the elasticity of feeling with 3
hich once they could throw off ~
rouble. Thatgheaew-w some I
what ba' cannot bear as heavy a 1
irden as they once could. At the 3
:ine when the machinery is getting (
worn out you put upon it the most~ j
erribe strain. Perhaps it is a good t
:hing that cruel treatment by a child ~
ibbreviates a parent's life: for what is 6
:here desirable in a father's life or a
nother's life if its peace is gone? Do ~
ou not think death is something 1
beneficent if it stops the mother s
ea~rt from aching and her eyes from
weeping, and says: "You need not
bear the excruciation any longer. Go I
md sleep. I will put the defense of
marble slab between you and that
boy's outrages. Go now where the
wicked cease from troubling and the
weary are at rest!" At the departure
>f such mothers let the music be an
mthem instead of a dirge. While
-ou and I hear no sound, yet there
ire at this moment tens of thou
ands of parental'-.hearts breaking.
All care was taken with the boy s
schooling, all good counsels given~and
:he equipment for a sober and ear
test and useful life was provided,
but it has all gone, and the foolish
son has become the heaviness of his
Much of the poignancy of the pa
ental grief arises from the ingrati
ude of such behavior. What an un
ertaking it is to conauct a family<
hrough the ailments and exposures of(
early life! Talk about the skill de- <
manded of a sea captain command- i
tng a ship across the ocean: That
requires less skill than to navigate
i young soul in safety across the in
Fantile and boyhood years. The i
sicknesses that assault, the tempta- ,
tion that entrap, the anxieties thaL I
are excited! Young man~you will never
know what your mother has suffered
for you. You will never know ho
your father has toiled for you. You1
bare been in all their thoughts, in alli
their plans, in all their prayers, fronm
the time your first breath was drawn
to this moment's respiration. What
they could do for your health, what
they could do for your happiness.
what they could do for your mmnd.
what they could do for~ your soul.
have been absorbing (juestion~s. To
earn a livelihood for you has not al
ways been an easy thing for yourjl
rather. By what fatigues of body t
md what disturbances of mind, an d.
Long years of struggle in which some
imes the losses were greater than
bhe gains, he got bread for you, pay
Eng for it in the sweat of is own
brow and the red drops of his own
beart's blood! He looks older than
e ought to look at his years. for it i
Lhas been work, work. Many a time
Lie felt like giving up the battle, but
then he looked at your helplessness
md the helplessness of the house
Lold, and then he nerved himself up1~
mew and said: "By the help of God <
I will not stop; my children mnus.t
dave home and education and advan- I
tages, and a comfortable starting i
te world, and I must get a little 1
tomething ahead, so that if I ant ta
ken away these helpless ones will not 1
be turned out on the cold charities of
the world." Yes. your father h:
been a good fiend to you. He has
aever told any one, and he never* will
ell any one, of the sacrifices he has I
made for you. And he is ready to
keep right on until unto that hand
that has been toiling for you all these ]
rr shall come the very numbness
of death. You cannot afford to breakj
bis heart. But you are doing it.~
Yes, you are. You have the daggerc
elear up to the hilt.]
And your mother-I warrant she
u-geol] jd h e s gi, i" t'u . e:
ain a s to h OW it
adben , iflel It 0ar Am
iquest that the nifortunate man 1:;d I
lot himself in a p Da: n ru
mse considerable . : aI .:.W,
e had beeni murder i !r hd I d o .
is own hand. Ev ln:- ho::
most continmi.'T nI:tur h:a (enn-I
rmne'd the latter tirye.r
Captain Ringwood. with *a revolver
i his hand, is endeavoing to h
iat the man codI not !::Ve shtt him
,If. just as Adran' re -enters.
"Be careld w ith tht revolver." he
Kelaims hastily: "Jt is lad .dl" 1
"All right. vid fello,. I know it." re
2rns Rigiiwood. -Lo!k here. doetur.
ow' could he make a -wnd herf['
"Why not? Sir A,!rian. t:1?e the re- c
olver for a ne ment wl y Ss
3e suirgeon, anxious to d~os aeii
scory heyond the 'ossiilty of~ d'roh.
[want to conrvine .1 v'od. Now 1
=md so, and hld '::o wveapon so"
lacing it with the inrzzle presenited in
rather awkward p.itioi idInost over
-"I thought fellows always put the I
muzzles of their revolvers in their I1
iouths and blew their .brains outvwhen a
ev committefd suicide." Ringwoodre- 1
"Thisifello'w evlidntiv did not." says
ie surgeon calmlly. "Now, Sir Adrian,
ou see, by hoi'iuing it thus, you cuuld
aite easily 0!(iw yursel to-" i
Before he can :inish the sentence,
bere is a sud!n cf of bodies,
jostling as it were. for Arthur Dyne
rt, who had been looking on atten
rvely with one froot on a footstool close
) Sir Adrian's elbow, had slipped from
e stool at this opportune moment,
nd had fallen heavily against his
There is a shout frrm somnfbody. and t
ien a silence. Tir- revolver i the
:uffle had gone off! Through the
ouse the sharp crack of a bitlYL rings
)udly. rousing many from their slum- 1
Lights can be sen in the passages;
rritied faces peep ont from half-opea
d doors. Dora Talbot. coming into
:e corridor in a pale phu cashmere
ressing-gown trinimed with swan's
own, in whicY. ship looks the very per
:miticatioi - iT11oCiCe and youth,
reams loudly and demands hysteri
illy to be informed as to the cause of
The servants have rushed from their
uarters in alarm. Ethel Villiers. with
pale scared face, runs to Florence
)elmaine's room, and throws her arms
ound that young lady as she comes
ut, pale but composed. to ask in a
lear tone what has happened.
As nobody knows. and as Florence
i her heart is more frightened than
e cares to conn ss. being aware
brough Adrian that szme of the men
restillup in the smkizn-roon. and
aring that a gaarrel had arisen.
monw them she pro)ses that they
boult go to the smok.ing-room in a
ody and make iquiries.
Old Lady FitzAlmont. with Lady
ertrude sobbing on her arm, seconds
his proposal. and, being a veteran of
iueh distinction, takes the lead. Those
llwing close behind. are glad of tis,
nd hopeful because of it, her appear
nee being cagitated to ront any ene
2y. The awful character of her dress
ag-gotn and tih severity .o the
that crowns her mara
Wf6anterro to the hme a2y
2idnight marauders. They all ipove
ff in a body, and, guided unconsctous
F by Florence, approach the smoking
Voices loud in conversation can be
eard as they draw near; the door is
lightly ajar. Florence drawing back
s they come quite up to it, the old
adv waves her aside and advances
ofaly to the front. Flinging wide open
he door, she bursts upon the astonish
d company within.
"Where is he?" she asks, with a dig
ity that only heightens the attractions
f cap and gown. "Have you secured
im? Sir Adrian, where is the consta
l? Have you sent for him?"
Sir Adrian1, whose gaze is fixed upon
he fair vision in the trailing white
own standing timidly in the door
ray, forgets to answer his mnterrotta
or, and the others taken by surprise,
aintain a solemn silence.
"WIhy this mystery?" dem ands Lady
~itz-Almont sternly. "Where is the
iscreant? Where is the man that
tred that shot?"
"Here, madame." renties the surgeon
tryly, inidicating Arthur Dynecourt by
,motion of the nand.
"lHe-who?~ Mr. Dyniecourt?" eiacu
aT~es ner xaaysnip in a disappointed
one. "It was all a mistake. then? I
ust say. Mr. Dynecourt." continues
he old lay in an mndignant tone, "that
tilnk you might find a more suitable
ime in which to play off your jokes, or
o practice target-shooting. than in the
Eddle of the night, when every re
pctable 'hotusehold ought to be wrap
led n slumber."
"I assure you?' begins Arthur Dyne
ourt, whois strangely pale and discom
osed, "it was all an accident-an-"
"Accident! Nonsense, sir; I don't
eliev'e there was any accident whatso
As these words pass the lips of the
rasCible old lady, several men in tlfe
com exchianne significant glances. Is
that old Lady FitzAlmont has just
nt their own thbughts into words?
"Let me explain to your ladyship,"
as Sir Adrian courteously. "V# e were
ust talking about that unfortunate
iair of the Stewarts. and Maitland
ras s-howing us how it inighmt have oc
urred. I had the revolver in mv hand
e"-pointing the weapon toward him
-Put down that abomninable weapon
tt once, sir!" commands Lady Fit zAl
nont, in a menacing tone. largely min
~led writh abject fear. As she speaks she
etreats precipitately behind Florence,
hus pushing that young lady to the
"When my cousin unhappily stum
>led against me, and the revolver went
ft," goes on Sir Adrian. "I'm deeply
~rived, Lady FitzAlmont, that this
hould have occurred to disturb the
ousehld; but, really, it was a pure
"A pure accident," repeats Arthur,
rem between his colorless lips.
Ie looks fpar more distressed by this
ecurrence than Sir Adrian, who had
arrowly escaped being wounded. This
inlv showed his tenderness aiid proper
eeling, as almost all the women pre
ent mutuially ag-reed. Ahmost all, but
iot quite. blora Talbot, for e:xample,
Iows deadly pale as she fistens to the
xplanatien and watches .Arthtur's
'hastly face. What is It like? The face
i a murderer?
*Oh, no, no," he gasps inrwardly;
surely not ta!
"It was the purest accident. I assure
o." protests Arthur againi. as thohgh
nxious to impress this conviction up
n his own mindl.
"It might have been a very serious
ne" says the surgeon gravely. regard
ag him with a keen glance, "It might
.ave meant death to Sir Adrian!"
Florence changes color and glances
t her host with partedl lips. Dora Ta!
ot pressing her way through the
roup in the door-waty, goes straight up
him as if impulsively. and takes hia
and in both hers.
"Dear Sir .Adrian. how can we~ be
bankfuil enough for your escape?" she
avs sweetly, tears stan 'ug in her<
ight blue eyes. She presses'his hand
rarmly, and even raises it to her lips
1 a transport of emotioni. Standing I
here in the pretty pin1k dressing-gown
at shows off her conmplexiomn to per
ctit Dora Talbot looks lovely.
"You are very good-very kinid." re
orns Sir Adrian, really 'touchied by
er concern, but still with eyes only<
>r the white vision in the door-way
ut you make too much of nothing. Z ,
m sorry I have been the unhappy
suse of rousing you from your rosy
reams; you will not thank-me to-mor
>W wvhen there will be only lilies in
The word lily brings back to him his
st interview with Florence. Hie glan
as hurriedly at her right hand: yes,
O same lily is clasped in her hiigers.
is sine sat ever smece with his gin. Ic
ne her. in her silent chambery Alo -
-in grief perbat'. Dat why~ has~ she
mt his flower? Wha can it all umany
"We shall nmindu nthing. flow yon are
ef." Dora assures him tremulously.
"I think I miight he shown sen con
derati'n.' pits in Arthur. -ervinzg by'
violent effort to assert imnself, anidi
coa., sumy Tnn N a u ia t -
netobe pitied. It would ham beeu
.y fault, and, Mrs. Talbot, Ithik you I
ught show some pity for me.' e.
olds out his hand, and mechanically
-a lays her own in it.
Bo io is < v on r an instant, and she I
dders violin:r as his touch meets d
.ers. Her eves are on the groumid. and S
he can not bring herself to look at t
tui. Drawing her fingers hurriedly s
comn his. she goes to fhe door and dis-.
pears rrom view.
In the meantime. Sir Adrian, having
nade his way to Florence, points to the e
You have held it ever since?" he
aks. in a low tone. "f hardly hoped
or so much. Bat you have not con
ratulated me. you alone have said
"Why need I speak? , have seen you
ith my own eyes. You are safe. B
ieve me, Sir Adrian, I congratulate
on most sincerely upon your escape."
IHer words are cold. her eyes are r
owncast. She :s.deeply annoved with I
arself for having carrica Lhe lily into |
is presence here. The very fact of I
Laving noticed it and spoken to her i
bout it has shown her how much tm
iortance he has attached to her doing.
o. What will he think of her. He will i
oubtless picture her to himself sitting i
reeping and brooding over a flower
riven to her by a man who loves her c
Lot, and to whom she has given her
ove unsolicited. t
Her riarked coldness so oppresses s
im that he steps back, and does not
enture to addreas her again. It oc
urs to him that she Isreseved becatis
f Arthur's presence.
Presently, LadvyFitzAlmont marsh
fing her forces anew, carries lhem all
'way to their rooms, soundly rating
he sobbing Lady Gertrude for her
ant of selt-contral.
The men, too. shortly afterward dis
erse, and one by one drift away to
heir rooms. Captain Ringwood and
aitland tho surgeon being the last to
"Who Is the next heir to the castle?"
tsks the latter musingly. drumming
iis fingers idly on a table near him.
"Dvecourt. the follow who nearly
lid for Sir Adrian this evening!" re
iies Ringwood quietly.
"It would have meant a very good
:hing for Arthur if the shot had taken
ffeet," says Ringwood, eyeing his com
"It would have meant murder, sir?
-joins the surgeon shortly.
_ Catching a slav er.
Letters from the East Indian sta
ions give particulars of an impor
ant capture of a slave dhow made a
ew weeks ago by her Majesty's
;teamer Reindeer. One of her boats
n charge of a p.eItty oiicer was pro
cding iito Chakichaki Bay, in the
land( of Pemba. when a dhow was
I'ved making for tile inner har
'r. he niieer immediately board
L .,r and was surprised to Lind that
athough tie dhow was a small one a
arge numbe'r of slaves were packed
ntu Ler lie herrings in a barrel; so
rowded, in fact, was the craft that
le oficer was unable to count the
daves acicurately, and he at once tow
ad the dhow toward the Reindeer.
rhe slaves and crew were transferred
'o her Majesty's steamer Pigeon and
he diow was sent to Bombay. where
hL was handed over to the court. It
[t was then dis-overed that the ves
el had on board no fewer than 124
laves. The inquiry before the prize
:ourt elicited the information that
te dhow left Lindi with the
'1aves on board, the master having
been prois'ed 10 rupees a head for
every slaive landed alive at Pemba.
Dung~ his~ voyage lie passed thr'ee of
Lier maijest's ship-the Algerine. the
Pig eon and the Boadiesa-and escap
:-d e'arch in each instance, and was
ist maikin preparations to la his
aptiv es w~hen the Reindeer's boat
>verhat uled aim. The dihow has been
lestroyed by order of the court, and
her captain and crew are in prison,
und an amount calculatted at E5 a ton
fot' the dihow will be divided among
the commander, the officers and men
:>f the Reindeer.--London Daily
A Good Day's Work.
Weakness of itself is not a disease.
It is, however, a mo~st distressful
symptom. 2das! how many weatily
drag themselves about, every en'ort
iving them distress, existing without
my of the pleasurable sensations of
robust health. Are you in this coni
,lition? Why? There is no excuse
lor feeling mean and miserable. Re
mfore the cause of your distress.
wihl is undoabtedly is a state of
blood imipurity and a disordered sys
tm. Hlowl Why, by doing as others
G*. W. Chandler. Red Fot'k. Ark.,
writes: -I was so weak that it was
nly with great ditliculty that Ii could
do anything. I used sev'eral bottles
of Botanie Blood Balm, and can now
do a good day's work."
'Able to do a good day's work:"
Is there not something sweet and re
'reshing in that expression? Strength
that is only .overcome by natm'd
fatigue. Strength-that when expendl
ed. is by rest and nature fully re
neved. Such will be your reward if
v'ou give B. B. B. a trial.
H. B. Ratndolph, Brunswick. Ga.,
writes: "I was under the care of nine
iluerei'nt doctors, but not one did me
the good that Botanic Blood Bahn
EL, donie iil
Two months since. Rheai county,
Tenn.. was stirred up tremendously
civer' a sensat ioinalelopenecnt. in which
the helpneet of one John Hously
ook his and her tln'ee small boys. and
went off with a farmer, nauned J. K.
Brown. '.ho left behind him a wife
m' seven c'hildrenl of assorted sizes.
earch has been nmde lby the deserted
jsbanld and wif'e fot' the faithless
woues wo have ially been i'un to
t.They were apprlehentded. liv
iig :as man and wife. at Concord. Tenn.
ev Sheriff Brown and his d'puty. of
tihen county, who took the elopersto
Dayton, the county seat, where they
sill lbe arraigned and a very sensa
.xinal trial will follow.
-It is reported from Odcssa. the
hief grain expor'ting city of the
lack Sea. that winter wheat crops~
f Sothrn Russia are a faihue. andl
hat great suirering in conseuence is
nevitable. It is regarded as one of
he greatest disasters that has ever
>falleni that pio rtion of Russia.
-Most 01 the creditors of Henry
3. ives have agreed toi necep(it live
ents 0on thei dollar' for thieiir claims.
:ves has beeni released on .O>.00 hall.
Jewas arrested on the c'harge of
-The r'eent frost at UmatillaFlai.
irtually" comipleted the rin of the
-egtble~i ('rop of soth IFlorid .
)oint oif Lai- county the dan' ge i s
ev igreat. The e' ire crop) of ear'ly
etalue-. (e'pt e::bhae, is piracti
ablyv wiped o1:t. Or'ang' ble.oms
ne Mo her' Fr- mda -
rs benti confiunreet, lessanA :he
a :O,:md ra's labor qic~lk r-d coma
HE WAS WELL TRAINED. 11l
O1 Dunder Was Laying Low to Get a E
Thorough Education and lie Got It.
"Well! well!" exclaimed Sergeant
endall in great surprise, as Carl Dun- th
er softly entered the Woodbridge t
treet Station Saturday afternoon. "I ta
iought you had started for Germany ]U
Not oxactly," replied Mr. Dunder,
s he blew his nose with great compla- th
"But where have you been?" ,,h
"Sergeant, vhas I some greenhorns?" th
"You don't look to be." th
"If some cow meets me on der street bc
ould she take me for hay?"
"If you vhas some gonfidence man
rould you try to play a game on me?" f
"I don't think so. But what do you
aean by all this?"
'Sergeant, I used to be like some st
abbagehead. Eaferypody beats me. st
aferypody laughs at me, und I like to
o back to Shermany. Dis vhas all SI
hanged now." fu
'How?" . :
--Viell. I keeps quiet for der last six s(
reeks und get posted. If somepody b
an make fun of me now I like to see
tim do it. I vhas ri,-ht on to all der P
ricks you eafer hearil of. und I can P
pot a sharper two Locks away. You g
vo int haf to tell me any more to shump tl
ato (lot river."
"I'm rejoiced at the news. Now tell rn
nc who posted y-ou?" t
' A feller from New York. He takes h
ne in a class all :one for $15 per week. t
Iow vhas dot. eh?" t
Ard he threw up his right arm and
r.ade a long jump sideways, knocking
chair over and scaring a boy out of a
-That's pretty good. What kind of a
L movement do you call it?"
"Dot vhas a nickel-plate movement, tl
:o be practiced if a man shumps oudt
> der alley to hit you mit a sand-club. d
hen dot club comes down you vas ten
Eeet away. Dot probably safes my life P
mne tousand times."
"What else?" V
"Vell, if a tief come arount I can
spot him like grease rolling off a log." e
"He carries his left hand in his
ocket, und can't look you in der face.
e can pick 'em oudt der street by der
"That's a good thing, and you ought 1
to start a detective bureau. Anythng
"I should shmile! Sergeant, if you C
has some pickpocket, where you look
for my money,-eh?"
"In your breast pocket"
"So? Ha! ha! ha! Dot Thas another
trick! I put my handkerchief oop
here, und if a tief goes to rob me he gets
nottings. Dot probably safes me two
"Y-e-s. Anything more!"
"Vhel, suppose f vhas in Chicago
und a bunko man likes to make me his
victim. If it vhas you, That would you
"I don't know."
"Ha! ha! ha! It pays me to learn
dot. It safes me tousands of dollars.
I shust vink at him-so, und say: 'How
vhas coons to-day?' and off he goes.
Dot makes him understand I vhas a to
"I see. What else?"
"Suppose you ;has going home at
night, und a robber steps out und
wants your money or your life? How
would you do?"
"Giv'e him my money. of course."
"You would. eh? Ha! ha! ha! Dot
shows who vhas a greenhorns! I
shouldn't do dot vhay. I should open
my umbrella und hold it before me und
c'l -ire' as hard as I coul~d, No rob
ber cau get at you if you hold an um
brella oudt. I knowv iots of odder
things, but I haf no more time to-day.
I come down to gif you sonme com
~laints. Somepody stole $25 from me
last night. und dot feller from New
York vhas lost. He goes out to walk
around a leedle by himself, und being
a stranger he rhas all mixed oop und
can't find his way back."
-Ah! Didn't yon lose a coat, too?"
"Yes. It vhas behind der door, und
somepody takes coat und money too."
"Come this way."
He led him into the lock-up, halted
him at one of the cells and asked him
if he knew the occupant.
"Vhy, he vhas my trainer!" ex
claimed Mr. Dunder. "How he comes
in here? Thas he some lost shild?"
"He got your coat and money. We
have the coat and most of the cash.
How (do you tell a thief, Mr. Dunder?"
But Mr-. Dunder didn't reply. His
hair stood up. his eyes bulged out and
he walked out of the station like a man
going somewhere in a nightmare.
Deoit Free Press.
Child Life on Canal-Boats.
One of the curiosities of life displayed
along the water-front of this city, says
the N. Y. Timres, is the way children
are reared in absolute safety aboard
canal-boats. Any person who takes
the trouble to visit Coenties slip or the
neighboring docks where canal-boats
lay up can see every day the common
sight of a group of toddling children
playing on the open decks of the low
bulwarked boats, but he never hears of
one falling overboard.
On one canal-boat, the Betsey Ann
of Whitehall, that lay ln Coenties slip
the other day, was noticed a novel ar
rangement for keeping the little ones
within the bounds of safety. On the
after-deck a regular play-ground had
been fenced oil for the youngsters by
building a high picket-fence, over
which they could not climb. This had
a swinging gate secured by hasp, sta
ple and padlock. Inside of this in
closure were four children, who made
the air ring with theirshouts, telling of
their unalloyed happiness and content
ment with the arrangement. On an
other boat, a little way distant in the
same slip, was another queer arrange
ment to keep the little tots from fall
ing overboard. In the center of the
deck was fastened a stout ring-bolt, to
which were fastened three stout but
small ropes. At the end of each rope
was a stout leather belt buckled about
the waist of a rugged, sun-burned
youngster. The ropes were just long
enough to prevent the children
reachig the edge of the deck, but
were not too short to allow them am
ple room to play in. The children
seemed happy, too, and were not dis
tured a particle by their tether.
On nearly all the boats the children
are allowed to roam about the deck at
will, both while coming down the river
in tow and while tied up to the dock.
Many of them are born aboard the
boat~s. There they grow up and in
many cases marry, selecting their
mates from aboard other boats, and i
immediately taking up the life followed a
by their parents.
"Poor Richard." t
Ben F'ranklin is to blame for the ~
sordid and very patrtial view of success i
that prevails ini this country. Frank- | a
lin, thoughi iiimself not a parsimonious
man, dinned maxims of parsimony into t
tihe ears of the American people so per
sistentl and did it in such a wvonder
Eullv forible way, that he succeeded
in ingraining the thought of the Amer
icaii peple with an eminently materia
[pilosoly. The moral of it all is !-1
-save. save', save for a rainy day. By
lint of rerlasting repetition of theg
vision of tihe rainy day that has goty
to be laid up for, Deni Franklin has
meeeedl ini taking all the sunshine s
>ut of the days that ai'e not rainy for
.. NYTES IMPRESSIONS OF EUROPE
nd-Picked and Warranted to KOP In
-Yes," he said, "I have been abroad
s season. I am not absolutely cer
n that I was not more or less abroad
;t now. Yon called to obtain speci
ins of my foreign impressions, of
rse. If there is one thing more
an another that I particularly pride
yself upon it is my forein impres
ns. I only selected the c71oicest,and
yve carefully preserved every one of
em. Any little runt of an impression
at any fellow could pick up I didn't
ther with. Mine are all hand-picked
d warranted to keep in any climate.
veral of the crowned heads of Europe
nkly admitted that they would rath
have me rooting around their throne
ckino up foreign impressions than
v ot1er impecunious tourist that had
ruck them for the wherewithal to get
fev out of their domains for quite a
ell~ When I kicked a specimen out
om under the dust of ages they were
iiversally satistied that it would be
mething that would do them credit.
here is more or less danger in the
isiness, however. Thrones are so
enty in Europe that a fellow who is
:-actically unacquainted with the
ography of the country is liable to
umble over one or more of them in
e dark and break his neck most any
inute. On several occasions I nar
wly escaped getting into serious
ouble through stuffing a first-class
,m-stitched European tirone into my
ousers pocket under the impression
at it was a ham sandwich. Several
the German provinces, for instance,
ere so thickly studded with little
nd-painted thrones that I could not
void the impression that the perspec
ve looked like a buckwheat field in
ill bloom. I traveled for weeks
irough Continental Europe without
riking a man whom I dared to ad
ress by a title less than king or
rince. The stamp of nobility was in
me cases a trifle sun-cracked, but it
as always there. Sometimes this
:amp was in the form of a ruffled
irt of a pre-Adamite vintage that
ried aloud for the caressing touch of
Chinese laundryman, and sometimes
i the form of a classic foot encased in
tarnished spur and a sad memory of
ae past-but it was always there.
I'Bill,' said one of those sad-eyed
ttle German potentates to me one day
s we sat idly in the sun on a bench
utside of the concierge-I think it
as the concierge-within sound of the
estless sea; 'bill, were you ever a
,T was taken by surprise, but as I
=aed down at the poor fellow my soul
rent out in pity, and I determined to
ive him a civil answer if is took a
.'I may have been a king for a short
ime before arriving at years of dis
retion,' I said kindly, 'but no on& ever
Lecused me of it. In m, wantry
hese youthful indiscretion 2o not
1tick to a man as they do here in Ger
nany. A man may be a King for a
ime and then repent his folly, and
america is full of hands that will be
;tretched out to help the poor fellow
:o reform and rise in the world.'
"'0! that this were America,' he
mid, with tears in his voice. - 'Bill,
nay you never know the misery, the
ieart hungering, of being a German
ing without a subject. It was not
ever thus, however. I had a subject
nee, but he was very sickly, and, a
ew years ago, he died, leaving me
alone in the world. Since then I have
searched in vain for a man to take his
place. I have been unable to find any
neighborino King with two--hence
none coulf be spared. 0, Bill, I amn
so lonely-so desolate!'
"I was much affected.
'"Ajax,' I said-Ajax Agamemnon
was his family name- 'I am sorry for
you. But tell me, did you ever try to
swap your throne ofY for a clean shirt
and a decent pair of boots? Strike
some man who runs a museum and.
you may be able to strike a bargain
with him. Then you might go ofl
somewhere where you are not know
and try to lead a nobler and better-"
"The next moment I was alone with
the sound of the restless waves. Ajax
had folded his royal rage about* him:
and left me to my fate!"
"Had you any'special object in visit
ing Europe?" Mr. N'ye was asked.
"Several of them," was the reply.
"I was especially anxious to investi
gate the descent ~of the foreign nobility
which has become so extensivery our
son-in-law of late. Our sweetest and
most decollete girls are going from us
so multitudinously nowadays that I ar
rived at the conclusion that something
ought to be done about it. As the ca
reer of these titled foreign gentlemen
is almost all descent I felt that tracing
it would partake of the nature of a to
boggan slide, and therefore be easy of
accomplishment. I was not disap
pointed in the result. Out of several
thousand Dukes, Earls, Barons, Counts,
and other rare exotips, I found per
haps half a dozen to whom I would
be willing to- marry the dining
room girl- who always brings me a last
summer's egg for breakfast, but not
one whom I would be willing to take
into the bosom of my family and make
a side-show of. But this sort of thing
will doubtless go on just for all the
world as though I had never been
abroad. A martyr in a good cause is
seldom appreciated until he has beem
dead for several centuries. - Detroit
spreckeis, thle sugar ning.
"Claus Spreckels," said a friend of
his, "looks so much like the conven
tional idea of Santa Claus. the Christ..
mas saint, that no one ought to be sur-e
pri~sed at his being named -Claus.' The
old sugar king has a full white beard.
rosy cheeks and luxuriant snowy hair.
He is even as benevolent in a benevo.
lent way as his Christmas namesake is
on a large scale, and his family and
employes are devoted to him. Mr.
Sreckels knows the sugar basimes
from the cane field to the refinied pro
ict. When the refinery was being
built at the foot of Reed street in Phil
addelphia, at a cost of more than a mil
tion dollars. a quantity of the most ex
pensive machinery in the plaut was put
a wrong, and when Mr. Spreckels saw
t he recognized the error at a glance.
t.s a practical machinist he leaped into
:e excavation, had the whole mass of
ron and steel yanked out and personal
y superintended its proper erection.
'w millionaire opeiators in any busi- -
iess know its ins and outs so thorough
y as he."
How He Remembered It.
An enthusiastic young horse owner
a Maine has several crack colts, also
ine family of boys, of whom he
ustly proud, but like many other
tthers he is bothered to remnember
1eir ages. The other day he sur
rised his wife by giving the exact age
f one of the babies to a day. "Why,
ow came yon to rememuber that?" she
skeed. "Don't you remember?" re
lied the fond father, 'he was born on
ie same day as our two-year-old colt."